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gangplanksorenji · 1 year ago

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Kinknuary Day 5: Degradation

Pairing: IVE Ahn Yujin x Male Reader

Word Count: 4,681

[Kinknuary Masterlist]

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“That looks awful, Yujin.”

“Come on, daddy, you’ll like this!”

Well, the blending of her outfit composes an unorthodox harmony which makes you detest it but the beauty behind what lies within is the most important aspect—Yujin herself can pull off any style, even if it means for you to not like it. Yujin, a glamorous girl, never fails to look close to a goddess at any time possible, even when she’s totally sullied, she’s still the most gorgeous girl you’ve laid your eyes upon.

Even such harsh criticisms about her are meaningless, faulty and full of bullshit—she’s close to perfection yet you can’t really comprehend the beauty of her outfit right now and it’s really bothering you.

“It’s really weird, Yujin—no matter how much I gaslight myself to think your outfit’s good, it’s really not there—”

“Maybe, but it’s your own opinion! My stylist really approved of this style!”

Sometimes, Yujin’s optimism is off the charts and it’s getting kind of on the verge of craziness, in a good way. Such uplifting energy being emanated by her is contagious and you love it, no wonder why the rest of members feel cheerful whenever she’s there as it’s evident. Not to mention, the days where you almost lost everything, Yujin was there to fuel your happiness and to cheer you up and you’re just grateful to see such a kind soul in Yujin’s heart.

Well, well, back to where we were…

“Whatever, you still look beautiful, anyways…” You pull her wrists towards you, initiating into a torrid kiss in which she was caught off-guard, yelping and humming as the kiss was making her heart melt.

“Yah—daddy, someone may see us, let’s go in. Don’t want my daddy to get caught by those paparazzis…”

“You’re so sweet, Yujin—I don’t want that to happen to you either.”

With the fear of getting caught by those possible eavesdropping people, you let her into your humble home as the best of all things were just going to start.

---

“You wanted this all along, huh, Yujin?”

“I’ve planned this all out, daddy, isn’t it obvious?”

Bet it is like that. It wasn’t even a sweat finding it to be too conspicuous as visiting you means three things for Yujin: one, is that she misses you a lot that she couldn’t contain it anymore and wants your affection; two, she wants to talk about something that means a lot to her or, that piqued her interest truly and; three, she’s here for a quick fuck for her daddy.

All options were optimal and understandable and probably, all of the reasons were checked out on why she is here, at your place, with the most ruinable outfit imaginable.

“Yeah, no shit, Yujin—” You pin her down the wall, as you mutter a hot breath that sends down tingles up her spine as an admiration of her faultless beauty and then a faint snarl as you glare at her and continued, “—I bet your slutty pussy won’t even make a day without my cock plunged into it, isn’t it?”

That alone arouses her into oblivion, whining in response as you mark her neck softly, nibbling onto the porcelain skin with aims to let Yujin know where she belongs only, and that’s you. Struggling because of her sudden sensitivity with your touch, she lets out a series of moans in which you love but at the same time, your patience is running out quickly as you will soon be enraged with it.

“Answer me, Yujin—”

“Y-yes, daddy—I’m just s-so horny right now that even with o-our photoshoot earlier, I can’t think of anything besides only you, daddy…”

That thought prints a smile on your face as you were flustered about Yujin clouding her mind with you only, yet, it doesn’t stop there as this was just some obvious foreplay as the test was about to begin pretty soon.

“You’re cute when you’re needy, Yujnnie, but I want to ask you something.”

Yujin’s eyes lit up in anticipation and excitement as your words set the switch of her submissive and needy demeanor—by all means, she’s willing to take and answer whatever question you will utter, no matter what the consequences may be.

“What is it, daddy?”

You sit on the bed, facing up the ceiling and then letting out a sigh as worry paints her face, scared of what may trigger your possible disappointment even though they weren't any cause. “I’m not easily convinced if you really deserve to get fucked silly—you need to earn it first and will you do that for me, Yujin?”

Your stern look forces an immediate answer escaping her lips, willing to do anything that will make your life full of heaven and delight. It is true, you need to test her capabilities first and earn her desired grand prize—hard work pays off in the end, and you’ll let her know that. Spreading your legs for some clarity or rather, a hint of what she’s about to be tackling, she immediately knows what you want her to do as her clever mind never fails to make you smile. Falling down to her knees, lined up in level with your crotch, she makes the most endearing look towards you, her puppy-eyes flattering as she feels excited about what she’s about to do to you.

“Undress me, make it quick.”

“Yes, daddy.”

She is told what she’s told and immediately, she fulfills your command, quickly undressing each piece of your clothing as she starts unbuckling your belt, her fingers shaking a little bit for unknown reasons. You don’t know if it’s because of the nervousness injected right from the start, her lack of experience in which you doubt or something else that you don’t know—you didn’t care about it as she continues what she’s doing with no more interrogation. With her current sluggish pace of stripping your bottom half, you called her out and scolded her a little so that she can up the ante and to not disappoint you. She took this as a hit of a stride, further doing what she’s been told to as the cold air meets your skin, feeling your last bits of defense falling down to the floor, deeming useless. Well, it seemed like she succeeded on her first task as with the last bit of your iron wall protecting the beast within getting removed, you let out a sigh as Yujin was met with your already-erecting member, her eyes in awe and pupils dilating as she admires the beauty of it, inch by inch.

“Daddy’s getting hard, oh god—it’s so perfect.”

“Then do something about it—” You lift Yujin’s chin with your fingers, then glaring at her, voicing an intimate need that should be fulfilled by her and it’s a must. “—don’t you dare disappoint me, Yujin.”

Of course she won’t try to because the consequences are unbearable at her end. With your already erected end, she didn’t faze herself to ask what to do and immediately obliged to pleasure you. She looks in awe with your throbbing cock as she places her finger at the base of it, massaging it slowly and stroking it with fervor. It was sluggish and pleasurable but you didn’t want that, so glared at her as she was confused right after, scared that she may have provoked something that you didn’t want—it’s about time for her to know about that.

It’s not too long for her to know what you want as she slowly parts her mouth in contact with your mushroom-shaped tip, swirling her tongue around the slit and then parting kisses in admiration of it. She continued with this as you suppress your moans, trying to silence yourself despite the intense pleasure she’s been putting you into. She didn’t up the pace and continued to suck you off with only half of your length in her tight mouth, growing the pleasure as she alternates it between strokes and suctions. You grew impatient with her sluggish endeavors as you slowly formed a tight grip on her head, forcing her down to take your whole length as her nose became buried down your abdomen. It caught her off-guard as constantly gagged on your whole length, tears seeping out of her eyes and then running out her cheek and when you’re satisfied, to let go of your grip as she ejects herself out immediately, gasping for air as her ruined visage is such a sight to treasure.

“W-what the—hah—f-fuck was that, daddy?”

“You’re complaining, Yujin?” You’re in disbelief as she tried to question you and immediately, she knew that wasn’t the right move. She liked your harshness but the shock is inevitable and you didn’t care about that.

“N-no, daddy…”

“Good—you fucking know I like it sloppy, what are you waiting for?” Your commanding tone forces Yujin to do what is asked as she parts her soft, luscious lips onto your tip again and immediately starts to suck you off with renewed fervor and determination, aiming to impress you truly with just her mouth. Inevitably, saliva seeps out of her mouth as your whole length is sheathed with it, with some dripping onto your balls. The pace was ridiculous as her gags were also constant too, bawling her mouth in every thrust she does of her mouth as more tears run down her cheek because of her own masterpiece. It may be a masterpiece for the others, but not for you as she lacks a lot of principles of a great, sloppy blowjob.

“Have you really forgotten what I taught you, Yujin?” Your words didn’t break what she’s best at, unfazed with your remarks as she continues to blow you as fast and as sloppy as she can. “I’m really not having this one, Yujin—again, you don’t want me to be disappointed.” She ups her pace, regardless on how much she gawks and gags as she does the best that she can, blowing you like no one truly could as her face gets sullied, her hair disheveled and her saliva creating an awful mess on her beautiful face and onto the vicinity of your raging length.

“Do I need to repeat myself? You're a pathetic slut—do I need to teach you something again? I might get to call Wonyoung to teach you about the basics, no?”

Having enough of your degrading antics, she pulls herself out of your length, catching a breath and asking a point to you. “Daddy, what do I e-even need to—gluck—mmfh!”

“Even forgot to fondle my balls and stare at my eyes—you’re better than this, Yujin, come on now…”

With such elements being unattended, worry expresses her face as she seemed to forget such simple things on a spectacular blowjob as with no time to waste, her dainty hands averted your attention towards you sensitive balls, rather than gripping your thighs harshly as a leverage to the pace she ensued with. It alternates and it’s better—those orbs shining with lust everytime she thrusts her mouth onto your cock is such the cherry on top as eventually, she maintains eye contact with you despite the current struggles she’s experiencing. It was better than what she'd done earlier and you’re satisfied with it but you mask your satisfaction with a stern look, prompting Yujin to up the challenge more. With an incredible task she’s been doing, you can’t help but let out faint moans and expectedly, the familiar knot in your loins, signaling your near release. Yujin noticed this, as the persistent throbs of your cock onto her mouth makes it evident and took this as an opportunity to milk such a healthy load from you. You knew this, she wants from you as you stop her advances, not wanting to paint her throat with her load as you have more plans with her and the both of you were just starting.

“You fucking greedy slut—trying to milk a damn load, huh?” You let her go as she immediately pulls out of your succulent meat, gasping for air as she frowned in disbelief, wanting your load to be tasted by hers as she didn’t approve of your commands but there’s nothing she can do with it as you have the higher authority, the omnipotent one.

“I c-can’t help it—I want i-it so b-bad, daddy—”

“You won’t have it because girls like you don’t really deserve it up in their throat…” You rose up from your relaxed position, approaching her as you stared at her eyes with such suspenseful intent. “They deserved it inside this tight, little cunt, do you understand?”

Yujin nods frantically with her eyes uneasy, fear emanating down every emotional chemical running up her body as she doesn’t know what to feel after her oral service. Nonetheless, she did a nice job but you want to let her know something that may snap her back to reality.

“B-but did I do good, daddy?”

You sigh, facing her, then looking back at her muttering, “I’m such a hypocrite if I lie yet there will be room for improvements, Yujin.” You sat back down to the bed, shooting up a stern look on your face as you commanded her to strip. It wouldn’t fall deaf onto her ears as she slowly get to work, undressing that stupid jacket off as the long-sleeve followed right after, the hypnotic sense of the show making the atmosphere even hotter as every clothing that gets off is a wondrous sight, and it’s much better because of that dreadful outfit becoming useless and stripped away. She seduces you like a vixen, her eyes constantly attracting you and her smirks letting you know how much she’s enjoying this. You’re just on that emotionless and serious demeanor, unfazed with her unparalleled hotness as with the last bits of clothing getting removed, you can’t help but be aroused with the sight of a god-like body. You weren’t immobilized either, as you stripped off the rest of your clothing while eyeing and admiring her scrumptious figure.

“You liked this, daddy?”

“Of course—who can possibly detest and reject such a five-course meal in front of them, hm?”

She doesn’t need any questions about that, because every inch of her is perfection at its finest and meal to be savored and devoured whenever possible. You’ll never get tired of the taste of her sweet nectar and the delicious skin as every inch of her should be praised yet this is not where you should bless her with praises—you’re here to test her and conclude on your judgment.

“Thank god you got rid of that awful outfit. It’s mildly concerning how bad it is.”

“Yah, daddy—it wasn’t even that bad!”

“Shut your mouth, Yujin! You don’t get to talk back until I say so, do you understand?”

Surprisingly, she obeyed your command, nodding slowly as she didn't talk back further, her eyebrows furrowed right after, full of fear and anticipation.

“Now turn around and bend over the bed, hand behind your back and with your foot still stepping on the floor, alright?”

Another nod ensues as she immediately bent her figure over the bed, her ass high up in the air. You take some moment to admire her backside, her thick thighs and it’s plump, spankable butt that’s all offered just for you. The black thong she’s currently wearing was such an arousing sight that it got your cock twitching constantly. You then gave her ass a harsh spank that reverberated around the room, the jiggle after the slap becoming the cherry on top as it hypnotized you but nonetheless, you didn’t give in and fought the urge. Yujin always moans heavenly and blesses your ears in each spank you do as it fuels you to tease her even more and you absolutely love it.

“You’re kinky, huh? Imagine doing a photoshoot having a buttplug up in your ass—you’re really a desperate slut, Yujin.”

“I can’t help it, da—”

You spank her hard again, in distraught as she breaks the golden rule and immediately, she let out a cry from the harshness of your actions.

“What did I fucking say? You don’t get to talk until I say so, right?” You retorted towards Yujin, gritting your teeth with a hint of anger being felt as you were getting disappointed with her disobedient remarks.

“Y-yes, daddy—I’m sorry—”

“No need to be sorry, Yujin—” You spank her as she let out another cry, feeling the intense sensitivity coursing down her veins as you hitch a breath onto her ear and whispered, “—you get to talk with this pussy. Take me well and you’ll be rewarded, do you understand?”

She frantically nods again as her thighs quiver in sensitivity, feeling the utmost pleasure as she’s now in a very defenseless state, prone with your attacks as she can’t do anything but enjoy with your masterclass. You smile with the fact that Yujin is powerless against what you could do to her, feeling the utmost delight inside but you still emanate an intimidating demeanor, scaring her still. With your still fully-erected member, you tease your tip onto her labia, making her moan constantly as sweat now forms down her back, feeling the hot air permeating all over her porcelain skin.

“Imagine moaning this much with even just the tip teasing you—you’re such a desperate one—a pathetic slut, Yujin, that’s what you are…”

“I a-am a pathetic slut, daddy—ahh, fuck!”

Another harsh spank was drawn with your hands as the reddish sting is imprinted onto her butt, letting her know that the way she contravened you again was not the play. You chuckled upon the helpless predicament she’s in, feeling the utmost authority as you draw your finger up to her dripping core up to her puckered hole, teasing her repeatedly as she moans in pleasure driven by your dexterity.

“One more and you’ll see, Yujin—you’re such a worthless fucktoy for me to use, don’t you? You even struggled to take me in your mouth, what more into this tight, little cunt?” She lets out ragged breaths once you insert a finger up in her pussy, deeming it as her kryptonite as she almost fell down to her knees due to the intense pleasure and sensitivity she’s experiencing.

“See? Even with just my fingers, you look like a helpless, little slut that lives only for my cock—I bet you won’t even last long with my cock buried balls-deep inside your pussy—hah…”

You continue pleasuring her with your fingers as she didn’t even care to suppress her moans, giving it absolutely everything to arouse you further. You then continue the pace of your fingers as you tip teases her puckered hole, letting out a series of cries from her on par with her angelic moans and the whispered into her ear, “Do you want daddy to fuck you real silly, hm?”

Yujin took seconds to respond, as the intense serotonin she’s experiencing was too much to handle as she nodded instantly and pleaded, “P-please, daddy—I need y-your cock—gahh—i-in my slutty pussy. Fill me u-up and show y-your slut who she be—ahh—longs too…”

You plant another grin as she’s right, you’ll absolutely oblige to that even though she knows where she only belongs to. With a couple more flicks of your fingers inside her pussy, you became contented on what you’re about to do to her as you let her have her desired prize—not really a prize, but rather proving something to her as she let out a muffled scream (it was subtly silenced thanks to your hands) from the warmness of your cock plunging right into her tight heat. Whenever she moans, it really gets you to up the pace immediately as it’s like a curse to lure into your deepest, carnal desires but you fight it, wanting to savor the tightness of her walls and to prove a point to her.

“Look at you, Yujin—look at how pathetic you look right now. My cock is barely even in and you’re this sensitive and weak? I knew better, Yujin—now take it whole, you slut.”

You immediately bury your entire length inside her tight walls as you feel it clench, the both of you then exchanging moans with Yujin letting out the most broken and sensual ones. You could feel her wetness enveloping your member, almost suffocating it as she’s incredibly tight—she was always tight and you love it truly and you’re so thankfully that only you will get to feel her, nobody else. With a newly profound arousal, you noticed how much Yujin is getting turned on with your degradations towards her as you noted it, wanting to show more of what you bring to the table. You then start to thrust with such a moderate pace as you harshly grip the side of her hips, hard enough to leave print but not bruises—maybe it can because of how you're holding it for dear life.

Of course, such spanking didn’t get forgotten here as every thrust or two you do, a harsh spank comes right after, resulting in a silent cry escaping her lips, voicing out her pleasure. With all of the perfection your eyes lay upon, such faulty inevitabilities are on the path, and you’re ready to voice it out.

“God, if you didn’t cut you hair short, I could have gone and pulled your hair while fucking you from behind.”

Yujin answers back, her voice still trembling from your pace and the pleasure running through her, “I w-wanted this, daddy—I thought y-you—gahh—would li-like me experimenting o-on things?”

“Yeah, I know but it’s alright, at least I get to spank you real good.”

You spank her again while maintaining a newly profound ruthless pace, now her bubble butt becoming imprinted with red marks because of your harshness and you smile just with the sight of it. With now your cock constantly ramming her pussy like it’s your last, her moans orchestrate music in your ears as screams come right after. You noticed how much your raging length makes her enervated as you can her legs partly giving out from the repeated onslaught of harsh thrusts in aims for your pleasure and not her—but still, she’s taking advantage of this as even thought you didn’t mind giving her the utmost pleasure, it’s inevitable considering how she’s having a good time and the constant clenching of her wet walls around your cock. It wasn’t anything new and still, it’s arousing as fuck—Yujin saccharine yet deep voice when moaning is such a blessing and disguise, and it’s hypocritical if you say that it doesn’t put gasoline onto the flames of peak arousal (of course you won’t because it’s always an eargasm hearing her soft, deep moans of need).

Such cruelty is ensued with your hips, and Yujin replies with such profanities escaping her mouth, voicing her satisfaction and the pleasure that she’s cherishing—and not so long after, she’s about to be gifted with such a blessing only her daddy can give, no one else can. Within your rapid thrusts and the harsh grips and spanks you’re giving her, you noticed something that was bound to happen, smirking in delight at the fact that it signals the fact that she’s loving your rough treatment despite the possible struggle she’s up into.

“What’s this, Yujin—already cumming onto my cock? Do you even deserve to do that when you could barely take me like a good girl?”

It is true—your whole length stretches her out so well that she couldn’t comprehend to think about taking you in like a champ but rather, fully give in and voice her satisfaction like she’s losing her sanity.

“I’m s-sorry—gahh—daddy—ofh fuck, y-you’re just too b-big—gah!”

She’s not sorry for that but rather didn’t mind it as you continue fucking her senseless. Yujin inevitably spreads her slowly in order for you to fuck her deeper and greater as it’s rewarding, fiding such intense pleasure and new depths that makes her cry in such intense pleasure, unable to take everything as it’s too much on what she wanted but loved this right away. Within your intense pace, you can’t just become a robotic entity programmed to just fuck her until she gives out, so you grabbed onto her small, perky mounds and kissed her nape while doing it, further letting her know the affection you’re giving to her as she moans in response, feeling too grateful to your enamored actions. You pinch the taut bud and massage those pillowy mounds as the heavenly tightness of her pussy sends you into overdrive—becoming too overstimulated as the pleasure you’re experiencing is now off the roof as it’s the same with her, the juices of her cunt forming a rivulet dripping down to your balls and onto the floor is a sign that the both of you are just too lost on the pleasure. Kissing her neck repeatedly and sucking onto the porcelain skin, you know you weren’t far off to reach your peak as you continue fuck her mercilessly, chasing your orgasm.

Such profanities and lust are now the paramount feeling coursing to your veins, so you voice your near-ending and your approaching euphoric disposition as you whisper on her ear, “I’m going to fucking cum inside you, Yujin and you better take it like a good girl, you pathetic slut!”

Now giving her pussy the last thrusts in concern for you pleasure, you flood her ears with moans as she took advantage of your pace and came again onto your cock, streams and streams of her nectar streaming down her thighs, your balls, onto the bed sheets and some onto the floor, staining it. You didn’t mind the sneaky orgasm she was in as you licked down the sweat that profusely formed onto her back, tasting the salty skin and for further arousal to chase your long-awaited orgasm.

Within your last rams, you groan as the pleasure coursed down you’re veins and the inevitable snaps, burying your whole length and filling Yujin up to the hilt as you shoot thick shots of semen deep inside her, painting her walls white as she lets out series of lustful moans because of the euphoric state that she’s in. You continue thrusting into her, further fucking your seed inside her and riding out your orgasm and once it subsided, you slowly pulled out to her, admiring the mess you’ve make inside her with some of it dripping out of her heated core, running down her thighs. You caressed her butt as you admired the sullied sight of Yujin, full of delight and satisfaction as you finally gave her what she wanted but to come up and conclude your judgment, you wanted to make one more thing as a final remark.

“Get up, go on your knees and clean up my cock, Yujin.”

Even with her wobbly legs almost giving out, she didn’t hesitate to oblige, further servicing you with another oral assault as a conclusion on this steamy session. She plants her soft, luscious lips onto your lips and sucked the remnants of your seed and her nectar, cleaning up the mess the both of you made. She hummed in satisfaction as she finally tasted hints of your semen after being deprived for a month without it. After series of licks and swirls of her tongue onto your throbbing length, you let series of weak moans due to your sensitivity as she’s now done with her concluding masterpiece—your cock crystal-clear clean as you help her to get up, and then muttering up a proposition that she won’t deny.

“Want to clean up, Yujin?”

“B-but I want you up in my a-ass, daddy—want to g-get all my holes filled…”

You glared at Yujin, and then let out a chuckle from her needs, “Come on, you can’t even take me that good up your tight cunt, moreso on your ass? Don’t worry though—” You planted a kiss on her lips as you reassure her, “We’re just getting started, there’s more to do later so you better be prepared…”

And god, this will be one hell of another night, again…

#kinknuary 2024 #ive smut #ahn yujin smut #yujin smut #ive x male reader #ahn yujin x male reader #yujin x male reader

997 notes · View notes

fredswrite · 3 months ago

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SUMMARY: Stephen forgot about your anniversary, but he didn’t forgot how good you felt.

A/N: Ive been so obsessed over Stephen recently, I’m so sorry this is very long 😓

WC: 4.5k

WARNING: piv, shower sex, pet names, Stephen is so needy and desperate, handjob, f!reader, smut MDNI!! YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN MEDIA CONSOMMATION

MLIST

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY

Stephen was a clever man, constantly innovating and thinking about ideas for the magazine. His ability to think on his feet was truly remarkable and a valuable asset for a journalist.

Whenever Stephen had writer's block, he transformed into a different person. He secluded himself in the office, emerging only to eat and drink or use the restroom. It felt as though he wasn't even in the apartment with you.

As Stephen's girlfriend, you took it upon yourself to help him as often as you could. However, he has kept himself locked up in his office for almost two whole days and didn't even realize he missed your three-year anniversary.

It was time to bring him out again. You couldn't just tell him what he missed, but to know he ignored the date was also heartbreaking.

You knocked firmly on the door before striding in. Balancing a plate with a peanut butter sandwich and some orange quarter, you were determined to get him to eat and talk to you. It wasn't a full meal, but hopefully he was going to eat it and have a talk with you.

"Steve, I have a snack for you," you said softly, trying to break Stephen's focus on the computer screen. He let out a small sigh, adjusting his glasses before finally turning to recognize you.

"Darling, I'm busy right now. Please just place the plate next to me and leave me. I'm alright, just lost in my thoughts," he responded with a hint of exasperation in his tone. He quickly returned his attention to the computer screen and resumed his reading.

"You’ve been in here for two days." You whispered, worried for him.

“I’m well aware of how long I’ve been in here,” Stephen replied with sarcastic irritation, still gazing at his computer screen. He was searching through different articles and stories for the upcoming pitch. He was never angry usually, mostly insecure. Constantly trying to make everyone love him.

“I have to find something before it’s too late. Stop worrying and go do something else.” Stephen had a habit of ignoring you during these writer’s block moments, which led to many arguments over the years.

"Right, sorry." You muttered as you retraced your steps, letting the door slam shut with more force than expected. All you wanted was to offer your help, but he seemed to throw out your efforts.

As soon as you shut the door, you could hear Stephen sigh in annoyance, pinching the space between his eyebrows with two fingers. He hated when you got all silent and quiet whenever he was like this, but he knew his work was more important in moments like these.

A few hours passed, and the only sound coming from the office was that of the keyboard typing and the mouse clicking. Soon, Stephen started to grumble out of frustration. He leaned back in his chair, pushing up his glasses before looking at the closed door. He was wondering what you had been doing.

It was midnight, and he remained secluded, failing to acknowledge the significance of your special date. You have shared three years of love, yet for the second time in three years, he has forgotten. You were eating the cake you bought, sitting alone in the kitchen. You had taken a slice, but your appetite was long gone.

Sweet and silent tears rolled down your cheeks to your plate. You tried to wipe them away with the sleeves of your hoodie, but you finished by letting them roll down. He didn't even remember, nor have he did anything about it.

Stephen had lost all track of time, only thinking of the pitch that was coming up. His girlfriend was the last thing on his mind at the moment, even if it was your three year anniversary.

He sat in his office for a couple more minutes before slowly sitting up. His back was hurting from being in that position for so long, and he was beginning to feel hungry and dehydrated. He had eaten the sandwich, yet that was a long time ago.

He slowly stood up from his desk, heading to the kitchen. The lights in the apartment were dimmed, but he could still see you sitting by yourself with an empty plate.

He walked into the kitchen, leaning up against the wall as he looked at you. He took in your tired and solemn expression, wondering why you were crying. He knew he was cold during writer's block, but to make you cry? He must have made you mad.

He crossed his arms and tilted his head, looking at you curiously before he spoke. “Why are you crying?” he asked bluntly, not realizing what day it was at all.

"Why am I crying?" you scoffed, rising from your chair. "Why am I crying?!" you repeated, the anguish evident in your voice. You walked away and locked yourself in the bathroom. It was your time to be left alone.

He rolled his eyes as you walked away from him and entered the bathroom. Stephen knew you well enough to know that you were upset about something, but he had no idea what. He stood by the bathroom door, listening to you.

“Come on. Open the door. I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.” He said, trying to keep himself from getting irritated again.

"Look at the fucking date."

Stephen raised an eyebrow as you yelled from the bathroom. He was confused until your words registered in his mind, and he went silent for a moment. You never cursed around him, he was nervous, to say the least.

He let out a breath and looked at the calendar. It finally dawned on him. It was your anniversary today. He groaned and rested his forehead against the door in slight annoyance, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Open the door, princess. Please?” Stephen asked you, a bit of a pleading tone in his voice. He felt guilty for being so dismissive of you, letting work and writer’s block get in the way of your anniversary. He knew forgot about it last year too, and it made him feel even worse.

"Leave me alone Steve, you locked yourself all day.".

He sighed from behind the door, banging his head against it in annoyance. He hated it when you got mad around him, but he knew it was his fault.

“You know I’m going through writer’s block. I need to find something new for this critique. It’s my job.” He retorted, trying to make you understand his trouble.

"It’s always the same excuse, you told me you forgot because of your writer's block. It’s always the same, I know your job’s important but I am too!"

He frowned as you retorted and called him out on his previous behaviour. It was true, but he didn’t want to admit to it. He didn’t want to admit that he had prioritized work over you on meaningful days.

“You know how important my job is to me, darling. I can’t control when I get writer’s block. That’s just how it is.” He said, a bit of a snappy tone in his tone.

"I know that! But you don’t have to be so damn cold when you have it." You let out, sitting at edge of the bathtub.

He sighed in despair, leaning his forehead against the door. His back was starting to hurt from hunching over his desk all day.

“I’m not purposely being cold to you. I’m just trying to find an idea. You know how I am when I get like this, I get super focused on writing.”

Stephen gently knocked on the door. “Please, just come out. I know you’re mad at me, I just want to talk to you face to face.”

He took you a lot to stand up and carefully undo the lock restraining the door, soon enough you were back in your sitting position. You could never stay mad at him for so long, that’s just how it was.

He quietly opened the door and took in your expression, feeling even more guilty for making you so upset. He could never handle it when you were like this. He slowly walked over and sat down next to you on the bathtub. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, holding you gently but making sure you couldn’t pull away.

“Are you mad at me?” Stephen asked in a quiet voice, stating the obvious.

"Of course I am!" You held his gaze for a moment as he acknowledged your eyes gleaming with tears.

He sighed calmly and looked at you with a tired expression. He knew he had messed up, prioritizing work over you. But he was going through writer’s block and needed something for the pitch.

“I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I upset you. But I have to find something to write about. It’s my job, baby. You know that.” He said, trying to use that as an explanation once again, in hopes that you’d understand. He gripped your hand, pressing gentle kisses alongside your knuckles.

He squeezed your wrist gently, silently begging for you to understand. He hated seeing you upset, especially since it was almost always his fault. And he hated being reminded he was was im the wrong.

Stephen took a small breath and continued, his tone softer. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to forget our anniversary, I just..” he paused, trying to find the right words, “got so caught up with everything.”

He gently pulled you closer as he let go of your hand, resting his forehead against yours. Stephen softly stroked your arm, his mind racing with different ways to apologize to you. “I didn’t mean to push you away. I just get so hyper-focused when I’m trying to find a new idea. I know I’m terrible at dealing with it, but please baby, don't be mad..”

You couldn't find the words to answer and you just gently nodded, whipping your tears away. The slight touch of mascara you applied this morning ran alongside your tears.

He could see the dejection and disappointment on your face and it hurt him. He hated that he had made you feel like this. Stephen shifted positions, turning to face you properly before he spoke.

“You’re upset about more than just me forgetting our anniversary, aren’t you?” He asked softly, still rubbing your arm comfortingly.

He knew you well enough to tell that you had more to say, even if you weren’t saying it aloud. He knew your body language, and how everything worked. He could tell when you were holding back from saying something, and you were holding something back.

He gently squeezed your arm, a silent prompt to speak up and tell him what was on your mind. After a moment of silence, he spoke up again, his voice gentle.

“Come on, sweetheart. Tell me what’s wrong. Please?”

"You always seem to love your work more than me." You knew it wasn't entirely accurate, but it wasn't entirely false either. He frowned as you spoke, biting the inside of his cheek in irritation. He didn’t appreciate that you kept bringing up him ignoring you for his job.

“That’s not true, and you know it.” He let out, slightly troubled.

"But it sure seem like it." You added.

His irritation subsided after a moment and he sighed. He knew you weren’t technically wrong and that made him feel more guilty.

“I.. I understand that, and you’re kinda right.. But you gotta know, my work is all I ever had. I can’t risk loosing my job because I didn’t write in time."

"I know, but you won’t lose your job for that."

He ignored your last statement, since apparently that‘s what he was good at recently.He let go of your arm and gently cupped your face, lifting your head gently so that he could meet your gaze.

“Sometimes I do get hyper-focused on my work and forget about other things, like our anniversary. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I do.” He said, holding your face in his hands, the urge to kiss you.

"I love you too, that’s the problem." You tried to look down, but his grip remained still on your chin.

Stephen moved closer to you, grabbing your hips and tugging you onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close to him. He nuzzled his face into your shoulder, taking in the warmth of your body.

“I know I messed up and I need to make up for forgetting our anniversary. So, I have a proposition for you, my love.” He murmured into your shoulder, holding you tight against him.

"What proposition?" You asked, intrigued.

He hummed against your shoulder before replying. “I’ll promise to set aside my work, all my research and computer work, for the rest of the night. In return, I just want you to help me relax. No more tears, I hate seeing you cry.”

"What do you mean?" You questionnée, even though you knew damn well what he meant.

He leaned back a bit and met your gaze. He smiled gently before replying, one hand moving to your waist.

“I just want you to be with me for the rest of the night. Cuddle with me, make me feel good and loved. I need to feel like I have some sort of. I don’t know, intimacy, again. I need you to help me with that.”

"Tomorrow is Saturday, ditch work tomorrow spend the day with me." You asked taking his hand, hoping you could convince him. After two days of ignoring you, even he missed being near his loved one.

He smiled again as you took his hand in yours, squeezing gently. Stephen nodded in agreement, bringing your hand to his lips and gently kissing your pulse point.

“I promise I’ll spend tomorrow hanging out with you, baby.” He said, holding your hand against his chest.

"You should take a shower before bed." You giggled, finally finding something positive in all that pain.

He gave a small laugh and nodded. Stephen could tell you had slightly calmed down. He liked that he was able to make you not so upset. "I don’t stink!" He let out and sniffed his armpit before making a disgusted expression.

"Yeah, alright. I will.” He said with a small grin as he moved his hands down to your hips. His hands stayed on your hips and he let his thumbs rub small, gentle circles on your skin.

“Come with me into the shower, please? You can wash my hair.” He said, his voice suddenly becoming a bit more needy. He knew how much you loved his hair and playing with his curls and the invitation was too good to refuse.

"I’ll use my strawberry shampoo." You said, slowly unbuttoning his blue shirt. He smiled, tilting his head to nuzzle your neck gently.

“My favorite.” He mumbled against your skin, placing a gentle kiss on the side of your throat.

"Start the shower," you started as you sat up from his lap, "I’ll come in soon." You left the bathroom leaving him hard on the spot. He watched your back as you closed the door behind you, he had no idea where you were going, but he continued taking down his clothes. He placed his glasses on the side of the sink, where he always placed them.

He watched you leave the bathroom and bit the inside of his cheek, feeling a bit excited by your words and the feeling of seeing you walk away. Stephen started the shower and waited, knowing you were up to something. He was hoping it was a pleasant surprise; he was craving your touch now.

He stood in the warm water flowing from the shower head, his mind racing. He wanted you to come in and help him and touch him. He wanted to feel your hands on his dick, running over his stomach. He wanted to feel you under the warm, streaming water. His forehead met with the glass door, as his hand waited for you on his thigh.

He huffed and bit back a small moan, feeling impatient and wanting you to join him. He closed his eyes and placed his left hand against the shower wall, bracing himself. He felt a bit antsy, wondering what was taking so long for you to arrive.

He wanted you to come get in the shower with him and touch him, so he called out from inside the shower. “How long are you going to make me wait, babe?”

Little did he know you were waiting on the other side of the door, oblivious teasing him for the two days he ignored you. "Oh who knows? Maybe two days, just like you did?"

He opened his eyes and groaned, knowing you were getting revenge against him for neglecting you for the past two days. He leaned his forehead against the shower door, sighing.

“That’s not fair, baby..” he whined from behind the door, wanting you to come into the shower.

"Was is fair that you forgot our anniversary?"

He grunted again and hung his head. He knew you had a point. It wasn’t fair that he forgot your anniversary.

“No, it wasn’t fair. I know it wasn’t fair and I don’t deserve it, but please.. I really need you in here with me.” He said, knowing he was begging.

“Please, I need you.. I’ll do anything you want, just come in the shower with me.” He pleaded, hoping you would join.

"God, you’re desperate," you said as you swung open the door, seeing his figure pressed against the glass.

His eyes shot open as the glass door suddenly opened. He was faced with your body, standing in the entrance of the shower room. Stephen let out a shaky breath, wanting you so badly. He held out a hand to you, looking at you with pleading eyes.

“Please. Need you, now.”

You clothes were soon on the ground next to his as he watched with an intense gaze. He watched you undress, his mind going blank as he observed your body. He felt his breath catch in his throat, the sight exciting him. He reached out to you, grabbing your wrist and yanking you into the shower with him.

Feeling you in the shower with him, he quickly turned you around before pinning you against the shower wall. He caged you in, his hands on the wall on either side of your head.

Stephen loomed over you, leaning down to capture your lips in a needy kiss. You right hand found its way to his curls, holding them firmly. Your other one flew down to his stomach and lower.

He immediately let out a whine at the feeling of your hands on his stomach. His body was craving your touch, and the feeling of your hand slowly moving down his body felt incredible.

He broke the kiss, his breathing heavy and he was becoming more desperate. He pressed his body against yours, wanting to feel as much skin on skin contact as possible.

Your hand was quick to reach his dick, stocking it from the tip. He gasped and his eyes shut closed tightly. He leaned forwards, letting his head fall into the crook of your neck and he let out a soft moan.

Stephen couldn’t help it. Just the simple touch of your hand made him so worked up. It was overwhelming him, in the best way possible.

He took a shaky breath and spoke against your neck. “Please..”

Stephen’s voice was soft and needy in your ear. He slowly began to press kisses into your neck, his lips gently brushing over your wet skin. His voice was desperate as he spoke.

“Need more, please. please.”

"Like that?" You asked teasingly as your hand moved in a faster motion around his length. He whimpered and nodded, his body pressing further against yours. His hand clutched onto the shower wall, trying to keep his knees from giving out. The feeling of your hand on him was overwhelming and he wanted so much more.

“Yes, please don’t stop."

His voice was almost a whine at this point and he couldn’t handle the sensations. It was almost too much, but it didn’t take much to push him completely over the edge. The sensation in his lower stomach rose. Under all his mess, you could feel yourself heated up as your pussy clenched over nothing.

Stephen pulled his head back so he could look at you, his eyes were dark and pleading. Soft tears were forming in the bridge of his eyes, hidden by the water of the shower.

“Baby… more, please. I’m begging..”

He couldn’t form proper sentences and that’s when you knew you had to let go. Your hand stopped their motion as you watched him get the orgasm he craved so badly denied.

He whined at the sudden loss of stimulation, his grip on the shower wall tightening as his legs trembled. He whimpered and looked at you with pleading eyes, frustrated, wanting you to continue. His grip changed to hold your waist with both his hands. He was so close, but you just had to tease him.

He was so frustrated and worked up that he couldn’t think straight. It took a moment for him to get coherent sentences out as his chest rose up and down.

“Why’d you stop? I was so close. I was almost there, you know I was..”

You cupped his cheeks with your fingers, gently passing over his lips easily folding his mouth open. "Don’t you rather cum in me than on my hand, sweet boy?"

The words went straight to his brain sending him in heaven, the thought making him moan and shudder.

“I... I do, yes I do..” He mumbled, his knees still feeling weak from the stimulation and the lack of it.

“Please, can I..?” He asked, grabbing your hip and tugging you closer to him.

He let out a shaky breath as you spoke into his ear, his entire body being sent into overdrive. Your words and gentle kisses on his jaw drove him crazy.

"Make it up for our anniversary." You whispered in his ear giving his jawline a few kisses.

At your words, he grabbed your hips and positioned himself between your legs. He wanted to do anything and everything to make up forgetting your anniversary.

Stephen leaned down and pressed his forehead on your shoulder, trying to compose himself enough to speak. He slowly pushed himself into you, letting out a low moan as he did. You could practically feel his tension in the air, he needed you so badly.

He held onto your hips and leaned against you, unable to form words in his blissed out state. The feeling of you around him was intense and overwhelming, and his mind was hazy.

He began to slowly move his dick in you. His body was taking over his brain, his focus entirely on you and the sensations. He was trying to move at a slow pace, but he was so worked up it was hard to keep a rhythm going.

He groaned against you, his breaths coming out in soft pants. He couldn’t never get bored of you clenching around him and he didn’t know how he was going to hold it together any longer.

“Please... I can’t… too good...” he whined in between breaths.

"You’re doing so well Steve." You moved with him, your hips meeting his pace, even faster. Your hands were still in his curls as you pulled his face to yours, kissing him in an angry kiss.

The praise and feeling of your kiss had him moaning against your lips as he tried to maintain any semblance of speed in his movement. Each time he moved was bringing him closer and closer to the edge, orgasm building within him again. He felt like he was going to explode.

As he kissed you back, he moved his hand to the back of your hips and held you against him. He groaned as he spoke, his voice shaky and breathless.

“I’m so close...” He mumbled against your lips, his breaths coming out in short stutters. You could sence it by the way his cock twitched on your walls.

He knew he wasn’t going to last much longer, the feeling was too intense and he was already so worked up before. His body was begging him to let go.

"Just keep it in for me alright? Don’t let go before I tell you." You asked, wanting to tease him to the end and to get your release as well.

He bit his lip in an effort to hold back a whine at your words and the fact that you were still teasing him. He knew you had a plan to get your orgasm, and he was desperate for his own, but he wanted to please you as much as possible. After all it was his fault if you were mad.

“I’ll try.. I’ll try to hold it for you… please"

He was on the edge of being overwhelmed, the need to release and let go nearly drowning him. Feeling you around him and listening to you speak, the knot was very close to cracking.

He needed you to give him some sort of permission, something to let him know he was allowed to finally let go. You felt yourself getting closer as well, but his pace getting sloppier didn’t help so you trusted harder again.

"Not till I tell you." You repeated.

He let out another whine at your words, feeling himself becoming unraveled. Trying to hold back from letting himself go and give him what he wanted so badly was torture.

“I need to.. I’m not… I’m not going to be able to… please…" He managed to get out, his words a jumbled mess. You were right on edge by seeing the state he was getting in, the show he was putting for you. He may have missed your special date, that was a good gift.

"Go on."

As soon as the words were out of your mouth, he lost all control. He came with a guttural moan, his body shaking and he clung onto you, his breaths coming out in short gasps.

Stephen couldn’t think or do anything except hold onto you and try to get his bearings. He pressed his forehead against your shoulder, still trembling from his orgasm.

His arms wrapped around your waist in a tight grip, holding you against him. He was panting and trying to get his breathing back to normal which would probably take a while. It took several moments for him to speak, his mind still swimming.

“That.. that was… holy…”

You let go of his grip, leaving the shower to grab a towel and wrap yourself in it. Before leaving him all alone again, you whispered just loud enough so he would hear it.

"Happy anniversary."

#stephen glass smut #fred’s one shot #stephen glass #anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker #hayden christensen smut #hayden christensen #sam monroe smut #fredswrite #anakin smut

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sourscheming · 2 months ago

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Why the Tacomic scene in II 2 17 isnt as bad as some of you are making it out to be

II 2 17 SPOILERS BELOW!!

ive seen many people say they absolutely despise the tacomic scene in ii 2 17 due to many reasons. mainly being that the scene felt too rushed or that microphone was heavily out of character.

and while i can agree with these claims when looking at this scene from a first glance, ive realized this scene requires a lot more additional context and reflection to fully understand, using tiny bits and pieces left for us. and its my job to help glue them up! hope you enjoy my rambling :)

Arguement 1: Mic is very OOC

when first looking at this scene i can agree that yes microphone is very out of character. her acting so nonchalant, just playing off tacos actions. but let me tell you why shes not as ooc as some of you might think. first: a tweet from brian

“mic had always had a tendency to let taco off the hook” and this is very true! she will always try and play off taco’s actions due to how much she cares about her. and. with this being a life or death situation, she really didnt want to make a mountain out of a molehill and potentially die without any closure with taco. her playing off tacos actions might feel like its ooc, but it makes so much more sense whennyou consider their history and the fact thst in someways microphone still yearns and loves taco. she yearns for taco a 7/10 it used to be higher!! (source: brians streams) she still really loves taco despite everything.

i know what pissed many people off was microphone acting so… natural. she wasnt mad or anything. she was just so chill about it all when she shouldve been mad, right? i definitely agree with that, but most people seem to be forgetting this line

(nice callback to this scene btw)

but back to the point; mic hears everything. microphone always knew taco was in the hotel because she heard her. and doing this she had time to reflect and gather her thoughts so she wasn’t screaming at taco or getting mad irrationally. and keep in mind microphone most likely heard taco crying and screaming about pickle dying, i dont think she wanted to push her to do that again. hearing taco, the one who presented herself to be so strong and evil, just sobbing her heart out mustve been terrifying.

now i also wanted to bring up this:

microphone knows about the events of episode 15 and was most likely told taco died and why. she knows taco can die due to heavy emotional distress. acting angry and irrational and not sitting down to talk about wouldve stressed her out more and they couldve potentially lost her too. the reason why shes so chill about isnt because shes not upset about everything, it was because if she was, she risked the chance of loosing taco.

another tweet from brian to show microhone doesnt forgive taco yet, but she definitely woud in the future if taco proved herself:

and again it may not look like this in the episode, but microphones nonchalant attitude comes with a lot of jabs at taco, showing that she doesnt truly forgive her. plus, microphone never utters the words “i forgive you” once.

but the reason why shes able to move on so easily is because of how well she knows taco. taco had always struggled with apologizing, as seen in episode 13. she’s almost never used the word sorry consciously.

microphone had always been a big softie for taco being at least a bit sincere, so imagine how she felt when taco went fully sincere. and she knew she couldn’t just hug her and say i forgive you on a whim, so she sorta had to play it off to keep everything on track.

and this scene is so. impactful because of just what it represents. microphone had always been about “doing the right thing” and taco begrudgingly respected her wishes. but to see taco DOING the right thing mustve been such a turning point for microphone. shown her that taco CAN change, that she wants to. it solidifies that the care that microphone had wasnt one sided, taco LEARNED something from her. shes learning how to be better. shes trying because she wants to be with microphone. i think thats what really strikes a chord, she gained something, a friend.

Arguement 2: The scene felt really rushed

oh i definitely agreed with this at first. this segment will be much shorter because it’s basically hammering into your head that HEY they were in a LIFE OR DEATH SITUATION!!!

microphone needed to quickly rush taco out in order to keep her safe, they needed to do it quickly so they wouldnt die. again, mic wouldve reached out sooner but the situation was so stressful she only did it now. taco probably wouldve died if she didnt come out, and they all knew the onpy way they could pry her out was with someone she cared about.

do i wish they got 5 more minutes to talk? fuck yes, but also keep in mind they barely had time to do anything, so much was happening all at once they had to shoehorn something in. and with the points i listed earlier again, this was probably the best they could do due to circumstance.

CLOSING THOUGHTS

overall, while i do think this scene was rushed, theres still beauty to be had with it. its still really impactful when reflecting on it and i dont think it devalues the tacomic arc as much as some of you make it out to.

i wish there was more to this scene but i think what we got was pretty substantial especially considering everything that happened in ii 2 17.

they both still care for eachother, they both loved eachother so much, that they were able to put their grievances aside so they could spend their final moments together.

thanks for reading <3

#microphone ii #ii microphone #tacomic #taco ii #ii taco #ii 2 17 spoilers #ii spoilers

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aurianavaloria · 5 months ago

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KoH - To Rival Eden (Baldwin IV x Reader)

Fandom: Kingdom of Heaven

Pairing: Baldwin IV x Fem!Reader

PoV: Split (Baldwin - Fem!Reader)

Length: Short (<4k words)

TW: Vague mentions of leprosy

A/N: Well, here we have it, the much-anticipated sequel to "What Good May Come"! I took your feedback into account regarding Y/N's preferences, as well as circumstances and relationships, and created another chapter in this little romance. As in the previous story, I've done my best to keep Y/N as generic as possible with a personality that seemed to fit what is currently popular. I hope you enjoy it as much as the first, and once again, thank you all for being awesome! 🤗

Baldwin could hardly believe his good fortune.

Tiberias had spoken truth: she loved him.

He hadn’t slept a wink that night after she left his chambers. Had barely paid attention to his physicians’ work as he’d given his failing body to their care for the hundred-thousandth time in his short life. Whilst his mortal shell continued its slow and endless march towards inevitable disintegration, his heart and mind were soaring above the clouds, his spirit filled with a fire he hadn’t felt in years.

Lady Y/N loved him.

He lay in his bed, eyes staring up into the canopy’s shadows, yet unseeing of anything that was actually there. Instead, he saw her sitting before him as she had that evening, the smile dancing across her lips, the color in her cheek…

Thus lost in his thoughts, all he had to do was close his eyes to still feel her warmth in his arms, the touch of her hand upon his own… still smell the sweet perfume that cloaked her in its allure. Even as his fears screamed at him that every moment he spent near her was a risk he was selfish to take, that the poison coursing through his veins could destroy her like some fetid rot devouring a perfect flower, all he desired was to hold her again… to imagine what her hair would feel like slipping between his silk-gloved fingers…

These visions of her swirled in his mind all night long and into the next week, until he thought he might go mad with them. He had never thought much of the songs of the troubadours before, dismissing their melodramatic lyrics as nothing more than mere fantasy.

But now he had tasted that very pain of love of which they sang, and he knew they were right.

Love was insanity.

Unfortunately, it was an insanity he had to endure through nearly a week’s worth of increasingly-numerous duties that forbade his interaction with anyone other than his advisors and court petitioners. Conversation on such matters proved his only respite, for when he was finally left alone once more, she haunted the depths of his mind.

And as his quill slowly glided through the practiced motions of his signature upon his latest letter, his aching heart wondered if he haunted hers the same way…

He hoped and prayed she had not taken offense to his exclusion of visitors outside his immediate council. It was all such ill-timing, and yet the administration of his kingdom could not wait for courtship. He could not afford the distraction of anyone else’s presence amidst such delicate matters, and there were some things that he refused to delegate to others.

That he could not trust to others.

The thoughts of sharing those tasks with a queen he truly loved and adored above all else, however…

Plunk!

He abruptly sat back in his chair, squeezing his eyes shut.

That was it. It was time for some fresh air.

Rising slowly to his feet, he reached for his hooded cloak where it hung nearby. Without even being asked, his servant Ihsan wordlessly appeared from the shadows to help him don it, moving with quiet grace.

“Shall I accompany His Majesty?” the Christian Syrian asked, aiding Baldwin in pulling the hood over his head. Jerusalem’s sun was bright today, and harsh on the ill king’s eyes.

“No, I shall walk alone, I think.”

“As you wish, sire.”

And loyal Ihsan melted into those shadows once more, as quickly as he had emerged.

With that, Baldwin began making his way to the palace gardens, keeping his pace measured as he followed the long halls, close to the wall should he need it for support. Alas, his numbed foot would allow for nothing else. Yet, even so, he didn’t wish for this stroll to be a hurried one, crammed in between the endless sessions of his work. He needed time to center himself – to clear his mind and ease his heart.

His hood low over his mask, he still squinted against the sun as he emerged into the palace gardens. The strength of its rays had only seemed to intensify in recent years, even as their warmth had faded; his body hardly felt it, now, beaming down upon him, as if he had already hovered between the land of the living and the dead. But his eyes most certainly did, and he kept his head dipped low, his mask half-shadowed by the hood of his cloak.

Anyone else who had chosen to wander the gardens the same as he soon found themselves departing, as usual. The king was instantly recognizable, even cloaked like this, his presence garnering immediate notice by his courtiers. Their dread of his disease they always attempted to cover with pretense – the courtesy of yielding the space to their liege-lord as they offered deep bows and curtseys. Yet they always slipped away with the hiss of whispers swirling in their wake…

His lips twisted in amusement at the thought that his experience behind a mask had made it easier to see past theirs.

Thus, he largely ignored them as they bestowed upon him their customary greetings, their well-rehearsed gestures of obeisance. And the answers he gave in reply were just as superficial. They deserved nothing more. Little by little, they left as he slowly made his way along those meandering paths, bordered by every plant native to these lands, flowering or not…

All but one.

At the end of one of the paths, perched upon a bench before a towering hedge, was Lady Y/N.

She sat with a small book open in her lap, her garb a simple green bliaut with a matching embroidered belt. A brilliant white veil over her hair, pinned to the barbette that looped beneath her chin, shielded her downturned face from the sun. Even from this angle, he could see the slight smile that played across her lips, and he felt his own mimic the expression beneath his mask.

The sight of her thus made him pause his stride, and he considered backtracking to the previous fork in the path and leaving her to her peace. Yet another part of him desired nothing more than to speak to her – to self-indulgently converse, even if only briefly, with this sweet angel of a woman he’d neglected for the sake of his divinely-mandated duty.

What resulted then, was an indecisive hovering, a prolonged pause at the bells of the lovely flowers that brushed his silken sleeve – blossoms whose aroma was now all but lost to his dulled senses. But none of the velvet-petaled jewels gracing this paradise of a garden now compared to the one he could not tear his eyes from, yet hadn’t the heart to approach…

================

Jerusalem’s palace garden was a sanctuary as peaceful as the cloister of any church you’d seen and perhaps twice as beautiful. The open air was filled with the scent of the exotic flowers that had been meticulously cultivated there, surrounding visitors in an alluring embrace. The cool shade beneath the towering hedgerows and elegant palms had been too tempting to resist, and, with a new book of poetry in hand, you’d made a beeline for an empty bench in the farthest shadowed nook you could find.

Gardens such as these were haunts for lovers, or so you’d been told. Some had even been designed in such a manner that encouraged clandestine trysts – a convenient niche here, a cleverly-planted bush there…

Alas, there were no such surreptitious visits in your near future. No, you’d merely come to the gardens this day for some fresh air and relative peace and quiet.

It was with great eagerness that you had rushed to the bench, sweeping your skirts beneath you and opening the book upon your lap. It was a loan, in fact, from Sibylla; the princess had been spending more time with you in the past week, indulging in light conversation mostly revolving around scholarly interests and pastimes. During the course of one of these discussions, she mentioned having received a few books from France and, quite unexpectedly, asked if you would like to borrow one of them.

Such a generous offer had been impossible to refuse, and your eyes had lit up as the princess passed you the small, leather-bound book of poetry, which you handled with utmost care.

The plan was to spend an upcoming evening sharing what the two of you had enjoyed most about the tomes over refreshments.

It was something you rather looked forward to.

Now, you were fully immersed in the book, your eyes drinking in the copyist’s hand as it swirled across the delicate vellum pages; it was a work of art in and of itself, to say nothing of the words it held within. So engrossed were you that, for a long moment, you failed to notice you were being watched…

But then, suddenly, a slight movement from the periphery of your vision caused you to glance up, and for a brief second, you thought you saw an angel. You quickly realized, however, that it was not.

The awestruck smile that tugged at your lips was perhaps a bit uncouth, but you couldn’t help it. Angel he was not, and yet the king was still radiant enough that you wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see a pair of wings upon his back or a fiery halo ringing his head. The hooded cloak he wore, trimmed in gold, was such a blinding white in the midday sun that it almost blurred his outline, and the half-concealed silver mask with its perfectly-chiseled countenance could easily be mistaken for the face of a saint…

“Your Majesty!”

On reflex, you stood, abandoning the book on the bench before starting to dip into a curtsey, but the upwards flash of his gloved hand stopped you mid-movement.

“I require no epithets or courtesies from you, Lady Y/N,” he replied as he wandered down the path towards you. “I should hope that I may abandon such performance in your presence.”

The warmth in his voice heated your cheeks. “Very well… Baldwin.” This was only the second time you’d dared to speak his name without a title preceding it, and it felt oddly right on your tongue. “If that is the case, then I must also insist that I am simply Y/N.”

His hooded head dipped. “Of course. Y/N.”

Something about the way he said your name made your heart flutter, and you glanced away briefly even as you sidled nearer to him. “It is good to see you again. Baldwin. You are well, I hope?”

“I am now,” he replied softly. Now you could look up into his silver-clad face and see the glitter of his eyes beneath the shadow of his hood. In their impossibly-blue gaze you found a softness that belied the sharpness of their hue.

“I… missed you,” you breathed at last, your voice lowering. “I must admit, I’ve worried for you. Lord Tiberias assured me all was well, but… well, you’ll forgive me for being a bit distrusting.”

A low chuckle emanated from him. “If there is anyone you may trust with his honest assessment of matters, it is Tiberias.”

A chuckle of your own escaped you in response to his jesting remark before he continued in a far more serious tone, “I must offer you my sincerest apologies, Y/N – here you’ve given me the most beautiful gift anyone has ever bestowed upon me, and I’ve done nothing but neglect you in return. Already, I fear I must seem a poor partner in courtship.”

Your mouth opened a little in shock at that. “Absolutely nothing of the sort! I understand you are busy. I know you wouldn’t have isolated yourself like this otherwise.” A light smile played upon your lips as you met his eyes again. “I’m just glad to see you again now.”

It was then you reached forth, brushing his nearest forearm lightly in reassurance. The damask silk of his sleeve was so very soft and smooth beneath your fingertips. And warm. Though from his body heat or the sun, it was difficult to tell…

Suddenly, another movement out of the corner of your eye had you glancing past the king at a visitor on the garden path: a small tabby cat – silver with stripes of black – trotting along the hedgerow towards you.

“Oh, look!”

You pointed, and Baldwin half-turned to follow your gesture, another quiet chuckle following once he realized what had caught your attention. “Ah, a palace mouser, I see. Either that or a street cat has managed to breach the walls.”

His choice of words elicited a light laugh from you. “Perhaps he is a scout, then. Come to assess our defenses.”

The two of you watched as the cat slowed a few paces away, looking up at the both of you.

“Mrow?”

It was a questioning little sound the tomcat made as he hunkered close, sniffing first at the toe of Baldwin’s shoe before doing the same at the hem of your skirt. For a moment he merely stood there, his banded tail a waving S in the air as he continued to take in king and lady with shining green eyes.

“Mrrp.”

A quiet trill followed as the cat proceeded to bump up against your shin, tail curling about as he wound his way behind you before bumping against Baldwin’s calf in the same manner. He paused, staring upwards, and then he repeated the pattern, his path creating an infinity knot around both your feet.

“Aww, I think the darling wants attention,” you cooed, bending at the waist towards the little feline as you held out your hand. You were rewarded with another bump up against your palm, whereupon you happily scratched behind the cat’s ears, a grin plastered to your face.

“I would greet him as he wishes,” Baldwin remarked beside you, “but I fear I’d lose balance and keep going.”

You glanced up at him. “Well… we can’t have His Majesty tumbling face-first into the roses, can we?”

“No, I do believe that would tarnish my reputation for being upright.”

A snort escaped you at that. Baldwin’s sense of humor never ceased to amaze you – that he could find humor at all amidst his terrible suffering was a testament to his fortitude.

Confident that the cat was comfortable with you, you then reached for him, moving to pick him up, which he allowed with surprising ease. Palace mouser indeed, and obviously used to human company; you were certain no street cat would allow such familiar handling so soon…

“Oh, look, he has little gloves, like you.”

Your observation of the cat’s stark white mittens, curled as they were overtop your arm, had Baldwin chuckling lightly once more, and he nodded in reply, his own gloved hand slowly approaching. “So he does. Alas, I fear his bear weapons mine do not.”

He paused long enough for the cat to sniff again at his fingers – which he did – before gently stroking the top of the creature’s head between his ears. Almost immediately, a rumbling purr emanated from the feline’s throat, his eyes half-closing. Despite the near tentativeness of Baldwin’s movements, the cat seemed quite satisfied with the attention, though a part of you wondered how much the king himself gleaned from it…

“Can you feel that?” you heard yourself ask.

“Barely,” was the quiet reply, a lengthy pause following before he withdrew and added, “I relish moments like these while I can. There will come a day when I shall feel nothing with these diseased hands, glove or not.”

His words shot like an arrow straight to your heart. As much as you both tried to ignore it, to look past it, the truth of the matter was that Baldwin was slowly being eaten alive from the inside out, and it was only a matter of time before it utterly consumed him. Just this simple encounter with a sweet palace cat was enough to bring reality crashing down around both your ears.

And you hated it.

Swallowing, you cleared your throat and then bent to set the curious feline back on his feet. “Let’s let our intrepid little friend here continue on his way now, to do the noble work his kind has been mandated to do, yes?”

Once released, you gave the cat one final pat on his head and he was off, trotting away down the path before promptly disappearing under a bush.

“Y/N?”

The softness of your name upon Baldwin’s lips suddenly brought your attention back to him, and then there was his hand on your cheek, cupping your face gently as his eyes searched yours. You could feel the concern in their depths, his gaze probing your own for answers. No doubt he sensed the shift in your mood – you never had been the best at keeping your emotions hidden…

“I wish I could do more for you,” you whispered before he could ask. “I wish I could… I wish…”

There were so many things that you wished. You wished for him to be healthy again. You wished you could lift the many burdens from his shoulders. You wished you could rid his court of the treacherous vultures just waiting for his final breath to tear apart the corpse of his dream. You wished you could send his enemies running for their lives beyond the desert sands. Alas, you could do none of that.

But you could do this…

Without a word, you swiftly closed what gap was left between you, wrapping your arms around him in a tight embrace.

Instantly, he stiffened, his hands clamping to your shoulders on reflex, their grip tighter than you anticipated.

“Y/N…”

“Hush!” you hissed, interrupting any warning he felt impelled to give you. “Let me do this… let me do it, and let yourself have it!”

You could feel him tremble in your arms, his breathing uneven. For a harrowing moment, he was naught but a statue, indecisive – no-doubt waging a war in his own mind, if you knew him by now as well as you thought you did…

Whichever side flew the banners of Propriety and Precaution, though, evidently lost the battle, as a shaky sigh escaped him at last, a quivering hiss of breath between the lips of his mask.

“God forgive me.”

And then, in a move that made your heart flutter wildly again, his own arms slid around you, pulling you into him and shrouding you in sun-soaked silk. The pungent scent of herbal salves alongside crisp linen followed, piercing past the exotic fragrances of the garden flowers, although you detected the distinct note of roses rising amidst it all – perhaps from the oils the physicians applied to soothe his ravaged flesh. He cocooned you in this warmth, the hardness of his mask as it rested atop of your head a sharp contrast to the softness of the rest of him. And thus he held you tight, tighter than you had expected him to, your ear pressed to his chest where you heard the quickened thumping of his heart.

For one blessed moment, nothing else existed. Perhaps he was an angel after all, just awaiting the wings set aside for him in Heaven. For here he held you in earthly Paradise amidst a garden to rival Eden, shining bright as the light of the sun that enveloped you both in its purifying rays, and you knew peace…

You heard the raggedness in his breath, however. The unsteadiness of his hold. Pulling back from him, you promptly swept his hands up in your own, tugging him towards the bench. “Come. Sit. Stay with me a while and forget your troubles, if only for a few moments. If you can spare them, at least.”

His regard held an almost painful tenderness as it met yours, his voice dropping to a silken timbre. “That and more, should you but ask.”

Your eyes never left his, then, as you led him with ease to your chosen perch. Scooping up Sibylla’s book, you made room for him to sit beside you there, and as he slowly settled himself, letting out what sounded like a sigh of relief, you were keenly aware that your legs were touching, hip to knee…

“Do you like poetry?” you inquired, choosing to ignore how your heart continued to race a little at his continued close proximity.

He glanced sideways, his eyes flicking downwards towards the book in your lap. “As much as the next person, I suppose. Is that a new acquisition?”

You grinned up at him. “Princess Sibylla loaned it to me, actually. We’re planning on discussing it in a few days.”

He nodded slowly at that, seeming to approve. “My sister is in need of good company. I am glad to hear you are getting along well with her.”

“She terrified me at first,” you admitted with a laugh. “But I think she truly wishes for us to be friends.”

Baldwin’s gaze leveled at you behind the mask. “And you were not terrified of me?”

The question was a soft one, wavering slightly, though from recent exertion or emotion, you couldn’t quite tell.

A gentle smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Never.”

For a long moment, his eyes searched yours, and you couldn’t help but let them. Their color, their shape, their intensity… they were so beautifully expressive that it didn’t matter that his mask concealed everything else. When they looked at you, you were almost certain you could feel what he felt in your own heart. And what you felt now was more warmth. This time, though, it blossomed from within as those eyes relaxed into a half-lidded stare that was so much like that of the cat you’d just found…

Aware of the blush heating your cheeks at such a look, you finally tore your gaze from his and cleared your throat. “Would you like to hear a bit of this? It’s rather good…”

“Yes, I very much would,” he answered, his tone an almost distant one.

With that, you opened the book where you left off, taking a breath before beginning to read aloud. You hoped he didn’t mind romances, as that was precisely what this one was – a chivalric tale of doomed love…

Any self-consciousness you possessed about the contents was banished, however, the moment you felt his hand curl around your waist.

It was so light a touch it barely registered at first. But then you saw the flash of white out of the corner of your eye, bright upon the green of your gown. Felt the slight weight of that hand upon the curve of your waist. Almost instinctively, you leaned into him in response, and his grip tightened a little.

“I am not hurting you, am I?” you asked quietly, concerned about the effects of any weight against his fragile flesh.

“You could never hurt me,” he replied in a whisper.

And that was the moment you felt his head rest against yours as you continued to read.

Thank you all very much for reading! 😊I hope you enjoyed! ✨ And if you have any other ideas for Y/N, I'd love to hear them!

#kingdom of heaven #kingdom of heaven 2005 #kingdom of heaven fandom #king baldwin iv #baldwin iv #koh fandom #baldwin iv of jerusalem #the leper king #fanfiction #reader insert #baldwin iv x reader #king baldwin iv x reader #fem reader #my fanfiction

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percivaljacksons · 2 months ago

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hi ive decided to stop taking myself so seriously -- when i finish this it'll go on ao3 as a oneshot, but this is what ive got so far of angsty divers au (no it still does not have a title). rated somewhere between t and m. can i get a hell yeah in the chat? um have fun lol.

NYT: A lot of headlines have already declared this as the discovery of the century—one even as the discovery of the millenia. Did you envision such a momentous breakthrough in your career?

PJ: Uh, no. I didn’t think I was gonna graduate high school. You can laugh, dude, but I’m not joking. This has all been one crazy ride. My life changed forever the moment I met Annabeth Chase.

What Annabeth remembers, during the nights she tries not to:

The cold. The blackness so thick they might as well have been diving in ink. Percy’s mouthpiece, warm when he pressed it to her lips every twelve seconds. She’d breathe in, then tap his wrist twice, and it would disappear once more.

They’ve always been good at nonverbal communication. A twitch of an eyebrow here, a sideways glance there. She knows when he’s rolling his eyes without having to look. He always manages to pass her a tissue right before she sneezes.

Annabeth wonders if they’ll ever get out from beneath what they said to each other, down in the Pit, where neither of them could utter a single word.

The phone rings five times, tinny and faint in Annabeth’s ear as she waits. She’s breathing hard, her hair still dripping and her suit peeled down to her waist, a pair of sunglasses her only real protection against the late afternoon Mediterranean sun.

The ringing cuts off, and a groggy voice says, “yeah?”

Annabeth glances down at her watch. “Percy?” She asks.

There’s a beat. When the voice speaks again, it’s perfectly awake. “Annabeth?”

“Yeah. Sorry, I…I thought you’d be awake by now.”

“I’m in San Diego.”

“Oh.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m—I’m fine. Good, I’m good. Are you?”

“Yeah.” His voice is quiet, almost wistful. “Why the new phone number?”

“It’s temporary. I’m in Greece.” She listens to him breathe, feels her own heart settle.

“Greece,” he repeats.

Her thumb smooths over the shard of pottery in her hand. “Yeah. How soon can you get here?”

“To Greece? Shit, Annabeth, I don’t—”

“I found it,” she says. A glance over her shoulder tells her that her two grad students are laughing as they organize her gear and not paying attention to her at all, but she lowers her voice anyway. “I saw it, Percy. It’s real.” She breathes in, then out. The boat rocks under her. “I found it,” she repeats.

Static crackles in her ear. “I’ll be there in 24 hours,” Percy says.

They’d gone down together, which was stupid. So much of it was stupid with even a few hours of hindsight. No one coming down after them, thinking they knew the cave too well to get lost, believing that doing everything right meant that they were safe.

Stupid.

The light clipped onto her suit only illuminated about a twelve inches past her flippers. She could see the walls on either side, the familiar steadily making way for the unfamiliar as they descended to the section only Percy had explored.

Percy’s flipper tapped her head. He was reminding her to stop and equalize her ear pressure, so she did. He was more experienced diving in salt water. It saved her life, in the end—she had her nose pinched and her mouth firmly closed when she got slammed into the wall regulator yoke first.

The straps on her chest jerked from the release of pressure, but it was the feeling of the bubbles rapidly flowing up her that let her know she was really, truly fucked.

It’s been six months since the Pit, and three since they last saw each other in person. Annabeth thought he was in New York, Percy probably thought she was—well, Annabeth doesn’t actually know. Probably not where she’s been.

She’s been in Sicily and Ostia and around sixteen different Greek and Turkish islands. She hasn’t stayed in one place long enough for her mind to settle, has managed to outrun every shadow that clung to her pumping heels, only now her throat burns and her muscles ache and Percy meets her at the arrivals gate in Athens with a fresh tan and an unsure smile and Annabeth is all too aware that her months of avoidance have come to an end.

Percy comes to a stop a foot or so away from her, tantalizingly close. Within arm’s reach. “Hey,” he says.

His hair is long enough that he needs a band to keep his bangs out of his eyes. She recognizes it—it’s the same one she’d used to keep her own hair from falling in her face when it started to grow back after she’d chopped it five and a half months ago. The duffel bag thrown over his shoulder is also hers, and so is the necklace peeking out from beneath his collar.

Annabeth hugs him because she wants to kiss him. “Hi,” she responds.

The duffel bag hits the floor. His arms wrap around her, fierce and firm, and she buries her face in the warm skin of his neck. Stubble scratches against her cheek; Annabeth breathes easy for the first time in something like twelve weeks.

“I thought you might send one of your grad students,” he says. His arms stay locked around her.

“You got on the first flight you could,” Annabeth responds, her voice muffled. “Least I could do was meet you halfway.”

His fingertips press the tiniest bit harder into her spine. “Thanks,” he whispers into her hair.

Annabeth’s own necklace digs into her jaw. I’ve missed you, she says with the nudge of her nose against his pulse.

He rocks them back and forth, just barely. I’ve missed you, too, he responds with the graze of his palms over her back.

Annabeth takes a breath, takes in the unchanged feeling coursing through her blood, and finally manages to take a step back. “You ready?” She asks.

Percy’s smile is dazzling. “You bet your bippy I am.”

Annabeth leads him to her rental with loosely linked fingers, her steps so light she’s half convinced she could walk right over the Mediterranean itself.

The last time they saw each other—the last time she saw him—it had been in the artificial brightness of their living room. Annabeth hadn’t slept in days, Percy hardly ever looked her in the eye, and neither of them could muster the strength to turn off even their tiniest, most ineffective lamp.

No matter how many times Annabeth took deep breaths, she was still gasping for air.

Percy would turn on the shower and stare at the water hitting the other side of the curtain, the bathroom door firmly shut, and then turn the faucet off again without ever stepping in.

They curled up together every night, their bedroom lit up like a department store, her fingertips leaving bruises in his hips and shoulders, and if they were lucky sometimes one of them could fall asleep.

Annabeth left New York. Percy didn’t follow her.

One of her grad students picks them up from the dock. They were the only passengers on the boat from the mainland, so she’s the only person waiting, leaning against a rusty pickup truck filled with scuba equipment. She’s also lazily smoking a cigarette, her bright blue hair lit up a striking cobalt by the sun.

She drops the cigarette and twists her foot over it the moment she sees them approach. “Doctor,” she greets with a grin that’s a little too innocent.

Annabeth glares at her. “Pick that up. We’re not here to litter.”

The grad student sticks a hand out to shake Percy’s. “Hey, I’m Lucy. You the pottery guy?”

“I leave for one day and your hair is blue,” Annabeth mutters, taking the duffel bag from Percy’s shoulder and tossing it into the back. “If you’ve been smoking in the truck…”

Lucy rolls her eyes. “No, Mom, I haven’t been smoking in the truck. My hair’s blue because Mitchell won our bet, don’t worry about it. I didn’t even stain the towels.”

“I like it,” Percy says.

“See?” Lucy says. She bends down and picks up her cigarette butt when Annabeth keeps glaring. “The pottery guy gets it.”

“Um—” Percy tries to say.

“This is Percy,” Annabeth explains. “He’s not a pottery guy.”

“When’s the pottery guy getting here, then?”

Annabeth goes around to the driver’s side and gets in the truck instead of answering. Lucy shrugs and moves the passenger seat up to slide into the rear bench, waving Percy away when he tries to get in. He sits in the front with a shrug once Lucy’s knees are out of the way, and the moment his seatbelt is buckled Annabeth tears out of the marina parking lot.

“So.” Lucy’s fingers tap along the backs of their chairs. “If you’re not a pottery guy, who are you? ‘Cuz Annabeth found a piece of pottery on her dive two days ago and took off outta here like Icarus on his way to freedom.”

It’s a weird simile, but Annabeth doesn’t respond. When Percy turns to look at her, her eyes don’t even stray from the road.

“You didn’t tell them?” He asks.

Annabeth grunts. Percy keeps staring at her, wondering which question he should answer, and eventually says to Lucy, “Annabeth and I…” He sighs. “Well, we go way back. How long have you been her student?”

“A few months,” Lucy says.

Percy smiles and turns to look out the window. They’re along the coast now, and the ocean is blue like a jolly rancher. “She doesn’t need a pottery guy,” he says.

Lucy raises her eyebrows. She looks at Percy, then at Annabeth, then back to Percy again. “Totally explains everything,” she says, and the rest of the drive passes in silence.

For weeks after the Pit, Annabeth was on the edge of a panic attack whenever she couldn’t feel Percy beside her. She knew why, logically. The therapist explained it, and everyone was so goddamn understanding. Grover, and Sally, and Piper, and Nico, and Clarisse.

Even her mother, under the thick layer of I-told-you-so that she didn’t bother to try and hide.

What can you say, when your head finally has broken free of the water? When all light is blinding, when you can’t get rid of the taste of salt on your lips?

What can you say to the person who pulled you back to life, when you’re the only reason his soul grazed the razor edge of death in the first place?

“Why are the vibes, like, literally rancid?” Mitchell mutters, loading the extra gear his advisor always insists on bringing onto the boat.

“Girl, if I knew,” Lucy responds, shaking her head.

“You could help, you know.”

“I picked them up from the dock! No, don’t put the yoke by the O2—”

“You do it, then!”

“Fine.”

She joins him, loading in silence. After a minute:

“$5 they’ve boned.”

“You’re so on.”

They put their gear on together, her reaching out to zip him up without prompting and him holding her tank steady so she can slide her arms through the straps. They don’t have to look at each other to do it, so they don’t.

Annabeth only glances over once they’re finished. His eyes are hidden behind his diving mask, and Annabeth’s heart migrates to her throat.

The last time she’d seen him like that had been—

“Ready?” She asks.

Percy nods. She goes in first, and he follows.

He’s still following, even now. But that’s Percy.

From above the surface, it looks like a rock. A big rock, sure, but not dissimilar from the jutting stones that surround a lot of the Mediterranean, the jagged edges that contrast the white sand beaches. That’s been her main research tactic, recently—where do the tourists avoid? What stone has been left unturned, what looks so innocuous from above that no one would ever suspect it was an X, marking a very secret spot?

Under the surface, it’s a different story. Not an obvious story, but at this point Annabeth could navigate each curve and edge in her sleep. She does, on the nights she doesn’t dream of a blackness like tar.

It’s a bright enough day that sunlight streaks through the water a good twenty feet down, exposing the imposing face of stone. There isn’t an entrance, really, but there’s nooks and crannies and crevices, and Annabeth is the particular kind of crazy to have wiggled her way through every single one she could.

On instinct, she reaches down and clicks on one of her flashlights. With a confident flick of her feet, she propels herself towards the opening that started it all.

There are three flashlights clipped to the straps around her shoulders. When she had zipped up Percy’s suit, she had noticed the four he had clipped to his.

She finds the optical illusion, the uneven meeting that looks like a solid wall. If you stare at it long enough, the ripples of light coming through the water reveal it for what it is. She presses forward, and just like six months ago Percy goes where she leads.

From there, it’s memory. Through the cave system, careful and slow, even as her heart pounds. Under the archway, chipped away from the rock, a little too even to be natural. She pauses under it and taps it with one hand. Percy nods in response. He sees it. He knows.

After the archway, it’s left until the opening below, leading down to darker and colder waters. Annabeth checks her backup flashlights, braces herself, and heads down.

She doesn’t look to see if Percy follows. He either will or he won’t.

The space gets smaller, then larger, jagged edges of rock cutting into the path. This wasn’t an entrance, as far as Annabeth can tell, but it’s the only way in she’s found so far. Everything else has been long since blocked off by time. Earthquakes, rockslides, storms, erosion, all of the above. It’s proper cave diving because of it, something that Percy has infinitely more experience in.

She reaches the air pocket and pops her head out. She takes a breath of stale, cave air and waits. A faint light grows steadily brighter.

Percy’s head pops above the water. He lets his rebreather drop from his mouth.

“Holy shit,” he says. “Annabeth, this is—”

Annabeth reaches through the water and grabs onto his rebreather with her left hand. Her right hand is busy clutching her own. They’re both attached to their diving tanks, obviously, but…

His hand covers her own. “I’ve got it,” he says softly. “I’m sorry.”

Annabeth yanks her hand back. “Right,” she says. “Did you see the arch? I’m thinking 4,500, maybe earlier.”

Water drips from the low ceiling above them onto Percy’s diving mask. He doesn’t even blink.

“Plato said 9,600,” he teases.

“I know what Plato said.” Annabeth rolls her eyes. “What did he know?”

“4,000,” Percy says, shaking his head, “is neolithic settlers in Thera, precursors to the Minoans. Annabeth, that’s…that’s—”

“—the Older Peron,” she finishes. “The timing makes perfect sense, but I think there was something else. I mean, look at where we are. There were the rising sea levels during Holocene Epoch, sure, but—”

“—it was never at sea level,” Percy realizes. He gestures around them, splashing her with water. “It was already below sea level. Which is why—”

“—the rise was so devastating,” Annabeth continues, building on his enthusiasm. “They had fortifications of natural rock but—”

“—they were effectively trapped when the levels rose unexpectedly!” His voice echoes off the walls around them. “We’ve been going deeper and deeper this whole dive.”

“Probably a storm,” Annabeth says. “It was gradual, and then a big storm caught them off guard. They…they probably starved, if they didn’t drown. Those who didn’t made their way to Crete and kicked off the Bronze Age.”

The slow drip of water is the only sound between them for a long moment.

“Where’d you find the pottery?” Percy finally asks.

“Up ahead. Ten minutes, maybe.”

“Is it all submerged?”

“I don’t know,” Annabeth admits. “Maybe, maybe not. I called you as soon as I had anything concrete.”

He takes his mouthpiece out of the water and slots it between his lips. Annabeth does the same, then heads back under to show him the way. She’s so excited to show him that she can barely even feel how the water has gotten gradually colder during their dive. It had freaked her out, her first few times trying to navigate the crags of the cave.

Caves are always cold. It’s why they have wetsuits. Annabeth only wishes it wouldn’t take so goddamn long for her to warm up again once she was above the surface.

NYT: Your preliminary article talks a lot about the Holocene epoch. What does that have to you with your discovery?

PJ: Right, yeah, so that’s—we’re in that right now. That’s our current geological epoch. It’s an interglacial period equivalent to MIS 1, and started around 11,700 years ago. Basically, ‘Holocene’ is two Ancient Greek words smushed together meaning an ‘entirely new’ age. In terms of, like, humanity, it’s when all of our written history and technological revolutions have happened. It’s all happened since the last ice age ended those 12,000 years ago. In terms of my research—which is our research, really—it’s thinking about the impact of the vast warming of the planet after the last ice age and what that might be able to tell us about pre-Minoan civilizations in the Mediterranean.

NYT: Are you talking about global warming? I think of that being a lot more recent than 12,000 years ago.

PJ: Eh. It’s kinda relative. Pretty much anything is global warming after an ice age, you know? We do split the Holocene into three main eras of slight cooling and warming, but our sweet spot is around 7,500 years ago, when the Mediterranean especially was having to deal with rapid sea level rise and colder waters. Can I be honest with you, dude?

NYT: Of course.

PJ: Everyone thought we were f****** crazy.

Later, back on the boat, Mitchell throws together some PB&Js for them to devour. The two of them eat quickly, tired from the dive, and don’t speak. Mitchell always uses a little too much peanut butter, and it sticks to the roof of Annabeth’s mouth, but that isn’t why she stays quiet.

There’s a lot between them besides the silence.

“This is everything I’ve ever wanted,” she eventually says, staring at the unassuming point of rock above the water. Just a rock that was really the cave that held the answer she’d spent her life searching for. Will they call it Chase Cave? Probably not, at this point. She’s glad. Something about that smarts—her greatest achievement marked by her father’s name.

“Is it?” Percy asks. His hair is wet, mussed up from when he yanked off his hood. There’s still a faint red oval around his eyes and nose.

She turns to face him more fully. They’ve never worn jewelry when they went in the water, and earlier she’d caught the faint tan line around the fourth finger of his left hand. He still wears it, or wore it recently enough to still have its mark.

Annabeth looks back to the rock. It’s much easier to stare at. “Almost,” she says.

NYT: Where do you go from here? Back to Berkley? Columbia? Are you staying in Greece?

PJ: Honestly… [Laughs] anywhere that offers us a tenure track. We’re open to suggestions! Our RateMyProfessor scores are through the roof, man. At this point, I’d even say yes to NYU.

“Berkley’s funding you?” Percy asks.

Annabeth nods, swallowing the mouthful of wine she’d been letting sit in her mouth. It’s easy to get lost in it—early signs of the sunset, Percy backlit by it all, wearing a loose blue shirt with the collar open so she can see his collarbones, her necklace nestled right in the middle. Missing him has been as frequent as breathing. She doesn’t quite know how to handle having him right across the table from her.

“Damn.” His mouth twists in that charming, trying-not-to-smile way. “What a coup.”

Annabeth snorts. “Right? I don’t know that she’ll ever talk to me again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Percy grabs an olive from their shared plate and pops it in his mouth. “She’s going to milk your relationship for every grant she applies for until the day she retires. Or dies.”

“Fuck.” Annabeth takes a larger sip of wine and closes her eyes. “You’re right. Goddamn it.”

“Hey, it’s been known to happen.” She opens her eyes again just in time to see the smile slip properly onto his face. “Good thing she made sure that you didn’t share any kind of name.”

Annabeth raises her wine. Percy grabs his water and follows suit, his tan-lined finger wrapping around the glass. “To Dr. Sofia Athena,” Annabeth says. “A name that has had no lasting impact on the study of archeology and the world’s shittiest mother.”

“Hear hear!”

They clink their glasses and drink.

The sun sinks below the ocean, pink orange red streaked across the sky, and below the table Percy rests the length of his leg against her own.

Percy kept waking up with bruises on his wrist, his forearm, along the edge of his ribs. She never remembered grabbing him that tightly, hadn’t roused from sleep for a moment, didn’t even know that she was capable of gripping him like that.

She kept thinking about his life before she came into it, kept thinking about his childhood and his aversion to alcohol, and kept spending her mornings throwing up bile.

He held her hair back. He kissed the space behind her ear. He took it all, right up until the day she left.

They leave the restaurant as dusk slips into evening. Everything drips blue, and they could go back to the ramshackle house Annabeth’s been renting for three weeks and go to sleep. They should, really. Tomorrow all of the difficult stuff starts, the phone calls and the grant applications and fierce defense of their life’s work.

But Percy takes a deep, sucking breath in, and his hands in his pockets. He lets it out again, a satisfied sigh, and jerks his head towards the horizon invitingly, and Annabeth already knows she’s going to agree to whatever he’s going to ask.

“What?” She asks.

“Want to go for a walk?” He asks. “It’s a beautiful night.”

He’s right. She wants to. Still, she hesitates.

“On the beach?”

“Why not? There’s a sandy bit down there.”

Annabeth can think of at least seven reasons that they really should not. Up against Percy’s relaxed posture and open expression, none of them put up a fight.

“Alright,” she agrees.

He doesn’t offer his hand, so she doesn’t take it, but when they start to walk towards the shore, their elbows brush with every other step.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Annabeth.”

Annabeth’s head snaps back. “I’m not being ridiculous,” she says.

Her mother shoots her a look, her face half obscured by her office’s desktop monitor. “You’re turning one of Plato’s metaphors into a pipe dream of a discovery. It’s not like you.”

Annabeth takes a deep, controlled breath in. “I’m not basing the entirety of my research on Plato.”

“You’ve found another source that references Atlantis?”

“Not exactly,” Annabeth admits begrudgingly. “But—”

“Annabeth.”

“Just because they don’t call it the same thing that Plato did—”

“Lower your voice, please,” her mother says, turning her focus back to her computer. She starts to type, her face impassive.

Annabeth seethes. Quietly. “The study of Stone Age civilizations always requires careful historiographical reading into the Bronze and Iron ages. Their interpretation of history is a valid course of investigation for today’s scholarship.”

Her mother sighs and closes her eyes for a brief, devastating moment. “You’re a promising archeologist, Annabeth, but…”

Always a but.

“...these caves, and the diving, well…” Her mother finally gives her undivided attention. “It’s not difficult to see where you got the idea.”

Annabeth digs the fingernails of her left hand into her palm and tries her best to keep the tears at bay. “I’m not plagiarizing research ideas.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

“This research project just happened to pop up right as you started seeing a scuba diver? That’s a sheer coincidence?”

“He’s not a—”

“Oh, he wears an anklet.”

“He’s a marine archeologist! That’s literally part of your department.”

“They’ve tacked on an adjective before the word ‘archeologist.’ Is that supposed to—”

Annabeth slams her binder down on her mother’s desk, a savage satisfaction building in her chest at finally being the one who gets to interrupt. “I’m not debating this with you,” she says, her voice filled with finality. “My research has to do with Pre-Minoan Thera and early Bronze Age art and documentation. Read it or don’t. If you don’t fund me, someone else will.”

Her mother rises from her seat in one graceful movement, her eyes dark and swirling storm clouds. Annabeth realizes that they’re the same height; she’d never noticed that before.

“Who approached you?” Her mother asks. “USC? BU?”

Annabeth lets the smile that stretches across her face be as bitter as it wants to be. “I’m a Chase,” she says. She knows it’s a twist of the knife. “Who wouldn’t fund me?”

The sand is cold between her toes. The wind off the water is warm and makes Percy’s shirt flap around and hug the contours of his torso for brief, devastating moments. Annabeth focuses on putting one foot in front of the other and not on the way this whole night has felt like a date.

“I kind of want to get in,” Percy says.

“What?”

“The water,” he clarifies. “I want to get in. Don’t you?”

Annabeth gapes at him. It’s only been three months. He went in with her earlier, even followed her into a cave, but this is different. This is a walk along the beach with their shoes in their hands and stupid small talk that hasn’t been getting at any of the things they should probably be working through.

Percy drops his flip-flops. He only has to undo one more button to be able to pull his shirt off over his head. Annabeth keeps looking—obviously—as he shucks off his pants and adds them to the pile, too.

There are little slices of pizza decorating his boxers.

There’s a tiny, innocuous breath of hesitation. Is he thinking about stripping all the way down? Is he balking now that he’s facing the might of the ocean?

In the end, he goes towards the water confidently, his boxers still on, and calls back once his ankles are submerged. “You coming?”

Annabeth slips the straps of her dress over her shoulders and lets it fall to the sand, kicking it over to join Percy’s pile of clothes. After her own moment of hesitation, she slips the chain around her neck off and wraps it around her hand, clutching the bulk of it tight in her palm. She won’t leave it on the beach, but she won’t lose it to the ocean, either.

By the time she’s up to her calves, Percy’s already dunked himself under and come back up again, hair slicked back and water dripping down his chest. He’s got a slight t-shirt tan she hadn’t noticed before.

“How far do you want to go out?” She asks him.

“We’ll freeze if we stay like this,” he says, goosebumps all along his arms with his wet torso exposed to the breeze. A tiny wave crashes right behind him and sends him staggering a foot or so. “Past the break?”

The wave hits her next, soaking through her bra and splashing salt up onto her cheeks. “Sure.”

They wade out together and dive through the next wave in perfect unison. When she comes back up, brushing the water out of her eyes, all that’s left of it are bubbles bursting against her skin. The water settles around her shoulders; when she looks over, Percy’s eyes are lined up perfectly with hers. Bending his knees, probably. Staying under the water to stay warm, or stay on her level, or some mixture of the two.

“Warmer than I thought,” Annabeth admits.

Percy smiles. She wishes the moon would rise, so she could see the emerald cut of his eyes better. “That’s almost like saying I was right.”

“Almost,” she agrees, smiling right back.

“We probably could’ve stripped all the way down. When in Rome, and all that.”

“We’re not on Naxos.” She shudders. “Never again.”

That makes him laugh, finally. “Come on, it was a cultural exchange!”

“A-bah-bah,” Annabeth tuts, raising a finger. “It’s one of the sacred three.”

Percy rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Ice water, air conditioning, and we don’t have to look at wrinkly old dudes naked. U-S-A, U-S-A.”

“And don’t forget it.”

“How could I?” He replies softly.

Annabeth resists the urge to curse. There goes their lighthearted small talk.

She dreams of Naxos. Not of the famous nude beaches or Percy laughing at her horrified expressions, but of the crisp white sheets of their hotel room and the faint red imprints of her teeth against the perfect bronze of his tan. She dreams of the purest conversations they’ve ever had, the ones they had crammed together on their Juliet balcony and the ones that passed with skin pressed close and no words spoken at all.

The dreams are always exact mirrors of memory, flawless from start to finish, loving and being loved. She never wakes up before an orgasm or before the sun had finally risen that first morning and lit up the muscles of Percy’s back like a goddamn Yuriy Petrenko painting. It’s complete contentment, morning breath and a sort of pulled hamstring halfway through, no detail lost.

But she always wakes up, and Percy’s not there, and reality feels like a nightmare.

“You’re not wearing your ring,” Percy breathes out.

“Neither are you.”

“I took it off to dive.” His head tilts, just slightly, and Annabeth’s eyes slide down his neck to her necklace. She catches the smallest glint of metal through the water and clenches her fist around her own ring, so tightly that the chain digs into the meat of her hand.

“So did I,” she says.

His mouth quirks up. “Okay.”.

“San Diego,” she starts, weirdly confident from the wine or the quiet or Percy being right in front of her again. “Did you get an—”

“I’m still on sabbatical. Staying with Tyson.” A wave laps up and covers his chin for a second. “He says hi, by the way.”

“He’s good?”

“Mhm. Trying to teach me pottery.”

Annabeth grins. “Are you any good?”

“Obviously not. It’s better than, like, baby goat yoga with Grover.”

“So that’s why you’re not in Portland.”

“Uh, that and the human baby they’re very enthusiastically trying to create. Barf.”

She splashes him in the face. “Shut up. What? Since when?”

He spits the water that got into his mouth out in a beautiful arch. “I can’t believe he told me before you! Like, a few months now. I think they maybe kept it hush-hush because…”

The waves crash against the sand. Annabeth knows what he was going to say. She can hear it in the squint of his eyelids, the exact angle tilt of his eyebrows. It’s kind of comforting—she still knows how.

“That’s amazing,” she says, her voice quiet. “He’s going to be such a good dad.”

A swell of water builds towards them, and their toes leave the sand in the same moment, the tiniest push to keep their chins above the surface.

“He accidentally synced our Google calendars,” Percy admits after a second. There’s a dangerous kind of glint in his eye, the one that Annabeth has always been a little bit in love with. “They, like, scheduled it.”

Annabeth gasps. “No.”

He nods, dunking half of his face in the process. “I know so much about Juni’s ovulation cycle that I can’t unlearn—”

“Percy!” Annabeth objects, as though she’s not laughing through it. “That’s such a violation of their privacy—”

“It’s not like I wanted to know it!” He laughs right back. “Grover apologized, like, six times. Juni called to ask if we ever did any fertility rituals. I did not need that boundary broken.”

Annabeth covers her face with one hand and ducks herself under the water. The muted sounds, the sting of the salt, the knowledge that she could reach out and touch him—she breaks the surface again. “Why would we have done a fertility ritual? We don’t have kids!”

“I think maybe she thought we’d done one to prevent it. Anti-fa, right?”

“I know you know that’s not what that is.”

His straight face breaks. “You thought it was funny, though.”

“No comment.”

“Hey, don’t be mad. I told her our sexytime is exclusively based on passion. No scheduling involved.”

Annabeth wrinkles her nose. “A good excel spreadsheet is kind of hot, though.”

“Oh my god.”

“Like, a color-coded one.” She rolls back her eyes and moans. “With tabs.”

It’s so easy to tease him, so natural to fall back into their rhythm, to turn off the filter in her brain and let the conversation go wherever it’s going to. It’s so easy to forget why they were half a world away from each other.

He splashes her this time, only she’s already laughing, eyes closed and ready for it. She hears his laughter join hers before she sees it, low and infectious.

Annabeth could stay here forever, high on her life’s mission accomplished and Percy right in front of her, both of their heads above the water, both of them laughing. She would make this second of air stretch on forever, only then she wouldn’t get what comes next.

She opens her eyes against the sting of the salt and sees him, the jut of his collarbone above the foam, his hair curling a little bit around his ears where it’s beginning to dry. She could look at him forever, watch as the crinkles around his eyes go soft and fade, as his mouth settles from a grin into something smoother, more familiar.

“Wanna kiss you,” he mumbles. The waves push him closer, or he moves closer, or Annabeth does.

“I thought we based our sexytime exclusively on passion,” Annabeth responds.

The heat of Percy’s torso presses up against hers. “Don’t be a dick,” he whispers.

Percy’s mouth slides hot against hers, rough-soft in the very particular way he always is, and waves lap at their shoulders and Annabeth thinks something about baptism and then thinks about nothing at all for as long as she’s able.

“Sometimes I think we never got out,” she whispers to him one night.

They’re wrapped around each other in the blaring light from both of their nightstands. It’s some time past three in the morning.

“Like, this is all a dream?” He asks.

“No.” She presses her nose against his chest, breathes him in. “I just still feel it. I started down there and it never stopped.”

She feels the breath shudder out of him. “Yeah,” he agrees.

#this is so long! which is why im posting it haha #anyway i write silly little fanfictions i do not need to put this crazy pressure on myself #a part of it is done and i would like to share it! etc #angsty divers au #it will probably be different in a version i post on ao3 but thats ok #we vibe #percabeth #long post

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caramelt4me · 1 month ago

Text

Secret. - Part III

(Yandere Idol X Kidnapped Reader)

Trigger warning: mention of self-harm, blood, substance abuse, violence and suicide

·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊

Prologue Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V

𝔸s you laid unconscious on the bed; a crouched Asher watched you intently. A mix of guilt and worry filled his azure eyes as one hand tenderly stroked your head in silence, while the other hand held yours – the fingers intertwined.

Your breathing was low and long, indicating a deep sleep.

One of the several side effects of the medicine he made you take.

He sighed, withdrawing his hand from your forehead to gently pull the chair close, as he took a seat on it – his other hand remained interlocked in yours. His icy eyes stared back at your asleep face that looked peaceful, devoid of any inner conflict or distress from before.

If only he could make you feel the same always on his own when conscious, he thought. Then he wouldn’t have to take the aid of a mind-altering sedative.

Each dose taking away a piece of the old you – but this was his choice, his ugly way to claim you whole – body and soul.

He didn’t want to erase the defiant look in your eyes – no, he cherished it all too well. However, he wished the feeling could reside alongside the maddening love he had infected you with. But alas, if only one could exist – it would have to be the latter.

Then suddenly, Asher’s phone buzzed in his pocket. His brows slightly furrowed, his expression turning colder by the second.

He clicked his tongue and picked it up to answer lowly. “I'm starting to think you have a death wish, Mr. Baek. First you get caught by Damian and now even a drunk maknae is too much for you to handle. Is that it?”

“No, I-I’m extremely sorry about calling again Asher! I do not want to interrupt your time with um—"The manager fumbled on the other side of the line. “But Nex suddenly woke up from his nap and caught me trying to wire his phone, he has locked himself up inside the bathroom—H-He is asking for you and threatening to take his own life if you don’t—"

“What’s the status of the other members?” Asher interrupted, asking coolly. “Did you manage to access their phones before you dropped them to their apartments last night?”

“Y-Yes, only Nex was the problem—I couldn’t find it on him, so I went back to the club this morning—but it wasn’t there, so I came back to his place an hour ago, and it was right there! —in his pocket—I must have missed it somehow—but then he—”

Asher scoffed coldly, in front of you, unable to hide his perpetual frustration with the incompetent manager.

He had once made a silent promise to himself to only show his good side to you, and nothing else. Perhaps, it still counted as long as your eyes stayed closed.

His blue eyes glinted with frost as he retorted sarcastically. “Are you telling me that junkie kid played you like a fiddle in that state? Have you truly lost your touch with age, Baek?”

“I-I’m sorry A-Asher—I--!” Mr. Baek’s voice abruptly died before Nex’s voice grew into a muffled shouting in the background - demanding the older idol to return ‘the stash’ he had rightfully paid for.

Then, the delirious maknae doubled in on it, threatening to ruin the eldest’s untainted reputation with his death— and let the rest of the world know what kind of an obsessive control-freak of a monster ‘his hyung’ was.

The blue-eyed idol sighed, rolling his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Asher had never heard a more pathetic, empty threat.

Unless the youngest had a two-way access from Hell, an exposé would be quite difficult to pull without a suic*de note or an alibi. Of course, both of which would have been easily taken care of.

Still, it was amusing for him to hear the usual timid maknae be so –brazen and loud.

Did he really think he could gain the upper hand so easily?

Asher stifled a cruel smirk, before he cleared his throat.

“I’m on my way. Make sure he doesn’t stop talking, Mr. Baek,” The blue-eyed idol said nonchalant, before adding dryly. “Hope that long tongue of yours is of some use.”

“Y-Yes absolutely Asher! I will—”

Asher cut the call before the manager could finish his sentence.

He then gazed at your sleeping face, knowing full well that you wouldn't stir until the next morning. Another reason why he would normally prefer you to take the weekly tablets – since they had a lower dose and came with milder side-effects.

However, this time, it worked out in his favour – buying him time to deal with his…problem child.

Not that he needed more than an hour with Nex.

A soft smile played on his lips as he turned his attention back to you.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against the back of your hand to leave a tender kiss. As he pulled away, his fingers lingered, tracing the lines of your hand before finally releasing their hold.

With one last glance at your peaceful face, he turned to leave – a soft click of the door echoed through the cabin shortly after.

---

The fluorescent bathroom light flickered, casting jagged shadows across the tiled floor. Another wave of nausea hit Nex, forcing him to his knees next to the toilet bowl. He clutched his throbbing head, fighting off the last remnants of a hangover.

His thoughts spiralled into a restless haze, and he could feel the cold sweat trickling down his brow. He was a mess—every muscle in his body pulsed with a dull ache that he knew was more than just the alcohol.

Withdrawals. Again.

The pink-haired idol cursed under his breath.

Maybe he should’ve just taken Clade’s offer, he thought, biting his lip anxiously. Slept with that pervert for double ‘the stash’—if only not for his damn pride.

But then, the little voice of reason whispered, reminding him that it would be useless too – since his dearest hyung planned to monitor them all.

Nex let out a frustrated cry—feeling like a prisoner in his own body as his bruised hands betrayed him –shaking uncontrollably, as he tried to hold one still with the other in vain. His heart began to race like an anxious trapped bird – pounding against his ribs with every beat. With a mouth drier than a desert and his throat parched raw, he could feel the withdrawals getting worse— his terrified fingers clutching his dishevelled pink hair in a futile attempt to calm his overstimulated mind.

If only he could get his hands on one sip of that laced drink, he had tried so hard to arrange for.

But, of course, Asher had intervened, just like he always did.

Then suddenly—

Knock-Knock-Knock.

The door rattled again, grating on his fried-up nerves.

"Nex, open the door!" a voice demanded. It was Mr. Baek, his tone laced with worry. He could almost see the manager’s anxious face through the thin wooden barrier.

“Don’t be childish and throw away the razor blade!”

Razor blade?

His mind went blank for a moment before his grey eyes noticed the fallen razor blade on the floor in his peripheral vision.

Right, of course.

The razor blade, he recalled in a daze; before he stumbled to grab it back in his hand.

He was in the middle of threatening them with his life, which seemed to have worked out in his favour—since Asher was on his way to his place, hopefully with his stash.

Could his hyung really be that soft for him?

Nex chuckled darkly, colour rushing to his cheeks – as he blatantly ignored the gory carnage around, that he had wrought inside the bathroom just to get the point across.

Broken tiles littered the floor, their white surfaces now stained crimson. Blood, dark and viscous, smeared the once pristine walls, creating grotesque patterns that echoed the chaos of emotions in his head.

His gaze flickered to his reflection in one of the infinite shards, that had shattered when he punched the mirrored cabinet before.

His eyes once bright grey—were bloodshot, haunted.

Was this why his hyung kept pushing him to quit? Nex scoffed weakly, a feeble attempt to deny the sobering reality creeping upon him.

“Nex? Are you still with me?”

Mr. Baek’s voice interrupted the youngest’s line of thoughts. “Please don’t do this! —Let’s talk, man to man!”

The pink-haired idol snickered. "Talk? About what? About how you probably bugged my phone already while I’m stuck in here? Or about how hyung ordered you to spy on all of us? Which one will it be, Mr. Baek?"

Silence.

What else could he expect from his hyung’s puppet?

Nex laughed bitterly, before his grey eyes had a cryptic glint to them.

“Say, Mr. Baek…how about we talk about something more interesting?” The pink-haired male casually purred. “Tell me, where does hyung actually disappear to every time we finish a tour? Does he have a secret family or something…staying at a cabin? A lover, perhaps?”

Silence.

“Who is she? Do I know her? Have we met before?”

Silence.

“Mr. Baek, you do realize I’m the one with the leash here, don’t you?” Nex sighed, idly toying with the razor blade in his bloodied hand.

Silence.

“Ya! I’m not kidding Mr. Baek—!!!" Nex was about to harshly blackmail the manager again, when he heard the door knob unlock.

Click. Clunk.

His grey eyes shot in the direction of the bathroom door—as it creaked open, revealing the familiar face of his hyung.

---

Asher ’s face was momentarily unreadable, before his icy blues met the maknae’s terrified grey ones – his unyielding gaze filled with silent judgement for the latter.

His lips curled into a twisted smile as he jingled the bundle of keys in front of the dumbfounded boy, making the youngest flinch and instinctively scurry into a defensive ball.

“Took me some time to find the spare keys in my car,” the blue-eyed idol remarked with a casual shrug, though the glint in his icy gaze was anything but friendly. “Hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long, Nex.”

“Hyung...”

Nex’s voice wavered, barely a whisper, as he struggled to meet the older idol’s cold stare. Years of ingrained fear rooted him in place, his trembling hands loosening their grip on the razor blade he had been clutching. It slipped from his grasp and tumbled to the floor, landing near Asher’s polished shoes.

“Ah.” Asher bent down to retrieve the sharp object before Nex could. His experienced fingers deftly played with it, spinning and flipping it in a manner that was both effortless and unnerving. Unlike the horrified maknae, he handled the sharp edges of the blade with ease.

Asher’s lips twitched into a devious smirk as he chuckled. “I know a thing or two about these. Want me to show you how it’s done?”

“N-No!” Nex stammered, his voice breaking as he scrambled backward, pressing himself against the wall. His arms shot behind his back as if to protect himself, his frantic grey eyes welling with tears. “I-I’m sorry, hyung! I-I must’ve lost my mind—I swear, please don’t hurt me!”

“Hurt you?” Asher echoed, amusement flickering across his face as he crouched down to Nex’s level. He reached out, prying the trembling boy’s hand from its hiding place. The maknae flinched as the older idol inspected his bruised and bloodied fingers. A harsh chuckle escaped Asher.

“Do I even need to?” he retorted, his tone sharp and cutting. “And here I thought you wanted me to return your things.”

“Huh?” Nex blinked in confusion, his tearful gaze darting to the small pouch that Asher slipped into his hand. The faint weight made his breath hitch. His timid grey eyes dropped to the bag, only for them to widen in recognition and panic when they flicked back up to meet Asher’s cold, unreadable blues.

It was a packet of his stash.

Impossible.

Nex’s hands moved instinctively, fumbling to open the pouch. The addict was moments away from scarfing down its contents when something stopped him—a sinking realization that this wasn’t right. His trembling gaze returned to Asher, who stood over him with a sadistic glint in his eye, his expression screaming of a hidden catch.

“Y-You… you did something to this, didn’t you?” Nex stammered, his voice barely audible as he gulped nervously.

Asher’s smile widened into something more sinister as he replied, his tone calm and detached. “You’re right. It’s laced with rat poison.”

The pouch slipped from Nex’s hands and fell to the floor. Panic surged through him as he frantically wiped his mouth, even though the contents hadn’t touched his lips. His wide, terrified grey eyes bore into Asher, his disbelief mingled with desperation. “Y-You... why would you do that?!”

Asher tilted his head, his expression almost bored, as though the question were absurd.

“Didn’t you want to bring me down with your death?” he asked simply, his voice void of empathy. “I thought I’d help you out myself—make it as pleasurable as possible for you.”

Nex stared at Asher in abject horror, unable to reconcile the twisted kindness laced in his hyung’s words. His unease deepened as Asher casually slipped another pouch into his trembling hand. The weight of it was all too familiar.

“Don’t worry, I gotchu buddy~” The older male said with a cruel smile.

The maknae flinched, instinctively trying to pull his hand back, but Asher’s iron grip on his wrist kept him in place. Those icy blue eyes bore into Nex with an intensity that made him shudder.

“Withdrawals can be a b*tch, am I right?” Asher sneered. “So, hurry up and take it. Or should I help shove it down your throat?”

“N-No—I-I’m sorry, hyung! T-This was a mistake! -” Nex stammered, his voice cracking as he tried to plead his way out. Tears welled up in his terrified grey eyes as he bowed his head in submission. “Please! Please stop!”

Asher’s smile faded into a thin line as he slid his other hand to the back of Nex’s neck. The maknae flinched violently, his breath growing shallow as panic threatened to overtake him.

Without warning, Asher grabbed him by the scruff like a helpless kitten, forcing their faces close until Nex’s terror-stricken grey eyes met his cold, piercing blue gaze.

“Are you sure?” Asher purred, his voice dripping with mockery. “Are you telling me you don’t want to have it your way?”

Nex gulped nervously and shook his head in frantic denial.

“Great,” Asher said with a mockingly cheerful tone, patting Nex’s cheek with false approval as he released him. But his eyes glinted dangerously. “Then, it’s time to do things my way.”

Before Nex could react, a sharp sting pierced his arm. His breath hitched as his bewildered gaze dropped to see the syringe in Asher’s hand, its contents pressing into his vein. Warmth spread through his body, an unfamiliar calm overtaking his trembling form.

“Don’t worry,” Asher said softly, his tone eerily gentle as he watched the youngest’s shivers subside. “It won’t kill you. Just something to help with the withdrawals.”

Nex’s wide, confused eyes darted back to Asher’s icy blues, which were now studying him with a cold curiosity. His panic only grew as his body grew heavy, his limbs succumbing to the sedative coursing through his veins. The maknae collapsed forward, falling into Asher’s cold, unyielding embrace.

“I should’ve done this earlier,” Asher murmured under his breath, stroking the back of Nex’s head with lazy indifference as the boy slipped into unconsciousness. His voice dropped to a chilling monotone. “Killing two birds with one stone.”

---

Initially, Asher had planned to scare Nex off—just another round of their usual cat-and-mouse game. It wasn’t the first time. Nex, with his predictable desperation, was the easiest to handle. But everything changed when Asher overheard the maknae’s conversation with Mr. Baek.

The conversation had devolved into a one-sided exchange once Mr. Baek spotted Asher lurking in the shadows. The manager wisely clammed up, refusing to divulge anything further about you.

But the damage was already done.

Nex’s reckless attempt to extract blackmail material confirmed what Asher already suspected: the youngest was the weakest link.

Desperate and impulsive, Nex’s addiction made him a liability. Yet, that desperation also meant he could be shaped into something useful—a better, much more reliable knight than the old manager to protect you from the outside world.

The idea appealed to Asher, though he begrudged the effort it would take.

Time was the real issue.

Asher sighed, glancing at the unconscious maknae. His time was precious, better spent with you. He resented the hours this would steal from him, but a compromise was necessary.

“Mr. Baek, a hand please,” Asher ordered, his irritation evident as he adjusted the dead weight of Nex in his arms. Though the pink-haired maknae had a baby face, his muscular build made him heavier than expected.

The manager scrambled to help, and together they carried Nex to the living room, unceremoniously dropping him onto the couch. Asher sank into the adjacent seat, catching his breath.

His phone buzzed, drawing his immediate attention. The blue-eyed idol’s fingers darted to his pocket, but his tension dissolved when he saw the notification. Just spam—not the home-security motion detector app.

Relief washed over him.

As expected, you were still asleep.

Asher leaned back; his gaze distant as he recalled dismantling the cameras months ago. They had been convenient, but their presence had hurt you.

Your mind—already too fragile due to being saturated with the medicine and his love, couldn’t handle the perceived invasion of privacy.

He hadn’t understood why it upset you so much, but he couldn’t bear to see you suffer. The motion sensors were one of the smaller compromises he would end up making.

Because more was yet to come.

“Cancel all of Nex’s engagements for the next two weeks and prepare the guestroom in the cabin,” Asher instructed Baek. His tone was clipped, his displeasure clear. “And make sure it’s quiet. You know how light her sleep is.”

Baek nodded hastily but hesitated.

“What now?” Asher snapped, his patience wearing thin.

“W-What should I tell Damien?” Baek stammered. “I know that he’s only a leader in name, but if he finds out about Nex’s absence without a proper explanation, he might grow suspicious. He could even come here to investigate.”

Asher paused, considering the point. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he replied. “Good thinking, Baek. Tell him that the Old man* got Nex checked into rehab. Overseas. Leave the mess in the bathroom; it’ll make the story more convincing.”

Baek blinked, momentarily awed by the blue-eyed male’s quick-witted deception. “Y-Yes, I’ll handle it.”

“Good~” Asher chimed, standing up to get to work.

He gathered the evidence—the syringe and the empty vial—and sealed them in a disposable medical bag. He then tucked it in a separate compartment in his sling bag, away from the unused vials of medicine and sealed syringes—something he always carried on himself in case there was an ‘emergency’.

The blue-eyed idol cast one last glance at Nex, his expression devoid of pity. This was just another calculated move in his relentless game.

A game designed to keep his most precious treasure, you, safe and hidden.

@shadowytravelerlover

#male yandere x reader #soft yandere #stockholm syndrome #yandere idol #yandere scenarios #yandere male #sub!yandere #sub yandere #yandere x darling #possessive #obsessive love #obsessive yandere

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wildestdreamsblog · 1 year ago

Text

Latibule V

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader (Mafia/Detective AU)

Summary: In which you didn’t know who he truly was- until it was too late. Or in which he found heaven in you.

Warnings: Secret Identity, Yandere behavior, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, Violence, Mention of death, Disability, Sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: tysm for all your support! Our Agustd is now…showing.

Masterlist, Latibule IV

“What the fuck is that?”

You turned around to glare at the man with a confused look. Suga was looking down, observing what he called ‘that’ with his brows furrowed and his eyes squinted. He could not have looked any more disgusted and confused than he did at the very moment.

You briskly walked to him, flashing him a tight smile before pulling his arm so he could follow you, however reluctantly. You stopped dragging him when the two of you reached the kitchen. You looked up at him while he was busy looking down at your hand that was trying so hard to encircle his thick wrist with a look of a somewhat confusion. Suga couldn’t, for the life of him, answer why he felt something he didn’t want to name. And now, you were too aware of the feel of his skin, of how thick his wrist was, and of how the heat emitting from his skin felt good. You were much too aware of him.

And upon realization, you dropped his wrist carelessly as though it burned you. “That-“ you pointed your finger to the living room while glaring daggers at him. “-is a child.”

He frowned, his dark locks falling on his face as he look down at you. “Fine. Why the fuck is a child here, angel?”

You sighed in exasperation, explaining to him as patiently as you could that his father asked you to look out for his child because he had to travel for work, to which he rolled his eyes dramatically.

See, this was why you thought he was similar to a cat. He hated people, he hated morning, and he hated being hungry.

Was it morning? Check.

Was there another person in your house today? Check.

Had he not eaten yet? Check.

“That’s free childcare, angel! You should charge for it!”

“He’s my friend!”

“And?”

“And this is a favor! Have you not heard of that? Are you not familiar with the concept?”

Oh, he knew favor. He knew a lot of people owed him one and he was going to collect all of them soon.

“Do you hate children? Is that it?” You asked again when he failed to answer you, stepping closer to him to annoy him further. You didn’t know why you found it so entertaining to see him lost his cool, or how his face scrunched up when he was annoyed. But he stood his ground. He looked down at you, his lips tilted to the side as he focused his dark eyes on you.

“No. I hate people in general.” But he didn’t hate you. He wasn’t put off by your existence. He wasn’t happy when you were away for too long. But these were the things he would never admit to himself.

Nope.

“Well, he’s staying here until tomorrow. Be kind! Or else!”

He had the audacity to look affronted as though he wouldn’t do the exact opposite of what you asked of him. Right now would be the prime example.

“Who are you?” Suga asked him once the two of you returned to the living room where the child was happily watching cartoons. He was looking at the child as though be was dangerous when

“I’m Jackson,” he answered back, his little arms folded on his front as he looked up at the man questioning him with an equally defiant glare. “Who are you?”

Suga turned to you, his eyes in disbelief at what he heard. “He named his child his name?”

You blinked twice, unable to even defend your friend. But you didn’t have to. His child got his sassiness, after all.

“Your name please, ahjussi,” he repeated as he tapped his foot on the ground in obvious irritation at the older man. This was the first time he saw Suga and he automatically hated him. You were his favorite aunt, albeit you were the only aunt he had. But still! He thought you were too beautiful for the man you called your fiancé. He thought he didn’t deserve you.

“Ajhussi?” He repeated in disbelief as he squinted his eyes at the child. “I’m…Suga.”

“What kind of name is that?”

“Yah! What kind of name is Jackson?! Can’t your father think of another name? Is he that-“

You could feel a headache coming as you listened to them bicker. “Guys-“

“My friends said I have a nice name!”

“Yeah? Well, they’re lying to you!”

“At least I have friends! You look like you have enemies!”

Well, he wasn’t wrong though, Suga thought as he paused. He’d give this round to the kid. But he would return with a vengeance.

“Noona,” the young Jackson turned to look at you with his puppy eyes and an adorable pout on his lips that you couldn’t help but cooed at him and opened your arms so he could hug you.

He wrapped his little arms around your middle before whining at you. “Are you sure that man is who you want to be with? There are better guys out there, noona,” he said as he turned his head to glare at the other man.

“Yah!”

To which, he just stuck his tongue out.

“Angel, why is he still here? Can’t his mother take care of him?! Or did his mother also find him insufferable?”

“Suga!” You reprimanded him as you felt the child’s small body shook with impending tears. You glared at the man before hugging the now wailing child. For heaven’s sake, did he really have to fight with a child?! “Are you a child?! You should know better!”

“What?! He started it!”

“His mother…passed away,” you whispered the last part, feeling sorry for the child who never knew his mother. You thought that this was why he was somehow too attached with you. You were the only female figure in his life because his father refused to date anyone. He had said one night when you asked him why he never dated despite it being years already and he only said that he found the one. That his wife was it, that anyone would only fail in comparison to her.

You thought it was sad to have found your soulmate, only for her to be taken from your grasp forever, to be only left with memories that would fade in time, to be the only one whose love had no where else to go.

Suga’s eyes widened in realization, his gaze on you as what you said sunk in. He always knew he was an asshole, an abomination of a greedy man. He knew he was all that was wrong in mankind, but God, seeing that child cried his heart out displaced him. It felt…wrong. Was he developing a fucking conscience? Was this safe place making him soft?

Were you making him a better man?

He turned his dark eyes on the weeping child before he stood up. He clapped the child’s shoulder, “If you stop crying, I’ll buy you an ice cream.”

You watched the two in front of you devoured their ice cream like it was the end of the world. After fighting like vicious animals, they were sitting in front of you quietly as though they never said hurtful things to one another. You didn’t know that Suga even know this place. You thought that he must probably roamed around the town while you were at work and must have familiarized himself with the town. When he said that he knew a place, this was the last place you thought. This was the most colorful place in the whole town and it was also the loudest with pop songs playing on the speaker and children running all over the place. He was too in contrast with the aesthetic of the place with his all-black clothes and the emotionless face he was showing to the world.

You looked up to watch them again when you caught him already looking intently at you- or more specifically, your ice cream. “What?”

You ordered what you considered the normal flavor, chocolate and cookies and cream which were your favorite, while they ordered fruit-flavored ice cream. Suga thought it was peculiar that you didn’t eat fruits and you said he was weirder for fighting with a kid, to which he had no comeback for.

“I want your ice cream,” he announced as though it was his birth right to receive everything he ever desired.

“Suga- we talked about this.”

“About what?” He asked absentmindedly as he reached his spoon to your side when you slapped his hand away.

“What’s the magic word?”

He glared at you, his jaw clenched uncaring if he was bringing the vibe of the place down, or that he looked like an angry kitten.

“It’s ‘please’, ahjussi,” Jackson quipped up, looking up at the man sitting beside him with doe eyes. “Did you not know that?”

“Yes, Suga, did you not know that?” You asked him with faux confusion, batting your eyelashes at him annoyingly.

“May I please have your ice cream?”

“Of course, honey.”

You couldn’t help but smiled triumphantly at him before scooping your ice cream and lifting it to him. He glared at you before holding your hand closer to his lips before opening his mouth devouring the ice cream, all while holding eye contact with you.

And fuck it if you weren’t entranced with the way his lips seemed so pink…or the way his dark eyes seemed to hold so much hunger that you felt your cheeks heated up. You tried to pull your hand away from him but he didn’t let go.

“Delicious, angel,” he said lowly before flashing you a smirk and placing your hand down gently on the table. “I’ll go pay the bill.”

You blinked owlishly, shaking the haze from your mind. “What? You don’t have money. Let me pay-“

He regarded you with bored eyes before lifting his eyebrow, “You told me to get a job, right?”

You were still reeling from the added information as he already walked to the counter. He got a job? When? Also, who would hire someone as socially inadequate as he was?

Jackson grinned widely as he spotted his best friend from across the diner. The other child was waving at him excitedly. He turned to you, jumping from his seat with an elated expression on his face. “Noona! May I say hi to my friend?”

“Of course, honey. Just be careful and don’t run.”

You watched him walked to the other side and you only lost sight of him for a moment when you watched Suga smiled with the old lady working in the diner. He looked like he was familiar with her. Your brows furrowed. How would he, an anti-social, always irritated, mannerless man, know her? Unless…did he work here?

Your thoughts were cut off when you heard an aggressive shouting from behind you.

“Watch where you’re going, little boy!” The man hissed down at Jackson who accidentally bumped into him. He looked like he was about to cry as the man continually berated him that you snapped up to your seat and walked to them. You placed your hands around the little boy’s shoulders, hugging him closer to you as shield from the screaming man.

“Excuse me, is there a problem here?”

He turned his sinister eyes on you, “Are you her mother? You let your son run around like that? What kind of mother are you?!”

“He was not running. I know because I saw. And what about you?! You’re a grown man who shouted at a child over a harmless mistake!”

He sneered at you, his beady eyes roaming on your form. He chuckled tonelessly, before walking closer to you. “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” he whispered before pushing your shoulder hard with his index finger, making you step back from the force. “Do you know who I am?”

“Should I care?”

“I can ruin you and your family-“

He was about to hit you again when a someone caught his finger in his fist. Suga stepped in, his eyes devoid of any emotion, his jaw clenched as he walked closer to the man.

“I’d think twice about doing that,” he ordered coldly, stepping closer to him that the two of you were now hidden behind his back.

And it was as though he noticed a predator more dangerous than him because he did nothing but gulped as he struggled to look into Suga’s eyes. Suga whispered something inaudible to the man before smirking at him and dropping his hold on him. You felt him wrapped his arm around you as he guided you out of the diner and out of reach of the customers’ curious eyes.

The silence was overbearing, so unalike the one you were used to with him, the one where you could break it with your sassiness and teasing ways to him. No. This time, he looked like a different person. He still hadn’t released his hold on you and you could feel the tension emitting from his hand. You were almost to the park, the one you’d promised the little boy you could go to after the diner, when he paused his tracks.

You turned to look at him- only to find him already staring at you with a swirling darkness in his eyes. He let go of you, his hand that had just touched you was clenching.

“You go ahead, angel. I left my wallet in there,” he stated after a moment, his hands now in his pockets before turning around and walking back.

—-

“I told you I’d be back.”

The man’s eyes widened when he noticed Suga casually leaning against the wall of the narrow and quiet walkway. Had he not said a word, he would have walked passed the man who emitted an insane and menacing vibe. His dark hair was falling on his face, his scarred eye leering up at him as though he was elated to finally find a prey in this quiet and sleepy town.

“I-I don’t want any trouble, man-“

“Tsk tsk,” he pushed himself off of the wall before sauntering to the man. He looked relax as though nothing could phased him…as though he wasn’t about to do a crime. “It’s too late for that…man.”

The man whimpered as he was slammed to the wall, his body falling weakly to the ground. He couldn’t hold his own weight, no, not against Suga. His huge body was likened to a rag doll as the man he thought was the devil incarnate landed blow after blow on his body. And he did so without any emotions in his eyes.

“You listen here and you listen good, asshole,” Suga said in a toneless voice, his eyes holding a barely constrained anger. He stepped closer, uncaring that he was crushing the fingers of the man that dared touched her..or that the sound of bones crunching made the man whimpered louder. He crouched down, his hand hanging on his knees nonchalantly. “You fucked up,” he whispered as he took in the disheveled state of the crying man. Softly, he touched the other man’s fingers. He smirked when he heard him cried louder.

“You didn’t only scare the child, but you touched a woman. My woman,” he stated as though he was merely discussing the weather.

“W-what? W-who are you? Are you her husband?” He asked as tears fell down from his eyes.

“Yes.”

Latibule VI

#min yoongi fic #yandere bts #bts yandere #bts fic #yoongi fic #yandere min yoongi #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi x you #min yoongi x y/n #mafia min yoongi

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turcott3 · 10 months ago

Text

off the table

charles leclerc x fem! reader

warnings?: cursing, angst, kissing and fluff! (this is not edited apologies for any mistakes)

positions fics masterlist

~but i just wanna know is love completely off the table?~

your eyes fluttered open as the sun filled the las vegas hotel room. you roll to face away from the window and you’re met by a familiar sleeping face. the relationship you and charles had created was special but complex. you weren’t together. you’re primary relationship is sex and nights out together but it never extended beyond that. occasionally you received a grand prix invite, las vegas being one of them. he messed with your feelings often. one second it seems like he wants you and the other he’s leaning on a bar counter talking to another woman. you just let it happen because you wanted him, even if it does hurt you not knowing.

“good morning char.” you say quietly as the brunette stretches out and looks at you.

“good morning amour.” he smiles before getting up out of bed. you wanted to reach out and grab for him but you didn’t wanna push your limits. you yearned for him. all you wanted was to be his and his only, but it was starting to feel like too much to ask for. every day you’ve spent together, a bubble of anxiety grew in your chest.

“what time do we need to leave?” you call out.

“we have a few more hours no worries.” he smiles walking back into the bedroom and climbing back into bed, quickly nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck.

“how many is a few more?” you giggle, scratching his scalp lightly.

“like four or something.” he says, his breath on your neck was hot and sent goosebumps all over your body.

“i need to get a shower okay?” you say and he pulls away after pressing a short kiss to your neck.

“okay, ill be here.” he smirks laying back on his side, scrolling on instagram. you enter the bathroom, grateful for the escape you just made. he made your mind spin. when he cuddles to you and kisses you, yet doesn’t care to want you is the mode confusing experience you’ve had. you let the warm water soak your body as you stood in your thoughts, tears pricking your eyelids. eventually you lost the fight and let the sobs wrack your body. all you wanted was answers. tearfully, you finished the shower and dried off, staring at your puffy face in the mirror.

“am i just not good enough?” you whisper to yourself. you walk out into the bedroom to grab clothes from your suitcase, avoiding looking in charles’ direction.

“y/n?”

“i’ll be out in a second.” you say shutting the door behind you. quickly, you slip on your clothes and hang your damp towels.

“y/n?” he asks again as you walk out.

“what?” you say, eyes still red and face still puffy.

“come sit, what is wrong?”

“i don’t know.” you lie sitting down next to him, not wanting to possibly ruin this trip.

“yes you do. tell me.” he pushes clearly wanting an answer.

“you confuse me charles. you confuse me so much and you’ve made me catch undeniably strong feelings for you but you confuse the fuck out of me. one second i think you may want me and then the next you’re talking to another woman. i’m just confused on why you wanted me here.” you express as lightly as possible.

“i do have feelings for you. i truly do y/n, i don’t want you to think that i don’t.”

“then why don’t you want me charles?”

“i do i just- im just so busy and stressed with the season i don’t want to have more things to keep up with. not that you don’t deserve the absolute best, i just don’t think i can give you what you deserve.”

“well i’m here right now aren’t i? i’ll come to every race, every event, everything. i am here for you and you only. i don’t want to get in your way so im trying my best to stay out of the way and id say ive done pretty well.” you add, tears falling once more and he nods.

“is love just not something you’re looking for right now? tell me baby.” you say as he pulls you into his lap, wiping your tears.

“it is. i don’t know why ive been pushing you away. you’re too good to me and i feel like if i can’t be 100% here then it won’t work and you deserve 100%.”

“i’m willing to try, only for you.” you say and he kisses you on the cheek.

“mon amour. you’re incredible.”

“so does this mean?”

“yes, it means you’re my girlfriend, i’m not even gonna ask i’m declaring it now.” he giggles and hugs you closely to his chest.

“look at us, newest couple on the grid.” you laugh.

“and arguably the best, sorry everyone else.” he says placing a light hand on your lower back.

“definitely the best.”

“carlos, this is my girlfriend y/n. you’ve met before but i figured i should re-introduce with the proper title.” charles giggles at his teammate.

“hello y/n, it’s great to re-meet you.” he smiles sticking his hand out to you which you gladly shake.

“it’s great to re-meet you too.”

“alright well baby, we got to get to it so, ill see you in a bit alright?”

“alright, good luck out there char.”

“thank you.” he smiles kissing you sweetly on the lips before walking off with his teammate.

“i was waiting for this day to come.” one of the staff says nudging you.

“really?” you giggle.

“yes, last race you weren’t there and he was like ‘i wish y/n was here, she makes me calm.’”

“how sweet.” you smile at the woman before she follows behind them.

guess love was never off the table.

sorry this is so short😭

#charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc imagine #turcs’ talk #f1 #f1 imagine

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damianbugs · 2 years ago

Note

What you mean by" willis todds love for jason is the reason bruce failed him" ?

Sorry ive seen your post and I agree with everything but this just kinda suprise me, not hating, just curiuos

HELLO! so this is a take that is based on pre-new 52 todds, before they were simplified to the one dimensional (and classist) personalities they're known for now. neither of them were shown to be abusive or willfully negligent, but rather found themselves in bad situations out of their control and died, leaving jason to fend for himself.

in the most simplest way what i mean is willis todds self sacrificing actions of turning to crime in order to provide for jason and catherine is the key defining part of jasons life and why he views bruce's love for him as 'not enough'.

(of course, the actual proof of this is like. one single panel and its not even said by jason. however i think it is something that can be found in jasons character through other, less obvious situations.)

in jasons initial (public) return to gotham and that long and convoluted plan to mess around with batman psychology to get the two of them and the joker in the same place, it all seems like a well planned out revenge story until the final conversation:

Batman: Under the Red Hood

it always stood out to me, not just because of how absolutely heart wrenching the entire moment is (definitely read utrh if you haven't, at least once), but because it really gives you an insight into what love and loving someone means to jason.

to him it's an all encompassing responsibility. this idea that love is something that you need to be able to prove by the quantitive value of what you'll sacrifice for it. in this case, jason is saying i love you" in the way he truly believes gets across how much he means it; i would kill the person who hurt you.

whenever i read this part of utrh, another situation immediately pops into my mind. and that's when jason found out two-face had killed willis todd.

Batman #411

upon finding out two-face had killed willis, jason goes on a brief grief filled rampage, swearing he'll kill him for what he did. it's important to note that up until now, jason had assumed willis was still in prison, only to find out he was actually murdered.

again, it's this idea that love is the extremes you'll go to for family. jason was well aware of willis' less than legal means to make money, and even bruce makes a mention of it in.

Batman: A death in the family

i imagine, like a lot of what fuels jason to fight crime now, guilt is a major deciding factor in a lot of his choices. it's this guilt that he feels upon hearing about willis' death that makes him take it out on two-face. it's even guilt that plays a huge factor even in new 52 stories (such as Cheer).

so when he returns to gotham, or even before that, just hearing about what bruce had done following his death (locking the joker up instead of killing him, taking in tim as his robin) were, to him, clear evidence that he did not love jason in any way that mattered. that bruce did not love jason as much as jason loved him.

because loving him means giving up your morals. loving him means sacrificing your health and your time and your safety.

but bruce didn't do any of that in a way jason could see.

i imagine to someone like jason, who lost every parental figure in some capacity, whether it be to illness or crime or something else entirely, the evident disregard for him was as painful as any rejection could have been.

a lot of how jason feels and acts can be seen in much more interesting ways if we all look at him for he is; an unreliable narrator. he is missing huge chunks of story, especially when it comes to bruce, and has no choice but to act irrationally on the little truth he does know.

of course we the readers, and some other characters, know just how hard jasons death was for bruce. how destructively he mourned for his son.

but again, the surface level proof of it is not enough for jason, who's entire life has been love through sacrifice. but now, it's a sacrifice bruce can not ever give him.

Batman: Under the Red Hood

#<- he who is not normal about pre new 52 willis todd #its the first time im getting this thought written out properly so i hope it makes sense #jason is just such an emotionally complicated character #but he was also a child #which is the one thing everyone seems to forget #bruce wayne #jason todd #willis todd #dc meta #character study #saki anons

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barrenclan · 5 months ago

Note

I've been thinking of this for so long and have only now mustered up the courage to send an ask here. The Nowhere Kings lullaby is so very Deepdark coded.

Thank you for sending in an ask! I always like receiving them.

I agree very much with you, so much that Nowhere King has been on the PATFW playlist for awhile now! Here is a link to it if you'd like to listen.

I like your analysis on it!

youtube

Oh, yeah, I can absolutely see this Rainhaze at the very end of his line, twisted by Defiance, and the last lines of the song about him singing to Slugpelt wondering if even she would take him back after everything he's done.

it goes on for so long and it takes so much goddamn shit and benzos to make the skin grow thick and to make the heart grow cold to make your heart grow cold

cover your ears Emily your weakened mind fears nothing i want to know if you'll still care for me if I left you to decay

emily will you bury me the purest sin that ive ever seen emily will you still love me

youtube

I like this version! Very mournful. I can see Defiance in it, with more specific Rainhaze bits mixed in.

In the land of Gods and Monsters I was an angel living in the garden of evil Screwed up, scared, doing anything that I needed Shining like a fiery beacon

"This is Heaven, what I truly want" It's innocence lost Innocence lost

youtube

I think I'd put it as a song sung by Pinepaw about Nightberry.

The old man next door says his house is haunted He says a ghost keeps him awake I think he's having a hard time, to be honest Since his darling passed away

I said Robert I'm so sorry Your house ain't haunted You're just not used to bein' alone

youtube

Every song is about Rainhaze.

youtube

I love this song! Actually, one of the main characters' theme songs - "Twelve Thirty (Young Girls Are Coming To the Canyon)" for Egrettail - is by the Mamas and the Papas, so nice choice. Fits well with Blacknose.

All the leaves are brown (all the leaves are brown) And the sky is gray (and the sky is gray) I've been for a walk (I've been for a walk) On a winter's day (on a winter's day) If I didn't tell her (if I didn't tell her) I could leave today (I could leave today)

You know the preacher like the cold (preacher like the cold) He knows I'm gonna stay (knows I'm gonna stay)

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All Fleetwood Mac songs fit with Slugpelt, this is true. Of course I would always love to see an animation of my characters, but the song choice is very good regardless! I like the descriptions of Slugpelt as a "pale shadow of a woman", it fits her chracter very well.

Well, did she make you cry Make you break down Shatter your illusions of love? <- Dustfeather And is it over now, do you know how? Pick up the pieces and go home

Pale shadow of a woman Black widow Pale shadow of a dragon Dust woman

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I was very fond of this song when the game first came out, especially a cover that sadly doesn't seem to be on YouTube anymore. Oh well, it still fits Pinepaw perfectly.

Stuck on this dead end street Where all the new kids come to play Stuck–where past and future meet Watching all our autumns drift away

And if they ever hear my name Will they know I walked alone Around these dusty streets–My Tired old home

And will they ever stop to think What was here before, no They won’t remember that I’m gone

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#ask #anon #music #rainhaze #deepdark #pinepaw #nightberry #blacknose #slugpelt

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sayafics · 1 year ago

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Dance of Shadows - Chapter IV

Sorry this took so long to update, I spent a lot of time figuring out the timeline and how the story would work with the scenes I wanted to add.

I hope you enjoy it nonetheless! This is a really long chapter which hopefully makes up for the long wait!

Expect a lot more Saenyra&Daemon moments in the next chapter! This chapter was a mix between adding more depth to their relationship, as well as building one between Saenyra and other characters <3

Previous Chapter

Masterlist

Saenyra's heart ached endlessly when the news of Daemon's exile had reached her - she had expected it, of course. But the weight of her mother's death and now the absence of her uncle had become too much to bear.

Her mind fell back to her incidental meetings with the Lord Hand, and of how his words had turned kind despite his cold eyes, since her mother had passed. She understood why the man would be sympathetic to such a thing, having lost his wife to the same burdens of labour as she had lost her mother.

There was a quiet kinship there, a moment of solidarity and understanding.

Perhaps that was why he had come to her chambers today, knocking upon her door and entering with a sullen expression as she beckoned him forth.

Behind his slender form stood the broad figure of Ser Harwin Strong - she had only thought it fair to seek a Shield of her own if Rhaenyra were able to have one. Especially one as pretty as Ser Cole.

Ser Harwin nodded his head in greeting, waiting for her instructions as he stood at attention by her door. She waved the man away, rolling her eyes at his constant worrying.

Saenyra focused on Otto - the Lord Hand looked pale and stricken, eyes unfocused as he tried to string together his words.

The truth was, Otto felt nothing like the image he portrayed to the young girl, but he hoped such a performance would make her grow to trust him.

Those who were unable to see the infatuation the Targaryen girls held for their uncle were truly blind. And Otto would be a fool not to use such a bond to his advantage.

Daemon Targaryen was a dangerous man.

With all the roles within the Keep he had taken, none had sung to him more than the tireless echoes of a title so buoyant and inflamed - the Rogue Prince.

And if Otto wanted Saenyra on his side, then the only way to assure such an alliance was to remove the only person who could change her perspective.

Perhaps this method of madness was mean and trifling, but it would work. It had to.

Otto remembers the look of anguish on Rhaenyra's face when she had heard the news, when she demanded dragons be sent to threaten the man and return what was rightfully their's. He only wished Saenyra would show a reaction so similar.

"Lord Hightower, is everything alright?" Saenyra frowned softly at the man, eyes watching him with concern.

He sighed deeply, "my Princess, I am afraid I come bearing bad news."

Though her stomach sank with dread, her heart beating frantically at all the possibilities and all the horrors that could have occurred, Saenyra steeled her spine and spoke encouragingly, "you can speak freely here."

Again, Otto found his heart tremble with softness at the young girl's kindness. Here, he could not see a shadow of a dragon in sight, simply a girl who had been placed in the nest of animals and beasts.

"It is your uncle, dear child."

Saenyra frowned in earnest now, the mere mention of her uncle bringing back the flashes of the beautiful woman who pressed herself against him as though she were laying her claim. She blinked furiously, scolding herself for such envious feelings - even if that woman had not been there, it did not change the truth that Daemon was still a married man.

Daemon had not cheated her - he had cheated his wife and himself.

"What about my uncle?"

Otto lowered his head in a show of misery, "it seems he has dared to steal the egg of Baelon."

"Why would he do such a thing?" Saenyra's lips had parted in surprise, caught off guard by her uncle's audaciousness with such an act of defiance.

"We are unsure of his motives for the time being," the lie slipped off his tongue with ease. Otto was willing to do all he could to make the girl hate Daemon, but he could not risk her acting out of turn. "But we intend to claim the egg and return it to the Keep - the ships are setting sail soon, and an army rests upon it. Ready to reclaim the egg and Dragonstone by force, if needed."

"I want to come."

Otto sighed softly, not willing to disappoint the girl but knowing he will have to. He could see the anger bubbling in her eyes, but he could also see the confusion etched in her expression.

"Your sister asked us of the very same. I fear you cannot join a feat such as this - it is far too dangerous."

"Perhaps he would listen to me."

"We can only hope, Princess," Otto smiled faintly at her determination, "but it is a risk we cannot take."

Saenyra's hope faltered, hands twisting into the soft material of her gown as she bit her lip to hold back spiteful words.

Otto took a step back, gaining her attention.

"The ships leave soon, so I must take my leave. I simply believed it was important to inform you of our plans, despite the King's disagreement on the matter."

Otto watched as the girl's eyes narrowed in disappointment - had it not been for Otto's visit to her chambers, she would have been kept in the dark on the actions of her uncle.

Her father and her sister would hide such tragic news from her without a guilty conscious.

She glanced at Otto once more as he took his leave, and he smirked at the glimmer in her eyes that shone like something akin to trust.

***

It had not only been trust that gleamed in her lavender hues, but determination.

Her father and sister thought of her as weak, of being spineless and thoughtless. But she would show them. She would show them her determination, her influence, her fire.

Dragonstone was not simply a base Daemon had chosen for its view, no - its caves and tunnels homed the largest dragons - wild and crazed.

Upon the small isle was an opportunity for something more.

***

Saenyra had changed into a set of leathers she had stuffed deep in her wardrobe - they had been a gift from a Lord in a far away land who thought her to be a dragon-rider like her sister. A stark contrast from her usual soft colours, but one she hoped she could grow used to.

Her lip quirked at the idea of riding her dragon in her billowing gowns, and she whispered a promise to herself she would try.

Her heart had always weeped with disappointment at the sight of the leathers, but she never had the heart to get rid of it. It seemed all her waiting had paid off - today, she would get a dragon.

When she had changed into her leathers, she spared a moment to glance upon the jewel resting on her hand. A hesitant smile twisted upon her lips as a speck of dread bloomed.

What would Daemon think of her when he learned she had travelled to the isle to claim a dragon? Would he think differently of her? Would he be proud? Disappointed?

She tiptoed to her chamber doors as quietly as she could, ignoring her nattering thoughts. She latched it shut, hoping Harwin would leave her to her peace and not attempt entry.

Shs slipped back to the portrait above her bed, prying it open with silent breaths before slipping into the tunnels behind. She sprinted her way down tunnels she memorised a thousand times over, finding her way to an exit.

The day was bright and early, and the Keep was buzzing. But no one would expect to see Saenyra of all people in riding gear, as she had no dragon to command.

She slipped through the sea of people with ease, making her way to the ships as she dodged the sight of curious soldiers.

Saenyra knew Otto and the Kingsguard would board the ship at the forefront, so she slinked her way onto one of the smaller ships instead.

She let out a sigh of relief to see it unoccupied for the time being, rushing below the deck to hide in the shadows behind barrels and netting.

She would stay here until they reached Dragonstone.

***

The sail to Dragonstone had been bumpy, her stomach rolling with nausea as she steadied her breaths and pretended she was at home rather than upon the sea.

She swallowed harshly, thirst clawing at her throat as she wondered how much longer it would be.

It seemed only seconds, as her head raised in surprise at the shouts that carried over the ship. They drew closer to Dragonstone now, and she could hear the men prepare to anchor the ships before they continued on foot.

Just a few moments longer.

***

Saenyra had waited until the ships had emptied and the air had struck silent. Her stomach protested as she pushed herself to her feet and her knees ached. Her throat still burned with thirst and she could feel the clawing stabs of hunger pleading with her.

Still, she knew coming by boat was better than the alternative.

She was sure Rhaenyra would find her way here, but Saenyra would be damned if she asked the girl to allow her to ride upon Syrax alongside her.

Saenyra did not want the first dragon she rode to be one that was not her own - she did not want such an experience to be tainted by the hatred and jealousy that soured her relationship to her sister.

As she hiked her way towards where she hoped she would find the entrance to the caves and tunnels, her mind fell back to the dragon she hoped to claim.

Saenyra did not want a dragon that had previously been claimed. She wanted a dragon wild and free. Just as she was.

She wanted a dragon to whom she could love and dote on, to teach not with violence but patience. She wanted a dragon that was a reflection of herself, one that would burn worlds if she asked.

When she had finally reached the mouth of the cave she was panting lightly, her eyes wide with wonder as a breathless laugh escaped her. She sprinted inside, struggling to keep her footfalls quiet so as not to fall prey to any other beast that lurked within.

She spun through the tunnels, twisting and turning but failing to find the dragon she had so desperately tried to seek.

Grey Ghost was a shy dragon, calm and quiet, preferring to spin through the skies and feast in the seas. Hidden away in plain sight much like she was.

Grey Ghost is a dragon Saenyra believed she would bond well with, love strongly and protect fiercely as he would do with her. But Grey Ghost was nowhere to be found.

Her hope of claiming a dragon began to crumble as the tunnels were silent. It seemed the only life within them was her own, and she could feel defeat sink into her bones.

Saenyra sat down in a huff, eyes closed as she rested her head against the rough and craggly surface behind her.

She didn't pay mind to how long she sat like that, thinking - dreaming, hoping.

She only hoped that Harwin had not noticed her absence. Prayed that if he had, he did not report it to the King.

She doubted Viserys would care for such a thing - perhaps he would be relieved he had one less heir to worry about. Rhaenyra and Daemon were already such a handful.

However, for all she knew, the moment her deception was brought to light, a whole new shadow of chaos would be wrought upon them - one, perhaps, even Daemon could not escape.

She was still a Princess. Even if Viserys did not hold any personal regards for the girl, he would have to act in show, lest people see him as weak.

Still, she stayed. She sat upon the solid ground and listened to the sounds of her own breaths, counting every inhale and exhale and wishing she did not have to return to the Keep - knowing when she did, she could never escape the walls that confined her.

Slowly, she began drifting off. She leaned into the comforting smell of a home she would never find - a dragon she could never have.

That was when she felt it.

So lost in the tumultuous thoughts roving through her mind, she hadn't heard the gruff breaths, hadn't felt the quaking thuds. But a rough and scaly surface brushed against her cheek, slowly as though it was almost curious.

It was then she smelt it, the stench of dragon strong and high - the cloying scent of smoke coated her tongue as the brushes became firmer. She allowed herself to hope that perhaps it was Grey Ghost. That although she couldn't find him, he found her and it was a sign.

A sign that she was meant to be a dragon-rider. That the fire of a dragon burned hot through her veins - a raging blaze instead of a waning fire.

But her hesitant eyes found the predatory gaze of a dragon so monsterous it ate its own kind. So close to her, a hair's breadth away, was the slow and steady gaze of a cantankerous beast - Cannibal.

He was an inky shade of black, scales so dark that he could meld into the night sky and would cast envy from the moon, escaping its sight.

The beast reared back, but still stayed so close. Too close.

Saenyra wanted to close her eyes, to resign herself to her fate.

She was no dragon-rider, especially not to a beast so ferocious and violent. She didn't have the strength to make him submit- didn't have the gall.

But there was a subtle glint in Cannibal's eye that made her think wreaking havoc and killing her was not on his agenda.

He inched closer, almost like he was asking a silent question.

Saenyra raised a hand, fingers trembling as she took a steadying breath - the fire of a dragon ran through her veins, the ice of a thousand winters cursed her soul.

She held her breath as the tips of her fingers brushed against Cannibal's face, so close to the edge of his mouth he could break off her arm with a single twitch.

Instead he shuddered, preening as she shuffled closer and began to sit.

Surprise bound through her body, elation colouring her features - had she tamed a dragon?

Had she claimed a bond?

There was no need to violence, no yell for obedience, no fighting and no blood. There was no sacrifice because what was meant for her had come to find her.

Saenyra's eyes welled with tears, a shaky laugh escaping her as it grew louder and steady.

Saenyra had come looking in the depths of darkness for a dragon that lived in the light, hidden amongst clouds and thriving across the seas.

But that was not the fate the Seven had assigned to her. That was not the dragon she needed.

Her dragon, her fate had come to her. Undeterred and knowing.

Her dragon had come to seek her because finally, the time was right.

Her dragon - so fierce and raging and monsterous. The fire she had been missing all her life.

***

Daemon watched Rhaenyra in amusement, barely able to hold back the smirk upon his face at the pathetic attempt to pull him into line.

Had she truly thought she could command him? Call to him?

Had she truly thought he would be soft with her? Kind and adhering?

"I'm right here, Uncle. The object of your ire - the reason you were disinherited. If you wish to be restored as heir, you'll need to kill me. So do it."

Daemon could commend the girl's bravery, perhaps even her stupidity. It was a tempting thought, truly - to end all this fuss and take her head in one quick swipe.

But he was fond of the girl, despite her growing infatuations. She was his niece - his brother's child. And to hurt her would be to hurt Viserys.

"Do not bother with such words, Rhaenyra. It will gain you no favours. You would sooner leave Dragonstone empty-handed than with my undying fidelity."

Daemon couldn't help the smirk that broke across his face as her expression fell - she had been so sure presenting herself to him, a prize upon a platter, would have made him succumb and relinquish the egg.

She was sure he would give up to her. For her.

"Uncle, you do not know what you are saying. This isn't what you want. She isn't who you want."

The words she spoke were true. But not in the way she had hoped.

"Perhaps if little Saena were here, I would be happy to continue this farce for a few moments longer," he grinned at the envious expression that crossed Rhaenyra's face, "it is a pity she is not. I believe she would have enjoyed Dragonstone."

"The Princess is safe at the Keep," Otto began, his words stern as he met Daemon's glare with one just as fierce, "where you shall be unable to find her."

Daemon gritted his teeth at the show of audaciousness, but before he could speak, a set of stumbling footfalls and a shouting voice drew their attention.

"The Princess! She is in Dragonstone!"

A handful of soldiers assigned to watch over their ships had raced up to the base, panting as they waved frantically for Otto's attention.

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, "yes. Well, if you could not tell, I came by dragon-back. Such fan-fare is quite uneeded."

She turned back to Daemon, ready to push and prod, but the voice continued in panicked insistence.

"No! The Princess is upon the isle. She entered the tunnels before my men could stop her. We followed her in, but we fear she is lost within them."

Daemon's expression of amusement fell, his heart sinking as his stomach twisted. Tumultuous waves of rage washed over him at the realisation of who they spoke of.

Saenyra.

Saenyra was in Dragonstone. And she was lost in the tunnels, surrounded by wild dragons.

He seethed and frothed at the mouth, trembling in anger as he pulled out his sword and raised it against Otto's throat - "you told me she was at the Keep. You told me she was safe!"

Otto's own eyes had widened in surprise, shock flooding his system at the realisation the Princess must have snuck onto a ship to reach Dragonstone.

But why had she gone into the tunnels instead of following them to Daemon?

Otto stumbled over his words, almost speechless at the turn of events. It was Rhaenyra who spoke in his stead, "lower your sword, Uncle. What my sister does out of her own stupidity is no one's fault but her own."

Daemon ground his teeth in frustration, lowering his sword from Otto's throat only to throw a dangerous glare at Rhaenyra instead - "your sister is lost within the tunnels where dragons feed upon everything with a heartbeat, and you stand here and mock her? You are heartless."

Rhaenyra's face fell, her own heart now stammering with fear as she realised there was a truth to Daemon's words. She had lost her mother such a short time ago, could she truly lose her sister now, too?

"If she is hurt- if she is scared, I will kill you all. I will slaughter you all, and I will show Viserys the truth of my brutality. If there is so much as a scratch up-"

His words came to an abrupt end, halting mid-sentence at the sound of a victorious cry.

Daemon watched in fascination as a black mass emerged from the lip of a cave, climbing high into the sky as it unleashed a violent burst of green flames into the sunlit sky.

He could hear gleeful shrieks and melodic laughter from where he stood, and he could feel the ground shake as a monsterous beast rumbled from its place confined deep within the tunnels.

The violent beast flew overhead, murmurs spreading across as they all watched in fascination as the dragonless princess rode upon the most horrid beast of all and laughed.

There was a softness there, still present despite the beast she rode. One that sounded in her voice and in her laughter. One that sang in her eyes as they crinkled with joy.

Saenyra had conquered a dragon, but she had not lost herself in doing so.

Cannibal circled over Daemon and his army, and Daemon watched in amusement as Otto and his men backed up as far as they could.

Cannibal landed with a quiet thud, his rider grinning with excitement and pride exuding off of her in pretty waves. She slid from his back, scratching his neck as she murmured praises to the beast.

Daemon watched the scene unfold with soft eyes, his heart swelling with pride as he watched Saenyra fret over a vicious beast who submitted to her freely and with ease.

He took a step forward, uncaring of the watchful eyes and bated breaths of those around him.

Saenyra caught his gaze, a gasping laugh sounding from her lips as she moved to meet him halfway. But a glance over his shoulder had her stumbling to a stop.

Daemon knew who she had seen and couldn't stop the guilt that stung his throat and left a bitter taste.

"Rijes aōt, zaldrītsos (congratulations, little dragon)."

Daemon's words were gentle but hesitant. Saenyra could not find it within herself to meet his gaze.

She took a steadying breath, eyes passing over him with great difficulty as she sought the calming gaze of the Lord Hand instead.

Otto nodded to the girl as she eyed him in quiet despair - "Prince Daemon," he began, so quietly Daemon prayed Saenyra could not hear him, "has stolen the dragon egg as a gift to his heir."

Saenyra's eyes flitted back to Daemon as they welled with a betrayal she had no right to feel. And yet, from Daemon's worried gaze and guilty heart, she could not help but feel that perhaps it was not all in her mind, after all.

"His whore, Mysaria is with child. And Daemon is to take her as a second wife."

As Otto concluded his words, he could see how the girl's shoulders tensed and her spine stiffened - he hadn't expected to unveil the truth to her, but as she stared at her uncle with poorly hidden anger he found that it was probably the smartest move he had made.

Saenyra couldn't help but glance at her sister and see how her shoulders had deflated with defeat and how Rhaenyra could not meet her gaze.

Despite everything she had heard, despite the tears that pooled in her eyes and despite the hopes she had hidden deep within her heart that had caved and crumbled, she stepped forward. She closed the gap between Daemon and herself with a stifling sense of formality.

Saenyra stood before him in the image of a poised princess, a stiff smile upon her face as she searched his eyes for something.

They glinted and gleamed and grew dark under her stare, as though he was trying to force every word he could not say aloud into her mind.

"Tepagon se zaldrīzes drōmon, kepus. Let us be done with this. (Give the dragon egg, uncle)."

"Daor (no)."

His voice was quiet - his eyes pleading.

Her breath caught in her throat for a moment, her mind knowing what it was he wanted - what he needed. But her heart was too fragile to concede.

"Ivestragon nyke skoros nyke jorrāelagon naejot rȳbagon (tell me what I need to hear)."

Daemon did not care if Rhaenyra heard him, did not care if the others understood.

He would be exiled, unable to see Saenyra anymore. He knew although he could succeed in this battle, the game of politics that would follow would not work in his favour.

Too many men had sworn their allegiance to Viserys, and now his newest heir - Rhaenyra.

She gave him a strained smile in return, "I cannot upset your wife."

"Ōdrikagon zirȳla mirre ao hae, issa daorun naejot nyke (hurt her all you like, she is nothing to me)."

"And what about me?"

"Brōzagon naejot nyke (call to me)."

Such words were a promise in themselves, a claim if one wished it to be. And from the glimmering darkness in Daemon's eyes, singing with desperation and anger and a plea for understanding, Saenyra let herself reluctantly hope it was.

"Kepus, give me Baelon's egg."

"Kostilus (please)."

"Daemon."

The name came out in a quiet rush, a hushed confession.

His breath caught in his throat, a raging heat battling through his body as his heart trembled and his body singed with relief.

"Daemon," she whispered again, looking into his eyes so pleadingly, "give it to me, Daemon. Prove it to me."

Daemon was ready to kneel for her should she ask it of him. He handed the egg over readily, the fight leaving his body with the same rolling ease his name dripped off her tongue in such erotic rivulets.

As she reached out to take the egg from his grasp, he allowed his fingers to trail over her trembling hands. He rubbed his thumb over the ring she still wore, despite his misgivings, despite his harshness and despite his exile.

She wore this piece of him with pride and adoration. Such a sight made his heart sting with grief, knowing he would have to leave her behind. Knowing he had done nothing but made everything worse.

It had been amusing, yes. It had been a show of power, a show of all the cards he held. But now he knew it was almost over - the Gold Cloaks would retreat and return to King's Landing, and he would be exiled. Never to return, if Otto had it his way.

Saenyra stepped away from him, pulling her hands back as his own fell to his sides.

He sighed as though he was amused and steps closer, hand reaching for her chin as he tilted her head up to meet his warring gaze. He smiles, so gentle and so soft and so kind.

Daemon closes his eyes, placing a soft kiss upon her head and breathing in the scent of her - he would be exiled in truth now, unable to return for years if it was what his brother wished. He would only have this memory of his lips against her skin, his nose buried in the scent of her hair, his hands digging into her soft flesh.

He murmured a promise against her, his voice hushed so no one else could hear - "Nyke kessa māzigon arlī. Kesan māzigon arlī naejot ao. Se pār, kesi kipagon īlva zaldrīzoti naejot ūndegon qilōni's iksis se sȳrje. (I shall come back. I will come back to you. And then, we will ride our dragons to see who's is the best)."

Her eyes fluttered closed at his claim, "kivio? (Promise?)"

"Kivio."

She stepped back from the man, her eyes meeting his in silent mourning. She held the egg close to her chest as she made her way back to her dragon and mounted him, lips pursed as she tried to hold back her tears at the realisation she would likely never see Daemon again.

***

Saenyra returned to the Keep upon dragon-back, soaring the sky with a mourning sense of enjoyment. Perhaps she would not see Daemon again, but her ventures had gained her a dragon.

And such a gift was not one she would be ungrateful for.

Still, she was inexperienced upon dragon-back. Though her beast was adept and gifted with a masterful skill at flight, she had never soared the skies upon a dragon, let alone one so large.

It did not take long for Rhaenyra to catch up to her savage dragon, and it took even less time for her to soar past them and glare down at her with contempt flooding her gaze.

Saenyra grew worried as she drew closer to the Keep - the sky had darkened as a clouded mist settled low on to the soil. She grew anxious as she landed Cannibal on the grounds, eyes flitting across the planes in search of the Lords and Ladies, maids and knights that haunted the Keep, only to see it bare of life.

Cannibal flew off at her beckoning, never one to be tied down to a place so small but ready to find her if she were to call.

She entered the walls of the Keep, the corridors silent as she tiptoed to her room. She slipped into the closest tunnel she could find, her footsteps rushed as she made her way to her chambers.

She knew the secret of her travels would be revealed with Otto's return. Until then, she would take advantage of what she hoped to be Harwin's discretion and the King's ignorance and take a well-deserved rest.

***

It was not long until a flurry of frantic knocks sounded against her chamber doors - she sat up in a hurry, the sheets slipping off of her as all she remained in was the sheer material of her nightdress.

Saenyra stumbled out of her bed, reaching for the latch only to be faced by Alicent.

The girl looked worried, her eyes full of sadness as she frowned at Saenyra softly.

"The King is asking for your attendance at the Counsel, this evening."

Her brows furrowed in confusion, "Father has never asked for my presence at his meetings. Did something happen?"

Had Daemon acted out of turn once again? Had he returned to the Keep despite his exile? Has her father truly grown so angry by her travels outside the Keep?

She was unsure, and unwilling to seek answers to such questions.

"You must come at once, Princess. I fear I am not at liberty to answer your queries."

Saenyra nodded in ascent, understanding Alicent coming to retrieve her may have been a leniency on behalf of her father as well as a well-devised ploy.

She turned back to grab a dressing robe, wrapping it tightly over her bodice as she nodded for Alicent to lead the way. Alicent conceded with one last hesitant glance at the girl.

When they had reached the hall where her father held his Counsel meetings, the doors parted to reveal a truly formidable sight.

Upon his seat, though weakened by his ailings, Viserys was seething - frothing at the mouth as a well-groomed Lord stood beside him with a predatory grin.

It had taken Saenyra only a glance at Rhaenyra's proud face and Otto's sorrowful expression to learn what truth came to light.

Her lips parted, an apology sitting upon the tip of her tongue before her father's brash voice cut off her musings - "here we have her," a dragon's rage pooled in his veins, "my youngest daughter."

"Father..."

She was unsure of what she could have said - the placative words she could have spoken. But Viserys paid her no mind.

"Princess Saenyra is to be your wife, Lord Byrch." Viserys' eyes met his daughters, sharp and unforgiving as he recalled the conversations Rhaenyra whispered in his ears that took place between his youngest daughter and his devious brother - "you are to wed and take my daughter to your lands where she will swell with your children and make me a happy grandsire."

Her eyes burned as his words echoed in her mind, heart sinking in betrayal as she glanced towards Rhaenyra who spoke with a smug tone, "congratulations, dear sister."

Saenyra could hear no more talk of the betrayal that had just taken place, could no longer restrain her cries or hold back her tears.

As the Lord Byrch stepped closer to his awaiting bride, the girl stumbled back as she fled from the room in a flood of emotions.

Viserys' boisterous laughs could be heard echoing through the Keep, "she is but a shy girl, Byrch. Take no offence, you shall get your bride. That I promise."

***

Saenyra did not leave her chamber for several days - taking to dining within the walls of her room where she was safe and away from her traitorous sister and looming husband-to-be.

In those days, it was only Otto whom she allowed to seek her audience; even Harwin, now her Shield and Commander of the Gold Cloaks, barely caught a glimpse of the girl when he would assign his men to keep watch over her.

The man would whisper his disapprovals of the King's decision, acting wary of listening ears and speaking in hushed anger. He would weave tales of her bethrothed's violent nature and greedy hands, of his narrow mind and stubborn heart.

He had laughed as he suggested that the death of her betrothed may be her only saving grace - as though such a proposition was preposterous and only made in jest.

Otto had ingrained upon her an expectation for a horrid future - unloved and hurt and bred like an animal.

That was the life Viserys had chosen for her, and such a realisation wrought her soul with anger and agony. She had known Rhaenyra was the favourite, but to cast Saenyra aside in such a manner made her feel truly unworthy in his eyes.

Perhaps this was why - angered by her father's aversion and terrified by Otto's quiet truths - she had found herself in such a position.

Otto had encouraged the girl to escape the confines of her room, to walk along the corridors of the Keep and, at the very least, find enjoyment in the activities she used to before.

She had agreed, reluctantly. And that very night, she left her rooms through the tunnel, unwilling to be trailed by soldiers that belonged to both Harwin and Daemon.

She found herself in the library, fingers skimming across the spine of large tomes and story books. Her touch was light and airy, her mind quiet in the comfort of the night sky.

But the sound of footfalls drawing closer had her grow keenly wary of her surroundings.

She turned in anticipation, hand falling to her side as she came face-to-face with the man she had been avoiding all this time.

Oh, how the needy and desperate whispers of her mind grew louder wishing it was Daemon she saw.

Instead, in front of her stood the slim and staggering figure of Lord Byrch. There was a grim smirk upon his lips, his voice hushed as he whispered, "my little bride. Oh, how I have been searching for you in all the crevices in the Keep."

She smiled stiffly, "my Lord."

She stepped back, nodding to be polite as she searched for a way around the man and to the door.

There was no escape.

He stepped closer, hands clamping around her waist as he pulled her towards him - so close she could smell the scent of strong ale permeating from his lips.

The man was shameless and crude, stuffing his face into the hollow of her throat as he took deep breaths and groaned roughly at her sweet scent.

Her hands came to push against his shoulders, but the man did not relent. He stumbled forward so he could press her against a table and lave at the delicate skin of her neck.

He hummed at the taste of her, groaning in her ear in a fervent breath - "I cannot wait to make you my bride and fuck you. I cannot wait to fill you with my children and make sure you never leave my bed without my cum dripping from that sweet cunt of your's."

She cried out in disgust, her hands reaching back to brace herself against the table as he grew hurried and frantic. He began to pull up the fabric of her dress, her heart sinking in dread as her eyes stung with tears.

Her hands reached for something, grasping at anything she could use to scare this monster away.

Her fingers wrapped around a thin and delicate item, and it only took a glance back to see the silver sheen of a letter opener held tight in her grasp.

It was at the sight of such a lacklustre weapon hope began to bubble in the pit of her stomach as her breath was stolen from her in preparation of such a feat - an opportunity.

Her heart sung with rage as a guttural cry escaped her, and the weapon in her hand found its place in his shoulder. The foul beast of a man reared back, and as he cried out in agony, she could hear a fierce cry shatter through the quiet of the night as though it shared in her pain and agony - Cannibal.

At the sound of his angered roars, she felt the dragon within her come to life, a disastrous blaze flooding through her as rage took over fear.

Saenyra was angry.

So angry.

Angry at Daemon. At her sister. At her father. And this pathetic excuse of a man who thought himself worthy of marrying her. Of touching her.

With a battle cry, she ripped the blade from his flesh, throwing herself at him and knocking him to the ground as her body moved with a mind of its own. She wailed upon the man as her screams gave way to mourning cries and the aches of a thousand days washed upon her and all the agony she felt, all the grief, was poured into a deserving beast.

Hands wrapped around her body, her dress tainted red as blood seeped deep into her clothes and burned her skin with feral delight. She fought against the touch, reaching forward after her prey as her mind went mad with hunger.

The arms only held her tighter, wrenching the blade from her grasp and casting it aside as they turned her towards a solid chest and hushed quietly in her ears.

Her breaths came back to her in quiet huffs, her racing heart settled as it was finally quiet once again.

"Princess," Saenyra stiffened at the voice, eyes glancing up to meet the determined gaze of the Shield she had escaped for far too long.

Harwin met her gaze, determination giving way to a kind softness as he frowned softly at the blood splattered against the girl's face. His hands reached up to her face, rubbing against the wet liquid and smearing it across her cheeks, making her seem like a blushing bride who awaited eagerly for her husband's embrace.

But Lord Byrch was dead.

His body mutilated, his face unrecognisable.

Harwin felt his own heart race in anger at the thought that the Princess would have been hurt whilst under his charge, his protection.

He gritted his teeth as he strained his mind for a plan - "I accompanied you to the library," he began, his voice lowered and his words fast as his eyes darted towards the door, hoping it would be his Gold Cloaks who arrived first and not the Kingsguards.

"Then Lord Byrch came and asked for a listening ear - which you granted him. He spoke of treasonous plans after your wedding, and when you refused, he grew mad. So I killed him."

She eyed the soldier in fascination, wondering why he would lie on her behalf about a deed so grave.

"I killed him. Did you hear me, Princess?"

She held her breath as she nodded, confusion still clouding her eyes.

"Repeat it back to me."

She began in a whisper, hands tightening around his arms as she continued, "you killed him. You killed him because he planned to act against my father. He was going to hurt me, so you killed him."

"Good. Good, you're doing so well. Leave this to me, I shall handle this."

"Harwin," her voice shook as she protested such a thing, tears tracking down her face as her hands trembled at the realisation of what she had done.

Saenyra had killed a Lord. She had murdered her intended husband.

But he had deserved it.

Still, she had taken a life.

"I am your sworn Shield. When I took such a position, I vowed to protect you with every inch of life I have within me. Allow me to do my duty, Princess. Allow me to protect you."

Saenyra threw her arms around his neck, heaving sobs against him as he held her tight and turned her away from the gruesome scene she had created.

Otto had found them in such a position only moments later, eyes growing dark with understanding as he realised what must have occured.

It was safe to say Harwin escaped with such a deed unpunished, and Saenyra grew to trust her Shield just as she grew to trust Otto.

Her heart grew discontent to sit with her sister and listen to her father's demands, but even her disheartened feelings towards them would not stop the fact her father sought another husband for the girl to wed.

Saenyra could only hope he failed in such a mission of his.

Saenyra could only hope Daemon would return before Viserys succeeded in his ventures, and Rhaenyra celebrated her departure.

Thank you to everyone who enaged with this series, I cannot wait to write more chapters!!

Taglist: @marihoneywk @ahristata @gracielikegrapes @luanasrta @pet1t3 @serving-targaryen-realness @tojigirl @do-it-for-kicks @aprosiacperson @moongirl27 @xcharlottemikaelsonx @bogbutteronmycroissant

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targeryan #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen x targaryen!reader #daemon targaryen x y/n #daemon targaryen angst #daemon targaryen fanfic #hotd x reader #hotd fandom #hotd fanfic #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd x oc #harwin strong #otto hightower #dance of shadows

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angeart · 3 months ago

Text

hhau mimic arc rambles - part IV: the inbetween (make the danger feel good)

(~11 k words) // other parts & au masterpost here

there's a bunch of things in this one that might make some people want to skip it. please be aware this tips into suggestive stuff (ok maybe a notch beyond the line, but nothing too explicit). there's certainly intimacy, nudity (that was there all along but now we Pay Attention To It) and more prominent cws would probably be... everything around vex instincts. so mentions of: blood, biting, consensual violence, blood/fear-play, prey-play?? they're deranged. i tried to keep it as tame as possible lol but be aware those are the topics and tones.

in case you skip this one, just know this is when scar and grian start to be truly intimate, and this is when grian gets the mating bite from scar (neither of them are aware that's what it is; there's a whole bunch of bites.) (dEranged.) also, there's more wing touches.

rp based, so wordy. <3 this follows directly after the wing spiral so we're still in the hotspring cave

---

The moment slowly tips into something else as they both lay on the spread-out cloak, fire crackling behind Grian’s back, his still somewhat-damp wing slung gingerly across Scar.

It all drags at Scar’s heartstrings, watching as Grian navigates his way through the maze back to something sensible, something more like himself. Freckles barely show in the flickering light, eyes dark and shiny from recent emotions, a bruised spot on his lip from nervous biting. Grian’s hair falls around him in soft, golden strands, fire painting over them with copper.

“You’re…” Scar stops, almost scared to finish the sentence. It feels like they’ve reached a comfortable silence after what felt like literal hours of agony. But he’s already broken it, so— He tucks his head into Grian’s hand, smothering the words into his palm. “… so beautiful.”

He looks at Grian’s eyes when he says it. No part of his wings, even though he means to include every bit of him. But he needs Grian to know he means it whether the feathers are included or not.

A swell of emotions rushes through Grian at that; he isn’t sure how to react, all he knows is he feels heat and tingling, and it’s so, so very different from the tingling of that numbness from earlier. This is nervous, skittish, warm, present. He feels rooted to the moment, to the softness of Scar’s eyes and his breath against Grian’s palm and—

And he feels like Scar is a hot spring and Grian is floating, melting into it.

“You can’t— You can’t say that,” he sputters, not quite able to pull forth any better quips than something stumbling and lost and irredeemably flustered. “What do you even mean.”

As soon as he says that, he realises those words might be a mistake. He doesn’t want Scar to answer.

Grian’s mind spins for something else to jump to, and he blurts out, ridiculously: “It’s because you washed my hair.” (He doesn’t quite remember that either. He regrets falling asleep so fast, although he can’t deny he slept so well, even if only briefly. He… really needed that.)

“Mm,” Scar mumbles into Grian’s palm again, buzzing his lips there. “No, I thought that before I washed your hair, too.” He was meaning not to say something embarrassing again, but failed completely.

Grian’s mind snags on the way Scar’s words feel against his palm, a riveting, delightful experience that he wishes to relive a million times. His thumb gingerly brushes across the heated skin of Scar’s cheek, but he keeps his palm in place, ready to catch any and all words that might spill out of Scar’s lips.

“You’re silly and sappy,” Grian accuses, but it sounds so achingly soft and fond.

Scar changes his mind almost instantly about not saying embarrassing things, seeking out more of that softness Grian’s voice holds— that simplicity and affection. He’ll keep saying embarrassing things if he gets that. It’s worth it.

“This is true,” he admits easily. “But I’m also right.”

Craning his neck, Grian leans in to place a kiss against Scar’s face, tender and loving. (He’s weaving all the gratitude into it, all the affection, all the apologies and forgiveness all at once.) “You’re also ridiculous,” he adds, a little bit cheekily, but it again carries no bite, words made of cotton and warmth.

His wing shifts higher, covering their upper torsos and faces, dunking them into more darkness—something that instantly makes Grian sleepy. The fire crackles behind his back, somewhat still keeping up, although definitely in need of more fuel.

Grian doesn’t want to move.

“Also true.” Scar nods. “Thank you for noticing.”

There’s an unsaid thank you for so many more things in the way Scar delivers the line so seriously: Thank you for speaking to me. Thank you for shielding us with your wings. Thank you for going along with my shenanigans.

Thank you for being here.

Scar wants to fall asleep then and there, unperturbed by the mess of remaining concerns that still plague them, but he tries to be the strong one here. “…I should fuel the fire. Maybe set up a small perimeter so we can both get some sleep?”

He wants to sleep beside Grian. He doesn’t want to take turns keeping watch.

And isn’t that a wonderful thought? For both of them to be able to sleep at the same time, curled up together by a warm fire?

They don’t get that often.

Grian latches onto that hope, pushing his fatigued body up as he gingerly releases Scar from the cocoony hold of his wing. He offers to help even though his mind still feels a little slow, body a little off; if he can assist Scar and make this happen, then he wants to do it.

Scar gets up reluctantly, but he’s pleasantly surprised how little his muscles protest after the nice soothing bath they received. That’s a rarity. He directs Grian to check up on the fire while he’ll make some walls, promising cuddles at the end of it.

The idea of that sort of reward makes pushing through their exhaustion and putting in the effort worth it.

Tending the fire isn't a skill they needed on Hermitcraft, but through trial and error, they learned the best ways to distribute fuel materials for the most efficiency and the least smoke. It comes to Grian easily now, automatic, and notably it takes much less time than wall building.

Once satisfied, Grian looks over at Scar, asking if he should help with the wall. After all, the faster they're done, the faster they can cuddle.

Scar nods, noting he’s sleepy and he might miss spots. A second pair of eyes to check after him would be good, and any help is certainly appreciated, especially since it’s their safety at stake here. He’s using a bit of a hodgepodge arrangement of materials, just doing the minimum to keep mobs out, but it’ll do, as long as they do it properly.

Grian pushes himself to his feet; his wings feel a little strange, and he can't quite tell why, but he swerves away from thinking about it. His muscles feel weak, wanting to go back to blissful resting, looking forward to sleep. A faint lightheadedness hits him at the first step, but a short pause and a deep breath is enough to chase it away.

He slots himself next to Scar, reaching to take some materials from him. As soon as he's in his orbit, Scar can’t help but reach over and lightly touch him on the waist, pulling him in for a brief, only slightly-awkward kiss. He smiles, toothy and real, before handing off some of his materials, whistling to himself like it didn’t happen as he turns back around.

Grian can't help but adore and crave the easy intimacy; the way he's reached for and tugged and kissed, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He gravitates towards Scar in return, peeking at him and quietly studying his expression as Scar whistles and works.

There isn't terribly much needed to do with the walls, and Grian fixes up his end to the best of his capabilities given his energy level, then makes sure to look over Scar's work as requested, too, making sure they don't miss something due to fatigue. (Mistakes are too costly here. They can’t afford them.)

When they're done, Grian clicks his tongue appraisingly. "It's not a terracotta shack, but it'll do."

Scar snickers, highly amused by the callback. “Yeah, it might actually be uglier. I should put up a sign for any googlies to leave a review.” He slips in behind Grian and kisses the top of his head, wrapping his arms around his waist. “Mmm, warm clothes?”

Grian shifts his wings gently out of the way, but he itches to press himself against Scar, so he clumsily turns around in his loose grip, trying to maintain some space for his feathers as he goes.

Somehow, now that this is all very intentional, without the mental fog and fresh tears and jumbled cravings, this feels more intimate. Their bare chests are near each other, reverberating with heartbeats and moving with their breaths, and there's so much skin and—

Timidly, Grian's fingers find Scar's waist, a featherlight touch exploring upwards, fingertips counting across the lower ribs.

He leans in and presses a soft kiss to Scar's jaw. "Mm." His head tips and he rests his forehead against the spot he's just kissed. His hand travels higher, across Scar's chest, to his shoulder, mapping out his skin. "Warm clothes," he agrees, even though nothing about his actions suggests that.

Scar shivers at the drawn out touch over his bare skin, ears flicking wildly as his heart stutters in his chest for a moment. Sure, he’s no stranger to walking about without a shirt, but people don’t typically touch—

He rather likes it when Grian does, however.

Not nearly as bold, Scar settles for tracing small shapes over Grian’s sides, gentle and reverent. “And warm cuddles,” he adds, also not making any move to do so.

Grian hums at Scar's touch; on nothing but wishful instinct, he moves closer, trying to get deeper into Scar's hold. (He wants Scar's hands to wrap around him. To envelop him fully and properly.) (He wants to be held.) (He wants to be wanted, in a way so wholly different from what this world demands.)

He tips his head and presses a kiss to the side of Scar's throat as his fingertips dance from Scar's shoulders across his collarbone. He likes this. Being able to trace paths across Scar's skin. To, hopefully, provide him with something that can touch him without causing pain and scarring.

The air is cold on the back of his neck, and he figures Scar is not any better off, without having the extra fluff of feathers shielding his spine. He tucks a small sigh against the hollow of Scar's throat, because he knows he should pull away. He knows they should get dressed. His legs feel weak underneath him, craving a bed. (There's no bed here)

"Yeah... Yeah. Let's go get some rest."

He's still not moving to make any of it happen.

Scar really doesn’t want Grian to let go of him right now (nor does he want to let go), so he’s glad Grian is yet to make a move to leave. He’s tired and cold and wants to go to sleep, but after the absolute rollercoaster back and forth of emotions, Scar is too attached to this moment of serenity.

In a spur of stubborn refusal, Scar strengthens his grip and lifts, hoisting Grian up just enough so that maybe he can walk them both over. He pulls the avian tight, letting him secure his balance onto him.

And it’s silly, because they’re really not even that far from the fire— and they still need to separate to put on their clothes. They’re still only in their underwear, which makes Scar’s ears twitch again when it occurs to him.

But it’s worth it.

Just a little more contact.

He needs it so bad.

Grian lets out a delighted chirp in surprise as Scar's hold on him tightens, and then— then he loses contact with the ground. He tips forward, easily trusting Scar with his weight, and he giggles quietly against the crook of Scar's neck. His wings unfurl, instinctively seeking out balance. (He doesn't remember when was the last time they felt free to do this; to give in to instincts.) (He isn't even paying attention to them, not really aware that it is happening.)

Without complaint, he presses himself against Scar, and oh, this is different. This is skin on skin. This is—

“Mhm, off to sleep with us!” Scar cheers as he presses Grian close to his chest.

Grian wraps his arms around Scar's shoulders and stays close, heart hammering against his chest in a way that Scar's surely bound to feel, right against his own ribcage. He coos in a flustered encouragement at Scar's statement. Off to sleep. (He'd go anywhere Scar takes him right now. He'd stay anywhere Scar puts him. He'd be anywhere Scar wants him.)

Maybe the earlier struggle was all worth it if Scar gets to hear those sweet little chirps pressed into his neck and feel Grian’s heartbeat against his own fluttering chest. Past anxieties forgotten, Scar is entirely smitten. He feels warm even though logically he shouldn’t. He hums a jaunty tune while he walks them both back over to the fire, pleased with himself and the entirely unnecessary decision to carry Grian.

And Grian happily lets himself be carried, even though he could’ve easily taken those four steps himself. He isn’t carried out of necessity (for once). He’s being carried because Scar wants to carry him, wants to hold him, wants to keep him pressed close. It warms Grian, too. It makes him feel cherished and safe.

But he’s always been made of mischief, and he can’t help it. He tips his head, lips brushing over the skin of Scar’s throat, and then he’s baring his teeth, letting them come into the gentlest contact with the skin. (Just to tease.) (Just for the reaction.) (His hold on Scar tightens just in case he’s about to be dropped in response.)

Scar’s legs wobble as he muffles a tiny yelp, but he’s been trained to deal with Grian’s tendency toward menace, so he does manage to stay on his feet and keep his grip.

If he dips just a little and lightly pinches at Grian’s sides though? Deserved.

“Youuuu…” Scar warns, attempting to growl even though it comes out purely silly. “You love to tempt fate, don’t you?”

Grian takes a sharp breath and squirms as Scar dips, holding onto him. (Even if Scar did want to drop him, Grian refuses to go easily.) At Scar's light disgruntlement, Grian huffs out a breathless laugh, all of it right against Scar's pulsepoint. His teeth are back on Scar's skin, still gentle, but he does apply a little bit more pressure this time, cheekily.

"Maybe I do." He sounds entirely too cheerful and unbothered, another quiet laughter broken against Scar's throat.

“Mmmm,” Scar grumbles, holding back a full-body shiver. It’s definitely the chill. Definitely.

In retaliation, Scar takes one large step to finish their path to the fire, then dips Grian even lower, threatening to plop him back down on the cloak. “Then accept your fate, you rascal!” Scar cackles, wriggling his fingers at Grian’s sides to try to get him to forcibly let go and fall the rest of the way down to the floor.

Grian laughs openly now—at Scar's attempts to get him off. At his grumbles. At being called a rascal. He delights in it and stays stubbornly clinging to Scar, wrapping his legs around him for extra security.

"I like to tempt fate, Scar, not accept it," he informs him all too giddily, voice still heavily tinged by laughter. "And you can't get rid of me."

Scar snickers, amused by his new clinging bird accessory. “Ah, I wouldn’t dream of it, but—“ He exaggeratively sways from side to side like he’s trying to shake Grian off (he’s really not). “—pesky birds deserve retribution!”

Grian still holds on, unwilling to lose. He cranes his neck, on his way to the next mayhem. "Well then you're going to have to try harder," he lectures. And he lightly squeezes Scar's earlobe in his teeth. (It's not his fault it was so perfectly within reach.) (It's not his fault he has zero impulse control when he gets pesky.)

Scar opens his mouth to say something in return, but all that comes out is a flustered squeak. His face properly flushes as his ear attempts to flick out of reach. ”Griannn!!” he whines, embarrassment obvious in his tone. He’s released his hands at this point, but Grian’s grip is all too secure. So now his hands wave about in the air pathetically, unable to decide on exactly what retribution is in order for Grian.

Grian laughs, a bright, joyful, unbridled cackle pressed against the sensitive patch of skin directly under Scar's ear. His wings flap lightly (the fire flickers momentarily, sparks sent flying, explosive like Grian's soul) at the loss of Scar's hold as he rebalances himself, but remains clingily wrapped against Scar, not budging. "Yes, Scar?" he hums innocently.

Scar finally settles on some form of revenge, bringing out his claws and trailing a very long drag of his nails up Grian’s spine, careful not to actually scratch— just a graze, just a tickle, just a suggestion. He can’t go too far without risking touching the wings, but he does what he can. Grumbles again in response to the innocent hum from a very not innocent bird. “Menace,” he breathes out, still somewhat dazed.

Grian doesn't even try not to shudder under the graze of Scar's claws; he's sure Scar can feel the way he took in breath, then held it in, too. The uptick of his heart rams against Scar's ribs as Grian presses closer, an instinctual back-arch to the sensation.

He still manages to laugh again, a breathless little thing. "Your menace, though."

And it's surprisingly easy, to give himself over to Scar, in a world where everyone wants to own a part of him.

Scar stops that slow drag of claws, settling somewhere in the middle of Grian’s back and instead tapping them there as he hums out what comes across a bit too much like a low growl. It’s not meant to be threatening— it’s not even meant to come out at all, really— it was supposed to be an exaggerated groan, but it instead comes off as a deeply satisfied confirmation.

“Mine,” Scar concedes, voice barely a whisper, before remembering they’re meant to be teasing. “… Lucky me.”

Except he’s still not kidding.

And yet despite the fondness with which Scar means it, there's an instant swell of something ugly in Grian at the words lucky me, a razor-edged impulse to make Scar regret those words, to show him just how wrong he is— but he swallows it all down, in a moment of uncharacteristic quiet after all the giggling. He presses himself closer to Scar, takes a deep breath, tries to claw his way back to that pesky playfulness from just seconds ago.

Instead of more teasing, he tips into tenderness. His hold loosens, and he presses his lips to the side of Scar's neck.

He isn't sure Scar understands just how his Grian is.

A breathless half-chuckle leaves him despite himself. And he can't help but ask, quietly, edging shyness. "Does that mean you're mine...?" He's okay with the answer being no. He'll still be Scar's, heart and soul. But... He just wants to know. To hear Scar say it. "My ridiculous person?" These words come easier, softer, more playful.

Scar’s hands shift back to holding Grian, claws fading away into harmlessness. He tries to lean his head back to see him, to look at him as the words fall into place so easily. But Grian doesn't let him pull away, doesn't let him move to see his face; he burrows, hiding himself in the crook of Scar's neck. His wings fold—still loose, instead of what they're used to—feathers slotting over Scar's skin without a hassle.

Scar doesn’t mind Grian’s insistence on keeping his face pressed close. He likes that as well. In fact, he gives up on dropping Grian down at all and plops himself onto the cloak with Grian still attached.

“Always,” he replies, voice still low and grainy, but filled to the brim with affection. “Always yes.”

"Always," Grian echoes quietly, and the word leaves his tongue like something precious and fragile.

Feeling sappy, as usual, Scar tacks on, “… Have been for a while.”

Words line themselves up in Grian's mind like poison, things to fight back and argue with, to explain that this is not going to be good for Scar. That he really, really isn’t lucky for this.

He swallows them all down. This isn't about that. This isn't and shouldn't be about that.

Scar is saying something incredibly fond, and Grian shouldn't try to destroy it.

His wings press tighter, feathers still slumped right over Scar's arms.

"... Can we keep it that way...?" he asks in the end.

“Mm, I’d like to, yes.” Scar nods, teeth clacking as he grows a big grin. He takes one hand to fumble for Grian’s sweater.

"Okay." Grian pauses, and then adds in a soft murmur: "Me too." He feels Scar move, but doesn't process what he's reaching for. Grian just stays clinging to him, placated by Scar's words and his hold.

Scar brings the warm fabric over to their bare skin. It makes him giggle slightly at the heat, because it means at least one of his ideas tonight was good. “Here,” he says as he pushes the sweater in between them for the warmth. “As much as I’d love to offer to help you dress—“ he clicks his teeth again in amusement. “—might be a little difficult.”

Taking the soft, warm fabric, Grian puffs his cheeks in an overdramatic pout. "Don't need help, I know how to dress myself." That being said, he still doesn't let go of his wrap around Scar, even though this isn't the best position for putting clothes on.

“Oh I know, but I like to touch you,” Scar goads, grinning innocently.

Grian's cheeks heat up, the words spurring him enough to pull away just to be able to look at Scar, wide-eyed and flustered. "You wh—"

“Hm?” Scar continues to grin, innocent as ever. He looks over Grian, seeing the red trickle over his cheeks. “Oh I think you heard me, but I can repeat myself if you want?” Now that he has the chance, he leans his face in close to Grian, even completing the act with a goofy wink.

"No!" Grian immediately says as his hands fling up, covering Scar's mouth just in case he'd do it anyway, and oh, it's good that Scar is sitting down and holding Grian, because if they were still up, Grian'd definitely fall. His wings fling out anyway, just in case, gathering his balance. The sweater pools between them, a warm barrier between their chests. "That— You don't have to repeat it," Grian blabbers, red.

Scar kisses the palms that cover his mouth, several times like an attack to free himself from the hand prison. He muffles into them as well in between kisses: “But I want to!”

"Scaaaar," Grian groans, and he releases Scar from his hold, only to bury his own very red and very warm face in his freshly-free palms.

Scar follows those hands despite just being freed, kissing them again now that they cover Grian’s face. “I mean you’re not making a lot of progress putting on your sweater— are you sure you don’t want help?” His hands find their way to Grian’s chest, pressing lightly right in the middle.

Grian's heart positively skips a beat, a tiny squeak leaving him at the offer. He's dissipating, too flustered to really form words.

He wants to scold Scar again.

He wants to tell him he's fine, he can dress himself.

He wants to tell him that, actually, yes, Scar can help, whatever that help would actually mean.

Instead he just grumbles something incoherent and flustered into his palms.

Still feeling playfully devious, Scar slides his hands up Grian’s chest over to his bare arms, grabbing slightly and pulling them upward. His movements are needlessly slow and incredibly drawn-out. “Well it would help if you raised your arms like this…” he teases, far too pleased with himself for the shade of red that’s spreading across Grian’s skin

Grian's palms are still pressed to his face, the angle Scar tugs at slightly awkward, but it doesn't make the explosion of sensations rushing through him any weaker. Scar's touch is so delicate, so slow, Grian can't help but go insane under it.

He makes more incomprehensible noises into his palms. His arms shiver under Scar's fingertips. The hold of his palms over his face relents a little bit, not because he doesn't want to be hidden anymore, but because everything in him yearns to give in to Scar's guidance, no matter Scar's goals.

Gingerly, the palms leave Grian’s face, his arms lifting the littlest bit. His eyes shine, flooded by some deep, rich and raw—and entirely flustered—emotion. His lips are slightly parted, cheeks flushed— and then his earwings fling to take the spot his hands occupied just a moment ago, hiding him away from Scar's gaze in a flash.

Scar’s entire plan comes to a stumbling halt when he sees Grian’s face. His eyes are shamelessly drawn to Grian’s lips, the way they hang open ever so slightly, framed by reddened cheeks and accented freckles.

He’s momentarily stunned, enamored by the gorgeous sight before him, but it’s stolen away all too soon. And with the earwings no less, so he can’t exactly pry them off.

He decides to drag his hands back down to settle in the dip of Grian’s shoulders, no longer fooling either of them into believing this has anything to do with helping. “Hey—“ he starts, unsure of what to say exactly, but gosh does he want to see Grian’s face again. “Don’t hide from me,” he croons, voice low and sultry.

Scar's touch is electrifying, sending sparking signals across Grian's body, something culminating in the pit of his stomach. He's asked not to hide, but his embarrassment only rises, at the implication that revealing himself would mean being plunged straight to being seen, Scar's eyes surely intense and scrutinising.

He whines a little, breathing deeply but shakily against Scar's hands.

And then he shifts the earwings, just a little bit, half-obliding, peeking through the feathers.

Scar is about to complain, insist Grian show his entire face, but this is even cuter and he can hardly handle it. His expression shifts into something softer, adoring. Instead of his drawling voice from before, confident and insistent, Scar speaks timidly, an easy smile spread across his face. “… Hi, pretty.”

Grian huffs against his feathers; his earwings twitch, wanting to go back to shielding him as embarrassment swirls in between his ribs, spreading incessant warmth through his face.

But he is drawn to Scar, like a damned moth to a flame, and he can't pry his eyes away from the soft fondness in Scar's green ones. "Hi," he returns, voice cracking.

Scar leans down to place a kiss on Grian’s chin where his feathers don’t quite reach. He wants to say so many things, keep showering Grian with compliments, but he spares him. He lingers close to Grian’s lips with a sly smile, eyes flickering up to meet his. “… Your sweater’s gonna get cold.”

With Scar this close, Grian's earwings twitch a little bit more out of the way—not out of unwillingness to brush against Scar, but because— Well. Grian's tightening stomach has something to say about Scar hovering so close to his lips.

"Don't care." it's hushed, but entirely dismissive. Grian’s eyes roam across Scar's face, returning the favour of lingering at the sight of his lips, taking in the curvature of them, remembering how soft and warm they feel pressed against his skin.

Scar grins when Grian doesn’t take the out, so he doesn’t waste any time capturing those lips from him, desperate and yearning. His fingertips dig into the soft skin directly next to his neck, pulling Grian in as close as he can.

Grian leans in easily, without resistance, meeting Scar back. His earwings fall completely away from his face, his eyes closing. His own hands find their spots on the sides of Scar's face.

Without breaking the kiss, Scar grabs at the sweater and places it next to them and the fire, not necessarily with the idea to keep it warm, but simply so there’s nothing in their way— Scar likes it when their skin brushes together. It’s vulnerable and exciting all at once, something satisfying about baring yourself for someone in a world that would normally punish such foolishness.

His hands are back on Grian in an instant, and he closes his eyes as he traces over more of that skin, exploring and teasing all the same.

Entranced, Grian hums against Scar's lips. He shifts, tracing kisses from the corner of his mouth down across his cheek and jaw, until he finds his spot right under Scar's ear. One of his hands slides back, fingers dragging over the back of Scar's neck until they reach his hairline and dip in.

It's tantalising, to be this vulnerable and open. To have his skin, soft and defenceless, right under Scar's fingertips to map and do whatever he pleases with. To trust Scar fully, boundlessly.

He doesn't want to stop.

"Scar." He breathes his name right there, on that sensitive patch of skin that he so adores. Right under Scar’s ear.

Intimacy wraps around them, tiny step by a tiny step and then suddenly all at once.

They give in, drunkenly following its lead, forgetting all about the world that wants to relentlessly hunt them down, take apart their bodies for nothing more than bloodied trophies that will gather dust.

Instead, they take each other apart in a completely different way. Entranced by their closeness, their skin heated, they familiarise themselves with a whole new vocal range of sounds that draw out of their throats, exploring what they have to offer. Giving and taking and unravelling.

Somewhere amidst it all, early on in this game they’ve invented for each other, Scar runs into the wall of impulsiveness that buzzes underneath his skin, begging for more. Because Grian is a daring menace, insinuating Scar should put him in his place if he doesn’t like his pesky retaliations. Telling him to do something about it if he finds it unfair, while his wings lift, half-unfolding.

It’s a gesture made on instinct of Grian’s dazed mind, coaxing him to put his feathers on display in a situation where he feels completely safe and equally completely besides himself. The violet hue, freshly cleaned, dances with various shades in the firelight.

Scar’s eyes are instantly drawn in by the lifting feathers framing Grian, firelight dancing across Grian's skin and wings alike— Scar is so doomed. He feels entranced, so entangled by the myriad of sensations and desires that he almost doesn’t register how his fingers gravitate to the feathers.

He stops himself quickly, breathing out a wisp of blue, and refocuses on a patch of freckles that spread across Grian’s chest as he processes what he almost did on instinct alone.

He wanted to touch. He wanted to touch so badly. He hasn’t seen Grian’s wings shine so brightly in months, or seen him bare the undersides like that to him ever before. He’s not sure what that means in bird body language, but he was almost certain it was an invitation.

But he would never forgive himself if he messed this moment up.

If he messed that up again.

(It’s not fair that he can’t unravel Grian the same way Grian can with a nip to his sensitive vex ears. Scar wants to hear what kind of sounds Grian would make if he raked his fingers through his wings. Would it feel as good as Grian’s hands do in his hair? Better?)

Scar shudders, expelling those thoughts before he entirely spirals. The treacherous hand finds its way to Grian’s chest, tracing a pattern into those newly discovered freckles. His eyes flick back up, meeting Grian’s with a complicated expression— it’s one of slight conflict, immense adoration, but more than anything, intense desire.

“…careful what you wish for there, G,” he says, restrained.

Grian hums, shuddering slightly under the touch of Scar's fingertips mapping out patterns on his skin. A purr-like coo makes it out of his throat, and his wings lift the littlest bit again, positioning themselves so perfectly within reach.

His head is muddled, thoughts dragged through velvet that so softly covers up rationality and leaves behind something gently ravaging, able to pull the string and let him unknot into a puddle. But even through that, he is able to catch that torn expression Scar has, something not quite right in his eyes, the words almost a warning.

He can't decipher it.

He leans away; his wings stay where they are, half curled around them, a brillaintly violet feathery offering. His hips don't move either; it's just his upper back, making his spine arch. (He wants Scar's claws to rake over that curve—) He's watching Scar carefully, even though the firelight continues dancing across his dark irises in endless, unspooling want.

"If it's unfair," he says, voice low, quiet, a purring string for Scar to follow. (He's always been good at pressing buttons. At not knowing limits. At trying and testing and teasing.) "Then do something about it," he suggests, because he doesn't know why Scar is looking so horribly conflicted, and he doesn't want this to be unfair; it should be mutual, and he's welcoming Scar to take, to even out the playing field. (He'd even let him tip the scales completely, if that's what Scar wants.)

Scar does drag his other hand up that curve Grian’s making for him, although with no claws involved. He feels the dip in Grian’s back, that divot where he can rake his fingers over his spine.

Another breath, another wisp of blue smoke.

Scar’s claws emerge and he has to actively pull his fingers up to avoid scratching.

It’s not fair because while Grian can lean into his instincts, use them as a familiar crutch, a display of trust and warmth— Scar’s not nearly so fortunate. Letting his vex urges surface would mean violence and danger and taking and— god Scar wants to take.

And Grian is egging him on. His fingers twitch with want, tapping their pointed nails against soft, bare skin. If only Grian knew what he was asking for right now…

Scar’s hopelessly pulled along by that alluring string, that low purr that escapes from Grian’s throat. He thinks, dazedly, that maybe Grian does know.

Especially since the drag of Scar's fingers—that moment of them shifting into claws—makes Grian arch more. Not away from it, but into it, encouraging, needy.

He knows what Scar is. He knows he's made of sharp things, claws that can tear and teeth that can bite.

He doesn't care.

He wants Scar, and he wants all of him, and—

His thoughts are slipping from him, dazed and lost in some deep, raw want that pulls him under.

“Always a fan of the resistance, huh?” Scar’s tone is rough, not unlike a low, warning growl.

Grian can’t help but grin, ever so cheeky, mayhem running wild in his veins. Scar was always the first one to witness this part of Grian. Whenever there's a spark of mischief, Grian feels drawn to him, wants him to see it, to catch on fire together with him.

And maybe Scar is. Catching on fire together with Grian. Because the next thing Grian knows, he's pushed back, he's pushed down, and—

He's a fan of resistance, but he gives to this so willingly. His eyes never leave Scar's as he lets Scar's hands dictate the way gravity shifts around him. His thighs remain wrapped around Scar even as his back lowers, wings spreading across the ground. (He spares one mindful thought to shift his wing to avoid the campfire. The feathers flutter, instead, near Scar's skin, wing curved upwards, almost brushing his shoulder.)

He lays down, and he wonders, does this make it fair?

Or is there more?

He looks up at Scar, his heart wild in his chest but expression calm and endlessly fond. Waiting for the next step. Licking his parted lips, waiting to see what happens, wordlessly inviting Scar to do more.

Scar’s eyes dart from the wing that curves around them back to Grian’s face when he sees Grian’s tongue slide over his lips. Shamelessly, he finds himself mirroring the motion, green gaze hungry.

"It felt good, you know," Grian murmurs, and it's the quietest thing. (He means the claws. The growls. The way Scar pushes and skirts taking more.) "It all does."

Grian’s words scream at Scar to let go, to let loose and see what it is exactly that he wants so desperately from Grian right now.

Although he’s pretty sure he knows.

He plants one hand firmly beside Grian’s head, using it to hold his weight, then uses the other to cup Grian's chin, two claws tilting his head while the others graze across his throat.

Scar leans in closer, ghosting their lips together. “Still good?” he asks, though his voice seems so far away, like he’s floating astray as his resolve grows ever thinner. Instead of kissing him, Scar ducks down lower, pressing his lips just above Grian’s collarbone, kissing roughly enough to threaten a bruise.

The way Grian succumbs to Scar's touch is so simple. Through all the resistance in his soul, none is reserved for Scar right now; he's surrendered, a willing participant in the fate Scar strings up around them like a sticky, inescapable spiderweb. Grian's baring his neck, not shying from the claws; the most he does is let out a shaky breath, a tingle of promising excitement shooting through him like fireworks.

He feels lightheaded in the best of ways.

"Good," he confirms, more a coo than a word, but the fraying string of vowels still makes sense.

It’s a dangerous game they’re playing, and they’re both aware of it. And they’re both still choosing to continue hurtling down this path.

The rein Scar has on his vex side demanding he takes more slackens, falls out of his grip at Grian’s goading tug. He lets out a low hum against Grian’s throat before slacking his jaw and biting. His fangs hook into the skin above his collarbone, threatening to break skin, but not quite yet. No blue magic escapes Scar’s mouth this time, only hot and heavy breath in between roughly teething at Grian’s soft skin, reeling at the feeling of blood coursing so close to his fangs. Instead the haze trickles across his irises, eyes flickering blue as he indulges instead of resists.

Grian's head is quickly becoming a mess, but it's a mess in the best of ways. There's not a smidge of fear under his skin, and oh, isn't that something. It's entirely replaced by craving, by this submissive need to push Scar over the edge and take everything Scar gives him— and, equally, let Scar take everything he wants.

Intoxicatingly vulnerable, Grian offers no defences, leaving himself wide open, tempting Scar to continue. The pain sparks, but it translates to pleasure; it says good good good, it makes Grian want to press closer to Scar, it makes him want to keep his neck bared, it makes him want to sink his own, dull fingernails into Scar's skin just to let him know that this feels wonderful.

A dizzying thought hits Grian, a hazy wondering if Scar knows Grian is giving him everything, right now. All of himself. Every little bit. He's putting himself completely at Scar's mercy.

But maybe Scar knows.

Maybe he knows, because when Scar lifts up, looming over Grian, what he chooses to say is mine.

The word reverberates through Grian, shakes something at his core, but it feels warm. It feels tingly and like a precipice, but one he wants to fall over.

Breathless and defenceless, he chirps in affirmation, before he vocalises it in a hoarse half-whisper, and despite the pleased haze that coats every letter, something in his tone is almost daring: "Yours."

Scar loves that little chirp — he loves the confirmation, however daring it may be posed. In fact, he likes that particular detail a lot, because he's happy to oblige.

His fingers trail across the curves and freckles, exploring again now that he can shamelessly stare and watch for Grian's reaction. He meets Grian's gaze, vision still somewhat foggy, and he realizes he needs to say something now before he's too far gone to resist. Because he's slowly losing himself to the boundless desire to consume, whatever that may entail, and his skin is practically sizzling and singing every spot where feathers overlap…

Grian meets Scar's gaze back, equally dazed and indescribably present; a scalding, endless pool of emotions reflected in his eyes, open yet unreadable. He makes soft noises at Scar's touch over the tender skin, fingernails lightly dragging against Scar's back in response, but none of him is running away from this.

He's staying put, an obedient little prey, ready to be consumed.

"Grian," Scar forces out, leaning back in so his breath is felt over Grian’s cheek.

Grian's breath hitches instantly in response, eyes falling shut. His name sounds so sweet yet strained on Scar's lips, and he wants to take it from him, to unshackle those restraints around it.

But Scar's leaning over his cheek, not his lips, and Grian is nothing but obliging, baring his skin, whichever part of it Scar happens to desire.

"Scar," he returns in a hoarse whine, the need to call him back scalding hot in his veins.

"You're—" Scar’s voice cracks, but it's different than before. It's like he's interrupted by a needy growl, teeth bared. But Scar recollects himself, eyes still blazing, alight with wild magic and yearning. "You're toeing a dangerous line here, y’know..." He's trying to be delicate about it, merely allude to the burst of primal emotion he's fighting to control. "... toying with a vex." He says it like it could just be a joke, a simple tease, but he's so entirely serious about it.

Ah.

There it is.

Grian suddenly understands all the complexity swirling through Scar's expression.

And he takes it without flinching. He hums, bringing one hand up, to brush through Scar's hair, fingertips reaching to the back of Scar's ear, teasing lightly. A featherlight touch.

"I know."

It's so simple to admit.

His lips are slightly curved. A miniscule grin, something knowing, tender, welcoming.

He cranes his neck, leans in, steals a quick kiss.

"I know, Scar."

And he's still right here. Still so willing. Still absolutely surrendered. One wing draped over Scar, the rest of him pliantly underneath him, neck tilting to regain its bared position, not a shred of survival instinct left on display.

Scar still swallows hard, nerves alight. He's certain his desire is practically a tangible thing now, magic thrumming across his skin and driving him crazy.

"If you—" he starts, hoarse, still so very strained, speaking through his teeth as they involuntarily press tightly together. With a shaky breath, he admits it, timid, but determined to be entirely transparent by just how much his instincts are running wild: "I'm gonna want to touch them— you, your wings—" He wants it to be clear it's only because it's a part of Grian that he wants this, and he prays that's coming across, but words are so difficult to form in his dizzying haze. "... so if you don't want that, you need to tell me now."

Before I can't control myself, goes unsaid.

The conflict is so clear now, the way Scar is trying to hold back, for Grian, always for Grian.

Grian thinks maybe he wants Scar to let go.

Thrill runs across his spine, delving into downy feathers that coat his back, as Scar says the word wings. It's not often Grian hears it on his tongue, with Scar always carefully skirting around it. And what would at other times make him uneasy, now makes Grian perk up—some bird instinct that's taking deep root in him, tangling into myriad of desires.

Because, yes. Wings. Wings.

The feathers draped over Scar's bare skin move lightly, brushing against him. repositioning. Not leaving that point of contact. Not shying away.

The possibility looms in Grian's mind, something set ablaze at a deep dark precipice, and as he swallows thickly, all he can think of is: want.

Scar needs an answer, and Grian thinks maybe he can give him some. Maybe he can— Maybe they can—

He licks his lips and his fingers tenderly brush through the hair behind Scar's ear, trying to soothe him into this. "I can't promise it'll be okay..." he starts. And it's true. He can't. He's aware he's riddled with countless barely-buried triggers right under his skin (under his feathers—), all of it linked to a horrible terror, always just half a step from dreadfully raw, spiralling panic. But this, this feels different. This feels like maybe he could be something else, too. Like it doesn't have to be that.

He feels it, that glowing, intense desire to give himself over to Scar fully. A prey to a predator, shameless, fearless, unabashed. Untamed, both of them. Wild.

He tilts his head. Strands of hair shining with shades of gold in the firelight shift, fall across his forehead and out of the way, soft and clean, thanks to Scar's careful, loving hands.

The pause is there, hovering.

Grian is going to break it.

"But... Scar."

He lifts himself up, reaching for Scar; his hand tugs lightly at Scar's hair to aid him in his movement; his wing presses against Scar's back, too, helping Grian reach Scar's lips. He presses a tender kiss there, affectionate and pleading, and it tips into unbridled craving as he finishes with a flick of tongue and a gentle bite of his teeth.

"Make the danger feel good," he whispers, a half-purr half-growl tucked against the corner of Scar's mouth, breath hovering over the bitten spot on Scar's lip.

And then Grian's hand falls away from Scar's hair. All of him falls away, as he lets himself lie back down, his gaze flickering with warmth and desire in the hot, glowing light of the firelight. He's putting himself here willingly, underneath Scar, defenceless, skin bared, chest lifting up with breaths as his heart hammers against his ribs.

"And then you can touch," he finishes hoarsely, so very quietly. Soft and inviting, equally as hopeful as it's needy, his eyes never leaving Scar's.

And it's still so very different, a craving driving him insane—he wanted Scar's claws on his feathers not too long ago, but that was for destruction, and this— this isn't that. This is something completely different, miles away from whatever that spiral from before was; something that leaves Grian's throat dry, warmth pooling in the pit of his stomach.

He's playing with fire, and he fully intends to let it burn him. To consume him. He yearns desperately for this kind of intimacy, for Scar, Scar, Scar, for things to be something else for a moment. (Hands in his feathers and teeth on his skin and him amidst it all, willing, pliant, giving.)

Make the danger feel good, echoes throughout Scar's increasingly emptying mind— he's slipping further, those words are driving him wild. He blinks several times, trying to process the roundabout permission he's been granted, the chance to try if only he can fulfill the promise of pleasure amidst danger. He hopes to clear his vision, lift the haze for a moment to provide a coherent response, but each blink only serves to hide the swirl of vibrant blue that dances across his eyes, glowing brighter each time he opens them.

Grian watches, patient and silent, lips parted in invitation, as Scar processes what he's just said. He sees the brightness of his eyes, the blue wisps that dance around. He knows how fraying and thin Scar's self control is.

He wants it to snap.

Scar opens his mouth, but no words come out, just a needy, shaken huff before he's leaning down and devouring, barely even a kiss, more of an open drag of teeth that's pressed into Grian's mouth, nonsensical and demanding.

There are claws and fangs and a bright blue fog swirling around the both of them, fighting against the vibrance of the firelight and winning.

Despite the initial apprehension, it’s a wonder to Scar how he ever doubted himself, because of course he wouldn’t irreparably hurt Grian— protecting him is as ingrained in his instincts as anything else. It’s a spiral of both sides of his vex urges— to please and to devour— a dizzying mesh, a thrilling fusion of desires.

They let themselves slip into this. Into controlled violence and hovering threats, into claws and fangs and blood, into nails dug into skin and bodies pressed close. Into danger that feels mindbogglingly good, stripping them of sanity as they keep, all too willingly, sinking deeper and deeper.

(Listen they’re little freaks they definitely should’ve negotiated a safe word before this all went down.)

"Mmm." Grian groans, a drawn out sound. There’s a fresh bite wound at the side of his neck that throbs, overcome with sensations as the tender, broken skin meets air and Scar's mouth, the fresh, warm blood smeared around in the process.

Deliriously, he tips his head to the side, eyes closed and hands trembling, giving that whole side of his throat to Scar. (He'd give him anything now. Anything.)

Scar grins, teeth bared and lips slightly smeared with blood, when Grian cranes his neck even more, allowing for even further abuse. He presses in close again, kissing the spot using his wicked little smile. "You'd really give in so easily?" he murmurs against the bruised skin, tone as crackly as it is velvety, a contradictory blend. His words are playful, but his voice drops as he adds, pensive: "... only for me I'd hope."

There's a small spur at the words, a reminder that Grian's soul should be made of resisting, stitched through with endless, mischievous fights. And yet it leads nowhere, a dead end against Scar's breath at his throat, the velvety rumble of his voice.

Grian whines, nonsensically, fingers weakly pawing at Scar's back without any real intention to sink in for now. His wing brushes over Scar again, a restless little motion of soft feathers, vulnerable prize caressing a vicious predator.

"For you," he echoes on a whine, barely remembering how to speak. And then he adds, laying himself bare and pliant, stripping all the defences and pressing control solely into Scar's palms (into his claws, into his teeth—): "Anything for you."

Scar practically keens at the admission, the surrender and for a second his voice is incredibly lucid as he lets out a quiet and almost incredulous, "gosh," words interlaced with a small chuckle.

The chuckle anchors all of Grian's attention for a searing moment, a different kind of delight rushing wildly through him, curving his lips heedlessly into a triumphant smile. Knowing he's making Scar feel things tastes like victory, like a reward in itself, and he wants to gloat, taking it in, before he throws himself off the precipice and gives Scar more of himself, to exacerbate that, to make Scar tip into this fall with him.

There's a more gentle, fond and intrigued touch down one of Grian's sides, a little less claw as Scar drags down his bare chest, but the tether snaps again as Scar licks over his lips, still hungry for more. The touch grows more purposeful and intense as he maps out his prey, testing the skin, seeking something.

He spots whatever it is in the center of Grian's chest, the dip of his ribcage, something vulnerable and alive as he feels the rush of blood and a battered heartbeat under his fingertips. His claws tap there eagerly as his grin once again grows toothy and wild, presenting his expression to Grian and drinking in the sight of his own.

Grian shudders under the touch Scar traces across his chest, something soft and exploratory. Grian can feel his breath stutter against those fingertips, wonders how Scar feels about that; but his answer is right here, as his gaze meets Scar's at the attention-calling tap of his fingers.

Breathlessly, Grian takes in Scar's grin, and oh, he's in trouble. His heart beats wildly against his ribs, somewhere under Scar's claws, as his eyes hang on Scar. Grian's irises are glowing with reflected blue, gaze as intense as it is hazed, vulnerability fighting with desire. His neck still throbs. The rush of urgent craving is ceaseless, drumming through his veins.

With a pang of ache that travels all the way down to pool below his stomach, Grian leans up, not minding that there are claws in the way on his chest, reaching to press the smallest brush of his lips against Scar in an almost-kiss, reverent puff of breath tingling in its wake.

"Yours," he murmurs, pushing Scar on.

Scar has to reel in his claws so as not to break skin when Grian moves— that's his job to do— and he purrs lowly against Grian's lips, smile turning devilish when Grian's speaks, the word music to his happily-flicking ears.

As pleased as he is by the gesture, he pushes Grian right back down where he belongs.

With a tantalising, toothy smile Grian obeys without struggle, cooing in encouragement, a praise, an affirmation that Scar's doing what he should here.

There's a searing awareness of their roles tearing a path through him—something about Scar's ability to tear him apart at the slightest whim; something about his own helplessness; something about how he's essentially pinned down. The flush of dizzying, quivery pleasure he feels at the thought is disintegrating all of his rationality, rendering him into an all too willing prisoner of any and all of Scar's cravings.

Scar’s claws drag down Grian’s chest, enough to mark but not to break skin. He's toying with the idea, letting the thought of drawing blood dance across his mind, set something ablaze in his eyes. (But he shouldn't— not here— not too much…)

Grian shudders; his rapid breaths tremble right underneath all that sharpness, his fluttering heartbeat rabbity beyond a cage of ribs that suddenly feel all too brittle, paper-thin, a protection that means nothing if Scar decides he doesn't want it there.

And still, Grian pulls up no protections.

He’s a willing participant in this bloody abuse, letting Scar claw and bite, lost to the deliriousness of the sensations it brings. Like sea dragging him under, beckoning him to let it happen.

And at some point down the line, soft feathers of Grian’s earwing brush across the back of Scar's hand that’s cupping his face. Grian wants him to know how much he's at his mercy, and how much he wants to be at his mercy.

Scar extends his fingers, no longer curling around Grian's cheeks, now experimentally carding through the feathers of the earwing that's been offered. He almost doesn't consciously register his decision to do so, he just feels something soft and knows he wants to touch, to claim, to pull, but no— No, he won’t.

He is not going to harm Grian. Not like that.

He has other ways of claiming him after all.

And while Scar might only be dazedly, barely aware of the shift and touch of his hand, it shoots across Grian's senses—the fingers burrowing into the soft feathers of his earwings.

It's got nothing with a conscious decision; Grian’s body is controlled by a nonsense of instincts, and they dictate him to go limp, drawing a low, soft sound of out him. His earwing twitches, at first away, then towards the touch, giving itself over just like the rest of him.

Scar feels the moment the earwing gives into him, and he's instantly thrilled, sliding the longer feathers in between his fingers and releasing a low purr. His other hand does the same, mirroring the touch on the other side.

The earwing touches are enough to drive Grian insane, triggering something in him that's been dormant for too long, drawing out a spillage of pleading bird noises out of him. His wing that was lying sprawled across the ground lifts somewhat, curves, just to show off the feathers; they glisten with brilliant shades, reached both by blue wisps of magic and the warm glow of the campfire.

Scar shifts to more gentleness over the bruises, then reverently kisses the tips of Grian’s feathers, a soft little gesture he’s never been allowed to offer. His claws trace circles over the indents of his latest bite, and he leans to kiss and lightly suck on it, dazed from the taste of blood on his tongue.

And then he notices the wings.

The beautiful, multicolored span outlined by his own spectral glow— a breathtaking sight. Scar’s eyes dilate as they lock onto the delicate hues that are normally so hidden away. They shine, freshly-cleaned, and although perhaps the method wasn’t preferable, Scar still feels his soul catch fire with the knowledge that he was the one to wash them. He’s the reason they sparkle right now and simultaneously the reason they’re on full display.

His eyes are wide and eager, scanning the feathers and grinning wide at the sight— his expression a mixture of ravenous and adoring.

Almost brainlessly, Scar mutters a string of nonsensical phrases under his breath: ”mine, pretty, my pretty bird, so good, so good—“ before leaning down and properly kissing Grian, the words still slurred against their lips.

At the string of praises and possessive words, Grian coos, equally as incoherent. His wing stretches a bit higher, delighted, feathers shining against the multicoloured glow. The muscles ache, unused to the motion, but it feels good, something in him tingling and telling him that this is right. The vulnerable underside of the wing is there, perfectly within reach, not trying to hide or tuck away, a state they haven't been able to achieve once in this world before this moment.

Grian's gaze snags at Scar's grin, at that expression that tells him Scar's treading the thought of devouring him whole. It tugs at his guts, tightens his stomach, sends his breath out of rhythm, but none of it feels bad. He revels in it, shivers and sinks into it, the feeling ultimately warm, slinking around him like a spiderweb, making him hold still, dazed and unaware of the imminent danger.

"Yours, yours, good, yes, all yours," he echoes back at Scar, words half-coos, melting into the kiss. He hums against Scar's lips, a pleased, needy little noise. His hands travel higher up Scar's back and press, tugging at him, telling him he wants him right here, over himself.

When the kiss breaks, he follows, nipping at Scar's lips, trying to elicit something more yet again, playing into Scar's instincts in a way that seems deliberate, but is just a hazed jumble of incomprehensible cravings, something deep and richly yearning that doesn't take no for an answer.

Grian refuses to let Scar retreat in the slightest, and it’s that utter willingness and provocation that’s keeping Scar just barely tethered to reality— because surely his prey shouldn’t be this pliant. Shouldn’t be urging him on.

Because Grian isn’t his prey, nor or his meal—

But isn’t he?

Once again, Scar’s head spins, dizzied as the line between mate and prey becomes muddled in his vex brain. And somehow through it all comes laughter of all things because— because this started with a bath and now Grian is underneath him trilling and begging to be manhandled. It’s borderline absurd and the sheer irrationality of both their behavior right now results in a sudden, throaty chuckle emerging from Scar as he teases Grian’s lips with his teeth.

It’s almost silly, but more than anything, it’s electrifying, thrilling, exciting. There’s blood smeared over Scar’s fingers, and yet he’s having fun.

Scar's laughter sends a wave of warmth through Grian, so very different from the scorching heat of everything else. It's a sound he basks in, slotting it somewhere next to his wildly beating heart, treasured amidst the inferno that ravages the rest of his body. He hums quietly against it, reveling in the way the sounds merge, even as it tips into a whine at the tease of Scar's teeth on Grian's lips.

With struggling clarity, Scar continues to giggle, although it morphs into an alluring purr. “Always said no one can have ‘em—” Scar’s hands frame Grian’s face, tucking his earwings over his cheeks. “—well what if I want them?” A careful drag of claws through those tiny feathers and heavy breath over Grian’s lips. “What if I want you?”

Grian’s breath hitches, noises falling silent for a moment as Scar's claws lightly rake across his feathers, tucking the soft fluff of the earwings against Grian's cheeks. Grian's gaze holds onto his, dark and intense, and his throat bobs as he swallows emptily.

He feels dizzy, like he's going insane. His brain bounces the sharp thought of danger against his feathers, but he's holding still for Scar, expression hot and adoring and desiring. It feels explosive, like sparks of a live wire, and he wants it, all of it, a tinge of fear crashing into safety of this being Scar, the trust at the dazed awareness that he's in good hands, and he wants those hands to be clawed and at his skin—at his feathers.

A part of Grian’s brain that's made of pure instinct trills in happy victory, telling him this is what he wanted, that he succeeded—he showed off his feathers and his mate now wants him. It's intoxicating, a jumbled mess of agreements thrashing underneath Grian's tongue while he fights to figure out how to express any of them.

In the end, he coos, a small whine pressed against Scar's hovering lips. His earwings twitch, sending a spike of sensation though him as that creates a gentle drag against Scar's claws, eliciting a tiny mewl from his throat.

And through it all, he's still here, still not running.

When he finds his voice, it's equally soft and pleading; it sounds like gentle affection and like deep craving, all at once. It's showing boundless love to the beast while tempting it to devour him. "You can have," he murmurs, low and hoarse. "You can have me." All of me.

Scar feels as if he could howl with excitement and triumph, but instead what comes out is a hushed purr, a rumbly thing pressed right up against the corner of Grian’s lips.

“Won’t hurt,” he whispers, in spite of all the damage he’s already wrought. But even in a haze of delirious bloodlust, Scar still draws the line there. He doesn’t want to harm Grian’s wings. He has no intention of breaking those gorgeous feathers or of taking them for himself. He doesn’t need to. He has Grian, all of Grian, and all Scar wants to do is to admire his lovely possessions.

To give them the love they deserve.

To give Grian the love he absolutely deserves.

Scar tucks a promise against the corner of Grian's lips, and Grian quietly coos back. A hushed, I know, tender and loving and trusting.

There’s still slight hesitation in Scar’s movements, months of ingrained resistance still fighting his every motion, but Scar’s hand finally leaves Grian’s cheek and those soft, tiny feathers to embrace the real prize. Dozens of greedy hands have tried and yet Scar— fangs and claws bared— is being offered them willingly. His lips curl in satisfaction.

Grian hums quietly at Scar's hesitation, hands tracing light patterns into the skin of Scar's back. Mapping out all the scarred tissue there, the edges of which he's seen many many times, memorised, and now they unfurl under his fingertips. His to touch. His, his, his.

He's going to be gentle with Scar's wounds, like he is with Grian's wings.

— and then his thoughts dissipate, his breath hitching shakily, as Scar's hand makes contact with his wing. A confusing onslaught of feelings rushes through him, and he both wants to look and doesn't want to see it. Some deep-rooted part of him tells him that he should be scared, that this should be dangerous, but the rest of him pushes against it, whispering soft and pliant I know, I know, I know.

He wants Scar's hand right where it is, and more. He wants—

Claws sink in between the feathers harmlessly as Scar trails his fingers down their length, positively entranced by this allowance. There’s a soft hum of appreciation, of reassurance, and Scar’s other hand stays, just as content with raking his claws through Grian’s hair.

Grian shudders, his emotions a tangle that tips into pleasure as Scar's clawed fingers drag across the tender underside of his wings, caressing the feathers that have been untouched for months. He tips his head into Scar's other hand that's tangled in his hair, nuzzling as a spillage of coos makes it out, a nonsensical string that is very, very far from distressed.

He takes one deep breath, that's meant to be steadying but instead quivers all the way through, and he pushes his wing into Scar's touch.

Eager to get access to every bit of what’s just been offered to him, Scar drags Grian up, settling him once again in his lap. His other hand snakes around Grian’s waist, searching for a spot he was never allowed to touch, travelling to the base of Grian’s wings, claws running over the smaller feathers. He sinks his fingers into their length, revelling the softness in contrast to all his sharp edges.

And Grian is doomed. So completely, utterly doomed.

He shudders in the best of ways, the coo that makes it past his lips vibrating with it as his back arches and wings blissfully push into the touch. The hands in his feathers are driving him crazy. He's pressing himself against Scar, a babble of purring, whiny, defenceless bird noises spilling out of him unbidden, any semblance of self control left.

Neither of them wants to stop here.

And so they don’t.

[there’s somehow 10k more rp words to this debauchery. just use your imagination we now fade to black <33]

#hhau #cw suggestive #all the cws are upfront so uh #scarian #they're insane about each other your honour #in our original rp we called this bit “the obscene idiots”#not safe or sane but very eagerly consensual #smitten idiots in love #they know nothing about vex stuff or mating bites at this point mind you #just a friendly reminder of that <3 #but the mating bite absolutely happened here #i skipped over some stuff but i think it still reads ok #(say hi if u read it and didn't skip it pls this took so much effort)#(but it's ok to skip ofc!!!)#GRIAN GETS HIS WINGS TOUCHED!!#they're in love and this was a big moment #for so many reasons

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