#rich set a fire and he burned down the house | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fanficapologist · 6 months ago

Text

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Eighty-Four

The large hall in Dragonstone was an imposing space, with high ceilings and walls of dark stone that bore the weight of centuries. A massive hearth dominated one end of the hall, its fire blazing warmly, tended by diligent stewards. Lamps hung from iron sconces along the walls, casting a soft, golden glow that flickered as the evening settled in. The sun was setting outside, painting the sky with hues of deep orange and pink, visible through the tall, narrow windows.

In the center of the room stood a long stone table, adorned with an array of food. Platters of roasted vegetables , fresh bread, pies, and soup a were laid out invitingly. The abundance and variety were meant to impress, but to Maera, the smell was overwhelming. Her pregnancy had heightened her sensitivity, and the rich aromas of the feast threatened to turn her stomach. She took a deep breath, steadying herself and attempting to conceal her nausea.

As Maera observed, Hugh and Ulf took their seats at the table. It quickly became apparent they were not of highborn blood. They handled the cutlery with a lack of familiarity, their movements awkward and unsure. Instead of waiting for servants to serve them, they filled their own plates, heaping food onto them with a casualness that spoke of their common origins. There was no pretense of decorum or the polished manners of the nobility, just a straightforward approach to the meal that contrasted sharply with what Maera was accustomed to.

Aemond was the first of the couple to approach the table, his movements precise and deliberate. He pulled out a chair and gestured for Maera to sit, ensuring she was two seats away from Hugh and Ulf. Maera smiled to herself at his slight jealousy, limping slightly as she made her way to the chair. She sat down carefully, grateful for Aemond’s assistance as he pushed the chair in for her.

The Prince then began to serve Maera’s plate before even taking his own seat. He selected a slice of pie and placed it on her plate, but the minute it touched the dish, Maera quietly wretched. Aemond’s concern was immediate, his eye locking onto hers with worry. She shook her head slightly, prompting him to remove the food from her plate quickly.

As her husband took his seat beside her, his posture rigid and formal, Maera picked at the items on her golden plate, choosing the least aromatic items to merely nibble on. She kept a careful eye on Aemond, who was similarly restrained, his wariness evident in the way he handled his knife and fork.

Hugh jumped a seat closer to Maera, his eyes twinkling with interest despite Aemond's efforts to maintain the space between them. He cocked his head, noticing Maera's lack of appetite. “Is the food not to your liking, Princess?” he asked with a teasing smile.

Maera laughed softly, shaking her head. “No, no, forgive my rudeness,” she apologised, rubbing her belly soothingly as she felt the child move beneath her leather dragon riding skirts. Hugh’s gaze lingered on her hand, captivated by the sight. Aemond's glare was sharp and protective, his jaw tightening as he watched the interaction. “The child makes it difficult to stomach certain foods,” Maera added, her tone light but her eyes flicking cautiously towards her husband.

Ulf, seated across the table, leaned forward slightly. “We wouldn’t be very good hosts if the Princess did not eat,” he remarked with a slight exasperation in his voice. “If you could have anything, what would you like?”

Maera’s eyes lit up. “Raspberry tart with custard is my current favorite,” she said almost instantly, a genuine smile spreading across her face.

Ulf nodded, and Hugh rudely barked across the room, “Bring the Princess a bowl!” The servants complied immediately, though Maera noticed a subtle eye roll and a huff from the steward as he exited the room, as well as some glaring at the men from the serving girls. It was clear these dragonseeds were not well liked.

A short while later, a bowl containing the tart and custard was brought in. The tart looked delicious, its golden crust perfectly flaky, while the custard was rich and creamy, its sweet aroma mingling with the tartness of the raspberries. Maera licked her lips, anticipation in her eyes as she picked up her silver spoon to take a bite.

But before the first spoonful could reach her mouth, Aemond’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist firmly. His warning glare spoke volumes, his distrust palpable. Maera looked at him, confused at first, but then understanding his wariness. What if the food was poisoned?

“Oh, for Gods’ sake,” Ulf groaned, rising from his seat and striding over to Maera’s side. He snatched the spoon from her hand and ate the contents, swallowing it down to prove there was no foul play. “See? No poison,” he said, his tone edged with frustration.

Maera sighed, offering an apologetic smile. “Forgive my husband’s reaction. He is just very protective,” she explained, trying to ease the tension.

Ulf nodded curtly, glaring at the one-eyed prince before returning to his seat. “A loyal husband you have there,” he muttered, though the atmosphere in the room had shifted, an awkward tension settling over the table as they continued their meal.

Maera could feel Aemond’s anger simmering beside her, but she forced herself to focus on her food, determined to glean whatever information she could from their hosts.

She knew speaking with Hugh would be more productive than trying to break through the soured demeanor of Ulf. With a warm smile, she turned her attention to the giant and politely inquired about his upbringing. He responded with a hearty laugh, explaining he was raised by blacksmiths and joked how he might have passed for the blacksmith’s true-born son if it hadn’t been for his violet irises.

Ulf scoffed, his expression bitter. He muttered something under his breath about how at least Hugh didn’t have white hair in a family where the seven other children had red hair. Maera chuckled at this, remembering her own upbringing with many siblings, and began to share her past. She spoke of the chaos and camaraderie of growing up in Rain House, recounting funny stories and playful rivalries among her brothers and sisters. Ulf seemed to warm to her, a flicker of understanding in his eyes as he realized she too had been inundated with siblings to compete with.

The atmosphere at the table gradually relaxed as Maera continued her tales. Hugh and Ulf’s rough edges were evident: they talked with their mouths full, reached across the table without hesitation, and displayed a certain honesty in their manner that intrigued her. How freeing it must have been to live without the constraints of highborn etiquette.

Aemond observed the interactions quietly, not uttering a word or eating any food but sipping every so often on his wine. His presence was a silent sentinel, his sharp gaze assessing every move and every word exchanged.

Maera noted the brutish behavior in Hugh, particularly in the way he spoke to the castle staff, barking orders with little regard for their feelings. Ulf, on the other hand, indulged a little too much in the wine, his laughter growing louder and more raucous as the evening wore on. Maera knew these men controlled dragons, and to have them as enemies with nothing to lose would be dangerous indeed.

Once the meal had finished, the wine continued to flow. Hugh and Ulf indulged themselves, their cups never empty as they settled by the hearth. The guests, Maera and Aemond, were invited to join them, but they merely sipped on their cups, keeping their wits about them amidst the increasingly loose-lipped dragonseeds.

As the wine made their tongues more liberal, Hugh and Ulf revealed much about the Blacks’ plans and their own roles in the war. Ulf spoke with a certain pride about how Rhaenyra had encouraged Targaryen bastards to her service, offering them the opportunity to tame dragons and support her claim to the throne. In return, she promised them land and titles once the war was won.

Hugh laughed darkly, recalling how many of those recruited had been burned, killed, or eaten by the wild dragons, leaving only a few bastards still alive. His laughter sent a shudder through Maera. The gruesome fate of those unfortunate enough to fail at taming the dragons highlighted the perilous nature of Rhaenyra’s plan.

The pale-haired bastard continued, revealing that the recent invasion of King’s Landing had been prompted by the death of Jacaerys. Maera’s heart sank with guilt, knowing she had inadvertently contributed to his demise. As a future mother, she couldn’t help but sympathize with Rhaenyra’s pain to an extent.

The giant then explained that Rhaenyra’s strategy to conquer the city included her husband Daemon, her step-daughter Baela, and two dragonseeds, Nettles and Addam, along with all of their dragons. He added that the gold-cloaks remained loyal to Daemon and would assist in claiming the capital. King’s Landing, he boasted, did not stand a chance against such a formidable force.

Maera listened intently, piecing together the gravity of the situation. The hearth’s warmth contrasted sharply with the chilling revelations being laid bare before them. The two dragonseeds, with their uncouth manners and harsh laughter, painted a vivid picture of the brutal reality of the war. Maera’s mind raced, contemplating the dire implications of the Blacks’ plans and the peril that lay ahead.

As the fire crackled in the hearth, Aemond broke his silence with a sharp question. "What did my cunt half-sister ask you to do once I arrived?"

Ulf chuckled darkly, leaning back in his chair. "She asked us to behead you and fly your body to King's Landing to be displayed before the Realm."

Maera felt a chill run down her spine, but she drank deeply from her cup to mask her discomfort. The pale-haired man continued on, explaining once the job was done, he and Hugh were to fly to the town of Tumbleton, a region in the Reach that supported Rhaenyra’s cause.

The giant man, sipping his wine, added, "Rhaenyra sees us as pawns, blindly following orders. She did not anticipate your wife arriving on her own dragon with you, Prince Aemond. Nor was she aware of her grace and charm."

Maera smiled, raising her cup in Hugh's direction. She decided to massage their egos further in order to get more information. Leaning sideways in her seat, she reached out with her hand and danced her fingers along Hugh’s arm. He welcomed the touch, a smirk forming on his lips, while Aemond boiled with rage beside her.

"Why did you not kill us then?" Maera asked, her voice soft and curious.

Ulf scoffed, "It's best to keep our options open."

Hugh nodded in agreement. "Especially after Rhaenyra kept breaking her promises."

Maera noted the bitterness in their voices, recognizing a potential advantage. She maintained her charm, hoping to extract more valuable information. The tension in the room was palpable, but Maera's calm demeanor and strategic flattery kept the situation under control, even as Aemond seethed quietly at her side.

The Princess swilled the wine around in her cup thoughtfully before commenting, "A good queen should not break promises to her subjects without good reason. What was promised to you both?"

Ulf leaned back, a smirk playing on his lips. "I was promised a marriage to Lady Stokeworth and Storm's End, while Hugh was promised a marriage to Lady Rosby and Casterly Rock. But Rhaenyra rescinded the offers after Lord Corlys advised against it."

Hugh scoffed, his expression darkening. "The only reason Rhaenyra gives a shit about the Sea Snake’s opinion is because he threatened to leave after learning of his wife’s death." Maera raised a brow as the giant man took a swig from his cup and then slammed it down in anger. "Not only did Rhaenyra elevate Corlys to Hand of the Queen, but she even legitimized his bastards so he would have heirs to inherit Driftmark. And what did Ulf and I get? Mere knighthoods."

Maera glanced at Aemond, who looked back at her with understanding. There was a clear disgruntled attitude from the men towards Rhaenyra, and both Ulf and Hugh struck them as men motivated by payment rather than honor. This presented a potential opportunity to secure their allegiance.

She smiled gently at the men, her mind working quickly. She needed to tread carefully, but if she could turn their dissatisfaction to her advantage, it could shift the balance of power in their favor. "Promises should be kept, especially to men of your valor and strength," she said, her voice smooth and persuasive.

The Princess heard her husband hum in agreement beside her, his gaze fixed on the flames of the large hearth. He very matter-of-factly told the men, "You were fools to think bastards could hold such kingdoms as the Westerlands and Stormlands."

Ulf glared at the one-eyed prince, his anger palpable, but before he could argue, Maera interjected. "Bastards can rise to high stations in this world," she said, her voice calm yet firm. Hugh cocked his head to the side in curiosity, and Maera continued, "Lord Unwin's bastard brother, Meryn, is a knight. And my uncle Friedrick’s bastard son has become a Maester. And in Dorne…” Leaning closer to Hugh she added in a low voice, "Bastards become kings."

Ulf scoffed, his skepticism evident. "Do you truly believe bastards are worthy of such honors?"

Maera countered quickly, "I believe a good queen should make good on her promises."

Aemond couldn't help but add another dig, "The lords of Westeros would never have accepted you to have claim over Casterly Rock and Storm's End. Mayhaps it was the Blacks' fault for offering such large prizes in the first place."

Maera nodded in agreement, her tone conciliatory yet strategic. "But a more realistic offering with the promise of a secure future? I think that is indeed possible.”

Hugh's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he considered her words, while Ulf's expression remained guarded. Maera knew she had planted a seed of doubt about Rhaenyra's character, and now it was time to nurture it into something more beneficial for their cause.

The pale-haired dragonseed raised a brow and asked, “What are you suggesting?”

Maera turned her head to look at her husband, catching the subtle signs of his irritation—the way his tongue swiped across his teeth, his jaw clenched tightly. She knew Aemond well enough to anticipate that his pride would get in the way of offering the men something they would actually accept.

As Aemond opened his mouth, Maera butted in first, her tone confident. “The war is sure to wipe out many noble houses who have fought against us. When our dragons burn their lords, there will be plenty to offer.”

Aemond’s glare was intense, but Maera ignored it. She pointed at each of the men in turn. “Lord Ulf the White of Horn Hill,” she said, then moved her finger across to the giant. “And Lord Hugh Hammer of Harrenhal.” Maera giggled, adding, “I like how those both sound.”

Hugh’s eyes lit up with interest, a greedy glint in his violet irises. Ulf’s demeanor softened as he considered the offer, the tension in his shoulders easing. Maera could see that the seed she had planted was taking root.

She felt a hand on her leg, lightly squeezing her thigh. Turning, she met Aemond’s stern gaze. He said her name with a warning tone, “Maera.”

She responded calmly, “Even you cannot deny that Vermithor, Silverwing, and their riders would make a great addition to our cause.”

Hugh’s broad face split into a grin, his brutish features momentarily softened by the prospect of power and wealth. “Lord Hugh Hammer of Harrenhal,” he repeated, savoring the title.

Aemond’s expression was unreadable, but Maera could feel the tension in his grip. She had taken a bold step, one that could either secure their allies or incite their wrath. But she believed in the strength of their position and the allure of the promises she made. After a moment, the one-eyed Prince nodded in agreement, indicating his support for her plan.

A contemplative silence settled over the hall, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant calls of Ēbrion and Vhagar. The flickering flames cast long shadows, adding to the heavy atmosphere.

Ulf, still guarded in demeanor, finally broke the silence. "You present a generous offer," he said, leaning forward in his seat, his tone suspicious. "But would you truly entrust such estates to bastards who would betray their original cause?"

Maera was momentarily speechless. He had a good point, and her mask of confidence slipped slightly. Before she could embarrass herself by stumbling over her words, Aemond interjected. "The Realm will never accept a Queen," he stated matter-of-factly. "Rhaenyra will not last long." He tilted his head to the side, his gaze piercing. “Better to be on the winning side with a legitimate claim to the throne, is it not?” He took another sip of his drink, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

Ulf and Hugh exchanged a look, their expressions hard to read. The tension in the room was palpable, each side weighing the implications of the conversation.

Maera promptly rose from her seat, her hand resting protectively on her bump. Aemond stood as well, helping her to stand fully. "We will not trouble you to come to a decision tonight, my Lords," Maera said light-heartedly, trying to ease the tension. "The hour is late."

She politely asked the servants across the room to lead them to a chamber where they could spend the night. The maid and steward nodded, and the guards moved to open the doors of the hall. As they departed, Aemond looked back at the dragonseeds. "I expect an answer on the morrow," he stated firmly.

The dragonseeds watched them leave, the flickering firelight reflecting in their eyes. Maera and Aemond stepped out of the hall, the weight of the night's negotiations still hanging heavily in the air.

“Daor dokimarves pāsagon zirȳ?” You cannot seriously trust them?

The room Aemond and Maera were shown to was modest yet comfortable. A large, canopied bed dominated the space, its dark wooden frame intricately carved with dragon motifs. Rich tapestries depicting scenes of dragon battles hung on the stone walls, adding warmth and a sense of history to the chamber. A fireplace was already lit, casting a soft glow and gentle warmth throughout the room. A small table with a pair of chairs was set near a window, offering a view of the now darkened sea.

Maera assumed this was not Rhaenyra’s or Daemon’s chamber due to its size and simplicity. It lacked the grandeur and opulence expected of the ruling couple’s quarters. Instead, she surmised it was either Prince Jacaerys’s or Prince Lucerys’s old room. This realization made Maera’s heart sink; she had inadvertently caused the death of Jacaerys, and her husband, Aemond, had directly killed Lucerys. The weight of these past actions settled heavily upon her as she moved further into the room. The shadows seemed deeper, and the room, though warm and welcoming, felt tinged with sorrow.

Aemond remained guarded, even as the servants of the castle helped the couple prepare for bed. His watchful eye followed the serving girls closely as they attended to Maera, his posture tense and alert. He was insistent on staying nearby, as if he did not trust the women. After everything they had been through, Maera could not blame him for his wariness.

The One-Eyed Prince did not even wish to speak the common tongue in front of the servants, fearing they might relay any information to the dragonseeds. Instead, he chose to converse with his wife in High Valyrian, confident that the bastards would only know the basic dragon commands and not understand their private discourse.

As he sat on the edge of the bed, his violet eye remained sharp, Maera laughed softly in response to his question as one of the serving girls began to undo her hair, the dark strands falling loose around her shoulders. “Jaesi daor,” Gods no, she replied, her voice light yet tinged with pragmatism.

The other serving girl worked on loosening the strings at the front of Maera's dragon riding gear, careful with each movement. Maera looked at Aemond, her green eyes meeting his intensely. “Yn nyke zoklākogon zirȳ lo īlva skoros īlon jaelagon,” But I shall indulge them if it gets us what we want, she added, her tone firm and resolute.

Aemond's jaw tightened, and he gave a single nod, acknowledging her strategy. The servants continued their tasks, oblivious to the deeper meaning behind the words spoken in the ancient tongue.

As the serving girl undid the final lace at the front of her leather bodice, Maera let out a sigh of relief. Her tender, swollen breasts from the pregnancy had been constrained for too long, and the release brought immediate comfort. The serving girls then guided her to a stool in front of a dressing table. One brushed her hair with gentle, rhythmic strokes, while the other began to carefully remove her boots.

Maera glanced at Aemond, her eyes filled with a mix of sadness and determination. Speaking softly in High Valyrian, she said, “Se oktio iksos ojūdan, Aemond. Nyke gaomagon daor gīmigon se vējes hen aōha lentor. Isse nūmāzma nyke daor naejot pendagon bē.” The Capital is gone, Aemond. I do not know the fate of your family. In truth I am trying not to think about it.

She winced as the servant accidentally knocked her upper arm, before she offered her sincere apologies. Maera nodded with a sad smile before looking at her reflection in the mirror. Her heart ached in that moment, unable to suppress the vivid images that came to her mind. She could almost see the horror on Helaena’s and Jaehaera’s faces, hear the sound of Maelor’s cries, much like the night Jaehaerys was murdered. Silently, she prayed that Thena had managed to get them out safely, sparing them from further horror.

Aemond's face remained stoic, but his eye betrayed a flicker of shared pain at his wife’s words Once her hair was brushed, the serving girl set down the comb and retrieved a folded white nightgown, its delicate fabric a stark contrast to the tension and sorrow in the room. It might have been Rhaenyra’s, adding a layer of irony to the moment.

Maera sighed, the exhaustion of the day and the weight of her burdens pressing down on her. "“Yn lanta tolī zaldrīzoti naejot dohaeragon īlva ērinis sagon beldan.” But two more dragons to help us claim it would be advantageous, she murmured, the pragmatism in her voice a thin veil over her underlying despair.

The Prince nodded, his expression hardening with resolve. “Xaldrīzes kipagīrosi bona daor hen īlva ānogar hinittan naejot emagon sōvegon dāero.” Dragon riders that are not of our blood are dangerous to have flying freely. Before Maera could reply, she yelped out in pain. As the servants peeled off her black leather coat, it quickly became clear that the healing wounds on Maera’s arm had split. The skin was raised and red, her arm and underdress stained with dried blood.

Maera raised her eyes from her wounds to her husband. She could not help but scowl at him; the wounds would not be there in the first place if he had not been so foolish to entertain the witch of Harrenhal. But instead of verbalizing this, Maera hissed in pain before suggesting, “Pār mazverdagon zirȳ hen īlva ānogar?” Then why not make them of our blood?

The servants moved with practiced efficiency, carefully removing her skirts, leaving Maera in her blood-stained underdress, her enormous belly protruding under the fabric. The sight of her wounds reopening filled her with a mix of pain and helplessness, but she refused to let it show too much. She groaned in frustration, noticing the healing wound on her leg had also split open, the blood seeping through the fabric.

The servants moved quickly and efficiently, bringing forth a bowl of warm salted water and setting it aside on the dressing table. Maera sat down, carefully shifting her weight to avoid aggravating her wounds further. The servants began to prepare to tend to her, but Aemond intervened, snatching the rag from one of the serving girls. He submerged it in the water and approached Maera to clean her arm. She flinched, stepping back, refusing to let Aemond touch her. After a moment of tense silence, he handed her the rag, and Maera hissed as she cleaned her arm herself, the salt stinging her wounds.

“Skori se vīlībāzma iksos ērinagon, lo pazavor umbagon, īlon se ābri Baela se Rhaena, se emagon Ulf se Hugh dīnagon.” When the war is won, and if they remain loyal, we should spare the ladies Baela and Rhaena, and have Ulf and Hugh wed them, Maera suggested through gritted teeth as she scrubbed at the skin of her left arm.

She pulled her white dress to the side, rinsing out the rag and dipping it back in the bowl before scrubbing harshly at her left thigh. Aemond watched on, captivated by the sight of her, his gaze intense and unwavering. The firelight cast a warm glow on her figure, highlighting the strength in her movements despite the pain she was enduring. But Maera looked away from him, focusing on the task at hand.

The servants offered her the new nightgown, a soft, white garment that seemed almost out of place in the harsh setting of Dragonstone. As Maera attempted to lift her arms and pull off her underdress, she screeched in pain. One of the serving girls tried to assist in pulling it over her head, but Maera could not cope. She was sweating from the jolts of pain, her breath coming in sharp gasps.

She then felt a strong, warm presence behind her, followed by the unmistakable sound of a dagger being unsheathed. Aemond’s calloused palm rubbed gently down her right arm, a touch that was welcome in this moment of vulnerability. With his dagger, Aemond gently cut the back of her underdress, the fabric falling to the floor in a heap, leaving her curvaceous body bare. He asked her, while remaining behind her, “Ao pendagon Corlys Velaryon mazōregon lī irūdan syt zȳhon jorrāelagon talanni?” You think Corlys Velaryon would accept those terms for his dear granddaughters?

The servants helped Maera into her nightgown, gently putting it over her head and guiding her arms through the holes. The fabric was cool and soothing against her skin, and Maera sighed in relief as the pain subsided slightly. She then turned to her husband and raised her brow, stating with a determined edge, “Konīr kōrī gūrotir syt qrimpālegon.” There are worse fates for traitors.

Aemond’s gaze met hers, a mixture of pride and concern in his eye. The servants offered to assist Aemond in readying for bed, but he merely looked at them with a look that could kill, a low growl escaping his throat. They jumped, quickly bowing their heads to both him and Maera before scurrying out of the room, their footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Aemond dragged one of the chaises across the room to the foot of the bed as Maera sat on the bed, watching him. He removed his long black leather coat, his movements deliberate and precise. “Nyke pendagon se rōva mēre vaoresagon dīnagon ao,” I think the big one would rather wed you, he remarked sarcastically, his tone dripping with jealousy. Maera couldn't help but smile to herself, sensing the bitterness behind his words.

As she settled against the pillows, she watched Aemond slowly unbuckle his doublet. His fingers worked deftly, loosening the clasps one by one. The flickering light from the hearth highlighted the hard lines of his body, the scars that told stories of past battles. Maera bit her lip, feeling a familiar ache. She was mad at him, she hated him, yet she could not help but want him. Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer before she tore her gaze away, adding with a touch of sarcasm, "Kostilus nyke ojenilla zirȳla jorarghutan zȳhon pazavorve,” Mayhaps I should bed him to ensure his loyalty.

She giggled to herself, stroking her swollen belly as the child within her kicked out, a small reminder of the life they had created. When no other laughter came, Maera looked up to see Aemond staring at her, his expression as stoic as ever. An awkward atmosphere settled into the room, the air thick with unspoken words and unresolved tensions. Maera picked at the sheets nervously, her fingers tracing the delicate patterns embroidered into the fabric. The silence was heavy, the only sounds the distant crackle of the fire and the soft rustle of fabric as the one-eyed Prince slipped into a night shirt.

Maera heard the wind rustling through the curtains and glanced out the gap to see the black sky adorned with a canopy of stars. The night was quiet, save for the occasional whisper of the breeze. Turning her gaze back to Aemond, who had settled onto the chaise, she voiced her concern softly, “Lo pōnta gaomagon daor obūljagon, pār skoros īlon gaomagon?” If they do not bend the knee, then what shall we do?

Aemond's response was blunt, his voice carrying a weight of resolve tinged with frustration. “Skoros īlon emagon gaomagon mirros,” What we should have done anyway, he replied, his tone steady but edged with a hint of bitterness. He met Maera's gaze evenly as he continued, “Ossēnagon zirȳ.” Kill them

Maera nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful as she processed his words. It struck her how straightforward it was for Aemond. To him, it seemed, the solution was clear-cut—kill or be killed. It was a mentality that had defined his actions throughout the escalating conflict, a testament to his uncompromising nature. She adjusted her position on the bed, her brown and silver curls cascading over her shoulder, framing her face as she cocked her head slightly to the side.

In that moment, Maera realized anew the stark differences between herself and her husband, particularly in their approach to resolving conflicts and securing alliances. For Aemond, the path forward often seemed paved with swords and bloodshed, driven by a fierce loyalty to his cause and an unwavering determination to uphold his family's honor. As she looked at him, she couldn't help but wonder if there could be another way, one that didn't always lead to violence and death.

During Maera's contemplative silence, Aemond finally broke it, speaking in the common tongue. "I will not find sleep this night," he stated, his voice a quiet rumble in the room. Maera stared at him from the bed, her gaze unwavering. It had been two moons since he had laid beside her, and she still did not feel ready to offer him an invitation to share her bed.

Aemond seemed to understand her unspoken message. He nodded slightly, accepting her silence as a response. "Rest," he told her, his tone softening a fraction. "I will stand watch." With that, he picked up his sword and procured a sharpening stone from his pocket. Settling on the chaise, he began to sharpen the blade with slow, methodical strokes.

Maera lay down against the pillows, pulling the sheet high up to her chin. She watched Aemond for a while, his movements hypnotic in their rhythm. The sound of the blade being honed was strangely soothing, a constant reminder of his presence and his protection. Gradually, the tension in her body eased, her eyelids growing heavy. The steady rasp of the sharpening stone became a lullaby, and soon, Maera's eyes shut, and she drifted into a deep, much-needed sleep.

Notes: Hello! How we all feeling? 🖤 Did we watch episode one? I have many emotions about it 😅 some parts I loved, some parts I did not, and others I thought were not needed. It also kinda felt a bit rushed, and we missed out on so many different scenes I would’ve loved to see (this is coming from the girl who’s written a 100 chapters on a fanfic like 🫠)! But I’m taking it as a positive. I thought seeing the new series would make it hard to write as I would have a difficult time distinguishing the two, but so far so good 👌 and remember friends; it’s 👏 not 👏 real 👏 we don’t need to hate on each other for having different opinions, we don’t need to hate on the actors for how the show is different to the books. If it makes you unhappy, don’t watch it. Same with my fic! You are in control of your own destiny and should let fiction on the internet or TV shows dictate your life 💅🏼

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

88 notes · View notes

callsigns-haze · 5 months ago

Text

Ace of the aces

Eris x Rhysand's Sister!Reader Summary: Eris wakes up alone, realizing Y/N has taken their son, Finna, out for the morning. As he starts a fire and picks up a book, he drifts back to sleep. He wakes to Y/N and Finna returning home with a new hunting hound puppy, bringing back memories of his own twelve hounds from childhood. Warning: Mild language, Brief mention of past trauma. Emotional reflections, MOSTLY PURE FLUFF

*Serves as a one-shot but can be read as memories fade or the sequel loves haze series

Eris loved his little family more than anything, but ever since Finna was born, sleep had become a rare luxury. He shivered awake as the cool November sun peeked through the curtains, casting a soft glow on the room. As he turned over in bed, he noticed the empty space beside him. Y/N wasn't there.

He sighed, pushing himself up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The bed was cold where she had slept, indicating she had been up for a while. Eris stretched, feeling the familiar ache of exhaustion in his muscles. He listened for any sounds that might indicate where Y/N and Finna were, but the house was unusually silent.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Eris stood up and made his way to the nursery. The room was bathed in the soft morning light, and the gentle colours of the walls seemed to soothe his tired mind. He walked over to Finna’s crib, expecting to see his son sleeping peacefully. But the crib was empty.

A jolt of worry shot through him, and he quickly scanned the room. There were no signs of Y/N or Finna. Eris’s heart began to race as he hurried down the hall, checking each room along the way. Finally, he headed to the kitchen, hoping to find some clue as to where they had gone.

On the kitchen table, he spotted a note in Y/N’s handwriting. Relief washed over him as he picked it up and read:

Good morning, my flame. I took Finna out for a walk to let you sleep in. We’ll be back soon. Don’t worry about us. Enjoy your morning off. Love, Y/N and your buddy.

Eris let out a long breath, feeling the tension ease from his shoulders. He smiled to himself, grateful for Y/N’s thoughtfulness. She always seemed to know what he needed, even before he did. Folding the note, he placed it back on the table and went to make himself a cup of coffee.

As the rich aroma filled the kitchen, Eris leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee and thinking about how lucky he was. Y/N had given him the gift of a quiet morning, a rare opportunity to rest and recharge. He took another sip, savouring the moment of peace, and decided to take her advice.

Deciding to make the most of his quiet morning, Eris moved to spark a fire in the living room. He pulled on a thick robe and slippers before stepping outside to gather some firewood. The chill of the November air hit him instantly, making him shiver as he quickly collected a few logs and hurried back inside.

Once back in the warmth of the house, he set to work stacking the wood in the fireplace. With practiced ease, he arranged the logs and kindling, clicking his fingers and coaxing the flames to life. The fire crackled and roared to life, filling the room with a comforting warmth and the familiar scent of burning wood.

Satisfied with the fire, Eris grabbed the book he had been reading from the coffee table. He settled into his favourite armchair by the hearth, the flames casting a flickering glow across the pages. As he opened the book, the quiet of the house enveloped him, creating a perfect cocoon of tranquillity.

He lost himself in the story, the words transporting him to another world. Every now and then, he would glance up at the fire, the dancing flames mesmerizing him. The warmth seeped into his bones, and he felt the tension of sleepless nights slowly ebb away.

The book was a comforting escape, a beloved novel he had read countless times before. Each turn of the page brought a familiar sense of joy, and Eris found himself smiling as he immersed himself in the tale. Time seemed to slow down, the peaceful morning stretching out before him.

Eris couldn't remember the last time he had a moment like this to himself. Between the demands of leadership and the joys of fatherhood, these quiet moments were few and far between. He cherished the solitude, knowing it wouldn't last long but appreciating every second of it.

He read for a while, the fire crackling in the background, the house still and serene. His thoughts occasionally drifted to Y/N and Finna, wondering what they were up to and when they would return. But for now, he was content to simply enjoy the peace and quiet, the book in his hands, and the warmth of the fire beside him.

As Eris lightly drifted to sleep, the warmth of the fire and the cozy chair lulling him into a peaceful doze, he was abruptly awakened by the sound of the front door opening. He heard Y/N's giggling, followed by a delicate bark that made him sit up straight, his heart pounding in confusion.

They didn't own a dog.

Curiosity and a hint of anxiety propelled him out of his chair and toward the corridor. He moved quickly but quietly, not sure what to expect. As he turned the corner, his eyes widened in surprise and a mix of emotions.

There, standing in the entryway, was Y/N, her face lit up with joy as she held Finna in her arms. And beside her, wagging its tail energetically, was a hunting hound puppy. The puppy had the same sleek, powerful build and intelligent eyes as the hounds from the Autumn Court that Eris had grown up with.

Y/N looked up and saw Eris, her smile widening. "Surprise!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with excitement. "I thought you could use a little company and a reminder of home."

Eris was momentarily speechless, his gaze shifting from Y/N to the puppy. The hound looked up at him with curious, bright eyes, and Eris felt a rush of nostalgia and unexpected emotion. It was as if a piece of his past had suddenly come to life in his present.

"Where did you find him?" Eris finally managed to ask, his voice thick with emotion.

Y/N laughed softly. "We found him at a breeder at the market. I couldn't resist. And Finna seemed to love him at first sight."

As if on cue, Finna reached out a chubby hand to the puppy's head, giggling in delight as the hound licked his fingers. Eris felt a lump form in his throat as he watched the scene, the happiness of his family mingling with the poignant memories of his past.

Eris knelt down, reaching out to pet the puppy. The hound responded with a happy bark and a wag of its tail, nuzzling against Eris's hand. It felt like a bridge between his old life and the new one he was building with Y/N and Finna.

"Thank you," Eris said softly, looking up at Y/N with gratitude. "This means more to me than you know."

Y/N's eyes softened, and she leaned in to kiss him gently. "I know," she whispered. "I thought it might."

Eris gathered them all into a hug, his heart swelling with love and appreciation. The puppy barked again, as if to join in the family embrace, and Eris couldn't help but laugh.

"Welcome to the family, little one," he said to the hound, his voice filled with warmth. "You're going to love it here."

Eris watched as Finna continued to bond with the new puppy, his tiny hands grabbing at the hound’s fur while the pup wagged its tail excitedly. The sight tugged at Eris’s heart, bringing a flood of memories from his own childhood, surrounded by the twelve loyal hounds that had been his constant companions.

"I think I'll name him Ace," Eris said softly, a smile forming on his lips. "It's a strong name. Suits him, don’t you think?"

Y/N nodded, her eyes twinkling with stars of understanding. "Ace it is."

Eris knelt down beside Finna, gently stroking Ace’s fur. The puppy responded by licking Finna’s cheek, eliciting a burst of giggles from the baby. Eris’s smile widened, feeling a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in a long time.

As he watched Finna play with Ace, Eris’s mind drifted back to his early years in the Autumn Court. The memory of his twelve hounds was vivid—how they had been his guardians, his friends, his solace in the turbulent court life. Those hounds had understood him in ways no one else could, offering unconditional loyalty and love.

Eris felt a pang of nostalgia mixed with gratitude. He had vowed to create a better life for his own family, free from the shadows of his past. Seeing Finna bond with Ace, he knew he was on the right path. This little hound, named Ace, symbolized not just a new beginning, but a bridge to the cherished memories that had shaped him.

Looking at Finna’s happy face and Ace’s playful antics, Eris felt a surge of determination. He would protect this family with all his strength, ensuring they never experienced the pain he had endured. With Y/N by his side and their children growing up in a loving home, he knew they could overcome any obstacle.

Eris stood up, lifting Finna into his arms and cuddling him close. "Ace is going to be your best friend," he murmured to his son. "Just like my hounds were to me."

Y/N wrapped an arm around Eris, leaning her head on his shoulder. "We’re building something beautiful here, Eris. Our own little piece of heaven."

Eris nodded, his heart swelling with love for his family. "Yes, we are. And I’m going to make sure it stays that way." As the sun continued to rise, casting a warm glow over their cabin, Eris felt a renewed sense of purpose.

Tagging some:

@callsign-magnolia

@kmc1989

@hardballoonlove

@senawashere

@hookslove1592

@marvel-molly

@lucky7rosie

@daughterofthemoons-stuff

@lilah-asteria

@crossfandomslut

@pit-and-the-pen

@inky-sun

@the-sweet-psycho

@why4anne

@bunnyredgirl

@rcarbo1

@pandabiiissh

@adalia-jaycee

@swiftie-4-lifes-stuff

@minaethrym

#eris vanserra #eris x reader #eris acotar #eris x you #eris x y/n #autumn court #eris fanfic #eris imagine #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x you #eris vanserra acotar #eris vanserra fic

67 notes · View notes

real-odark · 8 months ago

Text

kill them with kindness? WRONG! RICH SET A FIRE AND HE BURNED DOWN THE HOUSE🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

#hope no one did this....😓#be more chill #jett talks (me)#jett lyrics (me)#rich goranski #musical theatre #theatre #musical #musicals

140 notes · View notes

doumadono · 1 year ago

Text

Warnings: violence, viking!Dabi, viking!Shoto, earl!Endeavor, viking!Natsuo, fem!reader, smut (short & not graphic), viking themes, Shoto is a spoiled brat

Summary: in a Viking world of power, secrets and warriors, a young woman captured during a raid finds herself entangled in the life of Dabi, the enigmatic eldest son of the ruthless earl. As secrets, scars, and desires collide, their unconventional connection unfolds in a tale of love, danger, and destiny

Word count: circa 5.9k

A/N: for a few years, I've held a fascination with Viking themes and their historical era. Recently, I had the idea to place Dabi in such a setting and see where the story would take me. I sat down to write and found myself falling in love with this new narrative instantly. While it might seem trivial to some, it's already become a precious gem to me. I plan to unravel the story over six chapters. I hope you enjoy the first one, and I'm open to all opinions. If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series, please let me know ♥

MASTERLIST NEXT CHAPTER KVITRAVN - MHA VIKING AU

ACT I - UNMASKING THE SCARS

As the longship glided silently through the dark waters, the moon cast a pale, ethereal glow on the rugged Viking coastline. The scent of salt and adventure filled the night air, and the crew of fierce warriors, led by Dabi, the renegade son of the brutal, ruthless Viking earl, Endeavor, prepared to make landfall.

Dabi, at thirty years of age, bore the marks of a troubled past. Dabi's once-pale skin was now marred by those burns, darkened like a charred log in the heart of a raging fire. His body bore the scars of a fire that had ravaged him in his youth, a cruel gift from his own father, who had attempted to kill him. But it was these very scars that had forged his determination and honed his indomitable spirit. His hair was the color of snow, and his eyes were as blue as the frost-covered sea. He had a reputation as a fierce warrior, known for his ruthless tactics and the way he fought with the fury of a tempest.

The village he came from was a place of cold stone and rough-hewn timbers, where the Viking way of life reigned supreme. The women of the village shied away from Dabi, for his scars marked him as an outcast. He lived a life of solitude, seeking solace in the wild, untamed lands that surrounded their settlement.

Their destination was a small Christian village, nestled among the rolling hills. It had been raided by Dabi's people before, but tonight was different. Tonight, Dabi's heart was restless, and he was inexplicably drawn to the village's fate.

As the Vikings stormed the village, chaos erupted. Houses were set ablaze, and the cries of the villagers filled the night.

The raucous cries of his men filled the air as the village burned and the spoils of their raid were gathered. Dabi stood at the heart of the chaos, an enigmatic figure in the midst of destruction. A faint, unsettling smile tugged at the corners of his lips, hidden beneath the eerie wolf's jaw mask.

He watched with satisfaction as his warriors, his loyal comrades in arms, looted and plundered. The riches of the Christian village flowed into their grasp, their spoils of war. It was a successful trip by Viking standards, a brutal triumph in the unforgiving world they inhabited.

Amidst the smoldering ruins of the Christian village, the Vikings had unleashed their wrath. Blood had been spilled, and the lives of some villagers had been brutally cut short.

But not all of the villagers had met a swift and merciless end. The Vikings, with a calculated eye, had chosen to capture several women and a few men, sparing them from the fate that had befallen their companions. These survivors would serve a different purpose, as slaves in the service of their Viking captors. Among them a young woman. Her hair was the Y/H/C, and her eyes held the innocence of a world untouched by the brutality of the North.

As the raiders dragged the captives away from the charred remains of their homes, the air was heavy with the weight of despair and uncertainty. These men and women, once free, were now prisoners of a world far removed from the peaceful existence they had known. Their lives had taken a harrowing turn, marked by servitude and the harsh reality of Viking conquest.

For Dabi, this decision was not only about power but also about securing the resources and labor needed to sustain their existence in these harsh northern lands. The villagers had been caught in the merciless currents of fate, and their futures were now inexorably tied to the whims of the Viking warriors who had chosen to spare them for their own purposes.

As Dabi inspected the captured men, his gaze swept over the somber group, each face marked by fear and resignation. But then, as if guided by a force beyond his control, his eyes fell upon a young woman. The sight of her took his breath away, and for a moment, he couldn't lie to himself – she was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid his eyes upon.

Despite the dirt, blood, and tears that marred her face, her beauty shone through like a radiant star in the night sky. Her cheeks bore the scars of anguish, her eyes, streaked with despair, created rivulets in the dust and grime that clung to her skin. Her once-neat clothes, now tattered and dirtied, bore witness to the cruel turn of fate she had endured.

Dabi's heart, which had been hardened by the harshness of Viking life, thudded in his chest with a new and unfamiliar emotion. She was a vision amidst the chaos, and in that moment, he realized that there was something more to her than just her physical beauty. There was a strength in her, a resilience that had allowed her to endure even in the face of such brutality.

As Dabi's eyes locked onto her, a strange and unsettling sensation coursed through him. It was a feeling he couldn't quite comprehend, a magnetic pull that defied all reason. In the midst of the chaos and destruction, this woman, captured from the village, appeared before him like an enigma.

Her hair, now messy, and those defiant eyes held a fierce determination that had not been extinguished by the horrors of the raid. She was a picture of vulnerability and strength intertwined, a paradox that captivated his very soul.

Dabi, who had always been driven by the uncompromising resolve of a Viking warrior, found himself unnerved by the intensity of this attraction. He was a man of few words and even fewer emotions, but her presence stirred something deep within him, a longing he could not explain. He questioned the very nature of his emotions, grappling with the unfamiliar warmth that her presence kindled within him, even though they hadn't spoken.

He couldn't tear his gaze away from her. Every time their eyes met, it felt as if the fates themselves had intervened, weaving their destinies together in a tapestry of fire and ice.

Their initial meeting was far from the romantic tales sung by skalds. She was bound and helpless, standing amidst the ash and ruin of her once-peaceful village. Dabi, cloaked in darkened furs, surveyed the captives with an air of detached authority. His icy gaze met hers, a meeting of two souls from opposite worlds. "You," he spoke, his voice as cold as the northern winds, "What's your name?"

The woman's voice trembled as she replied, avoiding looking at him, "It doesn't matter anymore."

Dabi's frustration simmered just beneath the surface as her initial reply didn't satisfy his curiosity. He huffed in annoyance, the cold air from his breath mingling with the tension in the atmosphere. His desire to understand her and the strange attraction he felt only intensified.

Closing the distance between them, he moved with a predatory grace, catching her by the shoulders and forcing her to turn to face him. His grip, firm but not unkind, held a subtle hint of authority. Their eyes locked, his piercing gaze penetrating her soul. "I asked you for your name, woman," Dabi demanded, his voice tinged with impatience. It was a command that brooked no disobedience, his intensity pushing past the boundaries of the tumultuous situation they found themselves in. His own desire to know her name and the unexplainable connection he felt had turned into an obsession, and he needed answers, regardless of the circumstances.

As Dabi's demand hung in the air, she met his unwavering gaze. Her eyes, a mixture of fear and defiance, looked up into his, a silent struggle raging within her. But shortly after, her gaze faltered, shifting to the mask he wore, crafted from the jagged jaw of a wolf. The sight sent a shiver down her spine, a symbol of the fierce, untamed nature of the man who stood before her.

The man, with the mask that lent him an imposing visage, was tall and imposing, easily towering over her. His presence alone was enough to instill a sense of vulnerability in her.

Trembling, she finally surrendered to his demand, her voice quivering as she spoke, "I am Y/N." Her name, offered with a tremor in her voice, was a fragile gift, a shard of her identity laid bare in the face of the formidable Viking who had claimed her as his captive.

For the next two days, the Viking raiders worked tirelessly to pack the spoils of their conquest onto their longships.

Dabi, ever the watchful leader, stood guard over the entire process, ensuring that the riches plundered from the Christian village were securely stowed away. The village's treasures, from precious metals to food supplies, were meticulously organized and divided amongst the victorious Vikings.

The night of their conquest, the Vikings celebrated their successful raid with an infernal party. Driven by the spoils they had claimed, they emptied the Christians' pantries of beer, meat, and mead. The sound of merriment echoed through the night, a stark contrast to the sorrow that had befallen the captured villagers.

However, amidst the revelry, there were dark moments that marred the festivities. Some of the Viking warriors, fueled by intoxication and the ruthless nature of their world, committed terrible acts upon the captive Christian women without their consent. It was a grim reminder of the brutality that often accompanied such raids, where power and desire clashed with the innocence of the conquered.

Dabi, torn between his leadership role and the strange attraction he felt for one of the captives, observed the chaos with a heavy heart. The celebration, for him, was a juxtaposition of the jubilant and the sinister, a reflection of the duality that defined their lives as Vikings.

After days of tireless packing, the Viking raiders were finally ready to set sail for their homeland. The longships, laden with the spoils of their conquest, were now prepared to embark on the journey back to the rugged shores they called home.

Dabi took his place at the bow of his longship, a position of command and observation. His keen, turquise eyes surveyed the captivated people who had survived the ruthless acts of the past nights. They were a motley group, marked by both the physical and emotional scars of the raid. Some carried the burden of their violated dignity, while others were haunted by the loss of their loved ones and the destruction of their once-peaceful village.

The longship that Dabi commanded was the largest among the six that had come to the shore. It loomed like a dark behemoth against the horizon, its figurehead carving through the waves, a symbol of the Viking's ruthless power. Dabi watched as the captives, those who would serve as slaves in their new life, reluctantly boarded the vessel. It was a moment that carried with it a sense of foreboding, a step into the unknown, as they embarked on a perilous journey to a life that was bound by the harsh code of the Viking world.

Dabi's keen eyes never left the captivating young woman named Y/N as she hesitantly approached the longship. She was one of the last to board, and her trembling form didn't escape his notice. She might have tried to mask her fears with a poker face, but the vulnerability that emanated from her was unmistakable.

A faint, almost smug smirk played at the corners of Dabi's lips. He knew that Y/N was not going to be easily sold in any market or to another earl. The strange attraction he felt for her had ignited something within him, a desire to protect and possess her. He understood that she was unique, an enigma amidst the other captives, and he was prepared to put pressure on his father to ensure she remained with their family in their Great Hall.

The journey back home was arduous and relentless, the Viking longships battling through raging storms and colossal waves that crashed against their sides. The tempestuous sea was a cruel reminder of nature's might, a fierce adversary they had to contend with on their voyage.

For days on end, they sailed through the tumultuous waters, each day bringing new challenges and peril. The crew worked tirelessly to navigate the treacherous waves, their lives intertwined with the unpredictable whims of the sea. The longships, laden with their ill-gotten gains, were tossed like leaves in a tempest, and the thunderous roars of the ocean were their constant companion.

Dabi, despite his role as a leader, occasionally took walks along the longship to check on his comrades. It was an excuse, he told himself, but the truth was that he sought to steal moments to take a closer look at the captivating young woman named Y/N. She was bound to a mast, her body curled in a defensive posture, a vulnerable figure amidst the chaos.

One night, as they braved the wrath of the sea, Dabi stood close to the place where Y/N was tied. He leaned against the side of the boat, his arms crossed, gazing into the darkness that enveloped them. The crashing waves and the howling winds created an eerie symphony, but his focus remained on the woman who had become a focal point of his thoughts.

"I was curious how," Dabi's voice suddenly pierced the silence.

Startled, Y/N was pulled out from a shallow slumber she had allowed to envelop her. She blinked, momentarily disoriented. "What?" she asked, her voice trembling with a mix of exhaustion and apprehension.

Dabi, who had been standing nearby, turned his gaze toward her. "How do you know our language?" he inquired, his words delivered with a curious, almost neutral tone. It was a question that had been gnawing at him, the mystery of her familiarity with their Viking tongue.

Y/N hesitated, her thoughts racing as she grappled with how to respond. The truth was a delicate matter, a secret that she had guarded with her life. "My father was a Northman," Y/N replied, her voice carrying a note of bitterness, "and as long as he was around, he was teaching me some things."

Dabi's response was not immediate, and in the dim light, his smirk was concealed by the wolf's jaw mask he wore. The revelation intrigued him, and the knowledge that she had learned their language from her Northman father added another layer of complexity to the enigma of Y/N. It was a connection he hadn't anticipated, a bridge between their two worlds that he had yet to fully explore.

"What are you going to do to us?" Y/N asked suddenly, the uncertainty in her eyes betraying her anxiety.

Dabi sighed heavily and walked closer to her, resting his hip against the mast to which she was tied. "You'll work for us," he replied simply, his tone carrying a hint of slyness.

Y/N's expression darkened as she processed his words. "So, we're going to be your slaves," she said with a tinge of bitterness, "a beautiful perspective."

Dabi chuckled softly, the sound muffled by his mask. "Well, we Vikings have a different way of looking at things, you see. You'll find our 'perspective' quite interesting, I assure you."

"Why us?" Y/N asked, curiosity mingling with her apprehension.

Dabi's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Your village was raided before, and you happen to possess a huge amount of goods we needed," he replied, the slyness in his voice becoming more apparent. "You could say it's just a matter of unfortunate circumstances."

"You're a monster. You all are. You killed innocent people!" Y/N ground the accusation from the depths of her mind.

Dabi chuckled darkly, his head tilting back slightly. "We? Oh no, sunshine, we're not monsters," he retorted, his voice dripping with a chilling nonchalance. Dabi leaned in closer to Y/N, his voice low and filled with an air of mystery. "You see," he began, a hint of smugness in his tone. "We are Vikings, warriors of the North. Our ways are brutal, but they're also fiercely proud. We live by the sword and sail by the stars. Our world is one of conquest and survival, where strength and cunning are the ultimate currencies." Dabi paused for a moment, as if considering whether to reveal more. "And you, Y/N, have found yourself caught in the wake of our world. Your journey is now intertwined with ours, and how it unfolds, well, that remains to be seen."

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of the unknown.

Dabi's sharp ears caught the sound of Y/N's quiet sobs, and he turned his gaze toward her.

Her words, filled with pain and anger, washed over him. "I wanna rather die than be a slave," she lamented, "you're animals, killing and robbing for fun. I'll never forgive you for killing my friends."

He let out a low, almost amused chuckle, a sound that resonated with a kind of sly arrogance. "Animals, you say?" he responded, his voice carrying a note of mockery. "Perhaps, but in our world, it's the fittest that survive. We aren't much for sentiment, and the reality is, we did what we had to do to ensure our own survival." Dabi's gaze remained fixed on her, and his tone took on a more cryptic edge. "As for forgiveness, sunshine, that's not something I'm particularly concerned about. We live by the code of the North, and it's a world where the line between predator and prey is often blurred. It's a harsh existence, but it's ours."

As the Viking longships sailed southward through the tempestuous sea, they finally reached their home village, known as Skjaldvargr nestled on the southern shores of Norway.

The arrival of Dabi and his crew was met with a raucous reception. The people of Skjaldvargr, mostly guards and shieldmaidens, had been eagerly awaiting their return. The shieldmaidens, with their fierce eyes and battle-worn armor, stood proudly alongside their male counterparts, a testament to the equality that defined Viking society.

The village came to life with the clanging of shields and the joyful cries of reunion as the raiders disembarked, their ill-gotten treasures in tow. It was a homecoming marked by the spoils of their conquest and the triumphant return of their warriors, a scene that underscored the unyielding spirit of the people of Skjaldvargr.

The longships were expertly unloaded, and the captivated men and women were carefully escorted off the vessels. They were bound together, forming a dispirited line, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and resignation. The captives from the Christian village now stood on the wooden pier, their lives forever changed by the Viking raid.

Dabi was the last to disembark. As he stepped onto the pier, the people of Skjaldvargr erupted into cheers. His name carried weight in the village; he was known not only as a fierce Viking warrior but also as one of the heirs to Endeavor, their ruthless earl. His presence was a symbol of power and authority, and the villagers greeted him with a mixture of reverence and admiration.

The triumphant return of Dabi and his crew marked a momentous occasion in the life of Skjaldvargr, where the spoils of their conquest and the legend of their daring deeds would echo through the halls of their Great Hall. The fate of the captives, bound and silent, hung in the balance, as the world of the Northmen unfurled before them.

Among the men and women on the shore, there was a tall, white-haired male with a thick, long fur draped around his shoulders, a figure that stood out amidst the assembled Vikings.

Dabi approached the man and wrapped him in a warm hug. "Natsuo, brother," he greeted him with a grin that couldn't be seen behind his mask.

Natsuo, the younger of the two, returned the hug, placing his hands on Dabi's shoulders. "Looking good and returning successful again. Wonderful," he replied with a hint of admiration in his voice. He stepped back, taking a moment to study his brother. "But what's all this fuss about a Christian village?" he inquired, his curiosity evident. "You've got everyone talking."

Dabi's smirk only widened as he regarded his brother. "Oh, Natsuo, it's a long story. Let's catch up over a drink at the Great Hall. I have quite the tale to tell."

The brothers shared a knowing glance, the unspoken understanding between them evident in their eyes.

Dabi wasted no time in issuing his orders to one of his men. "Make sure the Y/H/C woman is not sent to the market but is brought straight to the Great Hall," he commanded, his tone devoid of any room for discussion.

His bondsman, ever dutiful, nodded in acknowledgment of the directive.

Natsuo, wearing a mischievous grin, couldn't resist teasing his older brother about the mysterious woman. "Dabi, she must be quite the catch if you're keeping her for yourself," he said, his tone laced with amusement. "Hope you're going to share a little!"

Dabi scoffed, playfully shoving his brother's shoulder. "Don't be absurd, Natsuo. She's just a captive from the Christian village. I've got more important matters to attend to," he replied, his tone gruff but carrying a hint of a secret smile. "Now, off to the Great Hall. Father is likely impatient for the reports."

The banter between the two brothers continued as they made their way to the heart of Skjaldvargr, leaving behind the captivated woman who had captured Dabi's attention and a tale that had yet to fully unfold.

His hips moved with swift and forceful determination, and the woman beneath him found herself panting and moaning his name in response. With a final series of intense grunts and thrusts, the young man with distinctive two-coloured hair reached his climax, giving one last deep thrust into the girl, spilling his seed in her.

She gently placed her palm against his cheek, her touch brushing over a scarred, reddened area under his left eye. However, her hand was met with a swift and firm push as he growled, withdrawing from her and hurriedly adjusting his pants.

"No," he snarled, pushing her off his bed with ease. "Get the fuck out now," he demanded, his tone filled with a brusque and dismissive edge.

"But you told me you liked me and that we'd have more time together," the young thrall whispered softly as she gathered her clothes from the wooden floor.

The young man's chuckle was cold and devoid of genuine emotion. "Are you that naive?" he sneered, "I only wanted your pussy, nothing else. Get out of my bed before my father or older brother catch you. You don't want to find yourself in trouble, do you?"

The thrall, disheartened and regretful, quickly dressed and left the room. She entered the main chamber of the Great Hall just as Natsuo and Dabi stepped through the massive doors.

Their father, Endeavor, the fearsome earl of Skjaldvargr, was seated at the throne at the end of the chamber, grinding his axe. His stern gaze bore into his eldest son as they approached, a silent expectation for a report on their latest raid.

"The raid on the Christian village was a resounding success. We looted their coffers, took their goods, and brought back valuable supplies that will sustain our village for the winter. The riches we've acquired are beyond our expectations."

Endeavor nodded, acknowledging the information. "Any captives?" he inquired, his eyes scrutinizing his son.

Dabi continued, "We have several men and women who will serve as thralls. We've also secured a Y/H/C woman who is very unique, father. She possesses knowledge of our language, and I've made the decision to keep her within our Great Hall rather than sending her to the market."

He listened to Dabi's report with a stern demeanor, his eyes narrowing as his son spoke about the captive Y/H/C woman. When Dabi finished, the earl's voice held a note of warning. "You know that you shouldn't be making such decisions without my consent," he admonished, his tone heavy with authority. "But this time, I will let it slide."

Inside, Dabi couldn't help but heave a silent sigh of relief. Endeavor's leniency meant that he would have the opportunity to interact with Y/N more freely, a chance to explore the mystery and attraction that had drawn him to her during the journey home. The knowledge that he wouldn't face immediate consequences for his impulsive decision filled him with a sense of gratitude, even as he maintained his outward composure.

Natsuo, on the other hand, took a seat at the long table, where freshly cooked meat was being served by their thralls. He joined the warriors who had gathered to eat, listening to the tale of their successful raid with a satisfied grin. The sounds of feasting and celebration filled the Great Hall, a stark contrast to the darkness and secrets that had transpired on the longship during the journey home.

As Dabi stood in front of his father, a sudden presence caught his attention. A young man with two-colored hair, neatly groomed but slightly untidy now, had joined them. It was Shoto, Dabi's youngest brother, who had recently celebrated his eighteenth spring. His appearance and demeanor appeared deceivingly innocent, but Dabi knew that his younger sibling was not to be underestimated.

"So, you've returned, brother," Shoto said, his tone dripping with feigned sweetness. He offered Dabi a smile that was almost too saccharine, given the complexities of their family dynamics.

Dabi acknowledged Shoto with a nod, a sense of unease brewing beneath the surface.

Shoto turned his attention to their father, Endeavor, his voice carrying a subtle air of request. "Father, this winter, I want to visit Earl Gizzor's settlement, as we discussed. It's crucial that we maintain good relationships between our settlements."

Dabi furrowed his brow, disbelief tinging his words. "What? How do you intend to do that? We've declared war on them."

Shoto maintained his sweet smile as he responded, "While you were away, brother, father and I reached an agreement. We've decided that it's no longer necessary to wage war with Earl Gizzor. Instead, we've buried the hatchet."

Dabi was taken aback, struggling to process what he was hearing. Earl Gizzor was known to be a man of dubious trustworthiness, and the sudden reconciliation with him left a bitter taste in Dabi's mouth. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss, and the unexpected alliance between his younger brother and their father raised more questions than it provided answers.

Endeavor nodded in agreement with Shoto's proposal, adding his voice to the conversation. "Shoto is right, Dabi. Maintaining alliances and peace with neighboring earls is essential. We can't be at war on all fronts."

Dabi, with a simple nod of acknowledgment, turned to leave the throne area of the chamber. However, before he walked away, he caught Shoto's shoulder, his grip gentle but firm. "You have a fucking sperm on your pants, you little bastard," he grumbled, his voice low and filled with a blend of irritation and brotherly mockery. "Which poor thrall have you managed to lure into your charms this time?"

Shoto, not one to be easily cowed, replied in a wry and cocky whisper, ensuring their father couldn't hear, "You're always looking so closely, brother. Some of us don't need a mask to be charming. If you looked look like a real man, you wouldn't need to be envious of my romantic pursuits," he quipped, a glint of mischief in his eyes as he took a not-so-subtle dig at Dabi, looking him hardly in the eyes.

Their exchange, hidden beneath the veneer of family respect and decorum, hinted at a deeper sibling rivalry and a history of conflicting personalities. The tension between Dabi and Shoto was a thread woven into the very fabric of their family.

Dabi's patience worn thin by the exchange with Shoto. He scoffed and let go of his younger brother's arm. He turned and made his way straight to his chamber, his footsteps heavy.

Natsuo, who had been a silent witness to the situation between his two brothers, watched with a heavy heart. He loved them both and couldn't bring himself to pick sides, but the tension in the air was palpable, and he worried about the growing rift between Dabi and Shoto.

In his own chamber, Dabi wasted no time. He shed his outer layers, discarding the fur, the mask, woolen shirt, and pants until he stood naked in the room. He flopped onto his bed, which was covered with furs, and stared at the ceiling. His mind was filled with thoughts about everything that had transpired during the days, and he couldn't help but wonder about Shoto's intentions and the potential consequences of their father's newfound alliance.

After some contemplation, he decided to take a bath to clear his mind. Dabi wrapped a towel around his hips and called for one of the thralls to prepare a hot bath for him.

As the thrall prepared the bath, the steam filled the room, creating a cozy and relaxing atmosphere. Dabi wasted no time and immersed himself in the hot water of the wooden tub. The soothing warmth seeped into his muscles, and he leaned back comfortably against the edge, closing his eyes.

The scent of the bath's herbs and oils mixed with the steam, creating a fragrant haven that allowed Dabi to momentarily escape the complexities of his world. With each passing moment, the tensions seemed to melt away, leaving him in blissful solitude and the serene embrace of the soothing bathwater.

As you were brought to the Great Hall, everything appeared new and unfamiliar. Fear coursed through your veins as you found yourself surrounded by strangers, most of them men whose eyes bore into you with an unsettling hunger. The air was thick with whispered, lewd comments, but you did your best to avoid drawing attention, keeping your gaze lowered and your composure intact.

Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, an older woman, a thrall who had been through similar experiences, extended a hand to guide you away from the prying eyes. She offered a reassuring smile as she took your hand and spoke in a soothing tone. "Come with me, child. I'll explain your new duties and help you settle in," she said, her voice filled with empathy. "You'll find your place here, and in time, it will become more familiar."

Her words provided a glimmer of hope in the midst of your fear, as you followed the thrall to begin your new life in the Great Hall, embarking on a journey that held both uncertainty and the possibility of finding your own strength in a world of unfamiliar faces and customs.

The thrall, as she handed you a plain, thick, greyish dress, began to speak about the members of the earl's family. Her voice was gentle and informative, and you listened attentively, eager to learn more about the people you would be serving. In the end, it was your new life.

She explained, "The earl is Endeavor, a formidable leader and the head of this settlement. He's known for his strength and authority, but also for his ruthlessness."

You nodded, taking in the information, and she continued, "Touya, the eldest son, is a fierce warrior, and he's known for his prowess in raids. His younger brother, Natsuo, is more diplomatic, often seeking peaceful resolutions. The youngest of Endeavor's sons is Shoto," the thrall continued, her voice carrying a more cautious tone as she spoke of him. "He can be the most problematic one, especially when it comes to his affairs." Her words were filled with a hint of warning. "Shoto is known for his charisma and charm, but don't be fooled. He's a smooth talker and has a way of getting what he wants." She leaned in closer, her eyes narrowing as she emphasized, "Be careful around him, dear. He may seem charming, but his intentions can be far from virtuous."

Overwhelmed by the realization that you had been reduced to nothing but a slave, a feeling of hopelessness and anger welled up within you. You turned to the elder woman and, with a hint of defiance, you declared, "I don't want to work. I won't be a slave."

The thrall, her expression heavy with the weight of harsh reality, looked at you with a stern gaze. She leaned in closer, her voice low and foreboding as she whispered, "You don't have a choice in this matter, my child, so hadn't I. If you refuse to work, you won't survive for long. This is the way of our world, and it's a harsh one. I arrived here several years ago, after being taken from the settlement of another earl who was killed in a battle with Endeavor, and ever since, I've been toiling for the earl's family. The tasks are far from rewarding, but such is the way of life," she explained, her voice tinged with resignation.

As you inquired about the tall man who cnquered your village, the thrall's eyes held a certain intensity, and she clarified, "It was Dabi. Dabi is his chosen warrior name. His given name is Touya."

You had obediently completed your first task of cleaning the Great Hall, even though it felt like a menial chore that reflected your new life as a thrall. However, when another thrall instructed you to go to another room to help with the bath, you complied without question. With a heavy sigh, you followed the directions and pushed open the door.

As you stepped into the room, a rush of steam enveloped you, carrying a fragrance of herbs that filled the air. Your brow furrowed in surprise, but before you could react further, the steam dissipated. What lay before you was a scene that caught you off guard: a large bed and clothes, and a mask that you recognized from when Dabi had worn it.

Then, your eyes fell upon the figure in the bath, and a gasp escaped your lips, a sound you couldn't control. You took an involuntary step back as the sight unfolded before you. The man in the bath was Dabi, his body covered with a patchwork of purple, dark, scarred skin. These gnarled, wrinkled, and disfigured patches marred much of his lower face and neck, extending past his collarbone, and continued down his arms and legs. Your whimper of shock hung in the air, and you couldn't help but take another step back, horror etched on your face. It was the first time you saw him without a mask.

Dabi's turquoise eyes opened slowly, and he gazed at you with a haunting intensity. "That's you," he whispered, a quiet acknowledgment of your presence, his voice tinged with a hint of mystery and a deep well of secrets.

As the realization of Dabi's disfigured appearance settled in, the room seemed to grow heavy with tension. Your initial shock gave way to a mix of empathy and curiosity, wondering about the circumstances that had led to such extensive scarring.

The room, suffused with the aroma of herbs, steam and the eerie sight of his scars, seemed to cradle you both in its embrace, marking a pivotal moment that was only beginning to unfold.

heathen wolves: @indignant-alpaca @misafiryanki @roast-toast @within-eyesight @crystalwolfblog

351 notes · View notes

drinkabletoxicdishsoap · 23 days ago

Text

If Dev ever does get redeemed in season 2 (PLEASE WATCH FAIRLY ODD PARENTS A NEW WISH WHEN IT DROPS ON NETFLIX NOVEMBER 14), I NEED to see Jasmine and Dev interact as friends 😭 We know how he feels about Winn (he thinks they’re really cool) and we DEFINITELY knows how he feels about Hazel 💀 but I don’t really think we got any interactions or like any mentions about how he feels about her in like any episode besides maybe him introducing Hazel to everyone?? I could be missing something and if I am please correct me!

In my personal opinion, I feel they’d be gossip besties?? I could definitely be reading into Jasmine’s character wrong and if I am, I apologize but I desperately need interactions with them 💔 they remind me of that one Henry Danger Musical song 😭 I think it’s called You’ll Never Believe What Happened (I’ll copy and paste the lyrics to match them and the situation)

Dev: Sorry it took me so—

Jasmine: Ooh, Dev, you'll never believe what happened!

Dev: No, I know.

Jasmine: There's a musical curse over Dimmadelphia!

Dev: Yeah, I know.

Jasmine: And you'll never believe who did it!

Dev: Irep? (I couldn’t think of a better replacement 😭)

Jasmine: Irep!

Dev: Yeah, I know.

Jasmine: Ooh, Dev, you'll never believe how he did it!

Dev: The speakers.

Jasmine: He took control of the speakers.

Dev: Yeah, I know.

Dev & Jasmine: And then put out a weird kind of frequency and now we have to sing!

Dev: Jasmine!

Jasmine: Yeah?

Dev: Thanks for filling me in.

Jasmine: Sure!

They also remind me of the smartphone hour if we’re going the gossip bestie route:

Jasmine: O-M-G Dev, answer me! Woah, wait until I tell you what I heard! It's too fucked to type. This shit is ripe! Call back, I'll yell you every word.

Dev: Jasmine Tran calling, Jasmine Tran calling, Jasmine Tran calling. Hey!

Jasmine: Oh my God, oh my God, okay so, at the end of last night's party, very end of last night's party, Did you see Rich? (I couldn’t think of a replacement ☹️)

Dev: Oh, I saw Rich.

Jasmine: So he's behaving hazy like a tweakin' junkie, flailing crazy like a freakin' monkey!

Dev: He's gotta learn to handle his high, shouldn't drink so much for a small guy.

Jasmine: Right, but, he wasn't drunk.

Dev: The hell you say, Jasmine?

Jasmine: Yo, he wasn't drunk!

Dev: The hell you say, Jasmine?

Jasmine: No! Because I heard from Whispers Fred (I tried to think of a good replacement), that Rich had barely touched a drop. Which means that you can't blame the things he did on alcohol. It's just so terrible, I don't want to relive it all! But do you want me to tell you?

Dev: Spit it out! Spit it out!

Jasmine: You really want me to tell you?

Dev: Spit it out! Spit it out!

Jasmine: I'll tell you 'cause you are my closest friend!

Dev: No I'm not.

Jasmine: Yeah, I know. But here's what happened at the party's end. Rich set a fire and he burned down the house! Woah! Rich set a fire and he burned down the house! Ohh, I thought I was dreamin', everybody was screamin', when Rich set a fire and he burned down the house! When Rich set a fire and he burned down the house!

Sorry for another very long post but thank you so much for reading <3 I hope you have a great day or night!

#fop a new wish #fopanw #dev dimmadome #jasmine tran #greenlightfopanws2 #song lyrics #I swear guys they’d be best friends trust!!#I’m so desperate for dev interactions #hazel wells #winn harper #mentioned #my first non crossover post yay!!!#dishie posts #musical lyrics #sort of

28 notes · View notes

olivialau · 2 months ago

Text

Shadow's Embrace Ch.29

Sukuna x Reader

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fanfiction based on the universe of "Jujutsu Kaisen," created by Gege Akutami. The original manga, anime, and characters belong to their respective owners and creators.

Notes:

This story unfolds in the Jujutsu Kaisen world, set in a slightly altered universe where Sukuna inhabits his own vessel distinct from Itadori Yuji's body, making him a separate entity.

Summary:

Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses, becomes fascinated with a female sorcerer rich in potential but lacking control. Initially seizing her for his destructive plans, Sukuna aims to bind her abilities through a contract. Yet, as he tries to dominate her, he finds himself intrigued by her strength and determination. Over time, his interest evolves from strategic advantage to a deeper, personal connection.

---------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER 29 - The 5 Stages of Drinking Alone

That night marked the second time you had cooked for Sukuna.

The rich aroma of stir-fried beef and vegetables simmering in a spicy, savory sauce prickled at your nose as you set the knife down on the counter with a soft clink.

You tuned the faucet, letting the hot water run over your hands, so lost in thought that you hardly noticed the heat nearly burning the tips of your fingers.

The whole day you'd been mulling over how comfortable this all felt, how familiar—when it absolutely shouldn't.

You had put in a lot of effort, going as far as preparing an assortment of side dishes that you had meticulously arranged on the coffee table. And honestly, it was mostly due to the thrill of finally eating something other than overly salted, greasy takeout for the first time in days.

But there was also the fact that you would be sharing this meal with Sukuna...

Let’s just say you didn’t hate the idea.

It was ridiculous, really—you didn’t even know if he was serious about you keeping your end of the bargain. Yet, the desire to impress him was so persistent, so undeniable. You imagined his brows unfurling, his hands unclenching, his eyes widening slightly in surprise at the taste. You wanted him to soften toward you, to see you.

You craved it so intensely that you barely felt guilty about cooking for a monster like him, using ingredients bought with stolen money, in an apartment where you were essentially confined.

And you hated him for that, you truly did.

Though, perhaps it wasn’t even him you hated, but rather, the impenetrable block of ice around him. Or even more fittingly—the raging fire that burned everything in its way.

You knew extinguishing that fire was an impossible dream, a goal forever out of reach. But maybe, you could contain it, shrink it from a forest blaze into something smaller, something more manageable, like a house fire. Maybe then, wanting him wouldn’t seem so foolish. Maybe then, reaching for him wouldn’t feel so impossible.

They do say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, so it was worth a shot, right?

You left the pan on a low simmer as you waited for Sukuna. Despite his completely erratic personality, you'd noticed over the past few days that he returned home at almost exactly 8 p.m. every night.

So you'd started preparing about an hour in advance, and sure enough, at five minutes past eight, the door swung open.

Sukuna walked in, with a black undershirt clinging to his muscular frame, and his robe slung casually over his shoulder. He sniffed the air, his gaze tracking down the source of the aroma. As his eyes landed on the bowls and plates you had arranged on the small table before the couch, his brow arched in surprise.

Maybe he hadn’t expected you to follow through on your promise. Hell, maybe he didn’t even want you to. The sudden rush of anxiety that came over you was laughable. You hated how easily he could make you feel like this—anxious, second-guessing yourself.

From the corner of your eye, you tracked his movements as he strode past the kitchen, completely ignoring you. Without a word, he disappeared into his 'quarters,' slamming the door shut behind him.

You cringed. Great. This was embarrassing, but you weren't going to let him ruin this for you. You deserved to enjoy this meal with or without him.

Grabbing the kitchen tongs, you scooped a generous serving into your bowl of rice. But just as you were about to sit down, the door creaked open once more.

Sukuna reappeared, now without the robe over his shoulder, and—curiously—carrying two silk pillows in his hands. You watched him, uncertain of what to expect, as he placed a pillow on either side of the coffee table. Then, with a gracious movement, he crouched down and settled onto one.

“Are you done yet? The smell’s tolerable, I suppose.” he grumbled, eyes narrowing at you in what was probably his version of an invitation.

Your lips quirked up in surprise. So, he was joining you after all.

You quickly loaded another bowl with rice and beef, walking it over to the table and setting it down in front of him. He sat casually with one knee pulled up, and the other leg stretched out under the table, his calf brushing against your designated pillow.

You sat down opposite to him, cautious to avoid touching his leg, as you waited for him to take the first bite.

When he raised the chopsticks to his mouth, you couldn't help but notice the way his arm flexed with the movement, his muscles thick and well-defined under his tattoos. It was... distracting, to say the least.

And in your distraction, you almost missed it—the subtle shift in his expression as he chewed. How his brows relaxed, how his eyes seemed to brighten, ever so slightly. It was nearly imperceptible, but you'd spent enough time studying his face to catch even the smallest change.

You smiled to yourself, only for him to snap back to his usual self, glaring at you as his grip tightened on the chopsticks in his hand. “What are you laughing at, woman?”

You waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing. Just wondering if you liked it, that’s all.”

You leaned back, intending to rest your hand on the floor behind you, but instead, your palm landed on something warm—Sukuna’s ankle.

Fuck, of all things.

You jerked your hand back in shock, knocking your chopsticks to the ground in the process.

“Ah, I—” Flustered, you quickly ducked under the table to retrieve them. But as luck would have it, the chopsticks had rolled in the most unfortunate direction—about ten inches away from Sukuna’s... well, his crotch.

You swallowed, trying to stay calm, and reached for the chopsticks without drawing any attention. But when you finally grabbed them, your eyes involuntarily flicked up—and... there it was, staring you in the face. The fabric of his pants stretched over him, outlining everything.

Oh.

You quickly looked away, cheeks burning.

If that’s how he looked soft, then—no. You were not going to go there. You were not some kind of depraved pervert.

Clearing your throat, you slid back up, holding up the chopsticks to emphasize that they were the reason you'd disappeared under the table for a good minute. "Uh, sorry about that," you mumbled.

Sukuna, however, seemed entirely unfazed, already back to devouring his meal, side dishes included. Did anything embarrass this man?

Probably not.

He was such an odd creature.

---------------------------------------------------------

In the days that followed, life became a touch more engaging, with a wider array of options to fill the endless hours of this painfully dull house arrest.

With Sukuna’s permission, you'd ventured a block beyond your set limits to the grocery store, where you picked up a cheap TV from the electronics department at the mall along with a handful of DVDs.

Using such a large amount of stolen money at the checkout felt morally questionable, but given everything you’d been through, a small bit of comfort wasn’t a crime, was it?

Now, your daily routine included trips to the supermarket, afternoons spent watching cliché movies, and evenings cooking dinner for you and Sukuna.

Those dinners were mostly spent in silence—Sukuna wasn’t much of a conversationalist at the table—but every now and then, he’d grace you with what passed for a compliment in his book: “This doesn’t taste as terrible as it looks.” “I’ve had worse.” “I suppose you’re good for cooking, at least.”

It was progress, wasn't it?

After dinner—came training. As brutal as ever, Sukuna never went easy on you, but at least you were getting better. Your cursed energy was slowly returning to its former level, and you were regaining control, little by little.

Three more days passed in this relative peace, but you were still desperately counting the days until Sukuna’s promised 'reconsideration'. While you had adapted to the routine, you still felt like a dog in a cage—it wasn’t really living.

You missed your friends, your parents, and all the people you cared about. The guilt of hurting them gnawed at you, especially in the quiet moments...

This particular afternoon, you found yourself sprawled across the couch, legs dangling over the armrest, half-watching a predictable romance movie on the new TV. While the plot was utterly, utterly cliché, the male lead didn’t look half bad, so you were content enough to keep watching.

Sukuna had spent the morning holed up in the basement, a change from his usual habit of disappearing elsewhere. You couldn’t help but wonder what kept him busy down there, but you knew better than to ask. It wasn’t worth the trouble—he’d just snap at you for prying.

The movie was nearing its climax, the moment where the estranged lovers were finally about to reunite after years of heart-wrenching separation. But right then the familiar, heavy thud of Sukuna’s footsteps on the basement stairs pulled your attention away from the screen.

He strode into the kitchen, grabbed his keys off the counter, and headed toward the door. But along the way, he paused, his hands slipping into his pockets as his attention drew towards the scene on screen.

The male lead was in the midst of his grand declaration, confessing how his lover had haunted his thoughts in her absence, how his face burned whenever she was near, how his chest tightened, making it hard to breathe unless she was in his arms. Classic, over-the-top romance movie stuff.

You braced yourself, anticipating Sukuna to scoff or hurl an insult from behind the couch. But instead, he appeared... reluctantly intrigued.

His gaze flicked from the screen to you, and he pulled a hand from his pocket, pointing it toward the scene. “What’s this garbage?" he asked, his voice difficult to read. “That scrawny idiot... what’s he blathering about?”

You nearly laughed out loud. Of course—Sukuna had probably never sat through a romance movie in his thousand-year existence. But to not even recognize what was happening? That was rich. You stifled the chuckle threatening to break free as you replied, “It’s a romance movie. He’s confessing his love to her.”

“Hmph,” Sukuna grunted, his jaw tightening as he averted his gaze. His fingers tugged at the fabric near his chest, and he muttered under his breath, “Sounds more like he’s describing a curse.”

You smirked at the odd observation. You certainly considered your crush on Sukuna to be somewhat of a curse, so you didn’t argue. “Yeah, I guess you could say that,” you said, shifting to sit up.

Right then, the characters on screen leaned in for a dramatic, passionate kiss—the kind of lip-smacking, moaning kiss that would make anyone flush with embarrassment, and that was especially true with Sukuna standing right behind you.

You reached for the remote to switch it off, but before you could press the button, he interjected with another remark.

“I’ve never grasped why you brainless pigs bother with that,” he spat with disdain. “When I took my concubines, I didn’t waste time on pointless gestures. Fucking is a necessity—like food, combat, or breathing. Nothing more. Why complicate the matter?”

You nearly choked. Not only had Sukuna casually brought up his sex life, but he also managed to sound like the most emotionally stunted man alive while doing it. You turned to face him, unable to contain your lecture about how narrow-minded of an opinion that was.

“It’s more than just 'fucking.' It’s about knowing every part of each other—touching, feeling, connecting... You wouldn’t understand.”

He cackled, dragging a hand through his hair. “That sounds ridiculous.” And with that, he turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him.

You sighed deeply, sinking into the couch cushions. That man was impossible. But no matter how much he grated on your nerves, you couldn’t get him out of your head.

With a groan, you grabbed your phone, determined to focus on anything else.

You pressed the button on the side, waiting for the screen to light up. With squinted eyes, you quickly punched in your password, deliberately avoiding the missed calls and messages from your mom. You couldn’t handle that pain right now.

You opened your feed, scrolling through the endless recipes in search of inspiration for dinner. Cooking for someone else—even if that certain someone didn’t bother to pretend he appreciated it—had somehow reignited your love for it. It gave you a sense of control, turning the lost time locked away into something... slightly meaningful.

After sifting through a bunch of bland or overly complicated dinner ideas, you landed on a recipe for a mouth-watering mushroom risotto.

Perfect.

You copied the ingredients into your notes and grabbed your coat for a quick grocery run.

The walk was short, and soon enough, you found yourself wandering the aisles, hunting down rice, mushrooms, parmesan cheese, and a bottle of cheap white wine. To your delight, there was a buy-one-get-one-free deal on the latter, and, well, you weren’t one to turn down a bargain.

Back home, you unpacked, took a long, hot shower, and began preparing dinner. The risotto simmered gently over low heat in the pan as you poured yourself a glass of wine—the bottle was already uncorked for the recipe, so why not indulge?

By the time the risotto was finished, it was perfectly creamy and fragrant, with just the right consistency, and just in time for Sukuna’s expected arrival. You sank into the couch with your glass, basking in the satisfaction of a job well done.

But as the minutes ticked by, your satisfaction slowly began to fade.

8:10 PM. Nothing.

8:30 PM. Still nothing.

By 9:30 PM, you were starving and long past the point of caring. You stomped into the kitchen and scooped a generous portion unto your plate—more than half, because screw him. You weren’t going to wait around for someone who clearly didn’t give a damn.

As you wolfed down the risotto, the exquisite taste was drowned out by the disappointment gnawing at you. It wasn’t just about having to eat dinner alone—you were used to that, having grown up with parents who were always away for work.

No, it was the fact that you had put effort into this, that you’d wanted to impress him, even if you hated admitting that to yourself.

You’d wanted one of his backhanded compliments. One of those smug remarks that somehow managed to make your heart thump in your chest. Instead, you were left with cold food and an even colder sense of rejection.

After finishing your plate, you dumped it in the sink, the half-empty wine bottle catching your eye. Well... if he wasn’t here tonight, you might as well enjoy the evening, right?

That stupid decision marked the beginning of the familiar 5 stages of getting drunk alone.

Stage one: Anger.

You grabbed the bottle and took a few bold swigs straight from it. “Who the hell does he think he is? Some kind of king?” you muttered, pacing the room with the bottle in hand. “Fucking idiot. He could’ve at least let me know he wasn’t going to join for dinner.”

With your free hand, you scrolled through your phone, looking for music to match your mood. You cranked the volume up, letting the pounding bass and angry vocals blast through the apartment.

By the time you emptied the first bottle, you were drained. You collapsed onto the couch, the playlist fading into the next, as if on cue; A mix of heart-wrenching ballads.

Which led to stage two: Sadness.

Your near-death experience, failing Ayumi, the guilt, the fear, the unanswered calls from your parents and friends—it It was like a dam broke, and you couldnt control the outbreak of tears. It wasn't the dignified kind of crying, either—no, this was the ugly, snotty, full-body sobbing that only seemed to happen when you’d had just enough alcohol to stop caring how you looked.

By the time the sobbing subsided, your face was puffy, your eyes swollen, and your sleeves tear-stained.

And that’s when stage three hit: Desperation.

Suddenly, you scrambled off the couch, horrified at the thought of Sukuna walking in and seeing you like this—like a complete wreck.

No way. Not happening.

You rushed to the bathroom, splashing your face with cold water, changing into something more flattering, something less… tear-soaked. You brushed your hair, checking your reflection until you looked somewhat presentable again.

Good. Crisis averted.

But when you stepped back out, your eyes drifted to the second bottle of wine still sitting on the countertop, staring you down...

Maybe just one more glass wouldn't hurt?

You poured yourself a generous serving and settled back onto the couch, opening your phone's selfie cam to ensure you still looked decent.

But just as you raised your glass to take the first sip, the sound of a key slipping into the lock startled you. Your phone nearly slipped from your hand, and you quickly sat up straight.

Sukuna stepped in, blood splattered on his clothes—more than usual.

He raised an eyebrow, surprised to see you still awake, before his gaze shifted to the wine glass in your hand and then to the empty bottle on the floor.

You knew that look. He was about to say something snide, some smug comment you weren’t in the mood for. So before he could get a word out, you beat him to it.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up. You could’ve at least told me you weren’t going to be here for dinner.” you hissed.

Sukuna huffed, clearly unimpressed as he tossed his keys onto the counter. His eyes flicked toward the stove where the risotto sat, cooled to a lukewarm temperature. He removed the lid and took in the smell, completely ignoring your remark.

“Hey!” you snapped, your frustration reaching a boiling point. “You could at least explain yourself! Or say sorry!”

He turned, red eyes glowing faintly in the dim light of the apartment. “Huh? I don’t owe you a damn thing,” he said, his voice a low, condescending growl. “As I recall, you're merely a tool in my arsenal, not my wife.”

The audacity.

You marched over to the kitchen, standing beside him as he casually grabbed a plate and served himself some risotto, completely oblivious to your anger.

“A tool?” You seethed. “Fuck you, Sukuna, I’m a human being.”

He didn’t even glance at you. “Exactly. You're an insignificant human. That's why you're owed nothing. I don't answer to humans. Or to anyone, for that matter.”

You clenched your fists, barely containing your booze-fueled fury. But even in your drunken state, you knew there was no point in arguing with him. With a huff, you stomped back to the couch and took a long drink from your glass.

To your surprise, Sukuna sat down beside you with his plate in hand. You shot him a sideways glance, irritated by his presence yet unable to resist gauging his reaction to the dish.

But instead of reaching for his first bite, Sukuna suddenly lunged towards you, roughly snatching the glass of wine from your hand. “You're intoxicated. Put down the wine, fool.”

Oh, so now he was sticking his nose into your business? You quickly yanked the glass back from him, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. For a brief moment, he looked a little humbled that you’d caught him off guard, but that expression quickly vanished, replaced by a deep, dangerous scowl. He slammed his plate down on the coffee table with a sharp clatter, clearly gearing up for a fight.

Well, he was in for one.

You defiantly gulped down another mouthful of wine, but Sukuna was fast. He seized the glass once more, gripping it so tightly you were surprised it didn’t shatter in his hand.

He shot you a deadly glare, a final warning that he wasn’t joking. But you couldn't care less. You reached out with your right hand as a distraction, and when he moved the glass away, you intercepted with your left, convinced you’d outsmarted him.

But of course, Sukuna’s speed and strength were far superior to your little trick. Your own fault for forgetting who you were up against... In an instant, he snatched your wrist, forcing you to let go when your bones crunched together.

As the glass slipped from your fingers, the wine splattered all across your chest, completely soaking your white shirt.

“Ugh, look what you did!” you snapped, wrenching your hand free from his grasp.

Sukuna shrugged, clearly of the opinion that you’d invited this disaster upon yourself. He tossed the glass over his shoulder, where it shattered against the floor in a million pieces.

Though you barely registered the sound, too busy fumbling with your drenched shirt. It clung to your skin, sticky and cold, while the sour smell of wine wafted up and overwhelmed your senses.

It was gross.

And so, in a bold move you would have never—ever—considered sober, you decided that if Sukuna had already seen you naked, what difference did it make if he saw you in just a bra?

Completely oblivious to how inappropriate this was under the influence of so much wine, you grabbed the edges of your damp shirt and peeled it off over your head.

Sukuna caught the whole thing and didn’t bother to look away. For a brief second, the corner of his mouth twitched, a certain curiosity battling against his usual indifference. But just as quickly, he masked it, settling back into his stone-cold facade as he let out a soft, irritated groan.

You shot him a glare, gripping the wet shirt tightly in your hand. "What are you staring at? It’s nothing new, right? ‘Nothing special’ ?”

His eyes narrowed, and his jaw tightened—as if he were barely restraining himself from punishing you for that attitude. But instead of rising to the bait, he turned his gaze away and dug his nails deep into the armrest.

Meanwhile, you got busy wiping the remaining wine from your chest and hands with the dry part of your shirt, your thoughts muddled as the effects of that last glass of wine hit you—hard.

In your haze, you failed to notice Sukuna bending over to reach for his plate on the coffee table. And without a second thought, you tossed the wine-soaked shirt aside, completely unaware he was directly in the line of fire.

In a most cruel twist of fate... the shirt landed right on his face.

You froze.

In an instant, the athmosphere shifted. Sukuna's aura darkened and it was as if a thunderstorm had suddenly eclipsed every ray of light. His hand curled into a claw as he peeled the shirt from his face, revealing his eyes.

They were burning... fiery red flames.

You could barely discern his words through the gutteral growl that ripped from his throat. "Oh, you've done it now, little sorcerer."

Before you could blink, he had you pinned down against the couch, his large hand gripping your jaw so tight it was impossible to move. The sharp tips of his nails bit into your cheeks, and his musky scent mingled with the lingering remnants of spilled wine.

His chest pressed down against yours, the weight of him pushing you into the cushions. You felt the straps of your bra strain under the pressure, barely holding your squashed boobs in place.

Trapped like that and utterly at his mercy, you should’ve been scared—terrified, even—but instead... the next stage of drunkenness decided to hit.

Stage 4: Lust.

Each breath, each shift of his body caused a shot of adrenaline to rush through your veins, but not from fear—no, it was excitement. The kind that made your heart race, your body flush, and your skin tingle. The electrifying kind that made you look away because you knew that if you met his gaze... you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from closing the distance between your lips and his.

He hovered so close above you that his warm breath brushed your skin when he hissed through gritted teeth, “You truly believe you can escape any consequences, don’t you, you foolish brat?”

Sukuna tightened his grip on your jaw, and you could sense the raw strength of his hand—how easily he could crush your entire skull with it.

But the fact that he chose not to… oh, that was exhilarating.

"Look at me," he snarled. His whole presence exuding such an overwhelming authority that your body obeyed before your mind could process.

Your gaze shot up to meet his, and the moment your eyes locked—something in you snapped. A heat rose in your core, and you pushed your body against his, overcome with a sudden desperate need to be closer to him.

Sukuna’s eyes widened—not in anger, but in surprise. The fact that you weren’t trembling or shrinking away like a coward, but instead leaning into him, fascinated him in a way that was completely foreign. It was like a spell—a curse—had taken hold, and he couldn't stop himself from pushing back, his hips grinding into your lower belly.

His grip on your jaw was now so tight, that it forced your teeth apart... You looked up at him through your dark lashes, a red-hot glow spreading across your cheeks

And then the most unexpected thing happened.

Sukuna’s mouth crashed down on yours, leaving you utterly breathless. His hot, wet tongue pushed past your lips, claiming you in a way that was beyond overwhelming.

He wasn’t just kissing you; he was devouring you, forcing your attention on him and him alone.

You gasped against his mouth, unable to keep up with the intensity as his free hand slipped to the back of your head, roughly yanking on a fistful of hair and pulling you closer. He was demanding your lips stay locked with his, while his tongue explored every single corner of you.

It was as if he’d taken your words from this afternoon fully to heart: 'It’s about knowing every part of each other.'

The sharp tug of his nails at your scalp, the crushing weight of his body pressing you deeper into the couch, and his pointy corner teeth grazing your lips with every attempt to invade deeper—to the point of drawing little droplets of blood.

It was clear that he kissed in the same way he fought—cruel, harsh, and unrelenting.

Your chest heaved as you fought to get a breath in between the frantic meeting of your mouths. Your arms and legs beginning to tremble from the intimate skin-to-skin contact against a man so loaded with cursed energy.

“Sukuna—can't—breathe,” you managed to moan against his lips, your voice barely audible between the lewd, wet sounds of your mouths colliding... But instead of pulling away, he pulled you closer still, tugging your hair once more as he sucked on the tip of your tongue.

Until he finally pulled back, leaving a thin string of saliva connecting you as you both gasped for air.

Sukuna wiped the slick from his lips with the back of his hand, shifting his eyes away from you, as if he couldn't face what had just happened. His flushed cheeks, parted lips, and the ragged rise and fall of his chest made him look.... unmistakably human right now, despite how hard he pretended to be otherwise.

You swallowed, heart still pounding in your chest. Unable to get your voice above a whisper to ask him. “Are you oka—”

But he shut you up before you could finish, slapping his palm over your mouth. His left hand, still tangled in your hair, yanked harder, forcing your head back as his lips found your neck. His teeth grazed your skin, nipping as he moved down until they met your collarbone.

He slowly dragged his tongue along the skin, causing a low moan to escape you from under his hand, before he continued his trail.

When he reached the top of your breasts, just above the edge of your bra where they spilled over, the nipping turned into harsh bites. This was his way of releasing his anger—of punishing you, without having to kill you...

Your body jerked under the sharp pain, your hips arching against him as a low, dangerous growl rumbled from his throat.

You felt his cock harden at his crotch and push into your belly with a tantalizing force. The earlier encounter under the coffee table had already given you a faint idea of his size but damn—this was even more impressive...

The damp heat of your breath, trapped beneath his hand, started to mirror the growing warmth between your legs. It left you shifting uncomfortably, rubbing your thighs together in a futile attempt to relieve the ache building inside you.

Then, suddenly, Sukuna released his hand from your mouth, allowing you only a second to recover before his lips were back on yours—this time softer, giving you some space to breathe. It was no less intense but tender in a way, if you could call anything he did that.

His tongue danced with yours, finally letting you match his rhythm. Caught up in that flow, you managed to free a shaky hand from beneath his weight and slide it behind his neck, pulling him closer.

But as you did, his body tensed, and without warning, Sukuna tore himself away from you. The cool air of the apartment touching your skin where he had been before, leaving you cold and exposed.

A horrible, empty feeling.

“Hey,” you called out, brushing a strand of sweaty hair behind your ear. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. He only growled as he rose to his feet and kicked the empty wine bottle beside the table with enough force to send it crashing into the wall, shattering into pieces.

You pushed yourself up, suddenly feeling extremely vulnerable as the flush of drunken confidence faded. You instinctively covered your bra with your arms.

And just like that, you’d reached the fifth, and final stage of your drunken odyssey: Regret.

Sukuna's back was still turned towards you, and his fists were clenched tight at his sides. You knew you'd crossed a line, and now everything had changed.

What if he hated it? What if he hated you?

You could sense he was about to speak, but the thought of hearing those words from his mouth—of him closing off any opening, if there ever was one—was too much for you to bear. Desperate to avoid that outcome, you blurted out the first thing that came to mind:

“This was stupid. We shouldn’t have done that. Let’s just… forget it, okay?”

Once again, Sukuna didn’t respond. He didn’t even turn around. He simply... walked to the front door, opened it and disappeared into the cold night air—without a single word.

And you? You were left alone, with the shards of broken glass on the floor, the plate of risotto still untouched on the table—now as devoid of warmth as you were.

And worst of all? He never even got to taste it.

---------------------------------------------------------

Okay hope y'all enjoyed that extra long, extra juicy chapter imma leave you with that 🫡

Taglist: @sukunasthightattoos , @tomiokasecretlover , @6demonize6me6 , @blindbabycadder , @domainofmarie , @marcoschuitmaker , @geniejunn , @chanaaaannel , @nessca153

If you want to be added to the taglist, so you don't miss any updates, please let me know in the comments or with a private message. Thankyou!

43 notes · View notes

bugwolfsstuff · 10 months ago

Text

The Cupid scene but make it unrequited? Valgrace

Meant to finish this yesterday but couldn't get it done in time so heres it now. I'm not completly happy with it but im just glad its done.

-------

"You cannot lie to Cupid, Leo Valdez. If you let your shame and sadness rule you...well, your fate will be even sadder than mine," Favonius said, and Leo could have sworn there was pity in his eyes before the god disappeared in the wind.

Leo felt like he was back in Khione's ice palace. There was no way this wind god he just met knew his deepest, darkest, never-to-be-said-out-loud feelings. Right?.

Right?.

No, he must be talking about something else, and Leo is just being stupid and paranoid. He has to be.

Fortunately, or, more unfortunately, Leo didn't have the time to dwell on the ominous words of wind gods.

Because the ground was shaking. Why was the ground shaking?

So. A voice said.

Something zipped past his face and nicked his ear, throwing him off his feet and into Jason. Pain blossomed in his right ear, and he was pretty sure he was bleeding.

"You okay?" Jason asked, catching him in his strong arms.

Leo winced, holding a hand to his injured ear as he scrambled to his feet, trying not to think about the fact he just fell in Jason's arms. "Yeah, I'm good," he muttered.

You come to claim the sceptre. The voice said behind them, more like stating rather than asking.

Leo turned to where the voice was coming from, but no one was there.

"Cupid!" Jason called, standing at Leo's back with his sword drawn, "Where are you?".

The voice—Cupid laughed. It definitely did not sound like it belonged to a sweet baby angel's. It sounded rich and velvety but also threatening— like an ember in a fire before burning a house to the ground.

Where you least expect me. Cupid answered, As love usually is.

Leo's heart skipped a beat as something invisible slammed into Jason and hurled him across the street. He toppled down a set of concrete steps and sprawled on the floor of an excavated Roman basement.

I thought you'd know better, Jason. Cupid's voice circled overhead like a vulture. You've found true love after all. Or do you still doubt yourself?

"Jason!" Leo screamed, scrambling down the steps.

Jason took his hand and got to his feet. "I'm okay! Just sucker punched by an angel."

Oh, Did you expect me to play fair? Cupid laughed. Make no mistake; I am no angel, Jason Grace. I am Love. I am never fair.

Oh boy, do I know that. Leo thought dryly before Jason swept him off his feet.

Literally not...not metaphorically.

Leo was swept into Jason's chest as Jason intercepted an arrow that would have gone straight into Leo's chest with his sword. The arrow exploded against the nearest wall, giving them a nice limestone shower.

Of course, Jason wasn't done giving Leo butterflies in his stomach and grabbed his hand, pulling him up the steps and behind another wall as another arrow rained down on them, shattering a column nearby into a thousand pieces.

"Is this guy Love or Death?" Jason growled, still holding Leo's hand.

Thanatos and I are often not so different. Cupid said from somewhere above, except Death is usually kinder.

Leo understood that more than he should: Death is just...well, death. The End. Just boom, you're dead! No more pain. No more problems. And if you're lucky, you get to chill in Elysium for eternity.

While Love is...terrifying: It hurts, sometimes it doesn't last long, and some just don't get it (cough cough).

"We just want the sceptre!" Jason shouted, poking his head above the stone wall. "We're trying to stop Gaia! Are you on the gods' side or not?"

A second arrow shot at the air dangerously close to Jason's head, landing on the ground near Leo's feet and glowing white-hot.

The arrow's temperature shot past 2,397 F (Hephaestus power.) before combusting into a geyser of flame.

Love is on every side. Cupid said. "And no one's side. Don't ask what Love can do for you.

"Great," Jason said. "Now he's spouting greeting cards as well as trying to kill us."

"It's official. Queen was right; Too much Love kills you," Leo joked. If Love is gonna kill him in the end, then at least he wants to make Jason laugh before they both die.

Leo caught a ghost of a smile on Jason's lips before another arrow landed between them, ruining the moment.

You can't hide from Love. It will always find you no matter what. Cupid's voice said nearby.

Leo's hair sparked; the idea of burning the feathers off that smug, overgrown chicken's wings was getting more and more enticing. He knew Cupid was toying with them, enjoying their discomfort as he shot his stupid arrows.

Another arrow narrowly missed him, and something inside of him snapped.

He snatched the arrow up and threw it back where it came from. "Enough games, show yourself!"

Lucky for him, he had good aim. The arrow hit something and hung in the air for a moment before dissolving, leaving no trace: not even a spot of ichor that could help pinpoint his location.

"...Very good, Leo," Cupid said, though it was strained. There wasn't a wound, but it must have hurt. "At least you can sense my presence. Even getting a glance at true love is more than most Heroes manage. Maybe there's hope for you after all".

"So we get the sceptre?" Jason asked.

Cupid laughed. Leo was seriously getting sick of that laugh.

Oh no, there is still much you can do for me.

Jason started to speak, "But—"

An arrow shot through the air, zipping past Jason and hitting Leo square in the shoulder.

"Leo!"

There was a burst of pain in Leo's right shoulder, and suddenly, he was back at the Wilderness School again.

He had just met this cool guy, Jason. He was also a foster kid like him. Jason seemed too good for a school like this. He wouldn't tell him and Piper what he was here for, just that his case worker, Juna— Juno or something — sent him here.

Piper told him later on that she thought Jason was kinda hot.

Leo thought so too but he didn't tell her that.

Another arrow hit him in the back this time.

He wasn't sure when Piper and Jason started dating; it had only felt like a day had passed since they met.

He pretended it didn't hurt.

He didn't dare ruin their happiness.

So he just smiled and bared it every time they flirted with each other and told jokes every time they kissed.

"Stop it!" Leo shrieked, "None of it was real! Hera faked everything!"

Not everything, Cupid said softly, and a third arrow dug into his skin.

This time he was on their first quest in Boreas's ice palace.

Khione told them he couldn't come with them to see Boreas because of his fire.

He played it off that he wasn't hurt about it, even though it did. It wasn't the first or last time someone was scared of him.

Jason tried to defend him at first with his hand on Leo's shoulder, which only made him love him more.

And it sting more when Jason walked away holding hands with Piper, leaving him alone with Cal.

It was fine. None of it was real, not even his feelings were, and even if they were, it's not like he could act on them. He was just the funny guy, the mechanic, the seventh wheel. He wasn't supposed to fall for his male best friend, who was already dating his other best friend. He wasn't supposed to want something more than friendship with Jason.

He bit back the tears that were already threatening to fall. The grass at his feet was starting to smoke. "Show yourself!" He screamed.

It is a costly thing, Cupid said, looking on the true face of Love.

Another column shattered. Jason barely scrambled out of its way in time.

My wife Psyche learned that lesson, Cupid said, She was brought here aeons ago when this was the site of my palace. We only met in the dark. She was warned to never look upon me, and yet she could not stand the mystery. She feared I was a monster. One night, she lit a candle and beheld my face as I slept.

Jason said something, but Leo couldn't hear him over the sound of his own heart pounding in his chest. He could still somehow hear Cupid though. Of course, Love was the only thing he could hear other than his heart.

Cupid laughed from somewhere at the edge of the Amphitheater. I was too handsome, actually. A mortal can't look upon a god's true appearance without suffering grave consequences; just look at poor Semele. My mother, Aphrodite, cursed Psyche for her distrust. My poor lover was tormented, forced into exile and given impossible tasks to prove herself. She was even sent to the underworld on a quest to show her dedication. She earned her way back to me, but she suffered greatly.

Leo had no clue what he was talking about, but it sounded like he was a terrible husband.

Jason thrust his sword into the sky like he was a demigod He-man and was about to yell, 'By the power of Jupiter!' and beat up Cupid.

Unfortunately, he did not do that.

Instead, the ground shook, and lightning blasted a crater where Cupid's voice was coming from.

There was silence, and for a moment Leo thought it was over and that they could get the sceptre and leave. And hopefully, never speak of this day again.

Leo should have known they were never that lucky.

An invisible force—Cupid, knocked Jason to the ground, sending his sword skittering across the road.

A good try, Cupid said, his voice already distant. But love isn't so easily pinned down.

A wall collapsed, Jason barely managed to roll out of the way.

That was enough for Leo.

"Hey!" Leo yelled, waving his arms around. "It's me you want! Not him!. Leave him alone!"

Poor Leo Valdez. The god's voice was patronizing and tinged with disappointment. Do you really know what You want, much less what I want? My beloved Psyche risked everything in the name of Love to win my trust back. And you — what have You risked in my name?

"I'm literally saving the world!" He yelled, clenching his fists, "I've faced way worse! You don't scare me!"

I scare you very, very much. Face me. Be honest.

Jason struggled to get up off the ground, and a piece of Leo's heart broke. This was all his fault. He knew exactly what Cupid wanted. But he didn't want to admit it just yet.

All around Leo, the ground started to heat up. Grass smoked, and stones steamed.

"Give us Diocletian's sceptre." He said, trying to put his best brave face on. "We don't have time for games."

Games? Leo's breath was knocked away as a hand slapped him sideways into a granite pedestal. Love is no game! It is no flowery softness! It is hard work — a quest that never ends. It demands everything you have — especially honesty. Only then does it rewards.

Pain blosomed from Leo's...everywhere. His head spun from the pain, and the ground started to heat up more. Stones were starting to crack, and the grass was starting to spark. All it would take was one more push, and everything would burn.

Jason was up now and had retrieved his sword, "Leo!" he called, "What does this guy want from you?".

Leo's lip trembled. Everything was going so wrong. He didn't want to admit it. He didn't want to tell Jason. "I don't know!" He yelled back, and an arrow embedded itself in the pedestal, inches away from Leo's face.

Tell him, Leo Valdez, Cupid ordered. His voice was starting to get less patient now. Tell him you're a coward, that you're afraid of yourself and your feelings. Tell him why you hide among your machines like your father. Tell him the real reason you run and why you're always alone.

Leo gritted his teeth, his entire body trembling with pain and frustration. Cupid's words cut through him like a knife, exposing the raw truth that he had been desperately trying to bury.

The grass started to burn and the stone's cracks got bigger.

"I... I can't," Leo stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I can't tell him."

Cupid's laughter echoed around them, mocking and cruel. "You see, Jason Grace? Your friend is afraid. Afraid of his own feelings, afraid of the truth. He hides behind his jokes and his bravado, but deep down, he knows."

Leo let loose a guttural scream, and like a volcano erupting; everything exploded at once.

Magma burst from the rocks, splitting them wide open. The grass combusted into green flames — Greek fire —he really is going to burn everything down.

"H—haaa"

Leo laughed through the tears. It was really all he could do and all he really ever did. It was funny really; he'd worked so hard to shove everything down, yet it was all destroyed in a fiery explosion in less than an hour.

A nearby tree collapsed dangerously close to Jason as the fire consumed it. "Leo! What is he talking about?" He almost couldn't hear his voice over the fire.

Will you hide forever, Leo Valdez? Cupid taunted, who unfortunately can still be heard because not even fire can shut him up. Will you let fear rule your heart, or will you finally have the courage to face the truth?

He didn't want to face the truth. He was too scared of what would happen. What might Jason say. How he'd react.

He just wanted to keep things the same.

Even if it kills him.?

Leo sobbed, and the flames burned brighter. If this was love then he didn't want it. Or maybe if love was this painful then he deserved it. Another arrow pierced his back—or maybe that was the feeling of his heart breaking more—and more images flashed through his mind.

He was back on that mountain in Colorado. Jason had his arms around Piper, his face scrunched up in concern. Leo pretended it didn't bother him. It was cold, and Piper ended up getting hyperthermia. He had tried to ignore the aching in his chest. He didn't want to think about how much he wanted to be in her place.

After their quest, they left him alone while he worked on the Argo II. He named it after the ship the first Jason sailed on.

It was all for Jason.

He was back on the Argo right after he had fired on New Rome—Jason's home. Everyone was angry with him, and Jason was in the infirmary; some asshole threw a brick at his head.

He didn't go down to him. He couldn't face Jason.

It was all his fault.

Jason got hurt because of him.

And he didn't even have the guts to face him.

There were more scenes like this flooding his senses. At some point, his brain switched off, and he was just drowning in agony. He couldn't move or speak.

He was weak.

Meanwhile, the flames grew to an inferno of green and reds, drowning out everything. Leo's hair was a white flame. An outline of wings caught fire for a moment before being put out again.

"Interesting!" Cupid's voice said from somewhere above. Do you have strength after all?

"I...I can't," Leo said, though it sounded more like a whimper. He was on his knees now.

Heh, too weak to admit your feelings and too weak to stand, his mind mocked in Cupid's voice.

Still hiding, Cupid said above, a flame burned an outline of a wing tip before going out again. You do not have the strength.

Leo sobbed. He really was weak. He was going to burn everything down just because he didn't want to admit his feelings.

"Leo" Jason yelled from somewhere. "It's okay! I get it!"

Leo stared at the burning grass below him. It was too hot for tears to fall. Only steam came from his eyes.

"No, you don't," He said defeatedly. Jason didn't understand. He couldn't understand. If he understood, then he wouldn't be so nice to Leo. "There's no way you understand. If you did you'd hate me".

And so you run away again, Cupid chided, From yourself, from your feelings, and from your friends.

The fire had engulfed Cupid's wings now. But the god laughed cruelly and blew it away.

"Leave him alone Cupid," Jason croaked somewhere. "This isn't your..."

Oh gods, he was hurting Jason again. The smoke is choking him.

Cupid's laugh echoed from above the flames. But oh, it is exactly my business, Jason Grace. Love is me. I am love.

"Leo!" Jason choked out through the smoke.

Oh, you're killing him, you're killing him. Leo's brain screamed. You're a monster, you're such a fucking monster, and you're weak.

"Look, I don't care if you're in love with Piper!"

He doesn't understand. He doesn't. He doesn't. Leo's brain screamed over and over again.

Cupid laughed again, and Leo's will broke.

"I—I'm not in love with Piper," Leo said, and everything seemed to go silent.

The fire subsided and all of Leo's fight and denial went out at once.

Cupid circled Leo like a shark. His form was visible now—long blond hair, muscular in a simple white frock and jeans, snowy white wings that were singed at the tips. The bow and quiver slung over his shoulder were weapons of war—not toys. His eyes were as red as blood, as if every heart in the world was broken and squeezed dry into one poisonous mixture.

Leo vaguely recalled that some think that Eros was a son of Ares and Aphrodite. And he could see why:

Love and War were the most painful things in the world.

He gestured for Leo to continue.

"I have a crush on you, Jason." Leo said.

The fire died down so Leo could see Jason's face.

And he swore he saw pity in his eyes.

The End

#heros of olympus #pjo headcanons #pjo #leo valdez #percy jackson heroes of olympus #pjo jason grace #jason grace #valgrace #Pjo cupid #Writing #Wolffox's writing #percy jackson #pjo leo valdez #piper mclean #only mentioned tho #pjo fanfic

108 notes · View notes

eggtrolls · 1 month ago

Text

The Downton blogging (circa S3E5) will continue until morale improves

Ice in the veins, Kobe of the social scene — Mary Crawley would not, could physically not miss a chance to be ruthless to Edith. She sees Edith from 100 feet away and it’s On Sight. Edith standing in the churchyard about to be married and Mary is like listen we WILL NOT like each other a jot more in the future but good luck I guess. Sybil is lying DEAD on a bed in front of them and Edith is like 🥺 oh Mary 🥺 do you think we might get along a little better in the future? 🥺😭 and Mary just says “I doubt it”. She is a supervillain and I support women’s wrongs.

My favourite half-drowned bear cub of a man, Robert is like ‘no I can’t kick out my tenants who can’t farm and haven’t paid rent since the Norman invasion because they’re OLD wtf do you think I’m MEAN or something????’ and then he turns around and is like ‘but fuck Catholics for real tho lmao am I right or am I right, archbishop of banterbury’

The scene right after Edith gets left at the altar and Robert and Matthew go outside to talk about Reggie Swire’s fortune and the shot is them as tiny ants in the shadow of Downton’s walls…….that’s the shit I like

Cora saying goodbye to Sybil’s corpse with an insanely placid smile and her right (my left) eye twitching the entire time. Again the reminders of Iphigenia vis-a-vis a young woman dying in the house as a sacrifice, thus casting Cora being Clytemnestra which is just deeeeeeeelicious

The only part of Sybil’s death/mourning that actually made me feel some kind of way was Maggie Smith struggling alone with her cane in the hall……how many women has she seen die in childbirth over the last 70 years. Is it even surprising anymore? Does it hurt more or less?

Tom is still busy being fucking useless because he has no real purpose other than being a vague socialist life-size cardboard cut out to eventually be whittled down as a foil to Matthew who is himself being whittled down as a foil to Robert.

Also re: Tom and the Drumgoole house burning, WHY was he surprised by this being upsetting LET ALONE that it happened? He’s like omg I can’t believe I was upset by seeing rich people crying when their house burnt down, but the same fucking guy years ago canonically said nothing bad would happen to the Tsar and his family? Bro? Tf? Did you even do the readings of this shit you’re actively living through, while as a journalist to boot?????

Also also tremendously weak ass shit for him to answer Sybil’s “you didn’t tell me you’d gone to those meetings” with “I didn’t say I hadn’t”. “You didn’t tell me you were part of the Oklahoma City bombings”/“well I didn’t say I wasn’t” ass logic. unsurprising Tom L

Anna’s character is wearing so thin. She really has fuckall personality besides being pert, blonde, and vaguely saintlike while saying mihstehhhh Beyyyyyyyhtś every five minutes like a cuckoo clock

O’Brien playing the long game of slowly nudging Thomas and Jimmy towards each other, knowing it will get Thomas fired if not jailed, is a master class in scheming. Spy novels where the payoff is averting nuclear war are written with less attention to detail than this.

I need Thomas to get a mean lesbian best friend as a counterpoint to season 1 Miss O’Brien but since female sexuality wasn’t discovered in England until the 1970s it’s unlikely to happen :(

Mr Molesley as the permanent straight man of the show is maybe a little stale but it does crack me up every time. Sorry bro

The conversation around Downton as sentient being who kills those who don’t belong (Lavinia, and ultimately, Matthew) or who stray from the fold (Sybil) or those who endangered the Family (Kemal Pamuk) is still super interesting as the later seasons really let Edith hit her stride. It’s pretty clear that the flow of the Downton True Heir is set up as Violet to Robert to Mary but what if not. Mary is the bloodline (via Matthew) and has the money (also via Matthew) and the beauty* but Edith is the care and the maintenance that is completely ESSENTIAL to maintaining a house like Downton: in the little things of arranging seatings for dinners to keep the peace, to bigger things like helping with the Drake’s farm because the estate does boost the house, to her entire arc during S2 with the war. Mary as the roof and Edith as the walls…..let me cook

Lastly:

Okay hear me out but Vera Bates……..….would

*Edith isn’t even actually UNattactive, she just has the combo curse of Too Much Nose and Teeth. Mary’s features are roughly as pretty individually but much better proportioned for her face.

#Downton Abbey

18 notes · View notes

foxcort · 3 months ago

Text

What a nuisance it was, that his mind knew Beron’s opinions and judgements weren’t worth more than horse shit, but his heart took the blow as if his father had drawn his sword and drove it through his chest.

written for day 7: free day of @erisweekofficial.🧡🔥 / a look into eris' perspective following the events of his brothers' deaths in attempting to kill lucien. can be read as a sequel to the erisweek entry i wrote for erisweek#2023, wildfire. / the gorgeous floral/eris-themed dividers are made by @tsunami-of-tears | (AO3)

a/n: listing the vanserra brothers in order here because lists make my brain happy: Eris, Draco, Castor, Pollux, Hector, Damon and Lucien. draco like mads mikkelson in clash of the titans. hector like eric bana in troy.

tw: torture mention, beron being an asshole

It was early in the morning when the bodies arrived.

Broken, bloodied things carefully wrapped in rich, emerald cloth.

And despite the shouts and wails that now filled the throne room of the Forest House, Eris had awaited the inevitability of it since the moment Pollux, Castor and Damon set out to hunt Lucien across Prythian.

He had warned them. Had ordered them. Had tried to make it clear that a High Lord, no matter how young and untested, was a deadly adversary.

Their arrogance had gladly lead them to their deaths anyways.

“I’LL KILL HIM! I’LL RIP HIM APART UNTIL THERE’S NOTHING LEFT BUT BLOODY RIBBONS!”

The screams echoed from the throne room and down the halls, drowning out the sound of Eris’ steps, unnerving even the sentries stationed outside the large ornate doors as he shoved them open and stalked past.

Every head turned in his direction as he stopped short.

“You’ll do no such thing.” He bit out harshly, voice echoing in the large room, though his volume was nowhere near as loud as his younger brother’s.

Pollux was a sobbing, shrieking mess. Clutched back and barely held upright by two of their brothers, it was all he could do to keep the spittle from coating his every threat. And when Eris retorted, he turned his wild, grief-stricken and hate-filled eyes momentarily on him. As if in the wake of his twin’s death, he’d finally found the gall to step out of the neat line Eris had worked so hard to keep them all in.

It was bitter work. Work meant for heartless bastards with cruel faces. But it had ensured their survival in this court. In all of Prythian . . . until now.

With a growl, Pollux tore his glare from Eris, turning a pleading gaze upon their father, who sat upon his throne with a chin nestled on his fist and a displeased look on his face. “He killed one of your sons! One of your heirs! Is that not reason enough to declare war on Spring?!”

So Tamlin had cut down Castor. And Lucien . . . Lucien had killed Damon.

An ugly amalgam of guilt and anxiousness roiled in Eris’ gut. His fingers clenched into a concealed fist at his side and his jaw tensed as he resisted the urge to bathe the entire room in fire. The burning could not possibly hurt more than the ache gradually ebbing in his chest. And perhaps then the House of Autumn would finally be cleansed from its everlasting rot.

Luckily, he lacked the ability to light anything more than a candle at the moment, considering he'd spent the better part of the last two nights locked in a dungeon enduring Beron's cruelty. Although he'd healed quickly, Eris still felt the phantom pain of the bruises, cuts and near-wounds his father had inflicted. His skin chaffed. His clothes felt too-tight.

The only reprieve he'd had was when his mother snuck past the guards in the early hours of the morning, and begged him to winnow Lucien across the Spring border, to where they both knew he stood a chance.

And now two of his brothers were dead.

Heat curled over his fingers and he forced the emotion away, beckoning the impudent behavior back into his expression, his movements, his words. “You were all warned that if you stepped into Spring territory, the High Lord would see it as a threat and act accordingly.” He flicked his eyes towards his father’s, holding his gaze as he continued. “Declaring war on Spring will fix nothing.” Eris paused, raising a brow in his father’s direction even as he felt the wretchedness of his next choice of words. “Besides, father still has four other heirs to his name. Last I checked.”

Pollux shrieked an intelligible mouthful of words — curses, no doubt — and out of the corner of his eye, Eris saw him lunge in his direction. Draco and Hector, who’d had their arms loosely wrapped around Pollux as he’d sobbed and begged, hauled him back before he could get any closer.

"Would that you had died in his stead you pompous cruel bastar—"

"Take him to his rooms." Beron's voice cut through Pollux's tirade, freezing every body present into a still silence. "And station a sentry at his door. Lest we make more enemies we do not need."

It was not the threat of his younger brother’s intended violence that set him on edge, but the shift in his father’s expression. The curling of his lip. The sliver of disappointment glinting in his auburn eyes.

He waited until Draco, Hector and Pollux exited the room, not an ounce of will in them, before fixing his gaze on Eris. “It seems you have a tighter leash on your hounds.” A taunting sneer. His words drawn out and nearly spat out. “Your brothers certainly learn quicker than the beasts.” His father stood from the throne and Eris fought with his instinct to take a step back. "If you hadn't disobeyed me when I asked you to hold the filthy lesser fae, perhaps they would not have disobeyed your command to stay." His father stood closer now, only an arm's reach away. "Then I would still have seven sons."

Hundreds of years and yet he felt the heat of anxiousness deep in his gut as if he were a child. What a nuisance it was, that his mind knew Beron’s opinions and judgements weren’t worth more than horse shit, but his heart took the blow as if his father had drawn his sword and drove it through his chest.

Eris' jaw clenched, "Six."

Beron stilled.

"If you’d had your way, you'd still have six sons," Eris repeated, allowing a sliver of his reigned fury to ripple over his face. "Did my brothers learn from my disobedience, or did they learn from your brutality?"

"Watch your tongue, boy. Or I'll have you sent back to the dungeons."

"Then take me back, but spare me the hypocritical lecture. It's already torture enough."

He waited for a blow. A flash of fire. More screams and threats and pain. But silence stretched on until Beron's face settled back into his well-worn look of distaste. "See to your mother." And with one final sweep of his hateful gaze, his father strode from the room.

Eris felt the cold sweep into his bones, as if all his fire followed Beron out the door.

He found her in the infirmary, standing over Castor's body, the emerald cloth pulled back from his face to expose his bloodless skin and closed lids. His mother's hand was settled against the side of his face, unmoving as she stared blankly down at him. Behind her on a separate bed laid Damon, his face also uncovered, as if she'd just finished gazing at him in disbelief and had moved onto the next.

Eris wondered if she saw them the way he did. If, now that they were quiet and still and unmoving, she saw them as sleeping children, their faces smoothed from the mannerisms of their father, their hearts bled dry of its rot.

At the sound of his approach, her head snapped up and he stopped abruptly, his gaze flitting from Castor and Damon, to his mother. His heart thundered in his chest, his stomach dropped and twisted, even as a numbness began to take hold.

The Lady of Autumn's eyes were as red-ringed as Pollux's had been, but her hand slipped from Castor's face and Eris noted it was not grief that was prevalent in her eyes, but hope.

For a moment, they simply stared at one another, their eyes glassy and their breaths held as an unspoken conversation flew between them.

Finally, when his throat had unconstricted itself and he was sure they were alone, Eris whispered in a hoarse voice, "He's alive."

And then crossed the space between them before his mother fell to her knees. Her trembling hands clutched at his arms and he held her upright in his embrace, the sensation a foreign one. He couldn't remember the last time he'd held his mother or she had held him.

He took her affection with the hunger of a child. And it made him feel less alone.

Because as soon as he’d realized that Lucien was not amongst his dead brothers, he, too, had felt relief.

a/n: happy erisweek and thank you for giving this a read!

#erisweek2024 #eris vanserra #eris acotar #beron vanserra #lady of autumn #eris vanserra centric #eris centric #genfic #if there are any typos no there isn't

24 notes · View notes