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themusingsofacurlyhairednerd · 3 months ago

Text

In Love and War IIII

Author's Note: I hit a massive writer's slump, thank you for all your patience! Have some Smut, as a treat!

Content Warnings: SMUT with Some Plot I Swear--Masturbation, I guess there's kinda a hint of hate-fucking here but only if you squint, Exhibitionism, Thigh Riding (it's always the hands and thighs of this man I swear it's all I think about); Canon Typical Violence, Character Death (Unnamed), Mentions of Starvation/Abuse.

Summary: Reader grapples with her feelings towards Rhysand and what she has to do to save her people.

Previous Chapter/ Masterlist

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Rhysand is the enemy. His hands have spilled the blood of thousands of innocents. He’s most likely torturing people as we speak. He. Is. The. Enemy.

So why do I lie awake, hours after he’s gone, still thinking about how his hands had felt on my skin? Why do I lay here, tracing the path his lips had taken down my throat and collarbones, around my chest and sides, imagining what might have happened if we hadn’t been interrupted?

He is the enemy. I plan to seduce and destroy him. I will make him pay for all the pain he has caused me and my people.

But who is supposed to tell my body that everything that happened tonight isn’t real? That it’s all part of the plan to get him to let his guard down, I’m not actively interested in sleeping with him. I’m not!

It’s just that I haven’t slept with anybody in a long time--that has to be it right? What other explanation do I have for the lingering ache between my legs? For the wandering thoughts of what those hands might have felt like between my thighs?

Every time I close my eyes I replay that moment: The feel of his warm body atop mine, callused hands roaming my skin, lips sucking marks into my throat. Gods I let Rhysand give me hickeys!

I’m going to die of shame.

If the need boiling in the pit of my stomach doesn’t take me out first.

I absolutely refuse to do anything about it! I won’t. Selling my soul to get information is one thing, to try and get off while imagining my enemy is a whole other evil. I can’t! It’s all kinds of fucked up.

I think there might actually be something wrong with me, because the more I try and tell myself it’s wrong, the more wetness I feel between my legs, the tighter the coil in my belly grows. My body actively wants something my brain refuses to let me acknowledge, and so I lay there in a bed that smells so much like him, trying to keep my hands off my still bare skin. I should, at the very least, get up and find where Rhysand had thrown my sweater. He’ll get the wrong idea if he comes back to find me still topless in bed. The middle of the night’s a hard time to get information out of anyone, there’s no reason to try and pick up where we left off tonight. I should just go to sleep.

I pull the pillow over my head and try to imagine all the gruesome, brutal ways he’s probably torturing his captives so I’m no longer laying here thinking about his body. It should work like an ice bath, right? But my mind will not linger on thoughts of blood, only how hot he’d looked scrubbing it off those swirls of ink around his bare chest earlier.

He’s going to be the death of me!

It’s like I can’t escape him. The scent of him is all over the bed, no matter where I lay or how many blankets I shift around. His touch lingers on my skin, the more I try to fight it, the more I find my hands trying to replicate the feeling. I roll my nipple between my fingers, imagining the feel of his calluses against my sensitive peaks. My other hand slides down my stomach, slipping easily beneath the worn waistband of my pants.

This is wrong!

I pull my hand away with a groan. I cannot be doing this.

He is the enemy.

I am doing the seducing. Not him. Me! And I have to have more willpower than this. I can’t be so Cauldron damned horny that a couple kisses gets me this worked up! Seriously, how does one male have this much sway over me already?

I can fight this. I am stronger than this…

I make it all of five minutes before my hand is once again sliding beneath my waistband, tracing its way down to the pool of wetness gathering between my thighs.

He is the enemy.

Yet he would have found no resistance if he stayed. I would have easily surrendered under his touch, let it ignite a wildfire beneath my skin until I’d willingly spread my legs and let him take whatever he needed from my body. I hate the very thought of it, but I know, as my hips buck feverishly against my own hand, that I would have done it.

“Rhys,” the whimper slips past my lips before I can bite it down, pleasure licking white hot down my spine. I’m too far gone to even be mortified at this point, chasing that high while my imagination runs wild with all the things that might have been tonight.

It’s unfair that the sheets smell so strongly of him, only fueling my imagination, all the way to the edge of such jarring bliss. Only then does my body finally relax, my thoughts satiated for now. I can be mortified in the morning. Surely, I’ll hate myself in the light of day, but tonight, tonight I’m exhausted and I finally feel comfortable enough to sleep.

----

My dreams are full of my people hurling rocks at me, chasing me out of the Grasslands, calling me a traitor and a whore, Tam telling me never to come back; I try to visit my parents grave, but can never find it, as even in death they cannot bear to be near me. The guilt I feel upon waking is worse than I imagined it could be. How could I be doing this? How could I want it?

The guilt makes my skin itch. Every bit of me feels like it needs to be scrubbed down to the bone. I climb out of the bed and go to the basin of water to attempt to get clean. There’s a small mirror hanging from a string against the wall, the worn glass giving a spotty view of the bruises across my throat. I’d let Rhysand give me, not just one, but four hickeys, trailing down past my collarbone. There might have been more were it not for my appearance. I trail the damp towel down my torso, fingers ticking against my ribs like piano keys. I’m so godsdamned thin. It’s not unusual, most of my people are, save for Tamlin and his riders--riders always get first dibs on supplies, the rest of us get the scraps, especially when we haven’t been claimed--but I’d never thought about how bad it might look to someone outside of camp. With the scars I bear from my father’s temper, this looks intentional.

I glance up at the circles under my eyes, my reflection in the mirror hollow as a chill runs through me. Supplies have been thin lately, but… Dear old Dad had intentionally withheld supplies from the un-marked in camp as an incentive to get them to bend the knee, Tam knew that, was trained to do it, and he’d been so miserable lately, it wasn’t intentional, right?

I give myself a shake. Tam’s cold even on his good days, but he’d never intentionally do that to me, no matter how unruly I’ve been in the last couple weeks before this mess. Lucien would always sneak me snacks for him on days he was too busy to come see me; I’m just being paranoid. Being here is messing with my brain.

I toss the dirty towel in a bin and untie my hair. There’s no brushes around so I use my fingers to comb through the knots and tie it loosely behind my head. It’s only when I’m done and half way into my discarded sweater that the tent flap blows open and Mor storms her way in.

“Oh good, you’re awake!” She says by way of greeting.

How is she so perky all the time?

There’s a large bag in her hands that she hurls at me with surprising strength. “Time to get dressed! We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”

“What’s the occasion?” I should feel excited with the prospect of getting out there and getting new information, but what are the chances we’re going right to Rhysand? How am I supposed to look at him after last night? No I think it’s for the better if I just sit right here in this tent and continue to torture myself with my thoughts.

“Dress first, talk second,” she returns, hands reaching to help untie the bag since I’m moving too slow for her liking. Bits of dark cloth poke out, the bottom of the bag heavy and lumpy in a way that makes me think I’m holding a pair of shoes.

Mor pulls out a top, the material as dark as her own, though hers has sleeves, this has none, just a band across my torso. The inside is lined with fur at least. I don’t even have time to question it before she starts pulling the other stuff out and rushing me to get dressed. There’s a moment where I think she might actually start undressing me if I don’t start moving, so I dip behind the bed for some privacy, clothes bundled under my arm.

The skirt 's more loose fabric cinched around my hips than an actual skirt, nearly all my legs on display. I stare at the vast expanse of my skin and then up at Mor. “Please tell me there’s pants to go with these?” I don’t want to sound ungrateful since my clothes are barely holding on as is, but I also really don’t want to be walking around camp mostly naked either.

“You’ve got nice legs,” she says, eyes roving over me approvingly. “You’ll look hot.”

“I feel naked,” I retort.

“You’ll adjust. Now hurry up!”

The top is warm but it leaves my arms bare, and even the fur lined ankle boots don’t keep me as warm as I would be if I had a pair of pants. “I really don’t want to sound ungrateful-”

“No time for second thoughts, you’re committed to it now.” Mor interrupts, ushering me over to the mirror again to adjust my hair.

Her delicate fingers brush over my throat as she works and she grins at me in the reflection of the mirror. “Have some fun last night, did we?”

A blush makes its way across my cheeks. “Well, um…”

She laughs as she braids, blue eyes twinkling as she continues to watch my reflection. “I see now why he picked this top. Gotta show everyone your his.” Mor rolls her eyes. “Males! Always so territorial. Though, if I were you, I’d give him a few back in return.”

“Why do I have competition?” I blurt out. That’s a stupid question to ask. Look at him! Of course I’d have competition. But, despite myself, a flicker of jealousy worms its way into my chest.

“Oh there’s quite a few people in camp who’d literally kill to be you,” she returns as she pins my hair to the top of my haid. Using her fingers, she pulls a few loose strands free to frame my face. “He’s been eligible for a long time now.”

“How come?” I ask as she grabs my shoulders and turns me around so she can apply some dark makeup under my eyes.

The amusement in her eyes fades a bit as she says, “His wife…” She clears her throat and turns away to find where she left a tube of lip color. “Feyre. She was killed a couple years ago by Amarantha.”

My breath catches in my throat, chest heavy with the thought. “Oh.”

“He’s been a ghost since she died,” Mor gives herself a little shake as she turns back with the color and dabs a bit of maroon on my lips. “I’ve watched all these females throw themselves at him and it’s like he can’t see them. Usually the males in my family move on quick, you know? Gotta keep the bed warm somehow, right?”

I nod, having seen it well enough back home.

“But Rhys…” she sighs. “I thought Rhys died that day too, but now you’re here and I can see a little life in his eyes again. I didn’t think that was possible.”

Gods the guilt is coming back! I should be glad that this monster got a fraction of the pain he caused others inflicted on him, but instead, my heart only aches for him, as if I can feel that pain in my own chest. The female he loved was dead and the monster that killed her was once again knocking on his doorstep. No wonder he’d asked for a distraction last night! And I’d planned to take advantage of that vulnerability.

My stomach turns.

Mor grips my hands tightly. “I’m glad you’re here. I think he needs you, ya know?”

Please, Mother, kill me! Strike me with lightning or let the ground open up and swallow me. I am a horrible, terrible person.

“You’re too kind, Mor, really I don’t think-” but she doesn’t let me finish as she gives herself a little shake to collect herself and starts ushering me towards the door.

“Now we gotta hurry! We’re gonna be late!”

The early morning light rushes to meet us, such a stark contrast to the darkness of the tent. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, her hand on my wrist leading me along, oblivious to how blind I am. Once I can finally see, I try to take stock of my surroundings and get my bearings. The set-up is a semi-circle of tents, all open and bustling with activity. Fae of all shape and sizes hurry from their tents, the males wearing fighting leathers, the females wearing variations of my own get-up. No one even glances our way, save for the lone male stalking towards us. He’s massive, a head taller than everyone he passes, a giant sword strapped between his tightly tucked wings. I recognize the sword as one I’d seen on one of Rhysand’s riders, though I hadn’t gotten a chance to glimpse his face then. He’s handsome, his dark hair tied back out of his face with a long string. A bit of stubble dusts his jaw, barely hiding a scar that cuts his way across his cheek.

“Y/N, this is Cassian,” Mor introduces, no trace of her earlier seriousness to be found. She is once again all smiles. “He’s Rhys’s general.”

General. He certainly looks the part. He could crush my head with his biceps alone if he wanted!

I don’t know how to move in these stupid skirts, let alone curtsey or bow in any sort of way as I would have back home so all I can manage is to dip my head in greeting. “Hello.” I hope it's enough to not offend this hulking mass of a male.

Despite his size, an easy-going grin cuts across his face. “Glad to officially meet you, Y/N!” His voice booms, even under the din of the rushing crowd. “We should get moving, he’s waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” I ask Mor, wrapping my arms around myself as a breeze hits me head on.

“You didn’t tell her?” Cassian returns.

“He told me not to,” Mor retorts as she loops her arm through mine to help lead me forward.

This is not instilling anything but anxiety in me, but this is my chance to look around so I have to take it. Not that the cold helps. It’s an effort to try and count the tents as my teeth start chattering.

We follow the crowd down the hill, past a set of sentries that guard the path at the bottom as we head into the main encampment. Some of the people around whisper to each other in a mixture of languages, but there is too much moving and noise for me to get a good grasp on what’s being said. Mor doesn’t say anything either, just keeps one arm looped in mine and the other in Cassian’s to keep us from getting separated.

Once inside the main encampment, past another set of sentires, the path splits and becomes rows of tents, laid out like city streets. I’ve never seen a camp look so methodically laid out, each space like a well groomed and planned street. There are even amounts of tents on each side, firepits and places to sit breaking up the road between them. It’s all very homey and… permanent. A spike of envy rises in my chest as I take it in. This is not a camp that ups and moves frequently. It is settled and intentional in its spacing. It might not be the cities the Night Court once boasted in the days before Hybern, but it is still far more a city than the Grasslands had ever seen. I try to count them as we pass, but lose my train of thought after fifty, when the road starts to thin and people push in around us from every direction. I will have to get back another time and recount.

The path continues forward, for some time, growing smaller and smaller until we come to a standstill. Mor huffs something about being late as we’re forced to wait under the rising sun as whatever is ahead of us gets closer, one step at a time. Eventually, a large amphitheater comes into view, set deep into the ground like a giant, stone step flanked pit. It must have taken months to dig this deep, let alone shape the stones into such smooth edges. How long has this encampment been here?

It takes what feels like an hour to reach the flat edge at the top where holes have been drilled into it so that banners can be held aloft, each massive pole waving a different flag. There are multiple Night Court black flags, the shimmering triple stars over matching mountains, but there are others too: Twin Wyverns chasing each other’s tales, their golden maws open and ready to snatch and eat the other; A set of bat-like wings open and extended across a crimson flag, an eight point star at its center. Under each banner, crowded atop the steps are fae of all shapes and sizes, all separated into sections, their clothes matching the color of the banner they sit or stand under. I’ve never seen anything like it. I want to take a second to take it in but I can’t focus on any of it. Not when, at the heart of the pit, standing over two bound figures, is the male that claims to be my mate.

My breath hitches in my chest when I see him.

He is the enemy.

This is the male that stormed into our camp all those years ago, this is the male that slaughtered my people in cold blood. Any warmth I had ever seen in those, nearly glowing, violet eyes is gone, only cold indifference remains. Atop his raven hair sits an obsidian crown, the pointed centerpiece glittering with three gems in the center, a nod to the stars marked on the arm of every person crammed into the amphitheater. He wears fighting leathers, but not the ones he’d worn into battle, these are all black, polished to a shine in the early morning light. And his wings! By the Cauldron, I’ve never paid so much attention to anything as I watch the massive membrane flare out behind him, decorated in swirling patterns of violet and blue ink, the patterns a twin to the tattoos that circle over his exposed biceps. He looks every bit a Lord. No, every bit a Dark Prince. Wisps of darkness slither off his shoulders, twining over his fingertips, dancing around his hips and thighs. I feel the power of him in my veins as Cassian leads us down the steps.

No one pays us any mind as we pass, their attention and anger, judging by the shouts they throw, are all honed at the males kneeling at Rhysand’s feet. They’ve been stripped down to their underthings, bare chests slashed with even, precise lines of a blade, the blood long since dried. Both have short, dark hair and eyes so black it looks like all pupil. There are more slashes beneath their eyes, the marks fresher than the others, a few droplets of blood dripping down their cheeks like tears.

Cassian leads us to the bottom row, where I recognize the shadowy figure of Azriel, saving us a spot. The other male stands with his arms crossed over his chest, the dagger he’d been spinning in his hands last night now safely strapped to his thigh. I shiver as he puts a hand on my back to motion me into a seat between him and Cassian, with Mor squeezing her way in between him and I so we remain together. The shouting of the crowd grows louder with each passing second, the volume and anger making my hair stand on end. I find myself reaching out for Mor’s hands, huddled beside her for both warmth and protection.

Up until this point, Rhysand has been pacing, hands clasped behind his back, wings flaring behind him. Only once I’m seated does his gaze flick to me, eyes roving over my new attire and I hate the flutter in my stomach the look brings me. I should want him to be looking at me like that, but after what Mor had said, after what I’d done once he’d left… I look away quickly, torn more than ever on what I’m supposed to do here.

I feel, more than see, the little smirk he gets as his eyes linger on the marks he’d left on my throat, but am spared from any more thoughts about last night when he finally looks away to address the crowd. It’s first in Illyrian, then in Basic. The change in languages makes his voice deeper, huskier; I’m more drawn to it than I’d like to be. Many things about the male are attractive, I’m not so blinded by disdain for him that I don’t notice them, his voice among the top qualities. There are quite a few females around me who lean forward in their seats, enraptured with his every word. It’s almost distracting enough that I forget there are two bound men at his feet.

Almost. My eyes flick to them. Their wounds are precise, methodical, not so deep it’ll kill them, but not so shallow it doesn’t hurt. They keep their heads to their chest as Rhysand speaks, dark eyes darting around for an escape. They say Amarantha’s men are worse monsters than the Illyrians, but they certainly don’t look terrifying now. They’re scrawny, like someone had plucked them off the street, no scars upon their skin to reveal any past battle wounds. I can’t decide if that means they’ve never seen a battle until now or if Amarantha’s fighting men have such an advantage that they’ve never been injured in one.

“Amarantha thinks that she can do whatever she wants,” Rhysand’s voice booms across the amphitheater, the worn stones trembling beneath us. Darkness mists off his body, violet eyes glowing like starlight in his tan face. “But Hybern and his General have no power here!”

The crowd roars in agreement, some of the fighting men on their feet now, stamping the butts of their spears against the ground.

“These are our lands!”

My ears ring under the din of the crowd. Mor grips my hand a little tighter to keep me steady. At least she’d been right about one thing: The amount of bodies packed into here makes the cold a little bearable, but I press as close to her as I can all the same.

“We have bled and died for it!” Rhysand continues. “And we proved last night that we are not to be underestimated! We proved that if Amarantha thinks she can come here and take what is rightfully ours, that there will be blood to pay!”

A shiver runs up my spine as he speaks. Not just at what he says, but the truth of it. There is no mourning here. The injured in the crowd are few--only a handful of males sport bandages, no blood seeping through the white linen as if even the wounds that had landed were superficial and healing, not the open, bleeding mess I’m so used to seeing--and he’d said last night that his men had no casualties. Not only were their numbers greater than I had anticipated, but their powers are far beyond what we feared they were. Rhysand himself is a living testament to that. There isn’t anyone among us who doesn’t feel the reverberations of his power in our veins. His darkness doesn’t just flow from him, it ebbs into us, brushes against every person present like it’s introducing itself to us one by one. I don’t need to see him in battle to know that he can easily blow Amarantha’s men away by himself. He won’t even need an army.

I swallow the lump in my throat. Am I prepared to go up against a one man army?

“And we will make sure that is a lesson that bitch never forgets!” Rhysand roars as stars glitter around his outstretched hand, twinning between his fingers. His wings flair out behind him, the apex talons at the tip growing sharper, the violet of his eyes deepening, I swear I see fangs forming in his mouth. He’s not just powerful, he’s something wholly other.

The crowd jumps to its feet demanding the heads of the two males bound before them, and their Lord obliges, using a glittering trail of starlight to separate their heads from their shoulders, blood splatter across the stones.

Rhysand lifts their heads up by the hair, admiring his work with nothing but pure satisfaction as he calls Azriel over to him. “Why don’t you deliver these to their doorstep?”

The shadowy figure of Azriel doesn’t even break stride as he grabs the heads from his lord and vanishes into shadow with them.

Interesting, so they know where Amarantha’s camp is? Tam had never been able to track her. Or maybe he’d never tried.

Rhysand flicks the blood off his hands as he looks to the crowd and says, “We can expect a swift response, so let us be ready.”

A shiver runs down my spine at the thought. He can’t really be trying to take on Amarantha, can he?

“Bring all your un-marked forward, let us ensure the protection of those within our borders before we prepare to strengthen outside it.”

Shit!

I’d forgotten about that part. Why else would this outfit they’d dressed me up in not have sleeves unless they needed to mark me? It should have been obvious from the beginning but I’ve been so in my head I haven’t even stopped to think about the reasons behind all this.

Mor grabs my arm gently, but I feel the strength hidden behind it regardless. She thinks I might try and run. Truth be told, I want to. How am I supposed to go home with Rhysand’s mark? Even if I manage to get all their numbers and weaknesses, that mark is permanent. It might literally be the signature on my death warrant, no matter what information I take home.

But it also puts me right in the middle of all important matters here. Rhysand said he wanted me to ride out with him. The things I could see if I do that! I’d know how many fighting men he has, would learn battle strategies and weak points, all things no one back home has ever been able to touch.

Thankfully, Mor helps me stand, my shoes feel like they're full of sand. Even if I’m ready to face Rhysand, am I ready to face Tamlin when this is all said and done?

Around me, males and females all step forward. A few struggle against it, having to be pulled down into the center of the amphitheater, others go alone, heads high. They’ll have to go through the blood littering the floor to get there, which is clever on Rhysand’s part. Swearing fealty here, after blood has been spilled makes this oath all the more magically binding. We’re all entered into a blood oath without spilling any of our own to do it.

I let Mor lead me forward, despite every instinct to run. I will be closer than anyone to Rhysand. I can give my people the chance they deserve at having a good life. Maybe, when this is all said and done, this walled in haven could be a place we could call home, safe from war and hunger. I can ensure our future, all I have to do is damn myself to do it.

And put this male through more misery. The image of him last night, the dark circles around his eyes flashes across my mind and I have to give myself a little shake to rid myself of it. I can’t let one tragedy sway me, how many tragedies has he himself caused?

My chest aches, I rub absently at it like that might relieve the tension. He is the enemy. I have to keep telling myself that, over and over, until it’s ingrained into my very thought process. One loss cannot compare to what he has put us through. I have to think about all the lives I will save instead of the one he has lost.

It takes so much time for me to convince myself that I am capable of doing this that I genuinely miss everyone’s else’s pledge to Rhysand. By the time I am settled and ready to raise my head again, it’s just me and him, and a river of spilled blood between us. A fitting meeting ground I suppose.

Mor gives my arm one last squeeze before she slips into Cassian’s arms and I swear the whole world centers in to just me and the massive Illyrian before me. He looks even more a dark prince up close.

“Hello, mate,” he purrs.

I swallow the lump in my throat. Don’t throw up here, don’t throw up in front of all these people.

Rhysand leans in close enough for me to smell the citrus and jasmine scent of him, the heady fragrance invading all my senses like it's trying to carve itself into veins. I’ve never been more aware of his size compared to mine. “Kneel,” his voice is a lover's caress, made for the gentle darkness of the bedroom. “Take my mark, so that you’ll have our full protection, and then you and I can have some fun.”

Those violet eyes flick to my bruised throat, his fangs biting into his lower lip as he admires his work and heat rushes through me. I want to play, just as readily as I had last night, maybe more.

I tear my gaze away first. There’s no going back from this.

My heartbeat is a clanging gong in my ears, breath a heavy rasp that tears from my throat as I lower myself onto my knees. The rough stones bite into my exposed flesh; the blood now cold against my skin.

Rhysand reaches out to touch my cheek, thumb stroking over my skin as he nods encouragingly. His touch makes me think of last night, and what I had done in the aftermath of having those hands on me. I’d managed to not think about it until now, but now that the thought is here, I can’t stop it anymore than I could last night. Heat licks its way up my spine.

He is the enemy. I am not supposed to feel like this while on my knees, I am supposed to hate him. I really need to pull it together.

“I-” Am I even capable of separating myself from what I want and need to do here? I can’t stop thinking about how badly I want his hands on my body. It’s not supposed to be like this!

“I swear fealty to you, My Lord.” Am I supposed to say something flowery? Make some grand gesture? I never really paid that much attention during these things, I’d spent most of my time trying to figure out how to get out of them, not into one.

The words are barely out of my mouth before I feel a tingling sensation shoot its way up my arm, from fingertips to shoulder. It’s not painful, feels like my arm fell asleep and lost feeling, even though I still have all my motor functions. When I glance down at the source of the discomfort, a band of ink colored darkness spreads across my skin. It moves in swirling patterns across my bicep, twisting and twining until the familiar pattern of triple stars makes itself clear among the ink. We brand people with an iron in the Grasslands, this magic tattoo is a new sight for me.

Rhysand takes my hand and helps me to my feet before I can even think about reaching out a hand to feel the new piece of me. I don’t even have time to feel guilty about it either, not when he’s crashing his lips against mine, the hunger he feels palpable as his hand slides into my hair.

The crowd whoops and hollers, reminding me that they’re even there. I’d truly forgotten about them up until now.

His other hand still strokes my face as he pulls away just enough to say, “I swear, no harm will come to you under our watch.”

Lofty promises I’m sure, but with the crowd pressing in, now that the spectacle is over, there is not much time to dwell on it either. The next couple of minutes pass in a blur as we all shift from the amphitheater to a mess tent full of benches and long tables full of food and drink.

Rhysand hasn’t let go of my hand, not even at Mor’s insistence that she should get to show me around. The mark might as well be a rope tied around our wrists, dragging me along beside him as he greets various soldiers and sentries.

The heat of the room soon makes me forget I was ever cold in the first place, a sheen of sweat clinging to my skin the longer we linger.

In the back center of the tent is the seat of honor, it alone has a single table, everyone else crowds into each other, clambering for seats with no real order. The fighting men mingle with the elders and children and maids alike; the armored sentries dumping their helmets on the tables, the horse hair plumes drifting over the worn wood, holding spots next to the seats of scantily dressed dancers.

As everyone finds their seats, serving girls start bringing in the food and drink, until all the tables are full of dozens of dishes I can’t name. My stomach rumbles as Rhysand leads me along, an arm looped around my waist like he thinks I might slip away at any moment. He hasn’t stopped touching me since his mark wrote its way across my right arm; a good thing for my plan, I suppose, but I my mind won’t stop narrowing in on the way his fingers dance over my hip bone or the strength of his arms around me. To some degree, I feel small next to him, but not in a way I can convince myself I hate. Not in the way I had felt small back home.

It’s not long before Rhysand claims this would-be throne and before I can ask where I should disappear to, the warlord is gripping me by the hips and pulling me into his lap! My brain short circuits, all rational thought flying out the window.

He slots one powerful thigh between my, very exposed, legs the scrape of his leathers against my bare skin enough to make my whole body shiver. He’s all sleek muscle, body chiseled from riding and fighting and it is not as if I hadn’t noticed--especially after last night--but I’d never been so aware of him before.

His breath is warm over the shell of my ear as he leans in to whisper, “Now we can play, Darling.”

Here?! Cauldron he’s really going to be the death of me! And rationally I know the more people see us together, the easier it will be for me to maneuver and get information, but it is very hard to think rationally when I can feel so many eyes watching my every move.

Rhysand brushes his nose over the juncture of my neck and shoulder, the soft waves of his dark hair a contrast to the harsh flash of teeth he brushes against my skin a moment later. My heart thunders in my chest, heat rushing to my cheeks. I’ve lost sight of Mor and Cassian, though I doubt they’d be stupid enough to interrupt, let alone save me.

Rhysand sucks a new mark into my neck as he trails a hand up my exposed thigh and the notion that I need to be saved leaves me. This is what I had hoped would happen last night--what I had tried so hard to pretend I didn’t want. The crowd starts to blur in my vision, the only people here are the two of us as he gets closer and closer to the apex of my thighs.

He is the enemy. Yet, my head falls back on his shoulder as both his lips and his hands trail higher. Every move is warm and calculating and my body is so eager to surrender. I tell myself this is part of the plan, part of the game, but my body doesn’t care about any of that. It just wants more of him.

His hand stills at the pathetic excuse of a covering the skirt offers, thumb stroking against the inside of my thigh. My breath hitches in my throat.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he says softly in my ear. “I’ll make it up to you.”

I think I might actually be so pathetic that I’d beg for it, body squirming under his grip in search of more friction. I’ve never been more acutely aware of the ache between my legs. More so when I find myself grinding my hips down, unabashedly, against his thigh in front of all these people, the scrape of his leathers a heady friction that makes me bite down on my lower lip.

He chuckles in my ear at my neediness, the sound so rich and deep it only further ignites the heat in my lower belly. If he is supposed to be the enemy, why is his whole body made for such pleasurable sin? There isn’t an inch of him that couldn’t be used to turn me on.

“It’s… it’s ok,” what even are words? “This was important.”

He hums as if thinking, fingers still stroking idle patterns into the tender flesh of my thigh. He’s so close to where I want him.

“Thank you for being understanding,” he says softly. He sounds about as fragile as he had looked last night and that pang in my chest is back. “I can’t… I can’t risk it, not again, not with you. My mark will guarantee your protection, even if I am not physically here. You’re safe, and you’ll stay that way.”

I slowly raise my hand back, until I can thread my fingers through his hair and he leans his whole head into my touch. “No one’s ever really looked out for me before,” I whisper. Not a lie and not part of this game, but something that slips right out of me before I can trap it behind my teeth.

“Never again,” he vows.

Perhaps if there wasn’t so much blood between us, I could believe him.

I can’t take the words back, and I hate that we constantly end up more vulnerable than I thought we could be, I need to get this back on track. The less vulnerable I can keep things between us, the better. All I need to do is keep his focus on what we’d been doing. The more he’s thinking about my body, the less he’s looking at what I’m doing--and the less guilty I will feel.

I grind my hips back against him, trying to regain control of the situation, the obvious proof of his own arousal pressing into my ass.

He hisses, even as he nips at the underside of my jaw. “Needy little thing, aren’t you?”

“You did say you’d make it up to me,” I tease in return, scraping my nails playfully along his scalp.

“I did,” he muses. “Though I was thinking about doing it after we eat.”

“Liar,” I retort.

His hand finally, blissfully, snakes higher, dipping beneath my skirts. “See, I was planning on making it up to you with my tongue-”

All thought eddies from my mind as his fingers stroke over my core, heat licking its way up my spine. I have to bite down on my lip to keep from making a sound.

“But if my hand is what you’d prefer, I’ll happily give it to you.” He slides a finger into the budding wetness between my legs, testing to see how much I can take. “That’s what you were thinking about last night, right?”

I freeze and he chuckles in my ear as he says, “It was rather distracting, having your side of the bond open, right as Azriel was going to work on our captives.”

He’d heard me?!

Shit shit shit! How much did he know?

“H-how did you…?” My hips buck instinctively as he curls a finger inside me, hitting a spot I didn’t know was so sensitive.

“Think of the bond like a bridge,” he explains it so clinically, as if he isn’t currently adding a second finger inside me. “With a door on each end. Last night, you opened your door and let me walk right in.”

“How…” I roll my hips to match his pace, desperate for the friction, even as my eyes squeeze themselves shut from the embarrassment of this conversation. “How much did you hear?”

“Heard and saw,” he corrects, teeth scraping along the underside of my jaw.

I wish the floor would open up and swallow me!

“Just the last bit, I think,” he continues, picking up his pace as my body clenches around his fingers. “When you called out for me. Want to tell me what you were imagining I was doing?”

Thank the Mother he hadn’t walked in when I was thinking about how much I hated him! I’d be dead otherwise, mark or not, and this wasn’t the position I wanted to be in if that was going to happen.

“This,” I whimper, turning my head to brush my lips along his throat. As long as he thinks it was nothing other than my general horniness, I’m safe, embarrassment aside.

His fingers plunge deeper, wetness dripping down my thighs; I have to be leaving a mess on his pants at this point. “Hmmm, not very creative,” he tuts. “You could have had any part of me you wanted, and all you could think about was my hands?”

Considering the way my thighs start to shake, breath catching in my throat as he hits a spot inside me that has stars swimming across my vision, I’m pretty sure his hands are far beyond the limits of my imagination. No dream had ever felt this good. I intend to defend myself, or at the very least tease him in return, but the only thing that makes it past my lips is his name, soft and pleading as a prayer as my hips chase the motion of his fingers. My whole body is on fire. No part of my imagination would have ever been able to create this.

From somewhere inside the tent, music has started playing and some of those dancers I’d spotted on the way in start the entertainment portion of the afternoon, which I’m sure is a fantastic display, given the approving sounds of the crowd, but I can’t even pay attention to it. I’m barely aware that it’s there as I press my forehead into Rhysand’s shoulder and whimper, body tight as a bowstring.

“Just like that,” he whispers in my ear, chin dropping to rest on my shoulder so he can watch the way my hips rock against his hand. “Doing so well for me, Darling.”

“Please,” I beg. Gods I’m begging Rhysand. Did that even matter at this point? I’d already gotten on my knees for him, already taken his mark, what was a little begging in retrospect?

He places a tender kiss beneath my ear. “Beg a little more.”

Color heats my cheeks. “Please?” I tilt my face up enough to brush my lips over his warm skin again, my hips doing most of the work now as he slows his pace. I could honestly cry from the sudden lack of stimulation.

“Little more.”

What could he possibly want me to say here?

Something flares in my chest as my brain spins, the same tugging feeling I’ve felt the last couple of days when I think about him. Is that the bridge he spoke of? Is that really him on the other side and not some bullshit? I mean, he did know what I’d done last night… So maybe this is real, maybe we really are…

It clicks and I drag my own teeth over his throat, leaving a little mark. This is how I keep up this ruse, right? “Please, mate.”

Shadows swirl up my thighs, caressing all the sensitive spots his hands are too occupied to touch. That little tether in my chest warms as he once again picks up the pace. His own hips rock forward, erection hot and heavy against my ass as he leaves another bite mark where my shoulder meets my neck. I’d said exactly what he’d wanted to hear.

“Good girl,” he praises, voice so low and husky it pushes me right over the edge.

Stars swirl across my vision, body going limp in his grasp as I finally hurtle over the edge. I’ve never cum so hard in my life! It’s only by biting down on my lower lip that I don’t let out a scream.

He holds me gently as I come down, shadows now stroking in soothing patterns over my skin as I catch my breath.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

He kisses my cheek as he removes his hand from between my legs. One of his shadows brings a cup of ale over for me to drink. “Let’s get you some food, hm?”

It is still hard for me to wrap my head around that this male is the one that so easily slaughtered my people--the male that just took two heads off in the amphitheater. There is such a contrast to him it makes my head spin. It is even stranger to me that he is still very obviously aroused and not doing anything about it. He’s very content to let me just sit here in his lap after giving me the best orgasm of my life with nothing in return?

“What about you?”

Rhysand places another kiss beneath my ear. “We have all day, Darling.”

That thing in my chest warms at the thought. At least there are some perks to seducing the enemy, right?

------

Tag List:

@judig92, @randomperson1234sblog, @nyxbranwenn, @lilah-asteria, @barb00235, @landofpetrichor, @hjgdhghoe @buttermilktea11, @yourforeveryoungblog, @sassyn, @zoeisdreaming6, @minnieoo, @girl-math-aint-mathing

You all are angels for waiting this long for an update! <3 I'll try not to have as much down time in between posts.

If you also want to be added to the taglist, let me know! :)

#rhysand x reader #rhysand smut #rhysand x reader smut #rhys x you #rhys x y/n #ACOTAR AU #acotar smut #rhysand fic #morally gray!rhys #warlord!rhys #my writing #my fanfic

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formlessvoidbeast · 1 year ago

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OMG! <3333 So beautiful!

Thank you so much!

For the story I am currently reading- For the want of a jewel by @formlessvoidbeast - Damian dancing♥️

#art #for the want of a jewel #damian #warlord fic #ts is a spoiled bug

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thedemonofcat · 3 months ago

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Growing up, Jaskier and his sister were nearly identical, often swapping places for fun. The only reliable way to tell them apart was that Jaskier's sister was mute. Eventually, their parents figured out how to prevent their tricks.

When Jaskier and his sister overheard their parents planning to marry her off to the warlord of the North, they were alarmed. Rumors painted the White Wolf as a cruel figure, and Jaskier couldn’t bear the thought of his sister facing such a fate.

So, he decided to take her place. He left a note behind to convince their parents that he was the one who had fled Lettenhove, giving his sister a chance to escape.

Disguised in his sister’s clothes, Jaskier journeyed to Kaer Morhen in her stead. But as he got to know the warlord Geralt, Jaskier found himself struggling to maintain the deception—especially as he began to fall in love with Geralt.

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fanaticsnail · 11 months ago

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The Spear and the Sword

Masterlist Here.

Word Count: 3,807

This is the final fic for the year, a wonderful prompt given by an anon months ago. Thank you to @since-im-already-here for beta reading and correcting grammar. If there's any issue, know my sister is to blame, folks.

@gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @sordidmusings @feral-artistry @vespidphoenix happy new year!

Warning: blood, gore, flirtatious dialogue, mutual pining, playfulness in battle, enemies to lovers, warlord reader, fluff, Mihawk x female!reader.

I said I'd get it done before the new year. Happy New Years Eve to my fellow Aussies!

This was too much. This was far too much. This was far too much for lord Dracule Mihawk to fend off alone. His great sword Yoru was spattered with the blood of several foes, each impact meeting his blade creating more lethargy in the broody sword master of the seas. His title of “worlds greatest” was hanging in the balance as more enemies approached him with more fervour than ever before.

“Garp,” Mihawk growled into his den-den-mushi earpiece, “you said there would be a few hundred. This is in the upwards of a couple thousand. What is going on back there?” Static and groans of battle were met within the earpiece in return, huffs of gruff breath and thumps of fists coinciding within the ferocious melody.

“It was all I was aware of, Mihawk,” Garp growled once the battle was silenced in the background of the call, “my marines are barely holding up on this end. The other warlords are occupied, I’ve got none to spare you.” Mihawk almost met with a single shot from a bullet, weaving away with a dance-like twirl to dodge the metallic, circular object. He swiped his lengthy blade within the air and kicked back the individual who shot at him, his torso falling to impale themselves against a fence post as a result of the blow.

The town he was tasked to protect, a marine base home to several prominent family members within the world government; alongside the sick, weak, young, and elderly, were currently engaged in a war-like battle with pillagers and pirates from the four corners of the north, east, south and west blues. This army was accumulated under a foreign flag, their jolly roger unfamiliar to both marines and warlords alike. Mihawk had been fighting at the front line alone, his ship destroyed under the destruction of war: his traveling vintages of fine wines claimed by the seas.

As another made his approach, Mihawk huffed out an exhausted and frustrated breath while continuing to swipe to relinquish the foes and meet them with the sharpened edge of his blade.

“Mihawk,” Garp interrupted his flow of battle with his voice cutting through the air within his snail earpiece, “we might have someone available. You’ve worked with her before, a warlord like you. She’s on her way.”

“Boa?” Mihawk asked while placing his fingertip to the shell of the earpiece, “I thought you said she’s on the other side of the north blue right now.” Garp growled at one of his underlings, directing them in some nonsensical way that Mihawk couldn’t quite register.

“No, not Boa,” Garp replied, panting into the earpiece with exhaustion overcoming himself. More clangs, clashes and thumps were heard within the earpiece, Mihawk turning to continue forcing the pillagers back to the shore of the beach.

“No,” Mihawk uttered firmly into the earpiece, “anyone but her. Give me cadets, give me your least valuable soldiers, give me prisoners. Literally anyone else-.”

“I don’t have anyone else!” Garp roared into the earpiece, prompting Mihawk to flinch away from it while furrowing his brows in anger. Both men managed to calm themselves down, Mihawk taking a moment to silence his rage by taking a few deep breaths.

“Put your former grievances and your ego aside, warlord,” Garp ordered within the earpiece, “she’s what we have, and she’s perfect. World’s greatest weapons-master, in fact.”

“I’m aware of that,” Mihawk murmured through his clenched teeth, his teeth grinding as he bit back his lackluster words, “she’s violent, impulsive, ferocious, messy. She’s feral and she’s the bane of my existence.”

“Have you even spoken to her?” Garp questioned, a small humorless laugh falling through his widened grimace, “she’s exactly what we need, Mihawk. You do this, and I’ll let you off the tether to tend your farms, sharpen your sword – or even sheathe it for an entire year.” Mihawk narrowed his eyes, huffing out a frustrated breath and brandishing his sword out to the side in preparation for another recuperated attack from the approaching armada.

“How soon will she be here?” Mihawk asked, his beard protruding while snarling with his upper lip drawing back.

“She’s already on the other side of the war line,” Garp confirmed with him, a final slam of iron-barred doors echoing within the background of the ship, “I’ll patch her through now.”

You tilted your head down, looking up at the coastline full of ships approaching the marine-base through your lengthy eyelashes. You drew back your playful smirk, allowing the elevation of your heartbeat to begin to work itself to frenzy within your ribcage. You were known far and wide for your battle-ready ferocity; allowing your rage to take over your emotions within the thralls of battle to relinquish many a foe.

Combat mastery began at a young age; bare knuckle boxing in gladiator cage-matches being one of the first types of combat you overtook the championship of in your youth. After boxing and grappling, you moved on to wielding large hammers and battle axes, enjoying the weight within your fists as you crushed skulls and decapitated limbs. After heftier weapons, you opted to train under the mentorship of a superior fighter. They taught you to throw the spear and reclaim it swiftly, giving you pointers to always meet your target with the piercing tip of the bladed end.

You were nothing, coming from nothing. No family to speak of, you traveled the continents, claiming title after title of world's greatest weapon-master with ease. The only one you were yet to best was the current reigning lord of Kuraigana, his title of World’s Greatest Swordsman continuing to badge itself against his bare chest with pride. Arrogant prick was the first thought that sprung to mind regarding the nature of his aura. You had seen posters, articles and even catalogs regarding his training history and weapons mastery.

As your status was elevated to warlord, the world government approached you for protection against several foes and to take on contracts they would rather not involve themselves with, you accepted under two conditions: they allow you to handle matters in your own way, being the first. Your own way, being: “I will get this done, regardless of the mess, and you will clean it up after I’m done with it.”

The other condition is you were to be given absolutely all the information available to you regarding the contracts: no children, no women: no innocents. Those were your rules. You didn’t care how feral the children were, nor how arrogant and uptight the women were. If they were innocent, you refused to do harm to them, or unleash your wrath onto the world government themselves. There were absolutely no qualms to your requests, printed in bold atop your profile.

Vice-Admiral Garp had no quarry with your methods, usually placing a den-den-mushi somewhere about within the battlefield to watch your barbaric tirades on the field in awe at your ferocity.

That was how Mihawk knew of your battle prowess, your pictures almost always covered in some form of dirt, mud and blood within the heat of battle. He absolutely despised mess, but was always held captive to your almost beckoning and sultry gaze as you removed your spearhead from another foe. And you knew him in a similar likeness, his images always clean-cut with not a splash of battle worn on him. Given the call you just received from Garp, you were quivering in anticipation to remedy such a plight from him.

“I’m going to patch you through now, Weaponsmaster,” Garp’s lilted brogue uttered into the den-den-mushi within your ear. His voice almost was quivering itself in anticipation of witnessing the carnage you were about to unleash against the armada as far as the naked eye could see.

“Thank you, Vice-Admiral,” you sang in an almost sultry tone within the earpiece, “I know you’ll be watching closely.”

“Aye, I will be lass,” Garp’s voice laughed into the earpiece. You were very well aware of how fond the older gentleman was of watching you work, not minding in the slightest at the attention and preference you got from him.

“Mihawk, you there?” Garp’s voice echoed within the earpiece, prompting you to wince away from his growl slightly.

“I am, Vice-Admiral.” A moment of pause occurred before Mihawk spoke again, “Weapons-master.”

“Sword-master,” you smirked, your voice almost purring at him, “a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

“That I’m sure of,” Mihawk replied in a bored tone. You were slightly taken aback by his standoffish mannerism, your brows furrowing low. He absolutely knew who you were, holding a title as warlord and world’s greatest weapons-master. You rotated your shoulders and clicked your neck to rid yourself of annoyance and prepare yourself for battle.

“Conceited Cunt,” you spat, unaware that the contact was still drawn between the three of you – only becoming aware once Mihawk’s voice relayed back to you, “Feral Filiform.”

“Easy now,” Garp’s voice called over the linked den-den-mushi, “Complete this feat first, then get to your flirting.”

“If you think that’s what flirting looks like,” Mihawk winced into the shell, touching his index finger to the outer shell of the den-den-mushi, “I pity your wife.” You chuckled at his crude comment, almost tangibly feeling the rage pouring off Garp in waves through the den-den-mushi attached to your inner ear.

“Save your insults for the enemy, pirate,” Garp spat into the earpiece. You heard Mihawk hum, prompting you to roll your eyes at the interaction. The ships over the shore began to fall closer to your small vessel - the rise of the tide ushering you into the new thralls of battle. You noticed there were a few hundred ships, all carrying an amassment of crew of various sizes. You once again rolled your shoulders back and pursed your lips.

Placing your fingertip to secure the shell deeper within your ear, you smirked out a final taunt to the warlord.

“This is what was bothering you? Couldn't you handle the troop all by yourself, swordsman?” You cooed into the voice responder. Silence and static was met within the drum of your ear, a stifled growl also accompanying it. You decided to get in a final jab to taunt him, “I could dispatch the armada by myself. Why don’t you take a break, old man? Sit your pretty little ass down on the beach and sit back to watch the show.”

“I’d like to see you try, barbarian,” Mihawk growled in return. Your ship brushed against the hull of the first ship to the rear of the fleet; your presence immediately making itself known as you housed yourself effortlessly over the railing. You laughed into the earpiece, feeling the rapidity of your heartbeat rising in elevation to frenzy yourself before first contact is made with your many foes.

Your spear was flung through your hands to indent itself against the top mast at the middle of the vessel, skewering several members of the mighty crew onto its pole as meat would dangle from a kebab. You grappled, kicked, flung yourself at the crew; using your hands and their own weapons against them to relinquish them from their life. Once they all fell victim to your battle mastery, you again reached your hand up to the shell-responder.

“I bet my left breastplate I will get to the middle before you, Swordsman,” you taunted him, your legs carrying themselves with haste towards the railing of the ship. You jumped high, the air lifting you and drawing your body down against the next vessel.

“I bet my waist-belt you absolutely won’t, Wild-Woman,” the swordsman snarled into the earpiece, Yoru circling around and pushing the troops back with one fell swipe. Mihawk’s teeth drew themselves back, enraged at his taunt being met with a small melodic giggle.

“Oh, this is how we’re playing, is it?” You whispered breathily into the earpiece, your spear clutched within the fist of your dominant hand as you stabbed at the next approaching foe. You giggled again, feeling at home on the battlefield. The life drained from the eyes of the enemy under the tip of your spear; another shipful of foes falling on their knees at your expert ministrations.

“Fine,” you smiled into the earpiece, singsong and humor dripping from your tongue, “I’ll see your belt and raise you my entire breastplate.” Mihawk growled in response. You held your ground, immediately flinging yourself at the next ship.

Rather than to take on several members of this crew, you shrugged your shoulders and thrust your spear downwards - sinking the vessel below your feet. You sprinted against the ship’s deck as it began to be claimed by the sea water below, ushering you on to the next ship. You threw your spear to the next vessel, embedding the tip into a lit cannon and witnessed the beautiful implosion it made; launching the spear back into your awaiting palm as you jumped onto the next one. The blast sunk the ship it was fired from, the cannonball flinging itself to sink the one laying perpendicular to the vessel.

Mihawk was not paying attention to your battle mastery, assuming you were still undertaking the first vessel you had docked your ship against and fighting like some untrained and feral marine. He snickered at the thought, himself already aboard his second vessel after pushing back the troop from their approach of the shore.

“I’m looking forward to claiming your breastplate,” Mihawk’s voice audibly smirked into the earpiece, “to add to the winning pool, I’ll claim that spear too.” A shiver of anticipation shuddered against his spine at the audible growl he managed to pull from your parted lips. Holding your spear more firmly within your hand, you growled back at him.

“There are several things I doubt you’d be able to do correctly, swordsman. Wielding my spear is the first that springs to mind,” you smirked, watching the bubbling of water rise as another ship sank against your skill, “pleasing a woman is the other.”

In order to remain silent while listening to your quips back and forward to each other, Vice-Admiral Garp clapped his wide palm over his lips to stifle an outrageous and unbridled laugh rising in his chest. Bogard smirked, hearing the commotion from the speaker molded into the desktop den-den-mushi, placing his hat over his eyes to hide his joy.

“I’ll gladly show you I can on both counts, woman.”

“You can certainly try, warlord”

“I will absolutely succeed, fellow warlord.”

Garp and Bogard were held on the edge of their seats, watching through binoculars the battle mastery balanced between you both while your quippy dialogue read as commentary to your mighty feats.

“Fine,” you again smirked into your earpiece, clothes and armor littered with the spilt blood of your enemies while your hair stuck to your face under the salty sea-spray, “If I am to give up my weapon to the cause, I will have something of equal value offered in return.”

“Yoru is not something I would ever part with for something as childish as a-,” Mihawk began, his words halting as you offered your trade.

“-If I win this little coo, you pretentious prick, your pride is coming with me,” you called into the shell attached to your ear. Feeling all the pent up rage and frustration of the respect of your skill not being met in return for your affection, you offered the best solution you could find.

“If I get to these exact coordinates, all foes falling before me,” you relayed the coordinates, Garp, Bogard and Mihawk hanging on your every utterance, “you will report back to Vice-Admiral Garp donning nothing but your stupid cross-blade, your stupid Yoru and your feathered hat.” The battle paused, the enemies halting their approach with their brows furrowing in almost disgust and awe. You held up a halting hand at them, awaiting a vocal response from Mihawk to your taunt.

Mihawk’s brows themselves were lowered, his eyes narrowed as he sought you out in the field. He couldn’t find you, couldn’t see a trail of destruction in your wake. He continued to search for you within the crowd, but was still unable.

“In that complete and utter unlikelihood,” Mihawk began, still craning his neck to seek out your form, “I accept the terms. Prepare to have your spear, your breastplate and my own satisfaction in claiming some semblance of femininity from you while I wield your body effortlessly.”

“And you prepare yourself to be absolutely humbled in response, your pride and ego removed because-,” you smirked, your eyes finally meeting with the yellow hue of the feathered warlord only a few hundred feet away from you, “-I’m nearly there.”

Mihawk’s eyes widened as he witnessed you jump to the next vessel, twirling within the air to throw a small axe into the base of the ship and sinking it by placing a wide hole within its bow. You were, indeed, very close to the coordinates. His widened gaze looked harder, noticing the absence of over half of the wide armada sinking to the bottom of the sea. How had he not noticed it before? Why, in all his stupidity, would he ever agree to this without looking properly first? Clearly, he had underestimated you. Or overestimated his ability to easily outmatch you.

The elements had changed along with the tide. Your battle-ready ferocity was overcast by an aura of calm playfulness; you giggling into the earpiece as you continued falling foe after foe beneath your spear, fist and axes. In turn, Mihawk was the one to begin to shower himself desperately in the blood of his enemies; curling up his lip at the mess alongside his stupidity at undertaking such a bet.

“C’mon Hawk, keep up. You’re nearly there. Flap your wings harder,” you’d giggle into the earpiece, uncaring whether blood, sinew or bone showered your body in the baptism of battle.

“Stop your stupid teeth from gnashing, Hyena. Your taunts mean very little to me,” Mihawk panted, his feet carrying him with more haste as he continued to unblinkingly search for you.

You giggled again in response, your feet almost carrying themselves closer to the finish line. Your enemies within the armada were fleeing from the utter horror you created, your wolfy grin and playful eyes not matching the energy of the gore befalling your form. Many simply dove overboard, ran to the next ship away from you in their cowardly retreat - only to be met with another approaching warlord with his mighty sword clutched in his dominant hand.

As Mihawk panted for breath, his adrenaline propelling him to the finish line leaving a trail of destruction in his wake; his steps quivered in his tracks as his gaze met with yours.

You were sitting on a barrel, twirling the twine around your spearhead nonchalantly with a litter of bodies laying at your feet. Your left brow was arched upwards, the knowing smirk plastered against your plush lips as you hummed a tune of victory through your nose.

“Looks like I’ll get to see what your other sword looks like,” you cooed in a melodic tune, not meeting his gaze and remaining aloof, “you can leave your boots at my feet. I think I might wear your coat home with me, Swordsman.”

“You are disgusting,” Mihawk spat at you, his breath finally catching up with him. He was now left breathless at witnessing your ferocity, the wild shape of your battle-worn eyes holding him hostage with tense emotion.

“You agreed to the terms, Mihawk. Now it’s time to pay up-,” you uttered darkly, snapping your head over to his form with your eyes narrowed at him.

“-I meant your appearance. So wild, so feral, so-,” his next words caught in his throat as you drew yourself down from your sat position atop the barrel, “-unladylike.” You scoffed at him, rolling your eyes in your approach. Wiping your forehead with the back of your arm, you rid your face of the bone, blood and sinew blocking your view of him. He was a very pretty man, the most beautiful you had seen in a long time. Although slightly taken aback by his clean and uptight appearance, you stood your ground.

“What would you have me wear then? Silks and satins while I dance amongst the chaos? I think not, lord Dracule Mihawk,” you spat at him, laughing dryly at your own comment. Mihawk sucked in a small breath through his nostrils, wincing at your comment with his lips curled into a snarl. You overemphasized a sigh, placing your spear against your back and stretched your arms to cool down your body.

“I’ll make you another deal then, Mihawk,” you smirked again up at his towering form, “I’ll go and get cleaned up and don some pretty little dress for you,” you prodded his bare chest with your index finger and traced a pattern against his pectorals, “and you can go and relay the play by play to Vice-Admiral Garp completely starkers, okay?”

Mihawk growled, eyes looking to your tender touch against his chest and almost again finding himself falling to his knees under your radiant ferocity. He rolled his neck, arched his soldiers back and leaned into your touch.

“Fine,” he spat in response, gripping your bloodied wrist beneath his palm and curled fingertips, “but it better be something tight and preferably black.” You giggled at his comment, raising your other hand up to his cheek and patting it affectionately with a small utterance.

“What a good boy you are,” you praised him with another cooing taunt, scrunching up your nose and smiling with your feral eyes, “now take off your boots, coat and pants and run along now. I’ll be all dolled up for you and ready for you at the waterfront tavern. I might even see that your clothes are cleaned, pressed and waiting once you arrive.”

Your comment finally broke him, a warm laugh cracking through his tough exterior and rumbling within his chest to pour from his mustached lips.

“It’s a shame I lost,” he leant his cheek into your touch, prompting you to furrow your brows in curiosity. He stooped his form lower to you, tickling your face with his playful and breathy whisper, “I would’ve liked to have shown you how well I can please a woman.”

Eyes were either focussed exclusively on the ceiling or marines would simply turn around as the darkened and well seasoned lord of Kuraigana entered the military office building. Holding true to his word, and the promise of good company after his humiliation, he sauntered confidently into Vice-Admiral Garp’s office donning nothing but Yoru strapped to his back, his cross-blade hanging loosely from his neck, and his feathered hat atop his sea-sprayed, curled, dark locks.

#Mihawk #one piece #opla #opla fic #one piece live action #x reader #mihawk x reader #mihawk x warlord!reader #dracule mihawk

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dead-dolphins · 2 months ago

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I've told you guys that I would show you something, so here it is:

Alpha Warlord Eren sneak peek! — or venus in furs ~

#eremika #eremika fic #eremika fics #eren x mikasa #omegaverse au #alpha warlord eren #venus in furs #my writing #deaddolphins writes

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azrielslightintheshadows · 1 year ago

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Hello. If you don't mind can I request a fic with cassian with a shy reader where she and Cassian have been trying to get pregnant for years, but reader starts doubting herself when seeing the rest of the inner circle females like feyre and elain getting pregnant, and thinking cassian will leave her because it is taking them ages to get pregnant...but Cassian reassures her and all...and weeks later reader finds out she is pregnant and surprises cassian with the news...

Finally.

Cassian x f!Reader

Masterlist.

Warnings; mentions of infertility

My heart literally melted when I finished this.

The sun was shining bright above Velaris and everyone was outside enjoying the warmth. You were watching from the window in one of the guest rooms in the river house. Feyre was sprawled on the lounger her hand on her round belly laughing at Nyx who was being thrown around by your mate -Cassian. Elain was sitting next to her on Lucien’s lap, her hand resting above Lucien’s on her small baby bump. You were so devastated by the sight that you felt like you would faint. You and Cassian had been trying for a baby for 11 years now and every time Madja shook her head with a sad smile you lost a bit of hope. You couldn’t understand why you couldn’t get pregnant, was it you? Were you the problem?

You watched Cassian with Nyx, he was so good to him and you didn’t miss the longing look on his face. Your mate was broken and you couldn’t stand it so you turned your back on the window and let the tears flow. He had every right to leave you and find someone else, someone who could bear his children. You wouldn’t stand in the way of his happiness, if he decided to leave you… you would gather your stuff and go. The thought had you sobbing and you knelt in front of the bed, pressing your face on the soft mattress.

Your body was shaking and you didn’t notice that you were sending everything down the bond.

Strong arms engulfed you and Cassian’s panicked voice rang in your ears.

“What happened baby? What’s wrong?”

You leaned back onto him and cried harder

“Please don’t leave me…please I will try harder to get pregnant I will search for some herbs that might help… I will take everything…maybe I can find a witch…I will even give her my soul…just please Cass don’t leave me”

Cassian’s heart broke, he held you tightly and kissed your head.

“What are you talking about? Are you serious?

I would never leave you… I don’t care if we never have a child… we can go and take one of the kids whose parents died in the war I don’t care… I only want you… pregnant or not.” His voice was loud enough to make his point. “Please doll calm down. It’s me and you we’re talking about… our love is stronger than the cauldron itself.”

You stopped sobbing and peeked at him.

“But I want to make you a daddy” you whined.

“As I said before we can take one of those unfortunate kids… or you can call me daddy” he winked and you gasped, your face becoming red.

After you calmed down Cassian took your hand and guided you outside, you both sat on the ground and played with Nyx.

That night Cassian made love to you. It was so needy and filled with so much love and affection that you wished it never ended.

The next days were peaceful and you didn’t think about pregnancy at all. You had to thank your mate about that since he put all his duties on hold to spend time with you, you knew he was trying to get your mind off the subject and it only made you love him harder.

One month later.

You woke up feeling nauseous and you almost didn’t make it to the bathroom. You heaved over the toilet bowl, and watched as the contents of your stomach came out and heaved harder. Cassian was by your side, holding your hair back and rubbing your shoulders.

“Go away I don’t want you to see me like this” you whimpered.

“Shh it’s okay” he whispered and leaned down to leave a kiss on the back of your head.

After you were done you flushed and pushed yourself up with a groan. You brushed your teeth and watched Cassian, he was standing behind you with a worried expression.

“I think we need to go see Madja” he said and took a step closer. He wrapped his hands around your waist and kissed your head.

“I’m okay… it’s probably something I ate” you shrugged “you should get to training, the valkyries are probably waiting for you.” You smiled.

When he was gone you got dressed and walked to Azriel’s room. You knocked and waited.

The past few days you’ve been feeling way too tired and now this? Something was going on and if it wasn’t what you thought it was you wouldn’t stand to see Cassian’s face so you didn’t tell him.

Azriel opened the door and you explained the situation to him, he hugged you and grabbed his coat. The flight was silent and you reached Madja’s infirmary rather quickly.

She glanced up when you walked in and smiled.

“I think this time it’s really happening” you grinned and she cheered.

She guided you to a small bed and you laid down on it, Azriel was still standing by the door, his hands in his pockets as he didn’t know what to do.

“Az can you come here? I don’t want to do this alone” you called and he rushed to your side.

“Of course” he smiled and faced the other way when Madja pushed your dress up and spread your legs. After a while she smoothed your dress and got up. You and Azriel stared at her, your faces red from the anticipation.

“Congratulations” she smiled.

You jumped off the bed and squealed. Azriel picked you up and spun you around.

His voice muffled by your hair as he shouted “I’m going to be an uncle”

Before taking you home you went into a store and bought a dagger, it had red stones on the handle and you asked the blacksmith to engrave “To the best daddy”.

When it was done you picked it up and Azriel flew you home.

You placed the dagger on Cassian’s pillow and hid in the bathroom when you heard his footsteps.

He walked in, sweaty from the training and panting.

“Doll?” He asked and scanned the room with his eyes. He noticed the dagger and furrowed his eyebrows, he picked it up and placed it next to the others on the small desk with a shrug. You sighed and banged your head on the door.

“Oh come on, you’re not going to examine it? You just found a random dagger on your bed” you exclaimed and walked out of the bathroom. Cassian smiled sheepishly and picked up the dagger again.

He frowned when he noticed the engraving and then he froze. His eyes widened and he looked at you.

“Here it says to the best daddy…are you…or you just decided to start calling me daddy?”

You snorted and approached him, grabbing one of his hands and placing it on your abdomen. You smiled softly and nodded.

“Mother’s tits I’m going to be a daddy” he screamed and picked you up, he started running around the house with you in his arms screaming “I’m going to be a daddy” again and again. Everyone there was cheering and clapping but that wasn’t enough for him…nooo… he reached the balcony, flared his wings and with you still in his arms shoot up, circling around the city and screaming “I’m going to be a daddy”.

Requests are open!

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formlessvoidbeast · 2 months ago

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do you want to hear me ramble about a thing I accidentally made too subtle in the Warlord fic lol who cares I'm rambling anyway

Prince Damian of Miska clenched his fingers on his knees so they could not betray him by trembling, and did not rise from kneeling. At least there was a thick bearskin rug to pad the cold stone floor before the throne. “This,” the Warlord waved one broad hand in a dismissive gesture toward Damian, “is a mess.” . . .

The fighters stomped and screamed their approval. The Warlord slung a casual arm over the Warlock's shoulders, holding the other man close as he waited for the howling to fade. “See the Miskan delegation into quarters,” he ordered, waving a dismissive hand at Damian and his escort. “Tend to their needs.” And then the Warlord left. Just... turned and walked out of the audience chamber with his arm around his Warlock. Prince Damian was frozen on the floor. --Chapter 1

“Your rights, your rooms, I suppose next would be your role. We should figure out what work suits you, what place you'll be happy in the Keep. I've no mind to keep you like a caged bird. Tell me, what are princes in Miska, besides,” he flipped his hand dismissively toward Damian. “Decorative?”

Decorative, in a warrior's fortress, where decoration was held as unnecessary. Unwanted. All the confidence of the reassurances he'd been given fled Damian at once.

--Chapter 4

“I mean to say, I ought to show my manservant, that we may plan my outfits. If my Lord Husband will excuse me?” “Go on. Have fun,” the Warlord dismissed with a brief flick of his hand. --Chapter 13

“I did receive the lovely glasswork you sent ahead,” Damian protested.

Heda flipped her hand dismissively at him. “That was a present from Uncle Sigurd, I just made the commission for him."

-- Chapter 15

“The Warlord will hear of this insult!” Luca hissed, as Damian ushered the kitchen staff out in front of him. Damian flicked a hand toward the caravan in the most insultingly dismissive gesture he knew to accompany an airy suggestion: “Good soldiers, perhaps our esteemed guests would be more comfortable sitting outside the gates to await the Dread Warlord's pleasure?” -- Chapter 16

Damian, very much a stranger in a strange land, is misreading quite a few things in the beginning. But in those first few chapters, some part of his anxiety is that he is reading a very casual gesture common to the Warlord's people as an insult. It is a thing you do toward someone you disdain that they may know they are worth nothing to you. And by the time we reach the reveal of that in Chapter 16, he is no longer responding to it as a slight. but in the beginning? On shaky ground? You bet your buckets it was tallied up as proof that he was not safe among these people.

Thankfully, he learned better <3

Anyway, read for the want of a jewel I'm still proud of how that fic turned out lol.

#for the want of a jewel #life of ts #warlord fic

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inexplicifics · 4 months ago

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So every time there is a scene about the layout of the great hall, I have some trouble picturing it? Like is the dias with the throne all the way to the back wall? But if so, when people are being introduced is the head table between them and the dias? And “head of the table” of all the others? Does that mean with their back to the head table so they are the closest, or does it mean the other side so they have a direct line of vision to the head table? Cause I can imagine that last one being different in human courts vs Witcher court? Like humans just find it important to be as close as possible, but witchers modestly want a direct line of sight and not to put their back to the open space in the hall where brawls happen?

I have no idea if this makes sense. But basically, pretty please, do you have a crude layout sketch cause my brain keeps getting confused??

So Turtlette, over on the AWAU Discord Server, came up with this beautiful drawing:

Which is a lot better than anything I could do. There's the dais behind the head table; I think the hall extends a ways beyond that, and then there are doors in the back wall for Geralt's office and so on.

The Heads of Schools sit at the head of each table, with their backs to the head table.

Geralt doesn't sit in his throne much, and when he does, the table is moved out of the way - tables in medieval times were often trestles, and could be easily dismantled.

#questions answered #accidental warlord au #art of my fic

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keyblack · 11 months ago

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CAN'T STOP WON'T STOP

#love Anubis love this ship love the warlords #especially thanks to that fic heehoohoo #ronin warriors #yoroiden samurai troopers #anubis #mia koji #cale #sekhmet #myart

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curious-trickster · 10 months ago

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Please help a Reader find new content!

Hey there. I recently finished reading 'for the want of a jewel', an original work written by @formlessvoidbeast and I absolutely loved it!

Just like I loved the 'Accidental Warlord' series, a AU based on the Witcher, by @inexplicifics.

Those fics are both an absolute delight to read and they have a few things in common which kind of caused a want of more in me.

Please help me find fics/original work/books/shows... with these tropes (they do not have all the things I mentioned but it would be nice to have them meet several):

Character gets traded for peace to a most likely hostile party (warlord, king, pirates, bandits, just something they expect to be bad or different)

The trade-in-character expects to be hurt/killed/abused/hated/...

The second party they are given too is not aware of the circumstances of the way the trade-in-character had to leave their home

The second party which the trade-in-character expects to be hostile turns out to be not so bad

The trade-in-character finds true home with the party they were given to

The trade-in-character finds true friends/family not made by blood/love/their way of life/... with the people they were given too

Shenanigans (optional as the rest of them, but they would be greatly appreciated)

If you can think of something which has some or even better all of these tropes, pls comment/send a message! I would be very grateful and you'd help my adhd brain by feeding it with its new hyperfixation!

Feel free to drop the number of the trope(s) your recommendation has, or don't it's up to you!

A big thanks to @formlessvoidbeast and @inexplicifics for writing these amazing stories and allowing me to mention you in this post!

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centuryberry · 9 months ago

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Queen of the Mountain AUs

With Act I of "Queen of the Mountain" coming to a close soon, I'd like to share little AUs and ideas I have of this fic that I'm considering writing. The first two are directly connected to Queen of the Mountain while the other two are AUs with more mature themes.

Unforgivable AU: In which, the Hot Springs Incident never happens and Shanzha is sent over to FFM as Wukong's bride like in canon. Despite RinRin and Yue's efforts to escape the clan's clutches and reach FFM, they were unable to save Shanzha, who had haplessly triggered her own route (platonic) and was killed by Macaque. While RinRin was eventually able to bring Shanzha back to life, the act was done and Yue has no desire to form a connection with Macaque - uncle or not. The three leave FFM and live their lives. Centuries later in the LMK era, a grown Yue reunites with Macaque and Wukong. (Angst/Eventual Forgiveness/Modern)

Warlord Shanzha AU: After the end of RinRin's Route, Wukong and RinRin renew their marriage, and Macaque and Shanzha (heartbroken) decide to focus on retrieving Yue from the Zodiac Monkey Clan's clutches. When the dust settles, Shanzha reluctantly becomes Clan Head and Warlord of the Land of Eternal Snow. Macaque becomes her advisor and trophy husband, and the pair end up being a platonic power couple. Wukong and RinRin reunite with them later during the JTTW era and old feelings reemerge. Yue may or may not be working behind the scenes to help set them up since the pining is ridiculous. (Humor/Second Chance/Parent Trap)

Fae AU: Faelord Wukong catches sight of Macaque hiking in his forest with his family (Shanzha and Yue) and falls in love with him at first sight. So he lures Macaque into a fairy ring and whisks him away. Macaque desperately tries to find a way back home while trying to resist Wukong's advances. This is made even more difficult when Wukong's wife and fellow Faelord, RinRin, decides to do the same with Shanzha. Or, as I'd like to think of it, two cringefail supernatural beings try to seduce a hot pair of mortals into staying with them forever while these two desperately try to get back to their daughter. (Mature, Dark Themes, Supernatural, Kidnapping, Eventual Poly)

A/B/O AU: In which, Wukong and RinRin (both Alphas) are longtime rulers of FFM whose lives and perception of themselves are turned on their heads when they offer sanctuary to a pair of traveling mated Omegas (Macaque and Shanzha) who are expecting their child. It's mostly an introspection on the gender norms for both primary and secondary genders, established unconventional pairings and how they make it work, self-repression due to societal pressures, eventual self-acceptance, and how inherently and gloriously queer the poly is no matter how you shake them and look at them. (Mature, Unconventional A/B/O dynamics, Eventual Poly)

I'm open to expanding on any of these AUs! Of course, my main focus is on the main fic, but it's nice to dabble in different ideas!

#queen of the mountain #lego monkie kid #fic ideas #shadowpeach #iceflower #yue(oc)#temporary character death #Warlord Shanzha AU #Unforgivable AU #Fae AU #A/B/O AU

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themusingsofacurlyhairednerd · 2 months ago

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In Love and War (6)

Author's Note: This came out angstyyyyyyyyyy, I'm sorry idk what happened. It's gotta get worse before it gets better, I guess.

Content Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Azriel using Truth-Teller, Mentions of Abuse/Death

Chapter 5/ Masterlist

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I can’t breathe. The walls of the tent close in, the dark leather pressing in closer and closer. If the ground were to open up and swallow me right now, I wouldn’t even have the presence of mind to scream. The fall would be a welcome reprieve from the roaring of my heart in my own ears.

What does he mean our fathers killed each other?

It’s wrong. He’s wrong! He’s lying. He has to be lying!

I roll over so I can face him, so close on this small mat that our noses brush. His violet eyes glow in the darkness of the tent. “What do you mean?” The panic that edges my voice makes me sound shrill, even in my own ears.

I don’t want him to answer, but I desperately need him to tell me everything all at once. The wine threatens to come back up in a rush as his hand skims up my side to cup my cheek, “Tamlin didn’t tell you?”

How dare him touch me while we have this conversation; what is so broken and wrong inside of me that I let him? I know that I am shaking in his grip and when he starts rubbing calming circles into my cheek with his thumb I lean into that touch like it might give me one last life line to cling to.

“He said you killed my father.”

He stills, wings fluttering; I feel it pass through him like its own little draft, skittering across his wings. A dark mist follows, seeping from his skin.

I know we’re not supposed to be talking about this, but the words are already out, whether from the wine or by the sheer desperation I feel crawling beneath my skin. I need to know! I need to know that everything I had believed was true. That all that I was doing this for was not based on a lie.

He brushes his nose over mine, lips ghosting over my forehead. “When I see what they have done to you, I wish I had killed them both.”

My stomach twists. No. No. This can’t be happening!

“But no, it was my father, in retribution for what they had done.”

But I saw him holding the sword! I saw him leave the tent! I never saw his father’s body and Tamlin had always said he arrived too late to save any of them, that all he could do was fend Rhys off to keep him from slaughtering what was left of us.

The confusion must be evident on my face, because he asks, “You really don’t know, do you?”

It’s more than a little patronizing but I don’t even have the energy to be angry about it, because my whole life is a lie! I’ve spent decades hating him. I just offered up my body and possibly my future to destroy him for nothing? For something his father, who’s long dead, did?

“Maybe we should talk about this in the morning,” he suggests and it’s definitely because I’m crying now and not because he’s trying to avoid it.

My throat feels like it;s closing. “No!” And it’s then that I feel the faintest prick of fangs growing behind my lips. “Please just tell me.”

His thumb soothes over my cheek again, like he can feel the sudden shift in my being. I don’t know where that rush of power comes from. Maybe it is some sort of effect of being so close to him while he repairs the wards.

“Rhys!” It’s always Azriel that interrupts us somehow, the shadowy male hurtling into the tent with that wicked looking dagger in hand. “We’ve got movement in the hills.”

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! Now? Of all the Cauldron damned times for Amarantha to show herself, it has to be right now?!

Rhysand is on his feet in an instant, reaching for my discarded chest piece and ushering me into it, our conversation forgotten. “How many?”

I wish I could say I possess his ability to compartmentalize tasks, but despite the worst possible danger knocking on our unguarded and unwarded doors, all I can think about is how desperately we need to finish this conversation.

“Five, a scout and four chargers. I’ve got Nox and Avos on their trail, but I don’t see any marks yet.” Azriel continues, oblivious to my inner turmoil.

Rhysand slings my quiver and bow over my shoulders again, checking all the straps to ensure they’re in place. He’d never taken his own armor off, only the belt for his sword, he uses a tendril of shadowy darkness to strap it into place while he finishes with me. “Stay with her.”

Azriel eyes me like I’m a pile of shit he accidentally stepped in, but I’m too busy trying to wipe my eyes on my sleeves to care. “You might need me out there,” he protests.

“Might,” Rhysand counters, stalking out of the tent in search of his horse. “But I definitely need you here more.” He grabs the reins on his horse, the mount still saddled, just in case we’d needed to leave in a hurry. Dinner threatens to come back up as I watch him slide into his cloak. I’ve spent my life hating that triple star pattern that will sit over his eyes, cursing his existence, wishing him every pain and misery imaginable for ruining my life and it wasn’t even his fault?

The ground is unsteady beneath my feet, I feel myself stumble and sway and I can’t tell if it’s the wine or the reality of the situation that makes my legs feel like jelly.

I want to go home! I want this to be a bad dream.

For a moment, I think he might simply toss the cowl over his head and mount up, leaving me to sit here in the misery of our half finished conversation, but he comes back a moment later, hand sliding into my hair as he tilts my head back and kisses me swiftly.

He should taste as bitter as the wine we’d shared. I should feel nothing but misery when he slips his tongue behind my teeth, but when he has me like this, nothing else matters. There doesn’t have to be anything between us. I do not feel like some broken, wretched thing.

“Don’t leave Azriel’s side,” he says as he pulls away. “We’ll finish our conversation when I return, I promise.” Then he mounts up, calling for half of the men as he goes. The thundering sound of the horses hooves as they race down into the grassy hills beneath us makes it feel like we’re standing in the center of an earthquake.

There’s enough moonlight to watch them go, their mounts and flowing capes in the wind making them appear like wraiths racing towards the enemy.

With half of the men gone, and two scouting, that leaves Azriel and four other men to guard camp. None of them look too happy about it, least of all Azriel, who keeps watching me out of the corner of his eye like he thinks I might disappear at a moment’s notice. I remain next to him, anxiously shifting my weight from foot to foot, hoping the chill on the wind might wake my dull senses up.

Shadows drift off Azriel’s shoulders, but unlike Rhysand’s that always stay curled around his body, Azriel’s drift off like inky tendrils, testing the wind around him. Some slither along the ground like snakes, searching through patches of grass for an unwanted scent, others drift away, testing the wind for him. One remains perched over his ear, and I hear the faint sound of whispering like the shadows are reporting what they find.

We can no longer see the others, and I spin slowly around in a circle, taking stock of my surroundings. We’re a little higher than the base of the mountain, perched on a cleft in the rock for a better vantage point. The ward remains behind us, I think, without the trail of Rhysand’s magic, I still can’t see or feel this one. To the left and right, the rocky base of the mountain is dotted with ancient trees, some thicker than a house, but the coming winter has stolen their leaves, no vantage point for archers to be had there without being sitting ducks. Beneath us, the rolling hills of grass stretch far out of sight. If Amarantha brought an army behind those first five riders, she’s hidden it well. Still, the thought makes a chill run up my spine and I keep a hand around the hilt of my dagger, just in case.

Azriel does nothing to quell my nerves, just stands there, still as a statue, listening to his shadows, eyes glued to the horizon. I can’t help but wonder if his shadows show him things as much as they tell him. Can he see Rhysand right now?

My stomach twists at the thought. I can’t see him. I can’t hear if he’s ok. There’s nothing in my arsenal to tell me that he’s coming back. And Cauldron boil me, I want him to come back. If he dies without finishing our conversation, I might never learn what happened. Whether it’s the truth or not is yet to be seen, but Tamlin’s account and his account are different, and I will be damned if I don’t get some answers from someone.

The hand not holding my dagger reaches up to rub at the scar above my ear, hidden under my hair. Tam and I had been fighting that day, he’d been on edge about something and when I’d pushed too hard he’d shoved me right into the corner of a table. I’d been in the healer’s tent getting stitches; all these years I’d thought it was the Mother looking out for me, that little accident might have just saved my life. But looking at it now, I can’t help but wonder if it kept me from seeing the truth.

I shift my weight again and Azriel’s gaze flicks back to me once more, irritated, like I’m somehow distracting him.

“Sorry,” I mutter, locking my knees.

I can stand still, it’s fine. I force myself to focus on my breathing, but in the silence there’s one nagging thought that eats at me: Do I really believe Rhysand is telling the truth? I take him to bed one time, accept a couple gifts from him, and what? Believe everything he says as truth? Are claims of a mating bond really enough to make me believe he’d be open and honest with me? A mating bond certainly hadn’t saved my mother.

I close my eyes at the thought of her, chest aching. Did I believe Rhysand was right about that too? That my father had used her powers to try and breed powerful sons, not because he’d loved her? I’d certainly never seen my parents be affectionate towards each other, not even in the way Rhysand was with me. They’d never held hands, never ridden out together. He’d kept her clothed and fed, sure, and entertained her obsession with fairytales when it suited him. My mother told me, on one of her days of clarity, that he’d carved her rocking chair for her when he’d found out she was pregnant with Tam. But I never saw him be warm with her. I’m not even sure I ever saw them kiss, even on the cheek. But a lack of affection in public didn’t mean he cared so little about her he let her, supposed, powers drive her insane, did it?

“A scout’s coming back,” Azriel says, breaking me out of my thoughts.

My eyes snap open as the rider crests the hillside and comes into view. Illyrian mounts really are beautiful, all sleek muscle and rippling midnight black manes. Together they make a lot of noise, but alone, they’re pretty damn quiet until their hooves hit rock.

Azriel motions me to follow him as he goes to the edge of the cleft in the rocks and waits as the scout approaches. “Well?”

“Not Amarantha,” the scout says and I let out a breath of relief.

“Who the fuck would come out here then?” Someone behind me challenges.

“Spring,” the scout says and all the blood drains from my face.

Azriel glances at me, but there’s pity in his hazel gaze this time.

I swallow the lump in my throat. Not now, I’m not ready to see them yet!

“What do they want?” I’m having a hard time processing that Tam would waste resources looking for me, especially when we’ve barely had horses to spare to move camp, let alone ride all the way out here.

“Proof you’re alive,” the scout says, holding out his hand.

It’s Azriel that smacks his hand away. “She only rides with me or Rhys.”

The mount shifts beneath the scout, his hood falling even lower down his face. Something feels off about it and I glance at Azriel for confirmation I’m not alone. He nods at me as he steps closer, hand on the small of my back as he leads me to where his own mount chews on a dying patch of grass.

“Be ready,” he says in my ear.

The scout fidgets in his seat like he’s not used to riding in one and it’s that more than anything that has Azriel’s shadows flying off his shoulders to grab the rider by the wrist and yank him out of the saddle. He slams into the ground with a scream, the sound of bones crunching against rock so loud I wince as Azriel hoists me up into his saddle.

I grab the reins to keep the horse steady, trying desperately to remember where Rhysand had held his hands when I rode with him.

Azriel stalks over to the male, wings flaring as he knocks the back of the hood back with the tip of his dagger. Even in the moonlight, I know what swatch of dark hair and golden eyes. One of Tamlin’s Wolves, Andras. Of course he wouldn’t know how to ride, we’d survived a lot of skirmishes over the years because Tam had used his shapeshifting powers to change the men into beasts to fight.

Azriel crouches in front of him as Andras grips his clearly broken shoulder. “Let’s try this again, shall we?”

Andras’ gaze flicks to me first. Thankfully, Azriel’s horse is a lot more patient than the others and my own nervous energy hasn’t caused it to run off. If anything, I think the animal cares less about my presence than its usual rider, because it goes back to eating.

“Your whore of a warlord-” that’s as far as Andras gets before Azriel slams the hilt of his dagger into the other male’s throat.

“Start like that again and I’ll make sure you never use that shoulder,” Azriel threatens with so much venom, I shiver.

Andras coughs, good hand reaching for his throat and Azriel slams the blade clean through his forearm, pinning him in place.

I look away as Andras screams. He is not my friend, I can do nothing. I have always done nothing. The males have their fights and their quarrels and I have always stood on the sidelines waiting for the violence to pass like a good girl.

“Ok! Ok!” Andras rasps. “I had orders to get into the camp and get Y/N, that’s it!”

But wasn’t being tired of standing on the sidelines that prompted me to stay here in the first place? Wasn’t I trying to make things better for my people? How was sitting here helping them?

“What about the others?” Azriel questions.

“I don’t know! Lucien was supposed to handle that.” Andras replies through gritted teeth.

Do I even want to help them? If Rhysand was telling the truth, whose side am I even on? My head hurts from the questions, my stomach still churning end over end. I don’t know what to do.

“Where’s Tamlin?” Azriel asks as he rips the dagger out.

Andras screams, the sound echoing off the rocks. “There’s only five of us! Tamlin never left camp.”

Of course he would send Lucien and not risk coming out here himself. That would put him face to face with Rhysand and he’d lose. And looking at it now, I realize that he knows it. He’s always known it. I rub a hand over the scar on my hand. Did he know about the bond too? Had that been why he was always so sure that I knew Rhysand was the enemy?

Azriel raises the dagger to make another cut and Andras screams, “I swear I’m telling the truth!”

“Azriel,” my voice is steadier than I feel and all eyes suddenly turn to me. I need to get answers. I need to do something. “Take me out there please.”

“No.”

I tighten my grip on the reins. I’ll go out there myself if I have to. “If it’s Lucien, then it’s not a fight they’re having. Let me diffuse this.” I’m not sure I mean those words; I’m not sure I have the power to do anything but watch horror after horror unfold around me, but I know that I have to try. I have to attempt to put my life back together. I have to find some bit of order or I’ll go insane. Besides, this is Lucien we’re talking about! Surely he could see reason, right?

Andras is looking at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“Tie him up,” Azriel says to one of the others as he stands and wipes his blade on a cloth that hangs from his belt. “I’m not done with him.”

“But I don’t know anything!” Andras protests as two men haul him to his feet, wrenching his broken shoulder in the process. Blood drips from his forearm, down his fingers. Regardless of the confusion I feel swirling around inside me, he’s still a part of my people. Lucien is still family. If I can keep any more bloodshed from happening between our two people I will.

“I can work this out. Not everything has to be a bloodbath.”

Azriel swings himself into the saddle behind me and steals the reins. “If I so much as hear an arrow being fired, we’re turning back around.” He snarls.

“Fine,” I concede, because at least it meant I tried.

“Rhys is gonna kill me for this.”

----

I’m not convinced Azriel’s horse isn’t a wraith. It’s almost completely silent, save for the softest hint of breathing imaginable. When it breathes, little wisps of shadows escape out its nose. I wish I had time to ask him about it, but there’s none, not as we race over the hills, fast as the wind.

No arrows rise up to meet us, so at least I’ve been, so far, correct about Lucien not leading an ambush. Their scout must have taken down one of Rhysand’s and stolen his mount and cloak to look presentable. At least, I tell myself it was just that and not that Lucien ordered a man killed to try and get to me. Lucien, who would sneak me snacks and who secretly taught me how to fish; Lucien who used to braid my hair for me while we sat on the creek bed, making jokes. Lucien who had always been a spot of sunlight in my world, who looked after me like a brother, and promised to scare away any suitors who made me uncomfortable. Lucien was a good male; the best of us, even, the thought that he might be capable of such violence makes me nauseous. I have had too many life changing questions hurled my way tonight, I cannot bear another one, especially not about him.

We crest a particularly large hill and finally get a glimpse of the Illyrian riders. They’re not fighting. In fact, they’re just standing there, in formation behind Rhysand’s horse. The warlord himself stands in front of it, shrouded in that heavy cloak, facing off against Lucien and his three dismounted riders. They’re all armed, but no one is actively fighting each other, I take that as a good sign.

Though Lucien doesn’t look particularly pleased to see me riding with Azriel, nothing but unbridled horror crossing his scarred face as we approach.

When we get to the bottom of the hill, I jump off the horse, much to Azriel’s dismay.

Lucien takes a step towards me, but growling, Rhysand steps in front of him. “Touch her and you’re dead, Vanserra.”

The men move to let me pass through and I focus all my energy on breathing evenly as I walk towards them. Does Lucien know? Did he hide this from me too? Or was he just as blind as I was?

“Y/N, are you all right?” Lucien asks, his metal eye whirring as he looks me over.

My chest feels like it’s gonna rip right down the middle and spill my heart right out onto the floor. I don’t know who to believe. I don’t know who I want to believe. This is Lucien we’re talking about, he would never willingly hurt me. He comforted me when my entire world fell apart, he helped Tam and I bury them. I want so desperately for all these onlookers to leave, so it’s just the three of us and the truth, but the way they all stand there, armed and ready tells me that’s not happening. There hasn’t already been bloodshed here, because Lucien was waiting for Andras to give him some sort of signal that it wasn’t necessary. Because he was expecting to be able to just kidnap me.

Why do all these males constantly treat me like I’m just an object to be snatched up on their whims?

Rhysand’s hooded head is angled in my direction, watching my approach through the stars in his cowl. I don’t like that I can’t see his eyes. He doesn’t look like the Rhysand who’d just been holding me. He looks like the male I remember from my nightmares.

And Lucien looks like someone I don’t recognize at all.

How am I supposed to make sense out of any of this? Seeing them doesn’t make it easier.

The Illyrians shift behind me, horses snuffing in agitation, kicking up loose strands of grass. I feel their unease as easily as I can see it in the males behind Lucien. Maybe this isn’t the time for answers, maybe all I can do right now is keep them from killing each other. Regardless of who’s right here, I don’t want to see either males hurt.

“I’m fine,” I lie as I come to a stop at Rhysand’s side. His gloved fingers brush mine like he might take my hand, but he doesn’t.

Lucien stares back and forth between us. “I wouldn’t call being kidnapped fine.”

Rhys growls again, the sound skittering over my spine, “But you’d call letting her starve to death on a solo hunt fine?”

Lucien’s mouth pulls back in a grimace. “Tam made a mistake, he admits it-”

“He admits it?” His wings shake behind him, darkness drifting in waves from beneath them until it shrouds him more than the cloak. There’s so much of it Lucien retreats a step. “How brave of him to admit he fucked up and yet he still let it go on this long before someone came looking.”

Lucien keeps his gaze on me. “It won’t happen again. We’ve talked about it. Trust me, next time-”

“There is no next time,” Rhysand snarls. “She’s not going back with you!”

Lucien’s hand falls to his sword hilt, but his gaze remains on me. “Let her come home. Let this be settled and done. Tamlin sent money-”

A whip made of starlight appears in Rhysand’s hand, knocking the bag of coins Lucien pulls off his belt from his hand and scattering it across the grass. All of the men with Lucien draw their swords, even as the redhead tightly grips his own. Rhysand can easily kill him here and he will if Lucien keeps talking. I need to diffuse this, I need them all to leave each other alone. I’m not done here, and even if Lucien won’t understand it, I can’t bear to see him get hurt.

“He’s my mate,” I say and the words taste like a betrayal.

Lucien’s face twists in a mixture of horror and disgust.

“No one is keeping me here against my will.” Well, mostly. It’s not like I’ve put that to the test, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“That can’t be true,” it comes out like a whisper, as if he doesn’t want to believe it. I suppose, if our places were switched, I wouldn’t want to either. “You did something to her.”

Rhysand huffs, “I didn’t and I wouldn’t.”

“Like you didn’t slaughter thousands for Amarantha?” Lucien snarls.

Rhysand freezes, still as death beside me.

Azriel, silent in the grass, has come up behind me, his presence a steadying energy amidst the chaos I feel swirling around us. What does he mean he killed for Amarantha? Isn’t he trying to kill her?

“That’s enough,” Azriel hisses. “The lady told you she doesn’t want to go back with you. Respect that and go.”

Lucien doesn’t move. “He didn’t tell you that, did he, Y/N?”

“Leave!” Azriel snarls.

“I’m sure he didn’t tell you how he whored himself out to her either. Why do you think the Illyrians have so much land?”

Azriel steps around me, shadows swirling, dagger in hand, but it’s Rhysand, who’s now almost wholly surrounded by a dark mist, that puts out a hand to stop him. “Everything I did, I did for my people,” he says in a voice that’s so low I almost can’t hear it over the wind. “Everything Tamlin is doing now is for himself.”

“How noble,” Lucien snarls. “If your intentions are so pure, let her go.”

Rhysand turns to look at me, pushing the cowl off his head so I can see his face. The moonlight doesn’t hide the shadows under his eyes, or the weight I see crushing down on his shoulders. It’s impossible to miss the way his wings droop behind him. My chest aches at the sight of him, something clawing in desperation beneath my skin begging me to find a way to take that burden from him.

“Do you want to go back with him?” He asks.

I don’t know if what he’s said tonight is true or a lie, but I know here and now that if I said yes he’d let me walk away. No strings attached, if I took Lucien’s hand and got on that horse, he wouldn’t fight me.

I don’t know what I want any more. I don’t know who I am anymore. Everything I have built my life on feels like it's crumbling beneath my feet. And everyone is just standing there watching it happen.

No one has ever offered me a choice like this before. My whole life I have been told where to go and who to be and given one taste of freedom I had still followed exactly what was expected of me, hoping that it would finally make me feel at peace. But I haven’t felt a moment of peace in all of it, except when I was in Rhysand’s arms. It’s impossible that he of all people could make me feel like that. It shouldn’t be this way.

And Lucien, who I always considered another brother, who shared food at my table and always made me feel like I wasn’t a waste of space, was now someone I didn’t recognize. There is no sign of Rhysand’s missing rider among them. I don’t know if he’s dead or not, probably, judging by the way Lucien keeps looking at Rhys like he’s an animal.

It’s a startling sight, not because I would have looked at him like that myself a couple days ago, but because that’s how Tam always looked at me. Like I was some thing that was so inherently wrong; some creature that needed to be tamed and bridled. Those pointed tips of the fangs I felt try to make an appearance earlier have come back, poking into my lower lip. I feel something shifting beneath my skin, a beast awakening from some deep slumber. My hands open and close reflexively at my side. The stirring feeling is strongest in my chest, right where I sometimes feel that weird pressure that’s somehow tied to Rhys.

“No, I don’t want to go back with him,” the words are steadier than I feel, my chin raised. I do not cower from them, or the fact that I mean them. Even though Lucien looks like I’ve punched him in the gut. I can’t go back. Not until I have the truth. Not until I can make sense of all this mess I feel in my head and in my heart.

“Tamlin won’t take me back anyway,” I pull the gaps in the arms of my sweater down, so he can see the stars inked across my skin. “Nor do I feel like being tossed out again.”

“Y/N…” Lucien shakes his head, auburn hair flying around his tan face. “It was a misunderstanding.”

Rhysand won’t stop staring at me. I think he’s waiting for me to change my mind.

“Please leave, Lucien,” I say, only looking at Rhys. I’m a terrible person, because there is so much unbridled hope in his eyes, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time, waiting for me to take my chance and run; I’d been playing games this whole time, he hadn’t.

He hadn’t been playing games.

I’d used him, taken what I needed, and had planned to throw him out when I was done. Even if he had killed me father, I was still… I was still just like my own father. The realization nearly knocks me off my feet. What have I done?

“This isn’t the end of this,” Lucien hisses as he backs up, never leaving himself exposed, even as he reaches for his mount. The horse is old, it’s mane patchy and unkept, I’m not sure how it carried Lucien here, let alone how he expected it to carry the both of us. “Tamlin will consider this a breach of your agreement.”

“We agreed not to kill each other,” Rhysand returns. “If he comes at me now, then he’s the one that broke that agreement, not me.”

Lucien swings into the saddle with ease, mount shifting slightly beneath him. “What of my scout?”

“What of mine?” Azriel returns.

“Food for the vultures,” Lucien snarls and my heart sinks even further. What if I’ve been wrong about everybody, not just Rhys?

“Then so is yours,” Azriel returns.

Lucien leaves with the remainder of his men, no further fight for Andras life to be had. Rhysand watches them go, wings still drooped behind them like they are impossibly heavy. I should try and comfort him, as that thing in my chest demands, but I can’t. My limbs refuse to move, feet rooted in the grass. What have I done? Where did I go wrong in all of this? I was just trying to do what I thought was right, but I’m not sure I know what that looks like anymore.

“Are you all right?” Rhysand asks once they’re gone. On instinct, he’s throwing his cloak around my shoulders again, cocooning me in that blissful pocket of warmth that smells like him. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve any of his kindness.

“I don’t know,” the words slip out of me. I can’t think past the roaring in my ears. What have I done?

His hand falls to my back, gently leading me back to his horse.

“For the record-” Azriel starts, but Rhysand cuts him off, “I know, Az. Thank you for staying with her.”

I think, even as we mount back up to return to camp, we would have all been better off tonight if this had been a fight with Amarantha.

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

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