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fioiswriting · 1 year ago

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Reunion | Sequel

[Part 1]

Summary : After the Battle Above the Gods Eye, Daemon returned victorious. Aemond was presumed dead, though his body was never found. Three years later, you've mourned your former husband and are ready to move on. But it seems that some ghosts from your past have come back to haunt you, and that the dead aren't really dead after all...

Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI

Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader

TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral f receiving, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, anxiety, Reader has a child, grief, fluff, pregnancy, not proofread.

Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course <3

Words count : 9150

Author's note : Hello everyone!! Sorry for the wait, I've been very busy, but here's part two of Reunion (or at least the first part two, let's call it part 2.1 hehe). Thank you again for all you kind comments and the love you've given my fanfic omg!! Spoiler alert: this is the happy alternate ending! But I've got another bittersweet alternative ending planned 😈 If you think the first part was good enough on its own and the sequel may break the vibe, don't force yourself to read!! But if you need a happy ending, here it is <3 The plot still doesn't make any sense, but hey, we're here to have fun so enjoy ❤️

English is still not my first (or second) language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes <3

When you wake up, the first thing you feel is the reassuring embrace of his arms around you. You don't want to move, not even when the sunlight tickles your face through the opening between the wooden shutters, trying to make the moment last endlessly. But the growing anxiety in your stomach chases away the illusion of your fleeting happiness.

You close your eyes a little tighter. Perhaps if you try again, perhaps if you try harder, the world around you can fade away.

Perhaps you can wake up again, in a different reality.

But it's inevitable. You know that now you're awake, it's only a matter of time before the two of you have to say goodbye forever. Your breathing becomes heavier, and you have to fight the tingling sensation at the corners of your eyes.

Why have the gods decided to be so cruel to you? They grant you one last taste of his skin on your lips before taking it from you, again.

Haven't you given enough?

Could they not show you mercy?

You who had forgotten him, you who had begun to turn a new page, to seek comfort in the arms of the cold, far away from the fire and the ashes, why did you have to touch the poison that would once again stain your soul?

Behind you, Aemond buries his long nose in your hair. His hand absently caresses the skin of your thigh, just where the edge of the linen tunic you put on sometime during the night when you were cold ends. The fabric is pulled up, revealing the outline of your bottom, and you can already feel your uncle hardening between his thighs, but you don't move.

If you move, you'll make everything more real. Tangible.

You'll speed up the process of losing him, of him slipping through your fingers.

How can you let him go, now that your heart is full again, now that you feel complete in a way you haven't felt for over three years?

How can you let him go, now that your body has retrieve the extension of itself in the arms of the man who was the cause of your torment, your moments of joy, your pain and, paradoxically, your happiness?

"I know you're awake."

You hold your breath and Aemond inhales into your hair. His hand moves down the inside of your thigh, along the hollow that joins it to your groin. He doesn't venture any further.

His thumb rests there and brushes your skin, trying to arouse the desire in you with gentleness.

Subtly.

He doesn't want to hurry, he doesn't want to rush you.

Not when he's been harbouring the impossible fantasy of waking up with you in his arms since the day he nearly died.

He presses harder against you, as if he doesn't want to let you go, as if he wants to be one with you again, and you feel him pulsing against your buttocks, under the linen cloth that has been pulled up a little higher. He says nothing, but he is pleading, needy, in his gestures, which is rare for him.

Something has changed, after all, and perhaps something has changed in him too.

"I am awake, indeed, " you whisper in a voice that is still half asleep. The lump in your throat betrays the feeling of anxiety gradually creeping into your body, and Aemond seems to notice. Under your tunic, his hand moves up along your belly until it nestles against your chest, close to your heart. His thumb draws small circles, once again trying to bring you back to him.

Trying to calm your mind.

"Let us forget for a little longer," he whispers, his clenched jaw resting over your head. "Please."

And you know he never begs.

Aemond takes and doesn't ask.

Aemond believes he is owed everything and never gives in return.

Hearing him beg breaks something inside you, because this is the first time he does so.

Usually it was you, it was always you, begging for peace, begging for more, begging him not to leave you.

Part of him is as desperate as you are; part of him also dreads the moment when you will have to part again. Forever. It's comforting to know that his feelings are sincere, just like yours.

" Make me forget, then." You reply, moving your lower loins back against him, giving him tacit permission to explore your body once more. His fingers move down to your breasts, which he covers softly with his hand, his thumb skimming over a nipple to make it hard. You let out a gasp between your parted lips.

His hand slides lower, his palm flat against your lower belly, his fingertips brushing the light patch of hair at the top of your mound. You feel the familiar warmth growing between your thighs, in your core.

He sighs against the back of your skull, his head tilted forward. His lips search the skin at the nape of your neck, behind the long hair that has become tangled during the night, while his fingers intimately explore the secrets of your body that he knows all too well. The remnants of last night's lovemaking still smear the insides of your thighs and folds, but it doesn't matter; his fingers easily find the little bundle of nerves that they tease until you close your eyes, until your hand grips the damp, shabby sheet that covers the ragged mattress in the inn where you've spent the night.

Just the both of you, in the comfort of anonymity.

"Let me taste you". His voice, still husky, tickles the back of your neck and you feel him shift behind you. When you feel the warmth of his bare chest, against which you're nestled, leave your back, your body automatically tries to move back against him. You still need him. You still need him to chase away the lump of anxiety in the pit of your stomach and the voices that keep reminding you that you're only postponing the fateful moment. Your hand slips under your white tunic and wraps around his wrist to force him to stay there, to hold his fingers against the source of heat spreading from your core. Your hips are demanding, grinding against his hand. "On your back," he insists, and stands up on his forearms.

With reluctance you turn over. You obey, lying on your back, your hair spilled around your head on the flat, uncomfortable pillow on which you slept badly. The white tunic that serves as your nightgown is pulled up, crumpled, just above your crotch, which it barely conceals.

Aemond has swung over your body, silvery strands loosening from the braid that holds his hair behind his head and sliding down his shoulders, falling in loose loops on either side of his face, tickling your cheeks.

His lilac-tinted blue eye glows with a predatory gaze, a ray of light catching in the sapphire he hasn't removed from his socket.

He captures your lips with his own, begging for access. Aemond marks your jaw and throat with light kisses, sucking at your collarbone to make the violets of possessiveness with which he likes to adorn your body bloom. His lips travel down your chest, playing with one of the two small nipples raised by the cool air and by desire, and continue their journey past your navel.

Your heartbeat quickens as he settles between your legs, spreading your thighs to admire the part of you he covets so eagerly. At the same time you bend your legs, your gaze falling on him, on his unravelled hair, on his eye that locks with yours. He is so close to you, so close to your warm centre, and you know that between your folds the sweet nectar that your uncle longs to taste is already flowing.

But his lips trace the inside of your thighs instead, where the skin is soft and tender, and gradually they reach the hollow that connects them to your most intimate part. He takes a malicious pleasure in building up the tension, in savouring every millimetre of you like a fine delicacy, with only the tip of his lips brushing against your skin.

His thumbs spread the tender flesh of your womanhood and then he places a chaste kiss on the very centre of you. His tongue is shy at first, tracing the slit that connects your entrance to your little knob, collecting the evidence of your desire.

As his tongue wraps around your nub, your hands grip the sheets, knuckles white.

Aemond drinks from your essence like a thirsty man, his nose buried between your folds, rubbing your pearl.

The tip of his tongue catches what drips from your opening, and then the flat of his tongue tastes your slit, working its way up to the little nub gorged with desire.

He maintains the same rhythm, revelling in the moans that escape from your half-open lips. Soon his middle finger begins to draw circles against your entrance, the first knuckle sliding inside, then the whole finger. Your head is thrown back and immediately your hand buries itself in his silvery hair, gripping his braid in a messy bun behind the top of his head. Forcing his face against the most intimate part of your body, forcing his lips to work on your wet warmth, you seek more contact.

Aemond adds a second finger. He can feel you tighten around him as he searches for that particular spot, as his tongue continues to play with your bundle of nerves.

As he devours what is his, utterly his.

His fingers, the ones that aren't buried inside you, close around the flesh of your hip in a possessive grip. "Come for me," he whispers against your womanhood, his eyes lifted to you. "I know you can do it."

Your breathing becomes more erratic, faster too. You tighten the grip of your fingers in his hair, your thighs pressing either side of his face, and he collects the sweet taste of your release on his tongue with a hum.

You feel like you're floating. The waves of warmth still wash over you, less and less intense, your breast rising and falling as you catch your breath.

Your hand tucks a lock of his hair back behind his ear as Aemond lifts his face towards you, and you rest your hand against his cheek. His parted lips still glisten with your desire smeared across the lower part of his face. He stares at you without moving, his deep, regular breathing the only sound to break the silence that has followed your release. You stay like that for a moment, his gaze burning into yours. At any moment he might pounce on you. At any moment he might close the tiny distance separating your mouths and press his lips against yours like the starving man he is.

It's you who makes the first move. You taste yourself on his lips and your tongue entwines with his in a fiery, demanding kiss.

Straightening up, Aemond creeps between your legs, his hand on the underside of your thighs, holding them apart. He is still completely naked from the night before, he has not bothered to get dressed after your lovemaking, so you can catch a glimpse of his erect manhood, slightly curved. He wraps his hand around to guide it towards your still sensitive wet entrance.

He slides into you easily, in one slow movement. The haste of the night before, the urgency of the reunion, has given way to the tenderness and laziness of the early morning, and Aemond rocks inside you slowly. His hips undulate, punctuated by long, deep thrusts, in an illusion of domesticity.

But the damp sheets, rough against your skin, the discomfort of the hard mattress beneath your back, remind you that your lovemaking is anything but domestic.

For Aemond is still the enemy, for Aemond is supposed to be dead.

For your family is probably looking for you at this very moment, worried that you have not returned home for the night.

But you push those thoughts away. The weight of your uncle's body on top of yours soothes the knot that forms in the pit of your stomach at the thought of time slipping away, at the thought of having to leave him again, at the thought of this being the last time you will taste his lips, his skin.

Aemond is gentle, and that is rare enough to be worth mentioning. He has never been so gentle, so soft, in the limited time that you have been married.

Between you, there had been the devouring, consuming passion, the power play that in your submission had granted you dominance.

Between you it had been raw and devastating more than gentle and tender.

His fingers run the length of your body to your core, combining his slow, deep thrusts with the movement of his fingers against your clit.

There are only few words exchanged between you, as if you were both afraid to break the grace of the moment.

His panting, noisy breath echoes in the silence, skimming the skin of your throat, then mingling with yours as the shadow of his lips brushes against yours. He rests his forehead against yours, your hand cupping his cheek, sliding behind his neck, and you are transported into a cocoon of intimacy where nothing else exists around you.

There is only his body against yours, warm and reassuring.

There is only him inside you and the slow movement of his hips.

There is only your breathing, blending in the space that separates your mouths.

"Do you know how much I've missed you?" He whispers against your lips as you close your thighs around him. "How much I dreamed of this tight little cunt?" You swallow his words. Your hips meet his as he pushes against you. He is reaching deep inside you. Despite the intimacy of the moment, his body oozes power and darkness, and you can't help but be drawn to that side of him that complements yours so well.

You can't stop your body from aching for him.

"You could have been my queen," he says as his movements grow stronger. He won't last long, but neither will you. He's inside you, where you like to feel him, and your walls clench around his member. "And I would have set the whole world on fire for you." He thrusts. "Burned it to the ground" He thrusts again. "All for you." And again.

The old wood of the bed creaks with each of his movements.

You seek out his lips, just to brush them against yours.

Without sealing the kiss.

"And I would have accepted," you answer with a whimper. "I would have been your queen, qybor." In another life, you think you would.

In another life, in another universe, you would have been his queen.

A grunt escapes his lips and lands in the hollow of your ear. Aemond straightens on his bent elbow, right next to your head, and he plunges into you one last time, with more power, more vigour, just as his new position allows.

You close your eyes.

A second wave of warmth is about to engulf your body.

And you wait for it, you welcome it.

"Look at me when I come inside you," he growls hoarsely as his seed pours deep inside you, into the most intimate part of your body. "Look at me as I fill you up."

Your eyes lock with his, fiery as ever. A final moan escapes between your lips and you seal them to your uncle's in a feverish, wet kiss. You hold him in your arms for a moment longer, as if to allow yourself the luxury of illusion for a brief instant.

You delay the fateful moment a little longer, fighting the minutes that inevitably slip through your fingers.

"Stay inside me just a little longer," you whisper, burying your head in the hollow of his neck where you can feel the rapid rhythm of his pulse. His arms close around you, holding you tight against him, and you hear him purr against the hair on the crown of your head. He rocks you gently.

The silence welcomes you both into its embrace and you savour it like a treasure. Your body aches in the sweetest way, your insides throbbing around his softening manhood.

And around you, nothing exists anymore.

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

"I've changed, you know." His hoarse voice vibrates against you, but you refuse to meet his eyes. You keep them closed.

You're not sure if Aemond has really changed. Aemond is ruthless, cold, brutal, calculating, merciless. Cruel. You're not sure if Aemond can ever change, but he shows unusual tenderness, and maybe, just maybe, you allow yourself to doubt. You indulge in the illusion.

Perhaps Vhagar's death has broken something in him.

Perhaps it's true, perhaps he's not the same man anymore.

He's not sorry for what he has done. He never will be. He's too proud, even if you can catch the glimmer of remorse that colours his icy eyes when he is not looking at you.

Does he think of your little brother? Is he haunted by the memory of him, as you have been for so many years?

Does he think of the innocents he killed without flinching, the blood he spilled in the Riverlands that now stains the burned grass?

Is his sanity slowly being eaten away by the atrocities he has committed with his own hands?

He has changed. You are not sure if he's changed for the better or for the worse, but he has indeed.

Daemon has changed too. So has Rhaenyra. So has Jace.

You too have changed.

For war changes people, war makes them weary and wary, it shatters something in the body that will never be the same again. It hollows out the roundness of the cheeks, it deepens the dark circles under the eyes, it fades the sparkle of childhood that remains in the eyes.

Aemond seems to be waiting for an answer, but the words remain stuck in your throat. I know, you want to whisper, I know, but suddenly you've forgotten how to speak. His thumb draws the soft line of the underside of your breast.

The future terrifies you more than ever. You had made peace with your past, you had come to a conclusion that, even if it pained you, had given you some respite.

Seeing your uncle alive had reawakened your demons.

Spending the night in the embrace of his arms had revived everything you had buried deep, deep down.

The past had returned, creeping towards you, gnawing at the corners of your heart and at what remained of your sense of stability and certainty.

Now you are plunged into doubt.

Just as you were a little over three years ago, when you were informed of his death, when you had to learn to live with the choice that had never really been given to you.

Just as three years ago, when you noticed a familiar lilac-tinged blue in Rhaegar's eyes.

Like when you had to live with the memories that haunted you, that were slowly eating away at what little sanity you had left.

Like when you finally decided to leave for the North.

Aemond seems to sense your anguish, because his fingers get lost in your hair.

"What are we going to do now?"

Finally, you dare to utter the inevitable words that have been hanging on the tip of your tongue since you woke up, words you've swallowed so many times this morning. You immediately blame yourself.

Saying them only makes them more real.

They tear at something in the imaginary cocoon you've built for yourselves. You bury your face against his skin, breathe in his scent, as if you never want to forget him.

For you know how fleeting memories can be.

You remember how his face faded with each passing day.

You don't know if you'll ever be able to experience it a second time.

"We could leave," Aemond replies, as his fingers venture to your jaw, caressing the line of your cheeks with the back of his knuckles.

He's so pragmatic, as always.

Even in this situation.

Even now.

It makes you want to shake him.

"We could run away," he says again. His gaze, fixed in the distance, falls on you at the same moment. "To Essos. Pentos. No one would know who we are." You close your eyes, and let his hoarse voice lull you into silence. "To start our own family, the three of us."

You know he is not serious. Even though he looks at you with such insistence, with that flame that flickers in the centre of his iris.

You relish his fantasy, this impossible dream.

But you can't leave your family; Essos is not Winterfell. There, they knew where to find you. They knew you were safe. They knew you were sheltered between the walls of the northern castle, under the heavy furs, under the protection of Cregan Stark.

Essos is the unknown.

You cannot let your mother lose her only daughter, not after everything she has already lost.

The itch is familiar, tickling at the corners of your eyes. There was a time when you thought you'd lost that sensitivity. When you thought the war had left you cold, incapable of feeling anything. Incapable of crying.

"You know I can't." Your nose rubs against his milky skin, made clammy by sweat. You keep your eyes closed because you feel the weight of his cold gaze on you, his furrowed eyebrows as he stares at you blankly, his lips pursed in a long, thin line. You don't have the courage to meet his accusing gaze, let alone the wounded look on his face as you crush all his illusory dreams into dust.

When did you become the more pragmatic of the two?

When did you become the one responsible for bringing Aemond back to reality?

It used to be you, the one who filled your mind with unrealistic dreams, the one who dreamed of stories and fairy tales, back when you could still dream. "They need me, you know that."

A sneer stretches across your uncle's lips as he swallows a chuckle that sounds more like an ironic growl. You feel his whole body tense against yours, a sign that he's holding back his annoyance.

A sign that he has something to say, that he's upset, but doesn't quite know how to put it into words.

"Like they needed you back then?" he replies scathingly, bitterness on the tip of his tongue. "When they used you as a bargaining chip to achieve their ends, hm?"

Your red cheeks burn with shame, as if he'd slapped you. You don't move, merely swallow hard. You know there's something right about what he is saying, but you don't want to admit it.

You've done your duty.

You've done what is expected of you as a daughter.

It was not a question of them using you. It never was.

It was your duty, only your duty, what you were always meant to perform, wasn't it?

And yet a small voice in the back of your head had already given you a similar speech, a few years ago, but you had tried to silence it.

You refused to let Aemond admit it. You refuse to allow him to do it. He had no idea, no right to criticise your family when he'd acted like that.

When he has done what he has done.

He has no idea what it is like to be a daughter.

You don't answer, and silence falls between you again.

You wish so desperately that he could go home with you; that he could tell them that he's sorry.

You wish it were easier.

There is no one left to wait for Aemond but you, but his son, you know that. His family has been decimated, as has yours in some ways, though you still have your parents and your older brother.

For your uncle, there's nothing left but the shadow of his existence, the shadow of who he once was, long ago.

You let your hand trace the side of his throat, your nose buried against it, your lips hovering over his skin. You lean against him, your body on top of his, pressed together as if you were afraid to let him go.

"You could come with me instead," you whisper, but you refuse to meet his gaze. There's something shameful in the words you've just spoken aloud, something naive, and your burning cheeks are proof of your embarrassment.

Almost imperceptibly, he clenches beneath you, holding his breath. This is a bad idea and you feel stupid. Naive to have dared to suggest something like this.

His voice purrs in a hm that vibrates against you. He's about to say something. He searches for words. "You know that -"

"I know." You cut him off sharply - a little more than you would have liked, your eyes raised to silence him.

You know what he thinks.

He thinks that Rhaenyra will never be his queen. He thinks he will never bend the knee to his eldest sister and her authority, which he doesn't recognise.

He thinks that with the death of Aegon, with the death of the children his brother fathered with Helaena, the throne belongs to him.

And you are aware of his ambitions. You know how perfectly the conqueror's crown fits his head. You know how it sets off the sapphire embedded in his eye socket. You remember the look of greed in his eyes every time he stared at the Iron Throne, you remember the look of pride on his face every time he scorned anyone who dared to question his decisions as Prince Regent.

You know how mercilessly he made the soldiers at Harrenhal kneel, forcing them to contemplate their impending deaths. You know the terror he has sown throughout the Riverlands.

Even in the Seven Hells you could have found more mercy than at the hands of Aemond Targaryen.

Aemond may have changed, but you're not sure he's changed enough to put aside the pride that is consuming him from within.

You take a deep breath. "You don't really have a choice, qybor."

Fearing his reaction, you curl into a fetal position, your back to him, your knees drawn up to you. You close your eyes. You wait for his frustration.

You wait for his sentence.

You know that he is aware that he has no choice.

He has only two options: swallow his pride or sink back into the abyss, disappear into the dark meanders of oblivion.

Rhaegar needed his father, of course, but you found him a father in Cregan Stark.

That was a sacrifice you were willing to make.

There was no way you would give up what family you had left.

For Rhaegar needed his grandparents and his uncle even more.

Behind you, you feel your uncle's hand slip under your tunic and around your body, pulling you against him. He presses his bare chest against your back, tucking your head under his chin. His hand caresses your stomach, then his fingers brush the base of your breast.

"You know she will never be my queen. You know the throne belongs to -" But he lets the words drop without finishing the sentence, the knowledge of what he was about to say hanging in the air between you.

As long as he remains alive, will the embers of war never truly be extinguished?

You don't know, but you accept the risk.

You close your eyes, as if you're about to jump into the icy depths with both feet.

"The rest is up to you, Aemond," you whisper, barely audible. "And if you have truly changed, then you will know how to make the right choice."

He says nothing.

You savour the last few minutes of illusion you have left.

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

The fear of making the wrong choice never really leaves you, but your mother chases your fears away, as she so often did when you were a child, tucking one of your dark curls behind your ear. She has her distinctive little smirk on her lips, the one that pulls the corner of her lips up towards her nose.

The same one Lucerys had, you think sadly.

You still miss him, even after all this time, and sometimes you wonder what kind of young man he would have become.

"You're a clever girl, my sweet clever girl," she whispers against your forehead as she cradles you in her arms. She's as beautiful as ever, as gentle with you as ever, despite the years, despite the wear and tear of war that has hardened her features and hollowed her cheeks. "And I know you have made the right decision." She lifts your chin with her forefinger to look into your eyes, and you feel like you're turning back into that shy, insecure girl who disappeared somewhere in the violence of the war all those years ago.

"And if it should turn out that you were wrong... Daemon will be there to intervene. You know he is just waiting for that." You roll your eyes at her attempt at humour, and she plants a kiss on your forehead.

For a split second, you truly are that carefree little girl again.

But behind your mother's humour lie fragments of reality that make your laughter bitter.

The news of your husband's survival remains a hazy blur in your mind. Sometimes you're not sure if this conversation really occurred or if you're dreaming.

You're not sure if what's around you, if the night you spent in Aemond's arms, is real or an invention of your sick mind.

Sometimes you're not really conscious of the events or how long they lasted, the lump in your stomach grows back, and once again you're destined to carve half-moons marks in the palms of your hands to soothe the tension in your body.

You told your mother first because you knew she'd be more understanding. As a mother, as a woman, she knows the meaning behind certain silences, the weight of words, the unspoken words that float between sentences.

You know she can understand your pain and your doubts, but also your love and your compassion.

She was shocked when you told her that her younger brother was still alive. She smoothed her dress, paced back and forth, then took the time to sit down, her eyebrows furrowed, her eyes riveted to your face, looking for clues that would betray what you were thinking, what you might be hiding. She was afraid that he had hurt you. She was afraid that he would rip you away from her, just as he had once ripped your little brother away from her.

Her fingers had gently taken your hand and her thumb had drawn little circles on the back of your hand to comfort you. She listened to you first as you confessed everything.

Where you were that night when you didn't come home.

Who you were with.

And then she took you in her arms. She reassured you. Soothed you.

You had been so afraid of disappointing her, of disappointing all of them, that the tension paralysing your body had finally loosened and you burst into tears.

Things had proved more complicated with Daemon. When he learned that his nephew was alive, that he wasn't forgotten forever in the deep waters of the lake near Harrenhal, he refused to believe you. He was furious. He said he had seen him fall, that he was the one who had taken his life, tearing the sky apart.

You didn't know where to look, and it was in your mother's eyes that you sought support, comfort, anything in the face of your stepfather's rage. You could feel on you the look of disappointment of your brother, Jace, as he held his shoulders up and his chin high. He wanted to prove that one day he would be a good king. With his jaw clenched, he said nothing, looking at you as if you were suddenly so foreign to him. He probably didn't know what to say, for fear of being clumsy, for fear of unintentionally hurting you, even more than by his lack of support.

You know it wasn't his fault.

He simply couldn't understand.

The words stuck in your throat and you found yourself unable to speak, pearls glittering in the corners of your eyes while you waited impatiently for the final blow.

The final death knell that would seal your disgrace in everyone's eyes.

After all you'd endured.

Daemon stood before you, his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes hard. He was staring at you as if you'd committed the ultimate treason, and you knew he was controlling himself to keep his anger from exploding. "You're going to bring him to me," he had hissed, his hand closing over your shoulder.

" You will lure him here and he will be put to the sword." His tone left no room for argument. With the tension growing in your stomach, you sought your mother's compassionate look to calm you. You could see the fury in your stepfather's eyes, and also a mixture of fear and feelings of betrayal. You knew that, deep down, he was afraid for you because he considers you his daughter. Because Baela and Rhaena are like sisters to you.

It was his reaction you feared most, not your mother's. His fingers dug into your skin, the floor slipping out from under you, the room swaying dangerously, and your mother had come to your rescue, trying to calm things down with her usual diplomacy.

You can't quite remember the words your stepfather said; in anger he muttered something that sounded like are you really thinking of becoming his whore again? and the words hurt like hell, but you tried to swallow the pain.

Endure, hold your head high. That was what you had learned.

Your mother had suggested you go back to your room or spend some time with Rhaegar, her fingers gently stroking your dark locks, and as soon as you left the throne room you could hear their voices echoing through the door.

They were arguing.

Over you.

Because of you, again.

You took a deep breath and returned to the gardens, where your two stepsisters were making your son laugh by playing with him. They had fun running around in the damp grass to the applause of Baela's little daughter, who clapped her little hands in delight.

Your fingers were still trembling when you joined them.

In the end a solution was found, for your mother feared losing you a second time.

She remembered what had happened to Laenor, your father, when he had grown tired of the court.

She remembered what had happened to Helaena, your sweet aunt, when she could no longer bear to suffer.

It was her worst nightmare to see you torn from her again, now that she had the chance to hold you in her arms every day, to protect you again, to see you grow again.

It was her worst nightmare to see her only daughter, her only daughter and the second of her only surviving children, taken from her.

You and Jace were all she had left of her own blood.

After long negotiations with Daemon, you had managed to bargain for your husband's life in exchange for strict conditions; increased surveillance, no bonding with a new dragon, no carrying of weapons, and the assurance that he would be executed if there was the slightest doubt about him. You proposed that you and he leave the capital, with your son as well. To return to Dragonstone. To start over on a new, blank page in a book that was already too damaged.

For you, it was also a way to ease the tensions between your family and Aemond, and perhaps find a more intimate life with your husband and son.

Rhaenyra had declared that this was the best solution: a guarantee for her to have you by her side again, a guarantee for her that you would be there.

You had been afraid of Aemond's reaction, afraid that his ego would not bear it; that he would refuse, that he would rather sentence himself to his own death than to an existence as a prisoner within his own family, condemned to live as a shadow of the man he had once been in exchange for seeing his son grow up.

But in the end, wasn't he doomed to live as a shadow of the man he had once been, anyway?

He would never be the rider of Vhagar again.

He would never be the ruthless Prince Regent again.

He would never again be the second in line to the throne, the second son greedily waiting for fate to turn in his favour.

He hadn't been all of that for a good three years, lurking in the cold, gloomy corridors of Harrenhal like a lonely monster.

And if he went back, if he rejected your proposal, he would have condemned himself to eternal solitude at the side of a witch you would rather forget.

He had no choice, for he would never be that Aemond again.

When you joined your husband at the meeting place, you were relieved to see him swallow his pride and accept. It was difficult, but you convinced him.

For Rhaegar, for his son.

Aemond had suggested that you run away, far away from everything, and you almost hesitated. Running away would have allowed you to forget, of course.

But your deepest wounds had begun to heal. You had begun to be able to face the ghosts that haunted King's Landing, the ghosts that haunted Dragonstone.

To stop there was tempting, and yet so frightening at the same time.

The unknown terrified you. You needed familiarity now, something to fall back on, for you were so tired.

Now you can't help bringing your thumb to your lips, nibbling the skin at the corner of your fingernail with the tip of your teeth as you walk away from Rhaenyra. A handmaiden brings you Rhaegar, and you struggle to breathe.

You inhale.

You exhale.

The thick tuft of brown hair makes you smile. The sight of your son is enough to give you the courage to walk with a more confident stride. It's as if you were filled with new strength, for you know that he needs you more than anyone else. And for him, you've promised yourself to stay strong.

As soon as you reach him, you kneel and plant a kiss on his plump cheeks.

He's growing up so fast that sometimes you wish you could stop time.

"There's someone who'd like to meet you, sweet boy," you explain, and you can recognise your mother's inflection in your own voice. Sweet boy. Rhaegar looks at you with big, round, questioning eyes, and you wonder if he senses your anxiety, because he takes your hand between his tiny fingers.

"Who, muña ?" he babbles, striding down the cobbled path in the middle of the gardens, hopping on his clumsy little legs, and you smile at his carefree attitude. He stops to watch the bees foraging, bends down to pick up a flower and gives it to you. He's always so curious, so full of life. He's a ray of sunshine that brightens your dull days. You finally understand your mother, the agonising fear she has of losing you. You finally understand the horror she experienced when she lost her four other children.

You also finally understand why Helena threw herself from Maegor's Holdfast.

The thought of what Daemon did still revolts you, and you can't imagine anyone hurting your boy like that.

You turn around. Rhaenyra is still there, in the distance, her crown on her head, her hands crossed in front of her on the heavy fabric of her dress, watching over you. She won't move, a comforting, discreet presence.

A stone bench awaits you by the fountain, on which two cushions have been arranged. A dessert buffet has been set up under the gazebo and you immediately spot your favourite cakes, the strawberry one, the blackberry jam one, and you look down at your son. He hasn't noticed them yet, or he would have already run over, dipped his finger in the whipped cream and stolen a blueberry from one of the tarts, his innocent expression on his face.

He is definitely a lot like you. Mischievous and clever. An angelic air. He is an easy-going child who never throws a tantrum.

Who understands quickly, too.

"I love you. I love you more than anything, you know that, don't you, young boy?" your tone is soft, and you kneel down in front of him, your hands on his small shoulders to emphasise the seriousness of your discussion. You search for your words, hesitating. How do you tell a three-year-old that his father, his dead father, is back from the dead and about to meet him?

Of course, Rhaegar knows that his birthfather was valiant, that his birthfather rode the greatest dragon in the world, that his birthfather died in battle.

But there is so much he doesn't know, so much he will inevitably learn as he grows up, and it is precisely that future that frightens you. You hug him as if you're afraid of losing him.

"Princess."

The deep voice of your sworn protector echoes behind you, and you straighten your skirt.

You know he is there.

You know you will see him the moment you turn around.

Your heartbeat quickens.

Aemond Targaryen stands behind your sworn protector, surrounded by two guards. His hands are bound in front of him.

It is so strange to see your uncle in this vulnerable position. He who for so long has been on the other side, he who for so long has been the one who bent others to his will. He looks at you harshly, and you almost feel the need to apologise.

But you know it is a matter of caution.

You know that Daemon, you know that Jace and even your mother would never have agreed to bring him in if such precautions hadn't been taken.

You admire his resilience, his determination. You admire his ability to hold his head high, to be confident, despite the fact that he is being treated like a common prisoner, about to be sentenced to death.

You struggle to swallow the lump that has formed in your throat.

"Who's that, muña?" Aemond's eyes leave you and immediately drop to the small figure that has appeared beside you, reaching for your hand, huddling against your leg, shy and worried.

Immediately, your husband's icy gaze, his lilac-coloured eyes, soften.

"Thank you, Sir Rowan. You may leave us."

Despite the worry on his face, your sworn protector nods, unties his prisoner's hands and walks back to your mother, accompanied by the other two guards. You watch them leave, and a strange silence fills the space between you and your uncle.

He doesn't look at you; his eyes are riveted to your son, whom he observes with wonder. He looks as if he is admiring the most beautiful and fascinating discovery he has ever seen. You look down to see Rhaegar's reaction, and he seems as intimidated as he is hypnotised by that gaze, by that blue and purple eye so similar to his owns, by this man looking at him as if he were one of the most marvellous things in the world.

"Gods, he's perfect," Aemond murmurs as he looks up at you, emerging from his trance. He comes closer to embrace you. And for once, there is something other than his usual brutal possessiveness and ferocity when his arms close around you.

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Aemond is shy at first. Awkward.

He's shy and amazed as he follows your son's every move with his good eye. From time to time, his gaze rests on you, as if to make sure he's not dreaming. As if to make sure he is doing right, seeking your approval.

Rhaegar is shy too, at first.

When he sits on your lap, he snuggles up to you, buries his face in your neck, one of your locks curled in his chubby little hand and he rubs it against his nose. From time to time, he turns to give his father a curious look, recognising his own eyes in the unfamiliar face before him.

Aemond's expression grows gentler, a softness never seen in his features before.

Once he has tamed the stranger, the little boy pecks at the blueberries in the tart in front of him. He shakes his legs, hitting your knees in painful little jabs, and your arm wraps around his body to hold him down.

Rhaegar loves cake, and the sugar may be coaxing him, for he's regaining his appetite for talking.

"He really does have my eyes," Aemond whispers incredulously, and his voice, still foreign to his son's ears, causes the little boy to lift his head.

" It is definitely the only thing he has inherited from you," you reply, teasing him with a small smile at the corner of your lips.

Soon Rhaegar finishes the blueberry tart, the cream smeared over the bottom of his face and the tip of his nose.

"He inherited that from you, that is certain." Aemond grins, pointing with his long chin at the boy's voracious appetite for cakes and pastries.

You have to pinch yourself to make sure you're not dreaming. That your husband is really standing in front of you, with your son, like a normal family.

That he was truly trying to tell a joke.

This form of domesticity is so alien to your relationship, and yet so pleasant, that you find yourself thinking that perhaps you have made the right decision, indeed, if every day can be like this.

"Your muña deserves some cake too, what do you say, little one?"

Rhaegar giggles. Aemond cuts a slice of your favourite cake, the one with the strawberries, and puts it on your plate.

You blush. After all these years, he hasn't forgotten which one is your favourite.

You can't even really whisper a thank you because this apparent domesticity, this feeling of completeness, this interlude of happiness makes you uneasy. Anxious.

You have the feeling that at any moment you'll be plunged back into the horror of what you went through all those years ago.

You have the feeling that at any moment the Gods will be cruel and snatch away this happiness that you've barely been able to taste, leaving only the memory of its sweet taste on your lips.

You breathe in and out, as you often do when you feel your palpitations rising in your chest.

"Do you... do you want to take him on your lap?" you ask your uncle with shyness, your hand stroking Rhaegar's thick brown curls. Aemond looks at you as if you have spoken in a foreign language. Lips parted, he is about to say something, but not a sound escapes his lips. His lonely eye travels from you to your son, from your son to you, in silence.

"I don't know if -"

You can hear the doubt in his voice, and it's almost touching to see him lose his confidence in front of his own son, to see him so nervous and unsure of himself.

You let out a little laugh, not in mockery, obviously, just full of tenderness.

You know what he's thinking.

He's afraid of frightening him.

He's afraid of harming him.

"You won't hurt him, Aemond."

He answers nothing. He still doesn't like to look vulnerable, unsure, and you know it has to do with his childhood. With all he has kept bottled up inside him all these years. He will need time.

Your eyes fall back to the little boy sitting in your lap, and you draw his attention to yourself by stroking the curls on his forehead.

"Do you want to go to Aemond for a while? To kepus?"

you correct yourself immediately, and Rhaegar nods in agreement.

You are amazed at how easily he slips off your legs to run to his father, to pull himself onto his lap, when only a few hours ago he was so intimidated by the presence of this stranger with the eyepatch.

Your uncle automatically puts his arm around his waist to make him feel comfortable, his new role taking root in him. His fingers reach for the cloth on the table, and he wipes Rhaegar's face, who can't help but burst out laughing at his father's clumsy gestures.

For a split second you are lost in contemplating the horizon, the stillness of the sea. You taste the sea breeze on your face.

And then you turn your head towards the cobbled path where the guards and your sworn protector are still stationed.

Your mother is no longer there, and you notice that you have not at any time felt the need to seek comfort in her presence.

You smile, for in the end you know you've made the right decision.

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Dragonstone, 6 months later.

When you walk the corridors of the place that saw you grow up, you are no longer haunted by the ghosts and their incessant cries. A kind of peace has settled over you, a return to the pleasant familiarity you've waited so long for.

You still think of Luke, of course. Of Luke and Joff and little Aegon and Viserys, your brothers you will never see grow old.

But you no longer feel their disapproving glances at every step you take. You are no longer kept awake by their cries, by their tears, by the remorse that twists your stomach.

You no longer blame yourself.

Perhaps you've finally learnt to make peace with yourself.

The heavy door of the bedroom you share with Aemond is half open, and you slip your head into the doorway, piqued by curiosity.

Snuggled on your husband's lap, Rhaegar is staring at the pages of a large book, the corners of which you can guess are horned, the cover worn, from being carried everywhere. You can imagine the jam stains that mark the paper with children's fingerprints. You know exactly which page is missing, the one you and Aemond accidentally tore out and hid so the Septa wouldn't notice, so many years ago.

It is a book about dragons, the very one the two of you used to read hidden under the table when you were so young and innocent, long before the torment of war.

Without a sound, you lean against the doorframe and contemplate for a moment the perfect vision before you.

You don't have the cruelty to disturb them.

"This one is Vhaegar!" shouts Rhaegar, and you hold your breath, searching Aemond's face for any hint that might betray his reaction. The mention of his former dragon is still a sensitive subject for him, you know it.

"Yes, that's Vhagar." he pauses. "She was brave."

From the corner of his eye, Aemond spots your silhouette in the faint glow of the corridor, and his attention lingers on you for a moment. He's almost embarrassed to be caught in such a vulnerable, intimate moment, but you smile tenderly to encourage him.

"And big!" the little boy adds, energetically raising his arms to the sky to emphasise his words.

"Yes, and big." There's a suspended moment of silence where the words hang in the air, and then your husband gently ruffles his son's hair. It's a tender sight to see them bond like this, and your heart fills with happiness.

Taking a step forward, you step into the light of the room and Rhaegar expresses his joy at seeing you. You smile back at him and approach the chair where Aemond sits, your son on his lap.

Your uncle's hand instantly rests on the curve of your belly, which he still stares at with the same protective instinct, the same fascination, as the day you told him the news. His eyes sparkle.

"Your daughter is restless today."

He looks up at you, not without lingering for a moment on your breasts and their new shape.

"My daughter?" he asks, one eyebrow raised inquisitively.

"I'm convinced it's a girl. You reply, smiling wryly, and take a seat in the armchair next to the one where Aemond and your son are sitting, facing the fireplace. "And she took after her father, given her temper," you tease him, your hand on the top of your rounded belly to soothe the baby growing there.

Rhaegar's eyes close slowly. Nestled against the chest of the man who, just a few months ago, was still a stranger, he fights sleep, he fights to stay awake, but tiredness quickly overcomes him. And then he falls asleep, his mouth half open, the movements of his breath making his chest rise and fall rhythmically.

Aemond finally gets up. You follow his movements with your eyes as he approaches you, the child in his arms, and he plants a kiss on the top of his head.

"I'm going to put him to bed. I'll be right back." He straightens and lowers his voice.

"I wouldn't fail in my duty and neglect my wife." The heat rises to your cheeks, turning them red at the implication of what awaits you tonight. You're already wet between your thighs at the thought.

But you nod in agreement and watch him walk away.

You are left alone in the silence of the room. The only sound around you is the steady crackling of the fire.

It's strange, you think, to be back on Dragonstone, in the familiarity of the stones you've spent most of your life between, after getting used to the idea of not surviving the war.

To the idea of dying from a broken heart.

To the idea of dying, the umpteenth victim of the vicious spiral of conflict that has torn your family apart.

And yet here you are.

With your own family.

For once you have hope for the future. You hear the cries of your little brother, lost in the storm so long ago, but they are quickly replaced by the laughter of a happy memory.

And finally, you have the absolute confirmation that you have made the right decision.

*** *** *** *** ***

Thank you so much for reading!! <3

Tag list : @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis (I'm tagging you since you asked for it ❤️)

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #Aemond Targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fic #aemond x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x niece!reader #aemond targaryen fanfic

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green-square-anon · 4 months ago

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@lemon-russ @ms--lobotomy

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Probably the first thing I've posted on here that actually qualifies as a "headcanon" in the "I belive this would be canon" sense isntead of "This is a fun idea and alligns with my understanding of the characters personality (because I haven't read all their books) but:

Contrary to all the gremlin memes Konrad Curze actually does know how to cook/clean. He canonically had a thirst for knowlegde so whether he learned it from the reader or from that. (but he likely wouldn't know the sort of things that aren't written down in cookbooks, like old household remedies for colds). And canonically "There had been a time near the beginning of the war when he adopted higher standards of personal hygiene, as befitted a lord of men. Lately he had returned to his old ways." which to me seems more like severe depression or not caring, or both than someone who dosen't have the SKILLS to groom themselves. But he would abseloutly be the type to try abseloutly digusting food combinations if left in a kitchen.

Moving on to what is more headcannon (because primarch romance). He eats civilized when around reader but eats disgusting shit when left to his own devices. Konrad in a straight relationship would actually be rather traditional gender role wise because he's much more of a provider (Curze has big "predatory bird bringing prey to the nest" vibes) than a homemaker because he didn't grow up in a civilised home so reader would almost certainly be more skilled at domestic things than him. I don't like the "wife is essentially selfish husbands babysitter" trope, at all. So you can bet your ass if his waifu ever gets sick he's taking over making soup for her and doing her chores until she gets better.

So imagine after he's taken care of you while you're sick you come downstairs, still vaugely nausous, to tell him you're doing better and he's eating the 40k equlivant of moldy pizza (he's a primarch, he can take it) he found in the trash on the couch. The sight of which, in your already sick state, causes you to imedeally vomit all over the floor. When he gets up to help you, you imeadally scream at him not to touch you before washing his hands.

Imagine taking care of Curze in the start of your relationship and teaching him basic comforts like a hot bath or a well made bed because "oh it's what you would have wanted" and one day you come home after an abseloutely shit day for whatever reason and he's arranged those same comforts for you. He's learning from what you did to him and returning the same kindness <3.

#konrad curze x reader #konrad curze #nightlords #primarch x reader #primarch warhammer 40000 warhammer 40k wh40k 40k #primarch #warhammer 40000 #warhammer 40k #wh40k #core #placeholder #40k #root post

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viking-raider · 1 year ago

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Syverson Family War

Summary-> You've just gotten off a 12-hour shift at the hospital, only to return home and get swept up into a Syverson Family War, between your husband and three children.

Pairing-> Austin "Sy" Syverson/Reader

Word Count-> 3.2k

Warnings-> PG: FLUFF, Cotton Candy Fluff, Light Teasing, Soft!Sy, SAHD!Sy, Nurse!Reader

Inspiration-> This Instagram Video (If this isn't Sy vibes, idk who Sy is!)

Author’s Note-> This is a work of Fiction!

Divider by-> @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

-> If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLIST as well as my @VIKING-RAIDER-LIBRARY and turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy!’ Ao3-> DRAGON_DWELLER

You were more than excited to be home after a nearly twelve hour shift at the hospital. Your back throbbed and your feet were screaming at the top of their arches from running up and down the ER department. You didn’t even bother gathering up your tote of stuff, as you got out of your car, since you had the next two days off. So, they would wait until a two hour long bubble bath and a nap with eternity.

But upon entering your modest, two story Ranch house, you were bombarded by silence. Your eyes narrowed as they scanned the dining room to your left and living room to your right, ears pricking up for the slightest movement from the bedrooms upstairs.

Something was clearly off. It was almost never this quiet in the Syverson household.

There was always some sort of ruckus or chaos in motion. Your husband blasting music in the garage, where he had set up a small work-out area or telling off whatever game was playing on the enormous tv in the living room. If it wasn’t Sy, it was a combination of your three kids. Your two boys wrestling each other over a toy or giggles, or your daughter discovering a new, little critter from the backyard and bringing it in, before promptly losing it. Or all three kids getting into mischief with each other somehow.

But when it was silent, you knew there were real shenanigans afoot.

You drew in a deep breath, mustering what energy you had left inside yourself, for Syverson Madness. “Guys! I’m home!” You called out, swinging the front door shut with a little more strength than usual, as you moved a step deeper into the powderkeg. “What are you nuts up to?” You mumbled to yourself, moving towards the living room, still trying to keep yourself alert for any kind of trap or scare.

Little good it did, as a strong hand suddenly grabbed your elbow and yanked you backwards into the dark portal of the laundry room door, with a yelp. The hand shifted to your mouth and the door closed with a soft click.

“Ssshh.” Sy cooed at you, moving his hand away. “Gotta keep quiet, Sugar Butt.” He chuckled at you.

You could hear the smirk on his bearded face, before he clicked on the tactical flashlight he was carrying. You looked him over in the dim light, discovering him in his full Army tactical gear, minus his bare feet. He even sported his night vision goggles clipped to his helmet.

“What in the he-” You were about to demand, scanning him again, but spotted one of your son’s Nerf Rifles strapped to his back. “Give me that!” You huffed, gobsmacked, as you took the light and started checking him and the laundry room out. “Good Lord, Almighty!” You laughed, shaking your head.

He had a Nerf pistol in his thigh holster, a pump gun on the dryer, a blaster beside that, and copious amounts of ammo on the washer, with pop grenades. Which you knew were filled with either baby powder or flour from the last time a Syverson War had been declared on the house.

You looked up at your husband, bottom lip trapped between your teeth for a moment. “How long has World War Syverson Seven been going?” You asked, completely amused by how lost Sy got into playing with your kids, and how much they loved it when he did.

Sy looked at his watch. “Since just after breakfast. Myles chose violence and shot Ada in the back, while she was trying to color a picture. Tears ensued, which caused Colt to declare revenge on Myles, in Ada’s name.”

“You got roped into this, how?”

“Ada got in on it, insisting she didn’t need a man to defend her honor…”

“That’s my girl.” You chuckled, smirking.

“It is.” Sy laughed back. “But, in defending her own honor, she shot me in the leg, while I was trying to get them to chill out.”

You nodded your head, seeing all the pieces fall into place. “Which, obviously, by the Syverson Code, requires you to defend your own honor.”

“Obviously, Angel!” Sy answered, faking outrage. “You should know that, after fifteen years!”

“Fifteen years, and I’m still jotting things down in the Syverson Code of Conduct booklet!” You laughed, shaking your head, there were a lot of things Sy lived and would die by.

They were many of the things that made your heart swell with love for the burly, ex-Army vet.

“So, how do I configure into this madness?”

“You just got home from a super long shift, Sugar.” He answered, brow pinching. “You’re an innocent bystander. I just had to save you before one of those hellions out there shot you.”

“My savior.” You cooed, pushing up on your toes and kissing him. “My back and arches appreciate you.”

“The Lair is off limits, per usual.” He informed you. “We just have to make it out of here and upstairs.”

“Quite the way.” You commented, mentally mapping your and Sy’s route out of the laundry room, through the living room and entryway, then finally up the stairs and home free to the master bedroom, which was referred to as the Lair, where you could rest without having to worry about the family war.

“All right, Captain, what’s the plan?”

He gave you the Syverson wink and reached over your head, there was a sharp click and from outside the laundry room, you heard the kids’ screech. Sy had thrown the power switch to the house, plunging it into the darkness. You chuckled, smirking, understanding his tactic now.

“Stay close.” He whispered to you, clicking his ammo to his vest on, before moving to the door. “The enemy is sneaky and uncivilized.” He said, pressing his body against it, listening carefully to the other side.

“Like their father.” You mumbled under your breath with a snort, huddling yourself against his back.

“I’d say more like their mama.” Sy commented back, reaching back to pop you on the bum, then slowly cracked open the door.

You shuffled out after him, casting glances over your shoulder every few seconds. It was easy going, getting through the living room. Sy had defended it mightily throughout the day, so the kids had become shy about entering their father’s domain. You trusted Sy to protect you, from everything, your kids included. Silly as that was to think.

“We have movement at 12!” Sy called out, catching your nine year old, Myles, through his night vision in his fort, consisting of the dining table and chairs that he was hunkered down underneath, belly crawling from one end towards the other, closing the gap between himself and the entryway. “He’s under the table. A sneaky little sniper boy.” He snickered, shouldering the Nerf-AR resting against his side.

You scrunched yourself up behind Sy’s wide and muscular back as Nerf Darts started whizzing by, striking the scuffed wood floor or sticking to the walls. Both Sy and Myles laughed maniacally as they shot at each other; tossing weak insults on top of it.

“Milk drinker!” Myles shouted, hustling to reload.

“Lizard eater!” Sy shot back, smirking.

“Now, boys!” You scolded weakly, snorting.

They continued their assault, Sy guiding you towards a pocket the bottom stairs provided coming down into the foyer, allowing you to take cover and him to shoot through the bars of the steps.

“Are you hit?” You asked, playing along with the game.

“Nothing I’ll die from.” He answered, reloading his weapons. “But, you can be a good nurse and kiss them all better.” He said, wiggling his eyebrows at you.

“That’s cheating!” Myles yelled out.

“Well, If I was over there, I’d do the same thing to you, Bud!” You called back, planting a kiss on Sy’s cheek, his well-groomed beard tickling your skin.

“An aid relief truce then?” Myles suggested, poking his head out from under the table.

“Certainly not!” Sy barked back, popping a Nerf dart off over his son’s head, sending him scurrying back into his fort. “She’s my nurse! I found her out wandering the battlefield, unprotected. If you wanted her to be your nurse, you should have found her first, yourself!”

“I almost did! Before you kidnapped her!” Myles huffed, hotly. “You’re holding her hostage!” He suddenly insisted. “Don’t worry, Mama. I’ll rescue you!”

“Oh my, a hostage situation.” You sighed, licking your lips. “I appreciate your devotion, son.”

“Ha.” Sy scoffed, shaking his head. “I don’t think so, boy. I’m escorting this lovely lady to the Lair.”

As Sy and Myles argued over who was going to have the pleasure of accompanying you upstairs, you caught a slight movement behind you and Sy, lurking in the darkness of the living room; moving slowly. It vanished behind the couch, and for a moment you thought it was just Aika, but when something popped up over the back of the couch, then quickly ducked down again, you were then positive it wasn’t the old girl. But your Daddy’s girl, Ada. Of all the children, six year old Ada was the most like her father. She’d been attached to Sy’s hip from the moment she left your womb. Hanging on Sy’s every word, movement and action, that sometimes it spooked you.

So, watching her stealth around in the dark of the living room was both impressive, amusing and a tad terrifying. Especially since you knew the little hellion was coming for revenge on her father and brother. There were no alliances between them during a Syverson war. You were the only ally allowed to go between the four of them. Mending wounds, mostly pretend ones, but sometimes there were real ones. Sometimes, you’d team up with one of them, to take on the other three.

“On your six! In the living room, babe!” You warned, snagging the Nerf pistol from Sy’s thigh holster as he reacted, purely by instinct, removing one of his baby powder pop grenades, tossing it behind him without looking, trusting your instruction.

Ada startled, surprised that you had noticed her, followed by a cloud of baby powder obscuring her view. She came to a halt, upon hurdling the back of the couch, in an attempt to overtake you and Sy. You took aim and fired, the Nerf dart hitting her square in the chest.

“Nice shot, hon.” Sy nodded, patting your leg, then called out to his daughter. “Sorry, Cricket, but that’s a kill shot.” He told her, his voice soft, but uncompromising.

Ada huffed, pressing her lips together. “Not fair, Mama isn’t supposed to shoot us! She doesn’t have anything to avenge!” She protested, crossing her arms.

Sy chuckled, cocking his head at her. “Mama has her own special rules in our Wars, you know that, Cricket.”

“I’ll come kiss it better, but you know Daddy’s five minute rule.” You chimed in, feeling bad about it, you honestly hadn’t meant to hit her, it was just a lucky shot.

But rules were rules. You could go and kiss her boo-boo better, allowing her to enter the War game again. However, Sy had made a rule that anyone hit with a Kill Shot had to be dead for at least five minutes, before you could render aid to them.

“All right.” Ada sighed, before flopping to the floor with a dramatic sound.

“Where were we?” Sy asked, then nodded. “Right, Myles, kindly allow me to escort my Nurse upstairs.”

“No deal, Pops.” Myles replied, shaking his head.

“Can I just go upstairs on my own?” You asked, peeking at your son through the spindles of the stairs.

Myles was quiet for a moment, considering. “Only if I get to keep you to myself for an hour!” He finally answered.

“Oh, he drives a hard bargain, that son of yours.” You teased Sy, tickling the back of his neck.

“That he does.” Sy agreed, shivering, as he brewed over Myles' offer. “You can have her for thirty minutes!” He negotiated with him.

“Thirty minutes!” Myles barked in outrage.

“You have to go to bed in two hours, boy!” Sy reminded him.

“So, give her to me for an hour!”

You smirked and pressed your palm to the base of Sy’s neck, leaning in close, your lips brushing against his ear, so only he could hear you. “Let him have me for the hour, Austin. I’ve been gone for twelve hours, and they have to go to bed in two. It’ll give me a little bit of time with them.” You reasoned with your husband. “We’ll have all night together after they're asleep, and the next two days, when they're at school.”

Sy nodded, rubbing his lips together. “You’re right.” He whispered back to you. “All right, you can have her for an hour, after you let her go upstairs and do what she pleases.”

A muffled yes came from the dining room. “Deal! You’re free to come out, Mama!”

“Thank God! I have to pee really bad.” You chuckled, kissing Sy, before scurrying out of your hiding place with him and started up the stairs, as you reached the top, you wondered where your middle child, Colt, was.

The seven year old was oddly missing in action the whole time the rest of you were battling and negotiating downstairs. As you reached the top, a cry filled the air, startling the life out of you, before a fury of Nerf darts peppered you all over.

“COLT!” You howled at the boy, dashing for your bedroom door and taking cover behind it.

“Colt Nero Syverson!” Sy’s voice called up the stairs. “You know the rules about firing upon your mother!”

“I’m sorry, Mama.” Colt’s soft voice whimpered in the dark to you. “I didn’t know it was you.”

“It’s fine, little man.” You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. “Just mind yourself.”

“Okay, Ma.” He smiled, ducking back into his hiding place; his room.

“Oh, this family.” You sighed again, closing the door and rushing for the en suite, tugging off your shoes as you went. “Ooo.” You cooed, enjoying the feeling of the icy tile on your bare, throbbing feet.

Bladder empty, you splashed some cool water in your face, then got out of your nursing scrubs, replacing them with a comfortable pair of shorts and a tank top. You laid down on your and Sy’s enormous bed, dozing off for a couple minutes before getting back up to fulfill the promises you made to Ada and Myles.

“Colt, I’m coming out, please don’t shoot me.” You called through the crack you opened in the bedroom door.

“Okay, Mama!” He called back.

Coming out of the room, you stood at the top of the stairs, but frowned and turned, heading down to Colt’s room. “What are you doing, buddy?” You asked, peeking around the doorframe, seeing he had made a little barricade and was hunkered down behind his bed. “Why haven’t you come down to challenge your dad, brother and sister?”

“Oh, I have, Ma!” He answered, his smile showing off the two front teeth he lost a month before. “I’m just waiting for the most opportune time to go back downstairs to finish off whoever is left.” He sat up on his bed a little more, eyeing you. “How many of them are left?”

You smirked at him, slyly. “You know I’m not allowed to give away information to someone, especially if I’m not teamed up with them, little man.”

“Poop.” He huffed, slapping his mattress and sitting back. “Do you wanna be on my team?” He asked, hopeful.

“Sadly, your Papa had to bargain me off to your brother for an hour, so I could go to the Lair and change.” You informed him, giving him a sympathetic smile. “But, how about this? When it’s bedtime, I’ll come and read to you, whatever you want.”

“Eragon!” He gasped, enthralled again.

“Deal.”

“Deal!”

“All right, wee man, if I don’t see you before then, I’ll see you at bed time.” You cooed at him.

You headed back downstairs, pausing on the middle landing. “I’m coming downstairs, don’t shoot!” You announced to Sy and Myles.

“All clear!” They both called back.

You joined them downstairs, finding them just as you left them.

“Mommy, can I be alive again?” Ada called to you from her spot behind the couch.

“Yes, love, I’m coming right now to fix your boo-boo.” You replied, crossing the entryway and leaned over her, placing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “There, sweet girl. All healed and alive again. Off you trot. Why don’t you watch a movie on your tablet, until bedtime?”

“Thanks, Mama!” She giggled, hugging your waist, then ran off.

With your daughter resurrected, you joined Myles in the dining room, and despite the soreness in your body, got under the table with him. “Just you, Colt and your Papa now, big man.” You told him, propping your head up on your hand. “Tough crowd.”

“But I got you, Mama.” Myles countered. “You can heal all my wounds.”

“Mm, that I can.” You nodded, casting your eyes past the table legs and made out Sy’s outline. “But, that’s about all the energy I’ve got for you. Bringing your sister back to life took a lot out of me. So, I can’t help you fight either of them.”

“That’s fine. I can finish them.”

You reached out and brushed your fingers through his tamed, black curls. “I have all the faith in the world in you, my sweet boy.” You cooed at him, lovingly.

“Moooom!” He groaned, rolling his eyes.

“Time’s wastin’, kid!” Sy called out.

“You stay here, mom. I’m gonna sneak around.” Myles said, wiggling back up the table towards the back entry of the kitchen.

“I’ll be here.” You replied, propping your head up on your hand, eyes drooping for a moment.

At least, you thought it was for a moment, until you felt a pair of strong hands grab your ankles and yanked you out from underneath the table, startling you awake from the nap you dozed into.

“Jesus.”

“Naw, just me, Angel.” Sy grinned, helping you up.

“Where’s Myles?” You asked, rubbing at the sleep in your eyes and noticing he wasn’t in his tactical gear anymore, but just a pair of shorts.

“Out cold in bed.” He answered, steadying you with his hands on your hips.

“But…” You frowned, glancing at the stairs over your shoulder.

“Colt came down not long after Myles tried sneaking around me through the kitchen.” Sy explained to you, a proud little glint in his blue eyes. “Took out both of us, the little rascal.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “We found you asleep and they understood you had a long day, and would spend time with them tomorrow, after they came home from school.”

You pressed your forehead against his chest. “What in the world would I do without you?” You cooed, sighing heavily.

“I don’t know what we would do without you.” He replied, encasing you in his muscular arms and resting his chin on top of your head, rocking gently. “Let’s go to bed, love.” He whispered, scooping you up off your sore feet and carried you upstairs, to bed.

You moaned softly, sinking into the mattress as Sy tossed the blankets over you and kissed your temple, before joining.

#henry cavill #henrycavill #viking-raider fics #Syverson #captain syverson #syverson x reader #syverson fluff #cpt syverson #syverson fanfiction #Austin Syverson #Syverson x You #Syverson Family War #Syverson Family War *fic*#Stay at Home Dad!Sy #Soft!Sy #Nurse!Reader

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royalsweetteaa · 2 years ago

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sadbucksblog asked: Ok here’s a thought that’s been running through my head. 1940s steve forcing himself on shy!innocent!reader and forcing her to marry him. Later when reader found out that he ‘died’ (during the plane crash), she was secretly glad. But surprise surprise Endgame steve came back to return the infinity stones n decides to stay with his widow for good.In my head, endgame steve is meaner & more jaded 😈

Oh, definitely!! Endgame Steve gives the most dom vibes out of all his previous versions. If reader thought Steve was bad in the 1940s, she has another thing coming when he returns. His stay in the modern age has corrupted him more and made him kinkier. Like imagine the things he would do against 40s reader now that he knows how to pleasure a woman, because I know for sure they didn’t care about that stuff in the 40s.

18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI

WARNING - Following contains: non-con, explicit smut, forced marriage, misogyny, 40s gender roles, dom/sub dynamic, dom!Steve, unbalanced power dynamic, mentions of somnophilia, slight bondage, dumbification, loss of virginity.

Title: His return

I imagine with this scenario, Steve liked Y/N a lot before he received the serum. You were so sweet and actually nice to him unlike the rest of the girls, but whenever he asked you on a date, you would reject him, saying you only saw him as a good friend.

And so after he got his super soldier strength, he expected you to like him back, because all women love strong and masculine men who can protect and provide for them (at least that’s how the gender norms were back in the 1940s). So imagine to his surprise when you kindly reject him even then after he has become a living female fantasy.

He literally cannot contain his fury and forces himself on you the same day, ignoring your pleas when you beg him to stop because you wanted to save yourself for marriage and give your virginity to someone you love.

“Don’t worry, my love. It’s not a sin if we end up getting married. You will take me as your husband or I’m going to tell everyone how much of a whore you are for spreading your legs so easily for me.” Steve threatened.

You were so scared, and knowing you had little authority in this situation, you did as he said. You knew no one would side with you if you were to protest against the new hero of the country; Captain America.

A month later, the two of you married and became husband and wife. Steve made you into his little house wife, and for each mission he came home from, he would fuck you for hours until you passed out. You were so clueless of the things Steve did to you sometimes, like whenever he would thrust inside of you in a specific angle causing you to feel an arising sensation from your abdomen. You didn’t know what it was, but it felt good no matter how shameful you were of it.

Whenever you accidentally dropped something, like a plate of food or when you burned dinner in the oven because you forgot the time, Steve would punish you by harsh spanking, telling you how bad of a wife you are for messing up your husband’s food. You would cry and apologize profusely until he stopped and left you with a sore butt.

He would also take you when you were fast asleep. You were a light sleeper, and only would you wake up when he jackhammered into you, causing a burning feeling around your sore pussy. Steve was huge due to his bodily enhancement, and it took a while for you to get used to his size. He would hardly talk when he fucked you as his only mission was to cum for relief. Steve was a busy man after all, with the war still ongoing. The weeks he was gone were the most peaceful times of your life ever since Steve took claim of you.

One fateful day, a military personnel visited you at your house and gave you the unfortunate news of the Captain’s loss. You shedded tears, but not because of Steve’s death. It was rather because the nightmare of a life was finally over. You felt relieved knowing Steve could never put his hands on you ever again.

2 years pass by, and you have all forgotten about Steve Rogers. You would occasionally see his face on posters and articles, and while it brought back some of the trauma, you always reminded yourself that he was gone for good.

At least, you thought he was.

It was a day like any other in your small little suburban house that you moved to after selling Steve’s house, and you suddenly heard the doorbell ring to your front door. You shouted ‘coming!’ to whoever was waiting outside, and turned off the temperature of your oven where there were freshly baked cinnamon rolls waiting for you later.

You open the door, and it’s like your whole world shatters before your eyes. There he was, your unmistakably still alive husband standing there. He looked more older, and it was only 2 years ago he was announced dead.

“Hello, my love. Have you missed me?” He asked darkly. You shrieked and tried to escape through the back door, but it was too late. Steve ran after you and grabbed you around your waist and held you down on the floor, preventing you from struggling away.

“That is no way to greet your husband after thinking he was dead for such a long time. I expected better from you, my wife. Maybe you have forgotten who you belong to and I need to give your dumb little brain a reminder.” He said, and carried you upstairs to your bedroom.

He threw you onto the bed like a rag doll and started to tie your wrists with velvet ropes he had brought with him to the headboard. This was new to you from all your previous experiences of having sex with Steve, and it scared you. “S-Steve, what is this?..what are you-!”

“I’m going to fuck you so hard and make you wish you never pulled that little escape stunt earlier. Silly woman, thinking you stand a chance against me. You’re mine, and I’ll do everything in my power to make sure your dumb head understands that.”

He ripped your clothes off harshly, and he unbuttoned his trousers to free his cock from the restraints. You expected him to penetrate you like he always did before. That was the only type of sex you two were familiar with. But this ‘new’ version of Steve had different plans.

Your eyes widened when his face lowered at your pussy, causing you to feel distressed. “W-Wait, don’t do that!…I-It probably smells, I don’t want you to get too close to it!”

“Oh, Y/N, my sweet wife. You’re so clueless. What I did and did not do before I disappeared was when I was a boy. But I’m a man now, and I’m going to teach you so many things of how we can pleasure each other.”

His tongue stuck out of his mouth and he licked a stripe of your cunt, causing you to cry out a moan. You have never felt anything like this before. It almost felt unreal. It only got worse when his tongue glided between your pussy lips, gathering all your juices for him to savour.

“You taste delicious, my love. There isn’t a thing that’s more tastier than your sweet pussy…” he mumbled into your sensitive skin.

Steve never talked like this during sex, and somehow you preferred him not to talk because it made it easier to not enjoy it. This Steve however was making it harder to hate it with each new thing he did, and it made you feel horrible about yourself.

Suddenly, Steve used what felt like his thumb to rub at a particular spot. It caused your whole body to jolt at once like you were electrocuted, and you felt an overwhelming heat spread across your whole body.

“Do you know what this little pearl is, doll? It’s called a clitoris. It’s your most sensitive part of your pussy, and it will only be recognized as what engorges your wetness and surrounds your vagina in 2009 - about 70 years from now on. It also has about 8,000 nerve endings, which is why you become so sensitive when I touch it. Isn’t that fascinating, my love?”

You didn’t pick up a word of what he was rambling about because you were too out of it from his circling motion of rubbing your pearly nub. You couldn’t stop moaning and panting. Again came that familiar feeling of a rising high. Before you knew it, the feeling hit you like a wave and you felt your hole quivering.

“Aaaww, you just came. How cute….” He cooed, with a victorious grin. “Now, let’s get to the main course of this session. Haven’t been in this pussy for a loooong time. And I’m sure you’ve been a good girl not having anyone else inside you, right?”

You didn’t respond to that question, still pretty out of what had taken place moments earlier.

He slapped your cheek lightly but harsh enough to take you out from your daze. “Answer me, whore.”

“N-No! I haven’t, Steve! No one has been inside of me since you disappeared! I promise!” You answered with frantic.

He smiled again. “Good.”

He aimed his cock at your hole and shoved himself in with little care. He groaned loudly, sounding so content with the current feeling. “Oh, I’ve missed her…missed your pussy so much…I’ve missed you..” he said followed with a grunt. “I’m so glad I’m back. Back together with you.”

For the rest of the evening, he would torture you with new tricks of his that opened a new world of sex for you. By the end of the night, Steve had you wrapped in his strong arms, whispering the most obscene things and promises in your ear. Most of them were connected to one promise that made you dread for the future.

A promise of never leaving you ever again.

Note from author: this turned out a lot longer than I originally planned but I really enjoyed the concept and couldn’t help myself. I’m a hoe for endgame AND 40s Steve.🧍Anyways, thank you @sadbucksblog for sharing your idea! <3 Hope you enjoy it!

(This has been reposted here as I have deleted my old account!)

Hearts & Reblogs are very appreciated! <3

#dark steve rogers x reader #40s steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers #steve rogers x female reader #drabble #chris evans fanfiction

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m1ckeyb3rry · 13 days ago

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fic authors self rec! when you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five of your other fave writers. spread the self-love!

thank you for tagging me @suguwu sorry this took me a sec to get to!! i have been cooking it up in my mind though !! hehe

Threefold | Honkai Star Rail — Mydei

When the husband you’ve never met returns from the war you’ve never understood, he comes bearing a strange and inexplicable gift — a prince in chains who he refuses to kill.

notes: this is my most recent project ergo i am the happiest with it atm HAHA i think my prose is at its strongest here!! honestly the idea for the plot really came to me in a vision…the image of mydeimos as the reluctant prisoner appeared so clearly to me that i had no choice but to build entire world to make it a reality!! (although in terms of world building i have done the bare minimum i feel LMAO very fast and loose fs) even though i haven’t met him in-game yet hehe he’s just very handsome yk haunts my waking hours and whatnot

Seabird | Blue Lock — Sae Itoshi

Thanks to a chance encounter on the beach, you spend your vacation trying to apologize to the famous soccer player you inadvertently offended. Unfortunately, Sae Itoshi has other plans.

notes: i feel like i would be remiss if i didn’t mention seabird!! this one was so much fun to write if only because reader and sae had the funniest dynamic i think i’ve ever written. they are so hater4hater and all of their conversations (plus the little brother’s snarky asides) had me giggling as i came up with them. i think in terms of prose it’s definitely a lot more functional compared to like threefold but that kind of lends it that silliness and charm?? so i still love it HAHA

Hierophant | Honkai Star Rail — Sunday

Sunday is your mirror, as you are his — or, how meeting him spells your doom, just like losing you spells his.

notes: did i know anything about sunday when i wrote this?? debatable (it was a birthday gift). forget about robin LMAOO this is definitely THE most ooc oak siblings you will ever see but i enjoyed it making it regardless!! it’s a 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝓭𝓪𝔂 fic more than anything and very speculative/open to interpretation in its entirety which is what i was hoping to get across hehe like i have my ideas for what i think happened but truly it’s not clear at all and it was fun withholding everything LFKDJD if that makes sense…coming up with the differences between halovians and humans as well as writing sunday’s slow deterioration and eventual breakdown was very fun for me!! i also loved switching between past tense and present tense for the different povs hehe it was a fun exercise writing-wise as well!!

The Instrument | Blue Lock — Michael Kaiser

Michael Kaiser is like a rose, and you are the songbird he cannot bear to lose.

notes: yes my opp michael kaiser is making an appearance here because unfortunately i actually do really love this piece LMAO i am not as much a fan of the part two because i only wrote it upon popular demand (i prefer leaving things open-ended) but part one i do by and large enjoy!! this was my first time ever writing in the present tense and i loveddd it HAHA it really unlocks a different style and vibe of writing for me so although i don’t always use it i def do like pulling it out every now and again which i wouldn’t have learned i can do without the instrument!!

Polar | Blue Lock — Nagi-Centric Genfic

This time, when Seishiro Nagi’s talent at soccer is discovered, it’s by a boy named Oliver Aiku — which goes about as well as you’d expect it to.

notes: this one is definitely a crazy one to put on here given that this is a genfic and i am a reader insert author but. i LOVE polar LMAOAOAO it was born of a silly conversation i had with one of my friends (jei if you’re seeing this hi) but it ended up being over 20k words of nagi character study in an au where he’s found by oliver instead of reo!! i love writing it hehe i think this is the proof nagi is my fav because like writing a genfic from a character’s pov is smth i’ve never done before and probs never will do again. but it was a blast at the time!!

no-pressure tagging: @luvether @loverducky @mewnbuns @kazucee @veraties (if any of you were tagged already i am sorry 🥹 i tried switching up who i tag too so i hope you all are okay with it please lmk if not so ik for next time 💖)

#AHH THIS WAS FUN PICKING FIVE WAS TOUGH!!#pomegranate ink honorary mention for sure these works are just more recent so they just feel stronger to me #m’s thoughts

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starsoverbrooklyn · 3 days ago

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just the headline, doll: fleeting augustine. (bakery au) starring... post-war!Bucky Barnes x f!baker!Reader storm ahead, sweetheart: a flip-switch of fluff to angsty. mention of Steve's canon ‘death’. topics of loss, grief, silent comfort. inked just for you: 2,284 a word from yours truly: a bit of a longer piece to sandwich in between the daily drabbles. inspiration pulled from @elixirfromthestars's cafe writing challenge! i started this on my main blog back when the challenge first opened, ambitious in wanting to make it a longer piece that delve into more of a 'August' by Taylor Swift vibe between the characters, eventually... (hence the title that i got too attached to, to change), but i heavily siked myself out. better late than ever & just in time for my heal-write journey. hope you enjoy! ♡⋆｡°✩ -rrinnie

“How much for fresh strawberries?”

Mrs. Cardinal’s voice lilts across the counter, soft and honeyed like sun-warmed tea. Her eyes peer at you from over the rim of her glasses, the corners crinkled with a smile that carries decades of warmth. She looks down at the paper catalog, her fingers brushing over the glossy image of a frosted cake as if it were something sacred.

You return her smile, one corner of your mouth hitching higher than the other. “Eighteen cents for the full top, six for decorative placement… but for you? I’ll cut it in half. Sound fair?”

Her breath catches with delight. “Bless your soul,” she coos. “My husband loves the darn things. I’ll take the full top.”

You nod, scribbling her request on the order form, the scratch of your pencil soft against the hum of the ovens. “He’s a lucky man,” you remark, eyes still on the paper. “Can’t remember the last time someone came in just because. I’d wager it’s never happened.”

Her chuckle is low and tender, like a secret between friends. She pats the counter with a weathered hand. “When you’ve been with someone as long as I have, you don’t wait for birthdays to say you’re thinking of ‘em. Time’s a fragile thing, sweets—especially these days.”

You offer a quiet nod, your smile faltering just slightly. “I’ll have to remember that.”

“Oh, it’s true,” she insists, her voice turning fond but firm. “You’re young. This place keeps you busy, I can see that. But if you’ve got someone—someone who makes all of this make sense—you hold onto them.”

You lift your gaze to her, polite, appreciative… but the smile you give her is hollow at the edges. That topic always finds its way to you, carried on the backs of women who see too much.

She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s why her next question lands so heavy.

“How’s that friend of yours? The sergeant.”

Your jaw tightens. One eye twitches, a betrayal of calm. “He’s fine,” you answer, too quickly. “We’ve been writing.” Half-truth. Whole ache. She beams at the news, unaware—or choosing not to be.

You reach for her arm, fingers warm against her sleeve. “When would you like to pick this up?”

She hums, tilting her head in thought. “Tomorrow at noon, dear?”

“Perfect.”

You tear the carbon copy from the pad and hand it to her. She cups your hands in hers, gratitude spilling from her like petals from an overripe bloom. Then she’s gone, out the door with a flutter of her shawl, and the bell above the entrance chimes one last, gentle note.

You sigh, swiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, the kitchen’s heat pressing against your skin like a second body. The scent of baking croissants coils through the air, a thin consolation. You slip behind the swinging door, half-ready to disappear into flour-dusted solitude.

You reach for a tin of sugar balanced precariously atop a bag of almond flour—just a quick tidy, just to feel in control of something—but the moment your fingers graze the edge, the whole tower of ingredients gives out beneath your touch.

Flour erupts like smoke in the air. A bag bursts open on impact, powder dusting your shirt, your arms, your lashes. Sugar scatters in a crystalline spray across the floor. A metal canister rolls under the counter, clattering in protest.

You stand frozen, jaw clenched, hands still lifted mid-air like you can rewind time if you just don’t move.

Then—

The bell rings again.

A sharp, metallic jingle. Unexpected. Unforgiving.

“Shit,” you mutter, voice low with guilt as the word slips. “Coming! Just a minute!”

You push up from your crouch, white dust blooming from your apron like snowfall. The floor groans beneath your step, flour slick and treacherous beneath your boots.

“You’re not looking too hot, Dottie.”

That voice—husky, teasing—strikes your spine like a tuning fork. You don’t need to see him to know who it is.

You spin, startled, your foot catching the edge of a flour pile. Gravity pulls, sharp and cruel—

But it never lands.

A strong hand snatches yours, jerking you forward and into the solid wall of his chest. His hands find your shoulders, steadying. Anchoring. The heat of him seeps through your apron, and your breath stutters from the proximity.

You don’t dare look up. Not yet.

The chest beneath your cheek shakes with a soft laugh, and even now—off-balance, embarrassed—it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve heard all day.

“When a girl says ‘one minute,’ she usually means from outside the swinging door,” you mutter, your voice tight with residual panic.

One hand tips your chin up gently, guiding your gaze to his. Those blue eyes—stormcloud and silver—crinkle with mischief, and you feel the floor give way beneath your knees all over again.

You swear you’ve seen them enough times to be immune.

You are not.

“Lucky I didn’t wait,” he says, stepping back just far enough to take in the disaster of flour and sugar. He whistles, low and unimpressed. “Jesus, Dot. You sure this isn’t a cry for help? I know some gals who swear nursing’s their true calling.”

You roll your eyes. “Hilarious.”

He follows you to the broom, walking backward like a devil in uniform. When you reach for it, he beats you there, grabbing it with a smug little flourish.

“Just looking out for you. Should’ve said something after you put Dots on a cake,” he teases, his distaste for the gumdrops evident by the scrunch of his nose. He rests his chin atop his stacked hands on the broom’s tip.

“Instead, you branded me with a nickname every grandmother in Brooklyn answers to.”

“Ah, but ours is special,” he pouts. “Just between me and you.”

You hold out your hand. He feigns compliance, then snatches the broom away, sauntering toward the radio perched on the shelf.

“Bucky—don’t you dare.”

He shushes you with a finger to his lips, twisting the dial. Static crackles, and then—guitar, soft and lazy like a summer afternoon.

He turns. Broom raised to his lips like a mic.

“I’m gonna buy a paper doll that I can call my own…”

You groan, backing away, but he follows. Swaying. Singing. Off-key and utterly relentless.

He catches you by the waist the moment you’re within reach, pulling you in with an easy strength. You press against his chest in mock protest, but the smile curling your lips betrays you.

“A doll that other fellows cannot steal,” he croons, the melody curling from his mouth like campfire smoke, warm and familiar.

“Let me sweep,” you protest, half-hearted and breathless—before a sudden squeal escapes you as he lifts you clean off the ground, spinning you like a record.

“And then the flirty, flirty guys,” he sings, voice dripping with exaggerated charm, “with their flirty, flirty eyes will have to flirt with dollies that are real—”

“Sing with me!” he laughs, cutting off his faux vibrato with a grin so wide it crinkles the corners of his eyes.

“When I come home at night, she will be waiting,” you deadpan, rushing the line like you’re trying to outrun the song itself. You toss your head back in mock defeat, groaning as he twirls you right through the minefield of flour and sugar. “Bucky, you idiot!”

“She’ll be the truest doll in all this world!” he bellows, now fully off-key and entirely unapologetic, relishing your exasperation.

“I’d rather have a paper doll to call my own…”

He dips you low, grinning like a fool, pointing the makeshift microphone to your lips. His eyes are sparked with mischief as he juts his chin toward you, brows raised in expectant encouragement.

“Than have a fickle-minded, real live girl,” you sing in surrender, shaking your head even as your lips twitch with laughter.

“Beautiful!” he declares, lifting you upright and twirling you with flourish as the music swells. He spins you out with a theatrical flare, launching into a sloppy, exaggerated swing routine. You burst into laughter, and the sound only spurs him on—he kicks through a puff of flour like it’s part of the choreography, his every move more ridiculous than the last.

“Your boots and trousers!” you gasp, pressing both hands to his chest in a futile attempt to stop him. He only grins wider, undeterred, spinning you faster than the music can keep up.

Flour kicks up with every misstep, but his joy is uncontainable—reckless and radiant, impossible to resist. His laughter rings out, infectious enough to melt any scolding you had planned. Just as you’re caught in the pull of it, his arms sweep beneath you again, and you’re lifted in a dizzying whirl.

Then the floor decided it’d endured enough abuse.

You feel the moment his balance falters—see the flicker of panic in his eyes just before his shoe skids across the floor and the broom clatters down beside you.

And then you’re both falling.

Your body collapses into his with a startled yelp, and his back hits the floor hard enough to shake the cabinets. A sharp thud, a choked grunt—and suddenly, you’re tangled together in the wreckage of sugar and song.

He groans, half winded, half laughing, breath hitching through coughs and fractured chuckles. You scramble upright, flustered and flinging flour from your clothes, but he stays down, one knee bent as he props himself up with an elbow.

With his free hand, he rips the visor cap from his head and tosses it into the mess around him, the gesture as dramatic as the rest of his performance. The last bars of the song warble through the static of the radio, comically triumphant.

You lurch for the dial and spin it down before the next tune can start, your heart still racing as silence spills into the room.

“You idiot,” you snap, half-scolding, half-awed. “You ruined your uniform.”

“You look worse,” he counters, smiling despite it all. He rises, dusting himself off. Then his hands—warm, worn—cup your face. Everything stills.

“I’ve missed you.”

It takes you a beat to answer. “I’ve missed you too.”

But something shifts.

It’s subtle at first—just a flicker, a change in the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes drift past your shoulder like he’s watching something no one else can see. The air pulls taut between you, as if it senses what’s coming.

His voice, when it comes, is quiet. Too quiet. “Steve went down in a German aircraft.”

Your brows knit, confusion tugging at your features—but he doesn’t give you time to ask.

“A Valkyrie,” he adds, hollow. “One of theirs. He intercepted every bomb meant for American soil. Saved everyone.”

Your mouth parts. No sound comes.

And still, he keeps going. Not for you—for himself—like he’s trying to force the words out before they strangle him. “He called from the cockpit before it happened. Didn’t say goodbye. Just… made a promise to his girl.” His voice falters. “You could hear it—how scared he was. He knew he wouldn’t make it.”

The world narrows, the kitchen shrinking around you, suddenly too small to hold the weight of what he’s saying.

“No,” you whisper, but it’s a ghost of a protest, thin and useless. You know better. You can see it in his face. He doesn’t need to be believed—he needs to survive saying it out loud.

“He thought it was over. Thought he’d make it back. But the Valkyrie was still locked on course for New York. No backup. No way out. He just… accepted it. Like a man who’s known his whole life he was on borrowed time.”

His lips twitch—not a smile—something else. A wound reopening.

“He got what he always wanted. Fulfilled his duty right to the end. Like a soldier. Like a hero.”

Your hand finds his arm, fingers pressing in like you could anchor him here. “I’m sorry, Buck.”

His eyes flick to yours—something raw and ugly and breaking just beneath the surface. “He saved me,” he says, almost like repentance. “Twice.”

You try to soothe. “And you would’ve done the same for him.”

He laughs. Cold. Hollow. “Would’ve. Could’ve. Doesn’t mean I did.”

His voice drops. “I watched him jump on that plane. I heard him choose to die. And I let him.”

“Don’t,” you say, the word trembling with the weight of everything unspoken. “Don’t do that to yourself. It’s not fair.”

“He was Captain America,” Bucky says. His tone isn’t reverent—it’s bitter. Blistering. “And I’m what’s left.”

You step forward, unable to bear the space between you any longer. His face is hot under your palms, flushed with grief and guilt, tears already brimming and unshed.

“What’s not fair,” he chokes, “is he’s gone. And I’m not.”

He doesn’t fight the sob that tears from him, doesn’t hide the way he folds under your touch like a man unraveling at the seams. You hold him as he sinks, your arms catching the weight he’s been carrying alone.

His fingers fist in your apron like a drowning man clinging to shore. His body trembles against yours—not with weakness, but with too much feeling crammed into a frame never meant to bear it all.

And when he finally breaks, when the sobs come rough and ragged against your collarbone, you don’t shush him. Don’t try to make it okay.

You let him cry. You need him to cry.

Because this is the cost of surviving. Of being the one left behind.

And you would rather carry his grief than let him carry it alone.

Because he’s here.

He came back in pieces, but he came back.

And you will love every shattered one.

#elixirscafe #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes one shot #writing challenge #james buchanan barnes #tws #winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier #bucky fluff #bucky angst #Spotify

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graciereadshannigram · 11 months ago

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hey fam, welcome to the May 2024 roundup of the best hannigram fics i've read this past month! i read several million words worth of fics, and these were the cream of the crop. i also managed to rewatch the show for the fifth time!! (unemployment has its perks lmao)

as a reminder: the ingredients for a five star rating typically (but not always!!) include some combination of a.) believable characterizations of both Hannibal and Will, b.) compelling plot and/or character arcs, and c.) high quality smut.

that being said, my judgment of the aforementioned ingredients is powered almost exclusively by vibes. as such, it is incredibly subjective.

you can find past rec lists below:

February March April

and if you have any recs of your own for me, PLEASE SHARE.

anyway, in no particular order, let's go!

Overcoming by purefoysgirl

Word Count: 547.5k Summary: A Victorian A/B/O romance in which Hannibal Lecter is the future Duke of Westvale who has been away at war for the past ten years. His Grandfather has made good on a contract made shortly after Hannibal's birth to procure him a wife. It was supposed to be easy. Naturally, with the Omega, Will, given in the place of his twin sister, it is anything but, because if there is one thing Hannibal Lecter despises, it's Omegas.

This fic had me holding back tears when it ended (after sobbing a couple different times). This was... incredible. What a fucking UNDERTAKING this author committed to, and despite this being a doorstopper of a fic, the plot did not miss a single beat. Just... wow. For the love of god, please read this.

Falls the Shadow by littlesystems

Word Count: 72.4k Summary: "You're a psychiatrist," Will says. "Between your personal and professional lives you must have met thousands of people, you must know dozens of different flavors of pathology. Do you know anyone who would take me as I am? Who would be able to love me," he gestures in a sweeping motion, from his messy hair to his stained knee, "just as I am?" "I do." Bedelia's words shock Will into stillness. “Really?” AKA an AU where Bedelia is Will’s psychiatrist instead of Hannibal, Will makes a series of increasingly questionable life choices, and no one should ever take Bedelia’s advice. Ever.

GIMME MORE STARSSSSSSSS. Bedelia as Will's psychiatrist was brilliant, holy shit. And Will understanding Hannibal and completely accepting him? This is something I see so rarely done in fics. Will always makes him be a lot less manipulative, or at least goes through heavy angst over it. But in this? Will was immediately endeared because that's just who Hannibal is.

Bram Stoker's HANNIBAL by DBMars

Word Count: 586.7k Summary: Love Never Dies. "I have crossed oceans of time to find you." Hannibal + Bram Stoker's Dracula + the classic novel = a new version of the seductive vampire legend. Count Hannibal Lecter loses the thing most precious to him -- the love of his life. God is beyond measure in wanton malice, and matchless in his irony. And so Hannibal renounces God, and becomes an immortal monster that feeds on the blood of the living. 400 years after losing his beloved, Count Lecter meets a man who looks exactly like the husband he lost -- reborn and returned. But who could learn to love a monster?

@dbmars you are a fucking genius. I am honestly still processing and figuring out how to communicate just how amazing this fic was. Do yourself a favor and go read it NOW.

the book of jonah by zipegs

Word Count: 18.1k Summary: A sudden breath of hot wind presses through the trees. For a moment, it feels fresh, alive, and then the dust—the pollen—comes along with it, a parasite hitched on the back of the breeze. Will is ravenous. --- After the fall, Will and Hannibal sojourn in a remote, decrepit cabin in South America while they await Chiyoh’s return. But something here is afflicting them, and it’s only getting worse.

Okay, bear with me. THIS WAS FUCKING AMAZING. I haven't felt this way after consuming a piece of media since I watched Guillermo del Toro's The Autopsy episode. Psychological horror mixed with body horror mixed with smut??? I guess that does it for me. I literally can't stop thinking about this fic. It's been two weeks and I am STILL thinking about it.

Wrong by HotMolasses (@snazzymolasses here on tumblr)

Word Count: 4.2k Summary: Will roughly rubbed his arm across his mouth again, trying to rub it off. Rub off the scent of Alana, after they’d kissed. After she’d kissed him. Or he’d kissed her? It was mutual. Until it wasn’t. Until Will breathed in her scent, so familiar, so Alpha, so…wrong. He’d pulled back forcibly, unable to hide the expression of revulsion on his face. “I…I need to go.” he said, sweeping his coat off the back of a chair on his way towards the door. “Lock up when you leave.” The weather was crap, and it probably wasn’t smart to drive in the snow while he was in pre-heat, but Will didn’t know what else to do. He needed to figure this out, he needed to talk to the only person who understood him. He needed to talk to Hannibal.

So ummmmmmm what do I need to do to turn this into like a whole AU?? As always, this was a total home run. Every single bit of it was perfect.

as soft, as wide as air by BlackKnightSatellite

Word Count: 193.9k Summary: After surviving the fall, Will finds he has far fewer hesitations about joining Hannibal than he would have guessed. Character death, but not Will or Hannibal.

Well shit. I read this immediately after a full rewatch of the show (in four days no less) and THIS is my new season 4 canon. It's brilliant and actually reads like a proper season would. And I love how it gives all the characters a concluded story line. Aside from Will and Hannibal. I also loved how much this explored Will's instability and how his mental state would be affected after he finally slung off all the guilt and allowed himself to fully enjoy killing. All around very good.

The Dispersal Method by @victorineb

Word Count: 16.9k Summary: It’s a normal fall day in the forest for Will Graham. Dead body in front of him, cannibal psychiatrist behind him, the usual. Then Will brushes against the wrong flower, and suddenly neither he nor Hannibal can keep their hands off each other. Now, Will must navigate his way out of the crime scene and Jack’s scrutiny while also trying not to jump Hannibal’s bones at every opportunity. Well, one out of three ain’t bad. Set nebulously in s2, post-Will's release from the BSHCI. Will’s a conflicted honeypot, Hannibal’s a (not-so) secretly-besotted asshole, and nobody has brought enough lube.

THIS IS THE BEST SEX POLLEN I'VE EVER READ. Seriously. The BEST out of pretty much any fandom (at least so far).

Between the Shadow and the Soul by raiast

Word Count: 48.7k Summary: When Will decides to stop taking his suppressants neither he nor Hannibal can deny the attraction between them. After nearly a decade of running from his biology, Will is faced with his primitive Omega urges full force. As if navigating his hormones wasn't enough, there is a killer at large with a very specific motive that seems to only be targeting preteen boys.

This might be my new favorite ABO fic? And one of the better case fics out there.

Sleepover by EarthsickWithoutYou

Word Count: 70k Summary: Set in Season 1, after "Fromage." Will is still confused about his kiss with Alana and seeks romantic advice on how to date and be more "smooth" from Hannibal. Little does he know that Hannibal is madly, passionately obsessed with him, and desperately jealous. Needless to say, Dr. Lecter is all too happy to teach Will everything he knows about love and dating.

This was pretty fluffy, tender, and fun, and it was exactly what I needed after finishing a heavier fic

Alana Finds Out by @victorineb

Word Count: 32.1k Summary: A series of one-shots in which Alana Bloom discovers, in the midst of various tropes, that her boyfriend Hannibal Lecter's feelings for Will Graham run far deeper than friendship. Basically a chance for Alana to shout at the pair of emotionally-repressed idiots whilst still indulging in much Hannigram loveliness.

Oh I loved all of this. This scratched that itch in my brain that loves when Alana realizes that Hannibal has wanted Will all along. And some of these one-shots are genuinely hysterical. Love.

Doctor's Orders by JSinister32

Word Count: 29.2k Summary: “He’s dead on his feet, Jack. I do not understand how you allowed him to come when he’s so obviously ill. There have been too many hours in service of your needs, so many that it seems to have affected any sleep that he may have gotten over the past few weeks. From what you and I have discussed, he has a difficult time shutting his mind down under the best of circumstances and this case today has clearly gotten to him.” The doctor stepped closer to the profiler, peering into his eyes as Will tried to focus. “Will? Can you hear me?” Will Graham has never been particularly good at taking care of himself. When he comes down with a severe cold while working on a string of murders, the new psychiatrist on retainer, Doctor Hannibal Lecter, offers to care for him. Will he be able to keep his feelings in check while Hannibal is in his home? Hannibal Lecter can't get the profiler working for the Violent Crimes unit out of his mind. When given the opportunity to care for him when he's ill, will his feelings for the other man come to light?

TENDER. I want like 70k more words of this. Especially Hannibal putting Jack in his place. Especially Hannibal washing Will's hair. Mmm. There's just something so good about Will letting Hannibal take care of him.

The First Condition of Immortality is Death by OneHandedBooks

Word Count: 92.5k Summary: Hannibal’s heart stopped for the first time after he’d dragged himself and Will out of the frigid ocean onto the rocky shore at the bottom of the bluff.

Oh this was GOOD. Very tender, good characterizations, and loved how Will's hallucinations were portrayed. This was just all a really good exploration of how their relationship could have progressed. This author also is incredibly good at showing the scenes in a way that I could watch them unfold in my head. This felt like a crystal clear movie.

What Do The Dead Know? by OneHandedBooks

Word Count: 7.6k Summary: He looks up at her, haloed by the sun. She could be anyone. No one. St. Abigail, patron of lilies and last chances. AU: What if Will joined Hannibal willingly after the Uffizi Gallery and they shared a few tense weeks in the world before Mason's men finally ran them down? In which Will writes, hallucinates, and succumbs to the dark side and Hannibal is a manipulative, brainwashing, bastard.

cw: Abigail/Will. But does it really count if it's a dream sequence? Regardless, this was something else, off the charts, big fan. The author NAILED the hallucinatory vibe that made this entire fic work so so well. Also, just Will working through his grief for Abigail this way made it that much more intense.

chimera of the chapel by bleakmidwinter

Word Count: 211.5k Summary: When Will Graham wakes up from a coma three months after the fall, Jack reveals that Hannibal Lecter didn't survive. Outside the realm of Hannibal's influence, Will decides to discover the full truth behind the world's sudden and seeming falsehood. Everybody seems to hold their own opinion on Hannibal's fate, but Will knows better than anyone that trust and honesty are as elusive as death.

The "presumed dead" trope might just be my new obsession. I adored this fic so much, the plot was incredible, the development of their relationship was spot on, and there were just some very tender moments.

wear my silence like a mask by bleakmidwinter

Word Count: 32.k Summary: After running into Hannibal at a Bass Pro Shop, Will is invited to a Masquerade Ball at his estate. Jack encourages him to attend for an opportunity to catch the Ripper. Extenuating circumstances tempt Will down an even graver path; Romance with the Ripper.

Three words: masked anonymous sex. That's all.

The Voices and the Shadows by darlinghogwarts, MaddyHughes

Word Count: 114.6k Summary: “The Chesapeake Ripper? The serial killer? That's a grisly thing to find at the bottom of a drink. Most people say oblivion ...or possibly sex.” Hannibal sips his wine again. “Why are you thinking about a murderer on your birthday, Will? Is it part of your degree?” “He is a part of my degree by my own choice. My supervisor didn’t approve, but…” He sighs. “I insisted.” AU where Will—a Masters student studying the Chesapeake Ripper—gets drunk on his birthday and meets an intriguing man at the bar.

Man, I wish I had had Hannibal as my thesis supervisor in grad school, hot damn. (Mine was pretty much too busy to help with anything, ended up doing it all myself – would not recommend.) This was was damn near perfect. I needed some good old fashioned angst. With a good and fluffy ending. This was a good AU!

Chasing Thoroughbreds by HigherMagic

Word Count: 42.8k Summary: After the fall, Chiyoh rescues Will and Hannibal and takes them to the Lecter home in Lithuania. When Hannibal wakes up, his memories of everything - Will, being the Ripper, everything since Mischa's death - are gone. Will's only problem with that is that killing Hannibal won't be nearly as satisfying if he doesn't understand why. Wrestling with his own feelings, or what's left in the tattered mess of them after the fight with Dolarhyde, Will stays, hoping that Hannibal will recover and give him the opportunity he's waiting for. But there are others who remember what Hannibal did, all those years ago, and they have their own bone to pick.

Ugh pretty sure I love almost everything HigherMagic writes and this did not disappoint. This was fantastic. I was absolutely captivated by Will's development through this and Hannibal was just as good.

Volto Larva by TreacleA

Word Count: 39k Summary: Will is having trouble unwinding after work. Hannibal helpfully suggests somewhere that may assist with that, with absolutely no ulterior motive whatsoever.

So ummmm I'm still blushing (in the best way) over parts of this fic because FUCK this is scorching. Anyway. That's all I've got to say LOL.

#hannigram #hannigram recs #hannigram fics #fic recs #hannibal #hannibal lecter #will graham #murder husbands #mads mikkelsen #hugh dancy #nbc hannibal #hannibal tv show #hannibal nbc #fannibals #dracula au #bram stoker's hannibal #overcoming fic #gracie reads hannigram

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astrids-blog333 · 6 days ago

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A Ruin of His Making

Emperor!Lucius Verus Aurelius x Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Summary: You’re engaged to an emperor you hate. One night, in the palace halls, hatred turns to something much louder, and far more public.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, enemies to lovers, hate sex vibes, power imbalance, semi-public, possessiveness, manhandling, dirty talk, ref to past trauma.

A/N: Set post Gladiator II, deviates from the original plot (help sorry I can't resist). All physical interactions are consensual within the story's context, despite emotional intensity and imbalance. The reader is not weak or passive; she is angry and complicated and chooses to stay. That being said, if you are triggered by cnc situations, maybe skip this one <3

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 5.6k

The city smells of sweat and heat and gold-painted victory. You stand at the far end of the atrium, among garlands and silks, your fellow nobles and senators are fawning and chattering like carrion birds circling a lion.

They say Lucius Verus has returned from war.

They say he’s changed, but you never knew him well enough to tell the difference anyway.

The guards enter first, tight-faced and too tense for a triumphal return. Then comes the man himself. He's taller than you remember, broader, somehow. His cloak hangs from one shoulder, dirt-streaked and travel-worn, and there’s blood at the corner of his cuff that no one dares mention.

He does not smile. He does not bow. He does not stop. The crowd parts for him like wheat under a scythe. His eyes scan the room once and find you.

You don’t move. You don’t flinch.

Not even when he walks directly toward you, ignoring the extended hands, the simpering greetings, the half-kneeling senators who hold out rings for him to kiss.

You stand with your back straight, chin lifted. You are not some doe-eyed virgin waiting to be gifted into this marriage like a prize pig. You were someone’s wife once. And though that man is rotting beneath the stones of a family crypt, he left you with a name. And scars.

Lucius stops a foot too close.

You feel the heat rolling off him, the stench of sweat and leather and rage barely held at bay. His jaw is dark with stubble, his mouth a tight line, unsmiling.

"You didn’t bow," he says, voice rough with the weight of months spent shouting over battlefields.

You arch an eyebrow. "I am not yet your wife."

He smiles at that. Crooked. Wolfish. “Not yet. But soon.”

You hate the way his voice drags over those words, like he’s already tasted them and has decided to spit them back out.

"Did the Senate send for you?" you ask. "Or did you run back early for your wedding night?"

Laughter dances in the crowd, polite and forced. But Lucius doesn’t join in. "I came because Rome grows soft in my absence," he replies. "And because I don’t trust them to protect what’s mine."

The air between you pulls taut.

"Is that what I am?" you ask, voice flat. "A possession?"

He leans forward. Close enough that you can see the smudge of dried blood at the collar of his tunic. You don’t know if it’s his.

"No," he murmurs. "You’re a puzzle. A provocation. And they promised you to me without ever asking whether I could stomach the taste of something so bitter."

Something ugly curls in your chest, a kind of fury that never burned out properly.

"And I suppose you think I’ll be grateful to be claimed by a monster?"

Lucius tilts his head, studying you. "Gratitude isn’t required. But you will belong to me."

He says it so plainly, so calmly, as though the matter were already settled in blood and ink. Perhaps it is. You never had much say in it to begin with.

"You don’t know me," you snap.

"I know enough."

A beat. The space between you closes, breath to breath. His voice drops lower. "I know you didn’t cry at your husband’s funeral. I know he hit you. I know you learned to lie still and quiet and pretend that was love. I know that scares you more than I do."

It hits you like a thrown gauntlet, because it’s true. There is no pity in his words. No sympathy. Just knowing. You hate that he’s read your history like some battlefield report. That he’s looked at your wounds and seen something useful.

"Then you’re a fool," you whisper, throat tight. "Because I’d sooner die than lie beneath another man who thinks he owns me."

Lucius doesn’t flinch, instead, he steps closer. A breath between you. You don’t step back. Not even when his voice curls behind your ear like smoke.

"What a shame, I happen to need you alive."

You slap him.

The sound cracks across the chamber like lightning. Every eye turns. Every whisper hushes.

His head turns with the blow, but he doesn’t strike back. Doesn’t even lift a hand.

He turns back slowly, a smile blooming like blood across his face.

There’s something almost unholy in his expression, a delight and fury which you cannot decipher for the life of you.

"Careful," he says softly. "You’re starting to excite me."

You stare at him, chest rising, blood roaring in your ears. You don't know if you want to scream, cry or push him away. Instead, you step back. Only one step.

Enough to remind yourself that you still can.

The feast had barely begun to die down, but already, the guests have begun to trickle out. The heavy scent of wine lingers in the air, mixing with the distant traces of roasting meats and sweet spices. You’ve stepped away from it all, retreating into the quiet of the balcony that overlooks the garden.

Lucius had left the feast earlier, his back straight, face unreadable, no parting words to anyone but the occasional curt nod. You watched him go, and for a moment, something like relief flickered within you.

But you hadn’t expected him to come find you.

The silence on the balcony is deafening as the shadows stretch across the marble. The cool air bites at your skin, tension now gathering between you and the man who’s just stepped into the frame of the door behind you. Lucius.

You don’t turn. The weight of his presence alone makes you stiffen, your back rigid. You can feel his eyes on you, watching, waiting.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low, a whisper that still manages to echo in the stillness of the night. “Enjoying the peace?”

“I thought you’d be too busy being the hero to notice,” you say, a sharpness to your words, though you refuse to turn to face him.

“You think so little of me?” he asks, the amusement in his voice somehow making it even more infuriating. He’s close now, so close that you feel the heat of him behind you. Every inch of space seems too small for the way his presence presses against you.

“I think you’re entitled,” you mutter, fingers tightening against the stone railing in front of you. “And I think you act like you're entitled. To everything. To the power. The land. The people. And whatever part of me you can claim.”

He steps closer, his boots soft against the marble as his hand rests on the stone next to yours. His voice drops lower. “You think you’re the only one who’s been forced into this?”

You scoff, unable to hold back a short, mocking laugh. “Please. You live for this. For control. For dominance.”

His face is inches from yours now. You don’t flinch when he leans in, his breath a whisper against your ear. His voice low and venomous. “You think I enjoy this, do you? Do you really believe I enjoy being forced into a marriage I don’t want? To a woman who can’t even look me in the eye without thinking herself superior?”

The words sting, but you don’t show it. Instead, you match his venom with your own.

“If you’re so miserable, why don’t you find a way out?” The challenge is clear in your tone, daring him to try, to do anything that might make him leave you be. “But you won’t, will you?”

Lucius steps in even closer, so close now that his chest nearly brushes against your back. You can feel the heat of him, the power he exudes, and yet you still refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning to face him.

His fingers trail dangerously close to your neck, and you can’t help but shiver at his touch. “You want to make me angry, don’t you?” he says, his voice thick with something darker. “You want me to lose control.”

Then, with a suddenness that has you gasping for breath, his hand shifts, gripping your chin and tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze. The coldness in his eyes sends a chill down your spine, but there’s also something dangerous flickering there, a hunger.

For a moment, the world is silent. He holds you in place, staring at you. You barely breathe. You can feel the weight of his stare, the storm building in his chest.

“You have a sharp tongue,” Lucius murmurs, his grip tightening around your chin, his thumb brushing lightly over your lips. “But I’m starting to wonder if you really want to use it.”

You feel his thumb trace the shape of your mouth.

Without thinking, you jerk away, snapping, “I don’t want this.”

Lucius steps back, giving you space, but you can feel the tension in his movements, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface. The air is thick between you and Lucius, and the moment feels like a ticking time bomb.

The silence stretches, suffocating, but somehow neither of you seems willing to let it end. The distance between you feels impossibly small, yet you can’t quite bring yourself to move.

He looks at you like a predator eyeing its prey, and you feel it in the pit of your stomach, an unsettling pull.

“Like I said, you want to make me lose my temper, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice dark, but laced with a wicked, almost amused edge.

You want to hate him, to despise every part of this situation. But it’s getting harder to ignore the way his eyes burn through you, the way he looks at you as though you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.

“You think you can scare me?” You bite back, stepping forward, though the words come out sharper than you intended. Lucius watches you carefully, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“No,” he says, voice dropping lower, just enough for you to catch every word. “I don’t want to scare you, but I know I could.”

You’re both too proud to back down. You hate him. He doesn’t like you, either. But there’s something else there, something neither of you can ignore.

Lucius takes a step forward, his eyes never leaving yours, and in a single movement, his hand reaches for your arm, pulling you toward him. The movement is swift, like a coiled spring finally snapping, and before you can react, you’re pressed against the cold railing of the balcony, his body a solid wall in front of you.

Your breath catches, not from fear, but from the intensity, the rawness of it. You’re angry, so fucking angry, but that anger isn’t enough to push him away.

You manage to fight through the fog of emotion, trying to spit out something sharp, something to cut him down to size. But the words die in your throat when he presses his thumb to your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.

“I thought you were supposed to be strong,” he murmurs, the challenge in his eyes matching the taunting tone of his voice. “Or is that just a front?”

The words cut into you like shards of glass. You try to turn your face away, but he doesn’t let you. Instead, his fingers tighten on your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“You want me to hurt you, don’t you?” he asks, his voice low, almost too soft for the sharpness of the question. “I can see it in your eyes. You want me to make you feel something, anything. Don’t lie.”

You want to scream, want to tell him to go to hell. But something in you won’t let it. You hate him for it. You hate the fact that you don’t want to pull away, don’t want to run.

You press your lips together, jaw tight with defiance, and finally you speak. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Lucius chuckles, a low, dark sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “No,” he says, his voice a mockery of sympathy, “you’re not. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Before you can respond, before you can even think of another insult to throw his way, Lucius closes the distance between you. His lips crash against yours in a searing kiss, ruthless, punishing. It’s not gentle, not at all.

It’s a kiss that takes, that demands.

You can’t help but gasp, the shock of it flooding through you. You don’t want to respond. You don’t want to let him win. But as his hands move to your hips, gripping you tighter, pulling you closer, something inside you unravels.

The kiss deepens, and you’re lost in it, overwhelmed by the heat of his body pressing against yours, the way his tongue demands entrance, the way he doesn’t give you the space to breathe.

“You’re a fool,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and dark, laced with satisfaction. “You think you can control this. But you can’t.”

You're drowning in him, and you despise that your body is reacting to him before your mind can stop it.

You push against him, trying to break free. But he only pulls you tighter, his hands sliding down your back, pressing you harder against him.

For a moment, you forget where you are. Forget that you’re supposed to be angry. Forget that this is supposed to be a confrontation.

You barely register the first sound of tearing fabric.

Your back is pressed to the balustrade, the cold stone biting through the thin silk of your gown, but Lucius doesn’t give you the chance to think. His hands are already on the fastenings at your waist, tugging hard enough to make the seams strain.

You gasp, a noise laced with fury and arousal, and push at his chest. “Is this how Roman emperors take what isn’t theirs? In gardens, like dogs?”

Lucius breaks the kiss to laugh, a laugh so low, rough, and amused in the most infuriating way. “If I were a dog, darling, I’d have taken you by now. But I’m patient. And you’re very, very close to begging.”

Your palm cracks across his cheek before you even realise what you’re doing. The sound is obscene in the quiet night, but it only seems to deepen that look in his eyes, hunger laced with something wild.

He catches your wrist before you can drop it, pinning it to the stone behind you, and leans in close enough that you feel the scrape of his breath against your jaw.

“That's the second time you've slapped me, do it again,” he growls, eyes blazing. “I dare you.”

“You’re disgusting,” you breathe, trying to twist free. “I’d rather sleep with a beast.”

His mouth finds your throat. Biting. Sucking. “Liar,” he mutters. “You’d rather sleep with this beast.”

And then his other hand rips through the neckline of your dress, fabric tearing, your breath hitching, and suddenly you’re half-bared to the open air, marble halls echoing behind you, columns offering far too little cover.

You try to cover yourself with your free hand, but he shoves it aside easily. “Oh no, don’t be modest now,” he says, voice syrup-thick with mockery. “Not when you’re standing there like a goddess meant to be ruined.”

“You arrogant bastard-”

“You like this,” he cuts in, tone taunting. “You like being manhandled. You like me doing it.”

You want to shout. Want to slap him again. Want to deny everything.

But the heat between your legs betrays you. The way your hips press forward into him, your legs shifting restlessly, you can feel how wet you already are, and you hate it.

“I hate you,” you hiss, even as he hooks a finger under the torn edge of your bodice and yanks again, exposing you further.

“I know, you keep saying that,” he breathes. “You hate me, and yet here you are, letting me touch you like this. Moaning into my mouth. Parting your legs. Do you know how sweet you sound when you're angry?”

He kisses you again, more teeth than tongue, and your wrists are pinned again before you can react, your body arched and open to him, your gown falling in tatters around your ankles.

“I should scream,” you pant when he moves to your jaw, biting there too, as though claiming.

“Do it. Let them hear. Let them see.” His voice is low, wicked. “Let the whole palace know that you're mine.”

You hate how that word coils low in your belly, how it makes something flutter in your chest.

With one arm, he lifts you like you weigh nothing, and you gasp as your back slams into the stone column behind you, your feet no longer anchoring you down. You can feel him hard against you, thick and hot even through his tunic. He grinds into you, just once, and it forces a sound out of you that doesn’t sound like hate at all.

His mouth brushes your ear. “There’s the real you,” he whispers. “You’re dripping. I could take you right here. Against the stone. Would you stop me?”

You should. You don’t.

“Coward,” you hiss, trying to reclaim the moment. “You think I’m impressed? You’re nothing but-”

He lets go of you so suddenly you stumble, but only for a moment. He catches you again, strong arms around your waist, and then he’s carrying you, half-naked, down the colonnade.

You wriggle against him, fists pounding his chest. “Put me down-”

“I will,” he snaps. “When we reach my bed. And not a moment before.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, but all he does is laugh, cruel and triumphant.

The doors of his chamber slam open under the force of his boot. He doesn’t even pause; he strides through the room and drops you onto his bed like a prize. Like a victory.

You scramble back, shaking, hair wild, lips swollen.

He unfastens his belt, watching you all the while with that same awful, smug amusement. “Still planning to insult me, or are you going to lie back and spread those pretty legs for me?”

You launch a pillow at him. “You’re the most arrogant bastard I’ve ever met!”

“And you’re the loudest little whore in Rome.”

You gasp, half outrage, half heat, and he’s on you again before you can draw breath. He's laughing low in his throat as you claw at his tunic.

“You’re still fighting me,” he says, dragging your ruined gown off the rest of the way, “but you’re wetter than any Roman virgin. Were you always this easy to break?”

“You haven’t broken me-”

“Haven’t I?”

He’s between your legs now, and the teasing stops being verbal. His fingers slide through your slick folds, slow and deliberate, and you whine when he draws one circle around your clit, just enough to make you twitch.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “You hate me so much you can’t stop shaking.”

You try to push him again, but this time he catches your hand, kisses the palm, and presses it against his chest.

“Go on. Keep hating me.” His eyes gleam. “But don’t you dare stop moaning.”

You don’t. You can’t.

Because his fingers are slipping lower, slow, deliberate, two of them curling inside you, and the sound you make is more like a sob than a gasp. You want to turn your face away, but he’s already watching too closely, already smirking like he knows.

“You feel that?” he says low, pushing deeper, twisting his wrist. “How wet you are? It’s obscene.”

“Stop-” you manage, but it’s pathetic. Your thighs are shaking.

“No,” he breathes. “You don’t want me to stop. Say it. Say you want it.”

You grit your teeth. “I want you to choke on your own ego.” He laughs again, lips brushing yours, still fucking you slow with his fingers. “Admit it, little bride. You’d rather choke on me.”

“Fuck. You.”

His grin widens. “Believe it or not, love, but that's the idea.”

Then he slams into you with his fingers, harder now, and you arch off the bed with a strangled sound. Your nails dig into his shoulders, seeking something to hold onto that isn’t your dignity.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters. “You’d let me take you anywhere, wouldn’t you? Against the column, the floor, right in front of the Senate. You like being ruined.”

“You’re disgusting,” you pant.

“And yet you’re dripping for me.”

Every roll of his fingers is pushing you closer, making it harder to breathe, to speak, to hate. You try to close your legs, to regain even the smallest control.

“Don’t,” he snaps, pushing your thighs apart. “Don’t you dare hide from me.”

“I’m not-”

“You are.” His voice dips. “But I want to see the moment you break. I want to feel it.”

You growl, but your hips are still grinding down against his hand. You’re trying to win a war on a battlefield he’s already set aflame.

Then he pulls his fingers free, wet and glistening, and holds them up between you.

“Look at that,” he says darkly. “And still pretending you don’t want me.”

You slap them away.

He grabs your wrists again, pins them above your head, and grinds his cock against you through the thin barrier of his clothes. You moan despite yourself.

“Say it,” he breathes, teeth gritted now. “Say you want me.”

“I don’t-”

He lets go. Just long enough to shove his tunic over his head, exposing the scarred stretch of his chest, the line of muscle down his stomach. You don’t mean to stare, but you do.

“Oh,” he purrs. “You’re staring. That’s new.”

You lunge up to push him, but he grabs your thigh and flips you onto your stomach like a rag doll. You yelp, trying to twist back.

He presses your chest to the bed with one hand, pulls your hips up with the other, and drags the head of his cock through your folds.

You go still.

The moment stretches.

“Ready to beg now?” he asks, tone silken.

“I will bite your fucking throat out.”

“Then I’ll fuck you while you try.”

And with no more warning, he drives into you.

You scream. Not in pain, not entirely. The stretch is sharp, unforgiving, but it’s the invasion that overwhelms you. He doesn't ease in, doesn’t wait. He sinks all the way to the hilt in one brutal thrust and stays there, one hand locked on your hip, the other on the back of your neck.

“You feel that?” he growls. “That’s mine. All of it. All of you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you hiss, voice trembling.

But you clench around him.

He groans, deep and unrestrained, and begins to thrust. Rough, relentless. The bed slams into the wall, your moans torn from you against your will.

“You sound like a whore,” he mutters, reaching forward to grab your throat, pulling you up against his chest.

You gasp, back arching, hair falling in wild tangles as he fucks into you from behind. Your legs tremble.

“Say it,” he growls again. “Say you want me.”

“No.”

He slides one hand between your thighs again, fingers rubbing your clit in tight, relentless circles.

You break.

Your body clamps down on him so violently that it makes him stutter. He thrusts through it, snarling, riding it out as you tremble and shake, breathless and wrung out.

“Liar,” he hisses in your ear. “You wanted this. You needed this.”

You’re still spasming around him when he flips you onto your back, fast and rough, before he plunges in again. This time you cry out with every movement, overstimulated and gasping.

“You should see yourself,” he pants, rutting into you. “Hair a mess, mouth open, legs shaking. Ruined.”

“Fuck… fuck you-”

“I am.”

He leans down, bites your lower lip, and slams into you harder. You moan into his mouth.

“You’re done pretending,” he whispers. “You can’t lie anymore.”

You claw at his shoulders. “You’re a monster.”

“Then why do you keep pulling me closer?”

You hate how right he is. Hate how good he feels. Hate the second orgasm building already, tighter, fiercer.

“You’re going to come again, aren’t you?” he says, tone mocking. “My poor little bride, soaking and speechless.”

He slams into you again. Your mouth drops open, but no sound comes out.

“Thought so.”

Your eyes roll back.

He fucks you like he’s trying to prove something, not just that he owns your body, but your pride, your defiance, every last bit of control.

When the second climax hits, you cry out so loudly he has to smother your mouth with his palm.

“Too loud,” he growls. “Don’t want the whole palace hearing how well I fuck my bride-”

But he doesn’t really care. You can see it in his eyes. He wants them to know.

You collapse beneath him, breathless, soaked, undone.

He comes not long after, hips snapping, voice raw as he spills inside you with a shudder and a growl of your name.

Silence, for a breath.

Then he shifts and leans over you, bracing himself on shaking arms.

Lucius moves slowly. And when he withdraws, you feel the thick, wet ache of it. You shift, a low hiss escaping your throat.

“Too much for you?” he drawls, brushing your hair from your cheek. “Pity. You took it well enough while I was ruining you.”

You manage a scowl, though your body’s trembling with aftershocks. “I should kill you.”

“You’d miss me.” He grins. “So would your cunt.”

He rises from the bed in a single motion, his body shadowed by the low lanterns, and you don’t expect it when he leans down, hooking his arm beneath your knees and lifting you from the sheets.

“Put me-”

“No.”

Your fists beat weakly at his chest, but you’re too sore to mean it. His seed still slicks your thighs. You’re marked, ruined, utterly dishevelled. And now you’re being paraded.

He strides from the bedchamber and out into the marble corridor of his private suite, bare, flushed, and grinning like a wolf. His bathchamber lies across the hall.

The door is open.

So is your mouth when a figure, a servant, pale and wide-eyed, turns at the end of the corridor. Sees everything.

Lucius does not flinch.

In fact, he smirks.

“Get out,” he says, not even glancing their way. The command is casual, but lethal.

They flee.

You burn.

“Scandalous bastard,” you hiss.

“Shall I drop you in the corridor then?” he offers, eyes glinting.

You don’t answer.

Steam curls from the bronze basin sunk into the floor, warm and waiting. The scent of oils hangs thick in the air, clinging to your skin even before it’s wet.

Lucius doesn’t stop. Doesn’t ask. He steps straight into the bath, water clinging to the muscle beneath as he lowers himself, and you, into the heat.

You hiss when it touches the rawest places. Bruises. Scrapes. You still feel where he stretched you.

His hold on you tightens, not to restrain, but to shield.

“I was going to warn you,” he murmurs near your temple, voice silked with cruel satisfaction. “But you just had to be difficult.”

You half turn in his arms, scowling, exhausted. “You enjoyed it.”

His teeth flash. “Of course I did.”

He reaches for a cloth, dips it into the steaming water, and wrings it out with a lazy flick of his wrist. The motion is slow, like the way a man sharpens a blade, not because he needs to, but because he enjoys the ritual of it.

Then he touches you.

The cloth slides up your thigh. Gentle. Unreasonably gentle.

You flinch. He feels it.

“I’m not him,” he says, low and close behind your ear.

The cloth moves higher, over the place where his fingers left bruises. It’s tender, the touch. Not apologetic, but… reverent.

You close your eyes. “I know.”

He doesn’t reply.

Just continues, slow, precise. Cleaning you as though you belong to him and no one else may touch. The cloth traces your waist, your belly, your breasts. Over the angry red marks blooming on your throat.

“Filthy little thing,” he says, almost absently, as if it’s a compliment. “Look what I’ve done to you.”

You shift against him, half-hearted. “Is this what passes for aftercare in the palace?”

“I could leave you filthy, if you prefer,” he offers, mock-casual, dragging the cloth up between your legs now with unbearable slowness.

Your breath catches.

He smirks against your neck. “Didn’t think so.”

His free hand is splayed across your stomach, keeping you against his chest. You’re in his lap, flushed and quiet.

When he finishes, he doesn’t speak. Just leans forward, pushing your wet hair aside to press his mouth once to your shoulder, unhurried, like claiming land he already owns.

Then he reaches for a towel, presses it into your hands.

“You can walk,” he says. “Or I can carry you back.”

“I can walk,” you mutter again, clutching the towel.

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re bleeding a little.”

You pause. Then glare.

“From me,” he adds, calm as marble. “You’ll forgive my pride.”

You turn away before he can see your face twist with fury, and shame, and something deeper, quieter, that gnaws at your ribs.

But you only make it a step before he steps into your space and lifts you again, without asking, without effort, arms locked tight beneath your knees and back. The towel shifts, slipping down one shoulder.

“Lucius-”

“I’ll carry what’s mine.”

You tense, heart pounding, as he strides from the bathchamber bare-chested and unbothered, with you cradled like a spoil of war.

And then, the worst.

Not a servant.

A senator.

A senior one, older, important. His brows lift, his jaw tightens, and for a long moment he simply stares.

You freeze in Lucius’ arms.

Mortified.

Bare legs, damp collarbone, bitten lips.

You try to twist, to cover your face in his chest, but the towel shifts again, and Lucius doesn’t even slow his pace.

“Domitius,” he says, cool and smooth as ever.

“Emperor,” the man replies after a beat, eyes still sharp with thinly veiled judgement.

Lucius only smiles.

Then shifts his grip around you, just enough to make it clear you’re not just some fleeting mistress. No, he’s holding you like a bride.

“You’re not dismissing him?” you whisper furiously as they pass.

“Why would I?” he murmurs. “Let him tell the court how you looked when I was carrying you home.”

He chuckles low in his throat. “Shall I walk slower?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re trembling. Again.”

He carries you back into his bedchamber like nothing happened.

Deposits you on the rumpled sheets with the same hands that had bruised your thighs and cupped your face like glass.

Lucius lies beside you. He doesn’t reach for you. Just watches.

The fire’s down to embers now, and for a moment, it’s quiet.

“You’ll hate me again tomorrow,” he murmurs, eyes on the ceiling.

You turn your head toward him. His hair’s a mess. A dark curl falls over his forehead. He doesn’t brush it away.

“I already do.”

There’s no heat in the words anymore. Just a strange, exhausted ache. Like you’ve both burned through something and don’t know what’s left.

You lie in silence.

Until, after a long while, you feel his arm shift and settle across your waist. Not tight. Not demanding.

Just there.

You don’t move.

He breathes, slow and steady, and just before you drift, you feel him press his forehead into your shoulder.

Almost like he’s praying.

You wake to sunlight cutting sharp across the marble floor.

The bed is warm. Too warm. Your legs are tangled in silken sheets, and your mouth tastes of salt and heat and something darker still. You shift and wince.

Everything aches.

Your thighs. Your hips. Your throat.

You drag the cover up as you sit, slowly, wincing again when the bruises sing beneath your skin. There are fresh marks on your wrists. On your collarbone. Teeth, fingers, his name written across your body in touches no one will dare speak of aloud, but everyone will know.

The door creaks.

Lucius enters fully clothed.

Hair swept back. Tunic dark and rich, imperial red. There’s a goblet in his hand and a parchment tucked under one arm.

He looks at you like a man admiring the aftermath of war.

“Sleep well, betrothed?”

You glare. “Barely.”

A slow smirk.

He steps forward, sets the goblet down beside the bed and takes the seat across from you like you’re in court again.

“I expect the palace has already heard.”

“I expect the city has.”

He tilts his head. “Let them. What can they do?”

You stare at him, this man who had torn you open with teeth and hands and never once begged forgiveness. He’s not softened in daylight.

You pull the covers tighter.

He watches.

“Say it,” you snap, before you can stop yourself.

“Say what?”

Whatever insult he’s been sitting on. Whatever cruel line he’s crafted for the moment he saw you like this, rumpled, silent, aching from him.

Instead, he leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees.

“I like you better ruined.”

Your breath catches.

And he smiles, slow and hungry, like he already knows that when he touches you again, you won’t fight quite as hard.

I'm so tempted to write a part two to this, but I have another Lucius fic idea I want to write first. If anyone would be interested in a part two to this, lemme know and I can bump it up in my priorities 🤗

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shizunitis · 4 months ago

Note

MENG MO X YUE QINGYUAN??? I'm intrigued

i had to go into my notes from months ago for this, because i'm SO sleepy i'm not sure i can rework it properly right now, but i love this ship a Normal Amount. so, with some editing:

IMAGINE (and do not think too much about the details, airplane’s world is ours to do with as we please):

yue qingyuan: sect leader whose favourite (not that he has favourites) shidi went off into the big wide world and married (without inviting him. he found out months after the fact.) his demon emperor student after almost starting a war with the demon realm by way of thinking too much, and he's kind of stressed about all of it.

which isn’t great. mu-shidi has recommended “peace and quiet”. yue qingyuan doesn’t laugh in people’s faces, but he came incrementally close to doing so that day.

though he’s keeping up with the demands of the sect, as he always has, people keep saying he “has the energy of an empty nester wraith” (qi qingqi, always a pleasure and a delight) and is “bringing the vibes, like, way down",” (wei qingwqi, with shang-shidi’s influence, he correctly guesses ) which is, perhaps, reason to believe the “peace and quiet” plan of action isn’t going great.

his most basic issue at the moment is his sleep. he can’t rest , and when he does sleep, it’s only an hour of quality sleep per week. which, in spite of being a powerful cultivator, is not a good way of living. he meditates and deals. whatever.

then shen qingqiu (who was so embarrassed about the sect’s reactions to his shotgun wedding (offended and/or amused, mostly) that he put off his return by an extra fourty three days, not that yue qingyuan is counting) finally visits. he brings as many souvenirs as he deems sufficient bribery, which yue qingyuan is not too proud to monopolise. he's the sect leader for a reason.

they somehow end up talking about luo bignhe’s proficiency with the demonic dream arts, and how wonderful it’s been to have him watching over shen qingqiu’s dreamscape every now and then. shen qingqiu recommends it, with a not-so-subtle pointed look at his undereye bags, and yue qingyuan resolves to look into it, see if there’s any merit in the idea. he dismisses it when it doesn’t seem to be possible without involving demonic practices, but it was worth a try.

the days pass, the not-so-newlyweds go about their days, and yue qingyuan notices luo binghe looking like he’s planning something. he’s got that “vibe” about him. it’s the shifty eyes.

since yue qingyuan is seemingly the only one in the sect who respects shen qingqiu’s choice in partner, he decides to do some… not meddling. it’s more of a show of respect! a token of… being someone’s brother-in-law!

he regrets it immediately.

he quickly realise sluo binghe is looking to actually get the sect to accept him as shen qingqiu’s husband and not just the limpet they have to suffer to see their sect sibling, which now makes it an Official Sect Problem.

yue qingyuan cannot let him try with liu qingge first, mu qingfang is still annoyed about the kidnappings, and qi qingqi will get shen qingqiu sarcastic again, which is delightful but not exactly conducive to a Peaceful and Quiet Time. so, he goes ahead and makes small talk.

it is as painful as he imagined. how is an actual emperor this bad at casual chitchat?

this and that is said, and in a last ditch attempt at salvaging the situation, yue qingyuan brings up the dream stuff. he says he’s been trying to research more dream arts techniques, and luo binghe’s eyes do a thing, and the next thing yue qingyuan knows, it’s the evening and a dream demon is stuck in his head with clear instructions not to let yue qingyuan feel an ounce of stress while sleeping.

he immediately feels a lot of stress.

the reaction of yue qingyuan’s sleeping mind at having a demon infiltrator sniffing around is enough to startle him. meng mo, who yoe quingyuan has never met before, takes a look at the place and says, “well it’s not worse than that brat’s, at least,” which is worrisome.

since they’re both stuck like this, and meng mo (who shen qingqiu has apparently been calling “senior”, which yue qingyuan decides to do as well, on principle) doesn’t seem hyped about the situation either, yue qingyuan decides… well.

what’s the worst that can happen?

so he spends his nights half-confiding to an ancient demon who controls nightmares and loves conjuring up weird things he saw in people’s dreams, and half-listening to him complain about the luo-shen couple and binghe’s insufferable thoughts and dreams. he learns more than he probably should. definitely more than he wanted to.

honestly, it’s kind of nice. so nice, that he makes a mistake: he gets complacent.

the mix of everything that’s been happening in the last few months finally catches up to yue qingyuan. it results in having some less-peaceful dreams.

meng mo being there proves to be a surprisingly good thing. though they’ve built up a rapport over however many weeks it’s been, yue qingyuan did not expect meng mo to help him with guarding nightmares, regardless of what luo binghe had said. it’s not like yue qingyuan was inclined to snitch on the old man.

meng mo isn’t kind about helping him, but he is so unphased by the myrriad of horrible memories stuck behind yue qingyuan’s pleasant and placid gaze that yue qingyuan finally makes some progress in his cultivation after years of stagnation.

of course, this is put into perspective when, for some odd and airplane-esque reason, yue qingyuan has a sex dream. this, more than anything, intrigues meng mo, who is above all a proud filthy old man. meng mo has criticism for yue qingyuan’s ideas of sex and a fun time, so pitying his lacklustre imagination, he provides him with more gratifying dreams that night.

meng mo is an old man, but he is undeniably handsome. he’s got that severe, masterful air about him, a sarcastic and prideful bearing, and a penchant for vulgarity, and… ah.

yue qingyuan is not going to think about that too much, actually.

meng mo is obviously aware that yue qingyuan is an attractive man, since he has refereed to his pecs as “a treasure wasted on someone who doesn’t know how to use them properly”. yue qingyuan is given many nicknames, like “pretty boy” or some such.

over the whatever next amount of time, they end up actually getting together by grace of meng mo’s schemes and manipulations (he just like. conjures vaguely sexual stuff with increasing frequency, until yue qingyuan finally takes the bait and lets it happen), which yue qingyuan is so confused about. not that he likes it, but that it’s actually helping with the “peace and quiet” treatment plan.

he does not tell mu qingfang. mu qingfang somehow, for some reason, knows. yue qingyuan will not that about that too much, either.

so that's where the note ended. if i remember correctly i immediately fell asleep, and i think that last line is meant as a meng mo/yue qingyuan/mu qingfang throuple kind of thing but i can’t be certain. i’m sorry. 😔 i just feel like these three, but especially yqy & meng mo would mix together in such Weird ways.

also i firmly believe yue qingyuan should get what binghe didn’t: an old man to fuck. and actual conversations about his trauma.

#svsss #yue qingyuan #meng mo #what would be the ship name......#mongyuan. mengyuan. mengyue? yuemeng? i am so lost #if the tenses are fucked no they arent. shizun checked #.q

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summerclementine27 · 8 months ago

Text

Sign of The Times 🌹

Summary: Harry Styles is a Roman General who led his legions to many victories. He was favoured by the Emperor and known as an honourable General. Everyone also knows that he loves his wife, Y/N, more than anything, more than victory even, and dreams of seeing her again.

Time and place: Roman Empire sometime between 180 - 192 AD

warnings: bit of smut, breeding, and also old timey vibes due to roman era (so the smut is written in a funky old timey way but i decided to post it anyway).

notes: this is part three of my series of Harry Styles one shots that are inspired by his first album, I’m not doing the stories in order of the tracklist, and I also know that I am changing the meanings of the songs to fit the stories so for instance, sign of the times is about a mother who is dying while giving birth, but I changed it to be about a wife who is urging her husband to come back.

- pics of Harry or AI from Pinterest and the inspiration for this fic is gladiator lol.

The dust of Germania still clung to my skin, mixing with the iron scent of blood that had dried on my tunic. The battlefield had been ours, a victory to be sung by bards and etched into the annals of Rome. But as my men celebrated, raising goblets of wine to their lips, my thoughts wandered far from the camps and the spoils of war.

I could feel the ache in my side where the enemy's blade had found its mark—a shallow wound, they said. Easily mended with time and rest. Yet I craved neither the salves of the medics nor the comforts of the Roman city.

My thoughts were with Y/N, the woman who had waited for me through the years of war, who had kept my heart safe even as my body waded through the carnage of battle. The memory of her letters, the soft parchment that had borne her words across the miles, was a balm to my weary soul.

I cared for nothing as much as I cared for her, for all I prayed for during these years of battle was her safety. “Blessed father, watch over my wife with a ready sword. Whisper to her that I live only to hold her again, for all else is dust and air.” I recited every night, yearning to be in my ethereal wife's embrace once more, where the weight of the world would melt away in the serenity of her seraphic presence.

One of her last letters had arrived not long before the battle. I could still hear her voice in the words she had penned, a voice that had carried me through the darkest nights. I drew the letter from my belt, the parchment worn from too many readings, and let my eyes trace the familiar lines:

“My dearest Harry,” the letter began, “as I write this, I can feel the sun warming my skin, and I think of you, far away in the cold lands of the north. I miss you with every breath I take, and I pray for your safe return each night before I sleep. The fields here are flourishing, the olive trees heavy with fruit, but without you, this bounty feels hollow. The land awaits your return, as do I. I long for the day when you will return to me, when I can hold you in my arms once more, and we can live in peace, away from the horrors of war.”

Her words were sweet, like honeyed nectar upon the lips of a lover, gentle and soothing at first. Yet, as I read on, they grew earnest and urging, the ink heavy with her profound concern. My eyes were drawn irresistibly to the portion of her letter that held the deepest weight for my heart:

“Yet I know, as you read these words, your soul is entrenched in the depths of war, I understand that your mind is consumed with thoughts of victory, that your heart beats with the pulse of battle. But remember, my love, that while you fight for the glory of Rome, Rome shall endure, as she always has. It is you who may not, and it is you I fear to lose.”

Her words were like a gentle whisper, coaxing me back to the world beyond the battlefield. "I beg you, take care of yourself and do not tempt death, for you cannot bribe the door on your way to the sky, you cannot offer coin to the gatekeeper of the heavens, nor sway him with silver as you ascend. You look good down here on this mortal realm anyway. Do not die for Rome, live for her.”

“What shall become of us if we never learn? We have been here before, me tending to the fields of Hispania and you running from the arrows and swords, yet the two of us with the same fate; always caught stuck and running from the bullets. I know what the emperor demands of you, and I know you have led many battles to victory. You hesitate to leave, but you must, my love; you must find your way back to me. Just stop your crying, for this is but a sign of the times.

Stop your weeping, and have the time of your life. Break through the atmosphere of war and bloodshed, things are pretty good from here, Remember, everything will be alright.

Come home to me, my love, come back.”

I closed my eyes, letting the words wash over me, a balm for my weary soul. Come home to me, my love. The phrase echoed in my mind, a mantra that had sustained me through the darkest moments of the campaign. It was these words that had driven me to push forward, to fight for Rome but also to fight for my retirement. To earn the rest of my life back and spend it with my divine wife.

As I rode back to the camp, the letter tucked safely away once more, I repeated the words to myself. “Come home to me, my love.” It became a rhythm, a beat that matched the thudding of my heart, the pounding of my horse’s hooves against the ground. Each step brought me closer to her, to the life we had built together, and to the future that awaited us.

The camp was abuzz with the clamour of soldiers and the scent of roasting meat as I entered, my body still bearing the marks of battle and the weight of victory. The Emperor, draped in his imperial regalia, stood amidst his entourage, his presence commanding the respect of every man within sight. I approached with the measured steps of one who has fought hard and earned his rest.

He turned his gaze upon me, his eyes as sharp as the glint of his ornate armor. “General Styles,” he intoned, his voice carrying the authority of the throne, “when was the last time you were home?”

I stood tall, the weight of his question a heavy mantle upon my shoulders. “Two years, two hundred and sixty-four days, and this very morning,” I answered, my tone steady and resolute. The Emperor’s eyes narrowed slightly, perhaps in surprise or contemplation, as he considered my words.

His gaze lingered on me with a mixture of respect and expectation. “You have led our legions with great skill and valor, General. Rome still has need of such a commander. I urge you to remain in your esteemed position, to continue guiding our armies with the same honor and prowess you have so richly displayed.”

A solemn silence fell over the tent, the air thick with the weight of his request. I took a deep breath, my thoughts drifting back to the letter from my beloved wife, and to the quiet promise of peace that awaited me.

“Your Excellency,” I began, my voice steady but imbued with the gravity of my decision, “I have fought and bled for Rome, and I have served with every ounce of my strength. But my heart and soul yearn for a different path now. I have earned this respite, this time to lay down my sword and return to the life I once knew.”

The Emperor regarded me with a measure of frustration, his fingers drumming upon the armrest of his gilded throne. “You have been a pillar of our military might, General. To leave now, at the zenith of your glory, seems a disservice to the empire that has benefited so greatly from your leadership.”

I met his gaze with unwavering resolve, feeling the echoes of my wife’s words in my heart. “It is not disservice, but rather a fulfillment of a promise I made to myself and to her. I seek not glory nor honor from further battles, but the simple joy of returning to my wife and the life we dream of. My time as a general has been an honor, but it is time for me to embrace a different chapter, one of peace and companionship.”

The Emperor’s expression softened, a flicker of understanding—or perhaps resignation—crossing his features. “Very well, General Styles,” he conceded, his voice carrying a note of reluctant admiration. “If it is your wish to retire and seek solace in the embrace of your beloved, then it shall be granted. Rome’s gratitude will follow you, and your legacy will endure.”

I bowed deeply, the weight of my decision finally lifting from my shoulders. As I walked away, I felt a sense of anticipation and relief wash over me, knowing that soon I would return to the fields of Hispania, to the life and love that awaited me.

"My lord," one of the younger centurions approached me as I prepared to leave camp, a bandage in hand. "We must bind your wound."

I waved him off, though I knew the pain would only worsen on the long ride home. "I'll let my wife take care of me," I said, the words tasting sweet on my tongue, like the promise of harvest in a fertile field.

The journey back to Hispania was slow, each day stretching out like the endless plains we crossed. My thoughts were full of her—Y/N, my beloved, my anchor amidst the storms of war. The land of our villa in Hispania, a sprawling expanse of olive trees and vineyards, awaited me. But it was her presence, her tender touch, that I yearned for with each passing mile.

As my horse’s hooves drummed against the sun-baked earth, I imagined her in the fields, the wind tugging at her hair as she worked, her hands—those skilled, delicate hands—tending to the earth as she did to me. I could see her smile, that secret curve of her lips that had the power to unravel me more than any barbarian’s sword.

Finally, the fields of our home came into view, the golden light of evening casting a warm glow over the land. My heart quickened as I urged my horse forward, a boyish impatience overtaking me.

As I dismounted my horse and set foot on the familiar ground of our estate, I saw her standing there—my beloved, just as I had envisioned, her figure framed by the setting sun, a basket of olives in her arms.

The moment our eyes met, a wave of joy surged through me, overpowering the aches and weariness of battle. Her face, illuminated by the soft glow of the setting sun, radiated a warmth and love that I had sorely missed.

Without hesitation, she ran to me, her movements swift and graceful. The air seemed to hum with the electricity of our reunion. As she enveloped me in her embrace, I was struck by the intoxicating scent of her—lavender mingled with the faint, sweet aroma of the earth, a perfume that spoke of home and tranquility. It was as if every hardship and wound I bore dissolved in the presence of her love.

Her arms, tender and gentle, clung to me with a fierce affection. I could feel the softness of her skin against my own, a stark contrast to the roughened textures of my armor and the hardened scars of war. Her touch was both soothing and electric, a balm for my bruised soul.

As our lips met, her kiss was a sweet, fervent promise, a bridge between the years of separation. Yet, as I pressed closer, a sharp twinge from the wound on my side made me wince. She noticed instantly, her eyes filled with concern.

“Harry,” she breathed, her voice soft and filled with an anguish that mirrored my own. Her fingers, delicate and gentle, brushed against the tender spot on my side. “You’re hurt…”

“It’s nothing,” I murmured, my voice barely more than a whisper as I drew her even closer. I buried my face in the curve of her neck, inhaling deeply. The scent of her, the very essence of comfort and love, was a haven amidst the chaos of my return. “Nothing that your touch cannot heal.”

She led me inside, her movements tender and deliberate as if each step was meant to convey her deep affection and concern. The grand hall, though warmly lit by the flickering glow of the hearth, could not compare to the solace I found in her presence. As I sank into a plush chair beside the roaring fire, the heat from the flames did little to ease the persistent ache in my chest that only her touch could truly soothe.

I watched her with a heart full of gratitude as she worked with quiet diligence, her hands gentle yet skilled as she unwrapped the makeshift bandage and began to clean the wound. Her brow furrowed in concentration, each touch and movement imbued with a mixture of love and worry that spoke volumes of her care.

“You should have let the medics tend to you,” she chided softly, her voice a tender reprimand laced with concern rather than anger. The chiding was a balm, soothing and familiar, reminding me of the times we had shared before the endless battles.

“And miss the chance to be in your care?” I replied, my voice hushed but earnest. I reached up, my hand cradling her cheek, my thumb gently caressing the delicate curve. “I’d rather bleed out.”

Her lips curled into a small, affectionate smile despite her worry. She shook her head, her eyes reflecting a mixture of exasperation and adoration. “You’re too stubborn for your own good, General.”

“For Rome, perhaps,” I said, my thumb brushing tenderly against her skin, “but not for you.”

Once she was satisfied with the bandage, carefully wrapping it with a practiced hand, I drew her into my lap. The firelight danced in her eyes, casting a warm glow that made her seem even more ethereal. Her body fit perfectly against mine, the familiar curves and warmth a reminder of all that I had missed. As our eyes met, the hunger in mine was mirrored by the tender longing in hers.

“I’ve been gone too long,” I whispered, my lips finding their way to her neck. I trailed kisses along her soft skin, savoring the sweetness of her closeness. “I have missed you more than words can convey.”

Her hands wove into my hair, fingers trembling slightly as she tilted her head back, offering me more of herself. “And I you,” she whispered, her voice a soft melody that seemed to float between us, a song of longing and love that had played in my dreams during our separation.

I lifted her effortlessly, cradling her in my arms as I carried her towards our bed—the same one we had shared since our wedding night, a sanctuary of our love and devotion. The silks beneath us felt cool and luxurious as I laid her down, the gentle moonlight streaming through the windows, casting a silvery glow that highlighted the exquisite beauty of her form.

As I undressed her with a reverence that bordered on worship, I whispered against her lips, my voice a soft murmur filled with longing and affection. “I have won many battles,” I said, my fingers tracing the curves of her body with a tender touch, as if trying to memorize every line and contour. “But none so sweet as the victory of coming home to you.”

Her hands, delicate yet determined, moved to the laces of my tunic, undoing them with a familiar urgency that made my heart race. “Then claim your victory,” she breathed, her voice trembling with a mix of desire and anticipation.

I lifted her into my arms, cradling her with a gentleness that belied the strength I had honed on the battlefield. As I carried her to our bed, my heart pounded not from the exertion, but from the overwhelming love I felt for her. The silk sheets, cool beneath us, seemed to whisper promises of solace and intimacy as I laid her down.

The moonlight streaming through the windows cast a soft, silvery glow upon her, making her skin shimmer like alabaster. I gazed at her with a deep, aching adoration, my eyes tracing the graceful lines of her form. Her beauty was both a balm and a flame, soothing the wounds of my soul and igniting a fierce, tender hunger within me.

I began by brushing my lips against hers, savoring the sweetness of her kiss as if it were the nectar of the gods. The taste of her was intoxicating, a blend of warmth and familiarity that made my heart swell. I lingered there, lost in the softness of her lips, my hands gently caressing her face, committing every detail of her to memory.

Slowly, I trailed kisses down her neck, my lips lingering on her pulse point. The sensation of her warm skin beneath my mouth was a caress to my senses, and I felt the urgency of our reunion deepen with every touch. Her breath quickened, mingling with mine, as I moved lower, pressing my lips to the delicate curve of her collarbone.

With trembling fingers, I worked at the laces of her dress, the fabric white and pure, reminiscent of the gown she had worn on our wedding day. As I loosened it, the dress fell away, revealing the soft, flawless skin beneath. My gaze was ravenous yet reverent, taking in every inch of her with a fervor that spoke of my adoration and longing.

I kissed her shoulders with a devotion that made each touch a silent vow. My lips traveled down her arms, leaving a trail of tender kisses that made her shiver with delight. Each kiss was an offering, a testament to the depth of my love for her. As I reached her breasts, I pressed my lips to the soft curves, my tongue exploring with a reverence that bordered on worship.

My kisses continued their journey down her stomach, lingering at the gentle rise and fall of her ribs, tracing the lines of her hips. I marveled at the warmth and softness of her skin, my hands following the path my lips had taken, reverently mapping every contour. The sensation of her skin beneath my touch was a heady mix of comfort and desire.

When I finally reached her most intimate place, I paused, my breath coming in ragged whispers. My heart raced with a powerful mix of longing and adoration. The moment was charged with an intensity I had yearned for during the long years apart, and I could feel the heat of her skin beneath my lips.

With a deep, reverent kiss, I pressed my lips against her, my tongue gently exploring the softness and warmth of her. Her taste was intoxicating, and the sensation made my entire body shiver with pleasure. I heard her gasp, a soft, breathless sound that urged me on.

Her hands gripped the sheets, and I could feel her hips moving subtly, seeking more of the contact she craved. "Harry," she moaned softly, her voice a desperate whisper of desire.

I looked up at her, my eyes filled with devotion and love. "You feel so incredible," I murmured, my voice thick with emotion. "I want you to know just how much I adore every part of you."

She responded with a breathless sigh, her body arching instinctively towards me. "Please, don't stop," she pleaded, her voice trembling with anticipation.

My kisses became more fervent, turning into reckless licks, my movements ever so insistent as I reveled in the sweet, warm taste of her. The sounds of our pleasure filled the room, a symphony of soft moans and urgent whispers that only deepened my desire.

I was consumed with a profound longing for her, a desire that had only grown more fervent over the long years apart. Every moment of our separation had amplified my need to show her the depth of my affection, to make her experience the boundless pleasure that only I could bestow. I was keenly aware of the passage of time and wondered if she had discovered any means to reach such ecstatic heights as I would now bring her. The thought of her satisfaction, the notion of her feeling pleasure as intensely as I had imagined, drove me to the brink of my restraint.

With my touch, I sought to awaken her senses, my fingers caressing her with an ever-gentle firmness, the warmth of my hands mingling with her soft skin. My other hand began a tender exploration, slipping slowly, reverently, into her most cherished sanctuary. Each movement was deliberate, intended to elicit the utmost response from her.

“You like that, my dearest?” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion and desire, my breath hot against her ear.

“Yes, I do,” she replied, her voice a melody of pleasure and anticipation, her breath catching in soft gasps.

“I am determined to make you feel nothing but bliss,” I continued, my heart pounding with the intensity of my commitment. “I wish to taste and honor this sacred chamber of Venus, to give you pleasure that will leave you breathless and yearning.”

I leaned closer, my lips finding their way to her most intimate folds. With tender, loving care, I began to explore her, each kiss a testament to my devotion, each touch a silent vow of my love. My goal was to bring her to the pinnacle of delight, to ensure that every sensation was as exquisite and overwhelming as possible, so that she might feel the depth of my longing and the fullness of my return.

In the quiet sanctuary of our shared chamber, a question lingered on my lips, charged with both tenderness and longing. “Did you pleasure yourself while I was gone” I inquired, my voice a gentle murmur.

Her reply came softly, laden with devotion and a hint of wistfulness. “No, my love. I awaited your return.”

Her words stirred something profound within me, an awakening of emotions that had lain dormant through the years of separation. I felt a deep, aching desire to make amends for all the time lost, to bestow upon her the pleasure that had been denied to both of us.

“I yearn for you to find your release, my dearest Y/N,” I said, my voice trembling with fervent intensity. “Release it all, love.”

As her body trembled with the aftershocks of her climax, I could feel the shudder of her release against my tongue. The sweetness of her pleasure was intoxicating, a testament to the depth of our connection. In that moment, I knew that we both craved something more profound, a union that would fulfill the yearning that had grown between us over the years.

With a fervent determination, I slowly withdrew, my breath ragged and my heart pounding with a mix of longing and anticipation. I positioned myself above her, our eyes meeting in a gaze filled with mutual desire and unspoken promises. The need to be fully united with her, to deepen our connection, surged within me.

Her gaze was filled with trust and desire, and I moved with a tenderness that spoke of my deep affection and longing. Slowly, deliberately, I entered her, feeling the warmth and softness envelop me and savoring the way she wrapped around me, the way she sighed my name as if it were a prayer.

“Harry,” she moaned, and I grew concerned, fearing that the unfamiliarity of my touch after so long might be causing her discomfort.

“Are you alright, my love?” I murmured, my voice low and tender, brushing a lock of hair from her face. Her eyes met mine, filled with a mix of pain and yearning.

“Just... a bit,” she replied, her voice trembling with the effort to contain her emotions.

I continued to move with gentle persistence, my hands exploring her body, seeking to soothe her discomfort. As I found a rhythm, she began to relax, her moans growing more fervent, more eager. The shift from discomfort to pleasure was evident in the way her body responded, and I felt a deep satisfaction in knowing that I was bringing her the release she had longed for.

“Tell me, my love,” I whispered, pressing my forehead to hers as we moved together, “how does it feel?”

“It feels... so much better,” she gasped, her nails digging into my shoulders as her body arched beneath me. “Harry, yes…”

“I want to give you more,” I said, my voice rough with emotion. “A family, a future... I want to watch you swell with our child, to retire from the battlefield and spend my days here, with you.”

Her breath hitched at my words, and her eyes shone with a mix of desire and longing. “Yes, Harry… I want that too,” she whispered, her voice a melody of affection and need.

As we continued, I found a rhythm that was both passionate and tender, the connection between us deepening with every movement. I kissed her lips, my hands roaming over her body, savoring the softness and warmth of her skin. Her eyes fluttered closed as she lost herself in the sensation, and I couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer intimacy of our union.

“I will plant my seed in you,” I vowed, my voice filled with raw emotion. “And you will carry our legacy. Our child will grow strong in your womb, just as our love has grown in this land.”

Her climax hit with a shuddering intensity, her body tightening around me as she cried out my name. The sound was both a release and an invitation, and I followed her over the edge, spilling into her with a groan that echoed my deepest feelings. In that moment, I imagined the life we would create together, the child that would be born of our union.

As we lay entwined in the soft embrace of our bed, the flickering candlelight cast a warm glow over our bodies. The silks beneath us were cool and comforting, a stark contrast to the heat of our passionate union. The scent of her, a delicate blend of lavender and the earthiness of our garden, filled the air and enveloped me, mingling with the aroma of our shared pleasure.

Her skin felt like silk against my fingertips as I traced lazy patterns across her shoulders and down her sides. Her breathing was slow and deep, a soft rhythm that matched the steady beat of my heart. Every sigh and murmur from her lips was a melody I’d missed more than I realized during our years apart.

“You look radiant,” I murmured, my voice thick with emotion as I gazed at her. Her hair was a tangled cascade of dark curls, spread across the pillow like a halo. Her eyes, still clouded with the remnants of our passion, sparkled with a light that seemed to illuminate the room. “I’ve dreamt of this moment for so long.”

She turned her head slightly to meet my gaze, her lips curved into a smile that was both teasing and tender. “And I’ve waited for it just as long,” she replied, her voice a soft caress. “You’re as wonderful as I remembered, Harry. I’m so proud of you, all you’ve accomplished. And this house—” she gestured vaguely around us, “—it’s been my joy to care for it, to make it a place where you could return and feel at home.”

Her fingers traced a gentle path along my chest, sending shivers of pleasure through me. I cupped her cheek, my thumb brushing across her soft skin, and leaned in to press a tender kiss to her forehead. “I’m proud of you too, for everything. For holding our home together while I was away, for your strength and your love. It means the world to me.”

Her eyes softened, and she nestled closer, her body pressed against mine in a way that made me acutely aware of the new life we had created together. “And now,” she whispered, her voice filled with awe and wonder, “we have something even greater to look forward to. I’m honored to carry our child, Harry.”

I let out a deep, contented sigh, my hands resting on her still-flat belly. “You’re going to be breathtakingly beautiful with our child growing inside you,” I said, my voice husky with anticipation. “I can already imagine the way you’ll glow, the way your body will flourish as you carry our little one. You’ll be radiant, like a goddess.”

Her laughter was soft and musical, a sound that filled me with an overwhelming sense of happiness. “I can’t wait to see you as a father,” she said, her eyes shining with love. “Our child will be so lucky to have you.”

I kissed her again, this time more deeply, my hands roaming over her curves with reverence. “And I can’t wait to watch our family grow,” I said. “I imagine them running through our garden, playing in the sun, filling our home with laughter and joy. We’ll watch them grow, teach them, love them. It will be a new adventure, one that I’m eager to begin.”

Her smile widened, and she traced a finger along my jawline, her touch light and playful. “And I’ll be right here with you, every step of the way. Together, we’ll build a life full of love and happiness.”

As we lay there, our bodies intertwined, the weight of the past seemed to lift from our shoulders. The wars, the battles, the bloodshed—they were behind us. What lay ahead was a new journey, one of love and life, and I knew that with her by my side, it was a victory I would cherish for all my days.

#harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut #harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfic rec #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles story

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zoobus · 4 months ago

Text

Nosferatu

There were more jump scares than I anticipated. It was also much campier than I assumed - lots of cuts from characters reacting to different characters mirroring those feelings, nanoseconds of a scary face spliced into a non-scary moment, oddly stage-playish acting (the romani at the beginning are a good example, just unprompted boisterous targeted laughter for no reason), and I'm sure there's an online war between those who found nosferatu's shadow hand/claw cam a bold, inspired choice and those who thought it was hilarious. It's disjointed, but I think that's the vibe they were going for.

I did enjoy the pointed camera avoidance of the Count, where even when he's "normal," you only see bits of his gross body. It gets across that everyone's too scared to look at him directly

if you're into sexually evocative cannibalism, there are quite a few bare boobs and necks viscerally plunged into with cartilage and bone chewing sound, as well as a hint of disgusting, inhuman vampire cock. I thought the guy getting eaten was filmed hornier than the woman's. not certain that was intentional though - I kind of just did not like her character, doubly so when sexual things were happening to her. Her moans did NOT hit!

Speaking of Helene Elaine Ellen! Despite knowing she was right from the start (there's probably something to be said about the way we're frontloaded with evidence for Nosferatu while the skeptical Modern Science crowd believe in bloodletting), I couldn't help but dislike her and wish her scenes would end quickly. It's a period piece of the 1800s, based on existing material, so like, it make sense that her character is Like That. And, if I can be a little more charitable, I feel like the movie was going for a slightly less common wish fulfillment fantasy - that your beloved will indulge you at your worst moments; still love you when your mental illness makes you selfish, vile, and hateful; that a horrible undead monster would cross the sea, threaten the world, risk everything he has, just to get a taste of you.

I am mentally acknowledging this and throwing it in the trash anyway. Ellen was so annoying. Very few things evaporate my sympathies like a character who spends half of their screentime sobbing, wailing, hyperventilating, demanding you take the bad dream they had seriously. "Would you still love me if I were a worm? Nevermind, don't answer, I know you would step on me right away" type person. Idk if it was the writing or the actress but my enjoyment tanked whenever she returned. Most sympathetic character in the movie by a mile was her bestie's husband. What poise, what self-control he had to not throw her out on her ass when she asked "how come you never liked me?🥺" I would have been violent.

Lastly. Fascinating decision to end Nosferatu (2024) with the "[...] pussy got me acting unwise" meme.

#nosferatu 2024 #Niche effortposts #Also weird how there were so many cats but they didn't do anything #In contrast to the plot relevant rats

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backjustforberena · 5 months ago

Note

Ok, so this question has been hurting my head for a while and I had to ask this because I love your analysis of Rhaenys's character.

How do you think Rhaenys's relationship maintained with these people over the years?

Daemon, Viserys, Aemma, her mother Jocelyn, Jaehaerys, Alysanne, Laena, and Laenor.

I'm so sorry if it is too much to ask!

Hello! Okay, so I'm going to keep this brief because that's quite a lot of people and so I'm just going to go with general vibes and first thoughts, and stick with later-in-life stuff rather than childhood, and if you want me to go into more specifics or have any questions, then absolutely follow up. It's based mostly on the show but for some characters, I have used book facts and events.

DAEMON: I think the big thing that I have, as a personal headcanon (or just the way I look at the relationship) with Daemon is that Rhaenys has to make an active choice, probably fairly early on, that she cannot love him. She can't let herself. Eve has spoken before about how Rhaenys keeps Daemon at arms' length and how she has a profound distrust of him and sees him as just this chaotic element, so I think that she makes a decision that there have to be boundaries in place. Just for her own sense of safety and stability. Daemon orbits her family: they're blood but also he goes to war with her husband and son, he marries her daughter, he's the father of her granddaughters. But I think Rhaenys is just far too aware that he hurts. He causes immeasurable pain and, in the end, there's an understanding of him - he will never spite himself to help her: he keeps her daughter from her, he "murders" her son, he has respect for her but little regard.

I think the relationship ebbs and flows from enjoying his company, tolerating him and then wanting nothing to do with him. It alters throughout the years but she will never be caught out by him. I don't think she really likes him. Perhaps for the boy he was, she does - they are definitely still familial. What Daemon gives, he gets in return, I think.

VISERYS: There's love there. It's one of the relationships that I find the most tragic because they're cousins torn apart by the choices of others and the positions they find themselves in. They can never be as close as they want to be. I think Rhaenys's first loyalty is to the home and house she's built with her husband, which directly conflicts with Viserys, on occasion. I think they probably did go three years without speaking to one another (possibly missives to congratulate on births etc but nothing of note) because of the Stepstones War.

I think it does become "us vs them" with Rhaenys on the outside because his family keeps being responsible for the destruction of hers. And then we get to this place where he's having this happy family meal and she's in a crypt. When you think about how close their fathers were and how close they might have been or wanted to be, once upon a time, then that's tragedy.

AEMMA: Poor Aemma. We don't see them ever interact in the show, but it's easy enough to imagine that they were friends from childhood and family in that way. I think they grew apart, in adulthood, given the way their lives went. But we have deleted dialogue where Rhaenyra recounts coming to Driftmark with Aemma and collecting seashells with Laena. I like to imagine that wasn't too infrequent. I think they probably kept in touch via letters: neither woman had many female relations to speak to.

JOCELYN: My opinion is that Jocelyn lives at High Tide after Aemon's death, until her own. So, maintaining that relationship is pretty easy as they live in the same place. We don't know when Jocelyn dies or how. But I sort of take my opinion that Rhaenys isn't too dissimilar to her parents and that Jocelyn and Rhaenys probably relied heavily on one another. I think she would have been a very present and active grandmother: she had no other duties, nowhere else to be, nothing else to do.

JAEHAERYS: My feeling is, a bit like with Daemon and, to a lesser extent, Viserys, that when it becomes an "us vs them" she cuts the feeling off as much as possible. When Jaehaerys chooses someone else as his heir, when she is discarded, she has to stop treating him in the same way she once did. She has to choose herself, she has to be something different. I think, in the latter years, she'd only go to court if summoned. She'd only act the part in public.

I think she probably understands and sympathisers with her grandfather and the choices he made (to a point) but she doesn't agree, she doesn't find comfort in that, it hurts and she's aware that there is a danger now, to her, because of the choices he makes. I don't know if I'd say she hates him. I think, certainly by the time we get to HOTD, the feelings have been processed somewhat and Rhaenys is someone who doesn't waste time on things that won't accomplish anything.

I think it's also, likely, easier to do so because I don't think she sees him as family from her father's death onwards. The most prevalent thing he is to her is her King. And once Alysanne retires from King's Landing, she has no reason to return until Jaehaerys is on his deathbed. I imagine she'd visit him on his deathbed.

ALYSANNE: She loved Alysanne. So, I'm thinking letters, visits, dragon flights. I think Rhaenys visits her whenever she's on Dragonstone and then writes when she's in King's Landing. I think Alysanne would visit Driftmark, if allowed or it was okay PR-wise. I think that Rhaenys could have become a primary visitor or carer for Alysanne when her body and wits began failing. Alysanne never forsook her, or her children. Alysanne would understand things so many wouldn't: marriage, children, dragons, being a Targaryen. And it's reciprocated.

LAENA: Letters. So many letters. I think mother and daughter were very close. It kills me to know that Rhaenys knew of Laena's desire to not just come back home, but to remain there. To stay and be close to her family, rather than be across the Narrow Sea. For Rhaenys to know this, and to know it was Daemon who was causing the problem, tells me that Laena told her and therefore feels confident in her mother as a confidante. It's also worth keeping in mind that, for at least three years, it was just Rhaenys and Laena together - whilst Corlys and Laenor were in the Stepstones. And then it was Laena almost as an only child again until she was married.

We know how Rhaenys reacted to her death, to her funeral, to her daughters, to her legacy. Moreover, we know that Laena has been raised by her mother with her eyes wide open - it's Rhaenys who informs a 12-year-old Laena that she will not have to bed Viserys until she is 14, it's Rhaenys who overlooks the walk with Viserys and (at least I presume) picks her up at the end of it. I think Rhaenys just loved the bones off of that girl and was so proud of the woman she became.

LAENOR: Similarly, once he's married, I think it's letters. However, I don't believe they are as candid as Laena's. I think Laenor probably retreats into formality - we know that he doesn't even divulge incriminating details in letters to Laena, his sister whom he adored. There are so many things he'd just not want to discuss with his mother: things she'd worry about. I think Rhaenys visits court when she can and when she's invited. Whether that's often, I couldn't say. She does seem to be in tune with the cost the arrangement of his marriage takes on Laenor, however, when she mentions it to Corlys in Episode 07.

I don't think the distance has quite taken root but I think she fears something drastic will happen to the relationship. She sees her son's misery and she fears losing him from an emotional perspective. She fears a precipice or an implosion: a breaking point. I think she wants change, in Episode 07. Maybe she hopes that something can be done and it seems to be on her to do it, whatever it is. Maybe she'd also hope that the move to Dragonstone would help - Dragonstone is closer to Driftmark.

Of course, she does end up losing him in a way she couldn't imagine. And whatever hopes she could have had die with her.

#rhaenys targaryen #bad meta #<- tag is ironic

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crabs-with-sticks · 3 months ago

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Okay, but I just watched The Return (2024), which is an adaptation of The Odyssey, specifically the part where Odysseus returns home to Ithica, and oooh boy its giving post-veilguard Solavellan vibes! And y'all are going to get a long ramble of my thoughts because I have classicist training and you can't stop me.

Because Odysseus (and Solas) have changed. They both went to war for 10 long and bloody years. Neither particularly wanted to go to war, even though the seeds of the war were unknowingly sowed by their hands (the Oath of Tyndareus and the creation of the fade), and Odysseus does his absolute best to get out of it (similar to how Solas was going to tell Lavellan everything). But he went anyway and the war was brutal. A 10 year long siege, of throwing bodies at a wall. And then, when the war is at its end, when they are finally winning (because of Odysseus' plan), the sack of the city is brutal. Like I cannot emphasise how fucking brutal it was. The reason why Odysseus takes 10 years to get back (like most of the greek heroes end up dead) is divine retribution for the sack of Troy.

But now to Penelope (or Lavellan in this analogy), Odysseus' wife. She has waited for her husband to return for 20 years. She too has been under siege for three from the suitors who all want to marry her, and thus become king of Ithaca. She has been trying to keep her kingdom at peace. She devises cunning ways of putting them off and is in a fight (of a different kind) to regain her autonomy, but she cannot hold out forever.

Which brings us to the lead up to this scene. Just before this scene, Odysseus has murdered the suitors, as well as made their son into a murderer who has now left. And Penelope is horrified at what her husband has done. And she is angry, angry at the bloodshed and angry at being left alone for so many years. And when she asks him why, Odysseus responds "would you still love the man I had become?" And it is when he asks her for forgiveness that her anger breaks into tears.

But oooooh boy her helping him wash the blood off?? And seeing his new scars and saying "there is so much I do not know", him saying "you do not want to know" ahhhhhhhh and then "your past will be my past, and mine yours" its so perfect!

Because they've both changed they're 20 (or 10 for solavellan) older, and they've changed and they've both gone through so much trauma (I love the way this film portrayed Penelope), but they're choosing this. They're choosing to forgive and to heal together, literally washing the blood off him.

#sorry for the ramble but I have THOUGHTS and FEELINGS #also this movie was great would recommend #I really liked how it portrayed Penelope #and Juliette Binoche is goregous??? hello??? m'am???#the return #solavellan #solas #lavellan #jacs rambles about stuff #meta

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wangxianficfinder · 1 year ago

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Fic finder

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1. There is a fic that I don’t remember the name of but it was wangxian arranged marriage with heavy angst and unhappy WWX. I remember it had a line going “Being married to me is killing him” so if anyone knows it I will be forever grateful 🥰 @kanrax-blog

FOUND! Concord by Deastar (T, 41k, WangXian, Arranged Marriage, Gūsū Lán Sect Rules, Depression, Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending)

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2. hello im looking for a fic where lotus pier is home to a bunch of eldritch horrors so our jiang trio have darker vibes. thank you so much for your help

FOUND? Monster in Human Skin Series by Nika_Raven_Celeste (T/M, 20k, WCZ/CSSR/JFM, NiecestXu, QHJ/WWX, WRH/WWX, Dark Jiāngs, dark au, grey morality, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Happy Murder Family, Dehumanization, Dark NHS, Dark NMJ, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-human characters, Morally Gray WWX, Gūsū Lán Elders Bashing, Dark Gūsū Lán Sect, Solitary Confinement, Touch-Starved, Gaslighting, Victim Blaming, Mental Health Issues, Emotional Manipulation, Mind Break, Mental Coercion, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Age Difference, no WangXian, Literal monster in human skin, Rape/Non-con Elements, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Imprisonment, Mind Manipulation, Verbal Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Incest, Stockholm Syndrome, Power Imbalance, Captivity, spoil of war, Post-Sunshot Campaign, Conditioning, Master/Pet, Fairytale elements, Eldritch) It's about JFM/WCZ/CSSR though

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3. i was hoping you could also help with finding a fic and since i don’t want to flood the inbox, i wanted to put my request here.

i’m looking for a fic/series where wei wuxian and lan wangji are both actors that work on a project together that involves them being intimate. the catch is that wwx thought lwj hated him and so there’s tension there. there’s also a continuation of when they’re happily together where wwx finds a shrine/treasure room dedicated to himself when visiting lwj’s house. it’s one of the first fics i ever read and it’s so deeply buried that I can’t seem to find the bookmark for it and was hoping for help. thank you in advance and i wish you all well.

FOUND! Feel My Love by Leffy (E, 5k, wangxian, modern, Actors, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Rimming, Anal Sex, inappropriate use of light sticks), of Blooming into the Color of Love series. shout out to asker and their brain cooperating with the details of the fic cause it made it easy to find !

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4. I'd love some help finding a fic! it's a short-ish smut modern au, with gnc lwj who wears skirts and does makeup for football/soccer player wwx, but it's very much canon dynamics! i think wwx has some but not a lot of comphet in it, wwx is very amenable to getting railed by lwj after he learns that this is a thing that could happen. i really enjoyed the characterization

I know I've read 4 but I can't find it/remember what it's called argh. The Twin Jades were child stars and LQR taught them that they had to have other avenues so LXC is a philanthropist (??) And LWJ moonlights in fashion design. He overheard footballer!WWX admitting he would have sex with LWJ and with Mianmian (???)'s help he made it happen. I think the end is a fast forward years later still together/happy.

FOUND! wear me out by plonk (Not Rated, 7k, WangXian, Modern AU, Fashion & Couture, Football | Soccer, Not!Fic)

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5. hi! trying my luck hunting down this fic which i sadly don't remember much of except for one scene. what i rmb is wwx seeing a comb that he wants to get for lwj in caiyi town, and not buying it the first time due to budget issues. when he eventually returns to the stall again, it turns out the seller kept it for him: wwx learns about this from the seller's husband, who is the one at the stall this time, and wwx is surprised to learn about the acceptance of cutsleeve relationships in gusu. thank you very much!!!

FOUND! 🔒 Unstoppable by Netrixie (T, 149k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Eventual Happy Ending, Unreliable Narrator, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Wolf-shifter WWX, Resolved Sexual Tension, Resolved Romantic Tension, Fix-It, Werewolf, Shapeshifters)

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6. Hello, I would like some help?? I’m looking for a fic but I completely forgot the name 🥲

it was a MDZS/TGCF crossover: Xie Lian joined the juniors on their nighthunt and Jingyi spends most of the time suspicious of him. At one point they all thought Xie Lian died but Lan Zichen appeared and performed cpr on him and he was fine. At the end WWX recognized him and called him grand uncle and tells the kids Xie Lian’s a god (and when they ask ‘why didn’t you say anything?’, Xie Lian’s only response was ‘you didn’t ask’)

That’s all I remember, I’m loosing my mind trying to look for it please help me 🥺🥺 I’m sorry if it’s a pain @cullen-blue23

FOUND! Lan Jingyi and the Adventure of the Immortal Cultivator by litbynosun (T, 5k, the junior quartet, TGCF/MDZS, Crossover, Just a Fun Little Romp, Minor Injuries, Canon-Typical Violence, Ghosts, postcanon, (for both books), Friendship, A Pack Of Teens Roaming The Countryside With Swords)

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7. Hello! Excuse me but could you please help me with the title of the Wangxian fic that's a Gawain and the Green Knight AU? Where Lan Wangji plays the role of Gawain and enters into a weird sex game with the Yiling Laozu and Wei Wuxian not knowing they're the same person until the duel? Please? @kaitou-cure-prism12

FOUND! rare the man who'll hold to faith by Fahye (M, 13k, wangxian, canon au, Identity Porn, With Apologies To The Chivalric Romantic Tradition)

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8. Fic finder request please! 🙂

Wangxian was in an arranged marriage au and WWX, in trying to get to know LWJ, hangs onto his arm or something and gets pushed into a pond (by accident fromLwJ), but WWX thinks it was on purpose and he decides to be just as rude back. I can’t remember anything else about it, but I think it had a happy ending and that LWJ had to grovel a bit. I swear I’ve read it a few months ago and can’t find it anywhere! 😭😭

FOUND! i won’t say i’m in love by kazzywx (E, 12k, wangxian, rape/non-con, A/B/O, Arranged Marriage, Miscommunication, Angst with a Happy Ending, Omega WWX, Alpha LWJ, skippable NSFW scenes, wwx’s is basically meg from hercules with his “i wont say im in love” shtick, Hurt WWX, Boypussy, WWX Has a Vulva, Intersex WWX, Dubious Consent, Feminization, Mating Bites, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, WWX Has a Fear of Dogs, Mpreg, WWX & WQ Friendship, WWX & WN Friendship, Possessive LWJ, WIP)

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9. Hi, nice ppl! I'm looking for a fic (Modern AU). LWJ is a rich lonely businessman who finds erotic model WWX online (he doesn't do it for pleasure but to pay JC's medical treatment) & falls for him. No explicit sex, WWX just shows his body (only HALF of his face to keep anonymity) & sends private set of pix to clients after paying a lot of money. LWJ becomes the best client instantly, getting more pix & phone calls, which seems to be enough 4 him (he's in love). WWX doesn't trust him, he thinks he could be a psycho, so they didn't meet YET (the fic wasn't finished & now I cannot find it). One day, WWX is in a photo session w/erotic lingery in a building room near LWJ's office, who 'feels' smth but, as he gets to the place, it's already empty & the staff + WWX gone. He founds a piece of his costume & keeps it. Sorry I have no more to add, only that WWX really needs the money for JC's health & asks LWJ to make the payments to his own bank acc, not to the agency (perhaps that lil' info helps). LXC notices a positive change in his brother's mood but LWJ doesn't tell anything to him. TYSM!xo @einherjermineord

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10. Hello this is a long shot but my history and bookmarks crashed on AO3 and there was a fanfic I was reading it was about LZ meeting WY as children one of the two save the other from dogs, LZ gave WY his drum rattle, in a Yilin alley, it was cold and the thin clothed WY got a coat from LZ the author described the coat or cape as embroidery and elegant, then when the uncle and brother came to him, he turn and WY left with the drum rattle but not the coat/cape, years later they are married have children WY pulls out drum rattles and then the old one (which he used as design for the other ones) and is there where they realized are them in the childhood encounter ... I know it's a long shot but do you know what fic I am talking about? Oh and I think it has the tones of mpreg hence the children, but I can't remember much, if you could help me please and thank you

PS there is an author that used a similar encounter in "A Matter of Time" but that is not it I am so sorry to bother you about this, this author told me about you so here I am 😁

Sincerely @mysticalyunique

FOUND! As if you were on fire from within by jalpari (E, 30k, WangXian, Dragon LWJ/Fox WWX, Canon Universe, Getting Together, Bottom LWJ/Top WWX, Pregnant LWJ)

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11. Hello!! I'm looking for either one or 2 fics here. I might have read them at the same time and they blurred together, or it is the same fic. Anyway, one of them has mo xuanyu and nie huaisang working together and mxy is a fashion designer that insists on dressing wwx. And then the other has a scene where wwx is at some fancy party and escapes lwj through like a sky light. It's a cat-and-mouse fic where lwj is trying to capture wwx.

Thanks for your help and all the hard work yall do 🖤🖤🖤

FOUND! To lurk, to lie in wait by trippednfell (M, 124k, WangXian, Modern with Magic, Huli Jing, strangers to co-parents to lovers, Strangers to Lovers, Dragons, Kid Fic, teenage juniors, background NieLan, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Not Really Character Death, Fox Spirit WWX, Dragon LWJ, Blood and Injury, Additional Warnings In Author's Note)

FOUND!🔒🧡 Rule Number One: Never get attached. by KizuKatana (E, 130k, WangXian, Modern AU, A/B/O, Criminal underworld AU, Fluff and angst, Crime boss LWJ, Rouge criminal genius WWX, Explicit Sex) #11b with the cat and mouse game sounds like kitzukanas "rule #1 don't get attached"

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12. Hello again. First off I'd like to thank you for all your hard work and help. This blog means alot to me.

I need help finding a fic. It's a modern au. WWX is a hacker. I forgot what LWJ does. It's not something he likes. He doesn't like his life/work. Doing it just for family. There was a part in the fic where LQR said/asked? If LWJ was happy and LWJ said no.

If you do find this fic, would you also recommend something in this similar theme? LWJ doing things for family and not being happy and LQR finds out and regrets his actions? @lailan-rosie

FOUND? Tempo Rubato by Spodumene (E, 107k, WangXian, Modern AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Romance, Persuasion au, Separations, Mutual Pining, Depression, Miscommunication, Emotional Roller Coaster, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Reconciliation, Eventual Smut, Jane Austen Fusion, Underage Kissing)

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13. Hi, Help me find this fic🙏

Lwj is in a hostage/courtesan/concubine situation and the ones who owns him are either wens or jins. Lxc is free and about, knows lwj's situation yet does nothing/can't do nothing because of sect politics.

WWX meets lwj, a stranger at lwj's institution/lodgings and is appalled at lxc for his inaction. Wwx fights/duels lxc saying hes a bad brother. @imstillthinkingaboutithmm

NOT FOUND! The Last Concubine by deliciousblizzardshark (T, 13k, WangXian, Royalty, Emperor WWX, Concubine LWJ, LWJ Whump, Forced Marriage, Starvation, Non-physical spousal abuse, Fluff and Angst, Doing the Wrong Thing for the Right Reasons, Happy Ending, WWX Takes Care of LWJ)

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14. Hi! I’m looking for a fic where rogue!wwx(?) meets LWJ who came down from the mountain just to collect books and bring knowledge back to the cloud recesses. It’s like a right of passage thing? They travel together a long time and then LWJ gets called home. I think he gives WWX a way to contact him even though he shouldn’t? And WWX ends up bringing the Wen remnants to CR.

FOUND? my rivers tilt towards you by perfectlyrose (T, 26k, WangXian, Canon, Canon Divergence, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Fairy Tale Elements, dragonji, mentions of, Madam Yu's A+ Parenting, First Meetings, Romance, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort)

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15. hi ! this is for fic finder, i think i asked before but i don’t believe it was found: wangxian modern au, they reunite after a gap bc lan zhan gets into an accident (he’s fine, but it was going to be on the news because he’s a bit famous (i think it was as a tv baker) so lan xichen comes over to tell him). they get closer again and i think near the end it’s revealed that lan sizhui is lan yuan, a patient wei ying grew attached to that lan zhan adopted a few yrs after wei ying disappeared @willesnelson

FOUND? Lifelong Confidant by saved (E, 42k, WangXian, Modern AU, Fluff and Angst, Past Character Death, Families of Choice, Explicit Sexual Content, Idiots in Love, Misunderstandings, Oblivious WWX, playing fast and loose with basic real life things, references to past alcoholism/substance abuse, Alcohol)

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16. Hello! Hoping to find a fic where Meng Yao I think is the main character. Modern AU, the ensemble are nurses/doctors. Meng Yao is a nurse, but like the head or charge nurse - he points out you can tell bc he's wearing a particular color of scrubs (yellow?). The plot had to do with people actually protecting him for once and his father trying to pin his own mal practice (or possibly Jin Zixun's) on Meng Yao. But Nie Huisang manages to save the day by "stumbling across" records that proved it was Jin Guangshan/Zixun at fault.

Thanks so much for all your hard work mods! @somevariationofgay

FOUND! No Drug Like Me by Justkeeptrekkin (E, 32k, XiYao, Modern AU, Hospital, They're all doctors and nurses, Mutual Pining, Eventual Smut, Fluff)

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17. hii, I hope you're doing well, I'm looking for fic whose description was smth like "yuan watches some man try take away his xian-gege" it isn't accurate, and I think it's a humorous fic from a-yuan's pov where lwj is around wwx and yuan is annoyed. Thank u for ur work!!! @mercurygirlwt28

FOUND! as i stumble homewards by the_pretzel (T, 27k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death - WWX, Found Family, Food Issues, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, sizhui pov, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff) lmao I found it myself. thank you sm for ur time!!!!!

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18. Hi I’m looking for a fic where Wei Ying wears Gusu Lan robes and no one recognizes him?

I think (and don’t quote me lol) that it is after the temple scenes and he lives in Gusu land now. @kyuubikuroba

FOUND? Wei Wuxian is Definitely Not Possessed by CursedBlessing (T, 20k, wangxian, JC & WWX, Misunderstandings, Is it exorcism if there's nothing to exorcise?, General Dumbassery, Humor) maybe chapter 3 of this one? Some people recognize wwx but some don't

FOUND? How Odd by bedheadrat (M, 35k, WIP, Case Fic, Fluff and Smut, BAMF WWX, Protective LWJ, Possessive LWJ, Rich LWJ, Genius WWX, Separation, Anxiety, Evil Plans, Touch-Starved, LWJ 's white robes kink, Attempted Kidnapping, Attempted Seduction, Misunderstandings, Not Cheating, Threats, Vandalism, Stealing, Canon Compliant, Post-Canon)

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19. hello! i am looking for a fic, if you don’t mind helping me ☺️

i believe in the fic wwx and lwj used to know each other well (or were together? i cant remember), and wwx came back to lwj’s life with baby sizhui. the baby is also lwj’s i think? but lwj didnt know prior to wwx’s return. the fic is set in modern times, so lwj is a rich boss running a company and wants to provide wwx and baby sizhui everything they need. theres this one scene where lwj gets overwhelmed about the whole situation, so he starts making lists: schools for sizhui, putting wwx on lwj’s uber plan, etc etc.

i’ve been looking for this fic for a very long time but my hands still come up empty. thank you very much!

FOUND? Family Pictures (Or: “Mark Rothko is very, very dead, Wei Ying.”) by belleweather (M, 37k, WangXian, Kid Fic, Post Mpreg, Modern AU, Cindarella Story, Mistaken Identity, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, art conservator lwj, idiot WWX, (he gets better slowly), shockingly little actual sex omg what happened to me, fake/mistaken cheating, no actual infidelity)

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20. Hey, I'm losing my mind looking for this fic where wy fall in love with 3 different people he meets(like gamer id, chat id, irl id) but they're all lwj.

Any idea which fic this is? @imstillthinkingaboutithmm

#20 it's not duo with you.

Actually I'm currently reading duo with you and that's is when i remembered about the 3 identity fic i can't find.

Duo with you is very nice to read, thanks

NOT FOUND! The Best Gift by Lan_Wangjoe (E, 45k, wangxian, Modern, Mistaken Identity, Miscommunication, Fluff, Family Dynamics, Falling In Love, Idiots in Love, Dorks in Love, Nice LQR, Meet the Family, Nerdiness, Science Boyfriends, Science Experiments, Fake Science, Science Husbands, Geeks, Work Contains Fan(s) or Fandom(s), Fandom Allusions & Cliches & References, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Adopted Children, Marriage of Convenience, Secret Marriage, Didn't Know They Were Dating, Stupidity, Himbo LXC, Lan Himbos, Lán Family Feels, Making fun of the Lan's again, Everyone Is Alive, Everyone Thinks They're Together, Good Parents JFM & YZY, Genius WWX) Wwx is a "true genius" that was obsessed with books written by lqr. He's fav character is hgj, online frenemy is lwj, and irl genius rival is lz

NOT FOUND! Duo With You by Nyatci (T, 48k, wangxian, JFM/YZY, JYL/JZX, modern, College/University, , Gamers WàngXiànCasual Gaming, enemies to lovers (sorta), Secret Identity vibes, they play league of legends, Kinda Crack but treated very seriously, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Comedy, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Abusive Jiāng Family, Eventual Happy Ending, Ga(y)mers WangXian, now with fanart, WIP)

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#wangxian #wangxianficfinder #wangxian fic search #wangxian fic finder #the untamed #long post #mdzs

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