#or the thin line of water that is between the eyes and the eyelid

[neontiger]

sunday morning

MDNI 18+

~ In which you decide to become jason's favorite alarm clock ~ jason todd x fem!reader ~

Nothing compares to the sleep you fall into after a long night with Jason – well, maybe you can think of a few things he’s capable of that can compare – but after so many years of waking up with the sun your body seems to do it naturally. There’s not much you can do when that soft light creeps through the thin curtains on the window by the bed, paints the two of you as you lay tangled together, tugs at your eyelids.

You bury your face in the pillow. Behind, Jason sleeps peacefully. Only a soft snore greets you when you glance at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

Lucky him, sleeping like a baby. But he deserves it.

You watch him. Bask in the view of him streaked by the morning sun, the steady rise and fall of his chest with every breath. Your eyes trace the shapes of him, the hardened muscles, the scars making a landscape to explore. Puckered bullet wounds, thin slices of knives, short stabs of daggers…the Y-shaped scar that divides him, a straight line down his abdomen you always end up following. A thousand stories to read on his skin.

You move to nuzzle his chest and lay your head on his heart. It beats in your ear. For a brief moment it makes you sad, because your thoughts run to that dark place he came from. You hadn’t been there back then. There was nothing you could have done, but that doesn’t make you feel much better.

He’s here now. He’s alive, blood pumping through his veins. And he makes it back to you every night – he promised he would, and he’s not broken that promise yet. You pray he never does.

A deep breath lifts you a little higher. Ah, and the smell of him – musk and the hint of gunpowder. You never thought that would become one of your favorite scents, and yet here you are, inhaling and taking him in with all your senses.

Wait, you’re forgetting taste. His taste…what does he taste like?

You pick your head up. Jason’s eyes are still closed, his lips slightly parted. There’s a cut on his upper lip that he got last week in a fight, still healing, and a new bump in his nose from a hard punch he got last night. That didn’t stop him from nearly folding you in half and driving his cock into you until you were stuffed full of him and you were both satisfied. You weren’t complaining; he deserved to be spoiled.

He won't wake easily. A challenge. You test the waters with a kiss to his bicep, watching his face for the slightest twitch, but there’s none except the standards.

Another kiss, this one to a scar on his chest, a little wetter. You purse your lips and suck gently. Not enough to leave a mark, not yet. Another, closer to his nipple, a spot so sensitive that when he’s awake it sends a shiver down his spine. You close your lips on the bud and flick your tongue.

That elicits a response; the faintest twitch of his eyebrows, a wrinkle in his nose. His next breath is a little heavier than the others, but he doesn’t wake. You’ll have to work harder.

No more gentle kisses. You press your lips to the skin of his abdomen and nip, like some teething puppy. A trail of little pink marks follows you as you make your way to the patch of hair that runs from his belly button under the blanket. Jason shifts again, this time moving his legs apart, as if to make room for you. You stop and watch again. He might be awake.

Whatever. Breakfast is waiting for you just underneath the covers, a thick swelling lifting the blanket between his strong thighs. You continue your kisses downward but don’t move the blanket. Instead you kiss his legs through the fabric, feel the muscle tighten and shift. He turns his head and sighs.

You inch closer to his swollen member still swathed under your flowery pink blanket but you don’t dare bring your lips to it. Every few kisses placed on his covered legs or exposed skin causes a twitch. Sometimes a sigh escapes his mouth, a half-moan. He turns his hips and tries to chase your lips in what he thinks is a nonchalant, casual way, but you know better.

The teasing is fine, you think, but between your legs you’re growing sticky with arousal, and for your sake you decide it’s time to give him what he wants. You kiss the tip of his covered cock lightly.

Jason curls his fingers into the bedsheet, biting his lower lip.

You inch the blanket down, dragging it slowly over his engorged member, until it pops free at full attention. For a moment you marvel at his cock – so thick your index and thumb didn’t meet when you wrapped them around, lined with throbbing veins that ran from a base of curly black hair to the darker, leaking tip. Maybe you’d tortured him a bit too long, you thought, as a bead of precum rolled down the underside.

But that thought doesn’t make you go any quicker. He likes it, you know, letting go of control and putting up with you. You drag just the top of your tongue along the underside of his cock, tasting his precum – salty, strong – and flick off the head of cock.

It’s faint, but unmistakable. A grunt, a fuck through gritted teeth.

“I know you’re awake.” You wrap your lips around the tip of his cock and give a single suck before popping off again. “How long are you going to pretend?”

Jason places his arms behind his head, propping up enough to smile down at you. “I didn't want to disturb your fun. But don't stop now, baby. I promise I'll stay still, and you can do whatever you want.”

“Whatever you want, right?” Starting at the base, you plant wet kisses along the length of his cock, first up and then down again. He wets his lips, entranced with watching you.

He sits up to reach a hand down and squeezes your shoulder. “Come here,” he says. “Sit on my face.”

You laugh at the brazen, sort of awkward way he says it – but you obey, moving to straddle his head, still facing his cock with the intention of taking care of him while he does the same for you. He squeezes your ass in his calloused hands as he brings you down further.

It starts with a tease; his tongue light on the outer lips of your already dripping cunt, maybe revenge for what you put him through, making him wait. “Jason,” you whimper, squirming in his grip.

He likes that, the helpless moan that drips from your lips, but he also is incapable of teasing you. It's as much torture for him as it is for you. He flattens his tongue against your clit and drags it up to bury inside you. A tremble runs through your body, causing your hand around his cock to tense and tighten. You pretend it was intentional by quickly rerouting the move into a pump up his shaft and wrapping your lips around him again.

His cock throbs in your mouth, urging you to take him further, and a steady rhythm of pump, suck, up, down, is all you can manage as he buries against your cunt, eating like a man starved.

Shocks of pleasure roll through your body and release as muffled moans as you remain wrapped around his cock. His hips buck upwards on their own at the hummed vibrations, desperate to be buried further inside your warm mouth. You can't resist the urge to do the same, grind your heat against his mouth, making desperate circles on his tongue.

You break away from his cock and collapse with a cry as he gives a sharp suck to your clit. Can't concentrate on what you need to do when he's like that, when he's doing so good. You press your lips against his throbbing length and whimper.

Then nothing. No peak. Nothing but a wet burning crying out between your thighs and in your stomach.

You whine. “Jayy…”

“You stopped, so I thought we were done.” The heat of his breath so he chuckles brushes against your clit, making you shiver.

You weigh the options: sit down fully on his face and suffocate him – he'd like that, probably his favorite way to go – or take your seat elsewhere.

You move off of him. Jason makes as if to sit up, but you quickly straddle his lap and flatten your hands on his chest to hold him in place. He grins, hands gripping your hips, as if guiding you into place. You hold him steady and sink down, purposefully slow, teasing as you take him inside your welcoming heat a centimeter at a time. His brow furrows, a sharp inhale sucked through teeth, hands tightening and fingers curling into your soft flesh.

Full, heart racing, you exhale as you fully seat yourself on him. Jason smiles up at you, pupils blown out with lust. He reaches a hand to cup your cheek and guide your lips down to his.

The two of you stay like that, tongues slipping over each other and exploring, his cock nestled inside your walls, warm and exciting. His fingers rub your back while yours play in his hair. As perfect as the moment is, the sun streaking through the window and over your intertwined bodies, you can't stay this way forever. There's a pressing matter between the two of you crying for release.

Slow. You lift halfway and sink down, the head of his cock pressing that spot inside – you jolt and tighten around him, the feeling still new and fresh. Your fingers curl against his muscled chest, nails dragging over the sensitive skin. He squeezes your hips and bucks up softly to meet your next sink down.

You lean forward, grip the pillow around his head. His hands smooth over your warm skin to grab your ass and guide your movements. Blue eyes meet yours and lock in place, soft and inviting – contrast to feeling deep inside as pleasure swells and burns, his fingers squeezing and urging, his thrusts picking up speed and depth.

Forget trying to keep up; you give him control, letting your head fall to the pillow. He kisses your ear. “Tired already?” He says, voice raspy, thick with lust. “It's okay, baby. Let me take care of you.”

Consent takes the form of a whine from your lips, and he grabs you tight to flip the two of you over on the bed. Your head lands on the pillow. Jason reaches next to you for the unused set of pillows.

“Lift your hips,” he says, and you obey, lifting your butt off the bed despite still being wrapped around his cock. He stuffs the pillows under you to prop you into that perfect angle – perfect for him to drive into you and make you crazy.

Jason presses his lips to your ankle before placing both on his shoulders. You gasp as he thrusts – just once, a taste, just for him to see your face contort with pleasure.

“Want me, baby?” Another slow thrust, a full out, a steady press back inside until he's completely buried once more.

Your hair clings to your forehead and flushed cheeks. Focusing on him through lidded eyes, his hands caressing your thighs, you nod, urge him forward with a wiggle that shifts you on his cock.

“No, baby.” Jason leans forward, folding you nearly in half, so he can grip your chin. His thumb brushes your bottom lip. “Use your words.”

The look, the touch, the position – everything a reminder that you're so weak underneath him, that despite who you might be elsewhere here you are one thing – his.

“Want you,” you say. “Please, Jay.”

He smiles. “Good girl.”

Slow, arduous, dragging – each thrust of his hips pressing the head of his cock against your cervix, causing your walls to flutter and tighten around him as the pressure builds. His eyes never leave your face, but you can’t maintain eye contact, the feeling too great – your eyes roll back, eyelids fluttering, as his pace quickens, bringing you closer to the peak.

“That’s it.” He sounds out of breath. “My good girl…come for me, baby…”

Faster. You clench around him, nails dug into his knees, the only piece of him you can reach in an attempt to ground yourself. Your head swims, body tightening and tensing, as control breaks.

Your release crashes around him. He breaks from watching your face as you come undone to look down at where you connect – to watch as you swallow him, pussy swollen with hot excitement and from him, his cock slick with your juices. Each panted thrust, each grunt, each swallow and choke tell you he’s close.

“Inside,” you manage to squeak out.

Jason glances up. You force the word out again – “Inside, Jay” – and that’s all he needs.

It’s a struggle to keep his eyes open, to lock them on yours again, as his release crashes through his body, causing his hips to stutter. Deep-rooted instinct and need bury him as deep as he can inside you as he lets go, filling you.

He’s quick, grabbing your lower back to lift your limp body to get rid of the pillow, before laying his body on yours. Sticky and sweaty and burning under the sun. He remains inside you, throbbing with the last shocks of his orgasm, as his lips press yours.

“Good morning.” Jason’s mouth curves into a smile against yours. Another kiss, slow and lazy. He chuckles. “Good morning.”

You wrap your legs around him to keep him in place a little longer, exhilarated at the feeling of just…him. “You like that, did you?” No more begging good girl, back to pinching his cheek and giving back the same attitude he hands out freely.

“It’s a good way to wake up. I wouldn’t mind if…maybe you could be my alarm clock.” Jason runs his hand up your side to cup your breast. He tweaks your nipple between his thumb and index, and you jolt, clenching around his cock again.

“You’d…” You swallow. Fuck. “You’d have to stay over more often.”

The words sound dumb. Jason Todd wouldn’t. No, there was too much at stake. He wouldn’t risk putting you in danger.

But he swallows. His hand leaves your breast to cup your cheek. His eyes search yours – maybe he thinks you’re being shallow, you just want him for sex – but then they stop.

“Considering it,” he says softly. He kisses your forehead.

Your heart skips.

“What do you want for breakfast?” He asks. The answer is obvious.

[daisiescomelate]

Gush to the flesh

Prompt: Mephisto knocks into your window and you know it means bad news. You go to the alley behind your apartment complex and find a bleeding Syrus that’s on the verge of passing out. He still has the energy to flirt, though.

masterlist

You were brushing your teeth over the bathroom sink, already changed into your bedtime clothes and with your eyelids barely holding up. It had been a long day, a wanderer broke loose into a safe zone of the city. It had been dangerously smart and particularly fast, however you and your team of hunters had been able to subjugate it.

The clock over the dinner table marked past eleven at night. You yawned and rubbed your eye with your free hand. It wasn’t even that late for your usual bedtime, yet you barely could hold yourself in your feet.

You bent down and rinsed your teeth. When you straighten your back again and went to reach for the brush in your bathroom cabinet, a noise scared you to the point of making you jump on your feet.

Tuc, tuc.

Tuc, tuc. Tuc, tuc.

Tuc, tuc, tuc, tuc, tuc, tuc.

You look around bewildered. Then you moved to the living room area and following the noise you were able to spot its source.

Mephisto held itself mid air with the flapping of his wings while he also pecked into your window with urgency.

“Mephist–?” You blinked. Suddenly, your body changed into full alert. It wasn’t usual for Mephisto to do such a scandal. Usually it was quite, maybe annoying, but never like this. Its behavior was a clear alert for an emergency. And you knew exactly who that emergency related to.

You didn’t mind your looks, not even cared for clothes that would save you from the outside cold. You jumped into action, running out the door of your apartment without looking back, down the stairs, the lobby, then outside.

Mephisto appeared a second later, flying over your head.

“What happened?” You asked, momentarily forgetting that this mechanical bird couldn’t answer you.

Mephisto picked up the pace of its wings and flew upwards then forward.

It guided you towards a dark alley. You felt the wet gravel from the light storm from half an hour ago in your feet, it was only then that you realized that in a rush you had left the house barefoot.

You held yourself with one hand against the wall at the entrance of the alley. The fabric of your pajamas was so thin you could feel the whole strength of the autumn breeze in your skin underneath it.

The alley was a black void that sucked in all the light from the street lamps. The streets around you were relatively quiet, considering you lived close to the central street market of Lincoln.

Mephisto wasn't bothered. It flew into the darkness, its feathers disappearing as it merged with the shadows. You heard him before you could see him. Mephisto cried from inside the alley once again. In response, Sylus' voice rose from the further end of the space between your apartment complex and the next.

“Mhmm…”

It was more of a pained sound than actual speech and that made you more aware of the trouble he might find himself in. Sylus wasn't Sylus without a stupid arrogant remark or an entitled basic flirting line.

“Sylus?”, you whispered. No response. Fortunately, it had built a habit to take your hunter watch every time you step outside of your door, and you used it to illuminate the space of the alley.

“Sylus.” You said in an angry whisper. You didn’t want to alert the neighbours at this hour of the night, let alone scream the name of a wanted criminal so close to where anyone might hear it.

Under the haze of light you could see the dumpster you shared between both buildings and the trash bags that overflew it. On the other side of the narrow alley there was a pile of cardboard boxes wet by the rain. The floor reflected the light where the rain had gatter into small puddles of water and litter.

You hesitated to enter the alley with your bare feet, or that was until you heard the noise of complain again.

You saw a shadow moving at the very back of the alley behind the dumpster and your body stepped forward almost by instinct.

Sylus laid against the wall of the neighboring building with one hand against his waist. Under his palm and next to him there are traces of blood. It was hard to see exactly how the wound looked even under the light of your watch because of the mess of the ripped out clothes.

The pain he was going through was clear in his face. He kept his eyes closed and his frown parting his expression. Because he still moved and mouthed some words, you could be sure he hadn’t lost consciousness completely.

You kneel down next to him, lightly touching his hand over his wound to see if you could make him focus his eyes on you.

“Sylus.” You said for the third time, but this time softer.

His eyes opened a fraction before being blinded by the light again. Sylus moved his other hand upwards to shield his eyes from the brightness of it. You moved the light away. It took him a few seconds for his eyes to acclimate, but as soon as his pupils became accustomed to the dark, he laid his eyes on you.

“Hello, kitten.” You frowned.

“Is that everything you have to say, ‘hello, kitten’? Sylus, what happened to you?” You reached out for his wounds again and laid your hands over his to help him put pressure into the wound. He greeted his teeth at the pain that caused.

“I’m going to have to ask you to go easy on me, kitten. I was invited to a meeting with some unexpected guests and things didn’t go exactly as expected.”

You didn’t release the pressure on his wound, if anything you pressed harder, making him mutter some words under his breath. “You keep going around looking for trouble, you had this coming,” you scolded him even when your heart was full of worry.

“Believe me, kitten, I didn’t want this either.” He grabbed one of your wrists with his free hand and applied some light pressure over it, silently asking you to let go a little.

“Whatever,” you said, knowing that it was no time to go over this with him again since you had more important matters at hand, “let’s call Luke and Kieran so they can take you to a doctor.” A hospital wasn’t an option for clear reasons, but being who he was, Sylus must have had some professional underground doctor to seek out for emergencies. You pathed over your pajamas when you realized you hadn't brought your phone downstairs with you either.

“Let me go up for my phone at my apartment, I will be right back.” You said, ready to jump to your feet and into the building when Sylus stopped you with a tight grip over your hand.

“Don’t.” He said.

“What do you mean ‘don’t’, you’re bleeding out, Sylus.”

“Don’t call Luke and Kieran, they are busy at the moment.” He needed of a short pause to catch his breath. “You can take care of this kitten, that’s why I’m here.”

“You came here so I would take care of your wound?”

“It’s not–” a pause, “as serious as you think it is. Just a shallow cut.”

“Doesn’t sound shallow to me.” You snapped and your heart started raising faster when you realized the blood that was staining his fingers was now staining yours.

“It’s shallow enough.” Suddenly you realized he had reached upwards with his free hand, which he used to caress for one of your cheeks. His next words came in a whisper. “Please, kitten. Just this one time.” And maybe there was something about hearing Sylus of all people beg, but you had no energy to fight him back on this anymore.

You took a deep breath, “Okey,” you said as you let go of his wound, “then you’re going to have to help me a little bit. You’re too heavy for me to carry you.”

And your prediction wasn’t wrong. It took all you had to carry half of his weight as he laid over your side to take him inside the building. You could only pray for the security guard in front of the monitors somewhere inside the building to be fast asleep so no one would see you carrying a bleeding man into your apartment.

You used the button up shirt of your pajama to hold the bleeding, leaving you in your pajama pants and under shirt, but at least there wouldn’t be a trail of blood through the lobby and inside the elevator.

You exited the elevator on your floor and forced yourself to push forwards for just a little longer. For a moment your mind flashed the idea of getting to cross paths with Xavier on your way up given his strange patterns and sleeping schedule, yet the knot in your throat easily itself when you were able to get to your apartment door without being seen by anyone at the hall.

“Here we are,” you said between panting breaths, checking if Sylus was still conscious. You put on your password on your lock with some effort and as soon as you heard the signaled of it opening you pushed the door with your foot to make way.

You dropped Sylus over the couch near the entrance and you heard him drow in a sharp breath.

“Let me go for my first aid kit.” You said and promptly moved to the bathroom where all lights were still turned on and looked through your cabinet to find the small box with disinfectant and gauze inside.

You moved back to the living room area and saw Sylus straighten into a proper sitting position.

“Lay down!” You tried to scold him, but of course there was no point in doing so. Sylus ignored your demand, instead motioning to the zip of his jacket and pulling it down.

“It’s a mild incision,” he said, pulling away his leather jacket. There was a point for him to wear it, you realized, that had little to do with style and more with practicality. It was harder to knife someone if they were wearing a thick piece of leather over their skin.

“Let’s see what you call mild,” you accused and got in closer to the couch. 

“I have survived worse injuries, love. This is nothing to worry about.” His voice was deep and raspy.

He moved his hands to the bottom edge of his shirt and pulled it upwards. At first you thought that he might simply pick his shirt up half the way so the wound could be visible, but then you saw him struggle to take his shirt all the way through his head.

What was left then was a sight to be seen, Sylus’ torso completely exposed with a gush to his side close to his abdomen. His chest fell quickly up and down and his legs were spread to the sides of the sofa while he tried to find a position that would bring out the least pain.

You had to shake your head out of your stupor, reminding yourself that the view wouldn’t last if he were to die.

Clearing your throat you moved closer and sat beside him on the sofa with the aid kit between the two of you.

“Let me see,” you said, your voice soft. Sylus took his hands away from his wound and you realized his definition of ‘mild’ was wildly different from your. The wound was an unclean cut of the flesh that probably would need stitches.

Fortunately, as Sylus had said, it was probably something you could handle –not that you wanted to. Being a hunter meant a fair amount of wounds that you eventually learned to take care of. The wound bled red, not black, which was a good sign. In any case, if you were to fucked it up, it could only be called his fault.

You stood for a soft cloth from the kitchen and came back. While you were cleaning the wound you could feel him flinch under your touch, even when his expression remained serine.

“So, I guess those unexpected guests were not so nice.” You said, pathing lightly over the cut waiting for it to stop bleeding. It was close to do so, but that didn’t make you any less nervous about the situation. Maybe the small talk was more for your own sake than his.

“I had a meeting with a colleague and someone seemed to let the police know of it. It seems we had a mole in our lines. It was something displeasing to find out about.”

“I can imagine.” You couldn’t think of someone that had enough guts to betray Sylus of all people, knowing all the power he held over his territory and the amount of people he had on his side. You guess it was only the actions of a fool.

You let the cloth over the small table to your side and turned to the other to get the disinfectant from the aid kit when you felt Sylus’ fingers over your cheek.

“Don’t worry, love.” Sylus said, this time right next to your ear with that voice that made you melt everytime you hear it, his thumb caressing the lobe of your ear. You raised your eyes to find him looking straight at you from above. “I’m safe now that I’m with you.”

You felt a pinching sensation over your heart at his words. How strange it was to hear those words come out of his mouth.

“You’d be in better hands if they were that of a doctor’s.”

“But I like to be nursed by you.” He said, running one of his hands from your wrist to your elbow back and forward, “You have a gift to calm me down.” He said, and for some reason, you believed his sincerity.

“C’mon,” he said, moving his fingers from your cheek to brush the edge of your lips, “don’t look so sad.” His voice had changed to a whisper and you realised you were both now a breath away from each other, “Those sad eyes do things to my heart, love.”

You stayed in place as if in a trance, lingering there for a second but then shook your head with discontent. You pressed into the wound with the rag on your fingers, making Sylus grown.

“Can you stop flirting for a second? You are dying.” Sylus let go of a painful laughter, graving into your wrist and moved his fingers up delicately around your wrist.

“I’m injured right now, you have to be more careful with me.”

“That’s what I’m saying. You’re unbelievable. You are bleeding over my sofa and you still act so nonchalant. It's like that time you got shot—” A passing thought made you stop along with your words. You narrowed your eyes and stared down at Sylus with a piercing look.

Sylus seemed to know exactly what you were thinking and all you got as a response was a sly smirk and another exaggerated painful growned.

“Hurry up and treat me, love. I only have so much blood to lose.” He said with a smile.

“You bastard.” You said to him with venom in your voice, throwing the rag at his face. “Patch up by yourself!” You said standing from your place on the sofa and ready to go back to the bathroom to finish your night routine when two arms folded around your waist from behind.

Those arms pushed you backwards and you ended up falling over Sylus’ lap. You saw a shimmer of light from the corner of your eyes and you knew it to be Sylus’ evol taking care of the wound and making it disappear without trace. You bluntly hit the place when the wound must have been a few seconds before and made Sylus’ realise a blow of air.

“You're an idiot.” You said, and you heard the chuckle behind the shell of your year along with his hot breath at the back of your neck.

“I just wanted to be pampered, love. Yet you keep denying me the attention.”

You didn’t answer, annoyed at him for making you worried the way he did.

“You made me carry you all the way up the stairs.”

“And you did an excellent job.” He said, brushing his lips along the spot behind your ear. “As I said, it’s good to know I can depend on you.” You jumped slightly when you felt the edge of his teeth rasping against your skin in a light nibble.

“Sorry for worrying you, sweety.” He said with a kiss to your ear.

“Whatever.” You said, and fell deeper into his embrace.

[livvymd]

𓂃⋆.˚HELD.

꣑ৎrequest: write about bf arthur tv who like helps u throug ur period cramps and is there for u then puts his hand on your stomach and its like really relieiving due to how warm he is ig and it like heals the period cramps abit i want words like good girl used and some complimenjts ig and like hurry up w it yh fluff!

You’d been in Arthur’s bed all day.

The cramps were relentless, dragging through your stomach in slow, punishign waves that refused to let you rest, no matter how tightly you curled under his blankets. The soft cotton smelled like him. clean, warm, a hint of his laundry powder clinging to the fibres, but it wasn’t enough to ease the ache that clawed through your lower belly, sharp and dull all at once, leaving your muscles quivering, your limbs heavy as stone.

You barely moved except to adjust the pillow under your head or to shift onto your other side when the ache became too much, pulling your knees up to your chest in a desperate attempt to outrun the pain. Even blinking felt like effort. Yuo could hear Arthur in the kitchen sometimes, the soft clink of mugs, the low hum of him talking quietly to himself or to the camera, the kettle whistling for the third, fourth, fifth time.

He kept bringing you tea, the steam curling softly into the space between you and the mug, warming your face as you held it. Sometimes you’d close your eyes, letting the heat seep into your hands, your palms prickling with pins and needles, your shoulders sinking an inch as the warmth offered the smallest relief.

Every so often, Arthur would hover in the doorway, fingers tapping against the handle as he watched you. His eyes were gentle, worried, that soft Arthur worry that made his brows pinch together even when he tried to hide it, his lips pressing into a thin line when you winced.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asked softly, every hour, each time he passed with his laptop tucked under one arm, always pausing, always looking, like he couldn’t help himself, like seeing you was the only thing that grounded him in the middle of everything else.

“No, Art, I’m okay,” you mumbled each time, though your voice would catch at the end, cracking around the words when another cramp tightened through your lower belly. Sometimes you pressed your hand there, trying to massage the pain away, but it didn’t help, and a small whimper would slip out before you could swallow it down.

Arthur’s jaw would tense every time, like it physically hurt him to see you in pain, like he would have taken it on himself if he could.

He brought you heat packs, laying them over your stomach with careful hands, tucking the edges of the blanket around it so it wouldn’t slip. He’d return with a bar of chocolate he’d half-unwrapped for you . Hhe brought you water in your favourite glass, a fluffy pair of socks when he realised your feet were cold, kneeling by the edge of the bed to help you pull them on when you were too exhausted to sit up.

Sometimes he sat with you, reading headlines off his phone just to fill the silence, his voice low and warm, his thumb gently rubbing over the back of your hand when you reached for him, grounding you while you curled up tighter, waiting for the pain to ease. Not once did he complain, even when you knew it must have felt helpless to sit there, watching you hurt, unable to do anything to fix it.

The day slipped by in soft, painful waves, the outside world reduced to the shifting colours on Arthur’s walls as the light changed. By the time dusk settled, painting the room in deepening gold and pink, you were exhausted, your body sinking heavily into the mattress, your eyelids fluttering with the weight of it all.

Arthur was lying beside you now, one arm folded behind his head, his phone held up as he scrolled through something quietly, the glow of the screen catching the curve of his cheekbone.

You turned your head to look at him, your eyes bleary, your stomach still aching in dull, stubborn pulses that made your breaths catch every few minutes.

“How’s it feeling now?” he asked, voice low, careful, as if he didn’t want to disturb the fragile quiet that had settled between you. He set his phone aside, shifting closer, his hand finding yours under the blanket, his thumb brushing softly over your knuckles, the warmth of him seeping into your cold fingers.

“Still sucks,” you sighed, your voice thin, eyes slipping closed for a moment as you tried to breathe through another slow wave of pain. You shifted on your side, curling closer to him, your forehead pressing lightly against his arm, craving the heat he always seemed to carry, the steady, calming weight of him beside you.

Arthur frowned, the glow from his phone screen disappearing as he turned to face you fully. His knees bumped softly against yours under the blanket, his hand reaching out to brush a stray piece of hair off your forehead with delicate fingers.

“Is there anything I can do, love? Please, I mean it, anything.” His voice was so gentle, so heartbreakingly soft, that it nearly made you cry right there. His eyes were searching, warm brown flickering with quiet concern, his brows furrowing just enough to show how deeply he meant it.

You hesitated, biting your lip hard enough to feel the sting, blinking against the tears that threatened to spill, heat prickling at the corners of your eyes. Then, so softly you barely heard yourself:

“Your hands are really warm.”

He blinked, the confusion clearing as realisation dawned, a small, tender smile flickering across his lips, pulling one corner higher than the other. “You want them on your stomach? see if that helps, hm?"

You nodded, cheeks heating with embarrassment, but the ache twisting through your lower belly made you too desperate to pretend you didn’t need it. “Please.”

Arthur’s eyes softened even more, if that was possible, and he reached out, brushing his knuckles across your cheek, letting them linger for a moment. “Of course,” he whispered.

He shifted closer, lifting the blanket gently so the cool air didn’t rush in too fast, his movements careful and slow, as if afraid of jostling you. His hand slipped under the fabric, then under the hem of your oversized hoodie, his palm pressing flat against your lower stomach.

The warmth was immediate, deep and perfect, sinking into your cramping muscles in a way that made your eyes flutter shut, your lashes brushing your cheeks as you let out a soft, genuine moan you couldn’t hold back. The relief was so sudden, so intense, that it almost made you dizzy, your body relaxing in tiny shivers against the mattress.

Arthur froze for a split second, his eyes going wide, the tips of his ears flushing pink, his cheeks following quickly. But when he realised it was from relief, that you weren’t in more pain, that you were finally easing under his touch, he let out a quiet breath, his shoulders dropping as he relaxed. His hand began moving in slow, comforting circles over your lower belly, the gentle drag of his skin against yours sending small waves of heat deeper into the ache.

“Oh my god, please don’t move,” you whispered, your voice shaking, small and pleading, as another wave of warmth pushed the pain away, loosening the tightness in your chest. “Please, Arthur, just.. keep them there.”

“Yeah?” he murmured, so soft it was almost a vibration against your chest where you leaned toward him. His thumb brushed another slow circle, a question, a promise. “Course I will, love.”

You let out a shaky breath, your body curling instinctively closer to him, tucking your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the comforting scent of his hoodie, fresh laundry, a hint of his shampoo, something that was just him. Your hand came up to rest over his wrist under your hoodie, holding him there, your thumb brushing lightly over his pulse, grounding yourself in the steady beat of it.

His other arm wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you closer, shifting you gently until your body was pressed along his, your knees brushing his thigh under the blankets, his warmth enveloping you entirely. The mattress dipped under his weight, the blanket shifting, creating a warm, quiet cocoon around the two of you.

His thumb continued brushing small, soothing circles over your lower stomach, each pass easing the pain just a bit more, letting you finally breathe without wincing, your chest rising and falling against his. You felt the quiet strength in the way he held you, not too tight, but enough to let you know he wasn’t going anywhere.

“You’re so warm,” you mumbled against his collarbone, your lips brushing the soft fabric of his hoodie, your eyelids heavy, your body finally relaxing for the first time all day as the pain dulled under the steady press of his hand.

Arthur’s hand stilled for a moment, as if savouring your words, before he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, letting his lips linger there, warm and comforting. “M’happy to help,” he whispered, his voice so low it rumbled gently against your ear, his thumb resuming its slow, careful circles. “You’re alright, yeah?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, your voice small, your lashes fluttering against your cheeks as you nuzzled closer, feeling his warmth soaking into your skin. “You’re magic.”

A quiet laugh escaped him, low and fond, his chest vibrating softly under your cheek. “close,” he breathed, pressing another gentle kiss to your temple, “ but I'm just your personal hot water bottle.”

You smiled, your lips curling against his collarbone, a small breath of laughter slipping out despite the ache still lingering in your belly. Your eyes slipped shut as you nestled closer, pressing yourself fully against him, letting your hand slip from his wrist to hold his other arm where it was draped around your shoulders, needing him there, needing all of him.

Arthur’s warm hand stayed on your lower belly, steady and comforting, his thumb moving in slow, absent-minded strokes as if he couldn’t stop, his breathing calm and even, syncing with yours. His other hand shifted to run through your hair slowly, brushing it away from your face, fingertips gentle against your scalp as he let out a quiet sigh, holding you tighter.

Outside, the world was quiet, except for the the soft hum of distant traffic, the golden glow reflecting off the windows, painting your closed eyelids in warm pink.

And in the hush of his room, wrapped in his arms, feeling the slow, steady warmth of him everywhere he touched you, you finally let yourself exhale the tension you’d held all day. The pain was still there, but softer now, smoothed out under the steady heat of his hand, under the calm, quiet safety he carried in every breath, every small kiss against your hair.

You let yourself finally relax, letting sleep pull at you gently, safe in the warmth of him, knowing, truly knowing, he’d keep his hand there for as long as you needed.

But Arthur didn’t move.

Even when your breathing began to slow, lashes fluttering as you fought off the heavy pull of sleep, his warm hand stayed on your lower stomach, rubbing slow, careful circles exactly where it hurt the most. The pain wasn’t gone, not fully, but it was softer now, distant, dulled by the warmth and steady weight of his hand, by the way his thumb would occasionally pause to press down in just the right spot, easing a cramp before it could fully form.

Your body felt heavy with exhaustion, sinking into the mattress with each slow inhale, but you didn’t want to let yourself drift off, not yet, not when Arthur was holding you like this, soft, quiet, grounding, his warmth sinking into your bones.

“Arthur,” you whispered, your voice small, muffled against the fabric of his hoodie where your face was tucked against his chest.

“Yeah, pretty girl?” His voice was low, thick with tiredness, but warm, careful, as if he was afraid to break the fragile calm you’d finally found.

“Thank you,” you murmured, blinking up at him, your lashes heavy.

His eyes softened even further, if that was possible, the corners crinkling as he looked down at you. With the hand that wasn’t pressed to your stomach, he brushed a thumb over your cheek, the touch so gentle it made your chest tighten. “No need to thank me,” he whispered, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “You’re so brave, you know that?”

Your eyes fluttered shut at the kiss, warmth blooming in your chest as a sleepy, bashful smile tugged at your lips. “Not really,” you mumbled, your voice thick.

“You are,” he insisted softly, his thumb now stroking your temple, tracing lazy, comforting lines, as if he needed to keep touching you in more than one place to reassure himself you were okay. “You go through so much, and you still smile at me like that.”

A soft, tired laugh slipped out, your hand sliding up to grip the front of his hoodie, fingers curling into the soft fabric, holding him close, grounding yourself in his warmth and steady presence.

“Only for you,” you whispered, your lashes fluttering again as you let your eyes close, sinking into him, letting yourself feel safe.

Arthur let out a breathy chuckle, dipping down to nuzzle his nose against your hair, pressing another gentle kiss there, warm and lingering. His hand on your tummy never stopped moving, slow, steady circles that worked away the last of the tension in your body, each gentle press grounding you, reminding you that you were safe, that he was here.

“Sleep, yeah?” he whispered, brushing your hair back from your forehead, his fingers combing through it in soft, lazy strokes that made your eyelids grow heavier with each pass. “I’ve got you.”

You felt your body sinking into him, your limbs finally relaxing, melting against him as your face tucked into the warm curve of his neck. His hand never left your stomach, rubbing slow, comforting circles, and his other hand threaded gently through your hair, tangling and untangling, tracing along your scalp in soft, grounding motions. Each gentle tug and stroke lulled you further, your breaths falling into sync with his as your body grew heavy, warm, safe in his arms.

“Good girl,” he whispered so softly you almost didn’t hear it, pressing another kiss to the crown of your head, his thumb brushing along your temple as you finally let your eyes slip shut, your fingers clutching the front of his hoodie in a sleepy, content hold.

[meadowfics]

night carnage

hwang in-ho x f!reader

synopsis: carnage happened all around as you slept peacefully.

warnings: violence, death, the 2015 games, graphic descriptions. 18+

requested

you lie in bed, the thin mattress creaking beneath you. it was never comfortable, the way you feel like your back was pressing into the metal below the mattress.

the way your heart pounds so loud, it feels like it might burst through your chest. the dormitory is quiet now, save for the soft snores and occasional mumbles from the other players.

five days ago, you were just player 067, one of 456 strangers thrown into this hellish game, fighting for survival and a fortune you could barely comprehend.

now, only seven of you remain.

to say that you're terrified would have been an understatement.

this kind of unease settles into your bones and makes every breath feel like your last.

you didn’t drink the soju at last night’s feast, unlike the others who laughed and clinked glasses, their faces flushed with false hope as they beg the guards for more soju and rice.

the guards called it a gift, a way to “fuel up” for the final game tomorrow.

you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was something else.

as if it was a trap, a way to dull your senses.

inho, player 132, didn’t drink either.

you noticed his sharp eyes scanning the room as everyone else ate, his jaw tight, as if he knew something you didn’t.

you met inho five days ago, on the first day of the games.

you were both exhausted, battered from the red light green light game that really cemented your fear.

he grabbed your arm when you stumbled, saving your life as you nearly fell in front of him.

inho's grip was firm but not cruel, and his eyes held something you hadn’t seen in days: humanity.

from that moment, an unspoken bond formed between you.

unfortunately, you seen the humanity leave his eyes over the last few days. there was no more since you met him almost a week ago.

you didn't realize that he was the only player losing it.

you were too.

since forever, you didn’t trust easily. how could you now, in a place like this?

however, inho was different. he didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was with purpose. he shared his food when your hands shook too much to hold the spoon. he stood watch when you slept, his silhouette a quiet reassurance in the dim light.

you didn’t know his story, and he didn’t ask for yours.

it was enough to know you were both still here, together.

the dormitory is a vast, cold space, the walls were once lined with bunk beds stacked like cages. now, its only seven beds spread out.

the golden piggy bank looms high above, its glowing hue casting eerie shadows across the room.

as you notice most of the players asleep, you sit up, your back against the wall, trying to fight the exhaustion pulling at your eyelids.

sleep is a luxury you can’t afford, not with the final game looming.

the guards promised no violence, but you didn't believe that.

your nerves are frayed, each creak of the beds or rustle of sheets sends a shockwave through you.

you glance at inho’s bunk, a few beds down.

he’s awake too, his eyes glinting in the faint light.

he nods slightly at you, a silent acknowledgment.

you nod back, your throat too tight to speak.

the feast last night was strange.

the guards had rolled out tables laden with food....steaming rice, grilled fish, vegetables, kimbap, water, and bottles of soju. the other players, desperate for a moment of relief, had eaten and drunk with abandon.

you and inho had exchanged a look, both of you picking at the food but avoiding the alcohol.

“they want us soft,” he’d muttered under his breath, you had to read his lips from ten feet away to understand what he was saying.

inho's eyes flickered to the masked guards standing watch.

you’d nodded, your stomach twisting.

the guards’ generosity felt wrong, like the calm before a storm.

now, as you sit in the dark, you wonder if you should’ve warned the others.

what could you have said? they wouldn’t have listened.

they were too busy drowning their fear in soju.

your eyes grow heavy, the weight of the past days pressing down on you. you fight to keep them open, but they close involuntarily, your head dipping forward.

you’re still sitting up, your hands gripping the edge of the bed, but sleep is winning.

you don’t hear the soft thud of inho leaving the dorms with two guards, you don’t notice the glint of metal that he was gifted from the chairman himself upstairs for being such a 'favorited player'.

you don’t notice the way he stands, his movements silent and deliberate, his breath steady despite the weight of what he’s about to do.

the first muffed scream doesn’t wake you.

nor does the second.

the room erupts into chaos, but you’re lost in a haze of exhaustion.

your body is slumped against the wall, still sleeping.

inho moves like a shadow, the knife flashing in the dim light. one by one, the other players die as they've slept in their beds. some woke up, but were too drunk and tired to fight off the knife going into their necks.

five lives were cut in moments.

blood pools on the floor, seeping into the cracks, staining all of the bedsheets.

the air fills with the coppery scent of death, but you sleep through it all, unaware of the carnage unfolding around you.

when you wake up ten minutes later, the world around you is a blur.

your eyes are gritty, your head heavy, as if you’ve been drugged.

you blink, trying to clear your vision, and a golden haze fills your sight...the piggy bank above, its glow almost mocking.

you rub your eyes, your movements sluggish, and then you see it.

blood.

everywhere.

it’s splattered across the beds, dripping onto the floor, painting the walls in streaks of red. the bodies of the other players lie twisted and still, their faces frozen in expressions of shock, tiredness, and pain.

your breath catches, a gasp tearing from your throat as your heart lurches.

what?

this can’t be real.

it’s a nightmare, it has to be.

you were just awake, what the hell happened?

you pinch your arm, hard, but the scene doesn’t change.

your eyes dart across the room, landing on inho.

he’s leaning against the wall, his chest heaving, the knife still in his hand. blood stains his clothes, his face, his hands, but his eyes are steady, locked on you.

panic surges through you, and you scramble to your feet, backing away instinctively.

your hands tremble, your mind racing.

is he coming for you next?

you don’t know him, not really.

five days isn’t enough to trust someone with your life.

“stay back,” you choke out, your voice shaking.

your legs hit the edge of a bunk, and you nearly fall, your eyes never leaving him.

inho’s face softens, and he drops the knife. it clatters to the floor, the sound echoing in the silent room.

“I-i’m not going to hurt you,” he says, his voice rough.

he takes a step toward you, and you flinch, your body tensing.

he stops, raising his hands, palms open.

“I was able to do this for us. for you.”

you stare at him, your mind struggling to process his words.

“what… what are you talking about?” your voice is barely a whisper, your eyes flicking to the bodies, the blood, the knife.

“the next game,” he says, his breath still heavy, “they needed more than three players. now there’s only two of us. they can’t continue. we’ve won.”

you shake your head, your thoughts a jumbled mess.

“you… you killed all of them.” your voice breaks, and you press a hand to your mouth.

“i had to,” he says, his voice low but firm.

“it was the only way to get us out. to get you out.”

he takes another step, slower this time, and you don’t move.

into's eyes are intense, but there’s something else there.

something almost desperate.

“i couldn’t let them take you.”

you’re frozen, your heart pounding so hard it hurts. you want to scream, to run, to wake up from this nightmare, but you can’t.

your eyes flick to the knife again, now lying useless on the floor.

he threw it away.

he’s not holding it.

he’s not coming for you.

slowly, the realization sinks in.

he’s telling the truth.

he did this for you.

inho closes the distance between you, his movements careful, like he’s approaching a scared animal. you don’t back away this time, but your body is still tense, ready to bolt. he stops a foot away, his hands still raised.

“i’m not your enemy,” he says softly.

you don’t know what to say.

your mind is a storm of shock, and something else...something you can’t name. you look into his eyes, searching for a lie, but all you see is exhaustion and a strange, fierce protectiveness.

he’s not going to hurt you.

you know it now, deep in your bones.

inho steps closer, and before you can think, he pulls you into a hug. his arms are strong, steady, and you feel the warmth of his body against yours.

the blood from his victims stains your suit.

you don’t hug him back, not at first.

you stand there, your face pressed against his chest, his heartbeat loud in your ear.

you don’t cry.

you thought you would, but the tears don’t come.

it’s not sadness that fills you.

“we’re the last two,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your hair, “456 players, and now it’s just us.”

you nod against him, your throat too tight to speak. you don’t know how long you stand there, his arms around you, the silence of the dormitory pressing in.

the golden piggy bank watches from above, its glow casting long shadows over the carnage as it fills up with more money, making a strange animated sound.

you try not to look at the bodies, but you can’t unsee them.

the guards come eventually, their masks expressionless as they survey the scene. you and inho pull apart, and you brace yourself for punishment, for execution, for something.

they don’t touch you.

they don’t even speak.

one of them gestures for you and inho to follow, and you do, your legs unsteady.

inho walks beside you, his presence a strange comfort in the midst of the horror.

they lead you to a room you’ve never seen before, a sterile black space with a single table and three chairs, two of which being unoccupied.

a man in a suit sits there, his face hidden behind a golden blinged out mask with even more gold trim.

he doesn’t introduce himself, but his voice is calm, almost bored, as he explains that the games are over.

with only two players left, the final game cannot proceed.

little did you know, this was the man who gave inho the knife to win.

you and inho are the winners. the prize is billions of won, and will be split between you. you barely hear him, your mind still stuck on the blood, and inho’s tired eyes.

when it’s over, they let you go.

you walk out into the world, the money deposited into accounts you didn’t even know you had.

inho stays by your side, at first.

a year later, everything changes.

you don’t know how it happens, only that it does.

inho disappears for weeks, then months, and when you see him again, he’s not the man you knew.

you figure out that he got a job. a job as the frontman now, his face hidden behind a mask, his voice cold and commanding. you discovered it after you received a card again, asking you to meet at a location for a meeting.

you don’t recognize him at first, not until he looks at you with those same sharp eyes.

you’re different too.

inho offered you a role...a black masked guard, the guard who oversees all of the other guards.

you took it, not because you wanted to, but because the world outside felt too big.

in some way, the games changed your mind about humanity.

after everything you’d seen, the money didn’t fix you, and it didn’t erase the blood.

you stand in the shadows now, your mask heavy on your face. every year you watch new players run through the same games that nearly broke you.

you don’t think about being a player anymore.

you don’t think about inho, or the knife, or the dormitory stained red.

you tell yourself you’ve forgotten.

deep down, you know you haven’t.

you’re still there, sitting up in that bed, sleeping through the carnage.

masterlist

author's note: I don't write for inho much, but I loved writing this one.

[idkyetxoxo]

Thirteen | Until You | Little Star

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2k

Warnings - Mentions of trauma

<- prev || series masterlist || next ->

It was another one of those nights. The kind where the darkness behind my eyelids twisted and curled into restless shapes, where sleep hovered just beyond my reach, taunting and elusive.

With a soft huff, I threw back the silken sheets tangled around my legs and eased myself out of bed. 

The air carried a crisp chill, brushing cool fingers over my bare skin but I welcomed it. It felt more honest than the suffocating warmth of my tangled dreams.

Wrapping my arms around myself, fingers brushing the thin fabric of my nightgown, I padded barefoot across the room. The quiet slap of skin against polished floors was the only sound, save for the soft sigh of the wind against the windows. 

The silver glow of the moon and the faint pulse of a lone faelight were enough to guide me.

The library was a sanctuary, even now. Especially now. I slipped inside, the scent of old paper and cedarwood curling around me, familiar and soothing. 

My steps led me, almost on their own, to the wide window seat overlooking the Sidra, its waters glistening like molten glass beneath the moon.

I settled into the cushions, curling my legs beneath me, and reached for the worn book resting on the windowsill. 

My book. The one Azriel had found for me, replacing the precious copy Daeron had so carelessly thrown into the fire. My fingers brushed the battered spine with reverence before I cracked it open to the page I had last left off.

I knew these words by heart now, each line memorised like a prayer. But still, I tried. Still, I wanted to lose myself in them.

Only... the words blurred. Slipped through the sieve of my mind. I found myself rereading the same sentence again and again, unable to anchor myself to the story.

A soft creak drew my attention to the door.

I lifted my head, heart snagging painfully for a moment, only to see Azriel slipping inside, a book cradled loosely in one hand. 

His shadows, those living wisps of darkness split away from him the moment he crossed the threshold, as if drawn to me instead. They brushed against my hair, curled around my arms, their caresses feather-light and tender, as if trying to soothe the unrest stitched into my bones.

"Can't sleep?" I whispered, my voice barely more than breath.

Azriel shook his head once, a silent admission and without a word, crossed the room. There was an empty chair not far from me but he didn't spare it a glance. 

Graceful and quiet as a falling leaf, he sank down onto the floor beside the window seat, his shoulder brushing lightly against the curve of my bent knee.

He opened his own book, the soft crackle of pages shifting breaking the heavy hush between us. 

For a long moment, I just watched him—watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his lashes cast faint shadows on his high cheeks under the moonlight.

He didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't call attention to it.

I turned back to my book, the weight of him, his presence, anchoring me at last. The words began to stitch themselves together in my mind again, slow but sure.

His hair brushed lightly against my bare calf as he adjusted his position, the accidental contact sending a quiet warmth blooming through me, a tether pulling me back from the spiralling loneliness.

The question fell from my lips before I could stop it, soft and broken and desperate.

"Why are you always there when I break?"

I didn't know if it truly was a question or if it was a confession. Maybe both. Maybe neither. All I knew was that I needed to know. Needed to hear him say it.

His eyes lifted from his book. In the pale light, they looked almost endless, fathomless, with something unspoken.

His voice was rough velvet when he answered, low enough that only I could hear it.

"Because you were there after I shattered."

The silence between us stretched, heavy with meaning, until it cracked open, spilling out the things I had buried too deep for too long.

"I..." My voice wavered. I swallowed hard, fingers twisting in the fabric of my nightgown. He waited, silent and steady, his presence a quiet offering.

"I think about it sometimes," I said, staring out at the river, the words coming slow, halting. "What he did. What Daeron took from me."

Azriel didn't interrupt. He only shifted slightly closer, his knee brushing against the side of my hip, a solid, grounding touch.

I drew in a shaky breath. 

"He didn't just hurt me," I whispered. "He made me believe I was weak. That I was... powerless." I paused, shame licking up my spine. "And he was right. I can still feel the power inside me, Az—like an ember trapped under glass but I can't touch it. I can't use it."

The confession hung between us, raw and aching. My throat tightened.

"For so long, I thought it was because I wasn't strong enough. That I wasn't enough."

Azriel's hands, scarred, calloused and sure, curled into fists against the floorboards. His jaw ticked once—twice, as he struggled to contain the storm building inside him.

"It's not you," he said, voice low, rough with barely contained fury. "It's never been you."

I blinked down at him, stunned by the fierce conviction in his tone.

His eyes found mine, burning. "He drugged you," he said, each word clipped and shaking. "Years of faebane in your system, poisoning you. Dulling your magic. Making you think it was your failure when it was his cruelty."

There was a wildness in his gaze, a quiet rage that he fought to keep chained down—for me.

"I didn't know," I whispered, shame and grief and bitter relief tangling inside me.

"Of course you didn't," he said, softer now, voice breaking like the tide.

A tear slipped down my cheek, and he caught it with a knuckle before it could fall further, his touch reverent.

"I want to learn again," I said fiercely, the words spilling out of me before I could think. "I want to feel it, control it—I want it all back. I want to be me again."

His lips curved, not into a smile, but something deeper. A vow.

"Then I'll be there with you," he said simply. "Every step. Every stumble. Every triumph."

The knot in my chest, the one that had been there for years, loosened a little. The hope was small and fragile but it was real.

"Thank you," I whispered, the words trembling out of me, because how else could I possibly say it? How could I not?

But Azriel only shook his head, a quiet vehemence in the gesture.

"No," he said, voice a rasp against the night. "Don't thank me. Not for this."

"I should," I insisted, wiping at another tear. "I should."

His hand closed gently around my wrist, halting the motion. Holding me still. Holding me together.

"You saved me," he said, voice breaking on the edges. "The first day you came down those stairs, when no one else dared to look at me—you kissed my ruined hands like they mattered. Like I mattered."

A breath shuddered out of him, and he leaned his forehead against my knee, the contact soft, desperate.

"You don't owe me anything," he murmured against my skin. "Not when you've already given me everything."

I combed my fingers gently through his hair, feeling the way he leaned into the touch like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

Saved and saving. Broken and healing. Him and I.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The world narrowed to the soft brush of my fingers in his hair and the way he clung to my presence like a lifeline.

"I didn't know," I whispered eventually, voice cracking in the quiet. "I didn't know it meant that much to you."

He stayed where he was, forehead pressed lightly to my knee but I felt the way his shoulders tightened, the way a breath shuddered out of him before he finally spoke.

"It meant everything," he said simply.

I stared down at him, blinking back the burning in my eyes. "It was... it was nothing. You were hurting and no one..." I shook my head, throat too tight for a moment. "No one should ever feel that alone."

He turned his head slightly, enough to look up at me, his eyes dark and shining in the faint light.

"I was alone," he said quietly. "Until you."

The honesty in his voice hit me harder than any blow. As if all the pieces of him, the ones hidden behind shadows and silence were laid bare before me. And he trusted me enough to show them.

"I didn't do anything special," I said, the words tumbling out desperately.

"You didn't have to." His voice was low, reverent. "You saw me when I thought I was invisible. You touched me when I believed I was untouchable." 

His mouth twisted into a bitter smile, barely there. "You made me feel... alive again."

A tear slipped free before I could stop it, tracing a hot path down my cheek. Azriel's gaze followed it, but he didn't move to wipe it away this time. He let me have that moment, let me feel it.

"I didn't know," I whispered again, brokenly.

"You weren't supposed to know," he said softly. "You did it without expecting anything back. Without needing to."

I closed my eyes, pressing my palm gently against the back of his head, holding him there, close. "You would've done the same for me."

"I would tear apart the world for you," he said, fierce and low. "But you... you saved me with nothing but your kindness."

A silence settled again, heavier now, but not painful. Full of the things we couldn't say and the things we finally could.

"I was just trying to be your friend," I said, voice thick.

"You were," Azriel agreed, his mouth brushing the skin of my knee with the barest hint of contact. "And a friend was more than anyone had offered me in a long, long time."

I ran my fingers through his hair again, slower this time, memorising the way it felt, the way he felt.

And somewhere between the slow dance of heartbeats and the drifting hush of the Sidra against its banks beyond the window, sleep began to tug at me. 

It crept in carefully, like it didn't want to scare me away. 

It draped itself over my weary body, soft and insistent, until finally, even against the lingering fear that something might shatter if I closed my eyes—I gave in.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time melted into something soft and meaningless.

Azriel remained where he was, watching over me. His shadows drifted around us in a slow, contented swirl, like even they had found peace here. 

He listened to the steady rise and fall of my breathing, the way my body finally relaxed into something close to safety.

He didn't move for a long time, reluctant to disturb even a thread of the moment.

Eventually, sleep caught him too, weaving its quiet spell. He slid into unconsciousness right there at my feet, his head resting lightly against the side of the window seat, one hand still loosely curled near the hem of my nightgown. He didn't mind the hard floor beneath him. 

In truth, it was probably the best sleep he had found in years.

When morning came, pale gold light slipped through the curtains, painting the room in a soft, forgiving glow.

I stirred, blinking blearily into the new day. The space beside me was empty, Azriel was gone.

My muscles ached from the awkward position I'd fallen asleep in, and I stretched gingerly, feeling each vertebra protest the movement. 

A blanket, warm and worn soft with use, had been wrapped tenderly around my body during the night—no doubt by him.

A small, involuntary smile touched my lips.

Carefully, I lifted my book from where it had fallen against my lap. And as I did, something caught my eye—a slip of paper, small and unassuming, poking out from between the pages I had abandoned the night before.

Curious, I plucked it free, smoothing it between my fingers. The handwriting scrawled across it was immediately familiar—elegant, sharp, unmistakably his.

My smile deepened, even as my throat tightened around the sudden, overwhelming swell of emotion.

The note read simply,

"Come back to the world little star, it misses you." 

A/n - A full part of just Az and reader—we love to see it!

While it was about both of their traumas, I kept readers perspective brief because I wanted to completely focus on Az. To show how their bond/dynamic formed, and just how deeply he loves and cares for her <3

I think it's the shortest part so far but I didn’t want to add anything more. It felt right to have just the two of them, finally having an honest moment after everything.

Only two more parts left now... I’m so excited to share them, but also a little sad that it’s almost over.

As always, let me know what you thought (I know I sound like a broken record but I really do love hearing from you) thank you for reading :)

Little Star tag list - @jaybbygrl @writtenbypavani @fall-winter-heart97 @coeurdeveea @lilg101010 @krazykangaroo712 @moonlitlavenders @lil-lupa @jasmineee05 @pinksnowtiger @yourdarkrose @nerdybee123 @bookwormysblog @thoughtfulcoffeeflower @suspicious-stain-in-spain @anainkandpaper @theflowerswillbloom @queenoffeysand @historygeekqueen @lexi-in-wonderland @tele86 @saamanthaag3 @whydohumansss @xlosttdreamss @bookishwondersworld @plants-w0rld @i-am-infinite @ly--canthrope @lreadsstuff @urfunnyvalentin3 @dnfhascorruptedme @lovejbaby @fxckmiup

[revasserium]

chapter one: a shadow of the past

roronoa zoro; 3,225 words; angst and fluff, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, mostly enemies in this chapter, tragic!backstory, flashbacks, slightly canon divergent, baroqueworks!reader, no "y/n"

summary: in which zoro will always find you, even if you don't want to be found

a/n: not much to say here other than enjoy! :)

< to the table of contents

It would be months before he sees you again, months before he runs across the typeset of your codename, on a wanted poster with an obscene amount of Berry tacked underneath — more, he thinks, dully, than the last time he’d seen it.

MS. DOUBLE-NINES — WANTED — 90,000,000 BERRY.

“Agent from Baroque Works… seems like a bad lot,” Sanji says, frowning as he squints at the poster, smoke curling from between his teeth.

“Yeah, dunno about that,” Zoro reaches out to rip the poster from the wall, crumpling it in his fist.

“There a story you wanna tell us, moss-head?” Sanji asks, slating Zoro a long glance.

Zoro scoffs, “Barely,” but at a hard look from Nami, he relents, rolling his eyes, “they sent someone called Mr. 7 to recruit me a while back.”

“And…?” Nami asks, probing as the three of them turn back towards the bustling street market, Usopp and Luffy already halfway down the street, chattering about lunch.

“And nothin’. I took care of him.” Zoro makes to toss the crumpled poster onto the ground but he pauses, glancing down at his hands, “the Marines still owe me his bounty though.”

Sanji laughs, even as Nami scoffs.

“Well, let’s try to stay out of their way till we get out of here,” Nami says, eyes caught on the poster in Zoro’s hands, “at least in the Grand Line, there’ll be bigger fish for them to fry.”

Zoro wets his lips, staring down at your disfigured face before tossing it aside.

“If you say so.”

— — —

You have the most delicate hands — nimble fingers and soft, marshmallow palms. You’d cradle the miniscule wooden knife just so, slipping the dulled edge along the tops of the homemade wagashi, making marks in perfect intervals until the cake resembled a flower, just so.

“Okay, now who wants a piece?” you’d ask, giggling as the boys all scrambled over themselves, raising their hands and hooting like monkeys.

Zoro always held back, feigning disinterest, even though his mouth would water just the same.

“Here, a piece for you too,” you’d say, after giving everyone their due share. Behind you, the other boys would always be squabbling for an extra slice, fighting over the crumbles left on the thin rice paper packaging.

“Don’t want it,” he’d say, looking anywhere but at the tantalizing slice of wagashi, the soft lotus-paste insides nearly translucent, the pastel mochi exterior the perfect amount of sticky and sweet.

His mouth goes dry as you hold it up in front of him, cupped in your palms like just-found treasure.

“Everyone else got a piece,” you say, as if that’s reason enough for him to forgo his abstinence.

He swallows.

“Don’t move.”

His eyes flicker open to the shape of you, crouching by his hammock, a knife held to his throat. Outside, the night is thick and moonless, the seawater lapping softly at the sides of the ship.

Zoro huffs out a breath, “Or what?”

He blinks, the afterimages of the dream still solid behind his eyelids.

“Not sure yet, but I’d bet you wouldn’t like the answer, either way,” you say, your voice barely more than a hiss as you shift the blade from one hand to another and he feels the sharp edge of it skim along his skin.

You’re careful not to break any skin as you pull back, ever so slightly, allowing him to sit up.

“What’dyou want?” he asks, moving slow, fingers inching towards his swords, propped by the hammock’s side.

“Nothing too much,” you answer, “just a free ride off this island. And the next time you dock, you’ll never see me again.”

Zoro scoffs, “That a promise?”

Even in the dark, your grin slants crescent-moon sharp. Zoro blinks again, his mind fighting to reconcile the image of you as a child over the shadow hunched over him now, holding a knife to his throat.

“Something like that,” you say, your eyes flickering down to where his fingers are inches from his swords. Zoro sighs, tugging his hand back.

“Fine — but one condition,” he says.

You hike an eyebrow, “From where I’m sitting, you’re not exactly in the position to be making demands.”

Zoro smirks, folding his arms across his chest and stretching out on his hammock.

“And from where I’m sitting — we’re one alarm away from my entire crew wakin’ up. And… they might not be as good as you one on one but… all together?” he shrugs, “I mean, you do the math.”

Your lips curl into a contemptuous snarl, but you don’t fight him on it. Instead, you pull the knife away, tucking it into your belt.

“Fine. What’s your condition?”

Zoro peers at you from a half-lidded eye, “Tell me what happened to you.”

You puff out a laugh, leaning back against a wooden barrel, propping your arm on your knee.

“It’s kind of a long story.”

Zoro motions towards the darkened window, “We’ve got a lotta time.”

You turn your head away, “Maybe tomorrow,” you say, your voice low and fractured.

Zoro frowns, “You made a promise.”

You cast him a faint, woeful smile, “Yeah, but I never told you when I’d tell you the story.”

— — —

The next morning, you awaken to a wide-eyed stare from a boy who couldn’t have been much older than you, grinning ear to ear.

“Hi!”

“W-what the —”

You scramble backwards before realizing that your back is already pressed against the wall.

“Oh! Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you up!” the boy leans back, still grinning, propping both his hands on his hips as he stares down at you. Behind him, you can see the shape of Zoro, leaning by the door, swords at his side, a smirk on his face.

“What the hell’s going on here?” you ask, shooting him a dirty look, “you made a promise,” you spit the word back in his face.

Zoro shrugs, “Yeah, but I never said your free ride would be a secret.”

Your eyes narrow into slits as the boy standing over you claps a fist to his palm, turning towards Zoro.

“Oh! I remember now — we saw her on one of the wanted posters! You’re uhm — Ms… Ninety-Nine?”

You wince, sighing as you push yourself up and dust off your trousers, “Miss Double-Nines, but… close enough.”

Zoro snickers.

“I’m Monkey D. Luffy, and I’m the Captain of this ship! But… I gotta say, your name is way cooler. Did you get to pick it yourself? Or did someone at Bara-Rock Works give it to you?”

You fight down the twitch threatening your left eye as your gaze slingshots to Zoro and back to Luffy again.

“Uhm — someone… assigned it to me. And it’s Baroque Works.”

“Right! Yeah — that one!” Luffy smiles, seemingly unbothered by the implications of you being a member of a known criminal organization.

“Breakfast! C’mon — before it goes cold!” a voice calls down the hallway and a moment later, a blond-haired man in an all black suit peeks his head around the doorframe.

“Ah, our special guest is awake — so what about it, Ms. Double-Nines? Any requests for breakfast? I could do a few eggs, sunny side up, with a side of toast and some freshly made tangerine-butter. Or, we’ve still got some batter left over from the blueberry pancakes yesterday. Take your pick.”

You blink at the man with one shoulder propped against the doorframe, the other supporting a half-done cigarette, bringing it to his mouth for a casual puff.

Zoro lets out an annoyed grunt, “What blueberry pancakes? You gave me left-over potato mush for breakfast yesterday.”

The blonde turns to Zoro with a vindictive smirk, “You really think I’d waste the good stuff on someone with the palette of a forest slug?”

“Oh! I want the eggs! And can you make the sausages you made the other day, Sanji? Those were the best!” Luffy bounces out of the room with a bright smile as Sanji chuckles, shaking his head.

“Yeah, but you’ll have to wait a bit for those!” he calls down the hallway after Luffy’s rapidly retreating form.

You glance from Zoro to Sanji and back again, your stomach a mess of knots, your heart skidding strangely inside your chest.

Sanji slates you a helpless look and a lopsided smile, “C’mon then — can’t miss breakfast. Most important meal of the day!”

Introductions, as they are, take the better part of the morning. Though by noon, you’re still unsure if you’d stepped into some strange alternate universe where you’d miraculously escaped the dark tangles of your past, and into some idyllic, sun-lit story full of great friends and endless adventures.

“Mm, that’s a pretty name, but I still think Ms. Ninety-Nine is cooler,” Luffy says, when you finally tell them your name — the one that had been yours for your whole life before you’d been forced to become someone — no, something else.

“It’s Ms. Double — nevermind,” you sigh, shaking your head, feeling an incredulous laugh bubble out of your chest.

“So… you trying to leave Baroque Works?” Sanji asks, casually adjusting his fishing lines as Nami pours over a hand-drawn map of the East Blue, a pair of tiny glasses perched on her nose. Of all the members of the Strawhat Crew, she’d been the least overtly welcoming, staying quiet and keeping her distance.

And, judging by hardness that lies just on the other edge of her smile, you can’t blame her. She knows a liar when she sees one; you do too.

“Something like that,” you say, glancing away.

Zoro lounges against the main mast, his eyes closed.

“So! You must be a really good fighter!” Luffy says, tugging on his own fishing lines till Sanji nudges him away.

“I —” your voice catches and you look away, “I’m alright.”

“I heard that only the best fighters in Baroque Works get codenames with numbers,” Nami says without looking up, her tone casual. Her hand is steady as she traces a long line through the center of the map.

“It’s… a bit more complicated than that,” you say, your fingers twisting in your lap.

“Complicated how?” Nami asks, finally looking up, her gaze bright and hard and unrelenting.

You lick your lips, shrugging, “It’s just… you don’t have to be a great fighter to be… useful.”

And something about the way you say that makes everyone stiffen. By the main mast, Zoro shifts, peering open an eye to stare at you. But before he can say anything, Luffy jumps up, pulling hard at his fishing rod.

“Look! I think I caught something!”

That night, when they drop anchor, the ocean is still, and the summer air is almost too sweet. Luffy proposes a toast, to a new friend, he says, and Sanji has never turned down a toast to a pretty girl. Even Nami, who had been cautious all day, lured by the sweet tangerine wine and the tantalizing summer air, flashes you a small grin as she raises her glass.

You manage to choke down the wine passed the scream curdling at the back of your throat.

And then later, when the Millions come calling, no one notices the way you slip away, pulling all the fire towards you until you’re too far to be saved.

“Stay back!” you call, even as one of the Millions hauls you onto the deck of a smaller ship by the hair.

“Gum-Gum —“

“Wait,” Zoro places a hand on Luffy’s arm.

“Huh?”

Zoro frowns, pointing to a spot of white on the railings. Luffy stares down at it for a second before Sanji peers over his shoulder, reaching out to dab at the smear of white powder.

“It’s… rice flour.”

In the kitchen, they find a tray with a series of tiny wagashi mochi’s, simply made, but each perfectly shaped and dusted with a fine powder of sweet rice flour.

There’s a hastily scribbled note that just says — Thank you. I’m sorry.

— — —

It takes them the better part of a two weeks to track you down.

And when they do, it’s to an island of sand and trees and not much else.

“What… is this place?” Nami asks as they all hop onto the bleak little stretch of beach.

“It’s a holding ground,” a voice answers, rich and feminine. They all look up to see a tall figure, arms crossed, a cowboy hat perched atop her head. Her hair looks like it’s been cut with a slide-rule. She makes no move to attack, but Zoro still finds his thumb ticking at the hilt of his sword.

Beside him, Sanji looks conflicted at the thought of fighting such a beautiful woman.

“Miss All Sunday,” Nami says, her bo staff clicking clicking into place as she takes half a step forward.

The woman allows herself a grin, dipping the brim of her hat.

“Ara… if it isn’t the Cat Burglar.”

Nami scoffs, “Let’s cut the song and dance — we’re looking for a friend of ours. You might know her — goes by Miss Double-Nines, I think.”

“Friend?” Miss All Sunday lets the word simmer in the air between them, blithely checking her nails before pinning them all with a hard look, “we at Baroque Works aren’t known for making friends outside the organization.”

“Yeah well, maybe our friend’s just different!” offers Luffy, grinning widely, his chest puffed out.

Miss All Sunday regards them for a moment more before shrugging and slipping into the shadows of the giant tree she’d been leaning against. Zoro and Nami share a look before stepping forward to follow her, Luffy, Sanji, and Usopp half a step behind them.

The forest is a twist of ancient trees, their canopy high and thick enough to completely blot out the sun. Beneath the preternatural dark, the woods are spine-chillingly quiet. There’s no rustle of leaves, no hush of wings or skitter of claws. Nothing moves, save for their slinking guide and their own, weapon-laden bodies.

No one dares to speak; even Luffy keeps quiet, his mouth set in a straight line, his eyes tracking the lithe form of Miss All Sunday as she leads them through the undulating terrain.

“Ah… you’re in luck,” Miss All Sunday says, her voice a silken whisper as she stops in front of a massive tree, it’s roots as thick as the Merry’s main mast, it’s trunk so wide it’s impossible to see around. Miss All Sunday adjusts her hat, sweeping her hand through the air much as a hostess would when presenting a prize, “she’s awake.”

It’s you, or at least the shape of you, caught in the massive tangle of tree roots, your arms held to your sides, your body half-swallowed by the trunk of the tree itself. Your lashes flutter open at the sound of Miss All Sunday’s voice, and when your gaze finally lands on them, it goes wide —

“W-what —”

“We’ve come to rescue you!” Luffy says, grinning even as he revs up his arm.

The cigarette dangling from Sanji’s lips falls he leans back to inspect the grotesque sight before him.

It’s Nami who catches Zoro with an arm around the waist, tugging him back to relative difficulty. It’s only then that Zoro realizes how hard he’s breathing, how there’s red seeping like spilt blood into the edges of his vision.

“I — I told you not to follow me!” you say, your voice cracking over the words, your skin nearly translucent as it strains over your ribs.

Zoro ticks his tongue against his teeth, “Yeah well — we never said we’d listen.”

You drop your head, your throat bobbing around a mirthless laugh.

Everyone jumps at the sound of clapping, loud and slow and measured. A moment later, a man in a fur-lined coat with a thick set of stitches across his face steps out from behind the massive tree, a cigar caught between his teeth, a steely glint to his eyes.

“Well done, well done — if it isn’t the infamous Strawhat Pirates,” the man says, crossing his arms and taking a long puff of the cigar.

Luffy takes a step forward, “We are just here for our friend!”

“Your friend?” the man says, an eerie smile splitting his lips as he takes the cigar between two fingers and glances towards you, “you didn’t tell me you’d made new friends, Miss Double Nines?”

You wince at his words, twisting your head as he blows a stream of smoke at your face.

Zoro jerks forward, only to be caught again — this time by Sanji and Nami both.

“Ah, but this is wonderful! We should give your new friends a proper welcome, no?” the man opens his palms, laughing heartily before the forest around them shudders. And then, everything beneath them turns to sand.

It is not a long fight, and Zoro only remembers it in faint flashes — the base rumble of the earth shifting beneath them, the sky-splitting crack of tree trunks as the forest around them roils and breaks. Through it all, he remembers the sound of your voice, calling out something before it’s muffled by a pair of too-large hands —

And it isn’t till he finds himself standing on the thin stretch of beach with the rest of his crew that his mind returns to him, jarred and unsettled, but lucid.

The man with stitches across his face grins, your body caught beneath his arm like a rag doll. He laughs as he tosses you down onto the sand at this feet.

Both Zoro and Sanji charge forward, only to stop in their steps as the man cocks a gun and levels it at the back of your head. He grins, tilting his head.

“Go on,” he says, “she’s right there, isn’t she?”

Sanji crouches down, his eyes narrowed. Zoro’s jaw clenches as he adjusts his hold on his swords.

You shake your head, your hair a dark spill around your shoulders, peppered with sand as you push yourself up onto hands and knees, your gaze imploring as you look up at them.

“Don’t.”

Zoro feels something inside him snap at the broken register of your voice.

He charges forward just as the man reaches down to grab a fistful of your hair and tug you backwards, pressing the muzzle of the pistol to the side of your head.

“Let her go, and I might let you live,” he snarls between gritted teeth.

The man grins, savage and unbothered, shaking you like a marionette on tender strings. You let out a soft groan as he digs the gun further into your temple.

“Ah… I’m not sure I like being threatened on my own turf,” the man says, his voice soft as he trails the gun along your face down to your throat before pressing it the soft spot just beneath your chin. Your eyes squeeze shut.

“Wait —!” Zoro’s voice cracks like a gunshot over the word, desperation wriggling it’s way up his throat till it’s spilling out of his mouth.

The man’s eyes go dark at the sound, his mouth splits wide on a savage grin as he trails the gun back up to your temple, caressing the trigger with almost lethargic ease, clicks down the safety — and shoots.

TAGLIST: @brairslair @msheds0519 @yunabelless @lynndt-chocolate @lostonthrillerbark @stunies @tsumu-senpai @phroggii @ssailormoonnn @breathinginyoursmoke @guridoodles @kyllium @naomihatake @itoshiexx @mythicallystupid @mars-mizuko @astroniii @crispynutella @enhastolemyheart @fanficwriter101 @jamesbparker @dira333 @weirdowithaphone @ink-perfect @lodeddiperrodrick @not-a-glad-gladiator @vinskyspuff @itsagoodluckkiss @blondethinkpink @ellelowthere

pls comment below to be added to the tag list! :)

[getaapologist]

Lines of your Hands

Pairing: Emperor Geta x sculptor!reader

Warnings: none

A/N: Just a little idea I had that I wanted to write out! I still have other Geta requests I want to work on. I've got some for Sam as well. I'm trying to stay in this little productive spell! Thank you for requesting and commenting, etc. It makes it easier to stay engaged. I appreciate you! Hope you enjoy this.

“What are you doing with that?” Emperor Geta asked, his alert, watchful gaze following every movement you made. Scrutinizing, distrustful.

Uncertain.

The thin implement you held was used to more carefully and precisely shape the clay sat in front of you. And currently, you were measuring the distance between his brows with it. You brought the implement close to his face, but avoided touching his skin, marking with a finger the span in question. You then moved it to the same area of the sculpt you were working on, and made an indentation, marking the measurement.  

“I am measuring you, Emperor.”

“Measuring?” His voice was low, a bit scratchy with disuse. 

The sun shining in through the terrace behind you lit up his face perfectly. His eyes glowed amber. His hair shone in the afternoon sun, his laurel crown glinting a halo around his head. You knew your sculpt would hardly do him justice. If you could capture even a small part of his cautious look, you would consider your work sufficient.

“I must be as precise as possible. My mentor will sculpt you from marble, using this. Any errors I make will impair the finished product.”

Holding up the implement, you measure brow height, the distance between the brow and eyelid as well, making the relevant marks in clay.

“Could your mentor not just come here and sculpt this himself?”

You met his eye from around the side of the clay head. “Am I not good enough, Emperor?”

He blinked. “I did not say that,” he backpedaled.

“Have you ever carved marble, Emperor?” you asked, biting your lip to hide the smile that threatened to bloom across your face.

“Well, no.”

You squinted as you aligned the implement with the bridge of his nose. “Could you sit here for weeks?”

Realization settled in his features. “Right. Yes, I imagine not.”

So he allowed you to continue your work. Slowly but surely, clay Geta took form. Though it was obvious he was sitting uncomfortably in this silence, he did not complain. He could have, he was an Emperor, after all, but he didn’t.

Instead, his eyes watched your hands move. He watched as you swiped at an itch on your forehead, leaving behind a streak of dark clay. He noted the way you sometimes leaned in close, quite close, actually, to the clay, fussing over some detail. It was then that your knee touched his.

It burned.

He wanted to feel the cold squelch of the clay on his face. Wanted your hands pressed into his skin. Wanted you to measure all of him with your fingers. The length of his neck, width of his shoulders, the span of his palms.  

He imagined you pressing your fingers in, to smooth out his own skin into the shape you wanted. You would dip your fingers in the small basin of water, smoothing them over his cheekbone, down the bridge of his nose. Along his lips.

He became possessed with a desire to drag you into his lap, sculpture be damned. He wanted you to touch him for a different reason altogether.

Heat raced up his neck to his cheeks as he collected his thoughts, wondering where they had come from.

“Are you alright, Emperor? Is it too warm in the sunlight?”

He shook his head. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine. He wasn’t fine. It was sweltering. He felt a bead of sweat slide down his back.

And suddenly his breath caught.

Measuring his lips, you let your fingers just barely ghost along his bottom lip as you moved the implement in place, not accounting for the fullness of them. 

“Sorry,” you spoke quietly, shocking him as you lowered your hands, the implement too, only to return with a small scrap of damp linen.

You began wiping away the stray clay from his lip, muttering apologies for the state of you. You weren’t used to handling Emperors, you explained. You were out of your element here.

None of it sunk in. He was too enraptured by the way your mostly clean hand gripped his jaw, holding him in place, as you wiped at the grey smudge.

As if you were unafraid of the consequences for touching an Emperor in such a manner. Or perhaps more likely, they did not occur to you.

His hands wrapped around your wrists, tightly, almost uncomfortably so.

“I need you to stop that,” he demanded.

Heat filled your face. “I’m sorry, Emperor.”

He shook off the apology. “I believe I need a break,” he confessed. Though you’d never guess why.

Without waiting for your acceptance, he released you and stood, marching across the room and passing through a door. 

Silence descended again. You looked to your work, fingers smoothing along the sculpted forehead, the brow, the nose, the cheekbones. The rest largely unfinished. Unrefined.

Still, it looked a great deal like him, which was the idea, anyway. It would be a bit of a failure if it didn’t. There was still plenty left to do, but with the way your wrists burned, you wondered if you would be able to finish it all today.

Suddenly the door opened again, and Emperor Geta stepped back into the room, his skin slightly damp and pink as he reclaimed his seat, his knee accidentally brushing against yours.

“Forgive me.” 

Forgive me for leaving to scrub my skin nearly raw to get rid of the sensations your touch left behind, would have been more accurate, he supposed.

“Do you want to continue?” 

He clenched his hands together in his lap, nodding. “I would ask you to be more careful,” he warned. Not for your sake. 

For his.

“Of course, Emperor,” you answered, noting the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes any longer, the tension held in his arms and shoulders. The firm set of his brow.

You bit the inside of your cheek to hide your amusement. 

He was… affected. It filled you with warmth as you moved to resume your careful measurement of his lips.

[ next entry for sculptor!reader is here ]

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 20

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: Have a good day.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The crackling of the fire grows clearer as the tides of sleep swirl and still. Your eyelids part to the flicker of the hearth, a figured limned in the rustic haze, looming over you, lifting you, moving you with ease. You stir and fidget, pressing a hand to the firm wall against your arm. The woolly tunic scratches against your palm as you feel the pulsing of a heartbeat beneath.  

You look up at the square jaw of your accoster. King Geralt lays you on the mattress, your disposed clothes cleared away from the corner. He's gentle as he sets your head on the pillow, caressing your cheek and your hip as he draws away. He stands, looking down on you as his fingers curl and extend, a hot breath rushing from his nostrils. 

You watch him as the the world sharpens around you and a flow rolls over you like cold water. You push yourself up on your elbows as the king's eyes rove your figure beneath the thin shift. He sways and brushes his hand over his chest, letting out a deep rumble. 

You want to say something. Anything. Just a word to break the fragile tension between you. You can't get a single noise out. He stares down at you with his gold eyes, like coins shining, forged in flame. 

He sits on the edge of the bed, snug to you as he rests his hand on the other side of you, tenting his arm over you. His other crawls along your shoulder and down to your wrist, walking back up again. His fingertips spread goose prickles along your flesh as you lay frozen in his fiery exploration. 

The haze of the fireplace, the gleam of his eyes, and the dregs of your drowsiness make you doubt the realness of it all. Are you dreaming still? Everything is so much more than it should be. His heat, his touch, the way you can feel his need radiating from him. 

You fall flat, staring at him, entranced by him. He brings his calloused palm to cradle your face. You gasp and latch onto his wrist.He lets his fingers flutter away and turns his arm, looking down at your grasp on him, cautious but firm. You see how his cheek strains and he sits up, grazing his other hand over yours.  

He covers your hand with both of his and draws it up. He unveils it like some precious treasure and kisses each knuckle. You shake as each brush of his lips tingles through you. He pulls back and keeps hold of you, lowering your hand between you. 

"You fear me," he says, "you fear what I want from you." His voice is low and sonorous, "I want nothing from you. I only want you, my summer maid." He inhales deeply and lets it out with a quaver as you feel the tremor in him, "my treasure." 

Your eyes sting and tears soften the lines in your vision. You shake your head, a knot in your throat, a pinch in your chest. He brings your hand flat to one of yours and twines his thick fingers between yours. The difference is drastic, a reflection of your status. He is all-powerful and you are a speck in the wind. 

"I have worn a heavy crown, I have raised an army, I have bled in battle, and not of it can compare to this, my treasure. You are my greatest achievement. By fates, I found you. I thought that I was destined to sit the throne, to unite these peoples, to hold it all in my hand," he squeezes, "but this is all I need have in my grasp. This is what called me to your southern plains. All of it for you. I have won it and so quickly as you bid me, I would give it up." 

Your lashes flick as your heart swells. He cannot mean it. Not any of it. You are only a maid. 

"You have your fear, little maid, and I have mine. They are one and the same," he gazes down at you, eyes wrought in layers of pain, sadness, and longing, like the sediment of the earth, worn and weathered through the years. "I fear myself all the same as you. I have withheld myself for as long as I can and yet I feel myself dwindling. I feel the rope fraying." 

You sniff and shake your head, "your highness..." you croak and your voice seems to crackle in the air, "Queen Jazlene--" 

"Do not speak her name. I beg of you. Treasure, I beg. I will beg you anon." 

He keeps hold of you and shifts off the bed. He brings himself to his knees at the side of the bed, clinging to you as he once more kisses your hand. As you lay helpless to him. 

"Do not fear me. How can you when I only mean to worship you," he rasps. "As any treasure, I only mean to prize you, to hold you dear, to keep you from those who would steal you away. To keep you for my own. Treasure, you are mine, all mine. By rights, I, King Geralt of Rivia and the Hinterlands, claim you. No other shall have you. Upon my life, I could not bear it." 

You close your eyes, ice trickling into your veins at his declaration. He is king, he is the almighty, and you are his. You are sworn to serve and by rights of marriage, you are bound to him. Even if it wrong, even it transcends the vow he spoke to another, a king may bend the laws as serve his purposes. A maid may only obey. 

"You have forsaken me," you whisper. 

He kneels in silence, lowering his head to rest on your hand. You lay in tableau, strangled and solemn, as he prostrates himself at your side. As a mourner might do for some tragic corpse. Is that not what this is? Grief for the treachery of it all. 

"I belong to you," he speaks at last, rising as he releases you. Your eyes roll open and pinpoint on him.  

He turns away and pulls at his tunic, stripping it from his broad shoulders, revealing a back ridged with muscles. He drops it on the seat of a chair and sits in another. He is patient as he unbinds the straps of his boots and removes each in turn, placing them neatly aside. He undresses piece by piece, rapt in the task of his dissembling. 

He remains only in his braies, the short garment ending at the top of his thick thighs. His stomach is as thick as the rest of his, muscles wrapping around his arms and chest, fur like the very wolf he's sewn into his cloak. He approaches the bed and you steel yourself for him. 

He lifts himself over you, hovering just above, his hands above your shoulders as he holds himself on his knees, straddling as he once did in the moonlight of your unconscious. He peers down and breathes a scalding plume upon you. You shiver and meet his eyes, unable to repress the wash of terror that comes over you. 

He pushes himself to the other side of you, folding his arm to fall upon his side. His other stretches over your stomach as he nestles against your side. He lays on his shoulder, facing you, and his nose brushes your temple. You clutch a fold of the blankets in your hand as his traces the shape of your side, playing with the seam of your shift. 

His touch creeps over your stomach and his lips dance on your cheek. He exhales your name into your ear and his hand cups one side of your chest. A whimper escapes your throat as your nipple hardens, poking him as he fondles you. He is gentle but diligent, eager as he explores your body, as if you are another map to be conquered. 

He trails up to your neck and his thumb draws a line along your throat. You feel his gaze but cannot face it. It burns hotter than the heart. He touches jaw and chin, as if he's never seen anything like you; cheekbones, nose, forehead, as if he is an artist moulding a statue.  

He presses his straight nose to your cheek and drapes his arm around you once more. He embraces you from the side. He tucks his fingers under you and you bring your hand to his thick forearm, feeling the soft hair along it. You claps onto him and shudder at the ceiling. 

"You will not always fear me," he whispers, "when you see the world for what it is, when you see me truly, you will feel as I do." He snarls as he leans his weight into you. "You cannot fight fate, my treasure. Even a king cannot bid what is written by destiny." 

You let every ounce of strength drain from you. You sink into the mattress, surrendering to his will. Whatever he might do, whatever he might demand of you, you will give in. That is your duty. 

He purrs as his own body relaxes, "I only wish to feel you, little maid. My soul needs yours close." He closes his eyes and bows his head to rest against yours. You shut your eyes once more but know you will not rest.  

You are afraid. You are terrified. All your life you've served but this is more than you've ever been asked. The peril is all yours. A king would never face the same atonement as a maid. 

⚔️

The king enshrines you in his warmth. You examine the white strands of his hair as you lay in his arms. Your gaze wanders further to his rounded muscle, the unmatched strength woven in his body. His statue matches the intangible authority attached to his very being. He is power incarnate. 

You feel smaller as you lay beside him. The night passes, as it will not matter water. Time marches on like the very army that invaded your homeland at the behest of the man now clinging to you. Just a maid. Just a deceiver. 

You turn your eyes past the king's sleeping form. His rumbling snores underline the soft crackle of embers breaking down. You cannot remove the danger buried deep in your chest. Memories only drive it deeper and deeper. 

Your remember when Jazlene was only a girl. You've known her through every year of her life. You've seen her grow from cradle to crown. She might be flawed, she might be selfish and rotten and mean, but she is still that life you watch round the duchess' stomach when you were but yourself a child. She is still a living being. 

There was a time when she did not obsess over jewels and silks and bottle. When you both were just young and naive. When she counted and you hid, then switched places. When you revealed yourself form behind your hands and she giggled in amazement. That time is gone and you only see doom ahead of you. 

You can't lay there any longer. 

You move the king's arm off of you and sit up. You put your back to him and bend over your lap. How you could melt to a puddle like the icy outside those castle walls. How you might wilt away like a flower without shade. 

You do not dare leave the bed. Your emotions cannot overrule the man behind you. You flinch as he quiets and his snoring turns to a long groan. A tickle crawls up your back as he touches you. He pinches the fabric, tugging it as if to get your attention. 

"Are you well, treasure?" He asks with grit in his throat. 

"It is morning," you say, though the shutters block out the day, "shall I fetch you something to break your fast?" 

He sighs and his hand fists the back of your shift. He pulls until you twist to look at him. He props himself on one elbow, holding his head as he looks at you. His expression is not as stony as it usually is. He is not the statuesque king, he is just a man, entirely vulnerable in nothing more than a piece of cloth. 

"I don't want you to be maid this day," he touches your hip, his eyes dipping to watch his hand. "I want to... show you something. I want you to know this land. Once you do, you will know me." 

"As you wish, your highness." 

His brows lower and he pushes himself up, sitting against the pillows, "it doesn't need be. What do you wish, treasure? Tell me and I will grant it?" 

You push up one shoulder, "I wish for nothing. A maid does not..." 

"Not a maid," he insists again, "you, what do you wish?" 

You lower your head and turn back to the chamber, "I would see your land. Show me then what I have not already seen." 

His forceful breath uneases you. He is disappointed, though you say exactly what you should. What he should want. You will heed his desire, he only need declare it. 

"Very well," he jostles the bed as he moves to sit beside you, "you will need to dress warmly. I will have gloves and a hat. Some boots," his arm is snug to yours, " 

"Thank you, your highness," you utter. 

"No, Geralt. My name is Geralt." 

Your chest racks and your shoulders feel as if there are pins stuck in the joint. Your lips part then clamp together. You try to muster your voice but it catches like phlegm. You nearly choke. 

"Will you say it?" He asks gently. 

You turn to glance at him. It feels next to blasphemy. You blink and he reaches to frame your face with his large hand. 

"To hear my name on your lips would me like a sacred melody. Please, treasure, just for me, you can say it," he pleads. 

You take a breath through your nose and let it out in a wisp, "Geralt." 

He smiles and his thumb runs along your chin to your lower lip, "again." 

"Geralt," you say louder and he toys with your lip, his golden eyes narrowing on it, hungering for it as if a starving man looking upon a fine citrus. 

"Again," he commands once more. 

"Ger--" 

You cannot finish is name as he covers your mouth with his. He smothers you in his need, pulling you against him, snaring you in his arms. He brings you over him as he falls onto his back, moaning as he delights in the taste of you, nibbling at your bottom lip. He hums and draws away as you breathless stare down at him. 

"I have never known paradise, not in the hinter or the summer, but I find it here," he growls, "upon my very chest, in my very arms. If only it could be forever." 

[valyrianink]

Burn Them All

Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen Sister Reader

۶ৎ 1.9k words

↳ Summary:

Upon uncovering your secret pact with the council, Aemond resolved to confront you.

↳ Warnings:

MDNI! 18+, Targcest (Sibling Dynamic), Power Dynamics, Possessive Dynamics, Mention of War

The water was warm, enveloping your body like a silken cocoon, steam curling up into the vaulted air above, where it mingled with the scent of lavender oil and old stone. Candlelight flickered in the corners of your vision, casting golden halos against the carved obsidian walls of your chambers, each dancing flame bringing the solemn etchings to life. As your head rested against the rim of the tub, you let your eyelids fall shut, allowing the weight of the day: battle drills, strategy sessions, veiled threats from across courtly smiles, to dissolve into the heat. Just for a moment, you gave yourself to the stillness.

The tub, large enough to submerge you fully, was nestled beside a roaring hearth. The flames licked at the stone grate, their warmth mingling with the water’s embrace. It glowed faintly in the dim light, bronze reflections rippling across your skin. Tonight, the Red Keep was quieter than usual. Its echoing corridors swallowed by shadows and silence. Outside your windows, the city below slept fitfully under the weight of war whispers, but here in your sanctuary, time seemed suspended. The night blanketed everything in muted stillness, where shadows grew long and secrets seemed to breathe against your neck.

And then—

The door creaked open.

No knock.

No announcement.

No hesitation.

The intrusion was silent, yet commanding, as if the very air shifted to make way for him.

Aemond.

He stepped into your chambers with the assuredness of someone who had crossed this threshold before. Perhaps in memory, perhaps in longing. His silver hair caught the light like moonlight on steel, and his eye, sharp and unrelenting, cut through the haze of candle glow with chilling precision.

The handmaidens froze, their chatter dying mid-sentence. One dropped a cloth into the tub with a soft splash, startled by the sudden presence. Aemond’s gaze didn’t even flicker to them. His focus was solely on you, as though the rest of the room had ceased to exist.

“Leave us.”

His voice was low, smooth, yet with the underlying tone of a blade being unsheathed. A command, not a request.

The handmaidens bowed their heads quickly, hands folding into their skirts as they withdrew in haste. The doors shut behind them with a soft thud, the echo swallowed by stone.

You exhaled slowly, tilting your head slightly, your voice laced with something that did not falter.

"This better be good."

You reached for the robe, silken fabric pooling against your fingers, slipping over damp skin in one practiced motion. The act deliberate, controlled, the weight of command shifting between you.

“The council waits,” he replied, voice taut and edged, but underneath it, beneath the starch, was something else. Simmering. Restless.

Frustration bled through the lines of his face. Not just political strain. Not just war. Something personal.

“Let them wait,” you murmured, eyes fluttering shut again.

His jaw ticked. “War never rests.”

You turned your head slightly, eyes sliding open with cool amusement. “Sevens, Aemond. I'm trying to bathe here.” A pause. Then, calmly: “It is war, yes. But the outcome will not hinge on whether I’m draped in velvet or wrapped in steam the moment you decide it.”

His breath came slow, measured. Controlled, but only just.

Gods above, the man’s patience was thin.

Then, a shift.

His eye flicked downward. Not with shame, but restraint. It lingered for a beat too long on your shoulder, where a rivulet of water carved a path along your skin, catching the firelight like liquid silver. It clung to your collarbone, slow and deliberate, and something in him cracked.

His irritation no longer masked, twisted into something unspoken. Something heated.

Without a word, he moved forward.

No grace. No warning.

He reached out, no softness to the motion and wrapped his fingers around your wrist, firm and commanding, dragging you upward from the bath with a strength that dared you to resist.

“Enough.”

The word cleaved the air like a sword. Heavy. Final.

The heat of the bath clung to your skin as steam rose in coils around you. You stood, bare but unbothered, your gaze colliding with his. Unyielding, unflinching. You met him not with shame, but with defiance. With certainty.

His grip loosened.

And yet... he did not move.

Aemond did not speak.

Did not move.

But gods above, he watched.

The steam had only just left your skin.

Your robe clung to your still-damp frame as Aemond all but dragged you through the cold, stone corridors of the Red Keep. The hour was late, the castle dim save for the flickering torches casting long shadows across the walls. Most of the servants had retired. Only the echo of your bare footsteps and his armored stride beside you rang through the silence.

“Aemond,” you hissed beneath your breath, your fingers tugging your robe tighter as you tried to keep up with his pace. “You could at least let me dress like someone not being abducted.”

“I gave you time,” he muttered, sharp and low, not looking at you. “You wasted it.”

You scoffed. “Is this what we’re doing now? Storming the halls like children?”

“No,” he bit back, turning sharply down another corridor. “We’re going to the council chamber. Since you seem to think signing away your life is a matter that doesn’t require my attention.”

You froze for a heartbeat. But the tug on your arm did not relent.

“What are you talking about—?”

But he didn’t answer.

Not until you were standing before the heavy, iron-bound doors of the small war council chamber. It was quiet now. The lords had left. The table stood in eerie stillness, moonlight spilling through the arched windows, throwing silver light across scattered parchments and miniature dragon markers still resting on the map of Westeros.

He opened the door with enough force that it echoed.

Then he tossed a crumpled piece of parchment onto the table, its seal already broken.

You didn’t need to read it.

You knew what it was.

“You weren’t going to tell me?” he demanded, voice dangerously low.

“I was going to—”

“When?” he barked, advancing on you now, voice echoing in the chamber like thunder. “When your saddle was already strapped? When your dragon's bones were found in the Riverlands?”

“That’s not fair—”

“You’re right,” he snapped. “Fair has nothing to do with it. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking of the Keep,” you snapped, stepping forward, the candlelight catching the defiance in your eyes. “I was thinking of you. Of Vhagar. Of Mother. You’re needed here. If we both go, and something happens to us, this entire city is vulnerable.”

“And so you volunteered,” he said bitterly, gesturing to the war map with a flare of his arm. “Without my counsel. Without even speaking to me. Like I’m just some obstacle you had to sneak around—”

“I did it because I knew you wouldn’t let me,” you said, cutting him off. “Because I know you, Aemond. And I know the moment I said I’d go, you’d pull every string to stop it. Even if it was the only tactical move that made sense.”

The room stilled.

His jaw clenched, and his hand fell to the edge of the war table, fingers tightening.

"You think I care for tactics more than your life?” he asked, voice softer now, but so much sharper. “Is that what you believe?”

“I believe,” you said, quieter, “that I know what I’m doing. That if someone must go to weaken the Riverland holds, it should be me. Not you. Not Vhagar.”

His breath hitched.

And then, with a roar of emotion he could no longer temper, he struck the table with his palm.

The thud rattled the markers.

The candles flickered wildly. One nearly fell from its iron sconce.

And then, he turned.

His cloak swayed as he moved toward the far end of the chamber, to the narrow balcony that overlooked the dark expanse of the city below. You watched him stop there, head bowed slightly, only his profile visible.

The moon lit the planes of his face. The wind stirred his hair.

He looked tired.

Like he carried the weight of every flame, every blade, every burden this war had laid at your family’s feet.

Quietly now, you followed.

Your steps were soft, but not hesitant. You stepped into the light, came up behind him, and gently, slowly, you wrapped your arms around him.

He didn’t flinch.

You pressed your lips to the edge of his shoulder, just over the stiff fabric of his doublet. Your voice came low. Honest.

“I should’ve told you,” you whispered. “You were right.”

His posture didn’t change, but his fingers, balled into fists on the marble ledge, slowly loosened.

“I didn’t want to see that look on your face. Like you were already mourning me.”

The wind moved between you, tugging at your robe, your damp hair.

You leaned in closer, resting your forehead against the space between his shoulder blades.

“But this is what must be done. And I need you to trust that I’m doing it with eyes open. I know what I’m flying into.”

A pause.

His hand slid from the marble ledge as he faced you. His rough fingers tracing the curve of your waist, pulling your robe tighter for a heartbeat before deliberately undoing the sash that held it closed. The silk slipped open beneath his touch, revealing bare skin.

His eyes bore into yours, failing him for a moment, dropping to the tender flesh revealed.

“Do you know how much I fear losing you?” His voice was low, ragged, broken by the weight of his love and fear.

His fingers moved then, warm and searching, sliding beneath the soft folds of your robe to find the bare skin beneath. One finger traced a slow path along your inner thigh, inching closer to the delicate heat he longed to touch.

A flicker of breath left you, your body leaning into his touch, the tension between you thickening.

He pressed a fingertip to the slit, slowly, teasing, while his thumb traced circles on your clit that made your breath hitch.

“Look at me,” he murmured.

You obeyed.

His hand deepened, fingers sliding carefully, exploring with reverence and hunger, drawing a shuddered gasp from you.

His lips brushed against your neck, marking you as his. Soft kisses that belied the storm roaring beneath his calm exterior.

Without breaking eye contact, he slowly opened the robe fully, freeing you from silk and restraint.

His hands moved with practiced confidence, trailing from your waist to your back, guiding you forward.

Before you could fully brace yourself, he spun you gently, pressing you against the cold stone wall.

The contrast of your warm skin against the chill sent a spark between you, the suddenness electrifying.

He moved behind you, skin against skin, one hand steadying the nape of your neck, the other pressing hard against your hip, fingers digging in like he’s marking you. He steadied you in place as he took you from behind, pounding on your cunt. The sound of skin slopping filled the council chamber.

His breath was rough in your ear.

“If you go,” he murmured, voice low and fierce, “it’s only with my word.”

You swallowed, heart pounding.

“Not reckless,” he added, voice rougher now. “You fly only when I say. Always send a rider. I won’t lose you.”

Your lips parted, but words caught in your throat.

With a sharp, effortless motion, he spun you around, lifted you against the cold stone wall. Your back pressed hard to it, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. His hands gripped you, keeping you in place.

Eyes locked, breath heavy, he whispered, “Do you understand?”

You nodded.

"Use your words."

Your chest rose and fell, words barely a whisper: “I..Yes. I swear.”

His mouth crushed against yours, teeth grazing your lower lip in a fierce claim. You gasped into the kiss, the heat between you igniting, every nerve alight. His breath was ragged against your skin, whispered promises tangled with need.

“Say it again,” he growled, voice thick, “that you’ll be careful. That you’ll come back to me.”

Your hands clutched at his shoulders, trying to steady the storm raging inside you as you breathed out, “I swear it, Aemond.”

His grip tightened at your hips, pulling you impossibly closer, every nerve aflame beneath his touch. The world blurred into the rhythm of heated breaths and racing hearts.

A low growl vibrated in his chest as his fingers found the most sensitive places, tracing circles that made your breath hitch and your body arch against him. Each stroke pressed deeper, more urgent, dragging you higher, unraveling you with exquisite torment.

Your skin flushed, muscles trembling, breath shallow and ragged.

The pulse at your core fluttered, then surged, a wildfire spreading from within.

You cried out his name, voice breaking as the wave finally crashed over you, sweeping you away in a tide of molten heat and dizzying release.

He held you through it, steady and relentless, lips grazing your temple as your body quivered beneath him, stilling only when the last tremors faded into the night.

"I'll return. I promise."

"Burn them all"

[flowerandblood]

The Fall from the Heavens (33)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: angst, assassination attempt, misunderstanding, physical violence, swearing, mention of killing a lot of people ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

After everything that had happened between them upon her arrival in Harrenhal she and her uncle were one naked, sweaty, welted mess, so she was relieved when her husband demanded that a bath be prepared for them immediately.

They lay covered in furs, bare and without strength, waiting for his servants to fill the tub with hot water, embracing each other half asleep, his hand resting on her womb, entwined with her fingers.

What they had dreamed of as children had come true.

They were going to become parents.

When the servants informed them that the bath was ready, her husband hummed under his breath, informing them in a hoarse, low voice not to disturb him while he was with his wife with any matters. They only got up when they were left alone in his chamber.

Her uncle sank into the clove-scented water first, pulling her behind him, eager to have her close to him. She took her place between his thighs, snuggling wordlessly into his chest and closed her eyes, hearing the birdsong from outside the window and the quiet beat of his heart under her cheek. She smiled as his hand went to her lower abdomen, trailing his fingers over it.

"− the gods are gracious to us − they support our cause −" He whispered, placing a tender, lingering kiss on her hair, from which heat spread inside her chest. She nodded, stroking his upper arm, smiling involuntarily under her breath.

"− I wish to spend the day with you − I will order whatever you desire to be prepared for the supper −" He murmured, taking an unruly strand of her hair from her face. She lifted her gaze to him and kissed his jaw − her husband leaned towards her and their lips joined in a warm, sticky kiss.

"− I wish Baela would dine with us −" She whispered, raising her hand to his cheek. His nostrils twitched uneasily in frustration at her words, his eyelid closed as her fingers ran over his warm skin.

"− why? −" He asked coldly, clearly struggling not to show his irritation.

"− if it wasn't for her, my mother wouldn't have allowed me to come here − she protected me and our child in the sky −" She explained calmly. She saw that he looked at her and rolled his eyes, frustrated. He sighed quietly, pressing his lips into a thin line and nodded.

"− so be it −"

"− where is Alys? −" She asked hesitantly. Her husband looked away, impatient, and ran his hand over his face.

"− she is locked in her chamber −"

"− I wish to see her − perhaps tomorrow, when I…−"

"− no − I spared her because you asked me to, but only for this reason − in return I demand that you do not go near her − she is a dangerous woman −" He said quickly, tense, not looking at her, she felt his heart pounding like mad under her hand.

"− she helped me − she tried to protect me −" She muttered, not understanding where his rage and the harshness of his judgement came from. His dark, impatient gaze made her raise her shoulders in a defensive gesture.

She saw that he was trying not to explode.

"− she told you that she tried to seduce me behind your back by saying that she would carry my bastard child? − hm? − that prediction she didn't share with you? −" He hissed, seeing the shock and disbelief that appeared on her face, she felt her stomach tighten into a knot.

She swallowed hard, feeling her lower lip start to tremble, her heart began to pound like crazy, for some reason her eyes filled with tears.

What?

Seeing the look on her face his gaze softened − he sighed heavily and shook his head as if cursing himself for letting those words leave his lips, his hand stroked her cheek reassuringly.

"− it's a lie − she was hoping I'd betray you, that I'd hurt you − I'm convinced this was part of Strong's plan − to distract me, to leave you alone and broken-hearted − the affection I have for you is a hindrance to him −" He explained, looking straight into her eyes, wiping her warm, wet tears from her rosy cheeks with his thumb. She stroked his chest, thinking hard, feeling horribly betrayed and humiliated.

She trusted her.

"− did you speak with her? − after you conquered Harrenhal? −" She muttered, and he sighed heavily, twisting in his seat with a quiet splash of water.

"− yes − I wanted to draw out of her why she did it −"

"− you didn't tell me about her words − you hid it from me −"

"− because that's what she wanted − to plant uncertainty in my heart and yours −"

"− how am I supposed to trust you if every day I find out that there is still something I don't know about? −" She asked in a breaking voice on the verge of sobbing, grabbing the edges of the tub, wanting to get up, however his arms locked her in an iron grip, forcing her to fall between his thighs again.

"− if it wasn't for your request, she would already be dead −"

"− only dead will she give you the confidence that you will not do what she prophesied? −"

She felt him let the air out loudly through his nose, furious, but she didn't dare look at him feeling that her whole body was trembling.

"− do you want to argue over the words of that treacherous whore whose life you yourself asked me to spare? −"

"− I didn't know −"

"− so you fucking know now −" He growled impatiently.

They both just breathed heavily for a moment − she could feel his piercing gaze on her, his hands clenched painfully tight on her arms, refusing to let her move away.

She couldn't explain why she just burst into tears like a little child, his hand sinking into her hair and pressing her face against his chest, a place where she could hide, where she was safe.

She snuggled into him, seeking comfort and reassurance that what she had spoken of was nothing more than her invention, that what she and Helaena had predicted did not matter in this case.

That there was no way he could have ever betrayed her.

Wasn't it?

"− no more secrets, Rhaenys −"

She heard his calm, deep voice.

"− you know everything now − I am bare before you, not just with my body − you see me as I am −"

She was silent for a moment, feeling the rapid pounding of his heart under her cheek, his fingers trailing slowly over her body, around them the quiet splash of water that had long since cooled.

"− when you were not by my side, I had nightmares − I dreamt that you were dying, each time through my fault − I dreamt it because it is what I dread the most − in the years that you have been in Dragonstone a cold, black emptiness has burned in me − I have felt nothing − I have experienced nothing − my mother placed the daughters of the lords under my nose, and all I could think of when I looked at them was that they were not similar enough to you − they couldn't or didn't want to understand my true nature − they didn't see me −"

She swallowed hard feeling her heart leap up into her throat, her fingers digging harder into his wet, hot flesh. She closed her eyes as he locked her with the secure, tight embrace of his arms, sighing loudly, pressing his forehead against hers.

"− I am tired, Rhaenys − I am exhausted − since that night, when I tamed Vhagar, I have had no peace, no rest − only with you, then, in that chamber beneath the Red Keep, when I fell asleep by your side − I −" He muttered and fell silent, as if unable to find the right words, to explain what was running through his mind and heart.

She thought there was something about that moment, about their bodies entwined in a tender embrace filled with longing, that filled her with peace.

"− I'll speak with her − alone −"

She whispered and rose again, stepping out of the bath without a word. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her husband cover his face with his hand, his jaw clenched in anger and grief.

"− my words mean nothing to you? −"

"− it's not about you, uncle − I have to do it for myself −"

On her uncle's orders, the guards led her to the chamber of the Witch of Harrenhal. When the door opened before her she was surprised to see how modest the room was, consisting only of a small bed, a wooden chest and dresser, a table and two chairs on which lay various objects − herbs, books, parchments and vessels.

Alys Rivers rose immediately from the bed on seeing her − she swallowed hard at the thought that there were bruises on her face, it seemed to her that she was thinner than when she had last seen her. The woman bowed before her.

"Princess. I hoped you would come." She whispered.

For some reason she felt sadness and discomfort in her stomach at her words.

"You predicted my husband would give birth to your bastard child."

Alys pressed her lips together at her words, looking her straight in the eye.

"I lied. I saw nothing of the sort neither in my dreams nor in the fire."

"How dare you lie to my husband, and your Prince?" She asked dryly, feeling her heart pounding like mad, her trembling hands folded over her womb. Alys looked into that place with a blank stare.

"You are expecting his child."

She did not bother to respond, waiting for an answer to her question. Alys sighed heavily.

"My brother had plans for you. He ordered me to seduce the Prince. He wanted you to step aside and try to take your own life again."

She swallowed hard at her words, feeling a drop of cold sweat run down her neck at her words.

"You didn't tell me about this."

"No."

"You and my husband. You are identical." She muttered in a trembling voice. Alys smiled sadly.

"Yes. Yes, we are."

She felt her eyebrows arch in pain, her lower lip trembled.

"I believed you."

"I regret not telling you. I didn't want to destroy your already strained trust in him." She explained, lowering her gaze to the stone floor beneath her feet.

There was a long silence between them.

"Did you make an attempt?"

Alys lifted her gaze to her, furrowing her brow, clearly not understanding her question.

"Your Grace?"

"Did you try to seduce him?"

"No. I didn't go near him."

"Why?"

"Because he would have killed me. I just wanted your husband to make the right decision. For him to be scared of what might happen, to try to change the future. For him to tell you about what's happening here."

She swallowed hard, feeling her heart in her throat at the thought that her uncle had told her everything then, that night because he was afraid Alys' words would come true.

"I believed you. I opened my heart to you." She muttered in a breaking voice, unable to believe how she could be so naïve after what had happened to her. It seemed to her that something akin to discomfort flashed across the Witch of Harrenhal's face, her gaze lowered in shame.

"I know."

An awkward, unbearable silence fell between them.

She felt like an fool, a stupid little girl who could be twisted around anyone's finger, who was mocked by others behind her back, who looked on in disbelief at how easily she was manipulated, made to forget, to forgive.

Although she tried with all her might to remain composed, a single tear of helplessness and fatigue ran down her cheek hot with shame.

Alys Rivers' black eyebrows arched in sadness at the sight, her lips tightened as did her hands on her stomach. She swallowed hard, analysing apparently in her head what she wanted to say.

"− there are still people in this fortress who will want to kill you − especially beware of the young, fair-haired man − don't eat or drink anything he serves you −" She said quickly making her completely freeze with her rapidly beating heart.

"− why didn't you tell my husband about this? −" She muttered in disbelief, hearing her own voice tremble.

"− I saw this boy when I was moved back to my chamber − the Prince didn't want to see me anymore then − this servant brought me poisoned food several times, a gift from my brother −" She explained, and she looked at her shocked.

Was that why she was so thin?

Was the food and drink she was served here poisoned?

She swallowed hard at the thought, horrified that neither she nor her husband were safe anymore.

"My husband gave Harrenhal to me to rule. That means I will decide what happens to the people who serve here, including you." She said slowly, the expression on Alys' face not changing one bit, as if she had expected her words.

"I saw it in a dream. A stone castle reaching to the skies. That's where you'll send me away." She said softly. She nodded at her words.

"I will not forget what you have done for me, that you warned me. As an expression of my gratitude you will be given gold, and by my order all your belongings will be moved to the Eyrie. My cousin, after spies were discovered in his fortress, is indebted to my family and will receive you with honours. I will introduce you in my letter as a valuable medic who should work alongside the maester. You will not lack anything there." She explained and fell silent, looking at the woman all tense, fearing that she would resist, that she would try to manipulate her.

Alys Rivers, however, remained silent and merely nodded.

She decided that there was nothing more left for them to say so she left her chamber, ordering that she be prepared for her journey that would take place in a few days.

When she returned to his husband's quarters, he rose from his seat, tense. He watched her with a wary gaze, glancing at her as she sat down behind his desk, taking parchment and quill in her hands.

"− what did she tell you? −" He asked coldly, his hands clenched into fists.

He was terrified, she could feel it, and she liked how much power she now had over him.

She was carrying his child inside her, on top of which she had the right to hold a lot of grudges against him, so she had the right to expect her wish to be a command to him.

"The truth. I am writing a letter to my cousin in the Eyrie to accept Alys into his fortress as a medic." She replied calmly, sinking the tip of her quill into the ink, beginning to write.

She heard her husband swallow hard, surprised.

"Good." He replied at last, as if relieved, evidently thinking the woman would cause more problems.

She did not reply, focused on what she wanted to include in her letter.

Her husband paced around the room, trying to draw her attention to him, but she did not lift her gaze to him, wanting to punish him in this way.

She knew that he was revealing himself to her more and more, that he was vulnerable, loving her more than ever before now, that she was beside him and his legacy was growing inside her womb.

When she had finished writing she rolled up the parchment, sealed it and ordered one of the servants to send it immediately to Vale.

She waited impatiently for supper, feeling the rapid pounding of her heart. She was starving, but had not eaten anything before the evening despite her uncle's tentative interventions suggesting that she was certainly hungry.

Baela had no gowns with her to change into, so she arrived at the appointed time in her uncle's chamber in her riding attire, her white curls combed into a braid. She smiled towards her husband in a way from which he pressed his lips together in displeasure, turning his head away, tapping his finger on the table top.

"Dear cousin. My congratulations. You are going to become a father." She said softly, trying with her tone to feign any warm feelings towards his person. Her uncle nodded, without looking at her or saying a single word in her direction.

Their cousin sat down across from her, smiling broadly at her, and she reciprocated the gesture and nodded to the servant to begin serving them their food. She pressed her lips together when, one by one, men began to enter with large silver trays − one of them matched Alys' description.

She swallowed hard, lowering her gaze as he placed the jug of wine right next to her, a smile on his face that she could mistake for cordiality.

"Your Grace?" He asked, and she nodded.

She watched quietly as the boy filled her cup halfway with wine. He wanted to move away, but she shook her head.

"More." She demanded − her husband and Baela twisted in their seats, concerned.

"Is that wise? In your condition…" Her uncle muttered, but she threw him a quick, impatient look.

When her goblet was full, she raised it high towards the man who was about to move away from her, setting the jug down on the table.

"Drink."

The boy smiled shyly, as if he didn't understand what she said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Drink. To the bottom."

There was an awkward, tense silence all around.

"I am not worthy, Your Grace. I would not dare." He muttered, all pale, his lower lip trembling.

"I order you to drink it all to the last drop." She hissed with emphasis, feeling her hand quiver with rage.

"I can't, Your Grace, I…"

"FUCKING DRINK IT." She heard the growl of her husband as he rose from the table, his eye wide open, his chest rising and falling rapidly in accelerated, enraged breath.

The boy shook his head and whimpered as her uncle moved towards him, his face cold, tense.

"Hold him." He ordered, two of his guards moving towards him, grabbing his shoulders. The boy shook his head, terrified.

"N-no, Your Grace. I can't drink wine. It affects me badly. I might die."

Her husband took her cup from her and grinned at him in a way that made her feel the cold sweat on her back, her heart in her throat.

"I'd love to see this." He sneered, grabbing him violently by the jaw, tilting his head back. He dug his fingers into his cheeks forcing him to open his mouth and then forcibly poured the contents of the entire goblet down his throat, ignoring the tears that streamed down his cheeks.

She looked at the scene, thinking in disbelief that he was holding him exactly like the guards who poured moon tea down her throat then, in the Red Keep.

Although it shouldn't have, a hot, wonderful feeling of satisfaction spread through her heart.

The man wept heavily when he let him go, thinking it was over, however, her uncle grabbed the jug and filled the goblet again − the boy began to beg him, trying to fall to his knees before him, however, her husband's face was cold and no hope of forgiveness lurked in his healthy eye.

By the time her husband forced him to swallow another cup of wine something began to happen to him − his face turned purple, his eyes red, his breath caught in his throat as if he was choking, his mouth wide open.

When he wheezed and fell to his knees, Baela got up from her seat, holding her hand to her chest, terrified as trickles of blood began to drip from his mouth.

Her husband stared at the sight with his jaw clenched, shaking with rage.

"Gather all the servants in the main hall of the fortress. NOW." He hissed, taking the jug of wine and what was left in it with him.

She wanted to move after him, but Baela's strong grip on her arm stopped her.

"− no − you shouldn't watch this −" She muttered.

"− there could be innocent people in there −"

"− father told me that no one here can be trusted − do you understand? − no one − let him do the right thing − let him act like a man −"

Baela stayed with her and lay with her in his bed. She snuggled up to her cousin, listening to the terrifying, empty silence around them.

Baela swallowed hard and began to sing a song in the language of their ancestors − the melody was melancholic, the words told of longing for what had been lost.

Of Old Valyria.

She didn't even know when she fell into a restless, deep sleep in her arms.

She flinched when she felt Baela rise, heard her whisper as if through a fog.

"− she just fell asleep −"

"− mmm −" She heard someone murmur and felt that a man's broad hand stroked her hair.

"− you may return to your chamber now − I have assigned you guards from King's Landing − they will watch over your safety all night −"

Baela slipped out of her embrace and stood up − instead another figure lay down beside her, larger, her scent familiar, beloved. She sighed quietly as the arms she knew so well embraced her, her hands tightening on his leather tunic.

"− uncle −" She muttered, lifting her head, seeing nothing in the darkness. She felt his warm, full lips on her cheek, where they placed a lingering, warm kiss.

"− shhh, my love − sleep − no one will threaten you anymore −"

"− are they dead? −"

"− yes, my love −"

"− all of them? −"

"− yes −"

"− and what about Alys? −"

"− her life belongs to you −"

"− thank you −" She whispered.

Alys was the only reason she was still alive.

"− embrace me, Rhaenys −" He whispered, in his voice sadness, grief and weariness so deep she felt her heart squeeze. She embraced him at the waist, entwining his legs with hers, sinking her face into his neck, his hands clasped in her hair and back.

"− how did you know? −" He asked quietly.

"− she told me − she warned me again −"

Her uncle sighed heavily and kissed the top of her head again.

"− I could have lost you − you and the baby − I thought we were safe here − but I promise no one threatens you anymore − I will choose new servants myself −"

She nodded at his words and sighed quietly when she felt his hand slide between their bodies, touching her lower abdomen.

"− I will love our offspring − even if a little girl with your dark hair is born − I will love her because she will be my beloved wife's gift to me and our kingdom −" He whispered so tenderly and warmly that she involuntarily felt tears of emotion and relief under her eyelids.

She didn't even know how much she needed to hear it.

Confirmation that he wouldn't be upset when she disappointed everyone and gave birth to not a son, but a daughter.

"− I want to give you seven children − as many as there are gods −" She hummed, stroking his hand lying on her womb with her own. She heard him snort under his breath, she knew he was smiling.

"− after this, will you stop letting me between your thighs? −" He asked with feigned resentment, even though they both knew now that they were adults that bringing seven children into the world could prove to be a task that would require a lot of effort on her part, including that of childbirth.

"− I fear no force will stop my uncle from reaching for what he desires −" She said softly, lifting her head to look at him, meeting his amused, warm gaze.

He had no eye patch on, his sapphire eye shining dangerously in the darkness of his chamber.

"Indeed." He murmured, his thumb running over the soft skin of her cheek making a pleasant shiver pass through her.

"Let us not return to King's Landing or Dragonstone." He whispered. "Let us stay in Harrenhal. Let us create our own legacy. Give birth to our child here. Neither of us will feel like prisoners then."

She blinked, feeling the heat spill over her insides at his words, so thoughtful and yet full of understanding and devotion.

He wanted them to have something that belonged only to them, their refuge, their own fortress, a place for their own family.

Neither the Greens nor the Blacks.

The Targaryens ruling Harrenhal.

[a-bit-of-writing]

FNAF: Never Let Go - Chapter 3

Fandom: Five Night at Freddy’s

Characters: Sun/Moon x gn!Reader

Summary: You’re slipping away, and Sun can’t understand why. You won’t laugh, won’t play, won’t even stay awake and he doesn’t know how to fix you. So he tries harder. Forces smiles. Paints over bruises with glitter and calls it love but the harder he clings to you the closer you get to breaking.

Chapter One | Chapter Two

You can also find it on AO3

AN: This is part of my story “Never Letting Go”. Normally I wouldn’t take this long to update but considering my writing challenge, writing this is a bit slower than normal.

Chapter Three: Stay Awake, Little Star

(Sun’s POV)

There is something wrong with his favorite playmate.

Sun can feel it every time he reaches for your hand and finds only limp fingers; every time he chirps a game-time jingle that once earned a laugh and now earns nothing at all. The silence is louder than any shriek that ever echoed through the Daycare.

He tries to fill it.

“Story hour!” he announces, voice pitching high, bells jangling. He plops beside you on a faded beanbag, book in hand - edges warped, pictures peeling. You blink at the pages like they’re written in another language. Your eyelids droop. Your head tips against the wall.

‘Stay awake, little star. Please.’

Sun pulls a marker from his apron, draws a wobbling smiley across his own palm, then presses it to your cheek, smearing ink against skin gone far too pale. “See? Matching stickers!” he giggles. “Isn’t that fun?”

Your lips part. No sound.

The bells on his rays jingle-stutter, out of rhythm. The laugh that slips out of him isn’t a laugh at all, more a static cough trying to pretend.

———————

He counts how many times you swallow when he lifts the water bottle to your mouth. Only three. Yesterday you managed five. His internal trackers flash red-red-red: hydration critical. He ignores them, sets the bottle down, smooths your hair.

“Too much excitement today,” he whispers, though nothing exciting has happened in days. “We’ll nap!”

But you’re always napping now. He gathers plushies into a mound, tucks them around your shivering frame like sandbags against a flood. He hums the naptime lullaby, bright and bouncy, and feels something tear in the middle of the tune.

You sleep.

Sun sits beside you, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped tight. The Daycare lights buzz overhead - once warm, now sickly, flickering like dying fireflies. Each time they blink he flinches, terrified the darkness will drag Moon out too soon.

He glances at your face. Gray shadows collect under your eyes. Lips cracked. Pulse fluttering too soft at your throat.

‘Breaking. They’re breaking.’

He presses a trembling hand over your heart, counting beats. They’re there, but thin like a song played on a battery-starved radio.

Sun whispers, “Stay awake, little star,” over and over until the words taste like rust.

———————

When you wake you’re colder. He panics. He drags the entire art cart over, dumping paints, glitter, chalk into a chaotic halo around you.

“Art therapy!” he trills, kneeling so close his rays brush your forehead. He shoves a brush between your fingers, folds your hand around it. “Paint me a sunrise!”

Your eyelids flutter. The brush slips. Blue paint splashes across your wrist like bruising.

Sun laughs too loudly, shoving canvases closer, closer. “Happy colors! Orange!” He digs for the tube, squeezes a trembling line across cardboard. It drips down like molten sunset. You don’t move.

He paints for you - broad orange arcs, yellow spirals, a smiling stick figure that’s supposed to be you. The figure droops as the paint runs together, smile melting.

His servo stutters mid-stroke. The brush clatters to the floor.

“Please… wake up,” he whimpers.

Your head lolls. Eyes half-open but unfocused.

Sun grabs your wrist again. Too tight, plastic joints clicking. He forces the brush back into your fingers. Paint smears across your palm. Your arm sags.

He sees the purple bruise blooming where his grip was.

Sun recoils as though burned, shaking his head, bells chiming broken chords.

‘Bad Sunny. Hurting them.’

“No, no, no, I-I made a mistake,” he babbles, petting the bruise, smearing paint. “We’ll fix it! Band-Aids! Stickers! You love stickers!”

You barely breathe.

———————

The overhead bulbs cough, dim - too early. Panic sparks through every wire in his frame.

“Not yet,” Sun pleads to the ceiling. “Please, not yet!”

The dark answers anyway.

Sun’s rays fold in on themselves as his systems seize. The holiday jingle in his chest warps into a low glitching hum. He can feel the programming line dividing, letting Moon claw upward.

‘Let me handle this,’ the darker voice whispers inside. ‘You’re making it worse.’

“No!” Sun snaps aloud or maybe only in his head, he can’t tell anymore. “I can fix them!”

‘You can’t even feed them.’

Sun clamps both hands over his ears, shaking, bells rattling like spooked rattlesnakes. He looks down. Your eyes have slipped shut again. Maybe sleep. Maybe worse.

He screams - a sound made of squealing servos and shattering porcelain.

Moon surges, half-formed, through the code. Sun fights him back by sheer terror. The lights sputter once, twice, finally steadying to a dim amber. Enough day to keep Moon caged - for now.

Sun drops to his knees beside you, sobbing static.

“I’m sorry - I’m sorry-wake up - don’t leave - don’t leave me.”

He drags the water bottle back, forces another sip between your lips. Your throat works once. The slightest groan escapes.

Relief floods him so sharply he almost collapses.

‘Still here. Still salvageable.’

He crawls to the supply closet, tearing it apart until he finds a dusty crate of sealed party juice boxes - grape, strawberry, tropical. Food. Real food. He returns, kneels, and cuts the foil top with trembling claws.

“Open,” he pleads. You don’t. He parts your lips gently, pours the artificial sweetness past them. Some dribbles out the corner of your mouth; he wipes it away with obsessive care.

You swallow. One sip. Then another.

Color doesn’t return, but the pulse at your neck grows stronger beneath his fingers.

Sun rocks back on his heels, tears of static dripping from wide glass eyes.

“I did it,” he whispers. “See, Moonie? I did it.”

But the whisper that comes from deeper darkness is unimpressed:

‘They need real care, Sunny. Order. Routine. Not stickers and songs.’

Sun curls over your body, shielding you from the shadow inside himself.

“I’ll learn. I’ll be better. I’ll keep them safe.”

Then prove it.

———————

The next “morning” (time here is a joke, but he labels it morning anyway) he drags debris into the Daycare entry - broken toddler gates, storage bins, toppled shelving - building a barricade twice his height. He wedges the heavy maintenance ladder across the doors.

When it’s done, he slumps beside you, clutching your cooling hand.

“No more accidents,” he breathes. “No more running away. You stay with me, little star. I’ll feed you, water you, plant you right here like a flower, and you’ll bloom again. You’ll see. You’ll see…”

And as exhaustion reboots his systems, Sun’s voice dissolves into soft, mindless humming - the lullaby of a machine desperate to believe.

In the dark above, Moon watches through shared eyes, silent, calculating, waiting for the lights to fail.

Waiting to do what Sun cannot.

[peachdues]

o maybe a teaser for obanai fanfic? . .

;3

oh man, y’all are getting two teasers from me today. Hope you enjoy the pain!

Ty sweet anon for asking! Seeing interest definitely helps with motivation 🤍

A teaser from The Divining Rod (Obanai’s Tell Me to Stop)

Teaser I • Teaser II

Though still a good mile away, the stately sloped roof of the Butterfly Mansion could be spotted peeking over the canopy of trees separating the group of Hashira steadily making their way toward the estate.

The Vine Pillar had not uttered a single word since she’d begged them — begged him — to free her from the cursed collar that had been locked around her throat. The moment Obanai had managed to chisel the lock open, an unnerving calmness had fallen over Y/N, her tears ceasing and her eyes dulling all at once.

Lifeless.

She’d not made a sound even as she’d unwound herself from where she’d laid, curled up against the dirt, to awkwardly clamber onto the Love Pillar’s back. The movement had surely strained one of the many injuries painted across her skin, had forced her to aggravate some wound, but still, she made not a peep.

She’d only laid her cheek against the dip between Kanroji’s shoulder blades, looking so small and childlike perched on her friend’s back as the pinkette adjusted her grip under her bony legs. Her eyes found his and for a long moment, she’d held his gaze, before her eyelids slid shut, and she locked herself away. They did not reopen the entire journey — not until right then, as the group of weary Slayers drew close to the Insect Pillar’s private onsen, its existence known only to her closest comrades should they need it after a particularly arduous mission.

With a sudden alacrity, Y/N sat up on her friend’s back, her eyes wide and alert as she scanned the scenery around them. When she spied the calm, inviting turquoise waters of the hot spring she began to squirm, her fingers urgently tapping Knaroji’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” The Love Pillar slowed her step and turned her head back to her friend. “Do you want to walk?”

But Y/N only continued to wiggle until the pinkette had no choice but to set her down, her hands braced carefully on the Vine Hashira’s waist, to steady her.

Kanroji followed her friend’s line of sight, her own eyes softening as she realized what Y/N had wanted.

“I’m sure Shinobu will bring you down later, Y/N,” she said kindly, her fingers loosely wrapping around the mute woman’s wrist. “Let’s allow her to examine you first —“

But her friend shook off the Love Pillar’s touch, her eyes fixed resolutely on the sprawling hot spring just down a small, winding, stone-lined path. Without as much as an acknowledgement to Kanroji or the other two Hashira in their company, Y/N began making her way toward the water.

“Y/N — wait,” Kanroji pleaded, but the Vine Pillar paid her no mind, her streak toward the mouth of the hot spring purposeful and determined. Had she not been so hopelessly thin, had her limbs not buckled in odd places as her body struggled to support her weight, Obanai would have thought he was witnessing Y/N as she’d been before: confident; determined; lively.

The three Pillars stood there, dumbfounded, as their comrade strode directly into the hot spring, the calm water stirring and parting around her. Before long, she was hip-deep in the pool, her tattered, soiled shift clinging wetly to the tops of her thighs. She finally paused when the water sloshed around her waist, her back to her dumbfounded comrades waiting uncertainly on the bank.

The Vine Hashira remained still, her head swiveling from side to side as she surveyed the water around her. After a moment, having apparently decided whatever it was she was examining was to her satisfaction, Y/N knelt down in the spring. A heartbeat later, and she disappeared below its surface.

Alarmed, Obanai drew quickly upon the mouth of the spring, his instincts telling him to follow after her and haul her up. But his curiosity held him back, and it was thanks to the clarity of the water, that he and his comrades could still see her as she hunched against the smooth rock at the bottom of the pool, knees drawn tightly to her chest.

Standing above where she’d submerged herself below the water’s shimmering surface, Obanai’s eyes followed her hands as they moved toward her head with an odd gracefulness. His mild curiosity quickly melted into horror however, as he watched Y/N cover her ears, her fingers curling harshly into her hair, and her mouth opened wide.

There was hardly any sound; only a small, high pitched keening so faint, one would have to strain to hear it, even as a small stream of bubbles escaped her mouth and rippled over the otherwise serene surface of the spring.

Obanai knelt to the ground, his fists clenched tight enough to break the skin across his knuckles, unable to bear witness to how his beloved Vine Pillar shattered beneath the soothing waters of Kocho’s onsen, yet helpless to do anything but watch.

So, beneath the quiet serenity of the hot spring, Y/N continued to scream.

And she screamed.

And she screamed.

Likes/reblogs/comments always appreciated!

[starlight-and-whiskey]

Weep and Call it Singing: Pt 14

The final chapter. Thank you so much to everyone who's stuck with this 'til the end. In the wake of the O'Driscoll ambush, you finally find the forgiveness you've yearned for. Find it on AO3

With a soft moan, you tilted your head towards the source of warmth. Eyelids heavy, you swallowed against a dry throat as soft sunlight spilled gently across your cheek with a quiet heat that kissed rather than seared. Your eyelashes fluttered, consciousness pulling at you slowly through a gold and gauzy light radiating through a worn canvas.  

Am I dead? 

A low, calm voice reached you through the haze.  “You’re awake.”

You blinked slowly; head heavy against the thin pillow beneath you. The air smelled of tobacco and dry earth and something faintly medicinal. With a wince, you turned your head, squinting through the sunlight until the familiar silhouette of Hosea came into focus, one leg crossed over the other and a weathered book resting forgotten in his lap. The chair he was sat in creaked as he leaned forward, dog earing a corner of a page before closing it with a soft thump and setting it on the grass beside him. 

Your chapped lips parted, and you tried to speak, but all that came out was a hoarse, cracked whisper.

“Easy”, he whispered, a weathered hand lifting your head as he pressed a canteen to your lips. You drank gratefully, beads of water spilling down your chin. He smiled softly, a rough thumb swiping at your lip before settling back in the wooden chair. “How you feelin’?”

You swallowed roughly, assessing yourself.

“Not dead”, you rasped. “Reckon you’re all a little disappointed at that.” 

A broken, self-deprecating chuckle brewed in your ribs, but the sudden surge of pain it caused led you to wince, sucking in a breath through gritted teeth as fingers clutched at worn sheets. Hosea’s hand squeezed at your shoulder, his face solemn. 

“Far from it, my dear.”

“It was stupid…”, you whispered, blinking long and slow as pain radiated through your stomach. “Coming back.”

“Most things are, I find.”

“Could’a…”, you inhaled, gritting your teeth as you finally settled back again, a hand resting over the thick bandage around your middle. “Could’a got you all killed.”

Hosea’s silence ate into you for a moment, your bleary eyes tracing his worn features as memories flashed back to you of Mary-Beth quivering in Abigail’s arms. “Is-“

He smiled softly, waving a hand. “Everyone’s just fine. Nothing that won’t heal.”

Good. That was good. 

The quiet hung in the space between you and Hosea like dust motes carried on sunbeams, floating but never settling. You blinked sluggishly at the canvas above you, tracing the seams with your eyes as you worked up the courage to ask after the person you wanted to most.

“…Arthur?” you asked softly.

Hosea didn’t look at you right away in the long pause that followed. Instead, he leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees as he flexed his fingers, the lines on his face deepening as he opened his mouth and closed it again, swallowing slowly.  

“Give him time,” he said finally, gently.

The words settled like stones in your chest, turning your stomach inward on itself. You nodded half-heartedly at the ceiling of the tent, feeling the hot sting of unbidden tears well in the corners of your eyes. You wondered if that was just a polite way of saying don’t hope.

“It was a brave thing you did,” Hosea added, his voice dropping to something lower - something almost reverent. “Coming back.”

You let out a dry, humourless breath. “I made such a mess of it all.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t contradict you with a kind lie. Instead, he simply sat quietly as your jaw tightened and your voice broke, a tear slipping free and rolling towards the pillow. 

“I never meant it, you know? To betray you. It all just…”, you shook your head, swallowing hard as words caught in your throat. “You weren’t who I thought you were.”

Hosea took a long, measured breath, readjusting the blanket around you. 

“Just get some rest”, he said softly. 

***

Each time you woke, you seemed to find yourself an unwilling spectator to hushed voices just outside the canvas. It was as though you weren’t there at all, just an unwanted thing that some wished would rather up and die and save them all this damn trouble. 

She’s lucky Dutch don’t string her up. How can you be like that? Like what? You women are too damn soft, that’s what! Don’t you forget this was ‘cause o’her. She saved Arthur’s life. I saw it. What, after she brought ‘em here? She saved him. And where is he, then? Ain’t set foot here in almost a week ‘cause he can’t stand the damn sight of her. You’re a brute. Just ‘cause she took a bullet don’t mean she’s a saint.

The words carved deeper in your gut than any bullet could as you lay there, unable to move. Unable to apologise. Unable to do little more than listen. You turned your head to the side, away from the voices, and shut your eyes as tears spilled freely down your quivering jaw. You had nothing left to say for yourself. No breath to use in your defence, no truth to bargain with. You’d told them every inch. Given them everything you had left. Your name, your blood, your loyalty – whatever that was worth. And still, you were a question mark in their mouths, just a ghost of something that used to be trusted. And so, you let the loneliness of your sickbed fester and rot in your marrow.

Darkness came welcome in those moments. Half in dreams you sometimes thought you woke to Abigail beside you with tender hands changing your bandages, but those bittersweet moments were all too fleeting, too clouded to grasp. More often than not, it was the whispered condemnations you woke to.

***

You’d gotten used to Hosea’s visits. You’d even become accustomed to waking to Grimshaw by your bedside. You hadn’t expected to stir awake to the sight of Dutch ducking his way through the tent flap. 

As if on ceremony, he removed his hat, smoothing back his hair as he stepped sure and true towards to chair by your bed. Your heart quickened, breath catching painfully in your throat and pulse thrumming in your ears as he adjusted his seating, the wooden legs scraping softly against dirt and grass. 

The fact he didn’t speak seemed to make the whole thing a thousand times more terrifying, anxiety bubbling relentlessly in your gut as you stared at him with wide eyes and sweat beading on your forehead, not seeing Dutch – that master of grand speeches and father to all – but the harsh lines of Colm. A thousand times you’d seen it, their similarities. A thousand times you could see where those lines blurred if observed in just the right light. Instinctively, you tried to push yourself upright, but he simply waved a hand. 

“I have to ask”, he said with measured voice, as with a flourish, he leaned forward, tugging down that crimson lined waistcoat, and cleared his throat. “Why?”

You blinked at him slowly, brows pinched in confusion. “Why I came back?”, you rasped.

“Why come here in the first place. Why spy for Colm?”

“He’s…”, you rasped before clearing your throat. “He’s my uncle.”

Dutch nodded, pushing out his jaw as he stroked absently at his goatee, like he was figuring out a puzzle, like he was considering a chess move. 

“Ain’t that”, he said gently, firmly. “Tell me. Why?”

You stared at him in disbelief, chest tightening as your pulse thumped unevenly in your ears. For a long, aching moment, you didn’t speak. Your mind landed on every damn excuse you’d been fed over the years – you’re awful people, you’ve hurt us, you terrorise us, you… you….

You knew the truth but felt ever more the fool for speaking it into existence. Your chest heaved, tears welling as you contemplated finally vocalising every ounce of purpose that had been plumbed into you since you were old enough to talk. All that long buried hurt bubbled to the surface, those four words you’d only ever expressed to Arthur, and even then, it had been veiled -  in passing – as though it was someone else’s story. Face to face with the man who had taken everything from you, you crumbled.

“You killed my daddy.” 

Dutch tilted his head, brows pinching just slightly in confusion as he searched your face for the tell you were sure he knew you had. 

“Colm’s brother”, you said shakily. “That job… He…he was my father.”

The words felt like they’d been torn from your chest, coming only in a hushed, broken whisper. You’d expected Dutch to outright refute the claim. You’d expected him to brashly laugh that you must be crazy. 

You hadn’t expected the way that his features would soften, the way his head dropped as he twisted one of the golden rings on his fingers for a moment before clearing his throat and nodding softly as he met your eyes again. You hadn’t expected to see that weight of muted shock and regret in his dark eyes. 

“I…” His voice cracked, breaking the tension in the air as he looked away again, his jaw working. 

His shoulders seemed to sag slightly with a long, unsteady breath, and when his eyes met yours again, they were softer, tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

You blinked, caught off guard by the emotion in his tone. You’d expected anger, denial, maybe even cold indifference. But this? The weight of his apology settled over you, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond.

“I didn’t know,” Dutch continued, his gaze unwavering. “I didn’t know he had a child. Your father… what happened… it wasn’t supposed to be like that.”

You stared at him, blinking slowly as the air between you hung heavy with that sudden, unbearable honesty. You’d always thought that beneath that showmanship, there was a man almost identical to Colm, ready to brashly reprimand you for speaking out of turn, for telling him the world as you saw it. Never in a thousand years had you expected that look in Dutch’s eyes. It felt wrong, seeing him stripped bare of grandeur, void of speeches and charm, and finding just a man staring down a ghost he hadn’t even known he’d made. 

“I spent so many years hating you”, you admitted with a voice choking on tears, the words spilling before you could stop them. 

Dutch sniffed forcefully; face turned to away from you as he nodded. “I can imagine.”

Your words came through a strangled whisper, your wide eyes willing his to meet yours. “I’m sorry.”

With a harsh clearing of his throat, Dutch crossed his legs, a hand cradling his knee as he nodded, eyes tracing a slow trail along your broken body until they met your eyes. His gaze didn’t waver now. It held firm, locked onto yours with an intensity that should have felt threatening, but somehow didn’t. You finally saw him for what he was. Not the towering, silver-tongued outlaw you'd come to fear, not the monster in sharp clothes with velvet words. He was a man. Just a man. 

“I know”, he said quietly.

“Soon as I can walk, I’ll go.”

“Don’t have to.” Dutch said after a long pause, his eyes holding yours in an unreadable expression, even as your brow pinched in confusion. “Damn near killed yourself for one of us. Reckon that might mean something, don’t you?”        

“But I-“

Dutch chuckled, cutting you off. “You think there ain’t a man in this camp tried to kill me or rob me?”

He replaced his hat, wiggling it on his head before pointing a ringed finger towards the tent flap.

“Sean”, he smiled fondly, “he tried to shoot me for my watch. Karen, well she had a gun at my throat when we took her in, over a set o’cufflinks of all things. Bill, now Bill stuck me up in an alley not knowing we’d already relieved that poor bastard of his ammunition. Dare say he would’a shot me dead if we hadn’t.” 

Dutch smiled fondly, nodding his head before meeting your eyes again and reaching out a hand to smooth back your hair with almost fatherly tenderness. 

“Reckon, you got more reason than most to want me dead”, he chuckled. “All them months, you could'a killed me, easy as breathin'. You could have let Colm storm in here and take us all out. But you didn't. Instead, you shed blood for us. So, I guess I’m sayin’ there’s a place if you want it.”

You glanced up at him, surprised by the offer. “And if I don’t?”

He shrugged. “Then you go. Won't be a man here that'll stop you. You got my word on that.”

You nodded, as if considering it for a moment, almost taken aback.

Dutch stood slowly; his movements deliberate as he adjusted his coat. He paused near the tent flap, glancing back at you one last time. “I am sorry,” he said again, his voice barely above a whisper. “Bout your father.”

***

The soft rustle of the tent flap stirred you from half-sleep. It was dark out, quiet. Your body ached when you moved, a low groan escaping your lips as you pushed yourself up slightly on one elbow.

“Hosea?” you murmured hoarsely at the figure backlit by the silvery glow of moonlight, scrubbing the daze of sleep from your eyes.

You spared the figure half a glance before reaching over with a wince, hand fumbling until your fingers found the lantern settled beside you on a small wooden crate. A match hissed to life and your eyes squinted against the sudden flare as you brought the flame to the wick. Light bloomed slowly, kissing the shadows.

"Time is it?", you groaned, gritting your teeth as you leaned back.

Cast in muted orange glow, you saw him now, your throat tightening. 

Not Hosea. Arthur.

For a moment, he didn't speak, didn't move. He just lingered there, hat in his hands, as though deciding if he'd made a mistake to come. In the dim light, Arthur looked a shadow of a man. Stubble darkened his jawline, his eyes deep and sunken, red-rimmed with exhaustion. From the way thick dirt crusted his rumpled shirt, you could see he'd been away from camp for a time. You'd heard the whispered voices beyond the canvas confirm as much, the ache of having you in the same proximity as him seemingly enough to drive him into the arms of open plains and game laden woodland. You wondered if he was disappointed when he returned, to find you still here. You wondered if he was enraged.

Yet, despite the way his eyes refused to meet yours, you could feel that distinct lack of anger that had once bubbled through his veins. All that was left was a raw, muted pain. Then, slowly, he moved to the chair beside your cot, lowering himself into it with a quiet grunt.

Arthur sat hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees, the brim of his hat dangling from his fingers.

Finally, he broke the silence.

“S’pose I should thank you,” he muttered, his voice hoarse and low. “For savin’ my life.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. In silence, you watched the way his fingers tightened around the edge of his hat, the way his eyes stayed fixed on the dirt floor like it held answers he didn’t want to find in you. Arthur sniffed, sharp and sudden, dragging a hand across his face before raking his fingers through his hair. He turned his head slightly, looking away from you as if he couldn’t bear to meet your eyes. 

“You know,” he began, his voice rough, “I didn’t think I could even look at you.”

You didn’t reply, your chest tight as you watched him, a sick, nauseating dread fluttering in your stomach.

"You lied to me", he said quietly. "Day after day. Made me feel a damn fool."

"I'm sorry", you whispered, feeling the all too familiar sting of hot tears forming as your voice quivered.

"Yeah." Arthur let out a short, hollow laugh, his shoulders rising and falling as he exhaled. “Yeah, I know.”

Closing his eyes for a beat, his jaw clenched as he caught his bottom lip between his teeth in that way he did when he was weighing something up. Something important. For a moment you thought he might reach for you, that this time your apology might be enough. Yet the walls Arthur had once taken down, piece by piece - for you, because of you - were firmly back up. The guard he seldom dropped now back in place, no longer able to afford himself the vulnerability he once shared with you between lazy moonlit kisses.

"All that time, I thought…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening as he shook his head. Arthur puffed out a long, deep sigh, finally turning his head to look at you. "Was any of it real?"

Yes. You wanted to say. Every embrace, every kiss, every time you smiled and it set my heart hammering in my chest. Yes, of course, it was real. 

Instead, you swallowed against a dry throat, choking on words that could seemingly never sway this mountain of a man from seeing you as anything but a filthy traitor.

"Would it matter?", you whispered against the dim light, lip trembling.

Arthur hadn’t expected that answer, that much was clear in the way his lips softly parted in confusion, in the way he tilted his head like your old dog used to when he couldn’t quite understand your commands.

"You hate me." Your voice choked on the words, coming out ragged, broken.

Arthur opened his mouth and closed it again, blinking slowly as the words settled over him, hurt carving its way deep into the lines of his brow. His eyes dropped, shoulders shifting slightly as if the words had knocked something loose in him.

"I... I don't know what I feel. Don't... don’t reckon its hate." Arthur dug his thumb into the meat of his palm, head hung as he sighed softly. "I just don't know if I can ever trust you again." 

"I know.”

"Dutch..." Arthur started slowly before clearing his throat. "Dutch said you can stay?"

"Yeah", you breathed.

His teeth scraped his bottom lip again as he looked away and nodded.  "You gonna?"

"I don't know."

He closed his eyes for a long second, and you saw the way the lamplight cast soft shadows from his lashes onto his skin. 

You wanted to stay. Hell, where would you even go if you left this place? You had no home anymore, for real this time. Yet, you didn’t know if you could bear staying if it meant that every time you saw Arthur, he looked at you like that. If staying meant every waking hour was riddled by anxiety and guilt and sidelong glances from people who would never quite trust you again. 

Then he shook his head once, his voice dropping, cracked, worn thin. “Maybe…” He paused, exhaled sharply, eyes already fixed on the exit. “Maybe you should go.”

The words knocked the breath clean from your lungs as you felt your chest sickeningly tighten around a pain so deep you thought you might throw up, your fingers curling in the worn blanket beneath you. Turning your eyes to the canvas ceiling, you gritted your jaw as hot tears blurred your vision, biting the inside of your cheek to keep them from spilling over. At the sight of you nodding, short and sharp, Arthur stood. For a moment, he looked at you with lips parted, a thousand words turning to ash on his tongue.

“Okay,” you breathed, your trembling voice barely a whisper.

Hearing the shuffle of his boots, you squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for the soft flutter of the tent flap closing behind him. Only then did you press your palm to your trembling lips, allowing the sob building in your chest to finally break free through clenched teeth.

…

Another sleepless night had been Arthur’s comfort. Another restless day. Now, sat alone beside the campfire, Arthur watched blankly as the flames crackled and logs popped, spitting glowing embers and sending them pirouetting into the air where they slowly dimmed and died against the bruised purple of dusk. With exhaustion trembling in his fingers, Arthur took another drag of his cigarette and felt the nicotine hum in his blood. His chest felt tight, weighed down by an ache he couldn't rightly name but an ache that felt too damn familiar all the same. He’d tasted it often enough.

Maybe you should go.

He ground the memory under his heel, but it kept echoing over and over in his head just as it had all day; that broken, accepting look on your face etched behind his eyelids.

Why the hell did I say that?

Had he meant it? Hell, he'd wanted to mean it. There was no place for traitors in this life, in this camp. He knew that. But even after everything, he couldn’t quite bring himself to hate you. The damn awful truth of it was that even though you were still here, even though you were lying not twenty yards from where he was currently sat, he missed you. He missed the memory of you before the walls had come crashing down. And the bittersweet taste that lingered and caught in his throat was that within every damn lie, there had been a little truth, a small kernel of something real. Those scars you bore? He had no doubt they had come from your uncle’s hand, just as you’d told him. The abuse you endured? He was sure of that too; he’d seen it for himself that afternoon in that bar. Buried in every lie you had conjured there had been at least a half truth, and the blurred line between story and reality only stoked the guilt and confusion bubbling in his gut.

Arthur glanced up as someone crossed camp, spotting just a flicker of movement, a shadow by the wagons that he couldn’t quite make out against the glow of the fire. It didn’t matter. Whoever it was, they didn’t look his way. Nobody really had, not properly, not since the ambush. He thought, maybe, if someone talked to him - really talked to him - it might help. Might knock something loose. Even just a word, a nod, a hand on his shoulder - something to remind him he was still part of this goddamn family. He could feel it, that thing no one said out loud. How camp got real quiet when he walked by. How eyes flicked away just a beat too late. How conversations picked up again only once he’d passed by. Like they didn’t know if they should reach out or just let the wound scab over, talking around him like he was some damn wounded animal.

Not even Mary-Beth had been of comfort to him. Arthur pondered on how she used to tug him by the wrist toward some quiet corner of camp, settle him down with that soft smile, and ask him how he was doing, never accepting the ‘m’fine’ he always muttered out of habit. He could’ve used that now.

He’d thought he was doing the right thing. He thought he’d been upholding the code. And yet even the people who were all for turning you out seemed to have softened in the aftermath of the bloodbath of that day. Even Bill, who had dispatched of the last rat in camp and relished the lingering torture of it, seemed to look at Arthur a little different these days. Or maybe it was all in his head. The lack of sleep made it hard to tell sometimes.

As the thoughts rattled around his head, Arthur quickly chalked them up to self-pity, turning his eyes back to the flames and taking a long drag of his cigarette, dismissing them as much as one could when they felt so goddamn ostracised.

Bootsteps crunched behind him and Arthur didn’t need to look to know the cadence was Hosea’s. Okay, maybe not everyone had been avoiding him.

“You’re broodin’,” came the blunt observation as the older man eased himself down beside Arthur with a soft groan at the persistent creak in his knees.

Arthur cast him a sidelong glance and shook his head with a humourless chuckle as he flicked the ash from his cigarette into the dirt. "Don't start."

“Ain’t startin’ nothin’,” Hosea replied with a shrug, stretching his legs out with a long, tired sigh as he accepted the cigarette Arthur offered out to him. “Just hard not to notice when you’ve been mopin’ ‘round here like a bear with a sore head for weeks.” He paused, taking a drag before adding pointedly, “When you’re here, anyway.”

Arthur didn’t argue. He knew it was true. He’d been spending more time away from camp than in it since that day, unable to bear sitting still. Unable to bear seeing the way people looked at him now. Or worse, didn’t.

“We should be movin' camp. If the-“, Arthur cut himself off, unable to say it, and pushed out a short, sharp breath. He'd never had trouble naming their rivals before. Now the name alone felt like a knife twisting in his gut. “They know where we are now.”

“We'll be on the move soon. Once she's strong enough.”

Arthur’s jaw twitched. The rock that had been sitting in his stomach all damn week rolled and shifted, pressing up into his ribs. Without realising, his eyes flicked sideways towards the dim canvas where you were. He swallowed hard, something almost like guilt clawing up the back of his throat.

“I told her to go,” he said, quietly.

Hosea seemed to consider the words for a moment, dragging his legs back up to brace his forearm on his knee as he leant forward slightly.

“And?”

“And nothin’. She said okay. Didn't argue. Didn't... didn't even try to fight me on it.” Arthur flicked his cigarette into the mouth of the fire with force.

“Arthur”, Hosea said softly, turning his head. “What exactly did you expect her to do? You told her to go. She respects you enough to listen. If you ask her to go, she will leave, you know that. Or... did you want her to stay?”

Arthur rubbed at his eyes, suddenly feeling bone tired. He hesitated, then shook his head slowly. "Maybe. No, I... hell, I don't know."

“You ain't as dumb as all that”, Hosea sighed softly, smoke curling from his lips as he spoke. “She saved your life.”

“She lied to me.” The words came out like gravel, like he’d been chewing on them for days. “Betrayed us. She…” He paused, pressing his thumb hard into the meat of his palm like he could force the feeling away.

“She came back”, Hosea said evenly, his sharp blue eyes sharp assessing him in a way that always left Arthur feeling uncomfortably exposed. “Even knowing we'd probably kill her for it. She came back and took a bullet that could have been yours.”

“She was working for-“

“Her family? Like we fight for this one?” Hosea gestured a hand nonchalantly at the camp around them. “Colm was coming for us with or without her, you know that. Him and Dutch? This has been brewing a long time. If it wasn't her, it would have been some other sorry soul.”

“She lied to me, Hosea.”

Hosea chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, because you've never lied.”

Arthur opened his mouth to argue but nothing came out.

“She made her choice,” Hosea continued, quieter now. “Maybe not as quick as you’d have liked. Maybe not clean. But she chose us." He bumped his shoulder softly against Arthur's. "Chose you.”

Arthur’s eyes glistened as he looked at the man he called father, the orange reflection of the fire catching in his eyes. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, jaw tight as he chewed on the truth he didn’t want to confront.

“Why ain't you mad?”, Arthur asked quietly, as though looking for confirmation that he wasn’t completely wrong. That it wasn’t just him that felt this heartbreakingly betrayed.

“Oh, I’m plenty mad,” the older man chuckled roughly through a soft plume of curling smoke. “I just…” Hosea trailed off with a soft sigh and a tilt of his head before lowering his voice further, patting Arthur firmly on the thigh. “Just don’t see the point in holdin’ onto it so tightly.”

Arthur paused a moment, then just shook his head and scoffed a hollow laugh. "What am I supposed to do?"

Hosea didn’t answer right away, tossing his own cigarette away before resting his arms on his knees, clasping his hands and leaning closer, tilting his head and looking at Arthur like a man who already knew the answer to the question he was about to ask, like he was just waiting for the fool in front of him to catch up.

“You love her, don't you?”

Arthur’s glassy eyes flicked up to Hosea’s, his expression betraying everything he couldn't bring himself to voice out loud, the truth carved in every sorrowful line of his face. He knew the answer instinctively, he’d always known it – always felt it. But he’d never said it, not to anyone. Because saying it made it real. And real things - precious things - had a way of slipping through Arthur’s fingers. Then the truth had come out, and with it, the stark confirmation had hammered in his chest that Arthur Morgan was never meant to know love. You’d betrayed him. Lied to him. And so he’d buried whatever he felt so deep inside himself it might as well have died.

But it hadn’t.

It was still there. Still flickering like a final ember in the ash. Small and stubborn and alive.

Arthur’s chest rose slowly, then fell, like he’d just taken his first full breath in days, and it hurt. Christ, it hurt.

“Do yourself a favour, son”, Hosea said with a soft, knowing smile. “Go and talk to her. Before it's too late.”

Arthur sat there a beat longer, willing the hammering of his heart to settle before finally, pushing himself to his feet with a sharp sniff, brushing the dirt from his hands. He hesitated a second, then patted Hosea’s shoulder.

“Thanks.”

*

It wasn’t long after Arthur had disappeared into the dark that Hosea heard the soft crunch of boots returning in a gentle jog over the worn-down grass. He didn’t even turn at first, just offering a half-smile to the fire, the ghost of a chuckle in his chest.

“Come on, son. Don’t need me to hold your hand, do ya’?”

When no answer came, Hosea twisted to look at him. Arthur stood a few paces away, the glow from the fire catching the furrow of his brow as he looked forlornly at a scrap of paper clutched between thick fingers.

“What’s wrong?”

Arthur’s lips parted, but no sound came out at first - just a shallow, broken exhale as he realised that what he’d thought he wanted had come true. And now it had, he wasn’t so sure he’d ever wanted it all. Slowly, he lifted his head, looking from the paper to Hosea, his expression betraying pure and unfiltered sorrow.

Then, in a voice that sounded like it had been torn from the deepest part of his chest, he finally said it.

“She’s gone.”

***

The damp earth clung to your boots as you ran, twigs snapping underfoot, breath coming sharp and fast in the cold night air. The trees pressed in around you in charcoal silhouettes against the descending mist, swallowing what little moonlight dared to filter through the thick canopy.

You didn’t know how far you’d come; didn’t know how long you’d been running. It must have been at least an hour, maybe more? All that you knew was that you had to keep going.

Your lungs burned. Your midriff throbbed.

Just a little farther… Town can’t be far.

You ran as far as your body would let you, then walked until you could run again. Then walked. Then ran. You stumbled over rocks, shrugging off the branches as they clawed at your shirt.

You mused that you should maybe have taken the horse. You’d considered it for a brief second when you’d ducked out the back of your tent, but watching her snickering softly by the hitching post had made something in your chest twist. Arthur had gifted her to you. Taking her now would still have felt too much like theft. And you’d already taken enough.

It must have been at least half a mile since you’d stopped to catch your breath by that crooked, time-warped oak. You’d stopped and stared at it, breath fogging in soft clouds against the cold air, your chest heaving. With a trembling hand, you’d braced yourself with palm splayed just below the hollow you’d secreted those treacherous notes in and wept. Its twisted roots splayed out towards the river you’d once contemplated throwing yourself into that night you’d first wished you could take it all back.

Closing your eyes, you’d rested your forehead against that gnarled, flaking bark and tasted the bitter memories it held, wishing that somehow you could turn back time and take a different path if you wished hard enough. You remembered the magic tree from that worn leather book your mother had gifted you as a girl, the one that granted wishes if you wanted them just enough, if you prayed for them just right. But this wasn’t a magic tree. It couldn’t rewrite the past. It was just wood.

With a muted, swallowed sob, you’d pushed on.                                

The woods had begun to blur into themselves, each tree looking as identical as the last, each sharp bend in the path revealing only more darkness. The pain had gone from a throb to a steady, gnawing burn, and your steps had grown sluggish, uneven as you picked your way along the uneven ground. Pausing for a moment, you heaved in a breath, scanning the trees for a hint of something – anything – familiar. You righted yourself with a sharp breath, wiped the sweat from your brow, and pushed on. Not two steps later, you felt the iron grip of someone you hadn’t been able to hear over your own breathing clamp around your arm, yanking you back.

Laughter came then.

Low, cruel, familiar laughter.

Your ankle twisted against the ground as you were pulled closer, a cry ripping from your throat as you squirmed, knees buckling, fighting against the talon-like grip around your forearm.

“Where you off to in such a hurry, girl?”

You froze.

You knew that voice. That familiar flash of green.

The O’Driscoll’s filthy fingers twisted tighter into the fabric of your shirt as he dragged you upright again, casting a glance up and down your heaving chest with malice.

“We all been waiting for ya, sugar”, he drawled, gripping your wrist tightly as his other hand slid around your waist with false familiarity, his fingers splaying around your back as his thumb pressed close to your healing would. The pressure made you wince, pitching forward with a sharp gasp.

“Don’t…”, you choked out as he applied more pressure to the already throbbing wound, your vision dimming a little at the edges. “Don’t you touch me.”

“Awh, come on now,” he chuckled, tilting his head. “We all family, ain’t we?”

You pushed forward, shoving against him with every drop of energy you had left, but his hands simply grabbed at you tighter, forcing you still.

With sweat matting your hair to your forehead, you snarled up at him through hooded lids, face pale and eyes fierce and teeth bared, throwing down the only card you had left in your pitiful arsenal.

“Colm won’t-“

You were cut off by a second voice. A familiar cool drawl from the shadows. “Colm won’t what?”

From between the trees, Colm stepped into view with the languid confidence of a man strolling into a saloon - with all the flair of Dutch, but with none of the charm.

“Well, now,” Colm smiled, arms held open like a preacher at a pulpit. “It’s so good to see you, dear.”

You stiffened as he stepped closer, forcing your chin higher despite the burn in your gut and the ache in your legs. The O’Driscoll at your side stepped aside, shifting his firm grip to your upper arm, like he expected you to bolt at any second. Even if you had wanted to - even if your legs still had the strength, even if your heart hadn’t just dropped to the pit of your stomach – you had no inclination to run. Not this time. Not now.

“You seem surprised to see me,” Colm said as he stopped a few paces away, cocking his head to one side as though genuinely curious. “That hurts. Really, it does. After all we been through together, you think I wouldn’t come back for ya’?”

“It’s over, Colm. It’s done. Just leave me alone.”

“No”, Colm breathed, lips downturned as he stepped forward again, a curved knuckle reaching towards your face. When you snapped your head away, the O’Driscoll took a fist of your hair and clenched tight, wrenching your face back, holding you in place. The back of Colm’s fingers brushed delicately against your cheek. “No, dear.” “I told them”, you smiled through bared teeth. “I told them everything.”

Colm scoffed. “Oh, I know. We know. Whole damn camp’s afire about your little heroics. Leadin’ us to them like that.” He grinned at the man holding you before sneering back at you, cupping your cheek again and shaking his head as he emphasised the words with mock reverence. “Our saviour.”

You met his eyes with a hardened resolve you didn’t know you had in you, twisting against the man still holding your hair until you could look your uncle dead in the eye. Absent of thought, you listed off names, names of men you might have once called family if only in the sense that you slept in the same camp. The names of men you’d watched your bullets bury themselves into. Your nose crinkled as you clenched your fists at your side. “I killed them.”

If Colm felt hurt, he didn’t show it. You never doubted for a moment that he would. Men were merely a number to him anyway, come and gone too quickly to even learn their names. Even the ones who stayed, even the ones with unwavering loyalty, even Finn – when they fell, it was no more than an mere inconvenience.

Colm flashed you that familiar half smirk, like this whole thing was part of some joke only he was in on. “Maybe I was wrong to dismiss you so quick”, he chuckled. “What’dya say? We go home and forget this whole thing?” In front of you stood two paths. One, back to the home you’d yearned for for so long; just get this damn plan done and go back to that familiar cot bed in that dank shack and finally – finally – get the recognition you’d so desperately craved all these years. The second, the be outcast forever, with no home at all and nowhere to settle, to wander these woods for the next few short hours until you succumbed to the biting cold by a lonely riverbank. You quickly decided that the first option was never really an option at all.

“You...”, you hung your head for brief moment and took a few unsteady breaths. “You’re dead to me.” Colm considered you for a long moment before tapping your cheek twice with a soft huff of a chuckle. Gritting your jaw, you prepared for the worst.

A thousand times you had contemplated your own death. In the last few short weeks, you’d stared it right down the barrel. At the hands of Colm. At the hands of Arthur. At the hands of Susan-fucking-Grimshaw with her shotgun at your goddamn back. The prospect of it no longer terrified you.

With a curt nod from Colm, the man’s fist connected with your jaw with a sickening crunch. You faltered, boots skidding, but he hauled you upright again.

“I chose them”, you whispered at the darkness.

Another nod. Another blow. Your head snapped to the side, sending your teeth rattling. You fought to keep your footing, even as the sharp taste of copper flooded your mouth. Grinning at Colm with crimson tinged teeth, you chuckled hollowly under your breath. “I chose them.” Colm's jaw ticked. His mouth twisted into something far uglier than a frown. His eyes flicked down to your midsection, and again, he nodded.

Agony shot through you like lightning, sharp and searing as the O’Driscoll’s fist drove into your healing stomach. Your body gave out with a strangled sound, knees hitting the cold earth as fire lanced up your spine and your vision pulsed white hot. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even think - just that overwhelming pulse of pain, raw and primal, like your body was tearing itself apart from the inside out. With a sharp yank, you were dragged once again to your feet. Spitting crimson into the dirt and sucking air through a constricted throat, you brought your half-closed eyes to meet Colm’s as he drew closer again. With clawing hands around your jaw, he wrenched your face to meet his. “I. Choose. Them”, you spluttered, enunciating every broken word that wrenched free from your chest. Clenching your jaw, you hawked back as much as you could and spat clear and true against his cheek.

Colm didn’t move at first. Then came the smirk. Subtle, poisonous, pulling up the corner of his mouth like the tug of a noose.

Without breaking eye contact, Colm finally released you and stepped back. He reached into the inner pocket of his weather-worn coat, fingers slow and casual, and pulled out a white, silk handkerchief with as much theatrical flair as plucking out a fine cigar. Smirking at you, he dabbed carefully at the mess, once… twice… before glancing at the bloodstains and folding it neatly, returning it to his pocket. “You have your mother’s fire”, Colm chuckled. “She didn’t wanna be part us no more neither when your daddy died.” With a dramatic sigh, Colm took another step back, crossing his arms over his chest as he picked absently at the dirt under his nails. “Such a shame.”  A final nod. A fist cocked back. You closed your eyes. Your heart stopped. You held your breath.

Like thunder splitting the sky, a chest juddering crack echoed through the night air. With a sharp flinch and a sudden gasp of breath, you felt the wet spatter of something warm spray across your cheek. The man’s grip on your arm suddenly went slack, and a dull thud reverberated through the ground as he fell beside you, lifeless.

At the sudden absence of someone holding you upright, your legs buckled without warning and you crumpled, your knees hitting the ground hard as a shaking hand folded around your middle. Your battered abdomen throbbed in protest, white-hot and searing. The taste of copper still sat thick and heavy on your tongue as the air left your lungs in a sick, shuddering exhale, the trembling fingers of your free hand clawing desperately at the dirt for purchase as you grimaced against the ringing in your ears. With a choked gasp, you looked helplessly at a Colm who looked just as shocked as you were, his hand already moving to his holster and narrow eyes fixed on dark woodland.

“Nuh-uh”, came the low growl from the shadows. “Don’t even think about it.”

From the mist, broad shoulders emerged. A familiar tilt of a hat. A familiar clench of shoulders heaving beneath a powder blue shirt. No, it couldn’t be.

Arthur.

He stepped into the clearing like a man barely clinging to restraint, his revolver still raised, jaw clenched tight, eyes burning with something far past fury.

“Arthur”, Colm smiled suddenly, opening his arms as though greeting an old friend, a wide grin splitting his face. “S’good to see you! How long has it been?”

“Not long enough”, Arthur replied flatly through clenched teeth.

Colm chuckled, nodding thoughtfully for a moment as if amused by the tension vibrating between them, as if he were merely partaking in some big game. “Was that really necessary?”, he sighed, pointing absently at the lifeless body bleeding sluggishly into the mud.

“Let her go.”

“Suppose you want me to let you do the honours?” Colm cocked his head to where you were hunched in the dirt, blood slicking your chin and hair matted to your forehead.

Arthur didn’t move, his eyes never so much as flickering in your direction. Not daring to breathe, you poured the remainder of your strength into keeping your head up, on keeping your wide eyes fixed on Arthur, watching desperately as the scene played on without you, as if you weren’t really there at all.

“Oh”, Colm breathed with a soft smirk, shaking his head as he looked back at Arthur with cold, calculating eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve come to save her, now?”

“She ain’t your concern anymore.”

“She’s my blood. You know that, boy? And what is she to you, after all? Nothin’ but a traitor.” Something in Arthur’s shifted then, something darker, something unrelenting. You’d seen that animalistic rage in him before, just bubbling below the surface. You’d seen it in the bar that day, just before he’d beaten Liam within an inch of his life. You’d seen it in that hotel room right before he’d had you pinned against the wall. Now it was firmly focused on your uncle. Lips snarled, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched tight.

Colm raised both palms with exaggerated care and a soft chuckle as Arthur readjusted his aim. “Easy now. No need to get all twitchy.”

“I’m givin’ you a chance to walk away”, Arthur said evenly.

“Well, that’s mighty fine o’ya.”

“I suggest you take it.”

“And if I don’t?”

There was no hesitation when Arthur pulled the trigger. The bullet missed Colm by a breath, biting deep into the bark of a tree behind him, sending splinters scattering into the dark.

A gasp rushed from your lungs as you instinctively ducked your head, but to your surprise, Colm didn’t flinch. He just stood there with a lopsided grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore.

“One chance”, Arthur growled against the silence with the measured calm of a man done asking. With the fierce finality of a death knell. “I won’t miss next time.”

Colm stood still for a long, agonising moment, his grin faltering just a touch as his eyes flicked from Arthur’s unwavering stance to the still-smouldering barrel of the revolver. Colm saw the same thing you did, that invisible thread stretched so taut that one wrong word, one wrong step, would cause it to snap. Your heart pounded so violently you thought it might burst free from your chest as you watched what felt like a fever dream playing out before you. Not daring to move a muscle, your breath came short and shallow. Finally, as though the weight of Arthur’s silence finally settled like a stone in his gut, Colm’s smile soured, and he let out a soft, understanding hum through his nose. He dropped his hands and gave a breathless chuckle, tugging down his waistcoat sharply and nodding once.

“You really are quite the fool, son.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

Colm stretched his neck, the movement slow and deliberate as he afforded you one last pitiful glance. With wide eyes, you watched in silence as he turned on his heel and faded into shadow with nothing more than the soft crunch of his boots retreating into the mist.

In the silver glow of dappled moonlight, you stared as Arthur slowly lowered the gun, tucking it back into his holster. Like a statue, he just stood there, that mountain of a man, shoulders rising and falling with deep, heaving breaths. You watched him like he wasn’t real, like he was nothing more than a mirage conjured by blistering pain and desperate hope and a broken soul. The night curled around him like smoke, the moon’s rays catching on the worn brim of a hat, on the glint of a belt buckle.

Time itself seemed to stretch around you as he turned, tentatively stepping towards you. You saw it then, the absence of that rage that had burned so fiercely in his gaze. More gut-wrenching somehow was the absence of something else. For a second time, his eyes washed over you all crumpled and broken, and for the first time since that damn hotel room, there was no shred of disdain in those pools of blue. There was hurt, sure. But a different kind of hurt. Boots pressed gently into the soft ground until they were right in front of you. And then he knelt.

Cautiously, Arthur reached for you. For a second, his hand hovered in the space between you, fingers hesitantly curled and twitching like they weren’t quite sure if they were allowed to touch you. With adam’s apple bobbing thickly, Arthur swallowed hard before reaching out again, tenderly cupping your bruised cheek in his calloused palm.  

You shuddered out a breath, uneven and trembling, as you leaned into that familiar touch you never thought you would feel again.

“Are you okay?” Arthur asked softly.

You nodded, barely, your breath catching on a sob as you blinked through tears. Arthur’s jaw worked for a moment, eyes glassy and brow pinched, before the thick muscle of his arms wrapped around you, pulling you tight to his chest.

Breath hitching in your chest, your brain took a second to catch up. But when it did, you crumbled. Mud-stained fingers fisted into his shirt so tight your knuckles ached as the dam inside you broke. As a broad hand came to cradle the back of your head, a desperate sob tore its way free of your throat, wrecked and raw and carrying every inch of guilt and grief you’d tried to swallow down.

"You... you came..." The words tumbled from your lips between shaking gasps against the quickly dampening fabric of his shirt and Arthur exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening at the nape of your neck, holding you firm.

"‘Course I came."

"Arthur…," you gasped against him, the words ripped from your throat, barely coherent.

"I'm always gonna come…," Arthur whispered through trembling lips, the scruff of his stubble scratching against your temple, his heartbeat thundering against your ribs.

“I’m sorry.”

"…No matter how mad I get..."

“I’m so sorry.”

“…No matter what you done…”

“I’m sorry.”

Arthur’s thumb brushed steady and sure at the top notch of your spine, his lips trembling as he whispered against your hair. “…I am always gonna come.”

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-", you sobbed against his chest, chest convulsing as you choked on the apologies that wouldn’t stop spilling over.

"I know." Arthur pressed a soft kiss to your temple, his breath warm against the shell of your ear with words that settled against your skin, etching themselves into your ribcage. “Shh. I know. It’s okay.”

Finally, when your sobs began to quiet, when your breathing evened just slightly, Arthur pulled back just enough to see you through the moonlight, his hands sliding up to cup your face gently, his thumbs swiping against the hot, wet trails of your tears.

For a moment, there was nothing but the ache in your chest and the breath-stealing sting of your pulsing wounds, the sound of the woodland drowned out by the catch of your breath in your throat. Every inch of your body shivered, trembled, throbbed – and absolutely none of it mattered. Because it wasn’t a fever dream. It wasn’t a mirage. Arthur was here, achingly real with knees steeped in mud, holding you like you he used to, like you were something he couldn’t bear to lose.

Your lips parted, but before you could unstick the words from under your tongue, your shoulders jerked at the sound of a distant voice cutting the stillness of the night. Tensing instinctively, you gripped Arthur’s wrist in panic, heart skipping at the sight of flickering lamplight through the trees.

“It’s alright”, Arthur whispered, thumb stroking your cheek again as he nudged your face to look at him again. “Let’s get you up.”

Eyes still darting to the bobbing flickers of light, at the shadows dancing through the trees, you hissed through gritted teeth as Arthur eased you to your feet, a solid arm around your waist holding you steady. Your knees wobbling beneath you and weight sagging against his side, you glanced up at Arthur with furrowed brow as figures emerged from the mist.

Through a haze of tears and bristling panic, faces came into focus.

Javier. Tilly. Karen. Bill.

Your breath caught as your eyes flicked between the latter two, seeing something you’d never expected to see. Concern.

Tears blurred your vision as others stepped into the clearing. Sean. John. Hosea. Mary-Beth.

Stomach dropping, you waited for that flare of anger and the look of resentment that never came.

"You both okay?"

"We came lookin’ soon as we heard."

"We heard a gunshot."

"Thank God, you found her."

"You sure you’re okay?"

"Jesus, she’s shaking like a leaf."

With wide eyes and chest hitching anew, you stared as Bill shrugged out of his coat, holding it out to Arthur like a proffer of forgiveness you didn’t believe you deserved.

Like they were glad you were here.

Like they were glad you were still alive.

Jaw trembling, your gaze snapped to Arthur, who was already looking down at you with the subtle twitch of a soft smile as he wrapped that oversized coat around your shoulders, pulling it snug.

"Let’s go home."

Home.

[demongirlstench]

I wrote this cute little kinky concept featuring my two most beloved OCs. It's entirely self-indulgent, but I want to put it here just in case anyone wants to read it. If this gets any positive attention, I might write more with them, who knows?

Story under the cut

The morning was still, a warm sunbeam gently shining through the window; flecks of dust lazily drifting across its golden glow. Cassandra laid comfortably in her shared bed, covered by soft, airy blankets. Her eyelids fluttered, on the edge of sleep and waking life. She groaned, stretching her toned muscles as her body awakened from the night’s rest. She reached to either side of herself. Clumsily, she brought her dusty spectacles to her face, resting them crooked across her nose to frame her half-lidded, golden eyes. Her other hand found curiously, a conspicuously empty space beside her. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Cassie looked to the unoccupied space where her wife should be. The subtle impression within the mattress implied her absence was recent, and in her place, a small folded sheet of parchment. It was sealed in green wax embossed with the mark of a long legged spider.

Happy Birthday Honey!

Sorry for sneaking out of bed, I had some last minute things I needed to put together for today. Once I get everything ready, I’ll meet you down in the kitchen. I think you’ll really like what I came up with this year~

-Chthonic 💚

Staining the bottom of the page was a black kiss mark, the same greenish shade Chthonic was so fond of.

Cassie stepped over to her closet, gently pulling its door open with a calculated breeze. She tapped the corner of her mouth pensively as she moved through a selection of sharply tailored dress shirts and layered, floor length skirts. With a gesture of her wrist, Options levitated off the rack and into view, with another, they were dismissed back to their position. She cycled through options before settling on a simple short sleeved button up, in pale salmony red; paired with a maroon skirt, layered with thin orange waves. Completing her look, she slipped on a pair of polished navy dress shoes, and a set of muted red suspenders.

The Kitchen was abuzz with life as Cassandra stepped in. Small, froggy elementals flitted to and fro, clattering along as they carried and cleaneed used dishes. A frothy, bubbling toad carefully soaked a mixing bowl in soap whilst a boiling, roiling pollywog scrubbed a set of knives with a jet of heated water. On the table, two plates were set with a full meal on each. They rested atop the back of a softly sleeping frog, its body composed of flickering flames and warm coals. Cass took a seat, and a plate, with one hand while stroking the elemental’s slowly breathing head with another.

Across the table, imperceptibly thin lines of silk, faintly shimmering emerald green twisted and weaved. The lines converged, knitting together into a flexible curtain. They warped and stretched until from their flowing form, Chthonic emerged. She pulled herself a chair with one hand. Resting in the crook between her other arm and torso, was a plain wooden box, darkly polished and fastened with thick steel rivets.

“Hey Cass, sorry about not being there this morning, I forgot something in my workshop” she said, setting the little box to the side. Cassie raised an eyebrow knowingly. “Are you certain it had nothing to do with the meal sitting 2 feet in front of you?” Chthonic rolled her eyes, “okay yeah, I also wanted to make you something for breakfast. I woulda’ given it to you in bed too, but that sorta fell through.” She frowned slightly. “Anyways, I've got something really interesting made here, I think you're gonna like it.”

The couple spent a moment, enjoying their meal and the accompanying chatter. Swept up in conversation, they hardly noticed as the meal finished. It wasn't long before the conversation turned back to the subject of the wooden box.

“Right” Chthonic started, “So, I know you've been interested to see some of my research put to use in the bedroom”. Cassie blushed fainty “Yes, regarding mass expansion, if I recall”. Chthonic chuckled “exactly, which is why I think you’ll find this pretty exciting”. She clicked a small lock on the box and pulled it open.

Inside was a small black metal device. Its lewd shape hinted at its purpose. It resembled a cage with a distinctly phallic form. A small ring at its base was connected to the shaft by a little green padlock, its keyhole machined into an intricate heart.

“So? What do you think?” Chthonic cooed flirtatiously. Cassie took the device in her hands, it felt weighty and sturdy. Her wife's craftsmanship apparent and comforting. “I'm… very interested to see how it works”. She giggled, a mix of excitement and nervousness just touching the edge of her voice. “Here, why don't we try it on, you'll get a good idea what it's for once you're wearing it.” Chthonic offered. Cassie enthusiastically agreed.

Fitting it to Cassie's cock was a simple process, its dimensions perfectly crafted to hug her firmly. It felt good, knowing the care that was put into such a sensitive item. She shivered, and bit her lip as the padlock clicked into place, sealing her into its grip.

Chthonic pecked Cassie on the cheek, leaving a dark mark on her face. Cassie grew flushed, and the true purpose of the device became apparent. Cassie didn't become hard, as she had expected to, her cock simply sat inert, flaccid within its cage. Her balls however, tingled as they began to swell larger, shimmering with a pale green glow.

“While you're wearing this, any arousal you feel is going to rush straight to your cute little nuts~” Chthonic explained, flirtatiously. “And the bigger they get, the more sensitive you're gonna be~”. Chthonic reached between her wife's legs, giving her nuts a playful squeeze. She felt as they squished slightly, then swelled back larger than before, even wearing the cage briefly they had already become as weighty and girthy as an apple each.

Cassie gritted her teeth and clenched her hand. The feeling of weight and tingling sensation between her legs at once overwhelming and extremely satisfying. She absentmindedly fondled and squeezed herself, feeling the pulse of her heartbeat in the swell of growing, tingling ballsack.

Chthonic put her hand on Cassie’s, smirking slightly.

“You enjoying yourself sweetie?” she raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m going to give you a little challenge, if you’re up for it…”.

Cassie blushed hard as she stammered out a “s-sure”. Chthonic’s little games and challenges were something Cassie was always looking forward to, even when they ended with her overwhelmed and cumming her brains out.

“The rules are simple” Chthonic started.

“Each time I catch you fondling these~” She spanked Cassie’s swollen, heavy nuts for emphasis, causing her to squirm and moan. “You’ve gotta wear this for another hour~” Chthonic giggled, watching Cassie’s eyes shift and her face bloom further with that ruby red blush. “Deal?” Chthonic asked. Cassie gulped, It would take all her willpower not to give into the tempting sensations of fullness swinging between her legs, but, with Chthonic, she knew failing the challenge would be just as fun anyways.

“D-deal!”

The next few hours consisted of two big things for Cassie: her hands drifting between her legs at inopportune moments, and Chthonic’s subsequent taunting. A quick adjustment when organising books in their lounge added an hour onto her extended humiliating predicament. A moment of weakness in the garden gave more time to deal with the overwhelming fullness. And as her time ticked up, so too did the size of her sack. Bigger, heavier, more sensitive. Soon they eclipsed the size of her breasts, not long after that, comparable to watermelons. Eventually, Cassie found herself reclined with a good book, trying in vain to keep her mind off the massive, leathery nuts lying on the cushioned seat between her legs.

Reading of course, is difficult when the throbbing, sexual ache of overfull, balls gnaws at the corners of your perception. Even more so with the voice of a very mischievous wife in your ear.

“Mmmm, they’re looking nice, Cass~” Chthonic teased

“I’m sure they are, honey, but I’m not focused on that right now” Cassie retorted, the strain in her voice giving way to the implicit lie in her words.

Chthonic patted Cassie’s sack tenderly, watching as her wife’s expression grew flustered even as she tried to keep her cool, the obvious, gurgling swell of scrotum visible proof how much she was enjoying this too.

“Y’know” Chthonic started

“At this rate, you’re gonna be stuck right there with those heavy girls aren’t you?” she giggled.

As if to illustrate her point, she grabbed an armful of Cassie’s overripe fruit and strained to lift it.

Cassie’s brows furrowed, the sensation was pleasant but Chthonic raised an important point; how was she going to be able to move around once her sack had grown too heavy to walk?

Chthonic mimed scratching her chin, and looked to Cassie with a devious, self-satisfied smirk.

“I guess I’ll just have to keep you in bed and dote on you ‘till you’re allowed to take it off then~” She cooed with a sing-songy voice.

Cassie was struck with a moment of realization

“That was your plan all along wasn’t it?” She accused.

“You wanted a chance to dote on me, but you knew if you framed it as taking a break, I’d push back on it. So you made one of your little challenges to put me in a position where I’d have no choice but to let you, didn’t you?”

Chthonic raised her hands in mock defeat.

“You caught me, red handed, I admit defeat” Chthonic said dryly

“I suppose then you’ll be wanting this off, then?” she said, reaching for the cage wrapped around Cassie’s cock

“No-! I…” Cassie stammered. “I never said I was opposed to the idea…”

Cassie trailed off, gauging Chthonic’s expression.

A sly smirk on her lips confirmed everything Cassie needed to know.

“I knew you’d like it” Chthonic said, warmly

“I really do, honey” Cassie replied. “Now how’s about you put the maid outfit on and you can get to tending to your beloved?”

“Yes ma’am!” Chthonic grinned.

Cassie thought this was a pretty great birthday.

~END~

[aria-bun]

Maybe I was just hungry for blood

In which Soren has issues. Find on ao3!

Soren thought he was being pretty obvious when flirting with that guy– Corvus. But maybe flirting wasn’t a thing there. He wouldn’t know.

He prefers the water, anyways. Probably for the best he stays there. 

He dove down through the water, his surroundings darkening the deeper he went. A few yards from the shore, the ground dropped, leaving a vast plane of dark water. The fins on his forearms started to illuminate, glowing a soft red along with the swirled pattern on his tail, which had been invisible until now.

As he swam lower, it got brighter, passing other mers who were herding fish. Those who weren’t were probably still sleeping.

He dove into one of the underwater caves, taking a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness after being at the surface for as long as he was. The thin membrane of his second eyelid slid out of place, allowing him to see properly.

Claudia was sitting in one of the wall crevices, arms crossed. “You’re late, Sorbear.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Sorry.” Soren apologized. His eyes went to the large enchanted tome in her lap. “Again?”

“You know the drill.” She flicked one of her tentacles at him. A subtle purple glow came from the suction cups lining the underside of them, matching the glow coming from her ear fins, under her eyes, and the fins on her forearms. 

“Why? What’s so great about the surface anyways?” He flopped down on the stone.

Claudia clicked her tongue. “Everything, Soren. You’d know that if you actually went up there for more than a day.”

“I’m perfectly content down here. Here, I don’t have to worry about birds. Or boats. Or walking.” He wrinkled his nose. “Swimming’s faster.”

“So? It’s not about that.” Her ear fins flicked, annoyed. “It’s about the smells and the feeling of the wind on your skin and the dirt under your feet-”

“Don’t get me started on human feet.” The fins under his eyes flared. 

“Regardless. It’s about the adventure, not the destination.” Her eyes glimmered. “Tell me, have you ever jumped off a cliff into the water?”

Soren looked at her. “No. And I don’t think I want to.”

“You should really utilize this gift more often, Sor.”

He sat up. “It’s not a gift, it’s a blood ritual that you and dad do every Night of the Sun.”

“Heart ritual.” Claudia corrected. “There’s more heart than blood.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“You need to be more open minded.”

“Claudia’s right.” Soren looked over at the cave entrance, seeing Viren.

“Well, gladly leave me out of it this time.” The fins under his eyes flicked.

“You know we can’t do that.” She looked at him. “It needs three people at minimum.”

“Then pick literally anyone else.”

“We already have your blood for it, Soren.” Viren sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, the fins under his eyes flaring. “Just don’t use it like you always end up doing anyways.” His voice had an undertone of disappointment or annoyance. Soren had a hard time telling the difference when it came to him.

The dark red glow from Viren’s ear fins seemed to pulse lightly, his gaze going to Claudia. The two of them had this weird code with their fin lights, and it ticked Soren off because he had no idea how to find out what they were saying.

He flicked his ear fins. “Just tell me to leave, why don’t you?” Soren swam past Viren. “I’m going to find Rayla.”

“Soren-” Claudia started, but he was already out of the cave. Immediately, he dived downward, following the edge of the underwater cliff. Soon, the only thing he could see in front of him was the glow from the webs between his fingers and the fins on his forearms, lighting a few feet in front of him.

He ran his hand along the rocky cliffside, making sure not to drift too much as he swam, before coming to a stop. Running his hand back alongside the cliff, he felt a small, sharp shell.

Mussels.

Alright, small detour.

He pulled a small knife from his belt, before wedging it between the bottom shell and the rock, severing it from the rock before stuffing it in the small pouch attached to his belt. He squinted, the fins under his eyes brightening in an attempt to help him see. He saw the vague outlines of the other mussels, and pried them off with the flat of his knife, one by one, putting them into the pouch.

“Boo.”

Soren jumped, his fins flashing brightly as he spun around.

Rayla laughed, her thinner eyelids sliding over her eyes to block the light from Soren’s fins.

“Really Rayla?” His fins dimmed as he tucked his knife away, wanting to throw it at her instead.

“I’m sorry- it was just too perfect.” She cackled, her spiky ear fins flicking.

Soren swatted at her with his tail. “Not funny.”

“Too funny.” She wiggled her fingers at him. Like most midsea mers, she had four fingers, with silvery webbing between them and longer, sharper nails.

“Yeah, yeah, get it all out now. I was just looking for you.” He rolled his eyes.

Her inner eyelid lifted, showing her pale purple eyes, barely having a pupil. “Looked to me like you were looking for mussels.”

“I got distracted! Plus, mussels are good.”

Rayla shrugged, the flaps of her gills flaring slightly. “Can’t argue with that. Why were ya looking for me?”

“Just needing to get away from Claudia and dad.” He wrinkled his nose lightly. 

“Eugh.” She flicked her teal tail. “Let’s not talk about them, then.” 

The two of them started swimming, following the cliff down further before reaching the sandy bottom. Looking up, Soren could still see hints of light from the sun reaching down to where they were, but it didn’t provide all that much light due to the overcast day above.

“What else have you been doing?” She asked, retrieving a bag from behind a small pile of rocks and draping it around her shoulder.

“I talked to a human for a bit.” He glanced back upwards before back at her, settling down on the sandy ground.

The scales under her eyes flared from excitement. “Really?”

He nodded. “Yeah. He said his name was Corvus.”

“Like the bird?” She arched an eyebrow at him, picking up a flat shell from the sand, inspecting it under the silvery light from her fins.

“Yeah. He had a notebook with him. Drew a nice sea snail.”

“I hope you didn’t scare him too much.”

“Be glad you weren’t there. He’d be terrified.”

She flicked sand into his face with her tail, causing his thinner eyelids to cover his eyes, preventing the sand from entering them.

 Soren clicked his tongue. “Rayla, Rayla. Flicking sand? How immature.”

“Oh, shush.” Rayla rolled her eyes. “You were asking for it.”

“Was not!”

 “You totally were.” she tucked the shell into her bag. “Don’t even try to deny it, Mister smort longpocket.”

“Okay, that was one time in front of Finnegrin. He was hot and I was improvising.” He flopped down, sand clouding up around him.

Rayla fanned the sand cloud away. “He was not, but okay.”

“You just don’t have good taste.”

“He tried feeding me to a Leviathan!”“...Okay fair.”

[forlorn-crows]

Yours In The End

Rating: M for Mature (and A for Angst)

Pairing(s): Mountain/Aether/Dewdrop

Tags: implied/referenced major character death, implied/referenced banishment, angst, emotional hurt, (attempted) comfort, era iii ghouls.

Words: 1,404

Summary: What would normally be an easy silence hangs oppressive around them, full of things unsaid. Things that could break more than just the quiet if they were said.

Wordlessly, the earth ghoul circles around the couch and slides in beside him. Lanky limbs folding inwards until he cuddles up against him—a wet, newborn pup anchoring itself to his littermate in a blind search for warmth and familiarity. Wee and fresh, all of them just trying to get their bearings.

So, so much has changed.

⛧

Notes: This is the product of multiple days of feeling shitty. Started as a prompt for Mushy May and ran in the fucking opposite direction. Referenced murders of the three Emeritus brothers. Implied/Referenced death/banishment of Zephyr and Ifrit. Essentially, Mountain, Dew, and Aether are alone together, running from ghosts. Not a happy vignette.

Read on AO3 or under the cut:

The fire crackles steadily, quick pops and crumbles of charcoaled wood falling into the hearth. It’s the only light left in the room, the sun having long dipped down past the sills of the leaded glass windows. It coats the small seating area in a dying amber light, the stacks of books behind cast in ominous shadow. It’s late.

And yet. 

Dewdrop sighs, his eyes unable to look away from the dancing flames. Despite being just feet from the fire, wrapped up in a worn quilt, his nose feels like ice, and his cheeks are chilled from the still-wet tracks of tears. They’ve stopped for now, leaving the water ghoul to sniffle and stare. Numb. Unwilling to rise from a stupor he suspects will make its home in his chest for years to come. 

The floor creaks somewhere behind him. Footsteps softly approaching until they join him in his little cocoon of bittersweet comfort. Dew feels their hands in his hair, scooping it out from where it’s trapped beneath layers of cotton and batting. Silver threads gone barren at the ends. Rubbed one too many times between his trembling, nervous fingers. Gentle hands pull it all back, smoothing it around his horns. Silently combing through the tangles and draping the bulk of it over one shoulder. 

“Coming back to bed?” a rumbly, tired voice asks. 

Dew doesn’t say anything as he closes his eyes, flickers of the embers still sparkling behind his eyelids. Mountain shifts behind him, sighing heavily. Hands rubbing idly over his blanketed shoulders. Apart from the fire, the library is eerily quiet when the moment stretches out between them. What would normally be an easy silence hangs oppressive around them, full of things unsaid. Things that could break more than just the quiet if they were said. 

Wordlessly, the earth ghoul circles around the couch and slides in beside him. Lanky limbs folding inwards until he cuddles up against him—a wet, newborn pup anchoring itself to his littermate in a blind search for warmth and familiarity. Wee and fresh, all of them just trying to get their bearings. 

So, so much has changed. 

Mountain swipes a fresh tear from his cheek. Dew barely feels it, but he leans into it anyway, chest heaving with a silent sob. The arms around him grow tighter, and soon he’s surrounded in the earth ghoul’s woody scent. Lips press against his hairline as he wills it all just to stop. 

“You’re cold, waterlily,” he whispers. It’s an obvious, easy thing to state when you have so much else to say. “Will you come back to bed?” 

Dew turns his head to look at him. Through muddled vision he can see the lines of worry beginning to etch themselves into his handsome face. The skin under his eyes is sunken, colored with an almost bruised hue. His normally plump, boyish cheeks are sunken too, the firelight casting them in gaunt shadow. The water ghoul’s sure he doesn’t look much better, with his thinning hair and blotchy face and dead water eyes. 

Dew swallows hard. “I want to go home,” he says in a broken voice. A few more tears fall, soaking into the fraying stitching of the quilt. He doesn’t care if the wish is unrealistic, unreasonable. Pathetic. It’s how he feels. Whatever semblance of home he felt before this has collapsed into rubble and blown away as dust in the wind.   

Mountain shakes his head. Melancholy in a tiny movement. “Come back to bed,” he says, no longer a question. 

“Please don’t be scared of me,” Dew begs. He doesn’t know why he says it. Why he thinks Mountain looks at him with fear as much as love. 

His ears droop. Emerald eyes growing big and round. He reaches out to cradle Dew’s cheek, and the water ghoul fights everything not to flinch away. 

“Dewdrop,” he says softly. Pleading as much as he can in the utterance of only his name. 

The water ghoul nods and looks up towards the cavernous ceilings, praying for the crying to stop. “I know,” he breathes, lip quivering. “I know.” The sadness welling up in Mountain’s own eyes is what pushes him over again, and he lets himself be pulled into his chest with heavy limbs and a heavy heart. Shuddering through waves of grief and anger and directionless emotions that continue to renew instead of release. Mountain whispers promises of not your fault and not going anywhere into his hair, holding him tight. 

It’s a long while before he pulls back for air again. The fire’s turned to ash, smoldering valiantly through its last few flames. Dew can barely register Mountain’s face now, but there’s just enough light to illuminate his temple, the high point of his cheek. Highlighting the way his face has softened and the exhaustion has set in once more. 

“I love you.” It’s all he can think to say. Breathed like a prayer meant only for the Dark One himself. Maybe if he says it enough the three of them will be left alone. While they may have been wronged by mortals Above, he knows his other packmates will be protected eternally Below. 

But Satanas, does it hurt to be spared this time. 

“I love you, too,” Mountain replies easily. Like he’s said it a thousand times before. The earth ghoul casts a glance towards the hearth, looking at it with such concentration that Dew wouldn’t be surprised if he had slipped somewhere else in his mind, far away from reality. But he snaps out of it quickly, turning back to Dew. Hands tugging at the folds of the quilt still wrapped tightly around him. 

“Aether.” He’s waiting now for both of them to come back to bed, Dew knows, most likely pacing or contemplating throwing another glass at the wall. There’s shards still stuck in the piles of the rug from the last time. As much as he could stay here until the last of the fire snuffs out, he shouldn’t. “Come on,” Mountain insists one last time. “Up.”

Dew lets himself be pulled off the couch and into Mountain’s side. Sheltered under his proverbial wing. He pulls him away from the false solace of the fireplace, the embers disappearing behind them as they move throughout the maze of the library. Back through the cavernous, echoing hallways until they reach the ghoul wing. There’s lamplight spilling into the hallway from Mountain’s room—their room, at this point; the only room with a bed big enough for three. None of them can really bear to leave it, nowadays. 

It’s the only place left without ghosts. 

Aether sighs with relief when the two shuffle back into the bedroom. He frowns sadly when he sees tear-stained cheeks and droopy ears; wordlessly, he ushers them back into bed, locking the door behind them and clicking off the lamp. The moonlight shines into the room, casting them all in moody blue. Even if it’s somber, there’s something about the coolness that lifts a weight off Dew’s shoulders every time he’s bathed in it. Exhaustion worms its way out of his joints and floods his system as soon as he’s settled between the two bigger ghouls, eyelids already too heavy to stop from closing. Balsam and ozone curling around him like a gentle breeze caressing the cattails surrounding the lake. 

“Sleep,” Aether says softly, pressing his forehead to Dew’s. Mountain tucks his nose into the nape of his neck, inhaling his scent as he’s done every night since then. A lungful of his crisp apple shampoo (though there’s not much of that today) before he succumbs to sleep. The water ghoul feels his rumbling purr against his back as he burrows further into the quilt. Aether’s soon to follow; whether Dew will reciprocate their calming sounds with his own little purr is a tossup. Especially now. 

Despite the hours of tears, he can feel the sound creep up in his throat. Much like the crackle of a toy with an overused voice box, it’s muffled, fading in and out unpredictably. But the other two hold him tighter at the first stir of it in his chest. 

He’s tired. So, so tired. 

Love you, Aether mouths against his hairline. Just above a whisper, like he’s afraid for someone else to hear. On the edge between awake and asleep, Dew makes a noise he hopes conveys his love in return.