#seeing him. seeing though the veil. seeing him for him and all his actions and all his care.

[harmonysanreads]

Ignoratio Elenchi

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Anaxa x Female!Reader

Synopsis : It's your wedding day. So, an old ‘acquaintance’ has come to wish you well on the trials ahead.

Content Warnings : Yandere Themes, Toxic Relationship Dynamics, Some Not-SFW Implications, Anaxa Plays 5D Chess With You, Attempt At Banter, Anaxa Still Needs To See A Therapist.

Note : Special thank you to @naraven for brainstorming with me until we hit the juncture that inspired this fic. The way Anaxa interacts with Aglaea just gave huge Ex vibes to me and I couldn't get the vision out of my head — hence, this small tribute. Get cozy!

「 Words : 3.3k 」

The devil has come for your soul.

You're woken up from your dew-soaked dreams with this exclamation blaring through your ears, demanding a course of action — well in response to an exchange where you will not be one of the benefactors.

He leers over your conscious mind ; drumming idle, purposeful trills of your demise. And you close your eyes, shut tight the blinds to your mind and let him play his tunes. If nothing else, then to at least, create a chance to strike.

“Why are you here?” you envision an arrow slicing through the air, past the light of the chandelier and halting the intruder mid-step into what was supposed to be your safe space.

He dodges the strike, “Not curious about how I got in, huh?” a scintilla of Kephale's light bounces off of the vanity mirror, before being pushed away by the closing door.

But even the thud of the brutal push pales in comparison to the click of his shoes, you force an inhale upon registering his approach.

“What else? You're frail enough to squeeze through the gaps between the guards, that's probably what happened.” you find interest in your nails.

A brief pause almost gives you hope that you successfully, finally got the Blasphemer speechless, “Interesting how the first thing you think of is my figure.”

As if by some cue, the icy composure you so endeavored to maintain gets replaced by a flood of exasperation. You catch yourself just at the brink of sinking, the roundabout response isn't far from your expectations, unfortunately. What does prick a muscle enough to twitch is the near atomic smile reeking of a puerility that should otherwise be unsuited on such a corpse of a man.

You cut the insufferable eye-contact with his reflection, suddenly regretting your purchase of the sheer veil. “You’re avoiding my first question. I merely… feel an alarming increase in my blood pressure when it comes to random and unsought guests. Not a good condition for a bride, I'm sure you're aware, sir.”

By now, he’s crossed half the distance to your seated figure with his leisurely gait, arms surely shielded behind his back in that poise you know signals he’s full on guard. 

“First of all, nothing in this universe is random, mathematically speaking — as I'm sure the Wise Lady is aware.” his foot crosses the line of your bed, you feel the faint sting of your nails digging into the skin of your forearms. 

“Second, the unsought guest you speak of has not once heard the phrase ‘get out’ in the last three minutes. Making the use of that adjective redundant.” you find moisture in your palms once you loosen them, the scholar’s figure almost engulfs your reflection in the mirror. 

“And last of all, if you're spirited enough to gift me such a sweet glare, I'm certain you can tolerate me for a while longer.” even though his left hand rests on the back of your chair, you can feel its weight awfully near.

This time, you don't bother applying icing over your rightfully held displeasure. The scholar steals a glance at the way your painted lips purse to hold back what he's sure aren't flattering palavers.

“Well then, answer me this, what exact conditions demanded the Great Sage’s mathematically determined presence to intrude on such an auspicious day?” your veil dances a step upon the tilt of your head, the visage of the intruder appears colored in amusement — though you don't dare to bet, on the validity of a performer’s emotions, that is.

“Oh, nothing too grand.” his free hand raises, index finger tracing the sparkling gold details of the garment draped over your head, “Merely curious about why the woman who always complained about extravagant parties taking place in this economy is going against her words.” 

You reject his unasked for inspection with a flick of your fingers, you see his frozen surprise in the mirror once you turn in pretense of fixing the drapery. “Because we can afford it. What about it?” your side-eye thaws the Sage’s shock away.

“We, huh…” it's your turn to be taken aback by the genuine venom in his words. To your dismay, the scholar is quick to notice, exhaling to gloss over the blunder.

Because you are so kind, you hold your tongue and give him the chance to shoot back with his typical biting responses. The man in question simply copies your previous stance and holds his arms as a shield against whatever threat he’s weaving curses against.

His visible eye fixates on a point you can't pinpoint on your person, as if to burn through the images reflecting from his head to that canvas. You answer his obvious dilemma with a shrug, focusing instead on lifting the golden veil to inspect any smudges on your makeup.

“They applied too much rouge. It's distracting the viewer from the other components.” he chimes in suddenly, like a ghost on duty, making you almost jump out of your skin.

Before replying to his sudden wisdom in the cosmetic field, you double-check yourself, finding the accused rouge to be innocent. Your mind buffers for a second ; blasphemer he might be, but you know he wouldn't just pose a complaint without a good reason. You search through the shelves of your memories, searching searching searching along a trail you recognize vaguely.

Your lips morph into an ‘O’ once it clicks, “That’s not the rouge, dummy. That's called the highlighter. Its purpose is to look shiny.” fragments of idyll glitter through your words upon realizing that the scholar still confuses the two.

(Just as quickly, you stomp down whatever vestige of nostalgia that dared to crawl through those dead memories.)

The Chrysos Heir — a title you couldn't find more ironic on him — marinates in your words for a few seconds, huffing as if exasperated once they make sense to his brain.

He opens his mouth for a moment, but bites back whatever he was going to say. You marvel at this display of restraint, you would've said you were charmed by his decency had you been a less sane person.

If only he’d been like this in the past.

You turn away from him towards the vanity again, eyes glossing over the myriad trinkets scattered around it. Forcing irritation in your voice again, “If all you wanted to do was poke fun at my appearance, I'm delighted to announce that you’ve succeeded. Please see the —”

“Wow,” he cuts off your tangent quite rudely, you brows furrow against your wishes. “You can't even stand my presence longer than seven minutes now. And to think there used to be a time when you’d trail behind me like a Chimera without its owner.”

“Are you seriously counting minutes — ugh, you know what, don't answer that.” you pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to soothe the flair in your temper.

The Chrysos Heir nods, all of a sudden obedient. You ignore the way life has started to bloom around the corners of his lips, “Let me make something clear, if you're here to reminisce, I have no patience nor interest in hearing it.”

The chain attached to his eye-patch bumps with the air as his head tilts, “You’ve changed.”

The genuine fascination in his tone almost stupefies you, almost makes you rethink yourself, almost distracts you from the way his eyes trail off further than what should be appropriate.

“What, disheartened that I'm not as easy to manipulate anymore?” you mimic his earlier stance, the image of the embers that have flickered within you can be seen on his visible eye.

The accused man laughs, laughs — confusing you like he has so many times before. An uncountable number of days you’ve perused, reviewed and practiced to steel yourself for a confrontation like this. You’ve envisioned how coolly you’d face him, how you’d throw him off his orbit with stringent words.

“On second thought, it seems that my observation was a bit hasty.”

And you’d dreaded facing once more that cursed twinkle that seemed to color his soul whenever you’d try to maintain a backbone. It doesn't help that there is truth to his claims, an appalling realization for yourself.

You force a sharp bite on the inside of your cheek, eyes flitting to-and-fro around the emptiness of the room. A chill races down your spine.

The scholar notices your sudden quietude and decides he’s having none of it.

His step is muted this time, his half gloved hand brushes back a wayward strand of your hair, “You’re still that clueless girl trying to brave this world alone, that gets shoved with more duties than she can handle and then, you go and take on even more. Because you can't stand the emptiness anymore.”

Touched by his sudden consideration and enthralled by his acknowledgement, you honor him with a deadpan. “And your point is?”

You can't nibble away the tiny smirk that emerges on your face at the way his fake nostalgia morphs in displeasure, the miniscule triumph overrides your senses and dulls them enough to not register just how much the blasphemer has shrunken the distance.

“My point is that you're making a foolish decision by choosing to marry that man. Do you have any idea what kind of conditions he’s going to impose upon you after you say ‘I do’? The ways in which he’ll make your life a living hell? Haven't you heard what the rumors are saying?”

Now he's being honest, you realize as every new question increases the force of their bites. You throw a glance at the way his left hand grips onto the wood of your chair, “Why should I listen to rumors? I didn't expect you of all people to take baseless whisperings to heart.”

You feel his burdened exhale caress the side of your neck, gooseflesh emerges against your control across the skin. “And I didn't expect you of all people to be privy to the Ostrich Effect.” the last syllable skids with enough disappointment to make a vein pop on your forehead.

You decide that you're done being coy and toss the explosive right to his arms, “You speak so big, but who are you again to have a say in what I decide to do with my life?”

A neuron has surely fried in his head, if the way his rosy pupil widens is anything to go by — or, that's what you’ll believe in at least.

You keep your gaze steady against the forming helter-skelter that you're sure is oscillating in his mind, attempts at meeting that question with a resolution crumbling in regrets buried in the past.

“I know you,” you feel the shiver of his breath on your cheek, “I know that you're the type to dive head first into your grave if it'd mean you’ll succeed in spiting me. You’d rather gyrate in torture all your life instead of swallowing your pride for your own good and I… I can't allow that.”

So, he does understand the kernel of the matter, though you can't decide whether you're thankful or irritated by the fact. His proximity allows you to peer into the dying flickers of a grief that tugs down on his lips and eyelids.

Perhaps you would've believed it. Perhaps you would’ve nodded and embraced this rare show of care, perhaps you would've jumped in joy at having the man you so looked up to acknowledge such an insignificant detail about your soul — had this been in the past.

A snicker of disbelief gets lodged in your throat, you open your mouth to retort but he beats you to the race. “Don’t forget, if it weren't for me, you would not have come this far. I was the cloud that shielded you, guarded you, allowed you to bloom.”

A flinch seizes you as his palm meets the surface of the mirror, “And you repaid me so generously by running away, into the scorching sun that's burned you so miserably no less. Say, does your future husband know of what an ungrateful bride he’s inviting to his life?”

Malice drips down from his words and pools around his eye, it advances to engulf you through the tremors of his figure.

Before he can open the verse to curse you more, you slap a firm palm on his lips, a dizzied glare meeting his shocked ones.

“Enough, Anaxagoras. Leave.” you press, a plea withers beneath the ire. You find that your mind has ceased to think against the emotions the wretched man has stirred.

The Chrysos Heir does nothing but process the move, eyes glossing over for a split second. Then, painstakingly, he retreats his hand from the glass — only to cradle your hand that’d covered his mouth, the red gem lodged in his skin gleams.

“How can you expect me to just leave after calling me that name?” he drags your fingers to press further, his cold lips meeting the tips.

A dumbfounded blink is what he gets, your mind stutters at the sudden turn in his tone. Instincts prob you to yank your hand away from his grasp, but a warning squeeze halts your attempt against your desire.

The chill from his lips melts into your skin and ignites there a fire. The fulsome heat confuses you, why can't you push him afar?

“I… came to wish you goodluck,” Anaxa finally mutters, saving you from sinking into a headspace you’d rather avoid.

You must've looked pitiful with puzzlement, as he rushes to add, “And to bid you farewell. Well, not that this had been my first goal, but seeing as you’re clearly not going to listen to reason, I have no choice.”

He burrows as much of his face as possible in the palm of your hand instantly afterwards — by the tug of a bygone habit — you realize. Tactfully he’s hidden away the visible cues that you normally use to read his unsaid words.

You feel something weighing down on you, whether in your gut or, your heart you can't deduce. But you decide to stay alert.

“Really? Is that all?” you poke, knowing full-well it is not. You know this cunning of his, monopolizing your intuition to speak just enough for you to catch on and do the heavy-lifting.

He answers you with silence, testing further what remains of your patience. You don't bother to control your frown this time, the beginning of a sharp ‘get out then!’ bubbling in your throat stopped just in time as he rounded your seat, bending his knee to a kneel.

You're sure not even the equations you had to solve back at the Grove had confused you as much, “And… what is this now?” you accuse flatly.

The Chrysos Heir finally lets go of your hand in favor of getting comfortable at your feet, literally. “Why are you so baffled? It's not your first time seeing me kneel.”

“Huh,” you heave, thoroughly speechless at the way he never stops talking as if nothing is wrong, as if nothing has changed since the time you spent sacrificing your time at the Grove for him. At the way he seems so happy to pretend that he's innocent, that he has nothing up his sleeve.

You cross your arms and hold your chin up, peering down at the eerie suppliance of the man notorious for bowing before none.

“This was the real deal, huh? You couldn't let the person who’d finally known about how pathetic you actually are go around and spread the news, right? That's why you had to latch onto me, that's why you were so desperate to keep me under your control —”

“No,” his admission is unnervingly soft, like it always is after he’s done stirring a storm within you. You find yourself out of breath from the near-outburst, his hunched figure appearing dewy.

“I have never been afraid of how much power you have over me,” he tilts his head, locks of lime green rustling as it meets your lap.

“You want to go around telling everyone how weak you make me? I will happily allow it — no, I will even help you spread the word myself. Go on, do it. I dare you.” he peers through his lashes, specters of mania swirls in his eye.

A startled yelp from Anaxa snaps you from the daze as well, he looks down for a second before bursting into a fit of laughter.

“Seriously, has your aim gotten bad as well?” his fingers encircle your left ankle, you push the heel of your shoe further in his chest in retaliation — he smiles.

“If you want it to hurt,” he ducks down to press a kiss on the dorsum, looking up to make sure you saw it.

You try to wrench your foot out of his grasp but he angles it towards the left using your momentum, “Then, you should always aim for the heart, tormentor.”

You feel your jaw slacken at the sheer audacity of this man — can he even be called one, at this point?

“Something is deeply wrong with you.” you blurt out, a shudder creeping down your spine at the way he pulls your heel towards his ribcage so that it may dig into his clothes even more.

The shiver sobers you, the compromising situation you've found yourself in finally registering in your head. You would've kicked him hard enoug to run a good pace away — had it not been for the death grip he had on your leg.

“And you like me like this, don't you? Just as you did two years ago, just as you can't pull away from me even now — you're as screwed in the head as me. Which is why we're perfect for each other, you can't escape this fact, not by running away to Okhema and definitely not by marrying some bimbo with a lot of money.”

There's that placid, snooty tone that's already decided what is correct and what is not, you feel an ache forming in your head as memories of its usage flare up in your mind.

Rage seizes your senses, filling your arteries with a strength you feel too drunk on to control.

It grasps onto his collar, pulling him to his feet with an abrupt jerk. “You cursed man! You came to ruin the one day where I thought I could be happy! Don't you know that the reason I am like this is because of you? You always play with my feelings, making me angry and and… and then…”

“Ah, my beloved flower.” you feel his finger brush away a tear that’d rolled down your cheek, frustration swelling over at last.

He gently pries your nails from the collar of his robe and swings your arm over his shoulder, shifting closer towards your ear, “Save your tears, I’ll rescue you from that cruel monster and whisk you to a place where none of these vermins will be able to find us.”

You feel another tear roll down your cheek and sink into his clothes, the cogs in your mind turn and twist as he holds you close — your stupor being broken as a flash goes off.

More follow the first, blinding you almost. Stringent noises connect as murmurs, you feel your knees buckle once you whip aside to face the commotion.

“So what they said was true…”

“The Lady was indeed in an affair.”

“I can't believe even the notorious Anaxa has a heart for romance!”

“Should we... do something?”

“What are you waiting for? Record! Record! This will go viral!”

“Anyone! Inform the groom!”

The golden veil glimmers as it touches the ground. Anaxa catches you before you can fall, shielding you from the paparazzi, “Come, let us run away.”

As the voices ricochet and the crowd draws nearer, you crane your neck to shoot one cautious glance at the Blasphemer. Through the fog of tears and disbelief, a brief flash of someone's camera illuminates a smile that makes your soul churn.

The devil had never come for your soul, he merely allowed you to dream that it belonged to you, for a while.

Thank you for reading!

TAGLIST : @yandere-romanticaa @kamananuionalani @pinksandss @hana-no-seiiki @deaddmoth @ladymothbeth @imcheshire @remyra @meigalahadovna @chopid @francisnyx @paboratti

[acid-ixx]

gets fucking stabbed by damian and my last breath still be like "it's not his fault ! he is ten and was raised to be murderous since he was born ! kid entered a household where everyone ignores my existence, i don't blame him for assuming that to be the norm and acting evil to me so that he assimilates to his new environment ! bro literally went through the worst all his life so of course the way he expresses himself is harmful to others !"

and then i get stabbed again lol

— masterlist !

OH MY GOD PLEASE 😭 the gaslighting yourself is real, i'm telling you.

unfortunately, the reader's toxic mindset of justifying everything your family does is a common scenario for every time one of them fucks up; only in the past though. the present chapters will have you slowly realize just nothing really is ever your fault. that you've never once been in the blame for the actions of your youngest brother.

but right now, i want to focus on why you just seem to let damian go about his own crazy path of targeting you. and it's either it's because you have nothing, nobody else to fight back with you, or it's purely because you allow him to.

to destroy you, to make you suffer, to make you learn that you have no place, or standing in the family. and if you do have a place, it is at the rock bottom.

this is what damian is taught: the weak should be eliminated before they fester into some type of unnecessary cancer.

you're weak, when he first saw you, when you first approached him with your tail tucked behind your legs and an invitation to hang out together with the scent of cookies wafting in the air— he knows that it is you who will make him weak.

you give him temptations to be a child, he's raised to fight against it. he ignores the unwelcomed feeling of wamth that blooms in his chest, those are feelings that gets you killed.

so it's how the story goes: he brings his sword up to your neck, and sways his hands swift enough to make a small cut to ensure that the first thing you associate him with is fear. and for someone vulnerable like you, it doesn't take much before you quickly submit to the prospect of your place beneath a trained assassin like him.

he ignores the sudden pang of his heart and the aching, gnawing dread that chews at his mind at the memory of your widening eyes and the wobble in your steps.

it's already damaging enough to have the youngest be introduced and immediately accepted into the family, but it's worse when he's significantly younger than you, a boy nearly half your age; someone you've always wanted to have, to care for, to help raise and cherish... despises you from the start, before you two even formed a connection.

someone you once called your younger brother, now became an enemy in opposing lines in a place called home.

what would've been fine-tuned jealousy towards him because he was given everything in a silver platter turned into shame that you couldn't even face him, not right after he threatened to kill you, no... and especially not after you've convinced yourself that if you couldn't even prove your worth for a young boy like him, then you really have nothing good to offer.

you give him the autonomy to think it's alright, that due to his upbringing, alongside your naive brain always justifying that your other siblings are right, and you are in the wrong— he was given every opportunity to torment you when you even go as far as being in the same room as him.

and i have my receipts on why you're just like that; all in the grace of low self-worth and self-esteem. past you reasons out that it's because it's always your fault.

you couldn't even find a way to save your mother, you couldn't even establish your place in the manor, you couldn't comfort bruce when he was still not over jason, what more could you be when all you see damian as is a young, broken child like you? that behind that veil of threats and weapons ready to attack you, is someone you knew could've been different, if he was raised right...

if he'd given you a chance to help nurture the softer, more humane part of him.

you've always wanted a younger sibling, not only from back when you were just with your mother, but also when you were introduced to the manor. because not only did it mean that you'll know how your mother felt when she raised you, but because you thought you'd have somebody by your side throughout the silent torment you've went through.

and when you're graced with one, who doesn't even consider you his older sibling; you let it be.

you let him be himself.

damian wayne, demon's granson, the son of the bat.

so many titles he's called, but never one where he's your younger brother.

it doesn't help that you justify his past, because the man you idolize, dick, does so too whenever you try to complain. his excuses are never out of malicious intent to have you suffer further— it's just that he never once actually considered you as important enough to bat an eye on, like how the rest of them treat you.

because you know that even dick has his limit towards the youngest member of the family; he just never reaches it when it comes to you.

so if you have a person allow another to act terribly towards you, but have another, a friend or family, who teaches you that it's not right, who fights by your side; it wouldn't take long for you to also learn how to defend yourself then. you'll gain confidence that you're at least not alone, that your actions are completely valid.

... but if you have an entire family that couldn't even scold the boy for leaving a scar on your neck, who brushes his mean comments about you aside, who isolates you even further with malicious words that you know becomes crueler when targeted at you—

then you have no basis for what is right, and what is wrong.

and that makes your authority, your trust in yourself dwindle like your already crumbling relationship with all the others the further you try to fight back.

that's when you learn what it's like to give up, all over again. if you accept his vidictive insults, if you know your place to turn back if you see him in the same room, if you knew from the start that sometimes trying doesn't equate to succeeding; then it'll at least numb the pain that comes after.

for the entirety of your life from when damian was introduced, that was how you coped—

but your life after the manor, after damian matures and learns softness, about empathy (that he's buried long ago during his training from when he was all but a toddler) on your situation; reading your journal entries because he still felt entitled to due to some hidden, twisted trait of possessiveness... that's an entirely different story.

would you still be as understanding as you were back in the past towards him? would you still force yourself to love the demon you saw as just a little boy? or would damian finally understand that it's too late to turn back time, to correct all his mistakes?

either way, if you were capable enough to change (at least, in his eyes), becoming an independent person (you think, huh? your place is at the manor), then maybe you could give him a chance too, to fix your relationship and build a bridge to an even stronger one.

one where you could finally baby him, like what you've desired. one where he could feel vulnerable, when he learned that it's valid to feel weak— it cuts back to the previous points: you make him weak.

and when he's out to find you after going through every single diary, every entry, after deducing that there's still a small spark in your that'll forgive him if he tries; he refuses give up any sooner if it meant replicating the same warmth he felt when he stood by your presence.

so... you wouldn't want to leave your youngest brother waiting for you, don't you?

after all, it's just like what your entries told him, right? this is what you always wanted, right?

a/n: everyone is entitled to their own feelings about how i portray damian and mc's relationship!!! i love how all of you guys have different conflicting reactions to this. it's all so complex for me, how damian sees you as someone who's weak and makes him weak (he's just a stubborn little guy), and you, who sees yourself in damian, alongside the added desire to just have someone to care for (because you want to so badly honor your mother's memory), and that person also caring for you is ARGH!!?!

i apologize for my long rambles (if anyone wants me to cut back on posts like this, just tell me), i'm sure everyone is anticipating chapter 5 and possibly (soon) chapter 6 (since the drafts, not the final work is becoming too long). but right now, all i could provide are my depictions of the reader's relationship with every member of the family. i love to churn scenarios where it feels like you're actually part of the family so i'm actually manipulating all of you guys to become attached to the characters too, just to add an extra layer of angst, hehe...

[seelestia]

conclusion: aventurine likes being the only thing on your mind (to which he, in fact, is).

1.1k wc. established relationship, cringy fluff x10000 pls have mercy. petty & jealous aven says hi (ft. his beef w/ an inanimate object, help). a drabble hastily strewn together to celebrate my birthday on oct 13th! ‹3 as u can see, this silly guy is still in my head 🙏

aventurine likes to think that he is a man with sharp eyes. it makes perfect sense because if not, why else would he find sneakiness—or rather, attempts at it—to be so endearing?

all the more so, considering how you've been glancing at the display case behind him for a while now.

thrice, four times, five times. the way you try to catch more glimpses of it eventually grows from tentative to curious. he wonders if you caught on that he's been keeping track of this very top secret, very well-hidden agenda of yours – but as your eyes wander from his face for the nth time, he guesses not.

are the story he's recounting and the cup of sundae you're sharing with him not riveting enough? to have your attention be so easily stolen by whatever thing in whatever shop behind him. . . the mere thought is enough to form some kind of pull at the corners of his lips. it's insistent, it's going downward, and it's costing him some significant ounces of self-control not to pout.

(do you think the pendant is prettier to look at than him? hm, he's feeling neglected.)

but playing the fool is getting boring; finally, aventurine decides it's time to shed his veil of ignorance and lets his acknowledgement of your actions be known within the form of a jovial question.

“does it strike your fancy?” he asks, scooping a spoonful of melting sundae to his lips with a lack of enthusiasm. it tastes good—would taste better if he had your full attention and if you were the one feeding him—but alas, he digresses.

you blink, taken aback. no doubt it's at the fact you're caught red-handed. adorable, he thinks to himself. “it looks pretty,” you reply with a sheepish smile, the awe in your voice doing very little effort to conceal itself. so adorable, his mind chimes in again.

(aventurine still thinks there are better sights out there, though. like you in his eyes and him in yours, for example.)

he notices the vague hint of affection in your tone and suddenly, his interest is piqued to its limit. you rarely use that tone unless it's directed at him. when the frivolous merchant turns around to have a look for himself, his motions are oddly quick and swift – definitely not fueled by a sense of rivalry or anything of that sort. absolutely not.

in any case, he still takes in the sight of the accessory with professionalism. in the wide cosmos, aventurine has come across many of its kind that he either bought for his own collection at the cost of a pretty penny or won in a gamble at the cost of his life. your fascination with it is justified, he'd say, take it from the perspective of an avid collector.

a quaint design, smooth surface, intricate carvings, reasonable price (he doesn't mind the jaw-dropping amount of zeros), and from a make he's heard of before. . . but he'll stop at that because if he says more, he'd surely lose his appetite and the sundae still has a few more spoonfuls left.

(whatever, he's still feeling vengeful towards that thing.)

ironically, though, aventurine's eyes are the ones who wander this time as they flit from your profile to the display. back and forth, a few times in succession. you tilt your head in confusion – but all he requires is only several seconds of your time to accurately visualize the pendant adorning your features. luckily for him, your face is such a familiar sight in his memory that the vision forms itself quite effortlessly.

and when aventurine finally takes a moment to admire the finished image in his head, he smiles contentedly. who wouldn't, at the face of a beauty like yours?

“mhm,” he says dotingly, evidently satisfied at the conclusion he arrives at. “it'll look good on you.”

it's not difficult to predict what comes next when he starts reaching for the card in his pocket – or so, he thought as the sound of your laughter stops him dead. yes, you're laughing, so heartily to the point that your shoulders shake a little.

aventurine expects a demure shake of the head or a weary sigh as he eagerly offers to spend credits for you, yet again. it's common knowledge that he favors spoiling you with his riches: because he likes pretty things and he likes you, thus it's understandable why he likes you in pretty things. but this? he isn't expecting this.

of course, the sight of your expressing mirth at the silliest of things has always been kept framed in his mind but as happy as he is to see it, it still doesn't change the perplexed state he is left in. what, does he have sundae smeared on his face or something?

“thanks, but—” you giggle, a familiar melody that flows like silk to his ears. “i was thinking about how it'd suit you, silly.”

a moment of silence, just enough to let the realization sink in.

“. . .me?” the slight disbelief in aventurine's voice is unmistakable.

“yeah,” you nod with a hum, “the color really brings out your eyes.”

(and his pathetic heart skips a beat.)

oh, how a poor man's world could be flipped upside down with just a sentence. the said man dramatically places a hand over his face as if to shield himself from the light radiating off your very being. “how disappointing. i've fallen right into your trap,” he relents with a long sigh so exaggeratedly that you have to stifle a chuckle at his reaction.

he's smiling so widely, though, so is he truly disappointed? and to that, aventurine will confidently say: no, there is no reason to be disappointed when he has been the one occupying your thoughts all along.

(so, the bad blood with that pendant was for nothing, after all.)

“you're so mean to me sometimes,” he pouts, it's his right to do so after being tricked. “will you forgive me then?” you smile, then he melts just like that in the snap of a finger.

“i can never say no to that,” aventurine sighs in defeat, leaning in for a kiss to soothe his non-existent wounds. it's not like you want to say no to him either.

“wait—” you place a hand on his chest and he makes a questioning noise that sounds akin to a whiny huff. then, a gentle sensation as your thumb brushes against a certain spot on his cheek. “you got sundae on your face,” you chuckle, failing horribly at trying to hold in your laugh all over again.

darn it.

“c'mere—”

all kinds of self-restraint and public image be damned, aventurine immediately closes the distance without further delay – and when his lips meet yours, nothing else matters.

yes, not even the sundae that has melted into sugary soup by now.

[ ☆ THANK YOU FOR READING! © seelestia on tumblr, oct 2024. please do not repost, plagiarize, translate, use for AI-related purposes or claim as your own. ]

[moonlitstoriess]

Binding Lies- Eris Vanserra x fem!reader (mini-series) Part 1

Summary: When Y/N, Azriel’s secret half-sister who lives far away, and Eris Vanserra form a strategic contractual marriage to further their own agendas, what begins as a carefully crafted arrangement soon becomes more complicated. As they pretend to be a perfect couple, the lines between duty and desire blur, and neither is prepared for the consequences.

Next part

See masterlist

Warnings: none for now, I think.

A/n: Soo I believe that because Eris is the ultimate enemies to lovers boy, what other character would be best suited for this type of story if not him? 🤭

What was life if not a series of obligations and chains?

Eris swirled the wine in his goblet, the deep red liquid catching the firelight like blood. A fitting image, he thought grimly. Everything in the Autumn Court reeked of it—blood spilled for power, blood spilled for survival, and the invisible blood that stained every action taken under his father’s rule.

He stared into the wine, the rippling surface reflecting the gilded dining hall around him. The room was filled with laughter and chatter, the High Lord’s officials and their daughters basking in the false warmth of Beron’s presence. Eris wanted to set the entire place aflame, to reduce it all to ash.

“Are you listening, boy?”

Beron’s voice cut through his thoughts like a whip, and Eris blinked, his fingers tightening around the goblet. He didn’t bother hiding his irritation as he looked up, his sharp gaze meeting his father’s.

“You were saying?” Eris drawled, his tone laced with mockery.

Beron’s lip curled, his fiery eyes narrowing. “I said, it’s time you marry. The Autumn Court needs an heir.”

Ah, this tired song again. Eris leaned back in his chair, feigning nonchalance even as his jaw tightened. “I didn’t realize the court was on the brink of collapse without me married off. Or is it simply that the officials are tired of their daughters gathering dust?”

A few low chuckles rippled around the table, but Beron’s gaze burned like embers. He leaned in and whispered to his son, “I didn't order for all these females to be brought here like herds of sheep for nothing. Careful, Eris. Your insolence won’t serve you well when you’re High Lord."

Eris’s mouth curved into a cold smile. “And yet it serves me well enough now.”

Beron’s fingers flared with fire, but Eris didn’t flinch. He’d played this game with his father too many times to be cowed by his temper.

As the conversation shifted to other matters, Eris returned his attention to his goblet, though his mind was far from at ease.

Perhaps his father would die soon. That would certainly solve a number of problems.

The conversation at the table turned to the next ball Beron was hosting—a thinly veiled excuse for court officials to parade their daughters before Eris like prized cattle. He ground his teeth at the thought, his fingers tightening around the stem of his goblet until the fragile glass threatened to shatter.

“We’ve extended invitations to the most prominent families,” Beron announced with a self-satisfied smirk. “I trust you’ll make an effort to charm them this time, Eris. We can’t afford your... indifference.”

Eris forced his face into a neutral mask, though his thoughts burned like the fires of the court. Charm them? For what? So they could shove their scheming daughters into his arms, hoping to cement their families’ power at his side?

He knew these men. Knew how they whispered behind Beron’s back, how they lusted for a slice of the Autumn Court’s rule. And their daughters—pretty, vapid faces who smiled too sweetly and batted their lashes with calculated precision. None of them wanted him. They wanted the title, the crown, the prestige.

“I’ll do what’s expected,” Eris replied flatly, his voice betraying nothing.

Beron’s smirk widened, as though he’d won some unspoken battle. “Good. It’s time you understood your duty, boy. This is about the future of the court, not your personal whims.”

Personal whims. Eris resisted the urge to laugh. As if his father cared about anything beyond his own legacy.

Hours later, Eris stood alone in the dimly lit study, the flames in the hearth casting flickering shadows against the walls. He stared into the fire, imagining Beron’s face in the dancing embers.

His thoughts were interrupted by the soft creak of the door. He turned to see his mother stepping inside, her elegant frame draped in rich autumnal hues. She regarded him with a mix of weariness and concern, her sharp eyes softening only slightly as they met his.

“I see the evening went as expected,” she said quietly, closing the door behind her.

Eris let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, it was delightful. Another ball to look forward to, another round of power-hungry men throwing their daughters at me like bait.”

His mother sighed, moving to stand beside him. “You know he’s right, Eris. As much as I loathe him, you are the future of this court. It’s time you—”

“Don’t,” Eris snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. He turned to face her, his amber eyes blazing. “Don’t tell me you’re siding with him now. You’ve always said to wait for my mate, that the bond is sacred—”

“And it is,” she interrupted, her voice calm but firm. “But Eris, you can’t live your life waiting for something that might never come. This court needs you to lead, and you can’t do that alone.”

His jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “So what? I’m supposed to pick some scheming girl with a pretty smile and call her my wife? Let Beron manipulate her like he manipulates everyone else?”

“I hate it as much as you do,” she said softly, reaching out to touch his arm. “But this is the reality of our world. You can’t change it by standing still.”

He pulled away, stepping back as if her touch burned. “No. You’ve always told me to hold out for my mate, that she’s my true other half. And now you’re telling me to abandon that for... for duty?”

Her gaze faltered, and for a moment, Eris saw the sadness beneath her composed exterior. “Sometimes,” she said quietly, “duty must come first.”

Eris stared at her, his chest tightening with anger and something far more painful. He turned back to the fire, his voice low and cold. “Then maybe I don’t want this court. Maybe I don’t want any of it.”

His mother didn’t leave immediately. Instead, she lingered, her silhouette bathed in the warm glow of the firelight. She always had an air of quiet resilience about her, like a tree that had weathered too many storms but refused to break.

“You’re angry with me,” she said after a moment, her voice soft but steady.

Eris let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Angry doesn’t quite cover it.”

She sighed, her expression guarded. “You think I don’t understand how you feel? That I haven’t spent centuries trapped in the same gilded cage?”

Eris turned to her, his amber eyes blazing with frustration. “Then why are you saying this? Why are you pushing me toward the very thing you despise?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Because I know what it means to survive in this court. I know what it takes to hold onto even a sliver of power. And if you think Beron will let you ascend without a fight, without someone at your side to help you weather the storm, then you’re deluding yourself.”

“I don’t need a wife to survive his schemes,” Eris shot back. “I’ve been outmaneuvering him and his sycophants for years.”

His mother’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Outmaneuvering isn’t the same as leading. One day, you’ll be the High Lord, and when that day comes, you’ll need more than cunning to keep this court from tearing itself apart.”

“Don’t act like you care about this court,” Eris said sharply. “You’ve hated it for as long as I can remember. Hated him. Hated everything about this place.”

Her face hardened, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—pain, perhaps, or regret. “You’re right. I hate it. But I stayed for you, Eris. For you and your brothers. Do you think I endured this hell for my own sake?”

He flinched, her words cutting deeper than he cared to admit.

“I stayed,” she continued, her voice trembling ever so slightly, “because I wanted to give you a chance. A chance to be something better than him. To rise above his cruelty and show this court what true strength looks like. And now, after everything I’ve sacrificed, you want to throw it all away because you’re too stubborn to see the bigger picture?”

Eris’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists. “This isn’t about me being stubborn. It’s about not letting him dictate my life. I refuse to let him win.”

“And you think refusing to marry will stop him?” she asked, her tone sharp. “He’s already won, Eris. As long as he holds the title of High Lord, he’ll keep manipulating you, keep twisting everything to suit his whims. The only way to beat him is to take his crown—and you can’t do that alone.”

He turned away from her, staring into the fire as if it held the answers he so desperately sought. “I’m not like him,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her. “I won’t let this court turn me into what he is.”

“And you won’t,” she said, her voice softening. “But you can’t change this court without wielding its power. You have to play the game, Eris. Even if it means making sacrifices.”

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “Sacrifices. That’s all we ever do, isn’t it? Sacrifice our happiness, our freedom, our lives for this damned court.”

His mother stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re stronger than you think,” she said softly. “Stronger than him. Stronger than me. And one day, you’ll make this court something worth fighting for.”

Eris didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames. Her words stirred something in him—a deep, aching need to prove her right, to show her that her sacrifices hadn’t been in vain. But the weight of his father’s shadow loomed over him, suffocating and unrelenting.

After a long silence, his mother gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and stepped back. “You don’t have to like it, Eris,” she said quietly. “But you do have to face it.”

With that, she turned and left the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the ever-present firelight.

The endless parade of extravagant gatherings had become a well-known routine in the Autumn Court, each more suffocating than the last. Another evening, another dreary ball. Eris stood at the center of it all, draped in the formal attire his father insisted upon, an expression of mild annoyance barely hidden behind his regal facade. His father, Beron, had decreed that Eris must choose a suitable wife, one from the political elite, as the latest power struggle played out. For Beron, it was all part of a calculated game, a way to secure more influence for the Autumn Court—and a way to control Eris.

Males, their faces full of ambition, tried their hardest to charm Eris, while women, desperate to catch the Autumn Prince’s eye, all but draped themselves at his feet. It sickened him. Every glance, every touch, every word was a play for power. Eris knew they weren’t interested in him; they were interested in what his title could give them. His sharp gaze swept over the room, taking in the sycophantic expressions, the forced smiles, and the hunger for power in every corner.

Beron watched from his place at the head of the room, pleased with the spectacle, his eyes shining with the gleam of conquest. Beron had made it clear: these gatherings were not just for entertainment. They were strategic. He would not rest until Eris had chosen someone from this selection, a female who could help solidify the family’s dominance and advance the court’s agenda.

But Eris could feel the walls closing in, the pressure mounting. He could hear his father's voice in his mind, always there, like a shadow he could never shake: “It’s time, Eris. The court expects this. You must comply.”

There was a veiled threat beneath those words. Beron had already made it clear that if Eris didn’t choose, if he didn’t bend to his will, there were others—his younger brothers—who could take his place. It was a subtle threat, but one Eris understood all too well. His father’s cruelty and ambition knew no bounds.

The weight of the possibility hit Eris hard. His life had always been a game to Beron, but the stakes were growing higher.

The ball dragged on, but Eris had long since stopped paying attention to the endless parade of hopeful females. With a glass of wine in hand, he withdrew to the balcony. He stood in silence, staring at the empty expanse of the Autumn Court below. The festivities continued inside, a blur of noise and laughter, but all Eris could hear was the pounding of his own thoughts.

What is life?

The question lingered in his mind, an idle thought born from the monotony of his existence. What did it all mean? The power, the position, the endless battles for influence—none of it seemed to satisfy him. All his life, he had been surrounded by people who wanted something from him. All of them were vying for his favor, for his loyalty, for his title. His position had always been a means to an end, never something people cared about for Eris himself.

He was the Autumn Prince, yes. But who was he beneath that title? Was he just another pawn in Beron’s game? Or was there something more to him—something his father never saw? A part of Eris longed for something different, something real.

A soft sigh escaped his lips as he stared into the swirling depths of his goblet, watching the liquid ripple and shift. I want a partner. Not a pawn. Not a game. He wanted someone who could see him for who he truly was, someone who wouldn’t be blinded by his position and the power that came with it. But that, he knew, was impossible.

Who would want me?

His fingers tightened around the goblet, and his thoughts turned bitter. He knew the truth: to everyone else, he was nothing more than a means to an end. His bloodline, his name, his legacy—it was all they cared about. Even his own brothers, some of whom had never hesitated to remind him of his place in the family, saw him only as the heir, the one who could secure the future of the Autumn Court.

But how much of a fool he was to believe that tonight he would once more go back to his bedchambers, sleep and this whole ball circus will repeat once again the following evening.

Because it did not.

Something worse happened.

Something Beron told him that very evening.

The day after his father’s ultimatum, Eris was still reeling. His mind raced with frustration, his usual calm demeanor cracking under the weight of Beron’s command. Beron had made it clear: Eris would go to Montesere.

A place far removed from the harsh, cold winds of the Autumn Court. Any of the courts, really. Montesere, with its tropical warmth, golden sands, and sun-drenched lands, was like another world—a place of exotic beauty that felt almost like a dream. Beron had decided that Montesere’s ruler's daughter would be a suitable match for Eris, a political pawn to further cement the Autumn Court’s power and control over the region. Trading, influence, military alliances—Beron wanted it all, and Eris was the one who would secure it.

Eris had argued, of course. He’d protested, pacing in the grand hall of the Autumn Court, his voice sharp and full of anger.

“I will not do this,” he had told his father, fury burning in his veins. “You cannot force me to marry her. I will not be part of your schemes any longer.”

Beron had smiled, cold and calculating, as always. “You have no choice, Eris. You will go, or I will find someone else to take your place.”

Eris’s fists clenched, but he knew his father would follow through. The threat hung in the air like a sword, ready to fall. So, despite every instinct screaming to fight back, Eris had been forced to relent. It was either obey, or lose everything.

The night before he left, Eris had gone to his chambers in a haze, too angry and too betrayed to think clearly. But as the first rays of sunlight broke through the curtains, he found himself boarding a ship bound for Montesere, the tropical city a distant blur on the horizon.

The journey had been long, but as his ship docked in the vibrant city, Eris couldn't help but feel a simmering sense of discomfort. Montesere was a tropical paradise, yes, but it felt foreign in every sense. The air was thick with the scent of spices and wildflowers. The sun was relentless, beating down on the city like an oppressive force, making everything feel hotter than it should have been.

The city sprawled before him—warm, vibrant, and alive with color. The sounds of bustling markets and street vendors filling his ears. It was so different from the cold, rigid courts of his homeland, where everything was ordered, controlled. Here, there was freedom in the chaos. The sun shone fiercely in a sky of brilliant blue, and the city sprawled with narrow streets and grand palaces, lush gardens overflowing with life.

The architecture was stunning—a mixture of Moorish arches and vibrant murals that covered every surface of the grand buildings. Despite its beauty, Montesere gave off an undercurrent of tension, like a simmering pot of water on the verge of boiling over. Everything was too lavish, too colorful, too alive for Eris’s taste. He was used to the cold, biting winds of Autumn Court, the grey sky, and the rigid control of his father's rule. Montesere was an unknown entity, and he found it deeply unsettling.

Eris and his men walked through the city’s bustling streets, his boots making a steady sound against the cobblestones, but his mind was far from the sights before him. He wasn’t interested in the markets with their endless rows of goods, the open-air gardens that teemed with exotic plants, or the vibrant street performers who drew crowds of curious onlookers. He wasn’t here to admire the landscape.

His father had insisted on this alliance with Montesere. Beron had been pushing for months, envisioning it as a strategic move to gain control over trade routes, secure valuable resources, and extend his influence into territories far outside of the Autumn Court’s domain. And the key to that power was the ruler’s daughter—a female named Leona, Beron believed would make the perfect bride for Eris, a political pawn to further his own ambitions.

Eris had argued, of course. He had told his father that he didn’t care for some marriage of convenience to a woman he didn’t even know. He had protested that he wasn’t some puppet to be controlled and that he had no interest in taking yet another step toward tightening his father’s suffocating grip on his life. But Beron’s threats were sharp, and the weight of them had forced Eris into submission. In the end, he had been left with no choice.

Now, here he was, standing at the grand gates of Montesere's ruler’s palace, feeling the weight of his father’s will settle on his shoulders.

He had been instructed to meet with the ruler first—no pretense of formality, no chance to wander the city or take in the sights. It was straight to business.

As he approached the palace, the doors were already swung wide, and he was ushered inside by two sharply dressed guards. The marble floors gleamed beneath his boots as he was led down vast corridors with vaulted ceilings, adorned with intricate patterns that glimmered in the sunlight filtering through open windows. The palace was grand, more so than Eris had imagined, but it felt suffocating in its excess. Every corner seemed to shout wealth, power, and decadence—a sharp contrast to the order and structure of his home.

The king of Montesere was waiting for him in a large, open courtyard. The man’s presence was commanding, his dark eyes reflecting a mixture of curiosity and controlled power. He stood tall with a regal air, his robes of gold and royal blue trailing behind him as he spoke.

“Prince Eris,” he greeted, his voice smooth but carrying an edge of authority. “Welcome to Montesere. I trust your journey was uneventful?”

Eris met his gaze, offering a tight, polite smile. “As uneventful as one could expect.”

The man studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Come, let us discuss the matters at hand. There’s much to be done.”

They moved together toward a long table set with fruit and goblets of drink, though Eris had no desire to indulge. His mind was already miles ahead, racing through the consequences of his father’s machinations.

It wasn’t long before the ruler finally turned to introduce his daughter.

As the doors of the grand hall swung open, Eris was met with the sight of a woman who could not have been less interested in him. She walked in with an air of quiet dominance, her posture regal, her gaze sharp and unyielding. Her skin was kissed by the sun, a deep golden hue that glimmered like the sands of Montesere’s beaches. Her black hair was coiled into intricate braids, and her eyes—dark and intelligent—flickered with a disinterest that sent a strange ripple through Eris’s chest.

She didn’t even glance in his direction at first, her focus solely on her father. The king gave a small wave of his hand, signaling her approach.

“Eris, this is my daughter, Leona” the king said smoothly. “I trust you’ll find her quite the capable match for your endeavors.”

Eris was about to offer the usual pleasantries when he noticed her subtle shift in stance. She glanced at him, and there was nothing warm in her expression—nothing even remotely welcoming. It was clear from the beginning that this was going to be a difficult conversation, and Eris could already feel the simmering tension between them.

She stepped forward, her chin slightly tilted upward, and looked at him with a cold assessment.

“Prince Eris,” she greeted, her voice clipped and filled with restrained disdain. “A pleasure, I’m sure.”

Eris didn’t know what to say at first. He was used to being the one in control of a room, used to women falling over themselves for his attention, but here? This female, wasn’t even pretending to be polite. She didn’t care about his title, his name, or what he had to offer.

“I’m sure your father has already told you why I’m here,” Eris said, keeping his tone neutral. “But I’d rather not waste either of our time.”

Her gaze narrowed as she tilted her head, clearly unamused by his bluntness.

“Oh, I’m well aware of why you’re here,” she replied coolly. “You’re here to do as your father orders—arrange some sort of political union. How quaint.”

Eris’s eyes sharpened, intrigued by her lack of filter. “And you don’t seem at all interested in that.”

She gave a wry smile, almost a smirk but before she could reply, her father gave her a nudge and pushed her away while sighing and leading Eris away, talking about anything and everything.

He hadn’t wanted to come here. But Beron’s orders had been clear: Don’t return until they agree to the marriage. But what marriage?

Their first meeting was brief. Eris had been led into a sitting room, where Leona sat, her posture rigid and uninviting. Her dark eyes—unwavering and cold—studied him for a moment before she even acknowledged his presence.

“Prince Eris,” she said with a slight nod, her voice carrying an edge of indifference. “A pleasure.”

The words were a formality, one Eris had heard countless times before, but there was no warmth, no attempt to make him feel welcome. She didn’t even stand to greet him, as if he wasn’t worth the effort.

Eris had forced a polite smile, but his patience was already wearing thin.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, his tone smooth, though he felt no warmth toward her. “I trust we can begin discussing the matters of the courts?”

She didn’t respond immediately, her gaze flicking briefly to the ornate tapestries hanging on the walls. “The matters of the courts, yes,” she said, her words deliberate. “I have no interest in them, but I will endure.”

Eris had been taken aback by the bluntness of her words. No pretense, no sugar-coating. She had no interest in politics, in alliances, in him. And, frankly, he didn’t blame her. This whole arrangement reeked of manipulation and control, something he knew all too well.

Over the next few days, they met daily, as was expected. Eris stayed in the lavish guest quarters, while Leona continued with her duties, often walking the gardens or attending to the administrative needs of the palace. The first few conversations were business—exchange of trade information, a few discussions about potential negotiations—but it quickly became apparent that she wasn’t interested in any of it.

Every conversation felt more like a challenge. Leona constantly looked down on him, her words laced with sarcasm and condescension. She would laugh when he mentioned the complexities of the Autumn Court, or the intricacies of their alliances with other courts.

“What does any of your courts know about real power?” she’d sneer, her lips curling slightly with amusement. “You’ve been wrapped in your little bubble, thinking you control everything, and yet, here you are, in our world, where things work differently.”

Eris found himself both frustrated and intrigued. Still, he continued the charade, as his father had ordered. He met her every day in the grand gardens of the palace, a sprawling, lush oasis that contrasted sharply with the cold stone of the Autumn Court. They walked together, discussing politics in shallow, often biting terms, neither of them giving an inch.

And then, on their third meeting, something shifted.

Leona led him through the sprawling gardens once more, her sharp eyes scanning their surroundings. As they passed through an ornate archway into a more secluded part of the palace grounds, Eris couldn’t help but notice the subtle tension in her shoulders. She stopped suddenly, and he almost collided with her back.

“Enough of this,” she muttered under her breath, though Eris could still hear the frustration in her voice. “I can’t do this anymore. You need to leave.”

Eris blinked, taken off-guard. “What do you mean? Leave?” His heart skipped a beat, not in fear but in genuine confusion. “I can’t leave until—”

“I know,” she cut him off, her voice like ice. She turned to face him, her expression hard. “Until you marry me, is that what you were going to say?

Eris’s confusion deepened. “Why? Why the hell would I leave?”

Leona’s eyes flashed with an emotion he couldn’t quite place. Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. “You really don’t get it, do you?” she sneered. “I’m not interested in this marriage. Not in you, not in anything this ridiculous alliance is supposed to bring. I like females, not males!”

Eris stood there, stunned, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t seen that coming. Lesbian?

Her face was flushed with irritation now, her jaw clenched as she continued. “This whole thing, this marriage—it would never work. Not because you’re not… well, you, but because I don’t find males appealing. I don’t want to marry you. I don’t want to marry anyone.”

Eris struggled to process what she was saying. His mind was still racing. “But… why the hell didn’t you tell your father that? Why not just tell him the truth?”

Leona’s eyes narrowed, her frustration turning into something sharp, almost dangerous. “Because it’s not that simple,” she snapped. “He doesn’t care about me. He wants the alliance. He wants the trade routes, the power. I’m just a pawn in his game, just like you are.”

Eris’s anger flared. This wasn’t just about the marriage anymore—it was about the game his father had been playing with his life. He had been dragged all the way here, only to find out that the princess had no interest in males to begin with. That she had been trapped in this entire situation for a reason that had nothing to do with him, or his father’s plans.

He took a step closer to her, frustration dripping from his words. “So, I’m supposed to just pack up and go because you’ve been lying to everyone about this? Because you’re too afraid to tell your father the truth? And what, I’m just supposed to walk away after being dragged halfway across the world to sit here in this tropical hellhole?”

Leona’s eyes flashed with irritation. “You don’t get it, do you? I don’t owe you or anyone else an explanation. But I do owe it to myself to not get forced into something I don’t want. This marriage would be a nightmare for both of us.”

“Then why the hell didn’t you just tell your father from the start?!” Eris’s voice was rising now, his frustration spilling over. “Why drag me all the way here for nothing, when you knew the entire time that this was never going to work?”

Leona crossed her arms over her chest, her gaze unwavering. “Because it wasn’t just my choice, Eris. You were chosen because of your father’s power. And I was chosen because my father wants to strengthen our position in the courts. So don’t stand there, pretending like I’m the only one who’s playing a game.”

Her voice softened, almost imperceptibly, as she sighed in frustration. “I’m not afraid to tell him the truth. I’m just trying to avoid the inevitable fallout, alright? I’m trying to keep the peace in my kingdom, at least for now. But you? You need to leave. You’re making this worse.”

Eris stood there, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his mind swirling. For the first time, he actually saw the weight of the situation—saw it for what it was. It wasn’t just about the marriage. It was about her life, her choices, her struggles that had nothing to do with him.

Still, his frustration simmered under the surface. He had been dragged all this way under false pretenses, and now he was being told to leave because the princess was attracted to women, not men. It was absurd. His father’s games had never felt more pointless than they did in this moment.

“What happens now?” he asked, his voice tight, his anger barely contained. “You expect me to just turn around and walk away?”

Leona’s eyes softened for a moment, but only briefly. She uncrossed her arms and stepped toward him. “I don’t want to be trapped in this world anymore, Eris. You need to understand that. The longer you stay, the more complicated everything gets. For both of us. So yes, I’m asking you to leave. For both our sakes. I will tell father that I rejected you."

Eris stared at her, the weight of her words settling deep into his chest. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but this—this was a far cry from what he had been imagining.

For the first time since he’d arrived in Montesere, he wondered if he might have misunderstood everything.

The heat of the Montesere sun beat down on Eris as he walked through the bustling market square, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. Leona’s words had taken root in him, stirring up a storm of emotions he wasn’t ready to deal with. He was pissed—hell, he was furious—but he wasn’t about to act on that fury just yet. The last thing he wanted was to reveal how off-balance he felt, especially to the small entourage of his father’s men who had accompanied him. No, he’d keep his irritation hidden, at least for now.

As he moved through the crowded market, his boots clicked against the cobblestones, the chatter of vendors and merchants filling the air. The scents of exotic spices, fresh fruit, and roasted meats mingled in the humid air, making it both overwhelming and suffocating. The faces of Montesere’s people were a mix of curiosity and indifference as he passed, his dark cloak drawing the occasional wary glance.

His hand rested casually on the hilt of his blade, a habit born of the tense nature of his travels, though right now, he didn’t think it would do him much good. Still, the constant pull of the surrounding chaos was a reminder that he was far from home, far from control. But as he wandered deeper into the market, looking for anything to distract him from his thoughts, his gaze caught something unusual.

A flash of movement in the corner of his eye. A figure—small, quick—darted between two stalls. Instinct kicked in before he could process the scene. Eris’s eyes narrowed, and his steps quickened as he moved in pursuit of the mysterious figure. The market was loud, chaotic, with people shouting at one another over prices, but he was focused, following the figure as it weaved through the crowd, dodging market-goers effortlessly.

He was close now, almost within reach, when the figure suddenly took a sharp turn down a narrow alleyway, disappearing from his view. Without missing a beat, Eris veered off course, following the alley. The shadows were deep here, the walls of the buildings rising high on either side, creating a tunnel of coolness that contrasted with the heat of the sun. He pushed forward, his muscles tense, every sense alert.

As he rounded the corner, he collided with something solid—someone solid. He cursed as his hand flew out instinctively to steady himself, grabbing the nearest source of balance. And then, in a flash, his fingers tightened around a wrist.

“Let go of me!” a voice hissed sharply, a blend of anger and surprise.

Eris looked down to see a female—small (atleast shorter than him) with sharp eyes that gleamed with an intensity that matched his own. She was dressed in simple yet sturdy clothing, something that didn’t stand out in the crowded market but suggested she was no stranger to movement or danger. Her hair was messed up after all that running, poking out from different angles, and there was something wild about her, a certain fierceness that intrigued him even as he held her wrist firmly.

“What are you running from?” Eris demanded, his voice low but commanding. He didn’t release her, not yet, his eyes studying her with growing curiosity.

The female yanked her wrist free from his grasp with surprising strength, her eyes narrowing in irritation. “None of your business,” she snapped, taking a step back, her hand instinctively reaching for something at her waist.

Eris’s brow arched, impressed despite himself. “You seem awfully keen to keep your distance,” he said coolly, studying her carefully. “What’s the rush? Or are you just trying to avoid a charming conversation?”

She shot him a look that could’ve cut through steel. “You want to talk? Fine. But first—” She paused, her gaze flicking to the alley behind him.

Eris turned just in time to see a pair of thugs, rough-looking men, appear at the end of the alley, eyeing them with clear hostility. Their eyes immediately locked onto the woman in front of him, and a heavy silence fell over the space.

“I’m not going back,” the female muttered under her breath, and her voice—barely a whisper—carried a weight of finality. But before Eris could respond, she had already moved.

She darted forward with the speed of a striking serpent, her elbow crashing into his chest, forcing him back just enough to clear the space. “Get out of the way,” she hissed, and there was no time to argue.

The two men lunged, and instinct kicked in. Eris reacted without thinking. With a swift, fluid movement, he drew his blade from its sheath, his movements sharp, precise. The first thug tried to grab for him, but Eris’s blade met his wrist with a crack, sending the man staggering back in pain, clutching at the wound. He barely had time to focus on the second man, who had already launched himself at the female.

But before the man could land a blow, the female was on him—her hands quick and efficient, her movements graceful yet deadly. She had a dagger in her hand that gleamed silver in the dim light, and with a quick twist, she disarmed him and sent him sprawling to the ground with a frustrated grunt.

Eris stood there, momentarily stunned by how easily she had handled the thugs. His grip on his sword loosened, and he stepped back as the last thug, now unconscious, crumpled to the cobblestones.

The stranger turned to face him, breathing heavily but not with any fear. If anything, she looked… amused. “You’re lucky I didn’t leave you to deal with them,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Eris’s chest rose and fell with a mix of adrenaline and surprise, but his tone was steady. “And you’re lucky I didn’t leave you to deal with them alone.”

She gave him a look, still incredulous. “I was perfectly fine. Just didn’t want to waste my time. And you,” she added with a smirk, “seem like you could use some lessons in the art of survival.”

Eris’s lips curled into a half-smile. “I’m not the one running from a fight.”

Her eyes sparkled with a challenge, but she didn’t respond, merely tucking her dagger back into her belt. “Name’s Y/N,” she said, offering him a glance that seemed to measure him up. “I don’t have time for pleasantries, but thanks for the assist.”

Eris hesitated, then gave a slight nod, acknowledging her presence, though still not entirely trusting her. There was something about this female—her calm under pressure, her lethal precision—that intrigued him. Perhaps it was more than just a shared moment of chaos.

He straightened, his voice colder now, but still with an edge of curiosity. “Eris. I don’t make a habit of getting involved in other people’s problems.”

Y/N smirked again, and for a moment, their eyes locked. “Maybe you should start,” she replied coolly, then turned on her heel and began walking away without a second glance, her movements as fluid and confident as ever.

Eris stood in the alley, watching her disappear into the crowd, a sense of intrigue buzzing at the back of his mind.

The midday sun hung high in the sky, casting long shadows over the bustling marketplace of Montesere. Y/N moved through the stalls, her fingers brushing against the fabrics, jars, and herbs that made up her trade. She had a small corner booth where she sold trinkets—jewelry made from wood and bone, simple but beautiful things—and herbs her mother harvested from the nearby woods. Life here was quiet, mostly peaceful, though nothing spectacular. Middle class at best, but comfortable enough for someone who had learned how to blend in.

She wasn't anyone important, nor did she ever wish to be. Her mother, a simple merchant who had once caught the eye of a powerful Illyrian male-her father-had raised her in this small, thriving town, far from the war camps of the Illyrian mountains. She never knew her father.

The only thing she knew of him were the whispers her mother had shared, tales of a fleeting romance that ended with Y/N's birth. Her father had never returned to them after that night.

Azriel, her half-brother, would never know she existed. They had the same father, but different mothers. He was born into the cold, rigid world of their father's estate in the Illyrian mountains, a place where power and cruelty thrived.

Yet he had risen above them, had become a legend among the world. He was everything Y/N was not.

She didn’t hate him. How could she, when she didn’t even know him? What she hated was the man who tied them together. Their father, who had left her mother to struggle in silence. Their father, who had chosen to raise Azriel in his home, while Y/N was cast aside entirely. She was nothing more than a secret, a mistake. A child of a fleeting affair, abandoned and forgotten.

Y/N had spent her life trying to avoid the idea that her bloodline tied her to such a man. She never went near the Illyrian war camps, never even thought of them. Montesere, far from the courts and the suffocating politics that ruled them, was where she belonged.

Her mother had kept them hidden, not wanting her daughter to be drawn into a world where she wasn’t wanted. And so, Y/N had grown up far from the Illyrians, living simply as a merchant, living simply as herself. She had learned to make peace with her life—or at least, she tried.

A customer approached, snapping Y/N back into the present moment. She offered the bundle of rosemary with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, her thoughts still tangled in the web of her past. She quickly took the coins and returned to her stall, arranging the trinkets with practiced hands. She had to keep going, keep moving forward. She had her life here, in the town that had accepted her. A life without the burden of court politics, without the weight of her bloodline, without the shadow of her half-brother lingering over her.

The sun had already set when Y/N was summoned to the palace. She had no intention of attending any royal feast—she wasn’t a noble, after all—but the request came from the kitchen, where she had worked for the past year as a second job. The head chef had insisted that her skills were needed to prepare some delicacies for the evening’s banquet, and Y/N didn’t dare argue. She needed the work, even if it meant entering the heart of the opulent palace she avoided whenever possible.

She quietly slipped in through the small side door meant for staff, her worn shoes clicking softly on the stone floors of the servants’ quarters.

“Y/N, get upstairs,” called the kitchen head, a short, no-nonsense woman whose gray hair was tied back in a tight bun. “One of the servers called out. I need you to take the platters to the royal table.”

Y/N’s gut clenched. She had no interest in serving the highborn—especially not after the way they looked down on people like her. She’d rather stay in the back with the heat and the smells of roasted meats than parade in front of royalty and their guests.

“I’m not meant for the royal table,” she protested, wiping her hands on her apron and glancing at the mess of ingredients that still needed attention. “I’m fine down here, really.”

“You’re going, and that’s final. We need someone who isn’t afraid to move quickly. You’ll be fine.”

She opened her mouth to argue further, but the look on the head’s face told her it wasn’t worth it. Reluctantly, Y/N grabbed a tray, carefully stacking the food, and made her way up through the servants’ stairs. Her feet were heavy as she ascended, the grand sounds of music and laughter becoming louder the higher she climbed.

When she finally reached the top floor, she barely spared a glance at the grand banquet hall that stretched before her. The sight of the highborn nobles lounging at tables, laughing and drinking, only reminded her of how little she belonged in such a place.

She found the corridor leading to the royal table and, with a sigh, took a deep breath before entering.

It was just her luck that, as she approached the table, she nearly collided with someone.

A deep voice rumbled above her as she froze in place. “Careful.”

She glanced up, heart thumping, and saw none other than Eris--the stranger from the day before.

For a split second, their gazes locked. He stood tall, an imposing figure even amidst the other nobles, his sharp features sculpted into a casual but commanding expression. His lips curled into a smirk when he saw her.

“You again?” he asked, his tone dripping with amusement.

Y/N’s chest tightened, but she managed to keep her composure. “What are you doing here?” she shot back, her tone colder than she intended. “Shouldn’t you be off enjoying yourself?”

Eris chuckled lightly, unbothered by her cool response. “I’m here on business, just like everyone else.”

The words were quiet, but their meaning was clear—Eris wasn’t here just to socialize. There was something more behind his presence, something sharp and calculating that she couldn’t quite place. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, but she wouldn’t show weakness.

“Right,” she muttered, turning her attention back to the platters in her hands. She had no time to exchange pleasantries with the likes of him. “Excuse me, Your Highness.”

But as she tried to move past him, one of the servers bumped into her from behind, sending the platters nearly toppling. She had barely enough time to steady herself before one of the dishes slid right off the tray, splashing onto the floor in a mess of sauce and roasted meat.

The noise echoed across the hall, drawing the attention of several nearby guests, including Eris, who watched her with an unreadable expression.

“Lovely,” she muttered under her breath, already kneeling to clean up the mess. She had no interest in making a spectacle of herself, but the eyes of the nobles burned into her skin. The last thing she needed was more attention.

Eris, however, stepped forward, his gaze flicking between her and the mess she was attempting to clean up. After a long beat, he knelt beside her, offering a hand. “Let me help.”

Y/N didn’t expect the gesture, and her hand froze mid-air. She glanced up at him, surprise written across her face. “I can handle it,” she replied sharply, brushing the dirt off her hands. She wasn’t about to accept help from someone like him, especially not someone who looked at her with disdain.

But instead of backing away, Eris’ gaze softened, just a fraction, and he smirked. “I can’t let you ruin your evening, can I?”

Her jaw clenched, but she said nothing as he helped her clean up the mess. Despite herself, she couldn’t help but notice how carefully he handled the delicate porcelain of the dish, as though he didn’t want to make a bigger mess.

Once the platter was back in her hands, Y/N stood, brushing the dust from her skirt. “I don’t need your charity,” she said curtly.

Eris stood too, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “You don’t seem to want much of anything, do you?” he said, his voice almost teasing.

Y/N shot him a sharp look. “What is it you want, then? To mock me in front of your friends?”

He tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into that wry smile. “You misunderstand, Y/N. I’m not here to mock you.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The tension between them crackled in the air, thick and uncomfortable. Y/N wanted to snap at him, to demand that he leave her be, but instead, she took a deep breath and turned away.

“I have a job to do,” she muttered, not looking back.

As she left the room, her heart still racing from the close encounter, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between them. Something she couldn’t quite explain.

The morning light filtered in through the window, gently coaxing Y/N out of her sleep. She stretched lazily, dreading the day ahead. The rhythm of her life had been predictable lately—work, more work, and quiet nights alone or with her mom. She had almost grown accustomed to the solitude. Almost.

As she brushed her hair and pulled on her outfit, a sudden, sharp knock on her door sent her heart into a rapid flutter. Who could that be at this hour?

Reluctantly, she moved toward the door, her stomach knotting. She wasn’t expecting any visitors, especially not this early. With one hand resting on the doorknob, she muttered to herself, “Great. Another surprise.”

She swung open the door, only to freeze at the sight of the last fae she expected.

Eris Vanserra.

Her heart skipped a beat, but she quickly masked it with a glare. “What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped, crossing her arms. “How did you find me? How did you even know where I live, you psycho?”

Eris smirked, as usual, unfazed by her harsh words. “A prince has his ways,” he said with a wink, stepping closer to the door. “Wouldn’t want you to think you’re living in complete obscurity.”

She stepped back, disbelief crossing her face as she exhaled sharply. “You’re insane. I don’t know you. I don’t even know why you’re here.”

“Let me in. I’m not here to waste your time,” he said, his voice more serious now, though still laced with a hint of amusement.

Y/N hesitated, a thousand questions racing through her mind, but she sighed and stepped aside, allowing him in. “Fine. Whatever. But this better be good.”

Eris walked into the modest home, his sharp eyes scanning the room with an almost calculating gaze. It was humble, far from what he was used to in the luxurious halls of the Autumn Court. Yet there was something about the quiet simplicity of the place that intrigued him.

He turned to Y/N, who stood in the doorway, her arms still crossed. “We need to talk.”

“About what?” she asked, her tone sharp, distrust obvious in her eyes.

He walked over to the small table, setting himself down with the confidence of someone who had always been in control. “I need you to marry me.”

Y/N’s eyes widened, her brows furrowing. “What? Are you out of your mind?”

He leaned back, unfazed by her reaction. “Not quite. You see, I have a little problem. My father is—” he paused, his face hardening for a moment, “—insisting that I marry. He is Beron, high lord of Autumn. But there’s a catch. There’s always a catch. I can’t marry just anyone. I need someone specific.”

She blinked, confusion and suspicion creeping into her voice. “What do you mean ‘someone specific’? What does that even have to do with me?”

He shrugged, his smirk never wavering. “You, Y/N. You’re the perfect candidate. A marriage of convenience, one that benefits both of us. You see, my father insists that I marry someone with noble blood, someone who can stand by me and help me secure my place as heir. That's exactly why he sent me here as a last resort after I refused every female he threw at me. He wanted me to marry princess Leone."

Y/N looked at him like he’d just grown another head. “You’re insane. Why would I ever agree to something like that? What would I get out of this?”

Eris’s smile deepened. “Well, a lot more than you think. For one, I can offer you stability—security. I know you’re taking care of your mother, and I have resources at my disposal. I can help her.”

Y/N froze. The mention of her mother sent a shiver down her spine. Her mother’s health had been deteriorating slowly, a sickness that she couldn’t seem to shake, and it weighed heavily on her. “How do you know about my mother?” she asked, her voice cracking slightly.

Eris didn’t flinch. “I’ve been doing my research. I can help her get the care she needs, the treatment you can’t afford on your own. If you agree to this marriage, we can keep her healthy, and I can make sure she has everything she needs.”

Y/N’s heart beat faster, but she shook her head, not wanting to show how much the offer affected her. “I’m not a noble. I’m not a princess. Your father won’t accept me. He sent you here to marry our princess, not some nobody.”

Eris’s gaze turned thoughtful, and then, with a small, calculating smile, he said, “My father doesn’t know that. He’s never seen the princess from Montesere. He’s never seen the world beyond the seven courts. But you? You could pass as the princess’s sister. Or, we could say half sister. Perhaps a cousin or a distant relative would be acceptable as well.”

That struck a nerve. Y/N stared at him in disbelief. “You’re insane if you think this will work.”

Eris leaned forward slightly. “Not really. Even if he tries his best not to show it, the king of Montesere is in failing health. His daughter, Leona, has been taking control of the kingdom. She and I had a... disagreement, and she’s made it clear she’s not interested in marriage. But she can help us. Trust me, she has her own motive. She can make it look convincing that you’re the princess’s relative. What kind? you can choose that yourself."

Y/N felt the weight of his words, the possibility starting to form in her mind. But she shook her head, trying to push the thoughts away. “But why me specifically? Why would you choose me over someone else?”

He took a breath, his eyes steady on her. “You have a certain... resilience. You’re not easily manipulated. And unlike the other female's I’ve met, you don’t fawn over me. That’s rare, you know.” He let out a soft laugh. “Plus, I'm pretty sure you’re smarter than most think.”

Y/N turned her gaze to the floor, trying to process everything. The situation felt so complex, like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, not sure if she should jump or step back. She needed time to think.

“I don’t know,” she said, rubbing her temple, her mind a whirlwind. “I can’t just do this. You’re asking me to lie—to pretend to be someone I’m not. And-and marriage?!”

Eris stood and walked over to her, his expression softening just a fraction. “Trust me, Y/N. You don’t have to pretend. Just a little... adjustment, and we can both get what we want. You’ll have your mother’s care, and I’ll have the alliance I need. My father’s not going to let me out of this marriage arrangement. I need someone, and you’re the one who makes the most sense.”

Y/N looked up at him, her decision weighing heavily in her chest. She could almost feel the pull, the necessity of this arrangement, especially with her mother’s condition.

“If you don’t agree, nothing will change. But if you do... you’ll have the power to change everything,” he added, his tone insistent but strangely soft.

She took a deep breath, the weight of it all crashing down on her. "Fine," she said, reluctantly. "But this doesn’t mean I’m going to like it.”

Eris grinned. “I didn’t expect you to. But we’ll make it work.”

Later that evening, Eris leaned back in the plush chair of his room, a glass of amber liquid swirling lazily in his hand. The flickering firelight danced across his sharp features, his expression one of triumph.

He pulled out a crisp sheet of parchment, the Autumn Court insignia emblazoned at the top. Dipping his quill into the ink, he scrawled out a short, deliberate message:

Father, Your incessant nagging has finally borne fruit. The marriage is set. Expect us soon. -E.V.

A smirk curled his lips as he folded the letter, sealing it with wax. He held it up to the firelight for a brief moment, admiring his handiwork, before handing it to the waiting messenger at the door.

As the messenger disappeared into the night, Eris leaned back once more, a self-satisfied grin plastered on his face. “Got what you wanted, Father,” he muttered to the empty room. “Let’s see if you choke on it.”

The flames crackled louder, as if in agreement, while Eris’s mind began spinning the next steps of his plan. The game was far from over—it had only just begun.

And Eris….Eris would make sure his plan unfolded perfectly.

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

Taglist open!

[edenaziraphale]

There's a lot to be said about the weaknesses and strengths of the writing in Dragon Age games, but for me there's nothing that trumps the way the writers' implicit biases shine through in their treatment of various characters. Anders and Solas showcase the very worst of this. Functionally Anders and Solas could (and I would go so far as to say should) operate as foils to one another. Anders is a victim of decades of abuse at the hands of both individuals and a system that demonized him from a very young age. We are given information about his childhood and time spent in the circle that makes it explicitly clear that Circles are an unjust and abusive system that traumatized him so much that he fled multiple times regardless of the fact that he knew the abuse would escalate each time he escaped. In the end, he chooses to chance death and lifelong struggle via conscription because it is his only shot at escaping his current reality. After that, in DA2, it's made clear that Kirkwall's circle is even worse. Karl is made tranquil, the templars are mad with power, and it's heavily implied that the tranquil are utilized as sex slaves and that some templars may even be selecting mages for tranquility based on their desire for them alone. In the light of all of that, Anders makes a very desperate and destructive choice. Regardless of how players feel about his actions, it's not really up for debate that the context surrounding them creates mitigating circumstances and a sympathetic backing. He was attempting to affect positive change for a group of people facing fates that the game makes clear are worse than death. Despite this, the game's writing treats him as an unsympathetic villain whose actions are not only reprehensible, but completely beyond the realm of human understanding. That dynamic at the end of DA2 carries into DAI. Solas, on the other hand, is on a quest to undo his own actions. His initial construction of the Veil and the problems that it caused can be viewed with (some) similarity to Anders circumstances in that Solas was attempting to right a wrong done by someone else, but the key difference is that, unlike Anders, who was a powerless victim attempting to free other powerless victims, Solas was on a revenge quest to avenge the death of his friend and had an incredible amount of power within the system that he existed as a part of.

His actions had horrific consequences that birthed what is essentially an entirely new existence for everyone in Thedas eons before the start of any of the games. He finds the outcome of his own actions intolerable, and seeks to reverse them. He harms friends and allies to do so, and makes it explicitly clear that he does not care who he harms or what the consequences are to Thedas or the people who live there in his quest to bring back the version of the world that he liked better. Functionally, Solas makes an excellent villain. He stands out from Anders (who operates in his narrative as a symbol of the rage and disenfranchisement of the powerless) as a representation of power and ego unchecked and the damage that they can cause.

Unfortunately, the writing of the game treats him as though he is the tragically complex victim of forces outside of his control when he is in fact the over-powered puppeteer. He is very much the master of his own destiny and he intends to be the master of everyone else's destiny as well by ripping apart the fabric of reality. No character in the series better demonstrates the writer's biases than Varric, who, as a narrator for DA2, essentially acts as the moral arbiter telling players how they should and should not feel about events, explaining what is and is not moral. His reactions to Anders stand out in sharp relief against what we see of his reaction to Solas in the Veilguard releases so far.

To be clear, I don't hate Solas as a character. I think as a villain, he works very well. His complete and total disregard for the wellbeing of others paired with his affect of wise and gentle mage are compelling to witness. His motivations are understandable from the selfish and self-centered core of us as people. He's a fantastic reminder of what happens when we decide that we know what's best with no input from others, when we pursue our desires above all else beneath the veneer of wisdom. He's fun, well rounded, and interesting. He is not, however, a tragic and morally justified sadboi victim of circumstance, and I resent that the writers treated him as though he was.

[revelboo]

I’m here for Soundwave stealing away reader from Starscream. It’s a very likely scenario to occur if Starscream continues to be his own downfall but it’s amusing to consider nonetheless the less because he knows that is an outcome that can happen.

He absolutely would at this point if reader wasn’t fully bonded to Starscream. He’s just trying to keep Star from dragging you with him when he self destructs at this point

Everything Is Alright Pt 106

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader

• “Megatron.” Turning at Soundwave’s deep voice, he waits for his communications officer to catch up to him. “A word?” Servos flexing because he can still smell you on Soundwave, he inclines his head. Starts walking again with the other mech and waits for Soundwave to begin speaking again. Because this is about you, he knows it is. And you’re a problem. The way his spark heats when you glare at him or snap back an unexpected thrill. Afraid, but willing to stand up to him for your mates, but not yourself. Why does he care when you really shouldn’t matter.

• “This is about the human. Your mate.” Ignoring the thinly veiled growl in Megatron’s voice, Soundwave nods. Carefully. If Megatron realizes he’s being manipulated, he’ll never cooperate. So he waits and walks, feeling when Megatron glances sidelong at him, optics narrowed. “Why a human?” Because of the way you smile when you see him, though those have been fragile things lately because of his own actions. Because he loves the chaos of your emotions within his thoughts, those soft hands, having someone that doesn’t mind if he’s too quiet. If he’s lost in thought. The way you trace little patterns on his plating when you’re drowsy and the way you never shy away when he reaches for you. That soft voice talking to him about anything and everything. All things he can’t say to Megatron.

• “Easy to control,” Soundwave replies and Megatron’s lips twist. Because he’s almost certain that’s a lie. No, definitely a lie. Remembering the affectionate way Soundwave had brushed his cheek against you and feathered kisses against your skin. Murmuring to you as you curled into him, trusting yourself fully to his care. And part of him wonders what that would be like. Someone waiting for him, happy to see him and with no ulterior motives behind their smiles. He’s lonely, but he’s been lonely a very long time. Letting his reputation and temper keep everyone at bay.

• “The truth,” Megatron admonishes, voice soft and Soundwave vents. Tiredly reaching up to press his servos against his chassis over his cassette compartment. Can still sense your emotions despite the distance. That incomplete bond a tie to you. A way to ensure the Seeker can’t just run away with you. And a gamble that you’ll hopefully survive Starscream if he won’t stop clawing for power. If Megatron ends him once and for all because of the Seeker’s own treacherous actions, you don’t deserve to die with him. And he doesn’t know how this will work. If he‘ll be tied to Starscream’s fate alongside you if he fully bonds you or if it might spare you. Spark bonds are a taboo and who knows which or if any of the old stories are real or just legends.

• “Happier since finding them,” Soundwave admits. That isn’t a lie, his communications officer looking at him as if daring him to judge. And he really can’t. Because he understands as much as it makes him uncomfortable. Likes speaking to you despite the fact that you’re beneath him. Insignificant. “Less lonely.” And that strikes home.

• “I don’t know what that means,” you whisper and that hint of miserable fear in your voice pierces Starscream’s own worries. “I don’t know what a protoform even is.” Feels when you start to tremble and wraps his arms around you as he realizes that he’s not the only one completely lost in this. You’re worried and scared, too. “I need someone to talk to me, okay? Please?”

• “I know.” Raspy voice low as he tucks you more firmly against him, chin resting on top of your head. “We’ll do this together.” Feeling his palm sliding up and down your spine, you desperately want to believe that. That he’s not going anywhere. That he won’t panic and run again. But you’re not sure that you can anymore. “Figure it out together.” And you need to believe that so much it hurts, but can you?

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[leyavo]

Hello!! I hope you're having a nice day!! I absolutely LOVE your writing!! I was wondering if you would be able to write about a sickly!reader? I'm chronically ill and have been since birth and I can never find representation for us frail bony besties. Could you either do general headcanons (platonic pls) or like dad!price with sickly!reader?

Hey thank you (🤕 anon) for the kind words. Sorry for the long wait. (I included some chronic illnesses that I am familiar with and know people that have them, but all illnesses are different for each person and not the same) I hope you have a nice day too!! 🥹 I did your request with Dad!Price.

[Main masterlist]

TF141 x Chronically ill!reader (platonic)

John Price x Daughter!reader:

You’d over done it yesterday, pushed yourself to do all your errands in one day and you were reaping the consequences of it today. The weight of your limbs not lifting as they kept you in bed. So sore that you could feel the ache deep into your bones.

The house silent, nothing but the warm summer breeze pushing the veiled curtains at the bottom of your bed. You don't want to move, cant stomach the searing pain of sitting up, so you give in to the fact you'll be doing nothing. The remote control left beside the tv, too far for you to reach.

A soft knock taps on your closed door and you mumble for them to come in. You Dad's head creeping in through the small opening, "bad day, kiddo?"

You nod, regretting the action. You’d clenched your jaw last night to counteract the pain and now your whole face hurt this morning. He walks in, picking the remote up as he passes it and drops it into your lap, gently.

"On a scale of one to ten?" He says, large hand slipping behind your shoulders as he helps you lean against the three well positioned pillows against the headboard. His gaze locked on yours, as if telling you not to downplay the pain.

"Eight," you mumbled, trying not to focus on the aching stabs surging through your hips as you sat up. It’s better than laying down though, least your hair won’t get too greasy or knotty.

"I feel sick.”

He glances to the bedside table, the packet of medication scattered the surface, the leaflet half tucked under the bed. The glass half empty, sitting on top of a bit of water you'd spilt when you tried to put it back on the table. "That's because ya' took your meds on an empty stomach," he said, no doubt having counted the strip of pills.

"I'm in too much pain to eat." Your words slurred as you spoke, eyes heavy as you tried to fight the drowsiness of the pills. That and the sleepless night you had, not able to find a comfortable position to lay in.

"I know, I know," he says, hand pawing the hair out of your face. "Why don't I make you some honey porridge? You'll feel a bit better and the meds will kick in soon." Your favourite and something easy to eat, nothing too chewy either. Plus it was your favourite, you ate it for breakfast and lunch nearly everyday as a two year old. He leans down, kissing your forehead before he leaves you to search the tv guide as you wait.

He returns with a tray, two bowls and a few snacks scattered around them. You can smell the honey as soon as he walks in, thankful that he’d checked on you before going to work.

“You’re uh, staying?” You asked as he peels the blanket back and joins you in the bed, his large frame hanging off the edge a little but he didn’t complain.

“Yeah, paperwork I can do later here.” He shrugs, placing the tray on your lap and taking a bowl of cereal for him self, it balances in his palm as he flicks through the tv. “You wanna watch that new movie?”

Of course you do, you’ve been on at him to watch the third one of the trilogy you both like. Waiting, because you know he’ll want to see your reaction and you his. Gives you something to talk about, theories to create whilst you wait for the next instalment or spinoff.

It’s over two hours long though, the porridge warming your aching stomach. You both talk back and forth about the characters, but you can’t fight the heavy weight pulling on your eyelids. You’re gone before you realise it, head on your dad’s shoulder and sleeping.

When you wake up, your dad’s snoring beside you. The end credits still rolling, your meds have kicked in, but you’re still in for a rough few days maybe even weeks. But you’re glad your dad’s there to help. You’re sure he’ll stay home until you’re walking about the house.

Simon Riley x Childhood friend!reader with multiple sclerosis:

You don't know why you let Simon pick the pub, the dingy place reminding you to wipe your boots on the way out. The worn carpet looked like it had been excavated for fossils, lumps here and there, crosses of gaffa tape holding torn parts together.

Simon's hand hovers over the small of your back, head dipped as he mumbles for you to watch your step. One drink, obviously something soft and not alcoholic. All you wanted to do was play a few games of darts like you used to every time Simon returned home. A little tradition you'd cancelled on the last three times due to a flare up.

Not that Simon minded, no he'd spent the night at your flat and watched a whole season of a tv show with you.

You were feeling good, made sure you hadn't done much the past few days in hopes it would conserve your energy and not trigger anything.

Simon guides you to the booth in the back, right next to the dart board. He waits for you to sit back in the leather seat and set your walking stick to the side before he leaves to get the drinks in.

An ice cold vanilla and lemonade float slides on the table in front of you. "Ready to lose, mate?" he says, taking a gulp of his beer and setting it on the table.

You let the melted ice cream over flow the glass, scooping a lump into your mouth with the chunky straw. "Don't cry when I win, Si." you pat his shoulder, hand wrapping around the darts he hands you.

The evening's filled with laughter, the odd teasing and nudging when you so accidentally elbow him. "Oh you wanna play dirty eh."

It doesn't last long though as you go to grab your glass, the tremor in your hand stopping you from tightening your grip. The glass drops, shattering to the floor. Your vision blurring as you tried to focus on your twitching fingers instead of the surge of pain shooting down to your wrist.

The cool drink splashing on your trousers, but you just stare at mess. Simon's already crouching down and mopping it up, taking the brush from the bar maid and sweeping it off your boots.

"Come on," Simon said, pulling you out of your thoughts. "Lets go get a kebab on the way home." He gently guides your walking stick into your hand and walks with you out of the pub. He’s a grounding presence for you to hold on to, not just in the physical sense but in every other too. He’s quick to think, act and make you feel like you’re not at a total loss. A scrap of normality thrown in as he talks about the flickering light that still hasn’t been fixed outside the kebab shop. How many years is tha’ now?

You're quiet as he queues up to order, the plastic chair on the side of the street digging into legs. The dull tingling in your hand has now spread up your arm and its hard trying to ignore it.

Simon doesn't say much as you both eat your food, his gaze flitting to you every now and then as you drop your wrap between each bite. Brown eyes assessing you for any knowing tells. He was covered in grazes and bruises and still made time for you.

"I'm sorry."

He shakes his head, "none of tha, you ain't apologising. Don't look at me like tha," he said, voice rough as he stared you down. You'd known each other long enough to not beat around the bush and say what you thought. You used to apologise for the smallest things, even for stuff you shouldn't. Simon always the one to tell you that you didn't need to.

"It's good to see you," you say, chucking a slice of pickle at him.

"Any excuse to get out of losing," he said, dodging the pickle and it landed on his shoulder, slipping down his leather jacket. “Let’s get you home, dying for a cuppa.”

Simon’s good at taking your mind off things and reminding you not to be too hard on yourself. Always there to listen if you need to get something off your chest.

Johnny MacTavish x sister!reader with a pacemaker:

“Johnny, you really didn’t have to take leave from work,” you grumbled, huffing as he gently took the milk carton out of your hands. “I can lift a bloody…”

The skin across your collarbone tightening as you turned to shut the fridge door. You squeezed your eyes shut, teeth sinking into your bottom lip trying to muffle a sob. The incision in your chest ached, the pacemaker underneath your flesh heavy on your left.

“You want mam to be looking after ya?” He said, palm smoothing your back. “Six weeks is nothing, compared to the months of rehab you helped me through after I got shot.” He says it like he’s repaying a debt, but you don’t call him out on it. Always the one to pay it back without a reminder. Not that you’d call it in.

You shook your head, knowing your younger brother was less suffocating than your own mother. There’s dishes of homemade food filling the freezer already, no doubt Johnny will go through them in a week the amount he eats.

“Shoot me now,” you mumbled under your breath.

“Aye, don't carry weapons at home." Johnny chuckles, guiding you to the living room and nudging his head for you to sit on the sofa. You laid down, letting him drape a blanket over your lap and turn on your favourite show on the tv.

Your gaze trailed after Johnny each time he came in the house. A basket of dried clothes leaning on his hip. He dropped it to the floor and sunk into the armchair next to you, his hands diving in the basket as he plucked out a shirt and folded it. He bent, down and hesitated, brows scrunching as he pushed something aside. You leant forward and groaned, the tight pull making you fall back against the cushions.

"Don' worry, I'm not going to touch ya' underwear. Might need to burn me eyes out.." he said, elbowing the stack of clothes off his knee. "I'll take ya' washing to Mam's." He picks them up and dumps them back in the basket, straightening them out so their half folded again.

"I can do my own washing Johnny." You sighed, staring up at the ceiling. Johnny had surprisingly picked you up from the hospital after the pacemaker had been fitted, your mother neglecting to tell you that he'd offered himself up to help you and live at your house for the next six weeks.

"Ya not supposed to be lifting your arm or carrying stuff."

You lift your left arm slightly, middle finger raising. "Look at tha' I think I'm just fine."

Johnny chuckles, shaking his head. “Why don’ we go for a walk?”

You frown as he picks up your car keys from the hook on the wall, a knowing look of him scolding you for letting everyone see it. Stuff like that should be stored away.

He drives to the nearest loch, knowing that you like to walk the Munro there, but you’re capable of that yet so you walk down to the pebbly loch. He skims some rocks across the water, talking with you and asking you what he’s missed since he’s been gone.

The air is clear and you breathe it in, chest shuddering but it’s not too bad. Johnny starts to take you for daily walks, a nice way for you to both get out of the stuffy house and talk. You talk about a lot, stuff you’ve never before and you’re glad Johnny took the time to come home. To come help you.

The days turn the weeks and you’re finally walking the sloping hills with Johnny. Just like you did as kids, he’s even got his camera and taking pictures at the top. Something he used to do before he joined the military.

And when the six weeks are up, you don’t want to say a goodbye. Even Johnny lingers in the doorway, his arms wrapping around you as his chin rests on your shoulder.

You stare at your clothes and Johnny's military folding in the drawer. The scribbled mess of his handwriting telling you what’s in the lunchboxes of the freezer. He’d done so much for you and you knew he would anyways.

Kyle Garrick x brother!reader with arthritis:

You could always count on Kyle to give you a lift to the hospital. He waits in the doctors office, your jacket draped over his crossed arms in his lap.

Every three months, Kyle made sure that you’d have someone to take you and if there wasn’t anyone available he made sure he was there for you. Most times it was Kyle though, ready to take the whole day and spend it with you, even if you were pencilled in for the morning or evening.

He smiles, waiting for you to shrug your jacket back on. You regularly get steroid injections in your spine for your arthritis, the only way to ease the pain. Sure it took a couple days to really feel a difference, but it was worth the quick stab in order to feel the weight lifted off your back.

The first few hours you feel the pulsing heat at the base of your spine and it tingles up and down your back. Kyle doesn’t rush you as you walk back to the car park, he refuses your handful of change as he taps his card for the parking fees.

“Don’t worry mate,” he says, shoving his card back in his wallet. “You wanna pick up some food before we go back to yours, there’s a good Thai place I heard about,” he says, swiping his phone unlocked and showing you the saved tab of the menu. Always prepared.

You never say no to food, you’d both tried out a load of different restaurants each time and it had come sort of tradition to order a large amount of food. Eat it for lunch and dinner whilst catching up, sometimes breakfast the next day too.

“Yeah, why don’t we get one of the fixed meal options?” You say, lips tugging as Kyle slows down and falls in step beside you. He’s observant matching your energy, making sure you don’t feel too rushed.

Maybe it’s the way you lean forward slightly that gives the aches away or the sharp intake of air each time your shoes hit the uneven pavement.

“You alright mate?” Kyle always notices.

He opens your door for you and lets you settle in the seat comfortably before he gently closes it. He rounds the front of the car and slides into the drivers seat. He’s careful as he drives, making sure it’s a smooth ride and tries his best to dodge the potholes in the road for your sake and the tyres.

You’ve already ordered your food, Kyle picking it up and dropping it into your lap as he returns. The tender skin where you got the injection burns, no doubt bruised already. You're just hoping you start feeling the benefits soon and can get on with all the little things again.

Thankfully the lift up to your flat is working again, so you don’t have to drag yourself up the stairs. Your limbs start to feel heavy, but you’re close to your front door so push on.

Kyle’s one step ahead, plastic bags straining in his grasp as he twists your key in the lock. The door opening as soon as you catch up with him.

“I got it, why don’t you find a movie while I sort the food.” He’s already taking the plates out the cupboard, knives and forks clinking together.

The afternoon is spent catching up, mindlessly flicking through the streaming services for something decent, but you end watching the football once it kicks off. A crate of alcohol free beer dwindling to nothing, Kyle's good at taking your mind off the pain. Always there to make you laugh, but not too hard that your whole body shakes.

Kyle's a storyteller, so he describes his latest op, leaving out sensitive information with the word classified and his pointer and middle finger making bunny ears as he quotes it "classified." You can picture it like a movie in your head, that you miss an own goal on the tv. You're convinced he exaggerates on some parts, anything to get you questioning whatever craziness he's spewing.

"Nah, how can you fall out a helicopter and still be alive mate? You're havin me on." You shake your head, "What you were just hanging? Nah."

[senseandaccountability]

the healer has the bloodiest hands

I wrote some thoughts after the finale of Veilguard. Solavellan heavy.

This is just me, parsing through some feelings. "My people had a saying long ago -'The healer has the bloodiest hands'. You cannot treat a wound without knowing how deep it goes. You cannot heal pain by hiding it. You must accept. Accept the blood to make things better."  Solas to Thom Rainer in DAI.  ***

One can wonder, of course, what Mythal has to do with a Solavellan reunion and Solas’s choice to become the Veil’s protector, but hear me out. 

It is significant that it’s Mythal because she is the embodiment of his terrible past, the epitome of their brilliance and boldness and good intentions turned to terrible truths. The horrors they did, they did together. It is significant that it’s Mythal that sets him on this new course by removing the chains of his guilt and regret. Lavellan can’t do that, she didn’t forge them. Solas’s journey as the Dread Wolf begins and ends with Mythal. 

Mythal literally pulls Solas out of the Fade to use his wisdom, first to not lose herself to the other gods' vanity and brutality, then to gain advantage against them in an endless power struggle that breaks them both, I’d argue, though most significantly it breaks Solas. Retribution and revenge has no room for understanding, there is no wisdom in conquering. And Solas, for all his faults, isn’t brutal or cruel, doesn’t want power for his own gain. Instead he’s wise and creative, doomed to see the faults of his actions even as he carries them out, arguing in vain that the Evanuris too must see it - don’t cross these lines, don’t do it like this, don’t warp and twist your powers to forces of destruction. You must know this is madness! He objects to the creation of the bodies for the ancient elves, objects his own People’s physical creation. Did the earth not shake? It did, it was horrific and it was wrong and he knows this and it doesn’t matter. What he wants has never been part of the equation. 

Even when he breaks free from Mythal, when he burns her mark off his face, he never stops fighting for the world she once wanted. Because otherwise? Should he stop? Then all that he has done, all that he has given up, all that has been demanded of him both as Mythal’s lapdog and the Dread Wolf, leader of the rebel armies for centuries, cloaked in a persona of strategy and battle orders - all of that has been for nothing. He has made a ruin of himself, of the world, for nothing.  So he begins again, he picks up the pieces, he swears to make it right, to fix what he broke. That’s how he perceives healing, that’s what he thinks he is doing. But you cannot heal pain by hiding it. That’s why the Crossroads are falling apart with the manifestations of Solas’s greatest regrets, that’s why he needs Rook to escape his own prison, that’s why a Regret demon burns through Skyhold.

Solas traps the Evanuris as a final act of the ancient times, the creation of the Veil an embodiment of everything he and Mythal ever were - protection, benevolence, retribution, wisdom, pride. He ties it to the blood of the Firstborn out of spite and anger and it wrecks the world in ways he could not foresee. In ways he cannot fix because you cannot fix what has already happened.

You must accept. Accept the blood to make things better. He holds himself like a broken thing in front of Mythal and you can see it as submissive or as a man finally letting his grief out. There, at long last, he stands beaten and bloodied and blighted and he cries for all that was lost, all that he did and all that was done to him, all the things he cannot, cannot undo. And then: a new way forward.

In willingly binding himself to the Veil he embodies the best of those old myths, the All-Mother and the Breaker of Chains, as he breaks the cycle of punishment and grief and protects the sun and the moon. This oath, as opposed to the oaths of the empire that made him, is not to someone but to everyone, to all the innocents of the world. Instead of being the one who makes the terrible sacrifices of other people - the things I have done - he becomes the protector of the world that his people broke once upon a time. Instead of being the Creator of a new world without the Veil - the god he vehemently does not want to be, that he arguably thinks nobody should be - he becomes a caretaker, a guardian. A healer with bloody hands. And yes, it takes Mythal to break Mythal’s hold over him. You cannot treat a wound without knowing how deep it goes. And this one goes deep.  But it’s Lavellan who brings him the light in this story. It’s Lavellan who breaks through the dark, transforms it into something hopeful. 

His prison construct in the Fade was terrible, an abyss of regret made to hold a god. An ancient punishment for ancient crimes but times change, people change, the People change for better and for worse and here Lavellan stands in all her mortal imperfection, offering him not a way to change the past - where all these ancient beings are stuck - but a way to mend the future. It will be a terrible place, he tells her, saying I am terrible because the Fade shifts around our beings. It won’t be terrible, Lavellan argues. Because I’m there with you, walking the dinan’shiral with you, all the way. He doesn't have to fix anything first, he doesn't have to change for her, he just needs to stop hurting the world, hurting himself. Because she loves him, despite all the terrible mistakes he has made. Because she knows all his names, from Dread Wolf to Vhenan, she knows the power of his mind and the fires of his love and she saw more than most of the man he is. The man he wants to be. For a little slice of time there in Skyhold he was that man, he was seen and he saw. He saw the world filtered through her and could forgive it, he saw her through his own ancient, tired eyes and he fell in love no matter how much he thought he did not deserve it. You don't have to deserve love, or mercy, it doesn't demand anything in return, holds you to no oath. It is a gift, freely given. That's what Lavellan offers him by holding out her hand there, at the edge of everything. That's where the light slips in.

She’s real, which means everyone is real and she changes everything, because she can.  Ar lasa mala revas. 

[darsynia]

Steve Rogers, Royalty AU (your call if modern/medieval/fantasy), kisses for a promise.

This got away from me, deliciously. Steve/Reader, Regency-style Royalty AU with a twist, 1,600 words.

MCU MASTERLIST | STEVE ROGERS | BUCKY BARNES

Before I loved you, love, nothing was my own. I wavered through the streets, among objects; Nothing mattered or had a name. The world was made of air, which waited. ~selection from Sonnet XXV, by Pablo Neruda

Before I Loved You

You can’t fathom how worried Steve has been, stuck in a whirlwind of official meetings, ceremonial rites, and fasting periods that limit both his social obligations and food intake. The two of you have been playing a long game, steering your ancient families toward this union with feigned reluctance and rebellion, and the uncertainty is almost over. 

The Joining is minutes away.

Slumping your shoulders, you pretend to pick angrily at the embroidery on your lavish gown, puffing the delicate veil away from your face like a petulant child. As your king and guardian, your brother has taken great delight in putting you in the position to ‘punish’ his own overlord’s eldest son with the prospect of marrying his most recalcitrant sibling. Likewise, Steve has acted as though the wedding is a personal affront--all to manipulate your families into complacency.

The two of you had met by chance, finding a kinship in the desire for a more just judicial system and less social strata. The wider world has been innovating, yet the cluster of kingdoms on your isolated island have stayed in darkness. No more.

“It is time,” your brother sneers, wrenching you upright with a heavy hand on either of your shoulders. He starts moving, and you realize he’s shaming you, making it obvious to all attendees that you are here out of reluctance. With your face fully covered by multiple handcrafted layers of lace, you allow yourself to laugh, knowing it’ll shake your body in the same way that tears would.

Your brother’s pleased chuckle echoes in the cavernous cathedral space, but he’s too simpleminded to understand that you won’t be shamed by faces you can’t see. As it has been for the past two weeks of silence between you, your sole focus has been your future husband, the crown prince who is likely standing at rigid attention at the altar. Behind you, your simpering sisters are whispering to themselves about their own marriage prospects, each wearing a lighter veil and dressed similarly to you. The goal, it seems, is to imply that the crown prince may not be forced into marriage to you after all--after all, who wouldn't rather marry a doe-eyed simpleton instead of a mouthy bluestocking?

The utter foolishness of antagonizing one’s future overlord is completely lost on your brother--and you wouldn’t have it any other way. The only thing you wish you could have changed is the uncertainty Steve is wracked with right now.

You’re suddenly shoved forward, caught by a steady hand you’d recognize anywhere, despite the limited physical contact between you until this point.

“I’ve got you,” Steve whispers, and you catch your breath, nearly in tears. This good, decent son of a dying despot can’t know which sister he’s reassuring, but that hasn't stopped him. A fierce heat washes through you during the interminable vows that follow--you will protect this man in every way you can, up to and including razing your former homeland to the ground, if necessary.

Finally, the time comes to lift your veil and complete the ritual with a thumbprint of Sienna Flower. You don’t hold back the trembling anticipation that shakes your body, but you do cast your eyes down. This is the moment that could create diplomatic misery for your first weeks together if anyone realizes your deception, but nothing will unravel the Joining.

The little breath your husband lets out just before lifting your veil makes you ache for him, but his next actions shake you to your core. He lifts the veil and freezes still, the jitter of his hand translating to you through the filmy fabric. Steve growls a command to the Archbishop, crumpling the veil in his fist to pull you closer for a pollen-dusted thumb press that lands off-center on your forehead. Your headdress catches on the ceremonial metal of his jacket, tearing it from your head and giving you an unobstructed view of Prince Steven’s furious exit from the cathedral.

The resulting silence is broken by the sound of clapping. 

It is your brother.

*

The spoiled princess persona serves you very well through the resulting mess. All you need do is act like the world will end if anyone so much as speaks to you.

*

It is three long hours of ruthlessly suppressed glee before you’re alone again. You’d miscalculated the level of dedication your princely husband would have for his role, but you also know that he’ll be worried about your mental state, given the way he rejected you in front of that many dignitaries. It’s with a strong need to reassure him that you step into your new apartments, finally dressed in clothes that make you feel like a person instead of a figurehead. You’re almost in tears at the thought of his guilt, which helps serve your tearful encore performance--telling the palace staff they’ll won't be needed this night.

You slam the door behind the meek-looking maid who was supposed to help you prepare for bed, partially to ensure she’ll stay away, and partially to warn Steve that you’ve arrived.

There’s nothing like the feeling of triumph that comes from hearing a similar sound echoing through the warren of rooms ahead of you. It’s gentler, but so is Steve. You force yourself to take measured steps as you search for the source of the sound, passing the shadowed shapes of furniture and sculptures, followed by the painted eyes of countless portraits, until at last you reach the welcoming spill of bright light through a half-opened door.

Steve slammed it for appearances, then opened it right back up for you.

Your heart is burning through your chest as you quietly step into the room. Steve has his palms flat on his desk, head down, the metaphorical weight of the entire kingdom bowing his back.

You whisper his name and he turns, relief briefly replacing the exhaustion on his face. Rushing over, you hesitate just slightly, the learned behavior of false aversion still strong. Steve simply holds out both hands, and you place yours in them.

“You were magnificent,” he whispers.

“Don’t sell yourself short, your highness,” you grin, lifting your chin and making full eye contact with him for the first time as wife, rather than conspirator. “Before you ask, you didn’t hurt my hair or my pride, but no one in the room needed to know that.”

Steve squeezes your hands. “I--I think I’m glad I didn’t see the aftermath. I would have called on a royal escort to demand proof from your brother that you were unharmed. Even though it was my fault.” His lips twitch with amusement, and you’re captivated.

“There will still be quite a lot of deception ahead of us,” you warn. The prospect is so much easier to face now that you know what it feels like to smile with Steve.

“There’s one deception that we can dispense with forever, if only in private for now,” he says gruffly, lifting both of your hands up to kiss each in turn. “I have never been so happy, and never in all of history has a promise been kept with greater joy and hope for the future.” As he speaks, Steve pulls you toward him with a steady, loving determination, sliding a possessive hand to your back at the word ‘hope.’ You arch up and touch your lips to his as soon as he finishes, dizzy with the newness of permission. 

The kiss is revolutionary, destructive. The respectful, careful prince you’ve corresponded with in secret for months is a firebrand, taking you apart with each swipe of his tongue and grip of his strong hands. You’re being remade as someone braver, more beautiful even, as reflected in his eyes and by the way he’s touching you. You press as close as you can, anchoring yourself with a hand buried in his hair, another seeking the bare skin of his back where his shirt lifts from his waistband.

The shrill tone of a ringing bell tears the two of you apart. Brows furrowed, Steve stalks to the small door that provides crude communication between floors, spitting out a brisk ‘what?’

“Forgive me, highness. Your honored wife has dismissed her maid. I humbly ask if you wish for us to disrupt you long enough to prepare two sleeping spaces?”

“My princess shall gladly endure the duty of sharing my bed. Do not disturb us again,” Steve grits out, slamming the door shut. He turns toward you, and you watch, fascinated, as his demeanor shifts from rigidly furious prince to solicitous husband. The only common element between the two is an abiding tiredness you dearly wish to lift.

“It’s not a lie, your highness,” you point out.

Steve lets out a breath, and the last vestiges of the horrid facade he’s been forced to wear through much of his life seep away. You’ve done this, and you’ll do it again every night as long as you live, Gods’ willing.

Your husband holds out a hand and angles his head toward a closed door just a few steps away. You walk toward him, approximating the regal, joy-fueled walk you should have been able to offer him at the Joining. When you place your hand in his, the happiness you feel is strong enough to change the world.

The two of you agreed to rebuild the nation, and in so doing, revitalize the league of kingdoms into something more just, more prepared for the coming century. You’d never expected to find this much joy in the process--and it’s only day one.

Would you like to see more of these two? Let me know!

[kefiteria]

Flavors of Affection

Sebek x Reader

summary: Sebek’s sandwiches aren’t just the highlight of your day—they’re a secret act of care that’s way more personal than you ever expected!

You’re seated on a bench in the courtyard of Night Raven College, enjoying your daily sandwich. It’s become a cherished part of your routine: every day, Sebek hands you a sandwich with his usual brusque demeanour, grumbling something about “proper nutrition” and stalking off before you can thank him properly. You’ve always assumed he buys them from a high-end bakery or the cafeteria since they’re far too perfect to be anything else.

Taking a bite, you hum in delight, the flavours melting perfectly on your tongue. “This is honestly the best sandwich I’ve ever had~” you murmur to yourself, savouring the moment.

Before you can take another bite, a familiar, mischievous voice interrupts. “Ah, I see you’re enjoying one of Sebek’s masterpieces!”

Startled and nearly dropping your sandwich as Lilia appears seemingly out of nowhere. His playful grin and sparkling eyes betray his intentions— he’s here to stir up trouble.

“Sebek’s… masterpieces?” you repeat, confused.

“Oh, yes~” Lilia says, his voice dripping with amusement. “Surely, you didn’t think those came from the cafeteria?”

You tilt your head, fleeting smile curving your lips, a soundless melody of mirth escaping as if to dismiss the absurdity of the moment. “No, but I thought he bought them from some fancy bakery or something. There’s no way these are homemade—they’re way too perfect!”

Lilia chuckles, his grin widening. “No way, you say? Well, let me enlighten you, my dear. Those sandwiches you’ve been enjoying so much? Homemade. By Sebek. Every single day.”

A faintest blink quivering in your lashes betraying disbelief, your voice a measured murmur veiling astonishment as you utter, "You're joking." to Lilia.

“Not at all~” Lilia replies, clearly enjoying himself. He leans in conspiratorially, as if sharing a great secret.

“Every morning, Sebek wakes up before dawn to prepare these. He insists on sourcing the freshest ingredients, meticulously measuring and slicing everything to perfection. He even tests different combinations in his spare time to ‘maximise nutritional efficiency.’ A true labour of devotion, wouldn’t you agree?”

Your jaw drops. “That… that can’t be true. Sebek wouldn’t—”

“WOULDN’T WHAT?” Sebek’s voice rings out across the courtyard, startling you for the second time. He marches over, his expression a mix of panic and flustered. “LILIA! What nonsense are you spouting now?”

“Oh, nothing nonsensical~” Lilia says innocently, though his smirk betrays him. “I was just explaining how much effort you put into their daily sandwiches. The early mornings, the precision, the care—”

“LILIA!” Sebek practically yells, his face already glowing red. He spins to face you, his expression caught between embarrassment and defiance.

“D-Don’t listen to him! He’s exaggerating! I only make them because it’s my duty as a retainer of Lord Malleus to ensure that those in his circle are properly cared for! That’s all!”

“Wait. So it’s true? You’ve been making these every day?” Your gaze locks on him, wide-eyed and unguarded.

Sebek stiffens, his posture rigid as he struggles to maintain his composure. “I… well, yes, but it’s not a big deal! It’s merely a logical course of action! As Lord Malleus’s retainer, it is my responsibility to—”

“—wake up at ungodly hours and prepare gourmet sandwiches?” Lilia interjects, his smirk growing impossibly wider.

“THAT’S NOT THE POINT!” Sebek shouts, his voice cracking slightly. He turns back to you, his face now a deep shade of crimson. “It’s simply… efficient! And you clearly needed better nutrition, so I—!” He stumbles over his words, visibly flustered.

Your lips falter, trembling with the weight of a stifled laugh, while a betraying warmth blooms across your cheeks, vivid and unbidden. “Sebek, these sandwiches are incredible. I honestly thought they came from a professional bakery. You’re really talented.”

Sebek’s eyes widen, and he looks away, clearly overwhelmed. “I-I am merely following a recipe! It’s nothing extraordinary!” He clenches his fists, trying desperately to appear calm. “And anyway, it’s for Lord Malleus’s benefit! If you were to falter in your duties because of poor health, it would reflect poorly on him!”

Lilia clasps his hands together, his tone mockingly tender. “Oh, such devotion! Showing your care through food—how sweet of you, Sebek.”

“LILIA, I— UH SILVER WE SHOULD FIND HIM—” Sebek bellows, his voice carrying across the courtyard. His hands twitch as though he’s seconds away from attempting to throttle the older fae.

Unable to help feeling a bit flustered yourself, you decided to shrugged it with a chuckle. “Thank you, Sebek. Really. These sandwiches have been the highlight of my days. I had no idea you were putting so much effort into them.”

Sebek looks at you, his mouth opening and closing as though searching for words. “I-It’s not as though I… I mean…” He clears his throat, the pale shells of his ears betraying him with a sudden flush, as if a hidden ember had flared to life beneath the skin. “You’re welcome...” he mutters, barely audible.

A thought strikes you, and you smile. “You know, I’d like to return the favour. How about I make something for you next time?”

“W-What? That’s unnecessary! There’s no need for you to trouble yourself—” Sebek’s head snaps up, his eyes wide in alarm.

“I insist!” you interrupt, grinning. “It’s only fair, don’t you think? Besides, I’d like to see if I can make something you’d enjoy.”

Sebek stammers, clearly flustered beyond belief. “I… I suppose… if you insist… But don’t think this is some sort of… reciprocation! It’s merely…” He trails off, his face burning. “Just don’t embarrass yourself...” he finishes weakly.

Lilia chuckles as he starts to saunter off, calling over his shoulder, “Oh, I’ll be eagerly awaiting the results, dear! This should be quite the spectacle.”

Sebek clears his throat, his face still flushed, and glances at Lilia with determination. “Right. Well, it’s time to find Silver. He’s probably asleep in the classroom again.”

As they begin to leave, Sebek walks past you, his pace just a little slower than it should be. His hand brushes yours as he passes, the contact so subtle it almost feels like a whisper. It’s a brief touch, but there’s something deliberate in it, as if he's saying, “See you later.” without saying a word.

Your heart lurches, a delicate stumble in the rhythm of its beat, as the warmth of his touch lingers, suspended in the air like a faint, dissolving echo. It leaves you flustered, the uncertainty of its meaning creeping through you, as if the gesture, so fleeting, could be both innocent and something more, though you can’t quite grasp which.

Sebek doesn’t turn back, yet in the stillness that follows, you feel the subtle flutter of something unsaid, a whisper in the space he leaves behind, too quiet to name, but unmistakably there.

[bunnliix]

When Eight Becomes Nine - Chapter Eleven

I may have taken my sweet time writing this, but in my defense, the Felix smut was what my brain wanted to write first, and then life got to me and made me really busy. And here I am, finishing this fic at 3am in the morning lol. But have fun with the chaos of this fic hehe.

Pairing: Ateez x 9th member!reader  Summary: We see the aftermath and chaos of the company's decision, plus y/n gets some much needed comfort. Oh, and a reveal! wc: 1.8k AU: a/b/o  Genre: Fluff/Angst  warnings: fighting and slapping, threats, angst, slut-shaming and derogatory talk towards y/n, use of the words slut,pussy, whore, etc., lots of misogyny in this chapter folks, and a bunch of like derogatory talk about omegas that is absolutely misogynistic and sexist, lots of cursing, implications that people would take advantage of others, disassociating kinda, shitty people being called the names they deserve, this should be everything masterlist

The fighting went on, it seemingly would never end as insults and angry words kept being thrown back and forth. Ateez and their management yelled back and forth over who had the decision making power over the new member, and for the most part, the auditionees just watched it all happen. What could they do? Nothing. They were just the pawns in the game, really, if one thought about it.

“You said we could have the ability to pick the final member out of that group! We don’t want anyone but y/n!” Wooyoung yelled, getting in the face of one of the staff members, having to be pulled away by Mingi and Yunho.

“I will take all of my members, and we’ll leave KQ, if you continue to insist on your pick for the ninth member. I am not above leaving. We,” Hongjoong said as he gestured to the rest of Ateez, “are not above leaving. I don’t think you want to test how far you can push us before we push back.” He said, his words a thinly veiled threat.

“Who would take you? They don’t want an established group.” The staff member who started all of this stated.

“I can think of a few companies who would gladly take us. You forget we’re a group that has a very large international audience, which is what companies want nowadays.” Hongjoong said, almost too calmly.

“We’ll leave, take everything we can with us, and we’ll go start somewhere else. Atiny will follow us, they like us, not you.” Hongjoong spelled it out for the staff members, who quickly realized that they might want to back down on this.

“God, is your pussy really that great that they’ll go to bat for you like this? Well, I guess a slut like you knows how to please, honestly that’s all omega’s are good for, anyways. Just a quick fuck, nothing more.” She heard the voice speak again, and this time it was louder, since she saw some of the other auditionees’ heads turn. She would have turned to look at who it was, but she couldn’t take her eyes off of the idols across the table.

It was apparent to the others, though not to the y/n nor the person behind her, that not only had the other auditionees’ heard those words, but so had a member of the group. Before anyone could process the idol’s actions, Jongho had launched himself across the room and tackled whoever had been sitting behind her, the two landing on the floor with a thump. This stopped any fighting in its tracks.

“You want to say that again?” Jongho growled as he pinned the other person to the floor, teeth bared.

“Y-You heard me.” They said, a stutter appearing as they tried to mask any fear of the beta on top of them.

“I would bet that you’re also the person who leaked those pictures to Dispatch. Since you’re so intent on being jealous that you weren’t picked.” The maknae idol deduced.

“And if I did? What are you going to do about it?” They taunted him, somehow overcoming their fear.

“Jongho, get off of him. Now.” Hongjoong ordered, moving over to where the maknae was.

“No.”

“Jongho, now.”

“He was telling lies to y/n. Telling her that she and omegas were only good for a quick fuck, and that we were only fighting for her because she was good in bed. His words were more vulgar, and I won’t repeat them.” Jongho said, never looking away from the target of his rage.

“It’s not a lie. Omegas are only good for fucking, that’s it. That’s their purpose in life, is to be good little broodmares for betas and alphas. Besides, what talent does she have, she’s barely done anything while we’ve been here, and has only monopolized the attention of all of you.” They spat out, glaring over at y/n before their view of her was replaced with Mingi.

Hongjoong turned to look at the staff and managers with a murderous look on his face. They really wanted someone like this, to become part of Ateez? “You wanted a disgusting piece of shit like this, to become a member of Ateez? Someone who will look down on his fellow members because of their subgender? You were going to let someone like this interact with Atiny, and based on his words, probably abuse power as an idol to take advantage of them?” He raged, his voice becoming increasingly louder until he was shouting at them.

The staff tried to stammer out excuses, claiming they knew nothing of the beta’s opinions. It was clear to everyone that none of the idols believed the words coming out of their managers’ mouths, though to his credit, their main manager didn’t say anything, just sat down and stayed quiet while the others talked out of their asses. In return for his silence, he received disappointed looks from the eight idols, half of whom were still filled with rage against the beta and the others.

Wooyoung rushed over to y/n’s side once the shock and anger of the situation was pushed aside in favor of concern for his omega baby. Placing his hands on her shoulders to turn her to face him, as she still spaced out.

“Baby omega, c’mon come look at me,” he pleaded. “It’s okay, so come back to me, to us.”

His words, plus his scent of flowers and cinnamon turning slightly burnt as he worried, brought y/n back to the present. She looked over at the other omega, whose face was filled with worry.

“Wooyoung-ssi?” She asked, still a bit dazed from her intense focus on what was now just an empty spot in the room.

“Hi baby omega, how are you feeling?” He asked her, as the others looked over at the two of them.

“God, I knew it from the moment that the hag of an omega dragged you away, that you were an attention whore.” The beta cut in, making everyone’s heads’ snap to him.

Y/n’s face dropped as she realized who exactly said that, but she couldn’t get a word in before the sound of a slap rang out. Mingi had stepped forward, kneeling down and slapping the beta’s cheek so hard that a bruise had already started to form.

“Aaron, why are you like this? You were so nice to me.” Y/n asked, confused.

“Because you’ve done nothing to deserve anything you’ve gotten here. I’ve worked my ass off for years, and I’ve been passed over in favor of omegas. Because of your kind, I can’t get anything, omegas are always the ones chosen for things, never betas. I deserve this. I’m way more talented than you are, and I’m not a fucking whore who sleeps her way into the team. I don’t monopolize Ateez’s attention, not like you have. You got private sessions with San and Yunho, I saw it. And fuck it was amazing to see how much hate you’re still getting for it. You should just go back home, y’know, and be the little omega housewife, because that’s all you’re good for.” Aaron goes off on a rant, inadvertently revealing that he was the one that leaked the photos to Dispatch.

The anger in the room was palpable, and y/n wasn’t the only one to shrink in on herself because of it. Wooyoung held her tighter, his arms snaking around her to pull her closer, as the two of them watched the others crowd around the three on the floor, as they noticed that the staff ushered the other auditionees out of the conference room.

“So, you’re the one who put my members’ careers at risk, and put them in the middle of a scandal? You’re the one who made my members worried and stressed because you’re jealous that another person, that wasn’t you, caught our eye? Y’know, it's fitting that it’s you. You look as pathetic as you actually are. Only someone who knows they’re inadequate stoops so low as to bring others down to their level. You’re passed over in favor of omegas, because they’re obviously better than you. And y/n is one of those omegas.” Hongjoong said, his words filled with condescension towards Aaron. “Say goodbye to any chance of making it in the industry, here or back home. Word gets around about bad people.” The captain finished.

Seonghwa turned to the staff that remained in the room. “If you don’t get security here within the next few minutes, and make sure he’s escorted back to his room so he can pack up and then driven to the airport to fly back to whatever dump he’s from, we will take it into our hands. I don’t think you want the media, or Atiny, knowing that you were going to let someone who tried to ruin two members of Ateez, into the group. Nor will the police be happy if they find out that they were deceived, if any of you knew about what he had done, to not only San and Yunho, but to an innocent person in all of this.”

Yeosang, normally not one to be overly touchy feely when things are stressful, moved over to Wooyoung and y/n, in need of comfort from his omega friend. Wooyoung immediately noticed and pulled the alpha close, the now trio taking comfort in one another. The two men silently communicated, both hoping that management would fail in the task given to them, so that the stain on the floor would be dragged out by police instead. They were disappointed when security rushed into the room, and once Jongho had pulled away from the beta, the team of security guards led the disgraced auditionee out of the conference room, and away from the lives of the now nine members of Ateez.

Hongjoong was quick to collect the rest of the group, including y/n, and bid goodbye to the staff members, not sparing them another glace as he led his group out into the hallway. Y/n was pushed into the middle of their protective circle, with Seonghwa and Wooyoung on either side, and Mingi behind the trio to bring up the rear as the others surrounded the trio of omegas. The group of nine were led to the practice room, as it was the easiest and quickest place to regroup.

Once everyone was settled in the room, most sprawled out on the floor, including y/n whose head was laid in Yeosang’s lap as the man ran his hands through her hair, silence settled over the group as everyone processed what had just occurred. That silence lasted until the youngest omega shot up, almost hitting Yeosang’s chin, as she realized exactly what the group had been fighting for in the first place.

“Wait. You want me to be the ninth member of Ateez?!” She shouted out, in complete shock.

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[jaebeomsbitch]

Not So Dirty Talk (E.M)

Summary: trying to tell your boyfriend a story in the middle of intimate times?

Gif credit: @foggystreetlights

WARNINGS: MINORS DNI, PinV, cream pie, explicit words and actions, unprotected

A/N: had this in the drafts for a while, thought I’d come back with something after not writing for a while. Also thanks for the 300 new followers in the short time I’ve been MIA!

I’m definitely reusing this gif

We’ve always always talked about Eddie babbling during sex, spewing out dirty shit out of his mouth that I’d make a nun blush but what about the times when he slips in slow and steady. Elbows on either side of your head and you accidentally let out a little giggle. His eyes snapping up towards yours.

“What’s so funny princess?” He asks with a dimpled grin. Hips moving ever so slightly inside you letting you adjust, his knees digging into the sheets, thighs pressed into your ass, knees wrapped around his neck.

“Something stupid” you say with a little twinkle in your eyes.

“Yeah? Couldn’t wait baby?” He smiles, moving his hips slow and methodically.

And then you’re just having a full conversation in the middle of sex. His bangs pressed into his forehead with a thin veil of sweat.

“Uh-huh okay then?” He asks breathlessly. His stomach flexing trying to keep himself together but your pussy’s just so warm and enveloping.

You try to keep your thoughts straight, trying to hold onto the thin thread chasing it desperately as you start to stutter “a-an- and t-the fuh-“ your eyes rolling back, fingernails digging into the backs of your thighs.

“Uh-huh and?” He says eyes twinkling with mirth.

“Mmm I- uhh ohh” you gasp out trying to speak desperately but you just can’t.

“Aww, cat got your tongue princess?” He smiles sardonically. His pride swelling seeing you so fucking cock dumb under him. Reduced to a drooling babbling mess.

“Oh- fuck please don’t stop” you moan.

“What’re you gonna do if I do?” He says with that irritating smirk on his face.

“Please- Eddie please don’t” you heave for air, stomach constricting with your impending orgasm.

“Can’t do to stop me sweets, I could stop right now. Leave you crying” he says nipping at your collarbone

“Please Eddie” you beg desperately even though he hasn’t stopped and he has no plans to stop. Your nails leave deep crescent moons in the back of your thighs, your thighs tightening around his neck.

“M’not” he grunts seeing the tears springing in your eyes. His hips slapping against your ass rhythmically.

“Not until you fucking cum all over my cock princess” he continues sounding more and more breathless. The fire at the base of his spine growing and catching like kindling in a chimney.

Your moans start getting more and more high pitched.

“Close m’close,” you nod. Your eyes rolling back, lips falling open, Eddie’s fingers digging into your shoulders as he cradles you close.

Grinding his hips against yours, he groans softly, his grip on your hips tightening. "God, you feel so good," he murmurs, nuzzling against your neck. "So fucking hot."

Your slip your fingers in the small gap between you two circling your clit. You gasp all the sensations overwhelming. The hard press of Eddie’s tattooed chest into your thighs, his scent invading your nose mixed with the smell of sex, the sting of his hips slapping your ass, his fingers digging into your shoulders, thick spreading you open slamming into your cervix leaving you a drooling babbling mess.

You can’t help the sob that leaves your lips. The pleasure crackling in every nerve ending if your body. You shudder underneath Eddie, gasping for air, choked with a moan. Big fat tears rolling down your cheeks as you cum and babble incoherently.

Your warm velvet walls squeezing Eddie’s cock, practically suffocating it. Moaning loudly, he closes his eyes, lost in the sensations coursing through his body. His breath comes in short, ragged gasps as you continue to pull him in creating a delicious friction that sends shivers down his spine. Until he finally lets go, the burn at his spine climbing like a spider in its web.

With a groan, thick white ropes painting your walls as the two of you pant for air. His arms shake as he pushes himself up gently moving your legs down from his shoulders.

“Fuck— that was…” he breathes heavily falling back down into your chest with a thud. His breath hot on your neck as he nuzzles into you. You lazily wrap your arms under his sweaty armpits.

“Didn’t know talking about my sixty year old co-worker would get you so hot” you tease

He chuckles, “there’s just something about Gladys and the way she fucking hates me.”

[tinydefector]

TFP Shockwave with a pet human who he's come to be rather affectionate with absent mindedly and has become more interactive with them outside of experiments even. One day human goes missing / isn't in usual spot and Shockwave is trying to figure out wtf is going on but then a con makes a cruel joke (anyone of choosing I thought arachnid or starscream) that they fell out of their cage and got caught underfoot whoopsies . how does Shockwave react before the human comes out from their hiding spot where they were resting??? O_O

Out of Reach

Shockwave x human

Warning: none

Word count: 1k

Shockwave masterlist

_________________________

Shockwave grew increasingly troubled as his thorough search of the lab turned up no sign of his human companion. They were always precisely where he expected upon his arrival, yet this cycle they were nowhere to be found. A nagging unease arose within the Decepticon scientist, though he remained outwardly calm as he searched.

Shockwave diligently swept across the laboratory once more, searching for any trace or clue that could indicate the human's whereabouts or condition. This simply made no logical sense. They had never hidden from him, something must have happened. Had something interfered with the lab's systems without triggering alerts? No breaches were indicated. Shockwave did not appreciate unexplained variables in his work.The sooner this small mystery was solved, the better.

Arachnid watches with a smirk on her lips as Shockwave walks through the halls checking different areas and in hopes that his little companion was just hiding. "Missing something Shockwave?" She inquires with a raised optic brow, not looking rather interested.

Shockwave paused in his meticulous vent searches to regard the inquisitive Arachnid. She took far too much pleasure in others' losses, however minor.

"My human subject is absent from their Enclosure without explanation," he stated flatly. No sense indulging her obvious gloating. "Their whereabouts remain unknown." Her smirk only widened. "And you thought you had everything so neatly ordered. Surprises happen, even to our beloved scientist." Her tone held thinly veiled mockery. "Perhaps a fleshling has more spirit than you gave it credit for."

Shockwave disregarded her taunting for now. "If you possess any data that could aid my investigation, speak. Else your presence here serves no purpose." His patience for games was nonexistent. She lets out a huff as she turns away. "Last I saw them Starscream was rambling about discarding the little pest, I would much rather have added them to my collection, but no use once they are squished" she replies amusement flicking in her optics. It makes Shockwave's spark go cold at the thought.

Starscream, interfering in his work yet again... but to harm the human? It made no sense. "Elaborate. What precisely did Starscream say?" Starscream's actions often lacked reason, but there had to be a thread of logic here. The thought of harm coming to his research subject was. displeasing.

His optic narrowed on Arachnid, another smile graced her lips. "If my memory serves correctly, starscream stepped on them when he was in your laboratory last, and decided it was easier to discard them before they made a mess with all their bloo " she teases. She was going to see just how far Shockwave was willing to go for the little flesh bag.

Something akin to anger flashed through Shockwave's circuits at Arachnid's vague 'memory' and obvious game. Starscream would pay dearly for damaging laboratory property and disrupting critical research. His optic burned into hers. "Show me. Now."

Starscream looks up from his data pad when the sound of Shockwave's shadow forms over him. Arachnid gives him a little wave before stalking off, leaving Shockwave with him. "What can I do for you, Shockwave, as you can see I am rather busy" he states, wings flickering in annoyance at being interrupted.

"You will explain the human's current status and your role in their disappearance, Starscream," he stated calmly. Too calmly, given the swirling calculations within his processor. "Arachnid insinuated you were involved with deactivating them."

Starscream shifted uneasily under that baleful optical lens. “How dare you accuse me!” he snarls as his optics glare at the scientist. Shockwave cut him off. "The human. Where is it? I will have answers, one way or another. Do not test me further, Starscream."

"You babbling Moron I haven't been anywhere near your Lab nor near that disgusting little creature you adore!I'm Sure Arachnid would just love to add them to her collection of prizes and is using this time to hunt them" Starscream snarls out wings flickering even more as Shockwave threatens him.

The moment those words leave Starscream, Shockwave turned on a heel strut and departed, optic aglow with sheer anger. When Shockwave stalks back into his laboratory Arachnid isn't paying attention as she looks through the vents eager to try and find the human before Shockwave's return.A faint whirring was Shockwave's only warning before his blaster cannon trained directly on Arachnid's backstrut. "Cease your prowling immediately, My companion is off limits as is instructed by Lord Megatron" he commanded, weapon charged and ready.

She froze at the sound of his calm yet irrefutable voice. “Such a shame, yet you still have found your precious little pet, perhaps they have finally abandoned you” she sneers back at him. His optic narrowed to a slit. He took a measured step forward. "The human. Where have you hidden or disposed of them, Arachnid?" A hiss escaped her in mingled frustration and wary respect. Lying to Shockwave was never wise. Slowly, delicately, she extracted herself away from the vent. "I have no idea."

Movement catches Shockwave optics from over on his bench, it makes both Decepticons helms snap to the moment. "What time is it?" the little human asked while rubbing their eyes as they pulled the large cloth around their body. walking out of the unoccupied crate that originally held Shockwave's energon cube rations. Arachnid snarls as she pushes Shockwave off before stalking out of the lab. "What was that about?" They mumble tiredly.

Shockwave's cannon whirred down as he took in the dishevelled yet apparently unharmed human, "It is roughly mid-cycle," he replied calmly, his servo moving across their frame taking in their appearance making sure they are not injured. all traces of anger leave his processes.

"You appear undamaged. How did you get to be within the energon container? Arachnid led me to believe you'd been.harmed." he questioned, Relief pulsed through his lines, though he showed no outward emotion.

"I fell asleep in there last night while you were working, sorry I didn't mean to cause any issues" they state as he lifts them up. Shockwave processed this new information and he cursed himself for not checking the crate. "You have nothing for which to apologise for " he replied calmly, holding the human against his chassis. “I ask that you alert me as to your wear about before recharge for your own safety” he states before setting down with them in his servos.

______________

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[tonkatsubowl]

hsr penacony men reacting to the reader being a yandere

▼ trigger warning. for alot of things.

aventurine would most definitely keep an eye on you. he previously stated that he lost everything in life and that he had nothing else to lose anymore, but now... with your love for him, he knew that he would never try to lose you. however, your behavior got worse as the two of you got into a relationship. you became obsessive, possessive and toxic at times. you threatened others when they got too close to him, and there were times where he literally had to hold you back. aventurine liked this side a bit, but when it got triggered, he had to do everything he can to prevent you from murdering everyone in sight. he'd soothe you with words to calm you down, and there would be times where he had to physically keep you down. kisses and hugs would do the trick, but sometimes it'd take more than that.

"again?" aventurine murmured as he approached the dark alleyway of the outskirts of penacony.

the stench of blood filled his nostrils as he approached you obliterating an innocent person, your eyes wide and an insane smile adoring your veil.

"(y/n)..." he placed a hand atop of your shoulder, seizing you of your actions. you look over, your blood-covered face softening when you see your lover.

"she's dead. there's no need to make a mess now." he soothes you, stroking your hair as he began to clean you up with a handkerchief.

"she was certainly being a mess earlier," you cooed, "i had to get rid of her. she was talking about wanting to sleep with you, and—"

he hushed you by pressing his lips against yours, before pulling away. he couldn't help his popularity in penacony, but his reputation was extremely dangerous. because of you.

"it's alright, dear. remind yourself that nobody other than you will be able to have me."

"... hehehe. i just love you so much, kakavasha."

dropping the murder weapon, you embraced him, tainting his expensive clothing with the victim's blood.

"... i love you too." his gaze softens, looking at the gruesome sight before him. now he has to clean this up...

dr ratio knew that this side of you was hidden, somewhere, waiting to be summoned. he knew the moment he met you for the first time, there was something about you that wasn't... right. and now time has flown by, and the both of you were engaged in a relationship. however, he didn't calculate that this side of you would be so dark.

luckily for you, dr ratio was an introvert and only spent his time reading books and whatnot. he spends his days indoors, doing whatever a mathematical, physiological and scientific genius would do, so you didn't have to worry about him going off.

however, just one moment he walks into a public library and all hell breaks loose. a woman admiring him from afar would be declared missing, and you would obviously be the reason why.

he sighed, seeing that the woman's body was laid to rest, and you were approaching him with the murder weapon in hand.

"veritas!" you exclaimed, bouncing towards him with glee, "i missed you!"

he eyes at the gruesome sight behind you, sighing to himself as you embraced him. you impressed him, seeing that he did not calculate this dangerous side of you. but you had to be controlled. he definitely learned that questioning you of your antics and beliefs would drive you crazy and go on both a rampant and a rampage.

"...i missed you, as well. but please do not make a mess, next time. i'd rather not see you coat yourself with blood again. if anyone sees you, then—"

"or what." you threatened, your eyes widening. "let them see. let the world see! the world needs to know that you're mine. you're mine. you're mine. you're mine! you're mi—" you went off again, and he had to quiet you by placing a hand atop of your head. "i am yours," he forced himself to reassure you, "but i would much rather you not get caught. do you understand that?"

as though your demeanor changed, you became a guilty dog that was caught ripping something apart (literally). your eyes pleaded, as you look down.

"okay..."

"good. now let's clean you up."

sunday knew this side of you. considering he was also a manipulative person, he truly didn't mind that you were doing this but at the same time, he had a reputation to keep. he didn't want you to dirty the streets of penacony due to a bit of jealousy or hatred towards other people who admired sunday.

but he was given word that you were killing one of the guard dogs of the family, who spoke ill about you. well deserved, he thought, until he had to clean up after you.

the doors opened, revealing you, multiple guards watching you with horror and disgust, and the victim that could not be even seen as a victim anymore but a pile of intestines and minced meat.

he sighed, pinching his nose, before approaching you. the guards around him shook with terror as they were confused how he of all people was not affected by your actions.

"(y/n)," he calls out to you, "must you be this dirty with your actions?"

"he was talking ill about you." you say, looking towards him as you got up, happily skipping towards him, "so i got rid of him."

well deserved, sunday once again thought, but now he has a mess to clean up.

he signaled the guards to clean up the minced meat pile, before wrapping an arm around your shoulder. "now i have to drag you into the bath to get you washed up."

"okay! will you join me? you have to. you need to. or else everyone here dies, and—"

"i will." sunday nods slowly, pressing his lips at corner of your lips. "do not fret."

and because of this, and all the previous other events you did, you were practically nicknamed the "dog of sunday". you were a dog to be corrected on a leash, always by sunday's side, and a threat to those who opposed the man.

loyal, and forever by his side, waiting to bite.

[becauseicantthinkwritings]

Till Death Do Us Part II

Part 15 of my Accidentally on Purpose Series!

Billy Russo x Female Reader

Warnings: Alcohol consumption and inebriation.

NOW

You wake up with a slow sigh, still unaccustomed to this cold feeling despite how long it’s been. You really hadn’t gotten used to sleeping alone in the weeks since your departure from Billy.

The technical term for what you were on was a break. The very sound of the word in your head caused an ache in your chest.

Funny enough, your memory of that night had come back to you a week ago, your brain dredging up every forgotten memory of him in his absence. 

It haunts your dreams now, the way he looked at you as you walked down that aisle, the veil covering your face, appearing pure as though he hadn’t pressed his face between your thighs and made you cum on his tongue repeatedly from the moment you’d left the shop, all the way to the chapel. Beneath the veil your hair had been quite askew, only quickly smoothed over a few minutes before.

The memory makes you smile, his eyes, following your every movement, the dress swishing around your thighs, a bouquet he’d bought for you just moments before- a small collection of succulents- because the roses had looked on the brink of wilting and everything else had been sold at that late hour.

The marriage had been ordained by an Elvis Presley impersonator, cracking jokes more than anything else so of course you’d never have thought that any of this was real.

Absentmindedly, you realise you never had a first dance, and you wonder if that even mattered to Billy at all.

You shake your head, sitting up, you really needed to stop thinking about him. The entire point of this break had been to see if feelings lingered if you were apart, but the very thought of it had seemed stupid right now.

How could you forget him? After all the things he’d done to you, and the ways he’d made up for it. He wasn’t the same man you’d first met, and definitely not the one you initially married. He was something in between, and in some ways, he’d become even more than that.

There was no denying that there was something seriously wrong with you. The reminder of all the ways he’d violated your privacy had given you some sort of comfort, instead of the fear it was supposed to elicit. You wonder if he was monitoring you, even now. Maybe you should have demanded he respect your boundaries. 

What if there was a part of you that wanted him to do it? What was really so wrong with what he'd done?

A laugh punches out of you. Here you were again trying to excuse his actions. He was an obsessive, dangerous manipulator who didn't like taking ‘no’ for an answer.

Your stomach grumbles, and you groan, sliding out of bed to begin your day.

He'd been so kind about the separation too, offering to pay for you to stay at a nearby hotel until you'd made your decision, but it was still too close to him, you'd walk out of your building and find yourself in front of Anvil, aching to go in.

So you'd taken his jet all the way to Singapore, where you'd hoped to find a way to sort through your emotions.

He'd even signed the divorce papers, relinquishing them to you to be filed whenever you made your decision. They were sitting in your carry-on suitcase still, burning a hole into your luggage.

And the ring- you feel your heart squeeze as you look down at your left hand during breakfast at the hotel restaurant and find your finger bare- you'd given him back the ring. The look on his face had almost destroyed you. How could you hurt him so badly?

You could barely eat, and you’d forced yourself to go out and explore the city. Singapore, after all, was one of the best cities to be sad in. There were so many dazzling displays, but you could only tolerate them for as long as you didn’t think about him- because the moment you wondered how his eyes would look, glittering in the city lights, or the way he’d kiss the back of your hand and tug you closer to him- it made you achingly depressed all over again, turning away from the beautiful sights to crawl into your cocoon of a bed, in hopes of a better day tomorrow.

Occasionally, to your dismay, you held onto your pillow and cried. You didn’t know why you were crying, if it was just all the pent up emotions, or maybe something else like a deep hatred for yourself, but you’d fall asleep after a fitful cry, and get up in the morning to do it again.

Your marriage wasn’t over yet, and that was all you had to hold on to, laying in your bathtub after a long day, sipping wine, a calm haze sinking over you after your latest sob fest.

After a while, you stand, grabbing your robe and wrapping it around you, moving on autopilot, the bottle of wine in one hand and the glass in the other. 

When the bottle is halfway finished, you feel your usual craving for some burning hot fries,  your stomach grumbling in agreement at the very thought of it. You sway to the phone on the nearby table, picking it up for a second before hesitating. The low humming on the phone makes you nervous, that you were going to have to speak words to another person while you were in a state like this. You could only imagine the judgement that the person on the other line would pass upon you when you stumbled over your words.

Ugh, you put the phone down, only to pick it up a moment later, calling down for an order of fries before you could overthink it. As you put the phone down, you find yourself studying it hopelessly, remembering the last time you’d handled a landline- when you’d been pretending to call for help with your predator of a husband.

The memory brings a smile to your face, and you flop back into bed, pulling the pillow over your head as the memory makes you warm.

You still had that video on your phone- of your wedding night- would it be so bad to watch it again?

There’s a soft knock on your door. You sit up curiously, tugging the robe tighter around your body to make sure you’re presentable before tugging the door open.

Shit, you totally should have checked the peephole first.

Your mouth falls open at the sight of a hotel attendant, holding out a covered tray with a little paper marker with your room number printed on. You accept the tray gratefully, smiling at the woman in thanks, before stepping back to close the door.

Had your food really been made that fast? You hum eagerly when you tug the lid off to find steaming hot fries, curling up with your bottle of wine and eating them happily.

You wiggle your toes, enjoying your delicious snack, scrolling through social media on the new phone you'd gotten, when you happen across a thirst trap video of Billy.

It makes you laugh at first… the footage of him walking into several events, even before you were with him, stopping, a clear hint of irritation in his eyes that only you could recognize. To everyone else it probably just seemed like he was unbothered, but you could see the barest indication that he hated stopping for photos.

And then you see the shot of you and him standing together, and your stomach tingles. The video zooms in on his facial expression when he turns to look at you, completely cropping out your face but it doesn't abate the delight that you feel, because you know he's looking at you.

It seems that the internet had discovered how hot your husband was, and in a way you were both glad, and a tiny bit miffed that he was being admired.

It doesn't stop you from searching his name up and looking through similar videos, frowning when you catch sight of a few news articles about that night you were abducted… the story slowly going cold as time moved on. Billy had been right, the story would die down when people found other things to talk about. The world, to your amazement, just kept on turning.

You almost broke your no contact rule to send Billy these videos of himself, curious to see his reaction to Britney Spears’ Toxic being played while he walks down a red carpet in slow motion, another shot of him inside the party, having a sip of whiskey, the top button of his black shirt open, that dastardly strand of hair in his face.

Were you wet from this? You shift your body slightly to find that the answer is yes, groaning as you drop into the couch pillows.

Extracting yourself from him was harder than you thought.

.

In the morning, you're doing a little cleaning up when your eyes fall on the empty food tray.

You tilt your head, trying to recall the exact time it took between you calling the hotel restaurant and your food arriving. It must have been five minutes at most. You don't even get food at that speed when you're inside the restaurant, let alone the distance they'd have to travel to get it to you. It implied that someone had to have anticipated your order- and what better suspect was there than the man that had stalked you for years without you knowing.

Was Billy watching you? Like actually watching you? And he'd ordered you warm fries because he knew it was your favorite thing to eat while inebriated-

You groan in delight, dropping onto your bed.

Yeah, definitely something wrong with you. But that was so thoughtful… right?

For the first time since you've been apart, you start to feel a little bit better, and you take your time to explore the city again, thinking about him, and whether he was actually watching you or not.

What if he was following you? It wasn't like him to trail behind you like that- at least, not that you knew of- but maybe absence had made his heart grow more obsessed?

My poor husband, you think with delight as you duck into back alleys and through malls to see if your thoughts were right. When you see no sign of him, you wonder if you'd fabricated the entire scenario because maybe it was your heart that had grown more obsessed.

You're looking for a place to duck into and hide to see if anyone would show up, when the neon snake catches your eye.

It's a sign for a tattoo shop, and the wheels turn in your head as you walk toward it, feeling impulsive.

Maybe it's the reminder of being chased by him, that inspires you, or the way you feel right now, like you're playing a game of cat and mouse, and at any moment he might step out of the shadows and pull you into him.

Which… might actually be where you want to be?

You leave the tattoo place hours later, looking around as you leave the mall.

It takes you a second to notice, on the bustling streets of Singapore, but you would know the stance of a bodyguard anywhere.

Even in street clothes, they stick out to you, having seen enough in the past few months to identify the squaring of the shoulders, the slow, precise movement of each step. 

You were in fact, being followed, but not by Billy himself, but by his hidden security detail.

Boring, you think, offended.

You were supposed to be on break, but why did that make you want to torment him so much?

How much mischief would it take to provoke him into showing up? 

You were curious to see what he would do, when confronted with your many misdemeanors, fully prepared to have your heart ripped out if he didn't show up.

But he would, wouldn't he?

Even if you never wanted to see him again, he would show up at the first sign of your distress, that was just the kind of obsessed man he was.

It starts with a shopping spree, that doesn't go well at all. There are fits that don't flatter and sizes much too small and at one point you look into your lumpy reflection in a changing room mirror and swear you're never trying on another dress again.

You crash into bed feeling like absolute shit about yourself and trying your hardest not to cry because you've cried a lot already.

You needed help, you couldn't navigate the vastness of Singapore's fashion district all by yourself and you wonder if reaching out to someone would be a good idea.

You sniffle, reaching for your phone to pull up Sam's contact, typing out a quick text asking her if she had any free time to offer some advice.

Her response is quick, and makes you tilt your head in confusion.

Hello Mrs, Russo, I'm on my way! I'll see you in the morning.

You hadn’t even told her where you were. Not to mention, it was almost an entire day of flying to get here from where she was.

I'm not in New York. You text back.

I know ;) Is her suspicious response.

Was she already on a plane? How would she-

You grin, pressing your palm over your eyes. Your husband was paying very close attention to you.

How dare he? You were supposed to be on break. He should be trying to live his life normally, not watching over you like some stalker.

Yet you giggle, kicking your feet as you pull up Maria's contact.

She answers with a soft excited greeting of your name, followed by the usual pleasantries of ‘How are you?’ and ‘I'm great, thanks for asking.’

“I'm just calling to make sure someone's checked in on Billy.” You say, trying to be vague about the details, because Billy had told them you were away visiting your family.

“I saw him on Monday, he was alive, just a little grey you know?”

Over the phone you can hear a whistle blow, followed by soft chatter and you figure she's at one of her son's football practices.

“Grey?” You ask.

Maria hums in agreement, distracted by whatever she's looking at.

“Scruffy, a little pale. I think he just misses you.”

It hurts to hear in a way you weren't familiar with.

“Oh.” Is all you can find yourself to say.

“If you can, would it be possible to check in on him soon? He tells me he's fine, but…”

“I get it, I will, don't worry. I'll see if I can take him a pie or something tomorrow.”

You let out a soft sigh.

“Thank you for everything, Maria.”

I hope we can still be friends when Billy and I separate, you think sadly.

You bid each other goodbye, before hanging up.

Tomorrow you would know for sure where he was, which would tell you the extent of his stalking.

For tonight, you slide into yet another bath, and try not to let your inadequacies swallow you whole.

.

Coming to the nightclub all by yourself was definitely not the best idea you’ve ever come up with.

But still, it was something to do in an attempt to provoke him.

Maria had confirmed just two days ago that Billy was, in fact, still in New York, throwing himself into work with no attempt to take care of himself.

Again, the thought of him like that had really eaten at you, the urge to care for him lingering even though you hadn’t seen or spoken to him in a month.

Sam had been sketchy on the details when you’d met her for breakfast that same morning, stating that photos of you spotted in Singapore had come up on some gossip sites, which was how she knew where you were. She’d made it seem like she’d know you’d need her, making plans preemptively just in case you called, and taking a nice vacation if you decided not to reach out to her. 

Which was definitely suspicious, but she was indeed a godsend, navigating through designer boutiques, knowing exactly where to look so that you didn’t try on anything that she wasn’t sure you’d love, even going as far as to advocate for you when a saleswoman told her that there was nothing in your size when they’d thought they’d been out of earshot.

She was amazing, and you think by the end of this, if you decided to stay with Billy, you’d ask her to be your official stylist.

However cool you thought clubs were in New York, could never possibly hope to outdo the magnificence that the nightlife in Singapore could hold. All out was an understatement, with laser strobes and dangling crystal chandeliers, there was a mix of old and new that always managed to amaze you.

You’re seated at the balcony bar, overlooking the revelry going on below, the club is filled with pulsing bodies, the music thrumming in your ears, an enjoyable mix that encourages you to sway your shoulders with each drink you have.

You’re in a short black dress, topped with a fancy designer jacket statement piece on top, to show off your legs while shielding you from feeling too exposed. Your heels were black suede with little buckles around your ankles, a little too high for your liking, but you didn’t mind much because you weren’t doing that much walking.

It was nice, albeit lonely, no one to enjoy it with, all by your lonesome as the bartender stared at you with curious eyes as he slid you another glass of wine.

You must have looked pathetic by yourself, but you really didn’t mind all that much, only here to see if you could draw him out.

You hadn’t considered that sitting by yourself at the bar was something else entirely, until a man slides into the space between you and the other person sitting beside you.

“You look like you’re waiting for someone.” The man says, smiling down at you.

He’s quite handsome, as almost everyone in a place like this is, with a tightly fitted shirt, and his hair styles to perfection, you watch him signal the bartender for a drink while you study him and decide on a response.

“And if I am?” You ask curiously.

He smiles, looking unbelievably boyish, and yet still stunning.

“Then it’s their loss because I found you first.”

You make a sound of amusement, smiling up, and when you can’t resist, you let out a little laugh.

“Does that line really work?” You can’t seem to stop laughing.

He takes a sip of the whiskey that’s been slid towards him, but it seems forced, as if his order was to impress you more than his desire to enjoy it.

“You tell me. I got to see your pretty smile after all.”

Your eyebrows raise in surprise, a slither of delight going down your spine at being noticed. Maybe this wasn’t a bad thing.

“I hate to break it to you- um-”

“- Simon,” He offers, taking hold of your free hand to place a soft kiss on the back of it.”

Your brain sort of malfunctions, but not in an excited way, but more in a ‘what-on-earth-is-this-maniac-doing?’ type of way.

“-Simon…” You repeat, “but I’m married.”

His thumb gently circles the back of your hand.

“Are you now? I don’t see a ring.”

Good point.

“W-we’re on a break.” You explain, though you’re not sure why you feel the need to divest this to a stranger.

“He must be an idiot to agree to that. If I had you, I’d fight for you like no tomorrow.”

Which makes you groan internally in disgust. He had no idea the circumstances of your break, and here he was doling out his thoughts that nobody asked for.

“Maybe I’m the wrong one.” You offer, reaching for your glass of wine.

Why is his hand still holding yours? He was trying to be slow and seductive and yet all you were starting to feel was disgust.

His hand trails slowly up to your elbow, dragging the tips of his fingers slowly down your arm again. It felt nice in your buzzed state, but it wasn’t the man you wanted.

“If you’re wrong then I can make you right.”

You laugh into your wine.

“I’m sorry, I think you’ll have to find another girl to charm, I’m not the one for you.”

“So you find me charming?”

Was he even listening to what you were saying? Or was he just trying to say something in hopes that you went home with him?

“Maybe a little,” You answer honestly, “but I meant what I said.”

Your stomach twists as his fingers trail up to your elbow again, this time, he raises his hand to push your hair back, away from your face. You blink, trying not to stiffen in discomfort at the liberties he’s taking.

“You sure? We could-” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before he’s being grabbed by his shirt and hauled away. 

You watch the back of one of the burly Anvil guys retreat into the crowd, gripping Simon by his shoulder tightly as they move.

You make a small sound of amusement, watching as their heads disappear, and refocusing as someone else fills the space beside you.

At first you think that it’s Billy, your heart picking up speed as the guy with a similar build and height as your husband steps into view. He’s wearing a black hoodie, pulled up over his head, and a black face mask that you see people sometimes wearing when they ride the buses. He’s facing away from the bar, with that classic Anvil bodyguard stance, and when he sees you looking in his peripherals, he turns his head to look at you, and nods.

Blue eyes. 

Your shoulders drop in disappointment, turning back to face the bar, finishing your wine and raising the glass for another.

“Who are you supposed to be?” You ask, staring at him suspiciously. The Anvil guys don’t usually wear masks.

He turns his head to you, distracted from giving a death glare out at the crowd behind you, reaching into his pocket, he pulls out two cards and extends them toward you.

One is his ID, and the other is an Anvil identification, with his face on it, a scar on the lower half of his face that you figure would draw attention if it was visible.

“Dave?” You say, reading the name aloud, passing the cards back to him.

He nods, his hands are gloved, and you wonder why as he places the cards back into his pocket. 

You exhale loudly, raising your glass to take another sip.

.

When you stand to leave, a little after midnight, you wobble on your feet. Dave reaches out to grip your elbow- you’d shed your jacket after the alcohol had made your skin too warm to bear wearing it.

You make a small laugh, playfully tugging your arm out of his grasp, walking slowly toward the steps, your deathgrip on the railing is necessary, because your vision isn’t the straightest, and when you almost stumble, you find Dave once again in your personal space trying to give you support.

You shove him when you get your balance, but it does nothing more than move him a step back.

“You must not value your hands very much.” You grumble, taking another step down.

Dave is sort of annoying really, with the way he hovers, unlike the Anvil guys before. He seems hellbent on staying two steps behind you at all times, but you find this making you even angrier. Billy had really sent you a babysitter instead of coming himself. 

As the door opens, the flashing of cameras catches your eye, causing you to gasp, stepping back and knocking right into Dave.

His hands grip your hips securely, and you turn to look back at him with wide eyes.

“Is there another exit?” You ask, not wanting to be photographed in this state to be seen by many people, even accidentally.

Dave has another idea, pointing at your jacket so that you pass it to him, he tosses the open garment over your head and shoulders, linking his elbow in yours so that he can guide you.

Your arm wraps around his, inching in close so that you can raise your hand to grip his bicep for support, feeling the muscle below his clothes, making you yearn for the attention of the man that wasn’t here.

He guides you into the car, supporting your hips when your legs wobble, and then you wait for the door to close before you tug your jacket off your head.

The car’s tint is dark, but the minute you’re out of sight, the photographers go back to the entrance of the club, taking pictures of people coming and going.

You sigh, relaxing, and then you straighten when the door opposite to yours opens, and Dave slides in.

It was… very odd. You don’t think Billy would ever allow a bodyguard to sit in the back with you. He’s the kind of man who would fire someone if they looked at you for too long.

Was this a sign? Was he pulling away from you?

You shudder out a breath, staring angrily at Dave, who at least has the decency to pretend he doesn’t notice.

Would Billy really give up so easily? After possibly sending you Sam, and the food from the other night? Had you imagined these things in hopes that he was paying attention to you?

You swallow, trying to hold back tears and wanting to take your anger and despair out on this new bodyguard.

Surely, Billy would remove him from your detail if you flirted with him a little.

“Dave,” You call sweetly, and you watch as he tilts his head slightly in acknowledgement.

You raise one precarious foot, extending on the seat till your heel is almost touching him.

“Will you unbuckle my shoes for me?” 

He seems to hesitate, before nodding, reaching for your ankle with gloved hands, sliding closer till your foot is on his lap. He tries to undo the delicate buckle, but the gloves are too thick to get any sort of dexterity.

You watch with half open eyes as he tugs his gloves off, and then you blink in awareness when you finally see his hands.

The exact same hands that have explored every inch of your body.

How could you not know these hands? That have touched you and held you, the perfect combination of coarse and well-kept, a freckle on the back of his right hand, carefully moving to undo your shoe with such careless precision that your body aches at just the sight of his hands.

But you saw his ID card, comes the voice of logic in your head.

Something that would be easy enough to fake, if this was Billy Russo after all. And the blue eyes? Contacts obviously, and maybe he’d swapped his usual cologne for something generic just to throw you off his scent… literally.

He gets your shoe off, and you tug your foot away, bending the knee to get more comfortable as you place your other leg on his lap.

Even this could be a fabrication in your mind. Did you really know his hands so well? Could you honestly guarantee to yourself that you could pick them out in a lineup?

Maybe you could, maybe you would know him by the touch of his hands alone if you couldn’t see. So distinct it was to you, smooth, with an underlying hint of a rough life, mixed with the careful way he always seemed to handle you, all of it, so alike to him.

When ‘Dave’ gets both your heels off, you smile in thanks, bending your other knee, flashing him your panties as you turn to place your feet back on the floor. 

You hear him inhale sharply, and you smile to yourself, pressing your head against the window, closing your eyes, pretending to be tipsier than you really were so that you could come up with a game plan.

You actually don’t come up with any plan, falling asleep easily, the alcohol in your system pairing with the knowledge that he was here and you could barely keep your eyes open for another second.

You only wake slightly when he’s lifting you out of the SUV.

You hum, wrapping your arms around his neck, running your hands over the expanse of his shoulders, committing the sensation of him to memory. 

You needed to know for sure, a foolproof piece of evidence that would solidify him as Billy, and not the Dave he claimed to be.

You know his tattoo would be a dead giveaway, but you didn’t want him to figure out you were on to him either. The discovery had to be subtle, distracting him from what you were doing before he realised.

You decide to fake waking up when he steps into the elevator, groaning, you flail angrily in his arms.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” You ask, pushing at him.

He struggles not to drop you as you fight him angrily, tugging at his hoodie, clawing your nails into his collarbone to make a point.

You catch the faintest line of ink on his chest just as he places you down.

You stare at him angrily, wobbling on your feet.

This had to be Billy.

“You’ve got some balls, Dave. It’s a shame Billy’s going to detach them from your body when I ask him to.”

He straightens, a brief hint of amusement before he looks down in apology.

You huff, turning away from him, a combination of inebriation and drowsiness making it really hard to stay standing.

You lean against the wall of the elevator, bare feet on the cold floor, trying to decide what your next move is going to be and frowning when you draw a blank.

You were mad at him, that much you were sure of, and you definitely didn’t want to give away that you knew who he really was.

In the reflection of the elevator doors, you notice your heels dangling from his fingers, the very concept of it making something light up in your brain.

Maybe punishment was in order, for what- you had no idea at the moment- but you wanted to make him squirm.

It’s really fucking hard to make it to your door, and everytime he tries to help you, you smack him away, threatening to have him fired if he put his hands on you again. He never listens, his hands reaching out to grip your hips when you lean too far in one direction.

By sheer willpower you make it to your door, and you huff angrily when the key card refuses to work.

Billy waits patiently this time for you to ask for help, and when you finally turn to him, he’s leaning against the doorframe, staring at you, still wearing that dumb mask and hood.

You grit your teeth, tossing the key card at him, watching as he catches it mid air, which is definitely not what you intended to happen.

He drags it slowly over the sensor once, and the light turns green, you reach for the door handle, pushing it down and stumbling into your room.

You drop your mini clutch onto the marble countertop, bracing against it while you get your bearings.

He’s standing at the door, studying you, and you can hardly bear the sight of his disguise and you don’t understand why.

“Are you a vampire? Do you need to be invited in?” You say snarkily.

He stiffens, taking one step in and letting the door swing shut. He doesn’t move, hands clasped in front of him, waiting for orders.

“Bath.” You rasp, “Please.”

It’s really disrespectful, and you know that, but there’s something about ordering him around that makes you feel good, that maybe he will do anything you say, or maybe he will snap and show you who’s really in charge.

Or the scariest outcome- that he’d leave for good.

He nods, walking to the bathroom and after a few moments, you hear the bath filling with water.

You amble in on jelly legs, sitting on the closed toilet seat to watch him work, holding up bath accoutrements that you’d bought in your time here, silently asking which ones were okay.

When he gets it right, and all that’s left is to get the water filled, you point at the makeup remover and cotton rounds on the sink counter.

“Bring that here.” You say simply.

He picks it up, his hands ungloved, turning to approach you.

You don’t say anything, watching as he extends the products to you, and when you give him a disappointed look, he pulls out a cotton round, putting a liberal amount of makeup remover on it, before he presses two fingers under your chin to tilt your head up.

You close your eyes, unable to look at him, feeling him gently swipe the cotton over your face, pulling your makeup off gently.

“Thank you, Dave.” You say finally, head lolling into his hand, your face feverish against his palm.

He doesn’t respond, his only answer is slight, barely there caress of his fingers on your cheek before he draws away, heading to the door.

“Wait.” You whisper, watching as he stops in his tracks, hesitating before he turns back to you.

“Dress.” You say simply, standing to give him your back.

Your stomach flutters as you feel him drag the zipper down, the fact that this was really him was messing with you. What would he do if you tried to kiss him?

Would he give in? Or would he uphold the pretense of this ‘Dave’ persona?

When he gets the dress undone, you simply utter the words ‘Get out’ before you’re shedding your clothes and sliding into the bath. 

You almost fall asleep there, but when the water gets too cold, you find the strength to get yourself out, grabbing your robe.

He’s left water and Advil on your nightstand, and you huff, crawling into bed, feeling different than you were before.

.

.

.

[xoxochb]

I'm so ashamed to ask this but idc

Write more Leo x f!reader smut PLSPLSPLSPLSPLSPLSPLS🙏🙏🙏🙏IM BEGGING YOUUUU

— it just makes sense ꣑ৎ‧₊˚.

★ - warnings: smut I fear… spanish dialogue was translated using google translate so it’s probably not correct my apologies pairing: leo valdez x fem! reader a/n: had this idea in my head for DAYS 🙏🏼🙏🏼

this was utter suffering. the fact that you had to sit here, doing nothing but watching your boyfriend work. a pout veils your lips, though your eyes say entirely different— it’s the way he handles the metals and tools, calloused fingers running both over and inside the contraptions, causing a pool of heat to rush between your thighs. you try your best attempt to ignore it, to go back to gazing out the window as it rains, but every time you attempt to your eyes wander and find themselves trailing over leo’s hands again

you suppose that he notices you from the corner of his eyes because he smirks only a tad and breaks the silence, “bored, mi cielo?”

your eyes widen and you snap out of your trance quickly. “uhm… a little, yeah”

leo smiles and sits down on his workbench, patting his lap and beckoning you over. happily, you rise from your set on his bed and to stop his lap, steadying yourself with arms around his neck. though, now that you were sitting here he continues his work on the machines, yet still holding you at the same time. you pout and rest your head on his shoulder, resuming your staring session. you sigh and avert your eyes in realization that the heat from between your legs had then traveled through all your senses. you instead listen as it begins to thunder outside, lightning following closely after. and the rain, the patterns of drops against the window… one… two… three… three… two… one… one… two… three and on and on again. nope, so not working in any way shape or form, your mind ends up traveling back to leo’s fumbling hands. you shiver and bury your head further into his shoulder

“cold?”

you shake your head. “no… just- I’m just thinking”

leo smirks and places down his machine, tapping the back of your head to pull you out of his shoulder. “about what?”

your face flushes red. you frown and avoid any eye contact for as long as possible, this was, until leo uses one hand to hold your jaw to force you to look at him

“I- it’s… weird. it’s stupid”

“I won’t make fun of you”

you frown. “I was just… watching you. that’s it”

“yeah? like what you see?”

you throw him an unamused look. though you did like what you saw, he would not be granted the pleasure of knowing that. “I was- no. you’re always… working on your machines and I think I like… watching.” your cheeks get even redder if that’s possible “not… the machines though”

“then what-” leo begins, but then realization washes over him and his eyes widen. his hand leaves your face and instead rests over your upper thighs “oh”

“It’s stupid, I told you” you attempt to get up but leo tightens his grip around your waist and stops you from doing so. you send him a “what’re you doing?” look, silently demanding an answer

and an answer he gives. his finger loops around the waistband or your shorts, but he doesn’t go far before looking up to you with pleading eyes, a quiet consensual act. you nod— though in reality you wish you had said please please please please!! slowly, he slides them down, you help by kicking your legs to get the rest of them off, now he repeats the same action again, sliding your lacy underwear down your legs in a similar manner. then, he trails his fingers back up your thighs and before they get any higher he connects his lips with yours just as his fingers slip inside you, stifling your guttural moan. your hands grip his shirt tightly, when he pulls away from the kiss you throw your head back pleasurably as he works inside you, your walls beginning to tighten around his calloused hands

it’s better than you imagined, though the imagination wasn’t that slim— you had done this before, but more specifically this is better than watching him repeat this action with his stupid machines

leo rests his head in your neck, pecking it gently. “you were thinking?”

oh how you want to respond with a coherent sentence, all that comes out is broken pieces. “I was- mhm- leo, I’m gonna-” your cut off by another moan, every word diminishing from your mind as it turns to utter television static

though your incoherent “sentences” were far better than watching him finger his machines opposed to you