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honeykaes · 10 months ago

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to land and sea

neuvillette x adepti!reader II 2.7k

warning: smut, 18+ content, minors do not interact, afab!reader with no set pronouns, yandere themes, adepti!reader, reader is from fontaine, monsterfucking, pool sex, biting, creampie, cunnilingus, overstimulation, praise, hurt/comfort, angst, cucking, non consensual voyeurism, mention of blood, fontaine story spoilers, unedited

synopsis: with lanturn rite finally done, you decide to go relax at luhua pool only to find your former lover you haven’t seen in centuries confused on what your doing there.

The end of Lanturn Rite always felt freeing to you. With fewer responsibilities of protecting the harbor from threats to ruin the event, you finally had an opportunity to use your time as you saw fit—and most importantly, get away from him for a little while.

You walked along Luhua Pools, letting your bare curl themselves in the soft sand. The area was desolate from humans and adepti alike, for now, only accompanied by an occasional singing sparrow or the soft ruffles of swaying trees. You always admired the pools. The blues and faint greens of the vibrant waters always reminded you of your former homeland.

Your eyes gazed at a sparrow beginning to flap its wings heading northwest beyond the large mountains of Liyue. Your eyes softened as your smile began to falter wondering if that bird would be headed towards Fontaine.

How long has it been since you were in that nation…at home? Was there still a home there for you?

You pull the robes of your attire, folding them up and placing them on the base of a nearby tree before picking one of the smaller pools and dipping into the waters. You shivered, your body trying to adjust to the temperature before letting your body completely submerge itself in the pool.

Would the cobblestone be the same? Would the food and culture be the same?

You knew how quickly humans adapted, even in Liyue. You had already heard and witnessed Fontaine’s technological feats during this Lanturn Rite. They were the nation now leading in technology, a far cry from how things used to be when you were there.

You wondered what happened to Furina.

…To Neuvillette.

“What became of you, Neuvillette…” you whispered to yourself. Your mind spiraled trying to remember his appearance from hundreds of years ago. Did he still keep that noble shape of his?

Did the reincarnation of the former dragon sovereign still have those lilac eyes of his that softened whenever he tucked a rainbow rose in your ear?

You dipped further in the water, blowing bubbles in the salty pool before sighing once more.

“I miss you…”

A few hours pass as sunset begins to settle. Golden hour begins brightly as its rays highlight your skin as you sway your arms admiring the ripples of the water.

Swoosh.

Your eyes dart up, looking around you to search for where that strange noise is coming from. Was it him? You didn’t exactly want to deal with your lord at the moment; you had plenty of time forced at his side for Lanturn Rite.

Your eyes whipped around scanning the land, but you didn’t see anything unusual. As you moved your gaze to the sea where the various pools resided you narrowed your eyes seeing a strange blue glowing coming from beneath the waters. It was moving fast, whatever this was, was an adept swimmer.

Before you summoned your weapon and left the pool to get your clothes, you gasped watching a head pop up from where the glowing was coming from. His hair was long and as white as snow, flowing behind him like a small river adorned with two stripes of blue. His skin was pale and dewy from the water, also illuminated in gold from the sunset.

Your eyes felt misty focusing on every curve of his face: his high cheekbones, his thin rosy lips. After all these years, he kept the same form.

“Neuvillette…” you called out. You couldn’t stop those words from leaving your mouth. His head slowly turned to meet yours, eyes widening in recognition as he looked at your form in the pool.

The two of you remained frozen, drinking up each other's appearance desperate to make sure each other's eyes were not playing tricks.

His gaze softened before he soon swam near you. Water clung to his suit as he descended up to the pool you rescinded in. He kneeled near the edge, leaning down to your size.

“It’s you right? (Y/n)...” he muttered before placing his hand on your cheek. You leaned into his touch, chuckling as tears cascaded down your cheeks. The corners of his mouth curved upwards as his thumb tenderly caressed you.

“I thought the usurpers would never allow my eyes to gaze upon yours again. I should have come to this nation much sooner,” Neuvillette whispered. You shook your head, hastily wiping your tears.

“What are you doing here anyway? How’s Furina?” you asked. Neuvillette’s eyes twinged in pain, a sad smile coaxed over him as clouds began to form blocking the golden light of the sun.

“ She…freed her people of their curse. The nation of Fontaine is thriving more than ever,” he replied. He turned his head away, smile faltering, recalling the months that still haunted him.

“...Furina did? I wish Egeria lived to see it. I’m sure Furina is as happy as ever—”

”...The cost was a part of her life. She destroyed her throne for her people. She is now just a human, set to age as all others do,” he admitted. Your gaze leaves his, looking down at your bare body.

“I see…” you trailed off. Your heart ached. You wondered if she still remembered you. Both she and Neuvillette had to go through such troubles alone. You wondered if they felt abandoned by you.

You take a deep breath trying to process everything. You were even sure if you’d be able to see Furina in her human lifetime.

”I hope she didn’t think I abandoned her before she passed. I hope you didn’t either. I left to try to find a solution to our problem, asking the other Archons for their help or ideas but…I ran into trouble as you can imagine,” you whispered. The softness in Neuvillette’s eyes hardened quickly momentarily.

“If you’re in Liyue, I’m guessing it has something to do with Morax?” he asked. You ball your fist tightly beneath the water, nails harpooning against your palm before sighing and letting it go.

“I was almost killed by these..abyssal beasts and their poison before he found me. Apparently, he was familiar with my work in Fontaine. He offered his help to save my life and give me a solution to Fontaine’s problem. In desperation, I agreed. I was forced to become one of his adepti by that contract,” you revealed.

Neuvillette sighed, anger coaxing his brows but he didn’t touch further on your life with Morax.

“Shouldn’t your contract be fulfilled now that Fontaine is saved?” Neuvillette asked. You clenched your jaw, slowly shaking your head.

“...No. Our contract had been written that he had to give me the solution. By not telling me himself, our contract is now fulfilled and I’m stuck subservient to him. I tried to go back to Fontaine but…”

You sighed, pressing your lips against his soft palm resting on your cheek. You missed his touch, it always calmed you in times of uncertainty. Neuvillette’s gaze softened once more as he leaned in, pressing a kiss on your forehead.

“I missed you,” you whispered.

“I missed you more. Furina always said I looked happier whenever you were with me,” he replied. Your arms reached out, placing your hands on his cheeks. His eyes still had that same love and loneliness peeking through his long white eyelashes as you last saw them. He was the same as before…but yet different.

Whatever had happened in Fontaine had changed him.

You slowly leaned, pressing your lips against his own. The juxtaposition of the softness of his lips and the electricity igniting by his touch in your once barren veins was jarring; but yet it remained as slow and sensual, desperate to reclaim the hundreds of years they’ve been apart from.

At the moment, you two felt as though you were back in Fontaine 500 years ago, in a field of rainbow roses near the sea, promising each other everything was going to work out.

You leaned away feeling a sharp pain on your bottom lip and the taste of iron on your tongue. The haze in Neuvillette’s eyes lightened up, realizing his mistake as he tongue grazed one of his elongated canines. He cleared his throat in slight embarrassment.

“I apologize. It’s been a long time since I had these types of desires and affection,” he admitted. You smiled as your hands trailed down finding their way on his neckpiece, slowly taking it off.

“As have I,” you whispered. One by one, his articles of clothing that were soaked in seawater—adorned in the finest materials and jewels—fell onto the sand of the beach. In his nude form, he slowly dipped in the pool, joining you.

Your hands wandered through his body, admiring the sapphire scales that sometimes shined on his shoulders. As your hands gently glided on them, his body shuttered in response. He sucked a sharp breath in, feeling your hand grab his hardening cock, pumping gently.

His cock held unnatural bumps and ridges. As it grew thicker and longer in your palm, you could see the bluish tone beneath the water. This was one indication that he wasn’t human; he was the incarnation of the hydro dragon sovereign after all.

Neuvillette bit his lip hard, showing off the elongated fangs peeking through his lip. His thigh moved your leg as his hand dipped beneath the water to cup your cunt. A soft moan escaped from your lips feeling his long fingers rub between your folds before settling on your clit.

“Neuvillette,” you whimpered out. It was a forgotten melody he had missed, your voice in that tone—it brought shivers throughout his body.

His other hand, grab your hand that was wrapped around his now pulsating cock before lifting it and placing it on his chest.

”I don’t want anyone else to take you away from me…” he whispered. Neuvillette leaned in once more, pressing a soft kiss on your lips before diving beneath the water of the pool. You paused, blinking to try to process what he was up to.

“Neuvillette what are you— Oh!” you yelped. You feel his tight grip on the globe of your ass and thigh. He widened your legs, admiring the view of your quivering hole beneath the glistening light above. He leaned in, opening his mouth wide, before taking a long stripe of your cunt.

”God, I miss this taste. I always went crazy going through my ruts without getting to taste you again,” he muttered but you couldn’t hear as all that came up to the surface was bubbles. His tongue swirls against your clit, sucking the nub hard as you can feel his nails beginning to elongate and prod at the skin he clung onto.

You squirmed under his touch, trying to grind your pelvis to get any bit of friction you could to satiate your desires. Neuvillette offered a tender kiss on your clit before smiling.

”I hope you can forgive me if I become too rough..” Neuvillette murmured.

He opened his mouth again, prodding his tongue out, and soon began to grow longer and thicker in size. Pressing itself at your entrance, his elongated tongue slowly sank inside of you— shuddering at the taste of your arousal mixed with the waters of the Luhua Pools.

Your hands grabbed at his now glowing antenna on top of his head as he groaned beneath you in response. He pumped his tongue inside of you, keeping your body in place, as you tried to squirm from his touch.

Moving his grip around, he moved one hand to toy with your clit. While he rubbed tight circles along the bundle of nerves, his tongue curled against your spongy walls. You grabbed a mound of your chest, arching your back as the muffled noises of his name came from above.

Your essences flooded his tongue as Neuvillette desperately drank every drop that gushed out of you. As he slipped his tongue out of you, he left your overstimulated clit with one more kiss before lifting his upper body to the surface. You leaned against his firm chest, catching your breath.

“Was that too much…?” he whispered, pressing another kiss on top of your head. You shook your head, breath heavy as you tried to come down from your high.

”No. I want more of you Neuvillette,” you whispered, gaze half-lidded looking up at him. His thumb pressed against your bottom lip as he leaned in with a soft smile.

”Then more you shall receive,” he replied. Neuvillette lifted your chin before capturing your lips once more.

Neuvillette hooked your leg up as his cock slid itself against your puffy folds. Your body trembled as his blueish tip grazed against your clit. He soon sank his cock inside of you slowly. As he sheathed himself deeper inside, you could feel the faint burn from your walls stretching out to accommodate his large size.

His lips peppered themselves throughout your chin and neck before he finally bottomed out. Letting your leg go, you quickly wrapped your legs around his thin waist as he reached deeper inside of you.

He lifted his head, leaning in close to let his nose graze yours.

“I don’t want this moment to ever end. I loved you then, I love you now. I always will,” he whispered. You two share another kiss before he begins to move. His hips rocked as the waves rippled in the pool to his pace.

One of his large hands found a way to your ass once more, gripping it tight as he rutted against you faster. You can feel his tip curve and nudge against your cervix.

As your head lulled to the side, focusing on the pleasure ripping through your body, Neuvillette gently grabbed your chin while grunting.

”Please don’t look away…I want to burn your expression into my mind…” he softly begged. His thumb pressed against your bottom lip, wiping the drool peaking out before you gently bit down the tip of it.

Your walls fluttered, squeezing against Neuvillette’s cock pulsating and thrusting inside of you. You feel his nails sinking into the spongy flesh of your ass.

”Neuvil…ette. Neuvill—ette. Neuvillette!” you stammered out. Your eyes shut tight in pleasure, as a whine left your lips. With an inhumane growl, Neuvillette buried his face into your neck, cock throbbing inside of you before his hips began to falter.

Tears pricked your eyes as you clung to him tighter, crying out his name. Your walls clamped down, quivering as you climaxed. Neuvillette struggled to continue, his ruts getting slower and sloppier.

With a few thrusts, he shuttered, holding you tight as he emptied himself inside of you. You could feel globs of his thick cum filling you up as he gently bucked inside of you, nursing himself from your high.

You kept your eyes closed. Sweat clung to your forehead as you tried to catch your breath. Neuvillette lifted his head from the nape of your neck admiring your look. Just as he gently caressed your cheek, his eyes narrowed, noticing an odd sigil glowing that wasn’t there before.

A Geo sigil.

Neuvillette held you tight, shielding your form as he watched a man emerge from behind you in silence.

”I thought avoiding you would have been the best situation, but to think you’d find them…” the formerly known god as Morax murmured with a practiced saccharine smile on his face.

Neuvillette was thankful your back was to him. His golden eyes were slitted in pindrops and glowing in envy. He was trying to hold his anger back.

”The Usurper Morax, know this: I’m done with you all taking things that don’t belong to you,” Neuvillette stated, narrowing his eyes.

Zhongli simply put his hand behind himself, closing his eyes as he pondered Neuvillette’s words momentarily before a soft chuckle left his lips.

“And that’s where you're wrong. Although you control the notion of justice, I still have authority over contracts,” Zhongli replied. His eyes opened, much colder than before. The earth began to shake slightly—a warning of what he was still capable of.

“You got a taste of your desires. Now, you should head back to your newly settled nation. I don’t think after such conflicts, a war is what you would look to have. No?”

#genshin impact x reader #genshin impact smut #genshin x reader #genshin smut #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette smut #neuvillette imagines #neuvillette scenarios #yandere genshin #yandere genshin x reader

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watevermelon · 7 months ago

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A Beautiful Cage | Sunday x Reader

✧ Summary: You woke up in this beautiful dream, memories lost with a handsome man claiming to be your husband.

➳ Spoilers for the 2.2 Penacony update! ➳ Warnings: Dark!Sunday x Amnesiac Reader; Yandere writing liberties :) ➳ Navigation

“My beautiful Sparrow, welcome back.”

You stared at the man, blinking twice without words as his affection for you shined like the halo upon his head. The grip he had on your hand fell with each beat of your prolonged silence, a new sort of desperation growing at the corners of his lips. Your heart broke at the sight, despite not even knowing his name.

“I’m sorry. Do I… know you?” You asked back, sitting up in the bed and only now noticing your surroundings.

The sterile smell and beeping monitors confirmed the worst. Beside you sat someone whom you felt an inexplicable connection to, a pull in your heart that stirred up warning bells, yet their face brought no specific memories.

Everything about him exuded importance, from the fine fabric and intricate details of his clothes to the matching halo and ethereal wings. He almost looked like an angel, a being of celestial grace and authority.

The man in question grimaced, but continued. “My name is Sunday. Do you remember my face?”

Sunday, like the last day of the week.

The day of rest.

“I’m sorry, no.” Your forehead creased in strain, as if the physical action could bring it all back. A worse revelation crossed your mind, “I don’t even remember my own name.”

“Then I will help you remember, my dear Sparrow.” He spoke gently, repeating the term of endearment as he lifted your hand to his lips. A silent warning bell in your subconscious screamed at you to pull away, but you ignored it to instead stare into his handsome, golden eyes.

“Please, stop me if this becomes overwhelming for you.” Sunday warned before explaining further, “You are my wife. And because of my position in this world, you are often put in danger. And unfortunately, I was not able to protect you from an attack.”

You stayed silent as Sunday continued on, describing in small detail the life you shared together.

Your name and the world you chose to stay in, Penacony.

A dreamlike world where many partied their days away, celebrities and the affluent from around the universe sharing in one lavish adventure.

And Sunday, the head of the Oak family.

You could hardly believe his words, a world where people were able to freely pursue their dreams.

The hesitation must have been seen on your face, since the kind stranger had countered with a simple phrase. “Let me show you.”

Gold lined the streets as far as the eye could see, casting a radiant glow across the entire cityscape. Fantastical roads floated in the sky above, while buildings were illuminated in a dazzling golden radiance.

Golden Hour, the name for the area, was aptly so.

You stared dumbly in different directions, taking in the fantastical view and the lively bustle of people moving from store to store. Street performers graced nearly every corner, their music blending into a harmonious soundtrack that filled the vibrant, diverse heart of the city.

Sunday lifted an open palm towards you, the corners of his lips curling into a soft smile as if inviting your touch. As you placed your hand over his, you felt the gentle pressure of his grip matching your own tenderness. His hand felt cold and unfamiliar, but you brushed aside the discomfort, chalking it up to your amnesia.

“It’s Mr. Sunday!” A child yelled in excitement, jumping up and down as his company of other children turned at his words.

Suddenly there was a crowd of children, all surrounding your supposed husband and asking for his autograph. A weight on your heart felt lighter, seeing strangers confirm the words of the one person who was influencing your entire outlook on your new life.

Sunday was essentially a stranger, but now the only person you could rely on.

You needed truths and as the crowd grew larger, you could confirm that this man was honest in his words earlier.

“Are you alright, Miss?” One of the children turned and asked you.

Another joined in on the conversation, “Mr. Sunday said you were hurt! Are you okay?”

“Yes, I am. Thank you for asking.” You kept your response kind, but short.

Sunday weaved his way through the short crowd, back to your side. "Please excuse us as we must depart promptly. My sincere apologies, but my dear wife has endured considerable challenges."

“Awww, he loves you!” A squeal broke out from the back, making you unconsciously blush.

Sunday simply smiled, before waving goodbye and leading you on your way.

Sunday resided in a grand estate, passing libraries adorning the walls as he guided you to your shared bedroom. You admired the opulent furniture, once again accented with gold. As Sunday removed his outer layers, you seized the opportunity to survey the room. Framed pictures — your wedding, a festival, and one with a third person who looked much like Sunday —moments that, regrettably, eluded your recognition.

Your husband emerged from the other room silently, regarding you with that same small smile as he drew closer.

“I’m sorry I don’t remember.” You spoke first, genuinely frustrated that your memories were taken from you. “It’s alright.” He reassured you, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Can I try something to help you?”

You nodded in quiet affirmation, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips as Sunday leaned closer. His breath mingled with yours, warm and comforting, as he pressed a soft kiss against the tip of your nose before gently lowering his lips to meet yours. The kiss was tender, like the flutter of a butterfly's wings, delicate and fleeting, as if both of you were hesitant to disrupt the tranquility of the moment.

But as the warmth of the embrace enveloped you, a surge of emotion ignited within, fueling the kiss with a newfound intensity. Your lips moved in perfect harmony, a dance of passion and longing, as Sunday's hand found its way to the back of your neck, his touch both gentle and possessive. With each brush of his lips against yours, the world around you faded into insignificance, leaving only the two of you locked in a timeless embrace.

But it was not enough.

“I love you, my Sparrow.” He murmured against your lips. “Whatever you come to need, I will provide it. Lest it be my time, my affection, or even if you perhaps… need space.”

A pang of bittersweet ache tugged at your heart as you processed those last words. It was undeniable how much Sunday loved you, his actions speaking volumes and allowing you the space and freedom if that was what you wanted. It was a sacrifice born out of love, a silent vow to stand by your side no matter the outcome, even as your heart yearned for the completeness that only the restoration of your memories could bring.

But a life without him… did not feel right?

“No, please. I want you by my side.”

It was a small concession, but the radiant smile that blossomed across Sunday's face filled even you with an infectious joy. He leaned in, pressing a series of gentle kisses along the side of your cheek, each one eliciting a soft laugh from your lips as you savored the delightful sensation. In that fleeting moment, surrounded by the warmth of his affection, all worries and uncertainties melted away, leaving behind only the sweet embrace of shared laughter and unspoken love.

You snuggled into his arms at night, the sensation unfamiliar but not unwelcome. As you closed your eyes and drifted into slumber, a relentless melody began to crescendo, growing louder and more insistent until it engulfed your consciousness, becoming the sole sound echoing through the corridors of your dreams.

A woman's voice, light and airy, infused with hope, danced through the recesses of your mind, casting a shimmering veil over your thoughts.

Who was that woman?

And why was she the only memory your mind could recall?

You devoured every book available on Penacony and its rich history, spending countless days ensconced within the walls of your private library. Sunday had even offered recommendations, guiding you towards enlightening reads detailing the intricate tapestry of the Oak family and the other prominent families that shaped the fabric of Penacony's past.

A dream, tantalizing in its promise, offering individuals the chance to manifest and fulfill their deepest desires, but with a caveat—access granted solely through the family's invitation.

But there was nothing of note regarding your situation.

Instead, you found yourself falling into rhythm into Sunday’s life.

You slotted into his life easily, either accompanying Sunday for work or even venturing out on your own. Some days, you would visit his office as he tirelessly worked and meticulously planned for the upcoming Charmony festival. Or, on easier days, strolled through the familiar streets of Penacony as he encouraged you to immerse yourself in the surroundings in hopes of triggering memories.

In each interaction, it was evident the deep love and devotion Sunday held for his people and his beloved city of Penacony. He listened attentively to even the most mundane complaints from others, offering genuine empathy and understanding. His concern and unwavering commitment to his people were palpable, leaving a heartwarming impression on all who encountered him.

It seemed like he was perfect in every way possible.

Life with Sunday was sweet, easy even.

And yet, there was an insistent hammering in your heart, a relentless pulse that sent waves of unease through your entire being.

Every night without fail, you continued to hear that insistent melody, a haunting refrain that seemed to echo from the depths of your past. You couldn't fathom why your mind clung to this particular fragment of memory and it nearly drove you to anger. You had lived an entire life, rich with experiences and emotions, yet it was a single song that your memory chose to preserve. Why not Sunday, or the life you had shared together?

What was the importance of this song?

You found yourself unconsciously humming along to this song even as you traversed Penacony. It was another day with Sunday off attending to business, leaving you to your own devices. You appreciated his willingness to let you explore Penacony independently; it allowed you to experience the city's vibrancy through your own eyes, unfiltered by anyone’s perceptions and unburdened by expectations. The freedom to form your own impressions was a gift, even as the familiar tune haunted your every step.

How could you possibly be suspicious of your husband when he was giving you all this freedom?

Your eyes swept appreciatively across the cityscape until they paused in one direction. You halted immediately, a small tendril of suspicion blossoming into body-wide panic as you recognized the woman standing before you.

In your heart of hearts, you remembered her name.

Robin.

Instantly, an unrelenting pain seared through your brain, but you resisted the urge to duck down, clutching your head as you stared at the woman. She locked eyes with you, surprise flashing across her face before she began running in your direction.

“Robin?” Your voice was barely a whisper, but the woman wrapped her arms around your middle.

Her hug felt deeply familiar, like the comforting embrace of home after a long, perilous journey. It was as if her arms wrapped not just around your body, but around your weary soul, offering solace and a sense of belonging that you had desperately missed.

You continued. “Robin, I… Lost all my memories. You are the only person I’ve recognized so far.”

Robin's face contorted in pain, worry deepening with every word you spoke. She looked you over, inspecting every inch to ensure you were unhurt. Satisfied, she hugged you again tightly before gently patting your heart.

“Robin?” You asked again, but the woman only looked at you and tilted her head in question.

“Are you… unable to speak?”

Yes.

She nodded her head, making you take a deep breath to calm your beating heart. “Is it because of me?”

No.

“I… We should tell Sunday!” You attempted to look for a solution, but she frowned and kept nodding her head no. “Does he already know?

Yes.

“... Will you come back home with me? I don’t remember you fully, but in my heart it feels like I’ve missed you.”

She nodded eagerly, making you a bit more suspicious of her intentions.

You walked side-by-side, making your way back to your shared abode with Sunday, enveloped in a familiar atmosphere. In the absence of her voice, you took it upon yourself to fill the air with conversation, enough for the both of you. You recounted how you had awoken without a single memory, with Sunday faithfully by your side. You described his love and devotion, his unwavering care for your every need.

This felt familiar, being with Robin. However, why now?

Why hadn’t she visited you before?

A part of your mind stuttered, hesitating to confide in Robin about the ominous feeling gnawing at your heart regarding everything that was happening. What if she took her brother's side? Perhaps it was wiser to keep silent, hesitant to disclose your apprehensions, especially considering the possibility that she might be collaborating with him.

You walked into the foyer with Robin and she led you further into the home, into a library with a large desk that had a model of all of Golden Hour.

It was evident that she was on a mission, striding purposefully forward without the slightest hint of hesitation as she surveyed the towering bookcases that lined the walls of the library. Sensing her focused energy, you allowed her to proceed in silence, observing her with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

Recognition flashed behind her eyes and she grabbed something resting on the shelf, a rectangular object, before quickly thrusting it at you.

“What do you want me to do with this?” You asked with confusion, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Silent yet urgent, she swiftly took charge and reached to open the flap of your jacket, deftly slipping the object into the pocket before pressing a single pointer finger against her lips, signaling for you to maintain absolute silence.

You shook your head in confusion, near begging for more information. “Silent from who?”

From Sunday?

Or from someone else in Penacony?

But a now familiar voice was heard at the door frame.

“My dear sister, I didn’t know you’d be visiting our home today. Not that I’m not grateful, but I would have stayed home to greet you upon your arrival.” Sunday greeted you both with his customary kind smile, a warm familiarity washing over you. He approached, embracing his sister first in a lingering hug before turning to your side, where he offered you a greeting kiss on the forehead.

“My offer to stay in this home still stands, dear sister.”

Their relationship appeared to be fine, even close. Perhaps Robin hadn’t intended to keep the matter silent from Sunday? However, as Robin bid you both goodbye and you found yourselves alone, you made the conscious decision to remain quiet about the object, keeping it tucked away in your pocket like a silent reminder.

The following day, you ventured out of the mansion and found yourself in a cafe. Uncertain about the object nestled in your pocket, you hesitated to even retrieve it, opting instead to keep your hand inside, fingers lightly brushing against its surface as you inspected it solely through touch.

Nothing about it seemed special, just a rectangular object shrouded in mystery.

Dumbfounded, you exited the cafe, pondering the possibility of researching the object. Was there a library somewhere in Penacony that might hold more information? A tendril of apprehension tightened in your heart as you recalled that the only library you had encountered thus far was the one within your own home.

“Ah, his little songbird.” A voice, unfamiliar, broke you out of your reverie.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” You asked back genuinely.

“Perhaps in another lifetime.” The woman continued, looking you up and down with a smirk on her face.

She was beautiful, even enough to make you feel self conscious. The woman stood tall with porcelain skin contrasting the lavender hues that cascaded down her back. Her gaze nearly matched her hair, a captivating blend of colors with red striking you like the flames of a hypnotic fire.

“My name is Black Swan.” She stated simply, inspecting your eyes as if to see if there was any recognition behind them.

But instead, you blinked twice, uncertainty clouding your thoughts as you awaited her next words, unsure of where she was leading the conversation.

“That’s unfortunate.” She commented on your eyes, once vibrant when she last saw you. “But I believe you have a souvenir of mine.”

Your hand clenched around the rectangular object, a surge of apprehension coursing through you. The thought of broaching the subject with Sunday seemed fraught with risk. Why would you entertain the idea of confiding in a stranger?

“I know you don’t trust me. But would it help if I told you a fellow songbird and I gave it to you?”

Robin.

You paused, looking left and right before stepping closer.

“Hold on.” She spoke softly, her words accompanied by a gentle hand on your wrist, guiding you away from the bustling streets of Golden Hour. Through winding paths and intricate puzzles, she led you, each twist and turn revealing new secrets and hidden passages.

“It isn’t safe here either, but at least now we’re away from the eyes of the bloodhounds.”

Huh?

Though you couldn’t quite comprehend it, with each passing moment in the company of this stranger, you found yourself inexplicably at ease. There was a sense of trust that seemed to grow between you, as if she were a steadfast ally in this labyrinthine journey. You held up the rectangular object in your palms, and she made no move to take it from your grasp, respecting your agency and the significance of the item to you.

She put her hand over the object, “This is an empty light cone. Light cones hold memories, moments in time that were long forgotten even by the user.”

Your eyes shot up in interest, but you did not interrupt her.

“Tell me, do you enjoy this dream?” She asked, seemingly out of nowhere. “Be honest with me, songbird.”

You paused, given the first true opportunity to speak your mind. “I enjoy being here, but something doesn't feel complete.”

“Have you noticed something strange since you first awoke here?”

“Like what?

“Remember. A major flaw in the story you have experienced.”

Your frustration grew, “I can only recall the last few weeks, I can’t go back any further.”

Black Swan fixed her gaze upon you, her eyes locking onto yours with an unwavering intensity as she spoke. “Think back to what you know. Where did you start this story?”

“I was in a hospital, here in Penacony.”

In response, she arched a single eyebrow, a silent indication that there was more to your statement than met the eye.

“And a death in Penacony means what?” She asked slowly.

You strained to recall the answer to that question, your mind rifling through the wealth of knowledge gleaned from the books you had devoured upon awakening. In this dream realm, death held no sway, its specter banished from the bounds of this surreal reality. Your heart quickened with anticipation as the answer began to crystallize in your mind.

“It means returning back to reality.”

If your injuries were indeed severe enough to land you in a hospital bed, on the edge of your life and stripped of your memories, why hadn't you simply returned to reality?

Or rather, why hadn’t Sunday brought you back to reality?

“Wake up, songbird. Break free from this eternal dream.”

Your consciousness plunged beneath the surface instantly, submerged in the depths of an endless ocean. With each stroke, you struggled against the weight of the water, yearning for the surface just out of reach. Yet, propelled by an unseen force, your mind surged forward, propelled by the current of your subconscious.

You coughed up air, gasping for breath as you struggled to fill your lungs, a mixture of surprise and uncertainty washing over you in waves.

Where the hell were you?

You found yourself seated in a pool of water within the confines of a colossal oyster, a fleeting memory flickering in your mind—a recollection of this being the entrance to the Dreamscape.

You were back in reality.

The room was tastefully decorated, with screens displaying a serene beachside view and lush green plants adorning the corners. A cozy fireplace added warmth and ambiance to one wall. It became evident that this was your personal space, as stacks of books adorned every available surface.

As you meticulously combed through the books, your fingers trembled with anticipation, a sense of dread beginning to gnaw at the edges of your consciousness. Each page turned revealed nothing but mundane details, no hint of Sunday's potential duplicity. Yet, the oppressive silence of the room seemed to press in on you, suffocating and thick with apprehension.

Nobody should have knowledge of your clandestine presence, save for Black Swan, yet the hollow echo of a knock shattered the stillness, reverberating through the room like a harbinger of doom. Each rap upon the door sent shivers racing down your spine, your heartbeat thundering like a drumbeat of impending dread.

Was it Sunday?

Was he going to force you back into the Dreamscape?

Hesitation rooted you on the spot, hand trembling as it hovered over the doorknob. Fear coiled in your chest like a venomous serpent, paralyzing your every movement. But the relentless knocking persisted, growing louder and more insistent with each passing second, until it felt as though the very walls themselves were closing in.

“Sparrow, are you alright?”

Sunday.

And yet he sounded… concerned?

His genuinely distressed tone had a disarming effect, causing your guard to falter. With a hesitant hand, you reached for the doorknob, feeling it's cool metal beneath your fingertips.

Even with your slow movements, Sunday hadn’t rushed to open the rest of the door. His voice was gentle, “My love, were you attacked again?”

What?

Did you awaken here the last time you were attacked?

You met Sunday's gaze, but the expression etched upon his face was unlike anything you had ever seen. His eyes, typically ablaze with a golden warmth, now held a chilling intensity, their once vibrant hue dimmed to a somber shade. In their depths, a glimmer of suspicion flickered, casting an ominous pall over his countenance. His stare bore into you with a laser-like focus, each line etched upon his features to show the gravity of his scrutiny.

“No… I was with…”

Your mind stuttered once more, faltering in its attempt to grasp onto the memory of the woman you had just encountered. The image of her beautiful lavender hair and the melodic cadence of her voice began to fade, slipping through your fingers like grains of sand. It was as if the memories were elusive phantoms, slipping away from your grasp, leaving behind only fragments of a conversation and a sense of disorientation in their wake.

Sunday remained silent, his gaze unwavering as he observed your inner turmoil with a focused intensity. In a fleeting instant, the tension dissolved from his features, replaced by a tender expression as he lifted a hand to caress your cheek. Leaning in, he gently pressed his forehead against yours, a silent gesture of reassurance.

“Let me take care of you, Songbird.”

“Where… Where are we going?”

“Let’s forgo the Dreamscape tonight. The dinner menu in the lounge sounded particularly appetizing.”

As your mind grappled with the swirling chaos of conflicting memories, one thought remained steadfast: the yearning to return to reality and leave the Dreamscape. Yet, Sunday stood before you, extending an invitation to remain in reality with him. His gentle encouragement, coupled with the suggestion of sharing a meal together, created a tug-of-war within your soul - if he was truly suspicious, wouldn’t he want to return to the Dream?

“Something wrong, my dear?” Sunday asked, his trademark gentle smile once again gracing his features.

A pang of guilt gnawed at a corner of your mind, for you had harbored suspicions of Sunday throughout your time in the Dreamscape. Yet, here he stood, seemingly without fault, extending an open invitation to spend time with him outside the confines of the dream.

“No, let’s.. Let’s get dinner.” You spoke softly, slipping your hand into his and surprising him with your initiative, taking the lead for once.

“Of course, my love.”

You traversed the halls in silence, lost in a labyrinth of thoughts as you pondered the origins of your suspicion towards Sunday. He had been your rock, your unwavering support, proving his loyalty and love over the years of your marriage. It was probably the amnesia that made you wary, but you felt somewhat guilty that you held suspicions over the one person who may not have deserved it.

Lost in contemplation, you scarcely noticed the world around you until you chanced upon a young boy, his striking white hair and azure garments catching your attention in the otherwise familiar surroundings.

“Welcome back to the Reverie! If you need any assistance, feel free to let me know.” He greeted you by name, making you smile at his sunny disposition.

“Thank you, we’re headed down to the VIP lounge now for dinner.” Sunday responded, pausing to reply to the bellboy.

“I’m sorry, I had an accident and I don’t remember your name. Can you tell me yours?”

“No problem, my name is Misha.”

“A pleasure to meet you Misha.” You replied before waving goodbye, smiling as you went with Sunday by your side.

Perhaps you were wrong to be suspicious of Sunday. But no matter, you had an entire lifetime to make it up to your darling husband. He had been so kind to you these last few weeks, you resolved to make amends and shower your darling husband with the love and trust he deserved. Recollections of his tender gestures flooded your mind—the soft kisses, the gentle caresses—that had brought warmth and comfort to your heart over the past weeks. With a smile playing at your lips, you embraced the idea of spending a lifetime cherishing him.

You leaned up on your toes, gently kissing the side of his cheek as you walked through the halls.

Perhaps things were as they should be.

Despite what Robin claimed, Sunday loved you, truly.

Even when you threatened to leave his side for good.

When Robin returned back from her journey on death’s door, Sunday had not simply presented the idea of keeping her here on Penacony.

He enforced it.

In the tender heart of Sunday resided his beloved sister, a cherished soul intertwined with his very essence—his own lifeblood. Why, then, would he ever allow her to return to the perilous realms from whence she came?

Society was too cold, too dangerous.

Robin vocalized her discontent, lamenting the confines of the gilded cage that Penacony had become for her. Yet it was a cage adorned not with mere bars but with the allure of gold and the promise of boundless dreams. She could do anything, be anything. In fact, she was already a renowned celebrity who had the love of her last remaining family member.

Why return to danger when here she prospered?

“It is still a cage.” She would counter, frustration dripping from her words.

And how much more did it break his heart when you took her side?

“Sunday, my love.” As if any endearments would affix his shattered heart. “Robin has a message that she must continue spreading. Keeping her confined here, what about the people she needs to reach?”

No.

He refused to accept their words.

Sunday’s sacrifices were grains of sand slipping through an hourglass, bearing the weight of his every aspiration, relinquished one by one until they formed a towering edifice, precarious yet resolute. At its peak stood the pinnacle of his being — his own life — offered willingly to maintain this dreamlike world even until the very last breath of eternity.

How much more was he willing to give-up?

Or rather, what was he allowed to be selfish for?

His dear sister.

And certainly, you.

As the Stellaron continued to leak Asdana’s memoria into the material world, Sunday felt his final dreams come to fruition. The Dreamscape was blending with reality, making even reality itself an illusion.

He told himself repeatedly that this was for the good of humanity, a paradise where every individual was able to indulge in their delightful dreams and live their own personal happily ever after.

And what of yours?

Sunday granted you the freedom to roam Penacony at will, affording you the opportunity to reach for the stars even in his physical absence. But your frustration mounted, you knew he was watching from a distance anyway, a million eyes at his beck and call in this so-called Dream. You continued to voice your discontent, arguing that freedom within the confines of a cage was not truly freedom.

Why did you insist on leaving this eternal dream?

Would you leave his side and return to being an abandoned orphan, tossed aside somewhere in the old Penacony?

No, he would not allow it.

Even if he had to rewrite your memories along the way.

816 notes · View notes

novaursa · 10 days ago

Text

Legacy (of dragons and gods)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Canon events have been altered to compliment the plot for this story.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: the march

- Next part: dragonfire

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi

The Lannister procession had stopped for the night along the banks of a winding river, its waters sluggish under the pale light of the waning sun. The camp spread out like a sea of crimson and gold, with soldiers pitching tents and stoking fires, the metallic clink of armor and the murmur of voices filling the evening air. At the center of it all, beneath the largest tent adorned with a golden lion on a blood-red field, Tywin Lannister sat at the head of a table, his mood as cold and unyielding as the steel dagger he turned between his fingers.

The air within the tent was stifling, thick with the heat of the gathered torches and the heavy silence that followed the latest report. Kevan Lannister sat to Tywin’s right, his face pale and set in a stern frown. Jaime stood near the tent flap, his armor dull beneath the flickering light, his expression impassive. Between them, the messenger—a frail man in dusty robes—shifted uneasily on his feet, his gaze flicking nervously between the powerful men before him.

Tywin’s voice, when it came, was low and dangerous, like the first rumble of thunder before a storm. “Repeat what you just said.”

The messenger swallowed hard, beads of sweat forming at his brow. “M-my lord, the High Sparrow… the Faith has taken hold of the city. King’s Landing is no longer under full control of the crown. The Sept has been fortified, and the Faith Militant patrols the streets.”

Tywin’s knuckles whitened as his grip tightened on the dagger. “And my daughter?”

The man visibly flinched at the icy edge in Tywin’s voice. “Queen Mother Cersei… she was arrested, my lord. The High Sparrow accused her of sin and impropriety, and…” He faltered, choosing his next words carefully. “She has been made to atone. Her… walk has already taken place.”

There was a beat of silence so heavy it felt as though the air itself froze. Kevan let out a soft breath, his face etched with disbelief and anger, while Jaime remained silent, his jaw tense as he looked away, refusing to meet his father’s gaze.

Tywin’s expression, however, was unreadable, his green eyes fixed unblinkingly on the trembling messenger. “You will tell me every detail,” he said coldly.

The messenger hesitated, but there was no escaping Tywin’s command. “The queen was stripped of her clothing and marched from the Great Sept to the Red Keep, barefoot and unarmed. The people were… merciless, my lord. They hurled insults, food, stones. The walk lasted hours.”

Tywin’s grip on the dagger finally stilled, his eyes narrowing. “And you allowed this to happen?” His voice barely rose, but the fury in it was enough to make Kevan stiffen.

“The Faith controls the city, my lord,” the messenger stammered. “The crown has lost its power.”

Tywin’s silence was thunderous. He turned his gaze to Kevan, whose face was carved in stone. “This is the result of my daughter’s arrogance. Her foolish decisions have not only humiliated herself but sullied the name of House Lannister. She has given our enemies something they will not soon forget.”

Kevan nodded curtly. “The Faith must be dealt with. This cannot stand.”

“And it will not,” Tywin replied, his voice as sharp as a blade. His gaze snapped to Jaime, who still stood motionless by the tent flap. “You have nothing to say, Jaime?”

Jaime finally turned to look at his father, his face unreadable. “What would you have me say? That it should never have come to this? That I warned her?”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly in disgust. “Your warnings fell on deaf ears because you failed to command her respect.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Before another word could be exchanged, a deep, thunderous roar echoed across the camp, cutting through the murmurs of men and the crackling of fires. The ground beneath them trembled faintly, and every man within the tent turned sharply toward the sound. Outside, voices rose in alarm, and the shadow of something vast passed briefly over the canvas walls of the tent.

Kevan shot Tywin a concerned look. “The dragon.”

Tywin straightened, setting the dagger on the table with deliberate care. “Dismiss the men,” he commanded curtly.

Kevan opened his mouth to object but thought better of it, rising swiftly to usher the remaining guards and the messenger out of the tent. Jaime lingered for a moment, glancing toward his father, but Tywin waved him off with a sharp flick of his hand. “Go.”

Once the tent had emptied and silence returned, Tywin rose from his seat and strode to the entrance of the tent. He stepped outside into the fading light, the faint chill of evening brushing against his face as he looked up toward the source of the disturbance.

Viserion descended from the darkening sky, her great wings beating the air with an almost deafening rhythm. The fires of the camp guttered and danced wildly in her wake as she landed with a massive thud just beyond the edge of the tents. Her cream and gold scales gleamed in the twilight, and her neck curved as her golden eyes fixed on the men who scattered in fear at her arrival. Smoke curled lazily from her nostrils, and her chest rumbled with a sound so deep it made the earth itself shiver.

And then you appeared, sliding smoothly from the dragon’s back, your dark riding cloak billowing around you as you landed with practiced ease. You placed a steadying hand on Viserion’s snout, murmuring something softly to her before turning to face Tywin.

Tywin stood his ground, unflinching even as Viserion’s great eyes fixed on him. The anxiety in the camp was felt, men watching from the shadows as the Lord of Casterly Rock and the dragon stared one another down. For a moment, it seemed as though Viserion might let out another roar, but at your touch, she stilled, the smoke in her breath dissipating as she settled.

“Tywin,” you greeted coolly, pulling back your hood to reveal the silver cascade of your hair. The wind carried faint embers and the scent of smoke, as though the dragon’s fire lingered on your skin.

Tywin’s gaze did not waver as he took in the sight of you and the creature at your side. “Your arrival was… dramatic.”

“Viserion does not know subtlety,” you replied smoothly, stroking the dragon’s warm scales. “Neither do the Lannisters, from what I’ve learned.”

Tywin’s lip twitched faintly, though it was impossible to tell if it was amusement or irritation. He stepped forward, stopping just a few paces away from you, though his gaze remained locked on Viserion. “Is she so wild that you cannot control her?”

“She is not wild,” you countered sharply. “She is mine. She answers to me.”

“And yet her presence unnerves my men,” Tywin said, his voice cold. “You do not need to remind them of their place.”

“Then perhaps they should find their courage,” you replied pointedly. “The dragon will be with us in King’s Landing. They had best learn to accept it.”

Tywin’s gaze flickered briefly to you, something sharp and considering in his expression. “We’ll see about that.”

You stepped closer, your violet eyes steady as you looked up at him. “What is it you summoned me for, Tywin?”

He studied you for a long moment, as though weighing his words. “The city is no longer what it was,” he said finally, his voice low and clipped. “The Faith has seized power, and my daughter—has humiliated this house through her recklessness.”

You frowned slightly, sensing the anger simmering beneath his carefully measured tone. “What has happened to her?”

Tywin’s expression darkened. “She was paraded through the streets, stripped and shamed for all to see. It was a spectacle. A disgrace.”

You exhaled softly, a flicker of pity passing through you despite everything. “And you blame her for this.”

“I blame her for giving our enemies the means to harm us,” Tywin snapped. “Power demands discipline. She has forgotten that.”

You tilted your head slightly, your tone measured. “And what of the Faith, then? What do you plan to do about them?”

Tywin’s gaze was hard, unrelenting. “I will deal with the Faith as I have dealt with every other threat to my house.”

“And me?” you asked softly, your voice almost a challenge. “What do you plan for me and Viserion in the capital?”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly. “You will stand where I tell you to stand, Y/N. And your dragon will serve as a reminder to those who would oppose us.”

You met his gaze, unflinching. “I hope you know what you’re inviting into that city, Tywin. Fire does not play by the rules of men.”

Tywin stared at you for a long moment before his voice dropped to a soft, dangerous murmur. “Then we will ensure the fire serves our cause.”

Viserion shifted behind you, her chest rumbling faintly as if echoing your thoughts. You turned back to the dragon, running a hand along her warm scales. “Be careful, Tywin,” you said quietly. “Fire is not so easily tamed.”

Tywin watched you for another moment, then turned sharply away.

The soft light of candles flickered inside the tent as Tywin Lannister ducked through the heavy flap, the air still tinged with the chill of the evening. Outside, the camp buzzed faintly with the sounds of men settling in for the night—boots on dirt, the crackle of fires, distant voices murmuring—but inside, there was nothing but quiet. A welcome reprieve.

The tent was a well-ordered sanctuary. Rich crimson fabrics lined the walls, the Lannister sigil subtly embroidered into their folds. The centerpiece was a sturdy bed with a carved wooden frame, draped in thick furs and silken sheets. Across the room, Damon slept soundly in his crib, his soft breathing barely audible beneath the gentle hum of the wind outside. The sight of his son—safe, warm, untroubled—brought the faintest softening to Tywin’s otherwise stern features.

You sat by the small table, clad in a loose gown of black and silver that cascaded around you like a midnight cloud. Your hair tumbled over your shoulders, illuminated faintly by the golden glow of the lantern. At the sound of his arrival, you glanced up, your violet eyes catching the light and shining with that unspoken challenge you always seemed to carry.

“Your men are watching Viserion like she might swoop down and devour them whole,” you remarked quietly, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you sat back in your chair. “Is she making them nervous, or are you?”

Tywin snorted softly, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face as he began to remove his crimson cloak, hanging it on a nearby hook. “The dragon unnerves them, as does her rider. It is a good lesson in fear.”

“And what of you, Lord Tywin?” you asked, tilting your head. “Do I unnerve you?”

He shot you a look that could have flayed lesser men, but there was no true sharpness in it. “Not nearly as much as you would like to believe.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you stood, walking toward him with deliberate grace. “It’s been a long day. You must be exhausted.”

“Exhaustion is a luxury,” Tywin replied simply, though there was no denying the faint relief in the way he rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. His gaze flicked briefly to Damon, still asleep in the crib. “He is well?”

“Fast asleep,” you replied, glancing toward your son with a softness that did not often appear in your voice. “It seems he takes after you. He barely stirs, even with the roar of a dragon.”

Tywin’s lips twitched faintly, as if considering a retort, but he let it pass. Instead, he stepped toward the table and poured himself a goblet of wine, the liquid dark as blood beneath the candlelight. “Tomorrow will be a day history records,” he said finally, the weight of his words deliberate. “Our arrival in King’s Landing, with a dragon at our side—it will not be forgotten.”

You folded your arms across your chest, the playful edge fading from your expression. “That depends, doesn’t it?”

Tywin turned toward you, brow arching faintly. “On what?”

“On how it goes,” you replied smoothly, stepping closer until only a breath of space separated you. “If the city welcomes us with open arms, it will be a moment of strength. If they resist, if they see us as a threat…” Your voice trailed off, your gaze steady. “The histories could tell a very different story.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, though his voice remained calm. “Then I will ensure they see it the way I intend them to.”

You reached out, your hand brushing lightly against the front of his tunic. “You always did believe you could shape the world to your will.”

Tywin’s green eyes locked onto yours, the flicker of heat behind them unmistakable. “Because I can.”

“And what will you do with me?” you murmured, your voice softening into something huskier. “Am I to be part of this vision of yours? A Targaryen astride her dragon, or something far less… mythic?”

He set his goblet down with deliberate care, his hands coming to rest on your waist, pulling you just slightly closer. “You are my wife,” he said, his voice low but firm, as though that truth alone carried all the weight in the world. “And you are more than myth. You are fire made flesh.”

The words sent a shiver through you, heat pooling low in your belly as you looked up into his face. Tywin Lannister, cold and unyielding to the world, was a man of stone to everyone but you. With you, there was something deeper—something raw, something burning just beneath the surface. And in moments like this, when the world outside fell away, you saw it in him.

“Then claim me,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

His gaze darkened with desire, and in an instant, his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. His lips descended on yours, firm and demanding, sending sparks across your skin as you melted into the kiss. Tywin was not a man prone to tenderness; he kissed with purpose, with possession, and yet there was something almost reverent in the way his hand came up to cradle your jaw.

You responded in kind, your arms winding around his neck as you pressed closer, your body molding to his. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently as you deepened the kiss, feeling his breath catch ever so slightly. When you pulled back, lips swollen and breath shallow, you looked up at him with a wicked smile.

“Undress me,” you whispered, your voice a challenge and a plea all at once.

Tywin’s gaze roamed over you, his eyes dark with hunger as his hands moved to the laces of your gown. He was deliberate, each tug of fabric exposing more of your skin, his fingers lingering where they brushed against you. He lowered the gown slowly, letting it pool at your feet until you stood before him, bare but for the faint glow of firelight against your skin.

“You are exquisite,” he murmured, his voice rough with restrained need.

You stepped forward, your fingers moving to the buckles of his leather doublet, loosening each one until you could push the heavy garment from his shoulders. You tugged at his tunic next, your touch lingering against the hard planes of his chest and the scarred strength of his body. When he stood before you, equally bare, the fire between you seemed to burn hotter.

Tywin’s hands slid to your hips, his grip firm as he guided you toward the bed. You stepped back with him, the furs cool against your calves as he eased you onto the mattress. He followed, his body pressing over yours, the weight of him grounding you as he braced himself above you.

You reached for him, your legs parting as you drew him closer, the anticipation thick between you. “Tywin,” you whispered, your voice soft and wanting.

His gaze met yours, his green eyes locking with your violet ones as he lowered himself. You felt him press against you, the sensation sending a thrill through you as your body arched instinctively beneath him. He entered you slowly, his movements controlled, deliberate, as though savoring every inch of you. Your breath hitched, a soft moan escaping your lips as he filled you completely.

For a moment, he stilled, his face hovering just above yours as you both adjusted to the intimacy of the moment. You reached up, cupping his jaw as you whispered, “Don’t stop.”

Tywin’s control began to fray as he started to move, his thrusts steady and powerful, each one drawing a gasp or a moan from you. You met him with equal fervor, your hips rising to meet his rhythm, your nails dragging lightly down his back as the pleasure built between you. His mouth found the hollow of your throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses there before trailing up to claim your lips again.

“Mine,” he murmured against your mouth, the word rough and possessive.

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice breaking as you clung to him, the world outside fading to nothing but the two of you.

The pace quickened, the tension coiling tighter with each movement, the fire between you consuming everything. You cried out softly as the pleasure crested, your body trembling beneath his as he followed moments later, his breath ragged as he buried himself fully within you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, your bodies still entwined as you caught your breath. Tywin finally shifted, rolling onto his side but keeping you close, his arm draped possessively over your waist. The quiet of the tent wrapped around you like a blanket, the faint sounds of the camp distant and unimportant.

You turned your head to look at him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw as you whispered, “Do you still think you can control fire?”

Tywin’s lips twitched faintly, though he did not open his eyes. “I control what matters.”

You smiled softly, pressing a kiss to his temple as you whispered, “We shall see, my lord. We shall see.”

And with that, you closed your eyes, the weight of the day finally giving way to the warmth of sleep, Tywin’s steady breathing a comforting presence beside you. Outside, the fires burned low, and the dragon watched, her golden eyes glowing in the dark.

The air in Cersei’s chambers felt stifling, heavy with the scent of lavender oil that did nothing to soothe the throbbing ache in her body or the sharp sting of her pride. She sat on the edge of a cushioned divan, draped in a simple gown of muted black. A far cry from the golden silks and rich velvets she had once worn as queen. Her golden hair—shorn during her walk of atonement—barely grazed her shoulders, and her face, though still beautiful, was pale and hollowed with weariness.

Tommen sat nervously beside her, perched like a boy who no longer knew how to comfort his mother. His hands fidgeted in his lap as he glanced toward Qyburn, who stood silently near the hearth. The man had been her most trusted ally since her fall, but even he could not erase what had been done to her.

“Mother,” Tommen spoke softly, his voice tentative. “You shouldn’t stay cooped up in here. The maesters say you should—”

“I know what they say, Tommen,” Cersei cut him off sharply, her tone brittle. Her green eyes turned to him, and her expression softened—just barely. She reached for his hand, her grip weak but insistent. “I am not hiding. I will not cower before them again.”

Tommen nodded faintly, though his youthful face betrayed his unease. “We still have Margaery,” he offered quietly. “She’s in the Sept. You told me the Tyrells were weak. If Tywin—” He faltered, unsure if the word still applied. “If Grandsire returns, he’ll make things right, won’t he?”

Cersei let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and hollow. “Your grandsire will see what I’ve done and scorn me for it. He’ll act as though it’s his house they mocked, not mine.” Her voice turned cold, a faint tremor of fury beneath it. “He’ll set the world right as he always does—through fear, not shame.”

Qyburn cleared his throat softly, stepping forward. “My queen, if I may. Tywin Lannister’s return could provide you with a path to redemption. There is still strength in your name.”

Before Cersei could answer, a loud blare of horns echoed from outside the Red Keep. The sound was sharp and jarring, splitting the quiet of the morning like a blade. Tommen jumped slightly, his head snapping toward the window, where the banners of the capital fluttered lazily in the breeze.

“What’s that?” he asked, his voice high with worry.

Cersei straightened, her back stiff despite the lingering pain. “Horns,” she murmured, a shadow crossing her face. “A summons.”

The door burst open before another word could be spoken, and Varys stepped inside with his usual calm grace, though his expression was far from serene. His eyes darted briefly to Tommen before settling on Cersei. “Your Grace,” he began, his voice low and urgent. “Lord Tywin has returned.”

Cersei’s face remained still, though her nails dug faintly into the cushion beneath her hand. “So soon,” she said coldly. “And what has brought such a spectacle with him that the horns must scream about it?”

Varys inclined his head, his tone careful. “Your father does not travel lightly, as you know. His banners march through the gates as we speak. But…” He hesitated.

Cersei’s gaze snapped to him. “But what?”

Before Varys could reply, a sound pierced the air—high, unearthly, a shriek so terrible that it seemed to silence everything else in the world. It echoed through the walls of the Red Keep, reverberating like a distant wail of doom. Tommen clutched his ears with a cry, and even Qyburn startled visibly.

“What in the name of—” Cersei began, but another shriek cut her off, louder this time. Outside, chaos erupted. Horns blared anew, more frantically now, and distant screams carried on the wind. The sound of boots thundering across the courtyard and the cries of panicked soldiers filled the air like a rising tide.

Cersei stood quickly, ignoring the ache in her limbs as she crossed the room to the window. When she looked out, her breath caught in her throat.

The streets of King’s Landing swarmed like an anthill kicked apart. People scattered in every direction, pointing toward the sky. Guards yelled orders that fell on deaf ears, their swords raised uselessly. In the distance, high above the city, a vast shadow passed across the sun.

And then she saw it.

A dragon.

Viserion’s cream and gold scales gleamed like molten fire in the morning light, her massive wings stretched wide as she soared high above the capital. Her shadow swept over the streets and rooftops, darkening everything it touched, and for a moment, it seemed as though the very air stilled in her wake. She circled the city, her movements graceful and deliberate, her shrieks echoing as though announcing the end of all things.

“She’s circling,” Varys said softly, his gaze fixed on the sky with something akin to awe. “Three times.”

Cersei’s fingers gripped the edge of the window frame tightly, her knuckles white. “Is this Tywin’s doing?” she asked, her voice trembling with fury. “Did he bring this to my city?”

Varys’s gaze remained calm, though his words were clipped. “Yes. And it appears he means to make a statement.”

As Viserion completed her second circuit, the shrieks grew louder, almost deafening. The city below had descended into chaos—citizens dropping to their knees in prayer, others fleeing into doorways and alleyways. Mothers clutched their children, and soldiers, pale-faced, stared upward as though witnessing the stuff of nightmares made flesh.

The dragon dipped lower, her wings sending gusts of wind across the streets, rattling shutters and banners. And then, as she began her third circle, she turned sharply toward the Sept of Baelor.

The Sept loomed in the center of the city, its grand dome a beacon of the Faith—and a fitting perch for a creature of fire and fury. Viserion beat her wings powerfully, rising higher before descending with deliberate grace. Her talons curled as she landed atop the dome, the metal groaning under her weight. Her body coiled, tail curling down one side of the structure while her wings folded tightly against her back. From the streets below, she appeared like a living statue of destruction.

The city watched in stunned silence, awe and terror mingling as one.

Cersei took a step back from the window, her breath shallow as she turned to Varys. “Where is she? Where is the Targaryen whore who rides that beast?”

Varys did not flinch at the venom in her tone. “Your Grace, it is Lady Y/N. She has returned with your father. On his orders, I presume.”

Cersei’s face twisted with fury, though it was undercut by something far more dangerous: fear. She turned back to the window, her lips pressing into a thin line as she watched the dragon remain perched atop the Sept, her eyes scanning the city as though she owned it.

“She circles us like prey,” Cersei murmured darkly, her voice trembling with rage. “And my father allows it.”

Tommen crept closer to the window, his wide blue eyes fixed on the dragon with awe. “It's… beautiful,” he whispered.

Cersei spun on him, her voice sharp. “It's a weapon, Tommen. And don’t you forget it.”

Outside, the horns continued to blare, but the panic had begun to ebb as soldiers recognized the banners of House Lannister streaming through the city gates. The gold lions marched in disciplined formation, banners unfurling like rivers of blood and gold. The Lannister host had returned—but with a dragon at its back, the city would never see it the same way again.

Cersei turned away from the window, her face pale and taut with anger. “Summon the council,” she snapped at Qyburn. “And find out where my father is. I want answers.”

Qyburn bowed quickly and exited the chamber, leaving Varys standing in silence beside the window.

“This changes everything,” Varys murmured softly, half to himself as he looked out at the dragon. “Fire has returned to the capital.”

Cersei sank heavily onto the divan, her hands trembling faintly as she curled them into fists. “And so has my father.”

She stared blankly ahead, her voice dropping to a low whisper. “I will not let him take everything from me.”

But even as she spoke, the faint shrieks of the dragon echoed again in the distance, a sound that promised power, chaos, and a future that no one—not even Tywin Lannister—could fully control.

The streets of King’s Landing trembled under the boots of marching soldiers. The sound was thunderous, echoing off the stone walls of buildings and the cobbled streets as Tywin Lannister’s procession carved its path toward the Sept of Baelor. The golden lions of House Lannister gleamed in the sunlight, their banners streaming like rivers of fire and blood, punctuated only by the green-and-gold sigils of House Tyrell fluttering in time with the wind. Lord Mace Tyrell, stout and beaming, rode at Tywin’s side with all the self-importance of a man convinced of his own worth.

The city had quieted. Fear still lingered thick in the air—fear of the dragon that perched atop the Sept like an ancient god made flesh—but there was also the growing hum of curiosity. Windows cracked open, and desperate eyes peered down from rooftops as the procession approached the grand square before the Sept. The people were quiet, hushed, too afraid to jeer, too in awe to cheer.

At the head of it all rode Tywin Lannister, his crimson cloak billowing in the wind, his golden armor polished to a mirror’s sheen. His face was cold, composed as always, though his green eyes carried the weight of expectation, the certainty of a man who did not come to parley but to rule. Beside him, Mace Tyrell bounced slightly in his saddle, his bearded face twitching nervously as he glanced toward the looming form of Viserion still perched atop the Sept.

“Your dragon is a fine deterrent, Lord Tywin,” Mace muttered, tugging nervously at his green doublet. “The Faith will surely see reason now.”

Tywin did not look at him as he replied, his voice clipped and firm. “They will see what I tell them to see.”

The Sept loomed before them, its massive steps already filling with robed figures. The Faith Militant gathered like a black tide, armed with spiked cudgels, spears, and shields marked with the seven-pointed star. The sun gleamed off their crude armor, their faces hidden beneath thick hoods, yet the fervor in their posture was unmistakable. At the head of them, emerging from the shadowed entrance to the Sept, came the High Sparrow.

The man was as Tywin remembered him—frail, weathered, his simple robes of grey and beige hanging loosely from his thin frame. But it was his eyes that held a strange power, the unwavering gaze of a man who believed himself unshakable. He moved slowly, his hands clasped in front of him as he descended the steps. The Faith Militant parted for him like water, their presence unyielding but silent as the grave.

Above them, Viserion moved. The dragon let out a low, rumbling growl, the sound vibrating through the stone beneath their feet. With the practiced grace of a creature far more agile than her size would suggest, Viserion began to climb down from her perch. Her talons dug into the sides of the Sept, causing great plumes of dust to rise as bits of stone crumbled under her weight. She slithered to the square below, wings furling close to her body as her long tail swept the ground with ominous finality.

Atop her back, you sat tall in your saddle, silver hair gleaming like molten silk in the light. The dragon’s motion was fluid beneath you, and when Viserion’s massive body finally came to rest upon the square, her wings curled neatly, and she let out a low, ominous hiss. You were a vision of power—your black riding leathers embroidered with Valyrian sigils in silver thread, the saddle a masterpiece of black and gold.

The High Sparrow stopped mid-step, his gaze fixed not on Tywin Lannister, but on you and the beast at your command. For the first time, the faintest flicker of uncertainty crossed his otherwise serene expression.

Tywin reined his horse in at the foot of the Sept steps, dismounting with practiced efficiency. His polished boots struck the stone square as he turned sharply to face the High Sparrow. Mace Tyrell followed clumsily, huffing as he struggled to dismount with his dignity intact. Behind them, the Lannister and Tyrell men fanned out in disciplined ranks, swords at their sides, their banners snapping in the wind.

The High Sparrow inclined his head faintly, his weathered face calm. “Lord Tywin,” he said, his voice soft yet clear enough to carry across the square. “It has been some time since you last darkened the steps of the Sept. What brings you to this holy place with such… pageantry?”

Tywin’s lips curled faintly, the expression cold and humorless. “The Faith has overstepped its bounds, as foolish men often do. I have come to see that order is restored.”

The High Sparrow’s gaze did not falter. “Order, my lord? Or obedience? There is a difference.”

“Semantics do not concern me,” Tywin replied curtly. “You will surrender Queen Margaery back into the custody of her family. You will dissolve your hold over this city and the throne. Do this, and you may yet live to see another sunrise.”

The gathered Faith Militant bristled at the words, their grips tightening on weapons, but the High Sparrow raised a hand, calming them. He turned his attention to you now, his gaze lingering as though assessing something far older, far more dangerous than the man standing before him.

“And you,” he said softly, addressing you for the first time. “A child of fire and blood, astride a creature of chaos. Tell me, do you serve the lions of House Lannister willingly? Or have they chained you as men have always sought to chain beasts?”

You smiled faintly, unbuckling yourself from the saddle and sliding gracefully down Viserion’s side. The dragon shifted slightly at your absence, but remained still, her golden eyes locked on the gathered men before her. You stepped forward, your boots striking the stone square as you came to stand at Tywin’s side.

“I am not chained,” you replied coolly, your voice carrying easily. “And I am no beast. I stand here because I choose to.”

The High Sparrow tilted his head slightly, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “Then you choose to stand with those who corrupt and defile. With those who believe power grants them the right to rule without faith, without penance.”

Tywin’s voice cut through like a blade. “Save your sermons for the fearful and the weak. I am neither.”

The High Sparrow turned back to him, his expression calm once more. “And yet you come here demanding surrender. Why? Because you hold swords? Because you bring a dragon?” He gestured toward the Sept, the great dome behind him rising high and holy above their heads. “This is the house of the gods. No beast, no army, no man is greater than the Seven.”

Tywin stepped forward, his presence looming like a shadow cast across the square. “The gods cannot save you from what comes next, Sparrow. Nor will your Faith Militant hold against my men.”

The High Sparrow held his ground, though his followers shifted uneasily behind him. “You are a man of numbers and gold, Lord Tywin, but you do not understand faith. Faith cannot be cut with swords. It cannot be burned with fire.”

A sound interrupted him then—a low, guttural rumble that seemed to rise from the earth itself. Viserion shifted her great head, her golden eyes narrowing as she bared her fangs, smoke curling lazily from her nostrils. The sound of her growl carried across the square like a warning, sending chills down the spines of those gathered.

The High Sparrow turned slightly to look at the beast behind you. For the first time, his voice faltered. “Dragons do not belong here anymore.”

You stepped forward, your voice calm but edged with steel. “They belong wherever we will them to be.”

Tywin glanced at you, the faintest flicker of approval in his gaze before he turned back to the High Sparrow. “You have until sunset to decide, High Sparrow. Surrender Queen Margaery, dissolve your militant farce, and relinquish control of this city. Defy me, and the Faith will burn.”

The High Sparrow’s gaze lingered on both of you, his expression unreadable. “The gods will decide,” he said softly. “Not men, and not dragons.”

Tywin did not reply. He turned sharply, motioning for his men to hold their positions as he stepped back toward his horse. You lingered a moment longer, your gaze meeting the High Sparrow’s. For a moment, it seemed as though he would speak again, but he did not. Instead, he turned and ascended the steps of the Sept, the Faith Militant closing ranks behind him.

You glanced at Tywin as you rejoined him, your tone low. “Do you think he’ll surrender?”

Tywin’s expression was hard as stone. “Men like him never surrender willingly.”

“Then what happens next?” you asked, your voice calm.

Tywin glanced back toward the Sept, his gaze lingering on Viserion as she loomed like a living weapon in the center of the square. “Negotiation,” he said quietly. “And if that fails, fire.”

You said nothing, but as you looked back at the great dome of the Sept, you could not shake the feeling that the High Sparrow’s defiance would be his

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a cavernous expanse of cold stone and flickering torchlight, its gilded edges dulled by years of neglect and turmoil. The Iron Throne loomed at its far end, a jagged monstrosity of twisted steel, a reminder of power as cruel as it was absolute. Today, the room buzzed with quiet tension, courtiers and guards lingering in uncertain clusters as the sound of heavy Lannister boots echoed through the long hall.

Tywin Lannister entered first, flanked by rows of his crimson-cloaked guards, each step measured and deliberate. His polished armor glinted in the light, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like a mantle of blood. At his side, you strode with equal confidence, your black riding leathers and silver-threaded cloak still dusted with the residue of dragon flight. Every eye in the room turned to you—whispers rising like a storm—but none dared to linger too long on the sight of the dragon bride of the Lion of Lannister.

A distant, haunting roar shattered the murmurs, sending a ripple of fear through the gathered crowd. The sound echoed over the castle walls, reverberating through the Red Keep with primal force. Viserion’s massive shadow swept across the narrow windows of the hall as she circled above, her shriek a declaration that fire and power had returned to the capital.

Tommen sat on the Iron Throne, his small frame swallowed by the immense seat of swords. His face lit up with joy and relief at the sight of his grandsire, the golden curls of his hair catching the dim light as he rose to his feet. “Grandsire!” he called, his young voice breaking the silence as he all but ran down the steps of the dais to meet him.

Tywin’s expression softened—slightly—as he stopped to face his grandson. Tommen’s small hands reached for him, clutching his grandsire’s armored forearm as though anchoring himself. “I knew you’d come,” Tommen said breathlessly, his blue eyes wide. “They said you were still marching, but I knew you’d come.”

“You are a king,” Tywin said, his voice steady and calm as he studied the boy. “A king should never doubt the strength of his house.”

Tommen nodded fervently, smiling. “It’s stronger now. You’re here. And… and the dragon is real, isn’t it?”

Before Tywin could reply, another voice cut through the air—sharp and biting.

“So it *is true,” Cersei said, her tone dripping with venom as she descended the steps of the dais. She wore a gown of dark gold that hung loosely on her diminished frame, her face pale, her hair shorn and harsh against the sharp lines of her features. But despite her weakened state, her green eyes burned with resentment as they landed on you. “The Targaryen whore and her beast have come to King’s Landing under your banners, Father.”

The room fell silent at her words, the tension thick enough to choke. Even Tommen flinched, turning to look at his mother in confusion. You said nothing, though your expression remained cold, your violet gaze meeting hers without so much as a blink.

Tywin did not look at her immediately. Instead, he turned to one of his men and gestured curtly. “Take the king to his chambers. He does not need to be here for this.”

“Grandsire—” Tommen began, but Tywin’s gaze flicked sharply toward him, brooking no argument.

“Go, Tommen,” he commanded softly, though there was steel behind the words. Tommen hesitated, glancing between his mother and his grandsire before reluctantly following the guards who ushered him out of the hall.

As the doors closed behind him, Tywin turned fully to face Cersei. His presence seemed to darken the hall itself, his expression one of pure, cold fury.

“Watch your tongue, Cersei,” he said, his voice low and even, yet it carried through the hall like a physical blow. “I will not have my return marred by your pettiness.”

Cersei’s lip curled, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. “Pettiness? You bring dragons and Targaryens into my city, and you call me petty?”

“Your city?” Tywin’s voice turned sharper, his words slicing through her like a knife. “Is this the city you claimed as your own when you were paraded naked through its streets? The city you surrendered to the Faith Militant through your arrogance and your utter lack of discipline?”

Cersei recoiled as though struck, her pale face flushing crimson. “I did what I had to do to protect our family!”

Tywin advanced toward her, and for all her bravado, she stepped back, her eyes wide. “Your recklessness has humiliated this house. You invited the Faith into power, thinking you could wield them as a tool. Now, they rule your city while you cling to scraps of pride and wounded vanity.” His voice grew colder still. “And in your folly, you lost the respect of every lord who might have stood by you.”

Cersei’s mouth opened as though to retort, but Tywin cut her off with a sharp gesture. “Do not speak.”

She faltered, her teeth snapping shut as she seethed in silence, her fists clenched at her sides.

Tywin turned slightly, his gaze shifting to you where you stood calm and unbothered. “Lady Y/N is here because I brought her. She is my wife and the mother of my heir, and her dragon now stands as a symbol of our strength.” He turned back to Cersei, his words a final blow. “You will accept that, or you will leave this city entirely. I will not tolerate your undermining of what must be done.”

Cersei’s chest heaved with barely contained fury, her face pinched and red, but she said nothing.

Viserion’s roar split the air once more, louder this time as she flew low over the Red Keep, her wings casting vast shadows across the throne room. The distant cries of startled courtiers carried faintly through the heavy windows.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Tywin’s gaze remained fixed on his daughter for a long moment before he turned away dismissively. “Return to your chambers. You are no use to me here.”

Cersei froze, her face twisting with indignation. “Father—”

“Go,” Tywin said sharply, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Cersei’s hands trembled at her sides, her mouth opening and closing as though searching for words that would not come. Finally, she turned on her heel, her movements stiff with humiliation as she strode toward the doors, her shorn hair catching the light like a tarnished crown.

The room remained deathly silent as Tywin turned back toward you. His expression had softened—slightly—as he regarded you with a measured calm. “We have work to do,” he said quietly.

You nodded faintly, stepping toward him. “The Faith Militant will not yield easily.”

“No,” Tywin agreed, his voice like steel. “But they will yield.”

The doors to the throne room closed behind Cersei with a heavy thud, and Tywin’s presence seemed to fill the hall once more. The Lion of Lannister had returned to King’s Landing, and with him came the fire and fury of the dragon at his command.

#game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #fire and blood #house targaryen #house lannister #got #got/asoiaf #asoiaf x reader #house of the dragon #hotd #got tywin #tywin lannister #tywin x reader #tywin x you #tywin x y/n #legacy

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fanaticsnail · 11 months ago

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Little Sparrow

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 1,298

(Image Link)

Summary: Mihawk has been up with your daughter, soothing her as she experiences her leap weeks. You spend some moments with your husband as he holds her in his arms.

Warnings: husband!mihawk x wife!reader, father!mihawk x mother!reader, sweet domesticity, brief mention of birth trauma.

Notes: small drabble brought on by the ask of @hungrhay. Got the cogs turning in my mind. I hope you enjoy this little drabble!

Tag list: @sordidmusings, @writingmysanity, @gingernut1314, @feral-artistry

Soft melodic hums cascaded down the empty halls of Castle Kuraigana. No whisper of a word, nor fall of a footstep, broke your trance as you sought out the source of the melody. You silenced the drop of your slipper against the cool floor, in an attempt to not shatter the world Mihawk was crafting for himself so early in the morn.

You knew where you’d find him. He was where he always was at this time of night. The kitchen was his place where he’d find the most solace, resting his body in a chair with his feet slotted beneath the dining table. The cryptid hours where your daughter would be at her peak of restlessness, the purple crying she’d been producing during her leap weeks held you hostage to her woes. The first time you had experienced this leap had you both struggling and clasping at straws for solutions.

He began calling on your household Den-Den-Mushi, all those who you both knew had experience with young children: starting with Vice-Admiral Garp. He proceeded to bark his laughter and give you hope of: “this too shall pass,” and sending you a small crate of rum in sympathy.

The next point of contact you had sense to call was Shanks and his Red-Hair crew. Shanks was absolutely no help to you with any advice, the jovial hooting and hollering in their drunken stupor in the background having all cohesive words falling on deaf ears. The receiver Den-Den-Mushi was stolen from Shank’s hand, and into the mouthpiece barked the burly voice of the first mate.

“Mihawk. The nights are long, but the years are short. You’ll get through this,” his gruff voice informed him, inhaling deeply from his cigarette. Upon his exhale, he offered a soft word of advice, “You’re a swordsman, one of the warlords of the seas. You have been through worse, she has not. Be kind to your wife. Let her have the night to rest.” Mihawk offered no further conversation, but greatly appreciated the compassion the First-Mate of his oldest rival offered him.

As you stood in the threshold of the doorway, you witnessed your husband cradling your daughter into his chest and continuing to sooth her. His gentle hums and slow rock of his body had her eyes heavy and falling closed. It was an old tune, the native rasp of his mother tongue falling from his lips as he whispered the words with his hum.

“You are going to have the world fall on their knees, my Little Sparrow,” he whispered down into her hair. His lips caressed her scalp, watching as he deeply inhaled the scent of her bundles of silken hair. His deep frown softened, his honeyed eyes closing as he leant back into his chair. As he lulled his head against the frame of the chair, you approached him and placed a hand on his cheek. He opened his eyes a small crack, sighing as he felt your lips press against his forehead.

“She started early, didn’t she?” You asked him, his response being a small hum in confirmation falling from his nose. You brushed your nose with his before turning to place the kettle on the stove and lighting the flame.

“Did you rest well, my love?” his lazy drawl called over to you, voice only harboring affection and adoration with his question. You sighed with your smile, grasping the handles of two mugs and beginning the routine of readying your morning dose of caffeine. Guilt wracked your heart, your brows upturning and lips pouting. Before you could utter a response, Mihawk’s reprimand called out to you.

“Don’t you dare,” His words sliced your worries like the fell swift of his blade, Yoru, “It has been eight weeks since she’s been with us, and you are still recovering from the trauma of her birth. Don’t you dare, my love.”

You sighed, your shoulders slouching at his comments. It was true, your body was still recovering from bringing life’s first breath to your daughter; your routines shifting and adjusting to her each subtle moment, lives changed forever. He was nothing but supportive of your recovery, doting on his girls with his attention equally.

“Thank you,” you sighed, turning with both his and your coffees prepared, placing his on the table in front of him and elevating yours to your lips. Your daughter began to stir in his arms, her lip quivering as the groggy girl opened her eyes once more.

He immediately recommenced his humming and rocking of her, staring down into her own honeyed eyes as his lullaby soothed her once more.

“My love,” you slowly called out to him, placing your coffee down on the table beside his and walking behind the chair, “I read that these leap weeks only occur when children are learning a new skill.” His humming ceased as you both stared down into her eyes.

“I wonder what our Little Sparrow is learning to bring on such cries of grief,” he muttered, looking down into her eyes in curiosity. You drew your own eyes down to meet your daughter’s, her eyes darting between each of you as she lay on her stomach on Mihawk’s chest.

It was then you saw it: the small twinkle of recognition behind her gaze. The upturn of the corners of her eyes and her cheeks balling in two perfect rotund spheres.

Your daughter was smiling. Truly smiling. The first smile not induced by wind, nor a grimace as she experienced pain in her belly. She was smiling at you both.

An audible sigh fell from your husband, his lips circling and forming a soft “O” shape as his eyes softened. Your eyes pricked at the corners, witnessing such pure and unbridled happiness from your daughter as your husband became hypnotized by her radiancy.

“All the cries in the twilight hours are worth it to see your smile, Little Sparrow,” he whispered, taking her small cheek within his palm and smoothing over her skin with his thumb. You circled your arms over his shoulders, pressing your lips against his whiskered cheek before staring at your daughter.

“She is going to accomplish such wonderful things,” you uttered down into her, your voice up-pitched and playful, “Aren’t you, little Sparrow?” Her toothless grin widened, an inhaled coo squeaked from her lips as drool began to glisten at the corner of her lips.

Mihawk turned his head to gaze at you, his eyes half-lidded as he witnessed such sweetness occurring between his wife and daughter. He slowly raked his eyes over your smiling expression, your prior slumber written on your face as you gazed lovingly at your daughter in his arms. He wanted to hold this moment close, committing every subtle change to memory to draw on when your daughter picked up on her inconsolable cries tomorrow night.

It was all worth it: every cry, every disruption to his sleep schedule, every coffee bringing him life-sustaining energy. It was worth each and every night he soothed her cries and hummed his melodies, just to have this moment with you.

Breaking himself away from his enraptured hypnosis, he quickly arched his head forwards and pressed his lips against your cheek. You broke your attention away from your daughter and hastily turned your head to claim his lips against your own. The swell of his heart was tangibly felt in each moment he held your lips beneath his.

His appreciation, his adoration, his love for you felt with the soft hum of his voice against your lips: his eyes closed, brow furrowed and lips smooth against your own. Breaking away, he smiled lazily at you and held his twinkling gaze against your own. Elevating his voice, he allowed himself to ponder with you.

“I wonder if she will have your laugh, or she will have mine.”

#one piece #opla #x reader #opla fic #mihawk #dracule mihawk #mihawk x reader #dad!mihawk x reader #husband!mihawk x wife!reader #one piece live action

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owlespresso · 9 months ago

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the golden ivy which clings

omega!luocha/beta!reader you are a beta courier. one of your clients is more interested in you than you'd like. tags: blackmail, coerced intimacy done as a part of @lorelune's a/b/o collab.

Your legs ache. Your muscles twitch with the extended exertion. The last five hours spent on your feet are catching up to you. It’s a trapping of the occupation. Being a courier on the Luofu means you regularly bounce up and down its many layers and areas, rushing from district to district, from the boughs to the canopy. After three years, you’ve long memorized the thin corridors and hardly beaten paths, mapped every vein and pipe and ligament in your seemingly endless pursuit of planning the optimal delivery routes.

Faces blend together in your line of work. You doubt your clients remember much anything about you. You’re a muddy sparrow flitting from branch to branch, a bee gliding from flower to flower, as nameless as any other customer service worker. You earn more than most of your peers, but that’s mostly because you’ve extended your services to stations and ships beyond the Luofu orbit.

…And also because of your status as a perfectly even beta, liberated from the debilitating symptoms of heats or ruts. You have no need for bimonthly off days, and needn’t fear the voracious gazes or grasping claws of wayward alphas. No one is likely to notice a lone, scentless courier, even in areas where the Cloud Knights frequently patrol.

Today’s business sees you on the far ends of Aurum Alley, where night has slipped over the artificial skies like silk over skin, streets steeped in deep shadow. You stick to the walls, underneath awnings and through narrow side paths. Silvery moonlight dapples through a canopy of sunset orange leaves, touching the aged stone path, the askew benches next to the food stalls.

On the furthest side, mist billows from the waters and onto the red wood docks. Quiet, still. Hardly a customer to be seen. It’s been the very same every other time you’ve visited. The only people you’ve seen have been members of the IPC. They’re surely thrilled at the minimal returns the businesses here are receiving. Filthy hawkers, intent on contaminating every locale unfortunate enough to make contact with them. You hope they never see another coin in their entire lives.

Not that it’s any of your business. You’re just a courier. It’s in your best interests to keep your head down and keep your eyes from wandering, lest you attract their attention… or the attention of any other governing body who would disprove of the wares you ferry from place to place.

Near the docks, where the wind churns the briny waves, stands the blond man. A repeat customer, a man you’ve come to know as ‘Luocha’.

“You didn’t have to wait out here,” is the first thing you say to him, adjusting the straps of your heavy bag. Your shoulders have started to ache from the strain of the day's long treks. “It’s cold, isn’t it?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he assures you. He has a delicate kind of beauty, the kind you see in fairytale picture books or depictions of soft omegas in gravure magazines. His cheeks are thin, set of his nose regal. His lips are soft rose, petals curled into a winsome smile. His lashes, thick and blonde, fan against his cheeks every time he blinks. It’s all at odds with his imposing height and strange, cold aura. “Shall we head inside?”

“It’s whatever you want,” you reply drolly.

“Inside, then. You look... tired. Have you been on your feet all day long?” Luocha’s hair sways when he turns and bobs which each sway of his hips. Dim lantern light catches on the ornamental pin which holds his strands in place. Just as striking as the rest of him. You really don’t know how he’s come this far without finding a mate. He surely turns the head of any alpha who catches a whiff of him. Even with your muted sense of smell, you still detect undercurrents of that delicate sweetness. Frosted finger cakes and clean face powder. It’s buried under something bitter and medicinal—only able to be caught in the tender hours of the night. After his work is long done.

“That’s just the job. It doesn’t bother me,” you assure him. The apartment building is darkly lit and nondescript. He doesn’t look like he belongs here, in all his whites and golds, pristine and put together and perfectly pressed.

“Still,” he glances back at you. “You won’t be able to do your job at all if you don’t get enough rest. And I would hate to be deprived of my favorite courier’s company.”

You don’t know what kind of face you’re making, but he takes one look at you and laughs quietly.

“My apologies. Given my occupation, it’s practically second nature for me to be concerned about these sorts of things.” He says with a small shrug. You don’t reply, lips nettling into a frown. If you were kinder, perhaps more naive, perhaps you would have mistaken the sentiment to be genuine.

He doesn’t live in the hollow apartment he leads you to. It’s too ramshackle, mostly undecorated space with a couch, a table and a mismatched arm chair when you walk in. He’s dressed too nicely to tolerate moth-eaten curtains and layers of dust.

“Pardon the state of this place—I don’t actually live here. If it were up to me, we would hold our meetings in a nicer place.” he sighs. You don’t know why he feels the need for small talk. He hasn’t always been like this. During the first few months of serving him, the only words exchanged between you both were basic greetings and fleeting formalities.

“It’s fine. ‘S not like you live here,” you wave him off and deposit your bag onto the leather. It’s an earthy green, the color nearly the same as the worn upholstery. It squelches at the impact, and you tug it open by the zipper. The vacuum of created space is chilled around your arm, goosebumps rolling over your skin. A square package wrapped in plastic, off-worlder medicine banned aboard the Luofu, favored by certain members of Sanctus Medicus.

“Are you a member of Sanctus Medicus?” you’re not sure why you ask.

“Oh? I can’t recall you ever asking me such a personal question,” Luocha observes, a mote of mischief in his voice. “Why? Would you dislike it if I was?”

“No. It’s not my place to police anyone's beliefs—but the members I’ve met seem…” you trail off. It isn’t like you to give your opinion so freely, but you can’t imagine someone so discerning falling in line with those quacks.

“Sanctimonious? Self-righteous? Gullible?” Luocha lists for you, leaning against the back of that dowdy couch. He doesn’t move to accept the package, even when you pointedly zip the bag back up. His smile is unreadable.

“All of those things,” you agree, making the three steps it takes to reach him. “Though, I can’t really blame them.”

“And how could you? The long-lived of the Luofu will be roaming the galaxy and enjoying its many fruits hundreds of years after they’re dead and gone. It’s only natural to pursue that which they feel has been hoarded from them.” Luocha plucks the package from your waiting hands, eyeing it with mildly fond intrigue.

“I suppose,” you hum. You’ve already spoken too much. This isn’t a discourse you should be involved in. Sanctus Medicus, despite their incompetence, is still a faction of individuals with enough outreach to meddle in your business, should this conversation get back to them.

Long fingers wrap around your wrist. Your eyes blow wide as you stumble into his chest—sturdy, so different from what you’d expect from someone so beautiful, built well beneath his layers. There is no presage, no forewarning.

Underneath the chamomile slides forth the tender, ambrosial scent which betrays his status as an omega. Your pulse hums in your ears, body frozen stiff—but you remain unblemished by the adrenaline.

“Mister Luocha?” you say.

“So steady, even now,” he observes with infuriating tenderness, breath warm against the shell of your ear. “I suppose I should have expected that from an emanator of Harmony.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, unable but to be proud of how steady your voice remains. Every meeting you have ever had with him replays in your head, rolls by all at once like jittering strips of old-timey film as you pull them from the rusty bank of your memory. What could have given you away in the brief moments you’ve shared together? What in the way that you’ve handed him his contraband belied your true nature? Nothing, you’re sure. He’s discovered this piece of you on his own, and that worries you the most.

“Come now,” Luocha coaxes, the euphony of his voice slipping into something softer and sweeter. “You can be honest with me. We’ve already shared so much with each other, haven’t we?”

“The only thing I’ve ever shared with you are the poisons you order,” you inform him, hands braced against his chest. He tuts at you, and his scent grows all the sweeter. Even you can recognize the excited pheromones he pumps into the air. Your senses are replete with him, tongue made sticky by the devious croon of his voice.

“And you give so much of yourself with that alone,” he insists. “Your willingness to pass illicit drugs into the hands of your customers tells me far more about you than any small talk ever has. A shame, really. You have such interesting thoughts, whenever you deign to share them.”

“What do you want from me?” you ask flatly. Your eyes narrow with undisguised suspicion.

“A great many things, but to start...” His fingers tap a gentle drumbeat atop your shoulder. You shrug him off. A contemplative sound hums deep within his chest, quiet but loud in the dusty still of the room. “Share more of your thoughts with me, Courier.” he beseeches. “You’re always so quiet, when we’re together. I think we’ve known each other long enough to hold better conversations.” His hands slide off of you, smooth and quick as oil slick. It’s a concentrated effort to not bolt out of his reach like a startled fawn.

His gaze bores into your back as you take several measured, extremely normal and calm steps over to your abandoned bag, zipping it back up with renewed zeal.

“I think that was extremely inappropriate.” you share generously.

“I apologize. I only meant to tease, but it seems I’ve pushed too far,” he confesses, genuinely contrite. There is something else about his inflection. Something which sparks alive the long distant urge to soothe. “I don’t often forget myself like this. You must bring it out of me.”

You frown. The feeling dies. It’s not your responsibility to comfort this weirdo. He’s done nothing to earn your sympathy. Pesky biology, however, would dictate otherwise.

“You’ll be delivering to me again tomorrow, won’t you?” he asks, tilting his head. Your internal discourse snaps to a halt, instinct shafted to the side to make way for the sacred tradition known as “doing business”.

“Of course. Same ingredients, same amount?”

“Yes—and a Core Esse, if you’ve the means to procure one—”

You give him a look, but you nod regardless. “Understood. I’ll meet you at the docks, tomorrow—” It’s not professional to walk away while making arrangements with a client, but you very badly want to be out of this stuffy apartment and away from the new, bizarre scrutiny he looks at you with.

You typically avoid knowing anything about your customers beyond the bare basics. However, you can no longer afford Luocha that same distance. Just how much does he know? And where exactly has he pulled your precious secrets from?

The investigation begins tonight. You’re hesitant to call on her, but you may very well need to reach out to a particular contact.

—

Hours worth of feverish research inevitably lead to you just calling the Stellaron Hunter who owes you a favor. You have not the slightest clue where Luocha procured such private information, or how much of it he has. Penacony’s travel logs will be the first place to look. If your bothersome merchant has been there before, it’ll be no mystery where he figured you out. Does The Family still talk about you? And do they look back on your brief term of leadership with nostalgic fondness or embittered hatred?

You care not. Those mistakes are long behind you. The Luofu is a kinder place, somehow easier to navigate despite its Abundance soaked innards, where only the engineers dare wander. Without the protections they are outfitted with, you suppose you’re more vulnerable to mara exposure and all it entails, but you never dwell longer than half-an-hour at a time.

Roots and vines cling to the aged metal paneling and jutting pipes, green and gold particles sour the dim air. The pipes rattle and groan, portions of something neon yellow shooting through the complex web of them at irregular intervals. Flowers sprout from the ropey greenery, some bulbs shut and others agape. Pale petals of pink and white and periwinkle peeled wide open against slick silver and rusted brown. The closed bulbs look oddly wooden, but you’re not stupid enough to touch one.

Luocha could surely excuse you for being mara-struck. The Cloud Knights, on the other hand…

Well. It’s not worth thinking about. The overworld welcomes you back with a gust of fresh wind, washing away the acrid tang of the tunnels. The shallowest of them have several discreet exit and entry points. Crevices in the walls swallow you whole and deposit you in nondescript locations across the Luofu, random alleys and average apartment buildings where it’s easy to sink into the crowds.

Today, it’s a high end district, populated by the high-end homes of diplomats and ranking officials from the Luofu’s sister ships. They come to roost in these behemoth manors a few times a year at most, meaning the streets are emptier than you’re accustomed to. There’s not a soul to be seen or heard, not one resident there to share the wide open road with you. The houses leer at you with wide windows and lacquered doors, sat fat and happy behind their tall gates and gaping lawns.

Luocha calling you here, after all of those clandestine exchanges in that dowdy shell of an apartment, is a statement in itself. Is he threatening you with this obscene display of opulence? You can’t begin to fathom why he’d bother with bothering a simple courier. What does he possibly hope to gain?

The address he sent is among the smallest houses you’ve seen so far. One of the least extravagant, which is to say, still pretty fucking extravagant. The latticework fence is wreathed with delicate cotton roses and the yard is a veritable Eden in comparison to the other lots. The path forward is lined by patches of vibrant wildflowers.

The air is cleaner here, and for the first time since entering the district, you can hear birdsong echoing from the tops of the trees.

How much of this did he plant himself? And how have his neighbors handled living next to a miniature forest? You reach out, palm sliding over the closest oak’s trunk, the bark coarse under your cold palms. Beyond the path, to your left, you hear the babbling of flowing water. The yard isn’t large enough to have a creek, you reason, and the time of your appointment looms close—but you figure you have enough legroom to at very least sneak a glance. Your curiosity for once gets the better of you, sending you through the thicket of green, beyond a copse of trees lined up like appointed sentinels, and over an emerging path of flat stones.

The forest opens into a small clearing. A massive, rock-lined pond nests at the center, surrounded by cattails and watergrasses and other waterfaring plants. The babbling, as you expected, comes from a filtration system stealthily hidden amongst the many reeds.

Sunlight shivers across the gentle waters, stirred up by the afternoon breeze.

A chair has been left unfolded beneath the low-hanging branches of a stout, red maple—a splash of crimson among earthy greens and cool browns.

Cautiously, you pick your way down the slope to the pool, squinting at the fish which flicker and dart between rocks and lotus stems. Mostly koi. Pretty, glimmering things which likely cost an arm and a leg. You’ve been to many aquatic markets, even ferried a few live specimens yourself. You settle by the edge, elbows resting on your bent knees. Cautiously, you extend outstretched fingers towards the water, dragging along the silken smooth surface.

A hand lands on your shoulder.

“My, my—”

You don’t hear the rest of what he says. One moment you’re above water and the next under, your startled flailing sending you straight over the lip.

Luocha is at very least apologetic about your unfortunate (humiliating) spill. He shows you to the washroom and closes the door with a contrite little smile. You run up the water bill for your trouble, the shiver chased from your drenched frame as you step under the hot spray. The shower has room enough for three people, easily. There are two heads and a bunch of silver knobs and dials you don’t feel like fucking with. Rich people and their needlessly complicated household appliances.

You don’t know exactly how long you spend in there, but the mirrors have fogged over by the time you get out. Only once you’ve properly scrubbed the pond water from your skin and tended to your hair do you turn the shower off. The mist sticks to your skin even after a decent toweling. You go through two until you give up and throw on the plush robe he so generously provided. It’s as fine quality as the porcelain tub you spy nestled against the western wall.

The brass glows near gold beneath the warm light. The entire bathroom is all golds and black. Utterly resplendent, but it doesn’t really seem his style.

Is this even his home? You can’t help but wonder as you stroll out the bathroom and into the rest of the house. Most of the interior chambers are linked by wide circular arches. The furniture is cream cushions paired with lacquered dark wood. A sweet smell hangs in the air, but you can’t tell if the potted white lilies on the table beside the sofa are the source.

Luocha stands by the window. Beams of sun hit his face and cast his hair in vibrant gold. He’s ethereal in those shades of sun. He looks delicate, somehow, curves of his body lean under the flowing press of his silken robe.

He looks at you. The dreamy green of his gaze clears your brain of the remaining fog, leaving you cold and alone with the fact that you are alone, together, in an empty house. In a mostly empty neighborhood.

“Your clothes are in the wash,” he smiles. “They’ll be clean in around an hour. Once again, I apologize for startling you—”

“Don’t. I shouldn’t have been skulking around in your front yard in the first place.” The sooner your humiliating slip is forgotten, the better. “Let’s just get down to it. You wanted something delivered, right?”

“All business with you, even now,” Luocha sighs, forlorn disappointment wrinkling his brow. “You don’t have to be so uneasy around me, you know. Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll brew us some tea.”

You do not sit. “You called me here for a reason. I deserve to know what it is.”

“Is your company not reason enough?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. He’s closer now, close enough for you to see how glassy his eyes are. The cloying, sweet smell grows stronger with each step taken, reckless pheromones enough to send a shudder down your spine. Is he… “What if I said I simply wanted to see you?” he breathes, gently cupping your chin. “Should I admit that you’ve haunted my near every thought for the past month, or would that be going too far? Would it frighten you?”

A ruddy flush paints his pale cheeks, cracks in his composure beginning to show. He’s always been the perfect picture of composure, to an irritating degree. The certain grace he moves with used to almost annoy you. So steady, in a world contaminated by constant disruption and imbalance. The very pinnacle of perceived harmony. Perhaps you envied the way in which he carried himself or the freedom he enjoyed as an interstellar merchant, but now—

Now you can say you hardly envy him at all.

“I would say that you should wait until your heat is over before making any confessions,” you observe, resisting the urge to swallow and make the problem worse. Omega or not, he still looms large over you.

“I’m in pre-heat, where I’ll most likely stay for the next few days,” one of his hands graces your right shoulder, thumb rolling delicate circles there. “I won’t ask you to… service me through the heat itself, but your company would help soothe the symptoms.” The touch wanders down your upper arm, a smooth, repetitive caress. It feels more like an unconscious gesture or a nervous tic than anything else. A self-soothing sort of motion.

“I’m a courier, not an on-call heat partner,” you inform him. How desperate must he be, to seek out the assistance of a courier of all people? “And I’m a beta. I can’t help you in the same way an alpha could. You know that.”

“And how do you know what will and won’t satisfy me?” he replies cooly, haughtily, as if he did not just sing your praises and plead for succor by your hand. “Betas are known to be particularly adept heat and rut partners due to their versatile nature—”

“I too have read the ‘Galaxy Hitchhiker’s Guide to Dynamics and All their Intricacies’. You don’t need to quote it verbatim to me.” you reply flatly, sounding as unconvinced as possible. Luocha is—dangerous. He is handsome, and he seems very sweet, and always seems well of manners, but you know he hides his daggers deep in his sleeves. The moment you realized you are considering his offer, you feel apart from yourself. Because it is ludicrous an idea.

Luocha’s eyes close. His bright lashes fan against flushed cheeks. “No sexual intimacy has to be involved. While skin-to-skin contact is the most effective method to ease the pain, simply being in the same room as you will suffice.”

The heat of him slips onto your skin, the layers between you thinner than you realized. An absentminded hand roams to the sash tied ‘round your waist, idly toying with the knot. His palm, after a moment of fidgeting, settles on the round of your hip. He gives you a gentle squeeze, but it reminds you more of a cat flexing its claws than a gesture of simple appreciation. He inundates you with scent and touch, pins you like a butterfly to a board, wings splayed open for his searching eyes.

Not that you’ve really tried to fly away at all. A flush of newfound heat encompasses you, unbidden as his scent washes over your palate. You draw him into your mouth and swallow, thighs pressing tight together. It’s ridiculous, really. Inane. Who is he to make you feel so unbalanced?

You find him so utterly vexing. No other man could do this to you, you think. You wouldn’t dare step foot into anyone else’s private home. You wouldn’t consider breaking the strict code of propriety you keep with your customers. But for Luocha, denizen of the Abundance and keeper of your most precious secret, you fear you may do anything.

“I’m a beta,” you repeat quietly.

Luocha remains undiscouraged by your disquiet. Baffling creature, bold beyond reason and reckoning behind his steady, at times coquettish mien. “You can still help me, if you would like. I’m not in the practice of taking unwilling partners.”

You let a poignant pause settle between you, as if you are legitimately considering his request. He leans in, ever so slightly, as if leering at you from three centimeters away is any better than leering at you from five.

Then, finally, after remaining silent for at least thirty long seconds. “Do you prefer blackmailed ones?”

He smiles. The corners of his eyes crinkle with it, entire face lighting up with genuine fondness. So utterly vexing, this man.

“Do you really want an answer to that question?” he asks. When you don’t answer, he presses a kiss to your temple.

—

It isn’t as awkward as you thought it would be. Perhaps it’s because Luocha seems to lack shame in almost everything he does. True to his word, he doesn’t touch you without permission. The rest of the day is spent sitting together in the lounge. He reads a book while you sit on the couch, half-paying attention to the news program you’ve put on. Dinner is takeout. The conversation is… bearable. It helps distract you from how close he is, pressed tight to the side of his body.

You stay in the living room until the sun sets, vivid orange light descending to dusky twilight. Eventually, Luocha stands to head to the washroom. A chill replaces the space he once occupied. You don’t allow yourself to mourn the loss. Instead, you haul yourself onto your feet. Black spots swim at the corners of your vision as your body lags a few seconds behind your brain.

It’s just more time wasted, as far as you're concerned, so you push yourself. You stagger until your eyesight clears, intending to make a break for the guest room that certainly must exist. Somewhere. A house this extravagant must have a guest room.

You manage to peek into two rooms, one a particularly extravagant closet and the other a sunroom.

You sullenly retreat back into the main hallway and head for the next door. Luocha slides out of the bathroom and fixes you with a questioning stare. “Where are you going?”

“Isn’t there a guest bedroom?”

“Ah,” he stands there and looks at you for a long moment, like you are a stranger in his home. Which is partially true, you suppose. You are little more than strangers. “There is, but I was hoping…” he looks off to the side with a pointed sigh. “you would spend the night in my bed.”

You stare at him like he’s grown a new head. He stares back, completely unrepentant.

“Because skin-to-skin contact helps?” you supply wryly.

“Right,” he smiles, as though glad you understand. “During pre-heat, an omega craves the constant companionship of a trusted person, preferably a mate, but that label doesn’t apply to our arrangement. Remaining isolated during this time could cause anxiety, depression, feelings of worthlessness, headaches, migraines—”

“You’ve gotten all the pity you’re gonna get out of me.” you inform him crisply. You relent anyway. The wooden floor is chilly as you pad towards him.

Your stoicism “Wonderful. Thank you for accommodating,” At very least, he seems to know that he’s putting this upon you. Luocha’s bed, you think, is far from the worst place you could spend your night. He’s far from unappealing. He smells good. He’s been weird to you, before, but he’s also unwaveringly polite and currently weaker than usual, hazier.

Not like you have much of a choice.

He could easily leak your location to your former allies. The Family’s connections span the universe wide. They could easily track you down and cause you all sorts of trouble, maybe even get you kicked off the Luofu. It’s best to cooperate with him, for the time being. And it’s not like he’s terrible company. He holds the door open for you even now, when you’re here for his sake.

His bedroom is as luxurious as the rest of the house. The floor is dark wood and the walls are black with golden accents. Tapestries hang over tall windows, blocking out the moonlight. A porcelain vase sits atop a combination dresser-vanity, its knobs and gnarled claws a warm bronze. The rest of the furniture is similarly colored, and of similar quality.

What draws your attention the most is the bed. It’s a wide mattress held aloft atop a platform. Gauzy black curtains hang from the top of the thin gold frame, parted to give you a good look at the mountain of pillows and blankets stacked atop of it. This, you recognize.

“Ah, that’s…” you begin, not quite sure how to phrase it. Aren’t some omegas super touchy about their nests? You haven’t the slightest clue as to which compliments to pay and to which part.

“A nest. I typically don’t indulge in the baser instincts that come with heat, but the urge was stronger than usual,” Luocha informs you, padding over to the mattress. He flops backwards on it, swimming through silks and satins like a minnow up a stream. Soon enough, you’ve lost him in the pile. “There isn’t much else for me to do besides twiddle my fingers, and I can only watch television for so long. So I thought: why not? It’ll be as good a way to keep busy as any other.”

There’s a small pause. Luocha hesitates by the vanity, drumming his slender fingers atop the hard wood. There’s something uncharacteristically fretful about the gesture. “What do you think?”

“It looks comfortable,” you nod sagely.

“What glowing praise,” he says, almost beaming. You’re kind of annoyed at how… no, you won’t call him cute. Not even within your own internal dialogue. “I’m glad to hear that. Why don’t you join me?”

He rests up against the headboard, lines of his body lean and lithe. He looks like something out of an old painting, long locks and pale limbs flowing over the dark sheets like

The green of his eyes is startling in the dim of the room. He looks you over, haughty like a monarch on a gilded throne, until his eyelids dip and his head tilts.

“Come here,” he beseeches again. “Please.”

And you do. You cross the threshold of the room, slipping past the open curtains and into the bower of his bed. The mattress dips plush under your hands and knees. Once you’re halfway across, you sit back on your knees—but this is not close enough for him. He needles and pleads with you until you’re close enough to grab. One of his hands wraps around your upper arm, the other at your hip as he tugs you to him, fitting your back snuggly against his front.

You still, but the tension remains wound tight in your shoulders. You’re more amazed at your own stupidity more than anything else. Wasn’t it you who insisted on keeping your clients at arm’s length? All of that haughty professionalism was tossed out the window the moment you succumbed to his pleading—if it could even be called that. He asked nicely.

Your eyes flutter shut. You lean backwards into his chest. His wide hands slide over your body, thumbs rolling circles onto your hips. A soft and sticky feeling settles underneath your skin as his thighs (bigger than you imagined) cradle your own, silken fabric of his robe pooled over the sheets. A low sound rumbles in his chest, suspiciously close to a contented purr.

“I’m so glad you decided to spend time with me, courier.” he coos. His hand glides up your arm to cup your own, long fingers interlacing with yours. A contemplative hum rumbles within his chest as he turns it over. His thumb traces the lines and creases of your palm. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“I suppose I don’t.”

“And that’s why it means all the more to me that you stayed,” Luocha murmurs. He reaches over to the nightstand, and the lamp flickers off. The room is plunged into matte darkness, hardly a glimmer of moonbeam slipping in. “I think that you’re more considerate than you pass yourself off to be. Does that frighten you?”

“I didn’t think you’d be able to talk this much,” your brow wrinkles. “Aren’t you supposed to be too horny to think?”

“I’ll remind you that I’m currently in pre-heat—a process my body uses to prepare for the actual heat.” he says with a light sigh. “Believe me. If I were in heat,” his breath brushed against the shell of your ear, a warm and heady caress. “You would know.” He delicately presses the shell between his teeth, nosing the space behind it with another pleased sigh.

You shudder, and close your eyes. “And what’s the difference between heat and preheat?”

“Ah, I suppose you wouldn’t be able to tell… The pheromones for one,” Luocha squeezes your hand. “Are different. They’re similar to the ones we give off when under threat, a signal that we’ll need help soon… Not all omegas go through it—only an estimated forty percent.”

“I see.”

Luocha smiles, the curve of it pressed against your throat. You don’t like not being able to see him. A predator looming in the dreary dark of his den. “The desire is still present. Less a raging storm, more the gentle lapping of the waves.”

“Poetic. But I still don’t get why you picked me. They have services for this kinda thing. People who know more about it than I do.” If you doubted his sanity before, you certainly do now. What kind of sane omega enlisted the help of a postwoman above paid professionals?

“I would rather you than an unfamiliar alpha some service decided would be an adequate match. Even if vetted, a stranger is still just that. A stranger.” Luocha idly toys with your fingers, thumb rubbing circles onto your palm. It’s a touch too familiar, too tender for what you are. But Luocha permits himself to it, and the rest of your body, with a natural ease. You can’t help but feel lulled by it.

“I see. And you feel safe sharing a bed with your dealer?” Tempting as the siren song of slumber may be, you retain enough wit to pry. The whole thing is too absurd to not badger him a bit more. The arm wrapped around your waist tightens in reply.

“I trust someone who has never been late, never sold my personal information or purchase history and has been nothing but courteous to me.” Luocha lists off your credentials with ease. They feel like they’re straight out of an EULA, or some sort of contract. Out of place in a situation as delicate as this. You could easily tell him as much, but he’s starting to sound sleepy. You would rather he get his rest. And be quiet.

“Of course,” he squeezes the space above your hip, making your pulse spike. “Having the endorsement of an Aeon helps. Especially if said Aeon rules over the Harmony. What a lovely and orderly path to tread, courier. She chose you so well.”

“You should have told me that this thing was gonna make you delusional,” you grumble, writhing in his hold to simply signify your displeasure. A part of you wants to come clean and ask where the hell he learned your secret. It’s obvious that he won’t change his mind, or be swayed by your protestations. But you’re still too stubborn to admit he’s right.

You’re almost annoyed by how comfortable this is. He laughs, breath brushing the crown of your head, but he says nothing else, perhaps sensing that he’s reached your tolerance threshold for silliness. His breathing evens out a few minutes later, chest rising and falling beneath you.

You adjust yourself, settling into his side. Over the next few minutes, he contorts around you, the weight of his arm settling around your waist. Time slips away from you, after that.

The rampant pounding of your heart at last begins to slow. You’re almost calm, wedged between the blankets and body. Your sleep shirt is still wrenched upwards, his bare arm pressed against your stomach. The contact is a boundary crossed, a spark to a hunger you didn’t know you had been harboring. You don’t like it. Some part of your hindbrain rejoices at seeing this man’s needs met, and that delight worries you more than literally anything else Luocha has done or said today.

You stare across the room at the covered window. Slowly and steadily, you untangle your legs, curling them to your stomach. Outside, a frog croaks. The pond babbles in the distance. The air above the blankets is cool on your face and legs as you gently kick the covers back. The chill caresses your skin, sneaks between your robes to give you bumbling gooseflesh. The walls of the nest vent out the worst of the cold. Maybe you’ll ask him about cracking a window open tomorrow. Just a little bit.

—

You wake up a few hours later, and blink into the dark. Luocha stirs next to you. He’s awake. You don’t know how you know, but you can tell. His finger curl ever so slightly against the soft core of you. A shiver ripples across you, robe parted just enough for his fingertips to touch your bare skin.

“...Did you plant the garden outside?” you don’t know why you ask, but you do.

Luocha hums into the crook of your neck. He strokes your stomach, petting you.

“I did,” he answers after a moment, a contented sigh ruffling your hair. “Now get some rest.”

—

You leave the next morning, without breakfast. Luocha is a surprisingly deep sleeper, though perhaps you owe that to his current affliction. You’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. You’re also not going to be lured into skipping work by your own foolish sympathy. He can take care of himself for a miserly ten hours.

The day goes as any other does, at first. You take the shortest route you can find through the Luofu’s abundance-ridden innards, starting at the lower decks first. Packages and envelopes pass hands with little delay.

One of your clients, a buxom woman who owns a silk shop, covers her giggling mouth with an oversized sleeve. You eye her with suspicion. She notices, and giggles harder.

“I don’t mean to offend you, dear courier—it’s just—I hadn’t taken you the type to so openly… wear that kind of perfume.” she says, as if elaborating. You don’t understand what she’s talking about, and you don’t particularly care. You leave her to her frivolities and spirit away, merging back into the crowd with casual ease.

The next few clients each make some degree of face at you. One goes wide-eyed, before schooling his features into his typical, customer-service smile. The next looks at you like you have just thrice cursed his family line, nose wrinkled and eyes narrowed into a beady glare. You resist the quite mean-spirited urge to remind of the legality of his purchases, shoring up your mental fortitude by recalling the sumptuous tips he usually gives.

Your seventh customer meets you beneath the crimson awning of a local cafe. You’re glad to be out of the beating sun.

“Congratulations, by the way,” she says with a smile, nursing a cup of iced tea and ah—you realize, something about you has really changed.

“Thank you, but may I ask what you are congratulating me for?”

“Oh!” she looks startled, and then sheepish. “On the relationship? I didn’t mean to presume….but your scent, today…” she trails off, looking awkwardly to the side.

Fortunately, you don’t need her to elaborate. The context clues snap together with sudden, startling clarity, the peevish behavior you’ve endured all day granted perfect context. Of course, evidence of your business with the merchant would be more apparent to those with keener noses. Your cheeks blood with abashed warmth. You resist the urge to shrivel like an old apple peel, overwhelmed all at once with humiliation, with indignation at yourself and the man who cast this misfortune upon you.

Heavens, how outrageous you must have seemed, walking into the esteemed establishments and parlors of your clients bathed in that ridiculous fellow’s scent! It’s but another consequence of yesterday’s poor decisions. You fume silently as you leave, making a beeline for your apartment. It’ll delay the rest of your deliveries, but that can’t be helped.

Your phone jitters in your pocket as soon as you step through the threshold of your dwelling.

You drop your bag onto the grey throw rug. It lands with a mighty thud, loud enough to make you silently hope the downstairs neighbors had not been enjoying an early afternoon nap. Your jacket gets tossed onto the sofa, keys thudding onto the upholstery. Then, you roundabout to the door. A row of locks catch stray rays of sun. You swiftly latch each one and give the door a rough, cursory shove.

Then, and only then do you check your messages.

You left without saying goodbye.

Your brow furrows. You’d never taken him to be this needy. Every other message above this exchange is polite, but ultimately curt. Most of his recent prying has been done in person.

You were still asleep

It’s alright. When will you return?

After work. Around 8 hours

That long? Could I persuade you to return sooner?

I can’t just skip out

I’ll buy you out. How much do you earn in a day?

Honestly, the nerve of this man! You type a series of poignant expletives out before tactfully deleting them.

It’s more than the money. my clients are powerful. i cant lose those connections

A few poignant moments pass before his reply comes.

Alright. I’ll see you later.

The tension drops off your shoulders. You expected him, in truth, to let loose a most potent threat to ensure your immediate return. A part of you, small and illogical, fears he’ll do his worst regardless. The thought of The Family learning your whereabouts nauseates you, bile churning at the very base of your throat, but surely a man possessed of his many sins is too wise to open his mouth about yours.

Without even realizing it, you have completely trapped each other.

What did he ever do with that Core Esse?

It’s better not to think about it. You have hours more left to move, and your line of work demands utmost focus, lest you drop an organ into the wrong customer’s hands.

Fifteen minutes, you afford yourself. The water chases the sweat from your skin, soap and sponge raking your skin raw. The evidence of him washes down the drain with the suds, leaving you remarkably less agitated. Because, really, who gave him permission to linger on your skin and on your clothes and in your thoughts—who gave him leave to evoke your fear and sympathy and intrigue and misplaced affections? Not you, that much is for certain!

You determine yourself free of the vexing beast’s cloying scent and return to the Xianzhou’s busy streets.

—

Arrogance is one of humanity’s most populated wheelhouses. Next door, its foundations built by fools and geniuses both, stands proud senselessness. If you had to name a tenant they share, then with abrupt acuity, you would surely name the Stellaron Hunters, who, as far as you can ascertain, base their stratagems off the ravings of a lunatic. As you wander to the edge between land and space, you cannot help but wonder what his credentials are, and if anyone has ever laid eyes upon them.

You don’t care enough to ask, though, when you reach the jagged edge. The end of the cargo hold, where the Xianzhou’s artificial sky breaks. Fragments of pale blue and white float amongst the void, growing smaller and sparser until none remain. The ground ends in a series of jagged, shiny edges, as though the metal had been cut clean through. You duck underneath a smattering of ships and starskiffs and cranes and cargo containers. Cold, silvery chrome gives way to the cold, open empty. That is where the man in black waits.

“Blade” is his name. He is a vision against the star-scattered expanse of the empty. Stood beneath a bright, red star, unbothered hy the thin oxygen levels and freezing temperatures. Tall and looming and perhaps irredeemably beautiful. It could be the lack of air talking. You like him more than you like Silver Wolf. She wastes your time with always unnecessary and often personal questions.

“Here for Silver Wolf, I assume?” you ask, already rifling through your bag for the cables and strange, circuit-board devices which she has ordered from you.

“Yes,” he nods, and you appreciate how he says nothing else.

“Alright. Here you are, then. Make sure she knows that she owes me another favor. These things were hard to find. She’s getting the discount of a lifetime.” you hand him three small boxes and he leaves with a nod. A polite and concise interaction. As distant as mostly-strangers should be.

—

“Home” is after that. The skies have gone a bright gold, nighttime looming in the near distance.

Luocha’s home is not your home. You refuse to identify it as such, for doing so opens dangerous doors and implications which are most inappropriate for what you have. You make a brief pit stop to your apartment to gather a night bag, changes of clothes haphazardly crammed into the black canvas alongside a toothbrush and other necessary toiletries.

You nudge the door open with your hip. Pale orange light falls across the threshold and into the dimly lit living room. Luocha sits on the couch, or rather, he lounges. The silken collar of his robe drapes over his right shoulder, exposing a frankly indecent amount of his chest. You pay his naked skin no heed, plonking your bags onto the floor. It’s a welcome weight off your shoulders. You wish you could lay on the floor. A good sleep on that fine, polished wood would fix you.

“Welcome home,” he greets you, daintily depositing the book he’d been reading onto the side table. “I never realized just how long your hours are. You must be exhausted.”

“I’m used to it,” you reply, but you flop onto the opposite end of the sofa regardless. A heavy sigh punches out of you, weary eyes shutting.

“With how much you charge me, I would think you could afford to shorten your shifts,” he says, with sympathy you know is feigned. You crack an eye open to cast him a cursory look—but the room shifts around you in a blur as long fingers curl around your wrist and pull, tugging you onto his side of the couch.

You land with a disgruntled squawk. Your hands curl into silken fabric. and you realize belatedly that you’ve all but been dragged atop of him, left laid out between his legs. You twist, top half of your body turning to the side to level him with a nasty glare.

He’s flushed, is the first thing you noticed. More so than yesterday. His cheeks are dusted in pale pink, a delicate blush that runs all the way to his shoulders. He’s warmer, too. You can feel the heat of him pressed along your body.

“You didn’t have to do that. You could have just asked,” How does someone who looks so willowy have such a strong grip? It’s beyond you, truly.

“Forgive me,” Predictably, he looks completely, and utterly, unrepentant. “You were just so unsuspecting, I couldn’t help but want to surprise you…” You make a point of looking as surly as possible, and the fiend laughs. Quietly, and behind his oversized, crimson sleeve. Unbidden comes to you the shape of his lips around that euphonic sound, what they might look like when parted by soft breaths and dulcet moans— “Ah, please don’t make that face. It only makes me want to tease you more.”

“Enough of your insanity. ” you bite out, pointedly pressing your elbow into his side. You wriggle in his arms. His grip curls tighter around your waist and he sighs, pressing his face into the crook of your neck to take a long inhale. “Let me up!”

“Just a few more moments?” he asks, words mouthed into your skin. You feel hot all the way down to your shoulders. You muster all your resilience with a swallow, but it isn’t enough. A hush falls over the living room.

Against your better judgment, you find yourself lulled by the gentle sound of his breathing, by his warmth at your back. Nearly ever part of you aches. Your legs throb, the tight muscles of your thighs worn and throbbing from a long day’s labor. The scorching pains dig deep into your shoulders and your back—you’re due a nice, long shower, you think.

The dappled sun against the adjacent wall writhes and shifts with the artificial breeze. You can hear the winds shifting through the canopy outside. A songbird sings a trilling little tune. It’s easier to focus on these things while you indulge him and wait to be let up, even if he is being unusually quiet. You’re wise enough to not necessarily be glad for the silence.

His hand cups your hip, shifting you even closer. It’s only a centimeter or two, but it lets you feel the pointed hard thing jutting into your back in greater clarity. Unbidden, your cunt throbs between your thighs. The arousal and exhaustion makes your mind sticky, concrete thoughts difficult to come by among the haze.

“Luocha,” you murmur, and he moans softly, breath brushing against your tender skin. Goosebumps flare across your shoulders and arms despite the heat—the sound the shock you needed to get moving. “This is—” you cut yourself off with a swallow as his lips press to the column of your neck. Your already flagging resistance whimpers out into nothing. Each heavy inhale draws him further in, the scent so sweet and cloying in spite of your muffled senses.

“You must have had such a hard day. Doesn’t it hurt? Always going home to that empty apartment?” he purrs, voice indulging, dripping with a delirious sort of fondness. And isn’t that always the trouble with these sorts of situations? Does he want you, or are you the closest warm body available for him to rut into? How strong is his grip on reality? You writhe in his lap and he gasps. His grip tightens in response, holding you fast with surprising strength. “You must be so lonely…”

“I’m not, really,” you nearly snarl, finally losing patience with your clinger’s affections. Your voice, alongside the elbow you jab into his side, jars him from his twisted reverie. He chokes, and muffles a groan into the collar of your jacket, at last lifting his lips away from your skin. The breath whooshes out of him at the force of the blow, but his grip barely loosens. “Behave. Or I’ll leave.”

He inhales quietly, and shudders.

Over your brief stay in his lavish home, you have perhaps twice (or thrice) wondered if keeping to your principles was worth it. Why not sink into his touch? Why not drink deep of the physical affection he saturates you in? The fact that you’re contemplating the subject at all is deeply ruffling. Little less than two weeks ago, you would have scoffed at the idea.

Alas, the creature at your back is more siren than man. It wounds your pride. You aren’t just any beta. You’re a prime beta, a beta noticed and beloved by Xipe herself. The gift of Harmony should allow you to smother the scents around you completely. It should grant you immunity to the bothersome urges which so often get in the way of business. He weakens your shored-up defenses, somehow.

“Of course… My apologies.” he sounds contrite, and despite yourself, you soften. Just a tad. “It’s just—well, a little difficult to hold back when you smell like that.”

“Like what?”

Luocha evades the question, without even pretending to humor it.

“Your last customer was an alpha, wasn’t he?” He lifts his head from the hollow of your throat, looking down at your intertwined fingers over your shoulder. His thumb brushes along the back of your hand before he flips it over. His fingertips brush over yours, before curling into a fist around your pointer and middle, giving a gentle tug. He idly toys with your hand while he speaks. Voice a light, low murmur. “A tall man. Black hair, pretty red eyes… They look like candle wicks, don’t they?” He says it fondly, and your heart sinks into your stomach.

Of course he knows Blade. Why wouldn’t he?

You’ve never bought anything from Luocha, but you can tell from what he orders that he’s a merchant who idles in the same, seedy markets as yourself. A man who had asked you to trade him an organ brushing shoulders with a Stellaron Hunter somewhere in the darkest corners of the Luofu sounds completely and utterly plausible. A group of little coincidences which occurred just to be a thorn in your side. How did they meet? You can’t help but wonder. How well do they know each other? What kind of relationship do they have?

You don’t ask any questions. It’s not your place. Getting involved anymore than you already are is just asking for more trouble.

“And if I did meet him?”

He pauses, and laughs a little.

“Well. I am almost in heat. Perhaps I just became… a bit defensive when you came back, smelling just like him. Omegas in heat can be just as territorial of their dens as alphas in rut, though that's often overlooked in the social narrative. We’re supposed to be weak, dainty little things, you know?” If he feels self-conscious about this, he doesn’t show it. He has a tighter leash on himself, now. He sounds more contemplative than resentful.

“You, weak and dainty? I have to laugh,” you don’t.

“I appreciate how open-minded you are,” he says sweetly.

A brief silence falls over the room. You take in the soft sound of the breeze outside. The steady shifting of the trees’ canopies. The steady breathing of that small ecosystem he has birthed and nurtured.

He’s hesitating. A question hangs in the air, tangles on the tip of his tongue. You can’t see his face, but you have a sixth sense for these sorts of things. That, and it’s typical of him to demand more than you’re willing to give. No more ground will you cede to him. If he begs again for you to remain during the duration of his heat, he’ll find himself succinctly refused.

Still, you’d rather not have to go through the uncomfortable hassle of rejecting him. But he clearly thinks better of it, because he stays quiet—only breaking the contemplative quiet to ask you what you would like for dinner, his thumb rolling circles onto your palm.

#hungering for hsr #luocha/reader #luocha #imagine hsr

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munson-blurbs · 3 months ago

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PLEASE MAKE MY MEET CUTE DREAMS COME TRUE BUG!!

What IS my personality? Hm... Generally I'm pretty upbeat, fun-loving, and compassionate, but around Eddie?! 🙈 I'd be a lil shy I'm not gonna lie haha

Hobbies include bird watching, thrifting trinkets, and graphic design (oh and writing FILTHY SEXUALLY EXPLICIT STORIES, can't forget that). No need to incorporate all of this, just giving you ✨variety✨

My pronouns are she/her.

And I'll just leave you with some emojis I like 😌

🪻🪺🐀🪿🐞🫐🥨🏕️🪕

As meta as it would be to have Eddie reading the smut you wrote about him, bird watching was what caught my eye. Hope you like this!

CW: mention of drug use/dealing WC: 628 Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

It had stormed in Hawkins for a week straight. Seven days of dodging raindrops and spending your free time cooped up in the house. You were on the verge of going stir-crazy until the sun finally peeked out from behind the clouds this morning.

Plucking your binoculars from their spot on your shelf, you head out into the woods. Before the storms, a pileated woodpecker had made a nest in one of the trees, and you were anxious to see if it had survived the lousy weather.

Mud squelched beneath your boots as you trudged towards your favorite picnic bench. There wasn’t anything special about it per se, but it stood out from the others because of the JH+JB carved into the table. Whoever JH and JB were, you hoped their love was still strong.

You adjusted the focus on your binoculars, aiming your gaze at the tree where you’d seen the nest just over a week ago. A soft sigh of relief slipped through your lips when you saw that it was still intact; in fact, there were now three little eggs inside of it.

Hours felt like mere minutes as you soaked up each moment outdoors, following the calls of the sparrows that populated the tiny forest. Hawkins wasn’t a bustling city, but it was still nice to have a reprieve from the normal sounds of the suburbs. Out here, there were no car horns honking, no tired parents scolding their mischievous children, no—

“You here to buy or sell?”

The sudden noise startled you; if you didn’t have the strap looped around your wrist, you almost certainly would have dropped your binoculars. That would have been embarrassing. Just like the yelp you let out when the man spoke.

“Whoa, didn’t mean to scare you.” He gave a sheepish grin and held up his hands in surrender. “Just figured if you wanted to buy, I could offer you a sweet deal. But if you’re selling…well, you’re kinda in my spot, so…”

You collected your thoughts, trying to keep from getting lost in his deep brown eyes. “No. I mean, neither. N-Not buying or selling. Just, uh, birdwatching.”

He cocked a brow. “Birdwatching?”

“Y-Yeah.” You scrambled for more words, unused to being tongue-tied. “Y’know, just…watching birds.”

“I gathered that much.” He sat next to you, placing a tin lunchbox on the table. “So what kind of birds are we watching?”

You explained the whole nest-surviving-the-storm saga, expecting him to roll his eyes or get bored. But he didn’t. Instead, he looked at you with those beautiful doe eyes and gestured to your binoculars.

“Mind if I take a look?”

You nodded and handed them over, hoping that the time he spent looking through them would afford you the chance to conjure up some actual conversation topics.

He peered through the binoculars. “I see the nest! Holy shit, there’s about to be some bird babies.” He looked at another tree. “Here we’ve got some sort of brown bird just kinda…doing its thing.” Keeping the binoculars pressed to his eyes, he looked directly at you. “And here we have a really pretty girl who’s gonna let me treat her to ice cream.”

“Sure. Yeah, um, that would be great.” You felt your body tingle with bashfulness. An insanely cute guy was asking you out. “I love ice cream.”

The guy looked surprised, like he couldn’t believe that line worked. “Me, too.” He stood and held out his hand to help you up.

You accepted it gratefully, but before you stood, you looked at him. “I just realized that I don’t even know your name,” you mused.

He laughed. “That would be good information, huh?” He shook his head at his own blunder.

“I’m Eddie Munson. And you are?”

#meet? cute.#eddie munson #eddie x reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie stranger things #stranger things fanfic #fanfic

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trancylovecraft · 1 year ago

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(KNY) YANDERE PLATONIC! KOKUSHIBO x SISTER READER: You, Shibou. I, Kokoro (CHAPTER FIVE)

Previous Chapter ☆♡☆ Masterlist ☆♡☆ Next Chapter

AO3 link

CHAPTER FIVE: "These explanations are valid. But it should be known if the same day a friend of the desperate hasn't spoken to him with an indifferent tone.."

Mourning is the expression of grief after someone died. There are several types of mourning with an example being Chronic Grief.

Symptoms for this kind of grief can include extreme feelings of hopelessness, A sense of disbelief and a loss of meaning. All of which can lead to severe clinical depression or thoughts of self harm and even suicide.

The song of sparrows and swallows danced through the summer breeze, All sat nestled within the vegetation as they hummed their melody.

The soft sunlight shone down upon the shrine, Giving a blessing of quiet light to the abundance of blossoming flowers nearby. [F/N] blinked once, Trying to figure out whether what she was seeing was a mirage or reality.

Was this the afterlife? It certainly felt like it as the gentle warmth caressed her skin, A calm embrace that pacified her worries. It felt peaceful, Something so tranquil that she couldn't help but melt into the porch she was perched on.

She felt the heat of the wood as she laid against it, Like a firm hand cupping her cheek as she basked in the sunlight. Her worries quickly dissolving into nothing at the touch.

Afterlife.. Why did she mistake her everyday as the Afterlife? How did it even come up in the first place? [F/N] had no idea. She huffed lightly, Only mildly confused as she nuzzled further into the comfort of the timber.

She took a moment to take it all in. The rustle of the leaves, The cicadas in the bushes, The clear sapphire skies looking over her. It was beautiful, A serene little world all to herself, It was paradise.

Life was nice, It was simple and tranquil. She tended to the crops, To the shrine and the wellbeing of the forest. And after she was done with that she could spend her day roaming around with the wildlife, Spending time with her brothers and watching them train.

It was good.

"[F/N]..!"

She heard her name called out to her, And without a second thought or any bodily control [F/N] jolted up from her lying position to look across the courtyard.

"Lying on the porch again? You're gonna get sunburn if you keep doing that.."

[F/N] watched her older brother, Michikatsu, Slowly make his way over to her. He had a single hand on the hilt of his sword while the other was wiping the training sweat from off his brow, A light smile playing on his face as he did.

"Michi-Nii! You're back!" [F/N] exclaimed as she hopped up from the porch, Quickly dusted herself off before running over to him and jumping into his arms so swiftly that it made him stumble back a bit.

"Ah! [F/N], You need to be more careful.. You could of knocked me over." Michikatsu scolded, Yet the warmth playing in both his eyes as he held her up told [F/N] all she needed to know.

"As if! You're too tough for that." [F/N] grinned as she looked down on her older brother.

Michikatsu shook his head lightly

"You really give me too much credit sometimes.." Michikatsu remarked as he brought his gaze away from her, His smile was still there yet [F/N] could see the slight quirk.

She reached over and held his shoulder, The touch bringing him back to his senses as he looked right back at [F/N].

"You don't give yourself enough credit, You're able to train for hours at a time and not even get tired. I'd definetly consider that tough!" [F/N] said, The smile evident in her voice as she said so.

Michikatsu frowned

"I hear you saying things like that all the time to Yorichii, You know? I appreciate your words but.." Michikatsu trailed off from his sentence, The venomous undertone spiking in concentration at the mention of his twin.

[F/N] squeezed his shoulder.

"…But Yori-nii doesn't train for hours at a time, Does he? I mean all my words to him, I really do but if I am being honest.." [F/N] paused as she lowered her voice. "You've got drive to be strong. It's really admirable, You know? Yori-nii may be strong and such but honestly, You have the passion to do it.. It's you who I look up to." [F/N] admitted.

A nervous giggle followed her words, Like she was slightly embarrassed by the fact she was actually able to confess it to him.

Michikatsu seemed shocked as he heard this, The light in his blank eyed stare seemed to spark up like wood to friction as he looked up at his sister. The grip on her grew only a smidge tighter as he smiled.

"You.. You really mean that?" Michikatsu asked.

[F/N] beamed back at him, An expression that almost seemed as warm as the sun as she looked back at him.

"Of course I mean it! You're my-" [F/N] cut herself off suddenly, Her words dying on her tongue. The happy grin slowly dissolving into a puzzled frown.

"[F/N]?" Michikatsu asked as he noticed the grip on his shoulder loosen, Then eventually fall to her side.

"You're my.." [F/N] mumbled. Michikatsu set her down onto the ground, Her feet lightly touching the smoothed dirt as she stood there quietly.

Michikatsu went down onto a single knee to level his eyes with her far-off ones.

"[F/N].. Are you alright?" He asked, Eyes searching for the answer as he watched her brows knit together. Her stare returning to him as her visage contorted into a slightly alarmed expression.

"I.. I don't know.. Who are you?" [F/N] exclaimed, Her stance stumbled back. Her breath growing heavy as she felt the world around her darken, The sun burning so bright before seemed to melt away into a endless black void.

"[F/N]" Her name sounded so distorted when he spoke now, As she looked back at him she could see that it wasn't just the sun that was melting.

It was his face too.

Like melting wax his features turned into sludge. His nose, Eyes and mouth all dripped down and fell into a puddle on the ground, Which started pulling them both in like quicksand.

[F/N] screamed.

She tried to pull away once his molten arm lunged out for hers, Yet she was too slow. His rapidly deteriorating limb locking onto hers, Yanking her forward off her feet and into his grasp.

[F/N] cried even louder, Tears starting to rush out of her ducts as she felt the sludge touch her skin.

He kept making noises as he pulled her in, Strangled and choked wails like he was in pain. Like his vocal chords were mangled and severed inside his throat. [F/N] struggled, She flailed about in his hold. Kicked, Punched, Hit, Anything. Anything at all to get out of the sludge starting to envelop her whole.

It latched onto her legs, Onto her arms and her mid-section. It was like it was desperate, Like it's life depended on bringing her as close as possible.

What was happening? Why was the entire world that seemed so tranquil before turn into a candle wax nightmare? The entire world seemed to follow suit of the monster intent on consuming her, Dripping away and mixing together like a raindrops on a window.

Her screams mixed into the dissolving world too, Sounds combining with the shrill cries of the monster as she felt the nigh-boiling heat of his molten flesh grasp onto her face. [F/N] felt her own skin start to bubble.

Then eventually, She felt herself start to melt.

☆♡☆

Her body jolted like skin to an exposed wire, Eyes shooting open as she gasped for air.

She felt her lungs rapidly expand then decrease, A cold sweat running down her back as she tried to gather her racing thoughts. [F/N]'s body felt like it had been frozen to the touch, Both with the sheer temperature of the chilling room and the stiffness of her unthawed limbs. They felt so numb, The only feeling was the minute aching of her joints so far spread that it was like she hadn't moved in weeks.

What happened? [F/N] gripped the side of her head, A throbbing pain in her frontal lobe pulsated as she groaned in pain. It made it hard to recollect herself, To remember what could of happened.

Her spare hand felt around, Vision still a tad blurry as her fingers met the soft touch of thick fabric.

[F/N] tried to blink away the fuzz in her sight as she continued to feel around, It was the cotton bedding of a futon.

She groaned, Finally piecing together enough parts of the puzzle to come to terms of what happened.

[F/N] had fallen asleep, She had another nightmare.

[F/N] sighed. A tired yet tad annoyed exhale of air escaped her lungs as her body stilled onto the futon like a rolling coin, The soft mattress feeling like delicate silk on her skin as she relaxed.

Her memories, They came back to her like a heeling dog. [F/N] recalled the fight with Uppermoon one, Her fatal injuries, The destruction of her shrine.. She felt her heart jolt at the thought of it.

The walls which sheltered her through thick and thin, The ruined hallways that held such talkative life and the ceilings that housed the injured and maimed.. All destroyed within a single night.

The thought of it disgusted [F/N], During the fight she hadn't thought much of it- The raw adrenaline being a distraction to it's fall. She calmed down rather quickly however.

The fight with the Uppermoon, Her injuries, The shrine's destruction. It wasn't real, It couldn't be.

Because she was currently lying in her bedroom.

It was dark, [F/N] could barely see a foot in front of her due to the poor lack of lighting. Despite it however she could make out the basic shapes of furniture lying within the shadows. The closet, The dresser and the tatami mats lain out were all there, Just like they've always been.

The shoji door's that let in only a crack of periwinkle light, The several statues of worship scattered about, Everything she owned, They were here.

It all must of been a dream, Her bedroom was destroyed along with the rest of the shrine so it was completely impossible to be lying down on her futon right now.

[F/N] felt a low frustration rise in her throat. These nightmares were getting out of hand. It was easier when it was the blizzard, Then she knew what to expect, She knew what she was getting into despite how horrid it would be.

Now? Dreams involving "Uppermoon one", Both the melting flesh and the shrine invasion were so much worse. They changed every time, She had no idea what was coming, Had no preparation at all.

The latter was particularly worse. Mitsuri's face, Her hysterical begging for [F/N] not to go, It burned into her mind like a branding. Not to mention the finality of her death only to wake up and find out it was just a nightmare.

[F/N] thought she finally got it over with, She supposed not however, The shrine was proof of that.

Though these dreams had to be a sign, But of what?

[F/N] stretched her arms slightly, Trying to wear off the numbness in her joints as she tried to haul her upper body into a sitting position, Only to yelp out in pain and fall back into the silky mattress.

A sharp pain feeling appeared in her abdomen once she tried to get up, It felt like a dozen knives stabbing into her, Twisting and turning within her guts.

[F/N] groaned, Her hands reaching down to the point of pain only to come to touch with what felt like bandage dressing.

Her eyes widened, Needing to confirm this information she quickly shoved off the covers protecting her from the cold draft. And sure enough, She was right.

Wrapped tightly yet carefully across her abdomen were thick bandages, Wrapped entirely around the front to her back.

Small splotches of red seemed to stain parts of the dressing, One's that made [F/N]'s jaw drop agape as she peered down at her core.

What.. What does this mean..?

Her dream.. In her dream she was fatally wounded, She had finally died.. All due to deep injury inflicted on her. It had to be a dream though, She was in her shrine of course!

But it was here, The dressing was covering the exact place she had been struck.

[F/N] planted both hands on each side of her and with great effort she slowly pushed herself up into a sitting position, Careful not to trigger the pain.

Beads of sweat rolled down her forehead as she finally sat up. She was simply dressed in an oversized Jinbei, Sleep clothing that seemed too big for her stature yet stayed comfortable draped on it anyways.

She breathed in and out. What was happening? The shrine around her started to seem more distorted than it did before. Furniture seeming bigger or smaller than she remembered, Things misplaced.

All of it just starting to seem.. off.

It was her shrine but.. Something was wrong. Something very wrong. The feeling creeping up her spine didn't help either. An uncomfortable dread climbing up her back and drenching her in sweat, A feeling that felt like she was being watched.

Her open maw snapped shut. Her body growing rigid in place, The eyes like that of a gorgons.

Something was watching her

From her peripherals, She could see six glowing amber eyes were watching her from within the darkness.

They were piercing. Even though she only dared to see through the corners of her vision she could tell how intense their gaze was, How they seemed to be looking right through her, Glaring right into her soul.

She felt her hands start to tremble. Her mouth growing dry as her thoughts felt like they were going a thousand miles per minute, Racing to find a solution.

The eyes.. There eyes were looking at her.. What was she going to do? What could she do?

[F/N] had no time to think as they started to move.

The six glowing points shifted and moved within the shadows like fireflies. [F/N] could only make out the general shape of the being as it morphed within the darkness into what looked like a standing position.

[F/N] didn't need to have another thought, She knew who it was. It was the man from her 'dreams'.

Uppermoon one.

In her dream or at least what she thought was a dream he seemed much less.. Imposing. It's not to say he wasn't, He certainly was but it was easily ignorable due to the heat of the moment and [F/N]'s own desires.

But now as his frightening form emerged from the dark corners, His sinister prescence nigh-radiating from his figure she could only turn her head over in horror to meet his hellish visage staring right back at her.

This was the man from her dreams. The man in the blizzard, This was him.

The image of his open mouth ready to bite down, Body lunging for her. Teeth digging into the flesh of her arm. All of it flashed in her mind in rapid motion. How could she be so stupid to not figure it out?

This was what Inari was warning her about.

"You're awake.." His voice sent a freezing chill through her system, Her heart feeling like it was restarting inside of her chest as her breathing grew ragged.

Her mask. Where was her mask?

[F/N]'s fight or flight activated. Her fighter instincts finally kicking in as her hand shot out to where her mask usually sat, Hidden within her haori.

But she came up empty, Her hand only touching the side of her jinbei.

Her mask was nowhere in sight.

"I've been waiting so long.. For you to awaken.." Uppermoon one rasped. He took careful calculated steps towards her, A steady pace that moved him closer to [F/N] ever so slowly.

What was he going to do to her? She couldn't fight back, Her mask..

She was completely useless without her mask. It was the source of her body strength, The one she was most used to fighting in. Her body now was too frail, Not to mention the large gash in her abdomen.

She was helpless.

The only thing she could do was back away on the futon, Pushing herself as far into the corner as she could. Get as much distance between him and her as she eyed him up and down, Waiting for his next move.

"W-What do you want.. How am I here..?" Her voice was filled with defensive malice, Yet it shook under the weight of the situation. Her terror seeping through it all.

Kokushibo didn't falter in his stride as he approached her. The room was dark, The only thing illuminated was his eyes as he stopped in front of the futon. Staring down at her shrunken form.

His eyes narrowed as he looked at her, His knee's crouching down so he was as close to her level as possible.

[F/N] felt like a sitting duck under him. His hand reached out, Light from his eyes shining off his claws.

She clenched her eyes shut, Not wanting to know wha-

A cold palm touched the side of her cheek, A chilling sensation that felt like dry ice on her skin, So much so that it almost felt a scorching fire.

"Open your eyes.. I want to see them.." He commanded. Out of fear she did what he said and gazed up at him.

She looked upon his face, Her eyes locked onto his that looked down at her with such an odd emotion, Such a strange way his bloodshot eyes seemed so calm. A way that disturbed her down to her very core.

His palm was cupping her cheek, Claws careful not to graze her as his thumb rubbed gently over her skin. Eyes searching for something before a small uncanny smile appeared on his face looking so unnatural on him, Showing off the row of sharp teeth settled in his maw.

"You're here.. You're really here.. The gods have given you back to me after all these centuries.." He mumbled under his breath as his thumb rubbed the outline of her cheekbones.

[F/N] didn't understand, Mind like tangled threads as she spoke out once again.

"W-Where am I.. Why.. W-Why am I alive?" She cried. Tears brimming on the ledge of her eyes as she shied away from his sickening touch, Not for long however as his hand just gripped the side of her face harder, Keeping her in place.

Kokushibo shook his head lightly.

"You are frightened.. It is understandable.. You have woken up with an injury and most assumedly a headache.. I do sincerely apologise for that.. But I ask you to calm down.. You are safe now.." He spoke, His tone trying its best to mimic a comforting tone while [F/N] didn't believe his words for a single second.

She swallowed down the sheer terror in her throat.

"A-Answer me.. W-Why am I here.. Alive?" [F/N] repeated. Kokushibo only caressed the side of her cheek, His face filled up with thought as he began to speak.

"..It is a rather silly question.. Why you are here should already be obvious to you.. And alive..? You are lucky I was able to provide first aid.. Otherwise.." He trailed off, The last of his words going unspoken as his smile dropped.

[F/N] took the chance to speak, A small slither of vigour still left in her as she did.

"It's not obvious at all.. Explain it to me, I-I should be dead.. I should.. Why am I alive, Where am I.. What do you plan on doing with me?" She looked back up at him with the steadiest expression she could muster, One of which he completely ignored in favour of his stare turning.. Miffed.

"You.. You should be aware of why you are here.. Do you not recognise me, Little one?" Kokushibo asked. His demeanour started to shift to a more recognisable aura, Something serious. More dark in the hum of his voice.

"I-I.." She recognised him alright. His face was burned into her vision every time she blinked. Met his eyes every time she slumbered, But judging by the tone of his voice.. That wasn't the right answer.

"No.." [F/N] said, Shaking her head as she watched his frown contort into a scowl. One which she shrunk back into the corner at as he dropped the hand cupping her cheek, Letting it fall to his side.

"I.. No.. You said my name.. You called me by my nickname, The one you always used.. You remember, Don't you?" Kokushibo's voice, The serious tone was still there, Permeating his voice yet the lilt undertone of a pleading man, Desperate and confused radiated within his voice.

[F/N] sharpened her jaw, She had no idea what he was talking about. He spoke as if he knew her, Like she was an old friend yet she couldn't recall ever knowing him.

"I.. I don't know your name.. I-I.. I don't know who you are.." [F/N] replied.

Her words seemed to trigger something within him, His scowl growing more angry as he backed away from the futon. [F/N] watched on as he turned his back to her, His body going completely still, Almost disturbingly so as he just stood there without making a single move.

[F/N] took a deep breath in, One she didn't know she needed as she tried to steady the beating of her drumming heart. The sweat dripped down her face freely, She needed to make a move.

Quietly swinging her legs over the side of the futon she placed them down onto the wooden floorboards, All while eyeing the demon a few feet away from her like an ticking bomb.

[F/N] softly got up from the futon. The pain in her abdomen diluted down, The shock before had caused it to seem worse than it already was. It was bad, But she could work with it, She always had.

She placed another foot down in front of her, The wooden boards were old, She needed to be careful as she quietly circled around him. Trying her best not to alert him to her movements as she went.

[F/N]'s stretched out hand eventually felt the wood of the shoji door, The one letting bioluminescent light through the single crack it made. Feeling around she caught her fingers on the edge.

She carefully slid it open, Though it didn't matter as the careful light illuminating from the other side flooded into the room like a rising sun over a dead night. Snapping Kokushibo out of whatever trance he had been in and jerk his head over to her position.

"You..!"

[F/N] didn't wait to hear what he had to say, Her feet moved for her as she took off into the hallway at the first alarm raised.

She ran throughout the hall barefoot, The sole of her foot feeling the sharp splinters digging into her like porcupine hide as she went. It didn't matter in the slightest though, Not the pain stabbing into her soles or the warped caricature of her shrine's hallways as she sprinted through past the old tapestries and near-ancient support beams.

Is he following me? Where's the exit? Run now, Think later she chided. [F/N] didn't stop for a second to look around or listen out for the possibility of heavy footsteps following her as she went. Her mind was dead-set on escape.

She sharply turned round corners, Fumbled her way through the winding hallways as she finally reached a set of creaked cedar stairs. [F/N] took no time in descending them, Each step slightly bending under her quick motions as she got to the bottom.

Despite the warped mimicry of her shrine, Walls and hallways worn out and minimized, [F/N] could still navigate it with a finesse that left her fast on her feet.

Her internal GPS carried her feet and guided her along. In front of her was the main shrine doors, Two wide cedarwood doorframes with windows that let in a bluish-green light into the shadow blessed pathway.

This was it. She was going to get out, It was only a few more seconds until she reached her salvation. Her exit from this live-nightmare, Such a thought that made her pace quicken. Heart thudding so hard she felt like it would explode.

[F/N] reached out her steady hands, Reaching the door she slammed her hands down and shoved them wide open to where the courtyard should be.

Rushing out int-

[F/N] stride shuddered in its steps. The once determined sprint fizzled out into a walk, Then she stopped completely in her tracks all together.

Her eyes widened, Irises shaking in their sclera as she felt her knees start to wobble.

W-What.. What does this.. Where..

In front of her wasn't the courtyard. No.. It wasn't the courtyard at all.

Standing before her was an infinite sea, An endless dark plane that seemed to stretch on forever. There was no end. Up, Left, Right.. All of it was an infinite expanse in all directions. A fast breeze blew out from nowhere at all, Hitting her face and snapping her out of the horrified trance she was stuck in.

She snapped her head down to the ground she was standing on. What should of been the smooth dirt of the courtyard was instead a wide rickety dock, One that seemed just as endless as the void, Branches of the dock stretching out like tree roots around the shrine connecting and ending seemingly at random.

This.. This couldn't be real… This must be another dream, It had to be! It appeared like a lovecraftian-esque pocket dimension, Nothing from the real world, Nothing from reality at all.

Her palms were clammy. [F/N] took a few wearied steps, Disbelief shown in her eyes as she felt the heel of her foot land on nothing. She yelped out, Quickly backing up onto the dock as she peered over the edge.

It was an aquamarine sea. The one that the dock's structure ventured deep down into the depths of, Blurring out in the faint turquoise glow rising up from the foaming aqua. Gumussevri, The light it emitted being the only source within the infinity surrounding them.

This didn't make sense.. It couldn't.. How could it? [F/N] felt the glimmer of hope extinguish under the seafoam waves of the water below. How could she ever hope to escape..?

[F/N] felt the slow depression of the dock before she heard the footsteps. Heavy, Slow and stoic as she felt the doors behind her shut gently, That being the thing bringing her attention as she turned around.

Kokushibo was only a couple metres away from her. [F/N] felt her eye twitch, That's why he didn't run after her.. That's why he didn't catch her a soon as she stepped foot out of the room.

He knew she had nowhere else to run.

"[F/N].. I am offended.. Why would you try to get away from me..? You.. You must remember me.. You must. You said my name, It's undeniable proof.." He accused, Standing in a complete stance.

His eyes pierced into her like javelins, Sharp and scrutinizing yet it still held that strange quality of desperation. It made her shiver and that in turn made his frown sharpen. How he knew her first name didn't matter to her in that moment, She only opened her mouth ready for a rebuttal.

[F/N] breathed. She had gotten this far.

"I've told you, I don't know your name nor do I know how you know mine. I don't know who you are and I certainly don't know what you want with me.. Whoever you think I am, I am obviously not." [F/N] argued. She bared her teeth, Trying to steady her jaw.

Kokushibo shook his head. He took a single step towards her and in response she took several more back.

"[F/N].. You have been asleep for a few weeks.. I suppose I should of predicted your confusion but.." He paused

"Maybe it's possible that you don't recall.." He muttered. A few weeks?! She had been asleep for several weeks, Assumedly healing under the care of this cold monster standing in front of her acting friendly as it could.

She'd lament over it later though, What mattered was here and now. And right now he was starting to aggravate her.

[F/N] clenched her fist. How stubborn could he be? She didn't know him, Had only seen him as warnings in dreams yet he acted as if they had known each other for decades. He was completely delusional and to spite all the terror she was feeling in this moment, It pissed [F/N] off.

"Then if you do not remember.. Let me refresh your memory, Little one.." Kokushibo said.

"My name is Kokushibo.. I hold the highest rank within the twelve moons, Sitting at Upperrank one.." He started.

"Though.. You should be recognising me as Michikatsu Tsugikuni.. Your older brother.." Kokushibo announced, His eyes staring down onto her, Closely examining her facial expression. Waiting intently for her reaction.

[F/N] stilled. Her body growing rigid as if she was fixed to the dock by nails.

"..I'm sorry.. What?" She asked. Her eyes blinking rapidly as she looked up at him in disbelief.

"..I am your big brother.. And you are my little sister.." He repeated so clearly yet his voice seemed incoherent to her ears. [F/N] swallowed a lump in her throat, If she thought he was delusional before he now looked completely insane to her now.

He was a demon.. An Uppermoon, He must of been hundreds of years old at the very least yet here he was claiming to be her sibling? It didn't add up, He looked at her like she was meant to understand but she couldn't find a single puzzle piece that fit.

"Impossible.. You're hundreds of years old and I have absolutely no older siblings.."

Kokushibo breathed out, The carbon dioxide showing in the chill-raising air as he took another step forward towards her. This time, [F/N] didn't move back.

"Impossible, Yes.. I thought the same thing once I saw you again.. You died near enough five hundred years ago yet there you were.. Bleeding out within the rubble of your desecrated shrine.. For centuries I grieved for you.." He lamented. A sudden pain crossing him as he seemed to recall something deep within him.

He was spouting sheer madness. He was the one who took her here against her own wishes and nursed her back to physical health, It made her heart writhe around inside her and this time she couldn't bite her tongue.

"I-I am not your sister, We are not related in any way… I don't know how goddamn delusional you need to be to think as such! You are a demon, Not my brother.. I want you to piss off and leave me alone, You fucking monster!" [F/N] cried. The terrified tone only an afterthought suddenly grew back into the forefront of her mind as she watched him close.

As soon as the word monster rolled off her tongue his body stilled, His expression going blank as he stared down at her with an unrecognisable expression. It disturbed her right down to her stomach, Even more so when she felt the heat.

"You.. You will not speak to me like that, Little one.." He said through gritted teeth. [F/N] felt her body raise up into that state of flight or fight once more, His soul radiating such a boiling hot heat that [F/N] could feel it in her bones.

It was obvious he was trying to hold back his anger, Yet it spilled out of the brims of his expression. The twitch of his fingers and the glare he gave her, She could tell and it utterly horrified her.

"As your older brother and the last remaining head of our clan.. You will treat me with respect.. It doesn't matter if you're confused or have.. forgotten entirely.. You address me in proper honorifics like a good younger sister should." Kokushibo hissed. Venom near dripping off every word as he started approaching her trembling form.

His footsteps were slow, Drawing out every step as he finally loomed over her. Shadow cast over him as [F/N] looked up at him, Body aching for her to run.

Whatever façade of cold comfort he put up was completely shattered now, His eyes brimming with malice and his fingers itching the reach for the hilt of his sword. Itching to strike her down.

"I've been praying for this day for centuries.. For the wish that you would come back to me.. You said you would never leave me again, And I fully intend to hold you to your promise.. You cannot run.. So come back here now and I will forget this little mistake.. If you do not, I assure your time here will be much more.. Nightmarish.." He commanded lowly. Slowly moving towards her

"..No matter how far you go I will always be right behind you.. You will not escape me."

But that didn't mean she wasn't willing to try.

Her legs moved before she could comprehend she was. Quickly turning around and sprinting off down the dock in her nightwear and splotched dressing as she cried out in sheer utter helplessness.

Kokushibo paused as he watched her go. He didn't bother run after her, He knew she wouldn't get far.

As [F/N] carefully navigated throughout the labyrinth of docks she could hear his quiet voice call after her, Echoing through the void and seeping through her as she ran.

"Tire yourself out all you want.. Run as long and as far as you like but you will never be able to leave me.. Not again. When you come back.. Do not expect to be treated with such affection that I have offered you thus far.. Not until you stop with this stupid rebellious phase of yours.."

Though [F/N] could barely hear him, As his silhouette shrunk further and further into the vastness of the void.

All until he disappeared completely

☆♡☆

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Three soft and precise knocks hit against the thin cut of the rosewood door.

Sounds of quiet shuffling could be heard from within the house, Settling of cups and screeching of chairs as footsteps started to move their way over to the closed entrance.

The door slid open only a peep, Only enough for the weathered face of a middle-aged man to careen his head over to get a good look out past it.

"Hello..?"

"Hello there!" A polite and cheery voice spoke out to him, One that sounded exaggerated and overly-friendly compared to his quiet yet cordial tone. The girl the voice belonged to smiled lightly and clasped her hands together.

"My name is Shinobu Kocho from the Demon Slayer Corps, If I am not mistaken.. This is the Kanroji household is it not?" Shinobu asked. Glassy orchid eyes staring into the ones of the older mans, His own softened at her introduction as he nodded.

"Ah.. Yes. You two must be my daughter's colleague's." He said. The slightly cracked open door slid ajar, His shoulders softening and a small welcoming smile grew onto his aged face as he looked at the two slayers.

Shinobu, A woman of short stature similar to that of a mantis. She held an eternal far off gaze that seemed clouded with the salesman smile plastered onto her face like concrete. Her butterfly haori and short tied hair danced in the wind as he looked over at the other man behind her.

"Greetings.." Was all the other slayer said as he lightly bowed down to him.

Despite being taller than his colleague, He was still rather short. He had a mop of choppy black hair that looked overgrown as it covered his shadowed his face well, That and along with the bandages he used as a mask made his features nigh hidden. The only thing peeking out from over the mask was mismatched eyes.

"Ah, You must have more manners then that!" Shinobu exclaimed lightly as she giggled it off.

"I apologise for my friend here.. This is my co-worker Iguro Obanai. And yes, We're here to see Mitsuri-chan about recent events I'm sure you've been informed of?" Shinobu inquired, Tilting her head to the side while Obanai muttered something under his breath and swept his head to the side.

Mr. Kanroji nodded, His smile only dropping an inch.

"Yes.. I'm aware. You two better come in then." He nodded as he stepped a side, Raising an arm to welcome them into his abode. Shinobu smiled and thanked him as she made her way inside, Iguro following closely behind her as they entered the livingroom.

It was a cosy little room, It was homely and warm yet had enough room for a large family to move around in comfortably. It was beautifully decorated, Clean-cut furniture and masterfully painted moving doors.

It was a rather large family home, The inner walls of the house being compiled of entirely open shoji-doors revealing the wide open plan of the entire building.

"It's a nice home you have.." Iguro muttered as he made his way to the middle of the room.

"Thank you. Me and my wife are both rather house-proud.." He chuckled lightly "It's been easier to take care of since the little ones have grown bigger and gotten much more responsible. I love them all, But do they make mess I'd tell you.."

Shinobu airily laughed along with him.

"Yes! I have a few little girls who I provide for back home with me, Children are quite troublemakers aren't they?" Shinobu replied as she turned to the man.

"Aha! Isn't that the truth.." He smiled. "Though unfortunately we aren't here to talk about our kids.."

"No, Unfortunately not." Iguro confirmed, Nodding his head lightly as he started talking.

"It's about The Shrine Invasion Incident that occurred a few weeks ago, We're here to talk to Mitsuri-san about what happened when she was there and get her statement. About both the demon that attacked and the.. Casualties" Iguro explained.

Mr. Kanroji sighed.

"Yes. You're referring to [F/N], Right?" He asked.

Shinobu nodded.

"Correct. I understand that [F/N] was very close to Mitsuri-chan.. That and along with Fujimori-san of course." She said. As she did she slid a quick wink over to Mr. Kanroji and subtly signalled towards Iguro, Who didn't notice a thing.

Mr. Kanroji paused before nodding back.

"Right. Come, We can discuss this while we walk" He said. Beckoning them with his hand and turning his back and starting to walk at a leisurely pace out of the livingroom. Both slayers nodded and followed after him.

"So, Can you recall what happened when she came home?" Shinobu asked him as she trailed behind.

"Yes. It was in the early morning.. Both me and my wife were barely awake when we heard the banging on the door. When we opened it she just ran into my arms, She was hysterical and we could barely make a word out of what happened.. It was a painful sight to see.." He explained, Shaking his head.

"Ah.. I see" Shinobu said. "I'm aware that you and your wife were also quite familiar with [F/N]?"

Mr. Kanroji smiled once again yet it held none of that bright attitude he had before, It was instead blocked by a dark cloud hanging over him like a noose.

"Right.. Mitsuri and [F/N] were basically inseparable back when they were young, So much so that she was over at our place most of the time. [F/N] didn't have the best home life you see, Not that she had much of one to begin with but.. She stayed over so often, Helped out with chores and played with the younger kids so much that at points I even considered her my own. And I'm pretty sure my wife did too" Mr. Kanroji tried to play off the sombre undertone in his voice with a light-hearted giggle, Yet it was futile under the heaviness of his bleak voice.

"It was horrible when the news came to light. We both were broken up by her.. Choice of actions. But Mitsuri.. She just.. She just broke down entirely." He said. Shinobu's eyes narrowed in confusion.

Choice of actions, What he meant alluded her.

Before she could question it however he stopped at a closed door, A rarity amongst the open ones spread about the walls of the house. He turned around and looked at them with a serious expression.

"Alright then, This is it." He started as he looked down at the both of them

"Please, When you go in try to be gentle when speaking with her. Don't try to overwhelm her or make any sudden noises.. She's not in the best mental state right now." He said quietly, Nigh-whisper as he waited for their answer.

"Understood." They both said in unison.

Mr. Kanroji nodded before turning back to the door.

Raising a single fist he lightly knocked at the paper shoji door. He smiled a best as he could as he spoke.

"Pumpkin? Are you awake..?" He called out.

…

There was no answer.

Iguro shifted around uncomfortably in his stance. Mitsuri Kanroji, The woman he loved and cared for.. She wasn't anything like this. He knew her well. He knew she loved to eat, He knew the way her lip quirked when she was confused and he certainly knew she was a light sleeper.

Anything could wake her. A sneeze or the drop of a pin, Anything at all. And it was certain that she would definetly wake at the light knock on her door. For her not to answer was concerning at best. Mr. Kanroji tried once more.

"Your friends from work are here to see you.. It's about a few weeks ago.." He called out once more though this time you could hear the audible shake in his speech.

…

"Come in.."

A weak voice called out from behind the door, It was so quiet that you could barely hear it. Both Shinobu and Iguro took a glance at each other before Mr. Kanroji grabbed onto the handle and slowly slid the door open.

It was dark. That was the first thought that entered their heads as they finally saw the inside to the room, Their sole source of vision being the new light from the other side flooding in only a crack to reveal only the bare shapes of furniture inside.

"I'll leave you two to it.." Mr. Kanroji whispered as he stood behind the open door, Nodding towards the room.

"Thank you.." Shinobu replied lowly as she took the first few steps in, Iguro following closely behind as she slowly entered the abyss that was Mitsuri's room.

From what they could make out, It looked more like a guest room than it did an actual room. The source of light was the window which was meant to be open, Instead it was locked and bolted shut tight leaving their environment hard to navigate.

CLANK!

Iguro's foot hit against something on the floor, Looking down he gagged slightly.

It was a small plate of food. It looked to be a normal meal consisting of pork cutlets and a side of omurice. Though on closer inspection Iguro spied the signs of mould starting to gather up on the meat from most likely a day or two, It hadn't been touched at all.

Iguro swallowed down his bubbling concerns and tried to ignore the smell as he stepped around it.

Both Shinobu and Iguro moved towards the centrepiece of the room of which being a large futon. Growing closer they could see the shapes of several duvets and pillows scattered amongst it, Reminiscent of a crows nest from the built up barrier around the lump poking out from under one of the duvets.

Shinobu kept up her smile, Though as she moved it started to look more strained and forced like one you'd see on an advertisement or billboard.

They finally reached the futon. Both Shinobu and Iguro shuffled around the side, Avoiding scattered clothes and stray furniture as they tried to get a better look.

They could barely see anything at all, Both from the lack of light and the duvet covering the girl below it. The only thing they could make out was only the upper half of her face sticking out from under it, Lime irises staring up at both of them.

Iguro bit his tongue. He backed up a bit as his hands reached out for the window-shutters. Eyes not taken off of Mitsuri's as he opened it up, Letting the late-morning light fill the dark void of the room.

Once the sunlight bounced off the walls of the room, Shinobu's smile quickly switched down to a frown while Iguro's shoulders tensed up.

The room was much more of a mess than first thought to be. The odd scattered clothing or two turned out to be more like piles.

Uneaten meals more rotten than before were also placed about, Some on furniture, Some on the floor.

But what really put off the two was the girl they called a friend, Lying curled up in a fetal position within the bedding.

Now that the light hit her face she flinched back from the sudden exposure, Eyes clenching closed to prevent the sudden light hitting her pupils flood in. Both of them noticed the swollen red under her eyes and her stuffy nose, To which she sniffled lightly every so often.

"Mitsuri-chan.." Shinobu mumbled, Her face a practiced sympathy as she took another step forward towards the futon. She stopped however when the sudden movement of Mitsuri cut her off, Mitsuri hauling herself out from under the covers and up into a sitting position

"I.. Sorry about that.. Comfortable position and all.." Mitsuri giggled lightly. Yet the sound never quite reached her bloodshot eyes.

Coupled with the greasy tangle that was her hair and the rather shaky smile she held it was obvious to see her true self in that moment. Iguro took his turn to take a step forward.

"Mitsuri-san.. I.." He felt the words caught on his tongue once he looked down upon the painful expression of the girl in front of him. Despite lying in bed it looked like she hadn't slept for days, Weeks even.

"Y-You're here about a few weeks ago right? Were you able to look at the ruins..? F-Find anything?" Mitsuri's voice shook more than her ear to ear smile, It wasn't liked Shinobu's perfectly perfected one. No, It was instead like an unknowingly widowed wife in the ER room lobby, Waiting in ignorant bliss for what she assumed was just a cut.

Both Iguro and Shinobu shared another glance at one and other. Both having a silent conversation between the two before Shinobu turned her head back around to face Mitsuri.

"Well.. We were able to get a report back from the ruins of the shrine.." Shinobu started. Reaching within her butterfly haori she pulled out a small piece of folded paper.

Starting to unfold it she peered down and started to read.

"Lets see here.. There were more injuries than casualties.. Seventy two severely injured and thirty four deaths. Majority of the casualties being Kakushi and Lower ranked slayers.." Shinobu read out, Eyes scanning down the list.

Mitsuri slowly nodded.

"T-That's unfortunate.. I hope their families are doing okay.." Mitsuri replied softly, The first glint of genuine concern showing from behind her eyes.

"But.. Erm.." She started again.

Shinobu nodded, Sad smile painted. Mitsuri didn't have to finish her words for Shinobu to know what she meant.

"Yes.. About [F/N] and Fujimori.." The mention of the names caught Mitsuri's attention immediately, Her head perking up to give her undying regard as the glint in her eyes burned back up.

Shinobu's nose twitched, Body stiffening ever so slightly.

"..We weren't able to recover any bodies.."

The light in Mitsuri's irises started to grow, Yet it wasn't from the hope or finality of the news. Instead it was the reflection off the water starting to grow at the rims of her eyes.

Shinobu took in a deep breath and continued.

"The only trace was of Fujimori.. Which was a pool of blood located near the back of the shrine." Shinobu shook her head, Trying not to focus on Mitsuri as she continued.

"Our leading theory is that.. Well.. Fujimori was most likely eaten by the demon in question.. There was nothing left of him.." Shinobu whispered, Yet within the confines of the room it sounded like an reverberated scream to Mitsuri's ears.

And that's what broke the dam.

Mitsuri let out a quiet cry, Her shaky smile still spread wide across her face as the tears in her eyes flooded over. Rolling down her cheeks and dripping onto her lap as choked noises escaped her hoarse throat.

"Mitsuri-san-!"

Iguro instantly went into action at the first sound of her cries, He quickly moved over to her side, Sitting down next to her and placing a hand on her shoulder. Which was quickly dismissed by Mitsuri.

"D-Don't touch me.. Just, Please.. N-Not now.." Mitsuri wept. Iguro quickly obliged, Moving away from her on the bed as she planted her face into her palms. Shinobu looked on as she put the paper away, Eyes filled with pity.

"I.. I-I can't believe this.. I.. Why didn't I recognise the signs.. I.. D-Doesn't she remember our promise..?" She whispered. Her nails digging into her skin as she looked through the cracks of her fingers, Eyes staring off into the distance of the floor.

"She..? What do you mean by signs..?" Iguro asked lightly.

Mitsuri withdrew her face from her hands to look up at Obanai. Her eyes meeting the mismatch of his with a disbelieving gaze, Like his tongue spoke of heresy to her very own religion.

Her pained voice spoke out once again.

"F-Fujimori.. [F/N].. They.. They're the same person.. And I.." Mitsuri whispered.

Iguro's eyes widened to that of circles, He shook his head adamantly and responded quick to her.

"No.. That's impossible. Fujimori and [F/N] look completely different, How could they be the same?" Iguro asked. His soft voice was still present yet there was an edge to it, A sharp confusion and bafflement at her words.

Mitsuri didn't listen to him, It was like he wasn't even there.

"I-I knew it was there.. I really did but I just.. I-I just ignored them.. If I had tried just a little harder.. I-If I just.." Mitsuri's voice seemed to break down into children's babble, Ranting off under her breath about this and that Iguro just couldn't understand.

He took a step closer.

"Mitsuri.. Please, Tell me what you mean.." Iguro asked softly. He lowered down onto a single knee to match her eye level, Pleading silently with her to tell him.

Mitsuri mumbled something so quiet, So incomprehensible that neither Iguro nor Shinobu could hear.

"What did you say..?"

Mitsuri's lip quivered. Bloodshot eyes staring back at him with that disfigured smile still on her face. Her voice only turning up a single notch as they were finally able to make out what she said.

"[F/N].. S-She killed herself."

Shinobu's frown sharpened into a tight-lipped grimace. Iguro's brows furrowed, His bandaged mask concealing his parted lips, Information still processing in his mind.

"I-If I just tried a little harder.. If I just made sure she was okay, Said hello or just.. Just ask her what was wrong.. S-She would've still been here with me.. I.. I did this.. I-I shouldn't of let go of her hand, I shouldn't of let go.."

Mitsuri's gaze was Far-off as she stared back into the vivid face of [F/N] appearing in her mind. The blank eyes so dull like she was nothing more than a caricature of her true self, The tried and true smile, The angle of her nose and the dimensions of her face.

All of it she tried so hard to cling onto. Grasping desperately at the memory, Begging with whatever god was up there. Pleading with whatever was listening that she wouldn't forget her face.

Yet as she continued to imagine her face, It faded further and further away from her grasp. Already blurring into a distant memory along with the warmth of her hand drifting away from her palms.

Iguro looked back at her. His heart felt like it was twisting and turning inside him, Hurting at the sight of the woman he held so close to it.

The new information felt so unsolved in his mind, He doubted it. Yet the raw grief that was coming from Mitsuri in front of him made it seem so real. Yet, He needed to question it once more.

Though before he could, He felt a small tap on his shoulder. Looking up only to come face to face with Shinobu.

"Iguro-san.. I think you should go wait outside." Shinobu said. Her voice suddenly serious, A side of which was barely shown through her friendly disguise.

He looked back at her and she stared back down at him with an unwavering gaze.

Iguro nodded slowly before getting up from his kneeling position. As he quietly moved out of the room he took only a single glance back at the two of them, All before opening the door and exiting the room.

As soon as the door slid shut Shinobu made her move, Head turning towards Mitsuri who looked up at her with the gaze of a wounded animal.

"Mitsuri-san.. These are massive claims, I don't mean to be insensitive but could you explain to me what happened? According to reports you were rather hysterical, Both from the handmaiden escorting you out and the various people you asked about [F/N]'s whereabouts." Shinobu asked. Voice levelled and calm, Her friendly self back up with a small smile to contrast her words.

Mitsuri didn't waste anytime for a shaky hand to extend out behind her towards her pillow, Reaching under it she carefully fished out a worn piece of paper. It was folded several times and looked rather worn from first sights.

Shinobu carefully plucked it out of her hands once it was offered. Carefully unfolding the flaps she held it in her hands and started to read.

Mitsuri sat there uncomfortably on the bed despite the mountain of pillows and blankets surrounding her. She had stopped crying at this point but by no means did that make her okay.

Her form was trembling as if she was in the middle of a hailing blizzard. She felt as if she wasn't in her body, Like she was just looking through the vision of someone else entirely while she was just a spectator within her own mind.

Shinobu's glassy eyes scanned over the paper, Carefully reading over every line with upmost delicacy as her gaze descended downwards.

She reached the bottom, The finality of the signature registering in her mind.

Shinobu was quiet.

But after a moment, She let out a single sigh.

"I see.. Well.. That's unfortunate.." Was all she said. She refolded up the paper in her hands and sitting it down on the windowsill.

Suddenly brought back into her own body, Mitsuri's head snapped over to look up at Shinobu. Her mouth going agape along with her eyes as she looked up in disbelief.

"..Is that all you have to say?" Mitsuri asked. [F/N]'s note, Her very last words written down onto a carefully made parchment. The story of her life, The words she could never express to anyone aloud yet scribed down with her entire heart and soul put onto this single letter.

And Shinobu just shook it off, Like it was absolutely nothing.

"Well.. It's an unfortunate turn of events, Taking one's life always is. Though I do have to admit I never saw it coming.." Shinobu said, That same tone of plain apathy dripped off every syllable and hit Mitsuri like acid as she stood up.

"H-How could you?" Mitsuri gawked. Her unstable footsteps numb from hours of not walking as she took a few steps toward Shinobu.

"[F/N] was your friend too.. You're the only other Hashira who ever knew about the truth.. She.. S-She trusted you.." Mitsuri exclaimed, Her previous cries starting to boil and hiss into a rising anger as her face twisted into an ugly expression.

Shinobu's shoulders raised as she looked back at her, The anger on Mitsuri being a completely foreign view. She wasn't even acting like herself anymore, [F/N] really meant that much to her..

"Yes.. She did." Shinobu agreed "I'm not trying to say-"

"You don't need to say anything, Y-You're making it clear enough!" Mitsuri butted in. Her arms raising to hug her self as she feverishly shook her head, Trying to keep herself calm.

"T-This isn't just my fault.. This is yours too. This is everyone's fault.." Mitsuri heaved. Her breathing picked up speed as her overgrown nails dug into her elbows, Backing up a bit as she did.

"Mitsuri-san.. You're not yourself right now, You're still in the grieving process. You don't mean what you're saying.." Shinobu said.

Mitsuri looked back up at her, Sheer rage burning inside her eyes like infernoes

"H-How many of the Hashira actually liked [F/N]..? How many of them insulted her every time she was late to a meeting? How many snide looks.. How many nasty comments, Shinobu? T-Tell me.. How many?" Mitsuri choked out. Shinobu could feel the strain as it did.

"I.. I don't kn-"

"How many?!" Mitsuri yelled, Her voice shaking the very walls of the room she was in. Quickly turning away from Shinobu, Her hands grasped both sides of her head catching strands of messy hair in-between them.

"[F/N] never harboured any true resentment towards anyone! S-She may not of been on time or handled her duties well but she cared for every last one of us, A-And the only thing she got in return was scorn.." Mitsuri at this point broke down into strangled sobs. She hugged herself tighter as Shinobu could only watch her.

"G-Get out.. Y-You did this, We both did.. But.. Y-You don't even care at all…" Mitsuri ordered. Turning her back on Shinobu as she tried to reach out a hand to her.

"Mitsu-"

"GET OUT!" Mitsuri screamed, Turning back to Shinobu with a high-pitched wail as it faded back into soft cries. Mitsuri fell back onto her bed, Pulling her knees up to her chest and pressing her face into them.

Shinobu didn't need to be told twice. She turned her back and walked away towards the door.

However she stopped once her hand gripped onto the handle.

"Mitsuri-san.. Just for the record, I may not show it but I do care for [F/N].. She really was my friend and trusted comrade. I don't mean to be indifferent.. I am not at all.. I.. I really will miss her a lot. Me and the rest of the Hashira may not have favoured her at points, But she was still apart of our ranks and was our comrade.. We.. We all grieve in our own ways.. And I promise you.. One day, We will get vengeance on the demon who did this.. We'll avenge her, I promise you."

That was all Shinobu said. Mitsuri lifted her head from her shins but she couldn't see Shinobu's expression. Her back to hers, Mitsuri could only see her high shoulders shake and the grip on the sliding door tighten.

But it faded almost immediately. Shinobu slid the door open and stepped out.

Closing it over and walking away.

☆♡☆

Heavy yet light footsteps hit the rickety wood in quick succession, Each step taking no time to waste as [F/N] kept running faster and faster along the spiderweb docks.

[F/N] had to plan her movements in advance, The dock was hard to navigate with branches ending at random and others looping straight back around in the opposite direction. If she wasn't careful she could be thrown overboard at any moment, And she didn't want to find out whether the bioluminescent water was safe or not.

It felt like she had been running for hours, The infinite sky showing no sign of an end or exit in sight. But [F/N] knew it had to of only been half an hour or so, Otherwise she would of already collapsed.

Kokushibo was nowhere to be seen. Once [F/N] had taken off running she thought he would be dead on her tail, Chasing her down for even daring to leave whatever he had planned for her.

"My name is Kokushibo.. I hold the highest rank within the twelve moons, Sitting at upperrank one.. Though.. You should be recognising me as Michikatsu Tsugikuni.. Your older brother.."

Was he delusional? Out of his mind? Or could he be manipulating her with some so-crazy-it-works method. Michikatsu Tsugikuni, The name meant absolutely nothing at all. Her older brother he called himself, There was simply no way in hell that could of been true.

He was a centuries old demon, Whatever parents gave birth to him would of died a good long while ago. It was impossible that they could've been related but..

"Impossible, Yes.. I thought the same thing once I saw you again.. You died near enough five hundred years ago yet there you were.. Bleeding out within the rubble of your desecrated shrine.."

Maybe, Just maybe she shared some resemblance to the sister he had as a human. And maybe she shared the same first name as she did. And when he saw said resemblance, Somehow in his mind he had decided that they were the same person and then decided to spare and kidnap her away to this cold hell.

Even then that was baffling on its own.

[F/N] had saw from first hand experience how a demon would rip apart its own siblings, Parents or children just for another meal. Demon's had no sentimental attachment to much of anything, Especially not people.

So why? Why would he do this, Kidnap her away and try to feign an act of familiarity with her? Demons don't do that, They don't think that way. [F/N] swallowed back a lump in her throat.

How much did his sister mean to him? Was she really that important that he would still hold affection towards her?

But either way he wasn't anywhere at all.

No noises, Glimpses or auras. Nothing.

She had no time to dwell on it, She chided herself for getting distracted over a demon. Run now think later. The prospect of escaping whatever pocket dimension she had been siphoned to was vivid in her mind, A yearning feeling brought back to the primal desire for survival as she kept going and going.

Her abdomen hurt too, Every time she moved it felt like a needle jabbing into her side. She tried her best to ignore the pain however, She couldn't let it stop her now, Not since she got this far.

But then it hit her.

Why was she trying so hard to escape?

Her sprint faltered only a little as the thought crossed through her mind. Her lip upturned. Why was she trying so hard?

[F/N] wanted to die. She wanted to find an end for months, To get it over and done with and get out of everyone's way. To stop being such a stain on the Hashira and a burden on the corps. She had no use, No worth or redeemable qualities.

She may of killed a thousand of their kind, She may of been given the title of being the strongest Hashira but that name weighed down on her shoulders like steel blocks.

It wasn't a title, It was an expectation.

And [F/N] couldn't live up to it, She didn't even want to live at all. So why was she running? Why didn't she throw herself into the docks or go back to slaughterhouse behind her? Why was her body so insistent on continuing?

Because.. Because.. She wanted to die, Not be tortured. That's the reason. If she was here then it was obvious she was wanted alive, If she did try to throw herself off then whose to say Kokushibo wouldn't be watching her right now and prevent her from doing so?

If she was here he might be wanting information, The location of the Ubuyashiki estate. This entire 'dead little sister' thing was just a manipulation tactic to get it out of her! And once he realised she wasn't falling for it he'd resort to more violent methods.

Yes, That's the reason.

Turning around another dock and searching for a path she stared out into the open distance of a void. Her heart burned, There had to be an escape. She was so tired, She felt like she was going to collapse any second.

And that's when she saw it.

In the distance, Staring off into the vastness of the void she could make out a vague shape settled amongst the darkness.

Her eyes sparked up, Lit aflame as she spied her saving grace, The light at the end of the tunnel. Something had finally changed after running for so long.

Her pace picked up along with her breathing, Her breaths turning into light wheezes under her normal rhythm as she took far strides.

Sweat beads dripped down from her brow and stained her jinbei, Everything burned. Muscles ached but she kept moving forwards, Kept going faster and faster towards the building in the distance, Getting closer and closer.

Keep going, Almost there.. I can do this- I can escap-!

[F/N] stopped in her tracks.

Her sprint jittered down until she was completely still, Fixed on place to the dock as she stared up towards the building, One now looming over her like a guillotine.

It.. It was her shrine.

Towering over her was the behind of the shrine, The other side from which she came from. The walls, tiles, Wooden frames and the closed shut windows. Her eyes scanned over it in disbelief, The realisation crashing into her.

She had done a full circle, She had just came back from the way she came.

T-This can't be true.. How could this be-!

[F/N] felt her heart fall into her stomach along with her knee's collapsing to the ground, Finally giving out from exhaustion as her eyes were still locked on the shrine.

Her knees hit the wooden docks, Splinters digging into her bare shins as she felt all hope leave her body. She had been running for so long, The docks didn't loop or go in a circle, If it did she would of known. But how was she back here? How?

Heart drumming faster in her chest her head felt light and airy as if she was thousands of feet in the air. Nausea creeping up her throat and unsettling her stomach even more than it already was. As she felt herself fade, She had only one thought.

How.. How is this fair?

☆♡☆

Kokushibo walked slowly down the wooden step-way of the shrine it surrounded.

Taking a few careful steps down the stairway he felt the weight of it depress under him, Reaching the bottom he peered over from the corner he stood next to.

He watched the body of his younger sister collapse onto the dock, Her chest raising and lowering rapidly as if she was starved of air. Her hair was a mess along with her clothing and general appearance.

It was nothing he didn't expect however. He knew she would tire herself out eventually, Run until she couldn't and fall down onto the ground. He knew it would happen, And he couldn't help but feel a sense of catharsis out of it.

He stalked up towards her, All until he was staring down at her defeated form in front of him. Kneeling down with her neck exposed, Easily cut and easy to wring at any given moment.

In any other scenario this would of been a sort of guilty pleasure, The way life was held within his hands felt so electrifying. He never took time on making people grovel before him, He never saw the need to.

He was after strength, To stay eternally strong forever. Not to make insignificant and weak human beings bow down to him.

But he couldn't deny the way he dictated human life with the edge of his blade felt great. And it tasted even better once he bit into their throats, Tearing out their jugular giving them no time to scream as the sweet nectar of their blood hit his tongue.

It was empowering. But, It was different in this scenario.

He didn't feel any sense of power over the girl in front of him, Not the way he usually would anyways. As he looked over her broken form the only thing that he felt was.. Pity.

"Are you done now..? Have you tired yourself out..?" Kokushibo asked in that usual monotone voice. He sounded as if he didn't care, As if his sister lying stray on the dock meant absolutely nothing to him. But he knew that wasn't the case.

[F/N] didn't answer, It seemed as if she had fainted.

Again, It was predictable. She had just woken up after sustaining injury and had used all her energy to try and run away, Only to collapse right back at the place she had tried to escape from.

Kokushibo gritted his teeth slightly. This wasn't how he thought this was going to go.

He assumed that she remembered him. Throughout the time he had taken her, Cared for her wound and nursed her back to health he had heard murmurs from within her sleep. Places, Memories and names only she should of known was what she mumbled in her unconscious state.

He assumed that as soon as she had awoken she would remember him, Feel just as elated as he was at their reunion.

But now he knew that wasn't the case, And if he was being honest? It made him angry.

Kokushibo kneeled down. Reaching his arms out he scooped up her limp body into his arms to settle her within them.

He got up and examined her face, Her eyes and her hair. Every angle and dimension of her face he surveyed left and right. This was her, Everything just lined up too perfectly not to be.

Same name, Same face and Haori. Not to mention that she spoke his name once.

Kokushibo held onto her tighter as he started to walk away with her in his arms. He moved up the stairway careful not to drop her. He moved quickly yet steadily towards the entrance of the shrine.

Entering the building and shutting the door behind him with his foot and made his way up to the second floor where her bedroom was located.

Once he got there he slid open the shoji door, Letting the aquamarine flood the shadows of her room as he walked towards her futon.

Setting her down onto the mattress and tucking her in the duvet with the utmost care, He looked at her once more.

Kokushibo was angry. He truly was livid. The mere fact that she didn't even remember him angered him, Even more so once she called him a monster. He loathed the way he felt his heart wretch in that moment.

Yet he couldn't bring himself to hate her. A part of him wanted to dispose of her, To get rid of her entirely. She was a weakness, Something Kokushibo just could not afford.

But the much larger, Louder part of him detested this with all he had. As the thought of killing her entered his mind he felt disgusted, Horrified at the mere imagining of her being harmed.

She was the only person who ever loved him more than Yorichii. The one person who saw him for himself instead of his brother, She admired him. She loved him. How could he bring himself to hurt her? Kokushibo took in a deep breath, The anger kept at bay as he smiled lightly at her unconscious state.

Even if she didn't remember him, That doesn't mean she won't in due time. The pieces of the puzzle were already there, They were just waiting to be solved is all. Even if she had some 'new life' or whatever may have happened to her. Maybe.. No.. It didn't matter, She was here. That's what mattered.

He breathed out once more. 'Her new life', It felt so wrong as he thought about it. Kokushibo found her as a Hashira of all things, One he had struck down as a man like a god to a heretic.

Gods, He had questions. He had so many questions.

How was she here back with him? How did she become an entirely different person while fighting him? Where did she learn or how would he get her to remember him? Hundreds of questions rushed through his head. Possibilities and chances.

He tucked a small strand of hair behind her ear. He had many questions, And he'll get answers eventually when she was awake.

His little sister was finally brought back to him. The one who died in his arms and the one he would never let go of again. She'll learn to accept her fate here, Understand she has nowhere to run. She'll understand her place was here with him, Her big brother.

He'd crush whatever rebellious phase she was going through, Whatever disobedient little chapter of life she was going through right now. Insulting him, Running away..

He breathed out, Trying to keep away the bloodlust at the thought of her escaping.

She was safe now, And that's all that matters.

Next Chapter

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assortedseaglass · 2 years ago

Text

Borne & Bound - I

Aemond Targaryen x OFC

[Masterlist]

Summary: When Prince Aemond insults the commander of the Braedel cavalry, Viserys sends him to their kingdom so that he may learn the art of diplomacy and do battle with the commander herself, the spirited Lady Geowyth.

Content Warnings: Strong Language, Violence, Smut, Canon-typical Sexism, Mentions of Incest¸ Mentions of Sexual Assault

Word Count: 2.6K

Note: Just a little intro chapter. This is completely canon divergent. I am rubbish at intricate plotting and relatively new to this fandom. This idea has been rummaging around for a good while in my head, and it’s time to put it into action. If you do want an amazingly plotted, political Aemond Targaryen story, please please please read You Were Always With Me by @myfandomprompts. I was on tenterhooks for every upload, it’s a masterfully crafted story with complex character analysis and so many tense and thrilling moments. I adored it!

I think many people have done this, but I’ve aged up the Targaryen children to their mid-twenties.

“Pay attention,”

“It’s too fucking hot,”

“Be quiet!”

Casting his eye over his sister’s head, Aemond watched his mother and brother hiss lowly to each other. The afternoon was hot. Oppressively so. The clock tower above the sept chimed, marking an hour since they had appeared on the barbican steps, and an hour of passive bickering. A mustard butterfly flew across his face, and he looked down to see Helaena’s mournful gaze follow it. She smiled at him half-heartedly and turned back to the crowded steps as Ser Harrold’s voice carried over them.

“Lord Jason, of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Ward of the West.”

In a sweep of embroidered velvet, Ser Tyland moved from his sentinel behind the royal family to greet his twin and the other members of his house.

“Lord Borros, of House Baratheon, Lord of Storms End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.”

The list of houses was endless. Despite the Targaryen proclivity for heat, even Aemond could feel a trickle of sweat journey its way along his spine. Thunder rumbled around the walls of the barbican and the gathered crowd stirred. Aemond cast his eye upwards, and the clear sky stared back.

“It won’t rain,” came Helaena’s soft voice beside him. Still Aemond watched the sky. “They would let us know.” At this, he turned to his sister. She was pointing to a beetle on the stone steps. A little way off, a sparrow watched it with glinting eyes.

“Mmm,” his eye moved to Aegon, who had stopped his fussing to listen to his sister-wife. He rolled his eyes at Aemond, who ignored him and turned slowly back to the approaching nobles. The youngest Baratheon girl gasped as his eye moved over her, and she inched closer to her sisters. The stiff leather of this doublet hid his sigh, for Aemond was used to this response, especially from the younger women of the court. On his eighteenth nameday, he decided once and for all to forgo the ugly eyepatch he wore to cover his disfigurement. The serving boy acting as his valet made to place the patch over his braided hair, when the young prince grasped his wrist.

“Not tonight,”

The boy bowed and left the prince to his chambers. In the candlelight of the room, the sapphire in place of the prince’s missing eye shone vivid and the violet of the other, so famed in Targaryen lore, looked dull by comparison. With one last glance at his reflection, Aemond smoothed his green tunic, flicked the unbraided strands of blond hair over his shoulder, and made his solitary way to the feast. How rude of him, to keep his guests waiting.

With excited steps, he hurried through the keep and to the throne room. A few maidservants gasped upon seeing him and scurried aside, curtsying deeply as he passed them. Even today, Aemond could feel pride swelling in his chest. Maesters, heading back to their cloisters bowed with solemn utterances of his name, and Aemond nodded back, not noticing how their eyes trailed after the young prince with pity and horror. Two guards jumped into position as he approached the great doors of the hall, Aemond barely registering their exchange of shock. Light poured into the hall as they swung open the doors, the orange glow of flame illuminating the prince at the head of the hall. Ser Harrold’s voice announced his arrival, faltering as he turned to look at the young man. No sooner had he entered the hall did the whispered chatter begin. Members of every house gazed upon his nightmarish visage. Some couldn’t look. Girls from noble houses, adorned in their finery, some whom he had hoped to court, turned from his face when he looked upon them. The rest of the memory was a blur of hot tears and screamed vengeance. Since then, the eyepatch remained firmly in place.

“Brother,” Helaena’s hand brushed his own. “You’re staring.” Aemond blinked once, twice and averted his eye from the poor Baratheon girl, her own boring into the ground, quaking as her sister held her hand. Lord Borros and Queen Alicent talked quietly, exchanging pleasantries and glancing occasionally in Aemond’s direction. Ah, so that was the order of it. Marry him off to a Baratheon. Well, the youngest was certainly out of the running.

Another rumble of thunder rattled off the stone walls, accompanied by the clatter of metal against leather. Beside Aemond, Helaena gasped and clapped her hands together. The sound was not due to thunder at all, but the cavalry of horses making its way through the Red Keep’s portcullis. Many of the gathered crowd scuttled to the sides of the barbican courtyard, the Baratheons huddled next to the Queen and the Lannisters stopped in the doorway of the council chamber, eager to assess the party’s new arrivals.

At least three dozen dark stallions poured through the gates, their loose manes rippling in the breeze. The clap of their hooves across the courtyard sent deep tremors through the prince, and at his side he felt his sister shiver. With excitement or nerves, he didn’t know. Above the horses, banners of bronze, blue and wine-rich red flew in the air, the horses emblazoned on them riding the wind, and atop each steed sat a knight, their riding leathers adorned with the sigil of their house; the bucking horse with teeth bared. The helmets of their armour produced plumes of horsehair, no doubt to give the impression they were at one with their mounts. Aemond scoffed. It was a sweet attempt to seem commanding, he supposed. His amusement turned to horror however, when he noticed the slightness of some of the warriors. It couldn’t be. Beneath many of the helmets, scattered amongst the knights, were women. Women in battle dress, shields slung over their backs and swords at their side. The prospect of marrying a Baratheon girl did not seem so dreadful now, if the only women at court were to be Helaena’s ladies-in-waiting, the noble ladies his mother pushed at him or these horse maids.

“Gestillan!”

The cry came from the front of the cavalry, the language one that Aemond could not place, and the cavalry shuffled to a halt. Every head turned towards them. Three riders led the troop, two men and a woman.

“Lord Geodred, of House Beridan, heir to Braedel and commander of the Renward, his sister, Lady Geowyth, and Ser Herumbrand Fasthelm, captain of the Renward.”

Lord Geodred, the man who had issued the call, was at the centre of the three. Unlike the rest of the riders, the three leaders wore no helmets, and Lord Geodred’s hair shone russet like a crown about his head. Stubble decorated his round cheeks, and his small eyes twinkled with mirth. There was something in him that reminded Aemond of his mother in her happier days. The tunic he wore was made of velvet, the fabric coloured the same as the sky when Aemond rode Vhagar just before sun’s rise; that deep, endless blue. Bronze pattern work wound around his sleeves and cape, draped nobly over his mount’s back.

The man to his right was an imposing beast. Ser Herumbrand. The old knight’s dark armour was flecked with scratches, though none could quite match those across his face. His white hair was roughly shorn close to his scalp and, combined with the jutting of his square jaw, gave the man a look of stone come to life. Grey eyes scanned the royals and gathered nobles. He looked down his wide nose at them, though his mouth gave him away. The faintest smile played at the corners if his lips. At his side, his hand rested against the hilt of an enormous sword, the other lax on the reign of the chestnut horse he rode. The two men dismounted and Aemond watched their progress up the great steps towards the royal family. Lord Geodred bowed deeply to the Queen, and when she held out her hand, rather than bend to kiss it, Geodred clasped it warmly with both of his.

“An honour, my Queen, that you would have us attend the King’s council. I am only sorry that it is I and not our uncle,”

“And I am sorry that my husband is not here to welcome you, and that your dear uncle is ill. How is the good King?”

“He is well enough, for now-”

A glint of gold caused Aemond’s eye to drift from his mother and her guests to the woman now dismounting from her own stallion. The black horse she rode was an enormous creature, perhaps the largest horse he had ever seen. The tangle of mane covered its eyes, and it huffed through its flared nostrils as its rider departed with a firm pat to his sleek and muscled neck. From beneath its muzzle she appeared, removing her leather riding gloves and handing them to the rider beside her. Like her brother, the Lady Geowyth was bonny faced, though her hair was much darker. It cascaded in frizzy strands to her waist, the effect giving her the look of something haunted, like a witch fresh from a bog. Where her brother wore blue, she wore the red of her house, dark like blood, the velvet gown frayed and sprayed with mud no doubt from the journey. Lifting the skirt of her dress, she approached her brother, who turned and introduced his sister to the Queen. Aemond watched she curtsied, deeper than any who had come before her, and thanked her for her hospitality.

The Braedels moved along the row, first Lord Geodred, then his sister and Ser Herumbrand. Geodred shook Aegon’s hand jovially after bowing, and the poor prince looked jostled. His ability to stand upright was already hampered by his drinking and the vigorous shaking by a warrior lord did nothing to help him. The lady, Geowyth, curtsied to the prince who took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to it. He muttered something and she laughed, from genuine pleasure or politeness Aemond could not tell. When the party moved towards Helaena, Aegon looked to his brother and winked, licking his lips. He laughed as Aemond imperceptibly shook his head, but ceased when his mother smacked his arm. Aemond distinctly saw her mutter the word “behave.”

Unlike with his mother and brother, Aemond noted that Lord Geodred did not touch Helaena, merely bowed with a gentle “hello”, to which she nodded and clasped her hands. Instead, he stepped aside and introduced the princess to his sister. Helaena, taken by one of her flights of fancy, held out a hand and caught the dark velvet of Lady Geowyth’s cape. She ran her fingers along it murmuring about the delicacy of the embroidery.

“Perhaps we could go to the haberdashers,” Geowyth said gently. “And choose fabric together? By the old Gods and the new, it would be nice to have the company of another young woman.”

Helaena beamed, nodding as she let go of the fabric and swung her arms in front of her. Geodred stepped before Aemond and raised his eyebrows, the act denoting fondness rather than annoyance at their two sisters. The Lord’s calm countenance and assuredness belied his true age for up close, Aemond noted he could have been no older than thirty.

“Prince Aemond,” Geodred bowed. “A pleasure. Your father’s letters to my uncle tell that you are a great student of history.” Beside him, Geowyth looked up.

“History, yes,” Aemond’s voice was measured. “And the languages.”

Geodred nodded. “I hope that you would find the time to show me some of your favourite volumes. I have not the head for history but must learn if I am to inherit my uncle’s kingdom.”

“Of course,” Aemond bowed his head only slightly. “And I might enquire as to your language-” He let the sentence hang, waiting on Geodred to answer.

“Braehic, spoken only in our kingdom. Aed grundset,” At these unknown words, Aemond’s lips twitched into an uncomfortable smile and he bowed, signifying to Geodred that their conversation was at an end. The other man smiled and moved aside. “My sister, Geowyth.”

She was already deep in a bow when Aemond looked upon her. The hair she left untied, tangled like that of her steed, fell forward from her shoulders and near swept the floor. When she straightened to her full height, she met Aemond almost eye to covered eye. At once, Aemond’s eye fell to the ground. The flicker was quick, and he recovered to look at her once again, but nonetheless, they had caught him off guard. Like the bronze of Beridan banners, her eyes gleamed amber. Framed beneath her dark and straight lashes, they stared into his own like an eagle after prey, so bright they were almost yellow. She smiled.

“Your Grace,”

“My lady.” Aemond possessed none of the easy charm of his brother, nor the intriguing gentleness of his sister and, frozen under the gaze of her eyes, said nothing at all. The lady had clearly not expected his silence and glanced quickly to her brother.

“My Queen,” Geodred stepped forward and offered Alicent his arm. “I believe we are the last to arrive-”

“Thank the mother, the maiden and the crone’s sagging-”

“Thank you, Lord Geodred,” Alicent cut Aegon off, taking Geodred’s arm and leading him inside the Red Keep. Behind them followed the royal children and the nobles of the other houses. Helaena tucked her arm into Aemond’s, watching the party from Braedel every now and again over her shoulder.

“Borne and bound,” she muttered.

“Hm?” Aemond followed her eyes. Lady Geowyth and Ser Herumbrand were deep in conversation. The old knight’s eyes caught Aemond’s and the young prince turned around.

“I like them,”

“I’m glad, sister,” he squeezed her hand. “They seemed very taken by you too.” Helaena blushed and clung closer to him.

“Shame the same can’t be said about you,” Aegon took Helaena’s arm from Aemond’s. When the time was right and he was sober enough to remember, Aegon liked to act the doting husband to his sister. Aemond bowed his head and took great strides to be away from his family and the party behind them, catching Aegon’s words as he departed for his chambers.

“Only a few more hours of council and then the drinking can begin.” A roar of approval rose from the noblemen and Aemond sighed. Between the council and the King’s nameday festivities, women being forced upon him or being ignored completely, Aemond knew this week was to be excruciating.

Note: Gestillan = halt

Aed grundset = of course

The language that the Braedel kingdom speaks is Old English. I was inspired (no surprises here) by Tolkien and the Rohirrim, and the area of the UK that I am from when creating this house. There will be a lot more about them and their society in upcoming chapters! The names in old English names are typically said how the are written, though the prefix “geo” is said as “gay-O”, rather than the “geo" in “geography”.

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#ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond #aemond one eye #borne and bound #ewan mitchell x reader

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