#not the eye of the cold war storm

[medilies]

Do you ever watch s3 and s4 and realise you're not enjoying it that much

[ball-of-butter]

is this mare and maven

[quietwingsinthesky]

know that if i ship a character with one incarnation of the doctor, it automatically extends to all of them. i can’t be held back.

[imaginedisish]

Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby (Logan Howlett x fem!Reader)

A/N: This took way longer than expected, and I also sort of got carried away...Hope it still lives up to the requester's expectations (I also saw that the anon asked for fluff...and this ended up being fluff and smut...hope that's okay). Def some errors...I only proofread twice. This one is also inspired by "Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby" by Cigarettes After Sex. Enjoy!

Summary: Logan's kindness towards you is strictly friendly. Until it's not just friendly anymore...

Warnings: SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI! Unprotected PIV, Oral (f!receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms (uh, they're outside...), grumpy!Logan, cursing, major angst, comfort, fluff, references to canon typical violence/death/conflicts, f!reader/afab!reader (reader has hair at the nape of her neck but no description of length/texture/color), mutant!reader, def some grammatical errors, I think that's it.

Word Count: 4,662 my back hurts

It had been a long day. Every day was a long day. There were the kids to worry about, and then there was the rest of the world. There’s a war coming, you see it everywhere you look, and hear it everywhere you go. The news. The papers. The kids whispering in hushed echoes late at night when you’re walking the halls sleeplessly. You don’t want a war. You want a life. 

The mansion is still bustling—it always is—but it’s slowly winding down. You listen as kids walk up the stairs in waves, heading into their bedrooms for the night. You know you should too, but you like it when the mansion gets quiet. You like knowing that everyone is safe, tucked away. You like it when no one else is around—when you can be alone, the stillness and quiet of a dark and sleeping house cradling you like a mother.  

You find yourself in one of the living rooms, the T.V. still on, playing reruns of a cartoon you recognize from years ago. You smile as laughter erupts from down the hall, the padding of small feet echoing along the floorboards and the sound of much heavier boots following close behind. 

“Hey! Watch it!” A grumpy, familiar voice shouts as kids run past the doorway to the living room, giggling mischievously. “Fucking kids.” You turn towards the sound of Logan’s voice as it bounces off the walls, his frame entering the doorway. 

He has a plate of cookies in one hand and a glass of milk in the other as he strides over to you. 

“Hi,” you say sheepishly, smiling up at him. He’s in his beater and his jeans and that leather jacket that hugs him just the right way. You try not to think about how good he looks as he places the plate and the glass down on the coffee table in front of you. Friends don’t think about friends like that, and that’s all you two are: friends.

“Thought you might want a snack,” he mumbles, pointing to the cookies. “And maybe someone to talk to. You’ve got that look on your face.”

You roll your eyes, staring at him incredulously. “What look?”

“That sleepy, stressed face you make,” he starts, walking around the coffee table and taking the spot on the couch right next to you. “When you’re listening to everyone, making sure they’re alright.”

“I’m fine,” you say, reaching for a cookie. Logan sits up and grabs the glass of milk, extending it out to you. “Really, I am,” you promise, but you know he can tell that you’re lying. 

You take the glass from him, and his hand falls to your thigh. The feeling of his skin against yours is intoxicating. He works his jaw and opens his mouth. “What’s going on—”

“Logan?” Storm cuts him off, standing in the doorway. Her gaze is focused on Logan’s hand resting on your thigh. “Did you make tea?”

His eyes flicker between you and Storm. You tilt your head, waiting for his response. “Yes,” he answers, his hand lifting from your thigh as he stands. The spot is suddenly cold. You want to grab his hand and yank him back down. 

“Well, the water is about to boil,” she says, smirking as the kettle begins to whistle. 

Logan mutters a quick shit under his breath as he prowls out of the living room and down the hall to the kitchen. Storm giggles as she watches him, shaking her head. She squints at the cookies and milk, and then at you. You nervously place the milk back down on the coffee table.

“Wow,” is all she says, her arms crossing her chest as she leans against the frame of the doorway. You can hear Logan shuffling around the kitchen, closing cabinets and cursing. “All this for you, huh?”

Your jaw drops just a bit at her words, their meaning instantly smacking you in the face. “O-oh, no,” you stutter defensively. “It’s not like that.” 

The conversation quickly ends as Logan walks into the living room with a cup of tea, passing Storm and heading to the couch. He sits down next to you and places the tea in front of you. The tag of the tea bag hangs over the side of the mug, steam wafting off the top.  

“You like tea, right?” He asks as you lean over and grab the warm mug in your hands. The heat feels good, but not as good as when his hand was on your thigh. 

You nod, swallowing those feelings down as you blow into the cup to cool the hot liquid inside. “Thanks, Logan.” You smile, and he smiles back. 

Storm is still in the doorway, a soft laugh stuck in her throat. “I’ll leave you two alone.” And before you can protest, she’s gone, her heels clicking down the hardwood floors of the hallway. 

Alone now with Logan, you can’t help but feel nervous. You bring the mug to your lips and finally take a sip, the hot tea dripping down your throat. Was Storm right? No. This is just a friend looking out for a friend. There’s no deeper meaning. So what if Logan brought you cookies and milk? So what if he made tea for you? He’s just being nice, kind, caring. That’s what he always is…to you at least. Maybe only to you—

“Hey, everything okay?” Logan’s voice yanks you back to reality, his palm suddenly warm on your thigh again. You jump at the sensation, accidentally spilling tea on Logan’s hand and all over your thighs. 

“Shit,” you mutter, the liquid stinging just a bit against your bare skin. “I’m so sorry,” you say, placing the cup down on the coffee table. When you look back up, Logan is gone. You can hear scuffling in the kitchen again, drawers opening and slamming closed. 

“What the fuck are you doing, Logan?” Scott’s voice chastises in the distance. 

Logan scoffs, his footsteps echoing against the tile floors. “Fuck off, Summers,” he chides, and you can’t help but laugh at their bickering. 

“Think that’s funny?” Logan teases, suddenly in front of you. He rushes over, kneeling next to you. He has a towel in his hand. “You okay?” He asks. “Anything hurt?”

You shake your head from side to side. “Nope, all good,” you say, grinning, ready for him to pass you the towel. But he doesn’t—he’s cleaning you up himself. 

He rubs the towel gently across your thighs, sopping up all the tea. His touch is soft and careful. You can feel heat rise to your chest at the closeness—the intimacy of it all. You take a deep breath, struggling to calm your heart as he takes his time taking care of you. 

“You sure you’re alright?” He whispers, his eyes suddenly searching yours. The towel hikes up a bit further, the tip brushing against the hem of your shorts. You’re dizzied by his touch, by the comforting way he smiles up at you as he lets the towel fall to the side. Both of his hands are on you now, one on each thigh. His thumbs brush soft shapes into your skin. 

Just friends, you say to yourself. Just friends just friends just—

“Hey gu—oh,” Bobby stutters, standing in the doorway with Peter. “S-sorry to interrupt. We didn’t mean to—”

“What do you two want?” Logan cuts him off, his hands slipping off your thighs as he stands to face the boys. You can hear the gruff annoyance in this voice. “No privacy in this goddamn mansion,” he mutters under his breath so low you almost don’t hear it. 

“Charles told us to come get you, Logan,” Bobby continues nervously. “He has to talk to you about something.” 

Logan groans, irritated as ever. “Fine. Tell him I’ll be there in a second.” 

Bobby and Peter nod, too nervous to say anything else, and walk away. Logan is still standing in the same spot. You can tell he’s thinking, contemplating something. 

“You better go,” you say, cocking your head towards the hall. “Can’t keep the professor waiting,” you joke. You watch as the corner of his mouth twitches up. Your heart squeezes in your chest at the sight of turning his frown into a smile. 

He turns his body so that he’s completely facing you. His throat bobs as his hands curl into fists at his sides. He looks like he’s holding back, resisting—but what? You can’t quite tell. 

“Logan?” Charles’ voice calls from down the hall. 

“I wanna see that plate clean when I get back,” Logan finally says, pointing to the cookies. 

You let out a laugh as he walks to the doorway. “Yes sir,” you pledge, hand on your heart. His smile widens, his eyes grazing up and down your body, as if committing your form to his memory. What you’re seeing can’t be right; it has to be an illusion. You almost think he doesn’t want to leave you—can’t leave you. His feet are planted on the ground, his arms tucked against his chest. 

He opens his mouth, but the Professor interrupts him before he can get a word in. “Logan!”

Logan steps out of the doorway impatiently, fists still clutched at his side. “Meet me on the lawn in thirty minutes, okay?” he huffs out, walking down the hallway towards Charles’ voice before you can give him an answer. Charles calls him again. “Yeah, yeah, old man. I hear you!” 

Thirty minutes. Just thirty minutes. You can—absolutely cannot—wait thirty minutes.

God. You are so lovesick.

Twenty-five minutes later you’re sitting out on the lawn, far away from the mansion, waiting for Logan, popping the last cookie into your mouth. 

You lay down on your back, the cold, wet grass sending a shiver down your spine. There’s a light breeze in the air, bending the green blades and the leaves of the trees back and forth. You look up at the stars, imagining just how hot they are, just how bright they can shine. 

“You finished the cookies!” Logan’s voice calls from a few feet away. You sit up, watching the shadow of his form make his way over to you. You can see the smile spread across his face as he reaches your slide, crouching down and sitting next to you. 

“Of course I did,” you say. He’s looking down at you, his eyes flickering across your face. You want to look away, but you can’t. It’s like he’s got you stuck there—he always does. He is the one thing you can’t resist. 

Logan’s shoulder bumps against yours, the sudden warmth reminding you just how cold you are. You shiver, crossing your arms and tucking them into your chest. 

You instinctively and involuntarily lean into his touch, searching for warmth. He catches on to what you’re doing before you do. “Cold?” He asks, shuffling a bit in his spot as he lifts his jacket.   

“O-oh no it’s okay you don’t—” But then he’s taking off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders. 

“Better?” He asks, his arm wrapping around your shoulders too, inviting you to lean into him completely.

“Y-yeah,” You stutter, letting your head rest against his chest. You close your eyes, too nervous to keep them open. His jacket smells like him—pine and tobacco and musk. Every breath you take is intoxicating. He’s everywhere, flooding your senses. It’s overwhelming, but there’s nowhere else you’d rather be than with him. 

He sighs, his breath fanning against your forehead. “So, what’s the matter?” He asks, tugging you in tighter. 

You shake your head, looking up at him. “Nothing,” you say, doing your best to be convincing. “I’m fine.” But you know it’s no use. He can see right through you. It’s like knowing when you’re lying is part of his mutation.

Logan raises his brows. “You’re stressed.” It isn’t a question, it’s a fact. “I could see it before, when we were inside. I can see it when you’re teaching the kids.” He rubs his hand up and down your arm, the feeling almost distracting you from his words. His eyes search yours for the truth, for an answer. “You can talk to me, darlin’. I’m right here.”

Your breath hitches in your throat as those last three words replay in your mind. You swallow your nerves down, searching for the right thing to say. 

“What if we’re in danger?” You stumble over the sentence quickly, shooting it out into the air like it’s something you’ve wanted to get rid of for a long time. “What if the stupid war they’re always talking about comes, and we aren’t ready?” You can feel your heart racing, tears brimming behind your eyes. 

Logan presses a kiss to your forehead, the warm feeling of his lips unexpected but welcome. “Hey,” he coos, his lips still pressed against your skin. “It’s gonna be okay.” 

A tear slides down your cheek. The words come out like vomit, each syllable slipping off your tongue in rapid-fire succession. “But what if it’s not? What if I can’t protect the kids or the team or you for fuck’s sake?” You can’t stop the floodgates—tears flowing freely down your cheeks. You’re speaking between sobs now. “What if they get to us before we can convince them that mutants aren’t something to be wiped out or some disease to be cured? What if—” 

Logan’s arms wrap around your body, tugging you against his chest, pulling you as close as possible. “I’m not gonna let that happen,” he murmurs. “We’re going to figure this out. We’re going to be okay.” 

“H-how do you know?” You choke, your chest heaving against his. “What if—"

“No more what ifs,” he whispers, his hands rubbing against the leather of the jacket—his jacket—on your back. “No one’s gonna hurt you, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” He presses a kiss to the side of your head. “Gonna keep you safe, okay?”

“O-okay,” you mutter. “Gonna k-keep you safe, too.” 

Logan hums, the bassy timber of his voice filling your ears, calming your mind. “Don’t worry about me,” he pauses, one hand reaching up to the nape of your neck, rubbing circles into the sensitive skin there. “Just let me worry about you.” 

“Always gonna worry about you,” you say, not backing down. 

You can feel his heart beating against yours. “You don’t have to right now,” he soothes. “Let me take care of you.”

You don’t protest—don’t try to fight him this time. You let him pull you into his lap, let him hold you closer, let him play with the hair at the nape of your neck.  You can feel his lips on the crown of your head. He’s so close—closer than he’s ever been before. He feels so good, so firm and solid underneath you, so steadfast and constant. He’s a lifeline, a necessity. A safe place—asylum. 

It has always been him that you need, and you’d be a liar to say otherwise. 

Logan finally breaks the silence. “What are you thinking about?” He asks.  You, you think. 

“Me?” What? 

“Did I just…” you trail off. “Did I say that out loud?”

“Yeah, you did,” he husks, his hands lowering down your back, slipping under the jacket and your thin t-shirt to the bare skin underneath. His palms are warm, and his touch is tentative, hesitant. “This okay?”

“Y-yes,” you stammer, and Logan starts to draw patterns and shapes across your back. “Feels nice.” Your voice is soft and shaky as he explores your skin.  

“I’ve been thinking about you too, you know,” he whispers at the shell of your ear. His nails drag across your back. You move your legs to straddle him. “You’re the only thing on my mind, princess.” He presses his forehead to yours as if to show you, to prove to you that he’s telling the truth. You shudder at the words, at the thought. He presses a chaste kiss to your nose, lowering his lips until they’re just centimeters from yours. 

The world feels frozen. You’ve long forgotten you’re outside, the breeze cutting across the grass. You’ve forgotten about the stars twinkling above you. They’re nothing—just balls of heat burning out millions of miles away. You’ve forgotten about all the hatred you’re forced to face, all the variables and lives at stake in this stupid war. Your mind is calm. Everything is suddenly nothing. 

Everything is him. Logan. 

“Logan,” you mumble. It’s a plea, a prayer, a demand. And he knows exactly what you’re asking for as his name hangs in the air between the two of you. 

His lips crash down onto yours, tasting you, savoring you. But it isn’t languid or slow—it’s rushed, frantic, starving, as if your world is ending; it very well could be. He’s pushing you down onto the grass, his muscular arms on either side of your head, caging you in underneath him. 

“Wanted you this whole time,” he pants in between kisses. “Needed you, couldn’t stop thinking about you. Still can’t.” He pushes the jacket open with one of his hands and hitches your shirt up. He lowers himself onto his forearm as his nails drag up your stomach, settling just under your ribs. He spreads his palm, feeling the expanse of your skin, tracing your curves and the dips of your body.  

“F-fuck,” you stutter, arching your back off the grass and into his chest, offering more of yourself to him. 

He bites your lower lip and kisses the pain away. “You gonna let me take you right here?” He growls, his fingers playing with the hem of your bra. “Gonna let me fuck you outside, pretty girl?”

“Yes,” you whine, lifting your hips against his, feeling his erection straining in his jeans. “Need you, Lo.” 

He curses under his breath as he sits up, his hands pawing at the leather jacket, tearing it from your body and casting it aside. You sit up too, keeping yourself close to him. He’s yanking at the hem of your shirt, lifting it up and over your head. He takes off his beater next, but you don’t get the chance to admire him. Everything is a blur, the throwing of clothes, the way he’s shoving you back down to the grass as his fingers unclasp your bra. The straps fall down your arms, and Logan slips it off the rest of the way. 

He pauses, taking you in, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, lowering himself back down over you, balancing on one forearm as his free hand slides up your stomach, over your ribs, finally settling on your chest. He cups your tits, squeezing gently, his thumb brushing over one nipple and then the other. 

“Perfect. You’re so goddamn perfect,” he praises, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, and then to your chin. He continues his trail down to your jaw, your collarbone, the center of your chest. 

He takes a detour, his lips latching onto your nipple and biting lightly, his tongue flicking out and soothing the ache away. He kisses across the valley of your chest, bringing his mouth to the other side. He flits his tongue across your other nipple, and continues his trail down your stomach, peppering innocent kisses as he travels lower and lower. 

He stops at the hem of your shorts, looking up at you under hooded eyes. You can see the lust, the desire, the need. “Please,” you whimper. And then he’s hastily unbuttoning and unzipping your shorts, wasting no time as he hooks his fingers into the waistbands of your shorts and panties, yanking them down your legs and throwing them carelessly into the grass. 

Logan pushes your thighs open. “Keep your legs spread for me, sweetheart.” You can feel his breath on your clit. “Wanna taste you,” he rasps, kissing your core teasingly. “Wanna feel you come on my tongue.” 

And then his tongue is pushing through your folds, lapping at your juices, all the way up to your clit. It’s already too much, your hips lifting off the grass. Logan brings his arm across your hips in response, keeping you down. “Stay,” he grunts, his voice vibrating against your heat. “Don’t know where you think you’re going, princess.” He’s looking up at you now. You can see the desperation and the hunger in his eyes. 

He's starving for you.

He buries his face back into your cunt, swiping his tongue through your folds again before finally settling on your clit. He latches his lips around the bud, sucking harshly. He flicks his tongue out, drawing sweet, sacrilegious circles against your core. 

His free hand climbs up your inner thigh, spreading your legs wider for him. His nails ghost across your skin, raising goosebumps in their wake. He finds his way to your folds, spreading your slick, teasing your entrance. You moan his name as he presses your squirming hips down firmly into the ground. “Doing so good for me,” he breathes against your swollen clit. “Such a sweet fucking pussy.” 

He sinks two fingers deep into your cunt, humming against you, savoring the taste of you. He pumps in and out, deeper every time. “F-fuck Lo,” you cry out, your hands grasping the blades of grass beneath you for purchase. “Feels so good.”

Your walls flutter around him, your muscles already contracting as he works you open. “That’s it, princess,” he huffs, his teeth grazing your clit as he sucks, hard. “Can feel you squeezing my fingers, can feel you getting close.”

“S-so close,” you choke out as he fucks his fingers into you. His pace becomes faster, relentless. He laps at you like he’s a man who has never eaten in his life. 

“I know, sweetheart,” he soothes. “Come on my tongue, darlin’. Know you can do it.” He’s working you through it, swirling his tongue, flicking your clit, licking thick, hard stripes around the bud. His long fingers scissor inside you, rubbing against your walls deliciously. It’s all too much, but it’s just what you need. “Let go for me, pretty girl.”

You feel your walls contract as the fire in your belly spills. You chant his name—Logan. It’s a prayer—no—a promise. It hangs in the air as you come undone underneath him. His fingers pump in and out of you slowly, helping you ride out your orgasm. He carefully pulls out after a few more thrusts, but his face is still buried in your cunt, still lapping at your swollen, overstimulated clit. 

“Lo,” you whimper, looking down at him. He looks up at you, his tongue licking one long stripe before he stops completely. 

He presses a chaste kiss to your clit as he sits up and unbuckles his belt. “Gonna have to taste that pretty pussy again later, yeah?” He throws his belt to the side and unbuttons his jeans. He slides the zipper down, too, and hooks his fingers inside his jeans, shoving the denim and his boxers down his legs in one quick movement. 

You can make out just how big he is in the moonlight. You swallow at the size of him. He lowers down onto you again, resting on his forearm, guiding his cock towards your entrance. 

He captures your lips in a kiss as he nudges against you, teasing you, spreading your folds open for him. “Gonna take care of you, sweetheart,” he coos, kissing you again. “Gonna make you feel good.” 

You wrap your arms around his back, bringing his chest flush to yours. “Need you, Logan. Need you inside me.”

“I know,” he whispers, nudging teasingly against you again. “I know.”

And then he’s shoving himself deep inside you, filling you up. You can feel his cock twitching, throbbing, searching for more of you. He pulls all the way out and buries himself back down to the hilt. 

“F-fuck,” you curse, your nails digging into his shoulders, searching for support. “It’s s-so much. So big.”

He presses his forehead to yours. “I’ve got you, pretty girl,” he husks, setting a slow, easy pace, letting you adjust to the size of him. “Taking me so good.” He’s working you open with every pump, his cock rubbing against your walls and stretching you out. 

Logan brings his free hand between your bodies to your still-swollen clit, stroking gently as he plunges deeper into you, hitting your G-spot with every thrust. You moan his name, your chest coming flush with his as you arch your back. The contact feels so nice—just what you needed. He’s fucking you out, pounding into you over and over again. 

He's erasing every fear, every bad dream, every horrible vision you’ve ever had. It’s what he does to you. It’s just him—Logan—always has been and always will be. 

“Such a good girl,” he grunts. “Letting me fuck you out here.” His hips snap against yours—building his pace, growing faster and deeper as he thrusts into you. You can feel yourself growing closer, crumbling underneath him. You can’t last much longer, your walls fluttering around him, squeezing him tightly. 

He moans your name into your mouth, his tongue sliding across your bottom lip, tasting you. “You feel so good, pretty girl,” he groans, rocking into you. “So soft, so tight. Know you’re close.” He flicks your clit, and then circles roughly. “Wanna feel you come on my cock.”

“G-gonna…” You trail off, a bumbling mess, unable to finish your sentence as Logan fucks into you. 

“I know, pretty girl,” He soothes. “I’m right here, I’ve got you. Come for me.” 

You can’t hold back anymore. You can feel yourself letting go, your walls fluttering around him, taking him deeper, holding him tighter. Your orgasm washes over you, like sun stretching across your skin, like a fire spreading in a forest. It’s all too much, too good. 

Logan isn’t far behind. You can feel his cock twitching deep inside you, his pace faltering, his thrusts becoming sloppier. His fingers leave your clit and travel up your body. His hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you gently as he pumps into you, pressing his forehead to yours. 

“Wanna come inside you, pretty girl,” he moans, pulling you closer, taking you deeper. 

You nod against his forehead. “P-please,” you stutter, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Don’t want you to leave yet.”

“F-fuck,” he growls, your words sending him over the edge as he spills inside you, filling you up. “You’ve idea,” he chokes, “how long I’ve fucking wanted you.” His thrusts slow as he rides out his orgasm, pumping in and out a few more times before pulling out of you. 

He doesn’t break contact—doesn’t rush to get changed. He rolls onto his back and pulls you with him so that your head rests on his chest, your body tucked tightly into his. You can hear his heart beating deep inside—hear his shaky breaths become more stable. The air is no longer cold—the breeze a welcome contrast to the hot summer night air. 

Your legs tangle together. Somewhere in the distance birds sing. A branch creaks. The wind whisks through the grass. You close your eyes and listen. The calm before the storm. This peace can’t last.

“Lo?” You call, breaking the silence. 

He kisses the crown of your head. “I’m right here.”

“I know, but—”

It’s like he can read your mind. “I’m not going anywhere. No one is.” He tightens his arms around you, pulling you closer. 

“I’m just scared to lose you, to lose all this.”

Logan presses another kiss to your head. “I know,” he murmurs. “But I’ve got you. Nothing’s gonna hurt you. I promise.” 

Nothing’s gonna take you from my side.  

[entitled-fangirl]

A sigil of mine.

Summary: the reader is taken from Winterfell while Cregan is at the Wall. He's a vengeful man.

Warning: kidnapping, dread, guilt, blood, scars, branding, talks of torture, our boy Cregan embodying Joel Miller when Ellie gets taken in the Last of Us

This one is dark

A/n: based on an ask! Also, fuck the Lannisters

I'll proofread later🫡

Masterlist

..............................................

"Lord Stark! An urgent letter has arrived from Winterfell!" A brother of the Wall yelled over the sound of the harsh wind that roared through the icy halls.

Cregan turned his entire body to him, a sudden pain in his stomach. What could be so urgent?

Cregan nearly rips the letter from the man's hand as he nears. The letter is stained with a dark red in places and he feels himself choke a little.

Lord Stark, Winterfell is under attack. By the time you read this, I will be long gone. I tried to protect the Lady as best as I could.  It was an honor to serve under House Stark and see you become a man. Please forgive me. Maester Tinedel

Cregan's hands shook violently as his eyes roamed over the paper another time. Then once more. His jaw set harshly as he looked up to the man that had brought such devastating news. "When did this arrive?" He growled lowly.

"Just this morning. Is it dated by any chance, my Lord?"

Cregan flipped the page and surely enough, the old maester had been wise enough to do so.

The air in his lungs escaped, creating a cloud in the cold air.

"Three weeks now."

The man stared in confusion at Cregan's sudden distress. "Is everything alright?"

Cregan crumpled the paper in his fist. "Ready my horse."

The brother of the Wall shook his head, "My lord, it is the bulk of winter. You can't possibly leave in such conditions. And you are not properly pack-"

"Ready. My. Horse. I leave within the hour."

The Warden of the North stormed away, a heaviness in his step from the sudden weight on his shoulders.

…

Cregan had always thought the travel to the Wall and back took too long on a good day.

Now, he was a mere bundle of nerves trying to tie what he could to his horse.

It would take too long. Whatever happened had happened and he wasn't there to save them.

To save her. 

He knew the guilt would eat his alive no matter how long it took him to get back. 

Surely another letter would arrive soon if things had turned for the better, but he wouldn't wait for that letter to show. 

The odds of one never arriving were too high.

"Are you certain of this, Lord Stark?"

He turned to the stable master with the hint of unshed tears in his eyes. "I'm not sure of anything. But I must return home."

The stable master nodded in acceptance, "And you're really not going to take men with you?"

Cregan huffed in frustration. "I cannot take men from the Wall. Their war is here. I cannot ask them to fight my own war as well."

"My lord, you're fighting both wars. Surely you can allow for some assistance."

Cregan hoisted himself up onto his horse. "I cannot promise when I'll return. But, should everything be righted, I will write back."

"If I may?"

"Yes?"

The man heaved a long sigh as placed his hands on his hips. "I wouldn't wish this feeling on my worst enemy, my lord. May the gods be with you on your journey and at your arrival."

Cregan bits the inside of his cheek. "Thank you."

With that, Cregan clicks at his horse, and the long journey began.

…

As expected, the journey was grueling. The cold was killing him from the outside in, but the constant need to stop and warm up was killing him from the inside out.

He couldn't even eat without thinking of the blood that stained the letter.

He couldn't sleep without thinking of the screams of his wife as another man's hands laid on her.

Even in the best case, the horror was too much to bare.

Despite his initial crumpling of the letter, Cregan kept it stashed away in his few belongings, smoothing it out and reading it every night before sleep consumed him. 

Just to crumple it again.

…

Despite the journey taking a usual two to three weeks when the weather was obedient, Cregan made it back to Winterfell in a week and half.

The consistent shiver to his bones only spurred him faster. 

He had plenty of time to consider his plan, should he truly be in need of one.

And now was the time to use it. 

…

Winterfell laid still. 

Cregan had expected fire and battle. A sound of swords clashing and men roaring.

Quietness was worse.

He had managed to get through the bulk of people with his hood up and his usual dire wolf cloak long abandoned. 

For in this moment, he was no Stark. 

He was a vengeful man.

He managed to sneak into the walls of the very place he should have been highly welcomed in.

For such a burly man, he was deathly silent. His boots made no sound on the stone floors, and his breath was so low that it may be thought that he didn't breathe at all.

He stood outside of his own chamber that he shared with his wife. He reached up and his hand faltered against the wood of the door. He couldn't dare open it.

"Oh, Lord Stark! Oh, thank the gods!" A female voice shrieked in relief.

Cregan flinched at the sound, turning on his heel to see the woman. His wife's handmaiden. He relaxed a bit.

"Oh. Sorry, milord. I didn't mean to frighten you. It's just I didn't know when you would return. Or if you'd return at all. And I-"

"Where is she?" He quietly interrupted.

The handmaiden stiffened and her face fell. "I… I dunno."

"She's not here?" He dared to ask.

She wrung her hands nervously. "You don't… you don't know?"

He tried to hold back his frustration. "Are they still here?"

She shook her head. "Left not long after the attack. Left just a few of us to pick up the pieces."

"And my wife? What happened to her?"

She let the silence set. 

He sighed in frustration and his hand moved to the chamber door.

"I wouldn't, milord," she warned.

He threw her a glare and dare to step in.

He should have listened.

The room laid in disarray. The furs from the bed were thrown on the floor. The furniture was moved, an obvious conflict had occurred. But that's not what Cregan's eyes moved to.

It was the scraps of clothing that were strewn across the room in various places. Some bloody.

His jaw went slack and he knelt down and picked up a strip of the cloth. Stark blue. 

His thumb rubbed at the fabric. He knew it well. His favorite dress on her. 

"They came in the early morning." The handmaiden spoke from the doorway. "Lady Stark had just gotten dressed for the day. I was… I was braiding her hair at the vanity when…"

"When..?" Cregan questioned. 

"It happened so suddenly. The screams."

He stood. "Who did it?"

"House Lannister."

Cregan took a deep breath. "Is she dead?"

"Milord-"

"-Was she slain by a Lannister?"

"No. Not exactly."

"What does that mean?"

"They took her. She could be dead now, I dunno. But they took her alive."

He felt a bit of relief move down his spine. "When you last saw her, she indeed was drawing breath?"

"Yes."

"Then that's enough for me. And Maester Tinedel?"

She tilted her head back and forth. "He lives. But barely."

He kept the fabric in his hand. "Take me to him."

…

"My Lord!"

"Please, don't get up on my account." Cregan stood at the elder man's bedside. "You're still healing."

The maester relaxed and leaned back against the headboard. "It takes more than a blade to change my loyalty, dear Cregan."

"You've been with me since the day I was born, old man," he teased. "And still you defend me when I am not there."

"There has been no greater honor."

Cregan pulled a chair to his bedside, sitting down. "Tell me what you remember."

"It's not a pleasant story for you, my lord. But very well." He leaned back in thought. "I was in my chamber. It was morning. I heard sounds from the corridor and I dared to go venture out. I defended as much as I could, but an old man is no match to young men with longswords. They took the lady from her room. As far as I know, they still have her-"

"-Do you know where they are now?"

"I'd assume they moved back to Casterly Rock. I have reason to believe that you have been betrayed by one of your bannermen, my lord. How else would they have gotten through the North so quietly?"

Cregan considered the man's words, running a shaky hand over his growing beard. "Who?"

The maester grunted as he sat up further. "I could hardly guess, my lord.

"Whoever it is, I'll murder him where he stands."

…

Gathering men together quickly was not a difficult task for Cregan.

Many men had skin in the game of thrones, and equally so, most were loyal unto death for their lord.

While most banner men would have answered a call to war, there wasn't enough time to gather an army while he was there, leaving the job to one of his closest bannerman, the Lord of House Bolton.

His mind laid in constant worry. 

…

In time, the men made it to Lord Reed, the last of the Northern Lords before being out of the North entirely. 

"'Tis truly a shame of what happened to the castle," Lord Reed said as he ushered Cregan further into Greywater Watch. "Any ideas of who might have done such an act?"

He shook his head, eyeing Lord Glover next to him. "No. No, we haven't. Hence why I don't have an army behind me."

"Well, that's understandable. Whoever did such a crime should be punished by all the gods alike, sneaking such an ambush like that."

Cregan nodded, "Yes, yes, they should. I thank you for housing us on such short notice."

Reed forced a smile. "Of course, Lord Stark." He continued moving down the hall. "The North would never sit by while a Lord's wife was taken from him."

Cregan's foot faltered. He paused completely. His voice was low. "I never said my wife was taken."

Lord Reed froze in pure fear at his mistake.

And he was shoved against the wall with Cregan's wolfish growl in his face. "Where is she?"

Reed gasped and fought against the man, but was no match. "I… I don't know what you mean, my lord… p… please.."

Cregan pulled him away by the throat to hit his head against the stone wall again, repeating himself. "WHERE IS SHE?"

Reed sputtered and groaned at the pain. "I… They didn't tell me… I swear…. I swear that to you."

"Your word means nothing to me." Cregan looked over his shoulder to Glover. "Write back to Winterfell. Tell them Lord Reed is dead."

"…My Lord?" Glover faltered.

"Tell them."

"Aye, my lord."

Reed shook violently in Cregan's grip. "I swear. I swear! I don't know! Please!"

Cregan leaned into the man's face. "You're gonna tell me what you do know. Aren't you?"

…

"Fucking Lannisters!" Cregan's voice roared through the Watch. "Get Glover. We're leaving now."

"My lord?" One of the men asked.

"Do what I said."

"Aye."

"May house Reed learn from its mistake."

…

Little did Cregan know yet, Loreon Lannister's brigade had been stopped by the Blackwoods, just shy of Lannister territory. 

The young Lord Benjicot Blackwood had rode out to meet them when word was sent of a brigade sneaking through his land. 

He raged at the sight of a terrified woman clad in a Stark blue dress. He vowed that the Lannisters would not see to their land should they refuse to surrender the woman to him.

Hence the small battle that had commenced.

But that was two weeks ago. 

Cregan looked over the land, the blood still staining the grass. "Think they made it?"

Glover hummed. "Lord Benjicot is a formidable enemy, I've heard. Wouldn't want to anger that boy in the slightest."

"Thank fuck!" A voice yelled over the field.

Lord Benjicot rode his horse out to the group in a fast trot. He spoke when he got closer "Knew you'd be quick but I figured it would be another few weeks."

"Don't underestimate angry northern men," Glover grimaced.

"Or Blackwoods, it seems," Cregan chimed in, looking over the field. "I believe I'm indebted to you in some capacity."

"Don't speak too soon, Lord Stark," Benjicot smiled. "You haven't asked how we faired."

Cregan's brows furrowed. "And how did you fair?"

Benjicot's smile grew. 

"We have her."

Cregan reached a hand out to steady himself on his horse from the sheer relief that swept through his body. "Gods…"

"Fucking bastards should have journeyed by sea if they were smart. Should've known that any ally of the Queen is an ally of mine."

"You have her then? In Raventree Hall?" Glover asked what they were all thinking.

"I do."

Cregan voice recovered. "Take me to her. Please."

…

"My lady?" One of the Blackwood handmaidens spoke up.

Y/n looked up at the woman. 

The faint hints of scratches and bruises were still on the lady's skin, but she had been given time to heal due to the Blackwoods' bravery. But regardless, the tremor in her hands remained. 

"I've been sent to inform you of a visitor that will soon be arriving."

Her heart leaped from her chest. She found herself moving more to the window and peering out. 

Cregan.

The man and his horse moved as one. It had always impressed her. 

Her sluggish behavior left the second he came into view. 

Not caring for her shoes, her cloak, anything, she ran past the handmaiden quicker than her feet could move. 

Tripping and stumbling along the way, ignoring the pain, she finally made it to the large doors of Raventree and bolted out of them.

Cregan had just pulled his horse to a stop when he caught sight of her.

He couldn't remember actually getting down from his horse he had gotten to her so quickly.

His strong arms held her to him in a vice grip, his hands indecisive of where to stay- her waist, her back, her hair, the constant need to feel her wholly gripped him.

Equally so, her arms wrapped around his neck firmly, as if to make sure he was real. 

"Fuck. Don't ever do this again," he sighed as he placed his chin on the top of her head. 

She sobbed lightly against his chest and her hands gripped his cloak so tightly her knuckles turned white. 

"Are you hurt?" He asked in worry. 

She hiccuped through tears. 

Cregan pulled her away, cupping her cheeks so he could study her. "Speak to me, pretty girl. Where are you hurt?"

She hiccuped again. "I… I'm fine."

"Where did they touch you?"

"Cregan…"

"Where?"

Benjicot had caught up at that point. "I wouldn't say they were delicate with her, Lord Stark. Most of it is faded, but the ones on her arms are rather nasty."

Cregan never looked away from her, keeping her eye contact. He tilted his head down, silently asking to gaze at her arms.

He hesitantly pulled her sleeves up and gawked slightly. 

Green bruises still remained at her wrists, no doubt from dragging her along. He tried to ignore the faint scabs from the scrapes that laid in various spots. 

"They did a number on you, didn't they?"

She looked at him fearfully, beyond nervous for his reaction to all of this. 

Benjicot spoke up again. "You've no idea." He placed a steady hand on the woman's back, ignoring Cregan's protective glare as he did so. "You're safe here. Why don't you show him?"

"Show me what?"

She turned to look over her shoulder at Benjicot, "Must I?"

Cregan was growing frustrated. If there was one thing he hated, it was no knowing things. "Show me."

She hesitantly nodded, and Benjicot stepped up to her, untying her bodice from the back. Once he did so, he spun her around to have her back face Cregan. Then he gently pulled down her sleeve until her right shoulder blade was exposed. 

A Lannister sigil was burned into the skin. Ugly scarring around the marred flesh. 

Her head was hung in shame as she stood there, avoiding eye contact with everyone. 

Cregan's hand came up to brush the skin achingly slow. He couldn't find words. 

Benjicot broke the silence. "Amidst this, there is good news."

"I guarantee there isn't," Cregan growled back quickly.

"I have Loreon Lannister under my care as well."

Cregan's head snapped to him. "What?"

"The man is in my dungeons, Lord Stark."

Cregan's hand moved up to Y/n's hair, brushing it aside to fully view what was exposed of her back. 

But his eyes couldn't move from the brand.

"Inside, you say? Still breathing?"

Benjicot let out an amused chuckle. "I refused to take that privilege from you."

Lord Stark's hand brushed her shoulder again. "I fear I owe the Blackwoods more than I own."

…

Not long later, Cregan stepped into her room. 

She turned her head towards him.

Cregan was covered in blood.

She stood suddenly. "Are you harmed?"

His brows furrowed, looking down at himself, as if forgetting all he had done. "Oh. None of it is mine."

"You killed him?"

Cregan sighed and shut the door. "We'll not discuss this now."

"Cregan-"

"-No. Don't ask again."

Her face fell a bit. She moved to the window and sat again. 

He watched her. "Forgive me. There's still rage in my heart."

"Still? Is it because of me?"

He faltered. "No. No, of course not." He rubbed his chin. "You did nothing wrong."

"If I had journeyed to the Wall with you that day, would you have been as angry if Winterfell was attacked?"

He paused as considered her question. "You know the answer."

She hummed and looked out of the window.

He followed her gaze. "Forgive me for taking so long."

"I watched out this window."

"I know you did."

"What if Benjicot hadn't have found me?"

He sat down next to her. "He did though."

"But what if he hadn't?"

Cregan dared to reach out and pull her hair aside, tugging her sleeve down to see the brand again. 

She finally turned to look at him with teary eyes. 

"I'd rather not think about those things," Cregan answered softly.

"Will you wash yourself, please?"

He paused, remembering the blood all over him. "Sorry, sweet girl. I didn't realize that would bother you so much. I will, I promise."

She looked back to the window. "Will we go home soon?"

Cregan stood to go to the washbowl across the room. "We will in time."

"What's stopping us, Cregan?"

He didn't have the heart to actually say that it was her. "Be patient, my girl, alright?"

…

Benjicot walked with Cregan down the corridor. "I apologize that I did not manage to capture Lord Jason. That will haunt me."

Cregan shook his head, "You've done much for the North. We'll not forget this act of kindness."

Benji grinned, "The North remembers."

"Indeed."

"Tell me something, my lord?"

Cregan nodded.

"What did you do in those dungeons?"

Cregan sighed, crossing his arms over his  chest. "I wouldn't want you to think differently of me, old friend."

Benjicot shook his head, "Nothing could do so, Cregan. You've seen me rather bloody. It's only fair."

He paused and considered his words, carefully phrasing himself. "A part of me hopes that his son doesn't find out what I've done to his father. It was almost too much to bare."

"What do you mean?"

Cregan pulled his dagger from his belt, running a hand over the blade. "I'll have to sharpen this later, if you understand what I'm saying."

Benjicot nodded. "I believe I do. But more context might be beneficial."

Cregan leaned forward and spoke lowly. "The dead man wears a sigil of mine in return."

The Blackwood's eyes looked down to the dagger and back to Cregan. "I see."

"If there truly is life after death, my friend, I hope he lives the next with my reminder."

"Surely, he would. I'd say you were merciful in ending him regardless."

…

Cregan rubbed her thigh absentmindedly as the maester inspected the brand. 

"It's healing well, but as you can imagine, it will leave behind a nasty scar."

Cregan clenched his jaw at the thought of his own wife living with a lion burned onto her. "No risk of a fever?"

He shook his head. "A clean burn like this rarely risks such a thing."

"Well, the north thanks you for your work."

The maester excused himself.

Since finding her again, Cregan had a difficulty understanding what she was going through. She was bottling everything up, he could tell. 

"Sweet girl?" He asked gently, continuing to rub at her leg.

"Is it ugly?" She responded quietly, her eyes fixed on the floor.

Cregan wasn't sure what to say to that. "It looks painful. Is it?"

She hummed, eyes still anchored. "It didn't hurt as much as the laughs."

"They laughed? While they did this to you?"

She nodded. 

Her hand moved up to pull her sleeve back up, but Cregan was quick to stop her, placing his hand over hers. 

She looked up questioningly.

"You're as gorgeous as the day I met you." His other hand moved hair behind her ear. "And as beautiful as the day I married you. As well as when I left for the Wall this winter." He leaned forward and kissed her cheek gently. "You're just changed is all."

"But the-"

"-Yes. Yes, it pains me to see it. But not because of what it is, but because you were hurt and I did not defend you as I should have."

Silence fell over them until she spoke up.

"Tell me I'm yours."

Cregan froze. "What?"

"I need to hear it. To really know."

"Well, you are. You know that."

"Please, Cregan."

Cregan stood from the bed, rounding it until he was behind her. He reached out and brushed the brand again, trying to ignore the shiver that went down her spine. "You're mine."

The words relaxed her, her shoulders moving down.

Cregan placed his hands on her shoulders, gently massaging them. "You belong to the Warden of the North." He grinned. "A vile and vicious beast intent on killing anything that nears it. Almost anything."

She smiled lightly, the first one in weeks. "And what is that one thing that the wolf likes?"

"A pretty she-wolf that brings down his defense."

One of his hands moved to the back of her neck and she all but melted, her head leaning back now. 

He continued this for a while, letting the silence sit, but he soon leaned down and placed a gentle kiss to the marred skin of her shoulder. 

"You're mine." He kissed her shoulder. "And I don't need a brand to prove so." He kissed behind her ear. "You know who you belong to, don't you?"

"…you, Cregan."

"Hmm?" He feigned. 

"You."

He smirked and nipped at her ear. "And who is that? Tell me."

She turned as much as her injuries could allow. Her voice softened as his eyes gazed into hers. "Cregan Stark. I belong to Cregan Stark."

"And I do to you, pretty girl."

He closed the distance, placing the softest kiss he'd ever managed onto her lips.

When they pulled away from one another, she spoke. "Do we get to return soon?"

He nodded, twirling her hair between his fingers. "Soon. I'm only waiting for Lord Bolton to arrive with the men."

"Th… what?"

He puffed out his chest in pride. "I don't do well with spoiled southerners. Bolton is riding an army to the border of Lannister territory, with Benjicot's permission, of course."

"An army? You can't start a war over me."

"I didn't start anything, my love." He kissed her again. "I only finish it."

.........................................................

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Jacaerys Velaryon - Family Legacies

Summary - Amidst the chaos of war, two childbirths unfold. A mother's potential agony and a new mother's fear collide, as life and loss intertwine in a moment that will define their family's legacy forever.

Pairing - Jacaerys Velaryon x reader

Warnings - Childbirth, mentions of a potential stillbirth (doesn't happen)

Word count - 2101

Masterlist for Jacaerys • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

My hand flew to my mouth, stifling a gasp as short, rapid breaths escaped me. One hand pressed against my trembling lips, while the other instinctively cradled my swollen stomach. Tears blurred my vision as I stood frozen, watching my mother-in-law writhe in excruciating pain.

The air was thick with the coppery scent of blood and the low, desperate cries that echoed through the stone walls. Every sound seemed magnified, each breath a struggle against the weight of the scene unfolding before me.

"Someone, get her out!" Rhaenyra cried, her voice thick with tears and agony. She moaned and groaned, her body drenched in blood—blood that shouldn't have been there.

"My sweet, you shouldn't be here. Not like this," she insisted, her words strained yet filled with concern. 

Elinda, her handmaiden, approached me, gently urging me to move, but I remained rooted to the spot, unable to tear my gaze away from the horrific scene unfolding before me.

My heart ached as I watched Rhaenyra scream and thrash, her strength faltering. 

Even in her torment, she was desperate to shield me from the brutal reality of what she was enduring, knowing how close I was to my own childbirth.

"But you... I—" I stammered, my voice weak and trembling. 

Panic surged through me, immobilizing me as I tried to process the fact that Rhaenyra Targaryen, one of the strongest women I had ever known, was suffering like this while I stood there, on the brink of giving birth myself.

"Jace, get her out!" Rhaenyra commanded sharply. I flinched as I felt strong hands grasp my shoulders, guiding me away with firm insistence.

"Come, my darling," Jace murmured softly, trying to comfort me as we walked, his voice a gentle anchor in the storm of emotions swirling inside me. 

I struggled to steady my breathing, each step feeling like a monumental effort.

Jace's eyes flicked between me and the door, torn between the duty to his mother and the terror of losing me. His hands tightened on my shoulders, a silent plea for strength when his own was crumbling.

"Jace, it hurts," I whispered, the words barely audible. 

He nodded, rubbing my shoulders soothingly, but I suddenly stopped, gasping as a sharp, searing pain shot through my abdomen.

"My love, please," he urged, but I doubled over, a pained expression contorting my face. 

A warm, wet sensation trickled down my legs, and I instinctively stepped back, horrified as I looked down to see a growing puddle of water staining the cold stone floor.

The pain hit like a tidal wave, crashing through me with relentless force. My vision blurred, every nerve aflame, as the corridor spun around me. I was drowning in it, barely able to surface long enough to grasp Jace's hand.

"Jace..." I gasped, my voice quivering with fear. 

His eyes widened in alarm, the gravity of the situation dawning on him as worry etched itself deep into his features.

Jace's expression shifted from concern to sheer panic as the realization hit him like a crashing wave. His mother was suffering through the agony of a violent birth, and now, here I was, on the verge of giving birth right in the midst of it all. 

The horror of the situation was almost too much to bear.

His hands tightened on my shoulders as he tried to usher me away, his voice strained and urgent. 

"We need to go, now," he said, his tone a desperate mixture of fear and determination. 

Yet, I couldn't move. My legs felt like they were made of lead, my mind a whirlwind of terror after witnessing the horrific scene with Rhaenyra. 

I clung to him, my voice breaking as I pleaded, "I don't want to do this, Jace. Not after what I just saw. I'm scared... I'm so scared." 

The panic in my voice was unmistakable, my body trembling violently against his.

"Please, my love, you have to be strong," he urged, though his own voice wavered, betraying the turmoil raging inside him. 

He was trying so hard to be my rock, to guide me away from the chaos, but I could see the fear in his eyes—the fear that he might lose both of us, his mother and me, in the same tragic moment.

I shook my head frantically, tears streaming down my face as I gripped his arms. 

"I can't... I don't want to go through this. Not like this," I sobbed, my mind flashing back to Rhaenyra's agonized screams, the blood, the horror. It was all too much, too overwhelming, and the thought of going through it myself now was paralyzing.

Jace's heart broke at my words, but he knew there was no other choice. 

He pulled me closer, his voice trembling but resolute. "I know you're scared, and I am too, but we have to keep going. For our child. You're strong, stronger than you know."

But his words couldn't reach the depths of my fear. I shook my head again, my body still recoiling from the trauma of what I had just witnessed. 

"No, Jace, I can't... I don't want to lose our babe... I can't do this," I cried out, my voice filled with desperation.

He swallowed hard, tears of his own welling up as he realized the depth of my terror. His mother's agony, my impending labour—it was too much, too cruel. But he knew he couldn't let fear paralyze us both. 

"We'll get through this together," he promised, though his voice was thick with emotion. "I won't let anything happen to you or our child, but we need to move. Please, trust me."

With trembling hands, I finally let him guide me, though every step was weighted with dread. 

The images of Rhaenyra's suffering haunted me, and I could feel my own body betraying me, the labour coming on faster than I could control.

As we moved away from the chaotic scene, I clung to Jace, my heart pounding with terror. I didn't know if I could do this if I could survive what was to come. 

All I knew was that I had no choice but to try.

The pain intensified with every passing moment, waves of agony crashing over me as I was led to a room away from the horrors of what I had just witnessed. 

Jace remained by my side, his hand never leaving mine, his presence the only thing anchoring me to reality as fear threatened to consume me.

Every contraction felt like fire ripping through me, and with each one, my mind flashed back to Rhaenyra's anguished screams, the blood, the sheer brutality of it all. My terror was palpable, a suffocating weight that made it hard to breathe. 

I clutched Jace's hand, my knuckles white, and looked up at him with wide, fearful eyes.

"Jace, I'm so scared," I whispered, my voice trembling as tears streamed down my face. "I can't stop thinking about what happened to Rhaenyra... What if—"

"Shhh, my love," Jace murmured, his voice soft but firm as he gently wiped the tears from my cheeks. "Don't think about that now. Focus on our child. I'm here, I'm not going anywhere."

He knelt beside me, his face inches from mine, his eyes filled with an unwavering resolve. Despite his own fear, he was determined to be my strength. 

"You're doing so well, and I'm so proud of you," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "Just breathe with me, okay? We're going to get through this together."

But the fear was relentless, gnawing at the edges of my mind. 

"Jace, I need to know... What happened to Rhaenyra? Is she... Is she okay?" The question slipped out between laboured breaths, my heart clenching as I awaited his response.

For a moment, Jace hesitated, his jaw tightening as he struggled with the right words. 

Then, his expression softened, and he nodded, his eyes filling with a mixture of relief and sadness. "She gave birth to a girl. Visenya. She's alive and well."

A wave of relief washed over me, momentarily easing the terror gripping my heart. 

"Visenya..." I whispered, closing my eyes as tears of gratitude joined the ones of pain. "Thank the gods..."

Jace squeezed my hand, his own eyes glistening. "Yes, my love. She made it through, and so will you. You're almost there."

The labour grew more intense, the pain almost unbearable, but Jace never left my side. He held my hand through every contraction, whispering words of encouragement and love, his voice the only thing keeping me grounded as I fought to bring our child into the world.

Hours felt like days as the ordeal dragged on, my body exhausted and trembling, but Jace was there every step of the way. 

When I screamed, he held me tighter. When I thought I couldn't go on, he reminded me of the life we were about to welcome.

Finally, with one last, excruciating push, I felt the pressure release, and the sound of a baby's first cry filled the room. 

Relief flooded my body, overwhelming and all-consuming. 

I collapsed back against the pillows, gasping for breath, tears streaming down my face a handmaiden carefully placed a tiny, wailing bundle in my arms.

"It's a boy," she announced softly, and Jace let out a choked sob, his hand trembling as he brushed back a damp strand of hair from my forehead.

"A boy..." I repeated in awe, looking down at our son, his small face scrunched up as he cried. 

He was perfect, his tiny fingers grasping at the air, his cries strong and healthy. My heart swelled with a fierce, protective love that drowned out the lingering fear and pain.

Jace leaned down, pressing his forehead to mine, his voice thick with emotion. 

"You did it, my love. You brought our son into the world." 

He kissed my forehead, his tears mingling with mine as we both gazed down at our newborn child, our hearts overflowing with joy and relief.

In that moment, all the terror and anguish melted away, replaced by the overwhelming happiness of holding our son in our arms. 

Despite everything we had endured, the horrors we had witnessed, we had made it through. 

It was just us, our tiny miracle cradled between us, a beacon of hope that pierced through the darkest night we had ever known.

Our family was safe, and as I looked into Jace's tear-filled eyes, I knew that nothing else mattered. We were together, and our son was here, healthy and alive. It was finally, blissfully, a moment of peace and happiness.

As we basked in the quiet joy of the moment, one of the handmaidens, her voice gentle and filled with reverence, asked softly, "Have you chosen a name for him?"

Jace and I exchanged a glance, the unspoken weight of the question hanging in the air between us. 

We had talked about names before, but now, holding our son in our arms, the decision felt monumental, as if his name would set the course of his life, binding him to his heritage and the legacy of those who had come before him.

I looked into Jace's eyes, searching for the strength we had shared throughout this ordeal, the bond that had carried us through the darkest moments. 

With a trembling voice, I whispered, "Lucerys."

Jace's reaction was immediate. His breath hitched, and his eyes filled with fresh tears as the name resonated within him. It was a name steeped in memory and pain, a name that honoured his lost brother, Lucerys Velaryon, whose life had been tragically cut short. 

The grief he had carried for his brother, the guilt and sorrow that had haunted him, now found a place in the hope and love he held for our son.

He nodded, unable to speak, his throat tight with emotion. 

Instead, he pulled me closer, his tears falling freely as he held our son, cradling him as if he were the most precious thing in the world. 

In naming our child Lucerys, we had not only given him an identity but had also woven him into the fabric of our shared history, a history marked by loss but also by enduring love and resilience.

"Lucerys," Jace finally whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of the name. 

In that moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, the significance of the name settling over us like a benediction. 

Jace's tears fell onto our son's tiny forehead, and he smiled through the pain, through the joy, knowing that our son would carry the name of a beloved brother, a name that would forever link the past and the future, binding our family together in a legacy of love, courage, and hope.

"Our Lucerys."

A/n - Ok I was all set to dive deep into the angst and heartbreak, and I nearly made everyone suffer for it but I couldn't bring myself to go through with it. So yes, both babies live, because I have that power here and maybe I cried at the ending who knows (I did I miss Luke 😔)

[r0ugesun]

just thinking about grumpy!aemond x sunshine niece!reader, that's all

Intimidating uncle who only smiles for his sweet niece?? How can I refuse? :> I hope u like it anon

Synopsis: Aemond’s icy demeanor softens as his playful niece, Y/n, brings joy and warmth into his life through her persistence and tender moments.

Aemond x Niece!Reader

The vast expanse of the Red Keep stretched before them, a labyrinthine structure of ancient stone and intricate tapestries of the Targaryens rich history. Within its cold, echoing halls, moved with his customary stoic grace, his singular eye perpetually narrowed, his demeanor perpetually grave. It was a disposition well-suited to his character, a shield against the tumultuous world he inhabited. Yet, like a glimmer of sunlight piercing through storm clouds, his niece, y/n, was a stark contrast to his brooding presence.

Y/n’s laughter echoed through the halls as she flitted about, a vision of radiance and mirth. Her wit was as sharp as Valyrian steel, and her spirit as unyielding as dragonfire. She was a beacon of joy in a court often shrouded in intrigue and gloom, and though many found solace in her presence, Aemond was not among them. Or so he would have others believe.

The gardens of the Red Keep were a sanctuary for y/n, a place where she could escape the stifling formality of court life. She found Aemond there one afternoon, standing by a marble fountain, his expression as inscrutable as ever. With a mischievous smile, she approached him.

“My dear uncle, why do you always seem to be plotting the downfall of the Seven Kingdoms?” she quipped, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

Aemond’s eye flicked towards her, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I find little cause for humor, niece. Unlike you, I am not so easily distracted by frivolity.”

“Frivolity?” she repeated, her tone playful. “Surely, you do not think the pursuit of happiness to be frivolous, Uncle. It is the very essence of life!”

He huffed, turning his gaze back to the fountain. “Happiness is a fleeting illusion, y/n. It is duty and strength that endure.”

“Ah, but what is duty without joy? What is strength without laughter? A kingdom built on sorrow and scowling faces is a kingdom doomed to fall” she countered, her voice gentle yet firm.

Aemond’s expression softened ever so slightly, a fleeting hint of amusement in his eye. “You are relentless, aren’t you?”

“Relentless? Perhaps. Or simply persistent in my never ending quest to make you smile” she replied with a toothy grin. “I believe there is a smile hidden somewhere beneath that scowl.”

Aemond arched an eyebrow. “You overestimate your abilities, niece.”

“And you underestimate mine, uncle” she shot back, her tone light but her words carrying a subtle challenge.

Days turned into weeks, and y/n’s persistence in engaging Aemond in conversation did not wane. She would find him in the library, poring over ancient tomes, and offer her commentary on the latest court gossip. She would join him during his solitary walks along the battlements, teasing him about the weight of his thoughts.

One evening, as they dined with the royal family, y/n’s quick wit came to the fore once more. The courtiers were discussing a recent skirmish at the border, the atmosphere laden with a slight tension. Aemond’s expression was particularly dour, his mind clearly occupied with strategic considerations.

“Uncle Aemond” y/n began, her tone deceptively innocent, “do you believe the enemy quakes in fear of your legendary glare? Perhaps we should send a portrait of you to the battlefield. It might end the war without any bloodshed.

A ripple of laughter spread around the table, even King Viserys chuckling at her jest. Aemond’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile breaking through his stern facade.

“You have a dangerous tongue, y/n” he said quietly, though there was no malice in his voice.

“Only when it is necessary to cut through the gloom” she replied with a wink.

Despite himself, Aemond found his defenses weakening. There was something irresistible about y/n’s unwavering cheerfulness, her ability to find light in the darkest corners. She was not deterred by his gruffness, nor intimidated by his icy demeanor. Instead, she met him with a courage and joy that was both infuriating and captivating.

One evening, as the sun set over the Blackwater Bay, they found themselves alone on the roof. Y/n leaned against the balcony, her eyes reflecting the golden hues of the sunset.

“Do you ever tire of being so serious, Uncle?” she asked softly.

Aemond sighed, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “It is not a matter of choice, y/n. The burdens I bear are heavy, the responsibilities immense.”

“And yet, you bear them with such strength. But even the strongest warriors need respite” she said, turning to face him. “Allow yourself a moment of peace, Aemond. If not for your sake, then for mine.”

He looked at her then, truly looked at her, and saw the sincerity in her eyes. The walls he had built around his heart began to crack, ever so slightly. Perhaps there was wisdom in her words, a truth he had long ignored.

“Very well,” he conceded, a faint smile gracing his lips. “For your sake, I shall try.”

Y/n beamed, her joy infectious. “That is all I ask, dear Uncle.”

In that moment, he found a glimmer of happiness he had thought lost forever. As he leaned closer to her, their breaths mingling, he felt an unfamiliar but welcome warmth.

With a gentle tilt of his head, he closed the distance between them, capturing her lips in a tender kiss. The world around them seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them.

They drew back slightly, their foreheads touching, and Aemond could not suppress a soft chuckle.

“It appears you’ve managed to disarm me with a kiss” he said, his tone lighthearted.

Y/n’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she responded, “I had hoped that a kiss would be more effective than a sword. It seems I’ve found a more persuasive weapon.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow with a playful grin. “Am I to expect a steady stream of kisses to temper my seriousness?”

“Only if it ensures that you’re less somber” her smile teasing. “But fret not, I shall reserve my attacks for the most opportune moments.”

“Special occasions, then?” he inquired with mock seriousness. “I shall need to prepare for such events.”

Y/n’s laughter was light and musical. “Indeed, but for now, simply relish this one. It appears to be quite effective.”

Aemond shook his head, still smiling. “Your talent for lightening my mood is alarming. I may have to enlist you as my personal jester.”

“And here I thought I was merely your charming niece” she retorted in faux indignation, giving him a gentle nudge.

“Charming niece and occasional troublemaker” he corrected, “but I find I am quite content with both.”

Their shared laughter filled the space between them, making the day’s burdens seem lighter.

[moonlightrafe]

My Sister’s Keeper

summary: Aemond intends to send you away to protect you after he starts the war, but Aegon isn't ready to let you go.

pairing: Aegon & Aemond x Sister!Reader

word count: 1.8k

warnings: Explicit smut, mention of death, incest, threesome, p in v sex, oral (m&f receiving), voyeurism, male masturbation, infidelity (reader is married to Aemond), lactation kink, choking, cum play/eating, spit, Aegond kiss!! (oop) 18+ MDNI

note: Uhhhh. I'm sorry??? I feel like I just breezed through this, idk I was horny lol. Feedback is appreciated!

You’ll never forget the look on Aemond’s face when he first arrived back to the Red Keep from his journey to Storm’s End. Your family was desperate in the inevitable, upcoming war against Rhaenyra so Aemond had been sent to help strike up a proposal between one of Lord Borros’ daughters and the youngest son of the late king Viserys, Daeron Targaryen.

Sitting in the large bed of your shared chamber, you had been anxiously awaiting his arrival, chewing your fingernails down to bloody nubs.

“Aemond!” you practically leapt into his arms when he appeared sopping wet in the doorway. Overjoyed to see he’d returned in one piece, but something was off, something was wrong. He was vacant, like he had seen a ghost.

“Lucerys Velaryon is dead.”

With that simple sentence you knew your lives would be changed forever.

“You cannot just make me disappear,” you said to your husband through gritted teeth, as your voice trembled, lump in your throat forming as tears threatened to fall from your eyes.

“If we are not here they will just go looking for us.”

“Anywhere is safer than here, my love.” Aemond answered coolly.

“If you think this decision was not difficult to make, you are wrong. It is simply what's best for the both of you. You and the babe will be staying in Dorne until I know for certain that it is safe for you here.”

“But –”

“But nothing! This is not up for debate,” he growled at you, “the decision has been made and it is final!” His words cut through you like a knife.

“You cannot make a decision like this. You are not the king.”

“No “ he retorted, “but I am your husband, therefore, when it comes to you and my child, what I say goes!”

You got up and exited your shared chambers with haste, not wanting Aemond to see you cry.

Your bare feet padded against the cold stone floor of the Red Keep, the walls echoed and groaned as you made your way to your eldest brother’s chambers.

Aegon’s head perked up when he heard you come in. He stared at you sheepishly from behind his goblet of wine.

“Has he told you?”

Letting out a deep sigh, “he has.”

“I cannot leave you. I will not leave you, Aegon.”

“I know, I know,” he says, patting the spot next to him, motioning for you to come and sit.

“Our half-sister is unpredictable,” he replied calmly, “there’s no telling what she might do… not to mention, Daemon.”

As much as you did not want to admit it, both of your brothers were right. Accident or not, Rhaneyra’s son was dead. You would be a fool to believe she wouldn’t be out for blood.

Aegon pulled you into his lap, his cock already half hard. You kissed him deeply as he grinded his hips up into yours. You ran your fingers through his unruly silver hair, enjoying the feel of his mouth on you. Completely lost in the moment, you hadn’t heard Aemond enter the room.

He cleared his throat loudly to make his presence known.

“Aemond!”

Your brother-husband stalked into the room, his violet eye scanning over you with amusement.

“Oh please, do continue.”

Your chest rose and fell as you struggled to find the right words to say.

“Did you not hear me? I said continue,” Aemond repeated, as he approached you and Aegon.

“Aemond, this is not what it looks like —“

His brow furrowed at you as he gripped your chin forcing you to look him directly in the eye.

“Do you mistake me for a fool? You believed me to be unaware of your little arrangement?”

Still at a loss for words, you and Aegon just stared at your brother nervously. Aemond moved away a few inches and started to remove his tunic and his trousers. His cock strained hard against his small clothes, which he removed not long after. You gawked at him as he pumped his cock in his left hand, making his way back to you.

Aegon’s violet eyes beamed with excitement at this, pupils blown with lust. He took no time to nip at your neck, your earlobes, grinding against your core once again.

“I fear this is inappropriate,” you began.

“What’s inappropriate is you sneaking away from your husband to come fuck this wastrel,” Aemond began, his words thick with venom.

“Clearly, you want the both of us. So have us… while you still can.”

A slight moan left your lips as you tilted your head to the side, allowing Aegon easier access to your throat, your gaze never leaving Aemond’s, his expression unreadable as he nodded his head at you.

Aemond had his hand wrapped tightly around his cock, the tip bright red, lushed and angry, his arousal already dripping from the tip.

Aegon leaned down and wrapped his lips around your nipple, and began to suck harshly. Being that your babe was only two months old, you were lactating. A loud moan escaped your lips as you felt the milk begin to flow.

“Fuck,” you breathed out, “just like that. You’re doing so good.”

You could feel his cock twitching against your leg at your praise as he continued to ravenously lap at your breast.

As he switched to your other breast he sucked harder at your stiffened peak, the milk coming almost instantly. He palmed your abandoned breast with his large hand, squeezing gently. Shivers ran down your spine as the sweet feeling of relief washed over you once again.

A growl erupted from Aemond’s throat and he unexpectedly pulled Aegon away from your chest. To your utter surprise, he crashed his lips against Aegon’s, tasting your milk on his tongue. You watched with bewilderment as your husband passionately kissed your brother, tugging at his unruly hair, moaning into his mouth. Arousal seeped from your core and onto Aegon’s thighs. Aemond broke the kiss abruptly and stared at you.

Aegon’s hands gripped your waist, flipping you around so you were underneath him. Your eldest brother positioned you so you were laying on your back comfortably against the pillows. He nestled himself between your thighs and hastily hiked your nightgown up over your waist. You shivered as his warm breath fanned over your folds. Before you could blink his tongue was prodding at your entrance. Your hands flew to the back of his head on instinct, pulling him closer into your center.

Aemond approached you carefully. He tapped his cock against your lower lip a few times, a signal for you to open your mouth. Just as he did so, Aegon’s tongue had reached the right spot, causing your mouth to gape open as a loud moan escaped your lips. Aemond took this as an opportunity to forcefully shove his cock into your mouth. You felt a rush of pleasure as Aemond's cock filled your mouth. You began to suck and lick it, eager to make him moan even louder. Aegon's tongue continued to explore you as you pleasured Aemond, and you felt your body quiver with pleasure.

If you knew being with another man in his presence would have this effect on him, you would have brought your affair to light long ago.

With a low groan of your name he pumped in and out of your mouth mercilessly, the salty taste of his precum evading your tastebuds. The air left your lungs as you gagged around him. You could feel the pent up anger Aemond held for the entirety of the situation with each brutal buck of his hips. Ever so slowly he pulled back, giving the you the illusion he was going to give you a break. But before you were able to catch your breath, his cock found his way to the back of your throat again. The faster he went, tears began to stream down your face.

As bubbles of spit began to form around the corners of your mouth, you hollowed your cheeks to the best of your ability. With Aegon now three fingers knuckle deep in your cunt it was almost impossible for you to focus on Aemond; but as the pace of his thrusts quickened you knew he was going to cum soon. You moaned around his length, the vibrations making his cock twitch, you could feel every throb of the thick vein that ran along the underside of his cock.

“No,” Aemond growled as he pulled himself from your throat, “I need to feel your cunt around me.”

Aemond all but shoved Aegon away from you, almost knocking him off the large bed. Aemond lined his cock up with your center and sheathed himself inside of you with quickness.

As Aegon now sat on the upper left corner of the bed, he watched intently as Aemond’s cock disappeared into you repeatedly. One hand tugged at his painfully hard cock and the other wiped the tears from your cheeks.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he cooed, “look at how you take him so well,” he praised.

You nodded your head at him enthusiastically, pleasure overwhelming you. Aegon hooked his thumb into your mouth and you sucked and nipped at it intently.

There was no doubt that Aemond enjoyed the praise as well, snapping his hips even harder into your own. His cock bullied your sweet spot mercilessly. Your body tingled with a mix of pleasure and pain as Aemond's thrusts intensified; pressing hard against your cervix. His large hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing gently. The overwhelming sensation sent waves of ecstasy coursing through you, making it difficult to focus on anything else but the raw desire consuming your every thought.

“Fuck, Aemond, I’m going to cum!” you screamed as your hot waves of pleasure coursed through you.

Aegon watched intently as your orgasm wracked your entire frame, his own following not long after. He let out a loud groan as he came into his hand. He flashed an evil grin at Aemond as he brought his fingers to Aemond's mouth, shoving them down his throat.

Your husband gagged around his digits, sucking Aegon's release from them.

As the aftershock of your orgasm continued to pump though you, your cunt squeezed around Aemond’s cock. The depravity of it all overwhelmed him and Aemond cum with a shudder. With one final thrust and a loud grunt, he was spilling himself inside of you.

As Aegon removed his fingers from your husband's throat, Aemond leaned over you, his cock still buried deep inside you.

"Open up, baby," he said before spitting directly into your mouth, a mixture of his saliva and Aegon's cum evident on your tongue. You swallowed with a contented hum.

Aemond pulled himself out of you and got up quickly.

You curled up in the bed next to Aegon, Aemond’s seed seeping out of you onto the sheets, sleep finding you almost immediately.

“She can stay here for the night,” Aemond said as he leaned down to kiss your sweat-drenched forehead.

Aegon frowned at his brother.

“Aemond, we cannot make her leave,” he rasped, desperation clear in his voice.

“I think she needs to leave now more than ever, brother. To ensure nothing like this ever happens again.”

A loud sigh escaped Aegon’s lips as he diverted his gaze from Aemond to you, pushing your hair out of your face, admiring your beauty.

“Enjoy your time with her tonight. She will be on her way to Dorne by morning.”

[sexy-monster-fucker]

Ghost of You

Logan Howlett/Wolverine x Mutant!Reader ANGST

Summary: After the events of Deadpool and Wolverine, Wade introduces Logan to the Reader. She looks just like his late wife from his Earth. When Logan starts treating her weirdly, she assumes he just doesn’t like her.

A/N: this is just a fun angsty idea I came up with. Love the idea of Logan having a late wife who haunts him everywhere he goes.

~~~

He froze completely in his tracks when he saw you. Standing in Wade’s living room, a bright smile painted on your face.

“Logan this is Y/N. She’s one of my best friends,” Wade introduced you. You extended a hand out to him, “It’s so nice to meet you, Logan.” He scowled as he stared at your hand. Growling and storming off into his own room. You furrowed your brows, looking back at Wade. “Well that was fucking weird,” Wade blinked.

That had been the first time you met. It was months later and things had not improved much. Anytime you were together you could feel Logan’s eyes burning into you. He practically never spoke to you, but could never take his eyes off you. It confused you. Often made things completely awkward and unbearable.

You were all hanging out at a mutual friend’s house out near the lakes. Everyone in your friend group was there. Wade showed up late. You were excited to see Wade until you saw Logan trailing behind him. Heart sinking in your stomach and lump forming in your throat. In your panic, you headed outside to the lit fire pit. Alone away from everyone. You caught your breath.

You liked Logan. Logan when you weren’t around. Watching him from afar trying not to disturb him. Something about you made him uncomfortable. You wanted him to have an easy time adjusting to a whole new place. Trying your hardest to distance yourself anytime he was around so he could be his true self. You felt a sort of connection to Logan. You longed to be around him. Chalking it up to be some sort of crush you had formed.

You stared at your phone. Hearing everyone erupt in laughter together occasionally. Sad that you were having to miss out on the fun, but doing what you thought was right. Debating on leaving, instead of just watching everyone enjoy your absence. You were a people watcher though, it warmed your heart to see everyone inside having a good time.

One of the doors to the patio opened. Catching your attention at the sudden sound. It was Logan. Your eyes dropping down to your phone, trying to ignore him. He joined you at the fire pit, sitting next to you. He stared into the flames not even acknowledging your existence. You were confused why he would come out here with you. Complete silence other than the sounds of the outside world moving around you. Awkwardly shooting a glance over at him. His eyes meeting yours momentarily. Both of you darted your gaze back down.

“You look just like her,” he admitted.

You stiffened your back, trying your best not to look at him. Silence other than the crackling fire in front of you.

“Who?”

“My wife,” he sighed.

And then, everything clicked in your mind. It was not that he didn’t like you, it was that you looked like someone from his past.

“If there was another version of me on this Earth, maybe you’re the version of her for this one. Not that you owe me anything, you just look so much like her. So beautiful,” he trailed off. Embarrassing himself with his confession.

“You— She died on my Earth. Fighting in a war against other mutants. She was the best thing that ever happened to me. I never forgave myself for not being able to protect her,” Logan’s eyes fixated on you.

“Is that why you acted so cold the first time we met?” You quietly questioned.

“It was like seeing a ghost. You look just like her. Sound just like her. Hell, you even wear the same perfume,” his face fell into his hands. You never knew the Logan of your world. Seeing headlines in the news about him from time to time, but never knowing him personally. Yes, you were a mutant, but not a very mutant crossed paths.

“It was like I felt everything all over again. I never meant to be such a prick,” Logan grumbled into his hands. You silently sat as he sulked beside you. Clear distress written on his figure. Unsure of how to help him, wondering if speaking would only make things worse.

“What was she like?” You attempted to break the ice. Praying he would lighten up.

Deep hazel eyes peered at you over top his hands. Slight cock of an eyebrow on his heavy forehead. Sitting up straight and looking up at the sky, Logan sighed, soft chuckle painting his tone. “She was the life of every room she was in. Always cracking jokes, getting everyone else to smile. Kindest girl you’d ever meet. We worked at an academy, all the kids loved her. Looked up to her. Effortlessly beautiful. She could’ve had any guy she wanted, but she chose me. Look where that got her,” he trailed off looking down at the flames in front of him. You swallowed heavy. Unsure what to say back. “You’re a lot like her. Especially to hear everyone talk about you. The way everyone just flocks to you every time you enter a room, I— Wade had told me a lot about you,” Logan looked at you softer than normal.

You felt your face heat up. Not ever having anyone talk about you that way. Not knowing Wade had been gushing about you to his new roommate.

Crickets hummed in the distance, a familiar silence. Logan watched all your friends inside having fun. Smiling. “Everyone in there adores you. I’m sorry I’ve been taking you away from that with my mean mug,” Logan huffed.

“Do you think… I could get to know you,” you asked, doe eyes staring at Logan. His head whipping back to look at you. A face he had fallen in love with some time ago. Sitting right before him, staring back at him. Fluttering the lashes he had grown to love. Locks of hair the color he was used to rolling over and seeing sprawled across the pillow. Looking just as beautiful as the day he last held her in his arms.

“I’d- I’d love that,” Logan smiled at you. You returned his look, feeling a weight fall off your shoulders. Demeanors changing with the new found attitude between you. Deciding the best way to learn more about each other was just to ask outright.

“So, what’s your favorite color?”

“Red.”

Your conversation went on like this for the rest of the night. Chatting even as everyone else left the party. Wade watched with a smile on his face from inside.

~~~

[END]

// Thank you so much for reading! This was just a quick fun concept I came up with the other day. Hope you enjoyed! If you have any requests, feel free to send them my way, or if you’d like to be tagged in any further Fics, let me know! //

{tags}

@toogaytofunctiondangit ~ @megangovier ~ @castle-of-ruin ~

[novaursa]

Love love LOVE reading your most recent requests! Especially the cregan ones

If you’re still taking requests, could I get one from cregan pov where velaryon/targ reader must wed cregan to honor the pact made by Jace. I’d Iove to get cregans first impressions of seeing her, almost in awe because it’s his first time seeing a targ/velaryon with old Valyrian features and how he feels about the betrothal. Bonus points if you add her dragon too 👀💖

Valyrian Bride

Requests are closed!

- Summary: When your older brother, Jacaerys, promised you to Cregan to be his bride, the Lord Stark did not expect what he got - a trueborn dragon.

- Paring: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: I hope this is what you had in mind. 🙂

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Next part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

Cregan Stark stood tall upon the frost-crusted battlements of Winterfell, his grey eyes fixed on the southern horizon. The wind howled around him, cold and biting, but he barely noticed. The men beside him, his bannermen and closest retainers, stood in hushed anticipation. They were a hardy lot, men of the North, but today there was a tension in the air that not even their steadfast presence could dispel. The daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Dragon Princess promised to him, was on her way. And she was bringing her dragon.

Cregan was a man of duty, honor-bound by his word. When Jacaerys Velaryon had come to the North, securing his father’s oath to Rhaenyra, Cregan had listened to the young prince’s proposal with a calculating mind. He had known what the South was asking—his allegiance in a civil war that would tear the Seven Kingdoms apart. The North had no taste for southern squabbles, but for an alliance that could secure his people’s future, Cregan had agreed. A marriage bond, a union with the blood of kings and dragons.

But he hadn’t expected this.

The sky darkened. A shadow passed over the pale light of the day, and a roar echoed across the windswept land. His heart quickened. The unmistakable sound of wings filled the air, as if the heavens themselves were being torn apart. Men murmured in awe, some with fear. Cregan’s grip on the pommel of his sword tightened as he peered into the sky. And then, she appeared.

The dragon came first—Vaetrix, her crimson scales gleaming like molten fire against the pale snow. Larger than anything Cregan had seen before, the great beast descended from the clouds with a grace that defied her monstrous size. Her wings flared, casting a shadow over the courtyard, and the air was filled with the smell of sulfur and smoke.

But it wasn’t the dragon that took Cregan’s breath away.

Atop Vaetrix, astride the monstrous creature as if born to it, was the princess. Her silver-gold hair streamed behind her like a banner, long and flowing, catching the sunlight as she descended. Her features were sharp, unmistakably Valyrian—the high cheekbones, the proud set of her jaw, the violet eyes that seemed to pierce through everything they beheld. She was a vision of Old Valyria, like the stories his father had told him as a boy. She bore little resemblance to her half-brothers, with their softer features. No, this was the blood of the dragon in full force.

His bannermen whispered around him.

"She looks like a goddess," one muttered, his voice thick with awe.

"Old Valyria reborn," another added, his voice trembling.

Cregan said nothing. He could only stare, his heart thudding heavily in his chest. He had expected a girl, a lady to wed and secure an alliance, but this… this was something else entirely. There was power in her, in the way she moved, in the way she carried herself atop that dragon. She was not just a girl of noble birth—she was a force of nature, a storm in human form.

Vaetrix landed with a deafening thud, snow and dirt kicking up around her as she folded her massive wings. The ground trembled beneath her weight, but Cregan stood firm. He watched as the princess dismounted with a fluid grace, her hand brushing along Vaetrix's scaled neck before she strode forward. Her boots crunched in the snow, the chill of the North seemingly unfelt by her as if the dragon's fire warmed her from within.

When her eyes met his, Cregan felt a jolt run through him. Those violet eyes… they were ancient, wise beyond her years, and yet held a fire that could burn a man alive if he dared to challenge her. His mouth felt dry, his usual steady words faltering in his throat.

She approached, and as she drew nearer, Cregan noticed more—her height, the proud way she held her head, the confidence in her steps. She did not walk like someone being delivered to a husband. No, she walked like a queen in her own right, a woman who expected the world to bend to her will.

When she stopped before him, she inclined her head ever so slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than submission. “Lord Stark,” she said, her voice smooth and strong, carrying the faintest hint of the Valyrian accent that lingered in her family’s tongue. “I have come as promised.”

Cregan blinked, forcing himself to regain his composure. “Princess,” he replied, his voice rougher than usual, betraying the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind. “Winterfell welcomes you.”

Her lips curled into the faintest of smiles, though it was hard to tell whether it was one of amusement or mere politeness. “I am honored to be here, to fulfill the promise made between my house and yours.”

He nodded, his gaze locked on hers. “I did not expect—” His words caught in his throat for a moment, and he shook his head, cursing himself for his loss of composure. “I did not expect such… splendor.”

The smile deepened, and there was a flicker of something in her eyes—perhaps amusement, or perhaps something more dangerous. “I am not what you expected then, my lord?”

Cregan met her gaze evenly. “No, princess. You are far more.”

Behind them, Vaetrix rumbled, a deep sound that reverberated through the stone walls of Winterfell. His men shifted nervously, glancing at the beast with wide eyes, but Cregan paid them no mind. His focus was entirely on her.

The princess tilted her head, studying him with those sharp, knowing eyes. “I have heard much of the North, of its strength, its honor,” she said softly, her voice carrying on the wind. “It is a land of fierce men and harsher winters. I hope that I will find my place here, as your wife.”

There was something in the way she said it, a subtle challenge, as if she were testing him, seeing if he was the man she had been promised. And for the first time, Cregan understood that this marriage was not just a bond of convenience. She was not some southern lady to be tamed or coddled. She was a dragon, and if he were to claim her, he would have to prove himself worthy.

“You will,” he said, his voice steady now, conviction settling in his chest. “You will find your place here, with me.”

Her eyes gleamed with something close to approval, and she nodded once, a gesture as regal as any queen’s. Then, without another word, she turned her gaze back to Vaetrix, who stirred at her silent command, lifting her massive head.

Cregan watched her walk away, feeling a mixture of awe and excitement. The North had never seen a woman like this, and he knew, in that moment, that his life—Winterfell itself—was about to change forever.

[call-sign-shark]

Of Bending and Breaking || Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Always being the one who cares for others comes with a price: you break down, but the most unexpected person is here for you: Tommy, the man you were forced to marry.

Words: 2,3k

TW: Hurt/Comfort, very tiny mention of past sexual assault, no proofreading 'cause it comes from clearing my drafts.

Notes: Aunt Isabella's is a tribute to my own aunt Isabelle who, unfortunately, died because of cancer a few years ago.

It all started with Polly shaking Tommy like a tree, her thin hands firmly grabbing his nephew’s broad shoulders: “You can’t keep sabotaging yourself like this, Tom.” These were the words that left her quivering lips as she dragged his staggering frame to the bathroom and pushed his face into the bathtub right under the tap. When the freezing water splashed all over his neck, Tommy opened his blank eyes wide and inhaled sharply, as if he had suddenly come back to life. Since Grace’s awful death, the gangster was the shadow of his former self. When he wasn’t waging a senseless war with Father Hughes and the Italian, or when he wasn’t keeping his buzzing mind busy with work, Tommy usually numbed himself with a deadly combination of whisky and opium until his deep-seated pain became bearable. It was the night he almost overdosed that Polly decided to take charge of his nephew and found him a new wife, in the hope of soothing his nephew’s mind and finding a mother figure for poor little Charlie. The idea had obviously sent Tommy in a fit of anger but Polly Gray couldn’t care less.

Regarding your own situation, it was not the opium nor the loss of a dear lover that had led you to Birmingham’s most dangerous man but rather the bump in your belly. Aunt Isabella had understood what you were suffering from the moment you had stormed out of the vardo to throw up your breakfast in the nearest bush. The tall and lean woman, whose light brown and curly mane danced in the cold autumn wind, had looked at you right in the eyes and raised one of her thin eyebrows. If there was something pleasant with her, it was that words weren’t necessary.

Yet, later she encountered Polly, with whom she had been a great friend since childhood, and explained that a powerful American man had forced his seeds in you during his stay in England. Not willing to go through the traumatic experience of aborting, Isabella only saw one solution to your problem: you needed a husband who could protect you and your future baby from the evil man with his scarred lip. A wedding would be your salvation. At the realization of what Aunt Isabella had planned for you, you tried to run away from the camp in the middle of the night but she knew you too well and soon caught you, her sly hand firmly grabbing your wrist: “Y/N! It’s for your sake! He’s rich, he needs a wife and he is feared! You’ll be safe with him, don’t you understand?” She explained, cupping your face with her long fingers adorned with claws painted in red and far too many rings. “I don’t need a man to protect me! I don’t need anyone. He’s older and he’s a criminal! Who’s going to protect me from him eh? Have you think ‘bout that?” You cried, the soft light of the sunrise turning your tears into liquid gold.

But still, you wedded him and what was supposed to be the happiest day of your life turned out to be a dull event during which you dissociated the whole time. The only memories you had in mind were two piercing and frightening turquoise eyes staring right at your soul and soft whiskey-tasting lips stealing a quick peck from your cherry lips. A kiss devoid of any form of affection. And then, the groom left.

From what Aunt Isabella told you, your husband had spent most of the celebrations with his brothers, drinking and taking bets outside of Arrow House. Months had passed and still, you felt estranged to this place and its staff. The only moments your heart lightened were when Aunt Isabella visited you, or when Charlie spent time with you, otherwise you remained emotionally closed, trapped in your own mind. Overall you could not complain: You had a house far too big for you with plenty of workers willing to exhaust every one of your wishes. Charlie was a sweet boy, who loved you with all his heart even if you were well aware that you’ll never replace his mother. As for the Shelby clan, they were cordial with you without being really friendly either. And there was Tommy…

Cold and distant Tommy, who you only saw late at night when he discretely slipped under the bedsheet and turned his back to you without uttering a single word. Busy Tommy, whose replies remained concise and spoken with a quiet husky voice each time you asked him something — at least he talked to you a little bit. Trapped in a loveless marriage, that was what you were: Tommy was more a stranger, a mere gust of wind in your life, than the love of your life.

Still, the gangster stayed true to his words and he provided for everything, never refusing to give you money when you asked, and protecting you from the man who had taken your innocence. He even gifted you a wonderful stallion because he knew how much you missed riding. In exchange for his protection and riches, all you had to do was take care of Charlie and do your best to be there for your husband when his darkness threatened to swallow him whole.

You found out about the nightmares shortly after your wedding and quickly decided to do something about it. When he woke up screaming and drenched in sweat after tasting the tunnels’ dirt and Grace’s crimson blood in his troubled sleep, you always cradle him, your fingers losing themselves in his wet dark hair to pet his head gently. At first, you feared his reaction, expecting the infamous Tommy Shelby to push you and not-so-kindly ask you to keep your distance but, to your greatest surprise, he never did. Instead, he would bury his face in your cleavage, panting and trembling, and let you reassure him. Just like he let you bring dinner to him each time he drowned himself in paperwork and forgot to eat. He never commented on your cooking skills though, even if he always handed back empty plates.

The blood on his skin? You cleaned it.

The wounds of his flesh? You never failed to patched them up.

The hole in his heart? You tried to seal it off with caresses, soft kisses, and shoulder massages. Maybe one day he would slowly turn his iciness into affection. Little did you know that he needed it. And by it he needed you. Just like the whole family. How many times did you walk the streets of Birmingham at night, seeking for Arthur and then bringing him home to take care of a wasted and high him? Far too many to keep track. Similarly, you had spent countless evenings helping Ada when she felt overwhelmed, either nursing Karl or cleaning her house when, just like her brother, she overworked herself. And finally, Polly could never thank you enough for everything you did to soothe her mind after the gallows, still haunted by the bite of the hanging rope on her throat.

“Thanks Poppy.” Arthur muttered, the gravel in his voice coated with shame now that you were down clearing and disinfecting his split knuckles. The oldest brother had started to affectionately call you so for the sole reason that, according to him, you must probably grow better when blood was considering how much you had seen when patching the Shelby siblings. “Sorry for errr… For the mess.” He went on, his steel blue eyes fleeing yours.

“That’s okay.” You replied in Romani, “You, sweet idiot.” Endeared by how surprisingly soft Arthur’s harsh complexions could turn, you couldn’t help but gently put your hand on one of his cheeks. And during this tender display of affection, Arthur was convinced he had caught sight of a smile — a scarce event barely happening on your beautiful but resigned face. Comforted by the warmth of your palm, he leaned into your touch and looked at you through dark lashes, his lids half-closed.

“Tommy’s one lucky bastard to have ya for himself, eh."

"Let's both flee together then." You teased, the familiar tone of Romani language rendered even more melodious by your siren-like voice.

"Don't tempt me, little one." Arthur replied, softer than intended and probably only half-joking.

The oldest Shelby brother had barely closed the door when your smile disappeared and tears flooded your eyes. Admittedly, spending months of repressing your own anguish didn’t do any good to you despite thinking that focusing on others would have helped. Quite the contrary, all those negative emotions you had left on the back burner turned into a silent and deadly parasite that was eating you up. Dragging your tired frame to the cold and empty marital bedroom, you curled up in a ball in a corner of the room, your bruised knees pressed against your chest, “Positive. You gotta stay positive and push forwards y’see Y/N? Do the right things for the family…” You whispered to yourself as your breath started to quicken for the ball of sorrow in your throat was growing more and more. Yes, you had to smile and say that all was just fine because you knew you were lucky to be here and that you hadn’t any real reason to complain now according to the rest of the world. And yet, the truth was you were tired. So tired and overwhelmed by everything around you. With your wild soul trapped here in the mighty walls of Arrow House, you could not help but drown in an excruciating feeling of worthlessness.

You were lost in a world too difficult for you to understand. Lost and unprepared for a life that asked for too much. When you were living in the vardo with Aunt Isabella life seemed so much easier despite the lack of money and, sometimes, food. Prior to your wedding, she used to tell you that everything would become clear once you’d be a wife and a mother. You’d be an adult adult, you see? But she lied. They all lied. Even with a husband and kids, you still felt like a scared and confused child, who wanted to hide under the blanket of her warm bed and never face the world ever again. These concerns of yours? You never shared because you wanted the Shelby to keep seeing you as a reassuring presence— moreover, God knew how much their broken hearts needed your silent care.

Bringing your trembling fingers to your mouth, you muffled a first sob, convinced it would be enough to keep you from crying. What you didn’t expect was to burst into tears, uncontrollably weeping. After all this time forcing yourself to be strong, your mind had enough. As your heart-wrenching cries echoed in the room they muffled Tommy’s footsteps that were coming closer and closer. When the door flung open, you did not even move, lost in a spiral of pain and psychological exhaustion.

“Y/N?!” Tommy called you, his usual coldness swept away by a surge of panic. He closed the distance between you and him with hastened steps, and put one of his knees on the floor to be at your level, “What’s wrong, ay?” His husky voice asked, worries thickening his Brummie accent even more. You hiccuped and raised your flooded eyes towards him, parting your lips to answer. Yet, as soon as your gaze met his turquoise iris you started weeping again, louder this time. Words were at a loss by dint of never having the chance to express what you felt throughout your life. “Bloody Hell, Y/N! Speak!” Tommy hissed, his heart now drumming in his chest at the sight of his young and always-so-strong wife crumbling in bits in front of him. Never in his life, he had felt so powerless, not even in the tunnels… And, God, he hated it.

“N-nothing. I don’t… I don’t even know it’s just that— I’m so fucking tired, and lost, and confused, and afraid!” You spoke with a very fast pace, spitting years and years of repressed emotions flowing from you all the while feeling deeply ashamed of your mental breakdown. When you were done venting, you simply turned your head and waved off the topic, tears still rolling down your reddened cheeks “Anyway! You’ve got — more important things to do.”

“Stop it, Y/N,” He scolded, low voice rumbling in his chest. His strong and calloused hands, damaged by the war and hard work, cupped your face with a softness you didn’t know he possessed. For the first time in your life, his grip felt utterly reassuring as if you knew these scarred palms were not going to let you fall apart. Never. “You’re what’s important right now.” With that being said, Tommy leaned his forehead against yours and his enchanting eyes soon met yours to force you to focus on nothing else but the vast blue oceans which composed them. “I want you to calm down.”

“I can’t, I can’t—“ You tried to speak but you couldn’t, struggling to breathe under the crushing weight of your panic attack. Your mouth gaped, looking for the oxygen it couldn’t find.

“Oi!” Tommy said louder. So loud that his voice managed to overcome the cacophony of your beating heart and the buzzing sound of your anxiety that filled your head, “I want you to breathe with me, Y/N. Alright? You can do that for me, ay?” He asked, his eyebrows slightly frowned and charming crowfeet appearing at the corner of his eyes — how odd it was to see Tommy’s face veiled with something else than unsettling placidity. Caught off guard by the sudden realization of how close he was, you quieted down a little bit and soon followed the pattern of his breathing.

One long inhale through the nose, one longer exhale through the mouth, and a short pose.

Do it again.

Your shaky hands slowly grabbed his wrists in a desperate attempt to anchor you to reality. This, as well as the focus you had on his mesmerizing complexions.

His long dark lashes — you inhaled slowly.

His cat-like turquoise iris — you exhaled.

His salient cheekbones — You stopped breathing for a very short while.

The myriad of freckles — “Breathe with me, Y/N.”

The soft, hoarse lilt guided you through the dark and thick fog of your own brain, just like a lighthouse. Coming back to clearer waters, your body finally relaxed and fell almost limp in his arms. And once again he caught you, keeping you all safe against his chest. Tommy’s voice, low and steady, resonated one last time in the bedroom with a reassuring warmth as he uttered the simple yet powerful phrase, "I'm here." Each word carefully enunciated, carrying a quiet strength that soothed and reassured, like a comforting anchor in a stormy sea.

Keep your writers motivated: Reblog and/or comment if you liked it, you filthy animal! o/ English is not my first language btw.

Taglist: @adaydreamaway08 @theshelbyclan @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd @zablife @woofgocows @anathemasworld @anastasia000 @kate654 @kxnnxy @babayaga67 @meowtastick @shelbyssins @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @bluevenus19 @raincoffeeandfandoms @kishie8 @zablife @alexandra-001 @dearshelby @alexizodd @helen06dreamer @kmc1989 @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings @peakyltd @chaosinkest1996 @vanhelsingsbigtoe @red-riding-wood

[misswynters]

Gilded Cage part two

featuring. Ekko x fem!reader

wc. 15k

synopsis. Born from house Arvino, one of the richest and influential families of piltover. You had it all from luxurious gifts, fancy meals, a magnificent bedroom and much more. You're parents gave you everything you asked for. However still never satisfied you. You're mind always looked at the injustice and suffering zaun was going through. That's when you first met ekko, the firelights' leader. Not very happy to have a pilty messing stuff up.

trope. "enemies to lovers"

warnings. slow burn, cursing, blood, drugs, kissing, death!, suggestive, kinda grinding against each other (clothed tho), angst

requested. by anon

a/n. it's more like enemies to friends to lovers (sorry) let me know if there’s any mistakes so i may fix it.

Darkness. An oppressive, suffocating void that seemed to stretch endlessly. You floated in its cold embrace, weightless yet crushingly burdened by the weight of your own thoughts. Memories flickered like dying embers, elusive and fragmentary. You could barely recall where you had been, what had happened, or how you had ended up here. The edges of recollection teased you: Ekko’s voice, steady and warm, calling your name. The heavy press of bodies at the Last Drop, the tang of alcohol mingling with smoke. Then a sharp, searing sting in your neck—and the world spiraling into oblivion. Now, you were adrift, lost in a sea of disjointed images and emotions.

Your mind was an unrelenting storm, twisting and turning with fears and insecurities you thought you had buried long ago. The sound of Margot’s cruel laughter cut through the fog like a blade, her words threading through your subconscious like venom. “He doesn’t care about you,” her voice echoed, dark and mocking. “You’re nothing to him.” You wanted to fight against it, but the darkness clung to you, invasive, as it dragged you deeper. Somewhere, faint and distant, there were voices that were sharp and unfamiliar. They seemed to be arguing, but the words were muffled.

“She’s worth more alive,” one voice said, cutting through the haze like a knife, dragging you closer to consciousness.

“Though, Dead might be less trouble,” another replied, cold and indifferent, a tone that sent a shiver of dread down your spine.

The words clawed at the edges of your awareness, snapping you back toward the surface of reality. Your body felt heavy, impossibly sluggish, but you fought against the pull of unconsciousness with everything you had. It was as if your mind and body were at war, one was desperate to wake up and the other held captive by a paralyzing weight. Slowly, agonizingly, your eyes fluttered open, and the harsh glare of a fluorescent light stabbed into your vision.

The room around you was cold and unforgiving, bathed in the sterile glow of artificial lighting that illuminated every inch of its metallic surfaces. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of rust and oil, and beneath it all lingered something acrid and chemical, clinging to your nostrils like a warning. The faint hum of machinery thrummed in the background, a low, ominous noise that seemed to vibrate through your very bones. You tried to move, but your arms were pinned to the cold metal chair beneath you, thick leather straps biting into your wrists. A matching set bound your ankles, and as you tested the restraints, they didn’t budge an inch.

A spike of panic shot through you as the reality of your situation set in. Your breath came faster, shallow and uneven, as your eyes darted around the room. The Chem Barons loomed before you, seated around an oval table at the far end of the room. The glow from the monitors lining the walls illuminated their faces, casting their expressions in stark relief. Each face was a mask of greed, malice, and twisted amusement, their eyes gleaming with predatory intent as they spoke about you as though you weren’t even there.

“She’s valuable,” one of them said, his voice carrying a sickening undertone of satisfaction. “Alive, she’s worth a fortune to topside. They’ll pay anything to get their hands on her.”

“Dead might be easier to deal with,” another replied, leaning back in his chair with a shrug. “Still worth a decent haul. Less risk of her escaping, too.”

Your stomach churned as their words sank in. You were a prize to them, nothing more than a commodity to be traded for wealth and power. Every instinct screamed at you to fight, to get out, but the restraints held firm no matter how hard you pulled. Your breathing quickened as you struggled, the leather cutting into your skin, and the faint taste of blood rose in your throat.

“Ah, you’re awake.” The smooth, taunting voice cut through the air like a blade, and your gaze snapped to the woman standing at the table. Margot. Her presence was magnetic in the worst way, her movements deliberate and calculated as she leaned casually against the table, arms crossed over her chest. Her lips curled into a smirk, her eyes alight with cruel amusement as she studied you, like a predator toying with its prey.

“Well, well,” she said, pushing off the table and taking a slow step toward you. “The perfect little topsider, all tied up and helpless. Not so high and mighty now, are we?”

You glared at her, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a response, but the corner of her mouth twitched, as if she were amused by your defiance. She began to circle you, her heels clicking against the floor with each measured step, her presence oppressive and suffocating.

“Do you know where your little hero is right now?” she asked, her voice dripping with mockery. “Out there, playing the savior for Zaun. That’s his priority, isn’t it? Always has been. Zaun this. Zaun that.”

It seemed like the world around you shifted, like a bad dream slowly releasing its hold on you. And there it was, the overwhelming effects of the shimmer. Oh the pounding in your head, twisting of your thoughts, and voices echoing in your ears. Then it began to fade. It felt like dragging yourself out of quicksand, every inch a battle as clarity tried to surface through the chaos. Your breath came in shallow gasps, chest heaving as the purple haze in your vision began to lift.

Dim lights suffocated the room, illuminated by the faint flicker of old industrial lights dangling above. The Chem Barons lounged around the oval table, their laughter low and cruel as they watched your struggle with detached amusement. The factory scent in the air, mingled with the acrid sting of chemicals you didn’t want to identify.

Margot leaned casually against the table, twirling the now-empty syringe between her fingers with an air of smug satisfaction. Her lips curled into a grin that sent a wave of anger through you, though your body was too weak to act on it.

“Looks like you’re finally coming down,” she remarked, her tone almost conversational. “I’ll admit, I was worried for a moment there. Would’ve been a shame if you’d overdosed before we made use of you.”

You glared at her through the haze of exhaustion, your teeth clenched as you struggled to steady your breathing. “Go to hell,” you rasped, your voice hoarse and raw.

Margot chuckled, pushing off the table to approach you. “Feisty, even now. I like that,” she said, crouching in front of you so that her face was level with yours. Her eyes gleamed with twisted delight as she reached out, gripping your chin tightly between her fingers to force you to look at her.

“You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that,” she murmured, her voice low and almost admiring. “But spirit won’t save you. You’re nothing more than a bargaining chip now.”

You jerked your head away from her grasp, the movement sharp despite the lingering weakness in your body. Margot let out an amused laugh as she stood, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Here’s the deal, sweetheart,” she began, her tone turning more like one of a businessman’s. “We hand you over to topside. You get to enjoy whatever punishment they’ve got waiting for you, and we get our prize money. It’s a win-win, really.” The other Chem Barons murmured their approval, the greed in their voices unmistakable.

You stared at her, your chest tightening with rage. “You really think I’d agree to that?” you spat, your voice laced with venom.

Margot shrugged, the corner of her mouth twitching into a mocking smirk. "Oh, I don't need your agreement, darling," she replied smoothly, her voice dripping with condescension. "I was just being polite by giving you the illusion of a choice. Hey, but maybe we can work something out. Give me something useful. A secret, a connection, something, and maybe I don't have to hand you over." Her words were a sick game, a mockery of negotiation. You weren't stupid; you knew she had no intention of letting you go freely. Your anger bubbled over as you leaned forward as much as your restraints allowed, glaring daggers at her.

"I'll see you rot before I help you," you growled, the force of your words surprising even yourself.

Margot's expression darkened, and the smirk fell from her face. For a moment, there was silence, tension crackling in the air like static. Then, without warning, she lashed out, slapping you hard across the face. The sharp sting of her hand against your cheek was enough to make your head whip to the side.

"Stupid girl," she hissed, her voice low and venomous. "You think you have power here? You think you get to decide anything?" She took a step back, reaching into her pocket and pulling out another syringe.

Your stomach dropped as you saw the familiar glow of shimmer inside it, brighter and more concentrated than before.

"No-no, don't," you stammered, panic setting in as she approached.

"Don't what?" she mocked, her grin returning with a sadistic edge. "You already made your choice. Let's see if we can loosen that sharp tongue of yours."

Before you could protest further, she plunged the needle into your neck. Pain shot through your body as the shimmer flooded your veins, an uncontrollable heat spreading through your limbs. You let out a scream, your vision blurring as the drug took hold. The world tilted on its axis, the edges of reality fraying as hallucinations crept in. The Chem Barons' laughter grew distorted, their faces warping into monstrous visages. The room seemed to shrink and expand simultaneously, and the voices in your head (the ones you thought had faded) came roaring back with a vengeance.

You clawed at the arms of the chair, your nails digging into the metal as you tried to anchor yourself. Your heart pounded so loudly in your chest that it felt like it might burst, and your breathing became erratic.

Margot's voice cut through the chaos, taunting and cruel. "Look at you, squirming like a cornered animal. It's almost poetic."

Your restraints clicked open suddenly, and you stumbled forward, barely catching yourself before hitting the ground. Margot stood over you, her hands on her hips as she sneered down at your trembling form.

"We're taking you topside," she announced, her tone laced with finality.

"Dead or alive, you're worth the same. But I think I prefer you like this, completely broken and barely holding on. It'll make the handoff more entertaining."

Two of her lackeys stepped forward, gripping you under your arms and hauling you to your feet. Your legs wobbled beneath you, the shimmer wreaking havoc on your motor control. The world spun violently as they began dragging you toward the door, your head lolling as you tried and failed to stay upright. Harsh sunlight hit your face like someone slapped you as they pulled you outside. The brightness was disorienting, and you squinted against it, your head throbbing. Air, heavy with the industrial tang of Zaun, and the sounds of machinery mixed with voices. Enforcers.

Ahead, you could see the bridge leading topside, a line of Enforcers waiting at the end with rifles slung over their shoulders. The sight sent a fresh wave of panic through you, and you thrashed weakly in the Chem Barons' grip.

"Let me go," you slurred, your voice barely above a whisper.

Margot walked alongside you, her expression one of smug satisfaction. "Save your strength," she advised mockingly. "You'll need it to grovel when you're thrown at the feet of the Council."

The closer you got to the bridge, the harder your heart pounded. You were barely holding on, your mind teetering on the edge of madness as the shimmer coursed through you. The voices in your head screamed louder, with the fear and anger that threatened to drown you.

Margot leaned in close, her breath hot against your ear as she whispered "Don't worry, sweetheart. This is just the beginning." You gritted your teeth, determination flickering within you despite the haze.

The journey to Piltover’s inner walls was a blur of pain and exhaustion. Your legs refused to hold you, the shimmer coursing through your veins wreaking havoc on your body. Every step felt like a battle, your limbs trembling as Margot’s goons dragged you forward. The bright sunlight burned your eyes, and the Piltover’s bustling streets added to your disorientation. All of the voices of the enforcers were sharp as they spoke to Margot, thanking her and her men.

“Good work,” one of the officers said, his tone almost bored. “Your payment will be processed soon. We’ll take it from here.”

Margot smirked, her victory evident in her smug posture. She leaned close to you one last time, her voice a low whisper meant only for your ears.

“Enjoy the next chapter, darling,” she sneered. “If you survive, maybe we’ll cross paths again.”

You didn’t have the strength to respond. Instead, you slumped further as the Enforcers took hold of you, their grip cold. You tried to plant your feet, to resist, but your body betrayed you. Your knees buckled, and they dragged you forward without hesitation.

Piltovers inner walls loomed ahead, their pristine white stone a stark contrast to the grime and chaos of Zaun. Everything was suffocating, the streets lined with polished brass and bustling citizens who barely glanced your way. The shimmer made it hard to focus, your vision swimming with colors and shadows that didn’t belong.

By the time you reached the Council building, you were on the verge of collapse. The Enforcers hauled you through the ornate doors, their boots echoing loudly against the marble floors. Of course the air would be cold and sterile, filled with the murmur of voices and hurried footsteps as people passed by.

They led you into the grand council chamber, its circular design intimidating and imperial. The room was bathed in warm light from the massive stained-glass windows, depicting Piltover’s history in vibrant detail. At the center was the imposing council table, its surface polished to a mirror shine, where Ambessa Medarda sat like a queen upon her throne.

Beside her were your parents. Your father’s expression was like stone, his cold eyes fixed straight ahead. He didn’t even glance at you as the Enforcers placed you in one of the chairs facing the council. Your mother, on the other hand, was a picture of worry, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Her eyes were wide as they took you in, darting over your disheveled appearance and the faint glow of shimmer in your irises. The moment the Enforcers stepped back, your mother rushed to your side. Her arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a hug so tight it left you breathless.

“My sweet child,” she murmured, her voice trembling with emotion. “I was so worried about you.”

You barely had the strength to return the embrace, but her warmth was a calming sensation to your anxious nerves. She pulled back just enough to press a kiss to your forehead, her hands cupping your face as she searched your eyes.

“What have they done to you?” she whispered, her voice breaking. Her gaze landed on the faint pink glow in your irises, and you saw her expression shift from relief to horror. “Shimmer…” she breathed, her voice barely audible.

Her hands faltered for a moment before she composed herself, but the fear lingered in her eyes. She sat down next to you, her presence a small comfort despite the chaos raging within you. Your father, meanwhile, remained motionless, his gaze fixed ahead as if you weren’t even there. His indifference cut deeper than you expected, and your heart sank. He doesn’t care. He never has.

Ambessa’s voice rang out, commanding and unyielding, but the pounding in your head made it impossible to focus on her words. Your mother nudged you gently, her worried expression urging you to pay attention.

“Listen,” she whispered softly, but her voice carried an undertone of dread.

You blinked, forcing yourself to focus on Ambessa. Her sharp eyes bore into you as she spoke, her words cutting through the haze.

“You have become a liability,” she declared, her voice devoid of sympathy. “A danger to the order and stability of Piltover. It is the council’s decision that you be sent to Stillwater Hold immediately.”

Your stomach dropped, the weight of her words crashing down on you like a tidal wave. Stillwater Hold, the maximum security, isolation, a prison for those too dangerous to be allowed freedom.

“No,” you muttered, shaking your head weakly. “No, you can’t—”

“This is not up for debate,” Ambessa interrupted coldly, rising to her feet. Her imposing figure seemed to tower over you, her presence suffocating. “You will be placed in isolation, cut off from all outside contact. Perhaps there, you will have time to reflect on your mistakes.”

Your mother’s hand gripped yours tightly, her knuckles white. She looked as if she wanted to speak, to protest, but no words came. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and you could see the conflict in her eyes.

Your father, however, barely reacted. He simply stood, his face betraying a flicker of surprise, but nothing more.

As Ambessa turned to leave, the Enforcers moved forward to restrain you once again. Panic clawed at your chest, your mind racing with the implications of her decree. You would be alone, cut off from everything and everyone you cared about. The thought of never seeing Ekko again made your heart ache, but then Margot’s words crept back into your mind.

He doesn’t care about you. He only cares about Zaun. But did he?

You shook your head, trying to dispel the doubt, but it lingered like a shadow. The Enforcers’ hands were rough as they pulled you to your feet, and your mother’s grip slipped away.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice cracking as you looked at her. “Don’t let them do this.”

The hallway outside the council chambers was dimly lit, while there was golden glow coming from the chamber’s interior. The walls were lined with brass and marble, their polished surfaces catching faint reflections of the soldiers escorting you. Their grip was unyielding as they dragged you forward, your legs barely able to cooperate. Your body felt heavy, a dull ache spreading through your muscles, but the shimmer in your veins still faintly there. Almost like a silent threat waiting to be unleashed. Unpredictable.

Your mother walked alongside you, her hand clinging tightly to yours as if her touch alone could anchor you in this moment. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears. Her lips trembled as she tried to speak, her voice choked by the emotions roiling within her.

“You can’t do this to them,” she pleaded to the soldiers, her words soft but desperate. “They’re not a danger—they’re my daughter.”

The soldiers didn’t respond, their expressions stoic. They marched forward with mechanical precision, their polished armor clinking faintly with each step. You glanced over your shoulder at your mother, her hand tightening around yours as if she sensed the impending separation.

“Please,” she begged, her voice cracking. “Let me—”

Her words were cut off as the soldiers abruptly stopped, their grip on you tightening. One of them turned to her, his expression a mix of irritation and indifference.

“Ma’am, please step back,” he ordered firmly.

“No,” your mother said, her voice rising in defiance. “I won’t let you take my daughter!”

The soldier’s hand moved to pry hers away from yours, but she held on tighter, her knuckles white. Her desperation was palpable, each of her movements fueled by love and fear.

“Mother,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “It’s okay—”

However, it wasn’t okay and it never would be. With being over dramatic that they would send someone to prison just for being a kind person. What kind of society was piltover, and how you could’ve been so blind.

The soldier’s patience snapped, and he moved to forcibly remove your mother’s hand from yours. The moment he yanked at her wrist, something inside you cracked. All the shimmer that had been bubbling beneath the surface roared to life, seeping in your veins. Heat spread through your body, the sensation almost euphoric.

Before you could think, your body moved on instinct. With a feral growl, you jerked free from the soldiers’ grasp. Your fists flew before you realized what you were doing, one striking the soldier nearest to you with a sickening thud. He staggered back, his helmet clattering to the ground, and you turned on the second soldier with the same ferocity. The shimmer gave you strength you didn’t recognize, each movement fluid and devastating. Your fist collided with the second soldier’s chest plate, sending him stumbling backward into the marble wall with a dull clang. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, the shimmer’s intoxicating power coursing through you. The sensation was overwhelming, your limbs felt lighter, faster, and yet there was a wildness to it all, a lack of control that frightened you even as it exhilarated you.

Turning back, you stumbled into your mother’s arms, clutching her tightly as though holding her could tether you to the world and keep the chaos at bay. Her arms wrapped around you immediately, her warmth and familiar scent grounding you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice breaking as tears burned at your eyes. “I don’t know if I’ll see you again.”

“You will,” she said firmly, her hands gripping your face to make you look at her. Tears streaked down her cheeks, but her gaze was resolute. “I’ll find a way. I swear to you.”

Her promise felt like a fragile thread in the storm raging inside you. You wanted to believe her, but every step you’d taken since leaving Zaun seemed to lead only to destruction and despair. The sound of heavy footsteps broke the moment, and you turned to see your father striding toward the chaos, his expression carved in stone. His cold eyes scanned the scene: the soldiers disarmed and you clinging to your mother. His lips twisted into a sneer of disgust.

“Enough of this display,” he snapped, his voice laced with venom. “You’re embarrassing yourself, woman.”

Your mother flinched at his tone, her grip on you tightening as though she could shield you from his words. “They’re our daughter!” she shot back, her voice trembling with emotion. “How can you stand there and act like they mean nothing to you?”

“They don’t,” your father said flatly, his gaze flicking to you as if you were a mere inconvenience. “They’ve chosen to align themselves with filth, with criminals. They’ve disgraced this family, and I will not tolerate it.”

His words hit you like a physical blow, and your grip on your mother faltered. The shimmer inside you pulsed violently, responding to your rising anger. You could feel it clawing at the edges of your mind, urging you to lash out, to fight back.

“I never chose this,” you spat, your voice trembling with rage. “You abandoned me long before I ever set foot in Zaun.”

Your father’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped forward, pulling your mother away from you with a firm hand. She resisted, but his grip was unyielding, dragging her back as she cried out in protest.

“Let her go!” you shouted, lunging toward them, but the shimmer’s effects were waning, leaving your body weak and unsteady.

The soldiers had recovered by now, and they seized you once more, their grips like iron. You struggled, but the strength you’d felt moments ago was gone, replaced by an aching exhaustion.

“Take them away,” your father ordered coldly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Father, please—”

“You are no child of mine,” he said, cutting you off.

His words echoed in your ears as the soldiers dragged you away, your mother’s cries fading into the distance. Your heart felt like it was shattering in your chest, each beat a reminder of how alone you were. All of the halls blurred around you as you were pulled toward your fate. The shimmer’s residual effects made the world feel surreal, the edges of your vision tinged with purple. Your thoughts spiraled, looping back to the same unbearable truth: no one was coming to save you.

And yet, somewhere deep inside, a flicker of defiance remained. The shimmer may have weakened, but it had left something behind. A burning determination not to let them break you. Never.

As you were led toward the transport that would take you to Stillwater, you clenched your fists, vowing to fight for every chance to escape, for every moment to prove them wrong. Whatever happened next, you would not give up. Not yet.

There were occasional crackle of old, sparking wires however the hideout was quiet. It should’ve been comforting, this kind of silence, which was a rare occurrence. But it wasn’t. It never would be, not with you missing.

Ekko sat hunched over his desk in the corner of the workshop, his head resting in his hands. The glow of the green light hanging above cast harsh shadows across his face, emphasizing the exhaustion etched into his features. He hadn’t slept in days. He didn’t have the luxury of rest, not while you were out there somewhere, alone. Or worse. Dead.

The thought of what could be happening to you tightened his chest. It wasn’t like you to not come back without a word, and the reality of your disappearance had hit him like a freight train. He could still see you in his mind, sitting across the room from him with that subtle smirk you always wore when teasing him. You were always a little guarded, but he could read the warmth in your eyes when you let your guard down around him. That warmth haunted him now.

He slammed a fist down on the table, rattling a collection of discarded tools and blueprints. “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath.

The door to the hideout creaked open, and Scar stepped inside, his boots clicking softly against the floor. He didn’t bother with pleasantries, he knew better than to try when Ekko was like this.

“Any word?” he asked without looking up, his voice clipped.

Scar hesitated. “Not good news.”

Ekko turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Spit it out.”

Scar exhaled, crossing his arms. “Word on the street is there’s a bounty on their head. Big money, too. Dead or alive.”

For a moment, all he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears. He shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “What?” His voice was a mix of disbelief and fury.

“You heard me,” Scar said, his tone softer now. “Ambessa is the one behind it. And who else would want that good amount of money other that the chem-barons. So if I had to bet…”

“Margot,” Ekko growled, the name leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as anger surged through him.

“Yeah,” Scar said. “She’s got her hands in everything these days. If anyone’s got the resources to snatch someone up, it’s her.”

Ekko couldn’t think. He grabbed the edge of the desk and flipped it in one violent motion, sending tools, papers, and scraps of metal crashing to the floor. Scar didn’t flinch. He’d seen him lose his temper before, though never like this.

“They took my friend!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “They were safe, or at least I thought they were. I should’ve—” He stopped himself, pacing back and forth like a caged animal.

“You couldn’t have known,” Scar said cautiously.

“I should’ve kissed them when I had the chance,” Ekko muttered bitterly, his voice barely audible.

Scar raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by his admission. “Wait, you mean—”

“Don’t,” Ekko interrupted sharply, his jaw tightening. He didn’t need his commentary, not now.

Scar sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, boss, I get it. You care about them. We all do. And tearing yourself apart isn’t gonna bring them back. You need to focus.”

“I am focused,” Ekko snapped, his eyes blazing. “I’ve been doing everything I can to find them. I’ve been working nonstop! But every second that goes by, they could be—” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

Scar stepped closer, his voice softening. “We’ll find them, Ekko.”

Ekko turned away from his second-in-command, his shoulders slumping. The weight of his responsibilities as a leader, as someone who cared about you more than he was willing to admit, was crushing him. He thought back to all the moments he could’ve told you how he felt. How he should’ve told you. Now, he might never get the chance.

“Do we have any leads?” he asked after a long silence, his voice low.

“Nothing solid,” Scar admitted. “But I’ll keep digging. And so will the others.”

Ekko nodded, though his mind was elsewhere. If Margot had you, then time was running out. He’d seen what the chem-barons were capable of, how they toyed with their captives before discarding them like garbage. The thought of you in their clutches made his stomach churn. He clenched his fists again, his knuckles white.

As Scar left to rally the others, Ekko sat back down amidst the chaos he’d created, staring at the mess of blueprints and tools scattered across the floor. He picked up a small gadget you’d been working on before you disappeared. It was a half-finished invention with wires sticking out at odd angles.

He turned it over in his hands, a lump forming in his throat. You were always so brilliant, so determined to make a difference in this broken city. How could he have let this happen to you?

“I’ll find you,” he whispered to himself, his voice trembling. “No matter what it takes, I’ll bring you back.” The promise felt hollow in the silence of the room, but it was all he had.

Smoky air filled around the abandoned factory that thick with decay, the scent of rust and mildew clinging to the walls like an oppressive fog. Inside, the dim light of a single hanging bulb swung precariously, casting jagged shadows across the cavernous space. Crates were scattered haphazardly, some half-opened to reveal pilfered goods and shimmer vials, their contents glowing faintly. Laughter and the clink of glasses echoed faintly, a mocking contrast to the somber silence of the building’s other corners.

Ekko crouched in the shadows near a crumbling brick wall, his mask concealing his expression but failing to hide the fury radiating from him. His staff was collapsed and strapped to his back, ready to be wielded at a moment’s notice. He had been tracking Margot’s operations for days, every lead bringing him closer to you. This factory, this desolate place reeking of despair, was supposed to be your last known location.

Inside, three men sat around a makeshift table fashioned from a wooden pallet and a few stacked crates. They were laughing uproariously, playing cards, and passing a bottle of cheap wine between them. Their demeanor was casual, careless. They had no reason to suspect that death itself was crouched a few feet away, waiting.

Ekko’s fingers flexed over the edge of the wall, the faint creak of leather gloves breaking the ambient noise. The goons’ laughter paused, one of them squinting into the shadows. “You hear that?” he muttered, his hand hovering near his knife.

Ekko stepped into the light, his mask catching the faint glow of the overhead bulb. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, but his presence was anything but. The sight of him was enough to make the men freeze, their drunken haze evaporating in an instant.

“Don’t move,” Ekko said, his voice low and cold, like the steel of a blade. He tilted his head slightly, a predatory gesture that sent shivers down their spines. “I’ve got questions, and you’re going to answer them. If you try to run, you won’t get far.”

One of the men, the burliest of the three, leaned back in his chair with a forced laugh, trying to mask his unease. “Questions, huh? You don’t look like an enforcer, kid. What do you want from us?”

Ekko’s fingers twitched, but he kept his composure. “Where is she?”

“Who?” another man asked, feigning ignorance as he leaned forward, his greasy smile exposing yellowed teeth. “We’ve got a lot of ‘shes’ around here. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Ekko took a slow step forward, the sound of his boots deliberate and sharp against the concrete floor. “Don’t play dumb. The girl you took. The one Margot had dragged out of Zaun. Where is she?”

The men exchanged glances, their bravado faltering under the weight of Ekko’s presence. But it wasn’t fear that made them hesitate, it was cruelty. Disgusting.

“Oh,” the burly man said, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You mean your little girlfriend. Didn’t think a leader like you would be so sentimental. What’s it like, knowing Margot’s had her claws in her?”

Ekko’s grip on his staff tightened, though he didn’t extend it. Not yet. “She’s not my girlfriend,” he said, his voice like gravel. “… She’s under my protection, which means you’ve made a very big mistake.”

The third man, younger than the others and visibly more nervous, chuckled weakly. “Margot did more than protect her. Injected her full of shimmer. Changed her forever.” He leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him. “You should’ve heard her screaming. Begging for it to stop.”

Ekko’s vision got blurred. He didn’t remember crossing the room, but suddenly his hand was around the throat of the younger man, slamming him against the wall with a force that made the other two jump to their feet.

“I said sit down!” Ekko roared, his voice echoing through the factory like a thunderclap. The other two hesitated, their bravado crumbling as they realized just how dangerous this masked vigilante was. Slowly, they lowered themselves back into their seats, though their hands hovered near their weapons.

Ekko released the younger man, letting him crumple to the ground in a coughing heap. He turned his attention to the burly one, his body radiating barely contained rage.

“You think this is funny?” Ekko asked, his voice low and menacing. “You think I won’t rip this place apart to find her?”

“Relax, kid,” the burly man said, though his voice wavered. “You’re not a killer. Everyone knows that.”

Ekko smirked beneath his mask, though there was no humor in it. “You’re right. I’m not. But I don’t need to kill you to make you wish you were dead.”

With a flick of his wrist, he extended his staff and brought it down on the man’s hand with bone-shattering force. The sickening crunch was followed by a howl of pain, and the man clutched his mangled hand to his chest, tears streaming down his face.

“Now,” Ekko said, his voice icy. “Where. Is. She?”

The younger man scrambled to his knees, babbling incoherently. “She’s—she’s gone! Taken to Piltover! The boss wanted to claim the prize money! Please, man, that’s all I know!”

Ekko turned to him, his eyes burning with fury. “Where in Piltover?”

“I don’t know!” the man cried, his hands raised in surrender. “I swear, I don’t know! They took her meet ambessa at the council meeting! That’s all we heard before they left!”

Ekko studied him for a long moment, then stepped back, his staff retracting with a metallic click. “If I find out you’re lying,” he said coldly, “I’ll be back. And you won’t like what happens next.”

He turned and disappeared into the shadows, his heart pounding in his chest. The factory’s silence returned, but Ekko’s mind was anything but quiet.

You were in Piltover. That much he knew. But the thought of what they might be doing to you, how far they’d gone already, made his blood boil. He blamed himself for letting this happen, for not being there to stop it.

“I’ll find you,” he muttered under his breath as he stepped out of the factory. “No matter what it takes, I’ll bring you home.”

Shivering. The cold was the first thing you noticed. It crept into your bones and settled like a permanent ache, no matter how tightly you wrapped the thin blanket around yourself. The steel walls of your cell reflected nothing but your own hollow gaze, distorted in the warped metal like a ghost haunting itself. The dim, flickering light overhead buzzed incessantly, a monotonous drone that filled the silence.

Days bled into one another. Or were they weeks? Months? You couldn’t tell anymore. Food was delivered regularly, the plates piling up untouched on the small tray by the door. Hunger gnawed at your stomach, but the idea of eating felt impossible. It reminded you of before, of when Ekko had kissed you, then left you in an agonizing limbo of uncertainty.

Back then, you had at least been free. You could wander through Zaun, trying to escape the heartache in the neon haze of the Undercity. Now, there was no escape. No Ekko. No freedom. Just you and the cold steel cage that held you prisoner.

You sat on the edge of the cot, knees pulled to your chest, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself. The shimmer coursing through your veins was a cruel reminder of what had been done to you. It pulsed like molten fire, burning and twisting your thoughts. Your body ached, muscles spasming unpredictably, leaving you weak and trembling.

The voices were the worst. They came in waves, some screaming accusations, others whispering taunts.

“He’s forgotten you.”

“You’re nothing but a burden.”

“This is what you deserve.”

“Shut up!” you yelled, pressing your palms to your ears. But they didn’t stop. Instead, they multiplied.

“You’ll never see him again.”

“He’s better off without you.”

“You’re better off dead.”

Tears spilled from your eyes, hot against the cold air, as you rocked back and forth. You hated yourself for crying, for being weak, for breaking under their weight. But there was no one here to tell you otherwise. No one to hold you and say it would be okay.

You slammed the back of your head against the wall behind you, the dull thud grounding you for only a moment before the spiral began again. The sobs came harder now, wracking your body as you curled into yourself.

“Leave me alone,” you begged the voices, but they only laughed in response. And then, faintly, you heard something else.

“Hey!” The voice echoed down the corridor outside your cell, distant but distinct. Your head snapped up, your breath hitching as you strained to listen.

“Who’s there?” you croaked, your throat dry and raw from disuse.

The faint sound of footsteps grew louder, steady and purposeful. You squinted into the dim hallway, trying to make out the figure approaching the barred door.

“Leave me alone!” you cried again, shaking your head, convinced it was another hallucination. The shimmer had twisted your mind before; why would now be any different?

But the figure didn’t fade. Instead, it became clearer. Taller. Familiar. The scent of machine oil and faint traces of herbs reached you before the figure did, stirring something deep in your chest. Your heart raced as the figure came closer, the flickering light catching on the unmistakable outline of his goggles, his scarf, the curve of his jaw.

“Ekko?” you whispered, gripping the railing of your cot as you pulled yourself to your feet.

The figure stopped just beyond the bars, his hands curling around them as he leaned forward. “It’s me,” he said softly, his voice trembling with emotion.

“No,” you said, shaking your head violently. “You’re not real. You’re just—just another trick!”

“I’m real,” he said, his voice firmer now. “It’s me. See! Look at me.”

You stumbled forward, your legs weak and unsteady, until you reached the door. Your hands gripped the cold metal bars, your eyes searching his face for any hint of deception. But there was none.

“Ekko,” you breathed, tears streaming down your cheeks.

His hand covered yours, warm and grounding. “Hi,” he whispered, his voice thick with relief.

You choked on a sob, your knees buckling as you slid down to the floor. “You’re really here?”

“I’m here,” he said, his other hand slipping through the bars to brush a stray tear from your cheek. “In the flesh.”

You leaned into his touch, the warmth of his palm against your skin a stark contrast to the cold that had consumed you for so long. “I thought…” You hiccupped, struggling to form the words. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I thought the same,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “I wasn’t going to stop until I found you.”

Your fingers tightened around his, desperate to hold onto him, to convince yourself that this wasn’t just another cruel trick of your mind. “They said… they said you forgot me.”

“Never,” he said fiercely, his hand gripping yours with equal intensity. “Not even for a split second.”

You buried your face against the bars, your shoulders shaking as the tears came harder. “I’m terrified, Ekko,” you whispered. “I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

“You’re real,” he said, his forehead resting against yours through the bars. “I’m real. And I’m getting you out of here.”

His words wrapped around you like a lifeline, anchoring you to the moment. For the first time in weeks, the voices fell silent. All you could hear was the steady beat of his heart and the unspoken vow in his gaze.

The air in Stillwater Hold was suffocating, thick with the acrid scent of damp metal and the faint tang of saltwater. The dim, flickering lights overhead buzzed like angry insects, casting ghostly shadows on the cold steel walls. Ekko stood outside your cell, gripping the large brass key in his hand, his knuckles white with tension. His mask obscured most of his face, but his eyes burned with fierce determination.

He glanced at you through the bars, his heart breaking at the sight of your frail form. You looked so much smaller than he remembered, your skin pale and your frame too thin. The shimmer’s effects were evident in the faint tremors in your hands and the shadows beneath your eyes, but there was still a spark in your gaze, a fragile but unyielding fire.

He took a steadying breath and inserted the key into the lock, his movements quick but not careless. The lock groaned in protest, a sharp metallic screech echoing in the corridor.

“How did you get that?” you asked, your voice hoarse but laced with curiosity.

Ekko’s lips twitched into a small smirk, though the weight of the moment kept it from fully forming. “Long story,” he said, his tone light but tinged with weariness. He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t press him. You could tell from the shadows in his eyes that whatever he’d done to get here hadn’t been easy.

He jiggled the key, muttering a low curse under his breath. “Of course, it has to be the trickiest damn lock in the whole place,” he murmured. You almost laughed at his frustration, the sound foreign and strange in this place of despair.

Finally, with a heavy clunk, the lock gave way, and the cell door creaked open. Before Ekko could fully process his success, you surged forward, throwing yourself into his arms with all the strength you could muster. The momentum knocked him off balance, and the two of you tumbled to the cold floor, his back hitting the ground with a dull thud.

“Whoa!” he exclaimed, the breath knocked out of him for a moment. But then his arms tightened around you instinctively, cradling you against his chest as though you might disappear if he let go.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your thin arms clinging to him desperately. “Don’t let me go,” you choked out, your voice muffled against his shoulder.

“Of course not,” he whispered, his voice breaking as his hand slid up to cradle the back of your head. He felt how much lighter you were, how your ribs pressed against him like fragile bird bones. It was like holding a shadow of the person he remembered, and it made his chest ache with guilt and sorrow.

Your tears soaked into his scarf as you cried harder, your sobs wracking your frail body. “I thought—I thought I’d never see you again,” you stammered, your words broken by hiccups. “I thought I was going to die here.”

Ekko tightened his hold on you, his jaw clenched so hard it ached. “Not a chance,” he said fiercely, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to stay strong. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your tear-streaked face inches from his. “I missed you so much,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re the only thing that kept me going.”

His breath hitched, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. The raw emotion in your voice cut through him like a knife, and he cursed himself for not finding you sooner. “Well no need to worry now,” he said finally, his voice low and steady. “Im never going to leave your side”

Your arms tightened around him as if you were afraid he might vanish. “I’m never letting you go again,” you vowed, your voice trembling but resolute.

“I wouldn’t let you if you tried,” he replied softly, his lips brushing against your temple as he held you close.

As the flood of emotions began to ebb, a small, almost sheepish smile tugged at the corners of Ekko’s mouth. “By the way,” he said, his tone lightening just enough to catch your attention, “your mom’s got some stories.”

You blinked up at him, confused. “My mom?”

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “Xerah Arvino. Fancy name, by the way. She’s got opinions, especially about me.”

You let out a weak laugh, the sound surprising both of you. “What did she say?”

“Oh, you know,” he said, his voice teasing. “She might’ve mentioned how you feel about me. Called you out, really.”

Your cheeks burned, the warmth of embarrassment cutting through the cold that had settled in your body for so long. “She didn’t,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible.

“Oh, she did,” he said, his smirk widening. “Guess she wanted to make sure I wasn’t oblivious.”

Despite your exhaustion, you managed a small laugh. “She’s always been… direct.”

“I like her,” Ekko admitted, his tone softening. “But you, Firefly…” He cupped your cheek gently, his thumb brushing away the lingering tears. “I knew. I’ve always known.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, the weight of them settling over you like a warm blanket. “You did?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“How could I not?” he replied, his voice filled with equal parts affection and disbelief. “You’re my light in the dark. Always have been.”

The warmth of his gaze, the steadiness of his presence, filled the void inside you that had felt so bottomless. For the first time in what felt like forever, you believed you might actually be okay. You clung to him, burying your face in his chest as his hand stroked your back in soothing circles.

The inside of the air duct was surprisingly spacious, though its tight metallic walls didn’t leave much room for comfort. The hum of machinery vibrated through the structure, and the faint scent of oil and rust lingered in the air. Ekko’s hoverboard hummed softly beneath you, its energy signature blending seamlessly with the subdued mechanical symphony of Stillwater Hold.

“Hold on tight,” Ekko whispered, his voice low and cautious as he steadied the hoverboard under both your weight and his. His body was warm against yours, shielding you from the cold draft in the duct. You obeyed, gripping his waist tightly, your heart racing. Not only just from the escape but from the proximity, his warmth body against your own.

The hoverboard glided smoothly, its propulsion barely making a sound as Ekko maneuvered it through twists and turns. He had memorized the map of this place with a precision that made you marvel at his resourcefulness. You couldn’t help but wonder how many sleepless nights he’d spent planning this.

“Almost there,” he said, his voice steady but his grip on the hoverboard controls firm. His tone, though calm, carried the tension of someone who knew there was no room for error.

After what felt like an eternity, the dim blue light of the exit vent came into view. Ekko slowed the board and leaned forward, pressing a hand against the vent cover. It creaked slightly, and for a moment, you both froze, your breaths held. But when no alarms blared, he pushed harder, and the vent cover fell away, clattering onto the concrete outside.

“Ready?” he asked, glancing back at you.

You nodded, your heart pounding as adrenaline coursed through your veins. “Let’s go.”

With a quick adjustment, Ekko angled the hoverboard downward, the two of you sliding out of the duct and into the open air. The cold night breeze hit your face like a splash of water, a stark contrast to the stuffy air of the ducts. The stars twinkled above, unbothered by the chaos below, and for the first time in weeks, you felt the promise of freedom.

It took longer than expected to navigate back to your house. The ride was quiet, each of you lost in your thoughts, the weight of the escape pressing heavily on your shoulders. By the time you arrived, the familiar silhouette of the Arvino estate loomed before you, its elegant structure bathed in pale moonlight.

As you approached, panic flashed through your chest. “Ekko,” you said, your voice urgent. “What if someone sees us?”

“They won’t,” he assured you, his tone confident. “Trust me.”

He steered the hoverboard toward a thick cluster of vines that climbed the side of the house near your bedroom window. Landing softly on the grass, he helped you off the board and gestured toward the vines. “Think you can climb?”

You nodded, though your body was weak from weeks of confinement. His hands hovered near your waist, ready to catch you just in case you were to fall.

“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice soft but steady.

With his help, you made your way up the vines, the rough texture scratching at your hands. When you finally reached the windowsill, you pushed it open and climbed inside, tumbling onto the familiar softness of your room. Ekko followed quickly, landing with a quiet grace that made you roll your eyes at his ease.

The moment your feet hit the carpet, a deep sigh of relief escaped your lips. You turned and launched yourself onto the bed, burying your face in the comfort of your pillow. The softness cradled you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt safe. Kicking your feet excitedly, you let out a laugh that was equal parts relief and joy. “I can’t believe we made it,” you said, your voice muffled by the pillow.

Ekko leaned against the wall, watching you with a soft smile. His arms were crossed, his frame relaxed for the first time all night. “You look happy,” he said, his tone teasing but his eyes warm.

You turned over, sitting up on the edge of the bed, your feet dangling just above the floor. “Happy doesn’t even begin to cover it,” you replied, your grin infectious. “I feel like I can breathe again.”

Ekko pushed off the wall and took a few steps toward you, his boots barely making a sound on the plush carpet. His smile remained, but there was something else in his eyes now. Love maybe?

Before you could process his movement, he leaned down, placing his hands on either side of you. The bed dipped slightly under his weight, and suddenly, he was so close you could feel the warmth radiating off him. His face was mere inches from yours, his breath brushing against your skin.

Your heart stuttered in your chest as his eyes traced your face, lingering on your lips. It was as if he was asking for permission without saying a word. “Hmm…” you whispered to yourself thinking about something, your voice barely audible.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking back up to meet yours. “You okay?” he asked, his voice low, as though he was fighting to keep his composure.

You nodded, your breath catching in your throat. “Yeah. I just…”

“Just what?” he murmured, his lips quirking up in a small, teasing smile.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

But you couldn’t look away, couldn’t move, couldn’t think beyond the way his presence seemed to fill the room. Slowly, as though giving you every chance to pull away, he leaned closer. The world seemed to fade into the background: the room, the night, the fear and chaos of your escape, until there was only him. Standing infront of you, leaning so close that you could feel him breathe.

“Can I?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your lips parted, and you nodded, the motion almost imperceptible. And then his lips were on yours, gentle at first. But the moment your hand slid up to curl into his jacket, he deepened the kiss, his other hand moving to cup the side of your face. The weight of the world seemed to lift in that moment, replaced by a heat that consumed you, chased away the cold and the fear that had gripped you for so long.

Ekko’s breath was warm against your lips, and when he closed the gap between you, it felt like the world tilted on its axis. The kiss was soft at first, an unspoken confession of everything the two of you had held back for the last few months. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer as if he needed to feel every inch of you against him to believe this was real. His lips moved with a desire that sent a shiver down your spine, his fingers gripping your hips as though he never wanted to let go. Your hands slid from his shoulders to his jawline, tracing the sharp angles of his face, grounding yourself in the reality of his handsome face.

"You're lips are so soft," he murmured against your lips, his voice low and thick with emotion.

"I could stay that about yours," you replied breathlessly letting out a small chuckle. Your forehead pressing against his as you both caught your breath.

His gaze locked onto yours, his eyes searching yours. "I don't think I'll ever get enough of this... of you," he admitted, his voice soft but passionate, as though he needed you to understand the depth of his feelings. Of how much he had felt for you ever since the two of you met.

You smiled, a shaky laugh escaping your lips. "Took you long enough to realize," you teased, though your tone was gentle, almost reverent.

His hands slid up your back, pressing you closer, and you could feel the rapid rhythm of his heartbeat through his chest. The air between you grew heavier, more charged, as the kiss became desperate. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging lightly, earning a low sound from him that sent a shiver racing down your spine. The need that had been simmering between you for so long now threatened to boil over, every touch and every breath. Adding to the fire between you further.

You shifted slightly, pressing yourself closer to him, and the sensation made your cheeks flush. His grip on your waist tightened in response, his other hand cupping the back of your neck as he angled your face to deepen the kiss. His movements were urgent but deliberate, like he was trying to memorize every second of this moment, every sound you made, every way your body fit against his.

Ekko's lips left yours, trailing along your jawline and down to your neck, his warm breath sending goosebumps over your skin. His fingers grazed the edge of your shirt, his touch featherlight but electrifying. "I love you," he murmured against your skin, his voice rough with restrained emotion. You tilted your head slightly, giving him better access as your hands slid down his back.

Ekko chuckled, leaning forward to press another kiss to your lips, this one slower and filled with something deeper. His hands never stopped moving, one tracing lazy circles on your back, the other brushing strands of hair from your face. This moment felt infinite, like the two of you had carved out a space that existed only for the two of you. It wasn't until the door suddenly swung open, flooding the room with light. Startled, you froze, your lips still brushing Ekko's, as you both turned to see Anya standing in the doorway. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene, and her hand flew to her mouth.

"Oh-oh my! I'm so sorry!" she stammered, her voice high-pitched with embarrassment. "I didn't mean to- I was just—"

Before either of you could respond, she quickly turned around, flicking the light off as she shut the door behind her with a hurried, "I'll come back later!"

The room went back into the darkness, the only light coming from the moon outside. You and Ekko stared at the closed door for a second, stunned into silence. Then Ekko broke into a quiet laugh. "Well, that's one way to ruin the mood," he said, looking back at you with a teasing glint in his eyes.

You buried your face in his shoulder, groaning in embarrassment. "I am never going to hear the end of this from her," you muttered, your voice muffled.

He laughed again, the sound vibrating through you as he wrapped his arms tighter around your waist. "Hey, at least she knows you're in good hands," he joked, leaning back slightly to meet your eyes.

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. "This isn't funny, Ekko!" you protested, though your tone was far too soft to be convincing.

"Come on," he said, brushing his nose against yours. "It's a little funny."

You couldn't help but laugh then, the tension breaking as you leaned against him, your forehead resting on his. Closing your eyes, the only sound was that of the wind outside.

The early morning light filtered softly through the cracks in the curtains, painting the room in muted hues of gold and pink. The air was still, and there was peace. Ekko’s arm draped securely around your waist as your head nestled against his chest. His warmth was a shield against the cold realities waiting just outside, and in his unconscious state, he held you as if you might disappear. The two of you had found sanctuary, one where, just for a few hours, the chaos of the world couldn’t touch you. The chaos that was caused by just wanting to help others.

That illusion shattered when the door creaked open, followed by the hurried, uneven shuffle of footsteps. The sound pulled Ekko from his slumber instantly. His eyes snapped open, his instincts sharper than ever, and he propped himself up on one elbow just as Anya stumbled into the room. Her hand clutched her stomach, blood seeping through her fingers and staining her dress in it. The sight of her broke through the last remnants of your sleep, and you sat up, a chill running down your spine.

“They… they took her,” Anya gasped, leaning heavily against the doorframe as she shut it behind her. Her voice was strained, trembling from pain and urgency. “Ambessa. She took your mother. They know… they know what she did.”

“Anya.” Ekko was on his feet in seconds, rushing to her side and steadying her before she could collapse. His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed the panic swirling just beneath the surface. “What the hell happened? You’re hurt—sit down. Let me—”

“No!” Anya interrupted, her voice sharp despite the agony etched across her face. “There’s no time. They’ll come here next. You need to leave. Now.”

You stared at her, frozen in place. Her words echoed in your mind, but they felt distant, like they were coming from underwater. Your chest felt tight, your vision narrowing as her message sank in. Your mother. Taken. By Ambessa. It was too much, all of it crashing down like a wave threatening to drown you. You wanted to scream, cry, do something, but your body wouldn’t cooperate. You felt yourself disassociating, retreating into the safety of numbness that you once knew because facing this reality head on was unbearable. As soon as you try to catch a break, there’s always something ruining it. It was almost as if the universe didn’t want to you be happy.

Ekko’s voice broke through the haze. “We can’t just leave you like this!” he said, his frustration mounting as Anya winced and doubled over. He ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt and pressed it against her wound in an attempt to slow the bleeding. “Anya, stay with me. Where is she? Where did they take her?”

“I don't know,” Anya managed, her voice weakening as her knees buckled. “Ambessa… she’s going to lock her away somewhere. She knows what your mother did, how she helped you.” Her gaze shifted to you, her eyes glassy but full of determination. “You need to get out of here before they get here.”

You barely registered the words. The room around you seemed to spin, but you couldn’t focus on anything. Ekko glanced over his shoulder, concern etched across his face as he noticed your vacant expression. “Firefly,” he called softly, but there was no use. Your mind was blocking him completely.

He guided Anya to sit on the edge of the bed, his hands searching for something to stem the bleeding. “Who else was taken?” he asked, his voice steady despite the urgency in his movements.

“Just her,” Anya whispered, wincing as Ekko pressed a cloth against her wound. “I tried to stop them. I swear I did.” She glanced at you then, her eyes filled with an fear that mirrored your own. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t get to her.”

You heard the words, but they felt distant, like echoes in a tunnel. Your body moved on autopilot, standing and grabbing a bag, stuffing it with whatever essentials were nearby. Ekko was saying something to you, his voice low and firm, but the words seemed blurred together. It wasn’t until he placed his hands on your shoulders and forced you to meet his eyes that you realized he was trying to snap you out of it.

“Hey,” he said, his tone softening as he searched your face. “We’re getting out of here. You with me?”

You nodded mechanically, though your gaze drifted past him, your focus slipping again. Ekko hesitated, his brow furrowing as he studied you, but there was no time to dig deeper. He turned back to Anya, his jaw tightening. “We’ll get her back,” he promised, though the weight of his words hung heavy in the air.

Anya sat there bleeding out with her hand holding her stomach, sadly there was too much blood. This was it for her. Your maid the one who you’ve spend you entire childhood with. Playing dolls, hide and seek, how she would help you with your homework due to yours parents being busy with handling trade routes, businesses and being councilors. You thought of her as an older sister, and now she was gone. Dead. All thanks to Ambessa and your father. That worthless excuse of a father.

After everything that just happened, how were you suppose to enjoy anything. The journey back to the hideout was a blur to you, not even focusing on how you moved above everything. The streets of Piltover passed by in a haze of colors and shapes, the city slowly waking to another day. You stood behind Ekko on his hoverboard, your arms loosely wrapped around his waist, your body moving only when the board shifted beneath you. You didn’t speak, didn’t cry, didn’t even flinch when the wind whipped against your face. The world felt muted, like you were trapped in a dream you couldn’t wake from.

Ekko glanced over his shoulder at you more than once, he had a worried look on his face. He didn’t say anything, every time he caught a glimpse of your glowing pink eyes and their unnatural light, it was a reminder of the shimmer coursing through your veins. He cursed under his breath, his mind racing for a way to bring you back to yourself, to pull you from the darkness that seemed to be consuming you. Slowly dragging you deeper into something he may never be able to help you get out of.

By the time you reached the hideout, the sun was fully up, casting harsh shadows across the abandoned buildings that surrounded the hideout. Ekko helped you down from the hoverboard, his hands lingering on your arms as he steadied you. You didn’t resist, but you didn’t acknowledge him either. He led you inside, the familiar smell filling the air, and guided you to the bed he had made for you when you first arrived.

“Stay here,” he said gently, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll be right back.”

You sank onto the bed without a word, your gaze fixed on the floor. Ekko watched you for a moment, his heart aching at the sight of you so lifeless, so unlike the fiery, vibrant person he had fallen for. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration and helplessness bubbling beneath his calm exterior.

Hours passed in silence. The hideout was quiet, the usual activity softened as the other firelights gave you and Ekko space. He stayed close by, tinkering with gadgets and pretending not to watch you out of the corner of his eye. You remained in the same spot, your hands folded in your lap, your eyes staring into the middle of the wall.

As night fell, Ekko finally broke the silence. “You need to eat,” he said, setting a plate of food on the table near the bed.

You didn’t respond, and he sighed, pulling a chair closer to sit beside you. “Listen. I get it,” he said softly. “You feel like it’s all slipping away. Like nothing you do will change what’s happening. But sitting here, shutting down—that’s not you. That’s not the fighter I know.”

His words stirred something deep within you, a faint flicker of the person you used to be. You turned to him slowly, your voice hoarse when you finally spoke. “What if I can’t do it?”

Ekko’s expression softened, and he reached out to take your hand in his. “Yes you can,” he said with quiet conviction. “I’m with you every step of the way. We will get your mother back.”

For the first time since the morning, tears welled in your eyes, though they didn’t fall. You nodded, the faintest hint of determination returning to your gaze. Ekko smiled, his grip on your hand tightening briefly before he stood. “Please firefly. Get some rest,” he said.

When you finally lay down that night, it wasn’t on the makeshift bed Ekko had made for you. You slipped under the covers of his bed, your presence wordless but clear. He hesitated for a moment before climbing in beside you, his arms wrapping protectively around you as you curled against his chest.

You were left in awe. The mural was breathtaking. Ekko had worked on it tirelessly for hours, the paintbrush an extension of his hand as he brought Anya’s face to life on the wall of the hideout. Her eyes sparkled with the same determination you remembered, her smile gentle but firm. Behind her, he painted a swirl of warm, golden hues interspersed with fiery reds, symbolizing her unwavering courage even in the face of death. When he stepped back, covered in smudges of paint, he glanced at you with a quiet kind of sadness.

“She deserved this,” Ekko said, his voice low. “She gave everything to protect you. To protect what’s left of your family.”

You nodded, unable to trust your voice. Standing before the mural, you felt the weight of her sacrifice pressing against your chest. A small, fragile part of you hoped that wherever she was now, she could see this tribute, feel the gratitude and respect that burned through your veins. The only family you had left and yourself and your mother. But how long would that last. What if she were to die, who else would you consider family? You surely wouldn’t think of your father. After everything he did to you. No. It was pointless, you had no family.

Ekko turned to you after a long moment of silence, his expression hardening. “We need to talk about rules,” he said firmly.

You looked up at him confused, as your mind left the empty void it was in. “Rules?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping closer and resting his hands on your shoulders. “You’re not to be left alone. Ever. If I can’t be there, one of the Firelights will be with you. It’s non-negotiable.”

The hardness in his tone left no room for argument, but you still tried. “Ekko, I don’t need a babysitter—”

“Yes, you do,” he interrupted, his eyes boring into yours. “What happened with your mother? With Anya? That was a wake-up call. We can’t afford to take risks anymore.”

You swallowed hard, his words sinking in. He was right, but the thought of being under constant watch gnawed at your independence. Still, the raw concern in his expression made it impossible to argue further. But knowing how you were, taking risks was going to hard.

“The second rule,” Ekko continued, “is that we plan carefully before doing anything. No impulsive moves. No rushing in without a backup plan—or two, or three. And if things go south, we need to be ready to evacuate the hideout.”

Your stomach twisted at the thought of leaving the hideout behind, but you knew it was a necessary precaution. Ekko wasn’t just thinking about you, he was thinking about everyone who relied on him. All the children.

“I understand,” you said quietly, your fingers twitching at your sides. “I’ll follow your lead.”

Ekko relaxed slightly, though his expression remained serious. “Good. Now, there’s something I need to see.”

He motioned to the necklace you wore, the one he had given you weeks ago. You reached for it, pulling it from beneath your shirt, but your hands trembled too much to unclasp it. Wordlessly, Ekko stepped forward, his calloused fingers brushing against your neck as he worked the clasp.

There was a soft click of the necklace unlocking, making a shiver down your spine. Ekko lingered for a moment, his warm breath brushing against your temple before he pressed a gentle kiss there. His touch was grounding, pulling you out of the haze of fear and exhaustion that had consumed you.

“Come on,” he said, taking your hand and leading you back to his place. His workspace was cluttered with scraps of metal, gears, and tools, but the centerpiece was a large box that you hadn’t noticed before. Ekko placed the necklace into a small slot on the box, and with a faint sound, the lid unlocked and slid open.

Inside, nestled in protective padding, was a sleek wrist device. It was compact but intricately designed, with glowing blue accents that pulsed faintly. You stared at it, unsure of what you were looking at.

“What is it?” you asked, glancing up at Ekko.

“It’s a prototype,” he explained, a hint of pride in his voice. “Took me months to design, and I nearly got myself blown up more times than I’d like to admit, but I think it’s ready now.”

Concern flickered across your face. “Blown up? Ekko—”

He held up a hand, cutting you off. “Relax, t’s fine. I’ve tested it. No explosions, I promise.”

You frowned but nodded, trusting him despite your apprehension. “What does it do?”

“It’s a utility device,” he said, picking it up and fastening it around your wrist. “It’s got a tracking function, a distress signal, and a shield generator for emergencies. If anything happens, you activate this, and I’ll find you. No matter what.”

You stared down at the device, the weight of it unfamiliar but oddly comforting. “You did all this for me?”

Ekko’s lips quirked into a small smile. “I’d do a lot more if it meant keeping you safe.”

He reached into the box again and pulled out a compact crossbow, its design as sleek and efficient as the wrist device. You stiffened at the sight, your stomach knotting with unease.

“I… I’ve never even held a knife, let alone a weapon,” you admitted, your voice barely whisper.

Ekko looked at you, his expression softening. He placed the crossbow gently on the desk and turned to you, taking both your hands in his. His thumbs brushed over your knuckles, grounding you as his dark eyes searched yours.

“I know this isn’t easy,” he said softly. “And I’m not asking you to become a fighter overnight. But things are different now. The people who did this to your mother, to Anya. They won’t stop. We need to make sure you can protect yourself if it comes down to it.”

You glanced down at the crossbow, then back at Ekko. His words made sense, but the thought of hurting someone, even in self-defense, sent a chill down your spine. Still, the determination in his eyes was infectious. He believed in you, and for him, you would try.

“Okay,” you said, your voice firmer this time. “Teach me.”

Ekko’s smile widened, but there was a flicker of relief in his expression as well. “We’ll start slow,” he promised, picking up the crossbow and turning it over in his hands. “It’s lightweight and compact, so it’s easy to handle. And it’s more for precision than brute force, which suits you.”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly despite yourself. “Suits me? You saying I’m weak?”

Ekko chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, just saying you’re quick. Smart. You don’t need brute force when you can outthink your opponent.”

He handed you the crossbow, guiding your fingers to the proper grip. His hands were steady as they covered yours, showing you how to aim and adjust the tension on the string. You couldn’t help but notice the warmth of his touch, the way his focus never wavered.

“Breathe,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “That’s the key. Steady your hands, focus on your target, and breathe.”

You tried to follow his instructions, your fingers trembling slightly as you raised the crossbow. It felt strange in your hands, foreign and dangerous, but Ekko’s presence steadied you.

After a few practice movements, Ekko took a step back, watching you with a mix of pride and caution. “You’ll get the hang of it,” he said, crossing his arms. “And when you do, no one’s gonna mess with you.”

You set the crossbow down carefully, exhaling a shaky breath. “Thank you,” you said, meeting his gaze. “For everything. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

Ekko shook his head, stepping closer until he was right in front of you. “You don’t have to repay me,” he said quietly. “Just promise me you’ll stay alive. That’s all I need.”

The weight of his words hung between you, heavy with unspoken emotion. You nodded, swallowing hard. “I promise.”

Satisfied, Ekko reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingered for a moment before he pulled back, gesturing to the desk. “We’ll go over more later. For now, you should relax.”

You nodded, suddenly aware of how exhausted you felt. The events of the past few days had taken their toll, and your body ached for sleep. Ekko led you to the corner of the hideout where your shared bed was now set up. You were tired for days, beyond exhaustion. Surprisingly now, you liked to sleep. Maybe, it was because of your lack of energy.

As you lay down, Ekko pulled a blanket over you, his movements careful and deliberate. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching you with an intensity that made your chest tighten.

You reached out, taking his hand in yours. “Stay with me,” you whispered.

Ekko hesitated for only a moment before nodding. He kicked off his boots and slid under the blanket beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist. His warmth was comforting, and as you rested your head on his chest, you felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Zaun. The streets were always treacherous with now people lingered around. Dangerous people. You were walking back from a short supply run as the sun began to set over the horizon, the weight of the crossbow slung across your back almost forgotten as your mind wandered. Ekko’s words about being cautious echoed in your head. Always make a plan, always think before you act. He had drilled that rule into you countless times, but none of it mattered when you turned a corner and saw the scene in front of you.

A little girl, no older than seven, was backed against a crumbling wall, her tiny frame trembling. Two men loomed over her, their gruff laughter echoing down the alley as they taunted her. She clutched a stuffed toy to her chest, her eyes wide with terror. One of the men reached for her arm, and without thinking, you moved.

Your crossbow was in your hands before you realized it, the familiar weight grounding you. The shimmer coursing through your veins dulled your hesitation, sharpening your focus. The first arrow struck the shoulder of the man closest to the girl, a sickening thud silencing his laughter as he staggered back with a howl of pain. The second arrow found the leg of the other man, sending him crumpling to the ground. You moved quickly, reloading and taking aim again, though neither man seemed eager to continue.

“Get out of here,” you growled, your voice cold and unyielding. The men scrambled to their feet, one limping heavily as they disappeared into the shadows without a backward glance.

The girl was still pressed against the wall, her tiny hands clutching her stuffed toy so tightly her knuckles were white. You knelt down in front of her, setting the crossbow aside. “Hey,” you said gently, trying to soften your tone. “It’s okay now. They’re gone.”

Her eyes darted to the weapon lying on the ground, then back to your face. “You… you hurt them that,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

You swallowed hard, the weight of what you’d done sinking in. “I had to,” you said softly. “They weren’t going to leave you alone. Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, her grip on the toy loosening slightly. “No. Thank you, miss lady.”

Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps behind you made you tense. You turned to see Ekko, his expression a mixture of relief and frustration. Of course, he would show up. He always did. You noticed the small device in his hand and realized with a sinking feeling that it was a tracker. He must have known the second you fired the crossbow.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded, his voice low but firm as he approached you. “I told you to think before you act, to make a plan.”

You looked down at the girl, then back at Ekko. “She needed help,” you said simply, your voice steady despite the guilt creeping in. “I couldn’t just stand there.”

Ekko sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he crouched beside you. His gaze softened when he looked at the girl. “Hey there,” he said gently. “What’s your name?”

She hesitated, her eyes flickering between the two of you. “Mila,” she said quietly.

“Well, Mila,” Ekko said, offering her a small smile. “You’re safe now. No one else is going to hurt you.”

The girl nodded, her shoulders relaxing just a little. You reached out and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “Do you have any family, Mila? Anyone we can take you to?”

Her expression darkened, and she shook her head. “My mom… she died a long time ago. And my dad…” She trailed off, her voice cracking. “He left. He didn’t want me.”

By hearing those words. Gosh it hit you like a punch to the gut, your breath catching in your throat. You glanced at Ekko, who was watching you carefully, his brow furrowed. He knew what you were thinking. Your father had abandoned you too, leaving you to fend for yourself in a world that was cruel and unforgiving. Mila’s pain was all too familiar to you.

You cleared your throat, trying to push the memories away. “Mila,” you said softly, “would you like to come with us? We have a safe place where you can stay.”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment, she looked like she didn’t believe you. “Really?”

“Really,” Ekko said, his voice warm and reassuring. “You’ll be safe with us. I promise.”

Mila hesitated, then nodded, clutching her toy tightly. “Okay.”

You helped her to her feet, glancing at Ekko as the three of you started back toward the hideout. His expression was unreadable, but you could feel the tension radiating off him. He waited until Mila was a few steps ahead before leaning closer to you.

“We need to talk about this later,” he murmured, his tone serious but not unkind.

“I know,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I’d do it again.”

Ekko sighed but didn’t argue. Instead, he reached out and gently squeezed your hand. The gesture was enough to remind you that, no matter how angry or worried he might be, he was still on your side.

When you arrived at the hideout, the Firelights greeted Mila with curiosity and kindness, their youthful energy helping to put her at ease. You showed her to a quiet corner where she could rest, and Ekko gave one of the older Firelights instructions to keep an eye on her. Then he turned to you, his expression serious.

“Come with me,” he said, leading you to his workshop. Once inside, he closed the door and leaned against the closed door, crossing his arms. “We need to talk.”

“I know,” you said, sitting down on the edge of the workbench. “I broke the rules. I acted without thinking. But, Ekko, she’s just a kid. I couldn’t let them hurt her.”

“I get it,” he said, his voice softer now. “I do. But you can’t just jump into situations like that without a plan. What if they’d had weapons? What if they’d hurt you?” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t lose you again y'know.”

The vulnerability in his voice made your chest tighten. You stood and crossed the room, placing a hand on his arm. “You won’t,” you said firmly. “But I can’t stand by and do nothing when someone needs help and you know that. Its not who I am.”

Ekko nodded slowly, his eyes meeting yours. “From now on, you need to be careful. Promise me that will you.”

“I promise,” you said, and this time, you meant it.

Ekko pulled you into a tight embrace, holding you close to his body. He really did love hugging you. It’s not like you minded anyways, the way he hold you every time he did was endearing.

Shining bright through the sun was heavy as it seeped through the windows. Casting warm beams of light onto the small play area you and Ekko had carved out for the kids. Mila was a different child than the one you had brought in a few days ago. Her cheeks were fuller, a healthy glow replacing the pallor of malnourishment. Her hair, now free of dirt and tangles, was neatly braided in a style one of the older Firelights had taught her. She wore clean, simple clothes that fit her nicely, and the sight of her beaming smile was enough to make your heart swell. You began to love her as a little sister. One who needs to be protected from the harsh world.

You and Ekko sat cross-legged on the ground, surrounded by a mix of giggling children who were eager to show off their toys as they invent new games. Mila gravitated toward you, her tiny hands tugging at your sleeve as she laughed at something one of the kids said. Her joy was infectious, and for the first time, you felt a lightness in your chest that had been absent since everything began. One that only appeared when you would share special moments with ekko, or in the past when you would make memories with your mother and anya.

“Watch this!” Mila declared, holding up a toy dragon that one of the Firelights had carved from wood. She mimicked the sound of its roar, moving it around in exaggerated loops. The other kids burst into laughter, and so did you, unable to resist the sheer enthusiasm radiating from her.

“You’re getting pretty good at that,” Ekko teased, leaning back on his hands as he watched her antics. “Maybe we should make you our official storyteller.”

“Really?” Mila’s eyes widened, the idea filling her with excitement. “Can I, can I?”

“Of course,” you said with a soft laugh, though your voice came out a bit sharper than you intended. Mila didn’t seem to notice, but Ekko shot you a quick, concerned glance. The shimmer was still in your system, subtle but nevertheless present. It would sometimes heighten your senses, making you jittery. It was like holding a storm inside you, and no matter how hard you tried, it bled through the cracks sometimes.

Mila tugged your sleeve again, pulling your attention back to her. “What’s your favorite story? I can tell it to everyone!”

You hesitated, the warmth in your chest flickering. “Maybe later,” you said, your tone sharper than before. “Let’s keep it quiet for now.”

Mila frowned, her brow furrowing slightly. “But we’re not being loud—”

“I said keep it down!” The words snapped out of you before you could stop them, your voice harsh and biting. The shimmer roared in your veins, amplifying your frustration to a level that felt almost unbearable. Mila flinched, her toy dragon slipping from her hands to the ground. The head of the dragon broke from its body, and you watched as it rolled towards your feet. The other kids fell silent, their wide eyes darting between you and the little girl.

Mila’s bottom lip quivered, her hands trembling as she reached for the dragon. “I-I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She clutched the toy to her chest and bolted from the group, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Silence. It was suffocating. The other kids stared at you, their expressions a mix of confusion and fear. Ekko was on his feet in an instant, his eyes blazing as he grabbed your arm and pulled you aside. Away from prying eyes.

“What the hell was that?” he hissed, keeping his voice low but firm. “She’s a kid, and you just yelled at her like she did something awful.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you said quickly, guilt clawing at your chest. “It’s the drug—it’s messing with my head. I didn’t mean to scare her.”

“You need to get it under control,” Ekko said, his tone softening but still stern. “The poor girl looks up to you. She trusts you. You can’t let the drug make you into someone she could afraid of.”

You nodded, your throat tightening as you looked in the direction Mila had run. “I’ll talk to her,” you said quietly. “I’ll make it right, okay?”

Ekko nodded, his hand lingering on your arm for a moment before letting go. “You’d better,” he said, though his voice held more concern than anger. “She needs you to be better than this.”

Taking a deep breath, you followed the faint sound of Mila’s sniffles to a secluded corner of the hideout. She was curled up on the floor, her back to the wall and her headless toy dragon clutched tightly in her arms. Her small shoulders shook with quiet sobs, and the sight made your chest ache.

“Mila,” you said softly, kneeling down a few feet away from her. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t look at you, her face buried in the dragon’s wooden wings. “You yelled at me,” she said, her voice muffled but heavy with hurt. “I didn’t mean to be loud…”

“I know,” you said, your voice thick with regret. “I wasn’t angry at you, Mila. I’m just… not feeling like myself today but hat’s not an excuse. You didn’t do anything wrong, and I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m so sorry for scaring you.”

Mila peeked up at you, her tear-streaked face breaking your heart. “You promise you’re not mad?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yes i promise you that,” you said, reaching out slowly. She didn’t pull away when you rested a hand on her knee. “You’ve been so brave and strong since you came here, Mila. I’m really proud of you. And I’m really, really sorry for making you feel like you did something wrong.”

For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Then, slowly, she reached out and placed her tiny hand on top of yours. “Okay,” she said softly. “I forgive you.”

Relief flooded through you, and you pulled her into a gentle hug. She wrapped her arms around your neck, her headless toy dragon squished between you. “You’re my favorite grown-up,” she whispered, her voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it.

You laughed softly, the sound tinged with emotion. “Well, you’re my favorite storyteller,” you said, pulling back just enough to see her face. “How about we go back and tell the others a story? You can even make one up about a scary headless dragon.”

Mila’s eyes lit up, her earlier sadness melting away. “Okay!” she said, her smile returning in full force. “But you have to help me make it really good.”

“Deal,” you said, standing and taking her hand. As you walked back to the play area together, you glanced over your shoulder to see Ekko watching from a distance, a small smile tugging at his lips. As you stood beside mila and the other kids, you somehow managed to glue the head back to the headless dragon. Now it wasn’t headless anymore. Mila looked up at you, thanking you for fixing her dragon. A smile crept up her face. Even thought it was a small gesture of kindness after you made her cry, she thought it was a big deal. It was precious how mila would think even the smallest things were the best thing. Adorable.

You definitely knew that you still had work to do on yourself. To control your emotions and impulses but as well as being a person Mila could to look up to. However as her laughter rang out again, you felt a spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, you could be that person after all.

But was it true? The lines between reality and fiction began to converge. It all made sense as the waterfall’s thunder filled your ears. You stood motionless on the ledge, staring at the mirror-like surface of the lake below. Your reflection rippled faintly, distorted by the spray of water. You didn’t see yourself as you were, but only what you feared you had become. Mila’s tear-streaked face flashed in your mind, her sobs echoing louder than the rushing water. The guilt felt unbearable, pressing against your chest like a weight you couldn’t lift. Your trembling fingers brushed against the edge of the rocky ledge, the cold biting into your skin. A sob escaped your throat as tears fell freely, mingling with the mist around you. You apologizing to mila and fixing her headless dragon was all fake. Your mind imagined it. So right now mila was sad, hiding in a corner as she cried. What a horrible person i am.

“Maybe they’d all be better off without me,” you whispered to the air, your voice trembling as it was swallowed by the roar of the falls. The words left a bitter taste in your mouth, but you couldn’t stop the thoughts racing through your mind. You had tried, tried so hard to fit in, to make Zaun feel like home. Yet every mistake, every outburst reminded you that you didn’t belong. The Firelights were kind, but they didn’t understand you. Mila didn’t deserve your anger, and Ekko didn’t deserve the chaos you continued to bring into to his life. You stepped closer to the edge, the rocks shifting beneath your feet.

The world seemed to narrow as you took another step forward, your gaze fixed on the lake below. You fell silently, the cold air rushing past you before the icy water enveloped you like a second skin. The cold was shocking at first, stealing your breath, but then everything went quiet. You sank deeper, the surface growing distant as the weight of the water pressed in from all sides. The noise in your head didn’t stop, though. It only grew louder, something you couldn’t escape.

Images of your mother flickered in your mind, her smile fading like a dream you couldn’t quite hold onto. Anya’s laughter echoed, only to be drowned out by the sharp voice of your father. You’re not good enough. You never will be. The words clung to you like chains, dragging you deeper into the lake. You thought of Piltover and how it had abandoned you. Whereas with Zaun, you were nothing more than an outsider. Even here, even with Ekko, you felt like a burden. The water cradled you, its silence deceptive as your body floated aimlessly. You closed your eyes, hoping for darkness, for peace, but it didn’t come. Nothing was ever easy for you.

Instead, the world exploded in sound, a loud splash followed by muffled movements cutting through the water. You opened your eyes to see a figure diving toward you, moving with urgency. Ekko. His form was unmistakable even through the distorted water. He was always saving you after you do something stupid. How long would this last? When would it be the last time that he would save you?

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you upward with a strength you couldn’t resist. You felt the rush of cold air as he broke the surface, his grip on you tightened as he dragged you to the shore. His breaths came heavy, his movements frantic as he laid you down on the damp grass.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded, his voice a mix of anger and desperation. He crouched over you, his hands gripping your shoulders as his eyes searched your face. “Do you even understand what you just did?”

You turned your head away, unable to meet his gaze. “I—I didn’t mean for you to find me,” you said weakly, your voice trembling. “I just… I couldn’t take it anymore. I’m tired of feeling like this.”

“That’s not an excuse!” His voice cracked, his frustration palpable. “You don’t get to just give up! And leave me like that.” He paused, taking a shaky breath before softening his tone. “Damn it.”

A small voice broke the tense silence. “Why did you do it?” Mila stood a few feet away, her eyes wide and tearful as she clutched her arms tightly. “Did I do something wrong? Was it because of me?”

Your chest tightened, the guilt suffocating as you shook your head. “No, Mila. No. It wasn’t your fault,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I was wrong. I let my anger get the best of me, and I hurt you. I’m so sorry.”

Mila hesitated, her small hands twisting nervously in front of her. “You said you cared about me. But then you yelled… I thought…” Her words trailed off, her voice breaking.

Ekko placed a hand on her shoulder, his expression softening. “It’s not your fault, Mila,” he said gently. “Sometimes grown-ups do stupid things when they’re hurting. But that doesn’t mean we stop caring. You’ve gotta trust me on that.” He glanced at you pointedly, his meaning clear.

You sat up slowly, your body trembling from the cold. “I’m sorry,” you repeated, this time to both of them. “I was selfish, and I wasn’t thinking about what it would do to you. I never wanted to hurt either of you.”

Mila stepped closer, hesitating before reaching out to touch your hand. “Are you gonna be okay now?” she asked softly, her voice still uncertain.

You nodded, tears threatening to fall down your face as you squeezed her hand gently. “I’ll try to be. I promise.”

Ekko sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he helped you to your feet. “We need to find something to help you with this,” he said firmly. “I need the old you back. I want my firefly back.”

There was no way that a cure for shimmer exists in Zaun. And even if it did, even if someone had it, they wouldn’t give it up that easily. Not without a fight. Maybe you had to deal with your new life, the one were you were unstable and unpredictable. How can someone love a person like this. How can someone do deserving of something better like ekko deserve a person like you?

taglist. @hoonobono @superwhispersvoid @midnightprocrastinator @flooofity @pearldaisy @nyxzoldyck6 @diffusebread @xxblairslairxx @thesevi0lentdelights @chic-beyond-the-wall-oc-acct @celineandtulips @stuckinaoaktree @fxxvz @jadziulaa @luclue @1intrustivethoughts @finnsky666 @blkmystery @serena6728 @mvistl @kaedeprinz @alientee @ametheslime @turquoizxe @emforjin @tadomikiku @sugaaawaraaa @sunshiines-stuff @night-fall-moon @moonccakes @endedlover @autumn2534 @deathweapongirl @girlistrange @auraa @ilovesugurugeto69 @zwr1tx @bitchydragonparadisee @chewbrry @lashawna200 @xaydria @hearts4li @aliives @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @catsf0rlife707 @pixieswashere @adesum @sorrows-song @hearts4li @qualityearthquakes @honeyfewr @littlegrapejuice @potatointhedirt @ekkosh @comfortweeb

banner. @anitalenia

[gtgbabie0]

helloo could i request a cregan stark x reader? Where the reader has the ability to see the future or possible outcomes? I hope it isnt to bad of a idea😅 Thank you so much 🫶🏻

-Cregan Stark x Dreamer!Reader

{Your dreams are often plagued by nightmares of events that are yet to unfold, Cregan is always there to hold you}

Love this! Thank you for requesting, enjoy lovelies💕

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺

It was not lost on Cregan Stark that Rhaenyra’s daughter was… unique to say the least. It was known way before your engagement was planned, a quiet ceremony hidden away in the woods near Winterfell, it seems love still prevails even through war.

Although this never deterred Cregan, he was utterly head over heels for you yet confused at the same time whenever you would whisper cryptic insanities into the cold night air with wide fearful eyes full of knowledge about events that loom over the horizon like dark storm clouds.

He would spend hours brushing your white hair, speaking gentle, loving words against your shoulder when your mind seemed to have wandered too far from your grasp.

He was just as lost as you were when it came to figuring out what exactly it all meant and the Maesters were no help, especially on nights like this when you were awoken by such horrific sights that infest your mind.

“Aliments of the mind are far more trickier than those of the body, my Lord.” Maester Owryn says, still adamant about just giving you tea to help you sleep.

His words only serve to annoy an already exhausted Cregan, he can’t count how many times he has been told the same thing with a look of pity. It killed him that he could not provide you with more comfort, he cannot help but feel as if he has failed you.

“Do you see her, do you?— it’ll take more than damn tea to calm her from this.” Cregan scolds, looking down at the Maester with dark narrowed eyes. He glances back over to where you are curled up on a chair, your fingers buried within your messy locks, clutching harshly as you mutter the same words over and over again.

The Maester shuffles, fiddling with the small piece of parchment, his brows pulled together in confusion. “Might I suggest milk of the poppy?” He whispers, clearly unnerved by the glare that Cregan was scrutinising him under.

“No, bring her the tea.” The Lord settles, his tone rough with irritation. He did not want to subject you to the horrible drowsiness that the sweet milk brings, numbing your mind was not the answer.

With the Maester gone Cregan tries once more to approach you, drawing closer to you like he would with a wounded animal, he wraps his fingers around your wrists in an attempt to stop you from pulling at your hair, his touch is gentle despite the callouses on his palms.

“Not so hard my love… you’ll hurt yourself.” He whispers, eyes searching your face desperately for any signs of the woman you were before you woke up from this nightmare.

Although he finds nothing of the sort, you are all glossy-eyed and chapped lips, blankly staring at the floor like you were miles away.

A moment of silence settles around the room, the sound of your heavy breathing and the soft crackle of firewood is the only thing breaking through it. It takes a few moments and soft words of encouragement before you allow him to lower your hands down to your lap, your fingers still clutched tightly into fists.

“Dragon breath… burning flesh.” You whisper fearfully, a gasp escaping past your red-bitten lips. The same words you’ve been muttering all night, it unsettles him, calling to something deep within him.

Cregan hums, brushing your messy hair behind your ears. “I know my love.” He sighs, grazing the rough pads of his thumbs across your knuckles.

“Come back to me y/n, come on…” he whispers into the backs of your hands, closing his eyes as you continue to whisper the words madly.

The mumblings stop, your breathing coming back down into a steady rhythm as you begin to unclench your fists slowly. Relief hits Cregan like a gust of wind, his expression softening when your gaze meets with his own.

“… burning… bedevilled crown.” You try to explain to him all too quickly, stuttering over your words in a panic-stricken manner. Your hands trembling against his own rough ones.

“Slowly now, breathe for me first, my love.” He whispers, reaching over to cup your jaw to keep you grounded on the here and now, his thumb caressing your cheek.

Your senses soon come back to you making you aware of your surroundings, the softness of your nightgown and the warmth of your husband’s hand against the side of your face.

The Maester walks in with a small cup of soothing tea, placing the ceramic down on the dark oak table before taking his leave with a curt nod. The herbal aroma brings you into the present moment, keeping your mind occupied.

You watch with tired eyes as he gives you the cup, minding the way your hands still shake ever so slightly. He guides you to take small sips, smiling gently in encouragement.

“There were two, but I could not see— the smoke and flames— screams.” The words are a struggle to get out and it pains him to see you like this, the pain and fear in your eyes.

Your words are too vague to try and make any sense of them, after all, it was a war between Targaryens, and the involvement of dragons and their formidable flames was inevitable.

“I want to stop it… to prevent the pain but I do not know how.” You whisper, voice strained with unshed tears.

“That may be beyond you. I won’t have you shouldering blame for anything that transpires.” He says, his tone full of love despite the roughness of it.

You nod softly, looking down at him from where he is kneeling in front of you. The soft glow of the fireplace flickers against his features, highlighting the exhaustion that hangs below his eyes.

“You can go back to sleep…” you suggest softly, clearly feeling too shaken up to go back to bed.

At your words he immediately shakes his head, taking your hands to pepper gentle kisses along your knuckles, his beard tickling your soft skin. “Not until you’re okay…”

You know there is no point in arguing the point, he is as stubborn as a mule. Instead, you shuffle over, giving him room to sit down next to you. The warmth between you, as he pulls you onto his lap, calms the restlessness that has built up within your chest, allowing you a moment of respite.

[multific]

His Love

Marcus Acacius x Reader

Summary: You were meant to marry him, thinking he is an unkind man, you kept your distance from him, but soon, you learned the truth. 

As the sun cast its golden rays over the bustling streets of ancient Rome, Marcus Acacius, a bold Roman soldier, crossed paths with you, his soon-to-be wife. 

At first, your heart held nothing but hate for this man, seeing him as a brute and unkind soul. 

However, destiny had a different plan in store for both of you.

In an unexpected turn of events, you discovered that he was nothing like your initial judgment had led you to believe. 

Beneath his hardened exterior lay a heart filled with kindness, compassion, and a burning love for you.

You wanted to explore that.

To see where it would lead the two of you. 

And so, you began to spend more time together. 

You ate together and even went on many walks around the city. Seeing him interact with people made you realise just how kind he was.

Watching him smile spread a warmth inside your heart.

Slowly, the walls you had built around your heart began to crumble. 

Marcus's gentle words and thoughtful gestures slowly melted away your worries, allowing love to blossom inside you. 

In the tender moments shared, he revealed his vulnerability and how deeply he had fallen for you.

One evening, Marcus took your hand and whispered to you. 

"My love, I know that our journey together began with animosity, but I promise you, my intentions have always been pure. I am here to protect you, cherish you, and love you with every fibre of my being."

Tears welled up in your eyes at his words. 

"Marcus, I never imagined that behind your cold facade, there would be such a loving heart. I am grateful for the person you have shown me, and I too must confess, I have fallen deeply in love with you."

From that moment forward, your lives intertwined as you embarked on a journey filled with love, trust, and unwavering devotion.

Your wedding was simple. Your family was there, and you had a great time.

But you were just thankful for the journey ahead of you with a husband so loving, kind and handsome. 

In the years that followed, amidst the madness of war and the difficulties of life, Marcus remained your dedicated rock. 

His unwavering support and unwavering love carried you through every storm, reminding you of the depth of his commitment.

Of his Love.

Taglist: 

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou 

@mandoloriancookie @deliciousfestsalad @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief 

@fallout-girl219 @dracaryxzs @snowtargaryen 

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[astrxq]

Hiii I saw that with the requests still open, if you're picking it up you could write something in which the reader joined the group of bastards to try to tame a dragon, she ends up taming Vermithor, Jace was already nervous about the idea of bastards taming dragons then when he discovers that a girl tamed the biggest dragon he becomes more nervous about the situation, perhaps the appearance of the reader that led him to this judgment (short and delicate) over time she proves worthy and Jace ends up becoming affectionate for her, despite his behavior at the beginning being quite rude towards her...if possible, the two even end up having a relationship pls

Dragon's Embrace

jacaerys velaryon x dragonseeder!reader

words: 20k

notes: non-canon events. ooc... kinda mean!Jace. idk a few arguments, mentions of death, wounds and war. not really enemies to lovers. kissing, making out, m!masturbation, talk of wounds.

The High Valyrian words rolled off your tongue with surprising ease, each syllable a flicker of ancient power. You sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor of Dragonstone's great hall, your silver hair catching the light from the nearby braziers. Around you, a couple of other dragonseeders – bastards with the blood of Old Valyria flowing through their veins – repeated the phrases in unison.

"Sōves," you murmured, tasting the word for 'fly.' Your mind drifted to Vermithor, the great bronze beast you had somehow managed to tame. Even then, weeks later, it seemed impossible that the second-largest dragon in the world heeded your commands.

To your left, Addam recited the words with quiet confidence, his dark hair gleaming in the firelight in comparison to yours. Ulf, seated nearby, stumbled over the pronunciations, his face flushed with frustration and too much wine.

And there, lurking in the shadows at the edge of the hall, stood Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. Jace. Queen Rhaenyra's eldest son and heir. His dark eyes scanned the group, lingering on each face with barely concealed suspicion. When his gaze fell on you, you felt a chill that had nothing to do with Dragonstone's perpetual dampness.

"Again," the Maester intoned. "Sōvegon. Ilagon. Dracarys."

You dutifully repeated the words – fly, land, dragonfire – your mind half on the lesson and half on the brooding prince. You had noticed his growing unease as the dragonseeds proved their worth, claiming mounts that had been riderless for years. But it was your success with Vermithor that seemed to truly rattle him.

A girl, his age, with the features he lacked – silver hair and a bone structure that could only belong to a Targaryen.

You had heard Ulf mock the Prince, knowing he could be hanged for treason, mentioning his dark hair and questioning his heritage. Ulf’s careless words – “the prince might not be a true Targaryen at all” – dripped with a venom that seemed to hang in the air like a curse. And while Ulf was quick to dismiss it as drunken rambling, you couldn’t help but wonder if the Prince’s wariness of the dragonseeders was out of fear, rather than hate.

The shadows cast by the flickering flames danced across Jace's face, revealing fleeting glimpses of his thoughts. His posture was rigid, a prince’s bearing that spoke of duty and the burden of expectations. When he turned away from you and strode toward the far end of the hall, you felt a pang of unease. It was as if he were a storm cloud, his presence casting a shadow over your achievement. 

"Do not forget the inflection," the Maester advised, his voice a rasping whisper that seemed to echo off the stone walls. "High Valyrian is not merely spoken; it is felt, breathed, and lived."

You nodded, trying to push aside the disquiet his gaze stirred within you. Addam’s voice rose, clear and untroubled, as he continued the recitations, while Ulf's attempts grew increasingly erratic. The wine must have dulled his senses, for his slurred words were a stark contrast to Addam’s precision.

A sound of metal scraping against stone drew your attention to the Prince’s direction. Jace was examining a set of ceremonial swords displayed on a nearby rack, his fingers tracing the engravings with a careful, almost reverent touch. The contrast between his practiced indifference and the raw emotion simmering beneath the surface was palpable. He was both a prince and a young man grappling with his place in a world that seemed to have shifted beneath his feet.

You glanced sideways at Addam, who met your eyes with a nod of mutual acknowledgment as he repeated the words, his pronunciation far more advanced compared to yours. Ulf, however, was lost in a haze, his mind far removed from the lessons at hand.

Jace's approach was inevitable. His footsteps were deliberate, each one echoing off the stone as if he were trying to measure the distance between himself and the rest of the world. His dark eyes finally locked onto yours, the weight of his stare a palpable force. The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating.

Jace’s voice broke the silence, sharp and clear, cutting through the murmurs and distractions of the hall. “Enough of this,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of impatience. The usual rhythm of the lesson faltered as everyone turned to face him.

“The High Valyrian lessons are important,” Jace continued, his gaze fixed on the Maester, who nodded in acknowledgment. “But we are at war. The true value of the dragonseeders lies not in their ability to recite ancient tongues but in their readiness to fight.”

You watched as Jace’s fingers drummed rhythmically against the hilt of one of the ceremonial swords. His frustration was evident, and you could sense the tension in his posture, like a taut string waiting to snap. 

“We need to be preparing for battle,” he said, his eyes sweeping over the group. “The dragons are our strength, but it is not enough to simply ride them. We must train as if our lives depend on it – because they do.”

Addam’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion, his focus shifting from Jace to you. 

Ulf’s head lolled to one side, still clearly affected by the wine. He mumbled something incoherent, and you could see the disdain in Jace’s eyes as he glanced over at him. The prince’s patience was wearing thin, and he was not in the mood for leniency.

Jace strode purposefully to the center of the hall, his boots echoing sharply against the stone. “You will take your lessons outside,” he declared, his voice resolute.

You could feel a mix of apprehension and excitement in the air. The idea of training outside was both daunting and exhilarating. The raw elements of the world would push you to your limits, but it would also forge you into a more formidable force.

The Maester sighed, his expression a mixture of resignation and understanding. “Very well, Prince Jacaerys,” he said. “We will arrange for the lessons to be held in the training grounds.”

“Which one’s this, again?” Ulf leaned his body to yours, his breath smelling of wine as he spoke.

Jace glared.

“It is the prince, Ulf.” you replied.

“Ah! The young prince!” Ulf hurried to stand, almost stumbling as he walked towards the prince. He was stopped from the attempted hug by Jace’s arm on his torso, making him take a step back. 

Jace’s face was a mask of barely contained irritation as he eyed Ulf with a mix of contempt and concern. “I suggest you keep your distance,” Jace said, his voice low but carrying an unmistakable edge. The prince’s warning was clear: he would tolerate no nonsense, not from the drunken Ulf or anyone else.

You felt a rush of embarrassment on Ulf's behalf, even as irritation prickled at your skin. His drunken antics were becoming a liability, and you knew they reflected poorly on all the dragonseeders. Your eyes met Jace's for a brief moment, and you saw a flicker of something in his gaze as you gently but firmly guided Ulf back to his seat.

"My apologies, Your Grace," you said, your voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach. "Ulf is... enthusiastic about his training."

Jace's lips twitched, almost forming a smirk before he schooled his features back into their stoic mask. "Enthusiasm is one thing," he replied, his tone dry. "Sobriety is another. See that he's fit for tomorrow's outdoor session."

You nodded, accepting the responsibility without complaint. As Jace turned to leave, his cloak swirling dramatically behind him, you couldn't help but wonder at the conflicting emotions his presence stirred within you. There was admiration, certainly – for his dedication, his strength of purpose. But there was also a lingering resentment at the way he seemed to look down on you and your fellow dragonseeders.

The Maester cleared his throat, drawing your attention back to the present. "Well," he said, his voice tinged with resignation, "I suppose that concludes today's lesson. Rest well, all of you. Tomorrow will bring new challenges."

As the group dispersed, you lingered, helping Addam gather the scattered scrolls and tomes. He shot you a sympathetic look. "Don't let the prince get to you," he said softly. "He's under a lot of pressure."

You sighed, running a hand through your silver hair. "I know. It's just... frustrating. We're risking our lives for this cause, same as him. Why can't he see that?"

Addam shrugged, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe he does. Maybe that's what scares him."

His words stayed with you as you made your way through Dragonstone's winding corridors to your modest chambers. The castle was a maze of dark stone and flickering torchlight, every shadow seeming to hold secrets. You couldn't shake the feeling that you were being watched, though whether by ghosts or spies, you couldn't say.

Sleep came fitfully that night, your dreams a chaotic swirl of dragons and dark-eyed princes. You woke before dawn, your body tense with anticipation for the day ahead. As you dressed in sturdy riding leathers, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the polished metal of your water basin. Your silver hair gleamed in the early morning light, a stark reminder of the heritage that both elevated and isolated you.

The training grounds were shrouded in mist when you arrived, the first hints of sunrise just beginning to paint the sky. You were surprised to find you weren't the first one there – a solitary figure was already moving through sword forms with fluid grace.

It was Jace.

You hesitated, unsure whether to announce your presence or simply wait for the others to arrive. But before you could decide, Jace spun, his practice sword coming to a stop mere inches from your throat. His eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in recognition.

"You're early," he said, lowering the wooden blade.

"As are you, Your Grace," you replied, striving to keep your voice neutral.

Jace regarded you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to your surprise, he tossed you a practice sword. You caught it reflexively, the weight unfamiliar in your hand.

"Show me what you can do," he said, falling into a fighting stance.

You blinked, momentarily taken aback. "I... I'm not trained with a sword, Your Grace. My skills lie with dragons."

"And if you're unseated in battle? If your dragon is injured? Will you be of no use then?."

His words made sense, but you couldn't shake the feeling that this was some kind of test. Still, you had never been one to back down from a challenge. You mimicked his stance as best you could, trying to recall the few times you'd seen swordplay up close.

Jace didn't give you time to overthink it. He lunged forward, his wooden sword a blur. You reacted on instinct, bringing your own blade up to parry. The impact jarred your arm, but you managed to deflect his attack.

"Not bad," Jace said, circling you slowly. "But you're too tense. Relax your shoulders."

You tried to follow his advice, but it was hard to relax with his intense gaze fixed on you. He came at you again, this time with a series of quick strikes that had you stumbling backward.

"Footwork," he barked. "Mind your footing!"

You gritted your teeth, frustration building. You were aware that he was testing you, to see if a dragonseeder – a bastard – was as capable as him, he was making himself respectable. 

You struggled to keep up with Jace's rapid movements. His strikes were precise, each one designed to expose weaknesses. The early morning mist seemed to thicken around you, adding to the sense of suffocating pressure. Your breaths came in sharp, uneven gasps, the wooden sword feeling like an alien extension of yourself.

“Focus,” Jace commanded, his voice cutting through the mist. “Your footing is off. You’re overcompensating.”

You adjusted your stance, trying to follow his instructions. Every time you thought you had a handle on it, Jace’s next attack would force you back into defensive maneuvers. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, seemed to search for any sign of weakness or hesitation.

“Remember, you’re not just fighting with a sword,” he said, his voice low but intense. “You’re fighting for your survival. For your place here.”

A pang of frustration shot through you. The implicit challenge in his words was clear: prove your worth or be dismissed. You wanted to shout back, to remind him that you had tamed Vermithor, that your bond with the dragon was no small feat. But you swallowed the words, channeling your frustration into your movements.

Jace was relentless. He pressed the attack, pushing you harder with each passing moment. His precision was almost mechanical, each strike aimed at testing your limits. Sweat dripped down your brow, mingling with the mist and making it hard to see clearly.

When you stumbled and nearly fell, Jace stepped back, his sword lowering slightly. There was a brief moment of silence, filled only with the distant sounds of the castle waking up.

“If you cannot wield a sword,” he started, breathless. “Then you are of no use in the battlefield.”

Your chest heaved with exertion, anger and frustration warring within you. Jace's words stung, but you refused to let them break you. With a deep breath, you steadied yourself and met his gaze.

"With all due respect, Your Grace," you said, your voice low but firm, "a dragon is worth a thousand swords. I may not be a master swordsman, but I have tamed Vermithor. That counts for something, doesn't it?"

A flicker of emotion passed across Jace's face – surprise, perhaps. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, you spoke again. 

“And I believe you’ve been in as many battles as I have.”

Jace’s eyes narrowed, a storm of conflicting emotions playing across his face. For a heartbeat, it seemed he might retort sharply, but he halted, as if reconsidering. He dropped his sword next to your feet, indicating he was taking his leave. 

“If you falter in battle, the dragons will not be enough to save you,” he said.

You stood there, breath coming in ragged gasps, your grip on the practice sword tightening as you fought to steady yourself. The mist around you seemed to thicken, shrouding the training grounds in an almost tangible silence.

Jace’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, his expression inscrutable. Then, with a final nod, he turned on his heel and began walking toward the distant castle, his cloak billowing behind him like a stormy banner.

"Hey."

The voice startled you, and you whirled around to see Addam approaching, his own practice sword in hand. His eyebrows rose as he took in your disheveled appearance and the two swords at your feet.

"Was that Prince Jacaerys I saw leaving?" he asked, his tone carefully neutral.

You nodded, bending to pick up the discarded swords. "He was... testing me, I think."

Addam's expression softened with understanding. "Ah. And how did that go?"

"About as well as you'd expect," you said wryly, picking up the swords from the ground. "I'm no swordsman, Addam. I'm a dragonrider."

He took the sword, twirling it experimentally. "We're both, actually," he corrected gently. "Or at least, we need to be. The prince isn't wrong about that."

You sighed, knowing he was right but still feeling the sting of Jace's dismissal. "I know. It's just... frustrating. We've proven ourselves with the dragons. Why isn't that enough?"

Addam was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant. When he spoke, his voice was low and thoughtful. "Think about it from his perspective. We're bastards, given power that even he, a trueborn prince, doesn't fully understand. It must be... unsettling."

You considered his words as the two of you began to warm up, moving through basic sword forms. Addam was patient, correcting your stance and grip with a gentleness that stood in stark contrast to Jace's intensity.

Ulf arrived last, looking worse for wear but mercifully sober. The Maester appeared shortly after, clutching scrolls and looking decidedly out of place amidst the clanging of practice swords.

The day's training was grueling. You alternated between physical drills and lessons in High Valyrian, your mind and body pushed to their limits. Through it all, you couldn't shake the memory of Jace's dark eyes, the challenge in his gaze.

As the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, you found yourself alone once more. The other dragonseeders had retired to the great hall for the evening meal, but you felt drawn to the cliffs overlooking the sea.

The wind whipped your silver hair around your face as you gazed out at the horizon. In the distance, you could see the massive form of Vermithor circling lazily, his bronze scales catching the last rays of sunlight. 

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled you from your reverie. You turned, expecting to see Addam or perhaps the Maester, but instead found yourself face to face with Prince Jacaerys once more.

His dark eyes swept over you, taking in your windswept appearance and the way you stood so close to the cliff's edge. For a moment, something like concern flickered across his features, but it was gone so quickly you might have imagined it.

"You should be at dinner," he said, his tone clipped and formal.

You raised an eyebrow, unable to keep a hint of defiance from your voice. "As should you, Your Grace."

Jace's jaw tightened, and you braced yourself for a reprimand – or perhaps, a push. He was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the whistle of the wind and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below. When he spoke again, his voice was hard. 

"Riding a dragon is dangerous," his voice sharp. "Don't forget that. One moment of weakness, one lapse in control, and he could burn this entire island to ash."

You turned to face him fully, your eyes narrowing. "I'm well aware of the risks, Your Grace. But I also know that Vermithor would never harm me. Our bond–"

"Your bond," Jace interrupted again, his voice sharp, "is based on blood and chance. You're a dragonrider because of your Targaryen ancestry, not because of any special skill or worthiness."

His words stung, more than you wanted to admit. You clenched your fists at your sides, fighting to keep your voice steady. "Then why did you allow us to attempt to claim the dragons in the first place? If we're so unworthy, why take the risk?"

Jace's eyes flashed with anger, but also something else – uncertainty, perhaps. "We need every advantage we can get in this war. But make no mistake, your loyalty will be tested. And if you're found wanting..."

He left the threat unspoken, but it hung in the air between you, as palpable as the mist rolling in from the sea. He glared. You knew he’d heard Ulf’s mocking of the dragonseeders and their Targaryen claim, having joked about being owed the same opportunities as the prince simply because of illegitimacy. 

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze steadily. "I am loyal to Queen Rhaenyra and her cause," you said firmly. "I would never betray that trust."

Jace studied you for a long moment, his dark eyes seeming to search for any hint of deception. Finally, he gave a curt nod. "See that you don't," he said. 

"You speak as if our bond with the dragons is nothing but a fluke," you said, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging within you. You clenched your fisted hold on your skirts, trying to remain calm. 

Jace's eyes narrowed at your words, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. "A fluke? No. But it's not the grand destiny you seem to think it is, either. You're a tool, nothing more. A weapon to be wielded in this war."

His harsh assessment hit you like a physical blow, but you refused to let him see how deeply his words affected you. Instead, you lifted your chin, meeting his gaze defiantly.

"If I'm a weapon, Your Grace, then I'm one that chose its wielder. I could have claimed Vermithor and flown far from here, far from this war. But I didn't. I chose to stay and fight for Queen Rhaenyra's cause. That has to count for something."

For a moment, something flickered in Jace's eyes – surprise, perhaps, or a grudging respect. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual mask of cool indifference.

"Words are wind," he said dismissively. "It's actions that matter. And so far, all you've proven is that you can sit on a dragon's back. That's not enough."

You felt your temper flaring, the frustration of the day's training combining with Jace's dismissive attitude to push you to the edge of your patience. "Then tell me, Your Grace, what would be enough? What do I need to do to prove my worth to you?"

Jace seemed taken aback by your direct challenge, his brow furrowing as he considered your words. For a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, as if he wasn't quite sure how to answer.

"Prove your worth?" he finally said, his voice low and intense. "Prove that you're more than just a bastard with a lucky bloodline. Prove that you understand the weight of the responsibility you've been given. Prove that you're willing to sacrifice everything for this cause. Prove that you will not attempt to usurp mine and my mother’s claim because you share Targaryen blood."

It was almost as if he spoke more to himself than to you. You weren’t blind, his dark hair and sharp features reinforced the claim of bastardy of the Prince, and you understood the weight of his words. His unspoken insecurities about your place in this war – the way your bloodline might stir fears of rivalry or discord – were laid bare in that moment.

His words hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay calm.

"I understand the weight of this responsibility better than you might think, Your Grace," you said quietly. "Every time I mount Vermithor, I'm acutely aware that one wrong move could mean death – not just for me, but for countless others. I don't take that lightly."

Jace's expression remained impassive, but you thought you saw a flicker of something – curiosity, perhaps – in his dark eyes. "Fine words," he said. "But words alone won't win this war."

"No," you agreed. "They won't. But neither will distrust and division among our own ranks."

For a long moment, Jace simply stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, without another word, you turned on your heel and strode back towards the castle, leaving him alone with the wind and the waves.

You pretended not to notice his stare as you walked away, his eyes glued to your loose silver hair and his mouth flinching an angry frown.

________

The following days blurred together in a haze of exhaustion and frustration. True to his word, Jace had moved the dragonseeder training outdoors, and the elements seemed determined to test your resolve. Rain lashed against your face as you struggled through sword drills, and biting winds made it nearly impossible to concentrate on your High Valyrian lessons.

Through it all, Jace's presence was a constant, looming shadow. He watched your every move with critical eyes, quick to point out flaws and slow to offer praise. It was as if he were searching for any excuse to prove that you and the other dragonseeders were unworthy of the power you'd been given.

One particularly grueling morning found you paired with Addam for sparring practice. The two of you circled each other warily, wooden swords at the ready. You had improved since that first humiliating session with Jace, but you were still far from comfortable with a blade in your hand.

"Remember," Addam said quietly, "keep your guard up and watch my footwork."

You nodded, grateful for his patience and support. As you began to exchange blows, you found yourself settling into a rhythm, your movements becoming more fluid and natural.

"Better," a voice called out, and you stumbled, nearly dropping your sword as you realized Jace had been watching. He strode towards you, his own practice sword in hand. "But still not good enough. Step aside, Addam. I'll take it from here."

Addam hesitated, glancing at you with concern. "Your Grace, perhaps–"

"That wasn't a request," Jace said sharply, and Addam bowed, retreating to the sidelines.

You squared your shoulders, trying to prepare yourself for whatever test Jace had in mind. He didn't keep you waiting long, lunging forward with a speed that took your breath away. You barely managed to parry his first strike, the force of it sending shockwaves up your arm.

"Too slow," Jace barked, pressing his advantage. "A real enemy won't give you time to think."

You gritted your teeth, focusing on staying on your feet as Jace's attacks came faster and harder. Sweat stung your eyes, and your muscles screamed in protest, but you refused to yield.

"Is this how you'll defend yourself if you're unseated?" Jace taunted, his dark eyes glittering with a mix of anger and something else you couldn't quite name. "Is this how you'll protect your dragon?"

The mention of Vermithor sparked something within you. With a surge of strength you didn't know you possessed, you pushed back, your wooden sword clashing against Jace's with a resounding crack.

For a moment, surprise flashed across his face. Then his expression hardened, and he redoubled his efforts, driving you back across the muddy training ground.

"Better," he said, his voice low and intense. "But not good enough. Not nearly good enough."

With a lightning-fast move, he knocked your sword from your hand, sending it spinning away. Before you could react, the tip of his practice blade was at your throat.

"Dead," he said simply, his chest heaving with exertion. "And your dragon left riderless, vulnerable to our enemies."

You glared at him, frustration and anger boiling within you. 

"If you can't keep up, you'll be left behind." he said.

With that, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving you standing alone in the mud, your practice sword hanging limply at your side and Addam’s apologetic eyes meeting yours.

As the days wore on, Jace's challenges became increasingly difficult. He seemed determined to push you and the other dragonseeders to your breaking point, as if hoping to prove once and for all that you were unworthy of the dragons you'd claimed.

One morning, he announced that you would be flying a series of complex maneuvers with your dragons. The sky was overcast, threatening rain, and a chill wind whipped across Dragonstone's craggy peaks.

"The enemy won't wait for fair weather," Jace declared, his dark eyes scanning the group. "You need to be prepared to fly in any conditions."

You exchanged a glance with Addam, who looked as apprehensive as you felt. Ulf, on the other hand, seemed almost eager, a dangerous glint in his eye that made you uneasy.

As you made your way to where Vermithor was waiting, you couldn't shake the feeling that Jace was watching you. When you turned to look, you caught him quickly averting his gaze, his jaw clenched tight.

Mounting Vermithor, you felt a sense of calm wash over you. Whatever challenges Jace might throw your way, this was where you belonged. The great bronze dragon rumbled beneath you, his scales warm against your legs.

"Sōvegon," you murmured, and Vermithor launched himself into the air with a powerful thrust of his wings.

The wind howled in your ears as you climbed higher, the ground falling away beneath you. You could see Addam and Ulf on their own mounts, keeping pace on either side.

From the corner of your eye, you caught sight of Addam and his dragon, gracefully cutting through the air. Addam seemed more at ease with each passing moment, his form moving with practiced ease, his commands to Seasmoke calm and assured. A glance to your other side revealed Ulf, struggling to maintain control over Silverwing, who was clearly restless. The dragon's erratic movements were a stark reminder of the challenges that came with taming such powerful creatures.

Jace stood on the ground below, his gaze following your every movement with a critical intensity. You could feel his scrutiny like a weight on your shoulders, but for once, it didn’t seem to impede your focus. Instead, you channeled the pressure into your flying, pushing Vermithor to execute the complex maneuvers Jace had outlined the Maester to teach.

When you landed, the ground felt solid beneath your boots, a welcome contrast to the swirling winds of the sky. Addam and Ulf followed closely, their expressions reflecting a mix of relief and exhaustion. Ulf’s face was flushed, but his dragon seemed to have calmed, at least for now.

Jace approached, his dark eyes locking onto yours, a lilac hue to them. You braced yourself for the usual barrage of criticism, but to your surprise, he merely nodded, his face a mask of contemplative silence. 

You held back a prideful smile as his attention turned to the Maester’s corrections on Ulf’s pronunciation to help him control his dragon, knowing that you’d exceeded Jace’s expectations. 

________

Jace couldn’t sleep.

The night was restless, a tumult of thoughts and emotions swirling within him. He lay in his chambers, the heavy tapestries of Dragonstone’s stone walls casting long shadows across the room. He tossed and turned, the silken sheets tangling around him as if trying to restrain the turmoil within.

His mind replayed the day’s events on an endless loop. The sight of you, mounted atop Vermithor with such ease and grace, had struck him with an unexpected intensity. It was a raw, unsettling mix of admiration and envy. Your fluid movements in the sky, so effortless, contrasted sharply with the years of struggle he had endured to achieve the same mastery. It wasn’t just your skill that unsettled him – it was the ease with which you seemed to command the dragon, the naturalness of it.

Jace’s fingers clutched the bedclothes tightly, his knuckles white. The image of your silver hair cascading like a waterfall behind you, the fierce determination in your eyes as you navigated the winds, ignited a fire within him. 

It was a fire that he was unprepared for, one that was fueled by a mix of desire and frustration. 

He thought of your beauty, how it shone even in the harsh light of training. You were everything he was not. A dragonrider born of Targaryen blood, your claim was untainted by the bitterness of his own struggles. His mind was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions – an ugly, fierce jealousy tempered by a begrudging respect.

The ache of his own inadequacy gnawed at him. The more he scrutinized you, the more his insecurities surfaced. You were the embodiment of everything he could never be – confident in your heritage, untarnished by doubts. It was a cruel irony that you, an illegitimate Targaryen, could be so effortlessly perfect in a role that he had fought so hard to master.

Jace's breathing became uneven as he imagined the way you had ridden Vermithor, the way you’d handled the dragon with an ease he had once yearned for. The sight had stirred something primal within him, a frustration that was both physical and emotional. 

He could feel the heat rising in his body, his mind unwilling to acknowledge the true nature of the desire that had taken root. In a moment of reckless abandon, Jace’s hand drifted beneath the sheets, his touch unsteady as he tried to quell the overwhelming sensation. 

His heart pounded in his chest, the rhythm echoing the throbbing ache between his legs. He was painfully aware of how the sight of you had roused such an intense response, one that he could neither ignore nor fully comprehend.

The more he thought about you – your commanding presence on the dragon, your fierce retorts, the way you had held your own against his relentless testing – the more his frustration mounted. 

Jace’s hand grew more insistent, his movements fueled by a mixture of anger and longing. The room seemed to close in around him, the cool breeze from the window doing little to soothe the heated tumult within. 

He cursed under his breath, the sound of his voice mingling with the soft rustle of sheets and the distant, rhythmic crash of the waves against Dragonstone’s cliffs. A quiet moan left his mouth as he tried to angrily remind himself to stop thinking about you.

His efforts were useless. 

His thoughts wandered to how you would look and feel under his own hands. The combination of tactile details – the smoothness of the leather riding attire, the grip of the gloves, the precise knot of your hair – created a vivid, tantalizing picture that his mind couldn’t escape.

It was a cruel irony that what drew him to you with such fervor was also what separated you from him. 

Eventually, the intense heat inside of him subsided, leaving him with a deep, uncomfortable emptiness. Jace laid back, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and stared at the darkened ceiling. The overwhelming urge to understand the complex emotions he had experienced gnawed at him, but for now, he was left with the stark reality of the night’s revelations. 

The shadows on the walls seemed to mock him with their silent judgment.

He finally closed his eyes, trying to silence the storm within. The echo of your voice, the sharpness of your defiance, and the image of you riding Vermithor continued to dance at the edges of his consciousness. Sleep came reluctantly, a fitful rest punctuated by dreams that blurred the line between reality and the fantasies his mind could not fully grasp.

________

The following morning dawned gray and dreary, the sky a brooding expanse of clouds that mirrored the restless turbulence of Jace’s mind. You awoke feeling the weight of the previous day’s exhaustion and frustration still heavy on your shoulders. Sleep had been elusive, leaving you with a vague sense of unease that clung to you as you dressed in your training clothes.

Dragonstone seemed to groan under the oppressive weight of the clouds. As you made your way through the castle's winding corridors, your boots echoed loudly against the cold stone. The chill in the air made the castle feel even more somber, its narrow hallways and flickering torchlight adding to the oppressive atmosphere. You braced yourself for the day ahead, knowing that Jace’s scrutiny would likely be even sharper after yesterday’s performance.

Your breath misted in front of you as you took in the scene – Addam and Ulf were already there, their dragons waiting nearby. Ulf looked more subdued than usual, his face a mixture of apprehension and exhaustion.

Addam’s eyes met yours with a nod of encouragement. “Good Morrow,” he said, his voice carrying a note of camaraderie despite the weather.

“Morning,” you replied, your voice subdued. The cool air bit at your cheeks, and you could see the steam rising from the dragons’ nostrils as they shifted impatiently.

Jace appeared at the edge of the training grounds, his cloak billowing behind him as he walked with purpose. His gaze swept over the assembled dragonseeders, his expression unreadable. You noticed a subtle shift in his demeanor, a stiffness in his posture that spoke of inner turmoil.

The Maester, joined by one of the guards, called the group to attention with a sharp, commanding tone. “Today, we’ll be working on endurance and control. Dragons are powerful, but they are not invincible. You need to be able to ride them through the worst conditions, maintain your composure, and execute your orders flawlessly.”

The rain began to fall more heavily, drumming against the stone and making the practice swords slick and unwieldy. Jace’s eyes flickered to you, a brief flash of something that might have been residual frustration or something more.

“Pair up,” Jace instructed. “Addam, you’re with Ulf. I’ll work with you.”

You felt a mix of apprehension and determination at his command. Addam and Ulf moved to their positions, their dragons snorting and stamping in the growing downpour. Jace approached, his demeanor as stern as ever.

“Ready?” he asked, though his voice carried a note of distraction. 

You nodded, gripping your practice sword tightly. “Ready, Your Grace.”

Jace’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than usual, and you couldn’t quite read the expression in them. Then, without further ceremony, he lunged forward with surprising speed. The wet ground made each movement more challenging, and you found yourself slipping and struggling to keep your footing.

Jace’s attacks were relentless, his wooden sword a blur of motion. You fought to maintain your balance, your arms burning with the effort to parry his strikes. The rain pelted down, making it difficult to see clearly and adding an extra layer of difficulty to the already grueling exercise.

Jace shouted over the roar of the rain. “You need to adapt to the conditions. You can’t afford to be thrown off by a little water.”

You gritted your teeth, pushing through the discomfort. Each parry was a battle in itself, the wet sword slipping in your grip, the muddy ground threatening to send you sprawling. Jace’s intensity didn’t waver, and you could feel the weight of his expectations pressing down on you once again.

As the minutes ticked by, exhaustion began to set in. Your movements grew sluggish, your grip on the sword less sure. Jace seemed to sense your fatigue, and his strikes became more focused, each one designed to test your limits.

“Steady,” he said, his voice cutting through the rain with a fierce edge.

You knew he was right, and you pushed yourself harder, fighting through the rain and mud to meet his relentless assault. The clashing of swords, the splashing of rain, and the shouting of commands became a cacophony that drowned out everything else.

Finally, with a final, decisive strike, Jace knocked your sword from your hand, sending it skittering across the ground, he took a step forward, accidentally causing you to slip on the muddy floor. The practice sword at your throat was a cold, wet reminder of your defeat as well as your now soaked and dirtied skirts.

“Dead,” Jace said, repeating his words from the other week, his voice heavy with a mixture of frustration and something else that you couldn’t quite place. “And your dragon left riderless.”

You sat there, drenched and panting, as Jace stepped back. The rain streamed down your face, mingling with the sweat and mud. Your chest heaved with exertion, but you refused to let the frustration show. Your stomach burnt with rage, seeing Jace’s defeat as mocking, like all of his tests seemingly focused on only you for the past weeks.

Jace’s eyes softened ever so slightly, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something in them – perhaps an understanding, pity, or a grudging respect. 

Feeling the Maester’s eyes on him, he extended his hand out for you to grab. 

You looked up at Jace, your breath coming in heavy, visible puffs against the rain-slicked sky. His hand extended toward you, glistening with raindrops and a subtle, yet unexpected gentleness. The muddy ground beneath you was cold and unforgiving, and you hesitated for a moment, fighting the surge of anger and frustration that had been building inside you.

With a deep breath, you reached out and grasped his hand. His grip was firm, and he pulled you up with surprising strength. As you stood, the rain continued to pelt down, streaming off your hair and soaking your clothes. Jace’s eyes remained locked on yours, and you could sense the conflict swirling within him.

"Thank you, Your Grace," you said, your voice steady despite the exhaustion and lingering anger. There was an edge to your tone, but you forced yourself to keep it respectful.

Jace’s breath heaved, matching your panting in exhaustion. His fingers lingered on yours for a heartbeat longer than necessary, the contact fleeting yet unexpectedly warm. The touch was gone almost as quickly as it had come, and he pulled his hand back abruptly, as if struck by the realization of the gesture.

Jace cleared his throat, his voice regaining its authoritative edge. “Best get cleaned up before our leave at dawn.”

In the warmth of the castle, you peeled off your drenched garments, the cold air of the corridor biting at your damp skin. The sound of the rain became a distant murmur as you headed toward your quarters, where a hot bath awaited you. The steam rising from the water seemed to promise a moment of solace, a brief escape from the relentless pressure of your training.

You sank into the bath with a sigh, the warmth enveloping you like a comforting embrace. The heat helped to soothe your aching muscles and eased the sting of the rain-soaked bruises that marred your skin. As you soaked, the events of the day replayed in your mind. Jace’s stern demeanor, his seemingly endless expectations, and the fleeting touch of his hand all jostled for attention in your thoughts.

The knock at your door was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to rouse you from your reverie. It startled you from your thoughts, and you quickly rose from the bath, wrapping yourself in a simple, damp robe. The warmth of the water still clung to your skin, but the cold air of the castle’s corridors nipped at your exposed shoulders.

You padded to the door, the sound of the rain growing louder in your ears as you approached. Thinking it was your assigned handmaid, you swung open the door with expectation. The sight that greeted you, however, was far from what you had anticipated.

Jace stood in the doorway, his cloak still damp from the rain, his hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes met yours, and for a brief, disconcerting moment, the stern facade you had come to expect softened, revealing something more vulnerable beneath.

“Your Grace?” You stammered, confusion and surprise evident in your voice. You instinctively tightened the robe around yourself, the simple garment feeling inadequate against the unexpected intrusion.

Jace’s eyes flickered over you, a hint of something unreadable in his gaze. He cleared his throat, not meeting your gaze. “I wanted to speak with you,” he said, his voice more subdued than usual. “I assume now is not a good time?”

At your silence, he cleared his throat again, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll come back later if now is not the best time.”

You hesitated, your mind racing to reconcile the image of the harsh, demanding instructor with this more vulnerable figure standing in front of you. 

“No, it’s… it’s alright,” you said, your voice wavering slightly. You stepped back to let him in, the act feeling both awkward and oddly intimate. “Please, come in.”

Jace entered, his movements measured and deliberate. He glanced around the modest quarters, the flickering light from the single candle casting long shadows on the walls. The steam from the bath still lingered, adding a sense of warmth to the otherwise chilly room.

His back was to you as you shut the door behind you, you took your chance to fix your robe again. 

As Jace turned to face you, his eyes briefly flickered over your form before quickly averting his gaze. The silence between you was thick with tension, broken only by the steady patter of rain against the windows.

"I..." Jace began, then paused, seeming to struggle with his words. "I wanted to speak with you about today's training."

You nodded, maintaining a careful distance between you. "What about it, Your Grace?"

Jace's jaw clenched, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for the right words. "I may have been... overly harsh," he finally said, the admission clearly costing him.

You felt a flicker of surprise at his words, but it was quickly overshadowed by the frustration that had been building for weeks. "Overly harsh?" you repeated, your voice taking on an edge. "Is that what you call it?"

Jace's eyes snapped to yours, a hint of his usual fire returning. "I'm trying to apologize," he said, his tone sharpening.

"Are you?" you countered, emboldened by the privacy of your quarters and the lingering warmth of the bath. "Because it sounds more like you're trying to justify yourself."

Jace took a step forward, his eyes flashing. "I'm doing what needs to be done to prepare you for war. Do you think our enemies will show mercy? Do you think they'll care about your feelings?"

"And what about you, Your Grace?" you shot back, your voice rising. "Do you care about our feelings? Or are we just weapons to be sharpened and discarded?"

Jace's face contorted with a mix of anger and something that looked almost like pain. "You don't understand," he said, his voice low and intense. "The responsibility, the weight of it all–"

"I understand more than you think," you interrupted, taking a step closer to him. "I understand that you're pushing us – pushing me – harder than anyone else. Why is that, Your Grace? What is it about me that threatens you so much?"

Jace's breath caught, his eyes widening slightly at your boldness. For a moment, you thought he might lash out, but instead, he seemed to deflate slightly.

"You don't know what it's like," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "To have everything you are questioned, to have to prove yourself every single day."

You felt a pang of sympathy, but your anger was still too fresh to let it go entirely. "And you think we don't?" you asked, gesturing to yourself. "You think being a bastard with a dragon makes life easy?"

Jace's eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw a flash of vulnerability in them. "You have what I've fought for my entire life," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "The Targaryen look, the natural bond with a dragon... it all comes so easily to you."

You shook your head, frustration building. "Easily? You think any of this has been easy? I've worked just as hard as you, Your Grace. The only difference is, I don't feel the need to tear others down to prove my worth."

Jace's eyes flashed dangerously. "You have no idea what I've been through, what I've had to endure–"

"And you have no idea what I've endured!" you shouted, your control finally snapping. "You've judged me from the moment I arrived, pushed me harder than anyone else, all because you see something in me that you can’t accept in yourself!" 

Your voice echoed through the small room, reverberating off the stone walls. The tension between you both was palpable, thick enough to cut through with a sword. Jace stood there, stunned by your outburst. His eyes burned with a mix of emotions – anger, frustration, and something deeper that you couldn't quite place.

He stepped closer, his face inches from yours. "And what exactly do you represent?" he growled.

"Everything you fear you're not," you said, your voice low and intense. 

Jace's breath hitched, and for a moment, you thought he might strike you. Instead, he stood there, his chest heaving, his eyes locked on yours. The tension between you was palpable, a living thing that seemed to crackle in the air.

"You know nothing about me," Jace said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"And you know nothing about me," you replied, matching his intensity. "Yet you've judged me, pushed me, tried to break me. Why, Your Grace? What are you so afraid of?"

Jace's eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something – doubt, perhaps, or a hint of remorse. But then his walls slammed back into place, his expression hardening.

"This conversation is over," he said, his voice cold. "I expect to see you ready to depart at dawn."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of your quarters, leaving you standing there, your emotions a tumultuous storm. As the door slammed shut behind him, you let out a shaky breath, the weight of the confrontation settling over you like a heavy cloak.

You sank onto your bed, your mind reeling from the intensity of the argument. Despite the lingering anger and frustration, you couldn't shake the image of Jace's eyes in that final moment – the vulnerability you'd glimpsed, the pain that seemed to lurk beneath his harsh exterior.

________

As the first light of dawn crept over Dragonstone's craggy peaks, you stood at the edge of the castle's courtyard, your breath misting in the cool morning air. The events of the previous night weighed heavily on your mind, the echoes of your heated exchange with Jace still ringing in your ears. You adjusted the straps of your riding gear, trying to focus on the task at hand rather than the turmoil of emotions swirling within you.

The sound of approaching footsteps made you stiffen. You didn't need to turn to know who it was; Jace's presence was unmistakable, carrying with it a weight of unspoken tension.

"Your Grace," you said, your voice carefully neutral as you turned to face him.

Jace stood before you, his dark eyes unreadable. The vulnerability you'd glimpsed the night before was gone, replaced by his usual mask of princely composure. Yet there was something different in the way he carried himself, a subtle shift that you couldn't quite place.

"Are you prepared for the journey?" he asked, his tone clipped and professional.

You nodded, meeting his gaze steadily. "Yes, Your Grace. Vermithor and I are ready."

For a moment, Jace's eyes flickered to the dragon behind you, a mix of emotions flashing across his face too quickly for you to decipher. When he looked back at you, there was a hint of something almost like respect in his gaze.

"Good," he said, his voice softening slightly. "We have a long flight ahead of us. Stay close to the formation and be prepared for anything."

You couldn't help but notice the absence of his usual harsh criticism, the lack of a cutting remark about your abilities or your place among the dragonriders. It was a small change, but a noticeable one.

"Of course, Your Grace," you replied, surprised by the lack of hostility in your own voice.

Jace opened his mouth as if to say something more, then closed it, seemingly thinking better of it. Instead, he gave a curt nod and turned to address the rest of the group.

As he walked away, you couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted between you. The tension was still there, crackling beneath the surface, but it felt different now – charged with a new kind of energy that you couldn't quite name.

You mounted Vermithor, settling into the familiar grooves of his scales. As you waited for the signal to depart, your eyes were drawn once again to Jace. He stood tall and proud, every inch the prince and leader, but now you could see the weight he carried, the pressure that bore down on his young shoulders.

As the first rays of sunlight broke through the clouds, Jace gave the signal. With a powerful thrust of his wings, Vermithor launched into the air, and you felt the familiar rush of exhilaration as the ground fell away beneath you.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a sudden gust of wind that buffeted Vermithor, causing him to dip slightly. You instinctively tightened your grip, leaning into the dragon's movements to help him stabilize. As you regained your balance, you caught Jace looking back at you, a flicker of concern crossing his face before he quickly turned away.

The journey continued in relative silence, broken only by the occasional shout of a command or the distant rumble of thunder. You knew you were heading towards enemy territory, and the thought sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold air rushing past you.

As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, Jace signaled for the group to descend. You guided Vermithor down, following the lead of the other dragons. The clearing Jace had chosen was small, barely large enough to accommodate all the dragons, but it was well-hidden by a thick canopy of trees.

You dismounted, your legs stiff from hours of riding. As you stretched, trying to work out the kinks in your muscles, you noticed Jace approaching. His face was set in its usual stern expression, but there was a hesitancy in his steps that you hadn't seen before.

"We'll camp here for the night," he announced to the group. "Set up a perimeter and tend to your dragons. We move out again at first light."

As the others busied themselves with their tasks, Jace's eyes met yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the tension from the night before hanging in the air between you.

"Your flying has improved," Jace said finally, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "You handled that wind gust well."

The compliment, small as it was, caught you off guard. "Thank you, Your Grace," you replied, searching his face for any hint of mockery or condescension. But his expression remained neutral, almost carefully so.

He nodded, straightening his posture before walking towards Addam, who was already working on the makeshift tents.

The night settled in around the camp, the sounds of the forest a constant backdrop to the low murmur of conversation and the occasional snort or rumble from the dragons. You found yourself unable to sleep, your mind too active with thoughts of the day's journey and the impending dangers that lay ahead.

You sat up, wrapping your cloak tightly around you against the chill night air. The embers of the campfire glowed softly, casting long shadows across the clearing. Your eyes were drawn to the edge of the camp, where a solitary figure stood silhouetted against the starry sky.

Jace.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you rose and made your way towards him. He turned at the sound of your approach, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword before recognizing you.

"Your Grace," you said softly, coming to stand beside him. "I hope I'm not intruding."

Jace shook his head, his gaze returning to the darkness beyond the camp. "No," he replied, his voice equally quiet. "I couldn't sleep either."

You stood in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you. Finally, you gathered your courage and spoke.

"About last night," you began, but Jace cut you off with a raised hand.

"We don't need to discuss it," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. "What's done is done."

You nodded, accepting his words but feeling a twinge of disappointment. Part of you had hoped to clear the air, to perhaps reach some kind of understanding.

Jace's profile was cast in a soft glow, the shadows accentuating the lines of his face. His eyes, usually so hard and unreadable, now seemed softer, more contemplative. The silence between you stretched, heavy with the weight of your mutual regrets. 

"It's beautiful here," you said softly, almost to yourself. The moonlight filtered through the trees, casting pale silver patterns on the ground. "Hard to believe we're heading into battle tomorrow."

Jace glanced at you, his expression softer than you'd ever seen. "It's always like this before a fight," he murmured. "The calm before the storm. It makes you appreciate the small things… even if just for a moment."

You could feel the weight of his words, the weariness of a young man who had seen too much, felt too much. Despite your differences, despite everything that had passed between you, you found yourself wanting to offer him something, anything that might ease that burden.

“I apologize for my tone yesterday, it is no proper way to speak to the prince.”

He didn’t meet your eyes as he shook his head, grip tightening on the sword on his side. “My anger was misplaced.” 

Jace's gaze remained fixed on the horizon, the darkness beyond the campfire's reach seemingly mirroring his own internal struggles. His shoulders were squared, but there was a weariness in his posture that spoke of more than just the physical exhaustion of the day's journey.

"I shouldn't have pushed you so hard," Jace said after a long pause, his voice carrying a rough edge.

You turned to him, studying his profile in the dim light. There was a rawness to his admission, a vulnerability that seemed out of place against the backdrop of his usual princely demeanor. "We all have our burdens to bear," you said quietly.

Jace's gaze dropped to the ground, and for a moment, the shadows of the forest seemed to swallow him whole. 

The shadows around you deepened as Jace stood silent, his expression lost in thought. The night air was cool, tinged with the earthy scent of the forest and the faint crackle of the dying campfire. The weight of unspoken words hung between you, thickening the silence.

Jace finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he were confessing something he had kept buried for too long. "I've been told all my life that I must be strong, that weakness isn't an option for someone in my position. But the truth is, strength comes at a cost. It... it's lonely."

The admission caught you off guard, revealing a side of him you had never truly seen before. He was the prince, a leader, someone who had always seemed so unyielding, so focused on his duty. But beneath that armor, there was a young man who had been forced to grow up too quickly, who had been carrying the weight of expectation for as long as he could remember.

"You don't have to bear it alone," you said softly, your voice filled with an earnestness that surprised even you. "We may be warriors, but we’re also human. We can be strong and still lean on each other. That doesn't make us weak; it makes us stronger."

Jace's gaze lifted to meet yours, and for the first time, you saw the flicker of something in his eyes – relief, perhaps, or gratitude. It was subtle, but it was there, a crack in the armor he had worn for so long.

"I'm not used to this," he admitted, his voice low and uncertain. "Letting people in. Trusting them with... with more than just my commands."

"You don't have to trust everyone with everything. Just... start small. We’re all here for the same reason, facing the same dangers."

Jace looked away, his jaw tightening as he considered your words. The silence stretched between you again, but it was different now – less tense, more reflective.

"I pushed you harder because I saw potential in you," he finally said, his tone more measured. "The silver-haired Targaryen bastard girl who claimed Vermithor." he quoted the whispers that ran in the towns and the halls about you.

He clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "I don’t have the hair or the eyes that mark our bloodline. I don’t look like them, not like you do. And because of that, some people question whether I truly belong – whether I’m really worthy of the name 'Targaryen.' Even if they don't say it outright, I see it in their eyes, hear it in the way they speak to me."

Jace's words resonated with a deep-seated pain, one that came from being constantly measured against a standard he could never fully meet. You could see the struggle etched into his features, the way his identity had been chipped away by years of doubts and whispers. You grew up with the same feeling.

"I’ve had to fight for every shred of respect I’ve earned," he continued, his voice growing rougher, more raw. 

He glanced at you then, his eyes holding a flicker of vulnerability, as though he was finally letting you see the part of himself he had kept hidden from everyone else. "You, with your Targaryen look, your natural bond with Vermithor – everything that was supposed to be mine by birthright, you have. And I envy you for it.”

His gaze flickered to yours, searching for sincerity in your words. There was a pause, a moment where the world seemed to hold its breath. “It made me push you harder, made me want to test your limits. For that, I apologize.”

You listened, the raw honesty in his voice catching you off guard. Jace, the ever-stern prince who seemed unshakeable, was confessing something deeply personal. His envy, his insecurities – they were laid bare before you, revealing a man struggling to reconcile his sense of duty with his own humanity.

"I never wanted to outshine you, Your Grace," you replied softly, your tone gentler now. "I’ve only ever wanted to do my part, to prove that I belong here, just like you. We’re all fighting the same battles, even if they look different."

Jace's shoulders sagged slightly, as though the weight of his burdens had grown heavier with his admission. But there was also a sense of release, like a pressure valve slowly easing open. He took a deep breath, his eyes searching yours for understanding.

His frustration flared for a moment, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. How could you compare your childhood to his? How could you understand what it was like to have your very claim to the throne questioned every day of your life, simply because of illegitimacy? 

But then he stopped himself, the sharp retort dying on his tongue. He looked at you more closely, taking in your beauty. Your silver hair, once a source of pride for those who bore it, had become a symbol of isolation for you. It marked you as different, as other, just as his dark hair had marked him. The whispers, the sidelong glances, the subtle digs – perhaps they weren’t so different after all. 

He wondered if you, too, had tried to hide your hair when you were younger. Had you ever thought of cutting it off, of trying to blend in, just to avoid the stares and the whispers – just like he had? 

His anger faded, replaced by a quiet understanding that settled deep within him. Before he could speak again, you interrupted. 

“Your eyes have a pecs of lilac in them,”

Your words hung in the air between you, soft and unexpected, like a breeze that carries away the last remnants of a storm. Jace blinked, taken aback by the sudden change in topic. He hadn’t expected you to notice such a small detail, let alone comment on it. His eyes – his Targaryen eyes, though dark – held traces of that lineage in their depths, a subtle glimmer of lilac that hinted at the blood he carried, despite what the whispers said.

He looked at you, truly looked at you, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of you standing there under the stars. 

"You're the first to ever mention that," he said quietly, his voice carrying a note of disbelief, as if he wasn’t sure whether to accept the observation as a compliment or a revelation.

The fire crackled softly behind you, casting flickering shadows across Jace's face. His fingers loosened their grip on the hilt of his sword, a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding released.

“Lilac,” he repeated, almost to himself. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s barely noticeable,” you replied, your voice equally soft. “But it’s there.”

Jace’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close enough to hint at one. His gaze held yours, the distance between you shrinking as the night deepened around the camp. His eyes, once guarded and stern, now softened as he processed your words. It was as if that small observation, something so easily overlooked, had breached the walls he had spent years constructing.

"You seem to see things others don't," he murmured, his voice almost lost in the whispering wind.

You shrugged your shoulders, you eased yourself down beside the campfire, the warmth of the embers a welcome contrast to the chill of the night air. Jace settled next to you, the earlier tension between you seeming to dissipate into the quiet intimacy of the moment. The firelight flickered, casting dancing shadows that played across the forest clearing.

You started talking about the following day, the conversation slipping into the familiar rhythms of strategy and preparation. Jace listened intently, nodding as you discussed potential scenarios and contingencies. The wariness between you had faded, replaced by a shared focus on the task ahead. 

The warmth of the fire, coupled with the soothing hum of Jace's presence, began to weave a calming spell over you. Your words grew softer, more hesitant, and the exhaustion of the day began to take its toll. You found yourself leaning slightly against Jace, the weight of your head coming to rest on his shoulder. He did not move away, allowing the small gesture of closeness that had begun to form between you.

Jace’s body, though tense from the day’s travel and the weight of his responsibilities, seemed to relax as you drifted into sleep. His breathing evened out, and the night seemed to embrace you both, holding you in a fragile moment of peace.

The warmth of the campfire, combined with the gentle rise and fall of Jace’s breath, lulled you into a deep sleep. You were unaware of how the hours passed, lost in dreams that seemed to blend with the soft glow of the embers and the subtle presence of the prince beside you.

But the peaceful interlude was not to last. The sound of Ulf’s unmistakable voice pierced through your dreams, a sharp and playful contrast to the calm of the night. His voice was loud and mocking, carrying the unmistakable cadence of someone who reveled in mischief.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the prince and his shadow, all cozy by the fire!” Ulf's voice carried a teasing edge. “Should I come back later, or are you two planning on making this a nightly tradition?”

You stirred, blinking awake to find yourself still nestled against Jace, whose own eyes fluttered open with a groggy confusion. The warmth of the campfire seemed to have been replaced by a rush of embarrassment as you quickly disentangled yourself from Jace’s side.

Jace looked at you, his face a mix of surprise and embarrassment, though a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. You straightened yourself, trying to regain your composure, while Ulf’s laughter continued to reverberate through the clearing.

You shot Ulf a look, your cheeks flushing slightly. “Ulf, must you be so loud?”

Ulf’s grin widened, clearly enjoying the reaction he’d provoked.

Jace cleared his throat, a more serious expression returning to his face as he rose from the ground. “Enough, Ulf. We have a long day ahead of us. Let’s focus on the tasks at hand.”

You exchanged a glance with Jace, the earlier intimacy of the night still lingering in your thoughts, even as the responsibilities of the day pressed upon you. Almost immediately, you got up to stand next to a readied Addam, his battle armor already on, a sword smaller than Jace’s hanging from his hip.

The camp was abuzz with activity as the dragonriders geared up for the impending battle. Dragons roared and snorted, their breath forming clouds in the chilly air. Jace moved among his men with purpose, his usual commanding presence restored. He glanced at you occasionally, his gaze unreadable but not unkind.

The journey to the enemy stronghold was uneventful, the clouds rolling in thickly as if they, too, anticipated the day's violence. When you arrived at the battlefield, the sight was grim. The ground was churned into a muddy mess, dotted with the remnants of previous skirmishes.

You could see Jace at the forefront, his stance firm and resolute as he surveyed the battlefield. The sight of him, standing tall and unwavering despite the looming threat, stirred something within you.

Hours passed in battle, you could feel your arms and legs begin to pain in exhaustion, you were sure your hands would grow to be calloused because of the sword. You’d lost Addam, you realized, and Jace. You could only make out the figures and the armors of the men on your side, and yet there was no sight of your known faces.

As the battle raged on, you caught sight of Addam in a tight spot. He was surrounded by enemy forces, his movements increasingly desperate. Without a second thought, you signaled to Vermithor and descended toward him, determined to aid your comrade.

The sight of the enemy closing in on Addam made your heart race. You urged Vermithor into a steep dive, your focus entirely on clearing the way for Addam. In the chaos, a sudden burst of enemy fire caught you off guard. You tried to maneuver out of the way, but it was too late. The attack struck your side, sending a searing pain through you as you struggled to stay conscious.

You heard Addam's shout of alarm, saw his face twisted in concern as he fought off his attackers. With a grimace, you pushed through the pain, landing awkwardly near Addam and helping him fend off the enemy. The effort took everything you had, your vision blurring as blood seeped from the wound in your side.

By the time the immediate threat was subdued, Jace had arrived, his eyes scanning the battlefield before landing with the precision and authority of a seasoned leader. He saw you slumped against Addam, the blood staining your clothing, and his expression turned to one of furious concern.

________

"What were you thinking?" Jace's voice cut through the din of the tent the second your eyes opened, his tone harsh as he rushed to your side. "You could have been killed!"

You winced at the pain as Jace's hands gripped your shoulders, his eyes flashing with anger. "I was just trying to help Addam," you managed to say through gritted teeth, the adrenaline of battle fading, leaving only the sharp sting of your injury. 

Jace's face was a mask of frustration, his gaze shifting between you and Addam. "You’re not supposed to throw yourself into danger recklessly," he snapped. 

The intensity of his anger was palpable, and though it was directed at you, it was clear that it stemmed from a place of deep concern. 

Addam, now safe but visibly shaken, looked at you with a mix of gratitude and worry. "You didn’t have to do that," he said quietly, helping you to sit as the maesters were alerted of your awakening to tend to your wound.

Jace paced back and forth in the tent, his anger radiating off him in palpable waves. His earlier softness seemed to have evaporated, replaced by the stern, unyielding demeanor you'd grown accustomed to during your training.

"This is exactly what I've been trying to prevent," he snapped, his voice sharp enough to make you flinch. "Reckless behavior, disregard for orders, putting yourself in unnecessary danger. Did all those lessons mean nothing to you?"

You felt a sinking feeling in your stomach. The connection you'd felt with Jace by the campfire, the understanding you thought you'd reached, seemed to have vanished like smoke in the wind. His dark eyes, which had shown glimpses of warmth and vulnerability, now blazed with disappointment and frustration.

"Your Grace, I-" you began, but Jace cut you off with a harsh gesture.

"No excuses. You could have compromised the entire mission. Did you even consider the consequences?"

His words stung, each one feeling like a step backward in the relationship you'd hoped was improving. You lowered your gaze, unable to meet his intense stare. The progress you'd made, the understanding you thought you'd reached – it all seemed to have crumbled in the face of his renewed anger.

As the maesters entered to tend to your wounds, Jace turned away, his posture rigid with barely contained fury. You couldn't help but feel that you were right back where you'd started – a disappointment in his eyes, someone who couldn't be trusted to follow orders or make the right decisions.

The silence in the tent was thick with tension as the maesters worked on your wounds. You could feel Jace's presence, a storm of barely contained emotion, even with your eyes closed. The pain of your injury seemed almost secondary to the ache in your chest at his harsh words.

As the maesters finished their work, Jace dismissed them with a curt nod. You braced yourself, expecting another barrage of anger. Instead, you heard him let out a long, shaky breath.

"Do you have any idea..." he began, his voice lower now but still taut with emotion, "...what it would do to our cause if we lost you? What it would do to–" He cut himself off abruptly.

You opened your eyes, surprised by the shift in his tone. Jace stood with his back to you, his shoulders rigid, hands clenched at his sides. When he finally turned to face you, his expression was a complex mix of anger, fear, and something else you couldn't quite name.

"Your Grace," you said softly, wincing as you tried to sit up straighter. "I never meant to–"

"To what?" Jace interrupted, his voice rough. "To throw yourself into danger? To disregard everything I've tried to teach you?" He ran a hand through his dark hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. "You're more than just a soldier, more than just a dragonrider. You're..." He trailed off, seeming to struggle with his words.

You waited, heart pounding, as Jace visibly wrestled with his thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost vulnerable.

"You're important," he said finally, meeting your eyes. "To the cause, to... to all of us. I can't have you risking yourself like that."

The admission hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. You could see the conflict in Jace's eyes, the battle between his role as a leader and his personal feelings.

"I couldn't let Addam die," you said quietly. "Not when I could do something about it."

Jace's jaw clenched, but some of the anger seemed to drain out of him. He moved closer, sitting on the edge of your cot. "I understand that," he said, his voice low. "But we need you alive. I–" He hesitated, then continued, "I need you alive."

The intensity in his gaze made your breath catch. For a moment, the rest of the world seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in this small, quiet space.

"I'm sorry for worrying you," you said softly. "But I'm not sorry for what I did."

Jace's lips twitched, almost forming a smile despite himself. "I know," he said, shaking his head. He reached out, hesitantly, and took your hand in his. 

You looked at your joined hands, then back up at Jace's face. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but it was tempered now by a deeper understanding, a connection that couldn't be easily broken.

As you looked at your joined hands and then back up at Jace's face, you could see the complex mix of emotions playing across his features. The anger that had initially flared was now tempered by concern, relief, and something deeper that made your heart quicken.

Jace's thumb absently traced circles on the back of your hand, the gentle touch at odds with the tension still evident in his posture. His eyes, dark with their hidden flecks of lilac, searched your face as if trying to memorize every detail.

"You should know better," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. 

The words were not the scolding you expected, but something softer, almost pleading. The gentle brush of his thumb against your skin sent a warmth through you that rivaled the heat of the fire that had crackled between you the night before. 

Jace’s gaze didn’t waver from yours, though a flicker of something – perhaps pride, perhaps something deeper – flickered in his eyes at your words. He shifted slightly, bringing his free hand to rest on the edge of the cot, as if steadying himself.

“You’re brave,” he said, his tone hushed, as though the words were not meant to be heard by anyone but you. “Too brave, perhaps. And too important to lose.”

The weight of his admission settled between you like a tangible thing. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but hold onto the connection that had formed between you, tenuous yet strong. 

His words, “I need you alive,” echoed in your mind, carrying a significance that went beyond the battlefield.

The harsh reality of your situation, the war raging outside, seemed to fade away as Jace leaned in closer. His hand tightened around yours, as if anchoring you both in this fragile moment. The heat from his body, the warmth of his breath as it fanned across your face, chased away the lingering cold from the injury and the battle.

And then, just as you thought he might say something more, something that would change everything, he leaned back slightly, releasing your hand with a reluctance that you could almost feel.

“You need to rest,” he said softly, the stern commander reasserting itself, though the gentleness in his tone remained. “We’ll talk more when you’re healed.”

You nodded, though a part of you longed to reach out and pull him back, to hold onto the moment that had passed between you. 

After what felt like hours of patching and cleaning your wounds, Jace had managed to slip through and speak with you. He refused to let you back into the battlefield – specially with a gash on your side – but when you insisted on the need for Vermithor’s advantage over the enemy, Jace had reluctantly agreed, but only after making you promise to stay airborne and avoid direct combat.

________

The battle was over, but the aftermath lay heavy on the land, a tapestry of mud and blood woven with the remnants of conflict. The once-vibrant battlefield was now a somber expanse, littered with the debris of war. Exhaustion clung to every soldier, every dragon, every inch of the ground. As you mounted Vermithor, the gash on your side throbbed with each movement, a sharp reminder of the earlier chaos.

Jace’s gaze was fixed on you, his eyes carrying an unspoken command. "You’re still too weak to fly alone," he insisted, his tone brooking no argument. "I’ll ride with you."

You wanted to protest, to assert your independence, but the weariness that settled deep in your bones made you reconsider. The sharp sting of pain with every shift in position, the bruising fatigue that had crept into your limbs, and the sight of Jace’s determined face all contributed to a reluctant acceptance of his offer.

As you climbed onto Vermithor’s back, Jace followed, settling himself behind you with a firm yet gentle touch. His warmth pressed against your back, a reminder of the closeness you had shared earlier. Vermax, with its deep green scales shimmering in the dimming light, followed closely behind, the dragon’s eyes scanning the horizon with a vigilant gaze.

The journey back to Dragonstone was slow, each beat of Vermithor’s powerful wings a measured rhythm that spoke of both strength and weariness. Jace’s arms were steady around your waist, his presence a solid anchor against the turbulent sea of exhaustion and pain. The rhythmic whoosh of the dragon’s wings was soothing, a constant and reassuring pulse that contrasted with the chaotic clamor of the battlefield.

Jace’s breath against your neck was warm and steady, a comforting presence that eased the sharp edges of your discomfort. Occasionally, his fingers would tighten slightly, a silent reminder that he was there, that he cared. The quiet between you was filled with an unspoken understanding, a deepening of the connection that had sparked amidst the chaos.

When Vermithor landed, the soft thud of his massive body against the earth was both grounding and comforting. Jace helped you dismount, his hands steady and careful as he guided you down. The pain in your side flared with the sudden shift in position, but the presence of Jace, his unwavering support, provided a solace that tempered the discomfort.

"You did well today," he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of both praise and relief. "We’ll get you patched up and then, you can rest."

You nodded, feeling the exhaustion in every fiber of your being. As the maesters took over, tending to your wound with practiced efficiency, Jace remained close, his presence a steady source of comfort amidst the flurry of activity. The tenderness in his eyes, the concern etched into his features, spoke more than words ever could.

Addam made it a point to stay by your side, along with Jace and a bored Ulf.

Jace’s gaze was unwavering, his attention split between the maesters and you. His expression was a complex blend of concern and relief. Each time you glanced up, you found his eyes fixed on you, offering silent encouragement. His earlier sternness had softened, replaced by a more personal, almost tender vigilance.

Addam lingered nearby, his face showing a blend of gratitude and worry. Ulf, as usual, was there too, leaning against a nearby pole with a smirk that seemed to suggest he found the whole situation amusing.

“Just a flesh wound,” Ulf quipped, trying to lighten the mood as he fiddled with a small dagger. “You should see the other guy.”

Jace shot Ulf a sharp look, though the corner of his mouth twitched in a suppressed smile. “This isn’t a time for jokes, Ulf.”

“Just trying to make things less grim,” Ulf said with a shrug, though his voice lacked its usual bravado. “Can’t be all brooding and maudlin all the time.”

The maesters continued their work with a practiced efficiency, and soon enough, the immediate pain began to ebb. They wrapped your wound in clean bandages, applying a soothing ointment that smelled faintly of herbs. You winced slightly as they finished, but the relief was palpable.

Addam and Ulf were soon shooed out by Jace, who insisted on staying with you for a little while longer. The place was quiet, save for the occasional murmur of the halls. Jace sat beside your cot, his presence a calming constant as you drifted into a fitful sleep.

He stirred as you moved, his eyes moving to meet yours with a look of relieved affection. “How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice gentle and laced with concern.

“Better,” you replied, though your voice was hoarse. “Doesn’t hurt as much.”

Jace’s lips curled into a soft smile, though the exhaustion in his eyes was still evident. “That’s good.”

Jace’s smile was soft, a faint curve of his lips that warmed the exhaustion etched in his features. You could see the toll the weeks had taken on him – the weariness in his eyes, the lines of tension that hadn’t fully eased from his face. Yet, there was something else in his expression, a quiet relief, as if the sight of you awake and coherent had lifted a weight from his shoulders.

“Rest,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as though he feared disturbing the fragile peace that had settled over you both. “You need to regain your strength.”

You nodded, feeling the heaviness in your limbs, the dull throb in your side where the maesters had tended to your wound. The pain was still there, a constant reminder of the battle, but it had dulled to a manageable ache, thanks to their skilled hands and the calming presence of Jace at your side.

“Stay with me?” you asked, the words slipping out before you could think to hold them back.

Jace’s eyes softened further, a mix of tenderness and something deeper flickering in their depths. He didn’t answer right away, but the way he reached out, his hand finding yours and holding it gently, spoke volumes.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, his voice steady, unwavering. His thumb traced small circles on the back of your hand, a soothing gesture that matched the comforting rhythm of his breathing. “Not until you’re well, and even then...”

He trailed off, the sentence left unfinished, but the weight of his words lingered between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. Even then, he wouldn’t leave. Not unless you wanted him to.

The quiet that settled between you was different now, not the heavy silence of exhaustion and pain, but a peaceful, shared moment of understanding. The flickering light from the lantern cast soft shadows across Jace’s face, highlighting the sincerity in his eyes.

As your eyelids grew heavier, the warmth of his hand in yours, the steady rise and fall of his breath, became the last things you were conscious of before sleep claimed you once more. You knew, even as you slipped into the depths of rest, that when you awoke, he would still be there. His presence was an anchor, grounding you in a world that had been so violently upheaved.

And when you did wake again, hours later, the first thing you saw was Jace, still by your side, his head bowed in sleep, yet his hand never letting go of yours.

You stirred, the movement bringing a sharp reminder of your injury, but the pain was more bearable now, the throbbing a distant murmur rather than the sharp, immediate agony of the previous day.

Jace’s head was still bowed, his dark hair falling in disheveled strands over his forehead. He looked peaceful in his slumber, the tension of the past days momentarily eased. His fingers were still wrapped around yours, a quiet testament to the unspoken promise of support that had lingered through the night.

You shifted slightly, careful not to disturb him, and he stirred, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours. There was a moment of disoriented surprise in his gaze, quickly replaced by a soft, relieved smile.

He shifted slightly, brushing his hair back with his free hand. You tried to sit up a little, but the movement brought a wince of discomfort.

“Careful,” Jace said quickly, his hand tightening around yours. “Don’t overexert yourself.”

You nodded, sinking back into the pillows with a grateful sigh. 

“The maesters said you’ll need a stick to support you while you heal,” he repeated, glancing briefly at the corner of the room where a simple wooden staff leaned against the wall. “It’s just a precaution, but it should help ease the strain on your injury.”

“Thank you,” you said softly, squeezing Jace’s hand gently..

Jace’s eyes softened at your touch, his thumb brushing against your knuckles in a comforting rhythm. “I owe you many apologies” he said quietly.

The words seemed to carry a weight that went beyond the simple apology, touching on something deeper and more profound. “For the way I’ve treated you these past months.”

You blinked, surprised by the confession, but the sincerity in his voice was undeniable. You could see the turmoil reflected in his eyes, the shadows of frustration and regret that spoke of unspoken battles fought within himself.

“I’ve been... difficult,” Jace continued, his voice faltering slightly as he struggled to find the right words. “I let my envy and confusion cloud my judgment. I saw what you could do, what you were capable of, and instead of acknowledging it, I let my insecurities get in the way.”

You squeezed his hand gently, the gesture meant to offer comfort as he navigated his feelings. His admission was unexpected, but it spoke of a profound self-awareness and a willingness to confront his own failings.

“I was jealous,” he admitted, his voice growing quieter, almost lost amidst the soft rustle of the room. “And I didn’t know how to reconcile that with... what I felt.”

There was a raw honesty in his confession that made your heart ache. The realization that Jace’s harshness had stemmed from his own internal struggles added a layer of complexity to your understanding of him. It wasn’t just a matter of respect or authority – it was deeply personal.

You took a deep breath, letting his words settle within you. The apology was unexpected, but it was a crucial step toward understanding the shifting dynamics between you. The revelation of his jealousy and confusion didn’t excuse his actions, but it did offer a window into the complexity of his emotions.

Jace’s fingers tightened around yours as you spoke, the weight of your words mingling with the burden of his own revelations. The flickering lantern light cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the vulnerability that had become so evident in his gaze.

“I didn’t understand why you were so hard on me,” you continued, your voice steady despite the pain. “I felt like I was always under scrutiny, like my every move was being judged.”

“I know that my actions hurt you,” he continued, his voice soft yet firm. “And I regret that deeply.”

You let his words sink in, feeling the truth of them settle within you. There was still a part of you that carried the hurt from those months of tension and misunderstanding, but Jace’s willingness to confront his own flaws and his desire to make amends touched something deep inside you.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness right away,” he added, his voice a gentle murmur. “But I hope you’ll be able to see that I’m trying to change.”

You squeezed his hand again with a small nod of your head, his fingers moved to trace patterns over yours. 

________

The pain from your wound had dulled to a manageable ache, but the stiffness in your side reminded you of its presence with every movement. When you attempted to rise from your cot, the wooden staff Jace had spoken of the night before was already by your side, a silent companion to aid your steps.

You reached for it, and just as your fingers closed around the polished wood, Addam’s familiar face appeared by the door. 

“Morrow,” he said, his voice gentle as he offered his arm for support. “Council’s called. They want you there.”

You nodded, the weight of the day settling on your shoulders. “Help me up?”

With Addam’s help, you eased yourself to your feet, gripping the staff tightly as you found your balance. Your wound protested the movement, but you swallowed the discomfort, knowing that there was no time to indulge in weakness.

As you made your way to the council, each step was deliberate, measured by the steady rhythm of your staff tapping against the ground. Addam’s presence beside you was a comfort, his hand hovering near your elbow in case you faltered. 

The council tent was already filled with the familiar faces of your comrades. The air inside was thick with the weight of decisions yet to be made, the tension palpable as discussions buzzed low and serious. Jace stood near the center, his back straight and his demeanor composed, though his eyes softened when they found you.

“Glad you could join us,” he said quietly as you approached, his gaze flickering briefly to your staff before returning to your face. There was no trace of the vulnerability he’d shown you the night before, but you could sense the shift in his demeanor, a gentleness that hadn’t been there before.

You nodded in response, taking your place at the table with a small sigh of relief as you eased into the chair. The council members turned their attention to you, the murmurs quieting as they awaited your input.

One of the older commanders spoke first, his voice gruff yet tinged with concern. “Given your injury, it’s too risky to have you ride Vermithor into battle. We need you to recover fully before you’re back in the field.”

The words, though pragmatic, carried a sting of frustration. You’d always been one to lead from the front, to be where the action was fiercest. But you also knew that, in your current state, pushing yourself too hard could lead to greater harm.

“What do you suggest?” you asked, your tone even despite the undercurrent of disappointment.

Jace stepped forward, his expression thoughtful. “There’s another task we need handled – something that doesn’t involve direct combat but is crucial to our strategy. We’ve received reports that the mood among the smallfolk in King’s Landing has been... shifting. We need to gather information on their sentiments, to understand what’s happening within the city walls.”

You frowned slightly, considering the implications. The smallfolk’s loyalty could be a powerful force, swaying the tides of public opinion and, by extension, the decisions of those in power. If unrest was brewing in King’s Landing, it could be both an opportunity and a threat.

“And you want me to go to King’s Landing?” you asked, the weight of the task settling in your chest.

Jace nodded, his gaze steady on yours. “You and I will go together.”

You held back the smallest of smiles that urged to show on your face at the thought of being paired up with Jace again, this time in a more calm setting. 

A murmur of agreement passed through the council, and the meeting continued with discussions of logistics and preparations for the journey. Jace remained close, his presence a steadying force as the details were ironed out.

As the council dispersed, and you found yourself standing once more with the support of your staff, Jace lingered beside you. 

“If you feel it’s too arduous, you must rest.” he said softly, his concern evident even through his professional demeanor. “We’ll take it slowly. I’d rather have you well than risk aggravating your injury.”

You nodded, appreciating the care in his voice. “I’ll manage,” you assured him, though the stiffness in your side was a persistent reminder of your limits.

The pre-dawn air was crisp as you and Jace prepared for your covert mission to King's Landing. You both donned simple, nondescript clothing, far removed from your usual attire. Over these, you draped heavy cloaks with deep hoods, the fabric rough but ideal for blending in with common folk.

Jace handed you a length of cloth, his eyes meeting yours briefly. "For your face," he explained, demonstrating by wrapping a similar piece around the lower half of his own face. 

You took the cloth from him, your fingers brushing against his as you did. The touch was fleeting, but it carried a spark that sent a subtle shiver down your spine. The intimacy of the moment, the proximity of his body to yours, made your heart race. You felt the warmth of his breath against your cheek as he helped you adjust the cloth, and the proximity stirred a deep, unexpected longing.

The cloth was soft and slightly coarse, its earthy hue blending with the dark colors of your cloak. Jace’s fingers were gentle as he wrapped it around your face, his touch both firm and tender. You could feel the heat of his body radiating against your side, a stark contrast to the cool morning air.

As he finished securing the cloth, his hands lingered just a moment longer than necessary, his fingers grazing the edges of the fabric with a lingering touch that made your breath hitch. His face was close to yours, his eyes focused intently on the task at hand, yet you could sense the subtle intensity in his gaze.

"There," he said softly, his voice carrying a reassuring warmth. "Now we’re ready."

You nodded, trying to steady your racing heartbeat. The closeness of his presence was intoxicating, and you struggled to mask the flush that crept up your cheeks. The brush of his fingers, the warmth of his breath, it all conspired to make the moment feel charged and intimate.

Jace stepped back, his eyes sweeping over you with a quick, assessing glance. The softness in his gaze was tinged with something more, something that mirrored the emotions roiling within you. The air between you felt charged, heavy with unspoken feelings and a shared understanding.

With a final nod, you both made your way to the stables. Jace mounted Vermax first, then extended his hand to help you up. You settled behind him on the saddle, your arms instinctively wrapping around his waist for security.

"Hold on tight," Jace murmured, his body tense against yours as Vermax spread his wings. “Tap my shoulder if you’re hurting.”

With a powerful leap, Vermax took to the air. The sudden rush of wind threatened to tear away your hood, but you held it in place with one hand, the other still firmly gripped around Jace. As Dragonstone fell away beneath you, the vastness of the sea stretched out ahead.

The journey was mostly silent, the wind too loud for easy conversation. But there was a palpable tension in the way Jace's body remained rigid, alert to any potential danger. Your own senses were heightened, aware of every shift of the dragon beneath you and every subtle movement of Jace's body.

As you and Jace approached the gates of King's Landing on foot, having left Vermax far behind, the bustling crowds provided excellent cover. You both adjusted your disguises one last time, exchanging a nervous glance.

"You feeling alright?" Jace murmured, his voice low.

You nodded, feeling a flutter of nervous energy. As you joined the flow of people entering the city, you stayed close to Jace, your shoulders occasionally brushing. The guards at the gate seemed bored and distracted, barely glancing at the steady stream of travelers.

Jace placed a protective hand on your lower back as you passed through the gate, guiding you forward. The touch, though brief, sent a jolt through you. You caught his eye, seeing a flicker of something intense in his gaze before he looked away.

Once inside, you both breathed a sigh of relief, stepping to the side of the busy street. Jace leaned in close, ostensibly to adjust your cloak, but his proximity made your heart race.

“We should make a stop at a tavern first, so you can sit. Maybe have something to refresh ourselves with.��

Jace guided you with practiced ease, weaving through the throng of people while keeping you close. The weight of his hand on your back was reassuring, and every now and then, his fingers would brush against your side, a gesture both casual and intimate.

The tavern Jace chose was a modest, unassuming place nestled between larger buildings. As you entered, the warm, dimly lit interior was a welcome contrast to the cool morning air. The scent of ale and roasted meat mingled with the faint aroma of wood smoke, creating an atmosphere of comfortable familiarity.

Jace led you to a quiet corner, away from the main hustle of the tavern. You eased into a seat with a sigh of relief, the discomfort in your side lessening as you finally rested. Jace took a seat opposite you, his gaze scanning the room with a practiced vigilance.

Jace ordered two simple meals and a couple of mugs of ale as you shifted to comfort for your wound. As the innkeeper went off to prepare the order, Jace’s attention returned to you.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, his voice low and filled with concern.

You managed a small smile. “I’m alright. Just glad to be off my feet for a bit.”

Jace’s gaze softened, a mix of relief and admiration in his eyes. He reached across the table, his hand brushing against yours for a brief moment. His thumb lightly grazed your fingers, a gesture so intimate that it sent a shiver down your spine.

“I’m sorry if this is uncomfortable,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t realize how strenuous it would be.”

“It’s not too bad,” you assured him, though the truth was that the strain of the journey was wearing on you. 

As you ate, Jace continued to observe the room with a watchful eye. His attention was sharp, taking in every detail of the patrons and their conversations. You could sense his focus, his determination to gather information amidst the seemingly mundane activity of the tavern.

You hoped that no one recognized the prince while his face was uncovered by the cloth. A few curly strands had fallen to his forehead, revealing more of his features. He was a handsome man, it was a known fact about him, and the thought of being recognized made your stomach turn in anxiety. 

“So, what are we looking for?” you asked, breaking the silence.

He took a moment to gather his thoughts, his expression serious. The warm glow of the tavern's lanterns cast flickering shadows on his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his features and the intensity in his eyes.

“We need to listen for any hints of unrest or dissatisfaction among the smallfolk,” he began, his voice low and deliberate. “Rumors, complaints, anything that might suggest a shift in public sentiment. It could give us a clearer picture of the stance in the city and help us understand if there’s something brewing beneath the surface.”

As you ate, the door to the tavern swung open, allowing a gust of cool air to sweep through the room. You glanced up to see a man storming in, his face flushed with anger. He was a burly figure, his clothes worn out and his expression set in a scowl.

The man approached the bar with a determined stride, his voice rising above the murmur of the tavern. “I’ve had it with this place!” he roared, slamming a mug onto the counter. “The food’s been slacking for weeks, and I’m sick of excuses!”

The innkeeper, a wiry girl with a tired look in her eyes, tried to placate him. “We’re doing the best we can,” she said, her voice strained. “The shortage of resources is affecting everyone. The prince regent’s policies–”

“The prince regent!” the angry man interrupted, his voice filled with scorn. 

Jace’s attention snapped to the scene, his eyes narrowing as he listened intently. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened as he processed the man’s outburst.

The innkeeper, looking flustered, tried to calm the man down. “I’m just a servant of the Crown’s orders. It’s not my fault–”

“It’s not just your fault!” the man retorted, his anger palpable. “But you’re the one we have to deal with every day. We’re struggling out here, and all we hear are excuses. The prince regent’s policies are driving us to the edge!”

Jace’s expression hardened, his eyes locked on the angry man. 

You glanced at Jace, catching the flicker of determination in his eyes. He seemed to be weighing the implications of the man’s words, his mind clearly racing with thoughts and strategies.

“Sounds like we’ve hit a nerve,” you murmured, leaning in slightly so Jace could hear over the ambient noise.

Jace nodded, his gaze never leaving the scene at the bar. 

Eventually, after what seemed like ages of complaints from the man, still fuming, he stormed out of the tavern, leaving behind a trail of murmured conversations and uneasy glances.

After a while, Jace signaled for you to leave, and you both prepared to make your way back to the safety of your lodgings. The streets of King’s Landing were still bustling with activity, but the weight of the information you had gathered hung heavily in the air.

As you exited the tavern and stepped back into the cool evening air, Jace’s hand once again found its place on your lower back, guiding you through the crowded streets.

You, leaning on your staff, moved with a deliberate pace. Despite the comfort of the bustling market, you still felt the nagging stiffness from your wound. 

At one stall, a vendor with a grizzled beard and a jovial demeanor was offering stolen gems. Jace nudged you gently, a subtle invitation to enjoy the brief moment of everyday pleasure.

The vendor, noticing Jace’s interest, gave a friendly nod. “Good day to you both,” he said, his voice warm. “Fine weather for shopping, isn’t it?”

You leaned closer, examining the gems with an appreciative eye. The sunlight caught their facets, casting brief, colorful reflections on the stall’s wooden surface. Despite the circumstances, there was a certain charm in the way these stolen treasures seemed to capture the essence of the market’s spirit, although you could hear people’s desperation for the merchant’s fish only a few feet away.

Jace’s hand brushed against yours as he reached for a particularly vibrant sapphire. You looked up to find him watching you with a soft smile, his gaze carrying a hint of mischief.

“You want it?” Jace’s smile widened slightly, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “If you like it, it’s yours.”

The vendor’s eyes widened, anticipation for some coins evident on his face.

“It’s beautiful,” you said, your voice tinged with genuine admiration. 

Jace’s hand lingered near yours, the closeness of his touch amplifying the warmth you felt. “Then it’s yours,” he said, his voice playful yet sincere. “A small token of appreciation for your help today.”

The vendor, still eagerly watching, cleared his throat. “Aye, a fine piece it is.”

You glanced at the vendor, then back at Jace, your heart fluttering at the simple act of kindness. “Are you sure?” you asked, though the gleam in Jace’s eyes made it clear he was entirely serious.

Jace nodded, his smile unwavering. “Absolutely. Consider it a gesture of gratitude.”

You took the sapphire, feeling its cool weight in your hand. The vendor’s grin widened, clearly pleased with the transaction.

“Thank you,” you said softly to Jace, feeling a surge of affection for him. Although half of his face was covered, you could see his eyes wrinkle up to a smile as he handed coins to the vendor, mumbling something and giving him some extra ones.

As the day wore on, you and Jace moved through the city, gathering snippets of conversation and avoiding contact with any guards. The bustling market you had enjoyed was quickly becoming a place of hurried whispers and hasty exits. The clamor of vendors packing up and the hurried footsteps of people hurrying to their homes filled the air.

Jace's hand was firmly clasped around yours, his grip tightening as he guided you through the crowded streets. The sudden presence of guards moving purposefully through the city sent waves of unease through the crowd. Their commanding voices and stern expressions made it clear that they were enforcing an early curfew.

"Come on," Jace urged, his voice urgent but low. “This way.”

He guided you swiftly through the narrowing alleys, his grip firm and reassuring. The streets, once crowded and lively, were now eerily quiet as people hurried to their homes. You could hear the clanging of armor and the distant shouts of the guards as they enforced the curfew.

Jace led you down a narrow alley, its walls closing in around you. The dim light filtered through the high buildings, casting long shadows on the cobblestones. As you reached a secluded corner, Jace pulled you behind a stack of crates, his eyes scanning the alleyway for any sign of pursuit.

The proximity of his body, the urgency of the situation, and the adrenaline coursing through you all combined to create a heady mix of emotions. You could feel the warmth of his breath on your face, his heart pounding against yours.

You panted, the wound stinging at your side because of the running and the lack of rest during the day. When he noticed you wincing, almost wailing in pain, he softly shushed you.

“We need to stay quiet,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath.

You nodded, your heart racing not just from the danger but from the intense closeness of the moment. His gaze locked with yours, a look of fierce determination mingled with something deeper, more intimate.

As the sounds of the guards faded into the distance, the tension between you and Jace grew palpable. His eyes softened, a flicker of something that went beyond the urgency of the situation. The world seemed to shrink to just the two of you in that narrow, dimly lit alley.

He leaned in, moving the cloth away from his mouth, reaching for yours as well. His breath warm against your ear as he spoke in urgent, whispering tones. “Are you alright?” His voice was barely more than a murmur, filled with concern.

You nodded, though it was clear that the pain was sharp. “Just... give me a moment,” you whispered back, trying to keep your voice steady despite the throb in your side. You could feel the steady pulse of Jace's heartbeat through the proximity, each beat syncing with the rhythm of your own nervous pulse.

Jace’s hand rested lightly on your shoulder, his touch gentle but firm, offering support. “We’ll stay here until the coast is clear,” he said, his tone soothing as he kept a vigilant watch over the alley. His fingers traced a comforting pattern on your back, the touch both grounding and tender.

The closeness of his body was overwhelming. The small space behind the crates allowed for little separation, and the soft brush of his clothing against your skin was electrifying. Every shift, every breath, seemed amplified, drawing your attention to the intimacy of the moment. The warmth of his body against yours was both reassuring and intensely distracting.

You caught the flicker of his eyes as he turned to face you, their intensity softened by concern. “I didn’t mean to push you too hard,” he said softly, his voice trembling slightly. “I just... I want to make sure you’re safe.”

You met his gaze, your heart racing for reasons that went beyond the danger of the situation. “I’m fine,” you whispered, though the truth was that the pain was more pronounced due to the adrenaline and anxiety coursing through you. “It’s just... the pain.”

His fingers tightened slightly on your shoulder, his thumb brushing against your neck in a soothing motion. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“It’s not your fault,” you assured him, your voice faltering slightly as the proximity made it hard to focus. 

Jace’s gaze lingered on yours, his breath mingling with yours in the narrow space. The intensity of the moment, the urgency of their escape, and the closeness of his body created a charged atmosphere that made your heart pound. His face was mere inches from yours, his eyes locked with yours in a silent exchange that spoke of shared emotions and a growing connection.

As the pain in your side began to dull slightly, you allowed yourself to relax, if only a little. The tension in your muscles eased, and you leaned slightly into Jace’s comforting presence. The tight quarters of the alleyway seemed to shrink even further, narrowing the world down to just the two of you.

Jace took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. “Once the guards are gone, we’ll move again. But for now, we must stay quiet and keep ourselves hidden.”

Minutes passed in quiet anticipation, the sounds of the city’s night life serving as a backdrop to the cocoon of intimacy you shared. The pain in your side slowly became a more distant murmur, overshadowed by the electric closeness of Jace’s body and the warmth of his gaze. The sounds of the street faded into silence, the only faint sounds coming from the tavern’s glass clinking from some of the guards and the brothel. 

You found yourself leaning into his touch, your body responding to the warmth and closeness in ways you were trying to suppress. The soft brush of his clothing against yours, the gentle pressure of his hand, and the heat of his body made it almost impossible to focus on anything but the way he made you feel. His proximity, the intensity of his gaze, and the intimate setting created a heady mix of desire and connection.

As the silence stretched between you, the world outside seemed to blur, leaving just the two of you in the narrow alley. The flickering light from the street cast shadows across Jace’s face, highlighting the sharp angles and soft contours of his features.

You tried to suppress the wave of desire that surged through you, reminding yourself of the critical nature of your mission. The sensation of his hand on your shoulder, the warmth of his body, and the closeness of his gaze created a magnetic pull that was difficult to resist. 

You shifted slightly, attempting to distance yourself from the overwhelming proximity and regain some semblance of control.

His thumb continued to brush lightly against your neck, a tender gesture that seemed to defy the urgency of the situation. “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked again, his voice a soft murmur that carried an undercurrent of worry and care.

You nodded, though your voice was barely more than a whisper. “I’m... I’m fine,” you managed to say, though the truth was that the proximity was making it harder to think clearly. “Just need a moment.”

Jace’s eyes searched yours with a mix of worry and something deeper, his thumb brushing against your neck in a tender, soothing motion.

“Are you sure you’re alright–” he began, his voice barely above a whisper, when you, feeling overwhelmed by the closeness and the surge of emotions, took a breath and made a decision.

You leaned in, closing the small distance between you. Before either of you could fully comprehend what was happening, your lips met his. The kiss was sudden, fueled by the intensity of the moment, and it seemed to silence the world around you. His eyes widened in surprise, but that shock quickly gave way to something more primal and eager.

Jace’s response was immediate and fervent. His hand, which had been gently resting on your shoulder, slid to your neck, pulling you closer. The kiss deepened as his lips moved against yours with a hungry, passionate urgency. You could feel the heat of his body, the thrum of his heartbeat, and the way his touch seemed to electrify every nerve in your body.

Jace's hands gripped you with a fervor that matched the intensity of the kiss, his fingers pressing into your back as if to draw you even closer. His mouth moved with a determined, almost desperate rhythm, as though he wanted to savor every second of this unexpected, profound intimacy.

Jace’s tongue brushed against yours, the sensation sending a shiver down your spine. His kiss was a torrid mix of heat and longing, each touch of his lips and flick of his tongue adding to the overwhelming intensity. His hands, now gripping your back with a firm, almost possessive hold, pulled you closer, making every brush of his skin against yours feel electric. 

The desperation in his movements matched the deep, primal need that surged between you.

You felt his breath coming in quick, ragged bursts, mingling with yours as the kiss grew even more fervent. His lips were warm and demanding, parting yours with a force that made your heart race faster. The kiss was wet and passionate, a tangle of tongues and fervor that made it impossible to think of anything but the overwhelming need you both seemed to share.

Jace's hands roamed over your back and neck, his touch both urgent and tender, as if trying to convey everything he felt in that single, intense connection. The closeness of his body against yours, the heat radiating from him, and the rhythmic pulse of his heartbeat created a heady mix of sensations that made the kiss feel all-consuming.

Managing to pull off the hood of his cloak, your hands found their way to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft, tousled strands as you pulled him closer, the heat of his body pressing against yours.

When you finally broke apart, both of you gasping for air, the alleyway seemed to have transformed. The dim light from the street filtered through the narrow passage, casting an ethereal glow on Jace’s face, which was now flushed with a mix of surprise and desire.

He looked at you with a mix of wonder and urgency, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “I–” he started, but his words faltered as he struggled to regain his composure.

You met his gaze, feeling a rush of vulnerability and exhilaration. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, though you knew the apology was unnecessary. The kiss had been as much for you as it had been for him, a release of pent-up emotions that had been building between you.

Jace’s expression softened, and he shook his head slightly, a small, almost sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t be,” he murmured, his voice low and intense. 

Finally, the sounds of the guards’ patrol receded into the distance, leaving you and Jace in a quieter, more serene moment. 

“We need to...” you whispered, your voice trailing off as you tried to regain your composure.

Jace nodded, his expression a mix of determination and tenderness. “Yes,” he said softly, his voice carrying a new, intense undertone.

With a final, lingering look, Jace stepped back, his hand sliding reluctantly from your back. The warmth of his touch lingered, a reminder of the connection you had just shared. He straightened his cloak and adjusted the fabric around his face, ensuring that his disguise remained intact.

You did the same, pulling your hood back up and securing it around your face. The urgency of the situation reasserted itself as the sound of footsteps echoed faintly in the distance, a reminder that the city’s dangers were far from over.

Jace took your hand once more, his grip firm but gentle. “We’ll need to move quickly,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Follow me.”

You both reached the city gates with a cautious optimism. The guards were preoccupied with a scene unfolding nearby – a drunken man who refused to leave the gate area and kept stumbling into their path, much to their exasperation. The guards’ frustration provided a crucial distraction, offering you a window of opportunity to slip past them.

Vermax’s eyes glowed softly as he recognized you both, and with a gentle nudge of his snout, the dragon seemed to sense the urgency of your return.

As Dragonstone’s silhouette loomed on the horizon, you could feel the weight of the long day lifting, exhaustion taking over you. 

The familiar surroundings of Dragonstone welcomed you, the cold stone walls and the scent of the sea providing a comforting reminder of home.

You both took a moment to gather yourselves, the quiet of the castle grounds a soothing balm after the frenetic pace of the night. Jace’s gaze lingered on you, a soft smile playing at his lips as he took in the relief and exhaustion etched on your face.

“Get some rest,” he repeated, his voice gentle. “I’ll check in on you later.”

Neither of you made a move to leave. Instead, Jace stepped closer, mumbling. “I hope this is alright, too.”

Before you could fully process his intent, he leaned in again, his lips finding yours with a gentleness that belied the urgency of the situation. The kiss was soft and lingering, a tender caress that conveyed more than words ever could. His lips moved against yours with a slow, deliberate warmth, each touch a reminder of the connection you had shared in the alley.

You responded with equal tenderness, your hands reaching up to cup his face as you deepened the kiss. The warmth of his breath, the softness of his lips, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat created a cocoon of intimacy that was both comforting and exhilarating. The kiss was a balm for the exhaustion and the stress, a moment of pure, unguarded connection amidst the chaos.

“I’ll be here if you need me.” he said again, his voice a soft whisper as he brushed a stray lock of hair from your face. 

You nodded. With a final, lingering glance, Jace stepped back, his hand slipping from yours as he watched you make your way into the castle.

The echo of Jace’s voice, soft and reassuring, lingered as you made your way into the castle. Each step felt heavier with the weight of the day’s trials and the emotional intensity you had just shared. 

As you lay in bed, the soft rustle of the linens was the only sound breaking the stillness. The warmth from the fire seeped into the room, and you found solace in the quiet. The day’s exhaustion made your limbs heavy, and the steady rhythm of your breathing gradually lulled you toward sleep.

[pranabefall]

ノㅤQINGXIN IN THE MOUNTAIN ;; zhongli.

syn. [ 14.9K ] while the divine war rages on, you find yourself entangled in the company of a wounded god. reservations or not, you don't have the heart to let someone dies on your watch. or in which, morax finds himself in the presence of a secluded human..

CONTENT WARNINGS. beta read, long oneshot like seriously it's over 14k, mentions of war and past death, seclusion and wounds. this work contains 18+ contents so minors, you know the drill, unprotected sex, half-dragon zhongli, so yes there's two of them, reader has no gendered pronouns but has female parts, 4k words worth of smut guys get ready. REPOSTED FROM OLD ACCOUNT.

ENTRIES. while we wait for me to finish off with my current wip, i thought of reposting some of my favorite works from my old account before privating it kijhgbhj. this work has been marked mature. readers below the age of 18 / ageless blogs, do not interact. any individual who is not a legal adult or has an age indicator on their page will be blocked without further notice.

“i love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. i love you simply, without problems or pride: i love you in this way because i do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no i or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”

— PABLO NERUDA.

Curiosity , you learned, was a reckless maverick in every right. Your mother told you of its consequences, of the people who wandered too far from the safety of your village and the watchful eye of your deity, and she told you of their death and the disaster they reaped alongside it.

Curiosity was what cost you — and you knew , you knew better than to indulge in its traitorous little tug when you wake, the scent of petrichor in abundance and the chill of a rainstorm’s aftermath prickling your skin. 

“Forget about it.” you tell yourself when you rub the sleep out of your eyes. 

“Forget about it.” you tell the reflection staring up at you, her brows furrowed with a familiar sternness. It scatters when you dip your hands into the basin, the icy water stinging your fingertips.

“Forget about it.” you breathe out as you lean against the doorframe of your small home, staring out at the expanse of green and the fog that had settled a few feet below.

Yet here you were , scaling down a mossy slope, your bare feet damp from the dew it trod over and your hair still messy from your sleep. You could dimly recall something the previous night between the rains, between the crash of thunder and the crackle of lightning. It was a sound too distinct and out of place in a storm, something akin to the beginnings of an earthquake before an unknown force cuts its life short.

Your head swivels to the side. You couldn’t see much past the mist save for what was in front of you and you clamber down with a little more prudence till the ground evens out a bit more and the screen before you dissipates. You could see nothing out of place, save for a few upturned trees and your shoulders slump. It was all for nothing , you realize and a tinier voice dares to whisper a spiteful little ‘dammit’ .

You turn, casting one last glance over the clearing, then make your way back uphill. It was a wasted attempt and as you stew in your own self-berating and disappointment, you almost miss the faint crackle behind you. It was just the wind , you reason. There was little cause for it to be anything else. What could possibly make its way up here ?

When you hear it a second time, you freeze, something cold jolting at your bones.

Well shit .

It doesn’t take too long to find the source, save for trudging through the mud and a few of the murkier parts past the tree line — but you find it by the time the sun shifts the barest fraction to the west..

“ Ah — ” was the most your throat could choke out as shock swallowed you whole, like ice water.

There is a trail of gold on the earth, and it leads up to the slumped form of a man, his robes stained with the same gilted shade and his breath leaving shallow puffs of air where he lay, motionless and seemingly dead.

Well — fucking — shit . You mind shudders, your thoughts screaming and splitting up against your head like some panicked beast. It was chaos at its core, it was the frenzied scrape of control.

You were no fool. The man before you, both massive in frame and presence, was one amongst the hundreds of those touched by divinity — god or not — whose names were uttered and praised amidst this war. There was nothing distinctly human about him; not his clothes, not the horns that curled atop his skull and the brown scales smattered across, not the ichor he bled out — nothing .

For a moment, or maybe more, you stare down at him, long and hard as you try to wrangle your rationality back and think of what move to make. You could not afford the trouble that comes with aiding a foreign being and the land you settled on could house any force hostile to the man at your feet. A shaky breath escapes, then another. You were trembling now, just a little, daring to take a step back, then one more.

Kill him , another voice snaps. It was twisted and its words breathed acrid revulsion. Get it over with, he’s not worth the pain.

You consider it, for the tiniest bit of a second till he lets out a shudder and shifts with tense shoulders, his grunts labored and streaked with muted agony — those darker thoughts quickly flatline to scattered anxiety and the hand that brushes the blade at your hip falls limp. Not now, perhaps . You could just leave him here, let nature run its course.

You could do that , you decide with a semblance of confidence.

Of course you could.

Of course .

Your shuffling comes to a stop and you're backtracking immediately, your pace holding an urgent bounce with every step. There is a feverish jerk to your movements when you settle beside him, and a storm of emotions raging in your chest. It does little to ease you — little does, these days — and you press up on his shoulders in an attempt to roll him over onto his back.

It happens so swiftly, a blur of gold and black that shadowed your periphery before you were slammed down with eyes like uncut cor lapis glaring down at you. You scramble, clawing at your neck, at the digits pressed up against your windpipe and your pulse and it beats faster and faster and faster . One tiny move and you’d be left for dead.

( A part of you is stunned — for even wounded and weakened from some unknown, unspoken battle, the quavering power within him seemed to beat strong. You feel a mix of thrilled awe and terror turn in your stomach. )

His gaze hardly falters, roving at your form before his grasp on you releases and he mutters something akin to an apology, collapsing again. His eyes were still open, watching you beneath a haze of pain and deliriousness, stiffening now and then when you so much as move. The strength he showed, no matter how small it was, is gone and there is the slightest hint of vulnerability beneath the stripped layers of stone.

Your instincts scream at you to run yet you stay rooted in place, coming to sit up and hover by his side. In the end, your own concern and pity won out. “Y-you’re wounded.” you try to reason, only to be met with a grunt. You find yourself wincing as you stutter over your words, your voice hoarse from months of disuse. “Please, l-let me help. My h-home is c-close b-by.” 

Feeble , you chide yourself amidst it all, old, old regrets tearing at your mind and clawing at your thoughts. You shut your eyes, letting your muscles relax and you try again.

Tugging at his arm serves to be fruitless. He was too large for you to carry over and your first attempt gives that away well enough. The gold in his veins seems to dim with the passage of time and you fear his life slipping away under your watch. “I n-need you to w-walk…” your plea is almost caught in your throat and you have to wrench it out to let it be heard. He tilts his head your way. “You’re too h-heavy…” you try to reason.

Another grunt sounds out and thankfully , his form rises. You’re quick to move to his side, supporting him against your shoulder, the thrum of elemental energy strong beneath your hold. He practically oozed it and it feels like what the storm felt like — the trembling earth itself.

You don’t say much after that, leading him back to your home, your hand and clothes staining a bright gold.

Perhaps your house would have been a little cleaner had you known you’d have a guest over. When you lead the the being inside, you scan the small space with a sense of perplexity, hoping he wouldn’t scrutinize the sight too much ( your mother always seemed to emphasize the need for a well kept living space — should she see you now, you know she’d be rolling in her grave with indignity ).

He stumbles a little, letting out a guttural snarl and you flinch, almost dropping his weight onto the floor when you feel claws close down on your arm and press against your scarred skin. You hiss softly and he gives a little jolt, his hold on you releasing, leaving little but the crumpled sleeve of your tunic behind. 

“How much — ” he cannot finish the sentence, his nose wrinkling up and he almost looks a little feral underneath the light. 

“Just a l-little more.” you assure, cracking the barest of smiles as you cross the room and lay him down on your bedroll. He was tall enough as is, and you think his horns would scrape up against the ceiling of this house should he stand upright. 

The bedroll itself was pathetically small beneath him, but you couldn’t throw a fuss about it, working away at his clothes in relative silence, steeling yourself up in preparation for the worst. 

The clasps and the belts and sashes are undone by nimble fingers and as the layers peel away, you come to a stop. It was not a pretty sight, his wounds, the clawed lacerations criss crossing across his torso like patchwork. You doubt you could salvage much and you almost give up at the spot, pulling away the rest of his clothing. The worst one splits across his chest and you look to the side, battling out the vertigo and the nausea threatening to creep up. 

He’d have been dead at this point, had the blood in his veins be that of a mortal’s and not something inhuman. In some convoluted sense, he was lucky.

Stop cowering , you hiss internally. Pull yourself together .

The sound of rustling clothes is all you could hear after, followed by the clinking of metal and the sharp tang of alcohol. Your movements are almost robotic — and you had done this plenty of times before, cleaning the wounds of children and soldiers. But this wasn’t home and you doubt any soothing words would stoke at the feelings of a god. 

When you return to his side, his forehead is damp with sweat.

“ Shit — ”

His skin was warm . Could an immortal being fall ill? Was that even a possibility?

“I will be fine.” he rasps out and you jump, snapping his way as you hold the clothes closer to your chest in defense. He turns his head, peering at you and you think you see a stubborn glimmer beneath the usual masked strain and impassivity. “My wounds will heal in time…I…only seek shelter till they do…”

“Absolutely n-not.” you reply, splaying your palm out on his stomach to keep him still as you clean away the dirt and dried blood. The shallower wounds were slowly closing up again. “You’re in no state to argue right now.”

His mouth twitches and there is a momentary flash of teeth. You try not to let it frazzle you as much despite his initial protest, your movements slowing to a more delicate pace as you bathe the worst of his lesions till you were satisfied with the lack of dirt caking his body. “It seems choice no longer holds to be a luxury.” he utters under his breath.

“No.” you agree. “It does not.”

He falls silent, a petulant turn on his lips. “Are you a healer?” he asks. You bow down, unwinding the linen wraps you had stored away.

“My mother was.” you finally admit, your posture straightening. “I learned what I could from her to aid the people in my village. I never studied medicine formally, however…” you trail off. Talking seems to grow a little easier the more you speak. The hoarseness was slowly giving way and your stuttering grew less frequent.

“And I take it you shall try to help me as you do with any other human?” there was a sardonic sort of amusement in his tone that has you bristling. “Your medicines and methods will not work on an Adeptus. Put your tools away, you only waste your time.

“Adeptus…so you hail from the settlement south of Mt. Tianheng?”

“You’re ignoring my words,” he accuses. You bat your lashes at him innocently.

“Small talk.” you shrug. “You can tell me everything you want after I’m done tending to you.” you meet his gaze, tumultuous gold melded with an orange-red. He narrows his eyes, his unfocused vision scanning you, then the house, then at the bandages you held before he leans his head back with a defeated sigh.

By the time you conclude your task, he has fallen unconscious, his breathing deep and his heartbeat unnaturally slow for a human. You look down at your ruined clothing, at the stains at the hem of your tunic and at the sleeves and you hope you can salvage what you can from this, moving on to change out of them and fish out a cleaner pair of clothes. 

The smell of petrichor still persists through the day, the sky brewing with the makings of a new storm. Perhaps you had lost track of time and the monsoons were sitting in sooner than expected and you move on to salvage whatever you’d left outside to dry and board your windows up for the incoming onslaught.

The man wakes when night falls, form set aglow against the dim lamp light. 

“Let’s change your bandages.” you offer. He doesn’t protest this time, painfully sitting himself up with gritted teeth as you get back to work. His skin still radiates that uncomfortable temperature as you press up against it. You might need to get a wet rag ready lest he overheats

He speaks after the silence persists. “You shouldn’t see me like this.” it comes out as a whisper so soft, you almost miss it. His face however holds a distant look, with a hint of disappointment lurking within and you tug at the linen a little harder. You’ve heard that before, from the lips of men and women who had too much to hold and little weakness to show. You wonder what it would entail for a warrior, or a being whose years spanned farther than yours, to sink as low before a stranger.

It must be hard.

“We all get hurt sometimes.” you smile, hoping to lighten the air with a bit of humor ( it was getting too heavy, the air in the room ). “I’ve lost count of the number of times I've hit my head…and you think I'd be a little more cautious given my studies…”

A poor joke stays a poor joke no matter the delivery ( and yours was weak to begin with ). He does not say or do much, save for a slight twitch in his jaw and an unamused tilt in his head. You shrink back, skittishly throwing his used bandages aside in favor of new ones with a hasty “Nevermind.” on your tongue. 

“Do you truely not know who I am?” he asks, his touch skimming the sheets absently. You shake your head, confusion and that damned curiosity slowly lurking and clawing its way to the light. You want to stamp the ugly feeling down and out of sight. You try to. It does not disappear. He continues, “What of the civilization south of Tianheng?”

A shrug was the most you could manage. You guess that was where he hails from. “I know it’s the domain of a geo god, and that beings touched by longevity, ally beside him. “My old home is far, however, and our god hid us away from the world…my knowledge on this is sparse.” 

You’re almost ashamed to admit it, to acknowledge the bubble you had grown within, accepting the suffering of the men and women who ventured out and returned with broken bodies you and your mother had to fix. You weren’t sure what sort of terrible dichotomy it was, to live in ignorance amidst blatant horror and blood, and you don’t wish to return to it.

He seems to take this in, his eyes training up at the ceiling, then upon you with a lidded stare. “Who was your god?”

The icy set to your jaw was a hint he picks up on and he does not further the topic.

“...I am from there…from Liyue.” he says instead, in recollection of your previous question. The settlement was a distance from here, a few days worth of journeying by cart and hardly worth the risk of the travel with the demons that lurk and the gods that warred.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

His lips curl again, but it’s less of a grimace and more of a smile, his fangs tucked away to show a visage less feral, less dangerous. You find yourself relaxing a bit more unconsciously, seemingly charmed by this simple action ( and the thought almost scares you ). “What is your name, mortal?”

Ah, he wasn’t going to make this easy. You’re tempted to tug on his bandages a little harder if only to spite him.

You don’t reply till you are done with your chore and you lean back, massaging your stiff fingers. Your name slips out of your lips then, the action feeling natural in defiance of the years spent hardly having a friendly face within your home, save the occasional traveler. The adeptus seems satisfied. “You may call me Zhongli.” he replies, his voice softer, raspier.

“Zhongli.” you repeat. Zhongli .

There is a rustle of fabric and his fingertips brush against yours, the touch nearly having your arm lurch back in muted shock. He seems unphased but you — you watch a soft light shimmer through the dimness of your walls. When it fades, a single visage of gold stares back.

“It’s your reward. For aiding me.” there is a medley of pride and contentment and you liken it to that of a child offering a messily put together gift. Gold is coveted by most, but has little use here, and you have little use for it. But the gift is still cupped within your hands and you hold it as if it is something precious.

( Oh, your heart trembled just a bit and you feel a lump grow in your throat, bigger and bigger till you dip your head down out of his line of sight. )

His eyes bear down on you harder, set aglow and unyielding.

You smile to hide your trembling frame, thoughts revolting within your mind like the beat of war drums with a mix of unease and appreciation. Yet, who were you to question Zhongli’s secrets?

Maybe hypocrisy runs deeper in your blood than you initially assumed.

Mist dances at your fingertips.

It weaves and spreads and obscures the light and the woods around you and you run through blindly as the skin beneath your feet tears and the chill of the night clings to your skin and leaves behind dew and sweat.

You could see nothing; nothing save the pale glow of the moon above you as it tries to break through the barrier and light your way. It cannot, for Balam’s magic conjures obscurity, and obscurity was worshiped.

But you were human and you were curious and the voice that called your name was so familiar and warm and you wanted to weep and run towards it. The mist will not stop your folly and you will keep running to appease that growing thirst. In the end it will cost you.

The sound of your footsteps cease. The mist thins out and at the end of the veil, you poke your head out for the first time to witness the world outside. A set of teeth, white and sharp greet you. Then another and another, till the darkness itself glows as it does beneath the moonlight.

You hear her voice. It comes from the open maw.

The demons spot you and you run again, feeling their jaws clamp down and tear through muscle and bone and you scream and scream and scream at the white hot agony and the very feeling of your nerves set aflame before they numb.

Your curiosity cost you.

You wake to your fingers clawing at your shoulder with labored gasps and Zhongli panting, his fingers gripping at the sheets of the bedroll and his brow furrowed. You blink away the sleep in your eyes and tug the blanket off of your shoulders, shakily making your way to his side. His skin was hot again and panic lights in your chest, like the incoming winter.

“Fuck — it’s gotten worse.” you mumble a few more expletives as you stumble out to collect some more water and the few mistflower corollas you had stored away within your cabinets, hoping the elemental energy in them hadn’t dissipated completely. Setting the bucket down by his bedside with the corollas nestled within, you hiss at the cold pricking your palms and the frostbite coming to form.

Never mind that! The fucking adeptus is going to melt .

Oh my, thank you for pointing out the obvious! 

The cloth bath was set to a near feverish pace as you feel him twitch and convulse through the chills wracking his body. “Hot — ” he groans.

“It’s the fever.” you mutter, tugging his pants down, your eyes unconsciously trailing down the slope of his waist and dip of pelvis, then avert your eyes before you could see any more, face flushed whilst a cloth was thrown onto his hips to spare him some decency. “You need to cool down…please, stay still.”

His hand comes to grip your arm and the dormant strength within it, one etched into his very being, was frightening. The adeptus’ sights were set upon you, the fever-addled state of his blowing his pupils out till only a thin ring of gold remains, shining through the light of the oil lamp, brighter and brighter. You pull away and rest your free hand on his with a soothing squeeze. 

“You will be okay.” you assure. “It will come to pass soon enough. Let me take care of you for now.” You coax him to stay still as you continue the cloth bath, wiping away at his clammy skin while fatigue continues to weigh down on your shoulders and tug at your eyes. “I know you’re hiding something…and if you…if you’re one of the gods, then you must live. You’ll have people waiting for you…they need you, at a time like this.”

He lets out a weak exhale, shakily sitting himself up with sudden urgency. “ Liyue… ” he whispers, gait faltering and you steady him as he leans into you, resting his forehead against your shoulder. You struggle to push him back down atop the bedroll, his breaths growing pained with the passing seconds. 

“Liyue.” you nod and repeat. “You need to go back soon, don’t you? You’ll have to heal first, and for that, you must rest.” The cloth is pressed against his temple now, wiping away sweat all while the smell of petrichor grows stronger. The searing temperature hasn’t subsided and hopelessness stirs inside, an ugly feeling, a familiar feeling ( it was worse than your curiosity — it always was ).

Zhongli leans into your touch, his fingers tangling against yours. “ Stay… ” he whispers. You cease your movement as his body shifts and presses against your lap. “Stay….” he repeats.

“I…I’ll stay.” you slump in defeat, resting his head on your lap. Lightning flashes outside your window and the walls seem to shake as the rain comes pelting down. You continue the bath, listening to a leaky spot in your roof and the incessant downpour rattling against the tiles. Zhongli seems to still, his breaths still weighed down by that terrible heaviness.

The rain continues. His fever grows worse.

Then the pattering slows down, and the flush on his skin comes to cool. By the time the rains stop, his fever breaks and you lean against the wall of your home, shutting your eyes as you nearly weep, your worries allayed.

Morax was the first to wake in the early hours of the morning, the scent of petrichor pervading his senses followed by the faint lull of jasmine. Then comes the warmth and the softness, one his claws unconsciously dig into with a groan shuddering out of his chest.

It was you , slumped against the wall, lost in your own dreams and too tired to notice and the sight makes him swell with a conflicting mess of emotion. Then comes the pain, the aftermath of his fever coming to tear at him, at his limbs and his tendons till he ceases his stubborn movement and lets his body fall slack.

He does not understand your intent, but the faint memory of that familiar care against a muddled haze stills his tongue and his suspicion. Your muffled words, your hand in his, everything, blurred away yet so clear.

Humans were strange, so fragile, so determined…

“Fool…” he murmurs. The last of his strength is used to draw the blanket over your shoulders. “But thank you, nonetheless.” Sleep calls him again, and Morax shuts his eyes.

The jasmine lingers, stronger than most. He lets it swallow him whole.

Morax was the first to wake in the early hours of the morning, the scent of petrichor pervading his senses followed by the faint lull of jasmine. Then comes the warmth and the softness, one his claws unconsciously dig into with a groan shuddering out of his chest.

It was you , slumped against the wall, lost in your own dreams and too tired to notice and the sight makes him swell with a conflicting mess of emotion. Then comes the pain, the aftermath of his fever coming to tear at him, at his limbs and his tendons till he ceases his stubborn movement and lets his body fall slack.

He does not understand your intent, but the faint memory of that familiar care against a muddled haze stills his tongue and his suspicion. Your muffled words, your hand in his, everything, blurred away yet so clear.

Humans were strange, so fragile, so determined…

“Fool…” he murmurs. The last of his strength is used to draw the blanket over your shoulders. “But thank you, nonetheless.” Sleep calls him again, and Morax shuts his eyes.

The jasmine lingers, stronger than most. He lets it swallow him whole.

You come to realize how much you hated it, the loneliness.

Your home was far removed from civilization, settled between regions  and away from main travel ways that weren’t blocked or destroyed. The quiet of your house was nothing like the bustle of the town you hailed from and the chaos that accompanies the stalls in the early mornings. The most noise that encloses your small plot of land were the local wildlife, the creaks and groans of wood born against strong winds and the weight of snow and the distant battles fought over the horizon.

During arbitrary moments of your routine, you question why Zhongli landed here of all places, in the midst of nowhere. You wonder if this is some grand scheme or punishment for your past mistakes and when you feel your curiosity dare to skitter forth and poke more holes into your blind acceptance, you drive it away with an angry hiss.

He is not an unwelcome guest, even if he holds a sense of urgency at times and a well kept secret whose nature you suspect . It’s almost comforting, no matter how contrived it seems, listening to him speak of an obscure plant or hearing his heavy footfalls a few days after his arrival. 

How desperate are you? The bitter pride in your heart speaks up, and it’s seedy and unhappy as you straighten out the drying sheets over the heated slab. Where is your self preservation? Your brain cells? You’re smarter than this you fool —

“Is something wrong?”

Zhongli’s voice snaps you out of your reverie and you start, nearly dropping your laundry on the grass.

“Nothing!” and it is a weak save on your part as you straighten the worn down basket to move to an empty patch of stone, ducking under to check the state of the flaming flowers underneath. His hands come to rest on the surface and he lets out a soft exhale, his eyes slipping shut in a seeming moment of peace. “You should be resting.” you remind him.

“I believe I'm past the need for excessive bedrest.” he intones with an amused lilt. “Do you need help? It is partly my fault you have far more work to sort through.” He wasn’t lying. What little linen you had was used up to change the sheets on your bedroll before his fever broke. You had little clue how illness amongst higher beings were treated, but simply washing the contaminated cloth was the best option you had on your for now.

Ah, sometimes you regret not moving closer to a town.

Your reply was short, when you notice the silence being drawn out for a little too long. “That does not mean you should strain yourself. The less of a load you place on yourself, the faster you will heal. I’m sure you are needed back at your colony. The war is far from over.”

The comment seems to tug at his emotions, a stern moroseness settling on his face. “That is true…but I trust my fellow adepti to hold the lines in my absence.” you bend over to collect another sheet from the basket, the hair at the back of your neck prickling when he moves behind you. “Even so, I should hasten my return.”

“Then — ” The sheet is snatched from your hands and you watch Zhongli step beside an unused slab to lay it across the surface, a mischievous smile touching his lips. “Oi!” you snap, reaching out to grab it.

“However,” he continues, ignoring your protest with a look of innocent serenity. You want to squawk, to stamp your foot down childishly and you almost do, your movements stilled by you clenching your fist to curb it. “I’ve fought battles with wounds far worse and won. Menial chores are hardly a labor and if it means aiding you then I shall take it.”

You let out a groan in defeat and push the basket between the two of you. Zhongli was preening in his small victory, setting the clothes out to dry with relative ease. “Guests shouldn’t partake in chores like these.” you repeat the line your mother had uttered so many times, one amongst many of her favorite maxims. 

He watches you from his spot behind the stone slab, a contemplative haze clouding his hues. “I simply return the favor. It is the nature of a contract, to balance out what is given with due compensation.” 

He isn’t going to let up, is he?

“Fine, fine…you can help me collect a few mist flowers later.” you concede.

“What do you need them for?” he asks, collecting your laundry basket as you kneel upon the grass, blowing some air into a patch. One of the flowers is set alight and you sigh, letting them burn awhile as you feel your fingers retain a little more warmth in them. 

“Preservation…I use them to make my herbs and food last a little longer…it’s not easy, coming across certain ingredients for a decent meal…” You let out a dry chuckle at that, which melts away into a mildly sheepish one. Even if you bear a slight annoyance to your choice of settlement, and even with the debilitating isolation that came with it — it was still home and it was still safer than most.

Zhongli takes this in, a hand resting against his chin. “I see…cooking is not a part of my skill set…unfortunately. But a friend of mine intends on relaying an old recipe of his should the war end soon. Perhaps I could pass it on to you, if you don’t mind it.”

It was an oddly sweet gesture coming from him and you hum, a genuine smile spreading across your face as you consider it. That also meant opening a tiny window of opportunity; a chance that you may see Zhongli again. The thought stirs a clash of emotion, of fear and of excitement and dare you say it, hope and it feels warm and cold and all sorts of things at once. “I’d like that…granted you don’t accidentally poison me.” 

He feigns annoyance as his head tilts to the side, quietly regarding you. “You overestimate my inadequacy. The last time I did partake in the culinary arts, the worst outcome was an offhand crystallize reaction and a burnt stove.” he pauses. “Besides, my skill in brewing tea is decent.”

Oh Gods —

“I’m just being cautious.” you laugh a little louder at that, holding up your hands in defense. “Dear Lords though…I hope that friend of yours is prepared then. You might turn out to be a genius in cuisine or a hopeless case.”

“Then I hope for the former.”

You grin, hanging up the last of your clothes. “If you turn out decent…then I wouldn’t mind sharing some of the recipes passed down to me. I couldn’t indulge myself in them as much, but i hope you may come to like them.”

Something in Zhongli’s eyes softens and he nods. “And I would like that in turn…” he utters slowly, watching you clear away any dry branches and grass close by. His fingers absently brush over his torso, where the bandages stay wrapped around him. You catch the subtle purse of his lips and the twinge in his jaw. “Do not be concerned…” he snaps up to meet your worried face. “I am fine.”

“...Right.” you knew it wasn’t wholly a lie. Zhongli proved to be a quick healer, perhaps a trait passed down by his inhuman lineage. But these displays of vulnerability only played into the damning knowledge you knew before; of the hidden fragility the gods held. “Come on…I think it’s time we get those bandages changed.”

Zhongli smiles but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Another secret , you think sadly, taking his hand as you lead him inside, taking in the momentary warmth he held even if his skin didn’t quite feel like skin or that they glowed a bit too bright between the cracks of your fingers.

You don’t ask him to collect the mist flower corollas again, staying at home with him with some tea set at the table for him to sip on while you inspect his lacerations. There was some idle chatter over dinner and Zhongli spoke a little more about his home.

“You’re going to leave tonight, aren’t you?” you ask suddenly, your voice soft. His words die out and you try to still the sharp edged pain in your chest. It refuses to fade and you accept the growing weight with an unwilling gait.

“Yes.” he whispers, setting his cup down and he looks ashamed.

“Then go.” you mumble. He opens his mouth again but you hold up a hand. “I…I know your name is not really Zhongli…it’s not is it?” His silence was damning and you finally piece it together, the knowledge you learned from your village and from your travels, no matter how meager, painting a slow picture in broad strokes.

The stories depict Morax to be more of a beast and less of a man. You would have glossed over it as well,expecting a dragon instead of the visage of a handsome stranger.

“I take it you’ve come to a conclusion.” he muses, looking a little apologetic, a little ashamed. “I never intended on deceit but the nature of our meeting called for it.”

“You were afraid I was going to kill you?” you guess. Zhongli — Morax laughs and shakes his head.

“Even in my weakened state, you would have been incapable of it.” well damn . “I feared someone of greater power would catch wind of talk of a wounded god…but given your lifestyle, they held no merit. I apologize though…I know you may have suspected a while.”

Morax smiles and you try not to battle the disbelief that a good sat across you, eating your food and drinking your tea. “However, I have a question to ask you.” 

A pause

“What became of your deity?”

Your breath seizes and you meet his gaze. His stare seems to hold so much more weight to it and you look down. Your old god was a memory you sought to bury away well out of sight. Recollecting them only brought in a bitter taste and a dull ache and Morax notices it. “That’s a story for another day.” you finally manage out after some deliberation. Your tea has gone cold by the time you take another sip out of it, the air feeling heavier again. You wrinkle your nose at the taste.

He nods. “Then I will return and pay my debt in whole as well.” he decides. “Your kindness is one I shall remember, little one.” You hate how a part of you melts into this buttery, weak mess and when he smiles, you hate how it’s so easy to feel yourself tear at the seams, to beg him to stay a little longer. “Thank you.”

He was gone the next morning, a fresh batch of mist flower corollas left behind in an earthen pot alongside a delicate flower preserved in amber.  

“Good riddance.” you tell yourself, the words feeling forced.

You will miss him, you think.

He returns three months later, or maybe it was more. Time was easy to lose track of and the seasons were all you had to know of a passing year. By the time he arrived, the last remnants of winter had receded and you found yourself in the midst of spring, restocking your stores and setting soup to boil in the hearth. 

Should I bow? You think when he appears at your doorstep. Extend a greeting? Address him by his title? Your great eminence…no that sounds pretentious… You reminisce about your old customs, of the times you spent watching your mother lay out scented flowers and fruits at the feet of your deity during festivals or during victory feasts. Morax however, steps inside with a smile in greeting, his hand coming to tuck some stray hair out of your face.

Then comes the deja vu. 

You question why his arrivals were always timed on days when your home was a mess.

“Wait! We can talk outside.” saving the last few traces of your dignity is all you had in mind as you blockade the entrance. It would hardly do any good, you realize then; he was tall and he was far bigger and when he stops with a puzzled look and scans the room and the traces of stalks and unswept and unused parts of the herbs you were sifting through, a glint of understanding flashes in his eyes and he steps back.

You want to sink into the ground with the traces and remainders of you. Oblivion seemed a tempting option with the way your face burned and your heart hammers at a pace nearly hard to keep up with.

“My apologies.” he utters, letting you lead him outside. He does not seem as bothered or flustered, thankfully; nor does he pry as he erects a few makeshift seats sculpted from geo and sits himself down alongside you with a soft sigh on his lips. “I wish we could have met sooner,” he admits.

“Is that so? It’s hard to believe you’d bother…” you hum with a shy dip of your head. Morax considers this.

“Did you not ask for it?”

“I did…but I accepted the possibility of you not returning.” you cease for a second, recalling your promise to give him the answer he sought. It felt like a cheap trick, back then and it still does now, of you running away as you always did. “I'm glad you came back though…it was nice having someone around to speak to.”

Moax looks pleased with this. “I simply find your company enjoyable.” you feel a stirring in your stomach when he says that, and it feels like a wonderful sort of sweetness, like honey. “Even if our first few days spent together lacked any delicacy in approach.”

“You were quite stubborn.” you admit.

“I was, wasn’t I?” he agrees. You snicker.

“I wouldn’t blame you though. Even I had a hard time staying still when bedrest was forced upon me…how have you been?” your fingers slot together as you pull your knees closer to your chest, your cheek resting against your thigh as you watch the scenery in the distance. The mist had abated, just a bit and you could see the copse of trees expanding then scattering as the plains began. 

Morax exhales. “As I’ve always been.”

“Stubborn?”

“ Busy .” he corrects, flashing you a look of warning. You grin innocently. “The war has come to a temporary standstill. Only smaller battles seem to keep up…with the weaker gods mostly weeded out, planning our next move is of importance. I only have a few hours to spare now before I leave for Liyue.”

“Oh…” you take this in. Perhaps this was a sign of the war slowly coming to a close. Maybe during your time, if you were lucky enough, or in another hundred years or so. “Then…tell me about Liyue.”

Morax raises a brow but he smiles, humoring your question. “What would you like to know?”

“Plant life? What’s it like there?” you supply, leaning forward in quiet anticipation.

He chuckles. “Not of the people? Or its history?” he asks.

“You can tell me that too!”

He hums, his gaze softening. “It’s not uncommon to see mountains in Liyue,” he admits. “To say our weather has a stark contrast in the plains and the peaks would be an understatement. Juehyun Karst, the realm of the adepti is pleasantly cool most of the time, but the plains are hot and humid. That being said, our flora seems to take on this diversity as well…”

He tells you about the yellow sand bearer and the gold ginkgo trees that spot Liyue’s landscape, of the horsetail that covets the marshes and the reclusive glaze lilies that grow within the terraces. He tells you about the silk flowers nestled amidst the red bushes, always found in pairs and the violet grass sprouting forth off of cliffs. And he tells you of the qingxins that turned away from the warmth of the plains and grew in the distant peaks, looking down upon Liyue as a whole.

There was a sort of magic, listening to Morax speak of his nation with a layer of fondness and sadness. 

“Maybe when the war ends, I’ll visit. I think I'd like to start a garden some time.” you hum, surveying the empty patches of land in front of you. It would be nice to have a few more flowers around to brighten up the monotony you have grown accustomed to. His expression shifts, a brighter shine lighting up his eyes.

“You could stay there if you wish.” Disbelief rattles through your ribs and it steals your breath and pushes against your lungs. You fall silent, ceasing the anxious play with your clothes. “I could find a place for you amidst my people…would you like that?”

There was disbelief, yes, and a stutter in your words, but there is also the pang of appreciation and the tingle at your fingertips. However cold dread settles down ( for it is an old bedmate ) and Morax seems to catch on. “Have I misspoken in any way?” he questions, his hooded gaze appraising. 

You jerk your head. He had it all wrong and the last thing you need is a messy misunderstanding to fall into your pile of terrible mistakes. “No, no…I don’t think I'm ready to return to a land ruled by a god…or even around so many people…not yet…” you couldn’t bring yourself to word it out and it shames you. You are an adult. You needed to speak like one.

There is a faint brush on your cheek, the barest hint of a touch and when you look up, you see the suspicion he holds paired with concern. You want to shrink back, make yourself smaller, unknowable, something you were before he came along and made you care and vie after company and something as simple as touch.

“I assume it has something to do with your old settlement?” he asks.

You nod.

“We were hidden behind our god’s mist and illusions…our people were cut off from the rest of the world save a few soldiers and those who joined our god in battle. My mother would accompany them sometimes…she’d tell me about the world outside and we promised to visit a lake just a short walk from the barrier…” you hold out your hands, trying to grasp the words she had tattered. “She called it starlight on earth…or…something like a mirror clearer than any metal she’d seen. I wanted to go, but we were not allowed to leave.”

“You were not?” Morax asks. He leans in, listening closer.

“We were not.” you affirm softly. “Or god never spoke it…but we knew. They talked about demons lurking out and we were scared. One day…I couldn’t find her amidst the returning line of soldiers she left with…I did later…and I couldn’t even stand to look at the state she was in.” you stare ahead, the weight of his gaze resting even harder now. “I don’t know why…if it was grief or curiosity or a mix of both…but I thought I heard her voice one day…calling out to me. And I knew it was a trap, but I ran towards it, out of the forest, and the mist…”

You swallow hard. You felt cold. Cold all over, like that night, where the silence was unsettling and the sound of your name was a taunting whisper. Your mother, it was your mother, rigid at some times with her own rough edges and flaws, but loving for the most part. Your mother — and it was an old hurt you had locked in a box a long time ago, that time had weathered down till it was the embers scraped to the side of the charcoal pit.

“They were right…my deity warded off those things that attacked me…but they were bleeding everywhere . Balam was strong , but as a god…I doubt they held much in par to some of the others who warred out there…” Like you , you almost add. “They were weakened…unfit to fight in a state like that and we tried what we could. The wounds didn’t heal as we thought they should. I was banished for endangering their life and as I traveled…I heard of Balam’s passing in the hands of an invading god.”

“...and now, I'm here.” you finish, wryness coating every syllable. You wished your apathy was more than a weak front to bury away the stab in your heart; you wish you could be stronger than the coward you are. Morax shuts his eyes, his arms crossing over his chest.

He looks a little more like the god you were told about; sharp, pragmatic, with a presence that looms over most. “If there was a law that stated so, that forbade stepping out of your deity’s territory, then yes, you have committed a wrong. I have heard tell of Balam, whispers of their whereabouts and they did try to protect your people from a harsher way of life…” 

Ah, so that was his response. You wilt a little, feeling a mix of fury and defeat, at Morax, at the gods, at this war and at your own childish stupidity and audacity to even dare to feel this way. “I see…” you mumble. Morax holds up a hand, cutting you off. The words die in your throat faster than embers in snow.

“But,” he behind and his expression pulls into something gentler, lacking the initial rigid sternness it held. “Demons are still a force to be reckoned with. Even my adepti struggle with stifling down their noxious presence, whether it be the weight of karma or a disparity in power itself.”

Coherency is now a lost subject.

“I doubt you could have resisted its influence and Balam knew of the battle they would throw themselves into. Your god was willing to make that sacrifice, something of a rare sight amongst a few of the divine. Remember this well.”

A lump grows in your throat. It’s not an unwelcome one, quietly easing the nerves that crackled and frazzled beyond possible repair. You look down at your hands and your eyes slip shut as you take his words in, bit by bit. Balam was a god who, while distant within the front lines of battle, still loved their people.

It’s ironic how the gods can be capable of human sentiment and human error. 

“Thank you, Morax.” you mutter. “I needed that.”

“The bitter truth, or the comfort?” he jests softly. “Because while I deal well with the former, my skill with the latter falls abysmally short.” 

You laugh softly.

“For both .”

( His eyes light with surprise. Then you spot it, the faint flush on his cheeks and a dangerous thought enters your mind. You shake your head. It was best you didn’t raise your paltry hopes . ) 

He does not visit for a few weeks, but you spot a few saplings left behind at your doorstep, of plants and flowers you had never seen before.

You pick one up and a single word echoes in your mind — qingxins .

A smile tugs at your lips.

The distant noise of battle has grown reticent.

You tell it to Morax on one of his visits and he dares to flash a knowing smile in response. “The war is coming to its close. Only a few handfuls remain.” he states, tracing your bandaged hands; a new set of souvenirs from a stray whopperflower. You shiver involuntarily, leaning into him a bit more while longing tears your insides raw. “Hopefully you will come to enjoy an era of peace soon.”

“Will it end soon? The war?” you ask, wincing a little when he presses his fingertips down on the afflicted skin, bathing it in honeyed gold. “Ah! Gently!” you hiss, pulling back on reflex. Morax holds you fast, drawing you back to him with a playful tut and a sheepish glance your way.

“Apologies. Is this alright?” The pressure on your wrist still brings forth a sting, but it’s far more bearable. You nod. “Alright. Now hold still …” The glow returns, as does the tingling warmth and the tense nervousness gives way to a content sigh as the pain ebbs to obscurity. You watch your bandages fall away to skin mostly unblemished, save the faint traces of a scar left behind. “Better?” he asks.

You nod. “Much better…I wonder why you didn’t try healing yourself earlier. You’re not too bad at it.” he wasn't. Only a few humans were ever imbibed with the grace of divine power. You always longed to be gifted with the strength to heal, and you feet the slightest hint of envy as you take in the sight.

Morax blinks. “I was in too weak a state to do so. Healing is not my greatest strength either…I simply learned it, should it come to use amidst battle.” he flexes his fingers, the last flickers of gold falling away. His gaze meets yours with its usual intensity before he reaches for your other hand. 

“Hm…I suppose this means you’ve paid your part of the debt?” you tease. “You’ve healed me as I've healed you, right?” 

“True…” his lips quirk up as he mends the last of the burns, then presses a delicate kiss on your knuckles. “Does this mark the end of our contract?” The gesture only serves to fluster you further, bringing forth the feeling of fluttering warmth and the near lightness in your chest. Morax chuckles, his voice dipped to a teasing whisper as he calls out your name in a low, purring timbre.

“H-hold up!” you choke out, terrified of potentially overheating as you push his face away, stifling away the shy laughter that threatens to burst out. Morax shifts closer, closer still, his close presence having grown familiar through the meetings and the shared conversations and meals ( you missed the gentleness in his touch, you missed so much of him ).

“Hm? Stop what?” he teases, a cheeky glint lighting up in his gaze. “My, your face feels warm.” he adds with a soft simper, tilting your chin his way as he scans your features.

A desperate attempt to shift his attention comes to form. “Look at the qingxins you gifted me! They’re growing nicely, right?” you try to smile, looking at the flowers growing just a small ways from your home. Morax hums.

“They are. Give them a few months and they will come to bloom.” he replies, his wandering touch tracing up your arm, grazing at fragile skin and faint scars and the sensation has you shuddering. The glow in his eyes brightens and he huffs out something unintelligible, then asks you, “Would you like me to stop?”

You fall silent. “No it’s fine…” you sigh, reaching up to grasp his hand gently, ignoring the phantom stings as your finger splays out over Morax’s palm, at the dazzling gold dipped at the edges fading away to a spider web of veins and dark scales. “I like this.” you hum. Morax blinks, his cheeks coloring pink.

The intensity burns brighter in his gaze. It scorches at his touch and in the way he looks upon you now and as acute as it was, you felt blanketed beneath a safe warmth.

Morax speaks up, “I will make sure this war ends soon.” It was a promise, holding the weight of his blood. You feel it in every syllable, every rise and drop in his cadence. He leans in and the spice in his scent pervades your senses.

His lips are softer than you expected, mildly chapped from the heat and the battlefield, and between the buzz slowly beginning to sound off in your head and the feel of his touch brush away at your hair and rest on your cheek, your heart hammers hard in your ribcage. You feel the earth shift and watch the sky sweep away as you fall back on the grass and Morax palms at your hips and kisses you some more.

It feels like a distant dream, something you’d rather not wake from and when he pulls away to look you in the eye, you watch the smirk in his face grow as he dips down and buries his face into your neck, his pace languid, his claws gentle against the softness of your skin. You bite back a stray mewl when his teeth prickle down on sensitive flesh, slowly and deliberately making his way down down down, and his hand pressing flat on your thigh.

A glow flickers within his chest. He stops and tugs away with clear frustration, heaving as he watches you try to recover from the fog clogging up your thoughts, the memory of his touch warming every inch of you. Morax chews at his bottom lip. “I am needed again.”

“...oh…” you croak out, even if you wish to scream at the unfairness, to pull him back down atop of you and finish what he started. You shut your eyes, easing at your frayed nerves at the trembling and the traitorous dampness that was gradually settling in. The god in front of you holds a shadow of amusement and he kisses you again, gentler, with less teeth and tongue and more tenderness.

“I’ll come back,” he whispers. It holds another promise masked beneath the assurance, it’s cheekiness lighting his gaze.

When Morax’s form departs, you let out a shaky sigh, one hand delving into your heat while the other clamps over your mouth. The moment your slick coats your fingers, you moan into the silence, the promise persisting.

Morax thinks about you when the rains fall once more.

He thinks about you on the battlefield, waiting with that patient smile.

He thinks about you when his adepti fall and the last god is slain — when he finds his numbers dwindle, their blood staining his victory. He holds that memory of you close, that cherished warmth. His little flower.

Morax thinks about you. And he longs .

You came to know of patience’s workings through the days and months in between Morax’s visits, and this one is his longest thus far. The war persists still, the sound of the heavens screaming slowly growing quieter as deities were felled and the lands were stitched together by victories and defeats. You wonder where your old home lies now beneath the seven seats, what it would grow into in the near future.

Then one day, you wake to complete and utter silence.

The war is over. The roads had cleared. One day, when the world stills just a little more and the last few scars left behind have healed, you could try to visit the towns and cities beyond your isolated home.

Morax stays absent. You go on with your life. The qingxins he gifted you bloom in your garden. You wait, shedding away the accusatory remarks, the words that dare you to doubt his victory, that take your mind to darker spaces with the image of his still form and cold hands. No, absolutely not, you could not doubt him .

You repeat it over and over, beating down at the cynical whispering. Do not doubt him .

A storm rises again, blustering through the lands with the threat of tearing your home down from its stubborn foundations. You stay inside, the change in weather setting forth a persistent chill that your meager hearth could hardly hold against. Finally, after a few hours of running about, your body hunches over the blocks, feeding the fire with the last of your firewood.

“How much longer…” you mutter, storing away the last of your herbs when the rain refuses to cease and it grows harder to differentiate between night and day. The lightning thunders in response, asserting it’s long stay and you curl up by the warmth you fed, numb fingers gripping at old blankets and watching the rain beat down incessantly on your roof. It would be a long wait, you realize. It’s best if you find a way to pass the time.

There was another clap of thunder, then a crash that felt all too intimate with your memories. Then came the knocking and you scuttle up to let a drenched Morax in, his pupils blown wide and his body hot to the touch as he stumbles in. You’re almost afraid he’s fallen ill once more, but the insistent tug at your wrists has you follow him.

“Are you okay?” you ask, seating him down by the fire, moving to dry his hair after draping a sheet on his shoulder. “Morax, what’s wrong.” Despite the sudden appearance, you feel relief crash down and tug out a lump in your throat. You hold back the tears for his sake. You did not want to startle him in this state.

“A visit.” he shrugs.

“In this weather?” you question every ounce of wisdom he holds. He looks unbothered, pulling you closer to him while you squeeze the water out of his tresses, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. Warm breath pools out and hits your neck and a shiver racks at your body. “Morax — ”

“I missed you…” The hoarseness of his voice steals the words in your mouth. You latch onto him tightly, fisting at his robes, uncaring of the silk wrinkling beneath your rough hands. Morax does not stay silent or stay still, his hands sliding down your sides, pulling you closer up against him. “I missed you…” he repeats feverishly. The hunger in his stare is an answer enough.

The fire crackles and lets out a sputter.

Morax lays you on your back with a gentle thump and hooks a hand beneath your knee, pushing it up against your chest as he steals a kiss from you, heated and impatient after weeks of mulling over his affection and lust. “Stay still.” he orders as you squirm a little, wanting more, needing more, trying to bury yourself into him as much as humanly possible. 

Your open mouthed breaths did not help in the slightest as he steals another kiss, then another, the wetness of his tongue delving deep down your throat as he muffles out any sounds of shock from you —

— was it forked ?

You could not ponder over it for long, choking against the invading muscle while his lips caress yours with growing need and intensity. It made sense, for one like Morax — who adored talking about the origins of an obscure tea leaf to the festivities that littered the streets of his city — to fancy the act of kissing you. And he still keeps kissing you, over and over till your head spins and his body is pressed up flush against yours.

He noses at your neck with a noticeable huff, fingers dragging up the side of your hips, slowly, deliberately, till they tug at the hem of your clothes. Molten gold catches the anxious excitement bubbling within you and your eyes and you catch the smirk on Morax’s face.

“I’d like to continue.” he sounds breathless.

“ Go on then .” that threadbare line that held you together had snapped now. You do not think you could wait any longer than you have for him. Morax chuckles, bending down with a narrowed gaze till his nose brushes against yours.

“I haven’t finished my statement.” he chides and you don’t know what is worse, him dragging this out to a near painful pace, or the hand that caresses the inside of your thigh teasingly, drawing out a stray moan from your lips. “If you feel overwhelmed, or you wish to stop, we must establish a safe word.”

He waits expectantly and you scour your mind for the first word that pops into your head. “Squid.” you decide, shifting your hips closer to him. Morax lets out something between a wince and an amused chuckle, his hand leaving your thigh. You wine in protest, grabbing at his wrists to pull him closer.

“So needy.” he lilts. “Are you sure you want this?”

How cruel , you think unhappily, unsure of how to take his consideration; a loosely veiled attempt to drive you further into wanting or a call of sincere concern. You think you know Morax. You think it’s both.

“ Yes !” you cannot wait any more and neither could Morax, his claws curling round to clutch and tangle at the back of your head while he captures you in a devouring kiss. Your own experience hardly held a candle to his own practiced ease, but you do what you can, groaning into the clacking of teeth and the teasing little nips he leaves on your lower lip. 

His thumb traces down the side of your neck and hooks at your clothes, tugging away at the fabric to stroke your now bare shoulder. Morax leaves no trace of skin untouched by his lips and he brushes down the line of your collar bone, his teeth flashing in the candle light till you feel him bite down at the spot with a muffled growl.

The rush of pain and pleasure has you pressing your face down into the mattress with reeling shock, any moan held back in the midst of the hazy shock lighting up inside you. The action was mostly unintentional, but you were glad it could have saved you any further embarrassment in Morax’s eyes.

“Not a sound?” he asks, licking his lips with a predatory tilt to his head, regarding every inch of you with voracity. You stubbornly refuse to respond, lips sealed tight with a set of eyelashes batting up at him. Morax likes a chase and you give it to him, no matter how small it may be. “No matter. We’ll see how silent you are by the end of the night.”

The words hang in the air like an impending omen. You do not doubt him.

His voice dips to a sultry whisper as he undoes your top and lets it slide past your shoulders and down your waist till it was bunched to the side and lay there forgotten. The storm rumbles outside your window, and the wind prickles at your skin. Between Morax eyeing you down, mapping out every detail with his fingertips and the chill in the air, your arms instinctively move to hug yourself. 

“No.” His word was stern, absolute as he tugs at whatever covers your entirety from his gaze. “I’ve never seen you this shy before… adorable .” he purrs, stroking your cheek. 

“ Tease .” you test out.

Morax’s expression lapses to a playful smile in the midst of your indignation, leaning back to watch you with clear intent. He guides your legs around his waist and shifts you partly atop his lap, gently moving your hips to a slow grind against his torso. The sudden stimulation draws out a squeak, your cheeks set aflush.

“ Beautiful… ” his claws linger over your chest before it trails down to stroke your stomach. “You’re so soft , little love…” they stop at your shoulder, raking around the scar settled there, gnarled marks and torn flesh left behind by talons and teeth. You feel the flare of doubt and self consciousness flare back up, but it fizzles out when he bends to leave a kiss atop it.

It was hard to find a spot that he did not touch. Morax was precise, diligent, learning what spots made your squirm and whimper and shake beneath him with white hot pleasure. The rain’s roar was a distant muffle between the pleasant buzz in your head and Morax’s ragged breaths sounding in the otherwise quiet room. He hunches over you, nosing at your neck with near obsessive need, nipping, kissing — anything to cast on some semblance of his scent and essence.

Your chin nestles atop his shoulder, your sight trained upwards, oblivious to where Morax may choose to touch you next. The clinking of metal does draw in a few questions, most quickly answered when you feel his clothes give way and settle on your stomach. Then comes his teeth, sharp fangs sinking into you. You hardly register the moan you let out, or the heat that you sink into, desperate for more, for more skinship, for more of Morax.

“ Beautiful .” he repeats, a growl bleeding into every syllable, down to the rumble in his chest. He still donned his pants, but most of his clothes now lay scattered across the mattress, pushed aside a moment later with an impatient huff. 

You have seen Morax bare chested plenty of times before, when he first arrived wounded on the slope of your little mountain home. There was no denying he was a beautiful man, sharply lined with the faintest of silvered scars scattered beneath stark gold tattoos. “ Morax .” you mutter, lacing your fingers into his, tugging at him instantly. “Keep going.”

He smiles. 

“Patience.” he croons. You squeeze your eyes shut and hold back the swear resting on your tongue. “I have waited for so long…” his teeth don’t hold the old hesitance it did, now wholly marking you with delicious bruises and love bites. “...and I intend on savoring… ” his lips linger on the line of your jaw, tickling your ear. “... each… ” they brush down, down, down. “... bite… ” and true to his words, he sinks his teeth down again.

Your hands tangle at his hair, his hair tie snapping to your insistent tugging till burnt brown strands pool around him. He looked a little wilder, with how his eyes glow beneath the shadow cast on his face. You comb through them with a soft “So pretty.” earning a flattered hum whilst he cups your breasts, chanting your name lovingly.

You gasp at the feel of a soft pinch on your nipples. Morax lights up, a dangerous splay of his fangs flashing in your field of vision before he engulfs one breast within his mouth, suckling, biting, devouring greedily and the other grows sensitive to his slow strokes. “M-Mor–AX!” Your mewls peak and your hands grab at his shoulders, his back, at the sheets — somewhere , trying to ground you to the sensation. 

( He could hear your racing heart beneath his grasp and the sound of it makes Morax purr with an emotion so old and primal and possessive. )

He pulls away with a wet pop. “How do you feel?” he asks.

“H-hot.” you barely manage to blurt out. “Hot everywhere.”

That smile was back again, the one with the barest flash of primality. “Hot?” he repeats. You nod. It was hot, in your cheeks, your chest and your stomach and core — and you could hardly bring yourself to wait. With Morax’s resolve to take his slower pace. You curse his patience. You wish he was just as desperate. 

“I am.” he muses nonchalantly, ducking down to take your other breast in his mouth. “I crave every inch of you. I want to hear you sing, wǒ qīn'ài de .” his hand drags down, teasing the inside of your thighs with circular strokes. You buck your hips into him with a pathetic whimper, and Morax pounces at the lapse, tugging your underwear down with a single fluid motion then pushing his fingers into your drenched heat.

“Oh how obscene.” he lilts, a delighted shine in his eyes, momentarily bringing his slickened digits for you to see. “You’re drenched.”

“ Shut .” you snap, a depraved cry cutting you off as he teases at your entrance with one finger, thumbing up your core till he settles on your clit with a peased grunt. Your hips snap and shudder, tears slowly pricking at your eyes. It was an odd sensation, a buildup of pressure far greater than what you could coax out that tightens in your gut. 

Morax slides a finger in, slowly, gently. “ Ah — ” you bury your face into your mattress, spreading your legs further for him. He continues his slow thrusts, in and out and you revel in the sweet sensation. “Feels — f-feels good — ” 

His scrutiny comes with its merits, stroking your walls with an out of place gentleness as he watches every shift, keen and whine with a deep found appreciation and yearning. “You’re quite tight , little one.” he rumbles. You warble in response, bucking your hips into him as the pressure steadily builds and builds and builds.  

“I’ll be adding another.” he decides and he does, a second finger slipping in. the stretch stung and you fist at the sheets with a groan.

“N-no…t-too much — ah!” The broken whimper does elicit a sympathetic look from him and he kisses away the tears, thankfully easing his movements.

“I know, little love. I know.” you sink into his warmth, melting at the delicacy in how he holds you close. “But we’ll need to prepare you, don’t we? And you’re taking me so well too…” you think you are when the pain slowly subsides and the pleasure returns, your very being trembling when he scissors you. “Ah, witnessing the state you're in…it makes me wonder how well you’ll take something else of mine, hm?”

“M-morax!” you squeak, cheeks flushed. The embarrassing squelch from your core shuts you up immediately. You decide you’re better off muffling out your moans out of petty spite at this point and you seek your refuge in the covers, burying your face into your mattress.

Ha! You think, naively, foolishly, daring to assume that Morax would fold at the face of a challenge. A third finger slips through and the moan is smothered. You think you hear him chuckle and you think you see the excited flash in his eyes as he shifts and twists your body, laying you down on your stomach.

“So stubborn.” The delight is apparent in his cadence. His hand presses down at the small of your back, then his torso presses up against you, continuing his slow and agonizing thrusts with practiced pace. “The vitriol in your silence hardly diminishes how soaked you are. Your body is far more honest, it seems.”

“ MMPH !”

You gasp, feeling his fingertips stroke your g-spot, pulling you apart at the seams and chipping away at your mind. Everything feels distant and muddled and the pleasure was almost too much to bear. “Does it feel good when I touch you here?” you shut your eyes and curl up, bucking up into him uselessly. His weight restricted your movements and you doubt you could wiggle away for a temporary respite ( even if some masochistic part of you liked the deluge of sensations pile up steadily ). “I need words.”

Another thrust. You wail into your hands, whatever dogged decision to stay silent, now shattered. “Yes. Yes — P- please!” you haven’t the foggiest clue what you’re begging for at this point, but the fullness you feel from his fingers alone is enough. “L-like that. Morax please keep going.”

He adds a fourth finger.

“You keep tightening up…” he whispers, as if trapped in a trance of his own, your head lifting to press against his bicep while his movements momentarily slow to ease you in before his pace picks up and that slow, brutal torture begins again. 

You squirm, squeal, bite into his arm with vigor. Morax laughs, kissing your temple with comforting croons. “Good.” he coos, dipping his nose into your hair with a victorious purr. Your thighs squeeze around him and your hips jolt forth. The pressure steadily building up in your stomach seems to crest while you chime out his name. Your orgasm seeps closer and closer and closer —

He pulls his fingers out and you bite back a cry, a protest, tears pooling out as dismay settles fast. Was it something you said? Was it something you’ve done? Why did he stop?

“Why…” you manage out, stroking his hair. Morax raises a brow then slides down, his lips latching onto your inner thigh with a groan. You fist at the sheets again, a vague idea coming to form between the haze and the jumbled confusion and disappointment and it sets a spark of excitement. 

A pause.

Morax meets your gaze.

He smirks.

You stifle back a scream when he bows his head down and laves at your heat, catching the receding traces of your buildup and letting it reel in steadily. His tongue was greedy, warm, devouring you whole as he slicks it through your drenched folds, and — oh gods —

Whatever praise that you cry out turns into a feverish mantra being babbled out over and over, the sharp mountainous air taking on a headier scent. Your validation was enough to spur him on, it seems, every bit of Morax, from the practiced gentleness to his eagerness to undo you coming to shine with the fervor of a starved animal. 

“ Good .” he growls out, claws digging down a little harder into the softness of your thigh, his teeth and tongue grazing and toying at your clit. You clap your hands over your mouth once more, a squeak cut short, only to have them pinned down by him. He flashes you a warning glare before gold light illuminates your wrists and you feel the weight of geo press them down to your chest.

The cuffs were heavy, and they did their job well as you could only grab at air while his licks grow more languid. Your thighs were pushed back with a single fluid movement and a flustered cry escaped with your sudden exposure. 

“Ah — ”

You tug at his hair, drawing out another delicious moan from his throat. Liquid gold appraises you, taking every detail in, between your fucked out expression and your twitching body. Morax presses against your sweet spots, and you could have sworn some strange magic were at play, with every careful thrust and every slow vibration. You could hard;y word out the state you were in, your mind all cotton wool with little thought.

Overwhelming…indescribable…that was a way to put it.

Morax does not complain about your growing insistence, your moans growing louder, your thighs squeezing round his shoulders, your attempts to free yourself from the stone shackles he placed on you.he must be just as far gone with your arousal in his mouth ( and that was true ). You hope he won’t turn to cruelty like the last time and deny you of your orgasm. It was a delirious pitch in the back of your mind, a soft cry.

“I-I think i’m close — ” you gasp, feeling that knot grow tight as the tell tale spill of an incoming release shudders up your spine and fingertips. Morax looks at you, the gold of his eyes wide and his pupils blown out with suppressed mischief. A well-timed thrust from his fingers served your undoing.

“Go on then.” he relents.

You sob into the sheets gratefully, pleasure rippling through as the coil snaps and you crumple and sink into a state of unawareness. You could only just register Morax sitting up, thumb swiping at his lips, licking away at the mess you made, smeared between his thighs and on him. “S-sorry!”

He shuts his eyes, quiet bliss washing over him. “I could devour you here and now…” he mutters in indulgence. He rubs your sore wrists down, pressing kisses against the expanse of skin with an apologetic smile. “You look tired. Shall we stop here?”

Alarm lines your features. “What about you?” you blurt out, bug eyed and still fatigued from your orgasm. Morax doesn’t respond, laying down next to you. You feel a bitterness line your mouth and you find yourself pushing your body up and crawling atop him. Morax opens one eye, amusement quirking at his lips.

“Oh?” he doesnt bother feigning surprise as his clawed grip settles on your hips. You try to hide yourself, embarrassment from your bold move hardly aiding in your focus as you slide his pants down and stare, he bore two of them, standing erect against your stomach. You helplessly glance at him. 

“You’re…you’re big..” you tell him dumbly. “I-I don’t…I don’t think I can take both of them…” Morax chuckles.

“We’ll take it slow then. You only need one.” he decides, helping you up. You steady yourself on his shoulders, carefully laving your entrance with him before you lower yourself onto him, feeling the first telltale sting that has you stop with a whine. “Careful.” he speaks up, rubbing at your sides and you try to be, taking him bit by bit. Morax stretched you out in a way his fingers couldn’t and his second shaft rubs at your sore clit, leaving you jolting with sparks of pleasure.

He was roving every inch of you, biting down at his bottom lip when you clench around him. Every bit of him screamed of his self control hovering a step away from a more viscous beast. You don’t think you’re ready for what Morax tucks away in the corners of his mind, but you hope, hope that you could indulge him some day.

You were soaked enough for him to slip in with ease, a collective of your and his arousal trailing down with an audible squelch every time he dared to grind up a little more against you. “Fuck….” he whispers out, a rare lapse in demeanor. “D-does it hurt?”

“No.” you shake your head, a half lie. It stings, yes, but the slow haze of euphoria was pressing up and you knew he would stop if you showed the slightest sign of discomfort — and you did not want him to stop. Not with this lovely warmth, and with him holding you like you were the most delicate of flowers.

The sound he makes is animalistic and he thrusts, just a little, into you. He could hardly help himself, seemingly just as lost as you were ( and he was, with his parted lips and fluttering lashes ). You curl into him, pressing your face into his neck. “That’s it.” he whispers mindlessly. “Wonderful, y-you’re taking me so well…don’t rush now…”

You take the rest of him, seated snugly on his lap with a shaky mewl, tears pricking at your eyes. Morax bares his teeth, groaning freely as the air itself seems to crackle against you. You open your mouth, trying to say something, anything, but he pins you down with a single look. “Little minx .” he rasps.

A laugh bubbles up. You wonder if it’s from amusement, or from the overwhelming rush of dopamine or both. 

He kisses the corner of your lips, gathering his bearings. “You’ve had your moment of fun, little love. Now move .”

“Yes sir…” you sigh, and do just that, lifting your hips just a bit before you rock back down onto him. “S-shit…s-so good…” 

Morax hums, pursing his lips. His face was flushed and the tattoos on his arms were cast in gold and light. He takes matters into his own hands, pounding up into him with sudden force and your teeth chatter and your eyes roll back with a pathetic whimper.

A few marks of your own were delivered, from your nibbling as Morax continues to thrust up into your drenched cunt, and from your nails scratching at his back. His approval was punctuated by a particularly hard one, that made your head spin and had you see stars. You vaguely register the scent of petrichor through everything else.

“ Morax — ” 

The state you were in only behind to sink in. That he was inside you, that he was taking every chance to draw out these obscene sounds from your lips. Even gods could not escape the perversion of mortal desires. Was this even considered blasphemy at this point, when he seemed to be stuck on the same boat as you were, sinking so fast into his lust?

“ — so good for me .” he guides your legs around his abdomen, whispering your name with a weak whine. He bites at your neck, at the marks he inflicted, then soothes them with kisses. He rubs your back and strokes your hair, his tender touch contrasting against his rough movements, grinding into your sweet spots and paired with his second cock rubbing at your clit, you could only lose yourself a second time.

That knot tightens and you feel the onset of your release. It was close, fast coming and you tug at his hair to warn him. Morax growls, his tail winding round your ankle. You try to keep up, try to ride him, but his pace far outmatches yours, stretching you out, pulling you flush against him. You let him use you, your monks reaching a feverish peak, grasping a taste of heaven on your tongue.

“Morax — ah!”

He curls into you, around you with an engulfing embrace with whispered words being uttered into your ear, “Do you want to cum?” You jolt your head. “Then cum… ”

And the bliss washes over you as you finally find it, slumping up into Morax;s patient arms with a near boneless stance. Your eyes met his, the hunger that still rages as he watches with awed fascination at how you come apart and piece back together again with teary eyes and a debauched smile.

“Beautiful.” he mumbles, then presses you face first into the sheets, still sheathed deep inside you. You only just realize he still has reached his own peak yet when he moves, absently reaching out for a pillow for you to grasp.

“God…M- morax — ” you were tired but with overstimulation settling fast and your own desires to see his pleasures being met, you bite into the pillow with a helpless whine. There was a rush in the pain you felt, from feeling all that pleasure wrap into a tight knot while he slicks back and forth into you, hitting your g-spot again with insistent grunts. His pupils were blown wide, like he was trying to take in as much of you as he could.

“M-more!” you blurt out then wince, feeling a hint of shame prick at you for being so greedy. It was about him now; sure you could put your own needs aside.

Morax however, smiles. “ More ?” he coos. “You want more?”

A gasp. You feel his hand settle on your clit, his untouched cock brush against your thigh. “Now who am I to deny you?” He continues his rough thrusts, godly stamina barely denting at his reserves and his pace. Perhaps that came with being an adeptus, this unending virility and endurance. Morax kisses at the back of your neck, laying down more marks to serve as a reminder for the next few days ( that you were, undoubtedly and irrevocably his now ).

Wanton moans pour out easily. Morax delights in them, carefully stimulating spots that were sure to bring the most out of you. The initial phase of searching and mapping out and learning was long gone — he was always quick to pick up on things, and things that make you fall apart into a quivering mess so easily were no exception.

It feels so good. So good —

“Do you want to keep going?” he asks. You feel sore in the best of ways and you nod. You don’t want him to stop. You don't ever want him to stop, drunk on the overstimulation, the euphoria, his cock, him —

Morax lets out a shaky exhale and slams even harder into you. “You’ll be my undoing...” he whispers and you turn your head, catching a glimpse of him. His straight faced composure was long gone, what careful parts of him he keeps hidden from sight having fallen over. Claws prickle at your ass, his eyes are trained on you, you you and when he meets your gaze, he captures your lips in a heated kiss.

“What kind of spell have you ensnared me with, little love?”

You could say the same thing. You try to, cut off by a rough grind on your clit. A lump builds up in your throat, vaguely recalling his small gestures of affection, his admissions, through your heat hazed mind and you arch your back into him to catch another kiss. Morax never needed to say the words and you were fine with it. 

“I love you.” you tell him instead, taking everything you had to get your tongue to move. Morax freezes up. He shuts his eyes and strokes your cheeks and buries his face into your neck.

“My Qingxin.” he whispers, tenderly, lovingly. The faltering in his pace, the sloppier jerks of his hips, then undertones of strained control beneath his moans signal his release. You grasp at his free shaft, and the gasp that echoes out was a rewarding one as you stroke him along into his release. “In or out?” he grits out, stuttering for a second. You feel the drag of his cock against your walls. “In.” you blubber.

You blank out after, feeling the rush, the fullness, him spilling out of you, between your legs, onto the mattress, over your stomach. Morax lets out a shudder, his marks glowing a faint gold before he pulls out. His hand does not leave your clit. Coaxing your third peak out with gentle kisses and insistent mumbles. The pain was sharp but you drink it in, pride lining every crevice of you till you jolt, that pressure finally releasing.

“Thank you.” you mumble. Intimacy was always so foreign, and a kind touch was a far away thought. Morax settles down, pulling you to him as he kisses away the drying tears and the sated touch starvation. He kisses you on the lips. Then the tip of your nose. Then at the bites he inflicted. 

“Rest.” he whispers. 

The cadence of his voice made it hard to disagree with and you feel unconsciousness wash over you fast. You could vaguely make out the sheets being changed and a damp cloth washing you down.

Morax’s weight next to you was the last thing you register.

“Are you well?”

Morax could count the number of times you sought refuge beneath his arm, eyes roving the stalls in the harbor with caution and nervousness. Your jumpiness was an expected clause, and a slightly endearing one as he walks you along the streets as a mortal man and his lover. There were no gods in Liyue Harbor today, at least none the people were aware of.

“Zhongli.”

He turns his head. “Yes, love?”

You fall into earnest silence. “I think I'm going to freak out.” you say. As taught as a bowstring against him. You grip at his hanfu tighter. “They’re staring. Why are they staring?”

“I suppose a new face does bring raised brows. That…” he dips his head down, nose brushing against your cheek with a loving chuckle. “...and you look exceptionally beautiful today, love.” You tug at his sleeve. “Ah, would some food ease my flower’s nerves then?” another tug. He takes that as a yes.

Even so, Morax knew you. Qingxins were flowers that know the intimate dangers of the mountain side and the bustle of the harbor below. You will grow, as you do and you will adapt as you do, maybe slowly, maybe quickly. He knows not to rush it along and he contents himself with your company and your curious question and the bliss on your face when you try a skewer.

“Liyue is beautiful.” you admit after a while. “Crowded, but beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m not used to this.” you tell him for the umpteenth time, quick, apologetic and Morax has none of that ( why would he ever see it fit to fault you? ). He takes your hand, pressing a fluttering kiss on your palm. 

You shoot him a flustered glare. He smiles. “We’ll take our time. This old man has much to spare.” and he does.

He’ll wait millennia if it is for you.