#she did not turn into the god of fear and hunger

[theoneandonlysemla]

Ha, I bamboozled you all!

Late WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @skyrim-forever @heavy-metal-dick @dirty-bosmer @moriche

Tagging (for next week haha) @chiqita @elavoria @friend-of-giants @firefly-factory @labskeever @ladytanithia @hircines-hunter @pocket-vvardvark @pyre-of-pages @sulphuricgrin @sanzas-reverie @thequeenofthewinter

I've hit 2k words on the last chapter for A Taste of Death now (that feels so final and strange ugh) and basically I threw over what I had planned for some part (so that we feel bad later in the story). So... technically I wrote those 2k words without even touching on my bullet points yet, lol. Last time that worked out great and gifted us the big ass 18k chapter. But hey, I thought about handling the chapter thing different. As all these chapters are named after the circles of hell, I will come around to rename them into Circle I to IX. And circles can be as long as I want!!! Anyway, I'm aiming for 8 to 10k for this chapter, let's see what happens.

In the meantime, enjoy the aftermath of Rith finding his sister sitting on the corpse of a man she brutally murdered and stuffing her face with his insides:

What was done could not be undone. Not then, not now. Her brother had found out about the secret she had kept, had uncovered the terror that dwelled within her. Denial was impossible, after all, he had two functioning eyes in his head. The blood on her lips grew cool and she resisted the temptation to bathe her tongue in it. The hunger still roiled inside her, urging her to continue feasting on the flesh. Though not like this, not when he was watching.

“Rith,” she once again repeated his name, her own voice now shaking as much as her hands trembled.

Her gaze flicked from him to the corpse beneath her. There was no more a face to look at and the feeling of peeling the skin and muscle from the bone haunted her fingers, did not let go of her mind. At once, she jerked away, her back hitting the tabletop. The bottles jittered, one fell over and rolled over the wood. Just before the edge it stopped, not bursting into shards like the other had done. What was left of Hakar sagged and his head rolled to the side, the gruesome work she had done now facing her brother. The fraction of a second long Ria had the urge to turn it back, to save Rith from the sight. Too late.

She stumbled, her feet entangling with each other. Almost she fell over, only able to keep on her legs with holding on to the table next to her. Her bare feet dove into the sea of blood beneath her, the hem of her floor length nightgown absorbed the red with a ferocious hunger. Tears welled on her lids, wanted to gush over her face and thin the blood on it.

“It is me,” she muttered, swallowing a pitiful whimper coming along with the words. “Rith, it is me, Ria!”

He shook his head, retreated a bit. “No, no. I don’t know what you are and what you’ve done to my Ria, but you are not my sister!”

Above all, fear spoke from his tone and as much as Ria was able to recognise in the dim environment, he too shook like aspen leaves in the wind. She stretched out her hand, grasping for him. Crimson dripped thick from her fingertips, leaving stains on the floor. Gods, how was she supposed to convince him?

[mothmanforreall]

Puppy

[ma7moudgaza2]

How did we cope with hunger in Gaza and not perish until now?

It’s a very strange topic to discuss in the twenty-first century.

Since the Israeli military war began, a more brutal war has been waged alongside it: the war for food.

I don’t know where to start, as I really don’t want to remember anything that happened to us, but it’s necessary to talk about it to benefit from our experience, may God spare you from similar situations.

As men, we are the first line of defense in our family army against the aggression of the hunger war.

The first situation I suffered from was five months into the war. It was a critical time when we had been without food or flour for nearly a month. We were living off what remained of our bodies' fat, some barley, and animal food.

It was a very cold night. Finally, we received a food ration from a charity, which was a bag of flour.

My family rejoiced and prayed, but I sat lamenting my fate. I saw how these rations were distributed; it was extremely chaotic. The queue, oh the queue! I swear the line stretched over 3 kilometers of people.

My turn was scheduled for nine o'clock the next morning. You can imagine that I had to leave at sunset that day to spend the night on the street to secure a place in the queue, otherwise, I wouldn’t receive anything.

I was overwhelmed by three pains:

The hell of children's hunger.

The hell of the queue and the cold.

And the hell of war.

By the way, the military war is nothing compared to what I mentioned above.

I indeed burdened myself with clothes, took my mattress to sleep on, and carried the water bottle for which I had stood in another queue to obtain.

I bid farewell to my family and left. I am Mahmoud, a computer engineer with soft skin. Imagine, my dear, imagine the fear that overwhelmed me.

I truly did not sleep and sat waiting for my turn until it finally came, and I received my ration. It was the most exhausting day of my life, but it became bearable when I returned to my family and found them eating.

My mother suggested a way to eat. Each of us would only get one loaf of bread throughout the day. She said: "Eat half of the meal you usually eat over a longer period. If you eat half a loaf for breakfast in 10 minutes, eat a quarter of a loaf in half an hour. The effect will be as if you ate half a loaf."

Indeed, the method was very, very effective.

The question for you:

What were you doing while people in Gaza were dying of hunger?

I have a donation campaign for my family if you are interested in helping your friend from Gaza. ���

@hyperions-fate @nabulsi @khizuo @magnus-rhymes-with-swagness @schoolhater

@werewolf-transgenderism @breadmp3 @sawasawako @cigaretteaunt @tartrazeen

@silicacid @audrey-hepbae @cryptarchs-qualm @hussyknee @ana-bananya

@doorhine @chilewithcarnage @daloy-politsey @transmutationisms @toyttsumedinasyisroel

@ysali @lightinger @jihaad @neechees @time-being

@batmanisagatewaydrug @mahoushojoe @opencommunion @palistani @comintoyoulive

@sar-soor @coughloop @vakarians-babe @notchainedtotrauma @sabrsiren

@moqawama @junglejim4322 @niqabisinparis @communist-ojou-sama @ghostofanonpast

@pitbolshevik @capricornpropaganda @halalchampagnesocialist @sesamie @voidpumpkin

@sivavakkiyar @saharawitch @rhubarbspring @teabisexual @fusdoq

@dirhwangdaseul @gorgugplushie @genderkoolaid @opencommunion @nabulsi

@sawasawako @metanarrates @beserkerjewel @mar64ds @soon-palestine

[letjungk09k]

Fang and Flame

Main Masterlist

.ᐟ pairing. ⤑ Prince!Rafayel x Vampire/Bodyguard!Reader (no use of y/n).

.ᐟ synopsis. ⤑ Rafayel, a Prince soon to be King, corrupts his perfect bodyguard.

.ᐟ word count. ⤑ 30k (she's a long one) posted on my ao3. READER'S BACKSTORY IS NOT IN THE TUMBLR VERSION.

.ᐟ WARNINGS, mdni!!. ⤑ explicit sexual content, it's a lil filthy, rafayel is in his god of tides outfit!! LOTTT of sexual tension, male masturbation, blood drinking, praise kink (phew), includes a brothel, finger sucking, forced orgasm, p in v sex, vampire biting, possessive rafayel, drug use sorta, neck kissing, human/vampire relationship, semi-public sex, vaginal sex, rough sex, hand kink if you look hard enough, fantasy au, rafayel is a bit of a lil shit... its just filth idk what else to say

.ᐟ A/N. i'm so down bad for god of tides rafayel my GAWDD. this is a lil shot at me tryna make my own universe..it might be a bit confusing but hey. i TRIED. this is also my first LADS fic. so enjoy ^.^

On the ao3 version, there is a backstory to the reader and how she became a vampire!

Timeline aid: AF = Age of Fire

525 AF

   The grand courtyard of the palace was lined with mourners and the air thick with the weight of loss.

The king was dead.

It had been days since the news reached every corner of the Whalefall city but today, the reality of it settled into the palace. The funeral was an event unlike any other, with royal beings from different kingdoms and common folk alike arriving to pay their respects. The sheer size of the gathering was overwhelming, an endless sea of faces each one draped in black, all of them here for a man they either feared or respected.

You stood at the edge of the procession, just a few paces behind the prince. His presence alone demanded attention, even without the crown on his head. His black attire blended seamlessly with the mourners but there was something about him that set him apart. Perhaps it was the way he stood, his back straight and eyes forward yet there was a distance to him. An air of control, of calculation that seemed unnatural for someone attending his father’s funeral.

You had been by his side for nearly three years now, watching him as his bodyguard, his protector, his knight, his shield. But despite all that time you still couldn’t fully decipher him. You had never been able to understand the prince’s true desires. At times he acted carefree, as though the throne meant nothing to him. Yet there were moments when a darker hunger flared in his eyes, moments that made you wonder if he truly desired power, if he thought only of the throne.

You had learned long ago that in the midst of death and mourning, a vampire (let alone one like you) did not belong. Your presence here was more a quiet formality than an act of respect. For five centuries death had been something you lived with, yet never truly embraced. But it wasn't just the death that hung in the air, it was the tension. The kingdom was in transition and Rafayel was at the centre of it all. 

You stood beside him alert, watching the gathered nobles and sensing every shift in the air. But you couldn’t ignore the fact that something was different now. He was different.

The moment his father’s body had been laid to rest, the kingdom’s attention turned to him. You could feel the subtle change in the air, the tightening of the strings around his future. His face was unreadable, his eyes cold. Even his posture betrayed nothing of the grief or anger you might have expected from a son at his father’s funeral.

It was as though he were some distant observer, a prince watching from the outside as the kingdom mourned it's fallen ruler. Every word he spoke to the court was measured, careful. It was as though the weight of his father’s death had forced him to mask everything else beneath a cold exterior. Was he grieving? Did he even care?

You didn’t know. It made you uneasy.

As the ceremony continued you couldn’t help but observe the subtle shifts in the crowd.

Glances, whispers and the occasional noble eyeing you with suspicion. The queen’s gaze never strayed far from you. Her eyes flicked between him and you, sharp and resentful. Even after all these years, even with the kingdom on the brink of trouble she still loathed your very existence.

Her eyes filled with hatred found their mark every time, but there was nothing she could do about it. Soon enough, Rafayel would be crowned king and your position as his bodyguard would be solidified.

You'd no longer be the prince's bodyguard, but the king's.

As the funeral came to a close the crowd began to disperse, many retreating to the warmth of the palace halls. Rafayel did not move. He remained, as still as the stone at his feet. You watched him closely, stepping closer to his side, your presence near him not a protection this time but a force of habit. 

"You look uneasy" he said his voice low, just loud enough for you to hear.

His words weren’t exactly a question but more like an observation. He didn’t turn to face you but the weight of his presence beside you was undeniable. 

"I’m fine, my prince" you replied your voice even, though the words felt like a lie as they left your mouth. 

Rafayel hummed, as if unconvinced.

"You always say that"

His lips curled slightly in what might’ve been a smirk though you couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t often so observant, so quick to speak up about things. But today something about him was different. 

"I’m not as blind as you might think" he said, his voice steady but there was a hint of something sharper in his tone now "You’ve been on edge ever since we arrived. You’re always watching. The funeral’s over but I can feel your attention on me like a hawk circling prey"

"Forgive me" you murmured, your gaze lowering "I’m simply ensuring your safety, as always"

There was a slight pause before Rafayel spoke again, his voice lower now as if drawing you into the space between you.

"As always... You’re always watching, aren’t you?" he echoed, his smirk deepening. Then, in a quieter tone "Do you think this will ever end?"

Your brows furrowed slightly.

"End, my prince?"

His lips tightened.

"The watching, the waiting. The eyes on me. Every time I step outside... the kingdom is watching, waiting for me to become my father. They want another king. Another ruler to kneel before but I am not him. I will never be what they expect"

You hesitated.

Rafayel was more complex than any crown he would wear. Although you had only been under his wing for three years, he had been the only one in that hall to vouch for you that day his guards captured you. Vouch for what you could be. It didn't settle well with you, as he had only saw you as a weapon but he had trained you, given you a bed, given you food (that you never ate) and despite the Queen's coldness towards you, he himself was never cruel. 

"You can’t be your father" you said quietly, watching his profile "But you can be king"

Rafayel glanced at you then, his eyes narrowing slightly. His gaze lingered on you for a fraction too long, his expression unreadable. Then, in typical fashion, he let out a quiet scoff, shaking his head.

"That’s a rather dull answer" he mused, his tone light but there was something underneath it "You sound like one of my advisors. Or worse... my mother"

"If you find my answer dull my prince, you are free to disregard it" You were nothing like his mother. You were not cruel.

Rafayel had always been hard to read. A prince who carried himself with effortless ease but never let anyone see him bleed. He had always spoken of the throne with indifference, as though it were an inconvenience. But now standing at the edge of his father’s grave, something about him was different.

His fingers twitched at his side. 

"You said I can be king" he continued, quieter now "but what if I don’t want to be?"

You blinked. The question shouldn’t have surprised you but it did. He had never voiced such doubts before, not to you.

"You know as well as I do, my prince" you continued, your eyes flicking briefly to him "that whether you want it or not, the throne is your burden now. There’s no walking away from it"

There was a brief silence, the sound of wind brushing past the towering stone walls of the courtyard seeming to grow louder in the quiet space between you two. Rafayel shifted slightly, his fingers idly tracing the edge of his cloak, the fabric rippling beneath his touch. He leaned just a fraction closer, not enough to close the distance but enough for you to feel the change in the air.

"My burden..." His voice was low now, almost too quiet. Had you said the wrong thing? Even if you had, his lips still curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile, more like amusement "I'm glad you see it that way also"

Before you had the chance to ask him if he was ready to head inside, he spoke again.

"And what about you?" he asked, arching a brow "What do you expect of me?"

"I expect you to survive" you said, your tone steady but sharp "The kingdom needs a king, my prince. Whether you want to be one or not it’s your duty"

"You’re as cold as ever" he murmured "You’d think after all these years... I’d have earned something more than the stone wall you put up. Or maybe some sympathy after my fathers death?"

The hint of amusement was there but you weren’t sure whether it was sincere or meant to provoke.

His posture remained deceptively relaxed but there was a tension in his shoulders. He was waiting for your response, his eyes narrowing slightly as he waited for you to reply.

The weight of his words settled into your chest and for the first time in years, you found yourself unsure of how to respond. 

"Forgive me, my prince" you said, your voice steady though your words felt strangely empty. It was the only thing you could think to say, the only apology you could offer.

Rafayel didn’t respond immediately. He let the silence stretch between you, both of you alone in your thoughts surrounded only by the sound of the wind rustling through the trees. It felt like a moment suspended in time.

Finally his lips parted again, his tone lighter this time though there was still an edge to it as if he couldn’t quite let go of the rawness in his voice.

"Stone wall or not" he said softly "you’re the only one I can trust right now"

"I don’t know why you trust me, my prince" you said quietly, your voice steady "I’ve never really given you a reason to"

"Is protecting my life not enough to gain trust?" 

The question was pointed, carrying the same quiet edge as his earlier words. He tilted his head slightly, studying you with a gaze that lingered just a little too long, as if trying to reveal something buried beneath the surface. You didn’t break the stare, your expression unchanged but inside, his question hit a little harder than you expected. 

"Protecting you is my duty" you said, the words coming out like a practiced response as they always did "It’s not about trust. It’s about keeping you alive"

Rafayel didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. He knew. 

Then like a switch, he changed.

He let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his shoulders as if the weight of the conversation itself bored him. As if he was bored of the funeral. His posture shifted, the tension melting away as he stretched, a lazy motion that somehow looked effortless. He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms with a casual air that only someone like him could pull off in such a moment.

"Really, is that all you have to say? No words of wisdom? No grave warnings about how I should rule?" He hummed, amused "How tragic. My own bodyguard refuses to entertain me"

You resisted the urge to sigh. He danced around the weight of his father’s death like it was a game.

"You claimed me to be a knight, not a jester" Was all you responded. 

"Well" he said, his voice returning to it's usual playful tone "I’m glad I’m not the only one trapped in duty then"

His words hung heavy in the air and you couldn’t help but feel the weight of them too. The statement hung in the air between you and you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of frustration. He refused to acknowledge what was really at stake. For once, you wished he would take things seriously even if just for a moment.

"We should head inside" you said, finally breaking the silence. It wasn’t a suggestion. The funeral had been long enough, the night growing darker. The air was heavy with more than just the weight of his father’s death now.

"Lead the way miss bodyguard"

────────

The heavy atmosphere of the past few days weighed on the kingdom but the preparations for Rafayel’s coronation continued without pause. 

You stood in your usual position, just a few steps behind Rafayel, watching as the prince surveyed the map of the kingdom’s territories that was spread out before him. Rafayel’s gaze flicked across the map but his attention seemed distant. The coronation was only a few weeks away but the weight of his father’s death still seemed to hang over him. Even now he didn’t look ready to step into the role that was thrust upon him but then again, you doubted he ever would be.

Finally, after a long stretch of silence, Rafayel sighed and the sound made you glance up. His fingers tapped restlessly on the map.

"Do you think they’ll listen to me?"

"They’ll have to" you replied simply, your voice even "Your bloodline demands it"

Rafayel’s eyes flicked to you but he didn’t respond right away. The flicker of doubt that had crossed his features was quickly masked.

"And what of the advisors?" He motioned toward the scrolls and letters on the table before him, all filled with counsel and directions for his reign "Do you think they’ll accept me?"

You stepped closer, positioning yourself in a way that placed you between him and the open window, blocking the breeze from ruffling the papers.

"They will fall in line. They may try to test you at first but your position is strong, my prince"

Rafayel hummed in response, though his face didn’t betray much. He didn’t appear comforted by your words but you knew it was what he needed to hear. There was nothing more to say, his power was already set in motion. The kingdom would follow, whether they liked it or not. Rafayel leaned back slightly, staring at the map again but now with a deeper tension in his posture. 

"I never wanted this..."

There was a long pause, his gaze not leaving the map in front of him. You could almost see the battle within him, the hesitation between embracing his new role or rejecting it entirely. But you weren’t there to play a part in that internal conflict, your job was to ensure that he didn't falter when it mattered most.

Rafayel exhaled as if steering himself before he turned to leave, with you hot on his heels.

The walk to the council chamber felt like it took hours. You’d spent the past few days watching him wrestle with the weight of his father’s death. The funeral was over, the kingdom was still and yet the true battle had only just begun. Rafayel’s first council meeting as the upcoming king was underway and despite his resolve there was an undeniable tension.

Rafayel no longer had his father to hide behind, he was to be the one to lead them now.

The council room was enormous, the marble walls rising high above, decorated with the Lemurian banners. Rafayel stepped in first, his gaze sweeping over the council with a quiet but unmistakable authority. You stayed a few paces behind him, vigilant as always, your eyes scanning the room for potential threats. You were always alert, even when no immediate danger was present.

You noticed the Queen and the way she was sat, poised at the far end of the table, her eyes never leaving her son. She was still dressed in mourning black, a reminder of the King's passing. But there was something colder behind her gaze now... a sharpness that seemed directed at both Rafayel and you.

Whispers rippled through the air, a mix of curiosity and unease. The room was thick with tension and power and it seemed to hold its breath at the sight of you. You were a woman yes but that wasn’t why they stared. It was because you were a mystery, a being who wasn’t quite human, a "monster" in their eyes and yet somehow, Rafayel had chosen you as his shield. 

After three years in the palace, the stares and whispers were a normality to you.

Rafayel sat at the head of the table, looking every bit the king he was meant to be, though there was a flicker of unease in his gaze. 

"Now that we are gathered" Rafayel’s voice broke through the room, clear but with an edge of authority that hadn’t been there before "We’ll begin with the state of the kingdom. First, the reports on the southern border"

The council members shifted in their seats, the sound of parchment shuffling filled the air as one of the advisors rose to speak.

"There has been unrest in the southern territories, my prince. There are rumours of rebellion brewing in some of the smaller cities... we recommend a larger military presence to ensure the peace"

"And what of the rest of the kingdom?" Rafayel asked, his voice colder now "Any threats closer to home?"

The advisor faltered for a moment before responding.

"My-My prince... we’ve received word from the capital city that tensions are rising. The nobles are eager to know your plans regarding your coronation and your intentions for the throne"

At the mention of the coronation, the room fell silent.

All eyes shifted to Rafayel, each pair seemingly waiting for his response, anticipating how the new king would handle his responsibilities. Rafayel didn’t immediately speak, his fingers tapped lightly on the armrest of his chair. The Queen, seated at the far end of the room studied him with an unreadable expression, her gaze flickering toward you before returning to her son.

"The coronation will proceed as planned but we will not let ceremonial titles be our sole focus. The Whalefall city and its wellbeing is far more urgent" Rafayel spoke. You heard his heart jump a beat. 

A murmur rippled through the room, some council members exchanging uneasy glances. It was clear that Rafayel’s priorities were not aligned with their expectations.

"And what of the nobles, my prince?" one advisor interjected, his tone full of concern "They expect more than just... your presence. The throne requires a union. A queen, heirs, surely you’ve considered your options"

"I have no interest in rushing into such decisions" Rafayel’s eyes flickered toward his mother and then back to the council. The Queen cleared her throat, a sharp sound that pierced the tension.

"You must consider this carefully, Rafayel" she said "The kingdom expects stability and that includes your future as king. We must discuss the issue of your marriage"

Rafayel’s jaw tightened slightly. 

"I’ve heard this already, Mother" Rafayel said quietly but firmly "The matter of my marriage is not one I intend to rush into simply because the throne is vacant"

The council members exchanged uneasy glances. Some looked at Rafayel with doubt, clearly uncomfortable with the obvious difference in his approach compared to his father’s. The late king had been decisive, quick in his decisions whereas Rafayel was… different. Though he had the same resolve his solutions were new and unfamiliar to those who had been used to the old ways.

"You may not wish to rush, Rafayel" the Queen pressed, her voice softer but still sharp "You know as well as I do that marriage to the right house will secure the kingdom’s future. A union with the right bloodline could mean the difference between peace and war"

There was a subtle shift in the room, as if the council members were holding their breath waiting for Rafayel to respond. Some of them looked to the Queen for guidance, as if unsure whether to side with the new king or his mother’s expectations.

Rafayel’s eyes flicked to you for a split second, a momentary glance that you knew was more for reassurance than anything else. You had hoped he didn't expect you to speak up. He turned back to the Queen, his voice unwavering. 

"I am aware, but I will not marry for the sake of political strategy alone. I won’t allow this kingdom to be just a chess piece"

The Queen’s lips curled into a thin, almost imperceptible smile.

"You are still a young man, Rafayel" she said, her voice softening in a way that felt almost patronizing "You may think you understand the weight of the throne but it’s not only power that matters. It’s legacy, family. Heirs"

There was a tense silence as everyone around the table waited for Rafayel to respond and for the first time, you saw something in his eyes... a flicker of uncertainty. 

"I’ll marry when I find the right person" Rafayel said, his voice a little colder than before "Not before"

As the room shifted with murmurs of approval and disapproval, your thoughts drifted momentarily.

In a new world like this, where women were expected to marry for the kingdom’s benefit and to secure alliances, to bear heirs... the idea of waiting for the right person was a privilege few women could afford. A woman’s desires would be ignored in favour of duty. She wouldn’t have the luxury of choice and yet, Rafayel could make that decision.

His freedom was palpable. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy, even if you knew that his path was hardly an easy one.

You let the thought slip away, focusing instead on duty. After all, your place was behind him. Your duty was to keep him safe and though your thoughts lingered on the differences between the two of you you knew one thing for certain, there was no room for your personal desires here.

Not for you. Not ever.

The room seemed to relax slightly but the Queen’s gaze remained fixed on her son.

"Very well but do not delay too long, Rafayel. You know the pressure the kingdom faces"

The meeting continued with various reports on trade, military and the status of neighboring kingdoms but you could see the weight of it all on Rafayel. He was standing at the edge of something terrifying. As the meeting drew to a close Rafayel stood and turned to the council.

"We’ll continue this tomorrow" he said, his tone firm but you could hear the weariness behind it.

The council members stood and began to leave. When the room finally cleared, Rafayel sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. You stepped forward but before you could speak he cut you off.

"Let’s go for a walk" he said quietly, his voice low but carrying an unspoken weight.

You knew better than to question him.

"Of course, my prince"

The marble floors beneath your boots echoed softly as you walked beside Rafayel. The air in the palace was still heavy, the silence only broken by the faint hum of distant voices and the occasional flicker of torches. The palace felt emptier now, as if the loss of the king had shook through every inch of the walls.

You both walked in silence for a while, the weight of the council meeting still lingering in the air. You didn’t need to speak to know what was on his mind. It was in the subtle way he clenched his jaw, the way his fingers tightened into a sharp grip and in the occasional glance he threw toward the shadows of the hall.

Finally he spoke, his voice low and thoughtful.

"I’m not sure I’m cut out for this"

You raised an eyebrow, matching his pace but not yet responding.

"Not cut out for being king?" you asked, the question harsher than you intended and your voice still as detached as ever "You’ve been training for this your whole life"

Rafayel let out a bitter laugh, the sound dry and devoid of humor.

"Training, yes. But I’m not my father am I? They expect me to step into his shoes, to rule with the same iron fist he did. But I can’t.. I won’t do it the way he did. Not just for the sake of tradition" The frustration in his voice was subtle but you heard it "And the Queen… She only wants me to follow in his footsteps. To marry for power and I just want to fucking live"

"You don’t have to be like your father" you said, your voice steady "You can rule in your own way. You’ll find your own path, you don’t have to follow the footsteps of those who came before you"

Rafayel stopped walking and you did the same, your eyes meeting his. His expression was conflicted, as though he wanted to argue, to protest but instead he just stood there. For a long momentyou both stood in silence, the weight of your words hanging in the air. Then he gave a small nod.

"that’s easy for you to say" he muttered but there was a trace of bitterness in his words "I’m supposed to be the king, aren’t I? The one who makes the decisions but they don’t trust me.."

"They don't have to. It isn't their choice"

"We’ll see" he murmured 

You both resumed walking, the sounds of your footsteps echoing through the long hallway. The further you went the more the palace seemed to fall away into silence and the world outside seemed closer, more alive.

When you reached a large balcony overlooking Whalefall city, Rafayel leaned against the railing, gazing out at the moonlit expanse. His profile was sharp against the pale light of the night and for a brief moment, you saw him as something other than a prince or a leader. Just a man, standing at the edge of everything.

"I used to come out here with my father" Rafayel said quietly, his gaze still distant "Before all of this. He’d always stand there and look out over the kingdom, like he could see everything from here. I used to ask him what he saw... he said he saw strength. He saw a kingdom that would never fall"

You didn’t answer, merely standing by his side watching the city below. Your gaze was fixed on the streets far below, the flickering torches of the night.

"And what do you see?" you asked finally, your voice low and steady. Rafayel was quiet for a moment then he shrugged, the smirk returning to his face.

"I see a kingdom that’s going to change. Starting with me"

────────

The next few days Rafayel changed completely.

A smirk that lingered too long and a laugh that held a sharper edge. The way Rafayel carried himself with an air of carelessness that felt just a little too deliberate. At the council meetings he was still decisive. Still sharp and unwilling to bend but outside of them something shifted. He moved with a careless confidence, his words laced with even more amusement and he toyed with conversation like it was a game and brushed off concerns with a wave of his hand.

If he was tense before, it had unravelled into something looser.

You notic-ed it in the way he moved. Graceful but almost lazy and the tension in his shoulders was gone, replaced by a practiced ease that felt unnatural after weeks of weight pressing down on him. 

At dinners he leaned back in his chair, swirling a goblet of wine between his fingers with idle amusement, letting the nobles talk over one another while he watched them like a bored god.

Even in the training yard where his movements were usually precise and calculated there was a new recklessness to him. A tendency to take unnecessary risks in spars, grinning through every near miss like he was chasing the thrill of being caught off guard.

His eyes glinted with a kind of mischief, a gleam that only deepened as the days went on. At times it almost seemed like he was deliberately trying to annoy you, throwing in sarcastic remarks when you least expected them, teasing you with an ease that didn’t quite belong in a prince.

Then, you heard the whispers.

At first they were just that. A murmur behind closed doors, the half glances exchanged between courtiers when he arrived at council meetings later than usual. You had always heard murmurs in the corridors and hidden corners of the palace but now they seemed to follow Rafayel everywhere he went.

Whispers that he had been slipping out at night, sneaking away from the watchful eyes of the royal guards and disappearing into the darkness.

At first you ignored them but as the rumours began to circulate more frequently your unease grew. His usual routine had shifted and though he remained as charming as ever, there was something unsettling about it all.

And then, it wasn’t just his demeanour that had changed.

You had seen him leave more than once after the usual evening meal, his form slipping through the doors and disappearing into the darkness and ordering you not to follow him. He was always gone by the time the moon rose high and when you saw him again at dawn, there were always subtle signs that he’d returned from somewhere.

His Lemurian clothes were hastily thrown on, wrinkled in all the wrong places as if he hadn’t bothered to care about his appearance in the rush to get back and his hands often grazed the edges of his clothes as though he were still trying to adjust to some part of the night that lingered on him. 

You noticed the faint scratch marks on his neck and forearms, even on his back. At first, they were easy to ignore... small, almost not noticeable. But they began to appear more frequently, scattered across his skin like evidence he didn’t try to hide. Due to the amount of exposed skin his clothes showed, you were surprised that no one else had picked up on them. Or maybe they did and they chose to ignore it, or minimised it down to him sparing too much.

They were not from sparing or training. No, these marks were more intimate.

He’s sneaking out at night. Slipping past the guards. Some say he disappears into the the Silk Streets.

That name carried weight. A place where nobility lost their dignity and gold in equal measure. A labyrinth of brothels, gambling dens and places that existed purely for indulgence. A place that thrived in the shadows, where reputations were ruined and secrets were bought with a handful of coins.

A place not fit for the new Lemurian king.

You didn't know why he was walking straight into it, if the rumours were true. 

Maybe it was grief, maybe it was defiance. Maybe he just wanted to feel something different. Something far from the suffocating expectations of the palace. He was the future king and the moment the wrong people took notice, the moment they realized his recklessness, his carelessness would become a weapon in someone else’s hands.

And then there was you.

People already started to doubt your ability to protect so if he was slipping past you unnoticed, what did that say about you? About your duty? If someone else caught him before you did, if word spread beyond the whispers in the palace, what would that mean for you? You had no doubt that The Queen would have something to say.

You would find out where he was going.

That night, long after the palace had settled into a quiet stillness you stood by the door to Rafayel’s chambers. You were supposed to be on duty, keeping watch but a strange sense of unrest kept you from your usual place. Something drew you to his door, something you couldn’t quite place.

It was then that you saw it.

The faintest movement through the slightly ajar window in his chamber. A flicker of shadow, a small look at his shadow slipping away from the palace walls. He was leaving and without thinking, you followed.

You crept down the hallway, keeping to the shadows as your footsteps were swallowed by the marble floor. There was no turning back now. You had to know, you had to see for yourself where he was going, what he was doing in the dead of night when no one was watching.

The cold night air met you as you stepped outside, if your heart could beat, it would be pounding in your chest. You moved swiftly, staying a few paces behind Rafayel as he walked through the gardens, his figure barely visible in the pale moonlight. He moved like he was used to this, like he had done it a hundred times before. He didn’t turn back, not once and as you followed, you began to wonder if he even knew you were there or if he simply didn’t care.

He passed through the side gates of the palace, his movements fluid and confident. You knew where he was headed before he even reached the main road. The Silk Streets.

The rumours were true.

He was dressed in a dark cloak, the fabric heavy and concealing, draping over him like a shadow. The hood of the cloak was drawn low, covering most of his face and the rest of his features were hidden beneath the folds of the fabric. From a distance, he could have been anyone. His usually regal posture was gone, replaced by the subtle movements of someone trying to go unnoticed.

Now, he was trying to hide. Trying to blend in with the crowds of the Silk Streets, with the people who lived in the shadows.

The moonlight barely touched the narrow alleys of the streets. It thrummed with an energy that felt alive, whispers of soft laughter, muffled music and the clink of coins and goblets.

He moved through the night with an ease that made you feel out of place, his body relaxed, his steps confident as if this dark part of the city were a second home to him. He barely glanced around, unfazed by the lewd whispers that followed him, the women in doorways flashing smiles that spoke of things better left unspoken. You kept your distance, keeping your gaze forward, trying to ignore the way the scent of incense and perfume clung to the air, thick and almost intoxicating.

You, on the other hand, felt the weight of every step. Every brush of a stranger’s arm, every faint whisper that danced through the air like smoke, reminded you that you didn’t belong here.

You wanted to remain unseen, unnoticed but the air here was thick with something else... The smell of the street mixed with the distant scent of sweat and alcohol, weaving into a heavy blanket of scent that nearly overwhelmed your senses. It was intoxicating and the longer you walked the harder it became to ignore the heady warmth that filled the air.

But then the sensation turned into something else entirely. The heat, the press of so many bodies brushing against yours, the constant hum of life in every corner... suddenly it felt too much. Too many people. Too much stimulation. You stumbled slightly, your senses overwhelmed by the presence of so many and for a fleeting moment the hunger crept up on you.

You were surrounded by so much warmth, so many living breathing bodies and the hunger within you was no longer something you could easily control. It was always there, lurking beneath the surface but tonight, it seemed louder. Stronger. You felt the sharp tug of desire and the familiar hunger that always came with being so close to so much life.

You lost sight of Rafayel and for a brief moment, it was almost a relief. He was safer without you. The thought flitted through your mind as you turned your gaze away from the large number of people, focusing instead on keeping your breath steady. It was easier this way, you told yourself. He was safer away from you, far from the monster you carried inside.

You fought the urge. You had to.

The hunger clawed at your insides, sharp and insistent, but you pushed it back, burying the need. The sensation of so much warmth, so many heartbeats pressing against your own cold skin, made the hunger feel alive, tangible. You could almost taste it. Feel it on the tip of your tongue. It was supposed to be manageable.. the witch had promised you that. You hadn't felt this burning need to feed in 500 years, so why now?

You took a step back, your breath shallow as you struggled to regain control. You didn’t belong in this place  and yu couldn’t let yourself lose control. Not here, not now.

But with each passing second the pull grew stronger and the longer you stayed in the middle of the crowd the harder it became to resist. Every brush of skin, every whisper in the night seemed to feed the fire inside you. The streets twisted before you, the scent of perfume and incense growing thicker as you walked deeper into the streets. Rafayel. You had to find him and get out of here. 

You could hear the laughter from behind closed doors, the shuffling of feet, the creaking of wooden steps but the most intoxicating sound of all? Rafayel’s voice. Faint but unmistakable.

The realization hit you like a brick to the chest.

You should leave. You should walk away.

But the hunger gnawed at you and you knew that if you didn’t move now, it would consume you. In a heartbeat your mind made the decision for you. You stormed through the crowded streets, ignoring the lewd stares, pushing past those who walked too slow in front of you. Rafayel’s scent, it was distinct, almost intoxicating but it pulled you further down the winding alleys, toward the brothel.

The building loomed ahead, its doors open wide promising warmth and sin. The voices and sounds grew louder as you approached, a mix of anger and the need to confront him.

As you stepped inside, the dim light was almost suffocating. The air was thick with the musk of bodies, the sweet smell of alcohol mingling with the pungent scent of jasmine and rose that seemed to pour out of every corner. You forced yourself to breathe slowly but each inhale was heavy.

And then you heard it. a moan. Soft, laced with pleasure and the sound cut through the noise of the brothel and you didn’t have to look far to know where it came from.

You found him quickly, in one of the private rooms at the far end of the building. He was sprawled across a small bed, his usual casual grace replaced with an ease that could only come from having done this many times before. His hands were tangled in the sheets, his bare chest rising and falling with each laboured breath. A woman, pale and completely naked straddled his waist, her face flushed with pleasure.

You didn’t flinch at the sight, not even a hint of hesitation. The hunger in your chest was stronger than any sense of discomfort you might have had. It was the hunger that you focused on now.

Without a word you walked deeper into the room, your gaze locked on the woman. The sound of her soft moans stopped when she noticed you standing there, the air suddenly turning thick with tension. Her eyes darted between you and Rafayel uncertain but you didn’t give her a chance to question.

"Leave" you said coldly, your voice cutting through the room like a blade.

The woman didn’t protest, her eyes flicking to Rafayel but he simply gave her a lazy wave of his hand, not at all concerned by your presence. She reluctantly climbed off him and gathered her clothes, throwing one last glance at the two of you before slipping out the door. Rafayel didn’t move, still stretched across the bed, his body still bare not even a hint of shame in his posture. He looked almost amused but there was a glint in his eyes, a spark of mischief that made your jaw tighten.

"Didn't think you’d follow me in here" he said casually, his lips curling into that irritating smirk "But then again, you always have a way of showing up at the wrong time"

He knew you were following him.

"This place isn't fit for a prince" Was all you found yourself replying. The hunger was growing and you needed to feed but getting Rafayel away from here was your main priority.

But of course, he was being difficult. He chuckled, a mocking sound that filled the room.

"Maybe not but it’s comfortable. No one expects anything from me here, you know? No royal duties, no heavy decisions weighing me down. Just... freedom" He stretched lazily, as if the whole scene were nothing more than a casual affair.

"You shouldn’t be here" you said bluntly, your voice still flat "You’re due to be the king and yet you're playing around in filth"

Rafayel rolled his eyes, clearly unbothered.

"Always so serious. Can’t you just relax a little? The world’s not always as black and white as you make it out to be. Here, I’m just Rafayel. No title, no expectations. Just... me"

You ignored the underlying challenge in his tone, your gaze cool and unwavering.

"You’re wasting your time" He raised an eyebrow at your response.

"Am I? Or am I just taking a break from being who everyone else wants me to be? Maybe I like being... something else for a while. Not some puppet prince everyone pulls at" You’d seen him be reckless before but this? This felt like he was trying to prove something. Or maybe it was just his way of avoiding the weight of the crown that loomed over him.

"You’re still a prince" you said, your voice like ice "No matter where you go. No matter who you bed"

Rafayel’s smirk widened, a flicker of something deeper in his eyes as he sat up and exposed more of his naked body, moving with a slow grace that made your stomach twist with frustration.

"You know" he said softly, his voice a little more teasing now "I always thought you'd be more... possessive. Aren’t you the least bit jealous?"

You didn’t flinch.

"Jealousy is a waste of time”

His expression flickered then that mischievous grin returned.

"My miss bodyguard, so cold as always. I wonder what would happen if I pushed you a little harder"

You held his gaze, unwavering, your breath steady despite the tension building between you.

"Leave. Now"

With another sigh he stood from where he was lying to pick up his clothes. He even left the palace and came here in his Lemurian outfit... he was truly being reckless. Did he really not care what others thought? His movements fluid as he slung the silk of his palace outfit over his shoulder with deliberate slowness.

"Alright, alright. No need to get all worked up. But next time, maybe join the fun, hmm?" He said to you as he picked up his cloak that once kept him hidden. You turned and walked toward the door but before you left, you glanced over your shoulder at him, your gaze as cold as the walls around you.

"Next time, I won’t be so forgiving"

Rafayel simply shrugged, as if he wasn’t concerned in the slightest.

"I’ll keep that in mind"

The door clicked shut behind you but the hunger still burned inside, stronger now with the close proximity of Rafayel’s scent lingering in the air. You had more to deal with than just him.

The cool air of the palace felt strangely suffocating as you returned with Rafayel, the hunger clawing at your insides, gnawing at you with each step. Your mind was distant, the pull of your thirst overpowering everything else. You barely noticed as you walked through the halls, your senses heightened, fixating on the sharp scent of blood that lingered in the corridors.

Once you had returned Rafayel safely to his chambers, you focused on your own needs.

It was a feeling you knew too well... but this time, it felt worse. It felt like you were losing control.

As you passed a group of servants your gaze flicked to one of them. No one in the palace cared about them.. She smiled hesitantly at you, completely unaware of the danger she was in. Your body moved of its own accord before you could even think and she never had a chance to react.

You slammed her back against the cold marble of the wall, your hand gripping her wrist tightly, your other hand curling around her chin. The world around you faded into a blur. The sound of your own breath, the pulse beneath her skin and the scent of her blood overwhelming every other sense. The hunger that had been gnawing at you all night surged up.

Your fangs appeared, sharp and deadly and before you could think better of it you sank them into her neck.

The moment your fangs pierced her skin, the taste of blood hit you... rich, warm, intoxicating. It consumed you. You couldn’t stop. It had been so long since you fed like this, without hesitation, without restraint. You drank, hard and fast, the pulsing rhythm of her heart slowing as the minutes passed.

But then something hit you. A sharp wave of panic rose within you, unexpected. This was not like the control you had always maintained, not like the careful, calculated feeds you’d taken before. You hadn’t done this in years.

The memories surged back.

The last time you had lost control, when you had slaughtered the last survivor of your village. You hadn’t cared then but now... 

You broke away, your breath coming in short, harsh gasps. The woman sagged against the wall, her body limp in your grasp. For a moment, you just stood there, staring at her and at what you'd done. She was still alive, barely but her pulse was faint. You could feel it.

And yet, all you wanted was to run, to escape the guilt that rose in your throat like bile. You didn’t want to look at her. You didn’t want to face the reality of what you'd just done.

With shaking hands, you gently laid her down on the floor, as if trying to pretend that this had been nothing, just another fleeting moment. But the guilt gnawed at you, sharp and relentless.

You couldn’t stay there, not with her, not with the memory of the last time you’d lost control. So, you left. 

But still even after feeding and even after wiping away the last bit of evidence away from your face, you still weren't fully satisfied. You needed more.

────────

The days since you’d first caught Rafayel sneaking out had passed in a blur. He still slipped away though not as often, as though his reckless streak had been tempered slightly by something. He came back to the palace each morning with a quiet defiance in his eyes, as if daring the world to ask him about his actions.

But it wasn’t until the council meeting that his habits were mentioned, spoken of in hushed tones by the others, then brought up publicly by the Queen who seemed increasingly angered with her son’s antics.

"You must explain yourself, Rafayel" the Queen had demanded, her voice tight with controlled irritation "Rumors are circulating. They say you’re sneaking off at night. If this continues, I will not tolerate it"

The room had grown silent, save for the soft shuffle of papers as the council members nervously awaited his response. You had kept your head down, knowing better than to intrude on council matters, especially when the Queen was involved.

The door to the council chamber closed softly behind you, the quiet thud of the wood sounding louder than it should in the empty hall. You could feel his frustration, even though he hadn’t said a word yet. His body language was full of tension and the subtle shake of his shoulders betrayed a layer of anger he wasn’t yet ready to show.

As you walked down the hallway the silence stretched between you both. The distant sounds of the palace servants bustling in the background seemed to fade, leaving only the sound of your own footsteps. Finally, Rafayel broke the silence.

"I’m not a child, you know" he muttered, his tone heavy with an edge. His gaze was dark, fixed straight ahead but the tension in his posture was hard to ignore "You don’t have to stand there and let her throw stones at me. You could’ve said something"

What were you to say? The Queen already disliked you, despised your presence, why should you get involved in family matters? You weren't an advisor or part of the council, just a monster there to ensure he is safe at all times. 

"it isn’t my place to speak on matters that don’t concern me"

The words left your mouth and you almost almost regretted them the moment they passed your lips. But it was true. You were the bodyguard, not the family member. 

But then there was a bitter chuckle. 

"Right. As always, the perfect little soldier" He shook his head, his movements sharp and jerky as if he were trying to shake off the frustration that was still gnawing at him. There was a note of sarcasm in his voice but it didn’t feel entirely mocking "I'm not a fucking puppet"

He turned to face you, his eyes searching yours as if trying to gauge your reaction.

It was the way he said it, as if he were daring you to call him out, daring you to challenge him. You didn’t respond right away. You stood there, watching him. His eyes were still locked on you, searching, waiting for something... maybe an answer, maybe just someone to acknowledge what he was going through.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself before you spoke.

"I never said you were a puppet" you replied quietly, your tone still sharp "I just know my place, my prince"

"And what exactly is your place, then?" His voice was low, almost a whisper but there was a challenge in it "To stand by and watch? Watch me make a fool of myself while everyone around me whispers and judges?"

There was something different in his voice now. It wasn’t just about the council meeting anymore. It wasn’t just about his mother’s words. You didn’t have an answer for him, at least not the kind he wanted.

"My place is where you need me to be, my prince" you replied, keeping your voice steady "That’s the only thing I know for sure"

Rafayel studied you for a moment longer, then finally exhaled a frustrated breath. He ran a hand through his hair, looking away from you for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

"Then I know where I need you to be tonight" He told you, and for once, the shock was evident in your face "I'm sneaking out again. It would be a shame if my sworn protector were to follow me"

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning. You should have responded, should have put an end to his recklessness but something in his tone, in the sharp glint of his gaze, told you it would be useless.

He had already made his decision. He stood beside you for a moment longer and then without another word he turned on his heel and walked away. His stride was effortless, it was as if he didn't believe that you'd deny his command. You should have ignored it. You should have reported it but you knew that no matter what you did Rafayel would still leave tonight and if he was going to put himself in danger, then you had no choice but to be there when it happened.

By the time the sun had set and the palace corridors had emptied you were already waiting. It wasn’t long before you caught the familiar flicker of movement. Rafayel, slipping past the guards with practiced ease, his cloak draped loosely around him and the hood pulled up just enough to obscure his features.

Reckless, careless, stupid.

You moved before you could think better of it, slipping into the night after him. The city stretched before you, pulsing with life even under the weight of darkness and he didn’t look back, but you knew he could feel you there. You hated this place, the way it pulsed with the things you had long since forgotten. 

But as Rafayel moved deeper into it's embrace you lost sight of him not long after, only this time there was no panic.

You felt the array of bodies surrounding you again, the hunger, the need. Everything was intimate, it was intense and you closed your eyes for a moment. The moment your eyes shut, the world sharpened in a different way. The warmth of bodies brushing past, the pulse of laughter and whispered secrets, the scent of skin heated from too much drink. It was intoxicating in a way that had nothing to do with blood.

It had been centuries since you had been surrounded like this. Engulfed in something so human, so alive. This wasn’t just hunger for blood. 

There was a brush of air and a warm gust of wind on the back of your neck before a small voice appeared at the side of you. 

"Don't get lost" He visibly smirked at the way you flinched, the first physical reaction he had ever gotten of you from the three years you were with him "Stay with me.. and relax"

He was behind you somehow, the front of his body only an inch away from the back of your own. His lips close to your ear as he spoke but he still kept to himself. You shuddered for a moment before nodding, like you didn't have a mind of your own, like the street and he himself had put a spell on you.

A spell to obey, which a monster like you should always do.

You could feel him, every inch of him so close but not touching it made your breath falter. A sharp contrast to the steady control you prided yourself on. His skin wasn't against yours but the warmth of him seeped into your skin, into your bones and into that part of you that had been frozen for centuries. His breath ghosted along your jaw, his voice low, deliberate.

"You’re always so tense"

A quiet chuckle rumbled from him and you felt it against your back more than you heard it. He leaned in closer, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear, as if testing the waters.

"Is it this place?" he mused, voice silk and sin "Or is it me?"

You swallowed but the street had stolen your words, stolen your thoughts leaving you exposed. A pair of bodies stumbled past, tangled in each other, laughing breathlessly. Another pair further down, pressed against a wall and lost in the heat of their own indulgence. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, wine, desire. The world here moved differently as if the very street was alive and it had chosen you as its prey.

And Rafayel... Rafayel was watching.

"You feel it, don’t you?" he murmured, his voice dipping into something dangerously smooth "The way it pulls at you, the way it calls"

Your fists clenched at your sides, nails digging into your palms. You couldn’t let this place get to you. 

"So miss bodyguard... will you indulge with me?"

You should have said no. You should have turned away, should have pulled back, should have reminded him of the line that stood between you, the one that had kept you at a distance for three years. instead, your body betrayed you. A slow shaky exhale slipped from your lips before you could stop it. It was lost in the midst of the Silk Street but not to him. Never to him. Rafayel smirked, his head tilted slightly, his gaze flickering over your face drinking in every minute shift in your expression.

"Indulge?" Your voice was quieter than you meant it to be, your throat drier than it should have been "And what exactly do you mean by that, my prince?"

"Whatever you want it to mean" he murmured "But first... let me show you around"

Rafayel stepped past you, the faintest brush of his cloak against your arm as he did. His smirk deepened when your eyes never left his figure. And then without looking back, he walked into the depths of the street.

Will you indulge with me?

Your feet moved before you had the chance to think. The further you walked down, the more suffocating the atmosphere grew. The flickering lanterns cast shadows on the cobblestones and as you followed Rafayel, every step felt heavier. He moved through the night with an ease that made you feel out of place, his body relaxed and his steps confident as if this dark part of the city were a second home to him. It was.

He barely glanced around, unfazed by the whispers that followed him. You kept your distance, keeping your gaze forward trying to ignore the way the your senses were filled with different fragrances. But you couldn't ignore him. A part of you wanted to turn away, to remind yourself of your place. Of your duty to him but you couldn’t shake the sense of awe that crept in. These people weren’t bound by titles. They were free, in ways you hadn’t been in over five centuries. It almost felt like a distant memory.

It wasn’t that you were jealous of these people but there was something about their freedom, their ability to live without restraint that made you feel… small. Small and trapped in a way you hadn’t let yourself admit. You didn't know why it bothered you.

As Rafayel slowed, leading you into an alleyway between two crumbling buildings, you caught sight of the brothel ahead. It was the same brothel where you had found him the other night. A place drenched in everything that should have repulsed you.

But it didn’t.

Rafayel pushed open the heavy wooden door without hesitation, stepping inside as though he belonged here and maybe in some way, he did. The moment he crossed the door, he was no longer the prince, no longer the heir to a kingdom burdened by duty and expectations. He was just a man, another figure in the haze of warmth and pleasure.

You hesitated.

Standing there just outside, you felt the weight of the past pressing against you. Five hundred years of restraint, five hundred years of existing but never truly living and yet you followed him inside. The shift in atmosphere was immediate. People leaned into one another, hands lingering, lips brushing, eyes half lidded with the haze of drink and desire. There were no rules here, no boundaries. Rafayel turned his head slightly, just enough to see you lingering at the door, your hesitation laid bare.

"You don’t have to be afraid" he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear "No one will look at you as they do in the palace. No one will whisper"

It was a taunt, wrapped in something gentler.

You reached the counter where a number of drinks were laid out, free to take. He reached for a bottle, something dark and rich smelling, the scent of honey and spice clinging to the rim. Without breaking eye contact with you he lifted it to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip before extending it toward you.

"Drink"

You stared at him, silent.

"It won't-"

"Affect you I know.." he reminded, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips "Humour me miss bodyguard. Just this once"

His eyes gleamed, watching and waiting. It wasn’t the drink that made your fingers curl around the bottle, it was him. You lifted the bottle to your lips, letting the liquid slide over your tongue. It was warm, rich, deceptively smooth but beneath the honeyed spice, beneath the slow burning heat, there was something else. Something unmistakable and your throat tightened.

Blood.

Not much, not enough for a human to notice but you weren’t human. The taste, the feel of it. It bloomed across your tongue, curling into your senses, awakening something deep inside you. Your grip on the bottle faltered for just a moment, the glass clinking softly as you set it down. A pang of hunger tightened in your chest and your body reacted almost before your mind could catch up.

"You…" The question was barely a breath, barely a whisper but Rafayel heard it.

And he smirked.

"You were about to ask, weren’t you?" His voice was velvet and amusement. He leaned in, elbow propped lazily on the counter, his eyes flickering in the dim light "If it’s blood? Yes"

He finished the thought for you.

Did he... know?

Your body screamed at you to stay still, to keep your expression neutral but the way Rafayel was watching you, studying you made it impossible. He was enjoying this.

"Relax" he mused, his voice almost soothing and mocking "It's not human. If that's what you're worried about"

You felt like breathing a sigh of relief. He didn't know. Your throat constricted, the taste still lingering on your tongue.

"Why?" You asked, though the question didn’t quite escape with the urgency you expected it to. You couldn’t seem to tear your gaze away from the bottle, nor the way his lips curved into a faint smirk.

"Why not?" Rafayel responded, leaning back up "It’s part of the street's… charm. It’s an old indulgence. Mixed with herbs it’s meant to lift you, free you in a way. It stirs something inside, doesn’t it?"

"Does it?" you murmured, your voice lacked it's usual steel and Rafayel knew it.

His smirk deepened like a hunter playing with it's prey. He tilted his head studying you, before his fingers tapped idly against the counter’s surface. He pulled the hood from his cloak down and your gaze flickered over him, taking in the way the dim, flickering light cast shifting shadows over his face.

"It does" His voice was quiet "Even if you won’t admit it"

His gaze flickered downward just for a second, toward the subtle rise and fall of your chest. Rafayel always carried an air of carelessness, of reckless confidence that made it seem as though the world bent to his rules. But here, in the golden glow of the brothel’s lanterns, draped in his regal clothes hidden by a cloak too large for him he was something else entirely. 

The silk of his robes was dark, the colour of deep ocean tides beneath a moonlit sky. The embroidery shimmered as he moved, silver waves curling along the fabric shifting like they were alive, and then there was the jewellery. Silver rings, oceanic stones, the delicate chains that glinted against his wrists. An ornamental ear cuff, shaped like a cresting wave adorned one ear, catching the light whenever he tilted his head.

It was unfair how beautiful he was.

Rafayel was beautiful in a way that demanded attention, in a way that made it impossible to ignore him, no matter how hard you tried and right now, he was watching you. You forced your eyes away from him but not before you caught the slight tilt of his lips, like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

You thought he'd tease you, thought he'd mention how he caught you staring, truly looking at him like you've never done before but it never came and you were thankful. You took a moment to glance around the room and you noticed there were multiple pairs of eyes on you. You swallowed for a moment, you were used to the stares in the palace.. but in this place? It felt like you were a prize that people didn't want to stop admiring.

"Do they always stare?" you muttered, feeling your skin prickle. Rafayel's laugh was soft, a low sound that held a trace of amusement.

"They don't care about you" he said, his voice casual "It's me they want"

You turned sharply, meeting his gaze. His smile had faded into something more... knowing, like he enjoyed watching you squirm.

"You shouldn't come here" you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

"Why?" he asked, cocking his head to the side "Are you afraid of what you'll see? Or maybe afraid of the kind of person you might become if you stay?"

Your throat tightened and you could feel the flush creeping up your neck. The idea that you could be like the people in this place, slipping into a world of indulgence and desire... It sickened you. But there was no denying the way you felt slightly attracted to the dangerous allure of it all.

"I’m not like them" you whispered, your own voice betraying you.

"You are not like anyone and that is exactly why I brought you here" He told you and for the briefest second his expression shifted. Your head began to spin "My miss bodyguard is one of a kind"

"I-" 

Rafayel took a slow step toward you, his presence suddenly overwhelming. He tilted his head, studying you with those sharp eyes that seemed to see through everything, through you. His presence surrounded you, a warmth pressing into your skin without even touching you. 

"You're starting to feel it aren't you?" He questioned, his voice quiet. You looked down, eyes settling on the counter, the bottle, the blood.

Yes.

He was right. Whatever herbs were mixed in were beginning to affect you-he was winning. It was affecting you in ways you couldn’t control. Your breath felt heavier in your chest and you subtly gripped the counter again, fingers pressing into the wood as if grounding yourself. You wanted more. More of what, you weren’t sure. It was unlike anything you’d felt in centuries. Not hunger or thirst, it was almost worse. A yearning with no name.

Like you were floating almost and the feeling was exotic. Five centuries you had been nothing but a shell of a monster but now, you felt human. You felt alive, you felt like you could feel the blood that was once drained all those years ago flow into your empty veins.  You forced yourself to stand straighter, to regain some semblance of composure but the heat in your chest remained.

"We should.." Go. You should go. Back to the palace, back to being a monster that people feared. Back to doing your duty because any upstanding bodyguard and knight wouldn't be in a place like this possibly endangering the person they were supposed to protect.

Rafayel inhaled sharply, stumbling back a step, his fingers pressing briefly against his temple before dropping back to his side. He wasn’t entirely unaffected either. His breathing had deepened and his lips parted slightly. Then he tilted his head smirking again, eyes half lidded and unreadable. He beckoned you with just a look.

And you followed.

Further into the brothel, further into pleasure and forbidden whispers. The further you followed him the more you felt it and you wanted to smile. The feeling creeping into your body. The intoxication, the warmth, the dizziness-it was unlike anything you’d felt in centuries. It wasn’t hunger but it was almost worse. It was a kind of desire, a yearning but for what you couldn’t say. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t have followed him.

And yet, you did.

He led you to a cloak covered doorway and you followed him through it like he had you on a leash and was pulling you along. The air changed the moment you stepped through the veil of heavy fabric. The room was dimly lit and you had to really focus on the sight around you, your vision blurring slightly before you saw it.

Bodies moved in slow rhythms, tangled together in ways that left nothing to the imagination. The sounds.. soft gasps, breathless laughter, sinful moans and words whispered that you had never had whispered to you before. It all pressed in from every side, drowning out the world beyond these walls. There was no space untouched, no corner left unclaimed by the weight of indulgence. No one here was alone.

Except for you and him.

Rafayel stood just a step ahead, his cloak falling down his body and exposing bare back where his royal outfit lacked clothing for his top half. You were seeing him now, really seeing him. The details on his body, the faded scratch marks and the tattoos that made your fingers twitch slightly. He turned slightly, gaze flicking back to you. The chaos around him didn’t seem to touch him, like he was used to it.

You wanted to move. You needed to. The walls felt closer now, the press of bodies suffocating, the sheer intimacy of it all almost too much to bear. But your feet wouldn’t move.

You were rooted in place.

There were couples, there were beds filled with three people, there were men and women on their own bringing themselves to a climax... and you stood and watched. Lips parted, almost dried and screaming for something. The drink still burned in your throat, your skin hot, your thoughts slow and unfocused. It was intoxicating the way that the room felt alive, the way every breath you took carried the weight of something. 

Rafayel took a slow step toward you, his expression unreadable beneath the dim lantern light.

"Tell me" he murmured, voice low and teasing but edged with something more "Does it tempt you?"

You couldn’t answer immediately.  It was like the world had narrowed to just him and you.

He didn’t move any closer, he didn’t need to. His gaze held you in place, as if every moment you stood there was a game in itself. Your body felt like it belonged to someone else, your senses sharp and dulled at the same time and you couldn’t help but wonder how much of this was truly you. How much of it was the drink, the atmosphere or the quiet pull of his influence.

Rafayel’s eyes flickered down to your clenched hands then back up to your face. He saw it, the conflict in you.

"I..." The words faltered.

"You don’t have to stay" he said, his voice a low murmur, almost a promise as he reached out with his finger to gently tilt your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze "But do you really want to leave?"

You swallowed, trying to bring some clarity to your muddled thoughts. Your mind was a swirl of thoughts and confusion and though you knew you should distance yourself, you couldn’t seem to pull away from him.

"I should never have come" you murmured, almost to yourself but Rafayel heard. 

Rafayel watched you carefully and for once, the smirk didn’t return. His expression softened, just slightly and you saw it. He took another step toward you, closing the distance, his free hand resting lightly on your arm just enough to feel the weight of it.

"I know you feel it. You're not immune to this" He said it with quiet certainty like he already knew everything you were trying to deny. Your pulse quickened and the rest of the room seemed to blur.

The bodies around you didn’t matter. The sounds faded away and Rafayel was all you could see, all you could feel. Despite everything, despite the rules, despite the duty that tied you to him there was a part of you that didn’t want to leave. Not yet, not now.

"My prince..." The title in this scenario felt wrong, utterly and disgustingly wrong. So wrong it made your stomach twist in unease.

This wasn’t the palace. This wasn’t duty or responsibility. This wasn’t the prince who carried the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders. This wasn’t the future king poised to take his throne. Why were you here, in a brothel surrounded by pleasure with the prince... 

Your words seemed to have affected him slightly as a subtle shift passed through his face. His breath caught, a slight tremor running through him and you saw something deeper in his eyes that never left your own. His cheeks flushed, the red creeping up his neck and warming his skin in a way you hadn’t seen before. A stark contrast to the smooth controlled prince you were used to. The blush spread like fire, burning his skin red where it met the soft pink of his ears.

He was human after all. A man, with desires and fears and weaknesses, just like everyone else.

"I think you need to relax, just once" he said, his voice softer now, almost coaxing "You’re wound too tight. It’s like you’ve forgotten how to breathe... just let go. Let go for me, your prince, your king"

The way he said it so effortlessly made you want to listen, to surrender. And then, before you could think of a way to pull yourself together, he leaned in.

His lips brushed your temple, the gentleness sending a shiver down your spine. Then, they drifted to the edge of your cheek, soft and slow. The warmth of his touch lingered even as he moved, trailing over the curve of your jaw. Each kiss was light, teasing, as if he was savouring the sensation of your skin beneath his lips. He kissed you as though he had all the time in the world but you could feel the deliberate intensity in the way he moved, he was gentle yet demanding. You hadn’t realized how starved you were for touch until this moment.

Rafayel’s lips brushed the soft skin beneath your ear and the sensation sent a jolt of electricity through your veins. He paused there and for a moment you thought he might pull away but instead he pressed his lips ever so gently against the sensitive spot, just long enough to make your chest tighten. His lips moved down toward your throat and you couldn’t stop the involuntary shudder that coursed through you. You were half frozen, half on fire, the intensity of it leaving you breathless. His mouth was everywhere but where you wanted him most.

And then he hovered. His lips a centimetre away from yours, so close you could feel the heat of his breath against your mouth. You had wanted him to kiss you, so badly that the ache inside you had become unbearable. But when he moved closer, you felt a sense of unease you couldn’t explain, as if you were both too close and too far.

He pulled back at the last moment, just as you thought his lips were finally going to meet yours and there it was again... the smug, cocky smile that curled at the corners of his mouth. He looked at you with that knowing gaze, like he had seen right through you. His smile was infuriating but also undeniably captivating. There was something about the way he looked at you, that arrogant confident glint in his eyes as if he had won the battle before it even began. 

"You’re teasing me" you muttered, your voice strained. You hated how it sounded. How weak it made you feel.

Rafayel’s eyes darkened just a shade before his smirk widened. His hand around your arm tightened slightly and his thumb on your chin smoothed your skin. His gaze dropped to your lips for a moment before meeting your eyes again.

"Teasing?" His voice dropped to a low murmur "No, my dear bodyguard. I’m simply letting you see what it feels like to want... and I know you want this"

The air between you thickened, the tension nearly suffocating but still he didn’t touch you in the way you craved. He stood just at that edge, where you couldn’t quite reach him, couldn’t quite escape. Your body was alive, aching for him, but the rational part of you screamed for control, screamed for distance.

You swallowed thickly, fighting the rising panic in your chest. You wanted to push him away, to tell him to stop but the words died on your tongue. Instead you stood there frozen, caught between wanting to run and wanting to give in completely.

"You told me to let go" You found yourself unexpectedly saying, hoping and willing that he would pull you closer and give you what you wanted "How... how can I let go?"

He smiled, truly smiled, like you had said something he had always wanted to hear and he had. Three years you had been under his wing, in his palace and by his side but you were always so cold. So distant and blunt but now, for the first time since he claimed you, he was finally seeing what he needed to see from you.

"Let me show you"

He stepped away and you hadn't realised how his proximity drowned out everything around you. It felt like it was just you and him in this room but it wasn't. The air seemed heavier now, the room felt fuller, like everything around you rushed back into focus. The mass of bodies reminded you of where you were and what was happening around you, and the sensation of the noises that echoed around the room has your knees weak.

Or maybe it was just Rafayel.

You couldn’t tear your gaze away from him as he moved through the haze of bodies, stepping back toward the far corner of the room. You didn’t even know why you moved, but the pull of him was magnetic. Your feet carried you forward, each step slow and heavy as you approached the small and secluded bed in the corner, barely noticeable to the rest of the crowd.

What was he.. doing?

Rafayel sank onto the plush bedding, his form reclining with the ease of someone who had nothing to prove. He glanced over at you, his eyes dark. He leant back, propping himself up on his elbows as his eyes traced over you like he was memorizing every detail, every shiver that ran down your spine, every breath you took.

He moved like he was already in control, like everything was part of his plan.

You moved closer, your knees hitting the bedding. The soft fabric shifted beneath you as you hesitated for just a moment before lying down next to him. The proximity was almost too much to bear, your body feeling the warmth of his, the scent of his skin. He didn’t break his gaze. In fact, he watched you more closely now. He shifted his body as you rested your own on the bed and now you were both lay on your sides, gazing at each other.

His hand shifted just slightly, close enough to you that you could feel his warmth but he didn’t touch you. His fingers brushed the bedding, tracing the fabric lazily as if he had all the time in world. You watched his fingers carefully, the black ink that wrapped itself around his fingers put you in a trance and you watched and watched and watched...

Until his hand drifted lower down the bed and closer to his body, his thumb teasing the waistband of his royal trousers. Your breath hitched, the sight of his abs covered in goosebumps as he teased the skin on his waistband was enough to have your chest rising heavily, as if you still had a heart-as if there was blood pumping through your veins.

His hand slid further down and you met his eyes in a panic. He was watching you carefully, gauging your reaction. He watched you bite your lip, he watched your eyes flicker between his own iris' and his lips as if you didn't know where to look. He watched you shuffle forwards ever so slightly, a movement that he would have missed if he wasn't truly staring at you.

Then his hand disappeared into his trousers and he found himself gasping slightly as he gripped his cock in his hand. Your own hand twitched... were you supposed to touch him? Help him? Touch yourself? You didn't know... you didn't know anything right now, your mind was clouded with nothing but desire.

"I don’t... don't know what you want from me" you managed to say, the vulnerability creeping into your voice. Your voice was breathless and it made his cock twitch to see how affected you were.

"Just keep your eyes on me" He told you, his voice close to a moan as you watched him carefully "Just-fuck just don't stop watching"

And you listened.

You watched his trousers strain against his hand as he moved, his strokes going from fast to slow to fast to slow and you were hypnotised. You were enjoying it. Enjoying it to the point of your own thighs clenching together, a feeling you have ever felt before. You were warm, warm everywhere and your teeth refused to let go of your bottom lip.

His thumb rubbed against the head of his cock and he gave you a blissful smile as his eyes closed. He let out a moan and fuck it might have been the hottest thing you have ever heard. He couldn't control himself now, and he only stroked faster and faster until the front of his trousers lowered far enough for you to see what he was doing.

His stomach tightened as he lost himself in the pleasure and you could do nothing but watch. You might have asked him to try yourself, to use your own hand to bring him pleasure but you wouldn't know how. You had never been in a situation like this before... almost five centuries of living and you had never pleasured anyone or been pleasured before.

Rafayel could barely breathe and he found himself opening his eyes again to look at you. Truly look at you.

He moaned again when he saw the way you were staring at his hand, so tranced and fixed on the way he was stroking himself. Fuck should he ask you to touch him? Ask you... for something? He doesn't know, he didn't care, he was too overcome by pleasure and the way you were watching him with your bottom lip between your teeth and your legs shut tightly together.

"I-" You whispered, a single word but it put Rafayel on the edge as you moved closer. Any second now you'd be pressed up against him, body warm against his own and he swore if you touched him he might burst any second now.

"What is it pretty girl? Hm?" He whimpered. He actually whimpered, and you found yourself letting out a small sigh of your own.

"Don't stop"

Gods there was no way he'd ever deny you of that. He chuckled, low and deep and it faded into the room and blended with the moans from the others that surrounded you in the room. He did as you wished, gripping and tugging at his cock as you moved closer to him, or maybe he moved closer to you, neither of you could tell.

You were closer now to the point where his knuckles were brushing against your clothes. Your forehead touched his own and your fists clenched, twitching with the need to hold something, anything. So you gripped at your chest, palming your breast through your shirt and found yourself letting out a moan.

Rafayel lost it. The sound you made brushed his ruby coloured ears and he listened as you made another sound, a whine this time and he couldn't help but thrust his hips forward and further into his hand.

He watched you palm your chest through your clothes and in his mind he was begging you to rip every piece of fabric off your body so he could see, so he could touch. But the pleasure clouded his mind and he could only only let out his own moans as your eyes met his.

"Can you indulge in this with me, miss bodyguard?" He questioned, his voice breathless and your throat turned dry.

You opened your mouth to agree but the words didn’t come. Instead, you found yourself staring at him, at the way his lips parted slightly, at the soft curve of his jaw, the sweat that started to form on his forehead and the muscles on his bicep contracting as he moved his hand faster and faster...

The silence between you stretched, thick and heavy and for the first time, you realized that you were no longer thinking of the palace, of duty, of the cold distance that had always defined you. You were here. With him. And nothing had ever felt more real.

"Show me..." You whispered, your lips less than a few centimetres from his "Show me what pleasure is, my prince"

And with your words, Rafayel found himself finishing into his palm, a low desperate moan following shortly behind. His body twitched and bumped into your own, hips thrusting as if they were begging you to rub your stomach against his cock to milk him dry. The head of his cock slightly rubbed against the fabric that you were wearing and Rafayel groaned deeply.

Your eyes were glossy and there was a throbbing sensation between your legs but you felt nothing but satisfaction. There was no doubt that the remains of his pleasure covered your own clothes but you couldn't bring yourself to care. The sight of your very own prince whining in overstimulation as he continued to stroke his now softening cock was enough to make you forget about all your worries and about your duty.

Because now, more than ever, you felt human.

────────

It was as if nothing had happened.

No words had been exchanged on the way back to the palace. No stolen glances, no lingering touches. Just silence.

You had ensured Rafayel made it safely to his chamber before slipping away into the shadows, retreating to the quietness of your own space. You had washed the scent of the brothel from your skin, scrubbed away the lingering warmth of his touch and convinced yourself that you could forget. That it hadn’t mattered.

And now, you fell back into routine. You were his bodyguard. His soldier.

But Rafayel wasn’t blind.

You knew he had noticed the shift when you escorted him to breakfast that morning. You stood at attention, back straight and hands tight and still at your sides, eyes fixed ahead in unwavering focus. You didn’t acknowledge him unless necessary. You spoke only when spoken to. You were perfect again.

It was insulting how easily you fell into place.

And Rafayel, who had always been too observant for his own good, did not miss a thing. At first, he said nothing. His gaze was heavier than usual, lingering on you for moments longer than necessary, as if waiting for you to do or say something. He let the silence stretch, testing you, waiting to see if you would shift under his gaze. You didn’t. You remained standing at his side, as you always did. The same as before.

Almost.

His fingers drummed lazily against the wooden table, the rings on his hand catching the morning light. He leaned back in his chair, an elbow propped up as he studied you beneath heavy lashes. Still, you did not look at him and then, after what felt like an eternity, Rafayel spoke.

"You're quiet today" Weren't you always? It was a simple observation, nothing more. But the way he said it, the weight behind it, it was definitely not a compliment.

"My duty does not require me to make conversation, my prince" You replied, the way you addressed him held a heavy difference compared to last night.

"No, I suppose it doesn't" Rafayel let out a low hum, dragging the tip of his finger around the rim of his goblet.

There was something almost amused in his voice, but you didn’t bite. You kept your breathing steady, your face blank, refusing to let him drag you into whatever game he was playing. Because you knew him. You knew Rafayel. He wanted a reaction. He wanted to see if the woman from the night before was still inside you. But you wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. Moments stretched between you and then, just as he lifted his goblet to his lips, he spoke again.

"Shame.." Your fingers twitched.

"Excuse me?"

Rafayel took a slow sip, swallowing the dark liquid before setting the goblet down with an infuriating amount of ease. He turned his head slightly, not quite looking at you but you could feel his gaze, burning at the edges of your composure.

"Nothing" he murmured, tilting his head back as if he had already grown bored of the exchange "Just thinking aloud"

Liar.

You inhaled slowly, silently steadying yourself. He was testing you... pushing, prodding, trying to make you slip. You forced yourself to remain still, to remain calm. Because if you let your mind wander, if you let yourself remember the way his lips had felt against your skin, the way his voice had sounded in the dark, the way his hand had gripped his cock in front of you, then you would lose. And you refused to lose, so you said nothing. 

You remained at his side, cold and unyielding, the way you had always been and the way he always knew you to be. And Rafayel? He only smiled to himself, as if he knew. As if he had already won.

Later that evening, as the sun disappeared below the horizon and bathed the palace in a golden hue, you found yourself trailing behind Rafayel through the winding halls. His council meeting was soon, but he insisted on taking a walk to clear his mind before he was bombarded with the worries and demands of his advisors and the nobles.

You had escorted him through the palace grounds, through the vast corridors lined with tapestries and torches, your footsteps always a steady rhythm behind him. But yet, despite the physical distance you kept, you felt suffocated because you knew Rafayel was enjoying this. Every time your gaze so much as flickered toward him, he was already watching you. Every time you turned away, you could feel the weight of his amusement pressing into your skin.

Finally, he came to a stop near one of the palace balconies, where the air was crisp and cool carrying the scent of the sea. The distant sound of waves crashing against the cliffs filled the silence between you. Rafayel exhaled slowly, bracing his hands against the railing, his fingers curling around the edge. 

"Are you going to keep pretending forever?" he asked, his voice was quiet.

"I don't know what you mean, my prince" 

"You know exactly what I mean" he murmured, finally turning his head to look at you fully. The last streaks of sunlight painted his features, defining the sharp line of his jaw and the fullness of his lips.

The lips he denied you of kissing.

"Your safety is my only concern" He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.

"And yet, last night safety was the last thing on your mind"

Your throat tightened but you didn’t react. Rafayel shifted, stepping closer.

"Tell me, soldier" he murmured, his voice almost teasing "How long do you think you can keep up this charade?"

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms.

"As long as I have to, my prince" Silence.

And then, he smiled. Did his perfect little bodyguard just... tease him?

And you did, because two could play that game. But Rafayel... Rafayel never played fair. He took a step forward, his sandals barely making a sound against the marble floor. 

"You must be exhausted" he mused "Keeping up the performance. Playing the role of my loyal bodyguard, my watchful shadow. Does it ever get tiring?"

You didn’t react, didn’t move but you knew he could feel it. The subtle shift in the air, the way your body tensed for just a fraction of a second too long.

"I wouldn’t know" you said flatly. He hummed, the sound low and amused.

"No, I suppose you wouldn’t" Another step closer. You could feel the warmth of him now "You don’t sleep, do you?"

A pause.

"You don’t eat"

Another step.

"And yet, you don’t wither. You don’t break. You don’t bleed the way you should"

His voice was velvet and steel, wrapping around you, tightening with every word. He was circling you now, slow and deliberate, like a predator toying with it's prey. The teasing tone in his voice had faded into something else. 

"You know that they call you a monster in the palace halls" he continued, his voice dipping lower "A ghost. Some say you're a failed experiment, a creature torn from a nightmare"

The words should have stung. They didn’t, yu had heard them all before. But then...

"But I" he exhaled a soft laugh "I think the truth is far simpler than that"

Your throat tightened. You willed yourself to stay still, to not let him see the way your shoulders locked, the way the cold settled deep into your stomach like a stone.

"And what truth is that?" you asked, your voice steady. Challenging. His smirk deepened. 

"I think you were about to ask, weren’t you?" he murmured, echoing your own words from that night at the brothel "If it was blood in the bottle?"

Your stomach twisted. The realization hit you all at once, but Rafayel was still watching, drinking in every flicker of emotion you failed to smother, the way your breathing had slowed.

"You already knew the answer before I said it" he continued, his voice deceptively soft. His gaze flickered down just briefly to your lips. Like he was remembering the way the bottle had lingered there, the way you had tasted before you knew "And that was all I needed"

"So say it..." You told him, your voice barely a whisper. Another smirk, the world seemed to still.

He knew.

"You're a vampire"

The words were simple, yet they hit you like a train, your breath catching in your throat.

You opened your mouth but no words came. Your thoughts scattered, trying to grasp at the edges of something you had always hidden so carefully. The cold dread in your chest made it hard to breathe but Rafayel didn’t move. He stood there, watching you with... curiosity? For a moment, you just stared at him, then instinct took over.

"Do you want me to be afraid?" you asked voice low, but somehow still steady.

Should you be afraid? Would he tell them, tell the Queen? That his bodyguard is a vampire, one of the last to ever exist, and she's here she is real, hiding in plain sight for three years.

"You don't deny it" he murmured, tilting his head. His hair, caught in the melting sunlight, making him look ethereal and yet here he was, staring at you like he had just unravelled a mystery that had haunted him for far too long.

"I don't owe you confirmation" you said voice almost fearful "It changes nothing"

He laughed. Soft, delighted.

"Oh, but I think it changes everything" Another step. You should have backed away again, should have put distance between you but you refused "You’re a creature of the night. Vampires, witches... They always intrigued me. The power, the mystery. Those monsters that existed centuries ago, and one of them is my very own bodyguard”

"How long have you known?"

"Too long" he admitted, his eyes darkening "But I wanted to be sure. You think I didn’t see it? The way you watched me, studied me the same way I studied you? You act like you don’t care but I know better"

"And yet you kept me by your side... why?"

"Because you intrigued me" he murmured, his gaze never leaving yours as he spoke. 

And then before you could react, he reached up. Swift and deliberate, and brushed his fingers against the side of your throat. Right over where a human pulse should have been. Nothing. Excluding last night this was the first time he was touching you since he claimed you three years ago. His eyes flickered, unreadable, unreadable, unreadable...

For a moment, you thought he might say something else. That he might press further, push you and push you. But he didn’t. He simply let his fingers rest there, against the hollow of your throat where there was no reassuring thump of life beneath his touch. His fingers didn’t tremble. There was no hesitation, no fear.

"How long have you been hungry?" his words settled between you and your breath faltered, caught between a scoff and panic.

"You think I’m starving?" you asked, forcing a sharpness into your voice "You think I’m going to sink my teeth into your throat?"

His smirk returned, slow and knowing.

"Would you? I imagine it would be intoxicating"

"You’re playing a dangerous game, my prince"

"You’d never hurt me" The certainty in his voice sent a jolt through your chest and you hated how easily he used it.

"And how are you so sure?" you whispered.

"Because if you wanted to" he murmured leaning in just slightly, the warmth of his breath brushing your jaw "you already would have"

Your stomach twisted. He was right. You had stood guard outside his chamber for three years, had been close enough to touch him, to kill him, to take from him every single day. You had never once indulged. And yet, his pulse was so close now, beneath golden skin steady and warm. His scent was clean, the heat of him was something you tried not to focus on.

"You’re not afraid of me.." you said, because you needed to hear it. His expression softened, just slightly.

"No" he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world "I never was"

The realization unsettled you more than it should have. You swallowed, shifting your weight ever so slightly but it didn’t help. His presence was everywhere. His scent, his warmth, the undeniable way he was looking at you. And then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped past your lips, quieter than you intended.

"That makes one of us"

A breath of silence.

Rafayel didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. But his smirk faded, replaced by something softer and unreadable. His lashes lowered just slightly, his fingers on your throat twitching. You hated how exposed you felt. For three years you had perfected the art of silence. The art of indifference and yet here you stood, confessing more in five words than you had in centuries of your existence.

"I'm not going to tell anyone" His voice when it came was low and steady, before he shifted slightly "And in exchange, you can help me satisfy my curiosity"

"Curiosity?"

"I want to see them" was he asking what you think he was? "I'd be a fool not to take the opportunity would I not? Last of your kind and you're here in front of me. I've heard myths and legends about the sharpness but I can imagine it's different to see in person"

He wanted to see your fangs.

You wanted to push him away, to tell him to stop, to retreat into the silence you had so carefully constructed but something inside you trembled, something you hadn’t felt in years. Fear. You swallowed hard, your throat dry.

"It’s not a show, my prince" you said barely above a whisper, the words tasting foreign on your tongue "I don't... I don't trust you and I don’t know if I can trust you not to use it against me"

His lips twitched and for a moment there was something like sadness in his eyes but it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced once more by that steady gaze. For a while, there was silence. Every part of you screamed to keep the secret, to hide, to escape the moment. But the strange pull of him, of the trust you didn’t want to give was overwhelming.

You parted your lips, hesitating only for a heartbeat, before allowing him to see the fangs you’d hidden for so long. You could feel the sharpness of them as your canines lengthened. Dangerous, lethal, but in that moment they were exposed. There was no turning back.

Rafayel didn’t immediately speak. His gaze traced the sharp lines of your teeth, lingering as though admiring something rare, something exquisite. His eyes darkened and before you could even think to pull away, his fingers reached out, brushing against the sharp point of one of your fangs. 

His thumb then trailed lower, brushing across your lips with a teasing, deliberate motion. The sensation was too intimate, too personal and yet you found yourself frozen and unable to move. You stiffened, but his touch didn’t waver. It was soft yet it carried an intensity, a command that made your pulse quicken. The faintest flicker of heat spread through you but you couldn’t let him see it.

"You're beautiful" he murmured, his voice like a soft siren song, as if he were in awe of what he saw. His finger traced the sharpness of your fang "So much more than I imagined"

His gaze locked with yours and in that moment, everything seemed to slow. His presence was suffocating, consuming. His fingers didn’t pull away. They remained, pressing just a little harder against your fang... a possessive teasing pressure. You flinched at the added pressure, a shiver running down your spine. The touch was sharp now intentional. You didn’t know whether to step back or lean closer, your body betraying you in the face of such intimacy.

And then a sharp sting. 

His thumb pressed into your fang with just enough force to break the delicate skin at the tip. You didn’t have to look to know what had happened. The copper scent filled the air before you could fully process it, the bead of blood forming slowly on his skin.

The temptation was overwhelming. You felt it... a primal hunger rising in your chest, the need to sink your teeth into his flesh, to taste him, to take. Your eyes flickered downward to the drop of blood and the crimson bead that now stained his skin. The hunger surged. His voice, now soft and almost hypnotic broke through your haze.

"Open your mouth" he commanded, the order simple.

Your body obeyed before your mind could process it and without thought, your lips parted further. His thumb dipped lower, pressing against your bottom lip. A drop of his blood fell, warm and rich, onto your tongue. You tasted it before you could stop yourself. Just a brush of it and your senses exploded.

His blood was intoxicating. It slid down your throat like liquid fire, lighting every nerve in your body. It was like nothing you had ever tasted before, sweet and powerful and yet... you wanted more. Much more.

And he gave you exactly that. Before you knew it, he was placing his thumb in your mouth and on top of your tongue before pressing down, holding you there. His breath was on your face, uneven and heavy.

Without thinking, you sucked on his thumb, closing your mouth around it and pulling him closer, your body responding to the need gnawing at your insides. His blood was all you could focus on, it's heat mingling with the hunger that surged through your veins. You pulled him in, your hands gripping his wrist with a desperation you didn’t even recognize.

Rafayel didn’t pull away. Instead, his free hand cupped your cheek with a possessiveness you didn’t expect. His thumb remained in your mouth, guiding you, pulling you closer as the sensation of him, of his touch spiralled through you.

"Fuck.." he mumbled to himself.

His eyes darkened with something you couldn’t quite place, watching you with an intensity that set your skin on fire. You didn’t want to stop. You couldn’t stop. Every fibre of your being screamed for more as your lips bobbed around his thumb.

A singular moan, whether it was from him or you, you didn't know.

But it was enough to make you realise what was happening. 

You jerked back, panic flooding your senses. You hadn’t meant to go this far. You let go of his wrist and his thumb slipped from your mouth with a soft, almost regretful sound. You gasped for air, your lips still tingling with the taste of him, your body aching with something you couldn't quite name. Rafayel didn’t retreat though. His hand slid down to your waist, pulling you back toward him with a steady, unyielding grip. His touch was firm, possessive but gentle as if he were holding you together when you were falling apart. His eyes didn’t leave yours and in them, you saw something darker now.

"That..." Rafayel said softly, his voice almost too casual "is why I can never have a wife... that alone brought me more pleasure than any other woman could" 

His words hit you harder than you expected. You stiffened, shocked by the bluntness, by the rawness of what he’d just said. The casualness with which he spoke of such an intimate moment made you flustered, your cheeks warming. How could he say something like that so easily, so carelessly?

His hand tightened at your waist, fingers curling against the fabric of your clothes. A silent stay. His body loomed over yours, close enough that you could feel the rise and fall of his breath, the steady thrum of his heart. So human. You wanted to pull away, to regain control but your own body was betraying you, pulling you into the moment instead. His proximity felt suffocating. You should have pushed him away, you should have said something.

Instead, your silence gave him permission. His fingers slid up, tracing the line of your jaw before threading into your hair, pulling.

You gasped, the sharp tug sending a thrill down your spine and just like that, your neck was bared to him, your throat exposed in a way that made your instincts scream danger.. and yet, your body refused to move. His lips ghosted over your skin, a slow, deliberate tease. Not a kiss not yet, just a whisper of warmth.

Then, pressure.

His mouth brushed against your pulse point, lips parting just slightly. The warmth of his breath sent a shudder through you. Then, a graze of teeth. Blunt. Human. 

He was toying with you.

His mouth pressed deeper, lingering in a way that would have made your heart quicken. Then a bite. Not enough to break skin, not enough to hurt or leave a mark but enough. Enough to make your breath stutter. There was a dangerous draw to him, a magnetic pull that threatened to drown you in it. His lips moved against your skin again slower this time, deliberate and hungry. Not just kissing but nibbling. Small sharp bites, the kind only a vampire would know how to deliver. The kind meant to unravel, to seduce. His breathing was heavier now, his restraint slipping, his hunger mingling with yours in a way that made your stomach twist.

The second time he deprived you.

The first being in the brothel just 24 hours ago. He had kissed every inch of your face and jaw but avoided your lips at all cost and you wondered why, why? Was that too intimate for him? Did he consider that too vulnerable?

But you.. you had shown him your fangs. The way you kill. That was vulnerability for you but he couldn't share his own? Selfish. Too selfish, depriving you of what you wanted and needed. You shuddered as his eyes lifted to meet yours, dark and intense. The air between you was thick with tension, with need and then, as if some invisible line had been crossed, Rafayel's lips parted just enough to whisper.

"Show me more"

You found yourself leaning in. Unconsciously, desperately, your body reacting to the rush of emotions coursing through you, your mind clouded with desire and the taste of his blood. You were intoxicated by him, by what had just happened between you two. You moved closer hesitantly but you didn’t stop. You wanted to kiss him, needed to kiss him. Your lips hovered near his, breath mingling between you and for the first time, you were the one making the move.

But before you could close the gap, Rafayel pulled back slightly, just enough to deny you, just enough to taunt. His regular smirk curling at the corners of his mouth and his eyes gleamed with amusement. You studied him for a moment before you reached for him again, this time with more urgency. But once again, Rafayel evaded you. What the fuck.

He was enjoying this. You wanted to slap him, you wanted to ruin him... you wanted to taste him. You held his wrist again, your nails pressed into his skin but just as quickly as the moment had escalated, you heard the sound of footsteps approaching. The rhythm of boots against marble echoed through the hallway.

You jerked back, the speed with which you moved nothing short of lightning. The blur of motion left Rafayel blinking, slightly stunned before his gaze followed you, taking in the unnatural speed at which you’d retreated

Before he could speak, a palace guard rounded the corner and his gaze shifted between you both before focusing on Rafayel, eyes respectful but sharp.

"My prince" the guard said with a slight bow "The Queen sent me to find you. You’re late for the council meeting"

Rafayel, still too composed, didn’t spare a glance at you. Instead he straightened, regaining his regal posture in an instant.

"Thank you" he said, his voice calm and composed, betraying none of the intensity from just moments ago "I’ll be there shortly"

The guard nodded and quickly retreated, disappearing down the hallway. You stood still for a moment, the heat of the moment hadn’t disappeared and you could still feel the lingering burn of Rafayel’s touch on your skin. Rafayel however didn’t turn back to look at you as he began walking toward the council chamber. His back was to you now but you could feel the weight of his presence in the air.

The council chamber was far too cold for your liking, the air thick with formality and politics. The long table gleamed under the flickering torchlight, the creak of chairs and the soft rustle of papers filling the room as the advisors spoke in low, business like tones. Rafayel sat at the head of the table, his posture relaxed, almost as if he had not a care in the world. His voice cut through the air, smooth and confident, effortlessly commanding the attention of every person in the room.

But it wasn’t his words that held your focus. It was the memory of his touch, his blood still fresh on your tongue, the heat of the moment still searing beneath your skin. You could feel his presence, even though he was across the room. The way he moved, the subtle glint of amusement in his eyes whenever they flicked toward you, it was all too much.

Your mind kept replaying the way he’d smiled at you, the way his thumb had pressed against your lips, his breath just inches from yours. And now here he was, speaking with his advisors as though nothing had happened between you two. He was calm collected and in control. He looked every bit the prince, the future king and yet somehow the casual way he dismissed their concerns made your stomach twist. He had walked away from you without a second thought, without acknowledging the charge between you two.

But you couldn’t forget it. You couldn’t shake it.

"Rafayel" the Queen’s voice sliced through the silence, drawing your attention back to the matter at hand "Have you given any thought to finding a suitable wife? The kingdom will need a queen soon, especially with all that’s going on"

At the mention of a wife, something inside you clenched. A primal, unexpected feeling burned deep in your chest. Anger, frustration, possessiveness? something you had no name for but it was there, an edge twisting in your gut. The thought of another woman standing at his side, of him having someone else... it made your blood run cold. You didn’t want to think about it. 

But the thought of him with someone else stung in a way you hadn’t anticipated and you didn’t know how to deal with it. Why did it matter? Why did his future wife matter to you?

Rafayel didn’t seem to notice your internal struggle, his gaze never shifted toward you. He kept his eyes trained on the documents in front of him, his hand lazily drawing patterns on the edge of the table as he listened to his advisors. When he finally spoke, it was with the same casual ease as before as though he had no care in the world.

"I’ve thought about it, Mother" he replied smoothly "But a wife is the least of my concerns at the moment"

"Rafayel" the Queen warned, her voice rising just enough to command his full attention "You’re not a child anymore. The people need stability and you’ll need a queen to secure that. You cannot keep putting this off"

Rafayel didn’t flinch. His gaze flicked toward his advisors, then lazily scanned the room. As his voice rang out again, there was the famous subtle smirk on his lips that never quite reached his eyes.

"Perhaps Princess Tara of Linkon might be a good match" he said casually, mentioning the name of a royal from a neighbouring kingdom "But I’m not sure yet. It’s too soon to decide"

The moment he said her name, a violent knot of possessiveness twisted in your stomach, tightening with each word. Princess Tara. Her name alone made something claw at your chest and the rage you didn’t know you had bubbled up, raw and uncontrollable. She was everything you were not, everything you could never be and the idea of her by his side, holding his hand, being crowned as his queen... it shattered something inside you.

You tried to stay calm, tried to steady your breathing but the anger was there, simmering just beneath the surface and it was only getting harder to contain.

"You must take this seriously, son. The kingdom needs a queen and you need a wife" the Queen pressed, her voice cutting through the tension.

He merely nodded, his posture still relaxed, unaffected by his mother’s words. His gaze flicked briefly to you but it was fleeting, just a casual glance before he returned his attention to the documents before him, unaware of the turmoil churning inside you.

"I’ll make my decision when the time comes"

And with that, the conversation moved on, the Queen’s inquiries dismissed with a flick of his hand.

But as the meeting continued, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being consumed by the anger that was burning inside of you. 

You thought of the Silk Street. The brothels. Rafayel had moved through the alleyways with ease, as though he belonged there... because of course, he did. You had come to realise that he loved the danger, the chase. It's why he was there so often, it's why he pleaded to see your fangs and why he had not told everyone of your true nature. Why he had fed you his blood not knowing if you would stop or not. Why he toyed with you.

He liked the thrill of it all.

You couldn't deny that he was a regular in the brothels, that he had spent time in those places more than once. The women there, their laughter, their soft touches, their body language so familiar with him. He had kissed them, touched them, shared intimate moments with them, moments that he hadn't shared with you apart from the one time where he brought himself pleasure right in front of your very own eyes.

You couldn’t escape the image of him in their arms, their voices calling his name, claiming him in ways you hadn’t been able to and somewhere deep within, a dangerous, forbidden thought flickered to life. The sharp instinct of a predator.

What if I could kill them all?

The thought was foreign, unsettling. You immediately tried to push it down but it lingered. What if you wiped away every woman who had ever touched him?

It was an irrational thought, an outburst of jealousy you couldn’t control. But it was there and it burned through you with a fierce intensity. The jealousy clawed at your insides, wrapped around your non-existent heart and it tightened in a way that felt too consuming. 

A sickening knot twisted in your stomach. Those women. They had had him. He had kissed them, touched them, taken them in ways you hadn’t been. You could still hear the sounds of the brothels, the murmurs of voices calling his name. You hated them. You hated the way they had claimed him. You hadn’t even realized how far your thoughts had taken you until your fingers curled into fists by your side. Why did it matter so much?

Rafayel's voice pulled you back from your thoughts, but his words were like a needle to your wound. He was speaking again, just as casually as before mentioning Princess Tara. The jealousy returned and you clenched your jaw so tightly it almost hurt. Another woman. Another fucking woman.

He was due to be king, a man of power and it only made sense that he would have his share of women. But somehow, you couldn’t bear the thought of him with anyone else. 

You tried to focus on the Queen’s words, on the conversation, but it was impossible to ignore the storm building inside of you. You were angry. Angry at Rafayel for being so casual about something that meant so much to you, angry at the world for making him someone who belonged to others. But most of all, you were angry at yourself for caring so much.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? You did care. You didn’t know when it had happened, when the wall you had built had started to crack, but now there was no turning back. The more you thought about it the more you realised you didn't want to share him. You didn't want him to belong to anyone but you.

As the meeting dragged on so did your thoughts. You tried to convince yourself that it was because you had tasted his blood before the meeting, the heat still lingered in your mouth and the taste of him on your tongue. It was too much. Now you knew, you wanted him. Not just for fleeting moments, you wanted him for yourself. Every piece of him, every inch of his attention you wanted to be the one to stand by his side, to be the one who he chose, the one who could claim him.

You would never be the one he chose. You weren’t fit for that not in his eyes, you had always known that. You had been with him in his life but you were never his and now you were mad with it. Mad with wanting him, mad with the knowledge that no matter how much you longed for him, no matter how deeply you desired him to be yours, it would never happen.

────────

After the council meeting, the air between you and Rafayel had changed, at least from your side.

You tried to convince yourself that it was nothing. Just the aftereffects of tasting his blood, of feeling the heat of the moment lingering but no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself, the pull between you and him had shifted. The possessiveness had taken root and with it, something you couldn’t control.

You became distant and cold. The walls you had built once again crept back into place just like they did after the night you shared in the brothel. You stopped seeking him out. You no longer waited for him in the hallways after meetings or followed him when he sneaked out at night. Your eyes barely met his anymore.

You convinced yourself it was for the best. This was how it should be. After all, he would never see you the way you wanted him to. Plus, he would soon be king and with it he would need a wife. 

He could never be yours. 

Not when his future was filled with other women, with the politics of the kingdom. You would always be nothing more than his bodyguard, a shadow in the background and that was fine you could live with that. But it was getting harder. Every day the ache grew and Rafayel, perceptive as always began to notice.

It was a slight thing at first, his gaze lingering just a fraction longer than usual whenever your eyes met, his voice just a little softer but he said nothing. He just watched and waited but as the days passed, it became too much. It built up like a storm, the tension between you two thick and suffocating and then it exploded. The silence in the chambers was suffocating, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric as you moved. You checked every corner, every shadow, your senses heightened. Alert and vigilant as you always were. It was your duty to protect him after all and yet tonight, your mind refused to focus.

His coronation was tomorrow so his safety was at higher risk now more than ever.

As you moved across the room, you could feel his presence like a shadow, the weight of his gaze on you even though you refused to meet it. He was sitting on his bed, his posture relaxed but his expression unreadable. You had barely spoken to him since that night.

You tried to ignore him. You had to focus. He was a prince and you were his bodyguard, nothing more. But even the thought of it, nothing more, sickened you.

You had no right to feel this way. He had no reason to notice you. The other women, the brothels they were his to claim not you. You were just a monster, just a tool for his protection. You couldn't give him what those other women could, you couldn't give him what any other woman could. You hated yourself for feeling this way.

Your thoughts were impossible  to ignore.

But when Rafayel’s voice cut through the room, pulling you from your thoughts, you nearly jumped. His tone was sharp, frustrated. 

"You’re not saying anything" he said, his voice laced with irritation "You’re too quiet. Why are you so... distant? You've been acting like this for days now what is it?"

You swallowed hard, trying to maintain your composure. You couldn't look at him, couldn't bear to see the questioning look in his eyes. Your pulse quickened with each step he took toward you. He was just a few feet away now. 

"I’m doing my job" you said curtly, your voice cold. Perhaps colder than you intended.

"Your job?" He scoffed, clearly not buying it "You’ve been avoiding me. Avoiding me like I'm some stranger and not your prince. Not your fucking king"

You could hear the hunger in his voice now, the desperation. He was starving for something... answers, maybe? Or just you.

But you couldn't give him the answer he was looking for. You didn’t even know what it was, the words caught in your throat as you turned around to face him.

"I don’t know what you want from me" you whispered, your voice trembling "I’m just your bodyguard. I’m just here to protect you" 

At those words, Rafayel’s expression shifted, his face hardening with a mix of anger and disbelief. He took a step forward, his movements slow. His hand shot out, grabbing your waist in a grip that was almost painfully tight, pulling you flush against him. You gasped, your breath caught in your throat as his presence overwhelmed you.

"This act is pathetic" he told you, gripping you just a little tighter.

"You don’t get to act like this, my prince" you whispered, though your voice quivered under the weight of the emotion you were trying to hide "You don’t get to expect this from me. I’m not some... I’m not your lover. I’m just a tool. A thing. You don’t need to care about how I feel, how I-"

"Stop" he growled, his voice low and dangerous. His free hand gripped your cheeks, squishing your flesh and making your lips pucker "Stop pretending you don’t feel this. Stop pretending you don’t want me, you’ve been lying to yourself for far too long"

You shivered, trembling beneath the weight of his words. Your chest tightened with the realization that you couldn’t keep lying to yourself anymore. You did want him.

"I told you" you said weakly, but even to your own ears, it didn’t sound convincing "I’m just your bodyguard"

"You think I haven’t been thinking about it?"  he asked, his voice dripping with cocky amusement now "That night. You think I haven’t been thinking about the way you tried to kiss me? Twice? You think I didn’t notice? now you act like you’ve never thought about it, like it was nothing"

The words hit you like a physical blow. 

"Because it is nothing" you whispered, but the words felt empty.

"Stop lying to me" he snapped, his voice now filled with authority. The voice of a prince, of a king "It meant something to you. I can see it in your eyes"

"My prince-"

"I haven’t stopped thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about it. And now, you’re acting like it never happened" He leaned in closer, his fingers unclenching slightly but still holding you close "It matters to me. And it matters to you... I can feel it. I can feel the way you want me. I can feel the way you’ve been pulling away, terrified of what you really feel"

"I... I can’t..." You trembled under his touch, but you still tried to pull away.

"You don’t get to walk away from this, from me" His voice was ragged now, thick with need. He was almost pleading, and it broke something inside you "Say it"

His words were a command and you hated how you felt it in your body, your core. You were hot with need, with desire and you wanted nothing else but the man in front of you. You needed him more than you needed blood to survive.  Your could feel the words stuck in your throat, the truth you were too scared to admit, to confront but he wasn’t letting you hide anymore.

"Say it, tell me" Rafayel commanded once again and you swear your knees buckled slightly under his gaze, his words, his touch "Tell your king how much you need him, how much you desire him..."

You froze, your breath hitching in your throat as a mixture of fear, desire and guilt churned inside you. Fuck you were so turned on you could barely function a thought never mind a sentence.

A man should never have this much power over you.

You could feel it now, the deep, uncontrollable need burning inside of you. You did want him, you had wanted him for so long, but you couldn’t admit it. Not like this.

He pulled you closer, his lips grazing against your ear.

"Say it, and I will make you forget every damn thought you ever had about being nothing but mine"

It broke. It broke inside you like a balloon being popped or a fire being ignited. Everything you denied yourself of melted away and all that mattered was the way he held you, body against his own, arm around your waist keeping you in place while his other hand held your face a centimetre away from his.

"I... I hate it" you whispered, barely audible "I hate it. I hate the thought of any other woman touching you. I hate it. I can’t... I can’t stand it. I want it to be me, it should be me. But I... I'm a monster not a lover. You deserve a heart, you deserve love, you deserve better than this"

He cupped your face in both hands then, gentle and his gaze was nothing you've ever seen before. It was genuine, it was hopeful and it was something you needed to see in this moment. It made you yearn for him more.

No one, in five centuries, had been gentle with you the way Rafayel was.

He had never cuffed you. Never mistreated you or struck you. Never spoke ill about you or laughed at you like the others. Never feared you and never doubted you. He had held you like you were piece of glass, gentle and kind, like you mattered. Like you weren't some blood sucking demon who would rip him apart the second she was given a chance.

He made you human. 

You didn't deserve him.

"Say it" He pleaded, and your lips quivered slightly "Give me permission. I need your permission to act. I need your permission to show you how good I want and can make you feel"

"I... I shouldn’t" The words were weak, empty. You knew it, so did he.

His hands slid lower, trailing down the column of your throat, over your shoulders, down your arms until his fingers ghosted over your waist once more.

"Then tell me to stop" His voice was barely above a whisper, his lips so close, they almost brushed against yours "Tell me to stop and I swear, I will never touch you again"

You squeezed your eyes shut, your entire body trembling beneath his touch. But you didn't tell him to stop, because you didn't want him to.

"Rafayel" you breathed, barely a whisper.

You had never whispered his name before. Never spoke it out loud, always referring to him as my prince. But in this moment, it felt right. It felt like he was just Rafayel, and you weren't a bodyguard nor a vampire, but you.

No rules, no titles. Just two lovers.

"That’s not what I asked for" his lips moving to your jaw, kissing a path down to your neck. His teeth scraped against your skin with pressure, not enough to hurt but enough to ache. 

Your hands tangled in his hair, gripping desperately, trying to ground yourself.

"I need you" you finally whispered, the words tumbling from your lips before you could stop them "I need you, I hate how much I fucking need you"

He lifted his head up, exhaling softly, his breath warm against your lips and it was maddening. But then his lips brushed yours, just the faintest touch, light as air and testing the waters. Your breath hitched, your hands fisting tighter into his hair.

And that was all it took.

Everything around you seemed to vanish. The room, the distant sound of the night outside, even the air itself  it all ceased to exist and there was only him.

His lips slammed into yours before you could even process the shift, the urgency in his kiss pulling you closer as though he wanted to drown in you. It was nothing like the soft, hesitant touches from before. No, this was desperate and hungry, as if he couldn’t wait any longer couldn’t hold back another second.

You gasped into the kiss but it only fuelled him more. His demanding tongue slipped past your lips forcing its way deeper into your mouth with an animalistic rhythm. His hands were everywhere gripping your waist so tightly it was almost painful, pulling you against him until there wasn’t a single inch of space left between you.

Your fingers clawed at his bare chest struggling to find something to hold onto as your world spun out of control. His kiss was messy as if he was trying to consume you, take you in all at once. His lips were bruising, hot and demanding against yours and the way his teeth grazed your lower lip made your heart race faster.

He growled, the sound vibrating through your body. His hands slid up to your neck, his fingers tightening around the delicate skin there as he tilted your head back, forcing your mouth open wider for him. There was no gentleness now. Only a raw and desperate need, hunger that clawed at both of you.

"You’re mine" he muttered between kisses, his voice thick with desire "Say it again. Say you want me"

You couldn’t think, couldn’t process his words through the haze of pleasure and frustration swirling in your mind. You could only feel. Feel the hot press of his chest against yours, feel the way his body moulded against yours, each movement pushing you closer to the edge. It felt like the human part of you had been awakened.

His hand slid down to your hips, gripping the curve of your waist as he pulled you even closer, if that was even possible. His erection pressed against your stomach, hot and demanding, and the sensation sent a bolt of heat straight to your core. You moaned against his mouth, a sound of frustration and want that you couldn’t stop.

He pulled away again, just enough to look into your eyes, his breath ragged and uneven.

His lips were swollen, slick with your kiss and the last thing that held you together in that moment was the string of saliva that was evidence of your greed.

You felt dizzy, drunk on the sensation of him, but the more he kissed you, the more you wanted it. Wanted him.

"You feel that?" His voice was a low rasp, a whispered command "That’s me, doing this to you. You feel your pulse, don’t you? That thumping in your chest. You feel it in your veins... your blood rushing, just like you’re human again"

You wanted to deny it. You wanted to tell him that you didn’t feel any of it, that you were a vampire, untouchable, above all these emotions. But the truth was, you couldn’t. You were trembling in his arms, your body betraying you with every second he touched you. You could feel your heart beating hard in your chest, could feel the heat surging through you like it was alive and yet, you were the monster, weren’t you?

"I'm-" You tried to pull back, to speak, but your words were swallowed by his lips. His kiss deepened once more, almost like he couldn’t get enough of you, couldn’t satisfy this hunger inside him that seemed to grow with every second.

The force of it made you stumble back, hitting the wall of his chambers but Rafayel didn't stop. No, he took it as a sign to push further, his hands grabbing you tighter, holding you so you were pressed against him fully.

"You’re mine" he repeated, voice thick with possession, as if this kiss, this moment, was the only thing that mattered in the world. His hands roamed again, sliding beneath your clothes, the roughness of his touch touching the bare skin of your back, your sides, as if he needed to feel every inch of you "You’ve been mine from the moment I laid eyes on you you just didn’t realize it"

"I want you" you managed to get out, your voice breaking with raw emotion, with a desperation you couldn’t hide anymore "I want you, my prince"

A low growl rumbled from deep in his chest and before you could even brace yourself his lips were back on yours for a fleeting moment, more desperate than ever.

His hands gripped your own hair, tugging your head back as his mouth trailed down the column of your neck, leaving bruises in it's wake. His teeth scraped over your skin, marking you, claiming you and you couldn’t stop the gasps that left your mouth, couldn’t stop the way your body arched into his touch, begging for more.

Your gasp filled the room as Rafayel’s lips trailed lower, leaving a burning path of possession in their wake. His mouth was hot against your skin, the scrape of his teeth against your throat sending another violent tremor down your spine. The wall was cold against your back, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body pressed against yours.

Your hands were desperate. Clawing at his back, his shoulders and gripping the fabric that rested on his waist, you thanked the gods for his regal robes only covering half of his body. You wanted it gone, you wanted nothing between you but before you could move, his hands were already on you, yanking at your clothes with a ferocity that sent heat flooding through your veins.

His fingers trailed down your spine slow and deliberate, igniting every nerve in your body. His touch was fire, and he cursed under his breath as he uncovered more and more of your flesh, the clothes you were once wearing finding themselves on the floor of his chambers. Your top half matched his own, bare and exposed for his eyes to see while your bottom half, the part of you that demanded more attention remained covered.

You shuddered beneath his touch, your hands tangled in his hair and your lips aching from his kisses.

"You have no idea how many nights I’ve thought about this" Rafayel whispered "How many nights I’ve dreamed about you, how many times I’ve woken up cursing myself for wanting something I shouldn’t have"

"You shouldn’t want me" you breathed, but the words were a lie even as they left your lips. You knew it, he knew it and yet the way his hands slid down your sides, the way he pressed his body flush against yours, made it clear that he didn’t care.

"But I do" he growled, his lips were continuous on your neck and you gasped at the sensation, at the way your body betrayed every ounce of logic you had left "And I’m done pretending otherwise"

He kissed you again, slow this time and more deliberate. He wanted you to feel him, to understand just how deep this went. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, coaxing them open and you let him in without hesitation. The taste of him was intoxicating. 

He made a low sound in the back of his throat before his hands slid lower, gripping the back of your thighs. In one swift movement he lifted you, pressing you harder against the wall, caging you in completely.

You gasped, your arms wrapping around his neck as your legs instinctively locked around his waist. You could feel everything now, every inch of him pressed against you, every sharp inhale, every tremor that ran through his muscles as he held you like you weighed nothing at all.

His breath was still ragged, his forehead resting against yours as he held you there.

"I want..." he began, and you watched him carefully "Drink from me"

Your fingers twitched, grip tightening around him as a wave of hunger clawed at your insides and the taste of him lingered in your memory. You had tasted him once before, just a drop, just enough to know that nothing compared to him and gods, you wanted it again.

But you shook your head, unwrapping your arms and pressing your hands flat against his chest.

"No" you said, even though your body screamed at you to say something else entirely "I don't want to"

His hands slid to your waist once again, fingers pressing into your skin, firm but not demanding. He could feel your hesitation, could see it in the way your lips parted slightly and in the way your breath came faster, in the way your pupils dilated as your instincts fought against your will.

"Liar..." he murmured. A small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You clenched your jaw as he pecked your lips with his own, the smirk not leaving his face. Your nipples grew hard from the cold air and he could feel it against his chest as he held you tighter. You needed to get out of this room, away from the scent of him and away from the temptation burning it's way through your veins.

But then he tilted his head, exposing the side of his throat to you. Inviting you.

Your fangs ached.

"My prince..."

"I remember" Rafayel interrupted, his voice low and teasing "I remember how you looked when you tasted me"

Your breath caught in your throat.

"You looked drunk on it" His hands slid up your arms "Like it was the best thing you’d ever had. Like you wanted more"

You did. You did want more. But you couldn’t.

"You don’t understand" you whispered trying to ignore how close he was, how warm his skin felt beneath your touch "It’s not just... it’s not just feeding, Rafayel. It’s—"

"I do understand" he cut you off, his voice dark and hypnotic "And I don’t care"

Before you could even catch your breath he was walking, his body pressing you tight against his chest, each step slow and purposeful. You knew where he was taking you and you didn’t stop him. Your arms wrapped around his neck when he moved you from the wall, fingers curling into his hair your lips so close to his, his breath hot against your mouth.

"Stop..." you whispered, but it sounded weak even to your own ears.

"You need me" he whispered in return, voice like velvet as he lowered you onto the bed, your back sinking into the softness beneath you. Your breath shuddered out of you as his fingers tipped your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze "Are you afraid?"

"I’m afraid of hurting you" you admitted. A low chuckle rumbled in his throat, his breath warm against your skin.

"But you still want it, don’t you?" His scent wrapped around you and you were now hyperaware of everything. How you could practically hear the way his blood was pumping through his veins.

You shouldn't.

You shouldn’t.

Your fingers curled against his shoulders, your breath shaking as you hovered over his throat, every inch of your body pulled taut with the ache of resisting him. Your fangs throbbed with need, your mouth parted, hovering just close enough for him to feel it.

And still, Rafayel didn’t move away.

You swallowed hard, your lips brushing the column of his throat as you forced yourself to stay still.

"I…"

"I remember how you looked that night" he whispered, kissing you gently on your neck while he bared his for you "You were starving for it..."

"Rafayel-"

"You moaned for me" He interrupted, his voice was seduction and you couldn't help but pull him further down with your legs "If only you knew how good it felt, to watch you take from me..."

You trembled and his grip tightened.

"You don’t understand" you rasped, your voice trembling "If I do this, I might not be able to stop"

You were surprised to feel the way he shuddered against you from your words. 

"Then don’t" he told you, chuckling against your neck before giving a small bite of his own "I want this, and I want you. All of you. Every dark and twisted monstrous part of you I want to feel what it’s like when you stop holding back"

No one had ever spoken those words to you before and for the first time in your whole monstrous life you felt seen. You felt like you mattered, like you being a vampire, a monster didn't matter at all and that this was the only place where you wouldn't be judged or feared.

Before you could deny him again he lifted his head up, staring into your eyes before giving you a kiss on the tip of your nose. Too endearing, too intimate..

Somehow the soft way that he was looking at you felt more intimate than the way your top half was completely bare underneath him.

"I meant it when I said I hadn't stopped thinking about it.. about you" he told you, eyes not leaving yours and deep down you so desperately wanted him to just shut up and kiss you until the night ended "You think I wasn’t dying to feel it again? That I haven’t imagined what you’d look like on top of me, taking what you need—"

His sentence trailed off as you flipped your body around, causing his back to hit the bed where you once lay. You were growing frustrated now, you needed him everywhere and he wasn't giving it to you. His words were affecting you too much and all this talk about feeding from him made your fangs ache.

He was beneath you now and he could see the way you hid the sharp canines away from him, desperate to hide your need so he wouldn't continue to offer himself to you this way. It's not that you didn't want it, because gods you most definitely did, but from the small taste of him you remember having he was exquisite... you've never tasted anything so rich before.

Your thighs clenched around him involuntarily, your hands pressing against his chest as you hovered over him. His heart was pounding in his chest for you. There wasn't any fear, it was just want and devotion.

He tilted his head just enough to bare his throat to you once more and his pulse jumped, you grew more tempted as the seconds flew past... his skin looked so inviting.

"You should be afraid" you whispered, almost desperate to hear the tremor of fear in his voice and to find a reason to stop.

But he just smiled.

"Afraid?" His voice was teasing as he traced his hands up your sides in a slow and worshipful pace "Of you?"

He shifted just right beneath you, pressing himself against your core which was enough to pull a strangled moan from your lips. You could feel him, he was rock hard against you but he wasn’t demanding. Instead he was giving, practically offering himself up like he was made for you to take.

Your breath hitched.

"If I’m afraid of anything…" he continued, his fingers trailing up your spine "It’s that you’ll deny me"

A growl ripped from your throat that was low and dangerous and Rafayel actually moaned... like he had been waiting for that exact sound. You grabbed his hands from your body before pinning them above his head, denying him of touching your bare skin. Your breasts grazed his chest and he bit his lip at the feeling, enjoying the way he was slowly pushing your limits. His fingers flexed in your hold, testing you almost but he thankfully wasn't fighting you.

"Stop talking" you warned, because if he kept speaking like that you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself.

But Rafayel only exhaled a breathy, shuddering laugh.

"Then give me what I want" he replied, eyes glancing from yours to your lips, your fangs now fully on display the more frustrated you got. Gods you were beautiful.

He shifted beneath you again, grinding his hips up into yours and your eyes closed for a moment as he rubbed you in the right place. Your grip had loosened thanks to his movements and he made the most of it, trailing his fingers softly up your arm before reaching your jaw and grazing his thumb against your bottom lip like he had done a few nights ago when you first tasted his blood.

When he spoke again, you felt whatever control you had left slip from your fingers, announcing him as the winner.

"Obey your King.."

The words were sharp and possessive, more possessive than he had been all night and it was truly the last string that snapped inside you. His tone wasn't an invitation, it was a command and you had no choice but to surrender. Your body was already his, you just needed to let the final part of yourself go.

The hunger inside you flared like a fire, and you didn't fight it. You released his hands and shifted your mouth above his throat again, feeling the heat of his body and the inviting sound of his pulse screaming at you and that was all it took before you finally sank your fangs into him.

You felt the familiar rush at first, the thick blood latching onto your canines before spreading in your mouth and you groaned at the taste. It was everything you remembered but better, sweeter than anything you have ever tasted and more intoxicating that ever. It was rich, definitely the blood of a prince and you felt utterly euphoric.

Rafayel tensed beneath you and it was the first time that he was quiet since this whole ordeal. His body however fought against his silence, hands flying to your waist and gripping the skin there as you drank. He let out a shuddering breath, his chest rising and falling faster with every pull of your mouth.

He was still, not moving an inch or making a sound and you were worried that maybe you had scared him, maybe that he finally realised what he was getting himself into as you lay on top of him tasting him.

But you couldn't stop.

Your grip tightened on his arms, pushing your face deeper into his neck and your fangs further into his skin. The blood on your tongue was consuming every part of your mind and you never wanted to stop, you wanted to suck him dry.

As quick as the thought entered your mind you pulled away with a gasp, meeting his gaze and he watched as a drop of his blood fell from your lip and onto his chest. You swallowed, wondering if you had took it a step too far when he didn't move but his eyes burned into yours, an animalistic look as his chest continued to heave.

He was enjoying it.

"Such a good girl..." he whispered and fuck you felt the praise run through your body "Take what you need.. I'm yours as much as you're mine"

Before you could pull away he shifted again, his hips pressing up into you firmly and his clothed cock rubbed perfectly against your clit and gripped him even tighter. 

"Fuck-"

"Mm you feel so fucking good" he groaned. His whole body was screaming at him to flip you back over, take control and take what was his but fuck he wanted to feel you this way for a little while.

He pulled his knees up and trapped your body in place, making sure you stayed just above where he was throbbing with need.

He didn't need to say much more. With the way he was looking at you combined with how his body was responding on top of the taste of his blood you couldn't form any thoughts that weren't filled with him. 

And with that, you sank your fangs back into his skin.

His back arched beneath you and when he grounded into you this time, it was reckless. The feeling of it was something you've never experience before and feeling his body tremble below you as he gave into his own pleasure drove you insane. 

A minute passed before you were pulling away from him again, mouth still tingling from the blood and his neck was stained red. The pleasure was too much, too overwhelming but you couldn't find it in you to stop. You felt alive and everything felt just right...

Your fingers curled into the sheets beside his head as your chest rose and fell quickly while he groaned and moaned beneath you. Every little movement you made was intense and you felt like someone was in control of your hips from the way they moved.

But just as the haze began you were suddenly shifted. Rafayel moving quickly before you found yourself below him again and you didn't have time to adjust before his lips were diving onto yours again, tongue swirling in your mouth mixing blood and saliva together.

You felt the weight of him on top of you, his body warm and the heat between your legs only rose and ached with pure need. With his chest pressed tightly against yours and his covered cock rubbing against your clit you realised just how much of him you craved. 

The kiss deepened, each press of his lips against yours sending a shockwave of heat through your body. His hands moved all over you as if he was memorizing and admiring everything about you, like you were painting and he was the artist.

His eyes found yours and for a brief second you could feel nothing but the weight of his gaze. He didn't move for a moment, just hovered over you while his lips parted with a quiet needy sound.

"You're perfect.." he murmured and you felt embarrassed under his eyes "Every part of you. Gods I want to feel you like this forever"

His hands slid down your sides and you could have sworn he did it in a way that was worshipping. His fingertips traced every curve of you, over the goosebumps on your breasts before pinching your nipples gently. You could feel him losing control second by second as he grinded his hips down into yours, his arousal pressing into you.

"How good does it feel, hm?" his voice dropped to a commanding whisper, his lips trailing along your neck and brushing over where your pulse once was "Tell me you feel it too"

His hips shifted again pressing against you just right. It sent a wave through your body and you couldn't help but whimper at the feeling before pulling him closer, needing more.

"Yes.." you gasped, surprised at yourself for answering. Your hips lifted, seeking more friction and more of him "I feel it.. so much.."

Rafayel groaned as he buried his face in your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as yours once did his. His hands had moved further down your body to grip your thighs tightly, pulling your legs further around his waist which only forced you deeper into his warmth.

"You're so fucking beautiful like this... so perfect for me" he whispered, his praise sounding more like a prayer "I want to ruin you"

The small and possessive growl that escaped him made you shiver. You couldn't help yourself anymore, you couldn't deal with the teasing and as much as you wanted to savour this moment you wanted him more. The need to have him inside you was too powerful and your body cried out.

"I want this" you sighed, looking up at him "I want you, I need you-Fuck 'm so empty"

Your body was on fire now. Every inch of you ached to be touched, to feel him pressed against you, to finally give in completely.

His mouth found yours again with a hungry kiss before he began peeling the reminder of your clothes off. It was his turn to feel impatient now, hearing you so desperate for his touch for him, complaining that you felt empty fuck he'd make sure you never felt like that again. He'd make sure to stuff you so full..

It was his turn and before you knew it he was bare above you and the feeling of his bare erection against your thigh had you gasping out loud. You remembered the way he had pleasured himself in front of you in that brothel, the way he moved and pleaded for his release you couldn't help but reach forward and grab the throbbing length.

He whimpered at the feeling of your hand gripping him, his own hand guiding your wrist up and down in a steady pace before his tip was rubbing between your folds as your breaths mixed together.

"You feel so good" He groaned, his voice was a strained whisper against your ear when his head dropped to your neck. He pressed against your skin as if he couldn't get enough of you "So soft.. I could drown in you"

"I've never.. Rafayel I don't-"

"It's okay.. just trust me" He knew what you were trying to say, and your lips parted when you felt him push inside where you needed him most "Just the-fuck just the tip baby"

He was trembling above you and you weren't acting much better. The tip of him rested inside you, your hand still gripping his cock tightly while your other arm snaked around his neck, holding him closer to you. He moved his hips gently, the tip of his length sliding in and out as you adjusted to him.

You could only close your eyes in bliss and tilt your head back into the pillow as the tip of his cock felt so delicious inside you. He stretched you out so perfectly and you could feel your canines growing once more due to the pleasure.

Every so often he'd pull out, rub his cock up and down your folds spreading your arousal and focussing extra on your clit and you've never felt a more euphoric feeling. Even blood couldn't bring you this much pleasure.

For a while he pushed in and out of you, just his tip only while telling you how good you were for him. There were a few extra claims in there, him reminding you that you belonged to him and you wanted nothing more than to tell him that he was yours too.

But then you were startled slightly when he slid further in you without warning.

"Ah-" both your arms were now wrapped around his neck and he groaned as he slid all the way inside you, the feeling of your walls clenching around him caused him to twitch and you whined in pain. 

"Fuck-Fuck I'm sorry you just feel so good... I can't help myself" his words were rushed as he rested his forehead against yours, staying still inside you for a moment "Fuck, you’re so tight"

The pain of him suddenly sliding in was very much there but his words soothed you and you knew you would have had to face it inevitably so you kissed him again with urgency, as if he'd float away from you if you let him go.

But he wasn't going anywhere, not with how snug he fit inside you and how well your walls accommodated him. He swore he had never fit so perfectly in anyone before, any woman and not even his palm felt this perfect. 

You were his, and there was no way he'd be letting you go after this.

When he finally moved you found yourself biting his lip at the stretch, resulting in a growl from him. He couldn't do anything other than pull out before pushing himself back inside you, slow and steady but you felt every pull and push shatter your body. 

He moved quicker as the seconds passed by, his hips surging against your own and you began to lose your breath. Every thrust was possessive, every time his hips met yours again it was a claim, it was a warning that you belonged to him and him only. Your lips broke apart and his eyes never left yours, watching carefully at how you responded to the way his thrusts gained speed and how you arched into him.

"No one else will ever hear the sounds you make... no one else will ever see you like this" he told you, and he felt his heart skip when he saw the brief smile on your face at his words "You’re mine. You hear me? Mine"

You could only kiss him again, your lips melding together as his hips were practically pushing you further and further up the bed. The pain had long melted away and all you could focus on was the way he was so perfectly sliding in and out of you, the lewd sounds filling his chambers and blending with his groans and your whimpers.

If anyone was to walk past his door, they'd know what was happening.

Your legs were around his waist, arms wrapped around his neck as he kissed you more eagerly. Your chests were together and it felt so intimate, your breasts squished against his firm chest and your stomachs grazing every now and then as his thrusts continued. You had a fleeting thought of pressing your hand to your stomach to see if you could feel him there..

He was yours. In this moment, in these chambers he was all yours for the taking and the thought made you claw at his skin.

There was an unfamiliar feeling setting in your stomach and you pulled away from his lips with a concerned face, his eyes watching you carefully as his thrusts slowed.

He figured it out immediately, and with a smile he picked up his pace again, his hips truly slamming into you and you could do nothing but take it. Take it, take it, take it...

"You feel it don't you? You're going cum.." clearly all his restraint was gone by now, because he was moving so quickly in and out of you it was difficult to understand how he kept up the pace when you were losing all control over your body "I feel you trembling. Don't-hm don't fight it"

"Oh..Rafayel-"

"So fucking perfect" he told you and you gripped the sheets tightly "I can feel you, squeezing me so tight like you don’t wanna let me go. You don’t, do you? You wanna keep me buried inside this perfect, greedy little cunt forever"

His voice broke into a whimper as he ground against you, forcing himself even deeper. He needed to be deeper, he needed to be so far inside you that not even the gods could pull him away.

His rhythm was ruined now, his thrusts were desperate and erratic and his hands were gripping you so tightly you wished you didn't heal quickly so everyone outside these walls could see the bruises he made... see the way he claimed you, you wished that you could wear proof of this moment and of him.

His fingers found your clit, rubbing it quickly and franticly as his cock twitched inside you.

"Cum for me" his voice was desperate now, he was practically whining "Please, baby-fuck look at me"

The moment your eyes fluttered open and locked onto his you felt your whole body shatter under his gaze and his words. The feeling of him inside you, the way he was looking at you and calling you his and his relentless finger on your clit you swore you felt like you were starting to float.

The pleasure was too overwhelming for you that when you came you made no sound, your last moan stretching out into silence as your mouth fell open, feeling your walls tighten around his cock as he pushed in you and pulled out at a speed that had your breasts bouncing but you kept your eyes on him.

He was like a siren, calling you to him and putting you under a spell that you could never escape.

"Fuck" his grip on you tightened as he felt you cum, your body flush against him and his hips stuttered for a moment as he gazed down at you "That's it.. that's it baby just like that"

He rode out your high, finishing you with the same pace but it was only when he felt his own release he did as he pleased. His hands gripped your thighs and pinned them to the bed, your legs spread wide as you whined at the overstimulation but it only fuelled him more. Your legs pinned on the bed gave him the perfect angle and you could feel every inch of him.

He leant back and stared down at where you were connected and only bit his lip at the sight of you pushing on his stomach, pleading that you were overstimulated but he needed this... he needed this release.

"Rafayel.." you whimpered and he looked at your face, slowing down his pace and panting thinking he hurt you. But he watched as you bit your lip, lazily looking down at his cock inside you before your own fingers circled your clit "Will.. will you fill me up, my prince?"

Rafayel broke. The second the words left your lips, the last of his resolve shattered.

His entire body jerked and a strangled wrecked moan tearing from his throat as his hands tightened around your thighs, keeping them pinned wide open beneath him. He needed to see you like this, needed to see how you stretched around him, how you took him and how you begged for him like he was the only thing you could think about.

"Oh, fuck—" His head tipped back for a moment, eyes squeezed shut as if the very thought of filling you was too much for him to handle. But then he looked down at you again and fuck he was gone "Say it again"

His voice was nothing but a wrecked whisper, his rhythm turning deep and deliberate. His cock dragged against your walls perfectly, making sure you felt every last inch of him. Your back arched.

"Rafayel—"

His hand shot out, gripping your jaw, forcing your gaze back on him. 

"No. Say it. Say exactly what you just said to me, or I swear I won’t let you cum again" His words were a threat but his body betrayed him. He was trembling, holding on by a thread.

You felt powerful.

A lazy, teasing smile spread across your lips as you let your fingers circle your clit again, the sensation making you whimper softly sweetly just to watch the way his jaw clenched, the way his hips jerked against yours. You dragged your eyes slowly down his heaving chest, his toned stomach, the muscles flexing with every desperate thrust he gave you.

And then you locked eyes with him again, completely wrecked and ruined beneath him.

"Fill me up, my king"

Rafayel let out a choked, broken groan, his hips snapping forward hard enough to make you jolt up the bed.

"Fuck...fuck, I’m going to—"

He folded over you, his arms caging you in as he buried himself to the hilt, grinding in deep, deeper, deeper as if he could spill every last drop of himself inside you and still, it wouldn’t be enough. His release tore through him and he let out another ruined moan, his forehead falling to yours. 

"That’s it.. that’s my good fucking girl fuck, take all of it" his voice broke as he ground himself deeper, spilling inside you. His hands fisted the sheets as he collapsed onto you, still shaking, still gasping and caging you in like he was terrified you'd slip away.

He hated how he was too caught up in his own pleasure to see you finishing again but at least you were still here. His cum stained your insides, your walls were so tight around him there was no way he'd be pulling out of you anytime soon. His cock was softening now but he stayed still inside you, twitching against your body as his sweat dripped down onto you.

It was then when you smelt the blood again, and once again your eyes opened lazily to see that his neck was still dripping from where your fangs had been and you only started to notice how pale he was.

He was more tired than you, given that he was human, so you rolled him over with a gasp as his softened cock rested inside you. You didn't think twice, gently running your tongue over his wound, cleaning him and ridding the evidence of what you had done.

You had taken so much from him.

He could do nothing but enjoy the feeling of your tongue against him. His breath caught and there was a low, almost inaudible sound of pleasure as you tended to him and you could feel the way his hands weakly gripped your thighs, his touch still desperate in the aftermath of everything. He didn't question what you were doing, in fact he didn't even care if you were draining what remained of him. He really didn't, not when your naked body rested so comfortably on top of his while your cunt warmed his cock. So he laid there, eyes closed and enjoying the feeling.

After a few moments you were done, pulling your mouth away from his skin to see the now closed holes. There was a mark that would clear up in a few days, but for now the bleeding had stopped, and he needed rest.

You sighed after admiring your work, the tension in your chest slowly melting away as you lifted your gaze to his face, only to find him already watching you. 

He spoke about you being beautiful, but gods had he seen himself?

His lids were heavy and his eyes soft, so tender that your breath hitched in your throat. You had never seen him so.. relaxed. Then, he smiled and you couldn't understand how he could look at you like that. How was it possible for someone to look at you like that?

To admire you so openly, to touch you so gently even after seeing the parts of yourself that made you a monster?

With a sigh you shifted, laying your head on his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing rocking you into a gentle comfort. His hands found your back, gently running up and down your spine as though he were offering comfort in his own way.

You weren't sure how long passed, but you stayed where you were and his cock had already slipped out from you and you once again felt empty. The feeling of his seed spilling out of you was uncomfortable and you wanted to clean yourself up but you were terrified that if you moved he'd realised what happened and kick you out.

As if he hadn't been the one to seduce you. 

"You're still here..." Rafayel’s voice broke the silence, low and raspy as if he had just woken up from a deep sleep. You tilted your head up to look at him, your face close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin. 

"I am" was all that you could mumble.

His fingers slid through your hair, gathering a few strands between his fingertips and he leaned forward just enough to kiss the top of your head, as if to reassure you that you were still wanted, still needed here.

"Don’t go anywhere" he whispered, his voice rough but filled with quiet intent.

His words lingered and you could do nothing but nod your head, admiring him. He kissed you on your lips again, gently and not desperate, as if he knew now that you weren't going anywhere.

His coronation was tomorrow, he would be king, you had no idea what would change between you but for now you enjoyed being held. For now, you enjoyed not feeling like a monster.

It wasn't until hours later in the crack of dawn when the first light of morning began to creep in through the windows that you were ripped from his arms.

[drgnflyteabox]

red ochre [2]

series masterlist previous || part two -> woad and weld || part three -> orpiment

> summary: you recover from the boat, and wonder why you were taken > tags/warnings: pain, caretaking, food, stomach issues, threats, mean simon, fears of rape (doesn't happen), viking-typical slavery, unwanted cuddling / massage / touching, alcohol, scars, violence, hunting, laswell hello!, reader has some puritanical attitudes / assumptions but she was a nun so, power imbalance, dubcon comfort, crying, religious themes (dldr)

You're a stone sunk to the bottom of the ocean, pulled under by exhaustion and turmoil. It's the sleep of the dead, dreamless and unreachable.

Vaguely, in moments of semi-consciousness, you hear voices and feel softness against your skin, warmth all around you. The brush of fingers against your cheeks.

When you do wake, it's like crossing between different worlds, with a head full of cotton and fog. Your sense of smell comes alive before anything else, the smell of food permeating the air around you.

Fish. Cream. Something herbaceous, something earthy. A fire crackles closeby, warming the air, warming you. You can feel fur touching your arms and legs, draped over you and flat underneath you.

It only serves to soften to blow of pain, overwhelming pain. True awareness comes then, waking you with a gasp that alerts-

"Did she just-"

"Sh!" Simon's voice, coming closer. "You awake?" his face comes into view above - you only recognize him by voice.

He's scarred, big and small, but the most eye-catching one bisects his face, splitting it into two from his cheekbone to his jaw on the other side. It's deep, raised, angry even if you can tell it's healed.

You scream.

It's a weak sound, the cry of somebody that knows it's pointless and yet can't help but shout into the void and hope that something will answer.

Before, that would have been god. You'd have prayed, lived as a hermit, sequestered yourself to a cave and live as one of the great ascetic saints. A life even further dedicated than nunhood.

Since he had refused to answer you on the boat, you turn away, and whimper like an injured dog when that scarred face turns to a mask of stone.

"Ha!" Johnny doesn't pick up on the tension that's rising, slowly, as you tremble under Simons gaze. Or maybe he does, and he doesn't care. "Havnae seen his ugly mug yet, have ye? Dinnae worry, lamb."

Guilt curls in your belly, dampening your fear. Simon doesn't look shamed, but you weren't afraid of his scars - truly, you were disoriented, barely clothed and towered over by the same man that took you.

"He won't bite," Johnny continues. He walks over and lays a hand on Simons waist, fingers curling in the off-white fabric. "Well, not ye."

A wink.

"Hush!" Simon barks. "Get her up, she needs to eat."

There's no hesitation. Johnny leans down to you, pulling you until you sit up with a wince. You bite your lips to keep from crying out again, pain lancing through your muscles. You're seized by muscle spasms, by the fiery hot pain of your chafed wrists and a gnawing, deep hunger in your stomach.

"How-" you choke, throat dry and voice unused. Johnny pauses helping you up to listen. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Few days, lass. It's the evening," he grins. "Ye should thank us. Kept ye warm, washed, slipped ye broth into that lovely mouth-"

Simon puts a wooden bowl down onto the table, louder than necessary. There's a grumble from Johnny, but he gets you up and waits while your legs get used to weight on them again.

You're half-dragged, mostly carried to the table. All you're wearing is that shirt, nipples pebbled against the front from the cold. Hard to care too much when your muscles scream even holding yourself sitting up.

You lean on Johnny as Simon ladles soup into bowls, hunched over the kitchen hearth, silent as the grave.

"Eat slowly," is all he says.

It smells good, herby and warm. Your stomach groans and gurgles and begs you to eat, but you're weary. Afraid. Only when the men eat that you pick up a carved wooden spoon and hesitantly slurp.

Heat. Satisfaction. Eating is incredible, and you discover the wonderous ingredients loaded into the soap; salmon, potatoes, a green herb that tastes like sharp, citrussy grass.

Then your stomach cramps, and you tilt with nausea.

"Too fast?" Johnny coos, rubbing a big palm up and down your back. "Awe."

"That's enough, then," Simon goes to take your bowl, but you're too fast. You pull it close to your chest, spilling a little onto the table and drops soak into your shirt. "You can have some later. I said that's enough."

You hold fast. Your stomach hurts, but you're desperate for some form of control. All the terror and all the uncertainty rises, rushing through your finally conscious brain into a battle of strength. You took me but I have agency! it says. You took me but I can take this!

He's too strong.

The wood bowl clatters against the ground with a crack, hot soup spilling on the floor. You heave with the force of your breathing, afraid and too-aware of your predicament.

Taken, snatched, at the mercy of men whose intentions are unclear.

You're too slow to cower when Simon's arm shoots forward and grabs your jaw, hard and mean, giving you a squeeze.

"Now we've been nice to you," he starts. His voice is as solid as his arm. You start to shake. "But I can just as easily put you over my knee. That what you want?"

You shake your head.

"That's what I thought."

Johnny leaves after the soup is cleaned and you're tucked back into the bed again, muscles trembling still with the exertion of your first meal. Small, electric spasms make you wince every one in a while. Your wrists are bruised and scabbed, but healing. They feel hot and itchy, but Simon tells you as he rubs an ointment into the wound that they're healing well.

You try to shy away, hide yourself, when he notices your grimace and reaches for a calf. The look he gives you stops you, takes your breath, until he shakes his head and starts rubbing deep circles into the tenderest spot of your muscle.

"God!" you should. A wonder how badly you can hurt from just laying in bed. He snorts. "Ow!"

"Don't be dramatic," his thumb presses deeply, moving down, then back up. Squeezing. The bed dips with his weight as he scoots closer to you.

You take a moment to look around you. The cabin is made of wood, warmed by the fire, and is full to the brim. Clay pots, furs, tools, a couple barrels- they're everywhere, unorganized. Makes you wonder about the sacred items they'd stolen from your convent.

"Why did you take me?" someone bolder has possessed you. Your mouth twists when Simon's eyes find yours.

His hands don't stop moving. They switch legs, pulling the finished one onto his big thigh. It does feel better, relaxed and tender in a good sort of way, pain not so unbearable anymore.

"You're our spoils," he moves down, digging into your arch. You almost yelp. "D'you know what we gave up for you?"

Something in your chest squeezes, something scared and unpleasant. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

"That's alright," Simon murmurs. Your anxiety fights against the comfort he's giving you. "You'll be alright."

He flits his gaze downwards, eyeing you. Your breath catches when you realize that the position has left your legs open, shirt ridden up, and he's looking right at your bare cunt.

"Ah!" you pull your knees shut, hands finding where you're exposed and folding over, cupping yourself, face ablaze. Tears prick at your eyes again, fear winning over comfort.

Simon doesn't let you panic for long.

"I won't force myself on you, pet," he grunts. "We won't."

There isn't much choice but to hang on to his words for dear life, to believe that he won't force you. The hope is fragile, but it's there. You take the chance to pull a soft, worn blanket over your body.

"Am I to be your slave?" your voice wavers.

"No," he says simply.

For a long time, you watch him. He putters about, moving things, unloading boxes no doubt full of supplies used for raids. You wonder if that means he doesn't intend to go on another one, then wonder what they'll do with you if they do leave.

Johnny comes back flushed, smiling. You smell sweetness under his sweat, something you can't recognize. His eyes crinkle when he sees you.

"Two nights," he breathes, looking at you but talking to Simon. "They'll celebrate in two nights."

Your stomach tenses, roiling, eyes fluttering with the effort to stay awake. Even a short time is much for you after your journey.

"Price's back?" Simon asks. He's pulling a sealskin from a burlap bag, smoothing it out with his hands onto the table. The silvery, spotted skin reflects the fireplace.

"Tomorrow," Johnny pulls leather boots off his feet, then thick socks. He wipes himself down with a rag from a tub, shuffling to the bed when he finishes. "Then we feast."

Your eyes are heavy slits, mouth open. You hardly move even when Johnny sits next to you and brushes a thumb over your cheek, smiling toothily down at you.

"Awe, she's precious," he says, lowering his voice. "Go to sleep now, little lamb."

You wake the same way as before. A tilt of one world into the next, sliding down into consciousness as slow as thick porridge.

Only this time, you're surrounded by a warmth not brought by thick furs. It's skin, all around you, boxing you in. On your face you feel hair, prickly and soft, comforting and frightening all at once.

Behind you, a chest breaths against your back. Your eyes open, alarm cutting through grogginess.

Johnnys big hand is clutching your breast, squeezing every few moments, snuffling into your neck like a sleepy animal.

You try to extricate yourself, lifting yourself to find Simon looking down at you, eyes half lidded but aware. There's warning there, but there's also contentment. Scars big and small litter his skin, pocked and torn and scraped, all shapes and sizes. Some are silvery while others are such a deep red you'd think they were still fresh.

He looks past you at Johnny, and turns to his side.

"Weren't planning on running, where you?" his voice is low, so as to not wake the other man.

"No," you whisper. Johnny shuffles behind you, sliding a thigh between your legs. "Please help me." you wiggle, trying to move.

Simon sighs, sitting up. He shuffles to the edge of the bed, then reaches to peel Johnnys hands off you. His hand slides against the soft spring of your breast, hands sliding under Johnnys to pull, brushing your nipple on the way up.

"Thank you," you're still whispering, not wanting to wake Johnny up lest it irritate Simon. You roll until you're out of his grasp, body feeling less pained than it did the day before.

"Hungry?" Simon moves towards the kitchen. "Got one more day to relax."

The feast, you think. The divide, the celebration. Frissons climb your skin until your scalp prickles.

"Yes, please," you sit up, weary of Johnny finding your heat in the bed.

The smell of animal fat and the sound of sizzling fills the cottage then. You look around, noting an improvement for the clutter. The sealskin is gone, replaced by two standing up boots.

"They're yours," Johnny says. You startle, almost leap, but he catches you by the hips and puts his face into your hair. "Simon stayed up all night."

"Gets cold," he dismisses. Eggs jump in the pan in front of him, popping in the hot tallow.

You have to be helped again to the table, but it's not so bad this time. You arm goes around Johnnys waist, his under yours, fingers barely brushing the underside of your breast.

Breakfast is good. Fried eggs, seasoned by the fat, over gruel. It fills you with an internal sense of strength, and you can actually finish it all today.

"Good girl!" Johnny claps your back. "Gonnae be choppin all our wood for winter, eh?"

After, Simon has you change into a simple brown wool dress. You try to ignore them looking at your nakedness as you drop the other shirt, but the wool is nice and warm and there's even a soft pale shift to go underneath it.

Then he slips pants on your legs, tied at the waist under the dress, and wraps wool around your calves.

"You're gonna run errands with me," Simon says. He wraps your feet again in wool, securing them with leather twine. "Get your strength up."

His eyes find yours where he's kneeling, squinting at you, expression turning stormy.

"I don't want to re-injure your wrists," he motions to them, and you look at the healing scabs. "But if you try to run, I'll drag you back by your hair n' tie 'em back up. You pick."

Outside, you wince against the light. Simon holds you by the elbow, walking at your weak pace. It's a tight village, houses clumped together, shops close. It's a wonder you haven't heard anyone from inside Johnny and Simons home, until you see how thickly the walls are built when the door opens.

The street is wet with mud, and you're grateful for the footwraps. They're warm against the chill, sliding through the mud beneath you when you lose your footing, legs feeling as new as a fawn.

"Here," Simon leads you to a market-like stall. Dried meats hang from the ceiling in bunches. The smell is pungent.

"Nik!" He shouts. A huge, burly man steps out.

They talk like they've known each other a long time, though not quite friends. An image of two great bears crosses your imagination, both big and still respecting the other. A rare alliance.

Simon hangs a bag off of you, a salty-smelling bag full of cured and fermented meats. The man looks down at you and grins as you leave, laughing lowly.

You bristle, but follow - what else is there to do?

The next stop is a real shop, only you can see a homestead behind a wooden counter.

It's a girl this time, lovely and soft. She smiles at Simon, wordlessly fetching another man from the homestead behind the store.

"Big man!" it's one of the raiders - the young one. Gaz. "And the nun." his brown eyes find yours, friendlier than the last time you saw him.

They talk, too, more amicably than the other man. Gaz folds his forearms over the counter and laughs, peeking at you every once in a while with intense eyes.

"Right," he claps his hands together. "I won't keep you."

You're starting to feel tired, overexerted.

Gaz comes back out with a wrapped package, the soft girl from before on his arm. The apples of her cheeks are high with a smile.

"See you!" she sits back down on her stool, wide hips wiggling until she's comfortable.

"See ya around," Gaz says. He winks at you.

Simon carries this package himself, not looking at you as he leads you further into the village.

People make way for him, not in fear, but because of his size. He's bigger than most, even some of the other men.

The third and final place has you panting, hunched with the effort of keeping yourself up.

It's a house not unlike Simon and Johnny's, just bigger. A wide, squat wooden house with a wide open door and goats bleating from a pen closeby.

Simon glances at you out of the corner of his eye, putting his hand on your lower back as somebody steps out of the doorway.

"Hello again, Simon," it's Price. The leader, or perhaps the chief. It would make sense - his authority, his size, the number of scars on his skin. Nearly as many as Simon. "You bring your end of the bargain?"

Straight to the point then. Price doesn't look at you once, which doesn't do much to assuage the fear that you're the end of the bargain.

"If you've got yours," Simon leaves you behind to follow him inside, where you can hear them talking. Jovial, like old friends.

By the time you get back home, you're wiped. Exhaustion pulls at you like invisible strings dragging you to the bed. Even Johnny with his smarmy expression and his patting the mattress doesn't stop you from crashing.

The men have brought you to a celebration. After letting you sleep a majority of the day after your errands, Simon dressed you in the same wool dress and wrapped a thick cape around your shoulders to ward off the chill.

It's a welcome home. Simon had been the first to see Price at his home - he and a band of fledgling warriors had sailed right past the village and gone hunting.

Price is not the chief, as you had assumed. He is a leader, an explorer, the ambitious spearhead of overseas raids. Nodding heads and a sense of respect, of deference, follows him wherever he goes. Even as an outsider you can see it.

The chief is a woman. It's not something you expected, not with the sheer size of the men around you, not with the brutality in which they regale their exploits. Many of them have wives that trail them, welcome them, carry their children on their hips, or are welcomed as fellow warriors.

These are the fledglings?

You're in a wild, barbaric place.

When you reach the longhouse, a building as short as all the others but stretched much farther and lit orange with light and the smell of honey, you're bathed in warmth.

No, not honey. Alcohol, sweet and cloying on the breath of each viking. Their depravity seems to know no bounds. It's the same sweet smell you'd smelled on Johnny that night he'd left - presumably to speak to the chief.

Laswell, they call her. The chief. She stands on a raised dais with Price, murmuring between themselves, nodding toward Simon and Johnny when they take their seats.

"Right here," Simon spreads his thighs. There are no other spaces on the bench.

"I don't mind standing," you try. He pinches the back of your knee until you buckle into him, tucked into the cradle of his arms. Your heart pounds in your chest.

"Not lettin' ye sit apart from us," Johnny brushes your cheek, and you look past him to the rest of the people gathered.

Decorated, scarred, hardened warriors. Price joins the group, taking a heavy seat by the man from before - Nik - and exchanging claps on the back. Gaz, a woman with dark hair, but Gaz's soft girl is nowhere to be found.

"Welcome!" Laswell shouts. The hall goes silent. "Drink, eat - celebrate a job well done by our boys."

Eruption; noise all around. She's a carefully controlled, steady woman, yet she's inspired this group of a few hundred into the loudest cacophony you've ever heard.

Simon cups his hands over your ears. You try not to be grateful.

Debauchery. You witness debauchery- drinking beyond your most twisted imagination, dancing surely enough to summon a demon, maybe the devil himself. It's enough to make you pray under your breath, turning away from public displays of affection.

Above you, in front of you, conversation. It doesn't slip your mind how high up on the table Simon and Johnny are, right across from Price and Gaz and next to Laswell at the head of the table.

Even she laughs, imbibes, discusses the distribution of goods with a content sort of smile.

"And the nun?" eyes turn to you. Laswell has focused her gaze on you, sharper than before. "You're satisfied with just her?"

Johnny takes a long pull of his mead, before pressing his shoulder to Simons.

"Thas'right!" he only slurs a little. "Found ourselves a proper little wife, we did."

A chill moves through you. A slow freezing. You tense in Simons lap, spine rigid, heart flipping in your chest. Carefully, you try not to show a reaction.

Wife?

"Och! Sorry, lamb," he turns to you and takes your hands. "Didnae mean to ruin the surprise."

"Quite the surprise," Gaz chirps. His girl has found him, and he's made a place for her beside him. You're jealous of her autonomy, especially now. Taken as prisoner, as spoils, and now?

"You promised," you mumble. "You said you wouldn't."

"What's that, love?" Gaz again, but you aren't listening. Blood rushes through your ears.

"You said you wouldn't force me," you look up now, at Simon and his deeply scarred face. He betrays nothing. "Why lie?"

"Didn't lie," he grunts. "Now be quiet."

"When's that, then?" Price asks.

"Before next summer."

The walk back is silent except for the wet slaps of your feet against the mud. The chill is worse at night, biting at your nose and your fingers. At least your future husband - husbands - don't want you to freeze.

The thought hits you like a boulder, heavy and immovable. You stop walking, drawing the attention of the observant men.

"Too tired?" Johnny asks.

You run.

Or try to, as fast as you can.

It's hard in this terrain, slippery and with the cold burning your cheeks. You have no direction in mind, only obeying the mindless terror coursing through your blood, unleashed by this night of truths.

Simon is the one to catch up to you not ten feet from where you started, grabbing the back of your cape and pulling hard until you fall on your butt.

It hurts, the ground has slowly been freezing with the onset of fall and Simon is not nice as he captures you back.

"Ow," you sniffle, fingers wet and muddy.

"Yeah I bet that hurt," his voice has gone hard. "Where did you think you were going?" a laugh, harsh and grating.

"Didnae mean to scare ye," Johnny says. He helps Simon in dragging you back to to cottage.

"In!" Simon barks when you reach the door. You plant your feet, frustrated tears prickling hot and then falling down your cheeks in heavy droplets. "Stupid girl- get inside."

The insult adds salt to the wound as you stumble onto your hands and knees. Pain lances up your wrists.

"Did'ya think you'd be able to what, survive by yourself?" he scoffs. Johnny helps, but mostly just acts as if you're a doll, in removing your cape and sodden woolen dress.

The shift is wet, too. Less muddy than the dress, but still wet. Johnny slips it over your head and you cross your arms to hide your nakedness, still crying.

"Hey," Simon crouches. He puts his face close to yours, noses touching, eyes deadly. "I didn't lie. We won't force you, you'll come to us."

"You'll go to hell," you're upset now, but it only serves to make them shake their heads and laugh breathily, silently. "You stole me."

"Aye, we did," you're wiped dry by big hands. "And you'll be our wife."

Another slip goes over your head, thin and rough on your skin, well-worn.

"Get in bed."

Johnny listens and brings you with him, wiping the tears from your face as he lays you down. You're as helpless as a lamb.

"If I have any choice," you start. "I won't be your wife, and I won't-"

"Wheesht!" Johnny pulls you to him, hand over your mouth, making room for Simon. His other hand goes over your stomach, squeezing. Warmth surrounds you. "You're overexcited, ye need some rest."

God help you, you're so tired you do.

[idkyetxoxo]

Daemon Targaryen - Red Means I Love You

Summary - Daemon Targaryen is a storm of fire and fury, and she is caught in his dangerous orbit. Bound by love that consumes and destroys, they dance on the edge of madness, unable to escape the burning pull of each other.

Pairing - Daemon Targaryen x reader

Warnings - Violence

Word count - 2077

Masterlist for Daemon • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

'Cause my insides are red and yours are too and the red on my face is matching you and goodness you're bleeding what a wonderful feeling you're down and you're pleading my head is just reeling.

The clash of steel against steel rang out, echoing through the stone walls of the training grounds at the Red Keep, but it was not the metallic song of sparring blades that captured my attention. 

It was him—the Rogue Prince, Daemon Targaryen.

He moved like a tempest in human form, each motion a sinuous blend of poise and savagery as if the Gods themselves had moulded him from fire and shadow. 

His hair, silver as molten starlight, caught the light with every strike and twist, a shimmering halo that belied the darkness within. He was more than a man; he was a force of nature. 

And I, fool that I was, could not look away.

But neither, it seemed, could he. Mid-parry, his eyes found mine—piercing, knowing, as if he had already unravelled every secret I kept locked away. 

A smirk danced at the edge of his mouth as he deflected his opponent's blade with a lazy confidence that bordered on arrogance. 

In that instant, I knew: he was dangerous, and I was already too close to the flame.

My heart drummed a frantic rhythm in my chest, each beat a warning I refused to heed. 

Daemon Targaryen was more than a warrior he was danger incarnate. His legend was inked in blood and ambition, whispered of in fear and awe throughout the Seven Kingdoms. He was the man mothers warned their daughters about—the storm that could raze empires. 

And yet, here I stood, transfixed, a moth drawn to his inferno.

"You're watching," he said, his voice low and intimate as he cornered me in one of the shadow-drenched corridors of the Keep later that evening. The firelight danced across the stone walls, casting flickering patterns that mirrored the turmoil inside me. "Did you like what you saw?"

I tilted my chin, desperate to reclaim some semblance of composure. "I saw a prince fulfil his duty. Nothing more."

He stepped closer, the air between us charged and suffocating. 

"Liar." The single word dripped with challenge, a gauntlet thrown at my feet. It ignited something raw and wild within me—a warning I should have heeded, but instead, I met his gaze, unflinching.

His thumb traced a slow, deliberate line along my cheek, leaving a trail of heat that burned long after he pulled away. 

"Careful," he whispered, his voice a caress and a threat. "A dragon's fire does not discriminate."

I swallowed hard, willing my voice to remain steady. "I know what I play with," I said, the words hollow even to my own ears.

He smiled then—a predator's smile, equal parts amusement and hunger. "Do you?"

That night, I found no peace. I lay awake, haunted by the memory of his touch, the weight of his gaze, the way his words curled around me like smoke. 

In the days that followed, I tried to escape him, to push away the visions of his hands on me, the brush of his lips against mine, the electric promises whispered when no one else could hear. 

But it was a futile endeavour. Daemon Targaryen was a storm, and I was caught in its eye.

"Come," he beckoned one evening, his voice thick with shadow. He waited for me in the Godswood, the crimson leaves of the weirwood trees falling around us like droplets of blood. 

I should have turned away. Instead, I walked toward him, each step betraying the war within me.

"You deny me every glance and yet you come when I call," he murmured, his eyes never leaving mine.

I folded my arms over my chest, a thin barrier against the force of him. "Why do you call?"

His steps were measured, predatory, as he closed the distance between us. "Because you are mine." 

The words cut through the chill of the night air, as cold and unyielding as Valyrian steel. I wanted to scoff at his arrogance, to turn his claim to ashes.

But then his hands found my waist, pulling me against him, and every retort died on my lips. 

I was no longer standing in the Godswood but somewhere far darker, far deeper, drowning in the pull of him.

"I am not yours, Daemon Targaryen," I whispered, but the tremor in my voice betrayed me. He tilted my face toward him, his eyes blazing with a heat that burned through every defence I had left.

"No?" he asked, his breath warm against my skin. "Then why does the idea of my ruin thrill you?"

Before I could respond, his mouth claimed mine. There was no gentleness, no pretence—only the raw, consuming clash of desire and defiance. 

It was a kiss that spoke of broken vows and unspoken promises, a collision of storms that left no space for reason or fear. In his arms, I felt both lost and found. 

He was fire and fury, and I—weak and wanting—let him burn me whole.

I wanted him. Desperately. Recklessly. The truth I had denied became a brand upon my soul.

Weeks passed in a feverish blur, each moment a stolen spark in the dangerous game we played. It was a dance on the razor's edge, and every step carried the risk of ruin. 

Daemon thrived on it, his eyes glinting with a dark thrill each time we slipped past discovery as if daring fate to find us. 

And though I loathed to admit it, I thrived too, the heat of our forbidden bond burning through every rational thought. 

Our encounters were fire and fury—secret, searing, and desperate, as though every touch could be our last.

Desire gave way to something darker, something feral that roared to life when we crossed a line that could not be uncrossed. 

It happened at a tourney—a grand spectacle of jousts and combat meant to display valour and honour. Daemon's gaze rarely left me that day, smouldering and possessive even as knights circled and clashed. 

But then a voice rose above the din—a sneer from a rival knight, laced with insults that stained my name and honour. The words were poison, and Daemon reacted like the dragon he was.

He entered the fray with a smile that chilled me to the bone. Cold. Predatory. 

His opponent barely had time to draw breath before Daemon descended on him, his blade a silver blur. It was not a fight; it was a reckoning. 

Steel met steel with a fury that stole the breath from the crowd. 

Blood sprayed across Daemon's armour, vivid and wet, painting him in crimson. The fallen knight lay broken at his feet, his life seeping into the dirt.

In the stunned silence, Daemon looked at me. There was no triumph in his eyes—only a cold, unrelenting need that terrified and exhilarated me in equal measure. 

Later, in the quiet of his chambers, he washed the blood from his hands with a strange, reverent care. 

"The red means I love you," he said, his voice soft, as if he were confessing a sacred truth. "Do you see it now?"

I saw it, and it frightened me. I tried to pull away from him, tried to end what had become a labyrinth of madness and passion. 

"This has gone too far," I told him. "Love born from such violence cannot last." 

He listened, unmoving, his face a mask of stone. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, but the words dripped with menace. "If you wish to walk away, do so. Just know that there is no place I cannot reach you."

And so I walked away. For three days, I vanished into the shadows of the Keep, avoiding Daemon's piercing gaze and the constant reminders of our bond. 

I retreated to the library, buried myself in old tomes, hoping their dust and parchment would smother the fire inside me. 

I whispered to myself that this was freedom. I dined alone, spoke only when required, but every shadow, every flicker of candlelight, seemed to carry the weight of his absence. 

In truth, I was not free. I was haunted.

The fourth night, I found myself wandering the Godswood beneath a crescent moon. Red leaves rustled in the wind, their sound a soft lament. 

My thoughts were a tangle of memories and unspoken words. 

I nearly missed the figure who stepped from the darkness—Daemon, his presence as inevitable as it was inescapable. 

He said nothing at first, only watched me with eyes that burned brighter than any flame. I should have turned away, but I stayed. I hated him then, for making me feel this way. 

"Why do you haunt me?" I demanded, my voice brittle. "Why can't you let me go?"

He stepped closer, the shadows coiling around him like smoke. 

"Because letting go is not in my nature," he said, each word heavy with truth. "You know that." 

Anger flared within me, a desperate attempt to smother the helplessness. "You would bind me to you, even if it destroys us both." 

His gaze softened a rare crack in his unyielding exterior. "If I must be destroyed, I would rather it be with you." There was pain there, buried beneath layers of arrogance and violence. 

And, to my shame, I felt it too.

I knew it then: loving Daemon was madness. Yet I was bound to him by threads I could not cut. 

"Do you regret this?" I asked him one night as we lay tangled together beneath the heavy velvet of his chambers. His fingers traced lazy circles along my spine, each touch a reminder of how deeply I was ensnared.

"Never," he said, his tone absolute. "I have worn crowns and cast them aside. But you?" He paused, his eyes alight with an unholy fire. "I would set fire to the realm for you." 

The words should have terrified me, but they didn't. Instead, I pressed closer, craving the very destruction he promised. 

"I do not want the realm's destruction," I whispered, desperate and aching.

"You should have thought of that before you let me in," he murmured, his breath hot against my ear. 

I shivered, caught between fear and desire. "You are cruel, Daemon."

"I love like a dragon," he replied. "Completely."

As the days darkened, the court buzzed with whispers—of Daemon's ambitions, of the storm that followed wherever he walked, and of the foolish soul entangled with him. 

I tried to escape their words, to find solace in silence. But there was no escaping Daemon. 

He was always there—watching, waiting, a storm ready to break. The intensity of his love suffocated and thrilled me in equal measure. I begged him for reason, for some shred of sanity amid the chaos. 

"You will destroy us both," I pleaded.

"Then we will burn together," he said, his eyes never leaving mine.

It was a promise and a curse. I thought of leaving him, of vanishing into the shadows where even he could not find me. But every time I steeled myself to flee, he found me. 

He would cradle my face, his touch gentle even as his gaze burned wild and desperate. "I would tear apart the world to keep you."

And I believed him.

The end came, as it always would, in blood and fire. An assassination attempt—one meant for me. I would have died if not for Daemon, who met the assassins with a fury that defied even the legends of House Targaryen. 

Blades clashed, screams echoed, and when the battle was done, the chamber was awash in blood, bodies broken like discarded dolls.

Daemon stood at the centre of it all, blood dripping from his sword, his chest heaving with exertion. His eyes found mine, wild and burning. 

"No one will take you from me," he vowed, his voice raw.

I stepped over the dead to reach him. My hands cupped his blood-slick face, trembling with the weight of what we had become. 

"This is what we are," I whispered, my voice cracking. "This is what love has made us."

His lips found mine, tasting of iron and promises that would never be kept. "The red means I love you," he murmured against my mouth.

And I knew then that there was no escape. Daemon's love was a cage of fire, and I was its willing prisoner.

The red means I love you, tasting your blood means I love you, the red means I love you, the red means I love you.

A/n - This song is very Daemon coded!

[jr-acrux101]

Soldat's Kin PT.2

Summary: He's alive but different. PT.1 Warnings: dark fic, kidnapping, no direct smut Word count: 4.6k Глупый - stupid Вверх - up Полоска - strip Симпатичный - pretty h/l - hair length береги её - keep her safe E/C-eye color H/C- hair color Сидеть - sit Кошка - cat Иди сюда - come here Зайчик - bunny

2024 -New York City

Sam scanned the battle field, looking for any survivors. The buildings were destroyed, half crumbled while others completely gone. He pulled up the screen attached to his wrist, he scanned, slowly, making sure to assess every pile of rubble. Before he decided to shut it off, he saw warmth emitting from the grabble. It was small; child-like. He rushed over, throwing the rocks off the small boy. He grabbed the child, not paying attention to his face, just trying to do his best to not hurt the body. 

“Jamie!” A woman appeared, eyes red, face full of sorrow. 

You cleared more of the rocks, as Sam was able to pull the boy fully out. He laid him carefully, the scanner gave full body heat; he checked the pulse, it was strong. He turned to the boy's face, and saw… Bucky Junior. 

He watched you hover over the kid, desperation evident in your tone, “Jamie? Jamie!”

The young boy emitted a groan, showing he could hear you. “Oh thank god,” you bawled, one hand clutching your chest, relief in your veins. You drew a shaky breath as you turned to Sam, grabbing his hands in yours, “Thank you so much. Thank you.” Your voice was shaky, your heart still lost in fear.

“You don’t have to thank me ma’am.” 

You nodded furiously, ready to talk, when a soft voice was heard, “Mom?”

Eyes wide, you turned your attention to your son, “I’m here. I’m here Jamie.” Hugging the boy, as he gained further consciousness. Sam gave a soft pat on the shoulder, along with a nod, before walking away.

‘That kid looks like it could be Buck’s twin.’ His mind went to Zemos, and Bucky’s devoid of emotion, at that moment. He turned to see you with your son, still there helping him slowly get up, ‘She looks too normal… too nice.’ He watched as you dusted the debris of your son, long h/c hair in a braid, eyes full of love - something Hydra agents lacked. 

It ate at the back of his mind for weeks, before he finally asked something, “Hey Buck?” The park was full, as the two grabbed lunch.

Bucky paused, mid-bite, eyebrows furrowed, “What?”

“When,” he hesitated, what if he was wrong.

The man with the metal arm seemed to know what the question would be about, “What about Hydra Sam?”

“Did they- like, make you do other things besides killing?” The words were heavy as the atmosphere turned tense.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his right arm fixing his hair, “Why the sudden interest?”

Sam looked away in the distance, taking in the park square, “I saw a boy who looked like you.”

The ex-Winter Soldier paused, “That can mean anything, people have like 10 doppelgangers in their life.”

“I don't know Buck, that kid is like the spitting image of you. The only thing that was different was his eyes, they were e/c.” 

Bucky's mind flashed his with an image of e/c eyes, red from crying. “So what, you think one of the orders I had when I was the winter soldier resulted in a hydra spawn.”

“I don't know about hydra spawn, the women looked sweet. But you know what they say, looks can be deceiving.”

“None of them would want- they were all power hungry women with no compassion for kids. Plus I was a lowly soldat, they probably wouldn't have kept the kid.” Bucky avoided eye contact, only moving his food around, hunger disappeared.

Sam nodded, the solemn mood growing too heavy for each other's comfort. Sometimes, often, the universe liked to prove that it was full of humor. “Jamie! Come back here!” There you were, holding an ice cream cone.

A young boy came cycling towards his mother, lo and behold to Bucky, there was the boy who was the spitting image of him. Sam’s eyes widened, he quietly whispered, “That’s her! That's the kid!” Bucky just stared, the boy was his twin; except, just like Sam had said, his eyes were e/c.

He started to gain a migraine. He stared and stared until they were passing them by. He heard a laugh drop from your lips, “Jamie come one, quit being silly and eat your ice cream. This is the only place that sells pancakes and syrup.” The two men turned to one another, upon hearing the child's name and favorite flavor. Bucky was a sucker for pancakes.

The child nodded to you, putting the training bike next to the bench. He sat finally, politely asking for his ice cream. You smiled at the boy, sitting next to him. Breathing in a deep breath of air, you felt eyes on your figure. Looking up, there were ocean blue eyes of the man with the metal arm. The two of you made eye contact, and suddenly you were back in hydra’s base; being dragged to your daily session with soldat.

Bucky internally flinched, the look of terror was evident on your face, he was no stranger to that look. Whilst it never crossed Sam’s name before, it dawned on him the roles could also be reversed. Before he could stop his friend, Bucky was out of the chair heading towards the mother and son. Sam narrowly missed Bucky. Your breath was caught in your throat, here was the father of your child; The Winter Soldier. “Soldat.” It was a whisper that Bucky caught, it heartbreakingly confirmed his suspicions.

The little boy took his attention away from his ice cream, seeing the man all clad in black and another in simple outing attire; plaid button up and jeans. The boy stared at the dark skin man before recognition set, “You’re the Falcon! That means you’re the Winter Soldier!” The boy jumped up off the bench, forgetting he had ice cream. Splat. It laid on the floor, as the child stared at flatten ice cream, tears welling up. He gasped through his sobs, “Mommy..m-my… ice… cream…”

Before you could react, Bucky lowered his height to match the 4 year old, “Hey it’s okay, I’ll get you a new one. It’s our fault for distracting you.” 

The boy calmed down, his sobbing turned into sniffles, his face turning less blotchy red, “Promise?”

He held out a pinky, which Bucky held out his own, “Promise.” The little pouty lip turned into a toothy white smile. You watched the scene, this man didn’t seem like the Winter Soldier. Sam watched your reaction, you were more calm.

Sam made his way towards you, “If you want I can take your son to the ice cream shop, while you talk to Bucky.”

E/c eyes snapped to brown, “Bucky? I thought his name was James.”

“He likes to use his nickname.” 

Hesitantly nodding, she stared at the man a bit more, “You’re the hero that rescued him?”

He held out his hand, “Sam Wilson, or as your son called me, The Falcon.”

She shakily took his hand, “Y/n L/n. Okay, well um-his flavor was blueberry pancake.”

Sam nodded, giving a little smile: in the back of his mind, that name rang a bell. “Okay so the little man likes that pancake flavor.” Jamie’s eyes snapped to Sam, excitingly nodding his head. Sam gave a laugh, “Alright, come on, I’ll buy you a new one.” The boy jumped for joy, taking Sam's hand and giving his mom a gummy smile.

Bucky sat down in the empty seat next to you. Muscles flinched as he did, your eyes trained on the shoes of people walking by. The man clenched his jaw before he spoke, “I’m sorry.” You didn't speak, so he continued, “I… I don’t remember even that happened in the base, with the torture, cryogenesis and… brain wash. I remembered everyone I killed but being in that basement is… fuzzy to me. I’m sorry for what I did and I am sorry for not remembering all of it. Most of the memories I have are only your eyes crying.”

You slowly faced him, as he was already seeking you, “I forgive you,” his mouth dropped as his eyes widened, “You spoke as someone who was under control, always about the ‘mission to procreate,’ I… I got help, therapy; 2 times a week. Even though my therapist said I didn’t have to forgive you, I wanted to. You were trapped there, just like me. Plus, I’ve always been a crier, so most remember me that way.” You gave an awkward laugh, uncomfortable with the past being brought to light. ‘I liked it,’ Bucky clenched his jaw again as the thought from his deep subconscious awoke. He opened and closed his mouth, like a goldfish, searching for the words to continue. You beat him to the punch though, “He’s yours, Jamie. He’s going to turn six soon.”

“Six?” ‘The boy should be older.’

“Yeah, when the blip happened…he uh… he was gone. He should be 10… but I’m just glad he’s back,” there was a sting behind your eyes, you rapidly blinked it away.

“I’m sorry.” It was the only thing Bucky could say at this point.

“He’s named after you.”

“How… did you find out my name? And how did you get out?”

You sniffled, “Vlad, the soldier assigned to me, let me go. His daughter… he said I reminded him of her. He also kept the other men away from me; Soldat’s Property. When he let me go, we passed a grave, it was filled with another person. I thought I was going to be killed. No more Soldat, no more Sodalt’s kin needed,” you inhaled thinking back to the time Vlad dragged you through the forest, “But he let me go, said you were an assassin and you were nowhere to be found. They panicked, not sending another person with Vlad to make sure the job was done, or maybe… the person in the grave was the second person. He told me your name was James, hence Jamie.”

Even though Bucky didn’t care for his name, he was touched. “Thank you,” it was small and almost unheard. 

“You know, you weren’t a monstrous assassin in the room. I’m not sure if maybe you were given an order to be… hmm gentle, but you were. You call me cимпатичный every time...”

He nodded, he here was being comforted by his own victim, “Still, what I did to you, it's unforgivable.” His foot started to bounce, anger at himself was flooding his veins. 

You shrugged, “It’s my choice, and I chose to forgive you.” You were hesitant to ask, but did so anyway, “What does it mean, cимпатичный?” 

‘How could she forgive me! I’m a monster! She shouldn’t even be letting me near her or the kid!’ His thoughts were in a whirlwind, and the target was himself. You could see the internal struggle, this man was easier to read than his counterpart, “Sol-,” you cleared your throat, "Bucky?” 

He looked at you, fully taking you. You were there, sitting with big eyes staring at him. Your h/l sat naturally, you s/t was glowing, as the sun hit your face he could see why he the Winter Soldier said that word. “He called you pretty.”

You sat a little straighter, mind reeling from knowing now that was his nickname and what it meant, “Oh, okay. Thank you.” You didn’t realize what you said, just reminiscing of every time the Soldat would call you that when he would finish inside you.

Bucky stared at her, brows furrowed and oblivious to where your mind was wandering, “Don’t express gratitude, what I- how cou- why? Why forgive me?” His tone was hard, a different remembrance was stirring inside you.

You were snapped back to the moment, head shaking, “I told you already. You were brai-.”

“No! You can’t just forgive so easily,” shock and anger were held in his soul.

“Please.” It was a hushed whisper as you clench the metal bench, stopping yourself from crying. The Soldat would never yell at you, but the tone of anger was similar.

Bucky turned upon hearing you, his anger evaporated as quickly as it came, “I-I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he cut himself off, hands tugging down on his face.

You never wanted to admit it, “I fell in love with you, with the soldat.” You avoided the man's face, embarrassed to have revealed the secret you kept hidden for so long, “Like I said, you weren’t horrible in the cell. We were fucking almost every night,” a hollow chuckle left your lips, “You would hold me, like you needed my contact to breathe. And… you started to smile, you would take off the mask and do this little smirk or smile when we were done. You become less rigid, a little more human when we were together,” a sigh left your lips before you continued, “I don’t know, it was probably some form of Stockholm syndrome, but that doesn’t make what I felt any less real.” 

His jaw hurt from clenching, “Do you miss him?”

Your eyes were the familiar red, holding back tears, “Insanely…yeah I do.”

He softened his demeanor, “I’m sorry.”

“You don't have to keep apologizing, I’ve already forgiven you.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop,” he hung his head, so many emotions clouded his person; shame, guilt, self-loathing. ‘Симпатичный.’ It was a whisper in his head, but Bucky was too late.

You glanced at the man, his stare turning blank. You leaned further back, the similarities he was presenting was the Soldat. As his eyes became glossy, he became emotionless. Your eyes widened: whilst you were true in your word about love, the fear of what he was always took up the back of your mind. You glance around the park, no sight of Jamie or Sam, ‘He must be watching him as he eats the ice cream.’ You hoped this was true. The gaze of the hollow man finally turned to you, “Симпатичный.”

You sucked in a breath, “Soldat?”

“Да.” He was here, staring at you.

A pit grew in your stomach, “Can… can I please talk to Bucky again?”

His gaze hardened, with his jaw clenched he spoke, “No,” it was anger filled.

‘It’s okay, just relax.’ You had to make it okay. Drawing in a breath to slowly release it, “Okay soldat. Did you want to keep talking here or did you want to go to yours?” You prayed it was the latter, not wanting to cause whatever the Winter Soldier could release.

The Soldat paused, relishing in being able to make a choice, “Mine.” He looked at you, emotionless eyes have a hint of humanity now.

The direct eye contact made your body flush, “Okay let me drop Jamie off at his play date and then we’ll go to yours.”

He shook his head, “No, kin stays with us.” He wanted the little boy to be with both his parents now.

You drew in another breath, calming your nerves. You leaned in, and he let you, gently touching his lower jaw. Your tone turned softer for him, always softer for the Soldat, “After okay, we can watch movies together or go for a walk, whatever you want but he has to go so we can talk Soldat.”

He glowered, teeth clenching his mouth shut. His nod was curt, barely visible to the untrained eye; but to you, it was evident. You slowly pulled back, when a long forgotten cold touch grabbed your hand, “Jamie?”

You nodded, a small smile forming on your lips, “Yeah Jamie.” He gave a nod of approval before letting you go, “Okay, I will be back in 10 minutes okay. Can you wait here?” Another stoic nod was given before you hesitantly turned away from the assassin. 

You saw Sam and Jamie on the bench right outside the shop, the man gave you a smile unaware of the current situation unfolding. He stood up, lowering his voice so the child wouldn’t hear him, “I thought it would be best to let him eat it here, in case y’all weren’t done talking.”

You licked your lips, mind still really in from what was happening. “Sam?”

His smile slowly started to falter, fear was visible on you, “Yeah?”

You turned to Jamie, happily oblivious to the turn of events unfolding, you grabbed your cell phone - 1 inbox notification. 

‘Hey almost there, walking to the ice cream shop :P’ It was sent 3 minutes ago, ‘Okay she should be here right now then.

“What’s going on?” Sam wasn’t liking how the atmosphere was feeling, his shoulders hunched and the smile was replaced by a frown.

Before you could speak, your sister was there, “Y/n!” 

You whipped around the voice, giving a small tight smile, “Jamie come on, your aunt is here.” With the last bite of the cone shoved in his mouth, Jamie hopped off the bench running full speed with his little legs.

Your sister crouched down, meeting the child for a hug, “Jamie, aw I’ve missed you buddy. Are you ready to hang out with your favorite auntie?”

You walked forward, giving your family hugs, and waving them off. You watched them walk away, as you turned back to Sam, the Winter Soldier stood behind him. With your eyes wide and breath hitch, Sam turned around, not noticing the different demeanor yet. “Buck, my man. How did it-,” as Same went forward to talk to his friend, the brainwashed soldier flashed forward gripping his throat.

Sam coughed out, “Shit.” The realization that this man was no longer his friend. People started to stare, and you started to shake; anxiety was clawing at your throat.

“Soldat, please. Let your friend go.” You approached the man, gently holding his right arm. He gripped your hand, it was firm.

“This man is not my friend.” His grip loosened regardless.

“He’s Bucky’s friend, by an extension of yours. Please, let’s go to yours to talk, remember? That’s what you picked?” You prayed he would listen.

He let Sam go, you knew better than to rush and help Sam; it might upset the Soldier. The man was on the floor gasping for breath, the Soldier looked at you nodding his head to the direction, “Come.”

You gave Sam a small sad smile, mouthing ‘Safe,’ to him. With that the Winter Soldat gripped your hand with his metal one, taking you through the sea of people.

Sam hit the floor, “Fuck!” He stood up, running to his car, Joaquin's number already on dial.

The Soldat’s grip was firm but soft, he led you through the city, weaving in and out of alleyways. You were pretty sure that he added extra courses to throw you off. He pushed through a double door, you weren't able to read the name of the complex. You were indeed winded after 4 flights of stairs, the Winter Soldier seemed fine of course. He looked at your hand as he grabbed the keys, “I’m not going anywhere.” It was reassurance he needed, another slight nod before he let you go. The keys turned and a low click, and the door opened. There was another sound, bells jingling. A soft white tuft of fur was seen behind the arch, Soldat waited for you to enter first, which you complied. 

The cat peaked its head out, a little meow hitting your ears. The cat lazily stretched forward, before going to inspect you. You knelt for Alpine so he could sniff, sniff, and sniff again; he patiently sat, waiting for a pet. You giggled at the small animal, the fur was soft and vibrations started to emit from it. A gruff voice was broke through your concentration of pets, “Кошка. Alpine.”

“You’re a very cute kitty,” you gave a last pet before the cat made its way to the Soldat. It purred as it rubbed itself against him. You saw the hesitation in the man’s eyes, “Give him a soft pet if you want.” He tentatively reached out, favoring his right arm this time, and he would agree the lush fur was soft and silky. Satisfied, the cat walked away into the hallway before lying down on the rug, ready to take a nap.

He stood next to you, a metal arm extended for you to take. You did so, dusting yourself off. The Soldat stared at you, you didn’t seem to age; not that he knew anything about you, only physical. He led you again down the hall, to his room; wooden floor, one seat, and a bed on the floor. The layout had you thinking of the base, just nice furniture and place. He stopped in front of the bed, “Сидеть.”

He followed his own instructions, he tugged at you gently, “I still can’t understand Russian Soldat.”

“Сидеть; it means sit, Зайчик.” 

You nodded, now confused at the other word said. You shifted, and the bed creaked: memories creeped their way into your mind, your body burning as a result. You avoided the Soldiers gaze, knowing the flush of your skin was very much prominent. Soldat smirked, knowing what was being conjured in your head. “Y/n.” Your eyes widened, he never said your name before. You gave a nod as he looked to see if you heard him, “I… I have… missed you,” the words felt foreign on his tongue.

“I’ve missed you too, Soldat… But, why did you return Soldat?”

“Are you not happy to have me?”

Your eyes soften at the man, “Of course I am happy, but from my understanding Bucky has you…” you bit your lip trying to find the right word, “... has you… restrained.”

The Soldat smirked, “He is only in control because I let him.” Your face betrayed your thoughts, and he seemed to notice, raising an eyebrow he spoke again, “I saw you. I will be honest, I do not care what Bucky does most of the time but he was upsetting you.”

“So you came out to - in a way- stop yourself ?”

“I want to be with you, Y/n. Bucky was ruining my chance to see you more.”

You looked away, as the butterflies fluttered in your stomach, “You have grown a lot Soldat. But, this is also Bucky’s life. While we have a child together, I do not think he wants to be with me. And I have to respect that, it’s his choice.”

“What about my choice?” He gave a low growl, teeth clenched at what was said.

“You were in charge… no… what I mean is; while you had to take orders because you were brainwashed and had to survive, during that time - it was you in control. Bucky was trapped in his own mind for years Soldat, it’s only right he has his… time to be in control.”

“I don’t care.” You pressed your mouth into a thin line, of course Soldat would be hard-headed. “Call me James.”

Your brows knitted together at the name change, “Okay… James.” You leaned forward, and he followed your actions, “I need you to let me talk to Bucky please.”

“No.”

“So-,” you cleared your throat, “James please. I need to speak to Bucky.”

“No.”

“Please, I am begging you.”

He smirked, “How about you beg a different way?”

The man in front of you was very different as well, compared to the man you knew. You felt the heat slowly burn through you, “You speak a lot more now.”

The smug look was still on his face, “So do you. As I remember you moaned a lot more.”

With his guard let down, Buck was able to take back control. With a smug turning into wide eye fear, he jolted back. His breath was heavy, eyes frantically taking in his surroundings, “How did you awaken him?”

“I didn’t awaken him, I…not-I, I wouldn't know how to.”

Fear turn to anger quickly, now a familiar feeling cold metal touch ripped your throat, “How the fuck did you awaken him!”

You gasped for a breath, but to no avail. Black dots slowly clouded your vision, gasping one last sentence, “Soldat… or.. Buc-Bucky.”

The metal touch was quickly rescinded as fast as it came, he stood there horrified at what he had done. “Fuck! I-I cou-didn’t mean too.” You hunched over, breathing as much air as you could.

Bucky shot up, and moved himself to the other side, “I’m sorry. I-I… I just don't understand how he came out.”

You gasped again, the oxygen supplying your brain, “He said you were fucking up talking to me.” A couple of coughs slipped past your lips, as your throat tickled still.

He paused, “What?”

“He said he wanted to see me more, and you scared me away. He had to stop it.”

A stupid look made its way to his face, “So, the assassin who is my brainwash counterpart, high-jacked my body to do damage control? Is that what you're saying?”

You rubbed your throat, rolling your eyes at the man, “Yes, basically. Could you not ask James this yourself?”

“James?” His eyebrows continued to knit together.

“That's what he wanted me to call you.”

He was at a loss for words, the Winter Soldier was… gaining humanity. This wasn't supposed to be the future, the Soldier was supposed to be buried and gone. It dawned on him, “He loves you. In his own twisted way, the Winter Soldier actually cares about you.” Fear coursed through him, “You activate him.” It was whispered to himself but you heard it.

Your voice turned soft, “I think he just wants me around.”

Bucky started to breathe heavily, as if the oxygen was being withheld. He gripped the counter top, fighting to breathe. You made your way to him, touch and voice still soft, “Hey. Hey, it's okay. Focus on my voice, or focus on my hand. Can you feel it?”

He gasped again, but nodded. “That's it, you can breathe. One deep breath in: one, two, three. Hold; one, two, three. Exhale; one, two, three.” He started to follow along, till he vision wasn't blurry, till his breath was deep and strong. You rubbed small circles on his back, “It's okay, you're here.”

Bucky gave one loud inhale, he eyed you, “Did you do this a lot for him? Comfort him?” There was no malice, just curiosity.

You gave a shrug, “Not really, he comforted me more than I did him. Not with words, more with actions.”

“What did he do?”

“He held me a lot. After um… what was needed. He would hold me til I fell asleep. Sometimes I would feel the metal arm slowly graze my back or massage my head. When I would cry, which was a lot, he would wipe my tears and kiss me to distract me.”

Bucky nodded, he continued to melt into her touch, his body no stranger to it. They stayed like this, in each other's space, relishing in one another's presence. The comfort the two of you gave each other, it put Bucky’s mind at ease. Slowly, memories of the past were in a way granted access to Bucky.

There's gonna be a part 3

Taglist: @thenameswinter99 @sebastians-love @otherotherplace

[spencerrsmopbucket]

Tides of Venom | Finnick Odair

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Summary: During the Tribute Parade of the 3rd Quarter Quell, Finnick meets an infamous female tribute from District Seven. She's just as interesting as everyone says.

The people of Panem knew your name as well as, or maybe better than, they knew their own. You were Y/n L/n, or better yet, The Snake of Seven. The victor who had turned the 67th Hunger Games into a masterclass of strategy and survival. At sixteen, you were reaped from the sawdust-strewn streets of District Seven—a girl who looked too small, too quiet, too fragile and too beautiful to survive the bloodbath. But you had fooled them all.

You didn't survive by brute force, God no. You didn't have the size for it. You survived by being smarter, colder, and crueler when it mattered. You waited, watching from the shadows, letting the other tributes tear each other apart. When you struck, it was precise, calculated, and lethal. You weren’t just a fighter; you were a predator. You turned the arena into your hunting ground, weaving snares from vines and luring enemies into deadly traps. When you got them captured, like a rabbit in a trap on the snow covered ground, you quickly and efficiently did away with them.

By the time you’d reached the finish line of success, the area was soaked in blood — close to none of it yours. You had outlasted them all, and not just through skill, but by ensuring that every single thing you did was deliberate. Every alliance you made was temporary manipulation, every smile a well-placed mask. When the final cannon fired, it wasn’t just because you had survived. You had conquered.

The Capitol adored you, of course. They polished your image until you gleamed like the blade that had won you the crown. They said your name with awe and fear: The Snake of Seven. To them, you were the perfect mix of beauty and terror, a creature that captivated even as it threatened. Of course, your biggest fan was President Snow. But for all the Capitol’s praises, you knew the truth. The arena hadn’t just taken your innocence; it had carved out pieces of your soul and left them to rot in the jungle where you’d won. The nightmares came often, visions of the traps you’d set, the image of you slitting a throat, the screams that followed, and the sickening silence afterward.

Even still, you played the role you’d been given. It was that or die. It was that or lose your family (an ultimatum given by Snow.) The Capitol needed you to smile in your interviews, to look stunning in gowns designed to look like snake skin, to sip champagne with Snow’s favorites. You did it without flinching. You’d learned through the experiences of others before you that defiance came with a life ruining price. And so, with snake-like venom aimed inward at yourself, you were poisoned until only steel remained.

The 3rd Quarter Quell was nothing like any previous Hunger Games. It was a reminder of the Capitol's absolute power, and this year, they chose to mark it with a brutal twist: the victors, those who had already been crowned, would now be thrown back into the arena. Every single one of them—a brutal celebration of their own suffering. And you, The Snake of Seven, were no exception. When you'd been Reaped, you stepped forward, ever confident, your e/c eyes the sole vision of determination, focus, and bloodthirst. But you were always so good at keeping people at arm's length, never letting them see how you truly felt.

You were devastated. You felt doomed — but the worst part? You'd always known you were from the start. This was just the confirmation.

Today was the Victor Parade.

The streets of the Capitol buzzed with an unsettling energy. The crowd, with its eager eyes and gleaming teeth, watched as the tribute chariots rolled down the grand avenue, a parade of former winners paraded as if they were just another form of entertainment. The Capitol was reveling in their cruelty, and you knew, deep down, that it was more than just the games this time. The Capitol wanted to break the victors, to make sure they knew they were never free, never truly safe. You had survived the Games once, but this time, survival would come at a greater cost. You were by far the most thrilling tribute to watch, solely because they knew you'd do anything to win.

Your district partner, a tall, athletic and somewhat shy Victor named Reid, stood beside you. He was a few years younger than you, but his respect for you was evident in every glance. He had a crush on you. It was easy to see in the way his eyes lingered on you, the way his voice caught when he spoke your name. But, much like everyone else in the Capitol, you weren’t here for love or affection. You were here to survive—and if you had to, you’d use Reid’s infatuation to your advantage. But, you’d never admit it aloud.

Reid was a good fighter, but he wasn’t built for the Games like you. His focus was too soft, too sentimental, which made him vulnerable. He wanted you to recognize him as a friend rather than just a district partner. Rather than just an ally that you'd eventually have to turn on. But you? You knew. Reid would have to be the first to go. You'd put him out of his suffering before any other Victor could get their hands on him. In a cruel sense, it was you being kind. If anyone else got him, his death would hurt much more.

Your outfit, designed by Capitol stylists, was as extravagant as it was deadly. You weren’t just a symbol of beauty; you were a living weapon, and your outfit reflected that. The stylists had draped you in a shimmering black gown that hugged your form, slithering down your body like the skin of a serpent. Silver, delicate scales shimmered along the bodice, almost seeming to ripple as you moved. A thin, sharp line of emerald green ran across your eyes, reflecting the coldness that had taken root deep inside you. Your hair was twisted into a sleek, tight braid that framed your sharp features, the tendrils of the braid curling at the ends like snake’s fangs. The design was meant to evoke fear. To show that beneath your beauty was a creature that could and would strike. The Capitol admired you, but they feared you too.

As the chariot lurched forward, your eyes scanned the crowd—thousands of faces staring back at you, each person either adoring or shocked. The screams, cheers, and jeers mixed into a cacophony that only heightened the tension in the air. It was a celebration of blood, and your life was the prize. But you didn’t need their approval. You didn’t need their affection. You were here to survive—nothing more, nothing less. You forced your cold eyes forward, staring at the person that continued to ruin your life, over and over again.

Snow.

He gazed down at you with a lukewarm smile, one to say, 'welcome back, Snake.' You simply glared back, fighting the snarl that threatened to develop on your lip.

As the chariot rolled forward, you could feel Reid’s nervous energy beside you. His hands gripped the edge of the chariot so tightly that his knuckles turned white, his broad shoulders stiff as though he were bracing for an attack. His unease was palpable, and while you could sympathize with it, you didn’t have time to coddle him. This wasn’t his first Games; he should know better than to show fear in front of the Capitol. Weakness was blood in the water, and the Capitol’s sharks would circle the moment they saw it. It would draw attention to the two of you, something you didn't need more than you already had.

“Relax,” you muttered, your voice low enough that only he could hear. Your eyes remained fixed on the glittering horizon, refusing to meet his. “You look like you’re about to jump out of the chariot.”

Reid’s head snapped toward you, his expression a mix of surprise and embarrassment. “I’m fine,” he said, though the strain in his voice betrayed him.

“Sure you are,” you replied dryly. “Just remember, they’re not cheering for you. They’re cheering for the show. Don’t give them a reason to think you’re the opening act.”

Your words cut sharper than intended, but it was necessary. Reid needed to toughen up, and fast. This was no place for soft hearts or shaky hands.

The chariot came to a halt in front of President Snow’s viewing platform, and the crowd’s roar reached a deafening crescendo. Snow himself stood like a vulture on his perch, his thin smile radiating smug satisfaction. His presence was suffocating, a reminder that every move you made was under his watchful eye. You held your head high, refusing to let him see the disgust simmering beneath your carefully constructed mask. If he wanted a performance, you would give him one.

You stared at the other Victors. You knew who they were, of course, since you'd been paraded around with them before. The most notable ones were the ones from the Career districts -- and District 12. You saw Cashmere and Gloss looking disgustingly gleeful. They were District 1 Careers, always loving the attention they were getting and the idea of getting to put up a fight. Brutus and Enobaria, District 2, were the same way.

Your eyes lingered on the Careers for a moment longer, taking in their smugness, their overconfidence. Cashmere’s sharp laughter cut through the murmur of conversation, a high, shrill sound that grated on your nerves. She and Gloss stood close together, their matching golden armor glinting under the Capitol’s harsh lights. Their every move screamed superiority, a reminder that they had been bred for this, groomed for the arena like thoroughbred horses. You didn’t doubt their skill, but you also didn’t fear them. They were predictable, and predictability was a weakness.

Your gaze swept past them to Brutus and Enobaria, whose confidence bordered on feral excitement. Brutus’s bulk made him look more like a battering ram than a man, and Enobaria’s predatory grin, with her infamous sharpened teeth, was a haunting sight. They thrived in the chaos, their bloodlust an edge that couldn’t be underestimated.

But it wasn’t just the Careers you had to worry about. Your eyes flicked to Beetee and Wiress, District 3’s champions. The Capitol often overlooked them, mistaking their quiet demeanor for weakness, but you knew better. Their minds were their greatest weapons, and they could turn the arena itself into a deathtrap.

Then, blurring out the other Districts, there was District 12.

Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark stood together, the Capitol’s golden pair, their unity a sharp contrast to the division around them. Katniss’s stormy eyes locked with yours for a fleeting moment, and you could see the fire smoldering behind them. She didn’t trust you—good. Trust was a luxury none of you could afford. Peeta, on the other hand, exuded a calm that was almost disarming. Almost.

And then there was Finnick.

He sat casually in his chariot, his trident resting at his side, but there was nothing casual about the way his eyes roamed the area, sharp and calculating. His sea-green outfit, designed to evoke the beauty of District 4’s oceans, only served to heighten his allure. Beside him, Mags sat with quiet dignity, her frail form a stark contrast to his vibrant presence. Yet, there was strength in her weathered gaze—a reminder of the resilience that had carried her through her own Games decades ago. The Capitol adored Finnick, just as they adored you, but his charm was a weapon, honed and deadly, and Mags was his anchor, her mere presence a testament to the bond between them and the wisdom she carried into the arena.

His gaze caught yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to still. His lips curved into a faint smile—not the easy, flirtatious grin he reserved for the Capitol’s audience, but something quieter, more genuine. It was unsettling, that smile, because it felt like he saw through you, saw the armor you’d worked so hard to construct.

You broke the connection first, turning your attention back to Reid, who was fidgeting nervously at your side.

“Stop moving,” you muttered under your breath. “You’re drawing attention.”

“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice low and apologetic.

You sighed, the weight of his unexpected inexperience pressing down on you. If he didn’t toughen up soon, he would make you look foolish too. He didn't act like a Victor. And the rest did.

Snow’s voice crackled over the speakers, his tone smooth and syrupy as he addressed the gathered victors. “What a spectacular display,” he said, his words dripping with false sincerity. “You are all reminders of the strength and resilience of Panem. May the odds be ever in your favor.”

The room fell silent as the announcement ended, the weight of his words settling over you like a shroud.

Reid leaned closer, his voice barely audible. “What now?”

You glanced at him, your expression hardening. “Now?” you said, your voice cold. “Now we wait. And when the time comes, we fight.”

Finnick’s laughter rang out suddenly, drawing your attention. He was talking to another Victor, his posture relaxed, but his eyes flicked to you for the briefest moment. There was something in his gaze—challenge, curiosity, maybe even understanding.

You turned away, refusing to engage. Whatever Finnick Odair was playing at, you had no intention of getting caught in his game.

As the outro anthem of Panem played, you felt a shift in the atmosphere. Your gaze flickered to the chariot beside yours, where Finnick Odair stood, resplendent in a sea-green ensemble that glittered like sunlight on the ocean. His golden hair caught the Capitol lights, making him look every bit the god they believed him to be. But his expression wasn’t one of triumph—it was of quiet defiance, a subtle rebellion that only those who knew the arena could recognize.

When the anthem ended, the victors were led to the holding area behind the parade route. The Capitol’s cheers faded into a low hum as you stepped off the chariot, your gown shimmering with each calculated movement. Reid stayed close to you, his presence a reminder of the responsibility you didn’t ask for but couldn’t ignore. Capitol stylists swarmed you both, fussing over stray folds and imagined imperfections. You barely acknowledged them, your focus already narrowing on the other tributes gathering nearby.

"Reid," you muttered under your breath, your tone sharp but quiet enough to keep Capitol ears from catching it. "Stand tall, and stop looking like you're about to bolt."

He straightened, though his hands still twitched at his sides. You suppressed a sigh.

Before you could step further into the mingling chaos of tributes and Capitol elites, a voice laced with sugar-coated steel sliced through the noise.

“Well, if it isn’t the darling of District 7. You’re just as intimidating as they say.”

You turned to see Cashmere gliding toward you, her golden locks framing her face like a halo, though the icy gleam in her eyes was anything but angelic. Her gown shimmered like molten gold, every inch of her radiating Capitol-perfect elegance. But there was no mistaking the predator behind the polished façade.

“Cashmere,” you greeted, keeping your tone neutral, even bored. “You flatter me.”

“Oh, it’s not flattery,” she replied, her smile sharp enough to cut. “It’s admiration. You play your part so well. Cold, dangerous, untouchable—it’s a wonder the Capitol isn’t already throwing parades in your honor.”

Reid shifted uncomfortably beside you, his unease a palpable presence. Cashmere’s gaze flicked to him briefly, her smirk widening as if she found his nervousness amusing.

“Who’s your little shadow?” she asked, her voice dripping with condescension. “Does he speak, or is he just here to look pretty?”

Reid’s jaw clenched, but before he could stammer a response, you stepped in.

“He’s my district partner,” you said coolly. “Focus on yours.”

Cashmere arched an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the tension. “Protective, are we? How sweet. Though I can’t imagine there’s much point. If he’s anything like my dear Gloss’s partners, he won’t last long.”

You took a deliberate step closer, your gaze locking with hers, sharp and unyielding. “And yet, here you are, wasting your time on him—and me. Be careful.”

Her smile faltered for the briefest moment, the crack in her composure almost imperceptible. But then she laughed, a light, airy sound that somehow felt more menacing than genuine.

“Always the sharp tongue,” she said, tilting her head. “I suppose it’s what keeps you alive. Just remember, darling—words can only cut so deep. Out there, it’s the blade that matters.”

“Thanks for the advice,” you replied, your tone as biting as hers. “I’ll be sure to remember it when the time comes.”

Cashmere’s eyes narrowed slightly, the playful mask slipping just enough to reveal the steely determination beneath. “Do that,” she said, her voice a whisper of warning. “I’ll be watching.”

With that, she turned and strode away, her golden gown catching the light with every step.

Reid let out a breath he seemed to have been holding, his voice low. “What was that about?”

“Don't worry about it,” you muttered, watching her retreating form. “Everyone’s playing their own game. Hers just happens to be gilded in gold.”

The energy in the Capitol’s holding area was electric, each victor carefully eyeing the others, feeling the tension rise with every passing second. The air was thick with power and the weight of what was to come—the 3rd Quarter Quell was unlike any other, a twisted reminder of the Capitol’s dominance, and each victor knew they were not only fighting for their lives but for their dignity as well.

Reid stood close, his nerves still apparent, his eyes darting from one tribute to the next. You could feel his discomfort radiating from him, and though you didn’t have time to indulge him, you found yourself slightly irritated by it. This was supposed to be a place for cold calculation, not weakness.

“Take a breath,” you muttered again, your eyes scanning the crowd of tributes. “You’re making us stand out.”

“I—sorry, I can’t help it,” Reid replied, the sincerity in his voice mixed with frustration. “This place... It’s too much. I never imagined I’d be back here, much less be facing them again.”

You took a deep breath, letting the noise of the Capitol’s elites wash over you. It was a dull hum compared to the chaos of the arena, but the stakes here were just as high. You weren’t just a Victor anymore; you were the prey.

“I get it,” you said, your voice colder than before, but not unkind. “But you need to act like one of them. We’re not here for anything other than survival. And in case you haven’t realized, that means playing their game better than they do. Don't let them think you're weak, even if you think you are.”

Reid nodded, his jaw set in determination, though the unease still flickered in his eyes. You didn’t think he’d ever truly understand. His idealism would be his downfall, you could already see it. The Capitol’s games had broken you, stripped away your humanity, and in the end, it had made you stronger. You knew better than anyone that to survive in this world, you had to be willing to kill what remained of your soul.

As the seconds ticked by, the other tributes continued to mingle—some more comfortable than others. A few whispered amongst themselves, their eyes darting in calculated glances, while others stood proudly, basking in their newly cemented fame. You didn’t join them. You had no need to.

A moment later, a voice rang out in the distance, one that cut through the tension in the air like a blade—soft, melodic, but with an undeniable edge.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the infamous Snake of Seven.”

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. His voice was unmistakable, like the sea itself, deep and quiet but filled with a hidden strength. Finnick Odair.

You met his gaze, not surprised to see him standing at the edge of the crowd, his trident at his side, the shimmering blue of his outfit contrasting with his golden hair. His green eyes gleamed, mischievous yet sharp. His dimpled smirk only deepened when he noticed the way you studied him—cold, calculating, as always.

“Finnick,” you replied coolly, your voice betraying no emotion, even as your insides clenched. “I didn’t realize the Capitol was still fascinated by my name. I thought they’d moved on to the next little toy.”

His smirk only deepened, his eyes never leaving yours. “Oh, they’ll never tire of you,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, almost like a whispered secret meant only for you. “Not with your reputation. It’s not every day that the Snake of Seven steps into the arena, is it?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You sound almost impressed.”

“Well, who wouldn’t be?” Finnick’s tone was casual, but there was an edge to it that made the words feel like a challenge. “The odds of you making it this far... I’m curious how you’ve done it.”

You could feel the weight of his words, the curiosity in them. There was something in his gaze that felt like he wasn’t just talking about the Games anymore. His eyes raked over you, not in the way the Capitol admired his victors, but like he was trying to peel away the layers and understand the person standing in front of him.

“Survival,” you answered simply. “It’s not as hard as people make it out to be. If you’ve got the right instincts, the right drive, you can make it through anything.”

“And you’ve got both,” he said, his voice quiet but unmistakably admiring. “I can see it. But I think there’s more to you than that. More than just the survivor everyone sees.”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response, just holding his gaze as the crowd around you continued to buzz with their typical Capitol energy. There was something about the way he looked at you, though. Like he wasn’t just sizing you up as a potential ally or foe, but like he was seeing through to something deeper. And it unsettled you.

“You’re not one to mince words, are you?” you asked, your voice sharp, trying to redirect the conversation, but you could feel the pull of it all the same.

“Why bother?” Finnick’s expression softened just the slightest bit, his eyes glinting in a way that made you wonder if there was something he wasn’t saying. “This game’s already full of lies. We don’t need to add to it.”

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. “And what would you suggest, Finnick? That we just lay it all bare? Is that what you think is needed to win this?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Maybe. Or maybe the truth is the only thing we’ve got left.”

The words hung between you, a quiet tension settling in. His gaze didn’t waver, but something in his stance softened, almost imperceptibly. For a moment, you saw past the Capitol’s golden boy, the victor who had charmed his way into the hearts of millions. You saw the man who had fought in the arena, who had survived the same twisted game that you were now part of. And for a fleeting second, there was a vulnerability in his eyes, something raw and unspoken.

“You know the game better than anyone,” you said quietly, your tone softer now, the challenge gone. “But we’re not all playing by the same rules, Finnick. I don’t think you understand that.”

His smile faded slightly, and he tilted his head. “Oh, I understand more than you think. But you’re right. Not everyone is playing by the same rules. And that’s why I’m curious about you.”

You didn’t respond immediately, the weight of his words sinking in. There was something in the way he said it that made you feel like a puzzle he was dying to solve. But you wouldn’t make it easy for him.

“Curious about me?” you repeated, stepping closer to him, your voice low but firm. “Why? Because I’m a challenge? Or because I’m something you can’t control?”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t back down. If anything, he took a small step forward, closing the gap between you. “I don’t want to control you,” he said, his voice steady. “I want to understand you.”

The words were simple, but they carried an undertone of something that felt more intimate than anything you’d heard in a long time. His eyes searched yours, the playful mischief replaced with something darker, something more serious.

You almost faltered. Almost.

"Then understand this," You lean in, boring your eyes into his. "When you lean into the face of a snake, it sinks it's teeth in."

Finnick’s eyes gleamed, a flicker of admiration dancing in the depths of his gaze. His smirk only deepened as you leaned in, the challenge clear in your words and your posture. He didn’t flinch, didn’t back down—if anything, the tension between you only seemed to grow.

He paused, taking a slow breath before responding, his voice low and even, carrying a hint of something darker beneath the surface.

“Well, I’ve always been a fan of a good bite,” Finnick said, his tone smooth, but there was an edge to it now, like the words themselves were an invitation, a dare. He stepped just a fraction closer, narrowing the distance between you with a kind of quiet, deliberate confidence. “But don’t mistake my curiosity for weakness. If you sink your teeth in, be sure you’re ready for what comes after.”

His eyes never left yours as he said it, the unspoken challenge hanging heavy in the air, and for a moment, you could almost feel the pulse of something dangerous, something thrilling, between the two of you. Finnick Odair wasn’t afraid of a fight. But neither were you.

Finnick’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer, his lips curving into a more playful smirk as he took another slow step back. But the mischievous glint in his eyes told you that he wasn’t done with you yet.

“I have to admit,” he said, his tone lighter now, but no less charged. “You’ve got grit that I wasn’t expecting. Most people would’ve backed down by now, but not you. No, you’re… interesting.”

He took another step, the air around you thick with an undeniable pull. “You know, I like a good challenge. But you,” Finnick continued, his voice dropping an octave, “you’re something different. Something… unpredictable.”

He leaned in just slightly, his breath a faint whisper against your ear. “I’ll admit, I’m curious to see what else you’re capable of.”

You glare at him as he leans away.

"Curiosity killed the cat, now didn't it?"

Finnick’s grin only widened at your sharp retort, the gleam in his eyes turning into something almost predatory. He didn’t seem offended—if anything, your challenge made him more interested.

"Maybe," he mused, his voice soft, playful, but still with that underlying edge. "But I’ve never been one to shy away from danger. And I’m not the type to get caught in a trap either." He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the game between you two.

He tilted his head, studying you for a moment, his green eyes flickering with amusement. “You’re quick with your words, but I have a feeling you’re not just all talk.”

His gaze traveled from your eyes to your lips, lingering just long enough for it to be obvious, before returning to your gaze, the tension between you thick enough to slice. “Tell me, what else do you have up your sleeve, hmm? Because I’m starting to think you’re not just some venomous snake. There’s something else there… something more.”

He stepped closer again, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body, but not quite enough to touch. The space between you seemed to shrink with each word, with each look, and it was becoming increasingly clear that Finnick wasn’t just teasing anymore. He was genuinely intrigued.

"You’re right," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "Curiosity might’ve killed the cat, but satisfaction, well, that’s what makes it all worth it, don’t you think?" He let the words hang in the air between you, daring you to respond, to challenge him once more.

Finnick was getting closer to you now, but there was no rush in his movement—he was taking his time, savoring the moment. The air between you felt charged, a magnetism that was impossible to ignore.

“Just remember,” he added softly, his lips yet again dangerously close to your ear, “you started this game. And I’m not the type to lose."

With that, Finnick Odair strode away, looking over his shoulder to give you one last dimpled smile.

[strangersteddierthings]

Platonic Stobin bodyswap AU idea I'll never write. This has been in my drafts for over a year (since July 2023 per the timestamp)

Post season 3; During the season 3 bathroom confession scene Robin came out to Steve, and Steve came out to her. She knows he's bi, and she's the only one who knows. Swap starts off slowly for Steve and Robin. Little moments of vertigo where the world doesn't look right for a few seconds, that progresses to black out periods of time spanning 5-15 minutes. It's them switching bodies but it's so traumatizing (they are FREAKING out) that they don't remember it. So, it's like they're just losing moments in time, which still freaks them out.

Then one day they wake up and they're... each other. And they just don't go back.

And Steve can't really pass as Robin to her parents but thankfully they just blame it on 'moody teenage angst' and "you can talk to us about anything babygirl we love you so much and we're here when you need us." Which. Yeah, Steve cries about. But it also comes with the side of GOD FUCKING DAMMIT I HAVE TO FINISH HIGH SCHOOL AGAIN??? I CAN'T PLAY THE TRUMPET ROBIN YOU HAVE TO DROP OUT OF BAND

And Robin also cannot pass as Steve at first, but she gets to see how that matters exactly 0% because the Harrington's don't even notice. They also aren't around near as much as Steve makes them out to be. But she does get to enjoy the freedom of a legal drivers license and no job currently. HOWEVER she has walked Steve's pretty face into several doors/poles/walls because cute girls keep looking at her with hunger in their eyes and she doesn't know how to handle this.

(It makes more girls interested in a suddenly shy, stumbling, nervous Steve because those girls think they're the reason Confident Sex God Steve turns into a mess but really it's just Robin not knowing how to exist in a world where woman want her and fish fear her (sorry bad joke))

Anyway, queue shenanigannary for a bit. Steve encourages Robin to go on dates because why not get some practice in while they wait to swap back again? (he's holding out hope)

Do they have the awkward discussion of 'what are the limits to what I'm allowed to do in your body????? I dunno yet.

Anyway, Robin goes on dates. ((Does she end up going on a date with Vickie? Canonically Vickie's got no problem dating older boys? How to solve this plot line for when(if?) they switch back bodies? IDK dudes, that's Future Jess's issue.))

At some point, the gang finds out. Probably Dustin realizing Steve isn't as Steve-like as usual. He'd sniff out something was wrong with his brother for sure.

But then season 4 starts. Robin taught Steve how to play the trumpet back in August/Sept and it's then they realize that they kind of share their knowledge? Like... Steve picks up how to play the trumpet EASY. At first they think it's just Robin's body using muscle memory but then Robin realizes she knows things only Steve should.

Anyway, Steve is in band with Vickie the night of the Championshipgame, chatting easily while also trying to hint that 'Hey, I think Steve Harrington is checking you out???" while trying to tell Robin with telepathy (that they don't have... yet? Decide if they end up with telepathy later) to try and subtly check out Vickie. But neither girl is subtle so they both just whip around to stare at each other and Steve is facepalming.

NO WAIT. DO I MAKE CHANGES TO THE NARRATIVE BECAUSE IF STEVE IS IN HIGH SCHOOL AGAIN, THERE IS NO WAY HE'D LET DUSTIN AND MIKE SKIP OUT ON THE CHAMPIONSHIP GAME. Maybe??? Will decide on this point later. Until then, above points stay.

Anyway, Chrissy still dies (sorry) and Eddie's still on the run, but like this time in the boathouse, Robin invites Eddie to stay at 'his' big empty house 'cause the parents are gone and Robin has no hangups about Eddie like Steve did in canon (he is the first person we hear call Eddie The Freak).

The end point here is that Robin, Steve, and Eddie spend A LOT of time together at Steve's house and then the angst falls in because Steve starts to fall in love with Eddie.

So, he has a breakdown in a bathroom with Robin about it, all sad and crying like "I really fuckin' like him Robs, but I can't- there- we can't-"

"I need you to take a breath and tell me what the issue is," Robin says.

"I like him Robs, but this is your body. I can't take things from you. Like your first kiss. And I certainly can't- I won't put your body through... you know. I can't do that to you."

And it takes Robin a moment to process what he means. Romantic entanglements that Steve might want to have would have to happen with her body. And maybe Robin isn't sure what to say/do because the thought of a guy and his dick anywhere near her body immediately freaks her out but... she's not in her body. She's in Steves, and has been doing things with girls in it. It never occurred to her that Steve might want to get hot and heavy with a guy in her body and maybe she's got something to unpack there???

Anyway, no time to worry about that. Vecna's gonna kill Max so they gotta go. Also, Eddie does NOT know about the body swap.

She does tell Steve to kiss Eddie, though, in the end. When they're not sure they'll live. So, Eddie calls out to Steve. "Make him pay." So, to Eddie, it looks like Steve gives him a nod and it's Robin who marches up, grabs his face, and plants one on him. Robin(Steve) doesn't stick around long enough for Eddie to kiss back (Steve wants him to because he wants a proper kiss from Eddie, but he also doesn't want him to because Eddie thinks he's kissing Robin and if he kisses back it means he likes Robin, not Steve, so Steve doesn't lock lips long enough find out).

Something something they all survive and then Eddie, hopped up on pain meds in the hospital, demands to speak to Robin. So, Steve slinks in, afraid of what's going to happen, and Eddie's like 'Robin. I appreciate that you like me but you are unfortunately a girl and I am not into that.' And Steve is like!!! my time!! It's come!!! I HAVE to get back to my body.

And then at some point they switch back. Maybe El doing some mind fuckery? Idk.

And for fun, here's the beginning of the fic that idea written out:

"Whoa," Steve blinks rapidly as the world tilts and shifts. It's very sudden, and over just as quickly as it started, but it still leaves Steve unanchored for a moment. It was probably brought on by the concussion he's been nursing these last two days, since the whole Starcourt shit. He leans sideways to try and use the wall as an anchor until everything feel right again.

He should, probably, be more concerned about this because this has been like, the fourth time this has happened and when he told Robin about it, she confessed it was happening to her, too. That Owens guy had told them there could be unknown side effects to whatever the fuck they'd been injected with and this might just be part of that. It'll fade, Steve's sure, as the days go on. Never mind that it has been happening more lately. It's going to fade. It has to.

Except, it doesn't. The sensation of be unanchored gets worse, and now it comes accompanied with loss of time. Steve will feel the tilt and shift while standing in the doorway to his room and the next thing he knows he's got a hand on his front door, keys in his hand, and doesn't know where he was trying to go.

Ring Ring

Steve shakes his head, shakes away the feeling of wrongness and goes to answer the phone. "Harrington residence, Steve speaking."

"Steve! Steve, it's getting worse!" Robin's voice sobs at him from the other end of the phone. "I-I was in the kitchen and then I was, like, huddled in the bathroom and I don't remember going there."

"Fuck, me too. I just came to standing at my front door, about to leave but I don't remember getting there, or where I was planning to go," Steve confesses back. It's strange, how easily Robin has become a part of his life. He was expecting her to not want to be withing five miles of him ever again, after what he got her dragged into, but it seems Robin isn't scared away. Perhaps it's just that he's the only other person she knows who went through Russian torture. Even if that is the case, Steve'll take it. He likes Robin a lot.

"Should we... call Dr. Owens?" Robin sounds so small when she asks.

"I don't want to," Steve confesses but doesn't elaborate. Calling Dr. Owens means admitting that something is wrong wrong. Steve doesn't want anything to be that wrong. He wants to get back to his life. He's got to get back to job searching, too, and Dr. Owens might deny him that.

[kifkay]

I love when magic has an effect on the body & soul of its caster. like!! you don’t get to be a reality-bending demi-god and walk away with no strings attached. there’s always a price.

Bloom’s dragon fire consumes her from the inside, leaving lightning-like tissues of scars along her limbs - be careful, rumbles the Great Dragon from within, don’t let your emotions consume you. Bloom wails from the pain and clutches whoever is in the vicinity - but cannot fully stop it. just prevent it or treat the aftermath.

Musa gets migraines. Stella becomes ill when she doesn’t get her daily dose of sunshine. Aisha’s senses get muddy sometimes, almost as if she’s submerged underwater. Nabu experiences uncontrollable tremors in his arms, when he creates too many of his phantoms. all of those are - yes, horrible to experience but manageable enough for the school (and the Magic community at large) to tell them to just suck it up and weather through.

once you get your enchantix though, you start developing… unique abilities. almost like, in achieving the final fairy form, you became one with your brand of magic.

Bloom starts producing smoke. Like - she snorts at something funny Riven or Sky say, and literal puffs of smoke emerge from her nose. It’s jarring at first (“Bloom Peters, when did you start smoking? do you know that it kills??”) but quickly becomes endearing once they realise it’s not life-threatening in any way (after speed-running through like fifteen Magix apothecaries). Among her other ‘oddities’: too hot to cuddle with (only Stella can stand the high temperature, since she has a resistance to heat), becomes strangely overprotective and a little possessive, her eyes sometimes become a startling orange hue as if she’s embodied by the great dragon himself (it’s just a party trick).

Stella becomes more ethereal. In certain lights, her skin looks translucent - like a mirage weaved with moonlight. Her hair glints in the sun, almost too bright to like at; her touch feels phantom-like. She becomes even more beautiful, but less - human, earth-bound, Stella-esque. A curse and a blessing, that one.

Musa’s hearing gets really fucking good. She has a steadily growing dossier of blackmail on every student in Alfea - simply because shut doors or longer distances are no longer obstacles for her. It’s annoying too, because she can’t exactly turn it off - and now she gets to hear all the things people say about her, behind her. but here’s a consolation - she can influence other creature’s emotions through the melodies she hums! like how in canon, she pacified the bird Roc and brought mirth to the arguing fairies.

Flora gets much sturdier. Her skin harder than bark; her body able to withstand thirst and hunger for much longer than the rest. It’s honestly so intimidating. Here’s this sweet young woman — known to cry for trampled flowers and cut weeds!! — absolutely bodying a sharp ass ice shard that Icy attacked her with. It just — crumbles upon colliding with Flora’s body. insane and frankly so so hot for others to see.

As per the negatives… I like the idea of Flora being able to connect to the memories of nature around her and literally absorb the pain/fear/anguish of whatever she witnessed.

Aisha and Bloom are similar, in a sense that both of them are vessels to primordial divinities of their universe — Bloom is the holder of the Dragon Flame, and Aisha is the child of the Infinite Ocean. therefore, both experience a more extreme transformation than their girl friends. like, Aisha’s dreams are infiltrated by visions of past and future; memories of those who were lost to the Ocean. she dreams of Politea, of Tritanus, of her mer cousins and ancestors, and even those who were not yet born. if Aisha was not so mentally wilful, she might’ve folded under the weight of those prophesies.

Aisha can also breathe under water and her body gets the musculature it needs to be on par with her mer cousins while swimming, because why the fuck not?

Tecna - I frankly have no ideas for and would love to hear suggestions!

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐞 𝐖𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐔𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐥𝐭𝐚𝐫

𝑺𝒚𝒍𝒖𝒔

ʜᴇ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴀᴛ ɴɪɢʜᴛ—because it was always night now, within him. A seasonless dark. The rain had started already: fine, cold, impersonal. It kissed his skin like consequence, like the ghost of some moral law he no longer obeyed. He wore no coat. He had not thought to. Or perhaps he had, and left it behind. Perhaps he welcomed the cold. Perhaps he needed its judgment, the penance of it, to delay what he now found himself doing...

At the gate he stopped. One hand found the iron. It was slick with rust, wet with rain and age. He stared at it, uncertain whether to push or retreat. It seamed to regard him in return—a relic of some older world, one that still remembered guilt. A sentinel. A conscience in metal.

Absurdly, bitterly, he wondered: would she open the door before he had the chance to knock? Would she speak his name as she once had—trembling, half in fear, half in something crueler? Kindness, perhaps, that masqueraded as faith. Or worse: faith that masqueraded as kindness.

He hated her for that.

No. That was a lie. He wanted to hate her. But even hatred demands clarity. And clarity was a luxury he'd long since squandered—along with mercy, along with truth.

His breath misted in the cold, a faint halo of life he almost resented. He stood motionless, suspended in that final moment before surrender. Too long. Long enough for a reasonable man to turn back, to preserve the illusion of dignity. But Sylus had ceased to be reasonable the moment she touched his hand in that chapel and did not flinch. It had been a small thing, that touch—barely a gesture—and yet it had fractured something in him. Now, soaked and trembling, he stood again on her threshold, afflicted not by weather, but by something deeper. A sickness unnamed. A hunger with her shape.

He knocked once. A hollow sound. Timid, almost embarrassed to disturb the quiet.

The door opened.

And she was there.

She looked at him not with surprise, not with fear, but with a calm that unmoored him. That unbearable gentleness—God, how it scraped against him. Her hair was loosely bound, a few strands brushing her cheek. He stared at her and thought, with something like cruelty: She's dressed for solitude.

And I have come to destroy it.

He stood in the doorway like a curse in human form, carrying ruin on his breath.

"I shouldn't have come," he said.

The words fell from his lips like confession. The first truth he'd dared to speak in weeks.

She said nothing.

She only stepped aside, the smallest movement—merciful, maddening. It was not invitation, not absolution. But it was enough.

He crossed the threshold.

Warmth struck him like a rebuke. The room was small, still. Lamplight pooled in one corner, soft and golden. From the stove came the whisper of a kettle—so domestic, so achingly normal, that something coiled in his chest like a scream. He wanted to laugh. To shatter something. He could not remember the last time he had stood inside a room that did not reek of violence.

His boots soaked the floor. He made no move to remove them. Let the filth stay. Let it mark the ground, a testimony to what he was.

She said nothing.

And somehow, that silence was louder than any sermon.

She still said nothing. She only looked at him.

As if searching for a ghost in a familiar shell. As if trying to decide whether this was the man she once knew, or merely some rough echo wearing his shape.

The silence stretched—fragile, unbearable.

"You're bleeding," she said at last. Softly. Too softly.

That voice—how it broke him. It unspooled him from the inside out. Not because it was sweet. But because it remembered him.

He looked down.

His knuckles, of course. Split again. The skin torn, rain mixing with dried blood in streaks of rust and rot. He had not noticed. He rarely did anymore. And somehow, that felt fitting. He always came to her this way—fractured, unclean, bearing no gift but himself.

"It's nothing."

"You always say that."

He sat down, heavily. A man weighted not by injury, but by the knowledge that this moment had happened before. Would happen again. His head fell into his hands.

And still she watched him, not with pity—but with something worse.

Understanding.

There was no accusation in her tone.

And that, more than anything, ignited him.

What kind of woman lets a monster sit at her table and speaks gently of his wounds? What kind of fool tends to sin as though it were a guest and not a curse? The calm in her voice—unchanged, undemanding—was an affront to the ruin he had become. He wanted her to recoil. To scream. To weep or rage or finally banish him. Something human. Something proportional to the darkness he carried.

But she moved quietly, as if none of this surprised her. The kettle hissed. Porcelain whispered against porcelain. The faint clink of a spoon.

Still he did not lift his gaze.

Not until she placed the cup beside him.

"Drink," she said. And then, with maddening simplicity: "You're cold."

He took it. His fingers trembled. The heat of the cup scalded his skin, though it ought to have comforted him.

And still, obediently—like a man too far gone to refuse—he drank.

She did not ask where he had been.

That omission was its own kind of mercy—a mercy he did not deserve. He had braced for a question, a reckoning, the inevitable demand for answers he could not give. But none came. No inquisition. No trembling accusation. Only silence.

She sat across from him, folding her hands in her lap like a penitent in a chapel. As though waiting on grace she knew would never arrive. As though unaware—or unwilling to care—that prayers offered to devils curl in on themselves before they reach heaven.

The tea was chamomile.

Of course it was.

She would never give him bitterness, even when bitterness was what he had earned. It should have burned—should have scalded his throat in punishment. Instead, it soothed. Warm, quiet. An undeserved balm.

He hated her for that, too.

For knowing what he needed before he did. For offering peace to a man whose fingers still reeked faintly of smoke and blood.

He could not bring himself to look at her.

She was not doing anything extraordinary.

Her gaze was on the fire, unmoved. The light painted her skin in tones of gold and dusk, as if the room itself conspired to soften her. She had not dressed for him—there was no performance in her posture, no artifice in her presence. The collar of her nightgown was rumpled. Her sleeves pushed back. A faint smudge of ink on her wrist—she had been writing again.

And still, he could not look at her fully. He didn't need to. He saw her best in pieces: the looseness of her hair, the tired slope of her shoulders, the quiet diligence of her fingers folded in her lap.

Perhaps fragments were all he was ever meant to have.

He wanted to speak. To break the silence. But the words calcified on his tongue. Because to speak was to make it real. To speak was to admit the gentleness in this moment—the unbearable, dangerous suggestion that this could become habit. A ritual. A holy desecration they both returned to, night after night, pretending it cost them nothing.

"I saw him today," he said at last.

It came out hollow. Not a confession, not a threat—something quieter. Something too tired to disguise itself.

She looked up. Calm. Waiting. She did not ask who.

She didn't have to.

"And?" she said. Steady. Not cold. Not warm. Simply... willing to hear.

"I didn't kill him."

Silence fell between them like snowfall—soft, dense, inescapable.

She nodded once. Not in relief. Not even in approval. Just recognition. As if she had always known he wouldn't. As if she understood what kind of blood resists the blade, no matter how loudly the body cries out for justice.

He rubbed his brow with the back of his hand. The torn skin broke again. He winced, but not from pain.

The ache was older than that.

"You think I came here to be forgiven," he murmured, his eyes on the fire, not on her. "But I didn't."

"I know," she said.

"I don't want it."

"I know."

He turned to look at her then—really looked—and it shattered something in him.

Because she wasn't sad.

She wasn't afraid.

She wasn't radiating holy martyrdom or gentle sacrifice.

She was simply... here.

Entirely, devastatingly present. As though the full weight of him—his ruin, his shame, his quiet violence—had never once made her consider leaving.

And somehow, that was the most unbearable thing of all.

"Then why—"

"Because I love you," she said.

There was no tremor in it. No performance. Just the unbearable simplicity of truth.

"Not the man you wish you were. Not the mask you wear when you think I'm watching. You."

He stood so fast the chair scraped harshly across the floor. The cup in his hand jolted—tea sloshed out, staining his skin, the table, the silence.

"Don't say that." His voice was raw, frayed at the edges. Dangerous in its restraint. "Don't you dare."

She didn't flinch.

"Why?"

"Because you don't know what it means," he snapped. "You don't know what I've done. Who I've been. You're not in love with me—you're in love with the idea of me. The version that justifies this insane, blind faith you keep dragging behind you like a cross."

She didn't blink. Her voice cracked—just slightly—but she held.

"I'm in love with the man who comes in from the rain with blood on his hands and still believes he can't be saved. And maybe he's right. Maybe there's no salvation left in him."

His gaze didn't waver.

"But I won't stop loving him just because he's wrong."

He laughed then—a jagged, joyless sound. It cut the air like a broken blade.

"You think that's noble?"

"No," she said.

Her voice was quiet.

"I think it's ruinous."

And that was when he understood something terrible.

She knew.

She had always known.

She wasn't naïve. Wasn't hoping for some kinder version of him to emerge from the wreckage. She was not deluded by the illusion of goodness.

She was choosing him anyway.

And that was the unbearable thing. That she had made peace with ruin. That she stood before him, clear-eyed, and said yes to the man no one else dared name.

He stared at her. His heart beating a slow, brutal rhythm in his chest—like a sentence being passed.

There would be no salvation here.

No radiant morning. No sweet epiphany.

Only this: two souls poised at the edge of some unknowable abyss, their hands already joined, the fall already begun.

He took one step toward her.

She did not move.

Another step.

She looked up, her gaze steady, terrible in its quiet understanding.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He reached for her—hesitated.

Everything in him—the iron will, the practiced cruelty, the armor of discipline—screamed to turn back.

And then—

She touched his hand.

It was a simple thing.

Skin to skin.

But it struck like sacrament. A touch not of comfort, not of curiosity—but of knowing. A touch like a vow.

He did not pull away.

He should have. God help him, he should have. He had drawn that line before—a dozen times, maybe more. A fragile boundary neither of them ever named aloud, but one they both obeyed. It was the last defense he had: not against her, but against himself. Against the myth that he could still choose control over longing.

That line was gone now.

Her hand was in his.

And still, he did not pull away.

It wasn't a grand gesture. She had touched him before—cleaned blood from his knuckles, steadied his trembling wrist, brushed his temple when she thought he slept. But this was different.

This was intention.

She knew what it meant.

And she did it anyway.

He lifted her hand into the firelight. It was small. Unadorned. Honest in a way that humbled him.

This was not the hand of a saint. It was something worse—something truer. A hand that could offer mercy or strike a man down with nothing but silence. A hand that chose to reach for him knowing.

His thumb moved over her knuckles—slow, aching. As if he were reading them. As if they were scripture, and he a penitent man grasping at a language long forgotten.

Perhaps this was the closest he would ever come to something holy.

"Why do you let me come back?" he asked, not bitter, not angry.

Quiet. Childlike.

As if he feared the answer more than he feared the question.

She was silent for a moment. Then—

"Because you always look like you've forgotten you're human," she said. "And I want you to remember."

He shut his eyes.

And for the first time in years—God help him—he wanted to.

He stepped closer.

She did not move.

Not away. Not toward. She remained still—utterly still. A silence made flesh. Not offering. Not denying. Her stillness left the choice in his hands.

And that was the cruelest grace of all.

It would be his decision.

His damnation.

His fingers found her waist.

The fabric was soft. Warm. Alive with her. He could feel the shape of her beneath it, the unbearable truth of her existence—and that terrified him more than any weapon he'd ever faced. This was not danger in the way he understood it. This was something worse: the possibility of tenderness.

He had seen her angry. Grieving. He had seen her laugh, once—and it had nearly undone him.

But never like this.

Never so calm in the eye of his storm. Never so still before the monster at her door. As though she had already made her peace with the cost of choosing him.

As though she had looked into the abyss of him—and stayed anyway.

"I'm not going to stop," he said.

His voice was frayed, caught somewhere between warning and plea. "Not unless you tell me to."

"I know."

Her hand rose—not suddenly, not dramatically. It simply found his chest. Not to hold him back. Not to pull him closer.

Just to rest.

Right over his heart.

As if to say: I know what you are. I feel it, and I remain.

He bent his head. Slowly. As though approaching an altar. His forehead touched hers—not with hunger, not yet—but with the weight of surrender. A man kneeling inwardly. A man not seeking to possess, but to be permitted.

"I'm not a good man," he whispered.

"I know,"

"I'll ruin you."

A flicker passed over her mouth. Almost a smile.

"I'm not yours to ruin," she said.

And in that moment, something gave way inside him.

Something old. Something cold.

Something that had kept him alive—and alone—for far too long.

And then—finally—he kissed her.

It was not careful.

It was not gentle.

It was not practiced.

It was desperation, raw and aching. The collision of a man who had run too far from grace, and now found himself crashing back into the one soul who had dared to follow.

He expected her to flinch.

She didn't.

Her hands rose to his face—not to guide him, not to mold the moment into something sweeter—but simply to be there. Her palms rested against his cheeks as if to catch something in him before it shattered completely.

He kissed her like a man who didn't believe in heaven but needed, just once, to touch something that might still be sacred.

And when their mouths parted, he could not speak.

He couldn't even breathe properly. His lungs seized against the weight of what he had just done.

So he pressed his face to her neck.

Like a sinner pressed to the altar.

Unwilling to raise his eyes to the icon he had just defiled.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into the curve of her neck.

The words disintegrated on her skin. They were not enough. They never could be. They carried no weight beside what he had done, beside what he would do again.

Still—he said them.

And she said nothing.

Her hand slid to the back of his neck. Her fingers threaded into his hair, slow, steady. Not to console. Not to coax. Simply to hold. As if anchoring him there, in that fragile place between remorse and grace.

He began to come undone.

The walls he had so carefully built—the masks, the distance, the noble lies about leaving to protect her—all of it fell away in the hush between her breath and his trembling hands.

He reached for the buttons of her blouse. Slowly. As if each one were a trial. A litany. A confession spoken with fingertips.

She did not speak.

She did not help.

She did not resist.

When the fabric slipped from her shoulders, he bent his head and placed his lips there.

Not hungrily.

Not to claim.

But reverently.

As though her skin were the first unspoiled thing he'd touched in years—and he, the ruined pilgrim, dared not defile it.

Sylus didn't know what to call this—this trembling reverence in his hands, this strange, aching softness rising in his throat.

It wasn't lust.

Lust was sharp, loud, ravenous. Lust devoured and moved on.

But this—this burned slow and low, like a candle left before an icon. Small. Constant. Dying for no one's attention but still refusing to go out.

She looked at him.

Not with expecation.

Not with hunger.

Just... with knowing. And that was what undid him.

There was no demand in her eyes. No plea to be wanted. Only the raw, aching clarity of someone who had already seen him—what he was, what he had done—and stayed anyway.

She did not look at the ruin.

She looked through it.

And saw the man trapped beneath it.

He wanted to fall to his knees.

To weep. To beg. To place his head in her lap like a child and ask—silently, selfishly—to be forgiven.

But instead, he reached for her.

Not to claim.

But to offer.

The last of her clothing slipped from her shoulders like a whisper.

And he—this man made of iron and ash—could only stare.

Not in hunger.

Not in conquest.

But in something older than either. Something wordless and grave. As though he were a man just clawing his way out of the earth, only to find the sun had been waiting for him all along.

"You're not afraid of me," he whispered.

Her voice was quiet. Steady. A truth spoken without ceremony.

"I've been afraid of many things," she said. "But never you."

He moved like a man under a spell—not enchanted, but stunned. Slow. Careful. As if any sudden movement might wake him into the old world where grace had no place.

His mouth found the curve of her collarbone.

He kissed her once. Then again. Each touch more deliberate than the last. Not seeking pleasure. Not seeking response.

As if he could memorize the shape of grace with his mouth alone.

Her hands found his shoulders—bare, tense, scarred.

She touched him like he was a map of some long-forgotten war.

Her fingers moved down his spine, over the places where the past had marked him in blood and fire. She did not ask. Did not flinch. She simply traced him. Silent. Reverent. Like a cartographer documenting a landscape no one else had dared explore.

When he laid her down, it was not with urgency.

It was with awe.

The careful, unsteady awe of a man placing something sacred on an altar—knowing he is unworthy, but doing it anyway.

And still, he trembled.

Desire was there—yes. But it was quiet, coiled beneath everything else. Beneath the guilt. Beneath the ache. Beneath the terrible longing to be held and not condemned.

It had teeth.

But it also had mercy.

His hands moved over her slowly—the line of her ribs, the dip of her waist, the delicate hollow of her wrist. Not to take. Not to own.

To witness.

To worship.

And when she looked at him—truly looked—and did not turn away...

His breath caught in his throat like a prayer he had never dared to speak aloud.

He kissed her then.

Truly. Fully. As though his mouth were the last honest thing he had left.

It was not seduction.

It was surrender.

He gave himself to her in pieces, quietly, as though unsure she would take all of him—but needing her to try.

Her legs wrapped around him, and something inside him—something old, rigid, cruel—shattered.

He did not enter her.

Not yet.

He couldn't.

Not while his body shook beneath the weight of what this meant. Not while his chest was collapsing under the pressure of a feeling so vast it defied language.

Because this wasn't just longing.

It was love.

And it was something darker, too.

Need.

Not the simple, aching kind that pulses beneath the skin. But the soul-deep, marrow-carving need to be seen. To be held in spite of the wreckage. To be consumed not by passion, but by the unbearable grace of being chosen.

He needed her like a drowning man needs breath.

Not for survival.

But to remember that he is, in fact, still alive.

And that terrified him more than death ever had.

He rested his forehead to hers again.

Eyes closed.

The room was hushed, sacred, trembling with the weight of what had not yet been spoken.

When his voice came, it was not sound. It was breath. A plea unraveling from somewhere deeper than bone.

"Tell me I'm still human."

Her hand found his face.

"You're human," she said.

Sylus swallowed.

"Tell me I can still be saved."

She hesitated.

The silence between them held. Taut. Holy.

Then, quietly:

"You already are."

That was when he moved.

Not with urgency.

Not with hunger.

But with reverence.

Every inch between them dissolved like fog under sunlight. Their bodies met not in fire, but in absolution. Not as sin and saint—but as two broken halves daring to believe they might still be whole.

He pressed his face to her shoulder.

And breathed her in like a man who had been drowning his entire life.

It wasn't perfect.

It wasn't practiced.

There was no elegance in their rhythm, no poetry in the way their bodies searched for each other. Only halting movement. Breath that trembled. Hands that hesitated.

And somehow—that made it unbearable.

Because it was real.

His fingers found hers. Their hands laced, clumsy and trembling. Their breaths fell into sync—sharp, uneven, desperate for something neither of them could name.

And with every slow thrust, every breath shared between lips and skin, he felt it.

The shattering.

The undoing of everything he had built to keep himself alone.

He was not taking her.

He was being taken.

And she—God help him—she wasn't giving herself away.

She was choosing him.

Now.

Here.

Even knowing the weight of what she chose.

He whispered her name once—softly, reverently. As if even sound might crack this fragile miracle between them.

She answered—not with words, but with her body rising to meet his, her arms around his neck, her legs pulling him closer into the place where his ruin might finally find rest.

He could not bear to look into her eyes.

So he closed his own.

And let himself drown.

She pulled him closer—not to possess, not to hold him captive—but to cradle.

As if closeness could ease the ache instead of intensify it. As if the ruin between them could be carried, not cured.

His body moved within hers slowly. As if time had fractured—split open—and left them suspended in something outside consequence, outside the naming of things.

There was no rhythm.

Only presence.

He had not known that the body could pray.

Not like this.

Not with folded hands or whispered psalms—but with trembling touch, with skin meeting skin in halting trust, with breath shared as if it were confession.

She was not passive beneath him.

No.

She was sovereign.

Each shift of her hips, each quiet sound that passed between them, each touch to his face—these were acts of choice, not surrender.

Her fingers found the knot in his shoulder where violence had taken root. They traced it—not to fix, not to pity—but to know it. To see it. And still stay.

Her hands trembled.

But they never faltered.

She touched him like he was something holy and long-forgotten.

And he—he could do nothing but worship her in return.

He kissed her sternum. The hollow of her throat. The edge of her jaw.

Places he had once believed were too sacred for someone like him to touch.

But now—now his mouth moved over her not with hunger, but with something deeper.

Not desperation.

Awe.

Her body welcomed him not with urgency, but with quiet surrender.

And he wept—not in tears, but in breath, in shudders—undone not by sorrow, but by the grace of being allowed into something so unbearably good.

They moved together like a psalm.

Not with rhythm, but with ache.

With pauses and hallelujahs, with gasps and half-spoken prayers. The room filled not with silence, but with the sacred noise of skin meeting skin, breath catching, names spoken as if they meant more than history or sin.

She said his name.

Not like a question.

Not like a plea.

But like it mattered.

Like he mattered.

He pulled back—just for a moment—to look at her.

To see.

And she met his gaze.

No fear.

No illusion.

Only knowing.

The kind that sees every shadow, every sharp edge, every unspeakable thing—and does not turn away.

She looked at him as if he were still worth reaching for.

And in that moment, he believed her.

He buried her face against her chest.

And she held him.

Not like a lover.

Not like a confessor absolving sin.

She held him like a home.

And then—then—he spoke.

Not "I love you."

Not "thank you."

Just one word.

A whisper torn from the deepest part of him. The part that had always feared it was too much to ask.

"Stay."

It was not a request.

It was a confession.

Stay. Stay even when this becomes memory. Stay even when you see who I am in morning light. Stay when I falter. When I retreat. When I wound you without meaning to. Stay even if it damns you too.

She kissed the crown of his head.

And said, without hesitation:

"I was never leaving."

Their bodies moved once more—slow, reverent, nearly silent.

Not out of desire, but because being close had become the only language they could speak. Each breath was a prayer. Each movement an unspoken vow.

Until there was nothing left but warmth.

Breath.

And a silence so vast, so complete, it felt like eternity had come to rest beside them.

When he finally stilled—still inside her—they did not part.

He remained.

Forehead to hers.

Arms wrapped tight, not possessive, but desperate.

Like a man holding the last good thing in a world already lost.

He said nothing.

She asked nothing.

And in that stillness—in the hush that came after the storm and the sweat and the ache—Sylus, once a ghost among men, a weapon without a name, a thing stitched together from grief and violence, understood something new.

What it meant to be held.

Not as punishment.

Not as reward.

But without fear.

Time dissolved.

There was no before. No after. Only breath. Only the soft ache between two hearts trying to catch up to what they had just become.

He remained inside her, unmoving.

As though to shift would be to shatter the fragile grace that had settled between them like dust.

Eventually, their bodies parted—not from shame, not from retreat, but with reverence.

He moved to her side.

Not to flee, but to stay.

One arm draped around her waist, his fingers resting just beneath her ribs, feeling her breath move in and out like waves lapping at the shore of something ancient.

Her back against his chest.

Her heat still clinging to him like memory.

Neither of them spoke.

But it was not silence born of awkwardness, or fear, or indecision.

It was something holy.

The kind of silence that lingers in cathedrals long after the last prayer has gaded.

Not absence.

But echo.

He stared at the ceiling, eyes unblinking.

The candle had burned nearly to its end. The wick curled like a dying insect, flame sputtering in its final breath. Shadows climbed the walls—long, shapeless things.

His heart beat.

Slow.

Steady.

But there was no calm in it.

Only awe.

And terror.

He had not come for this.

He had come hollow, certain of his own emptiness. He had expected pity. A cup of tea. A quiet place to rot beside someone who used to believe in him.

Not this.

Not this kind of ruin.

And yet—

There was no regret.

Only the terrible, dizzying fear that he might lose what had just been given.

Her fingers reached for his.

Brushed them

Then laced through—gently, wordlessly—and he let her.

Their palms met like they had done this before. In some other world, perhaps. One where he hadn't been made of grief. One where he'd been worthy of it.

"You don't know what you've done," he said at last. His voice cracked under the weight of it.

She turned in his arms to face him.

Eyes clear. Steady. Unafraid.

And it enraged him.

That calm.

That impossible, infuriating faith—as if she didn't know the storm she had just stepped into.

As if she had known—and stepped in anyway.

"Then tell me," she said.

Gently. Without fear.

He looked at her for a long moment.

How could he?

How could he explain what she had done—what she had chosen?

That she had let a ghost crawl into her bed. A man made of knives and silence and ash. That she had taken into her arms something that would never be clean, never be safe, never be whole.

That by loving him, she had damned them both to something neither of them could name.

He opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

The truth was too vast. Too raw. Too final.

So he did the only thing he could do.

He reached for her again.

Pulled her in.

Buried his face in the crook of her neck like a man seeking refuge from his own reflection.

And she let him.

Her hand moved across his back, slow, steady.

Not like a lover tending to desire.

Like someone who had already decided: yes, I will carry this too.

She held him as if breaking with the world had been her plan all along.

And maybe—God help him—maybe it had.

He did not sleep.

He watched the shadows stretch across the ceiling. Counted the steady rhythm of her breath. Memorized the shape of her warmth, the quiet miracle of her skin against his.

He would leave before dawn.

He always did.

And yet. He knew he wouldn't.

Something had shifted. Irrevocably.

He knew now that there was no going back to the man he had been.

No shield would protect him. No silence would erase what had passed between them.

She had seen him.

Fully.

Ruinously.

And had not looked away.

That kind of seeing does not disappear.

It lingers.

It sanctifies.

It damns.

And in the still, aching hush before the light returned, Sylus understood the terrible, beautiful truth:

He had not taken her.

She had taken him.

And my God—

he would never want himself back again.

— © 2025 by Sylus's Little Crow.

[skulkiee]

I wrote this for a story and then it turned into 1300 words rather than the single paragraph it was gonna be. So

Eurylochus expects to feel terror when Odysseus points to him and the crew. He expects to feel anger, fear, when he turns away from his captain and looks at the god.

Instead Eurylochus stares at Zeus, and lifts his chin. He has spent too long being scared, too long angry, too long hurting.

When he looks at the king of the gods, he feels not much at all.

Because it was always going to be this way- as soon as a baby boy was born to the king and queen of Ithaca, it was going to be Odysseus' story. Not Polites', not Eurylochus', not any one of the six hundred men the king dragged across the ocean to fight in a war for some woman none of them had ever met's story. Odysseus' story.

The rest of them, they're just numbers. Just that. The six hundred men that Odysseus took to war. The six hundred men Odysseus left the war with.

The six hundred men who died to their own stupidity and hubris in the span of three years, because it will be Odysseus who tells the story.

Years and years in the future, stories would be written and told, over and over, again and again, changed and shaped to the creator's delight, twisted and crumpled and told again. But it will always be Odysseus' story, celebrating Odysseus' love for his family, how he spent so very long returning home to them, to Penelope and Telemachus, and how he will live out a long life with his wife and son. (It will never mention Ctimene.)

Those stories, and the one Odysseus will tell when he returns to Ithaca will not tell of the six hundred other families who will be left forever waiting for their loves.

Because life moves and heroes are created and the gods do not care for those destroyed in their hero's path to brilliance.

It will be brave Agamenmon, who gathered the largest army and a thousand ships to rescue his dear little brother's lost wife. It will not tell of the dreams and achievements of bright young Iphigeneia, killed on the whim of a priest, it will not tell of poor Chryseis other than to mention Apollo's wraith.

It will be strong Achilles, son of the Goddess Thetis and the greatest warrior in the greek army, never speaking of his lover Patroclus, whose death drove him to madness.

It will be Helen of Troy, Helen of Sparta, the storytellers will argue over whether she loved Paris, or Menelaus, never asking her opinion, or asking what she went through, how she felt to see the family she had been a part of for ten years slaughtered in her name.

And Eurylochus knows it will be intelligent Odysseus. The mind behind the Trojan horse, apprentice of the Goddess Athena and blood of Hermes. The mortal who called himself nobody, to escape a cyclops, (it will not speak of Polites, or anyone lost in that cave) the mortal who traded with Aeolus, (not telling of the torment the god put the crew's minds through each night) who met the lotus eaters, who escaped Posidon, (eleven full ships of people did not) who saved his men from Circe, (never speaking of the nightmares of the men turned to pigs) who sailed through the underworld and lived to tell the tale, who killed sirens and survived Scylla's hunger, (it will not tell of the lives the sirens had, it will not tell of the torchure that is Scylla's continued existence, it will not tell of the six men willingly sacrificed) the mortal who survived the death of one of Helios' cattle, who lived through Zeus' wrath.

It will be Odysseus' love for his family, the crew will just be numbers, and one or two names. Eurylochus knows he might just be lucky enough to have his name remembered. (A few times in a poem years from now, a villain in Odysseus' story.)

What he is trying to say is that the gods choose heroes, and six hundred lives really is a small thing in the grand schemes of the gods.

They will be listed as the crew, move on, look at this great thing Odysseus did.

Look what the crew did, how could they ever mutiny? The story will never tell of their fear, their mistrust in sly Odysseus, their horror when he willingly and knowingly killed six of their friends.

Why would they ever kill the cow? It will never tell of their hunger. Odysseus is closer to the gods than them, he can go longer without food. The stories won't say how they were starving, how scared they were.

Why would they open the bag? Sly Odysseus, mind games and magic. Spells from a wind god telling them to open it, urging them to, a lying captain, a scheming captain.

Dumb. Cruel. Selfish. Idiots. Careless.

Eurylochus knows they will be called all these things, they will be the antagonists in Odysseus' story. So stupid for not listening, so cruel and selfish for making Odysseus' journey back to his family longer, how careless for getting killed.

They will be insulted and called all sorts of things, because it is Odysseus' story, told by Odysseus. People will wonder why they didn't follow a man known for his schemes and lies and tricks mindlessly, not realising that they have their emotions too, that they want to go home too.

Eurylochus looks away from Zeus then, in that moment between Odysseus choosing the crew, tears on his face as if he deserves to mourn them, as if he did not sacrifice those men to Scylla, as if he is not sacrificing them now. That moment between Odysseus' (always Odysseus') decision, and the lightning strike, and he looks back at the crew.

At Perimedes standing off to the side resolutely, cradling Elpenor's scarf in his arms. At Philikos, who has four daughters back home, all of whose weddings he would have missed for this gods damned war. At Ligo and Choiros, standing side by side as usual, one of the few pairs formed in the war that has survived the stress and danger of the past few years. At Grigoris who is the oldest in the crew and who decided all the men below thirty five were his new children when the war started and Agrios who wasn't drafted as a healer but who was a better healer than most of the actual ones and Miso who is the fastest runner and Skafos who seems to have Hermes' luck on his side when it comes to gambling and Alope whos parents dressed him as a girl to try and prevent him being taken to war and Cleito who likes to pick up the smaller crew members and carry them around and everyone else.

Everyone else who have come to be Eurylochus' brothers by this point. Everyone who he loves, everyone who are his family.

Everyone who he has been through hell with, everyone whose names and pasts and stories he knows, everyone whose stories will never be told again, simply because they were not born a prince.

Because everything comes back to Odysseus in the end, Odysseus who does not care for them, for the nameless, faceless numbers who have to fall to ensure his glory.

And then the lightning strikes and everything goes dark for Eurylochus.

And it hurts for a long long while, but he begins to hear the babbling of a river nearby, and the soft murmur of voices, and arms around him.

Arms that are larger and warmer than Odysseus' ever were. Arms that care so so much more, arms that belong to a person he has missed so so much.

Eurylochus thinks he might just be safe now.

Yes the crew member's names came from me putting random words in google translate✨

[achaoticeternal]

a presentation

word count: 750 summary: finding aemond admiring the throne once more, you tell him of your wish to simply be his wife again a/n: just a quick drabble to get some writing going again. not proofread. this is based off the song the greatest by billie eilish

All my love and patience Unappreciated You said your heart was jaded You couldn't even break it

The mass of swords welded together to form the Iron Throne loomed over the Throne Room. Its' magnificence was equally spectacular yet terrifying. An item that represented unity and obedience melded together by fire and death.

It was a seat many had craved over time. Yet she saw the jagged edges that had nicked King Viserys, then Aegon... and soon Aemond would be subjected to it. She had dreamed of it only nights prior.

Her husband ascends the Throne before a mass of nobles and common folk alike. A wolfish smile invades the faces of those surrounding them. Yet when he took his seat with the Conqueror's crown high on his silken hair, an undulled sword from the arm of the chair would slice his palm open. The princess had felt it an omen, an even darker one after Meleys had been carted through the street. The dream was the only thing to replay in her mind as she approached where Aemond now stood. His eyes flickered our the steel of swords stuck together permanently. She always sensed his hunger for power and prayed that his thirst did not come at the cost of blood or their marriage. But the gods paid little favor to them. "It is late," She called out to him, "We should be sleeping." Aemond hummed, acknowledging her comment. He cocked his head to the side, not quite looking at her as his eye remained fixated on the Throne, "We shall be standing up there tomorrow."

The princess swallowed, only to take another step forward as she responded, "You. You will be up there tomorrow. I will be perched next to your mother or Helaena. Either hearing prayers for Aegon's ailments or your ascension." A small, playful smirk painted his lips, "I'm sure I could order a seat to be placed near my feet. So that I may present to the court all my prizes: the Throne, the Crown, the perfect Wife."

Her lips tugged downward, disgust lining her stomach, "Will you dress me and braid my hair too? Paint my face to make my skill look porcelain?"

The Prince Regent finally turned to face her, "Do not use such a tone with me, wife. You have nothing to complain about as I have built you a perfect life." The air between them went stagnant as her eyes remained fixed on them. You face betrayed nothing of what you felt which shocked your husband. He had always been able to read you so plainly, it was something he even enjoyed in your relationship.

"A perfect life?" The princess repeated her words, "Will you put me in a glass display and title it 'A Perfect Life?'?

Aemond's jaw tightened and he took a great step toward her, "I have proven myself to be the greatest Targaryen since Maegor himself and yet you look at me like a villain. This will make people see. This will make people fear me and regret their spineless actions. Now they have no choice but to love and respect their new King."

"And yet I did all of that when you were just Aemond," She barked back at him, her own hurt and anger slipping through, "I respected you, I listened to you, I loved you... for just being a prince- no, just being a boy." "Wife, I-" He attempted to interject.

"I am not finished," The princess stopped him, "I have played the part of your wife, perfectly. I provided you with love, comfort, hospitality, my spirit, my body. I never asked for you to give more of yourself than you could because I knew what a fragile heart you keep locked away. But I am not some pet or doll to be displayed as another prize of your ambition. I am your wife, and you could at least let me enjoy that duty. I only ever wanted to show you love."

At her speech, Aemond had fallen silent. His hands rested behind hs back, silently fidgeting with his leather cuffs. All was still.

"It is late," Aemond finally spoke, "You should get some rest. I will join you in our chambers when I have wrapped up my duties for the evening."

"Very well," The princess swallowed back her pain, once more feeling powerless. She turned on her heels and exited.

I shouldn't have to say it You could've been the greatest

[platinumink]

Odysseus post!Ithaca Saga WORST Ending Headcanon... (TW: Knifes, murder, blood, death)

Do but what if Odysseus wakes up from a nightmare some time after he return home.

Said nightmare was about every bad thing that happened to him but CALYPSO especially. (In this headcanon, Calypso regularly SA-ed our poor man believing that he would truly love her back eventually).

Odysseus of course always defended himself and did whatever possible to get away from Calypso but since goddesses can't die (or be hurt by mortals who refuse to eat anything said goddess offers him) Odysseus never manages to get away before the inevitable happens to him.

So after he wakes up from his nightmare, instead of keeping her distance like Odysseus asked Penelope to do so he could regain a sense of what is real and what was a dream or the past, our beloved queen is with her husband immediately, trying to soothe him and take away the pain and fear her husband is in.

Problem is, Odysseus just dreamt about Calypso doing unforgivable things to him. A little "quirk" Calypso had was to transform into Penelope and gradually retake her true form while forcing Odysseus to lay with her to show him how she could replace Penelope easily and in his hunger and delirium of lack of sleep, he sometimes believed Penelope to actually be here before finding out the truth.

Now, seeing her touch him and being in a bed with him after just reliving the worst time of his life, he believes her to be Calypso in disguise. So instead of embracing his beloved wife and accepting the offered comfort, Odysseus holds his breath, fingers for the knife he keeps under his pillow just in case, turns around in an instant and impales thr imposter on the blade.

Instead of turning back into Calypsos true form and laughing off his attempt, the woman in front of him gasps in pain and shock, tears pooling in her eyes. She raises her hand and carefully places it on Odysseus' left cheek, caressing it gently.

This is when it clicks for Odysseus what he had just done in his panic. With terror building within him, he carefully guides his wife back on the bed, repeating "no, no, no, no, no" and "i'm so sorry, i'm so sorry my love" as well as "what have I done, my wife, gods no, please no!" Over and over again.

Penelope smiles with tears in her eyes and labour's breathing, telling him that it's okay, she's going to be okay, to take care of their son, that she isn't mad at him, that she should have listened to what he told her about keeping distance, that she will always love him and that she will wait for him forever in the underworld to rejoin her by her side. She orders him to say that this was an assassination and that he had tried his best to defend her but reached her too late as her last dieing wish so that he will be able to keep his position ss king and to enable him to keep raising Telemachus to become his next successor one day. Odysseus agrees after a whirl of back and forth full of guilt and anguish.

Penelope died in her husbands arms, her night dress, the bedding and her husband painted in red.

The next morning, Odysseus does exactly what his wife asked of him, speaking of an assassin, of catching the man at the edge of the cliff to the shore, of hacking him to bits and of throwing his remains into the water for sharks and other monsters to eat.

Odysseus and Telemachus mourn the death of their wife and mother together. With time, the creation of a mural and daily offerings made to his mother and the gods Hades, Persephone, Hera and, of course, Athena, Telemachus prevails and though he shall always miss and love his dear mother, he is excited to one day see her again in the Underworld. One day, Odysseus tells him what actually happened and asks his son to kill him. He never managed to move on and does and will always feel guilt, of the atrocity he committed even though by accident.

Telemachus simply holds his father, telling him that he understood and already knew, as he had once dreamt of his mother visiting him in the realm of hypnos. She had already filled him in and asked for understanding and support, which he immediately gave, also stating that no one was at fault for this terrible accident. They grow even closer and spend even more time together after this.

Now, before Odysseus enters the bed to sleep, he will always first complete another few rows of a shroud he is weaving for his beloved wife. No matter how many a shroud it takes, he will make them in her honor until the day he will finally rejoin her to ask her if she would fall in love with him again after what he did to her...

_______________________________

Extra:

Odysseus openes his eyes, having just left the hall of judgement. He still cannot believe that he has died of old age. Just months before, he had crowned his son Telemachus as king and has helped him grow into the role. He will always make a fine ruler and eventually an amazing father and teacher now that his wife was close to giving birth to their first child.

Hermes had done their best to make his transition to the Underworld as comfortable as he could though crossing the border of the Underworld as a soul will always hurt just a little bit. With their help, he could keep his coin, as he had not needed to pay the ferryman for his services. When he had arrived at the halls of judgement, Odysseus had hugged him and thanked him profusely for his aid bith when he was alive and dead.

The god though once again denied his thanks and simpl, informed him that he is in no need of gratitude from his offspring and that he had died. After hugging him again, Hermes had released his Great Grandson to the judgement of the kings.

Even more unreal though, was the fact that he had been offered Elysium. After meeting many of his old men who greeted him with open arms and reembracing Polites who was just as chipper as he could remember, he stood before her again.

As beautiful as always and with a sage expression, she looked at him full of love.

"My love, my dearest queen, my beautiful wife... after everything i've done... would you fall in love with me-"

Odysseus gets interrupted by a body slamming into his, embracing him with a ferocity he did not expect.

"Always, you daft man, my love, my beloved king, my Odysseus! No matter how you change, I shall always fall in love with you over and over again, no matter where or when, you will always be mine, just as I will always be yours!"

Together, they walk hand in hand into eternity, excited to meet their son again one day far into the future.

[torisabitgay]

Stoned (Doctor Edition)

TWs: Use of weed

You finally attend a medical conference with Amelia. Little do you know that one muffin later, you will wreak absolute havoc during a presentation.

(F/F, Amelia Shepherd x femreader, they are together but it’s not stated, straight up comedy, 2K words)

You and Amelia were at a medical conference in New York. You hadn’t attended many of these (thanks to your short attention span) but you didn’t want Amelia to leave you for a weekend so you begrudgingly decided to tag along.

There was a presentation on new and improved diagnostic techniques that you were both going to attend. You sipped your coffee, sat at a table in the massive lounging area of the building. Amelia sat next to you, sipping her coffee and finishing up her sandwich. Your stomach rumbled in response and you huffed quietly. Amused, Amelia looked up, “I did ask if you wanted to eat something.”

You rolled your eyes, taking another sip of coffee hoping the bitter taste would quench your appetite. “I wasn’t hungry before.”

Almost on cue, a friendly looking man approached with a decorated box. Your curiosity was instantly piqued and you turned to him.

“Muffin?” He offered.

Amelia gave you a bit of a cautious look. Now, you were smart. You were a surgeon, god damn it. So what possessed you to take a muffin from a stranger, you’ll never know. Perhaps it was the hunger. Perhaps it was the need for adventure. Whatever it was, it ended with a smile and a nod. “Thank you.” Graciously, you took one and he smiled innocently enough and walked off.

Amelia looked at you, concerned. “You aren’t about to eat that, are you?”

Oh but the way the chocolate muffin glistened in the light, you could see chunks of dark, white, and milk chocolate baked into the batter. Pressing the muffin, you could tell the texture was perfectly fudgey and smooth.

You were salivating like a dog.

“[First Name], would you have taken that muffin if he was balding, overweight, with missing teeth?” Amelia said, looking at you like at a person about to jump off a bridge.

She had a point. Pretty privilege in society was a very real thing. But the man didn’t have bad VIBES, and this was a conference for doctors only, so he had to be a doctor. So according to the Hippocratic oath, he wasn’t allowed to do harm.

You shrugged. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Oh boy.

I’ll hand it to you, the muffin was delicious. And under different circumstances, it might’ve been a fun adventure. Not today though. Oh god, not today.

You threw away your empty coffee cup, before you and Amelia made your way into the presentation hall. It was a massive hall. With a lot of seats. And a lot of people. You could not imagine being the host. You and Amelia managed to find some seats in the middle of the hall, sat side by side. You still had some time before the presentation actually began, so you figured you’d get comfortable and make light conversation. “So how long is this thing anyway?”

She shrugged, as she scrolled through her phone. “Oh like 4 hours, not too bad.”

Your eyes widened in horror, shock, dread, maybe even fear. Four hours? Of sitting still? And listening? Oh. God. “You’re kidding right?”

“Yes, I’m kidding, idiot. It’s like 2 hours tops.” She rolled her eyes and looked over at you with an affectionate and playful smirk.

You never felt such relief. “Oh thank god. I would’ve actually died.”

She chuckled, and the lights dimmed to signify the start of the presentation. She whispered over to you one last time. “You’ll be fine, it’ll be interesting, just watch.”

And watch you did.

The host began talking about current diagnostic procedures and tests, sharing his take on why some of them suck and how they could be improved. Then about half an hour in, he started introducing cool new techniques that he and other doctors and researches had developed.

You gasped in fascination.

You gasped. In fascination.

You. Gasped.

A lot of people started to look around at who on earth just gasped in pure delight in the middle of a presentation. People around you turned to look at you. Amelia included. She had a look of horror mixed with a slight tinge of concern.

“Sorry.” You mouthed to the people around you, and sunk back into your seat, slumping down in a weak attempt to hide.

Okay. Weird. But whatever. Everyone moved on. Well, nearly.

Amelia leaned in to you and whispered. “What the hell was that?”

You looked over to her and shrugged. Honestly, you had no idea what that was. You were just so captivated by the talk and reacted on instinct. Maybe. God, your head felt fuzzy. Has it always felt this fuzzy? Why did the air feel fuzzy? You shook your head, trying to shake off the fuzziness. It only made it worse.

Amelia leaned back, eyeing you for a couple of moments before her gaze returned to the presentation.

So did yours. Except, focusing on the presentation was pretty difficult when your mouth felt… strangely empty. Like really empty. Like a black hole sort of emptiness. Are black holes empty? Black holes are cool. Maybe you’re in a black hole. What? What’s happening? You shook your head again and sipped your coffee.

Amelia’s head pretty much darted in your direction. You looked back over at her, a slightly fearful look on your face. Did you drink too loud? No. Surely not. You barely drank it.

“Whose coffee is that?” Amelia whispered as she pointed to the cup.

You looked down at your coffee cup.

…

“That’s not your coffee. You threw your coffee out. Whose coffee are you drinking?” Amelia whispered again.

You looked back over to her, your mouth slightly open with a confused and slightly dazed expression on your face. It took you a few moments before you replied in a whisper. “What coffee?”

Amelia’s eyebrows knitted in bewilderment, eyes widening a little. She pointed to your coffee cup. “THAT.”

You looked down at your coffee cup. What? Since when did you have a coffee cup? You didn’t even remember drinking it.

“[First Name], what the hell is going on with you?” Amelia whispered again, slightly sharper.

You. Had. No. Idea.

You looked back up at her. You should say something right? You haven’t spoken in a while. “Nothing.”

She raised an eyebrow as if to say ‘yeah right’, before shaking her head, and looking back to the presentation, glancing over at you every so often to make sure you weren’t having a stroke or something.

You leaned back in your seat again and suddenly felt a coffee cup in your hand. What? Whose coffee was this? You looked over to the guy sat next to you and whispered. “Hey. Hey. Sorry.” He looked apprehensive. “Hi, is this your coffee?” He nodded hesitantly. “Okay, one sec.” You took another sip of the coffee to fill the void in your mouth, before holding it out to him. He politely declined and pushed the cup away. What? Why? “You don’t want it?” He shook his head. “Oh okay.” You sat back.

Amelia watched the entire exchange with a hand pressed to her face in disappointment. You noticed her expression and decided to try focus on the movie playing.

After a couple of minutes of concentration, you whispered to Amelia. “This is a really good movie.”

Her concern grew. She stared at you. “Movie? What movie? We’re… watching a presentation.” She sat up a little, body angled towards you.

A presentation? Okay that made more sense. You wondered why the movie was so 3D. You nodded. “Right, right, yeah. Presentation.”

Oh but she wasn’t letting it go so easily. Something was wrong. You were acting delusional. “[First Name], you’re scaring me.” Amelia spoke, her whisper firm.

“But this isn’t a horror movie.” You turned your attention to her.

If her eyes widened even more, you’re sure her eyelids would snap. “What the actual fuck are you talking about?” She whispered yelled.

You furrowed your brows. “Who?”

“You.” She said, starting to get frustrated.

“You?”

“No, YOU.”

“Me.”

“Yes, you.”

“… what?” At that response, she leaned back in her chair with a defeated thump. A part of her was convinced you were being annoying on purpose, while another part was concerned that something deeper was going on. “Sorry, [First Name].” You whispered to her.

She picked up her head again and looked at you. “Huh? Did you just call me [First Name]?”

“…”

Another part of her was starting to get concerned that SHE was the one having a stroke or something. “You’re [First Name]. I’m Amelia.”

You nodded. “Nice to meet you, I’m Amelia.”

Amelia very nearly threw her hands up in frustration. “NO. I’M Amelia. You’re not Amelia!”

Your eyes widened and you whispered back. “WHAT?”

“[First Name], I SWEAR TO GOD.” She raised her voice. People turned around again.

Amelia’s face instantly flushed and her gaze flicked to the ground. People whispered and gave her disapproving looks but eventually everyone turned back around. You looked apologetically over to Amelia, but you couldn’t help the small giggle that escaped your lips. She looked up slowly. If looks could kill… it wouldn’t look great for you.

And somehow, this made you giggle more.

“[First Name].”

You were giggling as quietly as possible, with small hiccups of breath in between silent chuckles.

She shook her head and clenched her jaw, looking back at the presentation. Only an hour in, and you were already driving her insane.

You managed to collect yourself. Mostly. Maybe a sip of coffee would help you calm down?

Yeah, no.

The second your mouth filled with coffee, it was already out. All over you. All over the poor woman in front. And you were giggling uncontrollably again. This was officially the worst day of Amelia’s life (and she’s had A LOT of bad days). She stared in absolute horror. Disbelief. Outrage.

The woman in front of you turned to look at what was going on. She was not happy. Thank god she wore a black sweater to the conference. You, however, weren’t as lucky. Your fancy, new light-coloured outfit was covered in coffee.

And Amelia couldn’t take it anymore. She apologised profusely on your behalf to the woman in front, and then grabbed your arm harshly, but not painfully. Everyone stared as the two of you made your way out of the presentation hall, Amelia looking at the ground in shame as you giggled behind.

Woah, standing up made the fuzziness a lot worse. You couldn’t walk actually. You felt like you were swimming instead. And, oops…

Your leg got caught on one of the chairs and you went flying into some poor elderly man. Amelia wanted to die right then and there. She pulled you off of him, as you laughed so hard you had tears in your eyes, and she dragged you out of that hall as if her life depended on it.

Once the two of you were out in the hallway, she stared at you in… concern? Anger? Fear?

“[First Name]… what the hell was that?”

You giggled as you looked over at her and spoke. “What?”

She continued to stare incredulously.

You looked at her. In this light, your dopey smile and red eyes looked… familiar.

The gears started to turn as her face dropped in realisation. “The muffin.”

You nearly barked out a laugh. “What???” You asked again.

“The muffin you ate, idiot.” She said slowly. “You’re high as a kite right now! It was laced!”

Oh. Oh yeah. Oh yeah, you were STONED. Now it made sense.

You snickered some more. She groaned. “No, [First Name], this isn’t funny, this is…” She couldn’t help but start to smirk at your intoxicated giggles. “Stop laughing. Do you know how dangerous this is?“ She said, but she started to grin herself.

Maybe because of the absurdity of the situation.

Maybe because it all made sense now.

Or maybe because you were absolutely blitzed out of your mind.

Whatever it was, it sure made for a funny story to reminisce on. Needless to say you don’t take muffins from strangers anymore.

[senditcolton]

youthfully felt

I need to be youthfully felt 'cause god I've never felt young

summary: Sidney Crosby is simply… tired. Of everything. That's how he found himself at a seedy dive bar, drinking his misery away. Then enters Jade Watkins. She offers an escape from the scrutiny, the pressure, the fear, and soon Sidney finds himself falling for the girl who saved him just in time. But does he truly love her? Or does he just love the way she makes him feel? song inspo: Jackie and Wilson by Hozier word count: 11.2k warnings: hinted intimacy (non-explicit), language, resolved angst, and pregnancy at the very end

When people ask which places Sidney Crosby frequents in the large city of Pittsburgh, the answer is not a seedy little downtown bar. That was not the kind of place anyone would expect to find the Penguins captain. It was not a place for someone like him.

But there he was, sitting in a cracked leather booth on a warm May night. What was he doing here? Well… it was the perfect place to disappear. And that’s what Sidney wanted to do, at least for a little while.

Last season had been rough, on everyone. The injuries, the conflicts, the losses, and the constant scrutiny. Despite all of that, the team managed to fight their way up the standings, the race to the playoffs the closest it had been in years. Sid thought that maybe that turn-around, that fight, would be enough for the hungry fans that wanted nothing more than to see success. But he should have known that unless the season ended with a silver trophy, it would never be enough. And unfortunately, the Penguins lost their playoff spot by the barest of margins. And the fans were left with a bitter taste in their mouths instead of a satisfying ending.

Usually, Sidney would’ve shared their hunger and wouldn’t have felt satiated until his arms felt the weight of that 30-pound chalice. But now… he just felt tired.

Tired of living up to that impossible expectation that others held him to. Tired of the eyes that constantly turned to him and analyzed him whenever something went wrong. Tired of the whispers, the criticism that he never seemed to be able to escape.

Was Sidney Crosby losing his touch? Will one too many injuries end this once great hockey player’s career? Should he hang up his skates and let the club move onto to brighter futures? How much time does Sidney Crosby have left?

Those statements and worse had been floating around him for the past few years but he never let them break in. Instead, he used them as fuel to prove the nay-sayers wrong. But this year, the scrutiny felt worse than it ever had before and instead of the words motivating him, they crumbled the walls that he had built. They broke him down and that made him angry.

He gave everything to hockey. He gave up so much of his childhood, his adolescence, his youth, his life, to this sport, this city, to those fans. How much more did he need to prove himself? How much more would people demand of him? How much more would he be forced to give?

Doubtful, resentful, tired Sidney Crosby. The once great player of the National Hockey League.

That was how he felt and part of him didn’t want to pretend to be anything else tonight. And he assumes that’s how he found himself here.

He couldn’t remember the name of the bar where he currently sat. All he knew was this was the last place people would come looking for him. This was not a place to sight a celebrity. This was a place for drifters, rejects, people who had given up on their lives or didn’t care enough to try.  It felt like a place that was stuck in the past; the smell of old beer and cigarette smoke, the dim lighting courtesy of dust accumulated through years of indifference.  

Sidney sits in a booth in the back corner, the cracked leather digging into the back of his thighs. His hand casually wraps around the beer bottle in front of him, gently spinning it, feeling it resist as the glass clings to the stickiness of spilled alcohol lingering on the wood.

This place is not bright, it’s not shiny. It’s a place where this beaten, broken down version of himself could simply exist, baseball cap pulled low because even though this was the exact opposite of where he should be, that didn’t stop some patron’s eyes from lingering on him a little too long. But no one approached him. Maybe they could read it, feel his energy, understand that he did not want to be bothered. And for that, he was thankful. He couldn’t pretend to be the person everyone expected him to be, even from people who may have expected nothing.

He brings the bottle up to his lips, letting the lukewarm amber liquid fall into his mouth, trickling down his throat. He doesn’t let it drop until the last of the beer vanishes and he places the empty glass back with a resounding thud, pushing it so it clinks against the two other bottles abandoned on the table. He flags the bartender down, silently requesting another. He knows he shouldn’t but the fact that he shouldn’t is the very reason why he does. He’s making a choice that feels good for him, in this very moment. Damn the consequences.

A few moments and another clink echoes around him as the bartender delivers the next bottle and Sid hands them another bill, elegantly folded between his outstretched fingers, a token of discretion for both him and the worker, if they think of running their mouth. The bartender takes the money from him and moves back to their spot behind the bar-top and the seemingly pointless job of wiping down the counter.

Sid quickly peeks at his watch, checking the time. 11:52. Almost midnight. He resigns himself to this, his last drink, and he slowly sips from the bottle’s lips. The walk back to his car still parked outside PPG will give him time to sober up. The night is still warm and this way, he won’t have to worry about hustling an Uber, another potential leak that might gab about a Crosby that seemingly sunk so low. He’s about to take the last swig and leave until the creak of the front door alerts him to someone else entering the bar.

He doesn’t really intend to look. But there is some inexplicable force that calls him to. And that’s when he sees her.

She walks in, the breeze following her from outside, ruffling her long black hair and lightly fluttering the edge of the red plaid shirt adorning her body. Sidney watches as her eyes scan over the dimly lit bar and he subconsciously feels himself lift up, as if he wanted to catch her attention. He quickly deflates when those eyes simply pass over him, as if he was just another patron.

He watches as she waltzes to the bar, leaning forward and places her elbows on the wood. He hears a few muttered words to the bartender and based on her hushed conversation and body language, he realizes that this bar was a place she frequented. She was not a girl who got lost after a night out with her friends, who just happened to wander into the closest bar. No, she was familiar with this place. It perplexed him. One look at her and Sid knew that she didn’t belong here.

But not in the same way as him.

Sidney Crosby in a bar like this the equivalent of a shiny new penny that catches your eye when you see it at the bottom of a dingy fountain and wonder how it even came to be there. But her…

He couldn’t quite describe it. There was something about her; her energy, the way she carried herself. It was as if she was a creature who willingly walked into the darkest part of the forest and yet showed no fear. As if she knew she didn’t belong here, but didn’t care. Because it wasn’t that her that needed to figure out how to exist in this place. It was this place that needed to learn how to handle her.

Sidney was captivated.

And yet, when she spins on the bar stool, an Old Fashioned in hand, those eyes moving to once again gaze over the patrons of the bar, Sidney finds himself looking away, his own eyes jumping back to memorize the ridges on the mouth of his beer bottle. He didn’t know what made him look away, what made him shrink down, especially when he was vying for her attention when she first walked in. But whatever the reason, he was content to stay that way until he knew she was gone.

The last thing he expected was the crackle of dried leather shifting underneath someone else’s weight, sitting down across from him. And her green eyes staring back at him when he looked up.

“Never expected to run into a celebrity here,” she muses out loud, those eyes shamelessly looking him up and down. Sidney’s eyes tear away, ducking back down, hoping his baseball cap hid the way his cheeks turned pink.

The laughter that escapes her lips is intoxicating and Sidney feels his cheeks warm even more when he realizes she was laughing at him.

“Don’t worry, superstar,” she says, eyes moving to peruse the nearly empty bar once more. “I won’t tell anyone that you were here. I know the look of someone who wants to hide.”

Sidney’s eyes jump back up to her at her words and he can tell that she was willfully ignoring his puzzling gaze.

“You don’t look like someone who hides anything,” Sidney says, the words falling from his mouth before he can think them through and he feels himself blush again as she laughs.

“Is that your go-to line? If so, it needs some work.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that… I mean, you – “Sidney stumbles over his words and she giggles again at his attempts to rectify his words.

“You know,” she says, gently interrupting him, “I expected you to be more articulate, y’know, being an NHL captain and all. But then again,” she continues as she notices his jaw clench at her words, “you’re here. So maybe there’s more to you than what everyone thinks.”

Sidney’s mouth drops open, shocked at how easily she was able to read him. How she managed to see him, truly see him. He watches as she turns back towards him and suppresses the shudder that wants to run through him as her knees knock against his underneath the table.

“So, tell me superstar,” she says, the teasing lilt in her voice clear, “why are you here?”

“You’re really beautiful,” Sidney says, the words once again being spoken before he thinks them over and her laughter falls over him in a gentle wave. He feels heat threatening to rise to his cheeks once more but he also feels his lips pull into a smile, a gentle chuckle rumbling through him as well.

“That was a much better pick-up line than before. Glad to see improvement.”

“And who says I was trying to pick you up?” Sidney replies and her eyebrows shoot up as she glances at him. He shoots a gentle smile back and it takes a moment before she realizes he is teasing her as much as she was him. She smirks back at him, slightly shrugging her shoulders.

“Fair enough.”

Sidney watches as she lifts her glass to her lips, eyes dancing away from him. As her gaze falls from him, Sidney is struck with the thought that he would do anything to get her eyes on him again. And as if she can hear his thoughts, she looks back to him. 

“Let’s make a deal then,” she says, a bright glint in her eyes. “No more assumptions. At least, for the rest of the night. Deal?” She reaches out to him and he can’t help but look at the offered hand, decked out in rings and chipped nail polish.

“Deal,” he says and he reaches out his own hand to gently clasp hers, the callouses on his palms and fingers built up after years and years, sliding against her smooth skin. He shakes her hand before pulling away. What he didn’t expect was the feeling of disappointment that ran through him when his hand fell from hers.

“Well, now that we got that out of the way,” she starts, breaking the silence that lay heavily between the two, “you still didn’t answer my original question. What are you doing here, superstar?”

“I’m not sure,” Sidney answers, shrugging his shoulders.

“Bullshit.”

“I thought we agreed no assumptions?” he shoots back and she can’t stop the smile that appears.

“I don’t think that’s an assumption. There must be some reason, something that brought you here. I mean, this isn’t really a place for anyone, let alone someone like you.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Not happening, superstar. I’m not showing you mine until you show me yours.”

“Well, that seems a little like extortion,” Sidney replies, laughing at her smirk and the way she rolls her eyes at him.

“That would be coercion, not extortion. I would have to demand money from you for it to be extortion. So, unless you’re willing to pay money to learn my life story, then you’ll just have to keep wondering.”

“Oh, so now you are extorting me.” She laughs, gently shaking her head and Sidney watches and wishes there was a way he could hear that laughter forever.

“I suppose I am,” she sighs, twiddling the rings on your fingers. The silence falls as she takes another sip of her drink before she speaks again. “I’m here because I used to know the owner.”

“Used to know?”

“Yeah. Used to. He’s not around anymore. Left me with only this bar to remember him by,” she explains. Her explanation was vague enough to not reveal the entire story was but the way her voice quieted, the way that her eyes went unfocused, makes Sidney realize that was all there was to say. She sighs, blinking a couple of times before focusing back onto him.

“Alright superstar. There’s my reason. Why are you here?”

“I wanted to be in a place where no one would recognize me,” he says and he slightly chuckles when he sees the smile appear on her face. “I guess I didn’t do very well.”

“No, you really didn’t. But I suppose there isn’t a lot of places where the great Sidney Crosby can hide.”

“You have no idea,” he sighs, tearing his eyes away. It is a moment before he looks back at her and he is shocked to see a glimmer of understanding sadness in her expression.

Suppose they both were trying and failing to get away from the things that haunted them. And so, they sit, simply existing in this place where neither of them should be.

“Well,” she speaks, breaking the silence once more, “I suppose I’m not really helping you disappear. Guess I’ll see you around superstar.”

She kicks her legs out from underneath the table, scooting across the cracked leather, hand wrapped around the glass as she starts to leave. But before she can lift herself up from the booth, Sidney reaches out to her, his strong calloused hand wrapping around her wrist.

“Um,” is the first syllable out of Sidney’s mouth and his cheeks heat again as he sees the smile that pulls at her lips. “You don’t have to leave. I mean, it’s kind of nice talking to you. And besides,” he says, a crooked smirk appearing, “you haven’t successfully extorted me yet.”

“It’s not really extortion if you agree to it, you know.”

“Then just call it a date,” Sidney replies and he can see that she is slightly taken aback at his casual words.

“What exactly are you offering me, superstar? Are you gonna pick me up in a nice tux and take me to a fancy romantic restaurant, with roses and wine and then drive me home and leave me with a polite kiss on the cheek?”

“I thought we agreed no assumptions?” he says but he knows that she can see the light pink tinge on his cheeks and can easily guess that that was exactly what he was thinking.

“It wasn’t an assumption. It was a… prediction,” she shoots back, settling back down in the booth, fingers dancing over the glass of her Old Fashioned. “But hey, if I’m wrong, tell me now.”

Sidney sits there in silence, his hand wrapping around his bottle as he takes another swig of beer. He couldn’t respond to her challenge because it was true. And he hated that she could see right through him so easily. Or maybe he loved that within a few short moments of meeting him, she managed to laugh her way to the truth of him, break through all the people that he pretended to be.

He wasn’t quite sure which feeling was real. All he knew for certain is that he wanted more.

“Well,” he clears his throat, his eyes jumping back to hers. “What were you thinking of?”

Her fingers continue to circle the rim of her glass, her head tilting and gaze drifting away from him as she thinks. Then her eyes reattach to his and – with what Sidney could only describe as one of the most wicked smiles that he had seen – she plucks the cherry garnish from her drink. Sidney can’t take his eyes off of her as she drops the entire fruit into her mouth. He watches as she sits there for a moment, the red juice lingering on her lips and he would give anything to kiss the sour-sweet off. Her lips part and she plucks the cherry stem from in between her teeth, tossing it over the table. Sidney glances down and notices the perfect knot in the center. His eyes jump back up to her, that fucking grin still on her face.

“What do you say we just get out of here?”

­­­The soft morning sunlight filters through the windows, dancing across Sidney’s face. And when his eyelids finally fluttered open, the first sight he was met with was a cluttered nightstand. His gaze dances over the candles, plants, and rings that littered the wood – the opposite of the clean and sleek table that sits beside his own bed. But then again, he wasn’t in his bed.

Sidney glances down and sees Jade curled up in his arms, her back against his chest, breaths falling softly. She had whispered her name to him last night, on the way to her apartment where he currently resided.

Last night was… he didn’t think he could describe it.

When she made her bold offer, there was a part of Sidney that wasn’t sure if he should agree. But there was something about her, something so unfathomable that Sidney couldn’t stop the pull of her gravity. And in that moment, he silenced the critical voice in his head and said yes.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. He was supposed to chalk it up as a little too much to drink, a lapse in judgement. But then she kissed him.

And Sidney realized that he never wanted to kiss any other lips but hers again.

Last night, he felt alive. Jade had kissed him without pretense, without presumption. Her lips danced across his skin, counting every scar, leaving no inch untouched. She breathed life into the hollows of his neck, the ridges of his ribs and he was caught in the thrill of someone who willingly brought him to his knees. She surprised him, challenged him. He hadn’t felt that way in a long time.

But then again, he never met someone like her before.

A heavy sigh sounds from her and Sidney is startled out of his daydream, back to the present moment. Jade nestles deeper into the rumpled sheets, another sigh escaping her. Sidney’s arms impulsively tighten around her frame, pulling her closer, loving the way her skin felt against his. What he wouldn’t give to stay in this bed, forgetting about the world waiting for him outside.

But one glance at the alarm clock perched on the nightstand told him that he couldn’t.

The great Sidney Crosby had things to do.

With a defeated breath, Sidney presses a small kiss into her ruffled hair before carefully untangling himself from her grasp. He crawls out of the bed, picking up his clothes scattered on the floor where they fell the night before. As he gets redressed, Sidney lets his eyes jump around the room, as he tried to discern Jade’s story from the pictures on the walls, the books on the shelves, the knick-knacks decorating every free space. He wasn’t prying; that would be considered rude. But he wanted to know more about the woman that he shared a bed with. Wanted to see if he could understand the power she held over him.

He's leaning in close to a picture hung on the wall at the foot of the bed, his hand clasped behind him when he hears a small laugh echo around the room. He quickly spins around, a blush instantly rising to his cheeks. His eyes land on Jade, propped up on her elbows, the sheets clinging to her body.

“Are you spying on me superstar?” she asks and Sidney is relieved to hear the teasing lilt in the question. He can’t help but respond with a small smile of his own.

“Wasn’t my intention,” he replies, walking back towards her.

“Oh really? And what exactly was your intention?” she laughs as Sidney settles himself on the edge of the bed, the mattress slightly sinking underneath his weight.

“Just trying to figure out a mystery.”

“What mystery is that?”

“You,” he says softly, his gentle eyes dancing over her face, smiling as he watches her own smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Jade lifts herself off the mattress, sitting up completely and leaning in closer to him. Her chin comes to find a perch on his shoulder and she leans her cheek against him, breathing in the lingering cologne from his t-shirt. Sidney lets her rest there for a moment, choosing not to move away and instead watch as the rising sun paints the apartment golden.

“Keep wondering,” she whispers into the morning air. She turns her head to look up at him, a smirk painted onto her face as his eyes connect to hers. The sunlight catches her irises, setting the green alight. He watches as her gaze jumps from his eyes to his lips and back again but he doesn’t call her out on it because he knows his eyes are doing the exact same thing.

Sidney is the one to break first, leaning in to capture her lips in a gentle kiss. He can hear her breath catch in her throat and part of him hopes she can understand the emotion behind his actions. How he is worshipping her without words. Her hands find their way up into his hair, fingers tangling into the peppered grey at his temples. Jade falls back down against the sheets, dragging Sidney down with her. He groans into the kiss, his arms caging her to the bed. But she didn’t seem to mind.

He breaks apart, leaving her to chase after his lips as his body retreats. A small chuckle rumbles from Sidney’s chest and Jade playfully glares up at him.

“I have to go,” he says, breaking the silence, a part of him aching as he watches her expression falter. He steels himself as he rises off the bed, moving towards the door, his hand wrapping around the door handle. But before he turns it, he looks back towards Jade, feeling her eyes still attached his frame.  

“Am I going to see you again?”

“Only if you want to,” she teases and Sidney can’t stop the crooked smile from appearing on his face, eyes ducking down at her gentle prodding.

“I do,” he says, biting his lip and glancing back up at you. “Could I get your number? Or do you want mine?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jade laughs, Sidney’s expression shifting to one of confusion. She smiles back at him before continuing. “I’m sure it’ll be easy to find you in this city.”

Sidney laughs, happily falling back into the verbal tennis match that made him so drawn to her. He turns back towards the door, opening it gently and stepping over the threshold.

“Well then, I guess I’ll see you around,” he says, not hiding the hopeful rise in his voice.

“Catch you later, superstar.”

Days passed and Sidney still hadn’t heard from Jade. Or even seen her.

Every time he walked down the Pittsburgh streets, he hoped that he’d run into her; maybe coming out of the bustling farmers market or even on the street outside of PPG Arena. He had even entertained the thought of going back to the bar where they met in the hopes that she’d be there. But he never did.

She said that she would find him but every day that went by without a trace of her, Sidney’s hopes dimmed. And as time ticked by, an insidious thought entered Sidney’s mind; maybe she did this on purpose.

Maybe this was the way she operated, part of how she moved through life. Blew in out of nowhere, entered his world and turned it upside down, and then disappeared as quickly as she came.

Sidney didn’t want to believe it. He didn’t want to believe that he would never see her again. There was something about her; he felt it from the moment she walked into that bar. Something that he wanted to continue to explore. Jade was fascinating and wild and free. She made Sidney feel young again, even in that one night. And that wasn’t something he had felt in a very long time.

Sidney has had eyes on him since he was a child. He was taught how to behave, how to act, how to be that good guy, on the ice but especially off the ice because his image was so closely tied with his success. People can hate you as much as they want for how you play, but if their only complaint is your skills and not your character, there is nothing they can take away from you.

It wasn’t that he hated it. He was thankful for everything that hockey brought him; family, friendship, and more prosperity than he knew what to do with. But part of him never felt like he got to be a kid.

He knew he could never go back and re-live that part of his life. But Jade… she made him feel youthful. And God, what he wouldn’t give to feel like that again.

These were the thoughts that were rattling around in his head as he walks down the Pittsburgh streets, the sun warming his back. He wasn’t sure of his destination or if he even had a destination. All he knew was that he needed the space, needed to take a moment to breathe. He keeps his head down, eyes focused on the concrete sidewalk, letting the cars speed past him. He doesn’t take note of anything around him which means he doesn’t notice the car that pulls up behind him.

“Hey there, stranger!” a voice calls out to him. He turns and there she is – Jade, sitting behind the wheel of a beautiful vintage convertible.

Her sunglasses are perched on the end of her nose, those green eyes playfully looking over the edge at him and he can’t help the smile that appears on his lips at the sight of her.

“Hey,” he says casually, turning towards her and walking over. He reaches the passenger door and leans against the side. “I thought you disappeared.”

“Oh, so you’ve been thinking about me?”

“Only every day,” Sidney coolly replies and she laughs at his words. And the way her laughter rings through the late noon has Sidney’s heart ringing with it.

“You know, your pick-up lines are improving every time we talk.”

“You’re a good influence on me, I suppose.”

“Ugh, there you go again Sidney Crosby,” she says, dramatically throwing her hand on her chest. “You know the way right to a girl’s heart!”

A warm chuckle rumbles through Sidney, his head slightly shaking at her antics. Her smile never leaves her face and he returns the grin as she takes him in; his warm skin, the bright sun lighting up his hair, his body calm and relaxed against her car.

“So,” Sidney starts, “what have you been up to?”

“Not much. Just looking for you,” Jade replies, shooting him that dazzling smile before kicking off the parking brake, shifting the car to drive. “Hop in.”

Sidney takes a step back, a little shocked by her sudden request. She shoots a glance back towards him and he knows that she has seen the shift in his demeanor. The smooth and relaxed guy that was there a second ago had disappeared. In his place was the closed-off Sidney Crosby that people were used to.

“Um” Sidney hesitates, his uncertainty the only thing he could speak.

“Come on, you know I’m not some crazy stalker,” she laughs. Her words don’t work as Sidney stays in his place. Jade sighs, shifting the car and placing the parking brake back on.

“What’s up?”

“I’m just not sure this is the best idea.”

“Was it a good idea for you to get drunk in a downtown bar a week ago?” she shoots back at him. Sidney knows she has him with those words because it wasn’t. But that’s exactly where she found him.

“C’mon superstar,” Jade says, her voice softening but still holding that teasing energy that drew him to her in the first place. “Don’t think about what anyone else would think. Do what your heart tells you to do. And if that’s walking away right now, then I’ll respect that. But I have a feeling that’s not the case.”

Sidney looks back at her, leaning back in the driver’s seat, that smile on her lips. How she was able to see through him so easily, after spending a single night with him, he’ll never know. But he knew for certain that he didn’t want to lose it. He didn’t want to how he felt when he was with her.

And before he could talk himself out of it, before he could let those voices in his head decide for him, he was tugging on the door handle and sliding himself onto the warm leather of the passenger’s seat.

Jade’s only reply to his actions is a bright smirk shot in his direction before she once again shifts the car to drive and pulls away from the curb and onto the Pittsburgh streets.

Sidney looks out, watching as the buildings and other cars pass by. Sometimes, when stopped at a traffic light, he thinks he notices people on the sidewalks or in the neighboring cars do a double take in his direction. He instinctively ducks or turns his head away, never wanting to draw attention to himself. But it doesn’t fully work.

A car speeds pass, horn honking and Jade and Sidney look up as a few boys lean out of the window.

“Hell yeah Sidney!!!” their shouts echo as they drive away and Sidney gives them a polite wave. Jade’s head turns towards him and an involuntary giggle falling from her lips at his chagrined expression.

“That’s got to be annoying,” she says, turning her attention back towards the road.

“I don’t mind it,” Sidney replies, his somewhat practiced words falling from his lips.

“Bullshit.”

Sidney’s eyes jump to Jade, her serious yet relaxed face turned towards the road. She releases a sigh as she senses his eyes on her. Without looking at him, she continues.

“C’mon superstar. Part of you must want to live your life without all the eyes of Pittsburgh on you.”

Sidney doesn’t reply, instead choosing to turn his head back to look at the passing scenery. He didn’t want to admit it but she was right. There were moments in his life that he wondered what it would be like if he was not Pittsburgh Penguin Captain #87, the great Sidney Crosby, one of the best NHL players and he was simply… Sidney.

There she was, once again reading him like the well-worn pages of old book.

The silence weighs heavily, a stark contrast to the spring breeze that rustled through the air. Jade shoots a quick glance in Sidney’s direction and find him still turned away.

“Look, I’m sorry. That was presumptuous on my part,” she says, eyes returning to the road stretched out ahead. Sidney’s face turns back to look at her, watches as her hands tighten around the steering wheel, reading the anxiety that coiled in her body.

“I thought we agreed no assumptions?” he jokes, echoing the words from the first night they met. Jade laughs, the noise immediately lifting the fog from between them.

“Yes. Yes, we did.”

She continues to turn down the busy streets and Sidney lets himself relax back into the present moment. He watches as Jade glances up at the traffic signs before a smirk appears on her face. It stays on her lips as she turns to connect her eyes with Sidney.

“Do you want to get out of this town?”

Even though her eyes are obscured by her tinted sunglasses, Sidney knows that bright mischievous energy is sure to be sparkling in those green eyes, the look that pulled him to her that very first night. Without thinking, he nods in agreement. Her grin widens as she turns onto the highway that leads out of the heart of Pittsburgh.

They zip down the interstate, the wind ruffling Jade’s hair as they drive further out of the city. She glances back at Sidney and smiles as she sees him relaxed against the passenger seat, his energy seemingly calmer, his chest rising and falling, breathing in the fresh air, the smile never leaving his face.

Eventually, Sidney turns his eyes back to Jade and watches her in the same way.

Part of him felt like he was running away; running from his problems and his worries. However, he knew that if he ever did decide to run away from his troubles, that also meant running away from the things that meant the most; friends, his career, his success. But right now, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Because deep down he knew he would run from anything if it meant running with her.

He watches as Jade reaches down to turn on the radio, scanning until she lands on a station playing some old classic rock and leans back, letting the music dance through the light breeze. Her lips start to move, quietly mouthing along to the lyrics as the world races by. Over the noise of the breeze, traffic, and music, it takes her a minute to register a different voice accompanying the radio. Jade peeks over to see Sidney singing along to the music, his hands tapping a rhythm onto the passenger side door. With a smile, she reaches again and turns the music up, looking back at Sidney with a grin.

“Oh, the movie never ends, it goes on and on and on and on,” she joins in, the grin never leaving her as her eyes goad Sidney on. Sidney reads her challenge and continues singing, his volume increasing.

“Strangers waitin’ up and down the boulevard their shadows searchin’ in the night.”

“Streetlights, people. Livin’ just to find emotion.”

“Hidin’ somewhere in the night!” Sidney leans his head back, hitting that high note, causing another bought of laughter to fall from Jade’s lips. He looks back to her, the smile dancing across his lips as he watches; her head throw back, her child-like laughter cascading through the air. And that feeling hit him again; that feeling of youth and freedom.

Sidney didn’t have to pretend to be anyone with her. He could simply be.

They continue down the road, singing and laughing as the world passes by. After what seems like hours, Jade turns off the highway, taking an exit that Sidney didn’t recognize.

“Where are we going?” he questions, looking back as the crowded turnpike disappears behind him.

“No place special.”

Sidney doesn’t feel like prying so he remains silent and lets Jade move along the small desolate roads. Throughout the drive, he constantly looks back at her, watching as she confidently turns down side streets, as if she had followed this path a hundred times. Another part of the mystery of her.

Jade drives onto a dirt road, passing a worn wooden sign that Sidney can barely read and follows the path up a small hill until she parks at the edge of a lookout. He watches as she hops out and walks to the front of the car, leaning against the hood. It takes a few seconds until Sidney is following, finding his place in the empty space next to her. He looks out onto the scenery and it taken aback.

Jade had brought him to a lake, the trees crowding the edges, the water gently sloshing against the shore. The sun shined down on the scene, making the water below sparkle. His eyes couldn’t stay still as he took in everything around him: the sugar-spun clouds, the towering oak trees, the groups of dandelions that line the edge of the hill. He stays silent as he sits next to Jade, letting the only noise be the rustling of the leaves around him and the quiet birdsong.

A few moments pass before Sidney looks back at her and feels his heart leap. She is staring out over the scenery, the wind ruffling the edges of her shirt, the pale blue sky reflected in her eyes. There is nothing special about how she looked and he loved that. She wasn’t performing for him or for anyone. She simply existed.

Sidney watches as she lifts herself up off the car and wanders to the edge of the lookout, the sunlight tracing her frame. Crouching down, she plucks some of the dandelions from the grass, lifting them up and letting the bright yellow flowers wiggle in her grasp.

“Do you like dandelions?” she asks, her eyes never departing from the task at hand.

“I never thought about it,” Sidney answers truthfully.

“I think they’re lovely,” she softly says, her fingertips tracing the golden petals.

“But they’re just weeds, right?”

A breathy laugh falls from her lips as she straightens herself up, the flowers still held in her grasp. She wanders over to Sidney, slotting herself between his parted thighs. Sidney can feel his breath catch in his throat as she leans towards him, pulling a dandelion from the small bouquet.

“And who says weeds aren’t lovely?” she whispers to him, gently placing the flower behind his ear and he can’t suppress the shiver that runs through him at the feeling of the petals against his skin and her fingers tracing down the back of his neck.

“So beautiful and so stubbornly alive.”

Her gentle words are enough for Sidney to lean in, capturing her lips in a tender kiss. She sighs against his lips, her arms absentmindedly wrapping around his shoulders as his hands find their place on her hips, pulling her closer. The kiss deepens as Sidney is pulls her down, her body draped over him as his back rests against the warm metal of the hood. Jade finally breaks away, departing breathless above Sidney. Sidney looks up at her, his hazel eyes warm as he lifts his hand, coming to cradle her cheek, his thumb gently tracing over the smooth skin.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” he murmurs.

Jade pauses and Sidney swears the world stops as his confession lingers in the late May air. Sidney keeps his breathing strong and steady underneath Jade as he waits for her response. The glimmering hope in his eyes falter as a laugh from her lips instead of the words he hopes to hear.

“So rational, Sidney. Falling for a woman you just met,” she says, voice light and dismissive. Sidney’s eyebrows furrow at the shift in her energy, watching as she lifts herself up, pushing her body away from him and off the car. She returns to her spot next to him on the edge of the hood, eyes returning to overlook the scenery in front of her.

“You barely know me.”

Sidney knows that she can feel his eyes on her but she doesn’t turn around. He reaches his arm out towards her and can feel the shiver that runs through her as his fingers graze over her hips.

“I want to.”

Those gentle words are what causes her to finally turn back to him, her eyes connecting to his. The look on his face is so truthful, so earnest. A small smile appears on her lips and Sidney lets out a breath of relief that he didn’t know he was holding.

“Is that your best pick-up line?” she quips.

“As long as it works,” Sidney teases back, wanting to keep the light-hearted energy between the two of them flowing. She laughs that brilliant beautiful laugh that captured him that first night and lifts herself up off the car. She extends a hand out to him which he gladly takes, lifting himself up before moving closer to her, his arms wrapping around her waist once more.

This time it is Jade who makes the first move, lifting herself up to connect her lips to his. They stand there, entangled in each other’s arms, the sunlight warming their bodies. And Sidney feels instantly lighter when she finally breaks away.

“Come on, superstar,” she says, peeling away from him. “Let’s get you home.”

She hops back in the car, Sidney following close behind, before retracing the path back to the bright lights of the now dark Pittsburgh streets. And when Jade pulls her car up outside Sidney’s house in his affluent neighborhood, it takes everything in him not to invite her inside.

But Sidney still has a smile on his face as he opens the front door and turns to watch her car disappear around the corner. Because in his pocket is a dandelion along with an old receipt, with her phone number hastily scrawled on the back.

The months that Sidney shares with Jade pass in a blur. It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t rushed. It was just how it felt; a swift stumble into a romance that felt as soft as summer and as gentle as the setting sun. It felt like something out of a movie: a romance filled with honey and lemons – bright and sweet and wild.

Sidney was in constant awe of Jade; how she moved through the world, how fearless and unapologetic she was. He had never met anyone like her.

He had been everywhere, all over the country, all over the world. He had played in front of thousands of people, each one of them cheering his name. And he would trade it all, every experience, if he could be promised that he’d never have to live without hearing her soft voice whispering secrets in the golden-filled hours under white covers, eyelids heavy and the scent of magnolias drifting through the open windows.

There were moments when Sidney didn’t think she was real. That she was an apparition that he conjured up from one of his wildest dreams. But she was real and every moment he spent with her, he became more certain that she was made for him.

These were the thoughts where dancing through his head as he watches her move throughout his living room, her body lightly dancing to the tune she was humming underneath her breath. He sits on the couch, just watching her, his t-shirt hanging from her frame, the early afternoon sun dancing on her skin. She turns, a smile on her lips that Sidney shares. That bright laugh falls from Jade as she waltzes over him, her body coming to a stop between his outstretched thighs. Her hand reaches out, gently running through his hair, following a path down to his cheek, her touch bouncing between every freckle. She giggles as his lips kisses her fingertips each time they get too close to his lips.

Jade turns away from him and starts to exit the living room. But she stops in her tracks at the sound of Sidney’s voice.

“I love you.”

The world seems to stop when those words fall from his lips. He said it before, that day in May overlooking the lake. But it was a question back then, a hesitation. “I think I’m falling in love with you,” he said that day. And that one word, that uncertainty, held him back from the truth he knew. But now…

Jade turns around to see Sidney sitting there on the couch and when her eyes dance over his face, Sidney knows that she can see the honesty painted there. He was sure of his words and wanted her to believe him when he said it. He was in love with her; that much was certain. So, there he sat, still looking at her, silently praying that she would say the words in return.

Instead, it is a laugh that echoes around the room.

“That’s sweet superstar. Do you tell that to every wide-eyed girl you know?” she quips. Sidney’s eyebrows furrow as the confused replaces the certainty that used to be on his face.

“What are you saying?” he asked, his bewildered tone clear.

“What are you saying, Sidney? You love me?”

“Yes,” he replies without hesitation. “Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“What do you mean ‘I don’t’?” Sidney questions as he lifts himself off the couch cushions, taking a small step towards her. He hears the light-hearted sigh she lets out as she turns away before his voice stops her again.

“Please, look at me.”

Jade turns back towards him, looking him in the eye.

“You don’t love me, Sidney. You don’t.”

“What does that mean?”

She scoffs, and the lack of explanation frustrates him, causing him to continue.

“No, tell me why you don’t think I love you. What have we been doing for the past few months? Just having fun?”

“Yes,” she snaps, “yes, Sidney that is exactly what we’ve been doing. That’s what this is; you looking for a distraction and me being the one to give you that.”

“Is that how you see us? Is that how you see me? That I’m just using you for… my own gain? How could you think that?”

“Because that’s what you’re doing Sidney,” she says with a venom in her voice that Sidney was entirely unaware existed. “Maybe you don’t realize it but that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying. I don’t understand why you would think that. When I met you that night in that bar, there was something. Something pulled me to you, I don’t know what it was, but there was something, you can’t deny that. And you found me. I don’t care if that sounds stupid or cliché but you found me at the right time and… and you saved me. I was drowning and you saved me.”

She scoffs again at his words and Sidney still can’t understand her reaction.

“You did,” he continues, his voice raising, taking on a pleading edge that he should’ve been ashamed of but he didn’t care. He wanted Jade to talk to him. “I felt like shit, I was angry and spiteful and tired. God, I was so fucking tired. And then you came along and you changed that. With everything you do; the way you laugh, your smile, your attitude. It was refreshing and freeing. You made me feel young and in love and I never felt like that before. And I do love you because of it.”

“My God, Sidney,” she yells, the damn finally breaking. “Do you even hear yourself? This – that – that’s exactly what I’m talking about.” She starts to pace around the room, the frustrated energy radiating off her in waves. “I’m not here to complete you or make you feel young or save you. That’s not my fucking job.”

As soon as those words escape her, Sidney realizes how he fucked up. He starts to open his mouth in an attempt to back-track, to tell her that he didn’t mean it that way. But before he can utter a single syllable, Jade cuts him off again.

“And that’s what I mean when I say that you are using me. I’m this girl who showed up at the right time and everything about me is fun and unique and wild and carefree. That’s who you want me to be, so I can fit into that pretty little narrative you created in your head.  You don’t love me, Sidney. You love that woman, that idealized version that you made. But I’m not her. I’m not that girl.”

She sighs, energy spent as she collapse onto the armchair in the corner, eyes downcast.

“You look at me Sidney. But you don’t see me.”

Sidney shifts in place before moving over towards her. However, even though she could clearly hear his approach, Jade doesn’t lift her head as he kneels down, his warm palms coming to rest on her thighs.

“I do see you. I promise I do. There’s so many things about you that I love and –”

“Name one,” she says, those piercing green eyes locking with his. Sidney flinches when he sees the distance shining within her irises. “Name one thing you love about me that doesn’t benefit you.”

Her challenge hangs heavy in the air as Sidney open his mouth, leaving it gaping for a moment before closing it once more. And he can’t stop the small wince that pangs through him at the humorless laugh falls from her lips.

“That’s what I thought,” she sighs. “I’ve been there before. I’ve been with people like that before. I know you think you love me but you don’t. As soon as I show any vulnerability, anything that you can’t slap a pretty little filter over, anything that doesn’t fit into your daydream, you’ll wake up… and then you’ll leave. You’re going to tell me that you won’t, that you’re not like all the rest but…”

Her words trail off and Sidney wants to know why. He wants to know what he could say to her to prove that he was different. That he did love her, that he did want to be with her. That he would stay forever by her side. 

He wanted to know why her heart was battered, beaten. How it had become like a scared animal backed into a corner, timid and mistrustful.

“I promised myself that I would never go through that again. I can’t,” she finishes, pushing his hands off of her as she lifts herself off the armchair. Sidney watches as she grabs her keys, walking to his front door, placing her hand on the handle, ready to walk out of Sidney’s life. But before she does, she looks back towards him, still kneeling on the ground, his hazel eyes locked on her frame.

“I’m sorry,” she says and Sidney isn’t quite sure what she is apologizing for. But those words feel as definitive as a goodbye. And those are the words she leaves him with as she walks out of his house.

Sidney stays there, watching as the door closes, the resounding click of the latch falling into place echoing through his home and only one thought similarly reverberating through his mind:

Where did he go wrong?

He thought she felt the same. No, he was certain that she felt the same way about him. Sidney was and could be many things but reckless with his emotions was never one of them. His head spun with the moments that he had shared with her throughout the months.

At first, he couldn’t think of any instance that he could confidently say that was the sign, the indication that she didn’t feel the same. But as he continued to think, as he pushed away that love-struck haze that covered those memories, he realized that there had been some moments; moments where she pulled away from him. She hid it well, with her laughter and jokes concealing a deeper meaning, a hurt that he never bothered to investigate more of.

Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he got too caught up in how she made him feel that he didn’t put in the effort to uncover who she really was.

But the more he thought about it, he realizes that he didn’t just sweep those moments under the rug, didn’t ignore them. He pushed as much as he thought he could, never wanting to overstep the boundaries that she had set. Sometimes he felt as if he got close but every time he felt that way, a wall he didn’t even notice separated him from her. It wasn’t easy. But Sidney knew that he would wait forever for Jade to tell him those stories that she kept under lock and key.

Yes, there were moments where things weren’t perfect, where he made mistakes, where communication fell flat. But part of him knew that those beautiful moments he shared with her, where he did truly see her, were enough to chase after her. Because there was no way that the past few months weren’t real.

The speed that Sidney grabs his coat and car keys is hectic to say the least but he knows that he can’t waste anymore seconds. There is a very real possibility that Jade would be lost to him forever, gone as fast as a midnight cigarette. He jumps into his car, making his way down the winding Pittsburgh streets to her apartment building. He is ready to scramble out and hit the buzzer of her apartment until she responds. That is, until he takes a quick look around the small parking lot and doesn’t see Jade’s vintage convertible anywhere.

A frustrated sigh escapes his chest as he takes out his phone, dialing Jade’s number but only getting her voicemail. His body slumps against the driver’s seat, a wave of defeat washing over him, a feeling that he didn’t want to accept. He closes his eyes as his brain desperately flips through his memories, trying to find something that could tell him where she might be.

Suddenly, a crystal-clear image pops into his mind; sunglasses perched on her nose, the wind whipping around her convertible, that wicked smile dancing on her lips, her voice light;

“Do you want to get out of this town?”

His eyes fly open as he kicks his car into reverse, driving back onto the streets. After a few minutes, Sidney is on the highway leaving downtown and bringing him closer to rural Pennsylvania and hopefully, closer to her.

Part of him worries that he’ll make a wrong turn somewhere, delaying him and potentially costing him his last opportunity to reach Jade. He didn’t have the exact map in his mind. She had only brought him there once, that day in May and he hadn’t taken the time to memorize the specific route. All he had to go on was the bare bones of his memory and the landscape and signs around him.

But it seemed the universe was on his side; the setting sun is guiding his path. He recognizes enough small landmarks, telling him that he was headed the right way and it wasn’t long until he found himself pulling up to that old wooden sign.

He turns onto the dirt road, following the path up that small hill, that outlook where Jade took him those months ago. There is a whisper of fear within him, scared that he would make it to the top and it would be empty. That she would be gone completely from his life and he would never be able to find her again. But then he turns that final corner.

And there her vintage convertible sits, parked on the top of the hill.

And there she sits, leaning against the hood, looking out at the sunset.

Sidney parks his car behind hers, letting the engine die and plunging the lakeside back into the almost silence of nature; the wind in the trees being the only sound.

Hopping out of the car, Sidney moves towards Jade, partially expecting her to turn back or acknowledge him in any way. She must have heard him, must have heard the car door and his feet crunching the gravel beneath him. But she doesn’t react; her eyes stay locked on the horizon. Even when Sidney reaches her, leaning the hood next to her. The silence hangs heavy until Sidney finally speaks.

“You hate the ends of garlic bread,” he says, his voice soft. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Jade’s head whip towards him, his words clearly not the ones that she was expecting. He doesn’t look in her direction though, instead choosing to stare into the same sunset that she was moments ago.

“You hum any song when you’re cooking or doing chores,” he continues, his voice sure and steady. “You will use anything as a bookmark. You always catch the spiders your apartment and release them instead of killing them. You put cinnamon sticks in your coffee. You always point out cows when you drive. You move around in your apartment just to make sure you’re always sitting in sunlight. You love gardening and want to have a yard so you can grow flowers and fruits and vegetables and herbs.”  

He continues to list these things about her. And it’s not just the beautiful things; it’s the ugly, scared, vulnerable things he’s noticed too. He’s describing these moments, these little things that he doesn’t even know the meaning behind. But he notices them nevertheless. And finally, finally, he turns to look into Jade’s eyes. And he notices the way her breath catches when she sees the look of pure love shining in his.

“You were right. I did love the idea of you. I loved the way you made me feel. And I should’ve known – I should’ve known not to do that. Because that’s all everyone has ever done with me.”

He lets his confession hang in the air, letting his words sink in for a moment before he speaks again.

“Almost all my life, people had their ideas about who I should be. And I got so used to it, that I started believing that’s who I was. I made these masks that I could wear and change in order to always be the exact person that people expected. Then you came along. You didn’t expect me to be anyone but myself. You saw through all those feeble facades that I wore and you loved me for exactly who I was. And,” he pauses, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, as if to gather himself one final time, “I don’t want to go back to pretending for whoever comes next. Because I don’t want there to be anyone else. I only want you. The beautiful part and the ugly parts. Because that’s who I love. You.”

Sidney finishes his speech and lets the silence fall, lets his words drift away into the late summer breeze. His eyes stay locked onto hers, looking into those beautiful green eyes, watching the changing emotions flicker behind them as she takes in his confession. She finally breaks the connection, turning to look back at the sunset.

“I can’t be the one to make sure you stay that way, Sidney,” she says, reiterating that fear that kept him at arms-length throughout those months that they shared.

“You were never the one that made me become myself. You gave me permission to make that choice in a moment when I thought I didn’t have that option anymore.”

It’s another moment of stillness, another moment of simply existing in the same space. Until Jade finally moves, her hand reaching over the hood of the car towards Sidney. There is a second of hesitancy where her hand rests in the empty in the space between them.

Until finally, Sidney extends his own hand. And when his hand meets hers, fingers intertwining, the sigh falling from her lips, he knows that she can feel the warmth of his love. And along with it, the certainty that she was safe to fall.

Because he would always be there to catch her.

Three Years Later

The click of the lock is a welcome sound, Sidney pushing the front door open to his new home. Or more accurately, their new home. The one he and Jade chose a year ago, shortly after their wedding. A place that would be uniquely theirs, a place where they could set down roots and build a home and a life after his retirement from hockey.

Sidney had announced his retirement at the beginning of this season, stating that it would be his last. There was a large amount of fanfare and an expectedly large amount of media attention throughout the regular season. When the Penguins hadn’t made it to the playoffs, he was upset. The narrative of his club winning one last Stanley Cup for him was a compelling one. But he didn’t let the loss sting him too much. He had three already, along with so many other awards and achievements and memories. Those were the things that he could hold onto.

He was confident that he would be able to let the game of hockey go. Because he had Jade.

Sidney walks deeper into the house, calling her name, his voice echoing off the walls. A silence greets him until he finally makes his way into the kitchen. And sees the open screen door leading to the backyard, the mellow sounds of R&B music floating into the house. After putting his things down on the kitchen island, he steps out onto the porch, his hazel eyes scanning over the yard.

The first thing Sidney notices is their dog Wilson laying in the middle of the yard, his chest rising and falling as he soaks in the April sunlight. Sidney’s eyes finally find Jade, sitting on her knees, crouched over one of the many flowerbeds he made for her. He watches as her hands pull out the creeping weeds, preparing for the coming spring. A few plastic pots of black irises sit next to her, their stalks gently swaying in the breeze as they patiently wait for her to nestle them in the dark soil.

Sidney makes his way across the yard, stopping to greet Wilson who is so content that he barely lifts his head in acknowledgement. He eventually reaches Jade, his body lowering to join her on the earth. The approach would’ve been silent, if it weren’t for the groan that rumbles from his chest as his knees protested.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he laughs, finally relaxing into kneeling position. Jade’s laugh dances on the breeze, her attention turning to him, the Pittsburgh Penguins baseball cap perched on her head, protecting her face from the sun.

“What’s the matter superstar? Retirement taking the wind from your sails?” she teases, sitting back on her heels as she wipes the dirt off her hands onto her worn out t-shirt. Sidney can’t help but smile when he notices the rings hanging from her necklace, the ones that he had chosen for her almost two years prior.

“I’ve only technically been retired for a week now,” he playfully shoots back, the false offense painting his words. Jade just laughs again, her attention still focused on him. “I suppose my body just needs to learn how to slow down.”

“Well, hopefully it’s not too broken down to pass me that bucket of fresh soil.”

Her teasing request is one that he gladly obliges, reaching for the green bucket sitting a few inches away from him. He pulls it close to his body, ready to pass it over to her when a flash of white catches his eyes. Sidney’s eyes refocus, staring into the bucket as his brain registers the item perched on top of the loose soil.

A pregnancy test.

He tentatively reaches it, grasping the test and lifting it out of the pail. He has to use his hand to block the sunlight to be able to fully read the screen. And his jaw drops when he finally makes out the word ‘pregnant’ staring back at him. Sidney’s eyes flash up to Jade whose gaze is still locked on his body, a soft smile on her face.

“Are you serious?” he asks, the disbelief clear in his tone.

Jade doesn’t give a verbal response, just a small nod as her smile grows wider. Sidney doesn’t hesitate to reach out to her, pulling her into a crushing hug. Her bright cheerful laugh rings out through the air as he holds her close, muttering words of joy and thanks to her and to the universe for bringing these blessings to his life. Sidney can’t stop pressing kisses into her sun-warmed skin as she continues to giggle before she grabs his face and draws him into a passionate kiss.

They finally break away from each other, smiles still splitting their faces and Sidney’s hands fall to rest on her still flat stomach.

“What should we name her?” he asks, his thumbs lifting Jade’s shirt to brush against her bare skin.

“Easy there, superstar. We don’t even know if it’s a girl yet.”

“Trust me, it’s a girl.”

“Oh, and why are you so certain about that? Did the sudden knowledge that you’re going to be a father give you some sort of parental superpower?”

“I just know it,” he replies, that crooked smile tugging at his lips. Jade just returns his smile, his quiet certainty making her softly chuckle.

“I’ve always liked the name Jacqueline. Jackie for short,” she says, the suggestion floating on the breeze.

“Then Jackie it is.”

The two of them stay there, staring at each other as the sunlight beats down on them. This was it for him. It was him and Jade and Wilson and their unborn child. A contented sigh falls from his lips; this was all he ever wanted in his life, all he had ever hoped for. And just like she always did, Jade seemed to know exactly what he was feeling, that beautiful soft smile painting her features.

It isn’t clear who moved first, but at the same time it didn’t matter. Because when Sidney’s lips met Jade’s, he felt the certainty of their love thrumming through him. They break apart, his forehead resting against Jade’s, their breaths mingling in the warm summer light.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

a/n: This fic was originally written as a reader insert for the Winter Fic Exchange two years ago. But I thought the story would work as an OC fic. The original is still on my blog so you can pick your own adventure so to speak. Not much has changed plot-wise but I think I might love this one more. Feel free to read this one and the original and see how you feel!

taglist: @laurenairay @fallinallincurls @ sorlos-world @svexhenthusiast and adding @wyattjohnston cause as mentioned, this is started as a Winter Fic Exchange fic.

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