#next oaths chap

[landwriter]

officially putting a publishing embargo on my own fics until i finish a few malingering wips and then releasing them together in one week because if there's one thing that's helpful and productive it's an all-or-nothing mentality

[throneofsapphics]

taking a vacation with feysand and/or nessian

poly!feysand x reader & poly!nessian x reader

summary: for poly!acotar week day 4, adventure

warnings: none, very brief suggestiveness

a/n: look ... I messed up the dates and it might be barely but I still made it. here's some drabbles/ headcannons!

poly!Nessian x Reader

Perhaps surprisingly, Cassian insisted on planning it all as well as keeping it a surprise. Normally, he’d give in to either of you with enough pestering, but this time he was an iron wall, not a single clue or hint given to either of you. 

He pinched his thumb and forefinger together before drawing them across his lips, even miming tossing a key over his shoulder. You rolled your eyes, but a fond smile crept on to your lips.  “What if I promise not to tell Nes?” He snorted, and you lifted and dropped your shoulders. It was worth a try - but they both knew you were terrible at keeping secrets from either of them.  "It was worth a shot," you mumbled, redirecting your attention to the book on your lap. A shadow covered you, two fingers tilting your chin up. He pressed a kiss against your forehead, chapped lips lingering for a few seconds. "It'll be worth the wait," he reassured, confidence flowing through every word, not a hint of bullshit. Your eyes narrowed, but you gave a nod. Seemingly content, Cassian placed a too-brief kiss to your lips before making his way out of the room.

Nesta was a tad anxious over how his planning would turn out 

“It’s not if it’ll be a disaster, it’s how much of a disaster.”  “Have a little more faith in him,” you chastised, quickly looking away as she turned her glare on you.  “We don’t get much … time free together,” Nesta sighed, and you carefully covered her hand with your own. “I want everything to go well.”  “We’ll be together,” you insisted. “That’s good enough for me.”  Her mouth curved at one corner, a grateful look shot your way, her hand turning up so your palms met, her fingers wrapping around yours and squeezing. 

Cassian was impressed with himself, and firmly believed he had every right to be. He hoped both of you would as well. Mother above, he’d sworn an oath to Tarquin for this. 

“The blindfold is a little extreme,” you grumbled, fidgeting with the cloth knot at the back of your head. Cassian gently swatted your hand down.  “We’re almost there.”  Nesta was quiet next to you, her hand steady in yours, but you could nearly taste the anxious energy rolling from her. You gave her what you hoped was a comforting squeeze.  Salt, and sea, and sand hit you at once, along with a scent distinct to one place …  The knot loosened at the back of your head and you tore the cloth off, rapidly taking in your surroundings. You weren’t in Adriata, but it was unmistakably the summer court.  “Cassian,” you hissed, “you’re banned, for life.”  “I promise we’re fine,” he grinned, and produced a paper from his pocket, holding it out to you with a flourish. Nesta peered over your shoulder as you carefully unraveled it. A letter - attesting Cassian and company were allowed to access this beach and a rental vacation home for the next seven days, signed by Tarquin himself. 

poly!Feysand x Reader

Feyre and Rhys argued over where to take you - in their minds, of course. It seemed the only thing they could agree on was to keep it a surprise. You watched them, eyes glazed, but lips pursed - obviously in some kind of mental argument with each other. A crease formed between Feyre's brow, Rhys's lips pressing into a tight line. You didn't like that. Especially considering you were nearly certain it was related to you somehow, otherwise they would've spoken aloud. Clearing your throat, you tried your best to get their attention. Nothing. "Right, I'm heading out," you finally called. Still no response. The sting and small sense of hurt came naturally, and you let the door slam behind you a little louder than you usually would. Rhys's muffled voice came after the slam but you were already out the door. "I'll make it up to you later, darling," Rhys's voice slid into your mind, smooth and full of promise. "I'll look forward to it," you didn't know if it was possible for your voice to be breathy in your own head, but you certainly gave your best impression of it.

Feyre packed for you, of course.

You perched on the edge of the bed as Feyre started rummaging through the drawers. First, she picked up a sundress with thin straps and flowing fabric that would just brush the middle of your thighs - ideal for hot weather. Next came a thick woolen cloak. You tilted your head, catching her eye in the mirror. "How many places are we going?" "Oh," she carefully folded a long sleeved shirt, "just one." Your mouth parted, but she answered the next question for you. "We can't have you spoiling the surprise." A laugh bubbled from your chest. Their secrecy had only made you more determined in turn, and it turned into something of a game for you over the last week.

Rhys had scouted the location no less than six times in the week before, Feyre accompanying him for a few of the trips. He knew it was safe, but with you he had to be certain.

Your back pressed against his chest, his hand covering your eyes, you winnowed - holding your breath at the sensation that never quite felt comfortable. As soon as you hit solid ground, you attempted to peel his fingers away from your eyes, but his grip was firm. "Rhys," you hissed, and he laughed but released you. Jaw dropping, you spun in a circle. Feyre stood with her hands clasped in front of her, shifting back and forth. An island. "Where," you cleared your throat, "where are we?" "An island not far off the coast," Rhys wrapped an arm around your waist, slowly turning you. You felt Feyre smooth fingers grasp your other hand, thumb brushing over the back of your hand. Rhys was still speaking, you realized and focused back in. "You can see Velaris," his voice was laced with a touch of amusement that told you he was well aware your attention wandered. Sure enough, there was a cluster of lights, but appearing barely larger than your fingertip. Twisting your head over a shoulder, you spotted the ... cabin was an understatement. Mini-palace waiting for you. Shrugging away from Rhys's grip, switching to grasp his hand instead, you tugged them both forward, their laughter trailing behind you.

[petalsscribbles]

18. blood oath

A/n: dunno how many chaps are we gonna end up with this time but we are nearing the end

taglist CLOSED

@starchasing-cryptid @foxilsdenn @moonslie04 @kkurbys @winter-world @bleedingxheartt @gnusihcom @dkmyman @mortifesboy @kkyoluv @teoluvsyou @bubblztaro @conwunder @xavi-in-kpopland @monstaxpuppy @gabrielllx @tarotarosung @livingsecret @onementally-unstabel-kid @axolotl04 @hwalleluja @lisaswifey

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[cleo30300]

• M.A.A.D CITY , CHAPTER ONE! BACKSEAT FREESTYLE.

warnings : none!

previous part | next part.

— “ Miles Morales.. seventeen years old.. attends Brooklyn Visions…— “

A secretary reads the contract out loud, straightening the paper with the tips of her manicured fingers. She’s standing perfectly upright, professional glasses perched on her nose admirably. Miles is mentally sinking into his chair, but physically, he’s sitting in a cool manner with a stoic expression. Hazel eyes focused on the man rotating in his chair behind the beautifully carved wooden desk. Don’t take your eyes off of him. You hesitate, he hesitates.

He’s cracking his knuckles, trying to prevent his leg from bouncing so he doesn’t look nervous even though he is. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Once in a lifetime, people get signed by Norman Osborn and he just happens to be one of the lucky ones. Trophies and belts are plastered on the walls in elegant glass cases, and it only makes him feel more pressured. Miles bit the inside of his cheek, narrowing his eyes and trying to keep focus on what the secretary was saying.

“ He’s in the middle of his junior year at Brooklyn Visions and lives with his mother. “

“ Just his mother?.. And who is she? “, Norman’s gravelly voice echoes throughout the large office. Miles cringes at the way the older man enunciated the fact that he only lives with his mother.

“ Rio Morales, she’s forty one years old and works as a nurse. “

Miles is also cringing at the fact that they know so much about him and his family. Does he know everyone in the city?

“ Perfect! You have a nurse to go back to if you get injured on the job, kiddo! “, the man slaps his knee harshly and croaks out a laugh. Miles doesn’t think it’s very funny and his eyebrows furrow. His knuckles don’t make a popping noise when they crack anymore since he’s done it to every finger by now.

He wonders if they know about you and where you live.

Norman’s laughter dies down and he takes a sip of the water that looks like it’s been sitting there for a very long time.

“ You’re only seventeen and you’re all ready to go, huh?”, he says, popping his chapped lips, “ Yeah. That’s some passion, kid. We need young boys like you to join the ranks, ‘cause these old fools just aren’t doin’ it anymore. “

“ Thank you. “, the corners of Miles’ lips quirk up. This has been his dream since his uncle first showed him the belts he and his dad won ‘ back in the day. ‘. Since he entered the ring on the day of his very first match, it was shady and underground but it still counts. His dream expanded when he met you. A need to make you and his mama feel proud of him. He needs this.

“ It was nice to meet you, Mr. Osborn. “, he stands up from the velvet seat, fixing his jacket and making sure not to wrinkle the nice carpet that's under his feet.

“ It was good to meet you too, Morales. I think you and I are going to be good partners, eh? “

Miles nods, making a silent oath to his uncle and father that he’ll prevail in this industry. He’s not throwing away his shot.

“ He’s just like his mom, y’know? “, Ms. Morales’ voice cuts through your mind as you scrub the porcelain dish sitting in the sink. The atmosphere of the Morales home is always cosy and you’re glad that it stays domestic and comfortable even when Miles isn’t here to ensure you don't say the wrong thing. Which you haven’t, by the way, which gives you a point. ( Miles said you wouldn’t stand a chance without him. )

“ How so? “, you ask, drying the plate with a towel. She taps a spoon against a tall, plastic bowl to dump the rest of the leftovers from tonight's meal into it. “ Well, he’s stubborn. Doesn’t listen, cabeza dura. “

“ Those sound kinda negative. “, you laugh, smiling as you put the dishes in their respectful areas.

“ Yes, but— they’re good qualities. Means he doesn’t know when to quit and that’s a good thing. You keep trying and you get somewhere. “, she sighs, “ That’s where I want my little boy to be. ‘Cause he’s special and I know you see it, too. That’s where I want this whole boxing thing to take him, y’know? “

You hum, smiling warmly to yourself at this interaction with your best friend's mother. You’re glad she likes you and you’re glad that she can see that you see Miles the way she does. He’s a sweet boy, caring, a little sarcastic and silent but it’s okay. Because he makes up for it with the little things—like texting you goodmorning and goodnight— it’s the smaller things that make up for his slightly abrasive personality. You understand him like no other, you think. He understands you the same.

The front door’s knob rattles a bit before he’s walking in, unexpected but not unwelcome ( Not in his own home, of course. ) He’s not wearing a sour expression or sporting a black eye, instead, there’s a slight raise in his eyebrows. A slight glow in his already bright eyes. You’re smiling too, he notices as he looks up at you standing in the kitchen of his apartment.

“ Hey. “, you say, drying your hands and walking toward him.

“ Hey, “ and he’s inching closer towards you, placing a hand on your shoulder and trying to hold back his ecstatic smile. “ I got it. “

“ You got the contract? “

He nods, the whites of his teeth breaking through his lips as he closes his eyes and looks down towards the floor. Ms. Morales walks towards the both of you and wraps Miles into a big hug. “ Estoy tan orgulloso de ti, mi hijo! “

She looks at you and brushes your hair back with her hand, nodding, “ You’re a good one, dear. “ This has been his dream for a long time and he’s finally accomplishing it. She’s glad that you’re here with him, you make him better. Good.

You can’t help but nod, unsure of what to say. You feel like thank you would be too formal, but doing nothing at all would be rude. So you just nod.

“ No es así, mami. Ella es solo una amiga. “, he says, looking away from you and turning to her.

“ Oh, no seas así. Ella también es bonita! “

You understand bonita. It means pretty. She thinks you’re pretty and that’s all you want to know about their conversation. Ms. Morales exits the kitchen and walks off to her own room, smiling to herself. Miles looks at you bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck and sighing. “ Did you already eat somethin’? “

“ Did you? “

“ .. No. “

translations :

cabeza dura. - hardheaded.

Estoy tan orgulloso de ti, mi hijo! - I’m so proud of you, my son!

No es así, mami. Ella es solo una amiga. - It’s not like that, mami. She’s only a friend.

Oh, no seas así. Ella también es bonita! - Oh, don’t be like that. She’s pretty too!

[incompleteth0ts]

Why can't you be good for something? (Not one shirt off your back)

Day 7 of Hadercy Week: He was the third God I'd met but the first to strike me as Godlike

@hadesxpercy-events

Chap 1 of ???

Next chapter-->

Charon ratted us out.

I tried my best to fight against the skeletons dragging me towards my doom and possible death, but for a couple of dusty bones, they were stronger than me and wouldn't budge.

I could hear Annabeth cursing at the guards to let us go and Grover whimpering beside her.

The undead staff paid us no mind as they threw open a massive pair of doors before throwing us inside.

That's when I saw him.

Sitting on a throne of human skulls, he was clad, head to toe, in black robes that folded and pooled on his lap and feet.

In the folds of the fabric, I was able to make out the faces of the dead as they tried to escape their eternal punishment.

“So you’ve finally arrived. It took you longer than I had thought it would for you to reach me, but I’m patient Perseus. A little waiting doesn’t bother me.”

Hades was ten feet tall and as pale as bleached bones. He wore a crown of braided gold and blackberry thorns. His hair was shoulder-length and blended in with his robes.

He was the third God I've met but the first to strike me as god-like.

I finally understood why it is that Annabeth and Grover were so scared of these guys.

All across his throne, rodents shrouded in darkness, scurried over his feet. The boulders of the horde would come towards us and nip on our shoes. Even Grover couldn’t handle the haunting rats, kicking at them with his hives and bletting in a panic. If this kept up, he was going to faint.

“What is it, children? Is my home not up to your standards?”

I didn’t need to be a child of Athena to know that if we answered, we were dead meat no matter what we said.

I hated this. I hated my father for putting me in this position, to begin with. I hated Hades, too, but I feared that if I thought about it too hard, he would hear me.

I tried to look at Annabeth for help, but she looked even worse than me. Annabeth has been sheltered all her life. She only came all this way to prove a point.

I tried to think of what I had planned to say to Hades when I got her, but my mind went blank. Every time I looked at him, my heart would seize, forcing me to look away. The only sound in the room was the raspy gasp of souls tied to Hades' robes. Hundreds of desperate souls pleading to be released. I was beginning to feel just like them.

“Where is your moxy child? Is this truly the same boy who killed one of my most loyal followers? A boy without a spine? A boy without his mother?” I watched filled with horror as Hades rose from his throne and descended toward us. The rats and shadows clung to his robes, trailing behind him like Ursula’s tentacles. I tried shoving my body through the army of skeletons, but they were like an impenetrable wall behind me.

“I expected the next Achilles—a brand new Heracles. But I’m sure you expected the same thing from me, nephew,” The word ‘nephew’ slid off his tongue like poison. It must be insulting learning that not just one, but both of your brothers had broken an oath that was supposed to be as sacred as it was life-changing. “I bet you were looking for blue hair—flames that rose to the ceiling, three little ladies lurking in the corner. You would burst through my doors, demanding the freedom of your mother,” Hades' voice was getting louder. Grover's knees were knocking together, and Annabeth’s shorts had gained a dark spot.

“Do you think of yourself as a hero? You are none of those things. I have lived thousands of lifetimes, and I will live a thousand more. And every time, without fail, a young, naive, self-centered brat, like you, comes down here thinking they will be the next savior of Olympus. So tell me, Perseus. Why are you down here?”

My knees gave out from under me. If my arms weren’t in the bruising grip of undead soldiers, I would have hit the floor. I wanted to cry. All my life bullies have tossed me around, my biggest and meanest being Gabe, but at the end of the day, even though Gabe was human, Hades was not. When I didn’t answer, he grabbed me from the group.

He was so fast that I had only noticed when I was suspended in the air.

He similarly gripped me to the way the minotaur handled my mother. The backpack that Ares had given me weighed stubbornly down my back. I don’t remember putting anything sharp in it after leaving the casino, but it felt like the broken end of Clarisse’s spear was exacting its revenge.

“Percy!”

“You even dared to enter my domain with the very thing you accused me of stealing, strapped to your back.”

“Please- please. I don’t know what you're talking about. I swear I don’t have-”

“Silence yourself!”

My jaw clamped shut, nearly biting off my tongue. The room buzzed in anticipation, every living and non-living thing waiting for Hades' next move.

“Open your backpack, nephew. Show me what you have brought into my realm.”

I cried in pain as Hades uncaringly threw me at my friend's feet. The scent of fear and piss made it too hard to think.

“Open it.”

I took the backpack off me, and my fingers trembled- fighting for a good grip on one of the pathetic metal zippers.

When I finally managed to pinch one of the zippers, I held my breath as I pulled it to the side.

The air pressure dropped.

I held my breath. The inside of the backpack emitted an electric blue glow. It was radioactive and hurt my eyes. The hair on my arms stood on end. I could hear the skeletal army behind me, rattle. It almost sounded like they were excited about what’s been discovered.

I was too scared to reach inside the backpack; instead, I flipped the entire thing around- shaking it until everything fell out. At the bottom of the pile, glowing as bright as a pine tree in December, was a long cylinder tube, and I mean, this thing was long. It was four feet tall and ribbed like a mini bronze column. The entire thing sparked like a live wire.

Looking at it made me sick to my stomach.

This is why Ares wanted us to keep the backpack.

This was the gift I had been warned about.

“I see. So you truly do take me for a fool.”

“Wait, wait- wait, wait!”

[bottombatch]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @optiwashere !

First off, putting this post together had the unintended side effect of forcing me to edit the sections I wanted to share so that they would be their best. Kind of rude of you! /s

Secondly, most of these WIPs are a good bit away from being ready, or have been sitting in a WIPs pile forever. Unfortunately I write at a snail's pace because my brain craves instant dopamine...

Unfortunately most everyone I would tag here got tagged by opti, so I'm reaching a little outside my usual circle of mutuals for these tags. Feel free to ignore if you just don't feel like it!

@capriclonus, @shallitickleyournerdbutton, and @collegeoflore

Anyway, without further ado... here are 4 snippets of 4 WIPs!

Act 1 Rewrite

Laz has changed SO much from when I first started writing them, I felt a rewrite of Nothing Special was in order... then that snowballed into a multi-chap outline. It'll probably take a while before this ever gets finished enough for me to post, its a project I'm chipping away at slowly.

Anyway; here's a snippet of Laz, Shadowheart, and Lae'zel stumbling upon the chapel with a little bit of inner conflict for flavor.

“You can’t seriously be considering this.” Shadowheart whispered, confusion furrowing her brow. “I agree with the elf.” Lae’zel muttered. “We will be transformed within the hour. We must leave with haste.” For a moment, Laz considered it. But the thought settled a chill over Laz, the ever present flame inside of them flickering down to candlelight. A tenet of their oath stretched tenous and thin at the forefront of their mind; You will conquer those beneath you and not tolerate dissent. How quick they were to forget their own oath... they could practically hear the illharess clicking her tongue in their ear. Laz’s lip curled distastefully, a biting retort to put the two in their place on their lips. But they stilled as they realized that, in the middle of their own argument, the chapel behind them had gone silent. Laz held a single finger up to their lips, eyes narrowing. Lae’zel and Shadowheart both went silent as they caught on. A stray brick was crunched underfoot and Lae’zel’s eyes darted behind Laz’s shoulder. Quickly, Laz shoved Shadowheart to the ground, draping themself over her just as the arrow aimed at her instead pinged off of the shield on Laz’s back. It ricocheted into the dirt several feet away.

Lae'Zel Minthara Coffee Thing??

This has been a WIP for so, so long. I was planning to have it ready for valentines day (LOL), but I didn't like it at that point. It's a thinly veiled excuse to write these two fucking in a coffee au; think porn with a porn-level plot. It was inspired by a post about Lae'zel being the best barista in the store despite not making your drink correctly, though I don't have that post readily on hand.

My opinion on whether this is the best or worst smut I've ever written changes hourly, so eventually I'll just post it so it at least isn't clogging my WIPs anymore... but here's a snippet of the setup.

Lae’zel glanced at the next cup order, scowling as she began to make it. Minthara watched, half interested at best, until Lae’zel pumped something into it. It didn’t really matter to her what it was; it clearly wasn’t what she ordered. Minthara inwardly groaned to herself, dragging a hand down her face. She truly didn’t have enough energy to scold every incompetent employee she came across. Her therapist had been telling her to practice empathy. She could… try that. She tried to imagine her therapist’s infuriatingly calm, rational voice. It could have been a mistake, she would have reasoned. A pretty stupid, infuriating mistake, Minthara would correct. But a mistake all the same, her therapist would say, smiling behind her spectacles. Minthara would just ask her to remake it. It was not a big deal. She wasn’t even here for the coffee, after all. Then Lae’zel pumped something else into the cup, and then another. That was when all rational and empathic thoughts evaporated in a cold fury. Before Lae’zel could even read out the name on the cup, Minthara was storming towards the counter and snatching it out of her hand. “Are you hard of hearing or just daft? This is not my order.” Minthara spoke vehemently. She turned the label to read it aloud, “Venti, drip, dark roast. Is that a difficult order for you? It is baffling how you managed to botch such simple directions—” “Are you lactose intolerant?” Lae’zel said, raising an eyebrow imperiously. Minthara stared back, suddenly caught flat footed. “No?” “Then I see no issue.”

That Band AU I Probably Won't Finish

I've posted wips from this au before; in fact I might have already shared this snippet in the past. But some of the writing in this AU feels too good not to share! Hopefully one day I return to this and flesh it out more because there are some really good moments in this.

"Oh my god, you're adorable." Karlach said with a laugh, setting the glass down. "You sew these patches yourself?" Mattis looked down at his denim jacket. It had various patches and fabrics stitched on messily. "Some are my mom but the newer ones are all me." He admitted. "And it's cool! Not cute." "Right, right. Cool. Super hardcore." Karlach nodded, giving him some finger guns. If it was anyone else, it would've come off sarcastically, but Karlach managed to make it seem genuine. "Anyway," Mattis interrupted, coiffing his hair. "You single?" Karlach's grin only grew as she fought to suppress another laugh, coughing into her fist instead. "Well she's definitely single, my friend." Astarion said, looking at Karlach with mirth. "Frankly, she desperately needs to get laid alr-" Karlach reached over, grabbing Astarion by his collar and yanked him backwards off his stool. He tumbling backwards, landing with a thud, followed by a wheezing gasp. "I appreciate it, kid, but I'm too old for you." Karlach said gently, pointedly ignoring Astarion's previous comment. "Don't worry, I wasn't asking for me." Mattis said, wiggling his eyebrows. He practically skipped away, jumping carefully over the writhing elf on the ground. Karlach, curious, looked where Mattis was headed. Shadowheart, mortified, could only wearily make eye contact, watching Karlach dragging her eyes up and down. Shadowheart burned up under the gaze. Then Karlach gave a soft, easy smile and a wink before turning back to the bar. "Yeah, she's single." Mattis said innocently when he reached Shadowheart. She shoved him into the wall for his efforts.

Warrior's Hearth

This is another one I desperately hope I come back to and polish off because I absolutely adore this ship and there is not enough fics for it. I got deep into my feels when I was thinking about how Minthara and Lae'zel might settle down after the war.

After this and how I wrote old Karlach, I think I have a thing for writing these battle hardened characters soften and become invested in the mundane.

Really wanted to capture how they might adapt to living a calmer life, specifically through raising the gith egg. And, perhaps, that would get Minthara thinking about expanding her legacy... which would then lead to smut, because I am who I am :P.

Regardless, here's the opening few paragraphs because I think it really sets the mood for this idea.

Minthara's work was already gently fading to the background of her mind as she turned the corner to see Lae’zel. Schemes, plans, and manipulations filed themselves away before the gith. Lae’zel’s hair was slightly damp from a bath, skin still flush with the heat of it. She had not lost any of her beauty and strength, despite what would have been devastating injuries for anyone else. If anything, Minthara found herself staring in admiration at the pale scar down and across Lae’zel’s right eye, framing the magical stone embedded there. Minthara had spent many quiet moments tracing over the nicks on cuts in Lae’zel’s ears, admiring how her left one ended abruptly at it’s widest junction. Even the prosthetic joined at her knee had a beauty to it, the craftsmanship unique and unparalleled on this plane or any other. In Minthara’s mind, it was all proof that Lae’zel remained undefeated, whether on the battle or in life. Even busy with raising their child, she trained as if still amidst a war. She grew stronger by the day, recovering at an unreal pace. It was, perhaps, what Minthara found so enrapturing about the gith. Her utter refusal to settle for anything in life. She was an ever flowing fount of power and will. Just being near her filled Minthara with it as well. Lae’zel glanced at the doorway as Minthara entered. She was in the middle of slicing strips off of a hunk of seasoned meat, knife in one hand. At her hip, the plump shape of their recently hatched baby gnawed ferociously at a piece of it. A warmth was in Lae’zel’s eyes as they met Minthara’s, a subtle uptick of her mouth settling on her features. That softness was happening more often. Just a year ago, Minthara would have seen it as a sign of weakness. She knew better now.

[asykriel]

Love is the Death of Duty - 7.

® do not repost or translate !

☆ Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Male! Targaryen OC

☆ Status: Ongoing 

☆ Summary:  

“He is half of my heart.”

War made monsters of them all, but it also brought the two second sons together in a flurry of death, love, deceit and delusion. The story of Aemond Targaryen and the eldest son of Daemon and Rhaenyra, Maegor Targaryen, second of his name. 

☆ Warnings: Sexual content, explicit violence, dark themes, targcest etc.

☆ AO3 ☆ || ☆ Wattpad ☆

☆ CHAPTERS: (Prologue) / ( 1 ) / ( 2 ) / ( 3 ) / ( 4 ) / ( 5 ) / ( 6 ) / ( 7 ) / ( 8 ) / ( 9 ) / ( 10 ) / ( 11 ) / ( 12 ) / ( 13 ) / ( 14 ) / ( 15 ) / (16 from now on upcoming chaps only on-  AO3  ||  Wattpad  )

☆ Masterlist ☆ ||  ☆ Spotify Playlist ☆

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Chapter 7

Two months. It took Rhaenyra two months to finally give in and accept Daemon's decision to send their son to fight against the Triarchy. They argued a lot, but at the end of the day Rhaenyra knew getting the Stepstones under their command was critical, not only for what it meant as a strategic point but also to silence the bad mouths that were ill talking about her right to the Throne.

Everything else did not matter now that Maegor is finally atop of his Saagael, gliding above the clouds as they make their way to prove themselves. He could close his eyes and bask in the peace if it weren't for the violence that he would engage in at the destination.

"How much left do you think?" Maegor's temporary peace is ended quickly by his elder brother's shouting, but he pretends he does not hear him.

The biggest inconvenience about his departure is that Jacaerys accompanied him after two months of constant arguments and hostile sparring sessions. The eldest couldn't stand the thought of being outshined by his younger brother seemingly. So he begged his parents until they relented in the end. Daemon was supportive of the idea, it was about time for the eldest to show his strength, but Rhaenyra gave in the hardest. She did not want to hear anything about her firstborn going to war.

In any other context, Maegor would have not minded Jace's company that much, but now it is different. They are going to fight in a war with no experience of real battles. Jacaerys even less as he is less skilled in swordmanship than Maegor from all the training sessions he either skipped or was not focused enough on. And Vermax too was only a young dragon with no previous fighting experience compared to Cannibal, who has probably been in hundreds of them, be it with his own kin or humans alone. Maegor's job just became more difficult. He had to watch his brother's back besides his own like he swore he would through clenched teeth to his mother.

Rhaenyra made him swear an oath before her, that he will bring back Jacaerys alive and in one piece no matter what. It hurt. She did not even try to hide how much she favored her dark-haired sons, and every time Maegor witnessed this, he seethed. Daemon always seemed to lean on Maegor's side more, going as far as becoming his mentor, especially as a child, naturally he was his firstborn son. Maegor always felt that, although Daemon favored him more, he was still cold, unpredictable and out of reach, even more so with everything that happened. And for the young Prince this kind of uncertainty coming from his own family was frightening. Maegor was scared that he could be very well cast aside, disposed of when there was no longer a use for him.

Sure, aside of all the cruel pranks he endured from his brothers, Maegor had a good childhood, his mother and Laenor made sure he never lacked anything be it books, toys or clothes, when Daemon came into the picture he trained Maegor to be a warrior, raised him into a true Targaryen man and taught him his ways about the world. Although he never lacked in material needs or skills, Maegor scarcely received any glimpse of love or affection from either of his parents. Of course, he did not expect it as much from his father, Daemon simply did not show love and affection in the traditional way to anyone around him, save for the rare occasion when Maegor caught the fleeting glimpse of gentle gestures between his parents. Rhaenyra should have been the one to shower Maegor with affection the same way she does with her dark haired sons. It pained Maegor that his own mother could not treat all her children equally and he did not understand why. Did he wrong his mother with anything? Did Maegor remind her of the Rogue Prince so much that Rhaenyra thought that, alike Daemon, he did not need such trivial matters? Perhaps he would never find the answer to his questions.

What Maegor knows for certain is that Aemond is the very first person who showed him affection and made him feel loved and wanted in the fleeting moments they got to spend together. He yearns to feel it again. To see Aemond again.

"Maegor! Are you deaf?" Maegor's train of thoughts is interrupted again by the sound of his brother's voice and he clicks his tongue in annoyance.

"I reckon we'll be there by sunset at the earliest." The younger Prince keeps his gaze straight and offers a brief response, adjusting himself atop of his massive dragon. His whole body was sore from the journey and his first long flight together with Saagael, but he had to get used to riding without a saddle like he promised.

"We could pick up the pace. What do you say about a race?" The eldest Prince pulls on the reins of his own mount, closing some distance between the two dragons. When he acted as obnoxious and childish as this, Jace reminded Maegor a lot of their younger brother, Lucerys.

"Quit it. The dragons need to be well rested for what's to come." Maegor pats the black scales beneath him soothingly after the Cannibal snaps his jaws around thin air with a low growl, warning the much smaller Vermax to keep his distance.

Jace should know better by now. Although Saagael bonded really close with Maegor in the past two months spent on Dragonstone, that did not mean he would not be hostile towards anyone else, he already killed and ate several dragon keepers that were foolish enough to use the same approach like they did for all the other dragons in their care. After all Saagael did not earn his infamous nickname by being as docile as a lap dog. The Cannibal was still as wild as the day before his rider claimed him and Maegor enjoyed every bit of his dragon's vicious temper. The level of trust and bonding he managed to achieve with Saagael made the young Prince feel powerful and grateful at the same time that a fire breather of this caliber chose him out of everyone else after hundreds of years of failed claiming attempts.

There was no other dragon better suited for him than this one.

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Nightfall arrived at the same time as the two Princes landed on the island where the Seasnake established a military outpost that was barely functioning anymore. Maegor left his dragon further away from the camp than Vermax landed for the safety of everyone else and went to catch up with his elder brother on foot. Cautiously meeting the tired eyes of the soldiers that were out on watch duty and were scanning him hesitantly.

"Welcome my Princes, I hope you had safe travels." Instead of being greeted by Corlys like they expected, the two are met by a young man, no older than Jacaerys with a mix of Velaryon and Targaryen physical features - darker skin, silver hair and violet eyes.

"Who might you be?" Maegor asks before Jace can thank the man, stepping forward in front of his elder brother, much to his annoyance.

"Ah, my apologies, I have not introduced myself properly. I am Addam Velaryon, at your service. The Lord of the Tides assigned me commander in his absence." The young man immediately gets flustered and bows swiftly. Maegor scans him from head to toe, he can tell formalities were something new to him, but the Prince also wonders about his origins. Surely, he would have remembered Addam if he ever saw him before on Driftmark.

Corlys Velaryon was full of surprises, but it was not Maegor's place to judge or intervene in his business.

"Speaking of the Seasnake, where is he? Fighting during the night?" Jace asks, quickly looking around for the man, but there is no sight of him.

"I am afraid not. Lord Corlys was gravely injured a few days ago. He is bedridden with a fever, and the maesters are working to keep him among the living." The young commander lowers his gaze slightly, but the bitterness and worry in his voice do not go unnoticed. Something more than just an assigned military ranked bonded the young man to the Seasnake.

"Has the Crown offered no aid so far?" Maegor scoffs audibly at his brother's foolish question. Otto and Alicent Hightower were too preoccupied sitting on the Iron Throne in the place of their illr grandfather than to pay any attention to the Stepstones despite its strategic importance.

"None. We fought alone."

"And the war?" The elder brother keeps insisting.

"The odds are again-"

"Let us continue this briefing at dawn when everyone will be well rested. My brother and I had a long journey." Maegor interrupts, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder, grabbing it firmly to get him to stop.

"O-of course, my Prince. I shall have you escorted to your tents at once." The young commander stutters in surprise momentarily, but obeys immediately nonetheless and invites the young men to follow him.

Along with a couple of guards, he first escorts Jace to his private tent in the heart of the camp, then escorts Maegor to his. Vermax was left to rest closer to camp. He would not pose any danger to the men unless purposely disturbed.

However, the younger Prince refuses the initial designated location and instead orders to have his tent set up on the outskirts of the outpost. The young commander and the accompanying guards practically beg him not to due to how unsafe it was if the enemy ever decided on an ambush.

All worries are quickly forgotten when the men, led by Maegor, arrive on the grassy cliff overlooking the sea, and they hear a low growl coming from the giant form of the Cannibal resting in the grass.

"Unlike my brother, I prefer to be close to Saagael. And I can assure you I cannot be any safer than this." Maegor walks up to his dragon and runs his hand along the scarred black scales on his muzzle.

The Cannibal drags his head closer to his rider without lifting it off the grass and rumbles in contentment but the spines along his neck bristles as he fixes the men with his sapphire gaze while they raise up Maegor's tent and prepare it for the night.

After the tent is raised and everything is prepared inside it to make it look like a bedchamber, the men leave but the young commander stays behind, looking quite unsure of himself and fidgety.

"My Prince... there is one more matter left." Addam Velaryon clears his voice, catching the attention of the young Prince just as he is about to enter his tent and call it a night.

"Go on." Maegor sighs, but treats Addam with patience nonetheless, even if all he wishes for right now was to rest. He was never the one to purposely mistreat servants or be cruel to them without a reason.

"A messenger from King's Landing came just the day before your arrival. I was entrusted with this letter and received clear instructions not to reveal them to anyone else but your Highness." The young commander hesitates at first but eventually gives Maegor a sealed parchment and along with it, a small package.

By now the tensions between the Hightowers and his family are well known across all the seven kingdoms. The young Velaryon does not want to add fuel to the fire by any means, but naturally he is quite curious.

When Maegor sees the green wax and the Targaryen seal he sucks in a sharp breath, maintaining a straight face and calm composure as best as he can in front of Addam.

"That will be all for tonight, commander. Thank you." The young Prince dismisses the commander hastily before heading into his tent, leaving Addam Velaryon to stare in confusion at the structure before him.

The Velaryon bastard lingers a while longer not knowing what to make out of the Prince yet. Jacaerys is the friendlier and more outgoing one out of the two for sure, but the mistery and powerful aura around Maegor is what drew people to him. The commander is curious about the younger Prince and all his instincts tell him that Maegor will prove to be a valuable asset in this war.

A low rumbling growl coming from behind the tent reminds Addam about the presence of the Cannibal. Staying any longer would be unwise with a beast like that guarding Maegor's tent, so he quickly makes his way back to camp, only looking back over his shoulder a few times to make sure the dragon was not stalking him. Where was that letter from, the young commander can only wonder. He almost regrets that he did not take a peek before giving it to the Prince, but alas he shouldn't pry in the matters of nobles when he barely became one of them himself quite recently.

"My dear Prince,

I hope this letter reaches you in time before you set off to war. When word reached King's Landing that Maegor Targaryen laid claim on a  dragon I  rejoiced with pride. Now, I find it hard to sleep and go on about my day when the thought of you in danger gnaws at my mind.  There is no doubt in my mind that you are not capable of destroying your enemies, but you  cannot  condemn me for worrying.

You do not know how many times I thought about getting on Vhagar and coming to aid you. I must remain  patient however , for our sake and the sake of the fragile peace between our families.

Instead of myself, I sent you something to bring you fortune and remind you of me when times are dark. Of us.

Happy birthday, Prince Maegor.  I am waiting patiently for you to fulfill the rest of your promise.

Return safely to me. My blind eye is desperately waiting for the sight of you,

Aemond."

Maegor's eighteenth birthday was tomorrow and he completely forgot it, being more focused on the battle ahead. But Aemond remembers. He feels his breath hitching and a knot twisting in his stomach as he reads the sender's name. All the blood rushes to his head to the point of nausea.

Maegor kicks off his boots and slumps on his back against the furs in his bed. Closing his eyes the letter is tightly crumpled against his chest. The young Prince clings to that piece of parchment as if it's his lifeline. And maybe it really was. He does not know what tomorrow might bring, or the day after. All he knows is that he cannot die until he fulfills the promise he made to Aemond.

Maegor lies frozen like that in his bed for a few more moments until he decides he is calm enough to open the small package that was sent along with the letter.

He picks it up and starts inspecting it. The package is wrapped carefully in a soft, black leather with straps from the same material. Maegor removes the leather covering it and unravels a small box, made out of a dark wood - ebony, he would guess - with intricate carvings, the biggest carving in the center being, of course, the Targaryen seal. Aemond was full of surprises, Maegor never knew the older Prince was so skilled at crafting and woodcarving.

He slowly opens the box and inside, Maegor finds a necklace made out of dark silver with two dragons circling around and framing a jewel as the centerpiece. A section of an amethyst melted and joined into a section of a sapphire forming a whole gemstone.

"How long have you been planning this you madman...?" Maegor mutters under his breath and secures the necklace around his neck. His heart is threatening to jump out through his ribcage as he feels the weight of the piece of jewelry and runs his fingers over the gemstone.

If he has to guess, Aemond probably planned this ever since Maegor left King's Landing months ago. The timing is impeccable and the execution even more so. Delaying his departure to the Stepstones for two months was all worth it after all. Maegor knows if he was still in Dragonstone, Daemon would have gotten his hands first on both the package and the letter and they would have never reached him. Aemond knows too, that's why he waited like a cunning snake until his young Prince was far away from his father's reach.

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Dawn found Maegor standing on the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea, mindlessly running his fingers over the silver dragons of his necklace. He was already cladded in black armor, ready to set to battle at anytime. In the distance, he could see countless of enemy ships and the remains of some of the ones from the Seasnake's fleet floating in the water.

He sighs deeply. Last night was long for him. Maegor should have gotten more sleep, but all he could think about was Aemond and his gift.

Saagael blows a warm gust of air against the Prince's back, sensing his rider's restlessness. When Maegor ignores him, the dragon gently pushes him with his muzzle, a low bellow escaping his throat. For a creature so big, Maegor soon found during their time spent together that the Cannibal could be very gentle with him. He also demanded lots of attention from the young Prince when he was in the mood, akin to a cat, which Maegor gladly provided. He often wonders why Saagael lived centuries of loneliness in the wild like an outcast, rejecting even the company of his own kin when he chose to cannibalize on them. Unfortunately, the gods did not bless dragons with the gift of speech, Maegor knows this was one of the many mysteries behind the Cannibal that will remain, well, a mystery.

"Ēdrutan sȳrī?" Maegor caves in to the persistent attention grabbing and turns to his dragon. Saagael lowers his head to the ground and closes his eyes, waiting for his rider to scratch along the scales of his muzzle like he always does. And like always, the dragonrider indulges, finding joy in bonding like this with him. It mattered more that the Cannibal was well rested even if he was not. After all, the dragon will be the one to carry most of the weight of the battle.

Suddenly Saagael snaps his eyes open, lifting his head and turning it in the opposite direction. The beast growls and bares his sword like teeth possessively, sensing another presence before his rider does.

"Lykiri, Saagael." Maegor demands and goes back to stroking his hand over the black scales, calming the beast.

"Good morning, my Prince, I hope you rested well." The young commander greets him but keeps a safe distance. He does not wish to start his day by becoming breakfast. However, he immediately notices the necklace around Maegor's neck. Strange, was it too dark last night or was that necklace new?

"You shouldn't sneak up like that on a dragon, lord commander. Unless you have a death wish that is." Maegor watches the young man as he takes a few steps back and walks between the Cannibal and Addam Velaryon, while still keeping a calming hand on his dragon.

"My apologies my Lord. The men on watch duty saw you were awake and informed me. Prince Jacaerys... he - uh - already ordered the start of the war council without you." The commander hesitates and the young Prince stops stroking his dragon abruptly.

"Did he now?" Maegor's jaw clenches painfully.

That bastard. What is he even thinking.

The Velaryon immediately notices how the Prince's calm mood switches completely and his eyes darken with anger. He chooses to stay silent instead of responding and risking to sour the Prince's mood any further.

"Umbagon." Maegor barks to Saagael and begins walking at an alert pace towards the camp. The young commander matches his long strides and follows closely behind him, embarassed to say anymore words to him.

────────────────────────

"My Prince, we simply cannot afford to launch another attack at this time. We already suffered more losses last night and out fleet is half destroyed." An older, high ranking soldier pleads with the eldest Prince.

In a large tent, several captains along with Jacaerys are spread out around a table with the map of the Stepstones lying out in front of them. No wonder why Jace insisted on staying in the heart of the camp, he wanted to play the military strategist and be in the center of attention.

Sitting at the tent's entrance next to the young commander, Maegor waits patiently and listens to hear what his dear brother has to say for now.

"You haven't been attacking them hard enough, captain. Send out the fleet again and launch another attack." Jacaerys waves a dismissive hand.

"And after you are done crushing their ships we can move on land to chase them out of the holes they are hiding in." He continues, banging the table with his fist in confidence.

The captains are silent. Even a blind man could see how tired and low on morale these men were and yet the fool wanted to push them further when he has no knowledge whatsover about the wars at hand. Not once had he showed any interest in military tactics and strategies when Daemon tried to teach him back on Dragonstone and now Jace was acting like he was a warmonger passed through countless of battles.

"This delusional idiot woke up today and decided to play the general." Maegor mutters under his breath, clicking his tongue and rubbing at his temples in annoyance. The young commander glances at him, not knowing if he heard right or not.

"Enough! Lord commander, thoroughly remind both my brother and I what are we dealing with." Maegor raises his voice and makes his way to the table, everyone's eyes upong him, facing Jace on the other side and sending a silent warning to his brother to stop embarrassing himself any further in front of all these seasoned warriors around them.

Based on his surprised reaction, he clearly did not expect to see his younger brother so early. He wants to complain but the cold glare coming from Maegor warns him not to. Luckily, Jace does not want to cause a public scene and he remains silent for now.

"The Triarchy is not news to anyone. Everyone knows the story of how Prince Daemon fought and won against them many years ago as I am sure you know as well, my Lords. Some of the men in this army, including the Seasnake were there too." Addam Velaryon joins the table and begins his briefing.

"However, this time they are stronger than ever, having learned from past mistakes. And to make matters worse, Dorne is offering constant aid. Ever since lord Corlys got injured, we have been barely managing." The young commander sighs, pointing at the figures on the map meant to represent the enemy.

"What of Princess Rhaenys? She is a seasoned dragonrider. Why has she not come to your aid now that her husband is lying wounded?" Jacaerys questions, his gaze lingering on his brother instead of the commander as if he expects a reaction from Maegor but his younger brother ignores him, paying more attention to the commander instead.

"Lord Corlys ordered her not to no matter what. Driftmark cannot be left undefended, my Prince." Addam's response seems to satisfy Jace enough.

"Tell us about Dorne's involvement. What kind of aid are they sending?" The younger Prince intervenes, looking over the map to where Dorne was laid out.

"Supplies, men, ships and I'm afraid Black Scorpions too, my Prince. There are a number of ships equipped with them, we do not know how many. Most of the scorpions are on land and are being used for defense. They have established a garrison on the island where Prince Daemon killed the Crabfeeder long ago and so far we have not been able to touch that island without suffering major losses." The young commander continues.

"My father instilled fear in them and now they are equipped to take down dragons and their riders." Maegor scoffs. Black Scorpions are dangerous even for Saagael and to a young dragon like Vermax they can be deadly if they hit their mark.

"Indeed, however judging by their tactics and the new uses for the scorpions, the Triarchy no longer expects dragon riders to arrive after so long. We could use this to our advantage." Addam Velaryion explains, showing on the map the tactics used by the enemy so far.

And while the commander continues sharing information and offering precious intel, Maegor begins thinking about how he should act. He has to be smart about this, but at the same time he has to act fast even if it means taking bigger risks. It's obvious the Triarchy became more skilled and powerful in all these years, but they were not untouchable nor unkillable.

What would  father  do? Something completely insane, that's for sure.

"Call your men and ships back commander. Secure this island as best as you can." Maegor suddenly speaks turning every eye to him.

"Call them back, my Prince?" The Velaryon bastard questions, thinking he misheard.

"At once. My brother and I can buy some time on dragonback for your men while they rest and heal injuries. I do not want to risk any of your ships to get burned down by accident." The young Prince presses on.

Maegor has a plan.

"What? Are you insane?! Do you want us to go alone against an army? It was a Black Scorpion that killed Meraxes, brother. A dragon the same size as yours!" Jace suddenly shouts. The confident glint in his eye is slowly fading and is slowly replaced by anxiousness. Reality is slowly creeping in and catching up to Jace, who was finally realizing this was indeed not a game but the reality of war.

"Are we, Targaryens not closer to gods than men, brother? You can stay behind if you wish or go back to Dragonstone, it matters not to me." Maegor ignores his brother's comparasion and his emphasis does not go unnoticed judging by how Jace's cheeks flush with anger.

"I will take flight at once, do what I said, commander. This island needs to be our fortress, I want a guard on watch duty on every corner. No stranger will move without my knowledge or yours." And with that Maegor exits the tent, leaving his older brother behind calling after him and the men that start whispering among each other.

Is he mad?

While he walks back to the Cannibal, the young Prince clutches the necklace in his hand. The tiredness he felt in his body from a restless night is now replaced with a rush of adrenaline going straight to his head.

"Nyke jorrāelagon ao naejot rȳbās, Saagael." Maegor closes his eyes and leans against the beast's head with his whole body, feigning a hug as best as he can. His heart was racing and his hands were slightly trembling. Maegor has no real war experience, but he has Saagael and he trusts him with his life.

The Cannibal rumbles in return and lowers himself flat to the ground, allowing his rider to climb on his back. Maegor wastes no time, already used to get on swiftly on top of his dragon and climbing off just as fast. Before he takes off, he clutches the necklace one last time, kissing the gemstone. A silent promise to someone far away that he will return.

"Sōvēs!" Maegor shouts gripping on the chains around Saagael's neck that rattle as the beast stretches his body.

The Cannibal obeys, rising from the ground. He spreads his enormous wings, stretching them with a flap before he takes off into the air with a low growl. The soldiers look up in awe as a black shadow is cast over the camp when Maegor flies above it. For them it is a sign of hope being restored and the possibility of the odds finally leaning in their favor. For their enemies, it is doom.

Weather is on their side. Low, dark rain clouds are hanging low enough for Saagael to silently fly in them and remain hidden despite his size. The sea is starting to become more agitated below them, making it hard for both allied and enemy ships to navigate and launch attacks.

The two circle the island they are camping on a few more times, watching as the allied ships and men return back to safety before flying out away from the outpost and into the enemy territory. From a distance the Prince notices several enemy ships forming a fleet and seemingly giving chase on the restless sea after the retreating men.

This is an opportunity that cannot be missed. Maegor needs to strike fast and deadly and retreat just as swift. His brother was right about the Black Scorpions having killed Meraxes. All that was needed was an arrow striking a vulnerable area and it could be all over for both him and Saagael.

"Naejot." The Cannibal does not need to be told twice. He can feel his rider's intentions, as if he is reading his thoughts directly and Maegor could feel the ripples of tensing muscles under him as the dragon prepares himselg. Saagael remains calm and focused, a testament of his age and experience. The hunt was on but they are the predators.

No one has been paying attention to the skies for the past months. No one thinks there would be any dragon coming by now. A mistake.

Like a hawk diving down onto an unsuspecting prey, Saagael plunges from the clouds with the ships locked in his sight. The skies suddenly darken and a dark shadow that is increasingly becoming bigger each second is cast above the enemy ships. By the time the men notice and they start shouting, chaos erupts in the shape of a deafening roar and a blaze of flames.

"Drakarys!"

(Art by me)

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Translations:

Ēdrutan sȳrī? = Slept well?

Lykiri, Saagael. = Calm, Saagael.

Umbagon. = Stay.

Nyke jorrāelagon ao naejot rȳbās, Saagael. = I need you to focus, Saagael.

Sōvēs! = Fly!

Naejot = Forward.

[saltsicklover]

Preview Vote Results!

At the time of making this, there is still about an hour left in the poll, but I don't see it swinging the other way in the next hour. So, here is the preview! It is still untitled, I am still writing, you get the gist, it's a preview! Enjoy!

I do not consent to my work being translated, copied, or reposted. Mature themes. All the warnings- you are responsible for your own media consumption.

It all began with the toll of a bell, a marriage signed and sealed in secret. No rings exchanged, they didn't need them. Their fingers laced together as they spoke in whispers, swearing soft words of love to each other under the glow of candlelight. The only witness sworn to secrecy, not only by the two of them but by the oath he swore when he was ordained. 

They spent their wedding night together, locked away in secret, their limbs tangled between stark white linens. His mouth often pressed wet kisses to the plains of her skin, leaving his lips plump and daring to chap over. She ran her hands through the tangles of his dark locks, fingering apart the fine curls that wound themselves into knots. 

The next morning, they awoke bathed in sunlight, curtains fluttering in the breeze. Nothing was more perfect than the way he pulled her closer, his strong arms wrapped around her frame. His breath tickled over her neck as he nuzzled his face further into her hair, attempting to avoid the inevitable. 

They shared good morning kisses, open mouthed and full of desire but she pulled him from bed, knowing that their time together was quickly coming to an end. She pulled him into the bathroom, sitting him down on a stool in front of the mirror, their reflections staring back at them with a kindness. She combed his hair, freeing it from all of the tangles he managed to create during the night. Her hands worked quicky to comb and part his locks before she took the sheers to it, section by section. As she cut away pieces, she let them fall to the floor. 

They say memories are carried with us through our hair, each strand holding onto pieces of our past and though he was shaky, he was ready to let go- she just happened to be the one willing to work the scissors. 

By the time she was finished, almost forgotten memories surrounded them in the form of dark tresses that stuck to the bottoms of her feet as she circled him, checking to make sure there wasn't a piece out of place. She fussed over it for a few more moments before he pulled her into his lap. Strong arms snaked their way around her frame, enjoying the warm expanses of her skin as their time together, tangled up like this, ticked down by the second.  

They shared whispers between them, of shared plans and wishes for the future, ones they knew might not come soon- might not come at all. Worry scribbled soft into the lines of their faces as they faced each other in the mirror, hands wandering, eyes begging each other to not let go. Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes as he kissed her; she tried to savor the taste of his tongue and the way their lips slotted together. He tried to memorize each dip and curve of her body with his fingertips, skimming over her skin, tucking hair behind her ears, finally wiping the tears that have fallen down her cheeks. 

This wasn't goodbye, far from it. They swore not only to themselves, but to each other. It couldn't be goodbye, not when there was so much left for them to say. 

[baphometsgirlcock]

The Same Old Song and Dance

[18+]

[CW: discussions of past starvation, general emotional intensity]

Irelia could not sleep. The barracks below the Sentinels' base in Ionia was well-kept, the beds free of dust and the bedding intact and clean. But the air was still stale and idle. It smelled of the stagnation that beget rot. Even as she knew the door to the outside was a short walk away, that the fresh and salty air of Ionia’s coast could be within reach within minutes, its present absence clawed at her sense of familiarity. She felt displaced, in that way she had a few times before, sleeping alone in towns visited once and never again, a stranger somewhere that others called home but she could not.

It was a loneliness that always reminded her of Riven, of the feeling of the woman’s chapped lips against her own on that morning before her exile was enforced, of the ephemeral tang of the fruit they had shared for breakfast, of the long glances back that implied promises of things that could not be, of silent oaths neither could keep.

Of the sight of a sail dipping below the vast blue-grey horizon.

Irelia shoved off her blankets and crossed to the door of her room, busying her hands with tying her hair back into a more manageable ponytail, opening the door with an elbow and slipping out into the hallway.

There were a little more than a dozen rooms in the barracks, almost all unoccupied. Neither Pyke nor Gwen seemed to need sleep, and both Vayne and Diana were distinctly nocturnal. No doubt Senna and Lucian were up above as well, anxiously planning their next move. Irelia could hear Olaf snoring distantly from two rooms to the left, but she only had eyes for one door. A soft light spilled out from underneath the threshold, making evident the wakefulness of its occupant.

Irelia’s hand was halfway to the door’s handle before she was able to catch herself. Calm breaths. Remain in control. Storming into her old flame’s room and ravishing the woman definitely felt like the most fitting outcome for the desperation currently sending a constant fidget down her fingers, but...there was too much complicating that. Riven was easily startled and quick to panic. Riven needed to control her environment. Riven had not made clear if a year apart had changed her feelings.

Irelia had caught the woman staring a few times over the past week. During meetings, across hallways, in passing. Lingering glances that Irelia could only ever read as “I need to know you’re still here” when she felt optimistic, and “I know what to say but I don’t know how to say it” when otherwise.

Riven, it seemed, was even more exhaustingly careful than she used to be.

Irelia raised her hand and rapped her knuckles twice against the door. “It’s me,” she said, and was close to second-guessing that assumptive familiarity when the response came.

“Oh, yes, Irelia, uh...yes. You can come in.”

Irelia opened the door, and closed it behind her.

Riven was in bed, the covers pulled up to her chest, an open book on her lap and a skewed sheepish smile on her face. Her clothes were haphazardly slung over a chair, and her broken sword’s hilt – wrapped now in white Demacian steel – rested on a nearby table. Her hair was even more pale now, no longer the sun bleached dusty silver it had been, a near-blue in the unnatural light from a Sentinel torch set in the wall above the table.

Irelia almost had to bite her lip to keep from smiling. “You still sleep naked?”

“Only when I can afford to,” Riven laughed, glancing away, her cheeks faintly rosy. “It’s been a bit of a Sentinel selling point. Noxian cells didn’t exactly give me much affordance for privacy.”

She said it like it was nothing. Like it didn’t bother her. “I see. And you’re...” Words failed her. So much Irelia wanted to ask. Nothing she didn’t dread the answer of. “I’m glad you’re here, then.” Out of the cells. Out of Noxus. She didn’t mean for it to sound...

Riven beamed. “Thank you. I’m glad you’re here too.”

That soft, husky voice sent a fluttering breath into Irelia’s throat. No taking it back now. She took a deep breath of stale air. Cowardice would end tonight back in an empty room with regret stinging at the corners of her eyes. Irelia was tired of the silence. Exhausted from its ubiquity. From so long away from the other Blade Dancers, from Liania and Zinneia, and...yes, from Riven. That particular silence had festered far longer.

Irelia took another step, watching Riven’s eyes flick down towards her bare legs, towards the hem of her nightdress, and then a little too-quickly back to her face, the woman’s lips pursed.

“I missed you,” Irelia said.

“Never a day went by that I didn’t,” Riven replied. Utterly, painfully solemn.

“I wish you’d fought to stay,” Irelia said, eyes locked on Riven’s face, tracing the shape of the wince. Waiting, hoping. Bite back. Defend against it. Don’t get Irelia’s hopes up.

Riven didn’t shy away. “I know. I’m sorry. You have every right to be angry.”

Irelia paused. She was at the foot of Riven’s bed now. Was it passivity? Or something else? Something Irelia refused to name. “I’m not angry. I missed you, and I would have liked it if I didn’t have to.”

A twitch of a smile tugged at the corner of Riven’s mouth. “You have every right to that, too.” A long, careful breath. “I’ve found...I have a nasty habit of trying to keep myself from the things – and the people – who keep me happy. Something to do with not deserving that joy.”

Riven idly traced nonsense-shapes into the blanket with one finger as she talked. “It took, I think, too long for me to realize how selfish that was. It’s not a behavior I want to keep. Isolating myself...well, it only does my misery any good. I don’t doubt it’s caused pain for those who care about me.” A flick of gaze back towards Irelia.

It would have been appropriate for Irelia to laugh. To draw from that lonely spite that had left her dry-sobbing into her pillow on more than one occasion, like a lovesick teenage girl she should have outgrown. Irelia didn’t feel spiteful. She felt something uncurl inside her, a deep pooling warmth licking at the underside of her ribcage. Something so horribly hopeful. A word that rhymed with want.

“I make you happy,” Irelia said. A deadpan question. Giving Riven the rope to bind herself with.

“You make me happy,” Riven repeated. “So dreadfully. It scared me.”

“Scared you?”

A little flick of gaze away, then back. Irelia slipped closer, around the edge of the bed.

“When people have power over me,” Riven finally said. “I’m used to that being a bad thing – a dangerous thing. It’s supposed to make me panic.” A wobble of lips that was almost a smile. “I’m not used to enjoying it.” Tying the knot around her own wrists.

“You like that I have power over you?” Irelia shifted one knee onto the bed, testing the waters. When Riven didn’t answer right away, she pressed further. “You want me to have more power over you?”

Riven picked up the open book on her lap. Without looking, she tossed it onto the nearby table, rattling her blade. The action shifted the blanket entirely off Riven’s chest, but she made no attempt to cover herself.

“I don’t know if you could,” she said, a hoarse whisper that drew Irelia closer, had her slip entirely onto the bed, her leg brushing against Riven’s through the blanket. “I haven’t...I’ve spared no humility.” She swallowed, loud enough to hear. “I’ve nothing left of me to offer that you don’t already have.”

“Say it clearly,” Irelia whispered back. Her hand found the hem of the blanket, grasping it tightly. Waiting. “Tell me.”

“You own me,” Riven said, words without breath. “I’m yours, still yours.”

That was enough. Irelia pulled the covers up and over and off, a flash of bare skin and a storm of touch, pulled into Riven’s arms as much by gravity as her own volition, and she kissed nose and cheek and chin before finding her lips and desperately, needfully, planting kiss after kiss after kiss on them. Irelia’s arms were by Riven’s sides, hands flat on the mattress, keeping her from falling fully onto the woman. Though...

Irelia shifted. Jitters of motion, bit at a time when their lips were parted. Riven’s legs had been together on the left of hers, but Irelia managed to slip one leg in between, parting them. By the time her thigh rested flush between Riven’s, practically straddling her, the woman’s breath had shifted from husky to high-pitched, almost a whimper of want drowned out by her lips crashing into Irelia’s again, pulling her closer. Irelia’s elbows buckled, a desperate hand on Riven’s side to keep herself stable, and–

She could feel Riven’s ribs. Irelia blinked. She tried to catch herself, squinting past the haze of arousal. Hand down Riven’s side – tasting the hiss of breath that came alongside a jolt of tension – just to make sure, before she returned it to the mattress. She could feel her ribs.

When they’d first met, that year ago, Riven had the body of a farmer. Strong and soft, well-fed. She’d picked Irelia up once, one arm across her back and the other under her legs, only straining when Irelia went limp and made it difficult on purpose. How could Riven ever feel frail to the touch? How could she ever...

They’d starved her. Noxus had starved her Riven. The thought bared Irelia’s teeth into the kiss, and had her digging her nails into the mattress.

It was with hunger that Riven kissed her. Her hands splayed across Irelia’s back, fingers pressing into her skin, craning her chin up ever so slightly to chase Irelia’s touch whenever she parted the kiss to breathe. Her quick and sharp breath danced on Irelia’s lips, each exhalation tasting like the shape of a silent “please” reflected so apparently in her eyes. Their distance had found Irelia roughly, but this was...

Riven sighed, and the sound sent a jolt through Irelia. “Rel. You’re doing it again.” She could feel the woman smiling into the tender kiss she pressed to her lips. “Be here with me, okay? Please be here with me.” Smart. Smart and right. Smart and right and careful even though her voice was laden with lust to the point of shuddering.

Irelia scrunched her face up until her ears popped, and then opened them again. She’d missed this. Missed her. “I’m here,” she said. A peck. “I’m here.” Longer, lingering. “I’m here.”

“Nowhere else?” Riven asked, and she sounded too desperate to be teasing.

“Nowhere else,” Irelia said. “I want to be here.” Leaning further, just a little, planting a kiss on Riven’s cheek before lowering her voice to a whisper. “I’ve been dreaming for months about making you mine again.”

She watched Riven melt. Eyes lowering to half-lid, her shoulders dropping, the smallest of whimpers drifting out of her.

A smirk found Irelia. Had she really forgotten how fun this could be - should be? Time may have intensified the longing, but Riven had always been rather sensitive, hadn’t she? Just to test, she leaned in a little further, pressing her chest against Riven’s and nipping at her earlobe. The beautiful little sound she made was almost as good as the embarrassed grumble in her throat when Irelia burst into giggles.

“Needy,” Irelia teased.

“Yours,” Riven groaned; and Irelia was glad her face was obscured from sight to hide the intensity of the heat that hit her cheeks, though there was no hiding the way her breath quickened.

Irelia pushed herself up again and was immediately bombarded with kisses, returning them with gusto, nipping at Riven’s lips. And then Riven started to roll her hips and the very first bit of motion pressed her thigh into Irelia’s crotch and Irelia broke the kiss and bit her lip hard to keep quiet. Oh that felt good. Oh no that felt good.

The thigh-to-thigh position of their legs had been intended to tease Riven – and it seemed to be working well at that, judging by the heat permeating into Irelia’s leg through strained fabric, accompanied by an inconsistent throbbing that made her feel almost lightheaded with need – but Irelia couldn’t deny it had certain consequences as well. With each roll of Riven’s hips, not only could Irelia feel the woman’s dick against her leg through her underwear, but the return stroke brought Riven’s thigh up against Irelia’s clothed cunt, almost bouncing her on her leg, and it shouldn’t have felt this good but it really did.

Her own hips started to move before she noticed, which did have the benefit of getting a choked whine out of Riven – scratch that, even the whine felt electric up Irelia’s spine, and she felt her elbows shudder to the point of buckling again.

“Hold, I, Riven, stop for, just–” A breathless string of words that thankfully got the point across. Riven stopped immediately, and it was only then that Irelia noticed how fast the both of them were breathing.

“What do you need?” Riven asked immediately. “What can I do?”

Still such a sweetheart. Irelia rewarded her with a peck on the lips. “Arms tired. I need to adjust.” One hand on the nearest wall for balance, dragging herself a little bit upright and blessedly away from her self-made pleasure trap, other hand on Riven’s shoulder rather than the mattress. Riven’s own hands shifted from Irelia’s back to her hips; dangerous, but she could manage.

Riven nodded. “Do you want to be on the bottom?”

Oh. Okay no not a chance the thought of Riven pinning her to the bed sent a jolt down her spine that ended in her pussy. “No, that's okay,” she wheezed. Irelia was still in control. She was the one setting the terms. Riven was hers, that’s how this would–

“Please?” Oh no. “I’d...I mean, if you’re up for it, I don’t want to assume but...” Oh no. “I’d really like to make you cum. Please, Rel.”

Irelia closed her eyes and grit her teeth and prayed her body didn’t remember how good that would feel and her body definitely did. “Yeah,” she said, eyes still closed. “Okay. Yes.”

A second passed. “Yes what?”

...no. She was not doing this right now. Irelia opened her eyes to see Riven’s expression halfway to serene with just the tiniest bit of a smirk. “Yes please,” Irelia responded.

Her expression did not change. Just kept on staring up at her with those calm, beautiful eyes. “Yes please what?”

There was no way out of this with her dignity intact, was there? Irelia swallowed hard, and brought herself down onto Riven’s chest, and counted to three in her head, and said the magic words. “Please make me cum, Riven.”

And if Riven hadn’t looked hungry before, that glint in her eyes was ravenous. She shifted and scooted to the side, one arm up and around Irelia’s shoulders to bring her onto her back on the bed in a lurch of motion. She waited for Riven to sit up over her, to pin her down, and...

Kept waiting. Riven was reclining on her side against the wall, at the edge of the mattress, with Irelia flat on her back. One of Riven’s arms was under her shoulders, the other across her stomach. Halfway to spooning. Irelia furrowed her brow, turning her head to find Riven’s gaze.

“Is your arm stuck?” Irelia asked.

Riven shook her head. “Just stay put. You’re right where you should be.”

Did she know what those words did? How they pooled in the pit of Irelia’s stomach?

With her right hand, Riven took Irelia’s own hand to her lips and kissed it, then brought that arm up and over her shoulders so her chest could be flush against Irelia’s side, and Irelia’s hand was against the back of Riven’s neck. Then that right hand went once again back to Irelia’s stomach, to where the hem of her nightdress was riding up, and lower.

“You’re not breathing.”

Irelia breathed.

“Good girl.”

Fuck.

Riven put her hand down against Irelia’s crotch, and Irelia let her head fall back and stopped trying to watch it happen. She felt it. Those fingers dragged up the wet fabric, all the way to her clit, and Irelia whined into her throat, unsure if she felt more relieved or disappointed when the touch lifted only a second later. When she felt Riven’s fingertips against the waistband of her underwear, Irelia’s hips bucked involuntarily at nothing, a little hiss slipping between her teeth.

“Easy,” Riven laughed – she laughed. The sadist. Down danced her fingers, under the waistband–

Irelia’s knees had been up and slightly together, but feeling that single thick, rough middle finger grinding down on her bare clit was enough to drop her thighs to either side as a weezing whimper of barely stifled pleasure was wrenched out of her.

Maybe Irelia wouldn’t admit to herself that she’d longed for Riven’s touch again, but it seemed her body had no such qualms towards such honesty. Her hips were already jittering, a squirm towards chasing that hand in her underwear, chasing the pleasure that wasn't nearly enough for her year-long itch.

“Good girl,” Riven whispered, and another of Irelia’s choked moans followed it. “I didn’t even have to ask, and you spread your legs for me.” For her. For her. For her. If she asked in that husky fucking voice, Riven could probably get her to offer up anything. Everything.

Irelia could almost feel the arousal dripping out of her. No doubt Riven could feel it too, with the way she was running her middle fingertip up and down her weeping vulva, the underside of her knuckle still curling so dizzyingly against Irelia’s clit. Irelia couldn’t breathe but for her whimpering; how could anything be this synapse-frying and still yet not enough!?

“M-m-more,” Irelia managed, barely a word, torn apart by her own half-chattering teeth.

“More, Rel?” Riven asked. So painfully sincere. A flash of those soft amber eyes paled by the light, through the blinding haze of pleasure. “Another finger?”

Irelia nodded, but it left her closer to a convulsion. “In...in me.” And she screwed her eyes closed and clenched her jaw and braced for Riven to provide.

She did not have to wait long. Two thick fingers pushed into her cunt, steadily and slowly all the way into her, and Irelia groaned into her closed mouth, a little slipping through her lips so her left hand clamped over her own mouth, and her back was arched and this had felt good before, a year ago maybe she’d cum on Riven’s fingers a few dozens times over the span of a week, but this fullness was–

“Breathe, Rel.” The sternness of Riven’s voice and the feeling of her hand pulling at Irelia’s knocked a gasp out of her, a whimper soon following, Irelia opening her eyes and turning her head to search for her fault in Riven’s eyes, only to be met with a lingering kiss. “Please,” Riven said, the moment their lips parted. “Please let me hear you. Irelia, please stop holding back. For me, please.”

Magic words. “Riven,” she keened, before the shifting of the woman’s fingers inside her melted whatever apology she could have been mustering. Riven pulled them out to the last knuckle, then pushed back into her, and Irelia could feel her flexing them against the roof of her pussy and a twelve month dam cracked wide open.

“Fuck! Fuck fuck Riven fuck please please more please keep just anything keep fucking me please Riven please–!” Babbling whatever bare coherency she could grasp, with her right hand anchored on the back of Riven’s neck and her left hand flailing desperately for an anchor against the mattress, and Riven just kept pumping her fingers in and out of Irelia’s cunt. “I’m yours please I’m yours I’m yours!” And every word ignited a new set of fireworks, clenching down hard around Riven’s fingers.

“Cum for me Rel, please cum for me.”

Irelia’s gut dropped before she noticed the precipice. Then the orgasm was flattening her lungs and she whimpered out a long breath that rhymed with her lover’s name, and Riven was cooing something sweet and sonorous and peppering Irelia’s face with kisses. Irelia’s entire body was buzzing and warm and tense all at the same time.

The coldness crept in slowly. Little shards of lucidity. The bed beneath her ass felt cold – wet, a word grasped with a growing sense of shame. Her heart was pounding too-loudly in her ears. Little pockets of tenderness were unraveling as the tension drained from her, and swathes of sweat were making themselves known across her skin. Irelia felt beyond winded. Her eyes were prickling and her nose itched. A single wobble of her lip clued the puzzle in.

“Oh, love,” Riven whispered, and the arm around Irelia’s shoulders shifted and she followed the motion into Riven’s embrace. Irelia grasped for fabric on the woman she could not find, something to hold, something to cling to, something to keep her here; the moment those words rang across her skull, the tears flowed freely.

Irelia pressed her face into Riven’s neck and dug her fingers into the muscles on her back and sobbed, and Riven rubbed her back and whispered a constant chain of comforting nothings. “I’m here, I’ve got you, I’m sorry, you’re safe, I love you, I’m here...” and again. And again. And again.

[gayguybln]

19 May 2091 - For many people a normal day but for these three chaps in the prison system of the Federal Republic of Dystopia a life defining day. In some member states of Dystopia verdicts of judges are frames only and the real sentence will be determined at “Prisoner Behaviour Evaluations” (PBE).

Andrew, 28, (top) has his first hearing. He was member of a violent gang and got arrested at the age of 19 and got a sentence for multiple counts of battery, drugdealing and blackmailing. His punishment is: 10 to 70 years in prison, 2 to 5 canings with the cane, 4 to 8 strokes per caning, 180 to 700 days of house arrest after release. He got his first caning one day after his sentence and his second after 5 years of incarceration. After he spoke at the evaluation hearing the members of the evaluation council are deliberating his futures. He’s hoping to be released into house arrest but that isn’t the council’s decision. The council sets his minimum time of incarceration to 15 years and scheduled two more canings with 6 strokes each. They’ll lead him into the caning room. There his evaluation report will be read. There won’t be an option to file objections against this verdict. So he will be tied to the caning rack and his third caning will start immediately. His fourth caning is scheduled for his 33rd birthday. His next evaluation hearing will be scheduled when he completed 14,5 years of incarceration.

Matt, 23, (bottom left) has his first hearing too. He was sentenced for beating a police officer and smashing a beer bottle on another guys head. His sentence frame is 2 to 7 years in prison and 0 to 2 canings with 2 to 4 strokes per caning and 30 to 180 days of supervised house arrest afterwards. Matt is waiting for his report too. He’s in prison now since 21 months so his hopes are high to be released into house arrest after 3 more months and to go without caning. His hopes will be destroyed. They’ll lead him into the caning room and read the final evaluation report: Release after 2,5 years of prison, 2 canings with 4 strokes each and 60 days of house arrest after release. His first caning will be administered immediately, the second one one month before release. He won’t have to meet the evaluation council again and this report is final if he behave well as he did in his first 21 months. 

Vinny, 22, (bottom right) is the hardest case for the evaluation council. He has three children with three women. Despite a good job he refused to pay money for the children. He swore perjury as he pledged under oath that he never had sex with the three women. But all three brought proof that he lied. So he was sentenced to 6 to 18 months in prison, one or two canings with 3 to 8 strokes and a potential vasectomy. He is in prison since one week and the council has to make the final verdict over his future. At first his hearing at the evaluation council was on the right track. He hoped to get away with one year behind bars and with only one caning avoiding the vasectomy. But then the chairwoman of the council provoked him with a few questions and then he exploded. He yelled misogynic slurs against the chairwoman, against the mothers of his children and about women in general. He spat at the chairwoman of the council and kicked the guard who tried to calm him down. After this escalation the council made a decision quickly. The report recommended the judge to increase the frame to 3 years and three canings for post-sentencing misbehaviour. They have set the maximum sentence for him, since the judge's approval of increasing the penalty in Dystopia is just a formality. That means: 3 years in prison, 3 canings with 8 strokes each and the vasectomy. The vasectomy will be adminstred the next day. The canings will be administred on NYE 2091, 2092 and 2093 at 6pm.

[fuckingfinwions]

Tuor is sailing off the coast, a common habit of his now that he lives with Idril in Aman. The seas are especially friendly today; he barely needs to touch the tiller before the currents adjusted to him. He murmurs a prayer of thanks to Lord Ulmo, and then spots a familiar form on the shore. Tuor must be further out to sea than he thought; the form that let Ulmo step over waves seems little larger than an elf.

As Tuor got closer, he sees that Ulmo was not alone. He is holding an elf - perhaps to have a conversation - but then why is the elf so low.

As Tuor approaches the pair, he recognizes Finrod. Firnod is sitting on Ulmo's hands and rubbing his body on Ulmo's dick, since it's too big to fuck.

Ulmo spots Tuor, and leans down to tell Finrod. Finrod turns and grins and waves.

Finrod suggests Tuor wait a few minutes and go next, since the sea is ina a responsive mood today.

Tuor stammers no, y'all have fun.

Finrod says wait, I thought we were both Ulmondil?

Ulmo, still hard and with one giant finger in Finrod's crack, confirms that he would be very interested in surrounding Tuor with pleasure, but it hasn't happened yet. Tuor sails away.

When he pulls ashore to think an hour later, he finds Finrod there. (You can't hide from Ulmo by sailing the seas!)

"I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable, I really thought you'd experienced it."

"No - I'm married! And aren't you?!"

"Yes? Devotion to a Vala is not infidelity; making it physical doesn't change that anymore than devoting your life to one above your spouse does! And Amarie understand; she was a disciple of Nessa in her youth."

"That - no, it can't be something so crude. Ulmo found me for a mission to warn Gondolin, and even though King Turgon didn't believe me, Lord Ulmo still trusted me. It can't have been mere animal lust."

"It's not lust for your body, but respect for your devotion. And Lord Ulmo will not take what you are not willing to give him, there is no need to fear."

"Shouldn't you be sweaty or something, after such a, ah, large, lover?"

"A benefit of loving the lord of the waters is he can clean you with a thought. Something I've learned since I was young and touching myself in a sacred bay."

__

Tuor brings it up with Idril a few days later, not a serious suggestion of course, just a point of confusion on how the Valar interact with elves and Men.

Her reaction is almost too accepting. "My father bared his mind to Lord Ulmo, sharing the intimacy of thoughts rather than bodies. My Uncle Fingon went on a year-long trip in the Pelori, going wherever the breeze guided his steps. He returned with chapped skin and bruises, but those could just have easily come from an accident on the trail, or the small tornado that returned him to Tirion the day before Uncle Angrod's engagement party. It is rude to speak of what your lover likes in bed, and with the Valar that extends to whether they appreciate physical forms at all. But it is no sin to desire them, and breaks no pledge to lay with those the oaths are sworn by."

[mowiwow]

winter (godheim clarence)

spoilers: godheim clarence route

He does not have much to live for.

His parents have forsaken him, many fear him, and his companions have all turned into frozen monsters.

He, too, has become a monster.

The Archmage has seen death more than anybody else. He wanders the snowy tundra even within the spatio-temporal gap. All he has to cling onto are his memories, but it’s cruel, truly—

For he can only remember the frigid cold of an eternal winter. He only knows of the white blanket of death, of the lives trapped beneath an impenetrable layer of ice. He only remembers watching helplessly the first time he realizes the true nature of mages. He only remembers the lives he had to take for the sake of the world—

Footprints buried by snowfall.

All traces of him silently covered up.

What colour, he wonders, is hope? What colour are the flowers that bloom after winter? What colour are the eyes of his old friends?

He doesn’t remember.

An endless expanse. The spatio-temporal gap is not so different, he thinks, from the eternally blank canvas he wandered within Godheim.

(That’s what he tells himself, but his heart aches still.)

(He’s surprised he still has a heart at all that can feel.)

It’s only when the Archmage is truly alone that he makes a key realization—

I miss them.

He misses the playful quips of the lonely emperor, despite having no tolerance for his jokes at the time. He misses his old companions, whom he once shared warm food and drink with. He misses the sweet little girl whose stomach had no limits, the occasional moments of lightheartedness within a place as cruel as the Magi Tower. It’s a place rife with sin and the deepest depths of humanity’s greed but still, they were people who shared his burden.

“May Spring live where you go next,” the Archmage had once said to the mage he had put to rest. And the following, an oath that he cannot keep; “—and may we be reunited once more.”

And…

He misses you.

A tender, gentle warmth. A single flower standing tall and proud despite the relentless onslaught of sleet. The artist who threw themselves into the thick of things, the artist of spring. Hope.

A part of him solemnly wishes he had never met you.

The Archmage had forgotten the warmth of companionship. The warmth of someone whose fate was not looming over their head—

Ah, but that’s not right.

You, the sacrifice, meant to be killed for the sake of a world that you don’t even belong to.

The artist who still had hope. Who had a determination in their eyes to defy fate; someone who has not fallen to the numbing acceptance of their fate. The ghost of a smile forms upon the Archmage’s chapped lips as he draws out your visage within his mind.

The unexpectedly pleasant ticklish sensation of an innocent emotion. One that he cannot put the name to, but one he feels nonetheless.

Nobody bears witness to the softening corners of his eyes, the light sheen that highlights deep, melancholic blues.

(But, of course, he deserves no such happiness. It is not tragic, he thinks. Just a mere matter of fact.)

(The fall still hurt greatly, though. It is rather cruel to show a starving man the promise of a feast only to rip it all way from him.)

Quietly, the Archmage stops walking in the endless, pure white void reminiscent of Godheim’s snowy fields.

Ah, he thinks vaguely. I suppose I am no longer the Archmage.

When he looks up to see the sky, the void stares back unflinchingly.

Clarence, he thinks. His name sounds a little odd in his thoughts. I suppose I am just ‘Clarence’ now.

He’s a little tired.

After living hundreds of years pursuing one specific goal, he is now lost. An aimless wanderer with no clear destination; nothing to fight for. The Archmage’s— no, Clarence’s— head hurts as a barrage of disorganized thoughts fill his mind.

His battle has long since ended (or was it actually not that long ago? Time does not exist here, after all) and he is now reaping the rewards. The fruits of his labour; his reward is eternity.

(Hardly a reward. It’s a punishment, rather; but he isn’t complaining. His sins have gone unpunished for too long, after all.)

(A small voice in the back of his mind cries— "What sin is there in the desire to live?")

(“Everything,” another replies matter-of-factly.)

The feeling of saving a world he has been working tirelessly to save… it’s…

It’s cold.

He has spent all his life with the snow as his cloak. Clarence had forgotten how horribly unpleasant the cold was.

No snow falls. But he feels the sensation of snowflakes lightly falling upon his cheeks, of snowflakes turning dark hair white. But unlike before, he doesn’t move, doesn’t shake the snowflakes off. He remains stagnant, suddenly too tired to lift a limb.

He is rather weary. He’d like to rest.

There is no chilled winds, but he feels the tips of his fingers growing numb all the same. And when he looks down, he thinks he can see his reflection within the ice of a frozen lake.

It seems, Clarence thinks, wordlessly staring out into the endless abyss. There is no horizon to look at, no sun to anticipate in his personal prison of endless winter. I have a lot to remember.

(And as his heart aches inexplicably, he can only stand there quietly in rumination. His tears have long frozen and he no longer has the energy to scream out in pain.)

Well, that’s fine.

He has an eternity to remember everything, after all.

To remember what it’s like to be human.

Maybe he can remember what it is that he lives for.

Though whether or not he can become human once more—

A maple leaf falls and crumbles away somewhere in a world with Spring.

[op-imaginesandmore]

How would Issho/Fujitora, Doflamingo, Smoker, Arlong, and Gin react to their s/o dying in their arms? (human s/o for all of them including Arlong) Sorry there are so many the posts you've made so far I've enjoyed immensely. I love your style of writing! (:

I know it’s been *checks notes* actual years since I have touched this blog, but I kinda wanted to try my hand at a few of the asks I have in my inbox. I’m going to do just Smoker, and with each of the asks with multiple characters I will pick the one I am most comfortable with writing and go from there. I hope you like it! And also, to anyone who reads this and likes it, thank you! But my ask box will remain closed until…idk, probably a long time. I don’t want to get any one’s hopes about about anything.

Pairing: Smoker x GN!reader

Warnings: Angst, character death (you asked for it), mild descriptions of injury, mentions of blood, implied smut (mildest of spice), unbeta’d if that is a warning

***

The OP was supposed to be a simple one. Get in, do reconnaissance, stay under the radar, come back with what info they needed on the pirate crew, get out.

No one thought Big Mom herself was going to recognize Y/N, because you were good at your job. You had been spying for the government for years, you’d worked with Smoker as one of his subordinates, had infiltrated countless pirate crews, revolutionary bases, treasonous scum that thought they could get away with anything, and had always succeeded in your job.

Lay low, go unnoticed, get the info, come back to him. It was a perfectly organized system that was like clock work, each gear turning for the purpose of civilian protection, and justice.

Until now.

Blood soaked the beach he was kneeling on, who’s it was, he had no idea. Could be his, was probably the pirates’ that were scattered around the Vice-Admiral like debris after a storm, but what infuriated him most was it was most definitely yours.

Wheezes, broken and wet, escaped from your lips, swollen eyes looking up into stoic grey that was like looking into twin hurricanes. Anger, righteous and intense, swirled around with frustration, concern, grief, and an emotion you knew from your quiet moments between soft sheets and the hard planes of his body.

So gentle you barely felt it, he lifted you from the sand like something precious, your blood dripping down his arms and pooling beneath your broken body. Your eyes, swollen and bruised, squinted up at him and a soft smile cracked painfully across your lips.

“Hey handsome” you rasped, a cough that was soaked with blood spurting out. Smoker put a large hand through your matted hair, jaw clenching as he tightened his hold on you.

“I’m gonna get you to the ship’s infirmary” he seethed through his teeth, the usual multiple cigars he kept there like pacifiers long gone. He made to get up, but the cry that came from your lips was shrill and heartbreaking. He immediately stopped, holding you to his chest in a hold soft enough for a newborn.

“I know it hurts, but you need-“

“Do you remember Alabasta?”

Smoker stopped, looking down at your broken body that had the audacity to be giving him the smile that always managed to make his heart flutter in his chest like a crushing school girl’s. He swallowed thickly, not trusting his voice and opting for a nod.

“You were such a baby about Strawhat, I thought you were going to implode when he had his crew mate save your life.” You reached a trembling hand to his face, stroking the rough stubble of his jaw. Almost involuntarily, Smoker leaned into the soft touch, turning his head to kiss your palm as memories of their time on the desert island came to mind.

It had been the first time you had ever yelled at him, calling him reckless and blind. Telling him you were thankful for Strawhat, grateful he had saved his “stupid, sorry, ass” so you had the chance to give him a piece of your mind. He had retaliated with a practiced speech about being your superior, about how you should worry more about your job than what he was doing, how you shouldn’t talk to him like that.

Then you had the nerve to yell at him that you didn’t have a choice but to worry about him. When he yelled at you back about the why, instead of answering him you kissed him square on the mouth.

Their first kiss was in the moment, it was all teeth clacking and sudden and Smoker had been blindsided, but also hadn’t been. The two of you had been flirting with the line between officer and government agent for months at that point, subtle glances and bold, shameless flirting on your part had morphed into soft and subtle touches and hours of listening to you talk about everything and anything.

When the shock of it had worn off a second after you started kissing him, he hadn’t expected for himself to kiss you back. He had adjusted your chin, softened the kiss, and wrapped his arms possessively around your waist and lifted you, your legs wrapping around his own waist in a way that sent chills down his spine as he carried you to his desk. He set you down upon it, gentle as can be, but your legs stayed around his waist, his hips grinding into yours in a way that had him growling. Your lips had been like soft, plush, velvet on his own chapped ones, tongue sinful in its exploration, running against his to beg for entrance.

The two of you broke apart, you were panting, your face flush as you put your head on his chest and listened to the quick thumping of his heart. He smelled like a cigar, a hint of sweet fruit in a haze of earth and smoke that always managed to make your head spin. A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you licked the taste of him from them.

“I worry about you because I care about you Smoker” you looked up at him, your eyes twinkling in the soft glow of the sunlight coming in through the porthole of his cabin “probably more than what’s appropriate for a working relationship, but I don’t want to hide it anymore.” You put your hand on his face, stroking the apple of his cheek in a way no one had ever dared touch him before “if you don’t want this though, we can stop right now and never talk about it a-“

Smoker was kissing you again, softer but with a passion that turned your whole body into jelly that molded into his. It was brief, too brief for your liking but he was looking at you with a smoldering gaze that promised more.

“We do this, we tell no one.” He said with conviction “I can’t have my subordinates thinking I have favorites, and fraternizing could get me and you in a lot of trouble.”

You nodded, understanding alighted in your eyes as you coyly bit your kiss swollen bottom lip.

“If that means I get to see your smoke powers at work in the bedroom, I’ll take an oath of silence”

He felt his body react, his hardened length against your thigh making you squeeze your legs together, bringing him impossibly closer.

Smoker’s chest tightened at the memory.

“I’m glad” you said, swollen gaze growing distant “that it all happened the way it did. The last year and a half has been the best of my life” another cough, violent and cracking in its intensity that it had you whimpering into Smokers chest, and his eyes were burning with the tears that were inevitable now.

“Y/N-“ Smoker started, the deep rumble of his voice cracking “baby, you’re gonna be fine, let’s just-“ he took a breath, steeling himself to try and lift you up again, but your head falling limp against his chest stopped him, made the breath leave his lungs and, for the first time in a very long time, Smoker felt true terror grip his careful self control.

“Y/N?” His voice, so unlike the commanding bass it usually was, soft and broken as the body he held “Y/N? Sweetheart c’mon, wake up” he shook you, your head lolling to one side and then the next awkwardly, before it rested back on his chest and Smoker realized your uneven breathing had stopped, the rasping, painful breaths gone quiet and the only sounds to be heard on the bloodied beach were Smoker’s own uneven hyperventilating “Y/N please! You-you can’t do this! Baby, c’mon-open those pretty eyes, please! Y/N? Y/N!”

He held on tight to your body as he slowly broke down, the tears running rivers down his face that had smudges of your blood on it from holding your body up to it, his face buried into your hair as if he could revive you if he held on a little tighter, begged a little harder to whatever god or devil would listen. His cries broke through the silence, their only companion the lapping of water against the sand and gore. He rocked back and forth, clinging to your lifeless body like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

That was how Tashigi found her Vice-Admiral, sobbing into your hair as he begged you to wake up. Her heart shattered into a million pieces, but she had to keep him moving, had to remind him of the duty he still held.

“Vice-Admiral Smoker?” She breathed, caution in her tone, heartbreak threatening to pull her under when his breath caught. He looked up at Tashigi with a tsunami of emotions that she had never seen him display. Heartbreak and grief worked in tandem to make the ever stoic and statuesque officer crumble to his knees.

“I’ve gathered the survivors of our platoon, we’re awaiting your orders, sir”

There was a pregnant pause that seemed to stretch for an eternity, Smoker looking down at his dead lover, the emotions that had been raging across his face draining from his being, and was replaced once again with the careful stoicism that his position required of him.

He got up slowly, you still cradled against his chest as he looked out at the horizon. It was another long moment before he spoke.

“We bury our dead, then we take the fight to the one who started this.” There was a fury in his words that struck fear into Tashigi, a fear for how reckless her Vice-Admiral was about to be against a Yonko.

“But Smo-“

“Did I fucking stutter?” He whipped his head around, the grey of his eyes burning with an unbridled rage that seemed barely contained “I’m not gonna rest until every last piece of filth that carries the name of Charlotte are wiped from every ocean from the East Blue to Raftel.” He glanced down at the body in his arms, a soft, broken look before the rage hit again.

“They’re gonna pay for what they’ve taken, I’ll make sure of it personally.”

[bruhstories]

Vogel und Jäger

Summary: You accidentally witness a murder, but the murderer takes pity on you. Pairing: Zeke Jaeger x Fem!Reader (mafia AU) Warnings & Content: murder, language, angst Word Count: 1.7 k

A/N: i've been dying for a mafia au with zeke so here's part one of the series Vogel und Jäger. i have two more chapters drafted, and i'll try to post for this series weekly so i can write some moooore for it.

Bang!

The blood-curling sound was familiar to your ears. A gunshot — followed by the gurgling of a man.

Bang!

Another shot and the gurgling stopped. Panic settled in your heart, making you jump back and knock the metallic bin which served as a shield against the perpetrators.

Shit.

Footsteps drew closer and you began to pray. Running was futile. Running was always futile. Your throat was dry, your mascara was smeared all over your cheeks from all the tears, lips chapped and bleeding.

Our Father, who art in Heaven...

The cold muzzle of the gun pressed onto your forehead and you shivered, breath hitching, eyes glued to the wet pavement.

Hollowed be thy name...

The Mafia never spared any witnesses, you knew that all too well, even if you happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

Thy Kingdom come...

"Hey, boss, we got a girl."

"Kill her."

"No, please!" You threw yourself at the feet and mercy of the armed man. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! Please, I'm only nineteen!" Through the sobs, your voice was still melodious, syrupy. So sweet that the boss stopped in his tracks.

Thy will be done...

Another pair of footsteps approached, tentatively, not as eager as the first person. You still haven't looked up, too scared to even blink, to even breathe.

On earth, as it is in Heaven...

"Hand me the gun, Yelena."

"As you wish, boss."

You felt someone crouch down next to you, someone dressed in expensive clothing, by the look of the trousers and polished shoes.

Give us this day our daily bread...

"You've got a very pretty voice." He lifted your chin up with the barrel of the gun, chills running down your spine.

"T-thank y-you..."

"Can you sing, little bird?"

"Y-yes."

And forgive us our trespasses...

Finally, you looked at the perpetrator — spellbinding grey eyes, platinum blonde hair slicked back and a matching goatee. His gaze was either boring or pitiful.

"Lucky you, we're hiring."

As we forgive those who trespass against us...

Anxiety coiled in your stomach, words caught up in your throat. You were still praying, unaware if this was all a sadistic joke or a miracle.

And lead us not into temptation...

Dark lashes fluttered, more tears streaming down your beautiful face as the gears in your head turned in a desperate attempt to understand what was happening.

But deliver us from evil...

"Hiring?" Your voice went up an octave when you saw the small stag pinned to the man's chest. The Jaeger family — the most feared mafia family in Paradis City.

For thine is the kingdom...

"A pretty voice like yours shouldn't go to waste." He got up and offered you his hand.

And the power, and the glory...

Reluctantly, you took it, helping yourself up and chewing your lower lip.

For ever and ever...

"T-thank you!" You told him, slender fingers squeezing his hand tightly. "I owe you m-my life."

Amen.

"Correct. Your life, your soul, your eyes and ears." He walked you to a car and opened the door for you. "Yelena, take us to the club. We've got business to discuss with my little brother."

•°.•°.•°.•°

Your eyes wandered all over the soundproof office, situated one floor above and opposite the stage. Every inch of the bar, the seating areas, everything was visible from that room. You tapped a finger on the wide window, eyes narrowed at the idea that it might, in fact, be bulletproof. These men were not playing, and you were now their property. The door opened and you jolted at the sound of music filling the office as your saviour walked in with two other people.

"This is my younger brother, Eren. You already know Yelena. I assume you know my name."

You nodded.

"Zeke Jaeger."

"Good girl." Zeke was pleased with your answer as he poured himself a glass of bourbon.

"I thought we didn't spare any witnesses." Eren shot you a look that made you regret being alive.

"Settle down, little brother. Tell us your name."

"Y/N, sir. Y/N Y/L/N." You swallowed, fingers fiddling with the hem of your blouse in an attempt to calm your nerves.

"You see, Eren, Y/N can sing." Zeke opened a drawer and pulled a gun out. More guns, more panic. Your eyes widened and your plump lips quivered when he aimed the gun at you with one hand, glass of alcohol in the other. "Sing or I paint the walls with your brains."

Your legs almost gave in at the threat — you knew it wasn't an empty one, and with all the courage you could muster, you closed your eyes and sang the first song that came to your mind, fucking Kiss from a Rose.

Your voice seemed to coat the people with honey, all three of them somewhat relaxing at the sweet sounds coming from your vocal cords.

"See, I told you she can sing." Zeke put the gun back in the drawer and closed it, swirling the bourbon in his glass before finishing it.

"Where do you live?" Eren crossed his arms, still suspicious of you.

"Historia's." You told him, eyes drifting to the ugly fur rug on the floor.

"The orphanage?"

"Yes."

"But you said you're nineteen." Zeke intervened, a brow quirked at you.

"I am. I try to help as much as possible in exchange for a bed and a roof over my head." You explained, eyeing the white couch that looked so incredibly comfortable.

"Just sit down already." Eren scoffed and you rushed to the furniture, mumbling thank you’s over and over.

"And why were you on that street tonight?" Yelena spoke for the first time since you came to the club. You looked at her and she seemed just as suspicious about you as Eren.

"I... the man you k-killed... he was... I'm-"

"A prostitute." Zeke nonchalantly interrupted you.

It was true. People like you, orphans, didn't have the privilege of being properly educated and finding well-paid jobs. Paradis was a jungle, and you did everything you could to survive. Everything.

"Well on the bright side you don't have to do that anymore." Zeke shrugged as he sunk deeper in his chair, feet on the desk, but you sensed he wasn't entirely honest. "You do have a beautiful voice, and our last girl had some... business to attend to, so you'll be taking her place."

"Is this why you called me here?" Eren sighed, leg impatiently shaking.

"Don't be stupid, of course not. I need Armin to prepare this month's tax reports and I need you to keep an eye on the police. They're sticking their nose in our business again, and I want them out of it. You two can go. Y/N, you stay." Zeke waved his hand and Eren and Yelena left, music briefly filling the office again.

You twiddled with the cushion in your lap, waiting for your new boss to say something. Being in that room was nerve-wracking, and you felt the air grow thick. Eventually Zeke took off his glasses, fingers rubbing the bridge of his nose as he sighed.

"Sir?" You dared, voice feeble and frail.

"What?" He clicked his tongue and you instantly regretted speaking.

"Sir, I'm not educated, but I've been on the streets long enough to know that every man or woman has a purpose..." You placed the cushion back. "...and a price. What's my purpose? I doubt it's only to sing."

Zeke nodded, fingers tracing the wooden desk.

"You're right, it isn't just to sing. It's to distract."

"Distract who? And from what?"

"You're asking an awful lot of questions for someone who's just witnessed a murder. You best not go to the police." He narrowed his eyes, piercing your soul. You sighed and walked to the desk, taking a seat opposite Zeke.

"It's not... my first murder." You confessed to him.

"Oh? My dear, you're full of surprises. Pray, tell. Drink?"

"Yes please." You answered, throat dry as a desert. "I can't go to the police. And even if I could, I wouldn't." The drink earned a disgusted look from you, but it was better than nothing. "Two years ago, I ended someone's life. He deserved it, he broke into Miss Historia's orphanage and tried to... to..."

"I understand." Zeke stopped you. "And if you go to the police, they'd do a background check on you." He continued, satisfied that he had a leverage in case you decided to turn against him.

"Exactly. And Historia helped me so much, I wouldn't want to put her in danger. So, I'm asking again, distract who from what?"

Zeke walked to the window, telling you to follow him. He pointed at two men, a tall blond one, and a short brunette one.

"See those two? They're policemen. They work for us, but we suspect they're double agents." He explained before pointing at three other men. "Those we suspect of being Marleyan mobsters. You see, Y/N, we have a lot of enemies. And we must keep our guard up every second of our lives."

You nodded, perfectly understanding Zeke's words. Paradis was a chess board and only the filthy rich played — the rest of you were pawns.

"Sir, you spared my life, and I know I can't ask for anything in return. But please, please don't drag Miss Historia into this. The children there did nothing wrong." Tears pooled at your eyes, rolling down your cheeks and you wiped them with the back of your hand. "I swear my loyalty to you."

"For someone uneducated, you're extremely clever." Zeke's voice was serious. You half-smiled at the compliment, but you knew the mess you got yourself into cut your lifespan severely. "Can you shoot?"

"No, sir."

"It's alright, Mikasa will teach you. Sleep on the couch tonight, I'll have Yelena bring you a blanket. Tomorrow you'll swear an oath in front of the family. And if you want to protect Historia, you'll move out of the orphanage."

You nodded. You understood that mingling with the mafia endangered everyone you loved, but you couldn't stop yourself from crying the entire night. Historia was but a few months older than you, yet she gladly took you in when she invested in that orphanage. Now you had to leave everything behind for her safety — and yours.

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

In My Dreams Tonight

for @chaotic-bard who asked me for some fluff!

have a soulmates that dream about each other au featuring both a modern au and the canon universe!

brought to you by “Dreams Tonite” by Alvvays

---

“You’re nothing but trouble, bard,” the tall man glared from atop his horse. He always seemed to be glaring or glowering or huffing, the man in Jaskier’s dreams. The familiar stranger wore his long white hair pulled halfway back and he had golden eyes, the pupils of which were slit up the center like a cat’s. His name, Jaskier had learned after the third straight week of seeing him every night, was Geralt of Rivia. A Witcher, apparently, whose job it was to hunt down monsters.

“Ah, but what a lovely piece of trouble I am!” Jaskier replies. And he’s rather sassy himself in these dreams. Far more clever and ready to fight than he is when he’s awake. “You would miss me if I left, wouldn’t you, Geralt?”

“Hmm.”

The stranger hums a lot. He glares and he hums. Jaskier’s heart stutters frightfully in his chest whenever the man smiles, though. The sight is rare. Geralt has smiled perhaps three times in the past two months.

“Where are we going today?”

“Werewolf outside of town. You’re staying at the inn, where I know you can’t get into… nevermind. You can get into trouble anywhere.”

There’s a lightly teasing tone to the stranger’s voice that Jaskier hasn’t really heard before. He likes it. He craves more of it. He tosses and turns in his sleep, his skin damp with sweat. The dream goes on.

“Geralt, please,” he whines, “I can’t write ballads about monsters I haven’t seen! Or fights I did not attend! That’s lying to my audience, Geralt, and I simply won’t do it. I must go with you.”

“Drop it, Jaskier,” the man snarls. Jaskier feels sad. Incredibly sad.

Rejected?

“Gera-”

“I said drop it, bard.”

Jaskier wakes up feeling a little heartbroken and he yearns to be held. His pillow holds the fading scents of leather and wood-smoke. The sight of a pine sapling at the dog park makes him tear up.

He starts to wear the color yellow out of nowhere and his taste in jewelry switches from gold to silver. 

When his best friend asks him about the recent changes, he cannot answer.

---

Geralt pours himself a mug of tea and shakes his hair out of his face. He’s been having odd dreams lately, things that feel familiar but manage to stay just out of his conscious grasp. Someone important is waiting for him. Someone he love and cares about and needs. 

Geralt doesn’t really buy into the concept of soulmates, but he does understand instinct. He knows to trust his gut. He knows to listen and start paying attention when the same haunting blue eyes creep into his dreams every night for six months, plaguing him in the waking hours by refusing to give up their owners’ identity. 

He wipes a hand down his face and sighs loudly into the otherwise empty studio apartment. “Fuck me, I gotta figure this shit out. I gotta talk to Yen.”

Talking to himself has always helped him calm down. He does it again, just to hear his own low voice scraping through the silence. 

“I gotta see what’s going on with my head. These dreams are… getting to be a bit much, even for me.”

He nods to no one in particular and goes to text his best friend and coworker.

---

Jaskier hops off the bus and carries his guitar case down to the coffee shop on the corner. Finally, he’s managed to get a gig that wasn’t through the university.

He sets up his stuff in the tiny alcove the shop treats as a stage and watches as a few customers stroll around near the counter, waiting for their drinks or reading through the menu, hovering just far away enough from the line to keep others from growing confused.

He loves people watching. 

Once everything is ready to go and the light outside the window has dimmed a bit, indicating early evening has finally arrived, he pulls his guitar onto his lap and strums through a few quick chords.

“Rode here on the bus,

Now you're one of us.

It was magic hour,

Counting motorbikes on the turnpike;

One of Eisenhower's.”

 “Live your life on a merry-go-round;

Who starts a fire just to let it go out?”

He watches a particularly handsome man with broad shoulders and a vintage denim jacket approach the counter. Jaskier adds a haunting, well-practiced lilt to his voice as he goes into the chorus, hoping to get his attention:

“If I saw you on the street,

Would I have you in my dreams tonight?

If I saw you on the street,

Would I have you in my dreams tonight, tonight?”

An equally beautiful woman with long, curly black hair approaches the denim-clad angel and whisks him towards a table nearby. She settles with her back to Jaskier, leaving him with a decent view of the man’s sharp, lightly stubbled jaw, glittering eyes, and severe white ponytail. He’s gorgeous.

He’s also uncomfortably familiar.

Jaskier continues to perform, trying to identify his attractive mystery man the whole time and failing miserably.

---

“He’s everywhere, Yen. I feel like I could identify him by scent if I got close enough. I can’t remember his name, though. Or the color of his hair. I don’t know his face, only his eyes. It’s driving me crazy.”

“Have you talked to Dr. deStael about it?”

“Yeah, but she said this kind of thing is normal. Recurring dreams often help us sort out our trauma or something like that. I don’t know. I don’t feel traumatized by this guy I feel… protective of him. Maybe even like I love him?”

“Hmm.”

“Hey, that’s my line.”

“Shut up for a minute, this live music actually slaps and I want to listen to it. Then we can discuss your weird possessive tendencies towards your dream boyfriend.”

Geralt takes a slow sip of his coffee and glances up at the singer off to their left, perched on a barstool with his guitar held carefully on his lap. His voice is soft but somehow bright. Geralt finds himself utterly entranced.

“On the weird guitar;

Said you'd go to work

In the waking hour.

In fluorescent light,

Antisocialites watch a wilting flower.”

 “Live your life on a merry-go-round;

Who builds a wall just to let it fall down?”

The lyrics are strange and hold a dream-like quality to them. They draw a picture in Geralt’s head, something dark and heavy and oddly hollow. He has another sip of coffee and tries to ignore the feeling of panic welling up inside him. He glances at Yennefer to see if she’s picked up on his mood, but her violet eyes are focused on the singer and his nimble fingers as he continues to play and sing.

When he glances up towards their table and their eyes meet, Geralt loses the ability to breathe.

That shade of cornflower blue was…

Couldn’t be…

Had to be…

The gorgeous, feathery tenor continues to fill the air, whirling pleasant notes past his ears and deep into his subconscious. Geralt knows that voice. He’s heard this man laugh and sing and cry and scream a thousand different times. Through a handful of different lives. Geralt knows that face, those hands, those strong legs and long arms and blue fucking eyes. He’s held this singer in his arms every night for centuries, feeling his breathing as they both drift off to sleep.

He has protected this man and been protected by him in return. He has kissed and been kissed, caressed and been caressed. The two men sitting across from each other in the coffee shop physically embody an endless cycle of love. It has been bound up in the souls of two no-longer strangers. Geralt knows that he knows this man. 

He knows Jaskier.

Petal pink lips continue to form soft words and slender hands keep plucking at vibrating guitar strings:

“Don't sit by the phone for me,

Wait at home for me, all alone for me.

Your face was supposed to be

Hanging over me, like a rosary.”

Geralt stands suddenly, startling Yennefer but not the performer, even though he’s clearly just as shocked as Geralt about this recent development.

Their mutual realization.

“So morose for me,

Seeing ghosts of me,

Writing oaths to me,

Is it so naïve to wonder…”

Geralt crosses the room to the edge of the stage in three quick strides. Yennefer is close behind him, her latte just as abandoned as his coffee at their table. She grabs her friend’s arm as if to stop him from doing something violent, but when he doesn’t struggle against her grip she lets it go again easily. 

“Geralt?” the musician asks.

“Jaskier?” Geralt replies. The guitar is placed quickly to the side and a pair of incredibly familiar arms are thrown around the taller man’s neck. Geralt hugs back just as firmly, his arms flung low around the brunette’s waist. Geralt knows that this is Jaskier’s favorite way to be embraced; he doesn’t know how he’s aware of that fact, but it comes to the front of his mind clear as day. 

“Holy shit,” Jaskier breathes, leaning back to stare Geralt in the face. One of his string-calloused fingers traces down over Geralt’s eyelid and cheek and he cocks his head to the side. “No scar?”

“No,” Geralt shakes his head. “Not this lifetime, I guess.”

“Were we? Are we- are we, you know...?”

“Yeah,” Yen beams, adding her two cents from the sidelines. “I think so. Congrats, boys. This is one of those one in a million chances and you’ve gone and done it.”

“Done what?” Geralt asks. Jaskier tosses his head back and laughs. His happiness rings out through the cafe like a struck bell and Geralt’s heart stutters frantically. He really does love this man already. Wholeheartedly and without fear. “What have we done, Yen?”

“As obtuse now as you were then,” Jaskier chides affectionately. “Soulmates, my love. We’ve been bound by the red string of fate and ta-da! Here we are. Again, apparently.”

“Yes, okay,” Geralt breathes, nosing his way along Jaskier’s jaw with giddy determination. He presses a quick and wholly welcome kiss to the bard’s lips. “That makes sense.”

 “Do you... do you want me again? This time around?” Jaskier asks, fingers fiddling with one of the ties on Geralt’s hoodie. A pair of chapped lips press against his again and he sighs into it, melting against his no-longer-Witcher. 

“Yes. And the next one, as well.”

[kyotarou]

KISS ME GOODBYE

pairing: daishou suguru x gn!reader

genre: angst, smidge of fluff, historical au

warnings: major character death, mentions of blood, war, death, and vomiting

word count: 1.1k+

dedicated to: the lovely @oikirstein​ and @hajigumi​. i hope you both cry <3 

You were used to seeing men like this—bloody, bludgeoned, and hanging onto their last breath. The first time you were sent as a medic on the battlefield, you nearly vomited from the sight and the horrendous smell. Even worse was the agonized cries of men who swore they’d return home from war only to lie on a cot made of wood and linen, tears running down their dirtied faces, praying to the higher powers to grant them one last chance.

After months of the same sights over and over again, you grew accustomed to these painful circumstances, but the soldier you tended to now was a bit of an oddball. Rather than glassy eyes and dry wails, a coy smile remained on his face even as you pulled bits of metal and wood from his damaged skin. His scuffed iron and bronze armor lay at the foot of the cot, covered in mud, blood, and vines.

Daishou read his family crest, gold and shiny under all the grub. He didn’t once scream or yell as you pressed a clean cloth to the gash on his side where a sword had gone through, nor did you hear any prayers or pleads fall from his lips. You didn’t expect him to turn his head towards you, watching you treat him with delicacy. You didn’t care for the stares you received from these men, numb to their wistful eyes, but something about his gaze made goosebumps rise on your skin despite the humidity of the camp.

If it weren’t for the war, you could picture the type of man he’d be. Young, charming, and cunning. The snake-like features that appeared once you wiped the sweat and soot from his face made your heart skip a beat, and it was then that you realized he was no older than you were. You grimaced; he should’ve been out living his life, not fighting the battles of the so-called leaders who promised safety if the nation worked themselves to death.

As you reached for the medicine on your work table, the gentle weight of his fingertips fell upon your wrist. You hummed in response, and the sight of his eyes, now dark compared to how bright they were earlier, made a lump form in your throat.

“Don’t,” he murmured. “It’s okay.”

You raised a brow, brushing off his words as a product of his head injury, but his hand wrapped yours, tighter now.

“Don’t,” he repeated. “Save it for someone else.”

You glanced around the camp, noting the other medics tending to the dozens of other soldiers. Most of them were in the same condition as he was, worse even, and you couldn’t think of anyone else to use the last of your resources on. What shocked you more was the fact that he even offered, compared to the previous soldiers you’ve had who begged for a little more ointment, a bit of gauze, or a drop of liquor to soothe the pain.

But Daishou pulled your hand away from your kit and kept it close to his chest where you felt the slow, faint beating of his heart. The longer you stayed, the weaker the beats became. You had a job to do, an oath you swore upon taking the job. There was no way you could let him die, not when the troops were growing smaller, and he had barely reached his twenties. Yet you couldn’t pull away, the gentle smile on his face locking your line of sight with his.

“Daishou-”

“Suguru,” he jumped in. “Call me Suguru.”

“Suguru.” Though you had only known him for less than an hour, his given name flowed naturally off your tongue, like it had been in your vocabulary for years. 

“That sounds better,” he sighed. “I like it when you say it.”

“You don’t even know me or my name,” you snorted to which he smirked. 

“Then tell me.”

You huffed. “L/N Y/N, and don’t you dare call me by my given name.”

“Y/N,” Suguru parroted. “That’s a nice name for a nice-looking medic.”

“Are you trying to flirt with me while you’re on the brink of death?” Your eyes widened as your teeth clamped down on your tongue. “Oh no, I’m so sorry. I didn’t-”

“��S okay,” he laughed, voice weaker than it was minutes ago. You had to crane down to hear him, your ear grazing over his lips. “It’s inevitable now. I will say this is quite intimate, though.” 

Heat bloomed across your cheeks, equivalent to the glimmering sun that rose above the top of the camp’s tent. 

“Say,” Suguru whispered. “As a dying man, I’d like to have one last wish fulfilled.”

“Oh?” You leaned back to look at his handsome face, idly brushing away the strands of hair strewn over his bruised forehead. “What might that be?”

“A kiss from the medic sitting beside me before I go.”

If the request had come from anyone else, you would’ve fought the urge to crinkle your nose in disgust. But something about these last few moments with a man you barely knew, how he managed to share a handful of laughs and charm himself into your heart before his would stop beating made you tip your head down until your soft lips pressed against his rough, chapped ones. You didn’t care if he tasted like salt and blood, or if this would be the next topic of discussion at dinner—you hoped to bring Suguru some peace of mind in his final moments, especially if they were with you.

As your mouth moved against his (he was idle by then), the tears unknowingly clumped in your lashes fell down your hot face, down to his cheeks that began to lose their warmth. This was the job you chose, you reminded yourself. Suguru was one of many soldiers whose stories ended before they began, and he wouldn’t be the last. Once you sat up again, his eyelids covered most of his irises, but you could still see the playful shimmer in them before it faded.

“Thank you, Y/N” he murmured, keeping your hand against his chest. “Thank you.”

He gave his final breath as his heartbeat faded until there was nothing left to feel. It was after you laid the honorary white cloth over his body, adorned with gold trim, and carried his armor to the basin of water outside the camp that you let yourself weep. You wept as you scrubbed the grime away, polishing it for his parents who couldn’t see their son’s face for the last time. You wept until it pained your throat, and your lungs burned with each breath, for the tears you spilled would be the first of many for the young soldier whose final moments lay in your hands.