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zorosangell · 2 months ago

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⛥ﾟ・。 pocus

synopsis: when you're a no-show for your scheduled merienda, katakuri begins to worry. little does he know you're right in the middle of a Big Mom hunger pang, and she seems to be craving your specialty...

cw: fluff, comfort, angst if you squint, katakuri is katakuri, katakuri DOES NOT PLAY ABT YOU, you have six children together, you're relative to his height, you're a baker.

a/n: i know katakuri's not part of my usual content but i'm rewatching wci and i'm inspired sue me <3 besides the man is FIONE

"Patissiers!"

"Yes, sir! We're on our way!" the patissiers bellowed, running at full speed with their large doughnut cart in tow. "We come with your treat for the day!"

Shifting his weight on his legs, the Sweet Commander crossed his arms over his broad chest, watching intently as the small men scurried toward him, the three of them a dark blue blur against the checkered pink of Brûlée's Mirro-World.

"Our selection today is truly special! Lady (y/n) said so herself!"

"I think you'll find it most appropriate!"

"For a man as perfect as you, each treat is made from the perfect ingredients!"

The first one hoisted a huge chocolate-frosted doughnut over his head, beaming proudly.

"We purchased the finest Corioli cacao we could find on the black market and combined it with milk from a cow grazed on a Sky Island whose life was free from stress and woe! The resulting chocolate is rich and ideal to dollop atop this giant doughnut!"

The second one lifted up a chocolate doughnut with strawberry cream, smiling widely.

"And for this one, we whipped the highest grade cream, which we received fresh from the great Minister Opera himself. The icing is meticulously decorated and topped with a strawberry to make this masterpiece a feast for the eyes, before it becomes entombed within your grateful belly!"

The third one raised a yellow doughnut, topped with decadent powdered sugar, slightly wobbling.

"We also prepared a doughnut topped with a sugar favored by Celestial Dragons, which brings out the spiciness of the Meylon Cinnamon baked into its dough, along with this and that and the other thing, too, of course!"

Together they twirled, utterly elated by the fine work you curated.

"And it is all thanks to Lady (y/n)'s unparalleled baking prowess! It is a true honor and privilege to work alongside her in the kitchen! So please enjoy this sublime sweetness!"

But, sadly, Katakuri had completely tuned them out.

Their entire explanation went completely unheard, the Sweet Commander more concerned with your absence than anything else.

Brows furrowing, his eyes quickly flicked around the cart, failing to sense your presence anywhere remotely nearby.

'(y/n)...'

It was routine that you join him for his merienda's everyday, rain or shine.

The patissiers would roll you in along with his ginormous bushel of doughnuts, your smile blinding as you greeted and joined him inside his mochi shrine.

There, you would feed him your sweet treats and whisper sweet nothings as he recounted his day to you, and you yours, resting in each other's embrace as you relished the little time together you two were able to make within your busy lives.

It was the only time of the day the man looked forward to.

And it was being tampered with.

"Where is she?"

His voice was like a wave of ice extinguishing any sort of jovial mood the chefs had established, replace their joy with potent fear.

Instantly, a frigid shiver rolled down their spines, their little bodies going rigid with terror.

"W-Well, you see—!"

"We are sworn to secrecy by the Lady herself!"

"She ordered us to remain silent about her whereabouts as not to disrupt your merienda!"

"We—!"

Abruptly lunging forward, Katakuri yolked up the first chef by the collar of his uniform, the man letting out a fearful yelp as the Sweet Commander pulled him closer with a deadly glare.

He allowed his Conqueror's haki to flow freely from his body, blanketing the entire space under an immense and overwhelming pressure—so much so that it knocked the other two chefs out cold.

His tone was deadly serious, and leaving no room for argument.

"Where. Is. My. Wife?"

"Mocha, honey, keep stirring that curd!" you instructed, frantically, as you added the yeast to the second batch of doughnut scald. "Don't stop 'til it's nice and fluffy!"

"Yes, mama!" your young daughter nodded, expression determined as she fervently mixed the large vat of lemon filling, despite the growing weakness in her arms.

She had been stirring vigorously for the past thirty minutes straight, and there was only so much an eight year-old girl could take.

"We're running out of time!" Soda exclaimed, worried, as he peeked out the window, the rumblings coming from outside shaking the foundation of your large bakery. "Grandma's gonna be here any second!"

"We're working as fast as we can!" Cocoa grunted, finally finishing the third batch of dough.

"I don't understand!" Latte squealed, running to assist her little sister in stirring the curd.

"She was all the way on the north side five minutes ago! How did she get here so fast?!" Frappe added, following after.

"Anything's possible for your grandmother when it comes to dessert," you huffed, finishing up the fourth batch of dough. "I've learned that the hard way."

"Well, we're losing ground fast! Daifuku just got sent flying!" Chai exclaimed, his little eyes wide with horror as he watched his uncle soar through three buildings.

"That's it. I gotta go help," Soda quickly turned, storming toward the door.

"Absolutely not!" you shut down, instantly. "Nothing can stop your grandmother during one of her hunger pangs! You'd be needlessly putting yourself in danger!"

"I have to do something! I'm a minister!"

Soda was your firstborn son, the eldest of your six children and the pride and joy of the Big Mom pirates.

He was a prodigy, his power already nearing that of a Sweet Commander at the young age of twenty-one—he happened across the Fizz-Fizz fruit at a very young age, turning himself into a Carbonation-Man

With a bounty of 850 million, he was powerful enough to be asked out on his own solo missions, as well as join his countless aunts and uncles on their expeditions.

And to put the icing on the cake, he had set the record for youngest minister, having been appointed as the Minister of Fizz two years prior.

Your son was progressing in leaps and bounds, his dream of taking after his father coming to fruition more and more with each passing day.

But... where he took after Katakuri in prowess, he also took after him in his all-encompassing sense of duty.

"Stay here! Keep working on the doughnut!" he exclaimed, rushing out of the bakery. "I'll try and slow her down!"

"Soda!"

"Big brother!"

But he was already gone, leaping into the air to assist Smoothie.

"Mama, mama! The curd is finished!" Mocha reported, running over to tug at your dress.

"Good job, honey," you nodded, patting her on the head. "All right, kids, this is the moment of truth! Your brother's buying us some time so we've gotta hurry!"

"Right!"

"Chai, go get the other two batches of dough out the chiller!"

He nodded, quickly running to the back to go retrieve it.

"Latte! Frappe! Start combining the dough we have out here!"

The twins rushed toward the large bowls, already starting to dump them out onto the flour-covered counter.

"Mocha, go make sure the fryers are hot, then come back and help your brother combine the first batch!"

"You got it, mama!"

She turned and sprinted to the back room, running as fast as her little legs would carry her.

"Cocoa, you're with me! We're gonna finish up the glaze you started earlier!"

"Got it!" Cocoa nodded, running over to the bowl of half-finished glaze she had set aside.

"(y/n)!" Brûlée frantically exclaimed, popping her head out of a mirror in the kitchen. "It's getting bad! Mama's heading right this way!"

"I know! I know! We're moving as fast as we can!" you huffed, frantically stirring the second bowl of glaze.

"Well, it's not fast enough! Mont-d'Or wants to know how much longer this is going to take! This whole island is about to get leveled!"

"If Mama gets a mediocre doughnut then this island really will get leveled!" you scoffed, brows furrowed. "This is my specialty! Just let me handle this and everything'll be—"

"MAMA! GRANDMA'S HERE!" Mocha shrieked, trembling with terror as she stared out the window.

The Yonko's footfalls began to thoroughly shake the bakery, knocking over sacks of flour, breaking tables, and completely destroying shelves.

"No! It's too soon!" you gasped, quickly putting down the bowl and rushing toward the door. "Cocoa, take over! You know what to do!"

"Wha—?! Mom!"

"Don't stop working!"

Frantically, you burst out of the bakery, eyes wide to see that Big Mom was—in fact—right at your doorstep.

"I WANT MY DOUGHNUT! BRING ME MY LEMON DOUGHNUT NOW!"

"Mama!" you shouted, protectively extending your arms out in front of your beloved bakery. "Your doughnut is almost ready! Just give us a little bit more time!"

"WHERE IS MY DOUGHNUT, GIRL! BECAUSE ALL I WANT IS MY DOUGHNUT!"

"We're making it as fast as we can! We just need a few more minutes to get it just right! You have my word!"

"Mom, no!" Soda called, eyes wide with fear as he watched from a distance. "Get out of the way!"

"(y/n), forget it! It's no use!" Smoothie exclaimed. "Run!"

"No! I will not let her destroy everything we've worked for!"

"OUT OF MY WAY!"

In an instant, you were encompassed by an ominous aura, the feeling not at all foreign as you had witnessed the power countless times before.

'Soul Pocus...'

"IS IT LIFE?! OR TREAT?!"

"NO!" Soda shouted, about to rush toward you before Oven and Smoothie grabbed him up, holding him back.

"Not life or treat!" Opera winced.

"She's gonna steal her lifespan away!" Galette cried

"Mama, you can't! She's family! You'll get your dessert soon enough, just hold on!" Mont-d'Or attempted to reason.

"Mama, have mercy!" Smoothie exclaimed.

Brows furrowing, you stood strong, not budging an inch as she stared you down.

"I'm sorry, Mama! But it's just not ready yet!" you stated, cooly.

"Oh, you're gonna be sorry!" she bellowed, her glare intensifying. "I SAID... LIFE OR TREAT!"

Now, on any other day—where it was just you and your troop of bakers—you would have certainly had your soul ripped right out, the fear of your mother-in-law too great to fight off.

But this day was different.

This day... your children were thrown into the mix.

If Big Mom killed you before they finished the doughnut, then they would certainly be slaughtered right alongside.

And with your husband away on the outermost islands of Totto Land, and Soda held back by his uncles, there was no one else left to protect them in that outcome.

So... it didn't matter if it was Kaido, or Big Mom, or whoever.

You were willing to fight off all the emperors at once if it meant keeping your babies safe.

Your brows furrowed, all your fear seeming to dissipate into nothing, molding itself in the shape of pure, unwavering determination.

She wouldn't lay a finger on your children.

Not if you had anything to say about it.

Lunging forward, she attempted to grab your soul, but was thoroughly shocked to find that nothing had appeared in her grasp.

Your soul was perfectly intact.

"Your grandchildren are working diligently to bring the doughnut to perfection! If you could only wait just a little while longer!"

"Not necessary!" a familiar voice cut through the tense air, putting you at ease almost instantly.

"Look! Up there!"

"It can't be!"

"But it is!"

"It's...! It's...!"

"IT'S KATAKURI!"

As he soared through the air—humongous doughnut in hand—everyone watched with awe and relief, your husband a marvel to watch as he valiantly swooped in to save the day.

"Mama! Open wide!"

Using his Mochi-Mochi power, he launched his hand forward, harshly shoving the decadent doughnut into his mother's mouth, effectively halting her Soul Pocus.

For a moment... there was a pause.

The entirety of Whole Cake Island stood still, waiting with bated breath for Big Mom's reaction.

"Mama mama! How delicious! This is the best doughnut I've ever tasted!"

Together, everyone let out a unanimous sigh of relief, some even falling out on the floor.

"Mama is successfully subdued! I repeat! Mama is successfully subdued!" Mont-d'Or announced into his transponder snail. "Let's switch gears toward repairing damage. Toot sweet!"

"Lady (y/n) did it!"

"The island is saved!"

"That's our (y/n) for you!"

"Perfect as ever!"

"Oh, thank, God," you exhaled, breathless, as Big Mom's aura finally released you, allowing your legs to buckle.

"(y/n)!" Katakuri quickly landed next to you, catching your limp body before you could fall. "Are you all right?! What happened?!"

"Your mother happened," you sighed, allowing your head to drop against his chest. "One of her hunger pangs."

His eyes widened, a future where things could've gone very wrong flashing through his mind.

"And you didn't call me? I told you to make me aware when a situation like this occurs," he asked, tone rising—more out of fear of what could've been than actual frustration.

"It was time for your merienda... and you've been working so hard lately," you muttered. "I thought you deserved a break from all this."

"Not when it comes to your safety... or the children's," he shook his head. "You all are my utmost priority. More than my merienda."

Realizing your miscalculation, your cheeks warmed, suddenly feeling foolish.

"Sorry, Kuri," you sighed, allowing yourself to melt into his touch. "I dropped the ball, didn't I?"

At the nickname, Katakuri flushed under his scarf, eyes averting from your adorably apologetic expression before he turned even more red.

"I'm just glad you're all right," he caved, all will to chide effectively oozing from his body. "Rest for now."

"Mom!" Soda exclaimed running toward you both. "Are you all right?! That was insane! I've never seen anyone withstand Soul Pocus before!"

You scoffed, shaking your head.

"I assure you, I wouldn't be able to do that again in a million years."

"Soda, ensure your sisters and Chai are all right. Then send for cleanup within a bakery," Katakuri ordered, starting off in the opposite direction. "Assist Mont-d'Or in heading the repair efforts. I'm leaving this mess in your hands."

"You got it!" he nodded, turning around to join the Minister of Cheese in his work.

"Wait... Kuri, I have to help, too," you started, attempting to sit up.

"You have done enough," he denied, tightening his hold on you. "They can take things from here."

"But—"

"No buts... You'll be joining me for the rest of the day."

Confused, you raised a brow, unsure of what he was talking about.

"Joining you? ...For what?"

Knowingly, he glanced down at you, heart pounding against his chest once again at the sight of your perfect face.

How he got so lucky, he would never know.

"We still have time for our merienda. If... you're all right with cold tea?"

Warmed by his shy kindness, you were unable to fight the smile rising to your lips, his ears burning with embarrassment in the adorable way you loved.

He was cute when he wasn't acting all tough.

"Iced tea's perfect... Lead the way."

#zorosangell #one piece #one piece x reader #op #charlotte katakuri #charlotte #katakuri #katakuri x reader #charlotte katakuri x reader

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zorostitties · 4 days ago

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Intertwined; 5

⤕ Luffy and you were like two sides of the same coin: opposites in every way, but similar in what mattered the most. Tied by a vow made with the purity of a child’s heart, life keeps trying to tear you apart - but the vow that intertwined your destinies would not be broken so easily. Or, Luffy promised to marry you someday when you were kids. This is how he keeps his promise.

pairing: monkey d. luffy x (f) reader

genre: childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, arranged marriage, fluff, angst, eventual smut

warnings: violence/blood, explicit language, toxic family relationships, death/grief, underage smoking, when i say slow burn i mean it

rating: 18+

word count: 11k

A/N: HELLO WORLD!! I can't believe it's been so long since the last update 😭 life has been beating my ass these days and I was stuck in a writers block. But I'm really satisfied with the way this chapter turned out in the end!! A little something I haven't mentioned about the fic yet (again): we're going all the way to Wano with this story :D Thank you so much for your patience!! Enjoy <3

⤕ Masterlist ⤕ Also on AO3 ⤕ Playlist

Scarpia Virgus already knew what his granddaughter was going to do before she did it.

He could feel it. Her intent. Her hatred, which burned inside of her slowly like a calm but constant fireplace. The weeks of travel towards the family’s headquarters were mostly silent. Yet, even if she didn’t speak, he could feel the heat of her anger burning from the other side of the ship.

When they finally arrived at Scarpia Island, Virgus already knew what she would do.

He didn’t stop her.

And now, the west side of the mansion was partially destroyed.

He stood on the border of the crater his grandchildren caused during the fight and watched.

Crowley bled. He got up from the floor holding his scythe with both hands, ready for one more attack. His eyes shone as red as the blood that dripped from his wounds. Part of his shirt was completely destroyed, reduced to gashes.

From the other side, his granddaughter reappeared from within the cloud of smoke and debris. She also bled in many places. The girl twirled the spiked ball of her chain, her gaze unwavering, completely locked on her older brother.

They attacked at the same time.

The shockwave produced by their clash played with Virgus’ long beard.

The old man analyzed their fight with attention. They were both excellent, as was expected of Scarpia assassins. The untrained eye would not be able to follow their fast movements. Both of them had dominated the art of maneuvering their respective weapons. She was not as physically strong as Crowley, but he was not as fast as her. Both had their advantages and disadvantages.

On their current level, they were evenly matched.

That wasn’t enough, of course. They still had a long way to go. Virgus knew he could interrupt the fight at any moment – and he would soon. He wouldn’t let his grandchildren kill each other. But not yet. He let them exchange more blows. He let them feed their hatred.

She deserved to let all the anger she had been churning for weeks out. Crowley played dirty, after all. But at the same time, she deserved to be punished. Every wound Crowley inflicted on her wasn’t nearly enough to what she should actually suffer.

They fought with passion. Delightful, Virgus thought. Truly excellent. How incredible was to watch a fight so emotionally charged. How satisfying it was to know every attack had the intent to kill. No holding back. No mercy. As it should be.

The future of the family laid on their hands, after all. Virgus already knew that the other children had no chance to reach their level by then, nor the potential. Not everyone is born to be a conqueror.

But these two were.

Virgus just needed to pull their potential out. And there was no better way to harvest potential than by cultivating rivalry.

Finally, the old man decided they had enough.

He got in between them so fast that it almost looked like teleportation.

Virgus didn’t need to unsheathe his sword. He simply caught each of them by their forearms and threw them away in different directions.

Both of them hit opposite borders of the crater. The floor shook. Another cloud of smoke and debris.

It was over.

“Siblings should not kill each other,” Virgus said calmly. And yes, he was right; it was one of the fundamental rules of the family. But there was nothing wrong with trying.

Crowley got up first. He approached his grandfather at fast steps. His arm was turned in a weird direction, but he ignored it. There was a deep cut above his left eyebrow, covering that side of his face in blood.

“Grandfather, she broke several rules–“

“I know what she did.” Virgus cut him off. “I will take care of her punishment.”

“Father should be informed–“

“He will not.”

Crowley was taken aback before anger covered his face again.

“But this isn’t fair–“

Virgus looked down at him for the first time.

It was enough to make the young man swallow his next words.

“Are you trying to tell me what to do, child?”

“No, sir.” Crowley immediately looked down.

His granddaughter approached him as well.

Her steps were firm and fast. Blood dripped from her nose down her lips and chin. Her eyes, locked on Crowley the entire time. Virgus could feel it again, the hatred burning under her skin. At that moment, she wasn’t even intimidated by his presence. Excellent. Excellent. A conqueror’s soul does not bow.

She pointed her finger at Crowley.

“If you ever think of going to Goa Island,” her voice was ferocious. Like the roar of a tiger. It came from the depths of her soul, Virgus knew. “If you even think of getting anywhere near the Sambas Region, I will kill you. This is a promise, Crowley; I don’t care what happens to me later. But you will die first.”

Anyone would’ve trembled at the ferocity of that threat. That wasn’t his fourteen year old granddaughter speaking; that was the White Wolf, as she was already getting known in the underworld. A skilled assassin. Someone that had never failed.

But Crowley opened a mocking smirk.

Excellent.

A conqueror’s soul does not bow.

“You’re upset because I got an advantage over you. I found out about your weakness, and you don’t know mine… because I don’t have any.”

She stared at him in silence for some seconds.

Then – she smirked as well.

Poisonous. Dangerous. Threatening. Excellent. Most excellent.

Her next sentence took even Virgus by surprise.

“You didn’t find out about my weakness. You found out about my strength.”

She turned around and left.

Crowley left as well.

Soon, the crater was surrounded by servants that stood aside during the fight, analyzing the levels of damage. And along with them came the lady of the house.

Scilla looked around the destruction with quiet shock.

“What happened here?” She was calm and cold as usual despite the situation at hand.

Virgus closed his eyes for a moment and chuckled.

A dragon is bound to give birth to beasts. It had been decades since a new generation of Scapias were all predators.

The crow and the wolf would battle for the dragon’s territory.

And to think these two want her to waste her future with marriage, Virgus thought. Fools.

The future of the family was going to be interesting.

Virgus put his hands behind his back. “The kids fought. Siblings fight all the time. Nothing to worry about.”

He walked away.

Virgus broke her.

Over and over again. Repeatedly. Tirelessly. He broke her.

She was skilled. Landon taught her well. He built the foundations of her strength. But that wasn’t nearly enough. Anyone could hide their presence, kill an unsuspecting target. That’s not what he wanted of her. No.

He saw it, under the dirt and the mud; the underlying shine of the gem she was, waiting to be honed. A diamond right under their noses. She was born in the right time, in the right family, to hone that talent. How fortunate she was to be born a Scarpia.

But she needed to be lapidated. The gem needs to be cut, trimmed, polished, until it becomes an acceptable final product.

So Virgus broke her.

He broke her because he knew she could be fixed later. And when she was fixed, he broke her again. When she thought she had achieved something significant, he’d show her that no, that was not enough. She was not enough, not yet. So he broke her. Again, and again, and again.

Broke her body, because in order to get stronger, it needed to be broken first. Broke her spirit, because in order to get stronger, she needed to be away from any distractions, including – and most importantly – that boy. Broke her pride, because Virgus showed over and over again how insignificant and weak she was compared to him. How she didn’t stand a chance if he actually wanted to kill her. Because in order to get stronger, she needed to understand that.

The sea is full of monsters. But conquerors – these are just a few. If she wanted to sit at the same small, secluded table of a conqueror, she needed to be broken first.

Virgus broke her despite her betrothal, the condition that her body should be healthy for the marriage in the approaching years. No, he didn’t care – because she could always be fixed later. He inflicted pain, excruciating pain, and inflicted damage, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed.

Virgus broke her, until her targets became higher, higher, more difficult. Virgus broke her, until The White Wolf name made ripples through the sea, until that name – that title – began to inflict fear and respect. Virgus broke her, until her parents could no longer ignore the fact that she was being exclusively commissioned, forcing her to complete them, forcing her out of the shadows of this engagement.

He broke her, and she did not complain once. Not a tear, not a whine, not a cry. She wasn’t grateful, either, but Virgus didn’t care. When he looked deep into her eyes, he saw apathy. He saw resolve.

He saw hatred.

Delightful, Virgus thought. Truly excellent.

- PART 2 -

“I did not have this face I now wear…

I did not have these weakened hands…

I did not have this heart that barely shows itself…

I never noticed this change.”

- Cecilia Meireles

➛ 15

The bar was disgusting.

An old structure made of wood and clay. The planks under your feet creaked as you stumbled in. You could feel the sole of your boots sticking with how dirty the floor was – layers and layers of spilled alcohol, sand, sea water, and probably vomit, too. The place smelled of vomit. And human sweat. And cheap rum. Round tables filled with lowly pirates, bandits, or beggars that managed to find a coin or two in exchange of some booze. It was loud. You never understood why men liked to talk so loud. Scandalous laughter, random shouts, heated arguments.

It was good, you thought. Noise, even if they worsened your headache. Something to forcefully stimulate your brain.

If you laid down in a silent place and let yourself rest, you knew you were going to die.

You stumbled to the restrooms at the back of the bar. Shoulders curved, your figure hidden under the black cloak, anyone would think you were just another drunk beggar; no one bat an eye at you. Thankfully. Two restrooms, for males and females, though you doubted anyone cared or respected the badly drawn plates. Each of them had space for a single person at once. You stumbled into one of them and locked the door.

The noise out there was muffled. Still very loud and irritating, but muffled – which allowed you to hear your own panting.

You stayed there, your back leaning against the door, for what seemed like an eternity.

Fuck.

It hurt. A fucking lot. It hurt, and it was hard to ignore it, even with the help of Heavenly Control. No; it was impossible to ignore it.

You didn’t even want to look at it. The thought made you want to vomit. But you had already vomited – there was nothing inside your stomach to put out anymore.

You gulped, and even this simple motion was difficult. If the floor wasn’t disgustingly wet with water and piss and probably worse things, you would’ve sat there. No. I still have some strength to my legs.

You searched for the light switch on your left. The sudden light hurt your eyes. Fuck, you didn’t want to look at it. You really didn’t.

But if you didn’t, if you let that as it was, you were certainly going to die.

So, slowly, you looked down to your stomach.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The sight of your own blood was nothing new. Blood, in general, but specifically your blood. The wet, warm sensation of it dripping down your own skin. The smell of iron. It was so strong, even inside this filthy restroom.

The improvised bandages did little to not help in stanching the bleeding. You had ripped both sleeves of your white shirt and wrapped it around your torso – it was unsanitary and inappropriate, but you had nothing better at the moment. The previously white fabric was completely red now. The blood dripped down your stomach. If your pants weren’t black, you knew the left side of them would be red, too, the stain almost reaching your knee.

You needed to clean that. The wound.

Fuck.

It hurt to breathe.

You untied the knot. The drenched pieces of fabric fell on the floor with a gross splash. You lifted the tight black undershirt up to your chest, exposing your stomach and bra.

There.

A little under your left breast.

The gash.

At least twenty centimeters across your torso. Four or five centimeters wide, probably. It wasn’t a clean cut. The skin around it was ragged. That fucker used chainsaws as weapons. You were glad he didn’t make anything worse than that, actually; if your mind was a little less attentive, if your senses weren’t sharpened, if you were half a second slower, he would’ve sawed you in half.

Fucker. Fucker. You wished you could resurrect him, just so you could kill him again.

Usually, you didn’t feel anything for your targets. Apathy was a good ally during a fight. But you couldn’t not feel it for that man, not after he got so close to killing you. Closer than anyone ever got.

The gash in your torso wasn’t the only wound he inflicted, but it was the most serious. It still bled. You heard the gross sound your destroyed skin made every time you breathed; the sticky noise of blood, of ripped flesh. And there was something else, too, something you’d been trying hard to ignore – that little white peeking from the red flesh, right under your left breast, a rib–

You needed water. Clean water. That’s why you entered the bar in the first place.

It takes some seconds of courage, of gathering strength on your legs, to push yourself from the door and stand in front of the sink. A broken, dirty mirror sat above it, but you avoided looking at your miserable face at that moment. You opened the faucet. Your hand was bloody, so everywhere you touched got bloody, too. Running water. Clean water.

There’s the running water, there’s your difficult breath, there’s the loud voices out there. Loud, because men don’t know how to speak quietly, especially when they’re among themselves. Masculine environments are always so loud, so aggressive. You put your fingertips under the faucet. The water was cold.

“There are only seven of ‘em now.” A loud, deep, annoying male voice said out there, from the group sitting closer to the restrooms.

There was a small leather bag hanging from your hip. You usually didn’t carry a lot of stuff with you. The roll of gauze was almost finished. You had already used so much to bandage the other wounds around your body. You took a peace of it and put it under the faucet.

“Who woulda thought, huh? That the great Stork would have an end like that.” Another male voice. “Ships n’ ships sailing to his territory right now. Everyone want a piece of it.”

You took a deep breath. One, two, and then stopped breathing when the cold gauze touched your ripped skin. The piece was immediately drenched in red. You cleaned it the best way you could before taking another piece and repeating the process.

A mocking cackle. “As if any of them have a chance. So close to Dressrosa? Huh. Doflamingo’s fleet’s probably there, already. Claiming everything to himself. Greedy bastard.”

That first voice, the first men, hummed in a knowing way. “Streets are saying he killed Stork, y’know.”

“That’s not what the paper says.”

“You believe in the paper? Dumbass. ‘Course they not gon’ tell the truth.” He chuckled darkly. “Flamingo’s been eyeing his territory for years. Errbody knows it.”

It hurt. It bled. Fuck, fuck. You didn’t have anymore gauze. The sink looked like a crime scene. It’s just pain. I can deal with it. I can deal with it. I can.

You took the roll of bandages you stole from someone on your way to the bar. It looked clean enough, better than a dirty ripped sleeve, at least. You were used to bandaging yourself. Your limbs worked almost automatically, careful not to touch the gash and the – shit – the bone peeking through it.

“But that would be too blunt, wouldn’t it? Would risk his position as a Warlord.”

Another mocking huff. “You know nothin’, do you? When I say he did it, I don’t mean he did it. Or any of his people. He got the paper to tell anyone else to do it for him.”

Careful, careful. The roll was enough to take three turns around your torso – but that was still not nearly enough to stop the bleeding, not nearly enough to protect the wound from a possible – most certain – infection. It wasn’t not enough, and you needed Landon. He didn’t accompany you in your missions anymore, because you did not need protection or guidance. It was great, to not have him around all the time anymore, but you needed him right now, so you took the little Den Den Mushi from the bag and rang.

While the little snail rang, while the people out there still talked and shouted and laughed, you finally pushed the hood of the cloak off your head and looked at your own reflection.

You looked like a mess. The type of mess that means, I’ve been severely injured, I am suffering from extreme blood loss, I will probably need a transfusion. There was not a sign of pride, or triumph, after winning over a strong opponent – the strongest up until then. Grandfather was stronger, of course, but grandfather had never tried to actually kill you. No matter how heavy the training was, you knew he wouldn’t kill you.

You remembered Luffy’s saying of how facing a strong opponent was fun and exciting. You could not sympathize with that. You never sympathized with that.

Would you ever?

Probably not. There was no pride in this business. Just work. Just a successful commission that almost got you killed.

But successful, anyway, and this one would put you above Crowley.

There was a bit of satisfaction in that. But not nearly enough. Maybe the pain in your whole body prevented you from feeling anything positive, or this filthy restroom.

A bar, like Partys Bar, in the other side of the world. Makino always made sure to keep the restrooms squeaky clean. It was impressive, her dedication in keeping a bar clean. And you remembered that it’d been a year and a half since you’d last been there, but it felt like so much more; it felt like a lifetime ago since you ate chocolate cake with her and the Mayor and Luffy, where you could hear the waves crashing and the fresh air after a stormy night.

A lifetime ago.

Was Foosha Village the same, you wondered? It hadn’t changed much in the years you visited. Probably not.

Did Luffy change a lot?

He always looked a bit different every time you saw him. A little bit taller, a little less chubbier. But his smile and his sense of humor and his warmth and his energy stayed the same. Was he holding up well without Ace? Was he practicing everyday?

Stupid questions, of course. He definitely was. These things about him would never change.

You’d changed, however.

Not only because you got taller, or because you had a different haircut, or because your body and your face didn’t look like a child’s anymore, or because you got undoubtedly stronger. There was something about you that changed. Not in a good way. Irreparably so.

It’s the color, you knew. It was absent from your life. Everything was black and white and gray.

The way it was before you met him.

And maybe it’s a bit insane on your part how seeing someone once a year changed your perspective in life so much. How it made you have a goal, a purpose to keep putting up with all of this. The family, the business. How the prospective of seeing him again for a week or so was the equivalent of seeing light at the end of the tunnel.

There was no light anymore, or warmth, or sun. Your life didn’t have space for playfulness, giggles, sweets, or relaxation – not even for a week. And in the rare moments when you weren’t under intense training with your grandfather, when you were sent on a commission – they were getting rarer, more difficult, more expensive – without Landon’s supervision, you couldn’t even bring yourself to appreciate anything.

Not that there was anything to appreciate inside the filthy restroom of a bar with an open wound in your body, of course.

But it’s alright.

You had endured a year and a half without him already. You just needed to endure for a year and a half more. Then, you’d both be seventeen; then, you’d meet him again.

It’s alright.

No biggie, as he said.

You were stronger. It wasn’t enough, still; you had to get even stronger. Not only because you wanted to meet him again. Not even just because you hated Crowley with every fiber of your being and wanted, needed to be better than him in every aspect. No; you needed to be stronger for yourself. Yes, yourself. Stronger, so grandfather wouldn’t be able to defeat you. Or any of your brothers. Or even your father.

Stronger, so no one would stand in your way.

And that was enough motivation. A light at the end of the tunnel.

Alright.

No biggie.

Landon finally picked up the call, right when someone started to bang on the door aggressively. You told him the coordinates. Your voice was quiet and “normal”, but Landon knew you enough to understand you were not okay. You knew he’d be here quickly. Yes, you could trust him.

It hurt, and it bled, but it would be alright, because you could be fixed. You were always fixed in the end. Just a year and a half more. That’s it.

Alright.

No biggie.

➛ 16

If you made a list of people you hated the most, Ichiji would rank second.

Which was an achievement, to make you hate him over your other brothers that had actually tried to kill you more than once, since you only saw him once a year or so. He was the opposite of Luffy – meeting once a year, filling you with irreparable loathing.

You despised him. Truly.

Rude, arrogant, violent, despicable. There was not a good adjective to describe him, other than his physical beauty – but it was all destroyed by the rest. You recognized that he was attractive as a fact, not as a compliment. Nothing in the world would make you like him.

He was eighteen years old now, and did not resemble the lanky boy you met all these years ago. Over 1,80m tall and muscular; a strong jawline, plump lips, a surprisingly feminine upturned nose, the same as Reiju. They all looked alike, in fact (duh), and it honestly made you wonder where did they take that beauty from, since Judge looked like a blonde raccoon that grew too much and had been beaten with a bat.

You could almost excuse his stupid swirled eyebrow. Almost.

Ichiji hid his eyes behind thin sunglasses now. He probably thought it made him look mysterious, but you couldn’t help but roll your eyes whenever you saw these stupid sunglasses and his stupid red hair and his stupid red military uniform. He was a Commander, now, along with his siblings. The stupid color coded siblings. Ugh.

You were so immensely grateful for your mask in times like these. No one saw your eye rolls, your disgusted expression; you didn’t have to hold back, the way you always held back around your family. Around your grandfather.

You always avoided speaking as much as possible during these “family meetings” – not that anyone bothered, of course, since it was always the men speaking about war or whatever other manly topic you could not give two shits about. Food was always nice, at least, but eating with this mask on was still a pain in the ass, so you could never really enjoy anything.

You’d been nervous about this specific meeting, however. Because Ichiji was eighteen already.

An adult by Germa’s laws – and most of the world followed this same law, too, though it wasn’t something certified by the World Government. Eighteen.

A legal adult. Ready to get married.

And he was a prince, and Germa was a fucking oligarchy, which meant the Vinsmokes could bend the laws to their will however they liked it. Which meant Ichiji was an adult, but if their spouse was at least two years younger – even if it meant they weren’t a legal adult yet - , the law would accept their marriage.

So you were very, very close to your doom.

You spent months tracing plans of action. You had enough money of your own – money you managed to hide from the family vaults, in international banks around the world. If this meeting had the objective to set a definite date for your wedding… you’d run away. Even if you weren’t powerful enough to fight your family – not yet. Even if it meant you’d have to fight your way out. You were not getting married to that man, not now, not ever–

But turns out, surprisingly, Judge himself brought the good news.

Germa was at war (they were always at war, goddamnit) with some country you didn’t care enough to know the name. It was the Vinsmoke children’s first time as Commanders of the army, which meant they were extremely busy, which meant they had to show off to the population of the North Blue as much as possible to increase their reputation, which meant it was an inappropriate moment for a wedding ceremony.

And you were so relieved that you almost could excuse Judge’s ugly mustache. Almost.

You wished this war would last long years, until you realized the thought was a bit too cruel even for an assassin.

After dinner was over, you found a way to escape their attention – you always did, and thankfully no one noticed your presence enough to care – to some empty balcony of the royal castle. You wanted to smoke – your fingers were almost shaking for it – but you couldn’t take your mask off here, and you didn’t bring a pack with you, so in order to not freak out in front of everyone, you looked for loneliness.

It was chilly, that night. Not a cloud in the sky; the full moon shone beautifully, painting everything in silver shades. You leaned on the marble railings of the balcony and breathed the oceanic fresh air. Germa was so… sterile. Bland. Black flags with the 66 symbol waved with the wind everywhere. There were guards everywhere, too, and you knew many of them paid close attention to you, even though your eyes didn’t see them. Observation Haki worked full time, now, thanks to your training. It was automatic, like a switch in your brain was on all the time.

...Everything about you was automatic, these days. More than you remembered it used to be before him.

An involuntary sigh grew within your chest.

Did… did Luffy miss you the way you missed him, you wondered? Did he think about you often?

You’d been… avoiding to think about him more recently. Yes, seeing him again was one of the goals for why you’d been enduring all of this – but on the other hand, thinking too much about him made everything more painful than it should be.

Not just him, but everything that came along. Quiet evenings. Hot midday sun. The humidity of Mt. Colubo. The animals, the insects, the plants.

...How long has it been since you last touched one of your sketchbooks?

You didn’t have time for any of that. Not under grandfather’s training. When you were not out in commissions, you were with him; isolated. You could not let your guard down around him. You could not relax, or rest, or let your mind wander around. You learned what happens if you did in the worst way possible.

You had scars now – and of course, you had scars before, but there were so many more now. Your arms, now hidden in elbow length black gloves, carried many thin scars from the cuts he inflicted. Virgus’ black katana, Tsubasa, was your close friend now. You knew its blade better than you knew yourself.

And you knew these things were making you undoubtedly stronger. You felt stronger. Anonymous commissioners looked for The White Wolf. You didn’t bother with lowly targets anymore; it was rare of you to even wander out of the Grand Line, where all the power in the world actually stayed. Your paywall rose from a hundred million to four hundred million in less than a year, and by the way things were going, it’d keep rising. Only you and (ugh) Crowley had such a high paywall for commissions at this point.

Urso, Saqr, the twins… you knew they hated and resented you both. But now, you didn’t hear threats coming from them anymore. They knew better. And then there was Ariadne, your younger sister. The last Scarpia child. But she was only five, hadn’t been initiated yet… and you didn’t pay much attention to her, honestly.

Yes, your training, the way you’d been carrying your life was making you stronger. It was worth it.

But it also made you miserable. Which is something you shouldn’t consider, given the Scarpia lifestyle. You shouldn’t seek for happiness. You shouldn’t seek for comfort, or friendship, or an easy life.

But you wanted to see Luffy again anyway.

Another deep sigh.

Fuck. You wanted a cigarette, too.

You were grounded back in reality when a new presence approached.

And you instinctively rolled your eyes so much that you almost saw the inside of your skull.

“Disappointed, my dear bride? Are you so sad you wanted to be left alone to cry?”

You turned around – even though you didn’t want to, but keeping your back turned to Ichiji was never a good idea.

His cynical smirk and his carefree demeanor were infuriating. You hated his uniform, and you hated the way he walked with his hands in the front pockets of his pants, and you hated these sunglasses, and you hated the way he had the audacity to even approach you.

You did not answer him.

Ichiji stopped a few steps from you, his smirk slowly increasing.

“Oh, I love how obedient you already are. Never talking back to me. I enjoy silence the most, darling, so it’s good you’re already used to it. The only sounds you’ll be allowed to make are the screaming and begging for help.”

You still did not answer him.

Ichiji tilted his head to the side. He always tried to make you fall for his provocations. You always resigned yourself to silence. Since he couldn’t physically hurt you, he tried to do it with words, or make you so angry that you’d finally lash out. You wouldn’t indulge him.

He hummed.

“You know, I think I don’t care if you keep this mask after we get married.” And you hated, hated, hated the way he purposefully let his stupid glasses fall to the bridge of his nose so you could see his blue eyes eating you. The way he measured you from head to toe, slowly, in a way that made you want to push him off the balcony. “Don’t really care if the face’s ugly. Just don’t gain weight, will ya?”

You still did not answer him.

Ichiji snorted and put his sunglasses back in place. He took one step closer.

“This only applies until I put a baby in you, of course. After you give me an heir… I will fulfill my promise.” He leaned in your direction and dropped his voice lower. “You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

I will beat you up so bad that you won’t ever get to walk again. I will make you swallow this mask. This is a promise.

You haven’t forgotten.

Slowly, you turned your head in his direction – just to make him sense that you were looking at him, not just your eyes.

“You haven’t forgotten my promise either. Have you?”

Your voice was quiet, freezing cold like frost. You wouldn’t waste energy screaming at him. But he felt it, and you were so immensely satisfied that he did; the way you saw him take a more serious instance, how his body tensed up almost imperceptibly. Ichiji knew you were no defenseless maiden. He knew about your fame, about what you had done past year, and the fact that he still didn’t have great achievements of his own made him hate you. Envy you. You knew it. You’d been dealing with jealousy and rivalry your entire life.

If you try to touch me again, I will kill you.

That was your promise to him.

You could feel his anger and apprehension crackling under his skin. And yet, Ichiji resigned himself to opening a strained smirk. He wouldn’t try to do anything; he couldn’t. Quietly, you wondered how your fight would go if he actually tried something. Ichiji was half human, half machine – perhaps more machine than human. He was anything but weak.

The fight would be interesting, you thought. Maybe one day you’d finally have the chance to rip his heart off his ribcage.

But not today.

“I can’t wait for us to get married.” This otherwise innocent sentence sounded like a threat.

Shit.

You had to find a way out of this situation before his wish could come true.

Smoking became a habit before you even realized it.

A small way to rebel against the family’s rules, perhaps. You must always take care of your health. Which was already stupid to begin with – smoking wasn’t allowed, but being beaten up by your own grandfather wasn’t considered unhealthy? What were these standards?

A cloud formed in front of your face as you exhaled the smoke. Night had fallen over the busy city; it looked like an infinite labyrinth of little lights down there, from the open window you stood near. You still had a few minutes before security noticed something wrong happened. Yet, you were not in a hurry.

“Why aren’t you wearing your mask?”

You looked over your shoulder.

Ariadne stood quietly a few steps away from you. Her little face was hidden behind a mask with four holes for eyes and patterns that resembled webs. Though you couldn’t see her expression, by her tone, you knew she was frowning.

Indeed, you had pushed your mask aside. “Because I’m smoking.”

“But what if someone sees you?”

“No one is nearby to see me. There are no Video Den Den Mushis, either.”

She went silent for some moments.

“Why aren’t you wearing the uniform?”

Ariadne wore hers – the standard: skirt and jacket in black, white button shirt, white socks and black leather dress shoes, the only color being the red scorpion crest on the right side of her chest. You, on the other hand, wore a burgundy pinafore dress with a pleated skirt and a fitted bodice, with subtle ruffles on the shoulder straps. Underneath, a long-sleeved white blouse and a black ribbon tie around your neck. Knee high, chunky combat boots on your feet – these were more for action than fashion, just like the black gloves you always wore when working. A beret with the same color of the dress completed the look, but it was inside your small purse at the moment, as you couldn’t wear it if you had the mask on.

“Because I like to look cute,” you explained in a nonchalant tone. “And the family uniform isn’t cute.”

Ariadne went silent again.

Colors were pretty much forbidden within the family. When you weren’t around them, however, you’d immediately change into something more colorful and girly. It was also another small way to rebel. Scarpia assassins are supposed to be devoid of any personality traits; you refused. You liked to spend money on clothes and you liked to wear jewelry and you liked to feel pretty.

You smoked the last drag of the cigarette and dropped it on the floor, squeezing the sole of your shoe over it. It burned the carpet underneath.

Finally, you looked at her again.

Ariadne.

She turned six a week ago. You still remembered the first time you accompanied your brother on a commission: Urso was nine then. You were the same age as her. You remember seeing Urso struggle against his target, and he punched you in the stomach so hard that you vomited when you pointed it out. Other than that, the whole thing was pretty boring.

Ariadne was so much shorter than you.

Which is a stupid thing to realize. She was six. Obviously.

Six years old.

And she had just witnessed you murder a man.

The body was sprawled over the carpet in the middle of the office. It was an easy commission; it had been a while since you took down an untrained target like that. You knew it was because she would accompany you – an easier, safer target, as Ariadne would be in danger if you faced your usual commissions.

You didn’t want her to be here at first. Why you? Just because you were the only other girl in the family? Yeah, that was probably the reason.

The only other girl in the family.

Six years old.

You watched her in silence.

Ariadne stood obediently. Her posture was perfect. She did not move. A six year old child not moving. A six year old that already knew death, was intimate with its concept – the same way you were introduced to killing before you could properly speak.

That little thing was your sister.

It was a bit stupid of you to have this epiphany at that moment. You had six siblings and you actively ignored all of them. There was no family bond between you, no love – the only bond that kept you together was that of the blood and the anger.

But Ariadne was your little sister. The only other girl in the family. And she was ten years younger than you. What could she know and understand about the world?

Just blood and anger? The same way you were taught – until you went to Goa Island for the first time and found out there was so much more than that?

You remembered how pointless and boring life was before all that. You remembered how you envied Reiju and her pretty pink dress the first time you met her, while you had to wear the plain Scarpia attire instead.

You sighed heavily. Ariadne moved slightly, as if she received an electric shock. You noticed for the first time that you made her nervous.

Finally, you took the beret from inside your small pouch and put it on your head. You looked at your reflection in a mirror nearby and adjusted your hair before turning to her.

“Let’s go.”

Ariadne hesitated.

“Let’s go where?”

You walked out of the room. She followed shortly, running to match your pace. Her personal butler – a bald man you didn’t bother to know the name – followed as well.

“Young Mistresses, we must go back to the ship–“

“Don’t follow us.” Your tone was dry. You didn’t bother to look back at him or to slow your pace. The butler was taken aback. You could feel Ariadne’s surprise.

“Young Mistress, I must ask where you are going.”

“None of your business.”

“You are not allowed to do anything that isn’t involved with the completion of the commission.”

You stopped abruptly.

For the first time, you turned around to look at him.

“Are you arguing with me?”

You didn’t raise your voice, because you almost never did. Serenity and calm as usual. But he felt it, and you knew that he felt it – the frost in his veins, his throat getting dry, the hole in his stomach. The danger.

The butler gulped and looked down, avoiding your gaze obediently.

“No, Young Mistress.”

You still stared at him for some more seconds. “Wait for us in the harbor.” You turned around and walked down the corridor. “A word to the main house and consider yourself dead.”

Ariadne followed you quickly. You both entered the elevator.

It was silent for a few seconds.

“You can take your mask off after we leave the building.”

She hesitated.

“What are we going to do?”

“Buy you something cute.”

Ariadne didn’t say anything.

But you felt through your Haki that she was excited – and that, for some reason, made you open a small smile.

Tigerlily Island was a piece of golden heaven on the second half of the Grand Line. Home to many banks, casinos, hotels and entertainment zones; it was the land of the wealthy – i.e., the land of money laundering. Scarpia Family itself had a bank of its own in the island and a few businesses that were not only profitable, but also managed to clean most of the money coming from commissions. Tigerlily was a den of white collar crimes. As it involved billions and billions or berries circulating every day, the World Government was willing to turn a blind eye to it (as it was given a very generous “donation” monthly, of course).

It also happened to be surprisingly peaceful. Not only was it controlled with iron fists by a single mafia, the Tigers, there was a sense of camaraderie in the air. No one wanted to be snitched on. All of these criminals came with their treasure chests to make more profit, or lose everything in the casinos, or simply have a good time.

There was a murder that night, however. The owner of a bank. But as he died with his secrets, no one really bothered.

It also had really nice malls.

Ariadne was a bit spooked. She’d never been in such a crowded place before, and being without her mask scared her, but she got slowly used to it. You hopped from store to store. She didn’t really know what to do with herself, or which clothes to pick, and she was still nervous in your presence. You just let her pick whatever she wanted, even if nothing really matched or made much sense.

“I’m not allowed to eat ice cream.” She mumbled when the waitress brought a large ice cream cup with extra chocolate topping, even if her eyes gleamed at the sight. Bags and bags rested around your legs. It was way past midnight, and yet the mall was still crowded; Tigerlily never slept.

“Who said that?”

“Bill.” That was probably her butler. You looked around.

“Is Bill here?”

“...No.”

“So.” You shrugged and took a spoonful of your own ice cream.

Ariadne tried not to smile as she took a bit of hers.

Like everywhere else in Tigerlily, the ice cream parlor was unnecessarily decorated with gold. If it wasn’t golden, then it was pink. Tables were filled with couples and families; the air smelled sweet, which brought you memories.

Luffy would like it here. There are so many things to do.

You sighed and rested your cheek on your knuckles, looking at nowhere in particular. Just a few months more.

Ariadne eyed you silently.

When you quirked your brow at her, she stiffened and whipped her eyes back to the ice cream.

“You can ask me stuff if you want to.”

She stiffened again at your voice, as if hit by an electric shock. Thinking back on it… have you ever sat down to talk to her before? Well. No. You didn’t even know she could speak until a while ago. Ariadne had good vocabulary for a six year old, in fact; you also knew she already could read and write perfectly, though this wasn’t a great achievement for a Scarpia.

There were other kids in the ice cream parlor. All restless, loud, laughing, stuttering, their mouths and the collar of their clothes dirty with ice cream.

Ariadne sat in front of you quietly, always avoiding your gaze. All adult-like and polite.

Again, it made you feel something weird.

You waited until she gathered some courage to speak.

And yet, at that moment, your senses sharpened.

Your Haki. It took in a new presence nearby. While everyone else in the area felt like lit matches, this presence felt like a torch.

Someone strong.

A strong presence is always something to note, regardless if it feels aggressive or not. You looked over your shoulder towards the shop’s glass doors; the sidewalk out there was packed.

“What’s wrong?” Ariadne asked in a tense tone, noticing your sudden change in behavior. You didn’t answer; instead, waited.

Waited.

The presence was coming closer, its heat spreading around the street.

Closer.

The presence walked past the ice-cream parlor; you watched through the glass doors.

Your heart rate spiked.

“Wait here.” You told Ariadne without looking back, standing in a jump and rushing towards the doors.

The sidewalk was crowded – and yet, you could only see that single person, as if your sight could not focus on anyone else.

“Ace!”

He stopped on his tracks.

The man turned around with a frown at first. It didn’t take long for him to spot you.

His face immediately brightened with a grin.

“Wolfie?!”

A cackle erupted from within you; one so odd, already so unfamiliar – something you haven’t felt in years. Something involuntary that pulled you off your well-controlled state, turning off autopilot.

Because that was Ace.

He rushed towards you, laughing, his dark eyes brightening up the same way his lips did. He loosely carried a bag over his shoulder, but dropped it immediately as soon as he got close enough. Ace put both hands over your shoulders and measured you up and down.

“What the hell! I can’t believe it!” He giggled excitedly. “Look at you! You’re all grown up now!”

You giggled as well, suddenly feeling a tiny bit bashful. Ace was also very different from what you remembered: he was even taller, more muscular than before – which was hard to ignore, since he was shirtless, choosing to just wear black jeans shorts and boots. His wavy hair seemed a tad bit longer than what you remembered. Now, he wore a light brown cowboy hat with two smiley faces. A necklace of red beads sat around his neck, which immediately made you remember Dadan. His skin was much tanner now; he always had freckles on the bridge of his nose and cheeks, but now they had spread towards his shoulders as well, a testament of someone who lived with the sun, salt and sea.

Ace looked like a proper man now, not a teenager. And just by looking at him, you could see some things have changed inside of him, too – and not just in terms of power.

“Of course, it’s been three years!”

Ace nodded. “I was thinking about you these days. But I’d never imagine I’d find you in a place like this! What are you doing here?”

“I’m–” Oh. You looked back at the ice cream parlor. “I’m with my sister.”

“Sister? You have a sister?!” You must’ve mentioned at some point that you had siblings, but you and Ace have never actually talked too much about your life – and you doubted he’d remember anyway. Regardless, he seemed excited for some reason.

“C’mon. You want some ice cream?”

He huffed and crouched down to take his bag again. “And you even ask?”

You decided to move to the outside tables in the balcony for a bit more privacy – probably because Ace’s gigantic back tattoo was attracting way too much attention. Not that he cared.

Ariadne was more than surprised to see him walking in.

“Who’s this little princess?” Ace crouched down to get to her eye level. You were a bit surprised as well at the way his tone softened… have you ever heard him speaking like that before? Not with you or Luffy, at least. “Hah, she looks like your tiny clone, Wolfie!”

Ariadne looked between you and him with widened eyes and warm cheeks. She sent you a subtle questioning gaze – Wolfie? – before looking at him again.

Then, she stiffened.

“...Nice to meet you. My name is…” She thought for two seconds. “...Spidey.”

You chuckled. Smart girl.

Ace quirked one eyebrow. “Y’alls parents have a thing for animals, huh?”

“They do.” And it wasn’t even a lie.

Ace politely offered his hand for her to shake. “My name is Ace. Nice to meet you, too.”

She got even more flustered.

As the three of you settled and Ace asked for every single ice cream flavor available – the waitress looked panicked – you observed him quietly. You felt so stupidly giddy. That was Ace! After three years! He was a little piece of what you cherished most, part of the things that made you happiest in this world. And even though you thought you’d never see him again, there he was.

You eyed the tattoo on his upper left biceps – ASCE;the message behind that S was pretty obvious, so you decided to not mention it. The other tattoo, however…

“Gotta be honest. I never thought you were the type to sail under someone else’s flag.”

Ace smiled with his cheeks full of strawberry ice cream, looking surprised. “You heard about it?”

“Course I did. You’re famous.”

He shrugged. “I used to think the same, too. But things change. Whitebeard will be the King of the Pirates!”

It was surprising to hear that coming from his mouth. As far as you knew, Ace didn’t have the same ambition as Luffy… but he seemed rather supportive of his brother’s dream. Well. As he said – things change.

There was also the fact that joining the Whitebeard Pirates made Ace pretty… untouchable, in a way. Many people wanted him dead. You knew commissioners were willing to pay millions for his head. But Scarpia had a rule – and that was of putting the safety of the family above anything else. To incite the anger of an Emperor of the Sea by killing one of his pirates would not keep the family safe. Now that you were next to Ace, however, you thought this wouldn’t be a problem to him, even if the family took him as a target: Ace was strong. He deserved that 500 million bounty and the fame.

But you weren’t going to tell him that.

“So.” Ace said excitedly, turning his body in your direction. His eyes beamed – and a part of you already knew what was coming. “How’s Luffy doing? Is the idiot okay?”

And, just like that, it was like he popped a balloon inside of you.

You crossed your arms and avoided his gaze. Your smile faltered, even if you didn’t plan it.

“I… haven’t been visiting him, Ace.”

His shoulders dropped.

“What happened? Don’t tell me you guys fought.”

“No! It’s nothing like that.” You massaged the nape of your neck awkwardly. “I had some… family problems.”

Ariadne stared down at her ice cream glass.

Ace rested his cheek on his palm and hummed. “That sucks.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“Well. You asked me that, back then…”

Ace huffed and waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, that? Don’t worry about it! Luffy is a crybaby, but he’s also tough. He’ll live.” He then smiled once more. “He’ll set sail in a few months, too, right? So you’ll get to meet again!”

You nodded, feeling that balloon inflate inside of you again. “Yeah, I hope so.”

Just the thought of seeing Luffy again made you fuzzy inside, which made you feel a bit pathetic. You looked at Ace again, desperate to divert his attention from you. “So, what have you been up to? Besides joining the crew of an Emperor, I mean.”

Ace beamed.

You soon discovered that he was much more chill now, compared to the grumpy boy you met years ago. His smiles were easy, his tone always welcoming and warm. You noticed he was developing slight wrinkles on the outer corner of his eyes, both due to sun exposure and simply because he smiled too much. Ace gesticulated a lot, happy to share his experiences with you – and even happier when he found out you’d been to the same places (though in the span of three years, he’d already been to more islands than you).

Of course – your stories weren’t nearly as exciting. To you, it was always just work; going to a place, completing a commission, going back home. Meanwhile, Ace would go on to say how he befriended this or that guy, stayed at that forest and that city, fought this or that pirate. He was a great story teller, too.

It made you both happy and sad.

Happy for him. Ace was never meant to stay in Goa. His life belonged to the seas – and it was obvious how accomplished he felt, as if the invisible weight that held him back was lifted. Ace was happy, and his happiness was contagious, as if he was an actual torch, enlightening his surroundings and spreading warmth.

Sad for yourself. Which was horrible. Self-pitying is disgusting and pathetic. But you couldn’t not feel the slight sting in your heart when you compared his life to yours. His freedom. You barely talked about yourself, because all you had to say involved your training and your commissions… nothing worth bragging about.

Just a few more months. Just a few more months.

Ariadne watched Ace speak with glow in her eyes. It was a bit funny, because you could relate exactly with what she was feeling.

“...but that was a bit after I left Wano.”

Ariadne widened her eyes slightly. “You’ve been to Wano?”

“Yep!” Ace slurped the last drop of his chocolate milkshake. Now the table was filled with empty cups of ice cream. She’d been keeping quiet for most of the time, so her sudden question took you off guard. “You know it?”

She looked down sheepishly. “...I’ve read about it in books.”

You could see this was a topic of her interest. Wano was a mystery to the entire world, as a secluded country under the rule of an Emperor. Simply off limits to most. You haven’t even gotten close to it yourself. It was definitely impressive that Ace managed to break into its borders.

Ace opened a soft smile and rested his chin on his knuckles. Ariadne got even more flustered.

“You remind me of a friend I met there, you know?”

“A… friend?” She fiddled with her fingers nervously.

“Yeah. Her name’s Tama. I bet you’d get along well.” He nodded as if he just had an idea. “When you go to Wano, tell her you’re friends with Ace! She’ll get super excited!”

Ariadne got more flustered.

“...Are we friends?” She was taken aback.

“Yeah!” He offered her his fist.

She hesitantly fist bumped him and immediately retracted her arm – but she could not hide the tiny smile in her lips.

Ace giggled and looked back at you. “She’s so much like you.”

“You think so?”

He hummed. “In appearance, at least. You were more annoying.” Ace poked Ariadne’s side, making her giggle for the first time (had you ever seen that girl giggle before?) and pointed at you with his thumb. “D’you know that, Spidey? Your sister here was a pain in the ass. You’re much nicer.”

“What? You were annoying!” You punched his arm jokingly and laughed. “You were a prick, in fact.”

He gasped in a dramatic way and put his hand over his chest. “Me?! A prick?! But I’m the nicest guy in the world! Tell her, Spidey!”

Ariadne laughed a bit louder.

And at that moment, something familiar filled you.

The sound of laughter, of Ace’s loud voice and Ariadne’s sheepish giggling. The smell of sweets and the aftertaste of ice cream in your tongue. The city full of life around you, the gentle night breeze.

You were happy for the first time since that afternoon when you said goodbye.

It felt nice.

The sun was already rising when Ace said goodbye.

He ruffled Ariadne’s hair (making her blush) and hugged you (making you blush. He’d never done that before. And he was still shirtless). Ace was definitely someone different now.

“I told you, remember? That we’d end up bumping into each other in the New World.”

“Yeah.” It was your turn to fiddle with your fingers nervously. You were still not great with goodbyes. “So… until next time, I guess?”

“Let’s meet again sooner this time!” He grinned mischievously. “Luffy will be out in the sea soon. We should all meet up and beat his ass, now that we’re both stronger than him!”

You laughed and nodded. The idea sounded funny enough. “Agreed!”

You watched Ace go, waving back at you two excitedly, with a big smile plastered over his face. Ariadne waved back with smaller movements. You stood there until he disappeared amid the crowd – but you could still feel him, the torch, brighter and warmer than anyone else in that island.

Just imagining you, Luffy and Ace reunited – this nicer Ace – was enough to make you smile.

But for now, it was time to go back to your life. You weren’t free yet, and you already abused your luck for the day.

“Let’s go.” You told Ariadne, picking some bags from the floor while she took others. It felt like each step you took away from Ace made the colors of life fade bit by bit.

Fuck.

You lit a cigarette while balancing the bags on your other arm.

“He’s weird.” Ariadne said after a while.

“You think so?”

She looked down with a thoughtful expression. “When you go to Wano, he said. As if I’d ever go there.”

You took a drag and quirked one eyebrow. “But you want to go there, right?” Her expression softened. She looked to her sides, as if afraid anyone would see her nod. Unfortunately, you understood her apprehension very well. “So why would you never go?”

Ariadne looked up at you for the first time as if you were insane. “Because I can’t.”

“You weren’t supposed to be out in the city shopping past midnight, were you? But here we are.” You shrugged.

“But that’s because I’m with you.”

“So, if you want to go to Wano, you have to be strong like me.”

That made her think. After a while, she nodded, because that made sense in her head. Of course it made sense. That’s the Scarpia way of life: strength is the only answer.

Yet, at the same time, it made you think of Ariadne – six years old, small, quiet and introspective, having to go through everything you’d been through in order to get stronger.

You didn’t like that.

Something inside you wished she’s just be able to do whatever she wanted without facing any pain.

You are a Scarpia. Life will never be kind to you.

That was the reality she was chained to – and there was nothing you could do about it.

For now, having some nice clothes and ice cream at inappropriate hours would have to suffice.

➛ 17

You were destroyed.

Arms, legs, head, stomach. Everything hurt. Your limbs were bandaged. Each movement sent waves of pain through your body. It’d been days, but you still couldn’t eat.

None of that mattered anymore, because a News Coo dropped the paper from the sky.

And in between the pages, there was a new bounty warning.

It felt almost supernatural that you caught the newspaper before any of the butlers could. How it fell on your hands. How that warning slipped from between the pages and you crouched down to take it.

The moment your eyes laid on it – the pain was gone.

All the things that hurt you, that made you feel miserable, grandfather’s training, everything – everything was brushed aside. The uncontrollable laughter that erupted from your chest, the shaking of your fingertips, your increased heartbeat.

Everything else was little, easy to ignore.

It was him. Him, grinning in that photo. His name, his bounty of 30 million.

And for a moment, you felt silly for wondering for the past months if he really would set sail, if he’d still keep that dream. Many things can change in three years. What if he had changed his mind? What if he decided to lead his life in another path and you’d simply never meet him again?

You should’ve never doubted him.

That same day, you accepted a commission in Paradise.

Tracking them down wouldn’t be hard if you weren’t forbidden to see him.

You could get information on anyone from any known corner of the world if you wanted; you just needed to make a call. But that would slip into Crowley’s ears and you couldn’t risk that. So, taking advantage over the fact that no butler followed you anymore, you took your time to investigate their whereabouts.

Fortunately, he made it pretty easy for you.

Once again, you felt an involuntary fit of laughter escape when you found another bounty warning – this time, glued to the wall of a bar. The entire city was talking about it: how this newbie pirate and his crew defeated a Warlord. Because of course Luffy would defeat a Warlord less than a year into his career.

Judging by the place they were last seen, there were three possible islands that their Log Pose could lead them.

You chose one based purely on instinct.

It was a small city with markets and fairs – the perfect place to replenish supplies. It had many harbors which were always packed with ships, including ships from the Marine. The economy of that island was solely based on it. Albeit small, the city had a constant crowd of travelers. It wasn’t particularly pretty, but the constant summer weather was nice.

You had arrived past night, slept in the simple room of an inn. Some wounds in your torso still hurt, but most of the bandaging was already unnecessary. Any pain you could possibly still feel was brushed aside.

Maybe you chose the wrong island. Maybe they’d sail past it and you’d lose the track. Maybe they were already way too far for you to reach them, and you had to report back to the main house before the situation got too suspicious. There were a million possibilities.

Or maybe– maybe you’d actually find him, but he wouldn’t care? What if he forgot about you? He had a bad memory.What if meeting you would be an inconvenience? He had his crew and his ship to take care of, after all… and you never agreed on a certain place or time to meet. Maybe you’d slow him down. Maybe he’d rather meet you in a different place at a different time.

This simple thought was torturous. After everything you had endured… if he acted nonchalant, if he simply didn’t remember – it’d break you in half more than anything grandfather or Crowley ever did. What would you even do? Well, you had your plan of running away before the wedding could happen, but what about after that? What would even be the point of–

An explosion.

It shook the floor. Made the people on the street look around in confusion.

A presence.

A presence. A presence. A presence at East.

A presence you hadn’t felt in over three years.

Adrenaline pumped through your veins.

You jumped over the roof of the nearest building, spotting a cloud of smoke in the distance. The noises of a fight… shots? Screams?

That presence that presence that presence–

You ran.

Jumping from roof to roof, getting closer to the source of that commotion. Soon, you saw Marine soldiers running down there on the street, carrying their guns. You’d seen a Marine ship docked past night… they yelled orders, following someone. You jumped to the bell tower of a church nearby, trying to get a better view–

And you saw it.

The top of a familiar straw hat.

Down there, running in zig zag to mislead the troop that chased him.

At that moment, it was like the world bloomed with colors again, its starting point being the red of his shirt.

Your fists tightened, and they were shaking. It was like your soul was shaking at that moment. You gathered all the air in your lungs for what you were about to say.

“Luffy!!”

Your voice echoed in the bell tower, equalizing its sound to the entire square down there.

You watched as he skidded on the stone floor, suddenly stopping on his tracks, one hand over the hat to keep it in place. The troopers were getting closer. And yet, he took his time to look around frantically with a frown.

You saw the exact moment he spotted you. The single second of apprehension that followed.

You saw, from that distance, the moment his face brightened up with a grin.

You saw him ignore the troopers and make the opposite way, jumping over their heads and landing on a nearby roof. You heard the familiar sound of his arm stretching, gripping around the pillar of the bell tower so he could propel himself like a cannonball. And you heard his laughter from that distance – his loud, boisterous laughter that sounded a bit different, but also the same.

“Wolfie!!”

He was still mid air when his arms wrapped around you.

And maybe it was a bit cheesy how the doves resting on the tower got scared and flew away the moment you hugged him back, engulfing you in a mess of white feathers. Maybe it was a bit cheesy how the bell rang, loud and clear, indicating the midday, at that exact moment. Yeah, it was totally cheesy how the troopers shots sounded like fireworks in the back of your head.

But it didn’t matter, because it was Luffy, it was him, and he was hugging you, and you were hugging him, and he was warm, and he was giggling with his face on your shoulder, and you were giggling back.

Three years of pain, of loneliness, of creating a tougher persona; it all dissolved in three seconds.

The wait was over.

A/N: I LOVE CLIFFHANGERS :D

One Piece's canon timeline is pretty insane. Romance Dawn to Alabasta happens in the span of like a month, and it'd be pretty impossible for anyone to travel from the New World to Paradise this fast, unless they were right by the Red Line. SO! For the sake of fic making sense, we'll pretend that all these events took a few months to happen, so our girl actually has the beliavable time to travel this far!

Reader is supposed to be Luffy's opposite in many ways, and that includes fashion. I like the idea that she dresses all preppy and doll-like in contrast to his more laid back, nonchalant style. That being said, not to be too Wattpad-y, but I imagine this is how she dresses most of the time (also bc she's inspired by Gogo Yubari lol). You can ignore it if you don't like it tho

If you read this far, please don't forget to leave a comment!! Your comments always brighten up my day. I'm so exicted to the following chapters!!! See you <3

#luffy x reader #monkey d. luffy x reader #monkey d. luffy #one piece #monkey d luffy #one piece x reader #luffy x you #luffy x y/n #monkey d. luffy x you #one piece x you #op #op x reader #one piece x y/n #op x you #mugiwara no luffy

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sylus-doll · 5 months ago

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Synopsis: There is more than meets the eye about Sylus's wealth. Despite working so hard to build his empire, Onychinus, the money doesn't truly matter to him. You, do.

Warnings: Talk of Sylus's dirty money, mentions of blood and corpses.

Author's note: Are you normal or do you also constantly think about whether Sylus built up this life of crime because it's what he knew and did with MC in their past life. Comments and reblogs are appreciated. <3

Sylus's wealth is... Unfathomable. Not to him, but to an ordinary person's eyes. He doubts that anyone could truly calculate just how much value he has in his base alone. Beyond that, he still has other properties, armories, multiple business ventures that all earn him more than Sylus himself could bother to count. Money is a frivolous matter for him— a person could steal from him twice a day and it would not make a dent in his bank. To insinuate that he is poor is a direct insult to him.

Most, if not all, of his money is earned through underhanded methods. Sylus is no fool. He understands that this is considered blood money, and he will not deny it. An arms dealer cannot do business without arming themself and using it whenever necessary. It is messy and dirty and even if he tries to claw his way out, he would fail from being far too deep in the pools of blood left in the wake of his destruction. Yet he still sits on his throne of corpses and sin; an unyielding sovereign.

Although... Can you really blame him for it? Conquering worlds and garnering these riches are all he knows. An instinct of his draconic nature which had followed him from the previous life to this one. Sylus hoards because he must have everything deemed worthy of being a part of his treasure and he will not accept anything less than desirable. This just so happens to apply to you, as well. For all his greed, he is generous for you. Why wouldn't he be, if everything he has done is all for you?

Sylus has all the material pleasure one could ever want or need for because it is all he had known before and with you. He reminisces about the days when you two were an unstoppable force to be reckoned with. What you had was an era of justified vengeance and desperate survival. During which he lived to provide for you all your heart's desire. Even tempting you towards more— indulgence of hedonism dripping off his tongue for you to simply take what you want if you were told that you cannot have it.

In this life, where he does not appear to be a fiend or monster, he chooses to be. Sylus builds a new empire on blood and bones to recreate what you once had. Things that you would— should— be familiar with. He'd continue this road of greed and he will hold out his arm for you to hold if this was what you wanted again. Sword and shield; made for each other and incomplete when one is missing. You will face the war of life as kindred spirits.

Or at least, that was what he had hoped for. But Lady Luck never picked his side from the beginning, did she? No deity ever did. Carmine eyes bore into your own ones. His, donned a mask of anger. Yours are bereft of the blaze he once knew. You did not remember him, and his heart is pierced a thousand times worse than the gunshot imitating a phantom of a claymore. Both of you are anguished for different reasons more intertwined than you'd realize.

This is fine, he thinks. A miscalculation, a new obstacle, nothing new to Sylus. He should have anticipated this at the very least. Took precautionary measures, made contingency plans. In hindsight, his greed and desire to be with you again had momentarily blinded him. If rebuilding from the ground up is what he must do, he'll labor for years to earn your trust. He'll learn what put out the fire and caused your eyes to be so dull; he'll destroy it. After all, Sylus is a relentless conqueror. This time, however, he will let you choose when your heart wants him as its sovereign.

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novaursa · 10 months ago

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The Last Dragonslayer (2/2)

- Summary: The conclusion of a journey, for you, one of the many.

- Pairing: female!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 7 000+

- Previous part: 1

- Bonus part: 3

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The council chamber is cold, the stone walls adorned with banners of House Targaryen, their crimson and black fabric swaying lightly in the draft. The weight of history presses down upon you, the ancient stones whispering secrets of kings and conquerors. You stand at the edge of the chamber, watching Rhaenyra from beneath the hood of your cloak. The lords seated around the table glance at you uneasily, their gazes lingering too long, discomfort plain in their eyes. You are a foreigner, an anomaly, a reminder of tales and nightmares they would rather forget.

Rhaenyra, the Queen, sits at the head of the table, her presence commanding even as shadows darken the skin beneath her eyes. She’s been restless since Daemon left for Harrenhal, pacing the halls of Dragonstone like a caged beast. Now, she listens as her advisors bicker, her expression tight, her gaze distant. They speak of the war, of the blood that’s already been spilled, and the blood that will flow if they do not act.

Alfred Broome, his voice tinged with frustration, slams his fist on the table. “We cannot continue to sit idle, Your Grace. The Greens gain more ground with each passing day! Aemond’s attack on Storm’s End—”

“—was an act of war,” interrupts Lord Celtigar, his tone measured but firm. “They have already crossed the line.”

“And yet we remain here, waiting!” Broome snaps, glaring at the others. “Waiting for what? A miracle? A sign from the gods? Aemond tried to kill Prince Lucerys, and still, we do nothing.”

You watch as Rhaenyra’s knuckles whiten, her fingers digging into the arms of her chair. Her grief is palpable, a dark cloud that has yet to lift since news of Lucerys’ narrow escape reached her. But she remains silent, her eyes flickering with a storm of emotions she refuses to let loose before these men.

It’s then that you decide to speak, your voice low, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Action without strategy is a fool’s errand, Lord Broome. Perhaps you are eager to throw away lives in a show of haste, but the Queen’s duty is to her people, not to your impatience.”

The lords turn to you, their eyes narrowing, some in suspicion, others in outright disdain. You meet their stares unflinchingly, the cold fire of your homeland reflected in your gaze. Your hand rests on the hilt of your sword—a sword older than any of them, a relic of a time when the world was shaped by fire and blood, but not by dragons alone.

Broome sneers, his lip curling. “And what would a foreigner know of our wars? Of our dragons?”

More than you could ever understand, you think, but do not say aloud. Instead, you take a step forward, the shadow of your Banshee—your mount, your companion, and your weapon—seeming to loom behind you, though it remains far from these walls. The lords shift uncomfortably as if sensing its presence. They fear it, as they should.

“I know,” you say, your voice steady, “that Aemond did more than just attack Storm’s End. He was driven away. Chased off by something he did not expect, and that something was me. You may not trust my motives, but understand this: I have chosen to stand with the Queen, to see balance preserved in Westeros. You would do well to heed her wisdom and not let your fear cloud your judgment.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes meet yours across the table, and for a moment, the storm within her clears. There is gratitude there, and something else—something that has lingered between you since the night you arrived at Dragonstone, the night you saved her son. The pull between you is undeniable, a silent promise that neither of you has yet dared to speak aloud. But in her gaze, you see it as clearly as the flames of a dragon’s breath.

Lord Celtigar clears his throat, cutting through the tension. “The Lady Y/N speaks true. We cannot act rashly. The Greens expect us to strike without thought. We must outmaneuver them, not merely meet them on the field of battle.”

The room falls silent, the lords exchanging glances. Broome’s scowl deepens, but he holds his tongue, his eyes flickering to Rhaenyra, who now seems more resolute.

Rhaenyra straightens in her seat, the weight of the crown evident on her shoulders but her voice strong. “We will act, but we will act wisely. The Greens will not find us easy prey. We will not fall into their traps, nor will we be goaded into hasty decisions. Lord Celtigar, begin preparations for the fleet. We’ll strike where they least expect it. And Lord Broome,” she adds, her gaze hardening, “you will ensure that our forces are ready when the time comes.”

Broome stiffens but nods, his anger barely concealed. “As you command, Your Grace.”

The council continues, the lords discussing strategy, but your attention drifts to Rhaenyra. The tension in her shoulders has eased slightly, but the burden she carries is still heavy. You find yourself stepping closer, a silent offering of support that she acknowledges with a slight nod, a flicker of something warm in her eyes as she turns back to the map spread out before her.

Later, when the council disperses, and the lords retreat to their chambers, you linger. The chamber is quiet now, the echo of the lords' voices fading into the stone. Rhaenyra stands by the hearth, staring into the flames, her thoughts far away. You approach her, the weight of your sword still at your side, a constant reminder of who you are and what you represent.

“You were right to keep a level head,” you say softly, your voice breaking the silence. “They do not understand the full scope of what we face.”

She turns to you, the firelight casting her features in a warm glow. For a moment, she looks younger, almost fragile, but then her eyes meet yours, and the steel within her is evident once more. “It is difficult,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “To know when to strike, and when to hold back. But with Daemon gone, I must be even more cautious. I cannot afford to lose another child… or more allies.”

“You won’t,” you reply, your voice firm. “Not while I’m here.”

A small, wry smile tugs at her lips. “I am grateful for that, Y/N. More than you know.”

The air between you shifts, charged with the unspoken words that neither of you dare to voice, not here, not now. But the promise remains, woven into the fabric of your alliance, and something deeper, something personal.

You reach out, your hand brushing against hers—a fleeting touch that sends a jolt through you both. Rhaenyra doesn’t pull away, her fingers curling slightly, as if to hold onto the warmth you offer. For a brief moment, the weight of the crown, the war, the bloodshed all fades, leaving just the two of you standing by the fire, bound by something stronger than duty.

“Stay with me,” she murmurs, her voice soft, vulnerable in a way you’ve never heard before. “Just a little longer.”

You nod, your hand gently clasping hers, the two of you standing side by side as the fire crackles softly in the hearth, the flames a quiet witness to the bond growing between you.

The wind howls through the trees, rustling the leaves and sending a shiver down your spine. The forest is dense, the shadows long as dusk begins to settle over the land. You stand alone in a clearing, your cloak billowing around you like a dark shadow, the hilt of your ancient sword gleaming faintly in the dim light. The ground beneath your feet is soft, the earth freshly disturbed by the recent passage of men and horses—Ser Criston Cole’s forces, on their way to seize Duskendale for the Greens.

The quiet of the forest is broken by the distant sound of hooves, growing louder with each passing moment. You remain still, your gaze fixed on the treeline as they emerge—riders clad in armor, their banners snapping in the wind. At their head rides Ser Criston Cole himself, his face set in a stern mask, followed closely by Ser Gwayne Hightower and several dozen men-at-arms. They slow as they approach, their horses snorting and stamping as they take in your solitary figure.

The men spread out in a semicircle, surrounding you, their weapons at the ready. Ser Criston rides closer, his eyes narrowing as he takes in your appearance. The tales of your deeds have reached his ears, no doubt—whispers of a foreigner with an ancient sword, a beast that haunts the skies, and the power to make even dragons flee. But it’s clear he does not yet understand the full measure of what stands before him.

“Who are you to stand in our path?” Criston’s voice is hard, commanding, as if the answer to his question will determine whether you live or die.

You don’t flinch under his scrutiny, your voice calm as you reply, “I am Y/N. I have come to give you a chance, Ser Criston. Turn back now, and you may yet live to see another day.”

A murmur ripples through the men, some of them exchanging uneasy glances. They’ve heard the tales too, and the sight of you standing alone, unafraid, seems to unsettle them. But Criston is unmoved, his expression hardening as he spurs his horse closer, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

“You expect me to turn tail at the sight of a woman?” He sneers, his tone dripping with disdain. “You may have frightened Aemond, but I am no craven boy. I am the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, sworn to protect the true king. Step aside, or I will cut you down where you stand.”

His men shift in their saddles, emboldened by their commander’s bravado. Ser Gwayne smirks, drawing his sword, the blade catching the dying light of the sun. “It would be wise to heed the Commander’s words, foreigner. You are far from home and outnumbered.”

You remain still, your expression unreadable, the forest around you eerily silent. The air grows colder, the breeze carrying the scent of earth and leaves. You speak again, your voice carrying an edge of steel. “This is your final warning, Ser Criston. I am not here to play games, nor am I here to waste lives. Turn back, or face the consequences.”

Criston’s eyes narrow, his patience clearly worn thin. He raises his sword, the motion sharp and decisive. “Enough of this. Men, bring me her head.”

The order is given, and the men begin to close in around you, their horses snorting, the sound of metal clinking as they draw their weapons. You don’t move, your hand resting lightly on the hilt of your sword, the weight of it familiar and comforting.

As the first rider approaches, sword raised high, you draw your blade with a fluid motion, the ancient steel singing as it cuts through the air. The rider barely has time to react before your sword meets his, the force of the blow sending a shockwave up his arm. His eyes widen in surprise, and in that moment of hesitation, you twist your blade, disarming him with a swift, practiced movement.

He falls from his horse with a cry, his weapon clattering to the ground. The other men hesitate, clearly not expecting such a swift and effortless display. But Criston’s voice rings out, cold and commanding. “Press the attack! She’s but one woman!”

But you are not just one woman. You are Y/N, the last of the Dragonslayers. And this is not your first battle.They charge at you, swords flashing in the dim light, but you are ready. Your movements are a blur, each strike precise, each parry executed with lethal grace. One by one, the riders fall, unhorsed by the skill of your blade or the sheer power behind your strikes. The clearing becomes a battlefield, the air filled with the clash of steel and the cries of men.

In the chaos, you catch sight of Ser Gwayne, his face twisted in anger as he drives his horse towards you. You meet his charge head-on, your swords clashing with a force that reverberates through your arms. He grits his teeth, pushing against you with all his strength, but you hold firm, the ancient power of your blade surging through you.

“You should have listened,” you say, your voice low, as you twist your sword, breaking his stance and sending him reeling. He barely manages to stay in the saddle, his eyes wide with shock as he realizes just how outmatched he is.

“You’re a demon!” he spits, his voice trembling as he regains his balance, but the fear is evident in his eyes.

“No,” you reply, your voice cold, “I am justice.”

With a final, powerful strike, you knock him from his horse, sending him crashing to the ground. He groans, trying to rise, but you place the tip of your sword against his throat, pinning him in place. The other men halt, unsure whether to continue their attack or flee.

Ser Criston watches the scene unfold, his face a mask of fury and disbelief. He dismounts, striding towards you, his sword at the ready. “You think you can best me?” he snarls, raising his weapon.

You turn to face him, your blade still poised at Gwayne’s throat. “I don’t think, Ser Criston. I know.”

Criston lunges at you, his strikes fast and furious, but you are faster. Your swords clash, the sound ringing through the clearing like a bell. He fights with the ferocity of a man with everything to lose, but you match him blow for blow, your movements fluid, almost effortless. He’s strong, but strength alone is not enough.

The battle drags on, but with each passing moment, Criston’s strikes become more desperate, more reckless. He overextends on a particularly vicious swing, and you seize the opportunity. You parry his strike, stepping inside his guard and slashing across his chest. He stumbles back, blood blooming across his white cloak, staining it red.

He grits his teeth, refusing to fall, but the wound has taken its toll. You don’t give him a chance to recover, pressing the attack with a series of swift, precise strikes. He barely manages to parry, each blow pushing him further back until he’s on the defensive, his movements slowing.

Finally, with a powerful upward swing, you knock his sword from his hand, sending it flying across the clearing. He falls to his knees, clutching his bleeding chest, his face pale, eyes wide with disbelief.

You stand over him, your sword raised, its tip pointed at his throat. “I warned you,” you say softly, your voice carrying the weight of inevitability.

Criston glares up at you, defiance still burning in his eyes, but there is also fear—fear of the unknown, of the force that now stands over him. “Kill me, then,” he spits. “But know this: you will never defeat one true king, Aegon.”

You lower your sword slightly, considering him for a moment. “I do not need to defeat your king, Ser Criston. I only need to preserve the balance.”

With that, you withdraw your sword, stepping back. Criston’s eyes widen in surprise, but you give him no time to react. You whistle sharply, and from the shadows of the forest, your Banshee emerges, its massive form blotting out the last of the daylight. The men around you recoil in terror as the creature lets out a bone-chilling shriek, the sound reverberating through the clearing like the cry of a thousand tortured souls.

Criston stares up at the creature, his face drained of all color, and for the first time, you see true fear in his eyes.

“Tell your king,” you say, your voice calm but carrying an unmistakable edge, “that Duskendale is under my protection. And the next time we meet, I will not be so merciful.”

With that, you turn and mount your Banshee, the creature’s wings unfurling as it prepares to take flight. The men watch in stunned silence as you ascend into the sky, the wind whipping around you as your mount carries you away from the clearing and into the night.

Below, the soldiers of the Greens stand frozen, their leader humbled, their will to fight shattered. The tale of what happened in that clearing will spread, carried on the winds of fear, and it will be known that the last of the Dragonslayers walks the earth once more.

The great hall of Dragonstone is quiet as you enter, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows on the walls. The air is thick with the scent of salt and smoke, the sea and the dragon forges mingling to create an atmosphere that is both heavy and foreboding. Rhaenyra and her council are gathered around the massive oak table at the center of the chamber, the map of Westeros spread out before them. Their faces are drawn, tense with the weight of decisions yet to be made.

You stride forward, the sound of your boots on the stone floor echoing through the chamber. The lords and advisors turn to you, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. You are a mystery to most of them, a shadow in the midst of their struggles, but your presence commands attention.

Rhaenyra looks up from the map, her violet eyes locking onto yours. There is a quiet strength in her gaze, tempered by the grief and burdens she carries. She nods to you, her silent signal for you to speak.

“The Greens will no longer trouble themselves with coastal points, Your Grace,” you begin, your voice steady and clear. “I intercepted Ser Criston Cole’s forces before they could reach Duskendale. They were forced to retreat, and word will spread of their defeat. They will not dare to strike at our shores again, not while I stand with you.”

Murmurs ripple through the council, some lords exchanging glances of relief, others still wary of the enigmatic figure before them. But Rhaenyra’s expression is one of satisfaction, a glimmer of approval in her eyes.

“Well done, Lady Y/N,” she says, her voice carrying the authority of a queen. “You have once again proven your value to our cause.”

You incline your head slightly, acknowledging her words. “It is my duty, Your Grace.”

The council continues for a while longer, discussions of strategy and the next moves in the war filling the chamber. But you notice that Rhaenyra’s attention drifts back to you frequently, her gaze lingering as if she has something more on her mind. Finally, as the meeting draws to a close, she dismisses her advisors with a wave of her hand.

“Lady Y/N,” she calls, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. “A word, if you will.”

You nod, following her as she leads you from the great hall. The corridors of Dragonstone are dimly lit, the stone walls cold and unyielding. Rhaenyra’s pace is slow, measured, as if she is gathering her thoughts. You walk beside her in silence, the only sound the faint echoes of your footsteps.

She leads you to her chambers, a grand room that still manages to feel intimate despite its size. The air is warm here, a stark contrast to the chill of the hallways. A bath is drawn, the steam rising gently from the water, scented with herbs and oils. It’s clear that Rhaenyra sought this moment of respite, a small comfort amidst the storm of war.

She gestures for you to sit by the fire, where a table is set with a decanter of wine and two goblets. “Please, join me,” she says, her voice soft but carrying a hint of something more—curiosity, perhaps, or even a touch of longing.

You take a seat, watching as she pours the wine, the deep red liquid catching the light of the flames. She hands you a goblet, her fingers brushing yours for the briefest of moments. The touch is fleeting, but it lingers in the air between you, unspoken.

“I wanted to speak with you, Y/N,” she begins, taking a sip of her wine as she settles into a chair opposite you. “I realize I know so little about you, despite all you’ve done for me. You’ve proven yourself a loyal ally, but there is much I would like to understand. Who are you, truly?”

You swirl the wine in your goblet, considering her question. There is so much to tell, more than could be shared in one evening, or even in a lifetime. But you see the sincerity in her eyes, the genuine desire to know you, not just as a warrior, but as a person.

“I have seen much, Your Grace,” you say slowly, your voice carrying the weight of centuries. “More than most could ever dream or fear. I have witnessed the rise and fall of empires, the death of loved ones, the shifting tides of history. From the brilliant Yo Ti Empire to the shadowed lands of Asshai, to the great wonders beyond the western seas… I have wandered this world longer than I care to remember.”

Rhaenyra listens intently, her eyes wide, a shiver running down her spine at your words. But it is not fear that grips her—it is something else, something that makes her heart quicken, her breath catch.

“How old are you?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she is almost afraid to hear the answer.

You smile faintly, the lines of your face softening as you look into the flames. “Too old, Your Grace. Old enough to have seen the world change many times over. To be bound to a Banshee is a terrible purpose.”

Rhaenyra sits back in her chair, the goblet forgotten in her hand as she takes in the enormity of your words. For a moment, the weight of your age and experience presses down upon her, making her feel small and fleeting in comparison. But then, she realizes something—despite all you have seen, all you have endured, you are here, by her side, choosing to stand with her in this tumultuous time.

She reaches out, her hand resting lightly on yours, her touch warm, grounding. “And yet you have chosen to fight for me, for Westeros. Why?”

You look at her, truly look at her, and see not just a queen burdened by war, but a woman who has suffered, who has loved and lost, and who is determined to protect what remains. “Because, Your Grace, you fight for balance. For the hope that the world might find peace, that the fire of the dragons might warm rather than burn. That is something worth fighting for.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes soften, her heart touched by your words. She gives your hand a gentle squeeze, her gaze never leaving yours. “Thank you, Y/N. For your honesty, and for your loyalty. It means more to me than I can express.”

The room seems warmer now, the tension of the day melting away as the two of you continue to talk. You share stories of your past, tales of lands and people she can only imagine, and she in turn shares her own hopes and fears, her dreams for her children, for her realm.

As the night deepens, the conversation grows more intimate, the barriers between you falling away. The flickering fire casts a soft glow on Rhaenyra’s face, highlighting the beauty and strength that have drawn you to her from the beginning. And though the specter of war still looms over you both, for this moment, in this room, there is only warmth, only connection.

The wine flows, the stories continue, and as the night wears on, the bond between you and the Black Queen deepens, becoming something more than mere alliance, more than duty.

The night deepens as you and Rhaenyra continue to talk, the warmth between you growing with each passing moment. The wine in your goblets has long since dwindled, but neither of you seems to notice, too absorbed in the quiet intimacy of your conversation. The fire crackles softly, casting flickering shadows across the room, but it is the light in Rhaenyra’s eyes that holds your attention.

As the conversation naturally lulls, a silence falls between you—not an awkward one, but rather filled with unspoken words and lingering glances. You notice how Rhaenyra’s gaze occasionally drifts to your lips, how her breath catches slightly when your hands brush. It is a delicate tension, a quiet yearning that neither of you has fully acknowledged until now.

Finally, Rhaenyra breaks the silence, her voice hushed, almost tentative. “Y/N… there is something I have been wanting to do for some time now.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued by the shift in her tone. “And what might that be, Your Grace?”

She doesn’t answer immediately, instead leaning in closer, her eyes locked onto yours. The distance between you shrinks until you can feel the warmth of her breath against your skin, your hearts beating in tandem. Then, without another word, she closes the remaining distance, her lips meeting yours in a kiss that is soft yet filled with a deep, unspoken desire.

The kiss is tentative at first, testing, but as you respond, it deepens, becoming more urgent, more passionate. Rhaenyra’s hand finds its way to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, while your own hand rests on her waist, feeling the warmth of her body through the fabric of her dress. The world outside the room fades away, leaving only the two of you, bound together in this moment.

When you finally pull apart, both of you are breathless, your foreheads resting against each other’s as you take in the reality of what just happened. Rhaenyra’s eyes are dark with desire, her voice a mere whisper as she speaks. “Join me… in the bath.”

There is no hesitation in your response, only a quiet nod of agreement. You both rise from your seats, the space between you charged with anticipation. Rhaenyra’s hand slips into yours, leading you toward the bath that still steams softly in the corner of the room. The heat from the water fills the space, creating a cocoon of warmth and intimacy.

Standing beside the bath, you turn to face each other, the moment heavy with significance. Slowly, reverently, you begin to undress one another, your hands moving with a gentle purpose. Rhaenyra’s fingers trace the edges of your cloak, slipping it from your shoulders, while your own hands find the laces of her dress, loosening them with deliberate care. Each piece of clothing falls to the floor with a whisper, leaving you both bared to each other, not just in body, but in soul.

Rhaenyra’s gaze sweeps over you, appreciation and desire evident in her eyes. She reaches out, her hand trembling slightly as she brushes a lock of hair from your face, her touch tender, almost reverent. “You are… beautiful,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion.

You smile softly, your own hand coming up to cup her cheek, your thumb brushing against her skin. “As are you, Rhaenyra. You are radiant.”

There is no more need for words as you step into the bath together, the water embracing you both in its warmth. You sink into the water, Rhaenyra following, her body pressing against yours as you both settle into the comfort of the bath. The heat of the water contrasts with the cool air of the room, heightening every sensation.

You share another kiss, this one slower, more languid, as if savoring each moment. Your hands begin to explore one another’s bodies, tracing the curves and lines with a tenderness that belies the passion simmering beneath the surface. You feel the strength in her arms, the softness of her skin, and the way her body trembles under your touch.

Rhaenyra’s breath hitches as your hand moves lower, finding the heat of her womanhood. She mirrors your movement, her fingers slipping between your thighs with a surety that makes you shudder. The contact is electric, sending ripples of pleasure through both of you. The world narrows to the sensation of her touch, the way her breath mingles with yours, the warmth of the water lapping at your bodies.

There is a rhythm to your movements, a dance of desire and affection that grows more intense with each passing second. Rhaenyra’s moans mix with your own, her voice breathy and desperate as she clings to you, her hips moving in time with your hand. The water sloshes gently around you, the only witness to this intimate exchange.

As the pressure builds within you both, the touches grow more urgent, the kisses more fervent. Rhaenyra’s hand tightens on your shoulder, her eyes squeezing shut as she reaches the edge. You follow her soon after, your bodies trembling together as the waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you both breathless, your hearts pounding in the aftermath.

For a moment, there is only the sound of your breathing, the gentle lap of the water, and the warmth of Rhaenyra’s body pressed against yours. Slowly, the intensity of the moment ebbs away, leaving behind a deep, abiding connection.

Rhaenyra leans her head against your shoulder, her breath warm against your neck. “That was… incredible,” she whispers, her voice still tinged with the aftershocks of pleasure.

You smile, your hand gently stroking her back as you hold her close. “It was,” you agree softly, feeling a profound sense of contentment.

The two of you remain like that for some time, simply holding each other, basking in the warmth of the water and the closeness of your bodies. There is a gentle, unspoken understanding between you now, a bond forged not just by passion but by mutual respect and deepening affection.

As the water begins to cool, Rhaenyra lifts her head, looking into your eyes with a soft smile. “Let’s dry off and rest,” she suggests, her voice gentle. “There is much we still need to talk about… but for now, I just want to be close to you.”

You nod, helping her out of the bath and wrapping yourselves in the towels that were left nearby. As you dry each other off, the touches are more tender, more affectionate, than before. There is no rush, no urgency—only the simple pleasure of being together.

Once dry, you both slip into the bed, the sheets cool against your heated skin. Rhaenyra curls up beside you, her head resting on your chest, her hand lightly tracing patterns on your skin. You hold her close, your own hand gently stroking her hair, the intimacy of the moment filling you both with a deep sense of peace.

“Tell me more about your journeys,” Rhaenyra murmurs, her voice drowsy as sleep begins to tug at her.

“Of course,” you reply softly, your voice soothing as you begin to share more tales of distant lands and ancient times. Rhaenyra listens, her breathing slowing as she drifts off, content in your embrace.

As she falls asleep, you continue to hold her, your own eyes growing heavy with exhaustion. But before you succumb to sleep, you take a moment to appreciate the warmth of her body against yours, the comfort of her presence.

Together, in the quiet of the night, you both find rest, the bond between you stronger than ever before.

The dawn is just breaking over Dragonstone, casting a pale golden light across the harbor. The sea is calm, the waters reflecting the first light of day like molten glass. The ships are ready, their sails furled and waiting for the wind to carry them across the Narrow Sea. Rhaenyra stands on the dock, her expression stern, though her heart is heavy. The decision to send her children away, to safety in Pentos, has not come easily. Aegon and Viserys cling to her skirts, their young faces filled with confusion and fear, while Lucerys stands beside her, trying to put on a brave face for his younger brothers.

Jacaerys, their eldest, stands a short distance away, his jaw set in determination, though there is a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He is prepared to escort his brothers, to protect them as best he can, but the weight of responsibility is a heavy burden on such young shoulders.

Rhaenyra kneels to embrace her children, whispering words of comfort and love, even as her heart aches with the knowledge that she may not see them again for a long time—if ever. As she stands and turns to Jace, a shadow passes over the group. She looks up, expecting to see a cloud or a bird, but instead, it is you, descending from the sky on your Banshee, the creature’s leathery wings creating a powerful downdraft as it lands gracefully on the docks.

You dismount with practiced ease, your cloak billowing around you as you stride toward the group. The lords and soldiers present step back instinctively, the stories of your deeds still fresh in their minds. Jacaerys stiffens as you approach, sensing that something is about to change.

“Y/N,” Rhaenyra greets you, her voice laced with surprise but also a trace of relief. “You’ve come to see them off?”

You nod, but your gaze is focused on Jacaerys, who meets your eyes with a mixture of respect and defiance. “No, Your Grace,” you say calmly, “I’ve come to take Prince's place.”

Rhaenyra’s brow furrows in confusion, and Jace steps forward, his voice firm but uncertain. “But Mother has tasked me with escorting my brothers. I can’t leave them to face this journey alone.”

“You won’t be leaving them alone, Jace,” you reply, your tone gentle but unyielding. “But your place is here, by your mother’s side. She needs you now more than ever.”

Jace opens his mouth to protest, but you raise a hand, silencing him. “You won’t make it past the Gullet,” you continue, your eyes narrowing slightly as you speak. “On my last flight, I saw ships from the Free Cities approaching fast, likely in league with the Greens. They will be waiting for you, and you will not have the strength to fight them off. But I can.”

The gravity of your words sinks in, and Rhaenyra’s hand instinctively tightens on Jace’s arm. The boy hesitates, torn between his duty to his brothers and the growing realization that you speak the truth.

Rhaenyra’s gaze shifts from her son to you, her eyes searching yours. There is a deep understanding between you, born of the time you have spent together, the shared battles, and the nights spent in quiet conversation. She knows you too well, and she can sense what you are not saying.

“Y/N,” Rhaenyra begins, her voice low and laden with concern. “You intend to go alone, don’t you?”

You nod slowly, the sadness in your eyes betraying what you cannot bring yourself to say outright. “This is something I must do, Rhaenyra. It is time for me to fulfill my calling, to see this through to the end.”

“No,” Rhaenyra says firmly, shaking her head as she steps closer to you. “You are not just an ally, Y/N. You are more than that. You have become… indispensable to me, to us. I cannot let you go, not like this.”

You offer her a sad smile, one that speaks of centuries of experience, of knowing when a path must be walked alone. “I have only ever obeyed one master, Rhaenyra,” you say softly, reaching out to gently cup her cheek. “And that is my calling. This is something I must do, for myself, and for those who have gone before me. My time here is coming to an end, and it is time for me to go home.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, but she blinks them away, her voice breaking as she speaks. “Will I ever see you again?”

You take a deep breath, your gaze lifting to the sky, where the first stars of evening are beginning to twinkle faintly, though the sun has barely risen. “I will be watching over you every night, Rhaenyra,” you reply, your voice tender and filled with an unspoken promise. “Whenever you look up at the stars, know that I am there, looking at you.”

For a moment, there is only silence between you, the weight of the world hanging in the air. Rhaenyra reaches up, placing her hand over yours where it rests against her cheek, holding on to the warmth of your touch as if she could somehow keep you with her.

“Then promise me,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, your lips lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “I promise I will do everything in my power to return,” you say, your voice filled with the sincerity of your oath. But there is something unspoken in your words, a truth that both of you know but do not want to acknowledge—that sometimes, not all promises can be kept.

Rhaenyra steps back reluctantly, releasing your hand, her eyes never leaving yours. She nods, accepting your words even as her heart rebels against them. “Go, then,” she says, her voice filled with the strength of a queen but the sorrow of a woman who knows she may be losing someone dear. “But remember that you have a place here, with us, with me. And if you can… come back to it.”

You bow your head slightly in acknowledgment, your expression one of quiet resolve. “Take care of your family, Rhaenyra,” you say, turning to the children, your eyes lingering on Jacaerys for a moment. “And remember what I’ve taught you.”

With that, you mount your Banshee, the creature’s wings stretching out in preparation for flight. You glance back at Rhaenyra one last time, committing her face to memory—the strength in her eyes, the sadness in her smile—before turning your gaze forward, to the horizon where your destiny awaits.

The Banshee’s powerful wings beat the air as you take off, soaring into the sky above Dragonstone. Below, you see Rhaenyra and her children watching, growing smaller and smaller as you climb higher into the sky. The wind rushes past you, carrying with it the scent of the sea and the distant promise of what is to come.

As the island fades into the distance, you feel a sense of peace settle over you. You have made your choice, and it is the right one.

And somewhere below, on the shores of Dragonstone, a queen stands alone, her gaze lifted to the heavens, searching the skies for a glimpse of the one she has come to care for more than she ever thought possible. As the stars begin to emerge, she knows that, wherever you are, you are looking at them too, and perhaps, just perhaps, you will find your way back to her, to the home you have both made together.

But for now, all she can do is wait, and hope, and hold on to the memory of your final kiss, a promise that will echo in her heart for as long as she lives.

Years have passed, and the Red Keep stands tall against the night sky, its ancient stones bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. The castle, once a symbol of unyielding strength, now bears the weight of countless battles, of loss and victory, of the bloodshed that shaped the Seven Kingdoms. Yet, despite the passage of time, one constant remains: the stars, ever-present, watching over the realm with a silent, timeless gaze.

Rhaenyra Targaryen, now older and wearier, stands alone on the balcony of her chambers. The years have etched lines of sorrow and wisdom onto her face, and her once fiery spirit has been tempered by the trials she has endured. Her long silver hair, once a brilliant cascade, now carries strands of white, a testament to the time that has passed and the burdens she has carried. She wraps her cloak tightly around her shoulders, shielding herself from the cool night breeze that whispers through the Red Keep.

Her gaze is fixed on the sky, on the stars that glitter like diamonds against the velvety darkness. The constellations are familiar to her, their patterns etched into her memory from countless nights spent searching them for solace, for answers, for a glimpse of the past. The night is clear, the sky vast and endless, and yet Rhaenyra feels a deep, aching loneliness that even the stars cannot fill.

She lifts her chin slightly, her eyes tracing the paths of the stars as they twinkle serenely above. It has become a ritual of sorts, this nightly vigil, a way to connect with something greater than herself, to find comfort in the constancy of the heavens when everything else has changed.

But tonight, the stars seem more distant than ever.

She remembers those who have been lost to the ravages of time and war—her children, her loved ones, and the countless souls who once stood beside her. She remembers the faces of those who are no longer here, their voices now echoes in her memory. And among those memories, one stands out more vividly than the rest.

It has been years since you left her, years since you took flight from Dragonstone, vowing to protect her children, to do what needed to be done. You had promised to look after them, to see them safely to the other side of the Narrow Sea. And you had promised, in your own way, to return—to find your way back to her, to the place you both shared.

But you never did.

Rhaenyra’s heart tightens at the thought, a pang of sorrow so deep it threatens to overwhelm her. She has long since stopped searching the skies for your return, knowing deep down that you had fulfilled your destiny, whatever it may have been, and that she would never see you again. And yet, on nights like this, when the stars are particularly bright, she can’t help but wonder if somewhere, in some distant part of the world, you are still watching over her, as you had promised.

She leans against the cold stone of the balcony, her hands resting on the worn edges, her gaze unfaltering. The years have taken so much from her, but the memory of you remains, as vivid as the night you shared on Dragonstone, as real as the last kiss you gave her before you took to the skies. It is a memory she holds close, a fragment of warmth in a world that has grown increasingly colder.

The wind picks up slightly, rustling the leaves of the trees far below, carrying with it the faintest scent of the sea. It is a reminder of a time long past, of a love that was as fleeting as it was profound. Rhaenyra closes her eyes for a moment, letting the wind brush against her face, imagining it is your touch, soft and comforting, as it once was.

But when she opens her eyes, the night remains as it was, unchanged, the stars twinkling impassively above. She takes a deep breath, the weight of the years pressing down on her, and yet, there is a certain peace that comes with it. She knows that you are out there, somewhere beyond the reach of mortal hands, and that perhaps, in your own way, you are still watching over her.

Rhaenyra lifts her hand, as if to touch the stars, her fingers stretching out toward the endless sky. It is a futile gesture, and she knows it, but it brings her a small measure of comfort nonetheless. She lets her hand fall back to her side, her gaze lingering on the stars for a moment longer before she turns away, retreating into the warmth of her chambers.

As she closes the balcony doors behind her, shutting out the chill of the night, Rhaenyra takes one last look at the sky. The stars continue to shine, distant and unwavering, and she knows that they will be there long after she is gone, just as they were before she was born. They are a reminder of the constancy of the universe, of the passage of time, and of the fleeting nature of life.

And as she steps back into the familiar confines of her room, she carries with her the memory of you—of the love that once was, of the promises made beneath the stars, and of the bittersweet knowledge that some things are not meant to last forever.

But even in that knowledge, there is a certain beauty, a quiet acceptance. For Rhaenyra knows that, in the end, it is not the length of time that matters, but the depth of the moments shared. And though you are gone, the memory of those moments remains, a light in the darkness, a star in the sky, guiding her even now.

And so, she closes her eyes, allowing herself to rest, knowing that, wherever you are, a part of you is still with her, in the stars above, in the memories you left behind, and in the love that will never fade, no matter how many years pass.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd x female reader #hotd rhaenyra #rhaenyra x y/n #rhaenyra x reader #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra x you #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd x you

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camcat1320 · 5 months ago

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The Fortune-Teller does not deserve the hate it has received. It's actually a great episode that people misunderstand. Let me explain.

Kataangers love the episode for it says Katara is destined to be with Aang. Zutarians hate the episode for this reason along with forcing Katara into a pigeon hole. I stand between these warring tribes and say that they are both wrong.

To be clear, I am a Zutarian. If we would've had a Book 4 like the head writer had intended, this episode would've been integral for that book.

"But the 3-act story structure!" some may argue. A 3-act story structure is just a 4-act story structure in disguise.

Anyways, let's continue.

The destiny that Aunt Wu foretells does not give names and is vague in nature. She tells Katara that she is to be married to a powerful bender. She didn't say the most powerful nor did she say bender of all four elements. One doesn't have to be the Avatar to be a powerful bender.

Come Aang's fortune, she foretold of a great battle between good and evil that will determine the fate of the world. We immediately think of Aang battling Firelord Ozai to end the 100 year war. However, this fortune is vague and could foretell another battle after Ozai has fallen.

When Aunt Wu learns that Aang wants to learn about his future about love, she cheers him up by giving him a vague, seemingly harmless white lie to satisfy him. "Follow your heart and you will be with the one you love." Since Aang is 12, he can easily misconstrue infatuation for love.

I believe The Fortune-Teller is a giant red herring that many people in both Zutara and Kataang sectors have fallen for. But wait, what is a red herring?

In literature, a red herring is a device to throw the characters and the audience off the scent of future events. It's meant to distract and deceive.

At the end of The Fortune-Teller, Katara believes she is destined to be with Aang and Aang believes it as well. Throughout the remainder of the series, Katara's emotional bond with Aang is challenged. Then by The Ember Island Players, Katara is confused, unsure about her feelings, unsure about her destiny.

What other character struggled with his perception of his destiny?

For the majority of the series, Zuko falsely believed that his destiny was to hunt down the Avatar and regain his honor. We know that this destiny was forced upon him by his father, Ozai.

But as Iroh has said, "Destiny is a funny thing." Iroh had believed he would have been in Ba Sing Se as a conqueror but instead, he had liberated Ba Sing Se from Fire Nation occupation.

Zuko had turned against his father and his supposed destiny and set out to aid the Avatar instead. After this, Zuko's new belief is that it is his destiny to help Aang in defeating Ozai instead. Truly, destiny is funny that way.

But why is this only applied to Zuko? Why isn't this the same message given to Katara's arc? Is she truly destined to be with Aang and she cannot fight against this fate? Is this strong female character destined to be reduced to servitude?

The same girl that inspired imprisoned earthbenders to fight back? The same girl that fought against gender roles in her own culture? The same girl that didn't give into despair and led her crew out of the desert? The same girl that aided in healing a Fire Nation village? The same girl that rose above her mentor and used bloodbending to save her loved ones? The same girl that went toe to toe with Azula and won?

I SAY NAY!

Imagine, if you will, what Katara's continued arc could've been like in Book 4. Katara would've defied the destiny that was forced upon her and determined her destiny for herself. But in the end, destiny is a funny thing for this action only plays into fate. Zuko is a powerful bender after all. 👀

Now, I must depart before I give too many spoilers for my writing. Fare thee well, until we meet again!

#atla #atla fanfic #zutara #avatar the last airbender #book 4 air the missing element #atla analysis #red herring #aaron ehasz notice me senpai

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i23kazu · 2 years ago

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GENSHIN MEN & FIRST BEING CALLED 'DADDY' .

characters. xiao zhongli diluc kaeya childe neuvillette x gn!reader genre. romantic domestic fluff. an. sfw daddies. you either adopt the child or something.. i'll leave it up to your imaginations. i'll put this as gn reader though. you're welcome to imagine otherwise. also im making these really short bc im still recovering from my surgery </3 | please reblog!! im getting back into writing and reblogs with tags and comments will make me want to write more :D

xiao

he wants to bark back a laugh. the conqueror of demons, sitting in his decorated living room with toys scattered about – with a tiny human sitting on his lap. "daddy!" your little boy squeals in delight as xiao bounces his knee.

zhongli

zhongli smiles with adoration at your little angel. she giggles and runs about, whining for daddy to catch her every few seconds. zhongli's back cannot take it anymore, and he sits down with her with a laugh. she still seems entertained, and asks for a baobao (hug).

diluc

diluc is exhausted – but the minute his son calls him daddy, it's as if life is being injected into him again. his world seems a little brighter and more colourful now, and diluc scoops up and nuzzles his son with an incredible amount of love.

kaeya

kaeya grins as he chases his daughter around, the little girl squealing with delight as she weaves her way through the house to evade capture. she giggles a delighted "daddy!" as he cradles her in his arms, burying her face into his chest. it's safe there.

childe

childe's little boy screams "daddy! again!" as the father tosses him up and catches him – a rhythmic game that delights your sunshine every day. the first time childe heard him yell daddy, he almost didn't catch his son. your heart dropped.

neuvillette

the first time neuvillette hears his little girl cry for daddy, it's when she's scraped her knee. the father runs in faster than usual, with more rigour, sliding in to kiss her bandaged knee. he cradles her in his arms after, and sings her to sleep.

taglist: @tiredsleep @loptido @raincxtter @chichikoi @ladyadii @soulsanta @sheiiths @genshinparty @eowinthetraveler @moonbyunniee @legitnoi @lemontum @manager-of-the-pudding-bank @starz222 @ilyuu @cherry-colored-petals @mondaymelon @tartaglia-apologist @soleillunne @m1shapanda @aimynx @smokipoki @adeptuscharm @diorlumx @vennnnn-diagram @ryuryuryuyurboat @yuminako @st0pthatsgay @aqualesha @sixtynintharchon (send ask/comment to be added to taglist)

reblogs w/ tags & comments help me lots !!! if you liked this, consider dropping me a follow as well :-) they all go a long way!

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yandereunsolved · 1 year ago

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❆ 𝙰 𝚂𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝙸𝚌𝚎 & 𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚎 𖤓

“The world (is) full of cravens who (pretend) to be heroes; it (takes) a queer sort of courage to admit to cowardice.” — Jon Snow (Book 1: A Game of Thrones - Page 179)

“Schemes are like fruit, they require a certain ripening.” — Tyrion Lannister (Book 2: A Clash of Kings - Page 40)

"Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon.” — Aemond Targaryen (House of the Dragon, Season One, Episode 7: “Driftmark”)

— 𝙼𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 —

Aegon II Targaryen

Aemond Targaryen

Alicent Hightower

Daemon Targaryen

Gwayne Hightower

— 𝚃𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚜 —

House of the Dragon text posts | Part 1

House of the Dragon text posts | Part 2

House of the Dragon text posts | Part 3

House of the Dragon text posts | Part 4

House of the Dragon text posts | Part 5

( to be cross-posted to ao3 ‎)

— 𝙰𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚠/ 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎 —

Yandere Aegon I — The Conqueror

word count: 483 cw(s): manipulation & violence (non-descript) "𝘞𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘢 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦?"

Yandere Aegon II Targaryen

word count: 502 cw(s): coercion—manipulation, illusions to future nonconsenual encounters, mentions of family death (brother) and struggle "𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘶𝘱𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘥."

Yandere Aemond Targaryen

word count: 1k cw(s): obsessive and violent ideations "𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯."

Yandere Aemond Targaryen (part II)

w/ platonic yandere Alicent Hightower word count: 1.1k cw(s): manipulation & misogyny "𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦-𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦."

Yandere Criston Cole

word count: 341 cw(s): murder (non-descript) "𝘈 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘸𝘰𝘭𝘧 𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵."

Yandere Daemon Targaryen

word count: 263 cw(s): emotional abuse, cheating, & kidnapping "𝘈 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘢𝘬."

Yandere Jacaerys Velaryon

word count: 292 cw(s): yandere themes "𝘈𝘯 𝘰𝘹𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦."

Yandere Lucerys Velaryon w/ isekai'd reader

word count: 232 cw(s): yandere themes "𝘕𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴."

Yandere Maegor The Cruel

word count: 316 cw(s): descriptive emotional and physical abuse, illusions to sexual abuse "𝘉𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘺𝘰𝘶."

Yandere Targaryens w/ parental reader

word count: 760 cw(s): yandere themes "𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨."

— 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚜 —

Blood & Cheese Reborn - ,, yandere Aegon w/ an assassin reader

"𝘚𝘵𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥 𝘣𝘰𝘺, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯." word count: 3.6k cw(s): yandere themes, child murder, mentions of sexual assault, mention of miscarriage, descriptive gore, mutual sadism, degradation, suggestive themes (mild nsfw)

Killing Me Softly - ,, yandere Aegon w/ assassin general reader (part 2)

"𝘓𝘦𝘵'𝘴 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴; 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘮𝘦. 𝘠𝘦𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵." word count: 4k cw(s): yandere themes, descriptive self harm (reader), descriptive self-degredation (reader), suicidal ideation (reader), mild suggestive themes (breeding), dark fantasies (aegon: sexual assaulting reader, forcing them into traumatic situations)

Thicker than Dragon's Blood - ,, yandere Daemon Targaryen pining over Rhaenyra's friend

"𝘖𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥: 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦." word count: 3.8k cw(s): yandere themes, suggestive themes (slight nsfw), grooming, dubious consent, purity culture, misogny, & stockholm syndrome

Yandere Aegon with barkeep reader ⋆

word count: 695 cw(s): yandere themes & suggestiveness '𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯'𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴...'

Yandere Oberyn Martell w/ Septa reader ⋆

word count: 960 cw(s): yandere themes, religious themes―purity culture, and suggestiveness 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘴.

Yandere self-aware Aegons ⋆

word count: 503 cw(s): yandere themes & suggestiveness 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘴.

Yandere self-aware Aemonds ⋆

word count: 684 cw(s): yandere themes & suggestiveness "𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢?"

Yandere self-aware Cristons ⋆

word count: 628 cw(s): yandere themes and mentions of sexual assault "𝘥𝘶𝘵𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘶𝘵𝘺?"

Yandere self-aware Harwins ⋆

word count: 450 cw: yandere themes '𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘥𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧-𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘵'

Yandere self aware Maegor ⋆

word count: 894 cw(s): yandere themes, misogyny, violence, and a breeding fixation '𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘺'

Yandere self-aware Visenya Targaryen ⋆

word count: 609 cw(s): yandere themes, sacrificial murder, and kidnapping 𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴...

— 𝙻𝚒𝚕 𝙱𝚒𝚝𝚜 —

୨ৎ answered asks and other silly lil things ୨ৎ

Book Aegon meme

Dumb Ways To Die ― Viserys Edition

Incorrect quotes (#1)

Self-aware ASOIAF character lore

Yandere Aegon I

Yandere Aegon I w/ love languages

Yandere Aegon I w/ oblivious darling

Yandere Aegon II quote (#1)

Yandere Aegon II quote (#2)

Yandere Adult Conqueror Polyamory

Yandere Book Aegon vs Yandere Show Aegon

Yandere Visenya

Yandere Visenya quotes

Yandere Visenya w/ platonic yandere Maegor

Yandere self-aware Addam and Jacaerys

Yandere self-aware ASOIAF characters w/ dolls and phantom touches

Yandere self-aware ASOIAF silliness (#1)

Yandere self-aware ASOIAF silliness (#2)

Yandere self-aware ASOIAF silliness (#3)

Yandere self-aware asoiaf characters w/ deaf or hoh darling

Yandere self-aware Harwin

⋆ unpolished: not a full set of headcanons (still spellchecked)

⋆ disclaimer: the characters in asoiaf are usually underaged when they die. when I am writing one of these characters I intend on them being eighteen or older in any romantic or suggestive context.

#hotd #house of the dragon #fandom #blog #my blog #masterlist #yandere #yandere hotd #yandere house of the dragon #yandere asoiaf #yandere hotd x reader #yandere asoiaf x reader #a song of ice and fire #got/asoiaf #yandere got #got

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felassan · 6 months ago

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Hayes Madsen for Inverse - Game Changers: 'Corinne Busche Is the Ruler of RPGs, Conqueror of Haters'

The director of Dragon Age brings her personal journey to life in her games with a rich, messy tapestry of love, life, and romance.

[source]

"If there’s a single Dragon Age character that ever made their way to Super Smash Bros, it should be the lovable dwarf Varric Tethras – at least that’s what Dragon Age: The Veilguard director Corinne Busche thinks. “Can you imagine, in a game like Smash Bros, seeing him whip around the battlefield,” Busche tells Inverse, “You could smash someone back off the ledge by giving Bianca a good old toss, and don’t worry, it’ll ricochet, he’ll catch it. It writes itself.” Varric, always with his beloved crossbow Bianca, has been something of a poster dwarf for the franchise — a constant in a series that drastically changes between each entry. But Varric himself is also a perfect representation of Dragon Age at large. An emotionally complex character, Varric openly deals with deep trauma, but can still manage to be whimsical and uplifting. That holistic sense of character is a big part of what’s made Dragon Age so successful, and lasting. Its influence is clear to see, especially in the 2023 Game of the Year, Baldur’s Gate 3 – which heavily borrows from the world and party member design of Dragon Age games. It’s a connection that’s been pointed out by countless fans and critics — but what’s fascinating is how Baldur’s Gate 3 and Veilguard feel like they’re advancing different aspects of Dragon Age’s identity. “It’s not lost on me, and it’s not lost on the team, how important these games are in people’s lives,” Busche says, “Coming into this game, that’s a tremendous feeling of accountability and of needing to be true and authentic to what these games mean to people.” When it comes to authenticity in games, plenty of directors and developers talk the talk, but Busche is the rare game maker who delivers. From her time with The Sims to Dragon Age, Busche has always brought a deep sense of humanity to the game, putting characters first and never shying away from nuance or complexity in identity, relationships, and existential crises. It’s what makes Busche a leader in the industry, and why BioWare tried so hard to carry on the Dragon Age series’ legacy with Veilguard. But Busche isn’t finished yet. She’s come a long way in the industry and has wisdom to impart — and more projects to come."

"Varric himself is also a perfect representation of Dragon Age at large. An emotionally complex character, Varric openly deals with deep trauma, but can still manage to be whimsical and uplifting"

"The Days Before Fantasy Like many developers, Busche got her start from humble beginnings, working on a series that’s a far cry from a fantasy epic — Tiger Woods PGA Tour. In fact, Busche hadn’t planned on working video games at all, but using her digital animation degree she landed work on Tiger Woods as an environmental artist, and the desire to keep making games stuck like glue. But her love of RPGs started long before that, with some deep-cut classics like Heroes of Might and Magic 3 and Final Fantasy XII – which she argues is the best one in the series. An even bigger influence on her personal philosophy as a developer, however, was the Square Enix cult classic Xenogears. “That was the first RPG that really touched my heart, that made me cry, where I feel in love with the characters, and realize these games have something to say,” says Busche “They touch on deep socially relevant narratives through these fantasy setting and the complexity of characters.”"

"Xenogears was an incredibly influential game to developers like Busche. Its creator, Tetsuya Takahashi, went on to make the wildly popular Xenoblade franchise."

"Those specific RPGs have a lot to say about identity and personality, and that’s a topic that Busche has constantly wanted to explore in her work – how games can explore autonomy and choice. Busche has been open in the past about transitioning while at BioWare, and how much the studio helped her feel seen and supported. But there’s another vital piece of her career that directly played into Busche’s expertise with Dragon Age, and it might not be what you think. Before leading the charge on Veilguard, Busche honed her skills working on an even bigger mega-hit franchise, The Sims. For over five years she worked in designer and creative director roles. “Working at Maxis and on a game like The Sims, is an incredibly fortunate environment for a designer to really hone their craft, and the reason I say that is they’re deeply complex games,” says Busche, “You’re really exploring underlying systems that drive character behaviors, skill progression, game economies, all allowing for emergent gameplay.”"

"Busche cut her teeth on the Sims 3: Into the Future expansion."

"To Busche, games like The Sims, or even Animal Crossing, continue to flourish because of human nature, the inherent need we have to be social creatures and form connections. They’re deeply relatable games that reflect our real lives, but in a way, that same idea can apply to a complex RPG like Dragon Age — and Busche’s time with The Sims gave her a unique advantage going into Veilguard. “I love that marriage of simulation and these fantasy worlds full of rich, deep characters that feel lived in. I believe that as RPGs continue to evolve, what you’ll see is an increasing focus on that marriage between simulation and a fantasy storytelling layer,” says Busche “After all, it’s about immersion, it’s about autonomy and relatedness. These are deep common aspects between these two seemingly different styles of games.”"

"An Origins Story Dragon Age has been a lot of things over the years, an open world game, a mobile hero-collecting title, dozens of comics and books, and even a Netflix series. Fan-created works have flourished for nearly two decades – the fan fiction archive website Archive of Our Own even has over 13,000 entries for Dragon Age: Origins alone. That idea of player agency and identity is the very bedrock of what Dragon Age is built on. As such, Dragon Age has always been incredibly progressive. Origins liberally featured queer romances, and Inquisition, the third game in the series, has a whole plotline about a major side character being transgender. This allows the series to explore themes of identity and belonging in ways other RPGs can’t, and Veilguard certainly sticks to that idea. “I’m an openly queer, trans woman,” Busche says. “It shaped everything about who I am, and it’s been the source of a lot of joy, a lot of difficulty, and perspective. For me personally, one of the greatest gifts about being trans is the amount of introspection it forces upon you. You spend a lot of time deeply examining who you are, and why that matters.”"

"Zevran from Dragon Age: Origins was an accomplished assassin, but, more notably in 2009, a bisexual character."

"For Busche, great games offer a mirror that allows you to reflect on your own identity, preferences, and choices. When developing a game, Busche says she is “thinking about the role introspection plays on people in general, and how each of us go through our lives having these moments of crises, epiphanies, and those quiet moments when you’re alone. These are questions that are ripe for personalized experiences like RPGs, especially when you consider our biggest creative pillar: Be who you want to be.” To Busche and the team it “felt like the right time” to really take Dragon Age’s exploration of identity further, especially with a character like Rook that’s so molded by the player’s personal feelings and thoughts. But one of the more interesting strides Veilguard makes is allowing you to share experiences, including romances, with a compelling cast of party members — easily some of the most memorable characters BioWare has ever created."

"The Fight For Progress And Fate For Dragon Age Questions about BioWare’s future abound, especially with the team now pivoting to focus work on Mass Effect 5 — a similarly long-awaited comeback for a beloved franchise. But in the immediate future the studio has faced a different problem, a hate campaign that’s put Veilguard at the center of a kind of culture war on social media, along with plenty of hateful comments toward developers and review bombing on sites like Metacritic. “I think we should talk about it,” Busche says. “It’s hard. I grew up in a time when it really felt like we’re there to celebrate the games and to have these shared experiences, and that drive is still there. I think the discourse we see is the result of highly polarized times, and perhaps it’s a little naive. I know it’s hard when you have to ask the question, is this game for me? Do I belong here? And games are better for it when we can say yes, you do belong here.” Dragon Age is far from the only game that’s come under fire recently, particularly for inclusions of diversity, or diverse storytelling. For most of this year, Assassin’s Creed Shadows has been the constant target of a hate campaign, with Ubisoft’s art director recently condemning the backlash and harassment the studio and team has faced. The creator of the indie game Tales of Kenzera: ZAU, Abubakar Salim, has also been vocal about the “fever pitch” of racism the game and its team have received. These kinds of events seem to be happening more and more, but for BioWare and Busche, the focus is on celebrating what the team has created. “I know, and something that’s very important to me, is that games are inherently diverse when you think about the size of these teams and the specializations you have within them. When you have diverse, complex, large groups of people coming together to make something, of course, the game is going to be a reflection of those teams,” says Busche “I think we need to consider that we can make the most authentic, best experiences when we’re tying into what makes us as the developers, and you as the fans, when we can tie into those elements that make us distinctly human, and that means differences.” In Busche’s mind, not embracing the lived experiences of the development team would result in stories and worlds that feel less relatable, less alive. Game developers also need to feel safe in what they do, which ultimately means being able to see themselves reflected in their work. “We have an incredibly diverse player base, and what I mean by that is their motivations and expectations,” Busche says. “This becomes the biggest opportunity to continue that tradition of reinvention.” At the end of the day, gamers Busche believes gamers have so much in common, starting with a love for the game. “What I long for is just that opportunity for us as gamers to step back and get in touch with why we fell in love with games in the first place, and recognize how difficult and complicated and messy it is to make games,” says Busche, “To share these vulnerable experience and just approach it with a little greater sense of kindness and curiosity.”"

[source]

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #long post #longpost #lgbtq+#mass effect #mass effect 5

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admiringlove · 9 months ago

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rotten touch. number four of @angstober this year! enjoy <3 event masterlist can be found here.

karmic debt had scared the conqueror of demons into being a secluded man.

his fellow yaksha had long since fallen; succumbed to madness or death, they had left him alone to bear the weight of their shared burden. the debt pressed heavily on his mind, pushing him further from the world. he kept to himself, avoiding mortal affairs whenever possible. on the rare occasions he was forced to intervene, he was distant, cold, urging people to speak quickly, for their own sake. he would help, do what was needed, and disappear as swiftly as he had arrived. that was how it had always been.

but then, you came into his life—radiant and unassuming, with your closed-eyed smiles and a voice full of stories that never seemed to end. tales of morax, of the other adepti, of a world that xiao had all but abandoned. he hadn’t wanted to listen, and yet something in your presence tugged at him, something gentle yet persistent. against his better judgment, he found himself lingering, intrigued. he felt drawn to your warmth, your unwavering enthusiasm for life, as if it held the promise of something he had long forgotten. something he hadn’t dared to indulge in for centuries.

and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, xiao found himself tempted to stay a little longer, to listen just a little more.

you had been surrounded by monsters when he first saw you, kneeling at the statue of morax in qiongji estuary, but calling his name instead. your voice had been steady, filled with a kind of faith that surprised him. you knew who he was, you’d said, as if it was the most natural thing. you’d heard stories from your grandmother, stories of a lone yaksha who appeared whenever his name was uttered by those in need. and you wanted to see if it was true.

and so, here he was, appearing as you’d called, defeating those mitachurls one by one, each strike of his spear swift and precise. when the last one fell, he stood there, catching his breath ever so slightly, casting his spear aside in silence. he hadn't expected anything more from you—just another mortal in need. but you had smiled at him, a smile so calm it almost unnerved him. instead of thanks, you'd offered him almond tofu with a laugh, as if the battle had never happened. and then you’d started talking, right away, without hesitation.

you had talked, and talked, and kept on talking, telling him things that made no sense, stories of your childhood, of legends passed down, of things he barely listened to. later, he would call it yapping, a playful word he used to tease you, a way to remember just how talkative you were, how easily words flowed from you. but in that moment, all he could do was stand there, quietly watching, trying to understand why he didn’t just leave like he always had.

"you know," you'd said once, watching him eat with that familiar knowing smile, the one that always seemed to see right through him, "you really should talk more. or mingle. you'd see how nice the world really is. it might do you some good."

he barely looked up from the almond tofu you'd ordered for him, scoffing quietly between bites. "i watch the sun set every evening from wangshu inn’s balcony. i think i’m aware of how nice the world is."

you’d laughed then, that light, carefree sound that somehow always made his chest tighten, and said something about how adepti were as strange as they were magnificent, both awe-inspiring and out of reach. it was so simple for you to say things like that, as if his world wasn’t weighed down by centuries of bloodshed and darkness.

but to him, you weren’t just a passing experience or another mortal he’d saved. you were more. you had become everything. you painted his once colorless existence with your brightness, your endless energy and warmth. you tainted all that was his, and yet he found himself unable to resent it. instead, he cherished it. you made the world around him vibrant in ways he hadn’t thought possible anymore.

you hadn’t realized how much of a monster he truly was. how deeply he carried the burden of grief, the looming presence of death that trailed behind him like a shadow. you didn’t know, and he was grateful for that. he was thankful you never had to see the weight of karma he bore, how it could have destroyed you just by being near him. but you didn’t care. you stayed, content just to exist beside him, as if his presence alone was enough for you. and in his quiet way, he was glad.

"why do you seclude yourself?" you had asked him softly one evening, sitting on the balcony of wangshu inn. the sky was painted in soft hues of orange and pink, but your eyes were fixed on him. you sat with your back against a large potted plant, legs stretched out on the wooden floor, your gaze gentle but unwavering. he shifted where he sat, clearly uncomfortable under your scrutiny, before clearing his throat.

"everything i touch... rots," he said, his voice low, as if the words themselves were too heavy to say.

"what’s that supposed to mean?" you tilted your head, brow furrowing in confusion, but still, there was kindness in your voice. "i think you’re wonderful."

he looked at you then, a brief glance, his expression unreadable. "that’s because you’re one of the only things that hasn’t rotted. or died."

there was a pause, the weight of his words settling like a dark cloud between you. before you could respond, he stood up, turning away abruptly. he didn’t want to explain further. he knew you too well—you would pry and prod until the walls he’d built so carefully over centuries crumbled around him, and all his hidden scars and buried grief spilled out like shattered glass. you were good at that, at unraveling him without even trying.

he never liked talking, especially not about himself. he kept to the shadows, spoke only when necessary, exactly as you’d always pointed out. but with you, it was different. it felt easy. and that frightened him more than anything else.

and you chased after him like he was your wildest dream, determined and unwavering, as if he was something worth catching. your presence clung to him, a persistent shadow in his mind, trailing him wherever he went. the memories of you were relentless, following him like an irritating seelie, refusing to be shaken off. there were moments, in the thick of battle or when danger pressed close, when he’d see your face flash before his eyes—and that terrified him. because now, he had something to lose. he had something he cared about.

and that, in itself, was a weakness. but perhaps, a greater strength.

still, the nightmares came, wrapping around him like chains, pulling him into the past. memories of his fallen comrades, consumed by their karmic debt, haunted him. the weight of it all pressed against his chest, a suffocating reminder of his inevitable fate. would it catch up to him too, one day? would he fall just like the rest of them? the thought twisted inside him, more painful than anything he had endured in the past half-century.

for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, he was afraid. afraid of death—the very thing he had accepted long ago as his inevitable fate. it was always there, lurking like a familiar shadow, patiently waiting to claim him. he’d lived for so long without fear, resigned to the thought that when it came, he would welcome it like an old friend. but now, that resignation was gone, replaced by a gnawing anxiety that gripped him tighter each day.

because now, he worried. he worried about what would happen to you if he suddenly disappeared, if one day he simply didn’t return. who would you crack jokes with? who would you buy almond tofu for, or carefully prepare bowls of soup when the weather grew cold? who would you call out to, just to chat, even when you knew he wouldn’t say much in return? the thought of you standing there, waiting for a response that would never come, terrified him in a way nothing else ever had.

"xiao," you said his name with such softness, so much tenderness, that it made his skin crawl in ways he didn’t understand. it was unsettling, how easily your voice could unravel him, how it could make the walls he had built around himself feel so fragile. he didn’t know what this feeling was, this ache that blossomed whenever you were near, but he knew one thing with certainty: he had to push you away. slowly, carefully, before it was too late.

it would be for the best. he couldn’t afford to let you stay close, not when his existence was tainted by karmic debt and mistakes that clung to him like a curse. staying near him would only bring you pain, and he knew—he knew—he couldn’t watch that happen. he’d rather do it to himself, rip you away before the world did it for him. better to sever the bond now, before it destroyed you both.

"xiao, are you listening?" you had asked, your voice a gentle lilt that pierced through the fog of his thoughts. your hand waved playfully in front of his face as you stood beside him on the balcony, a place that had slowly become yours too. it was a small slice of the world shared, where laughter intertwined with silence and secrets lingered in the cool night air. but with every moment you spent together, he felt a deepening ache—a nagging reminder that everything that was his was now entwined with your fleeting existence. he hated that, the way you had woven yourself into the fabric of his life, and the thought of it made his heart feel heavy.

a mortal’s life was but a flicker in the vast expanse of time, while his stretched endlessly, a burden he didn’t want to bear. he knew, deep down, that staying by your side would only lead to heartbreak and ruin. the longer you remained together, the more he feared he would hurt you in ways he couldn’t predict.

it felt like he was grasping at shadows, coming up with excuses to push you away, which he probably was. but in his mind, it was the only way to keep you safe. and safe meant far from him.

with a soft hum, he blinked, finally turning to face you. you tilted your head, watching him with an all-knowing expression that unnerved him deeply. in the time you’d spent together, you had learned to read the subtle shifts in his demeanor, peeling back layers he thought he had locked away. that, too, irked him.

"i think we should go see lantern rite together this year," you said, leaning casually against the railing of the balcony, the soft glow of the lanterns in the distance reflecting in your eyes. he felt his heart skip; a flurry of emotions swirling inside him. this was it, he thought, his moment to counter your enthusiasm, to disappoint you.

this was how he would push you away.

"i cannot," he replied, his voice strained as he cast his gaze down to the rushing waters below, the sound echoing his turmoil. "in fact, i don’t think you should see me anymore."

you blinked slowly, a flicker of confusion passing over your face as you tilted your head, that endearing gesture that sent a fresh wave of warmth through him. he continued, forcing the words through the tightness in his throat, "it is not right for me to stay by your side all the time. you have become a weakness."

the mantra repeated in his mind: this was for the greater good. you would be safe, removed from his chaos, ensconced in the comfort of your home. away from him, you would remain alive and untouched, without the looming shadow of his past creeping into your light. you wouldn’t have to face the horrors that stalked him, the remnants of bloodshed that stained his hands and soul.

it would be better this way, he reassured himself again and again, each time feeling the sharp sting of betrayal against his heart. to summon the courage to break your heart felt like a curse. but he knew he had to do it—for you, for your future, for the fleeting moments of joy that would continue without him. the thought twisted like a knife in his gut, yet he clung to it, desperately trying to convince himself that it was the right choice.

he watched as your lip twitched, the slight quiver betraying the storm behind your eyes. they narrowed in confusion before widening in a painful clarity. he could feel your throat tighten, mirroring his own, and the ache in his chest spread like the roots of a poisoned tree, twisting deeper with every second. it was unbearable, watching the hurt bloom on your face, raw and unfiltered. "why are you doing this?" you asked, your voice soft but strained, barely holding itself together. "i thought everything was fine. between us, i mean."

"nothing can ever be fine," he said, his gaze pulling away from yours, as though the weight of it was too much to bear. he couldn’t look at you—couldn’t let those wide, vulnerable eyes unravel him. if he held your gaze for even a moment longer, he knew he’d falter. and he couldn’t afford that. he had to do this, to sever this fragile bond before the world shattered you in ways he couldn’t prevent. "nothing is fine if i am in it," he added, his voice hollow, "this is for your own good. leave, and be safe by yourself."

"what are you saying?" your voice trembled, disbelief washing over your features. "i’m perfectly fine, and i’m capable of taking care of myself—"

"you don’t even have a vision," he cut you off, sharper than he intended, each word slicing the air between you. the look in your eyes made his chest tighten further. "i don’t trust you with a normal hilichurl, let alone the dangers that surround me. you can’t protect yourself if you stay near me. so please, try and understand. it’s better for your safety... for your future, if you simply stay away. stay away, and you’ll be fine. you’ll be okay."

"are you doing this for my safety, or for your own peace of mind?" you asked, your voice shaky, fragile as the first hint of winter frost. the tears welling in your eyes reflected the lanterns glowing faintly in the distance, and he felt his heart twist violently. more than anything, he wanted to reach out, to cradle your face in his hands and wipe away the pain he'd caused. to hold you close, to whisper lies of comfort, to pretend that this wasn’t happening. the wind gently tousled your hair, carrying with it a soft scent of jasmine, a cruel reminder of how close you still were. but instead of pulling you into his arms, he stood there, motionless, breaking what you both held sacred with words that tasted like ash.

"i..." his voice faltered, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like an invisible force. "i’m doing this because you’ve become a weakness. and i can’t... i can’t see you becoming my strength."

your lips part, and a single tear glides down your cheek, tracing a delicate path of sorrow that he cannot bear to witness. silence envelops the space between the two of you, heavy and suffocating. you don’t say a single word; instead, your lips press into a straight line, an unsaid disappointment that hangs in the air. you gaze at him for a few fleeting moments, as if hoping he might find the strength to apologize, to reach out, to do anything that might undo this unbearable weight hanging over you both.

but he remains still, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun dips below the edge of the world, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. the beauty of the sunset contrasts sharply with the growing ache in his chest as he listens to the sound of your footsteps retreating down the stairs, each thud echoing the fractures forming within his heart.

did yakshas even have hearts? he muses, a bitter thought cutting through the remnants of his resolve. he could conquer legions of demons, wade through oceans of blood, yet he stands powerless against the choice he’s made, knowing he must let you walk away. it is a paradox he cannot escape: to have you near would invite chaos, hubris, and ultimately, ruin—his own and yours.

and so, xiao, the conqueror of demons, watches as you slip away into the gathering dusk, a light fading into shadow. he knows, with a heavy heart, that if he had allowed you to remain by his side, nothing would have been lost, and everything might have been different. yet duty looms larger than any fleeting moment of joy or connection, a relentless tide that pulls him under. he clings to it as a lifeline, forsaking the warmth of your presence for the cold embrace of his responsibilities, believing that sacrifice is the only path to salvation.

and he continues to rot everything he touches. because he believes he has to.

#xiao x reader #xiao genshin impact #xiao angst #xiao fluff #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact angst #genshin impact fluff #genshin xiao x reader #xiao x reader angst #angstober

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vinnyvamppp · 2 months ago

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The Replacement Finale

A/N: … SO, it's come to my attention that part 3 now has over 200 notes, giving me the encouragement to publish what SHOULD be the final part. The ending is ambiguous; it could follow the show's plot or even a variant.

Synopsis: The world is burning. Months after betrayal and bloodlines were buried under the weight of war, you return to him not as a consort, but as a warrior who demands everything: his allegiance, his body, and his legacy. Nolan Grayson, once a man torn between love and duty, now conquers at your side—his equal, his match, his undoing, and the one who watches as he takes what is rightfully his. Earth.

Warnings: Smut, Rough Sex, Blood, Bruising, Possessive Marking, Space Sex... , Power Play, Slight Breathplay, Mutual Agression, Emotional Manipulation, Canon-level violence (World destruction, civilian deaths, etc), Death of Major Canon Character Debbie Grayson (IM SO SORRY), Childhood Friends, Villain Protagonists Full Stop, Internal Conflict, Apocalypse Themes, Canon DIvergence, Mark Must Decide His Fate...

Omni-Man/Nolan Grayson x Fem!Viltrumite!Reader

Word Count: 5.5k (Bookie, there's a lot to discuss)

Mere months were long enough for humanity to forget what lingered just beyond the stars. But for you and Nolan, it was nothing more than a single breath—a blink, maybe. The world spun as it always did, oblivious to the noose tightening around its neck.

You and Nolan separated. Not because you fought, not because of doubt, but because it was necessary. Nolan had begun to initiate his plan. The heat from the Guardians’ slaughter still hung thick in the air, and while Nolan remained on Earth playing hero, you slipped into the stars.

It was easier for them to forget you if they couldn’t see you. And the Empire... the Empire needed a reminder of where your loyalties still lay.

You became a whisper across the galaxies. Planets fell beneath your hands, one after another. The weak were obliterated as usual. The strong were assimilated—or crushed underfoot if they dared defy Viltrum’s will. Entire civilizations were stamped out like embers, names were lost to the void, and their people were harvested or exterminated without ceremony.

All the while, the Empire watched you from afar, calculating. Measuring your worth. Each conquest brought the inevitable call closer. The call that would demand Nolan’s final allegiance or brand you both as traitors to the blood-soaked throne that bore you.

You barely rested between missions. It was easier that way. Easier to forget what you had lost… what Nolan had stolen from you.

There were rare and fleeting times when Nolan met you in deep space. Away from Earth’s gaze, away from Debbie’s fragile smiles and Mark’s hesitant questions. He never said much when you found each other. Just a look, a hand tightening around your wrist, or a bruising kiss that tastes like regret. And then you would part again. Back into your separate hells. Because love—if that’s what you could even call it, had no place among conquerors. Only duty did.

You knew what was coming. You felt it with every silent victory. With every world you bled dry. With every moment, you let yourself wonder what your children would think if they saw you now. Would they recognize you? Would they see a leader? Or a monster? You never dared to ask. Because deep down, you already knew.

The signal came first. It was a sharp, near-imperceptible tremor through the air. You felt it before anyone else did, before Earth's defenses could even scramble, before the world realized it was already too late. They were home.

Your children.

Born of war, bred for domination—hidden from you for years, shaped into weapons by the father who once feared your influence more than any enemy. And now, after a lifetime of absence, they returned not as sons and daughters… But as harbingers.

They descended through the atmosphere in perfect formation, two streaks of white carving across the sky. The Earth trembled under their arrival, the impact cratering the outskirts of the city into a cement bowl. The dust hadn't even settled before you felt it. Recognition. It tore through your chest like a second heartbeat.

They stepped from the crater, calm, composed, and invincible. The eldest moved first.

A male, who was tall— even by Viltrumite standards, with a fighter's stance born from a lifetime of war. His hair was a wild mass of dark brown, shot through with streaks of your lighter hue, catching the dying sun like veins of fire. One eye was a deep blue—Nolan's, unmistakably—but the other… The other was yours. Sharper and darker, holding an edge of something not quite cruel, but not kind.

A thin, but faint, wicked scar slashed down from his temple to his hairline, a mark of battle worn like a crown.

The younger moved at his side. A daughter, who was slightly smaller, but no less deadly. Her frame was lean and efficient, her muscles like tightly coiled wire beneath her armor. She had your eyes entirely. Cold, cutting, and curious, but slowly softening. And when she smiled—because she did smile, a sharp, knowing thing—your heart twisted in your chest. Because it was your smile.

Not Nolan's. Yours.

You watched them approach with a stillness you hadn't known you possessed since training. Nolan stood beside you, arms crossed with a tight jaw and narrowing eyes.

…

Mark hovered a few paces behind him, uncertain, wary—afraid, though he would never say it aloud. You could feel his panic, thick and desperate, as the two Viltrumite heirs closed the distance. Now... Why is this so surprising? Nolan had summoned Mark to meet you. Not because he wanted to reveal everything—but because he needed an anchor. Something to tether Mark to his blood when the time came to choose. He had told Mark half-truths.

"There are others, like us," he had said, sitting across the table one late night, the kitchen dark around them. "Stronger. Better. Not bound by human weakness."

Mark had stared, curious, with a naive excitement, having recently received his powers. "You’ll meet one of them soon," Nolan promised. "Someone who understands what you are. What you’re meant to be." He didn’t name you. He called you an emissary. So Mark came because he trusted his father, because he didn't wish to be alone. And when he met you, the air shifted, like a switch, in which you shined in a suffocating but diplomatic light. He was still trying to process the lies when... the sky tore open.

…

They stopped ten paces away, eyes scanning their surroundings. Then, the eldest’s gaze locked onto yours.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved or spoke. You saw it flicker across his face—the confusion, the familiarity, the pull. Something his training hadn’t prepared him for, something blood-deep and inescapable. … That was hours ago. Mark had left to resume his training with Nolan. A new milestone to accomplish upon new inspiration. And things had started small between you and the eldest. A glance held a beat too long. A slight hesitation when he spoke to you. You caught him watching you once as you moved through the compound, eyes narrowed in thought, as if trying to fit you into a puzzle he didn’t know he was solving.

As you stood overlooking the ruined city fields, he approached. No armor. No weapons. Just himself. And then he spoke, his voice low and cautious: "You fight like someone who’s lost before." He instinctively recognizes the ferocity and brilliance that come with the undercurrent of pain and experience. That’s what set you two apart.

Your lips curled, slow and dangerous. "And you talk like someone who’s never lost anything at all."

He paused, giving the faintest flicker of a smirk. "You sound like me," he murmured. The ache in your chest was unbearable. You turned fully toward him, pulse pounding in your ears. "You should," you said quietly. "You’re mine, after all."

The boy—your son—straightened his shoulders at your words, but you saw the slight tremor that rippled through him. "I thought you might be."

You stepped forward into the center of the ruined field. The dust still hung in the air like ghosts, painting the world gray. There was no smile, no tears, no making up for lost time. You simply raised a hand, fingers curling in a loose but unmistakable invitation. "Show me," you said, your voice holding base. And he obeyed. The first strike was fast—blindingly so for anyone less than you—but you saw it coming. You tilted your head, letting the blow pass inches from your cheek, the air parting with a sharp hiss. He was good. Very good, precise in every strike. But he wasn’t you. Not yet.

You pivoted, using the momentum of his missed strike to grab his arm, twisting it behind his back and slamming him down into the cracked stone with a single, brutal motion.

He hit hard, the ground splitting under the force, but he didn’t cry out. Instead, he launched himself back up, blood smeared along his jawline from a split lip. And he smiled. That same, wicked smirk that had once graced your own mouth on countless battlefields.

You couldn’t help the way your chest tightened at the sight. Pride, perhaps. The spar grew fiercer after that. Blows exchanged like gunfire. The world around you blurring into meaningless white noise as his vision whirled with each hit. He landed a few good hits—bruises already blooming across your ribs where his fists connected with brutal precision. Your mouth split at the corner from a well-placed elbow. But you didn’t slow. You pushed him harder.

Sweeps, grabs, slams. Dragging every bit of raw instinct out of him, forcing him to stop thinking and start feeling. Blood dripped into his eyes, but he didn’t stop, nor did he falter. Again and again he came at you, fierce and beautifully alive.

Finally, with a hard strike to his gut, you sent him sprawling again, the breath knocked from his lungs. He lay there, gasping, chest heaving, hands fisting at the dirt as he struggled to rise. You walked to him slowly, boots crunching over cracked stone and dust. You stood over him, expression sharp and merciless as you spoke:

"If you claim the role and honor it is to be my son... then stand." Your voice cut through the air like a blade. "Stand and fight until your bones grow brittle. Until the stars burn out. Until you have nothing left to give—and then give me more."

His hands trembled against the earth. You could see it—the pain, the exhaustion, the doubt clawing at him like wolves. And within that, you could also see the fire, the refusal to yield. Slowly, agonizingly, he rose. Blood smeared down his chin, one eye swollen shut, and his chest heaving.

Yet, he stood.

And when he lunged at you again, you caught him, flipped him over your hip, and slammed him to the ground again with enough force to crater the ground. He hit it hard. But he laughed. A rough, broken laugh filled with pain and stubborn joy. "Again," he rasped. And for the first time since they had landed—you smiled. And you felt… love.

You found Nolan watching from the outskirts, expression pensive. He hadn’t interrupted. Hadn’t stepped in. Because he knew you were teaching the boy something he never could. Not just obedience, but pride. You wiped the blood from your mouth with the back of your hand as you approached him. Neither of you spoke at first.

The silence between you was taut, thrumming with something volatile and heavy. You stood close, so close your shoulders brushed, so close his warmth seeped into your skin. "You saw it," you murmured. Not a question, but a statement. Nolan’s jaw clenched. "I saw."

Your gaze slid to him, studying his reaction. "And what do you think, Nolan?" you asked, voice low. "Do they meet your standards?" He didn’t answer immediately. You could feel the inner turmoil raging beneath his skin. The part of him that still wanted to control, to dominate—and the part that understood.

"They’re strong," he said finally, voice rough. "Stronger than Mark ever was." You flinched at the name. Not because it hurt. But because it reminded you that somewhere, deep inside, Nolan still tried to pretend he was something he wasn’t. Still tried to pretend he could balance two lives when Viltrumites were made to crush, not compromise. You couldn’t deny you felt pity for the child.

You turned fully to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. "You should be proud."

Quietly and bitterly, he responded. "I am," Nolan rasped. "Proud. And selfish." He didn’t look at you. "I sent them away because I couldn’t stand the thought of losing them to you," he admitted. "Because if they had known you—truly known you—they would have loved you more than they ever loved me."

You froze, the words hitting like a strike to the ribs. "You think so little of yourself," you whispered. "No," he corrected sharply. "I know myself too well." There was no softness in his confession. No apology in the words. Just the brutal, ugly truth. He stepped closer until his forehead pressed against yours, the breath between you thick and hot.

"You were supposed to stay clean," he said, voice tight as a glimpse of something sympathetic played in his eyes. "Unspoiled by this planet. But you—" His hands curled into your arms, gripping, grounding. "You’re tainted now too." You should have pulled away. Should have struck him. Should have spat venom at the betrayal in his voice. How dare he? But you didn’t because he was right. You were tainted.

Not by weakness or Earth like he was… but by connection. By blood. By the impossible, devastating ache of seeing your child stand and fight for something more than survival. "We’re both broken," you whispered against his mouth. "And we still choose this."

Nolan’s breath hitched. He looked at you like he was about to speak but never did as you stepped in first— and kissed him hard. It was fast, angry, and hungry in a way that said don't you dare look away again. His teeth scraped against your lower lip, tongue forcefully parting your teeth so he could taste you. The way warriors kiss, with teeth and tongue and the taste of blood between their lips. You bit back against the dominance he tried to assert.

But the longer it lasted, the slower it got. His hands found your waist, not claiming, just resting as he clung. Your fingers curled around his collar, not to pull him closer, but to keep him from running. He pressed his forehead to yours as he exhaled against your lips. "You always come back to me," he whispered.

A confession or a curse? You weren’t sure which. "We’re all that’s left," you whispered back.

And he kissed you again, softer this time. It was still rough, still hot, and still real. But with something fragile tucked beneath it. Something like tenderness. The kind monsters only ever knew how to give. And you know you would burn the world down at his side. No matter the cost.

You two suddenly shot into the skies—presence still enveloped in one another—as you met the Earth's ozone layer. The stars blazed around you, a distant, indifferent audience to your raw, primal dance. You were already gasping when he pressed you back against the cold hull of the abandoned cruiser—metal groaning beneath the weight of your bodies. His hands found you in the dark, fingers curling into the seams of your armor. Metal shrieked as it ripped apart, fragments scattering into the void like dying stars.

You grabbed him back, scraping nails over the planes of his hair-peppered chest, over the old scars, the new bruises left behind by battles fought and won and lost. He tore his mouth away, trailing kisses down your jaw and neck, his teeth grazing your skin with every movement. You could feel the scrape of his teeth, the heat of his breath, and the wetness of his tongue as his fingers tore through fabric.

"So wet for me already," he rasped. "You missed this."

You groaned, grinding your hips forward. "You talk too much."

"Say it," he growled, gripping your waist as he moved—threatened to move—taunting you in such filthy ways. "Say you’re mine."

"I’m not yours," you hissed back. "You’re mine."

His cock tapped against the plush warmth of your folds. He was massive—not just in size, but in weight, in presence—thick and flushed with heat, twitching against your thigh as if he dared you to try and take him. The head was swollen and slick with precum, dark and glistening—fat drops dripping down the veiny length like gravity still had something to prove. Veins traced the length of him, bulging with restrained power, and the low growl in his throat when your fingers wrapped around him felt like a warning—or a promise. And when he dragged his tip around your soaked entrance, a quiet rumble echoing in his chest, he pushed into you with one hard thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

You arched, mouth falling open with a soundless curse—your nails carving down his chest.

"Too much for you?" he rasped. His voice was low like a war drum in your ear.

"You used to be stronger than this."

You nearly chuckled at his words. "I still am," you hissed. "You’re just finally fucking me right."

His hips ground against yours, pulling back slow—teasing, and almost torturous—until only the swollen head was left pressing into you. Then he slammed forward again, the muffled sound of skin meeting skin echoing into the stars, sending mini ripples into void.

"You’ll feel me for days," he groaned, panting against your mouth. "Every step, every breath." You bit his lip, drawing blood before moaning into his mouth. "That’s the point."

There was no gravity to hold you still, but he anchored you anyway. The way his thumb dragged along your hip after he slammed you against the cold nothingness of space. The way his mouth softened at your throat before his teeth sank in hard enough to leave a mark that wouldn’t fade for weeks. His forehead pressed to yours, breathless and wild, his eyes burning into you.

"Feel that? No one else can make you fall apart like this."

The sound of your responding moan echoed in your mind, unheard in the vacuum of space. Your body lurched, your back pressing against the cold emptiness, your breasts heaving with every ragged breath. There was no air, every moan threatening to make you both light-headed.

You could feel the tension building in your body, the coiled spring of your desire ready to snap.

"Harder. Or don’t bother at all," you breathed, and he obeyed. His hips moved faster, his thrusts deeper—his body slamming into yours with a force that should have shattered you. His fingers found the width of your hips—fingertips digging into your ass as he rolled you into each thrust.

But you held on—your nails digging into his back, your legs wrapped around him, anchoring you to him even as the world spun around you. His mouth found yours again, his kiss a desperate claim. You could taste the blood, the salt, the sweat, the stars. You could taste him.

"I’ve destroyed planets slower than I’m fucking you," he growled against your lips, his hips rutting impossibly fast as if to prove a point. His drag was long, his dick curving to meet that spot that made you see stars. Literally.

"You can kill a world, but you’ll never conquer me." And he knew. It was something he respected, loved even. He didn't respond—not yet—his eyes locking with yours as the sex became more intimate, more longing. His thumb dragged over your clit, lazily taunting you with pleasure he hasn’t given yet. The condensation from his gasps pebbled into wet bubbles in the void. Your bodies were practically made for one another, and every pummel sent you two to shift into a new angle to meet one another.

He needed you. He leaned in, voice low, sensual. "Scream if you want—no one’s listening but me." And with that, you both unraveled as he spilled hot strings of cum into your ever-contracting walls. His eyes screwing shut as his nose crinkled, back bowing forward. You felt your own body respond, muscles clenching around him—a sound that would've been a cry ripped through your throat.

For a moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breaths, the feel of his body against yours— the taste of him on your lips. You both slowly separated, gazing into one another's eyes as you fetched littered clothing that had floated miles away. Truthfully, you were going to be all he had left. He wouldn't admit it now, but he nearly felt his voice break in the smallest, most fragile way. It was something sacred.

Later, when your breathing slowed and the stars wheeled silently overhead, he stayed pressed against you. Neither of you spoke; there were no apologies or whispered promises. Only the heavy, aching truth of what you had become together: ruin, maybe survival, but surely the death of everything else. Debbie Grayson sat alone at the kitchen table, staring down into a glass of untouched wine. It had become a habit. Nolan hadn’t touched her in months. Oh, wait, he still lay beside her some nights, still wrapped his arms around her waist, still kissed the crown of her head like he loved her, but it was hollow. And she let him, despite it feeling empty, because a part of her still loved him too. God help her, she still loved him.

Even as she hated what he had become. Even as she saw the cruelty now, the casual violence just beneath the surface of his carefully measured smiles. She let him hold her at night because it was easier than facing the truth, that she had never known him at all.

She started small. Listening to scrambled frequencies she wasn’t meant to hear, taking pictures when he wasn’t looking—of injuries that healed too quickly, of odd disappearances, of moments when the mask slipped just a little too much. Then came the Guardians’ slaughter. The time when the city mourned, the world reeled, and Nolan stood with a sympathetic front in front of them all.

Debbie didn’t cry when the news came. Not at first, not until the reality of it finally shook her. She cried, argued, and fought but never ran from what was true. Because she already knew. And she finally, finally started to act.

Late nights turned into bleary mornings, the day passing flashed glimpses. Her hands shook sometimes as she sorted files, as she pieced together the puzzle of the man who had once held her heart, her, like a fragile thing, and now crushed the world in his hands.

Yet, she didn’t stop, because if she didn’t expose him—if she didn’t try—then everything she had lived for would mean nothing. Debbie Grayson was many things, and weak was not one of them.

It came through a secure channel, encrypted and ancient—one only Viltrumites would recognize. You were the first to hear it. It was a low, warbling hum that caused your hairs to raise. A summons encoded not in words but in command. Return. Or die. Simple as that.

You and Nolan stood alone when it came through, the abandoned field still cracked and broken from your earlier battles. The children lingered at the edges of the horizon, like silent sentinels. Mark hovered somewhere beyond, unaware that the storm was about to break upon his very world. You exchanged a long look with Nolan, neither of you speaking for a moment.

You didn’t have to; all you had to do was live by your principle: Only the strong survive. That had always been the way of Viltrum. If they judged you unworthy—if they found your delay in conquering this pathetic planet unforgivable—they would erase you without hesitation. Pray if you resisted, your own children might be forced to strike you down, a fitting end for traitors and one of the most palpable in the midst of pity-ridden eyes.

"We have two options," you said quietly, folding your arms across your chest. "Submit to the Empire... or burn this world and show them we are still worthy." A long sigh was drawn from you, deflating your chest. "I know." He said, voice holding a deep timbre. A long silence stretched between you; you could see the thoughts flickering behind his eyes—distant yet weighing heavily. This world. Debbie. Mark. The false life he had built, the delicate lie he had told himself—that he could be both conqueror and caretaker. That he could have a family and fulfill his duty… That he could be different. You almost thought he might choose humanity.

But then, Debbie’s expose dropped.

The screens across the city lit up in unison, every broadcast hijacked by her trembling voice, by the evidence she had gathered in secret over years of hollow smiles and silent nights.

She showed them everything. The slaughter, the lies, and the blood that riddled her husband’s hands. The world turned against him in a breath. The broadcast had been cut short, assuming Cecil had caught wind of her antics. But most importantly, the world was now against you.

Nolan stared at the screens without speaking for a long time. You saw it in his eyes, the tight band that finally snapped beneath pressure. The last flicker of guilt, the last shred of humanity he'd clung to, died. His mouth set into a grim line, his fists clenched at his sides. "She couldn’t even wait," he said lowly, voice a cold rasp. He sounded disappointed more than anything. "Not even until it was over."

You watched him in silence. Because you knew the truth he was refusing to say: Debbie had chosen the humans. Debbie had chosen Earth. Not him, not survival, and not Viltrum despite all he’d done.

"She has to die," he said, almost too simply, turning toward you. "They all do." You only nodded. You had known this day would come, and now, there was no more hesitation. No division, only fire crackling in place of land. The first to die were the soldiers. They fought nobly, although for nothing; all that remained were shattered and deformed bodies. Bodies that were bludgeoned, with limbs stiffened from rigor mortis, reached into the skies as if to plead with their god. Except there was none, none besides the very few causing their demise. Tanks melted like wax under Nolan’s fists. Jets fell from the sky like swatted flies. Battalions crumbled into mangled bodies and burning metal.

You moved beside him, like a phantom of death— merciless and efficient in all your doings. Cities fell like dominos, their streets running red with blood. Children screamed. Mothers wailed. Men begged. It didn’t matter. Mercy was a human weakness, and you had long since bled it from your bones.

You found Debbie in the ruins of her home. Still standing despite all, still trying. She met Nolan’s gaze without flinching, even as he approached her with the slow, inevitable steps of a man delivering judgment. "You could have stayed," he said, brows furrowing. She shook her head; tears glistened in her eyes, but her voice was steady. "You could have been better."

For a moment—just a moment—you thought Nolan might hesitate like he always had for her.

But then you saw the cold chill in his eyes. The decision is already made. He reached for her with a speed she couldn’t comprehend— and crushed her. Her body snapped under his hands like brittle glass, blood splattering the ruined walls in great, violent arcs.

Debbie Grayson died without ceremony… without mercy, without forgiveness, just as the rest of the world had. The days that followed were nothing but ruin. Skyscrapers crumbled into ash. Rivers turned black with blood. The air thickened with the stench of burning flesh and scorched metal. Earth screamed, and no one answered its cries.

Mark watched it happen from the shadows. Watched his father rip through defenses like they were nothing. Watched you, standing at his side, your children flanking him like angels of death. He watched humanity burn. His home burned.

And he knew the time had come. The choice was his. Fight, join, or die.

The world was dead silent. The kind of silence that only came after devastation had wrung the last breath from it. Ash floated in the air like snow, clinging to the ruined bones of the city. The fires no longer roared; they smoldered. And the ground was littered with broken steel, craters, and bodies already half-forgotten by the living. In the center of it all stood you, Nolan, and the children— a dynasty of death.

Mark hovered above the wreckage, fists trembling, face streaked with blood and soot, and something far worse—fear.

Not fear of death; he had close calls, but fear of truth. Of what he was. Of what he might become. His voice cracked the silence like a whip: "Dad..." Nolan looked up. And for a moment—just a moment—he saw his son again. Small, hopeful, and fragile just as he remembered. But the man standing there now was no child, and Nolan… Nolan was no father. Not anymore.

"Why?" Mark's voice broke—raw, ragged, and bleeding. "Why did you do it? Why did you kill her?" You stepped forward before Nolan could answer, your armor flecked with the blood of a thousand dead. "Because she was weak," you said simply. "Because she chose this broken world over survival."

Mark’s hands clenched tighter. "You didn’t have to kill everyone!" he shouted, voice rising into a hoarse roar. "There were good people here! Families! Children!" Nolan finally moved, stepping beside you, his cape dragging ash in its wake. "Weakness is contagious," Nolan said quietly. "And Viltrumites do not tolerate weakness." Mark shook his head, eyes wild. "You’re monsters."

"No," you corrected. "We’re survivors." You took a step closer, and he didn't retreat, instead his fists trembled harder and his breathing hitched almost in restraint. "Join us," Nolan said, his voice low and persuasive. It was an old habit, a lie he still clung to when he needed it. "You’re better than them, Mark. You always were. You just refused to see it."

Mark stared at you both, tears turning his eyes into glass orbs. "I’m not like you," he whispered. "I don’t want to be like you." You tilted your head and studied him. "You don’t even know what you are yet," you said softly. "You still think you’re human." A bitter, broken laugh ripped from his throat, his eyes grazing the ground. "Maybe I am." Nolan's face hardened at his words. "Then you’ll die like one."

Mark charged. He slammed into Nolan first—shoulder-first, a desperate, reckless blow fueled by rage and heartbreak. They crashed into the ruins, the ground splintering beneath them, the impact echoing for miles. You didn’t move, only watched.

This was Nolan’s burden to bear. Nolan’s shame to purge. And still— still, some hollow, useless part of you felt the ache deep in your chest, one of sadness. The fight was brutal. Mark fought like a man who had nothing left to lose.

Blows rained down—fast, uncoordinated, and furious—but Nolan was stronger. Every hit Mark landed was met with two in return. Every moment he thought he gained ground, Nolan stole it back with overwhelming force. Blood sprayed across the crumbling stone, teeth cracked, and bone splintered. Mark hit the ground over and over and over— each time slower to rise and a little less steady.

"Stay down," Nolan growled, voice low, almost pleading. "Don’t make me kill you." Mark spat blood at his feet. "You already killed everything else I loved." He threw himself forward again, reckless and wild.

And Nolan met him—with a blow that shattered the ground beneath them. Mark lay broken in the rubble, his breathing shallow and eyes nearly swollen shut. And still—still—he tried to crawl forward. One hand clawing uselessly at the dust.

You stepped forward then and crouched beside him, watching the way he refused to surrender. A painful admiration flickered in your chest. He was so much like his father and so much less with such wasted potential here. "You fought well," you said quietly. "But fighting without purpose is just dying slower." Mark’s broken gaze shifted toward you. "You could have saved them," he rasped. "You could have saved her." Your expression didn’t change. "We were never here to save," your voice grew softer, as if to calm a child. "Only to conquer."

Nolan loomed over both of you, his fists still trembling, blood dripping from his knuckles. "Finish it," you said. There was no cruelty or mockery, just... inevitably.

But Nolan hesitated, and it cost him. Mark moved, and fast. A final, desperate strike, catching Nolan off guard, slamming into his ribs with enough force to stagger him back a step. You lunged, catching Mark’s wrist before he could follow through— twisting and driving him to his knees again. He gasped, coughing blood onto the ground.

You leaned down, your voice low with a displeased sneer against his ear: "You should have stayed down." You straightened, watching as Nolan’s expression changed into something unreadable—no one emotion identifiable— but many flashing at once. "What do we do with him?" you asked. Nolan stared at his son for a long, long time. "Leave him," he said at last. "If he survives... maybe he’ll understand."

You didn’t argue because deep down, you knew the truth: If Mark survived this day, he would never be the same. And if he didn’t—then Earth would fall completely without him. If he were to, you began to mentally prepare for the day he would hunt for your head. As selfish as it was, the tainted mother in you wanted that child to need you rather than to fight. To become what he was meant to be. Perhaps one day. Perhaps, you’re already dead. The universe is endless— so, just what did he do? Note: It's finally here. I'm so sorry you three had to wait so long! Dude, it took me WEEKS to script this ending, hopefully it was satisfactory. Feel free to leave comments! (Also, ignore me correcting mistakes tmrw 💀)

@dind1n @astrelz @pixviee Previous Three Parts and Other Works In: MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

#fanfic #invincible #dom/sub #x reader #fem reader #invincible show #invincible comic #nolan grayson #nolan grayson x reader #nolan grayson smut #omni man x reader #omni man #nolan grayson x you

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ckret2 · 3 months ago

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Do you have any fun ideas or headcanons regarding Aku and Jack's relationship? It's so weirdly casual sometimes

sure, a few random thoughts:

1- there oughta be more incidents where they show up to battle and one of them is like "i'm sorry, i'm just not feeling it today, can i take a rain check on this fight?" and the other one instead of going TIME TO PUSH MY ADVANTAGE AND FINISH HIM OFF FOR GOOD just goes "ah, yeah, sure, how do you feel about Tuesday" without even thinking about it. because it's funny. in canon typically aku's the one who goes whoa time out so we need some times where jack does it and aku's just like sure.

2- I think it'd be really easy to force Aku & Jack to team up. All you have to do is have Earth get invaded by something more threatening than Aku. The show's established that Jack's sword is the only thing that can kill Aku, but it's not the only thing that can overpower Aku; just within the show we know that the goddess of water is strong enough to prevent Aku from stealing her jewel, there's gotta be other forces that can take him.

Aku wants to hold Earth at any cost. Enough to recruit Jack? Sure; it's not the first time he's exploited Jack to achieve one of his villainous goals.

Jack wants to save Earth from evil at any cost; and Aku is an evil dictator who's hard to defeat, but this alien conqueror is an even more evil dictator who's even more difficult to defeat and whom Jack HASN'T spent his whole life specifically training to defeat. So better to work with Aku to defeat a would-be conqueror so that Jack only has to fight Aku, rather than let this other conqueror take out Aku and then try to fight that new conqueror without a superpowered shapeshifter's assistance.

It also doesn't necessarily have to be an evil conqueror. (Or, well, not conventionally "evil" by the way the show defines the good/evil dichotomy as something that can be inborn & tangible.) Like, say the gods that slew the black mass go "okay it's taking too long to kill Aku and we don't want his influence to spread off Earth. better just blow up Earth to be safe, we don't want a tiny scrap of Aku escaping like last time." Aku doesn't want that, Jack doesn't want that, now they have to team up. It's probably fine to kill some gods as long as you're eventually planning to go back to the past and undo the circumstances that necessitated killing the gods in the first place, right? right??

lots of options! If you wanna make it happen, you can make it happen.

3- if you headcanon that Aku spawned already knowing stuff because he was, like, absorbing info from his immediate environment and/or sucking info out of the brains of his victims or whatever (which is what I headcanon), then that means he and Jack basically come from the same culture, Fantasy Kingdom in Fantasy Japan. And Aku gave himself a Japanese name (and kept it for millennia rather than telling people to call him "Evil" in their own languages) so like, it seems likely that he was somehow magically culturally Japanese from birth.

And that means they're the only two people in the future from this culture. Jack runs into a few people trying to maintain Japanese culture, but they're thousands of years removed from the world he knew. If he wants to talk to somebody who knows and understands the world he grew up in, his options are this one immortal Shaolin monk (who's Chinese, so not quite from home), aaand Aku himself.

Which you can use for angst, of course. But you can also use it for clowning around.

Aku's at some meeting trying to strike up an alliance (which he totally plans to violate) with some alien demigod or whatever, and he's sucking up to the demigod to their face, and then under his breath he's talking shit about them in 5000-year-old Japanese, and one of the servants at this meeting involuntarily snort-laughs so hard he drops his tray, and Aku goes "what? ... THERE'S ONLY ONE HUMAN IN THE WORLD WHO COULD UNDERSTAND WHAT I JUST SAID" and jack rips off his disguise and goes for his sword and curses himself for his mistake but unfortunately aku was right the demigod's face DOES look like a goat's butthole and he did NOT expect to hear aku say that how was jack supposed to not laugh

Jack compares Aku to the villain in some play that was popular when he was a kid and Aku's like "that villain was a boss tho" and Jack goes "HE WAS LITERALLY EXECUTED AT THE END" and Aku goes "THANKS TO A BADLY-WRITTEN PLOT TWIST AND A DEUS EX MACHINA" and Jack goes "LIKE THE DEUS EX MACHINA I'M WIELDING??" and now they're arguing about the plot of a play that's been forgotten for millennia while a dozen allies/minions stand around awkwardly waiting for them to get to the point.

Jack's taking a day off because today happens to be some holiday from his home and he's confused that no one else seems to be working that day and everyone's like "oh yeah Aku kept that holiday, he actually liked it" and as much as Jack hates Aku for destroying all the good things from the past, now he kind of hates Aku for preserving one good thing, like what could this day possibly mean to Aku, how dare he taint it with his evil. (it's probably, like, Fantasy Japan Arbor Day or something. Aku's a tree, of course he kept tree day.)

Jack's taking a day off because it's his birthday and there's a huge festival going on in the city and he goes "what??" and everyone's like "oh yeah annual holiday, it's Aku's birthday" and that fucks Jack up a little.

4- the title of the guy in charge of commanding samurai was "shogun." Like that's what the word MEANS, it's the general who runs the army during an era when the army consisted of samurai. and Aku calls himself "the shogun of sorrow." which makes it interesting that the only threat to Mr. Guy-In-Charge-Of-Samurai is a single very determined samurai.

I imagine that for perhaps thousands of years—probably before he got his robot army—Aku likely had an army of samurai. Either humans forced to fight for him, evil humans voluntarily fighting for him, or some sorta shadow demon things he created himself.

(i think, in spite of Jack's influence, Aku may still have a tendency to turn to samurai as his default idea of Something That Should Be Fighting For Me—but that's a whole nother headcanon post.)

Jack doesn't seem to dig much into the history of Aku's rule—he's much more preoccupied with the current state of Aku's rule—but if he does do even a little digging, he'd probably find that, for millennia, the image of samurai has been Aku's earliest and most loyal warriors.

and if you roll with this headcanon, it says a lot that it took so little time for Aku to start using the phrase "the samurai" to mean "that one specific samurai that isn't loyal to me." Millions, perhaps billions of samurai may have been in his army over the millennia; but the one that stands out—THE samurai—is Jack.

5- idk if it says anything about his relationship to Jack Specifically but it's wild to me that Aku just left what's left of Jack's homeland. When Jack transported into the future, I assumed the city he ended up in was the same location he'd just left, and Aku had just stayed put for the next few millennia building the place up into his capitol as he expanded over the rest of the world. But no, Jack finds the ruins of his home, abandoned.

You could use it as an example of Aku's callousness—he was born here, he got his start here, but it meant so little to him that he just moved out one day without a glance back and didn't even think about the devastation he'd left behind. But that doesn't quite ring true to me. This location is ground zero for Earth's Aku-ification but it seems almost untouched by Aku's influence, as if he'd never been there. It wasn't destroyed. It wasn't razed to the ground. It was never built over with something new. I feel like there's a deliberateness to that abandonment.

I feel like he wanted to give off the appearance of callous careless abandonment—"oh, this place means nothing to me. I care about it so little I'm not even interested in calling attention to it by destroying it! I have zero emotions about this place. So don't notice it. It doesn't tell you anything about my history."

#anonymous #ask #samurai jack #aku #headcanons

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cosmowgyral · 3 months ago

Text

"Specially made for you with Love"

▪︎ Gilbert von Obsidian

This is a fan translation so please don't expect it to be 100% accurate. Creative liberties have been taken. All content belongs to Cybird. Reblogs are appreciated. Hope you enjoy!

~chapter 3

Just as Roderic had warned, Gilbert who was sitting by the window didn’t seem to be in a good mood.

Even though he had a smile on his face, his eyes told a different story.

Gilbert’s anger is so overwhelming that I nearly forgot to breathe.

(He’s usually very kind to me, so he might just be fooling me, but…)

(The person before me is a great villain who is feared by the entire continent, a conqueror beast that has destroyed several countries.)

(It’s only natural that if such a person gets enraged, everyone in the entire castle will become anxious….)

(So Gilbert really had no choice but to be alone.)

I plucked up courage to approach him, but his eyes, which had been on me the entire time, suddenly turned to the window.

Gilbert: Sometimes, I get so furious that I just can’t help but be in a really bad mood.

Gilbert: Though this has become better than before, I still can’t bring myself to be nice to others.

Gilbert: So being here alone is an act of sincerity and kindness that I can show, isn’t it?

Emma: ….Sorry for trying to interfere with your thoughtful intentions.

Emma: But, I know why you’re this angry.

Gilbert: Aah, Roderic told you, didn’t he? He talks too much while conversing with the little rabbit.

(It was a heartbreaking story.)

----(flashback)----

Roderic: ….We received information about a criminal organization engaging in child trafficking in the region, so we took over their base…

Roderic: When we arrived, the scene was so gruesome that I find it difficult to describe.

Roderic: Meanwhile, the members seemed to be living a lavish life with the money they earned from selling the children…

Roderic: Since this was a relatively uncommon example of corruption in recent years, Prince Gilbert became furious upon hearing about it. And you can imagine what followed after...

----(flashback end)----

(Gilbert is a kind person who gets angry for the sake of others.)

(But the stronger his rage, the more it wears down his humanity.)

Perhaps in the past there were incidents that infuriated him, and he somehow managed to cool down on his own later.

In the process of calming his wild heart, his mistrust of love likely chipped away at his heart, molding him into a beast.

(..It’s been a while since I’ve seen Gilbert turn into a beast.)

Just like when we first met, the fear of not knowing what he would do to me and the indescribable pressure gnaw at my mind.

Gilbert looked at me and raised the corners of his mouth.

Gilbert: Ahaha, you’re trembling. You are scared, aren’t you? If you want to run away, now is your chance….

Emma: I am scared but I can’t run away. I am your fiancée after all.

(What should I do in a situation like this?)

(I can’t really figure it out, but if this cycle of relentless hatred keeps making him lonely…)

Emma: I don’t want to leave you alone right now, Gil.

Emma: I’m here to turn back the beast into a human.

(If something happened to convince you once more that love is not the true nature of humans.…)

(I have to prove to him that the world isn't like that everywhere.)

I kneel on the floor and hug Gilbert’s grumbling body from behind.

Gilbert: ….I’m not in the mood to put up with your selfishness.

Emma: I won’t give up today.

----(flashback)---

Gilbert: If you really want to tie down a villain, you need to dominate, not beg.

Gilbert: What good is it to leave the decision up to the villain when we both obviously think the exact opposite?

----(flashback ends)----

(….This isn’t the time to say it’s impossible or that I can’t do it.)

Emma: Gil

When I called him by his name, he finally looked at me.

Without missing a beat, I grabbed his face with both my hands and forced my lips onto his.

He immediately bit me, but I refused to back down and went in deeper, despite the pain.

Heat spread to his cold lips, and I could sense human warmth returning in him.

(….But it’s still not enough, not even close.)

Gilbert: You really think you can control me, little rabbit.

Emma: …You were the one who taught me how to do it.

Gilbert: I don’t think you can do it with such a shivering body.

Gilbert’s hand came to my neck.

Although he wasn’t strangling me, the thought of him holding my life in his hands made me tremble even more.

Emma: It’s just the nerves getting to me..

Gilbert: Hehh…

Emma: ….Should we go back to your room for now?

Gilbert: Because you’re going to do something embarrassing?

Emma: That’s…right.

Gilbert: Ahaha, just what makes you think I’ll listen to you?

Emma: If you don’t listen, I’ll have to make you listen.

I climb on to Gilbert’s lap and kiss him again to prevent him from escaping.

While doing that, I casually touch his ears and caress it with my fingers, which elicited a clear response.

(Gilbert’s ears are his weakness…)

Gilbert: Oh? So that’s what you plan to do to me right now?

Gilbert: You’re quite the daring one, aren’t you?

(…..gh….)

The pressure on my neck increased and my breathing became irregular.

The fact that the murderous intent and intense pressure still haven’t disappeared, means that apart from being angry, he also wants to test me out.

(When I consider that, I don’t feel like backing down anymore.)

Emma: If you don’t like this then please listen to me.

I bring my lips close to his ear and gently lick it.

However, with icy fingers gripping my neck, I couldn’t last long.

Gilbert: Hey, little rabbit. Do you really want me to take my anger out on you so much?

Gilbert buried his face in my neck and sunk his teeth into my skin.

I let out a small groan from the pain.

He licked me as if to intensify the pain, and I couldn’t tell if the rapid increase in my heartbeat was due to fear or pleasure.

Gilbert: How long will you be able to stay kind to me and love me…?

Gilbert: When I see such corruptions, I can’t help but question it.

(Just as I thought….)

Emma: …If you’re going to agonize like that all by yourself, feel free to take out your frustrations on me as much as you like.

Emma: Regardless of what you think, I feel more at ease this way.

(At least I know that while he is taking out his anger on me, he is still trying to believe in love.)

(…I wonder how many times Gilbert has been disappointed by people like this.)

I stroked his smooth black hair and hugged him again.

Gilbert did not push me away.

Gilbert: ….If that’s the case, shall we go back to my room?

Gilbert: I can’t really vent out my frustrations in a place like this, can I…?

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ㅤ𔘓 ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Bringing the agitated beast back to his room, I drop all my clothes to the floor to show my resolve.

As soon as I encouraged my weakening spirit and faced Gilbert, he lightly grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and pushed me face down onto the bed.

Gilbert: I see that you seem to have misunderstood something…

Gilbert: The method of control I mentioned isn’t about taking away someone’s rationality, you know?

Emma: Huh, then what did…..gh, ah

[Chapter 2] [Masterlist] [Chapter 4]

Tags: @shatcey

#ikemen prince #ikemen prince gilbert #ikemen series #ikepri gilbert translations #ikepri gilbert #gilbert von obsidian #ikepri #ikepri jp #ikepri translations #cybird ikemen #cybird otome #d: enchanthings

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spacerockfloater · 11 months ago

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“The Targaryens/ Valyrians are not white supremacists and can’t be compared to European Colonisers!”

Oh? My bad then. I must have them confused with some other white folks who thought their appearance made them superior, brought whole continents to heel, exploited the lands of others for their own greed, destroyed whole civilizations and enslaved vulnerable people who unfortunately lacked the advanced weapons of mass destruction they possessed.

“Well, the Andals and the First Men were also colonisers, so they deserved it!”

No way! Are you actually telling me that every race has a history of violence because human nature itself is corrupt and we’re no better than animals fighting for their place on this earth? That’s so crazy and original. By the way, are you saying that people deserved to get colonised and enslaved because they were fighting other people in order to survive? Are you suggesting these “savages” should have been contained by the righteous white folks who came there to better their lives? Not to mention that the Andals and the First Men came to Westeros 12,000 and 6,000 years ago respectively, while the Targaryens attacked Westeros barely 130 years ago (literally just 3 - 4 generations) from the Dance of the Dragons? So are you comparing the morality of the people who migrated here, who were so primitive that barely even possessed weapons of steel, with that of the most advanced civilization ever built in the ASOIAF universe? That’s so interesting! It’s almost as if the Andals and the First Men didn’t know any better until it was too late and were trying to find a land that could accommodate their millions of people, so they were essentially fighting for survival, whereas the Targaryens who came from a race that had evolved philosophically, politically, academically and technologically wise, possessed enough wealth and land to sustain their little family, yet still chose to go to war against the land that nurtured them out of pure greed! Hmmm. Do you also believe that the Greeks had it coming when they were enslaved by the Ottomans and should just let go of the past because it’s been so long since they regained their freedom (barely 200 years ago btw, after 4 centuries of slavery), because their Ancient Ancestral Tribes migrated to Greece and conquered the land 3,500 years ago, a little after the age of bronze? No? Then you might see why that kind thinking is flawed.

Stop defending these inbred bastards with your full chest. We get it. They look badass. We all have a fave war criminal but all of the Targs need to be put to the sword, along with their fucking lizards. Purposely denying the parallels between the Targaryens/ Valyrians and the Colonisers/ Conquerors of our world screams white saviour complex.

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myownwholewildworld · 9 months ago

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acta, non verba - ii. there is no treachery in the art of war

chapter 1 | series masterlist | ao3 | main masterlist | chapter 3 pairing: conqueror!marcus acacius x ofc!reader. summary: you need to start moving the game along, but you cannot be too obvious. or... can you? a/n: hello there! c: here's the second chapter! there is quite a bit of character & world building in this one, as i felt it served the storyline, so i hope you guys like it! i wanted to thank you all for your nice, encouring words on the first chapter, it really motivated me to keep on writing! you guys are amazing 💖 as always, all interactions welcome, i do appreciate you liking, sharing and/or commenting! take care <3 warnings: 18+, mdni. references to marital abuse (physical and sexual) and child marriage (massive age gap, not in a cutesy way), in line with the time this story is set on. mentions of death/murder. mention of infertility. sexual tension galore (👀). a smidge of angst. w/c: ~8.6k. dividers by @saradika-graphics taglist at the end (let me know if you want to be added/removed please!)

“Honestly, I don’t think it’s a good idea, Callie”, Torcall sombrely warned you, his eyes locking on yours over the wooden spoon he tightly gripped close to his mouth.

“And what would you have me do then?”, you sneeringly replied back.

Your brother-in-law had been pestering you the whole morning about what your plan was to win your lands back. You knew the long game was your best bet — you didn’t have the numbers to face Rome on your own. Your athair had tried and failed in his attempt. Another defeat like the one your people suffered in Raedykes would destroy your clan. It would wipe you out off the map — everything your ancestors had worked for, gone under the crushing yoke of the Romans.

“I would not have you whoring yourself out to a fucking Roman, that’s for sure. Your athair would be so disappointed in you.” He snapped back at you, anger flowing in his words.

His reply stung badly, so much you unconsciously crossed your arms at chest level — an unvoluntary gesture to protect yourself from his accusation.

“That’s beyond the point”, you barked, the green of your irises burning like hellish fire. “And my father would be just fine with my decision. Need I remind you who he married me off to?”

Torcall’s knuckles went white as his fingers pressed around the spoon harshly. You cocked a brow, unwavering.

Ten years ago, your athair had reached an agreement with Iain of Am Baile Ùr(Insh), the lord of Badenoch whose state was a few miles south of your birthplace. For as long as Caledonia had formed, there had always been internal disputes about who was the rightful heir to the Overlord title.

The clan who held the stronghold at Inbhir Nis had historically always been considered the legitimate title’s holder. Your family had been the keepers of the land for as long as anyone could remember. But it didn’t stop those who were thirsty for power, so your father had to prove himself over and over again.

After several bloody skirmishes, Murdoch of Inbhir Nis had crowned himself, yet again, lord and master of Caledonia. Iain had been a strong contestant against your father and was only appeased when your athair offered you as a consolation prize to him, as if you were a lamb up for sale at the local market. A cheap one at that.

At the tender age of six and ten, you had been shipped off to an unknown land to be wife to a man you had never seen before. The next ten years of your life would be living hell — what you had to endure, you would not wish it upon your worst enemy.

The memories that would crawl back at night would still wake you up, a cold sweat trickling down your spine every time. Abuse in your arranged marriage was your bread and butter. Every time you returned home under the prying, controlling eyes of Iain or your family came to visit, you would lie to them about the new bruise on your cheek, the limp you had for a couple of weeks or the teeth marks on your neck. Murdoch was the last to realise, unable to come to terms with the destiny he had forced upon you. And by the time he did, there was not much he could do without infuriating Iain, without risking another war.

The peace of the Caledonians outweighed your suffering, after all. You were not worth such a bloodshed.

So you pushed through it all and survived — for family, for clan, for honour. Never resented your father either; he had a duty to protect his tribe, and so did you. For a decade you dragged yourself across ember and ash, until you finally caught a break six months ago.

Iain was found dead in the marital bed, his eyes wide open and his expression struck with horror, as if a wraith had taken his life. At the mature age of six and sixty, you had been his third wife, so when his only son and heir from his first marriage ascended, you were no longer needed. With no family of your own tying you to that ghostly place, you packed your things and swiftly left, the Will' O' the Wisps guiding you home.

“I didn’t mean it that way”, his answer burst out in a pitiful whisper. One of your eyebrows raised even further into your forehead. “I’m sorry.”

You sighed, unfolding your arms and looking at the cold broth in front of you. Grabbing the spoon again, you swirled it in the bowl aimlessly. You didn’t need your most trusted ally questioning your decisions, not when the whole clan depended on your actions. At least he was doing so in the intimacy of a crannog and not in front of your folk.

“I’m just trying my best, Torcall. I know I can win our freedom back, so I need you to have some faith in me. How I get to the endgame is up to me. The means justify the end.” Your words were imbued with unfaltering determination.

“I do trust you, Callie. With my life and the lives of my children”, he mumbled solemnly with a curtsy as his eyes drifted to the other end of the room.

Your niece and nephew, whom you loved dearly, were obliviously playing with some wooden swords their father had handcrafted a while back. They were six years of age, both born during the cold winter months. The twins had filled the blackhole in your heart, one that your marriage had not been able to lade.

“Ah, ye brute!” Your nephew, Daimh, let the sword slip from his fingers to hold his hand close to his chest. “You’ve hurt me, Iona!”

His little feet dabbed towards you, raising his injured hand in the air.

“Auntaidh (auntie), Iona has broken my fingers, look!”, he wept while you cradled his hand.

“Oh, come on here, mo laochain (my little hero). Let me see”, you said while rubbing his hand between yours and kissing it where it hurt.

“What a wimpy!”, Iona complained, running to her father. “I won, daddy!” Her proud, high-pitched voice squealed in excitement, and you couldn’t hide your smile.

“I’m going to tell màthair (mother)!”, Daimh blew raspberries at his sister, and she reciprocated from the other side of the table.

Your heart sunk to your stomach at the mention of Maisie, tears welling up at the corner of your eyes. Both you and Torcall had explained to them that their mother had been reunited with Dhuosnos, God of the Dead, but they were too little to fully understand what that entailed, what it truly meant.

“When is mama coming back from Tech Duinn (House of Dhuosnos), daddy? I miss her dearly”, Iona’s innocent words ripped at your heart.

Torcall and you exchanged mournful glances.

“Aye, me too”, exclaimed Daimh as he snuggled in your arms.

“So do we, sweet pea, so do we”, you mumbled as you kissed the crown of his blonde head.

Daimh stirred in your arms, his green eyes piercing yours. He looked so much like his mother that it was painful. Maisie and you had the same emerald irises, although she had been blonde. Daimh and Iona were living images of her.

“When can we go home? This place smells funny”, your nephew questioned while he sat on your lap.

You wished you could tell him. Your whole family had been living in the castle that now Marcus Acacius occupied. Torcall and his children could not risk staying there, not when the threat of death was hanging above them. If the Romans knew your sister had offspring, they would hunt them down.

Despite the adversity, you had been lucky in a sense. The highlanders had always been wary of strangers — outsiders brought tragedy with them, in the way of disease or war. The Caledonians had learnt to keep their distance, to be extremely cautious. So, when the General and his army arrived, no one spoke of your family, not even when questioned.

Your people, despite the differences that had them at each other’s throats some years back, were loyal to you. And it was their fealty what enabled your plan, what allowed you to pretend, to just be another servant girl.

So Torcall, his children and you had sought refuge in the skirts of town. Your uncail Aengus’ wife had welcomed you into her home.

The crannog was a circular hut with a straw roof, the walls made of mud, rocks, wood. There was only one big, round room, with an open hearth which kept the inside warm. The open shelving gathered some necessary clutter, but there were many things scattered around the place. There were only three beds lined up against the wall, which meant that you shared a bed with Iona and Torcall with his son. Your cousins had moved out to the small barn just a few feet away to make room for you.

It was cramped and very modest in comparison to the thick walls of your castle, but it was a roof over your heads. You were extremely grateful to her. Your heart still wept at the memory of telling her the demise of her husband.

“Soon we will, but in the meantime, we are keeping Bonnie and her sons company. And this place smells just fine. Are you sure it’s not you, you stinky little deamhan (demon)?”, you jested, pinching his nose and then tickling his ribs.

His laughter was a soothing balm on your aching, longing heart.

“Was everything as expected, Dominus?” His Roman servant asked, his head bowed to him.

Marcus patted the corners of his mouth with the rag on his lap and then nodded to Atticus. The food was somewhat decent, a venison stew with some root vegetables he could not identify. The bread, unsurprisingly, was a bit stale, so he had left it untouched.

The great hall was lugubrious, silence filling up the atmosphere. There were two other maids in the room, cowering in a corner with averted eyes. They only spoke a barbarian language he had no wish to learn. Communication with the natives was extremely difficult, as they seemed to be uneducated.

But there was one lass who knew how to speak Latin — you, Callie.

He wondered where you had gone. Marcus had not seen you since your encounter in his new-found bedchamber. It had been three days since then and with each passing one, he found himself searching the room for you. There was something about you that had reeled him in but was unsure of what it was. Maybe it was the eerie, magical aura that surrounded your fiery hair — or maybe it was the way you carried yourself, the way you had briefly but decisively held his gaze. The way you quickly retreated — unwillingly.

Marcus imperceptibly shook his head and waved his hand at Atticus, motioning for him to pour another cup of the bitter wine.

“Yes”, he simply replied, bringing the wooden chalice to his lips.

Atticus signalled the young women to come forward and they quickly cleared the table of dishes and cutlery. When he was alone with his servant, away from enemies’ ears, he signalled at Atticus, who quickly stepped forward.

“Fetch my commanders and bring them here. There are matters I need to discuss with them”, Marcus demanded of him.

His attendant curtsied and vanished from the great hall, leaving him alone.

Marcus was taking in every detail of the room, of the tapestries and their stories, when a scattering sound distracted him. He thought to hear a commotion, then a blasphemy. Curious, he stood up, stepped off the dais and sauntered towards the double doors. The door was slightly ajar, so he only had to push it for it to swing open.

There was nothing in the corridor except for a distinct scent. Rosemary and thyme with a hint of something unrecognisable, he identified. A smell that had loitered in his bedchamber once you left. Wrinkling his aquiline nose, he caught something in the corner of his eye. He turned to see how a shadow dissipated at the end of the corridor.

Furrowing his brows and in long strides, Marcus covered the distance, tracking the distinct aroma — like a lost man after the beckoning of a nymph, he followed. As he was about to turn the corner, he almost collided with Maximus, Valerius and Cassius.

“My lord,” Cassius was the first to talk, “we were on our way to you. You wished to see us?”

Marcus tried to conceal his confusion at the sight of the three men. With his head slightly tilted, he asked, “Did you encounter anyone on your way to me, Commander?”

Cassius slowly shook his head no, baffled by the question. “No, Dominus, no one. Were you expecting someone else?”

The General hmphed, taciturn. He needed to be cautious — if the tapestries were right, ungodly, mythical creatures lingered between the walls of the castle. Evil ones at that.

“Worry not”, Marcus rapidly dismissed. “Follow me, gentlemen.”

The four men sat at the rectangular table on the dais, Marcus’ fingers drumming on the wood as Maximus flattened a piece of parchment before him.

“These are some names that have been thrown around in the last few days, people who may act on their rebellious comments. Our spies have been trying their best to mix in with the townies, but they are tough nuts to crack. They are wary even of the people who speak their own language”, Maximus’ index finger slid down the list as he talked.

Marcus’ hand darted forward and pinched one corner of the parchment, pulling it towards him. His eyes scanned the unfamiliar names.

The barbarians did not use surnames, which spoke to their lack of sophistication. Instead, they used patronyms and the land where they were born, so the list made it difficult to identify individuals who might belong to the same family. Knowing what families were a menace would be a great advantage, one they did not have.

“There seems to be a recurrent name here”, Marcus paused, his fingertip pointing to the words scribbled in lead ink. “Seumas and Anndra of Dail an Eich (Dalneigh), sons of Aengus. Who is this Aengus?”, he questioned, looking up to the frowning faces.

“We are not sure, Dominus. As I said, the villagers are not talking much”, Cassius replied, his fingers intertwined, resting atop of the wooden table.

“Well, find out then. I don’t care how you get the information. Just get it”, Marcus’ back reclined against the chair he was sat on. He felt like they were wasting his time with trivial details. He needed more than that.

“You didn’t get Murdoch’s wife to talk, even when she was hanged half dead in a cage off the main tower, after being brutally tortured and whatever else you inflicted upon her, and you expect us to get names just like that?”, Valerius’ insolence spoke for him.

Marcus’ eyes lazily locked on his commander’s. He should have his ill-mannered tongue cut out for such disdainful arrogance. Valerius’ Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he forcefully swallowed, his eyes slightly widened, realising his impertinence.

Whispers flew around the town; his name being cursed from mouth to mouth. Marcus was not too worried about whatever rumours they could spread about him. They probably would be true — he was no saint.

But Marcus had not been the one who had ordered such distasteful death upon Mòrag, wife of Murdoch. Agricola did, with no respect for his name when he dropped it mid-sentence. Marcus did not even lay an eye on her, even less a hand.

Let them all think what they might. Marcus was used to being the scapegoat of the governor — when something went wrong, Agricola would blame him. And when something went right, he would just take credit for himself, the evil, power-thirsty rat.

He looked at Valerius dead in his eyes, one cocked brow showing his mild incredulity.

“Do you have something to say, Valerius? I hear a certain condemning tone in your words?”, his voice was flat, devoid of emotion, but the reality was there was a raging fire within him he could not make manifest.

“Absolutely not, my lord”, the man bowed his head to him, his knuckles white.

“Then be gone. All of you. Find those two men or I will have you hanged too.”

The resolution in his tone scared the seasoned warriors, who quickly said their goodbyes and hurriedly left the premises.

Marcus’ elbows sunk in the wooden table, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He was angry, but amongst all, he was tired — tired of masking, of cleaning up after Agricola’s hideous actions, of power plays, of trickery, betrayal and deception. He was surrounded by it all.

At eight and forty, he was tired of war and conquest. He had seen it all, lived it all. If retirement would be an option, he would gladly take it. But he knew — he would wield a sword till the day he died in a godforsaken battlefield, till Pluto welcomed him with open arms. Rome would not have him any other way.

Marcus Acacius was truly exhausted.

So it was him who had your beautiful màthair tortured and hanged in a cage until she greeted death. Your blood boiled as your breath quickened. The rage flickered inside you like wild flames burning down an entire civilisation.

When the rangers announced your arrival to a few selected loyal men who had stayed behind, they got out at night to cut the ropes holding the cage your mother had been thrown in. They did not want you to see such act of savagery.

Your kinsmen had really tried to conceal how badly damaged your mother’s body was. Despite the heartache, you had been grateful that they had gone to the effort of making her somewhat presentable. But one look at her mangled body had been enough to understand what type of wickedness you were up against.

In the dead of night, you had buried Mòrag, the woman who so selflessly gave you life, in the outskirts of town. Just like her other children and husband, she would not rest under the family’s chambered cairns. Your family had been wiped out of history as if they were mere droplets in a vast ocean of human tragedy.

With one ear flat against the wooden door to the great hall, you unknowingly squinted your eyes, trying to listen to the rest of the conversation. If someone caught you eavesdropping, you would have a lot of explaining to do. But so far your spying was being productive — you would need to warn your cousins when you got home that night.

The faint sound of approaching footsteps made your heart jolt in your chest.

“Cac (shite)!”, you swore, frantically looking for a place to stow yourself away.

Picking up your skirt so you would not trip, you hid in a nearby garderobe. The cupboard smelt sweet and musty — barrels of wine decorated the whole height of the stone walls. The scent was so intense, you felt it soaking through your skin, appeasing the craze that had a tight grip on your mind. The darkness that surrounded you only accentuated your sense of smell. Could you get inebriated just with the sugary aroma of grape juice?

When the booted treads slowly faded away, you quietly pushed the door open, emerging back into the cold corridor — the contrasting temperature between the garderobe and the hallway gave you goosebumps. Palm flat against the wood and the other hand tightly gripping the iron pull handle, you gently shoved the door back into its frame, hoping to make no noise.

“What are you doing?”, a deep, masculine voice startled you, making you jump on the spot.

A set of warm, firm arms wrapped around you as you stumbled with your feet. They enveloped you so steadfastly, your body involuntarily relaxed against the person behind you. Leaning back, your back met the cold touch of metal.

Swallowing a profanity that would bring a repenting clergyman down to his knees, you turned around, in the arms that held you tight, to face the embodiment of hate. Your hate.

Marcus Acacius was standing, all righteous and proud, intimately close to you. He was wearing an impeccable white armour with golden details. Two flaxen griffins adorned the center of the plackart, their claws wrapping around a floral design. Linen straps, snug around his hips, fell from his waist, covering the fauld and the tasset underneath.

Marcus’ body was a fountain of warmth, even with all the layers enfolding his frame. His arms, although tense around you, did not feel suffocating — in fact, they were almost coddling you into a state of ataraxia as your brain quietened. His hug exuded a sense of security you had not felt in years — as if nothing nor no one could ever harm you as long as you stayed in Marcus’ embrace.

You traced the topography of his plackart with your fingers, your palms resting against the alloy, as your eyes peeked up —he was considerably taller than you— and were met with the fervour of two brown irises. Their gravity pulled you in for an eternal second. With your face near his, you picked up on the tired bearing on his face, the wrinkles around his eyes, the hard press of his lips. A kempt but patchy beard coated his jawline, and salt and peppered hair curled at the nape of his thick, muscular neck — a stray silver lock caressing his forehead, asking to be tucked away.

Your fingertips suddenly itched with longing, your eyes slightly widened, and your mouth partially parted. And then you came back to reality with the full force of your conscience yapping at you. What the hell? You had to control the contortion of your face so your disappointment would not be evident. It’s because I want to slap him so bad, was your afterthought.

Something changed in his expression — Marcus suddenly let you go, leaving you cold again. As if it was a rehearsed move, you both took a step back, breaking the electric contact that snapped between your bodies.

You now realised his clean image was a shocking contrast to how you first met him. Covered in mud, blood and sweat, his untamed expression as he dispatched your father still haunted you at night. And that was how you had to remember him. Sinking his gladius in your father’s belly. And nothing else.

“Well?”, the General insisted after clearing his throat, his eyebrows knitting together as he folded his arms.

You rapidly lowered your gaze when you realised you had been looking at him too intently, too directly. A maid would have fainted at the audacity you had just shown him. But you were no maid — albeit he was not privy of such detail for obvious reasons.

You hoped he didn’t notice, although you could feel his eyes studying you eagerly.

“I— I was looking for wine, Dominus.” You faked the stammering in an attempt to convey innocence. “Cormag, the cook, wants a very specific wine to accompany your supper, Dux Meus (My General/Leader). I was making sure we had it.”

“And what wine is that, if I dare ask?”, he pressed with a steely voice.

Thalla gu taigh na galla (go to hell), you thought, browsing your brain for a quick reply.

“It’s a fine wine imported from Carmo, my lord.” Your father had been a wine enthusiast, so you knew some places he had his wine shipped from. Not that it really meant anything to you, anyway.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his arms falling to his sides, his threatening posture softening.

“Carmo? In the Baetic region of Hispania?”, Marcus’ incredulous voice made you glance up at him through your long eyelashes.

You nodded, your fingers laced at your front as you bowed your head again, showing a deference you didn’t really feel towards him. And you prayed there was at least a few drops left of said wine in one of the barrels, or you would be in trouble come dinner.

“That’s one of my favourites”, he let slip and you instantly knew he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Feigning bravery, you fanned your eyelashes back at him, a half-smile softening your lips. The General almost looked mortified at the fact of letting a stranger know about his likes. You could see it in his eyes — the brief moment of asking himself, “What have I just said?” Although he seemed all stoic and unattainable, he was just a man. Just like any other.

“Is that so?” You did not wait for a reply you knew would never come. “I’ll try and remember that, Dominus, to make sure we never run out.”

He was a hard man to read, you would give him that. His expression didn’t flinch, as if your words had gone over his head. The only sign he had actually listened was a subtle tic on his jaw.

You just needed to drop some hints here and there, let him brew. If you were too obvious with your intentions, Marcus would become suspicious. You knew nothing about the man except he was a cold-blooded murderer, but perceived he was observant. Probably too observant.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I wish to retire now so I can attend to my tasks.” Asking for permission was not something that came naturally to you, but it was a trained response you had learnt from your late husband.

“Take your leave then”, he granted, his hands hiding on his back.

You curtsied. “Thank you, Dux Meus.”

Marcus turned on his heels in a swift whoosh, the sword swaying in front of him, his fingers gripping the handle tight. He intuited his opponent’s next move before it happened, so he bent his knees and ducked his head right under the swing of Maximus’ gladius. With a wild, toothy smile, Marcus pulled back, weighing the blade on his left hand.

“So predictable”, he teased the commander, who was an old friend of his.

If one could have friends in the midst of war, that was. Their friendship easily transformed depending on the circumstances — in war matters, Maximus knew to respect Marcus above everything else. Outside of that, they just were two friends with a long history behind them.

“I’m being gentle, lord General. We have spectators, I don’t want to embarrass you. I know your ego is as fragile as a rose’s petal”, Maximus chaffed, a grin taking over his mouth as they circled each other like two lions on the gladiator’s pit.

Marcus’ tunnel vision had him so tuned in on his friend’s advances, he had not realised that a small group of people had gathered around the makeshift arena. Feeling a sudden heaviness weighing him down, Marcus combed the gathered faces in one sweep.

Until his eyes locked in on yours. He saw a glimpse of wonder metamorphosing into surprise in your emerald greens — then you quickly withdrew your eyes from his at the realisation of getting caught staring.

There was something about you that drew him in — something mysterious, uncanny, but also strangely enticing. Exciting. Your eyes spoke of mischief, of adventure, of the unknown. Of something eerie, almost witchy. The flickering, iridescent fire within them had him under a spell for a brief moment.

Marcus vividly remembered holding you against his chest, your soft curves perfectly moulding to his hard edges. Even through the armour, he had felt the heat your body irradiated, the way it seeped through to envelop him, soothe him. For a moment, having you between his arms felt just right. And that thought had unsettled him gravely, letting go of you as such wild, unnerving concept sank in — his mind point-blank rejecting the notion.

Despite his inner refusal, how you looked back at him would plague him. For days and nights on end.

Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus watched as Maximus inched forward, the sword aiming at his open flank. Just in the nick of time, the General’s steel deflected the attack.

“Getting distracted? That’s unusual of you, Marcus”, the commander jeered at him, closing in.

Marcus scoffed at his words, bluffing. But the reality was that Maximus had hit the nail in the head. Not that he was going to acknowledge it in public anyway. If he was to successfully bring Maximus down, he needed to focus on the task at hand and not think about a green-eyed nymph.

Studying his adversary’s body language, his feet dragged on the sand. Maximus was on edge, tense, too focused on his sword, so Marcus wagered a distraction would tip the scales in his favour. Maintaining eye contact, he slowly knelt, the fingers of his non-occupied right hand extended, palm down. Maximus’ brows wrinkled when he saw Marcus getting a fistful of sand and the General knew he had the diversion he was looking for.

With Maximus focused on his right hand, too worried with a cloud of sand that would get in his eyes, Marcus took the chance, quickly stood up and swung his heavy sword against his rival’s left loin. Maximus did not have time to prepare for the impact and so dropped to the ground.

Marcus smiled with sufficiency, straightening out his aching back, and offered a hand to his old friend.

With a grunt, Maximus accepted his gesture and got up, palming Marcus’ back soundly.

“You treacherous man, making me believe you were going to blind me”, he quipped as they both started to walk out of the circle people had formed around them.

“There is no treachery in the art of war”, Marcus replied, patting his friend’s back in playful jest.

A loud snort made Marcus look around him. He had no time to fully study your face, but he could swear you had made that disapproving noise before turning on your heels and trotting off.

Confusion and a smidge of curiosity settled in him — what had he done to gain your dissent when a minute ago awe darkened your eyes? The sudden change in your attitude left a lingering question in the back of his head as he and Maximus ushered towards the barracks in the northwest corner of the bailey.

“But you shouldn’t be serving, mo bhean-uasal (my lady)”, whispered the young lass, her hands twisting in her lap with nervousness.

“Shush, Brighid, lower your tone.” Anxiously you checked out your surroundings, ensuring you were alone. You were relieved to know you were. “You cannae refer to me like that. I’m just Callie now, remember?”

Upon your arrival to Inbhir Nis, Torcall and your father’s retinue —now yours, you guessed— had made everyone aware that the Romans thought you dead and hence, concealing your identity was of utmost importance. A slip of a tongue and you would be hanging in a cage too. Every passing day you feared someone might forget and show you deference publicly — but you had to trust that no one would run off at the mouth and rat you out.

“Duilich (sorry), mo bh— Callie. I—I promise I didn’t mean to”, she profusely apologised, her big wide eyes begging for your pardon. The wee lass could not stop fidgeting.

“I know, I know”, you tried to calm her down, placing your hand on her forearm. “But please, I need to take your place tonight.”

“Cormag will fire me for not turning up. I cannae afford that, my family depends on me.” Her pleading plucked some fast beats out of your heart.

“Don’t fret about it, lass. I’ll speak to that old crank of a man, he owes me. You’ll get paid, awright? He’ll be fine with it, I promise.” You gently squeezed her forearm, so your words would sink in.

Her eyes broadened in understanding. Before the girl could think about her actions, she jolted forward, her arms wrapping around your shoulders. You could only smile at her relief and let out a soft cackle when Brighid lumbered back, mortified.

“I’m so sorry, do Ghras (Your Grace).” Her excitement was so palpable the poor girl didn’t notice the second blunder.

“BRIGHID!”, a raspy threat left your tongue as you jerked her closer to you by the elbow. “For the love of Morrìgan, do watch your mouth!”

The young servant covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes speaking of self-reproach as it dawned on her. “I’ll have it sewn”, she muttered with great remorse.

The guilt splayed across her heart-shaped face brought a smirk to your lips. “Off you go now, before your runny tongue gets me into trouble.”

Brighid scurried away towards the barbican, and you hurried along to the kitchens. You followed the tangled web of corridors and passages thoughtlessly — you had played hide and seek countless times with your siblings between the stone walls, there was no nook nor cranny you were not familiar with.

The air got denser as you approached, the thick smoke of the open hearth filling your lungs. Repressing a cough, you entered the galley as good ol’ Cormag was shouting orders at the helping lads. The head cook had an aging face, creases around his grey eyes and bulbous nose, and a thick bush of white hair — hair strands shooting in every direction, almost comically. He was short and round around the belly, living proof of his good, delicious cooking.

“Keep fanning the fire, ye lazy ass! Don’t you see it’s going to die out? Faster, stronger! Aren’t you supposed to be young and full of life?!”, Cormag had wrapped his thick fingers around the brittle wrists of the lad, forcing his feeble arms up and down, fingers tight around a thin plank of wood. “Tiugainn (come on), with more enthusiasm, ye numpty!”

“Do you really think that’s how you motivate the young lads to do a good job, Cormag?” You questioned his teaching approach, with folded arms and a cocked brow.

An oath escaped his mouth as the cook turned around, his face downcast at your reprimand. “Callie!”

Thank the gods someone remembered how to approach you now. It came easier to Cormag though, considering that he was almost like family to you. The old man had seen you grow, having served your father since before you were even born. He was there, on the background, to wave you goodbye every time you had to return to Am Baile Ùr. And each time you came back, he had a full plate of haggis with a side of neeps and tatties waiting for you.

“No wonder your apprentices quit so fast if you treat them like that, Cormag. Have you no manners?” You kidded — the man had the filthiest mouth of the shire.

“I was raised by an ogre, young lady, of course I don’t”, he jokingly replied, cleaning his dirty hands on the apron tied around his round belly.

“Aye, and Nessie was your pet. I’ve heard that story before awright. I am still to see proof of such claims though.” Unfolding your arms you approached him, immediately going in for a bear hug.

Cormag palmed your back enthusiastically and you circled his stout frame, sinking in the comfort of his presence. In the blink of an eye, you were a five-year-old crybaby being consoled by a younger Cormag because there were no more mutton pies left that you could shove down your tiny mouth.

“I heard you were back, fear beag (little one). Wondered when you’d come visit this old git.” With a last squeeze, he took a step back, his hands placed on your shoulders. “Know you’ve probably heard this a thousand times now, but I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

His whisper was loaded with a heavy affection that shot your heart down to your stomach. Pressing your lips to stop your face from contorting at the memory of being alone in this world, you nodded, almost frantically, and sniffed. His eyes were a reflection of yours — the friendship between your athair and Cormag had been a staple in your life for as long as you could remember.

“But let’s not get all teary now!”, his demeanour changed as he rubbed your shoulders before taking a step back. “Got something for you.”

He turned around to rummage through a rattan basket on one of the counters. Cormag exclaimed an enthusiastic “Ha!” when he got his hands on what he was looking for. Then he presented his discovery to you with a flourish that made you crow.

When you saw the peachy plum on the palm of his hand, you almost squealed. “Plums!” You quickly snatched it, afraid he would take it away.

“I arranged for these to be brought from Fachabair (Fochabers). The cook who serves the clan chief there is an old friend of mine.”

“But Cormag, plums are not in season yet!” You marvelled at the sight, munching on the delicious fruit eagerly. Your eyes almost rolled to the back of your head.

“I know.” He winked at you mysteriously, but you didn’t press the matter if it meant you could get your hands on some more plums.

“I did come to you with a favour to ask”, you batted your eyelashes at him, anticipating his disapproval.

He looked at you, inquisitorial — it was his turn to fold arms at the chest. Cormag snapped his tongue as if to say, “do go on”.

“I already convinced Brighid so you cannae be mad at her. In fact, I promised her you wouldn’t.” You grinned at him, his face already puckering with exasperation. “I’m taking her place tonight as a serving maid.”

“Have you lost your damn mind, lass? Nay, I’m not having it”, he quickly dismissed you, grunting.

“I’m not asking for permission. I need to be there, I—” Just in time, you remembered that the two lads were still running around the fireplace, trying to keep the flames alive. “I’ll fill you in later, but I have to be there, there’s no discussion about it.”

“What? Serving that Roman scoundrel? There’s more royal blood in you than there is in him.” He was more offended than you were.

You laughed, patting his forearm. The old man already hated the Romans more than you did, and that was difficult to accomplish.

“Aye, and that’s not the worst bit, Cormag”, you teased him, because you knew he would lose his mind with rage.

“Enlighten me”, he said between gritted teeth.

“We are serving the Corma wine tonight with supper”, you pursed your lips, watching his reaction.

His round face turned all shades of red, and his nostrils flared. If it was physically possible, his ears would be steaming too, like a ceramic pot with boiling water over the open fire.

“NAY, OVER MY DEAD FUCKING BODY!”, he exploded, shaking his arms over his head in disbelief, and you burst into laughter. Cormag was too expressive. “Ah, no, NO. We are not wasting such finery on that murderous cunt!”

You blinked rapidly at him to appease his fury, but his rage just gleamed brighter.

“Well… I kinda told him we would. You winnae make me look like a liar, right, Cormag?”, you muttered, as if you were a child who had committed the grave felony of stealing a sweet off the counter.

“You did WHAT?!”, he snorted angrily.

“Tìoraidh (bye)!”, you effusively waved him goodbye as you bit into the plum, sprinting off and ducking when you heard the wooden spoon flying by your ear.

“Trobhad (come here)!”, but you had already turned the corner into the hallway.

Why he was so taut, he did not fully understand. Marcus’ body was in high alert, and he had his suspicions about the cause.

You were just a woman like any other. Sure, your green eyes flickered like hellfire, your red hair was so bright it looked like you were up in flames, your upturned nose covered in freckles twitched adorably, and the skin on your hands was unusually soft — but that was it, really.

So you were nothing out of the ordinary, he kept telling himself. But it was hard to keep to that line of thought when your breast would brush against his shoulder every time you approached to clear the table from empty plates, when your velvety fingers would briefly caress the back of his hand while reaching for his cutlery, or when you would talk too close to his ear, a tingling sensation on the back of his neck almost making him shiver uncomfortably.

Marcus did not know if you were doing it on purpose or not — your face had an innocent look to it that was hard to read for him. The most prudent thing would be to ignore it all — ignore you. Surely you were only being suggestive in his imagination. And he still had the feeling something had upset you that afternoon when you stormed off after his training session.

“How’s the wine, Dux Meus?”, your sweet voice trickled from your plush lips like honey.

The way you kept referring to him as Dux Meus unsettled him. The first time you had said it during your encounter in the corridor, it caused certain havoc in his mind — and body.

Although it was appropriate for his title, no one really referred to him like that. My leader, my general, my god. It was the last connotation what made him feel… uneasy, for lack of a better word. It just sounded too intimate, the way it would pour from your oval-shaped mouth.

Marcus blamed it on Latin not being your first language. If you knew how seductively it rolled from your lips, he was sure you would stop addressing him like that straight away. Which meant he should correct you, tell you to just stick to Dominus.

But for whatever inexplicable reason, he did not.

“It’s as tasty and earthy as I remember it.” He replied, his fingers wrapping around the chalice with more strength than what was necessary.

You smiled at him, one of your hands gently placed on his right shoulder giving him a subtle squeeze.

“I’m glad to hear it, my lord”, you mumbled, Marcus’ eyes following the movement of your hand when you broke contact.

You inched forward over his shoulder to grab the glass jug and refill his cup, gifting him with the sight of your generous cleavage — your breasts almost spilling over the neckline of the dark blue, linen dress that so tightly wrapped around your hourglass figure.

Marcus had to swallow hard, tension suddenly building up on his groin. Was he getting hard just by the mere touch of a woman? He sucked in his breath while forcing himself to look forward, not down.

He just nodded in reply, unable to find his voice. If he had talked, he would have just groaned in frustration. Marcus had to readjust his posture as he saw you walking away, your waist evocatively swaying sideways with every step you took.

“I’m sure the wine is not the only tasty thing around here.”

Maximus’ whispered jest forced Marcus to look in his direction, turning to his left. They, along with the other commanders and a few other people of importance, were sat on the table on the dais, facing the crowd. Other tables were scattered around the great hall, where some legionnaires were enjoying a meal and a drink, sharing a joke and bursting in laughter.

“I don’t follow”, he grunted, feigning ignorance, before taking a sip.

“Oh, you do follow. At least your eyes do.” Maximus mocked him while Marcus just sneered at him, eyes squinting. “No one would blame you though. We are far away in an unknown land, and we all have needs to satisfy. I myself am considering getting laid tonight.”

“I did not doubt you would.” Men like Maximus had no consideration for their wives.

Neither does Livia, the intrusive thought wiggled its way through his mind. Despite the lack of passion in bed with his spouse, Marcus had been a faithful husband. While others looked for warmth in the folds of a pleasure woman after a battle, the General would tend to his wounds and rest, focusing on what next skirmish lied ahead.

And while he had been loyal although there was never love between them, Livia had been fucking the “love of her life”, as she had referred to the man stuffing her cunt full during his long absences. Marcus was yet to know his name. What he would do with that information, he did not know.

Thinking of his perfidious wife had an extinguishing effect on him. The strain against his subligaculum (underwear) had softened.

“You’re too tense, Marcus. You need to relax, have some fun. I bet you two denarii that she will fuck the stress out of you expertly, I can tell.” Maximus pressed maliciously, conscious of how uncomfortable the conversation would make Marcus feel.

“Just shut up, will you?”, Marcus snapped back, tired of his friend’s quips, and downing the drink in his cup.

Maximus laughed it off and turned to talk to Cassius when you sauntered towards the table again, stopping right behind him.

“More wine, Dux Meus?”, you asked, infusing your honeyed voice with a sweet touch of flirtation.

You bent over his shoulder again, hand lazily looking for the wine jug in front of him. His hazel eyes fell on your bosom again and your nipples involuntarily hardened at the desire you saw in him — you were sure he noticed them peeking through the thin fabric.

In your attempts to arouse him, your body was betraying you, getting warm in all the wrong places. As much as you wanted to be immune to your own provocative games, you were not. But it wasn’t him who made you wet with lust, you told yourself. It was your own actions, nothing else. The long game.

But Marcus quickly tamed his expression, grinding his jaw and looking away.

“No, I’m okay”, he rejected your offer, hovering his hand over the chalice so you would not pour more.

You forced your lips into a flat line. You needed the man to let go of his defences. Having him drunk would help with that. But not tonight, apparently.

You nodded.

“Of course, Dominus.” You placed the jug back down on the table, your left breast brushing his right shoulder again.

You bit down your bottom lip, your free fingers curling on the back of his chair. It’s just the game, you thought to yourself again, your core slick and hot.

Slowly you retreated to the kitchens, fully aware of Marcus’ eyes feasting on your body. You smiled to yourself — he might be a taut General, but he was just a man.

A deceitful man at that, who thought there was no treachery in the art of war. Was that how he defeated your father? With deception? You had been too far to see and hear how the fight between your father and Marcus had unfolded, but having been witness to how the General distracted his opponent that afternoon, you wondered if he had followed similar tactics with Murdoch. If your father’s demise was just a byproduct of Marcus’ boldness.

The memory of Marcus being your father’s executioner put out the liquid fire in your crotch. And rightly so.

It wasn’t long before the Romans started to vanish from the great hall, retreating to the barracks or to town, maybe looking for the comfort only a woman could offer.

When you walked back out to clear the last plates, you saw the General leaving the room. Alone. Where he intended to go you did not know, but you had to make sure he was not considering joining the men in town — if he was to choose a woman to enliven his bed, he should pick you.

“Isla, I’ll be back in a minute.” The lass gave you a puzzled look as the bits you had gathered previously clattered against the wooden table when you let go of them.

You hurried forward to meet him as he swung the double doors open, the cold breeze of the corridor filtering into the great hall.

“Dux Meus, wait please”, you interjected in the hopes he would stop walking.

Indeed, he did. His whole body stiffened, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. You were not sure what to make of that reaction — exasperation or frustration. You hoped for the second, especially the good kind of frustration.

As soon as you reached him, you placed a daring hand on his forearm — an unusual surge of energy sparked at the contact between your skins, giving you goosebumps. You quickly retrieved your hand with certain surprise, the tingling sensation evaporating right after.

“I trust everything was good?”, you queried, tilting your head to one side.

“Yes. Now I’ll retire to my bedchambers. Bonum noctis (good night)”, his words dragged for a second, “Callie.”

There it was again, your name falling from his lips as if it belonged to him. It angered and pleased you equally. If he pronounced it like that on purpose you did not know, but it surely felt like it.

Before you could come up with an answer, he trudged to his right and you took a step forward.

“That is not the way to the main bedchamber, my lord. You should follow this other corridor instead”, you pointed to the left.

He paused and turned around to face you. A lingering question danced in his pupils, but whatever it was, he did not say out loud. Instead, he nodded.

“I am aware. However, I have taken a different bedroom.” He did not give you an explanation, but you could have a good guess. Your father always complained his bed was like a blanket of spikey rocks. “I am now lodged in the second tower, the room in the top floor.”

You tamed your face into nothingness, but internally you flinched at his reply. He was sleeping in your room, in your bed. The thought of him naked with your bedlinen draped around his waist and thick legs made you gush. Fuck.

This was unknown territory to you — although you had been married for ten years, you had not known pleasure in the bedchamber. Iain just chased his own release, using you in disgusting ways, proving you that you were the problem, not him — that your womb was barren. You had been told by your friends that fucking was enjoyable for both parties, but you were yet to discover that. Maybe the dampness your legs harboured was a start?

“I see”, you curtsied, fingers laced on your back, looking up at him through your long eyelashes.

“How come you speak Latin?” His question blurted out, catching you completely off guard.

Marcus had a nick for inconvenience, forcing you to come up with lies on the spot. Luckily you were astute and creative.

“My late father was a scrivener to Murdoch. He taught me how to speak Latin, as it was his favourite language.”

“He passed?” You simply nodded. “I trust you still have family around though?”

You shook your head no. You killed them all, ye cunt. But you could not express your hatred out loud. Although when the time came, you would. Aye, you definitely would.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” For a second you believed him, his tone almost sorrowful.

“It was a long time ago.” You lied through your teeth, shrugging. “I’ll leave you to your rest now. Oidhche mhath (good night), Marcus.”

You heard a loud sigh being drawn into his lungs, possibly because of your cheekiness — calling him by his first name was a very bold move on your part. Maybe too bold.

Before he could reprimand you for your audacity, you scuttled back into the great hall, a sufficient grin tugging at your lips.

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