#it’s not up to me to fight these battles | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aspenmissing · 2 days ago

Note

Okay okay okay. That angst one put my head in a space (a good one don't worry). And it gave me an idea.

Reader ends up protecting their love. They may be super hurt (angst) but they don't die (comfort). Hurt/comfort is also another trope I'm a sucker for hehe.

I'm thinking all our fellas and anyone else you'd like 💕

I hope you're having a good day!

ᴡᴏᴜɴᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇᴀʟ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx || ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ/ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 9129 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ɴᴇᴀʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟᴏꜱɪᴏɴꜱ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴏʜ ᴍʏ, ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ ʏᴀʀɴ! ꜱᴏ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ! ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ʙᴇ ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴏɴᴇ ᴍɪꜱꜱʏ!! ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏ, ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴡɪꜱʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀ ᴠ��ʀʏ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ᴅᴀʏ/ɴɪɢʜᴛ! :ᴅ <3

JAYCE

The night was thick with tension, the moon hiding behind a veil of dark clouds. The clash of steel echoed through the alleyway, the faint glow of Piltover’s lights casting long shadows on the cobblestones. Jayce’s breath came heavy, his eyes flickering to the side as he noticed the approaching threat—figures cloaked in the unmistakable shadows of Zaun's underbelly.

He didn’t have time to react, not when he heard the soft footfalls behind him.

“Jayce, move!” you called out, urgency in your voice. But before he could even turn, the first strike came.

A sharp pain lanced through your side, and you barely had time to register it before you staggered forward, blocking the blade meant for him. The force of the blow sent you crashing to the ground, your knees buckling beneath you as your blood pooled beneath you.

"Y/N!" Jayce shouted, his voice ragged with panic. His hand went to his hammer, his muscles tensing as he prepared to swing it, but he was too slow.

You forced yourself up, wincing from the pain, but you couldn’t stand, not with your vision blurring. "Go... you need to get out of here," you murmured, your voice ragged, each word a battle.

His eyes were wide with disbelief, hands shaking as they hovered over you. Jayce had never been one for showing weakness, but seeing you hurt—really hurt—had shattered that, leaving only raw, unfiltered fear.

"You’re not leaving me," Jayce said firmly, his voice full of determination. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

You shook your head, trying to push yourself to your feet, though the pain from your wound was unbearable. You couldn’t let him see you like this, not when the danger was still so near.

The enemy was closing in, and Jayce’s gaze flickered between you and them. With a low snarl, he swung his hammer to his side, holding it tight as he stepped forward, ready to fight.

But before he could strike, you reached out, grabbing his wrist with what little strength you had left.

“I’ll be fine,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the clashing of steel. “You... you need to fight.”

His face twisted with indecision, guilt gnawing at him, but he knew you were right. His duty to Piltover, his duty to protect, wouldn’t allow him to hesitate. With a heavy breath, he nodded, his jaw clenched, eyes burning with a quiet promise.

“I won’t let them get away with this,” he muttered, his grip tightening around the shaft of his hammer.

Without another word, Jayce turned towards the enemies, his focus absolute. The air seemed to vibrate as he raised his hammer high, his movements swift and powerful. He charged, unleashing the full force of his might as the heavy clang of his hammer rang out, knocking back the attackers with a shockwave that echoed through the alley.

As the battle raged on, you slowly slumped to the ground, your body shaking from the pain, the world around you growing darker. Despite everything, you managed a faint smile. At least you’d done what you could. You’d protected him.

But you weren’t going to let go yet. You still had a fight left in you.

The faint sound of soft breathing reached you first, like a distant rhythm, almost too delicate to grasp. It was a steady pulse, steady enough to lull you into a sense of warmth, despite the dull ache that still throbbed beneath your skin.

Slowly, your eyes fluttered open, but the world around you was a blur. A soft light filtered through a crack in the curtains, bathing the sterile room in an almost peaceful glow. You tried to move, to stretch out, but the sharp pain in your side sent a jolt through you, and you winced.

“Y/N?” A voice, familiar and comforting, broke through the haze of your consciousness. You blinked, your eyes finally adjusting to the dim surroundings.

Jayce sat beside your bed, his broad hand gently wrapped around yours. His grip was warm, but there was an unmistakable tension in his fingers, as though he hadn’t let go since the moment you’d fallen unconscious. His face, usually so composed, was lined with exhaustion, his eyes red-rimmed from sleepless nights spent by your side. There were faint bags beneath his eyes, a sign of the worry that had consumed him since the attack.

For a moment, he didn’t speak, simply watching you, his lips parted in disbelief as though afraid you might slip away again.

“Jayce…” you whispered, your voice rough, but still carrying a weight of longing as you tried to meet his gaze.

The moment you spoke, he let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through his features. His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, tender and careful.

“Y/N,” he finally said, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re awake. I thought… I thought I’d lost you.” His words caught in his throat, and his gaze faltered for a moment before meeting yours again.

You tried to smile, but it faltered at the edges as the pain settled back into your body. “You’ve got to stop looking at me like that,” you said softly, trying to lighten the mood, though it came out weaker than you’d intended. “I’m fine.”

Jayce’s expression softened, though a flicker of guilt remained in his eyes. “You nearly died,” he murmured, leaning forward slightly, still holding your hand with the same quiet intensity. “If you hadn’t stepped in…”

“Don’t,” you interrupted, squeezing his hand gently. “I’d do it again. I couldn’t let them hurt you.”

He stared at you for a long moment, the weight of your words settling between you like an unspoken promise. Then, he shook his head slightly, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “I don’t want you to risk your life for me again. Not like that. You matter too much, Y/N.”

You let out a small laugh, a little breathless from the effort. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Jayce.”

His eyes softened, and a small, weary smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “I’m not trying to. I just…” He paused, the words caught in his throat once more. “I couldn’t bear it if I lost you.”

You squeezed his hand again, your grip a little stronger. “Then don’t. I’m not going anywhere.”

The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a long moment, the only sound the soft rustling of the sheets as you slowly began to gather your strength. Jayce’s hand remained in yours, warm and steady, a reminder that even in the darkest of moments, you weren’t alone.

And in that moment, with the steady rhythm of his breathing beside you and his presence grounding you, you knew that, despite the pain and the battle that lay ahead, you would fight for him as fiercely as he would fight for you.

VIKTOR

The lab was a chaotic wreck, smoke billowing in every corner as the faint crackle of sparks lingered in the air. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burnt metal and chemicals, a lingering reminder of the disastrous experiment gone wrong. Viktor's heart hammered against his ribcage, not from the explosion itself, but from the horrifying sight before him—Y/N.

There, against the far wall, slumped and covered in blood, you fought to stay conscious. The blast had thrown you across the lab, your body battered, a deep gash running down the side of your face, and your clothes were scorched and torn. Blood dripped from your lips, but you were still breathing, still hanging on.

Viktor’s hands trembled, his breath ragged as his gaze locked on you. Panic shot through him, twisting his gut. He had been so absorbed in his work, so focused on his experiment, that he hadn't seen the disaster unfolding until it was far too late. You had saved him. You had been the one to throw yourself between him and the blast, taking the brunt of the explosion in order to protect him.

"Y/N!" he cried, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper over the deafening ringing in his ears.

He staggered towards you, mind clouded with panic. Kneeling beside you, he could barely recognise your face, so covered in dust and blood. But he recognised the way your eyes flickered as you tried to speak, to reassure him. You were still conscious, still trying to be strong for him, even though your body was breaking.

"You—" you gasped, reaching weakly for him, "You… have to leave… it's too dangerous, Viktor."

His eyes flared with emotion, shaking his head. "No, not without you." His voice was firm, though his hands trembled. "I’m not leaving you, Y/N. Not like this."

Viktor’s thoughts were a blur, a storm in his mind, but all that mattered was getting you out. He pulled you into his arms with a strength born of desperation. But you were heavier than he had realised, your body far more fragile than he had ever wanted to acknowledge. Without a second thought, he dropped his cane to the floor, his fingers digging into your sides as he dragged you.

It hurt. The strain was overwhelming, pulling at his limbs, but he didn’t care. His pain meant nothing compared to the fear that gripped him, watching you slip in and out of consciousness, your body slipping from his grasp.

“Stay with me, lásko” he whispered, his breath ragged, the urgency in his voice making his words sound almost frantic. His hand slipped under your arm, lifting you slightly, but the weight of your body pressed against him like a burden, and his body screamed in protest. (Love)

But none of it mattered.

All he could focus on was getting you to safety, away from the destruction. His hands were slick with sweat, his heart racing faster than it ever had before, and he could feel his muscles screaming in agony, but he pressed on.

"Help!" Viktor shouted hoarsely, the words tearing from his throat as he staggered down the hallway, dragging you inch by inch, desperation fueling him.

Your vision blurred, your mind unable to stay focused for more than a few seconds. The pain was unbearable, the exhaustion overwhelming, but you tried to smile through it.

"Viktor... I..."

But your words faded as darkness began to close in. You tried to fight it, to stay awake, but it was too much.

The last thing you heard before your mind went silent was Viktor’s frantic shout:

“Stay with me, Y/N! Don’t you dare close your eyes!”

And then everything went black.

You slowly stirred, the soft beeping of medical equipment reaching your ears first. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, and the cool, sterile environment felt so different from the chaos of the lab. Your body ached, every muscle screaming in protest, but it was a dull, distant pain compared to what you had experienced earlier. You blinked, trying to make sense of your surroundings, but your vision was blurry, and the bright lights above made your head spin.

A soft voice broke through your foggy thoughts, calling your name. "Y/N? miláčku, can you hear me?" (Sweetheart)

You turned your head, trying to focus, but it took a moment for your surroundings to come into view. There, sitting by your bedside, was Viktor. His face was pale, a few days' worth of stubble along his jaw, and his eyes were red-rimmed as though he hadn’t slept in hours—maybe longer. His gaze was fixed on you, filled with a mix of relief and worry.

“Viktor…?” you croaked, your voice rough and weak.

His eyes softened, and a small, relieved sigh escaped his lips. “You’re awake. Thank the gods…” He gently took your hand, his touch warm but trembling. “You’ve been unconscious for several hours. You’ve had some serious injuries, but you’re going to be alright. The doctors here—they’ve done everything they can.”

You blinked slowly, taking in his words, trying to make sense of everything. The memories started flooding back. The explosion… the wreckage of the lab… and then, Viktor. He had… he had dragged you out, hadn’t he?

The realisation hit you like a tidal wave. You tried to sit up, but the pain in your body made you wince, and you quickly collapsed back into the bed. You grimaced, rubbing your forehead as the memory sharpened. Viktor didn’t pick up his cane—he had been dragging you without it.

The panic surged within you as you turned your eyes to him, your voice breaking through the haze. “Viktor… your leg…”

Viktor’s face went still, and for a moment, you could see something flicker in his eyes—a fleeting moment of hesitation, a deep sadness that he quickly masked. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but it was enough for you to realise what you had missed. His cane, the one he always had by his side, was nowhere to be found.

Your heart raced. You could feel your chest tighten, panic surging through you as the weight of what had happened hit you.

“Viktor… please tell me… you didn’t—" You struggled to sit up again, reaching for him, but he gently pushed you back down, his fingers trembling around your wrist as if afraid you might hurt yourself further.

“Y/N, please…” His voice cracked slightly, betraying the concern he was hiding. “Don’t strain yourself. You’re in no condition—”

“No!” you interrupted, the desperation in your voice clear as you pushed his hand away. “Viktor, your leg—where is your cane? You didn’t—”

You could barely form the words, the shock and worry building in your chest, your heart racing with the fear that he had once again put himself in danger for your sake.

Viktor’s jaw tightened, and for the first time since you woke up, he looked away from you, his eyes cast down, avoiding your gaze. It was enough to tell you everything. He hadn’t just dragged you out of the wreckage—he had done it at the cost of his own well-being.

“I couldn’t…” he murmured softly, almost to himself, as if trying to justify it. “You were fading. I… I couldn’t leave you behind.”

You stared at him, your breath catching as the full weight of his actions hit you. “Viktor…” You shook your head, disbelief and frustration battling within you. “You didn’t have your cane. You’re already suffering—how could you do that to yourself?”

His eyes lifted to meet yours again, this time a raw vulnerability in them. “I had to get you out. I had no choice, Y/N.”

“But you do,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “You always have a choice. You could have asked for help… or waited—anything but pushing yourself like that.”

He let out a bitter laugh, his lips curving into a wry smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I didn’t have the time. You were hurt, and I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you.”

Your heart ached at the rawness of his words, at how deeply he cared. But the guilt that twisted in your chest was unbearable. He had risked himself—again—for you.

"Viktor," you said softly, your voice full of sincerity and the softest plea, "you mean everything to me. But you need to take care of yourself too."

He looked at you, his eyes softening, the walls he had carefully built around himself faltering ever so slightly. He took your hand in his, his fingers cold but strong as he gently squeezed. "I don’t care about myself, Y/N. All I care about is you."

You gazed at him, your heart swelling with affection for this brilliant, self-sacrificing man. "Then let me take care of you, Viktor. For once."

He hesitated, his lips pressing together in an unreadable expression. Then, finally, with a slow, almost reluctant nod, he gave in, and for the first time, the weight of his burden seemed to lift, if only a little.

"You’ll always be my priority," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

As you lay back into the bed, your hand still holding his, you realised something deeper than ever before. It wasn’t just your lives that were at stake—it was your hearts, both of you willing to sacrifice everything for the other.

JAYVIK

The alley was dark, the sound of footsteps echoing against the brick walls, their shadows stretched out long in the evening light. Y/N felt their eyes on her before she heard the faint whisper of voices approaching from behind. They had been trailing her for hours, intent on getting something—anything—from her.

She had known it was coming, and still, her heart pounded in her chest. She had always been a protector, but tonight, the roles would be reversed. Tonight, she was the one who needed protecting.

Jayce and Viktor were only a few streets away, busy with their own work, but Y/N knew she couldn’t drag them into this. She’d dealt with the dangers of Zaun and Piltover long enough to know that some things were better kept in the shadows.

The voices drew nearer, and she couldn’t ignore the growing sense of danger. They were getting closer.

"You know, it’s not wise to keep secrets, miss," a man’s voice sneered from behind her.

Y/N tensed, recognising the threat. She wasn’t going to give them what they wanted. No matter how many times they asked, she would never reveal Viktor and Jayce’s plans or their secrets.

"They’ll find out eventually," another voice said, deeper and more menacing.

Y/N clenched her fists. She wouldn’t cave. She couldn’t.

The first man lunged at her, grabbing her by the arm and twisting it behind her back. She struggled, but he was stronger, and another person moved in quickly, wrapping their arms around her to hold her still.

"Tell us what we want to know," the second thug growled, pressing the cold edge of a blade to her throat, "and maybe we’ll let you walk away."

Y/N felt her breath catch. The blade was close, but she refused to show any fear. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, trying to ignore the terror crawling up her spine. "You’ll have to kill me first," she spat, her voice unwavering despite the rising panic inside her.

The thug with the knife grinned darkly. "Stubborn," he muttered, shoving her back into the wall. The impact knocked the air out of her, and she gasped, her vision momentarily swimming as she tried to regain her balance.

The attackers wasted no time, each taking their turn to strike at her with words and fists. One of them slammed a knee into her stomach, forcing a sharp breath from her lungs, and another punched her in the ribs, sending searing pain shooting through her chest. They weren’t just after information—they were intent on breaking her spirit.

"Just tell us what we want, and it’ll all stop," the man holding her grunted, tightening his grip on her arms, making it impossible for her to break free.

She barely managed to lift her head, her vision blurred from the blows, her face already bruising. "I... won’t... tell you anything," she forced out, her voice shaky but resolute. "Not for you... not for anyone."

The thug with the knife pressed it to her side this time, digging the blade into her skin. "You’re a tough one," he sneered, "but you’re going to break eventually."

Y/N winced as the blade cut deeper, the sharp pain searing through her side. Blood began to trickle down her waist, staining her shirt. The agony of the wound made her feel faint, but she didn’t give them the satisfaction of crying out. She was stronger than this.

Suddenly, the sound of a cane tapping against the cobblestones broke the tension, followed by a cold voice that cut through the air like a blade itself.

"Enough."

Viktor’s voice was calm, but there was a sharpness to it that none of the thugs expected. His cane clicked again against the stones, a sound that felt like an ominous warning. He stepped into the alley, his usually mechanical grace replaced by a determined, almost human fragility. Jayce was a step behind him, his posture brimming with energy and readiness, eyes scanning the scene for threats.

The attackers, still too focused on Y/N, barely took notice of the two men standing before them. Viktor’s gaze was locked onto the thug holding Y/N, his face unreadable. "Let her go," he commanded, his voice low and deadly.

The thugs laughed, the sound echoing off the walls. One of them scoffed. "And what? You’re going to stop us with your little stick?" He waved his knife tauntingly at Viktor, thinking he was a threat to be dismissed.

Viktor’s face remained impassive, though his grip on his cane tightened. "Perhaps you don’t realise who you’re dealing with," he said coldly.

Y/N managed a weak laugh, feeling relief surge in her chest as she saw them arrive. Viktor. Jayce. They were here.

But the moment of relief was short-lived.

The thug holding the knife turned to Viktor, making a quick move to strike. But before the blade could reach its target, Jayce lunged forward, his hammer swinging with brutal precision. The first thug was thrown into the wall with a sickening thud, his body crumpling to the ground.

Viktor, far less physically imposing but no less dangerous, didn’t hesitate. With quick thinking, he rushed forward, using his cane as an extension of his reach. He jabbed it sharply into the throat of the next attacker, the force causing him to stumble back, gasping for breath. But that wasn’t enough to stop them.

In the chaos, one of the remaining thugs turned to Y/N, knife flashing in the dim light. His focus was on her, thinking her incapacitated enough to be easy prey. Before she could react, he slashed across her side again, cutting deep.

Pain exploded in her chest as the blood started to pour from the wound. She gasped, her body buckling beneath the intensity of the injury. The world tilted and spun, her knees giving out beneath her as she crumpled to the ground.

"Y/N!" Viktor shouted, his voice cracking in a rare moment of panic. He rushed forward, dropping his cane as he knelt beside her, his hands trembling as he tried to stop the bleeding. "Stay with me. Please."

Jayce dealt with the remaining thugs in a blur of motion, but Viktor didn’t notice. His focus was on Y/N, his heart racing. He had failed her in the one moment when she needed him most.

Y/N’s hand reached out, trembling as it brushed Viktor’s arm. "Don’t waste your time on me..." she whispered, her voice weak, strained from pain. "You’ve got bigger things to worry about."

Viktor’s heart tightened. "I won’t let you die," he muttered, more fiercely than he'd meant.

Jayce helped Viktor lift Y/N, his voice filled with an uncharacteristic urgency. "We need to get her out of here. Now!"

Y/N's body felt heavy in their arms, and her vision was fading fast. The pain from the wound was like a fire consuming her, and with every breath, she felt further away from the world. But through the haze of darkness, she managed to whisper, her voice barely audible.

"Promise me... you won’t let them get to you again."

Viktor tightened his grip on her, his expression one of rare vulnerability. His usual composure had cracked, and his voice was hoarse with emotion as he promised, "I swear it."

But before Y/N could respond, her head lolled weakly, her vision blurring even more. The last thing she heard, muffled by the ringing in her ears, was Jayce’s voice, full of desperation.

"We’ll get you to safety. Stay with us, Y/N. Just stay with us."

Then, without waiting for another moment, Jayce scooped her up in his arms, his legs moving faster than he ever thought possible as he sprinted towards the nearest medical facility. Viktor followed close behind, eyes still fixed on Y/N, his worry growing with every step.

When Y/N woke up, she felt disoriented, as if she had just emerged from a fog. The sterile smell of the medical room filled her senses, and for a moment, she didn’t know where she was. Her body ached in places she didn’t know could hurt, and the sharp, searing pain from her side reminded her of everything that had happened.

As her eyes fluttered open, the soft light of the room was blinding. She squinted, trying to adjust, but a voice—one that made her heart skip a beat—cut through the haze.

"Y/N?" Viktor's voice, familiar and calming, but laced with something she couldn’t quite place. Concern. Relief. "You’re awake."

She turned her head slowly, meeting Viktor’s gaze. He was standing beside the bed, his face lined with exhaustion, though his eyes were filled with warmth. He looked... human, vulnerable in a way she hadn’t seen before. His hand rested on the edge of the bed, but he didn’t touch her yet, as if afraid she might shatter at his touch.

Jayce, however, was lying next to her, his presence a comforting weight beside her. He had settled beside her on the bed, his hand resting gently on her chest, wanting to feel the rhythm of her heartbeat. He had been silent, his usual boisterous nature replaced with something more fragile, as if afraid that even the smallest movement might cause her to slip away. When her eyes met his, he let out a breath, his face softening with relief. He had been watching her like this for what felt like an eternity.

"Good to see you’re back with us," Jayce said quietly, his voice rough, as if he hadn’t spoken for hours. There was a layer of worry beneath the words, the tension in his shoulders telling its own story.

Y/N’s lips parted, but her voice felt weak, and her words caught in her throat. She tried to speak, to ask about the others or to explain that she was fine, but her body didn’t quite respond the way she wanted it to. Instead, her eyes met Viktor’s again, and she gave him a weak, half-smile.

"I told you," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. "You won’t let them get to you... not again."

Viktor’s hand finally moved, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. His expression softened, but there was an underlying tension in his eyes. "I promised," he said, his voice almost a whisper, as if he was still grappling with the reality of what had nearly happened.

Jayce shifted slightly, his hand remaining on her chest as if to reassure himself that she was really there, really awake. His thumb gently traced the outline of her collarbone, the gesture almost absentminded, as if grounding himself in her presence.

"We’ll let you rest now," Jayce said softly, his voice steady but full of the weight of everything he hadn’t said yet. "But the next time someone tries something like this, they’ll have to deal with us."

Y/N let her eyes flutter shut for just a moment, relief washing over her as she let the warmth of their presence fill the space around her. They were here. They would protect her. And in that moment, despite the pain, she finally let herself rest, knowing she had the strength of Viktor and Jayce by her side.

As her world faded back into the comforting embrace of sleep, she felt Jayce’s hand on her chest, his steadying touch grounding her even as she drifted off again. The last thought in her mind, before the comforting embrace of darkness, was simple: She was safe.

VANDER

It had been an unusual day in Zaun, with the cold air biting through the usual smog and grime that made up the city. For once, snow had settled across the rooftops, making the streets look like something from a distant memory – a place not defined by constant industrial noise but by a rare, peaceful hush.

You and Vander had decided to take the kids to the lake, a frozen stretch of water that had miraculously solidified enough for skating. The kids were excited, their faces glowing in the cold as they skated and played. Even Vander, usually so composed, was caught in the joy of the moment, his laughter booming across the ice.

You stood nearby, leaning against the rail of the frozen lake, your coat wrapped tightly around you. Your eyes drifted between Vander, who was watching the kids with an almost protective gaze, and the younger ones, who had already fallen over more times than they could count, laughing all the while.

Powder was the first to speed off across the ice, her usual sense of chaos driving her to skate as fast as she could, arms flailing as she tried to keep balance. Powder was being kicked up behind her in the crisp air as she laughed, unaware of the thin stretch of ice up ahead.

“Careful, Powder!” you shouted, but it was too late. She skated towards the weak patch of ice that hadn’t fully frozen, the frost cracking beneath her feet. She didn’t notice it in time.

Before Vander could even react, you dashed forward without thinking, shoving her out of the way. The ice splintered beneath you with a violent crack, and before you knew it, you were plunging into the freezing cold water below.

The shock was immediate, ice-cold water rushing around you, drowning out all sound as it soaked through your clothes and chilled you to your very core. Your breath was stolen from your chest, panic setting in as the cold gnawed at your body. You couldn’t focus; all you could hear was the roar of the freezing water in your ears.

But amidst the swirling chaos, the thought of the kids surged through your mind. You had to make sure they were alright.

With all your strength, you kicked your legs, trying to keep afloat, but the icy grip of the water made it nearly impossible. The world around you spun, your limbs growing heavy with the cold, and before you knew it, your vision began to blur.

“Y/N!” Vander’s voice sliced through the haze. You could barely make him out on the ice above, his figure twisted with fear. But it was too late to reach him.

The last thing you remembered was the sensation of a strong hand grabbing hold of you.

You awoke with a jolt, the warmth of a fire pressing against your skin. The comforting scent of familiar spices, the sound of crackling wood, and the steady thrum of Vander’s heartbeat beneath you told you everything you needed to know.

You blinked slowly, your body trembling uncontrollably. The chill still lingered deep within you, and the cold had left you so weak you could barely move. Every inch of you ached, and you could feel the remnants of the cold creeping into your bones.

Vander’s worried gaze met yours, his hand pressing against your forehead, checking for any sign of fever. He looked half-relieved and half-furious, but his voice, when it came, was gentle.

“Easy now,” he murmured, holding you close, the heat of his body seeping into yours. “You’re safe. You’re back at the Drop. The kids are alright, they’re waiting outside.”

You could barely nod. The tremors shaking your body wouldn’t stop, but the warmth of the blankets wrapped around you and the fire crackling nearby slowly began to help. Vander’s hands were firm yet tender as he helped you sit up, making sure every movement was gentle as he rubbed warmth into your skin.

“I should have been quicker,” he muttered under his breath, a rare hint of guilt in his voice. His hands cupped your face, his eyes searching yours. “I wasn’t fast enough.”

“Vander…” you whispered, your voice hoarse, the words a struggle to get out. “You… you got to me. I’m fine. Just... cold.”

“You scared the hell out of me, Y/N.” His voice was thick with emotion, his thumb gently brushing across your cheek as if grounding himself. He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Your eyes fluttered closed, exhaustion pulling at your senses. The heat of the fire, combined with Vander’s presence, finally began to melt the ice that had clung to your body.

“I couldn’t... let her fall in,” you whispered, your words fading as your body fought against the weakness that overtook you.

Vander’s expression softened as he wrapped you more securely in the blanket, his large frame hovering protectively over you.

“I know,” he replied quietly, his voice full of gratitude. “But you’re too important to me. To us. You can't risk yourself like that.”

Outside, you could hear the soft chatter of the kids, their voices muffled by the walls, but you knew they were all safe. Vander’s arms tightened around you, and for a moment, the world seemed to quiet. The fire crackled, the warmth of Vander’s embrace slowly thawing the chill from your body.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice low and full of emotion. “For everything.”

You gave him a small, shaky smile, your heart still hammering in your chest but now feeling lighter.

“It’s what I do, love. Always will be,” you whispered, allowing yourself to rest, safe in his arms, as the warmth of Vander enveloped you.

SILCO

The night air in Zaun was thick with tension. The flicker of neon lights barely illuminated the alleys, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch far beyond the reach of the city’s forgotten hopes. Silco, as always, stood at the edge of a rooftop, watching the underworld below with cold eyes. His hands rested on the railing, his mind sharp and calculating, plotting his next move.

Y/N stood a few paces behind him, her eyes scanning the dark streets, always alert. She had been with him for years, ever since the first time she saved him from a stray bullet, but it wasn’t just loyalty that kept her by his side. She admired him – his ambition, his fierce will to change the fate of Zaun. He was everything to her, even if he often kept her at arm's length.

Tonight, however, things were different. The atmosphere felt off, and Y/N’s instincts screamed that something was coming. Silco noticed her tense posture, his eyes narrowing.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice low, but unmistakably commanding.

“There’s something in the air,” she replied, her gaze fixed on the street below. “I don’t know what it is, but we’re not alone.”

He didn’t reply immediately, his mind already calculating their next move. But before he could act, a sudden noise broke through the silence—shuffling footsteps and muffled voices. A group of men emerged from the shadows, weapons in hand, their eyes fixated on Silco.

Without thinking, Y/N moved in front of him, her body instinctively shielding him from their view. “Get back,” she ordered, but Silco remained still, his usual calm composure unshaken.

“You know what to do,” he said, his voice cold. “We don’t back down.”

The tension escalated in an instant. A shot rang out from the enemy’s side, aimed straight at Silco. Without hesitation, Y/N threw herself into its path.

The first bullet tore into her side, and she staggered, but before she could even react, a second one struck her stomach. The impact knocked the wind from her lungs. She gasped for air, choking on the blood flooding her throat, her vision blurring with each heartbeat. Her legs wobbled, but she fought to stay upright, to protect him.

She could barely hear Silco’s voice through the ringing in her ears, the cold edge replaced by something close to panic. “Y/N!” he shouted, but there was no time to respond.

Another shot came from the dark, but Silco was quicker, taking down the attackers with brutal efficiency, his rage fuelling each strike. Yet, even as the threat was neutralised, his eyes were on her, his heart racing.

Y/N sank to her knees, the cold grip of death pulling her down. Blood poured from her wounds, pooling beneath her as she gasped, her breath coming in shallow, erratic bursts. She coughed, choking on the blood that filled her lungs, her hands desperately clutching at her abdomen. She tried to speak, but nothing but a ragged, broken wheeze escaped her lips.

“Stay with me, Y/N,” Silco whispered, his voice rough with the weight of his emotions. He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands trembling as he carefully lifted her into his arms. Her head lulled against his shoulder, her blood staining his jacket. His eyes, usually so cold, were filled with something far more dangerous now—a mix of fury, helplessness, and guilt.

“I’m fine,” she gasped, though her voice was barely a whisper. “Just... just a scratch.”

Silco’s face twisted in fury. “You’re not fine,” he snarled. His eyes scanned her wounds—the blood was flowing too fast, too much. The sight of her like this, so fragile, shattered something deep inside him.

Her body jerked as another wave of blood rushed up her throat, and she coughed violently. She could feel herself slipping away, but she wasn’t ready. Not yet.

“You… you have to live,” she whispered, her voice barely a rasp, each word coming with a new struggle. "You need to finish this... for Zaun."

Silco’s heart twisted as he looked down at her, his hand shaking as he brushed the hair from her face. “I didn’t ask for this,” he murmured, bitterness and sorrow in his voice. “I didn’t ask for you to throw your life away for me.”

Y/N smiled weakly, her fingers brushing against his chest as she gasped for breath. “But you’re worth it... Zaun needs you… and I need you.”

For the first time that night, Silco’s face softened, his grip tightening around her as if he could keep her from slipping away. His gaze hardened once more as he stood up, carefully cradling her against him.

“There’s no time,” he muttered to himself, his mind already moving with cold efficiency. “We’re going to Singed.”

Y/N’s eyes fluttered closed, her body too weak to fight the darkness creeping in, but she managed to nod. She trusted him—she had to.

The world around them seemed to blur as Silco moved with calculated haste, carrying her through the dimly lit streets. The way he held her, so gentle yet firm, spoke volumes of how much he truly cared—even if he wouldn’t admit it aloud.

As he arrived at Singed’s lab, Silco kicked open the door with a fury born of desperation. “Fix her.” he commanded, his voice strained with an edge of panic that betrayed his usual calm.

Singed, ever the calm scientist, looked up slowly, his gaze flickering from Y/N’s bleeding form to Silco’s face. He didn’t need to ask what had happened.

Without another word, Singed sprang into action, quickly preparing the necessary tools. “It’s not going to be easy,” he said, already moving to stabilise Y/N, his cold hands working efficiently.

Silco watched with an intensity that bordered on obsession, unable to tear his gaze from her. Every second she didn’t wake up was a second too long. His mind screamed at him for letting this happen. She had sacrificed everything for him, and he would make sure it didn’t go to waste.

As the procedure continued, Silco’s mind raced. There was no more time for doubt, no more time for mistakes. He would make Zaun his—and he would make damn sure Y/N was there to see it.

The shadows of the night no longer felt so daunting, for Silco knew one thing for certain now: she would live. He wouldn’t allow anything else.

The soft beeping of a monitor filled the sterile, dimly lit room as Y/N’s eyelids fluttered, her breath shallow but steady. Her head throbbed, a dull ache that seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat. The sharp scent of antiseptic stung her nose, and for a moment, everything was a haze—a distant memory of pain, blood, and Silco’s desperate voice.

She shifted slightly, the weight of something heavy pressing against her chest. A groan escaped her lips as she tried to open her eyes fully, but the world around her was blurry, and for a second, panic rose in her chest.

“Y/N,” a voice rasped, low and familiar.

She turned her head, the movement slow and painful, but her gaze landed on Silco. He was sitting beside her, his eyes dark with worry, his usual calm masked by something more… human. His hand was gently resting on her own, his grip tight, as if afraid she might slip away again.

“Silco…” she murmured, her voice hoarse, like she hadn’t spoken in days. Her hand twitched, and she tried to sit up, but the sharp pain that shot through her side stopped her.

“Don’t move,” he said, his voice more forceful than she was used to. His eyes never left her face, scanning for any sign of distress. “You’ve been through hell, Y/N. You need to rest.”

She tried to speak again, but her throat felt raw, the words caught in her chest. She coughed, the wet sound frightening her, and for a brief moment, her mind spiralled back to the feeling of drowning in her own blood.

But Silco was there. He was always there. His hand tightened around hers.

“You’re alive,” he murmured, as though saying it aloud somehow made it more real. “I didn’t know... I didn’t think—”

“Didn’t think I’d make it?” she interrupted weakly, her lips curling into a half-smile despite the pain.

Silco hesitated, his usual control slipping for a moment as he looked away, his jaw clenched. He wasn’t ready to say the things he truly felt—he couldn’t. He had never been able to.

“I… I couldn’t lose you,” he said quietly, as if the words were forced from him. “Not like that.”

Her fingers squeezed his, a tired but determined smile forming on her lips. “I wasn’t going anywhere, Silco. Not without you.”

He said nothing, but his eyes softened ever so slightly. His fingers brushed the hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with a tenderness that belied the steel of his character.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle between them. She could feel the steady rhythm of her heart, the pulse of life slowly returning to her veins. It was slow, painful, but she was alive. And that was all that mattered.

After a few moments, she finally spoke again, her voice quieter now, though still filled with that underlying strength that had always drawn him to her.

“You... you saved me,” she said, her eyes searching his face. “But we still have work to do. Zaun... It’s still waiting.”

A flicker of something dark passed through Silco’s eyes, a shadow of the ambition that had driven him for so long. His grip on her hand tightened, but his voice remained calm, measured. “Zaun will wait. You come first.”

Y/N’s gaze softened, though she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his body coiled with barely-contained urgency.

“We’ll make them all pay,” she said, her voice firm despite the weakness in her body. “I know you won’t rest until you’ve burned everything to the ground to build it again.”

Silco's lips curled into a slight smirk, but there was something more in his eyes now. A fire, perhaps, but one tempered with the knowledge that the journey ahead would be different. Not without its sacrifices. Not without the cost.

He leaned in, his forehead lightly resting against hers. “I never asked for this,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “But now that I have you… I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you here.”

Y/N exhaled slowly, her fingers brushing against his, a faint laugh escaping her lips despite herself. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Silco.”

For the first time since her injuries, he allowed himself to smile—a small, quiet thing, but real. And for once, the harshness in his gaze softened.

JINX/POWDER

The moon hung high above Piltover, casting an eerie glow over the crumbling rooftops. The sounds of the bustling city below faded into the background, and all that could be heard was the soft hum of Jinx’s excitement as she fiddled with a makeshift bomb. Her hands were quick, her eyes wide with that chaotic sparkle, and the grin on her face grew wider with each passing second.

Y/N stood behind her, watching cautiously. She had always been the one to protect Jinx, to guide her through the madness, even when Jinx's schemes seemed a little too dangerous. It was a constant battle to keep the young woman from going too far. She had become something of a mother figure to her, even if Jinx never fully recognised it.

"Careful, Jinx," Y/N warned, her voice steady, but the concern in her eyes was unmistakable. "You’re too close to the edge, and that bomb’s unstable!"

Jinx snickered, her voice high and gleeful, "Relax, Y/N! This is going to be epic!"

Before Y/N could say another word, there was a sudden, deafening bang. The explosion rocked the rooftop, and debris flew in all directions. Jinx's grin faltered for a moment as she lost her balance, stumbling backwards.

"JINX!" Y/N screamed, lunging forward to catch her, but it was too late. Jinx's feet slipped from the edge, and the next thing Y/N knew, she was diving after her, arms outstretched.

The wind whipped around them as Y/N grabbed hold of Jinx, pulling her close. Time seemed to slow as they fell through the air, their bodies tumbling toward the unforgiving streets below. Y/N tightened her hold, turning her back so that she would hit the ground first. Her body slammed against the cold stone, the impact jarring her bones. Pain flared through her chest, but she ignored it, focusing only on the young woman in her arms.

Jinx groaned in pain, but she was alive. Y/N’s heart hammered in her chest as she held her protectively. The air around them was thick with dust, and they both lay motionless for a moment, the world spinning around them.

“Y/N…” Jinx’s voice was barely a whisper, filled with confusion and pain. “Y/N, are you okay?”

She could feel the stillness in the air, the strange lack of movement from Y/N. She shook her gently at first, calling her name softly. “Y/N… hey…”

No response.

Jinx's heart skipped. She shook Y/N harder, panic rising in her chest. "Why aren’t you talking to me? Y/N, please, come on, answer me!”

But Y/N was deadly still, her body lying limp beneath her. Her chest wasn’t rising and falling as it should, and Jinx’s stomach dropped. The young woman’s hands trembled as they hovered over Y/N’s form, the terror building like an insurmountable wave.

"Y/N, please!" Jinx's voice cracked, her desperation growing. She tried to sit up, but her body ached, her wounds reminding her that she wasn’t as unscathed as she hoped. She barely registered the pain, too focused on the unmoving figure beneath her.

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

Y/N had always been her protector, the one who made sure she was safe, the one who held her when the world felt too much. And now, Y/N was silent, still, lifeless. The world felt like it was shattering around her.

“Y/N!” Jinx choked out, her voice weak as she shook her again, but still, no answer came.

The only sound was the distant rumble of the city, and Jinx's ragged breathing. Fear clawed at her throat, suffocating her.

It wasn’t until the minutes felt like hours that she realised—Y/N wasn’t just quiet. She was unconscious, her breathing shallow, but present. Barely clinging to life, but still there.

And in the stillness of the night, Jinx could only clutch Y/N tighter, her eyes welling with tears that she didn’t know how to shed. The silence between them was deafening, but Jinx couldn’t bring herself to speak. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to fix what had happened.

The night was heavy with a storm neither of them could escape. And all Jinx could do was hold onto Y/N, praying she wouldn’t lose the one person who always managed to hold her world together.

Y/N's eyelids fluttered open, the dim light of the room making her head throb. The sensation of tight bandages wrapped around her body sent a dull ache through her limbs. She tried to move, but a sharp pain reminded her that her body wasn’t quite ready for that. She groaned softly, her voice hoarse from the fall, and shifted her head slightly, her vision clearing.

Her surroundings were unfamiliar—she was no longer on the streets or the rooftop. She was in a small, dimly lit room. The soft, comforting scent of herbs and medicine hung in the air, and the sound of slow, steady breathing came from beside her.

Turning her head, Y/N saw Jinx curled up beside her on the bed, her body drawn in close, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, holding onto Y/N’s hand with a quiet desperation. Her eyes were closed, but the furrowed brow and the tightness around her mouth spoke volumes of the worry that hadn’t left her since the fall. She was alive. And that was all that mattered.

Y/N’s lips parted, and though she tried to speak, the words caught in her throat. She felt weak, her body still fighting against the pain, but just having Jinx there made her feel like maybe she could fight back. At the slightest sound, Jinx stirred, her eyes snapping open, instantly searching for any sign of life from Y/N.

“Y/N!” Jinx’s voice cracked with relief, and in an instant, she scrambled to sit up, her grip tightening on Y/N’s hand, as if afraid that even a slight shift could pull her away. “You’re awake! I thought… I thought I lost you for good…”

Y/N blinked, her voice soft and raspy. “What happened…?”

Jinx bit her lip, her eyes flicking nervously as she let out a shaky breath. She shifted so she was sitting beside Y/N, the worry in her expression deepening. "After the explosion, Sevika found us. She must've heard the blast from a few streets away. She came running, and—" Jinx hesitated, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. “—she didn’t exactly come to help.”

Y/N frowned in confusion, her mind struggling to piece things together. “What do you mean?”

Jinx’s expression darkened, her voice dropping to a whisper as she looked away, clearly conflicted. “She saw us, saw how badly hurt you were, and… she brought us to Singed. That sick bastard.” She squeezed Y/N’s hand a little tighter, her fingers trembling. “He injected you with shimmer, Y/N. I tried to stop him, but…” Jinx trailed off, the pain in her eyes too much to hide. “You were barely breathing, and he said it was the only way to save you.”

A chill ran through Y/N at the mention of shimmer, but it was more from the thought of what had happened than what would happen to her. She had seen the damage shimmer caused, twisting people into monsters, but right now, it didn’t matter. What mattered was Jinx—Jinx had been the one she’d almost lost.

"And you…?" Y/N murmured, her voice soft, still weak. "Are you okay?"

Jinx’s eyes widened, her breath catching as she looked at Y/N, a flicker of disbelief crossing her face. “I—You’re the one who nearly died!” she snapped, her voice cracking as her emotions swelled. “And you’re asking if I’m okay?!

Jinx’s voice wavered, and she quickly wiped at her eyes, trying to hide the tears threatening to spill. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you, Y/N.” Her hands gripped Y/N’s tighter, as if trying to make sure she was real, that she wasn’t going to slip away again. “You’re the one who saved me, the one who—” Her voice cracked again, and she stopped herself, unable to say more, her words too tangled in the whirlwind of emotion she was trying to keep under control.

Y/N’s chest ached, a different kind of pain, something deeper. It wasn’t just the physical agony from the fall, but the weight of knowing how much Jinx had been hurting, how close she had come to losing everything. “Jinx...” Y/N whispered, her hand reaching up to cup Jinx’s cheek, her thumb brushing gently over her skin. “I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got me. Always.”

Jinx swallowed hard, her eyes shining with unshed tears, though she refused to let them fall. “I thought… after the explosion, when you fell…” Her voice faltered as she leaned her forehead against Y/N’s, her breathing shaky. “I thought I lost you, and I… I don’t know how to handle that. You’re the only one I have, Y/N.”

Y/N could feel the pain in Jinx’s words, and it made her heart ache in a way she couldn’t explain. “You have me,” Y/N repeated, her voice steady despite the strain. “And I’ll always have you.”

The silence between them was thick, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was an unspoken promise, a reminder that no matter what happened, no matter how dark things seemed, they would always have each other.

Jinx pulled back slightly, her tear-streaked face breaking into a small, shaky smile. “You really are insane, you know that? Jumping after me like that... you nearly got yourself killed.”

Y/N chuckled softly, despite the soreness in her chest. “I’d do it again if it meant saving you.”

Jinx’s smile softened, and for a moment, the storm inside her seemed to quiet, just a little. She didn’t say anything else, just nestled herself closer to Y/N, the quiet comfort of being together in this moment enough to fill the space between them.

She let the silence settle between them, letting herself rest in the quiet comfort of Jinx’s presence. It was a peace she hadn’t known in what felt like forever, a peace that was fleeting but precious. And though the world outside was waiting, ready to test them again, Y/N knew that no matter what happened, they would face it side by side, just as they always had.

#Arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #reader insert #jinx x platonic!reader #jayce x reader #jayce x you #jayce talis x reader #jayce x y/n #viktor x y/n #viktor x reader #jayce x reader x viktor #viktor x you #vander x reader #silco x reader #jayvik x reader

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littlelamy · 2 days ago

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love hangover

there you are again. same spot, same mistake, same fucking game.

it's always like this with rafe cameron. he doesn’t have to ask, doesn’t have to beg—just has to look at you with those dangerous, knowing eyes, and you’re done for. it’s a sickness, this thing between you two. a fever that never fully breaks, leaving you shivering in its wake, desperate for another hit of him.

he leans against the doorframe, a cigarette dangling between his fingers, the smoke curling up toward the dim light of the cheap motel lamp. that lazy, lopsided grin plays on his lips, the one that makes you feel stupid, like you should’ve known better than to come.

but you did.

“couldn’t stay away, huh?” his voice is sandpaper and honey, smooth but rough around the edges, like he’s already won whatever battle you thought you were fighting.

you want to tell him to go fuck himself, want to tell him you’re over it—over him—but your body betrays you, the heat pooling in your stomach, the way your pulse jumps when he moves closer. you hate the way he smells, like expensive cologne and cheap decisions.

you love the way he smells.

he exhales slow, watching you through the haze. “you want me to make you forget again?”

your breath hitches. it’s always like this. the push and pull, the venom and the cure. you hate him. you crave him. it’s a cycle you swore you’d break, but here you are, stepping into the room like a lamb walking straight into the slaughter.

he’s on you the second the door clicks shut.

lips bruising, hands rough, claiming you like he has the right. and maybe he does—maybe that’s the worst part. you let him. you always fucking let him. his mouth trails fire down your neck, his hands slipping beneath your shirt, fingers pressing into your ribs like he’s trying to map out every weak spot, every place that makes you come undone.

“missed this,” he breathes against your skin, and you hate the way it makes your stomach flip, the way your knees threaten to buckle. you shouldn’t be here. you shouldn’t want this. but when he presses you against the wall, his knee slotting between your thighs, the heat of him overwhelming—

you don’t care.

it’s a blur, how you end up on the bed, but fuck, it’s good. it always is. rafe fucks like he fights—dirty, desperate, like he’s got something to prove. his hands grip your hips, pulling you against him, his pace brutal, punishing, like he’s mad at you for leaving, mad at himself for letting you back in.

“this what you wanted?” he grits out, his breath hot against your ear.

you don’t answer—can’t. his hand finds your throat, fingers pressing just enough to make your breath stutter, your body arching into him, wanting more, needing more. he chuckles, low and dark.

“yeah, that’s what i thought.”

his name is a broken prayer on your lips as he fucks you deeper, his grip unrelenting. you take it, you take all of it, the burn, the pleasure, the way he ruins you in the best fucking way. his mouth finds yours in a messy, desperate kiss, all teeth and tongue, a battle neither of you really want to win.

your nails rake down his back, and he groans, a delicious, guttural sound that makes your toes curl. he’s close. you can feel it in the way his rhythm stutters, the way his breathing turns ragged.

“come with me,” he mutters against your lips, and fuck—you do. you shatter, pleasure ripping through you, white-hot and blinding, and he’s right there with you, hips snapping forward, a strangled curse slipping past his lips as he spills inside you.

you stay like that for a moment, bodies tangled, chests heaving. his forehead presses against yours, and for a second, it almost feels like something softer, something real.

but then he pulls away. rolls onto his back. lights another cigarette. and just like that, the moment is gone.

the morning after is always the worst. the weight of your choices settles heavy on your chest, thicker than the hangover pounding behind your eyes. rafe is still asleep, his arm slung lazily across your waist, like he has the right. like this is something other than what it is.

you slip out of bed, his warmth lingering on your skin. your clothes are scattered across the floor, the evidence of another mistake, another night you won’t talk about. you dress quietly, heart hammering against your ribs, knowing you should leave before he wakes up, before he can pull you back under.

but you don’t.

because you know how this goes.

you’ll walk away, swearing it’s the last time. and then he’ll find you again, smirk that infuriating smirk, say something that makes your pulse jump.

and you’ll be right back here.

tannyhill is worse.

it’s his domain, his throne, and he drags you into every room like he’s got a claim on you. the kitchen, the study, even the fucking balcony—he has you pressed against every hard surface, taking him in breathless, needy gasps.

he ruins you on the billiard table, the felt burning against your skin as he fucks into you with reckless abandon. the library? your moans are swallowed between towering shelves as he bends you over the polished wood desk, hands fisted in your hair, wrecking you between leather-bound first editions.

rafe doesn’t let up, doesn’t let you breathe. he makes you forget why you ever wanted to leave, makes you addicted to the way he owns you in this house that should feel like a prison, but only chains you deeper to him.

“you’re mine,” he growls against your skin as he takes you again in his bed, the sheets tangled around your limbs, slick with sweat and sin.

you should fight it. but you don’t.

because you belong to him, whether you admit it or not.

same spot. same mistake.

same fucking game.

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @rafesbabygirlx

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emberreblogging34 · 2 days ago

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1: last full song was Wake Me Up by Avicci

2: Fight For Everyone by The Leisure Society

3: hmm... I'm going to go with Battle Cry by The Family Crest because I am sobbing every time I hear it

@jadedsundragon @lilajeanbasener

MUSIC LOVERS ASSEMBLE!!

i feel like starting a tag chain so i hope this works out :)

reblog this with 3 songs:

the song your listening to right now (or last one you listened to)

your current favourite song

a song of your choice

______________________________________________________________

mine:

its now or never - elvis presley/love in the dark - adele

trastevere - måneskin

nevermore - queen

______________________________________________________________

tagggzzzz: (np ofc) @heartstopper-lover123 @s0lit4ir3 @ali-da-demon @vicwritesfic @skeelly @charliethinks @tori-my-love @chronic-skeptic @toulouseradiosilence @stewpid-soup @nine-frogs-in-a-trenchcoat @pessimistic-gh0st @theshyqueergirl @crowleybrekkers @a-bowl-of-soop @frogfairy444 @robinheaney12 @fairyghostgirlgaming @thatsawesomedontyouthink @venusplanetoflove2 @thelovelyvie @abookishshade @spir4nts-lun4r @i-have-no-idea-111 @kit-the-queer @a-wondering-thought @scatteredraysofhope @coco6420 @softlyunbreakable @givennnnnn @far-beyond-saving @darling-im-wonderstruck @heartstoppernerdsstuff @nonbinary-idiot-obviously @rebelrobinrules1984 @daydream-of-a-wallflower @leonine-elizer @angel-devil-star and anyone else who wants to join!!

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girlkisser13 · 2 days ago

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being married to ryomen sukuna would include

• your wedding was far from traditional. it was more like a ritual, a claiming, an unbreakable vow that binds you to him forever.

• your wedding rings are ancient, inscribed with curses that tie your souls together. no magic, no force in the universe, can ever sever the bond.

• he is possessive of the title. he loves calling you "my wife" or "my husband"— always with that cocky smirk, like he owns you.

• sukuna is a king, and your home reflects that. luxury, power, and absolute security— all tailored to your comfort, whether he admits it or not.

• your home is massive, grand, and completely impenetrable. he ensures no one can step foot near it unless he allows them to.

• he spoils you WITHOUT hesitation. whatever you want, it’s yours—but don’t expect to ask. he already knows and will have it waiting for you before you can even think about it.

• everything in your home is built for your pleasure. soft cushions, rich silks, the most exquisite food and drink— he makes sure you live like royalty.

• he demands your presence near him at all times. if you’re in another room for too long, he’ll simply come find you and drag you back. "where do you think you’re going, love?"

• he watches you constantly. not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he enjoys seeing you move through his space— your space.

• he rarely lets you do anything mundane. if you even attempt to do household chores, he will look at you like you’re insane. "why are you wasting your time with that? if you want something done, tell me."

• despite his arrogance, he listens to you. if you tell him you like something a certain way, it stays that way, no questions asked.

• sukuna does not show love softly. every touch, every look, every moment of affection is a declaration of ownership, a reminder that you are his.

• his touch is always firm, always possessive. he does not simply hold your hand— he grips it, intertwines your fingers with his, staking his claim on you.

• kisses with him are slow, deep, and consuming. he doesn’t kiss you just to kiss— he does it to make sure you never forget who you belong to.

• he LOVES to leave marks. bite marks, love marks, scratches— he enjoys seeing proof of himself on your skin.

• you are never out of his reach. even when sitting across a room, he will extend an arm, grab your wrist, pull you close until you’re right where he wants you.

• he plays with your hair absentmindedly. when he’s deep in thought, his fingers will find their way to your scalp, brushing through your hair as if grounding himself in your presence.

• if you ever pull away, he does not allow it. he will simply grab you and pull you back, smirking. "trying to escape, darling? how adorable."

• sukuna is beyond protective. he does not tolerate threats, disrespect, or even the mere idea of you being in danger.

• if anyone so much as breathes wrong in your direction, they are dead before they realize their mistake.

• he does not allow you to fight your own battles. not because he thinks you are weak, but because no one is worthy enough to challenge what is his.

• he is always aware of where you are. no matter the distance, he will always know if you are safe or in danger.

• if you ever get hurt, even slightly, he is furious. his rage isn’t loud— it’s quiet, cold, a slow-burning fire that destroys everything in its path.

• he doesn’t just protect you from physical threats— he protects your honor, your name, your status. anyone who dares speak ill of you will regret it.

• if you cry, he becomes still. he doesn’t know how to handle it at first, but then he pulls you against his chest, stroking your back, murmuring in a voice only you get to hear.

• arguing with sukuna is like going to war. he does not back down. ever.

• if you ignore him, he does not let it slide. he will grab your chin, tilt your head up, and demand you look at him. "you don’t get to shut me out."

• his temper is unpredictable. some days, he will laugh at your defiance. other days, he will have you pinned against a wall, reminding you exactly who is in charge.

• he doesn’t say "sorry"— but he makes up for it. he’ll pull you into his arms, press a kiss to your forehead, and mutter, "don’t be stupid. i’m not going anywhere."

• if you cry in an argument, his entire demeanor shifts. he will wrap you in his embrace, stroking your hair, muttering threats against whatever upset you.

• he doesn’t need to say "i love you"— he proves it. every act of protection, every glance, every possessive touch is a declaration of utter devotion.

• he thinks about eternity with you. not just years, but lifetimes.

• he does not believe in "till death do us part." if you die, he will bring you back. he will tear through existence itself to have you by his side again.

• even after centuries, he still treats you like the most important thing in existence. his love never fades— if anything, it only grows stronger. <33

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autonomousroboticorganism · 3 days ago

Text

bug trouble (TF Prime)

featuring - Optimus Prime x F!Reader, Bumblebee x F!Reader, Smokescreen x F!Reader, Knock Out x F!Reader, Wheeljack x F!Reader, Soundwave x F!Reader, Shockwave x F!Reader

summary - you have faced some of the worse Decepticons/Autobots with them, so your fear of little organic insects mystifies them

warnings - the Bots and Cons shoot at/step on/crush the spiders, some of them by accident

a/n - i don't condone killing anything but in my opinion this is how they would solve it, as battle-hardened warriors

OPTIMUS PRIME

Optimus and the team had just come back from another dangerous and tiring mission to stop the Decepticons from getting their servos on a relic. The base was suspiciously quiet, and they were sure that you and the other humans hadn't followed them through the ground bridge this time.

So where were you?

Ratchet was at his usual station, chuckling to himself, which earned suspicious looks from Arcee, Bulkhead and Bumblebee.

"Ratchet?" Optimus called. "Where are the children?"

The medic turned to the returned team, "At this point, I don't know. (Name) screamed randomly, and they scattered."

"And you haven't even tried to find them?" Arcee crossed her arms.

"I was just doing that now," Ratchet replied.

"Then why were you giggling like a little girl?" Bulkhead asked.

Optimus walked over to check the screens, spotting you in one of the camera feeds. You were in one of the relic containment units, running around the platform holding the relic, frantically. The Prime immediately turned and walked to that room, leaving the others to bicker. When he opened the unit, you screamed and ran past him, sobbing hysterically.

A little black thing with eight legs was following behind you.

(Name)," the Prime called, "Wait."

He followed you, back to the main area where you circled around Bulkhead and ran back to him, trying to scale his leg. Optimus bent down and lifted you up.

"My love, what is that following you? And why are you afraid?"

"It's a spider!" You wailed, "And it's got eight creepy legs and six creepier eyes!" You shivered. "Stuff of nightmares, really." Tears still streamed down your face.

Optimus looked back down at the arachnid, which was hesitating to follow you up his leg. Arcee shivered as well, the sight of the spider reminding her of her worst enemy.

"I shall get rid of it," the Prime handed you to Arcee before reaching down to pick up the arachnid. It crawled onto his digit, and in his attempt to grab it with his other servo he accidentally crushed it. "Oops."

You shivered when he reached for you again, "Optimus, I love you but if you touch me with the remains of that infernal thing on your servos, I will jump out of your hands and accept my fate."

The Prime was even more confused, but complied and only reached for you when he had cleaned his servos. You happily returned to him, relaxing in his hold.

"You have faced the likes of Starscream and a zombie Skyquake," he looked at you, "Yet you fear a little earth arachnid?"

You pouted, "Did I mention the eight legs and six eyes?"

Optimus was still confused, but comforted you nonetheless. He held you and stroked your back soothingly with one digit, telling you about their mission to distract you. It worked, for the most part.

BUMBLEBEE

All Bumblebee wants to do after a long day of fighting Cons is to sit and have you curl up to him as you watch a movie. The feeling of you against him always calms him, and never fails to destress him after a mission.

Unfortunately, when the team got back there was no sign of you or Jack, Miko and Raf. Only a giggling Ratchet, which set off alarm bells in Bee's processor.

The scout beeped a few times, asking the medic where you were.

"I did not know myself," Ratchet replied, "Until I took a look at our surveillance systems." He stepped aside to show the team.

Bumblebee spotted you immediately, and he immediately grew concerned. You were on his berth in his berthroom, shaking and frantically looking around but otherwisd stuck there for the time being.

The scout beeped worriedly, rushing off to save you from whatever horror was in his berthroom. When he opened the door, he saw something black with multiple legs scuttling around the room, and you were sobbing on his berth.

"Bumblebee!" You cried out when you saw him. "Blasters out, please!"

He beeped, asking why, and when you pointed to the arachnid on the floor he asked, Why do you want me to shoot something so small? It seems harmless. When you burst into even more tears, he quickly corrected himself, I mean, you've gone up against Starscream and Knock Out! Why does this thing scare you?

"Bumblebee please!" You begged, "I'll explain after, please just get rid of it!"

The scout obliged, blasting the arachnid to bits before coming closer, picking you up. You offered him rushed, relieved thank you's, before promptly burying yourself in his neck cables.

"It's got eight creepy legs," you complained to him, still shivering. "And six even creepier eyes. I hate them so much. I won't sleep for the next few nights."

Bumblebee beeped again, I will always protect you.

"I know...but these creepy crawlies..." You shivered again. "I would rather get kidnapped by Knock Out than face one of these again."

Bumblebee whined, Don't say that!

You laughed, kissing his faceplate, "Thank you, my hero."

His chassis puffed out in pride.

KNOCK OUT

Starscream could be very annoying, this much you knew. He often got on Knock Out's nerves, more so than the doctor let on. But there were apparently no limits to heeled Decepticon's cruelty, because somehow he had found out about the human fear arachnophobia.

Because now the eight-legged abomination was scuttling around Knock Out's lab, stranding you on the tool table.

This was how the medic found you, on your hands and knees peering over the edge of the table. You were trembling, something he'd never seen you do. There was a wild, fearful look in your eyes that didn't match your usual behaviour, and Knock Out looked around.

"Am I missing something?"

You screamed and fell backwards, chest heaving, "Knock Out! Don't scare me like that!"

"You were scared long before I got here, sweetheart. What's the problem?"

"You don't see it?"

Your eyes once again landed on the floor, glued to something that was moving. He looked down, his optics narrowing in on the small, furry eight-legged creature.

"What is that?"

"A spider!" You shuffled back on the table. "Please get rid of it!"

The mad doctor looked confused, "You've come with me to battle Autobots, and have stood in the middle of our fights, but you afraid of something so tiny?"

You glared at him, "Count its legs and eyes before you judge!"

He sighed, but got rid of the arachnid by stepping on it. Then he proceeded to complain about getting his pede messed, and you face-palmed. At least you were calm now and no longer shaking, so he decided to ignore that.

"How did a spider even get on the ship?" He asked you, scooping you up and placing you on his shoulder - something he seemed to enjoy.

"Take one guess."

"Screamer?" He already knew the answer without your confirmation.

"Mhm."

Knock Out didn't take kindly to anyone messing with what belonged to him. Especially if it was his precious little human. So the next time Starscream needed repairs, you laughed when you heard his repair had malfunctioned, knowing that the mad doctor had purposely sabotaged it.

SMOKESCREEN

Every time Smokescreen thought he had found out all he needed to know about the human race, he was smacked in the helm with something new. He hadn't even considered that you had fears, since he had seen you face Decepticons and not even flinch.

Yet here you were, screaming murder and running away from a little black thing with eight furry legs. The rest of the team looked up from their positions, Miko's face paling as she took off as well.

"What's that?" Smokescreen looked at Bumblebee, confused.

Bumblebee beeped a few times, explaining that spiders were eight-legged, six-eyed arachnids that freaked you and Miko out like nothing else.

Smokescreen looked at you again, before going over and picking you up. He didn't understand your fear, but he didn't want you to feel scared when he was right there.

"It's okay, I got it!"

He tried stepping on it, but it scuttled away. He set you down on his shoulder and tried to grab it, which made you yelp and attempt to scale down his back.

"No no no!" You kept muttering, shivering and shaking like you were in some kind of horrible trance.

"It's so small!" He grit his dentae, reaching for it again. "This thing isn't as scary as some Decepticons." He meant well. He just sometimes said stupid things.

"I would rather fight Starscream again than be around that thing!" You cried, climbing as far back as possible as he finally got a hold of it. You slipped and fell off his shoulder, but Smokescreen's reflexes were great. He caught you in his other servo.

"Uh, Smokescreen? Not a good idea," Arcee watched as your whole body went rigid when the spider escaped his grip and crawled along his arm.

You screamed so loudly you might have damaged his audials, but he realised his mistake and quickly handed you to the nearest Autobot as he frantically looked all over his body, trying to locate the infernal creature. He managed to get it, but only after he sped out of the base to remove it outside, to prevent you and Miko from passing out.

When he got back, you shivered but allowed him to pick you up again, and he grinned, "I don't understand it, but if it scares you it's probably bad, right?"

You smiled.

WHEELJACK

Wheeljack is pretty fearless, so you often feel intimidated by him and insecure about your own fears. You never told him about your deathly fear of arachnids, and he never asked. He assumed you were like him, not scared of anything.

That is, until today.

When he got back from a mission with Bulkhead, he immediately sought you out. Even Miko was missing, which the green Autobot found strange.

"Where's (Name) and Miko?" Wheeljack asked Raf and Jack, who were playing a racing videogame.

Jack shrugged, "Haven't seen them since we got here after school."

That was even more odd. Usually you would be here waiting for him to get back from wherever if he wasn't here. Then, moments later, a scream rang out through the base. Wheeljack recognised that as yours and took off towards the sound.

When he found you, he stopped dead.

You were running in circles around his berth, looking over your shoulder. He tried to spot what was apparently chasing you, and only did so when the thing scuttled out from behind his berth, in the direction you were headed. You screamed again and changed directions.

"What is that?" Wheeljack asked, confused on why you were so terrified.

"Spider!" You wailed, running to him and hiding behind his massive leg. "Kill it!"

He raised a big metal eyebrow, "You're scared of that tiny thing? You've faced vehicons and Dreadwing with me and that little creature is what's shaking you?"

You groaned, "I knew you would judge! Where's Bulkhead?"

"Okay, okay, no need for that," he grumbled and picked you up, setting you carefully on his shoulder before kicking the arachnid, sending the dreaded creature flying and hitting the wall. It crumpled, laying on its back and curling inwards.

"Thanks," you sighed in relief, but still looked tense. "Now get rid of it."

"It's dead."

"Dead and no less creepy!" You protested.

"Yeah, yeah." He rolled his eyes, but got rid of the dead spider. When he got back, he watched you carefully. "You good now?"

"Much better," you confirmed, but still looking like you had seen a ghost.

"Come here."

Wheeljack wasn't a cuddler, but he figured the best thing to do as your boyfriend was get in some snuggles to soothe you. And maybe, MAYBE he enjoyed it too, but Primus forbid he ever admit that out loud.

SOUNDWAVE

Like Knock Out, Soundwave didn't understand how an earth creature got on the ship. And since you seemed so horrified, he concluded that you didn't bring it with you.

He was aware the second you're terrified, as predicted, so you didn't have to scream and cry for help. You just hid wherever you could, and waited for the silent Decepticon to find you.

He stopped his work to come check on you, and to deal with the cresture that was inspiring such fear. Once he's in his berthroom, it's not hard for him to locate the arachnid, and he got Laserbeak to carry it out and drop it off the Nemesis.

He then scanned his room for you, finding you in a little crevice under his berth. He coaxed you into coming out, tilting his helm as if asking why you were afraid of such a little thing.

You shivered, your eyes scanning the room before looking at him, "They're scary. Did you see how many eyes and legs it has??" You shivered again.

Soundwave patted the top of your head, comfortingly. Then he tilted his helm again, words appearing on his visor, You have been through far worse, encountering the Autobots and other Decepticons.

"I know but these things are the stuff of nightmares!" You complained. "I would rather fight any Cybertronian than be in a room with one of these again..."

He nodded in understanding, not quite understanding your logic there but there but nonetheless agreeing. Whatever made you less scared was preferred, after all, he didn't like seeing how terrified you had been.

Feeling better? Popped up on his visor.

You nodded, calming down, "Much. Thank you."

He displayed a red heart.

SHOCKWAVE

Shockwave was used to dark, confined spaces with rodents and other creatures scuttling around. He had been stuck on Cybertron for years, after all. So he doesn't think much of it when an earthly creature finds its way aboard the Nemesis.

Until it starts to bother you.

He walked into his lab one day to see you on your hands and knees on his tool table, peering over the side. He instantly noticed the slight tremble of your small form, and approached you cautiously.

"What is the matter?"

You screamed and jumped despite his careful approach, turning to him with wide, frightened eyes before snapping them back to whatever was on the floor.

"There's a spider!"

"I do not understand."

You turned back to him, but your eyes flickered to the ground every so often, "These earth creatures with six eyes and eight freaky legs."

Shockwave nodded in understanding, before tilting his helm, "You are around Decepticons who are much larger than you, and coukd squash you easily, yet that tiny insignificant creature frightens you? That is illogical."

You sighed, "That thing is just creepy okay! I can handle giant Decepticons, I just can't do spiders." You shivered.

Shockwave didn't argue, going over to the bug and studying it for a second before picking it up and making his way out of the lab to get rid of it. You relaxed when it was gone, and when he came back you were lying on your back, trying to overcome your shivers.

"It is gone."

"I know, thank you," you sat up. "It just feels like smaller ones are crawling all over me."

He reached out to let you climb onto his servo, keeping you close to him to comfort you while he continued his work.

#tf prime #tfp #transformers #transformers prime #bumblebee x reader #knock out x reader #optimus prime x reader #shockwave x reader #smokescreen x reader #wheeljack x reader #soundwave x reader

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luvsferrariss · 2 days ago

Text

˚⟡˖ ࣪. ʚ 💌 ɞ who said that I hate you? - OO1

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ Synopsis: S/n, the rookie in Formula 1, challenges sexism in the sport, facing criticism, intense rivalries, and false accusations. Amid fierce disputes with Charles Leclerc and unexpected support, she fights to prove her talent.

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ Charles Leclerc x Female Reader! Red Bull Driver

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ warnings: Heavy sexism, fake news (??), Charles being a complete jerk, and angst. Let me know if I forgot anything.

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ Author’s Notes: This was supposed to be a short story, but I got carried away and had to split it into two parts. If you guys like it, I’ll post part two tomorrow! English is not my first language, so there might be some mistakes, sorry 🤍

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ part two here! ✨

Formula 1 has always been a male-dominated sport, but who said that would stop rookie S/n from claiming her place? No, giving up was never on her list of options.

You’ve spent your whole life hearing that you would never make it into Formula 1, that you could never compete on equal footing with a man. But when you finally signed a contract with one of the top teams on the grid, you realized the biggest challenge wasn’t on the track—it was the people who wanted to see you fail.

Among those people was Charles Leclerc, one of the most beloved drivers among fans. Charles hated the attention you were getting, convinced that everything you did was just marketing and nothing more. He made sure to make that clear, with interviews filled with sharp remarks and intense on-track battles.

To Charles, S/n was nothing more than a lucky rookie. To S/n, Charles was just another jerk trying to bring her down—like so many before him.

“S/n, are you okay? S/n, if you’re alright, just answer!” Your engineer’s panicked voice echoed through the radio just as your car crashed into the tire barrier.

Everything happened in a blur. You had been fighting for the lead on the final lap against Charles Leclerc, and suddenly, you were struggling against your aching body to get out of your wrecked car.

“I’m fine. Just sore, but I’m fine,” you responded firmly as you stepped out of the cockpit.

Adrenaline still coursed through your veins. You kicked the car hard before shrugging it off, trying to calm yourself. The medical team rushed over, but you simply nodded and got into the rescue vehicle, removing your helmet and letting out a long sigh.

Back at the garage, you waved briefly at your trainer and went straight to your private room.

You threw your helmet into a random corner, kicked the couch, and collapsed onto it. The TV in the room replayed the crash. Anger boiled inside you. Without thinking, you got up and stormed back to the garage, determined.

“Do you have any idea what you just did, S/n?! You could have been seriously hurt… or worse!” Your PR manager, Adele, exclaimed as soon as she saw you walk in. Your trainer, Steve, and your public relations assistant, Bree, rushed to you.

You looked down at your race suit, still covered in dust. You brushed it off lightly, but nothing could erase the bitter taste of defeat burning in your throat.

“That clueless idiot is entirely to blame! He threw me into the wall on purpose! Did you see how he closed that corner?! Asshole.” Your voice dripped with indignation.

Steve and Bree immediately agreed, but Adele sighed, running a hand down her face.

“S/n, you can’t afford to lose your head over him. The media is already waiting outside, and I can guarantee they won’t go easy on you,” Bree warned, her voice calm.

You huffed, closing your eyes for a moment before facing them.

“Sorry, guys. But this time, I won’t stay quiet.”

The paddock sweltered under the scorching sun, and the sound of cameras clicking was deafening. You adjusted your team cap, trying to hide the simmering rage.

In front of you, a journalist held out a microphone with a smug smile.

“So, S/n… Do you think that crash was due to incompetence or inexperience?”

Your jaw tightened, but the journalist continued, not even bothering to mask his sarcasm.

“I mean, a lot of people were already questioning your place in Formula 1. Isn’t it obvious now that this sport just isn’t for you?”

You clenched your fists, trying to keep your anger in check. But before you could respond, a firm voice cut through the air:

“Excuse me, are you planning to ask serious questions and act like a professional, or are you just going to keep up this ridiculous circus?”

You turned to see Max Verstappen standing beside you, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

The journalist tried to laugh, taken aback, but Max didn’t back down.

“If any other driver had crashed, you’d be analyzing the data, not mocking them. But of course, it’s easier to tear down a woman than admit she has talent.”

A lump formed in your throat—not from weakness, but from gratitude.

“If you want to talk about who deserves to be in Formula 1, start by actually analyzing things properly. But I suppose real journalism is too hard for you,” Max finished, pulling you away from the journalist, who stood speechless.

When the interviews finally ended, you leaned against a wall near the exit.

“Thanks, Max. I don’t think I’ve ever been at a loss for words before.”

He smirked.

“It’s alright, S/n. Look, I know what it’s like to be criticized. Not like you, of course. It must be even harder for you… Society is still so sexist. But you’re strong. You’ll get through this.”

He draped an arm over your shoulder.

“And since I was so nice, how about you buy me an ice cream?”

You laughed, finally feeling some of the pressure and anger fade away.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

( . . . )

Just minutes after you left, the same journalist who had humiliated you was now grinning at Charles—the one responsible for your crash and disqualification. The contrast was brutal.

“Charles, what a race! You mastered the corners brilliantly and proved once again why you’re one of the best on the grid. How does it feel to be such an inspiration to aspiring drivers?”

S/n watched the broadcast while picking up her ice cream. Max had been smiling at you, but as soon as he saw your expression, his own smile faded. Your muscles had already tensed in anger. The way Charles smiled and basked in the praise made your blood boil.

“Well, I think some drivers need to understand track limits better. But… it’s all part of the learning process, right?” Charles spoke modestly, but his tone carried clear provocation.

You felt your entire body tremble. How dare he act like a hero after what he had done?

Max, standing beside you, whispered:

“S/n, don’t do anything. This is exactly what he wants.”

He gripped your arm, worried about what you might do next, and pulled you away from the shop.

You took a deep breath, but every word from that reporter felt like a knife sinking deeper into your skin.

Minutes later, Charles approached you in the corridors, hands in his pockets, wearing a smug grin.

“Are you okay, princess? That was quite the accident… Shame you couldn’t keep the car under control.”

S/n clenched her jaw, fists tightening. Every fiber of her being screamed to punch him right there.

But she held her ground, her voice a cold, sharp blade.

“Careful, Charles. Because when I win, there won’t be any excuses left to save you.”

And with that, she walked away, leaving him speechless.

When you reached your motorhome, Adele was waiting for you, pacing back and forth.

“Hey, Adele! What happened—” Before you could finish speaking, she pulled out her phone and showed you a news article.

“S/n under suspicion: FIA investigates possible data manipulation in the rookie driver’s car.”

Your eyes scanned the words, your heart pounding. A lump formed in your throat. It was a lie. A dirty, planned lie…

You felt your fingers trembling.

Lando came up behind you and read the headline over your shoulder.

“This can’t be a coincidence,” Lando said, frowning. You jumped at his sudden presence and immediately turned to face him.

“They want me out of the game,” you murmured, pure anger in your voice.

You walked into the motorhome and threw yourself onto the couch, running a hand over your face, exhausted from all the accusations.

( . . . )

Two weeks had passed since your confrontation with Charles, and finally, it was another race weekend. You smiled as soon as you stepped into the paddock—nothing could shake you here.

Everything was perfect. You were in a great mood, and everything felt in perfect harmony.

As you made your way to your team’s garage, you suddenly felt someone grab your arm before you could step inside.

You stumbled, but someone caught you. Looking up, you saw Lando, his hand on his chest as he tried to catch his breath.

“Lando! What happened? Why did you drag me here?” you asked, laughing at his reaction.

The worried expression on his face made your heart skip a beat.

“S/n, did you check social media today?” Lando asked, and you shook your head.

“No, why?” You asked, looking at the phone in his hand.

Frowning, you grabbed the phone, your eyes darting over the bold headline on the sports website:

“SCANDAL IN FORMULA 1: S/N INVOLVED IN AFFAIR WITH COMMITTED TEAMMATE”

“Internal team sources reveal that rookie driver S/n isn’t just trying to make a name for herself on the track but also off of it. According to exclusive reports, S/n has allegedly been having an affair with her teammate while he was still in a relationship with his now ex-girlfriend, who is pregnant!

The secret relationship has supposedly caused numerous arguments within the team, with rumors that tensions in the garage became unbearable after a confrontation between the ex-girlfriend and S/n. Some team members, speaking anonymously, claim that the driver’s performance has been questioned because she has allegedly been receiving internal favors to keep her seat.

Moreover, speculation has arisen that her closeness with her teammate may be influencing certain strategic decisions in her favor, raising doubts about the legitimacy of her season results.

The FIA has yet to comment on the matter, but the negative backlash is growing on social media. Has S/n used Formula 1 not only to prove her skills but also to climb the ranks through scandal?”

“WHAT?!” you shouted, and Lando quickly covered your mouth.

You felt your blood boiling in your veins. Your heart was beating so fast it echoed in your ears. You reread every sentence, every disgusting lie, and the anger inside you grew into a suffocating knot in your throat.

“This is absurd,” your best friend said in a low but furious voice. You looked at him in desperation, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your body shaking with fear.

“What kind of sick joke is this, Lando?” You stared at the phone in your hand. “Who would have the audacity to make this up?! How the hell am I ‘influencing strategic decisions’ when they barely trust me to change my tires at the pit stop?” Your voice was low, but Lando looked at you worriedly, already knowing you well enough to see that you were on the verge of an outburst.

“Whoever did this wants to destroy you, no matter what. First, that ridiculous accusation about the car’s data, and now this?” Lando leaned against the wall, running a hand through his hair.

“And the worst part is that people are going to believe it!” you said, deadly serious but clearly terrified.

“S/n, I know you want to explode right now, but we need to think about what to do. They want to destabilize you.” Lando spoke, and silence fell over the place. You weren’t just angry anymore—you were sad, upset. You wanted to cry.

You took a deep breath, but it felt like you couldn’t get enough air. Your eyes returned to the phone, where the article was already going viral. In the comments, a flood of toxic messages appeared:

“Knew she wasn’t actually talented.”

“Women in F1 always end up making headlines for the wrong reasons.”

“Of course, it had to be a woman. Getting ahead the easy way.”

“Shame on the sport. Who’s protecting her?”

That was the final straw for you.

Your chest ached. Not from weakness, but from a deep sadness that made your body tremble.

Lando noticed.

“This isn’t just about destabilizing me, Lando! This is a direct attack on my reputation! They’re basically saying I’m only here because I slept with someone?! This is disgusting!” Your voice cracked, and tears started streaming down your face. You had never broken down like this in front of anyone. Your legs gave out, and Lando noticed, rushing toward you and pulling you into a tight hug.

“You can’t let them win, S/n. You’re not alone, okay?” Lando murmured, running a hand through your hair.

“Why, Lando? Why do they hate me so much? I never did anything to these… assholes, I swear! I may be explosive, but what did I ever do to them?” you sobbed, your voice failing. Your best friend was always there for you, and you were grateful for that.

( . . . )

“What the hell is this!?” Max bursts out, furious, as he storms into the meeting room where you, the team leader, and the PR team are gathered.

You still felt the sadness burning inside you when the door swung open forcefully. Your teammate, Max, rushed in, his eyes blazing with indignation. Right behind him, Kelly, his girlfriend, clutched her phone tightly, as if ready to smash it.

“Oh, so you saw the ridiculous nonsense they’re spreading too? Welcome to hell.” You sigh, your tone calm. Everyone stares at you, surprised. They expected you to be angry—or worse.

Max ran a hand through his hair, visibly upset.

“I saw it, and it’s unbelievable! Who has the audacity to make up something like this? I’m still with Kelly, and now they’re trying to turn this into a scandal?” Max says, sitting down beside you. Kelly joins him, and despite her frustration, she offers you a reassuring smile.

“This is so ridiculous it’s actually offensive! As if I would end a relationship over a stupid rumor!” Kelly says, clearly frustrated with the situation. She looks at you, her expression softening when she sees the emptiness in your eyes. “I know you would never do something like this. Just because you’re a woman working in a male-dominated field doesn’t mean you have to sleep with someone to earn your place. Whoever wrote this deserves to be sued.”

An unexpected tightness grips your chest. After everything you had endured that day, hearing Kelly defend you instead of accusing you was a relief you didn’t even know you needed.

You offer a small, tired smile and meet her gaze.

“Thank you for believing in me,” you whisper, and she smiles back.

“The problem was never you, S/n. The problem is people who refuse to accept that a woman can be great at what she does without relying on anyone,” Bree, your PR assistant, speaks up, and you let out a deep sigh.

Max nods in agreement.

“Exactly. They want to destroy S/n’s reputation because they know they can’t beat her on the track,” Max finally says after a long silence. He takes a deep breath, grabs his phone, and starts typing. “I’m shutting this down right now.”

Within seconds, his Instagram post is already going viral:

@maxverstappen: “Just to be clear: the rumors about S/n and me having any kind of romantic involvement are completely false. Kelly and I are together and doing great, and this attack on S/n is just another disgusting attempt to discredit her. Enough with the fake news. Respect the sport.”

Kelly follows suit, posting a story:

@kellypiquet: “Let’s get one thing straight: S/n has NEVER disrespected me or Max in any way. This story is just another example of how women in sports are attacked for no reason. Grow up.”

( . . . )

After the fake news scandal, you expected Charles Leclerc to use it against you, but to your surprise, he remained silent. No provocative comments, no sly remarks in interviews. He just watched you from a distance, as if analyzing your every reaction.

Charles truly didn’t feel comfortable mocking this kind of situation—not after everything he had witnessed.

Then, the day after the media chaos, when you were alone in the garage reviewing race data, he appeared beside you, casually leaning against the table.

“So… what’s it like being the most dangerous woman in Formula 1?” Charles asked sarcastically, but without the malice he once had.

You narrowed your eyes, already expecting a jab. You were used to his teasing.

“Listen, Charles,” you said, stepping closer, “if you’re here to make jokes, you can turn around and leave. I’m not in the mood.”

Charles crossed his arms, but his gaze lacked the arrogance it usually carried.

“Relax, hothead. I’m not here to fight. I just… wanted to see how you were holding up,” Charles said, scratching the back of his head. You hesitated for a moment, confused.

Charles was asking how you were?

“As if you care,” you spat, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms.

Charles shrugged.

“I’m not going to lie—I enjoy messing with you. But I know what it’s like to have the world call you a fraud.”

Your eyes widened, surprised by his admission.

“You? The media’s golden boy? Ferrari’s prodigy?” you mocked, and he rolled his eyes.

“The media chooses who to attack. Today, it’s you. Tomorrow, it could be anyone,” Charles said before walking away.

And for the first time, you didn’t feel immediate hatred for Leclerc.

( . . . )

After the false news spread, the journalists still hadn’t let go of S/n. Now, more than ever, she was the main target. During a team event, a persistent reporter started pressing her with loaded questions.

“S/n, do you think your involvement with Max could affect your career in the long run?”

The reporter’s words instantly irritated you.

“I’ve already said there was no involvement. That’s a lie.” You responded confidently, keeping your anger in check.

But he just smirked, still trying to provoke you.

“But rumors always have some truth to them, don’t they? Maybe it’s just a matter of admitting it…”

Before you could snap, Charles appeared by your side, resting a casual yet protective hand on your shoulder. You glanced at his hand, then at him, then back at his hand. You raised an eyebrow, confused.

“Interesting… you ask very specific questions for someone who has no proof of anything.” Charles stared directly at the reporter. The journalist hesitated, and Charles continued. “Formula 1 is a competitive sport, but it seems like you’d rather turn it into a cheap reality show.”

You were surprised. It was the first time Charles had publicly defended you or had any interaction beyond provoking you.

When the journalist finally gave up and walked away, you turned to him, suspicious.

“Okay… what was that?” You asked slowly, still looking at his hand on your shoulder. Charles pulled it away, made a face, and wiped it on his clothes.

He shrugged.

“You already have enough problems. You don’t need an idiot like that making it worse.”

You stared at him, trying to figure him out.

“You hate me. Why are you helping me?”

Charles held your gaze a second longer than necessary before smirking.

“Who said I hate you?” He said and then walked away, leaving you more confused than ever.

( . . . )

After Charles’ unexpected defense, the dynamic between the two of you became dangerous territory. You started noticing how often he was around—sometimes teasing, sometimes protective, but always testing your limits.

Then, during another press conference, Charles defended you again. Lando and Max exchanged glances before looking at you, waiting for your reaction. You stared, mouth slightly open, completely lost. You turned to Lando and murmured:

“What was that?”

Lando just shrugged, looking even more confused than you.

That really sent some intrusive thoughts your way.

At the paddock gym? He was there, running on the treadmill next to you.

In team briefings? He made a point to sit close and throw in snide remarks.

At sponsor events? He joked about how you had to smile for journalists who clearly hated you.

And the worst part? He never crossed a certain line.

One night, after a mandatory team dinner, you were walking back to the hotel when you heard footsteps behind you. You turned abruptly—there he was, hands in his pockets, walking casually as if it was nothing.

“Are you following me now?” You rolled your eyes.

Charles gave you a slow smirk, completely unfazed by the accusation.

“Relax, hothead. I’m not that obsessed with you. We’re just heading to the same place.”

He said it so casually, making sure to emphasize the nickname he had given you, something he always did when you were alone.

You crossed your arms, suspicious.

“Right. And you just happen to always be where I am lately? And what’s with that nickname?”

Your arguments didn’t bother him one bit—unlike you, who desperately wanted answers.

He shrugged.

“Coincidence. Or maybe I just like seeing you get worked up.” He clicked his tongue. “And the nickname? It’s just a fact. You’re really stressed all the time, S/n.”

You narrowed your eyes. You wanted to hate him completely, but something about his calm, teasing demeanor made your blood boil in a different way.

And the nickname? He wasn’t wrong.

So you turned on your heel, walking briskly toward your room.

You didn’t want to think about him. You didn’t want to be around him.

That was it.

Avoid him. You told yourself.

#charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #arthur leclerc #leo leclerc #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc x female oc #carlos sainz #lando norris x reader #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen x reader #fluff #formula one x y/n #formula 1 #formou

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banamine-bananime · 3 days ago

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please check out this thread for an excellent time:

After 20 years, I've finally pieced together the story of Myrmilloides grandiceps, a bizarre little mutillid wasp in which both males and females are armed to the teeth (so to speak). Both sexes have the same armaments--huge, scythelike mandibles narrowed apically to a point and widened posteriorly as a blade. Sharp spines jut up from the front of the "lip" and project toward the mandibles. Two pairs of large teeth project posteriorly from the enormous head. What in the world is all this about? Now I know. Males use their armaments to fight other males for access to females, and females use the same set of armaments to fight other females in defense of their young. The male finds a burrow of a solitary bee (a potential host for a female), and he goes inside and waits at the entrance with his head tilted up so that his posterior head spines dig like stakes into the burrow walls and his mandibles project forward. If an unmated female comes along in search of a host, he mates with her. If a rival male comes along first and tries to take over the host burrow, he fights with his rival until the rival gives up and leaves or is killed. After mating, the female enters the burrow and deposits eggs in the cells that the host bee has prepared to raise her own young. If the female Myrmilloides were to leave the nest immediately after ovipositing, her young would be vulnerable to attack by the next female to come along. Therefore, she remains in the burrow for some days in the same position as the male had assumed: head up, head teeth dug in, and mandibles directed outward. If a rival female comes along, she battles with it for the survival of her offspring. Since all of this action takes place underground, I've had to put this account together from the morphological evidence and from literature accounts of the behavior of other insects. I know of no other example in the entire animal world where males and females are heavily armed, males use their armaments to combat rival males for access to females, and females use the same set of armaments to combat other females in defense of their young. My collaborator, a professor at Oxford University, and I plan to publish in the Journal of Ecological Entomology. Oddly enough, my mean old father who hasn't spoken to me in years contributed vital weather data, so his name will also be on the paper. It's a personal vindication for me. Despite my father's best (or rather worst) efforts, his name and mine will be forever linked on this publication. If God exists, he has a keen sense of irony.

the following discussion on the evolution of their giant heads is no less delightful

I've been obsessed with this wasp all weekend.

She's a velvet ant. A wingless wasp who hunts on the ground and lives in a little hole. Look she has eyelashes!

Like most velvet ants, only the males have wings. But in Myrmilloides grandiceps they are vestigial. Somehow this is also cute:

I wonder if they use the wings for anything? Maybe to make noise during mating? Why do the males still have little wings, why aren't they wingless like the females?

If they are similar to other wasps I might guess that the males stake out good nest locations to attract mates, so not having wings might make it possible for them to dig?

Why do they have such wide mandibles? In ants these kinds of mandibles help ants to hunt millipedes. So, perhaps they have similar prey?

There is so little information on these wonderful creatures.

#alexa send post #insects

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novaursa · 2 days ago

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Legacy (the last enemy)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (descriptions of blood, gore, violence and death)

- Previous part: the great war

- Next part: daybreak

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril @urdxrling

The walls trembled with the force of the onslaught.

Tywin stood firm, his golden armor dusted with soot, his crimson cloak billowing as he surveyed the carnage unfolding before him. The dead had come in numbers beyond reckoning, their skeletal fingers and frozen flesh clawing up the steep cliffs and battering the gates.

The ramparts were slick with blackened blood, as the men of the Westerlands fought tooth and nail, driving back wave after wave of the relentless undead. Arrows laced with dragonglass pierced the skulls of wights, sending them crumbling into the masses below. Boiling oil and flaming pitch rained down, setting the battlefield ablaze, yet still they came.

On the eastern wall, Kevan Lannister parried a strike, his sword cutting clean through the rotted flesh of a wight, sending its head tumbling to the ground. Behind him, one of the younger knights—Ser Andros Lefford—gasped out, “They don’t stop! Gods, they don’t—” before an icy blade pierced his throat, silencing him instantly.

Kevan whirled, his blade lashing out and taking the wight’s arm off at the elbow, but the creature did not falter. It lunged at him with unnatural speed, its hollow eyes fixed in hunger, until one of Thoros’ men brought an axe crashing down onto its skull, splitting it in two.

Kevan turned, panting, his breath misting in the frigid air. He locked eyes with his brother, standing atop the main gate, his gaze like steel.

“They’re wearing us down,” Kevan called up, his voice hoarse. "The men grow tired."

Tywin did not move, his expression unreadable as he watched another section of the wall collapse under the weight of the dead.

A horn sounded, deep and ominous.

One of the bannermen, Lord Crakehall, staggered toward him, his face pale beneath the grime and sweat. “My Lord… we can’t hold forever.”

Tywin finally turned to him, his voice as cold as the air that surrounded them. “Then we hold as long as we can.”

Crakehall swallowed, looking as if he wanted to argue, but there was no point. They had been fighting for hours, the sky above them a void of endless black, the air thick with the stench of death and burning flesh.

Below, Arraxes stirred from the mines, his blood-red eyes flashing in the darkness. The young dragon let out a guttural growl, the deep rumble shaking the ground, but he did not leave his lair. The battle raged around him, but he had yet to take flight.

Kevan turned his head, wiping sweat and grime from his brow. "Why didn't she return?"

Tywin did not answer.

The question had gnawed at him for hours. Where was she? His wife, his dragon-rider lady, the only woman to ever unravel the cold fortress of his heart. She had promised to return, to bring fire and death upon the enemy before they reached the gates.

But she was not here.

The walls shuddered as another siege ladder slammed into place, the undead swarming up like insects, their fingers clawing and scraping at the stones. The men on the ramparts hacked and slashed, their muscles burning, their blades growing dull from overuse.

A scream rang out as a wight ripped a man’s throat out with its bare hands, sending him toppling over the wall, his lifeblood spilling into the darkness.

Tywin clenched his jaw. This could not go on.

He turned abruptly to Thoros of Myr, whose sword still burned with divine fire, carving through wights like parchment. "Tell me, Red Priest," Tywin said, his voice dangerously low, "where is your Lord of Light now?"

Thoros paused only briefly, his expression unreadable as he swung his blade, sending another wight screaming into oblivion. “He watches, my Lord. The question is—what will we do before he acts?”

Tywin narrowed his gaze.

A decision needed to be made. A desperate one.

He turned to his commander. “Pull the men back from the eastern gate. Draw them inward.”

Kevan’s brow furrowed. “You mean to let them through?”

“I mean to burn them all.”

Crakehall exhaled sharply, but he did not argue.

The new plan was in motion.

From the mines below, the ground shook as Arraxes let out a low snarl, sensing what was to come.

Tywin’s eyes remained locked on the endless horde, as they crawled and surged toward him.

The iron gates groaned as they swung open, and the dead poured in like a flood, their hollow eyes fixed on the living flesh that awaited them.

Tywin stood motionless, his green eyes cold and sharp, watching the monstrous tide surge forward. The plan was in motion—the courtyard would become their pyre.

Yet, as the first wights crossed the stone threshold, something shifted.

A sudden stillness gripped the air, a heavy pause like the moment before a storm.

The wights that had rushed forward now froze mid-step, their heads twitching unnaturally, their jaws clicking, the ice inside them humming with something unknown, something ancient.

The soldiers on the battlements who had been ready to drop torches and fire hesitated, looking down with wide, confused eyes as their undead foes stood eerily still.

Then, the air itself changed.

A deep, guttural growl resonated through the stone walls, a sound that was older than men, older than the kingdom itself. It rolled through the courtyard like thunder, a vibrating tremor born of rage.

Tywin’s breath hitched as the shadows beneath the castle moved.

Then he saw them—two massive, blood-red eyes, glowing like molten embers, emerging from the darkness of the mines beneath Casterly Rock.

A monstrous black form slithered forward, slow and deliberate, the torchlight flickering against his onyx scales, his long, serpentine body shifting with the grace of a shadow given flesh.

Arraxes.

The young dragon, no longer a hatchling, no longer a beast confined to the earth, but a living, breathing instrument of war.

The wights turned toward him, their heads twitching, their limbs jerking in response to something unseen, something ancient. The magic that bound them quivered, as if some primordial force had just been awakened.

Then Arraxes roared.

A great explosion of sound, a maelstrom of fury, the sheer force of it shaking the very stones beneath them.

And the dead began to scream.

The battlements erupted with shouts as Tywin’s men bellowed their battle cry, calling to the beast below.

“Burn them! Burn them all!”

The courtyard ignited in chaos, as Arraxes lunged forward, his jaws unhinging, his throat glowing with a furious crimson fire.

The wights moved, some clawing toward him, others stumbling back, but it was too late—

A torrent of flame erupted from Arraxes’ maw, a wave of fire so intense that the very air warped and twisted, a golden-red inferno consuming the creatures whole.

The wights burned instantly, their screeches echoing across the walls, their bodies crumbling into charred, lifeless husks.

Tywin had seen fire before. He had commanded it, wielded it like a weapon in his long reign of war.

But this…

This was something else.

This was vengeance made flesh.

Then, another roar split the sky.

A sound Tywin knew.

His head snapped upward just as a massive cream shape came plummeting down from the heavens, the force of its arrival causing the air to tremble, the winds to shift.

A torrent of pale gold fire rained down, engulfing the northern side of the battlefield, sending entire waves of wights into oblivion.

And there you were.

High above the Rock, mounted upon the beast of war itself—Viserion.

Tywin's breath left him, his mind snapping to realization.

You had returned.

The battlements erupted in a chorus of relief and war cries, the soldiers shouting your name, their voices melding with the roar of battle.

And as the golden dragon leveled her wings, as Arraxes lifted his head to the sky, something stirred in the distance.

A new sound.

A new force.

Tywin turned sharply, and in the distance, beyond the burning wights, beyond the chaos of battle, he saw it.

An army.

But not of the dead.

Not of wights.

Not of nightmares.

A host of living men, clad in steel and leather, banners whipping in the wind.

And at their head—

Jon Snow.

A second front had arrived.

And the true battle for Westeros had begun.

Jon gripped the hilt of Longclaw tightly, his breath coming in quick, visible bursts as his army pressed forward into the abyss of war. The ground beneath them was slick with ice and blood, the scent of rot and death so thick in the air that it clawed at his throat. The sky overhead remained an endless stretch of darkness, no moon, no stars—only the cold void of an unnatural winter that had swallowed the world whole.

Then, they came.

At first, it was just a whispering sound, the unnatural scrape of bone against steel, the mindless hissing of wights as they sensed fresh flesh, their movements jerky, broken, and yet disturbingly fast. Then the horizon erupted with motion, a tsunami of the dead rushing forward, wights bounding across the ice, climbing over one another, their jaws snapping, their dead eyes fixed upon the living.

“Shields up!” Jon roared, and the Northern front braced itself, shields locking into place, spears lowered.

The first impact was brutal. The wights threw themselves against the shield wall with mindless ferocity, their rotting hands clawing, scratching, tearing at anything they could reach. Steel sang, blades cleaved through frozen flesh, and the battle dissolved into a chaotic storm of bodies and blood.

Jon struck down one wight, then another, his movements swift, practiced, each strike of Longclaw sending the creatures collapsing into lifeless heaps. Beside him, Tormund swung his axe, cutting through the onslaught with savage force.

“They just keep coming!” Tormund bellowed, smashing the brittle skull of a wight beneath his boot.

Jon didn’t respond—because he had already sensed it.

Something else was coming.

A new sound broke through the howling storm of battle—a deep, guttural clicking noise, something alien, something far more sinister.

Jon turned just in time to see them emerge from the darkness.

Tall, lithe, and eerily graceful, the Others strode through the battlefield like specters from a nightmare. Their armor gleamed like ice, reflecting the dim light of distant flames, their eyes glowed an unnatural blue, piercing, unfeeling. Each carried a blade of frozen death, their weapons forged from the very essence of the Long Night itself.

The wights parted for them, shifting and retreating as the Others advanced, their movements calculated, elegant, lethal.

Jon’s stomach twisted into a knot. He had seen what their blades could do, how they could shatter steel, slice through flesh effortlessly, how they left no wound that could heal.

“Steady!” Jon called to his men.

Then—a new horror.

The ground trembled, a deep, unsettling quake that rippled through the ice. From the shadows beyond the fray, massive dark shapes skittered forward—their long, spindly legs moving with unnatural speed, their mandibles clicking, their icy exoskeletons gleaming like frozen obsidian.

Spiders.

But not just any spiders.

These were the legends given flesh, the beasts of Old Nan’s stories, the terrible nightmares that haunted the North for thousands of years—the Cold God’s children.

Their eyes burned with the same eerie glow as their masters, their limbs moving like streaks of black lightning, their webbing a frozen death trap that could ensnare even the strongest warriors.

The Northern lines buckled as the first wave of monstrous arachnids lunged forward, their legs piercing armor, their fangs tearing into flesh.

Jon ducked as one leapt toward him, its monstrous body blocking out the battlefield behind it. He rolled, barely avoiding its deadly strike, before bringing Longclaw down in a powerful arc. The Valyrian steel bit deep, slicing through chitinous flesh, sending the beast screeching in agony before it collapsed in a heap of twitching limbs.

Davos plunged his sword into another, while Tormund hacked off its legs, laughing like a madman drenched in blood.

“What in all the hells are these?!” Davos shouted, his sword slipping on the frozen exoskeleton of another spider.

Jon had no answer, only the grim realization that this was not just an army—it was a nightmare made real.

Then, a shadow passed over them.

Jon looked up just in time to see a torrent of pale-gold fire erupt from the sky, the flames licking across the battlefield, igniting the wights, turning the monstrous spiders into charred husks of burning legs and blackened corpses.

The air shook with the roar of a dragon, and Jon’s heart leapt into his throat.

Viserion.

And not alone.

The ground shook again, but this time it was not the dead that trembled. Another roar joined the first, a deep, furious sound, one that made the very air vibrate with heat and fury.

From the darkness of the battlefield, another form streaked through the sky, its wings massive, its eyes burning like molten rubies.

Arraxes.

The dragons dove together, their fire cascading down upon the battlefield, their fury unleashed upon the cold horrors below.

The Northern men roared in defiance, emboldened by the sight, their swords cutting through the wights with renewed strength, their resolve hardening in the face of the impossible.

Jon gritted his teeth, the flames illuminating the battlefield, casting the Others in stark relief.

For the first time, they hesitated.

For the first time, they looked up.

The chamber was deep within the heart of Casterly Rock, carved into the very stone that had been home to House Lannister for centuries. The thick, ancient walls muffled the sounds of battle from the world outside, but Damon and Maelor could still feel the tremors, the distant thunder of war pounding at the gates of their sanctuary.

Damon sat near the heavy oaken table, his fingers clenching the fabric of his tunic as he stared at the flickering candlelight. He knew, even without seeing it, that his father was somewhere on the walls, that his mother was up there in the sky, and that death was coming for them all.

Maelor was sitting on the floor by the hearth, his small hands clenched around the wooden lion figurine that had been gifted to him long ago. He was still too young to understand the full scope of what was happening, but he understood enough—the fear in the guards' eyes, the way the castle had gone deathly quiet despite the howling wind outside, the way everyone was whispering prayers to gods he had never truly known.

Across the chamber, Ser Barristan Selmy stood watch, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, his sharp gaze sweeping over the room like that of a lion ready to pounce at the first sign of danger. He had seen countless battles, served countless kings and queens, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

“It’s too quiet,” Damon muttered, breaking the silence.

Barristan turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “The worst storms are always silent before they strike.”

Damon swallowed hard. He had never been a coward, but right now, all he could think about was his mother and father, out there in the midst of it all, facing things that should not exist.

“Do you think they’ll win?” Maelor’s voice was soft, hesitant, as he looked up from his lion figurine. His large eyes flickered with worry.

Barristan sighed, stepping forward, his armor glinting in the dim torchlight. “Your parents are strong, your father is the greatest commander Westeros has seen in a century, and your mother has fire in her blood.” He kneeled before Maelor, his voice gentle but firm. “But wars are never certain, young prince. We must be ready for anything.”

Damon exhaled, his hands tightening into fists. He was seven, nearly eight, not a child anymore, not a babe to be coddled. “I should be out there.”

Barristan arched a brow. “And what would you do? Swing a wooden sword at the dead? The battlefield is no place for you yet. You will have your time, but not now.”

Damon bristled, but he knew Barristan was right. He had tried to claim Arraxes, tried to prove himself worthy of a dragon, and he had failed. The pain of that rejection still burned just as deeply as the scars the dragon had left on him.

Maelor, still holding his wooden lion, suddenly whispered, “They won’t let them take us, will they? The monsters?”

Barristan stood, his shoulders straight as a steel blade, and placed a hand on the pommel of his sword. “Not while I still draw breath. Not while your father still stands. And certainly not while your mother flies above us.”

The young prince nodded but said nothing more.

Damon’s thoughts drifted to the sky, wondering if his mother was still flying with Viserion and Arraxes, wondering if his father was still standing atop the battlements, staring down the army of the dead with that cold, unshakable gaze of his.

The castle trembled again, and from beyond the stone walls, a distant, bone-chilling shriek echoed through the corridors.

The sky above Casterly Rock had never seen a storm like this before. Not a storm of wind and rain, but one of fire and ice, of death and war, raging in the heavens like the battle of gods. The once-imposing sky, veiled in an unnatural darkness, was torn apart by flames, illuminating the battlefield below in flickering shades of gold and blue.

Tywin Lannister stood atop the ramparts, his eyes lifted to the heavens where you and your dragon fought against something beyond the comprehension of men. Around him, his men held their breath, frozen in place, momentarily captivated by the spectacle of beasts clashing in the sky. Even hardened soldiers, men who had fought in countless wars, who had carved their legacies in blood and steel, could only watch in stunned horror.

High above them, Viserion roared, her body twisting through the air as she clashed against an abomination that should not exist. The Night King’s dragon, a monstrous corpse of ice and death, let out a horrific, piercing shriek that shattered the sky, the sound echoing over the battlefield like the wail of a dying world.

You sat firmly in Viserion’s saddle, your breath fogging in the unnatural cold that radiated from your foe. You clutched the reins, your body taut with focus, the very air around you biting like a blade as you commanded your dragon to strike. The Lannister-forged armor that encased Viserion’s powerful body gleamed in the flickering light, its crimson and gold etchings striking a stark contrast against the swirling darkness around you. The lion’s sigil had been carefully engraved along the armored plating on her neck and flanks, a lion riding a dragon into war.

“Dracarys!” you roared, and Viserion obeyed, unleashing a torrent of pale golden fire, so hot it burned white at the center, cascading toward the ice dragon.

But the Night King did not flinch. He did not recoil, nor did he flee. Instead, he raised a single, frozen hand, and the fire sputtered, struggling against the unnatural cold that surrounded him. The flames licked against the ice dragon’s hide, but it did not burn—it resisted, as if flame itself could be turned to frost.

“What in the Seven Hells is that thing?” one of Tywin’s bannermen whispered, his voice trembling.

Tywin did not answer. He merely watched, his jaw tightening, his knuckles white as he gripped the hilt of his sword. You were up there, fighting a battle that no warlord, no king, no conqueror had ever prepared for.

Then, Viserion and the ice dragon collided.

The impact was like a thunderclap, two great titans crashing into one another with enough force to shake the very heavens. Viserion clawed and bit, her jaws snapping at the cold, lifeless flesh of her foe, but the ice dragon retaliated with brutal swipes of its frozen talons, gouging deep into Viserion’s armored flank.

You barely held on, your fingers gripping the saddle tightly as Viserion roared in pain, her body lurching violently. You felt the deep, aching wound through your bond, a searing pain that made your stomach churn.

“Fall back! Defend the gates!” Tywin’s command snapped through the frozen air, dragging his men’s attention back to the war that still raged around them. The dead had not stopped their assault, and now they came harder, faster, as if driven by the presence of their king.

The gates of Casterly Rock trembled, the undead hordes hammering against them like waves crashing against a cliff. Pale, lifeless hands reached over the battlements, grasping, clawing, pulling themselves up. Men screamed as they were dragged over the edge, their armor useless against the sheer numbers of the dead.

A wight lunged toward Tywin, its hollow, frozen eyes locked onto him, its mouth twisted into something like a grin. But Tywin did not hesitate—his sword flashed through the darkness, severing its head in one clean stroke.

The ground beneath them shook again, this time from above.

Tywin looked up just in time to see Viserion twisting through the air, flames and ice clashing as the battle raged on. The Night King’s dragon spewed an unholy breath of frost, a bitter, freezing wind that turned fire to mist and ice to jagged spears.

Viserion barely evaded, but the attack struck her wing, and a section of it stiffened, turning to frost-bitten crystal. You gasped, feeling the numbness through your bond, and you urged your dragon onward, higher, away from the deadly grasp of the Night King.

But the Night King did not let up. He lifted his spear—a javelin of pure ice, the same weapon that had felled a dragon before. He pulled back, his inhuman face emotionless, his piercing blue gaze locked onto you and Viserion.

Tywin saw it before it happened.

“No—!”

The Night King threw his spear.

Time slowed.

You saw it slicing through the air, its tip glinting like death itself, aimed straight for your dragon’s heart.

And then—

A blur.

Arraxes.

The young dragon—smaller, but faster—swooped in from below, his scarlet eyes burning like fire itself, his wings folding in just as the spear struck him instead.

The impact was instantaneous. The ice spear pierced through Arraxes’ chest, and for a moment, the world stopped. The young dragon let out a piercing wail, one that rattled the very bones of the earth, and then he fell—spiraling downward, blood and frost spilling into the endless night.

Your scream split the heavens.

Tywin watched in horror as Arraxes plummeted, his body twisting, his wings faltering, his onyx and crimson scales gleaming even as death claimed him midair.

But there was no time to grieve.

Viserion roared in fury, and you clutched the saddle, your mind burning with rage and sorrow. The Night King had taken something from you, and you would make sure he burned for it.

As the battle raged below, as the dead swarmed the gates, as Tywin and his men fought for their very lives, you turned Viserion toward the Night King once more.

And this time, you would not hold back.

The sky burned, and yet the cold never ceased.

You gritted your teeth, feeling the throbbing pain in your head, your body weighed down by the sheer exhaustion of battle. Viserion’s breath came ragged, her golden armor dented and scratched, dark stains of blood marking the spots where the ice dragon had struck her. You could feel her rage, her pain, the way her body ached but refused to yield.

And Arraxes was gone.

The young dragon had fallen to the depths, his lifeblood spilling like a comet through the darkened sky, but you had no time to weep, no time to scream. The Night King was still standing, still riding his monstrous undead dragon, its hollow, soulless eyes staring at you with an unnatural hunger.

“Fly, my love, fly!” you urged, gripping the reins tighter as Viserion roared, banking hard to avoid another ice spear forming in the Night King’s grasp.

Below, Casterly Rock was drenched in battle, the flames of Viserion’s earlier attacks still licking at the swarming masses of undead. But even dragonfire wasn’t enough—their numbers were endless, waves upon waves of the dead still climbing the walls, forcing the gates, their pale, rotten hands clawing at every living thing they could reach.

And at the very heart of the chaos, Tywin Lannister watched you fight a war in the sky that no army could reach.

“My lord, there is nothing we can do—” one of his knights began, but Tywin silenced him with a look sharp enough to cut steel.

His hands were clenched into fists. His breath came short and cold, not from fear, but from fury. He had fought wars his entire life, built a legacy of order and control, and yet here he stood, watching as his wife fought a battle he could not reach, one that no Lannister steel nor Westerland army could touch.

His teeth clenched as he turned sharply, barking an order:

“Bring me my horse.”

There was a pause, a moment of disbelief.

Kevan took a step forward, his brow furrowing. “Tywin, what are you—”

“Bring. Me. My. Horse.”

“You can’t help her!” Kevan snapped, frustration flaring in his voice. “She is up there, fighting a dragon, fighting something that isn’t even human! How do you plan to—”

“I will not stand here while my wife fights alone.”

His words were steel, unyielding, absolute, the kind that left no room for further argument.

A heavy silence fell upon the men around him, all of them watching the great Tywin Lannister, the man who never acted without cold calculation, now mounting a horse in the middle of an impossible battle.

It was Beric Dondarrion who finally spoke, his voice grim, but resolute.

“We’ll ride with you.”

Kevan turned his glare toward the men of the Brotherhood Without Banners. “Are you mad? This is suicide!”

Beric merely smiled, a dry, weary expression. “Death is not as permanent as you might think, my lord. And besides—someone has to watch the Lion of Lannister charge into a storm. A tale worth remembering.”

Thoros of Myr grunted, pulling himself onto his own mount, the light of his flaming sword casting eerie shadows over the blood-stained snow.

“Let it be known that Lannisters are as mad as Targaryens.”

Tywin said nothing. He merely kicked his horse forward, his cloak trailing behind him as he led the charge into the chaos.

You could feel Viserion’s wings weakening, the frost slowly creeping into her bones from the wounds she had taken. Every beat of her wings was a desperate, furious fight against the cold trying to steal her from the sky.

But the Night King did not tire.

His lifeless blue eyes locked onto you, and his dragon—a decayed, twisted horror of what once was a great beast—let out a breath of pure death.

A spear of ice formed once more in his grasp, and this time, you could feel the inevitability in the air.

Viserion was struggling.

Your body ached.

The Night King would strike again, and this time, he would not miss.

But then—

Something below shattered the battlefield.

A golden standard, burning against the night, moving through the horde of undead like a specter of defiance.

Tywin.

You almost did not believe it. He was down there, riding into the fray, sword in hand, cutting down wights and monsters alike, his men charging behind him with flaming swords and shields raised high.

“Seven hells, what is he doing?!”

Viserion stirred beneath you, her own fire igniting in response. She had always been protective, always watched over the man who had claimed you as his, and now he had charged into a battle he could not win—for you.

For you and your children.

The Night King turned his head, his gaze flickering toward the movement below.

A mistake.

“Now!” you screamed, and Viserion answered.

With every last ounce of her strength, she roared, diving toward the Night King’s exposed flank, golden fire surging from her jaws just as the sky erupted with flame and steel below.

Tywin’s men fought harder, their leader at the very front, cutting through the waves of the dead as Viserion and her rider struck the heavens like vengeful gods.

And finally—finally—the Night King faltered.

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lokischocolatefountain · 1 day ago

Text

Reward | At Your Service

Read part 1 Battlefront here

Fandom: Gladiator II Pairing: General Marcus Acacius x Empress!Reader Rating: M Word count: 4.6k words Summary: General Acacius returns home victorious from war, demanding too great a reward. Warnings: Historical inaccuracies, some historical accuracies, period accurate misogyny, smut, period accurate taboo cunnilingus, possessive talk, talk of baby making but no breeding kink, overstimulation. A/N: I intend for this to be a smutty three part series and wooo we have part two here. But I'm working on their backstory and how they grew close together. Don't know when I'll post it, but feel free to share anything you think could be in their past. Please give comments and reblogs to recharge my writing batteries 🥺.

What did you give a man who wanted for nothing?

Men who came from nothing always had a long list of wants. Titles, riches, property, women. He had his title, General Marcus Acacius. Riches by virtue of his position and the most powerful woman through marriage. All he resisted accepting when given to him.

It worked in your favor that he was never one who wanted for much. Surrounded by people with ulterior motives that they wished to achieve through proximity to you, it was easy to notice the man who merely enjoyed your presence. As a child all he wanted was to learn to fight for Rome. As a man, he fought at the frontlines.

It helped in convincing your father that Marcus Acacius would be the biggest asset to your rule. It did not help when pondering upon the best reward for his victory in battle. Honoring him with medals was out of question for it was too early in your reign. It could be seen by some as favoritism towards your husband rather than a suitable accolade for bringing victory to Rome. So you decided on something unofficial.

“It is a beautiful villa.”

“I do not disagree, Caesarea,” he said, rising from his chair in front of you. He had changed from his ceremonial armor to his most favored toga and palla. “Only, it is not much of a reward for me when I have no use for a villa without my dear wife in it.”

“I can be in it,” you said, a suggestive smile playing at your lips as you thought of the things you could do with him there.

“That merely makes it a villa for us to retreat to. Like the many other villas you own.”

“This will be a villa you own.”

“It matters not who owns it. I have your villas to visit. I do not need more.”

“Any other officer would be grateful.”

“This officer,” he said with a playful glint in his eyes as he trapped you against your desk. “is married to the Empress.”

“And now I pay the price for it,” you said, reaching out and taking the edge of his palla between your fingers. The dark green threads woven into the borders were soft to the touch, calming you the way they’d been for years. “Put me out of my misery, will you? Tell me what would satisfy you.”

“You, Caesarea.”

“You have me.”

“On the contrary,” he said, placing his hand on the back of your shoulder where no fabric covered you. You took a deep breath, affected by having his touch once again long after the nights you shared in the camp. “Rome has you and she is too possessive to allow me full reign even for a few days.”

“You would wage a war against her to have me?” You teased.

“Rome must understand I come in peace,” he said as he caressed your cheek with the back of his hand. “I only want her Empress’ attention for Rome’s benefit. So she may rest easy knowing we are hard at work producing heirs who would serve her. Besides, I don’t want her to feel the wrath of a weary Empress. She must give you respite from aqueducts and roads and—” he said, scrunching up his nose and nodding at a scroll draped over your desk. “Sewer maintenance.”

“I cannot avoid the unpleasant subjects, Marcus.”

“I know,” he spoke gently, the same boy who saw the girl behind the Princess was embracing the woman behind the Empress. “I only ask that you find respite. Perhaps we shall retire to one of these villas for a while. When the senate is in recess. You are warranted some relaxation after your tireless war efforts.”

“I did not fight on the battlefield, General,” you laughed.

“I did. The victory is yours and the people sing your praise. They know Minerva has descended from the heavens in the form of their Empress. Your father was praised for victories that other Generals brought Rome and you deserve it for your first victory as Empress. I hear whispers of attempts to separate you from this victory, my dear, and we must not allow that.”

You took a deep breath, trembling as you exhaled. He was right. Had this campaign ended in loss, you would’ve borne the wrath of the people. Why then should you not enjoy the fruits of victory?

It was a tantalizing offer. You hadn’t had much time for yourself ever since it was decided you would ascend the throne. Less so since you became Empress. As long as you worked tirelessly, you could stand up to criticism. There’d been attempts brewing all around you to bring you down. If you looked away even for a moment...

As though he understood what ailed your heart, he pulled you into his chest, broad and strong to hold you as you held all of Rome. He said, “I understand your worries. But you cannot give up all joy to prove yourself to a people who will never stop finding fault. Remember, they are not the arbiters of your worth. Only the Gods have such power over you.”

You smiled a half smile, took a deep breath and relaxed against his chest. “I could never cease worrying about my place.”

“Allow me to ease them if only for a while each day.”

⌘

Nothing good came from marrying the General of your army.

It was what your father told you when you expressed to him that you wanted to marry Marcus. Generals married women from the Emperors’ families to strengthen their bond and prevent one from overthrowing the other. But the brides tended to be the Empreror’s daughter or sister. Not the Empress herself. To invite a man to your bed was to submit to him and a ruling Empress cannot afford for him to be powerful and an object of public adoration.

You should have listened to your father.

You were certain that Marcus would never overthrow you or influence your rule as though he himself was Emperor. But you never realized just how much torment the powerful man could inflict upon you on a human level.

“I hate you.”

“You don’t.”

“I do!” You snarled like an untamed beast awaiting gladiator blood. “I hate you and I will have your head on a stick at the gates of Rome if you don’t do as I say.”

“Isn’t that quite an overreaction, my dear?” He asked, touching the peacock feather to your swollen cunt. You shuddered under him, the weight of his knees on your spread thighs preventing you from kicking about. He laughed and bent down to kiss you, laughing when you turned your head away.

“Fuck you!” You spat, squealing when he dealt a sharp slap to your core.

“Is that any way to speak to your husband?”

“It is if my husband is a monster.”

“Does it make me a monster to exact my marital rights from my woman?”

“Are you just a boy, Acacius? Do you not know that exacting your rights requires using your cock?”

“My marital rights entitles me to your body,” he said, demonstrating it by pushing two fingers in your cunt and curling them inside as though grabbing you. “And I will do what I please with it.”

“I have marital duties and I can’t perform them when you are fully clothed and refusing to let me touch you.”

“Your duty is to please me and I decide what pleases me. As you decide what pleases you.”

“You did not please me last night and your most certainly haven’t pleased me this morning.”

“What kind of woman demands carnal pleasure…” he taunted, laughing when you punched his chest with every ounce of energy you could muster. In your defence, you did not have much energy left owing to his hourlong torture. That reminder didn’t make you any less embarrassed.

“You did this to me,” you whined. “I wasn’t this way before you fuu aaah—” you cried when he pressed his palm to your sensitive nub. You grabbed his wrist as he rubbed it in circles but did not attempt to pull him away. You hated how he could control you with a simple touch but your refusal to stop him showed you were a willing prisoner.

“I have no complaints,” he said as you moaned under his expert touch. “I like you this way. I like that I can bring you to this state. My fiery princess who rebelled her way to the throne obeying me like a mare in my reins.”

You were most certainly not obeying him. “I—I— not, mmm—” Whatever you were doing now, it was more humiliating than obedience. Every word you’d learned refused to find your lips, leaving you making pathetic sounds like a wounded animal.

“What did you say?”

“Fuck me!”

“Yes, Empress,” he spoke softly before tying your wrists to the headboard with the veil he’d taken off you the previous night. He knelt by the bed and pinned your thighs in place, making you shudder with anticipation of what you knew would come.

He dove into your cunt like a man starved, tongue lapping up your slick as his nose pressed against your clit. Marcus had never tasted anyone before just as every self respecting man. But that was before you cried from the pain of penetration the night of your wedding. Your suggestion that one of your ladies could ease you open for him with her mouth had sent him over the edge. He was not going to allow someone else to have even part of his bride. Especially not on his wedding night.

Curiosity got the better of him and time was running out to consummate the marriage. Curiosity gave him the most delicious way to bring you to heel. To make you sleep rather than work all night. To relax you when you were wound tight with frustration. To erase all worries from your heart and replace it with marital bliss. Whoever decided it was beneath men to lick cunt certainly did not know what it could do to a woman. How it made them wail and moan and forget their own names.

You were a scholar of many disciplines, an intellect who had made scholarly men from all the world bow to you in awe. Marcus did not read much. Only that which you made him read. It was no surprise he felt most powerful when he rendered you speechless.

“Marcus!”

He hummed as he licked you, hating to interrupt your desperate cries even for a moment but not so cruel as to ignore when you called him. Every cry of his name emboldened him in a way that crowds of Romans screaming ‘Acacius!’ never managed.

Fresh bruises blossomed on your thighs where he held you down. No matter who won this battle, he knew you would accrue more. He only hoped you would leave more crescent shaped marks on his flesh in the process. Though immobilized, you did everything in your control to avail more of him. You thrust against his mouth like a man would force his member inside a lowly man. But shame did not find Marcus as your movements were accompanied by your needy sounds.

Your cunt dripped arousal and he lapped it all up like honeyed fruit at his victory feast. This, your taste, was all he longed for when at war. He had been a married man for only a short while. Had played the role of husband for a much shorter time. But he loved it instantly because it was a life to be had with you. It was cruel that he was snatched away from it almost immediately. Now that he had returned, he had every intention of compensating for lost time.

You got wetter under his tongue and fingers. Your thighs kept his head between them in the sweetest prison. Your cries of his name deteriorated into incoherence noises until all he heard was your silent breaths.

In moments, you would come undone on his tongue and he would taste your nectar. But not that day. He pulled away, grinning when you cried as though in pain. Your hole fluttered like a beating heart and he longed to return to it and provide all that it desired. He needed to fill you with his cock, feel your tight wet walls embrace him as he spent his masculine energy on his woman.

But he wouldn’t. Not until you broke and gave in to his demands.

He climbed back into bed and pulled you close. For all your claims that you hated him, you were quick to burrow into his chest. You were still trembling from your ruined pleasure as you had multiple times since he woke you.

“Please,” you sputtered through trembling lips.

“You know what to do,” he said, reminding you of the conversation from last night. If you wanted to earn the joys of carnal pleasure, you would stop working yourself to your grave. The Royal physicians had made it clear that stress was detrimental to conceiving an heir. You wanted terribly to conceive. But like a child, you wanted to achieve it without compromising on any aspect of your current life.

“None would need to know of my absence but a few. But I fear I would continue to be stressed about the goings on in the palace. Father is becoming older and…” you sighed, not wishing to speak the words aloud. Death came to all. Father was looking forward to it, tired of the ailments that crushed him the way his fears over his incapable sons once did. But you wanted to give him a grandson so he’d journey to Elysium in peace.

“Have your people report to you wherever we choose to go,” he said as he released you from your veil that bound your wrists. He caressed your hair and you relaxed under the warmth of his touch.

“I could,” you said as you burrowed into him. Your imagination flooded with the streets of Tibur and all that you could do together as husband and wife rather than Empress and General. The last time you were there together was as Princess and the only soldier you trusted with your life. Tibur was only a half day away by carriage. If you were needed, you could rush back to the capital. It was also a beautiful place.

You had access to the grand villa that was passed down generations of Rome’s rulers. There would be no awkward asking of permission from Father. No lies or excuses as to why you needed such a place for a whole month only for yourself. There would be no need to explain the General’s month-long holiday coinciding with yours. You were Empress and it was known to all that Marcus was your husband. It was also expected that you conceive an heir.

You could do as you wished.

“What do you think of Tibur?”

“Obnoxious.”

You laughed, knowing his distaste for the rich crowd that liked to spend their coin there. Every politician at the capital he found intolerable flocked to Tibur.

“I can do Tibur. Urgent work can be brought to me there. I have a villa where we won’t be disturbed by the obnoxious type you hate so much.”

“I will go anywhere with you,” he said without theatrics. Casually. As though he was telling you what he had for dinner.

“Careful, Marcus. I might take that as a challenge, take you to some terrible places.”

“I would enjoy Tartarus if it were with you.”

“I thought you were no poet.”

“I am no poet. I am but a man and you torment me,” he said, sounding very much like the poets you’d read.

“I torment you?”

“You do. The Gods have condemned me to Tartarus for all the sins I have committed in life.”

“Oh? So you claim to be dead now.” You thrust against him, feeling his cock come alive quickly from how long he’d deprived himself of you. “What I want most is alive so I’m not too hurt.”

“I should have known you only wanted me for my cock.”

“It is an impressive cock, Marcus,” you said, beginning to stroke him. You watched as his breaths changed, relished just how he did in toying with you. It was the only time he was ever cruel with you. You didn’t know he was capable of such evil until he played your body like a flute, his mouth and fingers making you sing wherever they touched.

You gathered up saliva and spat on your hand. The jug of olive oil was a little too far away to access in your state of mind.

“Thank you, Caesarea,” he said, arms spread on the top of the cot as he watched you work his cock. “Will my cock be rewarded too?”

“Why?” You asked, an eyebrow raised.

“For being so impressive.”

“It hasn’t done what I require of it,” you said as you stroked him torturously slowly. “It hasn’t been in me since you returned from the battlefront. Now that you mention it, I should punish your cock. Show it what Tartarus truly is since the man it is attached to believes to be there already,” you said, adding a flick of your wrist as you stroked him. He whimpered, giving away his approval for this technique. You bit the inside of your cheek, holding back a smile.

“Not being inside you is Tartarus.”

“Is that so?” You asked, feigning sweetness in your tone. He’d had the upper hand since he first bedded you. But you were learning some tricks too. The man was not always in control as he wished to be. A servant girl let you know that they sometimes liked to recline on the lectus and allow a woman to act upon them. Some of the ladies had told you ways to take some control from the husband. You used your other hand to cup his testicle. He whined, very unlike himself. Very unlike the General of Rome. Oh how delicious he looked powerless beneath you. He reminded you now of the young boy from your childhood. His vulnerabilities surfaced on his handsome features and he grabbed your wrist but did not force you to stop.

“My dear husband, if you knew it was Tartarus, why did you inflict it upon yourself?”

The man who gave you the ultimatum was nowhere to be found. “A month long retreat or you won’t have your drooling cunt stuffed,” you said in a deep voice with the intent to sound like him. “How does it feel now, Marcus?”

“Temptress!”

“Oh I don’t know to tempt. I have been wed only a short while and my husband refuses to fuck me. Where could I have learned to tempt?”

“Don’t forget I knew you before you became my wife,” he said, pulling you onto his lap. You yelped at his sudden movement but adjusted yourself on his lap. You were close enough to see every pore on his skin. Every individual curl drenched in sweat. “I remember the women you wove with. The sounds you made when that light haired girl snuck into your chambers at night.”

“How improper of you to listen in on your Princess.”

“You simply sounded too good. I couldn’t stop myself,” he breathed into your ear, making you shudder at the thought of him stroking himself to your sounds. “I should remind you what you sounded like so you may be charitable in my sentencing.”

Before you could make sense of his words, he pulled you flush against his chest. A cry escaped your lips at the sudden penetration of your cunt. You grabbed his arm, your nails sinking into his sun kissed skin as you sunk down on him. He had spent all morning licking and fingering your cunt, never allowing you to reach completion for you had not yet agreed to a month-long retreat. Yet you were unprepared and cried out.

“Do your duty, mea vita,” he said, rolling his hips. You should have felt a semblance of power at being atop him. But he was still the man. A bull of a man, large and powerful, capable of throwing around men larger than you.

“How?”

His hand snaked up to your breast, fondling the flesh absentmindedly. “Fuck yourself on my cock, girl. I thought I taught you better.”

The walls of your cunt squeezed around his cock at the way he spoke to you. No one called you girl. A beautiful girl, a smart girl, always with some praise attached. It ceased when you became a woman. You became a Lady. With increasing power, that reduced as well.

Marcus truly was the only one left with any power over you and it did not frighten you one ounce.

You held onto his shoulders as you rose off his lap and sunk back down.

“That’s it. Keep going,” he said and you nodded. Encouraged by his words, you fucked yourself on him. Great men kept an aura of power about them. Luxurious fabrics, glittering gold and gemstones, smaller men they looked at like dirt beneath their sandals. Marcus hadn’t adopted that way of life. He didn’t need to accessorize to look mighty for he exuded it.

“Put your feet flat here,” he said, pulling your feet to his desired position. Suddenly, the motions were easier. He knew what to do even from his position. Had he let another woman be atop him this way before? How else did he know? Jealousy tried to reign over you but Marcus and his words reined you in. He issued commands- change angles, see what feels better, hold on to me, clench that hole around me—

“There you go, good girl,” he praised, his voice ever so slightly strained as your actions affected him. You found ways to make it easier, more pleasurable, and he encouraged you.

He gripped your jaw and prodded your lips with two fingers. You opened and he thrusts them inside your mouth like it was a whore’s cunt. When he pulled out, a string of your saliva connected you until it didn’t. He took his slick fingers to your cunt lips, finding the small spot of pleasure he’d used all morning to turn you into a blubbering mess.

You thrust yourself onto his cock for as long as you could. Having been out of battle and behind a desk for too long, you found that your stamina had reduced. When you’d grown tired, you changed your position intuitively. One foot remained on the bed beside him while the other knee supported it on his other side. The position had you lie on Marcus and the quickness with which he held you to his chest made you melt like sugar in the rain.

No longer able to thrust, you reduced your motions. You rubbed your too sensitive clit against him, not needing the taxing up and down motions for your own benefit. You did not know if this change brought him any pleasure. You did not care. He had been cruel all morning and did not deserve for his pleasure to be placed ahead of yours.

He tipped your head up to meet his beautiful brown eyes and kissed you. Not the polite kisses you shared in front of others. It was the passionate kind shared only between a man and his wife. The kind you theorized to be laced with opium. Why would it be restricted only to wedded couples if not for its intoxicating nature? Why else would it be lowly to kiss so in public?

He was a taste you couldn’t find anywhere else. Would never seek anywhere else. It took your breath away, but you kept at it. His tongue explored between your lips how they did between the lips you kept hidden. His taste was of you, a little salty and sour with a hint of sweetness. It was how he’d described you. Like your slick was a novel wine presented to you at court.

Marcus’ heart beat rhythmically against your ear as you lied atop him, your hips still rolling in pursuit of the orgasm you’d been chasing for so long. One hand cupped your bottom, encouraging your movements. The other cradled your head to his chest, holding you like you were something precious. He whispered sweet words to you, his voice strong yet soft. Thoughts purged from your heart. Thighs shook and toes curled. His words drowned in the same pool of darkness that you did and suddenly, a blinding light.

He must have moved you. You were still above him, but your weight didn’t seem an issue to the great general. He rutted in and out of your trembling cunt and another orgasm built up though you hadn’t recovered from the first. A cry escaped you as your clit, rubbed raw, hurt from the friction.

“H-hurts,” you stammered, placing your palms against his rigid chest and pushing yourself away from him.

“Now?” He asked, fucking up into you.

“Mmmm!” Was all that you could bear to spurt as indescribable pleasure sunk its teeth into you again.

He grunted with each thrust and you panted from the effort of trying to catch breath. You could’ve died there atop your love and it would’ve been the most merciful death. He was everywhere. Hands and lips grabbed at your flesh. Every lick and pinch and bite was him taking what you’d surrendered to him the day you wed.

A growl of your name and you felt a warm spurt deep inside you. You felt safe, properly claimed. You wanted to stay there, forgo work and set off to Tiber as soon as you could.

“You have a busy day ahead, Caesarea.”

“Are you going to call me Caesarea when your cock is still inside me?”

“Rome does not gain a new Empress upon the location of my cock.”

You snorted and buried your face in his chest. It would soon be time to wake. Servants would mill about the room with food and drink, preparations for a bath, scrolls from officials. Marcus would be away overseeing troops restoring a dam and then conduct an inspection of a health center.

He laid you out on your back and placed a rather large cushion under your bottom. “Keep me inside you as long as you can.”

Warmth reached your face and you wanted to hide. But there was nothing to hide. Not from the boy you’d leaned on since childhood. Not from the man who had become to you as roots to a tree.

“You should have a drink,” you said, testing the waters. You trusted him, of course. But you were a woman and men had expectations. You were his Empress but also his wife. There was no precedent to the right conduct in such a marriage.

Under the sight of others, you kept to passum* as a married woman. You couldn’t break too many rules. Only that which were most important and only at the right time. Nevertheless you asked for wine so you could find the boundaries of your marriage. It felt rotten ro test a man who had only ever been good to you. But not knowing something so important about your intimate life made you feel ill.

Where would Marcus Acacius draw the line? How much would he tolerate?

“Only if you would join me."

⌘

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*Women were not allowed to drink wine in archaic Rome. Women drank alternatives like passum, a raisin wine.

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ladykailitha · 19 hours ago

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You're a Dream to Me Part 1

I've been really struggling with Dragon Slayer and trying to get it so that it makes sense, so I'll be cycling in some of the other WIP I have in the wings until I can get it sorted out.

I thought I had another week to try and get the kinks ironed out, but I didn't.

And it ends on a bit of cliffhanger, though not the cliffhanger I original had. Which means that the NEXT chapter will ALSO have a cliffhanger. Once I get the kinks worked out of that chapter.

I hate it when stories fight me. I haven't had one this bad since the first soulmate story "Batshit Soulmates". But I will not abandon it. It just will take longer to come out then originally planned.

So! You're getting this one instead! It has a very lovely backlog and it's a great time to start putting it out because it's Valentine's Day month!

The title comes from The Cranberries song of the same name.

Summary: In a world where dreams show your true soulmate when you need them most, Steve has been having his for years but because his soulmate isn't ready yet, he's never seen what his soulmate looks like. Eddie has been having dreams about Steve Harrington since high school but more in the vein of wet dreams rather than soulmate. But when Brian's soulmate turns out to be a sweet girl who hadn't heard a heavy metal song in her life, suddenly Eddie realizes he needs to stop expecting his soulmate to look a certain way.

Soulmates. The world was filled with them, but only when you needed them. So there were people who went about the world without a single dream or vision. That was how you knew who they were. You would start dreaming of a person and that would be your soulmate. But only when both of you were ready.

Which meant that sometimes one soulmate went without for awhile, but the knowledge of their soulmate being out there was enough to keep them going. Sometimes they married other people or dated around. There was none of this “waiting” for their soulmate. People lived their lives as normal.

People who were married when they discovered their soulmates had a lot of options, including polyamory. Because sometimes the soulmate was platonic.

Steve had been so sure his was platonic because he started having dreams of his soulmate right out of high school, around the time he started working with Robin at Scoops Ahoy! but she knew her soulmate. Vickie Cameron. They were super sweet together.

Steve had seen all his friends get their soulmates, the hardest had been Nancy and Jonathan, because Nancy hadn’t told him she had been dreaming of her soulmate. She just told him in a drunken slur that their love was bullshit and then proceeded to sleep with Jonathan before Steve and her had even officially broken up.

Then he met Robin and for all their connectiveness, they weren’t soulmates. A thought that vexed Robin greatly. She thought it was the universe’s greatest sin that it didn’t see the chaotic potential of the two of them.

Dustin had come home the summer Steve had met Robin all rosy-cheeked and smiling. He had met his soulmate, Suzie Bingham and she was everything bright and beautiful in the world. Steve had patted him on the back, grateful that he hadn’t been left out of his friend group. And while the others hadn’t soulamated yet, but it was a pretty sure thing that Max and Lucas were soulmates and that at least two points of the Mike, Will, and El love triangle were soulmates.

It would be a year before it shook out that it was Will and Mike, as El didn’t seem to need a soulmate. Mike had had some internalized homophobia he had to battle first before he could accept that his soulmate wasn’t El, but Will.

It would be another two years before Max and Lucas sorted it out. It was their senior year and Max realized that the only person she wanted to spend her life with was Lucas and the universe confirmed it for them. Lucas had been having his dreams since they met, but they only solidified when she accepted that their love was real.

Steve’s dreams of his soulmate had always been hazy. He would dream of them curling up behind him in bed and pressing kisses to his neck or just star gazing. Those were his favorite, when they would just lay on the top of some, he assumed trailer or RV, and just talk for hours. He couldn’t hear their voice, or see their face, but he was almost 98% sure they were a man.

When he had told his parents they had scoffed. Gay soulmates were a myth made up by degenerates and deviates trying to push their agenda down everyone else’s throats. But as his father ranted and raved, Steve watched his mother. She would nod and agree, but the light behind her eyes was gone.

He strongly suspected that her soulmate was a woman, but she didn’t dare toe the line. Steve honestly felt sorry for her. And whoever her soulmate was, waiting her not to be homophobic.

It was a stormy night when his first clear dream happened. Steve’s job at the bookstore had kept him late and he had fallen face first into his pillow, with only kicking off his shoes and removing his belt.

It started out like it normally did. Steve was in a large bed in the trailer/RV snuggled up into the piles of blankets and comforters. The rain had carried through to the dream and pounded against the metal roof of their home. His back was to the door.

The front door opened and Steve could hear the sound of rain intensify and then return to its soft pattering as the door closed behind whoever had come in. Steve could hear the jangling of the guy’s belt and chains, he supposed, as the man undressed.

Then he slipped under the covers and pulled Steve close. “Hey, Stevie,” the warm voice murmured and in Steve’s drowsy state in the dream he didn’t even realize he understood what was said for the first time.

Kisses pressed against the back of his neck and Steve smiled fondly. He turned in his dream and snuggled in close. He buried his head into the soft curls at the nape of his soulmate’s neck and sighed happily.

“Someone is snuggly tonight,” the man rumbled.

But before Steve could raise his head to press a kiss to the underside of his soulmate’s jaw, suddenly there was a blazing alarm going off in his head and he was jolted awake.

But just like every other soulmate dream he had the memories of which came flooding back in the moment he could think straight.

“Holy shit!” He dove for his phone and immediately called Robin.

“Steven Abernathy Harrington,” she groused groggily into her phone, “you better have a good reason for waking me up before dawn on my day off.”

“I heard my soulmate in my dream last night.”

Then he counted down in his head, bobbing his head with it. Five, four, three, two, one...

“What?!” she screamed. “Are you fucking with me right now? No, don’t answer that. This is too important for you to lie about. And it’s definitely a guy?”

Steve hummed in the affirmative, biting on his thumb. “He sound so super sweet, too. It was warm and rumbly and I almost want to say familiar.”

There was silence on the line for a beat or two. “So maybe someone you already know?”

“That’s what it felt like,” Steve confirmed. “It was like I finally came home at last. I just wonder what happened in his life to be ready for a soulmate when he wasn’t before.”

Robin tsked. “There is no need for that kind of talk,” she huffed. “That will just lead down a dark path. It doesn’t matter why it took him so long. He’s ready now. Or at least more ready than he was before. But you’ll just have to keep dreaming of that lover boy of yours.”

“Thanks, Rob,” he murmured. “You’re bestest friend a guy could hope for.”

“And don’t you forget it,” she teased. “Now, excuse me while I go back to bed and sleep.”

“Sleep well.” He ended the call and pressed the phone against his lips. He wanted to go back bed and dream more. But he had store to open and a job to do. One he loved, no less. So reluctantly he got out of bed to start his day.

Eddie woke up that morning feeling like he’d been hit by a truck. He wished he could blame it on a hangover from partying all night, but no. He had crashed face first into his pillow from the long ass drive they had taken to get into Dayton the second he had gotten checked-in.

He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. He had dreamed about Steve Harrington. Again. This crush was getting wildly out of hand. But then it had been since he watched Billy Hargrove and him playing against each other in a skins game. Steve was on the skins team and hooboy.

Those shorts sat a little too low on his hips to be decent and the towel tucked into the back of them sought to bring them even further down. It was fucking sinful.

The dream had started as they always had, him slipping into his bedroom in his Uncle Wayne’s trailer and taking off his clothes. But then the dream changed from the usual hot sex to Steve cuddling up under his chin.

Eddie had gotten breathless from the idea of Steve initiating the sex for the first time in the dream when suddenly there was a knock on his door jolting him awake.

The knocking persisted, forcing him to his feet. He shuffled over to the door and swung it open, rubbing his eyes.

On the other side of the door was his manager, Chrissy Cunningham. He raised a questioning eyebrow at her.

“Just what the fuck do you call this time?” she hissed at him, pushing him into the hotel room. “We have to be at sound check in an hour. Hurry and get your shower, I’ll have clothes ready for you when you get out.”

Eddie hurried to do as he was told. He must have forgotten to set his alarm before pillow diving. He scrubbed his face in the shower, trying to get the dream out of his head. But it lingered in a way the didn’t normally.

He dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist. “Sorry, Chris. I must have either forgot to set the alarm or I slept right through it.”

Chrissy pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “I know. You’re usually so good at it. So I’m not mad, just frustrated because we’re running late.”

Eddie nodded and then turned around to drop towel and scrambled to put on the clothes she had laid out for him and then ducked back into the bathroom to do his hair. With his insistence to keep it long, it was a bit of hassle to keep it from frizzing out. Then he was ready.

Once they were in the car that would be taking them to the venue, Chrissy leaned over and asked, “Hey are you okay? You aren’t usually late.”

Which was true, despite all of the ADHD-ness of all of him, he was stickler for being on time, early if he could help it.

He shook his head. “Dreams, man. Some dreams just knock you out until they’re done with you.”

Jeff rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Meaning he was too embarrassed to answer the door because he had another wet dream of...” his voice went falsetto, “Steve Harrington!”

“Fuck off!” Eddie snarled. He knew that it was a long running joke with his other bandmates, but today it felt like it crossed a line.

Jeff blinked at him for a moment. “Okay, definitely didn’t come if he’s that grumpy. Shit, dude, no need to rip my head off.”

“I’d have to attest to the not coming,” Chrissy said with a gentle elbow in Eddie’s side to show that she was joking, “he looked all cute and sleep rumpled this morning. I know the ‘no longer horny’ look, and this wasn’t it.”

“But it’s still obvious he dreamed of Steve,” Brian huffed with a barely suppressed smile. “He’s got that far away look in his eyes that he only gets when he thinks about his loverboy.”

Eddie just rolled his eyes and pulled out his earbuds. He stuck them in his ears and turned up his music as loud as he could, staring out the window.

Jeff and Chrissy glanced at each other and grimaced. Whatever this was with Eddie, it wasn’t usual Eddie drama.

“So is your soulmate coming to the concert, Bri?” Chrissy asked, choosing to ignore the brooding Eddie for the moment. “I can have the box office comp a couple of tickets if you wanted.”

Brian brightened up. “That would be great! Sophie was saying that she’d never been to a live concert before.”

“Man,” Gareth groaned throwing back his head roughly against the seat cushion. “You really lucked out on the soulmate department. Sophie is sweet, hot, and bakes like a fucking pro!”

Brian shook his head. “It’s not my fault your soulmate is a diva. Like the real lucky one is Jeff who got his like right after we got a record deal. She’s been his ride or die like the whole time.”

Jeff sighed happily. “I really, really did. I wish she could have made it out this tour, but gestating twins isn’t easy being in one place, I can’t imagine doing it on the road.”

Gareth kicked the seat between Chrissy and Eddie. “We all thought it was going to be you and Eddie for sure.”

Eddie just sneered and went back to gazing out the window. He had too. Chrissy was everything he thought he wanted in a soulmate. Yeah, she was a former cheerleader, but she liked heavy metal and was a perfect mix of sweet and sassy. She never put up with his bullshit but was there when he hit his lowest point.

But then Chrissy met her soulmate and Eddie was forced to reevaluate his whole life choices. Chrissy’s soulmate was a bassist for an all female metal band called Lilith’s Little Monsters. Georgia was a perky blonde in three inch heels and ripped denim.

That was when he realized he was gay. That liking the same gender was okay. So he went into the whole homosexuality feet first and swinging. He was so sure that the reason he hadn’t gotten his soulmate dreams yet was because he had thought it was a girl, but when Georgia came screaming into their lives at Hellfest last year, he still didn’t start receiving them.

But that was before sweet Sophie came into their life. She wasn’t a metalhead like Miranda or Georgia nor a musician like Leon, Gareth’s soulmate. Leon played violin in an alt rock band. Which was still pretty badass. He was also a bit of a bitch, but that’s what happens when your soulmate was Gareth Hughes. Sophie would absolutely be mistaken as a soccer mom and president of the PTA. She radiating wholesome vibes, which Brian absolutely needed in his life.

That his soulmate could be anyone really opened Eddie up to the endless possibilities. And fuck wasn’t that a kick in the head.

Tag List: TEN SLOTS REMAINING

1- @itsall-taken @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 @a-little-unsteddie @irregular-child @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #soulmate au #rockstar eddie munson #bookstore owner steve harrington

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soulofapatrick · 1 day ago

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Giving Into Temptations - Xaden Riorson x Female Reader

Summary: Part two of Don't Tempt Me

Warnings: Smut; P in v; cockwarming

Words: 4.6K

Notes: I just had to make part two and it's not proofread and written after a break so sorry for any mistakes/repetition

Y/N's POV

The sound of rushing water stops, leaving only the quiet crackle of tension in the air. I hear Xaden moving in the bathroom—quick, efficient movements, the sound of his hands adjusting the faucet, testing the water. For a few long moments, I sit there, feeling the heat of my own words still lingering between us, replaying the way his body tensed, the way his breath caught when I suggested he join me. I don’t regret saying it. Not even a little. But now, with the silence stretching between us, I wonder what’s running through his mind.

Footsteps approach, heavy and deliberate, and then Xaden steps back into the room. His expression is unreadable, his golden-flecked eyes shadowed with something I can’t quite name. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me from where he stands, as if deciding whether or not to speak. Then, with a sigh that sounds like he’s battling himself, he moves toward me, reaching out.

"Come on," he says, his voice lower than usual, raspier. "Water’s ready."

He extends his hand, waiting for me to take it. I hesitate—not because I don’t want to, but because something about this moment feels different. He’s always been imposing, always carried himself with that unwavering confidence, but right now, there's something softer in the way he looks at me. Something unguarded.

I slide my hand into his, and his fingers curl around mine, firm and warm. The contrast between his calloused palm and my own sends a shiver up my spine. He doesn't say anything about it—just helps me up, steadying me as my sore muscles protest. The ache in my body is undeniable, and I probably should have been listening to Vireth when he told me to stop, but the damage is done now.

Xaden doesn’t let go as he guides me toward the bathroom, his other hand finding my waist like he’s afraid I’ll collapse again. Maybe I will. Every step reminds me how exhausted I am, how much I’ve pushed myself beyond my limits.

The warmth from the bath curls into the air as we step inside, steam clinging to my skin. It smells faintly of the lavender oil he must have added to the water—something soothing, something that makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, I don’t always have to fight so hard to prove I belong here.

I turn to look at him, expecting him to let go now that we’re here, but he doesn’t. Instead, his hands stay on me, lingering at my waist, fingers pressing slightly into the bare skin between my sports bra and the waistband of my underwear. His gaze drops to the bruises lining my ribs, his jaw tightening.

“You push yourself too damn hard,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice a quiet accusation. His thumb ghosts over one of the deeper bruises, and I feel his restraint in the way he touches me—gentle, but simmering with frustration.

I don’t answer. What is there to say? He’s right, and we both know it. But I don’t regret it. I can’t afford to.

Xaden exhales sharply, shaking his head before finally—reluctantly—stepping back.

“Get in before the water gets cold,” he says, his tone gruff, but there’s an underlying softness there, something he doesn’t want me to hear.

I don’t move. Not yet. Instead, I tilt my head, watching him carefully. He meets my gaze, and for a moment, I swear I see the battle in his eyes—the war between every instinct telling him to leave, to put space between us, and the deep, undeniable pull that keeps him here, rooted to the spot.

My fingers find the hem of my sports bra, and I peel the damp fabric up over my ribs, my muscles protesting the movement. I know he’s still watching me—can feel the weight of his gaze like a brand against my skin—but I refuse to meet it. Instead, I focus on my breathing, slow and steady, as I pull the bra over my head and let it slip from my fingers onto the floor. The air against my bare skin is cool in contrast to the steam curling through the room, sending a ripple of heat down my spine that has nothing to do with the bath.

I take my time sliding my underwear down my legs, my fingers brushing against the bruises lining my hips, a reminder of how hard I pushed today. Of how hard I always push. I step out of them, standing completely bare under the dim bathroom light, knowing his gaze is still locked on me, burning.

Even without looking, I can picture the way his jaw must be clenched, how his fingers might be curled into fists at his sides as he fights every instinct screaming at him to move. To touch. To close the space between us.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of a glance. Instead, I turn, stepping carefully into the bath, the heat of the water licking up my calves, then my thighs, until I sink beneath its welcoming warmth with a quiet sigh. The tension in my muscles loosens almost immediately, and I let my head rest against the cool porcelain edge, closing my eyes for a brief moment.

I should feel self-conscious. Exposed. But I don’t. Not really. Not when his silence is thick with something else entirely—something raw, barely restrained, and entirely too tempting.

And still, I don’t look at him.

The silence stretches between us, thick with something unspoken, something charged. My body hums with awareness, my skin prickling under the heat of both the bath and his relentless gaze. I keep my eyes closed for a beat longer than necessary, as if that will somehow lessen the intensity of the moment. It doesn’t. It only makes the tension coil tighter, thick and suffocating.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“Are you trying to fucking kill me?”

His voice is low, breathy, like the words have been torn from him against his will, and the sheer frustration laced in them is enough to make my eyes snap open.

I turn my head slowly, and—gods help me—he looks wrecked.

Xaden stands rigid, his broad shoulders stiff, every muscle wound so tight it’s a miracle he hasn’t shattered under the strain. His fists are clenched at his sides, veins pressing against the golden-toned skin of his forearms like he’s holding himself back with every ounce of control he possesses. His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, and his lips—his lips—are slightly parted, like he’s just realised how parched he is and that I’m the only thing that could possibly quench him.

But it’s his eyes that do me in.

Those gold-flecked onyx irises burn, searing a path over every inch of exposed skin, dark and predatory, his pupils blown wide with something dangerously close to hunger.

And then, as my gaze drops lower, I see just how much I’ve affected him.

The evidence is straining against his jeans, a prominent, undeniably enticing outline pressing against the dark fabric. My mouth goes dry. Heat pools low in my stomach, winding tightly through my limbs, and suddenly, the bath feels entirely too small, the room too hot, the air too thick to breathe.

I should say something. Should break the moment, laugh it off, defuse the impossible tension crackling between us before it ignites into something I know we won’t be able to stop.

But I don’t.

Instead, I drag my gaze back up to his, meeting his with deliberate slowness, letting him see every thought running rampant through my mind.

I raise a single brow, the ghost of a smirk playing at my lips, and that’s all it takes.

Something snaps.

Xaden curses under his breath, something low and guttural, and then he’s moving. Fast.

His hands fly to the hem of his shirt, yanking it over his head in one fluid motion. The fabric barely clears his arms before he’s tossing it to the side, forgotten. My breath catches at the sight of him—of the solid planes of muscle, the ink that stretches across his arms and chest, the way his skin is already flushed like he’s been fighting this battle for far too long.

His fingers go to the buttons of his jeans, fumbling in his haste, jaw clenching as he struggles with the damn things like they’re his mortal enemy.

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to suppress the laugh bubbling in my throat as he growls in frustration, finally forcing them open. But when he shoves the denim down his hips, he nearly trips over his own damn feet, his balance thrown as he kicks his shoes off at the same time.

A very undignified thud echoes through the bathroom as one shoe hits the wall.

And then—fuck.

Xaden looks up at me, half-dressed, breathless, and so fucking wrecked, and the sheer heat in his gaze burns through whatever amusement I had, replacing it with something molten.

His chest rises and falls rapidly, tension still coiling through his muscles, but there’s something else in his expression now. Something that makes my own breath stutter.

Like he’s already mine. Like he’s made peace with the fact that he’s about to break every rule he’s set for himself.

Xaden is back on his feet in seconds, the last shreds of his restraint gone. He practically rips his boxers down those thick, muscular thighs, the motion so desperate, so reckless, that the waistband almost gives out under the force.

And then—gods help me—my gaze drops.

My breath catches. My pulse stumbles.

I don’t mean to look. I don’t. But gravity itself seems to drag my gaze downward, past the hard ridges of his stomach, the sharp lines of his hip bones, to—

Oh.

A sharp inhale gets caught in my throat, my fingers clutching the porcelain edge of the bath like it’s the only thing tethering me to reality. A slow, involuntary heat creeps up my neck, settling deep in my stomach as I try—try—to force my gaze back up. But it’s impossible.

Because fuck.

He’s big. Thick, heavy, fully erect, standing proud against his stomach. And the worst part? The moment my eyes betray me, lingering too long, a sound escapes me—a tiny, almost imperceptible hitch of breath. But it’s enough.

Xaden hears it.

I feel the shift in the air before I even meet his gaze again.

When I do, it’s devastating.

His eyes are burning, dark as molten gold, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling with a barely restrained tension that vibrates through every inch of his body. His lips part like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, watching me watch him, taking in every single reaction, every single thing I’m failing to hide.

And then—fuck him—his mouth curves. Just slightly. Just enough to make my pulse stumble.

He knows.

He knows exactly what he’s doing to me. Exactly how wrecked I am.

And from that slow, wicked smirk pulling at his lips?

He’s savouring every fucking second of it.

Xaden steps forward, closing the small, agonising distance between us, and fuck. It’s right there.

My breath shudders as the heat of him seeps into the steam-heavy air, his presence overwhelming in a way that makes my pulse trip over itself. He’s so close now, towering over me, muscles taut with restraint, water-darkened strands of black hair falling across his forehead. But it’s not his face I’m struggling to focus on.

No.

It’s him. Right there. In front of my face.

And gods help me, I want to do something.

My fingers twitch against the porcelain edge of the bath, an ache settling deep in my core that has nothing to do with my exhaustion and everything to do with the way every primal, desperate part of me is screaming to reach out—to wrap my hands around him, my mouth—fuck—I don’t even care how.

As if sensing the exact second I start to spiral, Xaden exhales sharply through his nose, his fingers pressing against my shoulder. “Don’t,” he warns, voice low, tight, wrecked.

I drag my eyes up, catching the way his jaw flexes, how the veins in his forearms strain like he’s barely holding himself together.

And then, just to make absolutely sure I understand, his hand finds the curve of my neck, thumb grazing the hinge of my jaw as he leans in close enough that his breath is a ghost against my lips.

“Be a good girl and behave,” he murmurs.

Fucking bastard.

A slow, deliberate heat spreads from where his hand lingers, all the way down my spine, settling low in my stomach. My breath is shaky, uneven, but I force myself to hold his gaze, to not react—to not give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much those words affect me.

I fail. Miserably.

His smirk deepens, smug and knowing, before he nudges me forward in the water, shifting me just enough to slide in behind me.

The moment he sinks into the bath, a low groan escapes him, the sound vibrating through the space between us, sinking into my skin. Strong, calloused hands find my waist under the water, guiding me back until my spine meets the solid wall of his chest and my ass meets something very different.

And fuck.

The heat of him, the sheer size of him, makes my entire body lock up. Every muscle goes rigid as I try to convince myself this is fine, that I can handle this without combusting on the spot.

But then his lips brush my ear.

“Relax.” His voice is pure sin, rough with restraint. “I’ve got you.”

I don’t think relaxing is an option anymore.

Not when I can feel him, hot and hard against me, pressed so intimately that my breath catches in my throat. Not when his hands, large and calloused, find my waist beneath the water, his thumbs brushing slow, burning circles into my skin.

A shiver ripples through me, and I know he feels it because his grip tightens, fingers flexing like he’s fighting every instinct to pull me closer.

“Xaden—” My voice is barely a whisper, but before I can even process what I’m trying to say, his hands begin to move.

Slow. Deliberate.

He traces the curve of my sides, trailing the bruises with a careful touch, his palms mapping every ridge, every muscle, like he’s memorising me.

Like he wants to.

And it should be soothing—it would be soothing—if it weren’t for the fact that every shift of his hands sends a fresh wave of awareness through me, heat pooling low in my stomach, turning my bones to liquid.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath uneven. “This isn’t fair,” I manage, trying to ignore the way my entire body reacts to his touch.

Xaden hums, the sound deep, amused, dangerous. His breath is warm against the side of my neck as he leans in, his lips barely ghosting over my skin.

“Life’s not fair, violence,” he murmurs, his voice like smoke and embers, like temptation itself. His fingers tighten at my waist, pressing me just a fraction more against him, until there’s no mistaking exactly what I’m doing to him.

A quiet, wrecked sound escapes me before I can swallow it down.

And gods.

I don’t think I want to relax anymore.

Xaden’s hands remain steady on my waist, but there’s a subtle shift in his touch. His fingers begin to move, a slow, deliberate exploration of the skin beneath his hands. The warmth of his touch sends ripples of heat over me, and it’s as though I can feel every inch of his fingers against me, the way they trail over my skin, brushing lightly against my ribs before descending lower.

His touch is careful at first, like he’s testing, sensing the boundaries I haven’t yet laid out. The water between us becomes a barrier of heat and tension, and I can feel him getting closer, his breath mingling with mine, quiet and measured.

Then, with deliberate patience, his fingers shift down to my legs, gliding along the smooth skin of my thighs. My pulse quickens, and I struggle to keep my breathing steady, not knowing whether to lean into the touch or brace myself against it.

When his hand nudges my legs apart ever so slightly, it’s a gentle but insistent movement, a tease that has my heart pounding in my chest. It’s almost as if he’s savouring the slow build-up, the way he’s tracing every line of my body with his fingertips—each touch purposeful, each stroke drawing out more of the tension that I can’t escape.

Suddenly he’s lifting me a bit, one strong arm around my waist against. A soft sound of surprise leaving my lips when I feel the tip brushing against my soaking entrance, a soft question on his lips. I’m nodding before I realise it, gripping the arm around my waist and completely forgetting that this isn’t me. I don’t fuck for fun but Xaden sends every rule of mine out the window, especially when he’s slowly and carefully sinking me down until he’s fully sheafed inside me.

My head falls back onto Xaden’s shoulders he hands go back to exploring my body but all I can focus on is the delicious stretch of him, the tip feeling like it’s pressing against my cervix. No-one has stretched me this much and it’s almost too much to handle and Xaden can tell, the way the rough pads of his fingers run over where we’re connected. His lips brushing my neck, biting down and littering my skin with hickeys that I am in no way going to be able to cover up tomorrow.

I’m opening my mouth to speak but he silences me by circling my clit, a smirk pressing into my jaw as he continues to roll lazy circles over my clit, my walls fluttering around his girth filling me up. I can already tell I’m not going to last long with the mixture of stimulation and I’m gripping Xaden’s arm that is paying attention to that bundle of nerves as my thighs clench together. He’s moving his lips from my jaw to my ear, murmuring, “Come for me baby.”

Those words plus one more tight circle on my clit has my aching back arching, drawing Xaden even deeper than I thought possible and my walls are clamping down around him, feeling hi twitch inside me as waves of bliss roll over me. I can feel Xaden rocking his hips up ever so slightly and before I know what’s happening he’s sinking his teeth into my shoulder and his dick is throbbing, filling me up with rope after rope until I feel it dripping down into the water and he’s letting out a low groan of pleasure.

His breath is ragged against my ear, each inhale a sharp, uneven sound that mirrors the frantic rhythm of my own. His body is still pressed tightly against mine, and I can feel the heat of him seeping through the water, the warmth of his chest against my back as his arms tighten around me.

"Fuck..." he breathes, his voice strained, rough with the effort to regain control. It's low, almost a growl, but the vulnerability in it—how breathless he sounds—has my heart hammering in my chest. The intimacy of the moment makes my head spin, and I bury my face in the crook of his neck, needing the coolness of his skin to steady myself.

Every part of me feels alive, humming with the aftershocks of what we've shared. My lungs are still struggling to keep up, my chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. I close my eyes, trying to slow the frantic pace of my breathing, but with Xaden so close, the air feels thick, charged with a quiet tension that doesn't seem to want to fade.

His lips brush against my neck, a soft, breathless kiss that sends a shiver racing down my spine, and his hand, still resting on my hip, flexes slightly. "Take it slow," he murmurs, his voice low and raw, like he's trying to soothe me, but I know it’s just as much for himself.

I want to say something, to break the silence, but every word feels heavy, every sound trapped somewhere deep in my chest, caught between us like the air we share. His presence, the heat of him, the way he's holding me so close—it’s all too much, too overwhelming in the best way possible.

And as I try to regain my breath, the world outside seems to disappear, leaving only the two of us, tangled in the aftermath.

The warm water, the steady rhythm of Xaden’s breathing, and the weight of his body against mine have me feeling utterly relaxed, more than I’ve ever felt before. My muscles, still sore from training, are languid and loose, and I can feel myself beginning to drift, the world around me fading into a haze of warmth and comfort.

I try to fight it, to stay awake, but my eyelids are heavy, and the rhythmic pulse of the water, the sound of Xaden’s heartbeat, and his steady presence make it hard to keep my thoughts straight. Everything in me is exhausted—physically, emotionally. I feel his chest rise and fall with each breath, and it’s like a lullaby, pulling me deeper into sleep.

The gentle pressure of his hand on my hip only makes it worse, a soothing presence that makes me feel safe and cherished, like I could stay here forever. I let out a soft sigh, nestling further into him, too tired to do anything but let myself be held.

But then, I feel him shift, his hand nudging me gently as the cold begins to settle in, and I realise the water has started to cool. A part of me knows I should get up, but my body protests every movement, too spent to function properly. The weariness pulls at me, a fog I can’t shake.

"Come on," his voice is soft but insistent, the edge of concern threading through the words. "We need to get out before we both freeze."

I barely manage to lift my head from his chest, my eyes half-lidded as I try to push myself up, but the effort is too much. My body feels like lead, and the warmth of the bath is so comforting, I can’t seem to summon the energy to do anything but slump back into him with a soft groan of frustration.

I hear him curse softly under his breath, and before I can protest, his arms shift around me. In one smooth motion, he’s standing, lifting me with ease. I’m held against him, wrapped in his strong arms, and I’m so out of it, so weak from everything we’ve just shared, that I don’t even think to object. I rest my head against his chest again, too tired to fight it, and just let him carry me.

He moves with surprising grace, effortlessly holding me as though I weigh nothing at all. His body is warm, and I can feel the solid strength of him beneath me as he carries me out of the bath, stepping carefully through the bathroom and towards the bed. The movement causes a slight shiver to roll through me, but I barely register it, too lost in the warmth and comfort of his embrace.

The cold air that hits my skin as he pulls me from the bath is a shock, but it’s quickly replaced with the warmth of his hands as he gently helps me sit up. His touch is careful, almost reverent, as he grabs a towel and begins drying me off, his hands moving slowly over my skin, taking extra care around the sore muscles from training. The friction of the towel feels comforting against my damp skin, like he’s erasing the tension that’s settled in my body.

Every pass of the towel makes me feel lighter, his movements deliberate, yet tender. He’s so close, I can feel his breath against my skin, and I can’t help but be hyper-aware of every little sensation, every brush of his fingers. He finishes drying my legs and feet, then wraps the towel around my shoulders, pulling me into a standing position for just a moment. The dizziness that tries to creep up on me from being so relaxed is immediately washed away by the firm grip of his hands, steady and sure.

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me for a moment, his gaze steady and warm, before picking out one of his oversized shirts from the pile of clothes he keeps by the door. It’s big enough to drown me, but he’s surprisingly gentle as he slides it over my head, the fabric billowing over my frame like a soft cloud. When the shirt falls to my knees, he gives a satisfied nod, his hand lingering on my arm for just a second before he guides me back to the bed.

I’m so exhausted, every inch of my body heavy with fatigue, that I barely manage to crawl into the bed, curling under the thick covers as Xaden moves to the side. But I can’t stop watching him, my eyes half-lidded as he dries himself off with a towel, the water dripping down his chest in rivulets. His muscles flex as he works, and I feel my breath catch in my throat as I take in every inch of him—his broad shoulders, the tautness of his abdomen, the way his hands move over his body with practiced ease.

He doesn’t seem to care about modesty, or maybe he simply doesn’t need to, because before I know it, he’s slipping into the bed behind me, his bare skin pressing against mine. I feel the heat of him, his presence a constant, undeniable force against my back. He doesn’t bother to pull on any clothes, his bare chest brushing against me as he settles in, his arm wrapping around me, pulling me close.

I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding, my body sinking into the warmth of him as I try to adjust to the feeling of being so close, so tangled in his presence. His heartbeat, steady and calm, thumps against my back as he presses his lips to my shoulder, a small, contented sound leaving him. It makes me shiver, not with cold, but with something else—something deeper, something I can’t quite define.

Xaden’s arm tightens around me, but his touch remains gentle, his warmth seeping into my skin as I finally relax into him, the exhaustion of the day and our shared moments taking its toll. I let myself breathe deeply, every inhale filling me with the scent of him—musky, warm, a hint of something like cedar and saltwater.

I close my eyes, but not before I catch one last glimpse of him, the outline of his face in the dim light, his expression soft but still holding that intensity I can’t shake. It’s enough to send a flutter through my chest, the lingering tension in my body finally dissipating as I let sleep claim me. His body behind me is a steady, reassuring presence, and in his arms, I feel like I’ve found a place I never want to leave.

Fourth Wing Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

@xadenswhore @fanficscuziranout @daisydark @Mariahoedt @marrass @universallyrascaldreamercookie

#fourth wing #fourth wing imagines #fourth wing boys #the empyrean #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing ridoc #fourth wing xaden #fourth wing x you #xaden riorson x reader #xaden riorson #xaden riorson smut #xaden riorson imagine #violet and xaden #xaden riorson x you #xaden riorson x y/n #xaden riorson fluff #xaden riorson angst #iron flame #onyx storm

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shivunin · 1 day ago

Text

Breath and Bone

After Rook is injured in the Crossroads, a spell gone wrong makes the injury dramatically worse. With Rook unconscious, Lucanis must help her reach the Lighthouse and safety.

(Lucanis Dellamorte/Rook Ingellvar | 6,360 Words | AO3 Link | CW: broken bones, implied past child abuse)

“It's never enough being one. Why do I hope to contain you: always undoing and undone; every place you touch me changes shape.” —Robert Fanning, “Song of the Shore to the Sea”

“Nice one, Rook!” Lucanis shouted from the other side of the clearing.

Rook, stepping back from the fresh corpse she’d just driven her spellblade into, did not have the breath to respond. The Crossroads was a dizzy thing, ridden with a resonant hum. When she fought here, she could feel it all through her, as if the place was singing in her bones. It was easy to get lost in that rhythm. It was especially easy when she was fighting like this, Venatori swinging blades everywhere she turned, no space at all to breathe or strategize.

A missile hissed as it passed her, and Lenore summoned a barrier just as a second might have hit. Somewhere behind her, Bellara shouted something she couldn’t hear. Days like this invigorated some of the others, she knew. After battle, Taash or Davrin seemed energized, as if the adrenaline rush of combat clung to them a little longer than the act itself.

It wasn’t like that for Lenore. Death was a familiar friend; killing was an entirely different creature. She had long since accepted its necessity. That didn’t mean she loved the fight. Quite the contrary, in fact. If there had been any other path for them, she would have taken it a hundred times over by now.

She ducked nimbly, drawing a miasma of death from the ground to drive the nearest foes back. They choked and gagged at its touch, so familiar to Lenore, and staggered away from her.

The field had been whittled down somewhat. As she watched, Bellara waved her arms to draw the attention of an assailant. When the warrior turned to fight her, Lucanis appeared behind him as if from the air itself and drove a blade neatly between his ribs.

This! This was what she’d been working toward! It was so heartening to see that their group combat practices were paying off, that their techniques and strategies were interlocking so effectively. She would have to bring this up to both of them later, because it deserved to be pointed out. She would—

Something struck her leg, midway between her knee and her ankle. There was an ominous crack somewhere in that region and an answering swell of pain. She’d made the first, most basic mistake in combat and taken her attention from her enemies. Luckily for her—for all of them—her instincts had been honed by the constant fighting, too, and she reacted without thinking. Lightning arced from her hand and spread, striking the one who’d hit her and spreading to the two behind him. One toppled immediately, arms splayed, eyes hollow. The other shook, caught in place as the power coursed through them, and crumpled to the ground a moment later.

“Nice try, filth,” said the one before her, and swung his blade at her again.

Not good. She could barely put weight on her leg, which would dramatically hinder her maneuverability. The pain was getting to her already, crawling from her leg to her chest and choking her lungs. She couldn’t think straight; needed to do something to fend him off. Something—

He swung again, and her shield flickered into existence just before the blade would have connected with her forehead. Her reserves had been drained by the lightning, and they drained further as he added a second hand to the hilt of the blade to bear down on her.

Lenore gritted her teeth. Her head felt fuzzy, her face clammy. She hadn’t the strength to hold him off now. She barely had the breath to hiss between her teeth, let alone call out to one of the others for help. Healing magic was out of the question—she’d never had the knack of it.

None of them could heal, really; up to now, they’d mostly been working around this with potions. Not for the first time, she wished she’d formed the sort of bond with a spirit that might’ve given her this skill. Alas, her talents lay elsewhere—her hands had always been for death, never life.

Wait. There was an idea.

In the Necropolis, inhabited skeletons often encountered the sort of damage that cracked a bone or two. There were spells to mend them when this sort of thing occurred, and materials to patch missing pieces if necessary. She’d learned those spells when she’d been an apprentice, but hadn’t needed to call upon the knowledge in years.

Her bones were still covered in living tissue. It would be risky to try this herself, but she had little choice. In a moment, he’d break through her barrier. If she could just remember—

“Give in to me,” the Venatori demanded. “Kneel!”

Lenore panted with effort and dragged the words from her memory. The shield dimmed around her, bright where it touched the blade and nearly insubstantial everywhere else. She had so little energy left. This would take most of it; she’d only have one shot at patching herself up. She had to make it count.

“Rook’s hurting!” Bellara yelled somewhere beyond her.

Rook tensed, sucked in a breath, and spoke the words of the spell. Several things happened in quick succession:

Devoid of the power it took to sustain it, her shield faltered and the sword broke through. Lenore ducked to her right, taking her weight off her injured leg, and hammered the base of her staff into the Venatori’s throat.

As she moved, the spell took effect. Pain swelled within her and broke like a wave, the bone in her leg mending itself over and over again until it had multiplied itself enough to break through the skin. She screamed without knowing it, without really hearing it, as if the pain itself made a tunnel from her leg to her throat and poured itself forth from there.

Bolts laden with electricity shot from somewhere in the distance, hammering into the unbalanced Venatori’s back. He stumbled, nearly tripping over one of the many spurs of bone now projecting from Rook’s leg.

“Rook,” Lucanis shouted from what seemed like a great distance, “hold on!”

She’d no idea what she could possibly be holding on to when the whole world was shuddering like a freshly reanimated corpse, but she tried anyway. She must have fallen at some point in the chaos because her hands scrabbled at stone and dirt now, not thin air. If her leg hadn’t hurt so badly that it eclipsed all other feeling, her head and tailbone would no doubt be aching from the impact.

The Venatori, now bleeding profusely, staggered to his feet. Behind him, a violet blur felled first one, then another of the remaining Venatori who stood between Lucanis and Rook. There were few of them left, which was probably good. It still wouldn’t save her if she fell to this one right now.

Her staff had fallen behind her. Rook dragged herself backward, scrambling for it. Her hands were slick with something and they moved slower than they should, as if the air itself was more viscous than it ought to be. Every time she tried to grasp the smooth wood, it slid away from her. A flash of teal and brown flickered at the corner of her eye: Bellara was running toward her from the other side of the clearing. Even as she identified her friend, another Venatori darted into Bellara’s path and blocked her from view.

Only five left now. If she just held out—

The violet blur spread tenebrous wings and shot closer, impossibly fast. Fast enough? It was hard to say. Everything looked—felt—so very strange. Her head pulsed in time with the wound in her leg. The Venatori lifted his sword and swung, a blow that would connect precisely with her breastbone. At last, at last, her hand wrapped around the polished wood of her staff, though it fought to slip from her grasp.

Unbidden, her mind began to recite, in clinical and removed tones, precisely what would happen to her body when the blow connected: if her sternum did not collapse, one of the sternocostal joints would. The force of the blow would penetrate her chest, likely striking her heart. If it did not, it would certainly rupture the pleural cavity and steal her breath away. The latter would not kill her immediately. She’d tended plenty of corpses that’d taken at least one more blow to die after this precise strike. If she hung on for long enough, one of the potions the others carried could still heal her. If not…

If not, she’d already shown Emmrich exactly where she wanted to be buried.

Behind the Venatori, Lucanis—or maybe Spite—struck down two more Venatori; they fell before him like sheaves of wheat before the scythe. She might be impressed at his accuracy and speed if she weren’t possessed by mortal terror. Perhaps Emmrich would be able to coax that thought from her corpse after she—after—

The blade whistled through the air, a silver gleam meant for her heart. At that precise moment, Lenore finally grasped her staff and summoned another barrier. It failed almost immediately, but held just long enough to arrest the sword’s motion in midair. The Venatori grunted and lifted the sword again.

This had to be it; she had nothing left, not even a drop of magic. Rook took the staff in both hands (it was so heavy; so heavy that she almost couldn’t lift it, though she’d been wielding it for months now) and held it over her chest. It was a poor shield, especially when she was shaking so hard she could barely see straight, but it was better than giving up entirely.

“For Razi—” the Venatori began, but the word was cut off abruptly.

Between one blink and the next, the air was filled with that purple glow, illuminating her attacker from behind. Even now, Rook held her staff in shaking hands, warding as best she could against whatever blow may yet come. It wasn’t necessary; already, blood trickled from her attacker’s mouth, still open to speak a syllable that would never come.

When his body dropped, it fell to the side and away from Lenore. Lucanis stood behind him, his face like stone. Spite’s wings spread from his back. His knife dripped blood onto Rook’s boot. She looked at that instead of her—instead of the bones branching above it.

There was no clever comment, no regards from the Crows. Instead, his eyes held hers.

“Can you walk?” Lucanis asked, eyes gleaming with the telltale sign of Spite’s ascendance though it was undeniably his voice she heard.

“No,” she managed through gritted teeth.

Behind him, Bellara shouted as the last of the Venatori fell. Lucanis must have seen her leg by now; his face grew more grim, eyes pinched at the corners. She could hardly look at it herself, though she could see the jagged, pale sections from the corner of her eye.

Lucanis stepped closer and crouched, neatly blocking her view of whatever she’d done to herself. Without meaning to, she reached for his elbow and squeezed, far harder than she would have under any other circumstances. She couldn’t have said what kind of comfort she sought then; there was nothing he could do for her and both of them knew it, though he was already reaching for the vial at his belt.

“Bad idea,” she told him, lifting a hand to clear the sweat from her brow and realizing at the last minute that mud, blood, and something green dripped from her hand. She used her elbow instead, though it wasn’t much cleaner. When she drew her arm away, new red streaked over the fabric.

“Why?” Lucanis asked. He pulled a cloth from his pocket and lifted it to her forehead, carefully dabbing at something there. His face was so very grim. She did not like it; did not like that she was the cause.

“What I did—” gorge rose at the back of her throat. Lenore swallowed and tried again. “Healing is the problem. It might make it worse. Unless you’ve got something for—for pain or sleep…”

“No,” he told her, tucking the vial away. “Only this. Can you bear it until we reach the Lighthouse?”

“Don’t have much choice,” she said. Bellara rushed into view, face already paler than usual.

“Rook, that looks really bad,” she said. “What can I—is there anything I can do?”

Lucanis rested his hand over Rook’s at his elbow and looked up at Bellara.

“I am going to carry her back. Can you find something to keep her leg stable?”

“I—yeah. Yes. Give me just—give me a few minutes. I have an idea.”

Bellara darted off again, flitting from body to body. After a moment, she perched near the collapsed pile of metal that’d once been a guardian of the crossroads. Something pulled Rook’s attention to a pile of rock floating past and she watched its slow, gentle path across the sky. It was not engrossing; it was something she had seen dozens of times by now. Nonetheless, she could not look away. For a moment, every other sound was drowned out by the rush of her blood in her ears.

“Rook?” Lucanis said. “Rook. Can you hear me?”

It took some effort to unclench her teeth. Lenore nodded instead, turning her head to look at him. He’d leaned closer while she’d been distracted. He reached for her hand now, apparently unbothered by the muck still caking her palms.

“Hold on,” he said. “As tight as you need to. I am here. I will stay.”

At last, she managed to part her lips. Her mouth was dry, but she didn’t dare reach for her waterskin. Any movement felt like it could upset the delicate balance she was maintaining. An ounce more pain and she would be lost.

“I will pass out,” she told him as clearly as she could manage.

His hand tightened around hers—surprising, since she had his hand in a vice grip and couldn’t seem to unclench her fingers. She hadn’t expected him to hold her back. Sweat dripped into her eyes, stinging as she blinked it away.

“When you lift me,” she clarified. “It’s—going to jostle the–the wound. I won’t be awake. That’s good. You can move faster if you aren’t worrying about my comfort.”

“I understand,” Lucanis said. “Don’t try to talk. Rest now; we will do what we can.”

“Stupid,” she told him, and took in a shaky breath. Bellara was moving toward them again, something golden in her hands. “My fault.”

“Leave it,” he told her. “You can blame yourself later.”

“Got it,” Bellara said, skidding to a halt beside them. “This will hold your legs in place. There’s a bit that should keep anything from hitting the, um—pieces directly. I’m going to put this on now, okay?”

“Wait,” Rook said. The adrenaline was wearing off; she was thinking less and less clearly, the pain echoing and magnifying with each passing moment. “Tell—tell Emmrich—the spell is the one for—for mending bone. He’ll know—so stupid, tell him I’m sorry—”

“I’ll tell him, I promise,” Bellara said, her voice soothing. Briefly, she rested a hand on Lenore’s shoulder. “I’m putting the brace on now, alright? I’ll be as quick as I can.”

She couldn’t help the noise she made when Bellara reached under her leg to fasten the brace. Without thinking, she turned and pressed her face against Lucanis’s knee to muffle the cries, uncomfortable as it was. All the while, his grip on her hand held steady.

“I know, I know, I know,” Bellara chanted, her voice strained. “Almost done, just a little more—sorry!—almo—”

Between one syllable and the next, the universe blinked.

Now, the wind rushed through her hair. They were no longer in the same clearing. Instead, the Crossroads sped past on either side. The ache in her leg had intensified, though she could feel from the tight band around her thigh that the splint was still in place.

“How close?” Lucanis asked.

“We approach the requested destination, Dweller,” the serene voice of the Caretaker responded.

Warm leather curled more tightly around her shoulders and the scene resolved itself into something that made sense. Lucanis held her at the prow of the rowboat, one foot braced on the bench before them. She turned her head to see him better and found him examining her already, his face solemn.

Something about his chest looked odd, but it took her a moment to place it: he’d removed the blade and all the vials from his armor there. Why? Nothing made sense.

“I’m sorry,” she told him, and his brow furrowed.

“For what, Rook?”

What could she say? She turned her face into his chest instead, closing her eyes for a moment. It would be easier, she decided, if the world would just stop spinning.

“It was a stupid mistake,” she mumbled against his chest.

“You’ve said that,” he told her. “More than once. I will tell you again what you told me after Weisshaupt: we all make mistakes, Rook.”

She tried to hold onto his words, but they scattered to the winds. His grip on her shifted slightly, his hand curling around her shoulder.

“Look at me, Rook. You have to stay awake. You have a concussion. That’s why you aren’t thinking clearly.”

Staying awake was a singularly unattractive prospect. Everything hurt; the dizziness was only getting worse and she’d made the mistake of looking at her leg again. Just the sight of it, bone jutting from her leg in three directions and curling in on itself like the horns of a halla, was enough to make her stomach lurch again.

“I’m sorry,” she told him.

Through his armor, she could hear his heartbeat. 1, 2, 3, she counted, 1, 2, 3—like a waltz, played in double time. She couldn’t remember why she was apologizing. Had she played a waltz for him before? She’d played for him—for all of them—but she couldn’t remember—

“I’m sorry,” she told Lucanis again, and the grim lines branching from the corners of his eyes deepened. She wanted him to never let go of her; when she turned her face into him again, the world felt quieter.

“Don’t apologize to me, Rook,” he said, and the universe blinked again.

It was quiet in Rook’s room, for which Lucanis was grateful. There had been far too much noise in the infirmary from when he’d carried her there to when Taash had brought her here. Neve’s sleeping spell yet held her; Rook’s face was still, though the space between her eyebrows remained faintly creased. If the spell had not failed when Taash had rebroken her leg and Davrin had set it, Lucanis did not think it would break in the face of too much noise. Even so, he was relieved that she was here, in her own space, and that the others had gone away for a time.

“Why does she still sleep? Wake her up,” Spite said from the head of the settee she slept on, peering down at Rook’s drawn face.

“Waking will hurt her,” Lucanis told him. “Her leg is still broken.”

“Then fix it, if it’s broken,” Spite said.

Lucanis ignored the demon and leaned forward, glancing at Rook’s leg. The cold spell had reduced some of the swelling, though it was still visible under the second brace Bellara had brought her. The damage was clear beneath the metal and leather: her skin gone red and purple around the break, sliced to ribbons where the new growth had speared through it, dried blood still caked in the creases of her ankle where Lace hadn’t quite washed all of it away.

Like most Crows, his knowledge of healing was limited to the most basic necessities. In a fight, it was better to remove your opponent from the battle than to stop moving and patch up your fellows. He had studied certain medical writings in training, but only to better identify the weak points of his opponents. At most, he might’ve been able to bandage her wound long enough to get to safety, or perhaps offer one of the potions he kept on hand. In this—the bone jutting from her skin, the way she’d cried out when he’d lifted her from the ground, the tear tracks still visible on her cheeks now—in this, he’d been of no use at all.

Even now, he was not entirely sure what she’d tried to do. Emmrich’s explanation had mostly been different versions of a horrified “why that spell” or “what an incredibly inadvisable course of action.” Lucanis had not disagreed with either statement, but he had not found them especially enlightening either. The necromancer had undone her spell, at least. He was glad of that.

“She smells all wrong,” Spite said, still peering at Rook. “All wrong.”

All the long way back to the Lighthouse, Spite had been uncharacteristically helpful. He had slipped beneath Lucanis’s skin seamlessly, as he once had in the early days in the Ossuary. He had done nothing but help speed them along, pushing their body faster than Lucanis might have been able to alone. It had seemed that they were, for once, of one mind, one mission: bring Rook somewhere safe and get her the help she needed. Everything else had been peripheral.

It was…quiet now that the others were gone. This was a relief. It also meant he had far too much time to think. He might almost—almost—be grateful for the distraction Spite provided now. Whenever he turned to look at the fish, the water behind him, his stomach turned and his hands shook. As long as he faced forward, he could still pretend to ignore it.

“Wrong,” Spite repeated. “Blood and elfroot and pain. Not like Rook.”

Lucanis sighed. He had not enjoyed carrying her back, though he would do it a hundred times over if she ever had need of such assistance again. It had been a fraught thing, willing her eyes to open again even though she would go on apologizing to him every time they did. He had a great deal of experience trying to hold still, but it had been worse to know that every involuntary shift of his body had caused hers pain.

He had not liked carrying her, but it had been—he had felt—something to hold her pressed against him, to wrap her in his arms. She had clutched him to her, hands snarled in the belts at his chest, face pressed into his body. He had wished, on that long ride back, that he could curl himself around her and shield her from what she’d done, though it was a useless impulse.

Useless and foreign besides; he had never felt such a thing before and did not know what to do with it now that he had.

Now, his hand rested beside hers on the bed, close enough that he could feel the faint movements of her body when she breathed in and out. When Emmrich had finally deemed it safe, Lucanis had administered the healing potion to her himself. He’d slid a hand under her neck to tip her head back and ease its passage into her throat. Though he was no longer touching her, he could still feel the memory of the softness of her skin against his palm.

Once, he had watched Rook tune her violin on one of the balconies outside the main tower. She’d struck a tuning fork against her knuckles and held it between two elegant fingertips, eyes closed to listen. The tone had spilled out into the air long after she’d touched it, humming until she finally set it aside to turn the small knobs at the top of her instrument.

Lucanis supposed he did not feel so very different than that tuning fork now. The touch of her skin still hummed inside him, though he had long since let go. He could not help wondering if he should reach for her hand now, if only to still that hum.

“She needs to rest and heal. Then, she will smell like herself,” he told Spite.

Spite crouched, his nose an inch from Rook’s. Slowly, Lucanis’s smallest finger brushed against Rook’s.

“She should smell of incense,” Spite told her, as if to remind her. “Leaf-rot. Rosemary. The rest is wrong.”

“She doesn’t smell like rotting leaves,” Lucanis said, as he had a dozen times before. Spite bared his teeth. “I don’t know why you always say that.”

“You’re wrong. She smells of sweet rot. Always. Only Rook ever does.”

What use was there in arguing? It hadn’t swayed the demon yet, though they’d had this argument more than once. Lucanis shifted in his chair and found his hand resting against Rook’s. Should he let go? Leave? Work on finding a healer in Treviso they could bring her to?

Her hand was so still, soft and cool in his.

When he had been a boy, there had been an illness (he could not recall what it had been; a fever, perhaps) and a dark room, bed hung with dark cloth. It had not been in Villa Dellamorte, but the home his parents kept. It had been—warmer, he thought. Less marble, more carved wood. One night, Lucanis had lain in the dark, ill and horribly lonely, and he had woken to find his father’s hand in his. What a comfort it had been, to know that he was not alone in the dark with his pain.

Lucanis ignored Spite and curled his fingers around Rook’s. There were calluses on odd places near the first joints of her fingers. Musical in origin, he supposed, not caused by her staff. He had not seen them before, but now he could feel scars across her palms, across the backs of her hands. Where had she gotten them? He wondered if she would answer, should he ask.

It had seemed…foolish, potentially dangerous to hold her hand in most of the places they’d visited. What if one of them needed to draw a weapon? Precious seconds might be wasted in untangling themselves from each other. Beyond that, she would be a target if anyone knew that he wanted—that he thought—

“You will make sure she’s fixed,” Spite said, voice abruptly louder, and he leaned across the bed to put his face near Lucanis’s. “She won’t stay like this. It isn’t right.”

“Yes,” Lucanis agreed. “Neve is looking for a healer who can help. Emmrich has already undone the worst of whatever she did to her leg.”

Spite had been with Lucanis for more days than he’d been able to count, but he still had difficulty reading the demon’s expressions. He did not even know if they were facial expressions or if that was just how his mind interpreted Spite’s existence. On someone else, he might have thought the narrowed eyes and sneer meant displeasure. On Spite, it must have been approval instead because the demon winked out of existence a moment later. It was a relief when he was gone, as if some imperceptible background noise he never really heard had finally ceased.

“Don’t worry,” Lucanis told Rook in the ensuing silence. “The others will find somebody to help. I’ll wait with you until they do. It’s not like I was sleeping anyway.”

She would have laughed at that. She liked to laugh, his—Rook liked to laugh.

Her hand didn’t move in his. Still, he did not think he was imagining the growing warmth in her palm. Lucanis reached for the cup of coffee he’d set aside and sipped it without letting go of her. Whatever came next, he would be there.

Even if nobody else had heard it, he’d made her a promise.

The first thing Lenore felt when she woke was the warmth wrapped around her hand.

Pain followed quickly, but she’d been braced for that. She had not been braced for comfort and was less sure about what to do with it.

“You’re awake,” Spite said, and Rook opened her eyes to look at him.

The demon sat in a chair beside her bed, one foot propped on the seat while the other rested on the ground. He was the one holding her hand, of course.

“I am,” she answered, studying him. “Did Lucanis fall asleep there or did you walk him here?”

Not what she was asking, really. What she meant was, which one of you decided to wait beside me while I was out? It would have been harder to ask that; harder still to admit to him how much she wanted to know. Better to sidestep it entirely.

“Here,” Spite replied. “He promised. To stay.”

“And you didn’t want to make a run for it while everyone was distracted?”

The ache in her leg was…significant, but better than she remembered in her awful, cluttered recollection of the moments following her injury. A cautious glance downward revealed only the usual quantity of bones. Nothing twisted past her shin, bones projecting outward and curling around each other like halla horns. She almost wished she believed in a god so she could thank them.

“He promised,” Spite replied, as if it was the obvious answer.

“Does Lucanis know that you keep his promises?” she asked, smiling at him.

Spite smiled back slowly, each side of the mouth creeping up in turn, as if testing himself to see if he could.

“No,” he said. “Are you. Fixed?”

Mentally, she felt along her body. Her head felt better, she thought, though her leg was a miserable tangle of pain. The rest of her was stiff, as if she’d been lying still for a very long time.

“Not all the way. Something still hurts down there. But better than earlier, yes.”

“Good. Your pain. Was wrong.”

Wrong?

“Did it bother you to carry me around?”

Rook thought to push herself up, try to sit, but thought better of it. She’d have to let go of his hand if she wanted to move and it hardly seemed worth it. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had held her hand. Actually—now that she was thinking about it, she couldn’t remember a time when anyone living had held her hand for longer than the time it took to lead her where she was supposed to be.

“No,” Spite replied at once, and looked as if he would go on. Abruptly, his face went blank and Lucanis blinked himself awake.

“Rook,” he said. “You’re awake.”

“So are you,” she said.

Now that she was awake, he would take his hand away. She was certain of it. She held very still so he wouldn’t notice that they were still holding onto each other.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. His forehead creased as he leaned closer, shifting until both feet rested firmly on the ground.

“I’ve been better,” she said, but he did not laugh. “Feeling a little stupid. I feel like I should apol—”

“Don’t, Rook,” Lucanis said, lifting the hand that wasn’t holding hers as if to halt the words. “I think you’ve apologized enough. If I never hear you say ‘I’m sorry’ again, it will be too soon.”

“Did I? I don’t remember that.”

“Hm,” Lucanis said, the corner of his mouth twitching. Some strong emotion suppressed; not a smile, she thought. “Emmrich called it…perseveration. He said that those with head wounds often repeat phrases or thoughts, and you’d happened to choose that one.”

“You disagree?” Lenore asked.

His thumb traced something on the back of her hand, slow and soft. She repressed a shiver at the sensation—so comfortable, so easy. It was like they touched each other casually all the time, which they certainly did not. He had made his interest clear—clear enough for her, at least—and yet they had still remained largely hands-off until now.

“These marks on your hands,” he said, and paused. “I have seen others like them.”

“Have you?”

The urge to snatch hers back and hide it under the blankets was immediate, the effort to ignore it not inconsiderable. Lucanis lifted his own hand, angling it so the light shone over the scar tissue there, criss-crossing his knuckles and the back of his hand in straight, silvery lines. Thicker than the ones on the backs of her hands, yes, but mostly the same.

“You are not a Crow,” he said. “You were not trained the way I was. Emmrich’s hands are largely unscarred. Those are very old—before you left the Necropolis.”

“Correct on all counts,” Lenore told him, and turned their hands so hers was pressed against the blanket and out of sight.

He watched her for a moment, free hand settling slowly on the cot beside her leg. She wondered what he’d read in her face. She wondered what he wasn’t saying nearly as much as she hoped he wouldn’t keep talking about it.

“You do not have to apologize to me,” he said at last. “I was glad that I was the one with you when you fell.”

“You shouldn’t have had to carry me back,” she told him firmly, shifting her weight onto her elbow. Her grip tightened on his hand. “I’m meant to look after myself better than that. I should’ve—”

“Stop,” Lucanis said, squeezing her hand in turn. “Stop. I would do it again.”

He was so very close—she hadn’t noticed him getting closer—and she still felt so awful, so grateful, and his hand was so warm in hers—

“Lucanis,” she murmured, as if speaking too loud would ruin something precious and fragile, “I think I’m going to kiss you.”

Lenore hadn’t been touched or held in so long. She had almost—almost—convinced herself that this didn’t bother her, that she didn’t care. She’d been wrong, though; she cared a great deal. Cared like a plant cared for watering, like strings longed for a bow. Before she could change her mind or retreat from him again, she was lifting her face to his and kissing him.

Lucanis could count on one hand the number of times he had kissed somebody, and nearly all of them had been in the process of completing a contract or training for the same. They’d all been more or less the same to him, the experiences blurring together into the same dull sensation, all duty and never desire.

This—Rook’s face upturned, her soft mouth pressed to his—was like none of those other times. He hardly had time to recover from the shock of it before she was pulling away again, eyes searching his face. Too fast; not enough time to understand. He needed more.

On instinct, he reached behind her and cupped the back of her neck as he had before, carefully pressing her close to him once more. Her lips were soft and surprised under his, as if she had expected him to pull away. When he kissed her, she made a surprised sound and squeezed his hand.

Had he worried that it was Spite, not Lucanis, who wanted to kiss her? Had he somehow believed that touching her would quiet the hum of fascination under his skin? All ridiculous, all incorrect; this was something entirely different. His hand fit at the back of her neck perfectly, as if it had been shaped precisely for this. He was barely kissing her, but the faint pressure of his mouth against his was almost overwhelming. He was already touching her, already holding her to him, and yet he was hungry for exactly that—as if the touch by its very existence required more of itself, required more of him.

Too much. He withdrew, though he didn’t let go of her yet, and found her eyes still closed, her lips softly parted.

What was he to do with this? He wanted to press his thumb to the pulse beating at her throat, wanted to lift her from the bed and hold her again, wanted to kiss the hand he held in his until—until what?

“You should rest,” Lucanis told her, his voice so quiet he found himself surprised he’d said it aloud at all.

Rook nodded once, eyes still closed, and pressed her lips together. When she moved, he could feel the shift of her spine under her skin. Would it feel the same if he held her hand while she moved, while she played her music for him, when she drew magic from the Fade? Would it feel the same with his hands around her hips, or her—

The thought was strange enough, foreign enough, that he let go and climbed to his feet. For a moment, Rook held very still, face still tilted. Lucanis took a step back, lest his hands betray him and reach for her again.

“You’re still healing,” he told her, and took another step back when her eyes fluttered open. Her eyelashes were so fine against her skin, her eyes so warm and soft in the pale light of the water. He wanted to look closer. Instead, he stepped back again and wished he had something to do with his hands. Anything that would remove the sensation of her hand in his, her mouth so sweet against his.

“I’ll check on you later,” he went on. “Somebody needs to start dinner, and a note from Teia and Viago arrived while you slept.”

“Lucanis,” she said, her voice soft and quiet. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Thank you. For staying, I mean. Both of you.”

“Of course, Rook. Anytime,” he said, and slipped from the room before she could take him up on the offer.

“Coward,” Spite hissed.

Lucanis, striding briskly away from the door so he would not turn around and open it again, found he could not disagree.

#lenore ingellvar #lucanis dellamorte #da fanfic #rookanis #lucanis x rook #rook x lucanis #dav #dav spoilers #veilguard #rook ingellvar #lucanore #shivunin scrivening #they actually kiss in this one c:

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