#nor do i want them to take my burdens from me to carry as their own
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I think what I need is someone in my life who will give me comfort and reassurance not just without me asking, but before I even get to the point where I feel like I need to ask. I want to feel understood well enough that they know without me saying it. Or maybe I just want to feel safe enough with another person that I can feel comfortable asking for it.
I don't think I've ever felt safe or comfortable and now I don't really know how to. Those were luxuries I have not been afforded in this life.
#and like#I don't mean these things in the sense of#needing someone to be my mother or therapist#nor do i want them to take my burdens from me to carry as their own#I don't want to put anything on people like that#but rather in the sense that#I have always held that space for others#I have given comfort and reassurance freely#to anyone who needed it#but nobody has ever really done the same for me
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𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𝒄𝒘: sexual content ahead, husband!bale!batman, fem!reader on top, riding, some dirty talk, soft sex, not my best writing but fr fr don’t come for me im just trying to post things okay? ahhhhhhh 😔🤚🏻 maybe some typos 😚 i oughta be ashamed of myself fr fr 😔😔🤚🏻🤚🏻 ₊˚⊹♡
₊˚⊹♡ 𝒃𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆; eccentric billionaire, former eligible bachelor, orphan boy, son, rich playboy.
Labels. These were all just labels Bruce never particularly cared for nor paid attention to, monickers used to try and simplify who he really was so he could be easier understood. Labels used to better classify him because rich men like him supposedly didn’t have depth or purpose beyond what the media claimed him to have.
They were just labels, words that barely scratched the surface of who he really was.
Bruce had been called many things in his life, too many awful and offensive things he had quickly learned not to pay attention to. Caring gave them meaning, he was told so early on, caring gave them significance. Now, he really couldn’t care less.
Throughout the course of his life, throughout all the tragedy and grief, Bruce had learned to ignore it all; the names, the judgments, the looks, the labels. His indifference had become second nature, an innate response to anybody trying to provoke him.
He didn’t really have a choice anyway. There were too many people praying on his downfall since his birth, too many people biting at the fruits of his labor to see if they were ripe enough for the taking. Selfish, greedy, money hungry men desperate for his demise.
Sharks lurking in untamed depths ready to snatch him up if he swam too far, hiding in the black shores with their sharp teeth bared and beady eyes hungry.
Despite what many people believed, Bruce didn’t have it so easy in the sense of work and spirit. When you were rich like he was, famous like he was, as powerful as he was, everyone believed you couldn’t possibly be burdened by anything.
That he was too spoiled by the grandness of life that it had gradually bled into a lack of work ethic, that it was his last name that gave him any status at all, that it was his reputation that gave him everything he had without him having to ask for it.
He had the money to fix any problem, the influence to hide any scandal, the face to get him out of any situation he needed to get out of.
He was CEO of Wayne Enterprises for gods sake, son to Thomas Wayne, a man that was great and beloved all in his own right. Yes, people had doubted Bruce’s ability to lead, to run a business after so long of being away from it, but then he came back and proved them all wrong as he usually did.
Being someone so honorably renowned in Gotham City, someone that carried the Wayne name at that, it came with its own barrel of familial obligation and responsibility outside of his own personal commitments. He couldn’t disappoint anyone, could never fathom disappointing his late father.
Working by day a normal man with a bullet on his back, a price on his head to any hungry buisness man willing to do whatever it took to get to the top. Then working by night as Batman with the bruises and scars to show for it. Someone every criminal and lowlife in Gotham City wanted dead.
Batman, not so much a label as he was a separate being entirely. It was Bruce, but he couldn’t find any similarities between the polite buisness man wearing a suit by day and the other man wearing a blood stained mask by night. One was forced to coerce with society in the manner of business and passive aggressive smiles, another undertaking the grueling task of removing the grime from it.
Bruce Wayne was all expensive cologne and hand shake deals, money hungry tabloids and self absorbed white collars. It was a life always on display, always the center of attention, always everyone else’s focus.
Batman was purely mystery and intrigue. Hidden from sight yet found in every shadow, heard in the trembled whisper of every breath. No one knew who he was yet he had somehow gotten all of their attention. Everyone eager to know who was behind the mask but no one ready to answer for why he existed in the first place.
The only similarities they shared were the cause for conspiracy. Whether it was Bruce or Batman they stole every headline — always someone trying to figure them out, bring their true identity to light and spread more moral quandary about whether they were right or wrong for every choice they made.
Pure opposite lives he juggled in the same two hands.
No, he did not have it easy. Always more enemies than friends and more snakes than family. Every hour, every minute, every second he spent left exposed there was always someone right behind him ready to push him if he faltered.
He had to be careful; always be passive and nice, diplomatic and respectful to those he knew wanted him gone, to the people who wanted his seat at the head of the table and the money in his bank. Bruce had to be the CEO his father wanted him to be, the one he was destined to be, the one etched into his history before he was even born.
He had a reputation to uphold, a legacy to live, a job to do.
But no, it was not always easy.
Being rich and handsome like he was did have its downsides, as meager as they may seem to less fortunate individuals. Many people hated Bruce Wayne just for those simple, superficial things alone. His looks, his status, his job he was so rightfully given. Apparently this made him an asshole, arrogant, narcissist.
It was looks of hatred and envy from men he’d never even met, women he’d abandoned after a steamy two hour hookup (not that he did those anymore but women loved to hold a grudge), businessmen who cursed him to hell and back for his amount of wealth and fame he had no control over.
He didn’t care about these people anyway. These rambunctious, single minded people who preyed on the weak and ate the hopeless. They were all self centered, arrogant, narcissistic. Self absorbed scum unwilling to put in the hard work necessary to be as successful as he was.
On the opposite side of the spectrum, Bruce was often regarded as someone lonely, someone lost, someone desolate and pitiful. He was a coward, hiding in his soulless black mansion under thick piles of money ever since the fatal death of his parents. So sad, an orphan, just depressing.
That was hushed whispers behind his back and somber stares, awkward, harrowing smiles from coworkers and the front pages of newspapers. Bruce Wayne back from hiding after all this time… living on his father’s name… will he fail or carry on the legacy of the great Wayne fortune… yada yada yada.
Just more words. Pointless and purposeless, written to appease the swill of Gotham with no real substance behind them. Gossip, false news, attention grabbing headlines that were purely speculation.
However, as much as he hated labels — more so his — whatever names he got called behind his back, Bruce couldn’t find it in sensible reason to argue that they weren’t pieces of who he really was. Fabrics of his character torn out thread by thread and poked and needled at by societies curious hands.
They were just pieces, stretched and torn so far from the truth but yet the original strings were still there, hanging on in remembrance of what he truly was chaotically intertwined in the lies and deception of what people thought him to be. Too shredded to be properly understood but still thriving in the undercurrents of whatever he was now being labeled as and people were now foolishly believing him to be.
Yes, they were just labels. But labels that were not so far from factual truths.
However again, none of those words mattered to him as much as this did, as much as the one label that he truly cared about.
Husband.
Your husband.
The only title he held in the same esteem as Batman and Wayne Enterprises CEO, perhaps even higher. It was one of the only labels that carried a semblance of true meaning, one he didn’t shy from.
Husband. It was the only honorific that mattered to him, one of the only sentiments that made him feel actual pride in who he was. Husband was something real, concrete, not some anonymous opinion in a paper or a cruel murmur in a hallway.
It was the label that pierced him through and through especially in moments like this, moments when your hips were rolling deeply on top of his and he was buried balls deep inside your warmth.
He couldn’t think about anything in this moment. Nothing and everything at the same time as your finger nails, freshly manicured and glittering, gripped into his shoulder blades as you rolled your hips once again.
Bruce winced pleasantly, jaw clenching as his head leaned back into the softness of his black silken pillows. Brown hair frazzled and stringy, his smooth skin alight with a soft, lovesick glow.
You rolled your hips once more in a soft soothing motion, nothing too rough and nothing too fast; the evening had called for something more sensual in the delicacy of Bruce’s touch and the softness of his words just an hour prior.
“Oh Bruce…” You sighed dreamily, hands pressing into his bulky arms as he sighed out a trembled breath from his nose.
Your thighs tightened around his waist, his heavy hands squeezing your hips but not as to pressure you, only to keep you connected to him at the hilt so he was never too far out of you.
“That’s good, sweetheart, get it just like that… mmhmm.” Bruce swallowed heavily, voice low and raw as his eyebrows furrowed over darkened hazel eyes. Fingers thrumming on your skin as you pulsed around him, wetness seeping out of your full entrance and gliding down his length until it could leave a memorable darkened patch on the sheets.
You whined quietly, voice high pitched and greedy as the length of him filled you up and pressed into every soft wall surrounding him. He was always thick, always perfect, always felt so fucking good it made your muscles tense and spasm.
You rolled your body in that delectable way he liked once more, barely moving yet every part of him felt the sparks of pleasure thrum through his skin and make his thighs lock up.
Bruce groaned hotly at the action, eyes flickering down to the wet mess of where your pussy was sucking him in. It was messy, glistening, shared arousal in white strings of mutual attraction. His fingers dug into the flesh of your ass from where it sat perched on his strong thighs.
“Mm, fuck, honey.” Bruce breathed out gruffly more to himself than you when the sight of your wetness smeared all over him made his heart spike.
You didn’t respond, chin down to your chest and eyes closed as you focused on the pleasure in your own lower regions, the fullness and heaviness that filled you up and refused to part.
“Ohhh, feels so good-“ You gasped as a heavy spurt of pure pleasure sparked up your tummy, hole clenching around him tightly as an obscene gush of wetness leaked down his cock and onto his thighs.
Bruce licked his dry lips, eyes staring up at you heatedly; at the tightness of your shut eyes, the sweet moans gasping out of parted lips — lips, lips that were glossy and plush from all the needy kisses you shared with him just a mere moments ago.
He was enraptured by you, by your naked physique all soft and sweaty on top of him but he didn’t care. You were just so beautiful, pussy so perfect wrapped around him, squeezing his cock so good it made his mind fog up with indescribable pleasure.
“Yes, sweetheart, god, yesss…” Bruce agreed huskily, his head resting back on his pillow once more as you bucked your hips. His thighs tensed, toes curled, a grunt sounding in his throat as his hips rose to further dig himself inside you.
He couldn’t help it; like a soul to a light he sought you out, your warmth and tightness so snug and comforting around him he didn’t ever want to be apart from you.
You whimpered at the intrusion, nails digging into his skin in a painful sting that Bruce was too fucked out to really notice.
He swallowed hazily below you, eyes closing then opening to look down at the way your pussy molded into one with his hard cock as you rocked gently against him. Deep inside you where he was meant to be, stomach and pelvis and thick thighs soaked with your gushing arousal.
Fire shooting down his legs and tummy with every soft bounce back down on him, illicit wet noises sounding in the room with every desperate grind.
He loved that sound, your wetness mashing with his thick base. But not nearly as much as your melodic sounds gasping out every so often because his cock made you feel that good.
His mouth was terribly dry from his own grunts and moans, handsome face and muscular chest flushed pink, the air so so hot he could feel his own dark hair sticking to the dew on his fevered head.
His hands, big and clammy, dug into the soft fat of your hips to help you dig into him in that way you both liked, the one that had you both gasping hotly into each others mouths as you leaned down to give him another sloppy kiss.
You couldn’t quite get it right though, too distracted by the feel of him so deep inside you that your lips stuttered on his. Moving messily against him as you whined into his mouth once more, the tip of his cock so high up inside you it almost hurt.
He was always so big, so round and tall that the stretch alone always seemed to ache pleasurably with every short thrust he made inside you.
“That’s good, sweetheart… that’s it… just how you know I like it…”
Bruce breathed heavily against your lips from where you were leaned on top of him, naked breasts mashed to his chiseled chest and hands gripping onto the headboard now.
You needed something sturdy, something unbreakable to tether you back to him when you felt the pleasure making you float too far.
His breath was hot against your sore lips, mingled with your low moans and spoken just above the subtle creaks of the bed; sounding every time you moved above him in a sensually quickened pace that had your toes curling and thighs tensing.
“So beautiful, sweetheart, so good…”
Bruce couldn’t help but compliment you even in the most nasty of times, voice clenched yet breathy, spoken through hot breaths and pressed teeth as your wetness dripped down his length once more.
You moaned sweetly at his doting words, his voice cracked and low in that gravelly salacious tone you loved so much.
You clenched around him in response, his fingers tightening on you as he let out a handsome groan from the feeling. You watched as his head sunk into the pillow beneath him, eyes clenched shut and a heavy grunt leaving his chest.
The sight was attractive, seeing him so wrecked from just a few simple back and forth motions you were carefully orchestrating.
You felt a wave of stinging pleasure spike up your thighs and down your legs, up your tummy and into your head until your whole body was tingling. Your eyes brimming with unshed tears as sweat prickled at your skin and your legs burned from sitting for so long.
You didn’t care about the pain, too drunk on the sensations of his thickness rubbing inside the most intimate part of you, your hips rolling in desperate circular motions so he was never completely apart from you. You liked keeping him inside as much as possible, to feel that fullness and that dull burn to remind you of just how big he was.
Bruce loved it too, resting inside your warmth, comfortable, letting you take him however you wanted in whatever way you needed. He was always a giver, always a good husband when you needed him to be.
“F-fuck, Bruce, you feel so good.” You gasped wantonly, voice quiet yet fragmented, needy and breathless as your nails dug into his skin.
“Yeah, honey? It feels good?” Bruce replied just as quietly, being sure to thrust up into you just a little bit harder so you’d gasp some more for him.
It was lewd, lovely, his dirty words spoken onto your quivering lips and his meaty hands gripping your thighs to help aid in your eager movements.
It felt so good, so right, being there with him in the darkness of his room with only the sound of your shared panting and moans filling the silence.
It was hot and perfect; his hands on your thighs gripping hard enough to show you he doesn’t want you to stop, your mouths ever so often pecking together in a sweet kiss you couldn’t continue, fond gazes in darkened irises.
“Feels so good, Bruce, I can’t—“ You whimpered out all cutely, sliding up from his chest until you were sitting straight up once more. You could feel him shift inside of you, hardness still prominent and throbbing. He pressed against your walls, invading every nerve point as your clit rubbed against his naval in the new position.
Bruce gripped the flesh of your ass between his hands, helping your soft rocking motions against him as he spoke, “Yes you can, pretty girl, you always do for me. You’re doing so good, sweetheart, you have no idea…”
The praise made you smile brokenly. Your skin so hot it felt burning yet every grind against your husbands hard cock made your legs go numb. You whined and bucked above him as a tightness started to stretch in your tummy.
“Always for you, baby…” You managed to mumble shakily, lovingly, hands sliding over the abs on his stomach as you sat back on his lap so not a single inch of him wasn’t inside you.
Bruce clenched his jaw at that, hands digging into your hips as he thrust his own up to meet your soft grinds. Sparks, electricity, all of the cliche metaphors for how good he was feeling shooting down his cock and into his legs as his knees tensed up.
He felt lightheaded yet completely grounded, here to his mattress. Floating in the skies yet simultaneously stuck on earth with you, his gorgeous wife who always made him feel sane and normal.
Your hair was tangled around your shoulders and falling over your flushed cheeks as you stared down at him with a fond glimmer in your eyes, bright and burning under the lust so boldly wanting.
The stretch of him inside you was so good, his gravelly moans so good, the way he was making you feel so so good.
You exhaled as you settled your weight down on his pelvis, pussy sore yet eager as you squeezed around him once more. Love struck eyes looking down at him passionately as the moon cascaded a light gray glow behind you.
Bruce felt the air escape his lungs, lips parted as he stared up at you in utter devotion; you were so beautiful, so sweet, felt so fucking good around him he couldn’t even think straight. Brain numb and thoughtless, only you and your perfect pussy, you, you, you.
You took a moment to stare back at him. Unspoken love was whispered in the shadows of your eyes bright and glittering as your movements picked up into polite, subtle bounces that had Bruce digging his hands into you, breathy sounds escaping his lips.
“Ah, Bruce…” You mumbled weakly, voice soft and needy as you tossed your head back and moved your hips up and down so his cock was hitting that sweet spot inside you he usually loved to tease.
“Such a good job, sweetheart, so beautiful like this…” Bruce spoke huskily, staring at your heaving breasts as they jiggled and beckoned him forth, beautiful and pure as you rode him to high heaven in your most organic form.
You hummed into a delicate moan, a smile quirked on your lips at his praise as you felt his hands slowly start crawling up the exposed expanse of your waist.
Warm and big and tender as they moved up, up, gentle fingers tracing over your ribcage as your flesh prickled at the touch. He was delicate, always intent on your pleasure over his as he admired your form above him, the feel of your skin under his textured hands that had hurt so many.
You trusted him, your husband, enough to see you like this. Trusted him enough to have you like this, to allow his bloodstained hands to wash over you like he himself was something pure and untainted, bestowing him your presence like a merciful deity to their promised worshipper.
You bit your lip as his palms enveloped the fat of your breasts into them, molded perfectly into his larger hands as he squeezed and admired them in a fashion so familiar for him; he always loved your breasts, enamored with the softness and weight of them in his greedy hands.
You stared down at him with a heated tenderness, the look of a wife irrevocably in love with their husband as he stared up at you with the same fervor.
When he was here, with you, there were no labels, no obligations and no judgments. With you he was just yours, another body made of flesh and blood and bone melded to yours in the conjunction of where his body ended and yours began.
He was no one but he was your everything, hands on skin and lips on collarbones, sweat amongst sweat and heady moans breathed in the gasps of kisses shared between two lovesick spouses.
In this space, in this moment, with you on top of him and his hands all over you any remnants of shame and Wayne inspired obligation was vacant. All he needed to do was sit and let you take him, sit there and be of use when you wanted to use him.
He was a good husband, the best husband to you, his perfect and lovely wife who never addressed him as anything more than yours. He wasn’t this, he wasn’t that, he was just everything and more in the confines of silken sheets under the safety of his mansion.
No cameras, no gossip, no press and no watchful eyes. Serene, tranquil, just you and him and the great love you shared that transcended any label or common sense humanity could fathom.
Yes, he was Bruce Wayne. Eccentric billionaire, former eligible bachelor, orphan boy, son, rich playboy. But those things did not define him, did not set his reality in stone so easily as your love did. He was all those things but he was so much more.
You never judged him, looked at him as anything more than the most important thing. You regarded him with love no matter his past, his present, and hopefully and most likely your shared future.
You didn’t care for labels or surface value lies like everyone else did. You ripped him at his seams, tore him apart to see what was inside and he was ever so grateful for it, for that loving animosity that bared his soul to yours. You were straightforward, heart to heart or nothing at all because then what was the point?
There was no purpose without pain, without pleasure, without love. You suffered, you loved, and you were most definitely bringing him pleasure. All blunt and raw emotions too passionate and loud to ever try and hide or make lies about. No secrets, no deception, no labels.
This night, every night just like this one — nights spent in your arms deep inside where he needed to be most, were nights where his mind was bare and he was just yours. Nights when he didn’t have to put up a face or make up a lie or tell a tall tale.
He was Bruce, he was yours, he was just this. And most importantly, he was just your husband. The only label that really mattered and the only one he ever really cared about. ₊˚⊹♡
tagging , @little-miss-chaoss , @ghostslillady , @boobaeri , @prayingal
#𓍯꒷ 𝐌𝐀𝐔𝐕𝐄 ノ ◝ ̨⊹#tw: not my best writing but I’m just trying to make things okay 😔🫶🏻#tw: not as good as my actual fics but IDC ITS GOOD ENOUGH AHHHHH#I haven’t written smut in a minute#I could do better AHHHHHHH NOOOOO#I got so lazy in the end sowwy#I got REAL lazy writing the smut im NOT gonna lie 🙂↕️🙂↕️🙂↕️#christian bale x reader#bale batman#bale!batman#bale!bruce wayne#bale!batman x reader#Batman x reader#Bruce Wayne x reader#dc fandom#dc fic#batman fanfic#batman oneshot#batman imagine#Christian bale#batman begins#aesthetic#dc drabbles
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The Chains We Break
- Summary: Otto Hightower comes to negotiate the release of his son. Daemon does not humor him. But you and your sister are dragons as well, who answer to neither gods or men.
- Pairing: Gwanye Hightower/trag!reader/one-sided Daemon Targaryen
- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is younger sister of Rhaenyra and was bonded with Silverwing. These events happen right after The Flames We Share. If you want to read all parts before this one in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.
- Rating: Mild 13+ (chapters that follow will be rated higher)
- Word count: 4 580
- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @sachaa-ff
You sit beside your sister, your gaze cast toward the window where the distant waves of the sea crash against the shores of Dragonstone. The sunlight, filtered through heavy clouds, is gentle on your skin as the salt air brushes your face. The wounds you sustained at Rook’s Rest have begun to heal—your body mending faster than your spirit. Every breath still carries a phantom ache, reminding you of how you fell from Silverwing’s back, the cries of dragons echoing in your ears as death nearly claimed you.
Rhaenyra sits close, her face etched with remorse. She hasn’t been the same since Rook’s Rest, the burden of guilt gnawing at her. You see it in the way her fingers fidget, how she can’t meet your eyes for long before looking away. She’s your sister—your queen—and you know the weight she carries. But you do not hold her responsible for the choices that led to that fateful battle. It was war, and war spares no one, even the innocent.
“I should have never let you go,” Rhaenyra whispers, her voice thick with regret. “It should have been Rhaenys. Not you. It was my decision that put you in harm’s way.”
“Rhaenyra,” you reply, your tone soft but firm. “You did what you thought was right. We cannot turn back time, nor can we carry blame that doesn’t belong. It was my choice, too. And I would do it again, even knowing the cost.”
Your words hang in the air, but they do little to soothe her troubled heart. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken thoughts, until you find the courage to speak what has truly been gnawing at you.
“Gwayne Hightower,” you begin, lifting your eyes to meet hers. “You must release him from the dungeons.”
Rhaenyra’s expression tightens at the name. The guilt in her eyes shifts to something more conflicted, more political. “It isn’t as simple as that, Y/N. He betrayed his own House, his blood, to bring you back here. Daemon—”
“Daemon,” you interrupt, bitterness lacing your tone despite your attempt to remain calm. “Daemon has imprisoned him, forbade me from even setting foot near the dungeons. He practically bought the loyalty of the guards to keep me away! But you are the Queen, Rhaenyra. Daemon may be my husband, but you hold the power.”
Rhaenyra’s brow furrows, and for a moment, the sister you know peeks through the layers of the ruler she has become. “And if I were to free him, what then? Daemon will see it as defiance. You know how he is—he will not take kindly to having his authority challenged, even by me.”
Your heart aches at the thought of Gwayne, alone and confined, after all he sacrificed for you. A man who went against everything he was raised to believe to save you from certain death, only to be thrown into a cell by the very people he saved you for. “He did not deserve this. He did what he did for me, and now he is paying the price. Rhaenyra, please. He doesn’t deserve to rot in those dungeons. He saved my life.”
Before she can respond, Grand Maester Gerardys enters, his expression grim. “Your Grace,” he says with a deep bow. “A ship bearing the banners of Aegon II has docked in the harbor. Prince Daemon has gone to meet them, with his men.”
Rhaenyra stiffens, but your thoughts drift to Daemon, and what this meeting could mean. Your gaze darkens at the thought of your husband—how he holds Gwayne’s fate in his hands. He’s always been a tempestuous man, fierce and unyielding. The very traits that once drew you to him now feel like iron chains wrapped around your heart.
You watch as Gerardys takes his leave, the room falling silent once more. “Daemon may be the one to hold him prisoner, but I will not let this stand,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Rhaenyra. The decision settles like a stone in your chest. You have to do something. You owe Gwayne that much.
Daemon strides down the rocky path that leads toward the harbor, his cloak snapping in the breeze. The sea roars beneath, a fitting backdrop to the turmoil within his mind. His steps are sure, his presence commanding as always, but there is a tension between his shoulders—an unease that’s hard to shake. Vaeron, your son, walks beside him, mirroring his posture. Boy’s gaze is distant, his thoughts clearly elsewhere, but he keeps stride with Daemon, a silent observer to the storm brewing within.
“Remember what I’ve taught you,” Daemon says, his voice low but carrying authority. “In these dealings, never let them see weakness. We do not bend to those who would see us destroyed.”
Vaeron nods, but his thoughts are torn. He has spent his life idolizing Daemon, the man he believed to be his father. But now that illusion is shattered, replaced by the knowledge that his true father sits rotting in the dungeons beneath their feet. The revelation has left him conflicted, struggling to reconcile the man he loves with the man who has imprisoned his blood.
“What will you do with him?” Vaeron asks, his voice careful, testing the waters.
Daemon’s eyes flicker with a dangerous light. “With Otto Hightower? Or with the man who abandoned his oaths to save your mother?”
“The latter,” Vaeron clarifies, though he knows the question risks Daemon’s ire.
Daemon’s expression hardens. “Gwayne Hightower is a traitor, no matter his reasons. He made his choice when he turned his back on the Greens. Such a man is not to be trusted lightly.”
“And yet he saved her,” Vaeron says, his voice dropping. “Would you have let her die, had he not intervened?”
Daemon’s steps slow, and he turns to face Vaeron, his eyes narrowing. “Mind your tongue, boy. There are things you do not understand.”
“I understand enough,” Vaeron counters, his voice tinged with defiance. “You taught me that loyalty is everything. But Gwayne’s loyalty was to her, not to a cause, not to a side in this war. Can you not see the worth in that?”
Daemon’s jaw clenches, his patience fraying. “You forget yourself, Vaeron. This war is not a matter of sentiment. Your mother’s survival matters because of what she represents—our family, our claim. If you think Gwayne Hightower acted out of love, then you are as naive as you are young.”
Vaeron’s hands curl into fists at his sides, but he keeps his emotions in check. This is the man who raised him, who taught him strength, yet in this moment, all he feels is a cold distance between them. Daemon sees only the war, the struggle for power. But Vaeron sees something else—something more human in the man who risked everything for his mother.
As they near the harbor, the banners of Aegon II come into view, and with them, Otto Hightower’s grim countenance. Daemon’s focus sharpens, his thoughts already turning to the game of strategy ahead. Vaeron falls silent, but in his heart, the conflict festers.
The wind whips through the banners of Aegon II as they flutter in the sharp sea breeze, the air thick with tension. Otto Hightower stands at the head of his retinue, his face carved from stone, the faintest flicker of unease buried deep within his shrewd eyes. He is older now, his hair nearly all grey, but the calculating sharpness in his gaze has not dulled. Daemon approaches with that characteristic swagger, a predator prowling toward prey, flanked by his guards and with Vaeron at his side. The contrast between them is stark—Daemon, vibrant in his ruthlessness, while Otto wears the weariness of his long-fought battles.
Otto speaks first, his voice carrying the authority of years spent in the small council chamber, dictating the fates of lesser men. "Prince Daemon, I come on behalf of my King to negotiate the release of my son, Ser Gwayne Hightower."
Daemon’s lips curl into a mocking smile. "Negotiate?" He laughs, the sound rough and laced with dark humor. "You truly believe you are in any position to negotiate, old man? What is it that you offer in exchange for a traitor? Perhaps another decrepit stronghold that falls to ruin as we speak?"
Otto's jaw tightens, but he remains composed, his voice cool. "You underestimate what Gwayne’s return means to the Greens. A gesture of goodwill in such tumultuous times could open pathways you might find advantageous."
Daemon’s amusement only grows, his eyes gleaming with wicked delight. "Goodwill? From you? That’s as valuable as a beggar’s coin. Come now, Otto, surely you didn’t travel all this way just to insult my intelligence. Speak plainly, before I grow bored and send you back to King’s Landing with nothing more than salt air in your lungs."
Vaeron stands to the side, his gaze flicking between the two men. Inside, a storm churns. He has known Daemon’s temper his whole life, the simmering cruelty always ready to break the surface. Yet today, that same temperament is turned toward negotiations that directly concern the man who is his true father. The words spoken twist in his mind—‘traitor,’ ‘exchange,’ as if Gwayne were nothing more than a pawn to be bartered, his life subject to whims and strategies. Vaeron keeps his expression neutral, as Daemon taught him, but beneath it all, the confusion gnaws at him.
Otto, sensing that he must tread carefully, adjusts his approach. "You dismiss too quickly what might be gained from a show of mercy, Prince Daemon. Your position, while strong, is not unassailable. A trade, even a gesture, could ease the tension between our forces. And you would gain much in return for sparing Gwayne’s life."
Daemon narrows his eyes, his amusement slipping away, replaced by cold calculation. "And what is it that you think I desire so much that I would let a Hightower return to his family? More land? An empty promise of peace? We both know that Gwayne’s life is worth more to you than any temporary truce you could offer."
Otto’s voice drops lower, becoming the tone of a man who has orchestrated more than one coup from the shadows. "There are things we could discuss—terms that could shift the tide of this war, perhaps even ending it in a way that leaves the realm less fractured. Aegon is willing to be reasonable if it means preserving our shared interests."
Daemon’s smile returns, this time sharper, more dangerous. "You think I care for shared interests? I care only for victory—unquestionable, complete. I care for the destruction of every man, woman, and child who stands between me and that victory. Gwayne’s life is a grain of sand on that battlefield. You know it, and so do I. The only reason he breathes is because my wife begged me not to have his head on a spike the moment he arrived on Dragonstone."
Vaeron stiffens, eyes fixed on Daemon’s profile, a silent witness to the deep ruthlessness within the man he once saw only as a hero. But now, he sees the cracks—how Daemon views everyone as a piece to be sacrificed for his goals, no matter the cost to their souls. He swallows hard, forcing his voice to remain steady. "And what of mercy, Father? Does it not hold any value in this war? Or is it all to be blood and fire until none are left standing?"
Daemon turns sharply to regard Vaeron, his expression unreadable, a flash of something indiscernible crossing his eyes. "Mercy is for the weak, boy. Those who offer it do so only when they have nothing left to give. Do you believe Gwayne deserves mercy for betraying his family, his House, for a fleeting moment of sentiment?"
Vaeron meets Daemon’s gaze, unflinching. "I believe that loyalty beyond reason deserves acknowledgment. Even in war, there are choices that define a man. He chose her—he chose my mother. If that is treason, then perhaps we are all traitors in our own ways."
Daemon studies his son with a shrewd gaze, weighing those words. The silence stretches until Otto steps forward, seizing the opening Vaeron has created.
“Let me look upon my son, Prince Daemon. Let me see the man who has caused this… conflict. If nothing else, I would know whether the man I seek to retrieve is worth the trouble. Bring him up from those dungeons, and if you wish, you can watch as I confront what my son has become.”
The corners of Daemon’s mouth twitch upward in a grin that holds no mirth, only cold amusement. “Very well, Otto. I’ll indulge this request. Let you see what has become of the son you so poorly raised. But do not mistake this for mercy, nor a sign of weakness.”
He turns to one of his men, gesturing with a flick of his hand. “Bring him up, but keep him chained. Let his father see what the consequences are for those who betray their kin for a moment’s folly.”
As the command is relayed, Otto’s mask of composure remains intact, but there is something strained in the tightness around his mouth. Vaeron watches, his heart pounding, knowing that soon he will come face-to-face once more with the man who has haunted his thoughts since learning the truth. The man who is more than just his mother’s savior but is also the father he never knew.
The minutes stretch painfully, each one heavy with anticipation. The creak of footsteps echoes through the stone as the guards finally return, dragging Gwayne Hightower from the depths. The man who emerges is a shadow of the knight he once was—his face gaunt, his clothes tattered, and his once-proud bearing diminished beneath the weight of his chains. But despite his disheveled state, there is a spark in Gwayne’s eyes, a defiance that has not been extinguished.
Otto’s gaze is icy, but there is a flicker of something—regret, perhaps, or shame—as he regards the man before him. “You’ve disgraced us all, Gwayne. For what? For a woman who was never yours to protect?”
Gwayne’s voice is hoarse from disuse, but it still carries strength. “For a woman worth more than all the crowns and thrones in the world. If that is a disgrace, then so be it.”
Daemon’s laughter rings out, cold and mocking. “Hear that, Otto? Even chained and broken, he clings to his foolish convictions. This is what you came for—this pathetic display of misguided loyalty.”
Vaeron watches the exchange, torn between anger and a deep, aching sadness. The man before him is no longer the fearsome knight from the stories but a father who sacrificed everything for a fleeting chance to save someone he loved. The realization sinks in like a stone—this war, this endless cycle of violence, leaves no room for anything as simple as honor or love. It’s all twisted, corrupted by the ambitions of those who claim to know best.
The tension in the air crackles like the distant storm clouds gathering over the horizon. Gwayne Hightower stands before his father, closer now than he has been in years, his once-strong frame worn by weeks of confinement. He walks with a limp, the weight of chains dragging at his wrists, but there is still a pride in his bearing, a defiant spark that refuses to die.
Daemon watches the exchange with a calculating smile, his eyes flicking between father and son, delighting in the bitter reunion.
Otto closes the distance, gripping Gwayne by the arm with a roughness that belies the controlled facade he wears. The old man’s eyes burn with a fury tempered by long years of cold, strategic thinking. “Have you lost your mind, Gwayne?” he hisses, his voice low, sharp as a dagger’s edge. “All your life, you’ve chased after her like some lovesick fool. You could never accept that Viserys refused your suit, that she was never meant for you!”
Gwayne’s expression barely shifts, but the muscle in his jaw twitches, a hint of the rage he has long kept buried beneath duty and restraint. He leans closer, ignoring the sting of Otto’s grip, and murmurs, his voice so low only his father can hear, “The boy standing next to Daemon is my son, Father. And that is all that matters now. My fate is inconsequential.”
Otto’s eyes widen, his breath catching as though he has been struck. For a moment, his iron composure fractures, disbelief and horror warring on his face. He releases Gwayne, recoiling as if the revelation has physically burned him. His gaze snaps toward Vaeron, the truth now laid bare, searing into him like a brand. The boy—no, the young man—is not just the child of Daemon’s wife; he is a Hightower. His grandson.
Vaeron meets Otto’s gaze briefly, not fully understanding what has just transpired but sensing the seismic shift in the atmosphere. Daemon notices the exchange and narrows his eyes, his amusement giving way to suspicion. His grip tightens on the hilt of his sword, as if ready to end this farce with a single stroke.
Otto recovers quickly, his face once again a mask of practiced indifference, but there is a tremor in his voice when he speaks, barely contained. “You’ve doomed us all, Gwayne. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You threw away everything—your name, your family’s honor, for what? To save a woman who could never be yours? A child you will never truly claim?”
Gwayne’s gaze is steady, unflinching. “I would do it again, Father. A thousand times over if it meant protecting her and our son. You can call me mad, you can brand me a traitor, but I regret nothing.”
Otto’s eyes darken as he processes the full scope of what has been revealed. He turns slowly to Daemon, who watches him with the cold eyes of a dragon ready to pounce. Otto studies Vaeron with renewed interest, seeing him now not just as a pawn but as a potential key to unraveling this web. He tries to capitalize on this revelation, his voice taking on a more calculated tone. “It seems, Prince Daemon, that the boy you’ve raised as your own has more complicated parentage than we knew. Perhaps this presents an opportunity—one that—”
Daemon’s face hardens instantly, his lips curling into a snarl. “Do not presume to speak of him as a bargaining chip, Hightower. I care nothing for your intrigues, nor do I care for whatever misguided sentiment your son clings to.” He steps forward, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “You came for your son, and I’ve given you this moment to see the disgrace he has become. But do not mistake this for weakness. Gwayne Hightower is nothing more than a broken tool, and I’ve no use for broken things.”
Otto opens his mouth to argue, but the steel in Daemon’s eyes leaves no room for discussion. He knows better than to push further when the dragon’s teeth are bared. Reluctantly, he pulls back, the wheels of strategy already turning in his mind, but knowing this is not the moment to press.
Daemon turns sharply to his guards. “Take him back to the dungeons. Let him rot where he belongs.”
The guards move swiftly, seizing Gwayne by the arms. Before they drag him away, Gwayne locks eyes with Vaeron one last time, a silent exchange passing between them. There is no plea for understanding, no attempt at explaining what words cannot convey. Just a look—a father recognizing his son, and a son realizing the depth of what was sacrificed for him.
The confrontation ends not in bloodshed, but with Daemon’s final, sardonic remark. “You’ve seen your son, Otto. Now crawl back to King’s Landing and tell your king that mercy is the last thing you’ll ever find on Dragonstone.”
Otto holds his gaze for a moment longer, then turns on his heel, a man who has measured his options and found them lacking. As he departs, Gwayne is dragged back toward the dungeons, his chains rattling with every step.
In that instant, Vaeron knows that the next time they meet, it will not be as strangers, but as something far more complicated—something that even Daemon may not be able to control.
The clinking of chains and the rough shuffling of boots against stone echo through the courtyard as Gwayne is dragged back toward the dungeons. His face is set in grim determination, resigned to his fate, yet his eyes still hold that spark—the fire of a man who has found something more precious than victory in war. The guards are silent, their expressions hard and unreadable, loyal to their prince’s orders, despite whatever inner conflict they may harbor.
But as they round a corner, the way is blocked. Standing firm are Rhaenyra and you, their Queen and her sister. The two women’s presence immediately shifts the air, tension snapping taut like a drawn bowstring. The guards pause, uncertain, as their gazes flicker between Rhaenyra’s command and the one issued earlier by Daemon.
Rhaenyra’s voice rings out, clear and commanding. “Release him to Otto Hightower. He is to leave Dragonstone at once.”
The guards stiffen, the weight of conflicting orders hanging heavy on their shoulders. “Your Grace,” one of them ventures, his voice laced with hesitation, “Prince Daemon’s orders were clear. Ser Gwayne is not to be released.”
You step forward, eyes blazing with resolve. “And who is your Queen? Who commands this keep? You will do as she says or face the consequences. Daemon’s orders hold no weight when the Queen herself speaks.”
There’s a moment of palpable tension as the guards exchange uncertain glances. But the authority in Rhaenyra’s gaze, coupled with your fierce insistence, finally breaks their hesitation. They nod reluctantly and begin to unshackle Gwayne, their hands shaking slightly as they fumble with the locks.
Gwayne breathes out a quiet sigh, rubbing his wrists where the heavy manacles have left raw marks. He looks to you, a softness in his gaze that defies the bleakness of the situation. You step closer, the world around you narrowing to just the two of you in that instant. His eyes hold yours, and in them, you see the unspoken words, the regret, the love, and the inevitable farewell.
“This is not the end,” Gwayne murmurs, his voice rough but steady, his eyes gleaming with quiet intensity. “If my nephew has any mercy left in him, I will find a way to return. But if not… know that protecting you was worth everything. Every sacrifice.”
You reach out, your hand trembling slightly, resting it against his chest where you can feel the steady, yet faint, beat of his heart. “You’re the only reason I’m alive, Gwayne. You risked everything for me, and I won’t forget it. No matter what happens next.”
He leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, and whispers, “Remember me, Y/N. And if this war ever ends, perhaps fate will be kinder to us in another life.”
Your eyes sting with unshed tears, but you manage a faint smile, brushing your thumb gently over his cheek in a rare display of affection. “I will. I promise.”
Before either of you can say more, the guards hastily usher him toward the docks, anxious to see him gone before Daemon can intervene. Gwayne casts one last lingering glance over his shoulder, a look full of unspoken promises and finality, before he is led away.
As they escort him down the winding paths toward the ship, the sails already being unfurled, Daemon and Vaeron catch sight of the commotion from a distance. Daemon’s eyes narrow dangerously as he realizes what is happening. His fury builds like a storm, the anger practically radiating off him as he strides toward the scene, Vaeron following, his own emotions churning in the wake of what has transpired.
As Gwayne passes by Daemon, their eyes lock for a brief moment. Gwayne’s lips twitch into a faint, knowing smirk—one that speaks volumes, a silent challenge, as if to say, You didn’t win this time. It’s a gesture that only fuels Daemon’s rage, the dragon within him rearing its head.
Daemon’s hand tightens on the hilt of Dark Sister, his knuckles white with fury, but before he can draw it, Gwayne is gone, escorted swiftly onto the ship where Otto waits with grim satisfaction. The gangplank is raised, and the ship begins to pull away from the harbor, sails billowing as it heads back toward the horizon.
With the Hightower entourage retreating, Daemon’s fury turns on Rhaenyra and you. He storms up to the two of you, his eyes blazing, voice like thunder. “What in the name of all the gods are you doing, woman? Do you realize what you’ve just done?”
Rhaenyra stands her ground, unyielding, her chin lifted defiantly. “I did what was right, Daemon. Ser Gwayne Hightower saved my sister’s life at Rook’s Rest, and I will not be the one to condemn him to rot in chains for it. Let the Greens decide his fate now. It’s no longer our concern.”
Daemon’s glare shifts from Rhaenyra to you, his gaze scorching with silent accusation. The promise of a reckoning lingers in his eyes, a vow that this conversation between you and him is far from over. But he turns back to Rhaenyra, the anger in his voice uncontainable. “You’ve weakened our position, Rhaenyra. Do you not see what this act of so-called mercy has cost us? We hold every advantage, and now you hand them back one of their own, giving them hope when we should be crushing it.”
Rhaenyra’s voice remains steady, firm in her conviction. “Hope may be our enemy, but I will not sacrifice decency for the sake of cruelty. This war has already claimed enough souls—if showing mercy weakens us in your eyes, then so be it. But I will not let this conflict strip us of our humanity.”
Daemon’s eyes flash dangerously, his rage palpable, but even in his fury, he knows better than to challenge her publicly. The exchange bristles with barely restrained venom, both of them locked in a clash of wills, neither willing to yield. But it’s clear that this is a rift that will not be easily mended.
Vaeron, who has watched it all unfold in silence, feels a small surge of triumph swell in his chest. For the first time, his mother acted on her own terms, free from Daemon’s influence. The knowledge that Gwayne is safe, at least for now, is a balm to his inner turmoil. Yet, even in his moment of quiet victory, he knows that the repercussions of this day will ripple far beyond the shores of Dragonstone.
Daemon finally steps back, his gaze returning to you, the promise of confrontation lingering like smoke in the air. “This is not over,” he hisses, his words directed more at you than at Rhaenyra. Then, without another word, he turns and stalks off, his rage still burning as he disappears from view.
The ship grows smaller on the horizon, taking with it the man who dared defy every loyalty, every oath, for the sake of love. And in that moment, you know that whatever happens next, the war has shifted—not because of power or strategy, but because of the choices made out of love and loyalty. Choices that may very well reshape the fate of everyone involved.
#house of the dragon#daemon targaryen#otto hightower#aegon ii targaryen#rhaenyra targaryen#silverwing#hotd gwayne#gwayne x you#gwayne x reader#gwayne hightower#ser gwayne#gwayne x y/n#hotd x you#hotd x reader#hotd#hotd daemon#daemon targeryen x reader#daemon x y/n#daemon x you#daemon x reader
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One Piece means a lot to me as a disabled person, which I think would be pretty surprising to anyone who only has a surface understanding of it. The supposed central theme of "follow your dreams" would be pretty alienating to someone like me, right? It really, really would be, if that's what it was actually about.
However, that ignores that Luffy's dream is to be the most free person in the world. And to attain that goal, the first thing he does is find friends to live life with. Over and over again, from the very beginning, he takes on their burdens, all in the name of being the most free.
Do you see what that would mean to me, as someone who needs more help to get by than is considered culturally normal, to the point that it puts me in a whole socially manufactured category of "other"? Not to mention, because of the infantilization of me due to that category, because of being forced so squarely into the "cared for" role, taking care of other people is deeply meaningful and empowering for me. However, the myths of independence and universal natural ability often make it emotionally difficult for my loved ones to accept that care.
The fear of asking for help, the guilt of being cared for, the weight of someone you loved who could not be as free as you, the insecurity of not contributing enough, the fear that you were born wrong, the self-hatred that says you are not worth the effort, Nami Sanji Zoro Usopp Robin Chopper Ace they all explore the painful obstacles to free connection. Through deeply impactful stories that weave beautifully into the larger one.
All centered around this one person who views loving them and living with them and carrying them as essential to his freedom. Who cannot, for countless reasons, live a normalized life of Structured Relations. Who views exploring and bickering and suffering and laughing with them as the ideal way to live. Who repeatedly puts his life and limbs on the line to do so.
To me, it is an ultimate privilege and freedom to carry other people's burdens. To care for them and live with them. This is central to my whole perspective, and is completely informed by my life experience as a disabled person. I rarely see it reflected back to me. Let alone as powerfully and beautifully as Luffy does.
Nor the other half of it, of wanting to create this life with people in ways that aren't socially normal or approved. Of creating many varied lifelong intimate relations among equals, rather than conforming to the expectation of choosing One Person to live life with and then Creating More.
The utter lack of roles and norms is just as integral and powerful to the exploration of freedom and connection! It is meaningful to me as a queer person, yes, but even this is deeply influenced by my disability. I could never be that One Person, despite everything I have to offer, there is logistically far too much that I cannot do to be someone's equal partner in this society that demands so much from all of us. However, even if I could, I wouldn't want to! It doesn't make any sense to me to only have two people navigate life together on such intimate terms. Can't the demands of society be more comfortably met in a group? Isn't life more fun that way?
We are taught that we can and must do everything ourselves, I just happen to be one of the people that never had a chance to buy into that lie. To learn very early not just the necessity of interdependence, but the joy in it. To learn that it is most comfortably lived with more people involved. To me, close relationships are, love is, a natural extension of that understanding. One Piece celebrates interdependence constantly from the start, while never pretending that it is always easy.
The obstacles to free connection that I mentioned before, they are interspersed throughout the story, and they are always met with "I do the things you can't do, and you do the things I can't do." With, "Of course I can't use swords you dumbass! And I can't cook either! I don't know a damn thing about navigation! And I can't lie!"
These are intentionally impactful moments, and they define the series. I found it very fitting that the Fan Letter focused on a character who was empowered by Nami to feel free and live adventurously despite not being the most physically capable. The character is able by our definition, but the story is very affirming in a disability way, and it was extremely One Piece. I loved how it acknowledged this deep connection between One Piece and the lived reality of disability and celebrated it as integral as it is.
I also believe that absolutely none of this is intentional. It is simply an earnest exploration of human relationships, emotions, and behavior, and it naturally arrives at a radical and disability-affirming viewpoint. Because we are the monkey wrench in the deeply unhealthy (lol) and dominant line of thinking that independence is all. So naturally anything that also disputes that thinking has a disabled-perspective feel to it. The best part is how much it doesn't give a fuck! One Piece is aggressively against conformity in human relationships, in a way that is hard to find in our new world of self-conscious authors.
It's also, you know, the worst part, in terms of all the outrageous bigotry and offensive character design, but god damn it if it doesn't elevate the good parts to unbearable heights. Even the bad character designs can sometimes be more impactful for their intentional "ugliness", when those characters are inevitably taken seriously despite their appearance and the stereotypes they play on, it hits hard every time. I do have a simple hatred for many choices, there is no pay-off for much of the awful problems in numerous character designs and dialogue. But no matter how upset I can be by those things, in the end they can't succeed in pulling me away from One Piece. It's just so crazy and unique and great and terrible and beautiful and I LOVE IT.
#WOOF. FINALLY FINISHED THIS POST.#I am basically always trying to articulate this. I've written so many long posts.#but fan letter got me to give it my best effort once more. ITS SO GOOD!!! YES THAT'S WHAT IT'S ALL ABOUT!!!!#i love especially the meaning of it being USOPP who finds mimi (my headcanon name for nami's fangirl) and gives her directions.#he who most recently and directly struggled with his lack of ability. she doesn't even know about that.... ough....#YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE THE MOST CAPABLE TO GO ON ADVENTURES!!!!!!!!!!! GO MIMI!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#my posts#one piece#op fan letter#opfl#one piece meta#op meta#one piece analysis#op analysis#i guess lol i hope this reaches some people despite you know. being. how i am.#(intense and clearly having gotten very deep into my particular perspective after endless verbalizing)
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THE POET AND THE ROSE
Content : mdni, smut, pussy eating, PiV.
A/N : erm…8.2k words guys ??? Is this too long ? Idk but this chapter is very Shakespearean I reckon…anyway here’s your smut @anisangeldust try not to cheer too loud, you’re gonna wake the kids up.
꧁ Chapter 4 : Letters in the Dark ꧂
From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century
The ink whispers secrets the tongue cannot bare,
A fragile bridge between despair and care.
In shadows, hearts awaken to yearn,
Letters ignite what words cannot discern.
The mist clung to the rolling hills, softening the edges of the battlefield that had been marked by blood and valor. Anakin Skywalker stood at the crest of a hill, his dark cloak brushing against his boots, a sharp contrast to the pale light of dawn. The air was still, thick with the aftermath of war and the unspoken tension of what was to come. He waited, hands resting loosely on his belt, his sharp gaze scanning the horizon.
A lone figure emerged from the fog, his steps deliberate and his broad frame unmistakable. William Wallace, the Guardian of Scotland, approached with the bearing of a man who carried the weight of his people’s dreams on his shoulders. He wore no armor, only a simple cloak, the fabric frayed but dignified. His weathered face bore the scars of countless battles, his blue eyes sharp and unyielding.
When they met, there were no guards, no banners, no intermediaries—only two men who had come to speak plainly in the fragile quiet of dawn.
"You came alone," Wallace said, his voice rough but not unfriendly.
"As did you," Anakin replied. "It’s the least we could do, given the blood that’s already been spilled."
Wallace nodded, his gaze sweeping the hills. "Aye, too much blood. And for what? Kings with greed in their hearts and chains for their people."
Anakin’s jaw tightened. "I didn’t come here to defend my king, nor to apologize for the crown I serve. But I agree—wars are seldom fought for noble reasons, even when noble men die in them."
Wallace turned to face him fully, his towering presence unyielding but calm. "Then why do you fight, Skywalker? You’re no tyrant’s lapdog—I can see that much. So why march under his banner?"
Anakin hesitated, the weight of the question settling on him. His hand brushed against the hilt of his sword, not out of threat but as if seeking an anchor. "I fight for the men who follow me. For the farmers turned soldiers who trust me to bring them home. For the people who want nothing more than to live without fear."
"And yet, you march into Scotland, where those same people bleed for their land," Wallace countered, his voice steady but laced with quiet fury. "Do you see the irony in that, General?"
Anakin met his gaze, unflinching. "I do. But if I laid down my sword, another would take my place—one who cares nothing for mercy or reason. At least I can temper the madness."
Wallace studied him for a long moment, the silence between them heavy with understanding. "You’re a good man caught in a bad war," he said finally. "But no amount of tempering will change the truth—Scotland will never bow to England. We’ll fight until there’s nothing left of us, because freedom is worth more than our lives."
Anakin’s voice softened, a trace of respect in his tone. "You fight for freedom. I fight for peace. And yet, here we are, enemies on the same field."
"A cruel jest by the gods," Wallace said with a bitter chuckle.
They stood in silence for a moment, two warriors bound by the same honor, the same burden of leading men into battle.
"Do you ever wonder," Anakin said quietly, "if all of this will be remembered? If the men who die for us, the families torn apart—if any of it will matter in the end?"
Wallace’s expression hardened, but his voice was tinged with sorrow. "Aye, I wonder. But I’d rather die fighting for something than live on my knees for nothing."
Anakin nodded slowly, his respect for the man before him deepening. "I wish we’d met under different circumstances, Wallace. Perhaps in another life, we’d have fought side by side instead of against each other."
Wallace smiled faintly, the expression fleeting but genuine. "Aye, perhaps. But in this life, we fight. And if I fall, I’ll fall knowing I stood for what mattered."
The sun began to rise, its light breaking through the mist and casting long shadows across the hills. The moment of fragile peace between them passed, the inevitability of their roles pulling them back into their separate paths.
"Until the next battle," Wallace said, turning to leave.
"Until then," Anakin replied, watching as the Scottish leader disappeared into the mist.
As the first rays of sunlight warmed the earth, Anakin stood alone on the hill, the words of their conversation echoing in his mind. A good man caught in a bad war. And for the first time in years, he felt the weight of those words press against his soul.
From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century
Chains may bind the flesh, but not the fire,
A dream that climbs, relentless, higher.
Through blood and stone, through ash and pain,
Freedom is the breath we fight to regain.
Anakin sat at a rough-hewn table in his tent, the candle’s weak flame flickering against the soft night breeze that crept through the seams of the fabric. The clamor of the camp had begun to fade, soldiers retreating to their bedrolls after another day of skirmishes and hard marches. Yet for Anakin, rest remained elusive.
His armor lay discarded in the corner, the dented metal a testament to the brutality of recent battles. Dirt and blood clung to his hands, faint smudges smearing across the blank parchment before him. He hadn’t written a letter in years—not since his mother passed. Words weren’t his craft; they never had been.
And yet, here he sat, quill in hand, staring down at the blank page as though it were an adversary.
The faintest image of you surfaced in his mind—the way your fingers had moved over your canvas as if weaving life into color, the soft arch of your brow as you’d stolen glances at him when you thought he wasn’t looking. He shook his head, willing the memory away. But it clung stubbornly to him, just as your presence had lingered in the halls of the castle long after he’d left.
With a sigh, he pressed the quill to the page. The first words came haltingly, their formality feeling both a shield and a chain.
“My rose, I trust this letter reaches you swiftly and in good health.”
He stared at the words, his jaw tightening. Too cold, too distant. But wasn’t that safer? Still, something inside him rebelled against leaving it there.
“The days here are long and unforgiving, but it is the nights that weigh heaviest. When the fires die and silence falls over the camp, my thoughts stray to the castle—to you. It is a strange thing, for I have spent my life carving paths through stone and steel, yet now I find myself wondering what might lie beyond them.”
Anakin paused, his brow furrowing. He had always been a man of action, not introspection. But the words seemed to pour from a place within him he didn’t fully understand.
“I am no poet, nor a man given to sentiment. Yet, as the days pass, I find myself curious. You are not what I expected. Your quiet strength is a balm I did not know I needed, though I lacked the grace to see it before I left.”
The quill hovered over the page, its tip trembling as he fought against the vulnerability clawing its way into his chest. He thought of the way your eyes had flickered with defiance during the wedding reception when Count Aulbry had dared to slight him. The memory stirred something deep within him—a flicker of admiration and something else he dared not name.
“Perhaps you see me as a hard man. I would not blame you for it. The battlefield has no room for softness, and I have worn that truth like armor for many years. But in the quiet moments, I begin to wonder—what might a life beyond war look like? What might it be to know peace? To know you?”
Anakin leaned back, running a hand through his disheveled hair. The words felt foreign, almost too raw, but there was no taking them back now.
“When the fires die and silence falls over the camp, my thoughts stray to the castle—to you. It is a strange thing, for I have spent my life carving paths through stone and steel, yet now I find myself wondering what might lie beyond them.”
He glanced at the folded leather notebook lying on the edge of the table, the same one he had taken to scribbling in after long days of battle. It was filled with fragments—half-formed thoughts, lines of poetry he would never dare to share. He briefly considered copying a verse into the letter but shook his head. That would be too much.
Instead, he signed the letter with practiced precision.
“Yours sincerely, General Anakin Skywalker”
He folded the parchment carefully, sealing it with his family’s insignia. As he handed it to his most trusted messenger, his voice was low and firm. “This is for Lady Skywalker. Ensure it reaches her swiftly and safely. Do not linger.”
The messenger saluted and disappeared into the darkness. Anakin stood alone in the dim glow of the tent, staring at the candle’s flame as it danced and sputtered.
Why had he written to you? He wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was guilt for the way he’d left, or perhaps it was the way your painting had lingered in his mind’s eye, haunting him with its quiet beauty. Whatever the reason, the act of putting his thoughts to paper felt like loosening a knot in his chest.
He reached for the notebook and opened it to the last page, where a half-finished poem lay scrawled in his uneven hand. The words seemed to taunt him, unfinished and raw, but they felt truer than anything he had spoken aloud.
“Beneath the armor, beneath the steel, Lies a yearning I dare not reveal. For peace, for light, for a hand to hold, In her gaze, I find my soul.”
Anakin snapped the notebook shut, tossing it onto the table. His gaze lingered on the shadows dancing across the walls, his thoughts torn between the battlefield before him and the woman he had left behind.
The letter arrived two days later, just as the sun was setting, its light spilling through the tall, narrow windows of your chamber. You sat at your desk, your brush poised above the unfinished painting of Anakin, the colors of his armor muted and incomplete. The messenger bowed as he handed you the parchment, sealed with the unmistakable insignia of House Skywalker.
Your heart stumbled. Anakin had never written to you before.
The wax seal broke easily under your trembling fingers. You unfolded the letter, your eyes scanning the elegant but reserved handwriting. The first words were formal, distant even, but as you read on, the tone shifted. Subtle hints of longing emerged between the lines, soft admissions cloaked in restraint.
“When the fires die and silence falls over the camp, my thoughts stray to the castle—to you. It is a strange thing, for I have spent my life carving paths through stone and steel, yet now I find myself wondering what might lie beyond them.”
A breath caught in your throat. You reread the words, each line piercing through the defenses you had built around your heart. There was something unspoken here—something fragile.
The letter ended simply: “Yours sincerely, General Anakin Skywalker.”
The parchment fluttered slightly in your hands as you set it down, the weight of his words pressing against the knowledge you carried. Your father’s betrayal.
The intercepted letter was still hidden in the bottom of a chest in the corner of your room. Its contents had unraveled the delicate threads of trust you had begun to weave with Anakin. Your father had plotted to manipulate both sides, using your marriage as a pawn in his schemes. If Anakin knew, would he believe you complicit?
You rose from the desk and began to pace, your gown brushing softly against the stone floor. The walls of your chamber seemed to close in around you as the dilemma clawed at your mind.
Anakin’s words lingered. “I begin to wonder—what might a life beyond war look like? What might it be to know peace? To know you?”
Could you risk breaking this fragile connection by telling him the truth? Would he see you as a spy for your father, as another piece in a game of politics and power? The thought of losing whatever tenuous bond was forming between you left a hollow ache in your chest.
But silence, too, was its own betrayal.
You moved back to your desk, reaching for a fresh sheet of parchment. The candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows across the room as you dipped your quill into the inkwell.
“Dear Husband,” you began, the words coming slowly, each one weighed with care.
“Your letter reached me as the sun was setting, casting the castle in hues of gold and crimson. I find it fitting, for your words carried a similar light—unexpected and strangely warming.”
You hesitated, your quill hovering above the page. How much could you reveal without unraveling everything? How much of your heart could you show?
“You speak of carving paths through stone and steel, of wondering what might lie beyond them. I, too, have wondered. Perhaps we are not so different in this—both searching for something that feels just out of reach.”
The quill paused again. You closed your eyes, picturing Anakin as you had last seen him: the determined set of his jaw, the shadows under his eyes, the unspoken weight he carried.
“I hope this letter brings you some measure of comfort, as yours has brought me. Though we are apart, know that my thoughts are with you. May the stars guide you safely home.”
You signed the letter with a simple “Yours,” leaving the rest unspoken.
As you sealed the parchment, the weight of the intercepted letter still loomed in the back of your mind. The decision to remain silent gnawed at your conscience, but for now, you pushed it aside.
The messenger was summoned again, his footsteps echoing through the corridor as he carried your words back to the man who haunted your thoughts.
You returned to your desk, your gaze falling on the unfinished painting. The armor was only half-complete, the strokes hesitant, as if you feared finishing it would solidify the distance between you. You reached for your brush, but your hands trembled too much to paint.
Instead, you turned to the window, staring out into the growing darkness. Somewhere out there, Anakin was reading your words, just as you had read his. And somewhere within that exchange, a fragile thread of connection began to form, even as shadows of doubt lingered on the edges.
The first letter had been cautious, a measured exchange of pleasantries cloaked in formality. But as weeks turned into months, and the battles stretched endlessly across the rugged Scottish terrain, the tone of the letters began to change.
“Lady Skywalker,
The campaign against Wallace progresses steadily. Though victory is within reach, the cost has been high. I trust the castle remains secure and that you are well.
Yours,
Anakin Skywalker”
The letter had been brief, almost impersonal, yet it was the first time he had reached out since departing. It stirred something in you, a faint flicker of hope. You responded in kind, careful not to reveal too much of yourself.
“General,
The castle remains quiet, though I must admit its halls feel emptier in your absence. I hope the tides of battle turn in your favor soon. Yours, Your Wife”
The next letter came weeks later, its tone slightly warmer. His words hinted at exhaustion but carried a thread of something more personal.
“My Lady,
The battles are fierce, and the Scots fight with the desperation of men who have nothing left to lose. There is an honesty to their resistance that I cannot help but respect, though it makes victory no less bitter. In the quiet moments, I think of the castle—of its stillness and the sanctuary it must offer. I hope you find peace within its walls, even as I find none here.”
His words lingered in your mind long after you read them. You wrote back that night, pouring a small piece of yourself into the ink.
“My Dear Husband,
The castle is peaceful, though it is a hollow peace. The roses have begun to bloom again, their petals bright against the gray walls. They remind me of you—unyielding, even amidst hardship. I hope you return soon to see them for yourself.”
The letters became a lifeline, weaving an intimacy neither of you had anticipated. Anakin began writing more frequently, his words shedding their rigid armor. Each letter revealed a man wrestling with the weight of his role, his responsibilities, and the yearning for something he could not name.
“My Rose,
The days are long, the nights longer still. In the quiet hours, I find myself thinking not of the battles but of the life I might have had—one without swords or blood. It is foolish, perhaps, but I wonder what such a life would have looked like, and whether you might have been part of it.”
You read his letters with trembling hands, your heart caught between longing and fear. His vulnerability was disarming, his words a window into the man hidden beneath the hardened general.
Your responses grew bolder, though you still held back the secret of your father’s betrayal. That knowledge weighed heavily on you, a dark cloud over your growing bond with Anakin. Yet in your letters, you allowed yourself to dream, to share pieces of a future you knew might never come.
“Anakin,
Your words are not foolish. I, too, wonder what our lives might have been if the world were kinder. I see glimpses of that life in your letters—in the tenderness you try to hide, in the dreams you dare to share. Perhaps there is a part of us that can still claim it, even amidst the chaos.”
In the heart of the Scottish highlands, Anakin read your letter beneath the dim light of a lantern in his tent. He traced your words with calloused fingers, his chest tightening. For years, he had buried his softer inclinations beneath layers of duty and discipline. Yet your letters stirred something he had thought long dead: hope.
One evening, his letter arrived with a small addition—a fragment of poetry hastily scrawled at the bottom of the page.
“I do not know if these words are worthy of your eyes, But they carry the echoes of nights I cannot sleep. In their frailty, they whisper of the stars, And of a face I see in every dream.”
You read those lines over and over, your heart pounding. His words were unpolished but raw, a glimpse into a side of him he had kept hidden even from himself.
Anakin’s words grew softer, more unguarded, like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. Each letter carried with it the weight of exhaustion and longing, but also a vulnerability he hadn’t shown before.
"The days blur into one another—steel clashing, men falling, the air thick with smoke. Yet amidst it all, your image anchors me. Your words remind me there is a world beyond this chaos, a reason to hope."
You read his letters in the quiet of your chambers, clutching the parchment like it was a lifeline. Each line drew you closer to the man you had once seen only as a distant, stoic general. In his words, you found a soul searching for meaning amidst the violence, a man yearning for something gentler, even if he didn’t know how to name it.
Your own responses began to mirror his, shedding the formality that had first marked them. Where his letters spoke of the horrors of war, you offered solace, painting images of the castle’s gardens in bloom, of the birds nesting in the eaves outside your window, of the peaceful moments you dreamed of sharing with him.
“I wish you could see the roses this spring—they climb higher than ever, their petals like drops of blood against the gray stone. I think of you when I walk among them, wondering if you are safe, if you feel the warmth of the sun through the armor you wear.”
Anakin's next letter arrived on a rain-soaked evening, its ink slightly smudged but his words unmistakably clear.
"You write of roses, and I think of the ones that grow wild near the fields we fight on. They are stubborn things, surviving against all odds. I wonder if that is why I thought of you, unyielding in your strength, even in a place where others might falter."
You traced the words with your fingers, your heart tightening at his unexpected tenderness. Each exchange stripped away another layer of distance between you, revealing the raw humanity beneath.
As the weeks wore on, the letters grew bolder. Anakin began sharing fragments of the poetry he wrote in his leather notebook, words he had once kept hidden from everyone, even himself.
"I do not know if these words are worthy of your eyes, but they have been my solace on nights when sleep refuses to come. Perhaps you will find in them some small measure of the man I wish to be, rather than the one I am."
His poetry spoke of the stars, of fleeting dreams, of longing that burned like a fire too fierce to contain.
"You haunt me in sleep—your eyes in a thousand forms, your voice a melody that slips through my grasp. I am a fool to cling to such visions, yet they are the only peace I know."
Your letters in return began to echo his vulnerability, though always with a touch of guardedness. You had not yet told him of your father’s betrayal, the weight of that knowledge still pressing against your chest.
One evening, you sat by the fire, Anakin’s latest letter spread before you. The castle was quiet, the servants retired for the night. You dipped your quill into ink and wrote with a courage you hadn’t known you possessed.
“There is a line in your last letter that has stayed with me: ‘Perhaps you will find in them some small measure of the man I wish to be.’ I want you to know that I do. In your words, I see someone who yearns for more than war and bloodshed, someone who carries the weight of others' burdens yet still dreams of a gentler world. That man is already worthy, though he may not yet believe it.”
You hesitated, then added a final line: “I, too, dream of that world, though I am not sure I will ever know it.”
As you sealed the letter, you felt the sting of unshed tears. For the first time, you wondered if you and Anakin might have been different people, had the world been kinder.
The letters continued, carrying your words back and forth like a bridge over an unspoken chasm. Though you remained separated by miles, the distance between your hearts began to shrink. In the ink-stained pages, you found something you had both longed for, though neither dared to name it yet: connection.
The castle was bathed in the faint hues of dawn when the sound of hooves echoed through the courtyard. The guards rushed to the gates, startled by the unannounced arrival of riders cloaked in frost and exhaustion. At their head was Anakin Skywalker, his armor dulled by battle and travel, his features shadowed by fatigue.
The news of his return spread quickly through the castle. You were still in your chamber, seated at your easel, a brush poised over the canvas. The unfinished painting of Anakin stood before you, a labor of longing and frustration. You had been adding the slightest details to his eyes, trying to capture the sharpness and sorrow you remembered, when the knock came at your door.
"My lady," a servant announced, "the general has returned."
The brush slipped from your fingers, leaving a streak of paint across the edge of the canvas. Your heart leapt and then sank. You hadn’t expected him back—not yet, not like this. A thousand emotions surged through you: relief, excitement, fear. How would he look at you after all these months? Would the intimacy of your letters translate into the flesh, or would the distance you had felt before his departure return?
You stood, smoothing your gown and composing yourself as best you could. When you descended to the great hall, Anakin was already there, speaking in low tones with his second-in-command. His presence was magnetic, as always, drawing every eye in the room.
For a moment, you hesitated at the edge of the hall, watching him. His face was sharper, leaner than when he had left, and there was a new weight in his gaze. Yet when his eyes found yours across the room, something shifted. His stern expression softened, just for an instant, before he turned back to his conversation.
When he finally approached you, he gave a slight bow. “My lady,” he said, his voice formal but warm.
“General,” you replied, feeling the strange distance of titles again.
“I trust you have been well?” he asked, searching your face.
You nodded, unsure what to say. His presence was overwhelming, and you couldn’t reconcile the man standing before you with the one whose tender words had filled your letters.
"I must speak with the king," he said after a pause, his tone turning serious. "There are matters of unrest in the kingdom. Whispers among the courtiers, rumors spreading like fire. I sense that something is brewing in the shadows. It is not just the threat of external enemies; it's the court itself that is beginning to fracture."
His words sent a chill through you, and the weight of them lingered. Anakin’s sharp instincts had always been his strength. He was never one to ignore the subtle stirrings of danger.
“I will find out what is happening, my lady,” he continued, his gaze hardening. “But for now, I must meet with the king. I trust you will be well while I’m away?”
You nodded again, though your mind was already swirling with thoughts. What did this unrest mean? Could your father’s machinations already be coming to a head?
Anakin hesitated, then stepped closer. “Later, we will talk,” he said quietly. “I’ve missed you.”
He turned and walked briskly toward the king’s chambers, leaving you standing in the hall, torn between the need to understand his sudden tension and the fear that you might already be too late to prevent the kingdom’s ruin.
Later that evening, after he had met with the king and addressed the court, Anakin wandered through the castle, finding himself drawn to the tower where your chambers were. He had meant to wait, to give you time to adjust to his return, but something pulled him forward.
The door to your chamber was slightly ajar, and he hesitated before stepping inside. What he saw stopped him in his tracks.
The room was filled with paintings—of landscapes, of still lifes—but most prominently, of him. There were sketches of his profile, studies of his hands, and in the center of it all, the large, unfinished portrait.
It was him as you remembered him, clad in his armor, his expression resolute yet touched by something softer. The details were painstaking: the curve of his jaw, the strands of his hair, the sharp focus in his eyes. But it wasn’t complete. His gauntlets were left as rough outlines, and the background faded into blank canvas.
Anakin moved closer, his breath caught in his chest. He reached out, his fingers hovering over the painted surface as if afraid to disturb it.
Behind him, you entered the room quietly, startled to find him there. “Anakin?” you said softly.
He turned, his eyes meeting yours. “You painted these,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
You nodded, stepping closer. “I... I wanted to keep you close, even when you were far away.”
He looked back at the painting, his expression unreadable. “You see me differently than I see myself,” he said after a long pause. “In your eyes, I am... more than I feel I am.”
“You are more,” you replied without hesitation. “You’ve carried so much, fought so hard. I see it in every line of you.”
His gaze flickered to you, and for a moment, the stoic mask he wore fell away. “Your letters kept me alive,” he admitted, his voice breaking slightly. “And now this... I don’t know if I deserve it.”
You stepped closer, placing a hand lightly on his arm. “You do.”
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, as if breaking from a trance, Anakin straightened. “I should let you rest,” he said, his voice once again guarded. “Thank you, my lady.”
He left before you could stop him, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. Yet as he walked away, you saw him glance back, his eyes lingering on the painting one last time.
The weight of the day’s events hung heavily between you, the silence stretching longer than either of you was comfortable with. Anakin had returned to the castle, but the shadow of the kingdom’s unrest still loomed over him, and the tension in the air was palpable. He had been gone for so long, and now, with the sharp edges of his absence still fresh, it was difficult to reconcile the man before you with the man who had filled the pages of your letters.
You watched him from across the room, his back to you as he examined a map of the kingdom, his fingers tracing the contours of the land, drawing lines of strategy and war. There was a distance between you now—one that you both seemed to carry, unspoken but undeniable.
You couldn't bear it anymore. Not the cold, not the distance, not the gnawing feeling in your chest that kept you awake at night. You couldn’t stand to watch him walk out again, leaving your heart behind. Without thinking, you pushed yourself off the chair and crossed the room, stopping just behind him. Your breath caught in your throat, but you forced yourself to speak.
“Anakin,” you said softly, the name slipping from your lips like a plea. His head turned slightly, eyes narrowing as he saw the resolve in your face. It was as if he had already known what was coming, and yet he was unwilling to acknowledge it.
“I cannot let you leave again,” you continued, voice trembling with something you could not name. “Not like this. I… I have missed you. Every day, every moment you were gone, I felt it.”
He took a step closer to you, his eyes searching your face, his expression unreadable. “I know you have, my lady. But there is much that must be done—there is unrest in the kingdom, and there are threats that must be confronted.”
“I understand that,” you whispered, “But I—” You hesitated, unable to say what you truly felt. Your heart felt torn between the loyalty to your father, who you still feared, and the love that had slowly, painfully, bloomed in the cracks of your isolation. You had learned so much during his absence, and yet you felt as though your trust was slipping through your fingers like sand.
He reached for your hand, his touch sending a jolt of warmth through you. “You don’t have to explain,” he murmured. “I know. It’s never easy, being torn between duty and love.”
“I can’t,” you said quickly, almost pleading with him. “I can’t lose you, Anakin. Not now, not after everything that has happened. But I—I don’t know if I can trust anyone anymore. Not even my own blood.” You let out a shaky breath, the confession more difficult than you had imagined.
Anakin stepped closer, his hand lifting to gently cradle your cheek. “Trust is fragile,” he said softly, his thumb brushing against your skin. “But love… love is built on it. And I want you to know, whatever happens, I am here. I will stand by you. But you must be honest with me, Aurelia. All of it. No more hiding.”
A single tear slipped down your cheek, and you closed your eyes, unable to hold it back. “I don’t know how to tell you,” you whispered, “What if you look at me like I’m just another pawn in this cruel game? What if you—”
He placed his fingers against your lips, silencing your fears. His voice was low, filled with a raw tenderness that cut through the tension. “You’re not a pawn. You’re the woman I’ve come to love. And nothing will change that.”
For a moment, you stood there in the silence, the weight of his words settling over you like a blanket, warm and secure. And then, as if the storm inside your chest had finally subsided, you closed the distance between you. Your hands reached up to pull him close, your lips finding his in a kiss that was both desperate and tender.
Anakin's eyes widened in surprise for a moment before he melted into the kiss, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you flush against him. He held you tightly, his fingers splaying across your back as he deepened the kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth to claim you with a hunger that stole your breath away.
You clung to him, your nails digging into his shoulders as you lost yourself in the sensation of his lips on yours, his body pressed against your own. The world fell away, the weight of the day's revelations and fears momentarily forgotten as you lost yourself in the taste and feel of him.
Anakin's hands roamed over your back, tracing the curve of your spine before settling on the swell of your hips. He pulled you impossibly closer, his hips rocking against your own in a slow, sensual rhythm that sent molten heat coursing through your veins.
When he finally broke the kiss, you were both breathless, your chests heaving as you struggled to catch your breath. Anakin's eyes were dark, filled with a desire that made your heart race and your skin flush with heat.
"My rose…" he murmured, his voice rough with want.
He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that clung to your cheeks. "I know the path ahead will not be an easy one. But I swear to you, here and now, that I will stand by your side. Through whatever trials and tribulations may come, I will be your constant companion and your fiercest protector."
His gaze bored into yours, intense and unwavering. "And I need you to trust me, my love. To be honest with me, always. Hold nothing back, no matter how painful or frightening it may be. We can withstand anything - but only if we face it together."
You nodded, your voice thick with emotion as you spoke. "I trust you, Anakin. With my life, with my heart... with everything I have. I know the road ahead is uncertain and fraught with peril, but I choose to walk it with you. Always."
Anakin's hands roamed your curves, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric of your gown to caress the smooth skin beneath. He tugged at the fastenings of his armor, impatiently loosening the straps and buckles until the heavy plates fell away, clattering to the floor.
His lips trailed down the column of your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse point as he nipped and sucked at the sensitive flesh. You arched into him, your head falling back to grant him better access as a breathy moan escaped your lips.
Anakin's hands slid lower, his fingers splaying across your lower back before gripping the globes of your rear. He lifted you effortlessly, his strength evident in the way he positioned you on the edge of the strategy table, the maps and parchment crinkling beneath you.
He stepped between your parted thighs, his hips nestling against your core as he claimed your mouth in a searing kiss. His tongue delved deep, tangling with your own in a dance of passion and desperation.
Your husband’s hands roamed your body with reverent fervor, his touch a balm to your weary soul. He traced the delicate lines of your face, marveling at the beauty he found there. "My rose," he whispered, "a bloom of purest grace, your beauty far outshines the fairest flower's face."
His fingers trailed down your neck, skimming over the delicate curve of your collarbone. "These hands, once stained with battle's crimson hue, now tremble to unbind the silken threads that cloak your tender form. A sacred trust, a privilege I've earned by love's own code."
Anakin's gaze smoldered with adoration and unspoken promises as he slowly peeled away the layers of your gown, revealing the creamy skin beneath. "As I lay bare your flesh, I swear to lay bare my heart, to open wide the chamber where it beats for you alone."
He leaned in to press fervent kisses along your shoulder, his lips a brand of branding love upon your skin. "Behold, I am the thorn entwined within your stem, the guard and shield that shall defend you evermore. My life, my honor, my eternal troth, I pledge in this moment to love's eternal shore."
Anakin's hands cupped your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks. "These buds of beauty, tender and unrivaled, shall be my constant stars, my north and south in life's vast sea. I'll cherish them, as I shall cherish you, until the end of days, our hearts entwined as one eternity."
As he lowered his head to worship at the altar of your flesh, his voice rumbled with solemn vows. "Fair lady, my sweet rose, I am your loyal knight, your champion, your eternal friend. With every breath, with every beat of this heart that beats for you, I vow to love you, honor you, and stand by you, forevermore. Let no foe, no fate, no force on heaven or earth sunder the bond that joins us now and evermore."
His hand pressed gently on your stomach lowering you on the table as he send sweeping all his strategy papers off. “Wait…your plans…” you whispered trying to stop him.
Anakin paused, his hands stilling on your waist as he sensed your gentle protest. He looked up at you, his gaze intense and filled with a fierce, burning love. A slow, sensual smile curved his lips as he took in your flushed cheeks and heaving chest.
"My rose," he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion, "No strategy, no plan, no matter how carefully crafted or vital to the kingdom's fate, could ever be as precious or as worth the sight of my beloved wife laid out before me like a feast for the senses."
Anakin's hands slid up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing away the last remnants of your tears. "I would gladly burn my maps and scatter my plans to the wind, if it meant I could hold you like this for eternity. You are my everything, my reason for living, my love."
He leaned in to capture your lips in a searing kiss, pouring all his ardor and desire into the caress. "Let the world wait, let the kingdoms crumble, let the wars rage on," he declared fervently. "For in this moment, with your sweet body beneath me and your loving heart entwined with my own, I have found paradise. And I will cherish it, and you, above all else."
Anakin knelt between your parted thighs, his gaze locked onto your glistening sex. The flickering candlelight cast a dance of shadows across your curves, illuminating the way your chest heaved with each ragged breath.
"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. "I could spend a lifetime exploring every inch of you."
Slowly, reverently, he leaned forward, his breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh. The first touch of his tongue was electric, a bolt of lightning that shot straight through you.
"Anakin!" you gasped, your fingers fisting in his hair.
He hummed against you, the vibrations adding to the pleasure that already threatened to overwhelm you. His tongue delved deeper, stroking along your slit, teasing your entrance.
"What do you want, my rose?" he asked, his voice low and intimate. "Tell me what you need."
His fingers teased your thighs, his thumbs brushing against the tender skin of your inner thighs. He could feel your muscles quivering, your body coiled tight with anticipation.
"Please," you whimpered, your hips rocking slightly as you sought more of his touch. "Please, Anakin..."
He smiled against your flesh, the action sending a new wave of sensation crashing over you. "Please what, my love? I need you to tell me."
His fingers slid higher, brushing against your sensitive clit. The touch was fleeting, a promise of more to come.
"I want...I want you to make me come," you gasped out, your cheeks flushing hotly at your own boldness. "I want to feel your mouth on me, your tongue inside me, your fingers filling me...please, Anakin, make me come."
Anakin licked a long, slow stripe up your dripping slit, savoring your essence on his tongue. At the top, he found your sensitive clit, swollen and throbbing with need. He flicked his tongue over the tender bud, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.
"Anakin!" you cried out, your fingers tightening in his hair as pleasure sparked through you.
Emboldened by your response, Anakin sucked your clit between his lips, his tongue swirling around the sensitive flesh. He could feel you trembling beneath him, your body winding tighter and tighter.
As he pleasured you with his mouth, Anakin tugged down his trousers, freeing his aching cock. It sprang forth, long and hard, the thick length pulsing with each beat of his heart. The sight of his manhood, so powerful and ready, sent a fresh surge of arousal coursing through your veins.
Anakin's hand wrapped around his shaft, stroking himself as he continued his ministrations between your thighs. His tongue delved deeper, thrusting into your entrance, fucking you with his mouth.
The dual sensations of his lips and tongue on your most sensitive spots, combined with the erotic sight of him pleasuring himself, pushed you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy.
"Anakin, I'm...I'm going to..." you panted, your body tensing as your climax approached.
He could feel your walls fluttering around his invading tongue, your body desperate for release. With a low groan, he suckled your clit harder, determined to bring you to your peak.
"Come for me, my love," he growled against your sex. "Let me feel you come undone."
He thrust two fingers deep inside you, pumping in and out, as his tongue and lips worked in tandem to drive you wild. The combined stimulation was too much, and with a scream of his name, you shattered in his arms.
Anakin held you close as you rode out the waves of your intense climax, your body trembling and quaking against his. He gentled you through it, his strong arms wrapped around you like a protective cocoon.
"Shh, I have you," he murmured, his voice a soothing rumble in your ear. "You're safe with me."
As your trembling subsided, Anakin pressed soft kisses along your neck and collarbone, his touch reverent and tender. He could feel the pounding of your heart, the way your skin glistened with a sheen of sweat.
"Beautiful," he breathed, his eyes shining with admiration and desire. "You're exquisite when you let go."
His hand slid up your side, cupping the curve of your breast. He could feel the soft weight of it in his palm, the way your nipple pebbled beneath his touch.
"Tell me, my rose," he asked softly, his thumb brushing over the sensitive peak. "Did that feel good?"
He knew the answer, of course. He could feel the way your body had responded, the way you'd cried out his name in ecstasy. But he wanted to hear it from your own lips, wanted to cement the connection that had begun to blossom between you.
Anakin's own need was a throbbing ache, his cock hard and heavy against your thigh. But he held himself back, determined to focus on your pleasure first. This moment was about you, about the trust and intimacy you were building.
He waited, his heart pounding in his chest, for your response. Whatever you said, whatever you chose, Anakin knew he would follow. This was your journey now, as much as his own.
“Anakin….please…take me…”You whispered, clinging to his strong back. You probably left crescent marks in his shoulder but he didn’t care. He wanted you to brand him with every single part of your body.
“Anakin, ”you cried out his name, your voice resembling a divine plea in his ears “Don’t stop…” you gasped.
Anakin's heart swelled at the desperate, needy sound of his name falling from your lips. With a primal growl, he redoubled his efforts, his hips slamming against yours with increasing force and speed.
"Never, my love," he rasped, his voice strained with exertion and desire. "I'll never stop. I'll take you again and again until you're fully satisfied."
His fingers continued their relentless assault on your clit, rubbing the sensitive bud in tight, rapid circles. The combination of his thick cock driving into you and his fingers stroking your most sensitive spot pushed you closer and closer to the brink of another shattering climax.
Anakin could feel your walls starting to flutter around his plunging length, your body tensing as your peak approached. He leaned down to capture your nipple between his teeth, biting and sucking the hardened peak as he fucked you with abandon.
"That's it, my rose," he urged, his hot breath washing over your skin. "Come for me. Scream my name as you shatter. Let all the world hear who you belong to."
His words, rough and raw with passion, sent a fresh surge of arousal coursing through you. You could feel your orgasm building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your core.
"Anakin!" you cried out, your voice echoing off the stone walls of the chamber. "Oh God, Anakin!"
Your body convulsed beneath his, your inner muscles clenching and rippling around his pistoning cock. The sensation was exquisite, your silken heat gripping him like a velvet vise.
"Yes, my love!" Anakin roared, his own release fast approaching. "Milk my cock. Take every last drop of my seed."
With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside you. His cock jerked and throbbed as he spilled his hot, thick essence deep within your spasming channel. He continued to grind against you, working you through the aftershocks of your shared climax.
Anakin collapsed against you, his weight pressing you into the table as he struggled to catch his breath. His heart pounded in his chest, his skin slick with sweat from the exertion of their lovemaking.
He could feel your nails raking down his back, the slight pain only heightening his pleasure. The marks you left on his skin would be a badge of honor, a reminder of your passion and desire.
"My love," he murmured, his voice rough and sated. "That was...transcendent."
He propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at you with a satisfied smile. Your cheeks were flushed, your eyes glazed with post-coital bliss. The sight of you, disheveled and glowing, filled him with a profound sense of masculine pride.
Anakin leaned down, capturing your lips in a tender kiss. It was a kiss of thanks, of gratitude, of deepening affection. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, seeking entrance, and you granted it willingly.
As they kissed, Anakin's hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your hip, the flare of your waist. He marveled at the softness of your skin, the way you yielded beneath his touch.
"You're exquisite," he whispered against your lips. "A goddess, made of flesh."
He knew he was being overly sentimental, but he couldn't help himself. In your arms, he felt a sense of peace, of belonging, that he had never known before. It was a feeling he wanted to hold onto, to nurture, to let grow.
Anakin's hand slid lower, cupping the rounded globe of your buttock. He squeezed gently, pulling your hip forward to grind against his own. Even in the aftermath of their lovemaking, he could feel his spent cock beginning to stir, to harden once more.
"Again?" you asked, your voice breathless with surprise and a hint of trepidation.
Anakin smiled, a wicked glint in his eye. "Is that a challenge, my rose?" he teased, his voice low and intimate. "Because I assure you, I'm up for it."
From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century
In your eyes, the heavens rest,
A goddess clothed in love’s caress.
You walk the earth with light divine,
And in your heart, the stars align.
#hayden christensen#anakin skywalker#anakin skywalker smut#anakin skywalker x female reader#anakin skywalker x you#anakin skywalker x reader#anakin smut#anakin x reader#evie writes
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What’s the difference between Malleus and Idia? What Idia was about to do when he overbloted would have been just as bad as what Malleus is doing if not worse. (Releasing a bunch of OBs and reshaping the world would not be safe for everyone) is it just just because Idia has a more sympathetic back story? I understand that some people have their likes and dislikes, but I’m just curious. I love all my Twisted boys!
I’d say that the scale of Idia and Malleus’s machinations (and even both backstories involving the loss of a family) are similar. I don’t believe that Idia has the “more sympathetic” backstory; if anything, Malleus is also very relatable and sad because we can all relate to the fear of change + losing someone precious to us and/or wanting to stay in a happy "fantasy" world (ie TWST) forever. However, the methodology and the context surrounding their actions are not the same. That’s what makes Malleus’s actions so much more despicable to me. (Again, I want to stress that this is NOT an objective take; this is my own interpretation of the events, characters, and their motivations.)
Firstly, Malleus is exerting much more power over his victims and actively tries to maintain it. He has already robbed ~20,000 people (the population of Sage's Island) of their autonomy and essentially gaslit them into accepting it as their reality. Idia has employed no such physical control or emotional manipulation. All he has done is release Phantoms out of Tartarus to rampage around the world. Both he and Malleus are putting Twisted Wonderland in danger, yes--but Malleus is also committing the moral wrong of forcing his will upon others' bodies and minds. The only other OB to involve manipulation/mind control is Jamil, and even then that was on a much smaller scale by comparison. Whenever someone so much as challenges Malleus's word, he or his autonomous magic goes out of its way to trick them back into sleep or pulling them even deeper in--and this act is much more insidious than just ripping away their free will altogether (as Jamil had). Malleus is knowingly and willingly deceiving thousands and thousands of people; Idia's plan, meanwhile, never goes that far. It could be argued that his plan was to "play hero" to save people from Phantoms so that he could make friends this way (which is also deception), but let's remember that this was Ortho's suggestion, not Idia's. We have no clue if Idia himself would carry it out, nor it he would go to the same lengths of gaslighting that Malleus did. For all we know, he could have just drawn the line at letting the Phantoms run free and being "friends" with everyone.)
Even if we assume that Idia was fully intending to be just as deceitful, Idia and Malleus are very different people, so the context and motivations behind their OBs are very different as well. The loss that Idia experienced was that of a close family member, and he has been living with that grief for several years prior to his OB. His OB, then, is in an attempt to adapt to that lingering guilt and shame and to "fix" the past. When he loses to the other boys, he offers to "go" with Ortho to right his wrongs, but ultimately doesn't. He's willing to take all of the "burden" upon himself for what he has done in the aftermath. Malleus meanwhile lost his parents, who are figures he never became intimate with or really got to know because they vanished before he had hatched. What Malleus experiences before his OB is the fear and anxiety of losing his loved ones (Lilia, Yuu, etc.), something which has not happened yet. He is unable to accept these changes, so his OB is a desperate act to prevent those events from unfolding. Idia is fixated on correcting the past, and Malleus is fixated on stopping the future--he's determining everyone's future for them. Because of this, I perceive Idia as a person with hang-ups about previous life experiences that he's overcorrecting for while Malleus comes off like a three-year old throwing a tantrum and making it everyone else's problem too.
Another element to this is that whereas Idia has to take some level of accountability for his actions (even if it's just a scolding and banishment from his parents + feeling upset with himself), Malleus never does, even in scenarios where he clearly endangers the lives of his classmates. He can claim it's "by accident" or "just a misunderstanding" all he wants, but it won't erase the worry or the battles his classmates went through for the "surprise party" he wanted to have for them. He always walks away feeling as though he "did the right thing". So what happens when Malleus, AGAIN, endangers the lives of several people? Is his power and social status going to save his ass AGAIN? Is he going to be let off way easier than everyone else AGAIN? That's what's really frustrating to me. Malleus's refusal to accept change AND the consistent lack of accountability feels very... juvenile. In-character for Malleus, but still very juvenile. Of course, book 7 isn’t done yet so maybe Malleus will eventually see the error of his ways. Right now though? All of the other stories leading up to this point in time rarely show Malleus taking accountability for anything he does, so my expectations of him aren’t great to say the very least.
A common defense I hear for Malleus is that "he's still considered a baby by dragon fae standards". Yes, I know this. However, that doesn't give Malleus a pass for his behavior. This has always been my stance on this matter. To me, he is still at least old enough to know what is an abuse of power or not--yet he acts so hypocritical, it's infuriating. For someone who is supposedly a good leader (according to his own dorm members) and cares so much about his relations to other countries (to the point where Malleus chides Sebek for being rude to other royals), I sure do see a lot of inappropriate emotional reactions and acts of abusing his power/social status (both of which can seriously harm his public image and sully his political reputation) 💀
But again, that’s just my interpretation and opinion on the matter; if you think differently then that’s valid as well!
#twisted wonderland#twst#Idia Shroud#Jamil Viper#Malleus Draconia#book 4 spoilers#book 7 spoilers#book 6 spoilers#disney twisted wonderland#disney twst#notes from the writing raven#question#Ortho Shroud#Ignihyde
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Not the way you expected - Cyno
Where the General Mahamatra, Cyno takes care of you.. but in an unexpected way. ~800 words, Fluff and crack
Another one of your hacking coughs ricochets off the walls of your bedroom. You laid in you and Cyno's shared bed, sore body taking up the whole bed. Yet, nothing would ever be on par with being in your lover's arms. Obviously, he was muscular enough as the General Mahamatra to purge the wrongdoings of criminals all over the vast lands of Sumeru ; but that doesn't mean that he was uncomfortable to lay on, of course not!
Unfortunately for you, Cyno seemed to be working overtime, which was odd for the justice -pursuer as he usually left impressively on time, dropping his headpiece and weapon in seconds. At this point, you were sweating under the piles of blankets - some borrowed from Collei, yet too cold to put them away. Stuck in this dillemma, you decide to get out of bed and wobble out of your room, unsteady footing taking you to the kitchen to fetch some water.
That would turn out to be a very bad decision.
The next time you opened your eyes, you would be laying limp in Cyno's arms, but not in the way that you wanted. 'Great timing, Cyno...' you thought.
"Hey, hey! Can you hear me? Do you need me to take to you Tighnari?"
You'd never heard him sound so frenzied and frankly, out-of-charater. Yes, you've broke through his calm and cold composure to reveal softer and much, much funnier sides of him, but this wasn't something you expected nor wanted to see.
"I'm fine, Cyno...Just give me a second to steady myself, " You creaked out, slowly getting back on your feet as you found the nearest couch or chair to sit on. Your hazy vision searched for Cyno's worried eyes. He looked distraught, as any normal person would be in this situation. Coming back home to your beloved passed out on the ground would evoke some sort of panic even to an ever the cold-hearted person.
"I knew you left work early, but I didn't expect it to be this bad, " He said, voice still fast-paced from the lingering distress. Cyno positioned your arm to go around his shoulder, as he hoisted himself up while carrying your torso and legs in a "bridal carry". Occasionally taking wary glances at you, he began to walk to your shared room. And at last, you returned to your bed once again.
Cyno gently put the back of his hand against your forehead, feeling your burning skin. "We've gotta get that down somehow," he glanced around the room for anything that he could use to cool you down, and ended up grabbing a towel and water, then putting it on your forehead. "uuuuugh... so cold..." Your hand instictively went up to your forehead, but ended up interlocking fingers with Cyno. "You've gotta stay still for this to work, okay? I know it's hard , I've had one hell of a day, too."
Once you heard of his troubling day, you started to feel a bit guilty. As aforementioned, he'd already known of your sickness, but some part of you still wished that you didn't get sick, so you wouldn't have to burden him. Fever making you a bit unstable, tears started to well up in your eyes. "What's wrong, my love?" Cyno uses his free hand to caress your cheek, the other still holding your hand, giving it a little squeeze. "I just...feel so burdensome. I don't want you to come home from a bad day and have to take care of me." You sniffled.
"Don't ever feel guilty for asking for help or care, alright? That's my duty as your lover, and if anyone tells you otherwise, I'll take care of them," Cyno firmly stated, a threatening aura bubbling off his words. You smiled, how did you manage to find someone like him? You were just a regular researcher in the Akademiya, and you managed to meet him through your stoic senior, Alhaitham. During a group dinner, his jokes made you laugh (they were quite terrible, but you'd never admit it to his face.) , and his relaxed and laid-back demeanor out of work was really attractive to you.
"Hey, how about I tell you a joke to make you feel better?"
"...?"
"I don't trust the trees in the Dharma forest, they seem kinda....shady."
His deadpan face was what made you crack up the most, the way he delivers his jokes so unemotionally was really the charm point. Your giggles turned into loud laughs, and then into even louder coughs, bouncing off the walls yet again. Cyno's eyes widened at your hacking, and quickly went to rub your back to soothe you.
"Maybe I shouldn't have done that..."
"Nah, I'm better off coughing than crying."
(why do i only write for purple characters: sampo, ratio, cyno)
(sorry gepard)
#cyno x reader#cyno fics#genshin x reader#genshin impact#genshin impact x reader#genshin impact fluff#genshin impact angst#genshin oneshots#cyno x yn#cyno x you#rina's writings!
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'𝐬𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐚𝐲' 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬.
prompts designed around the concept of a character having a difficult day and another character arriving to help/support/care for them! i made these prompts on @soulprompts. DO NOT ADD TO THIS LIST NOR REPOST IT OR CLAIM AS YOUR OWN.
DIALOGUE PROMPTS.
" you look like you could use a hug. "
" please tell me you didn't cancel your plans for me... "
" don't be silly, you're much more important than some tinder date! "
" where's your jacket? i'd like to show you something, and it'll involve a bit of walking. "
" you know i'm always here for you, don't you? no matter what. "
" hey, now... i'm only ever a phone call away. "
" come on. let's get you to bed. "
" i'm listening. "
" hey, do you have any spare pajamas? i'm going to sleep on your couch tonight; that way you just need to shout if you need me. "
" what are your nightmares about? they may not be so bad if you talk about them. "
" another nightmare? "
" hey now, no more apologizing. i'm glad you called me; i meant it when i said any time, any place. "
" you know you're never a nuisance nor a burden. not to me. "
" i'm helping you, and that's final. i'm not taking no for an answer. now. where's your kitchen? i'm making us some comfort food. "
" maybe you think it's your job to look after everyone else. but it's not supposed to be like that. it works both ways. and now it's my turn to look after you. okay? "
" hey, now. you've been helping me ever since we met. it's about time i started repaying the favor. "
“ i’m so proud of you. i know it’s hard to get past these rough days, but... i still want you to know that i’m proud of you. “
“ you know, i reckon our bond is definitely strong enough to endure whatever it is that you need to get off your chest. “
“ it’s alright, now... i got you. “
“ you don’t need to worry about scaring me off. i’m not going anywhere. you can try as hard as you want, but there’s nothing you can say that’s going to make me like you any less. “
“ you know, i make the best hot chocolate in the world. seriously, i’ve asked absolutely everyone on the planet. everyone except you... what do you say? wanna make it a global fact? “
“ let’s go smash some stuff until you’re ready to talk, okay? “
ACTION PROMPTS.
[ TEA ]: sender prepares a mug of hot tea for the receiver.
[ BLANKET ]: having found the receiver either sleeping or just lying on the couch, sender gently takes a blanket and drapes it over them.
[ BATH ]: sender runs a hot bath for the receiver after a particularly challenging day.
[ DINNER ]: having learned that the receiver has had a difficult time lately, sender arrives at their door with their favorite dinner and drinks.
[ COOK ]: in an effort to boost the receiver's spirits, sender arrives with all the ingredients needed to make the receiver's favorite comfort food, with the well-intended intentions of cooking it for them.
[ FORT ]: sender builds a blanket fort for the receiver following a long and difficult day.
[ HUM ]: sender hums gently under their breath to soothe and comfort a distressed receiver.
[ WIPE ]: after the receiver has stopped crying, sender tenderly leans forward, cups their face in their hands, and wipes their tears away.
[ JOURNEY ]: noticing the receiver has had a particularly rough day, sender invites them to accompany them on a walk or drive to get out of the house.
[ HAIR ]: as the receiver leans against them/lies in bed, sender begins to run their hand through their hair to soothe them until they relax or fall asleep.
[ CARRY ]: sender lifts a (nearly) sleeping receiver and carries them into their bed, tucking them in in the process.
[ GUIDE ]: sender physically guides an exhausted receiver into their bedroom, following weeks of very little sleep and very high amounts of stress.
[ BESIDE ]: receiver wakens from their first genuinely restful sleep in weeks, to find the sender asleep next to them, having been holding the receiver throughout the night to help them fall asleep.
[ BEDSIDE ]: receiver wakens from their first genuinely restful sleep in weeks, to find the sender asleep in an armchair by their bedside, having stayed there for the night in case receiver had a nightmare or needed them in any other way.
[ KISS ]: as a gesture of comfort and affection, sender leans forward to kiss the receiver on the forehead.
[ HAND ]: noticing the receiver is close to tears, or otherwise struggling with an unseen but considerable burden, sender gently takes their hand and holds it in an attempt to comfort and encourage them.
[ RUB ]: sender gently rubs receiver's back in a soothing motion.
[ TV ]: sitting next to the receiver on the sofa, sender joins them in watching their favorite show/movie on the television.
[ HOLD ]: as soon as the receiver opens the door and realizes the sender is there, sender wordlessly opens their arms out, and gives the receiver a warm, sorely needed hug.
#ask meme#roleplay memes#rp memes#roleplay meme#rp meme#roleplay prompt#rp prompt#ask prompt#writing prompts#ask prompts#sentence starter#sentence starters
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#4 sounds like white people at the end of slavery… “we didn’t want to end it because what if there’s retaliation? There have already been slave riots. Imagine what would happen if we gave them freedom or if we became the minority?” It’s not speculative it actually happened the fears had basis. That’s what number four sounds like. It also feels like you only care about one view point like you expect me to believe y’all are perfect victims that did one thing in retaliation?
#4 sounds like that to you because you are an American who thinks the whole world is America and all history must be the same as yours. So you should start by asking yourself what it is in your cultural upbringing, and what in the media you consume, that has you automatically believing the worst possible claims against Jews, to the point of seeing it as understandable for us to be mass murdered.
Jews did not - and do not - want to live in an Arab or Muslim majority society not because of any issues related to "slave uprisings" you are teleporting into this discussion, but rather because Jews had already been brutally oppressed, persecuted, and genocided by Arabs and Muslims for 1,000+ years before Israel or political Zionism were ever invented. Mohammed himself got his hands dirty with this, wiping out the Jews of Yathrib and renaming the gore-drenched rubble into something called "Medina." No less a source than Maimonides wrote in 1172 "God has entangled us with this people, the nation of Ishmael, who treat us so prejudicially and who legislate our harm and hatred…. No nation has ever arisen more harmful than they, nor has anyone done more to humiliate us, degrade us, and consolidate hatred against us... We bear the inhumane burden of their humiliation, lies and absurdities, being as the prophet said, ‘like a deaf man who does not hear or a dumb man who does not open his mouth’.... Our sages disciplined us to bear Ishmael’s lies and absurdities, listening in silence, and we have trained ourselves, old and young, to endure their humiliation, as Isaiah said, ‘I have given my back to the smiters, and my cheek to the beard pullers.’”
Because there is a long history of this, there is much you can read about it, if you care.
Some very random examples:
The "badge of shame" was invented in medieval Baghdad, only later migrating to Europe
Life for Jews in Yemen: The Jews of Yemen were treated as pariah, third-class citizens who needed to be perennially reminded of their submission to the ruling faith…The Jews were considered to be impure, and therefore forbidden to touch a Muslim or a Muslim’s food. They were obliged to humble themselves before a Muslim, to walk on his left side, and to greet him first. They were forbidden to raise their voices in front of a Muslim. They could not build their houses higher than the Muslims’ or ride a camel or horse, and when riding on a mule or donkey, they had to sit sideways. Upon entering a Muslim quarter, a Jew had to take off his footgear and walk barefoot. No Jewish man was permitted to wear a turban or carry the Jambiyyah (dagger), which was worn universally by the free tribesmen of Yemen. If attacked with stones or fist by Islamic youth, a Jew was not allowed to defend himself. Further, the Jews were forced to wear sidelocks or peots. The wearing of such long and dangling peots “was originally a source of great shame for the Yemenites. It was decreed by the imams to distinguish the Jews from the Muslims”. More degrading and insulting decrees to the Jews were the Atarot (Headgear) and Latrine Decrees. The former was a seventeenth-century decree forbidding the Jews to wear a headcovering or turbans. The Latrine Decree was a nineteenth-century edict in which the Jews were forced to clean out public toilets and remove animal dung and carcasses from the streets. Another discriminatory edict was the Orphan Decree which gave the Zaydis the right to convert to Islam any child under the age of thirteen whose father is dead. Further, evidence by a Jew against a Muslim was invalid and a “Jew was forbidden to pass a Muslim to his right, and whoever did so, even unwittingly, could be beaten without trial; the Jews were forbidden to make their purchases before the Muslims had completed theirs; a Jew entering the house of an Arab or the office of an official was only allowed to sit down in the place where the shoes were removed” . Tudor Parfitt summarizes some of these laws in the following: [the Jews] were required not to insult Islam, never strike a Muslim, or to impede him in his path. They were not to assist each other in any activity against a Muslim…They were not to build new places of worship or repair existing one…They were not to pray too noisily or hold public religious processions. They were not to wink. They were not to proselytize. They were not to bear arms. They were required to dress in a distinctive fashion in order not to be mistaken for a member of the Muslim occupying forces. In other words dhimmis had all the times to behave themselves in an unostentatious and unthreatening manner, one appropriate to a defeated and humbled subject people. They were to avoid the slightest show of triumphalism and they were forbidden any activity that could lead to proselytization. Yemenite Jews were “excluded as it almost always…from affairs of state, and from the great institutions of the country”
1941 Farhud pogrom (Iraq)
1929 Hebron Massacre ("They cut off hands, they cut off fingers, they held heads over a stove, they gouged out eyes. A rabbi stood immobile, commending the souls of his Jews to God – they scalped him. They made off with his brains. On Mrs. Sokolov’s lap, one after the other, they sat six students from the yeshiva and, with her still alive, slit their throats. They mutilated the men. They shoved thirteen-year-old girls, mothers, and grandmothers into the blood and raped them in unison....")
1921 Jaffa Riots
1920 Nebi Musa Riots
1910 Shiraz Blood Libel (Iran) ("In the middle of the 19th century, J. J. Benjamin wrote about the life of Persian Jews: "…they are obliged to live in a separate part of town…; for they are considered as unclean creatures… Under the pretext of their being unclean, they are treated with the greatest severity and should they enter a street, inhabited by Mussulmans, they are pelted by the boys and mobs with stones and dirt… For the same reason, they are prohibited to go out when it rains; for it is said the rain would wash dirt off them, which would sully the feet of the Mussulmans… If a Jew is recognized as such in the streets, he is subjected to the greatest insults. The passers-by spit in his face, and sometimes beat him… unmercifully… If a Jew enters a shop for anything, he is forbidden to inspect the goods… Should his hand incautiously touch the goods, he must take them at any price the seller chooses to ask for them... Sometimes the Iranians intrude into the dwellings of the Jews and take possession of whatever please them. Should the owner make the least opposition in defense of his property, he incurs the danger of atoning for it with his life... If... a Jew shows himself in the street during the three days of the Katel (the start of Muharram)…, he is sure to be murdered")
1840 Damascus Blood Libel (Syria)
1839 Allahdad Pogrom (Iran)
1834 Hebron Massacre
1834 Looting of Safed
1800s Morocco - Jews were forbidden to wear shoes
1700 Jerusalem oppression / apartheid: ("Muslims are very hostile to Jews and inflict upon them vexations in the streets of the city… the common folk persecute the Jews, for we are forbidden to defend ourselves against the Turks or the Arabs. If an Arab strikes a Jew, he (the Jew) must appease him but dare not rebuke him, for fear that he may be struck even harder, which they (the Arabs) do without the slightest scruple...")
1679 Mawza Exile (Yemen)
1660 Destruction of Safed
1500s Iran: ("After the ascension of Shah ‘Abbas II the Jews of Isfahan faced a lot of persecution. Most communities were forced to convert to Islam. Furthermore those who refused to convert would have most of their inheritance taken away as the inheritance laws at the time allowed for those who converted to Shia Islam to inherit the property of non-Muslim family members. Some communities did not convert and were thus forced to wear a special badge to show that they were Jewish. The maltreatment of the Jews weakened their community ties and influence throughout the region. By 1889 there were only around four hundred Jewish families left in Isfahan and most very poor.... by the middle 20th century 80% of the Jews of Isfahan lived on the verge of poverty.")
There's so much more I really don't know where to start or where to end. Afghanistan revoked all Jewish citizenship in 1933. Turkey banned all Jewish names and held massive antisemitic pogroms in 1934. Iraq banned Hebrew schools and Hebrew names in 1936, pogroms throughout Libya 1945, Syria fired all Jewish government employees 1946. Tripoli pogrom 1785. Algiers 1805. Cairo 1844. Istanbul 1870. Safed 1517 and 1799. Jerusalem 1665 and 1720. Granada Massacre 1066. Fez Massacre 1033. How many Wiki links do you want, how many textbooks?
This is an old, old conflict, and the Americanized "colonizer / slave plantation" frame is off-topic.
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Love You to Death • T. Hiragi
Warnings: angst, crying, insecurities, light sexual content
Word Count: 1k
Note: a @pixelcafe-network challenge! I was given the song Love You to Death by Type O Negative and did not think I’d make it in time, but then I decided harness my bad brain day into something creative. Some of the lines are taken by/based off of the lyrics. Dividers by @/adornedwithlight.
You struggle with it. Often. Wondering if you’re good enough for him—knowing you’re not.
He’s so strong, so honorable, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders while caring for you. You’re just another stressor, just another stomach ache.
Usually you can keep your doubts to yourself, work through them and rationalize. If Hiragi didn’t want to be with you, he wouldn’t be, right?
But there are some days when he can just tell. It’s the set of your jaw, the sag of your shoulders, the way you take things the wrong way and then punish yourself for it.
You don’t deserve him, and he deserves so much more than you.
That’s what you believe, anyway.
Hiragi on the other hand…
“Stop being so fucking mean to yourself,” he tells you, begs you. “Hate when you get like this. What can I do?”
“It isn’t about what you can do, Toma. It’s about what I can or can’t or should do. It’s—” you hiccup, frantically wiping at falling tears. You hate crying because of shit like this. You’re already such a burden, and now it feels like you’re manipulating him. “It’s all the ways I should be better for you.”
“You’re perfect for me,” he insists, taking hold of your wrists to pry your hands from your eyes. “Look at me.”
You don’t, not until he gently takes hold of your chin. “Baby… if I wasn’t happy, I’d talk to you about it. I promise.”
All you can do is try and fail to swallow the lump in your throat.
“Wish you’d do the same. Just talk to me.”
“I am happy with you. You make me happy. And you—you do so fucking much for me. I’m just s-so scared that one day you’re gonna—gonna realize that you’re tired of putting up with my bullshit.”
Your voice is all over the place, wet and warbling, squeaky then silent. You can’t control it, can’t control anything about yourself, it seems.
“I’m not putting up with anything,” Hiragi tries, “I’m not makin’ any sacrifices.”
“I don’t believe you,” you respond quietly. It’s not angry, nor is it argumentative. It’s a statement of fact because— “I don’t understand how you could, like, not get frustrated with me.”
Hiragi chuckles, the hand on your chin has moved to the back of your head to lightly scratch your scalp.
“Oh, I get frustrated with you, make no fuckin’ mistake. Just not for what you think.”
You stay silent, just stare at his handsome face, enjoying the weight of his hand in your hair.
“It’s not your little piles or your forgetfulness or your inability to be on fuckin’ time to anything,” he lists, and you clench your teeth to fight back more tears. “I don’t care about those things. Not anymore, anyway. It’s when you let shit fester and start spiraling and you don’t talk to me.”
You rest your head in his hand and shut your eyes, not surprised when you feel him wipe away the droplets streaming down your cheeks.
“Can’t help it,” your murmur. “Chronic overthinker.”
“Yeah, I’m well aware,” he says, and when you crack your eyes open again you see him smirking.
Fingers dig into your scalp with a little more force, scratching and making you hum in contentment. When he speaks again, his voice is laced with something a little more serious, a little more desperate: “How ‘bout you let me turn that brain off for a bit. Let me prove I mean what I’m sayin’.”
It’s hard to stay sad when he’s looking at you like that, brown eyes darkening a shade, sharp teeth nibbling on his lower lip.
“What’d you have in mind?”
Hiragi doesn’t answer, just pulls your face to his for a deep kiss. He licks the salt off your lips while wiping your puffy, tear-stained face with his thumbs then carefully pushes against you so that you lay back on the bed you’ve spent the last hour crying in.
“I love you so much,” you feel more than hear, the shape of the words molding to your mouth, wrapping around your heart and squeezing.
A knee between yours, he lightly presses it to your core, letting out a quiet groan when you grind down on it.
“Just tell me what you want, baby,” he breathes, kisses down your neck, tongue tracing the curve of it before he stops to suck a bruise onto your heated skin. “Your wish is my law.”
“I want…” you pause for a shaky inhale then guide his face back up to yours. “I just want you to love me. Forever. I don’t wanna lose you.”
Hiragi’s face softens. He sighs thoughtfully, blinks at you slowly before lowering himself to kiss you with a tenderness that makes you want to cry all over again.
“I do. And you won’t. There’s not a bone in my body that wants to leave you.”
His last kiss lands on your forehead, and then you’re both gazing at one another in a way that would make your friends dry heave.
“Close your eyes now, princess,” he says, voice low and full of desire, “m’gonna love you to death.”
You don’t fight him, don’t try to argue that you’re the one who should be begging him, serving him. No, you let him descend on you, let him do whatever he pleases because he makes you feel so good.
His tongue spells out sweetly sinful words on your most sensitive flesh, his fingers insistent and appreciative as they curl into spaces you only bear to him. He moves slowly and deeply, pouring himself into you in more ways than one—adoration and fondness and promises spilling inside of you in warm, blissful release.
As promised, Hiragi manages to turn your brain off, that network of unfathomable connections rendered absolutely useless as he destroys every doubt and self-loathing habit by way of mind-numbing, toe curling orgasms. You suppose there’s a reason the French refer to them as little deaths.
“Good enough for you?” he asks teasingly when you’re both breathless and dazed. His lips are pretty and kiss-swollen, a slick mess dripping between the two of you.
“Too good,” you reply, a lopsided smile spreading across your face. “Too good to me.”
Hiragi raises an eyebrow. “But not too good for you, right?”
“Right,” you nod. “Just perfect for me.”
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October 25th
Pregnancy, Papa Emeritus I x Reader
Masterlist
Words: 2.7k.
Warnings: Pregnancy; pregnancy sex; (consensual) groping; cunnilingus (I absolutely did not steal this scene from a previous Primo fic I wrote and change it up slightly, I don’t know what you’re insinuating but it is unappreciated and how very dare you); praise kink (y’all should know me by now); body worship; mild breeding kink; multiple orgasms;
Taglist: @sodoswitchimage @enchantedbunny @bitchywitchygardener @thew0man @sodomiser @the-did-i-ask @copias-sewer-rat @gehrmansbignaturals @deetz-ghuleh @onlyhereforghost @zombiesnips-blog
🔞 MDNI 🔞
If Primo had his way, he would have you bed-ridden and away from the prying eyes of the rest of the Ministry. He wasn’t ever a possessive man, nor was he territorial, yet all that changed when you fell pregnant with his child. He hated members of the Clergy even so much as breathing in your direction, let alone looking at you or, Satan forbid, trying to hold a conversation with you. When other people made a reach for your pregnancy bump, he found himself slapping their hands away with his cane. That you were grateful for.
Apparently all personal space went out the window when you became pregnant, your baby bump was free real estate for strangers to touch without permission apparently. But you were always the bad guy when you told them to back off. You loved that Primo listened when you complained about it, and you were incredibly grateful that he was willing to take on the persona of the gumpy old man if it meant you could get some space.
However, behind closed doors, Primo was almost as bad as the rest of the world when it came to your personal space. He fussed, he worried, but he also groped. He simply could not keep his hands off you. Some of it was innocent, especially when he would come up behind you and gently lift your bump, giving you some respite from the heavy burden you had been carrying for so long. But most of the time his hands were just downright naughty with the places he gripped onto.
Your breasts were a particular favourite of his hands. Your pregnancy had made you grow everywhere, tits and ass included, and he was certainly a huge fan of this. The way you were now multiple cup sizes bigger, heavy with milk for your unborn baby - all maternal and ready to sustain the life you were creating. Not to mention the way you jiggled when you moved, the way your ass wobbled as you wandered around your chambers. He couldn’t help himself most of the time, he just had to have his hands on you.
The particular maternity dress you wore today was really pretty, and comfortable for you especially in the coolness of the Italian autumn. But it was particularly triggering for you partner given it showcased your breasts in the most perfect of ways, and fell over your hips giving you a tempting shape that he simply could not resist. All you were doing was standing there pouring yourself a glass of water. But that was a crime in Primo’s eyes that couldn’t go unpunished.
You felt his wandering hands over your hips, gloved digits stroking the clothed flesh and meandering upwards to cup your heavy breasts. His lips, hidden beneath his thin paint, caressed the back of your neck, tickling your sweet and sensitive spot. You giggled at the sensation, but couldn’t deny the instant arousal that flooded your cunt the second you felt his hands on your body. His arousal evident by the hardness pressed against your lower back, and transferring into you.
“What’s got into you?” You asked, turning your head to look at your partner over your shoulder.
“You look positively delectable, fiorellina.” He complimented, his voice muffled by your skin.
“You do realise we have meetings and many other things to do today, right?”
“Frankly, my dear,” he swivelled your hips and turned you around so he could see your face, “Non mi importa. Not when I want to ravish the mother of my child as she deserves, no?”
His lips met yours and grew more passionate the longer he was attached to you; his hands became more and more impatient with the clothes that were separating your body from his. Your own hands moved to grip his robes, pulling them upwards to have access to his hard cock. Primo hated wearing undergarments with his robes - they were long enough to cover everything so why would he bother with them? Though, with your pregnant belly, it was particularly difficult for you to play with him in the way you usually would - or even wanted to. “Papa.” You complained through kisses. “I can’t touch you.”
“To the bedroom, fiorellina. Let me touch you instead, sì?”
You nodded and wandered off to the bedroom, removing your panties when you got there and sitting on the bed to help you kick them off completely. When he walked into the bedroom, he helped you out of your dress, gently pulling the fabric off of you and kissing the exposed flesh. He always wanted to make sure you knew how he loved and appreciated you, even if he was rougher with you than he ought to be. Undressing you and giving you tender kisses was his way of doing that. Your bra was the next to go, and Primo groaned at the sight of your nipples, enlarged and erect, just begging to be played with and sucked on. He gave you one final kiss before sitting you back onto the bed.
“Lay back.” Primo ordered you, removing his mitre and placing it on the dresser where it usually sat. You did as he asked, lying back and watching him disrobe - naked in an instant. That thought always made you laugh.
He situated himself between your legs, staring at your glistening folds and taking in the glorious sight of them, wet and ready for him. Your swollen clit, red and aching, screaming at him to wrap his lips around them and provide you with the most pleasure. You were always ready for him at a moment’s notice before the pregnancy, but the hormones had made you ravenous and insatiable. Not that Primo was complaining, of course. You made him feel young again with the amount of times you wanted to mount him and take what you needed from him. He was always more than happy to oblige, enjoying his pregnant wife bouncing on his cock first thing in the morning.
He first placed kisses to your calves - gentle, soft pecks that were barely there, but sporadically timed so you didn’t know when they’d land. His fingertips delicately caressed any exposed flesh he could reach, adding another layer of sensation to the already soft touches. Though, you knew your thighs would be painted black and white from his paints transferring.
“Always so good for your Papa.” He whispered, his deep voice gravelly with decades of use. “Always so obedient and helpful.” His lips now had moved up to your pubic mound. You could feel his breath flow between your folds before he’d placed a kiss just above them, making you shiver in anticipation for that final touch.
Papa, at times, felt like a walking stereotype given his unmatched patience and languid movements. He liked to blame his age, but you knew he enjoyed torturing you slowly, like he was sustained from your frustrations alone. And so, when you had grown impatient and considered sitting up to tell him to let you please him instead, his tongue finally made contact. But this time it had no softness to it - this time he was brutal in his movements.
The initial lick was broad and rough, causing you to scream out unexpectedly. But this was soon followed by his lips suctioning themselves around your clit and sucking as hard as he could, giving you overwhelming pleasure that bordered on pain. With his mouth still closed around your clit, the tip of his tongue continued to work it in multiple directions, almost erratic with his ministrations. He continued like this for what seemed like eternity; his head even moving in all directions when he sucked on your sensitive bud to keep your pleasure as lively as possible. Usually, such intense pleasure would have your hands flying to his bald head, but your rather large pregnancy belly stopped you from reaching him, and so you had to make do with the sheets below you, gripping onto them as tightly as you could for purchase and to keep yourself from floating away. All the while he remained face-first in your core, unrelenting and unwilling to stop until you reached your peak.
He pulled away briefly so that he could spit on his fingers, placing them inside you and tapping upwards as his mouth worked on your clitoris. He fully intended to be inside you today, and needed to stretch you out to accommodate his size. Though, of course, you appreciated the deep burn that came with his cock filling you up, he couldn’t bear to hurt you, especially while you were hyper-senstive with the hormones your body was pumping through you to create and sustain life. Your walls were extra slippery today, and your g-spot so tender that a single touch had your hips bucking upwards quickly at the shock, despite feeling him stretch you. You called out, much louder than intended at the feel of his fingers perfectly abusing that spot inside you, dragging the utmost pleasure from your body and playing you like a fiddle he’d been playing for years.
“P-Papa!” You breathed, your body feeling like it was on fire. Your hands shifted from the sheets to pinch and play with your nipples. “I’m so close, please - fuck! - Please don’t stop!”
Primo only grunted in response, adding a little extra vibration when he did. He refused to stop what he was doing because he knew you’d lose that feeling. Instead, he upped his movements and heightened the intensity, causing you to finally tip over the edge and climax all over his face. Your back arched and your mouth fell open, with a string of expletives tumbling out of it. And Primo only stopped when you sat up and pushed him away.
He certainly was a sight to see emerging from your wetness; his paint around his mouth had completely dissolved, showing you his swollen pink lips, soiled with your cunt. There was a lazy smile on his face, and a cackle in his throat at the sight of your exhausted face, your eyes half-closed in sleepiness and your mouth wide open as you tried to breathe in as much oxygen as your lungs would hold.
“Are you ready for me, fiorellina?” He asked you, kneeling on the bed and placing your thighs over his.
“Yes, Papa. Please fuck me.”
He groaned at the way your voice moaned the last three words, bottom lip catching between his teeth and eyes roaming lower and lower until he was staring at your cunt again. His cock was placed at your entrance, ready to push his way inside you; and fuck, when he finally did? It felt like magic.
Your sensitive walls welcomed him with proverbial open arms as he slowly sank deeper and deeper into the warm recesses of your cunt. The head of his cock gently kissed your cervix as though it were welcoming him home after being apart for so long. Every inch he fed into you felt delicious as it stretched you out to fit him like a glove; a torturous yet spectacular feeling until his hips were flush to yours and his mouth released a breath of relief followed by a sharp hiss. The noise you made as you felt him breach you went straight to his cock, making it twitch as it was going in, causing you to moan even louder. Had someone been playing with your clit, you were sure you would have cum instantly.
“Papa!” Your voice was a desperate whine, a plead for him to be closer to you, or even start moving inside you. You needed him to do something.
“I know, baby girl. I know. Feels good, doesn’t it?”
You shudderred. “Please move!”
The first thrust was so intense you thought you were about to pass out, but all it was was a gentle movement. Your hands immediately moved back to the bed, clutching onto the sheets so tightly, you were ripping them from their tucked state. The second thrust felt just as good, and the third had your eyes rolling back. Soon enough, Primo had picked up the pace, rhythmic yet gentle movements that had your lungs gasping for air and your brain turn to mush. You, an educated and powerful woman, now lay a puddle of hormones and pleasure on your shared bed by the cock of a man significantly older than you.
The more he thrust, the more unbearable the feeling became. Your screams as an outlet to the sheer pleasure were not working anymore, and you’d now resorted to wrapping your teeth around the silk pillowcase that kept your head comfortable below you. Your back arched off the bed as much as it comfortably could, losing your mind even more now that his hips had picked up the pace. You were blissfully unaware of the way you looked, or how much you were making him suffer.
You were divine; a Goddess sent as a reward by Lucifer for all his hard work. Your body, carrying life that he’d helped create jiggling beneath him with the gentle force of his hips. Your thighs wobbling at the movements, your breasts, heavy, round and full, nice and plump and begging to be played with and sucked into his mouth. You always looked absolutely delicious, but right now you looked so tempting he almost wished you weren’t pregnant so he could fuck another baby into you this very moment. He released a deep, gutteral groan from your walls tightening around him after he’d told you that.
“Gonna keep pumping you full of kids, keep you knocked up as much as I can.” He continued. “You want that, fiorellina? You want me to keep fucking babies into you? Keep showing these fucks around the Ministry who you belong to?”
“Yes, Papa!” You screamed when you were finally able to release the pillow from your mouth.
His thumb came down to your clitoris and began rubbing circles in the tender bundle of nerves there, causing another scream to come out of you. “You can give me one more, can’t you?” He asked, his voice gentle and soothing.
You were almost sobbing. “No, Papa. I can’t.”
“Yes you can, fiorellina. Give me one more. Papa’s almost finished. One more.” He felt you tighten around him one more time as both his hand and his words tipped you over the edge. Your ears rang, your vision went white, your body tensed as he worked you through your second and final orgasm of the night. It felt as though you were exploding from the inside out, the feeling so powerful and incredible you could hardly breathe. All the while, despite the ringing, you could hear Primo in the distance somewhere talking you through it. “È tutto qui. That’s it, fiorellina. Breathe for me. Such a good girl for Papa. Cazzo! I’m gonna -”
Primo could barely finish his sentence before he stilled inside you, one final thrust that had him burying himself as deep as he could and emptying himself completely. Your sensitivity had you twitching each time he did, tightening involuntarily around him at each movement causing his orgasm to occur stronger than it usually did.
He pulled out and collapsed next to you, the room filled with nothing but your exhausted grunts and gasps for air at such an intense session. Eventually, when you were both strong enough, you made eye contact and laughed at each other despite nothing being funny. You wanted to move towards him and cuddle into him, but your body wasn’t responding the way you wanted it to today, so you settled for reaching for his hand.
Once you’d both calmed down, you began a conversation, filling the silence with more intimacy and sweetness as you still lay there recovering.
“Oh,” he said, remembering something important, “I will be home late tonight, fiorellina. My fratellini want an Uno night so I promised them I’d be there.”
“Good, it’s about time you got to spend some time with them. I know Papa Terzo has been down recently since they deposed him.”
“Sì. Thank you for understanding, amore mio.” He turned onto his side and cupped your opposite cheek, kissing the one closest to him. “Ti amo.”
“I love you, too.” You told him. “Now go tend to your garden. I need a nap. You’ve broken me.”
“Mi dispiace, fiorellina. Sleep well.”
Previous Day ⛧ Next Day
#mel writes#kinktober#kinktober 2023#ghost kinktober#ghostober#the band ghost#ghost bc#ghost#ghost band#ghost the band#ghostober 2023#papa emeritus#papa emeritus i#papa emeritus 1#papa primo#primo#papa emeritus x reader#papa emeritus i x reader#papa emeritus 1 x reader#papa primo x reader#primo x reader#papa emeritus x reader smut#papa emeritus i x reader smut#papa emeritus 1 x reader smut#papa primo x reader smut#primo x reader smut#primo smut#papa primo smut#papa emeritus i smut#papa emeritus 1 smut
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So much of the horny male reader posting is about top reader and honestly justice for us switches and bottoms 😔
On one hand I get it, I too want to fuck old men sloppy style. I need an old man bouncing on my cock until he's crying and breathless, I need him under me and helpless (he's letting me overpower him), shuddering because he is so sensitive from how many times I've fucked him, hole swollen and pink-
But like also the other way around yknow?? A guy just wants to be taken care of sometimes?? (Can you tell I have daddy issues??)
Anyways- I'm thoroughly and enjoying all the hornyposting, keep it coming 😗
-🔮
There was a time I used to think bottom male readers were popular on here, mostly because that’s what was always being said “bottom male readers have everything” but after writing for bottom male reader and looking through that tag I can tell it’s not as popular as top male readers nor is there much to read on there. While we do have somewhat of a top male reader community on here I’ve never come across the bottom male reader community which is sad. There should be something for us all
And I cannot judge you sugar bee, old men and only old m n are definitely allowed to fuck me. I will happily take tips and tricks and have them take care of me. While it’s okay to have preferences and call yourself top bottom vers, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to try other flavors every once a while.
And thank you little love! Feels like I’m talking into the void because there aren’t many ppl on lately maybe because holidays and work and uni are bound to be busier than usual but it’s also a burden to carry this horniness alone
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IVORY · PART V
Fandom: Dune
Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x Atreides!Female OC
Words: 2,238
Warnings: dark themes, violence, death and mention of cannibalism
Summary: Your pride and loneliness gets the better, as you choose to pry in what you should avoid.
Desecrated.
It's tender to the touch. Bruised. The simple trace of your finger is enough to draw a frown. The mottled skin of your throat is obvious. A terrible site to bare witness, but there's more; a scattered mess mares your body.
The powders have no affect in hiding their existence, and so you resorted to covering them with fabric. It's better the people don't see. It's better your father and kin don't realise the damage of only one night. If they did, they might not leave you here, and the point of all this would be for nothing.
A waste.
You've come this far and you've survived. It's not for anyone else but for you to decide when it ends. It could be weeks, years or even decades, but you know this marriage is worth more than your life. It means a future for thousands of others, if not millions.
Turning from the mirror, you nod for the servants to continue dressing you. The early morning marks the hour of your fathers return to Caladan. He and the others are set to leave this planet, and you want them to leave with hope and pride.
Honour.
You aren't going to dress like your new people, nor will you ever behave like them. The void of their culture won't ever touch your soul. Instead, the servants prepare you in one of the gowns bought from home. A statement both daring and bold.
"Is it time?" you question, to which the servant nods. She's the very same to whom had once adorned the bruises you do now. For reasons unknown, you had taken a liking to the woman. "Good."
Taking a deep breath as you left your chamber, you couldn't help but yearn for what freedom you might find outside these walls; if for only a short time. If only to see your father depart this abysmal world. Gathering yourself, it was only your lone servant who guided you through the palace and up to the hithe.
The dark star that cloaks this planet bore light, and you wince as it floods your gentle eyes; having been weeks since you'd taken in anything other than the artificial. Even the air is harder to breath despite being outside; far too poisoned with fumes.
In the distance you see the great ship to which you'd arrived in, still gleaming unlike anything you'd ever seen. A beacon. There's very few in the galaxy who have or ever will travel the vastness of space. In fact, the first time you'd ever done so was to bring yourself here.
"I didn't think you would come," spoke your father. Standing in uniform, he greets you well kept but with a face of despair. The loom that surrounds him is heartbreaking. "I didn't think you would want to see me."
"Then you think too much," you replied with a faint smile. "You're my father - my duke. You're an honorable man who deserves to be farewelled."
"An honorable man wouldn't trade his daughter to the enemy."
His words hit you like a bullet. Painful. The surrounding noise grows overwhelming to the senses. Hypersensitive. You can hear the ships, the soldiers and even the planet itself resonating from all-round. Even the wind across your face feels strange.
But as you look at your fathers rugged face, see his familiar eyes and features, you feel the noise fade away. You can see the burden he's carrying. You know this was as difficult for him as it is for you. It isn't fair or right for him to keep carrying it.
"There is no call we do not answer," you repeat in mantra. "We do what we must for the good of the people." Resting a hand on his shoulder, you give a light squeeze. "We do what we must to survive."
"You're strong, just like your mother," he nods with a chuff. "You always have been."
Stepping forward, he places a soft kiss on your forehead and your eyes close amidst the threat of tears. You want to remember him as he is and as the kind-heartedness that he represents. Steadily breathing, you absorb his gentle touch and scent; to which you won't soon forget.
"We'll see each other again," he promises with a touch of your cheek. "I'll make sure of it."
Nodding your head with a mustered smile, the duke straightens himself before taking a step back. There are no other exchanges as he moves to make way for the ship. It's a quick farewell, anything more would be too difficult; too emotional.
"My lady," utters Gurney. Stepping forward, he takes your hand to lay a quick peck. "As a man of your fathers council, loyal friend and protector, it pains me that my only power now is to wish you well."
"Fate is a complexity, is it not?" you jest upon looking at your retreating fathers form. In all seriousness you added, "You'll protect him, won't you - and Paul?"
He pauses, "With my life."
"Then there's nothing to fear," you mutter beneath your breath. A rush of relief washes your bones, perhaps a premonition. "Thank you, Gurney."
Giving a curt nod, he bid himself goodbye before following suit to board the ship; along with the rest. Watching alongside what few soldiers and groundmen there are, you waited by until the doors ceiled. The tender strings in your heart tug at the site.
Loneliness is cruel.
Yet, a shadow looms on the metal floor of the platform. Piter. The mentat appeared from seemingly nowhere, and to your irritably, is the only one of any importance to see your father and people off on their long voyage.
"Where are they?" you question bluntly, not bothering so much as to look at him. Your eyes are still sharply focused on the starship. "Why didn't they come?"
In truth, it doesn't matter that your new family by law had not shown for the occasion. They hadn't done you the courtesy of it upon arrival, and so what little there is to have changed in their humiliation. You only ask in leu of the open wound it now salts.
"Pressing matters," spoke Piter. "The Baron's time is precious. It's best not to waste what isn't so clearly desired."
"And what of Feyd-Rautha?" you queried whilst turning to face the mentat; heated eyes meeting cold ones. "Is his time as coveted?"
"The answer isn't pleasant."
"I didn't ask if it were pleasant."
"Take the day," retorts Piter as he looks out towards the horizon. "This is your home now - you should see it."
The anger within your veins begins to boil. It vexes you that this twisted man won't simply answer what should be the simplest question. It causes your mind to tick, wondering what it could possibly be to make him so reluctant; secretive.
"Do I have to pry it out of you?"
The threat did nothing to change his monotone demeanor, but you can tell he'd heard you well and clear. A break of silence fills the void between you, until finally there is no more effort for him to conceal the truth. He confesses with a neutral tone.
"Prying only leads you to places you shouldn't be," he states before glancing at your servant. "But this one can show you the way."
Glancing over your shoulder, you eye the woman; head bowed low. Piter stays while you take your leave of the hithe. You'd expected him to be stronger, but his words of warning begin ring. Perhaps he's right to stave you from the trail you now follow.
"This way," utters your servant.
Following her lead, she moves at a slow pace; an evident lack of urgency. The reason is an evident one. Venturing into the palace walls and traversing the halls, the farther you travel, the more you studied the lithe and pale woman.
The muscles in her neck twitch and strain ever so subtly. A sign of distress. The way she grips her hands together, so tightly, as if she were trying to cling on, only makes you all the more intrigued yet disturbed.
"Where are we going?"
Keeping her head bowed she responds, "We're almost there."
The answer is hardly clear enough to process. Empty. The abundance of riddling and vague responses you've received only adds to your tart aggravation. It's baneful, with how the Harkonnen's have polluted this place with such fear and secrets.
A terrible infestation.
Eventually, the servant stops outside that of a chamber door; similar to your own but far removed. This place is located deeper within the palace, if at all possible. You can see her milky skin prickle and shiver beneath her thin dress.
You order, "Stay close."
Swiping a hand over the console, the door opens wide; revealing a bright illumination as it beams down from the ceiling. As you step forward, your shoes click against the glossy ground whilst the door close from behind; entrapping the two of you.
The channel of light strikes down upon the epicenter of the room, clearly irradiating the psychotic man you'd been seeking; although he's far from alone. As criminal and dangerous as he may be, his blood still belongs to great wealth.
Feyd stands within the down cast of light, muscular arms outreached while servants attend to his requisite. In a warped sense, his marbled pose and aura makes you think of an something akin to ancient; like a god from the old world.
A god of death.
The other servants are quick to stop and turn heads at your unexpected arrival, but Feyd remains unbothered. Evidently, there's not a soul on this planet for him to fear. However, his attendants have paused far too long for his liking.
Feyd turns slowly, clearly agitated at whomever had decided to enter his domain. His sharpened features don't soften upon realising your presence. Instead, he looks you up and down rather analytically.
He rumbles, "What do you want?"
"Respect," you answer simple and low. "Honour."
Feyd's lip twitches in a slight grimace and snarl. It's enough to show blackened teeth, to which you still find utterly unsettling. Feyd waves off a servant, before turning his undivided attention towards you; malicious.
"Honour," he repeats as he stalks towards you; one step at a time. "For who? For you?"
"For us both," you respond as he circles behind you. "The empire watches - waiting to see what will happen next. Now all they see is you - absent from the honour my house was due this morning."
"You Atreides," he drawls with a grumble. A flutter of feminine giggles echo from the far corner of the room. "You're all the same."
Feyd moves from behind you, instead leading himself to a table. It gave you a chance to take in the room. The servants stand predictably petrified, while three others sat lounged on a booth; the strange women are intermingled with one another.
"Would you like some fresh meat my darlings?" he boasted, whilst lifting a knife from the counter. It took you all of a moment to realise he's no longer speaking to you, but to the women on the lounge. "What would you like? A lung? A liver?"
Their own blackened mouths show in a mixture of smiles and grins. Deranged. Their giggles and moans visibly shift the tension. The other servants seem to faulter on the spot; their heads tucking lower and bodies tremoring.
"You," he leers at your own servant. "Come."
"No," you quip without hesitation. The last thing that'll happen in this room will be his hands touching the woman who stands so vulnerably behind your body of protection. "She isn't yours to torment."
"Everything's mine," he replies while approaching his nearest attendant.
You watch the girls lips quiver and eyes widen as his blade thrusts into her abdomen; once, then twice and again. She groans and splutters whilst falling to the ground in a matter of seconds. Butcher.
A pool of blood seeps as he turns to add, "Even you, Atreides."
The violent execution shocks you deep within, and control is hard to fight for as your emotions take hold like a vice. You're trying not to scream. You're trying not to react as to give him satisfaction. Instead, you watch as the girl continues to die, his victim twitching and suffering on the floor; dying then dead.
"There," he gestures matter-of-factly. "My honour."
His reasoning makes no sense. It's all madness to you. Murder. Lifting the dagger, he observes the blood which coats the blade. Transfixed. The gleam in his wicked eyes is unmistakable, but the gravity of it even more so, when his tongue licks a line of blood.
"Because of me," he elaborates. "My darlings are satisfied. Because of me, they're to live another day. There is honour in being master."
Your gaze flickers from him to the three women who sit intertwined on the lounge. It sounds as exactly as he'd announced, but you simply don't want to fathom the truth. These are fowl notions, even for the likes of his kind.
It sickens you more than the memory of his touch.
Listening to the women revel amongst themselves, they seem clearly pleased with their masters slaughter and offering. Feyd gestures and the others are swift to drag the fresh corpse from site; leaving a trail of smeared blood.
Concubines and cannibals.
#fanfic#female oc#dune#dune part two#dune 2024#story#feyd#feyd rautha#feyd x female oc#house harkonnen#feyd-rautha x female oc#feyd x you#Atreides!Female OC
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warnings : tears, hurt/ comfort, referenced friends w benefits, angst
word count : 5.1 k
“how long will this go on for?” you could barely manage a whisper, your body felt so awfully cold even though hyunjin’s arms were wrapped around you.
his arm was heavy against your torso but it was nowhere near as much of a burden as the thumping of your heart against your chest.
he sat up in the bed next to you and cocked an eyebrow. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
you should’ve seen this coming. it was supposed to be a no strings attached contract, you’d both cleared that up the moment this… whatever this awkward little fling was, started. his eyes were slightly glassy, the moisture reflecting the soft moonlight that spilled through the blinds of the room.
his room, the one you’d spent many nights in, wrapped up in the sweet scent of his shampoo and the cotton of his sheets.
the smell used to be oh so comforting but now it bore a hole in your chest where your heart used to be, even the whiff of it burned your throat, so bittersweet in its wake.
“this wasn’t supposed to end like this” your words tumbled out your lips, “we were never supposed to be like this”
hyunjin simply rubbed his eyes tiredly, “you’re scaring me, seriously… what’s even wrong?”
his nonchalance made your blood boil, “i’ll tell you what’s wrong hyunjin?! i’ve been waking up in your bed for the past month. hell, i haven’t slept in my own room for weeks. we're supposed to be just friends, so what is this?”
his eyes held an almost guilty expression, avoiding your gaze as you stared at his bare back, your cheeks felt warm as he tumbled back against the pillow next to you again.
“i know that this isn’t what we agreed on… but we’re just friends right?” he swallowed thickly,
that hurt more than it should’ve done.
just friends.. but just “friends” don’t look at each other like that.
considering hyunjin your lover would only be foolish.
but… you’d be lying to yourself if you said you’d not thought about him like that, hell even now you were picturing him in your head as yours.
yours and only yours, that;s what your heart had led you to believe, you suppose that’s what spending every waking hour with someone does to you.
if you carried this on any longer you think your head would burden you as well.
love was not pleasure, nor was it lust… but at this point you could barely differentiate between them, when it came to hyunjin all of those emotions felt as real as each other.
“i think we should have a break hyunjin” your lips spoke monotonously, this would be for the best… right?
so why are your eyes flooding with tears at the mere thought of it? your thoughts almost blurred together, matching the incoherency of your tinnitus.
the silence was long but the words that took you almost by surprise.
“please look at me” you could hear the desperation laced in his voice. his hand placed itself atop yours, and you felt your heart drop at the soft sniffles that erupted from your side. it was too dark to make out his features but it didn’t take a genius to work out that hyunjin was crying. his stray tears dribbled down his cheeks onto your palm.
“i don’t want us to end like this.” his voice was gruff, barely audible and it made your head swim with guilt.
“how do you want us to end hyunjin..?” you spoke softly, wiping the sticky tears that were now flowing down your face away.
“i meant all of those things i said when we were half lucid” he looked down, thumb intently drawing sloppy circles around your knuckles, “it was never just words, it was how i felt… no .” “it is how i feel”
your faces were so close together that you could almost make out the outline of his lips and the sweet curve of his nose amidst the darkness.
“every i love you and every compliment” he carried on speaking , his forehead now leant against yours.. “i meant it all… and i don’t think i could forgive myself for lying to you like this”
you scoffed, pulling his hands into your lap, “what do you mean lying hyunjin?”
“i wasn’t supposed to fall in love, was i? ” he bit his lower lip to prevent it from quivering, “i messed it up and i made you uncomfortable… it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
you could almost laugh if he wasn’t being this awfully damn sweet, “you didn’t make me uncomfy hyun?”
“wait, i thought that’s why you were mad?” his eyebrows cocked up at your words.
“i was mad because i didn’t know what i meant to you but i think you’ve cleared that up for me” you could feel the heat rise to your cheeks as you recounted his indirect confession towards you.
“so what do i mean to you y/n.. ?” he whispered , voice laced with concern.
you leaned in to take his face into your hands, his breathing hitched in the back of his throat at your ministrations.”i don’t wanna be just friends anymore” you mumbled before pressing your lips to his.
that kiss felt different to all of the many others that you’d shared with hyunjin. there was a tenderness to it… something that was unmistakably love. just friends don’t look at each other like this, but maybe that was the reason it all felt like it was falling apart anyways. you and hyunjin weren’t made for being simply just friends.
lovers fitted the two of you better.
a/n : so it’s hyunjin’s birthday and i wrote him angst oops, anyways happy birthday to the prettiest boy on the planet , NOT PROOFREAD SO LMK IF THERE’S ANY MISTAKES THANK YOU FOR READING!!
#-works#skz#skz angst#skz fluff#skz x reader#skz oneshots#stray kids#stray kids fluff#stray kids angst#stray kids x reader#stray kids oneshot#stray kids drabbles#hyunjin fluff#hwang hyunjin#hyunjin#hyunjin angst#hyunjin x reader#hwang hyunjin x reader#hwang hyunjin fluff#hyunjin imagines#hyunjin smau#hyunjin drabbles#hwang hyujin imagines#hwang hyunjin angst
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(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)
what would it be like to be miggy's sole friend? (aside from my bbg lyla)
imagine being one of my miguel's only friends in middle school. like he was a bullied kid in middle school (i think he was in middle school in the '92 comics, correct me if i'm wrong) and like, i think our miguel (movie miggy) wouldn't really give a shit if you were his only friend, he just wanted it to be you.
like if you asked him why he didn't try to make other friends if he knew you would be there to defend him if someone tried to mess with him, he'd just shrug and admit that he doesn't really want anyone else. and if you'd follow up that question with another why, he... he wouldn't know himself why. he just feels better and at peace knowing you're all he has to call as his 'friend'.
he wasn't shy nor anti-social either, he did talk to people and make connections, but he never really went to anyone else but you to talk about problems, unburden burdens you both never realized you were carrying, and just... be yourselves around each other.
like miggy has to put up fronts, he always did, he always does. even as an adult, if you chose to stay by his side, you would always see different sides of him, it was never just one or two versions, but a whole spectrum of miggy that you witnessed and grew up with.
and he appreciates how you understand him despite you not agreeing with him a lot, like that shit comforts him, how you have tried to see things his way. and despite them not working/being agreeable for you, he likes how you at least try, for him, to see how he sees it.
you also know how much he hates other people telling him what to do, that riles him up the most. he hates not having things in control because when things aren't in control, nobody, not even him, is in control of themselves. you don't encourage his no nonsense behavior, you want him to have fun, but most of all, you are the only person who successfully convinces him to take a damn break and relax for once.
he has joked to you before how many couples he knew lasted long because they knew each other since high school or college, since you knew each other way earlier than that... what would you do if he proposed to you right then and there? what if he said he wanted to marry you, spend the rest of his life with you, have you remind him taking breaks, waking up in his arms in the morning, and going home with his hand in yours, ensuring you'd be safe forever as long as he was there?
"i know i'm not... the most agreeable or friendly man on this planet, but... i want to be better. and to be better, i learn from you. and the more i learn from you... i realize how much i've loved you all this time, all this time i've wanted just you and only you, that... must've been when i started falling for you, ever single part of you, it all makes my heart beat a little faster, makes me want to be someone worth loving by someone so worth it. and that someone is... you. so, what do you say?"
a/n: WHAT DO I SAY, I SAY YES BBG AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
tags !! @miguelswifey04 (him to you fr <333)
#miguel o'hara#miguel o'hara x you#miguel o’hara x reader#atsv miguel#miguel o’hara fanfiction#spider man 2099#miguel x reader#miguel spiderman#miguel o'hara fluff#atsv#atsv spiderman
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No place like home...
Word count: 2.2k
Warning(s): Slight B6 spoilers, angst, believed character death?, slight gore mentioned in like one sentence
A/N: Based on this post, I've been wanting to write this for so long and I finally remembered lol. Don't ask abt the title just made sense in my head and im not changing it
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The sky was dark, it was early afternoon but no one would have been able to tell due to the thick dark grey clouds that covered every inch of the sky above this prestigious school. The sun seemed long gone with not a single ray making it through those clouds. The only source of light for the students and staff was the large overbloted beast with a mane of blue fire right in the middle of what used to be the prestigious Night Raven Collage.
Everything was in rubble, a mess with every step you took, and large fires that were scattered all throughout. It looked like a war zone, and might as well have been. Most of the student body had been evacuated to the other side of Sage Island long ago, and most of the staff stayed behind to take care of the destructive beast. A handful of students refused to leave, most insisting they could help.
Among these students was a first-year friend group, one of which was the magicless student that had lived in the abandoned dorm with the once small fiery beast.
Most of the first years earnestly instructed Yuu to evacuate with the rest of the students to RSA, but they refused, Grim was their closest friend if not family. They'd be damned if they were going to leave him when he was like this. Their friends soon gave up, they knew there was no point trying to change Yuu's mind when they had it set on something. But they made sure to keep them close so they'd be protected.
So many people were on the ground injured, all covered in bruises and burns from either being swatted at by the beast or just nearly dodging its fire. The more of those people Yuu recognized the bigger that feeling of dread and fear grew in their gut.
They saw so many upperclassmen just scattered around, like Cater that had been staying in the back but went just close enough to be able to cast a spell, but was hit with Grim's fire before he could do a thing and was knocked out when he hit the ground. Yuu could identify a few more people, they saw Ruggie's ear twitch as he laid face down, they couldn't tell if it was Jade or Floyd but they saw bright teal hair peeking out from the other side of some rubble.
Yuu knew they couldn't fight, they were basically useless in this battle, and like all the other overblots, a burden. They decided to make themself useful by trying to get as many of the injured somewhere safe as they could. They might not be the strongest but they are still capable of carrying someone.
"Epel! Come with me!"
"W-what!? I'm kinda in the middle of somethin' here!"
"Just come here, you're going to help me get these guys to a safer place!" Though the two were barely 15 feet apart they could hardly hear the others voiceover the beast's constant cries whether it was of pain or rage was unbeknownst to any.
But Epel understood what Yuu was getting at as they tried to pull Ruggie's unconscious out from some rubble and onto their shoulders. He soon followed his friend's lead and started using his unique magic to help carry more people at once. Neither Epel nor Yuu could see each much other, mutually agreeing to spread out so the injured could get to safety faster.
Yuu searched just off to the side in between two larger pieces of rubble, it was hard to see much of anything while inside. It was far darker than they had expected, Yuu could barely see an inch in front of them let alone the stray fireball coming straight for the pieces of concrete that leaned up against each other.
The magicless prefect only had a moment to realize what was happening and what was going to happen, just long enough to realize they wouldn't be able to avoid it. But it was still just a moment, a moment that was soon over and replaced with pitch-black darkness. The sounds of Grim's powerful roars, spells being cast, and orders being barked, quickly came to halt only to be replaced with... an alarm...?
*Beep* *Beep* *Beep*
Yuu shot up, nearly falling off their bed. Wait- bed!? Why would they be in their bed? Is- is this some type of afterlife or something? They turned the alarm off and sat on what on what they weren't to sure was their actual bed for what felt like hours before slowly sliding off it, weary of whatever had happened. They slowing began to feel around the room to see if this was truly real or just some sad dream. When they finished, they stumbled back, very unsettled by the acracy, they didn't want it to be real. No wait- yes, yes they did want this.
But if so then why was there such a deep pit in their stomach? They pushed that thought to the back of their head, they needed to focus on building the courage to walk out the door. What if their family was there? How would they face them after they had been gone for so long? Or did any time pass at all? Yuu's room looked the same so maybe..?
Yuu scanned the room once more just to make sure, and sure enough, everything was just how they left it. The clothes they had absentmindedly tossed around the room just hours before they were thrown into Twisted Wonderland were still scattered all around, and in the same condition they were before they left. Nothing had gotten substantially more dusty or anything that would show being abandoned for a year. Then again their family could have kept it clean...
As they thought of the possibilities a dreadful thought came to mind, what if it was a dream? A painfully realistic dream. Yuu had heard of baby/family dreams before which are dreams where you build a whole life and family years into the future. Could Twisted Wonderland just have been one of those? But- no... that- that can't be it... can it? Can all the relationships they built and the trauma they went through really just be a realistic dream!?
Yuu began to panic at the thought and quickly began to search their body for any proof that the past year was real. They needed it, it had to have been real! They had woken up in their pajamas so there was no chance there was any material possessions were on them. Any one of the many scraps and scars from their time in that school would be more then enough.
But... there was nothing... they looked over and over but still... nothing. No scars no scrapes. Nothing. Tears of frustration and desperation bleared Yuu's vision, they didn't know what to think.
Was it really all just a dream...?
The smoke slowly began to clear as the small fires were put out. The sky could almost be seen again, but it had grown a darker blue since the last time anyone on Sage Island had seen it. The battle had ended just barely an hour ago, the injured were being treated and those who were well enough were helping where they could. Grim miraculously survived his overblot, though he was unconscious and heavily injured. The staff of both NRC and RSA began discussing what should be done with him once he is well enough. Most of the uninjured were helping with the rubble and looking for more people.
Among these uninjured were some first years, but they were looking for one person in particular, the magicless Ramshackle prefect. Jack did his best to keep everyone calm but they were all quite frantic a worried, you were magicless and had no means of protecting yourself during this disaster. Epel was possibly the most frantic having been the last to have seen them. Eventually as the hours past, Yuu was the only person unaccounted for and many had joined the search. Luckily there hadn’t been any casualties so far but many were starting to worry that would change.
Riddle was the one that came across the tattered scolded piece of ceremonial robes that stuck out from under a large piece of rubble that lay flat on the ground with another large piece leaning on it as if they had been leaning up on each other before they fell. Riddle began to panic and called others around over for help to lift up the two pieces of concreate.
He had hoped it was just a ripped piece of the robes, but to his and the other's deep dismay, it was the full outfit with small splatters of blood lingering on it. Leona, one of the others that came to help lift the rubble, was very confused. This was way too little blood for someone who was crushed, actually, there was no viscera of any sort, save for the small spatters that could be easily explained away by getting scrapped or having a nosebleed. He was far from the only confused one either, after a moment of panic Riddle quickly realized the same, along with the others that helped.
So they continued the search, and for days as they cleaned and repaired the school they kept a keen eye out for the missing student. But no, not a thing.
The only thing left of Yuu was the robes, which Crowley cast a spell to concurred that it was in fact the prefects clothes. Everyone was confused, it was as if Yuu had just disappeared inro thin air.
Ace and Deuce refused to accept any answer other than Yuu being alive somewhere in Twisted Wonderland. Even going so far as to say the Mirror was wrong and that they did have magic and they used teleportation magic or something! And other very outlandish explanations like that. Epel, Jack, and Sebek were far more reasonable than the Heartslabyul duo but still had many questions and were shocked by how quickly the situation changed. First, they had to worry about how to stop and save Grim, then how they were going to stop Yuu from fiercely protecting Grim from whatever punishment he would receive from the headmasters. Then... how they would have to explain to the fiery beast that his dear friend Yuu might be dead.
And now, well they haven’t told him anything about what was happening since he woke up 4 days after the incident. Thankfully he woke up with zero memories of what happened. The first years refuse to allow anyone to even mention his overblot to him, at least not until they get any kind of answers or are able to find Yuu.
And until that time comes, if it ever will, Ace, Deuce, Jack, Epel, and Sebek all do their damnedest to keep both headmasters and the possible authorities off Grim’s back. Ace insists that Yuu knew Grim the best and should be here to defend him before any type of legal action is taken.
Eventually, too much time passes with no sign of the prefect there is no other way to take it than the passing of the young student. And Grim... he inevitably found out what had happened, his overblot and Yuu’s disappearance, or possible death.
I’d be lying straight through my teeth if I said he took it well, how could he have? His closest friend and only family was probably dead and just cause he didn’t want them to leave him!
Grim wasted no time running away, whether to find Yuu or just escape the headmasters and authorities no one knows. . .
Yuu’s family was worried, Yuu was perfectly fine, acting normal one day, then acting weird and out of it the next. But not just the next, they were acting like that for weeks. They would talk to and spend time with their friends and family but it never seemed like they were actually there, as if they were constantly off in another world. Every time someone asked what happened they would just brush them off saying everything was fine. Yuu began buying strange things, old warn books in Latin and other seemingly ancient languages, but also, so.. So many mirrors. That's all you could see in their room, just so many mirrors ranging in so many different sizes and shapes. Some had even been smashed, but Yuu refused to throw any of them away.
There was one mirror that they recently got ahold of though, it seemed to have enthralled them. They barley said a word anymore, let alone leave their room. The mirror was a large classic oval mirror, just over half the size of Yuu. It had a gold rim with intricate snake designs around each of the sides and a crown at the top. Truly nothing too special, you could find it at almost any antique store, but it was all Yuu cared about anymore.
All they did, day in and day out, was stair at the mirror as they cried. Sometimes Yuu’s family could hear faint begging coming from the teen’s room.
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#twst#twst angst#twst yuu#twisted wonderland#twisted wonderland x gn!reader#twst x gn reader#twst grim#twst epel#twst ace#twst deuce#twst riddle#twst jack#twst first years#twst cater#twst ruggie#twst second years#twst third years#twst wonderland#disney twisted wonderland#twst fic#twst fanfic#twst tweels#twst sebek#twst leona#twst x reader#disney twst#twst overblot#twst scenario#twisted wonderland angst#twst au
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