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oceandolores · 5 months ago

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ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔦𝔬𝔫 | chapter I

General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

"in her eyes shone the sweetness of melancholy."

summary: In the grandeur of ancient Rome, you are the secret daughter of Commodus, living a quiet life as a servant in the imperial palace. Everything changes when you meet General Marcus Acacius, Rome’s honorable and stoic leader.

Though devoted to duty and loyalty to the princess, Marcus is drawn to you in a way he cannot ignore. A forbidden passion ignites between you both, and an affair begins—one that threatens the very foundation of loyalty, power, and honor. As you fall deeper into your dangerous love for Marcus, each stolen moment becomes a fragile, dangerous secret.

warnings: 18+ only, 14 YEARS AFTER GLADIATOR 1, ANGST, Fluff, A LOT OF SMUT, Unprotected Sex, Exhibition Kink, Age-Gap, Ancient Rome, mentions of violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Politics, Sexism, Forbidden Love, Loss of Virginity, mentions of death, Innocent and pure reader, Loss of virginity, Infidelity, more warnings will be added throughout the story

Chapter I

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next | chapter II

The palace is alive with preparation, a beast of marble and gold that never rests. Its veins are the labyrinthine halls, pulsing with servants like you, carrying trays of delicacies, wreaths of flowers, and jugs of wine.

Its heart beats to the rhythm of whispered orders, clinking metal, and the distant echo of the marketplace beyond its gates. Tonight, the beast awakens for another feast.

You adjust the folds of your simple tunic, careful not to brush against the elaborate tapestries that line the walls. Each thread tells a story of conquest, glory, and power—legends you’ve only heard murmured by those old enough to remember.

You are not part of those tales, nor their lineage. You are a servant, a shadow cast by the towering figures who walk these halls.

The kitchen is a tempest. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet figs. Claudia, the head cook, barks orders, her voice slicing through the chaos like the edge of a Roman gladius.

You pass her with a nod, your arms laden with trays of fruit—gleaming apples, plump grapes, the kind of bounty the common people outside these walls could only dream of.

Livia catches your eye from across the room. Her presence is a steady anchor in the storm, her face worn but kind.

“Have you checked the wine?” she asks, her tone soft but urgent.

You nod. “It’s ready, Mother,” you reply, the word slipping out as naturally as breath.

She is not your mother—you know this much—but she is all you have.

The story of how you came to be here is one you’ve heard countless times: a baby abandoned at the servants' chamber door, cradled in a basket of woven reeds, with nothing to mark your origin save for a scrap of fine cloth that no one in your station would dare to own.

Livia found you there, swaddled in whispers of mystery, and against all odds, she chose to keep you.

Raised among the laboring hands of the palace, you were given no privilege beyond survival and no legacy but that of work.

The great marble halls and gilded frescoes became your entire world, a place as eternal and unmoving as the gods themselves—or so it seemed.

The servants’ quarters where you lived were nestled in the hidden bowels of the palace, far from the glittering feasts and marble statues.

You learned to scrub floors and pour wine long before you understood the language of wealth and power that filled these walls.

Your life had been carved out in the shadows, molded by the soft voices and calloused hands of those who raised you.

Today, like every other, begins in service to Rome's ever-churning hunger for spectacle.

The air hums with anticipation, thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, a stark contrast to the stench of poverty that lingers just beyond the palace gates.

“Are the platters for the atrium ready?” Livia’s voice cuts through your thoughts.

“They are,” you reply, glancing at the polished silver laden with grapes and apples, their skins shining like jewels under the torchlight.

“Good.” Livia’s sharp eyes soften, though her expression remains tense. “Take the fruit out yourself. And stay close to the kitchen. Today will bring trouble, I feel it.”

You nod, understanding the weight of her instincts. Years of serving in the palace have taught her to sense the storm before it strikes.

As you lift the platters, Claudia, calls over her daughter, Alexandra.

“Go with her,” Claudia orders, waving a ladle for emphasis.

Alexandra groans dramatically but obeys, rolling her eyes as she grabs one of the platters.

“She can’t let me rest for a moment,” she mutters, her tone more amused than annoyed.

You chuckle softly. Alexandra has always been like this—bold where you are cautious, quick to speak where you stay silent.

She is your only true companion here, older by four years and infinitely more daring.

As you and Alexandra arrange the fruits on a grand table in the atrium, she leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “The Princess will be here tonight.”

You nod absently, focused on ensuring the grapes cascade just so. “Of course, she will. She is the Princess after all.”

“No, I mean, I haven’t seen her in years,” Alexandra continues, ignoring your tone. “Not since I was a kid. That was ten years ago. You know she moved out of the palace after marrying the general.”

You don’t reply immediately, your hands steady as you arrange the fruit. Alexandra has always loved to gossip, but you prefer to keep your thoughts unspoken.

“Can you believe it’s been ten years, and she hasn’t had a child? Not one with him,” Alexandra muses.

“Maybe it’s their choice,” you say quietly. “It’s not our place to wonder.”

Alexandra scoffs lightly. “I’m just saying, after her son—what was his name? Lucius?—after he was taken and killed by her brother, Commodus…” She trails off, her voice tinged with something between pity and fascination.

You remember Lucius vaguely, a boy with a quiet demeanor and a sad smile.

You were too young then to understand the weight of his loss, but the servants whispered of curses and tragedies surrounding the imperial family.

“It’s not good to talk about the great emperors like that,” you murmur, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Before Alexandra can reply, the sound of heavy boots echoes through the atrium.

The guards step forward, their polished armor glinting in the firelight. “Make way for their majesties,” one announces, his voice carrying over the growing murmur of the guests.

You and Alexandra immediately bow your heads, the platters forgotten as the twin emperors enter the room.

Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla are a study in contrasts.

Geta, an imposing figure, commands the space with a cold and calculating gaze. His every step seems deliberate, as if the weight of the empire rests on his shoulders alone.

Caracalla, by contrast, walks with an erratic energy, his pet monkey perched on his shoulder. Dondus, the creature’s name, chatters and hisses, a mirror of its master’s unpredictable moods.

You feel the weight of their gazes as they sweep the room. Geta’s lips curl into a smile—or is it a smirk?—as his eyes linger on Alexandra.

There have been whispers, rumors of an affair, though Alexandra denies them with a laugh.

Caracalla’s gaze lands on you, and for a moment, his expression softens. Unlike his brother, he has always been strange but oddly kind to you.

When you were a child, he would find you in the halls, offering you small trinkets or asking you to keep him company.

“Your Majesties,” Alexandra says again, her voice like honeyed wine, sweet but strong.

She curtsies with practiced ease, her eyes cast downward, yet her boldness hangs in the air, unspoken but palpable.

You follow her lead, bowing deeply, but your heart pounds in your chest like the war drums of a distant legion. In the presence of the emperors, the room feels smaller, the air heavier.

To serve Rome, you think, is to breathe in the will of its rulers, no matter how suffocating.

Geta's gaze lingers on Alexandra, traveling from her head to her feet, as though she were a statue he might commission or a possession he already owns.

His smirk deepens, the corner of his mouth curving with an indulgence that unsettles you.

“Alexandra,” he drawls, his voice smooth as polished bronze. “Why do I find the table half-dressed? Are my guests to dine on the promise of fruit alone?”

You glance at the platters, perfectly arranged but not yet fully adorned with the remaining dishes. Your pulse quickens; you know the punishment for displeasing the emperors can be swift, unpredictable.

But Alexandra, bold as always, doesn’t flinch.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” she says, her tone measured yet edged with defiance. “The final trays are being brought out as we speak. The delay was unforeseen.”

Geta arches a brow, his smirk turning sharper, more dangerous. “Unforeseen,” he repeats, as though savoring the word.

“I wonder, Alexandra, if you’ve grown too accustomed to... distractions.”

You know the meaning behind his words. Everyone does.

The whispered rumors of their affair swirl through the palace like incense smoke, clinging to every corner.

Her mother Claudia knows, though she turns a blind eye, perhaps thinking it wiser not to provoke the wrath of an emperor.

Beside him, Caracalla shifts, uninterested in the exchange. His pet monkey, Dondus, chitters softly on his shoulder, its small, beady eyes scanning the room.

Caracalla’s gaze falls on you briefly, but it is not unkind. He has always been more erratic than cruel with you, there is a peculiar understanding in his glances—a shared knowledge of solitude.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” you say suddenly, your voice trembling like a bird caught in a net. The words tumble out before you can stop them, and the weight of the room shifts.

Geta’s eyes snap to you, sharp as a blade. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake.

But then he laughs—a low, indulgent sound that sends shivers down your spine.

“Ah,” he says, leaning slightly toward you. “The little dove finds her voice. How curious.”

You stiffen under his gaze, your knees threatening to buckle. It feels as though he is peeling back your very skin, seeking something hidden beneath.

“You’re the youngest servant here, aren’t you?” Geta muses, his tone light but with an edge that cuts.

“A curious creature, so quiet and unassuming. And yet…” He trails off, his eyes narrowing, as if piecing together a puzzle.

The weight of unspoken rumors presses against your chest.

The whispers about your lineage, the murmurs that you are more than a servant—that you are the illegitimate daughter of Commodus himself, a shadow of Rome’s bloody past.

You’ve heard them before, though never directly. Livia, your steadfast mother in all but blood, dismisses them as lies, the gossip of bored tongues.

But in moments like this, when Geta’s piercing gaze locks onto yours, it feels as though the marble walls around you whisper secrets only they can hold.

Secrets of your origin, of what blood may or may not flow through your veins, encased in the silent austerity of Rome’s cold embrace. You feel the weight of it, a shroud both invisible and suffocating.

Geta doesn’t believe the rumors entirely, but he cannot ignore them either. To him, you are a thorn he cannot pluck without proof.

If the whispers are true, if you are indeed the hidden scion of Commodus and the only living grandchild of Marcus Aurelius, you would be a danger to his rule.

Rome, after all, has loved its Aurelius lineage fiercely.

The plebeians would rally to your name like vines twisting toward sunlight.

Still, no woman has ever ruled Rome.

The Senate, the soldiers, and the gods themselves would balk at such a notion. But Geta knows that power is not always rooted in precedent—it is rooted in the hearts of the people.

And the people would love a descendant of Marcus Aurelius far more than they could ever love him.

“You wear the palace well,” Geta says finally, his tone dripping with mockery. “A little too well, perhaps.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks but keep your gaze respectfully lowered. His words are like serpents coiling around you, their venom lying just beneath the surface.

Caracalla hums softly, breaking the tension. He strokes Dondus, the little monkey perched on his shoulder, as though soothing himself rather than the animal.

“Leave her, brother,” he mutters, his tone flat but carrying weight. “You scare the child.”

Geta casts his twin a glance, his smirk briefly faltering. With that, he straightens, clapping his hands once in finality. “Finish the table,” he commands, the sharpness of his tone slicing through the room.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” you and Alexandra reply in unison, bowing deeply as the emperors turn and walk away.

Their robes ripple like molten gold, catching the light as though the gods themselves had woven the fabric.

The moment they are gone, you exhale shakily, the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding slipping from your lips.

The grandeur of the palace, so often a thing of wonder, now feels oppressive—a prison of marble and ambition.

Alexandra nudges you gently, her smile faint but reassuring. “It’s fine,” she murmurs, though the tightness in her voice betrays her unease.

You nod and return to your work, the routine motions of arranging platters grounding you once more. But the unease lingers, like a storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.

Later, after the feast preparations are complete, you retreat to the servants’ quarters. The hallways grow quieter as the palace begins to prepare for the night’s debauchery.

Your mother, Livia, finds you there, her expression tight with concern.

“Are you all right?” You nod quickly, not wanting to worry her further.

Livia’s sharp eyes search yours for a moment before she exhales heavily. “Stay away from them tonight,” she warns. “There will be soldiers, senators, politicians—men who think they own the world. And women and men from the brothels to entertain them. It will not be a place for a child like you.”

“I understand,” you say softly, though the thought of the gathering makes your skin prickle.

"Go to your chamber and stay there.” You nod, obedient as always, and Livia cups your face briefly before bustling away.

But as you walk toward your chamber, the stillness of the afternoon draws you elsewhere.

***

The sun bathes the palace gardens in a golden light, soft and warm, like an embrace from the gods themselves.

The sky is a flawless stretch of azure, and the air carries the faintest scent of blooming jasmine.

Unable to resist, you veer toward the gardens, seeking solace in their quiet beauty.

You make your way to the small pond at the edge of the grounds, where the world feels simpler, untouched by the weight of marble columns and imperial decrees.

This is your sanctuary, a place you’ve tended with your own hands.

The hedges are trimmed neatly, the flowers arranged in bursts of vibrant color—crimson roses, golden marigolds, and pale violets that seem to glow in the sunlight.

The pond reflects the sky like polished glass, its surface rippling gently in the breeze.

You settle onto the cool stone bench nearby, pulling out a small parchment and charcoal.

Writing has always been your escape, a way to make sense of the labyrinth that is your mind.

The words flow from you like water from a spring, each line capturing fragments of your thoughts and fears.

To live in the shadow of gods is to forget the warmth of the sun.

You stare at the words you’ve written, sentences about Rome and its people, the empire’s endless hunger that devours the poor while the rulers gorge themselves on the spoils.

It isn’t rebellion that drives you—at least, not yet—but a quiet, gnawing sense of wrongness.

You have lived your entire life within the confines of this palace, its gilded walls both a sanctuary and a prison.

Outside, beyond the Forum and its grand marble temples, the streets of Rome teem with despair. You’ve seen it, fleeting glimpses on the rare occasions you ventured beyond the palace gates.

Children with hollow eyes and grime-streaked faces.

Men broken by war or taxation, their shoulders bowed under invisible yokes.

Women clutching bundles of rags that you realized, with a sick lurch, were infants too still to be alive.

These thoughts weigh heavily on you as you sit by the pond, the garden’s beauty unable to shield you from the world’s harsh truths.

You lower your quill, pressing trembling fingers to your lips, when the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you sharply from your thoughts.

You stiffen, the air in your lungs turning to stone. It isn’t one of the servants; their steps are lighter, quicker.

This tread is deliberate, measured, carrying a weight of authority. When you glance up, your breath catches.

The man before you is not adorned with the opulence of the Senate nor the ostentatious silk of the emperors.

You know who he is. How could you not?

General Marcus Acacius.

Rome’s shield and sword, the hero of distant campaigns whose name is whispered with both reverence and fear.

You have never seen him in the flesh, for he seldom resides in the palace, choosing instead to live with Princess Lucilla far from its labyrinth of intrigue.

But his likeness is everywhere: etched in marble statues, painted in frescoes, immortalized as Rome’s protector.

Yet, here he stands, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if the gods themselves have sent him.

The crimson cloak draped over his broad shoulders glints faintly in the golden light, its hem embroidered with intricate patterns that seem to tell the story of the empire’s conquests.

His tunic, simple yet stately, is cinched with a polished belt, a gleaming buckle bearing the proud insignia of the wolf of Rome.

Unlike the ornamental decadence of the Senate or the twin emperors, his attire speaks of purpose and practicality—beauty tempered by utility.

And his face—by Jupiter, his beautiful face.

It is a map of victories and sacrifices, weathered yet noble. The lines carved by years of sun and battle only enhance the sharpness of his features, as if the gods had personally molded him for their own designs.

His hair, dark and streaked with silver like the gleam of moonlight on a blade, curls faintly at his temples.

His beard, neatly trimmed, frames a mouth set in the hard line of a man who has spoken a thousand commands and swallowed a thousand regrets.

But it is his eyes that strike you most: deep, piercing, soulful-brown eyes.

They are the eyes of a man who has seen the best and worst of humanity and bears the weight of both.

Your breath catches as his gaze sweeps over you, taking in the sight of a young servant clutching a parchment like a shield.

He regards you with a sharp, assessing gaze, his eyes like iron tempered in fire—unyielding yet reflective.

His presence is commanding, a gravity that draws everything into its orbit. You are struck by how different he is from the emperors.

Where Geta and Caracalla exude indulgence and cruelty, Acacius carries himself with the disciplined grace of a man who has known the weight of true responsibility.

“Not many choose the gardens for their thoughts,” he says, his voice deep, steady, and tinged with curiosity.

It is a soldier’s voice, devoid of the honeyed pretense of courtiers.

You scramble to your feet, clutching your parchment to your chest. “General,” you manage, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.

He raises a hand, the gesture more commanding than any shout. “At ease,” he says, a faint flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossing his face. “You are Livia's daughter?"

His question hangs in the air like the distant clang of a bell. You nodded, your name feels small in your mouth when you finally say it, barely audible against the rustling of the garden’s leaves.

Acacius nods, as though filing the information away. His eyes flick to the parchment in your hands. “A poet?”

You hesitate, “I... I write, sometimes. Thoughts.”

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming yet strangely grounding. He does not reach for the parchment, but his gaze lingers on it as though he could read its contents by sheer will alone.

“Thoughts on Rome, perhaps?” he asks.

His tone is even, but there is an edge to it, a subtle weight that suggests he already knows the answer.

Your throat tightens. To speak of the empire’s flaws to a general of its armies feels like standing on the edge of a blade.

Yet something in his bearing—a quiet patience, a restrained curiosity—compels you to answer honestly.

“Yes,” you admit softly. “About Rome. And its people.”

Acacius’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, a shadow crossing his face. He looks away, toward the pond, his gaze distant now, as if seeing not the still water but something far beyond it.

“The people,” he repeats, almost to himself. “The heart of Rome. And yet, the heart is always the first to be sacrificed.”

The words are spoken quietly, but they carry the weight of experience, of battles fought not just with swords but with conscience.

You watch him, your earlier fear now replaced by a cautious curiosity.

"Do you... believe that?" you venture, your voice barely above a whisper, the words trembling like a fledgling bird daring its first flight.

Marcus halts, his crimson cloak swaying like the banner of a legion stilled in the wind.

He turns to you, his eyes—sharp as a polished gladius—softening for the briefest moment, as if your question has reached a part of him long buried under layers of duty and steel.

“Belief,” he begins, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of a man who has lived lifetimes in service to an empire, “is a luxury in the life of a soldier. I deal in action, not faith. But I have seen enough to know that Rome’s strength lies not in its emperors, but in its people. And we are failing them.”

The honesty in his words strikes you like the tolling of a great bronze bell, reverberating through the quiet garden and deep into your chest.

It is not what you expected from a man like him—a hero to some, a sword-arm to the empire—but here he stands, speaking not as a general but as a man, his voice laced with something unguarded. Regret, perhaps. Or hope—fragile and faint, but alive nonetheless.

“Do you believe in Rome, little one?” His question falls like a stone into still waters, and you startle, unprepared to have the conversation turned toward you.

“I—” Your words falter, and you look down at your hands, clutching the parchment that now feels like an accusation.

But then, something inside you stirs—something that refuses to shrink back beneath the weight of his gaze.

You lift your eyes to meet his, the courage in your chest kindled like a flame drawn from embers.

“I believe in what Rome could be,” you reply, your voice steadier now.

“I believe in the Rome that lives in the hearts of its people—the ones who work its fields, who build its roads, who kneel at its altars not out of fear, but out of love. That is the Rome worth fighting for. But the Rome I see now…” Your throat tightens, but you press on.

“...has forgotten its people. It worships marble statues and golden coins while the streets crumble and the people starve. How can an empire endure when its foundation is so neglected?”

Your words spill forth, unchecked and unmeasured, and it is only when you see the faintest flicker of something in his expression—respect, perhaps, or surprise—that you remember who stands before you.

The weight of your boldness sinks in like a gladiator realizing they’ve overstepped in the arena.

“Forgive me, General,” you murmur, lowering your gaze. “I forgot myself.”

But Marcus shakes his head, a wry smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Do not apologize,” he says, his tone gentler now, though no less commanding.

“You are young, but your words carry the wisdom of one who has not yet been corrupted by power. Few speak with such clarity, and fewer still with such courage.”

His gaze lingers on you, searching, and you feel it like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

“You remind me,” he says, his voice quieter, almost reverent, “of someone. He believed, as you do, in the strength of Rome’s people. He would sit in gardens much like this one, speaking of justice and duty, and wonder aloud whether the empire could ever live up to its ideals.”

Your heart quickens, the weight of his words settling over you like the cloak of a goddess.

The way Marcus looks at you—as though he sees not the servant, but the soul beneath—makes you feel for a fleeting moment.

“I am no philosopher,” you say softly, your fingers tightening on the parchment. “But it is hard to remain silent when I see so much suffering.”

“A Roman citizen has every right to speak of their empire’s failings,” he says, stepping closer now.

“Do not mistake me for a politician, child. I am a soldier. My loyalty is to Rome—not to the men who rule it."

You nod, the words settling over you like a cloak woven of both gravity and reassurance.

The air between you feels charged, alive with the kind of understanding that is rarely spoken but deeply felt.

You watch him, his form cast in the golden hues of the setting sun, the crimson of his cloak vivid against the muted greens of the garden.

There is something about him that draws you—not merely his reputation, not the legends whispered in the palace halls of his valor and victories, but him.

The man behind the titles and statues.

You swallow, your heart a restless bird in your chest. You should not linger, not with him, not now.

And yet, you find yourself unable to walk away.

Words rise to your lips, hesitant at first, but then they spill forth, tentative and careful, like a child offering a wildflower to a god.

“Forgive me, my lord, but shouldn’t you be inside?” you say, your voice trembling under the weight of its boldness. “The palace is bustling with your celebration—wishing you fortune for your campaign, for Rome’s glory.”

He turns his gaze to you, the faintest flicker of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “Rome’s glory,” he repeats, as though tasting the phrase on his tongue, finding it bitter.

He lets out a soft chuckle, low and warm, a sound that feels oddly out of place amidst the solemn grandeur of the garden. “Let them feast. Let them toast. I’ve no appetite for gilded words tonight.”

You blink, surprised by his candor. He is not what you imagined—not the marble statue immortalized in the Forum or the hardened general whose name echoes in the chants of soldiers. He is… more human than that.

“I’m waiting for my wife,” he adds, his tone casual, though his eyes seem to linger on you as if measuring your reaction.

Princess Lucilla.

The name hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of legend. Rome’s Princess. The only daughter of Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor. You’ve never met her, though her shadow looms large over your life.

“She was delayed,” he continues, glancing toward the palace, though his stance is relaxed, unhurried.

Princess Lucilla, her legend precedes her, a name spoken with reverence, and sometimes, in hushed tones, with fear.

Your mother, Livia, has served her since she was but a girl.

Livia, who moves through the world with a quiet dignity, has always spoken of the princess with unwavering loyalty. “She carries Rome on her shoulders,” your mother would say, her voice tinged with both pride and sorrow. “The weight of a crown rests on her brow, even though it does not sit there.”

Your thoughts drift, but his voice pulls you back to the present.

“Your mother,” Marcus says, his tone shifting to something softer, more contemplative, “she’s a loyal servant to our household, isn’t she?”

You nod, feeling a strange warmth rise to your cheeks. “She is, my lord. My mother adores the princess. She always speaks highly of her.”

At this, Marcus smiles faintly. His expression, though guarded, carries a warmth that feels rare, as if he’s allowing himself a brief reprieve from his usual stoicism.

“Livia is wise, then. Lucilla is… more than most know. Rome sees her as Marcus Aurelius’ daughter, but to me—” He pauses, his voice lowering to something almost reverent.

“She is a woman of strength, far greater than any man I’ve known. Her loyalty to Rome and its people… it humbles me.”

For a fleeting moment, his mask of a hardened general slips, and you glimpse something deeper.

A man bound not just by duty but by love.

His words hang in the air, gilded with affection, and you feel a pang of longing, though for what, you cannot say.

“I’ve never met her,” you admit, your voice quieter now.

He turns to you, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “Lucilla?”

You nod, feeling suddenly self-conscious beneath his scrutiny. “I’ve only heard stories. My mother always told me about her strength, her grace. But we’ve never crossed paths.”

Marcus regards you for a long moment, as if seeing something in you he had not noticed before. “She would like you,” he says at last, his voice steady, though something lingers in his tone, a note of intrigue.

“Are you coming to the feast tonight?” he asks, the question catching you off guard.

You hesitate, glancing toward the palace where the distant hum of celebration filters through the evening air. “Servants are not permitted to attend such events, my lord,” you say, lowering your gaze. “I am only a servant after all,"

His brows furrow slightly, as if the answer displeases him. “Rome is built on the backs of those it calls servants. Do not diminish yourself.”

You blink, unsure of how to respond. There’s a weight in his words, one that feels both heavy and freeing.

Before he can say more, hurried footsteps echo through the garden. You turn, and there stands Alexandra, one of the palace attendants, her expression tight with worry.

“My lord,” she says, bowing her head quickly as her wide eyes catch sight of Marcus.

The respect is immediate, almost reflexive. General Acacius commands not just authority but admiration.

Men respect him, but women… they speak of him in hushed tones, a figure both distant and impossibly magnetic.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Alexandra continues, her voice trembling slightly under the weight of his gaze. “Your mother is looking for you,"

Marcus looks at you, his expression softening. He steps aside, the movement graceful despite his formidable frame, as though making room for your escape.

"Tell Livia my apologies for keeping her daughter here," he says, his voice low yet deliberate, as though each word is a promise carved in stone.

His gaze lingers on you, longer than it should, and it feels as though he is reading something beyond the surface—a map of your heart, perhaps, etched in the lines of your face.

For a moment, the world narrows to just this: the garden bathed in the golden light of a setting sun, the faint murmur of the distant feast, and the weight of his eyes, heavy yet strangely gentle.

There is something about you, his expression seems to say—something unspoken but undeniable.

You feel it too, a spark that flickers to life beneath the layers of duty, expectation, and fear.

“I’ll see you at the feast tonight,” he says, the words more a statement than an invitation, leaving little room for protest.

There is a finality to his tone, yet also a quiet insistence that stirs something within you.

Before you can respond, he dips his head ever so slightly—a gesture of respect, or perhaps acknowledgment—before turning and striding away, his crimson cloak flowing like a banner in his wake.

You bow reflexively, watching him disappear into the shadowed corridors of the palace, his figure swallowed by the grandeur of Rome itself.

Yet even as he leaves, his presence lingers, an echo in the air, a weight in your chest.

As soon as the sound of his footsteps fades, Alexandra is at your side, her face alight with barely contained awe.

“Was that… the general?” she whispers, her voice tinged with something between disbelief and reverence.

“Yes,” you reply, though your own voice feels distant, as though it belongs to someone else. Your thoughts are still tethered to the garden, to the quiet intensity of his gaze.

“By the gods,” she breathes, clutching your arm as though you might disappear. “He’s… he’s even more handsome up close.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Careful, Ale,” you chide gently, though there’s no malice in your words.

“I’ve heard so much about him,” she continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“About his loyalty to Maximus Decimus Meridius—the late general—and how he served under him during the great campaigns. They say he adored the princess even then. Some even whisper that his loyalty to Maximus was why he stayed so close to her after his death, marrying her to protect her.”

You glance at her, your brow furrowing slightly. “You know far too much for someone who spends their days in the laundry.”

She grins, unrepentant. “The laundry is where all the palace’s secrets come to dry.”

You shake your head, though her words gnaw at the edges of your mind.

You’ve heard the stories too, in bits and pieces from the older servants: tales of Lucilla’s love affair with Maximus, and Marcus’s steadfast devotion not only to his commander but to the empire itself.

A marriage born of loyalty, they say, not love. And yet, there’s something in the way Marcus spoke of Lucilla earlier that makes you wonder.

As Alexandra chatters on, her words a tide of gossip and speculation, your thoughts drift back to Marcus.

To the way he stood in the garden, his form framed by the soft glow of the setting sun. To the depth in his eyes, like wells carved by the gods themselves—deep enough to drown in, and yet you couldn’t look away.

You feel a strange restlessness in your chest, a stirring you can’t quite name. It isn’t admiration, nor fear, but something more complicated. Something heavier.

Marcus is unlike anyone you’ve ever known—unlike the indulgent senators with their honeyed words, unlike the cruel twin emperors whose laughter carries the sting of a whip.

He is a man of iron and fire, tempered by years of battle, yet beneath that hardened exterior lies something softer. Something… human.

And perhaps that’s what unsettles you most.

You’ve spent your life surrounded by women: your mother, Livia, with her quiet strength and unshakable loyalty; the other servants, who taught you to navigate the palace’s labyrinthine halls.

Men were distant figures, their power felt but never seen up close. Fathers, you’ve only heard about in stories—abstract concepts, not flesh and blood.

But Marcus is no abstraction.

He is real, tangible, a presence that feels larger than life yet undeniably mortal.

To see him, to feel him, is to glimpse a side of the world you’ve never known—a world shaped not by whispered orders or silent sacrifices, but by action, by conviction, by the weight of decisions made on the edge of a blade.

You shake your head, trying to banish the thoughts, but they cling to you like the scent of blooming jasmine in the garden. “It’s nothing,” you tell yourself, though your heart betrays you with its restless rhythm.

“Nothing at all,” you murmur, though even the words feel like a lie.

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22ayla21 · 14 days ago

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The Shadow of a Mother, the Light of Love

The capricious blood of Maleonor makes itself known once more. The elderly lady of the Draconia lineage, a grieving mother and strict keeper of traditions, is forced to accept that love and stubbornness are a legacy one cannot escape, even across generations.

Silence reigned in the castle halls, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth. By the window, in an armchair, sat an elderly woman. Even in her old age, she retained a regal air. Her hair was neatly gathered, and a heavy emerald cloak bearing the Draconia family crest draped from her shoulders.

In her hands, she held an old doll – once the beloved toy of her daughter.

"Maleonor…" she whispered, clutching the doll. "You are still causing us scenes… only now through your son."

The elder of the clan, Malleus's grandmother, had seen much. Wars, palace intrigues, betrayals, losses – all had been part of her life. But nothing had caused her such pain as the death of her only daughter.

Maleonor had been like a whirlwind. Beautiful, daring, dangerous. Incredibly impulsive, headstrong – it seemed not blood, but fire flowed in her veins. And yet – or perhaps because of it – she was loved. But also feared.

How many times had the Senate begged her to be more careful? How many nights had the old woman spent in tears as Maleonor threw tantrums, wondering where she had gone wrong in raising her daughter?

And now… her grandson.

Her only hope. The last link to her own blood.

Malleus.

He resembled her to a painful degree.

When he came and said he had decided to marry a girl from another world – without noble lineage, without magic, without status – she wasn't even surprised.

"I chose her," he had said then. "She is my heart."

She could have objected. Reminded him of traditions, of duty, of the necessity of strong offspring, a worthy heir. But she remained silent.

Because she knew. He was as stubborn as his mother. Just as capricious, just as independent in his decisions. From his father, he had inherited kindness and wisdom. But the passion, the fire, the impatience – all of it was from Maleonor.

And if his mother were here now, she would, of course, exclaim: "I don't have to prove anything to anyone! I am the princess of the Briar Valley! My son is a dragon! And he will love whomever he wants!"

The woman closed her eyes. She could still hear that voice. Sometimes in her dreams, sometimes – in Malleus's voice when he argued with the Senate, defending his beloved.

And now, as the sound of ringing children's laughter echoed through the castle, a bitter, ironic smile appeared on her lips.

"There's your grandson, Maleonor…" she whispered. "You left, leaving a storm. And now – a new tempest."

There was a knock at the door.

"Grandmother?" a familiar voice called.

She turned. Malleus stood in the doorway. Beside him stood a boy – with his mother's eyes, but with Malleus's own stubborn expression.

"We wanted to visit you."

"I've been waiting," she replied, and for the first time in a long time, her voice trembled.

When her grandson burst into the room, creating a real commotion, she… didn't stop them. Because in this chaos, there was life, light.

"You are just like your mother," she murmured, looking at Malleus. "How many times I cursed her for her whims… and how many times I forgave her. Just as I forgive you now."

Malleus leaned down and said quietly, "I understand her better with each passing day. And I understand why she was the way she was. Love makes us inconvenient for the world. But strong."

She chuckled.

"You are her child. To the end. But now you are a father. And I hope… you can preserve what she lacked."

"Family?"

"Wisdom," she replied. "And if your queen managed to tame you, then she has a talent worthy of a crown."

He smiled.

"She is my destiny. As I am hers."

The boy burst into laughter as he tried to climb onto the sofa opposite her. And all she could do was laugh in response.

"Damn you, Maleonor," she whispered. "Even from the afterlife, you manage to create a circus in my living room."

But tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. And for the first time in a long time – not from grief, but from gratitude. For the continuation. For the blood. For life.

#twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #malleus x reader #twst malleus #malleus draconia x reader #malleus draconia

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historiaxvanserra · 5 months ago

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In Hades I Am With You | Chapter One

Pairing: Azriel x Hewn!city reader

Word Count: 3.8k

Summary: With rising tensions across the sea causing unrest in the capital, the two warring factions of the Night Court must come to terms.

Reader is the ill-fated daughter of a cruel Lord of Night; plagued with prophetic dreams and cursed with rare, arcane gifts. Azriel is the stoic spymaster; forged from violence, lethal and honed to a fatal sharpness. The pair find themselves bound to one another through sacred oaths. For better or worse.

Tags: Forced proximity, strangers to lovers, Night Court lore, Priestess reader, discussions of SA and abuse, discussions of sex work, criticism of misogyny, sexism, and general abuse in all its forms, eventual smut, slight corruption kink, reader is incredibly romantic and horny.

Please let me know what you think. This chapter and readers powers are heavily inspired by Poppy from From Blood and Ash.

I was born on a night like this, I think.

Storm-streaked, he had once called me. If only he could see me now; standing at the foothills of the mountain, wind-beaten and with the acrid taste of seafret on my lips. When I was a girl my father had told me that I came into the world the way the Old Gods had. Born from the merciless, blue-green depths of the sea.

To be beautiful and cruel, and fearless.

Now fear is all I know.

The streets of the great mountain city are plagued by a feverish summer storm and, at the fatal peal of thunder I cast my eyes skyward. A terrible dread coils in the pit of my stomach.

The visions come with the storm; fleeting images of an unforgiving tempest as it ravages all in its wake. The dark figure of a man, who whispers my name like a prayer.

The God of plagues and prophecy.

Death had first come to me in a dream. Haunting and prophetic. Shrouded in seraphic blue light.

Heat swells beneath the surface of the hydrangea clouds and the dark waters of the Sidra turn violent. Ivory seafoam coils and contorts violently like the tendrils of some grotesque sea-snake. I think of an old story my father had told me once. A human princess from the continent. She had been beautiful once. Until some dark, deathless God had lay claim to her. A monstrous thing. Rising from the depths of her watery tomb to lay waste to the men who had hurt her. Thrashing and writhing as the waves crested over the port of this wretched city.

The crack of forked, white lightning against the darkening horizon breaks my reverie and Scylla nestles into my side with a bruising force. I smooth a hand flat on her muzzle. Her lustrous dark mane feels soft under my tender touch and she exhales a hot breath that rises like steam in the wet heat of the Summer storm.

“Calm, Scylla.” I whisper tenderly to the mare I had taken to mount. My lips graze her dappled coat along her muzzle and I welcome the earthy fetor as it fills my senses.

“Gentle, girl.” I reaffirm, patting the mount affectionately as I tie the reins to the crumbling statue of some prince long dead.

“I’ll be back soon.” I promise. My voice wavers with another rumble of thunder.

When I was a girl, my father had told me to count the moments between the cacophony of thunder and the flash of white lightning to work out how many leagues away it might be.

At this moment I know that I am standing in the eye of the storm.

Scylla watches warily as my figure disappears into the darkness of the lower city. I still hear her in the distance long after I am gone. Cloistered in the darkness of the city’s narrow alleys I remove the onyx veil that shrouds my features. I bury it in the folds of the plain, grey cloak I had stolen from Leda.

I weave through the long, winding streets. I observe the world in flashes of cruel light and sound that permeates the suffocating darkness that saturates the lower city. I hear the echo of it in the lurid shouts of merchants, and the vulgar songs of sailors, coming home from the docks at the mouth of the Sidra. I listen to them all; as they beg, barter and brawl in the filthy streets. The fetor of decay lingers in the air like festering fruit flesh in the feverish heat of the slums. Throngs of beggar children chase the merchant's carts as they roll through the putrid pools of waste upon the wet, cobbled stone. Though, I only catch fleeting glimpses of them each time the cruel, seraphic light cuts through the blanket of the dark.

As I pass through the Streets of Silk, I hear the bawdy rhymes of the painted whores as they call out into the night like a siren song; all sultry-eyed and dressed in lace that billows in the wretched breeze like the tendrils of a monstrous chimera. Fated to lure wayward sailors to their watery tombs.

It is then, as the city bells toll their mournful song, that I reach my destination.

The building stands as one of the last unsanctioned pleasure halls in the city; its weary slate facade is cut from the same dark stone as the mountain that oppresses the city. Its neglected roof tiles gleam in the pallid silver faelights like moonlight on the murky-green depths of the Sidra. Above the door, I observe the pillory that bears the establishment's name. The Jade Pearl, painted in varying gaudy shades of green and gold.

The pleasure hall on the outer banks of the mountain city is alive with sordid activity. The whores in their fine silks twirl and dance in merry rings like water nymphs, and the serving girls sing sultry harmonies like siren songs, as they fill up the cups of patrons with sticky, honeyed mead. The high-arching melody of lyres and harps cut through the cacophony of carnal sounds; the officious laughter of Darkbringers, the vulgar curses and honeyed words, whispered into the skin of wind-beaten sailors and fat merchants.

I traverse the narrow corridors that run like veins into the heart of the tavern. Its dark antechamber is bathed in shadow and dying fireglow that casts the word in a pallid light. The emerald bar curves around the hall in the shape of a crescent moon and the tables dapple the room like stars.

“What a pretty creature you are, Mistress.” A beautiful wraith compliments, tugging and the long sleeves of my stolen robes. With tender touches and whispers the wraith works the buttons of my robes until I am left in the thin champagne shift I had worn beneath my cloak.

She’s a slender looking creature, with pale blue eyes that look almost silver in the dying light of the hearth. Her long, white hair is braided over her shoulder like the tendril of some mythical siren.

Dangerous and inviting.

“Whatever you desire, be it wine or women, I will procure for you tonight,” She purrs, her voice low and sultry as she looks at me with those pale eyes. She’s dressed in the gauzy, silk robes of a whore. The garment flows like water over the curve of her hip and with a deep slit in its middle that exposes the graceful swell of her breasts beneath. And through her guise of beauty and seduction, I see the chains that bind her.

As I am bound. To this court. To the mountain that we call home.

“A drink would be nice,” I acquiesce, sliding a gold coin across the polished surface of the bar, “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“It is no trouble at all, mistress- but this far too much coin.” The wraith begins to untether the cracked leather coin purse from her hip. She begins to exchange the gold for smaller coins of silver and bronze, counting them in her open palm.

“Please - keep it -- I’ve no use for such things anyway.” I command, nodding towards the coin in her hand. The wraith shakes her head and tries to protest but a call from the brutish looking owner draws the girl's attention away from me. I look up from my spot, across the painted emerald surface of the bar, to the games table. A voice, thick with mirth and malice, beckons my attention.

“There are rumors amongst the legion that the High Lord will return to Court by the moon's turn.” The cruel laugh of a Darkbringer draws my interest as they sit around an emerald table. Crimson cards and dice litter the surface of the table and in its center a collection of coins. The male at the head of the table is dressed in his court robes; a dark overcoat with silver embroidery along the collars and cuffs. The others have abandoned their stifling robes in lieu of casual black tunics and pants. It is only through the tendrils of dark that shroud them in shadow that I know what they are.

These men are members of The Night Court’s legion of Darkbringers; and servants of the High Lord’s Steward. The larger of the three, unsheathes his dagger and places it atop the pile of coins in lieu of money.

A reminder of their lethal potential.

A vein of dark power that speaks to a coming vision plagues me in those spaces between the seconds. Untethered and adrift in the ether I allow my fragile mind to wander. I see a lake from which the dead rise like a devastating tempest. I see a King atop a dias, and a throne of splintered bone. And, through the blanket of the dark, I see the gleam of Illyrian Steel and age worn bone.

Then, that tenuous connection to the Otherworld is severed.

“The commander of the city watch says that tensions in the lower city are rising.” The deep timbre of the Darkbringer rouses me from thought again.

“I heard that the Lord Protector plans to broker an alliance with the Death Lord himself,”

“ if only to free himself of Rhysand’s leash.”

“--bring him and that bitch of his to heel morelike.” The youngest of the three smiles malevolently.

“Enough of that, boys, we’re in the presence of a Lady.” The leader implies dangerously and at once, three heads incline in my direction. There are no Ladies allowed in this part of the city. The females of this forsaken city are bound to the Moonstone Palace. Forced to our knees in deference to our male oppressors. The only women that still dwell in the lower city are whores and exiles. Of which I am neither.

Something dark and terrible roils in the pit of my stomach as the male approaches. I pull the hood of the austere, grey cloak to veil my face in shadows. The pale eyes of the Darkbringer meet mine through the din and his smile curls around the sharpness of his teeth.

The cold, amethyst hilt of a dagger kisses the tender flesh of my thigh beneath the many lawyers of dark fabric and I am reminded of my own lethal potential. The dagger had been passed from my grandsire some years ago. Made and forged from the ancient power that dwells beneath the mountain that we call home. The dagger itself had been set in a hilt of dark wood, trimmed with silver and precious gems; amethyst, sapphire and onyx. Its blade was fashioned of Illyrian steel and honed to a fatal sharpness.

“What a pretty little bird, she is.” He taunts as he approaches, his manner imposing and vindictive as he takes my chin roughly between his fingers.

“I am no Lady, Ser.” I swallow thickly. It is true, of course. I am no Lady of the Night Court. I had been a babe when they found me. The cursed daughter to a cruel lord and some terrified nymph.

My mother died giving me life and left me at the ruined Temple of Beara, the Mistress of Storms, deep in the foothills of the mountain. In the hopes that the Priestesses would shelter me from the cruelty of this court. After the temple fell I was brought before the Lords of Night and given to the Temple of Astarion on account of my rare and ancient gift.

“Then perhaps you might regale my friends and I with the tale of how a pretty thing like you ends up here.” The Darkbringer replies, sliding a coin across the table. His gaze drops to the rings that adorn my hands; fine rings of onyx and amethyst, mined from the wretched bowels of the mountain that I have come to call home. The mark of my good breeding.

“I assure you Ser, I am no whore either.” I chastise, sliding my hand beneath the folds of my cloak. The lust that pools in his eyes is a dreadful thing. Lecherous and heinous. Though I take comfort in the knowledge that my true identity is concealed.

As the Pythia of the Night Court a dark veil typically obscures my features from the view of men; save from my eyes, which are heavily darkened with kohl and pigments of sapphire and amethyst that hail from the mines of Illyria. The veil protects me as much as it oppresses me. For if male like this knew of the power I possess, they would seek to control it, to covet that power until I were a vessel of their ill intent. That is why I was given to the Temple as a child. Why my estranged father and the Steward of the Night Court seek to make me their weapon. I know then that if I am discovered I will suffer for it. The kind of suffering that only exists here, in the rotting depths of Hewn City.

“No, I see that now.” Devilment darkens his pale gaze and the cut of amethyst shines in his dark eyes, he releases me from his bruising grip with a dark laugh.

“Curious little thing.” One of the men whispers.

“This is not the place for a gentle creature like you, Lady” He whispers, his pointed finger ghosts the cut of onyx on my hand, “luckily for you I am feeling quite merciful.”

“I am not as gentle as I look, Ser.” I warn. The three Darkbringers laugh cruelly. I turn to leave when a firm hand closes around my wrist and twists me so I am held in the Darkbringers bruising embrace. His lips drag a tortuous line along the side of my jaw.

“Now, now little bird,” He coos mockingly against the shell of my ear as I struggle violently against him, “flighty little thing.”

Bile rises in my throat as the Darkbringer’s companions laugh and fingers dig into the knife at my thigh, unsheathing it in a moment and pressing it against the male's pale throat. Unshed tears line my eyes like flecks of silver starlight as his hands still on my waist.

“That is what you call mercy?” I laugh bitterly at the man, his eyes hardening as the Illyrian steel blade glints in the dim light.

“Let go of her, Aeres.” The eldest of the three orders and the Darkbringer unhands me at once.

“Now fly back to your cage, little bird.” The elder male nods towards the rear exit beyond the bar.

On uncertain feet I Traverse the narrow aisle of the tavern I find myself adrift amongst the dancing tide of patrons. A throng of women, clad in gauzy robes and underthings, twist and contort like columns of technicolor seafoam. The cruel laughter from the dance floor pulls me deeper into the wretched heart of the pleasure house. Lurid whistles and a series of vulgar gestures rouse my attention. A female; dressed in spider silk and lace coils around a portly merchant at the games table. She slips into his lap with a serpentine grace. I watch as the merchant’s weathered hand traces the line of her throat to the swell of her breasts. Smacking his hand away, the woman laughs, it is a beautiful, false thing that glitters in the pallid light.

“Well, girl I hope you fuck better than you play cards.” The merchant complains, laying down his deck of crimson cards. The female curls a painted hand around the cuffs of his tunic and whispers into his ear and the merchant's mouth curves into a lurid smile. One thick hand draws down her stomach, the other brushes the flesh of her thigh, slipping under the folds of her robe between her legs --

Oh.

I avert my eyes at the scene as a blush kisses its way along my neck and chest at the intimacy of it. The merchant rises from his seat at the table, taking the female slender hand in his. The whispered words they exchange are too low for me to hear but her answering smile is enough to know it was something wicked. The female rises leads the merchant towards the sleeping chambers beyond the emerald curtains.

I watch as the merchant's shadowy figure is swallowed by the darkness as the curtain is drawn. My attention lingers far after they are gone, leaving only the smell of salt and jasmine in their wake.

I am overcome with a strange, prophetic awareness.; dreams of shadowed light and a bleeding star, scarred hands that track the constellations as they reign over the black tapestry of the sky.

The high-arching symphony of strings and lyres blossoms in the feverish heat of the tavern. The soft melody of the lyres seems to echo off of the high, domed ceiling, as the heavy beat of a drum joins the cacophony of sound. It’s a hypnotizing, deeply sensual beat, that is unlike anything I have ever heard.

Primal and carnal.

I find myself adrift in the sway of the dancing sea. Slowly, I make my way along the length of the bar, reaching out to touch the gauzy jade curtains, parting them slowly --

“I don’t think you want to go in there, Mistress.” The lilting voice of the wraith warns.

“Why not?” I ask curiously, lowering my hand from the curtain. The wraith laughs prettily, her cerulean eyes glinting in the dying light of the fire.

“Some don’t appreciate an audience, Sweet girl.”

“An audience?” I ask.

Through the darkness of the antechamber, I see the silhouettes of the whores and their patrons, writhing and undulating with the beat of the drum. The music is punctuated by panting breaths and lilting moans, and the vulgar sound of men as they find their pleasure.

“Oh.” The wraith laughs again, her painted lips curl into a wicked smile.

“Is it your first time here, Priestess?” The wraith leans in, the rich tenor of her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. Fear coils in my stomach and my grip on the emerald surface of the bar tightens.

“I’m no priestess.” I try to emulate her melodious laughter and my eyes narrow in faux concern.

“You needn't lie to me, Pythia. Your secret's safe with me.” Her words resound in my head and realization dawns. She’s daemati.

“That type of secret is not safe with anyone.”

“What could I gain from exposing it to anyone? I wish you no ill will.” She returns.

“You’d earn the Lord Protector's favor, of that I am certain --.”

The wraith's face twists into a grimace and her sapphire stare hardens to a cold, wicked thing. “I have no need for that viper’s favour.” The venom laced in her voice speaks to the malice she holds for this place, its patrons and the cruel light of Hewn City. Many within the court resent the way in which we live, clinging to the slivers of power we are allowed, cowering in the darkness of the mountain.

Things are changing as of late, war looms ever closer and whispers of dissent from the continent bring about unrest in the people. Many turn to the High Lord and his Lady for liberation from the dying vestiges and brutal traditions of this court. For many years I myself have lived in servitude and isolation, serving Keir, The Lord Protector and Steward of the ancient mountain city.

As his coveted oracle; a conduit for his own power.

A cruel wind cuts through the heat of the pleasure hall as the doors open to announce an influx of new patrons. Three men, dressed in court robes enter through the archway, each shaded in shadows and dark wisps of power. My heart hammers thunderously in my chest as the men enter the heart of the establishment.

“A flagon of wine and some dice, Arik.” The Darkbringer announces to the man behind the bar. My face pales from where I stand. These men are of my personal guard; formidable and unwaveringly loyal to my keeper.

These men, these good men, are sworn to a monster, and they must do monstrous things to survive here.

As we all must.

I veil my face with the hood of my stolen cloak, tucking my hair into the collar so that it is concealed from view, and my face obscured almost entirely. If they were to discover me they would be duty bound to drag me back to the Moonstone Palace and throw me down atop the emerald dias for Keir and my father to punish as they see fit.

I take another tentative look across the room and observe the men crowded around the game table with women hanging off them, like a swarm of beautiful and merciless harpies.

“That one’s usual girl looks like you--” The wraith whispers to me, casting her own gaze to Ares who stands alone near the fire rather forlorn for a male in the middle of a brothel.

“She’s busy with her favorite client upstairs. Perhaps you might retrieve her and make your escape.” Slowly, I turn to the wraith who takes my hand gently and leads me along the length of the bar.

“You will find Aelle on the second floor -- take sanctuary there. I’ll come for you when your friends are occupied.”

I hold her hand fondly and press a gold coin into her palm.

“Thank you.” I say. She presses a chaste kiss to my cheek and ushers me up the stairs.

As I ascend the steps of the pleasure hall, I slip a hand between the folds of my cloak, fingers ghosting the hilt of the dagger strapped to my thigh once more.

The upper levels of the house are painted a deep emerald color and the flickering fae lights saturate the long, narrow corridors in onyx wisps of shadow. The room at the end of the corridor is stepped in near darkness, veins of indigo and navy that obscure everything in a shroud of blue-darkness. The mantle is hung with half-burned candles and a garland of foxglove and jasmine. The antique furniture looks as though it has been carved from the black wood of ash trees and the armchairs in front of the dying hearth are embroidered with dark floral motifs and silver threads.

I draw in a sharp breath and the scent of pine and night-blooming florals shrouds me in its winter kiss.

A flash of seraphic light illuminates the room and a deep voice, shaded in nightshade calls out from the blue-darkness.

“I’ve been waiting for you,”

#acotar #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel smut #azriel acotar

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cowboybeepboop · 4 months ago

Note

i’ve never made a request/idea before so i thought i’d try !!

i keep thinking about the reader being there the day the tornado took up kate’s friends !! like the reader walking home from work because her car stopped working, not knowing what to do when the tornado comes, so kate and her friends help her go to the underpass. with her, javi, and kate being the only survivors.

and because of this, kate ask the reader to come with her to help javi because the reader is the only one who can understand how kate feels. maybe the reader is from a small town in texas, and she stands out with storm parr in her cute little jean shorts and cowboy boots that spike tyler’s attention 😏

Pairing: Tyler Owens x fem! Reader

Genre: Smut, angsty and romantic

Word count: 5.6k

Warnings: [TW: deep scarring, talking about the scar, etc.] unprotected sex, p in v, handjob, soft Tyler, kind of angsty.

a/n: I kinda wanted there to be angst in this so I tried to incorporate it, I really don’t know atp 😣 I also did not proofread this one so 😭 ALSO I JUST SAW THE TEXAS PART MY BAD

The winds picked up, sending debris spiraling through the air like a malevolent kaleidoscope, as the ominous rumble grew louder. Your heart raced as you sprinted down the desolate street, each step echoing the chaos that was fast approaching. The sky darkened to a shade of green you had only seen in your worst nightmares, the clouds swirling into a frenetic maelstrom that stretched from horizon to horizon. In the midst of this cataclysmic dance, you caught sight of a vehicle swerving off the road.

Without a moment's hesitation, you dashed towards the car as it skidded to a halt, the doors flying open. Kate and her friends, their eyes wide with terror, clambered out. "Over here!" she shouted, pointing at the sturdy overpass looming ahead. You didn't need further prompting. The group sprinted through the storm, the deafening roar of the tornado now a constant, terrifying soundtrack to your desperate flight. As you reached the concrete shelter, the fury of the winds grew more intense, snatching at your clothes and hair.

Kate's grip on your hand tightened as she let out a blood-curdling scream, her eyes searching the swirling chaos for any sign of her boyfriend. A heartbeat later, you saw him, a mere silhouette in the howling wind, being mercilessly dragged away by the tornado's inescapable pull. The world around you seemed to slow as you watched him disappear into the gaping maw of the storm. You both screamed in unison, raw and visceral, as fear and grief clutched at your chests. Yet amidst the horror, you felt her hand tremble, and instinctively, you squeezed back, grounding her to the present.

As the tornado's fury began to wane, its retreating roar sounded like a mournful cry echoing through the ravaged landscape. The air grew eerily still, yet the chaos around you seemed to pulse with a life of its own. You felt a sudden jolt, a violent tug at your body, and for a terrifying moment, you were almost ripped away from Kate's grasp.

Your arm burned with pain, and you realized it was sliced open, blood seeping through your trembling fingers. Despite the horror, Kate's grip remained firm, her eyes locked on yours, filled with a fierce determination that mirrored the dwindling storm's intensity. She screamed, her voice piercing the calm, as the world around you swirled with debris. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the nightmare to end, and held onto her hand with every ounce of strength you had left. Together, you waited for the tempest to pass, hearts racing in rhythm with the fading thunder.

You shake the memories as you glance in the front seat at your two best friends the storm brought to you. You were the only person Kate kept contact with, you both moved out to New York, sharing an apartment. So when Javi reached out to Kate she agreed to join the team as long as you came with.

Shaking off the chilling recollections of that fateful day, you cast a sideways glance at Kate and Javi, who are now your inseparable companions, riding shotgun in the car. The tornado had been a terrifying twist of fate that bound you together, but it was the friendship that grew from the aftermath that truly defined your lives.

Kate, ever the pragmatic one, had insisted on staying in touch after the ordeal, and when she made the life-altering decision to move to New York, you were the first person she called. The Big Apple's allure had always sparkled in your eyes, and with Kate's offer to share an apartment, it was an opportunity you couldn't refuse.

When Javi reached out to Kate to ask her to join his team, she had one condition: you had to come with. You agreed without hesitation. The storm had brought you to them, but it was the shared experiences, the laughter, and the unspoken understanding that turned acquaintances into family.

Javi pulls into a rest stop where the rest of the storm par team was waiting for your arrival, you hop out of the truck stretching your arms while following behind Javi. Kate steps out of the car with you, her mind racing back to the events that had started this journey of yours. Her eyes drift over to you, her gaze holding a mix of gratitude and melancholy. Despite the years passed, she can't help but feel a slight pang as she thinks about what cost this new life came with.

She tries to shake off the thought as she looks around, her eyes settling on the rest of the team standing nearby. She takes a deep breath, steadying herself before nodding in greeting.

You cross your arms over your waist, not really paying attention as Javi introduces the team. You wander off to the side, eyes trained on the sky as you take in a deep breath.

Javi glances over to you as you make your way to the side, his eyes lingering on you for a moment before he continues introducing the team to Kate.

Once he's done, he walks over to where you're standing, his hands shoved in his pockets. He stands beside you, silent for a moment before he speaks. "You alright?"

“It’s just a little odd,” you glance over to him. “Being back.” He gives you a soft nod. The loud noise of music fills your ears as a red truck comes pulling into the lot, catching your eye.

Javi's demeanor changes the moment he sees Tyler's truck pull into the lot. His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He scowls, his eyes darkening as the truck parks.

He crosses his arms over his chest as he watches Tyler get out of his truck. “Who’s that?” You nod in Tyler’s direction as he greets his fans, noticing the way Javi reacts to him.

Javi's eyes narrow, a slight sneer appearing on his face.

"That's Tyler Owens," he mutters, his voice laced with disdain. "He's a big shot storm chaser, thinks he's the king of chasing storms."

You nod as he speaks, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Well, you should get back to Kate. Better find out if she’s found your storm.” He gives you a small smile as you continue to watch the sky.

Tyler's eyes linger on yours as you keep your face up to the sky. He smirks, making his way over to you.

"Now that's a good view." He crosses his muscular arms over his broad chest. Glancing over your shoulder you notice his grin.

“And what do you mean by that?” You raise an eyebrow at his comment, arms crossed under your chest.

Tyler's smirk only widens as he takes a step closer to you. “I think you know exactly what I mean, sugar.” His piercing blue eyes rake over you, taking in your jean shorts and green long sleeve shirt.

You turn to face him, running a hand through your hair. Your lips press into a firm line as you take in his appearance.

Tyler stands inches away from you, towering over you. His eyes roam over your face, lingering on your lips for a moment before meeting your gaze.

“You're not from around here, are you?” He asks, his deep southern accent rolling like the thunder outside.

“What makes you think that?” You give him a soft smile.

Tyler's eyes rake over you again, his gaze lingering on your long sleeves in the heat of the day. "Most of the locals know better than to wear long sleeves in this weather," he points out, a hint of a challenge in his tone.

You stiffen as he mentions the long sleeves, he unknowingly hit a soft spot since you always keep your arms covered due to the dark scar that covers your left arm.

You subconsciously grip the arm, “Yeah, guess that gives me away huh?” Tyler's observant eyes catch the subtle shift in your body language. He notices the way you subconsciously grip your arm when he comments on your sleeves. He tilts his head, his gaze fixed on your arm.

"Yeah, it kinda does," he replies, his tone softer now. There's a slight pang of curiosity in his eyes as he glances down at your arm. You give him a soft smile as you walk past, heading back to the storm par team.

________

Over the past few weeks, Tyler had been relentless with his flirting, always seeking an opportunity to be near you. Despite your secretiveness, he had become completely infatuated with you, drawn in by your enigmatic nature. Even with your best efforts to keep him at a distance, he can't help but be drawn to you. He can't explain why, but he's determined to get closer to you.

Tyler, the renowned “Tornado Wrangler,” seems to captivate you with his carefree attitude towards chasing storms that bring destruction. There's a morbid fascination in the way he seeks thrills amidst chaos. He leaves you questioning his intentions, torn between curiosity and concern. What drives him to pursue these dangerous pursuits? Is it merely for the adrenaline rush, or does he have a deeper purpose? You can't help but feel a mix of intrigue and confusion as your thoughts dance in the whirlwind he seems to have conjured.

As Javi pulls into the motel parking lot you notice the familiar red truck, parked with Tyler in the bed, fixing something that broke during the earlier chase.

You exit the vehicle, arms wrapping around Kate’s shoulders as you lean into her body. She laughs softly at your familiar clinginess, listening to you whine about how hot you are. Something about the heat of today has left you fully exhausted, you're sweaty and unbelievably hot.

Tyler can't help but let his eyes wander down to your bare legs, revealing quite the view, given your shorts were already rather short.

He watches with a smirk as Javi teases you, offering to carry you. Tyler crosses his arms over his chest, the muscles in his arms straining against the fabric.

“Hey city girl.” Tyler’s voice rings out, capturing your attention instantly. You give him a dazed smile, the intense heat leaving you drained and dizzy.

“Hey Cowboy.” Tyler couldn’t help but smile at your dazed expression, the heat clearly taking a toll on you.

“Looks like the heat’s got you all dizzy,” he chuckles, leaning against his truck. “You doing alright?” The concerned look in his eyes betrays his usual cocky demeanor.

“Mhm,” you murmur, “doing just fine.” Kate keeps walking, bringing your tired form with her toward the stairs. He can see how tired you are, the heat clearly taking its toll on your body.

He pushes off from his truck, following after you and Kate. "You sure about that, sugar? You look ready to fall over."

You let go of Kate, holding the railing as you try to pull yourself together with a few steadying breaths. You’re exhausted from being outside in the heat all day as you usually spend your days inside at a desk.

Tyler's eyes are fixed on you, watching as you struggle to pull yourself together. He steps closer to you, reaching out a hand to steady you. “You look like you’re about to pass out. Let me carry you up to your room.”

“It’s okay, I’ve got it..” you sigh, straightening up as you regain your composure. “Just not used to this,” your voice is a soft murmur as you give him a reassuring grin.

He crosses his arms, his muscles straining against the fabric again. He shakes his head at your stubbornness. "You're not used to the heat, but you're a storm chaser?” he teases, his southern accent rolling like thunder.

“Mm, not much of a chaser.” You respond, taking a few steps up the stairs.

Tyler's eyebrows furrow in confusion as he follows you up the stairs. "What do you mean? You're not much of a chaser?"

His gaze is fixed on your legs as you take each step, your legs looking damn gorgeous in those short shorts.

You shrug your shoulders, “It’s a long story,” his hand moves to your lower back as he comes up behind you.

Tyler's hand on your lower back sends a subtle shiver down your spine. He can feel the tension in your body and the exhaustion that's weighing on you.

"Long story, huh?" he murmurs, his voice dropping to a softer tone. "I've got time." He guides you up the stairs to your room, Kate giving you a suggestive smile as she says goodnight.

“I’m not much of a talker, cowboy.” You open your door, stepping inside the cool room. You let out a soft moan at the change of temperature, thankful to finally be in cold air.

Tyler follows you into your room, his gaze following your every movement. He takes in the moan that escapes your lips as the cool air hits your skin.

A soft smirk appears on his face at the sound, his eyes rake over your body as you revel in the coolness of the room.

"Maybe I can change that, sugar," he teases, leaning against the doorframe.

“Is that so?” You plop down on your bed, slipping out of your shoes. “And how do you think you’ll accomplish that?”

Tyler's smirk deepens as he watches you kick off your shoes and flop onto the bed. His eyes roam over your body, lingering on your legs before meeting your gaze.

He pushes off from the doorframe, strolling over to the bed and sitting down beside you, his body radiating heat from being outside in the hot sun all day.

"Oh, I have my ways," he responds, his voice dripping with an underlying hint of desire.

“Yeah?” You glance over at him, laying on your side, eyes tracing his body. Tyler's smirk never falters as your gaze scans over his body. He can see the desire in your eyes, and it only fuels his own.

He leans back on his hands, his torso flexing slightly as he does. He turns his head to meet your gaze, his blue eyes flashing with a mix of cockiness and desire.

"That's right, sugar," he murmurs. "I know how to make you talk." You reach out, fingertips brushing over his ribs softly.

“I have a feeling you’re wanting something more than just a talk..” you reply, eyes tracing his face.

As your fingertips graze his ribs, Tyler can feel a shiver run through his body. He watches you intently, the feeling of your touch fueling the desire in his eyes.

He leans closer, his breath warm against your skin. "You're a perceptive one, aren't you, sugar?" His muscles ripple under your touch, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife.

“You could say that.” You move to straddle his hips, hands pressed against his chest as you gaze down at him.

Tyler's eyes widen for a moment as you move to straddle his hips, his hands instinctively reaching out to grip your thighs.

He looks up at you with a mixture of surprise and desire, his breath hitching at the feel of your body on top of his. He grips your thighs, his hands moving up just slightly to rest on your hips as he pulls you closer to him.

"You're full of surprises, city girl," he murmurs, his voice low and filled with lust.

“Enough talking.” You mutter, pressing your lips to his is a gentle kiss. Tyler responds to your kiss instantly, his lips moving against yours with hunger. He lets out a low moan, his hands gripping your hips tighter as he pulls you down against him.

He breaks from the kiss, his eyes locking with yours as he breathes out in a soft tone, "Yes, ma'am." He captures your lips in another forceful kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth, desperate to taste more of you.

With surprising gentleness, Tyler flips you both over so that you're lying on your back, the mattress cool and welcoming against your overheated skin. His kisses become more urgent as his hands deftly unbutton your shorts, sliding them down your legs and revealing the lacy underwear beneath.

The fabric whispers against your skin as he peels away your bottoms, exposing your nakedness to the air-conditioned room. His eyes are filled with a raw hunger that mirrors the previous storm, sending a shiver of anticipation through your body.

His hands trace the lines of your curves, memorizing every inch of your body as if it's the first time he's ever seen a woman, and his touch sets your skin alight with passion.

As Tyler kisses your neck, his calloused fingers gently tug at the hem of your shirt, raising it inch by inch. You gasp at the feel of his lips on your sensitive skin, goosebumps rising in their wake.

His hands skim over your stomach, pausing briefly at your navel before continuing their ascent, revealing the lacy bra that matches your discarded underwear.

“N-no..” you push his hands away, desperate to keep your shirt on. As you pushed his hands away, a confused look washed over his face.

"No?" he questions, his voice laced with a mix of surprise and confusion.

He props himself up on his forearms, hovering over you as he looks down at you, his eyebrows furrowed. He glances down at your hands, which are gripped tightly to your shirt.

“Leave the shirt,” you murmur, hands going to his belt. Tyler's eyes darkened with desire at the sound of your voice, his body thrumming with anticipation as you go for his belt.

He leans in close, his breath warm against your ear as he speaks in a gravelly tone. "As you wish, ma'am." He lets you remove his belt, his gaze fixated on your face, trying to discern the reason behind your request. You pull his jeans away, legs wrapping around his waist pulling him close.

Tyler lets his jeans fall to the floor, his attention now solely on you. He groans as you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. The feel of your body against his ignites a fire within him.

He plants his hands on either side of your head, his body hovering over yours. He gazes down at you, his eyes darkened with a mix of desire and curiosity.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you breathe out, cupping his face, pulling his lips to meet yours. Tyler responds to the kiss immediately, his lips moving against yours with a fierce hunger. He lets out a low moan, the sound rumbling in his chest.

He breaks the kiss for a moment, his forehead resting against yours. He lets out a soft chuckle, “Can’t help it, sugar, you look like a damn dream under me like this.”

His hands slide under your shirt, roaming over your covered breasts. His hips rock into yours with a steady pace, soft moans escaping your lips as his clothed erection pushes into you.

You pull Tyler's boxers down, revealing his rigid length. His hands glide under your shirt, finally feeling the softness of your skin, as his lips trace a path down your neck, leaving a trail of fiery kisses.

He groans against your skin as you guide him to the edge of your wetness, the anticipation making him ache with need. With a gentle push, you wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer, and with one swift movement, he sinks into you, filling you completely.

His eyes fly open as he watches your face contort with pleasure, your grip on his shoulders tightening as he starts to move inside you with a rhythm that matches the pounding of your heart.

His name is a whispered chant on your lips as you rock against him, the coolness of the room forgotten in the heat of the moment. Each thrust and moan is a silent declaration of desire that neither of you can resist.

As Tyler's mouth finds your breast, kissing and teasing the sensitive skin, his hand cups the other, his thumb brushing over the nipple beneath the fabric. The sensation sends a jolt of pleasure through you, making your toes curl and your back arch.

You gasp into his mouth, your hands tangling in his hair as he continues to explore your body with a hunger that's only grown more intense since you first met.

His hips move in a steady rhythm, each thrust hitting a spot deep within you that has you moaning and writhing beneath him. His kisses become more fervent, his teeth grazing your bottom lip as he pulls away, his eyes never leaving yours.

With a need to feel him completely, you tug at Tyler's shirt, breaking the kiss momentarily to pull it over his head. His muscular chest is now bare, the heat from his body only adding to the blaze between your legs.

As his bare skin meets yours, you can't help but let out a soft whimper, the contact sending a fresh wave of desire through you. His eyes darken further as he watches you, his breaths coming in ragged pants as he continues to rock into you.

The friction is delicious, his hardness sliding against your slickness with every movement, and you can feel yourself inching closer to the edge of something incredible. Your nails dig into his back as you urge him deeper, the world outside forgotten as the only storm that matters is the one raging in this room.

The climax crashes through you like a wave, leaving you trembling and gasping for breath. Tyler's pace falters as he follows you over the edge, his body tense and shuddering with his own release.

He collapses against you, his weight a comforting warmth as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, planting soft, lingering kisses along your collarbone.

Your heartbeats synchronize, the rapid beating slowly returning to a steady rhythm as you both revel in the aftermath of your shared passion. The room is filled with the sweet scent of sweat and desire, the air thick with the electricity that still crackles between you.

“Let me see you,” he whispers, hands sliding up your shirt. “All of you..” you gasp softly at his movements.

Tyler's body is a mixture of fire and sweat, his eyes filled with a soft, almost pleading look. His breaths come in ragged pants, but his voice is steady and firm.

"Please," he murmurs, his hands gently pushing your shirt up to reveal your bare chest. A soft gasp escapes his lips at the sight of you, and he lets his eyes roam over your body for a long moment.

He swallows, his throat suddenly dry as he takes in the sight of you above him. "You're even more beautiful than I imagined.."

You pull your shirt the rest of the way off, exposing the thick scar embedded in your arm.

Tyler's gaze falls to the scar on your arm, his eyes widening slightly. He reaches one of his hands out, gently tracing the outline of the scarred tissue.

He looks back at you, his expression a mix of concern and surprise. "What happened?" he asks softly, his touch on your scar still as light as a feather.

“It’s a long story..” you murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to his jaw.

Tyler lets out a soft sigh as you press a kiss to his jaw. His grip on your hip tightens slightly, as if he's anchoring himself to you.

He can sense the hesitation in your voice, the hint of something unsaid. But he doesn't press, not wanting to ruin the moment between you.

"I'm a patient man, sugar," he murmurs, his voice deep and rough. You slide off of his body, snuggling into his side as you press your cheek to his chest.

As you settle into his side, Tyler drapes an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to his body. He takes a moment to appreciate the feeling of you snuggled against him, relishing the intimate moment.

He can feel the warmth of your cheek against his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat echoing in your ear. Tyler gently rubs his thumb back and forth along the soft skin of your shoulder, a comforting motion that speaks volumes without words.

His comforting movements give you all the reassurance you need, “It happened when I was visiting Oklahoma last..” your voice is soft as you begin to explain the scar. Tyler's rhythmic rubbing pauses for a moment at your words, but he quickly resumes his soothing motions, encouraging you to continue with a soft hum.

His blue eyes, filled with a mixture of curiosity and concern, remain fixed on you, silently urging you to share more of your story.

“There was this huge tornado, I normally wouldn't have been anywhere near it. But I went out on a run and I got lost.” you sigh softly, your eyes fluttering shut as the memories flood back over you.

“It’s how I met Kate, she saved me. We hid under an overpass and I almost got ripped away.” your voice breaks, heart rate picking up. Tyler's hand stills on your shoulder once again as he listens intently to your words. His free hand slips into yours, his strong grip holding yours tenderly, giving you a silent, supportive squeeze.

His expression turns somber as he senses your shift in mood, concern deepening in his gaze. His gruff voice is soft as he murmurs, "Take your time, sugar."

“A huge piece of metal came out of nowhere and it ripped through my arm. The pain. It was so bad, I thought I was dying.” your nose brushes against his skin as you press your face closer into him.

Tyler's arm around your shoulders tightens, pulling you even closer to his chest. He holds you firmly yet gently, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the back of your hand, the one he's holding. His heartbeat thumps steadily under your ear as he listens to your story.

His voice is low and steady as he murmurs, "But you survived. You're here now." you nod, eyes finally raising to meet his gaze.

When you finally raise your eyes to meet his gaze, Tyler's expression is a mixture of worry and admiration. He can see the pain and fear you experienced in your eyes, but there's also a hint of strength and resilience. He holds your gaze for a few moments, the silence between you filled only with the steady beating of his heart beneath your ear.

He breaks the silence with a soft question, his thumb still tracing comforting circles on the back of your hand, "Does it hurt?"

“Not so much anymore,” you shake your head, Tyler's strong hands guide you back onto him, positioning you so that you're straddling his hips once again. His gaze never leaves you, his eyes raking over your body with a mixture of desire and concern. He keeps his hold on your hips, his fingers gently digging into your soft flesh.

His rough, calloused thumbs brush over the scar on your arm, his touch tender yet firm. "Can I ask you somethin' else?"

“Mhm, ask away.” your hands brush over the contours of his abs, relishing in the feeling of his muscles under your fingers.

Tyler can't help but shiver slightly under your touch, his muscles flexing reflexively at the feel of your fingers tracing over them. His eyes darken with want, watching intently as you explore his body, but he stays firm, his expression serious.

His thumbs continue to rub gently over the scar on your arm as he asks his question, his deep, gravelly voice almost a rumble, "How come you always wear long sleeves?"

You take a second to think of the right wording, “I just..” you look down at his expression. “I don’t like how people stare, like the scar is all I am. I hate seeing the pity in their eyes..”

Tyler listens intently to your words, his expression turning thoughtful as he takes in your explanation. His eyes soften as he witnesses the vulnerability in your gaze, and his grip on your hips loosens slightly.

He gives your hip a gentle squeeze as he responds, "Trust me, sugar, that's not all you are. You're beautiful, strong, and I can tell you're a pain in the ass." He chuckles softly before continuing, his tone serious once more, "I ain't lookin' at you with pity."

You grin at him, “No, you’re not.” you press a chaste kiss to his lips. “Looks more like lust,” you whisper into his ear, lips moving against his jaw.

Tyler lets out a low growl at your words, the gravelly sound sending a shiver down your spine. His fingers flex on your hips, gripping you tighter as he leans into your kiss.

He turns his head to murmur in your ear, his voice a rough whisper, "You're damn right, sugar. I can't keep my eyes off you." He presses another kiss to your jawline, then pulls away enough to look into your eyes, a hint of a smirk on his lips. "And trust me, it ain't just lust."

“Yeah?” you cup his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “What else is it then?”

Tyler’s expression softens as you cup his face in your hands, your touch bringing a sense of calm and tenderness to his usually rough exterior. He lifts his hand to cover one of yours, holding it against his face.

He lets out a soft exhale, his warm breath brushing over your skin. “It’s more than that, sugar.” he mutters, his eyes searching yours. “It’s this intense, pull toward you that I can’t explain. You’ve got me tangled up somethin’ fierce.”

You kiss his lips hungrily, enjoying his softness and honesty, something about this feels like a stronger connection than just lust and you both know it. Tyler groans against your lips, responding to your hungry kiss with equal intensity. His arms wrap around you, pulling you against his chest, craving the feeling of your body against his.

The heat and passion between you is tangible, but there's a depth to it that goes beyond lust. As your lips meet again and again, you both feel the pull, the connection growing with each shared touch. He lets out a guttural groan, his hands sliding up your back to fist in your hair.

“Ty..” you sigh out his name, body shuddering at his touch. Tyler shivers as you whisper his name, the sound of it on your lips sending a jolt through his entire body. He breaks the kiss for a second to look at you, his eyes darker now, filled with lust and desire.

He gently tugs at your hair, pulling your head back to give him access to your neck. Tyler's lips find your pulse point, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. His voice is barely more than a growl as he murmurs against your skin, "I like the way you're sayin' my name, sugar."

You gasp at his lips on your skin, eyes closing as you reach back, hand grasping his erection. Tyler groans loudly at your touch, his hands clenching involuntarily around your hips. He moans, his head falling back against the pillow.

His breathing is ragged and uneven as he gasps out your name, "Mmmf- fuck." His hand that's not on your hip grips the bedsheet, the fabric crumpling under his strong grip, "Jesus, sugar.. that's not fair." he mutters, his voice strained.

As you grip Tyler's erection firmly, you feel his desperation pulsing beneath your hand. His hips buck into your touch, seeking more friction, more movement. His eyes are squeezed shut, his teeth gritted as he tries to hold back the groan that builds in his throat.

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his neck as your hand works him in a slow, torturous rhythm that's driving him wild. His breathing hitches, his body tensing as you whisper his name, your voice a sweet torment that sends shivers down his spine. Tyler's fingers dig into the mattress, his body arching off the bed as you continue to pleasure him with a masterful touch that seems to know exactly what he craves.

The anticipation is almost unbearable, his muscles tightening and releasing in a silent dance of passion. "Tease," Tyler groaned, his eyes snapping open to lock onto yours, filled with a mix of pleasure and frustration. He could feel the tension coiling in his core, begging for release, but you seemed to have other plans.

Your hand remained a steady pressure, moving in a deliberate, agonizingly slow motion along his length, making him rock his hips up to meet your touch. "Fuck, sugar," he ground out, his voice thick with desire, "You're killin' me."

You knew you had him wrapped around your finger, and the power was intoxicating. But the storm outside was nothing compared to the one brewing within the confines of this room, the thunder of his voice matching the rumble of his need. With a quick flick of your wrist, you increased the tempo of your strokes, his hips rising to meet you, seeking more.

The friction grew, the pressure building, and with each stroke, you could feel him getting closer to the edge. His eyes never left yours, the intensity of his gaze making your heart race even faster. His hands found their way to your breasts, squeezing and kneading, his thumbs flicking over your hardened nipples.

The sensation sent a bolt of pleasure through you, making your grip on him tighten. Tyler's groan grew louder, his body tensing as he approached climax. With one final, firm stroke, Tyler's eyes rolled back in his head, and he let out a loud moan, his grip on the sheets turned to a clutch at your hips.

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idkyetxoxo · 2 months ago

Text

Jacaerys Velaryon - Reflections of Shame

Summary - She faces the scorn of Prince Jacaerys, who despises her for what she represents. Their bitter confrontation unravels pain, and understanding begins to form as threads of trust emerge between them. What starts with venom transforms into something far more complex.

Pairing - Jacaerys Velaryon x reader

Warnings - Mild language

Word count - 2265

Masterlist for Jacaerys • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

Before the war had sunk its claws into the Targaryen family, sinking its teeth like a ravenous beast, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon had never been anything but courteous—a princely figure who embodied grace and nobility.

To imagine him now as anything less, let alone openly cruel, was once inconceivable.

Yet here he was, transformed by conflict and burdened by suspicion and scorn, glaring down at me with eyes that held a tempest.

Of course, I was no ordinary maiden. I was a dragon seed, a name whispered with equal parts reverence and scorn.

I had stumbled, quite literally, into destiny when I claimed the mighty Silverwing after wandering through a forgotten passageway.

To many, I was a mystery; to others, an interloper with dragon fire in my veins.

And to the prince, I was an affront. His disdain cloaked itself in subtle barbs and carefully metered sneers, each one laced with contempt that cut deeper than any sword.

Seated beside me was Hugh Hammer, a man whose reputation was also unknown.

We spoke quietly of our dragons, two strangers drawn together by scales, fire, and circumstance. It was a curious sight—Hugh, a man of brute strength and feral ambition, sharing words with someone like me, a newcomer and a woman who still struggled to understand her place.

Our dragons were as different as night and day, but in that moment, their riders shared a fragile bond of necessity.

The conversation stilled as the great doors opened, announcing the arrival of Queen Rhaenyra and her heir.

Instinctively, I rose, fumbling only slightly as I dipped into a curtsy.

My new gown of silken red clung to me with a weight I was not yet used to, a reminder of expectations I barely understood.

The queen's presence commanded silence; her gaze swept the room, hard and implacable. She summoned Hugh with a gesture, and he departed with a bow, leaving me alone with the prince.

"My Prince," I greeted, my voice even as I lowered myself back onto the bench.

Prince Jacaerys did not move, standing opposite me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

He observed me as if I were an unwelcome spectre—a ghost he could not banish and a burden he resented bearing.

For several agonizing moments, silence stretched between us. I forced myself to breathe, clasping my hands tightly to quell the trembling.

"Is something the matter, my prince?" I ventured, keeping my tone light and respectful, though every muscle in my body tensed in anticipation.

His jaw clenched, and his eyes, dark and stormy, narrowed further. When he spoke, his voice was low and laced with venom. "Stop pretending."

The words struck like a whip. My breath caught, my pulse quickened, and I stared at him in stunned silence.

This was no simple rebuke—it was an accusation, one that peeled away every fragile layer of decorum I had tried to build around myself.

In his eyes, I was a fraud, a pretender who had dared to step into the realm of dragons. And no matter how much I tried to deny it, he would never let me forget that I was unwelcome.

The silence between us lingered, thick and suffocating, as I struggled to find my composure.

Prince Jacaerys's eyes burned with barely restrained fury, his words heavy with disdain.

Each passing second seemed to stretch into an eternity, and I knew whatever came next would cut me deeply, but I couldn't allow myself to falter.

No matter how venomous his words, I had to endure them.

A show of disrespect now could ruin me, perhaps even lead to consequences that no amount of pleading would undo.

His lips curled into a sneer. "You walk around this castle as if you belong here," he said, his tone like a blade. "Claiming a dragon does not make you one of us. You're nothing more than an intruder playing at power."

I forced myself to meet his gaze, my hands trembling only slightly as they remained clasped in my lap.

"I have done nothing but follow the orders given to me, my prince," I said quietly. "I mean no offence."

He stepped closer, looming over me. "Is that what you tell yourself? That you belong among those of true blood? That you're entitled to walk these halls and speak with queens and princes as if you are their equal?"

His words landed like blows, each one harder than the last. I wanted to look away, to shrink from his stare, but I could not afford to show weakness.

"I have never claimed to be your equal," I said softly. "I am here only because of the dragon I was fortunate enough to bond with."

"Fortunate?" He scoffed, the derisive laughter echoing in the chamber. "You think this is fortune? No, you're a fool. A pretender who stumbled upon power she neither understands nor deserves."

My chest tightened, and I fought to keep my voice steady. "Why must you speak so cruelly to me? I have done nothing to earn your ire."

His eyes blazed with something beyond anger—something darker, more personal. "You breathe. You exist. That alone is offence enough."

For a moment, I could only stare at him, shock stealing the air from my lungs.

He leaned closer, his words dripping with venom. "Tell me, what were you before all this? A whore? Did you find that life beneath you too?"

The insult struck me like a slap. I felt the blood drain from my face as I struggled to comprehend the depth of his malice.

Swallowing hard, I forced myself not to react, even as his words twisted like a knife in my heart.

"I do not know what I have done to warrant such hatred," I whispered, my voice cracking despite my best efforts. "Why be so cruel?"

His face twisted with rage, and for a brief, terrifying moment, I thought he might strike me. "Your entire existence upsets me!" he roared, the force of his words reverberating in the room.

Silence followed his outburst, the echo of his voice fading into nothingness.

Tears burned at the edges of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I searched his gaze, trying to understand what could make him despise me so.

"Why?" I whispered, the question escaping me unbidden. "Is it because I am a bastard... like you?"

At that, all colour drained from his face. He went utterly still, the rage in his eyes replaced by something cold and unreadable.

For the first time, he was silent, and the room seemed to hold its breath. I watched him, waiting for another cruel word, another strike—but none came.

Instead, he turned away, the storm in him retreating, leaving only the aching quiet between us.

─── ✦⋅♡⋅✦ ───

The hours after the confrontation with Prince Jacaerys passed slowly, every moment weighed down by the memory of his scorn.

I retreated to the solitude of my chambers, the heavy stone walls feeling more oppressive than ever. His words had echoed in my mind, each cruel syllable burrowing deep.

Despite my best efforts, tears had fallen as I paced the room, replaying every jab, every moment of contempt in his eyes.

I had thought myself strong enough to endure anything, but I was beginning to doubt.

Night fell, cloaking Dragonstone in shadow. The faint flicker of torchlight cast dancing shapes on the walls as I sat by the window, staring out at the distant stars.

I did not hear the soft footsteps until it was too late. A knock at the door made me startle, and my heart leapt to my throat.

Before I could answer, it opened, revealing the last person I wanted to see. Prince Jacaerys stepped inside, his features half-lit by the flickering light, and closed the door behind him.

Instinctively, I rose to my feet, every muscle tensed. "My prince," I managed, forcing a politeness I did not feel. "What brings you here at this hour?"

His expression was a mixture of regret and something else—something raw, unguarded.

For a long moment, he said nothing, his gaze shifting around the room before settling on me. "I owe you an apology," he said at last, his voice rough. "I was... unforgivably cruel."

I stared at him, stunned. I had imagined many responses from him, but this was not one of them.

"You made your feelings quite clear," I replied, my words cautious, careful. "Why apologize now?"

He exhaled heavily, running a hand through his dark hair. "Because I was wrong," he said, his tone raw with emotion. "And because you deserve better than the words I flung at you."

I studied him, searching for the lie or the hidden barb, but all I saw was a man burdened by something heavy and painful.

"Why?" I asked quietly. "Why do you hate me so?"

His jaw clenched, and he turned away, moving to the window. "It isn't you I hate," he said, his voice low. "Not truly. It's what you represent—a reminder of my own bastardy, of my mother's mistakes and the war that rages because of it."

He paused, his shoulders tense. "When I look at you, I see every shadow I have tried to escape, every whisper of doubt that has haunted me since I was a child."

His admission left me breathless. I had expected bitterness, but not this raw vulnerability.

"I never asked to be a reminder of your pain," I said softly. "All I wanted was to find my place here. To serve, to live."

He turned to me then, his eyes dark and unguarded. "I know." His voice was a whisper. "And I tried to make you small, to make you feel as worthless as I do when I think of what I am. It was wrong."

The weight of his confession pressed on my chest, and I took a hesitant step closer.

"I am not here to be your enemy," I said. "I am not here to judge you for your birth, just as I hope you will not judge me for mine."

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he nodded. "I will try," he said. "I cannot promise it will be easy. The shadows do not leave so easily."

"I understand," I said, my voice trembling slightly.

A fragile silence fell between us. I could feel the tension of unspoken words, of wounds barely healed and a thousand possibilities.

When he moved closer, I did not step back. He reached for my hand, his touch hesitant, as if he expected me to pull away. When I didn't, he exhaled slowly.

"You are stronger than I gave you credit for," he murmured. "And more than worthy."

There was something softer, something almost hesitant as if he was still grappling with the enormity of his own words.

"I have wronged you," he said quietly, his voice low but steady. "More deeply than I realized. And for that, I can only offer my apologies. Words alone are a poor substitute for the damage I have done."

I searched his face, trying to make sense of the change. "I... thank you, my prince. Your words mean more than you know."

A flicker of something—relief, perhaps—passed across his features, but it was fleeting. He stepped back, creating just enough distance that I felt like I could breathe again.

"But words are not enough," he continued, a hint of determination hardening his voice. "I cannot change the past or erase what I have said, but I can try to make amends in other ways."

Confusion knit my brow. "Make amends? How?"

His lips curved, just barely, into a small, wry smile. "I would like to teach you," he said. "Myself."

"Teach me?" I echoed, unsure if I had heard him correctly. There was a tremor of disbelief in my voice. "What would you teach me?"

"Dragonriding," he said simply. "You have bonded with Silverwing, and that alone speaks of your strength and courage. But riding a dragon is more than just a bond. It is a skill, one that can mean the difference between victory and defeat in the skies. You deserve proper training."

I felt a surge of emotion—gratitude, disbelief, and even a flicker of hope—but I quickly shook my head.

"I couldn't ask that of you. You are the heir. You have duties, responsibilities. There are far more important matters for you to attend to."

He stepped closer, the resolve in his gaze unyielding. "As heir, my duty is to protect the claim my mother fights for—and one day, my own. Ensuring that every dragon rider fighting for our cause is prepared is as important as any political duty. This war is not won by words and titles alone."

His voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of urgency. He meant every word, and the weight of his conviction made it impossible to refuse.

I met his gaze, feeling a strange and unexpected connection, an unspoken understanding that neither of us could deny. Slowly, I nodded.

"Very well," I said, my voice low but resolute. "If it is your wish, my prince."

His eyes softened, and for a moment, the prince I had once thought incapable of kindness or grace stood before me. "It is," he replied. "Tomorrow, then."

With that, he turned and walked toward the door, his footsteps quieter now, as if he carried less weight upon his shoulders.

When he glanced back, his expression was unreadable—a mix of determination and something I dared not name.

But I saw it: the beginnings of something fragile, a chance to build trust where only pain had stood.

I watched him leave, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of my lips.

A/n - back to college now and im hanging on by threads x

#house of the dragon #house targaryen #hotd #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #hotd one shot #hotd season 2 #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #team black #prince jacaerys #jace x reader #hotd jacaerys #jacaerys strong

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cressidagrey · 6 months ago

Text

Stars all aligned - Chapter 15

Summary:

If there was one thing that both Azriel and Zahra Archeron had in common, it was that they were both very good at blending into the background.

They just never thought that their family were going to be the ones who never saw them at all.

Warning:

Penultimate chapter! Bashing of like...every IC member, though we have now reached the point where Rhys and Cassian are the good guys, discussion of chronic pain, discussion of Infertility, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Underage Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Accidental Baby Procurement

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please, take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

(Lovely dividers thanks to @sweetmelodygraphics)

She overheard Rhys and Cassian.

Feyre didn’t mean to eavesdrop…actually she just meant to tell her mate goodbye, as Nesta, Elain and her were meeting for tea at one of the many teahouses dotted around Velaris.

It was weird…the more they did realise how badly they had fucked up with Zahra…the more the three of them tried to at least keep close with each other.

Feye’s eyebrows rose in surprise as she heard Rhys and Cassian’s conversation.

She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but the two of them were being rather…loud.

She heard Cassian’s voice first, his tone animated as he spoke. “You can’t be serious,” he exclaimed.

Curiosity piqued, Feye leaned in closer, her ears straining.

Rhys’s voice came in next, his tone serious but filled with a hint of amusement. “I assure you, I am quite serious.”

Feyre could practically picture the smirk on his face as he spoke.

“They got married?! And didn’t bother telling us?!?” Cassian’s exclamation nearly made Feyre jump. The shock in his voice was palpable.

Married? Who got married?

No. No. No, no… had Zahra…and Azriel… had her sister…had they?

She got the answer seconds later.

"Yes,” Rhys answered simply, amusement threading through the word. “Azriel and Zahra came home a few days ago, all filled with newly-wed bliss.”

And Feyre was done.

This wasn’t funny. None of this was.

Ignoring the conversation still going on between her mate and Cassian, Feyre stalked out of the River House, her footsteps heavy on the cobblestones. Her heart raced as she tried in vain to control the tempest of emotions within her chest.

She was supposed to meet Nesta and Elain for an afternoon of shopping...they were supposed to try and get their mind of the fact that Azriel had pretty much kidnapped their fucking sister and now this.

As Feyre neared the small shop, her and her sisters had arranged to meet up, she paused to take a deep, steadying breath.

Her emotions were still roiling inside her, a mix of anger, confusion, and frustration. She couldn’t even really put it into words why…why this upset her so much. She pushed open the door to the shop. Her sisters were waiting for her, their faces brightening as they spotted her. “Hey Feyre,” Nesta greeted, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took in her sister's expression.

"Azriel and Zahra got married," she blurted out.

Elain and Nesta gasped almost simultaneously, their eyes widening in surprise.

"What?," Elain exclaimed, her mouth agape.

Nesta looked like she'd been slapped, her eyes narrowing slightly. "When?" she demanded, her voice low.

“A few days ago, I overheard Rhys and Cassian," Feyre answered weakly.

Nesta's expression darkened, her voice dropping to a low growl. "Damn him," she muttered, her lips curling. "I’m gonna rip his balls off.”

Feyre struggled to maintain her composure. She could feel her own anger simmering beneath the surface, but she wasn’t sure if it was because of Azriel and Zahra’s sudden marriage or the fact that no one had told her beforehand.

She couldn’t help but feel betrayed…couldn’t help but…

"It's just...it's so unlike Zahra to just...run off and do something like this," Elain murmured after a moment of silence. Nesta’s eyes flashed. "And Azriel. Why didn't we know?."

"Maybe because he knows we would’ve tried to stop them," Feyre said with a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I just…aren’t they going at it way too fast?” she said weakly.

“They barely know each other. Who knows what Zahra’s actually getting herself into?” Nesta agreed back.

“She didn’t even bother telling us,” Elain whispered.

"Well, why should she?” Feyre said weakly. "She's an adult. She doesn't answer to us."

Nesta’s expression hardened. "We’re her family," she insisted. "We have a right to know." “Are they still in Rosehall?” Nesta asked.

“No, they came home a few days ago,” she answered absentmindedly and then came up short.

Wait, what?

They came home. Home to Velaris. Which meant that their sister was…

She jumped up, Nesta and Elain scrambling after her, as she strode towards Zahra’s house.

The last time she had seen the cottage…it had been clean but downtrodden. Now though…Now though it seemingly sparkled.

Feyre's breath hitched in her throat as she took in the sight of the house.

It looked…good.

Better than good. The walls that had been patched up before, now gleamed with fresh paint, the windows gleaming with their new panes of glass.

The house looked like a home. There were little bits and pieces dotted around the outside, like the rocking chair on the proch and the windchimes hanging from the overhang…Thoughtful little touches that hadn’t been there before.

“Is this where Zahra lives?” Elain asked. ”It’s a bit small, isn’t it?” she wondered but Feyre was already walking up the steps of the porch, her sisters trailing behind her.

Her heart was in her throat as she approached the front door.

When she reached the front door, she knocked. It took only a moment, but then the door swung open. Standing in the doorway was Azriel. Looking absolutely furious.

His face was set in a fierce scowl, his jaw clenched. His eyes flashed as his gaze flicked from Feyre, to Nesta, to Elain. "What are you doing here?," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“What do you think?,” Feyre snapped back. She could feel her own anger rising to match Azriel's, her skin prickling. "We came to see Zahra.”

“She doesn’t want to see you,” Azriel said sharply.

Feyre bristled at his words. "She’s our sister."

Azriel's gaze darkened. "She's also my wife,” he snapped. “And she doesn’t want to see you,” he repeated.

"How do you know?," Feyre shot back, her hands balling into fists. "Did you ask her?"

Azriel let out a humorless laugh. "I know her quite well," he ground out. "I’d like to think I have a pretty good idea of what makes her happy.”

“You are locking her up!” Feyre snapped sharply. Azriel was locking Zahra up. He was keeping her away from everybody. “And you are keeping her away from people that care about her, and you think that will make her happy?!”

Azriel reared back like she had slapped him and his expression darkened even further, his eyes blazing with anger.

"How dare you?," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I would never keep Zahra captive.I would never do that,“ he whispered.

“Let them in,” came Zahra’s voice suddenly behind him.

Feyre’s head snapped up to see her sister. She looked…well. Non the worse for wear at least. She was dressed in a comfortable woolen dress, with the sleeves pushed up.

Azriel’s face twisted as Zahra stepped up beside him, her eyes dark. “Let them in, Azriel,” she said softly, her hand coming to rest on her mate’s arm. Azriel’s gaze flicked to Zahra, his eyes softening for a moment.

Then, with a huff of irritation, he stepped back from the door, gesturing for Feyre and her sisters to enter the house.

***

Zahra should have known that their peace wasn’t going to last.

Zahra had hoped for a peaceful day with her daughter and Azriel, but those hopes were dashed by midday.

Azalea was sleeping in the bedroom, stretched out all over the big bed, because their daughter didn’t really seem to enjoy the crib at all. (And quite frankly, neither Zahra or Azriel had it in themselves to insists that she sleep all alone, when they could just let her sleep in the big bed with them and Azalea would snuggle up to them.)

A couple of shadows had self appointed them as Azalea’s babysitters and would alert Azriel and Zahra whenever she woke… or as much as twitched.

Right now, Zahra was in the kitchen cooking, trying to make these spicy meatballs Esmeray had showed her how to make and Azriel, was keeping her company while catching up on paperwork. Azriel's hand had stilled on the page he was writing, his eyes distant.

Zahra noticed the sudden change in his demeanor, setting down the bowl of meatballs she had been forming.

“Az?,” she questioned quietly. Concern laced her words. Azriel didn’t respond, his focus firmly fixed on some point in the distance.

"Your sisters are coming," he said, his voice flat.

Zahra felt her heart seize. How did they …she bit back a curse. “You’re certain?,” she asked warily, though she already knew the answer to that. Azriel’s lips pressed together, forming a thin line of displeasure.

Right.

Zahra couldn't just ignore them for the rest of her life. Even when she wanted to.

Or maybe she didn't want to ignore them for the rest of her life, But she also wasn't particularly looking forward to talking to them about what had happened to her.

"Do you want to talk to them?" Azriel asked her. He was giving her the choice. Respecting any decision she would make.

"I don't but I will," Zahra gave back flatly.

Azriel’s stoic demeanor didn’t waver, but his hazel eyes were filled with understanding. “You don’t have to,” he told her quietly, his voice gruff.

“I know,” Zahra said with a sigh. “But they’ll never leave me alone until I do talk to them.” She was certain of that.

“You don’t owe them anything,” Azriel told her sharply. Zahra glanced at him, feeling a small measure of joy at Azriel’s defense. Her hand found his, a silent thanks for his support. His grip was warm and comforting, a stark contrast to his hardened expression.

“Maybe not. But they’ll keep coming. If I don’t talk to them now, they’ll just come back later.” She sighed. She hated how right her words sounded.

“If you don’t want to deal with them, I’ll do it,” Azriel told her.

Zahra raised her eyebrows, a flicker of amusement crossing her face. “And what would you say? ‘Get lost’?” she suggested drily.

Azriel’s face turned serious, the shadows swirling around him like a cloak. “If necessary,” he said seriously.

Zahra chuckled despite the situation, the sound almost a bark.

The knock at the door sounded in that moment. Startled, Zahra exchanged glances with Azriel.

It could only be the sisters.

Azriel let out a heavy sigh, rising from his chair and stalking towards the door. Zahra watched him go, her heart thudding in her chest.

She could see how furious he was in every fibre of his being.

His voice was harsh as he opened the door, the words sounding like a growl. "What are you doing here?"

She could feel the protectiveness pour all over their fledgling bond. Zahra could feel how furious he was on her behalf.

And there was also that little inkling of fear that was rearing it's ugly little head. She didn't truly want to see her sisters. She didn't want to talk about what happened to her. She had been willing to take that particular secret to the grave.

And now there it was, out there to be gawked at, to be used to pass judgement at her.

“What do you think?” Feyre's voice was equally harsh. "We came to see Zahra.”

Zahra watched Azriel, her heart thundering in her chest. It seemed like Feyre’s words had struck a chord with him, the anger rolling off him in waves. She could feel his rage through their fledgling bond, a fiery storm of protectiveness that coursed through them like a cyclone.

“She doesn't want to see you,” Azriel responded, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.

"She’s our sister," Feyre responded, and Zahra's teeth clenched against themselves. Was she really? Was she really their sister?

Zahra watched, her breath caught in her throat, as Azriel bristled at Feyre’s words.

“She’s also my wife,” Azriel told her coldly, his eyes blazing.

He stood like a wall in the doorway, his broad frame filling the space, his shadows circling him like a cloak.

They had never treated her like she was. They had never...never truly accepted her as one of their own. Feyre had…for a time… but then Feyre had been probably too young to understand everything that had gone on...Nesta hated her. And Elain...Elain was embarrassed by her existence.

Zahra's hands balled into fists, her nails digging into her palms. Azriel’s words struck a chord deep within her.

She had been treated by her sisters…as a nuisance. An inconvenience.

Nesta had never hidden her animosity, her eyes burning with resentment whenever she so much as glanced in Zahra’s direction.

And Elain had hidden her embarrassment behind a veneer of sweet innocence, but Zahra had always seen through it.

“And she doesn’t want to see you," Azriel said at that moment, his words harsh but truthful.

"How do you know?," Feyre demanded. "Did you ask her?"

Zahra’s heart skipped a beat, her head snapping to Azriel as if to confirm what she had just heard. His jaw was clenched, his anger evident.

Her stomach churned as she heard her sisters speak. She could already see the situation deteriorating, the tension building.

"I know her quite well,"Azriel said through gritted teeth. "I’d like to think I have a pretty good idea of what makes her happy.”

“You are locking her up!” Feyre snapped at that moment! “And you are keeping her away from people that care about her, and you think that will make her happy?!”

What?!

But Zahra didn't really hear that. All her attention was on Azriel...on Azriel who had flinched at the barbed words shot his way.

And the anger built in Zahra's chest.

He had never locked her up. He had done everything in his power to give her choices, to give her agency...to make her feel like she was in control. He had done nothing to lock her away.

Zahra could see the anger flare in Azriel's eyes at Feyre's words. She could feel the tension radiating from him.

And then...then she saw him flinch. A small movement, so fast she almost missed it.

But she saw it.

Her heart swelled with anger, a red-hot fire burning within her. How dare they?

How dare they think that he had mistreated her?

And she could feel how even just the insinuation of this...how much this was hurting her mate, her husband. "How dare you?," Azriel whispered "I would never keep Zahra captive. I would never do that,“ he whispered. She could hear the desperation in his voice. She could hear how hurt he was.

And she was done.

"Let them in," Zahra said icily, crossing the room to stand next to him, facing her sisters. “Let them in, Azriel,” she said evenly, her hand coming to rest on her mate’s arm. Azriel stared at her, and she pushed all the love, all the adoration she had for him onto him at that moment.

He huffed but he stepped back from the door.

Zahra felt a wave of gratitude for Azriel wash over her. She wanted to thank him for defending her, for standing up for her...but she knew he would shrug it off. Still. She would tell him.

Her gaze sharpened as she regarded her sisters. “Come in,” Zahra said coolly, stepping back to allow Feyre, Elain and Nesta to enter.

Zahra watched, her expression stony, as her sisters walked into the kitchen. Elain’s eyes darted around the room curiously, while Feyre’s gaze lingered on Azriel, who had taken up a stance near the door.

Nesta met her eyes with a defiant glare, her chin held high. Zahra gave a silent sigh. Of course Nesta would be the most difficult.

"What do you want?" she asked flatly, crossing her arms.

"What we want?" Feyre echoed weakly. "Zahra, we..." she trailed off, searching for words.

But Zahra was done. "What do you think gives you the right to show up here? To berate my husband like that?" she snapped. "Azriel has done nothing but protect me, to shelter me. What gives you the right to talk to him like that?!" she demanded

"I...I don't want you to be in a...situation like me," Feyre said weakly. "Zahra, we didn't even know the two of you were friendly and now you...you married him!"

"I am an adult. I can manage my private life how I see fit," Zahra shot back, her voice icy. “He’s my mate. Besides, it's not like you actually cared about it before.”

"That's not true," Feyre protested.

Zahra just rolled her eyes. "Look, I get it," she said drily. "You feel bad because you found out that I wasn't a homewrecker with loose morals after all," she told Nesta drily. "But you hate me, so for you to show up here and berate my husband about keeping me locked up is ridiculous," she spat out. "And you, Elain...you have made it very clear what I meant to you when you invited Feyre and Nesta to our father's grave but not me." She had no idea where this was even coming from. But decades of pent up frustration was bubbling to the surface. “And Feyre…we all know which sisters you prefer to spend time with, so what are you even doing here?”

Zahra was fuming. Her heart was pounding furiously beneath her ribcage, her hands balled up into fists by her sides as she confronted her sisters.

But a small part of her was satisfied. Seeing them flounder, seeing them realize how wrong they had been. It was almost cathartic. She could feel Azriel's eyes on her, and she glanced at him, taking in his stoic expression. For a brief moment, she wondered what he was thinking, but she didn't have time to dwell on it as she turned back to her sisters.

"I did not choose to be born a bastard," she spat out. "I did not choose for our father to betray your mother with my own. I did not choose to be an embarrassment that needs to be hidden away from your suitors. I did not choose any of it. And believe me if I could chose, I would have chosen to grow up somewhere else." Zahra was on a roll now, the truth pouring out of her like a torrent. She could see the shock in her sisters' eyes, the realization of how they had treated her sinking in. But she wasn't done. She still had more to say, more to get off her chest.

"But I couldn't choose. Instead, I was stuck in that house with you three. Being a constant reminder of your father's affair. Being the outcast, the embarrassment." Zahra's voice cracked slightly, the pain and hurt from all those years coming to the surface.

She clenched her fists, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

"I endured it all. The looks, the whispers. I endured being the bastard, the one no one wanted. But I survived. And now..." Zahra's voice trembled. "And now I'm married to the male of my choice. A male who accepts me, protects me, and loves me." Zahra's gaze darted to Azriel briefly, the depth of her affection for him apparent in her eyes. "And you three want to take that away from me? You want to come here and accuse Azriel, one of the best, most caring, protective and noble men I have ever had the pleasure to meet...you want to accuse him of mistreating me?" Zahra's eyes flamed with indignation.

She took a step forward, her eyes blazing. "No. I won't let you. Azriel has given me more freedom, more support, and more love than I have ever known. And I will not let you come into our home, into our life, and slander him with your false judgment!"

Tears glimmered in Zahra's eyes, but she held her sisters' gaze, her determination unwavering.

There was a long silence. Her sisters were stunned, their faces pale. Zahra felt the weight of her words hang in the air, the raw emotion still pulsing through her veins. Azriel's gaze was heavy on her, his presence a steady anchor in the midst of the emotional storm she had unleashed.

And only then, she realised that golden glow that was covering her...like a thin film, clinging to her skin.

Zahra felt a shiver course down her spine as she realized what was happening. The power, the ancient magic that had lain dormant within her for so long, was stirring once again.

It seemed that her emotional outburst had provoked it, and now it was reacting, awakening in response to her strong feelings.

Zahra's hands trembled as she looked down at them, the golden aura visible as it enveloped her.

The glow seemed to pulse with each beat of her heart, responding to her emotions. With great effort, Zahra calmed herself, taking deep breaths to quell the anger that had initially sparked this power. Soon, the aura flickered and faded, once again sinking back beneath her skin.

Zahra looked up to find her sisters watching her, their eyes wide with shock and fear. The weight of their stares was almost crushing.

"So I ask again, what do you want?" she asked, her voice icy.

Zahra could see her sisters exchange quick glances, their faces still shocked. None of them had anticipated this turn of events.

"I am sorry," Elain blurted out suddenly. "I didn't know."

Zahra blinked, surprised that Elain of all her sisters was apologizing.

"And what could you possibly have not known?" Zahra asked, her voice still hard. The anger hadn't completely left her yet.

"I...I didn't know that you...that...that affair wasn't..."

"It wasn't an affair at all!" Azriel snapped at that moment. Zahra looked over to Azriel. His hands were clenched into fists, his eyes narrowed in anger.

It was clear that he was furious. And Zahra couldn't help but feel a surge of affection for him in that moment.

But she also knew that an outburst from him would not help the situation. She looked back to her sisters, her eyes searching their faces. She could see the shock and confusion there, the dawning realization of how wrong they were.

“It’s wasn’t an affair, It was an arragement,” she corrected her sister drily.

"How can you call it that?" Feyre breathed out.

Zahra shrugged. "Because that's what it was," she gave back, her voice harsh. "I let myself be raped. I allowed it to happen. I let him do whatever he wanted to me and in return, we didn't starve."

Zahra's words hung heavy in the air. The truth, laid out bare and stark. She could see the horror and shock on her sisters' faces, the disbelief in their eyes.

It was a truth Zahra had never spoken out loud, never allowed herself to fully acknowledge. But now, in this moment, she felt strangely calm. As if saying the words, finally giving voice to her pain, was a release.

"I endured it because I had to," Zahra continued with a bitter laugh. "You all have no idea what I went through. You never bothered to ask. And I didn’t tell you. I hid away all the evidence of what he did to me, all the wounds and the bruises and the pain. And you were too busy burying your heads in the sand, too busy pretending I didn't exist."

Zahra's voice trembled slightly, but she pressed on. "But now, for the first time in my life, I have some resemblance of happiness. I have a mate who cares for me, protects me. I have a daughter I love. And you..." Zahra's eyes burned as she looked at her sisters. "You want to take that away from me?!"

"You have a daughter?!?" Nesta blurted out, staring at her.

"Yes," Zahra said, her voice cold, "a daughter. A beautiful, wonderful daughter. Azriel accepted me, married me, even though he knew my secret. Even though he knew and he never judged me for it or scorned me…He gave me a family, a home. And I will not let you take that away from me."

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x oc #azriel x reader #azriel fanfiction #azriel fanfic #Azriel x Archeron!Reader #Stars all aligned

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bruhhxiao · 9 months ago

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Rebirth

(sfw/nsfw)

Seth x fem!Reader

!Warnings: there might me some sexual scenes but not to much, death and rebirth of reader, (Y/N) rarely used !

Requested by: @lillycore

☥•☥•☥•☥•☥•☥•☥•☥•☥•☥•☥•☥•☥•☥•☥•☥

You and Seth were one thing, always thinking about each others but unfortunately your relationship was secret since you were just a mortal.

He would have left his throne exposed or his temple in silence just to spend a few hours with you. He was the god of violence and desert tempests, but your eyes met for the first time and there was only one tempest and it was in his chest, so he got curious.. visiting you at night watching your body wrapped around the linen sheets, or he would dissolve into sand and follow you around while you were busy with duties, or maybe worry Horus for his less anger towards anything. Because he was in love.

He would burst out of the temple after Nephthys begged him to end this story, she knew he started to get affectionate with you. Until a day he couldn’t take it anymore and shows himself to you. His body building little by little with sand while you holed the heavy container of water, his hand caressing your cheek as he leaned closer. You were completely froze, did you do something wrong to make the god Seth get to you?

When he has gotten closer to you doesn’t take time for you to reply, his lips sweetly touching yours making you drop the container and he realized. But from them moment and after he fully fell in love with you.

Your relationship started to grow time to time, he would visit you at night or take you in his chamber, and he would make it embarrassing because he doesn’t lay a hand on you, he just sits on the bed listening to your journey thinking how boring is to be a god.

But he noticed something, he would have thought that it was just a habit or that your lungs were just weak because you were a mortal, he didn’t mind it, he thought it was normal till your coughing got worse. To the point you had to hold your chest for the pain and find small drops of blood in your hand. You hide it from Seth but he notice your body getting weaker as days pass. And after a few days of absence the day came.

He could find you or even his servants couldn’t find you in the village and he finally decided to go to your house. He came at night when everyone where asleep a part of him regretted to see you but the other made him realize that maybe that was the last time he could hug you.

He knelt next to your shaking figure. Your body was boiling and sweating, your lung taking just the half of air. His arms sliding behind your shoulders and pulling you closer to his. He never felt this way: scared, strengthless, sad.

He kissed your temple and picked you up running to Anubis temple, of cousin the other gods were aware of the situation. There he goes begging on his knees with your body cooling in his arms, so pitiful, begging Anubis to talk to Osiris and make him spare your life.

The god ignored his request but Anubis done something that would have changed Seth life without his knowledge. He kept you as wandering soul till the day he betrayed Osiris and made you reborn.

There were you finally visiting Egypt for the first time in your life. All the studies and stories they told you about ancient Egypt made you more curious day by day. Your mother told you that your first word was a god name. And as you grew up you choose to believe in Egypt gods going against your own religion, but why.

There was something that no one couldn’t explain, how you got so affectionate to them from a very young age.

After a long period of stress you went to a trip with your friends to visit Cairo. You were excited. The next day you went visiting all the places and talked with some people and shared differences of culture and religion.

You packed your bag full of cameras and polaroids since you’re going for a tour of the Nile. It was dark and the only option was to find a place to eat and go to an Hotel around the area.

There you were enjoining the view on the restaurant balcony, the air was hot but the soft wind made it fell better. You were walking down the stairs for the silent garden downstairs, you laid on a bench as the smell of nature relaxed your tense muscles as your heart was beating in peace, you closed your eyes smiling like a dork remembering all the funny things that happened during these days and how this beautiful places made you feel like home.

You opened your eyes as you felt a drop falling down your cheek, you were expecting to find the stars covered by clouds and the moon losing her brightness. But you found two shining eyes hiding under a mask. You jolted by the surprise and sat yourself holding your chest meanwhile the figure also stepped back while the fountain limits the escape distance behind him.

You stood up you had plenty space to run away but you didn’t, you weren’t scared.

“Y/N it’s time to go back to the hotel!! Y/N!” you heard your friend scream from the balcony.

“Y/N…” Seth repeated your name under his breath, your eyes glued on the jackal-shaped mask until your friend called for you once again, Seth noticed and he dissolved himself into send disappearing.

He left you speechless, left you like a sculpted statue. You snapped out of your thought and rushed to the others.

Once you arrived at the hotel you locked yourself in, those eyes, just thinking about them made your heart race.

That mask was familiar, you searched on internet and bingo, that mask was related to a god very dear to you, Seth.

“The doctor warned me, there are too many flus and viruses going around here. I am hallucinating.” You said checking your temperature and turning on the Air Conditioning.

“But weren’t they half animals?..” you kept wondering till the day you had to go back home.

You searched on the internet but there were so many theories that the one you knew from childhood sounded crazy to you in that moment. You kept reading, working day after days neglecting your sleep and hunger. It was around midnight when your headache was getting worse and sometimes you would feel dizzy as well, you lay on the bed. “Just five minutes” sounded like a loop in your head till you fall asleep.

You felt a warm sensation o your left cheek but you thought it was from the sickness, but then you hear pressure one you chest, you heard a mumbling voice and it sounded relieved.

Your head moves to your chest and meets a very familiar but strange texture, you slowly open your eyes and by the soft light from the light stand you see a few red strings of red hair falling out the clothing that was attached to his mask.

You kind felt better but your muscles were too weak push him away. Seth raised his head turning towards your face, you couldn’t see much because of the jackal mask but you saw his trembling lips. It felt like Deja vu…

His hand reached the mask taking it off slowly and when your eyes met you saw a very similar expression but this time he wasn’t crying. You smelled sand, you smelled wheat and some hints of flax for a were short second. His name, hi face, his touch and his voice sounded clearer in your head.

“I thought he was going to take you away from me again…” he said before you could even clear your throat.

As you pronounce his name he holds you hand to his chest while his left hand holds your cheek, he sat closer next to you leaning down slightly. You couldn’t tell if it was a dream or not because you started to remember how the warm sand felt under your feet while you walked next to him talking about the mortals life.

Suddenly you got flashbacks of your last hour of life, he was sitting just like in the past and you felt pain on your chest, you were living a nightmare but the difference was that you’re staying alive. He noticed something was wrong, how your breathing got heavier and how your eye contact was so intense.

Who would have thought that the god of violence, destruction and desert tempest had stopped everything with a simple gesture, a simple kiss, a sweet stamp pressed against your lips. You felt something, you felt free, you felt hundreds chains letting you go and run towards freedom like a curse was broken.

You finally spoke, calling his name. Your hand reached his back pulling him in a hug, he leaned closer and both of his arms hugged you. Kiss sweet as figs while he laid on top of you making everything more passionate. Only he knows how much he wanted to do that before, holding you while making love and not seeing you suffering till your last breath.

His hands traveling under your T-shirt and take it off eventually, his right hand didn’t hesitate and he moved to your shorts. His hand slips inside the clothing serving you of some preparation before taking both shorts and panties off. He breaks the kiss for a few seconds waiting for a reaction from you, but you didn’t, you felt like him.

He toke off the cloth around his waist and position himself against your intimacy, he holds you as he slides into you. He was gentle, how his hands caressed your body made you feel like you were made of thin glass. His hips attached to yours, your back arches making you wrap your arm around his neck. The room was death silent, just your heavy breaths. Your reflection reflected back to you by the mirror next to your closet showing you how his buttocks contracted how he thrusted faster.

Somehow he noticed, his shoulders moved back a little as his hand turned your chin to him and he kissed you as you both reached pleasure. His hip’s grinding against yours and his arms held you tight against him, his lips travelled to your next leaving sweet pecks.

“My sweet baby.. I won’t let anyone anything happen to you again” he said kissing your cheek.

“But you’re a god, I’m a mortal” you said caressing his face.

“I can make you a demigod, but it won’t be easy for Ra” he says.

“but you might lose your memory…” he continued showing a bit of concern and worries in his eyes.

“I won’t never let anyone take you away from my memory.” You said cupping both of his checks kissing him.

Sure the Demi god might have suffered for thousand years and he never expected to hold you again in a healthy body like she always been with him.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Helooo, again sorry for taking so long, I apologize to the one who requested :’)

Hope y’all enjoy<3 btw I have more requests of ennead coming up soon, very soon :p see yaa!!!

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yandere-wishes · 11 months ago

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⋆⋅☆⋅⋆Doc-Ringo⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

✮ Yandere! Boothill x Reader

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Plot: There's a slick black-clad little gal who's been messing with his bounties recently. Boothill's been dying to rustle her up and take a bite

⁀➷ Warnings: Yandere behavior, blood, and gore, war trauma, Genie trying to do a cowboy accent.

⁺₊𝄞₊⁺: Crimson and Clover by Joan Jett

And I don't hardly know her,

But I think I can love her,

Ah, now when she comes walking over,

I've been waiting to show her,

My mind's such a sweet thing

I want to do everything

What a beautiful feeling

It's not like the movies, they fed us on little white lies.

~💜

The first time he sees you there's a tempest of bullets rattling off his chest. Metal singing metal, as shells vie for an opening. It's all very lethal,

like the center of a rabid dust storm. Kissing death and sucking in her poison. Boothill can't tell where the bullets are coming from only that there's a dozen at a time ringing over his head. He shields his face with the metal of his forearms peaking through the gap to catch a glimpse of black.

Pure black.

That's the first thing he notices as your frenzy yields, You're clad in black from head to toe, even going so far as to dawn an eerie familiar mask. He's seen this scene play out somewhere before, he just can't remember where. "Morning mister", he likes that voice, jejune and teeming with confidence. It reminds him of himself, back when the sunset used to mean something and he could still feel wheat stocks under his soft palms.

"Howdy lil'lady I reckon you're in my way. Mind stepping aside before you get yourself hurt?" Your answer comes in the form of an aimed pistol, spine straight, midnight serape caught on the wind. He thinks you look a little too much like the folks back home -back when there was a home- blood boiling over eager for a fight. His bounty is standing just over yonder, blocked partly by your stubborn shadow. Boothill doesn't think twice before firing two rounds.

He's met with four...

He's in a cheap motel on Penacony, screwing in bolts that came loose. In the end, you laid claim to his bounty. Dragging him away to the hills. He's left growling at the thought, bested by a muddle-fudging fox. Lil gal probably ain't never even been in a proper shoot-out. The screwdriver cracks under his metal fingers. Boothill ain't about to start letting some pretty little thing get in the way of him and his targets.

The TV screen flickers to a melancholy monochrome. The films are old, distorted, crippled in parts. But he keeps them around, much like everything else about him, it's a bygone thing refusing to die.

He still likes to play them from time to time, trying to elicit the tastes of home. Hearing Nick and Graey setting plates out for dinner as his siblings rush downstairs. The movies are older than the new universe in more ways than one.

They come from a simpler time.

He'd always wondered why someone would bother painting such precious things in black and white. Spilling melancholia into picture frames, leaving everything tasting of vodka and vanilla.

It doesn't matter though, not really. All that matters is the sound of hooves on sand and bullets shooting. So long as the cowboys live their stories, everything else can be forgiven.

But this time something's off. The bandit's black mask shines through, gleaming something awful making him grind his sharp teeth. That damn mask, sitting pretty over a sly smirk. it reminds him of you, little cutie with your slick attitude. What bandit goes around doing hero's work anyway? What kinda twisted little lady are you?

He's getting mighty sick of this. Do you think you own the universe or something? "Been seeing way too much of you lately." There's sand in his Synesthesia Beacon his voice coming out horse, brittle. He kicks the head of an IPC lackey trying to drive home a point. "You getting on my nerves cutie". The ground looks nothing short of a graveyard, bodies scattered some piled. The blood paints the sands in a deep maroon, reflecting the glint of the distant stars. The last soldier is cowering behind you, his whimpers singing in Boothill's ears, one more bullet, that's all it'll take. "This one's mine" you mutter, and he wonders for a moment if the dry weather is getting to you too. "Not a chance pumpkin" his gun's drawn, firing bullets before you can even feel for your holster. The smirking bullet impales your abdomen, aimed point blank at the officer's head. But before the last body can be claimed you kick the man out of the way.

"Damn it" Boothill's anger is tangible, he knows you can feel it between your teeth. He's going to kill you, tear off that star-saken mask, and riddle you with bullets. You're getting too confident.

He doesn't notice your bullets at first. Protostars trying to act all rough and mighty. There's a temporary cluster of dust, a fraction of a second where his eyes aren't pinning you down. That's all it takes and then you're off. Sinking into the darkness and swimming away, taking his target with you.

It's only after the initial anger wears off that Boothill notices a tear on his thigh. A letter scrawled on the frayed leather of his pants. So you've started leaving your own marks, ay cutie?

He almost wishes he could feel the sting of your blade on his flesh. Feel your nails scrapping along his shoulders as he pins you to the ground.

Boothill fires at the moon.

Next time.

Next time for sure....

He's been chasing you for some time now. But catching up with you isn't as easy as he first thought. Seems like you go wherever the wind takes you and he's too busy with revenge to be following your capricious whims. The IPC ain't going to kill itself you know. And Boothill damn well wishes you'd start sitting still. He's heard from a reliable source that the IPC soldiers are throwing a little get to together down in one of the bars. Just a happy birthday for a colleague, nothing fancy. The thought alone makes his mouth water, place will be crawling with pests just waiting to be gunned down. Maybe tomorrow he'll try looking for you again, but tonight? Tonight's his night.

The neons have dulled now, they never were terribly bright to begin with. Penacony may be the land of dreams but not even dreams can stop reality from seeping through. The bar's loud, some new pop singer's music blasting from every speaker. Boothill downs his drink, liking how the ice cubes chime like a bad omen. He shoots the speakers first, needing some peace to focus on what comes next. The peace corp's lackeys are drunk, they stumble over themselves trying to reach him. He shoots each one like a kid playing carnival games. It's almost too easy...

The door is stampeded over by a heard of reinforcements. Somehow even in his drunken daze one of those yella-bellied lapdogs called for help. They're swarming the place like panicked rats, pushing past tables and chairs. Firearms aimed at his head. And for the first time, in a long, long time, Boothill feels a sliver of panic run down his bionic spine.

Motherfudger...

Boothill hears the familiar tumult of bodies hitting the ground before he sees what's actually going on. He feels you before he actually sees you. You're pushed up against his back, guns drawn locked, and loaded. "Heard you needed some help" Even though you offer your usual bravado, Boothill still picks up the nervous lilt in your voice, despite everything he thinks he likes it. It almost tastes sweet. "Best get away before you get yourself hurt little fox." "And let you have all the fun? Never."

"Certe murmur pugnando" Boothill laughs, he remembers those very words coming from a buddy of his before a duel. 'At least we'll die fighting' Somethings never change, even if you've carved out every principle from your body with a rusted kitchen knife. You'll always have those pesky morals stuck inside. He hears you chuckle, wonders if you find it odd that a rowdy galaxy ranger such as himself knows a dead language.

Well, he knows a lot about the dead.

The shoot-out lasts longer than he'd have expected.

But the real surprise lies in how neither of you are dead. Boothill's half laid across the bar, looking at you from under his hat. You're making him a drink following his instruction like a good little wife, not contradiction dressed in ebony. Gunpowder withers on his tongue, the bullet smoke permeates the air mixing with the gleeful tang of spilled blood. "Your drinks sure are complicated" you mutter pushing him his cup before picking up a bottle and reading its labels. "What's so hard about it pumpkin? Little bit of white gem and gin. All's you need." He sips your drink slowly, savoring your flavor. He imagines he's gulping you down, holding you for ransom behind his teeth, feeling your delicate little fists pounding against him. "I don't drink" you mumble as you sit across from him, you look so damn elegant, like a little princess from a fairy tale he use to read to a certain someone. You drink deeply from your glass of ice and water. Boothill focuses on the gentle motion of your throat. He licks his lips, trying to push down the thought of ringing such a fragile thing between his palms.

"So little lady, s'about time you start answering some questions...The hell you doing? Running off with my targets?" You set your cup down, eyes locking on his, there's the deficiency he's missed all night. The trigger hair that's just waiting for the right push. "They're not your targets...not really. They're just people. People whose planet got muffed up. I've been trying to gather them all in one place." For a second Boothill thinks you're talking about his planet, his home, his people. But it only takes one more look at you to understand.

"So, how'd yours die?" There's shrapnel in his throat when he asks, open wounds bleeding once more, filling his throat with bitter memories.

You stiffen, and he knows he's thumbing a broken bone, letting his finger dig between the cracks and snapping their frail linings. "Don't know, wasn't there. All I ever got to see were a few limbs, nothing enough to make a full person." you squeeze the glass until your knuckles turn white.

There's vindication rooted in your veins.

He knows the feeling all too well.

"We ain't so different you and I, reckon we make a pretty good team." His metal fingers lace between your soft skin, tracing the lifelines like an old map.

There's a goldmine hidden behind your lips, he imagines he'll have to kiss you to find the little nuggets. Your lips part, eyes filled with an odd-looking sympathy. What he wouldn't give to feel your plump lips bleed between his jagged teeth. "So..." you ask as his mechanic heart skips a beat. "What about yours?"

You've been laughing for five whole minutes. Boothill shouldn't find the noise as ethereal as he does. His anger lays heavily on his bones, he should be even angrier, lounging a bullet through your thick skull. But he finds the noise a little too perfect to disturb its source. Even if it's only created at his expense. Instead, he has half a mind to slap you, hard enough to shut you u and another to kiss you so hard you forget to breathe. "Damn hell so funny, cutie"

You look at him with those luminous eyes. Filled with pain and riddles. Boothill never did like solving puzzles. He only likes tearing things into bits. He needs you spartan, easy to read and use, and kiss. Not something he needs to piece together first.

"Dear stars you have no freaking idea how ironic you are." You say between bursts of spiteful-rooted giggles.

Why do those words sound so haunting like a ghost kiss? they should open phantom pains, but they sure as hell don't. Why do you always leave his head spinning? Boothill rolls his eyes, then leans over to pull down your mask. You jerk back, rewarding him with a dark grimace. You're out the window before he can ask your name.

"See you next time, cowboy"

"Next time I'm drawing blood"

The moment's over.

Fiddlesticks..

That night, Boothill dreams of you. He's lying in a stiff musty bed. It's too dark, even the moon is scared of showing her face.

Boothill dreams of the old saloons back home. Of their cracked wooden floorboards and the worn-out plush of chairs. In the dreams, you're wearing a black lace gown, like the saloon girls used to. He finds it all too funny that even in his dreams you still haunt him in black. Only now you're smiling, really smiling. Not that sly smirk, or mirthless grin you gave him back in the bar on Penacony. No, this here is a genuine smile and he's damn sure he's the one who put it there. You reach out for his hand, he feels warmth.

His

Yours

The dream is thick and dense like swimming through molasses. In another scene he's dragging you through the old doors, laughing as bullets and card chips hit the floor. There's a horse waiting outside. His horse. At least he thinks it used to be his. He pulls you up roughly in front of him. He's high off the feeling of his fingers wrapped around the rugged reins. High off the steed he holds in a vice grip between his thighs.

He's riding faster than he's ever ridden before, clambering for the sunset trying to engulf the sun. You hold on tight, pressing your cheek to his chest. His heart is beating something fierce between his ribs. He feels like an Aeon watching the universe collapse under his galloping feet.

He feels alive.

With the sun's rays behind you, Boothill could almost mistake you for the star-dwelling angels Nick used to tell him about. There's something poetic in all of this. The cowboy standing off against the black fox.

Dare he call it cinematic?

Boothill creeps closer. Tilting his hat and watching you flash a nervous smile through his lashes. "Volo sentire te inter dentes meos" so you know that dead tongue too. "You will soon darling, that's what I'm hoping for" his reply only dwindles your smile.

He's missed the old duels. Missed staring into the eyes of the one who could kill you. It's all a matter of skill and luck. Whose faster, who the aeon will trust?

Somewhere in the distance, the tumble weeds begin to rattle.

"Now"

His bullet glides through the air, piercing through the dust and sand. Your bullet reverberates from your gun a fraction too late and ricochets past his cheek. Leaving a juicy trail of blood.

But his bullet was aimed at your chest.

And Boothill never misses...

You want vengeance he won't deny you it.

So long as you stay by his side.

He'll tuck you away somewhere safe.

Somewhere you won't be leaving him again.

Boothill cradles your body to his chest. "I promised you blood little fox, and Boothill never goes back on his word." His cheeks hurt from smiling as he lays his hat atop your head. He's Picking you up and walking into the sunset. He knows a good ol'doc who'll patch you right up. And then it's a happy life together.

Well for him anyway.

The end

Taglist: @hihellomy @salhanskkdbfkekfb @gasoline-eater @sp1cym0chi

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velarisdusk · 9 months ago

Text

Current Event: 1k Follower Celebration! Upcoming Event: SJM x Reader Week! In the Works! (as of 04/24/25)

all of the following are in the order that they were posted, most recent at the top. sort by: word count | character | genre (ik theyre broken rn im working on it)

hi!! i'm lyss, 22 from the US. i mostly write acotar reader inserts—usually smutty, often emotional, occasionally unhinged. soft spot for enemies to lovers, and a penchant for turning two-sentence requests into 20k-word fics with their own sets of lore. i write whatever my brain decides to plague my thoughts with for the week. always feel free to drop by my inbox to chat about my writing or literally anything else i love that shit lets talk requests are case-by-case. DMs are open. pls be normal (or fun weird) not weird weird

Wings of Illyria — ongoing AU Azriel x Reader | Insinuated Smut (not insinuated for long) | 5,147 words

tags: personal favorite, band au, modern au, rhys cass and az are in your favorite band. gee, i wonder what i’ll write about y/n and az (not featured yet but I Have Ideas: feysand, nessian, elucien)

Velvet Whispers, Midnight Truths — ongoing series Azriel x Reader, Eris x Reader | Smut | 14,918 words

tags: y/n does who she wants when she wants

Breaking the Ice — complete series Multicharacter x Reader | Smut | 70,439

tags: hockey au, modern au, established relationship (with cassian), homie-hopping, infidelity, big argument

This Tempest, Ours Rhysand x Reader | Smut | 11,712 words read here or on AO3

On a rare night alone in the House of Wind, the worst storm in decades strikes. It wouldn’t be a problem if they didn’t make you so uneasy. Luckily, the House isn’t as empty as you thought. tags: friends to lovers, comfort, consensual use of daemati, one bed trope but it’s a sleeping bag

Drunk on You Azriel x Reader | Smut | 11,237 words read here or on AO3

You and Azriel were just friends. Then came the dancing. The kiss. The night you stopped pretending. tags: personal favorite, friends to lovers, drunken clubbing with the IC (shenanigans ensue)

A Study in Power Lucien x Reader | Smut | 3,503 words read here or on AO3

You're in the Spring Court, playing the dutiful emissary while navigating its fractured politics. But when your mentor's gaze lingers too long, when his touch strays past propriety, resisting him becomes a far more dangerous game. tags: forbidden romance, power dynamics, lucien is HOT (duh), big argument, 1k Celebration fic

Signed, Sealed, Unspoken Rhysand x Reader | Smut | 21,478 words read here or on AO3

Following a long and brutal war, the Dusk Court has finally reclaimed the lands seized by the Night Court generations ago. Yet its new capital, Velaris, remains tangled in the Night Court's intricate trade agreements. Now, negotiations are underway. tags: personal favorite, enemies to lovers, letter-writing, 1k Celebration fic

Ashes Beneath the Sky Azriel x Reader | Hurt / Comfort | 4,783 words read here or on AO3

Rhysand and Feyre call for a mission to ambush the Autumn Court's reinforcements, a dangerous strike in the midst of war. Despite Azriel's insistence that you stay behind, you can't resist sneaking along. tags: enemies to lovers, miscommunications/misunderstandings, big argument, 1k Celebration fic

Something Precious Azriel x Reader | Fluff | 2,095 words read here or on AO3

Azriel has always been steady, unwavering—but the way you look at him makes something shift. Small moments, fleeting words, a tension neither of you acknowledge… until it’s impossible for him to ignore. tags: established relationship, y/n has crippling insecurity

No Room for Error Azriel x Reader | Smut | 1,490 words read here or on AO3

Your heated argument with Azriel during a mission turns into an unexpected, yet not first-time, encounter in a broom closet. tags: azriel + y/n mission, enemies (no lovers but...)

The Hand That Holds Azriel x Reader | Smut | 4,938 words read here or on AO3

You and Azriel visit a bakery in Velaris, but tension rises when your ex-boyfriend tries to provoke him. tags: established relationship, y/n's ex is a jackass, azriel is Not

Cursed Flame Eris x Reader | Smut | 8,008 words read here or on AO3

When Eris Vanserra, heir to the Autumn Court, stumbles into a healer's shop under a mysterious curse, it sets off a chain of events neither could have anticipated. As the skilled healer works to unravel the dark magic threatening his life, tension and attraction crackle between them. tags: healer!y/n, arrogant eris (so just eris)

Shadows at Twilight Nesta & Azriel | Angst | 2,275 words read here or on AO3

Azriel and Nesta's Thursday night smoke sessions become a lifeline. As tensions rise, the fragile balance they've been trying to maintain begins to falter. tags: personal favorite, modern au, stoners!nesta+azriel, anotherdrug!nesta, big argument, not reader-insert, not slash

Beneath the Vines Lucien x Reader | Smut | 6,717 words read here or on AO3

Seeking refuge from court politics in a secluded part of the forest, Lucien meets a female from the Summer Court searching for a hidden spring. He offers to guide her, but their journey takes an unexpected turn when he comes into contact with a mysterious pollen... tags: sex pollen, outdoor sex, gentle (but frenzied make no mistake)

Night Watch Azriel x Reader | Fluff | 384 words read here or on AO3

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Current Event: 1k Follower Celebration! Upcoming Event: SJM x Reader Week! (05/04 - 05/10)

Completed Events: Kinktober 2024

#acotar masterlist #acotar fics #acotar fanfics #masterlist

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bluesidez · 6 months ago

Text

Gym Rat Miguel Part 15

content warning: more angst, mentions of food, mentions of underage drinking and recreational drug use, some suggestive convos but nothing too crazy

word count: 6.4k (@slushycoookie thee wife, thee beta 🩵)

Prev | Next ✩°｡ ⋆⸜ 🎧✮ Masterlist

“Does it show anything different?”

“Will you give me a second?”

GymRat!Miguel who was currently sitting at his desk, bouncing his leg while he waited for Tempest to tell him something good.

“It’s honestly looking like the same thing from last night. And the week before. And the week before that,” she deadpans through the phone.

Miguel turned and pressed his lips to his palm.

His call list was a constant cycle between his friends back home and Gabriel, but mostly Tempest, who has taken the role of checking for any updates from you online.

So far, all he’s gotten out of this was pain. You’ve completely removed anything that involved him from your pages. No anniversary pics, no highlights, no emojis in your bio to refer to him. From how Tempest put it, this was a huge deal.

“Look,” Miguel slumped as he geared himself up to listen to the same speech she’d been repeating. “I know you don’t want to hear this- don’t make that face! - but I think it’s time to give up or try something new.”

“It’s been forever.”

“If your definition of forever is a little over two weeks, then sure!”

“I just thought that,” he paused, mulling over the words in his head.

“That she would bend at your will? You’re cute, but not that cute.”

“No, that’s not- Temp,” Miguel whined. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

She snorted, “Uh huh. Which is why we’re stalking her page like weirdos.”

“If the roles were flipped, I would be doing the same for you. I have done the same for you.”

“Touché.”

Miguel remembered Tempest spiraling over girls she thought was the one, the two of them huddled up over the phone watching as they all moved onto the next.

He sat beside her and reminded himself never to get this way. He perked up like a flower soaking up the sun every time there was an inch of hope, which truly rivaled how Tempest acted.

“I was just thinking that today would be different. Maybe she would think about me today.”

The thought sits in the air, Tempest’s face shifting to one of sad understanding.

“Not trying to feed your delusions, but maybe she hasn’t stopped thinking about you.”

Miguel looked at the screen, a tiny bit optimistic.

“But in all fairness, I wouldn’t want anyone on my page who I thought committed one of the most cruel offenses. I would want to forget everything. You have to see this from her side too.”

Tempest was right, a common state when it came to their friendship. It didn’t stop that ugly rust of selfishness that crowded his heart.

He feels like he’s crying out for you, and you don’t care. A year of being together meant nothing to you.

Saying that out loud was insane, though. It didn’t align with how hurt you looked.

So, he’s been internally fighting the feeling, going from understanding to upset and back again.

“Have you talked to Xina at all?”

“She’s only keeping our conversations about school. And acting like nothing happened.”

“She’s probably embarrassed,” Tempest said. “She got caught this time and doesn’t know what to do.”

“Apologizing could be a start.”

“And that requires admitting she was wrong in the first place, so if you get that, let me know so I can mark the day. I’ll even make a t-shirt.”

The sigh that left Miguel was strong enough to irritate Tempest’s speakers.

He wanted to talk to her about the situation again, but it was like talking with a brick wall. It reminded him of when he snapped at her for constantly hitting him when they were younger. Looking back, they were just kids, and she probably didn’t mean anything by it. The red tint and angry pout on her face as she slid him her chocolate milk as an apology stuck with him.

“Why do you want an apology anyway? Or, why do you expect one?”

Miguel wasn’t sure himself. Xina was his childhood best friend, someone with whom he spent a lot of time and shared secrets. There were sweet memories and joyful moments.

It sucks to see her act so different.

“I think,” Miguel paused, looking off through his dorm window. “I think that-”

“Oh my god, she just posted.”

Miguel almost dropped his phone while he switched back to the messages app.

“What is it? What is it?”

“It is,” she dragged out her i’s. The sound of Tempest screenshotting and tapping away at her phone was like rapid fire. “An event, I think?”

“What event? You aren’t sending the pictures fast enough.”

“I already pressed send! Not my fault I don’t have high-speed internet.”

“Tell your cousin to stop fucking hogging it.”

“Shut up and watch the screen.”

His eyes dart across the screen as he waits for the screenshare to load.

Your account comes up, still intact. Miguel takes in everything like he did back when he first met you.

There were new posts about the sculptures you made in class and food from a new café. There’s also a glimpse of you smiling, and he feels like he’s ready to erupt.

Tempest refreshed your page again.

“This is so against girl code.”

“You haven’t even talked with her before.”

“How would you know?”

“Temp.”

“Right, sorry.”

She taps your story, and a flyer comes up.

“A Halloween-themed festival night?” Miguel says as the story disappears.

“Sounds fun!”

“I’m going to go. Put the story back up again.”

Tempest side-eyed him as best as she could, “Uh, maybe let’s not.”

“Why can’t I? I’m a member of the student body.”

“Do you usually go to these things?”

“No,” Miguel slowed his words. “But I could now? Maybe she won’t even be there.”

“And if she is? Wouldn’t it seem like you’re stalking her?”

He thinks about the many times he’s lingered around the art building, walked by your favorite spot on campus, and stared at corners of the library that you loved to see if you would be there.

“No?”

“Doubtful.”

“I just need to see her in person.”

GymRat!Miguel who doesn’t stop thinking about whether or not you’ll be at the festival.

If he doesn’t see you, he’ll be disappointed, but the panic clawing at his throat won’t shift to his mind.

If he does see you, he’ll be like a fish out of water. Floundering, lost, and begging his lungs to gain its necessities.

He just hopes that going is the right decision.

GymRat!Miguel who goes to his robotics club meetup the next day.

There’s no competition coming up, but the department wanted to revise a moving metal skeleton for Halloween weekend.

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks, Margo. I feel like it, too.”

She pulled his cheek out and made baby noises out of sympathy before Miguel swatted them away.

“Still no luck with your ex? Or is that joint giving you trouble?” she snickered at his sloppy attempt at connecting moving parts.

“Uh, no and yes.”

Aaron peeked up from his station and looked over like a beaver.

“I-it’s not because of what I said, right?”

Margo made a line with her mouth as if to say 'get a load of this guy'.

“No, Aaron,” Miguel mumbled.

“Yeah, Aaron, stop being nosy and get back to work,” Margo joked.

He snapped his welder’s mask back down like a dork and returned to sawing something, sparks flying past him.

Margo looks down at Miguel’s work.

“Well, I hope you can get her back soon because you need to work on your anatomy. Those bones don’t go together at all.”

He looks to a femur and a humerus connected with the sheer will of his clouded mind.

He missed when you attached sticky notes to his body for practice. The prize for getting the different parts of his body correct being kisses. You would laugh at his mistake but give a peck on the lips anyway. His arms were one of your favorite places to put your star-shaped stickers on, too.

“I didn’t mean for you to get even sadder,” Margo snapped him out of the memory.

“It’s fine. My fault.”

Margo shifted her weight as she started to take apart his mistake, “It’ll get better, Miguel. I’m sure of it.”

GymRat!Miguel who sits across from Tyler at one of the uppity restaurants in town. The lights are dim, as if the people eating here are all hiding from something.

“How’s school?” Tyler asked, clothes still managing to glow despite the one warm lamp above the table. He thanks the waitress for refilling his water glass. “Made any new friends? Connections?”

The age-old awkward feeling of trying to concisely describe his growing adult life was at the top of his mind.

“It’s going well,” was always the easiest answer. Simple and open-ended.

Of course, Tyler took this as a sign to delve further.

“Your mother told me you’re taking up game programming this semester. Do you like the feel of that class?”

An ice cube floated to the top of Miguel’s glass.

“I was enjoying it at first, now I’m sort of ready for it to end.”

Tyler cleared his throat, hand covering the frown on his face.

“Ah, well, some people just like the end result, I suppose,” he refolds a napkin, the reflection from his watch panning across the tablecloth. “What about your girlfriend? How is she? Perhaps, you have some new pieces of her’s to show me. My colleagues love the one in the entryway.”

The waiter placed a filet mignon in front of Miguel and bluefin tuna across from him. Tyler moved to tuck the same napkin into his crisp button down.

“I’m not sure.”

Tyler pauses as a slice of fish dangles from his fork.

Miguel is still cutting into the meat unnecessarily, knife scrapping against the plate.

“Son, this cut of meat is like butter,” Tyler said, taking the knife from him and putting it back on its napkin.

A twitch at the corner of his lips almost aligned with Tyler’s. The man racked his brain for the memories of his first son coming home with a similar expression.

He chewed and swallowed his fish stacked with cucumbers and cilantro.

“As you know, I am not the best when it comes to relationships. Nancy and I have had quite the uphill battle. However, I believe I am well-versed in the field of compromise. Should I reach out to her for you?”

It was a long shot, and by the growing shadows on his son’s face, Tyler suspected that his suggestion was a poor one.

“What will that do? Other than show her that I can’t handle my own problems.”

“Surely, you two can work it out. She was lovely, truly,” Tyler frets, afraid he’s made Miguel even more upset.

He just starts to eat, mind elsewhere.

Tyler wondered if he should have ordered some wine.

“When you found out Nancy cheated on you, what did you do?”

Lemon juice from his dish hit his throat right as he swallowed, a hand banging on his chest as he coughed.

“I, uh,” two gulps of water were taken from the glass Miguel handed him. “Well. The fruit of that labor is in front of me.”

“Obviously,” Miguel’s shoulders dropped and Tyler grimaced again. Curse his silly statements. “I meant, how did you feel? What were your initial thoughts?”

“I remember being angry. Here laid the mother of my only child with a much younger and, honestly, less fortunate man. I thought I was foolish to think that my genuine love or money could keep someone.”

Miguel pushed around an asparagus on his plate, “So there was a betrayal. A pain you couldn’t describe.”

“Exactly. For me, that came afterwards. I’m a prideful man. If one thing does not satisfy me, I simply find something that does.”

“And that thing just happened to be my mother?”

“Ah, if you put it like that, it’s far too harsh,” Tyler fixes a cuff. “Your mother provided me a place of warmth, solitude, and love for a short time. It’s something I’ll never forget. I regret the hurt Nancy and I inflicted on each other, but I don’t regret you.”

Tyler watches and waits for a response. His son shifts in his seat and rolls his neck, eyes never leaving his plate.

“Has she,” Tyler tilts his head, “hurt you this way?”

“No, but I broke her trust.”

“You cheated?”

“Never. But we have a lot to work on.”

Tyler might order some bourbon tonight to drink in place of his son and the mopey demeanor.

“I’m all ears whenever you need me. But if there is as much love between you two as I saw earlier this year, then you’re sure to gain in back. That doesn’t go away.”

Miguel takes a deep breath and Tyler believes that some of the shadows on his face disappear.

The meal continued, and the people around them continued their quiet chatter.

“Could you do me a favor?” Miguel asks as they both clean their plates.

Tyler lights up, “Anything.”

“Don’t tell my mom about this?”

Tyler thinks back to the unpleasant things Conchata had to say about her son’s girlfriend and quietly agrees that it’s for the best of she’s out of the loop.

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

GymRat!Miguel who walks up to the festival wearing one of the shirts you gave him for his birthday.

It was an impulsive decision because now that he’s here, he’s wondering if seeing it on him will upset you.

The festival is partially outside and inside, a mix of games, concessions, and small rides for students to enjoy.

He walked under the pumpkin and bat-shaped balloons, and fake smoke from a cauldron moved past him.

It smelled like sour candy apples, and marshmallows. Booths were all around the campus grass. He walked past them slowly, not interested but searching for something.

The turnout was nice for a night when he figured people would be out partying. There were a lot of students walking in and out.

A game caught his eye as he neared the entrance to the student center. It’s a Shoot Out booth with the ducks replaced with black cats and the gun switched to tiny ghost bean bags to match the theme. There’s a giant white bunny with an X for lips, a blue dress, and a bow on its ear.

It’s so you that he couldn’t resist.

The student volunteer told him he had three chances this round to knock out twenty cats for the bunny.

“Everyone’s been gunning for it, but this game is pretty hard!”

Miguel nodded in understanding.

If he focused enough, the bunny could be his.

On his first try, he knocked out thirteen cats, much to the volunteer’s surprise.

“Woah! You’re pretty good! Did you wanna grab anything from this tier?”

There was student association merch and a shirt with the college logo.

Miguel rolled his sleeves up, “No, I’m going to try for the plushie again.”

The second time, he knocked down the last cat with just a few seconds left on the timer.

The girl running the booth smiled with her eyebrows nearly merging to the top of her head in shock.

“I-I guess that means you win the bunny!”

She handed it to him with a lull of awe.

He muttered a quiet thanks and turned towards the doors with fake spiderwebs dangling off them.

There was music, a sign to go to a haunted hallway, and even more tables with food.

He wonders if you would have gotten scared walking through scary attractions with him. You would probably hold his hand as tight as he’s holding the belly of this rabbit.

Scanning the room, he doesn’t catch a glimpse of you anywhere.

Looking down at the little white face in his hands, he started to think he wasted the hour or so he’d been here.

Walking to the table of free cookies, he took a frosted Frankenstein in his hand and bit a bolt off.

He felt like a lost kid as he floated from table to table to stall.

Maybe he should give up. You were probably promoting this event for Jess.

GymRat!Miguel who was finishing off his fifth mummy-in-a-blanket when he saw you leaving the haunted hallway.

The first thing he noticed is the long, blue cardigan falling off your shoulders. The end of it is trailing after you as you run out.

There’s a grin on your face and an air in your steps, something he missed seeing.

The next thing he noticed was that you weren’t wearing your necklace anymore.

Then a hand pulled it up on your shoulders and slid back down your arm.

A guy is standing next to you and laughing as if you’ll give him money for doing so.

He’s tall. He looks like he could be built, too.

It’s like a slap in the face, worse than when you pushed him away.

Looking down, Miguel saw your hand in his, clinging tight. You smile at the guy and reach up to get something out of his hair.

Miguel thinks that there was nothing wrong with his hair. There was nothing to smile about either.

The guy’s hands touch you in places where Miguel has embraced. His fingers were covering the same neck he’d put his head in. His thumbs ran over the apples of your cheeks, the same ones that used to crowd his lips.

You lean into the guy’s chest and say something that he can’t hear.

His stomach makes an angry lurch and he feels that orange being shift to a green one. It’s clawing at him, pulling at his mind.

This wasn’t how today was supposed to end. You weren’t supposed to cling to some random guy. You weren’t supposed to be with someone else.

Miguel turns when he leans down towards you, chest burning. What he didn’t see was not true to him. What he didn’t know was not reality.

GymRat!Miguel stormed out of the building, and images of you happy with someone else faded onto the inside of his eyelids.

The material of his sweater was scratching against his skin as he made his way back to the festival entrance.

Everything was too much. The people were too loud, the lamps were too bright, and the music playing over the speakers sucked.

His nose started to twitch and he wondered why did festival food have so much damn sugar.

Someone nearly hits the ground as he pushes past them, a confused noise hitting the air, but he doesn’t feel inclined to stop.

GymRat!Miguel who almost breaks free from what feels like a harmful joke when Xina spots him.

“Hey!” She ran over to him, leaves crunching against her boots. She’s wearing the varsity jacket he bought her years ago. “Leaving already?”

“Yeah, I,” he stopped when he thought he heard your laugh somewhere deep in the festival. “I’m not feeling too good. Think I’m gonna go back to my dorm.”

“Oh, do you have a fever? The weather did drop out of nowhere,” her hand lifted, fingers twitching like she wanted to see for herself.

She hesitates, scared he’ll blow away.

When her fingers press into his neck, he just wants to cry. It felt like when she caught him crying under the trees on the playground or when he’d show up at his grandma’s house with a chubby face full of tears.

He covers her hand for a second, just one, then pushes it away.

If he talks about it, he’ll break into pieces.

“Here,” he shoved the bunny into her hands. The dress is wrinkled, and the bow is a bit lopsided.

Xina’s eyes grow as sees it. The smile on her lips is familiar, “Thank you. I love it.”

Her mouth opens as if she wants to say more, but Miguel starts first.

“Glad you like it. I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah, ok. Get back safe, Hare-Hare.”

He heads towards his building empty-handed.

GymRat!Miguel who is in denial.

He’s moved past his brain making up you being at the Halloween festival and was now choosing to believe that it was a friend.

The tiny Gabriel on his shoulder was telling him that you had moved on. You had a new boyfriend, so he needed to move on as well—or stop moping about you.

He was choosing to ignore him for now.

It’s been another week since he saw you. Thanksgiving was on its way and he hasn’t been focused in a single class.

At a time when he really needed Tempest to update him, she told him to step back and recenter himself. Something about him not being level-headed.

He didn’t care.

The point of no return was truly here as he stood in front of the elevator in the art building.

A bag of food was sweating in his palm, and the two drinks were seeping into his hoodie, but he would regret it forever if he didn’t try talking to you again before the semester was over.

He’s doing something he told himself he wouldn’t do, but he couldn’t help that he still knew your schedule by heart. Taking a chance on you sticking around for studio hours was all that he had.

GymRat!Miguel who got to the right floor and was happy to see a student leaving the room.

The lights in the hallway were still on and music came from down the hall.

Miguel walked down, peering in every door, leaving once he couldn’t see you or when the people inside gave him weird looks.

GymRat!Miguel who walks into the last studio in the hallway with quiet steps.

Your canvas is almost bigger than you, the top of it covering you as you moved your brush across it.

You had headphones on, star molds stuck on the sides of them.

Miguel sat the food down on the table, moving like a stealthy agent.

Your sleeves were rolled up to your elbows, yet paint was still on them despite your efforts. You looked tired, but god, you were still overwhelmingly gorgeous to him.

He stepped closer. Slowly, step by step, coming into your peripheral.

“Why are you here?”

Miguel paused mid-walk, face like a puppy who got caught.

He should have thought this through more.

“I wanted to see you,” he holds his hands before him. It’s not making him any smaller, but it brings a slight comfort. “Brought some food.”

“’M not hungry.”

An apology is his first instinct, but the sound of your stomach growling speaks for him.

You refuse to look at him, face warm.

“It’s your favorite. Come eat, please.”

Taking off your headphones, you sighed.

“Fine.”

GymRat!Miguel who has to pinch himself to stop staring at you.

You weren’t just tired, you were exhausted. Your eyes drooped as you bit into your fries, and your movements were sluggish.

You didn’t ask for his extra sauce like you usually did. You didn’t even try to steal his fries.

“How have you been?” he asks instead of digging himself further into the sad hole of his heart.

Your eyes flick at him over your glasses and back to your food.

“Really, Miguel?”

“Y-yes? I’m always wondering how you are.”

“Then you should know how I’ve been already, then.”

Miguel faltered.

“You’re not very subtle, you know? I could see you pacing back and forth around campus.”

“Oh,” he slurped his drink nervously.

“And I saw you at the festival, too.”

He almost punctured the styrofoam in his hand.

“So, you’ve been fine is what you’re telling me. I’m gla-” he choked on the words. “I see you’ve…met someone.”

“He was just a friend. You could have said ‘hi’ then, if you really wanted to speak with me.”

“Didn’t look like a friend,” left Miguel’s mouth before he could stop it.

You hummed, eyebrows raised, and a click sound from your teeth. “Oh, but now do you see how that feels?” You started to untie your apron.

“I didn’t mean for that to come out in that way. I came here to just talk.”

“About what? How you didn’t actually cheat on me? How you didn’t mean for any of this to happen? How you’re sorry you got caught?”

He bit his tongue.

That was almost what he wanted to say.

“About us,” he said as you rolled your eyes. “I still love you, and it’s killing me not to be with you. This is as plain and simple as I can say it. I’ll say it over and over and over again until you hear me.”

“Miguel,” your voice puffed out, weary and broken, “you cheated on me with your best friend and now you’re here trying to spin this and pull me back. I-I have dignity. As much as I want to pretend like what’s been happening this semester is meaningless, I can’t.”

“And I’m telling you that I would never do that you. Not in a million years, not in this lifetime, would I ever purposely hurt you in that way. Baby, please. Listen to me!”

“I see the way you are with her,” your words fall after his. “I remember the texts. There is something there. I don’t know if I can compete with that and I’m not trying to. So, if you want to be with her, then do that, but leave me out of it.”

Miguel is quick to grab your hands as you try to turn away, “Fine. There is something there.”

You try to yank yourself from him again, the pain from October 13th filling you again, but his hands are faster this time.

“There’s a girl who used to threaten to beat me up if I didn’t defend myself against bullies. There’s a girl who used to trade collectible cards with me in secret because her parents didn’t allow her to obsess over junk, and the girls at school thought it was lame. There’s a trust built long over a decade that has been broken. I do care about her, as I would do with any friend, but you have to understand that I care about you, too.”

“Then why didn’t you show that?” you whispered, tears leaving your eyes. “It felt humiliating, Miguel. That night, I felt disgusting. Like you were just throwing me away. I kept thinking that you lied to me about everything, that you were indulging in something that you never really wanted.”

Miguel reached to hold your face, thumbs sliding your tears away, heart breaking.

“Lo siento, amor. Hm?” he wanted to take your pain away and place it onto himself if it meant that you didn’t talk like this. “It’s not true. What we have created is not some trial run. I love you so deeply, that I was going insane. Knowing that you thought otherwise is painful to hear. The buildup to that night is a misunderstanding. You have to know that.”

You take a breath, “How could I know?”

Miguel stared at your face and thought the same.

He’s been yelling trust, trust, trust and when he thinks back to your few interactions with Xina, it clicks that you truly had no foundation to trust.

“If I had just been better, you would have known.”

Like you said, Xina had walked all over him.

“So what now?” you asked, and pull your sweater over your fingers.

Miguel blinked, “I was hoping to start over? Restart?”

“I can’t,” you said immediately and Miguel tensed. “You entering my life has given me far more ups than downs, but when those downs come, they can be brutal.”

“So, you don’t want me to be your boyfriend, again?”

You shake your head and he felt like it was his turn to cry.

“I want action. Show me that something like this won’t happen again. We can sit here and tell each other promises until we’re blue in the face, but what do those promises mean if one person or thing can ruin it.”

“I’ll do that. I’ll do anything.”

You brush his hair back and wrap his arms around your waist to settle in this feeling. Your thumbs traveled from his hairline to curves of his ears down to his jaw. They rub circles into his skin, slow and rhythmic.

“Have you talked with Xina? Has she confessed to what you’re telling me she has done?”

He shakes his head softly, afraid to break the scene.

You laugh, small and quiet, then unwrap his arms from around you. You go back to your canvas and start to scrape at the glass of the taboret. Miguel was so in a trance, that almost didn’t notice the switch.

“I’m going to talk with her,” Miguel stated across the room.

You wave a hand in the air, unmoved.

He followed you as you go to the mineral spirits bucket to soak your brushes.

“Baby-“

“As far as I’m concerned, you shouldn’t talk to me until whatever you two have going on is fixed. Don’t know who 'baby' is.”

You walk to the sink and turn the water on. Miguel was right behind you and grabbing the dish soap before you can.

“And I will talk to her,” Miguel sayid. You reach for the soap and he holds it out of your reach, petulant. “Baby.”

You give him an irritated look and pinch his neck. He makes a hurt noise and gives you the jug.

“Action. Miguel.”

GymRat!Miguel who waited until you’ve packed everything up.

He didn’t mean for this to turn into him teasing you, but he couldn’t help it. He was getting his fill while he still could.

“At least let me walk you back to your dorm,” Miguel sayid, picking up the wet paper towels you’ve been throwing at him.

“No, thanks. I have a date. I don’t need you changing up my energy.”

Miguel’s smile dropped.

“You do?”

“His name starts with an R, ends with an E. He’s super sweet. Sturdy.”

Reese? Reggie? Raye? Ronnie?

“I see,” Miguel’s heart plummets. “Your friend wasn’t just that.”

“Mm-hm. We’re still testing the waters, but I don’t think he’ll disappoint me.”

Miguel didn’t know what to say. He was nothing but bold, though.

“Who’s to say that…guy won’t hurt you?”

Who’s to say that he would treat you better than Miguel?

You pull the straps of your back over your shoulders and Miguel wants to hold it for you.

A snicker leaves you, “Because he’s made of plastic and is designed of pleasure.”

“Oh.”

“Bye. Enjoy your Thanksgiving.”

Miguel stood and watched you go, wondering if this was progress.

GymRat!Miguel whose bedroom was filled with the chatter of his friends once more.

Friendsgiving was always fun.

GymRat!Miguel who thinks that Lyla is a terrible teammate.

“You’ve got be doing this on purpose,” Miguel groaned as Lyla’s Yoshi pumps the pedal incorrectly.

“I don’t know what you’s talking about!” Her giggles float across the room as saw Miguel get more and more frustrated.

Winston and Tempest were laser-focused, their Monty Mole and Peach following a stead 1-2 rhythm to get their cart across the track.

“Lyla!” Miguel yells as her Yoshi stumbles back. “You’re selling me. You want me to lose.”

The mini-game ends with Tempest and Winston high-fiving each other and Miguel yelling at Bowser to pick his head up.

GymRat!Miguel who laughed as he watched Winston reenact his band director, nearly breaking his neck.

“I’ve never seen a bald man somersault on grass until that day.”

GymRat!Miguel who, full off of food and peach cobbler that Tempest made, stared at the bag of gummies that she placed in the middle of their huddle.

“We can just try this tonight. We’re safe with each other,” Tempest whispered.

“You guys are horrible role models,” Miguel said.

“I don’t know. That blue one is speaking to me. It reminds me of Scooby Doo,” Winston mumbled.

Lyla motioned across one, “Maybe we can cut it in half.”

“That defeats the purpose though. These barely have anything in them,” Tempest complained.

“Says you,” Miguel quipped. “You just called me about a cherry bong the other night.”

“Ok, but wasn’t it cute?”

GymRat!Miguel who nearly jumped out his skin when his door slams open.

Everyone except him shoves their gummy in their mouth with lightening speed. Miguel just holds his awkwardly as he turns to see him mom standing in the doorway.

“Yeah, ma?” he says. He chose to ignore Winston who is over exaggerating, lips smacking.

“Mijo! I have a surprise for you guys!”

GymRat!Miguel who sat awkwardly on his rug, running his wrapped gummy in his palm.

Lyla was practically in Tempest’s lap, tapping at her phone. Tempest is looking around their circle expectantly.

Winston started tapping a fast beat on his arm.

Miguel is looking everywhere except in front of him where Xina was sitting with her chin tucked into her knees.

“It’s good to see you again,” Winston said, forever the peacemaker.

Xina relaxed a bit, “You guys, too. I’ve missed this.”

Miguel saw Tempest softening up a bit at Xina’s words.

“When is stuff gonna hit?” Lyla barks out to which Tempest elbows her.

Xina cleared her throat, “Actually can we talk, Miguel?”

“Yeah, shoot.”

Xina looked around them, “Alone?”

GymRat!Miguel who was standing across from Xina in the office-turned-bedroom that his parents barely used.

“Did my mom invite you?” Miguel asked.

“Actually, Tempest did.”

Miguel raises his eyebrows and nods. He didn’t expect that but he’s not mad at it.

Xina was antsy, arms hiding themselves in the sleeves folded across her body. Miguel stayed quiet.

“So, things between us haven’t been exactly smooth sailing lately.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Miguel looked down at the shark slippers you bought him last year.

“And I have some things that I want to explain to you.”

Miguel raised his eyes expectantly. Xina was mirroring his posture, but her face looked uncomfortable, conflicted.

Her eyes flicker over his before she covered her face and huffs, “这太难了.” (This is so hard.)

“What’s hard?” Miguel asks, pulling together the few times Xina taught him anything. He sat down, hoping it would relax her more.

Her hands drop as she blinks at the ceiling, “Everything. When it comes to you, everything just gets overwhelming.”

“As in?”

She looked at him in disbelief, “As in I’m doing silly shit, again.”

A pause in her words comes as they hear laughter from down the hall.

“Last year was so surreal. I did everything right. My mailbox was full of acceptance letters. My mom finally genuinely smiled at me for the first time in what felt like years. I moved so far away from my parents that I felt like that string that kept me attached to them had broken. I had fun. I went to my first party and got so drunk that when I woke up, I was on the porch of a frat. I made friends who could relate to me more than anyone else. I made acquaintances who could have never gotten into that school without their parents painting the campus with money. Still, I worked my ass off and got kicked out because one of them hid drugs under my seat.”

Miguel’s breath hitched, but Xina continued.

“It was my word against kids whose parents could have the school shut down within minutes. My dad was so angry at me that he pretended like I wasn’t in his home. And my mom just,” her leg started to bounce. “She helped me pack up some things and sent me to go live with my aunt for the summer. It wasn’t until she dropped me off at the airport that whispered to me that she loved me. That she was proud of me. That it was ok to make mistakes.”

“I cried like a baby for half of the flight. And it wasn’t until I got to customs that I realized that I should have called you. You always knew what to tell me no matter what the situation was and I just disappeared. Everything came back tenfold and I missed you so much. So when I saw you again, it was like I fell back into my old habits. I thought ‘I’m finally going to do it!’ but would chicken out and relieve that stress. I was kind of hoping that my tipsy self would have more confidence.”

“Because a drunk tongue speaks a sober mind?” Miguel hummed.

Xina finally laughed, “Are you 40 or something? Yeah. Exactly.”

Miguel blinked and looked up at her, “So tell me what your sober mind wants to say, Xina.”

Xina’s eyes lowered, “That I. I feel like I lose myself when I’m around you. It’s why I acted the way I did. It’s why I overstepped.”

His heart picked up as he registered her words.

“I like you so much, Miguel. More than I can bear. More than I’d like to admit. More than a friend.”

dividers by: @adornedwithlight 🩵

a/n: Please don't be mad at me. 😵‍💫 Also please watch your tone in the comments. 🤠 Be very mindful, very demure.

The taglist is full, so if you would like to be informed of future updates, check my blog occasionally (💀) or subscribe to the story on AO3!

taglist: @ghost-lantern @miguelhugger2099 @emelie-s-h @lake-lili

@obsessed-with-miguels-ass @scaleniusrm @superiorspiderass @lexluvswriting

@flordelalunas @froggygal @vmpz8sauceee @famouscattale @nixinluv02

@jada-of-arcadia @spideykid22 @what-the-jams @julia4today @tojishugetiddies

@samjinxx @sleeklyalisha @the-pan-liquid @prongs-lover @kikaaauu

@urlocallocachica @wanderlustingcastaway @peachey-pie @ch3rry-bl1ss @girl-of-multi-fandoms

@love-kha1 @manlikemilesmyguy @sillysillygoofygoose @monticellohoe @kodzuminx

@lauraolar14 @bruhhvv @m4dyy @farrowroyale @cl3stevu

@ohara-whore @muneca-lemon-steppa @alexa4040 @amelialysm @snails-doodles22

@questionable-behaviour @babygotl01292003 @calig0sto @tatatida @haveclayeveryday

@corpsenightmarebride @earth2fae @maiyart @feegrh32 @darkstarlight82

@ladysimp @sonicbutbutter @relatednative @slowlyshycomputer @nuetralcolorsenthusiast

@maxlinpetersen @beyondstarlight @Madeofstar-dust @leoeloo @just-simpins-blog

@poisamm @thequeenreaders @tinybirdhidedout @aly29a2001 @mimi-sanisanidiot

@snakelore @pigeonmama @darkstalight82 @prettygirleli @koikohib

@jayskookies @xo-zeze @planetxella @thedevax @stressed-cherry

#love lab drabbles 💊#GymRat!Miguel 💪🏾#miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel x reader #miguel o’hara #x chubby reader #x plus size reader #miguel o’hara x plus size reader #miguel o’hara x chubby reader #miguel o'hara x fem!reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara x plussize!reader #miguel o'hara x chubby!reader #x fem reader

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vyxenisl0st · 3 months ago

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ׂ╰┈➤𝙎𝙩𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙙 𝙜𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙄𝙄

Alastor x reader

🀥 Summary: You despised the TV Demon—the sound of his voice, his face, and especially his incessant news channel. But what happens when he finally says something worth listening to?

🀥 Warnings: fem!reader, slight angst, vulgar language, threats

🀥Word count: 965

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V

ﾟ･:,｡★＼(^-^)♪ありがと♪( ^-^)/★,｡･:･ﾟ

“What?!”

“Wife?”

“Your who?”

“Fuck me, smiley! You bagged that?”

“OMG!!”

The barrage of reactions barely registered as a blonde girl in a bright red suit jumped in front of you. Before you could process her manic energy, she grabbed your hand, shaking it aggressively.

“It’s so, so, so amazing to meet you!” she squealed, her words coming out in a rushed blur. “Alastor’s terrifyingly aggressive wife. I mean, wow. That’s… definitely not something any of us expected.” She let out an awkward laugh, glancing nervously at the Radio Demon. “But we’re happy to have you here, nonetheless. I’m Charlie Morningstar, the owner of this hotel.”

You blinked at her, your face contorting in disgust. This girl is nuts.

She finally let go of your hand and turned to Alastor, her bubbly expression shifting to something more accusatory. “Alastor, why didn’t you tell us you have a wife?”

You sneered, crossing your arms. “Don’t stress it, sweetheart. He just forgot he had one. Probably why he vanished for almost a decade without so much as a goodbye.”

Charlie’s shoulders dropped as her gaze darted between the two of you. “I can see you two need a moment.” She gestured for the others to leave the room, her voice quieter now.

“No need,” Alastor interjected smoothly, his tone unnervingly calm. “(Y/N) was just leaving.”

You turned on him, fury sparking in your eyes. “No, I wasn’t.”

Before you could say more, he grabbed your arm and led you toward the door. “Yes. You were.”

Yanking your arm free, you jabbed a finger into his chest, your voice rising. “You don’t get to kick me out or order me around. Not now, not ever. I’ll stay if I damn well feel like it.”

Alastor’s expression didn’t falter, but his voice dropped to a dangerous murmur as he leaned close to your ear. “Darling, you are making a scene.”

Over his shoulder, you caught the awkward stares of the other demons lingering in the doorway.

“Fuck you,” you spat, shoving past Alastor. The door slammed behind you as you left the hotel, your blood boiling with every step.

╭──╯ . . . . . . . . . . ╰──╮

You prided yourself on being calm and collected. But now? Now, you were raging.

“That filthy, insolent bastard!” you snarled, pacing the room like a caged animal. Each step felt heavier, your thoughts swirling in a tempest of anger and humiliation. “He thinks he can embarrass me like this? Over and over again?”

You stopped, staring blankly at your reflection in the cracked mirror. The sound of your own scoff filled the room, bitter and hollow. “Rehabilitation for sinners. That’s a good one. Amazing! The best place for that fucker!” You let out a sharp, manic laugh, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Redemption my ass. Not even God Himself could redeem his soul.”

Your hands trembled as you ran your fingers through your disheveled hair, tugging hard enough to sting. The tears came without warning, welling up in your eyes and blurring your vision. But you blinked them away quickly, biting down on the lump in your throat. Weakness was not an option—not now, not ever.

“He’s not worth this,” you muttered under your breath, though the ache in your chest told you otherwise. You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms, as if the physical pain could somehow drown out the fury burning inside you.

Shards of glass littered the floor, glittering like cursed jewels in the dim light. The bed was nothing more than a heap of splintered wood and shredded fabric. The walls bore fresh scars—jagged holes punched through them in fits of fury. And yet, none of it made you feel better.

Alyssa cautiously approached, her hooves clicked softly against the floor, and her hands gripped her clipboard like a lifeline.

“M-my lady?” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. “Is there anything I can do for you? A glass of wine? Maybe we can visit the spa while your room is cleaned?”

You turned to her, your glare sharp enough to cut through steel. Alyssa froze, her eyes wide, and quickly took a step back. You would never hurt her—or any of your people—but the tension in the air was suffocating.

“The only thing that can calm me down right now,” you growled, pointing to the pile of rubble that used to be your bed, “is Alastor’s impaled head hanging over that bed frame.”

Alyssa swallowed hard and nodded, choosing not to push further.

You closed your eyes, forcing yourself to take a deep breath. Anger wasn’t natural for you—not like this. You hated losing control, hated the destruction it left behind. With a snap of your fingers, the room repaired itself in an instant. The glass shards disappeared, the walls smoothed over, and the bed returned to its pristine state.

For a brief moment, everything looked perfect again. But it didn’t feel that way.

Your gaze fell to your hand, where your wedding band gleamed faintly. The ring gleamed in the dim light, mocking you. You clenched your fists, trying to shove the memories down where they belonged—but they refused to stay buried. The sight of it sent another surge of anger through you. With a growl, you yanked it off and hurled it across the room.

The walls felt too close, the air too thick. Staying here wasn’t an option. You needed to leave before the anger swallowed you whole. And there was only one place you could think of to go.

Straightening your back, you took a deep breath. “I’m going out,” you said, your voice calm but still simmering with anger.

Alyssa blinked, her expression shifting from fear to concern. “Again?” she asked hesitantly.

You nodded, already heading for the door. “I’m going to see a friend.”

‿‿‿‿ ‿‿‿‿ ‿‿‿‿ ‿‿‿‿ ‿ ‿

Author’s note: I’m thinking of making a taglist for this series and other fics I’ll write in the future. Let me know if you want to be in it.

#hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin husk #hazbin adam #hazbin lucifer #hazbin art #hazbin charlie #hazbin angel dust #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin vox #hazbin oc #alastor x reader smut #alastor x reader #alastor #alastor x you #alastor x y/n

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imorynn · 4 months ago

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⋆✩ 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 ( l. calderu)

⋆✩ pairings : lilia calderu • fem!reader

⋆✩ warnings / mentions : depictions of mental health struggles, burnout, anxiety, emotional distress, comfort, mentions of nudity, baths, angst, fluff, lilia taking care of you! please prioritize your well-being

⋆✩ word count : 3k+

⋆✩ tags : @madamspellmans-met-tet

⋆✩ dividers by : @cafekitsune

⋆✩ a/n : Please remember to be kind to yourself. Take breaks if you need to, allow yourself to feel, and seek comfort in the things that bring you joy and peace. You are never alone in your struggles, and your feelings — whatever they may be — are valid, you matter. This was a little heavy to write, but I hope this brings you a bit of comfort and joy <3

The room languished in dimness, its edges tendered by the reluctant swaddle of twilight, as another indistinct day bled into obscurity. A disarray of papers sprawled across the desk — half-filled notebooks, annotated drafts, and squashed failures that harbored the scars of fleeting inspiration turned sour. Shards of fractured thoughts clung to the edge of a ceramic mug, long abandoned, its contents a cold, bitter leftover of former comfort. Amidst the disorder, a slight, rhythmic clacking emanated from the keyboard, the cadence uneven — hesitant, then rushed — each keystroke could carve coherence from the warren of your mind.

Your body had betrayed you weeks ago. Sleep came in fits and bursts, cruel in its inadequacy, leaving you more fatigued upon waking than when you had closed your eyes. Standing for longer than a few moments brought on vertigo, the world tilting like a ship caught in a storm. Your legs trembled under you; your limbs would not stop from racketing.

Even sitting upright had become an exercise in endurance, your focus slipping like grains of sand through tightened fists.

Your day-to-day flow was unmoored, the concept of time fractured into pieces of light and shadow that no longer adhered to the clock. You could not help but feel hideous, an empty shell of the person you used to be.

Even your brain, once sharp and unyielding, has turned against you. It demands stimulation, then recoils at the slightest effort, leaving you stultified and overwhelmed in equal measure. The cruel paradox is almost laughable, but you can’t even summon the energy for that.

Your posture betrayed the toll; shoulders curved under an invisible yoke, neck stiffened by hours of neglect, digits quivering with a fatigued urgency as they alternated between scrawling ink onto paper and translating disoriented thoughts onto the sterile glow of the monitor. The screen’s light painted your face in stark relief, illuminating knitted brows and eyes ringed with exhaustion.

Each line you wrote — whether traced by pen or clacked with desperate precision — felt both like a purge and a plea, a futile effort to wrest order from the chaos that churned within you. The words blurred together as you read and reread them, dissecting each syllable, cataloging for meaning in the spaces where meaning seemed to slip away.

The soft hum of the computer blended with the shift of cushions beneath you and the whisper of paper beneath your hand, a symphony of toil that bore the weight of an unrelenting inner storm. And still, you could not stop. Could not stop chasing the fleeting promise that, perhaps, the next word might finally bring clarity — or at least silence— to the tempest.

Lilia had been patient — that is, at the beginning. Truth be told, she always harbored such grand patience when it came to you. She had tried coaxing you to bed with the tenderness of a woman who had weathered storms far greater than this, easing the pen from your clutch with soft murmurs that sought to bind you in reason. But reason, elusive and foreign, had long since slipped from your grasp.

The days had obscured, each one bleeding into the next, and with them, so had her forbearance. What began as gentle encouragement turned to silent insistence, her words firmer, her gaze heavier, until tonight, she stood at the precipice of your unraveling.

Her figure filled the doorway, the tender light casting shadows across her features, etching worry into every delicate line. The ends of her maroon-painted mouth, once so immediate in baring into the warmest and sweetest smile for you, were clasped with exasperation, and her dark irises brimmed with something more profound than concern — a spiraled cord of frustration, sorrow, and love she could no longer conceal.

She found you hunched on the couch, a blanket snarled around your clammy frame, lazily draping over your dense shoulders. You did not even regard her at first, too engrossed in the haze of your own misery.

Finally, she inched forward, her footsteps measured and unhurried like the passing of time itself. Her shadow enveloped you before her voice, low and lilting with its natural timbre, sliced through the oppressive silence.

“Enough.” The utter was a soft command, steady but resolute.

You did not turn. Could not. Your gaze remained fixated on the page before you, though the words had long since dissolved into meaningless smudges. Ink bled into the fibers like a wound reopened again and again, staining your fingertips and every letter typed over, your palms, your very thoughts. “I can’t,” you rasped, barely audible, tone hollow and stretched thin. “I’m almost done.”

Her sigh was soft yet audible, a weight in the room that you couldn’t ignore. She moved closer, the ends of her skirt fluttering against the floor before her silhouette draped over your curved form in caution. “No you’re not. You’re grinding yourself into dust, darling.”

The truth in her words landed heavily, a stone descending into still water, the ripples quaking through your chest. Yet still, you refused to meet her eyes, refused to acknowledge her underlying honesty. “I said I can’t stop,” you snapped, the sharpness in your tone cracking under its own weight. “Don’t you get it, Lilia? If I stop, everything— everything, just for one second — it all falls apart. I fall apart.”

“And you think this is holding it together?” she retorted, her voice cutting, each remark peeling back another layer of your defiance. “Look at what you’re doing to yourself. Do you even remember the last time you slept? Ate something that wasn’t cold coffee or a stale bag of chips?”

The coolness of her rings bit into her digits when they tightened their hold over the cushions, trembling faintly as if she were holding back something fiercer. “I can comprehend that all those things aren’t easy for you, but you’re killing yourself, piece by piece, and for what? To prove you’re enough? To push until there’s nothing left of you?”

The room seemed to diminish in size, her words closing in around you. The dull pain in your chest spasmed, a visceral reaction to the veracity you attempted so hard in brushing aside even if it lingered, it floated, it haunted. For only a second, the sole sound was the faint hum of the computer and the shallow rasp of your breath, the silence all consuming.

Anger and despair warred for control when your arms came up to push against the table in front of you causing her to slightly step back. “You don’t understand! — You don’t know what it’s like to feel this… this useless. To not even recognize your own body, your own mind. To fail at the one thing you’ve always been good at.”

Lilia’s expression softened, the sharp brinks of her frustration giving way to something deeper, sadder. What Lilia saw brought nothing but ache and pain to her poor heart. You were unwell, eyes ringed red, and bags beneath them practically the size of a quarter. While your complexion still carried its hue, it lacked the depth the sun and proper rest brought upon you.

She moved closer, her movements deliberate but unthreatening, until she stood beside you, one of her hands grappling with wanting to reach out to still your trembling ones.

“I understand more than you think,” she declared quietly, carrying the weight of centuries you could not begin to fathom. “But this… this isn’t strength.” Her hand gestured to the mess, to your body curled in on itself, to the dark hollows beneath your eyes.

“I’m not asking you to stop because I don’t understand,” she gently spoke now but no less wavering. “I’m asking because I do. I’ve been there, trying to outrun the weight of your mind, thinking you can carry it all alone. But you can’t. No one can. And if you keep going like this…” Her voice faltered, saddened. “If you keep going like this, then I’m afraid there won’t be anything left of the woman I love to save.”

Her words maintained a weight, a force a mirror held too close — forcing you to confront the reflection of your spiraling. Your exhale clawed its way up your throat, and your hands finally went still when Lilia’s came in contact with them. The pen fell from your grip, rolling to the edge of the desk before coming to a halt.

You wanted to argue at the beginning, to push her away and retreat yourself into abyss, but the fight had been wiped out of you. The tears came all too fast, unpredictable, hot, cascading down your cheeks. “I don’t know h-how to stop,” you uttered in softness, words barely coherent over the sound of your sobs. One of your hands came up to bury into your tangled hair, defiance slipping into a broken plea. “I don’t know how.”

The space between her shoulders welcomed your exhausted physique, arms encircling to swaddle you just right because gosh, you needed this. Your head bowed into her chest as she drew you into her shawl, her heat, her strength, her homely fragrance. She did not shush you, feed you with false hopes or tell you it would be okay now; she did the simple act of holding you, her hand brushing your hair despite its matted and disheveled state, her presence grounding you, painful and necessary.

The sobs came in hash waves, wracking your body with a ferocity that left you gasping for oxygen. Lilia held you with the cradle of handling something precious, palms cradling you with the utmost care, her lips falling over your forehead in murmured reassurances.

“Come, my love,” She reached down and she coaxed you gently to your feet. She wrapped an arm around your waist and you wrapped yours around her neck for stability.

She guided you into the bathroom, positioning your body over the closed toilet seat. “Sit here while I draw you a bath. ”

You sat down with a sigh, tipping your head back against the wall behind the toilet and letting your eyelids flutter shut for a moment, trying to ignore the pounding of your temples. And although your eyes were closed, your brow remained quirked. As if even in your thoughts you came face to face with the problems you were trying to avoid.

You heard the pause of movements before a soft kiss was met with your forehead, somewhat easing all the tightness you were undergoing, and that little smile of yours was enough for her to resume her actions.

You heard the streams of water pouring, followed by the grazing shuffles of Lilia’s movements; she worked with quiet and deft efficiency, adding a few drops of oil that released a grounding aroma in the air.

Steam rose around you and lazily bent at the shape of the corners in the room with gentle swirls, carrying the fragrance of herbs and oils — lavender, chamomile, a hint of rosemary. All serene and soothing within your aching lungs as you inhaled deeply. The tinge of citrine within the atmosphere made you open your eyes, already sensing your lover hovering over you.

Lilia’s chocolate browns swirled softly with compassion and love, leaking reassurance before she crouched between your legs. “Let me help you, my heart.” Her graceful fingers worked methodically to unbutton your shirt, to slip it from your shoulders with such a tenderness that made your throat tighten, blinking back tears at the nickname she tended to call you, your head dipping down.

Her touch never lingered too long, never straying from what was necessary. When you were exposed before her, vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with nudity, she does not gaze at you with pity or repugnance. Only love. Fierce, unyielding love.

She stood from between your legs and held her hands out for you to take, which you obliged. You delicately placed your hands in hers and stood up. She untangled the strewn string of your pants and slid them down your lower body as you stepped out of them.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she husked when your forehead nuzzled a bit against her temple, her fingers moving to tuck a damp curl behind your ear.

You did not resist as she helped you into the water, the damp heat enveloping your coolness. A soreness took over, yet you welcomed the capacity of it, the tension in your muscles unwinding in increments as the heat seeped into your aching joints. “I’ll go get you a towel and set out some fresh clothes.”

You trembled from its temperature, and while the act somewhat alleviated your body’s ache, it did not reach or thaw the hollow coldness concealed in your chest. You sat in the center of the tub, knees drawn to your bare chest, shoulders hunched like a battered bird too afraid to unfold its wings. The water glimmered faintly, lavender-scented and calm, a direct contrast to the tempest inside you. You stared blandly at the surface but could not bring yourself to move.

Lilia returned back into the bathroom and was met with your expression. The light pranced across her features — those soft laugh lines, her sharp cheekbones, and her ever-watchful gaze that had always seemed to see you, truly see you. You could not bring yourself to meet those eyes now.

“I don’t know why you bother,” your whisper was as fragile as a dried leaf, barely holding itself together in the cold season of your tone. You brought your knees tighter into your abdomen, your gaze intended downward as though the clear dampness of it might envelop you entirely. “This isn’t me. I'm not going to stop — I’m not… that version of a person. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

She tilted her head, silver locks framing her features in similar shape to a halo, but her eyes blazed with something sharper than sympathy — resolve. “You’re still you, y/n.”

You shook your head vehemently, tears glazing your eyes as you attempted to form the words that gnawed at your chest. “No, Lilia, I’m not. I’m not the person you fell in love with anymore.” The words spewed out, ragged and raw and shameful. “I’m nothing. I stand here, right before the debris of everything I was, and there’s nothing left — I’m nothing. I don’t even know how… how or why am I still existing.”

Her shawl was discarded, kneeling beside you as her hands, holding a washcloth, dipped into the water and wrung it before shuffling closer. “Tilt your head back for me,” she instructed softly. It was neither commanded nor meek — it was a simple request, spoken with the intimacy of someone who knew how to speak to you when words felt unbearable.

You obeyed, streams of warm water dampening your head. You groaned softly at the feel of warm water on your scalp, slowly letting yourself melt against her touch. Grabbing a bottle of shampoo, she poured a generous amount upon her palm before finding its way to your hair. Discarded from her signature rings, her fingers followed and worked through the unkempt tangles with infinite patience, scrubbing away the residue of neglect, her touch both practical and reverent.

“I know it’s hard to stop,” she began, her hands moving in leisured, circular motions. “You think if you stop, everything will fall apart. That there’s no time to rest. But your body is telling you otherwise. You need to learn and listen. You are wrong, you aren't debris. You are not a ruin.”

A dry and bitter laugh emerged, and you glanced at her finally, your tears uniting with the water droplets pelting your skin, not even sparing a care if the burn of suds collided with your vision.

“Look at me,” you croaked. “Look at me, Lilia. I can barely stand without falling over. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. My body is falling apart, my mind’s barely hanging on, my heart — the very heart you say that’s yours and that you love isn’t good! You're right, there's nothing left to save! And I don’t — I don’t know how to put it all back together.”

Your breath hitched as a sob tore through you. “I don’t know why you’re still here. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t … if you didn’t love me anymore.”

“How dare you.”

You blinked, taken aback, oxygen cutting off as you completely met her gaze. Her orbs were moistened, yet they were fierce, unfaltering in their intensity.

“How dare you think so little of my love,” she spoke firmly and loudly and hurt laced every utterance. Foamed fingers wounded around your shoulders and turnt you towards her in one smooth motion. “Do you think my love is conditional? That it’s so fragile, so shallow, that it would shatter because you are struggling? You, who have shown and given me everything — every piece of yourself, every ounce of your light, your soul, who has taught me to find my way back. Do you think I would abandon you now, when you need me most?”

Her words demolished you, the sheer force of them tearing through the walls you had built around your remorse and despair. Streaks of tears once more down your drenched cheeks, her thumbs stroking them away, her fingers swiftly swatting back the mingled water and soap from your eyes as she tipped your chin up and lightly kissed your forehead.

“My darling girl, let me continue helping you. Let me take care of you. You do not have to endure this all alone.”

With a soft nod from you and another kiss from her, this time directed to your lips, she gently turned you around and proceeded to wash your hair, thoroughly swilling every bit.

She then gathered a washcloth and preferred body wash, dipped it into the water, and rubbed it together to get it foamed. She washed you with exact loving care, moving the immersed rag over your tired muscles, cleansing away the grime and the heaviness of the past weeks. She hummed softly under her breath — a melody you do not recognize but find comforting in the velvet brittle of her octave nonetheless — and you close your eyes, surrendering to her ministrations.

"Your hand?" As she uprose fully, without wasting a second you gave her your fingers to hold, and she steadied you onto your feet as you stepped out. She huddled you out of the tub and bundled you in the fuzziest towel you loved. One palm cradled the curve of your cheek while the other steadied upon your covered waist. "let's get you dressed, my love."

You sat at the hem of the bed, partaking in drying yourself up — though she wouldn't allow it — as she smoothed your lotion over your parched skin, gingerly taking in the way the ointment dissolved across your shoulders that was ensued with a soft kiss.

"You are not debris," she repeated as she slid your limbs into fresh and comfy clothes, aware of the way your eyes brimmed with tears. "You are not a ruin, and you most certainly are not 'nothing'." Her movements were unhurried, as though time itself had decelerated and permitted her this moment to care for you.

She does not allow you to lift a finger, guiding you to the bed with a patience that feels endless. The sheets were warm, the pillows plumped just so, and she tucked you beneath the blankets before nestling in beside you.

Those cinnamon brown pools engulfed you in their safety assisted with the loving strokes of her fingers upon the side of your face. "If you fall, then I will be there to catch you. And If you cannot sleep, then I will hold you. If you cannot think, then allow me to hold those thoughts for you. If you fall apart, and your mind is barely grasping onto reality, I am going to help build you up again, and again, and again. Every version of you, I love and will continue to love. You are here right now, and that is all that matters to me."

Her arms embraced you in a way that left no ounce for uncertainty —you are hers, and she will care for you, no matter how broken you feel. The pads of her fingers continue soothing patterns on your back, her lips landing in tender kisses on your temple, the crown of your head, your soaked cheeks. “You are not a burden,” The warmth of her words bristled through your shaggy tresses. “You are my love. My heart, do you understand? Let me hold you.”

And so you do. You give her the privilege to hold you, relinquishing to her love. It does obliterate the chaos or untangle the knots within you— it simply cannot, unfortunately. Though in her arms, the compressing load you have carried alone for so long felt just a fraction lighter. The tightness in your chest allayed, the burn in your throat simmered down, and the tears you had been swallowing for the past days ebbed. You nestled your head in the hollow of her neck, her heartbeat lulled your aching joints, your segmented soul, your tender flesh, and you let those fatigued eyes of yours droop shut with the feel of her lips touching your forehead.

#agatha all along #patti lupone #lilia calderu #patti lupone x reader #marvel #agatha all along x reader #lilia calderu agatha all along #lilia calderu x fem!reader #lilia calderu x reader #lilia x reader #𝐢𝐫𝐲𝐧 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 ── 🎐ᝰ.

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thewitchandtheassassin · 7 days ago

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Life, Death, and the Space in Between Final Part (Agatha Harkness x Reader x Rio Vidal)

Summary: Choices are made--and lives are changed forever.

Words: 2113

Warnings: Mentions of death, dying, language, magic, etc.

A/N: We made it to the end y'all... good luck, have tissues. Also--I need to redo my taglist so if you wanna be on it, lemme know.

Agatha paced back and forth in front of the campfire for what felt like hours, her feet worn raw and her nails bit into the quick as she chewed on them absently. Rio was sitting in the grass along the Road’s edge, a mighty tempest of wind and leaves shielding you from view.

From her.

She’d done a lot of terrible things in her lifetime—maimed, killed, psychologically tortured, technically killed Sparky—but of all the choices she’d ever made, this was the only one she felt ashamed of. Guilty as she imagined you lying in Rio’s lap, the color fading from your cheeks, the warmth of your skin cooling into something she never thought would be possible for someone so full of…

Life.

“There has to be something,” she hissed to herself, panic blossoming in her chest as she heard Rio whispering to you, her voice lost in the storm surrounding you both.

-X-

Delicate fingers threaded through your dirty hair, Rio’s face never more than a few inches away from your own.

“Please, baby. Please… you can’t do this to me… I don’t know how to exist without you. Please…” she pressed her forehead to yours, breathing you in as her voice cracked desperately. “I don’t know how to be Death without Life…”

You groaned in pain and Rio could only watch in heartbroken horror as the veins under your skin darkened, trailing from your temple down into your cheek, stopping just at the corner of your mouth.

“No, no, no…” she exhaled, eyes welling up with tears. “You can’t do this to me, (Y/N)! Stop! I can’t lose you too!”

-X-

Agatha’s heart split wide in her chest at the fear in Rio’s voice, her hands trembling as it settled in—truly—what she’d done. For centuries she’d blamed you both for the loss of Nicky. Hated seeing your faces, even when she couldn’t bring herself to truly forget them, because they just reminded her of him. Of your little boy that only had a few years of life with her…

But most of all, she hated herself for being able to save him. No matter how much magic she stole—what she learned and unlearned and relearned—nothing could undo what had been done. She couldn’t bring him back and she couldn’t bring herself to let go of her hatred…

And it cost her everything, in the end. Her lovers, her happiness…

“Having a child with us, it isn’t… sustainable, darling,” you had warned her, devastation on your features. “We aren’t meant to bring flesh and blood into existence. Even if we succeeded, the child wouldn’t survive the magic. Not for long… to be a cosmic being means mortal bodies cannot contain it. And the child would be, at least, half cosmic being. We’re not human, even if we wear its face and use its name. We are beings beyond existence and it would tear the child apart.”

And she had pleaded with you both to just—

Try.

Only to hate you when the truth of what you spoke came into being. Her little boy incapable of remaining in a mortal vessel, growing weaker with each passing day…

Never once had you lied to her. Never once did you pretend some divine intervention would save him. You had fought—every single day—to keep him breathing until the body was too damaged to continue on…

And she’d spit.

In.

Your.

Face.

Stumbling over to the maelstrom of Rio’s despair, Agatha kneeled in front of the swirling wind. “Was she right? About… Nicky? Is he… like you two?”

The storm froze, like a spinning door caught by a hand, and for a moment, she didn’t think Rio would answer her before—

“Yes. But he cannot leave the cosmic realms like she and I can. We tried… God, Agatha, we both tried so fucking hard to give him a way to see you again. Did you think we just forgot? That we didn’t care? (Y/N) spent every moment of ten years trying to find a way to let him travel back to this realm—and it nearly destroyed them both.”

A broken sob escaped Agatha’s throat before she could choke it back, tears trickling down her mud-smudged cheeks as the storm parted and you both came in view. Rio, with tears of her own and fear on her lips, and you…

Oh God, you…

“I’m so sorry,” Agatha whispered, crawling closer to your limp body. “You fucking idiot. You should’ve left me there. I deserved it.”

She pressed her forehead against yours, surprised when Rio didn’t protest. She simply held you tighter, tears dripping down her cheeks as she stared at the scene.

“Couldn’t… leave… you…” a shaky, raspy croak slipped from your lips.

Agatha choked out another violent, shattered sob as she cradled your face. Your skin was clammy beneath her touch—

“You should’ve. I would’ve deserved it! You… baby, we can’t… I can’t lose you. I just found you again…”

Your soft, stunned laugh devolved into a coughing fit as you curled tighter against Rio’s chest. “You haven’t called me ‘baby’ in a long time, Aggie.”

“I should’ve. I never should’ve stopped. Not with either of you.” Agatha’s eyes met Rio’s and she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against Rio’s shoulder as she cried. “I am so, so sorry.”

Rio stared down at your sickly, sunken face. “You’re dying, (Y/N), and I don’t know how to fix this. You were always the one who planned while I just burned everything to the ground and danced in the fire. I don’t… I don’t know how to be you! How to exist without you beside me! You’re my balance.”

She whimpered. “How do I live without the other half of my soul?”

As your breathing grew shallow, you nuzzled closer to Rio. “You’ll be okay… you’ve always been the stronger one, darling. Maybe now you both can find your peace together,” you whispered against her throat, feeling it tremble.

“No, no, no. Don’t do that. Don’t close your eyes. You have to give me more time to figure something out. Please…” Rio begged, clutching you like she was trying to keep your soul trapped in your body a little longer. “You can’t go yet.”

You pressed your hand weakly against her chest, where a heart would beat, and smiled faintly. “I will always be a part of you, baby. Death never truly exists without Life.”

Tears poured down her cheeks as she slid her hand atop yours, keeping it against her skin. “(Y/N), stay. I need you…”

Your breathing came in shorter gasps, body trembling as the veins darkened, spreading down your throat and hands, beyond the clothing on your torso…

“…you’re a part of me,” Rio mumbled, brows furrowing together as her grip tightened around your hand. “Oh, (Y/N), you fucking idiotic genius.”

You didn’t respond, body too weak and corrupted as you slumped against her, ever-slowly losing the battle to the realm of Death.

She lifted you up and carried you into the Road, laying you down in a patch of moonlight as she hurriedly yanked her dagger from its sheathe and ran it along her hand, watching the nearly onyx blood well up. Cutting a slit in your shirt, she pressed the blade over your heart and carved a small line down the center until, what was once almost white blood now turned black, bubbled to the surface.

“I am a part of you… you are a part of me… let your burdens be mine. Let me carry the weight of your calling with the strength of my being,” she murmured, covering the cut with her bleeding hand as she stared down at you. “C’mon, baby…”

Your body jerked once beneath her hand—a flicker, a twitch—but then…

Nothing.

Just silence.

“No,” Rio gasped, voice cracked and raw. “No, no, no—dammit, don’t do this to me!”

Agatha watched in silent grief as you remained still, the veins pulsing under your skin as it began to drag you under before…

“You can’t do this alone,” Agatha muttered in realization, dropping to her knees beside you and snagging Rio’s dagger, slicing her own hands open without hesitation. “Life and Death are a cycle but there was to be something to bridge them, right? That’s what us lowly mortals are—that bridge.”

She cut another line across your chest before reaching for Rio’s free hand and cutting her palm, a surprisingly clean line despite the trembling of her hand.

“I fucked this up. I ruined this… let me fix it now. Please.” Agatha looked at Rio softly, in a way she hadn’t in centuries. “Please, my love.”

Rio’s jaw clenched before she took Agatha’s hand in her own, watching Agatha suck in a deep, pained breath as Rio’s magic poured through her. It was hot and wrong, burning her alive from the inside out but she didn’t fight it as her other hand fell over your chest, her blood seeping into your wound.

Agatha gritted her teeth as the pain flared, her mortality flaring against a magic her body was never supposed to know—but she held, her blood mingling with Rio’s, mixing with yours, seeping into the line carved down your chest like ink bleeding into old parchment.

Rio leaned over you, her voice unsteady but firm. “Three parts. Life. Death. Mortal. A balance. A trinity.” Her thumb stroked your cheek, reverent, aching. “We don’t exist without each other—and we were never whole until we found Agatha. You said it yourself. We needed her… but now we need you.”

Agatha’s voice was raw as she echoed, “I bind myself to you. I hold the weight of what I’ve broken. I stay, because I love you. I stay because I’m sorry. Because I never stopped loving you, I just didn’t know how to grieve with you. How to not blame you…”

Their joined hands pressed down over your heart as they whispered in tandem—an incantation not spoken in words, but in feeling, in memory, in regret and love and desperate, clawing hope.

“Please, baby… we need you,” Rio begged softly.

Agatha laughed wetly. “You said I haven’t called you that in a long time. Open your eyes and I’ll never stop saying it. I promise… please, (Y/N).”

There was a heavy silence that settled over the Road as the coven watched in mournful silence as Life herself lay lifeless in the moonlight. Until—

The sky cracked open above them, not with sunlight, but with color—shimmering threads of violet, green, and white weaving together in the air like a loom being drawn taut. It was magnificent and utterly unnerving as it buried itself in your chest before the strand of green connected with Rio—and the purple wound itself around Agatha. Then, they swirled together, a perfect cord of color stringing you together.

The ground beneath you pulsed once—twice—before your body arched sharply, a breath catching in your throat, dragging air like you’d never tasted it before.

And then—

Your eyes opened.

“…holy fuck,” you muttered.

Rio’s laugh burst out, wild and disbelieving, soaked in tears and raw relief. “Oh my God—holy fuck is right.” Her hand cupped your cheek, thumb trembling as it stroked across your skin like she couldn’t believe it was warm again. Like she had to be sure she wasn’t lost in a grief-induced hallucination.

Agatha choked on a sob, half-laughing through it, her fingers hovering over your chest as she whispered, “You stubborn, stupid, beautiful creature…” Her voice cracked, falling into a hoarse whisper. “You came back.”

“…I can feel you. Both of you,” you murmured, blinking up at the barrage of color in the sky. “I… do I have two heartbeats now?”

There, steadily in your chest, was the heartbeat you’d carried with you for eons—and a new, softer heartbeat you’d recognize anywhere.

Agatha’s.

You could hear the coven whispering amongst themselves excitedly, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care as you sat upright, catching Agatha’s face between your hands and kissing her deeply, letting the moment linger as you tried to relearn the taste you’d lost so long ago.

“I’ve missed you, Aggie. I told you that you were always the piece of us we needed, even when it all fell apart…”

Agatha’s face broke with relieved devastation as she pressed her forehead against yours. Maybe things weren’t fixed—maybe it’d take lifetimes to unravel the hurt and anger and pain—but in that moment, none of it fucking mattered.

Because you came back…

And now Life and Death had the bridged the space in between.

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness imagine #rio vidal imagine #agathario x reader #rio vidal x reader #reader insert #reader imagine #mcu imagine #marvel imagine #agatha all along #agatha harkness #rio vidal

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damneddamsy · 6 months ago

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second sight | cregan stark x oc (part viii)

a/n: today on a special angst-fluff episode, war is here. Claere faces off with Sylas and Cregan is pissed as fuck.

"The North remembers," they said, but in the face of dragonfire, memories of ash smouldered in secret.

The saying haunted Cregan Stark’s mind as he stared up at the approaching stone walls of Winterfell, each one steeped in history, in blood, in the scars of northern pride. The wildlings had brought ruin here before, flames that had charred whole villages and left deep wounds in the land and its people.

Now, with Sylas the Grim’s ruthless host threatening their borders, the North knew what it faced—a familiar terror comes to life in a new skin. And yet, this time, that terror was woven with something the North found even harder to bear: Claere. Their frustration with her burned as deep as their fear of Sylas. She was a tempest, one with a dragon’s shadow, and the tempest had now come home.

The ride back from Castle Cerwyn had been tense, Cregan keeping his jaw clenched as Claere remained distant, her silence like a wall. Her eyes held that distant, unreadable look he recognized all too well—the look that told him she was utterly unreachable elsewhere. And when the raven had come, when they’d learned the wildlings had already torn through Queensgate and were now barreling toward Winterfell, Claere’s decision was swift and absolute. She had urged her dragon, Luna, and flown on ahead, faster than any horse could travel, her need for solitude all too clear.

Back home, Winterfell was in turmoil. Word of Sylas’s raiders had spread quickly, stirring panic and outrage among the smallfolk and the highborn alike. Fear clung to the stone walls, and every murmur seemed to echo with the name of the wildling king who rode south of the Wall, the one who dared invoke a queen’s name—a southern majesty who bore a northern title, one that Winterfell was not wholly at ease with. But Cregan had no time for doubt or hesitation. His vassals, his bannermen—they would follow his lead or face his wrath.

In the great hall, the mood was dark and simmering, like a storm straining at its bounds. It has been this way ever since Claere had stepped foot into his home.

Lord Bolton, face sharp as a flint, crossed his arms and let his displeasure be known. “We’re to fight her war now, are we, my lord? Our sons and daughters—our lives spent to drive back the blood she’s drawn? What loyalty do we owe to a Targaryen?”

Cregan’s eyes darkened, his fists tight by his side, but he remained composed. “Our loyalty is to the North. This enemy does not care who reigns here; only Winterfell falls. And you will address Lady Stark with respect.”

Lord Ryswell, his brow heavy with disdain, shook his head. “But it is the White Dread's wings that drew their eye. This Sylas did not come for Winterfell—he came for her. Let her face him with her beast; let her burn them herself. Must we spill our blood to clean up her folly?”

Cregan’s hands trembled, his patience thinning like a frayed cord.

“If you would run when danger calls at our gates, then perhaps you belong south of the Neck, Lord Ryswell,” he spat, stepping toward him with a fury that made the air crackle. “Do not forget who leads here. You’re bound by the oath to fight for the North, and if you turn your back on that now, I will have your head before the wildlings can take it.”

Ryswell tensed, glancing around as other lords shifted uncomfortably. But he did not back down. “This is your queen’s doing, Lord Stark. She must carry the burden she’s brought upon us, and not cower behind our banners while Winterfell suffers.”

With a flash of uncontained rage, Cregan seized Ryswell by the collar, his grip vice-tight, fingers digging into the thick fabric as he hauled the lord off balance. The impact against the stone wall was brutal, echoing in the quiet tension of the hall, and Ryswell’s startled breath hitched, his eyes widening.

Cregan leaned in, his face mere inches from Ryswell’s, voice low and simmering with menace as he hissed, “If you question my wife's allegiance to the North, then you best prepare to prove yours. She has done more for my people than your risen banners.”

Lord Bolton dared to govern order over the Stark court. "My lord, please—"

“Let me make one thing clear." His voice reverberated louder. "I will fight for her, and the North will fight for her—whether you bend or break.”

He released Ryswell, who stumbled back with a dark glare, but Cregan paid no more heed. He swept his gaze over the others, a steely finality in his eyes.

“We stand together, or our realm falls.”

Unbeknownst to them, Claere lingered in the archway of the hall, a palm against the cool stone as if bracing herself against a tidal wave. She had known the risks, known the delicate line she walked when she ventured past the Wall. And yet, in the depths of her mind, she had believed the danger would end there—with her. That it would be her own fate to face, her choice to defend, and her consequence to bear. She had never thought it would ripple out, consuming not only Winterfell but every corner of the North in the threat of savage war. Now, with Sylas the Grim bearing down on them, the cost was spreading like poison through a wound, infecting all she held dear, casting a shadow over the very halls that had given her sanctuary.

The impact of her actions goaded her, as though Winterfell itself whispered its disappointment. She felt her stomach churn as Cregan's voice rang out, his fury cracking against stone and iron like thunder, defiant, desperate to protect her.

“And I will not allow any man here to see that happen.”

But she could feel the resentment in the lords' voices, their scorn a silent sentence upon her. Their words seemed to cut deeper than any northern frost, digging into her heart until the shame became unbearable.

Without a word, she turned away from the door, her footsteps echoing hollowly as she walked into the dim solitude of the hall.

Claere moved through the towering gates of Winterfell as if stepping out from a world she could no longer right. The northern wind tore at her cloak, pulling stray strands of silver hair across her face, but her gaze was steady, her jaw set with silent resolve.

Just beyond the walls, Luna lay blanketed in a thin dusting of fresh snow, her pearly scales glinting beneath as she shook herself free, the icy fragments scattering around her like stardust. Claere approached, running her hand along the dragon’s warm, rumbling hide, fingers tracing the edges of Luna's scales.

"Eman naejot addemmagon se odre," she said to herself and her dragon. I have to pay the price. Only me.

Luna’s golden eyes narrowed as if the dragon understood more than the simple cadence of her words, the fire at the heart of those depths a spark of both promise and warning. The dragon let out a low, vibrating hum, pressing her enormous head down toward Claere in something almost like tenderness. Claere, hands splayed on Luna’s snout, whispered into the space between them, her voice scarcely above a breath.

“Iksan zūgagon, Luna," she admitted in a whisper. "Kessa ao dohaeragon nyke?” I am scared, Luna. Will you help me?

The response was a fierce snort of smoke as if Luna were granting her blessing and all her reassurance. It was not enough.

Dutifully, Claere climbed the ropes of the saddle and mounted her steed, her knees pressing tight against Luna’s warm scales, and then, with a shout that cut the still air—“Soves, Luna!”—they took to the skies. Fly, Luna!

The winds sliced against her, battering her with an unyielding chill as they soared. She had forgone her riding leathers in the haste of her choice, the coarse wind whipping at her skirts and cloak, cutting against her skin. But the discomfort was a faraway thing and such was the spontaneity of dragonblood. She flew fast, intent, her mind ablaze with thoughts of everything she had left behind and what lay ahead. Her vision sharpened as she scanned the frozen lands below, hunting for signs of the enemy’s encampment.

And finally, there—sprawling like some savage scar against the land—a camp of tattered tents and ash-dusted fires spread in defiance of the snow.

The wildlings’ camp was a raw display of grit and disorder, tents lashed together with hide and bone, rings of fire smouldering where warriors gathered in restless clusters. The sight of her shadow looming overhead sent them into frantic motion; men and women darted for weapons, cries ringing out as they readied for the worst. But Claere had no intention of launching fire or fury from above. She descended steadily, bringing Luna’s menacing form to the ground with a long, deafening roar that sent nearby men staggering.

Two wildlings rushed forward, their faces painted in streaks of ash, axes drawn, arrows already nocked in their bows. They moved with lethal purpose, but Claere was unfazed, her gaze like tempered steel.

“I must speak to the one who calls himself Sylas the Grim,” she called, her voice emphatic, tenacious.

She could feel the wild energy of Luna at her back, a silent reminder of the fire she could unleash with a mere command. Her heart hammered in the pause, yet her expression held no threat, no violence. Instead, her intentions were more profound—steeped in duty and sacrifice, fueled by a desperate love that outweighed all her fears. She was not here to rain death but to offer herself to the one who wanted her, the one who had torn peace from her hands.

“Tell him the Dragon Queen in the North is here.”

Claere stepped into the dim tent, the heavy fabric rustling behind her as it closed, sealing her within a space that reeked of sweat, smoke, and damp fur. Her eyes adjusted to the flickering torchlight, revealing a figure looming at the centre—a man so solid and coarse that he seemed an extension of the savage north itself.

Sylas the Grim. He was far taller than Cregan, broad-shouldered and massive, his age betrayed by streaks of grey in his wild mane of red hair. He wore pelts and leathers, smeared with the earth and blood of countless battles and raids, and every inch of him seemed sharpened by a life spent enduring the elements and taking what he desired.

Two guards, as fierce as hounds, lingered on either side of him, but with a single dismissive flick of his wrist, they shuffled out.

"I want her to myself," he said to them.

Sylas’s mouth twisted into a grin that split his face into his bushy beard, yellowed teeth gleaming. His eyes traced her form with a gluttonous curiosity like she were some rare prey he’d finally snared after a long, arduous hunt. Claere moved further into the tent, her posture poised, her gaze inscrutable, her calm an unsettling contrast to the predatory air he exuded.

She dipped into a curtsey, uncertain how a man like this might wish to be addressed. “My lord, allow me a proper introduction. I am Claere Stark, Lady of Winterfell.”

He let out a bark of laughter, coarse and unrestrained. “My lord? Am I your lord? I'll be King Sylas soon enough.” His eyes roamed over her, lingering at her shoulders, then her face, savouring every inch. “You’re too little for a queen. Just a baby. How old are you?”

A faint chill settled into her voice. “Six and ten, my lord. My mother is still the queen.”

Sylas’s smile widened, a feral gleam lighting his eyes. “And you will be someday. You're already a woman.”

The words hung between them, fraught with the ominous weight of his intent. Claere’s pulse quickened beneath her skin, but she remained as marble, knowing his hunger for power, for something beyond the life he’d known, radiated from every gesture. Her dragon, her birthright, the North—these were the spoils he craved. He leaned forward, his massive figure closing in, an aura of raw ferocity emanating.

Sylas's lips twisted into a grin that dripped with satisfaction as he stepped closer, his broad frame casting a shadow that swallowed the light around them. He folded his arms, leaning back with a smug, wolfish glint in his eye.

“Did you fly all this way for me?”

“I did, my lord.” Her voice was measured, smooth—a tempered blade he hadn’t yet managed to dull.

“Oh, I like it when you call me that,” he mused, his eyes glinting with perverse pleasure. “Makes me feel like a god.” He let the words roll over her, savouring each one, circling her like a predator with fresh meat. “So,” he continued, his voice lilting with mock surprise, “you’ve come to beg for mercy, then? The little queen, down on her knees? Not to kill the Stark boy?”

Claere lifted her chin, her expression as serene and cold as winter’s first frost. “You wanted me,” she said, her words quiet, unyielding. “Now you have me.”

A ripple of something feral passed through him, his grin widening into a leer, his pride feeding on her defiance.

“I don't plan on letting go. Now tell me, does the North know it bends to me through you?” His gaze roamed over her, possessive, as if she were no more than a prize he had finally claimed. “I wonder, does the wolf know that his doe strayed into the wild?”

“If you require words,” she replied, “then speak them plainly. But do not think to bait me.”

Sylas let out a bark of laughter, filling the tent with his raw, unrestrained mirth.

“Words, little queen?” he sneered. “No, I’ve got no need for words. Only the strength to take what’s mine.” He took another step toward her, his gaze alight with victory, his looming presence attempting to smother the quiet resolve in her eyes.

"Winterfell,” he paused, his gaze hardening, “the Iron Throne. And with you by my side, the North will rule the South.”

She saw it now, the intent beneath his words, as clear as day: he wanted her claim, her blood, her dragon—and through her, dominion over the entire realm. He sought the legitimacy of her claim, so unlike the Free Folk who lived outside the law. She felt the desire in his gaze sharpen, like a wolf that had tasted blood. Claere remained unbowed, every inch of her regal bearing intact, meeting his eyes with a steady defiance that amused him.

“You're a pretty girl. None are like you past the Wall—shiny things are rare in the white woods,” he mused, lifting a calloused hand to touch the edge of her lip with his thumb. His skin was rough, the gesture slow and deliberate, a feigned intimacy that carried a threat.

“I've heard about your kind. Nasty cunts, you lot. Kings with dragons for cocks. Queens that piss fire. Brother-fuckers. What were you doing out there in the snow, hm?”

His thumb lingered, the weight of it pressing against her lip, but her eyes were deadened, as though she were looking through him rather than at him. His proximity, his words—none of it shook her. She saw him for what he was, a man intent on conquest, and she would not give him the pleasure of rattling her.

“Only what’s trivial to your eyes, my lord,” she answered with measured calm, her gaze unwavering.

“Aye, maybe so,” he grunted, though the words fell bitterly from his mouth. His gaze hardened, refusing to be bested by her poise. “But you were still stupid enough to catch my eye.” His words held the bitterness of a hunter who’d finally cornered the game he’d long sought.

In truth, Sylas had spotted her months before, that slip of silver moving through the snow, a ravishing figure set apart from the northern world. He saw his chance then—a dragon rider alone, his path to dominance over more than just a scattered wildling host. He could claim the North through her, and if fate allowed, the world beyond it.

Finally, he moved his hand away and stood back, his grin widening. “But why’d you come to me? These are my lands now. You could’ve burned all my men from up there with that dragon and saved yourself the trouble.”

Claere gave a small, almost careless smile, the tilt of her head catching the dim candlelight in the tent. “You wanted me, didn’t you?” she replied, her voice smooth, level.

Sylas let out a scoff, though the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “Came for a good fuck with a king?”

Claere blinked. “I've got that settled, my lord.”

“Ooh. No, no, that’s not it. I see it in those weird fuckin' eyes.” He bent to her eye level, the smell of woodsmoke and something sharper coming off him in waves.

“You came to kill me,” he said.

“Hmm.” Claere’s lips curved slightly, her smile a barely there promise, tinged with dark certainty. “Fortunately for you, it isn't my hands that bring your death.”

The smile faded from his face, leaving a flare of anger there, a crack in his façade. His eyes narrowed, and before she could move, his hand shot out and twisted in her thick braids, pulling her head back roughly, his face inches from hers. Claere stubbornly smothered a cry of pain in her throat.

“You think that wolf of yours is going to protect you, huh?”

Claere only sighed, her calm as impervious as ever, even as her hair tugged sharply. Her eyes, blank as winter’s endless fields, never left his face, every ounce of his threat barely a breeze against her. And just as he opened his mouth to press further, a shadow passed over the tent, the sound of heavy breathing growing closer—a thunderous exhale, deep as the earth.

“I was born with a guardian.” Claere countered softly. “My dragon is here. The wolf is a blessing.”

Sylas’s fingers twitched against her scalp, but his grip was weaker now, a flicker of doubt creeping into his predatory stare as Luna’s shadow shifted just beyond the tent walls, her breath a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the earth beneath them.

Claere’s eyes glinted with quiet defiance as she met his gaze, her lips barely moving as she murmured, “I could say the word.” Her voice was silk over steel. “Let her burn us both here, finish this battle before it ever begins. But my husband waits for me—and he’s ready to repay in kind.”

Sylas’s face twisted, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “You think I'm scared of that boy? I killed his Night's Watch commander. I killed all those crows. I rode through the Wall for you, little queen, I don't care if he's shitting bricks when I put my axe in his head.”

“Strange,” she replied smoothly, “that you would bring all these men to capture a single girl before you march on King's Landing.” Her gaze drifted over him, cool and measuring. “Or is that all you can manage, my lord? Three thousand strong, and not a one with the grit to face the boy who stands in your way?”

He sneered, tightening his grip on her hair, another now closed around her neck, yet something in his posture had faltered, his shoulders stiffening. “I don’t need to fight him to take what’s mine.”

“Then why not march to Winterfell yourself?” Her smile was taunting, almost pitying, like a spark dancing in the shadows. “Do you fear he’ll be waiting for you at the gates? Do you fear he'll cleave your head before you can cross him?”

Sylas’s jaw clenched, his dark eyes blazing with something close to fury.

"I've seen Cregan Stark fight," she went on. "He doesn’t tire, doesn’t yield. Your three thousand could be thirty thousand, and it would make no difference. You cannot break him, he is winter itself."

His grip on her hair tightened. “Careful, girl. You’re not as untouchable as you think.”

“But I am,” Claere replied, unruffled, leaning in until her voice was a whisper only he could hear. “You know it as well as I do. Your strength lies in numbers, yet here you are—grappling with a girl and a shadow.” She leaned back, bored now. “Go home, Sylas, if you value the lives of your men. They didn’t come here to die for your pride.”

Sylas’s sneer softened, a slight uncertainty that only strengthened her resolve. He might have come to conquer, but at that moment, it was clear who held the true power in the tent.

A sudden blink released him of hesitation. His fingers roughly released Claere’s hair with a grudging smirk, as though her words had somehow shifted the game in his mind. He let her step back, looking her up and down as if appraising a newfound bounty. A flicker of excitement gleamed in his eyes—a dark eagerness that reeked of arrogance.

“Go on, then,” Sylas drawled, waving her away with a lazy flick of his hand. “Run back to your wolf and tell him I’m coming. No more raiding, no more warnings. I'll take his head his doe and the entire North at Winterfell’s gates myself.”

Claere held his gaze as she stepped back, unruffled, allowing a cool smile to curve her lips. She brushed her hands down her silver curls, arranging them around her shoulders patiently.

“Tell him yourself. I’m certain he’d love to hear it from you. My husband loves a good fight, you see.”

Sylas laughed, a booming, feral sound. “Oh, I will. I’ll bring him to his knees, make him watch while I put a prince in your belly. You’ll forget that Stark soon enough, little queen, or he'll just go deaf from hearing you scream.”

His smile was wide, boastful, but behind it lingered the faintest hint of unease—a silent recognition of the words she’d left with him, like whispers of ice drifting through the heat of his fury.

“Primitive talk from a primitive man. You’d better bring all of your legions, then,” she replied, her voice soft, but her words as pointed as any blade. “You’ll need them.”

“Little silver-haired bitch,” Sylas indistinctly growled under his breath, as if speaking aloud would bring forth the White Dread's fiery ire.

And with that, she politely inclined her head and turned, stepping out into the icy winds with her chin held high, leaving Sylas in the shadow of her dragon’s looming presence, casting him in darkness.

Cregan sat hunched over a sprawling table strewn with hastily drawn maps, half-finished sketches of battle formations, and advice from every corner of his bannermen. Some had urged caution, wary of the wildlings’ numbers and the risk to their forces. Others, bold and battle-worn, advocated for a bold strike north, encouraging him to meet Sylas with all the fire and fury of Winterfell’s strength. Yet for all their words, Cregan found himself constantly drifting back to one thought—to ride north alone, with Ice at his back, and hack down the wildling scourge himself.

The capriciousness of his decision kept him so absorbed he didn’t hear the door open or her soft steps on the stone floor. It wasn’t until she brushed past him, a warm hand resting on his shoulder, that he looked up, startled. All the exhaustion in his eyes fled, a reaction to whenever she graced him with her presence. He sat up straighter, eager to have her close.

Claere. She wore a faint smile, so casual, so beautiful, like she hadn’t spent the last days keeping to herself, hiding in plain sight, avoiding him like winter's fever. Before he could speak, she leaned in and kissed the arc of his cheek.

"Husband," she greeted quietly.

He stilled, pleasantly confused, but found himself responding instinctively, returning her kiss with a soft press of his lips to her temple. She stood beside him, hands clasped behind her back, violet eyes inspecting his plans, her experience an unspoken mystery. A hurricane in the guise of a summer breeze.

Then, he noticed it—a faint, unfamiliar scent. His brow furrowed as he sniffed the air again.

“What is that?”

She held his gaze, placid as ever. “Dragon. I was riding Luna,” she answered, her tone simple, almost childlike. Her eyes sparkled with innocent mischief, but the smell lingered, feral and sharp, more like wild meat than dragon flight.

He looked closer, and that’s when he saw it—a sickly green, darkening bruise hidden under the veil of her silver hair, two thumb-sized marks pressed just below her hairline. He stood up, anxiety overwhelming in a second, reaching toward her, but she sidestepped him smoothly, her gaze sliding to the floor.

“I fell,” she murmured, her voice light as air.

He let out an incredulous laugh, reaching for her chin to tilt her face toward him. “Here I thought you despised lies.”

Claere’s cool, unflinching gaze remained fixed on the floor for a long, unbearable second before she lifted it, unbothered by his anxieties.

"I flew to the wildling camps on the undern. To meet with Sylas the Grim.”

For a heartbeat, there was only stunned silence.

Cregan's hand dropped from her chin, falling to his side as if struck. Finally, when her situation registered, the words came, heated and fierce.

“You what?” Cregan’s voice was low, simmering. He rubbed at his eyes, sighing out, before he pointed to her bruise. "He did that then?"

She nodded. "I pushed him too far. My mistake."

“Are you mad?" he hissed.

She swallowed hard, stroking at the numbing bruise on her neck, and said nothing.

He flouted her concerning remark. "I defended you to my council—to men who would sooner see you gone than risk their lives for you! I’ve called all my banners, raised every able sword in the North—for you—and you thought it wise to stake your life before that wildling scum?”

He looked at her, half-expecting her to flinch under his fury. But she only watched him back, observant, enduring as stone, her lips pressed thin. Her calm only ignited him further.

“I spent hours preparing our defences, convincing them to stand with you, while you—” he clenched his fists—“while you went and met with the very man who could've struck you down with his bare hands. Alone!”

The crack came swift and sharp—a fire flaring to life behind her violet gaze, a flash of defiance as fierce as the flame inside her.

“I don't care, Cregan. I wanted to do the same for you.” she snapped, her silver tongue lashing. “I want to defend you. To protect you, before Sylas. For you.”

A tremor silenced the room. It was the rarest thing, her rage—rare, and somehow more daunting than his. It stole his breath and wiped the words clean off his tongue.

Cregan stared, thunderstruck, a storm gathering behind his eyes. Her words seemed to settle into him only slowly, like a wound too deep to notice at first. Claere’s fingers twitched at her sides, her lips pressed tightly together as if she were struggling to hold back her own words. She looked away, jaw set with a resolve that didn’t quite hide the tension beneath.

He exhaled harshly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Claere…” he began, voice rough with something caught between anger and hurt, “Do you even realize how careless this was, love?”

Her words came out painful. "It's all my fault."

His expression shifted, his initial anger tempered by an ache in his gaze as her admission, bare and raw, settled over the room like the aftermath of a storm.

“It’s my fault,” she echoed, her voice breaking just a little. She didn’t look at him, didn’t dare meet his eyes as the shame tightened in her throat. “I did this. They are right.”

Cregan felt his own frustration melt, a tide pulling away to reveal the harshness of his own words. He moved closer, his arms reaching out but stopping short, hovering as if afraid she’d slip through his fingers.

"Sweetling. Claere," he said, his voice a mere plea. "There's no use in laying blame, especially on you. You know I would raze half these men myself before I let them tear you down."

She shook her head, her hands clenching at her sides. “I've been an impediment for too long. We both know it. I expected things would change with time. Yet I'm playing at something I never will be...” She trailed off, and a heavy silence settled between them, her own helplessness almost unbearable.

Like hell, he would let her forget her worth for a piece of piss.

He reached for her, fingertips tracing the edge of her cheek before coming to rest under her chin, tilting her face toward him with evident resolve.

“The North will fight, but not out of fear or obligation. Because of you,” he declared to her, his voice rough with feeling. “You are of Winterfell now, Claere. And for that, we will fight.”

For a moment, her gaze flickered with uncertainty, her lips pressed tight, yet he held her there in his arms, grounding her with his assurance.

Gently, he brought her into a kiss, his lips brushing hers with a tenderness that spoke of comfort and promise alike. His hands cradled her face, his fingers threading softly through her hair as if each touch could smooth away the weight she carried. The kiss was slow, unhurried, he tasted the salt of her worry and the steel of her will, sensing the guardedness that lingered beneath her quietude. Yet his touch was firm, anchoring, a proof that there was nowhere safer, no one more ready to bear her burdens with her.

When he drew back, he lingered close, his forehead resting gently against hers, his eyes flashed with something like awe, and a low chuckle escaped him.

“You must tell me, how in the gods’ names did you manage to meet Sylas and walk away with but a bruise?”

Claere shrugged with quiet, unassuming grace, her gaze sliding past him as though recalling an idle, inconsequential memory. “I spoke with him, that’s all. Said what needed saying.”

He continued to prod. “That is all?”

“Yes. I simply suggested that if he truly wanted our kingdom, then why he hadn’t contested the King in the North himself instead of raiding innocent villages .” Her eyes met his with a calm intensity. “It seemed only fair.”

He let out a surprised laugh, brows lifting, “Fair? You took his mind off his prize and sent him marching for my gates, thinking he had something to prove?”

She simply pursed her lips, cool and composed, as if she hadn’t, with a few words, diverted the entire course of Sylas’s plan. “A bit of truth and a bit of pride can go a long way with a man like him. I thought you’d understand that.”

Her eyes flashed, calm yet watchful, and beneath her delicate, almost passive demeanour, there was a quiet ferocity that struck him. She had always worn her strength in the subtlest of ways, but in this moment, he saw her for what she truly was—a fierce, unyielding force wrapped in silks and cool smiles.

The words hit their mark—a subtle, artful dig, he had somehow overlooked.

“Why would I understand that?” Cregan’s voice was thick with mock offence, though a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Claere only arched a brow, sidestepping him with an elegance that was more of a dare than a retreat. “Oh, you’ve always had a certain… charm,” she replied, her tone deceptively light. “Men like you, like him—always so confident of their own strength. Pride blinds.”

“Pride blinds, is it? Huh, c'mere, girl. You dare speak to your lord that way?” he challenged, feigning a warning as he lunged forward, catching her around the waist. He lifted her clean off the floor with a mischievous groan, her soft laughter lilting as he spun her in a playful circle.

“Cregan!” Her laughter slipped out in breaths, both startled and, at last, easy, though her hands settled in half-protest against his shoulders. When he set her down, her cheeks were lightly flushed, her smile lingering. It was as if some sense of normality, away from the chaos, had come back into their lives.

“Guess it’s true then,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear. He urged a line of kisses from her ear to her throat, nuzzling his nose into the soft arch of her neck.

She slid her hands up to his neck, scraping her fingers lightly into the hair at his nape. "And you’re just stubborn enough to prove it.”

“I thought I’d married a princess with a pet dragon,” he teased, nuzzling into the soft curve of her neck, “but it seems I’ve got myself a queen with the cunning of a shadowcat.”

She raised a brow, almost daring him to press further. “And does that surprise you, my lord?”

His laughter boomed out, genuine and unrestrained, as he spun her again in a wide circle. "Not one damned bit."

Cregan stood tense in the night, sleep far from him, his silhouette sharp against the faint light filtering in from the slivered moon. The night air was thick with chilling doom, yet inside their chamber, Claere lay curled in quiet repose, her face softened by the kind of peacefulness that had eluded her during the day. It was almost bizarre, the way she could sleep so soundly amid the tension that hung over Winterfell. But perhaps, he thought, this chaos was the very place where she found her solace.

His gaze wandered to the heavy shadows beyond the walls, tracing the dark line of the woods against the horizon. The forests seemed to breathe with a life of their own, brimming with anticipation. He felt it ploughing on his chest, a premonition building like a slow storm.

Then it came—the steady, unmistakable drumming of many hooves and, seconds later, the crackling glow of fiery beacons lighting the night. The panic was quick, the sentries efficient, but somehow, Cregan had known. It was as though he’d been waiting for it all along.

He reached for Ice, his grip steady on the ancient sword’s hilt, and started toward the door. His stride displayed his finality, purposeful toward the death that came for him.

Sylas was here sooner than he’d expected, but in a way, the sooner, the better.

The crunch of hurried footsteps sounded from the corridor, and a guard approached, his face pale under the torchlight. “Lord Stark! Sylas the Grim… he’s come alone, my lord. Just rode up and called for you. What are your orders?”

Cregan’s eyes narrowed. The arrogance—or the conviction—it took to ride unguarded to Winterfell’s gates spoke of Sylas’s brutality and audacity, a message he knew all too well from his Free Folk brothers.

But then, a thought struck, clear as the northern wind. That meant Claere’s plan had worked—her brilliant, precarious little gamble had actually lured him here.

“Alone,” he murmured, almost to himself, and a fierce grin ghosted across his face. His clever Claere had managed to provoke the beast to come alone, his defences abandoned. Sylas had foolishly fallen for it.

With a calm that belied his steely resolve, Cregan replied to the guard, “Open the gates. If he came for a reckoning, then I’ll meet him myself.”

He felt the chill in his blood turn to iron as he stepped into the night.

thank you for reading! I'm so sad to be nearing the end :(

question for my loveliest people: who do you imagine as Sylas the Grim? I imagine someone with the same features (but nowhere as close in character) as Tormund Giantsbane.

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