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heliosunny · 1 day ago

Note

I GOT A GENIUS IDEA about Dazai x reader!! It's inspired by my favourite novel, OUABH!

So Dazai is a forgotten prince, he's wandering around the world and is cursed. He's just waiting for someone to genuinely love him enough to break that very curse, but the curse is cruel; the moment someone loves him and confess their love for him, they will loses their memories about him!! But even though the reader forgets him, he's determined to make reader fall for him every single time.

Could you write that? I genuinely enjoy your writing!! Keep it up!

- 🐢🐢

THE 101ST TIME

The sun bled into the horizon, streaking the sky with dying embers. The world smelled of rain—fresh, clean, like something on the verge of change. You were walking along the river, the evening air cool against your skin, when you noticed him.

A lone figure leaning against the railing of a bridge.

At first, you thought nothing of him. Just another passerby lost in thought, watching the ripples dance across the water.

Then he turned.

And for a fleeting moment, something in his eyes—grief-stricken—made your breath catch.

It wasn’t the way he looked at you.

It was the way he looked at you like he had already lost you.

You hesitated. Some part of you whispered that you should leave, that speaking to him would change something. But your feet betrayed you, your curiosity outweighing reason.

And so, the 101st story began.

“You’re staring” he mused, tilting his head as a slow smile curved his lips. It was the kind of smile that felt practiced—like someone who had spent years learning how to hide behind it.

“I—” You faltered, shifting awkwardly. “Sorry. You just… look familiar.”

Something in his posture changed, his grip on the railing tightening just slightly.

And then, his smile softened. “Do I?”

You nodded, brows knitting together. “Have we met before?”

Dazai exhaled a quiet laugh. “You could say that.”

There was something off about him. He spoke like he knew you, like he was waiting for you to realize something that your mind couldn’t quite grasp. It sent a strange, hollow ache through your chest.

“Do you… live around here?” you asked carefully.

“No,” he answered. “But I always come back.”

He was watching you too closely now, his gaze searching, waiting. For what, you didn’t know.

This isn’t the first time.

You swallowed. “Well, it’s nice to meet you… again, I guess.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a single, delicate object.

A silver locket.

Its surface was scratched and weathered, as if it had been carried for years. Carefully, he held it out to you.

“This belongs to you.”

The moment your eyes landed on it, your chest constricted—like an invisible thread had pulled tight around your ribs.

You didn’t know why.

You had never seen this locket before.

…Had you?

Your hands trembled as you reached for it, fingers brushing against the cool metal.

A sharp, searing pain split through your skull. The world tilted, your vision warping. For a moment—just a single heartbeat—your mind was flooded with something else.

Rain. A dark alley. A promise whispered against your lips.

"Say it again."

"I love you."

And then—

Emptiness.

Your knees buckled.

You gasped, inhaling sharply as your mind reeled, your heart pounding like a war drum against your ribs. Your fingers twitched around the locket, the image of the memory—if that’s what it was—slipping through your grasp like water.

Gone.

You blinked.

The world was normal again. The street, the river, the man in front of you.

…Who?

You glanced down at your hand. A silver locket rested in your palm, its surface gleaming under the dim glow of the streetlights.

Something cold curled around your spine.

Why were you holding this?

Where had it come from?

You looked up, confused. “I—”

But the moment your eyes met his, the words died in your throat.

Because the man in front of you—whoever he was—Was smiling.

Soft. Pained. Resigned.

Like someone watching a tragedy unfold for the hundredth time.

The silence stretched between you.

Your fingers curled around the locket, gripping it tight. “Who are you?”

Dazai exhaled a quiet laugh, but it wasn’t amused. It was empty.

“I was hoping you’d remember” he murmured.

He stepped onto the railing of the bridge.

Your breath caught. “Hey—!”

The streetlights flickered, the river below swallowing the last of the sunset’s glow. Wind ruffled his coat as he balanced effortlessly, staring down at the water as if it were calling him home.

Like he had done this before.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. “Get down.”

Dazai hummed, tilting his head. “Why?”

“Because you’ll—”

Your words caught in your throat.

Because, suddenly, you knew—

He wanted this.

He wasn’t looking down at the water in fear. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty in his stance.

A sharp pang of fear shot through you.

You didn’t know this man.

And yet, the thought of watching him fall, of watching him disappear beneath the surface—

It terrified you.

The instinct came before the logic. Before the hesitation. Before you could think.

Dazai took a step forward—

And you lunged after him.

Air rushed past you, cold and biting, tearing at your skin. The distant sound of the city blurred, replaced by the deafening roar of the wind.

And in front of you—just inches away—

Dazai

His eyes widened, not in fear, but in shock.

Like he hadn’t expected you to jump.

Like you had shattered something he thought was inevitable.

In a blink, his arms were around you. The air crushed between you as his grip tightened, pulling you against his chest, twisting midair.

The river swallowed you both whole.

The cold was instant. A shockwave of ice against your skin, stealing the breath from your lungs. Darkness wrapped around you, water pressing against your chest, your ears, muffling the world.

Panic clawed at your ribs. Your limbs kicked instinctively, fighting against the weight of the river pulling you under. The surface was too far. Your chest burned, screaming for air—

A hand found yours.

And then—he was pulling you up.

You broke the surface with a gasp, coughing, choking, dragging in deep, desperate breaths. Rain pelted against your skin, the city lights above distorted through waterlogged lashes.

And beside you—Dazai.

He was still holding you. His chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, soaked hair clinging to his forehead. His grip was tight—too tight—his fingers digging into your wrist as if he were afraid that you would sink instead.

A shuddering breath left him.

And then he laughed.

“You jumped.”

You coughed, still struggling to keep yourself afloat. “You idiot—! What the hell were you thinking?”

Dazai’s gaze flickered, searching your face with something unreadable. “You always jump.

Water lapped against your chin, your body trembling from the cold. “What?”

His expression shifted—just barely.

Like he had said something he shouldn’t have.

Like he had forgotten this was your first time.

(Your first time. His 101st.)

“…Nothing.”

“What do you mean, I always jump?”

“You don’t remember”

“Remember what?”

“…Me.”

The cold suddenly felt unbearable.

You didn’t know why.

Didn’t know how.

But you knew.

Somewhere, in a place just out of reach,

You had met him before.

You took him in.

You didn’t think much about it at first, just that he had nowhere to go, that he was soaked to the bone, trembling from the cold. That his lips were tinged blue, and his hands were too light when they clutched yours, as if he wouldn’t mind slipping away.

You told yourself it was temporary.

But days passed.

And Dazai stayed.

The first few nights, he barely spoke.

You gave him dry clothes, wrapped him in a blanket, and forced him to drink something warm. He let you, silent and compliant, but there was something distant in his gaze—like a man sitting at the bottom of the ocean, watching the world through glass.

You were in the kitchen when it happened.

It had been a rare moment of peace—you’d just finished making tea, the scent of jasmine filling the air, when a feeling struck you.

You ran.

And when you found him, Dazai sat on the floor, his back against the wall, sleeves rolled up. A blade pressed against his skin, a thin, delicate line of red blooming just beneath it.

When he looked up at you, his eyes were soft.

Like he was caught.

Like he already knew what would happen next.

“…Ah,” he murmured, tilting his head. “You found me.”

You didn’t even realize you were moving until your fingers closed around his wrist, yanking the blade away with more force than necessary.

“What the hell are you doing?” Your voice was shaking.

“You’re shaking.”

You hadn’t noticed.

Your hands, gripping his wrist, were trembling.

“Dazai,” you choked out. “Why—”

“Because it doesn’t matter,” he said simply.

“It matters to me!”

The words came out louder than you intended, echoing off the walls, bouncing back at you. The silence that followed was thick.

His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something—

But then, instead, he laughed.

Not the soft, empty chuckle from before.

A real, genuine laugh.

“…That’s new” he murmured, his gaze locked onto you.

Slowly, carefully, you reached down and picked up the blade. Then, without a word, you walked to the other side of the room and threw it—hard—into the trash.

Dazai hummed. “So dramatic.”

“I’m serious” you said, turning back to him.

His gaze softened, but there was something sad in it.

“I know,” he said quietly.

You swallowed, trying to steady yourself. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper:

“…Promise me you won’t do that again.”

Dazai didn’t respond immediately.

“…I can’t.”

“Dazai.”

“I’ll just have to make sure you never look away” he mused, almost to himself.

If that’s what it meant to keep him here, to keep him alive—

Then you’d never look away again.

The Next Few Weeks

You started watching him more closely.

If you left the room for too long, he’d wander.

If you got too quiet, he’d get this look in his eyes—like he was slipping away, somewhere far, far away.

You had to anchor him.

So you talked to him more. Touched him more.

Small things—your fingers brushing his when you handed him tea, fixing his scarf before he went outside, pressing the back of your hand against his forehead when he looked tired.

And every time, his eyes would linger.

His body would go still.

Like he was memorizing the feeling.

Like he was afraid to forget.

But it wasn’t enough.

Because sometimes—when you turned around too fast, when you left him alone for just a second too long

You’d find him staring at his wrists.

Or at the balcony.

Or at the bottle of pills he had found in the bathroom cabinet.

And you realized—

It wasn’t enough to care for him.

You had to make sure he wanted to stay.

---

The first time you suggested it, Dazai just blinked at you.

“You want to do what?”

You crossed your arms. “Clean you up.”

His eyes flickered with amusement. “I think I’m rather charming like this, don’t you?”

You stared at him.

His hair was a mess, curling wildly in every direction, dried unevenly from the last time he bothered washing it. The bandages on his arms were sloppily wrapped, loose at the edges like he didn’t care if they unraveled. His shirt was wrinkled beyond repair, his coat barely hanging onto his frame.

If it weren’t for the sharp structure of his face, the deep warmth of his brown eyes, and the natural elegance he carried even in self-destruction, he would’ve looked completely pitiful.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Dazai.”

He tilted his head, smiling as if you were the one being ridiculous.

“Why?” he mused, resting his chin on his hand. “Are you trying to make me beautiful, my dear?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You already are.”

That caught him off guard.

“You’re too kind.”

You rolled your eyes. “I just don’t want to live with a stray cat who refuses to groom himself.”

Dazai gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “How cruel.”

“Sit down.” You grabbed a comb. “I’m fixing your hair.”

Dazai sighed dramatically but obeyed, flopping onto the couch like he was preparing to be pampered.

At first, he fidgeted.

When you ran the comb through his hair, his shoulders tensed—like he wasn’t used to being touched like this, like he thought you were going to hurt him.

You were gentle.

Slowly, the knots disappeared, the wild curls softened into something silky, smooth.

When you ran your fingers through it, testing the strands—Dazai stopped breathing.

“…You’re being careful” he murmured.

You hummed. “Of course.”

He didn’t reply.

But you saw the way his fingers curled against his palm.

Like he didn’t know how to handle this.

Like he wasn’t used to someone taking care of him just because they wanted to.

You wrapped his bandages properly.

Instead of the haphazard way he did it himself—messy, careless, like it didn’t matter—you took your time. Pressed the gauze gently against his skin, smoothed the fabric down with steady hands.

And when you were done, his fingers brushed over your work.

“…Neat,” he murmured.

You smirked. “See? You could look good all the time if you tried.”

Dazai chuckled. “Ah, but where’s the fun in that?”

You flicked his forehead. “Shut up and change into something clean.”

When you finished, you dragged him to the mirror.

Dazai blinked.

For the first time in who knew how long.

“…Ah,” he mused, tilting his head. “I almost look like a prince.”

Something ached in your chest.

You swallowed. “You are one.”

Dazai stilled.

Your reflection met his in the glass, and for a moment—just a moment—he looked like he wanted to say something.

But then, instead, he turned to you.

“…You really are dangerous” he murmured.

You frowned. “What?”

His hand lifted—fingertips brushing against your cheek.

“…You always make me want to stay.”

---

The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of blooming jasmine. Streetlights flickered in golden pools along the cobblestone path, the world around you quiet except for the faint sound of footsteps—yours and Dazai’s.

It wasn’t your first time going out together.

Somewhere along the way, your relationship had shifted from caretaker and reckless wanderer to something softer. Something closer.

Dazai had stopped flinching when you touched him. He had stopped looking for ways to disappear every time you turned your back. He still carried his darkness—still held the weight of a forgotten prince who had wandered for far too long—but he stayed. For you.

And tonight, for the first time, you had dragged him out for a proper date.

“Ah, how romantic” Dazai mused, glancing at you with a playful glint in his eyes. “A moonlit walk with my beloved.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re the one who insisted .”

“Only because it would be tragic if something happened to you,” he said, placing a hand on his chest dramatically. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I let my dear forgetful darling wander alone?”

The word forgetful sent a familiar pang through your chest.

He was always thinking about it.

No matter how happy he seemed, no matter how much closer you had grown—Dazai never forgot the curse. And tonight…It would finally break.

You felt the weight of it pressing against your ribs, the moment drawing closer with every step.

This was the 101st time.

The last time.

If the curse worked like it always had, by the end of tonight, you wouldn’t remember him.

Dazai had told himself he was prepared.

That if it happened again, he would simply make you fall for him once more.

Like he always did.

Like he always would.

But tonight, something in his eyes was haunted.

Like he wasn’t sure he could handle it this time.

Like he was afraid this was the last time he’d ever get to hold your hand like this, walk beside you like this, hear you say his name like this—

And you—you let him believe it.

Because when the moment came—when the words finally left your lips—

I love you, Dazai.

You saw it happen—the flicker of realization, the way his breath caught in his throat, the way his fingers curled into fists at his sides.

And then—

The fear.

The horror that seeped into his gaze, the silent, desperate panic as he waited for you to forget.

The second stretched, agonizing.

Dazai’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“…Say my name again.”

You blinked. “…Dazai?”

His entire body trembled.

His fingers twitched—like he wanted to grab you, to shake you, to make sure this was real.

“You still—” He swallowed. “You still remember?”

You tilted your head, feigning confusion. “Who are you again?”

Something broke in his expression.

Dazai stumbled back a step, like you had struck him, like the weight of losing you again had finally crushed him for good.

For the first time, he looked truly lost.

“…Ah,” he murmured.

His voice was too soft.

Too empty.

“Of course.”

He smiled, but it was a dead, hollow thing.

“I suppose even after a hundred times, I never learned how to say goodbye properly.”

His hands curled into fists.

He took another step back, as if preparing to leave.

And that’s when you dropped the act.

You grabbed his wrist, pulling him back before he could disappear.

“I’m kidding, you idiot.”

His breath hitched, his entire body going still beneath your grip.

And then, slowly, he turned to you.

You smiled.

“I remember everything, Dazai.”

The silence was deafening.

He just stared.

Then—his lips parted.

A sound escaped him, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.

“—hah.”

A choked, shaking breath.

Then another.

And then, suddenly, his arms were around you—tight, desperate, real.

He was trembling.

Burying his face in your shoulder, clutching you like he was afraid you’d vanish.

“You—” His voice cracked. “You remember.”

His entire body pressed against yours, warm and solid and alive.

And for the first time in so, so long—

He wasn’t alone.

You exhaled, wrapping your arms around him just as tight.

“I remember, Dazai.”

And this time, I won’t forget.

#yandere x reader #yandere #yandere bsd #bsd x reader #bsd x you #dazai yandere #yandere dazai #dazai x reader #dazai x you #bsd dazai #bungou stray dogs dazai #dazai osamu

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corazondebeskar-reads · 15 hours ago

Text

of rage and ruin - chapter ten

chapter ten

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

werewolf!alpha!Joel Miller x f!omega!reader

word count: 5.6k

summary: joel faces his inability to protect you.

chapter warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, a/b/o, alpha/omega dynamics, omegaverse, captivity, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, horror themes, graphic violence, abuse by captors (not by either joel or reader), body horror, viewer discretion is advised, p in v, oral, torture

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

Tommy Miller is a changed man.

Four and a half years of scouring the midwest will do that to someone.

So will being bitten by a toddler.

Well. Probably not just any toddler.

After Tommy had cajoled DJ into sinking his tiny teeth into Tommy’s bicep, Laura hadn’t spoken to him for three months. She refused his company at the door.

“I have spent years—years, Miller—teaching that boy that he cannot, under any circumstances, bite someone. Do you know how hard it is to convince a toddler not to bite? Do you?” Laura had berated him thoroughly, and shut the door in his face.

She’d forgiven him, after some nudging from Tess, and a couple special deals with Bill for some new shoes for the boys.

Even so, he’d never felt quite so alone before. There was a pull behind his ribs, an ache that said he could not give up.

“You really don’t feel any different?” Tess said cautiously, one night when all three adults were lounged on the worn leather couches in Laura’s cottage, passing a bottle of whiskey.

“Nah,” Tommy says. “Well, I do, but I can’t explain it. But I think I’m getting closer. I’ve got this feeling.”

Tess crooked a brow at him. “You got me brokering deals across the goddamn half of the country based on a feeling?”

“Ain’t like you’re getting nothin’ out of it,” he grumbled.

“I know what you mean,” Laura admitted. “I— when Peter died—” she, with a kindness he feels sick for accepting, doesn’t say 'when you shot my husband.' “I knew.”

“That’s freaky,” Tess says bluntly. “But alright. I’ll keep pressin’em for info.”

It was hard, though, to get real information out of anyone, when you can’t explain that the missing person in question may also be an 8-foot-tall fairytale monster.

There were rumors, though. Most of them turned out about as well as if he were looking for Bigfoot.

Tess spent less and less time in Boston, taking up Laura’s sofa. Tommy spent less and less time at Joel’s cabin, instead roaming the country for any sign of his brother. Sometimes, Tess would go with him, usually if she had secured a good trade at the same time.

But there was no sign of Joel.

Joel doesn’t let you out of his sight. He refuses to go out, even when they bring him to the ground with the shock collar.

“She goes with me,” he snarls.

Jim throws his hands in the air in frustration. They’ve tried… well, they’ve tried a lot of horrible things. You wish he would just go and stop getting hurt.

“Joel,” you plead for the nth time.

“Look at it this way,” Jim leers. “You either go and risk her getting hurt. Or you refuse and guarantee it.”

Joel wolfs out for the nth time, and horribly, you share a look with Cheryl.

“For fuck’s sake,” she says, finally breaking her uncharacteristic silence. “He wants to bring the girl? Fine. We’ll bring her.”

Her words are not a comfort. There is no promise of safety. But truth be told, not that you’ll voice it after all this, not that you’d ever disagree with Joel in front of them, but the verdict is a tightening noose.

To you, the threat is gone. You helped him pick the threat out of his teeth. The two brothers were an anomaly; none of these people have any loyalty to one another. The status quo works right now, but at the slightest tip of the ship, that ends. No one is coming after you because of Mike.

Joel had furrowed his brows, shaking his head with a glower. “That’s what we thought about Mike. Ain’t riskin’ it, darlin’. And that’s final.”

He hadn’t used his alpha voice, but you had felt compelled to shut up anyway. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was the way his jaw was set tight. You reached up, one hand against his cheek, thumb brushing his beard. “Okay,” you capitulate.

He almost bristles at the coddling, but the rigidity leaves him in a heaving sigh, and he allows himself a moment to lean into your gentle touch. His hand covers yours, trapping it there.

“Atta girl,” he mumbled, drawing your palm to his lips for a kiss.

Now that it was happening, though? He smells the acrid citrus disinfectant of your fear as it curls into guilt in his lungs.

Not that he can do anything to help. He stands, hands through the bars, as they shackle him. He waits, brow twitching, as they fit the muzzle around his snout. Two of the lackeys push him against the cinder block wall outside your room, twin prongs jabbing against the furry expanse of his chest. It heaves with his heavy pants, eyes darting between his would-be guards and where you’re similarly being bound.

Jim bitches. Of course he does. He bitches the whole time they begin the march to the surface, to the wild.

They shove you in the van behind Joel, and he uses his great, hairy body to catch you, huffing and nudging until you manage to sit on his lap. Your hands are bound tight behind your back, tense lines of your body perched precariously, but the only other option is the floor.

The raiders are piled in around you. Well, most of them. Cheryl and her favored lackeys are in a pick-up truck following behind. Jim drives, ruling this operation as he does every other—with rigid, unwavering control. The others trapped with you in the cargo hull have guns or tasers, so clearly uncomfortable with sharing an enclosed tin can with the most dangerous creature they’ve ever known.

None of them look at you. It’s too careful to be coincidence. He’s made his point.

The Wolf doesn’t think it’s enough, so he growls every time someone so much as shifts in their seat.

It speaks to the danger that you don’t even think of making a Little Red Riding Hood or Three Little Pigs joke, though they do come to you later.

The raid is anticlimactic. The raiders mow down most of the other group. Joel disposes of the rest with neither pomp nor circumstance, just swift swipes of sharp claws.

They work methodically through the small house, loading the back of the pickup with their spoils. That takes far longer than the slaughter.

“Can I sit down?” you eventually ask Cheryl. Jim’s made her your keeper, since she made the call to drag you along.

“What the fuck do I care?” she snaps, examining a nail under the light of the moon.

So you sit on the porch and wait, hoping you don’t get a splinter in your ass.

Later, under the illusion of safety, you nestle into the circle of him, as you had in those earlier days. You tip your head back and bury your fingers in his fur, one hand petting and the other holding tight. He makes a sort of snuffly sound, inquisitive and wary.

“I’m still not scared of you,” you say, splitting the silent night. “I watched you eat a dude. Today was nothing.”

He rolls his eyes but settles back down, head resting on his misshapen arms.

When you wake, he’s more man than wolf. It’s been that way more and more often, now.

Joel cradles you the way he always does, like a child at the beach whose fistfuls of sand keep retreating with the waves. There’s a tender desperation to it that makes you ache. You can’t take it, pulling yourself close to him with his shoulders beneath your grasp, pressing your lips together as if the sweet sedative of his saliva could fix the rabbity seizing of your heart.

A twinge near your hip gives you pause, a creeping reminder of something that shouldn’t have been forgotten.

“Hey Joel,” you say slowly, drawing his eyebrows up, “you said the heats are for…”

He hears the word you can’t force from your mouth. As his fingers continue their steady rhythm, the soothing back-and-forth against your temple, he douses your worry.

“‘m shootin’ blanks, darlin’,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your neck, not pursuing anything, but luxuriating in the moment.

You shouldn’t laugh, but you snort anyway. “You’re telling me that you’re… fixed ?” you tease. Any self-control you had before doesn’t seem to have survived him.

He pulls away from his lazy kisses to scowl at you. “Shut up,” he grumbles, though there’s no mistaking the twitch of his lips as you grin.

“I’m right,” you say, squealing as he nips at your neck in retaliation.

“Ha ha,” he says, deadpan with a wry twist of his lips. “I get it. Like a dog. You gotta get some new jokes.”

“No, I’m good; these are still funny,” you say, wrapping one hand around the nape of his neck and trying to tug him back to his affections.

“I’m serious, though,” he says, somehow settling the little bubbles that crept up your throat. “Got snipped a long time ago.”

It’s an answer that asks questions. You don’t give them a voice. Not why, not when. You’re haunted by the thought of his past. My daughter loved that shit. It’s been weeks since he dropped that little tidbit, and neither of you have dug it back up. He sees the questions blooming in your eyes even as you snip them at the root, and shakes his head, so you follow a safer path of curiosity.

“What about the healing? What if it undid it? That’s a thing, right? Undoing vasectomies?”

“Thought about that, too. But none of my other scars or injuries from before went away. Why would that?”

He sounds so casually confident, and you can’t really disagree. “So you’re saying I won myself a sweepstakes from Little Debbie?”

He closes his eyes for a moment before looking skyward. “What’re you on about now?”

“A lifetime supply of creampies,” you say seriously, but it doesn’t hold, and you bury your laughter in his arm.

“You’re an idiot,” he says flatly, shaking his head. “And those are oatmeal cream pies, you pervert.”

It just makes you laugh harder. “I’m your little toaster strudel.”

He groans. “Wrong. Icin’ goes on the top of those.”

“Says the man who literally rubbed his jizz over my tits.”

“Alright, time for you to be quiet,” he says, covering your mouth with his hand only to snatch it back when you bite. “Now who’s the fuckin’ dog?” he mutters.

“Aw, giving up?” you say as he rises on his haunches, still looming over you.

“Nope,” he pops the p as his smirk grows. “Got a better way t’shut you up.”

The thing about him being nude all the time is that you’re hyper-aware of the status of his cock, like, all the time. It’s been half-mast for the last hour, but it’s paying full attention now.

“Guess I’m just as much of a dog as you. Got me over here like Pavlov.”

“Pavlov was the scientist,” Joel says absently, stroking his cock and scooting closer to where you’re sitting up in anticipation.

“S’there a way to shut you up?” But you don’t need to ask. You cut off his retort by taking the tip of his cock between your lips and sucking hard.

His words become a strangled whimper and you pull off with a lewd pop. “Oh yeah,” you say, “like that.”

Before he can muster up another snarky comment, you take his balls in one hand, rubbing your thumb over them to make his hips jerk a little. His hands don’t stay off you for long, but he doesn’t try to push you around or rush you.

A sweet kiss to each, and he knows this’ll be over a lot sooner than he’d like.

But goddamn, will it be worth it.

You groan at the velvety feel of his wrinkled sac, which grows more and more taut as you adorn it with little kitten licks, nuzzling your cheek against it. His oaky bourbon musk has a sharp edge to it that makes you a little dizzy. With a single-minded focus, your hands curl around the backs of his thighs, a soft sigh ruffling the coarse hair.

You pause to pick one of said hairs from your teeth and go back in for more.

His hand rests on your head, and he gazes down at you, his eyes dark like the underbelly of a cloud grown heavy with a brewing storm. The wiry tuft of his pubes copies his scruffy beard, though the former is far less salt than salt-and-pepper. The hard line of his cock presses against your cheek, the slip of his foreskin smooth. It leaves a trail behind when you pull away, though you can’t help but lean back in and kiss the rest from the tip.

He does the unthinkable in that moment.

He steps back.

You look up sharply, catching yourself with an oof. “Wha—”

He doesn’t even let you finish wondering. He grabs you, both palms smothering your hips, and rolls you onto your stomach. It’s not a display of his brute strength, but instead of the thrall you don’t like to admit to being under. The slightest pressure from his urging has you rolling over.

“Need t’be inside you,” he grunts.

“You were, ” you protest with no protest.

He shuts you up much more efficiently by the intensity of his grip on your hips as he pushes into you. His impatience finds his cock buried in the depths of your cunt and his teeth buried in the shallows of your shoulder. He rests on his elbows with your upper body trapped between them.

The breath leaves you in a whine, air forced from your lungs under the pressure of his bulk on you.

“Oh,” is all you can muster.

He nips at your ear in response, laving his kisses and tongue down your neck, bringing his teeth back up to the line of your jaw.

It’s so much. You’re overwhelmed by him, by the way something in you sings at the weight pinning you to the cold floor, sweater rucked up about your waist. There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to turn that isn’t Joel, and it’s bliss. White static and the pounding of his hips against your ass consume you. Your gasps and grunts and moans come from somewhere in the distance, not quite underwater, but only because his are rough in your ear, keeping you afloat.

He runs hot, hotter than any man you’ve lain with before, and it’s not long before sweat slicks between your bodies, dripping down from his brow. You’ve given up all illusion of being an active participant, instead laying your cheek against the cool ground and letting your eyes close.

The angle is divine. Each rock of his hips grants you the tiniest bit of friction, but it ends up being all you need. He makes you come once, twice, three exhausting times before he allows himself to take what he needs, fucking down into you mercilessly.

You only get to delight in the sensation of his cock twitching, of the bursts of his cum inside, for a moment before he’s pulling out to spill the rest across your ass.

When he pulls out, he slides off you to the side, but keeps you pinned with a leg and arm over you. If you weren’t so sated, floating your way down from the exquisite high, you’d roll your eyes. He’s letting it dry; of course he is.

He nudges you with his nose, and you turn your head to catch his eyes. They’re as tired and pleased as yours, but something cheeky lurks there. He doesn’t make you wait long for it.

“There," he says with a slap to your ass. "Now You’re a cream pie Toaster Strudel. Happy?” He's deadpan with flat brows and a scowl.

You laugh, lighter than you’ve been in a long time. It almost sobers you—the realization that you are. You may not be happy with your living conditions and dangerous circumstances. But you’re… you’re happy with him.

“Oh, you’re a pastry chef now?” You tease before pressing a kiss to his prickly cheek. “Yeah. M’happy.”

He stiffens at the way your voice goes so soft. So fond. It’s undeniable—the very thing he feared the most coming to full bloom before his eyes.

But what was he to do? This wretched world that always takes, always, never gives, it had given him you. And he’s too damn selfish to care anymore. There’s the imprint of concern, a triplicate carbon copy—barely indented, barely visible.

But more than that, it’s a facsimile. It’s the only thing that remains of the cautious voice warning him to keep a distance. To protect you from being hurt. To protect you from himself.

He can’t protect you from himself anymore. His hold on you turns, tightens like a corset around your ribs, and he watches in disbelief as you simply melt into it.

No fear. No flight. No fight. Just you, and him, here. Any energy he had earlier is sapped seems to leak out from his sigh, unfurling from the look in his eyes. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have called it fond.

Joel, though? Joel’d've called it something else.

The trips outdoors happen weekly. At least, you think so. Not that you know much about the passage of time beyond the phases of the moon. They skip the new moon since the Man isn’t useful. Everything is by-the-book, if there was such an awful thing, until the second full moon.

The Wolf Moon rises above the glittering snow, and all hell breaks loose in her glow.

The heavy, languid body sits huge on the horizon, commanding control. It’s hypnotic. You can’t really quite look away from the cold yellow, bigger than the sun and twice as potent.

You don’t even notice that you’ve started to move when she catches you.

Cheryl’s nails make little crescents in your shoulder, her face so close that her hot breath puffs into your ear. It’s an awful sensation, and you want no part of her in or on your body. But here you are, too afraid to do anything but take it.

“You’re just as mindless as he is,” she says with a breathless laugh.

You consider protesting, but she beats you to it.

“He doesn’t even know who he is. He’s got no control. Only obeys his master,” she says. Her fingers curl under your chin, grinding the soft flesh against your teeth as she forces you to look at Jim.

He’s got a girl by the throat. She can’t be more than fifteen. His gun sits in his hip holster, knife in his pocket. He doesn’t need a weapon. He has the Wolf.

A man who can’t be anyone but her father is pleading on his knees. You can’t hear anything, don’t know his crimes against Jim. But Jim kicks the man back with a boot against his chest and drops the girl unceremoniously to the ground.

He snaps his fingers and points. And the wolf lunges, teeth catching in the moonlight.

You don’t realize you’ve screamed until the whole clearing goes silent. He’s frozen, inches from the girl, but all his attention is on you.

“Don’t,” you whisper, and he recoils from her, standing on his warped legs and howling.

“You little bitch,” Cheryl hisses, her fingers dropping your chin in favor of your throat. There’s a fraction of a moment where the world pauses before the cacophony erupts.

Joel snarls, lunging for Cheryl. Jim hits the shock collar’s trigger. Joel stumbles, falls, and keeps moving.

It earns him a bullet to the leg. Jim never lets go of the button, and you scream as he convulses, bleeding profusely on the thick patch of grass.

It’s the last thing you see before everything goes dark.

When you wake up, you’re in the cage.

Outside the room.

Joel paces in front of the barred door, eyes never leaving you. A sigh billows out when he sees that you’re awake. He drops to his knees, reaches, and just barely grabs the bars before he pulls. The metal screeches something awful against the tile, but he can reach you now.

“Hey,” he urges, voice low and a little wrecked. “Tell me you’re okay. C’mon.”

“I’m okay,” you groan, but make no effort to sit up. You stare up at him, inverted as he is, half-obscured by the bars. “I miss Excedrin.”

He frowns, brows furrowed, but disregards your complaint. “Y’ain’t bleeding,” he says by way of comfort, though more for his benefit.

“No, just fuckin’... hurts,” you say, closing your eyes against the sickening flicker of the nearly-burnt bulb.

“That was real stupid,” he says. It lacks real bite, but it’s bloated with something worse than anger.

“We both lived. And that girl.”

Joel winces and looks away.

“No,” you say weakly.

“They shot ‘em all,” he says, the gravity of their fate dragging you down. “They never leave anyone alive.”

“No,” you repeat quietly. His words are the swing of an axe to your sternum.

He looks away. He’s always known you’re too soft, too good. Somehow free of dried blood under your fingernails all your life. He’s never asked, may never ask, how you ended up here. It’s not the thing to do.

Nobody talks about before.

“I know that ain’t what you want to hear,” he tries, but it’s disingenuous, placations like packing peanuts in their unwanted staticity and general ineffectiveness. The sound grates in his ears about the same, too.

“Sweetheart, listen t’me. Y’can’t interfere. They brought you here to get me to cooperate. If they think you’re a problem, they’re going to shoot you.”

It’s a sobering truth. “But—“ you whisper.

Joel isn’t having it. “I told you. I ain’t the man you think I am.” He swallows hard, and something shifts, his eyes gone cold and the set of his jaw hardening into a plaster mask. “I kill people. All the time, darlin’. Even before I got bit. It’s what a man like me has to do to survive and protect people I—” a pause, a catch in his throat—”my people. Do you understand?”

He hates the way apprehension settles your teeth into the soft bed of your lower lip. The way your gaze is unwavering, though the ache wafts like citronella, as if that could keep him at bay.

“I said, do you understand?” He repeats firmly. His words aren’t harsh, but they cut anyway. His hands on the bars rattle you a little, as if your dizzy brain needs more centrifugal motion.

“I don’t want to,” you hear yourself say as if underwater. You’ve never heard yourself sound quite so small.

“Goddamnit,” he growls, dropping his hands from you and rising to his feet in one smooth motion. “Goddamnit, can’t you see I’m tryin’? For fucks sake, just shut your eyes and don’t watch if that’s what you gotta do. But if you pull a stunt like that again, I can’t protect you. They will kill you.”

You draw your knees to your chest, tucked up against the corner. “I—I just—“

“You just nothing,” he snaps. “You need to listen t’me. Do what you’re told so I can keep you safe. Don’t you understand? Don’t you get it? I am not gonna let you get yourself killed because you can’t stomach what has to be done.”

Your throat closes, eyes squeezed shut tight.

He heaves a loud, grating sigh and covers his face with both hands, head tipping back.

A minute drags into five, and the only sound in the cell is your matching measured breaths. The thrum of his heartbeat from across the room. The silence fills with the buzz of your brain seeping out to your ears, the crackle of tinnitus, and just when you think you’re going to crack, he moves.

Joel crouches in front of you. “Hey,” he says gruffly, but with less bite. “Look at me,” he coaxes gently.

You want to bristle at being treated like a skittish horse, but instead, you acquiesce, taking in the lumbering shadow of him. You swallow hard, your heart lodged in your throat like gravel.

He sighs again, and closes his eyes for a moment before looking at you. Really, really looking. And he doesn’t like what he sees. As if your scent didn’t give it away. It’s different, somehow, seeing the fear stiffen your shoulders and pull you back from him like a hooked fish.

“It can’t be any other way,” he says. “I’m… I’m a bad man, a shitty person, and that’s mine to bear. I can’t shield you from it. I tried.” His voice croaks a little on the tail end. “And…” he makes sure you’re looking at him still, his hand slipping between the bars, catching your chin. His thumb brushes your lip as if he can rub the bite marks out. “And I ain’t sorry. Not if it keeps us alive.”

It’s strange, the way his words turn you inside out, and his touch puts you back. But you’re properly distracted from reading too much into it by footsteps clomping down the stairs.

The cage turns out to have been for dramatics. A red-headed man you’ve not seen before has shown up to haul you from it and dump you back in the room across the hall.

This time, Joel is quiet. He wants to snarl, to yell, to threaten. But he bites his tongue and lets it happen. It’s this or a bullet in your skull.

Instead, he paces the cell, near-sleepless. You can hear him at all hours of the day, the padding of his bare feet akin to the beat of his heart that usually lulls you to sleep. It’s a poor substitute, but you’ve learned to accept scraps.

They keep up their end of the bargain, though, and ten days later, they pull you from the locker room to ride along on the latest outing. This time, though, you’re stuck in the truck with Cheryl.

She turns sideways to regard you down the petite line of her nose. “Do I need to gag you?”

The question is drawled lazily, but her hand holding the switchblade as she cleans under her nails is anything but. The knife catches in the moonlight, the silver gleam a steady promise.

“No,” you mumble.

Nothing happens. She locks you in the truck, still bound. Sure, you might be able to reach the locks, but getting the door open is another story. And surely you’d fall on your face in the mud.

For a moment, Joel protests, but gives in. You’re safe in the truck, and he can still see you, still smell you, still hear your heart pulse through his eardrums as if it were his own.

You don’t watch, but you have to listen.

Nobody pays you any mind, which means you risk peeking into the bed of the truck. There are the expected supplies—rope, tools, and old sheets. But more importantly, much more importantly, a line of filled backpacks are tucked against the cab. Go bags. They have to be. There’s a bedroll on each, and you’d bet your sweater they’re full of supplies.

Oh, Jesus. Has your life really come to that? The only meaningful thing you have to wager against yourself is a sweater?

Fuck.

The bags live in the back of your mind, scurried away with the tidbits you’re collecting and trying to sweep into a pile vaguely resembling a plan.

It’s not going great, because Joel isn’t cooperating.

“You have to eat,” you plead.

His hands grip your shoulders, seizing onto you like it’ll make any damn difference. “I can't fucking take it anymore. Can't fuckin' sit by letting it happen,” he hisses.

“Joel,” you murmur, bringing your hands up to cup his warm, scruffy face. “Please. When the time is right, we’ll stop. But for now, please.”

He crumples, as he always does when you beg so sweetly. And he has to admit you’re right. This is not the way. There will be a time, but the new moon isn’t it. He can’t put you in danger by being weaker than ever.

He heaves a sigh and picks up a flank, rending the meat from the bone like he’s sectioning an orange. It should be disgusting, watching him eat raw, bloody flesh.

It should be.

Right?

You’re not sure anymore.

You’ve never been one for gratuitous displays of strength, but this… isn’t that. This is primal. It stirs behind your sternum, a possessive rumble that has him look up at you with an eyebrow raised. You shake your head and scrub at your face with both hands until it settles.

He gives a huff of approval, and then, capitulating to his belly that seemed to respond in kind to your growl, he shifts and does his magic trick, turning a huge stack of meat into a bloody tray.

When he stalks over to you after, he raises one thick, sharp-tipped finger in your face. “Don’t say it,” he warns.

You stifle a laugh. “Don’t say what?” you ask, all fluttering lashes and saccharine innocence.

“Don’t,” he says, but the sternness of his voice falters.

“Don’t ask if you’re ready for dessert?”

He groans, head dropping to your shoulder before sitting back on his haunches. “You’re not a very good listener,” he says. “Maybe we’ll skip dessert.” His eyes roll.

“What? No,” you say.

“Bad girls don’t get rewards,” he says, and to your mortification, you burn and squirm where he has you pinned with his hips.

He chuckles. “Aw, ya gonna pout now?”

“C’mon,” you whine. “It was just a joke. You wouldn’t be that mean.”

“I’m fixin’ to leave you high n’ dry.”

“ Joooooel,” you whine, and fix him with your best pleading eyes. “You’re not gonna take care of me?”

He twitches. “That ain’t fair.”

“But alpha—”

He cuts you off with a growl, yanking you by the hips and diving in. He holds you to the mattress with ease as you squirm and savor each stroke of his tongue, and doesn’t let go until he’s had his fill.

The days trickle, but it’s harder to abide them. You had taken this tentative peace for granted, before, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to see the veil. It’s still there, now, but you’re hyperaware of the shroud.

Gone are the lazy days of lounging and fucking and sucking. Gone are the luxurious cat-naps (dog-naps? wolf-naps? freak-of-nature-naps?), and you struggle to remember that you’re supposed to be figuring out a plan.

Joel doesn’t forget, though. Despite your argument, he’s eating less and less. He can’t stand the haze, can’t stand the complacency that stole nearly five years of his life.

At night, he broods and schemes.

“Next time, I want you to run,” he says.

“We’re not ready.”

“We’re gonna get you ready.”

You sit up in the darkness, your eyes as sharp as in the sunlight. “I’m not going without you.”

He growls. “Darlin’, you ain’t got a choice. You hear me? You get a chance? Take it. Swear to me.”

“I’m not leaving without you.”

He shakes you a little roughly. “You will if you have to. Understand me? Swear it, omega.”

He knows you’re pissed. And maybe you’ll never forgive him, never trust him again after he’s done what he swore he’d never do. But you’ll be free.

“Yes, alpha, ” you grit out, teeth creaking with the strength of your clenched jaw. Your hands ball into fists, but there’s nowhere to direct your anger.

His mouth drags blunt teeth down your neck, and you snarl. He’s reminded just how much you’ve changed. How every day with him turns you more and more into the animal he makes you.

How much his bite has cost you.

“Tell me again,” he says gruffly as you give in to the insistent pressure of his claim and relax against him. He hates it, hates doing this to you when he knows on the inside you’re frothing and raging and burning.

But he holds you to him with that same fire and makes you repeat it. Over and over. Coordinates he could say in his sleep. The location of the key, the way to jimmy the back window loose if it’s gone.

And the name. Tommy. Tommy. Tommy.

Find Tommy.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

This was just a test run. An experiment to see if your newly-cleared brains (and viciously empty stomachs) welcomed back your sharp senses and survival skills. It wasn’t supposed to be the run.

You’re not ready. You have no supplies, no direction, no plan.

But it’s happening. It’s your chance, and you must take it. You hesitate long enough that the Wolf tips his head back and howls, urging you, and even though he speaks no words, your body must listen.

There’s no command, no compulsion. No, the howl is worse because it’s a plea.

You must run.

So you do.

Your heart pounds in sync with the beats of your bare feet against the forest floor. You don’t know where you’re going. You don’t know where you’ve been. The world blurs, not because you’re going fast enough but because of the unbidden tears pricking at your eyes, the pulse of fear and foreboding familiar.

Crack. Bark shatters to your right.

Crack. Dirt upturned inches from your left foot.

Crack. A yelp.

No. No.

They wouldn’t. They need him.

It becomes your mantra.

Each thud of your foot against the rotting leaves and hard-packed soil pounds with it. They wouldn’t. They need him. They wouldn’t. They need him.

The bullets stop; there’s no pursuit. You’re disposable.

Find Tommy.

Everything narrows to your path. To your feet and the way they carry you in turn, away from the angry yelling and howling and screams. Away from your prison and its guards. Away from your alpha— no. You can’t think like that. You’ll see him again.

You will.

Right?

dearest beloved readers, our story is coming to an end soon. it may be 2-3 more chapters including an epilogue. this particular chapter is one i'm v nervous about sharing since it's been our destination from the start. pls be niceys to me and i love you all, thank you so so much for reading.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #alpha!joel miller #alpha!joel miller x omega!reader #omegaverse fic #a/b/o fic #werewolf!joel #dead dove fic #fic: of rage and ruin #tlou fic #joel miller fic

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narnian-neverlander · 2 days ago

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Would You Fall in Love with Me Again [Machine Herald Viktor x GN!Reader]

Preview: “You’re the one who decided he’d rather forget every moment, every laugh, every touch we shared like they all meant nothing! You’re the one who tore out his heart without a second thought and threw it away even though it was mine! And all the while you’re leaving me with the burden of it all! I’m the only person alive who still holds our time together dear to their heart now! Do you have any idea how heavy memories can be? How maddening?! And these—“ you bring your hands up between the two of you, all sleek, perfect metal, the spitting image of him. “You gave me these for all the world to see and left me with yet another reminder of you! Like I needed more of those to know that I am still and always will be irrevocably yours! And now you tell me that it wouldn’t matter if there’s any part of you, however small, that still thinks of yourself as mine?! Fuck you, Viktor!”

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 10,7k

Warnings: slight body horror/modifications, suicidal thoughts, canon typical violence (injuries and blood, mentions of torture, mentions of character death, alluded murder)

This is part of a series of stand alone One-Shots that all feature the same reader, you can find the masterlist here :3

A/N: Does a broken rib from too much coughing count as the AO3 curse yet cause wow this took way longer than expected. Anyways, Epic x Arcane has been bouncing around my head since Season 2 came out, but this was inspired by this post from @le-fruit-de-la-passion cause I saw that and I’ve been internally screaming over it ever since 💁

Happy Valentine’s everybody 💞

Nothing had been the same since you woke up.

It’s to be expected, it had been almost two years after all.

Two years since the explosion. Two years since half the council had died. Two years since any attempt at peace between the two cities had been shattered. Two years that you had spent blissfully unaware of all of this; a coma keeping you trapped within the confines of a hospital bed and your own mind.

You’d expected pain after coming back to your senses; it was the last thing you remembered before the world had went dark. But you’d slept through most of your recovery. Through your wounds turning into scars. Through your muscles growing weak from disuse. Your hands were a different story, though. They didn’t so much hurt, only at times, as they were simply numb. Shattered bones and nerve damage had made them mostly useless and that was not something any amount of time would simply fix.

Not everything had completely changed, though, you’d found. You’d been awake for not more than an hour when Jayce had burst through the doors of your hospital room. And sure, he’d looked different: his hair longer, a beard, the white and gold that had always dominated his outfits replaced with black and silver, a brace on one of his legs and a cane at his side. But the relief in his hazel eyes when he’d found his friend conscious was familiar. The way his hug had felt. And how he’d completely avoided your gaze when you’d asked about your lover.

He’s gone. I’m so sorry, but… he’s gone.

He’d expected you to cry, scream, anything. But you hadn’t. You’d merely nodded, as numb as your broken hands, and had thanked him for coming to see you. Had told him to go back to his work, he must certainly be busy after all. And it had torn him apart, to see you, someone he’d always known as energetic and joyful, so tired, so apathetic. The very least for him to do had been to offer his help in any way he could, including finding a doctor that would fix your hands. He’d been more than reluctant to leave you, but you’d asked for some time alone to rest and he could hardly deny you that - it had still taken him a good ten minutes more to actually take his leave, with promises of a soon return and to simply send for him if you needed anything.

You’d settled back into the bed, fully intent on going back to sleep and pretending you’d be able to wake up in a different world, but the sun had caught on something metallic on your bedside table, hidden behind flowers and cards. You’d reached for it with stiff, unsteady fingers, almost sending the small, scratched up, mechanical cat crashing to the ground; luckily it had just ended up bouncing off your leg and then settling in your lap.

You’d stared at the little robotic feline in astonishment for a long time, unblinking amber eyes staring right back, like it would tell you who had brought it here, when it should’ve been sitting on a shelf in your apartment. Like it would give you all the answers and solutions in the world. An answer to your pain. To the hopelessness creeping in. To the feeling of your heart slowly shattering.

I’m coming back for you. I’ll find a way to fix you, to fix us both, and then I’m coming back for you, I promise.

It had almost made you drop your precious possession all over again, breaths heavy and migraine pounding in the back of your skull. And your racing mind had very clearly told you that there’s no recollection of ever having heard him say anything like this, your aching heart replying that it had been an idle wish, nothing more.

This idle wish comes back to you know, lying bruised and bloody and dazed in a ditch somewhere in Zaun. The people you’d been sent to for help had turned out to be anything but the kind, generous researches they’d made themselves look like; only interested in their own profit, gained on the backs of the helpless and the beaten. And after months of more pain and suffering, once you’d no longer been of use, your body even more mutilated and damaged than before, you’d been discarded like the trash they viewed you as. Face in the dirt, body and mind exhausted and screaming for rest, just a small respite, you consider letting go. Consider closing your eyes and just letting eternal rest take you; you don’t have anything left, after all. No home to go back to. No loved ones waiting for you.

Your shattered psyche seems to welcome the idea more than anything; through blurry vision you swear you see your lost beloved right in front of you, like it’s just another lazy morning spent in bed together. A warm hand cupping your cheek, gentle amber eyes, voice still raspy and accent thick from sleep. Telling you to go back to sleep. That it’s okay to rest. You blink and he’s gone.

He’s gone. I’m so sorry, but… he’s gone.

I’m coming back for you. I’ll find a way to fix you, to fix us both, and then I’m coming back for you, I promise.

A cry for help, created from a desperate mind and a broken heart. A fantasy. Wishful thinking. Nothing more. No one would be coming for you. Nobody would know or care if you just laid down to die right here. But there’s still a part of you, tiny as it may be, that wants to live. That under no circumstances wants to die on the same streets you once crawled your way out of, while your tormentors get rich on your suffering and are left with no consequences. Your blood’s starting to boil, powering you like a steam engine, getting you up on your hands and knees, groaning and whimpering in pain as you hopelessly try to get your feet back under you.

Peace is for the dead, revenge is for the living.

It’s what forces you towards the city limits on wobbly, clumsy legs, one stumbling step at a time. If revenge would be your only reason to live, then so be it. You’d take it over simply giving up and being forgotten; your body left to rot in the dirt.

So you live off scraps and garbage. Get your quick bouts of rest on dark, dirty street corners. Collect herbs from the riverbed, as scarce as they may be, to fight off the infections you incurred. It’s not pretty or elegant and you can barely call it living, but you’re alive. And eventually you catch rumors, whispers, only spoken in the same shadows you’ve now spent months living in: rumors of a healer. Well, some call him that. Others revere him as a god. Others fear him as a monster, more machine than man. But they all agree on two things: that he’s the one to go to if you’re in desperate need of help and have nothing left to lose. And where to find him.

The gate to the house on Emberflit Alley is old and bent and rusted. Not locked, but your stiff, useless fingers have enough trouble opening it anyways. The front door is a different story entirely, encrusted with interlocking gears to keep you and anyone else out unless invited in. So you knock and you wait. And then you repeat that process. Until it becomes clear that either no one is home or that a disturbance isn’t currently wanted. You’re not about to give up so easily though, so you step off the porch and start making your way around the house in search of any windows to knock on instead or maybe even break if necessary. It’s dusk by now and the ever present fog that always seems to cling to this area of the Lanes isn’t making your job much easier; your foot inevitably catches on something, a loose brick or a protruding pipe maybe, and sends you stumbling, falling and while you manage to catch yourself against the brick wall, your flailing palm ends up going straight through a window.

Perfect. You hadn’t actually been serious about breaking and entering. Not entirely, anyways. Trying to assess the damage to your hand in the dimly lit alley, you’re distracted enough to not pick up on the sound of a door opening and you only notice the heavy footsteps when they stop right behind you.

“You’re persistent if nothing else, I will give you that.”

The voice is deep, warped, with a mechanical echo to it, but it’s the accent that sends an unwelcome and unexpected twinge to your heart. You turn around very slowly and carefully, prey about to get caught by something terrible, and gulp when you actually need to crane your head back and look up cause fuck, he’s tall. At least a head taller than you, with a broad frame, all heavy armor and pieces of metal, a sharp, three pronged claw pulsing with energy pointed right at you from over his shoulder and a mask with only two hollow, glowing, yellow eyes staring back at you. He’s an imposing, unforgiving presence and you’re starting to understand why people only come to him as a last resort. But you’d come this far and he’s right, you’re persistent, stubborn, if nothing else, for better or for worse.

“I was— No one was opening the door and I was just trying to— Are you the Herald?” It’s a redundant question, really. “It’s what they insist on calling me.” Okay, you’re having a conversation. Sorta. That’s progress. “They also say that you… help people?” He crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head to the side and while you might not be able to see his eyes, you can feel them taking you in from head to toe. “To the best of my abilities. What would you need help with?” You falter for a second. “It’s uhm… a lot, really, but mostly my hands?” Most people have always reacted with disgust or pity and you don’t expect him to be much different, so the way you bring your hands in front of you for him to see is slow and hesitant. He leans forward for a better look and you fight the urge to back away and flee. It’s quiet, too quiet, the way he’s so intensely studying you and your injuries unnerving and the metal claw that looks like it could tear you in half opening and closing and rotating as if in thought is most definitely not helping your anxiety. Finally, he straightens up and turns around. “Follow me.” He doesn’t wait for you, nor does he check to see if you actually do follow him, merely strides back inside the house, leaving you scrambling to catch up.

The halls that he leads you through have dozens of motionless automatons leaning against the walls, the room you eventually arrive in is lined with shelves of glass jars containing organic and metal organs floating in green fluid and in the far corner a leather gurney with a mechanized drill laid upon it and stains you don’t want to think too hard about. Fortunately, he doesn’t lead you over to that, but instead to a workbench cluttered with machinery and tools and blueprints. He sits in the old, rusty chair and then drags out a little stool from under the table, gesturing for you to copy him while he reaches above his head and fiddles with what is revealed to be a bright, neon lamp when it finally flickers to life, blinding you for a moment and leaving spots in your vision. You do as your told and finally place your hands in his when he holds out his own, one gloved and from what you can tell human, the other solid metal.

There’s a certain gentle diligence with which he conducts his examination, something you most definitely didn’t expect, but it puts your frayed nerves at ease. It also triggers a memory from long ago, an accident in the lab, that had ended with you curled up against your boyfriend’s shoulder while Jayce had carefully picked glass shards from your palms. A slight shake of your head brings you back to the present; a different life, it no longer matters. It’s silent between you two, except for the occasional question from his side that you answer truthfully. Eventually, he sits back and switches off the lamp above you. “Your hands can not be salvaged; the damage is too severe and was left insufficiently treated for too long. If you want full use of them back, they will need to be replaced.” He says it like it’s the most logical, natural thing in the world and to him it must be, but to you? It leaves you stunned, mouth going dry. “So I’d lose them entirely…?”

“You already have,” he states matter of factly. “Now it’s just a matter of wether you’re insisting on clinging on to broken, useless flesh and bone for the sake of sentimentality or if you’d rather exceed your human limitations and be able to return to a normal life.” It takes everything you have not to laugh bitterly; new hands or not, you weren’t going back to your old, normal life anytime soon. But he’s right nonetheless. “And you can do that? Replace them? Make them work like before?” You can’t be certain, with the mask’s filter and all but it almost sounds like he scoffs in offense. He waves his own hand in front of your face and flexes his fingers for show; dark, solid metal, expertly welded and crafted together to create a perfectly functioning hand. “Naturally.”

There’s nothing for you to think about anymore. “Okay. Yeah, I… that sounds good. Except…” Maybe there is one thing to think about. “I can’t… pay you for it. B-but I can work it off! Or I could—“ he decisively cuts you off with, “I do not take payment for my work.” And your jaw actually drops, because there is no way anyone in this world would offer services like this for free. There always has to be an angle, something to be gained. “Right. So you just do this out of the goodness of your fucking heart? Do you even have one? A heart, I mean.” He stands to his full height and it hits you like a ton of bricks that you just followed a complete stranger into the confines of his home. A stranger twice your size that would have no trouble turning you into parts for his future experiments. A stranger that has a reputation on Zaun’s streets as an unhinged monster. And it seems like you might’ve hit a nerve.

But he merely reaches past you, for something behind you on the table and comes back with a pair of tweezers and gauze and then proceeds to remove the parts of his window that are still stuck in one of your palms. Right. Since you can’t really feel them, you’d forgotten all about them. “Of course not. And to answer your question, no, I got rid of my heart a long time ago; it was of no use to me any longer. I only ask that you stay here during your recovery so I can oversee the adjustment process. Document it to further my research. You will be paying me in information, knowledge, progress. That is worth more than any gold or jewels you could throw at me.” Your own heart is going a mile a minute after that scare, but you’re slowly coaxing your body to calm back down. If he truly wanted to harm you, he would’ve done so by now. “And you’re sure that’s enough?” A sigh, as if he’s forced to explain something overly simplistic to a child over and over again. “You can bring any scrap metal you may find on the streets to me, if that will make you feel better.” You snort in amusement. “Okay, sure, you got yourself a deal. Sooooo… now what?”

He pauses wrapping your hand for a moment and turns his unblinking gaze to you again. “Malnourished, sick or overly exhausted people make for greater risks, both during surgery and recovery.” You flinch because you damn well know that you check all of those boxes. And you’re sure he knows it, too. “Yeah, well it’s not like I can snap my fingers and magically be healthy again. If I could, I wouldn’t be here. Besides, do you know where you live? You can’t tell me that every Zaunite who comes in here is of picture perfect health?”

“No, I just thought you should be made aware. We can perform the procedure tomorrow, at least get some sleep before that; surely that’s not too difficult?” It almost sounds patronizing and you realize you’ve gained back, or rather are rediscovering a part of yourself you haven’t used in a long time in the few minutes you’ve been talking to him: the defiant smartass. “Of course I can do that, I’m not an imbecile. There’s a brothel owner who owes me a favor, I’m sure I can get her to cough up a bed for the night.” He’s doesn’t look up from putting the finishing touches on your bandages, but apparently he still feels the need to state, “And leave with more diseases than you came with?” Had he just called you diseased? “I’ll have you know I don’t have anything contagious, thank you very much. I don’t think. And it’s that or sleep out on the streets again, so…”

“Or you could just stay here.”

You barely manage a very intelligent ‘Huh?!’ in return.

“You will return here tomorrow anyways. And stay here for your recovery. One night will not make a difference.”

Your eyes flit over to the leather couch in the corner; it’s clearly old and worn, missing an armrest and has obvious tears in the leather. Truly, you shouldn’t be this comfortable around him so quickly, but it’s still the closest thing to an actual bed you’d had in months so you’d take it.

“If it’s okay with you.” you shrug and quickly walk over to the sofa, dropping the bag that contains whatever little belongings you have left to the floor and then promptly collapse on it in an exhausted heap of limbs. That seems to break some of his composed facade as you catch him physically startling in your peripheral while you’re busy shrugging out of one of your coats and turning it into a makeshift pillow. “There is a room upstairs, with a bed, entirely unused. You can sleep there.” But you’re drowsy already, the worn leather surprisingly soft and pliant against your battered body. “So you don’t sleep, I assume; noted. And don’t worry, I don’t snore, so I won’t interrupt your… your work. You won’t… even know… I’m…” You’re out cold before you’ve finished your sentence and it takes all of half a minute before you’re lightly snoring. Liar. But he knew that already.

A heavy sigh and then he’s up, grabbing the blanket and pillow from the bed upstairs; replacing the bunched up coat under your head and pausing before he covers your body with the thick, warm fabric. Your skin has lost color, you’re underweight, he most definitely caught you limping earlier and those are just the things he could tell from a first glance. Your hands would be an easy enough matter to fix, but the rest would take time and care. He covers you with the blanket and you immediately snuggle up into it until only your hair is barely poking out. So you still hate the cold, then. Just like you’re still defiant and mouthy. It’s ridiculous how much you haven’t changed in direct contrast to him; changed so vastly and completely, of course you wouldn’t recognize him.

Carefully dragging down the blanket and the backs of your several layers of clothing, he indeed finds a series of numbers and letters branded into the skin at the back of your neck, as expected. He recognizes their shoddy handiwork by now; you weren’t the first Zaunite to come through his door after they’d fallen victim to that group. But you’d most definitely be the last. He gathers some things from around the lab and finally grabs his staff from where it’s leaning against the wall, gem at the top crackling with energy; one last look at your curled up form and then he’s out of the door, leaving you resting in his lab.

You’re warm, comfortable. It’s quiet and you actually feel well rested. All of that is so utterly foreign to you, it frightens you back to consciousness, makes you startle awake and fall off whatever you’d been asleep on in the process. Blind panic as you untangle yourself from a blanket you don’t remember having and stagger back to your feet, wild eyes searching for the closest threat.

Dim lighting breaking through murky windows, shelves stocked organs, a bloody gurney in the far corner and a hunched over figure at a workbench, their back currently turned to you as a clawed contraption over their shoulder emits a thin, precise ray of light.

“I do not appreciate getting lied to.”

There’s a part of your mind screaming at you that you know this voice, this person, this place, but the terrified haze you’re in yields little room for rationality as he shuts off the laser and turns around to face you, features covered by a mask with nothing but a set of glowing yellow eyes.

“You do, in fact, snore.”

It’s like a switch gets flipped, the haze lifts as you realize that you’re safe and you collapse back into the couch in a relieved heap, breaths still frenzied and heart still trying to jump out of your chest. “Right. Sorry.” He doesn’t comment any further, simply gets back to whatever it is he was working on before, leaving you to recover by yourself. It takes a few minutes, but once you consider yourself sufficiently calmed, you sit back up on the couch cross legged, blanket draped over your shoulders, wanting to apologize and thank him properly, but looking at him gives you pause.

He seems… smaller somehow than the night before. You find your answer in a heap of metal scattered around his workbench: big, cumbersome pieces of armor. Armor that you remember seeing on him yesterday, that you’d just assumed to be irremovable parts of his body. What you most definitely do not recall are the dents, scratches and the dried blood all over the metal. Nervously flitting your gaze back to him, you see what he’s working on is actually himself; laser directed at a part of his chest that he seems to be welding shut. And you’re taken aback at how much skin there is - human skin. The entirety of his chest and his right arm are sleek steel, interlocking gears and mechanisms, flawlessly shifting into each other as he moves, thin glowing panels pulsing with energy from hidden engines. And there’s definitely more metal at his right hip, disappearing into the waistband of his pants, but other than that…

His left arm is mostly pale skin, scarred flesh at his shoulder connecting to the dark steel; a wired glove slipped over his slender fingers seemingly controling the movements of the claw over this shoulder. His stomach and waist are still incredibly human too, if nothing else because of the dark purple bruise forming against his skin. He’s nowhere near as much machine as you’d expected, not to mention he looks… hurt. Had he been in a fight? Gotten attacked?

You open your mouth to ask, but think better of it before any sound can come out. It really has nothing to do with you; what he does in his own time is none of your business. It still feels off, to infringe on his time and help and not even ask if he’s alright when clearly, something that you’re not privy to has happened. Never one to leave well enough alone, you grab your bag from the floor and start sorting through the collection of herbs you’ve managed to acquire over time. Once you’ve found the ones you’re looking for, you package them into the most clean rag you have in your possession and tie it shut; uncrossing your legs you walk over to him and place the haphazardly made package on the table, careful not to disturb him. The movement still gets his attention and even with the mask’s filter, confusion is clear as day in his voice as he asks, “What is that and what is it doing on my workbench?”

“It’s an herbal remedy, for uhm… bruises and the like?” you explain, vaguely gesturing at his waist. “You soak it in boiling water and then put it on the effected area; it helps with swelling and pain.” It’s silent for a few long seconds, then, “I see. Thank you.” Not even remotely close to anything you were readying yourself for as a response, but it makes something within your chest beam with pride. You don’t even realize you’re still staring until he points it out and is met with, “You’re just… not exactly what I expected.”

“A monster?”

The laugh you let out is so shockingly soft, it almost startles him. “You’ve got a reputation, sure, and you’re… intimidating at first glance, I’ll give you that, but… I’ve met plenty of monsters in my life and none of them were anything like you. In fact, all of them looked and acted remarkably, ordinarily human at first.” There’s no further elaboration from your side and your gaze is distant, mind somewhere far away from here. He almost calls your name, but it occurs to him in the nick of time that you never actually introduced yourself. You’ve been here for less than twenty four hours and already he’s slipping, making mistakes; he can’t have that, so he drives the conversation in a direction he has control over. “I am almost finished with my repairs, I can get the general anesthetic started so we can proceed with your surgery as quickly as possible.”

Wild, hot panic takes over your gaze and he fully expects you to bolt out the front door with how you flinch and take a step away from him. “I need be under for the surgery? Can’t you do like, local anesthesia on my arms?” He hesitates; he’s never known you to be afraid of medical procedures, so what’s the problem? “First off, I will not be replacing both of your hands at the same time. Too risky and you’ll be completely incapacitated; we’re going to start with only one today. And no, in theory, you do not have to be under full anesthesia, however, we are talking about a delicate and unusual kind of surgery; I can not promise that it will be painless while you’re still conscious.”

“That’s fine, I don’t mind the pain, I just… I wanna have some agency in what gets done to my body from here on out.”

Ah. So that’s it. One glance at the dried blood still clinging to his armor on the floor and he feels the rage from last night raise it’s ugly head again. He shoves that right back down, cursing internally, before he answers you, voice level and betraying nothing. “All right. It will not be a pretty sight, though.” You shrug, as nonchalant as if he’d just told you about dinner plans. “I mean, I don’t have to watch directly. But I’m gonna admit, I am curious.”

The curiosity lasts for all of the first cut into your flesh, then you turn your head away and simply let him work in silence; wouldn’t want to distract the man currently flaying you open and re-wiring your nerve endings. Luckily, there’s only the occasional pinch and pull, but you stay pain free otherwise. Recovery after the procedure is a different story entirely though; painful and arduous and time consuming. And you’re more than a little surprised at how diligently the Herald takes care of you. Keeping a close eye on his newest test subject, that’s what you write it off as at first. But as the weeks go by there’s a certain familiar domesticity that sneaks into your routine and you find yourself talking with him more and more. Well, it’s mostly you talking, but he listens; you know because the day after you complained about the room you’d been staying in feeling too dark, you’d come back from an errand to find the windows cleaned, the curtains gone and some mismatched lamps placed around the room. It’s a sweet, quiet kind of constant reassurance and you can’t help the way your heart warms at it; so much like what you’d been used to from your lost love.

The day you pick up a glass of water all by yourself, without spilling anything and the glass noticeably cold against your fingers, you almost weep with joy and just barely hold yourself back from tackling him in a hug. Instead you busy yourself with touching as many things in his lab as you can get your one properly functioning hand on - which means you miss the way he so openly stares at you, obvious even with his mask hiding his features. He hasn’t seen you this happy and energized since you showed up on his doorstep. It makes some part in chest whir conspicuously and it almost feels like something is overheating, so he quickly turns away and grabs a random, discarded project from his workbench to fiddle with.

“Do you… ya know, eat?”

It’s a random question, even for you, but he answers nonetheless. He’s used to it by now.

“I no longer require it as a form of energy replenishment, no.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, that doesn’t answer my question, though. You don’t have to, but do you? Sometimes?”

“I fail to comprehend why we are having this conversation in the first place.” He doesn’t put down his tools, nor does he look at you.

Okay, fair point.

“Well, I uh… I used to be a chef, had my own restaurant and everything? And since one of my hands finally works again I figured I’d like to give cooking something a try? And if you have a favorite, I could make it for you? As thanks for… well, for giving me a hand?” It’s not one of your finer jokes, you will admit, so you’re not surprised he doesn’t laugh. Not that you’ve ever heard him laugh at anything, for that matter. He doesn’t react at all, except for, “I told you, I do not take payment for my work. Are we done with this fruitless conversation now?” It stings more than you’d like, to have him dismiss your tries at kindness like that, even though you know it’s not personal.

“Right, yeah, sorry. It’s just… cooking’s the only thing I’ve ever been good for and I like to be some sort of useful so… but you’re right, it’s stupid. I’ll let you get back to work.”

Because if I stopped being useful, then… maybe he wouldn’t want me anymore. Maybe he’d leave me behind for something better.

It was years ago, he shouldn’t remember you saying it as clearly as he does. Nor the way you’d looked then; all teary eyed and vulnerable, in front of him and only him. He shouldn’t remember and much less should he still care. He finds himself putting down his tools anyways.

“Sweetmilk.”

It doesn’t even register that he’s talking to you at first, considering you’re already halfway out the door to give him some peace and quiet. “P-pardon?”

“Sweetmilk.” he repeats. “It’s technically not food, but a weakness of mine and it’s still made on a stove. However, I am out of—“

“I got it! I’ll go get everything; I know how to make it!” The biggest grin on your face, you’re out of his lab in an instant and he hears the front door open and close not long after that.

There’s an actual skip in your step as you make your way down the street, there’s no other way to put it.

You are no fool. It’s in the way he hyperfocuses on his work. In the way his place is always a mess, right down to how his tools and notes clutter his desk. In the way what little sunlight manages to reach this part of the Lanes catches in his chestnut hair when it filters through the windows. In the little vocal mannerisms and gestures that you remember oh so well, that he apparently was unable to remove, no matter how much of a perfect machine he claims himself to be. It’s all right there, it had been from the start, this had just been the final push you’d needed. The final push to actually let yourself hope.

You are no fool. He knows this. He knows this and yet he let you have this. This tiny, obsolete, aggravating piece of information that has now turned him into the fool instead. He’s certain you’ve already figured it out, how could you not have? With the way you were immediately way too comfortable around him? With the way you sometimes talked about yourself, your past, just naturally assuming he’d be able to fill in the blanks, cause to him, they weren’t blanks at all? With the way it had been so easy to slip back into old, dangerously domestic habits with you? This had simply been the final nail in the coffin, yours or his, he isn’t sure; he is sure, however that you do not belong here in his oh so carefully crafted solitude.

Over two years. That’s how long it had taken him to put himself back together again. To rid himself of the parts the Hexcore had already infected, tainted, taken from his control. To replace his dying lungs. To make sure he didn’t fall apart again after every second step. To ensure he was no longer weak. And then he’d come for you, intending to save you, make you whole again, but you’d been gone. Disappeared from your hospital bed, from Piltover all together it had seemed. He’d crossed several lines in his search for you, even the ones he’d set for himself; namely never asking for help from his former best friend and partner again. In the end, the only thing he’d accomplished had been to widen the ever growing rift between them, no step closer to you. So he’d done the only thing he could still think of: rip his heart straight from his chest to maybe, hopefully, get rid of the agony right along with it; erase the joyful memories that held nothing but misery anymore. And it had worked; everything inside him dulled and numbed enough to simply drown himself in his work with no interferences. Until you’d stumbled back into his life. And things should be different, he shouldn’t care about you anymore outside of how you can further his research, but they’re not. The way the two of you still fit together so effortlessly is disgustingly, hauntingly familiar and he has to put a stop to it. He has chosen to live like this, in isolation and loneliness, he would not force it on you in the name of some long forgotten affection.

Perfect opportunity strikes some days later, while he’s in the process of replacing your second hand and you question him about his own augmentations. So he tells you about his weak leg and his collapsing lungs like you don’t already know. Watches the smile vanish from you lips and your face fall as he explains how he removed his connections to people from his past.

“So you… you don’t remember anyone who used to be a part of your life? Family, friends, lovers?”

“I remember them just fine, I simply got rid of any unnecessary emotional attachments associated with them. I remember my mother’s lullabies, I do not miss them any longer. I remember the discussions with my old partner, yet I no longer look at them fondly. I remember the lazy mornings spent with my lover, but I don’t yearn for them anymore.”

You visibly flinch at that last one and he merely warns you to stay still, like he doesn’t know what hearing all of this must do to you. It goes quiet between you two afterwards and any glance he steals at you confirms his theory, proves that his action had the desired reaction: the cogs are turning in your head and the longer they do, the more the despair and grief start to show on your face; realization that he is no longer the man you knew and that you no longer have a place by his side. It’s quick, simple work to finish your surgery and he decides to leave you be, give you time to let the new information he provided you with sink in and with some trivial errands used as a quick excuse, you’re left sitting alone on a rickety old stool in his lab.

And you stay seated for a long while, still and unmoving, blankly staring off into the distance as you hopelessly try to process what he just revealed to you. The love you hold for him hasn’t diminished in the slightest, no matter how much he might claim to have changed, but what’s it worth if you’re nothing but a stranger to him now? If the affections he’d had for you in return were lost to his quest of a perfect evolution?

You’re unsure what compels you to rise from your seat, to stroll across the room and absentmindedly trail your fingers across the books on one of his shelves. Maybe you’re simply trying to distract your mind from spiraling further down into the dark abyss of hoplessness it’s currently headed for. Maybe a part of you already knows that this is not meant to last and you’re trying to commit everything to memory through touch alone, now that he’s returned that sensation to you. The very last thing you expect is for one of the spines to catch your attention and for just a moment, you’re back in your old apartment, your old life. Hurriedly pulling the book from it’s spot you find that you are in fact correct, this used to belong to you. The corners of the dark blue cover are frayed and the golden lettering faded, but you recognize it anyways; you’d lent it to him years ago and he’d just never gotten around to giving it back. Which still doesn’t explain what it’s doing here, surely he doesn’t have any use for it anymore. You gingerly dust it off, careful not to over exert your new fingers, and crack it open only for a little slip of paper to immediately come fluttering out and land on the floor in front of you. Picking it up, you find only two words written in a handwriting you know all too well.

Lavender = devotion

The memories flood your mind wether you want them to or not; memories of your absolute mess of a first date. Of the meticulously crafted bouquet of flowers he’d gotten you, based on the book you’d lent him.

Putting the paper back with the page containing it’s corresponding flower, you quickly rifle through the rest of the book and find plenty more notes still left within the pages, all in his handwriting.

Iris = hope, trust

Alstroemeria = mutual support, fascination

Carnations = sincere love, respect, new beginnings

The last entry you come across doesn’t have a written note with it. Instead you find a picture: the two of you, slumped together on the sofa in the lab, all tangled limbs and sleepy intimacy, blissfully unaware of your friend sneaking this picture. It’s marking the pages for camellias and you don’t need a note or a proper look at the information in the book to know what they symbolize; not when you can clearly remember him telling you.

Eternal love. I’m yours for as long as you want. If you’ll have me.

The book slips from your fingers, landing open on the floor with a dull thump as you go right along with it, knees hitting the wood beneath you hard as you curl in on yourself and sob, photograph cradled close against your chest.

It’s the first time you’ve cried, some still coherent part of your mind realizes. Since waking up. Since being imprisoned and tortured. Since coming here. Since being forced to accept stroke after stroke of fate that had irreversibly changed your life entirely against your will or control. So you cry and you weep and you scream at the top of your lungs. For yourself and everything you’ve had to endure. For all you’ve lost. For the life you could’ve had.

You have to leave. You have to. Or you’d spend the the rest of your life desperately trying to rekindle a love that no longer exists. A final glance at the picture still held in your hands and you consider taking it; he wouldn’t miss it, he probably doesn’t even know it’s still here. But the people in that photograph are long gone and it would cause you nothing but more grief, so what’s the point? You drop it between the pages you’d found it in and shove the book back into its’ spot on the shelf before scrambling to your feet and beginning to gather your things strewn across his house. And you could’ve left then and there, things packed and mind made up. You probably should have. But it doesn’t feel quite right either, just disappearing without a trace. So you sit on the bed you’ve called your own for the past weeks and you wait. Until you hear him come home in the middle of the night and the urge to sprint downstairs, throw a quick goodbye and thank you over your shoulder and slam the door on this entire sad, miserable chapter of your life is there. But you don’t. You can’t. Because despite everything, you still want a proper goodbye - you didn’t get one last time, after all. Except you have no idea how you’d go about that, so you stay right where you are and rack your brain. Until dawn breaks and you’re no closer to a solution, so you drag your tired body off the bed and make your way downstairs; you’re just looking for more excuses to stay at this point.

Of course you find him at his workbench, where else, most of his heavier armor discarded and Hexclaw dimantled in front of him as he diligently solders wires to metal. Pausing in the doorway, you wait for him to acknowledge your presence, giving yourself some more time to think, but when several minutes pass and he doesn’t even look up you clear your throat, receiving a quick ‘Morning.’ in return and nothing else. No point beating around the bush, is there?

“When do you think I’ll be able to leave?”

Too busy fiddling with a loose thread at the hem of your shirt to distract yourself, you don’t notice the way he almost flinches, everything he’s doing coming to a halt. It’s quiet for only a moment before he says, “You are not a prisoner here. You may leave whenever you wish to.”

Not the answer you want, not the answer you long for, but an answer nonetheless

“I… now would be good for me, I think.”

“Very well.”

And that’s the end of it. The room is blanketed in silence once again, except for the scrapes and shuffles of his tools as he goes back to work. No grand, emotional request for you stay and why would he? You’re a stranger, an experiment and there’ll be others like you; others to further his research and learn from. He doesn’t need you anymore. He hasn’t for a very long time, you realize. Oh how you wish you could feel the same. You go to grab your bag from the hallway in apathetic, almost mechanical movements, nothing but muscle memory driving you at this point and you expect to walk out the front door without another word exchanged between the two of you, but surprisingly enough, he calls out to you again.

“Where will you go?”

Stopping in your tracks, you come to lean against the door frame, gaze falling anywhere but him. You’re not sure what he’s even asking for, it won’t have any impact on his life after all, but you answer honestly anyways. “As far away from this city as I can get, probably. There’s no one— there’s… nothing left for me here anymore.” A pause as the faces of your tormentors flash before your inner eye. “Not before making the bastards who used me pay for it, though.” He unscrews a panel at the base of the Hexclaw while posing another question. “And if that costs you your life?” You shrug even though he can’t see. “Just as well. I’m not sure I’ve got the will to build something new for myself anyways…”

Silence falls again and you interpret it as the natural end of the conversation and your cue to leave. Except there’s one last thing you need to get off your chest - quite literally, in fact. Slipping off the chain around your neck, ring still safely attached to it as always, you approach him and place it on the surface of his workbench. To your utter surprise, he actually interrupts his work and picks it up with careful fingers; his face might be hidden from you by his mask, but he radiates confusion so you explain before he has a chance to ask. “When I first came here, you told me I could pay you in scrap metal if it made me feel any better about encroaching on your space and time. You can melt this down, throw it out, I don’t care; I’ve carried it around with me long enough and it was always meant to be yours.” You truly don’t have the strength to wait for his reaction, or probable lack thereof; this means nothing to him now, you mean nothing, and that thought makes you hurry towards the exit, tears burning in your eyes.

Despite better judgment, you pause in the doorway, fingers tight around the strap of your bag and swallow around the growing lump in your throat. “Thank you…” It’s barely above a whisper and it’s not enough. You were the one who wanted a proper goodbye this time, weren’t you? So you turn to fully face him, met with the same blank, hollow eyed stare you’ve grown oh so used to and you smile, genuine and grief stricken. “Thank you for everything, Viktor.”

Part of you wonders when he last heard his own name. If he even still remembers it.

And then you’re gone, leaving him alone in his quiet lab, with only his research to keep him company, just as it should be.

The front door is as far your shaky legs get you, bag slipping from your shoulder as you slump against it, forehead pressed to the cool, worn wood as you press a hand against your mouth in a desperate attempt to to stifle the sobs. The man you’re leaving behind is the love of your life no matter what, you’ve known that for ages; there was a before him, but there was never supposed to be an after. And yet now you have to figure out exactly what that after is going to look like, because he’s gone and at the same time he’s still here and that, oh that aches something awful. It’s unfair and it’s cruel and it makes you want to claw your own chest open to strangle your heart with your bare hands just to make the pain stop. It makes you envy him for the first time, no heart left in his chest to ail him. And it makes you despise him, because how dare he leave you alone with the burden of this love you were supposed to share?

The heavy footfalls behind you should jumpstart you into action, make you wrench the door open and get out or at the very least compose yourself, but you can’t. You find that you simply don’t care anymore either. Let him see what he’s done to you, what he’s turned you into, even if he wouldn’t shed a single tear over it. A mechanical hand comes to rest next to your head, his presence right at your back, so close and so very much like the first night you came to this place and yet everything’s so incredibly different now.

“What? Did you forget some kind of last diagnostics test on the new hand or something?” The tears are obvious in your tone. “No. But you should know that the people you plan on taking revenge on are already dead. I made sure of it.” Breath catching in your throat, the memory of your first morning in this house comes back to you: the bruises, the blood on his armor, the way everything about him had screamed violence and death that day. “You… Why?” It makes no sense whatsoever and it’s making your head spin and he’s not answering, until, “That’s hardly a concern for you now. I simply thought it consequential for you to be made aware of the fact that if you wish to depart from this city you may do so. There is nothing—“ It’s the first time you’ve heard him falter and fumble in all your time here and when he speaks again there’s an edge to his voice that you can’t quite place, accompanied by the hand against the door clenching into a fist. “There is no one keeping you here anymore.”

The clock in the corner counts down the seconds, loud and echoing in comparison to the quiet that has befallen you both. A quiet you decide to break, tentative and scared.

“Isn’t there? My tormentors might be gone, but what of the man I love? Could he still find it in him to love me if I stayed?”

“I don’t believe that still matters, does it? You’ll leave either way.”

And something inside of you snaps.

You brace your forearms against the door and shove backwards, catching him so off guard he stumbles back a step or two, creating just enough distance for you to rear back your hand and punch him square in the jaw. His mask gets knocked clean off his face, loudly clattering to the floor; your freshly operated hand sparks and creaks ominously, fingers now bent at odd angles while searing pain shoots up your entire arm, but you don’t care. It’s nothing compared to the white, hot fury that’s boiling you alive from the inside out.

“How dare you? How fucking dare you?!”

He doesn’t even deem it necessary to look at you; completely frozen to the spot, head turned away from you and hair covering his eyes from your view. He will have to listen to you either way, wether he wants to or not. Wether he still cares or not.

“You’re the one who decided he’d rather forget every moment, every laugh, every touch we shared like they all meant nothing! You’re the one who tore out his heart without a second thought and threw it away even though it was mine! And all the while you’re leaving me with the burden of it all! I’m the only person alive who still holds our time together dear to their heart now! Do you have any idea how heavy memories can be? How maddening?! And these—“ you bring your hands up between the two of you, all sleek, perfect metal, the spitting image of him. “You gave me these for all the world to see and left me with yet another reminder of you! Like I needed more of those to know that I am still and always will be irrevocably yours! And now you tell me that it wouldn’t matter if there’s any part of you, however small, that still thinks of yourself as mine?! Fuck you, Viktor!”

You slump back against the door for support, chest heaving and unharmed hand coming up to cover your face; a desperate and all but pointless attempt to hide the tears and stifle the sobs.

He’s a scientist, an engineer. Solving problems, fixing things, improving lives; it’s what he does. What he thrives in. Yet he doesn’t know how to fix this. So he zeroes in on the one thing he can fix.

“Let me see your hand.”

But you don’t let him. Curl in on yourself and angle your body and injured hand away from him; it makes you seem so much smaller. So vulnerable. So defeated. Good. Maybe if he can drive you away even further then…

“You are… a distraction. A hindrance to my work that I can not tolerate. You do not belong here and it would be better for the both of us if you left and never returned.”

With the mask gone, the mechanical edge to his voice is missing as well, but every word still stings like the cut of a blade.

“So turn around and let me go. You’ll never have to see me again, I promise.”

He knows all too well how seriously you take that; every promise, no matter how small or menial, a solemn oath, never to be broken. He can not let you make this one; every part of himself rebels against the very thought of letting you walk out that damn door, even if it would be the logical thing to do. Drive you further away, he’s not capable of that any longer, who is he trying to fool? Himself, most likely.

Stepping closer he gauges your reaction and when you don’t recoil from him any further, he rests his hands on either side of you and drops his forehead against the old, worn wood above your shoulder.

“I can’t.”

It’s spat through grit teeth, like it physically pains him to admit it. But it’s the most emotion you’ve heard in his voice during all the time you’ve been here.

“I removed every function that wasn’t vital; every memory that was redundant to my work. Affection, jealousy, admiration, anger, joy, sorrow; any emotion that would’ve proven an aberration sooner rather than later. I clawed and prodded and scraped at my own insides until nothing remained and yet you refused to let go.”

Your sobs have reduced to sniffles, your body still beneath him; except for the hand you’ve dropped from your face that he now feels running up his back, titanium fingers gliding over the metal ridges that make up his spine until they settle at the nape of his neck.

“Your face, your laugh, your favorite color, the way you’d look cooking breakfast in the mornings, the way your body would feel against mine; every detail, no matter how minute stayed. Etched into the fissures of my brain, burned into the steel I used to rebuild myself, regardless of how many times I replaced it. Carved into my being, my very soul; I could not remove you any more than I could remove the engine beating as my heart. And I can not go back to how things were before you came here. Before you found me again.”

“Why not? You seemed perfectly happy in your solitude with your work.” Your voice is small, but genuine. And you almost squeak in shock, wind knocked out of you, when his arms come around your middle to hold you tight, almost too tight, flush against him as he buries his face into crook of your neck.

“Because you are in every fraction of skin, in every blood vein that still remains within me. In every bolt, every wire, every piece of metal I welded to myself. I do not… function properly unless I know of your whereabouts. Unless I know you’re safe and cared for. And it was maddening, to surpress it, to ignore it all these years; a clear error constantly rearing its’ ugly head, telling me that I will never get any further in my research, my work, my vision, unless it’s resolved. Constantly running on loop in the back of my head, reminding me that I am incomplete. I need you, you are an essential part of me, right down to my very atoms and it makes me, all of me, no matter what else I might become, yours.”

There’s fresh tears streaming down your face, because he sounds so tired. So desperate. So upset. So painfully human. You find yourself doing the same thing you’ve always done when you’ve had him in your arms, worried and anxious about something; gently thread your fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp and lean your head against his carefully. “Viktor, if you want me to stay, all you have to do is ask. You know that; if you want something all you ever had to do was ask it of me. But I need you to ask me, all right? I need to hear you say it.” He doesn’t answer right away, only draws patterns into the small of your back in thought; a habit of his you remember all too well. This close, you can feel the heat coming off him, generated from the several engines powering him and a barely there hum and whirr of machinery against your chest; a sound that comes in regular intervals, akin to a heartbeat. When he does speak, his voice is weary. Conflicted. Unsure. Scared.

“I am not the man you fell in love with, my heart. Not gentle, nor kind. There is no coming back from the lines I’ve crossed and I don’t— I can not love you the same way I used to. The way you’d deserve. And yet… I want to be selfish.” He pauses for a bitter, ridiculing bark of laughter and shifts in your hold and it’s only then that you realize the skin at the slope of your neck and your collarbone is wet. Shame threatens to choke you when it occurs to you that up until now you didn’t think he still could cry. “I shouldn’t want for anything. Machines do not want or desire or long for things. But… they need all their components to operate as they’re supposed to; to perform at their full potential.” He’s rationalizing it, you know and you’ll be fucking damned if you interrupt him. “And I need you to stay. Here, with me. Then maybe in time you’ll be able to love me as I am now.”

Your chuckle is weak; you’re exhausted physically and emotionally. “What a silly thing to say. That’s assuming I ever stopped loving you in the first place.” It should be impossible, for his embrace to become any tighter, but it does and it’s almost starting to hurt - good, because the pain makes it real.

It’s in the way he buries his face against you further, a noise oh so very similar to a sob escaping him, and how your gaze catches on his mask left discarded on the ground that it finally dawns on you: he’s hiding. From you or from himself, you’re not certain, but you’re not having it any longer. “My love, let me see you.” He doesn’t move; if anything he freezes up. “Please?” You try again and are met with the same result, except for, “You will not like what you find.” Irritation flares up in your chest, manifesting itself in a harsh tug on his hair and, “That’s for me to decide.” It takes him a few very long, agonizing seconds, but eventually, he sighs in defeat and pulls back enough for you to be able to get your first proper look at his face after all these years.

No wonder you managed to break your hand, his jaw and cheeks are all solid, dark, smooth metal, connecting to the column of his throat. Your fingers are moving before you can stop yourself, trailing along his cheek bones where hard steel meets soft, scarred flesh. Still as pale as always, almost deathly so, faint blue veins under his skin now in plain view and the contrast to the two moles you adore all the more prominent. The ever present dark circles under his eyes have evolved into lasting bruises. And oh his eyes. The same beautiful gold you remember, except now they’re rimmed with a thin ring of bright pink, courtesy of the Shimmer you’ve seen in his lab no doubt, bright against the deep, dark, purple-ish black that now makes up his sclera. But dissimilar from your memory as they may be, the look in them is one you recognize: careful, poised for rejection, but the remaining tears betray him. It’s strange, how he can look so utterly different yet so hauntingly the same.

He had imagined this moment plenty of times, but never in his wildest dreams could he have come up with this. Yes, there’s several emotions at once crossing your face when you finally see him, yet none of them negative. It’s genuine, innocent curiosity at first, reflected in the careful fingers that reach out to touch him. And before he has time to fully register your touch against his skin, your expression shifts and it’s nothing but pure, unadulterated admiration and affection. “Still so beautiful. Still all mine.”

Just like that, all the tumult and chaos and noise in the back of his head that hadn’t once stopped in the last few years finally seems to silence and he can actually fucking think in peace again for the first time - and the first thing he thinks to do, the most logical thing to do, really, is to curse under his breath before crashing his lips to yours. It’s needy and filthy and all tongues and teeth, your back making abrupt contact with the door again as he shoves you against it, hands coming up from your waist to cup your face. The gesture is tender and sweet and entirely contrasting to the way he’s kissing you; to what he claims to have become. It’s more than welcome nonetheless, giving you a sense of security you didn’t realize you needed as your intact hand moves away from his hair to cover his. It just so happens to be the one that’s still mostly flesh and blood, warm against your skin, except for a thin, cold sliver of metal you feel that you can’t place at first. You don’t remember seeing any augmentations that would feel like this on his hand before. Curious despite the adoring, addictive haze that’s starting to cloud your mind, fingertips try to make out more detail and you find it in tiny little ridges in the metal sitting specifically on his ringfinger that feel suspiciously like letters. Letters that spell out one word: Unconditional.

Your ring. He’s wearing your ring.

It makes you kiss him harder, wanting him so much closer even though it’s hardly possible. You could stay like this for the rest of your life and you wouldn’t ever need for anything else. How unfortunate it is then that one of you both still needs air to fill their lungs to live. How unfortunate that that someone is you; personally you gladly would’ve suffocated against his lips, but he seems to have other plans as he pulls back to let you take some much needed deep breaths, chest heaving while he settles for leaving chaste pecks against the skin of your face.

“Still all yours,” he confirms and you mirror the smile you can hear in his voice. “Now and always.”

#arcane viktor x reader #gender neutral reader #machine herald viktor x reader #epic the musical #would you fall in love with me again #hurt/comfort #angst #childhood friends #past established relationship #viktor arcane #machine herald viktor #machine herald #viktor the machine herald #league of legends #arcane #arcane x reader #arcane imagine #SoundCloud

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paulyenvol6 · 3 days ago

Text

Love You From Afar

Based on this lovely request (Thank you so much for sending me your requests, keep them coming!). Hope you enjoy it :)

Contains: angst, crying, fighting, swear words

Wordcount: ~5.30k

Masterlist

You inhaled a couple of times feeling the blood rush in your ears.

"Y/n. Love, please talk to me, it's not that big of a deal."

Your back was facing Daemon and you closed your eyes because otherwise you were certain your head would explode.

"Quiet," you said your voice definitely not fitting your mood and concentrated on your breathing.

"Y/n. I know that you're angry, just let it out so we can move on."

Yes, you had tried to stay calm but now it suddenly broke out of you just like a river destroying a dam. You bumped your clenched fist on the table and turned around to your husband at once narrowing your eyes at him.

"You want me to let it out? Fine, I will. Daemon, you're not even aware of what you have done to me! You left without telling me anything and I spent the last two days worrying so much that something happened to you that I couldn't even speak or sleep or do anything. How could you do that?"

He looked almost remorseful as he crinkled his nose his gaze lowered to the ground.

"I know it wasn't ideal. Perhaps I should've handled it differently. But I know you and I know that you wouldn't have stopped complaining until I promised you I wouldn't go."

"Yes," you gasped standing up so abruptly that you almost lost your balance.

"Of course I would've complained. I don't wanna wake up to a letter telling me that you died on the battlefield."

Daemon nodded, approached you slowly and put a hand on your folded ones.

"I know. But it was necessary. And we won."

"Because you were fortunate. And this isn't even the fucking point, Daemon. You just LEFT. Without telling me where you were going. How could you do something like that?"

His face suddenly hardened and he raised his chin observing you for a moment before he dropped your hand.

"You're doing it again."

You drew your eyebrows together and open-mouthedly stared at him. "Doing what again?"

"Telling me what to do, for fuck's sake and y/n, I swear to the gods I'm so tired of listening to you acting like you get to tell me what to do just because we're married."

You scoffed raising your finger at him. "Daemon-"

"NO. You've been manipulating me for the past months and now every time I do something that I know you're not gonna approve of I'm feeling all guilty and like I'm gonna hurt you and I'm not playing this fucking game anymore. I'm still my own person and I get to decide if I wanna support my men at the Stepstones or not."

To say you were surprised was an understatement. The blood was boiling in your veins because how could he be the angry one now? You were supposed to scream at him and he was supposed to be on his knees begging for your forgiveness. Too stunned to speak you just stared at him for a moment which he used to continue his rant.

"You're my wife. And that means I look out for you. But I will not wait for your approval whenever I do something and you're gonna stop making me feel guilty for doing things you're not thrilled about. You're wondering why I didn't fucking tell you? Because I knew I wouldn't be able to go if I did. 'Cause I knew you'd make me feel bad for leaving."

His voice made your head hurt and you sank down on the chair again.

"You're kidding me Daemon," you hissed through clenched teeth threateningly forming your hands into fists.

"Are you fucking kidding me? TELL ME! Tell me you're not seriously saying that it's my fault you left without saying goodbye because you thought evil vicious y/n would forbid you to get killed off in a war you're not supposed to fight."

"I'm not supposed to fight?" Daemon shouted tapping with his hand against his chest. "Who is supposed fight it if not me?"

"Soldiers. Warriors. Young men. Not the brother and heir of the king!"

He threw his head back sighing loudly and it made you so furious that he was treating you like a little child.

"I'm the commander of the fucking city watch. I could kill all these fuckers in battle because I trained my whole life for this. And now you're not gonna stop me because you want to control everything around you like a – like a…"

"Like a what," you whispered slowly raising from the chair.

"I don't fucking know. But I can't bear this any longer. I can't bear you commenting and judging everything and everyone around you, acting like your opinions are what the world needs."

"Fuck you, Daemon! I mean it, this is so typical of you."

You rushed towards him pushing against his shoulders blinded with fury but he held you away from him by wrapping his hands around your upper arms.

"Typical of me? You don't wanna get it. You're always saying we have to communicate more but you don't ever question your own behaviour. How am I supposed to talk to you when you're never, just for a second, open to what I have to say? Or what I criticise about you?"

You writhed under his grip pulling away from him and flashed your eyes at him.

"Criticise? You're not criticising me, you're simply raging because you can't handle not getting everything you want. You can't fucking accept that now that we're married life is not the way it was 5 years ago. You can't fuck around any longer or spend the night on the floor of an inn after beating up a couple of guys."

He rolled his eyes panting heavily while burying his nails into the palms of his hands.

"I don't want to do these things, seven hells. But I wanna have some freedom to defend my kingdom. Can't you understand that?"

"No I can't," you spoke coldly turning your head away from him and walked to the drawer opening it and tidying up the insides as if there wasn't a storm roaring in you.

"Y/n," he said his voice sounding so condescending that you decided not to answer him and instead kept your attention on the drawer.

"Alright then," Daemon growled after a while, seemingly having waited for a reaction and walked towards the door quickly.

Once you heard the door closing your facade crumbled and you closed your eyes panting heavily. You immediately stopped what you had been doing and stood up to lean against a pillar in your room as if it was able to give you emotional support in any way.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next day Daemon and you still hadn't reconciled and you couldn't have been more reluctant to seek the conversation with him.

He was just as pissed as you were and so the two of you didn't exchange a look let alone a word.

But unfortunately you were forced to spend some time together as Rhaenyra's wedding took place in the evening and of course Daemon and you were expected to attend as guests. You would've prefered to stay in your chambers of course but you knew that people would ask questions if you didn't appear and so you found yourself unwillingly holding on to Daemon's arm while he led you down to the throne room where the celebrations would take place.

The ceremony already happened in the afternoon and now Rhaenyra radiated in the middle of the table next to her husband Laenor smiling down at her guests. When it was Daemon and your turn you bowed your head and then proceeded to congratulate the newly wed couple.

"Congratulations, my princess. And my lord."

The two of them returned the smile, nodded graciously and then faster than you could blink with an eye Daemon and you were dismissed and you took your seats next to Rhaenyra.

You fully ignored Daemon or any glance he gave you solely focused on appearing distanced and indifferent. You just couldn't stand seeing his face right now after your fight and you had sworn to yourself that you wouldn't be the first one to give in.

If he wanted to reconcile he would be the one taking the first step. How many times had you approached him in the past after a fight because you felt like being the bigger person and he had been pouting like a little boy. Not today, you thought and sipped on your cup of wine.

The time passed slowly because usually you would chat with Daemon and laugh with him about the people at the feast but since the two of you didn't talk you were bored and counted the seconds. The first time that you really looked at Daemon was when he suddenly stood up.

You frowned asking yourself what he was going to do but were still too proud to address him. You almost felt pathetic as your eyes followed him around the room and when you saw him stopping in front of a young noblewoman your heart skipped a beat.

He wouldn't dare. He wouldn't dare ask another woman to dance with him just because the two of you weren't on speaking terms at the moment.

At this point you didn't care if it was obvious to everyone that you were watching your husband because you didn't take your eyes off him for a second while Daemon offered the woman his hand which she took with a wide smile.

You shifted in your chair your nails painfully digging in the palms of your hands. Your veins throbbed and you felt like jumping to your feet to rush to him and sinking into the ground at the same time. He had to be kidding you! Never had you done something similar to him just because you were angry with him. And what was even the point of this? Did he try to make you jealous? Or did he want to show you that you were supposed to be grateful that you had him and that he could have any lady in the seven kingdoms?

Unconsciously you had started to nibble at your thumb while still watching the two of them precisely. When the dance was finally over you exhaled loudly because Daemon seemed to make his way back to your table. Perhaps he had just wanted to mess around a little but had calmed himself now.

You leaned back in your chair avoiding his approaching figure but when he stopped, and he definitely wasn't by his chair yet you slightly opened your left eye to see what was going on.

"Niece. May I have this next dance?"

Although you weren't a real Targaryen you felt like spitting fire because you simply couldn't believe him. You had to put up a fight not to show your true emotions and quickly turned away from Daemon as though you hadn't just witnessed their encounter.

You couldn't hear Rhaenyra's answer but when she rose from her chair you didn't have to be a genuis to figure out what she had said.

You didn't want to feel broken. And you most definitely didn't want to be jealous. But since nobody could smell your feelings off you you allowed yourself to sink into self-pity for a few minutes. The most important thing was just to hide how sad you were because you really didn't want to draw any attention to this mess between Daemon and you.

You focused on the food in front of you and acted like you didn't even see your husband and Rhaenyra dancing right in front of your eyes but of course you couldn't help it and your eyes instinctively traveled to them every few seconds.

They were so close to each other, way too close for your taste and you cursed Daemon in your thoughts. His hand was on her cheek which obviously wouldn't have been necessary and now a new feeling creeped up on you.

Embarrassement. He really had found that it would be appropriate to dance with the bride who additionally was his niece in front of the whole court while he had treated his wife, you, like venom. He was humiliating you to an extent where you couldn't sit still anymore. But at the same time, what were you to do?

You certainly couldn't make a scene as this was still Rhaenyra's feast and it would only be even more humiliating to call Daemon out for his behaviour. But you couldn't watch this any longer as well. You could almost feel the tension between the two of them from afar and as much as it hurt you, you felt an invisible force making you watch every single move.

The way she blinked with her eyes, Daemon tilting his head slightly and how close their faces were. You gulped and felt tears burning in the corner of your eyes. This had to stop, you either had to leave right now or somehow make them stop this torture.

In the end nothing happened. You sat and watched them for minutes like you were frozen until the song was over and Daemon bowed in front of his niece. You couldn't even feel relieved because your heart had already been torn out of your chest and you felt so overwhelmed with anger and devastation that just seeing your husband walk back to your table almost made you throw up.

And then he even ignored you. He sat down on his chair not paying any attention to you and grabbed his cup as if he hadn't just flirted with Rhaenyra in front of the whole court, including his wife. You were shivering and tried to hold back your tears which you mananged to do for a couple of minutes but feeling Daemon's presence eventually gave you the rest and you knew you had to flee the scene.

Without caring about being rude or ungrateful you abruptly stood up, ignored Rhaenyra's questioning look and rushed towards the door. A part of you wished Daemon would stop you, apologize and ask you for a dance but of course he didn't. Of course this wasn't the kind of story people sang about in their songs.

This was still Daemon who never failed to cut your heart out of your chest and unfortunately you allowed him to every time.

~~~~~~~~~~

An hour later you were laying in your bed with your eyes closed.

Tears rolled down your cheeks but you were too tired and unbothered to remove them and just hoped that at some point it would stop so you could finally fall asleep.

You couldn't remember ever feeling so down and frustrated because not only had Daemon humiliated you but he probably was celebrating now as if he hadn't even noticed your absence. Did he not care about you at all? Did he even think about you and how you might feel right now?

He knew that you had left the feast after you had been forced to watch him dance with Rhaenyra and he really didn't have to be smart to have an idea of how sad you were because of his actions. And yet he hadn't shown up yet.

Did you even want him to show up? Perhaps not. The thought of looking at him now was far from pleasing because right now you just wished to get approximately 12 hours of sleep and then wake up finding everything the way it was before. Him showing up now would only force you to face the humiliation once more and you also feared that the two of you would get into another fight.

You closed your eyes and cursed yourself because this definitely wasn't helping. You were supposed to fall asleep now instead of reliving this whole wicked evening.

You didn't know how and when but eventually you were actually able to do so and your mind drifted away. So when Daemon returned another 30 minutes later he found you fast asleep rolled on your side of the bed.

He removed his clothes to change into his night gown and when he climbed onto the bed his eyes fell on your tears stained cheeks which made him frown.

Yes, he had tried to make you jealous by spending a suspicious amount of time with Rhaenyra but he hadn't intended to hurt you that much. All he had wanted was to remind you of how much this relationship actually means to you and truthfully, he had also wanted to punish you a little for your stupid fight.

But seeing you lay like this now, rolled into a ball, your cheeks flushed from all your crying Daemon felt a lump in his throat. You had been sobbing in your room while he had been at the feast? Carefully and without really giving it a thought he moved his hand to your cheek to remove the traces of tears but as soon as his finger touched your skin you jolted away from him.

Daemon almost twitched and widened his eyes as you turned on your other side and crawled away from him. He didn't even know whether you were awake or not but you seemingly tried to get as much distance between him and you as you could and it broke Daemon's heart.

And yet he was smart enough not to approach you further and laid on his back. He sighed with a dangerous feeling inside and watched the back of your head. He couldn't help but feel like he had really messed up this time which wasn't at all what he had intended to do.

It was the opposite because he had thought that perhaps the two of you would be able to reconcile tonight. He had hoped that you would get jealous and remember how important he was to you and therefore would seek the conversation with him.

And this definitely was going the wrong way right now. At some point Daemon couldn't bare looking at you anymore and turned to the other side as well.

~~~~~~~~~~

When Daemon woke up the next day you were already gone and for a brief moment he panicked. You wouldn't have just left him like that, right? You were angry, sure, but he would get a chance to speak to you later and then the two of you would be able to resolve this fight.

Yet he had an ugly feeling in his stomach while he dressed himself and therefore was quick to search for you in the dining room where he found you sitting in a chair chewing on a slice of bread. Daemon felt odd standing in the door watching you who hadn't even noticed his presence yet but didn't know what else to do. His limbs felt so heavy suddenly and all he could do was mumble your name.

"Y/n."

You looked up and Daemon could instantly see your expression turning cold which worried him more than anything else.

"Sweetheart, I – "

He was interrupted as you stood up so abruptly that your chair almost fell backwards. Without so much as a glance at your husband you passed him and walked straight out of the room which shocked Daemon at first and didn't give him a lot of time to react.

"Y/n, please," he said trying to prevent you from leaving the room but you were too fast which left Daemon staring at you open-mouthed.

It was only that he realized how serious the situation was, or better, his suspicion had just gotten confirmed. You were beyond angry and Daemon felt very helpless all of the sudden. It was a feeling that scared him because he had always felt like he had utter control over everything that happened around him but right now there was you, his beloved wife that seemed to despise him and Daemon didn't know what to do about it.

You had made clear that you didn't wish to speak to him but leaving you alone seemed even worse. And Daemon didn't even know if your anger was still caused by the recent fight the two of you had had or by what had happened last night. He sighed loudly and slowly approached the table. What was he to do?

This question haunted Daemon all day. You avoided every encounter with your husband and out of helplessness Daemon had stopped chasing after you as well. He had gotten the message and wasn't eager for another rejection.

That was why he spent most of the day aimlessly walking around his chambers wondering where you were and what he was supposed to do.

It was a draining day and at some point his head hurt so badly that he thought about calling it a day and getting to bed at 5 o'clock in the evening. In the end he didn't and instead read in one of his many history books which helped him but still couldn't quite distract him from thinking about you.

Daemon was beyond worried as he hadn't seen you since breakfast. Still he must have fallen asleep before you arrived in the chambers and when he woke up the next day you were gone again. The only evidence for you having slept in the bed was the crumpled blanket and your familiar scent that made Daemon realize how much he actually missed you.

He stayed in bed longer than necessary and the only reason why he got up at all was a knock on the door around midday. He almost jumped to his feet praying to the seven gods that it was you but when Alicent Hightower appeared in the doorway after he had allowed her to come in he unconsciously sighed.

"Alicent. Good morrow."

She smiled friendly and entered the room while Daemon wrapped his morning cloak around his body. Of course it usually wouldn't have been appropriate to appear in front of a noblewoman like this but Alicent was a good friend of yours and therefore also very familiar to Daemon.

She sat down on a chair around the table and crossed her legs thoughtfully looking at him.

"Daemon," she spoke at some point and he stopped his strolling through the room.

"What?"

"Sit down," Alicent whispered and after hesitating for a brief moment he followed her demand.

"I have to talk to you."

"I see that," Daemon grunted sounding more moody that he had intended.

"It concerns y/n."

He narrowed his eyes. "What about her?"

Alicent sighed and folded her hands in front of her stomach.

"I'm worried about her. I know that she's not feeling very well lately. She's sad all the time, she cries a lot and she hasn't been eating properly. I don't know what exactly happened but I know that it has to do with you. She doesn't really talk about it but I'm not a fool."

She inhaled greedily while Daemon observed the cup he had wrapped his hand around.

"Daemon," Alicent repeated obviously not sure whether she had his attention or not. And lord, did she have it.

"I heard you."

"And would you care to tell me what happened."

He rolled his eyes but then finally looked at her. "We had a fight."

"That much I was able to figure out myself," Alicent snapped.

"It's none of your concern anyway," Daemon answered indifferent to how rude he might appear.

"Y/n is my friend. Of course it concerns me."

He was growing impatient and leaned back in his chair throwing his hands in the air.

"Then ask her. You're her friend."

"But she doesn't tell me anything. And I want you to do something. It's obvious that she's mad at you and I don't know how to help her. That's why I came here because you're the only one who can take care of it."

Daemon's head throbbed and he wished for nothing more than to finally be left alone which was why he closed his eyes while nodding slowly.

"Fine. Thank you. I'll take care of it."

"Will you?"

He tilted his head. "Yes. I will. But I need you to go now."

Alicent looked far away from being pleased but actually rose from her chair.

"Daemon Targaryen, I understand this as a promise. She really is down at the moment. I trust that you will solve this. I don't know about you but I don't like seeing my best friend like this and if you're a caring husband you shouldn't either."

"Thank you. Thank you for the advice," he snapped his voice dripping with sarcasm and then Daemon guided her out of the room or better pushed her.

Alicent was muttering something to herself which he wasn't able to understand but he couldn't care less. He shut the door behind her then leaned against it and exhaled deeply.

"Seven hells," he growled feeling his head spin but then quickly remembered Alicent's words.

She had said that you weren't eating and that was what worried him the most. Daemon knew you very well and he knew that not eating enough was one of the most obvious signs that you were feeling bad.

He really had fucked this up. Daemon rubbed with his hands over his eyes and granted himself a minute of peace before straightening up again to think of a plan. He had to do something now, that much was clear but he still didn't really know what. He wanted to do what made you happy but currently it seemed like all you wanted was to avoid any encounter with him which didn't exactly bring him any further. So was he supposed to ignore your wish and approach you nevertheless?

The more Daemon thought about it the more he realized how inexperienced he was when it came to fighting with someone. The two of you had never had a fight this ugly before so Daemon didn't know how to handle a situation similar to this one.

In the afternoon he became so frustrated with his own thoughts that he decided to just go for it and talk to you. The worst that could happen was you leaving or kicking him out and you had done that already so what was he supposed to be scared of?

Daemon searched the whole castle for you and asked countless servants and eventually found you in the gardens sitting by an oaktree and reading. You only raised your gaze from the pages when your husband was right in front of you and immediately jolted away.

"Y/n. Y/n, please listen to me. Don't leave, alright?"

You put on a pout and blinked away a few tears while rising to your feet with wobbly legs.

"Then you'll leave," you hissed your eyes practically spitting fire. "You can choose."

"Please just give me a minute. Y/n, what is going on?"

You laughed out loudly but the sound didn't calm Daemon at all.

"You really have the audacity to ask me that?"

He took a step towards you and tried to give you his best and most authentic puppy eyes while reaching for your hand.

"Alicent told me that you weren't eating properly. I'm worried, y/n," he whispered. Now was the first time since your fight that your facade seemed to crumble just a little bit. You pulled your hand away from him but the gesture wasn't very determined so Daemon tried to hold on to you.

"Y/n, please. I love you and I wanna make sure that you're fine."

Suddenly you broke out in tears and freed your hand from his grip. "No, I am not fine, Daemon. You fucking hurt me and you don't even seem to realize. You're an arsehole and I can't believe you treated me this way," you sobbed and hid your face in the sleeve of your dress.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, y/n, please just look at me."

He tried to grab your arm again but this time you were faster and turned away from him so his hand just touched the air.

"No I won't. You stupid bastard flirted with every woman at this feast while I was sitting inches away. I had to watch everything for instance how you almost made out with Rhaenyra. Do you even know how fucking humiliating that was? Do you?"

You had taken a few steps towards him and had pushed against his chest.

"I'm sorry. I really am," he declared while trying to get a grip on your wrists which you prevented by turning away from him again.

"Y/n I am sorry, I… I wanted to make you jealous. That's all. There wasn't any reason behind it or some purpose, I… it was all about you. Because I love you and after our fight I… I felt so helpless and I guess I… I wanted to make sure that… that you know how precious this is. This between us."

At first Daemon couldn't see a reaction from you as you still had your back turned to him and Daemon thought about repeating his words when a shiver ran through your body.

"Y/n," he whispered and came closer wishing for nothing more than to wrap his arms around you and pull you into a hug. When you eventually looked at him your face was wet and your eyes were swollen. His heart felt like it was hit by a million daggers but then you opened your mouth your bottom lip trembling slightly.

"You arsehole," you whispered but it was so much softer than before.

"I'm sorry," Daemon said again because these were the only words he was able to think about.

"You stupid fucking arsehole," you muttered while your hand came down to his chest again. This time he let it happen and his eyes softened when your hand eventually remained on his upper body.

"I'm sorry."

You grinded your teeth seemingly questioning if you should stay angry at him for longer or give in.

"I love you, y/n. Only you and that will never change. I swear to you, I will never ever try to make you jealous again because that was so goddamn stupid of me."

You took yet another step in his direction.

"Keep talking," you whispered your face still not showing any emotion.

"I was a fool, an idiot, an arsehole. I should've talked to you instead of playing with your feelings. There is only one person for me and that is you. I promise you, I only thought about you while dancing with these women. I saw your face before me at all times and even after you left, I could only think about you."

Your face was inches from his upper body now and when your eyes traveled up to his face Daemon unconsciously sighed out in relief.

Carefully, almost as though he feared he would scare you away if he went to fast, he took your face in his hands and gulped loudly. Before he could say anything you closed the distance between the two of you.

Daemon chuckled in your hair pressing you to his chest while repeatedly stroking your back.

"I love you so much, honey. Gods, I can't believe I was so stupid. You know that I can't lose you. You're everything to me and I don't know what I'd do without you."

You didn't care to answer. It was his turn right now to shower you with sugar and treat you like a princess.

You decided to make him work a little harder before you would fully forgive him.

For now a hug was enough to calm down your anxious heart and if he made enough of an effort you'd tell him you loved him too later.

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annoyinglilbro · 18 hours ago

Note

Okay so hear me out but…

big brother gets a boyfriend so stops fucking little brother. so little brother gets revenge by fucking middle brother and big brother gets all jealous.

I dunno if this is something really but it could be 🤷 plus middle brother representation makes me happy cause i can never pick if i wanna be big bro or lil bro.

- 🐀 (not sure if i’ll send more asks but i like rats and want u to know when it’s weird middle bro popping up lol)

It’s been a week. His brother hasn’t touched him in a week, no kisses, no hugs, no making him cum. It’s bullshit. All he does is talk about his dumb boyfriend who he’s always with now. It’s not fair. But it’s fine, because he has more than one older brother.

The middle child is so different than his older brother, more closed off and keeps in his room. They don’t have a particularly close bond, but neither did he and his big brother before they started fucking. And he has practice now, he knows how to get what he wants.

His brother is closed off in his room again, the muffled sound of music and a video game sound through the door. Little brother is wearing one of his shirts, too big and hangs off exposing his collar bones, and nothing else. It’s long enough to reach his thighs. He knocks on the door.

There’s shuffling for a few minutes and when his brother pushes open the door he’s met with the sight of his baby brother, sniffling and teary eyed.

“Can I hangout in here please?”

His brother nods, confused and concerned he’s ushers his little brother into the room. They sit on the bed, little brother sniffling and wiping his eyes. His brother is hesistant when he pulls him into a hug.

“Hey little dude, what’s going on? You don’t usually come to me…is bro home?”

“No! He’s never home anymore. He’s always with his boyfriend, he doesn’t wanna hangout with me anymore.”

“Oh dude no, he’s just in a relationship. I’m sure he’ll make time for you soon. You can hangout with me if you want? I know I’m not as cool as him but uh I can turn on two player for us?”

He stares up at his brother through wet lashes, poking out his little pink lip.

“Yeah? That’s so nice of you. Can I sit in your lap while we play?”

His brother eyes him, starring at his thighs.

“Do…do you have underwear on?”

Little brother who grins, laying back in his brothers bed and spreading his legs. His pretty little cunt is on display, wet and glistening. He’s frozen in place, watching his little brother move his fingers between the slick folds and spreading himself open.

“Big brother it hurts. So so much. Won’t you help me? Please?”

His cock is straining in his basket ball shorts. His baby brother has never called him anything other than annoying, he didn’t think being called big brother would have the effect on him. Still, his little brother is begging him to take the ache away and he can’t deny him.

He’s much gentler than their older brother is. He spends time licking and sucking at his little brothers tdick, spends time slowly spreading him open on his fingers and kissing his thighs anytime he whines. Hes sweet, offering words of encouragement and praise. His little brother feeds into the act, whimpering when the stretch is too much and his brothers cock is finally filling him up.

“Unfff s’full, I feel it in my belly big bro!” He whines, tears trailing down from the corners of his eyes and his brother leans down to kiss them away.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I got you. I’ll go slow okay?”

And he does. He takes his time, moves in slow long motions and plays with his dick while he does. It’s so different from what he’s used to. They’re both so lost in it they don’t even realize somebody else is in the room until they clear their throat.

Their older brother is in the door way, shaking his head and watching them.

“Little fucking slut. Had to go for our brother, huh? You’re pathetic.” He’s walking over the bed now, taking his seat next to his little brothers head. “You’re being way too gentle with the brat. He didn’t need all that prep, you know. Slut like him? He wants it to hurt. Whiney little bitch is buttering you up.”

The second eldest swallows, cock still buried deep inside his little brother, who’s looking up at him with a pout.

“Do you see how mean he is to me? You’re a much better big brother. He’s so mean all the time, he doesn’t stretch me like you do.”

“You two…are fucking?” He’s trying to process it.

“I know buddy, he made you think you were special. Came to you with those teary eyes, didn’t he? It’s okay. You didn’t know our baby brother was a desperate slut.”

Big brothers hands are on him now, he slaps the outside of his thigh making him tighten around his other brothers cock.

“Whore like this doesn’t need you to be nice to him. Hold your fucking legs up for him, you’ve made him do enough, brat.”

Little brother who whines but listens, pulling his legs to his chest and holding them there.

“That’s better. You’re a big brother, you don’t have to do any extra work. He’s lucky he’s got your cock. Now fuck him, make him really cry.”

Middle brother nods, fucking into his little brother rougher than he was before. Watching the way his eyes roll and the loving every little “ah ah ah” that falls out of his lying little mouth.

“Big brotherrr please ahh you’re too deep!”

Middle brother pauses, glancing to his older brother who rolls his eyes and slaps their little brothers face.

“He is being so gentle with you, fucking cry baby. I swear he fakes being hurt for sympathy.”

“Do not!”

“Quiet! Nobody is talking to you.” Big brother who slips his sweatpants down, slapping his heavy cock on his little brothers face and squishing it between his lips. “Ignore him. I fuck him rougher than this. He’s doing it for attention. C’mon bro, he can handle it trust me. Fuck him.”

His brothers cock in their little brothers mouth makes him throb. He didn’t know their little brother could look like this. Didn’t know he could sound like this, feel like this. His big brothers hand trails down the soft stomach and to the pink bundle of nerves, pinching it in his fingers and making him cry out around his cock. He doesn’t struggle to get away, doesn’t fight to get away from them, no he clenches around the cock stuffed inside his hole.

“He really is a slut…” middle brother mumbles more so to himself.

“I know. It was so wrong of him to do this, to try and make me jealous with you. C’mere, I’ll kiss it better for you.” His big brother is leaning over, pressing their lips together while they spear their little brother from both ends. They fuck him in rhythm, lips attached the entire time and when they cum it’s moments after one another. There’s a sweating panting mess when it’s done, covered in sweat and their little brother dripping cum.

Still he looks so proud of himself. Spread out on his brothers bed, smiling like the spoiled brat he is.

“Good job, got your way again. Fucking prick.”

His older brother is pulling them both to his chest, one on each arm. It’s strange to suddenly be so included, but when his brother kisses the top of his head he couldn’t imagine it any other way. Maybe they’ll hang out more often after this.

#I know we wanted jealous #but I was possessed or something idk #I don’t remember writing this whoops #t4t fauxcest #fauxc3st #fauxcest #t4t brocon #t4t brocest #ftm brocon #brocest #brocon

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anonymous-dentist · 3 days ago

Text

Part One

Once Upon a Time...

Cellbit and the god walk out of the tavern just as the sun is starting to rise and the storm is starting to break.

The God of Chaos stretches his arms above his head and yawns.

At some point in the, well, chaos, Cellbit could've sworn that the god had eight arms and just as many eyes; fangs and claws and a laugh sharp enough to cut glass. But, now, he almost looks normal minus a pair of blood red eyes.

But Cellbit can See him. And he hates him.

(Spiders... why is it always spiders!?)

Cellbit walks silently, hood up and hands in his cloak's pockets. He's bleeding, he can feel his shirt soaking through somewhere under his ribcage, but he can't quite bring himself to care; he's a dead man walking, whether he dies sooner rather than later doesn't matter.

("Once upon a time," He said, "there was a fox and a rabbit.")

Everybody who was in the tavern may or may not be dead. Some, he knows, are: the tavern keeper (arrow to the eye), and a woman sitting near the front door (ripped apart by a wolf.) But others are... well. He can fix them.

Cellbit keeps his head down. He can see blood, still-drying, on the tops of his boots and staining the cuffs of his trousers. Most of it, he knows, are the god's.

The God of Chaos nudges Cellbit's upper arm with his elbow (he's taller, but just barely, just enough for Cellbit to wonder if the god is normally this tall or if he's just trying to fuck with him.)

"Soooo..." he says, "I'm Roier."

"I Know," Cellbit quietly responds.

("It was a very hot summer, and the fox and the rabbit were waiting by the watering hole. There was only one in the forest, and so it was running low on water. "'Oh, my!' the fox exclaimed. 'I fear I may die of thirst!' "'Worry not, my friend,' said the rabbit. 'It will be our turn soon enough.' 'Ah, but my kits!' the fox cried. 'They are still too small to leave the den, and all I have is this one bottle to bring back to them!'")

"And you are...?"

The God of Chaos trails off into a question.

Cellbit huffs out a dry laugh through his nose.

"Aren't you a god?" he taunts.

"Okay, and? I'm not Antoine." He grins, blinding. "I'm Roier!"

Oh, Cellbit knows who he is. everybody part of Connaissance knows each and every legend he's in; Cellbit grew up hearing the name 'Roier' in the same breath as 'danger'. Chaos' followers were to be hunted down and exterminated. (Jaiden and Foolish, of course, are the exceptions to that.)

(Subtly, Cellbit takes a step to the side as he walks. Old habits die hard, and all that.)

"They said my name. In the tavern," Cellbit supplies.

Chaos shrugs. "Eh."

Quiet.

The forest around the village is starting to wake up: birds are singing, leaves are rustling. The monsters inside hiss as sunlight starts to hit them.

The village itself is still asleep. Hopefully it'll stay that way until Cellbit and his new shadow are long gone (he does not want to deal with guards on top of whoever He is going to send next.)

("By the time the fox and the rabbit reached the watering hole, there was barely any water left," He said. "The fox wrung its paws, thinking of her thirsty kits back home. And the rabbit watched.")

Cellbit stifles a yawn, ears and tail twitching.

(His hands are starting to itch, fuck. He thought he had finally found something he isn't allergic to...)

They leave the village and disappear into the forest, and Cellbit has absolutely no idea where he's going. And it's thrilling. It would be even better if he didn't haven't a debt hanging over his head.

("'My friend', said the rabbit, 'I can see that you are worried. So let me help you, we are neighbors and friends, and I care for you very much. Because of this, I will take your bottle and fill it rather than drink for myself, and I will run quickly to deliver it to your kits while you drink.' "The fox," He said, "trusted her friend and agreed. She handed the rabbit the bottle, and the rabbit, indeed, filled the bottle and ran towards their homes.")

The God of Chaos starts to hum under his breath.

Cellbit's ears twitch again; there wasn't much music with Connaissance. It's still a little weird to hear it just so casually.

Chaos' coat shifts with every step. And, with every step, Cellbit can see a hint of his knife (his fucking knife-) hanging from a loop in Chaos' belt.

The village must be waking up, because here's a scream so sharp and sudden that it sends a couple of deer running in front of the two of them in a blind panic.

The poor people still themselves inside of the tavern must be moving, too, because more and more people are starting to shout and scream, and someone specifically starts yelling about there being a fucking shark inside of the tavern and, oh, gods, is that a fucking dragon!?

Cellbit bites back his laugh, just barely.

The God of Chaos, though, lets out a little giggle and shoots Cellbit a mischievous look out of the corner of his eye, a smirk on his face.

"Well?" he teasingly asks.

Cellbit's mouth twitches. "'Well'?"

Chaos takes a step closer, leaning in just so slightly, head tilted towards Cellbit just so slightly. His smirk has turned to a smile; somehow, his humming has continued.

"What do you think?" he asks. "Was I helpful?"

(Another scream, this one a name.)

"'Cause I'm pretty sure they've forgotten allll about you by now."

("The fox," He said, "drank her fill and hurried home. But, when she got there, all she could do was scream.")

"And!" Chaos adds, cutting in before Cellbit can even think of responding. "I've got a feeling those other guys won't be coming for you any time soon."

Cellbit nods begrudgingly. "He'll have to come out here and cure them, and that'll take at least an hour per person. Probably more if-" (He grimaces.) "-Lord Knowledge is... occupied."

If Chaos picks up on the emphasis or the obvious distaste, he doesn't comment on it. (His eyes do light up- literally!- though, which may be worse.)

"Soooo...."

The God of Chaos trails off expectantly.

Cellbit ducks his head with a tense sigh. Of course.

"You were... very helpful," he admits. "I'd probably dead or back in chains if it wasn't for you."

The God of Chaos straightens back up. And then he fist-pumps with a hissed, "Yesssss!"

Cellbit decides to bite the bullet and ask the question that's been weighing on him for hours while Chaos is in a good mood:

"What do I owe you, then?"

(He gasped, "What was it?" He shot him a sharp glare. "Patience, Prophet. I was about to get to it." He cleared His throat, and then He continued: "In front of the fox's den was the Farmer beating the fox's kits with a cudgel. "The rabbit quickly appeared by the fox's side holding the empty bottle. "'I brought them the water,' said the rabbit. 'But then I realized that we would never have enough water in the forest if we have to continue quenching so many mouths.' "The fox cried and wept and prayed to His Lordship, but the Farmer continued beating the kits until they were dead. "'Here's the last one!' the rabbit shouted, pointing at the grieving fox. "The fox tried to run, but the Farmer was faster. "As the fox died, the Farmer gave the rabbit a carrot and a fresh bottle filled with water. "And thus the deal was completed.")

Chaos' smile flickers; Cellbit doesn't have to See him to know he's confused.

"Nothing, man," he answers. "We're even."

No way...

Rain starts to fall again.

Cellbit frowns. "I'm sorry?"

Chaos shrugs, unsure; Cellbit Knows it.

"We're even," the God of Chaos repeats. "You don't owe me anything. We're good, man. Don't worry about it."

Okay, but Cellbit is worrying. They're even, but he hasn't done anything for them to be even over. And he Knows how the gods work: nothing comes for free; payment usually comes in the form of worship, but Cellbit is done with praying.

So...

Uncomfortably, Cellbit says, "You... mentioned going to your place back at the-"

Chaos cuts him off, wide-eyed and frozen in place. "Ah, no! No, no! No, I was just trying to- to help! We don't have to-"

Cellbit visibly relaxes.

"Oh, thank the gods," he wheezes, hiding his face in his hands. (The makeup smells like sweat and blood by now, but he ignores it.)

A pause. Then:

"You're welcome?"

Cellbit can't help it. He laughs, a sharp little bark of a thing that surprises himself with how sudden it is.

Eyes closed, he can clearly See the God of Chaos' true monstrous form smiling in sheer obvious deligh.

Cellbit's tail flickers in annoyance. His ears threaten to lay flat in fear. The God of Chaos is delighted by him. Great.

"Tell you what," Chaos says, hidden laughter in his voice, "You want to pay me back? Call me by my name."

He pokes Cellbit's forehead where it's peeking out between his fingers.

Cellbit lowers his hands and gives Chaos a confused look.

The God of Chaos just keeps smiling, and he almost looks human doing it.

"I can hear your big brain thinking."

Another pause, slightly more awkward.

"Not literally!" Chaos is quick to add. "But all you humans are so formal, just. Uh. I'm Roier, okay?"

He extends a gloved hand.

Cellbit looks at it for a long, unsure moment.

Hesitantly, he takes it.

"Cellbit," he replies.

"I know," Roier, the God of Chaos, grins.

(And, somehow, Cellbit feels like another deal has been made.)

A/N: Let me know what you think in the tags or in my inbox! I want to hear your theories, thoughts, opinions, everything!

#gods of chaos au #a.d.'s fics i suppose #a.d.'s fics i suppose.#i love this au actually #so much behind the scenes so many thoughts

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unwantedthots · 16 hours ago

Text

Captive Bird | Caleb x Reader

- genre : smut, porn, slight plot, feelings, creampie, cum, dirty talk

- writer: Ive literally NEVER written smut before but ive read a couple and felt like i wanted to write it lol. This is my first ever time writing this so PLEASE bare with me in the new territory im learning lol. Im sorry if its not that long or all jumbly <333

———————————————————————————

"You don’t need me?"

Caleb’s breath hitched, his eyes burning with hurt and fury. "Is that what you think?" His voice wavered, but the desperation in it only grew. "Then tell me—what do you need?" He leaned in closer, his grip tightening. "We can go back to Linkon if you want. We can rebuild our old home. If a house isn’t enough, I’ll build you an entire maze filled with everything you want. No one will ever find you again. I’ll protect you forever."

His gaze bore into yours, searching and pleading for any sign of understanding. His emotions spiraled out of control. And by the time he realized it, he was already too far gone.

You stare at caleb with a stern look and shake your head, trying to wiggly out of his grasp but its no use. “You acting like this, you really think this is how you will get me to stay?” you spewed. Caleb and you hardly argued but when you did it was pure emotion. “I haven’t seen you in months, you show up out of the blue and bark orders at me?”

Caleb's hands twitched against your wrists, his grip loosening significantly at their words. His violet eyes darkened, the depth of his feelings plainly visible. "You think I want to act like this? That I'm doing this because I enjoy it?" The tension in his voice was palpable, the intensity behind his words making the air in the room grow heavy.

“Everything I have done has been to protect you” He growled, throwing his hand to the side. His stare was deep, penetrating, his eyebrows furrowed, jaw clenched. “You just don’t see it. You’re too stubborn.”

You rolled your eyes. “I didnt need protecting.” You spat trying to shove him off, but he didnt budge. “You forced ME to stay here. You kept secrets.” You argued poking your finger into his sternum. “You.. you died. You left me and made me believe you were dead.”

He was silent for a moment, his gaze never leaving your face. Then slowly, he leaned back, finally releasing your wrists. His hand ran through his messy dark hair, a sigh escaping his lips.

"Caleb.. I-" You spoke bringing down your tone. He brought his hand up to cup your face, his thumb gently wiping away a stray tear. His touch was as gentle as ever, showing a stark contrast to the harshness of their argument.

You moved your head from his hand

"I don't want you to stay because I'm forcing you to," he added, his gaze sincere. "I want you to stay because you want to… because you can't imagine being anywhere else. Because you feel safe with me."

You moved away from his touch, but slowly began to let him do as he pleased. His prior frustrated facial expression had turned to a soft gaze.

His fingers gently trailed down your cheek, his touch feather-light. Despite their argument, despite the storm brewing outside, this was the Caleb, you knew. Not the ruthless Farspace Fleet Colonel. Not the man who would manipulate situations for his own benefit. Just Caleb, the man who cared for you more than anything else.

"But if I'm not the one who makes you feel safe anymore…" he trailed off, his gaze dropping to his lap. "If all I bring you is pain and misery… Then maybe it's best if you do leave. Maybe you would be better off without me around."

His purple irises met theirs once more, a silent plea hidden within their depths. He lowered his hand and grabbed yours placing it onto his chest. You could feel his muscles through his clothes, his heart racing ever so slightly.

The argumentative atmosphere had dissipated. You both had so much love for each other and the way you were showing it now was toxic. You NEVER argued.

“You know thats not true.” You trailed off feeling his breathe. You sighed softly. Your friend you loved was so mature, something so unfamiliar to you.

Caleb's gaze was earnest, filled with a yearning that seemed to pull you closer. "When I look at you, it's like seeing the one person who stayed the same, no matter how much the world turned upside down. I want to protect that—you, the way you’ve always made me feel. But I don't always know how to do it right anymore."

Calebs hand slid up to your face. “I really dont know whats right anymore” Caleb said tilting his head to the side, staring down at your lips. He was about to cross a line that had never been crossed.

Your heart raced at the thought of caleb kissing you. The sibling relationship you guys had went away after he ‘died’. When you mourned for Caleb you were filled with regrets. Now one of those regrets was about to wash away.

You closed your eyes as Caleb closed the gap between you two. His kiss was almost as if he had been waiting for this for years. The way his body completely moved with yours.

His touch was gentle yet filled with a raw intensity, as if trying to convey the words he couldn't quite form. For a moment, everything else faded away—the arguments, the pain, the confusion. There was only this: a connection that had always been there, simmering beneath the surface.

Your eyes buldged as caleb kissed you, unsure of the new territory but you slowly began to accept. Calebs hand trailed down to your wrist and he squeezed it firm almost like he was holding back.

The anger you felt, the confusion you felt, was all gone. You could only think about his lips on yours.

When his hand moved from their face to their wrist, his fingers had curled around it gently. He was careful, mindful of his own strength, feeling the steady pulse beneath his fingertips. That familiar rhythm brought a sense of calm, even as his emotions threatened to overwhelm him.

The storm outside was still brewing and yet you and caleb didnt seem to mind. The only thing on your minds was each other.

His grip on their wrist softened, shifting to intertwine their fingers as he spoke. "If this is too much—“

“No.. No keep going” you spoke with pleaful eyes. He nods and deepens the kiss as his hand finds the wall behind your head, resting on it. His eyebrows furrowed, his body language full of lust.

Your hands trailed to his waist, gripping onto his pants and pulling him closer to you, both of your tongues swirling in an almost drunken kiss.

A low groan escaping his lips as he felt your fingers grip his pants. He pressed closer, the hard lines of his body molding to the curves of their own. The wall at Y/N back and Caleb's arm around their waist pinned them together, a delicious trap from which neither seemed eager to escape.

His hand slid from their hair to their jaw, tilting it slightly as he explored their mouth with a newfound intensity. Years of pent-up longing and desire coursed through his veins, and he channeled it all into this single moment, this perfect, stolen interlude. He wanted to devour them, to consume every last inch of their skin until there was nothing left but the two of them.

Caleb swept you up into his strong arms, gripping their thighs as he hoisted them onto his hips. He pressed your back against the wall, pinning you there with his muscular frame as he crushed his lips to yours in a searing kiss filled with long-denied passion and lust. One hand slid down to squeeze the curve of your ass, pulling your hips snugly against his own. The hard, thick ridge of his arousal pressed insistently against your core, separated only by the thin fabric of his pants and their clothing.

Breaking the kiss with a gasp, Caleb's dark, desire-glazed eyes met yours, his gaze heavy with hunger and unspoken desires. "Fuck, Y/N," he growled, his voice low and rough with need.

With that, he swung around and carried you towards the bedroom, his long strides swift and purposeful. He kicked the door shut behind them, the sound echoing in the charged air between them. Caleb laid you down on the bed, following them down, his body blanketing yours, his hips nestled between your spread thighs.

"Tell me to stop," Caleb rasped, his breath hot against your cheek, then your neck. “Tell me this isn’t what you want, this isn’t right.”

You squeezed your eyes shut at the sound of his voice. “No, keep going” You spoke reopening your eyes to gaze at him.

He let out a small groan, a sound that came from someone who was surprised by an answer.

He nipped at your collarbone, soothing the sting with a kiss as he pressed his hips more firmly against yours. The hard, thick length of him throbbed insistently, separated only by the barrier of their clothing. He rolled his hips, grinding against their core, and a low groan rumbled in his chest at the delicious friction.

"Fuck, Y/N," he breathed against his racing heartbeat, "I feel how much you want this too. I know you feel how hard I am for you."

Your face flushed at the sound of Calebs dirty talk. This was such a new area you didn’t know how to feel. You felt shy almost, like this was your first time with anyone.

His hand slid up their side, pushing the hem of your shirt upwards to expose more of your soft skin. Callused fingers brushed over the sensitive underside of their breast, making their way to their nipples.

You let out a soft moan which made Caleb chuckle. The fact that Caleb was able to get you to make such a sound, for him to finally hear that sound, sent chills down his spine. Emboldened, he tugged impatiently at his shirt, taking it off his body, same with his belt.

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. He swallowed your moans, drinking it down like the finest wine as he ground his hips more insistently against theirs.

Breaking the kiss, Caleb trailed his lips downwards, his tongue flicking out to trace the elegant line of their neck, the delicate curve of their collarbone. He could feel their heart pounding beneath his touch, matching the tempo of his own.

You began to take your shirt off leaving you bare chested. Caleb had sat up, staring at you intently, almost drawing every curve of you in. He licked his lips and grabbed a condom from the drawer to his right, holding it in between his teeth as his ripped it.

Tossing the empty wrapper aside, he held the condom aloft, his eyes locking with Rose's. The dark purple irises swirled with lust and anticipation, a promise of the pleasure to come.

"I'm going to love you like i’ve always dreamed of" Caleb murmured, his voice low and rough with desire. "I want to feel every inch of you, to be inside you in every way possible."

“Caleb… don’t say such provocative things…” you said shakily, your voice barely above a whisper. The heat radiated from your ears, cheeks, and shoulders, painting your skin a bright shade of red. You could feel your heart pounding out of your chest, each beat echoing the intensity of the moment.

He chuckled softly, a teasing glint in his eyes as he leaned closer, his breath warm against your skin. “But you love it,” he replied, his tone playful yet filled with an undeniable heat. The way he looked at you made your stomach flutter, a mix of excitement and nervousness swirling within you.

You tried to maintain your composure, but the way he spoke sent shivers down your spine, igniting a fire deep inside. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammered, attempting to sound defiant, but the tremor in your voice betrayed you.

Caleb’s gaze softened, and he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your skin. “You can’t hide how you feel from me,” he said, his voice low and intimate. “I see the way you react, the way you light up when I say those things.”

You swallowed hard, your breath hitching as his words wrapped around you like a warm embrace. The connection between you was electric, and despite your attempts to play it cool, you knew he was right. Every teasing word, every sultry glance only drew you closer to him, making it impossible to resist.

He tossed the condom onto the bed beside you as his hands slid down to the waistband of your pants, his fingers toying with the button. He laughed at your comment and leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered:

"I need you, Y/N. I need to feel you wrapped around me, I need to finally be able to touch you.” Your throat dried up quickly as you nodded, gently cradling Caleb's face. "I don't want to be distant from you… Not again, not ever."

The urgency in your voice nearly left Caleb in a state of turmoil; he was trying his best to remain calm and tender with you. With care, he slid your panties down and moistened two of his fingers, tenderly exploring between your folds.

As he touched you, your back arched instinctively, a wave of warmth cascading through your body. A flutter of excitement stirred in your stomach, a delicious mix of anticipation and desire that made your breath hitch. You bit your lip, trying to hold back your reaction, but the sensation of his hands exploring your skin was intoxicating, igniting every nerve ending.

Caleb took a moment to steady himself, his breath even, as he positioned himself at your entrance. One arm rested next to your neck and the other placed around his cock, just between your legs.

He looked into your eyes, ensuring that you were comfortable and ready for what was about to happen. The atmosphere was tense, filled with an anticipation that hung heavily in the air. Communication was key, and he wanted to make sure you felt safe and in control.

You looked up and noticed the necklace you had given him swaying gently, a reminder of your connection. His pupils were dilated, revealing an intensity that suggested a deep desire. The moment felt charged, each heartbeat echoing the shared anticipation between you.

Caleb regarded you with a questioning gaze, and you nodded in response, granting him permission.

He gradually pressed deeper, and you found yourself unprepared for his size. A low groan escaped his lips as his hand, which had been wrapped around him, moved to your other shoulder.

“Mmph, Caleb,” you murmured, glancing down at his abdomen. His muscles were taut, glistening with beads of sweat that trickled down his body. When you looked back up, you noticed his eyes were closed, and he appeared to be in a state of near discomfort.

You reached out to touch his face, but he caught your hand firmly, pushing it back down into the pillow. The unexpected move sent a thrill through you, a mix of surprise and excitement. His grip was gentle yet possessive, a reminder of the intensity of the moment.

“Not yet,” Caleb said, his voice low and filled with a teasing authority that sent shivers down your spine. “I want you to feel this. Just let go and trust me.”

Your heart raced at his words, and you felt a rush of adrenaline. The way he looked at you, with a blend of desire and determination, made you feel both vulnerable and empowered. You nodded, surrendering to the moment, allowing him to guide you.

He slowly began to pull in and out of his, his eyes focused on looking down, making sure he wasn’t hurting you. ‘Mmph’ You said quietly causing Caleb to look up at you, his heart nearly beating out of his chest.

He picked up the pace, and you found yourself unprepared for the sudden intensity. “Caleb,” you moaned, attempting to press your other hand against his chest, but he swiftly pushed it back down. “Slow— mph, down,” you managed to say, your hands now trapped beneath one of his.

He slowly opened his eyes and pressed his lips against yours, savoring every moan that escaped you and returning the sensation with equal fervor. One of your hands slipped from his and reached to his back grabbing onto his shoulder blade harshly.

The way he was making you feel was to much, it was to fast for your. “Caleb-“ You spoke again before he cut you off.

“Please, hah, please don’t make to slow down…” he spoke through moans“I’ve been waiting for this… please don’t make me slow down.”

You quickly covered your mouth and screwed your eyes shut as you let Caleb continue. He felt so large inside of you almost like you could feel him in your stomach.

Caleb had let go of your other hand and gripped the headboard of his bed, almost clawing at it.

“You feel so good,” he breathed, his voice low and filled with desire. “You feel so fucking good.” Each moan that escaped his lips was breathtaking, sending shivers down your spine and igniting a fire within you. The way he spoke made it clear that he was on the edge, teetering between pleasure and the brink of release.

“Always back-talking me—hah—and now… now you’re silent,” he teased, his words dripping with a playful challenge. His thrusts became more erratic, more desperate, as if he were trying to chase the high that was just out of reach. The tone in his voice wasn’t angry; instead, it felt like this was his way of getting you back, of reminding you of the playful banter that had always defined your connection.

You could feel the intensity building between you, a palpable energy that made the air around you crackle. Each thrust brought you closer to the edge, and you could sense the shift in him, the way his control was slipping as he surrendered to the moment. It was exhilarating, the way he pushed and pulled, teasing you while also losing himself in the pleasure you shared.

As you locked eyes, you could see the mix of determination and vulnerability in his gaze. It was a reminder that beneath the playful banter and teasing, there was a deep connection that bound you both together, one that thrived on intimacy and trust.

Your walls clench at Calebs stern comment, making his whole body shake for a moment. “You did that in purpose.” Caleb groaned leaning over so his head was into yours ear.

Your stomach tightens at Calebs words and your legs begin to shake. You were so close so you quickly pushed onto his chest trying to push him away. ‘Caleb- Ha - I’m mph, Im close You cried

Caleb’s head tilted back for a moment before he locked eyes with you, his grip firm as he cupped your face. “Don’t push me away anymore,” he said, his voice echoing with a hollow intensity.

Your heart raced at his words, a mix of fear and desire swirling within you. You could feel the tension in the air, thick and electric. “Caleb—please, I can’t... I’m so close, just stop,” you pleaded, your voice trembling as you instinctively tried to push him away.

But he didn’t budge. Instead, his gaze softened slightly, revealing a vulnerability that made your stomach tighten. You were caught in a whirlwind of emotions, teetering on the edge of something you both feared and craved. “Let me see you, please.” He begged.

Your eyebrows furrowed and your legs began to shake. “Mmph-“ You moaned as your legs wrapped around his waist pulling him closer towards you.

“Let it out, Y/N,” he urged, his hand sliding to grip your waist. The moment his fingers brushed against your skin, a wave of sensation washed over you, turning you into a moaning mess. Your toes curled, and you arched your back, each vibration coursing through your body like electricity, igniting every nerve ending.

“Ahh, damn,” Caleb moaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “It feels so good... I’m so close.” His words spilled out in a breathless rush just before you felt him twitch, his body trembling with pleasure as he released within you. He sucked on your neck as he released with pleasure, moving his hand in yours, grasping it tightly before softly letting go.

Caleb slid out of you and settled beside you, both of you panting, sweaty, and utterly satisfied. You turned to look at him, and your heart skipped a beat as you met his gaze. His eyes were locked onto yours, filled with an intensity that spoke volumes—he looked utterly in love, as if he wanted to savor every part of you.

You leaned up to get out of bed, but Caleb quickly wrapped his arms around you, pulling you back against him. With your back to him, you felt his warm breath against your neck as he nuzzled in, inhaling the scent of your hair. “Stop,” you giggled, trying to squirm free, but he held you tighter, a playful grin on his face.

You rolled over to face Caleb, who had been gently playing with your hair. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he looked at you. “Hi,” he said, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. “Hello,” you replied, your gaze dropping shyly to the sheets.

You scooted closer to Caleb, burying your head into his chest, and he welcomed you by wrapping his arms around you. With a gentle motion, he grabbed the blanket that had been tossed aside, pulling it over both of you and creating a cozy cocoon. “Laying together like this feels like old times,” he said, his voice warm and nostalgic. “But now it’s even better.”

A smile spread across your face as you ran your fingers through his hair. “I missed this...” you murmured softly.

As you settled deeper into his embrace, you realized that this moment was more than just a memory; it was a promise of all the moments yet to come.

Caleb squeezed you putting his chin ontop of your head, engulfing you in all the love he had to share. A new beginning of both of you, a new uncharted territory and yet you both were so excited to just be there together.

#love and deepspace #lads #lads caleb #lads zayne #lads xavier #lads rafayel #lads mc #lads x reader #lads smut #lads sylus #lads fanfic #lads fandom

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the-mandawhor1an · 2 days ago

Text

Searching for the stars pt.3 | Marcus Acacius x f!Reader

Summary: You could have never guessed how much your life would change when you first looked into the dark brown eyes of a stranger who showed up at your work place one day, claiming to be a Roman general who presumably died 1800 years ago.

Words: 2.1k

Tags: Time travel; puppy Marcus; fluff galore; wedding; we might need tissues; no use of y/n;

(further tags omitted to not spoil the outcome)

Speech in italics indicates that Latin is being spoken.

Notes: Part 3 comes just in time for valentines and I did not hold back on the fluff. Happy end incoming. (Also there might be a prequel, who knows)

Comments etc. are appreciated

Divider by @saradika-graphics

“Hey, wake up,” you were awoken by a raspy, sweet voice, whispered into your ear as soft kisses wandered all the way down the side of your neck towards your shoulder. You felt another body right behind you, snuggling against your back and one arm around your waist. “I’m awake,” you yawned and turned your head. “Good morning,” you greeted the man behind you with a soft smile, placing a kiss on the tip of his nose. “Good morning, my love.”

You turned your body around to face him, placing a kiss on his lips, which he eagerly returned. “What if I don’t want to get up?” you teased, running your fingers through his dark curls. “Guess we’re not getting married, then,” he concluded with a shrug, rotating his head to look into your eyes. You knew he didn’t mean it, but you joined into the discussion nonetheless. “No, that’s unacceptable.” “Well,” he hummed and nudged his nose against yours, “then you have to get up, my precious.” You let out a sigh in protest. “Fine.” A soft kiss later, you rose and got out of bed.

It was still very early in the morning. You both had to get ready and you preferred to have enough time to prep just in case things didn’t go according to your plan. First, you hopped into shower, taking your sweet time to mentally and physically prepare you for the long day ahead. Fresh coffee greeted you when you returned to your kitchen. Marcus looked absolutely delicious in the black polo, casually leaned against the kitchen counter, a mug of coffee in his hand too. As soon as you had walked over to get your coffee, he wrapped his unoccupied arm around you, pulling you close to his warm body. “How are you feeling?” “Excited,” you replied, raising the coffee to your lips and taking a careful sip. It was still a mystery to you how he did it, but the coffee always tasted better when he made it.

“Not nervous?” he asked, a smirk creeping up to his lips. “Not at all. I get to marry my best friend.” As soon as you had finished your sentence, his smirk had turned into a full-blown grin. Infected by his expression, you grinned as well, suspecting you knew why your reply made him grin like this. “I did it again, didn’t I?” He nodded. “You sure did. Even with the same facial expression.”

You leaned in closer, allowing him to kiss your forehead while you hummed approvingly. “Isn’t it boring that I’m so predictable?” you asked, not really meaning it, though. Nevertheless, your fiancé refused to even entertain the thought. “You know that I would never grow tired of you.” With the bald patch in his beard just within reach, you kissed the heart-shaped spot and whispered against his skin “keep some of the sweet talk for your vows.” Marcus hummed as well, closing his eyes for a second. “I have plenty more.” “You sure do,” you said as you stole another kiss. Finally, you focused on your coffee and the schedule for the day.

Instead of doing it like everyone would expect, you and Marcus got ready together. None of you believed seeing the bride before the ceremony would bring bad luck, so it just made sense. Besides, you were there to help him in case he needed it. He had gotten adapted to the 21st century quite nicely, but every now and then, he would get stuck and you were ready to help. Additionally, getting ready with him meant you could sneak in a few more kisses and spend time with him – as if you didn’t get enough with him.

Curiously, Marcus watched as you did your own makeup, watching you though the open bathroom door. He had seen it before, but his fascination with you never ended. Every time you came out with a hand mirror to check if you looked horrible in natural light, he seemed completely hypnotized by the mere sight of you. Of course, the first steps looked a little weird, but with every in-between check, the vision of your wedding makeup became clearer and the love in his eyes grew. “You’re so beautiful,” slipped out of him, speechless otherwise so his brain defaulted back to Latin. “Says the handsome one,” you responded, lowering the mirror to give him a warm smile. It was as if you could the little hearts in his eyes. “Come on, I’m an old man.” You shook your head. “Stop that, you’re not.”

Just some time later, you assisted him in buttoning his shirt up and adding the bow-tie. Technically he could do it himself, but it was hard to keep your hands off of him when he looked this good. “Do you remember when you did that for the first time?” You looked up to him, the same expression on his face now that had been there all this time ago. By now it felt like it was years ago. “It was your first full day here, of course I remember.” How could you forget? Your life project, the work you had put your everything in, practically coming to life and he was there, in your apartment, in all of his glory. “I thought about kissing you back then,” he confessed. How would you have reacted to it, you wondered. “Well, you can kiss me all you want now.”

Taking the invitation, he leaned in and kissed you a bit hungrier than usual, causing you to pull back. “Careful, the makeup will smudge,” you reminded him, but it fell on deaf ears. “I don’t care,” he growled. “I do!” A soft chuckle escaped his lips. ”Save that for later.” You rolled your eyes in a playful manner. “Idiot.” “All your fault.”

When it came to getting into your dress, Marcus of course helped you. “You’re so beautiful,” he swooned, not able to take his eyes off of you. “So are you,” you purred. Not wanting the opportunity to go to waste, you took a few pictures in your apartment, before wind might ruin your getup or tears that would surely come sooner or later could mess with your makeup. Marcus looked absolutely gorgeous in his suit and as persistent as he was in telling you you looked like Venus herself would get jealous, you thought he looked like the most beautiful man he had ever seen.

The way to the courthouse was short, you and your husband-to-be holding hands all the way there. The courthouse was small and just minimalistically decorated, you weren’t expecting many guests. Your fiancé lacked family members and everyone you had invited knew why this was the case. As strange as it sounded at first, they had adapted to him just as he had to adapt to the modern times. The ceremony was relatively short, there was no need to mention religion and you would save your vows for the reception afterwards. Your hand was buried in Marcus’s when you listened to the officiant’s speech.

Marcus never stopped looking at you, and a knowing glance was exchanged when the officiant mentioned intertwined fates. You winked at him, he gently squeezed your hand in return. When it came to exchanging the rings, Marcus tugged at your heart strings badly. With your shaking hand in his, he gently slid the wedding band onto your finger and softly said “I promise I’ll be the husband you deserve, in sickness and in health. Until my last breath.” As soon as he saw you tear up, tears sparkled in his eyes as well. “And I’ll be the wife you begged the stars for, until my last breath.” This was it for the vows, at least for now. You were sure he still had a lot more to say in private, and so had you. He kissed you gently, but pulled you in close, one hand in the back of your neck. A little protest escaped you when he pulled back. “Later, my love,” he whispered against your temple before he placed another kiss on your skin.

The party after the ceremony was held in a back room of a somewhat fancy restaurant. You had cake, coffee, lots of fun and later in the day you also had dinner together. You had danced so much with Marcus that your feet felt a little numb and you were thankful to be sitting. Marcus looked so good in the gray suit, especially in the softer light the candles gave off. The silver threads in the fabric sparkled just like the grays in his hair did. He was so damn perfect and he was all yours. Your husband. It felt surreal, like a fairytale that had turned into your reality. It felt like yesterday when you first laid eyes on him; the general. Marcus Acacius, general of the Roman empire.

While you were having dinner, he had his hand on your thigh rather than holding your hand, you needed it to eat, after all. Still it felt so intimate with him, him never breaking contact with you one way or another. His love was so obvious, so pure. Despite your concerns for him, he managed to carry conversations all on his own, switching between English and Italian every now and then, sometimes mixing the two. It made you wonder if he had practiced in secret.

Back at home, it was about 11 at this point, you slow danced on the balcony, still in your wedding dress, under the stars, with just him and you. “I love you, Marcus” “I love you too.”

You looked up an him, there was a sparkle in his eyes, brighter than you had ever seen before. “We haven’t exchanged vows,” he reminded you, placing a kiss on your lips. “If you want to see me cry so badly, do it.” A grin crept up to his lips. “If they’re tears of joy I’m fine with them. Ready?” You nodded and cuddled up to him, leaned your head against his shoulder. You felt him take a deep breath before he started. “I promise to protect you and make sure you receive all the admiration, adoration and support you deserve. I want to make sure you know how precious you are to me and how much I love you.” With a soft hum, you raised your head and kissed his cheek. “and I promise to be there when you need me. I’ll take care of you and make sure you’ll never miss your old life.”

He leaned his head against yours. “I thank the gods for allowing me to have a second chance, to fall in love with you all over again.” “Ubi tu gaius, ibi ego gaia,” you said and cupped his face in your hands. And there were tears in both of your eyes, but you knew he just teared up because you were crying. “I hope today wasn’t too much for you,” you added. Marcus shook his head. “It’s fine. You had fun and I had something beautiful to look at all day.” He grinned and you shut him up with yet another kiss.

Still caged in his arms, you turned around so you could look at the stars together. “How was your first wedding?” you asked him, leaning your head against his again. “Bigger than this. Less formal. Way more alcohol and louder.” He chuckled. You could barely imagine what a wedding back then had looked like, but you were sure he had been just as happy as he was right now. “What about Astra?” “Strikingly beautiful. She was in tears more times than I could count on our wedding day. She was so happy.” With a sigh he kissed your temple and pulled you in closer. “We don’t have to talk about her any more. I know she is happy and safe. Whether it’s in my arms or in the afterlife with our daughter.”

Speaking of…

“Have you ever had a name for her?” “No, Astra wanted to wait until our child was with us before we would choose a name. She didn’t like the idea of just calling her Acacia after me.” “I really like the name Stella,” you said as you closed your eyes and let your body sink against his. Marcus’s chest rumbled. “Mh.” “You don’t like it?” “I do but why have you picked a name for a child you don’t –”

As you opened your eyes again, you saw the expression on his face go from confused to surprised. His mouth fell open and soon enough his lower lip quivered. There were tears in his eyes and you knew there were about a million thoughts racing through his mind in this moment. “You’re…” You nodded. “We are. It’s a girl.”

#roll a trope challenge #marcus acacius #general marcus acacius #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom

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