#piece: The Starry Sky
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i-am-grell · 4 months ago
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Shows with Some Substance Anime Poll
A short series won the last poll, so I have to start the next one right away, and since I've kinda poll-spammed these last couple runs, this is all gonna be shit with some substance (and be sure to check below the cut because I'm really upping some long series runs from things I've previously promised - look, you'll notice if you actually read my propaganda regularly. If not, ignore and press button). This is the true binge-watching, the true marathoning, kinda poll.
And, if you're new here, I don't like making choices, but I like watching anime.
Propaganda* (*yapping, etc) below the poll. You can reblog for visibility, to yap in the tags, or for whatever reason you choose. You don't have to know me, follow me, like me, or like/know/have watched any of these shows to vote.
Propaganda:
One Piece -
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This one is for the (I'm sure) large intersection of OP and IASIP fans. This poll option counts for Seasons 9 and 10 (ep 264-381 / Enies Lobby and Thriller Bark) of One Piece.
Fairy Tail - I'm going into Edolas, I gotta make a Strauss siblings joke. This poll option counts for Seasons 3, 4, and 5 (ep 73-150) of Fairy Tail.
Pokemon - Like I know how to get Tyrogue to evolve into a specific Hitmon[suffix], but that's all I got. Don't get me started on IV breeding. This poll option counts for Seasons 14 and 15 (Black & White / Black & White: Rival Destinies) of Pokeani.
Food Wars! - Nothing weird at all :)
Natsume's Book of Friends - Beloved mutual(s) who like this anime, I see you putting an adorable kitty yokai on the dash. Vote with your heart.
Hunter x Hunter - All of it this time. Last time, I put it in a poll I said I'd watch half and take a break, but I'm going for length in this poll. I'm shooting straight through the 2011 start-to-finish.
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bluecaeriart · 1 year ago
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Fireflies
My piece for the Fragile Dreams 15th anniversary project I hosted this year over at @lunarhillfunland !!!! It's been such an honor getting to host another event like this for this fandom and with so many amazing people. This game has impacted my life in so many ways even 15 years later and I'm glad I got to dedicate another piece to it ₍՞◌â€Čá”•â€”à„‚â—Œâ‚Žâ™Ą Please come check out everyone's incredible pieces and celebrate with us!!
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derpthingies · 2 years ago
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Owari Night
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inkswarm · 1 year ago
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a glimmer in the distance
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undermostcorgi · 1 year ago
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ok i will post them because i love them and i worked way too hard on it and almost lost the file multiple times so i am forcing you to see Them
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midniqhtt · 2 months ago
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robert ‘bob’ reynolds
masterlist ‱ marvel ‱ 06/09/25
˚‧âș  ˖ · ୚ৎ recs
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⭑.ᐟ xerox pt2 pt3 I @ichorai
you had one last job before you were free. no more splitting, no more deaths. unfortunately, that job seemed to rope in four other assassins and a... a man in hospital-wear?
⭑.ᐟ the fling I @sacredsorceress
bob finds out that you had a one night stand with bucky a few years earlier and feelings bubble to the surface.
⭑.ᐟ therapy I @/sacredsorceress
⭑.ᐟ mocha I @/sacredsorceress
yelena decides to make it her mission to set up bob with her close friend.
⭑.ᐟ lifeline I @/sacredsorceress
When you sleep, the Void visits you. This time, you can't hold your worries in and Bob is there to save the day.
⭑.ᐟ let go I @sunskisser
bob avoided you, and you had no idea why — till the night you help him out of a frenzy.
⭑.ᐟ the woes of bowties and missing puzzle pieces I @websterss
One day Bob having a rough day and void jumps out, creating quite a chaos. She tries to talk him through it but void being void thinking she’s a liability for them, he “consumed” her. Few moments after that he turns back into Bob & other people came back from void but not her.
⭑.ᐟ the hand that’s forced pt2 I @/websterss
You hadn't meant to get attached to Bob, much less fall in love with him. You hadn't meant for things to slip out right from underneath your grasp. Out of your control, much like Valentina holding your love for one another over your heads.
⭑.ᐟ i see you I @cocastyle
⭑.ᐟ sneaking around I @callsign-swan
Bob doesn't mean to be sneaking around. But he can't help it. He's got a secret, and he wants to keep it that way. Too bad he's best friends with Yelena Belova.
⭑.ᐟ alone together I @/callsign-swan
For the last few years, Tony's daughter has been living out in the tower basement. She doesn't realise when Valentina buys the tower, not until she's being choked out by Sentry (turns out Sentry is a really sweet guy called Bob, who knew?)
⭑.ᐟ picnic day I @roanofarcc
when rain threatens a thunderbolts team bonding outing, per the request of Alexei, they turn to their resident weather-controlling team member to save their plans. 
⭑.ᐟ a bunch of teenagers I @mallory524
Bob has really started to like you, but he assumes you don’t feel the same way about him. You do though, and everyone seems to know that except Bob
 and apparently also Walker, who really thought he had a chance
⭑.ᐟ going out I @/mallory524
You and Bob finally spend some time together one morning, but you find yourself rushing to defend him when he gets overwhelmed and people aren’t kind to him.
⭑.ᐟ in my arms I @woantohae
The Thunderbolts are constantly on missions, busy trying to do good and save whoever they can. One of them was Bob Reynolds, the defenseless yet powerful man who is part of this team and family. However, he doesn't participate in these missions so he can continue practicing controlling his powers. Despite telling them he's capable, the team prefers to give him more time to get used to them, until one mission, when a member of the team is injured. And all Bob can think about is the fury he feels when he hears Y/N being hurt. And how much he wants revenge on whoever did it.
⭑.ᐟ shadow I @/woantohae
Y/N loved the darkness because she could see the stars better. Void does everything in his power to make sure she can gaze at the starry sky, even if it means turning everything into darkness.
⭑.ᐟ only you I @/woantohae
Bob's dark, evil entity, The Void, appears when you least expect it. The rest of the team must be prepared to confront him and his prevailing malice. However, there is only one person on the team with whom he has a soft spot. And it's her.
⭑.ᐟ like real people do I @froggibus
Bob seeks you out following a bad dream
⭑.ᐟ misunderstanding I @strkly
you and bob were inseparable. until he begins to ignore you and you have no clue why. when you’re injured after a mission gone wrong you’re finally able to find out why.
⭑.ᐟ darling I @fireinmoonshot
You always call Bob darling in private... until you accidentally slip up and use the nickname in front of the rest of the Thunderbolts.
⭑.ᐟ unreal I @/fireinmoonshot
Bob offers for you to share his room while your room in the Watch Tower gets renovated... there's just one problem – he didn't think about the fact that he'd have to share a bed with you.
⭑.ᐟ control I @/fireinmoonshot
Bob always waits for you to come back from missions, but when you don't come back one day, his powers start to get a little out of hand.
⭑.ᐟ lethal touch I @hearts4johnwick
while training, all goes well until a move bob makes changes your concentration as you begin to relive your worst memory.
⭑.ᐟ stay with me pt2 I @scarletmika
Bob wants to feel useful, to truly be part of the team, but the others don't think he's ready. You take it upon yourself to teach him control, to guide him through. But mistakes will be made, and it might not be possible to keep the darkness from creeping back in once more.
⭑.ᐟ destiny or not I @/scarletmika
As The Darkhold foretold Wanda Maximoff's destiny, The Book of Vishanti foretold your own. You just didn't know how much of that destiny was intertwined with Bob Reynolds, until the day you met him in the vault.
⭑.ᐟ peace and quiet I @/scarletmika
Sometimes the tower is too loud, and Bob can feel himself getting overwhelmed. He's always found comfort with you, in your room, where he can find peace and quiet whenever he needs it. And you'll never turn him away, finding the same comfort in him.
⭑.ᐟ request I @lovebugism
you like taking care of bob on his bad days. he isn't quite sure why
⭑.ᐟ stitches I @skeltnwrites
Bob learns how to stitch a wound
⭑.ᐟ plainclothes man pt2 I @em1i2a3
Everyone at the compound knows Bob has a massive crush on you–except you.
⭑.ᐟ carry the zero I @/em1i2a3
You and Bob are sharing a room while the Avengers Compound is under renovations, which brings on a slew of new things to learn about one another.
⭑.ᐟ cherry waves I @/em1i2a3
You’ve been sick for a few days, so while the rest of the team goes out to do a recon mission, you’re on your own watching over Bob. One morning he comes to your room with a weird request.
⭑.ᐟ sailor song pt2 pt3 I @/em1i2a3
Bob is in love with you, but you can’t be what he wants.
⭑.ᐟ i wanna get lost with you I @/em1i2a3
After a rough night, you find yourself with a rare day off–the one that you take on the same day every year in memoriam for the fallen. So you head into the city to spend your feelings away on the only thing that makes sense to you: gifts for your favourite team of scrappy anti-heros
And Bob.
⭑.ᐟ it’s you i’m thinking of I @/em1i2a3
Valentina organizes a PR event for the Thunderbolts and during the event Bob realizes that he may want more out of life than just saving the world.
⭑.ᐟ signs I @/em1i2a3
You haven’t been able to sleep for the past four days, you’ve tried everything in the book, but tonight Bob has come to your room to offer you some help.
⭑.ᐟ the greatest light is the greatest shade I @/em1i2a3
You return back to the compound a week early from an initial two week-long mission, only to find Bob asleep in your bed.
⭑.ᐟ test drive pt2 I @/em1i2a3
You have a late night encounter with The Void
⭑.ᐟ a little bit of jam I @violetrainbow412-blog
⭑.ᐟ archives room I @owastie
you’re tasked with searching through the archives room to find some information on a new threat
⭑.ᐟ oh, scaling all your shadows I @swordgrace
plagued by nightmares, bob takes comfort in the one person who’s pulled him from the shadows time and time again — you.
⭑.ᐟ so high school I @pagesfromthevoid
⭑.ᐟ walk through darkness I @/pagesfromthevoid
⭑.ᐟ unfamiliar feeling I @ang3ltine
Bob was asleep for God knows how long, now that he has the chance at a better life. Who better to show him than you?
⭑.ᐟ admiration I @/ang3ltine
Being recruited by Valentina as part of the new Avengers (z) team was never part of your list of agendas. Yet here you were, doting on an awkward brunette.
⭑.ᐟ look what the cat dragged in I @eyelessfaces
you get bob a cat for emotional support; the cat adopts you as parents and is undeniably bound to bring the two of you closer.
⭑.ᐟ how to kiss I @worstghost
teaching bob how to kiss and accidentally slipping into a 20 minute makeout session
⭑.ᐟ the good side I @cosmictheo
bob loves you so much that he slowly begins to transform into a house-husband for you. and he loves it.
⭑.ᐟ heavenly I @/cosmictheo
it's the first time you're wearing your new suit as an official (new) avenger and bob is a little too excited about it.
⭑.ᐟ fur-evermore I @ofstarsandvibranium
Because you're Bucky's assistant, you, and your service dog, Juniper, head to the tower to give him some files as well as meet the rest of his new team...including a very cute and slightly awkward, Bob.
⭑.ᐟ mr. oblivious I @/ofstarsandvibranium
Bob is sometimes oblivious to the fact that people find him attractive and/or like him. One of those people includes you.
⭑.ᐟ i dream of you even when awake I @deakyjoe
Your gift makes sleep difficult. Luckily, Bob is there to guide you through it.
⭑.ᐟ something special I @blank-potato
You’ve been the live-in doctor at Avengers Tower for a year, and Bob wants to get you something special to celebrate. Unbeknownst to him, that something special turns out to be a sex plant. 
⭑.ᐟ loving you is easy pt2 I @/blank-potato
You and Bob are indifferent to each other, never seeming to mesh. But when you lose your memory, something new blooms between the two of you.
⭑.ᐟ drabble I @undyingdecay
⭑.ᐟ peace in the darkness pt2 I @theonewiththefanfics
Bob knows Y/N isn't one to go back on her words. So when she doesn't show up to go through with their plans, he starts to worry. Luckily for him, Yelena knows how to break-and-enter. And doesn't mind invading her personal space.
⭑.ᐟ the ghost i left behind pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 I @brookghaib-blog
Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?
⭑.ᐟ a pleasant inconvenience I @little-miss-dilf-lover
your cat likes to run out of your apartment when you return home. today she makes it further than usual but is luckily stopped by a stranger.
⭑.ᐟ run hot I @moon-fics
The heating in the tower has broken in the middle of winter. This leaves everyone trying to find warmth any way possible.
⭑.ᐟ accident I @upl0aded
you and bob had always been perfect, you kept him happy and he kept you satisfied. but what happens when a buried memory accidentally gets revived?
⭑.ᐟ truth will set you free I @sergeantbuckybarnes
You are injected with a truth serum during a mission, and when you return to the Watchtower, you must avoid Bob in order not to spill your feelings for him, but this causes Bob to believe he has done something to upset you.
⭑.ᐟ gladiator I @trainer-from-unova
welcome to the party, say hi to everybody. you're valentina's daughter and you're late to the party in honour of her new puppet.
⭑.ᐟ i can’t have what i want (but neither can you) I @honeyatsu
You don't know how to explain the feeling when you see Bob and Yelena together. You don't understand it, and you don't like it. You think maybe you're not a people person, maybe you're better off being on your own. You take matters to solve this problem your own way, but everyone doesn't agree with your logic.
⭑.ᐟ i like it better I @sl-ut
every member of the thunderbolts* are struggling with having friends for the first time in
 ever, for the most part. the team is shocked to find out that, for some reason, bob is having the easiest time with it. aka, four times the team notices a budding romance, and one time they all realize they’re late to the conclusion.
⭑.ᐟ the complete knock pt2 I @sunsburns
you’re only here to try and understand why bucky’s suddenly gone off the rails and joined a new team, leaving you, sam and joaquín in radio silence. the last thing you expected was to find comfort in a stranger. a kind stranger named bob.
⭑.ᐟ second nature I @bruisedboys
bob tells you he’s never been kissed. you decide to change that.
⭑.ᐟ request I @gay-dorito-dust
⭑.ᐟ charcoal smudges I @cryptidcasanova
Bob thinks he's in control. At least
until you get involved. 
⭑.ᐟ short circuit I @honeybadgerwritings
Bob helps Y/N train to control her powers under pressure. But when frustration gets the better of her, their sparring session turns tense.
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syluses · 4 months ago
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ataxia
sylus x fem reader
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‷ sylus wants kids, sweetie. lots of kids.
kind of a part 2 to this piece, but it can still serve as a lil standalone as well ♡ DAD SYLUS DAD SYLUS DAD SYLUS
cw ▻ nsfw, dubcon, breeding, pregnancy mentions, daddy kink, im a strong believer in sylus wanting a big family, whipped sylus, characters depicted are 18+, stockholm syndrome, yandere/obsessive tendencies, ~2.5k words
notes ▻ eeee they fr live in my head rent free </3 anyways take this crumb while i work on like other fics. daddy sylus is actually KILLING me like always on the noggin đŸ˜”â€đŸ’«
𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡
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There’s a certain peace you feel, curled up on the leather couch, in watching your husband sit on his knees as the little ones crawl around the carpet, playing with them no different than a toddler would.
Not exactly a pleasant peace, by any means, but a simple, sort of resigned one. Your muscles seem to lose the tension, shoulders always piked high, ready for attack- or some other (meta)physical blow- slumping into rounded blades. You sigh.
Perhaps it’s the knowing that whatever bad thing that could’ve come- already has. Now, you’re experiencing the sloping aftereffects of it.
And this—
Sylus, with a beaming grin, letting out an almost breathless laugh as he scoops up one of the boys and twirls him overhead, the other kept by a protective hand at his side so he won’t bump on the corner of the coffee table—
Is just the fallout.
Ruby-red eyes flit over (and they always do sooner than later, like you’re a beacon in the middle of a dark sea) and crinkle at the edges. You’ve told him before that you don’t like when he throws the babies up in the sky like that, that if they were to suddenly fall, they can’t take flight like Mephisto. He must remember, because he lets out a little, woeful noise and carefully lowers him.
The smile remains, though, kilowatt and wide, a little starry-gazed like he’s inviting you to slip off the sofa and join him on the fluffy rug with your children.
The fatigue natural to post-pregnancy has already claimed you tonight, though. Truth be told, you’d have hesitated even if it didn’t. It’s fine, tending to your children on your own; his long absences leave you with massive windows of alone time with the little ones, and you actually enjoy it (save for the huge toll it takes on your energy, of course, but Luke and Kieran lend a hand where it counts- where they’re allowed).
That sentiment changes a bit, though, when your husband does get home. With his presence comes the cold reminder of how things really are, how you’re still an unwilling counterpart in all this- frilly gowns and jewels and the private chef he hires for fancy dinners (because he has the money for it) be damned.
You want to go home. That wish, hollow as it is, still stands.

Even if it’s started staggering, in these last few months.
He’s always been more than content with just the two of you, but in the last several weeks, you compare Sylus’s emotional state to a suitcase packed too full, joy spilling out the sides. Evidently, he doesn’t try to close the zipper; he lets it happen with gladness, with his hands open and lifted, but you’re not sure he entirely knows what to do with himself. With these significant developments that are just as new to him (possibly even more, as much as that flummoxes you) as they are to you.
It’s as weird as it is endearing to see what having two children (twin boys, funnily enough) will do to your husband. But if there’s one thing you learned about Onychinus’s illustrious leader in the past couple years of your marriage—
It’s that he does not settle for less.
And when he draws closer, both little ones secured in his lap- dozing off because it’s already thirty minutes past their bedtime- and lifts your hand to place a chaste kiss there, rubbing your knuckles dotingly

You can tell there’s something more he’s craving.
✿
“A girl,” he moans.
Sometimes- after you’ve just put down the boys for four consecutive nights in a row before collapsing in bed, your lover hardly having the opportunity to show his affections, all but guilted into letting you catch up on your sleep- it’s almost easy to forget how Sylus feels, your brain willing it away. How good he fucks you.
If you’re being more general- how good he takes care of you.
“Give me a girl this time, sweetie, just-“ a gasp, “one more.”
And vaguely, in the haze of sweat and burning hands, his thick, long cock plunging in and out of you deeply- slowly- your juices and his pre slicking between you, sticky as molasses, you wonder to yourself if he’s even convinced of that himself.
Just having one more, you mean.
The twins were unexpected: that right there is an understatement. You were hardly prepared for one rascal- all the countless evenings he spent buttering you up, so attentive, and then cumming into you with whispered vows to knock you up be damned— but when the xray revealed not one misshapen, little form in your womb, but two?
It was a bombshell.
Sylus, beside you (on the leather couch downstairs with your personal doctor he paid God knows how unreasonable a sum to show), had squeezed your hand in his and tried to mask half of his joy. The priority was in comforting you, helping you to realize that this was a good thing- a beautiful thing- that your life was not officially over and- hey, don’t worry, hasn’t he taken good care of you thus far? Surely, adding a couple little ones into the equation wouldn’t suddenly make it impossible.
You’re both very capable people, honey. Even more so together, with him. (Well, he assures you as much, anyway.)
Whether or not he could take care of you was never exactly the worry, though. The worry was that you’d be under his hand forever— and a baby? (two, you strictly correct. Two babies) You could kiss the last hope you had of ever weaseling out from his grip, or luxurious manor, goodbye.
He must know it, buried deep in the back of his head underneath the genuine layers of desire to simply start a family with you, his beloved girl, and flesh out more of a solid, burgeoning life; the silent promise underlying the pregnancy tests and inpromptu housecalls of your poor, overworked doctor.
That a family ties you to him forever.
A tether that’s damn near impossible to cut yourself loose from, even if you stood a punching chance at it to begin with. Glues you together in a way that even marriage doesn’t quite scratch the surface of. Your bond is perpetuated by blood, now. Flesh and bone. Your DNA, warped with his to create—
Monstrosities—
No, a harsh voice in the corner of your skull surprisingly snips back. They’re not monstrosities, far from it. All previous qualms nudged aside (and you had a lot, to be clear; hours spent sobbing and pushing helplessly at his chest as Sylus crooned and wrapped you in his arms proves that), doubts surrounding parenting and your own self preservation- your children are beautiful, that’s true. Healthy. Perfect.
If you’re being honest with yourself, and choose the high road here (the high road means willfully forgetting how involuntary this whole arrangement was in the first place)- they’re positively adorable. With his white hair spiking on their heads but your eyes and lips- and a shared penchant to land themselves into trouble, places they shouldn’t be before either of you stoops over to lift them out. Albeit, you’ll admit that their noses are still up for debate; it’s hard to pinpoint the resemblance when their faces are endearingly round, too chubby to really tell in this stage, but you secretly hope they’ll take after you in that regard.
You
 don’t know how you’ll continue to operate if staring at your children is like staring at a mirror image of their father.
But
 I mean, they’re fucking innocent in all this—
Your precious boys aren’t like their father. They
 won’t be. You’ll make absolute sure of it.
“One more,” he chants, sucking in a long, thin breath through perfect teeth. And damn it all he feels good. So good. Maybe he had more than just one selfish, substratal reason for populating your otherwise fairly quiet home. Because you’re more obedient lately, wanting for it, almost
 It gets him riled up in ways he could not begin to articulate. Hesitant still (sometimes he has this awful, basal fear that it’ll never go away, your trepidation towards him)- but sugar-sweet when you lie on the silken bed and present yourself with bashful cheeks that tell Sylus you hate yourself for it but have no real control in the moment.
You moan so prettily for him when he pries your thighs apart and presses them either side of your head, fashioning you like a butterfly, to slide in and out of you with ease. Melodic. Maybe he’s tone deaf to all songs save for you because he knows you, knows you like the back of his hand, pitch and lilt; he could pick out the voice of you in a crowd full of whooping people, he thinks.
Again, you blame your excitement on what he’s done to you. The twins’ pregnancy, the fluctuating hormones that have you bouncing between hysterical sobs and yanking your wide-eyed husband into impulsive, suffocating kisses before his fingers quickly settle around your middle. All the gentle erosion that he’s guided you through across the span of almost two years has left you worn and vulnerable.
But you suppose if something were to ever encourage a deeper bond- strengthen it- what else would it be than to take a man’s seed inside your womb and gift him with a bunch of unruly but cute kids? That’d gnaw away at just about anybody’s inhibitions, even if it grudges you to admit that. It lessens what remnant you held onto of this idea of ‘autonomy’, makes you fully lean onto him.
Sylus takes that news much, much better than you.
It’s
 got to be more than physical between you now, you think distantly as he bullies his cockhead against your smooth walls, stroking a spongey spot in the bulwarks of you that makes your head go kaput. Like something spiritual, perhaps. He’s joined his soul with yours and that’s why you’ve been so obedient lately, so needy, clinging onto him and making his back your own personal scratching post as he plays at the idea of impregnating you again.
Oh, fuck, he’s such a bastard you hate him you hate him you—
You suppose your baby girl, inevitable to come somewhere down the line- whether that means during the next pregnancy or the third- won’t be like him, either.
She’ll be a sweetheart, and soft. Perhaps she’ll inherit her daddy’s crimson eyes or his smooth, sharp tongue, his inclination for success, but she’ll carry her mother’s heart with her. She will be kind.
Until someone like her daddy comes along. Flips her world on its head.
(And you know that having Sylus as her daddy would be the simple fact that staves off all potential men intending to prey on her, but still, the thought remains, niggling and bitter.)
“Take daddy’s cock, sweetie,” he goads, breath shot right from his lungs as he traps you beneath him- not that you’ve much the will to resist anymore- and moans over you. “You’ll take what he has to offer, won’t you? Your pretty belly will take all of it in?”
Tears prickle at your eyes when his flit down to your tummy, pupils swelling wildly as his jaw sets tight. He hisses through clenched teeth, cock giving a hot pulse accordingly.
It’s not difficult to imagine the bump there, the mound that’s not yet formed over a for now slim belly and wrinkled skin (stretch marks that you loathe but he worships on most nights, with your heels over his shoulder and his tongue lapping greedily at your pussy, palms kneading the flesh with reverence). It’s hardly been six months since you had the twins (a home birth, he’d insisted, because it was safer that way, more sterile, less stressful for you), but Sylus finds himself pining for your body to adapt to his seed again, for your breasts to plump and your stomach to round, your skin to glow.
(Your hands to reach for him because your emotions have been sat on one long rollercoaster ride and you can’t help whatever the fuck is going on inside you.)
“Sylus—“ You mewl, panting as he knocks his forehead to yours- with a whit more force than you think he’d meant, but he’s a little dazed right now, and your pussy feels so good, so don’t hold it against him, kitten- and grunts back. “Yes?” He breathes, and you liken the sound to a gust of wind, powerful and shaking.
“I- I don’t know,” you all but wail, desperately trying to tamp down your sounds of pleasure before they can escape. You’re failing.
Your reticence is for a number of reasons. First of all, your boys are just down the hall, swaddled in their respective cradles under their rotating airplane fixtures and sleeping soundly. You don’t have any intentions of changing that- especially for something as stupid and pathetic as essentially whoring yourself out to their father (and you’re not a whore, but you can’t help but feel like one when you start to bask in the attention he gives you- your hormones post-pregnancy compelling you to do all sorts of wild things).
And secondly, Luke and Kieran don’t renown you as stubborn for no reason, or your husband, lovingly, as a drama queen— and there’s a defiant part of you that does not want to see the satisfaction on his face when you start to crumble under his ministrations and open your mouth about it.
But all that, for Sylus, is a wonderful work in progress.
And if we’re to be crystal, for as much as the N109 Zone’s number one magnate prioritizes the end goal, he thoroughly enjoys the process.
“You don’t know what, Sweetie?” He whispers. It’s all he can manage right now, you’re squeezing him so tight. In that moment, the fog parts, and he knows with a hundred percent certainty that you do not want him to leave. Yes, your cunt is saying as much, and he rewards it with a carefully angled thrust right against your g-spot, but your face tells no different a story.
You’re beautiful. Perfection embodied. Makes him lose his breath a little.
“I-If I want a girl,” You heave. “If I want one at all.”
Something like dejection passes across his handsome visage then, or maybe it’s uncertainty that weakens the tight knotch in his brow as he inwardly struggles- between his approaching climax and the single mind he’s got to stuff you full of his release- for an appropriate answer. He doesn’t want to anger you. Doesn’t want to make you hate him, no, especially not when you’re finally starting to dip your toes in his waters after all his painstaking efforts to make you comfortable. Oh, God knows Sylus would kick himself for that.

But this will be good for you. Having another, he means. It’ll be good for the both of you and if you’d just let him show you—
He’s painted the perfect demonstration of that quite well with the boys, hasn’t he? In this past handful of months, you’ve never looked happier and you’re positively glowing and all Sylus has ever wanted was to see your pretty face light with that dazzling, little smile. The twins he’s given you, unbidden as they initially were through your lens, make you so, so happy.
This will be so, so good.
Perfect.
If you’d just give in.
Oh, you’re so maddening sometimes but he adores you, every part and piece. He stoops over so his damp lips brush the lobe of your ear, the perspiration dotting his temple wetting your flushed cheeks. He croons, “You do. You do want it. I’ll show you, kitten, just how bad you need it. The twins need a sister, don’t you think? They won’t know anything other than playing rough, if not.”
Your fingertips squeeze into the lean planes of muscle of his back. He’s burning up, near feverish what with the heat sweltering between your sandwhiched bodies, but he gives a shiver in response like he’s enduring temperatures below freezing.
Panic, beneath the misty veneer of pleasure that makes your face go slack- and the subtle, inexplicable flash of something that almost convinces you Sylus is right, that you do want it- slips into the forefront of your muddled brain. Reaches a hand through the dirt and revives itself, reminding, no, no, you don’t want this, you don’t want him, you don’t want—
You let out a delicious gasp as he spears into you, the flesh of your thighs dimpling as he presses down the undersides of them. Firm, but gentle. It’s true, you’ve become considerably more flexible since meeting him- since having to accommodate him- but he’ll never give you anything more than you can take.
You’d never admit it, but there’s almost a little bit of comfort in knowing that.
“I-I’ll make sure they know how to play nice,” you force out, taking your lower lip in your mouth and suckling as the telltale rush of your climax draws nigh, hardening in your belly as it builds. “I’ll make sure they know how to be gentle, Sy!” Foreign to your own ears. Your voice is horrid as you belatedly register it, all sniveling and gasping- downright pathetic as you cling onto him for dear life and he ruts into you like a dog in heat.
You’re grasping at straws now, you know, but for as feeble as your excuses are, you hope they hit their mark. That they’ll get him to reconsider-
“But sweetie,” he breathes tenderly, “you’re already making sure I’m gentle,” he reminds in a pleasant voice, edged with the remnants of a self control that unravels at a steady pace. “How will you juggle between the three of us? Hm?”
His cockhead, fat and precise, catches on that spot in you that makes you go positively crazy and your eyes flutter back. You let out a strange, choked sound that he marvels at before he capitalizes on the reaction completely, buffetting away at the final walls you’d erected against him tonight.
All are near crumbled.
“I’ll find a way,” you nearly squeak- high-pitched and unconvincing because his mind’s already made- before he’s lolling your jaw back towards him and smashing his lips to yours in a decadent kiss, silencing your protests- for as weak as they are.
It’s close to visceral, the contact, wet lips melding hungrily with yours, trading groans and mewls as he effectively pistons his hips into you and paints colorful stars across the black span of your eyelids. In a word- invasive. Torpefying, all your limbs unfurling and slipping away from him in favor of curling into the sheets as your release approaches at whirlwind speeds, blunt fingernails clinging onto you so tight there’ll be bruises formed tomorrow- as well as an apologetic, rueful sigh on Sylus’s end, because he swears to God he’s trying to hold back—
Fucking mind-numbing.
And isn’t that just what you need? A quiet conscience? A shot of morphine fed through a needle straight into the veins, an emotional kind of tranquilizer or- or something to moderate the snarled mess your heart’s become all because of him—
It seems he’s cognizant then, pupils dilated madly as he finally blinks, of the hands that clench too tight- withdrawing them immediately from your thighs (regrettably, they remain cleaved open in a willing offer for him, shaking and red with his prints) to loop your wrists either side of your head. Holding your hands. Ever the romantic. You almost laugh, seconds off from that white-hot tidal wave of pleasure, at the irony of it all. Onychinus’s formidable, takes-no-bullshit leader, fucking you with all the grace of a big clumsy dog but all the love of one too— loyal and determined, bleeding heart on his sleeve.
He’s still kissing you, sucking on your tongue filthily, and all you can think of is waking the boys sleeping soundly next door how exquisite it feels, his thick member dragging in and out of your walls like it’s his right. Sylus certainly believes as much.
He’s ruined you too good for anyone else; you’re starting to believe it, too.
“There you go, kitten!” He gasps. “Let go. Just- fuck- let go for daddy. Such a good, good girl. Such a good mommy, you are. Our- oh, fuck, that’s it, that’s it, perfect- Our little girl will be so, so lucky to have you.”
When he comes, you do, too.
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notjustjavierpena · 8 months ago
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Dream
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Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator
A/N: A little Acacius piece to jumpstart my brain again!
Summary: Out on a war campaign, Marcus wakes up in the middle of the night to a dream of you. Oh, how hard it is to be apart.
Pairing: Marcus Acacius x f!reader/you (no y/n)
Tags: +18, YEARNING, kisses, piv sex, emotional and passionate sex, slight breeding, creampie
Word count: 2.6k
Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60742789
Dream
The Roman encampment lies quiet underneath the starry sky as Marcus startles awake, his legionnaires long ago having extinguished fires with dirt, downed the last goblets of drink, and found rest in their cots. It is in the middle of the night, the general judges by the silence around him that’s only disturbed by the hoot of an owl somewhere. Along with the warm sun, early mornings also bring the sound of a bustling camp - its soldiers chatting and preparing for the day’s march across the country - but right now, all is still. 
Marcus also deduces that it is way into the night because the moon hangs high and silent on the horizon, its pale and beautiful light shining into his tent. With sleep still clinging to him, he realizes that he has been woken up by a warm breeze catching the flaps of the tent, the entrance repeatedly opening and closing with a whipping sound.
His first instinct is to reach for his dagger, sure of the fact that he secured the entrance to his makeshift bedchambers before falling asleep, but the second he wraps his fingers around the hilt, he sees you standing there with the moonlight bathing you from behind in a bluish glow that makes you seem almost ethereal. 
You approach his cot, and he lets his hand fall from the dagger and drop onto the chest of his tunic. You are so beautiful, radiant in the same nightgown that he saw you in the night before you parted ways and he went to war. It is a memory that keeps him going even through the hardest of days; the way you had kissed him so deeply, sprawled out beneath him. This was while you had looked at him pleadingly and with tears on your face that he tried to catch with his thumbs before they rolled down into your hair. The way he had made love to you is burned into his mind, keeping him warm when temperatures outside drop along the seaside. He promised you that he would return to you as soon as he could but here he is in your company much sooner than he anticipated, and he knows it cannot be real. 
Your gown flows around you with each step you take, draping so perfectly along the curves of your body as if you’re the personification of Venus herself. He knows what the white fabric hides, even if it weren’t for the rounding of your breasts being outlined or the peaks of your nipples poking against the front. You perch yourself on the edge of his cot, leaning over him and smiling tenderly down at him. 
“This is a dream,” he says quietly. He reaches out to curl his fingers into your dress, wondering if you’ll evaporate into thin air if he touches you. He doesn’t think he can handle it if you disappear from his grasp.
“If this is a dream, then I wish never to wake," you declare and the sound of the melody that is your voice has Marcus’ heart nearly leaping out of his chest. You stay with him as he tugs you down for a kiss, solid against him and nowhere like the mist surrounding the tents in the morning like he had feared, “Yet some say that we must be thinking of one another at the same time to be meeting like this.”
“I am always thinking of you. I miss you more than I can bear,” he says weakly, a lump having formed in his throat, scratchy from sleep. You rest your forehead against his, the both of you sighing softly in relief at being so close. Then you place a hand on his cheek, and Marcus feels a whole universe of emotions inside of himself, expanding so fast that he can’t breathe, that it threatens to overwhelm him. 
“You have me,” you reassure gently, opening your eyes to look at him even as you kiss him softly on the lips. Your scent envelops him, jasmine flowers - his favorite - from the garden where he took his first stroll with you. And there his heart and mind go once more, feeling relief yet longing, happiness yet sadness. 
“This war,” he whispers and his gaze is fleeting, “It feels meaningless if I cannot be with you, beloved wife. We are parts of the same soul, you and I. What good am I here if I am merely a puzzle missing its pieces?”
“Shh, look at me, my love,” you soothe and it’s like his body is draped in the warm blankets of your shared bed, hearing the sound of his home bustling with happiness. You brush your fingers across the stubble on his cheek. He leans into the touch, knows that his eyes are wide and pleading as he returns them to you. You scratch his beard again, “You are whole, Marcus Acacius, even here. You carry me with you, just as I carry you.”
“My clever wife, yet again you are right. It is my weary heart that speaks. Of course, you are always with me, always in my thoughts even when it feels like the skies will tumble down upon me and the world will end,” he replies, taking in the way you look to the version of him that dreams. He wonders if the picture before him will etch itself into his mind, so deeply that his thoughts will conjure up fresh images tomorrow during broad daylight. 
“Those skies are skies we share, always under the same sun and moon,” you smile, and he sighs, closing his eyes as you trace his face with your fingers. You draw invisible lines across his features, gently over his cheekbones and carefully down the length of his nose, fingertips dancing across his eyelids with featherlight touches, “Do you remember nights spent under the stars? You love that spot close to the river back home.”
“Tell me of home," he asks of you, a bead of desperation rattling around in his chest, "Tell me of the river, the fields, and the stars, of the songs the birds sing at dawn."
“The river flows like it always has, my love. The fields stand golden and the wind makes it seem like they are one with the water surrounding them. Can you see it?” You sound like a lullaby. 
Marcus nods, the sight is painted on the back of his eyelids. He knows each hue of blue and golden, each curve of the bending riverbanks, and he can almost feel his heart beating slower at the mental image. He finds peace in the idea that nothing has changed back where you are waiting for him, the familiarity more soothing than any draught or potion. For a moment, he is home with you and all is well. 
You peck his lips while brushing his cheek with the back of your hand, “And the birds. Can you hear them? The way the larks greet each morning?”
“I hope the Fates are not so cruel as to keep us apart for much longer. I want to hear them again soon,” he murmurs, opening his eyes to find himself staring into yours. He reaches up to cup the back of your neck, feeling how warm you are despite not actually being here. 
“Sleep,” you encourage gently. 
“I can’t, not with you so near,” he whispers and draws you nearer to his mouth again. He captures your lips in a longing and deep kiss, a quiet urgency rising in his chest when you sigh the way he loves. As you thread your fingers through his graying hair, he reaches for your waist and guides you to sit on top of him. 
Your dress pools around your thighs and him like the mountains and valleys he crosses each day. He pulls back to drink you in, committing you to memory as his eyes dance over the curves he had noticed beneath the fabric as you entered his tent. 
"Then touch me," you let out a little breath of desperation, a fire having ignited in your eyes while you stare into his. He feels the flame within himself too. 
One of his hands moves slowly up your bare arm, the other tracing the length of your spine on top of your dress until you shiver. He lets both hands grab at the straps of your gown, guiding them off your shoulders until your chest is bare to him. You lean down for another kiss but he grabs your soft shoulder to stop your advances, his thumb resting against your pulse point. He marvels at how real you feel, can feel your heartbeat underneath the tip of his finger as if you are truly here. 
"Marcus," you plead him quietly and he doesn’t hesitate. He sits up slowly until your breasts touch his chest and then he finds your mouth again, his fountain of youth. He slips his hands underneath the skirt of your gown and feels that you are already ready to welcome him if he wants. He touches you there for only a moment but you still beautifully furrow your brow with pleasure from how much desire Cupid has sent through your veins. However, he decides that he has no time to prolong this moment with you because only Somnus will know when he’s going to wake up. 
“Lift your arms,” he guides after hearing you make a feeble noise when he removes his digits from your slick core. 
You do as he says and he lifts the waves of fabric over your head, throwing the discarded gown onto the ground with a smile on his face. In return, your hands find the hem of his tunic, sliding it up and over his head. The tunic joins your gown on the floor, the both of you finally touching each other’s naked bodies with soft chuckles. There’s something euphoric about simply being naked in each other’s arms before making love, something so vulnerable and private that it’s reserved only for each other. 
Your palms roam over his broad, strong chest and your fingers thread through the coarse hairs there. His hands mirror yours but instead, they feel the softness of your skin that prickles his with warmth. He skims them over the swell of your breasts, the touch full of worship while he buries his nose in the crook of your neck. 
“My beautiful wife,” he murmurs while he showers you in kisses from neck to collarbone to the top of your breast. 
“Make feel whole,” you moan and cradle his head, holding him against your chest while his mouth trails across the valley of your breasts. He doesn’t need to be commanded twice, already helping you to sink down on him to the very hilt of his length. 
The connection has the both of you gasping and chuckling further in relief, none of you moving as you get used to having him so deep within you. He stares up at you as you’ve elevated yourself slightly to sit down on his cock, blown away by your beauty that’s enough to make him twitch inside of your pulsing heat. 
"I love you immeasurably, my wife.”
"And I love you, my husband.”
You move against him for the first time and he groans low in his throat, already feeling the stirrings of pleasure. With his hands on your hips, the two of you slowly begin moving together, your bodies finding a rhythm that is instinctive and familiar. He finds that he doesn’t need to intervene in your sinful ministrations on top of him; he knows the pattern of your hips’ movements like the back of his hand, knows when to leave you to do as you please and when to help you. Right now, you are an expert in driving him to madness. 
His hands are everywhere as you take what you need from him. He touches where he can reach - your thighs, your hips, your back - as if he cannot figure out where he wants to hold you the most. Eventually, your hands find his to anchor him, entwining your fingers together to ground him in his longing for you. 
However, Marcus is not a man of restraint when it comes to you. He needs you in ways that make him yearn for you even when you are on top of him. 
“Faster,” he brushes his lips against your jaw, kisses your chin when he was supposed to find your mouth. You hold his hands and oblige, the rolls of your hips quickening to a pace much faster than how you’ve been imitating the waves of the sea. Your skin is glistening in the moonlight coming through his tent, sparkling like you are a goddess descended from the heavens and into the arms of him, a mere mortal. 
You’ve closed your eyes as you near your crescendo, your lips parting in a breathless moan while the world outside is lost to the both of you. He can feel you choking his length, tightening around him like a fist. In his belly, heat is tightening like a rope about to snap in two. He feels it within you too, both of you teetering on the edge of unmatchable pleasure. He wishes it was real and not in the realm of dreams, wishes that this was the moment he created a family with you and made you his entirely. There’s so much to look forward to in his return. 
“Let go, my love,” he says in an almost commanding tone, “Let your general feel you.”
And you do. Your peak hits you like a bolt of lightning to the point where he has to keep up your pace, his hips thrusting up to meet yours while you lose yourself in the sensations running through your veins. He drags your entwined hands to his chest, placing your palm on his pounding heart, and mirrors his own hand on your chest too. Your hearts beat in unison and he can’t take it anymore, can feel his control slipping from his grasp. 
He comes with a quick intake of air and then a growl, his hips stuttering before he spills inside of you. His body tenses up for a moment before it relaxes thoroughly, chest heaving and head swimming with the intensity of it all. You say his name and he finds himself saying yours, repeating it like were they prayers for the Gods. 
Eventually, your body slumps against him and he slips out of your spent heat. Your breaths are synchronized, even as they slowly start to calm down in your bliss. He holds you close to his chest, feeling you stick to him but he doesn’t care. He’ll take anything you have to give when his body and soul miss you so thoroughly. 
“Sometimes I wonder if the Gods are punishing me for loving you so deeply,” he murmurs with a trail of kisses along your shoulder. A loud, satisfactory sigh leaves him when you slide your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. 
“Your ability to love wholly and completely is yours alone. Do not let the Gods take credit for what belongs to your heart,” you whisper back to him, stealing a kiss when he looks up at you. 
“Stay with me,” he begs of you, “Don’t ever go.”
“I will stay as long as the night prevails,” you reply gently, “But come dawn, I have to go.”
It is unbearable but it makes it more precious. He reaches to brush a strand of your hair from your forehead as it has fallen into your face during your intimacy. He smiles as he takes in the sight of you, how beautiful you look with heated cheeks. 
“Tell me about home again,” he requests, “Please.”
And so you do.
.
.
If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications đŸ’–â€ïž
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blackcat-star · 3 months ago
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[Married] That's all he need.
Husband!Jinwoo x Fem!Reader
« Wiege
__________________________________
23:52', Seoul, South Korea.
It's almost midnight but Seoul is still bustling. The tall buildings, the lights from the 24/7 shops, the street lights almost overshadow the moonlight shining down from the starry sky.
Seoul, the capital of South Korea, never loses its light.
But somewhere in the dark corners of the city, where the light from electricity cannot reach, can only be illuminated by the dim moonlight, criminals, crimes still exist and are hiding in the darkness.
However, that does not mean they will never be discovered. They openly commit crimes, break the laws of the country, cause damage to people and property without knowing that, even in the dark, they are always being watched.
They do not notice that there are always creatures lurking in the dark corners, staring at them with bright eyes. They did not notice that the surrounding shadows suddenly gathered to one side, forming the shape of a tall man behind them.
He stood firmly, thoughtfully, raised one hand forward and gave an order.
"My shadow soldiers, give them the most terrifying nightmare they have ever experienced, so that they are so scared and desperate that they have to surrender themselves to escape those nightmares, to find a way to live for their humble and guilty lives."
_______________________
Jinwoo's job is to investigate cases. He studied law and criminal psychology to become an inspector/detective for the police department, helping them find answers to difficult projects.
But he is also the Shadow Monarch, he has powers that ordinary people cannot have. So he doesn't mind helping his country reduce the number of criminals by threatening them that if they don't confess, he will kill them in the most painful way. He can find clues that no one else can, simply because he can summon the souls of the dead.
He has powers, he can do it without leaving any traces.
And that also makes him always come home late.
Late at night, when everyone is still sleeping, he is still going around every corner to investigate.
In dark rooms where murders have occurred without any foul play, he appears from the darkness, extracting shadows and talking to people who seem to be dead. They are dead, but he is the Shadow Monarch, this is not difficult for him.
Taking statements, finding or creating evidence, he will do these things to be able to catch criminals, not giving them a way out. Then he will let the people they murdered tear them apart, then revive them as if nothing had happened.
But he makes sure that they will have to go to prison and live in fear with the memories of their flesh being torn into pieces.
Ruthless. Any criminal who meets him will tremble in extreme fear.
He is the nightmare of the criminal world.
Cold and decisive. Anyone who has ever met him has this first impression. Jinwoo does not act standoffish but his dangerous presence keeps others from getting close to him.
However, when he returns to his beloved home, that danger is immediately removed and replaced by a gentle and caring appearance.
At home, he is no longer the famous detective that everyone who hears his name must respect. 
At home, he is simply your beloved husband and the wonderful father of your child.
_______________________
0:35, Seoul. It was past midnight.
It was only then that our detective returned home.
He unlocked the door and entered the house. He took off his black cloak covered in night dew and hung it on the hanger, saying, "I'm home."
He knew that there would be no response, his wife and children were probably already asleep. He only said it as a reminder that he was home, back to his family.
The home's regular scents remained the same including baby formula, floor polish, his baby, and his spouse. As soon as he entered the house Jinwoo experienced instant relief.
"Beru," he called softly.
"Yes, my Liege." Beru immediately appeared.
"Is everything fine? Did something happen?"
"Yes, my Liege. Everything is fine. The new king has drifted into peaceful slumber. The queen slept well and all members of the family are doing well.
Jinwoo nodded, "Good. Now continue to watch over Suho."
The ant immediately obeyed.
Many people would be surprised to know that the shadow soldiers here had become babysitters. Who would have thought that the creatures that were considered strong enough to finish off an enemy with just one blow were now standing next to a baby's crib, lulling the little angel to sleep.
No family members lived in the house to make him feel afraid.
He quietly walked to the bedroom and slowly opened the door without making noise. "Honey, I'm back."
The figure on the bed was still sleeping soundly. Your face was peaceful, hugging his pillow as you slept. Your hair falls loosely on the pillow, on your forehead, your lips are slightly parted to breathe regularly.
Jinwoo's heart was immediately covered with warm water.
All he required at this moment was the sight of his wife resting peacefully. It brings him joy to see you living your life without stress while staying strong and energetic.
This is all he needs.
Jinwoo slowly moved towards you.
He quietly watched you from the bedside with loving and gentle eyes. He leaned toward you to move your hair away from your forehead then kissed your forehead tenderly.
"I have come back to my home to be with you again." He had returned to his soul's resting place.
Jinwoo adjusted the blanket for you and walked into the bathroom.
The sudden light from the bathroom and the sound of water from the shower suddenly woke you up. "Jinwoo took a night bath again..."
Your eyelids remained closed while spring's sleepy feeling lingered on your features.
Jinwoo emerged from the bathroom wearing his dark blue pajamas after about 15 minutes with steam trailing behind him. He smiled at you because he realized you were awake.
"Oops, did I wake you?"
"No
" You replied by shaking your head and showing a displeased expression. "I told you not to take a bath at late night..."
Jinwoo smiled quietly as he walked to the bed. He got into the bed next to you and held you tightly. "I can't get sick."
You pouted "But I'm still worried about you.."
Jinwoo gently stroked your cheek, lifted your face up and kissed your lips "You're so cute, honey.."
He kissed all over your face again "Why are you so cute.. What did I do to deserve you?"
Facing his relentless attack, you used one hand to block his lips and pushed his face away "You're so annoying."
He kept trying to kiss your palm despite your stare. You looked at him sternly yet your grin showed your feelings back.
Jinwoo allowed you to lean against his arm while his other hand held you tight to feel your body's heat against his. He needed to feel your body against his because it made him dependent on being close to you.
"Is everything good at home?"
"Yeah, everything's fine. Suho is able to walk more today.."
Jinwoo chuckled "Really? That's great, I wish I could have witnessed that."
You laughed teasingly "You could have if you had come back earlier."
"I wish I could."
After a while you both sank into silence to enjoy the peacefulness between you. He placed his face in your hair to smell the pleasant scent of your shampoo that lingered softly. You buried your head into his chest to absorb his comforting heat and unique scent which made you feel secure. You slowly fell asleep as the peaceful environment made you drowsy.
You yawned. Sensing your sleepiness, he softly said, "Let's go to sleep"
You nodded, shifting slightly to find a position in his arms and falling asleep.
Jinwoo hugged you tighter as he noticed your breathing becoming steady and slow. His wife was fast asleep.
Holding you tightly, Jinwoo pulled the blanket over both of you and closed his eyes to rest as well.
"Sleep well my queen, I love you so much."
Happiness and peace are just that.
When he returns home to his family, he doesn't have to be on guard against anything, doesn't have to be tense. He can be cute with his wife, play with his son and have wonderful moments with them. His soldiers will make sure everything is under control, his wife and children will always be safe and happy.
That's all he needs.
______________________________
Part of LIFE WITH YOU.
______________________________
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lorelune · 2 months ago
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some quarry
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|| mydeimos x reader || E/18+ || dark content || yan mydei & self destructive reader || wc: 12.5k || ao3 ||
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You are very familiar with dancing and its many forms. It's unfortunate that Mydei has taken note of your fondness for flames and their consequences.
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minors, antis and ageless blogs dni
notes: helloooo!! this fic is a trade with beloved oz (@owlespresso)!! they asked for yan mydei and dears i delivered. mydeimos is a character i find narratively so fascinating and i hope that was injected at least a lil into this fic :3c thank you to mao (@yinyuedijun) for beta reading this piece as well!!! getting a second set of eyes on mydei and his character in this form was so vital truly
please mind the tags on this one!! this fic does include explicit noncon/dubcon near its end. in additional, yandere themes like stalking and mydei being QUITE overprotective. read if you'd like, don't if it's not your cup of tea!! that being said, enjoy! đŸ©·
CWs: dark content, yandere mydei, gender neutral reader with afab anatomy, noncon/dubcon, stalking, protective mydei that goes too far, self destructive reader, avoidant reader, almost bath sex, a single non-verbal threat of ankle breaking, fingering, piv sex (pronebone), reader is a dancer, a few references to phainon/mydeimos, author-brewed kremnoan lore
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It is difficult to dance with flame when daylight lays eternal, endlessly. It’s hardly as fun, as enthralling and mystifying, to dance with light while it's so light. 
The tradition of bibasis was created long before you were born, back when the Titans were sane and Castrum Kremnos had yet to fall to Strife driven mad. There used to be a dark sky then— night— where the scholars of the Grove say that balls of light, hearths hung in the heavens, dotted the sky, weaving fate.
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You like to imagine what the Era Chrysea could have been like. What it would have been like to live forever and dance with your flames under a starry night sky. It feels romantic and nostalgic despite you never having experienced it before. Perhaps it’s a collective memory, etched into the soul in a way that the Grove has yet to understand. You know you’re not the only one who yearns for bygone days that you didn’t live. 
You, thankfully, have enough of your wits about you to recognize that the only way is forward. There is no night sky for you to perform your bibasis. Only dark enclaves, carved in the stone cliffs below Okhema. They are no Castrum Kremnos, it’s a relatively polar living situation, but you have found you don’t mind it all that much.
Especially since you can dance your bibasis as your ancestor’s intended— as a shining light in the deep dark.
The cave is nearly perfect circle cut deep into the rock face. Along the sides of it, a Kremnoan crowd jeers. You can hear how impatient they are, hungry for a show and the camaraderie that will follow. The room is pitch black, the torches haven’t been extinguished, so you can slip into the center of the room unnoticed. 
With a spark of flint, the bracelets around your wrists and ankles ignite. 
The flames throw light across the room, casting shadows over the faces of your audience as you walk a wide, sweeping circle over the space. The aulos sound, trilling as your dance truly begins.
You know the steps by heart.
It’s as easy as breathing. You kick off the ground, jump, and kick your leg as far back as theyïżœïżœll allow. The licking flames around your ankle streak through the dark, and a chorus of cheers follows. Your arms crest above your head, lowering down as you fall from your leap. You follow inertia. Falling low, throwing your legs out, and dragging the licking flame slowly over the ground.
The heat of the flame doesn’t burn you yet. 
It only hastens you.
...
You dance like this until it hurts to breathe. Until your muscles ache and the flame threatens to brand you with its mark. It eats through the wound, slow-burning cloth enough that you feel it singeing hairs on your arms and legs. 
It’s not until the end of the dance that you notice the crown prince idling near one of the crudely arched entryways.
Your breath catches when you notice him. You nearly stumble and fall on your ass, which would be very embarrassing considering you do this dance once a week and haven’t had any notable stumbles since the Kremnoans’ earliest days in Okhema. Most of your missteps simply get integrated into your routine, your leaps and low lunges. Losing your track record of improvisation and finesse over the crown prince would be understandable, but a blunder nonetheless. 
You can’t help yourself; you spin on the tips of your toes over the crown prince. He’s easy to spot. Even among your people, he towers over them. His shoulders are broad, his chest ample. The shadow he strikes is mouthwatering.
You’re brazen in the way you stride up to him, a flourish in your steps. There are a few cheers from the drunkest members of your audience. Mydei looks unaffected, despite the way you stalk him like a large, predatory cat. You do see his gaze flick up and down your body. It’s brief, a hardly there glance. It would be easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. 
You’re a bit hurt he doesn’t ogle you or at least look at you a bit longer. 
Half the fun of these things is twirling around the desire of your onlookers. Being ogled by near-strangers is another part of the dance you’ve become so familiar with. You would figure that Mydei, despite his title, would show a wisp of want at the very least. The crown prince is a man— he can’t be immune to your curves, steps, and dress. He comes to your dances often enough to actually indicate that he wants to be here.
But he never shows desire, really. No matter your provocations, no matter the way that you curve your spine and leap, streaking with flame, Mydei stays stone-faced. 
It’s your own personal game to attempt to get some reaction from him. It’s too entertaining.
You sidle up to him, wearing a sly smile. His shoulders square. In time with the aulos, you spin closer, bracing on one foot, pivoting with a sweeping gesture. The flame licks your skin; your dance is almost over. 
Your back presses to Mydei’s front.
He’s hotter than the flames on your extremities. He’s a furnace, a forge, smelting something far more dangerous than a sword or spear. 
You tilt your head back, speaking with a curling tone and cat-like smile. “Crown prince.”
It’s a whorish greeting, but isn’t it meant to be? You hear him huff out a breath, you can’t tell if he sounds annoyed or amused. You don’t stay close enough or long enough to find out.
Rather, you push off Mydei, an immovable wall of muscle really, and leap back into the center of the room. In a swift motion, you undo the barely-there knots of the fabric on your wrists and ankles. It’s practiced, you’ve practiced this part, because it really would look clumsy if you did it wrong. 
They’re all dropped into a smoldering heap in the fire basin in the middle of the room. From your waist, you swipe a small bottle tied there. You take it in one go, the burn of harsh liquor coating your mouth like its own layer of flame. 
In a single motion, you spit into the fire pit.
A high plume of flame follows, lighting the residuals of your garb and the logs and kindling you laid out long before your dance. 
As the flame explodes and you raise your hands above your head, the crowd roars. 
And your crown prince remains silent.
...
After you dance, the Kremnoans of Okhema do one of two things. Party or bathe.
Today, you’ve chosen to party. Mainly because Mydeimos hasn’t ditched the gathering as he usually does. Which affords you the perfect opportunity to bother him.
It helps that you immediately have a few goblets of wine.
You’re handed one almost immediately as the torches are lit after your dance. It’s thrust into your palm with a slap on your mostly bare back from one of the spirited, older women who always attend your dances. Your biggest supporters, really. 
The alcohol helps chase off some of your self-consciousness too.
What you wear during your dances is... revealing. Worse than revealing, it's really nothing at all. Your chest is partially bound in silks. The skirt tied around your waist billows where it falls over your upper thighs. The little shorts you wear underneath would be entirely indecent if you wore them alone.
(You suppose that even these garments, despite how scantily clad they make you feel, are somewhat generous covers, given that when the bibasis was performed on Castrum Kremnos, the dancer would be essentially naked.)
(And Okhemans are far too prudish for such dress despite their love of public bathing.)
You down the rest of your goblet, wiping over your lips with the back of your hand. A pleasant buzz settles in your blood and behind your eyes, it makes staring down Mydei all too easy.
Some of your aforementioned aunties are crowding him, talking his ear off, it looks like. His arms are crossed over his chest, which is really doing some insane things for his tits, and despite the fact that the aunties are definitely in their cups and talking relative nonsense, the crown prince listens diligently.
He’s a good man. It’s too bad that you enjoy messing with him so intensely. 
As you approach, you half-bow, spreading an arm out wide as you. “Crown prince. How rare of you to linger like this.”
The aunties giggle at your dramatics. Mydei looks unamused. Not blank-faced, not angry, but a third thing you can’t identify well in your state. Perhaps disapproving— that seems right. This feeling of his is entirely directed at you; the aunties have been spared from his ire.
More for you.
“He’s been waiting for you,” one of the aunties slurs. “‘Says he’s worried. Aren’t you lucky?”
“Cora—!” Another of them admonishes, slapping the other woman’s shoulder. “Don’t interfere!”
You smile at Mydei, burgeoning with an otherworldly amount of mischief. 
“Waiting for me? I’m honored. Are you looking to share a drink? I’m sure I can find something—”
“I don’t drink.”
“Ah, yes. Your delicate sensibilities—how could I forget? Pomegranate juice, then?”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Suit yourself.” 
One of the aunties, Cora, hands you a half-full goblet, and you take a heavy gulp. It’s honey wine, rich on your palate and sticky in your throat. She takes it back from you, scuttling off with the rest of her group. They’re giggling like school girls as they do. You lick your teeth, sucking off the last sweet wine. “What did you need from me, Mydeimos?”
He stares at you with a scoff. His arms are still crossed, but it doesn’t seem like he wants them to remain that way. The crown prince isn’t the type to be tongue-tied, so you find it curious that he seems to be. You tilt your head and invade his space. Your palm falls over his chest, the thump of his heart like a drumbeat. 
“Don’t—”
“Loosen up, my dear prince.” You gesture around you. “It’s a party. Even if you won’t imbibe with the rest of us, enjoy the festivities.”
“I have better things to do.”
“And yet, you’re here, waiting for me, apparently. And you still haven’t told me why, either.”
“Let us speak elsewhere.”
“Oh, something needs to be said in private? How brazen.”
“That’s not—”
“I don’t think of you as particularly prudish— why not just say it here? I’m sure you can keep your voice down.”
You tilt on the balls of your feet, leaning your weight into him. He bears it without flinching. When you sway, blood too slick and lush to not to. Mydei steadies you with a hand on your waist. His hold there is far too gentle. You could call it tender, though you’d blame such a description on the wine roiling in your veins.
You grin up at him, smitten. His face is flushed, red painted onto his cheeks, melding into his handsome features, both high and low. The staining flush fades into his hair and melds with the firelight. 
“You’re drunk,” Mydei says. It’s simply a fact.
You hum and nod. “I would certainly hope so, by this point in the night.”
“I had hoped you’d be sober enough to be able to take this seriously for at least a moment, but I thought too highly of you, it seems.”
That makes something odd and painful twist in your chest. Mydei looks at you like you disappoint him— all the time. Not as though you’re a nuisance, but that you’re more trouble than you’re worth. It’s a look you’re used to, but the expression rarely matches his words. He’s terribly polite with his own people, and you are one of those, and so he is polite with you, even if his face looks like he’d rather be scolding you.
As he is now.
You push off of him with a scoff.
“Fuck off,” you snap, harsher than you mean to. “Find me in the morning. Perhaps I’ll be ‘serious’ enough for you then.”
He says your name as you spin around, ready to scamper off into the throng and forget that Mydeimos has a unique dislike for you. 
He snatches your wrist— actually the middle of your forearm. You flinch with the contact, spinning without thinking, kicking into his stomach as a reflex. It’s a messy move, one born of muscle memory rather than technique. The liquor in you makes the motion sloppy.
Mydei catches you, holding you up with a wide hand under the back of your knee. Your breath catches.
“You burned yourself,” he says.
His gaze flits from your wrist, burnt— scalded. He’s being dramatic— to you, all disapproving again.
“I’ll find a healer later.” You attempt to break from his grip, but he holds you there. 
His gaze is lit with fire of his own, lightning that cracks the sky and shatters the land. It pierces you, running through you. It’s immediately sobering.
There’s far more than disapproval in it.
You jerk, stumble, and fall on your ass. Your head— spins— fucking ow— and you accept someone’s hand— not Mydei’s— and rise on shaking legs. You feel like a fawn, cloven-hooved and clumsy as you walk backwards away from him. The mouth-drying wine won’t be enough to make you forget about— this. 
He calls your name once more, but you’re already fleeing the scene.
...
You avoid Mydeimos the next morning. And after that too. You avoid him at all times, actually, with an expressed amount of effort that is legitimately difficult to keep up with. 
It’s for the best— you tell yourself this often as you avoid his most frequented locations. You dodge the Chrysos Heirs when you see them out and about, worried Mydei will pop up just as easily as they seem to. The Kremnoans tend to prefer the hot baths, your crown prince is no exception, and despite your own partial nature to the steaming, almost bubbling baths, you don’t go near them. Instead, you resign your daily soaks to the more populous open bath and deal with its just-above-tepid temperature. 
The aunties notice. The uncles, too. You’re a notable figure in the Kremnoan population— the dancer who flirts with flames and dares to show the world. 
The type of dance you do is a dying art.
It’s why Mydei took note of you, you think. Your performances are spectacles. They have been ever since you were skilled enough to twirl on your own and not be afraid of the flame licks. These days, you spend your days teaching the young Kremnoans who want to learn. Or practicing yourself while the little ones watch. It’s less of a performance then and more of a demonstration. 
Your
 selfish interest in Mydei started when he began to show up at these informal lessons. You like to think that this is mainly because you were holding them at one of the training arenas that he frequently sparred with that snowy-haired Chrysos Heir at. He made a habit of watching you spin in the daylight— not with your usual fire, just the yellow-white glow of Kephele’s Burden. It’s only you and your steps, the taps of your bare feet on stone before you throw yourself in the air. 
You really enjoyed his attention back then.
Because— you respect Mydeimos. How could you not? You’re not dumb, and even if you don’t keep up with all the political intricacies of the relations between Okhema and the displaced Kremnoans, you know Mydei is willing to do just about anything for the comfort and safety of his people. That includes you and your unseemly vulgarity and provocations. 
You know that just beyond your range of conscious awareness, Mydei is protecting your dying dance. 
As much as you respect him, you must torment him. A little. Because he is so damn stoic and impenetrable. He revels, yes, he’s battle-forged, revelry is vital, but there’s a part of him that holds back from the other side of the coin of carnality. There is violence and pleasure. You tempt him with the latter.
It’s really... really easy to. He’s built like a fucking brick-laid wall. He always uses scented oils after bathing. Seeing him after a hot bath is fucking lethal. Slick with oil, smelling of herbs, spice, and his own unique musk even after luxuriating in Okhema’s best baths. God forbid you stare at him and the gleam of his tattoos; you’ll be done for. He takes good care of his hair too. One of the aunties helps him trim it every few weeks; her wife rebraids it whenever she sees him out and about.
Mydei is also very... cute. You’d never say this outloud as some of the traditionalists around you would probably consider it treasonous. But thinking that the crown prince is cute is not a thought crime, and you can’t silence the little, cooing feeling you get around him sometimes. 
Despite who he could be, Mydei remains so kind-hearted. One might not see it if they weren’t looking for it. But you do. The way he entertains the children of your people so easily. He will weave them explosive tales of battle and valor. He ‘spars’ with them too— which is really just him letting the kids beat him up until he throws them off him (lightly) with a battle cry, meant only for play and not bloodshed. He lets the Kremnoan grannies tease him and pinch his cheeks when he thinks no one is looking. 
And he looks at you with pride.
Maybe— your desire is simply to please him more. And your cultivated sex appeal is an avenue to that. And it’s just... flirting. That’s all it’s meant to be! Your purpose when dancing is to be enticing and prideful; it’s what you embody. You don’t find it to be too out of bounds to impress yourself on Mydei for a bit of playful flirting.
It had been playful, anyway. 
...
You’re hiding in a private bath, late in the evening. Scrutinizing the burn scars on your wrists, slick with rivulets of water, dripping lazily back into the steaming pool below.
You burn yourself all the time— at the very least scald. You don’t understand why Mydei made such... a fuss about it. About you. It irks you. 
This isn’t how you’re supposed to play together, Nikador slain.
Mydei— he fucked up the rhythm. You’re supposed to antagonize him, and he’s supposed to take it like a good, stoic crown prince despite your behavior probably annoying him a great deal. You’re supposed to not care, dance into the crowd, and make ‘fuck me stupid’ eyes at him, and neither of you are supposed to do anything about it. You don’t fucking want to do anything about it.
Mydei has apparently decided that he’s done playing, you think.
A bathhouse worker announces herself before ducking inside of your room. She carries a goblet and a plate of cut fruits. Blush fans out over her rounded cheeks. 
“U-Um,” she stutters, sandals slapping the wet tile of the floor. “Mydeimos requested these be sent to you. And that he’ll be waiting outside the bath to speak to you. He said it’s urgent.”
You grimace and roll your skull. The back of your head bumps the tile behind you, not hard enough to ache, but hard enough to thump. 
“Please tell him to leave me be,” you sigh. “And you can take the fruit.”
“I— Um.” This poor girl. You rise from the bath, the light, thin cotton of your bathing dress clings to the curves and edges of your body. Stretching, you paw at your nearby waist bag. You have a handful of balance coins you can give her for the inevitable trouble you’re causing her. 
You extend your arm as far as it will go, and your bag is still a little too far out of reach. The bath is simply too luxurious to get out of fully at this moment, and you huff before throwing one leg up and over the side of the tub.
You arch your back, stretching low, and just barely snatch the leather belt of your bag. 
And, fates aligned, Mydei enters the room. His presence emanates over the steam-filled. Your poor bath attendant looks like she could pass out. And clearly— clearly— Mydei was not expecting to see you tummy-down, ass-up, arched on the bath tiles while nearly naked. 
He flushes crimson, matching the reddest parts of his hair. You don’t fare much better— your cheeks heat, and you immediately slip back into the water.
“Mydeimos—” You sound shaken; you are. “How brazen. I’d kindly ask you to leave.”
He— stutters, already shuffling back. “I— will be waiting outside. Have the decency to speak to me yourself.”
You snap back at him, “And you have the decency to respect my modesty.”
Mydeimos stares at you. His pupils slitted. They cut into you like a blade. It makes you feel too exposed.
Your modesty has never mattered to you before this moment. He knows this. So do you.
He turns, leaving you with the click of metal boots on tile. “Find me later then.”
You won’t be, actually. You’re going to be avoiding him twice as hard because clearly he wants something from you and you have zero intention of giving it to him. Even knowing what exactly he wants, actually.
The poor attendant looks like she has forgotten how to breathe. You crawl back to your bag and hand her a lump of coins with an apologetic look on your face. You imagine it’s quite pathetic. You must be quite pathetic. Turning down the crown prince, slick and indecent in your thin robes, and heavily tipping an attendant to both apologize and encourage her to stay quiet.
She seems to get the idea and scampers off, leaving you alone with the tray of juicy, ripe fruit and a goblet of what is undoubtedly pomegranate juice to taunt you. 
...
Mydei is at your dance that same evening.
You see him before the torches are snuffed. He sees you too, you think, but you force yourself to ignore him in favor of your performance.
It only half works.
The cloth around your wrists is bound such that the outer layers burn slowly and an inner layer is soaked with a viscous, fire-retardant liquid. It keeps you mostly... mostly unburnt. In the old days, in Castrum Kremnos, dancers like yourself wore the extremity burns that came with your art with pride. They were indicative of prowess. You’ve found that Okhema is less accepting and prideful when you walk around the streets with fresh wounds. So, you’ve become very diligent in wrapping your wrists and ankles to prevent actual, lasting injuries. A few flame bites don’t scare you.
However, this evening, you’re unnerved by Mydei’s unwanted presence. His gaze feels like a brand, hot iron tucked into gemstone embers, a silent threat that you’ll be burned by something other than your own controlled fire. 
Frustratingly, you know that if you asked him to leave, he would. He’d probably just be waiting around a corner for the remainder of the night, ready to stalk you down like a big cat.
Mydeimos remains, and you attempt to dance as usual. But the whistling of the aulos and the drumbeats feel a little wrong, and you’re embarrassingly off-beat. You stumble more than once but disguise the blunders with a well-timed lunge or leap. The fourth-ish time you misstep, you turn on your heel wrong, and pain shoots up from your foot to your leg. It hurts badly enough that you snap your jaw shut, teeth clattering against each other. Your leg gives out, and your knee crashes into the stone floor.
The most sober of the crowd seem to still— this isn’t part of your usual routine. You rise and try to make it seem natural, but your next step— fucking hurts— and you crash to the ground. The wrapped cloth around your limbs begins to slip off, you fully put your hand onto the burning strip of fabric that has been shed with your stumbling.
“Fuck—” You curse under your breath and flinch away from it. 
You don’t even realize Mydei is there until there are large, hot hands under your arms, hauling you back and away. You— fuck him— fight against him, elbow and kick at him, but he is the indomitable crown prince, and he is not moved by what are essentially the swats of an angry kitten (you are the angry kitten).
With a dizzying amount of dexterity, especially given the low lowlight, he tugs the remaining flame-ridden cloth from you. He snuffs it just as easily. It all happens so quickly that you can’t protest properly, can’t curse him out either. The torches are relit just as Mydeimos stands, dragging you up with him, still hoisting you under the arms like you’re nothing more than a doll. Or corpse.
“This performance is over.” His words won’t be questioned even as you begin to snarl at him under your breath. “Take part in your regular merriment all you wish.”
‘Regular merriment’ is the two barrels of wine that have already been popped open and dipped into. 
The crowd still manages to cheer (traitors, all of them), the aulos and drums resume, and despite your protest, Mydeimos drags you from your stage, your theater, and you have a sinking feeling that your one-sided game has come to an end.
...
It becomes immediately clear that you cannot run from Mydei now. He has corralled you, cornered you so efficiently. Your egress has been smashed, no alcohol to blame or drunkards to weave your way into. 
You cannot hide from him as he drags you away.
Well— not drag. Carries. Over his shoulder, specifically.
You protest— because how could you not? All of your kicking and snarling doesn’t do anything more than get Mydeimos to throw you over your shoulder like you’re nothing more than a sack of grain that he’s helping a passerby move from one place to another. Except you’re not a sack of grain, you're a vaguely tipsy dancer who would much rather be enjoying the afterparty.
Mydeimos only sets you down once you’ve sufficiently punched his spine and lower back. It doesn’t affect him, and he carries you all the way to the hot bath without issue.
He sets you down on one of the massage tables; he treats you more gently than a sack of grain then. His touch isn't unkind and he makes sure you settle, unwobbling, on your backside, legs dangling off the edge of the table. One of them is already swollen around the joint of your ankle.
Mydei frowns— he notices too. He drops to his knees to inspect it. 
With an uncomfortable amount of reverence, he scrutinizes the injury.
“Mydeimos.” You hope to interrupt his... overt concern. “Stop that. Stop this. It’s unbecoming.”
Mydei, with one hand cradling the underside of your knee, lifting your foot closer to his face, and the other cradling the sicklish instep of your foot, flicks his gaze to you. It moves back down to the injury, to the burns that marr the skin there. There’s a ring of thickened, textured skin from your fire dancing. You never saw them as— a bad thing. Battle scars, you thought of them as.
With the way Mydei is eyeing them, like they’ve personally offended him, you can’t help but feel an edge of... guilt for allowing yourself to be injured like this. You usually don’t care. Scars are nothing to be ashamed of— your mother taught you that when she was stabbed in the gut by a Furiae tideling. She still wore the revealing tops she adored, the ones cut to show her stomach and the molted, gnarled skin there.
Your little burns are nothing against that. Yet, Mydei looks at them, looks at you, like you’ve been grievously injured. 
“I should forbid you from your dance,” he says, voice clear and irrefutable. “This is unacceptable.”
“Fuck you.” You kick him with your other leg, not hard but enough to startle. “No. That’s— stupid.”
“You’re hurting yourself.”
“Nikador slain, Mydeimos. It’s a few minor burns, once a week, in exchange for the joy and excitement of our people— your people— I say it’s a fair trade, don’t you think so?” 
“No. It’s not.” He drops your ankle, futzes around under the massage table, and pulls out a long bandage. The kind that stretches and holds pressure. He wraps it gingerly around your swelling foot. From the stash that you didn’t even know was there, he grabs a salve. Gauze and bandages too.
You frown. With a lurching tilt, you attempt to snatch the supplies from him. “I can do this— my fucking— self—”
Mydei rights you with a single hand against your sternum. The metal of his gauntlet is slick with condensation from the bathhouse air but still a bit chilled against your skin. 
He stares at you. That sharp gaze of his leaves you defenseless, uncomfortable in your skin. 
“You cannot be trusted with your own well-being.“
There’s
 something in the way that he says it. A finality to his words, a statement of absolutely unflappable fact, he provides you. It makes you feel
 small. And foolish and weak.
“Yes, I can be.” You sound defensive, it makes you cringe inside yourself. “I’m perfectly capable of handling my ‘well-being,’ thank you very much, Mydeimos.” 
His jaw locks, tightens. You see the strain of it in the tendons of his neck. He— he still hasn’t let go of the fragile skin and bone of your ankle. As you sober up, increasingly quickly given the conversation you’re having, you’re aware of the ache in your limbs. The sting of burns that you
 may have ignored. But it’s your choice to ignore them! 
In a rush of motion, Mydei stands, still holding your leg. The flow of the action pushes you back, flattening you to the massage table so that you’re forced to lie on it. When you try to at least get on your elbows, keep your tender belly somewhat less flat and exposed before you lose your composure any further—
Mydei stops you. A hand laid over your sternum pushes you back down. The sharp points of his gauntlet tease into your skin. A threat that you’re sure many others have felt before under his hand.
You didn’t think you’d ever be one of them, not like this. 
“You are not a fool, nor are you stupid,” he says. “And I would think that you have enough sense to put aside your childish ego when it comes to something as paramount as your own health.” 
“It’s not— it’s not a childish ego—“ You feel like you’re being flayed open under the heat of his gaze and touch. “It matters to me— and to others—“
“There are far safer ways to indulge your dancing.” Mydei fingers drum over the bones of your ankle. “Your performing peers have almost entirely put aside dancing with live flame.” 
“Cowards.” You spit, voice trembling. 
“No, they’re just more honest than you.” Mydei leans forward. He eclipses the haze of steam and low, warm light of the room. “They don’t want to experience such pain in order to provide joy. You disregard that pain in favor of
 what?”
“Fuck you, Mydei.” You really push up against him now, but it’s unmoveable. “Let me up—“
“Attention?” Mydeimos stares at you, grips your ankle harder. “Is that what you crave so badly?”
“I ‘crave’ my ability to move and exist as I wish—“ 
“Clearly not,” gently, but firm all the same, Mydei squeezes your twisted ankle. A half-formed sound escapes you as pain rockets up from the appendage. “How would you expect to move, let alone walk, when you’re injuring yourself so carelessly?” 
“Let me up—“
Mydei’s grip on your ankle tightens. It— hurts, actually. More than a little. An involuntary noise, a squeak, a fucking whimper bursts up from your throat. 
“You have a liar’s tongue.” Mydei tells you. 
His gaze flicks to your ankle. Then back to your face. Then back to your ankle. He squeezes— harder. He’s still not putting anything close to his full strength into it, but you have the bones of a dancer, the body of a mover, not a fighter.
He’s
 not going to—
“Mydei—“ you feel paralyzed, frozen. So unsure in your belly and behind your eyes. 
He’s not going to break you, is he?
Mydei pushed your ankle the wrong way. You can’t help but squirm, attempting to tug yourself away. He is unyielding. Your words of protest are stuck in your throat. 
“What you really want,” he says, “is just a game, isn’t it? The feelings of others. A drunken sport for you, is it?” 
“That’s not—“
“Don’t lie.” It’s a threat, you realize. Mydei's hulking form moves closer, pinning you fully. Your legs are forced around his body, bent at the knee. It would be an intimate position under other contexts. 
Not this one. 
“A-And so what if it is?” You manage to crack a smile, nervously looking between Mydei and your ankle that— he wouldn’t, would he? “Flirting a little— it’s within my right, isn’t it? I’m not hurting anyone.”
Mydei frowns at that. 
“How callous of you.” 
It clicks then. It’s like you’ve been dunked in the cold bath, not the hot one that you’re flattened so close to now. Immediately, you’re sober, you’re so alert it feels like your heart is going to tear out of your chest. 
The swirl of emotions in your chest is overwhelming— shame— fucking shame— fear, hot on your tongue too. Sadness at your misunderstanding; you didn’t mean to hurt anyone. 
“O-Oh.” Is all you can manage to squeeze out. 
Mydei inspects you. He has you where he wants you, you think. You’re immobile, forced to reckon with whatever he presents you. You can’t do anything but take what he says— and it’s Mydei, so of course you believe him. Something awful grows in the pit of your stomach, like a fungus that crawls along the lining of your guts. The backs of your eyes sting. 
“Do you understand?” He asks.
You’re certain that he’s going to break your ankle. Shatter it right then and there. 
“S-Sure.”
Mydei stares at you, then lets down your ankle and releases it. Free of pressure, the promise of something far worse than being pinned is not quite gone, but it’s... somewhat diffused.
Mydei opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted by the laughter. The floating, high kind, fueled by wine and merriment. A gaggle of girls stumble into the baths, you recognize them as some of your regular attendees. They hang off each other, bracing themselves on the railing down to the bottom platform, to the bath and the massage tables.
You freeze, Mydei looks unphased. 
The girls notice you and— gasp. Audibly. The fucking dramatics.
“Oh my gods,” one covers her mouth, the strap of her dress slipping down her arm. “We didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not—” you rush to say, pushing against Mydei’s hand. 
It’s a jolting movement, one Mydei doesn’t fully expect, and, perhaps by reflex or perhaps with some repressed intention, the claws of his gauntlet dig into your chest and he pushes you back into the damp wood of the table. 
Blood pinpricks where the gauntlet digs in.
Mydei notices, scowls, and then an unreadable look takes over his features. He lets you go without another word and departs wordlessly but swiftly. He looks back at you just before exiting.
His gaze pierces you. It’s a promise, it’s a threat, it’s a death knell that every fiber of your being tells you that you must avoid.
...
You do see a healer the next day. Or, rather, you contact your usual girlie, requesting a house call. You did manage to drag yourself to your little home the night before, but walking on the sprain was a pointedly bad idea.
She fixes you up with a splint and gives you a bit of ointment to put on the small wounds on your chest. The cuts spread out from between your collarbones, all the way down to your sternum. Your healer, a doe-eyed blonde, tells you that they’ll scar in the shape of a star (“How pretty will that be?”)
You have to make sure it doesn’t scar.
Your encounter with Mydei... unnerves you. 
It’s not like you haven’t seen the crown prince intense before. You’ve spied on him and that Deliverer Chrysos Heir more than once during their spars. Mydei strikes with blows that would maim an opponent with any less strength and finesse than the other. He fights with intention, and he speaks the same way. Mydeimos bears a heavy crown and an even heavier burden, and he’s constantly vying for control and sway between the elder Kremnoans and the seats of Okhema. He does not do this with pretty words; he does so cuttingly. He is kind to those he wishes to be kind to and lethal to those he wishes to be lethal to.
You’re not sure which side you land on anymore.
It’s a bad idea, continuing to attempt to ignore him. But this time, it feels more... paramount. Less childish and more like you’re trying to save yourself from something bigger than the fallout of your brazen flirtations.
You lock the door and hide in your little apartment for four days.
It’s coward behavior, but truthfully, you don’t know what the fuck to do.
You don’t want to face Mydei. You don’t know what will happen if you do face him. You’ve already canceled your dance for this week, citing your injury while thinking of Mydei’s disapproval of you performing at all.
You shouldn’t care so much about his opinion. 
You haven’t before— it’s not like you weren’t somewhat aware of his disapproval. Or, his perceived disapproval. In your mind, the reason why he always left your performances before their end, before the carousing and revelry, was because he was too disgusted by the overtly
 enticing nature of your dance and flagrant disregard for your safety to stay. 
You have always disregarded his
 disdain? Lack of interest? That’s half the reason he was so fun to tease, or attempt to tease. Getting a rise out of the crown prince was one of your pleasures for a while.
Now? You’re
 perhaps a little scared to get a rise out of him. Your ankle still throbs, bruises have bloomed under your skin where he gripped so fiercely. You’d, actually, like to avoid attracting his attention at all for the time being. You don’t want the crown prince to have any opinion of you. The ideal situation would be for you to rot in your apartment for as long as it takes for Mydei to forget about... whatever all that was, and you can go back to your dancing in peace. 
However, you cannot rot in your apartment forever. One must eat, and your stash of bread and olive oil runs out very quickly. Not to mention that you’re... perhaps— going through some very big, complex emotions, and nothing soothes like a carb smothered in high-quality olive oil. You’ve been indulging and your empty pantry is the consequence.
You venture out of your apartment on the fifth day, wearing a cloak to cover your face (rather dramatically) and heading to Marmoreal Market during its least busy hours. It earns you some odd looks, but you don’t particularly care. You’re in your hermit era. Your ascetic era, actually, because you’re going to make the cask of olive oil and two loaves of bread you purchase last for at least a month. 
... Okay, maybe not complete asceticism, because one of your favorite vendors has a fresh batch of sesamous rolls out, and you’re just a mortal, human person, and you cannot resist the supernatural call of a flakey, nutty pastry when all you’ve eaten for a week pantry basics.
So, you procure six. Which is excessive, but you make decent money as a dancer, and you’re kind of going through something.
With your wares secured, you start to head back to your home. Your safe haven where you can pretend the crown prince didn’t consider breaking your ankle. Or bedding you. Or some unholy combination of the two. You can’t be sure and truthfully, you don’t really want to be sure. 
(It’s unfortunate that the lionesque crown prince has been on the prowl for you.)
His voice, low and rough, bounces off the marble of Okhema’s inner hallways. You freeze when you hear it, panic lancing through you. He’s not far and it seems he’s rounding a corner, talking to— fuck— Cora, damn woman.
You scamper back up the hallway, looking desperately for a place to hide. A pillar to duck behind, a cart to hide under— fuck, you’d slip into a pond if it would allow you to escape this impending interaction. 
Mydei, however, is a warrior and far faster than you in every regard. The hallway is relatively empty, and the best cover you can find is behind a not-so-large pot and vining, flowering plant that curls through one of the open air windows. It’s— not really cover. But if Mydei wasn’t looking for you, he wouldn’t see you.
Except, Mydei is very clearly looking for
 something. Probably you. Scanning left and right, up and down as he walks. Cora chatters by his side, her arm looped through his. Traitor, you think. You thought Cora was on YOUR side. But, apparently not. 
(It’s easier to blame her for things she doesn’t even know then acknowledge any of the unpleasant feelings that have been creeping up your throat the past few days.)
You flatten yourself to the wall, praying Mydei doesn’t see you.
It’s foolish, really, because one look in your direction and his eyes lock onto you. Regardless of your cloak and shadow-covered face, he recognizes you. You curse under your breath and kick off the wall. Running off is paramount. You can (probably) lose him in the markets and their growing crowds. 
You’ve never been known for your speed or stealth, however. Only the grace of your steps. It doesn’t help that your splinted ankle is already aching from all of your walking. 
Before you’re two steps from your hiding spot, there’s a hand on the nape of your neck, tugging you backwards. You choke, grasping at the cloak’s tie around your neck. It only takes a single motion to loosen it, and it drops to the ground. You whirl around to curse at Mydei, who is still staring at you along with a very mischievous-looking Cora.
“Oh, dear,” she says, hiding a smile behind her palm. “I fear I may be about to intrude on something.”
“You’re not.” You straighten yourself up and overdramatically (or perfectly dramatically) brush dust from your robes. “This is actually harassment. Cora, could you escort me home, please?”
You give her a pleading look, probably looking like a sad, wet puppy, but she does not waver. Instead she looks even more pleased, giggling to herself as her frizzy, silver-grey curls bounce around her jaw. 
“If this is harassment, I ought to get into the business of being harassed.”
“Don’t joke, please.” Mydei frowns. “And what would Sara think of such pursuits?”
“She’d attempt to join in, Mydeimos!”
You turn, ready to leave this weird, flirting-but-not-flirting exchange. Mydei seems engrossed enough, but he still shoots out a hand to grab your shoulder. You curse, ready to snap at you, but he’s at your back. A furnace-like presence that eclipses everything else in your line of sight.
“I’ll escort you.” Mydei says it in a way that brokers no argument. 
“I’ll pass, thank you.”
“It’s not an offer.” He tells you, stooping so just you can hear. His tone isn’t harsh, but it’s unignorable and sharp enough to pierce. You shudder. The phantom pain from the healing bruises on your ankle makes itself known.
You sigh, looping your arms with Mydei, reluctantly, like it’s the worst fate in the world. Cora howls as you do. Mydei looks rather unimpressed. Your theatrics don’t seem to phase him, not actually— rather, whatever he is seeing underneath your performance is what’s bothering him. 
You wish you were drunk. Maybe you should’ve bought wine along with your sundries. 
It’s too late to regret now as Mydei steers you away from Cora and the vining, budding plant that could not hide you from the eyes of your undying crown prince.
...
Mydeimos does not, actually, take you back to your apartment, much to your chagrin. He leads you into the baths through a back entrance. There’s no chatter between the two of you as you walk. You have no interest in attempting conversation when you are being dragged through the bathhouse somewhat against your will.
It’s only when you think of the blessed loaf of bread and fresh baked goods that you start dragging your feet.
“Mydeimos,” you huff. “The steam in here will ruin my groceries. Unless this is some shortcut back to my apartment that I’m unaware of, take me home.”
“I will.” Mydei continues to walk because you, tugging on his arm, really does next to nothing to stop him. “After we talk.”
You sigh. It’s not really worth it to fight him on it at this point. Maybe, after you talk or whatever, you’ll be free of his oppressive presence and can go back to dancing (and maybe even forget about his stunt at the hot bath. Maybe.)
Mydei drags you far into the bathhouse, down hallways you don’t recognize. The marble molts from white and grey to black and silver. It’s almost warm beneath your feet. Part of you thinks to ask for more details of where you’re being led, but you think better of it. It gets quieter and quieter. The air feels thicker.
Eventually, you find yourself a private bath. Far larger than the ones available for rent in the main bathhouse. The basin seems deeper, wider, with a current curling in the water from somewhere you can’t identify.
You eye the round bath and its blueish, perfect-looking, steaming water, then look up to Mydei with a scowl.
“We’re in private.” You extract yourself from the loop of his arm and cross your own over your chest. “What did you wish to talk about?”
Mydei looks at you, deadpan. You revel in the reaction. “Do you enjoy being daft on purpose?”
“No, actually. Though, I would very much enjoy forgetting about the... events that followed my dance.”
Mydei frowns at you and clicks his tongue. It’s then that he decides shedding his already objectively indecent outer (and inner) robes is the best course of action. You scoff and turn away from him. You do not need to see this man naked. He already wanders around half-naked and you have enough mental images of his likeness stored in such a state to not need to see him entirely undressed.
There’s a slight splash behind you, and it’s only then that you turn around. The churning water that comes up to just below his tits protects some of his modesty. Bare minimum decency, really.
You frown so hard that you think you might get a headache.
“Get in.” Mydei nods to the bathwater, steam already making his hair frizzy.
“Absolutely not.” You frown. “For a litany of reasons, I will stay on dry land while we ‘talk’, Mydeimos. Allow me this much.”
Mydei stares at you. He looks at you with the same precision and violence that a lance piercing a fragile chest would have. It makes you freeze in place. 
It’s only then that you become aware of how close you are already to the bath’s luxuriously large basin. How Mydei, far stronger and swifter than yourself, is not all that far away from your tender, healing ankles.
Your gaze snaps from your feet back to him. It’s already too late.
In single deft motion, he has you by the calf and pulls you into the bath. One of his arms shoots out as you crash down, you feel it on your back, up your spine, to guard your head and neck despite plunging you into the uncomfortably deep bath. You yelp as you hit the water, half-drowning as your head slips under the water. Mydei hauls you up a moment later and drags you next to him. 
You must look like a wet cat. You feel like a wet cat— a pouting one as you stare at him incredulously. Your light clothes are soaked and— indecent. Fucking indecent and half-floating in the water with the current and heat of it. 
“What the fuck—” 
“I wouldn’t have had to do that,” Mydei interrupts, stern in a way that makes your stomach flip, “if you didn’t keep running away.”
“I’m not running away.” (You are.) “You just cannot let this fucking— thing go. This a you problem.”
Mydei looks sick based on his expression. You lean away from him in the bath, crossing your arms, horribly aware of your own exposure. 
You feel like a cornered animal.
“You’re so—” Mydei sighs. His composure is fracturing. Part of you is deeply enchanted by watching this occur and the other is horrified by it. You’re so close to him, so bare to him. It makes your skin itch. He breathes out through his teeth then stares at you. You feel his gaze down to your marrow. “Your obstinance is infuriating. But, you’re aware of this, aren’t you? Are you taking pleasure in the trouble you cause?”
“No—?”
“I don’t believe you,” Mydei’s tone is scaring you. “You revel in this. The affections you give and how you dash from the consequence of your kindness, whether it be bad or good to you. You run from the recompense. You cause reactions only to turn the other way when they actually occur. To yourself, even to your own body. It’s been difficult to watch. Unbearable, even. You look away from your own discomfort with such dexterity.”
“Choke,” you say reflexively. 
It’s clearly the wrong thing to say. Mydei’s jaw locks.
“Must I give you a taste of your consequences in order for you to understand their severity?” 
“I think—” You drift away from him in the bath. To the otherside of the pool, hopefully creating enough distance that you can slip away. “That you should go spar with that snow-haired one who clearly wants to fuck you. How about you blow off some steam that way, yeah? I’m sorry for flirting with you and not sticking around for anything else. Just kinda my thing, you know?”
“It’s—” Mydei pinches the bridge of his nose with his uncovered, ungaunleted hand. “Is that all you think this is about?” 
Seeing the bare skin of his muscular forearms pre-massage table incident would’ve probably had you salivating and causing problems. Now, like this, exposed and all too aware of how your clothes are sticking to your skin under the water, the sight brings you nothing but distress. He’s strong beneath the little armor he does wear.  
“Look,” you interrupt him, kicking away from him (with your bad foot— ow—) to a distance that feels safer, “Even if I was flirting with you— I don’t owe you anything beyond that. It’s just... light-hearted, yeah? Besides, you’d know if I wanted you in bed Mydei.”
This— strikes him. You can see in the way his expression darkens. It’s a good distraction. Mydei may be a brutal fighter, but there’s a tender heart there. You admired it, prior to him tossing it aside to pin you down and nearly break one of your limbs. 
“Would I?” Mydei asks, his body coiled tight.
You heft yourself up out of the bath and sit on the lip of it. The air is much cooler than the hot, hot water. Steam curls off of your skin.
“I would’ve just asked if you wanted to fuck.” You shrug, attempting nonchalance. You have no idea if it's landing.
You’re mostly lying. You haven’t had anyone in your bed in months. Physical pleasures that drift so far, so seriously, haven’t interested you in quite some time. You get enough contact from the revelrous dancing following your performances and the dirty, frantic kisses you share with strangers on the way home. This carnality never follows you past your apartment door. 
Back when you were fucking, more regularly, it was long-term partnerships. This whole flirting with no strings attached thing scratched an itch in the back of your brain entirely polar from that. 
You don’t bother explaining any of this to Mydei. It— it feels too late for that. 
“Do you only know how to lie?” He asks.
You look away from him to the condensation-slick stone and dark tile of the floors. They seem far more interesting than affording this guy any amount of further eye contact.
“Depends on who you ask, I guess.” You shake your head, tracing a vein of marble with your eyes. “For what it’s worth— I’m sorry for playing with your feelings. I didn’t realize you’d take all this so seriously. That’s my folly, and I’m sorry for the trouble it’s caused you.”
Silence follows.
Your words crest over the light gurgle of the ever-filling bath. The syllables lay heavy in the air. You don’t know how you really expect Mydei to respond. All you hope is that he lays this stupid heart-to-heart, intervention nightmare to rest and you can go back to wallowing in your apartment until your ankles and wrists heal enough for you to resume dancing (with flame still, by the way.)
In the seething silence, you stand with a sigh. You decide, actually, that this encounter is done. Hopefully Mydei got his scolding out of his system and whatever hurt feelings linger in him can be resolved by that so-called ‘Deliverer’ blowing his back out in a few hours.
You get two steps from the bath before you realize you are terribly, horribly wrong. 
Mydei grabs your ankle. The sprained one, the one that is swollen and wrapped because you stopped wearing your splint early because it was annoying. Pain shoots from the limb and as he yanks, you drop. There’s no cushion to the fall other than how you catch yourself on your hands. The sting is immediate and you nearly crack your skull on the tile. 
You turn to give Mydei a piece of your mind, because what the fuck— but he’s already rising from the water. Naked, half-hard, and so much bigger and stronger than you are.
It all hits you then. 
The situation at hand, really. How much you’ve pissed this guy off, how far you’ve pushed him— the fact he brought you to the depths of the bathhouse to a private room to have this conversation. ‘Conversation’, you realize too, is generous.
This is a duel, one you were destined to lose.
“No—” You push up from the tile, scrambling on the slick surface, but in a single move, Mydei has you pinned on your tummy. A hand splays out between your shoulder blades and he climbs to straddle your hips. Just over your ass. The garment you’re wearing is so thin and the panties you’re wearing are just simple cotton. They’re soaked through.
“Mydeimos— wait—” You need to stop this. It’s vital, it’s vital— you need to run.
“I’ve given you an opportunity to listen. I’ve explained how you ended up in this state.” He applies pressure to your back. It squeezes the air from your lungs with exhales against your will. “And yet, you can’t even do that much. What you do hear— is devoid of the actual intent that I know you understand.”
“Let me up, Mydei!” You shove at the ground. Mydei gathers your wrists in one large, scalding hand and pins them to your lower back. His grip burns more than your flame ever did.
He leans down over your body, flattening you. 
“You have no idea how to take care of yourself.” His voice is hushed, sticky in your ears and you whine. He’s— he’s stupid and dumb and you’re scared— “Mind and body, you’re so reckless with yourself and care not for the harm you inflict on yourself. And on others.”
“Mydei, p-please—” You’ve been reduced to begging this quickly. Your pulse rabbits under your skin.
“You were given many chances.” Mydei hand drifts down your back, following the slope of your spine, the curve and bow of it. “You were presented many opportunities to acknowledge your behavior, really acknowledge it, and you still didn’t. I know you’re not truly ignorant to your own patterns. You wouldn’t be so adept at turning away from them if you were ignorant.”
You try to kick your legs up. Your feet hit Mydei’s back with no effect. 
“As a result,” his words are rough and silken all at once. “You’ve forced my hand. You must be shown the consequence of your actions.” 
You squeak out his name, turning your head under the pressure of him. When you finally meet his gaze, it’s impenetrable. Your— stupidity, foolhardiness— idiocy and indifference have brought out a side of the kind-hearted crown prince that you never expected to be on the receiving end of. 
Dread pools in your gut and you claw against the floor.
...
You know it’s not just about flirting. 
It’s about the wounds. It’s about the way you care not for how many mornings you wake up hungover with the taste of someone else’s spite and berry wine still clinging to your teeth. It’s the way you don’t mind the burns you get, that you ignore the sting and aches you get from your art. You don’t eat sometimes, entranced in learning new steps to a new melody. It’s how you cozy your way up to anyone who suits your fancy and will give you the time of day. It’s about how, despite how legitimate their affections may be, you twirl from the potentiality of closeness and back into your flames. 
If you didn’t know these things before, you know them now, on the tiled floor of the private bath. 
You tremble, grasping at the slippery ground for any type of purchase as Mydei pushes a third finger into your cunt. 
It’s too much, too big, too fast. Mydei’s hands are a warrior’s, strong and rough from years of training, and you feel the texture of them as they work their way, with some difficulty, into the clutch of your cunt. Each callous drags against your opening and you drop your head on to the tile, barely restraining a pitching cry from the back of your throat. 
Mydei, for his part, fucks you with his fingers slowly. You’re not all that wet for him, despite how he’s alternating between slipping his other hand under you to rub your clit and petting over your hip as if to calm a startled animal. 
You are a startled animal, really.
“I y-yield—” you choke out, again. You don’t know how many times you’ve said it at this point. Your throat feels dry despite the damp air. “I yield—!”
Yielding won’t stop whatever Mydei is doing— you know this, but you have to at least try and resist.
He hushes you in a way that isn’t tender, but isn’t cruel either. His thumb strokes over your side and you barely keep yourself from crying. You bury your face in your arms.
For how much you don’t want this, Mydei isn’t being cruel with his touch.
There’s force behind how he is pinning you down. How his legs are braced over the backs of yours, how one of his hands presses into the center of your spine to keep you belly-down. He bears down on you unrelentingly.
But it’s not cruel. It’s not harsh— just— unignorable 
His fingers drag on your insides, pressing against your sweet spot with an infuriating amount of tenderness given your predicament. He’s drawing desire out of you, coaxing you into a state you have so diligently avoided.
The delirium of carnal pleasure. Fucker.
A noise lodges itself in your throat. You can’t tell if it’s one of discomfort or desire. 
He continues like this, fingers curling in you with enough gentleness that you could, under different circumstances, fool yourself into thinking it was the touch of a proper lover. The pump of his fingers in and out of your cunt gets easier, wetter, much to your dismay. You don’t want to admit that there are little, pleasurable sparks beginning to curl from your toes up to your spine. 
You hope that what’s making you slicker is blood and not your own arousal. 
Mydei strokes your back as his pace increases, each thrust into your insides begins to punch. Each stroke and curl is directly over your sweet spot. He’s learned your body so well, so quickly.
“Fuck you—” You spit at him, breathless, unfortunately. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!”
He sighs behind you, squeezing your hip in a way that you’re sure will leave a bruise. “Even like this, you deny yourself?”
“Especially like this!” You shout, your voice bouncing off the tiles. “You c-could’ve, like, I-I don’t know— asked me to dinner or something first.”
Mydei stills behind you. His fingers are deep in your cunt as he does, too warm and keeping you too full. He shifts forward, you can feel it, feel the looming shadow he casts over you. His hand tangles in your hair, dragging you from where you’ve been hiding in your arms. Pain nips at your scalp and you gasp with it.
Mydei is nose-to-nose with you, his gaze hot and piercing and uniquely infuriated.
“If I had, you would have said no.” His lips press to your cheek. “Even if you had wanted it.”
He’s the fucking worst— he really is.
Mydei doesn’t drop your head as you squirm beneath him. His fingers move again, harder, faster, pumping in and out of your hole with sick, twisted squelching sounds. You’re slick, you’re wet, and you are undeniably... enjoying this. On some level. Somewhere. And Mydei’s right, isn’t he? That, had Mydei propositioned you traditionally, you would’ve turned him down. You might’ve even laughed in his face. He probably has known that reality longer than you’ve been aware of it yourself.
You have no retort; you can only glare at him.
It’s hard to maintain your disposition like this— as pleasure rolls over itself in your belly and as Mydei is slowly undoing all of your carefully kept defenses. Maintaining— nonchalance has, more or less, gone out the window.
Mydei wants that, you understand. He wants to break you down, and it’s working.
You lose yourself in the feel of it, in the unrelenting weight and presence of Mydei at your back and his fingers in your cunt. It’s hard to think beyond that and the glowing sparks of pleasure that make you drip. It’s— a little hard to breathe with all the steam. And maybe you’re breathing a little too frantically from the shock of being penetrated and not really wanted it. Maybe your own helplessness has made you more a prey animal than a dancer.
You feel the heat in your gut coil tighter, hotter— burning— as he curls his fingers just right, rolls the pearl of your clit with a haunting amount of dexterity. 
“I h-hate you—” you sob, giving one last, valiant attempt at bucking him off of you. “— Mydeimos—” 
Mydei growls. Something angry and more animal than you’re used to. A swoop of something akin to terror shudders through you. Mydei doubles his efforts at taking you apart with nothing but his hands.
You come around his fingers. Your cunt flutters around his digits and the sickening wet sound of flesh and slick goes static in your ears. A sound is ripped from your throat, one that you can hardly hear as pleasure overtakes you.
Before you can really come down, Mydei flips you, so you’re on your back with your legs spread. He kneels between them. Still naked. Fully hard. The tip of his cock is a raging purple, wet with pre.
“You still cannot let go of your liar’s tongue?” He grabs your jaw in one hand. The gesture is firm, but tender, in a way that’s so him. 
You whine— you can’t make yourself form words. Your so-called ‘liar’s tongue’ is too thick and heavy in your mouth.
He looks at you then— examines you, assesses you. Your chest heaves as he does, shivering in the sticky air.
“One more opportunity,” Mydei says. “Listen well, flame kin.”
You nod with a rolling, loose neck.
Mydei strokes over your cheek. “Admit that you revel in your own suffering.”
You whine, trying to close your thighs. Push him away— please, Nikador slain—
He continues, “Admit that you seek your own suffering and push away pleasures. If you can, which I know you can, this ends.”
“That’s basically just admitting that y-you’re hurting me, you know.”
“I’m giving you what you want, apparently—” Mydei’s hand finds its way to your throat. It doesn’t squeeze, but the threat of pressure looms. “Pain. Even if we both know that that’s not really what you want, is it?”
Something weird knots in your insides. You want to push Mydei away, but you know it won’t work. You want to run from this bath, but you know that won’t work. Mydei has you in his grasp, under his predator-like gaze and you cannot escape it.
Your attempts have been feeble. Your sharp tongue hasn’t done you any favors either.
“What do you think I want?” You ask him, voice shaking and breathless all at one.
“Pleasure,” Mydei says, so matter-of-factly. “You’re just too rabbit-hearted to allow it.”
You want to lambast Mydei, it’s a knee-jerk reaction. But you abstain. You’re too tired, too worn down by... everything.
“Fine,” you say, far too softly. “I—I would prefer to hurt than feel good, most of the time. I know it’s not great. Are you happy?”
Mydei sighs.
He looks vaguely disappointed and for a very terrifying moment, you think that that’s not enough. That he’ll find some other way to wring more of your very fragile truth out of you. You’re not sure you could take it, truly. You feel close to shattered— the heart of you fears how else Mydei would push you.
He rubs below your eyes and pulls his thumb back wet. You didn’t even realize you had been crying.
“I’ll accept your answer.” Mydei says. “But know that I am watching— and expect a change in your behavior.”
“S-So no flames?” You swallow. “And w-what, no revelry?”
“No flames.” He reiterated. “I’m certain the Grove can create some alternative that is safer. And you may still revel, but if you wish to entangle yourself with the physical, you will find me.”
“And what if I don’t?”
“Then we’ll find ourselves back here.” He nods to the bath. All of its cruel tile and stone. Your ruined bag of groceries, tossed into a corner. There’s a massage table in the corner you hadn’t even noticed. “And you will receive the carnal from me, regardless.”
The part of you that is used to twirling and spitting is quiet. Dead, maybe, if not dormant. You rub your eyes and think about your bed. About the pastries that are soggy and inedible at this point. Your isolation and the fearfulness you’ve carried over simply being seen.
(How running and hurting has worn you down and how unfair it is that Mydei saw it so easily. And, in retrospect, maybe he was quite patient with you.)
“Okay.” You sniffle. “I-I agree.”
Mydei sighs again. This time, it’s pure relief. A knot comes loose within him so visibly. His slick shoulders sag and he sinks on his knees just a fraction. You, for your part, collapse into the tile. Boneless, wrung out, and slick still dripping out of your core.
...
It’s after one of your dances, sometime later. Normalcy has taken a new shape and you have allowed it too. 
(Though, you hardly had much of a choice. You’ve been leashed.)
Your body is... mostly healed. Your ankle still aches sometimes. On your worst days, you need a cane. A perfectly crafted piece from a Kremnoan artisan, commissioned by Mydei when he noticed the way your limp persisted.
(When you saw that the healer Chrysos Heir about this persistent injury, she had been quite perplexed. The wound was entirely healed, a sprain shouldn’t linger like yours has. ‘It must be psychosomatic,’ she had said.)
You still dance. You still revel. Even without flame licking your skin, you still lunge and leap. Your revelry is, perhaps, more subdued. You do not sidle up to potential prospects so brazenly. Truthfully, you don’t entertain any suitors at all these days. Either because you don’t look for heated gazes the way you used to or those gazes aren’t turned to you as often anymore. 
(You suppose that even if your new leash isn’t visible, it’s still noticeable.)
You do not antagonize the crown prince in the way that you used to. You would say that your roles have flipped, but that isn’t entirely true. 
You used to tease— Mydei does not tease. But he does take.
You often find yourself as you are now— laying, stomach down, with Mydei overtop of you. He cages your skull in with his forearms braced on either side of your head. His breath is hot and loud in your ear as he presses his cock into your dripping cunt. 
You groan in unison, your sounds far more pitchy and desperate. 
Mydei isn’t too rough with you these days. He fucks you well when you need pleasure. You’ve gotten better about going to him for it rather than him having to track you down and fuck you stupid in a shadowy corner. These days, you end up in a bed. Surrounded by his scent usually, being stretched and opened with his fingers and tongue. Pleasure is given to you in heaps, and you have found it is much easier to accept it than attempt to run.
(Not when the lion-souled crown prince has made you his quarry.)
When Mydei grabs your hips, bare-handed, you keen. You sink into the bed, arching your back into a slope that angles his cock just right inside of you. Your toes curled as he fucks you hard and deep. He might be praising you for your good behavior. Words are being panted in your ear, but you feel a little too out of your body to tell what they are. 
You feel even further from your flesh when Mydei’s rhythm begins to stutter. You feel like a different person, experiencing this connection from a thin, spidery tether, when he spills inside you. The gush of sticky warmth, followed by the feeling of being— full— keeps you far away. 
You’re brought back when he presses a kiss to your nape. Then another to the side of your throat. He turns you easily, gently, easing onto your back. 
You feel so exposed like this. Belly-bared, chest heavy and dewy with sweat. Between your legs feels, somehow, sticky and numb all at once. Your lips are parted with each heaving breath, a little too fast, a little too prey-like. 
Mydei looks at you with a fiery reverence that scares you a little more each day. 
“Beautiful,” He breathes, his braid half-undone and bangs sticking to his forehead.
You don’t get to digest the comment before he’s nestled between your legs, thighs up on his shoulders, eating his cum out of your cunt like it’s his last meal. He’s slow with it, but firm. Always firm, always unyielding in what he decides is true and right. Before all of this, you admired him for that resolve.
Now? You’re not sure if you scorn it or love it.It hardly matters, anyway. 
You come on his tongue while he sucks your clit. Your voice cracks and shatters, made raw so easily. Your vision crosses and you tug on his hair with enough force that it must hurt, you think.You think about apologizing for it, but you choose not to. Or maybe you’re simply too wrung out. 
Mydei pulls up and away from your core. His lips are slick with your slick, wet with his own spent. He grabs your jaw and kisses you, filthy and slow. The mingling taste of you keeps you just tethered enough to writhe and keep your legs spread for him, in case there is more to be had.
He breaks from you, panting, and pulls your head into the crook of his neck. It’s a gesture that feels like it should come from a lover, not whatever Mydei has become to you. Your keeper, your jailer— maybe a lover, too. Someone with such a cruel title wouldn’t treat you as gently as Mydei does.
(It’s easier to think this way.)
The smell of him invades you. Gone is the light scent of incense and fragrant oils that permeate the room, and all that remains is unique, familiar musk of Mydei. Sweat, polished metal, and bur
You lean into the hollow of his throat. It’s better to embrace, rather than to resist.
(Your ankle throbs.)
For some time, you stay like that. Eyes shut and world slow, you shiver as the high of ‘pleasure’ wears off and leaves you off-kilter. What tethers you to your reality, your relatively new, somewhat uncomfortable reality, is Mydei. It’s always Mydei. The heat of his touch, the piercing nature of his attention, and the specific flavor of uncomfortable tenderness he reserves for only you. 
It’s not so bad. It’s less painful in some ways. There’s no more flames licking your ankles and wrists— the only embers that are allowed near you are the ones within Mydei’s own gaze. 
(Maybe— it’s just a different type of pain. One was yours to wield and torch yourself with, and the other is a scalding reminder that leaves no visible mark.)
Mydei must notice you’re too deeply in thought. His hand cups the nape of your neck, his thumb rubs little circles around your spine. He’s warm like a hearth, kind like one when he wants to be, too. You knew that before, and you know it even better now.
It’s better, you remind yourself, to work with your conditions the best that you are able to. It’s better, it’s better, it’s better.
You lean into Mydei’s warmth and go slack. You hear him breathe a sigh of relief as you do. 
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navybrat817 · 5 months ago
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Cooking Together
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Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: Bucky asks you to cook a meal with him.
Word Count: Over 1.5k
Warnings: Fluff, longing, pining, canon divergent neighbor AU, flirting of sorts, mention of HYDRA, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Short and sweet for @stellar-solar-flare’s Starry Winter Sky Event! I went with cooking together and Neighbor AU as a small expansion of this nonsense. February has had some lingering January energy, and I hope you enjoy what I was able to write! ❀ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
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If you asked Bucky if he thought he was a good cook, he’d say he was decent. He retained some of what his mom taught him many years ago and he carefully followed recipes once he was completely free of HYDRA. It was admittedly a bit of a rough go at first. Being able to choose what he could eat was a foreign concept after he didn't have the choice for so long. It got better each day. Every single meal he got to reclaim a piece of himself by making the choice of what he did and didn’t want.
Until today, he always cooked alone.
“Thanks for inviting me over,” you smiled, graciously accepting the apron he handed you.
Bucky had moved into the building a few months ago and you lived across the hall. As far as neighbors went, you were the best. Since day one, you always greeted him with a smile and a kind word. You never played your music too loud or disturbed anyone. Alpine adored you, which told him everything he needed to know since she was the best judge of character. And you never once objected to looking out for her when he had to leave for a mission.
Out of paranoia, he left harmless little “traps” to see if you'd snoop through anything the very first time you went over. Nothing that would hurt you or draw your attention, of course, but something that would let him know if anyone tampered with anything. You didn't. You were a genuinely good and respectful person, and that made him trust you more.
“Thanks for accepting the invitation. And allow me,” he offered, stepping behind you to help you tie it. His fingers lingered on the fabric and he took the moment to inhale your sweet scent before he stepped away. He didn't want to be a creep. “And it’s the least I could do since you offered to watch Alpine. Again.”
“I love watching her. She’s wonderful.”
The photos you sent were something he always looked forward to when he was away. Some of the captions you added made him laugh and smile. His favorite was a selfie you took with Alpine’s cheek against yours. He saved it as “my girls”, which you weren’t aware of.
Because you technically weren’t his girl.
“Well, she adores you,” Bucky smiled. He adored you, too. It stunned him when he found out you were single, and he was selfishly thankful for that. 
“I’ll have to get her another toy,” you said, your lips curling in a small smile. “If that’s okay with you.”
He laughed, a warm and easy sound. “Between the two of us, she’s spoiled rotten and she wouldn’t want it any other way.”
He never expected to be a cat dad, but life surprised him. In fact, it also surprised him that Alpine wasn’t camping out nearby or brushing against one of your legs. She was a smart cat and likely somehow sensed that he wanted alone time with you.
“Well, she deserves it,” you winked before things went quiet.
One of the nice things about hanging out with you was that he didn't mind any bouts of silence. They didn’t feel awkward or tense. In those quiet moments and stolen glances he felt like he had the best conversations with you. He was happy and felt safe being in the same space as you.
“You know,” Bucky began as he set the ingredients on the counter. He lucked out by having a decent sized kitchen since he took up a lot of space. “If I was a better neighbor, I would've just cooked a meal for you while you relaxed.”
It felt romantic for the two of you to cook together, but you weren't together and now he felt like an idiot. A gentleman would've made you a meal and pampered you. Or take you out for a nice meal. He hadn’t dressed up, opting for his jeans and a trademark Henley while you wore a sundress that had his mind racing with both sweet and filthy images. He didn't have flowers for you either.
His “game”, as Sam would say, was rusty.
“You're a great neighbor, Bucky. The best neighbor I’ve had,” you defended. He tried to be a good neighbor and person. A minor way to make up for some of his forced wrongdoings. “And cooking something together is fun! We could even try something at my place next week if you'd like.”
Bucky almost knocked the salt over, his eyes wide. “Really?” You were inviting him over to do this again?
“Yeah, really,” you replied, taking a moment to scan the simple recipe in the cookbook. You always had the cutest expression when you concentrated on something, and he didn’t want to choose something too difficult for the first meal. “We can take turns picking things out to try and trade off cooking at your place and mine. You can even bring Alpine over if you want.”
He suddenly had the image of you in his arms, dancing around the kitchen as you both waited for a meal in the oven to cook. Soft music, low lighting, his hands on your hips, and a tender smile on your face. Stealing a gentle kiss and keeping his eyes open only for a moment so he could see for himself that it wasn't a dream.
“Yeah,” he breathed, pulling his hair back in a ponytail and washing his hands to distract himself from his thoughts. “I’d really like that.”
“Great,” you exhaled. His heart beat faster when he caught you staring. He liked to pretend the look in your eyes was longing. “Sorry. You just
” you cleared your throat and gestured to his head. “You have really nice hair.”
The compliment had his heart racing even faster. “I have nice hair?” he asked. Your fingers would feel amazing in his hair.
You ducked your head for a moment before you met his gaze with a soft smile. “Yeah, you do.”
“Thanks,” he smiled back, his shoulder brushing yours when he stood beside you. Electricity lightly cracked between you. Did you feel it, too? “Um, I peeled the carrots before you got here. Would you like to cut them?”
“Oh, I think you’re better with a knife than I am,” you giggled.
He puffed his chest out and twirled the knife he selected in his hand without thinking about it. Part of him was showing off because, well, he wanted you to stare again. “How about I help you?”
“Help me? How?” you asked.
“Here.” He placed the knife in your hand and stood behind you once he had the carrots on the cutting board. “I’m going to preface this by saying I’m far from an expert, but I usually cut them into decent sized pieces before I dice them.”
“I trust your judgement,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. Your faces were close enough that he could kiss you if he leaned in a fraction. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t take what you didn’t offer.
Carefully placing his hands over yours once you faced forward, he felt that electricity crackle again as he helped guide you. He angled his hips so he didn’t press against you, but still stayed close. “See? You’re a natural,” he whispered against your ear when you made the first cut through the vegetable.
He heard the hitch in your breath and how your blood rushed faster in your veins. He felt your skin warm under his touch as you cut the next piece. He also caught the slight tremble that went through your frame when his grip tightened, but he didn’t sense any fear. He hadn't detected any sort of fear or disgust since he came into your life.
But what he sensed in this very moment was excitement.
“Thanks, Bucky,” you whispered back. The way you spoke his name was breathy, beautiful, and he longed to hear that again. “You’re a great teacher.”
“I’m not,” he said, thankful your back was to him so you wouldn’t see the pink that tinted his cheeks. “But I appreciate it.”
“Yeah, you are,” you stated, tempting him to turn your head toward him to kiss you. If he did that and you stabbed him, he wouldn’t blame you or hold it against you. “And Bucky?”
“Yeah?”
“I really am glad you invited me over,” you said.
He stopped himself from putting his face in the crook of your neck. “I am, too,” he said, smiling to himself as he helped you finish up. “And now that you’ve mastered the carrots, we can chop the onions.”
“Onions? Oh, no,” you groaned playfully.
As the sound of both of you laughing a second later filled the room, Bucky was glad he went with his gut and asked for you two to cook together.
And maybe before the night was over, he’d ask you out on a date and prove to himself that his game wasn't completely hopeless.
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I wonder just how he'll ask you out! Love and thanks for reading! ❀
Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi
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viperify · 5 months ago
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AU | ᮠᮀᮍᮘÉȘʀᎇ!ᮛᮏᮍ x ꜰ!ʀᎇᎀᎅᎇʀ
˚.☟⋆✧ Blood Lust.
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Short Summary: When you stir awake in the middle of the night, you notice Tom hasn’t come back home. Strange noises downstairs lead you to investigate, but what—or who—will you find as you do?
Warnings: 18+ only! Vampire!Tom, hunter and prey, biting, marking, blood play, nipple play, incredibly feral Tom Riddle, breeding kink, choking, praise, unprotected p in v, implied murder (side character).
A/N: FINALLY it’s out. Thank you so much for your patience, life’s a mess atm. Love you, always <3
wordcount: 3,2k
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You wake.
Not by choice, but rather from the sound of a window shutting forcefully somewhere downstairs. You still, holding your breath as you listen intently, however, you are left waiting. All you can hear is complete silence. Silence that feels almost eerie now, in the dark. When you hear nothing suspicious for another minute, your focus shifts.
It must be around midnight, you think, and a quick look at the clock confirms your assumption.
It’s 23:50.
Then you hear it—the wind. You exhale sharply, closing your eyes again. It’s just the wind, you tell yourself. The wind must have shut a window downstairs. And just as you are about to drift off to sleep again—
Your eyes shoot open.
You had checked all the windows before going upstairs.
Your arm searches for something next to you—someone. However, a few taps later, and you realise the bed is cold and empty, sheets in the same place as they were when you went to bed.
He isn’t here. 
Or better—he hasn’t come back.
You sigh in defeat, sitting upright on the soft mattress, the silky sheets crumpling under the shift of weight on them. Your palm covers your mouth as you yawn, slipping into your slippers you placed next to the bed. Your legs carry you towards the nearby window, and you rest your hands on the ledge as you glance into the starry night sky, which is clearer than usual today.
In that moment, realisation hits you.
It’s a full moon.
Another loud noise has your body tense involuntarily, tearing you from your thoughts—this time it’s something shattering on the ground, similar to a glass. You walk towards the door, about to turn the key when your arm drops again.
Every fiber in your body tells you no—stay in bed, don’t go and check. Why would you? Tom isn’t home, and if there really was someone, he wouldn’t want you to get yourself in danger. Right?
You shake your head. But there is another voice inside of you, clearer than your own, telling you to check—
So you do.
You turn the key in the lock, pushing the handle down before peering through the gap.
Darkness.
A sense of relief washes over you, and you step outside, a small candle in your left hand lighting your way. The wooden planks creak under your feet, and you stop every few steps to listen—but all that greets you is silence, silence that carries an intimidating undertone.
Even as you walk down the stairs, there is nothing too unusual. The dim glow of your candle does little to illuminate your surroundings, and it really does a better job exposing yourself to any possible intruder than the other way around, but it’s better than nothing. Finally, you reach the lowest level of your shared home, stepping onto the cold marble floor tiles.
Tick-tock.
Tick-tock.
A shiver runs down your spine as the ticking of the living room clock has you stop momentarily, an eerie tension forming in the air, growing thicker the closer you get to it. You have been wanting to get rid of the clock for a while, telling him how irritating the ticking is, especially when you pass it at night—but he is oddly attached to it.
So you kept it.
With the help of the flickering candlelight, you are able to make out an object on the floor near the living room—your favourite vase—that had dropped and shattered into a hundred small pieces. You sigh softly, crouching down to pick up the pieces, however, soon the inevitable happens—you cut yourself.
A sharp hiss spills over your lips as the porcelain breaks your skin, a drop of blood running down your finger. You curse yourself for not being more careful, looking around to find something you can wrap around the wound.
The emergency kit. In the kitchen.
Standing back up, you make your way, though you don’t get far before your breath catches in your throat and your body freezes in place. A pair of glowing, scarlet eyes advances towards you, their intensity burning through the night’s darkness better than any candle in your possession would.
You shouldn’t be scared. It’s Tom.
However, something about his presence feels different today. The energy he radiates seems stronger, needier. More feral, more unhinged. More dangerous.
Before you know it, he is there, right in front of you.
Though the light of your candle dims when he stands before you, it doesn’t take long for you to take in the state of him. Pupils dilated wide, intently focused on you, his breath coming out in short, ragged huffs. And there is blood. So much blood. The crimson color staining his lips and chin, seeping into the white cotton fabric of his robes. His eyes wander, stopping at the bleeding cut on your finger before they trail back up—slowly.
“Tom?” you whisper, eyebrows drawn together in confusion—and fear.
He doesn’t reply.
Instead, he reaches up to your cheek, brushing over the soft skin ever so lightly, barely even touching you at all. His thumb then wanders under your chin, slowly tilting your head up so you are met with his glowing red eyes. Still, he doesn’t speak—instead, he leans in, his lips meeting yours just to place a singular, feather-light kiss on them. Enough to make you taste what he’s been up to—although you’d rather not think about it. His hand leaves your cheek, grazing over your jaw and throat until he stops at your neck, pulling you in closer.
When his fingers press down on your pulse point softly, feeling your elevated, rushed heartbeat under his touch, a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. Tom’s head dips then, his hot breath skimming over your ear, the tension between the both of you building rapidly. And then, a small, an almost too silent huff leaves his lips—
“Run.”
Now, obviously, this isn’t meant to be a game for you to win. It has never been. With his heightened senses and supernatural strength, you cannot escape him, and you never will. Both of you are aware of that. But the thrill of it all—it is intoxicating for both of you. So whenever he does tell you to run—you are more than happy to obey.
So you take a step back, and his arm drops to his side. One more quick glance at him, how his chest rises and falls in anticipation, how his lips are slightly parted, revealing his sharp fangs—
And then you run, as fast as your legs carry you.
He gives you a head start, knowing you won’t make it far either way. It’s dark, but he doesn’t need light to find you. The smell of your fresh blood in the air is enough for him to locate you, even if you were a mile away. He could distinguish your blood from a thousand others, and God, he would always find you.
After all, you are still his favourite prey.
With that thought, he turns to leave the kitchen, following the soft sound of your heartbeat. He can feel how quick it beats, trying its hardest to supply your body with enough oxygen. The closer he gets to you—now walking up the stairs—the stronger the scent of your blood becomes. The more he craves you.
You shriek quietly as the door to your shared bedroom flies open, your breathing stilling in an attempt to keep him at bay for just a little longer. Though you know it’s over when you hear a low scoff from outside of your closet, the door opening as a strong hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you out.
“Too easy,” he growls, lips crashing onto yours, capturing you in a heated kiss. “Too fucking easy.” Suddenly his hands are all over your body, practically tearing your clothes off your body. The buttons of your blouse pop off the fabric, clattering as they hit the floor, rolling off. You barely have time to complain before you stand bare before him, and his hungry eyes are drinking you in.
Tom takes a step closer, and you squirm slightly as his cold hand softly trails over your delicate skin, pulling you in as he reaches your waist. “Been thinking about you all day. Now you are mine.” He purrs, smirking against your lips before he kisses you again, biting down on your lower lip, drawing a soft gasp from you.
“Who— who was it?” You breathe, gaze lowering to the bloodstains on his clothes, a sly grin forming on his face at your question.
“Remember Knockturn Alley? How his eyes lingered on you?” He answers, trailing kisses along your jaw.
Of course. What else.
You sigh. “Yes, I do.”
“Mhm.” He mumbles, lips back on yours, not giving you the chance to question him further.
Never breaking the kiss, he pushes you backwards until you are sprawled out on the now cool, silky sheets, not wasting another second before he joins you. One hand softly wrapped around your throat, he tilts your head to gain better access to your neck, his ragged breaths hot on your skin as his head dips, greedily trailing kisses along your jugular vein.
Your soft moans only seem to spur him on, sucking marks into your skin, your neck, collarbone, and breasts until you are nothing more than a whining mess beneath him. Only then does he pull back slightly, humming lowly in approval as his glowing eyes wander over the artwork of bruises he’s left behind on your skin.
He savours the way you melt under his touch, so good and pliant for him, anticipation building at the thought of finally tasting you. “Doing so well for me,” he mutters, brushing a strand of hair from your face, before dipping back down to continue his ministrations.
Then, for the first time that night, you feel his fangs on your skin, grazing over your neck ever so lightly—a gentle reminder of what’s to come, of the flaming hunger beneath his composure. Your body twitches at the contact, breath coming out shakily as you cling onto his shoulder, feeling his muscles under your touch.
A smirk creeps onto his face at your reaction, placing an open-mouthed kiss directly onto your pulse point. “So afraid,” he drawls, tilting your head just a tiny bit more, before you feel his pointed teeth again, not yet piercing your skin, but lingering, waiting.
“I am not—“ you try to defend yourself, however, his palm closes over your mouth, cutting you off.
“No more talking back.”
As his instinct takes over, you feel it. The familiar sting of his fangs sinking into the tender flesh of your neck, drawing the first drops of blood with a breathy groan as he tastes you on his tongue, some of it trickling down onto the sheets and your cleavage. A cozy warmth spreads through your body, easing the pain, intensifying the pleasure he is providing you with.
“Tom— oh God—“ you whimper, hands tangling in his brunette locks, softly tugging on his roots as he continues feeding on you, soft sucking noises filling your shared bedroom as he greedily drinks your blood, a tingling sensation spreading through your body.
But before he gets too lost in the ecstasy, he pulls back with a low growl, fangs forcefully retracting from your neck. For a moment he just glances down at you, chest heaving with ragged breaths. “Taste yourself,” he breathes, head dipping down until he’s a mere inch away from your lips. “I want you to taste yourself. How fucking sweet you taste for me.”
He doesn't give you much of a choice, because as soon as you open your mouth to voice your complaint, his lips are on yours, the metallic taste of your own blood flooding your senses. His hand tightens around your throat, cutting off just enough air to leave you dizzy, while the effects of his bite send your mind spiraling. Your knuckles turn white from how hard they are gripping the sheets, your body struggling to process the overwhelming sensations all at once.
But there is something you do notice. Very clearly even.
How painfully hard he is. How he can’t help but grind himself against you.
“T-Tom, please,” you whimper as he slowly pulls back, admiring the mess he’s left on your lips, thumb shakily swiping over them.
“You are ovulating.”
“I know, I—“
He groans. A low, almost desperate sound somewhere from the back of his throat. “Fuck, sweetheart. You know I can’t— fuck— hold back. Not when—“
Merlin help you.
Your hand is on his neck, never breaking eye contact as you pull him closer once more. Shaking your head, you place a kiss on his tensed jaw. “Don’t hold back.”
Another sharp inhale, and his hand is back around your throat, pressing down, not to restrict your airflow, because you can breathe very well—as well as you could breathe under the effect of your vampire’s bite—but rather your blood flow.
“Don’t wish for something you cannot handle,” he warns lowly, but you shake your head again. “God, Tom, please— I need you, just— take me.”
“Fuck—“
With your mind already blurry as a result of his bite, you only faintly notice the sound of his belt hitting the wooden planks of your floor with a thud, followed by the rest of his clothes. Before you realise it, he slips between your thighs, body pressing flush against yours. His lips wrap around your nipple, gently dragging his sharp teeth over the sensitive bud, drawing a sharp gasp from you at the intense sensation, which sends a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.
It doesn’t take long until you feel him prodding at your soaked entrance, pressing another kiss to your lips before he pushes inside of you with a low groan, and it’s rough, it’s careless, mirroring his burning hunger for you. He doesn’t wait, no, he buries himself to the hilt with one singular, powerful thrust, tip brushing against your sensitive cervix, your brows drawing together at the sudden, sharp yet delicious stretch on your walls. A choked moan rips from your lips, body arching beneath him, which is apparently sign enough for him to pull back slightly, only to thrust back inside harder.
His head dips, breath hot against your neck as he continues sucking and biting marks into your skin before his fangs break through your flesh once more, a low, satisfied hum falling over his lips as he stills his hunger on his favourite human—you.
He soon sets a steady rhythm, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as his tip brushes over your most sensitive spot with every thrust. The flickering candlelight in the otherwise dark room illuminates the sharp features of his face each time he raises his head to take a breath, your blood dripping down his chin over the sides of his neck.
“Can’t get enough of you, fuck—“ he groans, picking up his pace when he hears your soft moans, his fingertips sinking into your waist, hard enough to leave bruises as he pulls you back into his thrusts, stopping your body from moving forwards with every snap of his hips.
Few things in this world can make Tom Riddle lose his self-restraint.
But the way you squeeze him so tight, walls fluttering as you try to accommodate his length, soft whimpers falling over your lips, all while the flavour of your blood has his mind spinning with pure ecstasy—certainly has him on the verge.
Because fuck—you are just so gorgeous, he thinks. Covered in his marks and his only, painting a canvas of his lust on your body, he just needs you to be his, forever. The bite would come, the bite to turn you into a vampire yourself, but for now—he’ll still savour the irreplaceable taste of your blood. Instead, he’ll make you his in other ways.
Tom’s eyes darken at the thought, lips slightly parted, and suddenly he has a desire other than satiating his primal hunger for your blood—he wants, no, needs to fill you—stake his claim on you.
You can practically feel the last bits of restraint he has left fading, messily feeding on you while he buries his cock deep within your walls with every sharp, perfectly angled snap of his hips into yours, deliciously dragging over all the right spots as he pounds into you relentlessly.
“Too much, Tom— please—“ you whimper, just as your consciousness threatens to slip, ears ringing and vision growing cloudy. He is barely able to stop himself in time from draining more of your precious blood, fangs tearing from your skin with a low, guttural groan. He tilts your head then, having you meet his strict, intense gaze. “Not yet, look at me. Fuck— look at me as I fill you up.”
Only with half-lidded eyes do you manage to do so, legs weakly wrapped around him as he takes what he needs, mercilessly slipping in and out of you, his brunette curls sticking to his damp forehead as he chases his release.
“You are going to be good for me and take it,” he pants, thrusts growing more erratic as you feel him twitch inside of you.
“Every.” thrust “Last.” thrust “Drop.” thrust
“Yes— fuck please, Tom.” You gasp, and with a few more sharp snaps of his hips, he spills his release deep inside of you, groaning lowly as he paints your walls with thick, white ropes of his cum.
You too come undone with a weak shudder of your body, your walls fluttering around his length, hands slipping from his shoulders. Pleasure and pain melt into one, stars dancing in front of your eyes as your vision grows blurrier with each passing second.
Tom lets you regain your consciousness, staying situated between your thighs, his cock still buried deep within your walls as he gently laps his tongue against the puncture wounds on your neck, cleaning most of the dried crimson liquid from your skin.
The next thing you remember is his fingertips tenderly massaging shampoo into your scalp, warm water surrounding your sore body as he has you resting against his chest in the bathtub. The scent of fresh rose petals and orchids fills your nostrils with a deep breath of yours. You hum softly, eyes fluttering closed again, letting him take care of you.
A flicker of satisfaction sparks in his eyes as he dries you off in front of a mirror, gently patting the towel over the bite marks and bruises he’s left all over your cleavage.
“So gorgeous, covered in my marks. And all mine.”
“All yours.”
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tags: @belladonnaheartsthemoon, @riddlebella, @jo1818
—
thank you for reading! <3 feedback and reblogs are appreciated. 💜
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rottiens · 1 year ago
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How often do you think Neuvillette makes love to reader in his dragon form? And how do they prepare for it all?
âŠč tags . . 18+, neuvillette in his dragon form, monsterfucking, established relationship, female reader.
âŠč wc . . 1.4K
âŠč notes . . didn't expect to write so much for this lol but, as always, I really enjoy the ideas you put in my head and ily.
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Neuvillette is very shy at first about his true nature. Very withdrawn and perhaps ashamed of his original form. He has spent so much time among humans, understanding them and being part of them, that being with you, he forgets that this non-human part is still kept inside him.
You know the Chief Justice of Fontaine and the way he presents himself to others, you know how respected he is, how loyal he is; you know your husband and you have no doubts about him. But you don't know the Dragon Hydro. So, it is understandable that he feels shy to show his true nature before you.
Your sweet words gradually encourage him to trust you and what you assure him. You promise him so many times that no matter what you see, nothing will make you turn away from him— you do this by kissing his hand, pampering his neck, adoring his body that eventually, Neuvillette decides it's time.
As expected, his dragon form is as majestic as you had imagined. The imposing Neuvillette appears before your eyes, a being of breathtaking beauty and mystical presence. His winged figure combines the grace of an eagle with the strength of a dragon. His plumage is a symphony of colors that oscillates between deep blue tones and brilliant azure hues, creating a visual effect that evokes the power and serenity of the ocean.
You witness the magnificence of his transformation, a sight that takes your breath away and fills you with awe. As you approach, his eyes, deep and full of centuries of wisdom, look at you with a mixture of vulnerability and trust. You are honored and amazed by the faith he has placed in you, knowing that now, more than ever, you must keep your promise to stand by his side, accepting and loving every part of him, human and non-human.
His wings, broad and ethereal, appear to be sculpted from liquid light, adorned with undulating patterns reminiscent of gentle ocean currents. Each feather is outlined with silvery sparkles, giving the impression that a piece of the starry sky has been caught in its wingspan.
Neuvillette's head is noble and distinguished, with piercing eyes that sparkle with ancient wisdom. His silver mane flows back like a cascade of liquid silver. His words echo throughout the room, and he lovingly rests his forehead on yours, speaking to you through your thoughts. All the energy that fills the room bristles your skin, electric sparks that make your fingers move with a life of their own towards his face. Neuvillette drops into your hands, gazing intently at you with narrowed eyes.
Watching him, you can't help but feel that you are in the presence of an entity that transcends the mundane, a living connection between heaven and earth, the ethereal and the tangible.
"You are so beautiful, Neuvillette," you confess quietly to him. He lets out a sort of purr that fills the cave where you are, his tail visibly vibrating a tender blue, tossing back and forth like the waves of the sea.
The passing years have made him more comfortable at your side in his majestic form. You snuggle next to his body as he curls up next to you, his purrs like whispers on the wind lulling you into a placid slumber. But it is not until mating season that he realizes that opening up more with you has been both a blessing and a danger.
In that period, his desire becomes uncontrollable and his dragon nature intensifies. Neuvillette struggles to maintain control, but your gentle words and the trust you have placed in him give him the security he needs to fully embrace his true nature.
The mating gifts he has brought to you —pearls that glow even in the dark, coral crystals, jewelry created from sapphire— were now accompanied by something else. Something he considers terrible and carnal. Grunting, touching more than usual in public, slightly more possessive grips. It's second nature for you to join together in bed, to merge your bodies as one, to sink into you and make love to you all night long until you're both exhausted. But this season, there's something about Neuvillette that has him all the time with his pants tight, his hands sweating under his leather gloves and his boot clacking against the floor, he needed to be back home soon.
. . . He breathes heavily as he holds you against him. Your forehead rests on his as he recites one of the ancient poems stored on scrolls. His mouth is open, salivating, his majestic body jerking with every touch of your delicate fingers on the scales of his face.
"What's wrong?" your tone is almost pained, as if you are hurt. With a frown. Neuvillette hates himself for making you worry.
His whole body shudders as soon as your fingers tangle in the mane that hides his sharp eyes.
"My body doesn't seem to listen to me. I'm sorry, I'm burning up."
Your countenance softens, a tender smile tugs at your lips and Neuvillette jerks away from you, but you are quick to act and reach out your hands, stopping him in his attempt to escape.
"It's okay," as always, you encourage him. "I love you. In this and all your forms, Neuvillette. You have nothing to hide from me."
You prompt him, urge him to follow and explore his desires. It hurts his chest to see you so beautiful for him, to see you covered by a thin transparent cloth that barely covers your nakedness; your erect nipples are visible in the moonlight streaming through the cave and he pauses to think how firm they would feel under his tongue, your thin cotton panties soaked by a sticky layer of your arousal that provokes him just and only to push them with his claw and watch you squirm beneath him. Neuvillette suffers from not being able to control himself. But seeing you ready for him makes his animalistic senses fill with adrenaline.
Soon, he leaves the comfort of your warmth to push his face against your small body. You are so fragile, and he watches you carefully. His nose sniffs you, his scales tickle you, and you laugh. But Neuvillette is so focused on what he wants that he pays no attention to anything but that smell.
He descends under your body, determined. His face pushes the fabric up while he stands on all four paws so as not to crush you. His teeth tear at the fabric and you groan in surprise, for you have never seen him so desperate. Quickly, his long tongue darts out, cuts through the moonbeam and sinks between your thighs, exploring your slick folds with ferocity.
The dragon growls hungrily, devouring everything he can reach with his insatiable tongue. The split tip of his tongue does a dance on your clit, and you raise your hips in search of that pleasure, clinging to the silken sheets as waves of pleasure lash you. Neuvillette grunts, salivates and devours you as if for the first time. You melt with each lick until the impending end of your orgasm hits you.
Even after, he continues to lick you slowly, still greedy, still hungry.
Adoringly, his nose is wet from every trace of skin he gets, worshipping you like a deity.
After this, shame consumes him, so embarrassed to let this barbaric behavior that he has shown to no one else come to light, those instincts that make him lose his composure. Yet, with you by his side, promising him that everything is fine, that you are fine, Neuvillette allows it to happen a second time and then a third. How often? I think it happens spontaneously, but especially when he is in heat, he can't help but take you in his original form, in fact even if he won't admit it, in this state it is his favorite way to make love to you. Although he may lose control of his thrusts, he always tries to be gentle with you, always leaving a mark or two after the session.
These always start with him first in his human form, stretching you with his fingers, making you cum several times with them, then with his split tongue. Finally, when you're ready, one of his two cocks slides into you smoothly, so deep you don't remember how to breathe. Deep inside, he longs for the day when you can take both at the same time.
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corkinavoid · 6 months ago
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No Eyed Girl by Lemon Demon
Star Crossed Lovers
Space aesthetic
:3
(Can you tell I'm in love with aliens and space?)
DPxDC In Love With Space
"Someone's excited," Cassie teases, but Tim doesn't pay her any attention. The Bioship carries them through the clouds and up, closer and closer to the stars, and Tim's heart flutters a little in his chest.
"I don't think I've ever seen you so eager to get away from Earth before," Kon muses, leaning forward to get a better look at Tim's expression, and that causes him to blink and finally look away from the endless void of space that awaits them.
"I'm not really eager to get away," he corrects, and, in a moment of brilliant mischief - because one never just misses an opportunity to mess with their teammates - grins, feeling his cheeks heat up slightly. "It's just that when you spend a long time in love with space, it eventually falls in love with you, too."
Kon's face looks rightfully confused, which is exactly what Tim was aiming for. But not for long.
Not after a sound of fleeting, flattered distant laughter rings through the ship, and Kon's face shifts from confusion into alarm. But Tim's heart skips a bit for an entirely different reason, and he runs a hand over his cheek, trying to cool it down because it feels like his face is actually on fire now.
Shit, he definitely heard that.
Not that Tim minds, he'd say it again to his face, but... Let's say he was simply caught off-guard. Yeah, that's definitely why he is now a color of a tomato, and not because his boyfriend is a stalking little shit that decided on the most dramatic coming out possible.
He hears the worried voices of his friends behind him, something about the Bioship detecting a mass of something unidentifiable right in front of them, but he doesn't listen. Sure, he could tell them it's okay. He could explain that he knows exactly what said 'mass' is.
But he is decidedly not about to ruin Danny's performance because where's the fun in that?
The space in front of them shifts. Not inside the ship, no, the whole starry sky out the window moves, like it's merely a picture and not actual galaxies and nebulae out there. And then, there's another sound, like an ice crack in the distance, and a big, roughly the size of Tim's whole body, arm comes through the front shield of the Bioship. It's made of the empty darkness and bright stars, a piece of vast universe given form, and the claws clink against the metal floors as more and more of this impossible being comes through the reinforced glass and onto the deck.
It has no eyes of mouth, and its hair is merely a messy outline on top of their head. It's just... stars, planets, and comets and galaxies shaped in a vaguely humanoid form.
The form that stops trying to get inside the ship when it gets themselves in just halfway, and then lies its chin down on its elbows, their face right in front of Tim's. Or, well, not face, since it lacks all kinds of facial features, but Tim still feels that fond gaze of theirs on himself.
"Talking about me with your friends behind my back, Starlight, I see how it is," the being chuckles, tilting it's head to the side, the whisps of their hair floating gently in the air. Their voice sounds like a whisper of a shooting star, a roar of an avalanche, a gentle hum of electricity, all at once.
"Rob, what-" he hears Cassie start, but he is already taking a step closer, carefully pressing a kiss to where the being's cheek should be. It's a little weird when he is in this form, what with his head being twice as big as Tim's own, but, sue him, he likes the drama of it no less than Danny does.
Right on cue, his teammates all gasp and choke on air behind him.
"Hi, dear," he teases his boyfriend slightly, and Danny reaches one of his clawed hands forward, very carefully wrapping his fingers around Tim's body.
"When you spend a long time in love with space, it does eventually fall in love with you, too, yes," he gently repeats and confirms Tim's words from before, and Tim can't see it, but he knows Danny is smiling.
He also knows he is smiling as well.
~‱~‱~‱~
Just for fun, as a finishing touch, here's the aesthetic I put together for this:
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I really, really loved the song, by the way, I think I'm going to play that on repeat now.
Hope you like the piece!
626 notes · View notes
aimfor-theheart · 6 months ago
Text
to break first
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|| mel medarda x reader, jayce talis x reader, viktor x reader || E/18+ || messy dynamics/hurt/comfort || wc: 6k || ao3 ||
minors and ageless blogs dni, 18+
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Your lovers are strange, demanding types.
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a/n: idk man. but this revived my writing so. pls take it. dividers by @/cafekitsune
tags: messy dynamics, light smut/smut mentioned and implied, implied rough/hate sex, some hurt/comfort, ends on a hopeful note. not beta read/edited.
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You've never liked Jayce much.
And you might just be the only person he doesn't like, either.
He plays nice, though, especially around Viktor. You think Jayce has teeth that he tries to hide, but you catch the flash of them from time to time. He smiles at you and it doesn't reach his eyes. It's just shy of contempt.
It makes your grin cheshire and sharp. You like watching him squirm. You like watching him wrestle with his distaste for you, try to keep his teeth hidden. Especially here, at this gala, all gold and sparkling and pristine, for all the world to see.
Bubbling rosĂ© is bright and fruity on your tongue. You're shoulder to shoulder with Viktor, the two of you half-miserable together, stuffed into formal wear and ripped from your respective labs and studios. Which is why Jayce lingers; he's hovering in that annoying way of his. Bumbling a little. He's trying to make Viktor feel more at home but—
You have something Jayce doesn't.
Only you can do that.
You're Viktor's childhood friend, thick as thieves and twice as inseparable. You're an artist from the Undercity—a painter, a poet, a musician. An artistic genius, the world claims, an artistic savant. And one of the rare, lucky few who has been exalted and raised above your station to be paraded around Piltover like some trophy of success from their lowest. It's mostly Viktor's fault, you claim—the moment Heimerdinger found him, he also accidentally found you.
"Ah, if it isn't one of the most brilliant and groundbreaking artists of our generation." A smooth, easy voice floats through your thoughts. You turn your head to find Councilor Medarda, swathed in what could be a starry sky of silk and gold.
She's even more beautiful in person somehow; if you were to paint her, she'd be all easy, graceful lines, curved and long. A lily stem. The arch of a tiger.
"Just the person I was looking for." She muses.
"Me?" You balk, at the same time that Jayce gaps, "Them?!"
You swing your gaze to glare at him and even Viktor wrinkles his nose. Jayce tries to clear his throat, clear the mistake.
Councilor Medarda raises a brow at Jayce, but then her eyes flicker to you, honing in on you. Hazel and gold and reflective; a kaleidoscope of color. And with such—intensity. You feel it in her. Thrumming. "Yes, you." She says smoothly and she smiles in the elegant way of royalty; perfect and mysterious.
"Are you sure you have the right person, Councilor Medarda?" You joke, "you know I'm just—"
"I'm certain. And please—call me Mel. I'd love to commission you for several art pieces to be displayed in the council chambers."
Viktor whistles a little, impressed, though you can tell it's a little dry.
(He both rambles and rants about Councilor Medarda from time to time and you can never tell if he adores her or resents her.)
Jayce startles at this, but again, he tries to play it off. He places his hand on her lower back, "I didn't know the council chambers was looking to display art."
Mel allows his hand to remain, but she tilts her chin up and her eyes flash somewhat—quick, sharp. There's a silent conversation there that you can't decipher.
But you can tell there is something more than just coworkers happening between them.
"I'm looking to display art in the council chambers." Mel then says.
Jayce looks away, cowed somewhat, tail tucked between his legs in a way that makes you smile.
Mel drifts from Jayce's hands, offering her arm to you, "will you walk with me? I'd love to discuss what I have in mind."
If only to steal her away from Jayce, you finally peel yourself away from Viktor's side and the wall. Your shoulder, where it was touching his, goes cold. But Mel's arm is warm as you twine it around yours.
She draws you away from the scientists, into the fray of swirling, dazzling people.
You glance over your shoulder only once and catch Jayce's eyes, and let your smile curl into something a little smug, almost vicious; baring your teeth as if to gloat at his own, still tucked behind his lips.
***
"Mel's an artist." You say to Viktor, offhand. "A good one, too. You should see her paintings—"
Viktor sighs heavily, snatching one of the little tools that you'd been fiddling with out of your hands. "You sound like Jayce."
You wrinkle your face in disgust, reaching back for the tool and grappling with him a moment for it. You press all against each other, squabbling, before you win out and take it back from him. He stares at you, almost in some form of a glare and you stare back, watching his eyes, dark in the low light of the lab. He glances at the tool in your hands like he might try to take it back, and when he moves, you move faster, and hold it out of his reach.
"Are they together?" You ask.
He gives up on the tool.
Then, he lifts his shoulders in some form of a crooked shrug, eyes going skyward. "One can only assume."
"She's out of his league." You sigh, throwing your weight back in the chair in despair.
Viktor snorts at that, returning to his work, "I'm sure few are in league with Councilor Medarda."
His voice is dry. A little brittle.
"I don't know what you have against her." You then venture, speaking more to the ceiling, returning to fiddling with the tool. It twists in your fingers, the sound of metal whirling and softly grinding.
"I have nothing against Councilor Medarda." He says too evenly.
"You know, I've never been able to tell if it's contempt or adoration you have for her." You continue, as if he hadn't said anything to contradict you. "But either way, she gets under your skin."
"She does not—"
"Are you jealous? She took your big, dumb partner away?" You press, twisting and twisting away at the tool.
"No—" Viktor says sharply, but it rings with a note of truth. It's not quite that then.
You pause. And then.
You crack your eye open, "I think she likes me."
Viktor pauses now too, metal clinking quietly with the sudden stop of his work again. He knows that tone of your voice. His face pulls; distaste. Frustration.
(Jealousy.)
His speech is slow as he tries to parse through what to say, "Councilor Medarda is charming and—"
"She invited me to dinner." You say and now you're watching him carefully, "at her personal suite. Just us."
Viktor rounds on you, "you're going to get yourself into trouble."
You can't help but smile, slow and amused, "I feel like it's good for the art—fool around with a politician—"
"You know, I have always wondered if you would learn your lesson," Viktor continues over your monologuing about drama and passion and politics, "—maybe this time, you'll finally learn it."
He snatches the tool from your hands and throws it down on his desk.
"I love learning." You chirp innocently and he shakes his head, face flushed with passion.
He looks at you again when he can, shakes his head some more, some of the irritation fading from his features. He never stays mad at you for long; doesn't have it in him. Besides, he causes his own trouble. Doesn't learn his own lessons. And when the dust settles, the two of you are still here, beside each other. The artist and the scientist, making messes, breaking things—all for some higher purpose only the two of you have ever understood.
(You've loved him your whole life. Sometimes, you think you carry half of the other's ribs inside one another. He must have twelve of yours, and you must have twelve of his—)
You lift your foot, nudging his calf beneath the desk with it, then up to place it in his lap. An olive branch, of some kind. Your affection is unsurprising to him and he sighs. He drops his hand to your ankle. He squeezes.
"She's going to eat you alive." Viktor finally warns.
"One can only hope."
A laugh startles out of him, rough and raspy, before it dissolves into coughing.
You lurch up to give him water, sitting near you, and bring the glass to his lips on reflex, like you used to as children. And on reflex, he drinks—he doesn't try to take the glass from your hands right away or push you away. Instinctively, you care for him, and instinctively, he lets you.
(You think you're the only one he'd ever allow to do this, born out of years of pressed side to side in the same bed, listening to him weather the nights. Born out of years of your love and stubborn care for him.)
After a moment, he lifts his hand and slowly replaces yours.
You hover over him. He sets the glass down. The water is almost gone. You'll replace it for him before you leave the lab.
He settles back into his chair, eyes returning to the pieces in front of him; all the odd metal scattered like little silver stars in front of him against a vast, dark sky. He picks up one, and then another, and tries to fit them together.
Then another. And another.
You watch him twist and turn, put the puzzle together.
He says, "Lately, I feel as if—" his fingers are careful, almost shaking, as he tries to create something of the scattered, broken pieces, "everything is quite fragile. And it's all just going to—" he presses a little too hard, and the metal all splinters apart, clattering back to the desk, "break. At any given moment."
After a moment, he looks up at you, still hovering over him, "I fear you're heading towards a breaking point."
You hum a little.
"What is it you scientists say?" You ask, running your fingers through his dark hair, thick and tousled. You twirl a strand around your finger, let it fall;
"It has to break first, before you can discover anything."
***
You'd say Mel Medarda is a wolf in sheep's clothing, but she doesn't feign anything so harmless or lost as a sheep.
You do think she's—
A little like Jayce, where she hides her teeth. But where Jayce irritates you because he's certainly trying to seem better than he is, or more harmless than he can be, Mel does so with intention. Mel hides her teeth to lure you closer. She doesn't pretend she doesn't have them; she waits until you're in range before you catch a glimpse of them.
And by then, well. It's too late.
You realize this over dinner, as she laments about what art she'd like from you and she's adamant about not censoring you.
(You're known for you controversy; whether in your physical art, your poetry, or music. Once pulled to the light of the Upper City, you refused to let them defang you. Where Jayce pretends he doesn't have teeth, you bare yours proudly, and sometimes wish you could tear the tender parts of Piltover open.
You strive to do it with your art. And while applauded in some vague capacity, you are also kept on a tight leash. Your patrons are warily supportive of you. Your commissions are strict. You're treated the way you think a wild animal is; with utmost care and fear and awe.)
In fact, her only rule for you, is to not hold back.
Which, given the growing tension between the Upper and Lower Cities, you realize this cannot only be from the goodness of her heart or for the integrity of art but—
You tilt your head and consider her.
"Am I a political move, Mel?"
She smiles in that enigmatic way of hers, her teeth flash, "isn't all art?"
You narrow your eyes, "perhaps. I wonder of it's effectiveness when it's employed by the people it often critiques." You lift your chin and pretend to be hurt—or perhaps, mask your hurt within dramatics to make it seem ironic, "and here I thought you really liked me—"
"I do." Mel assures, "I've admired you a great deal from afar. And getting to know you, your mind, it's—" she considers her words, "it's been nothing short of mesmerizing. Astonishing."
She sounds sincere. But you wonder if she always sounds that way.
She can tell she hasn't convinced you because you've never been able to mask your emotions well, so she leans forward and says, "unfortunately, everything I do is a political move, whether I'd like it to be or not. Both can be true—" she says, "I can adore you. And I can also need you to make a public point, wield you like my own elegant weapon."
"Artists make for disobedient weapons, usually." You say.
She laughs a little at that and agrees, "True." And then she lowers her voice, looks at you through the fan of her dark lashes in such a way that seizes you—arrests you, holds you right there, caught, in her heady gaze;
"But I don't need you to be obedient."
"I can never tell if you're trying to seduce me or persuade me." You blurt out, the words running from your mouth like a rabbit from a wolf. Your desire bursts from you like frightened birds taking to flight, like most of what you feel does, all of it spilling out of you in a gush of rawness.
She stands gracefully and again, you think of how you'd draw her—how you'd capture her in a poem or a song. The sharp curve of her waist, the predatory grace she carries effortlessly. You think her song is a croon from the deep part of your chest. You think her poem looks like an hourglass on the page and she slips from your fingers as easy as time does, too.
She rounds the small table to your side.
You look up at her. Your heart kicks up into a quick dance.
She brings the back of her knuckle to your jaw and gently—with all the carefulness in the world, strokes you.
(She touches you the way one does a bird, as if they know it's fragile. Perhaps as if they know it might fly away.
Or maybe she touches you the way one does an animal they're not sure of; will you bite? Will you lean into the touch?)
"Both can be true." She finally answers.
When she kisses you, it's fiercer than you're expecting; a lightning strike, a blow to the heart.
Your teeth come up against hers.
She gasps when you drag her further down to you, greedier than she's ever known, meeting her fierceness with your own, like the clashing of blades, or the destruction of stars.
And you think, if you don't want obedience, then I'll show you.
I'll show you.
***
"What are you playing at?"
Jayce's voice is a vicious little hush in the caverns of the council chambers. Mel has just left you after peaking over your shoulder to view the preliminary sketches.
You lift your head and blink up at Jayce slowly, dragging yourself from your sketch; from your world of art.
(It sets his teeth to grinding because Viktor makes that same look, when he's so deep into his work and Jayce disturbs him. It's a face he finds endearing on both of you, unfortunately. He imagines your minds are in heaven and he's selfish enough to drag you both back down to earth.)
"What do you mean? For the art piece?" You ask, glancing down at your lap, at the series of gestures and lines that you've been lost in. Maybe you're feigning innocence a little. But you want him to say it, if he's going to pick this fight.
Jayce's eyes flash like the too-hot part of the flame.
You have to bite back a smile.
Come on, you think wildly, say it. Let's fight. Here in the chambers, where you try so hard to be their golden boy.
"What are you trying to get out of Mel?" He asks and it makes you laugh outright, because he's dancing around what he really wants to ask.
Your laugh echoes in the hall, bouncing off all this marble and gold. It's out of place here, too loud, too free.
"The better question is what she's trying to get out of me." You say, "do you think I have it in me to manipulate the Mel Medarda?"
He goes quiet at that.
"Are you doing this to get back at me?" He asks after a moment and it's so close to what he wants to ask, so close to what he really wants to talk about.
"She kissed me first." You answer. "Have you had this conversation with her?"
You can tell by the shadow of uncertainty that passes over his face that he hasn't. You stand, easily setting your sketches and pencils aside, and drift nearer to him.
"Oh," you hum, "you didn't know. She didn't mention some plan of seduction to you? Maybe she really does like me."
He rounds on you so sharply that you are genuinely surprised. You gasp when your back hits the wall and he's got you caged in, a snarl on his lips and you finally get to see those teeth of his—
"You just always have to push me, don't you? In all the years I've known you, you've only ever tried to get under my skin. I tried so hard, for so long, for Viktor's sake to get along with you." He says lowly and distantly, you think, does he cage in Mel like this? With his big arms and broad chest? Or does she have him on a tight leash, underneath her?
"This time, I didn't mean it. Surely, you understand—" you say slyly, "when she comes onto you like that, all honey-voiced and half-lidded. She's hard to resist, isn't she?"
The grip he has on your biceps tightens to a point of pain—he'll bruise you. You'll be tender there, where his big hands gripped you, and it only makes you smile.
"Stop it." He snaps.
But you can't help yourself now, because once you've got something between your teeth, you've never been able to let it go;
"I just want to know if she kisses me the same way she kisses you? Does she play nice with you? She's quite fierce with me—"
When Jayce kisses you, it's a crush of aggression.
You laugh into his mouth wildly as he shoves you harder against the wall, teeth mean in the tender part of your bottom lip so that your laughter melts into a groan of pain. Of pleasure.
You claw at his back and wonder if Mel does, too.
You fight and hiss and snarl, show him your teeth when he sinks his into the fluttering pulse at your throat. You try to draw blood. You think he tries to bruise.
And well, you always wanted to see his teeth—
Just never thought you'd end up with a ring of their mark on your neck.
***
You're not really sleeping—nights are long. Days are longer. You're in the studio too much. This art piece is strangling you, wrestling with you and you're losing. Your lovers are strange, demanding types. Jayce comes to you at his lowest, and Mel at her highest. She licks the wounds Jayce leaves on you, purrs about how good you're being for her, goads you into putting up more of a fight that she likes to quell. She asks, have I stolen your bite? Are you going soft on me? Until you try to wrestle with her, too.
Mel subdues you the way snakes do—constricts and tightens and puts all that pressure on you until you just burst.
Until you go slack in her grip.
Jayce takes his anger out on you and he's not so cunning or delicate as her. You think Jayce struggles with you the way he must with his hammers, with high heat and all his strength.
Your art is starting to look like pieces of them; brutal and brilliant and cunning and beautiful. Tricky to capture, even more difficult to mesh together.
You're covered in paint when Viktor comes to visit you, frustrated with the canvas in front of you, which you think you'll end up scrapping again.
(This is the fourth one. You've been trying to fit all the components and pieces together but none of it's working, all of it's a mess. Splintered apart on the canvas. It looks like a disaster on the page.)
"Have you eaten?" Viktor asks as he comes to stand behind you. He gazes at the canvas n front of you.
You sigh heavily. "Have you?" You return.
He snorts at that, "No. I'm coming from the lab and thought I'd check on you—Mel mentioned you were here."
He pauses and then, "that you'd been here. For awhile now."
You hear the layers in his voice; the worry, but then the—
Irritation? Disdain?
"Are you asking me to dinner?" You say instead, dashing the canvas with a sudden great, horrible X. It's your meager attempt at some sort of joke or flirting, but your voice is perhaps too thin for it. You stare at your canvas, now dripping with that great X, the paint slipping down and marring it further.
When you turn to look at Viktor, he regards you warily. He glances at the canvas you've just ruined, and then back to your face.
He takes in your appearance; your disheveled hair and the paint all over your clothes and skin. And then his eyes skip down to your throat, to your arms. All marked up and bruised, unhidden and worn proudly here, in the safety of your art studio.
"Should I be concerned?" Viktor asks instead and you've always loved his bluntness. His lack of tact is like coming home. It's a relief, when you're constantly with Mel and Jayce lately, who talk in riddles and niceties and flowered language that hides their intentions or feelings.
There is a bitterness in Viktor's voice that you know well, too.
"About?" You prod.
"I'm no fool." Viktor answers, "I know you're sleeping with Councilor Medarda."
"Is that all you know?" You return, tilting your head.
"Is there more to know?" Viktor asks, eyeing you.
"Jayce hasn't said anything?"
You watch a strange shadow pass over Viktor's face as he slowly comes to the natural conclusion that you've lead him to. He's right, he is no fool. And then you watch his eyes catch fire, catch jealousy.
"I warned you—" he starts, suddenly.
"And I told you, it's good for the art—" You joke.
"Obviously it isn't!" He snaps, gesturing to the canvas behind you, ruined and glaring at your back. And then he heaves out a rough, agitated breath, dragging a hand through his hair. "Do you ever think of consequences?" He demands.
"Sure," You say, "I'm exactly where I want to be."
"You know, they are my colleagues. What am I supposed to do if—?!"
You laugh at that, enough that it startles him out of his beginning tirade. He comes up short and his shoulders bunch with tension as he glares at you.
"Is something funny?" He hisses.
"Your colleagues?" You repeat, "that's all they are to you?"
"Well—yes, technically." He stumbles on his words here.
"Are you jealous, Viktor?" You ask. "You don't have to be."
"I'm not jealous—" He refutes, even as his cheeks grow ruddy. And for a moment, you could be twelve with him again, his face flush as he looks at you after you'd kissed him for the first time because he'd never kissed anyone before. Or twenty-two and drunk, kissing one night under the stars when you felt so lost and disorientated in the Upper City—just wanted to feel like yourself again.
Or now, at thirty-two, staring at the man you've loved your entire life and whatever mess you've made out of everything.
You reach out and touch his cheek, glowing with color, and at first he winces away, but when you persist, he relaxes. He presses his cheek to your open palm and looks at you; raw and frank and so Viktor that you can't help the faint smile that touches your lips. Even as he frowns at you.
"What are you meddling with?" Viktor murmurs, turning his face into your cupped hand. You feel the faint brush of his lips, a little dry, and soft. Warm.
"Apparently our political landscape." You respond and that at least gets a laugh from him. You feel it against you and some spark shimmers through you, shudders and opens itself to you.
(Your desire for Viktor is something always with you, ambient, perhaps dormant, that always resurfaces like the great fins of some horrible, huge monster in dark waters. Your desire for Viktor is a symptom of your love. You've never know what to call it except that, except his.)
"Have I upset you?" You ask now as his laughter fades, and with it his amusement.
He sighs deeply and you feel his breath against your skin. You draw nearer. He leans back onto his crutch only slightly, only for a moment, before he allows you further into his space.
"I don't—" He struggles for the words before admitting, "yes, somewhat. For some reason."
"Are you feeling neglected?" You ask and try very hard to keep your amusement out of your voice, lest you irritate him further. He's always had a jealous streak in him, even as kids. If you made another friend, he would pout until you draped yourself over him and showered him in your attention again.
Even your previous relationships had bred some sort of jealousy in him; he's never liked any of your partners.
(It's so endearing to you that you have to tuck your teeth into your own lip and hum a little.)
You lean towards him, ducking your head so that your nose dips to brush against the line of his jaw. You feel his body shudder more than you see it. His breath goes tight. Your eyes flicker, a flash in the sun-spun light of your art studio;
"Do you want me to kiss you the way Jayce kisses me?" You murmur, your lips hovering over his. You watch his face gutter, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. His breath goes shallow.
"Or would you prefer Mel?" You murmur, just before you close the distance and kiss him with a certain fierceness, a meanness that you don't usually have with him. He stumbles back a little with the force of it and your hand that had been holding his cheek, slips into the hair at the nape of his neck.
A groan startles out of him when you tighten your hand into a fist and pull.
You part from the kiss, panting a little, and he looks down at you, eyes molten gold and burning.
You're about to kiss him again, when he murmurs, "I want—" he swallows hard, "I want you to kiss me the way you do—I want—"
You press back into him instantly, suddenly overwhelmed with the thought, with the notion that his desire, his jealousy—
You kiss him like you always have, overeager and desperate and messy. You urge him backwards, towards your workbench, all cluttered with paints. His crutch clatters against the ground uselessly as you grab for each other. You knock over a jar of brushes half-haphazardly placed on the floor.
You're overwhelmed with the thought that his jealousy might've been for you, too.
When he braces his hand against your work bench, he knocks over a cup of paint. You laugh into his mouth as you paw at his stupid, perfectly buttoned vest. When he touches you again, he stains you blue—and later red and violet. Burnished gold and paint so silver it makes the stars look dull.
A mess, he tsks, impossibly fond, as he looks at you and himself and the work space.
At all that you'd done.
***
"You've been pulling strings," Mel says as you lay in her lap, letting her pet and stroke you. Her fingers dance over the ridge of your brow.
You blink up at her slowly, eyes fluttering. "Shouldn't that be my line?" You ask.
"I'm not naive to the way you've been pulling our strings." She muses, fingers tumbling into your hair. She's gentle here, careful as she cards her way through your hair, her fingers nimble.
"Pulling strings is a far too sophisticated thing to call it." You snort and lean into her touch like a cat, preening a little.
"What would you call it?" Mel asks and the smile she wears is less of a mystery to you now, and you can tell there's a fondness to it.
(She does really like you—she is really being sincere, you've learned.)
You think about this for a long moment; you toy with saying a fucking mess. Or digging my own grave. But neither feel quite so full—while true, in many ways, there leaves little room for—
Well, this.
The way she holds you. The cat's curl of her smile, pleased and mischievous. Her fingers, gentle and coaxing, urging you to unfurl and bloom.
Or Viktor's rasping laugh that you can pull out of him. The fondness you hold for him like a pearl held inside a clam, growing and glowing. The way you drape yourself all over him, and he accepts it as easy as the day accepts the sun, or the night accepts the moon into its skies.
And even Jayce and the strangled back-and-forth that the two of you dance; it's still yours. It's still his. And the way he cups your cheek admist the violence or how he let's no one speak ill of you in front of him.
(Or the way Jayce and Viktor's minds work together, or how tactical Jayce and Mel can be; sharpened like daggers and twice as pretty. Or the creativity you pull out of Mel, allowing her to see the world like a boundless piece of art. Or the way Viktor's science influences your art; how your art influences his science. The fierceness you bring out in Jayce—the passion he brings out in you.)
It doesn't quite account for all the parts that make you burn and grow and shake out your great, big wings to fly.
Finally, you say, "it feels like I'm trying to find the melodies and harmonies and how they mesh—or the composition of a painting, or the feeling of a poem, but some of the words are still missing. It feels like when I chase art and try to break it open, to reveal what it wants me to learn—or show me."
"Have you figured it out yet?" She asks and she's genuinely curious, almost quiet in her desire to know.
At that, the door creaks open and there are several hushed whispers before Jayce suddenly strides into the room with all the false confidence in the world. Viktor looks sheepish behind him.
You sit up sharply, trying to detangle yourself from Mel.
"I told you they were here—" Viktor hisses to him, "and we shouldn't—we shouldn't be here."
Jayce isn't listening, though, and he's clearly inflating himself to get out, "I've come on important business of the council."
Mel raises her brows and throws you a sideways glance. She then says, "then come in, Councilor, since it's so important that you've come to my personal quarters. Unannounced."
Jayce at least has the good sense to look a little sheepish now, too. You can't help the laugh that springs out of you.
He throws you a dark look before clearing his throat.
"Councilor Haskel and Salo are seeking to strike down the art deal." Jayce announces and your heart drops a little, sinks in your chest.
You look at Mel. She purposefully keeps her face a mask of coolness. She rolls her shoulder briefly, which is your only tell of irritation or concern.
"Come in, Jayce." Mel finally says, "and you, too, Viktor. Shut the door behind you."
Both wander into the space and it's such a surreal moment, all four of you, for once, in the same room, that you can't help but laugh again.
Mel sighs in a way as if to say, I suppose this would happen eventually.
Jayce and Viktor can't quite look anyone in the eye and they both take uneasy seats int he living room.
Again, you feel like laughing—you're not sure what all the trepidation is for. Each of them have you seen you naked; you have seen them naked.
"What's their angle?" Mel asks, ignoring both Jayce and Viktor's shyness.
Jayce clears his throat, "they don't think it's worthwhile to support an artist from the Undercity at this time."
You wince and Jayce adds, "their words, not mine."
"Well, that won't do." Mel tsks and she suddenly moves to stand, graceful as ever, her robes trailing in a wave of silk and the smell of lillies. She likes to pace when she's thinking, and she pads over the window, to look out at the city.
Eventually, she says, "we'll need a grander plan. Something they can't refuse."
"What are you thinking?" Jayce asks.
She turns and all around her, she's doused in gold light, glowing in the evening sun as if she was born to it. "Perhaps combining some science with it." Now she looks at Viktor, "something symbolic to the current advancements with Hextech, perhaps."
Viktor looks at you, then back at Mel, "I can do that."
"Jayce, I need you to talk to the other Councilors and be sure they're not swayed by Haskel or Salo." She then adds, "and I want more publicity around it—and around our artist and scientist."
Our artist.
Our scientist.
"Ah—" Viktor starts, "I don't want to be in the public eye."
Our, our, our.
"It'll put pressure on Haskel and Salo if the people are behind you both, too." Mel presses gently, though her gaze has softened on him; she's sympathetic to his desires.
To assure him, you chirp, "I can do all the talking."
"Not sure that's our best idea." Jayce remarks.
"I am certain I can name several worse ideas of ours." You quip without thinking, and then you toss one of Mel's throw pillows at him; the beautifully embroidered one that's likely far too expensive and made from the rarest threads.
It hits him with a dull thud. And for a moment, he's shocked. The room is silent.
Still, your heart sings our, our, our.
But then Viktor snorts, before breaking out into his low, soft chuckle. And then the twinkle of Mel's giggles, coupled with your own laughter that bursts from your chest like a bird taking to flight.
And Jayce watches a moment, all of you laugh and smile, and if you could paint him in this moment, you would—
A little awe-struck. Tender around the edges, burnished gold. Breath stolen from him.
(Oh, he does really like you, too. All of you.)
But then laughter rumbles from him, too. And the tension slips from all of you, drains from your bodies with each bubbling sound.
And all of them together—finally together—are the melody you've been looking for, the words you couldn't place. The color on the canvas that finally brings it all together.
It's all the broken pieces like a mosaic, finally put together to create something whole.
And it's all ours, you think, the sun a flare of light and beauty bursting through the room, bathing all of your favorite people in it's gold and glory;
It's all ours.
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jackiepackiee · 6 months ago
Text
Telemachus x Apollo Blessed! Reader
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Chapter Two
Masterlist
Prince Telemachus who is favored by Athena with a reader who's favored by Apollo. Both under the guidance of the god and goddess of wisdom and knowledge respectively. One a fierce warrior and the other a lovely musician. Yet complete opposites of their role when it comes to a peaceful artist and intimidating opponent.
An- before you go please consider following my insta @/jackiepackiearts, enjoy!
“Again!” Athena’s voice roared over the training hall, arms crossed over her chest as her head gestured to the striking post.
It was adorned with scars of young and old. First built by Odysseus, Telemachus had found this training room when he was younger and first desperate to follow his father and be a hero.
Now aged, the wood was splintered in some sections that were easily torn by the sword.
But today? Not a single scar on the rough wood was being made. Not while Telemachus was swinging his weapon with less drive than a lamb trying to walk.
Nevertheless, he listened to his patron goddess and swung at the tall target.
Yet again
 not even a chip of wood.
“Athena, I ca-” He began to protest, letting the metal tip of the blade rest on the floor.
Before he could continue, he was cut off by a sigh and strong words.
“No, you can. First part of fighting is knowing you can, or you’re sure to lose if you decide to lose.” She lectured, taking the sword from him and striking the target herself. Splinters of wood coming clean off, flying to the wall away from their abuse.
“Do you think a winner is okay with losing? No.” Continuing, she walked around the hall while putting the sword back on its stand. When she turned around from her fit, all she saw was Telemachus staring at a painted tile wall of his family.
Athena knows that image. One of Odysseus looking at his wife and son with so much love in his eyes one would think Penelope and Telemachus had hung the stars in the sky and saved Odysseus’ life time and time again.
Her reprimanding died down, unable to be harsh to the boy that stood before her. Instead she joined him, by his side while he stared at the colors on the wall that somehow formed his family. A family he didn’t know, with a love he never knew existed.
“Athena?” He asked, voice hesitant in his question.
“No, I don’t know if he’s coming back.” She spoke, sighing at the image.
“That’s not what I was asking.” He murmured. “I mean well
 you’re a goddess and all. So, does love like that truly exist?”
His starry eyes stared at the beauty painting, glimmering tiles from the sun shine.
Before he could speak more of love, she formed a fist and lightly knocked his head.
“Don’t lose your sense, this is battle. You can focus on those types of issues when you can defend yourself.” She stood in front of him. Blocking his view of the painting.
He rubbed his head, squinting at her in slight annoyance.
“I’m getting there
 jeez.” His hand traveled to rest on the back of his neck as he looked up at her. Almost pouting from her words.
“Back to training.”
✩ .  âș   . ✩ .  âș   . ✩ .  âș   . ✩ .  âș   . ✩
Even after his conversation with Athena, he didn’t feel at ease. She wasn’t aware of the restless nights he spent thinking of “love,” and whatever it may entail.
Times like this having a patron god who felt romantic love would be helpful

He stood in his bedroom, looking out the window as the cool air blew in. Arms resting on the windowsill as he let his head stick out into the darkness. Moon shining onto his gold brackets he had yet to take off.
Looking to the ocean that danced in high tide, he sighed out all the air in his body. A breath he didn’t quite remember holding.
But before he could get too deep into his moping, he heard a knock.
“Come in.” He called, turning to face the guest.
Queen Penelope entered, smiling at her son as she quietly placed a piece of parchment on his desk.
“I brought you some new writing materials.” She smiled again, directly at him, before her eyes fully opened to get a look at him.
When she saw her son with slumped shoulders, tired eyes, and a far away gaze she pulled closer.
“Is something the matter?” Questioning him, she joined her hands together in front of her as she looked over him for any visible injuries.
“No mom
 I’m okay.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes correctly and his lips fell flat.
“Was it the suitors?” Her brows pushed downward, grabbing his chin and rotating his face as she inspected for any cuts.
“No, no.” Taking a deep breath, he gently grasped her hand in his and let it down softly at her side.
“Mom
 how did you know you loved dad?” Soft eyes met hers, and they looked just like his fathers. Yet more vulnerable, all the same wanting an answer. He must’ve taken his curiosity after his dad, neither ever satisfied without an answer.
“I just knew. And you’ll know too when you find the right person.” She smiled tiredly, a melancholy expression in her son's distress.
“How can you be sure? What if she doesn’t show up?” He questioned, eyes almost puppyish in their desire for help.
“You’ll find her, dear. She’ll be perfect for you, and that’s all that matters.” Her finger extends and pressed against his chest over to where his heart lived. “Do not try to find a future queen or the most beautiful girl, find the one you love.”
She smiled at him with tired eyes. Voided as she spoke of love. All she could hope was her son would find the love she once knew years ago.
“But you and dad are perfect together from what I’ve heard! How can I live up to that
 to him?” His gentle eyes traveled upward to meet his mothers, squinting with nothing but desire for an answer.
Who would ever have an answer for something as abstract as love?
“You mustn’t try to live up to anything.” She took his head into her hands, curly hair brushed by her nails. “You’ll know. In here,” she pointed at his head, “and here.” And again pointed at his chest.
She pulled him into her chest as she sat on the edge of his bed. He rested into his mother, visibly relaxing at her comfort.
“It’s late, go to bed now.” She hummed, and he left the night behind as his eyes closed.
✩ .  âș   . ✩ .  âș   . ✩ .  âș   . ✩ .  âș   . ✩
The queen walked down the corridor, in an area that was separated from the suitors.
It was a sort of sanctuary for servants and family, always peacefully quiet with none of that buzz from the drunk crowd.
So to hear a soft hum was surprising. Not that she would complain. Even the simple, untrained voice of a young woman kept the song utterly beautiful.
It was soft, and sounded like love of past passions.
“Gods, what is that?” Penelope muttered to herself, not able to recognize the song that sounded of love.
Before the maid could pass her fully, she turned and faced the young woman to get her answer. Inhaling, she spoke gently.
“Excuse me, what was that you were just humming?” She inquired, racking her brain for all the music she knew. Still, nothing came to mind.
The maid looked at Penelope before bowing and keeping her head low. “Just a song from the market, miss.” Biting her inner cheek, she looked back up after she gave her answer.
When she saw the queen's brows furrowed she continued.
“I'm not sure what the name of the song is. But this girl was playing it for all the children in the market, it was just lovely.” She was smiling to herself at the memory, even the thought of the song made the maids face light up.
She continued, “My queen, you would have adored it. The maiden even defended the children from a bitter man.” After realizing her rant, she piped down and went back to her state of polite shyness.
“So it’s a new song?” She questioned further, confused. How could one song sound so familiar
 unless the notes aligned so well it felt nostalgic of emotions in the past.
“That’s correct, I believe.” Nodding, she looked back up to give as much information as possible.
“And maiden, you say?” Taking a step closer, her hand reached to rest of the shoulder of the maid.
“Yes, miss.”
“Walk with me, and tell me about this maiden.”
✩ .  âș   . ✩ .  âș   . ✩ .  âș   . ✩ .  âș   . ✩
It had been a few days since his talk with his mother, but Telemachus couldn’t help the thoughts that pooled in his mind.
It seemed no conversation was helping to ease his thoughts, plagued with anxiety about this concept he didn’t fully understand.
Was he too young to be married? Did he have to get married right away?
Whoever in the Gods would give him this “perfect girl” that his mother mentioned.
It was morning, and he had the habit of eating before everyone else. Meeting the servants in the kitchen as they prepared a gluttonous feast for the bastards in the main hall.
The sun had yet to rise as he bit into an apple, peeling at its red skin while he stared into space.
He couldn’t get his last two talks off his mind. I mean, they were from two totally different people?
One, never in love and the other absolutely enamored. It wasn’t likely either related to him

“My prince? The sun is rising, I suggest you head back to your study before the day's work begins.” The head maid spoke, folding table clothes as she calmly instructed him.
“I didn’t realize the time.” He stood up, leaving the rest of his apple to his pet dog before he left the room. “Thank you!” He called before fully exiting.
The suitors weren’t awake yet, at least not the majority. So he traveled back to the part of the palace in which only he, his mother, and invited guests would stay.
As he turned one of the pillars is when he saw something.
No, he saw someone.
Pausing, he quickly went back behind the pillar to watch.
It was a girl, around his age. Speaking politely with one of the queen’s handmaids, holding a beautiful golden lyre under her right arm.
The sun was shining onto her from the window, making her skin look soft and hair glow in the spots the sun hit hardest. It was gently kissing her face, making each expression all the more beautiful.
It was as if the sun itself had risen just to meet your body and illuminate you for lucky eyes to see.
He was undone.
And you, you stood there with the lyre talking to the handmaiden. Unaware of the cute boy blushing in the next hall.
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