#salvation from unexpected places

[chaotic---calm]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV), 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Jiāng Chéng | Jiāng Wǎnyín & Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén, Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén & Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī, Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén/Mèng Yáo | Jīn Guāngyáo Characters: Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén, Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī, Jiāng Chéng | Jiāng Wǎnyín, Mèng Yáo | Jīn Guāngyáo Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Mpreg, Discussion of Abortion, Threats of Violence, Childbirth, Running Away, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Roller Coaster, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Protection, Hopeful Ending Summary:

Xichen sobbed, clutching a hand to his belly as if he could use it to protect the infant who’d yet to even take their first breath. Woeful eyes turned to the sky, he lamented the path that had led him there.

OR

Xichen, pregnant with a baby unwelcome by his uncle and sect elders, flees Cloud Recesses in a bid for safety and freedom.

[winxanity-ii]

FATHER, FORGIVE ME

ship: father charlie x fem!reader warnings: nsfw 🔞 ( oral sex/f. receiving; overstimulation; coercion/dub-con?; sacrilege, heavy religious imagery ) word count: 4.1k a/n: ahhh….I just want to say I'm so thrilled with all the love and support for the mini Devotion series! It means the world to me to see you guys enjoying it as much as I do. And a huge thank you to everyone who wished me a happy birthday! I got drunk asf, and here's the rough draft I made while tipsy, lolol. Hope you all enjoy~ 😈✨..

★·.·´ɢʀᴏᴛᴇsǫᴜᴇʀɪᴇ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

You wouldn't say you were a bad person.

Selfish? Maybe. Impulsive? Absolutely. But "bad" seemed a bit of a stretch.

It's just that, when you saw something you wanted, you didn't hesitate to take it—and, honestly, you had no regrets. Not until now, at least.

Sitting here, surrounded by the smell of old hymn books and dusty incense, listening to some wrinkly old man in a white robe drone on about salvation.

The whole thing was your mother's doing. She had this recurring phase, like clockwork, where she'd get bitten by the "Bible bug."

For a few weeks every year, she was the most devoted Catholic you'd ever seen. She'd call, text, guilt-trip—anything to get her kids back on the straight and narrow, even if just for a Sunday morning.

For the last seven years, you'd managed to dodge it. Moved out at eighteen and never looked back, leaving the duty of church attendance to your three other siblings.

Usually, someone would take one for the team and tag along with Mom until her enthusiasm fizzled out again. But this time, it seemed your luck had run dry—your sister had finally roped you in, and here you were, seven-year streak shattered.

You sighed deeply, eyes half-lidded as they flicked across the stained glass windows—all those saints staring down at you in judgment.

You couldn't help but think of all the things you could be doing right now. Sleeping, for one. Your bed sounded like heaven compared to the hard pew beneath you.

Or brunch with your friends—mimosas and laughter, not these monotone chants and the faint smell of mothballs.

Hell, you could've called Kevin over and gotten dicked down instead of dealing with this—

Your thoughts screeched to a halt, slamming against an unexpected sight.

The old priest, the one whose croaky voice was practically white noise at this point, stepped away from the pulpit. In his place was someone else—someone younger, someone whose presence commanded attention.

A man, tall, dark hair neatly combed back, with a crisp black cassock that hugged his broad shoulders just right. He moved with a sense of ease, like he belonged up there.

And damn, was he handsome. Handsome enough to pull your focus completely, which was a feat in itself given the circumstances.

Your eyes tracked him as he approached the podium, his voice replacing the rasping chant of the old priest. It was smooth, warm, resonant. Nothing like the man you remembered from years ago.

He spoke about community, faith, redemption—but all you could think was how someone like him ended up in a place like this.

You found yourself leaning forward, just slightly, as if drawn in by some invisible force. Your irritation melted away, replaced by a strange curiosity.

Maybe… maybe this wouldn't be the worst way to spend a Sunday after all.

The priest stood quietly at the altar, his figure framed by the soft light filtering through the stained glass windows. A faint scar traced its way down the right side of his forehead, a mark that spoke of some unknown hardship or past misadventure.

He was youthful but with the stillness of someone who’d seen enough to understand patience and humility.

With each breath, the man seemed grounded in his presence, shoulders relaxed but broad, the fabric of his robe resting comfortably against his chest.

His appearance was almost angelic, yet the subtle scar and the weight in his eyes hinted at something more complex beneath the surface—a man of God, perhaps, but one who had walked through fire to find his faith.

"Oh?" You raised an eyebrow in appreciation as you stared at the handsome man up there. You leaned over a bit to your mother, eyes never straying from his figure. "Ma, who's that? Is he new?" you whispered to your mother.

She looked up from her phone, Candy Crush flashing on her screen. You silenced the snort that wanted to come out. Looked like she might retire from church early this year, you thought to yourself, seeing her early signs of disengaging.

She glanced up at the front, giving a quick look before going back to her game. "That's Father Charlie Mayhew. He was brought in about two or three years ago, I think," she murmured absently, barely paying attention.

Father Charlie.

You watched as he spoke, his voice strong yet gentle, his eyes sweeping over the congregation with a genuine warmth. He wasn't like the old priest—this one seemed to genuinely care, as if each word held weight.

You wondered if that scar came from something dramatic, some story worth knowing. Your gaze lingered, taking in the slope of his shoulders, the way his lips moved with each word. Something about him felt... magnetic.

You found yourself sitting up straighter when the two of you made eye contact—he blinked, his words stumbling just slightly, a brief hitch in his otherwise smooth delivery. "I, uh... I apologize," he stuttered, looking off to the side, the tips of his ears turning pink.

You caught the way his eyes shifted nervously, almost as if he was trying to regain his footing. It was subtle, but you could see it—the way he tried to pull himself back together, to get through the rest of the sermon without any more disruptions.

He cleared his throat to continue, "As I was saying... uh, the importance of faith in our lives cannot be overstated. We must always strive to, um, to do what is right, even when it's difficult..." His voice trailed off slightly, but he managed to steady himself, his eyes avoiding yours as he focused on the rest of the congregation.

It made something stir in you, a mix of curiosity and amusement.

You bit down gently on your lower glossed lip, eyes trailing over his form, taking in every subtle detail. The way his hands gripped the edge of the podium, the faint flush creeping up his neck—it was all so telling.

He seemed innocent, reactive.

You smiled to yourself, letting your gaze linger as he continued, noting the way he seemed to avoid looking in your direction now, as if afraid that another glance might trip him up again.

Maybe you should pay a visit to Father Charlie—see if you could break that serene composure of his.

You could already imagine it—the way he might tense up under your touch, the way his voice might crack if you whispered something just a bit too forward.

The thought alone made your heart race, anticipation bubbling up inside you, like something in you just knew—he'd be fun to unravel.

You leaned back in your seat, a slow, satisfied smile playing on your lips. Oh, this was going to be fun.

The sermon ended with a quiet murmur of 'Amen' from the congregation, followed by the gentle shuffle of people rising from the pews.

You glanced around, watching as people slowly made their way to the exits, some stopping to chat while others lingered near the back of the church.

The old priest was nowhere to be seen, but Father Charlie remained, standing at the front as he spoke softly to a small group of parishioners.

Your mother, of course, made a beeline for him. You heard her voice carrying over the hushed conversations, gushing about how moving today’s sermon was.

You rolled your eyes, unable to help yourself, and slowly rose to your feet, making your way over with an almost lazy stride.

As you approached, you could see your mother perk up, her eyes lighting up as she turned to you. "Oh, there she is! Father Charlie, this is my youngest, ____." She gestured towards you, her hand lightly resting on your arm to pull you closer. "You've met my other children over the years."

You could see the change in Father Charlie almost instantly. His posture shifted, his back straightening just a little more, his eyes rounding as they landed on you. He seemed almost like an eager puppy, his gaze bright and attentive.

He quickly pulled his eyes away, turning back to your mother with a polite smile as he nodded. "Yes, I remember," he said, his voice a touch softer. Then he turned to you, his eyes meeting yours as he gave you a gentle smile. "It's nice to finally meet you. I don't think I've seen you here before... ?"

Your mother gave a sort of laughing scoff, waving him off as she caught his attention again. She chuckled, shaking her head. "Oh, Father, the day she willingly comes to church without an incentive is the day the devil is welcomed back into Heaven's gates."

You kept your eyes on Father Charlie, a small smile tugging at your lips as you tilted your head slightly. "Maybe I just hadn't found a good enough reason to come before," you said, your gaze locked on his, your voice light but carrying a hint of something more.

His eyes widened just a little, and you watched as a faint blush spread across his cheeks, his lips parting slightly as he blinked, clearly caught off guard.

Before he could say anything, your mother’s name was called from behind. It was one of her church friends, and in an instant, she was off, waving a quick goodbye and leaving you standing there in front of Father Charlie.

You didn't waste a second, taking a daring step forward, your eyes fixed on him. "So..." you said, letting your gaze roam over him before meeting his eyes again. "You seem awfully young to be running a church like this. I have to say, I'm impressed."

He looked bashful, glancing down for a moment before looking back up at you. "Oh, well, thank you. I just... I do my best," he said, his voice soft, the pink on his cheeks deepening.

You smiled, tilting your head just slightly. "Do you do one-on-one sessions, like other churches do?" you asked, your voice carrying a hint of mischief.

He blinked, clearly confused for a moment, before his eyes widened in realization. "Oh, you mean confessionals?" He nodded quickly, his expression shifting back to something more serious. "Yes, I do. In fact, I was planning on doing confessionals later today, after the services. Not many people take me up on it, but I think it's important to always offer the option."

"Oh, really?" you said, letting your voice drop just a bit, your head tilting to the side as you watched him. You let a small smile curve your lips, your gaze never leaving his. "Well, you wouldn't mind if I came to see you and... confessed, would you, Father?"

He stuttered, his blush deepening as he quickly nodded. "N-No, of course not. You're more than welcome to come by, anytime," he said, his voice a bit shaky.

You smirked, giving him a nod. "Perfect," you said, your voice smooth, before turning on your heel and walking away, back towards where your mother was waiting.

You could feel his gaze on you the entire time, the weight of his eyes almost burning into your back. And you loved it.

This really was going to be fun.

The church grew quieter as the service officially ended, people slowly trickling out while you lingered, waiting for your moment.

Eventually, you made your way to the confessional booth, the small wooden space feeling cramped as you settled in. The air was close, the scent of polished wood and incense hanging heavy.

You could hear Father Charlie shuffling on the other side, the sound of the door closing behind him, the rustle of fabric as he got seated.

You took a breath, letting the silence stretch for a moment before you began. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned..." you said, your voice soft, but there was an edge to it that you couldn't quite hide.

There was a pause before you heard him clear his throat, his voice coming through the small screen that separated you. "The Lord is always ready to forgive. Please, tell me your sins, my child."

You sighed, leaning back slightly, your fingers brushing against the hem of your dress. "I fear I desire a man that is just out of my reach," you said, your voice carrying a hint of frustration. "It's wrong for me to want him... but I can't seem to help myself."

There was a moment of silence, and you could almost picture the look on his face—concerned, earnest, wanting to help. His voice was gentle as he responded. "Desire can be difficult to control, but it is not inherently sinful. It is what we choose to do with that desire that matters. You must pray for guidance, ask for strength... and remember that God understands our struggles."

You hummed softly, your eyes half-lidded as you listened to him, but your mind was drifting. His voice was soothing, and you found yourself imagining what it would be like if things were different.

If there wasn't a screen between you.

If you could reach out, touch him, feel that innocence melt away under your fingers.

Your hand trailed down your side, your fingers brushing over your thigh as you let out a soft sigh.

His voice cut through your thoughts, sounding a bit uncertain. "Sister ____... are you alright? Do you hear me?"

You smiled to yourself, your mind made up. You leaned closer to the screen, your voice dropping to a near whisper. "Father," you began, your tone coy, "I must confess... I find it difficult to focus when you're speaking. You have such a... soothing voice."

His breath caught audibly, and you could almost hear the way he was struggling to gather himself. "W-What do you mean, sister?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly, laced with confusion.

"It makes me think... sinful thoughts."

You could hear the slight hitch in his breath, the rustle of fabric as he shifted. "S-sister," he stammered, clearly taken aback. "This... this is not appropriate."

You ignored his protest, your voice growing softer, more intimate. "You know, Father, I've always heard that confession is good for the soul. And right now... I think there's only one thing that could truly absolve me of these desires." You let the words hang in the air, knowing exactly what you were implying.

"Sister, this... this isn't..." His voice was shaky now, the uncertainty clear. "I don't think—"

"Come get me, Father," you whispered, your tone daring, challenging him. "You wouldn't leave me like this, would you?"

There was silence for a long moment, and then you heard it—the slow shuffling as he moved. The sound of his door opening, the soft creak of the confessional booth as he stepped out.

You pushed your own door open, stepping out into the dimly lit church. Father Charlie was standing there, his head downcast, his face flushed a deep red. He looked like he wanted to say something, but no words came out, his eyes flickering up to meet yours before darting away again.

You took a step towards him, your movements slow, deliberate—like a predator closing in on its prey. His breath hitched as you approached, his shoulders tensing. He cleared his throat, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sister, I... this isn't right. We shouldn't—"

You reached out, your fingers brushing against the front of his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breath beneath your touch. You let your hand slide down, your voice a low purr. "Father," you purred, your eyes locking onto his, "I want you to take me somewhere... push me to a higher calling, yeah?"

His eyes widened, the pupils dilating as he stared at you, his lips parting in shock. For a moment, he seemed frozen, and then, almost as if the word was pulled from him, he whispered, "Okay..."

His hand was trembling slightly as he reached for yours, and you let him lead you out of the main church area, his eyes flicking nervously around to make sure no one was watching. He led you down a dim hallway, stopping at a small door that opened into a cramped janitor's closet.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, you were on him.

You pushed him back against the wall, your lips crashing against his. He gasped, and you took advantage, licking into his mouth, tasting the hint of mint on his tongue as a low groan rumbled from your throat. His hands hesitated for a moment before resting on your waist, his touch light, unsure.

You deepened the kiss, feeling the way he shivered beneath your touch, your hands pushing up under his cassock, fingers skimming over the hard lines of his abdomen. His muscles tensed under your fingertips, a shudder running through him as he let out a shaky breath.

You pulled back, just enough to see his face in the low light, and he chased your lips, leaning forward as if he couldn't stand the sudden loss of contact.

You let out a dark chuckle, your hands coming up to cup his flushed cheeks, squeezing gently. His face was a deep shade of red, his eyes half-lidded, his breath coming in short, uneven pants. He looked almost dazed, completely overwhelmed, and it only made your smile widen.

Your thumb grazed over his plump bottom lip, pressing gently before dipping just inside his mouth. His eyes fluttered, his tongue flicking out hesitantly to brush against your thumb before retreating. You let out a soft sigh, a hint of a teasing smile tugging at your lips. "Oh?" you murmured, raising an eyebrow, your gaze fixed on him.

Charlie swallowed hard, his eyes locked onto yours, his breathing ragged. You stepped closer, rising onto your tiptoes, your lips just barely grazing his as you spoke. "You did so well during the sermon, Father," you whispered, your voice low and dripping with suggestion. "It makes me wonder... what could such a blessed mouth do somewhere else?"

His breath hitched, his eyes widening slightly, but he didn’t pull away. You gripped his shoulder, your fingers digging in just enough to make him shiver, and tugged him downwards. "On your knees," you said, your tone commanding, leaving no room for hesitation.

Slowly, almost as if in a trance, Charlie sank to his knees, his eyes never leaving yours. His gaze was filled with a mix of confusion, desire, and something almost like reverence, and it sent a thrill through you.

You watched as he knelt before you, his lips parted, his chest rising and falling with each shaky breath. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the part of him that knew this was wrong, that wanted to resist—but the desire was stronger, and he couldn't bring himself to stop.

You smiled, running your fingers through his hair, your touch surprisingly gentle. "That's it," you murmured, your voice softening just a fraction. "Such a good Father... doing exactly what you're told."

You took a step back, your eyes never leaving his as you moved to the nearest wall, leaning against it comfortably.

With slow, deliberate movements, your hands reached down, unzipping your mini skirt and letting it slide down your legs, pooling around your ankles. You made a show of it, your fingers tracing along your thighs, sliding over your hips, and letting out a soft sigh as you watched him.

Charlie's eyes widened, his gaze following every movement, his lips parted, his breath catching in his throat. The flush on his face deepened, his eyes locked onto you with something like awe, mingled with pure, unfiltered desire.

You smirked, lifting one hand and curling your fingers in a come-hither motion. He hesitated only for a moment before slowly beginning to crawl towards you, his eyes never breaking away from yours.

The sight sent a thrill through you, a shiver of excitement running up your spine. He reached you, his hands carefully coming up to rest on your legs, his touch light, almost reverent.

His fingers traced along your calves, moving upwards with a hesitant slowness that made you release a shaky sigh, your back arching slightly as his touch grew bolder.

His hands were trembling as they reached your hips, his fingers brushing against the edge of your underwear. He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking up to meet yours as if silently asking for permission.

You gave a small nod, and he let out a shaky breath, his fingers hooking into the waistband and slowly slipping your underwear down, his eyes fixed on you the entire time.

Once they were off, he shifted closer, his breath ghosting over your bare skin. He surprised you by gently lifting one of your legs, settling it over his shoulder as he pulled you closer, his face inches away from your most intimate parts.

He let out a deep, almost pornographic groan as he leaned in, taking a slow, deep breath, as if breathing you in. The sound sent a jolt through you, your fingers tightening in his hair.

Charlie looked up at you one more time, his eyes searching, as if asking for final permission.

You smiled, your fingers sliding through his hair before giving a gentle but firm scratch along his scalp, your silent approval. He closed his eyes, letting out a shaky sigh before leaning in.

At first, his movements were hesitant, his tongue slipping out to give an experimental swipe. He was sloppy, uncoordinated, his lack of experience clear, but there was a determination in the way he moved, as if desperate to please.

You let out a soft hum, the sound encouraging him, and he grew a little more confident, his tongue pressing more firmly. He licked a long stripe up, his tongue swirling at the top, and you couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips.

"That's it, Father," you murmured, your voice a soft purr. "You're doing such a good job."

The praise seemed to light something in him, a low groan vibrating against you as he pushed in closer. The sound made you gasp, your back arching slightly as the vibrations sent a rush of pleasure through you, your fingers tightening in his hair.

He grew bolder, his tongue delving deeper, slipping inside you as he began to eat you out like a man starved. He was messy, the wet sounds filling the small space, his lips and tongue moving with increasing fervor, as if the more he tasted, the more he craved.

He bullied his tongue into you, his nose brushing against you as he lost himself in the act, his hands gripping your hips tightly, holding you against him as he worked.

You bit down on your lower lip, trying to keep quiet, but the soft, wet sounds filled the small space, making it impossible to ignore.

Your hand moved up, your teeth sinking into the back of it as you stifled a moan, your thighs trembling as he continued. His tongue moved with determination, pressing deeper, swirling before retreating, then focusing on your most sensitive spot.

When his lips closed around your clit, giving a particularly hard suck, your vision blurred, and stars burst behind your eyelids. Your back arched, your body pressing against his face as the waves of pleasure rolled over you, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

Your thighs shook as you slowly came down, your body relaxing slightly against the wall. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers still tangled in his hair, tugging gently. You gave Charlie a small shove, pushing him back just enough.

He hesitated, his tongue giving one last languid lick, followed by a reluctant suck before he finally pulled away, his lips glistening, his breath coming in low, heavy pants. His bottom face was a mess, his eyes half-lidded, dazed as he looked up at you.

You leaned down, your fingers cupping the bottom of his face, your thumb brushing over his flushed cheek as you gave him a swift peck on the corner of his lips. He blinked, his eyes widening slightly, a blush deepening across his face.

Straightening up, you reached down, picking up your discarded thong, folding it neatly before slipping it into the pocket of his cassock. He stared at you, his lips parted, his breathing still uneven.

"Thank you, Father~" you purred, your voice dripping with satisfaction. You watched as his blush deepened even more, his eyes darting away from yours. "You know," you continued, your tone teasing, "I might just have to come back for confession more often."

He swallowed hard, his eyes flicking back up to meet yours, a mix of confusion and something darker swirling in them. You smiled, giving him a wink before turning on your heel, striding out of the closet, leaving him kneeling there, his breath still shaky, his face still flushed.

As you walked away, a satisfied smile playing on your lips, you couldn't help but think that maybe church wasn't going to be so bad after all.

A/N: hehehe, dont mind me, just wanted to see charlie's and y/n relationship in reversal...

[chillyfeetsteak]

I first became fascinated with it a few years ago when I noticed it out an airplane window on a flight from Texas to Southern California. In an expanse of endless desert, suddenly, a vast body of water. When I got home, I immediately looked it up on a map. The Salton Sea.

It’s the largest landlocked body of water in California. It sits right on top of the San Andreas Fault at over 200 feet below sea level. It is more than twice as salty as the Pacific Ocean. It is completely toxic. And I had never heard of it before then.

(photo essay under the cut)

In the early 1900s the Colorado River was diverted through a series of irrigation canals in order to provide water for the farmlands of Imperial Valley. One of the head-gates broke during a flood, and the desert basin filled with water for 2 years before it was fixed. The unexpected lake soon became a popular vacation destination; it was stocked with fish, and resorts and hotels popped up along its shores. It became known as a great place for sport fishing, waterskiing, and yacht parties. Big name celebrities visited. At one point, it had more annual visitors than Yosemite.

Salton Sea has no outlet, and is only filled via agricultural runoff. As the water evaporated in the hot desert sun, the lake became more and more saline. Chemicals began to build up from the run off causing toxic algae blooms, and mass die-offs of fish and birds started in the 80s. By the 90s, the beaches were littered with fish gills and bird bones and the resorts were abandoned. The lake began to dry up as irrigation run-off was diverted away. The exposed lake bed is also toxic, and the high desert winds kick up the dust, making the air poisonous. 

Despite the unpleasant odor, the noxious air and the summer temperatures regularly reaching 120°, a renaissance of sorts began in the early 2010s. Artist and nomad colonies began to spring up around Salton Sea. Bombay Beach, once a popular resort destination, is now mostly a ghost town, but the folks who remain have turned the ruins on the shores into an outdoor art installation gallery where the found-art sculptures are cyclically destroyed by the elements and then replaced with new ones. Many of the houses and RVs in town are themselves art pieces.

In nearby Slab City, a settlement of off-the-grid lifestylers, you can find even more folk art. Salvation Mountain is a manmade hill painted with bright colors and bible verses and maintained by a community of volunteers. East Jesus is a sculpture garden and art installation. 

This past weekend my partner and I finally made the pilgrimage to the Sea. California has the benefit of being home to a huge array of biomes. In just a couple of hours you can travel from snowy mountain peaks to lush oases to endless sand dunes. Driving the hour or so south from Palm Springs towards Salton Sea is like driving towards the end of the world.

Bombay Beach especially enamored me. The beach is crusted with salt and millions of tiny shells and bones. It smells awful, like sewage and chemicals and low-tide and rotting fish. You drive out onto the beach and park anywhere amongst the sculptures and deteriorating resort ruins. The art feels raw in a way I haven’t experienced before. It reminds me of seeing paleolithic cave art. Humans made this, with no motivation other than to create something intriguing or beautiful or sad. Not much can live out here, but what you find fills me with a great adoration for humanity. Despite the asphyxiation of the natural world, the human spirit persists.

[call-sign-shark]

Of Bending and Breaking || Tommy Shelby x Reader

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

Words: 2,3k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The blood on his skin? You cleaned it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do it again.

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

His long dark lashes — you inhaled slowly.

His cat-like turquoise iris — you exhaled.

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

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

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

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

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

[sirenedeslily]

𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 ‎𐦍 𝐦atthew 𝐬turniolo

𝒢𑄺 ⸻ ❝ like if you hold me without hurting me, you’ll be the first who ever did. ❜ ⁺˖ ⸝⸝

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡, a hardened fighter finds unexpected tenderness in the arms of a gentle soul, where love becomes both his salvation and his deepest fear.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, emotional and psychological angst, violence, mentions of trauma, depiction of illegal street fighting, sensitive themes of self-worth, and fear of hurting a loved one. my attempt @ fluff :3

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭, 1.4k !

𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒘 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐 wasn’t born into love.

no one had ever held him close when he was a boy. no one had ever whispered to him that everything would be okay when the nights were long and cold, when the bruises from the world around him were more than just skin deep. he had been passed around like something unwanted, a shadow that people barely noticed until they had to. one foster home after another, each colder than the last, until the idea of love or warmth was nothing more than a distant memory, something he’d never truly had in the first place.

at sixteen, matt stopped expecting anything from anyone. it was easier that way—no expectations, no hope, no chance of getting hurt. but the hurt came anyway, creeping into his bones like a sickness. the world had never been kind to him, and he had learned, in the back rooms of strangers’ houses, that the only thing he could control was how much he fought back.

and matt fought.

he fought with his fists, with his teeth, with a rage that seemed to consume him whole. it was the only way to survive in a world that had given him nothing but pain. the violence became his only language, the only thing that made sense. it was how he stayed alive, how he kept himself from being swallowed by the emptiness that followed him wherever he went.

that’s when he came into matt’s life—a man who saw the violence in matt’s eyes and knew how to use it. the man didn’t care about the boy behind the bruises, didn’t care about the heart that had been broken so many times it barely beat anymore. all he cared about was how hard matt could hit, how much damage he could do. and matthew? he didn’t care, either.

he was just looking for a place to sleep.

so he fought. brutal, illegal street fights in the back alleys of forgotten places, where the only law was how much blood you could spill. matt became a machine, a weapon honed by years of neglect and pain, his body more bruise than boy. he fought because it was all he knew how to do. he fought because no one had ever given him anything else.

but it wasn’t living. it was surviving, and just barely.

and then you came into his life.

you, with your cinnamon scent and wide, innocent eyes. you, who looked at him like he was more than just the violence he had been shaped into. you, who had never known the darkness he lived in, but who somehow saw through it. you stepped into his world of shadows and fists, and instead of running, you stayed.

you, with your soft hands and your gentle smile, were like a dream. he wasn’t sure you were real at first—how could you be? no one had ever looked at him the way you did, like you could see past the bruises, past the blood, and into something deeper. something matt wasn’t sure existed anymore.. or ever.

but you saw it. you always saw it.

the first time you touched him, matt flinched. not because you hurt him, but because your touch was so gentle. he wasn’t used to gentle. he wasn’t used to anything soft, not after years of fists and hard floors and nights spent alone. your fingers brushed against his skin like a whisper, light and warm, and matt felt something in him break, something he hadn’t even known was there.

you didn’t ask him to be anything other than what he was. you didn’t ask him to change, to give up the fights, the violence that was so much a part of him. you just were—you were there, with your cinnamon-sweet smile and your heart so full of love, and somehow, that was enough.

for the first time in his life, matt wasn’t alone. for the first time in his life, someone saw him, not just the fighter, not just the boy who had been left behind over and over again, but him. the boy who was still trying to find something to hold onto, something that wasn’t blood and pain and broken bones.

you held him without asking for anything in return. you let him break down his walls at his own pace, piece by piece, until he wasn’t just matt, the street fighter, the boy who only knew how to survive. he was yours.

there were nights when matt would come home from a fight, his knuckles bruised and his body aching, and you would be there, waiting for him. you, who smelled of cinnamon and warmth, would welcome him into your arms as if he weren’t covered in blood, as if the violence that followed him didn’t touch you. you didn’t flinch when you saw the cuts and bruises; you just took his hands in yours, your fingers soft as you traced the lines of his knuckles.

“it’s okay,” you’d whisper, pressing your lips to the broken skin on his hands, as if you could kiss away the pain, as if your love could heal the wounds that ran so much deeper than the surface.

and maybe it could.

because with you, matt felt something he hadn’t felt in years—something he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt at all. it was a warmth that spread through his chest, a lightness that came from the way you looked at him, the way you touched him like he was something precious. he didn’t know how to handle it at first, didn’t know what to do with the way you made him feel, like he was more than just a boy made of bruises and scars.

but you were patient. you didn’t push. you just loved him, quietly, gently, until matt started to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was worthy of that love.

matt had never been soft. he had never been the kind of person who let himself feel too much, who let himself hope for something better. but you—you—changed that. you brought out a part of him that he didn’t even know existed, a part of him that wanted to be better, to be more. not for himself, but for you.

there were moments, late at night, when you’d curl up next to him, your head resting on his bare chest, and matt would just hold you, his arms wrapped around you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. and in those moments, with your warmth pressed against him and your scent filling the air, matt would feel something close to peace.

it scared him, sometimes—how much he needed you. how much he wanted you. he wasn’t used to needing anyone, wasn’t used to feeling like someone could slip through his fingers and take his heart with them. but you were different. you weren’t just someone; you were everything.

you were the sweetness in his life, the light in the darkness that had surrounded him for so long. you made him feel things he didn’t know how to name, things he didn’t know how to control. and it terrified him. because matt had only ever known how to fight, how to push people away before they could hurt him. but with you, he didn’t want to push. he wanted to pull you closer, hold you tighter, keep you with him forever.

but love—real love—wasn’t easy.

there were nights when the darkness inside him would rise up, when the violence that lived in his blood would threaten to consume him. he’d wake up in a cold sweat, his heart racing, his hands clenched into fists, ready for a fight that wasn’t there. and you—you would always be there, your hands soft on his skin, your voice a soothing whisper in the quiet of the night.

“i’m here,” you’d say, your breath warm against his chest. “i’m not going anywhere.”

and you never did. no matter how many times matt tried to push you away, no matter how many times he told you that he wasn’t good enough for you, that you deserved someone who could give you more than this life of blood and violence and pain, you stayed.

you stayed, and you loved him, and you showed him that maybe, just maybe, he was worth loving.

matt had never known a love like yours. a love that was gentle and fierce all at once, a love that didn’t ask for anything in return but still gave everything. you were his 𝒄𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍, sweet and warm, the one thing in his life that made him believe in something more than just survival.

you made him feel like he could be something more than the violence that had shaped him. you made him feel like he could be yours.

and in the end, that was all he ever wanted to be.

𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔.

𝒢𝜚 💭 ࣪ ✸ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ∿ trying to work on requests but it’s been mostly chris stuff and i miss writing about my boyfriend soooo :3

❝ 𝟐𝟐𝟐 ❞ 𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻, @carvedtits @et6rnalsun @wovenribbons @flouvela @eternaldecisions @elizabebabe @ncm9696

❝ 𝟑𝟑𝟑 ❞ 𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻, @l34n @sturniolossss @lovingregulusblack @cl1tlover3000 @mattslolita @mattssgf @le4hsblog @brvtall @mattscoquette @chratts-left-ball @jetaimevous @angelesqve @starlace111 @fawnchives @starkeyszn @etherealval @slut4chriss @star-yawnznn @nickmillersn1gf @sturnsmia

© sirenedeslily

[moonlitstoriess]

Bound in Silence- Rhysand x fem!Reader part 2

A/n: 8.7k words! Phew! This was definitely a rollercoaster of emotions but, I hope you guys enjoy it!💕

Part 1 here

After surviving her fall, Y/n embarks on a path of healing while Rhysand begins to realize the truth about their bond. As Rhys grapples with guilt and confusion, Y/n must learn to rebuild her life. But when their paths cross again, Rhys will need to fight for her forgiveness, hoping to mend what was once broken.

She shouldn’t have survived.

The wind had howled in her ears as she plummeted from the cliff’s edge, the ground rushing up to meet her, a cold, hard end she had welcomed. The pain, the heartbreak—it had been too much, too consuming. But as the world around her blurred, she felt a sudden, violent impact, not against solid ground, but against something softer—brush and sand.

When she opened her eyes, it was not death that greeted her but the harsh light of dawn streaming through the trees above, the sound of waves crashing against the shore in the distance. She lay in a thicket, a tangled mess of branches and brambles that had broken her fall, offering her an unexpected refuge.

Her body ached with bruises from the impact, sharp pain flaring in her ribs and a throbbing headache pulsing at her temples. She felt the grit of sand embedded in her skin and the taste of salt on her lips. But she was alive.

Y/n struggled to sit up, her hands trembling as she pressed against the ground for support. Panic surged through her. The memories of the cliff, of the choice she had made, washed over her like a tide pulling her under. Had she really leapt to escape the torment of her heart? The betrayal she felt was still fresh, the sting of Rhysand’s indifference cutting deeper than any physical wound.

As she surveyed her surroundings, a dense forest framed her, the trees standing tall like silent sentinels. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the ground, and the distant sound of waves served as a haunting reminder of the world she had tried to leave behind. But where was she? She had no idea how far she had fallen or where this path might lead.

Y/n took a moment to catch her breath, the air crisp and sharp in her lungs. She was alone, utterly alone, with no family to return to, no familiar faces to seek comfort from. The weight of that truth settled deep in her chest. She had thought—foolishly—that Rhysand had been her salvation, her anchor in that hellish place. But in the end, she had meant nothing to him.

Pushing herself to her feet, she wobbled unsteadily, pain radiating through her ribs. The instinct to survive propelled her forward, one shaky step at a time. She didn’t know where she was going. The road ahead seemed just as empty as the one behind her.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

Each step felt heavier, and with every movement, she fought against the urge to collapse back to the ground. The memories of Rhysand—their stolen moments, their laughter, and the warmth of his presence—crashed over her like the waves she could hear in the distance. He had made her feel seen in a way she had never experienced before, and now that light was extinguished.

As she wandered deeper into the forest, the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows among the trees. Y/n found a small clearing where she sank to the ground, her body protesting at the sudden relief. She closed her eyes, letting the sounds of nature surround her, searching for solace in the rustling leaves and chirping birds.

What she realized, in that moment of stillness, was that surviving wasn’t enough. She needed to reclaim herself, to remember who she had been before the darkness took hold. The journey ahead would be long and fraught with challenges, but the thought of facing them alone no longer filled her with dread. Instead, it ignited a flicker of determination.

“Whatever lies ahead,” she whispered to the trees, “I will find my way.”

With that resolve, Y/n pushed herself back up, brushing the leaves from her clothes and glancing around. The forest was alive with the sound of chirping birds and rustling leaves, and she couldn’t help but feel that life, despite its challenges, was still worth fighting for.

She pressed on, each step feeling heavier than the last. The forest wrapped around her like a shroud, the branches swaying gently as if whispering secrets she couldn’t quite grasp. She staggered through the underbrush, branches snagging her clothes and tearing at her skin, but she hardly noticed. The pain in her ribs was a constant reminder of her fall, pulsing with each movement, and fatigue settled in her bones like a thick fog.

She tried to focus on the path ahead, but her vision began to blur, the edges of her surroundings fading in and out. She needed to find shelter, a place to rest and gather her strength. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows that seemed to dance mockingly around her, urging her to give in to the darkness that threatened to swallow her whole.

With every step, Y/n felt herself growing weaker. Her legs trembled, and the world spun slightly around her. She stumbled, hitting the ground hard, the breath leaving her lungs in a gasp. Panic surged through her as she fought to regain her breath, but the pain from her injuries was overwhelming. She lay there for a moment, staring up at the canopy of leaves above, feeling utterly defeated.

Then, as she struggled to push herself back up, she heard voices in the distance, their laughter ringing through the trees. At first, she thought it might be a cruel trick of her mind, a hallucination born from the exhaustion and pain. But as the laughter grew closer, a flicker of hope ignited within her.

“Did you hear that?” one voice said, clear and bright. “I think someone’s out there!”

Y/n’s heart raced, a mix of fear and hope flooding her veins. She wanted to call out, to let them know she was here, but the words caught in her throat. She could only lie there, trying to steady her breathing as the voices approached.

Moments later, a group of travelers emerged from the trees, their expressions shifting from joviality to concern as they spotted her on the ground. They were a motley crew—rough and worn but with a kindness that seemed to radiate from them. The tallest among them, a woman with long, dark hair and bright blue eyes, rushed forward.

“Oh, gods! What happened?” she exclaimed, kneeling beside Y/n. “Can you hear me? Are you hurt?”

Y/n tried to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she looked up at the woman, her vision swimming as darkness crept at the edges of her sight.

“We need to get her out of here,” another voice said, a man with a thick beard who stepped forward. “She looks injured. We can’t leave her like this.”

The group quickly moved around her, their chatter fading into a distant hum as Y/n felt herself drifting. Hands gently lifted her, and though every movement sent jolts of pain through her body, the warmth of their concern began to wrap around her like a comforting blanket.

“Stay with us, okay?” the woman said, her voice soothing. “We’re going to help you.”

Y/n wanted to cling to those words, to believe that perhaps this was her chance to find solace. But the world began to fade, the faces of her rescuers becoming blurry as she lost her grip on consciousness. Just before the darkness took her, she felt a warm hand clasp her own, a connection that anchored her for one fleeting moment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Velaris was a sanctuary, hidden from the world and its chaos, but even its beauty couldn’t soothe the turmoil within him. Rhysand leaned against the balcony railing of the townhouse, staring out at the starry sky, yet his thoughts were far from peaceful. Feyre was with Tamlin in the Spring Court, and every moment spent thinking about their time together made his chest tighten with frustration.

He had felt so powerless during her trials, watching from afar as she struggled, battling her fears and doubts. His heart had raced as he witnessed her strength, yet it ignited a fury within him that simmered just below the surface. Tamlin didn’t deserve her. He was blinded by his love for Feyre, unable to see the darkness creeping into their lives, a darkness that Rhysand feared would swallow her whole.

“Damn it, Feyre,” he muttered under his breath, clenching his fists. “You don’t belong there.”

The weight of the Night Court’s responsibilities pressed heavily on him, and he found himself retreating deeper into his thoughts. The war with Amarantha had left scars that would take time to heal. But all he could think about was Feyre’s laughter, the way her eyes lit up in defiance, and the warmth that enveloped him when she was near.

Suddenly, he felt a pang of icy cold hit his chest, a feeling of.....nothing overtaking him. Rhysands body shuddered. He could now feel a string of sorts a....a bond. A bond with her, with y/n. But why was it so empty?

A shiver ran down his spine, and he closed his eyes, reaching out instinctively through the bond he shared with Y/n. Instead of comforting warmth, there was nothing but an oppressive silence. It was as if she had vanished, leaving a void that echoed with despair.

Since when did I have a bond with her? The thought sliced through his mind like a blade. He had dismissed their connection, buried it under layers of his feelings for Feyre. But now, the absence of Y/n felt like a cruel twist of fate, a reminder of what he had ignored for too long.

Panic surged through him as he searched for any hint of her presence, any sign that she was safe. But all he felt was the chilling silence, a stark contrast to the vibrant energy that had once flowed between them.

“Y/n,” he breathed, the name feeling foreign on his tongue. “Where are you?”

He pushed himself away from the balcony railing, his heart pounding in his chest. He needed to know what was happening, to understand why the bond felt so strained, so distant. A part of him clung to the hope that she was simply out of reach, that she was safe and sound somewhere beyond his grasp.

But the gnawing sense of dread would not let him rest. He was tied to her in a way he had never fully understood, and now that connection was fraying at the edges, unraveling into something that filled him with an ache he couldn’t quite place.

It hit him then, like a thunderclap in the stillness of his thoughts: Y/n was his mate. The realization sent shockwaves through him, unraveling the tension in his chest and filling him with a potent mixture of dread and yearning.

She mattered. She had always mattered, perhaps more than he had ever let himself admit.

As he stood there, the weight of his decisions began to settle upon him. He had taken her for granted, focused solely on his feelings for Feyre while ignoring the depth of his connection with Y/n.

He had to find her. He had to understand what was happening.

~~~~~~~~~

Y/n awoke in a small, dimly lit room, the soft murmur of voices and the sound of footsteps moving outside the door barely reaching her ears. Her body ached, every movement sending sharp reminders of her injuries. She tried to sit up, but a firm hand gently pressed her back down.

“Easy,” a woman’s voice murmured. Y/n blinked, her vision clearing enough to see the woman from before—the one with long, dark hair and kind, blue eyes—sitting beside her. “You’re still hurt. Your ribs were bruised, and you were half-frozen when we found you. You need rest.”

Y/n grimaced, ignoring the throbbing pain as she forced herself into a sitting position. She wasn’t used to lying still. “I’m fine,” she muttered, but her body betrayed her words, her legs too weak to support her even if she tried to stand.

The woman, who had introduced herself as Lira, smiled gently. “Stubborn, aren’t you? It’s alright to let someone help you.”

Y/n’s eyes flicked to the door. The laughter of children and the hum of distant conversations filtered in from outside. She frowned. “Where am I?”

“A village,” Lira said, watching her carefully. “Small, but we’re a close-knit community. Everyone knows everyone here. We help each other, share what we have.”

Jealousy flared in Y/n’s chest, sharp and uninvited. A place where people lived in peace, helping one another without a second thought. It was so different from the life she knew—so far from the chaos and heartbreak that had led her here.

Y/n’s voice was rough as she asked, “How long was I out?”

“A few days. We did what we could to help you recover. But you’ve still got some healing to do.”

Silence fell between them. Y/n’s gaze remained on the door, but her thoughts were far from the village. Her mind returned to the cliff, to the crushing despair that had driven her to jump. She had wanted the pain to end—had thought it would, but here she was, still breathing, still hurting.

Lira’s voice broke through her thoughts. “How did you end up in that forest? You were in pretty bad shape when we found you.”

Y/n hesitated. She didn’t owe this woman her story—didn’t owe anyone anything anymore—but the weight of it pressed down on her, and maybe, just maybe, telling a small part of it would help ease the burden.

“I had a mate,” Y/n said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. Lira’s brow furrowed in sympathy, waiting for more. “He chose someone else.”

The words tasted bitter on her tongue, but they were the truth. Rhysand had never even known. Never knew that she had felt the bond snap into place, that the invisible thread between them had formed. It didn’t matter now—he had chosen Feyre, and that choice had shattered her.

Lira’s eyes were filled with gentle curiosity. “Why didn’t you tell him?”

Y/n shook her head, her throat tight. “It’s… complicated. He never knew, and by the time I realized, it was already too late. He… he was in love with her.”

Lira was quiet for a moment, processing Y/n’s words. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “That sounds… painful.”

Y/n didn’t respond, her gaze distant, as if she could still see the edges of Amarantha's court from where she sat. The love she’d seen in Rhysand’s eyes when he looked at Feyre had been undeniable. He had never looked at her that way, not even close.

“Maybe we can contact your family?” Lira suggested, trying to be helpful.

Y/n’s jaw tightened, her eyes flickering to Lira’s kind face. “I don’t have anyone.”

“No one at all?”

Y/n shook her head, a cold emptiness settling in her chest. She had no family left—no home, no place to return to. “It’s just me.”

Lira sighed softly, her brow creasing in thought. “Then stay here with us,” she offered, her voice warm. “At least until you’re healed, and after that… you can decide where you want to go.”

Y/n’s instinct was to refuse immediately. She had seen too much, been through too much, to believe in the kindness of strangers anymore. She didn’t trust it—not after what she had lost. And yet… this woman, this village… they didn’t know her, didn’t know what she carried, and still, they had taken her in.

“I don’t know if I can,” Y/n said, her voice barely audible.

“Why not?” Lira asked gently. “You’ve been through something terrible, that much is clear. But there’s no need to face it alone.”

Y/n glanced at her, doubt gnawing at her insides. Could she trust these people? Could she allow herself even a moment of peace in this quiet village after everything?

Lira smiled again, softer this time. “Just think about it. We’re not going anywhere.”

Y/n gave a small nod, her mind already spinning with the enormity of her situation. She had nowhere to go, no plan for what came next. Maybe, for now, she could stay here—just until she figured out what to do.

~~~~~~~~

Rhysand’s mind raced, the weight of realization crashing over him like a tidal wave. Y/n was his mate. It wasn’t something he could dismiss anymore, not after the sudden void he felt through the bond. For so long, he had tried to push aside the connection, telling himself that Feyre was his priority. And yet, here he stood, drowning in guilt and confusion as the truth settled in.

She had always been there, a steady presence in his life—loyal, fierce, and strong. He had admired her, even cared for her, but it wasn’t until now that he understood the depth of that connection. And now, she was gone. Or worse—hurt.

“Mother above,” Rhys muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. He had been so blinded by Feyre, so consumed by his need to protect her, that he had failed to notice what had always been right in front of him.

The bond had been subtle at first, an almost imperceptible tether that he had never fully explored. But now? Now it was like a raw wound, aching in a way that made his chest tighten. He couldn’t feel her—couldn’t sense her. She was gone from his awareness, and that terrified him more than anything else.

Rhysand clenched his jaw, his thoughts spiraling into a panic. What if something had happened to her? The Night Court had always been a place of sanctuary, but the world beyond Velaris was filled with dangers—dangers that Y/n, in her current state, might not be able to fend off.

“I’ve been a fool,” he whispered, the words bitter on his tongue.

Turning away from the balcony, Rhys stormed back inside the palace, his steps quick and determined. He couldn’t just stand here and do nothing. He needed to find her, to reach her through the bond, to bring her back if she was in danger.

But how? He had never explored this connection before, had never let himself dwell on what it meant. And now, with Y/n’s presence completely cut off, he wasn’t sure where to begin.

His heart pounded, and the gnawing fear clawed at his insides. He didn’t know if she was safe. Didn’t know where she was. But he would find her, no matter what it took.

Rhysand closed his eyes and reached deep into himself, seeking out the bond, trying to find any flicker of her. He focused on that missing warmth, on the piece of him that felt like it had been torn away. And in the quiet of his mind, a whisper—barely there—flickered. A spark of something. Pain. Despair.

He gasped, the sensation hitting him hard, and for the briefest of moments, he felt her—felt the depth of her agony, the exhaustion, the loss.

“Y/n…” he breathed, his voice low, anguished. Wherever she was, she was suffering.

Rhysand knew he had to act quickly. There was no time to waste. He had to find her before it was too late.

With a sharp breath, he called for his wings, already preparing to leave. He will explain everything to his family later. Y/n—his mate—needed him now more than ever.

Rhysand landed softly in the clearing where he had last seen Y/n, his heart pounding in his chest. The forest loomed around him, dark and quiet, the air heavy with the scent of earth and damp leaves. Shadows stretched long in the fading light of the moon, casting an eerie stillness over the scene. His wings rustled as they folded behind him, but his mind was already racing, already searching.

This was where he had last seen her—right here, among the trees and the underbrush. She had watched him and Feyre have their conversation after Amaranthas death. Y/n thought she was hidden within the trees but he felt her, he always felt her presence, one would always feel the presence of one's mate. But he was too much of a fool to realize it sooner.

He moved through the clearing, his eyes scanning the ground, searching for any sign of her. A broken branch, a trace of her scent—anything. But the air was thick with silence, and the bond between them was weak, almost nonexistent now.

"Y/n!" Rhysand’s voice echoed through the trees, but no answer came. His shadows spread out, feeling through the dark, desperate to find any trace of her. But there was nothing.

He pressed forward, moving deeper into the forest, the trees closing in around him. The memories of their time together—of her strength, her resilience—pushed him on, even as doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind. What if she was gone? What if she was hurt, or worse?

He couldn’t think like that. Not yet. He had to find her.

"Y/n!" he called again, his voice strained, raw with desperation. He stumbled through the undergrowth, his boots sinking into the damp earth, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Every step felt heavier than the last, the weight of his failure bearing down on him.

But the forest remained silent.

Rhysand reached the edge of a small stream, the water trickling softly over the rocks. He crouched down, running his fingers through the mud, searching for any sign that she had been here. Nothing. His chest tightened, his heart hammering against his ribs as the realization began to settle in.

She wasn’t here.

His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he rose to his feet. The bond was slipping away, unraveling like a thread being pulled loose. He had never let it guide him before, never truly acknowledged its presence, but now, as it faded, the loss felt like a wound he couldn’t heal.

He had to keep searching.

Rhysand pushed further into the forest, his movements frantic now, his wings twitching with the urge to take flight again, to cover more ground. The trees blurred around him, the shadows twisting and bending as his magic flared, but there was no trace of her.

No warmth. No bond. Nothing.

Hours passed in a haze of desperation and despair. The moon climbed higher in the sky, casting pale light through the canopy, but it did little to ease the gnawing fear growing inside him. By the time he reached the edge of the forest, Rhysand felt hollow, the weight of his failure pressing down on him with every step.

He was running out of time. Out of hope.

When he finally made the decision to return to Velaris, his wings were heavy, his body exhausted, but his mind couldn’t rest. The flight back felt longer than it should have, his thoughts spiraling into darker and darker places. What if she was gone for good? What if he had missed his chance—missed her?

The moment he landed on the balcony of the House of Wind, the emptiness hit him like a tidal wave. He dropped to his knees, his fingers curling against the cold stone as he tried to catch his breath, tried to steady himself.

But the bond was still faint. Almost gone.

He stood slowly, his mind racing. He had searched where he last saw her. He had searched the forest. But there was one more place she could be—her home. The Dawn Court. She was from there, had roots there. Maybe she had returned, seeking refuge among her people.

It was a slim hope, but it was all he had.

Rhysand straightened, determination burning in his veins. He would contact Thesan, the High Lord of the Dawn Court. He had to know if Y/n was there, if she was safe. But for now, all he could do was wait—and that waiting felt like a slow, torturous pull on his very soul.

She was his mate. And she was gone.

The thought settled into his chest like a cold, hard stone, and Rhysand knew that until he found her—until he brought her back—there would be no peace. He would flip this world upside down to find her.

~~~~~~~

Y/n lay back down, her body sinking into the soft mattress as she stared at the flickering flames in the hearth. Lira’s offer lingered in her mind, but doubt gnawed at her. It wasn’t just the village’s kindness that unsettled her—it was the thought of staying, of settling, when her entire world had crumbled around her.

Her heart felt heavy, weighed down by the memories of Rhysand and everything she had lost. How could she heal in a place like this, where people lived in peace and harmony? She wasn’t like them—she carried too much darkness, too much pain.

Still, there was something about this village, something about Lira’s gentle demeanor that made Y/n want to believe, if only for a moment, that maybe she could find some peace here. Just for a while.

The thought was almost laughable. She had no right to peace.

Lira stood up from her chair, sensing Y/n's internal battle. “I’ll let you rest,” she said, her voice soft. “But if you need anything, just call for me.”

Y/n nodded but didn’t respond as Lira slipped quietly out of the room, leaving her alone with her thoughts. The sounds of the village continued to drift through the window—the laughter, the conversations, the gentle hum of a life Y/n had never known.

Her hand unconsciously drifted to her chest, to where the bond with Rhysand had once tugged at her heart. Now, there was only a hollow ache, a reminder of what had been and what could never be. She had loved him—fiercely, silently, and without hope.

And he had never known.

The thought made her chest tighten again, that familiar grief washing over her. She had been nothing to him, just another face from Dawn, another puppet to use and discard. And now… she was nothing at all.

The hours passed slowly. Y/n found herself drifting in and out of sleep, her body still weak from the injuries. In her dreams, she saw flashes of her past—Her life in Dawn, her little trinkets that she would create to make some living, Rhysand. And then, always, Feyre. Her face haunted Y/n, the reminder of who Rhysand had truly chosen.

When she awoke again, it was darker outside, the village sounds quieter now. Lira hadn’t returned, and Y/n was grateful for the space. She needed time to think, to decide what her next move would be.

But even as she lay there, trying to come up with a plan, her mind kept returning to Lira’s offer. A part of her wanted to accept it, to stay here and heal. But another part, the part that had seen too much betrayal, too much loss, didn’t trust it.

Would they still welcome her if they knew who she really was? What she had done?

Y/n sighed, turning onto her side as the fire crackled softly beside her. She wasn’t sure what her next step would be, but for now, all she could do was rest.

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to take a deep breath. The pain was still there—deep and unyielding—but for the first time in a long while, Y/n allowed herself to hope that maybe, just maybe, she could find some kind of solace here.

Even if it was only temporary.

In the days that followed, Y/n grew stronger. Lira visited her often, bringing food and checking on her injuries, but never pressing too much. The village’s quiet kindness was unsettling at first, but slowly, Y/n began to let herself relax, just a little.

She spent most of her time in bed, staring out the window at the bustling village below. Children ran through the streets, and neighbors helped one another with chores and daily tasks. It was a world so far removed from the one she had known that it almost felt like a dream.

And yet, despite everything, Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t belong here.

Each time she looked out that window, she was reminded of what she had lost, of the bond she had ignored for too long. The thought of Rhysand, out there somewhere, filled her with both longing and anger. She didn’t know if she’d ever see him again, but the silence between them weighed heavily on her.

Still, for now, all she could do was wait. Healing, Lira had said. Y/n wasn’t sure if that was possible, but maybe, just maybe, she could try.

Weeks turned into months.

What Y/n had initially believed would be a short stay to recover gradually became something more. She healed, both in body and in spirit, under the quiet care of Lira and the village’s close-knit community. Slowly, the bruises on her ribs faded, the aches in her muscles eased, and her strength returned.

At first, Y/n had kept to herself, only interacting with Lira when necessary. But as time passed, she began to open up, if only slightly. Lira’s patience had been remarkable, never pushing, always offering a hand when Y/n needed it. The woman’s kindness was a balm to wounds Y/n hadn’t realized still bled.

As she regained her strength, she was introduced to more of the villagers. There was Tamir, a kind-hearted farmer who often brought her fresh produce, and Ayla, a weaver who sat with Y/n by the fire on particularly cold evenings, sharing stories about her family and life in the village. They accepted Y/n without question, never asking too much, never prying into her past.

For the first time in years, Y/n found herself in a place that felt almost like home.

It wasn’t easy, of course. The memories of Rhysand still haunted her in quiet moments—his smile, his laughter, the bond she had felt snap into place and left unacknowledged. But in time, those memories dulled, becoming less sharp, less painful.

She had spent so long thinking about him, about what could have been. But now, as the months slipped by, she began to accept the truth. Rhysand had made his choice, and it hadn’t been her. Feyre was his love. And Y/n… she was learning to be alright with that.

It wasn’t that the pain disappeared—it would always be there, in the corners of her heart—but it no longer consumed her. She found herself laughing with the villagers, working alongside them, and even joining in the village’s small celebrations. She was happy, or at least as close to happiness as she’d felt in a long time.

There were nights when the weight of her past pressed down on her, but those moments grew fewer and farther between. The village, with its simple, peaceful life, had given her space to breathe, to heal.

Lira, especially, had become a close friend. They spent many evenings talking, sometimes about nothing at all, and other times about everything. Y/n found herself confiding in Lira, telling her small pieces of her past—the loss, the heartbreak, the weight of being forgotten. Lira never judged, only listened, offering comfort in the form of quiet understanding.

Y/n no longer felt the crushing loneliness that had driven her to that cliffside. She wasn’t sure what the future held for her, but for now, she was content to stay in this village, to continue healing, and to figure out who she was without the shadow of Rhysand hanging over her.

She still didn’t know what would come next, but for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t running from the uncertainty.

~~~~~~~~

Velaris — One year, three months, fifteen days, six hours, twenty-two minutes, and forty-five seconds since Y/n disappeared.

Rhysand had counted every second. Every agonizing, suffocating second since he had realized she was gone. He stood on the balcony of the River House, staring out over the Sidra, his eyes dark with the weight of his obsession. A full year, and he was no closer to finding her.

He had sent his forces, his shadows, his spies, to every corner of Prythian and beyond. The High Lords had been contacted—every last one of them, including Thesan, the High Lord of the Dawn Court, where Y/n had once called home. His meetings with Thesan had been civil, yet tense.

“She hasn’t returned,” Thesan had said in one of their many conversations, his voice steady but laced with concern. “If she were here, I would have told you, Rhys.”

But that hadn’t stopped Rhysand from ordering Azriel to watch the borders of the Dawn Court, to scour its lands for any sign of her. He had sent out scouts across Prythian—Illyrian patrols sweeping the mountains, Velaris soldiers keeping their eyes open in the cities, and spies dispatched to the human lands. Nothing.

Nothing for over a year. And it was driving him mad.

Rhysand hadn’t rested in months, not truly. His nights were spent pouring over maps, tracing routes, re-reading reports. He had memorized every possible lead, every whispered rumor of a lone female seen wandering the wilderness. But none of them had led to her.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to be found,” Cassian had said one night, his voice gentle but firm, as he sat with Rhysand in the war room.

Rhysand had glared at him, his jaw clenched, his hands tightening into fists. “That’s not an option. She’s my—” He had stopped himself before finishing that sentence. She wasn’t his mate, not officially. The bond possibly had never snapped for her, but for Rhys, it might as well have. His heart knew it, even if the Cauldron had not sealed the bond. She was his.

Cassian had only sighed, shaking his head. “Rhys, I’m worried about you. We all are.”

And they were. Amren had pulled him aside more than once, telling him to stop his frantic searching, to focus on the things he could control. But she didn’t understand. None of them did. Y/n had been his anchor in ways he hadn’t even realized until she was gone.

Azriel had been his silent shadow through all of it. The spymaster had spent countless nights by his side, searching with him, strategizing, offering the quiet kind of support that only Azriel could. They didn’t need words. Rhys knew Azriel understood what it felt like to long for someone you couldn’t have.

But there were moments—moments when the weight of his failure pressed down on him so heavily that he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He had taken to disappearing from the River House, vanishing into the forests outside Velaris, retracing the steps to where he had last seen her.

And then, there was the cliff. Rhys still remembers how when he smelled the faintest remnants of her scent, right there, right at the edge of the cliff, his chest flared with panic as he frantically searched for her but found no trace. Given how faint the scent was, Rhys knew that she wasn’t here recently. But did she kill herself? Did she end up throwing herself off this cliff? Even the mere thought of that made his gut twist, his hands shake. No. She couldn’t have died. No body, no proof. But…..

He stood there, letting the cold wind of the mountains blow past him. The silence that had followed her disappearance.

“Rhys, you need to stop this,” Mor had told him after he’d returned from one such trip, disheveled and exhausted. “You’re tearing yourself apart.”

He had only shaken his head. “I can’t, Mor. I have to find her. I need to.”

Mor had looked at him with sadness in her eyes. “What if she doesn’t want to be found?”

It was the same question Cassian had asked, and Rhys had no answer for it. What if Y/n didn’t want to be found? What if she had left because she wanted to stay hidden from him?

But he refused to believe it. He couldn’t believe it. There had to be another reason—something he hadn’t uncovered yet.

And so, Rhysand kept searching. He kept sending his forces out, kept interrogating every lead, every sighting, every whisper of a female matching her description. He visited the forests, the places they had once been together, hoping for some sign, some shred of her presence.

But there was nothing.

Every day that passed without her only deepened his despair. He had lost weight, his face drawn with exhaustion, his eyes dull with sleepless nights.

But how could he let go of Y/n? How could he forget her, when every part of him screamed that she was out there, somewhere, waiting for him?

His conversations with the inner circle had grown colder, more strained. They were concerned, but they didn’t understand. Not really. How could they, when none of them had lost someone the way he had lost Y/n?

Rhysand stared out over Velaris, the city lights reflecting off the river below. One year, three months, fifteen days, six hours, twenty-seven minutes, and thirty-one seconds.

And still, she was gone.

~~~~~~~~~

Y/n sat on a wooden bench outside the small cottage, her eyes watching the children play in the distance. The crisp evening air brushed against her skin, a reminder of how peaceful life had become in the village. Her heart, though, still felt heavy with memories of another life—one she had tried to leave behind.

The soft shuffle of feet approached, and Y/n turned to see Elder Miriam, one of the village’s wisest, sitting down beside her. The old woman’s face was lined with age, her eyes sharp but kind. She had been the one to welcome Y/n when she first arrived, offering a place to stay and a quiet understanding.

“You’ve been here for some time now,” Miriam began, her voice gentle but firm. “Longer than most who come seeking refuge.”

Y/n nodded, her gaze dropping to her hands. “I didn’t expect to stay this long.”

“And yet, here you are,” Miriam continued, her hands resting on her lap. “There’s peace in this village, but I see it hasn’t reached your heart yet.”

Y/n swallowed, feeling the truth of the words settle inside her. “I’m… trying.”

Miriam studied her, the silence between them filled with the soft sounds of the village. “You’ve been through much. That much is clear. But what are you still holding onto, child?”

Y/n hesitated, unsure how to voice the conflict inside her. “There are people I left behind,” she finally said. “A life I thought I could escape from. But it follows me, no matter how far I run.”

Miriam nodded, her expression thoughtful. “The past has a way of lingering. It’s not something you can outrun. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting, Y/n. It means learning to live with what’s happened, not burying it.”

Y/n bit her lip, fighting back the emotions that threatened to surface. “I thought if I stayed here long enough, I could… rebuild myself. Become someone new.”

“And have you?” Miriam asked, her tone still gentle.

“I don’t know,” Y/n whispered. “Some days, it feels like I’m better. I’m learning to be happy again. But then, there are days where… I feel like I’m right back where I started.”

Miriam placed a hand on Y/n’s shoulder, her touch warm and comforting. “You’ve come far, more than you realize. But you must ask yourself—what is it you’re truly afraid of? Is it the life you left behind, or is it facing the feelings you’ve kept locked away?”

Y/n looked away, the truth painful to admit. “I’m afraid of going back,” she said quietly. “Afraid of what it would mean to confront everything I left behind.”

Miriam nodded again, her eyes full of understanding. “The village has been a place of healing for you, and it’s given you time. But time, Y/n, doesn’t erase the things we carry. It only gives us space to understand them. You cannot live in fear of what’s behind you. It will find its way to the surface, one way or another.”

Y/n felt the weight of the words settle in her chest. For the first time in a long while, she realized how much she had been avoiding—not just Rhysand, but the truth of her own feelings.

“You’re stronger than you think,” Miriam said softly. “You’ve survived, you’ve healed. But true peace will only come when you allow yourself to face what’s still left unresolved.”

Y/n took a deep breath, the knot in her chest loosening just a little. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“No one ever is,” Miriam replied with a small smile. “But readiness isn’t the same as willingness. And you, child, have always been willing to face whatever comes. I’ve seen it in you since the day you arrived.”

Y/n glanced at Miriam, the warmth in the elder’s words easing some of the fear that had gripped her for so long. Maybe she wasn’t ready to confront everything waiting for her outside the village, but maybe that wasn’t the point. Maybe all she needed was the courage to try.

“Thank you,” Y/n said quietly, her voice steadier now.

Miriam smiled, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Take your time, but don’t wait too long. The world won’t wait forever, and neither will you.”

With that, the elder rose from the bench, leaving Y/n alone with her thoughts, the peaceful hum of the village life surrounding her. For the first time in months, Y/n felt the pull of something beyond this quiet haven—something she had tried to ignore, but that was always there, waiting.

Maybe it was time to stop running.

A week had passed since Y/n had left the village. The cool morning air nipped at her skin as she stood at the edge of the forest, the place that had been her refuge for over a year. The memory of her time there was fresh—both a blessing and a burden—but she had made her peace with it. She had healed, not just physically, but in the deeper places that had been broken for so long.

Her heart was lighter now, no longer weighed down by the constant ache of loss. She was ready to move on, to return to the Dawn Court and begin her new life. A part of her would always belong to the village, to the people she had come to love during her stay, but it was time to face the world again.

The day she left had been filled with quiet goodbyes, but the most difficult one had been with Lira. They had shared a bond—a deep understanding that went beyond words.

“You’ll come visit us, right?” Lira’s voice had been soft, but there was a seriousness in her eyes. She stood in front of Y/n, her hands gripping hers tightly.

Y/n smiled, a bittersweet warmth in her chest. “I promise,” she said. “I’ll come back when I can. This place will always be special to me.”

Lira’s lips curved into a smile, though her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Don’t forget us. And don’t forget yourself, either. You’ve grown so much, Y/n. Don’t let that go.”

Y/n shook her head, her voice thick. “I won’t.”

Another villager, an elder Y/n had come to cherish, patted her on the back. “You’ll always have a home here,” he said warmly. “No matter where you go.”

She nodded, grateful beyond words. “Thank you. All of you.”

They stood in a quiet circle, the weight of the farewell settling in the cool air around them. The children she had watched over waved from behind the elder, their faces glowing with sadness and hope.

“Take care of yourself,” Lira said softly, pulling Y/n into a tight embrace. “You deserve to be happy.”

Y/n held her close, taking in the familiar scent of the village—the woods, the earth, and the faint traces of fire. “I’ll try.”

With one last lingering glance, Y/n turned toward the path that led out of the village, the weight of their love and friendship carrying her forward. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. Not this time.

Now, she stood at the gates of the Dawn Court, her heart thudding in her chest. The sprawling palace beyond the gates shimmered under the morning light, and the familiar sight tugged at her—both comforting and foreign after so much time away.

She was different now, she knew that. The woman who had once been so broken, so consumed by heartache, no longer existed. In her place stood someone stronger—someone who had faced the darkest parts of herself and come out on the other side.

Y/n stepped forward, her boots crunching softly against the gravel path. A new life awaited her here. She had accepted that Rhysand was not hers, and with that acceptance came freedom—freedom to create something new, something that was hers alone.

As she approached the entrance, she took a deep breath, steadying herself. This was home, after all. And no matter how far she had run, she was always meant to return.

The guards at the gate gave her surprised looks, but they bowed respectfully, recognizing her. They knew her face, even if they couldn’t comprehend the transformation she had undergone in her time away.

Home. It sounded strange, but as she stepped through the gates and into the Dawn Court’s embrace, she realized how true it was.

She had come full circle.

With each step, the memories of her old life resurfaced, but they didn’t crush her as they once had. Instead, they reminded her of the strength she had gained, the scars she had earned, and the peace she had finally found.

This was a new beginning, and Y/n was ready for whatever came next.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was another miserable day.

He had counted every single second of her absence, the guilt festering in his chest like a poison he couldn’t escape. No matter how much time passed, the ache didn’t ease. The weight of what he had done—or rather, what he hadn’t done—crushed him.

He had searched everywhere, sent emissaries to the furthest reaches of Prythian and beyond. He’d begged, bribed, and even threatened other courts for information. Thesan had been his most trusted ally in the search, offering resources and keeping an eye out. Rhysand had sent his Inner Circle across borders to find her, but it had all led to nothing. Y/n was gone, and the only thing he had left was his regret.

He hadn’t been there for her when she needed him most. Not during Amarantha’s reign. Not when she had withered under his very nose, and certainly not when she left. His thoughts always returned to those last months. The months he had spent prioritizing Feyre’s safety and neglecting Y/n’s slow unraveling. He had failed her.

He was sitting at his desk, head in his hands, feeling the familiar hollow ache settle deep in his bones, when the door to his study opened.

Azriel stepped in, his shadows swirling around him like an ever-present cloak of darkness. The spymaster’s face was unreadable, but Rhysand knew him well enough to see the urgency in his posture.

“Rhys,” Azriel said, his voice calm, but there was something behind it. Something that made Rhysand sit up straight, a flicker of hope—a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself in months—stirring in his chest.

“What is it?” Rhysand asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Hope had become a dangerous thing for him, always leading to disappointment.

Azriel paused, letting the weight of the moment sink in. “Thesan contacted me. His guards… they’ve seen her.”

Rhysand’s heart stopped. For a long, agonizing second, he couldn’t breathe. “Seen… her?” he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Azriel nodded. “Y/n. She’s back at the Dawn Court. She returned a week ago. Thesan’s guards have been keeping an eye on her from a distance, but she’s home. Alive.”

Rhysand felt the floor tilt beneath him. She was back. After all this time, after every failed attempt to find her, every sleepless night spent tormented by guilt, Y/n had returned. The relief that flooded him was overwhelming, but it was swiftly followed by a wave of doubt so strong it made him dizzy.

“I should… I should go to her,” Rhysand said, standing abruptly. His mind raced, his heart pounding in his chest. He had to see her, had to know if she was okay. But then he paused, his hand falling away from the desk. His thoughts crashed into one another, the doubt settling in.

Would she want to see him?

“Wait,” Rhysand murmured, his voice barely audible. “Should I even go?” He turned to Azriel, his brows furrowing in confusion. “I… I wasn’t there for her, Az. Not when she needed me most. What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if she’s better off without me?”

Azriel’s dark eyes flickered with something like exasperation, but it was laced with sympathy. “Rhys, are you serious right now?”

Rhysand dragged a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of his guilt crushing him again. “I ignored her. After Amarantha, after Feyre… I neglected her. The last months she was with us, I wasn’t there for her. What if she’s moved on? What if she’s better now without me?”

Azriel stepped closer, his shadows swirling around his shoulders. “You’ve been searching for her for over a year. You’ve nearly destroyed yourself trying to find her. And now that she’s back, you’re doubting whether to go to her?”

Rhysand clenched his fists, his jaw tight. “I hurt her, Az. I let her slip away. What if she hates me for it?”

Azriel let out a breath, his eyes softening. “Then you go to her and you tell her that. You tell her how much she means to you, and you beg for her forgiveness if that’s what it takes.” His voice lowered, more gentle than Rhysand had ever heard it. “You’ve been waiting for this moment, Rhys. Don’t let your guilt stop you from fixing what was broken.”

Rhysand stared at his brother, the weight of his words sinking in. He had been waiting—praying—for this moment, for the chance to make things right. But now that it was here, all he could feel was fear. Fear that Y/n wouldn’t forgive him, that the damage he had caused was too great to repair.

“I will kneel if I have to,” Rhysand said quietly, the words heavy with desperation. “I’ll beg her to forgive me, to let me back into her life.”

Azriel’s lips curved into the barest hint of a smile. “Then go. Don’t waste any more time.”

Rhysand nodded, though the fear still gnawed at him. But beneath that fear, a flicker of hope remained. He would see Y/n again. He would kneel, beg, do whatever it took to fix the mistakes of the past.

And maybe—just maybe—he could find a way back to her.

Rhysand stood in silence for a moment, letting the realization sink in. He wasn’t sure what he would find when he saw Y/n, or if she would even want to speak to him. But there was no turning back now.

With a deep breath, he turned to Azriel. “I’m going to Dawn,” he said, his voice steady, though his heart trembled. “I have to see her.”

Azriel nodded once. “Good luck, Rhys.”

Rhysand didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He simply disappeared, winnowing into the wind, his heart pounding as he made his way to the one person who mattered most.

~~~~~~~~

Y/n sat at the small table in her home, the afternoon light filtering through the curtains. The room was modest but comfortable, much different than it had been a year ago. Before she left, she had been barely getting by, working tirelessly just to make ends meet. She had spent her days repairing small items, doing odd jobs, always tired, always worn down. Back then, the work had been a necessity—a way to survive, not something she took pride in.

Now, it was different.

Y/n’s fingers moved over the smooth wood of the small jewelry box she had just crafted. She had taken up woodworking after returning from the village, and while it wasn’t glamorous, she found peace in the craft. People in the Dawn Court had taken notice of her work, and word had spread. Slowly but surely, she started receiving more commissions, her skills improving with every piece she made.

She wasn’t rich—not by a long shot—but she was comfortable. She didn’t have to worry as much about her next meal or paying for firewood. Her house, which had once felt so empty and cold, now felt like a home again. The work wasn’t just about money anymore. It was about creating something with her own hands—something that others appreciated.

Y/n leaned back, wiping the sawdust from her hands, and looked around her small space. It felt like she had finally found a balance. She was content. It wasn’t the life she had imagined for herself all those years ago, but it was a good life. She was healing, slowly but surely, and for the first time in a long time, she felt hopeful about the future.

There were moments when her mind drifted to the past—when memories of Rhysand surfaced, and the pain of what could have been tugged at her. But it didn’t consume her anymore. She had made peace with it, in her own way, and she knew she had to keep moving forward. This was her life now, and she was determined to make it her own.

Y/n wiped her brow, the scent of fresh wood filling the air as she placed the finished box onto the shelf beside a few others she had completed earlier that week. A soft smile tugged at her lips. It was a simple life—one she hadn’t expected to love—but there was a calmness in it that soothed her in ways she hadn’t realized she needed.

Her hands were no longer idle, no longer weighed down by the burden of survival. Now, when she worked, it was with purpose, and each completed piece felt like a small victory—a testament to her growth, her healing. The dark days when she could barely muster the energy to get out of bed felt distant now, like a different life entirely.

She stepped back from her workbench, glancing around her small home. It was far from luxurious, but it was hers. She had made it feel like home again after being away for so long. She had become part of the local community again, and though life wasn’t easy, it was manageable—and even enjoyable at times.

Y/n sighed, letting the moment settle over her. She was content. She hadn’t thought it possible after everything she had been through, but somehow, she had found peace.

She walked to the window, looking out at the familiar streets. The weight of the past year didn’t feel as heavy as it used to. Dawn had changed for her. Before, it was a place where she had simply existed—barely making it through each day. Now, it felt like a fresh start, a place where she could rebuild herself without the shadows of her past constantly looming over her.

Her thoughts drifted to the village she had left behind just a week ago. It had been hard to say goodbye, but she knew it was time. They had become like a family to her, and the promise to visit would be kept. But she needed to come home—to her own space, her own life.

The memory of her farewell lingered, the promises exchanged that they would stay in touch, that they wouldn’t forget each other. She smiled at the thought. She wouldn’t forget them either. They had been the ones who had helped her when she didn’t know how to help herself, and that was something she would always carry with her.

But here, now, she was finally ready to move forward. Ready to build something new for herself.

Y/n was walking through the busy streets of the Dawn, enjoying the calm, steady pace of life here. She had just visited the market, her basket filled with items for her latest craft project. The sun was warm on her face, and for the first time in a long while, she felt truly at peace.

As she turned the corner, two figures in armor approached her. They wore the unmistakable insignia of the Dawn Court—palace soldiers. Their faces were unreadable, and as they came closer, she felt an uneasy flutter in her stomach.

“Y/n,” one of them said, his voice firm yet not unkind. “You are required at the palace.”

Her heart skipped a beat, confusion surging through her. “The palace? Why? Did I do something wrong?”

The second soldier didn’t meet her gaze, only repeating the first soldier’s words. “We need to escort you to the High Lord. Please come with us.”

Fear and confusion knotted in her chest, but the soldiers gave her no further explanation. They began to walk, clearly expecting her to follow. Y/n’s mind raced with questions. Why would High Lord Thesan summon her? What had she done? She couldn’t think of any reason she’d be needed at the palace.

As they passed through the grand gates and into the opulent halls, her nerves only grew. The palace was more beautiful than she remembered, but she was too anxious to appreciate the elegance of her surroundings. The guards led her through winding corridors until they reached a large, ornate door.

One of the soldiers knocked, and the door was opened from within. They motioned for her to step inside.

She hesitated for only a moment before walking in.

The room was grand, with tall windows casting golden light over the finely furnished space. But it wasn’t the luxury of the room that caught her off guard.

It was the two men standing inside.

One was High Lord Thesan, smiling warmly, his demeanor calm and welcoming. The other was Rhysand.

Her breath caught in her throat. Rhysand? Her legs nearly gave out beneath her at the sight of him standing there, looking tense, his usual smug expression replaced with something far more serious. His violet eyes found hers the moment she entered the room, and she felt every nerve in her body light up with an old, painful familiarity.

Thesan stepped forward first, his kind smile not wavering. “Y/n,” he greeted, his voice smooth. “I apologize for the sudden summons. I imagine this is not what you were expecting today.”

She blinked, still too shocked to speak, her gaze flickering from Thesan to Rhysand and back again.

The High Lord chuckled softly, clearly sensing her confusion. “You are not in trouble, I assure you,” Thesan said gently. “I wanted to make sure you had a chance to… speak with Rhysand. I believe there are things that need to be said.” He glanced between them before adding, “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

Y/n’s throat tightened as Thesan gave her one last smile and exited the room, closing the door behind him.

And then it was just her and Rhysand.

The silence was suffocating. Rhysand stood a few feet away, his gaze locked on her, an uncharacteristic tension lining his features. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and filled with a vulnerability she hadn’t expected.

“Y/n… I’m sorry.”

She didn’t respond at first, still trying to piece together how this moment had come to pass. “Sorry for what?” she finally asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

“For everything,” Rhysand said, stepping closer, though he still maintained a respectful distance. “For how I treated you before… for abandoning you. I spent the past year searching for you, desperate to make things right. I—” He paused, swallowing hard. “I should have told you sooner. You are my mate.”

Her chest tightened, a sharp laugh escaping her lips before she could stop it. “I know.”

Rhys’s eyes widened in surprise. “You knew? Since when?”

“Since long before you disappeared into Feyre’s shadow,” she replied bitterly. The anger, the hurt, it all came rushing back in full force. “Why didn’t I tell you? Why should I have? Would it have made a difference when you were so focused on her that I may as well have been invisible?”

Rhys flinched at her words, guilt etched deeply into his face. “It would have mattered,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You mattered.”

“Then why didn’t you act like it?” Y/n’s voice trembled with emotion, her hands clenching at her sides. “Why was I nothing more than a tool to you when Feyre came along? I watched you—watched as you ignored me, as you barely looked at me. And now, after a year of running and hiding, now you come to apologize? You expect me to just forgive you because you finally decided I was worth something?”

Rhysand’s eyes were filled with sorrow and regret, his normally proud and arrogant demeanor shattered. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I came to beg for it, if that’s what it takes. I was wrong, Y/n, in so many ways. But you have to know, you are my mate, and I will do anything to make this right. I will kneel, I will grovel, I will—”

But she shook her head, cutting him off. “It’s too late, Rhysand. You’ve already made your choice.”

Rhys took another step toward her, desperation in his eyes. “Please, Y/n. I never stopped caring. I was a fool. But we can start again, we—”

“No,” she interrupted, her voice firm, though it cracked with emotion. “You don’t get to come back into my life now and demand forgiveness. I’ve rebuilt myself. I’ve moved on. You should have done the same.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out, leaving Rhysand standing alone, the weight of his mistakes heavy in the air.

But Rhysand didn’t stop. Determined to win her back, he threw himself into a relentless pursuit of her forgiveness. Every day, he tried to reach her in some way, even if she wouldn’t let him in.

He sent her gifts—delicate, handcrafted items from the finest artisans in the Dawn Court, things that would have brought a smile to her face just months ago. Each time, he watched from a distance as she took them from her doorstep, only to leave them discarded by the door, untouched and unacknowledged.

Rhysand poured his heart into letters, filled with apologies and promises, penned with the kind of vulnerability he had rarely shown anyone before. He would slip them under her door, hoping that maybe one would catch her attention. But each time he checked, the letters remained sealed, never to be opened, reminders of his failure piling up like stones in his chest.

He would linger in the shadows, just outside her home, drawn by the pull of her presence. He watched her move about her day—working on her crafts, laughing with neighbors, sharing stories. His heart ached at how vibrant she seemed, yet he felt like a ghost haunting the edges of her life. Each smile she shared with others was a dagger, a reminder of what he had lost.

In moments of bravery, he approached the marketplace, hoping for a chance encounter. He would linger near the stalls, pretending to browse as she passed by, but she never looked his way. It was as if he were invisible, a figment of her past she refused to acknowledge.

He even tried to connect with the villagers, asking about her and expressing his desire to help her, but they were loyal to her. They would only nod politely, never divulging her whereabouts or responding to his inquiries. They could sense the pain behind his facade, and their protectiveness toward Y/n was fierce.

Days turned into weeks, and Rhysand’s resolve only strengthened. He would find small ways to make his presence known. Sometimes, he would send the occasional flower with a note saying, “I miss you.” Other times, he enlisted Azrael to check in on her, to gauge how she was doing. Each report from his friend was a bittersweet reminder of how far he had fallen from her good graces.

Yet despite all his efforts, Y/n remained steadfastly indifferent. She had rebuilt her life without him, and the fortress she had built around her heart was impenetrable. No amount of gifts or letters could pierce it.

As the seasons changed, Rhysand continued his quiet vigil, each day filled with longing and regret, praying that one day, she would see him not as a shadow of her past but as a man who desperately wanted to be part of her future.

Y/n was kneeling in her garden, the vibrant flowers blooming around her, but her heart felt anything but bright. She was lost in thought, trying to focus on her plants when she suddenly sensed a presence behind her. Her instincts kicked in, and she turned quickly, catching sight of a tall figure with dark wings.

“Who are you?” she demanded, standing defensively, her heart racing.

“Y/n,” he replied, his voice calm yet intense. “My name is Azriel, I’m a friend of Rhysand’s. I’ve been… watching over you.”

“Watching over me?” she echoed, confusion and anger flaring up inside her. “Why? What do you want?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Azriel said, stepping forward slightly but keeping his distance, as if respecting her space. “About Rhysand. He’s been… suffering since you left.”

Y/n crossed her arms, her expression hardening. “I don’t want to talk about him. He made his choice.”

“He didn’t know what he was doing, Y/n,” Azriel pressed, his tone earnest. “He’s been lost without you. The gifts he sent, the letters—those were all from a place of regret. He didn’t realize how much you meant to him until it was too late.”

“Regret?” she scoffed, shaking her head. “It’s easy to feel regret when you’ve moved on with someone else, isn’t it? I was nothing more than a passing thought to him while he chased after Feyre.”

Azriel frowned, sensing the pain in her words. “I can’t deny that Rhysand made mistakes, but he has changed. He’s been searching for you for a year. He’s been—”

“Searching?” she interrupted, her voice rising. “How much of a fool do you think I am to believe that? I don’t want to be another one of his burdens or a way to soothe his guilt.”

Azriel took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “I understand your anger, but you deserve to know the truth. You deserve to hear him out.”

Y/n’s heart raced with conflicting emotions. She was furious with Rhysand, yet there was a flicker of curiosity buried deep inside her. “And what makes you think I want to hear anything from him? What if he’s just going to hurt me again?”

Azriel stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Because you deserve closure. You deserve to understand why he acted the way he did. If you don’t give him a chance, you might carry this pain forever. You may think you’ve moved on, but deep down, you’re still holding onto that hurt.”

Y/n’s expression softened slightly, but she quickly masked it with defiance. “It’s easier to keep it all buried, Azriel. I don’t need him in my life. I’ve built something here, a life I’m proud of.”

“I see that,” he said, nodding. “But are you truly happy? Or is there still a part of you that wonders what could have been?”

She hesitated, the truth clawing at her heart. “Maybe I could talk to him again,” she admitted reluctantly, the words spilling out before she could stop herself. “But it doesn’t mean I want to forgive him. It doesn’t mean I’m ready to open that door again.”

“Just consider it,” Azriel urged gently. “You don’t have to decide everything right now. But Rhysand is here, waiting for you. He won’t stop until he gets the chance to explain himself. And when you’re ready, you can choose how to respond.”

Y/n turned back to her flowers, avoiding Azriel’s gaze, trying to gather her thoughts. “And what if I don’t want to respond? What if I just want to forget?”

“Then you’ll have that choice too,” Azriel said, his tone calm and understanding. “But know that you can’t run from your feelings forever. If you want to heal, you have to face them.”

After a long silence, Y/n sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I’ll think about it,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

As Azriel nodded, she could feel the weight of his presence, a reminder that her past was still very much alive, no matter how hard she tried to bury it. She knew that eventually, she would have to confront the truth about Rhysand—and about herself.

The sky was painted in soft shades of dusk, the sun casting its final golden rays over the pristine lake. The place Rhysand had chosen was breathtaking—a secluded spot nestled between the hills, where the water sparkled like diamonds under the fading light. Wildflowers swayed gently in the breeze, their vibrant colors contrasting with the deep green of the surrounding trees. It was peaceful, a place that felt almost sacred in its stillness.

Y/n approached the shore, her footsteps slow and hesitant. She had agreed to meet him, but every step felt heavier than the last, like she was walking toward something she wasn’t ready to face. Her heart thudded in her chest, her mind filled with doubts, fears, and anger she hadn’t yet let go of.

And then she saw him.

Rhysand stood by the edge of the lake, his back to her, his wings tucked tightly against him. The sight of him stirred something deep within her—a pang of old pain, old longing, and something new, something she couldn’t yet name. He seemed so out of place here, in this tranquil setting, with the weight of his own emotions heavy on his shoulders.

He turned as she neared, his violet eyes locking onto hers, a myriad of emotions swirling in their depths—regret, hope, desperation. He took a step toward her, but stopped himself, as if afraid that one wrong move might send her running.

“Y/n,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for coming.”

She didn’t respond immediately, crossing her arms over her chest, her posture guarded. “You wanted to talk. So, talk.”

He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment before he looked back at her. “I don’t even know where to begin. I… I made so many mistakes.”

“You can say that again,” she muttered, her voice colder than she had intended.

He nodded, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I didn’t realize… how much I hurt you. I didn’t realize how blind I had been to everything you were going through.”

“I was right there, Rhys,” she said, her voice rising with frustration. “Right in front of you, and you didn’t see me. Not once. Not until it was too late.”

“I know,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I know, and I hate myself for it. I was so consumed by everything happening with Amarantha, with Feyre… I thought I was doing what was best, that I was protecting you by keeping you at a distance.”

Y/n scoffed, shaking her head. “Protecting me? By ignoring me? By treating me like I didn’t exist?”

Rhysand flinched at her words, guilt flooding his features. “I thought… I thought that if I distanced myself, if I kept you away, you wouldn’t be hurt. That you’d be safer if you weren’t involved in everything that was happening. But I see now that I was wrong. So, so wrong.”

She bit her lip, the anger still simmering just beneath the surface, but there was something else there too—a crack in her armor, however small. “Why didn’t you just tell me? Why didn’t you talk to me?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his expression pained. “I was a coward. I didn’t know how to face you, how to admit that I had failed you. And by the time I realized… it felt like I had already lost you.”

“You had,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You did.”

Rhysand stepped closer, his eyes pleading. “But I don’t want to lose you forever, Y/n. I can’t. I came here to beg for your forgiveness, to do whatever it takes to make things right. I know I don’t deserve it. I know I’ve done nothing but hurt you, but I’m asking—no, I’m begging you to give me a chance to prove that I’ve changed.”

Y/n’s breath hitched, her heart torn between the lingering hurt and the raw sincerity in his voice. “And what if I can’t forgive you? What if it’s too late for that?”

He stared at her for a long moment, his expression solemn. “Then I’ll accept that. I’ll accept whatever decision you make. But please, just give me the chance to try. Let me show you that I’m not the same man who pushed you away. Let me prove that I can be the person you deserve.”

Y/n’s eyes filled with unshed tears, her emotions threatening to spill over. “You hurt me, Rhys. You made me feel like I was nothing.”

“I know,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “And I will regret that for the rest of my life. But you are not nothing. You never were. You are everything.”

She turned away, her hands trembling as she tried to hold herself together. “This… this is all too much. I don’t know if I can trust you again.”

Rhysand closed the distance between them, his voice soft but urgent. “I won’t rush you. I won’t push you. But if there’s even a part of you that thinks we could find a way forward, I’ll wait. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

She wiped at her eyes, refusing to let the tears fall. “And what about the mate bond? You didn’t even acknowledge it, didn’t tell me—”

“I didn’t know,” he said quickly, his eyes wide with desperation. “I didn’t know until you were gone, until it was too late. I felt it after you left, like a piece of my soul was ripped away.”

Y/n stared at him, her heart pounding. “I knew,” she admitted quietly. “I’ve known for a while.”

His eyes widened, shock and confusion written on his face. “You knew? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t think you’d care,” she said, her voice wavering. “Because you were so focused on Feyre, on everything else. I didn’t want to be another burden for you to carry.”

Rhysand shook his head, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “You were never a burden, Y/n. Never. I was just too blind to see what was right in front of me. And I hate myself for that.”

Y/n turned back to him, her gaze softening ever so slightly. “I’m not ready to accept the bond yet, Rhys. I’m not ready to just… let everything go.”

He nodded, his expression pained but understanding. “I understand. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for as long as it takes, and I’ll do whatever it takes to earn your trust back.”

She swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in. “Maybe… maybe if we spent more time together, if you showed me that you’ve really changed… maybe then I could consider it.”

Rhysand’s eyes lit up with a glimmer of hope, and he nodded eagerly. “Anything. I’ll do anything you ask.”

Y/n sighed, the heaviness in her chest lifting just slightly. “This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you, Rhys. I’m not there yet. But… I’m willing to see if you can prove yourself.”

He stepped closer, his voice low and filled with determination. “I will. I swear I will.”

She nodded slowly, a small, tentative step toward the possibility of healing. “We’ll see.”

As Y/n spoke those final words, a calm silence settled between them. The tension that had been weighing the air down began to ease, and the light from the setting sun cast a warm glow over the lake, reflecting in soft ripples on the water. Rhysand, still standing close but not too close, let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his shoulders finally relaxing.

He gave her a tentative smile, one that was full of relief and gratitude. “Thank you… for giving me this chance,” he murmured softly. “It means more than you know.”

Y/n glanced at him, her expression unreadable for a moment before a small smile ghosted her lips. “Don’t thank me yet. You’ve got a lot of proving to do, Rhys.”

His eyes sparkled with a mixture of affection and determination, and for the first time in a long time, a bit of the old, charming Rhys peeked through. “I plan to, darling. You’ll see.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no malice behind it, just a faint glimmer of amusement. “Don’t get cocky. This isn’t a victory.”

“Not yet,” he agreed, a teasing lilt in his voice. “But it’s a start.”

They both stood there for a while longer, just watching the lake, the breeze gentle against their skin. Y/n didn’t pull away when Rhysand took a small step closer, their arms nearly brushing. The proximity felt different now—less suffocating, more… reassuring. As if, for the first time in ages, she wasn’t standing completely alone.

Rhysand didn’t make any bold moves; he didn’t reach out to touch her, respecting the distance she still held. But there was a warmth in the silence, an unspoken understanding that they were no longer quite as far apart as before.

Finally, after a few moments of peaceful quiet, Y/n turned to leave, the conversation having drained her emotionally. She needed time—time to process everything he’d said, everything she’d felt.

As she walked past him, Rhysand called after her gently, “Can I at least walk you back?”

Y/n paused, glancing over her shoulder. For a heartbeat, she considered saying no, but then, with a soft sigh, she nodded. “Alright. But just this once.”

Rhysand smiled—genuinely, this time—and caught up to her, falling into step beside her as they began to walk down the path back toward the city. They didn’t speak much, the silence between them comfortable now, and Y/n found herself not minding his presence the way she once had.

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

Taglist: @willowpains @theravenphoenix26 @mother-above @bookwormysblog @strawberriesandstories @12idk1234

[fayesia]

The Kings Seat

Aemond Targaryen x sister!reader

warnings: nsfw 18+, switch!aemond, jealous!aegon, incest (obviously it's house Targaryen), fingering, creampie, tit worship?, breeding kink, fem!oral, p in v

You moved gracefully around the circumference of the small councils table, wine in hand, dutifully filling the lords cup if need be. You paused by the Kings side, pouring his glass full, aware of his habits as his sister, you witnessed first hand your brothers fall into the clutches of the finest wines and jewels from the streets of silk.

You yourself were taken to the tucked away pleasure houses just a few months ago at the age of 8 and 10. Your brother keeping you close, for he knew well the wrath that would face him if your mother had known he was the cause of your ruined maidenhood.

~flashback~

Instead, he steered you around by your shoulders whispering into your ear about what you saw. Both women and men walked around bare as the day they were but babes, their body's slithered amongst one another like that of a performance, one you couldn't take your eyes off of. A man's hand came up caressing the well endowed woman's breasts, she keened against him arching her back while another feasted between her legs, her hands gripping onto their hair like a salvation she craved.

Your body seemed pleased by the glorious sights of pleasure, shifting your thighs against one another where you felt the stickiness of your need. Aegons whispers by your ear were followed by gentle kisses against your neck, exhaling softly as your breath got stuck by a moan fighting it's way from your throat. His hand wrapped around your hip while another around your neck, gently rolling your head to rest upon his shoulder as he continued to worship your soft unmarked skin that lay bare to him.

He provided you with a dark cloak on the way out to your secret endeavour but it was just your thin white nightgown that lay beneath. His fingers came up to your neck, clumsily he attempted to untie the knot, failing due to his drunken state after having indulged in three full cups of wine. You reached up and he felt your soft fingers against his rough ones, calloused from his training days with Ser Criston.

Your eyes locked and it was like the two of you were looking into a mirror, time stood still and the only thing heard was the shallow breaths between the two of you upon the realisation of your actions.

Gods, this was your sisters husband, your brother.

You could not let such rumours be heard by your mother, lest you were ready to feel her wrath against your face they way she had many times prior. Leaving behind red handprints and purple bruises that marred your white porcelain targarryan skin, her face scowling at you as your eyes brimmed with tears that you willed to never let fall in front of her, that witch who you call mother.

You were pulled roughly from your trance, shocked to find a rather ruffled Prince Aemond. He was always so proper with not even a starnd of his perfectly white hair out of place, and yet here he stood eye patch in hand with his clothing in disarray, must have been in a rush to put them back on you assumed. It was no secret to you that Aegon visited the pleasure houses often, however you were yet to know that Aemond did too.

Still it did not come as a surprise, a boy was to find his needs somehow, if his mother could not give him the proper love required, it seemed fair for him to search for it elsewhere.

Grabbed out of Aegons embrace you were pulled against the tall stature of Aemond, his face reflecting the rage of a very angry dragon, akin to that of Vaghar. Repositioning his eye patch, his eye glared viciously into Aegons. "Skoros gaomagon ao pendagon ao sagon doing, ao mittys!?" Aegons mouth open and shut at the unexpected outbursts. "Bringing īlva mandia naejot iā dīnagon hae bisa! Gods is there ever anything going on in that tiny little head of yours you insolent fuck. skoros gaomagon ao pendagon muña kessa gaomagon, skori ziry hears hen rumours." (what do you think you're doing you fool?! Bringing our sister to a place like this! What do you think mother will do, when she hears of the rumours)

The two of you walk silently back to the castle gates, your eyes briefly flickering over Aemonds face, trying to read what he's thinking, but he offers none of his thoughts in his expression. It remains stoic and unwavering, just like his grip on your forearm until you finally reach the doors to your apartments. Pushing the shocked guard aside, he opens the door shoving you in and leaving without another word.

~end of flashback~

The loud noise of the knights armour clashing together brings you back to your senses. The council rooms doors open and the lords make their way out of the room making way for the king before taking their leave. Placing down the empty jug of wine you let out a deep breath staring down at the table.

"Does something bother you sister"

Whipping your head quickly you meet the pointed gaze of Aemond as he stands next to the Kings seat, hands clasped behind his back as he faces you.

"No, actually, I was just about to leave"

"Ah, not so quickly. Come sit"

It's not your role to take a seat at the small councils table but Aemond stands waiting expectantly next to the dragged out chair. So you walk over and sit on the edge of the seat, clasping your hands together in an effort to hide your nervousness. Ever since that night you and Aegon snuck out of the castle Aemond did not pay much attention and cared little for making conversation. It was only he who knew he kept his distance in hopes to keep his desires at bay.

The desires that rose after seeing you in that sinful place, dressed so innocently with eyes full of desire and lust. A look he would never forget after many a nights spent alone with just his hands on himself and you in his mind. The shame after the first time stopped him from looking into your eyes but the next few times he could barely handle being around you, only the gods know what he might end up doing to you.

"You wish to sit here, do you not sister? Must be difficult being perceived as a simple cup bearer"

You stay silent.

He places his hands on your shoulder, leaning to whisper into your ear as though there are still people in the room, but it is just the two of you and the guards outside.

"You know you have all the knowledge to aid in this talk of war, yet you are forced to hold your tongue, like a kind innocent little girl"

Little girl. The way he says it reminds you of when he shoved you into your room after your late night trip.

"Go to sleep now, little girl"

"But you are not so innocent, sister"

His hands rub against your shoulders sliding up and down your arms, but as he speaks they slide lower, brief touches of his fingertips against the skin exposed by the low cut of your dress.

"For there is only three who know of that night and the lust you sought after, from your own brother"

You try to speak but the words are caught in your throat, only short breaths coming out. His hands lower down your back, delicately untying the laces to your gown in an almost polar opposite way to his brothers clumsy drunken fumbles.

Resting your head against the back of the chair you're left in the perfect position for Aemonds attack against your neck, his movements are fast but the kisses he lays are gentle. A soft nipping against your skin but he's careful to leave no marks for those to see and make rumours of. "Is this how it felt, to feel him against your skin, to feel your Kings lips on your neck?"

You shake your head in a daze, slowly side to side.

"No it feels better doesn't it."

Nodding your head, he unties the last knot of your dress and it slips down loosely, catching onto your forearms that grip the edge of the table. Your bare breasts are on display and his hands are quick to hold onto them. They comfortably fit into his palm, your nipples harden against the cold temperature of his hands. He grabs hold of you, lifting you up from the chair and placing you on top of the small councils table, crashing his mouth against yours faster than you can register his movements.

He tastes like the wine you had just been pouring, you felt like you were drunk off just his kisses alone. Chest to chest. Lips to lips. As your tongues battles for dominance, it was a losing battle on your part. Your hands grasps against aemonds arms but you scratch at his clothing, a sign for him to remove it which he gladly notices. Slipping out of the remaining gown on you, Aemond removes his clothing too until he is stood in front of you in nothing. Both of you bare as the day of your births.

All ideas of sensibility is gone, the thought of someone walking in is not even lingering in either of your minds.

Stepping forward Aemond guides you back onto the small council table except he now sits in the Kings seats with you in front of him, his prize. Leaning forward his hand is hard and pressing against your spine, his mouth wraps around the shape or your left breast while his other hand is busy massaging your right. He suckles at your nipple like a babe with its mother and you understand his needs, softly raking your nails through his straight hair, his moans lost in the flesh of your tit.

You grow more wet and impatient as he continues the treatment to your tits switching between the two.

"Are you feeling needy little girl, rather more like a little slut now"

Gently laying you back down on the table he lifts your thighs to rest in his arms. Whispering as he makes his way between your legs kissing against your inner thighs, the sweet taste of you on his tongue teasing him.

"But that's what you want to be now, my little slut, my own personal whore."

Letting out a sharp gasp followed by a moan your hands reach down to grasps Aemonds head, but as his tongue languidly traces every crevice of your cunt his large hand wraps around both your wrist tightly and pins them above your head. He's almost ferel losing control in a way you had never seen before. He moans into you and let's out growls that compete with that of a dragon. His lips wrap around your pearl and his tongue traces around your tight hole, trying to squeeze its way through the barrier of your maidenhood already broken from your days of dragonriding. Your moans grow louder as you almost reach your peak.

"That's right let the whole castle hear you, so they know you belong to me, Iksā ñuhon" (You are mine). Your back arches off the stone table, a sign that you are close. Yet Aemond stops leading you to whine out at the loss of pleasure.

"No I want to feel you cum with me inside this sweet cunt"

His lips meet yours once again taking the chance to slip his tongue inside when you let out a moan. His finger slips inside of you. "What a truly tight cunt you have sister" You can barely respond feeling yourself completely lost in the desires to pull Aemond as close to you as possible, to merge your bodies into one. A second finger prods against you to meet the first one, he slowly stretches you to fit his cock, the same one that has grown double in size since he first began worshipping you.

"Please Aemond-please I'm so close. Jus' let me cum please~" your words are lost amongst the moans that Aemond draws from you. He fears he will not last long with your responses heading straight to his cock, the tip a bright pink coated in his precum, that runs down the sides in a little stream.

Flipping you around, your front is not squashed onto the table adding further sensations to your already stimulated nipples, Aemonds hands hold tightly onto your hips. Spreading the soft flesh of your bottom he runs his cock against your dripping folds, his fluids mixing with yours making an even bigger mess of your cunt.

"Are you ready? Going to have you take my seed, carry my babe, let everyone know who you belong to, and strengthen the family line." His words come out breathy and needy and you expect to hear a whine by the end of it. But it is you who let's out the sweet noises as Aemonds cock enters your tight hole. He sheaths himself into you wating for you to adjust around him before pulling halfway out. Your mouth opens in a silent scream and your nails scratch marks into the stone beneath you that you know will be seen during the next small councils meeting.

"So good, feels so good my sweet thing, so tight, gods I will not last long, fill you with my babe soon"

Still inside of you Aemond carries you and sits back in the Kings seat, you're facing him and stare into his eye as he bottoms into you completely. Your eyes closing shut but he calls for you to keep them open. "I want you to see my face when I fill you with my seed, as I breed you to take my babe." Nodding your head you're too drunken on lust and pleasure to understand anything.

Wrapping your arms around his neck Aemonds mouth comes to suck and kiss at your breasts once again, a habit he hopes to keep when you began feeding your future babe, to taste the sweet liquid of life you will feed them and him. His thoughts and your tight walls squeezing around him draw him over the edge. As he climaxes he growls against your chest as you kiss his head, the two of you holding each other like each other lifelines. His cum pumps into you and he feels some of it leak down his cock and onto his balls as he pulls out of you.

Pushing two fingers into you he is sure that none of it will go to waste, curling and rubbing against your walls his thumbs rushes against your pearl. Whining out at the gods you cum onto Aemonds hand, the clear liquid mixed with his white cum dripping down from his wrist down to the veins on his arm. "Shhh sh my sweet so good for me." You let out small whimpers feeling his fingers leave you. Holding you close he places a gentle kiss to the side of your head but gets up to get dressed leaving you in the Kings seat, his cum dripping from your cunt.

"Come sister we must be quick before they come searching for us" holding out your dress he helps your stumbing body into it and ties the laces as your maids did this morning. He leaves the room first to not cause suspicion but he's sure to leave the guards with a handful of coins each and threats against their lives in return for their secrecy. You follow a while after, making the walk back to your apartments with your guards and the cum of Prince Aemond dripping down your thighs.

It is two days later when your mother request you to be a cup bearer at yet another one of the small councils meetings. You do so dutifully but as you stand by King Aegons side filling his goblet with wine you see the scratches on the stone tables surface. The very same ones you made when Aemonds cock was ramming deep inside of you and his thighs slapping against the back of your own while his hand rubbed against your pearl. The memory surfacing a deep blush upon your cheeks and neck as you make eye contact with Aemond, his lips curling into a small smirk. You turn and walk back to the wine table hiding your face from the council with acts of being busy refilling the jug but Aegon does not miss the shared look between his siblings. His eyes scanning the marks marred on the table as his shocked expression meets the smug one on Aemonds face.

a/n: wow. ok it has been so long since I've , I've just been very busy and stressed. Hopefully I can get back to writing regularly by October. I'm sure we all know what to look forward to during that month lol. I'm so excited though because it is the first Kinktober I will be participating in! Anyways as always thanks to everyone who appreciates my work and my request are open :D

[kasagia]

Dancing with the devil IV

Pairing: Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem! royal!reader Summary: Unknowingly, you fall into a trap from which it will be difficult to get out. The only solution seems to be to make a pact with the devil himself. A devil who seems all too happy to finally get his hands on you. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen's Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~Main Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~ PART III ~•♤♤♤•~ PART V ~•♤♤♤•~

“It's a refreshing change. Don't you think, Y/N?” Your friend inquires as you sit on the windowsill, gazing out at the landscape of Kaitain.

You hum, nodding your head, keeping your watchful gaze on the ramp where the next ships are landing. A shiver runs through you as you recognise the familiar black Harkonnen orb. Whoever designed their ships must have worked hard to even make them look... disquieting. Y/F/N notices what you are staring at.

"Don't worry." You comfort her and hold her hand. "I won't let you marry that brute. There is no worse fate than being Harkonnen's wife."

"It's not that… just if it was someone else. Na-Baron, for example." You tense slightly at her mention of Feyd. Your eyes follow hers, and you notice her staring at him longingly as he walks out, surrounded by his soldiers. You feel bile rising in your throat.

"Na-Baron?" You ask stupidly, trying to ignore the sudden, unexpected feeling of jealousy. Which, of course, was a pure act of stupidity on your part. Because how could you be jealous of Harkonnen? And yet, you felt like gouging out your friend's eyes for staring at your Feyd for too long.

"He... isn't that bad at all. Despite what they say about him. He cared about me there - on Giedi Prime. In their crazy way... but thanks to him, the stay there wasn't so... terrible." You tense up and roll your eyes at her words.

As if there could be angels on Giedi Prime. As if HE could be something more than the cunning devil who breaks hearts, takes the souls and lives of innocent people. As if he could be something more than a bloodthirsty sadist raised by the most disgusting man who ever lived.

"Believe me, it's just a facade. The moment you let your guard down, he will show you his true colors. And this is a far cry from the image of his personality he painted in your head. He wants you to consider him your ally. This way, it will be easier for him to use you for his own benefits. Spying on his brother or something like that, I'm not sure yet. Maybe he's also looking for sexual release after his harpies are dead?"

"Y/N!"

"What? I'm just thinking out loud." You reply with a shrug. Your gaze remains focused on Na-Baron. Princess Irulan welcomes him and his brother rather reluctantly. She behaved quite similarly towards you. Except for her special coldness and malice reserved for you, to which you had become accustomed by now.

"You must know him very well to see through his intentions so quickly. I also remember that as children you were often in the company of him, Paul Atreides and Princess Irulan."

You flinch when Na-Baron's gaze suddenly turns to the palace. But you know it's impossible for him to recognise your silhouette among the palace's many windows... or at least you hoped so. Regardless, you decide not to tempt fate and walk away from the window, turning around to face your friend.

"That was a long time ago."

"But you must know him very well. Or at least the child he was."

"Trust me, he was never a child." You reply, pouring yourself a glass of wine. You don't want to tell her anything else.

You don't want to explain to her exactly when Feyd lost his childhood, when he stopped being your friend and the boy you played with, when you lost him, when the place of the charming boy from Lankiveil was taken by the bloodthirsty, psychopathic, brutal Na-Baron of Giedi Prime. Because only you knew the Prince of Lankiveil. And the memory of him will follow you to your grave.

Because you knew there was no salvation for him, that the boy you gave your heart to was dead, and his murderer was none other than the Baron. And all you have left of him is a shell. The one he gave you and the shell of who he once was were a living and painful reminder of what you lost because of the Baron and Princess Irulan. And because of your own fear.

"I'm bored." You tell Feyd as you sit next to each other in the feast hall.

Your parents, his brother, and his uncle are celebrating with the other great families the birth of the Emperor's (another) daughter, and you and the rest of the children are forced to attend the event until your maids take you away.

And this has been going on for you for ages.

"Act like a lady and don't whine." Feyd responds to you, rolling his eyes at you slightly. You punch his arm, causing him to gasp and look at you indignantly.

"Act like a child and don't talk to me like you're my mother."

"What do you want to do?" He sighs, shaking his head at you.

If he had to list his weaknesses, you would definitely be the first of them on his list. He was always waiting for the moment where he could free himself from Giedi Prime and his uncle's gaze to spend a few minutes with you. You gave him... a sense of freedom. With you, he didn't have to worry about how he acted—whether he was too soft or too lenient.

He could have just been a child for a while—a boy from Lankiveil he had almost forgotten about. A boy you seemed to like quite a lot. And he tried his hardest to show you that he was still able to find in himself nooks and crannies that weren't polluted by the Baron. Mentally and physically.

"To sleep. But I don't have my teddy bear and blanket." Feyd tries his best not to laugh, but he allows his mouth to open slightly, making sure to keep it closed.

He didn't want to scare you with his black teeth—an addition recently introduced on Baron's orders. Feyd couldn't quite get used to them yet. He remembered breaking all the mirrors in his chambers the first day he saw his new row of black teeth. Over time, however, he got used to them, like everything else on Giedi Prime.

"What?" You ask as he stares at you for a few too many seconds or minutes. Feyd clears his throat and manages to lower the corner of his mouth.

"Nothing. I may be not as soft as your precious teddy bear and blanket, but I can keep you warm. And my cloak is... possibly the coziest thing I have." He answers awkwardly, already taking off his coat. He wraps it around you without waiting for your response, remaining in his black military armor.

He knows that the next day he will have scrapes and bruises from too tight armor. He should have gotten a bigger one a long time ago, but the Baron seemed to insist that Feyd keep his old clothes for as long as he could.

"You allow me to nuzzle up to you?" You ask, surprised, as he wraps his arm around you.

Feyd didn't particularly like physical contact; sometimes he flinched when someone's skin touched his—a reaction he tried to hide. However, apart from you, there was one other person who also noticed it. And while Feyd should have hated the Atreides, he would remain forever grateful to Letto Atreides, who had invited him to spend the summer with his son, you, and Princess Irulan shortly after Rabban and he had moved to Giedi Prime. It was the best summer of his life since leaving Lankivieil. A moment of respite.

However, with you, sometimes he could afford to feel your body a little closer to him. Most of all, he WANTED to feel your body press against his. Which, over the years spent on Giedi Prime, was a very rare, even unheard of feeling for him.

"I allow you to rest on me and take a nap. My mother... my mother did this a lot with my father when she was pregnant and had to sit in on these meetings." Feyd says he has vague memories of his mother being pregnant with her third child and how his father acted towards her—before all hell broke loose on Lankiveil, when he could still be... normal.

"But I am not pregnant. And we are not married." You point it out maliciously, but your head is already falling onto his shoulder. You wrap your hand around his waist and snuggle into him. Feyd suppresses a blush as you unconsciously nuzzle his neck and inhale his scent. You were too innocent to know what it did, and he was too tainted for his body not to react to it. Despite everything, he controls himself and holds you, making sure you don't fall out of your chair.

"But you are tired, aren't you?" He hums against your ear, fully aware that you're about to drift off into his arms. And that he would rather kill himself than let anyone take you away from him.

"I am. And I also never miss a chance to hug you, my grumpy Na-Baron." He furrows his hairless eyebrows, unconsciously tracing patterns on your arm with his finger. He relaxes, seeing that his uncle has left the party. So did the young servant who served him. A shiver runs through him, but he ignores it. His focus is on you. On your slow breathing, on your smell, on your warmth, on how perfect you feel next to him, as if you were his missing half. And Feyd allows himself to believe for a moment that this may be the case—that you are truly written in the stars for him.

"I am not grumpy." He says, rolling his eyes at your taunt and completely ignoring Princess Irulan's glare from across the room.

"You are. Like those funny green creature from Paul's book. You know, the old one with weird pictures."

If Feyd could, he would forbid you from meeting Atreides. Unfortunately, your parents seemed to insist on this special closeness to this family. And you loved reading. Same as Paul. Feyd's only consolation was that when Atreides didn't have a book in his hand, he lost any interest in you. Unlike him. He had your attention, regardless of what he was doing or what he might be giving you at that moment.

"Sleep." He mumbles and presses a kiss to your tample.

"Don't tell me what to do. I am not your wife." You mumble, half asleep, but you give in to him anyway and fall asleep on him. You press your cheek against his shoulder, and he begins to worry that his hard armour might accidentally leave a scratch on your cheek. He gently lifts your head and places his hand under your cheek to make sure you don't feel any sharp, protruding metal decorations.

"You are not... but you will be." He promises, fully convinced that you're already asleep and don't hear his little promise. He tightens his hand around you and listens to your calm breathing and heartbeat, wishing that he could listen to this beautiful music every day. Not only during boring balls that you both hate.

You sigh, wiping the sweat from your forehead. Your maid gives you a horrified look as you lunge at the mannequin in the training room. Stabbing the puppet several times with your blade, taking out your frustration and energy on him.

When you feel the air moving behind you and the added presence, you don't hesitate. You turn around, your blade colliding with Feyd's, and glare at him in response to his cocky smirk.

"I see that old habits die hard. Why don't you accept a real challenge instead of taking out your anger at this motionless pile of threads?"

"Why don't you do it instead of tormenting Atreides' drugged soldiers? At least I don't get dirty while playing with my motionless pile. Not like you." You say, stepping away from him. You let the hand with your dagger fall as you walk over to the table for a drink of water. You freeze, feeling the cool tip of his steel against your throat.

"How many times have I told you not to turn your back on your opponent? Besides..." He steps closer, his chest pressing against your back as he leans in to whisper in your ear. "Did you have the same fun with my harpies? Didn't you want to get dirty, and that's why you chose poison to kill them? And you accuse me of being a bloodthirsty, jealous beast... I guess we're more alike than you want to admit, my little, beautiful, dangerous, jealous swan."

"I… I have no idea what you're talking about." You whisper, tensing in his arms. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice that you're alone in the room. He must have gotten your maid out of there somehow. You suddenly feel very vulnerable.

"You do not have? And that's funny. So why did I find a poison in your things the day after they died and just before your departure?" You frown and push his hand with the blade away from you. You turn to look him in the eye, too surprised by his accusation to do anything but say the truth.

"I have no idea. Whatever happened to them, it wasn't me. You know very well that I wouldn't kill anyone." This clearly catches him off guard, and you feel offended that he could be so sure that you took someone's life just because they had the opportunity to fuck him. You roll your eyes at him in annoyance and raise your blade in challenge. You might as well exercise a little while he does his investigation.

"Well… after all, swans don't like getting their beautiful feathers dirty with blood… but who else could do it?" He responds, dodging and blocking all your attacks.

You work harder, jumping away from him and trying to break through his protective shield. You sigh as you manage to get the blade close to his skin, but no telltale shield appears around him. The son of a bitch didn't even put his shield on when fighting you. No one could piss you off and humiliate you at the same time more than him.

"I don't know. I don't care." You growl, pushing against him and trying to draw his black blood at all costs.

You manage to kick him in the stomach, but when he falls, he drags you with him. You land on top of him, but he quickly changes your positions and pins you to the floor beneath him, keeping your wrists in a tight grip as he presses his blade to your neck.

"Do you? Doesn't it make you jealous just thinking that someone could be madly in love with me enough to get rid of the women who give me pleasure? What if you're next on my secret, deadly admirer's little list?" He whispers in your ear, and you shiver as he bites his lobe. He throws his blade aside, his other hand lazily exploring your body, abusing your breast as he squeezes it tightly and digs his fingers into it.

"We have no connections." You moan as his lips move to your jawline. He sucks gently, leaving no trace except a trail of his black saliva as it moves to your exposed neck.

"Not in public. But in the quiet of the night, in your gardens, of my corridors, of the halls of this palace—all these places remember many of our connections."

Unfortunately, he is just as stubborn, maybe even more stubborn than you, and he will do anything to prove that he is right. You gasp, biting your lip, as his hand goes under the fabric of your pants. Your traitorous pussy welcomes his fingers like a permanent resident. You tighten around him, and he chuckles lightly, feeling you already wet. You dig your knee into his stomach, trying to fight back, but he just positions himself between your legs, casually pushing your leg away as if it were just an intrusive, insignificant obstacle to getting what he wants.

"And yet you run from one man to another… but it's my fingers that fill you while you wait for someone to put a ring on your pretty feathers, my little swan." He mumbles against your neck.

You shiver as he pushes his fingers deeper into you, his cold metal Na-Baron signet teasing your warm, wet walls, only making you clench tighter around him.

His hips grind against you madly, his hard length pressing into your thigh as you moan softly, trying miserably to keep from making any grinding sound when all you want to do is feel him deep inside you, splitting you open for him.

"And you… you're pathetic for always looking for me and coming back." You respond, feeling your pleasure building within you. You grind away from him, angling his fingers just right, deciding that since you were already in this position, you might as well show him that you were using him and not him using you. After all, you were always the one who came, not him.

"I am." Surprisingly, he nods, caressing your clit with his thumb as the rest of his fingers penetrate you mercilessly. "And you come pathetically beautiful with my name on your swollen lips. We are both humiliating each other. And we both love it." And that's exactly when he pushes you over the edge. You lift up and connect your lips in a kiss to stop yourself from screaming his name, knowing full well that the guards are outside and could… really guess what happened between you behind closed doors.

You admit to yourself that you loved his plush, soft, full lips on yours, the way he caressed yours, the way his tongue slipped in unnoticed, you loved kissing him. His kisses made you more addicted to him than the orgasms he gave you. That's why you made sure you had them very rarely. Because no one else's mouth has ever given you as much pleasure as his.

In the frenzy of the kiss, he releases your wrist and cups his hand around your cheek. You sigh, biting his lower lip. This is the only warning you give him before you plunge your dagger into his back.

He screams as your blade pierces his skin. Your fingertips are sticky with his thick, black blood, but you don't care. You look him straight in the eyes and rip the dagger from his body, giving him another wave of pain.

"How many times have I told you to never let your guard down?" You ask, using the exact same tone he used as soon as he held the knife to your neck.

You push him away from you and stand up, straightening your clothes a little. He laughs hoarsely and shakes his head in disbelief, still looking at you and ignoring the burning pain in his back. He had wounds worse than a swan's bite.

He comes to you on his knees and takes your fingers into his mouth, sucking his black blood from them and never taking his eyes off you. You dig your fingers into the skin of his pale scalp and tilt his head back, breathing quickly as you melt into the gaze of his cold, oceanic irises and dilated pupils. You can't fucking believe he got so turned on by your stabbing. And that you, too, felt hot again.

"You are sick." You whisper as he lets your fingers pull out with a loud pop. His now gray saliva had replaced his black blood.

"Just like you."

Before you can deny it, the door to the training room creaks loudly. You pull Feyd up, forcing him to stand up, and you wipe his saliva off your fingers on your shirt.

"Michael. You always know when to come. Na-Baron and I were training and unfortunately he got injured."

"Yhm... very unfortunately." Feyd mumbles sarcastically. When you go to Michael, you step on Feyd's foot. You pretend it never happened and join the man's side. He smiles at you, his two-toned eyes hypnotising you for a moment, and a huge smile appears on your lips. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Feyd frowning. There is no better feeling than rubbing salt into someone's wound.

"Always here for you, my love." He says and places a kiss on your forehead. "You should go to the healers, Na-Baron. We wouldn't want such a small wound to do a serious harm to your health. After all, soon we will be celebrating... important events." Michael says this and wraps his arms around my waist, pressing me against him.

"Of course." Feyd growls and nods. He walks away, leaving the two of us alone in the training room, and closes the door loudly behind him.

"He insisted that I train with him. Believe me, I would never…"

"When you will be my wife I won't allow you to do such things." He interrupts your attempt to explain himself and takes your dagger, which is covered in Feyd's blood, from you. He throws it into a box of various weapons and turns back to you.

"Excuse me?" You ask, both surprised and annoyed by his condescending behavior.

"No worry, sweetheart. You are still learning." You feel like he slapped you. He treats you so condescendingly, as if you meant absolutely nothing, as if your opinion was not important to him at all. This sudden change surprises you and makes you even more nervous. However, you cannot understand the reason for his sudden rude behavior. Was it jealousy?

"You know usually women after such a... blunt statment doesn't marry the man who said it."

"Oh, you think you will have a choice?" He asks mockingly and plays with your hair, fixing your hairstyle to his liking. You push his hands away from you and glare at him furiously.

"Won't I?" You ask defiantly, raising an eyebrow at him.

"After my people attack your home planet? I don't think so."

"I beg you pardon?" You ask, completely shocked. He lazily, casually reaches for your chin and lifts it to look at you closely.

Your brain races like crazy, trying to ignore the fatigue in your muscles from fighting the Na-Baron as you wonder if he's just joking with you or if he really means what he said. A shiver passes through you when his fingertip brushes against your cheek.

"I told you. I want to achieve something. To prove myself in the eyes of the emperor. As we speak, my troops are boarding the ships on my home planet. Tomorrow morning, your father will receive notice of the start of war with my country. And you, darling, you will be a beautiful spoil of war. The proof of my greatness."

"You... all those meetings with me on my home planet... you didn't want to marry me; you wanted to explore and review our fortifications and the training of our soldiers. Test the ground before sending your men on my land."

"Your father's lands. You may be smart, honey, but you're only a woman. All you have is a title and a royal pussy. Although your mind and beauty are a dangerous combination. Maybe I should make you my wife instead of a concubine?"

"You… you can't… you won't." You shake your head, trying to deny what he just said. He couldn't just take everything from you, your whole life.

You try to control your emotions and not give him the satisfaction of completely destroying your world. He makes you feel so guilty; after all, you were actually the one who let him onto your planet and showed him around all the places he wanted. How could you be so stupid and naive? How could you not sense that he was more interested in your military and the weak points of your planet than in you?

"Oh, honey... don't insult your own intelligence now. You know very well that I can. You have nothing. No allies, no strong friend. I am your only serious admirer since Atreides. You're lucky I'm a gentleman. I will not touch you until your land, crown, and title are officially mine. And I will give you a good future. You could always end up in a brothel. Don't be a brat and appreciate it, my beautiful war booty."

His touch burns you in an unpleasant way. You want to bite off his hand, but you need to get more information from him to prepare some kind of action plan. You need to lower his guard just as he lowered yours.

"Why are you doing this? If you had married me, you would have had it anyway. Without any war."

"I told you. I want to prove my worth. To achieve something. In small steps. First, I will conquer one planet, then another. You have the honour of being my first conquest. And who knows? Maybe you'll even become empress by my side. Now smile nicely, darling. Your depressed face is ruining my mood."

So you smile. You put on a good face for a bad game and try to control your anger and despair. Because what can you do with them now? Nothing at all. You needed a different approach. Better. Smarter. You couldn't just give up your future without a fight; let him take over your country and do what he wanted to you. If you were going to be someone's property, wife, trophy, or whatever, you wanted to decide who it would be.

Michael was wrong. You had one secret ally who was much stronger than him. But you know very well that asking him for help will cost you a lot. Unfortunately, you were not in a good situation. You were in a hopeless position. So it required you to take desperate, risky, and embarrassing measures. This required making a pact with the devil himself.

" I need to talk with you." You say this as soon as the door opens for you, before you change your mind and run away. You tug at the sleeve of your silk robe and stare pleadingly into the ocean irises before you.

"At this time? What do I owe this pleasure to?" He mocks you, crossing his arms over his bare chest. You swallow, looking away from his muscles and back into his eyes.

"Feyd. Please." You say this seriously, looking around to make sure no one sees you at his door. He tenses a little, hearing the desperation in your voice. Wordlessly, he moves to the side, allowing you to step inside.

He closes the door behind you, and you shudder as you realise there's no going back. You close your eyes, taking a few deep breaths and trying to calm down. Feyd furrows his hairless eyebrows at your condition. He walks over to you and tentatively places a hand on your shoulder, not used to comforting... anyone. Not since the two of you were kids.

"Y/N. What happened?"

"I need your help." You reply and move away from him. Feyd sees you trying your hardest to control your emotions. The same way that even though he's happy about your late-night visit and the sight of you in that skimpy robe, you look terrified and disgusted that you have to be here.

"Y/N..."

"Michael wants to attack my home planet and dethrone my father. In the process, make me his whore or wife. He's not sure yet." You interrupt him and blurt it out before he says anything else.

This stuns Feyd for a moment as he takes in this new information. He would have smiled at the mockery and anger in your voice if his blood hadn't boiled at the thought that you could belong to anyone other than him. That anyone else would have the right to touch you like he did and has long dreamed of doing even more.

"Your duke that you've been parading around with and admiring for the last few months? The same one you hug and cling to at every recent party?"

"Yes."

"The one you gave the right to hold you and kiss you?"

"Yes."

"The one..."

"YES! This one!" You interrupt him, annoyed and embarrassed. You sigh, rubbing your eyes, and realise that screaming at him and venting your anger isn't the best idea right now if you want to ask for his favour. "Please, help me."

"And what I can do? You chose your fiancé. Or a lover. Whatever. What do you want me to do? Fight with him for your hand? And then get rejected by you? Thrown away when you don't need me anymore?" He mocks you, turning his back on you. He pours himself a glass of wine and sips it leisurely, making no move to turn towards you.

"Feyd. Please. I beg you. I... my people can't die just because of the whim of some man." You say, your voice cracking. Your throat burns from the dryness, and tears suddenly appear in your eyes. This is a very strange phenomenon considering that you have been crying for the last three hours in your chambers.

Your sniffling makes Feyd involuntarily turn back to you. This is a bad move. His heart clenches uncomfortably at the sight of your watery eyes and red nose. He wants to take you in his arms, run his hand through your hair tenderly, and sink into your touch.

"You know very well, little swan, that this is how most wars start. By the whim of one man." Feyd says, crossing his arms over his chest to somehow keep from touching you, from taking you in his arms and burying his face in your hair, whispering comforting words in your ear. He had to play this... unique opportunity well. If he won't have you willingly, he might as well have you by trick.

"I will do everything." He does everything not to smile, not to immediately make his demands. He has been waiting so long to have you that a few minutes more won't do a big difference to him.

"So get ready for the husband of your own choosing." He says icily, acting unfazed, as if the mere thought of someone else having you didn't make him want to murder every man who ever had the chance to touch you.

As if he didn't dream at night of having you by his side, of arguing with you every day, of having you with him forever on Giedi Prime, sitting on the throne next to him and being as terrifying as he is.

"Feyd..." You mumble and walk over to him. Feyd tenses, controlling all his muscles, stopping them from making the slightest movement towards you.

He watches your every move carefully as you approach him. The air between you is thick and full of tension. He swallows when you come within his reach and tries his best not to even touch you with his fingertip. However, all his control is put to the test when you stand directly in front of him and lean towards him.

Feyd clenches his fists tightly, so tightly that he feels the blood slowly seeping from where his nails dig into his abalaster skin. The familiar scent of you and your favourite perfume reaches his nostrils, and Feyd does the stupidest thing he can do at that moment. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply into your sweet, seductive scent.

"You can have me. Right now. Wherever you want. However you want. Wouldn't you like to? All you have to do is order some troops to my home planet and scare off Michael's army." You whisper into his ear, brushing your lips against his lobe. Feyd holds his breath as your lips trace his jawline and up to his neck, where you begin to kiss and suck his skin.

Feyd stands frozen, unable to move, allowing you to do whatever you want with him. He sighs as your two long, delicate hands slip under his black robe and caress his chest. His heart is racing as you play with his nipples, pinching them and twisting them in your fingers as you work tirelessly to leave as many marks on his neck as possible. He grunts, trying to stifle a groan as he feels his manhood respond to your caresses and begin to harden painfully.

He reaches for your hips and pulls you closer to him, and Feyd would probably give in to his desires if he didn't feel you tense up under his touch. He sighs and musters all his willpower to grab your arms and pull you away from him.

"You can't just... kiss me, come into my chambers dressed like that at this hour, and demand such things from me when all you show me is hatred and loathing. Don't act like a whore. I won't fall for it. I… not when I know you don't mean anything that you are doing right now." He says this without meeting your eyes, somehow unable to see your reaction. He lets go of you, as if touching you hurts him, and walks to the other side of his chamber, escaping to the balcony.

A cold breeze hits his skin. He sighs, gripping the railings tightly and holding on to them with all his might, as if crushing the marble in his hands would bring his full self-control back.

It doesn't take a minute for your scent to hit his nostrils again.

"And how I should act?! What do you think I can do?!" You shout after him, walking towards him. Feyd tenses, sensing your presence behind him, but makes no move to turn towards you. You sigh in defeat, and Feyd thinks you've given up when suddenly he hears your shaky voice and your pure panic as you try to convince him to help you one last time. "My people will die tomorrow morning, I… I'm begging you. Please, I will do anything, Feyd. Whatever you want."

"Then marry me." He replies, his back still turned to you as he stares into the distance at the Kaitain hills in front of him.

Even though he can't see your face, he can clearly hear the gasp of shock you let out. He imagines your beautiful, full lips falling open, your eyes widening, and you holding your breath as you process his words. He knew that this was the only way for now to ensure his right to you—to make a claim. He had too little time to try to change your opinion of him.

When you're finally "safely his", then Feyd can try to fight for your affections and prove that he is not the monster you think he is. For now, your anger will have to be enough for him. But he would eventually melt it. You loved him once; when you were kids, he might try to make you feel this way about him again.

"What?" You ask, shocked. Feyd slowly turns towards you, and this time he takes a step closer to you, making you both breathe the same air again.

"You have two options. You can agree to... your Michael's terms, marry him and be his property for the rest of your life... or you will marry me and I will protect you, your parents and your people from anyone's invasion." He replies calmly and unfazed, keeping his hands behind his back.

"And be yours property for the rest of my life?" You ask mockingly, almost furiously, with that gleam of mischief in your eyes that Feyd loved so much. This was his little swan. Finally.

It might have been nice to have your mouth and hands on him, but in your case, he didn't want forced submission. He wanted just that blazing fire that captivated him, where he could burn himself if he made one wrong move. He wanted it all... even if he had to gently steer you down the right path—down the altar to him and only him.

"Don't pretend to be so disgusted. We both know how you love some... aspects of being my property. A moment ago you were begging me, saying you would do whatever I wanted. Marry me then. What would you say?"

"I... you know I have no other optiom... neither time to assure I will have any other option. But we also know that I don't trust you and never will." He nods, knowing full well that trust will be the last thing he gets from you. But if Feyd valued anything in life, it was his honor.

"You have my word. I will protect your people as mine. Even better. My uncle or brother or I will never order to attack your home planet. You would became one of our closest ally and thus ensure your country the safety against anyone's invasion. It's a win win situation."

"And how you will win?"

"I will get you." He replies with a shrug, as if it were an obvious reward.

He sees the gears in your head turning as you silently consider all the consequences and benefits of marrying him. He knew clearly that this wasn't what you wanted, that your search for a husband was supposed to be completely different, that he was probably the last man you wanted as a husband, from whom you wanted a nice ring, whose planet you wanted to move to, but Feyd had been waiting for you for so long; he did so much to have you that the circumstances of your marriage didn't really matter to him anymore.

"You will get bored of me. You can't love or trust, not trully or neither can be loved or trusted by anyone else. You know that what's going on between us won't be sexy anymore when it will be no longer forbidden." Your words somehow hurt him more than the worst wound he received. He grunts, clenching his fists behind him, waiting for the unexpected, unpleasant lump in his throat to subside so he can somehow respond to your blasphemous words.

"That's how you see your future husband?" He finally asks, glad that he managed to keep his voice from shaking.

"I didn't say yes to anything yet."

"But we both know you will. You have tied hands. And we both know that you can't dance with them for a long, before you fall." His comment makes you even more furious. Feyd does his best not to smirk at your flushed cheeks and pursed lips. Oh, how he wanted to kiss those lips so much…

"Yes... but you can put chains on them instead of ropes and I will be even worse tied." You respond calmly, carefully analysing his words, looking for a trap—a hidden intention behind his actions beyond his obvious desire to marry you.

"I guess you have to take a risk." He replies calmly, shrugging his shoulders.

"Hmm. Such a convinient situation for you." You mutter, crossing your arms. His eyes automatically fall on the valley of your breasts, but he quickly tries to return his attention to your eyes. If everything goes his way, he'll soon be able to caress every inch of your body he wants.

"Very much. I got to call you my wife and all I have to do is to scare away some lord's family who shouldn't even touch you in the first place."

"I decide who touch me." You say, angry that he hasn't even put a ring on your finger yet, and he's already forbidding you from doing something.

"Not for long I guess."

He sees you biting your lip in anger. You take a step towards him, and Feyd thinks you're going to slap him, but you do something completely different. You cup his cheek in your hand and lean in to whisper in his ear:

"I hate you so much. With whole my heart. If you think this will somehow change my opinion of you, you are wrong. I feel exactly the same about you, and maybe even worse things than what I told you on Giedi Prime. You are the baron's spoiled nephew who only has to snap his fingers to get something. I hate you and I will hate you forever, no matter what you do, no matter how well you fuck me, how good or bad of a husband you are, my feelings towards you will remain the same as they are now." And with that, you press your lips to his, sealing your promise with a sudden, unexpected kiss.

Feyd moans into your mouth, feeling himself start to get hard again, which should be absurd in this situation, but he remembers times when he was aroused by… worse things.

"Is that a yes?" He asks, swallowing thickly as your lips leave his—too quickly for Feyd to enjoy the taste and softness of them.

"What the fuck do you think I can do in this situation?" You growl at him angrily, at which he smiles, unable to stop himself, showing you his row of black teeth. Surprisingly, you don't tremble in fear or disgust.

"I want to hear it."

"And I want a decent proposal." You reply in return, forever trying to argue with him.

You're surprised when he walks past you and goes back to his room. You stand alone on the balcony for a moment, taking a shaky breath and staring at the stars in the sky, wondering how the hell you ended up in this situation. Just a week ago, the idea of marrying Feyd would have seemed completely absurd to you.

You freeze in shock when he comes back with a small black box and actually kneels down in front of you.

"Y/N Y/L/N. The darkness of my life, the bane of my existence, the ghostly apparition that haunts my dreams, the heartless witch, the murderous siren, the deceptive nymph leading me to my death, will you do me an honour of beeing my wife and let me fuck our heirs into you?"

You would have smiled at this if his icy blue eyes weren't piercing through yours and carefully analysing your every little reaction. You don't even look at the ring he's offering you—a ring he clearly must be wearing somewhere close to himself. Your heart is racing, despite the fact that this isn't exactly the proposal you wanted. Despite everything, it is... in a strange and twisted way, a nice feeling.

"You could try better." You finally reply in a hoarse voice, suddenly aware of how dry your throat is.

"I am waiting for an answer." He growls, really waiting for your response.

If it weren't for the nature of the whole situation, you'd actually think it was cute. The way the most dangerous man in the world kneels before you, asking for your hand. You sigh, mentally preparing yourself before signing a pact with the devil.

"With great disgust and reluctance: yes."

"Yes what?"

"Haven't you already had your fun?" You ask, frowning furiously. He bites his tongue to keep from giggling, absolutely loving to tease you.

"I didn't even start, my little swan." You roll your eyes at him and look at him expectantly, sticking out your hand. But he makes no move to put the ring on it. You decide not to fight him on this one matter.

"Yes. I will marry you, Feyd-Rautha."

You can see from his face that he is remembering these words and that he is taking a mental picture of this moment. He takes the ring out of the box and, with unusual gentleness for him, takes your hand in his and slides the metal onto your finger.

The ring is nice. Made of white gold, its eyelet is a black onyx stone, which is held by engraved flowers on a metal ring. It was… astonishingly beautiful and thoughtful. And not as big as you assumed it would be. Y/F/N got a ring with a gemstone on half of her finger. You're surprised Feyd didn't give you something similar.

"There. Was that so hard?"

It's a tricky question. Because, as much as that ring weighed on your finger, you couldn't admit that you hated the whole idea of marrying him with all your heart. After all, you could do worse than him... right?

Taglist for Feyd: @avidreader73

Taglist for DWTD: @iloved1lfs0 @heartarianagran @hueanhdang @barnes70stark @forgedfromthestars

[mybworlds]

CHAPTER 12

status: ongoing

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: your life is full of 'must'. You live with your overprotective mother who controls every aspect of your life. You have a dream, to write romance novels, but love - real love - you haven't found yet. Your mother has even decided what you must do in your free time: play music. One day, however, when you go to your music teacher's house, you will have an unexpected encounter and from that day on things change…

Masterlist

Before to start. . . Please take your time to read 'cause it's quite lenghty. 📖

rating: 18+ explicit (minors, DNI)

Thanks @vase-of-lilies for the banner and thanks @saradika-graphics for the divider.

Taglist: @harriedandharassed

The weekend with Joel unfortunately came to an end. The enchantment is over and everything is back exactly as it was. Or almost, Joel, the night before the two of you went back to your lives, gave you a small set of keys.

"If you want to come here and write, you can. With or without me. There's an important part of you here and it's right that, when you want to, you come. Feel free to do." he told you "If you want to run away and seek refuge, you can do it here."

You are in your room lying on your bed with the small wooden guitar he carved for you a long ago clutched in one hand and the keys to his house in the other. You clutch them tightly to your heart as if to feel Joel close to you. You miss him already.

This makes you realize one thing: there's no longer a place for Jack in your life or in your heart. You want to be with Joel. You want him to be a part of you, you want everyone to know that you don't care that he's older than you, but that you love him. Yes, you love him.

You can't do without him.

Your phone rings.

It's Jack.

"I haven't heard from you once." he says.

"Well, you too." you reply in an icy tone.

"Would you like to talk about what happened a few nights ago?" he asks you.

The truth is that you don't care. You don't want someone like him next to you, someone who makes you feel bad, who doesn't support you, who doesn't understand you. No, thank you.

"There's nothing to say," you reply in the same tone.

"So … are we okay?" he asks.

"No, maybe I wasn't clear. Jack. . . I'm sorry, but I don't want a person who doesn't support me, who doesn't understand what's important to me," you answer.

For a moment you feel like the phone line has gone dead, then he resumes "So, we don't want to see each other again?"

"No." you reply flatly "Bye Jack, have a nice life." you add and then cut off the call.

Your heart beats fast in your chest. You feel as if freed from a burden.

Maybe you were too hard on Jack, but you don’t want continue leading him on, it’s not fair. You don't love him. You never had.

Now you can be with Joel.

But how can you see him if he is no longer in town now?

Simple, you look for something that might convince your mother to let you leave for a few days. You look for an idea, anything to get away, but at the moment you can't think of anything.

You fall asleep looking for an idea.

Your life flows quietly, you go to work at the bar, when you come back you practice your chords, you very rarely go to church with your mother hoping to get some ideas on how you can reach Joel. The man who teaches these classes sees you and approaches you with a big smile. He's a great speaker, has great language property, and you are not surprised that your mother is fascinated by him, but you fear that he is yet another foothold your mother is looking for in the course of her life. The man, a fellow named Mark, will be a few years older than your mother, tells you that he's glad you are there with them, that you too therefore are seeking the salvation of your soul and that only through prayer can this happen.

You lower your head, you don't want to burst out laughing in his face, you don't believe in this, you never had and you won't start now. Everything you hear only increase this your total belief. You are not like your mother who believes whatever she is told. No.

"Boo," your mother says, "have you seen how interesting these classes are?"

Of course.

"Yes, you right. You know, I've been thinking about going deeper," you begin. Your mother's eyes sparkle, she thinks she convinced you and converted you to all this. Not at all.

"You could go for a prayer retreat with Mark and his group." she offers enthusiastically "If I could, I would go too, but I have to work."

You take advantage of it.

"Mom, actually I'd like to go with my friend Kristen and her prayer group, you know, she's also attending. Her group is in the small town near ours, I know they are leaving next week for a prayer retreat, maybe I can go with her so I would have her company."

Kristen is the friend your mother always liked the most, she always saw her as a proper young person, judicious, polite, charitable, in short a perfect friend and girl.

"Fine. But you'll have to let me know then what you think, though, and then next time you and I will go with Mark's group."

Now you just need to let Kristen know.

"We'll talk." you say with a small smile "Would you like a pizza? Shall we eat it at the diner?"

"All right." she replies, taking you under her arm.

The evening unfolds as quietly as possible, you don't talk much, you just make a few sporadic comments about the pizza, the place, the meeting you attended, but nothing more.

Fortunately Joel calls when you returned by now and your mother is in bed. You check to see if you can talk freely and realize that she is soundly asleep. Joel tells you about his day, but more than anything he asks if you have been to his house, he wants to know if you are writing, if you are doing everything to pursue your dream, but you tell him you are going tomorrow.

"I miss you," you tell him, "I wish you were here," you add.

"I can't move, honey." he tells you in a regretful tone "We may not see each other not earlier than three weeks, it's gonna be complicated days for me."

"For me too, Miller. I'll. . ." you stop, you were about to tell him I love you, but then you reconsider, you don't know if your feeling is mutual, and what if he replies he doesn't feel the same way for you? You don't think you can stand such a response from him.

"You, what?" he encourages you, you swallow, afraid, you close your eyes "Baby, are you there?"

"Yes." you answer "I'm very tired, sorry. . ."

"No, no, 's okay. Go to sleep, I wish you good night, baby. A kiss, I hope whatever you dream will come true sooner or later." he says before to hang up the phone.

You open your eyes, he's not here, but your imagination brought you into his arms to come violently.

You will surely dream about him, his dark eyes, his plushy lips smiling at you and kissing you softly, his messy hair falling on his forehead, his arms caging the sides of your face, you dream about him with one hand cupping your face and with the other moving a strand of your hair and smiling at you. You see him on top of you whispering sweet, reassuring words in that sweet, warm voice of his, your hands in his hair as you press yourself against him.

His hand along your bare chest, his large hand caressing your breasts, thumb and forefinger teasing first one nipple and then the other. Your breath breaks.

His bulge pushing against your inner thigh, your breaths getting shorter and shorter, you almost feel him stroking you with a finger first to taste your intimacy then slowly sinking inside you, inch by inch. You gasp.

It feels so good, the rhythm he's giving with his finger that breaks your breath, he then strokes you rhythmically with two fingers, filling you all the way, you swallow squeezing your eyes shut and clutching your sheets in a fist. You mumble his name, bite your lower lip. You feel the blood boil in your veins as he continues to pump in a relentless rhythm inside you, then your mouth opens wide in a dull moan, your lips trembling.

Being in his house without him causes you a strange grip, you feel like you are in a beautiful soulless place. You feel empty, you just look around as if you almost feel a presence around you. You feel ridiculous thinking about this. After all, it's not the first time you've come here, of course it's the first time you're alone here, but you've been with him so many times. There's nothing to be afraid of.

"You recognize this place?" you ask Joel, sending him a message with a photograph of you sitting on his couch.

You turn on the computer he gave you and write, write, write. The words come out spontaneously, effortlessly, when you lift your head from the computer you realize it is almost evening. You stretch, turn off the pc, drink a glass of water, go to the bathroom and then leave.

Joel hasn't answered you, that's not like him, who knows maybe he's just really busy, you tell yourself.

As you're on your way home, you contact Kristen, you absolutely must warn her of your idea: you explain your plan and she tells you that she also has to actually go to a prayer meeting and she has to go to the very town where Joel is working. You explain that you are going to pretend to join them, but that you are actually going to Joel, you want to see him.

You check your phone, but Joel has not answered or displayed yet. You decide to call him, but his phone just rings. That's weird. You text him, but nothing, he doesn't answer or call you. You think about many things, then you decide that since he doesn't answer you, you need to leave, you need to see him now more than ever.

Convincing your mother was as easy as a glass of water, she wanted to talk to Kristen of course who confirmed your prayer meetings, provided many details of arrival and departure, and you, to reassure your mother, promised to call her as soon as you arrived, in the afternoon and evening. You prepare your small luggage and, since your mother won't let you drive, you leave with Kristen. The only problem is that Joel doesn't know you are coming and you don't know where to look for him.

Someone says that doing surprises is never a good thing because you inevitably get surprises, you try to chase that thought away, you don't want to believe that you are the one getting the surprise. You check your phone, Joel hasn't been in touch or answered your texts for almost twenty-four hours, and on the one hand it agitates you, but on the other it leads you to think that maybe he's just really busy.

While you're thinking that you've been foolish in leaving like that without informing him of your arrival, you remember the name of the company he works at and so your field of inquiry narrows; you're not alone, luckily you're accompanied by Kristen and a friend of hers, a guy named Xavier, a tall, muscular, blue-eyed, black-haired handsome guy. You think he's there with you because he cares about your friend, but this is your own thought, you may be wrong.

The places you see are one shabbier than the next, fortunately Xavier is with the two of you. When you arrive at another construction site, you realize you're in the right place, you ask for Joel and at that moment you are approached by a chick all dirty with a chipped protective helmet, she says your name, you turn around "D' you know me?" you ask her puzzled.

"It's like I know you, Joel talks about you all the time. You're here for him, aren't you?" her expression tense, focused "Come with me." she tells you, turning her back to the three of you.

"Uhm, can you wait for me? I'll let you know right away," you tell them.

When you turn around, you see the woman waiting for you with her hands in her uniform pockets, then noticing that you are joining her, she continues. She urges you to be careful several times, climbing flights of semi-dangerous stairs, when you almost reach the top, your heart in your throat with fear, but the idea of seeing him urges you on.

"Don't be frightened, dunno how much he's told you," she says as if you know what she's talking about "It's less worse than it looks." she stops on the landing "He's over there, he fell pretty bad, but other than a few cuts and bruises, he's okay."

You furrow your brow, the woman talks about it almost as if she said he scraped his knee, as if it were obvious. Well, maybe it is, but not to you.

"Didn't he tell you, did he?" she asks noticing your worried expression "You stubborn fool." she says in a sigh "Come." she adds giving you a little pat on your arm.

You follow her worriedly to a semi-closed door, "Wait." she tells you, then enters.

Your heart is pounding in your chest, that's why he didn't write or call you, but when did this happen? Yesterday? Last night? This morning? It doesn't matter when, but how he is, you hope with all your heart that nothing serious happened to him and that it's just a few scratches like the ones you've also seen before.

The door opens, the woman's eyes are downcast as she comes out, then she raises them to you, "He's in a bad mood, but I think with you he's…well, we gave him a painkiller." she tells you as she walks past you.

"But how did that happen?" you ask stopping her.

"That stubborn fellow last night at five o'clock had to knock off, but he wanted to finish a job upstairs at all costs, so he stayed with four other unconscious men like him until eight o'clock. By that time it's dark up here, very dark in spite of the lights, he slipped along with some equipment on the ramp leading upstairs." you pale "The cuts are mostly superficial, except for one on his side. A couple of friends working in the ER stitched him up."

"He needs to be taken to the hospital," you say seriously concerned.

She smiles bitterly and shakes her head "Since that episode happened to his daughter, Miller hasn't set foot in a hospital." the woman looks at you as if she has let a secret slip.

"What happened to his daughter?" you ask her hoping she will talk, but she shakes her head and replies "I can't be the one to tell you about it, he has to. If you're as important to him as it seems. . . well, he'll talk to you about it sooner or later." you lower your gaze "Now go to him."

You swallow, then turn away from the woman and enter, the room is semi-dark and cold, there are dozens of cabinets along two walls and then at the back a window through which only faint glimpses of light enter and a worn sofa on which Joel is lying. You leave your bag at the doorway dropping it and hurry next to him from the side, his face is swollen, you can clearly make out a cut at the level of his left cheekbone and lower lip, his arms are covered with large bloodstained bandages and his work uniform is half-open revealing a gauze on his side below which you imagine are the stitches the woman told you about.

You very gently caress the contour of his face, his face twitching in a small grimace perhaps from pain perhaps from discomfort you don't know, he opens his eyes and when he sees you he hints a pale smile "Is it the painkillers or are you really here?"

"Joel. . ." you tell him in a whisper moving closer to his face "I'm here."

"My beautiful. . . wonderful. . . writer" he mumbles raising an arm toward your face, when his hand brushes your face and then moves your hair you have chills, you place your hand on his, you feel it warm and ruined under your fingers "'m fine." he adds "Don't be impressed, I've been worse."

"Is that why you don't want me to see you naked?" you ask smiling and causing him to smile back.

"Guessed." he replies closing his eyes, for a while you don't speak again, you think he has fallen asleep, but then he says, "I missed feeling your breath against my skin."

"I missed you." you confess, squeezing his hand a little tighter and placing a kiss on the back of his hand "If something happened to you. . ." the words choke in your throat.

"'m right here, honey. 'm not going anywhere." he tells you reassuringly and stroking your cheek with his fingertips in a slow and extremely gentle gesture.

You place your head suddenly between arm and shoulder and he barely jerks, "Sorry!" you exclaim, but he holds you down "No, 's okay, just take it easy. Come on." he tells you moving a little further into the couch. You remain lying on that small and uncomfortable couch, you don't dare to move for fear of hurting him, he's the one looking for your hand, which he occasionally squeezes, but without making a sound. You wonder if he squeezes it to reassure you or because he feels pain.

Joel just turns his face toward yours, "You here alone?"

It's your cell phone vibrating, interrupting that almost perfect silence, Kristen.

You completely forgot about her! You reassure her that everything is fine and that you are with Joel; then, she reminds you to call your mother and tells you she is leaving.

"No," you answer, shaking your head, "I'm with Kristen. She was waiting for me downstairs, you know, afraid that it wasn't the right construction site or that you weren't here," you explain to him.

"If you want to go with your friend, go. I think I'll stay a little longer like this and then go home. Join me later if you want." he tells you in a slightly dizzy voice.

"No." you tell him, "I came for you. If you want me, I'll stay with you," you tell him, looking at him.

He opens and closes his eyes, pulls you gently toward him making your head rest in the crook of his neck, "I want you all the time." he tells you "You know, I've been thinking about you all the time lately. There's not a moment in my day when my thoughts don't go to you." you lift your face slightly toward him "I have three words on the tip of my tongue, but dunno if it's fair to tell you." he adds before breathing deeply.

Your heart pounding in your chest, you close your eyes and inhale his scent.

"I have them too, from the bottom of my heart," you whisper, holding you to him and closing your eyes.

When Joel feels better, the two of you with Tess drive him home. You've reclined the passenger seat to make him lie down or almost lie down, you're sitting in the middle in the back seat. Tess doesn't talk much, she just casts brief glances at you from the rearview mirror and occasionally glances toward Joel who, however, does not look at you or at her.

Once finished, you help him put on a clean T-shirt and invite him to stay there while you prepare a plate of pasta with some tomato sauce, again he rebels initially, but in the face of your firm tone he can only surrender. You hand him the plate by sitting next to him, eating in silence. From time to time he lays his head back against the backrest and closes his eyes holding his breath, "Does it hurt?" he shakes his head, but the expression on his face says otherwise "What can I do?" you ask him.

The little house Joel rented here is much smaller than the one he has in town. In fact, it has a kitchenette, a bedroom and a bathroom. You help him shed his overalls, although he initially rebelled at being treated like he's ill, but you insisted. You sit him down on the worn-out couch in the kitchen and there for the first time you see his completely naked torso and it's huge, but what strikes you most besides his mighty are the many old and new cuts and scars that decorate his arms, his shoulder blades, his back. You are tempted to caress them all, but not now. You try to wash him as best you can without getting too close to the area where the stitches are.

Your eyes constantly cross, when he sees you uncertain he reassures you with a look or a nod.

You stop that thought from your mind, "Come." he says, inviting you to join him. You are wearing a shirt from a few years ago now ruined and three sizes larger, it's so big that it almost reaches your knee. You wear only that one to sleep in and briefs.

He turns to you, "You're here." he tells you causing you to miss a beat and smile.

You enjoy each other's company, he would like to lean toward you and kiss you, but the stitches are pulling and he must not strain. You accompany him to bed, where he wears only a T-shirt and a pair of dark boxers. You swallow, if he wasn't like this. . .

You lie down next to him, he's on his back, you can see him in the semi-darkness of the room, "Who was that woman at the construction site?" you ask, turning to him and gently laying a hand on his chest.

"Tess, a pain in the ass, but she's the only friend I have. The only one who has known me for years. She's a tough cookie."

"I saw. She seems cool," you say.

He nods, then turns to you, "Did you go to my place to write?"

"Once. I wrote. A lot. But without you, it's not the same." you say making squiggles on his chest with your index finger "I would have wanted you around, maybe hugging me and taking a look at what I was writing." you confide, he turns back to you "Next time.'' he tells you, giving you a kiss on your lips.

He takes your hand that was lying on his chest and squeezes it tightly intertwining his fingers with yours, he then runs his fingers down to your forearm and then looking you in the eyes he says "Come." you look at him puzzled "Come on me, I want to kiss you properly." he adds.

Your heart is pounding, you don't know how or, rather, you have a vague idea, but you don't know if it's right. He holds your hand as he guides you by making you lie completely on him. You feel even smaller in this position on him.

"If you have pain or discomfort, tell me," you tell him referring to the stitches, he shakes his head softly and then pulls you closer to him.

You are face to face, Joel barely leans toward you and captures your lips in a kiss that takes your breath away. You think back to how sick you were without him, you think back to the fear you had when you learned he was hurt, as Joel slips a hand through your hair crushing you even more against him.

I love you, you'd like to say, you'd like to let him know, as you too plunge your hands into his hair and your breaths grow shorter and shorter and merge into each other.

You gently stroke his forehead to check that he doesn't have a fever or any other problems; thankfully, everything is fine. He's breathing normally and doing well. You check that the stitches are still intact, once you are satisfied that all is well, you caress his face, his features, you feel under your fingers his unshaven beard, caress in a gesture entirely new to you his neck, his Adam's apple. You see him wrinkle his nose and furrow his brow, then slowly open his eyes finding your eyes at once, you smile at him and he smiles back.

His arms held you close to him all night, you did nothing but exchange long caresses, glances and kisses. And that was enough for you.

You wake up with your head on his chest, your hair partly on his chest and partly on your shoulders, you raise your head slowly and look at Joel's face. His lips parted, his hair tousled - and it's partly your fault too - a serene expression on his face, his wrinkles barely noticeable. The grazes and bruises clash so much with his handsome face.

"G' morning." you say smily.

"'Morning." he says with his voice still slurred from sleep "How long have you been awake?"

"A little while." you reply, giving him a kiss on his sternum.

"And what were ya doing?" he asks looking at you with his dark brown eyes.

"I was watching you. Sorry. . . maybe that's creepy for you. . ." you are about to say, but he smiles so you stop.

"Remember when we slept together at my house?" you nod "I watched you sleep, too. You were like a magnet, I couldn't stop doing it." he continues cupping your cheek, you close your eyes for a moment surrendering to his touch and feeling your heart beating fast "You were. . . you're beautiful." he says gently stroking your lower lip with his thumb.

"I wish. . ." you are about to say something you never thought you would have the courage to say out loud considering your lack of knowledge on the subject, in fact to tell the truth you thought you would only ever write it down in your stories and instead. . .

"Would you like to?" he urges you, stroking your hair.

"I would like to. . ." you bite your lower lip softly "I'd like to make love with you." you say all in one breath, now you would like to hide from his huge dark eyes that seem to want to read you inside, you see him swallow and then he caresses the contour of your face with a finger "Sorry, maybe. . . uhm. . . you don't want to, you don't. . ." you don't know how to continue.

"Who told you I don't want to?" he tells you wrinkling his forehead.

You look at him incredulously almost, blinking several times unable to comment on his answer.

"I just don't think you're ready yet."

"I am." you reply, trying to sound firm and tame that unfamiliar fire inside you.

"We should wait a little longer. I don't want you to have even more pain than necessary." he says moving a strand of hair behind your ear "Y' know it's going to hurt the first time, right?" you nod "I don't want you to feel even more pain because I didn't prepare you properly." he adds.

You lower your gaze for a second, "By prepare well. . . what exactly do you mean?" you ask, showing him once again your inexperience.

"When I feel better, we'll talk about it," he replies.

Interrupting that almost awkward moment there's your phone vibrating.

MOM, it appears on the screen.

Shit, you totally forgot.

"Hello?" you say snapping to your phone answering immediately.

"Weren't you supposed to call me as soon as you got here, were you?" she scolds you.

"Sorry, you're right, while we got the room and then settled in, the meetings. . . sorry." you look toward Joel who scrutinizes you with an indecipherable look.

"Is Kristen with you?" she asks.

"She went downstairs, we have a meeting soon and she went to get croissants before to start, I just got out of the shower."

"All right. So, I won't keep you, have a good day. Call me tonight."

"Alright, bye." you say interrupting the call and placing your cell phone on the bedside table.

You sigh and then turn your gaze to Joel, who stares thoughtfully at the ceiling, you stroke his arm and he looks back at you "You had to tell more lies." it's not a question, it's a statement, and his tone of voice is very, very bitter.

"I didn't tell her about-"

"Us?" he asks you "She asked about you and John though!" he retorts, returning to staring at the ceiling with a disappointed, regretful air "Right?" he adds, turning back to you.

"I only told her about Jack because it would have been more acceptable to her," you tell him, but then you regret what you said because you told him that he's no good.

He looks at you, his expression is full of pain "Got it," he only says, but you don't think he understood what you really wanted to say "Can you help me up?" he says, you want to tell him no, but his tone doesn't admit any other answer but yes.

You get up from the bed and go to his side, put your hands on his shoulder blades as he, too, clutches your forearms to give himself that push he needs to sit up; you feel against your hair his warm breath get short, "How's it going sitting up?" you ask him.

"Fine." he answers you, but his tone is icy; he's angry about what you said.

You kneel down in front of him, "Joel," you say laying a hand on his knee, "I'm sorry if you misunderstood, but I didn't mean that you're not good enough. I didn't mean that, sorry if I misspoke. You are everything to me. I've had a lot of firsts with you, you're the only one I trust completely, I've never slept with anyone, I've never allowed anyone to touch me, I've never allowed anyone to get into my heart." you tell him looking straight into his eyes hoping this time not to be misunderstood.

He says nothing, looking down at you with his huge dark eyes, his breath short from the exertion he has just made, "If I should get too much," he says, but you shush him by stepping even closer and telling him, "I don't want to hear it, it won't happen."

"If it should," he resumes, "I want you to tell me and I won't see you again, I won't look for you, I won't put you in a position to lie to be with me, but to be with that other guy. . ."

"Joel," you interrupt him again, "I broke up with Jack. I don't want to be with him, I don't want him. There's only you." you tell him, feeling his breath stop for a moment as well.

"I can't be mad at you," he admits, stroking your lower lip again with a finger "Come," he says making you sit on his lap, "The truth is you drive me crazy." he tells you slipping a hand through your hair making your face come closer to his "I wish you were happy away from me, but I don't want you to go away. I'm so selfish. . ."

You kiss him fleetingly on the lips, "I don't want to be away from you. Got it?" you ask him sinking your hands into his curls, resting your forehead against his causing your breaths to mingle, "Please don't doubt how you feel about me," you tell him, "Because I have no doubt."

He captures your lips in a passionate kiss, your tongues dancing madly and your breaths growing shorter and shorter. He pushes you toward him, slipping his large, warm hands under your T-shirt and sitting you on his intimacy only covered by his boxers.

You never want to break this kiss, but you both need to catch your breath.

He caresses your arms, then looks long into your eyes as if to ask your permission, you nod giving him your silent consent, and he slips his hands under your T-shirt lifting it up and slipping it off with your help. You remain with your torso completely naked on him, feeling exposed and vulnerable, but it feels so erotic, so beautiful, more beautiful than you ever thought.

You thought that feeling his gaze on your chest, on you, would make you strongly uncomfortable, you thought you would even freeze, and instead in a rush, which you didn't think you had, you bring his hands to your bare breasts. You both groan at that contact, "Can I kiss it?" he asks you without breaking eye contact, "Yes." you reply in a trembling voice.

Feeling his lips on your nipple makes you gasp and at the same time close your eyes, you let yourself go completely to his caresses. Feeling his unshaven beard there, his hot breath, his tongue licking you gently and his lips sucking gently your breast, lead you to moan and gently bite your lower lip. You press his head against your chest, perhaps hurting him, but it is a sensation that sends you completely out of the ordinary.

"I'd stay kissing your breast for hours, 's perfect. You are perfect." he tells you, moving from one breast to the other with a little pop.

"J - Joel… please…" you find yourself pleading without even knowing exactly what the next step to take is, your vision blurs, you press yourself harder against him making your intimacies cling together as well, he gasps "Touch me." you say, he pulls his face away from your chest and you, in a bold move, get up from him slipping off your briefs and sit back down on him, on his now clearly evident prominence.

"You drive me crazy." he tells you taking a long moment to observe you, you are completely naked on top of him while he's still wearing his now bulky T-shirt and boxers.

"Take me." you tell him, bringing his hands to your hips.

He smiles as if you have said something particularly funny, "What?" you ask him blinking.

"What have you done with the sweet version of you?" he asks you barely clasping his hands on your hips, you smile at him giving him a kiss first on his lips and then moving down his neck, feeling him hold his breath.

"I'm still the same." you answer him between kisses "Sweet and insecure, but other times I know what I want and you know thanks to who?" you add going up to his chin giving him a very light bite "Thanks to you." you resume looking into his eyes.

"If I could move freely…" he tells you as a small grimace appears on his face, causing him to furrow his brow.

"What would you do?" you ask, looking at him with eyes full of curiosity and lust.

"Joel…" you moan, pressing even harder against his chest eager for more clutch.

He swallows, moves a strand of your hair and then with his hands descends back down to your intimacy, wraps it completely in his hand and caresses your outer lips with a finger. You hold your breath tightening your grip on his shoulders, you look into his eyes as if seeking safety, he kisses the tip of your nose as he continues that exhausting caress.

Your intimacy throbs, you feel yourself on fire as he continues those movements with a slow cadence making you want to be filled completely by his big finger.

Finally, oh finally, his finger sinks inside you, inch by inch, it's a sensation that makes you hold your breath, but you deeply desired, he stays still for a while then slowly begins to pump in and out, the rhythm makes you moan and close your eyes. After a while he stops and you, with blurred vision, look at him puzzled, "Now I will insert another finger, if you have pain tell me and I will stop."

He must have noticed the bewilderment on your face because he reassures you, "Don't worry, I'll go very slowly. I won't do anything that will hurt you, okay?" you nod, "You tell me if you want me to stop, though," he reiterates.

A second finger?

It will never go in, or will it?

A second finger enters you very, very slowly, sinking even more slowly than the first in your throbbing cunt. You feel your walls almost give way to his passage, you groan and close your eyes, it feels. . . strange, but so. . . you are at a loss for words. It's even better than you could have thought!

With the palm of his hand he rubs your clit sending more discharges of pure lust all along your body, you moan shamelessly rubbing yourself against him, "Joel. . . oh. . ." you can't speak, he lays his other hand at the base of your back stroking you with slow gestures, "I'm going to. . . I'm going to. . ."

"'s okay, just let go." his words are enough, his fingers continuing to move in and out of you at an ever-increasing pace, his hand caressing you is enough to make you close your eyes and let out a long resounding moan.

You let go, abandoning your head on his shoulder as he continues to pump gently still in and out of you, then he pulls his fingers away from you and you feel his hands encircling you and moving closer to your torso and then placing a kiss between your shoulder and your neck, "'s okay." he says then giving you another kiss on your neck and moving your hair causing you to shiver.

When you open your eyes again, you notice how visibly aroused he is, how his arousal is. . . big, very big, you have chills. You want to make love with him, but he will never fit that inside you.

"Why don't you want me to touch you like you do with me?" you ask him intentionally settling better on him causing him to close his eyes and part his lips.

He lays a kiss on your forehead, then you look up and meet his eyes, "We were fighting. . . and then. . ." he says with a smile, a smile you return, "then you realized the reason was futile." you complete.

He nods, "You are. . ." he sighs noisily "so important to me, to my life, to my heart." he admits, caressing your face and scrutinizing you for a long time. You press yourself against him wrapping your arms around his neck, he groans. You sat on him completely, you also jerk and lower your gaze, "No." he says almost interpreting your look.

"I think you've already had another first for today. Let's take it slow." he says, "We'll do that too, honey, I promise." he says stroking your bare back in a slow motion that makes you close your eyes.

"I'd like to make you feel as good as you did me," you tell him looking into his eyes, "I don't want to touch you if you don't want to, but now it's your turn. You can't just worry about me, tell me what to do."

"It's… not…" he's about to complain, but you move a little awkwardly on his shaft and he finds himself swallowing, "it's. . . not necessary. . ."

"Joel!" you call back to him, "Really, tell me what to do." you add, this time intentionally touching his intimacy with yours.

"Fuck. . ." he groans closing his eyes, sighing noisily. He places his hands on your hips and moves you back and forth on his bulge, you both moan at that clutch, "Oh, fuck," he groans again gasping as you place your hands on his shoulders continuing to rub against him, "That's so. . . oh, baby, I. . ." his expression is tense, the vein on his neck clearly visible.

"Joel. . . don't stop." you moan as you move closer to him and give him kisses along the vein on his neck, you feel him gasp, move you on him a few more times and then he lets out a long resounding moan that deliciously fills your ears and leads you to encircle his neck with your arms as you too feel you have experienced a second orgasm just in rubbing against his manhood.

You stay like that against each other for a while longer, then you shift and slip on your briefs again, feel his burning gaze follow you, look up and meet his eyes, slip your T-shirt back on and put on a pair of shorts trying to ignore that almost clutching feeling at the pit of your stomach.

"You hungry?" you ask him.

He nods.

"Pancakes? Or ham and eggs?" you offer him.

"Coffee." he replies with a relaxed expression painted on his face.

"You can't have breakfast with just coffee, you know what happens? You get annoying." you look at him with an amused look making him visibly relax "Do you want to wash up first? Shall I give you a hand?"

He looks at you amused, "Nice try."

You blush, "I'm serious. . . I didn't mean anything."

"Then why are ya all flushed?" he asks relaxing completely.

"Because … I'm not used to these allusions, I always hated 'em. Gina, my friend, makes constant allusions to sex, and it always makes me uncomfortable." you confide to him.

"Why?" he asks cocking his head to one side with a small grimace twitching his face.

You sit down next to him, "I always saw sex as something awkward, strange. . . maybe because I didn't know my body, maybe because I never shared a truly intimate moment with another person, and maybe because I looked at sex as something deeply intimate and not to be talked about like that." you confide again "Do you think I'm strange?" you ask turning to him.

"Not at all. I'm a lucky old man." he says "Not everyone approaches sex immediately."

You nod, "Well, would you rather wash first - no innuendo - and then eat?"

"Okay, will you help me?" he asks looking to his side.

"Does it hurt?" you ask as you stand up and help him to his feet.

"A little, I think the painkillers wore off by now," he replies.

"Lean on me," you tell him, encircling his waist with your arm; he smiles at you, "Don't worry."

You help him get to the bathroom, then take off his T-shirt revealing himself in his might, he reveals to you once again his broad torso full of old and new scars and you again stand almost open-mouthed, you are very attracted to that strip of dark hair disappearing into his boxers. You look away feeling yourself flaming again.

"May I ask how you fell and what you were doing in the dark?" you ask as you wash his shoulders paying attention to the recent cuts and bruises present.

"Tess…" he replies with a sigh, shaking his head "she never shuts up." shortly after he adds "I heard that if we didn't complete the work on at least the upstairs by the beginning of next week, we won't going to get paid and I want to get paid because I busted my back on that fucking construction site!" he blurts out "And instead I put my foot wrong and fell with those tools. I'm an old fool." he exclaims with a sigh.

"You're not at all, you wanted to get paid for the hard work! But even if they don't have to pay you this job, though, you'll find another one," you tell him, passing the sponge between his neck and shoulders.

He shakes his head, "I don't know, the truth is maybe I should stop giving myself over to these things and do something else, even though this is what I am." he concludes by lowering his head.

"Joel," you say stopping washing him and squatting down next to him "don't talk like that about yourself, you're 47 years old it's true, but that doesn't mean you have to quit, it's true yours is a dangerous job, but you can still do it. Maybe not open construction sites, you could renovate single-story houses, you could do something a little less dangerous." you tell him abandoning the sponge and stroking his face "Look at me, please" he finally looks up "You're fine like this, you're perfect like this. It happens to everyone to fail, but if for every failure we said I'm not good enough I'd better give up, well we wouldn't live anymore!"

His formerly sad eyes become sweet and serene again, he reaches out a hand to you and caresses one cheek, this contact makes you close your eyes, you surrender to him, as always, whenever you are with him.

"You're sweet, I've always said so."

You smile looking into his eyes, "We need each other, did you see?"

He nods, "I'm taking your advice. Will you take one from me?" you look at him questioningly, "I read that there's in Seattle a contest for new writers, entries are due in June, why don't you sign up?"

A contest for new writers? Oh, it's always been your dream to sign up for a literary contest, but Seattle is so far away. . . so far away from him.

"I know that look," he says making you look up at him, "you don't have to say yes or no right away, think about it. I'd like to know and see you accomplished. I'd like to see a picture of you everywhere that says writer of the year." he says smiley and making you smile "Or maybe see you win the Pulitzer Prize." he adds making you smile nervously as your vision blurs "I don't want you to stay in that ugly, dreary little town, you have so much potential. It would be a shame to waste it over there in a bar or even in a library, I have nothing against people who do those jobs," he tells you, cupping your face and caressing your cheeks with his thumbs, "but I wouldn't want you to do that forever. You have a unique mind, you're brilliant, you're smart, you're too much to be confined only to yourself." you're crying, you can't hold back the tears anymore "Maybe someday someone might come and make some documentary about you and who knows they'll do some interviews around and they'll interview me too and I'll say I know her, I met the wonderful woman who's driving everybody crazy."

"Stop it," you tell him sobbing and hiding your face in your hands.

He calls you gently pulling you to him to hug you, you hide your face in the crook of his neck heedless of getting wet yourself. He holds you tightly to him, his hands caress your back, "'s okay, honey, 's okay." he says kissing your forehead, your cheek, your neck, your lips.

The truth is, you don't want to fulfill your dream if you know you have to leave him.

You surrender into his kisses, into his strong arms holding you to him trying to push that thought away as much as possible because, for you, it's not acceptable.

A/N Thank you for your support, for your likes and reblog, thank you, thank you, thank you ❤️If you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging and leaving comments 🫶 if you don't like it don't be rude and keep going. 😉 Please remember English is not my first language, so please be merciful! 🙏 The girl in the gif has the purpose to represent the situation only 🙂

[aifanfictions]

story about Alastor from Hazbin Hotel falling slowly in love with (y/n) who is an emplyeee at the Hazbin Hotel and is trying to help Charlie save the sinners

Love in Hell's Heart

Alastor, the infamous Radio Demon, had always been a creature of chaos and darkness. His eerie charisma and insatiable appetite for mayhem made him a feared figure in the underworld. He relished in the chaos that Hell had to offer, finding pleasure in the torment and suffering of lost souls.

But amidst the chaos and cacophony of Hell, there was one person who managed to capture Alastor's attention—a human named (Y/N). She was an employee at the Hazbin Hotel, a place that aimed to rehabilitate sinners and give them a chance at redemption. (Y/N) was different from the other demons; she possessed an innate kindness and an unwavering belief in the potential for goodness in even the most wicked of souls.

Every day, Alastor would tune into his radio show from the confines of his lavish penthouse in Hell. He'd broadcast his sinister melodies, taunting and tormenting the damned. Yet, he couldn't help but listen to (Y/N) when she appeared on the hotel's broadcast, urging sinners to seek redemption and turn away from their evil ways.

(Y/N)'s voice, filled with genuine compassion and understanding, intrigued Alastor. He'd sit in the darkness, entranced by her words, and wonder how someone could be so pure in a place so filled with darkness. It was a puzzle that he couldn't resist trying to solve.

One evening, Alastor decided to pay the Hazbin Hotel a visit. Disguised as a well-dressed gentleman, he entered the bustling lobby, hiding his true identity from the unsuspecting staff. He watched (Y/N) as she moved about, helping sinners with their troubles, offering them a glimmer of hope in the abyss of Hell.

As the days turned into weeks, Alastor continued his visits to the hotel. He'd find excuses to be near (Y/N), striking up conversations with her and trying to understand what made her so different. Her unwavering belief in the possibility of redemption both baffled and intrigued him.

One day, (Y/N) confided in him about her dream—to save as many souls as possible and bring them out of Hell's eternal torment. Alastor, for the first time in his existence, felt a strange sensation stirring within him. It was a feeling he couldn't quite place, but it seemed to radiate from the presence of (Y/N).

As the two spent more time together, Alastor found himself slowly changing. He was no longer content with sowing chaos and reveling in suffering. Instead, he began to see the potential for something more, something better. (Y/N)'s presence was like a beacon of light in his dark world, and he found himself drawn to her in ways he couldn't comprehend.

One night, under the blood-red skies of Hell, Alastor confronted his own inner demons. He realized that he had fallen in love with (Y/N), a human who had shown him a side of himself he never knew existed. It was a love that defied the very nature of Hell itself.

With newfound determination, Alastor decided to use his influence and power to assist (Y/N) and the Hazbin Hotel in their mission to save souls. He'd become an unexpected ally in the fight for redemption, all because of the love that had taken root in the darkest corners of his heart.

Together, (Y/N) and Alastor faced unimaginable challenges, battling against the malevolent forces of Hell to give sinners a chance at salvation. Their love, an anomaly in the fiery depths of Hell, became a beacon of hope and a testament to the power of redemption and change.

In the heart of Hell, amidst the chaos and suffering, a love story unlike any other unfolded—a love that transcended the boundaries of darkness and lit up the path to redemption for those who had once been lost.

NOTE! This story was generated by OpenAI

[thorias]

So I've been thinking about how the "Saving Gambit" story is going to play out in season 2. Not much else to do right now but speculate since it doesn't look like we'll be getting any new information for a while; hell, at this rate, they probably won't even let AJ acknowledge that mid-credit scene in the finale until we've at least got a trailer to sink our teeth into.

Anyway... ideally, I'd like there to be more to it than just Rogue telling Deathbit that she loves him and then he's back to normal like magic. That's okay for Rogue, I guess, but Remy needs an arc too. And it would feel anticlimactic if it's that easy, especially after we got so gipped with the lack of Romy content in season 1.

I'd like them to build a real story around this, with the X-men trying a bunch of different ways to get through to Remy, but none of them work. I want to see Rogue try to drain the evil out of him like she did with Archangel in XTAS, only for her touch to have no effect because Apocalypse has accounted for that this time. I want to see Jean try to shut down the Deathbit persona telepathically, only for it to force her out of his mind.

I want to see them try everything they can think of to bring Remy back and fail every time until it all seems hopeless... and then hope arrives from an unexpected place.

We're getting into fanfic territory here, but we don't have much to go on for the time being, so screw it. Here's how I'd write the thing...

Archangel shows up to help the X-men with Apocalypse/Deathbit, giving them some new insight to go on. He explains how Apocalypse turns mutants into Horsemen; what it feels like and whatnot. Maybe it's a psychological thing where Apocalypse burrows his way into a person's subconscious and plants a seed that grows into something dark and twisted, which warps how that person thinks and perceives the rest of the world.

I see Archangel describing it as Apocalypse sifting through every memory and experience a mutant has ever had, looking for their absolute lowest, most vulnerable moment, when they feel utterly alone, hopeless and are most in need... and in that moment, Apocalypse appears to them (in their subconscious) like a savior and offers them a hand.

Them taking his hand symbolizes them surrendering to his influence and allows him to set up shop in their head, so the Horseman persona can take over. So if the X-men want to save Remy, they're going to have to deprogram him by getting inside his mind and finding that moment, so they can stop him from accepting Apocalypse's offer.

So maybe the X-men have to fight Deathbit to immobilize him. This gives Xavier an opening where he'd use Cerebro to boost his telepathy enough to get through Apocalypse's mental defenses, so he can take Rogue, go inside Deathbit's mind and start poking around in Remy's memories.

This is where Remy's arc can come in because they can do a lot of cool character stuff here. They start by looking at his childhood. Maybe they see him as a little kid in an orphanage (pre-thieves guild) with the nuns who run the place calling him "le diable blanc" and trying to beat the devil out of him. Then, after the beating, Apocalypse appears to child Remy and offers his hand... but Remy turns away.

They see teenage Remy having just run away from Belladonna and the thieves guild, having to leave his home, his first love and the only family he ever had. He's alone, miserable, heartbroken... again Apocalypse appears and offers his hand... and again Remy turns away.

They see Remy in Paris with Genevieve Darceneaux and her winding up dead simply because Remy Lebeau entered her life. As he stands over her grave, feeling guilt-stricken and heartsick, once more Apocalypse appears, offering him salvation, to free him from his self-loathing... and once more Remy turns away.

You know where I'm going with this, right?

Finally, they end up at the Genoshan gala on the night of the attack. A heartbroken Remy watches Rogue dance with Magneto, but can't stomach it and walks out. He sits alone outside, feeling utterly desolate, wondering if everything he thought him and Rogue had meant to each other was all for nothing.

One final time, Apocalypse reaches out... extends his hand... and in his despair... Remy takes it. That's the moment they have to stop.

The rest pretty much writes itself. Rogue jumps in between Remy and Apocalypse. Maybe there's a psychic battle with Xavier keeping Apocalypse at bay while Rogue tries to get through to Remy, finally telling him what really happened, that she'd actually rejected Magneto, realizing that Remy was right about what they have being "deeper than skin," but his self-loathing rears its' ugly head and he refuses to listen to her.

So finally, Rogue does what fans have been waiting for for 6 seasons, across 2 different cartoon series and 3 freaking decades: She finally tells him that she loves him... and she kisses him (they're on the psychic plane, so they don't have to worry about her powers hurting him here).

Maybe Rogue has gotten through to Remy and maybe she hasn't. His reaction is ambiguous, he still seems confused...

Xavier can't hold Apocalypse back anymore. Apocalypse confronts Remy and offers his hand again. It looks like Remy is reaching out to take it... but instead, he hands Apocalypse the Queen of Hearts card, which explodes in his face.

Apocalypse's hold over Remy is broken, the Deathbit persona is gone.

If they wrote something like that, I'd be pretty happy. But given how season 1 turned out, I'll probably have to lower my expectations.

[kit-williams]

Venom of Venus

I think I might write anything Yandere Black Templar I'll probably give it a Powerwolf song title

Hey... ya'll want another Yandere Black Templar? But with that Civilian Darling? Still attempting to make the darling a nameless reader insert

Expect canon typical violence and religious overtones

They would have to fall back. Brother Roland could hear it in the chatter as his position was being flooded by some nameless xeno foe. He glanced to the ammo boxes as his throat tightened at the thought... they wouldn't send her back out here again. Brother Roland was certain that she would heed his warning. The planet was struggling by the time the Crusade fleet had made the unexpected exit from the warp. The Champion had seemingly recieved a holy vision of these people needing their help and they were so desperate for the salvation that the Black Templars would bring. But, they would make sure the populace was not a complacent populace... they would earn their victory. They were certainly pleased by how many civilians stayed back to try and help stem the tide.

"Brother Roland!" Her voice pierced the fog that flooded the trench as he watched this poor woman laidened with three heavy bolter ammo boxes. His Bäckerin with hands far more suited for kneeding dough than carrying around the heavy ammo boxes. Her feet were unsteady as she nearly collapsed under the weight as she clearly ran here. She was so unuse to the heavy flak armor on her and much less the weight of the ammo.

"Bäckerin, I told you to not come back." He speaks with no anger in his voice far more annoyance but his hearts fluttered with pride at the little civilian woman who stayed behind for all these months. How she was the source of a comfort for Roland; a distraction? He did not see it as such as the God Emperor's wrath and will can flood into the lowliest of mortals and it was clear in the way she always looked at him that there was that spark that the God Emperor bestows upon his followers. Her spark burned hot for her small frame just as his spark was a roaring bonfire in comparison but it was no less impressive.

"And-" She gulps down air as her limbs tremble from her effort; the rations barely keeping her physically fit enough, she wasn't trained for the front lines so she was in no shape for what she was doing, "I... I told you... I still owe you a loaf of bread. You-" Another gulp of air, "Can't die before then." She looks up and smiles before covering her ears as he fires his boltgun in rapid succession.

"Go little Bäckerin this is no place for you anymore." He could see her nod and start to run back the way she came.

She didn't get very far before her scream caused his head to snap over and time slowed to a crawl as one of the xenos had rushed over and was bearing down on his Bäckerin. To her... her life was flashing before her very eyes as the horror of the alien was upon her. But what happened next was so fast as a black blur slamed into the far to many jointed limbs. A thank you bubbled in her throat but it died as her face was pressed into the rough cloth over his armor, she was caged under him as the world shook around her.

She was screaming as she covered her ears and hot tears were running down her face. It wore a suicide switch and the sudden "shelling" wasn't helping but he prayed to the God Emperor trying to soothe his Bäckerin, his voice roughly coming through his vox as he tried to drown out the noises with his prayers.

"I'm sorry Roland I'm so sorry!" She bluthered as the stress of it all got to her and of course she was but a mortal... he understood she was scared. She was a campfire to his bonfire but he would make sure her flame did not go out even if it flickered. She could feel the way he gently pet her head as he switched to his internal vox and updated his superiors that he was alive after that.

"Bäckerin, meine liebster Bäckerin. Das hast du so gut gemacht, bitte keine Tränen mehr." Roland cooed at her, remembering when she asked to hear his mother language and the way her eyes lit up at the way he spoke. How enamored she was when he said his prayers in this tongue. How he watched her open her eyes and look at him, how her pretty eyes glistened with tears still. "There's meine Bäckerin." He said with his chest rumbling but he picked her up and dirt fell off of his back. The trench was ruined.

"You should get out of here my Lord." She said wiping her eyes, "I can run and make noise to-" She spoke as he started to mag lock ammo to his belt and body.

"Bäckerin," He said in a tone that made her flinch, "if that thought ends with you trying to sacrfice yourself." She couldn't stop the whimper as she could feel his overwhelming presence.

"I'll just sl-" She managed to whimper out before he fully turned to face her.

"Bäckerin." He hissed out and of course she crumpled.

"I'm sorry my lord please forgive me." She squeaks out before he picks her up and starts to run toward the fall back point.

"I can forgive you if you remember that your duty is not that of a martyr besides you have teased me with the prospect of having some fresh bread for months. You will not deny me that."

She let out a soft laugh as he carried her so easily but the lightheartedness died as Roland had to whip out his bolter and fire back at the skittering xenos. He could feel her grab his rosary, grabbing the large golden aquilia and starting to pray as the fog was unnatural and created by them and she could see them in the fog.

He knew no fear but he could worry. He worried for his Bäckerin. "Bäckerin tell me again what you're going to do after you survive this and the xenos are gone!" He demands trying to distract her.

"I'm going to open my bakery back up and I'm going to finally get married and have babies, so many babies!" She screeches out that final part as out of the fog one of them jump and he back hands it so hard that the sickening crunching noise will never leave her. "Oh by the God Emperor I'm so sorry I put it off!" She just sobs as she just is so stressed and scared she can't help but sob as she prays and confesses her perceived transgressions.

"I'll give them to you Bäckerin. As many as you want." He pants out but his promise falls upon her deaf ears. "It's why I can't leave you behind. How can I give you what you want!" He doesn't know why he says such things to her. But the thought of her... under him... the thought of making good on his promises to her gives him a boost to his running making him run faster. The smell of her blood hits him as she squeezed his aquilia so tightly it cut her palm as she is just praying so fervently that he can't stop himself from shouting his own prayers. His third lung fills up as he pushes himself harder. They have to survive how else can he give her what she desires and deserves. To be full of his babies! He won't tell her how he's wanted her since she gave him that first loaf of bread. How her soft smile and devotion is what brought him so much joy.

Her devotion to the God Emperor, her devotion to her planet and people, and most of all her devotion to him. Why else would she come out risking her life if she did not care?! Oh he'll kill so many xenos for her. He can see the way she presses her face against his armor to try and hide her tears and to hide her face from the wind that stings her face from how fast he runs. He ignores her pleas to be left behind to stop being dead weight. She's never a burden in fact she tries so hard... for a baseline human she tries so hard.

He's already made up his mind if she survives it's by the will of the God Emperor and his to have! He'll make her so heavy and happy! As his little Bäckerin makes daily bread. All according to the will of the God Emperor.

All of it.

[theetherealbloom]

NOTRE DAME - CH. 8

Chapter 8: We’re Nothing But Myths Now That Neither Of Us Believe In

Summary: In the rafters of Clinton Church, a mysterious reader with magic and the power of illusion manipulation silently watches over Matt Murdock, the blind vigilante known as Daredevil. As danger engulfs Hell's Kitchen, their unlikely friendship blossoms into a bond of trust and longing, intertwining their fates in a battle against darkness that tests their resolve. Will their connection illuminate a path to salvation in a city of darkness or lead them deeper into the abyss?

Paring: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Hurt to Comfort, ANGST, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, Religion, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Anxiety, PSTD, Nightmares, Catholic Guilt, Amnesia, Violence, Blood, Dark Undertones, Eventual SMUT, Shy Reader, Mentions of Abuse, Criminal Activities, Mobsters/Mafia, Character Death, Slowish Burn (I lied it’s a SLOW BURN), Disassociation, Magic, Superpowers, Insecurities, Guns, Bullets,

Word Count: 7.3k

A/N: WELCOME TO S2!!! I TOOK A LONG ASS BREAK FROM THIS STORY IM SORRY!! At some point, I got stuck and was so scared to keep writing… ANYWAYS “Started making it… had a breakdown… Bon Appetit. 🙂”

Song: Hurt by Sleeping At Last

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

A FEW MONTHS LATER…

KAMAR-TAJ, NEPAL — SUNSET

"Again."

Your frustration boiled over as you let your hands fall to your sides, the faint shimmer of your magic fading into the morning air. With a heavy sigh, you cast an irritated glance skyward, then towards Ancient One's patient gaze meeting yours.

"Again," she repeated, her tone unwavering.

Months had passed since the apprehension of Wilson Fisk, yet your progress in mastering the art of teleportation remained agonizingly slow.

"What if I just throw myself off the temple?" you quipped, a trace of exasperation in your voice.

"Perhaps you should. Sometimes, the greatest lessons come from unexpected places," came the Ancient One's cryptic response.

You groaned audibly, clearly expressing how frustrated you were. "This is hopeless. We’ve been at this for months, and I can barely teleport across the courtyard."

"You need to focus. It's a miracle you didn't end up scattered across the multiverse on your first attempt at teleportation without a sling ring," the Ancient One remarked, her voice tinged with a blend of patience and admonishment.

Your eyes closed in frustration, a heavy sigh escaping your lips as you hung your head, shoulders weighed down by the burden of your struggles. Sensing your inner turmoil, the Ancient One regarded you with a penetrating gaze.

"Is this about Matthew?" she inquired, her tone gentle yet probing.

Your arms folded defensively across your chest, you shot her a guarded look. "I do not want to discuss my personal life with you," you retorted.

Undeterred, the Ancient One raised an eyebrow, prompting you to relent. With a resigned grimace, you approached and seated yourself beside her on the steps of the temple courtyard.

"I haven't told him yet," you admitted, the pressure of your unspoken truth evident in your troubled expression.

"And I'm terrified of what comes next. I have a feeling that our encounter with Fisk was merely the beginning of something far greater than any of us," you confessed, anxiety lacing your words.

The Ancient One regarded you with a pitying expression, her gaze fixed upon you as she spoke, her voice carrying an otherworldly resonance. "Prophet girl, anointed by the One Above All," she began, her words imbued with a sense of ancient wisdom. "Do you hear the gods muttering their faint starlight words? Destined daughter, muttering insanities no one believes,” she continued, her tone tinged with sorrow. "Do you regret taking the vow?"

Your jaw clicked with tension, but you remained silent, unable to muster a response. As the Ancient One turned to leave, her form blending seamlessly with the shifting rays of the setting sun, you were left alone with your thoughts. The golden hues of twilight painted the landscape, casting long shadows across the temple courtyard as the day drew to a close.

A WEEK LATER…

2624 BROADWAY, NEW YORK — EVENING

The golden portal sealed shut with a soft hum as you trudged through the alleyway, the cool air of the night enveloping you. Casting a cautious glance around, you found the dimly lit alley deserted except for a stray cat rummaging through a nearby dumpster.

Though you could have requested to be sent back to the church, you opted for a solitary stroll to clear your head, despite the lingering soreness in your muscles. With a resigned sigh, you rolled your shoulders back and stepped onto the bustling streets, seamlessly blending into the flow of pedestrians.

The silence was broken abruptly by the cracking sound of gunfire coming from behind you and a terrified cry from a lady. Whipping around, your senses heightened as you spotted a group of armed robbers clad in ski masks, each clutching a silver briefcase tightly in one hand and brandishing a gun in the other. Reacting instinctively, you extended your arm, swiftly maneuvering bystanders out of harm's way as the robbers barrelled past.

Moments later, the urgent wail of police sirens pierced the air, signaling the arrival of law enforcement. Two officers darted into view, hot on the heels of the fleeing robbers. Yet, before they could apprehend the criminals, a sudden gunshot rang out, causing one of the officers to stagger and fall to the ground.

Amid the chaos, you swiftly directed one of the bystanders, your voice firm and authoritative, as you dashed past them in pursuit of the fleeing robbers. "Call 911! And apply pressure on that wound!" you instructed urgently, your words punctuated by the urgency of the situation.

Navigating through the bustling streets with purposeful strides, you veered into a nearby alley, utilizing it as a shortcut. With a deft flick of your hand, you manipulated the fabric of your clothes, transforming them into a cloak that billowed around you as you emerged from the shadows. Spotting a police officer kneeling on the ground, vulnerable to the imminent threat posed by the robber's gun, you felt a surge of energy course through you.

With swift precision, you seized the assailant from the shadows, pulling him into the confines of the alleyway. The dim light cast eerie shadows across your features as you unleashed a flurry of strikes, each blow calculated and purposeful, momentarily subduing the robber.

However, your solitary vigilante act was short-lived, as the distinctive presence of Daredevil materialized beside you, his imposing figure radiating an aura of determination. With a fluid motion, he intervened, swiftly incapacitating the assailant with a decisive blow before turning his attention to the pursuit of the remaining robbers.

"I was wondering when you would show up," you remarked, your voice tinged with the subtle distortion of your powers. Daredevil's lips curled into a smirk, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes as he regarded you.

"Missed me, angel?" he teased, his voice laced with a playful undertone.

Tilting your head slightly, you lowered your hood, revealing a fraction more of your face as you shrugged nonchalantly. "And if I did?" you countered, your tone laced with a hint of shyness.

His lips curled into a charming smile, a glint of mischief in his tone. "Then I'd have to kiss you," he quipped, his tone playful yet suggestive.

You responded with a playful roll of your eyes, a smirk playing at the corners of your lips. With a light bump of your hip against his, you teased, "Let's deal with these guys first, and then we can discuss dinner plans."

You and Daredevil dashed into the bustling kitchen of a Chinese restaurant, slipping through the backdoor with practiced ease. In perfect synchrony, you swiftly engaged the assailants, each movement calculated and precise. With a surge of power, you ignited your hands, the iridescent glow casting an ethereal light as you delivered a series of decisive blows, swiftly incapacitating your opponent and leaving them to the restaurant staff as they began to gang up on him.

You and Matt burst back onto the chaotic streets, a whirlwind of action and determination. Matt swiftly dealt with one of the robbers with a decisive blow, rendering him unconscious as you raced past. You spotted the final assailant, his grip tight around the arm of a woman conversing with her friends outside a building. Without hesitation, he dragged her hostage, disappearing into a nearby church.

You cast a glance at Matt, his breath heavy as he stands at your side, his red suit a stark contrast against the dimly lit alleyway. With his billy clubs gripped firmly in hand, he appears every bit the vigilante defender Hell's Kitchen has come to rely on. As you peer ahead at the imposing doors of the church, doubts gnaw at your resolve. How much longer could you maintain the facade? The fear of his disappointment weighs heavily on your mind, threatening to unravel the fragile balance between truth and secrecy.

You push aside the gnawing fear, burying it deep within as you trail behind the Devil's imposing figure into the solemn sanctuary of the church. With a swift strike, he shatters the light, the echo of glass breaking resonating through the sacred space. Gunshots ring out, a chaotic symphony of danger, as the robber unleashes a barrage of bullets, blindly firing into the darkness. But in the middle of all the turmoil, the flickering lights created an ethereal glow that highlighted the two of you standing guard at the door, your silhouettes a sharp contrast to the darkness.

Two shots pierce the air, but you and Matt evade them effortlessly, a dance of survival in the dimly lit church. With practiced precision, he swiftly disarms the robber, while you, with a gentle touch, render him unconscious, the power coursing through your fingertips quelling the threat. As the assailant falls, you offer a comforting squeeze to the girl's shoulder, a silent reassurance amidst the chaos. With a shared nod, you and Matt ascend to the rooftop, vanishing into the cover of night as the wails of police sirens herald their arrival.

PARK AVE & E 118TH ST, NEW YORK — DAY

"You ever wake up in the morning…" Foggy begins with a heavy sigh, his tone laden with fatigue. "From the second you get out of bed, it's like… every molecule in your body hurts?"

"No, never," Matt responds with a playful smirk, his hand resting on the crook of your arm as you guide him through the bustling streets, Foggy walking alongside.

"I'm in agony, dude," Foggy groans, eliciting chuckles from you and Matt alike.

Matt's smile widens. "What, did you go back to the gym?"

"Hell, no. Do I look capable of making healthy life choices?" Foggy retorts, prompting a raised eyebrow from Matt.

"Why am I even here?" you interject teasingly as you look between your two friends.

"Because you missed us.” Matt grins and then continues, “And you wanted to grab some supplies for the church by the store near the office, and you said you wanted to help in the office today after you heard about what had happened to Mrs. Almeida," Matt explains patiently.

"Oh, right, okay, gimme a sec, I’ll be right back," you reply, darting into the store to retrieve your items.

As you engage in conversation with the kind lady at the register, the voices of Matt and Foggy continue in the background, their discussion gradually fading into a distant murmur. Through the glass doors of the store, you catch glimpses of them still deep in conversation, their expressions earnest as they deliberate over matters that could range from Matt's nighttime activities to the recent client who sought refuge at Nelson & Murdock.

The name Zuly Almeida comes to mind, bringing back memories of the recent troubles that had shaken your workplace. Her desperate plea for help had come in the dead of night, her life dangling by a thread as she recounted the horrors of her situation. You had helped her find safety with Matt's help, recommending the shelter for battered women where you volunteered, only to learn of the news that he woke up in a hospital with two broken arms and a restraining order safety pinned to his chest.

Exiting the store with your paper bag in hand, you catch Foggy's smile directed at you, a warmth in his eyes mirrored by Matt's grin. You inquire, "What's going on?"

"Foggy's got me swearing on my life," Matt replies, his hand finding its familiar place on your arm.

"Don't mock me," Foggy retorts, his tone laced with playful seriousness, while Matt's chuckle punctuates the air as he forms a cross over his heart. "I swear."

"Alright, you guys need to get to work before Karen loses her mind," you agree, adjusting to the heaviness of the bag in your hand.

"Yeah, this heat's killing me," Foggy continues, sounding a little uncomfortable with the weather.

NELSON & MURDOCK ATTORNEY’S AT LAW OFFICE – MORNING

“Good morning, guys. You take the scenic route this morning?” Karen says while popping a hip out and you take note of the crowded waiting room in the office.

“Morning to you, too.”

“Morning, Karen.”

“I tried to make them walk faster.” You loudly whisper to Karen as you hand her a coffee and some croissants.

"Thank you, I appreciate you helping," Karen says, her smile warm and grateful. You return the smile, then turn to Matt and Foggy, a touch of humor in your voice.

"Alright, you're all fed and caffeinated," you say briskly. "I’ll take my leave now. I need to head over to the shelter and then stop by the DA’s office to sign and drop off some papers. I’ll catch you guys later."

You’re just about to turn when Karen calls out, "Wait!"

You pause, eyebrows raised as you meet her gaze. "Yeah?"

"Will you swing by Josie’s with us later? Grab a couple of drinks, maybe play some pool?" Karen asks, her expression hopeful. You glance at Foggy and Matt, who are both watching you expectantly, waiting for your reply.

You hesitate for a moment, juggling your commitments in your mind. "Uh… yeah, sure," you finally say with a smile. "I’ll see if I can swing by if nothing comes up."

Karen’s face lights up, and she lets out a little cheer. "Okay! Yes! Great, thank you!"

You wave them off with a quick goodbye, heading for the door. As you step outside, the cheerful chorus of farewells from your friends follows you, their voices muffled as the door swings shut behind you.

You linger in the hallway just outside the door, the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead filling the silence. Taking a deep breath, you let it settle into your lungs, grounding you. You try to collect your scattered thoughts, brushing off the creeping exhaustion that’s taken root in your bones. 

After a moment, you turn, making your way down the narrow, dimly lit staircase. The wooden steps creak under your weight, each sound echoing off the walls, like a heartbeat reverberating in the quiet of the old building.

As you reach the bottom, your gaze catches on the worn, slightly faded sign mounted on the wall: Nelson and Murdock, Attorneys at Law. You feel a familiar pang, an ache in your chest that comes from memories and ties that run deeper than you sometimes care to admit.

You let out a slow, deliberate breath, steeling yourself as you reach out, brushing your fingers across the lettering. It’s a quiet promise to yourself—a way to remind yourself why you’re here, why you keep coming back despite the burden of secrets, the ever-growing distance between you and the people you care about.

Cut the costs, limit the feeling, you tell yourself. It’s become a mantra of sorts, a shield you wear to keep from getting hurt, to keep from hurting anyone else. And yet, standing here, it feels thinner than ever, as if one wrong move could tear it apart completely.

But you push that thought down, lock it away. There’s no room for weakness. Not here. Not now. 

With one last glance at the sign, you straighten up and step out onto the bustling street, letting the noise of the city swallow you whole.

JOSIE’S BAR – EVENING

The bar’s packed, dim lights casting a hazy glow over the bustling crowd. Shots are passed around, laughter mingling with the sounds of clinking glasses. You’re standing by the pool table with Matt, Karen, and Foggy, the familiar warmth of camaraderie thick in the air.

Karen lines up her shot, her focus intense as she takes aim, the pool cue sliding through her fingers with practiced ease. The ball sinks into the pocket, and Matt chuckles, holding his beer close.

“See, I don’t know, that definitely sounded like cheating to me, Miss Page,” he says, his voice laced with a playful skepticism.

Foggy scoffs, gripping his own cue stick, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Matt, are you sure we’re not being hustled here?” he stage-whispers, glancing at Karen with faux suspicion.

“As sure as Josie’s AC is busted,” Foggy adds, shrugging.

Right on cue, Josie appears with two pitchers of ice water, a smirk on her face as she overhears them. “What AC?” she snorts, setting the pitchers down with a thud.

Karen moves to grab one, but the three of you shout in unison, “Oh!”

Matt and Foggy quickly interject, words tumbling out in a rush.

“No, you don’t wanna do that,” Foggy warns, his tone almost grave.

“You can’t drink the water here,” Matt adds, an amused smile playing at his lips.

“Josie’s pipes… they’ve got issues,” Foggy continues, and Matt chimes in with a knowing nod. “Rust, mold.”

Foggy leans closer to peer into the pitcher, feigning horror. “I think I can actually see the bacteria floating in there.”

Karen pulls her hand back with a shudder, wrinkling her nose. “Oh, ew. Ew.”

Matt chuckles, taking a swig of his drink. “That’s why we keep our cocktails neat.”

You sip on your ginger ale, hiding a grin as Foggy laughs, “Just pretend you’re abroad, someplace exotic. No mojitos, though—Josie just throws mint in the beer.”

Matt’s laughter echoes softly, and then Foggy nudges you with his cue stick, raising his brows in mock anticipation. “Come on, your turn.”

You raise a skeptical eyebrow, holding up your hands. “I don’t know how to play.”

“Right,” Foggy sighs, smirking as he hands his cue to Matt. “Take over, buddy. I gotta hit the head. And don’t let her out of your four working senses. She’s as quick as she is beautiful.” He pauses, casting you a cheeky grin. “Reminds me of myself.”

Foggy ambles off to the bathroom, and as you stand between Matt and Karen, you notice the way she leans in close to him, her laughter soft and genuine. There’s a lightness in her expression, an ease that somehow feels like it belongs.

Something twists in your chest. You clear your throat, mumbling, “I’m gonna go grab another ginger ale… be right back.”

You weave through the crowd, slipping up to the bar, where Josie hands you a fresh ginger ale without a word, just a quick, knowing nod. Leaning on the bar, you steal a glance back toward the pool table, watching as Karen leans over, adjusting Matt’s grip on the cue stick. She’s laughing, he’s smiling, and there’s an undeniable spark that hangs between them.

“Aren’t they something to admire?” Josie murmurs over your shoulder, her voice low, and it takes all your willpower not to let the sting show.

You force a tight smile, nodding. “Yeah. They are.”

As you shift your weight, you accidentally bump into someone standing nearby—a man with shaggy blonde hair, a heavy coat clinging to his shoulders despite the stifling warmth in the bar. He looks like he’s been sweating bullets, and his gaze darts around, uneasy.

“Sorry,” you murmur, offering a quick nod.

He merely grunts in acknowledgment, his eyes flicking past you, but something about him feels… off. Years of working in shelters have taught you how to read people, and he wears the tension of someone with something to hide.

“Hey, you new around here?” you ask, giving him a careful once-over.

He swallows a sip of his drink before replying, voice low and gruff. “No, actually.”

Before you can press further, you feel a gentle yet firm grip on your elbow. Turning, you see Matt beside you, his face calm but his expression etched with a subtle concern that only you can read.

“You okay?” he asks, his hand lingering as if ready to pull you away.

You give him a reassuring nod. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just…” You glance back at the stranger, then decide to offer a word of caution. “Hey, it’s all right. Just letting you know, this place has good people. Lots of places a guy like you could drink. Just saying.”

The man shakes his head, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s not what you think. I got business here. With Nelson and Murdock.”

Matt’s grip on your arm tightens, his posture shifting ever so slightly, like he’s readying himself for a confrontation. He subtly angles himself between you and the man, his body language protective, a silent barrier.

The man’s gaze slides to Matt, his eyes narrowing as he takes him in. “You must be the blind one,” he mutters, a hint of a sneer in his voice.

Matt’s expression doesn’t falter, his jaw set as he holds his ground, his presence an unspoken warning. You can feel the tension simmering between them, thick and charged, as the crowded bar fades into the background.

JOSIE'S BAR – NIGHT

The bar hums with low chatter and the clinking of glasses, but the quiet tension at your table cuts through it all. You, Matt, Foggy, Karen, and the stranger—sit in a tight circle, leaning in to hear his story, his voice rough and hurried, carrying the weight of something horrific.

“Fifteen men,” he says, looking each of you in the eye, his gaze darting from face to face. “Tough Irish. Armed. All of them blown away. It was a massacre. We weren't hit by any rival family there. I'm telling you, we were… hit by an army.”

Foggy raises an eyebrow, leaning back slightly as he holds his beer. “That’s quite the story,” he says, tone skeptical but edged with curiosity.

“It’s a fact.” His voice drops to a near growl, his hand clenching the edge of the table. “And believe me, you can go see for yourself. Burren Club, 47th and 10th. Can’t miss it. It’s the… part of New York that looks like a goddamn war zone.”

Karen leans forward, her eyes narrowing as she studies him. “What’s your involvement in their organization?” she asks, her voice steady, probing.

The stranger’s gaze shifts, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. “Who are they?” he asks, eyeing both you and Karen with suspicion.

Foggy doesn’t miss a beat, his tone hardening. “Answer the question.”

The man sighs, seeming to deflate just a bit. “Brannigan. I’ve run with them for a long time. I don’t deny it. Pick-ups, drop-offs… sometimes doing things I shouldn’t be.” He rubs a hand over his face, guilt flickering in his eyes. “No question, I’m… I’m no choir boy. I’m tellin’ ya, I just skirt the surface. Unlike the men I work for, and the guys that did this. I’m telling ya, I had nothing to do with that massacre.”

You glance over at Matt, watching as he tilts his head, focusing in that subtle way he does when he’s listening more intently than anyone else at the table. After a moment, he gives a slight nod to Foggy, the confirmation unspoken but clear— he isn’t lying.

Matt leans in, his voice calm but firm. “Assuming you’re correct, and the Irish were hit by a powerful crime syndicate tonight… if you’re the only one who survived, your good fortune’s gonna rub some dangerous people the wrong way.”

He snorts, his expression a mix of fear and frustration. “No shit! I got a pack of killers gunning for my men. My people think I’m a traitor or a rat.”

Foggy nods slowly, tapping his fingers on the table. “So, what can Nelson and Murdock do for you, Mister…”

“Grotto,” he says, cutting in quickly. “Just Grotto.”

Matt’s brow arches, unimpressed. “Grotto what?”

“Just Grotto.” He sighs, his voice dropping, almost pleading. “Witness protection. You guys need to get me the hell out of here before I end up in the only place hotter than this… permanent.”

Matt shakes his head slightly. “We’re a private law firm,” he points out, though there’s a trace of sympathy in his tone.

“Yeah, but a trustworthy one. You got quite a reputation after you took out Wilson Fisk.” Grotto’s gaze shifts, desperation settling into his features.

Foggy sighs, shaking his head. “The DA’s office is the only place that can make a deal.”

Grotto’s jaw tightens. “Yeah, well, I’m not walking to the DA without representation. I know a lot. I’ve seen a lot. I’ll give the cops anything to get me out of Hell’s Kitchen.”

Matt’s expression hardens. “We have a reputation for representing the good people of Hell’s Kitchen, not for negotiating on behalf of career criminals.”

Grotto’s shoulders slump, and he casts a weary glance at each of you, his voice breaking just a little. “What if a criminal wants to… change his career? A second chance, that’s all I want. I know I’m only coming here with my word. I got nobody to vouch for me, but I can… barely cover your fee. But word is… that Nelson and Murdock put their faith in people. And I need a little of that right now.” His gaze turns pleading, desperate. “Please.”

There’s a moment of silence. Matt sighs, the tension in his expression softening slightly, and he shares a look with Foggy. Finally, Foggy nods, his voice firm but reluctant. “Lie low. We’ll look into it.”

Matt leans forward, his tone cautious. “You have somewhere you can stay?”

But before Grotto can respond, his face goes ghostly white. His hand trembles as it knocks against his glass, which slips from his grasp and shatters on the floor. In the same instant, his body slumps, collapsing to the ground with a heavy thud.

Instinct takes over, and you’re the first to move, rushing to his side. You kneel down, your fingers pressing against his neck as you check for a pulse. He’s clammy, unresponsive. Your hand brushes aside his coat, revealing a dark, wet stain spreading across his shirt—a wound, still bleeding.

“Guys, he’s bleeding,” you say, urgency sharp in your voice as you look up at the others. “Someone call 911.”

The world around you fades to the background as you work, your focus narrowing in on Grotto, who’s barely holding on. The bar’s noise, the patrons, everything else becomes a distant hum, your mind honing in on one thing—keeping him alive long enough to get help.

Matt, Karen, and Foggy exchange tense looks before Foggy fumbles for his phone, dialing with shaky fingers. Time feels like it’s slipping through your hands, each second marked by the faint, unsteady rhythm of Grotto’s heartbeat under your fingertips.

BURREN CLUB — NIGHT

The humid evening air clings to your skin as you, Matt, and Foggy make your way through the crowd gathered outside the Burren Club. The blue and red lights from NYPD cruisers flash, casting long shadows across the grim faces of onlookers. People crane their necks, desperate for answers, while the officers keep them at bay. You catch sight of Brett Mahoney by the police tape, managing the restless crowd. His expression is hard, tired, as he fields questions from civilians.

“The paramedics said he’s stable,” you say, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans. Your voice is steady, but the adrenaline from earlier hasn’t fully faded. “They’re taking him to Metro-General Hospital. I told Karen to text me when he woke up.”

Just ahead, you hear a man’s frantic plea. “Hey, I just need to know if my brother’s in there!”

Brett shakes his head, holding his ground. “Step back, please. I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t answer that right now.”

Foggy lifts his hand, calling out, “Hey, Brett!”

Matt’s hand grips your arm as he maneuvers his cane with his other hand, letting you guide him around the clusters of people and the scattered debris. You glance at the scene unfolding before you—a forensics team combing through evidence, cops sectioning off the area, the dull murmur of a distressed crowd. The entire place is bathed in tension, thick as the heat that presses down on the night.

Brett turns to see you all approaching, and his expression barely softens. Foggy gives him a small shrug. “I would say it’s good to see you, but under the circumstances…”

Brett’s brow lifts, unimpressed. “Would you please step aside, sir?”

“We just have a couple of questions, Brett,” Matt says, his voice calm but purposeful.

Brett sighs, rolling his eyes. “If you’re here to chase ambulances, you might notice there are none.”

Foggy forces a casual chuckle, but his eyes stay sharp. “Any leads on what happened?”

Brett doesn’t give an inch. “Oh, you wanna know what went down? Read about it in the papers like everybody else.”

“We’re not everybody else, my man.” Foggy tries to lighten the mood, his attempt landing with an awkward chuckle.

Brett cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Did you just say ‘my man’?”

Foggy looks mildly wounded but presses on. “All right, we get it. You can’t talk about an active crime scene. However… what if… hypothetically speaking… we may have recently acquired a new client that could help… shed some light on this investigation?”

Brett’s gaze sharpens, scrutinizing him. “How recent?”

“Farm fresh,” Foggy replies smoothly, a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Brett’s lips twitch into something that might be amusement. “Was he here?”

Foggy shakes his head, giving him a diplomatic look. “Client privilege.”

Brett lets out a low chuckle, though there’s no humor in his eyes. “Well, uh, Mr. Nelson, if that was true… hypothetically speaking… I’d tell you that withholding your client from the NYPD would be obstructing governmental administration, and I’d probably just arrest your ass myself. In theory.”

You can’t help but arch a brow, smirking just a little as you reply, “Guess we really can’t help each other after all.”

Matt shifts closer to Brett, his voice dropping to a low murmur, almost lost in the ambient noise. “It’s over 100 degrees out here tonight, Sergeant. Why would an Irish mobster wear body armor to a private meeting inside his own club?”

Brett’s eyes widen just a fraction, momentarily thrown off balance. You can see him recalculating, a spark of realization glinting in his eyes. He shoots a warning look over his shoulder toward the bustling crime scene, then mutters to a nearby officer, “Hey, tell those guys to keep it down in there, or someone’s getting written up.”

He turns back to you, his stance shifting, the guarded walls dropping slightly. “I help you… you help me?”

Matt gives him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s all we want.”

Brett hesitates, glancing around before lowering his voice. “There’s a total clampdown on any of this getting out to the press. I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Brett… you can trust us,” Matt says, the sincerity in his tone carrying weight.

Foggy grins, attempting a charming smile. “We’re lawyers.”

Brett rolls his eyes but gestures for you all to follow him. “Come with me over here. Come on.”

He leads you past the police tape, around the perimeter of the crime scene, to a quieter corner near an NYPD vehicle. The flashing lights cast ominous shadows against the nearby walls, and as you step further into the restricted zone, the air feels heavier, thick with the secrets and violence that hang over Hell’s Kitchen.

The heat lingers in the air, thick and oppressive, pressing down on every breath you take. The faint sounds of sirens and agitated murmurs from nearby cops create a gritty symphony, underscoring the heavy tension surrounding the Burren Club. Brett's face is a hardened mask as he turns back to the three of you, lowering his voice just enough to keep this conversation from prying ears.

“DA's going batshit trying to figure it out,” he mutters, glancing around as though the very walls might betray him. “This isn’t the first hit that matches this MO. Call it massive gang-on-gang overkill. Downtown office thinks we got new players in Hell’s Kitchen, and whoever they are, we’re talking some kind of paramilitary-type organization with the training, knowledge, and hardware to take out half the city.”

You exchange a look with Matt and Foggy. The implications sink in, heavy and sharp. Whoever’s out there, they aren’t playing by the same rules as the usual scum in Hell’s Kitchen.

Matt, calm but intense, tilts his head in Brett’s direction. “What do they want?”

Brett exhales, the lines on his face deepening. “That’s what’s driving the DA nuts. We don’t know who they are. We just know who they’re not.”

Foggy gives a dry, humorless chuckle. “I’d say they’re definitely not fond of the Irish.”

Brett’s jaw tightens, his eyes steeling over as he nods. “You think?” His voice lowers, tone shifting to something darker, more personal. “Now, we got history, so I’ll tell you as a friend: stay out of this shit. If you got a witness, the smart move is to turn him over and walk away. Hell’s Kitchen is about to explode.”

With that, Brett gives one last look, something almost like a warning in his eyes, before he turns and walks back toward the swarm of uniforms, resuming his duties among the controlled chaos.

There’s a beat of silence as you, Matt, and Foggy stand there, absorbing Brett’s words.

Foggy breaks the silence with a faint grin. “Did you hear that? He called me friend.” 

You roll your eyes playfully, giving him a nudge. “Try not to let it go to your head, Nelson.”

As the three of you start to walk away from the crime scene, the reality of what Brett said hangs in the air, dense and heavy. You lower your voice, casting a cautious glance around. “I told you guys this morning that I was gonna swing by the DA’s office. When I was there, it was… busy as hell. People working overtime on some case. Couldn’t get all the details, but one of the biker gangs—Dogs of Hell—they were hit too.”

Matt’s brow furrows, his expression contemplative as he processes the information. Foggy’s face reflects a mixture of confusion and worry, the wheels turning as he tries to piece it all together.

Before you can say more, a buzz from your pocket snaps you back to the present. You pull out your phone, glancing at the lock screen to see a text from Karen. It’s brief, but urgent.

You bite your lip, the weight of it all sinking in as a sudden tension tightens your chest. “I gotta go,” you mutter, slipping your phone back into your pocket and taking a few steps back. “Grotto just woke up.”

Foggy’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, worry flickering across his face as he realizes what that could mean. “Hey! You be careful, alright?” His voice is firm, an edge of protectiveness lacing his words as he watches you turn to go. 

Beside him, Matt’s grip on his cane tightens. His fingers curl around it, knuckles turning white, as though holding himself back. He stands silent, but the way he angles his head, listening, tells you everything. You can practically feel his attention zeroing in on the situation, calculating, strategizing. You know him well enough to understand that he’ll be up all night, digging for answers in his own way, likely stalking rooftops and alleyways before dawn even thinks of breaking.

You meet Matt’s gaze behind his lenses for just a heartbeat, exchanging a look of silent understanding. A small, knowing smile touches your lips as you nod. “You too.”

And with that, you turn and disappear into the night, leaving Foggy and Matt behind in the wash of streetlight and shadow. As you walk away, you can feel their eyes on your back, both of them watching, each in their own way, knowing that you’re all stepping into something none of you fully understand yet—but can’t walk away from.

METRO-GENERAL HOSPITAL — EVENING

The fluorescent lights hum softly in the quiet hallway as you approach Grotto’s room. You knock lightly, almost hesitant, and after a moment, the door cracks open to reveal Karen’s face. She offers a quick, tense smile and steps aside, letting you slip into the dimly lit room. She shuts the door behind you, sealing the three of you in this small, sterile pocket of safety—for now.

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself as your eyes settle on Grotto. He’s lying in the hospital bed, looking more irritated than wounded, though the medical equipment surrounding him says otherwise. Wires and tubes attach him to various monitors, which beep softly, a reminder of his fragility despite the rough edge in his glare.

Karen steps closer, her voice barely above a whisper as she updates you. “Bottle sliced through his flesh. Multiple lacerations into the muscle, but no vessel damage.” She glances at Grotto with a mixture of relief and amazement. “Nothing that a few weeks of physical therapy can’t cure. It’s… exactly as you said.”

You pull the chart from the foot of the bed, scanning over the notes with a practiced eye. Grotto’s file confirms what Karen just told you. Bruised but alive, and somehow, still intact despite the hell he walked through. You smirk, setting the chart back as you mutter, “Well, I’ll be damned, ‘Steve.’ Got real fuckin’ lucky.”

Grotto glares at you, irritation flashing in his eyes. He shifts in bed, wincing slightly as he adjusts against the pillows, his voice a low, rough grumble. “It’s not safe for either of you to be here.”

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow, meeting his defiant stare with a calm resolve. “We’ll manage.” 

A flicker of something—fear, maybe regret—crosses his face, but he quickly masks it, casting his gaze out toward the window where the night stretches dark and endless beyond the glass. Karen looks between the two of you, worry etched into her features, but she stays silent.

The room’s tense silence is shattered by a shrill scream echoing from the hallway. You and Karen freeze, your heads snapping toward the door, the distant sound of chaos prickling down your spine.

“Oh, God,” Grotto mutters, his voice low and laced with terror. He clenches his fists, his face pale. “What was that?”

Karen glances at him, alarm widening her eyes. “What’s going on?”

Grotto’s gaze darts between you both, panic setting in. “No, no, no, no, no,” he hisses. “Someone's come to finish the job. Shit.”

Karen takes a step toward the door, but you hold up a hand, stopping her. “Shh! Don’t move,” you whisper sharply, placing a hand against her shoulder to keep her back.

But Grotto is already unhooking himself from his IV line, the heart monitor beeping wildly as he yanks the wires away. “No, to hell with that,” he mutters, adrenaline overtaking fear.

You edge closer to the door, cracking it open just enough to get a glimpse of the hallway. Your heart races as you spot a figure moving through the chaos—a man, bulky, gripping a shotgun. His face is shadowed, but his intentions are clear as terrified hospital staff scatter, screaming, desperate to escape his path.

You whirl back around, your voice urgent. “We gotta go. Now.”

Karen grabs Grotto by the arm, and together, you three bolt out of the room, slipping into the flow of fleeing doctors and patients. Karen leads the way, practically dragging Grotto, who’s stumbling along, while you bring up the rear. The shotgun’s blast rings out again, deafening, tearing through the air as people scatter in panic, and Karen lets out a startled yelp, shoving her way toward the stairwell with the assailant close behind.

The three of you burst through the stairwell door, taking the steps two at a time, adrenaline propelling you forward as the sounds of gunfire and shouting echo above. Reaching the ground floor, you push your way outside, lungs burning. Karen fumbles with her keys as you spot a parked car nearby.

“What? You… You don’t have the right keys?” Grotto yells, a note of hysteria creeping into his voice.

“Shut up! Shut up!” Karen snaps, frustration flashing across her face. Grotto’s eyes widen in disbelief.

“Is this even your car?”

Karen shoots him a withering look, unlocking the door with a quick flick. “Belonged to a friend.”

“Where’s he?” Grotto demands.

Karen doesn’t miss a beat. “He’s dead.” She yanks the door open, gesturing to the passenger seat. “Get in!”

But you’re already moving, shoving Grotto into the passenger seat and slamming the door shut. Without a second thought, you bolt to the driver’s side, your voice low and firm as you lean in through the open window. “I’ll meet you at the precinct. Go!”

Karen calls out your name, worry flashing in her eyes, but you’re already sprinting toward the nearest alley. She curses under her breath, hitting the gas and disappearing into the night. The distant roar of her engine fades as you duck into the shadows, feeling the energy course through your veins. You close your eyes, letting the familiar glow shimmer over your skin as you pull your mask and suit into place.

With a deep breath, you focus, teleporting yourself up to the rooftop of the hospital. The world blurs for a moment, and then you’re there, the wind whipping against your face as you land. Your hunch was right—the assailant is crouched on the roof, sniper rifle aimed at the street below, ready to take the shot.

“Hey!” you call out, your voice slicing through the night air like a blade.

The man’s head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing as he quickly raises his weapon, aiming straight at you. But before he can pull the trigger, a dark figure swoops in from the shadows. Daredevil, silent and precise, lands a brutal kick to the shooter’s head, knocking him back. The assailant stumbles, but he’s far from finished.

You dart forward, instincts flaring, but keeping your power in check. Every move feels calculated, the electricity pulsing at your fingertips, begging to be unleashed. The shooter swings at Daredevil, and Matt ducks, his movements fluid, barely missing a beat. You try to find an opening, heart pounding, adrenaline coursing through your veins.

The assailant shifts, pulling a pistol from his side, aiming point-blank at Daredevil. There’s a flash, the sound of the gunshot cutting through the night. "Bang."

Time slows as you watch in horror. Matt’s head snaps back, his body teetering dangerously at the edge of the rooftop. You scream out but he’s already falling, the darkened streets below yawning open to swallow him whole.

Without thinking, you dive after him, launching yourself over the edge, arms outstretched as you chase the falling figure through the night air. The wind whips past, cold and unforgiving, as you reach out, fingers brushing against his chestplate just as the ground rushes up to meet you both.

TAGLIST: @scoliobean @thychuvaluswife @pantrashtic @ofmusesandsecrets @c-losur3 @coco-karfunkel @lunaticgurly @loves0phelia @theclassicvinyldragon @iusedtofloat @megara0224

[notmorbid]

little rot, pt. 2.

dialogue prompts from little rot by akwaeke emezi.

do better than the easy answer.

don't call me that.

this might sound crazy, but i missed you.

should i let you go?

we don't know each other. not really.

i never wanted to miss this place.

it's a dangerous thing to want.

it's okay. i've got you. you're safe.

i killed ___ for you.

no one's ever hurt the people who hurt me.

i just want you to be okay.

i mark the things i touch.

you did what you needed to do.

you're not really sorry, are you?

i see who you are. not who you pretend to be.

i like being in small worlds with you.

some things i really do have to keep to myself.

did you miss me, baby?

it's amazing no one has made you disappear yet.

you want to feel like you tried to do something.

is there an 'us' to talk about?

i need to disappear.

i know a place nobody will look for you.

you weren't designed for stories like this.

you've been using your ears to hear more than you're supposed to.

in this life, there are not many people you can trust.

you thought i wouldn't help you?

you hold parts of me i've never given to anyone else.

there may yet be salvation in unexpected places.

whose car is parked outside?

have i been the third wheel this whole time?

i'm going to need about five hot showers before i feel clean again.

we were never here. do you get that?

i never should have dragged you into this.

what aren't you telling me?

i can't explain any more, okay?

if you leave, maybe you should stay gone.

are you going to ask another promise of me?

why do you always try to see me? why won't you look away?

i'm not afraid of you. i'll never be afraid of you.

thank you for coming with me.

it's okay, strange girl.

i don't want to get blood all over you.

you can be as mad at me as you want, but i love you.

do not leave before i come back, or i will literally kill you.

don't let what ___ did spoil your life.

i should have been on your team.

i'm not who you think i am.

everyone has secrets. that's just how it is.

you put it somewhere else in your head. you find a way.

[worldbeyondtheworld]

Previous posts have hinted at it, but the Long Quiet becomes an antagonist in my AU.

The Author is the closest that borders on a villain here, letting his desires corrupt him, but he still has reasons for what he does.

Quiet doesn't mean to become antagonistic, but a) they are in extreme pain both mental and physical, not to mention existential,

b) they might be a god, but they also a person, too. They are not a perfect victim.

And c), uh. They're experiencing a mental and emotional breakdown, closest to the Princesses you've abandoned in previous routes. They cannot think rationally anymore.

On the one hand, they are isolated. Nothing changes. On the other hand, the Pacemaker in their chest keeps moving - they experience unexpected echoes of their shards outside their prison. Nothing changes because it's always the same, but they can't anticipate the unexpected changes in sensations.

Remember that I said that the Author doesn't know the monster he's creating?

Quiet becomes an antagonist because they want everything to stop. Their pain overrides their care about others. Driven over the brink, they can imagine their only salvation in destroying everything so that they can finally rest and stop feeling.

But before, they'll teach the Author what he has corrupted their concept into. Nothing as a mental hole that you can't crawl out. Nothing as "you are insignifant in front of a furious god". Nothing as in that his precious kingdom will unravel before the world ends. Quiet is a counterpart to the Princesses, after all.

Edit: Quiet's godly form has corrupted as well. I'm not certain how exactly yet. Maybe a horrible amalgam of disparate parts sticking out of their body from having absorbed too much Change, often mangled. Definitely countless beaks and mouths in places where they should not be, moving but never making a sound.

[owen-writes]

Silent Secrets

Cale Erendreich x Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: someone held hostage, mentions of violence, Cale Erendreich being void of any emotion, domestic abuse?, it's very dark basically

You stand frozen for a moment, the muffled sounds emanating from Cale's forbidden office sending a chill down your spine. The air thickens with a sense of unease as you contemplate disobeying his strict orders. Cale's absence is a rare occurrence, and the unexpected solitude gives you a daring impulse to explore the mysteries he's concealed from you.

Curiosity overtakes caution, leading you to the closed door of his office. Your hand hovers over the doorknob, uncertainty lingering in the air. The muffled cries become more distinct, and a knot tightens in your stomach. Suppressing the rising fear, you cautiously turn the handle and push the door open.

As the door creaks, revealing the hidden horrors within, your eyes widen in disbelief. A woman is bound to a chair, battered and bruised, her eyes pleading for salvation. Without hesitation, you rush towards her, your heart pounding with a mixture of terror and determination. The room reeks of despair, and the sight before you unravels the carefully constructed facade that Cale had woven around your shared life.

You reach for the woman, fumbling with the knots that bind her. The urgency propels you forward, your focus solely on freeing her from the torment she's endured. The moment the gag is removed, she gasps for air, tears streaming down her face as she utters words of gratitude.

However, your efforts are abruptly interrupted as the door swings open, revealing Cale's dark silhouette. His eyes narrow, and a menacing aura surrounds him. Panic surges through you as he storms towards you, his anger palpable in the air. The grip on your arm tightens, causing a sharp pain to shoot through your body.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" Cale's voice is cold, devoid of any emotion, and his gaze pierces through you. Fear and confusion collide within you, and you stammer, trying to explain your discovery.

"I-I heard noises, and I... I had to see. She needed help," you manage to mutter, your words barely audible.

Cale's expression darkens further, his control slipping away. He forcibly pulls you away from the woman, his grip unyielding. Desperation floods your senses as you struggle against him, your eyes pleading for mercy.

"You don't get it, do you?" Cale's voice is a sinister whisper. "This is none of your concern. You should have never come in here."

He tightens his hold on you, and you wince in pain. The woman, still bound and vulnerable, watches in silent horror as you're dragged away from her, the door to the dark secrets closing once again. Cale's demeanor remains indifferent, as if the gruesome scene meant nothing to him.

"You need to learn your place," he declares, his tone chilling. The reality of your predicament sinks in as he forcibly removes you from the room, leaving behind a captive soul, abandoned to a fate you were never meant to witness.

Part 2