#you must weave a tale

[cybergothvox]

Get your therapist to drop you speed run NO mentioning diagnoses (symptoms only) and NO mentioning system things

what would you say and how fast could you do it?

[agentromanoffsir]

the cry of the wild goose, frankie laine // snufkin leaves moominvalley, the moomins // brandy (you're a fine girl), the looking glass // selkie, wikipedia page // song of the sea, cartoon saloon // chilling of the evening, arlo guthrie // swan princess crying, john bauer // wild geese, mary oliver // dinosaur, richard siken // selkie statue, mikladalur // brandy (you're a fine girl), the looking glass // the swan maiden, swedish fairytales // serethereal, tumblr post // moominvalley in november, tove jansson

[pumpkinpaix]

I am processing nettle to do various fiber craft experiments with and you may notice the terrible stock pot situation which resulted in me setting a towel on fire briefly but hey. I have successfully made nettle cordage. The difference in color is dependent on how much I scraped and cleaned the fiber before use!

Unfortunately the journey is far from over and I expect I shall be in nettle hell for weeks to come

Other nettle projects include spinning, papermaking, dyeing (root and leaf) and eating. I have already eaten it but I think the season is wrong. Not much taste only texture. anyways! Good times and also suffering

[makethatelevenrings]

Ubi Amor Ibi Fides (Where there's love, there's faith) // Lucius Verus x f!reader

summary: When he saw you that day, surrounded by a gaggle of children who begged you to tell them a story, he had no idea that the Fates had their own epic tale in mind of everlasting devotion. OR, contrasting vignettes of the past and the present through the eyes of Hanno and his wife.

word count: 13.2k

warnings: SPOILERS FOR THE MOVIE!! 18+, war, blood, death, allusions to rape and what happens to female prisoners of war, allusion to desecration of a corpse, historical inaccuracy (if Ridley Scott can do it, so can I!), smut, Lucius being Down Bad for this wife, mythology and religion (with inaccuracies), discussion of suicide, suicide attempt, grief, throwing up, Roman culture???, period-typical misogyny but like, make it feminist

“Tell me a story.”

Exhaustion clouded his voice and you turned away from your weaving to find him leaning against the roughshod mudbrick door frame. It was days like today that you cursed his stubborn nature. While he had been willing to let you help in breaking in the ground for the coming harvest, your husband sent you inside by midday when the sun was at its highest. Now, you were rested and chilled by the wind that eased its way through the small house, and he was completely depleted.

“Come.” You beckoned him with an outstretched hand. “Rest beside me and then I will tell you.”

He didn’t argue, for once, and took your hand in his. You drew him down to sit beside you, his head settling in your lap. Your fingers curled into the soft, downy hair at his temples and he relaxed with a sigh. While you wished you could continue stroking his hair, the weaving in front of you wouldn’t be completed without two hands. As you went back to your work, you began to speak.

“There were once two lovers by the name of Pyramus and Thisbe…” He huffed out a quiet laugh. You smiled at him, delighted that it made him relax even further. Most of your stories were the ones he had told you about from his childhood and you weren’t really in the right mind to come up with a fresh story.

“The parents of our two lovers refused to let them marry, but their love reigned strong through the thin crack in the stone wall that divided their property.” As you spoke, you embellished the story with extraneous details and dramatic gasps, eliciting quiet chuckles from your husband. He looked weary these days and not just from the labor in the fields. The Romans were creeping closer, and it would only be a matter of time before they came to your city. You woke up last night to a cold bed and found him standing at the doorway, staring out towards the sea. He knew what was coming. You both did.

“The gods looked favorably upon their sacrifice and changed the tree to its dark appearance to signify the devotion between them.” You ended the tale and stopped your weaving for a moment to gently trace your fingers along the edge of his features. You loved the sharp crest of his nose, the curve of his lips, and the bright blue of his eyes. His lashes were so long that they left shadows across his cheeks when he shut his eyes.

“I understand why he did it,” he said softly.

“Hmm?” Your hand stroked over his curls once more as you thought through everything you needed to get done tomorrow. You paused, however, when you felt his face turn to see you better and his lips brushed against your palm.

“I understand why Pyramus ended his life.” His calloused palm covered your own and he turned your hand over, his fingers sliding along yours and intertwining. “One can only imagine the pain he must have felt.”

A painful squeeze built in your throat and you felt an awful burning sensation behind your eyes. He sat up and gently cupped your face in one of his large hands, drawing your gaze up to meet his.

“Hanno,” you breathed. He smiled softly and leaned in to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. He was never one for words, always more inclined to act. Breaking apart, you pressed your forehead against his and breathed in the masculine scent of him tinged with soil, sweat, and something purely him.

“When death claims us, we go as one,” he vowed. “I cannot exist in this world without you.”

“As the gods see fit,” you assured him. “I will follow you wherever you lead.”

You wished this was a story.

It had been an easy day in the fields. You were sprinkling seeds in the ditches that Hanno dug earlier. The chickens clucked at you from their pen, begging for a bit more food as if they hadn’t been fed a hearty amount of grain earlier. After you planted these, Hanno would place the earth back over it while you worked on your herb garden.

You were capable of doing the hard, manual labor. Growing up, you would always help your parents through the entire process of planting, but Hanno was insistent on keeping his precious wife away from the heavy work. Rather, he encouraged your herb collecting and training with some of the city healers. You were grateful for him, truly. Most men would sequester their wives in their homes and work them to their deaths from labor, both of earth and child. 

But Hanno was different. 

He taught you to read, speak, and write in Latin. He would easily switch between Numidian, Phoenician, and Latin until you could respond perfectly. When he took breaks from tilling, plowing, and managing the harder tasks with the animals, he sat next to you at your garden and asked about the different plants. He was never cruel, never struck you or screamed at you the way you had heard other wives whisper to one another. In fact, Hanno was exceedingly kind to you and to anyone he didn’t view as a threat.

Which is why you thought this was a nightmare at first.

The horns of war sounded and you stood up straight to watch as the beacons erupted with fire at the top of the wall. Fear seized your heart and you stood frozen, transfixed, by the flames that licked the sky. Smoke curled off the top of them and the smell burned at your nose. You might have stood there all day if it hadn’t been for Hanno rushing out of the small house to your side.

“Come,” your husband instructed you. “We must get ready.”

He grasped your arm gently and it snapped you out of your reverie. Swallowing down your panic, you followed him into the house and to the small trunk he had made to hold your armor. The two of you silently donned your gear and were nearly finished when Jugurtha came to your door.

“My lord,” you greeted him with a slight bow. The chieftain’s face betrayed nothing, but you could see the worry in his eyes. Hanno and Jugurtha would be in the heat of the battle, directly in the path of the oncoming Roman fury. Would the gods listen if you sent them a prayer now? It felt as though they had decided to abandon you.

“The healers are gathering at Taklit’s house.” Jugurtha looked at the two of you, a hidden regret in his gaze. “We will come retrieve you once we have claimed victory.”

“Yes, my lord.” Your voice had softened as you realized how quickly this was all happening.

“I will join you soon,” Hanno replied. Jugurtha nodded and left, his imposing figure leaving an empty space in the doorway and in your heart. Needing a distraction, you turned and focused your attention on securing Hanno’s armor. As your trembling fingers finished tightening his armor, his hand enfolded around yours and he drew your fingers up to his lips. Hanno placed a delicate kiss on the tips of each finger. You searched his face to memorize every last detail, from the crinkles beside his eyes to the slight curve of his lip. Only the gods knew how this battle would end and the anxiety felt like it was going to swallow you alive.

“We go as one,” he reminded you. “I will not lose you.”

“Nor I, you.” His lips ghosted over yours and you leaned up, capturing him in a searing kiss. You poured every ounce of your devotion, fear, and worry into the kiss and he took it all onto his broad shoulders, shielding you from this world. His hand fisted in your hair and he pulled you impossibly closer so he could sink the weight of his devotion into every fiber of your being.

The gods had granted you this man as your husband. Perhaps they had not abandoned you yet.

“Be brave, my Hanno,” you whispered once you broke apart. He pressed his brow to yours and you breathed him in. “Be strong and be brave. And come back to me.”

The warm metal of his betrothal ring pressed into the skin of your cheek as he cradled your face between his hands. He kissed your forehead, his lips warm against your clammy skin. You savored the ring, this physical reminder of his tie to you, and touched the one that rested on your hand as a reminder of your tie to him.

“I will see you soon, my love.”

How bittersweet endings are, you thought to yourself as the walls of the city were seized by Romans. Men and women fell left and right from the parapets and you knew there was no help you could give them once their bodies hit the ground. Instead, you watched in horror as Roman soldiers grew closer and closer to where you were stationed and awaiting the wounded. You could see Hanno at the top of the wall fighting for his very life and your heart beat wildly in your chest at the sight of so many men around him falling in battle. Would he be next?

A cry of pain nearby alerted you to someone needing help. One of your people had been caught within the crosshairs of an archer and you rushed out of the house to grab them and drag them to safety. The child, only a mere babe, shrieked in agony as you dove to cover his little body when another arrow went sailing over your head. Even over the din of war, you heard Hanno scream your name. 

A Roman soldier grabbed you by your hair and yanked you up off the ground, forcing your back to bend sharply and a shout to emerge from your lips. He drew his sword, placing it to your throat with the intention of drawing your blood, your life, out of you with one swift pull. Despite knowing it wouldn’t help, you shouted your status in Latin.

“Healer! I’m a healer!” Perhaps he would be merciful. Perhaps he would let you go. Your eyes sought out the top of the wall and you saw Hanno desperately fighting to get to you, but he was too far away. The blade knicked the soft skin of your throat.

Two things happened simultaneously. One, a general pointed at you from the crowd and yelled at his man to stop. Two, Hanno was shoved off the wall and into the sea, right where huge rocks clashed with the waves.

A scream escaped you. A wail. War makes widows, your mother had said. And here you were, one of them. 

The soldier removed his blade and forced you up to your feet, shoving you back in the direction of the house. You scrambled to scoop up the child in your arms. If you could not save your love, maybe you could at least save a mother from grief.

The child died in your arms by the time you stepped into the healer house.

Numidia fell. Rome claimed victory and dominion over the land. Hanno was dead.

You busied yourself with tending to the wounded in hopes that you wouldn’t think about the fact that you were now under Rome’s control, a widow, and possibly homeless. What would happen next? Would they let you retrieve his body? Or would they throw him into a pile and burn it all along with the city itself?

A shadow fell over you as you tended to one of your own. You looked up to find the general gazing down at you. All at once, you were filled with hot rage and the deepest sorrow. You stood quickly, your hand reaching for a stray knife on the ground but he merely raised a brow. Right. What skill do you have against a Roman general?

“You’re a healer,” he said, not as a question. “And you speak Latin. How?”

“How do I heal or how do I speak Latin?” you spat. He remained stoic and you narrowed your eyes in suspicion. You would never reveal Hanno’s secrets. Not even under the threat of death.

“My husband is-” You stopped yourself and swallowed hard. “Was a merchant. He taught me so I could help him sell.”

“But you are a healer.”

You shrugged. “We do what we must.”

He studied you carefully and then nodded at one of his soldiers. A sudden bolt of terror struck you. Was this your future? To be a general’s plaything? A concubine? Some kind of bed warmer until he got back to Rome and disposed of you into the nearest brothel?

No. You were the wife of Hanno, a kind man and a good soldier.

“If you expect me to lay with you, I ask that you let me slit my wrists first so that I can die knowing I never let you take more from me than you already have,” you hissed. The soldier went to unsheathe his sword, but the general raised a hand to stop him. He took in your figure and the way you trembled with rage and grief.

“I need a healer,” he explained. “For my men. I will not touch you, for I am a married man, and you are a widow.”

He turned to the soldier once again. “Place her in chains and then put her in my room. Do not lay a finger on her, nor let anyone else.”

What choice did you have? If you defied them, you would be dead. If you went with them, you would have a chance to avenge Hanno before you died. Either way, you would join your husband in the afterlife. Going meant you had a chance to drag another life with you on the journey.

You dropped the blade and let the soldier lead you to the ships, not daring to look at the mass of bodies being piled up on the sand. Tears blurred your vision as you were hauled onto the ship. The keening wails of mourners raised above the fractured walls and you watched as smoke started to envelope the city. Just this morning, you had been thinking about spring planting and now you were a Roman slave.

What fresh hell was this?

The soldier clamped the heavy irons onto your wrists, connecting them together, and then attached two to your feet as well, forcing you into a shuffle as he then moved further below deck to a room. He tossed a thin blanket onto the wooden floor and pointed at it. You needed no words to explain that it would be your new bed.

When the door shut behind him, you fell to your knees over the chamber pot and promptly threw up everything in your stomach. An agonized sob tore from your lungs and you grit your teeth to silence the wail that threatened to emerge. You beat your fists on the hard, unforgiving wooden floor and wept silent tears, rocking back and forth in time to the crests and waves of the wailing mourners outside. Your people were subjugated. Your home was destroyed.

Your Hanno was dead.

Oh Thisbe, you thought as hot tears coursed down your cheeks. I understand. I understand. I understand. If I cannot shoulder this burden, then let the gods strike me down so that I may join him in peace.

“Tell us a story!”

The voices of children bubbled up over the crowd and Hanno looked up from sharpening his sword to find a woman surrounded. The kids eagerly mobbed her, their little heads bobbing up and down as they pleaded for her to tell them a tale. A basket balanced precariously on her head, but she seemed as though there was no worry about it falling.

But the thing that Hanno noticed the most was that she was completely and utterly beautiful.

“Who is that?” Jugurtha smiled at the young soldier’s question. He saw the way the woman captured his gaze. He knew that look in his eyes.

Jugurtha said your name quietly and explained how your family used to live on the outskirts of the city so they could accommodate a larger farm, but recent skirmishes in the area had wounded your father and drew you behind the walls of the city. Hanno had met your father before and made a mental note to visit the man and see how he was healing. Perhaps he would bring some fresh fruits from the merchants.

Jugurtha must have caught onto his train of thought because he called you over. The gaggle of children followed closely behind and you laughed, a sound that Hanno delighted in hearing.

“Are you interested in a story too, my lord?” You said in greeting. Jugurtha grinned and gestured for you to sit.

“You’ve been hard at work. Take a moment to rest and tell the children a story.”

With careful hands, you reached up and lowered the basket to the ground. Hanno could see it was full of various types of plants and fabrics. He had a million questions swirling around in his head. What did you do to pass the time? Where were you staying? Did you like it here? He stayed silent, however, as you slowly lowered yourself onto the ground. Your dress pooled around your legs and the coins on your shawl clinked against each other. What would you look like bare? He banished the thought as soon as it appeared.

“Come.” You beckoned the children to sit around you and gathered one of the youngest into your lap. The child reached up and played with the ends of your veil and you smiled down at her before beginning your story.

“Long ago, there was a queen of Numidia by the name of Kahina. When invaders came to Numidia to conquer us, she stood strong and fought them off with all of her might. Kahina was brave and smart, using both her strength and her mind to push the invaders back.” You launched into a tale filled with drama, some comedy, and even a bit of romance that had the kids shouting and cheering with glee. Hanno even stopped cleaning his weapons to sit and listen. He was enraptured by the way you kept the kids engaged as you weave your tale. The child in your lap started to drift off and you didn’t even hesitate before drawing her closer into your arms and cradling her.

“Queen Kahina is a reminder to all of us,” you declared. “That each of us has the power to stand up for ourselves, to do what’s right, and to be proud of who we are.” You gazed out onto the sea of little heads bobbing their agreement and then looked up to lock gazes with Hanno. For a brief moment, it felt like everything in the world went still. He scarcely knew he was breathing until Jugurtha nudged him. You tore your gaze away and offered a brilliant smile to the children. Clapping your hands together, you shooed them back towards the gathering of homes.

“Your mothers are probably wondering where you’ve gone off to. Now, go home and do some chores to help her out.”

“Oh, but we want another story!” One boy cried out. You huffed out a laugh and shook your head, your veils moving like buttery silk across your skin.

“Only if you finish your chores for the day. I will ask your mother and you know I will. Now, off with you!”

The children dashed off, leaving you with the sleeping babe in your arms. You slowly started to rise, intent on not waking her, when Hanno spoke.

“Here, let me carry your basket.” He stood and took the wicker basket from the ground so you wouldn’t have to worry about carrying both child and items. You regarded him warily at first and Jugurtha had to hide his smile behind his hands.

Truth be told, you were one of the most desired women in the city. You were also one of the least trusting. Your mother desperately tried to set you up with suitor after suitor, but none met your standards. Your father laughed off your mother’s attempts and said that the gods would lead the right man to you. You were older than most women to be unmarried, but you remained steadfast in your belief that the right man would come someday.

And perhaps today was that day.

Jugurtha offered you a short nod to express his approval of Hanno and your suspicious expression melted somewhat. You turned and started to walk towards the village. When you realized that the handsome man with blue eyes wasn’t following, you glanced back at him.

“Are you coming or not?”

Hanno scrambled to catch up and quickly joined your steps, a smile cresting on his face as he asked you about how you were settling into the city.

Hanno cried when his mother sent him away. He sobbed when he fled his hiding place, cried on the boat crossing, and sniffled away into his sleep the first few days of living in Numidia. But he had never wept like he did when they tossed him into the hold of the ship with a Roman brand on his shoulder and a ring that felt infinitely heavy on his finger.

The last thing he saw before plunging into the sea was the blade sliding across your neck. Stuck between the two worlds of consciousness, he saw flickers of a wheatfield stretched before him and, for a moment, saw the outline of your body amongst the stalks. He reached out, his hand passing through where you stood, and then you disappeared from his grasp.

Coming to, he rushed from the sea and towards the city, but two Romans stopped him. He needed to find your body. He needed to see that you were buried properly. He was never as devoted to the gods as you were. You kept idols on the hearth and prayed regularly, but he only found himself turning to the gods at a time like this. But, right now, he found himself praying to Viduus, Libitina, and Proserpina.

Let her soul cross, Mercury. Bring her to the Fields of Elysium. Please. Tell her I will meet her on the other side.

He was forced to kneel next to Jugurtha, stripped of his armor and weapons, and watched as they loaded body after body into a pit. Jugurtha’s gaze never left the growing pile, even as he asked the question that Hanno dreaded.

“She’s gone,” he said, his throat raw from screaming your name across the battlefield. Did it hurt? He wondered. Was it instant? Did you feel pain? His sweet wife who dedicated her life to healing and helping died in such a brutal manner. His hands curled into fists as rage filled his veins. You were supposed to die at an old age, tucked in his arms and surrounded by your children. That’s what he planned that day so long ago when he walked you home, basket in his arms and a babe in yours. You dropped the child off with her mother and he refused to let you take your basket back, instead carrying it to your small house where he checked in on your father, met your mother, and charmed your whole family.

He craned his neck to see the dead lying a few feet away in hopes of catching a glimpse of any sign of you but there were too many dead. Too many lost. He saw the man he had bought silk from two days earlier. The midwife in the village. So many of the soldiers he had helped train.

Hanno glanced beside him and saw a fellow healer who was weeping openly. He leaned closer and asked if she knew anything about what happened to you.

“They took her,” she wailed. “They took her.”

Any grief that remained calcified into pure, hot rage. They took your body? For what sick purpose? To desecrate your corpse? To taint you with their hatred and their delusions of power, even when you were already dead? He started to rise, intent on seeking out your corpse and draping himself over it so that he would still be holding you when they killed him. Jugurtha stopped him with a shaking hand around his wrist.

“I’m sorry,” the leader lamented. “But not like this. This is not how you will die.”

Hanno’s eyes fixed on the man standing in front of the soldiers, in front of the keening mothers and children, in front of the men he had defeated and stripped of their armor to expose their humiliation. Hanno remembered the way he pointed directly at you, encouraging the soldier to keep the bloodshed continuing, and knew what Jugurtha meant.

He was going to kill him, and then he would reunite with you in the afterlife.

“Tell me a story,” Lulit encouraged as the two of you picked herbs from outside the city. The two of you rode out early this morning to gather herbs not grown in the village gardens. Lulit was with child and Jugurtha insisted on a guard coming with you and you glanced over at the man asleep at the base of the tree that the horses were tied to.

You paused for a moment to consider which tale you should tell. Recently, the only stories that came to mind were romances. Your face burned at the thought, but you knew why they were the only things that floated to your memory. A certain blue-eyed man had consumed every waking thought of yours and it was driving you mad.

He was a consummate gentleman and always found ways to visit your family. He started helping your father get his new trading business up and running in the city. He brought your mother fresh wheat to bake bread. He carved toys from wood and willow reeds for your siblings.

Hanno was the man of your dreams. He was exceedingly kind, handsome, and funny. He was sincere and wasn’t putting on some kind of face to impress you. He was just truly nice to everyone he met. You saw him once helping one of the elders bundle their wheat harvest and carry it into their house. Jugurtha had already come by and assured your parents of Hanno’s good nature.

He had started to teach you Latin and how to read and write Phoenician and Numidian. He told you stories from other empires and listened intently when you told him tales your grandmother had told you. The gods had indeed brought the right man, the perfect man. 

“Psyche was one of three daughters of a king and a queen of a far away land. She was renowned for her beauty and praised among the land as the second coming of the goddess of beauty. Her admirers would bring offerings and gifts to her, angering the goddess, who decided that Psyche must be punished.”

A thorn caught on your finger and you let out a hiss of pain as you brought your finger to your lips, sucking the blood away. You began to continue your work and your story when a horn trumpeted across the sky.

The sounds of war.

Your heart leapt into your throat and you immediately looked to Lulit. Her face had drained of color and she traded a worried glance with you. In the time you had lived here, the horns had never sounded.

“We need to move.” Despite being asleep moments earlier, Hanno was already leading the horses to the two of you.

“Who is it?” You knew better than to stall, especially when he wore such a serious expression. He helped you climb onto the back of your horse and paused for only a moment, one of his warm palms resting on your skirt-covered thigh.

“A small war party, by the looks of it. Nothing the defense can’t handle. But we need to get out of the way before they attack. There’s a forest just a few paces away, but we need to get moving.” He ensured that you and Lulit were secured before he climbed onto his own horse. Dust grew in the east and you felt your worry build with it. Hanno tugged at the reins of your horse, urging you to follow. You urged your horse into a gallop and kept close to him, but you still looked over your shoulder to gauge how close the marauders were.

“Hanno.” Your voice carried a warning and he looked back to see a rider closing in on them. He let out an expletive and pointed to the trees that were nearing with every step.

“Go! I’ll find you.” He slowed his horse and fell in line with you, his bright eyes meeting yours. “I swear to you.”

You swallowed against your rising panic and he sent you a reassuring smile before he turned his horse around and rode off in the direction of your pursuer. You looked back to watch as he drew his sword with expert ease.

Focus, you chastised yourself. You need to focus.

Lulit silently followed you as you led the way to the forest. Once the trees began to cloud your vision, you looked back and saw nothing but dirt and sky. He would be okay. He had to be.

Dismounting, you grabbed the reins of your horse and led her further into the forest until you came to a clearing with a good underbrush. You tied the horses and instructed Lulit to dig out some of the underbrush so she could lay down and rest while you brushed out the horses.

“Are we in danger?” she asked. Were you? You had no clue. But you set your shoulders and covered her with the blanket she kept on her saddle.

“Hanno would never let anything happen to us,” you told her. You settled down onto the soft grass next to her. “Let me continue my story. While Psyche’s sisters married, she found herself still unmarried and that worried her father who consulted a seer. The seer predicted an awful outcome for the beautiful daughter, one of a brutish husband in the form of a dragon who came to claim her and whom the gods feared. But truthfully, the goddess of beauty had been so enraged by the people’s devotion to Psyche that she sent her son to enchant her with a hideous creature, but instead found himself falling in love with her.”

Lulit curled up onto her side, cradling her growing belly with her hands as she listened raptly to your story. You spoke of the trials the lovers endured in their pursuit of one another, but as you began to wrap up the story, you found that she had drifted off to sleep.

A branch cracked nearby and you flinched. There was a small knife in your saddlebags that you used for foraging and silently, you crept over to your horse and retrieved it. The leaves rustled and you spun to face whatever beast dared to come close. You held your knife aloft and pointed it in the direction of where the noise was coming from. Oh, you were not brave. You were a farmer’s daughter and a healer. The most you knew with a knife was how to butcher an animal.

“You need to adjust your thumb to the other side,” Hanno said in greeting as he stepped through the forest and into the clearing. “It will give you better control.”

With a ragged sigh of relief, your shoulders fell from their tensed position and you dropped the knife onto the grass below. He stooped to catch it and studied the small blade with a hint of a smile. Droplets of blood stained his face and you carefully examined him for any sign of injuries.

“I am unharmed, my little warrior,” he teased. He rose and handed you the knife once more. “And I will make sure to teach you how to use that.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” He could easily be lying. Father always brushed off your mother’s worries so as to not incite her own anxieties. Hanno raised his arms from his sides and slowly turned so you could see that he was indeed unharmed. His sword hung from its scabbard and you could see that blood still lingered on its surface.

“Are we safe?”

His eyes darkened and he stepped closer, his hands hovering over your waist. He searched your face for something, you weren’t sure, but dipped his head into a nod. “Aye. I would never let anything happen to you. To you or Lulit.”

“Then rest, soldier. Let me clean your sword.”

He looked as if he wanted to argue, but determination furrowed your brows and Hanno reluctantly unstrapped his sword from his side and handed it to you. This was a task you had witnessed your mother perform before when your father took on anyone trying to attack the farm. Blood was not a foreign thing to you, even if Hanno appeared to want to protect you from it.

You took a rag from your saddle pack and sat down by a tree. Hanno joined you, his back against the bark and his eyes studying the treeline for any disturbance. Slowly and methodically, you ran the rag over his blade and ensured that every last drop of blood and gore was cleaned from it. He searched your face for any sign of fear. Fear of what? Of him? A man who so willingly charged into danger to protect you engendered no fear from you.

“There,” you declared. “Good as new.”

He gratefully accepted the blade from you and placed it back in his scabbard. The sun was starting to set and the glow between the trees created a halo of light around you. He reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair out of your face before curling his knuckles against your jaw and stroking his thumb over your cheek. You let your eyes flutter shut and leaned into his palm, savoring the rough drag of his calloused fingers against your soft skin.

You loved him. Oh, the thought made your heart race and you surged forward. He caught your waist in his calloused hands and let his lips meet yours in a breathless kiss. Hanno groaned against your touch and you pulled away, thinking he was hurt with some injury you hadn’t seen, but he merely cupped your face and pulled you back in so he could nip at your lips and soothe the slight sting with his tongue. You whimpered at his touch and kissed him once again, moving your hands down to trace along the hard lines of his chest. Your hand moved lower and Hanno quickly pulled away from you, one of his hands catching yours and tangling your fingers with his.

“Not yet,” he panted against your cheek. “Not yet.”

Dawn was breaking when you awoke. Your head rested on a blanket that you recognized as Hanno’s while your own draped over you, protecting you from the bitterly cold nights of Numidia. Your soldier sat wide awake and alert beside you and you could tell, from the fatigue weighing down his eyes, that he hadn’t slept a wink through the night. A silent sentry, guarding you and Lulit from any unseen danger.

The blanket fell from your shoulder as you began to sit up and he instinctively reached over to drag it back up your shoulder, bathing you in warmth from both the outside and surging through your insides at his tenderness.

You woke Lulit and the three of you rode back to the city, barely making it in time before a search party headed by Lulit’s husband went out. He wept when he saw his wife and swept her into his arms. Two men offered to take your horses to the stables to care for them and you graciously accepted. Hanno refused to leave your side until he deposited you at your doorstep.

It was still early but you knew your parents would be awake, both from their anxiety and their history as farmers. Your mother let out a shriek when she saw you approach and ran from the doorway to hug you. Hanno squeezed your hand once and made to step away, but you kept your fingers tightly entwined with his.

“I believe you have something to ask of my father,” you explained. His brows raised in surprise and you offered him a shy smile. As your mother ran back to the house to exclaim of your return, you raised your clasped hands so you could press a kiss to his dirt-stained skin.

“Are you sure?” His hesitation had nothing to do with you, but rather in his belief that he was not good enough for you. You laughed and started to drag him in the direction of the house.

“You foolish man.” A boyish grin lit up his face and he followed you inside.

“What happens to me once we reach Rome?”

General Acacius looked up from the letter he was writing and turned to face you. The floor barely made a comfortable place to lay your head, but he had at least given you blankets and removed the chains from your legs. They only went back on when you were on the deck, thanks in part to your failed attempt to jump overboard and sink into the sea.

“My wife will find a place for you in her house,” he explained. You scoffed and picked at the dried blood under your fingernails. You spent your days stitching up and tending to the wounds of Roman soldiers and spent your nights curled up on the floor of this room, dreaming of bright blue eyes and a crooked smile.

“Why? Couldn’t you just drop me off at the nearest brothel and let them rip me apart?” His compassion, minimal at best but still present, confused you. To him, you were barbarian scum. A conquered people. Prisoner of war, spoils, an artifact of his military prowess. He winced at your accusation, knowing that it was true for many military campaigns that the women were subjugated into the slave trade and forced into prostitution. The general refused to meet your eyes and you savored what little bit of power you held over him.

You could picture it now. You would demure yourself and behave in his wife’s house until you found a chance to slit her throat and leave him with the same raw, empty feeling that consumed you.

“You have skills that would be useful,” he muttered. “Your husban-”

“Don’t you dare speak of him,” you hissed. “My husband was a good and kind man. You do not deserve to speak of him.”

“He taught you well,” he continued on. “Lucilla could use someone with your skill set.”

The name made you pause and you tilted your head to the side, brows furrowing as you mentally ran through your memories. “Lucilla, daughter of Aurelius?”

He regarded you with suspicion. “Aye. How do you know of her?”

“Everyone knows of Marcus Aurelius,” you retorted. “I��d be a fool not to.”

A sudden knock on the door drew his attention away from you and he rose to answer it. General Acacius left the room to sort out some sort of issue and left you alone with your thoughts. You drew your knees up to your chest and rested your cheek against your folded arms. If you shut your eyes, you could see his face. If you thought hard enough, you could feel him in your dreams. The rough stubble of his beard. The high plains of his cheekbones. The crooked smile he gave you when he made you laugh.

Lucilla, daughter of Aurelius, you ran the words over and over in your head. Aurelius. Aurelius.

You could only hope that Hanno would forgive you if you delayed your joining with him in the afterlife for a little bit longer.

He slept fitfully on the ship and in the cages. He dreams of your eyes, your laugh, your smile, and wakes with your name on his lips in a strangled cry that he buries into his bicep and lets only a few tears leak out onto his battered skin. 

He has nightmares most nights and the lack of sleep fuels his rage. Dark circles take hold under his eyes and weariness leaves red rims around his blue pupils, making him appear as the wild barbarian they purport him to be. His muscles ache and scream and bruises litter his torso. He bites a monkey back and savors the burning anger that courses through his veins. The crowds cheer and shout and applaud his fury, but he pays them no mind. All he focuses on is going back to his cell and dreaming of you once more.

Killing men has never been an issue for him. He was raised a fighter, even in Numidia where he helped Jugurtha lead their forces. He fought in skirmishes and battles. When he met you, it brought another reason to keep the fight going. He refused to let a single person pass into the gates of the city when you were seeking protection inside. He had failed you, and every new scar on his body was merely penance.

Ravi chastises him for the way that he seeks out injury, but the man doesn’t refuse to help him. In an opium-fueled haze, Hanno tells him quietly that his wife was a healer. She was exceedingly kind and gentle. Too gentle for him. He was scared he would break her with his brutish nature, but she was also enduringly strong. A stray tear slips down his cheek and he tosses the opium aside in favor of feeling the pain and knowing that it pales in comparison to the ache in his chest. His grief builds and compounds into this sickening version of him that he cannot recognize. The blood of other men stains his skin, no matter how hard he scrubs in the baths. Even when the iron-thick substance is gone, he can still see it.

Macrinus brought the finest courtesans by his cell, but he refused them everytime. Once, the girl shared a similar hair color as you and he invited her into his cell, but merely let her rest on his cot while he sat at his desk and sketched what he could remember of your face on thin papyrus.

When he looked into the stands and saw your murderer seated with his mother, his rage calcified into his heart. With every kill, he pictured your pale face crying out for him. With every breath, he reminded himself of his failure to protect you. His mother had the audacity to reason with him.

“Do you have a family?” Lucilla asked.

He says your name with the reverence afforded to the gods and then hisses out that you were dead and taken from him by her husband. How dare she try to call her son home when she shares a bed with that monster? Ferality consumed him and his thirst for revenge. He meant what he said to Macrinus. Only Acacius’ head will quench this fire in his blood. For a sickening moment, he wants his mother to feel the way he does.

There are times when the night is darkest that his mind descends into the throes of the deepest depression and he wonders about how you would feel if you saw him like this. There is one nightmare that plays over and over again in his mind. He is in the Colosseum and the crowd is cheering in their bloodlust. The gates open and he steps out to face his next opponent, only to find you standing in the sand with your hands outstretched towards him. In this dream, he can’t stop himself from raising his blade an-

He woke up screaming.

Hanno doesn’t trust Macrinus within an inch of his life, but he trusts that he’ll bring him Acacius and that…that will be enough.

“Can I tell you a story?” Hanno whispered into your hair.

The wedding was an all-day event. You looked resplendent with flowers woven in your hair and layers of colorful fabric adorning your body. It felt as though the whole city came out to celebrate your union and the dancing, food, and music flowed for hours. Jugurtha clapped his hands on Hanno’s shoulders and congratulated him. A knowing glint flashed in the older man’s eyes and Hanno was eternally grateful for the man’s meddling.

Your father had tears in his eyes when he took your hand from his and placed it into Hanno’s, but they were tears of joy. When discussing the marriage negotiations and dowry, your father declared that there was no one greater for his daughter. In his vows, Hanno promised to protect and provide for you until his very last breath, one that he would take with you in his arms at an old age, with your children around you.

As the night grew longer, the crowds began to thin out. Parents took sleeping children home and the elders slipped away so they could rise early and start their daily chores. The fires began to burn low and Hanno looked over to you, only to have his breath catch in his throat at the realization.

His wife. His wife. Your lovely face was now his to wake up to every morning and your sweet laughter was his to elicit. Izim was telling some tall tale about his adventures as a sentry, but Hanno didn’t hear a single word. He ignored the hoots and hollers of his fellow soldiers and friends as he left their group and strode towards you.

The women around you tittered and giggled as he approached and it drew your attention away from whatever Seble was telling you. You barely had time to react when he suddenly scooped you into his arms. Hanno easily cradled you to him, your long veils swirling around the two of you, and he made his way towards the new house he had built with the help of your father and a few friends. The party cheered and you hid your laughter into the crook of his neck.

Hanno stopped in the doorway and set you gently onto your feet so you could examine your new home. Someone, your mother, you presumed, had already set some lanterns alight in the house and a clay jar of flowers sat on the small wooden table in the center of the room. It was a small house with the bed on one side and a small kitchen on the other. You traced your hand along the furniture that you knew he constructed himself. Your dowry chest laid at the foot of the bed already and a loom was on the wall. Your husband had done all of this.

The word made your throat squeeze with a level of affection you had never experienced before. He watched you carefully from the doorway, but you could see tension in the line of his shoulders and how his hands fidgeted until he clasped them behind his back. The flames from the lanterns made his eyes glow and heightened the smooth planes of his face. You reached up and unclasped your veils, letting them pool at your feet before you took a step forward.

He met you halfway, his hands going to settle on your waist as you nestled into his strong arms. Your hands came up to rest on the rough fabric of his tunic and you could feel his heart beat wildly under the tips of your fingers.

“My husband,” you breathed to the heavens. You wanted the gods to know that this man was yours. He had placed an iron ring on your finger and you savored the weight of it, the press of it against your skin. Hanno’s lips lifted in the barest hint of a grin, but his eyes took on almost burning intensity.

With nimble fingers, you released the clasps of his tunic yet kept your gaze locked on his as the fabric pooled to the ground. Hanno’s breaths grew ragged as you settled your hands back onto the chiseled muscle of his chest. For a moment, nothing happened. You just stared at one another as the air electrified with palpable energy. You had no idea where this boldness emerged from, but you slid your hand down his bicep, along his arm, and then to his wrist where you clasped it and raised his hand to rest on your breast. He swallowed so hard you could see his throat bob and just the simple evidence of his arousal made your skin burn.

“My wife,” he said hoarsely and untied your dress.

Hanno sucked in a shuddering breath as the fabric fell away from your body and joined his on the floor. He stroked his hands over your quivering flesh and stepped forward so that his body pressed against the length of yours. You felt him harden against your thigh as he leaned down to capture your lips in his. The two of you had kissed plenty of times, from small chaste pecks to that heated moment in the forest, but this felt entirely new and you welcomed it. He nibbled at your lips and explored your mouth with the desperation of a dying man searching for water. You moaned your approval which encouraged him and he let one of his hands drift down to cup your breast.

Hanno’s touch made your skin light on fire with every simple brush. How were you supposed to act when the man strutted around shirtless most of the time and built your house? Some of the older women in the city gossiped about their husbands. They told you about how it hurt, about the way he took without giving, and how they hated it.

From the delicate way Hanno touched you and the tender press of his lips against your pulse point, you knew that this would be different. He bent down and hauled you up against him, your legs wrapping around his waist for security, but you knew he would never drop you. You slid your arms around his neck, pulling your chest flush with his and he let his head fall back with a sinful groan, exposing the column of his throat. Eagerly, you licked a stripe up against his sweat-tinged skin and savored the taste of salt, musk, and man.

“By the gods, you will be the end of me, my little wife.” His teeth enclosed around the hinge of your jaw and you let your head fall to the side with a little sigh. Hanno nipped at the skin of your neck and you jolted against him, causing his throbbing cock to brush against you. Hanno squeezed his eyes shut at the sensation that wracked his body and you turned your head so he was facing you. Running your thumb along his jaw, you pulled your husband into another kiss and then pulled his bottom lip between your teeth. He sucked in a sharp breath and his hold tightened on you, sending a zing of pain mixed with pleasure down your spine.

“Take me to bed, husband,” you panted against his mouth. “Claim me as yours.”

Furs and silk lined the bed and softened your fall. You marveled at the way he prepared everything for you, even bringing over the blankets you wove for your marriage chest and setting them on the bed. He planted himself over you, his chest rising and falling with every heavy breath he took and you stole a glance down his broad chest to the heavy manhood that stood proud between his thighs. Your body pulsed with want even as your mind protested the idea of taking his length. He sensed your apprehension and leaned down to place a gentle kiss against your temple, your brow, both eyelids, and then your lips once more.

“I cannot promise it to be painless,” he said. “But I will do everything in my power to make sure you find bliss too.”

One of his hands snaked down to your most intimate place and your eyes widened with shock as he brushed the pad of his finger along the seam of your cunt. Your legs spread further apart instinctively and he kissed you in thanks for your invitation. A gasp escaped you as one of his fingers slid past your entrance and he kissed away your shock, even as you felt the rough and calloused pad of his finger slide up and press against some part of you that had you seeing stars. A little whimper from you had him pausing and he immediately pulled his hand away, eliciting a low whine from his wife. Hanno couldn’t stop his cocky smile that spread across his face before he touched that part of you again. His finger drew a circle over your flesh and your hips canted up, a mewl spilling past your lips and your breath catching. He stole a kiss, then another as he sent electricity up your spine and shocks scattered through your bones.

“You are magnificent,” he murmured just as he slipped another finger into your aching cunt. For a moment, you felt a hint of discomfort and bit your lip to refrain from making a sound. Hanno frowned and pulled your lip out from between your teeth. Some small part of you whispered ugly words and lies into your mind in an attempt to push his affection away. He only wanted you because other men did. You were merely a token to conquer. He needed a wife before he could get a concubine.

“Let me hear those pretty sounds.” He kissed the corner of your lips and you turned your head to see him properly once more. His eyes burned with a hunger you had seen before like in the forest or when he saw you carry one of the village babes on your hip. Hanno cheek pressed against your own and he whispered into your ear as he sank one finger into you and then two. He told you how proud he was of you, how good you were for him, how precious you were, as he pulled little cries of pleasure from you. You tightened around his fingers and he leaned back and watched your face as your body twitched and seized with the electric shocks of pleasure. A proud smile captured his face and he craned his head down to kiss you again and again and again. You climbed higher, higher, higher but then he abruptly pulled his hand from you, leaving you empty and aching. 

“I know, I know,” he groaned in that deep timbre bass that wracked through your body. Hanno rubbed a gentle circle into your outer thigh and shifted himself until he was kneeling between your spread legs. He grasped his cock in one hand and pressed his other hand to your hip, holding you in place under his heavy gaze. You squirmed as his eyes raked down your naked body and the little thoughts began to creep in once more, but he silenced them with one word.

“Divine.” Hanno leaned down and laid the flat of his tongue along your cunt. Your back arched off the bed with a choked out gasp and for a moment, you thought you died and entered the afterlife. He chuckled against your inner thigh and pressed a kiss to your pussy before sitting back on his heels. He stroked his thick length twice before moving closer to you. He nestled his face against your hair and inhaled the sweet scent of rose petals. His cheek rested on your temple, and he shocked you with his question.

“Can I tell you a story?”

You choked back a laugh and kissed the shell of his ear. “I suppose.” While you were the typical storyteller, you would always accept whatever he gave you.

“There was a king of the island of Ithaca by the name of Ulysses*. He was sent to fight in the Trojan War and on the way home, was blown off course. The journey home took over ten years and was filled with countless obstacles and dangers.” You gasped as the blunt head of his cock slid past your entrance and Hanno inhaled deeply. “Odysseus had a wife, the queen of Ithaca, named Penelope. A hundred suitors from the various lands and tribes came in an attempt to woo her and take her hand in marriage. Everyone thought Odysseus to be dead.”

He rocked his hips and his thick length began to split you open and your lips parted in a silent moan. Any air that was in your lungs seemed to evaporate as he filled you fully. Hanno swallowed your shaky whimper with a sweet kiss. You clawed for purchase against his chest, your limbs liquifying when he pulled out. Hanno caught your hand in his and flipped your hand over so he could pepper kisses along the inside of your wrist.

“Penelope was a devoted wife and ever faithful. She never doubted that Odysseus was alive and would come back to her. She lied to the suitors and told them that she would marry them when she finished weaving a funeral shroud. But she undid her work each night.” This time, his intrusion didn’t have the burn like the last thrust. Instead, his cock dragged against your walls in such a way that had your eyes rolling back into your head.

Hanno groaned as he started a steady thrust of his hips. He moved your hands above your head and entangled his fingers with yours, squeezing them in assurance as he fucked you. The pleasure burned so hot in your stomach and consumed your entire being. Everytime he thrust in, it felt like he was carving you out and branding you with his claim and oh, how you wanted this. He built this house for you and your future and even though he put a roof over your head, you saw stars with every touch against your skin.

“Ha-Hann…” You whined as he hit a certain spot that made your head spin. “Hanno.”

He frowned and slowed his thrusts and he touched your cheek, his thumb rubbing away the tear that you didn’t realize slipped down. “Does it hurt?”

You yanked him closer until his nose was touching yours. Your legs wrapped around his hips and he bottomed out in surprise.

 “Don’t you dare stop.” He grinned that reckless, crooked smile of his and swept your lips into a bruising kiss as he fucked every last thought out of your head. His name became a prayer that you chanted to the skies as he took you higher and higher until that coil that wrapped in your stomach snapped. You clenched around his cock and your body seized up as your orgasm washed over you. Hanno let out a guttural, animalistic groan and he spilled his seed into you, flooding you with warmth.

Silence enveloped the two of you, only the heavy exhales from exertion permeating the bubble that surrounded you. Hanno’s body relaxed and he caught himself before he put all of his weight on you. Rolling to the side, his arm came up to curl around your front, and he pulled you to his chest. Nose to nose, you met his gaze and let your breath mingle with his.

“Penelope didn’t falter in her devotion,” you said hoarsely. “Did she?”

His hand drifted up and down the raised gooseflesh on your arm and he reached over to draw one of the furs over you. “Aye, she didn’t.”

You tossed the edge of the fur over him and kissed him once again. “I will always remain steadfast.”

His lips met your temple and he tucked your head under his chin. “And I shall always come for you. No matter what it takes.”

Acacius lead you into the villa, the shackles and a new plate around your neck indicating your designation as slave. Lucilla immediately greeted him with an embrace and you looked away, your heart shattering at the sight. Quiet words were exchanged between the two before Acacius paused and stepped back to display you.

“She is from Numidia,” he explained. “She has skills in healing and I felt she would be a good addition to the household.”

Lucilla approached you and took in your sorry state. You felt bile rise in your throat as you bowed your head to the woman, but she stopped you with a raised hand.

“What is your name?” she asked you in Phoenician. You paused before answering her in your second tongue. That’s when you saw her eyes and realized, with a jolt, that she was indeed the woman you had heard of.

“Leta,” Lucilla called for another slave. “Come. Show her to the baths and give her a fresh chiton. Acacius, unchain her.”

He obeyed his wife’s command, but the slate remained. Perhaps you would wear it for the rest of your, hopefully short, life. Leta, an older woman, silently beckoned you to follow her deeper into the villa where a few slave women were gathered together over a pool of warm water.

“Who is this?” one of them asked in Latin.

“A Barbarian whore for the general, I presume,” Leta replied. “He brought her from Numidia. Thing hasn’t had a bath in her whole life.”

You remained silent, hands clasped before you, even as Leta pointed towards the bath. “You. Wash.” You pretended not to understand and she huffed out an annoyed breath and marched off, leaving you to strip out of your ruined and bloody dress from home and step into the water. You didn’t want to wash the gore off of your skin. Not when it was your last reminder of home. Of him.

Taking a moment to look around, you tried to picture what it was like living here in all its splendor. Leta returned and tossed a dress for you onto the edge of the tile and you stared at it blankly. She turned her back to you and started to gossip with the other girls. Your hands scrubbed at your skin, but your ears picked up all that they were saying. Gladiator games, senators, the emperors, it was all banal and boring.

But you found it all invaluable.

When night fell, you slipped out from the tiny cot you had been given in the slave quarters and silently made your way through the halls. Mosaics lined the walls and depicted everything from myths to actual battles. You stopped at the bust of Marcus Aurelius and stared at it for a moment. Shaking your head, you moved on to the hall that everyone had pointedly walked past and Leta explained was off-limits. Or as she said, “no touch”, because she thought that your supposed inability to speak Latin was also an indication of your idiocy.

You pushed open the doors and entered the chambers. Dust covered every inch of the place, as if no one had been in here for years. You carefully made your way over a broken tile and into the bedchamber where the sheets were still unmade and a book lay open on the desk. Turning slowly, you took in the whole of the room with an unsteady inhale.

“The gates of hell are open night and day,” you whispered under your breath. The words were etched onto the top of the wall. “Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this the task and mighty labor lies.” As you spoke, you could almost feel the presence of him at your back, his rough and low voice breathing the words into your ear.

You fled from the room, unable to bear it.

You almost made it back across the atrium when Lucilla emerged from seemingly out of nowhere. The two of you paused and you quickly lowered your head in deference.

“I hope you weren’t trying to escape,” she said gently. “Acacius told me that you were recently made a widow.”

The wince on your face was visible even in the moonlight and she stepped forward, her hands clasping over yours in comfort. She spoke her next words in Latin. “I am sorry. These meaningless deaths are foolish emperors playing war without considering the human cost of it.” The older woman patted your hand and made to leave, but your voice stopped her.

“Your slaves do not respect you,” you spoke in Latin. “Leta spreads vicious rumors about you and she said she has ties with some of the senators. Your allies are playing you and your plan is shaky at best.”

She whirled around to face you and you jutted your chin out in defiance, your eyes flashing with something dangerous. “In Numidia, my husband was the soldier, Domina. But I was the politician.”

Macrinus delivered on his promise. Acacius faced off with four soldiers in the Colosseum before Hanno was given a taste of vengeance and oh, did he savor it. Acacius ordered your death. Now, Hanno had the chance to ensure you were honored properly.

But Acacius stood across from him, sword on the ground, and accepted his death with a stoicism that Hanno only dreamed of possessing. The crowd roared and swelled with indignation after Hanno demanded to know their morals, but he was ushered away before he joined his father in dying in this ring.

He was granted the chance to see his mother one last time before her execution for treason and his slaughter in the arena. Lucilla told him of his father and he remembered meeting Maximus and how kind he was, even in the jaws of death. When his mother meets him for the last time, his only thought is how much Lucilla would like you.

She gave him two gifts in parting.

One, his grandfather’s ring.

Two, a lock of hair. And not just any…

Lucilla smiled sadly. “Acacius took her from Numidia to be a healer and didn’t realize she was your wife. She is safe, Lucius, and under the care of my household. I’m afraid I put it together too late, and she isn’t aware that you are here.”

For a moment, the rage subsided and he heard only a shrill ringing in his ears, as though he took a heavy blow to the head. Lucius turned the hair over in his hand and raised it to his nose, smelling a faint hint of rose petals.

I shall always come for you. No matter what it takes.

His mother was taken back to his cell and he took a moment to curl his palm around this fragment of you and press it to his chest to guard it from the world.

And then he called for Ravi.

Your hands remained steady when you slit Leta’s throat. You did so quietly, in the darkness of an alleyway. Blood never fazed you before, and the taking of a life was no different now. As far as you were concerned, this woman was one of the reasons why your Hanno was dead. Was it a rational thought? Perhaps not. But rationality would come another day.

The Colosseum roared with fury and you tried not to flinch at the deafening sound as you slipped in through the gates below, into the pens with the animals and gladiators. Chaos reigned above and below the world’s largest stadium so it was easy to blend in with others. The cloak you stole from Leta made you appear to be a fellow slave working amongst the masses. It never failed to amaze you how they called you a barbarian when they fought men to the death for their entertainment.

Your fingers skated over the smooth wood that curved over your spine and you felt a little better knowing that it was on you. The games were already underway with a few prisoners being devoured by Barbary lions as the crowd screamed for their blood to spill. You slipped around a few courtesans that lingered in the hall and passed the raised dais where three maidens were chained. Pushing on, you found a small corridor that was unoccupied and slipped in between the stones to hide from any roaming eyes.

The noise increased and you knew what was coming. Lucilla would be executed and Macrinus was to blame. The lanista was the mastermind of all of this, and you knew firsthand what war could do to people. You refused to let Lucilla die and, as much as you hated the Romans for what they took from you, the innocent children in the streets would die.

After this, you promised yourself, you would join Hanno.

Footsteps rushed past your hiding spot and when it quieted down in the hallway, you took that as a chance to peek out and see if you had an opening. You slipped out into the hall and darted towards one of the gates that was partly open. A bloodbath was the only word to describe what was happening in the Colosseum. You blanched at the sight of Lucilla tied to the dais, but it seemed as though the gladiators had it well in hand.

Removing the bow from your back, you notched an arrow onto the string and inhaled deeply. Macrinus was not hard to stop, thanks to his place behind Emperor Caracalla, but you didn’t have a clear shot. The crowd was turning on the Praetors and more soldiers entered the Colosseum on horseback. One Praetor nearly took the head off of a gladiator and you turned your bow in that direction.

Breathe in, aim, fire as you breathe out, Jugurtha had instructed. Keep your arm steady, your aim true, and your mind clear. There is no time to panic, just shoot.

The arrow sailed through the air and straight through the Praetor’s shoulder, knocking him off his horse and to the ground. You drew another arrow and started to aim towards Macrinus once more, but this time he was standing up. Caracalla was slumped over dead in front of him and Macrinus had his own bow in his hand.

Numidians were excellent horsemen and archers. Before you ever met Hanno, before you even bled for the first time, you were trained in the art of horsemanship and archery. Indeed your husband vowed his protection, but you were not one to go down without a fight. He taught you how to manipulate a knife, where to aim on the body, but Hanno never came close to your familiarity with a bow.

Your next arrow arched through the air and collided with Macrinus’ shot. The wood splintered midair and you loaded a third, but the lanista fled the stands before you could take another shot. It gave a gladiator the chance to free Lucilla and pass her to another gladiator, a hulking beast of a man. The gladiator gave chase to Macrinus and you focused your attention on your subject at hand.

There had to have been a reason the gods kept you alive and took Hanno. Clearly, it was to protect your husband’s mother.

“Are you ever going to tell me what you’re hiding from me?”

His hand stilled from where it had been absentmindedly stroking your thigh. Hanno came home from the field and immediately drew you into his lap, inhaling your sweet smell and letting his hands roam all over your body. You savored his touch, but marriage had sharpened your mind regarding his mannerisms. Something was bothering him.

Hanno sighed and he nuzzled his nose against your shoulder. You let him have this moment, but you would weasel the truth out of him, someway or another.

“Is it another woman? A concubine?” you asked, your voice hushed and wounded. He laid a kiss against your skin and shook his head.

“Rome is moving closer,” he finally said. You turned so you could see his face and cupped his chin, drawing his head up to meet your gaze. He blinked up at you with those sky blue eyes of his and nestled into your palm until he could lay a gentle kiss there.

“My name, my real name,” he whispered, “is Lucius Verus Aurelius and I am the prince of Rome.”

The first thing he did after ascending his rightful place as Emperor of Rome was go to his mother’s villa.

Lucilla was fine, a small gash on her bicep and shaken up, but fine. He tried to be a good son, but she could tell his focus was on anywhere but her. Lucilla directed him to the gardens and that is where he found you.

The Roman dress was different from what he was used to seeing, but you still covered your head with a veil when praying to your gods. Head tilted towards the heavens, hands outstretched, you made a beautiful image of devotion.

Your feet inched closer to the edge of the cliff.

“Forgive me, my love, for being so weak that I could not do this sooner,” you said. Tears coursed down your cheeks and stained the fabric of your chiton with damp tracks. You muttered a mixture of prayer and apology and he strained to hear it.

“Give me the strength to commit this final act, oh gods, grant me this. I have protected his mother and granted her the life he was not spared. Please, oh Hanno, let me see you in the afterlife. I am tired, so tired of only seeing you in my dreams.”

“Step back from the edge, my heart.” His voice came out in a tremble.

“Hanno,” you whispered. “Forgive me for being so weak. Forgive me for failing you. I’m sorry.”

“You’ve been nothing but strong.” A ferocity claims his words. “Step back from the edge.”

“We made a promise,” you pleaded. “We go as one. Let me join you, please.”

You raise one foot over the rocky cliff and he lashed out before he could think. He grabbed your wrist and pulled you back so hard that the both of you tumbled to the ground. Quickly, Lucius kneeled by your side to search for any injury.

“Open your eyes,” he ordered. This was the afterlife. It must be. You obeyed his command to find those bright blue eyes that haunted your dreams.

“Am I finally dead?”

“Not for a long, long time.”

No, this wasn’t the afterlife. Blood caked his skin and scars littered his bare arms. He had been muscular before but now he appeared to be only thick, corded muscle. Your hands came up to rest on his neck and you examined his face. The same freckles. Same lines by his eyes. Same long eyelashes.

Trailing your hands down along his arms, you skirted around the obvious injuries he had until your fingers brushed something new, something entirely foreign to you that resided on his shoulder.

A brand.

And with that, the dam within you shattered. The wails of a widow finally escaped your chest and you let out an agonized scream as you curled in on yourself. Hanno gathered you into his arms and buried his face into the crook of your neck. Hot tears slid down his cheeks and onto your skin. Your hands scrambled to find purchase on the armor that still adorned his body and you eventually settled on cradling the back of his head with one hand and grasping his forearm with the other.

“I am so sorry,” he wept. “If I had known you were alive, I would have come for you sooner.” He wrenched the slave plate from your neck and kissed the places where the chain had rubbed your skin raw.

All the agony of grief and rage and terror from the last month spilled out of him in broken, gasping sobs. His precious wife was alive and in his arms. Numidia had fallen, but now he had the chance to protect her with all the power and might of Rome. He could now have armies at his beck and call, coffers of coins brought to him, and enemies assassinated but the true power laid in his arms.

His little wife was right. He was the soldier, the muscle, the physical strength. But the reason he fought and killed, the reason he kept going even when every part of his body screamed to give up, was because of her. As far as he was concerned, she had the power to raze cities and command armies. All she had to do was ask him.

“Is this real?” you breathed once your sobs and trembling ceased. He pulled you into his lap and almost began crying once again at the feel of your supple body against his.

“It’s real,” he assured you before he bent down and kissed you. Despite the blood that coated his skin, you savored the taste of him. You never thought you would get this again. Maybe the gods did bless you.

He kept you pressed against his side as you made your way back into the villa. One of the slaves nearly dropped her tray at the sight before her and ran to grab Lucilla. The stately woman swept into the courtyard and met you both there.

“Lucius,” she exclaimed. “I take it that this is your wife.”

“Yes.” His gaze never strayed from your face. “This is her.”

You instinctively went to bow to Lucilla but she stopped you with a gentle hand on your arm.

“You are not my slave any longer,” she assured you. “Not only did you save my life, but you are now my daughter and also Augusta.”

Hanno, Lucius, you reminded yourself, stood in all his resplendent glory, covered in dirt and blood with his gladius hanging from his sheath. How different the two of you were now, yet still fit like the gods made you for each other. Your small house was gone. Your home was subjugated. Your family and friends in the afterlife. But Lucius was still here and still breathing. That made it all worth it.

He might be the Emperor of Rome now and you, the Empress, but he was still your charming soldier, your devoted husband. This, you decided, would make an excellent story someday.

[prythianpages]

I've Been Waiting For You | Azriel

summary: Azriel finally meets the one he's been longing for. His mate.

warnings: mentions of death (since the suriel & reader are friends); some angst but also fluff because Az deserves to be happy ♡

a/n: This is part of my ABBA x ACOTAR series (masterlist) where I dedicate a song to a character (: The lyrics kind of reminded me of Alice & Jasper from twilight and how she had a vision of meeting him. This does go back and forth a lot in the beginning between past and present and came out longer than I thought it would. It's 9.6K words (which for me is long lol.) I apologize if there are any spelling errors. I've read this multiple times but somehow, always miss a couple.

As the moonlight dances upon the water's surface, the river transforms into a liquid ribbon of silver, weaving through the city of Starlight. Anticipation fills the air as Azriel walks across the bridge that spans the Sidra, his massive Illyrian wings glistening in midnight hues under the pale moonlight. 

Shadows play hide-and-seek as they travel through the night, drawn to the silhouette of a female figure. An intruder. Yet, Azriel's shadows dare to whisper something different into his ears.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

Your voice, carried by the wind, reaches him like a sweet caress, daring to awaken something deep within him. Beautiful. His shadows respond with a frenzy, a whirl of darkness singing wild tales into his ears, urging him forward. Meanwhile, his brain screams at the potential threat.

More tendrils of darkness dart toward you, ignoring their master’s orders to return. You don’t seem bothered by them. In fact, you seem to welcome them as if they’re old friends of yours. 

Azriel swallows, uncertainty flickering in his eyes, unsure what to make of this. 

“Who are you?”

Finally, you turn around and Azriel feels like the wind has been knocked out of him when his gaze meets yours. In the midst of the surrounding darkness, your eyes gleam with an inexplicable brightness. Specs of silver glimmer in your eyes, mirroring the stars above, as they shine back at him.  

“That’s for you to decide,” you reply with a smile that carries both hope and a sense of knowing as you follow after him and take a step forward.

“But for now, I’d like to speak with your High Lady.”

Months before…

The brilliance of a thousand stars shine down on you and the night seems to hold its breath, as if it too, awaits the whispered prophecies from the celestial expanse above. Like always, you are itching to unveil them with your finely attuned senses. A gust of cool wind brushes through your hair, sending shivers down your exposed skin. Pulling your gaze away from the night sky, you turn in time to see a cloaked figure approaching like a shadow in the night.

Your lips curve into a smile. “Hello, friend.”

“y/n.” The Suriel greets you, hovering beside you. Then, not missing another beat, he says, “I told her Rhysand was her mate.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, a gasp escaping your lips. “You did not.”

“I did.” He grins back at you, flashing you his stained teeth.

You can’t help but laugh a little at your dear old friend. The Suriel lets out a rattled sound you discern as a laugh as he joins you. Always the one for dramatics. You still remember hearing about his first encounter with Feyre Archeron and how he told her to stay with the High Lord.

“I told her she must stay with the High Lord.”

“Did you specify which one?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“I’m sure she handled it well,” you respond but your smile fades, giving way to a wistful expression. “She’s lucky. Not only is she made but the Cauldron has blessed her with a mate. The High Lord of the Night Court at that.”

The weight of his gaze settles upon you. You’re aware that your words carry a tinge of envy, a sentiment that feels unjust when considering everything Feyre has endured. The Suriel, ever perceptive, acknowledges this as well. He chooses not to remind you and indulges you instead.

“The Cauldron has blessed you as well, my child.”

“Have you seen it?”

Hope sparks in your eyes as you turn to face him. His eyes, pools of ancient wisdom, seem to pierce through the veils of time and secrets. You sense one of them unfolding. But he only gives you a teasing glimpse.

“Perhaps.” 

With a furrow in your brows, you lift your head back up to glare at the night sky. The stars seem to blink at you in a teasing manner, as if finding amusement in keeping this secret from you. 

“How come I haven’t seen it?”

“You will soon.” He reassures, following your gaze upwards. A dance of amusement swirls within the depths of his eyes.  “He’s waited centuries for you. Count your stars lucky that your waiting won’t be as long.”

Back to the present…

Velaris lived up to its name. A dream compared to the horrors of the city you grew up in. But as the city sparkles and comes to life at the darkening hour, all your attention is drawn to the male before you. He’s even more breathtaking in person. Everything about him is classically beautiful and the moon seems to agree, shining down on him and casting an ethereal glow on the golden-brown of his skin.

As Azriel continues to approach you, his wings fold gracefully behind him. His gaze is locked onto yours and though his eyes are cautious and analytical, there’s a warm shiver running down your spine. The desire to lose yourself in the hazel depths of his eyes becomes an irresistible pull.

Before you know it, the shadows brushing against your arms rise and come to rest against your eyes in a blindfold. Darkness engulfs you, and the sensation of weightlessness takes hold as Azriel winnows both of you. You land on a soft cushion–a chair. The dark tendrils leave your eyes and wrap around your wrists and legs, binding them together.

“Stay here.” Azriel says, the shadows wrapped around your limbs tightening in a silent warning.

A chuckle escapes from you and when your eyes meet his again, you flash him a mischievous smile. It widens when he’s the first to fold, quickly averting his gaze. He has no clue. You’re exactly where you want to be.

He leaves the room and your eyes finally take in your surroundings. Veiled curtains made of midnight blue silk drape the expansive windows, pulled back to allow moonlight to filter through. Shelves line the walls, housing collections of ancient artifacts and magical trinkets. A large desk, crafted from dark, polished wood rests before you. Your gaze fixates on the wall behind it, where a captivating portrait of the female you seek rests.

The door behind you swings open, and you turn to witness the graceful entrance of the female from the portrait. Feyre, the Cursebreaker and High Lady of the Night Court. She's a vision of night and beauty, her golden-brown hair cascading down her exposed back, revealing glimpses of moon phases etched along her spine.

“High Lady,” you say in greeting, bowing your head in respect.

Surprisingly, the High Lord doesn't accompany her. Instead, it's Azriel who trails behind her. Her calm blue eyes assess you as she takes a seat across from you. Azriel stands guard behind her and you feel his shadows watching your every breath. 

"And who might you be?"

“I’m y/n,” you respond, choosing your next words carefully. “An old friend of the Suriel’s. I’ve come to pledge my allegiance to you and offer my help.”

Something flickers in her blue eyes at the mention of the Suriel and her stoic expression falters, if only for a moment. You send her a sympathetic smile, your own heart aching at the mention of the fearsome creature you both held dear.

“Your help?” She echoes.

"She’s a seer," Azriel interjects, his voice setting your heart alight as there's no hint of disgust or apprehension in his tone.

Your kind is often regarded with hostility. He might not know your connection...yet. But he’s paid you enough attention to recognize your abilities and appears to be indifferent about them. If the Suriel were still alive, you know he’d laugh at your slight delusion.

"I am," you confirm. "And I know your sister is one too." You don’t miss the tension in Azriel’s body at the mention of the cauldron-made fae, but you don't dwell on it as you can also sense Feyre's protectiveness. "She has great potential. I can help her hone her skills. Together, we can—"

"No," Azriel growls protectively. His sharp interruption has you startling in your seat and hope deflates as you feel the intensity of his glare.

Feyre raises a hand, signaling him to stand back. “Why should I trust you?”

“Let me show you.”

Months before…

“By the Cauldron, what did you get yourself into?”

The Suriel grins mischievously, his tattered cloak barely clinging to his bony form. He graciously accepts the cloak you offer, a luxurious piece made of the softest velvet in the darkest shade of black you could find. A purr escapes him as he revels in its warmth. "Nothing," he responds coyly, the satisfaction evident in the bounce of his form as he hovers in the air.

You shoot him a pointed look, yearning to know what he was up to. You’re certain it was no good. “Sure,” you retort and then gesture toward the crackling fire you started. “I also made dinner.”

“You spoil me.”

“It’s what friends do.”

"Friend," he muses, the white pools of his eyes burning into your soul, as he turns to you. "As a friend, I should tell you that your dress is absolutely atrocious on you. Cobalt blue is more your color."

With a glare, you playfully throw the roasted chicken over the fire at his face. He effortlessly catches it with his mouth, cackling as he chews on the tender piece of meat.

"What do you know about fashion? All you do is thirst for robes."

“You forget that I am older than the bones of this world. I know everything about everything. I also cannot lie.”

"Doesn't stop you from hiding the truth," you respond cheekily, and he hums in agreement,

Silence falls as he seats himself beside you on the ground. He breaks it a couple of moments later. “Remember what I told you last time?”

You release a deep sigh because you do remember. The mere thought haunts you nearly every night, and you’re often burdened by the heavy weight of it. Your shoulders slump in response. “Why can't you do it yourself?”

“It is your fate, not mine,” he states simply, a reminder of the immutable laws of destiny.

“I’m not ready.” 

You don’t think you ever will be and suddenly, you’re that fragile sixteen year old again, who had to run away from the only place you called home to escape a cruel fate. The one who was left to navigate through her new onset of divine abilities alone.

That is, until, the fateful night you had thrown your cloak over a tree branch to dry. It had been stained by blood after a rough and almost deadly encounter with a stray naga so you had spent all morning cleaning it in the river nearby. Completely unaware of the Suriel you were summoning.

“You do not fear me?”

“That is mine,” you had said through clenched teeth with a deep rooted glare.

In the midst of your tug of war with the Suriel, your cloak tore in half. In that moment, you braced yourself for the dark creature's wrath. However, something in you captured his attention that day, and he chose not to unleash his fury upon you. He decided to take you under his wing instead.

He recognized your lineage without a single word spoken about it. He could sense your power coursing through your veins, waiting to be unraveled. After decades of patience and practicing, he was there to witness the formation of stars weaving themselves into the depths of your eyes. The mark of your seer abilities.

As always, the Suriel reads you like an open book. He can sense your insecurity, your hesitancy. But, in equal measure, he can sense your power, your potential.

“You will be,” he insists, his words carrying the unwavering certainty of the all-knowing creature he is. “You must guide and open the eyes of Elain Archeron the same way I did for you.”

Your throat tightens. “When?”

“Soon.”

And when you look up to gaze at the night sky, the stars align for you. A cascade of visions unfurls, pouring over you like a celestial waterfall. Your eyes become a myriad of galaxies and ears are teased with glimpses of conversations and whispers from the stars above. One moment, you’re in a forest, standing before a female figure crouched over a cloaked one. 

“The tracking…I knew of it.” 

Then, a rattling breath. “Leave this world a better place than how you found it.”

Abruptly, the scene shifts, and you stand in an enchanting city of starlight, gazing at the expansive river before you as anticipation fills the air. He comes for you. Azriel, the shadowsinger. The name resonates in the echoes of your mind.

Then, the final vision envelopes you, drawing you into the depths of mesmerizing hazel eyes. The voice that accompanies it is carried by the enchantment of night, gently caressing against your ears. 

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

Mate. That is your mate. Azriel, the–

“Do you see it now?”

With a sharp intake of breath, you’re pulled from the downpour of your visions, only to find your senses clouded with tears that pool at the corners of your eyes. How cruel, you think, your heart twisting in agony. And though meeting your mate–your fated companion–was among your greatest dreams, you no longer want it. Not if it means you’ll lose your greatest companion.

You can live without knowing your mate. After all, you’re doing so at this very moment. The Suriel has been your friend for decades. Two souls brought together by their mutual loneliness. An all knowing creature and a seer. Together, you’re a powerful duo, navigating through the fated intricacies of Prythian. You’d be lost without him.

“Please don’t go,” you’re begging.

The Suriel smiles but it’s not his usual mischievous grin. This time, a tinge of sorrow lingers in the curve of his lips, casting his expression in a veil of sadness.

“I have to. It’s my time to go,” he says. “Just promise me one thing?”

“Anything.”

“That when it’s your time to shine, you’ll find Feyre. Help her make this world a better place.”

Back to Present

Feyre blinks back tears as she withdraws from your mind. She turns her head toward the Shadowsinger behind her, and for a moment, fear grips you. You allowed her to see the revelation of Azriel being your mate but only because it was deeply entwined with the other pertinent visions.

“Release her.”

The shadows release their grip on you and you let out a deep exhale in relief. But the inky tendrils don’t leave your side. They linger and hover over you and at this, Azriel’s eyebrows furrow.

Feyre extends her hand out toward you. Her blue eyes are warm, a gentle reassurance that she’d harbor your secret for you. A smile graces her lips, one that you're happy to reciprocate.

“I’ll gladly accept your help but let me speak with Elain first. You may stay here. There’s a spare room upstairs. Azriel will show you around.”

Following his High Lady’s orders, Azriel shows you around the grand estate. He’s a bit reserved around you and you don’t blame him. Both a blessing and a curse, your visions offer insight into his world, yet you're a mere stranger imposing on the family he protects fiercely.

And as he finally shows you to your room, the one right next to his, you can only hope that someday, he’ll welcome you too. After all, he is your mate.

Elain Archeron is infinitely beautiful. Inside and out. She is gentle and sweet and you see why some mistake her kindness for weakness. But it took only days for you to become well aware of the strength and power she harbors deep within.

While your abilities were limited to what the stars wanted to show you, you sensed that hers were limitless. With the right training, she could summon visions at her call, anticipate anyone's move. You wanted to help her achieve that and prove those people that saw her as something fragile wrong. Though reluctant toward your help at first, Elain was kind enough to listen to you and consider the advice you gave. It took some further convincing but you knew she was itching to unravel the depths of her powers too.

But it's proving to be a challenge. A hard and exhausting one. You're not surprised. It took you many years to become attuned to your powers. What is surprising, however, are Azriel's feelings for her. They're obvious and plain to see and could you blame him? Elain is wonderful...and you can't help but compare yourself to her. She's everything you're not.

Upon your arrival, you had been set on making Azriel fall for you. That was, until, you realized he was already entangled in the threads of another's heart. Could it be that the Suriel, in his all knowing wisdom, purposefully shielded you from such revelations about your mate? To delay the shattering of your dreams?

Now, you were just content to focus on your task at hand. To help Elain the way the Suriel did with you, even if Azriel was there as a safety net for her every session. Even if the way he was well attuned to every shift of her expression sent a sharp pain stabbing through your heart. He was blissfully unaware of your connection, clouded by his affection for Elain.

And you were tired of chasing after males. It's why you shot down Feyre's suggestion of confessing to Azriel. You dreamed of having a mate, pleaded to the Cauldron even. Now, you realize, that you want Azriel to like you for you. To chose you too the way Feyre did with Rhysand. If Elain was the person he chose at the moment, then so be it.

"I don't chase. I attract," you told Feyre. The same words you had uttered to the Suriel years ago after he poked fun at you over a failed romance. One of many, unfortunately.

"The only thing you'll attract with that attitude of of yours is a dark cloud of shadows," The Suriel had laughed at you, earning an icy glare from you.

But Feyre is much nicer about it than your dear old friend. She gives you an encouraging smile instead and wishes you luck on your upcoming session with Elain.

Your session with Elain ends terribly–with her screaming in pain and Azriel glaring at you and telling you to go, despite your attempts at apologizing. You spend the following days, weeks even, trying to make up for it. You slowed down in pace in your exercises with Elain, despite her protests. She held no animosity toward you at the dark turn that session had made.

You also buried yourself into any book you could find about seers in the magnificent Night Court library, grieving and longing for the Suriel. He would know what to do, and know exactly how to help. It’s the mere thought of him that fuels your determination to keep trying, despite how much you want to leave. It’s laughable almost, how in the midst of so many people, the sense of loneliness weighs heavier on you than it ever did in the solitude of Prythian's forests.

But perhaps, a break wouldn't be such a bad idea? You think as your gaze lands on an intriguing cover. It's a work of pure fiction. The ideal escape from reality. Retrieving it from its shelf, you settle into one of the plush chairs and immerse yourself into the words etched onto the pages.

“Wake up, sleeping beauty.”

A nudge against your leg startles you awake, and as you blink away the remnants of sleep, your eyes widen at the sight of Azriel standing before you. Sleeping beauty, the words sink in, painting a soft blush over your cheeks.

“You missed dinner.”

“Oh.”

You turn your head, wincing at the dull ache in your neck from sleeping in an awkward position. The soft glow of the moon greets you through one of the library's windows. You don’t know when you had fallen asleep but you must’ve been out for hours. When you face Azriel again, your gaze drops to his hands, where he holds a carefully arranged plate of food. Your stomach growls as the scent hits you and your eyes linger on the generous serving of potatoes–your favorite–in comparison to the other vegetables and meat.

“Is that for me?” you ask, and immediately curse yourself for the seemingly silly question. You blame it on the lingering grasp of sleep, still reluctant to release its full grip on you.

"No, it's for the rats that come out at night," he replies, lips twitching upwards at the reaction it stirs from you. How the Suriel never scared you but a couple of hairy, smaller creatures do is beyond you. He places the plate on the small table beside you.

 "Yes, it's for you. A peace offering. For snapping at you."

"That was two weeks ago.”

"Bet you didn't see it coming," he teases, and you find yourself blinking in surprise. The Shadowsinger cracking a joke? It's a sight to behold. At least for you. 

Your eyes narrow. "Did Feyre send you?"

"No," Azriel replies simply, his tone carrying a sincerity that sets a flicker of hope alight in you. He then sighs. "I just realized I haven't been the most welcoming, that's all."

You smile in response and shift in your seat as you turn your body towards the food. The movement has the book in your lap falling. His hand reaches the book before yours could and the brush of your skin against his sends a delightful shudder through your body.

His eyes curiously look over the title and when he hands it back to you, you take note of the way he avoids looking at his scarred fingers. So you reach forward and brush your fingers against his again, letting them linger for a beat longer than before. Surprise flickers in his hazel eyes as he meets your gaze, but it vanishes as quickly as it appears.

“That book is one of my favorites," he says, his shadows dancing across his shoulders and peeking curiously at you. "I'm surprised you're into the mystery genre."

"Why?"

“Well, you’re hard to read sometimes. Like a mystery that refuses to be solved.”

An arched brow is your response, but the gleam in your eyes gives away more than you'd like. “Maybe I don’t want to be unraveled.”

Azriel's lips twitch upwards once more. “Maybe it just takes the right person.”

Bathed in the glow of sunlight, you and Elain sit across from one another on the soft bed of green grass. Meanwhile, Azriel leans against a tree, a couple of feet away. His gaze is intense as he watches you two. Too focused on not letting it faze you, you fail to catch the way it softens when he turns to you.

Azriel can’t help but frown when he catches you avoiding his gaze. He wonders if you still harbor some resentment toward the way he had snapped at you awhile back, even though he already apologized for it.

"Close your eyes and focus on your breath," he hears you instruct softly. "Feel the rhythm of the earth beneath you. Attune yourself to the heartbeat of the world around you. What do you hear?”

Elain closes her eyes in deep concentration. “I can hear the wind and the tremble of the grass beneath it. I can hear the wind carry all the way to the sea.”

“Good,” you say and though her eyes remain closed, you smile gently at her. A gesture that sends a rush of warmth through him.

“Now feel the whispers of the unseen.”

“I can’t.” Elain’s eyebrows furrow.

“Here, take my hands,” you say as you reach for hers. “Imagine a pool of water within you, calm and reflective. Use me as a vessel to carry you through it. I’ll guide you to where your visions will manifest.”

Elain does as told. The world stills around you two. You close your eyes. As Elain’s eyebrows relax, your own face contorts in concentration. Azriel feels himself tense when he realizes it’s not concentration etching onto your face–it’s pain. In a heartbeat, he’s kneeling before you and prying your hands apart.

“Stop!”

Your eyes snap open at the sudden disconnection, and Azriel is unsettled by the way you shrink back from him, panic widening your eyes.

“I’m not hurting her!”

But it’s not Elain he’s worried about. He hasn’t even spared her a glance. It’s you–you’re the one that’s hurt. Blood trickles down your nose and he’s urging you to lean forward, gently guiding you with his hands as Elain rushes for a towel.

“Are you okay?”

There’s a dull ache in your head but also one in your heart and you’re too disoriented to stop yourself from saying, “If you stop staring at me like that, I will be.”

Azriel releases a soft chuckle, his muscles relaxing in relief at the playful edge in your tone. Yet, his shadows, wanting to confirm you're okay themselves, flutter toward you in a delicate cloud of darkness.

"Like what?”

“Don’t make me answer that.”

And you’ve never felt more relief at the sight of Elain coming in between you with a towel in hand.

A sudden sound has you stirring from your sleep. Your hand instinctively slides under your pillow, fingers grasping for the dagger you always keep with you when sleeping. The sound comes again and your initially alarmed body relaxes as you recognize it as the sound of someone knocking. Wrapping a robe around your night shift, you head toward the door, expecting Elain on the other side. 

Upon opening your door, you’re surprised to find Azriel standing on the other side.

“You’re not going to Starfall?”

“Good morning to you too.”

Azriel’s eyes rake over your form, taking in your disheveled state. His lips curl into a faint smile. "It's noon," he observes in an amused manner.

Your eyes widen in disbelief, and you pivot your head toward the clock that hangs on the wall of your room. There, confirming his statement, the hands point a half hour past twelve. You overslept. You didn’t have any plans today and it seems your exhausted body took advantage of it.

“Is everything okay?”

His voice, laced with genuine concern, draws your attention back to him. The soft furrow of his brow and the warmth in his eyes catch you off guard. You hesitate. You don’t want to lie but you also don’t want to burden him with the truth.

So you settle for a, “Why?”

"I've noticed you haven't been sleeping much," he remarks, and before you can interrupt, he gestures toward his room, the one adjacent to yours. A silent acknowledgment that he's been more attentive than you realized. It pulls at the strings of your heart. "Or attending family dinners, and now Feyre tells me you're not going to Starfall?"

The weight of his observations presses on you. You didn’t think anyone had noticed.  "Why do you care?" you retort, your words sharper than intended, and a wince follows.

"Isolation is not a good coping method," he responds, his tone steady and unfazed by your sharpness. "Trust me, I know."

"I don't have a dress."  The words escape your lips, but even as you say them, you recognize the feebleness of the excuse.

“I’ll buy you one.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, and you feel a telltale blush spreading as the thought of Azriel buying you a dress takes root. He’s just being nice, you tell yourself. His gaze remains fixed on you, hazel eyes bright and gleaming with curiosity, as if daring you to come up with another excuse.

“Starfall is tomorrow.”

Azriel grins at you. It sends a flutter through your heart and you wonder if he can hear the erratic beat of it. 

“Better make haste and get dressed then. We’ve got a couple of hours before the shops close.”

You deliberately take extra time getting ready, a mix of anticipation and apprehension swirling within you as you prepare to spend time with Azriel. Half-expecting a hint of annoyance, you finally open the door to your room, only to find Azriel with a welcoming smile that has the bond in your chest humming. Still, you're met with silence at the other side.

You take a deep breath as he gestures for you to follow him. As you step outside, he offers his arm and winnows you, not wanting to waste anymore time. You both find yourselves in the bustling shopping plaza of Velaris, where the fragrance of blooming flowers and the animated chatter of people embrace you.

Elaborate Starfall-themed displays adorn the shops, enticing you inside. Suddenly, the sheer array overwhelms you, and an urge to step back washes over you. Azriel place a hand on your back, stopping you and guiding you towards one of the shops.

“Welcome!” A voice happily chirps. “How can I help you?”

A stunning female enters your line of sight, her gaze immediately fixating on the male standing behind you. Her lips curve into a captivating smile, causing a twinge of jealousy to flicker within you. It’s short lived as Azriel clears his throat, gently nudging you forward.

“We’re looking for a dress for her.” Azriel speaks for you.

“Splendid! What’s the special occasion?”

“Starfall.” Azriel answers.

The female’s eyes widen, her smile morphing into a strained one. “I’m afraid I��ve sold all my best work already.”

“Oh, that’s alright. Sorry for the trouble,” you quickly reply, attempting to conceal the relief in your voice. Turning to leave, Azriel's hands land on your shoulders, directing you back to face the female.

“I’m sure we can find something in here,” Azriel reassures with a polite smile, scanning the aisles of dresses. “Y/n isn't picky. Right?”

“I can be,” you mumble under your breath.

Azriel lets out a sound, what you discern as a muffled chuckle. He gives your shoulder a squeeze and then leans down toward your ear. “If I were you, I’d take advantage of the situation.”

You turn your head slightly and regret it immediately. It takes all your strength to hold back the shudder your body wants to give at his proximity. He’s so close you can feel his breath fanning against your neck and you wonder what it would feel like to have his lips pressed against that sensitive skin.

It surprises you how quickly you find your voice.

“I’m going to pick the most expensive one.”

“Go ahead,” Azriel says and you can hear the smirk in his voice without having to look at him. He doesn’t allow you to get another word in, urging you forward again to where the female patiently awaits for you.

She lightly grasps your arm, leading you toward a rack of dresses in various styles and colors while Azriel makes himself comfortable on the couch by the fitting room. “You are a lucky lady,” she muses, her hands gracefully exploring the textures of her creations. “I’ve had this shop for centuries and you’re the first lady the Shadowsinger has brought to me.”

A blush warms your cheeks as you divert your attention to the array of beautiful dresses. Each one is a work of art, making you question her earlier claim about not having her best work available. If these weren't her finest creations, the thought of what her best work looked like leaves you intrigued.

The female, who’s name you learn is Willow, has you try on a couple of dresses that differ in styles. You’re reluctant to show Azriel each one but given he’s paying for it and the only other one in this shop, you feel like he should have some say.

“Do you like it?” Willow beams at you, admiring her work.

On the fifth dress, your hands run over the tulle of the vibrant yellow skirt. The fabric feels itchy against your skin, and the color is too bold for your taste. You swear you are not trying to be picky, despite what you told Azriel earlier. 

“I li–”

“Let’s try another?” Azriel cuts in as if sensing the lie that was about to unfold. He rises from his seat toward one of the racks and pulls out a dress that caught his eye earlier. “How about this one?”

He holds the dress out to you, smiling softly when you take it from him. It’s much simpler compared to the other dress you’ve tried on but still just as elegant. It’s also soft against your skin. Willow guides you back into the fitting room, deftly assisting you out of the vivid yellow dress and into the cobalt blue silk one.

“I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. Cobalt blue is more your color!" Willow says as she gushes over you.

Her choice of words leaves you momentarily stunned. Cobalt blue is more your color. The exact words the Suriel had spoken to you. Also, the exact same shade as Azriel's siphons. The Suriel must’ve enjoyed himself a lot when he said those words to you. That sneaky little creature... You can hear his laugh echoing through your mind.

As you finally emerge from the dressing room, Azriel can’t help but stare. The fabric drapes gracefully around you, accentuating curves he hadn't noticed before. Sensing his prolonged gaze, your eyes meet his. It was him quickly averting his gaze, a subtle flush coloring his cheeks. He clears his throat, attempting to regain his composure.

"This is the one. It looks…good on you," he manages to say, his voice slightly strained.

“It’s 500 gold marks.”

He picks up on the teasing in your tone and the way Willow shakes her head in reassurance at him. Still, he humors you and says, “I don’t care.”

He’d pay more than 500 gold marks just to make you happy.

Azriel battled with restless thoughts that night, unable to find solace in sleep. Each time he closed his eyes, the vivid image of you in that dress invaded his mind. He couldn’t wait to see you in that dress again. Maybe then, he’d have the courage to compliment you better.

As the sun dipped below the horizon and the first guests arrived for the Starfall celebration, Azriel's eyes eagerly scanned the gathering crowd, seeking a glimpse of you. Just as a twinge of disappointment crept in, his shadows stirred, signaling your proximity. His wings twitched with anticipation, and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of you. You are absolutely stunning. Breathtaking. 

In an instant heartbeat, he’s pushing Cassian, who was ready to fly you up to the House of Wind, aside. With a warning look, Cassian steps away with a chuckle.

"You're here," he whispers, a blend of disbelief and relief saturating his breath.

“Well a very nice male spent a lot of money for me to be here.”

“Well I’m glad.” Azriel chuckles, eyes drinking you in again. Savoring you. “You’re beautiful.”

“So are you.”

Azriel flushes at the unexpected compliment and his shadows to come to life around him. He smiles at you. “Shall we?”

He waits for your nod before carefully hooking an arm beneath your knees, eyes never leaving yours. A thrill courses through him as he revels in the sensation of your arms around his neck, taking delight in the way you feel in his arms. His wings unfurl behind him, preparing for the short flight up. The sound has your eyes fluttering shut, arms tightening around him and face burying into his neck. He finds it absolutely endearing. He never wants to let you go.

Against his wishes, the flight up to the balcony was short. He sets you down, helping you regain your footing, a lingering touch before reluctantly releasing you. There’s still more guests he, unfortunately, has to fly up. It’s as if you sense his internal conflict because you’re turning around to face him, eyes bright and alight.

“Yes, Azriel. I’ll save you a dance.”

The way his name rolls off your tongue sends a thrill up his spine. He opens his mouth to say something but once again, you beat him to it.

"Thought I'd save you the question," you stated, an all-knowing grin gracing your features as you tapped the corner of one of your eyes. Ah, so you had a vision of him. He wonders about the other glimpses you might have seen.

He doesn’t have too much time to dwell on it as Elain is rushing toward you, showering you with compliments. He takes that as his cue to depart. He is determined to finish his tasks in bringing the remaining guests up as fast as he can so that he can return to you and that dance you promised.

Azriel finds himself stealing glances whenever he thinks you won’t notice. The sparkle in your eyes, the way the dress accentuates your features–he can't look away. Caught up in the melody of your laughter, provoked by something Elain said, Azriel and his shadows are too mesmerized in the beauty of you to notice Feyre approaching until she speaks.

"She’s beautiful," Feyre remarks, her eyes following the same path as Azriel's gaze.

A soft affirmation escapes Azriel's lips. "Yes."

Feyre, well aware of the answer, delves further. "You bought her that dress?"

“Yes.”

A mischievous gleam flickers in Feyre's eyes as she delivers her next statement. "You like her." 

Azriel's response slips out before he can even grasp the depth of his own admission. "Yes."

He turns to Feyre, his wide eyes betraying the shock of his own revelation. A slight pallor washes over his skin, and Feyre chuckles at his reaction. Sensing the tension in the air, she rests a reassuring arm on his shoulder. “I like her too,” she confesses.

Though, both of them recognize that Azriel's feelings for you run deeper and in more intricate ways than Feyre's own fondness.

“I offered her a place in this court. She said she’d think about it. Maybe you can convince her? The same way you convinced her to come to Starfall,” Feyre says and then with one last pat on his shoulder, she makes her way back toward Rhysand.

Still recovering from the revelation of his own feelings, it takes a while longer for the weight of Feyre’s words to sink in. A mixture of surprise, uncertainty, and a flicker of hope plays out across his features. You weren’t planning on staying? The thought of you leaving–leaving him stirs a feeling in his chest. His eyes seek you out again but you’re no longer standing beside Elain.  

In your place, stands Lucien and normally the sight would trigger dark emotions from him. But now? He feels nothing. There’s no sense of envy. His affections have shifted elsewhere.

Azriel’s shadows fall to the floor, slithering against the cool tile like serpents of the night. They lead the way directly to where you stand, by the champagne table. He makes his way toward you and you're downing the rest of the liquid in your glass.

“Azriel.” You smile at him.

“It’s time for you to fulfill the promise you made me.”

“Of course,” you reply, offering him your hand.

Azriel gracefully pulls you into his embrace. One hand wraps around yours while the other rests on your waist. The enchanting melody guides your movements as the two of you glide across the floor.

“Feyre told me she offered you a role in this court.”

Your eyes, wise and mysterious, meet his, and he feels your body tense under his hold. “What else did she tell you?”

“That you’d think about it,” he says, the rhythm of the dance allowing for a moment of ease to settle between you. “You should stay.”

“Why?”

A wistful expression colors your features and the soft glow of stars are reflected in your eyes. The music comes to a gradual end and you free yourself of his hold before the next song begins.

“There’s no one here for me.” You admit and then give a small laugh as you look down. There's a deep, haunting sadness to your laughter, striking a chord within him.

“I’m right here.” 

Lifting your head back up, your eyes search his for something with a glimmer of hope. An eternity seems to pass in your gaze. A frown settles over your lips and he feels a tinge of sadness. Whatever you sought, it seems you did not find it.

Suppressing the surge of emotions within him, his hand reaches for yours again. He guides you to somewhere more private, toward one of the balconies that is off limits to the guests. “Talk to me,” he says, his words carrying an invitation for you to unburden your heart.

Your hands grip onto the railing before you and attention is directed up towards the night sky. He mirrors your actions, resting his hands close to yours. So close he can feel your warmth but not close enough to touch.

"It feels weird being here," you sigh deeply. "My mother and I used to sneak out of Hewn City on Starfall just to catch a glimpse of these migrating spirits every year...until she realized what I was. She said I was a curse, said she would turn me into Keir and let him have his way with me if I didn't leave."

Azriel's fingers clench into a white knuckled grip at your words.

"Not that leaving a horrible city such as Hewn was exactly a punishment. It was probably for the best. Still didn't stop me from being scared. It was the first time in my life that I was actually alone. I learned how to survive."

"I met the Suriel a year later. He must've taken pity on me and would visit me without being summoned. Sometimes, it'd be to tease me with some gossip. Other times, to annoy and chide me for my mistakes. Most importantly, he taught me how to not only survive on my own but live alone. I don't know, it's probably silly but I just felt a lot less lonely when I was actually alone than I do here."

“It’s not silly. I used to feel that way too.” Azriel admits and after a moment of silence, he’s turning toward you.  “Am I not your friend?”

“I don’t know,” you find yourself saying again, uncertainty clouding your expression. Pausing, you tear your gaze from the night sky to look at him. “Do you want to be?”

“Yes,” Azriel smiles at you. And so much more. 

You smile back at him but it doesn’t last long. Turning your head to face directly ahead, you bite the inside of your cheek in hesitation, revealing to Azriel that there’s more troubling you than your sense of loneliness.

“What else?” 

“There’s nothing else.”

“y/n.”

“I feel like a failure.”

Azriel's eyes widen, his heart sinking to his stomach. “You’re not,” he reassures quickly.

“I–I just,” you stammer, the weight of self-doubt evident in your voice. “It’s nearing four months since I’ve arrived, and I feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface with Elain.”

“How long did it take you to harness your abilities?”

“Decades,” you respond, the admission carrying a hint of sheepishness. “But Elain is different. This is different. I don’t want to disappoint her. Disappoint Feyre. The world we know is crumbling apart, and we don’t have time. If–if we cannot fix it before it’s too late, I will have failed him.”

“Hey, look at me.”

When you don’t, Azriel lightly grips your chin, coaxing your gaze to him. “You’re here, aren’t you? You’re honoring his wish by just being here. Keep trying,” he encourages, wiping away your tears. “I’ll be here with you every step of the way. You’re not alone. We’ll face this together.”

“Together?”

He releases his hold on you, resting his hand once more on the rail. This time, it’s even closer to yours.

“Together,” he confirms, heart swarming with warmth when your hand bridges the gap between you and brushes against his. 

And finally, it seems your lonely days are through.

Azriel’s been in love before. Twice. Or at least, he thought it was love. One was unrequited, a silent ache he carried within. The other was forbidden, a love he had clung to with misguided hope. He was beginning to come to the begrudging conclusion that love was simply not meant for him.

Then, you came along. Strange as it seems, you've seemed to have brought back that old feeling to him, awakening something deep inside of him. And though he doesn't know what you did, he thinks--he hopes that you could be the one. The one to possibly release him from the chains of solitude and longing.

You've rarely left his mind since the night he met you. The echoes of your first words to him lingered in his mind long after your encounter, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Your voice was cloaked in both mystery and certainty, as though you held the threads of destiny within your grasp. It prompted him to ask who you were but your answer, “that’s for you to decide” only gave rise to more questions. 

Then, there was that smile. So beautiful, so hopeful. It etched itself into the recesses of his memory. It was a smile no one had ever bestowed upon him before and one he longed to see it again.

And he almost ruined it all–that day he snapped at you after a session gone wrong with Elain. Your intentions were always pure. He knew this. No one was at fault as everything that transpired between you and Elain was completely consensual. But the scream that tore through Elain sent him in a heightened frenzy. He had sworn to Rhysand and Feyre, his High Lord and High Lady, that he would protect Elain. Before he could properly assess the situation, he had roughly pushed you aside with a growl. The hurt that flashed in your eyes in response haunted him nearly every night.

You began to actively avoid his gaze and presence whenever possible, and guilt gnawed at him relentlessly. Even his shadows, missing your attention, seemed angry with him. Truth be told, he was angry with himself too. You had made friends with everyone. Everyone but him.

The following two weeks became a series of futile attempts at groveling, your obliviousness to it all cutting deeper than he cared to admit. The breaking point came when you missed dinner, and he knew it was time to set things right then. So he sent his shadows to look for you and when they reported back to him that you were sleeping in the library, he brought your dinner to you.

After that moment, the atmosphere between you two shifted. He became the chaser, gradually closing the distance between you.

You looked his way more, approached him with a newfound openness, and your conversations became more frequent. You teased him at times, even, with your cryptic words. But rather than frustrating him, it only made him seek you out more. He wanted to be the one to unravel the mystery that was you.

Somewhere down the line, his eyes stopped searching for Elain's. The private moments he sought with her became mere echoes of the past—no more lingering touches, exchanged glances, or pointless conversations. Instead, it was you who occupied the center of his attention, infiltrating his dreams and igniting desires he never knew he harbored.

You eased him like no other, effortlessly coaxing smiles and laughter from him. It was in these moments that the realization struck him like a bolt of lightning—he had never truly been in love during the first two instances. What he felt for you was different. He was unwilling to let his feelings linger in the shadows, as they had done before. He yearned for them to step into the light. To be acknowledged and acted upon openly.

He decided to wait until after Solstice to confess to you and hoped that your visions wouldn't give him away.

Laughter and clinks of wine glasses ring through the air. Azriel knows it’s time to open presents, his shadows singing loudly and overwhelming him with information. Cassian is sneaking a peak. Rhysand is rolling his eyes. Elain got Lucien a present. y/n is holding back tears.

Azriel tenses at the last bit of information, eyes immediately finding you. You’re seated beside Feyre–the two of you exchanging smiles. There’s an unwrapped present on your lap and his shadows dart toward it. It’s a small portrait of the Suriel. He hears you thank Feyre and he swears he can feel your ache of grief. He moves to stand from his seat but Elain stops him.

“Happy Solstice,” she says, holding out a small present. He takes the box albeit reluctantly but politely and opens it to find two tickets to an upcoming play. 

Elain smiles at the frown he’s trying to hide.

"Elain, I can't--"

“Y/n mentioned always wanting to go see a play. I thought maybe you could be the one to take her. After you confess."

His eyes search hers for any traces of hurt. He’s relieved when he finds none but the frown in his brow remains. “How–”

“She trained me well," Elain replies, eyes shining with an all knowing gleam he's seen in yours. "She deserves to be happy. You both do and something tells me that she’s the one you’ve been waiting for.”

Gods, you and Elain have been hanging out so much with one another that now she’s beginning to talk like you. There's a tightening in his chest, like a band about to snap at her words.

Azriel looks back at Elain in question but she only smiles at him once more before retreating back to where she was sitting previously. Next to Lucien, who also sends a smile his way.

Looking down at the tickets, he thinks of you again. His shadows stir, mirroring the strange sensation in his chest. It’s almost like a pull and his shadows guide him toward it, turning his head for him. Just in time to catch a glimpse of you quietly slipping away from the festivities. His steps quicken as he follows you, pulling his coat along with him.

The soft flakes of snow flutter down, a delicate dance in the winter night. Despite weeks of continuous snowfall, the enchanting beauty of it never fails to captivate you. It differs markedly from the unforgiving snowstorms you endured while wandering the Night Court's forests. Though just as cold, it prompts an involuntary shiver, a reaction to the biting chill in the air.

As the door behind you creaks open, a rush of warmth accompanies its movement. The scent of cedar invades your senses, growing more intense as you feel a fabric drape over your shoulders, bringing forth an intimate warmth.

"Hey," Azriel breathes, a visible puff of white escaping his lips.

"Hi," you smile back at him, your fingers instinctively reaching for the coat that draped over your shoulders. You can't help but notice the thin sweater he wears. "Won't you be cold, though?"

Azriel stops you, securing his coat back onto your smaller frame with a reassuring smile. “I grew up in a camp where it snowed a lot more than this. I’ll be fine.”

You look back up at the night sky. The stars are shining so bright. It makes you wonder if they ever tire. They seem to answer you as their radiant beams cast a celestial glow upon you. Your vision blurs in surrender.

“What are you seeing?” Azriel inquires, curious. He hopes it's not the confession he's aching to spill.

Your eyebrows knit together, and you close your eyes, immersing yourself in deciphering the messages woven between the stars. Upon opening your eyes, you turn to Azriel, a teasing smirk playing on your lips.

“You're going to get frostbite."

Azriel lets out an amused huff. "I don't care. As long as you're warm."

"We should head back inside," you suggest.

"No," Azriel insists, enfolding a wing around your form, anchoring you in place. His shadows can sense you don't want to go back inside yet. "I like being alone with you."

The wind nips at your cheeks, a sensation you welcome as it gives the perfect excuse for the blush creeping across your face. Tearing your gaze away from Azriel before he can discern his effect on you, you quietly share, "Nyx is going to say his first word in three days."

Azriel leans forward and you can feel his anticipation. A familial bet circulates among his uncles and aunts (save for Elain) regarding what the young heir’s first word will be. “What is it?”

“Cas.”

Azriel can't resist glancing back toward the house, his eyes narrowing with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. There, he catches a fleeting glimpse of Cassian playfully hoisting Nyx in the air, the two engaged in a lively game of chase around the living room. When he turns his attention back to you, mischief twinkles in your eyes.

“You’re lying.”

“You fell for it."

And that smile he’s been longing for since he met you graces your lips as you laugh. A sweet and beautiful sound that warms the winter air. Azriel's gaze dips toward your lips, captivated by the sound, before lifting back to meet your eyes. He leans in even closer.

“I fell for you.”

You also lean in, eyes never leaving his. "The answer is yes."

"What?"

Azriel nearly stumbles back, caught off guard, but you remain close, lifting a hand and cradling his cheek. It's surprisingly warm and he instinctively leans into your touch. His eyes widen. Did you—

“To you taking me on a date,” you reveal, your smile deepening, and he swears his shadows snicker in response. “The vision I just saw. It was of me and you at a theater. Next Friday at seven.”

“Next Friday at seven,” Azriel confirms, a tender affection lighting up his expression.

The air seems to shimmer with the promise of an enchanting future. You reach out, tugging at the bond in your chest. Once again, there is only silence. Yet, you can’t bring yourself to care anymore. Not when Azriel is gazing at you as though you are the very stars illuminating the night sky.

And then you're kissing him.

The snow crunches underfoot as Azriel moves, his usually keen senses dulled. His mind is elsewhere, consumed by thoughts of you. Even as the icy missiles fly past him, Azriel remains lost in the memories of shared glances and smiles and the way your lips felt so perfect against his last night.

For the first time in years, Azriel finds himself on the losing side of the annual snowball fight. Oddly, no disappointment lingers, even after meticulous planning for this anticipated victory. All he wants is to return home—to you.

Amidst the snowy chaos, revelation strikes him simultaneously with a snowball from Rhysand. The snap, the bond—everything falls into place. It all makes sense now. Your words when you first met. Elain’s words last night at Solstice. Why your presence thrilled and delighted him. Why he couldn't shake the feeling of love and adoration for you.

You are his mate. 

The one he had been longing and pleading for, and the realization left him breathless. He shakes the snow from his face and Rhysand blinks back at him in surprise. The High Lord had been expecting a glare but he only finds pure shock on Azriel’s face.

“Oh come on, I didn’t hit you that hard,” he teases.

“I have to go.”

“If you leave, you’re forfeiting,” warns Cassian, but the glint in his eye betrays a desire for Azriel to leave, eager for a victory.

“I yield,” Azriel says mindlessly, surprising even Rhysand. Feeling his friend's talons probing his mind, Azriel throws up his shields and disappears into his shadows, abandoning the snow-covered battlefield. He'll explain later.

For now, he has to find you.

His shadows winnow him back to the River house and he doesn’t have to look for long because there you are, making your way down the last step and standing in his path. There’s not much that surprises you but that has changed since meeting Azriel and this moment is no different. Your eyes are widening, mouth parting.

“Azriel," you say. "What are you doing here? I thought you were–”

“It’s you,” Azriel interrupts breathlessly as if he was running, chest rising and falling quickly in step with the erratic beating of his heart. He’s bridging the distance between you. “All this time. It’s been you.”

You swallow thickly. “You know?”

The glimmer of hope that had ignited during Starfall returns to your eyes, revealing a world he hadn’t realized existed. How could he have been so blind?

Azriel smiles at you and it’s as if that’s the last piece to the puzzle as the bond between you both comes to life, singing loudly against your chests. He pulls you flush against him and spins you around, eliciting a delightful squeal from you. Cradling your face in his hands, he kisses your forehead, then the corners of your eyes. He saves your lips for last, lingering in the sweet taste of them for a moment longer.

“You’re my mate,” he says quietly, leaning his forehead against yours.

“Yes,” you manage to whisper back, surrendering yourself to the depths of his mesmerizing hazel eyes, just like in the vision from months ago. And it’s not you who speaks again but Azriel.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

a/n: hope you all enjoyed this (: It took me longer to write than I thought because i'm used to writing more angst for Az than fluff but I wanted this to be different. It's canon that Elain found out that reader and Az were mates through a vision around the same time she decided to give Lucien a chance. I just want them all to be happy ♡ in terms of my ABBA x ACOTAR series, I think I'll work on another one for Cas next inspired by Honey, Honey. If you'd like to be tagged, just let me know!

tagging: @hellodarling1357

if you want to read more about Az x Seer reader, I wrote a couple of bonus scenes that didn't quite make the final cut. You can read them here.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: The Shape of Story

by Christina Wodtke 

Start with Conflicted Characters

The character needs a goal, a motivation and a conflict.

The goal can be alien to your audience,

but the motivation must be shared by them, and

the conflict creates struggles that increase engagement.

Paint a Picture

Details transport you into the story.

The world disappears and you have a story play in your head.

Even though there are no literal pictures.

But be careful—Too many details and the story gets bogged down.

Make the Protagonist Suffer

“Be a Sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them - in order that the reader may see what they are made of.” (Kurt Vonnegut, How to Write a Great Story)

And when it can’t get any worse, make it worse before it gets better

The two key moments that create the peak of excitement in a story is the darkness before the dawn, and the dawn. 

The climax is the moment when the protagonist is either rescued or rescues themself.

In older tales, we saw a lot of Deux ex Machina (the hand of god) rescuing the hero. A hero could be rescued by luck, a partner, another hero…but modern audiences strongly prefer stories where the protagonist helps themself.

Resolution is Boring, Keep it Short

Interest grows with every additional conflict, but once the hero figures out the solution, our fascination collapses.

Don’t natter on while the audience’s mind is drifting.

Also Consider:

You need a good inciting incident to move your protagonist to action.

A setting is more than a place, it’s a situation and a moment in time. A vivid place has details.

Modern audiences prefer “return home changed” to “return home the same.”

EXAMPLES: ARCHETYPAL PLOTS ALONG THE ARC

Boy Meets Girl

Internal conflict is always satisfactory (e.g., she believes love interferes with his career, he believes love interferes with his beer.)

The crises usually revolves around betrayal — lying, cheating — and the climax shows it was a misunderstanding or we get atonement.

The struggle is always about them being separated.

The resolution is about binding them more tightly together than ever.

The Quest

You seek things, and find yourself.

Return home changed and don’t pass go.

Common elements include companions, a mentor, great losses and extreme character arcs.

The Underdog

Even though they do not have a shot in hell, the underdog wants something. They want it so bad.

Common elements include an enemy who blocks their path, and a coach who helps them forward.

In this case, they do not return home changed but rather move into a new life that fits their changed self.

Coming of Age

Naive person has the world teaches them a hard lesson, and they become a better person for it.

Struggle revolve around life sucking and then sucking more.

The hero grows and becomes better because of it, and via new understandings becomes competent.

In some tragedies, the world breaks them.

They can return home changed, but more often they move to a new life they have earned.

More Examples. Justice & Pursuit:

Weaving Multiple Plots:

Weaving multiple plots together to make subplots can further increase tension.

Multiple plots woven together makes the whole story not only unique but very compelling.

Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[jhyoos]

Of Roses And Steel

chapter one : where roses bloom

knight sevika x princess reader

mentions : royalty au, medieval au, romance, strong reader (as in combat and intelligence), silco is king, reader is a heavy daddy’s girl, silco being soft around her daughter, sevika is only 5 years older than you, major character deaths, very long first chapter !

notes : let me know if you guys like the small text or should I go back to bigger words. another chapter will be released tomorrow!

↳ next chapter

The night of the queen’s death remained seared into your memory like a jagged scar, a moment that altered the course of your life—and the kingdom—forever.

Your mother had always been the kingdom’s heart, her kindness radiating like the sun, touching the lives of every villager, knight, and noble. She possessed an innate gift for seeing the good in people, even when they couldn't see it in themselves. When she had married your father, her warmth had melted away the rougher edges of Silco, a man who was once feared for his ruthlessness.

Before her, Silco’s reign had been efficient but cold, his focus solely on maintaining power and expanding the kingdom's borders. But with the queen by his side, something shifted. She softened him, guiding him to rule with compassion as well as strength. Under her influence, roads were built, trade flourished, and the kingdom prospered. When you were born, the union of their love, Silco seemed to find an even deeper purpose. He adored you from the moment he held you in his arms, his mismatched eyes filled with awe.

“She’s perfect,” he’d whispered to the queen, who smiled through her exhaustion. “Just like her mother.”

Your early years were filled with laughter and warmth. Your mother would sing to you in the mornings while brushing your hair, and Silco, despite his busy schedule, would often sneak away from his duties to spend time with you. He read you bedtime stories, his deep voice weaving tales of adventure and bravery. You were his reason to rule with integrity, his reminder that the kingdom’s future depended on more than power—it depended on love.

But everything changed the day your mother decided to visit the village alone.

You were six years old, clinging to her skirts as she prepared to leave.

“Must you go?” you asked, your voice small and pleading.

She knelt before you, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I must,” she said gently. “The children in the village are sick, and they need help. But I won’t be long, my love. I’ll be back before the sun sets.”

She kissed your forehead, her smile warm and reassuring, and then she was gone. You spent the rest of the day waiting by the window, watching as the sun dipped lower and lower in the sky.

When the sun finally set and she had not returned, unease settled over the castle like a heavy fog. It was Sevika—then a young squire barely in her teens—who came running into the throne room with the news. Her face was pale, her breath coming in short gasps as she fell to one knee before Silco.

“Your Majesty,” she said, her voice trembling. “There’s been… an attack. The queen—she—”

Silco rose from his throne, his voice cutting through her stammering like a blade. “What happened?”

“She was ambushed,” Sevika managed, her hands clenched into fists. “A group of thieves—they didn’t know who she was. She fought back, but…” Her voice broke, and she couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

Silco didn’t need her to. The look in his eyes was enough to send a shiver through the room, a mix of fury and anguish so profound it was almost unbearable to witness. He left the throne room without another word, his footsteps echoing through the silent hall.

The days that followed were marked by grief and silence. Silco locked himself away, emerging only for the queen’s funeral. You remembered the way he stood by her casket, his shoulders rigid, his mismatched eyes devoid of the warmth they once held. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse but steady.

“She was too good for this world,” he said, his gaze fixed on her peaceful face. “But I will ensure her legacy lives on.”

He turned his focus to you, doubling down on his efforts to keep you safe. Guards followed you everywhere, even within the castle walls. He forbade you from going into the village, insisting it was too dangerous. His love became suffocating, a cage built from his fear of losing you as he had lost her.

You grew up under the shadow of that fear, but you refused to let it define you. Determined to honor your mother’s memory, you threw yourself into your studies, mastering everything from diplomacy to combat. Your father disapproved of your training, insisting that the daughter of a king had no need for swords or bows. But you persisted, finding solace in the discipline and focus it required.

It wasn’t until you were sixteen that you truly began to make a name for yourself among the knights. One of the senior knights, impressed by your determination, arranged for you to train with Sevika, who had recently returned to the castle after years spent serving on the borders.

Sevika was in her early twenties then, already gaining a reputation as a skilled and fearless warrior. She had a scar running down the side of her face, a mark of the battle that had earned her the rank of head knight. She rarely spoke, her focus entirely on her duties, but when she did, her words carried weight.

Your first session with her was a turning point. She showed you how to hold a bow, correcting your posture and guiding your hands with a gruff patience you hadn’t expected. “Don’t overthink it,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Just breathe and let the arrow fly.”

For a brief moment, you saw a softer side of her, a flicker of something almost kind beneath her stoic exterior. It was enough to make your heart flutter, a feeling you didn’t entirely understand at the time.

From then on, your crush on Sevika only grew, fueled by fleeting moments of warmth amidst her cold professionalism. She was everything you admired: strong, capable, and unyielding. But she was also distant, her loyalty to your father a wall you doubted you’d ever be able to breach.

You were every bit the spoiled princess, and you made no apologies for it. Your wardrobe was filled with the finest gowns in silks, satins, and velvets, each more extravagant than the last. Shoes adorned with delicate embroidery and shimmering jewels lined your chambers, matched meticulously to every ensemble. The maids who styled your hair each morning knew your tastes well—tight curls for formal occasions, elegant braids when you ventured to court, and soft waves for quiet evenings spent reading in your chambers. It was a life of luxury and ease, one that you embraced wholeheartedly.

Your favorite moments, however, were the hours spent with your ladies-in-waiting. Gathered in the sunlit parlor, the scent of freshly brewed tea mingling with the fragrance of blooming flowers, you would sit for hours, gossiping and laughing with your closest confidantes. Together, you exchanged stories, whispered secrets, and speculated about the various knights, courtiers, and even the visiting nobility. You didn’t shy away from discussing the beauty of the women who graced the castle halls, often causing a ripple of giggles among your companions when your admiration turned bold.

Through it all, there was one secret you kept entirely to yourself: your growing infatuation with Sevika. It wasn’t the kind of crush you could casually admit during tea or in the middle of idle chatter. Sevika’s cold professionalism and the unyielding strength she displayed as the head knight made her a figure of both admiration and intimidation. Her rare moments of warmth toward you—brief, fleeting instances where she adjusted your grip on a bow or gave a quiet word of approval—were treasures you tucked away in your heart, replaying them long after they passed.

But secrets have a way of surfacing, and yours was no exception. One lazy afternoon, as Mel helped you reorganize your chambers, she discovered a bundle of papers hidden beneath your bed. They were scraps of poetry and unsent letters, scrawled confessions of your feelings for Sevika. Mel’s gasp of surprise as she read them turned your blood cold. You tried to snatch them away, but it was too late—she knew. Her teasing smirk was almost unbearable as she leaned against your bedpost, waving the papers at you.

“Sevika?” she drawled, one perfectly arched brow lifting in amusement. “You’re in love with her?” Mel, ever the quick-witted daughter of a noblewoman, didn’t let you live it down easily. Though she was sworn to secrecy, she took great delight in teasing you about your unspoken feelings, often poking fun at how flustered you became whenever Sevika was nearby. Despite your embarrassment, there was a part of you that found comfort in sharing your secret with someone, even if Mel’s constant smirking made you regret it at times.

The dining hall was bathed in warm candlelight, the long table laden with golden platters of roasted meats, fruits, and delicacies from across the kingdom. Laughter and chatter filled the room, and for a brief moment, everything felt peaceful. You sat at your father’s right hand, the place of honor, dressed in a gown of soft lavender silk. The fabric shimmered with each movement, the embroidery catching the flickering light. Around you, nobles toasted to victories, knights traded boasts, and your ladies-in-waiting whispered behind their hands, no doubt commenting on which of the lords appeared most eligible.

You entertained their murmurs with a polite smile, but your focus drifted to the heavy doors of the hall. You noticed them before they opened, as if instinctively sensing Sevika’s arrival. She stepped inside, her boots echoing against the stone floor. She wasn’t in her usual armor but a simpler, dark tunic and breeches, though her presence alone was as commanding as any battle regalia. She moved with purpose, her scarred face set in a grim line.

“Sevika,” Silco called, his voice cutting through the noise. The room fell silent as she approached the king, bowing her head slightly.

“Apologies for the interruption, Your Majesty,” she said, her voice low but carrying easily through the hall. “There’s news from the gates.”

The room seemed to hold its breath. Silco’s eyes narrowed, his wineglass forgotten in his hand. “Speak.”

“The monsters at the borders are escalating their attacks,” Sevika began. “They’re not just striking in waves anymore. It’s constant now. The knights are struggling to keep them contained, and we’re losing ground. Reports suggest their numbers are too great for our current defenses.”

A murmur rippled through the assembled nobles. Silco’s grip on his goblet tightened before he set it down with a sharp clink. “And the commanders? Have they devised a solution?”

Sevika hesitated, her silence answering for her. Finally, she said, “No. They’re holding the line, but we’re losing too many. We need to regroup and rethink our approach.”

Silco’s jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames of the chandelier above. Then, decisively, he pushed back his chair and stood. “I’ll go to the gates myself. I need to see this for myself and consult with the commanders directly.”

You didn’t think—you simply acted. Rising from your seat as Silco and Sevika left the dining hall, you followed them into the dimly lit corridor. Your silk skirts swished as you hurried after them, your jeweled slippers clicking softly against the stone floor. You reached the shadows just in time to overhear Silco’s voice.

“I’ll leave at dawn with the first battalion,” he said. “The reports alone aren’t enough. If this is as dire as it seems, I need to see it myself. There’s no room for error.”

“Understood,” Sevika replied. “But it’s a risk. The journey to the walls is dangerous, especially with the creatures lurking along the roads.”

“I’ll take that risk,” Silco said firmly. “The kingdom’s stability depends on it. If we don’t act now, there won’t be a kingdom left to protect.”

“Father!” Your voice rang out before you could stop yourself. They turned, surprise flashing across Silco’s face before his expression hardened.

“This doesn’t concern you,” he said, his tone sharp but not unkind.

“It concerns me when you’re talking about putting yourself in danger,” you countered, stepping closer. “You can’t just leave. What if something happens to you?”

Silco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t up for debate, child. I need to go. I won’t make the same mistakes as before by sitting idle.”

Your chest tightened, and the memory of your mother’s final words hit you like a blade. “The last time someone told me they’d come back, they didn’t,” you said, your voice breaking. “She promised me, and she never came home. How can you ask me to watch you walk out that same door and pretend it’s fine?”

Silco’s expression softened, though the steel in his resolve remained. He placed a hand on your shoulder, his mismatched eyes meeting yours. “I understand your fear,” he said quietly. “But I have a duty to this kingdom—and to you. If I don’t go, the threat will only grow worse. You’re stronger than you think, and I’ll return. I promise.”

Before you could respond, Sevika stepped forward, her presence grounding the moment. “He’s right,” she said, her tone firm but not unkind. “Your father’s not reckless. He’ll have me and the best knights in the kingdom with him. You don’t need to worry.”

Her words, though meant to reassure, did little to ease the ache in your chest. You looked between them, fighting the tears welling in your eyes. Finally, you nodded, though the knot of unease remained.

As they turned to leave, you stood alone in the corridor, your hands clenched at your sides. The weight of their footsteps faded, leaving only the faint flicker of torchlight and the hollow echo of your thoughts.

The next morning, you woke to the sound of hurried footsteps and quiet murmurs just beyond your door. The servants were already at work, preparing for your father’s departure. Their shuffling echoed in the hallway as they polished the portraits, hung banners in the kingdom’s colors, and arranged the grand send-off for the king. A knot formed in your chest as the realization settled—he was really leaving.

When your maids entered, they didn’t need to speak to know you were already awake. They moved with gentle precision, draping you in a gown of deep crimson, black, and silver. The silk hugged your frame, the silver embroidery catching the faint morning light. Your hair was styled intricately, each strand woven into a braid that they adorned with silver pins shaped like roses. They murmured compliments, but you barely heard them, your thoughts elsewhere.

As soon as they were done, you hurried to the throne room, your stomach twisting with each step. When you entered, the sight of your father nearly stole your breath.

Silco stood at the base of his throne, dressed in armor that seemed more fitting for a king from a storybook than the man you’d grown up with. The polished silver breastplate bore the royal crest, its sharp lines gleaming under the golden light of the chandeliers. A long crimson cape hung from his shoulders, draping elegantly to the floor. At his side rested a sword with a gilded hilt, its weight a reminder of the battle he was about to face.

You didn’t speak at first, your throat tight with the effort to hold yourself together. But when he saw you, his expression softened. For just a moment, the weight of his responsibility lifted, and he looked at you not as a king but as a father.

You crossed the room quickly, wrapping your arms around him in a fierce embrace. He stiffened, surprised, before his arms came around you, holding you as tightly as you held him. His armor was cold against your cheek, but you didn’t care.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice trembling, “be safe. I love you, Father.”

His grip tightened, his hand brushing the back of your head. “I love you too,” he said, his voice low and filled with something you rarely heard—uncertainty. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his mismatched eyes searching your face. “You’ve grown so much,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Every time I look at you, I see your mother. Her strength, her heart… I hope you know how proud I am of you.”

Your throat burned as tears welled in your eyes. “Then don’t go,” you pleaded softly, your voice breaking. “Please, Father. I can’t lose you, too. I can’t…”

He cupped your face with one hand, his calloused thumb brushing away a tear that slipped down your cheek. “I have to, my love,” he said, his voice steady despite the sorrow in his eyes. “This kingdom needs me. And more than that, it needs you. You’re stronger than you think—you always have been.”

His words were meant to reassure you, but they only made the ache in your chest worse. “Promise me,” you whispered. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

“I promise,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. The gesture was lingering, full of the unspoken things he couldn’t bring himself to say. “You’ll see me again before you know it.”

You nodded, though the doubt remained, and reluctantly let him go. As he stepped back, you noticed Sevika standing near the doorway, watching the exchange silently.

You crossed the room to her, your steps hesitant but determined. She straightened when you approached, her expression unreadable.

“I need you to promise me,” you said, your voice firmer now, though your heart still raced. “Promise me you’ll bring him back safe.”

Sevika’s brow furrowed slightly, her usual coldness faltering for a moment. “I promise,” she said simply, her tone calm and even.

You narrowed your eyes, stepping closer until you could see the faint scar on her cheek. “No, Sevika. I’m being serious. I know you just see me as some spoiled princess, but I’m not. He’s all I have. Promise me for real.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she glanced briefly at your hand as it reached for hers. The warmth of your touch seemed to catch her off guard. For a moment, something flickered in her expression—something unspoken.

“I’ll protect him with my life, your highness,” Sevika said, her voice quieter this time. “He’ll come back. You have my word.”

You held her gaze for a long moment, searching for any sign of insincerity. But there was none. Finally, you let her hand go, your heart still heavy but steadied by her promise. As she turned to join your father, you watched them walk away, the ache in your chest growing with each step they took.

For now, all you could do was trust—and wait.

Days turned into weeks, each one heavier than the last as you anxiously awaited your father’s return. The castle felt hollow in his absence, the echo of his authoritative voice replaced by an unnerving silence that no amount of bustling servants or lively courtiers could fill. You tried to busy yourself with your routine, but nothing seemed to dull the ache in your chest.

Mel did her best to distract you, her endless ideas for entertainment failing to ease your worry. She often led you to the gardens, coaxing you to admire the blooming roses or walk among the neat hedgerows. She’d chatter about trivial things—her mother’s letters, the latest gossip among the ladies-in-waiting, or the prospect of an upcoming festival—but her words felt distant, like a hum in the background.

On some days, she’d take you to the nearby lake, where you’d lounge by a small boat anchored at the shore. The gentle lapping of the water against the wood, the songs of birds in the trees, and even Mel’s attempts to make you laugh with exaggerated tales of court drama couldn’t pull you from your thoughts. You were miserable.

The anxiety seeped into your nights, turning them restless. You woke more often than not in cold sweats, the remnants of nightmares clinging to you like a suffocating shroud. Dreams of your father not returning—or worse—haunted your sleep, leaving you too afraid to close your eyes again. You’d toss and turn, clutching the heavy blankets as though they could shield you from your fears.

It wasn’t long before you could no longer bear being alone at night. Mel, ever loyal, started sharing your bed, her presence offering a sliver of comfort. She’d hold your hand or hum softly, her voice lulling you into uneasy sleep. But even with her there, the nights felt unbearably long, and the ache in your chest only grew.

You missed your father. His commanding presence, his sharp words that were always tinged with an undercurrent of affection. No matter how stern he could be, he was your anchor, and his absence left you adrift.

And, though you hated to admit it, you missed Sevika too. Her presence lingered in your mind like a ghost. Even though her words were often clipped and dismissive, there had been something in the way she spoke to you that lit a fire within you. A rare spark of interest, a momentary pause that felt like a flicker of attention just for you.

Her aloofness only made her more enigmatic, her sharp gaze and blunt demeanor stirring feelings that you didn’t quite understand. You replayed your interactions with her over and over in your mind, from the sarcastic comments to the way she’d adjust your posture during archery. It wasn’t much, but to you, it was enough.

It was foolish to feel this way, you told yourself. She was the head knight, loyal to your father and bound by duty. She likely thought of you as nothing more than the king’s spoiled daughter, another responsibility on her long list of obligations.

And yet, you couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Each day that passed felt heavier than the last, the weight of your longing for both your father and Sevika pressing down on you. You clung to the hope that their return would bring relief, but until then, you were left to endure the suffocating stillness of the castle and the ache that refused to fade.

Mel, ever persistent in her attempts to lift your spirits, decided that simply resting by the lake was no longer enough. She wanted to give you a moment of true peace, something that might soothe the restlessness in your soul. With a few words to the castle staff, she arranged for a servant to row one of the small boats onto the still waters of the lake.

When the boat was ready, she guided you down to the shore. The late afternoon sun bathed the lake in a soft, golden glow, and the air was filled with the gentle hum of dragonflies and the occasional splash of fish breaking the surface. The sight was tranquil, almost idyllic, but your heart was still heavy.

Mel helped you onto the boat, her steady hand ensuring you didn’t slip on the polished wooden planks. You settled onto the cushioned seat, and as the boat pushed off from the shore, the rhythmic sound of the oars dipping into the water began to lull you into a state of calm.

You leaned against the edge of the boat, resting your head on your folded arm. The water was cool beneath your fingertips as you let your hand trail lazily through it, brushing against the occasional lily pad that floated by. The gentle sway of the boat and the soft rippling of the water were almost hypnotic. For the first time in weeks, you felt a fleeting sense of tranquility.

“If my father and Sevika come back…” you began softly, your voice barely above a whisper. The words felt heavy on your tongue, like a confession you hadn’t intended to make. You glanced at your reflection in the water, your face distorted by the ripples. “I’ll actually obey him... and I’ll confess to Sevika about my feelings for her.”

The admission hung in the air, a vulnerable truth you hadn’t even fully admitted to yourself before.

Mel, sitting beside you, turned to look at you. Her usual sharp wit and playful banter were absent as she took in the sincerity of your words. After a moment, she smiled softly, a flicker of warmth and understanding in her expression.

“We’ll see about that, Your Majesty,” she said, her tone light but with a hint of skepticism.

You turned your head slightly to glance at her, catching the faint curve of her lips and the knowing glint in her eye. She didn’t press you further, didn’t tease or pry as she usually might. Instead, she simply leaned back in her seat, allowing you the space to lose yourself in your thoughts.

As the boat glided across the lake, the silence between you was comfortable. Mel’s presence was steady, a quiet reassurance that you weren’t entirely alone in your longing or your fears.

For now, you could allow yourself to hope.

The following week arrived quietly, marked by the same monotony that had filled the days since your father left. You were seated by your vanity, your servant brushing your hair in slow, careful strokes. The rhythmic tug of the bristles on your scalp was almost lulling, but your mind was elsewhere.

Then, a sound shattered the quiet—faint but unmistakable. The trumpets of the king’s arrival.

Your heart leaped in your chest as you sat up straight, the brush slipping from your servant’s hand. “Your Highness?” they asked, startled.

But you didn’t answer. Without hesitation, you jumped to your feet and ran to your balcony, the cool morning air rushing to greet you as you flung open the doors. The grand stone entrance of the castle stretched below you, and there he was—your father, dismounting his horse in a flurry of movement.

As though sensing your presence, his gaze lifted to meet yours. His face softened instantly, a warm smile spreading across his features. He lifted a hand and waved to you, and you couldn’t stop the answering grin that broke across your face.

“Father!” you called out, your voice carrying down to him.

Without a second thought, you spun around and hurried back into your chambers, your bare feet sliding slightly on the polished floors as you moved. You quickly grabbed your slippers, slipping them on clumsily.

“Your Highness, you’re still in your sleepwear—” your servant began, her voice tinged with concern as she reached for you.

“I don’t care!” you called over your shoulder, already halfway out the door.

Your heart raced as you darted through the halls, the familiar corridors blurring past you in your excitement. The heavy stone walls seemed brighter, the tapestries more colorful, as if the castle itself had come alive with his return. The sound of your footsteps echoed off the marble staircase as you descended, nearly stumbling in your haste.

When you finally reached the entrance, your father was just stepping down from his horse, his gloved hands steady as he handed the reins to a nearby stable hand. His cloak billowed slightly in the breeze, his regal presence commanding the attention of everyone around him.

“Father!” you called again, your voice breaking slightly from your breathless sprint.

He turned toward you, his expression shifting from one of composure to pure, unrestrained joy. The moment his eyes met yours, his arms opened wide, and you didn’t hesitate for a second. You closed the distance between you, throwing yourself into his embrace.

His arms wrapped around you tightly, holding you as if he never wanted to let go. His grip was firm, steady, and warm, grounding you in a way nothing else could.

“It feels like I’m seeing an angel,” he murmured, his voice low and full of emotion.

You buried your face in his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and faint traces of ink from his correspondence. “I know... me too,” you replied, your voice muffled but no less sincere.

Silco finally pulled back from the embrace, his hands resting on your shoulders as he looked you over, his sharp eyes softening with affection. “Have you been well, my daughter?” he asked, his voice steady yet tinged with concern.

You nodded, though you hesitated before answering. “Yes, Father. I’ve kept up with my studies and my training... though I missed you terribly,” you admitted, your voice faltering slightly at the end.

His expression softened further, and he cupped your cheek with a gloved hand, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “I missed you as well. It was far too long to be away from my only child.”

As he spoke, you noticed the weight of exhaustion in his features—the faint lines of weariness etched into his face and the slight droop of his shoulders. Yet even so, there was a glimmer of pride in his eyes as he looked at you.

He stepped back, his posture straightening as he addressed not just you but the attendants and soldiers gathering around. His voice carried, commanding attention with its authority.

“My soldiers and I have returned victorious,” he announced, his tone filled with the subtle pride of a ruler who demanded respect but did not flaunt his power unnecessarily. “And such a triumph deserves celebration.”

Your heart skipped slightly at his words, and you couldn’t help the small smile that formed on your lips.

Silco continued, his gaze sweeping over the gathered servants and knights. “A feast will be held tonight in the Great Hall. Let it be a night of joy and gratitude for our success and the safety of our kingdom.”

The attendants and soldiers murmured their approval, the quiet hum of excitement rippling through the crowd.

He turned back to you, his expression softer once again. “And you, my child, will be at my side as the kingdom celebrates.”

“I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else,” you replied, your voice steady despite the excitement bubbling within you.

“Good,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But first, you’ll need to prepare. I expect you to look every bit the queen you are destined to be. I trust Mel will see to it?”

You nodded quickly. “She will, Father. I’ll make sure everything is perfect.”

“Good,” Silco repeated, placing a hand on your shoulder briefly before turning to his steward to give further instructions about the preparations.

As the crowd began to disperse, Sevika stepped forward, her ever-stoic presence now standing close behind your father. Her sharp eyes glanced over you briefly before she addressed Silco. “I’ll ensure the knights are ready for the evening, Your Majesty,” she said, her tone curt and professional.

Silco nodded in approval, but before Sevika could leave, his gaze shifted back to you. “Sevika, see that my daughter gets back to her chambers safely. She shouldn’t be running through the halls like that again.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sevika replied without hesitation.

Your father gave you one last affectionate glance before turning back to his advisors, leaving you standing there with Sevika.

“You heard him,” Sevika said gruffly, her tone laced with the usual edge of authority. “Let’s get you back to your chambers. Can’t have you causing another scene.”

You rolled your eyes slightly but complied, following her as she led the way back into the castle. Despite her sharp words, you couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of comfort knowing she was there, her towering presence a reminder of both your safety and... something else you weren’t quite ready to admit.

As you and Sevika made your way back through the dimly lit halls of the castle, the cool stone beneath your feet and the drafty corridors sent a shiver down your spine. Without a word, Sevika unclasped her cloak and draped it around your shoulders, the heavy fabric engulfing you in warmth. Her movements were brisk and efficient, as if she had done this a hundred times before, yet the gesture left your cheeks warm in a way that had nothing to do with the cloak itself.

“Thank you,” you murmured, clutching the edges of the cloak tightly around yourself. The faint scent of leather and smoke lingered on the fabric, unmistakably hers.

Sevika gave a short nod, her gaze fixed ahead as the two of you continued walking. The rhythmic clink of her armor filled the silence, but your mind was elsewhere. You kept stealing glances at her, your heart thudding harder with each one. You wanted to speak, to finally confess the feelings you had held onto for so long. The words were right there, resting on the tip of your tongue.

But before you could summon the courage to open your mouth, Sevika’s voice cut through the silence, low and steady.

“Don’t run out in your nightgown again,” she said gruffly, not bothering to glance your way. “It’s quite transparent in the right lighting.”

You froze mid-step, your eyes widening as her words sank in. The warmth in your cheeks flared into a full blush, spreading down your neck as you quickly looked away, your hands instinctively tugging the cloak tighter around your body.

“I-I wasn’t thinking,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just wanted to see my father.”

Sevika finally glanced at you, her sharp eyes briefly scanning your flustered expression before she huffed a soft, almost amused sigh. “That much was obvious.”

You felt your stomach twist with embarrassment, but there was something in her tone—a faint trace of humor, perhaps—that eased the sting of her bluntness.

“I’ll keep that in mind next time,” you muttered, your gaze fixed firmly on the stone floor as you walked.

“See that you do,” Sevika replied, her voice returning to its usual sternness. “You may be the king’s daughter, but you’re not above common sense.”

Her words stung, but there was no malice in them, only the no-nonsense practicality that defined her. Still, your heart ached as you realized how far away your confession still felt. How could you possibly tell someone like her—so composed, so seemingly unimpressed by you—what you truly felt?

As you neared your chambers, the weight of the unspoken words pressed heavily on your chest. For now, you would settle for the warmth of her cloak and the fleeting moments of attention she gave you, even if they were laced with sternness.

The feast was a spectacle of grandeur. With Mel and a team of diligent servants, you were adorned in your finest jewels, your hair styled to perfection, and the shimmering gown hugging your frame like it was made of starlight itself. The dress—delicate and intricate, like spun silver—glittered under the candlelight, catching every flicker and transforming it into magic. The translucent layers of the fabric hugged your silhouette, leaving just enough to the imagination while maintaining an air of regality.

Mel circled you with a satisfied smile, tucking one final lock of hair into place. “If Sevika doesn’t fall for you tonight,” she teased, “she must be made of stone.”

You swatted her arm lightly but couldn’t help the smile that crept onto your lips. With a deep breath, you stepped out into the party, your heels clicking softly against the polished marble floor as you entered the grand ballroom.

The hall was alive with music, laughter, and clinking glasses. The party was far too large for the dining hall, so the grand ballroom served as the perfect venue. Guests danced beneath glittering chandeliers, their movements synchronized to the lively tunes of the string quartet. You and your ladies joined in, swirling through the dance floor in familiar patterns, your laughter mixing with the music.

You’d had two glasses of wine by then—an indulgence you rarely allowed yourself—and it left you feeling warm and light. Your inhibitions melted away, and you let yourself be swept up in the joy of the moment.

That was when you saw her.

Sevika stood near the edge of the ballroom, her tall frame unmistakable even among the most decorated soldiers. Her usual rugged attire was transformed, enhanced with gold detailing that caught the light in flashes of brilliance. Her armor had been polished to a mirror finish, and though her expression remained stoic, she looked breathtakingly regal.

Your gaze lingered, and Mel—ever observant—caught on immediately. She grabbed your wrist, pulling you from the dancing circle with a knowing grin. “Now’s your chance,” she whispered.

You hesitated, your heart racing. “I don’t know, Mel.”

“What if you don’t see her again? What if she leaves for a mission and never comes back?”

The weight of her words struck you, and you turned to look at Sevika again. She was speaking with someone, her stern profile illuminated by the golden light of the chandeliers. Mel was right—you couldn’t waste this moment.

With a deep breath, you smoothed your gown and made your way toward her, weaving through the crowd. When you reached her, you placed a tentative hand on her arm, causing her to turn and look at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Can I speak to you somewhere privately?” you asked softly.

Sevika’s brow furrowed slightly, but she nodded, following you out of the ballroom and into one of the quieter hallways.

The hallway felt like it was closing in around you, the flickering sconces casting fleeting light on Sevika’s armor. Her stern expression was unreadable, and her imposing frame seemed even more unyielding in the dim corridor. Still, you gathered every ounce of courage you could muster. This was your moment, and you couldn’t let it slip away, no matter how heavy the weight of her cold demeanor felt.

You hesitated, the stem of the wine glass trembling in your grip as you tried to muster the courage to speak. She didn’t move, her arms crossed over her chest, waiting. Always waiting, as if the weight of your words was little more than an inconvenience.

"Well?" she said flatly, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. "If you dragged me away from the ball for this, I suggest you make it quick."

“I’ve held this in for too long,” you started, your voice trembling slightly. “I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter, that you don’t matter.”

Sevika’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she said nothing, her silence more oppressive than any words could be. You stepped closer, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I love you, Sevika,” you said, your voice cracking under the weight of your confession. “I’ve loved you for years.”

For a moment, her mask slipped. There was a flicker of something in her eyes—surprise, uncertainty, maybe even longing. It was so fleeting you almost doubted you’d seen it at all. But it gave you the courage to close the distance between you, to take her face in your hands.

She didn’t pull away. Her body tensed under your touch, but she remained rooted in place, her breathing shallow and uneven. It was enough. You leaned in, your lips brushing against hers in a kiss that was as much a plea as it was a confession.

For a fleeting moment, she kissed you back. Her lips were hesitant, but warm, and you felt a spark—something you’d only ever dreamed of. It was like the world had stopped, and in that heartbeat, everything else ceased to matter.

But just as quickly, it was over. Sevika’s hands came up, gripping your wrists firmly as she pulled away. The space between you felt like a chasm, and the cold air rushed in where her warmth had been.

“No.” Her voice was sharp, almost a growl. She let go of your wrists, and you staggered back, staring at her in disbelief.

“Sevika—” you started, your voice cracking with desperation.

“Don’t,” she snapped, cutting you off. Her expression was hard, her eyes blazing with something you couldn’t place—anger, regret, pain. “This… whatever this is, it can’t happen. It shouldn’t have happened.”

“Why?” you demanded, tears welling in your eyes. “Why are you doing this? I know you feel something for me. I know you do!”

“Because you’re nothing but a spoiled little girl who doesn’t understand the world she lives in,” Sevika snapped, her tone cold and biting. Her eyes bored into yours, unyielding and merciless. “You think this is some fairy tale where you confess your feelings, and everything falls into place. But that’s not how life works. I serve your father. I protect this kingdom. That is my duty. Not indulging the childish fantasies of a princess who doesn’t know the meaning of sacrifice.”

Her words were a dagger, each one sinking deeper into your chest. You opened your mouth to respond, but no sound came out. The tears you’d been fighting spilled over, streaking your cheeks as you stared at her, your heart breaking with every second that passed.

Sevika’s gaze softened for the briefest moment, but it was gone just as quickly, replaced by the cold mask she always wore. She took a step back, putting more distance between you. “Forget this ever happened,” she said, her voice flat. “And stop chasing after things that aren’t meant for you.”

Without another word, she turned and walked away, her heavy boots echoing down the corridor. You stood there, frozen, as the weight of her rejection pressed down on you. The air felt colder now, the once-grand gown that adorned you suddenly feeling suffocating, like a cage meant to keep you trapped in a world where you could never truly be free.

You slid down the wall, your knees giving out beneath you as you buried your face in your hands. The sound of the ballroom felt even further away now, and for the first time in your life, you wished you could disappear completely.

Mel stepped into the hall, her steps echoing through the quiet corridors of the castle. She froze when she saw you, sitting on the cold stone floor, your body trembling with sobs. The sight of you, usually so composed, crumbled in such a vulnerable state, sent a pang of concern through her chest. “(Y/N)?” she called out softly, her voice filled with both worry and warmth.

Between the heavy breaths, you managed to choke out the words, “She said she didn’t love me back… she called me childish,” your voice breaking as the weight of the rejection hung in the air like a thick, suffocating fog.

Mel's heart ached at the sound of your pain. Without a second thought, she hurried to your side, kneeling down beside you. Her hands gently touched your arms, offering a quiet comfort as she whispered, “Come on, let’s get you back to your room.”

With surprising strength, Mel helped you to your feet, supporting your wobbly legs as you struggled to calm the tears that refused to stop. Her presence was grounding, a steady reassurance in the storm of your emotions. As the two of you walked slowly back toward your chambers, Mel kept a steady hand on your back, guiding you through the castle’s labyrinth of halls.

The comforting silence between you both was interrupted only by the occasional sniffle from you, as you struggled to regain some composure. Mel didn’t say anything more. She knew there was nothing to say—at least not yet. She just wanted to get you somewhere safe, where you could break down if you needed to, without the prying eyes of the castle around you.

taglist: @tinycherry0 @thesecondhandwoman @abbysleftbicepp @artfairyyyyy @bunninel @furrytaesss @savedforlaterr @veladeangl @5t4r1i9ht @athena-winters13 (😝) @inlovewithsevikaandambessa

[rivatar]

The Heat

MDNI!🔞

Pairing: Aged¡Up¡Neteyam x Fem¡Omatikaya¡Reader

Synopsis: Reader goes into heat and Neteyam being the good boy he is helps her ofc

Warnings: SMUT, breeding, cussing

A/N: Well guys I couldn’t contain myself from writing a reader in heat fic and y’all wanted Neteyam to be the lucky man so here ya go!🤭 Also sorry it’s taken so long! Hope you enjoy and Happy Valentines Day 💌

W/c: 2.5k

The day started off like usual. You woke up and got ready for the day, fixing your everyday beads into your hair and freshening up with some some oils. You were still living in your parents hut despite their efforts to get you married off, so in turn you had to do the same amount of work they did, maybe even more since they were getting older.

You had a good bit of chores to do today — helping your mother weave a couple more loincloths for your family, helping your little brother practice his English, and the timeliest chore of all, going to the outskirts of the forest to collect yovo fruit.

You’d decided to leave that chore for last, going in the afternoon soon after you’d had lunch with some of your friends. You asked if any of them could go with you to keep you company and help, but they all had their own things to do for today.

And so you started on your way, basket in hand and some supplies to help you with the picking. You figure it shouldn’t take you anymore than about 2-3 hours so you could be back in time to help your mother prepare dinner.

…

You knew you were over halfway there, you recognized a little pond that you’ve mentally noted as a halfway mark whenever you’d had to do this before. There was no sign of any Na’vi out here which was a little nerve racking but you knew how to protect yourself if there was any danger to come, having your bow on your back and knife on your hip.

Then you suddenly felt a sting in your lower stomach. Your ears perked up at the feeling but you kept walking, assuming it would go away.

But then you felt your temperature rise, sweat starting to form on your hairline. Your hands were clammy and you felt a bit dizzy. This made your heart drop because now was not the time to fall ill, though you were confident someone would come find you if you weren’t back by eclipse.

You found a rock and decided to sit on it and try to catch your breath. You were trying not to freak out but you didn’t know what was wrong.

The stinging was getting worse and turned more into a sharp aching, making you wince at the uncomfortableness. Your breath was quickly picking up and your mouth went dry.

You opted to kneel onto the ground, hunching over in pain. And then that’s when you realized — you must be in heat. These were all the tell-tale signs of a heat, which you had never experienced before.

You mentally cursed at the horrible timing. You knew you needed the Tsahik to help you but here you were, stranded in the deep forest.

It was rapidly getting more intense and you were losing all your thoughts. Your brain and body was turning to mush and your pupils dilated, you knew your control and rationality was slipping away.

Trying to find relief, you tugged off your loincloth and jeweled top. It cooled you down for a second, but only for the desperate need to keep spreading more intensely all throughout your body.

You knew what you needed and it was all that consumed your mind. You were no stranger to sex, you’ve had a few men. But this wasn’t about fun, casual sex — you needed to be bred and you felt it deep in your aching womb, as much as you would normally hate to admit that. But now you had no shame and were only focused on getting your sweet release.

…

Neteyam was out on patrol for the day and he didn’t mind this job. It consisted of walking near the borders and all around the uncommon areas in the forest. Usually he ran into no problems, so he didn’t complain about this duty. It was actually quite peaceful as it allowed him to be alone with his thoughts as he was out walking, still on high alert nonetheless.

He was just about to take a break from walking and dip his feet into a little pond he spotted when he smelled something unfamiliar. He didn’t recognize the scent but it was so good. His nose twitched as he tried to follow the sweet smell and then he heard a high pitch whine, like someone was in distress.

All his senses on alert, he carefully followed these distractions. And that was when he saw you.

He stumbled back in shock as he took in the scene before him. You were naked and drenched in sweat, straddling a large rock and grinding mercilessly on it, covering it in your juices and sweat. You were whining so much it looked like you were crying, clearly being tortured. And he recognized you, he knew your name and would see you out occasionally but that was about it.

As he was trying to process what his eyes were seeing, your scent crept up into his nose, even stronger and heavy in the air. Your eyes were screwed shut so you hadn’t noticed him yet until you smelled him—earthy and musky like a man.

Your eyes flashed open and head snapped to find him standing, a small whine escaping your lips.

“Y/n?” He breathed out shakily, as if he couldn’t believe it was you who was really in front of him doing this.

“Neteyam!” You shouted in relief. You were completely gone at this point.

His ears shot up at the sound of his name, though concern filled his eyes at your state.

“I need your help,” you cried, almost sobbing right then.

His eyes looked around still trying to process it all. He realized you were in heat and needed to see the Tsahik so she could give you medicines to ease the pain until it passed. But Eywa, you looked so good. After all he was only a man and had his limits too, even as the golden child. He gathered his thoughts and cleared his throat.

“Y/n, you poor girl,” he said sympathetically, “I’m so sorry this has happened out here. Let me carry you back to the tsahik, okay?”

“Nooo! Can’t wait! I need you to help me, you know what I need!” You whined to him.

He really did feel bad for you, you looked pitiful. And your scent was still continuing to attack his nostrils, getting him high on you.

You weakly crawled over to him and clung onto his leg. “Please!! I’ll do anything! I’m sorry- but please just help me!!” You laid your head tenderly against his calf as your body was slightly shaking and planted a kiss on his leg.

His eyes grew wide at your display of submission and neediness. You were breaking him quickly. He prided himself on his self-control and discipline, having been able to always do the right thing. But you were making him hungry with desire, he wanted nothing more than to indulge in you and give you everything you wanted right now. But what would his or your parents think? He needed to calm you down and get you to someone else before he crumbled completely. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath.

“Sweet girl,” he cooed softly looking down at you, though his eyebrows were scrunched up and jaw was clenching from his own internal war of trying to resist you. “I know it hurts but I can run fast, let me get you to help!” He reasoned and tugged your arms.

“Teyam NO! I need to be fucked right now!” Now you really were crying in desperation.

He finally lost his restraint at your vulgar plead. He crouched down to your level and held your face gently in his hands, seriousness sketched on his face.

“You’re not in your right mind,” he shook his head and you felt a pang of disappoint for a moment, “but I will help you. As you wish” he whispered tenderly.

You were ecstatic that he finally agreed. You nodded your head vigorously and pounced on him, losing your patience. He grunted as you both fell back and you landed on him. You ripped off his loincloth. You were not yourself at all but this wasn’t registering in your brain. You just knew you needed dick, now.

His pretty face looked surprised and taken aback by your straightforwardness but it was quickly replaced by his own desperation to have you.

You grabbed his dick and grinned from ear to ear, you were impressed with his size and couldn’t wait to have him in you. He propped himself on his elbows to watch you. You eagerly positioned him to your entrance, ready to lower yourself.

“Shit baby, just wanna get right to it, huh?” He commented and let out a weak chuckle, though he wasn’t really complaining.

“Mhmm, can’t wait Teyam” you whimpered.

He nodded his head in understanding and placed his hands on your hips to encourage you on. “Go on, sevin” he urged you. He knew you were using him but he didn’t mind and wanted to help you.

You sank down on him, marveling in the sensation. His cock gave the perfect amount of drag on your walls as you went lower and lower until your hips met. Both your jaws were slack and he groaned at the feeling.

“So fucking tight and wet” he grunted, “you’re gonna drive me crazy”

You moaned in response and tightened around him. He didn’t fail to notice you squeezing him after he spoke.

“You like what I’m sayin, huh? You like being talked to?”

“Yes, please!”

“Start riding me, take whatever you need.”

You wasted no time in obliging his request. You sat up and slammed back all the way down, taking all of him once again. You moaned in unison at the sweet friction.

Picking up the pace, you began bouncing on him. You planted your hands onto his chest for stability and he grabbed your wrists to hold them in place.

“F-fuck! Mmmm yeah, you’re doing so good, y/n” he praised you, urging you on.

You were a moaning mess above him, not even able to form words at the moment. His cockhead was hitting your cervix each time and the pleasure was consuming every nerve in your body. It was all you could think about.

You were creaming all over him, it coated his lower stomach and thighs, making unholy noises. You could feel your release approaching and he could feel his too, as his dick began to twitch inside of you.

“Teyam! Gonna- gonna cum!!” You announced to him.

“I know babe I know, do it!! I am too- shit!” He squeezed his eyes shut, his orgasm overtaking his body.

As soon as you felt his seed shooting into you and heard his low whimpers of pleasure, that was all you needed to get to completion too.

“Ahh! Fuck, fuckkkk!” You screamed so loud they could probably hear you back at the village. You convulsed around his length, milking him dry. You rode out your high on him, not even caring that you were overstimulating him as he was writhing on the ground below you.

You slumped onto him after you got what you wanted. Your bodies were sweating and slippery against each other, hearts pounding and panting into each others ears.

After a few seconds, you still felt the aching in your womb wanting more. You rose up to look at him and try to beg for more, hoping he would grant your request.

“You had enough?” He asked. He looked pussy drunk and you loved that it was yours that got him this way.

“No.. need more” you cried shamelessly and harshly sniffed his scent in like it was a drug.

“Okay sweetie,” he began as he secured you in his arms and rose up to his feet effortlessly. Eywa, he was so strong. “Let me fuck you properly. My way.”

He backed you up against a tree, still holding you up with his big, bulky arms. You knew he was muscular of course but you had never been this close to him. You went from barely being acquaintances to getting real close, real fast. It definitely would never be the same after this.

His length was already rock hard again, no doubt because of your strong pheromones suffocating him and putting him under your spell. By Eywa, you were making him an animal too. He wanted to make you cum over and over again, screaming his name.

He grabbed his dick with one hand and slid it across your abused, puffy cunt. He loved the sight and wanted this moment etched in his mind forever.

“So, so pretty y/n. You should’ve let me do this a long time ago. Guess I didn’t catch your eye” he stated jokingly.

“You’re the olo’eyktan’s son.. I figured you’d never have time for someone ordinary like me”

“Ordinary?? You just made me cum embarrassingly soon, I think that’s rather impressive and special” he chuckled. You laughed too. Gah, he was so handsome.

Bringing you out of your daze, he pushed his dick inside you. You were still wet with yours and his release so it glided easily. You instantly let out a long moan at being full of him again.

His ears were peeled back and he was biting his lip to try to suppress his own sounds of satisfaction. He was definitely pussy whipped.

He started his pace and it simply felt like heaven. Your pussy was already more sensitive from previously orgasming so the pleasure was intensified and downright addicting.

You were moaning and whimpering incoherently and he was watching your perfect, round tits bounce like he was in a trance.

“Damnit girl” he gritted through his teeth, struggling to keep any sort of composure “You’re so good. Doing so good for me”

He finally took the opportunity to kiss you on the lips. He was warm and sweet on your tongue, you let him take over your mouth and moaned through the kiss. You wanted to scream from the pleasure but he made you take his kiss.

You were getting near and he could tell by the way you squeezed him. He wanted to cum with you so he started jackhammering up into you, holding onto you so you wouldn’t fall out of his grasp from the aggressive thrusts flinging you about.

“Ohhhh! My Eywa! It’s too much!” You cried out, words broken up slightly from the air getting knocked out of you.

“You can take it! Cmon take it for me, sevin!” he pleaded desperately with you.

You came undone over him and shook violently. The pleasure coursed through every inch of you and you cried out his name over and over again. His name on your pretty lips was more than enough to push him over as well. He let out his load into you and pushed it all the way back to your cervix.

He crashed onto you and you were squished between the tree and his heavy, brawny body. You didn’t mind the squeeze though, you loved how huge he was and how small he made you feel.

He was lowly humming in satisfaction. Weakly, he lifted his head up to look at you, you were so close you were nose-to-nose. Both your expressions were of being fucked out and pure bliss.

His hooded eyes filled with lust searched your eyes. “Another round?”

…………….

Taglist: @professional-yapper @neteyamssyulang @nonamevenus

[yandere-wishes]

⋆.˚ 𝔻𝕒𝕣𝕜 𝕍𝕒𝕔𝕒𝕪 ⋆.˚

𐙚Yandere! Qimir X Reader

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ He steals you in summer. Castaway on a planet with no name. But the way his eyes shine under the hot sun has your heart beating out of your chest.

⁀➷ Does this count as "That's that me, espresso"?

🪐 Yandere behavior, obsessive tendencies, Stockholm syndrome, blood, and gore.

⁺₊𝄞₊⁺ Espresso by Sabrina Carpender

Dark Vacay by CAS

The heat licks at your neck dangerously. The scathing red glow cleaves through flesh, through bone.

Warm, warm, warm.

The sort of swelter befitting rampant volcanos and rebirthing suns.  

The man, no, the Sith has you pinned to his chest. His force,a dark pulsating thing, coiling through your body, keeping you rooted.

Sol's voice echoes through the canopy. Sending ripples through the blood-matted forest floor. "Release her." His saber is drawn, pointed.

Blue vs red.

Hot vs cold.

"Give me the relic." The voice lacks emotion, empathy. It demands, it takes. There is no room for formalities here, no chivalry you've long believed in. This monster deals only in dark. Taking and taking. "And I won't hurt her".

You try to push him away, to fight. Your force against his, clawing at the dark ether around you, hunting for an aperture, a splinter anything to infiltrate. But he is resilient, strong the way most volcanos are.

Impenetrable.

You moan against the tightening noose. He demands and you must obey. Such a dark thing can even make your master bow, make him give up the ancient blood-red relic. "You have your relic, now release my pupil." Behind you the monster chuckles, an airy noise overflowing with malice, "I said I wouldn't hurt her, not that I'd give her back."

The lights dull. Neon fading into a fuzzy mess of colors too tangled to decipher. Voices weave bending to the blaring buzz echoing from within. The world grows darker, you try to clutch onto something, anything. The cool colors of saber light, the soothing tone of your master's voice. The monster's dark cadence. But it's no use, the darkness prevails, pulling you under its crushing waves, burying you in a sea of nihil.

The world is dim upon resurgence. The air tastes of salt, fresh and dry upon the throat. The earth you lay in is warm, not like the smoldering heat of a bloodborne saber, but the warmth you imagine a mother's embrace to hold. Soft in every way that counts.

The place is alien and abandoned. No family, no monsters. Just rock upon rock and makeshift furniture to further the illusion of a makeshift home. The pounding upon your temples has yet to cease, you wonder if the outlines of a bruise have yet to bloom.

Slowly, you emerge from the cocoon of worn blankets. Bare feet scraping across the jagged floor. You feel the monster's presence linger, his essence strong within this place. You remember the dragon dens you used to read about in fairy tales. The gold-adorned caves where little princesses were forced to dwell.

It's funny you should feel like one now.

There are clothes sprawled across the floor. Vanilla ice cream in shade and shape, they feel too pure to have been chosen by a man like him. Too pure to have been tainted by the darkness of his fingertips. It's only now that the dress glares back that you notice your bareness, Jedi robes stripped and discarded.

That fiend...

You feel skinned, alone. No saber to grasp, no golden drapes. Nothing to paint you as Jedi. It's with reluctance that you lace yourself into the sweet dress, with utter reluctance that you step out onto the beach of rocks awaiting outside.

You spot the man,

the sith.

Qimir

His name reverberates within your head. You lick each letter, rolling them across your tongue and drinking in their condensation. "Qi-mi-rr" the name shouldn't taste of exotic fruits blended and bled. It shouldn't taste like fruit cocktails and coconut cubes but it does.

It does and it's disgustingly delicious.

He walks with the steady strout of a man who knows he is the most dangerous thing on this beach, on this island, on this entire planet. A volcano among mountains.

You follow behind bare feet on smooth rocks. Fumbling across the beach.

Chasing shadows. Chasing monsters.

He sheds his robes like skin, peeling away sabbath vestments to reveal cutis. Tanned and scarred, marred flesh risen like volcano veins cascading across his spine.

You shouldn't admit how desperately your fingers ache to trace the tragic thing. You glid your nails across the notched igneous rocks. Dreaming its soft flesh, his soft flesh beneath your touch. He would shutter under your fingertips as you pull apart his secrets. Nibbling on them like picnic cookies.

He's stripped bare, soft skin caught in the dim sun. His open wounds glisten under soft gold rays. You skate away from the sight, that forbidden sun-drenched sight. Eyes averted and hidden behind the rocks, twice locked, to avoid a rogue glance.

He is nothing if not haunting, forbidden in every way.

Odd how the memory of his bare ankles is what lingers. Carved too steep and too deep in a way that looks too marble. They merge into long robust legs. You can't help but imagine the sculpture of his thighs after, the thing at the end of those perplexing ankles. They too must be strong, carved to define each muscle. You imagine being trapped between them, their forceful push against your meaker body as his ankles intertwine with yours.

"You can open your eyes now."

You taste his darkness in your mouth again. Potent tropical fruits laced with sea salt. He couldn't have known you were trailing after him, you'd been quiet, silent like a whisper.

"It's improper to strip out in the open. What would you have done if someone should have come upon you?"

He treads in the water like a pearl unearthed. Shimmering alongside the blue-green of the lagoon. "You came upon me and nothing happened."

"That's because I had the good graces to avert my gaze from such a sight."

"I'd prefer if you'd look."

He pours water over his face, sparkly droplets cascading down sharp cheekbones. Eyes wide with an odd groggy wonder. The sky and the sea and him ethereally in between. He shouldn't look so magical. Some water nymph playing spike ball with the sun. Drinking in the clouds and blue. Before diving back down into his aquatic galaxy.

"Join me"

"I'd rather impale myself"  

he's treading closer, water shielding his body like liquid lapis lazuli. "I wonder what your lips will taste like blue?" and it's the first time you've ever thought of your order's regalia as something so macabre.

His eyes are half-lidded, licking over your body like a melting Sunday. Or maybe he actually is, you can feel something wet and sinister sliding across your body. Slipping over and under the dress, sucking at pulse points. Anticipating soft vanilla.

You want to rip out his tongue and harbor in your mouth. You want to devour him as if he were ice cream on a summer day. Butterscotch cone with drizzled caramel and star sprinkles. Your teeth ache desperately for just one small bite.

He's standing, growing into a full man, no longer just a boy nymph memorized by soft whites and bright blues. The water droplet clutch greedy to taut muscles, refusing to leave such a Promethean thing.

The wet thing freezes. Running water to ice cube. His force evaporates from you, you bask in the mist of him. Before the shadow roots behind you impenetrable all over again. Qimir steps closer and you close your eyes on instinct. Stepping back, following the flow of sand in breeze.

Such sights are not for us to love.

It tips you off balance, You can't see Qimir but you can feel him. He's closer and closer. That's why you're stalking back. But the plasmic thing behind you nicks your ankle. Lurching you back. In the blink of an eye and the start of a scream, you're suspended in mid-air. Floating above the sands, save in the gossamer of his black mist.

"Careful" Qimir jests

And you crack your eye open just enough to see his outstretched hand.

"I want to take a shower"

"The lagoone is over there" he throws over his shoulder all so causally. like spelling out sea cemetary.

the warmth of the cave is suffocating. Lacing through your body making it breakout into little pearls of hidrosis. You roll over, watching Qimir, solder the cracks of his helmet. The rampant sparks cast him in a galactic white halo. Some intangible creature from the far reaches of the universe.

You wonder back to the incident by the lagoon.

You wonder if his tongue, his real tongue, would feel cool against your flaring skin. Muscle-bound ice cube rolling across your arms, your chest, drinking in your essence in half kisses and open-lipped moans. Sucking tenderly on the veins of your neck.

But shouldn't the tongues of monsters be spiked? cutting deep in search of blood?

Qimir swats the sweat from his temples. Pulling up the back of his shirt in an effort to fight the humidity. His scars transcend so low. Rivers weaving through him, overflowing with treasured secrets. You suck in the force through your lips drinking in its cold confidence. Marching up to stand behind him, only half admiring the rugged skin below the sandy shirt.

"Ahem" Spine straight, head held high. Your stance is practiced, sculpted in the confidence that the order demands. Lightside in every way.

Jedi, Jedi, Jedi

"I know it is futile to ask a treasonous sith like you to abide by the laws of common decency. But I'd ask that you do not come to spy on me while I bathe" Your hands ball into firsts. Glaring death and shark teeth at his blemished back.

He leaves the workbench with all the grace of a crushing tide. Elegance carved from salt rocks and years of walking through stars and shadows. But this time you refuse to step back. There is no dishabille to fear, no sand lines that may be passed.

But he doesn't confront you. He doesn't bask in his rage and stands proudly in front of you. No, instead he paces, or rather almost floats. He's in front of you one minute and behind you the next. The eerieness of it all only comes from the feeling of entombment. He is your cage, your coffin. Burying you under the sand with his precious secrets and red relics. Your nerve beats out of you in little droplets.

Qimir's fingers lace with your own, his hot breath fans the shell of your ear, "How can I make such promises when you act so cute" his voice is coconut shavings upon white sand. You aren't even sure he spoke. " I thought Sith only dealt in absolutes?" his laughter cuts like fractured seashells. Cutting through heartstrings. You want to hear it again and again until you've memorized its melody. "That's what we want the Jedi to believe."

His teeth graze the nape of your neck. That's the last straw, gravity crushes your nerve, and you take off running.

The pearls that shine within his sockets are entirely too dark. You shouldn't be thinking such this as you disrode. But the glimmer of pure drown isn't a worldly sight, it's something unplaceable.

Sith can not be trusted, even if, until mere days ago they had been things of fairytales like dragons and sea monsters. Mystical monsters used to frighten little padwans into finishing their plates. But the stories are true now, they've ripped open the holobooks and sprouted from the screen. Your fingers flex, feeling the weight of his hand in yours.

The monsters are real...

You keep your undergarments on as you descend with the sparkling tides. Qimir may appear at any moment. And you wish to confront a Sith in a Jedi's skin, or what little is left of it.

You're sinking into the watermelon greens and crystal blues, sinking into him... because even so far from the grotto his presence haunts your thoughts still.

"You wouldn't mind if I invite myself in?" The water laps at his feet, he's standing over the liquid threshold.

"What are you doing here?! I told you not to come."

he shrugs and you can't help but notice the definition of his muscles. "It's hot in the cave. Plus you don't own the beach."

He pulls the shirt over his head.

You scream for him to stop.

But this time as he pulls the waistband down you notice something underneath.

Swim trunks.

Bell-bottomed and shaped like a nebula, but only midnight in hue. The cuffs glimmer with red intricacies, patterns from a different time, a different solar system. Each stitch tells some tale of horror or history. Sith things that you'd rather not know. But why engrave them into a swimsuit? Why paint a tapestry on something so jejune?

He treads through the water, deadset on you. And again in every step, you notice a mettle valor that can only come from having killed and kissed your greatest fears.

The rocks are slippery beneath your feet, running, swimming, gliding whatever gets you further from him. But the rocks form barricades of their own. Igneous confines housing prey and beast.

"I meant it when I said you were cute." He has you pinned to the mineral mountains, eyes prying you open, studying your inner workings like a gutted bot. "So fragile so malleable..." You feel his power rolled over your neck.

You didn't expect the kiss. The taste of coconut shavings and caramel. Your heart hammers as he tugs on your hips, pulling you closer. Your lungs burn, filled with salt water and dark force energy.

But suffocating is a small price to pay when he parts your lips and pushes iced star fruits in your mouth.

That night Qimir had tried to feed you soup. Boiled fish and herbs in a cauldron that looks, entirely witch. But the refusal comes not from the perturbation of poison or the primal mistrust shared between star-crossed enemies.

No the refusal comes because you simply do not like fish.

"Just try a spoonful, it's from a rare breed. Considered a luxury on most planets". His entreaties fall on deaf ears, outvoiced by the stubbornness of a crashing tide. You retire hungry, and maybe it's hunger that stirs you in the dead of night.

Or maybe it's the heartbeat echoing from his mask.

He called it cortosis. But it looks more terror than diamond.

You sink to your knees in front of the haunted heirloom, cradling it gently within your palms. The iron flavor upon lips makes you part them, tongue fleshed tracing every welded scar. Sucking in the solder and crystal and every other poison.

You want to be a part of it, to pry open your ribcage and shove the empyrean taj within.

Let its darkness mingle with your blood. You want to feel it's royalty in the marrow of your bones.

In the morning you do not speak about the pulsating thing within. But the mask stares at you as you eat mint and bread from Qimir's hand.

It knows...

It knows things you can never admit.

You'd been planning on narrowly avoiding him. Tiptoeing across the cave to evade stirring him. But the plans die when first light breeches the aperture.

Qimir's gone.

And in his place, he's left yet another raiment.

The dress is summer and doll. Bowed in the back and studded.

Bar'biee in every way.

The hysterically placed designs parody the crisscross of twilight roses and all their thrones. Checkered in shades of obsidian and ink.

But the black of your dress doesn't quite match the ebony of his robes.

It simply plays testament to your ripeness. You're starting to feel like his little doll.

He lies on a beach towel overlooking the sea. So ordinary it makes you choke. Beach ball in the corner by his feet, waiting to be played with.

Fearless.

You wonder just who he had to kill to reach this hubris?

You float down the little exclaves toes barely touching the ground.

He's adorned the rocky beach with a comically large parasol too dark to even have a name. Another towel, a picnic basket, and little coconut cups with straws. Despite his black tainted sunglasses, he knows you're watching him. Caught in the bosom of this haunted shore. Awaiting your capturer's orders.

"You can sit if you want." again he's saying words without realizing how crushing they truly are. Their full weight pulling your bones until they slip from skin.

Might as well have said shark attack and death at sea.

But you obey because despite everything, the towel looks nice and so does the drink.

"The sun doesn't come out very often. But I figured we could at least enjoy it today."

"Thanks," you mutter chewing on the pink straw. You shift your limbs rigidly. Plastic doll coming to life. Pushing tense bones straight as you rest your uneasy head. The waves hum in your ear and you swear you hear the rocks buzze like star songs.

"Why did you bring me here? Why not kill me."

"Well, you're not really any use to me dead" He offers you a melon slice.

"So I'm bait." Qimir sighs, your query exhausting. He simply sips from his own drink. You notice the jounce of his throat with each gulp. How you'd love to ring to those bones, feel them crack between your fingers.

He turns to you, lips a breath away. He hasn't kissed you since that day in the lagoon. But you wish him too so very much.

This isn't the Jedi way...

What?

Qimir's fingers trace over your thighs and hips. Finally, they land heavily on your shoulders, pushing you into the rocks with zeal. He blocks the sun and you can't help but think he's lovelier than any red goliath in the macrocosm.

Qimir's teeth gnaw at your throat, kissing the blood and smearing it with his tongue. Traling open-mouth kisses to the plinth of your neck.

Your nails, rasp curiously at his back, tracing scars, tracing cortosis veins.

His fingers dig into your ribs, painting it in seastars. Kissing starlights and pearls in your bones. His body is hot, scolding. And you wonder if the minerals he surrounds himself with were all nursed in the womb of a violent volcano.

The result of destructive habits is knife bites called kisses and a heart that's finally exploded.

When he pulls off, he poises himself on his knees before falling back to his side, searching for something in the basket. You stare, dress distorted, and breath hitched. You taste the exotic fruit blend again. Burning, caramel, and coconut that linger across your body.

"Hey, can you put this on me?" reality blurs back in, he's dangling a yellow bottle in front of you. "What" he shouldn't have this ease with you. He shouldn't be playing make-believe lovers on the beach with the girl he kidnapped.

But he does.

And you play along too.

"it's sunscreen, believe it or not, I burn easily."

"No"

"please"

"N-"

You don't control your hand as it pours the cream onto his chest. He touches you with such familiarity, the force on this planet is just an extension of him. But you shy away at the thought of running your fingers across his muscle bound chest. What is the force if not a child's toy? If not another doll.

He notices the shyness. Or rather reads it from the air. His force pokes at your arms, laughing at the discomfort. Before you know it he's harbored between your thighs. Large hands holding your wrist.

Firm yet delicate.

He moves your hand over his chest, charting every bump and muscle. Coating the blocker over his skin. It feels like piecing together armor. Preparing him for a battle you've never been invited to.

You don't want this.

Well not quite.

You want to feel his body jolt under your touch and hear the sweet little quips he offers to lighten the mood. You want to capture the fleeting moment where he bites his lip and preserve it for eternity.

But more than anything you want to peel away his armor, his flesh, and bury yourself beneath. Become another one of his secrets and staying inside him. Safe and warm forever.

"Qimir"

He makes pomegranate soup that night. As he nestles your body over his lap. Kissing the half-healed bruise on your forehead. He brings the spoon to your lips and gently nudges your mind to let him in. You part your lips, welcoming him in with the shyness you've been raised on. Blushing little bride-doll.

Legacy. You realize when the seeds erupt inside your mouth.

He's feeding you his secrets, his bequest. Boiling you like the fish and the fruit. And birthing you anew.

You sleep with your head buried in the crux of his neck. Listening to the lullaby of his tattered heart, singing psalms of conquest.

That night you dream of a river red. You blame it on Qimir, the pomegranate seeds were too maroon in color and flavor.

From the crimson water the helmet surfaces. Bobbing in the waves, beckoning you. You cup your hands inside the river, guzzling down the water and licking your fingers after. You let the red kiss your lips and fill your lungs choking you by essence alone. You want to die drinking from the bloodlust. Die in front of his helmet.

So maybe he can call it love.

Or Devotion.

Or anything else equally sweet.

The river doesn't taste like pomegranates, or fruit cocktails, or iced coconut.

It tastes of salty iron, volcanic diamonds and Qimir's lips.

You plunge into the red...

He's thinking about you again. You know it from the moment you awake. His voice is loud inside your head. Reverberating from wall to wall until it is the only thing you hear.

This time the garments are waterproof. Swimwear. Two pieces in black, just black. And adorned with red trees on the seams.

Right, because you beat me in the forest.

Clever.

He has left bangles too, jagged and bruised purple with veins of white. cortosis. Accompanied by a golden necklace that looks like a beating heart, ripped freshly from someone's chest.

"You look beautiful," he remarks after you've dressed in his colors. When did he come in? You need to get better at hearing the man born from shadows. The man who's walking between worlds unseen, unheard his entire life.

He pulls you close, nails picking at the soft flesh of your tummy. Scratching skin and leaving red crescents. He kneels and licks and bites, claiming this new chart of unmarked skin.

This has always been about possession, domination, damnation. "Qimir" you moan and it feels so wrong and so right. Like saber to the heart.

Oh force, how far you've fallen.

Qimir laces his fingers with yours pulling you outside the cave. The sun shimmers off his lopsided smile and he really does glow brighter than every star in the known cosmos.

The lagoon is red.

It shouldn't be red.

"You killed them" Since when have such dire words spilled so easily from your lips? Sol, Jacki, Yord. Are they in this pool? shimmering translucent awaiting a vengeance you do not think you can deliver?

"Yes...But not your Jedi, not yet. These were just some self-pious knights who got in my way."

He brings his arm up showing you a fresh saber cut, before pulling you into the water. It's so warm boiling, lava meets water. You think your skin will peel off.

But you stand your ground. Force directing your every breath. Spine straight head high. Darkside in every way

Sith, sith, sith

You grasp at his forearm, pulling it to your lips. Your tongue finds the slit in the skin and dives it. Mapping out the muscles and drinking in the red.

Exotic fruits bled and blended.

"I think I'm finally getting through to you," Qimir says, brown pearls glazed over with pride. "My sweet little acolyte."

You giggle at the term. It tastes so bitter, like a raw espresso before dawn.

"Oh, master" you moan. As you pull him under the red waters. Lips and legs entwined.

ᯓ♡ : @feedmestraycats @moonlovefairy  @wicked0clouds @phoenixes-and-wizards @peridedarling @morax-on-my-mind @magikmaik @lov4gor3 @manchuria @bucksdonkey @embersofimagination @hauntedhedgehogs @peter-laufeyson @papitas-con-sal @f0odie @boredtone @bluechissbrain @yourfilthydevil @n0t-skywalker @xsister-serpent @gabriqllas @zionysuss @i-love-my-babygirls @pagingoswin @jxp1ter @faebirdie @deezhutts565 @thesithdiaries @pagingoswin @hauntingwolf @scentedbanditlampwobbler @uwingdispatch @mask-knife-is-buggys-girl @lunarsvertigo @scintilla-morningstar @carpinchootaku @penny44224 @suburbanlegendzzzz @jihyos-wifey @reylo-imperium @ladyofyourdreams @sassybananaweaselpsychic @96jnie @@jxp1ter @sunnymoonxx @scintilla-morningstar @carpinchootaku @smutmaniac @alena1100 @marice23top @ohdearmaggie @strawberrycat69

[targtowerxstark]

The Festival of the First Snow.

Cregan Stark X Targaryen reader

•Cregan and his wife prepare for the Festival of the first snow. During the festival the sneak off to the Gods wood.

•Wife is referred to as y/n. Small description of her. Targaryen features.One mention of being petite.

♡

Cregan Stark leaned back in his chair, the crackling fire in his study casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. The scent of burning wood mingled with the faint aroma of parchment and ink, creating a comforting atmosphere as he reviewed the plans for the upcoming Winter Festivals. The Festival of the First snow was to take place in a matter of days, marking the onset of winter. His brow furrowed in concentration, but a soft laugh broke his focus.

“Cregan, you look as if you’re preparing for a battle rather than a celebration,” y/n , his wife, teased, her voice light and melodic. She stood by the window, her silver hair catching the firelight, framing her face like a halo.

Cregan smiled, his heart warming at the sight of her. “Perhaps I am. The Northmen can be a rowdy lot after too much drink. I must ensure we have enough mead to keep them merry and not too rowdy.”

She turned to him, her violet eyes sparkling with mischief. “And what of the women? They deserve to be entertained as well. We should plan games for the children and stories for the ladies. Perhaps a dance beneath the stars?”

“Dance?” Cregan echoed, his voice low and teasing. “You know I have two left feet, y/n”. I’d sooner wrestle a direwolf than dance.”

She laughed, the sound brightening the room. “Then I shall teach you, my wolf. We will make it a night to remember.”

As they discussed their plans, y/n moved closer, her presence filling the space with warmth. They spoke of the traditions of the festival’s—the feasting, the storytelling, the games, and the honoring of the Old Gods. Each idea sparked excitement between them, weaving their hearts closer like the intricate patterns of the tapestries that adorned Winterfell’s walls.

The next night, the great hall of Winterfell was adorned with evergreens and flickering candles, casting a warm glow over the long wooden tables. The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filled the air, and laughter echoed as the Northmen gathered, their spirits high. Cregan, ever the young wolf, sat among the men, sharing tales of bravery and adventure, his voice strong and commanding.

y/n, sat across the hall with the women, radiating beauty in a deep sapphire gown that hugged her figure perfectly, the fabric shimmering like the stars. Cregan’s breath caught as he caught sight of her, his heart racing like the thundering hooves of a charging wolf. Their eyes met across the hall, and in that moment, the noise of the festival faded into the background.

He admired the way her laughter danced in the air, how her eyes sparkled with mischief, and how she moved with grace. Cregan felt a warmth spread through him, a primal need to be near her, to claim her as his own. The way she tilted her head and smiled made him forget the stories he was telling, and he found himself lost in thoughts of her.

As the night wore on, a group of men began to share a particularly wild story of a hunt gone wrong, their voices rising in excitement. “And there we were, facing down a bear as big as a horse!” one man boasted, his arms gesturing wildly. The hall erupted in laughter, but Cregan’s attention was divided. He caught his wife’s gaze again, and she raised her cup, a playful smile on her lips.

Time slipped away, and many looks were passed between the pair, and soon the feast began to wind down. y/n stood to leave, her dress flowing behind her like a whisper of the wind. As she walked towards the doors, she glanced back, locking eyes with Cregan once more. He couldn’t help but notice the way her hips swayed and her dress hugged her waist enhancing her figure. He needed her. He felt like a wolf during a full moon, drawn to her, filled with a longing that was both fierce and gentle. He wasn’t used to these feelings that consumed him whenever she was near but he knew it was love.

As soon as she exited the hall, Cregan rose, his instincts guiding him. He followed her out, careful to avoid the prying eyes of the other guests. He saw her slip into the Godswood, the ancient trees standing sentinel around her.

Cregan stealthily moved through the dense underbrush of the God’s Woods, the moonlight filtering through the branches above, casting a silver glow that danced across the forest floor. His heart raced, not from the thrill of the chase but from the intoxicating presence of her. She moved like a whisper among the trees, a vision that stirred something primal within him. He craved her like a wolf starved, every instinct urging him to close the distance between them.

As she reached a clearing, y/n settled onto a wooden stump by the water's edge, her silhouette framed by the shimmering reflections of the moon. Cregan paused, taking in the sight of her—such a petite, perfect thing, yet she had such power over him. He stepped forward, a playful smirk crossing his lips. "You know, it’s dangerous to wander these woods alone. What if a hungry wolf were to come along?"

She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Well, I’d just have to show that wolf who’s really in charge, wouldn’t I?" Her playful tone sent a shiver down his spine, igniting a fire of desire within him. Cregan couldn't help but chuckle, his cockiness shining through. "I’d like to see you try. But I must warn you, I don’t play fair."

The chase was on. She stood up, a teasing smile on her lips as she darted away, her laughter echoing through the trees. Cregan was quick to follow, weaving through the trunks, his heart pounding not just from exertion but from the thrill of the pursuit. He relished the game, the way her energy electrified the air around them. "Catch me if you can!" she called out, glancing back at him with a playful challenge.

With each step, he felt the desperation growing within him—he needed to catch her, to claim this moment. Finally, he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around her waist just as she reached another clearing. She squealed in surprise, and he spun her around, their faces inches apart. "Got you," he breathed, his voice low and teasing.

y/n’s eyes sparkled with a mix of challenge and delight. "You think you’ve won, don’t you? But this isn’t over yet." She leaned closer, her breath warm against his skin, and for a moment, time stood still. Cregan's heart raced, the playful banter giving way to something deeper, more desperate. "Oh, I’m counting on it," he replied, his voice thick with longing, as he leaned in, ready to savor the taste of victory.

With a soft smile, she leaned in, and their lips met in a slow yet passionate kiss that quickly ignited into something more fervent. Cregan's hands found their way to her waist, pulling her closer as their kiss deepened, filled with desperation and longing. Her hands were wrapped up in his hair pulling slightly. He lifted her up in one swift movement and she wrapped her legs around him. He pushed her up against the Weirwood tree so that the Gods could witness the love he would make to his wife. The world around them faded away, leaving only the sound of rustling leaves and their hearts beating in unison. In that sacred space, they were lost in each other, wrapped up in the intoxicating warmth of their love….

[thatlittlered]

rings of power men | tropes

warning(s): light TROP spoilers, gn!reader used throughout

author's note: most of these will be turned into actual fics :)

-.-.-

Elrond + friends to lovers

GIF by @fukutomichi

As kind as summer, as gentle as the soft rays of sun upon your faces whilst you sit in each other's company and he is weaving, unbeknownst to you, tales of your wit and beauty in his mind; poems he would never dare show you. It was love long before either of you knew what to call it.

Gil-galad + opposites attract

GIF by @fukutomichi

Born and raised the son of kings, Gil-galad has known nothing but duty during his lifetime. A King neither ventures, nor tries his hand at passing affections, and yet the curse of a still beating heart inevitably finds him when his lieutenant and trusted friend Círdan is apprenticed by a lovely lowly elf.

Celebrimbor + soulmates

GIF by @dailyflicks

It is instant, absolute. As if the two of you were born a mystical creature, bearing two faces, four arms and four legs, until the Valar separated you and forced you to spend eternity searching for your other half. In the worst of times and the most unlikely of places, the search has come to cease. Alas, so has the time of peace.

Arondir + forbidden love

GIF by @lousolversons

The Silvan elf comes to respect the race of men for what they are during his time in the Southlands and whilst he dare not admit it, it does pertain with knowing you. It is hard to care for the hateful gazes of villagers when your own gaze is so tender under the moonlight, your hands cold and decisive when you touch him here where no one can hear or see. Though he has not tasted mortality, it must taste like you and the urgency you kiss him with, as if in fear the sun might never rise again.

Elendil + forbidden love, age gap

GIF by @frodo-sam

This man was born to be your dutiful protector, loyal like no other and sworn to serve you as his ruler with everything he has. Loyalty and love tend to melt into each other, merge so that it is impossible to tell them apart. It is a tormenting, silent agreement that neither of you may speak on these feelings and yet, it... overwhelms.

Valandil + childhood sweethearts

GIF by @fukutomichi

To know and love Valandil comes as easy as breathing air. You have been doing both for just as long, you think. Childish adoration blossoms in time until your souls are tethered and he will commit his life to earning rank and making it official, from the streets of Númenor to the edge of the world, where he hopes to travel with you.

Isildur + love triangle, second chance

GIF by @vidalharkness

Isildur has always held a deep admiration for you, a childish infatuation even, but your bond with Valandil always comes before all and he happily accepts things as they are for a long time. Friendship is of equal, if not grander, worth and he considers both of you his dear friends above all. Until Valandil is killed, that is. The love each of you have for him and each other perseveres until grief threatens to swallow you whole. On the precipice of desperation, a teary kiss is meant to bring comfort. Yes, of course. That is what this must be.

-.-.-

bonus:

Adar + enemies to lovers

GIF by @anthemias

Sauron saw in you every weakness, every earthly, pathetic desire to be appreciated and loved when everyone and everything has been cruelly ripped from you. To be part of something larger than the pain eating away at your chest until your days in Middle Earth are over and you can find refuge in the arms of those who unlike you, gave their lives for a greater cause. He saw and took full advantage. Adar sees it now too when he looks at you; the agony of knowing you have played into the hands of evil itself just as he has. There is always a sliver of affection in understanding another, is there not?

[scarletttries]

Baldur's Gate 3 Companions Love Languages (Baldur's Gate 3 Request)

Request: "hi! i loved reading your baldurs gate companions in love headcanons, i wanted to ask would it be okay if you wrote headcanons for what their love languages would be? or just how they would show love to their partner? thank you!"

Pairings: Astarion x Reader, Wyll Ravengard x Reader, Gale Dekarios x Reader, Shadowheart x Reader, Karlach x Reader

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who sent in requests and reblogged my last Baldur's Gate post! Consider me open for any BG3 requests, let me know if you want to see more pieces like this :)

Astarion:

- Astarion has always had a way with words, and there's no exception in the way he sings his praises of you. He is quick to tell you how you have won his favour, how he prefers you to any of his other travelling companions, how he looks forward to the moment you open your eyes each morning. He will come up with a thousand sweet pet names to lavish you with affection, her purring voice leaving no trace of doubt that he doesn't mean exactly what he says. And he takes a certain sick satisfaction in describing all the things he wants to do for you the moment you are left alone together, and watching the blood rise up to your cheeks, only making you more appetizing.

- After years of what felt like indentured servitude, Astarion always feels himself falling only more deeply in love when you do him little favours and acts of service. He never stops being surprised when you've set up his tent for him because he could tell he was battle-worn this evening, or when you fetch him a cup of wine before he's even realised he was actually quite thirsty. He's never had someone know him well enough to anticipate his needs, let alone selflessly step up to deliver those things wanting nothing in return but to see him happy and at ease. He can feel himself grow more trusting and open of you with every kind task you undertake.

Wyll:

- Wyll has lived a life subject to many stories, and finds himself weaving a new tapestry of tales with his Words whenever he speaks to you. A simple good morning is never enough, he must soliloquise on and on about the way it feels to wake beside you, and how each ray of sunlight captures your beauty in a thousand different ways. He will wax poetic as you stroll through the lands, letting you know exactly what he admires about you, and exactly what your future adventures together would mean to him. He wants nothing more than to tell you the story that he sees the two of you writing together, every sweet word just another reminder that there's never been anything more important to him than you.

- You can show Wyll how much you care about him by just being there and sticking by for all the quality time he needs. This may include a lot of listening to the heartbreaking tale of his father's scorn, and sitting in supportive silence as he tries to let go of some of the weight he has carried on his shoulders thus far. You also need to be willing to put in the time to learn a dance or two, the retracing of steps bringing warmth to Wyll's heart and flooding him with all the brightest memories of his childhood. And when the dances have your bodies twisting closer and closer then Wyll has another idea of how you can spend some quality time together.

Gale:

- While Gale does see himself as a man of adventure, he is first and foremost a scholar of the magical arts and that requires a certain amount of Quality Time spent with his books. As he makes space in his life and heart for you, he views his time with you as equally precious. He loves that you two can sit quietly next to each other reading for hours, or just swapping stories of your adventures. He knows if the gravity of it all is getting on top of him, he can pass an easy day resting his head in your lap while the two of you discuss what the future could hold for you, giving him reason after reason to keep on fighting and never surrender to ache in his chest. On the rare occasions that Gale has to spend the day away from you, prepare yourself for the most dramatic reunion you can imagine when he returns - sweeping you into his arms, ready to cling by your side as he tells you everything you missed while being apart.

- Gale has heard and read a lot of pretty words in his time, knowing they are often not to be trusted in their intended meaning. So rather than telling Gale you care, you find it much more effective to just show him with your touch. He's a needy boy at the best of times anyway, but with a gentle caress of your fingers over the nape of his neck you can render the chatty wizard speechless and completely entranced. It's difficult to overstate how much of Gale's day he spends thinking about when it all grows dark and finally he can retire into your bed roll and feel your skin pressed against his, feeling completely safe and content in your company.

Shadowheart:

- Despite having little to offer and no intrinsic idea of an item's value, Shadowheart finds herself compelled to offer you small gifts and tokens of affection as you travel together. It might be an especially well aged bottle of wine picked up while exploring some abandoned castle, a bottle she hopes the two of you can share as the sun is setting that night. It might be a resilient flower she sees sprouting from a hillside, she can't help but tuck it behind your ear and marvel at the way it draws out the highlights in your eyes. A cup of water from a glistening stream, a smooth pebble plucked from the shore, a sweet handful of berries found deep in a thicket. Her hand is constantly extending out towards you, with some small reminder that you are never far from her thoughts.

- So much of Shadowheart's life has a been shrouded in dishonesty and mystery, so when you speak to her with only kindness and truth she comes to really value those Words of Affirmation. Giving her your honest opinion, and letting her talk through whatever moral quandary is playing on her mind, will strengthen the deep understanding you share and remind her of the way you give her something no one else has before. Let her know you're thinking of her too, that you care about how she's doing, and you like her no matter what version of herself she is becoming, and Shadowheart will continue to open her heart and mind to you again and again.

Karlach:

- Karlach has always been a helpful soul, even if she's been misguided in the past about who she's been helping. So her favourite way to show you she cares is through Acts of Service, doing little tasks for you and reinforcing that your life will just be easier if you keep her around and ideally very close by. She is particularly happy when she gets to do something for you that doubles as an excuse to show off her statuesque build; reaching something off a high shelf, lifting some heavy boulder out of your way, carrying you in her arms when the day has been long and there's still a journey ahead of you. She feels like she needs to improve your life in all these tangible ways in order to let you know just how appreciated you are, even though it would be impossible to ever feel like you were being taken for granted by this loving soldier.

- After decades of burning ultimately hot because of the infernal engine in her chest Karlach has become used to being a certain level of touch-starved. But when you first celebrate her mended heart by throwing your arms over her shoulders, all that need and want come flooding back in a landslide and Karlach is sure she'll never be able to stop squeezing you again. Show Karlach love through physical affection and this fierce warrior will be melting like a puddle into your lap at the slightest touch. Wake her with a hug each morning, let her fingers grip your hand as you explore the treacherous world, squeeze her thigh as you settle round the campfire each evening. Remind her you're there, and let her cling to you in a way she has always craved, and you'll have a very happy Barbarian on your hands.

[manikas-whims]

Hellooo!

I would love for headcannons of the LADS boys with a Latin reader (Mexican, Colombian, Salvadoran, etc) who loooves to dance and always goes to gatherings (quinceñeras, family bbq’s/ parties, etc). They’re very good at dancing and love to just be on the floor feeling the music. Would love to see their reactions to you having a big family or trying out the food or how you dance and maaaybe convince them to do so too?

hiii, thanks for the lovely request! i must admit i possess limited knowledge about latin cultures but i do hope that you like these..♡

LADS men with a Latin Reader

RAFAYEL

🌊 Remember he told you that he's fluent in many languages? Yeah, he probably already knows and speaks your language well. And even if he doesn't, he knows the commonly used phrases. He'll also ask you to help and correct his pronunciations and grammar.

🌊 He is just like water— easily blends with your family members, entertaining everyone with his lively attitude and forms an instant connection with each one. He's always surrounded by at least 4-5 of your family members.

🌊 He's enthusiastic about your culture. He questions you on why certain rituals are performed in what ways and he loves to learn, and try things for himself. He plans to incorporate it all in his next piece that he's gonna dedicate to you.

🌊 He won't hesitate from the variety of food and drinks offered by your family elders, and will definitely try some of the local alcoholic beverages. He's complimented your mother for her cooking, and by the time you both go back, he's gained a few pounds of weight.

🌊 When Rafayel sees you dancing at a family gathering, he matches your energy on the dance floor. He may not know all the moves but he'll watch you and learn, moving his body in tandem with yours. He might goof around and make you laugh alot. Your family loves him even more for it.

XAVIER

⭐ He’s learnt a few terms here and there from you but he can't speak your language. Though he LOVES hearing you speak it. And even more when you call him nicknames in your native tongue. Definitely gets a lil horny and asks you to use them in bed.

⭐ At first he comes off as quiet and aloof to your family but they slowly take a liking to him. You realize how good of a narrator Xavier is when you see your family members sitting around him in circles at night as he weaves magical tales about princes from distant planets.

⭐ He's a curious kitty. He buys himself flyers about the local specialties of your hometown, and even books tickets to all the historical sites he'd like to visit with you. He enjoys hearing myths about the deities of your lands.

⭐ He loves the food! Every time he experiences a new flavour or spice, you see his eyes light up in delight. He asks help from your mother and other family ladies to help him with some recipes because he wants to cook you some of your hometown food. And all the ladies are swooning. He also enjoys the occasional gossip with them.

⭐ His eyes seem to follow your every move when he sees you dancing. He's recorded a bunch of videos but if asked to join, he's quite hesitant. Though the moment you drag him on the dance floor, he complies. Might step on your foot once or twice, and feel embarrassed about it but overall, he's a fast learner.

ZAYNE

❄️ He doesn't speak your language but he's very keen on learning from you. You deliberately make him say the cheesiest stuff in your language, sometimes even a little naughty things. And when he sees you giggling, he chuckles and calls you childish for pulling such pranks on him.

❄️ Your family immediately takes a liking to him. He's responsible and dependable, and they are happy that you have someone so reliable by your side. They also come to take his advice on every little health related thing when they learn he's a doctor. But they also make a lot of health jokes with him because he's easy to tease.

❄️ He loves hearing about your culture. He complies when you make him try on some of the traditional outfits for men, and is quite pleased to know that you find him even more handsome in them. And he's left awestruck when he sees you in your traditional clothes.

❄️ Zayne does enjoy the variety of flavors in your culture’s food. Though he's even more eager to try out the local sweet dishes. He loves how the recipe varies from hand to hand, and in every household. And he likes the differing tastes of the same sweets.

❄️ He loves watching you dance. He tries to deny you when you ask him to join because he isn't very confident. But after a little convincing, he will comply because it's impossible for him to say no to you. He's awkward on the dance floor but gets loads of encouragement not just from you but all your family members. In the end, you place his arms around your waist and guide his movements, your laughter making him forget his hesitance.

SYLUS

🐦‍⬛ You assume he doesn't know your language and try to prank him by using some bad and naughty words for him but he smirks and responds in the same language, leaving you shocked. He's not fluent but he knows enough to engage in conversations.

🐦‍⬛ Your family is suspicious about his overall persona but soon realize he's quite alright. They are thrilled by the fact that he can sing, and he is definitely pushed by the elders into singing at the family gathering. At least 4 of your cousins have a crush on him.

🐦‍⬛ Just like his grasp on the language, he's quite knowledgeable in your culture. He especially loves the music, some of his favourite musicians being latin. And he most likely knows some of the old songs by heart.

🐦‍⬛ Since he's quite good at cooking, he's given free access to the house kitchen. Your mother and the other family ladies find it charming. They like to discuss seasonings and spices with him, and want him to assist in the arrangements of food. They compliment him for every new dish he learns.

🐦‍⬛ He's not just a good singer but a dancer too. It's surprising when he follows you on the dance floor and begins to match you beat for beat. You don't realize when but you end up having a little dance off between the two of you until he gets bored of competing and pulls you to him so you two can dance together.

» MASTERLIST «

[yaksha-lover]

The hands of fate weave a tale as old as time.

Malleus had once foolishly believed that yours might be a story that intertwines with his own. That the strings that pulled you and him inevitably toward each other might be final and true: that he might be your destiny.

You, a kind-hearted traveler from another world, pulled into this one by an inescapable force, demanding to set the stage for your romantic pursuits.

Him, a lonely prince, awaiting, in a way, his own knight to come rescue him from a tower built of isolation and abandonment.

But the endless hours of reading fairytales alone as a child must have distorted his perception, because Malleus realizes he is far from the lovely, innocent prince who gets to be rescued. He isn’t the type who gets to be loved.

Perhaps fate did pull you into this world, as he suspects, just not for him.

Because he can remember the first time you’d met your silver-haired prince. The way you’d looked at him, gaze lingering before shying away, like you knew. You knew you weren’t in love with him, but that, one day, you would be.

You looked at him in a way you’d never looked at anyone else; especially not Malleus.

A selfish, aching feeling gnaws at him. He hates you for being in love with someone else, hates Silver for being that person, and hates himself most of all for being so selfish and spiteful.

Malleus feels like a truly pitiful creature, born only to poison everything that bares the mark of his fingertips.

He knows the truth: no one deserves you like Silver does. If it had been Kingscholar, or even Schoenheit, Malleus might have been justified in his feelings of annoyance and objection.

But Silver is good. Good like you.

The two of you are a truly rare gems in a place like NRC. Neither of you really belong here, amongst the egotism running rampant.

But you do belong together. The lovely man earns the heart of his beloved, never the malevolent prince, cast off to the side.

That is fate, stringing each and everyone along into the roles they’re destined to play.

Malleus wonders, as he sits alone once again, watching the two of you, what role he might be to you. He hates it, hates where his thoughts go. But just as fate compels you away from him and into Silver’s arms, it forces his mind to wander, to land on questions that are agonizing and horrifying.

Thoughts that make him afraid of himself.

If he is not your handsome prince, might he be the villain whose malevolence robs you of your happiness?

[atzaurora]

╰┈➤ ɪɴᴛᴏxɪᴄᴀᴛɪɴɢ

[˗ˏˋ ´ˎ˗] mіძᥒіgһ𝗍 mᥱᥣ᥆ძіᥱs

❥ 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓: Hongjoong

➤ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: fem!idol!songwriter!reader x idol!songwriter!hongjoong

➤ 𝒕𝒚𝒑𝒆𝒔: imagine (smut)

➤ 𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑: group members, good friends

.ᐟ.ᐟ𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔.ᐟ.ᐟ: 18+/smut/suggestive content, MDNI!!!, unprotected sex

➤ 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: Stuck in the studio late at night with Hongjoong and who knew, what you were writing in the song would turn into reality...

➤ 𝒘/𝒄: > not counted <

➤ 𝒂/𝒏: as you can see I changed my theme for my blog >.< I hope y'all like it! anyways enjoy this fanfic with Hongjoong

if you have any ideas or wishes let me know, requests are open

here's my [𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕]!

[𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕]here!

about me, my writings, request rules [𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆]

It was late at night, too late to form a straight thought around all of the work in front of you.

Being in the songwriting position alongside Hongjoong could be a blessing and a curse at the same time. You loved writing songs, putting your all into the lyrics but you hated how long you and him had to stay up sometimes just to find the right words.

Eventually the words came to your minds as you sat there scribbling it down onto a piece of paper and testing out some beats that could fit the vibe of the song. Hongjoong groaned, leaning back into his chair, his hands covering his eyes in exhaustion.

"Shit, it's so late already," he glanced at you, lowering the hands from his face. "Do you want to go to sleep? You must be tired already?"

You smiled at how he looked out for you but shook your head. "No, it's alright. Plus, we both should write the song. I don't want to leave you to it all alone."

He nods approvingly. "Yeah, you're right. But before you collapse please tell me, we can always continue tomorrow, okay?"

"Yes, I know, but I'm fine, I'm not that tired." It was sort of a lie to be honest because in fact you were tired already. You turned back to face the paper.

Hongjoong’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips before he turned back to his notebook. The two of you worked in silence, the only sounds being the scratching of pens on paper and the occasional sigh of frustration. The lyrics were shaping up nicely, weaving a tale of forbidden desire and hidden passion.

As the night wore on, the words on the page grew increasingly sensual. The group had agreed earlier on doing a song a little more explicit than usual just to test it out.

Hongjoong’s voice softened as he read aloud a particularly provocative line. “Your touch ignites a fire, burning with forbidden desire…” He trailed off, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. There was something different in his gaze, something darker and more intense.

You felt a shiver run down your spine, the atmosphere in the room shifting palpably. “That’s... perfect,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Hongjoong’s eyes stayed locked on yours, a small smirk forming on his lips. “Yeah? You think so?” He leaned closer, his hand brushing against yours as he reached for a pencil. The contact was brief, but it sent a jolt of electricity through you.

“Definitely,” you managed to say, your voice trembling slightly. You tried to focus on the paper in front of you, but the proximity of Hongjoong was making it difficult to concentrate. His cologne, a mix of cedarwood and vanilla, was intoxicating.

As the song continued to take shape, the lyrics grew bolder, more explicit. You could feel the tension building between you, an unspoken understanding passing between the two of you. Hongjoong’s touches became more frequent, more deliberate. His fingers would linger on yours a moment too long, his knee would brush against yours under the table.

It was becoming harder to ignore the growing heat between you. Finally, Hongjoong put his pen down, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. “I think we’ve got something really special here,” he said, his voice low and husky. “Don’t you think?”

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yeah, we do.”

Hongjoong’s gaze was intense, his eyes dark with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. He reached out, his fingers gently tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. “You know,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, “some of these lyrics... they make me think of you.”

Your breath hitched, the air between you charged with electricity. “Hongjoong...” you whispered, your voice trailing off as he leaned closer

“Tell me if I’m out of line,” he said softly, his lips just inches from yours. “But I can’t stop thinking about you. About us.”

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours, soft and insistent. You melted into the kiss, your hands tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer. The notebook and pens scattered to the floor as Hongjoong lifted you onto his lap, your legs straddling his waist.

The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent. His hands roamed over your body, exploring and caressing. You could feel the hard evidence of his arousal pressing against you, sending a thrill of excitement through your body.

Hongjoong’s lips trailed down your neck, sucking and nibbling, leaving a trail of hickeys in his wake. You moaned softly, your hips grinding against him as you sought more friction. His hands slipped under your shirt, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

“God, Y/N,” he groaned, his lips returning to yours in a heated kiss. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You rocked your hips against him, feeling the heat between you growing. “Show me,” you whispered, your voice breathless.

Hongjoong didn’t need any more encouragement. He lifted you effortlessly, carrying you over to the couch in the corner of the studio. He laid you down gently, his body covering yours as he kissed you deeply.

Your hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. He helped you, shrugging off his shirt and tossing it aside before returning his attention to you. His hands slid under your shirt, pushing it up and over your head.

His lips found your breasts, sucking and licking, drawing soft moans from your lips. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your body arching towards him as he continued his ministrations.

“Hongjoong, please,” you gasped, your need for him growing unbearable.

He smiled against your skin, his hands moving to unbutton your jeans. “I’ve got you, baby,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with promise.

As he removed the last of your clothing, you could feel the cool air of the studio against your heated skin. Hongjoong’s eyes roamed over your body, his expression one of pure desire. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his lips capturing yours once more.

His hands and lips explored every inch of you, leaving you breathless and wanting. When he finally positioned himself between your legs, you could hardly stand the anticipation.

You felt his body heat radiating against your own skin, making you feel hot despite the fresh breeze from the air conditioner.

He took his dick into one of his hand, the other one holding your waist down, in a firm grip. His tip grazed your hole, drawing circles around it.

“Are you sure?” he asked softly, his eyes searching yours for any hesitation.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice filled with need. “Please, Hongjoong.”

He entered you slowly, the sensation overwhelming. You gasped, your nails digging into his back as he began to move. The rhythm he set was slow and deliberate, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through your body.

“Y/N,” he groaned, his lips finding yours in a searing kiss. “You feel so good.”

You could only moan in response, your body arching towards his as the pleasure built. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you to meet his thrusts.

Your hips lifted away from the soft fabric, which each thrust, only for him to take your sides and press them down. "Come one, doll, stay put."

The sound of your combined moans and the slap of skin filled the room, the intensity of your connection leaving you breathless.

His cock slammed harder into you, burying himself deeper and hitting your gummy spot. "R-right there," you whimpered, grabbing onto his wrists.

As you reached your peak, Hongjoong’s name fell from your lips in a breathless cry. He followed soon after, his body tensing as he found his release.

Your liquids mixed inside you, finding their way around his length and leaking out once he pulled out of you.

The two of you lay there for a moment, catching your breath. Hongjoong’s hand brushed a strand of hair from your face, his eyes filled with tenderness. “Are you okay?” he asked softly, his thumb caressing your cheek.

You nodded, a smile spreading across your lips. “Yeah, I’m more than okay.”

He chuckled softly, pulling you into his arms. “Good. Because I don’t think I can ever get enough of you.”

You snuggled into his embrace, feeling content and happy. As you lay there in the afterglow, you couldn’t help but think that this night had changed everything.