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cuubism · 7 months

Text

Computation

part 7 of Complex Mathematics

(aka Dream vs Technology -- Technology: 1, Dream: 0)

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Wednesday, 3:54am

Hob. what is the wifi password?

3:56am: why are you texting me when I’m in the same house?

3:57am: I did not want to wake you up.

4:00am: ……….

4:01am: Ah.

4:03am: it’s 12345. which is terrible security by the way

4:04am: how do i know this and you don’t? we’re in YOUR flat

4:05am: Computers are your friends, not mine.

4:10am: It does not like the password.

4:12am: alright i’m getting up

Dream creeps back into the living room, holding a cup of tea, as Hob’s tinkering with the router. Turns out it needed to be completely reset before he could reconnect it to Dream’s laptop. Not that this is that hard, but for some reason Hob doesn’t understand, technology is simply out of Dream’s grasp. Head in the clouds, too smart for basic computer skills, etc etc.

“A peace offering,” Dream says, placing the tea on the coffee table. He perches on the couch beside where Hob’s leaning over the router on its spot on the bookshelf.

“I’m not mad at you,” Hob says. He pats the router as its indicator lights finally turn green again. “I will take tea, though.”

“I woke you,” Dream says softly.

“You’ve woken me before, you will again,” Hob says with equanimity. Their sleep schedules are out of alignment, it tends to happen.

It’s the wrong thing to say, though. Dream cringes, hands folding in his lap. “I should be able to handle such things.”

“It’s just the wifi.” Hob finally finishes reconnecting Dream’s laptop and turns properly towards him. Dream still looks guilty about it. Sometimes Hob misses the time before they were dating, when Dream would bristle at him instead of caving. Just because he doesn’t like seeing Dream feel bad.

He takes the cup of tea and places it in Dream’s hands instead, briefly wrapping their hands around each other. “It’s okay,” he repeats. Possibly they should have a longer conversation about it, but Hob’s not emotionally awake enough for it.

Instead, he gets up and heads for the kitchen to put on some coffee. He needs something with more caffeine in it than tea.

“What are you doing?” Dream asks.

“Might as well get something done while my brain is online,” Hob says. He goes to fetch his own laptop from Dream’s bedroom. Lord knows it’ll need to get reconnected to the glitchy wifi again, anyway.

Friday, 2:05pm

Hob.

2:06pm: ?

2:07pm: The wifi is angry again.

2:09pm: did you antagonize it?

2:09pm: hang on did you just wake up now?

2:10pm: I cannot comment.

2:12pm: I assume you have been hard at work in the library since six.

2:14pm: more like hardly working in the library. i did make an app that gives you a gold star every time you do the laundry

2:16pm: Will that assist in your routines?

2:17pm: probably not but it’ll be fun for 5 minutes

2:17pm: wifi password’s still 12345

2:18pm: maybe I should make an app for that instead…

2:20pm: I do not think it would help.

2:30pm: …You are not trying to make said app, are you?

2:34pm: nope just realized I’m late for a class and had to scramble out of there. I’ll be back later can do couples counseling for you and wifi then?

2:35pm: Very well.

For a while after putting down his phone, Dream stares at the wifi router in vexation, as if that will possibly make the angry red lights turn green again. He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. He knows even less what to do to fix it.

He needs the wifi operational to keep generating these fractals. He supposes he could go to the library and use university wifi, but that requires going out in public, which is preferably avoided, at least while he’s trying to work. So he will have to do something else until Hob gets back from class.

He recalls what Hob had said. That instead of working on his dissertation he had made an entire phone app about laundry. He had said it so casually, like it was a doodle to pass the time. Dream can use apps—barely—but he cannot begin to fathom how he would go about making one. Hob does not understand how even in his procrastination he is exceptional.

Well. This is something that Dream can do. Hob hates doing laundry—hence the app-based reward system—but Dream doesn’t mind. He finds it meditative. He will have to be more precise about fabric care instructions now, as while his own clothes rarely range beyond grey, black, and dark blue, Hob actually wears colors which might bleed into each other.

He puts on his headphones with some music, gathers up the laundry from the bedroom, and goes about his routine.

When Hob gets back, Dream has finished hanging the laundry to dry and returned to his contemplation of the router, this time still with his headphones playing. He’s lost in thought, and doesn’t notice Hob’s come in until his hand lands on Dream’s shoulder. Normally a sudden touch when he’s thinking would make him jump, but he’s become used to Hob.

“Trying to solve your marital problems through telepathy?” Hob asks.

“We were never married,” Dream says. “Indeed we are enemies.”

Hob laughs. He kisses Dream on the cheek, then kneels in front of the router. “You have to stop tormenting my boyfriend,” he tells it. It only blinks back at him innocently.

Hob can be very silly at times. “I do not think arguing with the inanimate object will help,” Dream says.

“You never know.” Hob takes the router down and sets about unplugging all the cables. Dream still doesn’t know what any of them precisely do, nor how wifi works. It may as well be magic.

Hob has it fixed within minutes, of course. Far more effective than Dream’s intense staring. He gets Dream’s laptop reconnected, and Dream is finally able to start generating his fractal. “Thank you,” he says.

“Anything for my love,” says Hob, getting to his feet again. “Guessing you want some time to yourself now to work on this?”

“Yes,” says Dream, with some guilt. Hob has come home to help him only for him to immediately bury himself in his work again. But yes, he does want to make progress on this at last.

“Well, good,” says Hob, and Dream turns to him in surprise. “Because I’m due for a nap.”

Dream still hasn’t formulated a response to this by the time Hob’s disappeared into his bedroom. Strange, that their routines can be so opposite and still meld together so well.

Hob pokes his head back out into the hall. “Did you do the laundry?”

“Yes,” says Dream.

“I could kiss you,” Hob declares, then blows one to him before disappearing back into the bedroom.

Dream presses his hand to his cheek, as if to touch a kiss that had really landed there. Smiles to himself. Then goes back to his fractal.

Monday, 5:02pm

Hob.

5:03pm: Wifi?

5:04pm: …Yes.

Thursday, 9:50pm

…..Hob.

9:50pm: I’m sitting right next to you.

9:51pm: ….

9:51pm: I’m just gonna get you a new router. This thing’s got problems.

9:52pm: I think it is I who has the problems.

9:52pm: That too.

Saturday, 6:00pm

Hob.

6:00pm: Is it broken AGAIN??

6:01pm: No. I got dinner.

6:02pm: Oh!

6:02pm: Fuck I’m starving.

6:03pm: Coming back from class now.

6:03pm: Don’t touch the router it’s in a fragile mental state.

6:04pm: Aren’t we all.

Thursday, 3:50pm

This time, it is the wifi in Hob’s flat that is stymieing Dream. He does not think it is broken. Hob has merely changed the password, as he’s much more diligent about internet security than Dream, and then forgotten to tell Dream what it is. Or, more likely, correctly assumed Dream would have to ask him again anyway.

He briefly contemplates trying to deduce the password, but it is likely an incomprehensible string of characters that Hob would claim is ideal security precisely because of the impossibility of deducing it.

He refuses to text Hob about it again. Hob has a class to teach soon—Dream has his schedule memorized—Dream does not want to distract him. Though speaking of…

3:50pm: You have a class in ten minutes.

3:51pm: FUCK

3:51pm: I got distracted

3:53pm: Now… running

3:54pm: You are not near the building, are you.

3:55pm: NOPE

Dream smiles to himself, thinking of Hob sprinting across campus. It happens often. Hob is good at many things, but time management is not one of them. This is why Dream knows his schedule.

He does feel… a bit silly, though. He should be better at this, should he not? Less bothersome to Hob over small things that he should be able to handle.

Normally he would go back to his work to distract himself from these thoughts, but he still can’t work on his fractals without being able to connect remotely to the university computers, which are more powerful than his own. This is something Hob had also set up for him, because Dream had not been able to make any sense of the instructions he had been given for remote login, and the like.

Sighing, he instead takes his sketchbook out of his bag. It’s been a while since he’s made any time for drawing. But he had started looking at fractals in the first place to better understand patterns in art, to understand resonances between what occurred in nature and what was projected by mathematics. And drawing used to soothe him.

So he starts drawing, sketching the fractal he has been generating—to the extant that he can with the imprecise instrument of his pen. Even in infinite impossible digital form, the branching spirals eventually become too small for him to see, though he knows they continue on in perfect replication forever, smaller and smaller until they disappear into atoms. He cannot recreate that level of detail by hand. But he tries.

By the time he gets another text back from Hob, an hour later, he’s moved to the floor to have more space. He’s found a bigger piece of scrap paper and is drawing the fractal again, in more detail this time, color-coding the different shapes, free-handing where he should probably use a ruler for more precision. He has achieved several more levels of replication than before, but it is still not right. He can’t get it right. If he could only use the stupid computer system he could get it right.

Finally he looks at his phone, several minutes after the text alert pinged.

Thanks love 😘

Unexpectedly, it makes him tear up. Always this happens to him. He does not realize how frustrated he has become with himself until it is too late.

Of course, to only make matters worse, he is still sitting hunched on the floor, pen clasped tight in his hand, teeth clenched so hard it’s hurting his jaw, when Hob comes through the door. He must have texted not far from home.

“Hey, love,” Hob’s already saying as he comes through the door, “meant to stop and grab dinner but I totally forgot— I’m sure I have something here, though— Dream?”

Dream hasn’t moved from the floor, or responded. Hob puts down his bag and comes over to him. He looks down at the fractal, which is still incomplete. “Did you draw that?”

“Obviously,” Dream bites. The pen is still in his hand. He drops it, scraping a hand through his hair. Great. Now he’s snapping at Hob, too.

Hob sits down on the floor beside him. He studies the fractal. Then points to one of the shapes that Dream’s colored in red. “That’s supposed to be purple.”

Dream stares at the fractal. Hob is right, it is meant to be purple. According to the way Dream had color-coded it digitally. He looks at Hob. “How do you know that?”

“I’ve watched you fiddling with it enough. We set it up on your laptop, remember?”

Yes. Dream remembers. He remembers how Hob had helped him.

“Wifi giving you troubles again?” Hob asks, looking from the drawing, to Dream’s laptop, which is sleeping on the couch.

Dream nods, then saws quietly, “Are you not… frustrated with me? Annoyed?”

Hob doesn’t need to ask what he means. “Sometimes,” he says, and Dream can’t help his flinch. “So?”

“So?”

Hob shrugs. “I would have missed that class if you didn’t text me.”

Dream does not understand the relevance.

Hob looks up at him, raising an eyebrow in challenge. “Aren’t you annoyed with me?”

Perhaps he is, at times. Recently, Dream has been too absorbed in his project to feel much about it at all.

“I don’t know,” he says. “It is just how you are.”

Hob seems to think that Dream still doesn’t understand the point he’s making, and perhaps Dream doesn’t. Hob takes his hand. ��Look. I’ve no idea why someone as smart as you are is constantly defeated by basic technology, but it doesn’t matter. Always having to be the one to fix the router is a small price to pay for having you in my life.”

Dream’s mouth opens, but no words come out. He… he does not know if anyone has ever put up with him with so little complaint. For truly, it is not only computer troubles. It is all the small things that stack upon each other to make him feel different and difficult.

“I find I do not like…” Dream admits tentatively, “when you must do these things. That I should be able to do.”

“You did the laundry the other day,” Hob says.

Why must he jump topics in this manner? “I do not understand.”

“Well, we don’t actually live together, you know. You have your own laundry. You don’t have to do mine, too.”

“I thought it would help you,” Dream says.

Hob just waits expectantly.

Dream looks down at his lap. “Ah. I… see.” Hob finds him frustrating at times, he had said so, but still wants to help him. He finds Hob’s admittance that Dream is frustrating to be a relief, in its way. He would only feel more on edge if Hob pretended otherwise, surely to snap later when Dream was least expecting it, as so many have done.

“Give me your arm,” Hob says then.

When Dream does, Hob pushes up his sleeve, takes one of the markers from the floor and writes on Dream’s forearm, the wifi password is I love you.

“There,” he says. “Now you won’t forget.”

Dream touches the words with a light fingertip. “This is not good internet security.”

“Oh, so you do listen my ramblings,” Hob says, laughing. Always, Dream thinks. “What, you’re going to throw out my valentine because I cut the heart out a little wonky?”

He makes as if to rub the marker off, and Dream pulls his arm protectively to his chest. Hob’s smile softens. He carefully pulls Dream forward into a hug, Dream’s arm pressed between them. Dream tucks his face into the crook of Hob’s neck. It’s one of his favorite places to hide.

“I’ll help you fix your program after we find some dinner,” Hob tells him, rubbing his back.

“I think I should give up on using computers,” Dream mumbles.

Hob chuckles. “See how you feel about it after I make you some brownies for dessert.”

Dream hums in pleasure at the thought, and Hob kisses the side of his head. And Dream touches, again, the words Hob’s written on his arm, where it’s pressed between them. And allows himself to smile.

Wednesday, 6:03pm

Dream is attempting to cook dinner. Hob doesn’t think it’s going so well. At least not if the blaring fire alarm, which Hob’s just silenced by waving a dish towel at it until the smoke dissipated, is any indication. But it does mean he’s been treated to the sight of Dream with his sleeves rolled up, delicate hands at work—and wearing an actual apron.

Having soothed the alarm, he leans against the counter so he can shamelessly ogle instead of helping.

“What are you even trying to make?” he asks, eyeing the still-smoking oven.

Dream pouts. “Only bread. It should not be so hard.”

“You didn’t wait for me to get home to watch?” He imagines the sight of Dream aggressively kneading the bread dough. It shouldn’t be a turn on, but it kind of is.

“You would make a spectacle of my misery?” Dream says, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, like he knows exactly what Hob is thinking about.

“Definitely,” Hob says, and Dream sighs, but turns to take the attempt at bread out of the oven. It’s… pretty blackened, to be honest. “Butter’ll save it, I’m sure!” Hob says cheerfully.

“Nothing will save it,” says Dream, morosely. He pulls off his oven mitt in apparent disgrace, and— Hob catches his arm.

“How has this not faded yet?”

For Hob’s writing saying the wifi password is I love you is still on his forearm.

Dream looks sheepish. “I got it tattooed.”

Hob tilts his head at him, confused. “So you could remember the wifi password?”

“So that I could remember this.” He traces his finger over, I love you.

Hob feels a blush creep across his cheeks. But it’s a pleasant feeling. “This is not even my best handwriting.”

“I know,” says Dream. He does not seem unhappy about it.

Hob takes his arm, touches the words, too. “You could have just gotten this part done.”

“I think,” Dream says slowly, touching the part that says, the wifi password is, “that this is another form of the same.”

And Hob… finds himself tearing up a little. Because it’s true. It’s so silly that Dream, certifiable maths genius, struggles so much with basic computer skills. But Hob will do any silly thing for him, because he loves him.

“Yeah,” he says, taking a shaky breath. “It is.”

“Unfortunately, you can never change the wifi password now,” says Dream, and Hob laughs wetly.

“I really can’t, can I? Terrible security. The things I’ll do for you, darling.”

“Would that include making proper bread?” Dream asks, and Hob nods, patting his arm.

“We’ll fix it, don’t worry.”

Now he’s wondering how he didn’t notice Dream getting a tattoo. Though to be fair, they haven’t seen each other as much in the past two weeks as they usually would, thanks to very inconvenient scheduling. Apparently Dream’s taken advantage of that time to do this.

“Can’t let you out of my sight for a second,” he says, as he fetches a new bread pan from the cupboard. “God knows what you’ll come back with next.”

“Be careful or I will consider that a challenge,” Dream says, and Hob pauses as way too many images flash through his mind. He shakes them off. He’ll never be able to focus on anything like that.

And Dream, the bastard, is smirking.

“Watch that look on your face or you might find that flour you’re holding dumped over your head,” Hob warns, but Dream only looks victorious, and utterly uncaring of the bag of flour he's precariously picked up.

“How will you ogle me kneading the dough that way?”

Hob swipes a dish towel from the counter and throws it at him. Dream yelps and spills the flour, which poofs up in a cloud of white landing all over his black t-shirt.

“Hob,” he complains.

“Serves you right, you dickhead,” Hob says. It only returns the smirk to Dream’s face.

“If you feel that way perhaps I’ll decide I don’t need your supervision,” he says archly.

Hob tears a piece off of Dream’s first attempt at a loaf. Or rather, breaks off a piece, which is hard as stone. He shows it to him as evidence.

Dream snatches it and shoves it into his mouth. Bites down with a crunch so horrifying Hob’s afraid he’s broken a tooth. But Dream persists, chewing it painstakingly and then swallowing, as if by force.

“Taste good?” Hob asks.

“Yes—” Dream starts to insist—then dissolves into a fit of coughing that swiftly turns into giggles. Hob loves it so much when he laughs like that. It’s so rare.

Hob laughs with him. Then frees the crumpled bag of flour from Dream’s grasp and sets it aside, brushes the flour and crumbs from his shirt. Then he takes Dream’s arm and runs his fingertip over the words again, still in awe.

He again finds himself having to clear his throat to avoid tearing up. But he manages, and says, “Let’s get you some proper, not burnt bread, yeah?”

“Please,” says Dream, a tad sheepish. “I am… very hungry.”

Hob kisses his cheek, then goes about solving that problem, too.

#this is so... silly. so sappy #complex mathematics #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #my writing #proofread this many times so here's hoping it's fine now XD

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cherryslyce · 1 year

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Enclosed To You | Regulus Black

Synopsis: To cope with your lonely marriage to Regulus, you begin to pen letters to him without the intention of ever sending them. As you both grow closer, you decide to continue the hobby until the very end.

Pairing: Regulus Black x Reader

Notes: I got this idea just as I was about to fall asleep. This fic switches perspectives a bit, so I hope I blended it seamlessly.

Regulus Black prided himself in his innate ability to read through fake pleasantries, steel gaze rippling through any fool willing to throw in their chance at trying to deceive the young heir.

With the sudden void torn into his life at his brother’s department from the family, Regulus found his heart crystallizing to preserve what little warmth he had left of his childhood. Gone were the sunny days spent in ignorance bliss, now marred by the ricochet of his brother’s insatiable foolhardy nature.

Make perfect marks. The Noble House of Black will not be tainted by academic shortcomings

Bring pride to your house and win the Quidditch Cup, but be vigilant on the field. There is no use for a cripple as the Black Lord—no, the House of Black will never face such ignominy.

Never forget, there is no pity given for incompetence. Do well to remember the proper etiquette.

Condemn those who have turned against what we stand for—who have turned against our family.

Do not bring up that vile brat’s name.

Do better.

We did not raise you to be so fallible.

Toujours pur, Regulus. Do not forget yourself.

Do not fail us, do not desecrate everything we have worked for.

Be the perfect heir.

His mother’s words were imprinted into his head, carving themselves into every fiber of his being until not even a modicum of imperfection was plausible.

He would become the perfect heir.

He would ignore the burning ache in his chest that pried into his soul. He would squash the buds of hope that planted themselves into his head. He would sharpen his mind and hone his stone mask. He would dance with whoever his parents wanted, and he would pretend to care for what the other heirs had to say.

He would be what his parents expected him to be.

He would forget his dreams of being like his big brother. He would forget the needless longing for freedom.

Which is why he allowed his mother to do as she pleased – even now, as she finalized the contracts of his marriage arrangement.

It was a particularly bright day, the singing of birds drifted through the air and danced into the somber parlor. Regulus was intent on scanning through the paper in front of him as to avoid looking into his father’s expectant eyes, lips drawn together to hide his vexation.

You were a familiar face, and Regulus vaguely recalls you as a classmate of his, a quiet and diligent student. He hadn’t even known you came from a prominent family, and he was surprised that his parents would agree to the pairing as it was apparent that your family was neutral and not dark-aligned.

He almost allowed himself to frown; you looked unshaken by the arrangement.

Yet, he was barely able to contain himself from walking out. He was far from thrilled.

He would fulfill his duties, no more and no less.

He was not going to paint an illusion of love, and he hoped you would not be foolish enough to believe him desiring to provide as much.

With that resolve in mind, Regulus draws the quill into his hand and signs the contract.

The months flush by in periods of chill and gloom, sunshine becoming a rarity as Voldemort continued to infiltrate and pollute sectors of Magical Britain with his influence. Despite how stressful his studies were, Regulus carved time to research the growing support behind Voldemort and the benefits to joining the movement.

Regulus does not even wait until after graduation to be marked. It took a little nudge from his father to come to the decision, but Regulus has hope that perhaps Voldemort would be able to preserve the sanctity of blood purity and the immemorial wizarding traditions.

You vehemently disapprove of his decision, but Regulus pays little mind to your opinion on the matter. He would ensure your safety, and keep you away from Voldemort if that was what you wished for, but he would not turn away from his desires because of your opinion.

Inklings of hope for a warm relationship recede and wither by the sixth month of marriage. Regulus allows you freedom to wander about, granting you access to endless rows of grimoires, bottomless springs of galleons, tireless shipments of luxuries, and anything an aristocratic pureblood could dream of.

He gives you everything you want, but one. His heart is hidden in the unrelenting walls he’s constructed, dangling in the darkness as you bat around futilely in search.

It was only a few months after you and Regulus had graduated, and the marginal distance between you and the boy had hardly changed despite the fact that you were both living together now. Regulus threw himself into servitude under Voldemort, and he often was missing from the chilly manor.

You find hobbies to distract yourself from the suffocating loneliness and dejection that trail you like a shadow. Deciding to pick up a childhood activity of yours, you begin to vent all your suppressed emotions onto paper.

Regulus is faintly aware of your newfound interest in journaling. He catches you more than a handful of times with your head buried in a worn journal, quill flying furiously across the pages as you furrow your brows in deep concentration.

The heir is not sure when he started observing you so closely, but he is pleased by what he discerns. He admires your independence and proclivity for research, surprised by your ability to disappear for hours in a sea of books.

Regulus begins to consider his options after realizing you wouldn’t try and force him to play the role of a doting husband. It would be counterproductive to continue putting a wedge between the both of you, and he wonders if a friendship is possible.

He decides to spark up small conversations during your meals together to ease the tension.

At first, the chats are formulaic and polite, confusing you greatly as you observe the rigidness in the boy's frame. You weren’t sure what he was seeking to gain from your conversations since he seemed so stiff from just interacting with you.

“Regulus, was there something you wanted from me?” You don’t lift your gaze from your plate as you bite the bullet, curiosity getting the better of you.

The boy across from you tilts his head imperceptibly, “Not particularly.”

Regulus had never asked anything of you before, and you had assumed that he simply felt uncomfortable with directly requesting you for something. As you peer up at his confused face, you are left breathless as his expression reflects his youth, mouth tugged in a boyish frown.

You find yourself sitting up straighter, “Oh. Well, I’ve enjoyed our conversations thus far, so I just wanted to repay you.” Regulus’ eyes light up in realization at your remark, and you see him slowly consider his next words.

“No worries. I figured that it would be beneficial to grow accustomed to each other despite how unconventional our situation may be.” His diplomatic words are paired with a small nod, and you find yourself leaning forward in interest.

At the beginning of your marriage, you were deeply troubled by Regulus’ indifference towards pursuing a romantic connection, but as time passed, you grew to understand the situation. The marriage was solely for political reasons, and you could hardly complain since Regulus always treated you with respect and dignity. Secretly, you still held onto hope that he would warm up to you, but you knew how deeply affected he was by the disgracing of his brother.

Nodding in agreement, you feel a small smile grace your face, “How unexpected. I’m in agreement.”

From that moment onward, Regulus put forth an effort to get to know you, no longer barred by classes or personal reservations. The sudden feeling of companionship that warmed your body seemed to inspire energy into the dim manor, every room permeated with a newfound vitality.

Your practice of writing down your thoughts in your journal soon shifted along with this change. The leather book in your hand quaked faintly as you finished up the last lines of your words. Craning back to reread the page, you almost want to vanish it as doubt takes root in your stomach.

You had decided that you wanted to pen a small letter to Regulus, in part to express gratitude for his initiative, and also to perhaps become closer to him. As your eyes trail through the last line, you groan inaudibly as you feel your resolve crumble.

Your ‘From, Y/N’ seemed to taunt you and you quickly shut the journal, deciding against sharing the letter with its intended.

As the days waned by and summer dawned on Britain in rustles of wind and splinters of heat, you feel your friendship with Regulus slowly blooming like the azaleas in your garden.

The day brought mercy on the world as capacious clouds masked the heat of the sun, generously casting verandas of shadows around your manor. Regulus had been faring decently among Voldemort’s forces as he fed you tidbits of his progress, telling you that he was perhaps even considered as a potential member of the man’s inner circle.

You were heavily conflicted about Regulus‘ predicament, but you knew that there was nothing you could do to dissuade his goals. Regulus was mindful of your caution around the topic of Voldemort in general, and was careful to not let conversation stray too far into the topic of his duty.

Instead of constantly recounting his varying missions and commands, Regulus often spoke to you about your future goals and plans together, and reminisced of your times at Hogwarts.

“I was never invited to join it. I’m quite disappointed, it seemed like an interesting opportunity.” You reflect, keeping your steady pace as you stroll alongside Regulus. Since the day brought reprieve against the sun, you both decided to spend it outside in your gardens, admiring the hard work of your house elves.

Regulus chuckles quietly, hands clasped behind his back as he kept his gaze downcast on his shoes, “Trust me, you were not missing out on much. The Slug Club was mainly just a gathering for people to peacock around.”

Grinning widely, you avert your gaze to look over the treeline surrounding the perimeter of your grounds, “I see, and did you happen to flounce around and gloat as well?”

Regulus playfully shoots you a narrowed look, “I have no need to debase myself in such a manner. Now, Lucius on the other hand…”

Your laughter echoes around the garden, and you feel the stubborn glimmer of hope in your chest amplify.

You find yourself sitting in your study hours later, left alone in your thoughts as Regulus sweeps off after being summoned unexpectedly. Eyeing the item in front of you, you sigh and give in.

Summoning your quill and a pot of ink, you flip your journal to the next clean page, only briefly glancing at your abandoned letter to Regulus. Steadying your hand over the page, you begin to write.

Regulus,

Today we took a walk around the garden, and I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard in my life. I’m glad that you didn’t immediately reprimand me for my undignified actions, and I’m pleased that our chats are a regular thing nowadays.

The flowers bloomed splendidly this season and I’m wondering if I should perhaps draw up some plans to remodel the abandoned wing of the manor. It gets boring when you are not around, and I swear I’ve already read everything in the library.

Narcissa has been owling me more often as of late, and we are both surprisingly content with our arrangements.

You’re currently off to meet your lord right now, but I hope you will return before nightfall.

Gratefully,

Y/N

Your third letter submission in your journal comes only a matter of days later. Regulus was slowly becoming more engrossed in his responsibilities, having officially been granted a spot in Voldemort’s inner circle. Luckily, he still found ways to make time with you and your friendship was growing stronger with every passing day.

Regulus,

Today you took me to the opera. I was quite surprised since I had only ever told Narcissa that I hoped to go again one day. I’m glad that the outing went well, even if you were bored half to death midway through (yes, I could tell).

You’ve been gone for a few hours now, but I still feel the rush of our trip even as I write this. It seems that you will be busier in the following days, but I’m happy that you are working towards accomplishing your objectives. I can only hope that you are not tasked with something too daunting, though I have no doubt that you would manage to overcome it in the end.

I haven’t told you the good news yet, but I received an owl yesterday from Gringotts that notified me that our request for the joint vault has been granted.

Mother keeps pestering me to get a check up from our family’s personal healer, but I don’t understand the rush. She gets fussy every year about our family check ups, and father is positively worn out by it.

Autumn is approaching, so cheers to many more seasons of friendship!

Your friend,

Y/N

It was to be expected, but you couldn’t help but worry. Regulus was alight with joy as he strided across the parlor room, a glass of firewhiskey cradled to his chest. You were sitting on the velvet chaise lounge, mouth perking up at the boy’s gleeful expression.

“So you accepted?”

Regulus spins on his heel and moves to sit across from you on the complementary lounge, setting down his glass on the table between you both.

“Of course. Kreacher will be delighted.” Regulus’ words are thick from the alcohol and he grins at your silent congratulatory expression.

You were proud of Regulus’ strides in the group, happy that others could recognize his talents and cleverness. However, you couldn’t suppress the worry that bubbled over in your mind. The closer Regulus got to Voldemort, the more danger he was in.

It was a narrow path he was venturing down, and you hoped that it wouldn’t push him out of your reach.

You didn’t want to spoil the mood and bring up that concern amongst other things, so you decided to write out your thoughts in your journal once Regulus retired for the evening.

Regulus,

I am overjoyed by your happiness and accomplishments. Though, I still can’t help but worry, and I don’t know if I’ll ever stop worrying. But, I trust in your judgment and I know you would never throw yourself into the path of an oncoming blade.

It is good to see your mind off of things that bring you so much sorrow. I know you didn’t notice, but I saw you burning letters from your mother a few dawns ago. I hope everything will be rectified on that front.

I saw my family’s healer earlier today while you were called away. I understand why my mother was so paranoid with our health, but I will stop from spilling such concerns onto paper in hopes that it goes away. I will have to be put on a strict potions regime inconclusively, but I feel stronger than ever.

I know you will be busy in the coming days, and I will pray for your safety from here.

Sincerely,

Y/N

Regulus is disoriented by the onslaught of emotions coursing through his body. At first, he attributed it to the joy of being initiated into his Lord’s inner circle, but he found that the feeling persisted even after then.

He didn’t want to acknowledge them, but he knew where they stemmed from.

You were much more of a force than he accounted for during the beginning of your marriage, and admittedly, he was too guarded to even consider befriending you until many moons circled by.

He couldn’t pinpoint when his feelings morphed from platonic concern to more, but he allowed himself to bask in the feeling. Since he now had a firm standing in the death eater circle, he could protect you better, and so perhaps allowing himself to indulge in his romantic urges would be plausible.

He knew you had concerns about his job, but he would never compromise your trust and wants by forcing you to follow his path. As he laid in bed, recalling your quiet chat in the parlor, he couldn’t tell if it was the thought of you or the firewhiskey that was causing his face to burn so fiercely.

He found that he didn't mind all too much about which it may be.

The next few days were hectic for the both of you, and you barely managed to find time to eat together at least once a day.

It seemed so sudden. The shift in your relationship went unspoken, but exchanged glances and hidden smiles became the norm between you both.

The tension of your blossoming feelings weighs heavy whenever you both lock eyes, the feeling of wires of electricity buzzing between your veins.

The bud of hope that sprouted in your chest all those months ago bloomed on a particularly windy night after Regulus finished up some paperwork. You found yourself wandering into his study with a small smile and a glass of water.

The boy shoots his head up to gaze at your approaching figure, eyes lighting up at your arrival.

“Finished for the night?” Your words are light and cheerful and you have to ignore the twitch of your fingers as you take in Regulus’ disheveled appearance. A large part of you wanted to reach over and smooth out his curls, but you resisted and opted to pass over the glass to the tired boy.

Regulus nods and twirls the glass appreciatively on his desk, “Fortunately, I am all caught up.”

You hum and lean against the desk, turning your back to him as you scanned your eyes over all the decoration and furniture you’ve already imprinted into your memory. The warm pool stirring in your stomach consumed your thoughts, and all the worries of the world seemed to melt away.

“Knut for your thoughts?”

Peering over your shoulder, you smile teasingly at Regulus as he leans back in his chair. His gaze seemed to penetrate right through you, eyes dark from fatigue and an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher.

“It’s going to take a lot more than a knut.” Your playful words have him chuckling and shaking his head.

You watch curiously as he pushes back his chair and rises from his seat, slowly rounding around his desk to stand in front of you. He quirks an eyebrow as you feel your face heating up at the close proximity, instinctively leaning back to peer into his eyes.

“Oh? How much will it take then?” He breathes out.

“Think you can afford it?”

Your heart stutters as Regulus leans in towards you, “You’ll find that I have quite a bit to spare.”

“I’m not swayed by money alone.” You retort quietly, desperately stopping your eyes from darting to his lips.

“I have much more to offer than just money.” Regulus steps closer and places a hand on the desk, partially caging you in between him and the wooden piece of furniture.

Tilting your head, you let your gaze drop down his face, “And here I thought you were a man of few words.”

Regulus leans in closer and drops his other hand to your waist, eyes finding yours in search of something. He seems to be satisfied by what he sees and brings his face impossibly closer, pausing to silently ask for permission.

When you don’t move away, he shifts to hold your waist tightly, “You’re right, I’m much more of a man of action.”

Your brain short circuits as Regulus’ lips crash into yours, conveying the pent up emotions that he’s been keeping locked away. You move your hand to grip his neck, pulling him to your body as his hand begins to draw circles on your side.

The world seemed to fade away as you spent the rest of the night in each other’s embrace, only breaking apart to share giddy laughter and loving smiles.

Regulus,

I suppose it has been a long time coming. I’ve never felt this way before, and frankly, it’s frightening. I think I understand what Narcissa means now when she says being around Lucius is like being enveloped in warmth, like stability and unrivaled fulfillment.

It’s hard to put into words how much everything has changed overnight. I’m excited to see what our journey ahead will look like, and I’m already missing having you by my side.

You’re not here today, and it’s given me some time to reflect.

Just as you will do anything to ensure our happiness and safety, I will do the same. It is frightening and I know you will hardly understand when the time comes, but I have confidence that everything will be okay in the grand scheme of things.

Love,

Y/N

A few days of bliss seem to drift by in honey-laced seconds, happiness and love drenching the manor’s atmosphere. You and Regulus were attached to the hip for many of those days, basking in each other’s arms and affection before you would both be separated by your tasks.

Regulus was in fact a man of action, often choosing to linger around you as you paced around the manor in an effort to redecorate. Words did not need to be spoken, and you figured it was fitting in that way.

You both never had to verbalize your feelings and intent to get the other to know. From the very beginning of your relationship to present time, it was always both of your individual actions that shone through.

Unfortunately, Regulus had to attend to his duties soon after. With much hesitancy and lingering embraces, your husband left with Kreacher by his side. You were left to continue with your plans, and you hoped that Mother Magic would be merciful to you both.

When Regulus returned in a storm of fury with an inconsolable, injured Kreacher by his side, you knew that something dire had occurred during his meeting with Voldemort. Your heart seemed to dunk into freezing water as Regulus shook in anger, barely containing himself as he told you what had happened.

You knew that Regulus would move the entire world and beyond for those he loved, and Kreacher was no exception to your husband. Hearing about Voldemort’s deception and indifference to the elf’s life had you hardly surprised, but equally incensed.

The day was marred by silent disbelief and anger, Regulus’ hurt at the betrayal palpable in the air even as dusk fell upon the manor in a sheet of grey.

You supported Regulus as much as you could in the following days as he came to terms with the events. You also nursed Kreacher back to health as Regulus began to hatch his plans, stubbornly refusing to tell you more about what occurred, insisting that it was too dangerous for you to know.

As soon as Kreacher was back on his feet again, Regulus asked for his help with his plans, leaving you to wander about. Deciding that lazing around was pointless, you decided to occupy yourself with your own plans as your husband locked himself away.

It was currently nearing midnight, but unlike the previous week where you and Regulus would retire and go to sleep in each other’s arms, you were both awake on opposite ends of the manor. Realizing that Regulus was still closed off in his study, if the sliver of yellow light steadily peeking from under the door were to give any indication, you decide to sit and write another letter.

Summoning a loose piece of parchment, you hastily race to write down your thoughts.

Folding up the finished letter, you traverse back to your shared bedroom and carefully place it down on your pillow.

Standing back to observe the paper, you hesitate to back away. A heavy stone seemed to weigh down your chest as you realize you need to draft up another letter, one that has you nearly hissing in displeasure.

Making your way to your study, you fish out your journal from your desk and tentatively sit down. The quill in your hand seems to hang over the page for hours before the fog clears from your mind, and you’re able to formulate a satisfactory letter. As you sign your name, you let out a shaky exhale before summoning one of your house elves.

“Bon, give this to Regulus if I don’t return by tomorrow evening.”

The house elf carefully reaches for your journal, eyeing you with a knowing frown. Tucking the journal against his chest, the elf peers up at you with sad eyes, “Bon will do as you say.”

Taking one last look at your bedroom and at your house elf, you make your way out of the manor, wand and cloak in hand.

In the whistling of the wind, echoed by the rustling of tree leaves, you noiselessly apparate away without turning back. The moon gleams down on the darkened manor, and the stars seem to fade away from the inky sky.

It takes Regulus five days after Kreacher’s near death experience to hatch a plan. His heart hangs heavy in his chest as doubt drills through his body like a fervent cramp. The door to his study cracks open with a noise of protest, and Regulus steps out for the first time in days.

The house is quiet, the dim light serenely pouring through the windows indicating that it was near dawn.

He needed to make a choice, one that he couldn’t go back on.

But as he wanders through the desolate hallway, a muffled pop stops him in his tracks.

“Bon? Where is Y/N?”

The elf gazes at the boy with shiny eyes and wordlessly extends a journal, one that he recognizes to be yours, out to him. Before Regulus can question the small creature, Bon pops away just as quickly as he came.

Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Regulus continues on his journey to your bedroom, intent on holding you in his arms to distract himself from the world.

Regulus is hit with confusion when he sees your bed empty, sheets pulled neatly to emphasize its vacancy. Before Regulus can spin on his heel to track you down, his eyes are drawn to a piece of paper carefully folded on your pillow.

The contents of the note has him shakily sitting down on the bed, hands hurrying to open your journal.

Regulus,

I didn’t realize how bad it was. The healers are saying there might be a chance, but if you’re reading this, I’m afraid it was futile. As my previous letters indicate, the blood curse didn’t present itself until recently, but it’s been degrading my soul quite rapidly for a long time. I know this isn’t the explanation you want–the explanation you deserve–but I know very little about it myself.

I won’t lie to you. I’m scared.

I hope you never have to read this. I hope I made my way back home, cured, and ready to assist you with your plans for Voldemort.

But in case that doesn’t come to be, I want to make sure I leave something behind for you.

Even now, I’m unsure how to write out my feelings, but I need you to know that there was nothing you could have done to stop this. I made this decision because I didn’t want you to worry or suffer. It was selfish to hide the truth, but I would do it again if I had to.

But Reggie–Thank you for everything. Being with you was everything I hoped for it to be, and I’m so grateful that it was you I fell in love with. I know it wasn’t easy for either of us at the start, but you never made me feel inept or undeserving. Loving you has been the greatest privilege of my life, and I hope we can reunite one day.

Do not worry about me, I will be by the seaside somewhere. I've always wanted to see the ocean with you, it just seems like I'll be the first to get there.

Let’s meet again one day, my man of action.

Endlessly Yours,

Y/N

Regulus runs his thumb across the journal page one last time, eyes flickering across the swirl of words in front of him.

Looking up from your journal, he wipes away a stray tear as he turns his gaze upward. The crashing of frenzied waves had mist swiping across his figure every so often, but he could hardly focus on the droplets clinging to his face. Rigidly standing by the cliffside, he hardened his resolve.

He would dance amongst the waves with you soon, death eater duty be damned.

With a content stretch of his lips, Regulus enters the dark cave.

He knows he will not breathe to see another moon, but he’s never felt so unbound.

He was free. Free at last to walk away from his responsibilities and burdens.

So he walks.

masterlist

#regulus black #regulus black imagine #regulus black x reader #regulus black fluff #regulus x reader #regulus black angst #regulus black scenario #the noble house of black #harry potter imagine #harry potter series #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #regulus black x you

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positivelyruined · 5 months

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LINK -> A Ballad of Thorns & Roses: How the High Lord of Spring Tells his Tale

by positivelyruined 🌹🍃🎻

links: Ao3 | original writing blog | WriterGram

Summary: When Tamlin, the High Lord of the Spring Court of Prythian, finds the clock counting down to his final battle with Amarantha — two things push him into action: the sudden death and bloody sacrifice of his friend Andras and the fierce vexation of his close friend Lucien. With no more time to waste, he offers shelter to the one person that he should despise the most — the girl who murdered Andras. His heart has been bleeding for a decade. Will their connection be enough to break the bond that holds the Spring Court captive, or will this burning love only spurn Tamlin’s heart? In this tale as old as time, only time will tell. 🌹

Shoutouts: big thank you to both of my original fans and betas, @tamlinfairchild and @lorcandidlucienwill who have both dealt with endless message spam, ten thousand questions, and my endless protection and fascinations with this character. also to @sonics-atelier who will be writing poetry for this epic in the long run. 👏👏👏

also a shoutout to the entire #proTamlin community | I’m glad to know that even if I am insane, at least I’m not alone.

for a lot of people, this will be my debut into the community (although I’ve written a handful of small things). but in short, I answer to cece, alex, ‘hey you over there’ and anything generally nice. 👋 I am twenty-seven and have been writing around fifteen years. 📝 I hope you all enjoy this exercise in mindbending and my journey into fixing everything SJM broke by…writing these books.

Tag List:

Here is the tag list. DM to be added, DM to be removed. This exists in two parts, the post and the comments because it is massive which is both flattering and incredibly intimidating

@goforth-ladymidnight @praetorqueenreyna @ceridvven @simmanin @golden-shani @ontheline840 @hiddenmidnightshadows @fleetfairy @supremedolphinoverlord @papaj--p4l @siriusement @szalonykasztan00 @rin-u-pos @alegomz @kateprincessofbluewhales @generouslawyereggsstudent @prettyawordthatstuck @bettdraws @lilyslittlewife @isabiss @draconicfaenerd @alizangc @hrizantemy @fourteentrout @camreadsum @yoddhasblog @mkused @wingsdippedingold @skyesayshi @ladydevena @leanderp @jungliet-capuleet @matrixsss @samsaj-05 @theknittingoracle @not-so-civil @multifandom-reader @iamtiredcanyouhelpme @littlestw01f @springandstarlight @yaralulu @foxcort @loneliestluvr @mathiwrites @1800naveen @kookiekissez @andrigyn

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #a court of thorns and roses #book rewrite #archive of our own #fanfiction authors #pro tamlin #tamlin acotar #feylin #pro Feylin #tamcien #pro Tamcien #pro Feyre #anti SJM #as a writer #my writing #my work #ABOTAR

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cursecuelebre · 10 days

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Anglo Saxon Nine Herb Charm

Ancient charm that is rooted in Germanic paganism and witchcraft, it’s very helpful for those interested in herbalism, Folk magic, Germanic folk magic and paganism, or just simple herbal magic. It's said that it was taught by Woden or Odin (Norse) who is the god of healing. It’s in the form of a poem, a form of Galdor which is basically is incantation when reciting this poem you’re evoking these herbs. By how the poem is written the plants are spoken like another person or living thing with a conscious mind. It’s one of good sources of wortcunning or medicinal knowledge of herbs. The blog can be helpful for those who wishes to bond with these herbs this poem can really bring good insight.

Some points to take note in this poem, most of these herbs are to be used in a healing context against poison. The Saxons believed that diseases were caused by corruption of evil spirits, elf-shot, most commonly in form of “Worms” not worms we see today in the soil but more like dragons or serpents. “Nesso” is the Anglo Saxon term and Wyrm is High German where Worm derives from which means dragon. That to cast the “worms” out is essentially getting rid of the poison. When you find yourself reading Anglo Saxon charms with “Worm” that is what is being refer to. The number 9 is very sacred in Germanic paganism and witchcraft, also the use of christian elements is suppose to be there. In medieveal context of folk magic in general a common concept is to mix pagan deities with Christianity Woden and Christ is not uncommon in German folk magic to be seen together. The green is the herbs mentioned and after the poem I'll put what some of the herbs are in modern day in english. I should also note there is multiple translations but this version is what I'm most familiar with.

Traditionally to perform the ritual a witches would chant over the herbs and applied to the patient’s body then the witch would blow into the targets ear and mouth to get rid of the evil/harmful spirit.

Remember, mugwort, what you made known, What you arranged at the Great proclamation. You were called Una, the oldest of herbs, you have power against three and against thirty, you have power against poison and against infection, you have power against the loathsome foe roving through the land.

And you, Waybread, mother of herbs, Open from the east, mighty inside. over you chariots creaked, over you queens rode, over you brides cried out, over you bulls snorted. You withstood all of them, you dashed against them. May you likewise withstand poison and infection and the loathsome foe roving through the land.

'Stune' is the name of this herb, it grew on a stone, it stands up against poison, it dashes against poison *Nettle it is called, it attacks against poison, it drives out the hostile one, it casts out poison. This is the herb that fought against the serpent, it has power against poison, it has power against infection, it has power against the loathsome foe roving through the land. Put to flight now, attorlaðe (poison hater), the greater poisons, though you are the lesser, until he is cured of both.

Remember, Chamomile, what you made known, what you accomplished at Alorford, that never a man should lose his life from infection after Chamomile was prepared for his food.

This is the herb that is called Stinging Nettle. A seal sent it across the sea-right, a vexation to poison, a help to others. it stands against pain, it dashes against poison,

A worm came crawling, it killed nothing. For Woden took nine glory-twigs, he smote the the adder that it flew apart into nine parts. There the apple accomplished it against poison that she [the loathsome serpent] would never dwell in the house.

Chervil and fennel, two of much might, They were created by the wise Lord, holy in heaven as He hung. He set and sent them to the seven worlds, to the wretched and the fortunate, as a help to all. It stands against pain, it fights against poison, it avails against 3 and against 30, against foe´s hand and against noble scheming, against enchantment of vile creatures.

Now there nine herbs have power against nine evil spirits, against nine poisons and against nine infections: Against the red poison, against the foul poison, against the white poison, against the pale blue poison, against the yellow poison, against the green poison, against the black poison, against the blue poison, against the brown poison, against the crimson poison, against worm-blister, against water-blister, against thorn-blister, against thistle-blister, against ice-blister, against poison-blister,

If any poison comes flying from the east, or any from the north, [or any from the south,] or any from the west among the people. Christ stood over diseases of every kind.

I alone know a running stream, and the nine adders beware of it. May all the weeds spring up from their roots, the seas slip apart, all salt water, when I blow this poison from you

mucgwyrt - Mugwort

wegbrāde - Waybread - Plantain

Stune - Lamb Cress

Stiðe - Nettle

mægðe - Chamomile

wergulu - Stinging Nettle

æppel - Crab Apple

fille - Chervil

finule - Fennel

*Stiðe most likely means nettle as a type of plants that is used very broadly, whilst stinging nettle refers to the actual plant such as the leaves, stems, etc. Nettle can also mean the roots. Some translations have attorlaðe instead of Stiðe, but in my opinion it's talking about how nettle is perceived here attorlaðe means 'poison hater' link to Fumitory. Perhaps Fumitory to the Saxons was related to Nettle I'm not sure just a theory of mine. Most likely than not the fourth herb in the charm is Nettle in the board sense of the family of plants. Unless someone can give me a more insight on the translation, I be more than happy to be corrected.

I really hope this helps people and it may inspire others on the path and learning of Anglo Saxon culture and Traditions. :)

#paganism #witchcraft #norse paganism #anglo saxon #heathenry #norse witch #herbs #herbalism #wortcunning #folk magic #german folk magic #traditional witchcraft #anglo saxon paganism

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jeannineee · 1 year

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Hii it’s me again I’m sorry I just had an addition or a new idea for the Azriel x powerful female reader. Maybe like a ball or smth were they both mostly ignore each other and reader dances with another male character and Azriel takes her to a more quiet place after and then they talk it out which maybe ends in a smut. I’m sorry I’m having many ideas at 3am

Truth

Azriel x Reader

a/n: y’all are really trying to make Azriel take Cassian’s spot as my favorite batboy w/ these ideas. Also, y’all can send in requests for Crescent City and ToG too!! Also small ToG reference at the end lolol. Apologies for any grammar errors, I was tired when I wrote this.

warnings: suggestive throughout, and nsfw towards the end. (18+ please.)

You’ve held nothing but contempt in your heart for the decade that you’ve known the High Lord’s shadowsinger.

When Rhysand invited you into his Inner Circle as an advisor, you hadn’t expected to meet the man you hate most in this world. The man who also happened to be your mate.

Azriel. Stoic. Efficient. Unreadable. Unbearable. Condescending. Infuriating.

The rest of the Inner Circle were shocked to see Azriel’s normally cool, calm demeanor shatter each time you were near. You’d bicker, sneer and snarl at one another on a good day. On a bad day? No one wanted to be near either one of you.

You’d never really taken the time to consider where your loathing of Azriel stemmed from, nor did you care.

But that damned mating bond? That only made things worse. The idea that the Cauldron wanted the two of you together was laughable, to say the least.

You couldn’t deny that Azriel was attractive, to be sure. The broad shoulders, the large, powerful arms. The rock-hard abs—

You snapped yourself out of that train of thought, ignoring that bond raging in your chest at merely the thought of him. It was replaced with frustration as you continued readying yourself for the night.

It was a standard visit to the Hewn City with the Inner Circle. When you met your friends in the foyer of your home, Mor grinned, and Cassian let out a low whistle.

Your dress left little to the imagination. The color complimented your skin; and the dress hugged your body in all the right places. A single breeze though, and you’d be giving the entire Court of Nightmares a good show.

You opened you mouth to speak, but closed it when Azriel appeared between your two friends. You tried to ignore his gaze lingering on your body, tried to ignore how a single look from him made your skin feel like it was on fire.

You noticed Mor stifling a laugh, and you had a sarcastic remark on the tip of your tongue. But it was left unsaid as she suddenly winnowed with you.

Music thrummed throughout the throne room. Guests danced and drank and conversed throughout the space. From the throne, Rhys gave you a friendly nod, and Feyre smiled.

Mor immediately lost herself in the crowd, as did Cassian. Azriel stood beside you, his expression as unfazed as ever. “Do you know what you’re doing tonight?” he asked, voice dripping with disdain as he gave your form a subtle once-over.

You scoffed. “Do you know how to worry about yourself, Azriel?”

“Stop being childish and do your job,” he shot back, his face hardening with anger.

Your lips curled in a snarl, and your vexation worsened as the bond roared in Azriel’s presence. But instead of arguing with him. You straightened yourself out, actually smiling at the shadowsinger.

“You’re right,” you replied sweetly, patting his arm. “I do have a job to do.”

You turned on your heel and made your way into the crowd, intentionally swishing your hips a bit more than normal. You pretended you didn’t feel Azriel’s eyes burning into the back of your head.

After downing a drink with Mor, you danced for a while. In that moment, the bond was little more than a dull ache in your chest. A nuisance, really.

You felt a warm hand brush along your hip, an action that you normally would’ve shied away from. But when you realized that Azriel was intently watching your interaction with this stranger, you decided to play.

The male was lean and tall, with pale skin, and piercing blue eyes. His white hair was perfectly kept. Not your type, but he’ll do.

“What’s your name?” he asked in a low, velvety voice as he casually snaked an arm around your waist.

You wrapped your arms behind the strangers neck, swaying your hips to the beat of the music as you spoke. “Does it matter?”

The stranger gave a feline grin in response. “I suppose not.”

The two of you flirted and danced, and after some time, he asked you to go home with him. You were prepared to turn him down, but confusion painted your expression as the stranger’s eyes grew fearful.

“Leave,” said a cold, lethal voice. Azriel.

The male didn’t need to be told twice. He left immediately, and when you whirled around on Azriel, he has the audacity to be smiling.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you sneered at him.

Azriel’s smirk remained glued onto his lips, and you were half-tempted to smack it away. “We’re leaving,” he stated simply.

You laugh bitterly. “No.”

Azriel’s smirk dropped. The way he looked at you now had heat pooling between your legs, though you’d never admit that to him.

Azriel sighed, clearly impatient. “You can walk out of here with me, or I can throw you over my shoulder, and you still leave with me. Your choice.”

“Fuck you—“

Azriel had you thrown over his shoulder in seconds, winnowing you to the House of Wind.

“Put me down,” You seethed, struggling against the iron grip he had on the back of your thighs.* “Right fucking now.”

Azriel ignored you, walking through the halls until he reached his bedroom. Only then did he finally put you down. His expression was…you’d never seen him like this. His teeth bared, pupils blown. “Were you going to go home with him? With that fucking—“

“It’s none of your business,” you snapped. “I’m leaving.”

You turned to leave his room, but Azriel’s hand grabbed your wrist.

“No you’re not,” Azriel replied, his voice devoid of its previous anger. He yanked you towards him, one of his hands gathering the hair at the nape of your neck, pulling you back to meet his fiery gaze.

You wanted to spit in his face, to scream and shove and fight. But you didn’t. The bond rumbled in your chest, like it was calling to him. You wondered if he felt it too. The bond…you needed it. You needed him. And he needed you.

Neither of you spoke. Nothing but a silent understanding as the two of you stared at each other. You were still dressed, yet you’d never felt so naked, so vulnerable.

“Azriel…” his name was a broken whisper on your lips. Was it a warning? A plea? You weren’t sure.

His lips were so close to yours that you could feel his breath. If he tilted his head down just a bit more—

No.

“Let me go,” you pleaded, silently cursing yourself for how weak you felt in that moment. You placed your hands on Azriel’s chest. “Please.”

Azriel didn’t move, didn’t waver as he spoke. “I can’t.”

And that was it. His lips crashed into yours, and the bond took form, surging between the two of you.

His kiss was hot and needy and desperate and everything you’ve ever needed. Your dress was on the floor in seconds, and Azriel laid you onto his bed.

He trailed his lips to your neck, biting and sucking small marks into it; claiming you.

You could feel his cock against your thigh, and you gently bucked your hips up against his, trying to ease the ache between your legs.

“Greedy,” he mumbled against your neck, before pulling back to throw your legs over his shoulders. There was a hunger in Azriel’s eyes, but there was something else there, too. Something softer.

His expression would’ve made you turn your head, if he hadn’t brought one of his hands down to gently grip your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“Eyes on me, y/n.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you obeyed, not breaking eye contact as he slowly entered you.

“So fucking wet,” he murmured, running his marred hands along your thighs. “You feel so good, y/n.”

You could only whimper in response, chest heaving as he filled you to the brim. Azriel leaned forward until your knees were against your chest, before unleashing himself.

Azriel pounded into you relentlessly, savoring each of the pretty moans that fell from your lips as the tip of his cock hit your cervix over and over. “This pretty little cunt was made for me,” he growls. “All fucking mine.”

Your hands tightly gripped his biceps—the only stability you had as he brought you closer and closer. “Y-Yes. All yours—fuck, Azriel—all yours.”

Azriel felt his own release approaching, and the way that your walls were squeezing him told him you were right there, too. “Come for me, y/n. Come on my cock.”

Your entire body shuddered as he fucked you through your orgasm, before finishing inside of you.

Azriel released your legs, and they fell limp at his sides. Your bodies were slick with sweat, the only noise in the room being your heavy breathing.

The weight of what the two of you had done finally set in, but you didn’t dare open your mouth.

Azriel meets your gaze again, his eyes softer than they’ve ever been. He knows what you’re thinking.

“We’re—“

“Mates,” you finish his sentence.

You’re both silent for a moment, studying one another, as though you’re both an equation that the other is struggling to solve.

It’s you who breaks the silence. “How do you feel about that?”

Azriel pondered for a moment. “It scared me, before. The idea that someone could be so connected to me.”

“And now?”

“I want to be with you. I think I always have.”

You nodded, you heart swelling at his words. “Me too,” you reply, your voice barely a whisper.

Azriel chuckled. “We were both pretty terrible at expressing that, then.”

He kissed your forehead, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to feel him through the bond. And he did the same.

“We have a lot of time to make up for,” you said, running your hands along his chest.

Azriel smiled. “We have all the time in the world.”

#acotar #female reader #smut #azriel acotar #acotar azriel #acotar smut #azriel x female!reader #azriel x reader #rhysand #Feyre #Cassian acotar #acotar headcanon #azriel shadowsinger #acotar fanfiction

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ninjastormhawkkat · 8 months

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Shadow Phoenix Au: The Coven of The Rising Moon

Now here is background about the Coven of The Rising Moon, the enemy of the Council of Daylight. This group are neither good nor bad guys, but very morally grey. The coven was only made in retaliation to the horrific actions caused by the Council of Daylight. The coven was made by a powerful witch named Verdona who was the only surviving member of her coven. She called herself the Lady Reaper. Magic users were strongly targeted by the Council of Daylight in the early years. She among other witches and wizards that survived the initial attacks formed the Coven of the Rising Moon as a sanctuary for all magical beings as well as an enemy to strike back against the council. Now with the Coven there is no animosity towards humans, mutants, and meta humans. Even today there is no hatred towards them. Members of the coven are cautious about trusting them, that is all. Verdona was married to a human and had children with him so she has no reason nor motivation to become hateful towards non magical beings. Lady Reaper even became friends with a human named Sebastian who wanted peace for all species and to make the Council of Daylight pay for their hostile actions. Sadly she and Sebastian were duped and deceived by the Solar Knight known as Drake Dunner which cost them their lives. Her son, Carl, who inherited magic from his mother, took over at the young age of 17 and became known as Lord Vexation. He and his partner Matthew Dunner, who joined Carl's side and betrayed the Council out of anger for what they did to Sebastian, the only person to care for him like a parent, revenge for what they did to his beloved Carl, and out of love for Carl and all magical beings now. Matthew Dunner became known as the Knight of Dusk, a name he chose to spite and insult the memory of his uncle and the Council of Daylight. Matthew also took over Sebastian's plans for the unity of all species and founded the Fair City People Unite. Carl and Matthew had three children born out of magic. Their eldest child Victor was going to be the successor to Carl of the Coven after he passed and Emily took on the mantle of the Knight of Dusk and head of the FCPU after Matthew retired. Things changed after one horrible incident. A woman named Teresa who was in line to be a next solar knight met and fell in love with Gene. She was arranged to be married to Navren but she did not love him. It took a while but the other members of the coven grew to like and care for Teresa. She and Gene married in secret and had a child together without the Council's knowledge. Sadly her father found out and was furious. He believed Lord Vexation and his offspring bewitched her to make her a traitor like Matthew. Navren was also furious because he believed she was his. He did not love her but only viewed her as status and a means to an end for his own reputation and career. Yurek sent Navren to not only create an artificial spell to free Teresa but also to punish Lord Vexation and Gene for their corruption of her. Navren only made a powerful curse to harm Gene and Lord Vexation and a spell to make Teresa fall in love with him. What Navren foolishly did not learn nor understand, was that magic could never make someone truly fall in love with you. Also Navren had no magical ancestry in his genetics. So using a curse and spell made from artificial magic backfired in the worse way possible. The spell didn't work which made Navren enraged especially when Teresa spat in his face and told him she would never love someone like him. So Navren tried to use the curse on Carl and Gene. Teresa was able to push Gene out of the way of the attack but sadly she and Carl got affected by the curse where she took the brunt of it. Navren fled before he could be persecuted by the rest of the coven. The way the curse affected these two and how it worked will be explain in their bios. But it made Carl no longer mentally well enough to lead the coven and it made Teresa not only no longer in her right mind, but also bloodthirsty and dangerous. (cont.) @dualnaturedscientist @melodythebunny

#wordgirl #wordgirl au #shadow phoenix au #teresa star #wordgirl ocs #angst #tw: mention of bigotry and death #knight of dusk #becky boxleitner au #coven of the rising moon #fcpu #lord vexation #solar knight #maddrix the malicious #half human/half alien becky #starcrossed cheese

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

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gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 7: Confrontation

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Hello, everyone! AGAIN! Because this was originally a single chapter, I didn’t want to leave it on the cliffhanger I did with Chapter 6. Therefore, ya get a two-for-one deal today! YAY! Just got some edits to do of the remaining three chaps and then this instalment SHOULD be done and dusted. Thank you to my slap daddy @ewanmitchellcrumbs and my boo @randomdragonfires for graciously allowing me to yeet this at them in group chat!

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, violence, age gap.

Whenever something in his life goes wrong, the solution can be found in a brothel.

It is a precept that has ruled Daemon from the moment he had first seen a whore’s tits at the impressionable age of thirteen, Viserys having finally capitulated to setting him on the path to manhood. He’d found it between the thighs of a buxom redhead, or so he had thought. Now, he’s not so sure. Nonetheless, he finds himself retreating to familiarity of fragrant burning oils and musk, of moans and sighs and the allure of gleaming flesh at times of struggle. It is where he had buried his vexation and frustration over his brother’s repeated refusals to take him seriously, where he had mourned the loss of his nephew, where he had spent the past ten years fucking away the anger and the guilt and the weight of everything he was.

It is where he has gone now, in the wake of that awful, senseless altercation with the lord of the Reach after he had dared to—Hm. Don’t think of it. He’s not looking forward to the scolding his brother will give him when he returns.

Or, it occurs to him, what will come to light as a result of my actions.

That might be the very worst part of the whole affair. When the king goes hunting for a reason that his wayward brother would strike down a member of the nobility, he knows the event alone will not satisfy as a full account of what took place. For why would Daemon Targaryen come to blows over mere implication? And, for that matter, why would Daemon Targaryen be present at Lord Tyrell’s meeting with the princess at all? From there, the web comes unbound, and he is discovered.

Fuck’s sake. This is not how he intended to broach the subject with Viserys.

The familiar sounds of breathy moans and slapping flesh fill the room as he sits upon the chaise, surveying the wares and nursing his fifth goblet of wine. He is pleasantly relaxed from the drink and the heady scent of fucking, the thrum of arousal warming his veins and pooling in his belly. It is not enough to coax a rise from him, but the ever-present stimulation is its own form of satisfaction. While his current associate—one of those on the fringes of his usual circle, an eager lad named Desmond or Desward or some such appellation—blathers on, Daemon idly casts his eyes around the room, taking in the abundance of unclothed forms, the roaming of hands and bouncing of breasts, the open-mouthed groaning of the whores as they earn their keep on their knees, against the wall, over the chair.

“… Which one do you like best, my prince?”

He snaps back to attention at the direct inquiry from his companion. Desmond jerks his chin toward the figures in various stages of undress, cheap jewels glittering under the light of the chandelier.

A much nicer establishment this time around, Daemon muses. He doesn’t voice this aloud, however. “Hm. That one, perhaps.”

He lets his eyes linger on the taller whore, appreciating the dusky glow of her hair as it spirals ink-dark from her crown. She twists her body winningly upon realising he is watching her, biting her lip and tossing her head back to display the elegant line of her neck. She’s not to his tastes, but that is precisely her appeal.

“Thought you would’ve gone with that pale-haired girl there,” Desward says, pointing out the smaller, white-haired waif prancing about with her gown peeled down to her waist, modest tits springing with each lively step.

Daemon swallows. She reminds him of you. No. He doesn’t want to think of you, not after the way you had looked at him. “Explain,” he says coldly.

This man hadn’t been present for those occasions in which his little entanglement with Rhaenyra had come up. So how has he come to that conclusion on his own?

Desmond’s expression twists apprehensively. “I just… everyone knows of your taste for silver-haired maidens, milord.”

Everyone does, do they? He’s not surprised to hear the rumours circling of his predilection for maidens, but the distinction here is new. There’d never been enough common stock with Valyrian features in Westeros for such preference to be made public beyond the closer of his old associates, and talk of the misconduct that had gotten him banished was never all that widespread, or so he has since learned. He can only think of one who might have reignited speculation. Fucking Dargood.

Later, he thinks, striding toward the object of his interest. I’ll deal with him later.

His irritation boils his blood just enough to incite a twitch of intrigue from his cock as he casts his eye over her critically. She’s a pleasing enough shape, though the hair is too fine and the mouth too small. Good enough.

“I hope I am to your liking, my prince,” she murmurs, pushing her shoulders back so that her form is bared a little more easily to his regard.

He grunts, eyeing the finely groomed mound that conceals his eve’s prize, and he cannot help but extend his hand to cup the plumpness of her, to trace a digit through silken petals to toy with the bud at the apex.

Either she’s had a customer already or she’s had her fun before venturing down, he mulls, rubbing the sticky wetness from her soft, swollen entrance between thumb and finger. The give is not the same as it would have been from grease alone. Ah—a whore worthy of the name.

Daemon allows her to grab him by the wrist and lead him through the room, through a darkened corridor and into an empty chamber. ‘Tis one of several, he observes, and quite finely furnished for an establishment of ill-repute. Of course, they are visiting the Street of Silk this time. The standards are far higher than that dilapidated hovel in Flea Bottom.

He pushes the girl away when she makes for the buttons of his jacket.

“I’m not intending to linger, pet,” he says, leading her hand down to the laces of his breeches. She nods, smirking impishly as she works at the fastenings. When they come loose, he presses her back onto the bed, reaching into his pants to withdraw his cock.

“My prince!” She is already spreading her legs like a little slut, fingers plucking hedonistically at her nipples. He leers, fondling the soft warmth of her exposed cunt. She is primed and ready for him, a consummate professional in her art.

He wishes the sight stirred him more.

“Call me ‘Uncle’.” He damns his weakness even as he crawls on top of her and shoves her legs further apart, notching his cock at her entrance.

He’d not had this fucking obsession before you—back when he’d thought himself enamoured with your sister, it had been enough to simply eke out his lusts on the nearest hole available, quick and rough and barely memorable. How you have unmanned him! How pathetic he has become. How woeful it is that he cannot endure something so instinctive, so primordial as mating without the thought of you to help him along.

The girl blinks; smiles. “Uncle! Oh, Uncle,” she breathes, the inflection all wrong, sounding nothing like you.

He plunges harshly into her, the glide hot and wet and too easy. It is nothing like taking your maidenhead would feel like, nothing like the tight resistance of a nervous virgin. He closes his eyes and pounds into the whore below him. This time, it is different. He is in control, he knows he is picturing you and he lets himself, permits the mirage of you to fill his mind’s eye and imagines the way your eyes might widen with mingling trust and hesitation as he breaches you.

“Uncle, my prince, fuck—”

He slaps a hand over her mouth, irritated by the disruption of his fantasy. You would never say such a thing in the midst of your deflowering, he is sure of it. When the whore’s voice is stifled, pitchy whimpers emanating from under his palm, he can almost convince himself it is you, can almost lose himself in the slip of cunt and glide of skin.

Daemon moans your name again—the game is up and it’s not long before he’s either exiled or given you, so what is the point in pretence—and suckles dark bruises down her throat, imagining it is the pale skin of your beguiling flesh. When he opens his eyes to stare into yours, he is confronted with the dull green of the whore’s.

What am I doing? What am I doing? Usually, the shame and aggravation sinks in once the firestorm of ecstasy has burnt itself out. It is just his luck that it strikes mid-coupling now.

“Fuck.” He begins to soften despite his hips driving a determined rhythm, desperate to keep the illusion alive just a little longer. It is not to be. “Fuck.”

He pulls out of the whore, sitting back on his haunches. He cannot go through with it. He cannot slink away, bury himself in a whore and pretend as though it’s you, not when he could be trying to win the real thing. He cannot disgrace you by fucking another and wishing it was your face he sees. It would have been preferable had the revelation come sooner—or later. He does not enjoy exposing his weakness before peasant stock.

He sighs; wipes his hand over his eyes; tucks himself back into his breeches, knotting the laces once more.

“My prince?” she asks, legs splayed and cunt raw and red from his vigorous pace.

He smiles wryly down at her, thumbing three silvers into her hand.

“My apologies, pet,” he says, pulling himself off the bed and heading to the door. “I’ve got somewhere to be.”

When Viserys had summoned him after his night in the brothel so long ago, he’d known immediately what it was about.

Foolish of him, really, to have said what he did. “The heir for a day.” To be fair, he’d not meant it as a mockery of Viserys’s pain or Aemma’s suffering, of Rhaenyra’s grief or your confusion. For all the commons had jibed of his anger and resentment, the Rogue Prince forced down the line of succession by a mere newborn, he had never truly felt umbrage toward his own nephew. How could he? He remembers cradling that boy in his arms, still numb with the shock of his cousin’s death, his brother nowhere to be seen. He remembers those gasping wheezes of his, tiny lips tinged purple with the effort of drawing air into lungs that did not wish to rise. Baelon had passed on in only a few hours, taking with him the realm’s hope for another heir. Someone other than him.

The king’s vitriol was understandable, if unjustified; in a rare display of restraint, Daemon had allowed the man to rail at him over the perceived slight, all too aware of who had been whispering in his ear. It was clear that Otto Hightower had gleaned the details from one of those nearby on the night of his unfortunate blunder, and had used the information to strip him of his standing.

He should have known better than to trust those he used to surround himself with. He should have learned by now.

Daemon returns to the keep as the hour of the ghosts sets in, the dim illumination of the torches bracketing the walls casting an eerie reminiscence upon his path. He’s faced Viserys’s wrath one too many times, those occasions blurring together so that he is several iterations of himself simultaneously.

Daemon the soldier. Daemon the drunkard. Daemon the outcast. He walks in the shadow of his former selves.

It is not long before he is confronted by the silent, scowling form of the Lord Commander. He holds his arms up, palms out, a clear signal of surrender.

“I assume my brother wishes to see me?” he asks, only to be provided a brief nod in return.

A man of few words, he notes to himself. ‘Tis welcome to see that some things don’t change.

He is honestly surprised that he isn’t dragged into the Great Hall again—it is already a significant departure from the previous two events that had gotten him exiled. There is less substantiation and more happenstance in these circumstances, he supposes. Well, with the exception of his assault on Tyrell. There is no denying that occurred. But not even Viserys would take a flowery fuck like him at his word, and he is sure to have untruths aplenty to impart.

Instead, he is escorted into the small council chamber, where Viserys sits alone at the head of the table, staring pensively at the wood grain. He barely acknowledges Ser Harrold’s pronouncement. Abruptly, he sits up, takes in the view of his brother and his Lord Commander, and clenches his teeth.

“You may leave us, Ser Harrold,” he says, eyes fixed upon Daemon.

He steels himself. This time, he has nothing to be ashamed of—except for his conduct with Tyrell, and maybe the whore, perhaps both… At least this time he isn’t being accused of lechery.

“I had thought you tempered by the years away.” The king’s grip is white-knuckled upon the arm of his seat. “And yet I learn today a most curious thing: the assault of a noble lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and accusations leveraged by that very same lord against my beloved daughter’s reputation. He claims her to be entangled in an affair with another. Who could have done such a thing, I asked? Who other than Lord Flea Bottom himself—my very own brother?”

Never mind, then. By the end of his oration, his words sound more like the sibilant hiss of a snake than the utterances of a man.

“Brother—”

“You will be silent, wretch!” Viserys snaps, smacking his palm down on the table. His pockmarked face has flushed ugly red, apoplectic with thinly veiled fury. “How could you do this? Ruining Rhaenyra wasn’t enough for you, is that it? You had to go and spoil my second child, my beloved girl, for your own selfish amusement?”

“I have done nothing, Viserys!”

“I am your king!” He pushes himself from his chair by his hand and stalks over to stand before Daemon. He is limping again as he is wont to do these days. “You will address me as ‘Your Grace’!”

“Your Grace.” Daemon bows his head slightly in deference. He cannot afford to anger the man further. “While I’ll confess to the abuse levied upon Lord Tyrell, I cannot admit to something I didn’t do. I haven’t touched her—”

“Oh, you haven’t?” Viserys laughs, but it is a repugnant, mocking sound. His features are firmly arranged into an expression of revulsion. “So Ser Criston’s reports of your—indecent behaviour are falsities, is that correct?”

“Cole?” Daemon asks incredulously. “The man hates me, Viserys. Why the fuck are you listening to him?”

His brother makes a noise of outrage.

“Very well.” A cruel gleam lingers in his eyes. “And what is this I hear of you—you—cavorting about with whores, encouraging them to playact as my daughter so that you may seek your pleasure?”

Daemon’s stomach sinks. Oh, fuck.

Viserys continues. “Your man from the City Watch—Dargood—had little issue telling the tale. What say you to that?” A great many things, brother, and none of them for your ears. The king sneers. “I have half a mind to cut your cock from you and remedy your wickedness once and for all!”

“What would you have me do? Lie? I’ll admit to fucking whores and pretending they were her. Tell me you’ve never let your desires rule your bedsport!” Daemon lets out a derisive scoff. “But I’ll not stand here and be accused of undue conduct when I’ve been nothing short of chivalrous in your daughter’s company.”

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you? Lech!” Viserys leans back against the table. When next he speaks, his voice is heavy with distaste. “Begone from this city, Daemon. You have outstayed your welcome once again.”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“No?”

Incredulity. Daemon supposes it is fair. He’d never resisted exile before.

“No,” he repeats firmly. “Save for the business with Tyrell, I’ve done nothing wrong. You have no grounds to banish me.”

“No grounds? No grounds?” The king’s pitch is rising. “Attention! Flattery! Gifts! It is a game I know well! A game you’ve played with my first child, and now my second!”

“I am not after ruining her reputation, Your Grace,” Daemon insists. His brother huffs and spins away, pacing before him. “I would have her as my wife.”

Viserys pauses. “Are you in jest?” He looks almost as though he is torn between laughter and tears. “How do you think you’ll go about getting my throne from her? Do you plan on slaying Rhaenyra and her sons to get your crown?”

It is an abhorrent thought. Daemon cannot believe his brother would think so lowly of him. Briefly, he mourns the bond he once had with him, a bond that has frayed and corrupted under the weight of the Seven Kingdoms.

“It’s not about the Iron Throne, Viserys!” He alters his approach, beseeching his brother and urgently pressing his case. “I am the best match for her, and you know it. A Targaryen prince, a warrior, a dragonrider. There is none other who would compare, none other who could give her a just union such as I, least of all that idiot Tyrell—”

“What of Lord Jason Lannister? I would have her wed into Casterly Rock, far away from your grasping ambition!” Viserys’s gaze is considering, now. No longer is he beholden to the blind rage that had gripped him only moments before. “As for your lofty claim… it is Alicent’s wish that I announce the girl’s betrothal to Aegon, who is also a Targaryen prince and a dragonrider. Why should I not heed her instead?”

He's tempted to laugh, but doing so would only incite further ire. No matter the cost, Daemon will not concede to a green boy who seems more satisfied in acting like a child than behaving like a man.

“The boy is awful to her, Your Grace. She dislikes him. And the Lannister cunt? A simpleton. She’d be wasted on a fool like him, and you know it.”

His brother tips his head in acknowledgement and exhales frustratedly, leaning against the small council table. Much of the fight has left him.

“You are right… But how can I allow this?” Viserys whispers. He is bowed over the table, slumped and defeated. “How could you do this to her? To me?”

“What have I done?” Daemon draws closer. “I’ve spoken with her, taken walks with her, given her gifts. It is nothing more than that. I doubt she ever saw it as more than an uncle taking interest in his niece, until today. I swear this to you upon anything you wish to name.”

The king chuckles, though it carries no joy. “Such sincerity, Daemon. It is most unlike you.”

“I want her as my wife,” he says again, pleading. “Not for the sake of the throne, or to harm you, or any other reason save this—I want her.”

“I cannot…” is the response, muted and distressed. Viserys glances up at him. “You would destroy her.”

He is upset, resigned, but no longer alight with infuriation. Daemon leans against the table next to his brother.

“I would make her happy. Happier than any other. She could stay in the capital with her family. She could ride that great beast of hers whenever she likes. She could study to her heart’s content, at home where she belongs. Only I can give her all those things, and you know it. I am what she needs.”

Viserys does not reply—only stares at him with something foreign and inscrutable.

He makes his final bid. “Long have I been your staunchest supporter. Did I not wage a war in the Stepstones in defence of your kingdom? I have never asked for anything in return, except this: long ago, you promised that you’d annul my marriage so that I might find a bride of my own choosing. Years, I asked. Years, you denied me. And now… I am free.”

Daemon’s voice rings out in the stillness, the echo lending gravity to his words. He stares unflinchingly at his brother. “Give the girl to me to wife. You owe me this.”

The king is silent, unmoving. It is clear he has nothing left to say. And thus, Daemon has no reason to remain.

He bows and knocks on the door to be let out of the room. Passing through the walkway of the small council chambers as it opens, he leaves the king to his deliberations and hopes that his efforts will pay off.

“For all your degeneracy,” Daemon sneers, “you’re not one to be so loose with secrets.”

The air is chilled with the deep dark of night, the blackness so thick it is almost choking. He doesn’t enjoy the necessity of returning to the scene of his transgressions, but his wayward friend is easy to discover in the depths of the city.

Below him, Dargood pants and splutters, winded after being struck in the gut and dragged from his stool in a cheap, nameless drinking house. Daemon had lugged him rather briskly by the neck to the narrow alleyway beside the tavern, the amber luminosity pooling from the rickety window providing just enough light for him to make out the man’s face.

Dargood coughs. “Times change. A man’s got to do what he must to make coin in this city.”

“City Watch not paying you enough?” Daemon observes him as his eyes begin to droop shut, no doubt a combination of the drink and the knock to the skull as he’d been pulled out the door. He kicks him in the side for good measure, relishing in the yelp emitted when the leather makes contact with vulnerable flesh. “What a shame. Whoever could blame you for selling slanders to the king, then?”

His former ally scrambles to his knees, swaying unsteadily against the stone. “It’s not like that. And ‘slander’ only counts when it’s not true.”

He has a point, Daemon’s mind cannot help but acknowledge.

Dargood babbles on, heedless of the aggravation rising in the figure above him. “I didn’t mention anything outside what I heard and saw—”

“Oh, fuck off!” Daemon clouts him across the temple once more. He collides with the wall with a subdued thump, punctuated by further groaning. “Your father’s a lord. You don’t need the money.”

“Because it’d be so easy for me to beg that man for compassion.” Dargood spits the words out as though they taste foul on his tongue.

Ah, yes—he’d quite forgotten. A lesser son from a lesser house would hardly have recourse to cast himself upon the fires of mercy after amassing a reputation as dissolute as the man’s before him. Whoring, gambling, brawling, and there’d even been some more unsavoury rumours about his involvement in some scheme exploiting the poorest orphans of the city. He’d not cared to ask then, but perhaps he should have. He does not recognise the being before him.

Scum, he realises. He’s scum.

Daemon steps back, assessing the beaten creature that he had once called friend. He sighs. “Go home, Dargood,” he says finally. “Leave this city, or you’ll be made to.”

Before he can turn and walk away, the man lurches to his feet, grappling along the rock behind him. His bloodshot eyes zero in on his target. “So that’s it, then?” he asks, irate cadence marred by the slur in his speech. “You’ll just throw me aside when you feel like it? After all these years, prince.”

A brief flicker of displeasure stirs Daemon’s temper. “Yes—your prince. You sold out your prince for some fucking coin.”

Come to think of it… Wasn’t he making his little remarks before word reached my brother?

The memory has his hands locked tight around the man’s throat before his mind can become fully cognisant of his actions. “In fact”—his fingers squeeze harder—“you sold out your prince for status. Didn’t even need the money to spread your tales, did you?”

“Let—let go!” Dargood chokes, making no attempt to release himself from Daemon’s hold. He ought to be capable of such a feat. His training was thorough enough.

Pathetic. He’s not worth the bother.

Daemon loosens his grasp, surveying the vermin that had been his proudest investiture, a shining example of what the City Watch could achieve with discipline and decisiveness as its fundamental tenets. Now, he is no more than rabble, one among thousands of crooks, delinquents and filth polluting his ancestor’s crowning glory.

“Hm. You disappoint me.” With a final glower of disdain, he adds, “Expect a visit from your Lord Commander when day breaks. I think you’ll find your tenure with the Watch is at an end.”

With that, Daemon revolves on his heel and stalks away, far from Flea Bottom, from these havens of vice lining the streets, and from the poison that had fuelled his life in past years. He has no need for such a meaningless existence now. There is something better and brighter to look forward to.

“My prince! Daemon!”

He ignores Dargood’s supplications even as they grow louder, leaving him behind—where he belongs.

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hiraeth-sonder · 4 months

Text

Long Once More - 再贪欢

Yan! OC x Reader

OC x Reader

You will always have him, no matter your vice, he will always be there

TW: Incest, manipulative and toxic behaviour, really badly written sex

//This isn't historically accurate at all and I have no idea what I wrote. If anyone has read the prequel on AO3 or Quotev, this is just a continuation. You don't have to read one or the other to get the whole plot but I can't tell you what to do sooo

₊˚⊹⁠♡—————春芯王—————♡⊹⁠˚₊

The role of Lord of Chunxin is not an easy one, perhaps made especially so by your being a woman. Times have been hectic in the recent year and with nosy officials poking in to question your marital status, you have taken it upon yourself to solve this issue.

The time has once again come for a myriad of eligible young lords and ladies to express their intention of courting, whether for reasons political or not, it is ultimately inevitable for you to receive some offers. Your suitors, of course, would have to remain in your estate and care until you came to a decision on their status. It is by no means a paltry position, for many acquiring Chunxin would mean enjoying the wealth of a merchant and trade hub as well as the strategic location that aided with its peace. No matter the fact that you are a young woman of comely features and skill to run a whole commandery on your own, there was bound to be some fool of a noble willing to try his hand at courting you.

To marry a man would mean that Chunxin would very likely be absorbed into whatever territory they ruled over, or perhaps worse still, they would deem themself more worthy to rule. It is very well said that their arrogance may cast the careful tranquillity you have crafted into the abyss, and as you have dedicated 8 years of your life into this commandery you call home, you would quite prefer for your hard work to not go to waste.

This period of receiving has a long time to end, yet you were keen to complete this phase of your life as soon as possible. To pick a suitable husband never has been such an arduous task.

Beneath the warm sunlight streaming through verdant leaves, a soft sigh escapes you as your older brother sits opposite with a tea set between the two of you. His eyes are closed, expression placid as he takes in a breath. The wind is gentle and brings about the fragrance of blooming flowers, the start of spring has arrived and it only seems fitting for the start of your toil to coincide with such a prosperous symbol.

Your attendant A’yan approaches you and hands over a bundle of letters, three in total and each more solemn than the last. She holds a hand to her chest as she bows, she affirms, “My lord, here are the offers we have received.”

Heavy in your hands, you flip through each scroll to take cursory glances, eyes scanning over surnames and territories. It mattered not their age, so long as it did not go above thirty five, you had no qualms. Though perhaps your focus was more on their date of arrivals, and knowing some of the families that have sent their responses, punctuality is to be expected and not suggested.

“How convenient that they should not arrive all at the same time, at the very least I may spend more time getting to know them,” Letting out an amused huff, your eyes look upon a certain family’s especially early arrival.

Your older brother picks up another of the scrolls, phoenix eyes narrowing in vexation for a moment before they return to his usual placidity. His voice is low, serene and sonorous, “How convenient indeed.”

As though sensing the ensuing conversation to be shared between family, A’yan excuses herself and moves to watch over the two of you from a distance. At this, you send him a knowing look as you put down the scroll in your hand.

“Will you promise to behave when they come around?”

Zhou Chen only cocks his head, long auburn hair bound loosely framing his alluring apertures along with the movement. He raises a brow and hums, “You make it sound as if I am cruel enough to burden others.” Amber eyes bearing a kind of aggrievedness as those long lashes flutter, akin to emphasising his hurt, “Meimei, do you truly think so low of me?”

You laugh at such a display, mirth pulling at your lips as you smile, “You always find something to gripe about whenever someone shows interest, am I wrong?”

His hand, slender with well-defined joints, reaches out to brush a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the contact gentle and familiar as the cold touch of jade and gold press against your skin. You lean into his touch ever so slightly, more a sign on your accruing stress than anything else. A soft sigh escapes you, and for a moment your eyes meet.

“My dearest meimei is far too good for any person, it is only right that as your brother, I weed them out for you,” He murmurs, amity all but spilling from his words.

You breathe out, voice discordant and scraping out your throat, “Promise me, please.”

Your dearest brother, your only bastion of assuage before the chaos that is soon to emerge, whenever he speaks to you as such, it feels as though everything in this world shall resolve itself favourably.

“Anything for you.”

₊˚⊹⁠♡—————宋曦渊—————♡⊹⁠˚₊

Lord Song Ze, courtesy name Xiyuan, of Ningshan is a face you did not expect to see at your door first thing in the morning. Or rather you did not actually expect to see him at all.

The Song family were the descendents of a particularly pious monk, following more along the path of immortals than those of mortality. You could perhaps recount the last time you have seen a member of this family from your childhood of living among celestial beings, though you are not sure you have ever seen Xiyuan before.

The name is one that bears a kind of distance, one that has been cultivated through his almost ethereal appearance and deeds. When one thinks of benevolence, the image that is conjured is that of white robes and sweeping sleeves. Though the Song family has notoriously been above many of the conflicts that plague other commanderies and territories, so it is of course a surprise that they not only sent an offer, but also that the head of the family himself would so magnanimously offer himself. Their response was vague, promising only that a favourable member had taken it upon himself to make the journey to Chunxin and try his hand upon the sixth day of the month.

So you must be excused for the clear and evident shock on your face when a carriage pulls up in front of your estate only for a tall and slender immortal with a smile on his face to emerge.

“Lord Song, it is a pleasure to have you in our humble lands,” You bow as your eyes subtly shift to look for another that may indicate his being as political, as a figure to ascertain negotiations for another. Yet when no other steps down from the carriage, you take in a soft breath. “I believe this is our first time meeting.”

For a moment, you think you see a complicated emotion flash across aureate eyes, though it is quick to disappear as he urges you from your formality, “Please, no need for such courtesy, we are to get to know one another soon.”

“Of course. Then, would you be keen for some tea?”

Xiyuan nods, an elegant move that barely disturbs the strands of hair that drape upon his broad shoulders. He is so much taller than you, he must tip his head just to perceive you fully and you must raise yours, the stark difference only makes you feel small. Though you gesture for him to go ahead, when the rest of your servants come to take his luggage, he is quick to thank them, a sunny smile pulling across thin lips. His voice is light and gentle, if you must compare it then it should be to the first rays of light in the morning. Perhaps what you do not expect is that when they struggle to carry it, he reaches out and with inordinate ease, lifts what may be a few catties and instead offers to bring it to his room himself.

Throughout this entire process, you could only watch in awe as he does not show even a sign of struggle, maintaining the elegant gait as he accompanies you to your drawing room. It was almost horrifying to see, though you have little time to ponder the reason behind such ability when he has settled in his seat and is looking to you with an expectant gaze.

With a slight quirk of your lips, you inquire the reasoning behind his being here, “I am truly honoured that you have made the journey to Chunxin, though may I ask, why exactly did you choose to court me?”

Xiyuan takes a moment to answer, his expression tranquil as he gathers his thoughts. Then, he speaks, clear and true.

“You are a woman of repute, it is undeniable even in Ningshan that your ability and your generosity is rare among commandery lords.” His eyes persist firmly on yours, unwavering and stalwart. He takes a breath, and his eyes crinkle in slight mirth as that smile of his, clement as a spring’s day, remains upon his lips, “There is little I do not admire about you, and when time came around, I believed it a chance to speak with you.”

Your chest tightens, and though you respond, it comes out weak and gawky, not at all the refined lord you attempted to convey, “Well, it is very kind of you to say so. Before I may continue asking, do you have any concerns you wish to be addressed?”

He merely shakes his head, and gestures for you to resume your pseudo-interrogation, a notion you readily accept.

“I have a duty to Chunxin and so I worry that should we get married, my presence would be required most in Ningshan.”

Though Ningshan was only a journey taken by a few days, you wished not for an event where you would be forced to watch your people suffer from afar. You may be unsure of the manner in which the Song family treats spouses, however there is one thing that you are certain and that is, becoming the wife of a person as important as the Lord of Ningshan would mean dedicating your prowess and time to it, leaving Chunxin.

You would not take it, you had made that clear in your soul the moment you had to send that announcement to the world. In your heart, you already knew the answer you would receive, you merely wished that you would be proven wrong.

“I understand, and I must apologise but as my wife, you would be required to remain by my side,” Xiyuan’s response is as you expected, a slight mournful glint in his eyes.

Yet still, he is swift to reassure you, “However, I can promise that Chunxin will remain entirely under your dominion, we have no intention of absorbing or conquering your lands.”

At that, you can only let out a soft sigh, “That is a relief, I will admit.”

Though your words said so, internally you have likewise expected such a concept. The Song family would not engage in conflict unnecessarily, even if it should benefit them. You do not have much else to ask him if you had to be honest, your main worry out of the way, so you merely hold your teacup to your lips, sipping in slow practised bouts as you attempt to think of conversation.

“Do you have siblings?” Hesitantly, you broach the silence that befell the two of you.

He responds, another smile upon his lips, “A younger brother, I believe he should be around your age.”

“That’s nice, I should like to meet him one day.”

Just as stiff as it started, it ends. Truly, it was difficult to find something to talk about when you knew little of each other, made especially inconvenient by the strict courtesy that bound the two of you. Taking another sip of your tea, the floral liquid tinging your tongue. As his arrival had been so early in the morning, you had yet to break your fast and so in an admittedly, utterly embarrassing moment, your stomach grumbles. The sound is like a knife through the air, horrifically obvious with no method to hide its journey.

Though your thin face attempts to retain some of your dignity, your eye twitches just the slightest. Yet just from a minute glance, Xiyuan does not seem to scorn your break of propriety. Rather, that smile of his softens, melting into something much fonder, as though looking upon a beloved.

“I must ask, do you enjoy pastries?”

“Yes, I…” You are not sure how best to put together your response. There are a myriad of reasons yet the one you decide to share, as well as the one bearing some truth, was one that seemed to imply unwell. Admitting to an odd shyness, you let a smile creep up in an attempt to lighten the mood, “They help me with my energy throughout the day.”

He appears pleased at this response, and though you wondered the reason for such for a moment, it is quickly dispersed when he retrieves a small box wrapped in fabric. You recognise the manner of wrapping, the colour and the very wood of the container. How could you not? Whether by pure coincidence or scheme, he has managed to purchase pastries from your favourite shop.

“Well, if I am not overstepping, I have brought some for you.” He offers the gift to you, the vessel almost dwarfed in his hands.

You have little choice but to accept, taking it into your hands and ignoring the slight brush of contact you share. “Thank you.”

You had fully intended to partake of them later, however by his gesture and anticipating look, you decide to abide so, if only to fulfil his request and your insolent stomach. Unwrapping the fabric with careful fingers, you open the box to reveal delicate spheres dusted with flour, glutinous rice flour encasing a sesame peanut filling. Once again, your favourite. As elegantly as you can, you pinch the ball between your fingers and take a bite, sweet yet tastefully salty, it more than satisfies your stomach when a soft hum escapes you.

Now fully aware of the sound you made, your eyes shift to Xiyuan only to find him gazing upon you, almond eyes all but seeping his solicitous amusement. With his shoulders squared and his posture ramrod perfect, it almost made a quaint sight, that a person could truly be so kind.

Just as you place the rest of the pastry down and open your mouth to speak, you are interrupted by the door sliding open, a familiar figure blocking the sunlight that enters as he stands tall.

“Lord Song,” Your brother’s voice is placid, unlilting and impregnable of emotion.

The man in question merely smiles, not a shred of vexation or annoyance present, “Lieutenant General Zhou, I had not expected that you would be here.”

“Lord Zhou is my sister, I naturally came to check on her,” He answers. The sentiment behind his placidity perhaps enhanced by the natural monotone of his accent.

Though he says as such, he merely takes a glance at you before keeping his attention on Xiyuan. In his hands are a bundle of official documents rather than his beloved qin, so you can only assume that he fully intended to camp the rest of the day in your office either asleep or actually doing work. This quick stop of his must have been impulsive rather than any well-thought out scheme.

Before he may take his leave, Xiyuan invites him in with a lilting hum, “Do come in, I would like to get to know you better as well, your reputation precedes you.”

Your brother only glances at you, and when you send him a minute nod, he obliges. With an elegant gait marred only by the weariness of work, he takes the seat opposite of your guest’s, regarding him with a cool gaze as he speaks slow and practised.

“Yours as well, I hope that should my meimei decide to let you court her, you will not mind my presence.”

“I would not dare. Oftentimes, a brother is as good as a father,” ever the kindly soul, he reassures him.

A small huff escapes you, this good brother of yours may very well be the only male relative you had left. He who was raised by your mother, and you who was whisked away by immortals, neither of you even knew what happened to your father let alone whether he would be as obliging as Zhou Chen. Still, you keep your expression pleasant as your brother seems to think of some matter to discuss.

“I have heard that you are exceptionally talented in playing the xiao, though I am more interested in your supposed ability with the qin. It is quite prodigious to master both,” He hums, long lashes lowered as his gaze sweeps to the man’s side.

“You flatter me, surely my ability could not match up to yours,” Xiyuan deflects the compliment, instead gesturing towards your brother with a kind smile. As naturally as breathing, more praise seems to tumble out, “Is it not true that you can hear a wrong note even in a symphony of instruments?”

Just like that, you may very well be effectively barred from understanding the rest of the conversation. Terms far too technical for you to hope to understand and spoken with enthusiasm far more vigorous than you have ever seen from your serene brother, you could only hide behind your tea and pastries, hoping that this conversation will not drag too far into the future.

Lying beneath your covers as your head rests upon your ceramic pillow, you find that you have been very rudely awakened from meagre sleep due to reasons unknown. Though you have attempted to wrestle your conscious back to restful slumber, your body appears to resist any and all attempts, merely maintaining that sore strain that seems to plague your form upon awakening.

The sun has yet to peek its head from above the morning mist, the birds yet to sing and with little to do, you force yourself to rise. A breeze of cool wind caresses your skin, and it takes everything within you to not retreat back to warmth, instead dressing yourself as respectfully and warmly as possible. As you step out of your room, careful to not make much noise, you let your feet carry you to wherever it desires, eventually stopping outside the a courtyard of youthful pinks and picturesque reds, the plum blossom tree that stands tall acting as a canopy for an unexpected visitor. Though servants milled about to catch glimpses of him, he still appeared a lonely pillar.

“The morning dew has yet to drip and yet you have already awakened.”

He turns to you, a kind of wistfulness in his eyes that returns to the depths of his sunlit eyes as you approach him. There is nothing to deter you, so you come to his side as the two of you remain beneath the tree’s grace. The silence that had once been stiff and stilted, has become more tranquil in such a setting, a context that requires no conversation of grace but rather cherished the fleeting moment of respite.

“Had you remained awake throughout the night?” He inquires, gentle yet concerned.

You only shake your head, your voice still hoarse from disuse, “I could not return to sleep, and you?”

A tightlipped smile appears across his face, though it did not detract from his visage, he nods.

“May I ask what you are doing here?”

“This tree merely reminds me of old memories, when I was younger and more naive.”

There is that smile once more, bearing a kind of emotion distantly related to that gleam just a day ago. You have yet to clue in on what exactly his intentions truly are, to offer himself on a platter when he must surely have options much more willing to be Madam Song than you. Your attendants could find not hide nor hair of intent, nothing to leverage and nothing to use. Song Xiyuan is a man you could not understand at this very moment.

Why did he look at you so? For what reason did he descend if only to make connections with your paltry Chunxin?

“I had this tree grown here in honour of my master, I am unable to visit him as often so knowing there is some part of him I can pay homage to is…” Your gaze averts towards the ground, and even you are not sure what, who, you are trying to avoid looking at. Still, you manage to whisper out, “Comforting.”

“The immortal Xu Yuanzhen, yes?”

His reveal of information, a detail that only your most intimate knew of you takes you more than just off guard. Turning to him, it is unease that pumps through your veins and rushes to your head. For him to have acquired such an aspect about you, there was little explanation for retrieval.

“You would be right,” You breathe out, your eyes wide and your chest tight.

Still, you manage to continue, “How do you know that?”

He glances away for only a moment, only a second before they redirect to you. His hands clasp together in a mock of nerve as he took in a breath. When he speaks, finally speaks and removes you from your disquiet, it is quiet.

“I fear that I may have been keeping some matters secret from you, but I suppose it is only right I tell you.”

In an attempt to maintain your composure, you meet his gaze. He starts his story, speaking with a soothing cadence as he recalls a time long gone, “When I was younger, my uncle took me to a conference and it was there that I met this girl. She was younger than me and was holding the hand of a man with pale apertures and garbed in white robes.”

“She cared not for my status as the Song family heir, and though she was shy at first, it took little for us to start talking.” A kind of mirth tinges his words upon this reveal, fondness practically overfilled.

“I had little contact with other children, and the time I spent with her was exhilarating. When we had to leave, she gave me the string bracelet she had around her wrist and made me promise to play with her again.”

From his wide sleeves and many layers, you see it. The thin little string of dull yellow peeking from behind robes of white, tightly entwined around his wrist and pulling memories from a time you thought lost to you.

“I never saw her again, not when her master rarely descended nor my family’s preference for isolation. I was ready to spend the rest of my life unbound, if only because she had taken my heart with her all those years ago,” He admits with a kind of sardonic irony, one made only more wry by the soft smile on his lips.

“When the news came of Chunxin’s incident, I had an inkling that it could have been you.”

He turns to face you fully, that wistful gleam now one you recognise as sentiment. It is now that you may behold him, the ethereal Lord Song deemed a man too kindly to be mortal, is only so, so very human. Peach blossom eyes that have beared weariness unknown to so many, the subtle wrinkles upon thin lips, the unevenness of his lashes. Human, so wonderfully human and so horrifyingly adoring of you.

“Xiyuan…” Your voice seems to betray you, breathless and stupefied.

For a moment, his hands move as though they sought to hold yours within them, yet even that is suppressed. He pleads softly, anymore and he would have been begging, “Please, just call me Song Ze.”

“I have waited for you for 17 years,” His confession is quiet, as every part of his longing has been yet still contained an ardour that finally breached the surface of the abyss called time. “I do not know how much longer I can wait now that I know you have always been so close.”

“I will ask your brother for permission, if not I will wait outside Lianyue Pavilion for your master’s.”

Under the falling leaves of the perennial plum blossom tree, Xiyuan’s eyes of sunlit gleam. You step closer towards him, allowing yourself to bask in his presence as the sheer attention he gives you, so freely offers to you, almost makes you scared. That though his very presence, a bubble of allaying sandalwood and incense, should bring about some kind of solace, your head only squeezes in ache.

“You barely know anything about me, you would find me appalling if you knew what I have done.”

He shakes his head, and when he finally takes your hands in his, you find that they are extraordinarily warm, like sunlight shining upon your skin. He only smiles, “But it is still you, and I am willing to spend the rest of my life learning everything about you, if you will only let me.”

A part of you wonders why exactly your heart tightens at the sight of his paradisiacal vulnerability.

₊˚⊹⁠♡—————陈伯裕—————♡⊹⁠˚₊

By the fourth day, it seems the entirety of Hedong has arrived at your estate. Stuffed into a singular carriage, the whole Chen family had been all but ecstatic, rushing out of the little vessel to swarm you and your brother. Perhaps if this was another noble family, you would have been more inclined to accept the affection, however, every single one of them just had to be freakishly robust.

Before you can be questioned by the lord and lady, you greet their three children with a small bow and light smile, “Boyu, Zhongyuan, Jiaxiang.”

It is just as you finish your pleasantries that Madam Chen scoops you into her embrace as she wraps her arms around you, leaving you so breathless that you can only manage a breathy and wheezing, “Lord Chen, Madam Chen.”

“Have you lost weight? Oh look at you, it must have been so hard handling everything on your own,” She notes, her voice tinged with concerned as she pulls away, soft hands placed on your face as she scans over you

Lord Chen, an older man with smile lines and crow's feet decorating his face, only enhances those features when he points out their gifts, “Not to worry, we brought some pastries just for that.”

“Oh, and we just couldn’t help bringing some extra things, just a little bit though.”

While you are all but smothered by the two, practically engulfed if you will, you notice your brother likewise receiving the same treatment by the three Chen children. Wrapped up in a hug by the eldest son and the youngest daughter, the middle son was the only one who abided by the rules of propriety and greeted him as usual.

“Yijin!” The sound of a boyishly charming voice rings through your ears, his words enhanced through the natural draw of his youth.

Another one sounds, a young girl’s playful tone ringing through the air as clear as bird song, “Zhou-ge!”

“Shifu.” The last is controlled, a young man’s calm lilt among the chaos.

Equally helpless to the vigour that is the Chen family, the two of you can only let yourselves be asked of everything under the sun and have your ears rambled off. Still, you take it all with a pleasant gleam in your eyes and liveliness befitting such people. When the revelry dies down just the slightest, you have one of your attendants, Xue’er, show the family to their rooms while A’yan settles their bountiful luggage. Lord and Madam Chen drag your brother off at the first notice, asking of this and that while their younger children bicker and tease.

Though, there seems to be one exception to your arrangements. As the carriage departs and the dust settles, you are left completely and utterly alone with the little tyrant of the south, boyish Chen Boyu. Illuminated by bright sunlight, you must look up to meet his gaze, soft brown peach blossoms eyes bearing joy and gaiety, the corners of his lips deep with a smile.

When you look upon him, it is hard to determine the emotions you feel. Though there is one that you can accurately pin down in that labyrinth you may call a head.

An emotion distantly related to playfulness tinges your voice as you hum, “I see you’ve decided to try again.”

“I won’t be giving up anytime soon,” He responds, equally spirited as his voice takes on a pitch just the slightest higher.

At this, you let out an amused snort. With mock aggrieve, you roll your eyes as you whack him, the back of your hand being met with the musculature of his arm.

“You certainly have more noteworthy competition this year.”

Boyu, ever the dramatic, puts a hand to his chest as an offended expression takes form onto his face. Deep eyebrows raised in shock and eyes wide, there is still a smile on his lips despite this, a cheeky lilt to his words, “But compared to them, surely I’m much better?”

“If you want to compete with Lord Song and Qiugu’s general, go ahead,” You bite back, the corners of your lips tugging upwards.

“They don’t have what we have though,” With his musing, he turns away from you. Though it is one that is brief, a moment of drama for an otherwise playful moment. “A bond.”

On instinct, you only shake your head and let out a soft sigh, your eyes squeezed in amusement as you walk ahead of him, at least not before turning back to direct him to his room.

“Go rest up, we still have time before dinner.”

Your relationship with Boyu is not one you say you dislike, nor one you absolutely adore. While you are appreciative for the aid and protection that allying with Hedong has given you, given that you had very little armed forces, there has been a profuse shame welling within your very form since the day you met.

You have never been unaware of his feelings for you, the adoration that seemed to spring from his very being the moment he laid his eyes upon yours. One look and he had suddenly turned from the confident young warlord to a stuttering blushing mess, it was illogical and irrational. Six years of collaboration and his attempts to court you, spend more time with you and get to know you, it granted a relationship akin to bosom friends yet that was only your perception.

You bore no possibility for affection, no room in your heart for him and for all your cruelty, you could not break such news that you could not see him as such. A political marriage may very well be an option but you knew he desired affection, some kind of companionship you could not give. It is because of that very fact that you worry what may come of this moment.

When you return to your office, you find your brother waiting for you, his pipe in hand as languid tendrils of smoke escape his rosy lips. His eyes are closed, but when he hears your steps upon the wooden floors, he directs his gaze to you. There is a weariness to his features, dark circles beneath his eyes and yet that did not detract from his beauty. Approaching his seating by your desk, you pour yourself a cup of herbal tea.

“Why do you look so tired, hm?” You ask, sending him a side glance from the corner of your eye.

He only hums, voice low and steady, “I was up late finishing official documents.”

As you place down your cup, you raise a brow as a concern tinges your voice. From outside and through the window, you see Jiaxiang and Xue’er chatting away, the rest of the family very clearly not resting and rather seemingly, having managed to drag Xiyuan into conversation. Though you are unable to hear exactly what is being said, you can hear snippets of praise being exchanged.

“Do you want to take a nap? We have about two shichen before dinner.”

“No,” He sighs, closing his eyes as he takes another inhale from his pipe. The sweet smell of tobacco fills the room, broad shoulders rolling back before his long lashes flutter open, a detached gleam in his eyes as he looks out to the busy courtyard. He only notes with steady lilt, “They won’t let me anyways.”

Your heart does not quite ache for your brother, but more so tightens. You have seen the kind of work he must do, to the point that he had apparently brought it with him when helping a friend at a matchmaking session. Rest did not come to him easily, not even when in your estate. Your brows raise in helplessness, shutting the window before rising to shut your office doors.

“Sleep. If I say I won’t take guests, they won’t push it,” Humming, you take his hand in yours.

Zhou Chen only lets out a soft breath, though he is quick to lean his head against your shoulder, his chest rising and descending in rhythmic pattern before eventually, the only thing that fills your ears is your brother’s exhales.

Dinner is at present, an event hosting the Chen family, you and your brother. Small tables arranged in perfectly linear fashion, evenly spaced and in fine wood. Atop each and every single one were seasonal dishes as prepared by the kitchens, planned ahead of time down to the very presentation. Though you have yet to partake in the meal,

“This really is quite generous of you to give so many things, I cannot possibly return your favour.”

“It's nothing, we aren’t lacking anything!” The older woman is quick to dismiss your excessive humility, though it is as if a new thought springs to her mind as she brings up a sleeve and a knowing gleam glints in her tawny eyes, “Although maybe we are lacking a daughter in law.”

Quicker still, she corrects her previous statement, “Even if you don’t marry our Boyu, it's still nice to see you.”

“Mooomm, don’t say that!” Jiaxiang whines with clear mock aggrievedness.

Lord Chen only sighs with the kind of resigned fondness every father has for his daughter, “She has such good options, don’t pressure her.”

Your gaze shifts between all of them, briefly lingering to make contact with each member before it eventually lands upon a pair of brown eyes, even still filled with fondness that uneases you. You still do not know how you will tell him, whether you will tell him. You turn away, bringing your tea up to drink as your sleeve conceals your expression. He does not look away, but does so when the conversation turns to focus on your brother.

“Yijin, how have you been?”

Zhou Chen hums, his voice less severe and softer, yet still that gentle smile upon his lips bore a distance unknown by others, “Good, I’ve been busy with work.”

“With the way you keep coming over here, we thought you abandoned us,” Lord Chen laughs, a hearty sound that comes from his lungs.

Lowering his eyes, there appears to be a contrition in his next words, his Adam's apple bobbing as he speaks.

“Forgive me, my sister has little confidants.”

His admittance has a few eyes turning to you, that burning feeling of pity brought upon your form as you vaguely hear Madam Chen’s sympathies fall from her lips. You do not quite understand why he has to mention your lack of advisers, though you suppose there was no other reasonable explanation for a lieutenant general to maintain such costly travels. Still, though you move to say something, you are interrupted by a condoling voice.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Boyu is all but swift to prevent your rueful formalities, bringing up a hand as a blithe smile appears across his lips, “If I could, I would have rushed over to help.”

“How could we? Ai, we all heard about the incident and yet look at the town, everything’s back to normal,” Lord Chen notes, and though you had not wished to say it, that pride he has in his voice, it would make one believe you were his daughter.

With a tender-hearted quirk of her lips and her gentle tone, Madam Chen is the last and yet the most salient of the three to speak, “You must have worked very hard.”

“So don’t worry about taking Yijin for a month or two, we still have the others.”

A kind of excessive sentiment seems to fill your chest, an emotion you are only most familiar with another. It was quite common for your brother to throw all caution to the wind and come to Chunxin for long periods of time, extending discussions that usually lasted a few days to weeks, dragging diplomatic visits from weeks to months. As if he had no obligations to fulfil back in Hedong, though you have always worried and though he has always reassured you, hearing such comfort from them was perhaps more than you needed.

Nodding, you thank them and thankfully, dinner passes without much issue. Albeit, perhaps that is a statement only applicable to the unique situation of the Chen Family. For instead of having to replace four low desks and multiple candleholders, only one has been smashed in the ensuing mayhem that is sure to happen with them. You can only thank the gods that your brother did not bring his qin, lest you find yourself comforting him on his deescalation methods.

With the moonlight shining upon your courtyard and the cool spring wind blowing, the family has since retired to their quarters in preparation for slumber. Your attendants likewise have been dismissed, sent to rest early while you take a walk around the estate. Your footsteps are light, the only sound that came from your movement coming from long robes fluttering along. Each room that surrounded the courtyard dimmed, low candlelight illuminating from within before eventually being snuffed. There is only one room that remains at the very end, your office, doors shut and candles flame put out yet at the very front are a pair of conversing figures.

The two are of similar heights, the one just slightly taller bearing more visible musculature while the shorter of the two bore a more regal physique, no less stalwart than one or the other. They speak in low tones, and from your admittedly distant position, you are scarce to hear only bits and pieces of their conversation. Boyu speaks, posture much tenser than you have ever seen as your brother pulls his pipe away from his lips.

Low in your ears and bearing a vulnerability so easily come to him, the young heir entreats his closest friend, “Will you grant me your blessing to court your sister?”

Clouds of smoke leave his flushed lips, his eyes closed as he takes a breath. His lord waits expectantly, to no avail, for your brother remains steadfast in his notions of your suitors, no matter their identity and no matter their abilities.

“No.”

Zhou Chen turns to him, those eyes that once bore amity glazes over, freezing to a cool mirror as he speaks. His voice maintains his usual monotone lilt, and it is such that you can tell that this was a decision he has made long ago.

“You excel in war and combat, yet when asked to settle civil matters you are unable to be discrete nor courteous.”

“Have you not noticed how every discussion in the household always turns to a screaming match or violence?” He raises a brow, ignoring the way Boyu attempts to stammer out a response. He continues, “Will you bring my sister into such a place?”

His next inquiry is further still loaded, the dulcet tones of his voice growing ever agitated at the edges of his words, “Though Chunxin has remained safe from invading territories despite the raging war of succession due to our intervention, what happens when you must aid my sister with laws and merchantry?”

“Will you come to me, your lieutenant generals?”

He takes another drag of his pipe, the weariness he has been burdened with now all the more visible under such a situation. His shoulders rise and fall, descending to forcibly calm himself lest he acts impromptu. His friend does not interrupt him, yet still his figure that had been hopeful now has slumped ever so slightly with each new dig your brother brings up.

“There will come a day where she will face public contention, when the time comes, will you defend her?” Your brother asks, the question nonplussed yet seemingly targeted. For this is the inquiry that has his eyes, beautiful amber which reveal nothing of the internal tempest that must rage within him seep just the hint of it.

Quick to answer, such a request is nothing short of obvious to the young man, “Of course I would!”

“Even above the threat of Hedong’s collapse?”

Yet, this last query is the one that stumps Boyu, and to no wonder. For someone who grew up in the rivers and towns of Hedong, to protect the place that loves him or to protect the woman he adores, it becomes the ultimatum only your brother would think to spring upon him. It is cruel, yes, but for men who rule, it is necessary.

When he does not respond, Zhou Chen only places a hand on his shoulder and tips his head, long brindle hair falling to act as a curtain, concealing his delicate apertures from your gaze. Though you still manage to hear his last words to his lord.

“You are a good general, but I will not let my sister marry a man who cannot devote his very being to her. Good night, Chen Fu.”

At this, he glides away from the man, paced and even steps that bring his form to you. His eyes soften and he pats your head with a gentle hand before he pulls away, disappearing into the estate with nothing but a glance. Your friend seems to notice your presence then, his eyes lightening up and his posture straightening just the slightest. Yet, he kept that defeat with him. You approach him, despite everything you find yourself unsure on how to comfort him. Stood so close, you can smell just the hint of his scent, fresh and clean, it hurts your head.

You keep your voice soft, calling for him with a tone hushed as your brows raise in concern, “Boyu.”

“Do you think he hates me?” He asks, just as quietly if not more so. It is as if any more and he would have been tried for public disturbance.

Shaking your head, a soft sigh only escapes you, “You know he doesn’t.”

“I just don’t…” For once, genuine and actual forlorn stains his very being. His usually squared shoulders almost hunched in dismay and his voice soft, so much softer than you were used to. Thick brows furrowed in worry, the hint of a glassy quality seems to form over his bronze eyes, the plump of his cheeks rosy from the wind and emotion. His voice loses that usual higher pitch, “Understand why he’s never approved of me.”

A strained expression comes across your visage, your hand resting on his forearm as you make a comparison, “See it this way, if he tried to court Jiaxiang for so long without success, you’d be a little iffy too, right?”

His face twists into dismay, then disgust before finally landing on exaggerated understanding. He nods yet it does little to actually lighten his mood. Boyu’s desire for your brother’s acknowledgement is understandable, yet it is his consistency and persistence that worries you. Though you have never actually expressed it, he picks up on your palatable concern.

“You’re right, it's just that he’s important to you, and he’s your older brother. So I want to be doing this right,” Confessing, a helpless smile tugs at his lips.

A reticence falls upon the two of you, and in the distance you hear the soothing melody of a xiao, humming a gentle tune that merely appeared sonorous in such a moment. Though you have turned away from each other, and though you had intended to leave the conversation in fear of buried sentiments being brought up, he once again takes the opportunity to make you face your unspoken regrets.

“Will you be honest with me?” That boyish voice has long lost its higher pitch, and you wonder when exactly you started missing it.

“In our six years of knowing each other, have you ever thought of me romantically?”

You should have seen this moment coming, you should have known that you would have to eventually tell him. To lie to him that you have and yet to turn around and deny his affections would be far crueller than to tell him the truth, and yet still the truth was but a stone in your throat, lodged within and scraping to vomit out. Meeting his gaze with a glance you are not sure is kindly or forthcoming, you let yourself speak.

“You are dear to me, but to call it love is…” Your voice trails off into the night wind, doing everything in your power to keep your throat from closing up and to maintain the composure you tried so hard to display. Yet when you look at him, look at those wide brown eyes so filled with youthful ardour, you are just unable to. “I’m sorry, maybe I’m the problem here.”

“For all the years we’ve known one another, I’ve always felt this gnawing guilt,” You admit though a cracking voice, the weight of such a burden finally lifted yet it was not a relief that flooded, but rather more contrition that had no rational reason to exist within you.

“I’m so sorry.”

“It's okay,” Boyu insists, he shakes his head as his eyes, wide and just the slightest teary, seem to bear the determination he has always had. “You don’t have to love me back.”

“You never had to love me back.”

He pleads, desperate and all too willing, far too willing, “If you’ll just let me stay by your side, I’m okay with that too.”

“As long as I’m with you, I’m happy.”

Staring at him, the truth of your relationship has finally come to light, yet it is his devotion that remains steadfast. For how much of it is true, you do not know and you only fear that it is far more truthful than any facade you have played.

₊˚⊹⁠♡—————蔡奉汐—————♡⊹⁠˚₊

The third and last suitor arrives late into the seventh day, there is no rumble of carriage wheels that announces his arrival, no thumping of luggage against wood, the only sign of life is the howling wind.

You are resting in your room, eyes scanning over the last remains of the pile of documents once amassed in your office. The skillful plucking of a qin fills your ears, low notes strum to perfection from just a few footsteps away. Zhou Chen plays with a languidity, almost lazy despite the dulcet melody that he plucked. Your eyes, which yearn for rest yet remain awake in accordance to the brain, flutter between open and close. Words of ink seemingly meld together into a blurry mess, yet you continue.

There is a knock at your door, a crisp interruptance that has your head snapping towards it. The tune stops just as abruptly, and A’yan shifts the door open just the slightest, enough for you to acknowledge her presence and for her voice to travel in.

General Cai Fengxi, The Devourer of Qiugu has arrived.

Garbed in dark robes and holding the reins of an even darker horse, this man that stood before you bore nothing else beyond a small pouch and the cloak around his shoulders. With not even the moonlight to illuminate his apertures, the sharp and almost gaunt features you could make out had almost sent a chill down your spine. The general’s eyes almost seemed to glow, a deep gold set in pale skin and peeking from behind pin-straight hair, still as dead waters as A’yan guides the horse towards the stables.

“General Cai, it is an honour to have you here,” Your welcome is stilted and stiff as though to pair with your rigid bow. You notice how needly his fingers are, skin stretched taut over the bones. When you rise to meet his eyes, you find that he has yet to move, expression forbidding. Still, you gesture for his entrance, “Your room has already been prepared, please let me show you to your quarters.”

It is only then that he shows some signs of response, following your steps as his footfalls land inaudibly. You would dare say it appeared more so as gliding than walking. His very presence loomed from behind you, intimately feeling the heavy burden of his severe regard upon your form. In an attempt to spurn such a notion from your mind, you open your mouth to speak.

“Was the journey from Qiugu difficult?”

“It was fine,” He responds, curt and low. A deep bass that seems to rumble from within his chest, though quiet you could distinctly feel it in your bones.

You send him a polite smile, “That is good.”

There is no additional effort made to continue such a stiff conversation, not when even your own eyelids have been threatening to shut down against your wishes, let alone what the general must be feeling after making the lone journey. When you arrive to his room, you take it upon yourself to open the door for him, yet he merely looks upon you. You do not know how best to respond, yet it is by instinct that you continue.

“Have a good rest, I shall come visit you in the morning,” You smile once more, bowing before taking your leave.

Scarce to notice his entrance, your return to your room is swiftly granted and one that is very much preferred. A sigh escapes you, and your brother, kindly as he is, remains in his languid seat. As though one with a slug, you slump over and make your way to his side, resting your head on his lap facefirst as you close your eyes.

“I assume the general has arrived,” He hums, voice soft as his fingers remove the pins and stick from your hair.

Through mumbled words and fabric, you are surprised he still managed to discern your sentences. “Might as well have not arrived at all, he only said two words to me.”

“And here I thought men these days would have basic manners at the very least..”

You turn your head to face him, shifting your body so you could behold that face which women envy and men covet. Fine apertures still placid with that hint of fond aggrievedness, your brother’s attempt at cool tranquillity surely did not disguise the snide undertones.

“What are you implying?” Your brow raises as your voice takes on a derisive tinge.

Zhou Chen responds, speaking as though his answer was the most natural concept to humanity, “That men are merely beings of simple lusts, and that my meimei deserves better than that.”

Letting out a yawn, you squeeze out a stray tear as your voice fights to remain audible. It is hard to, especially when one wishes for nothing more than to slumber after a long day and a guest as startling as the general. Still, you think you catch your brother’s sweet laugh when you manage a response.

“If you keep this up, the only person you’ll ever approve of is yourself.”

When morning comes, you are informed that the general has yet to awaken, and that no matter what is done, he will not rise. This news does not surprise you, the ride from Qiugu to Chunxin is approximately 15 days worth of travel, and based on his appearance, he must have rode ceaselessly and through the nights. Waving off their concerns, you assure them of his well being and instead have them call to inform you when he does.

Your brother and his student, Zhongyuan, have been promptly kidnapped by Jiaxiang since his awakening, which leaves you to entertain your three suitors. Dressed in lighter robes for the day, half your hair is bound in a bun and put together with a simple hairstick, suitable for a casual outing that you may hopefully partake in today. You plan to bring the general out to see the town, perhaps try to spark some conversation that will not start and end dreadfully.

As you make your way to the guests’ quarters, you notice Xiyuan and Boyu talking, discussing some matter of thing that even you are not sure pertains to what. Bearing similar heights, you find that the two of them bear an uncanny likeness. Not in visage but rather in bearing, the kind of people who attract admiration effortlessly. They walk into a room and immediately the only kind of attention they receive is kindly.

With a princely gait and visage to match such a form, you have found yourself wondering how exactly Lord Song has yet to marry despite his supposed devotion to you. Likewise with Boyu, boyishly handsome and well-to-do, there was little to dislike. Their very presence in the courtyard brings people to them, passing servants taking their time to stare and talk, with poorly hidden smiles and flushed ears. You only wonder what virtues you may be able to extract from the general.

Approaching the pair, you greet them with a slight bow of your head, “Boyu, Xiyuan, good morning.”

“Good morning to you as well,” Xiyuan greets in response, his voice forbearing with the lilts of his sentence.

In contrast, Boyu only chirps, “Morning!”

You inform the two of them of your upcoming schedule for the third suitor, a tad more occupied as compared to theirs due to discussions of military provisions and arrangements. With a regretful tone, you squeeze out a strained smile as you could only apologise for the inconvenience.

“No worries, we’ll see each other for dinner, right?” The younger man asks, with hopeful eyes as even his companion appears to join in the invite.

“Yeah,” You smile, a huff of breath escaping you when his eyes light up. Keeping your tone fairly cordial despite your amusement, you reassure them, “If we venture out, I’ll come visit when I return.”

Shaking his head, Xiyuan merely responds, “Do not force yourself, you must take care of yourself.”

“Of course.”

It is then that you finally notice a figure looming from behind you, a shadow cast above your vision, and perhaps it is also by Boyu’s slight adjustment of his eyes that has you realising exactly who it is that was behind. Your feet swivel around to face the general, his form still severe as last night. Under the sunlight, you could make out the harsh contours and angles of his face, tall nose and sharp willow eyes. You met his eyes for just a moment, looking down upon you yet the very burden it placed was momentous, a sinner in the oceanic depths.

Ever kindly, Xiyuan greets him with a bow and a pleasant expression, sunny eyes squeezed and hands put together, “General Cai, it is good to see you awake.”

“If you didn’t get up, I think we would’ve just taken her out ourselves,” Boyu jokes, his puerile tone making it only all the more light-hearted.

“Ah…” A breath escapes you, perhaps a sign of your hesitance. Yet, the general does not move, remaining perfectly still as he awaits your input. Involuntarily, you feel that maladroit laugh appear on your lips, “General, could this one perhaps–”

“Fengxi.”

You had not heard wrong last night, what you thought was possibly too low, too harsh for human voice, reaches your ears once more. He speaks as though biting, words escaping from abyssal maws to behold for mortal perception.

When you do not react, he speaks once more, “Call me Fengxi.”

“Of course, Fengxi, would you like to join me for a trip around town?” Quickly recovering from the blunder, you finally make your offer with an outstretched arm and open hand, an invitation.

Yet rather than actually responding, he merely takes your hand, cold bony fingers wrapping around yours. The mere action sends a million warning bells to your head, yet you can only smile and carry on, bringing him towards the carriage that is soon to be prepared.

Left behind in the remnants of confrontation, Xiyuan and Boyu can only look to each other, a kind of disoriented confusion filling them. While Xiyuan had never interacted with the general before, let alone been so up close, he had not realised that there was such a heavy truth to the rumours. Boyu likewise had never seen him as such, only having seen him in the battlefield, looming and quiet, cold dead eyes as the general commanded an army of the dead. At least, that is what they call it.

“Can he actually speak? Or is he just going to be standing there when she talks to him?” He asks the young lord, his head tilted in slight confusion.

Xiyuan looks at him, his voice almost nearing a reprimand if not for the strained smile on his lips, “Boyu.”

“I’m just asking. Besides, I’m pretty sure he shouldn’t have done that.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender.

“The general is likely not as well-versed in noble etiquette, you can’t blame him.”

Rather, ever full of vigour, he crosses his arms and asserts, “No, I can and I will. He should know better.”

Xiyuan can only sigh at that response, a helpless gleam in his eyes. He shakes his head, the people of Hedong are certainly intriguing.

It is while this conversation is happening that you are left with the ever envious task of collecting some errands and messages to be sent to some townsfolk by your servants. A few are easy enough, visiting merchants to pass along lists or merely to send word of their well-being, that being said there was one establishment you would have to visit and you could only hope that the general would not mind.

At the very least, you hoped he would at least voice out his rejection. The carriage ride towards town might as well have been for the dead, for he stared into your form as though you had committed a great crime upon the heavens and he were the jade emperor. You could not describe the situation as anything less than maladroit, any lesser person would wish to crawl into a cave and die when faced with such an individual.

Still, you remained strong and kept a serene expression, maintaining such that even when you broached the idea of your plans, he merely responded with a hum and a gesture. The general does not speak even when you bring him to sellers and farmers offering their wares, remains silent when you visit families and receive baskets, speaks not a word even as he now has realised that the building ahead of you is one of debauchery.

The women of Yunliang House, upon seeing your face rush from within to greet you, their painted lips quirked into smiles as their eyes squeezed in mirth. One of the women grabs you by the hands as she squeals with excitement.

“My lord, it's been so long since you’ve come!”

Another woman leans in closer to your visage, eyes scanning over with objective precision. The scowl on her face is not one that bears good news, “Ahh, look at you, your skin has gotten so dull. Have you been taking care of yourself?”

“Ai, ladies, our lord doesn’t have the time we do,” A voice comes from behind the crowd, a basket in her arms and a natural sway to her steps. Boxes of rouge and pins, bolts of fabric and assortments of fruits and pastries lay in the basket’s wooden cradle. She turns to the general and hefts it over to him, not before making the same old excuse, “Come, some idiot gave us too many gifts again.”

“I’ll make sure to pass it to them back in the estate,” You laugh, made especially all the more obvious when the ladies fuss over him to ensure nothing falls from the basket.

That same woman only huffs and crosses her arms, rolling her eyes as she remarks, “One of these days you’re going to have to accept these from us.”

“That day shall come when it comes, thank you.”

With that last bow, you are waved goodbye by the ladies and set to return to the carriage. Surrounded by a sea of people all milling about the marketplace, the sounds of haggling and advertising fills your ears, grilled meat and rich spices wafting through the air as even children weave between your forms. When a young child, no older than six years old, takes a small tumble and falls into you, you are quick to help her up. She looks up to you with wide and shaky eyes, yet tears do not fall, instead she thanks you rather loudly than scurries off, her laughter continuing to reach you.

Fengxi decides to speak, and though you believed the very surroundings too much, too loud for his voice, again you are proved wrong. “You treat your people well, it is undeniable that they hold affection for you.”

“Many thanks but I am merely doing for them what I should,” You shake your head, a huff of amusement escaping you.

“You would be surprised.”

As though lost in thought, the general finally moves his gaze away from your form, that heavy weight placed upon your shoulders lifted. His lashes accompany the slow blink he takes, cocking his head ever subtly as sleek pin-straight hair follows along the movement. He does not slow in his pace, the overflowing basket of gifts likely weighing nothing to him, and yet there appears an odd melancholy to him. You do not know what there is to ponder, what exactly has captured that enigmatic mind that a pensiveness should take over. It is when the crowd amasses to that of mountains and seas that he decides to open his mouth once more.

He hums, eyes still looking off into the far distance, “Chunxin is kindly, with clement weather and conditions.” Then, Fengxi redirects that heavy focus back upon you, a dark thin brow raised in jest. “It is no wonder my lord has received such warm suitors.”

“And have you not as well?” You remark, cocking your head as you send him a glance.

For the first time, actual amusement is visible on his face, lips pulling back to reveal pearly teeth as he barks in laughter, “Not many women are keen on becoming the wife of a Qiugu general.”

You notice how sharp his teeth are, perhaps no different than a normal person’s upon first glance, but the narrower tips had sent an odd feeling down your spine. The Devourer, a title earned from war-torn savagery, soldiers tearing through enemy ranks without care of life nor death, and their general who not so much as leads but lunges into battle as eager as his soldiers, ravenous beasts who tear into the throats of men with claw and teeth.

You do not understand him. He is 34 years of age, and has previously held no interest in any sex. There have been rumours that those who have tried, those who have attempted such underhanded tactics would find themselves spurned at best, and in pieces at worst. He says such words, and yet he will ride ceaselessly from Qiugu just to arrive at the soonest possible moment. Why even bother with the effort if he will only act as such?

“Yet you sent an offer to me?”

He does not respond, and the crowd seems to have noticed this gap in conversation, for it grows so congested that you must pull the two of you into an empty alley to prevent either of you from being swept up. In such a constrained space, you keep your voice soft and ask him once more, meeting those severe eyes as a tinge of trepidation grips onto your tendons. Unlike Boyu or Xiyuan who provide warmth upon close contact, there is no heat that radiates off of him, only frigid cool.

“Fengxi, did you send an offer because of some reason unpolitical? Or is this an excuse to soon discuss offers of grain and iron?” Your murmur is gentle, yet he hears it all. A gleam of mirth glints within those eyes.

The general meets your gaze, lowering himself so that he may be eye level with you. “At the start, I did wish to court you out of reasons purely detached, yet...” His words trail off yet it is not out of hesitance but ponderance.

“When I saw you, there was something within you that sparked an interest,” His breath is warm, fanning across your neck. It takes everything within you to not flinch away, look away from those eyes which bear abyssal depths. Rumbling from within his chest with gravelly quality, he hums, “The way you treat your servants, the rest of your suitors, and your townspeople.”

“There is something about you that I cannot put my finger on, yet there is something oddly reminiscent of your very being.”

“It is as though we have known each other for a time yet I doubt it is so.”

You manage a response, your voice even and unlilting despite your unease, breathing, “Perhaps in a past life.”

You do not like the way he looks at you, the way he sizes you up like something to be eaten, peering over every pore on your face, every wrinkle and every curve. His words only confuse you, there is no feeling of familiarity when you think of him, no interest, no knowledge. You do not understand that abyss in human skin, and you hate it. It hurts your head, the sheer inability to understand, you hate it. You hate this feeling of being unable to get under his skin, you hate not knowing what makes him tick.

“Perhaps so.”

“I wonder what it is,” He hums, voice low and rumbling from within that chest of his. Though his face displayed no sign of amusement, that flash of teeth, Fengxi seemed almost all too pleased by your tense shoulders and quickened breath, “Shall we find out together?”

₊˚⊹⁠♡—————春芯王—————♡⊹⁠˚₊

As A’yan and Xue’er comb through your hair, removing pins and hair sticks that relieve the tension on your head, an almost audible sigh of relief escapes you. Another long day of entertaining and appeasing, you had certainly thought yourself capable of an act as simple as talking yet you always find yourself beyond exhausted when night falls. It is as though your bones have liquified and your head squeezed tight with a circlet, so these little moments between you and your attendants have been nothing but a consolation for your troubles.

Xue’er, her smaller hands slick with fragrant oil, parts portions of your hair to reveal scalp, rubbing it into the skin with the heel of her palm. The force she places into each action is perfect, not quite practised but rather habitual. While she is doing so, she puts up a query, her mellow voice soft in your ears.

“My lord, Yongjie has been recovering well. Do you want to visit her tomorrow?”

Meeting her gaze through the bronze mirror, you hum, “I think I may be able to, how is her condition?”

“She can hold conversation, A’yan-jie talks to her when she can,” She notes, glancing towards A’yan who has busied herself with putting away your current pins and preparing tomorrow’s.

Upon this referral, your dearest attendant averts her gaze, speaking low and gentle, “She asks about you, whether you’re taking care of yourself and whether you’ve started a great scandal yet.”

You can only laugh at this. Yongjie would certainly have your head if she knew the kinds of impiety that you have committed. Yet though she has always placed your reputation and image above all else, her query for your wellbeing likewise tugs at your heartstrings.

“Well, she will know when I come to see her. General Cai will understand.”

Xue’er’s expression immediately sours when she hears you mention him, the shift instantaneous. The manner in which she rubs the oil into your head changes as well, a tad more forceful than before.

She sneers, “I don’t like him, he’s weird and he always just stares at me when I have to do things.”

“Xue-er,” A’yan warns.

“My lord, please tell me you'll marry Lord Song,” Her voice is filled with hope, her wide eyes of ivory all but begging you. Almost reminiscent of a puppy, she cites her rather reputable evidence, “At least he always helps us when we need it.”

“A’yan-jie, who do you think our lord should marry?”

Turning her attention towards the stalwart woman, she waits with earnest for her opinion. A’yan approaches your seated form, brushing your oiled hair to one side. Through the fabric of your thin robes, you feel the callouses that litter her hands.

She merely answers, her voice is clear, “Whoever she deems best, no matter who it is, we should support her.”

“You’re right, but still…”

A tired sigh escapes you as a smile that reeks of exasperation tugs at your lips, “Ai, let’s not talk about marriage now. It’s all I’ve had to think about for the past two weeks.”

The two women only snort, but do not press the topic any further, continuing with their respective task until eventually, as all things must do, they finish and rather eagerly take their leave. In fact, Xue’er does not even wait to leave the premises before she is rambling into A’yan’s ear about how much she finds General Cai offputting and how marrying Lord Song or First Master Chen would be far better for you. Perhaps the ongoing betting pool you have caught wind of has likewise found conversation for Xue’er.

You can only let out an overfond huff as your finger plays with the gold band around your finger. It is a wonder that none of them have mentioned the obvious signs of courtship upon your very being, jade bangles, gold hairpins, delicate necklaces and the gold ring wrapped around your finger. They seem to believe the other responsible for such gifts, friendly and courteous with one another yet too prideful to ask.

To be a young woman in today’s society is to have a metaphorical clock above one’s head, ticking away at every shichen she exists without a husband. 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24. As each year passes, the demands grow louder and louder. Though you rule among men, you are still seen as a woman, above all you are a woman.

Yet when the one person you desire most remains forever unavailable to you, so close yet just out of reach, there is little choice on what action to take, little choice to discourage the masses that call for your betrothal.

Though you despised deception, it is necessary.

It has always been a necessary cruelty.

Perhaps it is more cruel of you to admit it so easily, but you have not come to your station by being soft-hearted, not bearing the title Lord of Chunxin by disclosing personal affections.

They are decent men, just not ones you can see sharing your treacherous life with.

So you decided that if you were to remain unwed, you would make it so that no other man that breathes upon this earth would deem you desirable. Invite them into your home and lead them on a little game, let them fall into your hands and into the deception called ‘love’. Then, you would simply rebuff each and every single one of them. The more visible the better, Lord Song, the Chen family heir, the general of Qiugu, a selection that may eventually find their dreams shattered. They shall call you fickle and cruel, a woman undeserving and undesirable.

No matter the notion that these men spoke their flowery words, spilling their heart out as you return those heartfelt gazes with a gleam only distantly related to fondness, let them take your hands in theirs as they swear and swear it can be only you, there was nothing but the yawning abyss within that chest of yours. It mattered not of how much they could attempt to satisfy that avidity, it would not be so unless it was with him.

Yet that did not mean you would not regret hurting them

A yearning that shall go unfulfilled,desires born of spring-time affection that shall be spurned in favour of another far more profound.

Song Xiyuan shall find that his desire to learn all you have to offer, all that you are and all that you have been, snubbed. Ningshan takes but 7 days to travel on lone horseback, and to become Madam Song would therefore mean a partial absorption of Chunxin into Ningshan’s authority. This directly contradicts your terms, and though you enjoyed his presence, his company, you would not allow yourself to separate from your dearest home.

Chen Boyu will see another year of failure, another year of shame to be hung with the previous years. Though he wishes for nothing more than your company, nothing more than to stay by your side, you could not give him what he truly wants. You know him as much as he knows himself, you are after all, most bosom friends. Perhaps you shall offer a sworn oath of siblinghood, and he will accept it, because he is nothing if not adoring.

Cai Fengxi shall return to Qiugu with not marriage but an offer of alliance. He and his army shall swear to serve you and Chunxin, yet remain stationed in Qiugu. A general and his lord, he may discover the truth behind his fascination without tying himself to a title that holds no weight. His loyalty, steadfast and undying, will be useful. To the devourer who has no rival, you can only hope his interest remains so.

And your brother? Your brother will get what he has always wanted.

It is as he desires, always as his desires. Because they are as much his, as they are yours. It is only a question of whose is so iniquitous that it should deem you eternally lay in the land of tenderness.

₊˚⊹⁠♡—————周羿瑾—————♡⊹⁠˚₊

There is something about your brother that you wonder whether is as visible to an outside eye as it is to you.

To outsiders, your brother bears a kind of beauty that men desire and women envy, a kind of appeal that men covet and women long for. After all, with a face such as his, alluring phoenix eyes of warm amber with lashes long enough to kiss the apples of his cheeks, his tall nose and thin rosy lips upon jade white countenance, it is hard to not admire him. When he speaks, it is low and steady, a tune with no discerning cadence. Of course, one could not deny the appeal of his form, garbed in long robes that trail along his path, a tasteful yet scandalous peek of his chest that only enticed the observer for more.

Slender fingers capable of playing the most euphonious melodies and a mind that can memorise a tune with just a single listen, he has always had that talent for musicality. Three rounds of drinks in and he may still pick out a wrong note in a piece. Yet beyond his physical allure, there is perhaps one description you have heard of him that has remained most prominent in your mind. ‘Being with Zhou Yijin is like drinking the finest of wines, you get carried away and before you know it, you’ve become utterly drunk.’

It is a rather apt sentence. Though your brother very often does not enjoy unnecessary ramble, there was a charm to him, an undeniable magnetism to his intellect and mannerisms. Your servants find his visage enticing, so perpetually irresistible that they shall grasp any situation to look at him. Your attendants adore his doting nature, that your vanity be filled with gifts and your desk occupied with pastries at all times. It would explain why Xiyuan has become so enraptured in conversation with him, why Boyu would continue to be with him despite his harsh words, why even Fengxi may engage in drink with him.

Your brother is the perfect image of a noble character. And the perfect brother.

Beyond his surface niceties and nobility, your brother is the person who knows you best. He is the one who understands your heart and stomach, that every blood vessel and bone in your body is known completely and utterly to him. To others, he maintains societal chivalry, but to you he is gentle. With warm hands that seem to be able to hold the world and an adoration in his every action, there is no other man like him.

Since the day you reunited, since the incident, since the day you almost lost him, you have never desired for another to accompany you. Entertaining men you have no interest in courting, no desire to know beyond exchanges of grain and iron for military might, when the day ends and you must retire, it is his embrace you return to.

Within the candle-lit room is your brother and your three suitors, indubitably intoxicated beyond relief, or perhaps more accurately, your three suitors are so drunk that when you open the door, you are greeted with a rather loud greeting and utter chaos. A table has been shoved aside and the floor is littered with empty jars of wine, the sweet yet wheat-like aroma wafting from the room, under the warm lighting, perhaps one might mistake your hall as a cheap brothel than a room in a lord’s estate. You are only surprised that there is nothing more broken than the cheap qin you keep, entirely smashed in as courtesy of a certain someone’s impulse issues.

In the very corner, Fengxi had apparently gotten so inebriated that he is now face first onto the low table, his cup still in hand as his chest rises and descends in slow rhythmic pace. Boyu has since grasped onto your brother’s sleeve, fat tears rolling down his pink cheeks as he begs for something. Xiyuan, the one who called for you with that joyous ring of your name, is flushed from his neck to his ears. Excitedly waving you over, even the wide sleeves of his robes seem to adopt that exuberant aura, his smile wide and unabashed.

In the middle of it all is your brother, his cup still full as his once frigid eyes soften when you approach them. As though a bodhisattva among mortals, he maintains his flawless complexion and upright form, even if he is attempting to console Boyu, who is rather preoccupied with sobbing into his leg. Sitting by Zhou Chen’s side, you cup the young master’s face into your hand as you smile upon the way his watery eyes light up at your presence. He immediately switches to clinging to you, strong arms wrapping around your waist while he looks up to you.

“Boyu, go rest,” You coo, your thumb rubbing his cheek in assuage.

He merely hums, nodding his head as he falls limp into your lap. Your brother clicks his tongue at such a display, and with a quick look to the crowd of help outside, a few rush in to carry Boyu back to his room, at least not without some kind of struggle. With the rather obvious issue out of the way, Zhou Chen rises and offers a hand for you to take, one you accept but it is soon that you realise that another has come to grasp the ends of your long robes, tugging on the ends of it the same manner a child does to his mother.

Xiyuan, his sunlit eyes you are so accustomed to seeing squeezed in mirth, has widened to liken him to a puppy pleading to be let onto the bed. His voice loses the drunken enthusiasm yet retains that same vulnerability, imploring, “Stay a while longer, please?”

“I shall see you tomorrow, alright? It is late now and I would rather you be well rested.” Your hand comes to rest atop his head, an innocent brief pet that he chases after when you pull away.

The lord manages to grasp that hand of yours despite the drunken coordination he has adopted, holding it as he once again pleads, “Promise?”

“Promise,” You smile, a huff of amusement escaping you when he beams as your response. When he has loosened his guard, you are quick to retract your hand, a notion your brother clearly approves of when he pulls you closer towards him, practically encased in his presence.

“Please have them escorted to their rooms,” You turn to your attendants and servants, a few of which wince when they realise that they must soon heft the unconscious general to his room. Still, you muster a smile and bow to them, “Thank you.”

At this, they get to work with swift action, one of the perhaps luckier ones rushing over to the still giggly Lord Song to help to his chambers. You are not sure of what else occurs, for your brother is even swifter to bring the two of you back to your bed chambers, a notion that thankfully has remained innocuous to your people.

His hand rests on your waist, and though the journey back passes by in but a blink of an eye, every moment away from his touch, away from having his sole focus on you is torturous. Only ever in the privacy of your room, tucked away in your office, in spaces that you may never be perceived as Lord Zhou of Chunxin, only then will you be merely you, your older brother’s dearest meimei.

Kept at the farthest end of the estate and in its own little paradise, your bed chambers are lit up by candles emitting their gentle light. Despite your simple attire, you have yet many tasks to settle at your vanity, sitting atop the sandalwood stool as you free your hair from its binds, thick and flowing past your shoulders. Just as your hand places your hairpin down, a larger one comes atop it, far cooler in body temperature.

You say nothing to this. Instead, keeping your voice low, a huff escapes you as you raise a brow in suspicion, “How convenient that you’ve gotten them all so drunk.”

“Have I done something wrong?” His voice is stolid, he tips his head to face you, a hint of amusement along the corners of his eyes.

Zhou Chen maintains his guileless demeanour, letting you fuss over him instead as you urge for him. He places himself between your legs, kneeling obediently as you remove his own hairpin and jade hair-beads that provide his blithe comeliness. Your hand reaches to brush his hair back, remaining atop his head as he looks to you with those warm eyes.

“How did you even manage to get them to drink that much?” You mutter, your eyes lingering on his soft lips.

He hums with not a hint of his usual snide, “They’re eager to impress.”

“Even Fengxi?”

The sudden change of reference, the new intimacy as he perceives it, is not as all welcomed. He furrows his brows as a wronged expression appears on his handsome face. It would be almost cute, such a noble man showing an emotion oft relegated to neglected concubines or petulant children, you cannot help the scrunch of delight that manifests.

“Calling him by his name now, hm?” He huffs with narrowed eyes.

No matter how much mirth you feel from his misplaced discontent, a soft breath escapes you. Watching him ascend from his position, you likewise rise, your footfalls rushing towards him despite his clear stay. When faced with him, you could only sigh, “I know you don’t like me spending so much time with them but I have to.”

Zhou Chen’s expression mellows, returning to that visage of tender concern as he pulls you into a loose clutch, staunch arms enveloping your form. The familiar smell of sweet and spiced tobacco clings to his skin, a creamier note of sandalwood urges you to press your nose against the crook of his neck and doze off. It springs that welling sentiment of assurance, reliance on him.

“I thought we said you’d spend your days with them, not your nights as well yet…”

Twisted with disquieted aggrieve, his voice is soft among the night wind, “...We’ve been having less and less time for each other now.”

“It's only for a few more days,” You sigh, brows furrowed as he rests his hands on your hips, his rings digging ever so slightly into the fat of your flesh. An aggrieved lilt tinges your words, “Can’t you hold on until then?”

He merely raises a brow, pulling you closer until your bodies are flush against one another. “Don’t you know how hard it is for your brother? Watching you run around with simpletons, watching you give them that smile of yours so easily, watching you touch them without care for propriety.”

His lowered lashes flutter as he lowers his head, murmuring against your lips, “It makes me want to smash their heads open.”

“Childish,” You scoff, yet with not a single shred of actual vexation could be found in even a blood vessel of your form.

“Do you like them that much?”

“Of course not,” You mutter against his lips, voice soft. It is not hard to tell him your wants, not hard to spill every amorous thought you have of him, not when it is for him, never when it is for him. “The only person I need is you.”

Your brother’s lips are warm when they capture yours, so unlike the rest of his body. He cups the side of your face as though your skin were delicate porcelain, as though any more and you would shatter before his very eyes. And though you have griped over his subtleties, you have missed him more than anything that this world could possibly offer atop a golden platter.

It comes as no shock when you press against his lips harder, and your brother, your perfect brother who always knows how best to hold you, pushing past your lips with his tongue, starved of a hedonism so often indulged. You let him take and take, seizing everything you have until there is nothing but bleary fog in your head.

“You’re so needy, have I been neglecting you?” The raspy quality of his voice only seems all the more sensual so close to your ear, warm breath brushing against the tender shell that it may straighten your tendons.

At this moment, you could only playfully hum, a coy lilt to your voice, “Then, gege will take good care of me, right?”

He smiles, he obliges.

Through moonlit rays and candlelight warmth, you are the sole beholder to the beauty that lies beneath heavy robes. Hidden from prying eyes, an active life campaigning alongside a warlord has allowed him a nearly perfect toned figure. Well-defined collar bones and long lean limbs, broad shoulders and a slim waist, it is difficult to not admire him.

Yet perhaps most surprisingly, your brother’s length is equally beautiful as he is, as though carved from the highest quality of mutton fat jade, the slight flush to the head only made it as alluring as the rest of him. Each protruding vein is almost perfectly placed, that so every time you see it, you cannot help but think that it would be without peer if not for the excessive thickness and length.

How you yearn to revere him as he always does you, always you.

“Gege–” You moan, drunk off need and pure adoration. Glancing down at the way you are stretched for him, letting him in, so intimately intertwined that it seemed almost seamless, the turbid wet mess that now stained your bodies only elicited another tight squeeze.

Hips flush against yours and your legs splayed widely around them, it rips another shameless, ragged sound from your throat. He has already pushed himself into the depths of your body, filled so much of you that you could only heave and beg in choked sobs, beg for more, beg for him. Because you have only ever yearned for him, that his insistence to shallowly rock into you is nothing but torturous. Your swollen bud aching for some attention yet left completely and utterly alone, it hurts despite his very proximity.

Your brother sighs, his usually steady voice thick with desire, “Such a lustful body, how can anyone else satisfy you, hm?”

He pulls out entirely, leaving only the very tip. In instinctual desperation, you can feel yourself squeezing once more, confusedly trying to pull him in. With a coquettish whine, you spread your legs ever wider, his large hand gripping onto the soft plush of your thigh, devoid of the jade and gold that usually decorate his slender fingers.

“Only you…” Softly sighing, you reach for him with what little energy you can muster, eyes watery and begging. He does not oblige you. “Gege… it can only be gege…”

Only then does he react, bending further to press a light kiss to your lips. Yet perhaps what contrasts such a tender action is the harsh buck of his hips, the pace he sets desperate and frenzied, the precision he has always had over your form does not falter, repeatedly hitting that spot as his hand squeezes hard into your skin.

“So good, hah–” He praises, his other hand slipping to grasp onto yours, holding onto you tight as his form presses against yours.

“You’re always so good for me, meimei.”

Under overwhelming pleasure borne of hours of being played and toyed with, your thoughts have been reduced to bear nothing but him and the feeling of him, your brother’s harsh thrusts only pushes broken, needy moans and tears to fall from your eyes. Yet, he is still your perfect brother, kissing your tears away as he tells you how well you are doing, how you are clamping on him so tightly, how much he adores you, how you’ll always be together no matter what happens. No matter, you rely purely on instincts to twist your form to cater to his desires, a mindless smile pulling on your lips.

And then it hits you, far too sudden and hard you barely realise you have reached that peak of pleasure again. How many he must have plucked from you that even now you could care less about the obscene noises that leave your lips. Your toes instinctively curl, yet it is only briefly before your legs hang uselessly in the air.

He does not stall, rubbing against you in that merciless pace before he is smearing hot and messy kisses against your jaw. He pushes his hips flush against yours in one final, gentle thrust as you arch into him, the remnants of your pleasure still searing through your body now only intensified by the thick streams that spill out between the gaps of your legs. Zhou Chen remains within you, pulling back to look at you with a soft sentiment within those amber depths.

Cuddled next to each other, your brother places another kiss to your lips, brushing away the tousled hair from your face with his slender fingers, again chaste yet so filled with the very reverence the two of you work so hard to keep hidden. Wrapped into his embrace and pressed close to his chest, you can hear how his heart beats, thumping in slow rhythmic pace. It beats only for you, He lives only for you.

“Promise me you’ll never leave me,” He mutters beneath his breath, amber eyes peering into yours.

Just as quiet as he had once done so himself, you respond with what little voice you have left, “Promise.”

Zhou Chen holds you closer, as though wrapped in the embrace of a mother you never got to have, you feel the ghost of his lips atop your head, pressing a kiss filled with exaltation true and raw.

You wonder whether an outside eye can truly see the depths of your brother’s affection for you, whether they can see how unfailingly and adoringly he loves you with every fibre of his being. You wonder whether they have realised those eyes that never leave your form, hands that have wrought tragedies and a mind that has long foreseen every possibility. Composing this world with fingers of jade-white excellence, this shall be one that bears only the two of you, one that shall forever ensure your happiness, one that shall never end.

#yandere #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere x reader #oc x reader #x reader #original writing

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