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dolicekiss · 11 months ago

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A debt

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen X Velaryon niece!reader

CONTENT WARNING: smut (18+, mdni please), dubcon, lucerys velaryon reader (basically reader is lucerys velaryon but female), toxic aemond, threats, unprotected sex (p in v), near death experiment, hair pulling, rough making out, attempted sexual asssult, breeding, virgin!reader, bickering, mentions of blood, tension, kinda angsty

SYNOPSIS: Aemond could never forget that you had taken his eye out, so when you both cross paths at Storm’s End, he demands for what was taken from him. Things went haywire when a sneak attack lead you to fall from your dragon and be swallowed by the large waves. Only that you didn't die, as Aemond finds you and saves you. With nowhere to take you, the prince takes you to a brothel hoping Sylvie would keep you safe there. Little did be know, a beautiful girl such as yourself was not a thing to be put in a brothel.

“I want you to put out your eye, as payment for mine.”

Blue sapphire sparkled in the hollowness of Aemond’s eye when he peeled back his eye patch and revealed the wound you had left behind as a little girl. A regret at best but not anymore. You swallowed, heart thumping in your chest. You possessed no desire to fight him, nor did you wish to indulge with him.

You were only a messenger here.

“One would serve.” Aemond softly spoke, as you watched him reach for a dagger. “I would not blind you.”

The piercing sound of the dagger being tossed at you was more pellucid against your ears than the gushing rainstorm outside. Patterning aggressively on the cobblestones, striking thunder tearing through the sky. The seven were definitely upset, for what was about to take place. An ominous feeling looming over your head, putting your heart in a state of unease.

“Plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”

There was no way he could expect you to take out your own eye. You had acted upon impulse but you were right to do so. He was going to injure your brother and you, that stone in his hand a vivid image embedded in your mind from childhood.

You held your head high, fierce gaze focused on him. “No.”

Aemond seemed disappointed by your response. “Then you are craven as well as a traitor.”

You could hear Lord Borris’ rebuke in the back but it mattered little to Aemond as he marched towards you abruptly, causing you to retreat back. “Give me your eye, or I will take it, bastard!”

“Come fucking take it then.”

Swords were unsheathed and the sound of it echoed within the halls of Lord Borris' castle.

You were filled with panic, your long black braid moving behind your back when you took haste steps back. Before bloodshed could happen, Lord Borris stepped in and sent you back to your dragon. You were thankful for that as this could lead to something worse.

You went out, going to your dragon, Arrax who seemed in quite distress. You patted his back, once or twice and commanded for it to calm down in high valyrian but nothing seemingly worked. Rain had soaked into your clothes and the thunderstorm only grew heavier witch each second. As you mounted it, your gaze set on the empty space where Vhagar once sat.

You made it your goal to reach dragonstone safely and convey the Lord’s message to your mother.

As Arrax flew up in the grey sky, you looked around hoping to not find Aemond but when the massive shadow of Vhagar flew atop you in the clouds, your blood froze. Panic rising up and you knew very well that fighting Aemond in a dragon combat would end with you losing since he had claimed the largest dragon in all of Westeros.

You could feel your dragon’s uneasiness, same as yours and that was not a good sign.

Aemon had disappeared for now and you released a breath of relief, turning your dragon to head for dragonstone.

Only then Vhagar came in front of you, out of nowhere, with its wide mouth open sending your dragon in pure disarray. You tried to control it, in hopes that things will calm down if one dragon is calm enough but no.

Aemond’s laugh echoed in the open sky and it was enough to fill you with chills. You felt Vhagar right behind you, its loud roars having the same affect as Aemond’s malicious laughs. You saw a narrow pathway between two stones and went inside, knowing Vhagar would be incapable of fitting in there with its large size.

Your commands to calm your dragon down were pathetic and useless.

It was scared, as were you.

You could hear Aemond’s deep voice, and it terrified you.

“Jemēla gēlyēni enkā, riña.” Those words, you knew what they meant and you knew Aemond would only calm when he has ripped out your eye from your socket, a vision you would be.

Fearsome was the thought.

Your vision had blurred due to the constant pouring of the rain and your own head was everywhere. But then, out of nowhere your dragon spots Vhagar and in desperate need to protect itself, flies at the beast and breathes fire into her face.

“Lykiri, Arrax! Lykiri!” Your command in high valyrian flies over your tense dragon’s head as you fly away from Vhagar.

You can hear Vhagar losing its calm too, as Aemond’s high valyrian commands roared along with his dragon. You turned around, looking down but there was no sight of Vhagar chasing after you now, so you flew higher.

You broke through the barrier of the dark, looming clouds and when light greeted you, relief washed over you. False assumptions that everything was calm now became the reason of your fall as Vhagar out of nowhere leaped from the side, biting Arrax‘s head into two.

“Vhagar, no!”

Your eyes widened in horror, gaze locking with Aemond as you lost balance and fell down.

That was all you remembered, as you passed out due to the panic and lose of hope. You knew from then on, you were better off dead but what broke your heart the most was the gruesomely demise of your beloved dragon.

Aemond knew he had to find you.

Vhagar had missed you by an inch and the chances of you being alive were somewhat there. He did not wish to start a war, not like this, not by killing off his niece when she was at her weakest.

He had the advantage by being in the possession of the biggest dragon and he knew it was not fair to you.

Aemond dived in, lowering his dragon to the sea, in hopes that he would find you. Endlessly searching in the water, letting out frustrated grunts when he didn't find you. He flew over the shore, all deserted and he noticed something. Bringing Vhagar closer to it, he jumped off her back and ran towards your passed out body.

Thankfully you had washed up on the shore.

Your long braid wrapped around your stomach, the side of your head bloodied and Aemond fell to his knees, reaching for your face.

You were as lifeless as a corpse.

He checked your pulse and relief washed over him. You were alive, although unconscious.

Aemond buried his arms beneath your soaked body, lifting you up and taking you over to Vhagar. He somehow got you on his dragon’s back and tied you to him, your back pressed against his chest and head leaned over his shoulder.

“Fuck, what do I with you now?” He whispered, a mix of worry and frustration donning his face.

He couldn't take you back to the red keep, as they would capture you and hold you hostage. He didn't want that, not when he had not captured you with honor. Aemond was not some monster without morals but he sure could not take you to the blacks, knowing it would put his life in danger.

There was absolutely nothing he could do than fly around Westeros with you on his dragon.

An idea infiltrated the prince's mind.

There was only one place where he could keep you, without bringing you harm and that was the brothel he often visited. Under Sylvie’s care and under her orders, she surely would protect you and keep you safe.

He sighed, flying to where Vhagar usually rested. He allowed her rest while taking a horse, putting his hoodie over your very bright and pleasant features to conceal you.

The realm had seen you, he did not wish for people to take notice of you. Aemond pressed you into his chest as he rode in King's landing, making way to Sylvie’s brothel.

That was the best place to keep you.

As his own hostage.

For no one else to hurt, no one else to lay claim on you.

Sylvie was surprised to see the prince with an unconscious woman in his arms. Aemond only had to glare at her and she allowed him in. Thankfully it was broad daylight and there were not much customers — giving the young prince enough room to smuggle you in the confinement of a room in a secluded area of the brothel upstairs.

“My prince, who is she?”

Aemond sighed, tiresome all this was but it was his fault and deep down he knew that.

“Just know that she is mine and I am entrusting her to you.” Aemond said, staring at your unconscious body laying on the soft bed. “If harm comes to even a strand of her hair, I will behead you and your girls.”

Sylvie was terrified and it was rare of her to be this terrified of Aemond. His tone was dark and she knew that this woman, whoever she might be, was definitely not to sell to her customers. All the woman could do was nod at the prince, obeying his each and every command.

“Trust me, my prince. Rest assured. I shall take care of her like she is my own.”

Aemond was pleased. “Tend to her wounds, clean her and change her clothes. Give her your most expensive dress.”

Sylvie nodded, eyes lowered to the floor as Aemond continued analyzing you. You had the most longest hair he had ever laid eye upon. A long braid which reached your calves and it was as dark as a raven. You surely were no velaryon, as much as you went around parading it like your mother.

But you surely were a Targaryen.

He departed from the brothel, writing a mental note that he would visit again tonight.

Hours passed by and when you finally regained consciousness, it was not in the arms of death nor the waves but on a soft mattress, surrounded by candles everywhere and the strong sweet scent of oils and perfumes.

Your gaze fell on your attire and it was something you would never in your seven lives wear.

A long sleeved dress, made of sheer material, enough to expose your small clothes. Your shoulders revealed and glistening from the oils that had been rubbed on you. Your hand reached to feel your thick braid but instead wavy strands awaited you. Cascading down your back, surrounding you like a fucking gown. You were in a completely different attire than before.

Soft music orchestrated by someone unknown made its tunes inside the room you were in.

It was small, with a bed and a table side. A chair was also in the corner and you sucked in a deep breath, eyes flitting here and there to analyze the room further.

The door soon opened and it revealed a woman, in her mid fourties and you blinked upon seeing her disheveled state. She was practically naked and slowly the realization began to sink in.

“Is this a brothel?”

The woman had the sweetest smile on her lips as she nodded, in her hand a jug you assumed filled with wine. In her other, a golden cup. A grimace made its way on your face, disgust evident but there was also unmatched anger. You were going to slaughter whoever that had brought you here.

Had they sold you?

Did Aemond do this? It would not make sense at all since you knew he would have abandoned you the moment you fell off your dragon. There was no way he would search for you but if it wasn't him then someone else had found you and put you here.

Your head felt like it could burst at any given moment and you realized how bad of a throbbing pain was in the side of your head. It ached and when you reached for it, you flinched.

“By what means am I here? I need to know who put me in such a horrible filthy place.”

You watched with a sharp eye as she poured the liquid into the cup, extending it out for you once finished. You blinked, shaking your head. “I demand answers, not wine.”

“I'm afraid I'm not allowed to answer those but he will be here soon.”

You snatched the cup of wine from her hand and tossed it across the room, watching as the glass made contact with the wall and collapsed in the corner. The woman’s grin grew wider as she realized you were no low born for sure. The amount of money she could make off you was unmatched but she knew better than to defy Aemond’s orders.

“You have the temperaments of a high born lady.” Sylvie said, head tilted as she admired the beauty you were blessed with. “No wonder I was told to take care of you.”

There was not a mark on your face, like you'd been blessed by the seven themselves. You were a piece of art and how she'd gotten you ready only made you appear like Venus, the goddess of love and sex, fertility even.

Sylvie left the room, to attend to her guests but not before warning you. “Do not leave this room, girl. There are wolves out there and they won't hesitate to rip you to shreds. You are safe here.”

You felt chills at her words, well aware of the atrocities men committed here with women.

You chewed on your lip, knees brought to your chest as you hugged them tightly while your arms wrapped around them. You wanted to cry, you missed your brothers and your mother. Being her only daughter, you knew her whole being resided within you and you wished to send a letter at least about your whereabouts.

She surely would come to save you.

Confused, scared and cornered, you stayed glued to your position.

Then the room door opened and a man entered. Your head lifted up from your knee pads and you backed into the wall seeing how drunk this man was. His wobbly walk told you he had more than enough to drink and now he was staggering towards you.

“I knew that bitch was hiding something here.” He said, a sick grin on his face and your eyes widened upon catching a glimpse of the man's hands that were extended to grab a hold of you. “Such a pretty girl like you should be downstairs, not here. But then it's good you're here. I get to have you all for myself.”

“Touch me and I will make you wish you were never born.” You spat, a venom in your tone as your posture shifted.

You were on guard and you had always trained under your step father, Daemon. You knew how to defend yourself, as well as take down a life if you had to. There was nothing in this world that you would not do to protect yourself and when the man's flimsy endeavor to grab you slipped, you rolled over the bed to reach for the cup of wine.

You swallowed.

You had trained but you never once had to fight someone to save your life, dignity and honor.

This was real, this was what you had trained for.

Adrenaline pumped through your blood, since the man was evidently twice your delicate size. You watched with a sharp gaze as he scoffed, reaching for you. Before his hands could come in contact with your exposed shoulders, you struck down the man's hand with the sharp edge of the wine glass.

He let out a scream, nearly succumbing to his knees. “You fucking bitch.”

You stared as blood soaked his clothes, the cut deep and brutal on his hand. This only encouraged his lust for you, an anger igniting in his eyes. He seemed pretty sober now as he got back up and slammed you against the wall with newfound force.

“Fucking whore. You don't have to act this hard to get. I swear I'll pay more than what the others do.” His words were like salt to the wound, as he held you over the wall. You had nothing on him now, as the man buried his face into your neck.

He sniffed, satisfied with the scent of the oils staining your skin. Before his lips could come in contact with your skin, the door slammed open and you saw Aemond.

The moment he laid his gaze on you, in such a horrible and disgusting situation, something inside him snapped. His jaw tightened and Aemond forgot that he was in a brothel and causing a scene could put you in danger.

You felt the force of the man disappear as Aemond pulled him off you, pinning him to the ground with his knee into his neck. You watched as your uncle delivered punch after punch, ruining the set of very basic features on his face.

“How dare you lay your filthy hands on her? On her, of all people?” His voice was loud as for each word, a taut punch was sent to the man's face.

Sylvie entered the room, in a panicked state, witnessing the disheveled state of both Aemond and you in front of him. She recognized the man as one of her clients and when Aemond caught her in his eye, he stood up and grabbed the woman by her throat, pressing her into the wall.

He leaned in, darkness imposing a threat. “I gave you one fucking job, and you failed.”

“I-I swear I don't know how he found her. My Prince believe me, I-I would never misplace something you told me to take care of.”

You watched the whole scene unfold, with blurring tears in your eyes, a soft sniffle escaping you. The man's touch was disgusting and it still lingered over your shoulders, the stains of blood tainting the purity of your skin. You could not believe what was going on, all you knew that Aemond was aware of your whereabouts which could only mean one thing; he himself put you here. Was this how low the Greens were willing to go, to win the war? By tainting the Queen’s reputation and putting you in a brothel for commoners to use and throw?

“Get out of my fucking sight and hand this fucking filth to my guards. I will see what it is to be done of him.” Aemond elucidated each word for the woman and she nodded, grabbing the man and dragging him out. “And bring me some water and a clean cloth.” His head turned in your direction, gaze locking with your blurred one.

You were still frozen in that position, not being able to move an inch. Your body had stilled from how sudden and scary everything was.

Aemond took a step towards now that you two were alone and you flinched. “Please don't.”

He stilled, staring at you. You were close to breaking apart, he could see it. Tears falling down in small streams, glistening over the golden glow of the candle casting on your face.

“I would never force myself upon you.” He said, almost offended that you would expect something like that from him in the first place. He was cold, stoic, he knew but did you really see him in such a horrible light? It bothered him when it should not have, it shouldn't matter what you have got to say or think about him.

“Did you throw me in here as revenge for your eye, Uncle?” You spoke, throat feeling like it was being prickled by needles because of how much you were holding yourself back from breaking into a fit of sobs and tears.

He raised a brow and then proceeded to scoff. “You really do see me as some tyrant.”

“You chased me on your dragon and made me fall, I could have died!” You shouted, taking a step forward. Your sadness had transformed into anger, and now your tears were flowing freely. A ton of emotions overwhelming your little frame and Aemond saw it.

The tick in his jaw grew, fists still clenched and blood dripping from them. “But you didn't. I found you and I brought you here to keep you safe—”

“Safe? Safe?! You brought me here, to this god forsaken place to keep me safe? Just say it, Uncle.” You fumed, stepping up to the man you once feared. “You wanted to humiliate me. You want me to get used, be some common man's whore.”

Aemond’s patience was running thin and when he imagined you as a whore, it ran out right before you. His feet moved with such ability as he marched in your direction, slamming you against the corner, palms glued to the wall. He breathed down your face, his sharp chin brushing against yours.

Your breath hitched, being this close to your Uncle was completely new and you were rendered speechless.

“The greens will hold you hostage.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “They will parade you around on a fucking horse for the whole of King's Landing to bear witness.”

You stared into his one eye, chest rising up and down as suddenly your body had forgotten how to lure in some air. “Could've taken me home.”

“They would take me hostage for the cause of your injured state.” He whispered, in a much softer tone. “There was nowhere for me to take you in your current state, only here.”

“A brothel, Uncle.” You said, tears once again threatening to spill and they did. Your soft sniffles echoing in the room, remembering what the man had done and how filthy his touch felt. You felt defiled and he hadn't even done something worse, something that could never be taken back. Your bloodied shoulders shook violently from how much you were crying, body going slump and Aemond quickly held you in his arms, not allowing you to succumb to the floor.

His strong arms held you — with overbearing strength, holding you whilst you cried.

In truth, you hated every bit of this war. Things were much better before the death of your grandsire, King Viserys. The crown made people greedy, the more they looked at it. It possessed the type of power which was too overwhelming for anyone and everyone. Like a curse, it slowly poisoned the mind of its bearer. The same was happening with the Greens as they had usurped your mother's throne.

“You should've left me to die.” You managed to say through your broken cries.

Aemond released a bated breath. “It was never my intention for something as grave as that to happen. It was merely an attempt to intimidate you.”

You understood him. Despite all this fucked up shit, you did. You had taken his eye out, left him disabled. His siblings had all their parts but Aemond felt empty, he felt incomplete and you had played a big part in it. Both of you had realized your mistakes a long time ago yet no one owned up to it, no one possessed the courage to reach out the other for closure.

You never apologized for the bullying encouraged by his brother, he never apologized for assaulting your brothers. You never apologized for taking his eye and he never apologized for attempting to intimidate you with his dragon — which made you suffer a great loss. Remotely close to his.

“Arrax,” you sobbed, in the arms of the man who was the cause of your state. “my poor dragon. He was so scared, I could feel it. He was afraid.”

Aemond wanted to apologize. He wanted to because he was aware of a rider’s bond with its dragon. Yet no words left his mouth, his palm running up and down your back rather awkwardly. He had absolutely no idea on what to do with you now. Your forehead was pressed into his chest as you sobbed.

But then you looked up at him, with a piercing gaze. “You are as childish and as pathetic the day I took your fucking eye out, Aemond.” This time you did not address him as your uncle and your words riled him up even more. You were at his mercy, you should not have played with fire like that and Aemond snapped.

“I'm pathetic?” He asked with darkness behind his tone. “You're the one pinned neath me. I could easily have you, take my revenge.”

“You're going to take my eye out, Uncle? Do it. Finish it, once and for all.” You seethed through gritted teeth, glaring at him. Aemond tightened his hold on your frail wrists causing you to wince and flinch. He restrained both hands with one of his and moved the other to grasp your chin, fingers dimpling in your cheeks. “No, I will take something more precious, something that is worth more than an eye to a maiden such as yourself.”

“You wouldn't.” You said, shaking your head after realizing what he was hinting at. You knew the significance of your maidenhood and Aemond was going to hurt you right where it hurt the most. “I am your niece, you would not.”

“Did your mother not marry her uncle, Gevives?” (Beauty)

You flinched at the way his voice dropped when he spoke high valyrian. The situation you were in didn't help either, with Aemond’s whole body weight on top of you but enough to not crush you. The room elevated with tension as you opened your mouth to protest but a knock on the door interrupted you both.

“Come in.”

The door parted, revealing Sylvie along with a cloth in her hand and a bucket of clean water.

“Leave it on the table.” Aemond commanded, not paying her any mind and the woman obliged before leaving the room.

Your uncle reached for the cloth, soaking it into the water. You struggled, squirming in his tenacious grip and all Aemond did was keep his eye on you while he soaked the fabric fully into the water. Once it was soaked enough, he pulled it out and leaned down, face only a few inches apart from yours. Your breath got stuck in your throat.

He swiped the cloth over the blood stains on your collarbones, gently and carefully. The action itself caused arousal to pool in your cunt, your thighs squeezing together and Aemond felt it. He let out a breath, sending it to tingle your skin and you gasped out at how close he was to you.

“The idea of someone else's blood on you vexes me.” Aemond confessed, moving the fabric down to the cups of your small shoulders. He swiped it across the skin, watching as your skin became free from the taints of filth.

You licked your lips, breath ragged. “You have gone insane, Uncle.”

“I have, maybe I truly have.” Aemond’s eye was focused on the sharp bone embedded in your skin, known as your collarbone. His desires were taking the best of him and he hated himself for it. You were his niece, the same little girl who took his fucking eye out and is now his enemy — the same girl who would betray him in a heartbeat for her mother.

Abandon him for her pretender of a mother.

Yet the man did not care enough to stop whatever he was doing.

“How will you take something more precious when it is painfully obvious who is the more experienced brother, according to the rumors of the Keep.” You hissed and Aemond inhaled, a serpent you'd become in such a short span. Aemond stopped cleaning your skin, since he was finished and tossed the fabric aside.

His fingers clamped around your chin. “Keep your mouth fucking shut. You are only tempting me, niece.”

It was obviously a warning but you could not back out, not when you had held hostility all your life towards him. “For all I know, I am not even of your nature. I have heard you like them older, my Prince.” A mischievous smirk ceased your features. It was all a facade to come off strong. “Like her. Is she the one you visit in brothels? You know her too well.”

“Shut your fucking mouth before I shove my cock in it. Would you like that, hm? You're probably a pathetic little slut exactly like your mother.” Aemond threatened, suppressing the urge to strike his hand over your cheek. His grip on your chin tightened, his fingers craning your face up as his breath mingled with yours.

“How sad that the one who is putting all his effort in winning the war was never bound to get the throne nor become the object of his mother's affections.” You taunted and that hit Aemond where you wanted it to hit. “How does it feel, Uncle? To not receive an ounce of love from both your father and mother.”

“At least I am not a bastard.” He spat, and you knew that was coming. It was their one valid argument after all. “I might be a bastard but both my mother and father cherish me, love me, for who I was, for what I am. You are a sad, pathetic case.”

Aemond’s hand moved to your hair, grabbing a fistful of it and pulling you over to the bed to toss you on it like some ragdoll. You gasped when your frail body collided against the bed, feeling it bounce a little. Your brows furrowed as you turned around to face him but Aemond was already standing before you, his knee dipping into the bed.

“Let’s see if that mouth of yours can still produce coherent words when I am fucking your sweet cunt.” Breath uneven and lips shuddering, you stared at him as he pushed aside the curtains of the bed and maneuvered inside, crawling on top of you.

You tried to run, a feeble and failed attempt at escaping from the dragon you had awakened. Aemond locked you in place by one hand around your leg, pinning you down against the bed. His harsh actions made you miss the man in who's arms you had cried and how gently he held you, like you were a lover and not the one he despised the most.

“Even though you never apologized, I forgive you.” He whispered, reaching for his eye and removing the patch to reveal the familiar sapphire again. A reminder of the events that took place between you two.

You felt horrible, guilt overpowering and over consuming. “You threatened me with a stone. I was only protecting myself and my brother.”

“You humiliated me, at every chance you and that bastard brother of yours got. Were the indignities caused by my brother not enough that you two had to join in?” His tone was almost sad and you realized how awfully you had been to him, all for the sake of momentarily fun. The picture from his side was painted cruelly and your lips shivered.

Was apologizing going to be enough?

Is it going to be enough when your uncle was on top of you, about to commit the most vilest of crime.

“I'm sorry.” Came a wholehearted whisper from you, a sad expression adorning your face. “It is not enough to bring your eye back or take back everything and you do not have—”

“I told you, I forgive you.” He said, his hand cupping your shoulder, fingers tugging underneath the sleeve hanging around your arm. “But you must be punished. You must face the consequences of your own actions.”

“Uncle, we were children.” You attempted to justify but that was like sprinkle of fuel to the fire.

Aemond pulled your sleeve, causing it to rip and your eyes widened in horror. His other hand ripped the other sleeve as he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your lips. You were not only terrified but weirdly aroused too. Your uncle's anger was obvious but the subtle change between his rough tugs and gentle kisses left you light headed as well as overwhelmed. You breathed in, and then released it, in hopes that he would calm down but Aemond was too far gone.

“Uncle, stop it.” He tried to push at his chest.

Aemond grabbed your wrists, locking them over his chest. “I will only stop once I put a silver haired bastard inside you.”

“Fucking me in a whorehouse, putting a bastard in me. You have truly planned this out, no?” You said, putting up a strong facade but deep down you were scared. You did not wish to give birth to a bastard, knowing you yourself were one. Born out of wedlock to your mother and her guard, sir Harwin strong.

You knew how badly were they treated and the thought of giving birth to one pained you.

“Would you be so cruel to put a babe in me and then abandon it?” You asked — staring up at him with glossy eyes. You writhed in his hold but to no avail as his one hand clamped over your wrist while the other moved to tug at your neckline, causing your breasts to spill out.

Aemond hissed. He'd realized you had grown now and you were not the same little girl who helped his brother make his life a living hell. Your nipples rosy and hardened and he sighed, fondling the plush fat. “The image of you walking around dragonstone with my silver haired bastard tugging at the skirt of your dress, demanding attention. A reminder of what his father did to you swells my cock.”

“Get off me. You're fucking mad if you think I would carry your children.” Your endeavors to fight him were a lost cause, trying to land punches at his chest but they were gone in vain. Aemond had control, he had power over you by being stronger, more muscular. “I will drink moon tea. You cannot force me to have your child."

“Then I must keep you here and breed you every single night until you are swollen with my babe.”

He got off you and flipped you on your stomach, hands covetously ripping apart the expensive chiffon dress, revealing your bare back. Your small shoulders trembling and chills dancing down the small of your back when the cold air brushed against your skin.

“Stop it.” It came out muffled as Aemond buried your face into the mattress.

Not only had he intended to fuck you, he was going to do it like you were some common whore. Either taking you on your back or on your stomach. You bit back a soft cry as his fingertips danced across your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Tears glossed your vision and you let out a tentative whimper when his hand groped a handful of your plush ass.

“It is time to pay the consequences of your actions, Bastard.” Aemond’s words were hoarse making you flinch.

He had locked you in place with his own body and soon enough he also stripped himself off his attire. You could not see, but you could hear the metallic jingling of his sword and dagger against one another, his belt and briefs shuffling together. Aemond’s hand flew back to grip your nape, forcing your face deeper into the pillow.

Your body was not fully bare as his, some aspects still covered by the tethered pieces of fabric.

Aemond reached over and hoisted you up into his arms, pushing your body on your palms and knees. Despite your struggle and continuous objection, he still managed to put you in the most degrading position ever. You were like a fucking animal — ass pushed out for him and the tears finally fell. His fingers dug into the side of your hips, holding you in place.

“I hate you, I fucking hate you.”

Your constant expressions of your loathsome did not bother Aemond in the slightest. Your mouth did not matter to him, it was your cunt that did. He didn't even mind to prepare you, all he did was align his hardened leaking tip at your soaked hole and pushed. Loud grunts and high pitched whimpers tore through you both as you felt him breach your maidenhead and defile you with determination. Bittersweet pain had blossomed in between your thighs, your cunt a bleeding mess but Aemond continued, pushing his cock furthermore until he was fully sheathed inside your walls.

“The cunt of a bastard is surely more pleasurable than a whore's. I shouldn't let you go to dragonstone, I should make you my personal little whore. For me to use and breed.”

Your cries of pain and broken sobs did not falter him as he relished them — enjoying the way your hiccups sounded. Frail and light, allowing him to have the pleasure of revenge he was denied off all his life. But not anymore, as he had you right where he wanted. This humiliation was much better than taking your eye out.

“A-Aemond,” you sobbed mindlessly, trying to wriggle out of his grasp which lead it to grow firmer. “hurts, please it hurts. Be gentle, please for the Gods.”

You knew that begging him to stop was futile but maybe if you begged enough for him to be gentle, he would be kind enough to not ravage you like some beast. Your broken little sobs worked in your favor as Aemond allowed you a few moments to adjust to the sheer size of his manhood, as he had forgiven you after all.

He did not loathe you.

He only wished for consequences, for revenge.

This was it.

Aemond lowered his face next to your ears, taut chest pressed over your sweaty spine as he whispered in your ear. “If I don't take you now, I would continue to harbor ill intentions for you. This is for the best.”

It was all a lie, a way to manipulate you.

You nodded, finally succumbing and Aemond felt a strong overwhelming sense of victory wash over him.

He slowly pulled out of you before drilling back inside you, repeatedly and over the course of him pummeling his cock inside you, you became a writhing, blubbering mess. It was too much for your little body as Aemond continuously fucked his cock into you. Built like him it was. Long, slender and you'd assumed it was as beautiful as him too.

Your hands were let go from their tight hold and you found them buried into the soft sheets, fingers intertwined with the pale pillows and sheets. Each thrust sent your body forwards and you whined, feeling his cock head bruise your cervix, aiming upwards for that perfect spot of yours.

“Oh!” Your eyes rolled back to your skull at one particular thrust, feeling him hit an area unexplored.

Aemond’s brows creased together, realizing he had finally found the sweet spot he was hunting for. His movement grew relentless, in fast, deep drills he abused that sensitive area as he watched you ascend deeper into the stairs to heaven. Your knuckles had gone white from the strong hold and your knees shivered from Aemond’s force.

“If you'd given yourself up to me like this, I would not have had to hunt you to satisfy my thirst for revenge.” Aemond panted, his words accompanied by loud striking sounds of skin meeting skin. “You should have visited my chambers when you took my fucking eye out. Should have stripped naked, spread your legs for me to take your sweet cunt.”

“Please, stop,” came a broken murmur from you, wishing to forget about that god forsaken night. “d–didn't want to do it, didn't want to hurt you. I was scared, was terrified of Vhagar.”

“But you did. You took out my eye, left me hideous.” Aemond had always felt monstrous, empty and incomplete. These feelings were all gifted by you and now he wanted you to feel the same.

Left incomplete, defiled and empty.

Aemond’s hand moved down to grab a fistful of your hair from the roots, pulling up until you two were one body. His chest over your spine, as he fucked himself into you, deep and vigorous strokes. Tears streamed in tiny rivulets down your face, as Aemond circled another arm around your breasts, holding you in place to fuck you like you were some doll made for his sickly pleasures.

You made the grave mistake of moving your head and found him already staring at you. Lips parted, letting out breathless little pants and the sapphire danced in his empty socket, a reminder of your actions. He saw you, close and noticed all the features littered across your face. The freckles over your nose, the dark strands clinging to your perspired forehead and the way your nose scrunched up whenever he thrusted inside you. Gods, you were a heavenly sight, one that only he was fortunate enough to witness.

Aemond fought back the urge to claim your lips in a kiss — that action too intimate, than using your cunt to satisfy his hunger.

But eventually caved in as he took your lips into an aggressive lock, a firm kiss it was. He bite and licked at your lips, shoving a wet tongue past the pair and slithering inside like a snake. You whined, hoping that he would slow down but Aemond devoured you like a starved mad man. Teeth clashing with teeth, tongue battling with tongue, he swallowed all the little sounds you produced. His gruesome kiss had left you lightheaded when he pulled back to look at you.

In a daze you appeared.

Aemond stared at your swollen lips while you gazed upon his lips, dumbfounded and taken aback by his sudden desire to kiss you like a beast.

“I-I don't find you hideous.” It was a whimper but it caused his thrusts to stall, coming to a halt. He stared at you, surprised by your words and his stomach burned in anticipation knowing well enough you would say something worse.

But what you said next left him astonished and with a newly ignited desire. “I think you're.. pretty, prettier than Aegon.”

You couldn't compare him to your brothers as the famous targaryen features were not shared amongst them but Aegon had the same features as Aemond yet you have always found him the most prettiest Targaryen man ever. He was slim, but not in a bad way — he had the right amount of muscles and perfect height. Aemond possessed the type of beauty which did not decrease by losing an eye.

“A lie.” He growled, shaking his head.

You looked at him with the most innocent doe eyes. “I mean it. Losing an eye did not make you hideous, Aemond. You are still as beautiful as ever.”

He didn't respond and his impassive face told you that he was not phased by your genuine words but Aemond felt fucking butterflies nip at his stomach. His cock hardened even more if that were possible and he dropped you on the bed, continuing his assault. His hips snapped deliberately inside you, with newfound vigor and strength. You gasped out, your gummy walls tightening around his length as he drilled his cock inside you.

The compliment, the validation he'd received from you and how genuine it was — it drove him mad. Even his own mother failed to comfort him but you, the fucking preparator out of all people managed to. It angered him but also soothed over the burn you'd left.

Aemond felt his peak near, dancing around him and soon he reached it — his hips stuttering and his hot seed spurting inside you in ropes. “Fuck, fuck. I should fill you up and leave you here. A fucking whore with a Targaryen bastard.” You felt him taint your insides, leaving a mark that would always linger like how you'd left a scar on his face. Feeling his seed fill you up, you also unravelled as Aemond fucked the hot fluid into your womb, making sure you end up with a babe of his own.

Your eyes saw white and your thighs twitched, knees giving out and body finally colliding into the sheets. Yet Aemond continued thrusting, the wet squelching sound of your peak mixed with his grossing you out. Your tears had dried so more were released, going the same route as the ones from before.

You couldn't even resist anymore, nor rebel.

Aemond pulled his softened cock out of you and watched as your destroyed, gaping hole threw up his spent. It was hot and he shuddered at the thought of you swollen with his child.

He should've hated the idea of your breasts leaking with milk for his babe, swollen and peaked but instead he found himself aching to witness it in real life, not some fucked up imagination. He couldn't take you, as badly as he wished to. You were not his to keep but he was letting you go with a piece of him inside your womb.

He laid with you, but you'd not expected him to lay an arm over your small waist. Your body spent and completely frail from his monstrosity but Aemond wished for more, he craved more yet he gave you time to rejuvenate and collect yourself.

“Did you mean it?”

You raised your gaze at him, bemused.

“A-About me, being pretty. Did you mean it or was that also to deceive me?” He asked, failing to make eye contact. He stared ahead at the ceiling and you nodded your head slowly, throat parched. “I did. I would not lie about that.”

His chest swell up with an unfathomable feeling, something beyond his own understanding as he pulled you closer to him, subconsciously. Aemond was in a dilemma, confused about what had to be done. He wanted to be more cruel, more horrible but it was not in him to show you more cruelty than you deserved.

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tellingtell5 · 9 days ago

Text

The Blood is the Life 《Remmick, sinners x reader 》

PetRemmick x witch femreader

Summary: So… some witches have black cats as pets. You? You’ve got a vampire who keeps showing up across eternity. Maybe he’s not just a clingy little pet after all?

A/N: This story was literally born on the bus and during dead hours at work lol. It’s not really a finished thing… I think? I just wanna keep writing little moments between the witch and the vampire who thinks he’s just her pet. Lmk if you’d wanna read more <3 Thanks for the love—every like and comment is a tiny blessing fr 🖤

I don't know just how it happened. I let down my guard. Swore I'd never fall in love again. But I fell hard

The air was heavy, tainted. As if the sky itself was bracing for something to fall from its heights. You’d felt it since the first light touched the canopy: a crawling tension beneath your skin, the breath of the forest caught in its throat. A warning.

Your instincts never failed you, not once in all the years you’d wandered the edges of ruin and rebirth. You didn’t cast a single spell that day. The cauldron remained cold, the runes untouched. Instead, you moved quietly through your home, gathering ingredients, moss for binding, root for clarity, ash leaves to ward what you couldn’t see.

You remembered the mother who had come to your threshold only a week before, trembling and tear-soaked, her hands clutching a locket with her child’s hair inside. The village healer’s leeches had done nothing. The sickness still clawed at the girl’s chest. The villagers whispered you spoke to the devil. Said your cabin breathed with the souls of the damned. And still, this woman crawled to your feet and begged you for mercy.

You’d taken nothing in return. Only handed her a balm to smear across her daughter’s brow, watched her vanish into the trees without promise or payment.

They always called it witchcraft when they couldn’t name it. Your tinctures. Your knowledge. Your hunger for what pulsed beneath the skin of things.

Men had come before. With torches, with blades, with the fury of the Church in their eyes. None remembered why they left without ever raising their weapons. They only remembered the nausea, the blood loss, the confusion. Some returned missing pieces of themselves.

Morning broke slowly, sunlight stretched thin and soft. You’d just fastened your cloak and were reaching for your satchel when you heard it: something collapsing against your door. Heavy. Human, maybe. Not quite.

Everything around you stilled. Even the wind seemed to withdraw. Birds vanished from the branches. Not a single leaf stirred. The forest leaned in, and waited.

Then came the knock. Weak. Hesitant.

You neared the door, fingers brushing the carved runes embedded in the frame. A pressure pushed through the wood—faint, fraying energy, like breath dragged through water. You heard it then, clearer this time: a voice.

"Please... help."

Every instinct screamed. But your curiosity had louder teeth. You cracked the door.

He was on his knees, body crumpled just beyond the threshold. Not quite man. His skin blistered in patches, flaking where the sun had licked him. Blood had dried across his arms in dark rivulets. Filth clung to every inch of him.

And yet—

The scent. It hit you like lightning to the chest. Rot, yes, but not decay. Death, but alive. Blood and lilacs and something darker. Dangerous.

You knew what he was.

He hadn’t looked at you yet. His face angled downward, as though listening to the forest behind him. Fingers buried in dirt, like it might anchor him.

When he did lift his head, you saw the cost. Hair stuck to skin, soaked in sweat and gore. His eyes, black wells. Bottomless. Empty of hunger, for now.

“Please...” he rasped, barely breathin’. “They were on me heels. They killed—fuck—please, a bit o’ mercy, yeah?”

You could taste his weakness. It made your magic hum. It would be so easy. Let him in. Drain him slow. You’d never tasted vampire blood. Not raw.

And he saw it. The shift in your gaze.

He straightened, almost imperceptibly. Took in your cottage now with fresh eyes, its markings, its warmth, its breath. You saw the moment he recognized it wasn’t just a home.

The house was alive. The forest too.

His lips parted. A bitter laugh, or maybe a prayer swallowed too late. His head fell forward again. He muttered something, nearly inaudible.

The hounds. You heard them then, far but closing fast.

He turned toward the sound, dread coating every inch of his broken body. He was deciding how to die. And who should do it.

His voice cracked like dry bark.

“If yer gonna end me,” he said, eyes dull and dark, “do it quicker than they would’ve.”

His voice was ragged, almost broken, as he looked up at you from the dirt. There was no strength left in his limbs, no fire in his glare. Only surrender. Only a plea.

You opened the door a little wider. Let him see you. He didn’t know how he’d missed it before, the way the power coiled in your limbs and shimmered just beneath your skin, the darkness that filled every breath you exhaled. His eyes caught yours, and something in his expression shifted. Curiosity, maybe. Or calculation.

Something twisted in your chest, a soft, unfamiliar ache that tugged at memory more than conscience. It had been decades since you’d felt anything like pity, since you’d allowed yourself to acknowledge that soft flicker inside you. You’d built this solitude to keep yourself safe, sealed your life off from the rot of the outside world. And still, it had crept in.

You remembered the panic of your own hunted nights, the sound of men’s boots crashing through the underbrush behind you, the smell of fire licking at the corners of your home. It had taken everything to survive. To grow roots here.

Your knuckles whitened against the doorframe. He looked so fragile now. Not quite man. Not quite beast. Something in between, curled on your threshold like a dying animal. You thought of the fox once caught in a trap near your garden, its leg mangled, its eyes bright with pain. You’d freed it. It had bitten you.

Would he do the same?

“You may enter,” you said at last, your voice low. And something deep in your chest hummed when you watched him crawl forward, dragging himself on his knees into your house. He didn’t even have the strength to stand. Not yet. The moment he crossed the threshold, the shadows closed around him like a second skin.

He collapsed just past your hearth, chest heaving, fingers clutching at his side. His eyes squeezed shut against whatever pain was devouring him from within. You stood above him and watched. Long enough to weigh your options. Long enough to consider if you should bind him, bleed him dry, and harvest the old magic that clung to the marrow of his bones.

But the forest shifted.

A murmur rolled through the roots and branches outside your home. You felt it in your bones. Intruders. Unwelcome. Boots slamming against wet earth, pushing into your sanctuary with reckless haste. The trees did not greet them. They punished them. Raking sharp branches across cheeks and arms, splitting open skin, drawing blood. Every drop that hit the forest floor was devoured. Given to you.

Your blood. Your earth.

You didn’t move at first. Just stood there, letting the forest whisper secrets into your skin. Letting it feed you.

He stirred on the ground behind you. Opened his eyes. You could feel him watching, not with fear, but with something else. Awe, perhaps. Reverence. Or just hunger. He drank in the sight of you as though he hadn’t seen light in years. As if your magic was the only warmth he’d known in centuries.

To him, you must have looked like a sunrise.

“Hide,” you said without turning. “I’ll deal with them.”

You heard him shift, dragging himself deeper into the house, into the breathless dark that waited beneath the floorboards. Into the place no one but you ever walked.

He only managed a nod, dragging himself deeper into the cabin on his knees, limbs trembling, the wooden floor groaning softly beneath him, like the place had begun to breathe again.

When you greeted the men who had followed him, something close to pity stirred inside you. You saw it instantly, the fury in their faces, laced with grief. You didn’t need to ask to know what had driven them. The creature you’d taken in had surely torn through many of them before they'd turned the tide. Their rage wasn’t baseless. You’d tasted it in the blood your forest had swallowed from their wounds, still pulsing in the soil beneath your bare feet.

You considered ending them. Letting the earth consume them whole, letting it feed for a few years on their bitterness and loss. It would have been easy. But then you brushed the edges of their thoughts, glimpsed the lives that waited for them beyond the trees, small children with wide eyes, wives whispering prayers at shuttered windows, brothers waiting with ale and silence. You’d never been cruel. You only took what was needed.

So instead, you whispered to them, soft words carried on your breath like smoke, slipped behind their ears like lullabies. They would forget the creature they had chased into the so-called cursed woods. Forget the hunt. Forget the fangs. They would remember deer, a rogue animal, a wound that bled more than they liked to admit. Close enough to the truth.

The magic cost you. Your head ached sharp and deep, exhaustion dragging at your limbs. Still, as you turned back toward your home, a sound caught you off guard, delicate, high-pitched. Glass.

You frowned, following the noise with slow, heavy steps, already suspecting something you didn’t want to confirm. When you reached your hearth room, the breath caught in your chest.

He was seated. Not collapsed or barely breathing like before—but reclined, sprawling, draped across your wooden chair as if he’d grown from it. Empty glass jars littered the table like careless footprints. His head lolled back, a nearly-finished jar tilted against his mouth, throat moving in a lazy rhythm. The sound—faint, obscene—was somewhere between a groan and a purr.

He drank like it was pleasure.

When the jar emptied, he blinked at you slowly, drunk on what he’d taken, eyelids heavy, mouth slack with satisfaction. His smile was languid and unapologetic—full of teeth. His chin and throat were smeared with blood, thick streaks of red glistening against skin that had already begun to heal. He looked alive again. Whole. Greedy.

You took a sharp step forward.

“Do you have any idea how long it takes me to gather that blood?” Your voice cut through the space like a blade. “And you just drink it, like it’s cheap ale in a tavern?”

He turned his gaze lazily away, as if the rebuke barely touched him. You noticed the difference instantly. The raw burns and open blisters were nearly gone. The sickly scent of decay had burned off his skin. That same energy that had come off him weak and broken before now surged, vibrant, electric, maddening. It pressed against your senses, thick and wild.

He reached for another jar.

Held it up to the firelight. Studied it like a connoisseur might a fine wine. When it met his approval, he uncorked it with a practiced flick and tossed the lid over his shoulder. It clattered against the floor, forgotten.

Then he dipped a single finger into the thick, dark red. Brought it to his mouth. His eyes never left yours.

The moment the blood touched his tongue, his lashes fluttered shut, breath hitching in the center of his chest. His entire body sagged into the chair, muscle by muscle, a visible ripple of ecstasy washing over him.

You didn’t breathe.

Not until he moaned.

A low, guttural sound that made something deep in your gut twist. Your whole body tensed, your fingers curling against your sides. And you knew—you knew—which jar he was holding before he spoke.

“This one's yers,” he murmurs, the rasp in his voice thick, vowels dragged like old secrets through dark earth. His eyes, now bled full crimson, never leave yours as he lifts the jar to his lips. You watch, helpless, as your blood meets his mouth. It’s like watching the ocean consume flame.

A sound rises from you, unbidden. Small. A gasp.

Because you felt it.You felt the way your own blood took hold inside him. How it surged through his veins, coiling like magic reborn. Your magic. His lips parted just slightly with the next breath he took, and it wasn’t a man who looked back at you now—it was something feral and worshipful all at once.

And you hated the way it made your chest flutter. You hated that your knees felt suddenly unsteady. You hated that it felt like power.

You cross your arms tight against your chest, pretending it’s anger, but really, you’re holding yourself together. Trying to silence the crawling heat beneath your skin, the pulse in your belly, sharp and slow and shameful.

He drinks like it’s the first thing he’s ever tasted. Slow. Reverent. Groaning now and then, low and guttural, like the act borders on prayer or pleasure. The kind of noise you shouldn’t be hearing from something half-dead. The kind that makes your thighs press together.

Part of you—the part that remembers restraint, reason—wants to rip the jar from his hands. Smack it against his head until he’s the one bleeding all over your stone floor.

But the other part. The old one. The one buried deep with roots and shadows and old tongues, she wants him fed.

He finishes, finally. Breath deep. Eyes heavy. He looks as if he might drift to sleep in the chair, but what’s in his gaze is something else. Recognition. As if some part of him has found home.

He rises. Slow, unhurried. Like a man approaching an altar. His feet drag, the floor creaks under his weight, until he stands before you.

You smell yourself on him.

And something inside you, something dark and feral, hums: He smells like mine.

He lifts his hands. Those clawed, bloodstained hands cradle your face with a gentleness that makes your breath catch.

“Seen it all, I have, Ban Draoid,” he murmurs, and his voice is wet peat and winter fire. “The loneliness ye wear like a second skin. Yer rites in moonlight tha' never answers. That hunger ye shove down, day after day, ‘cause yer afraid what’ll happen if it spills out.”

Your heart slams so hard it aches. His eyes dip to your chest, reverent.

No one’s ever spoken to you like that.

Ban Draoid.

The name lands like a blessing. No one has ever called you that, not like it meant something. You’ve hidden yourself for so long, convinced you didn’t belong to the witches, nor to anything else. But this creature, soaked in your blood, sees you. Knows you.

“So alone ye’ve been, mo chroi,” he says softly.

He presses his forehead to yours. You grip his wrists, claws and all, just to stay upright. His power hums through you, steady and warm and merciless.

Then, he lets go.

You nearly collapse with the loss. He turns, without a word, and walks to the door. You think he’s leaving. That he’s gotten what he needed. But the sun is high, and no matter how much witch’s blood burns in his veins, sunlight will still scorch him into ash.

He pauses at the doorframe, staring out. Then, slow and deliberate, he slashes his palm.

The scent of fresh blood curls through the cabin. He crouches low, still within the shade, and presses his bleeding hand into the dirt just beyond your threshold.

The sun kisses his skin. He shudders. Smokes. Flesh sizzles.

You see it happen, pain and rapture written into every tendon. His blood—his gift—seeps into your soil.

And you feel it.

Your roots wake. Hungry. Ancient. They drink. They know.

Your knees weaken. You feel yourself unraveling—split open by something older than lust.

The vampire’s hand trembles. The ground drinks more. The trees above hiss with delight.

And then, you feed. Not from his neck, but from the earth he’s blessed with his blood. Through your veins, his magic hums, like hot wind through hollow bone. The forest wants more. Demands more.

You almost let it.

But then your human mind claws back—stop.

You do.

He collapses backward, landing on the stone floor, bloodied arm cradled in his lap.

You stare at each other. No breath. Just pulse.

“Wha’…” you start.

He grins, mouth red as berries.

“Blood for blood, Ban Draoid,” he says, the words thick and reverent. “Ye gave me shelter. Fed me. This—” He nods toward the trembling trees. “—this is me repayin’ yer forest.”

You still feel it in your veins. The magic he gave back to your forest. The gift. His blood, seared into your roots, still pulsing beneath your feet like fire in the deep.

You hadn’t known anything could feel that overwhelming.

And then he stands. Rises slow from the floor like something ancient shaking off dust and death, and when his eyes find you again, there’s something else in them now. Awe. Hunger. Recognition. He watches you like he’s watching something sacred and forbidden all at once.

He steps closer—closer than you meant to allow—and lifts a hand to touch your cheek again. Fingers soft, reverent, like he’s trying to soothe the beast he’d just fed. There’s a murmur on his lips, low and lulling. A lullaby, maybe. You can’t tell if it’s in his tongue or yours.

And gods help you… you let him.

You, who haven’t let anyone lay hands on you in decades. Who’ve sworn that solitude is enough, that you don’t need soft words or warm skin or company that might see you.

But his touch doesn’t feel like possession. It feels like a memory. Like something you lost in a fire long ago.

Still, vulnerability leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, burns the sweetness out of the moment like rot in fruit.

You snap back. Break the contact like it scorches.

He blinks. His hand hovers in the air where your face was. Surprised. Maybe even… wounded.

“I hope you’ve had your fill,” you say, sharp. “You’ll leave when night falls.”

That stuns him. You see it.

Blood still binds you, yours in him, his in the soil—and it opens him to you for just a blink. In that heartbeat, you see it: the long years he’s wandered, alone and lost, dragging his hunger through cold earth and colder nights. You see how, for just a second, he thought he’d belonged somewhere. Here.

You turn your back before it can crack something deeper.

You crouch to gather the mess, glass jars sticky with drying blood, some shattered. Muttering curses under your breath. The air is thick with magic and spilled need.

“And if you touch anything of mine again,” you snap, without looking up, “I’ll skin you alive, leech.”

Your voice rings with something old. The house hears it. It shudders slightly in response, shadows curling tighter in the corners.

“I don’t keep pets for a reason.”

But of course—of course—you hear his footsteps draw close again.

Too close.

“Oh, but I’d be a good one, Ban draoid,” No bitin’ ‘less y’asked me to.”

His voice is a purr now. The kind that makes your bones itch and your skin hum.

He reaches out, slow, as if daring you to slap him, and brushes his fingers across your hand. They’re human again, warm and smooth.

“If y’feed me like that again,” he murmurs, voice rough silk, “I’ll be whatever y’want me to be. Pet. Acolyte. Demon. Ghost. I’ll bloody bark for ye, if that’s what gets me another taste.”

A shiver rides your spine, uninvited. You hate how easily his words slide into your bloodstream.

But you don’t show it.

You lift your chin, arms crossed, face a mask of disgust. “Disgusting.”

He grins like he’s won. Like he always does.

“And yet,” he says, leaning in, his breath brushing your neck, “here y’are. Still lookin’ at me like y’wanna bite.”

You scoff. Loud. Dismissive.

But your hands won’t stop trembling. And your mouth, goddess help you, is starting to water.

❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉

200 Years Later

You had forgotten what it felt like not to be cold. The ache in your bones had become so familiar it was almost part of you. Your feet throbbed, and you were so exhausted that lifting your legs felt like dragging iron weights. That’s why you didn’t think twice before stepping into the building that promised warmth.

The heat wrapped around you like a forgotten memory the moment you crossed the threshold. The scent of beer and some slow-cooked meal you couldn’t quite name filled the air, rich and inviting. And then came the heartbeat of the place — strong, too fast, stirred by laughter and the murmur of voices.

Your ears filled with the rushing blood of villagers who had offered you shelter. You had to breathe deeply, centre yourself, keep that thing inside you in check — the one that had been unleashed without your permission long ago, and had grown wilder since you’d been driven from your woods.

A sharp pain bloomed in your chest at the memory, flames licking your skin, the silent scream of your trees. You still hadn’t grown used to the grief. The rage boiled beneath your skin like a second bloodstream. You’d learned to live with it, but healing was still a distant, impossible thing.

You let yourself collapse into a chair, half-hidden by the cloak you wore — the same worn thing that shielded your face more often than not. You didn’t order anything. Not right away. You let the warmth gather around your limbs, let the sound of conversation ease the sting of solitude. You only looked up from the wooden bar when you sensed someone waiting for your attention.

When your eyes met those of the round-faced man drying a mug with a tattered rag, something in you stirred. A feeling you thought you’d buried. His expression shifted slightly, a flicker of recognition in his features. You were about to say you just needed to rest your feet, that maybe you’d order something later, when he opened his mouth and said it.

“Ban draoid.”

The breath caught in your throat. A shiver traced your spine. It wasn’t fear — it was hunger. Longing. That name awakened something in you that had been sleeping for far too long.

Decades. It had been decades since anyone had called you that. Only one person — one creature, ever had. And it was impossible for this man to know unless—

“He’s goin’ to be real glad to see ye, little witch.”

You didn’t need to ask who he meant. Your whole being screamed the answer. You could almost taste his blood again, call it up from memory. A soft sigh escaped your lips, like someone who had been lost for far too long and had finally found the way home.

“I’ll take ye to him.”

And despite the pain in your muscles, the weariness, the cold clinging to your skin like soaked cloth , you followed the man who had said only a handful of words.

You walked in silence through the village. You didn’t want to waste a single breath before you saw him. Before you knew this wasn’t some cruel trick.

He led you to the doors of a brothel. You huffed a laugh through your nose, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Of course.

The air inside changed the moment you stepped in — thick, heavy, warmer than the tavern had been. Eyes turned toward you. Breath held. You didn’t recognise a single one of them, yet they all looked at you like they’d known you once — like they remembered.

As you passed, some lifted their hands slightly, as if they might touch you, confirm you were real. By the time you reached the centre of the room, you felt… shy. Exposed. A young man stepped forward and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and you startled at the tenderness.

“Don’t be afraid, Ban draoid. We won't harm ye.”

A young woman touched your shoulder with the same careful reverence — a comfort you didn’t realise you needed. You didn’t know who they were, but all of them seemed to hum with the same energy — yours.

You’d heard whispers of hive minds, the kind some vampires could create. You hadn’t believed it. Not really. Not until now, surrounded by strangers who remembered things only he should have known.

“He’s missed you so much.”

The voice came from a velvet divan, soft, delicate, wrapped in nostalgia. And beneath the feminine tone, you heard him. As if the words had passed through her but came from him.

You were surrounded — by glances, hesitant touches, held breath. Somehow, in this strange twisted way, you felt worshipped. The beast inside you stretched, purring under the attention. Then the circle of people parted. A corridor opened in their midst , and there he was.

Unchanged.

Exactly as he had been when you’d let him into your home, let him feed on your forest, let him find shelter in the bones of your magic. Your heart stumbled at the memory of your grove, of what you had lost, and you nearly wept. The way emotions bloomed inside you in his presence… it was terrifying.

He looked delighted, a smile that lit his whole face. When he reached you, he took your cheeks in both hands and brought your forehead to his. You let yourself fall into the scent of him: death, blood, and uprooted lilacs.

“But just look at ye, Ban draoid.” His nose brushed against yours, gently, almost affectionately. You clung to his hands on your face, gripping him like an anchor. “Wearin’ eternity better than anyone I’ve ever known. Ye look older, love. It suits ye.”

You nearly sobbed, you’d been strong for too long. You hadn’t noticed the way time had settled on you until now. It hadn’t been much — just a few years — but you felt them. Your magic had suffered when your home burned, and it had marked you.

“What are ye doin’ so far from home, love?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. In his gaze: worry, yes. But also that steel you remembered. That fire.

“They burned it all.”

The words barely left your lips before the memory scorched its way through your mind again, flames devouring bark and bone, ash dancing like snow. You’d tried. Gods, you had tried. But all your power had done was delay the inevitable. The only thing you’d saved was the seed pressed tight to your chest now, the last breath of your forest, the final whisper of a home.

He was watching you. Not blinking. Not breathing. Your eyes darting, unsettled, not knowing where to land. You knew that if you met his gaze, really met it, the quiet strength you'd clung to for decades would shatter at your feet like glass.

A breath trembled past your lips. Quiet, but not quiet enough. It hit him like a strike to the ribs. You saw it, the way his shoulders pulled in, the way he flinched with your sorrow as if it lived inside his own body.

His hands still cupped your face. Rough palms, cold fingers. He lowered your head gently, just a few inches, and then, his lips brushed your forehead. Barely there. Barely real. But you felt it. The hush of his breath, the stillness of his mouth, the aching reverence in the way he lingered too long and inhaled the scent of your skin like it was holy.

You closed your eyes, locking every part of yourself down so you wouldn’t come undone in his arms.

And when he looked at you again, you let yourself look back.

Your lips trembled—traitorous, aching—and you pressed them together, hard, as if the pressure could keep you whole. His thumb was there in an instant, soothing, still. As if he could stop the quake beneath your skin with a single touch.

“Our poor witch,” came a second voice. Silken. Male. To your right.

You flinched. Eyes snapping sideways.

Remmick leaned toward your neck, the movement barely perceptible. You felt his breath just before his lips, soft and wet against the skin where your pulse betrayed you. Your head tilted without permission, baring your throat to him in a gesture that felt ancient.

“What did they do to ye…” the new voice hummed, a slow trace of a fingertip gliding down your arm.

“We’ll mend it,” came another, almost a whisper.

Heat stirred inside you, curling like smoke. The frost that had built a cathedral in your chest melted in an instant. What lived inside you—coiled and feral—woke at their words like it had been summoned. Magic pulsed, hot and slow, down through your chest, pooling low in your belly.

Remmick’s mouth climbed higher, over your cheekbone now, his breath catching ragged in his throat. You turned just slightly, just enough, and felt the cool kiss of his exhale against your lips. You leaned forward, barely an inch. A tease. He lunged.

You pulled back.

He missed, brushing your cheek, and let out a frustrated sound that was too close to a whine.

You smiled. Sharp and pleased.

At some point, his hands had locked around your hips. Possessive. Hungry. You barely noticed. You reached up, tangled your fingers in his thick, dark hair, and yanked his head back. Hard.

He didn’t fight.

His throat stretched before you, bare and waiting. You watched the bob of his swallow, the faint tremor in his breath, the thrum of something alive beneath his deathless skin. You lowered your mouth to him and scraped your teeth across the exposed flesh. He groaned, deep and guttural, a sound that vibrated through your spine.

You had held back for so long. Held yourself in, stitched yourself shut. But his blood—his scent—was too much. The restraint snapped.

“How are you gonna fix this, Sweetfangs?” you asked, teeth grazing his throat.

You knew you were no match for him. Not now. Not like this. But he didn’t push you off. Didn’t resist. His hand found the back of your neck and pulled you closer, pressing you into him like a lover offering his heart.

“We’ll make ye strong again,” he breathed. “Blood for blood, remember that, Ban draoid…”

The words echoed, from him… and others.

Murmurs threaded through your skull like silk-wrapped chains. You could feel them. Their presence, their will. Your mind began to fog.

No.

You narrowed your eyes and looked around. Faces, yes. All of them echoing Remmick’s desire. Mirrors of his ache.

You dragged a single fingertip across his throat. He hissed at the contact. And they all hissed with him, every one of them, exposed and waiting.

You swallowed.

"Do you control them?"

His grip in your hair softened, not letting go.

“Nah, lass,” he said low. “No one controls anyone here. They feel what I give ‘em. They remember what I remember. If they offer themselves to ye, it’s ‘cause they know what I felt… kneelin’ at yer feet that mornin’.”

“Yes, Ban draoid,” another voice whispered. “We want you strong.”

Almost. You almost let it take you.

But no. You’d felt his memories before. That never meant surrender.

And then his mouth—his goddamn mouth—was back on your face, tracing over your cheek with reverence.

"Don’t think so much, ban droid. Let yourself be cared for. I’ll handle the rest. We all will."

He pressed closer, breath ghosting over your skin as he whispered promises meant for your hatred, but they curled into your bones like comfort. You felt your thoughts blur again, thick and heavy as fog. His hand found the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he guided your mouth to his throat. You wet your lips without meaning to, instinct moving before thought, just a slow, teasing flick of your tongue against his skin.

Another sound tore from him, low and broken, and that was it.

Your heart stuttered, then surged. Control disintegrated. The second your lips found him, everything inside you caved. You tasted his skin, warm and strange, and when you finally sank your teeth into him, you expected relief—but the taste didn’t come. Not right away. That moment of absence left you nearly frantic. You considered drawing harder, faster—but the thought vanished the instant the first drop touched your tongue.

It was like drinking him.

Not his blood. Him. His essence. His being.

Thick and alive and ancient. His magic slammed into you like a tidal wave, unfurling in your chest, blooming in your veins. It took root, it spread, through your belly, your lungs, your throat. You could feel the trees again. The hum of the forest. The fluttering of leaves above you, the rustle of small lives moving in branches. You didn’t know if the tears spilling from your eyes were from shock or fever. Maybe both.

Your head spun, and you let go, let him hold you, press you against him. You thought you heard a lull, a soft murmur. You weren’t even sure when he'd lifted you, when your legs wrapped around his hips. Nothing was clear anymore. You couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. Every emotion inside you tangled with his—raw, starving—moaning into his neck as you drank something you hadn’t even known you craved.

You were just beginning to claw your way back to sense, remembering you could kill him if you didn’t stop, when you felt his mouth against your shoulder—his teeth this time. Real. Sharp. No longer hidden. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask. But you nodded anyway. You didn’t stop drinking.

Around you, you could hear sounds—moans, shudders—but the one that rippled through every nerve in your body came from him. It wasn’t pain. It was relief. Something like release. And it crawled into your brain, wrapped around your spine, and ignited everything. You couldn’t help it—you moved your hips, seeking contact, friction, anything that let you feel more of him.

When you were nearly full, when the heat of his blood and your magic crackled beneath your skin like lightning, you pulled back. Your tongue ran over the wound to keep a single drop from going to waste. Your hands slid over his shoulders, feeling the strength coiled beneath the layers of fabric, and you bit your lip as you felt him drinking.

And then, you felt it.

His heart. Beating.

Just faintly. A rhythm where there had been stillness. Life where there had been nothing. It hit you like joy, like always, and you grabbed his face, pulled him back so you could see him.

Colour floods his cheeks like a sunrise breaking through centuries of night. Not just a flush—life. His lips are parted, red and trembling, drawing in breath that fogs the air between you, hot and human.

You’ve never seen anything so terrible. So beautiful.

“I almost forgot what this felt like,” he murmured, voice slurred and dreamy, as if the tide had pulled him under and he was only now surfacing.

His lashes flutter. His eyes—those cold, endless eyes—now seem to flicker with something familiar. A glint. A hint of what once was. Who once was. It steals your voice. It steals your thoughts. All you can do is stare, mouth parted, the taste of him still on your tongue as if even your body doesn’t want to let him go.

And then he breathes.

A full breath.

One that shakes his chest and yours along with it, and it undoes you.

You leaned in, and he followed, thinking—hoping—you’d kiss him.

But you tilted your head and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of his nose instead. His eyes fluttered shut at the touch, and for a second, you swore he purred.

“So, what do you say then, ban droid?” he whispered. “Will you let us care for you?”

Everything in you wanted to say yes. To surrender. To rest.

But you didn’t. Not yet.

“I’ll let you feed me, sweetfangs,” you rasped, voice low and fraying at the edges. “Just for now.”

You ran a finger along his still-glinting canines, wet with your blood, the touch somehow tender in its quiet savagery. And then,you let him kiss you.

Your breath hitched the moment your lips met, as if this was what you’d really been waiting for all along. As if the blood hadn’t been enough. As if you needed this, his mouth on yours, his hunger turned to fire, to need. You let him devour you, let him claim your mouth like he belonged there.

And for now… you let him believe that he did.

❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉

200 Years Later

You thought you might disintegrate the moment the fabric touched your skin.

It was almost laughable, how in all your long life, you’d never touched a cross before. You had no idea what would happen if your fingers curled around one of those amulets the acolytes liked to wear. Would your hands burst into flame? Would your magic recoil in disgust? Likely not. You were older than their god, after all.

Still, you hesitated.

You smoothed the coarse cloth of the novice’s habit over your body once more, fidgeting with the veil that pressed too tightly around your ears, muffling sound, pressing your face into modest obedience. Everything about it itched, physically and spiritually. You weren’t built for meekness, not anymore.

But you’d come too far to turn back now.

Six months ago, you had crossed paths with Lorenzo Priuli, the gilded Cardinal of Venice, a man whose robes dripped with vanity and the stink of ambition. You wanted to know what happened when you pulled the divine out of the devout. When you bled them dry, not just of life, but of the tether that bound them to their god. Acolytes, monks, whispered priests who hid behind gilded walls and velvet confessions. You sliced open their veins, drank their faith, and sifted through their memories for power.

The result had been disappointing.

The acolyte whose blood you'd taken had been just as dull as the city he came from, humid, grey, and stinking of rot. Their blood lacked depth, like wine left out in the sun. You could barely squeeze two spells from his veins before it turned sour in your mouth. He was riddled with what men like him called sin. Spoiled by guilt, riddled with shame. You called it waste.

But there had been something.

Buried in his memories, half-faded, soaked in candlelight and incense, were whispers. Quiet conversations about a beast caged in the bowels of a fortress they called the Vatican. You’d heard the name before, whispered behind burning pyres and sharpened swords. The seat of the little man who commanded wars in the name of the divine. They called him the hand of God.

But if what they held below ground was real, then they didn’t worship God. They feared the devil.

They hunted your kind mercilessly for centuries. Burned, bled, butchered, never understood. But this was new. A captured creature, not for execution but for "study." You could only imagine what that meant in the language of faith.

It could’ve been any monster. But the description chilled you to the bone.

A demon with an Irish tongue and black eyes. A throat-ripper. A blood-drinker.

You told yourself it couldn’t be him. There were others like him. Others who tore and drank and laughed in the dark. But something in you, the old thing he once touched and woke, quivered at the thought of him rotting in some damp holy tomb.

So your hunt began.

Acolyte after acolyte. You drained them, rifled through their memories like parchment, whispered spells until one of them unwittingly opened a door. You left no trace, only hollowed bodies and muddled prayers.

Eventually, the trail led to a Mother Superior.

She looked at you the first time like she already knew what you were. Her eyes narrowed. Her nostrils flared. She sniffed out the blasphemy in your blood, the wrongness in your bones. She was stronger than the others—mentally, spiritually. She couldn't be bent easily.

So you didn’t bend her. You stayed close. You donned the veil. Played the penitent. A novice on the cusp of taking her vows, eyes lowered, lips always murmuring.

Night after night, you slipped into her mind. Not to break it, but to plant seeds, tender suggestions, dreams of purity and divine purpose, visions that always led to the same thing: that she must bring you below, down into the depths where the Church kept its greatest shame.

To him.

The creature who couldn’t walk in the daylight. The one whose blood once tasted like thunder and lilacs.

So when the Mother Superior whispered that they were here for more than just praising God, you forced your face into a mask of innocence and fear. You widened your eyes, lowered your gaze, and played the part of a naive girl devoting her body and soul to the divine.

She spoke of shadows. Of evil made flesh. She called it a war, not just a devotion. That by taking the vows, you were not only offering yourself to the Almighty but becoming His soldier. His blade against the dark things hiding beneath the world.

You nodded through it all. Pretended to tremble when she pressed the rosaries into your hands, tucked wooden stakes into your belt, strapped vials of holy water to your thighs. You whispered the sacred rites with dry lips, tasted ash in every vow. Not once did you feel the sting of power. The words were hollow. Magicless. Just sounds echoed into cold stone.

And when they gave you the blood of the so-called savior, when they placed his flesh on your tongue, nothing burned. Your skin did not blister. Your breath did not catch fire.

It should have scared you. That you could walk so deep into their temple, wear their habits, speak their sacred tongue, and remain untouched.

But it didn’t.

What scared you was the thing that had driven you here.

A beast.

Your beast.

It had started as nothing. A curiosity. A creature caged beneath your woods centuries ago, snarling and half-starved, the earth bleeding black beneath his feet. He should’ve been a pet, a passing fancy—a stain on your long, winding life. But now you were burning churches and gutting acolytes just to follow whispers of his name through corridors of marble and gold.

You kept telling yourself it wasn’t love. That you were only retrieving what was yours. You didn’t like when people touched what belonged to you, especially if they broke it.

The truth of it nested deep in your bones, rotting quietly. You’d dressed it up in possession, in revenge, but it reeked of something far more dangerous. Far more human.

When the day finally came, the nun laced your fingers with more beads and crosses. As if they would save you. As if they could save anyone. You remembered Remmick once idly twisting a rosary around his fingers, murmuring that the smooth beads calmed his nerves. It hadn’t saved the girl who wore it, not from him. The memory clung to you like perfume.

Now you stood at the gates of their Vatican. You, draped in holy robes, with a stake strapped to your thigh and murder in your heart. The Mother Superior repeated again and again what a privilege this was—to be allowed into the lower catacombs. To walk the path only chosen men were allowed to tread.

You didn’t say a word.

Every thought had vanished the moment the scent of his blood thickened the air. You had feared it, feared that you’d recognize it the instant it touched your lungs, and you had been right. Every suspicion, every whisper of dread clawing at your ribs had proven true. The monster they kept chained beneath the earth wasn’t just any beast, it was yours.

Magic crackled under your skin like a storm waiting to burst. You clenched your jaw, fighting the urge to bring this wretched place to the ground in a wave of fire and ash.

You reached the iron door of his cell. The nun—her voice sharp, shaking—warned you not to listen to him. “He’ll twist your mind with his viper tongue,” she muttered, clutching her rosary like a lifeline.

You nearly laughed.

She had no idea the things that tongue could do to you. Confusion was hardly the worst of it. You bit your lower lip, holding back the urge to say it aloud. Let her keep her ignorance. Let her die with it.

but you’d had enough of her. Months of pious instruction and venomous sermons against your kind. Months of hiding beneath linen and lies, swallowing down every urge to end her. So when she turned her back, you didn’t hesitate. You snapped her neck in silence. Her body hit the cold floor with a dull thud, and something deep in your belly purred with satisfaction.

Your fingers trembled as they touched the iron latch. Anticipation. Fear. Containment. You weren’t sure which feeling owned you anymore. When the door creaked open, your knees nearly gave out.

There he was.

They had him suspended by the wrists, iron cuffs scorched into his skin, the stink of burned flesh rising constantly from the wounds. His feet didn’t touch the floor, he was hanging, his entire weight yanked down by the chains. His body was ravaged with cuts and bruises, his skin a tapestry of cruelty. They’d stripped him of everything but the tattered cloth around his waist. His head hung low, hair soaked in sweat, plastered to his face. He hadn’t seen you. He didn’t have the strength to look up.

You didn’t know what to do. You’d seen him powerful, smirking, fanged, ruthless. Seeing him like this made something in you curl and break.

And then you saw it.

Around his neck, barely gleaming in the faint candlelight, still hung a golden chain. Your breath caught in your throat. That ridiculous little trinket, the one you had given him so long ago. They’d taken everything else from him. But not that. Why?

Your hand reached for the chains. The moment they clinked, he stirred. He lifted his head slowly, like it hurt to move. His eyes narrowed, straining to see through blood and haze. You didn’t stop working the shackles, your fingers desperate now, and that’s when you heard it, a rasp, more breath than voice, right at your ear.

“Ban draoid…”

Your heart clenched at the sound of it.

“Yes, sweetfangs. It’s me. I’ve come to take you home.”

He gave a hoarse, broken sound. Maybe it was a laugh, maybe a sob. It dissolved into a cough that wracked his body.

“F-fuckin’ hell… I’m sorry, mo chroí…” he mumbled, barely audible. One of his hands came free, and his entire body collapsed against you, limp as a corpse. You dropped to your knees to catch him, arms wrapping around his waist, his chin finding your shoulder, breath warm and incoherent against your skin.

“You shouldn’t… y’shouldn’t see me like this…” he whispered, words slurring. “I think they… they took it… took everythin��... I can’t…”

He buried his face in the curve of your neck, clinging to you with the last of his strength. One wrist still chained, body swaying like a broken puppet.

“Remmick?”

He stirred. Pulled back just enough to look at you, eyelids heavy but eyes searching. When your gaze met his, it was like something ancient ignited between you.

“You… called me by m’name.”

He looked stunned. As if he'd forgotten he had one.

“How else would I call you?”

“Leech. Pet. Sweetfangs. Never… Remmick.”

He wasn’t wrong. Even in your thoughts, you’d always called him the creature, the vampire, your beast. Never by name.

“Mmm. I like it,” he said, nuzzling back into your neck. He sounded drunk on you, disoriented, like a man clinging to the only thing that still made sense.

“Yeah? Then if you want me to say it again, you’ve gotta help me, sweetheart. I need you to stand.”

A low growl rumbled in his throat, a complaint, not a threat. He snuggled deeper, like a child refusing to rise from bed.

You tapped his side gently, coaxing. “Come on, love. I need you.”

He groaned but moved, feet hitting the stone floor, wobbling, but standing, barely.

While he leaned on you, you worked at the other cuff. His gaze was heavy on you, hungry. His face pressed against yours again, nose nuzzling into any exposed skin he could find. He mumbled nonsense, words from a fever dream.

The moment the last shackle fell, you both collapsed.

He didn’t let go.

Instead, he clung to you with both hands now free, roaming your body like he didn’t believe you were real. Like he had to memorize you with touch before the vision faded.

You try to lift him.

You brace your legs, plant your feet, dig your fingers into his arms and try with everything you have to pull him up. But his weight won’t shift. His body is too heavy with pain and time and everything they’ve taken from him. It’s like trying to carry a cathedral’s worth of ruin in your arms. His knees buckle the moment you try to straighten, and he drags you down with him.

You both end up on the cold floor again, stone biting into your knees, your shoulder, your ribs. His arms curl around you like instinct, and you can feel the tremble in him, buried deep in his bones.

“Why won’t you move?” you whisper, not angry. Just aching. Just desperate.

He lets out a sound like a breath caught on broken glass. Then laughs. Dry, too hollow to be real. “Because yer not real.”

Your breath catches.

He lifts his head, just enough to look at you again. “You’re in m’head, same as always. Dreamin’ y’ve come to fix me… that y’ve come to fuckin’ see me.”

“Remmick.”

“You never said my name like that, ban draoid. Not when it mattered.” His voice cracks, but he smiles like it’s all some grand joke he’s playing on himself. “I was always your pet,” he murmurs. “Wasn’t I? Your good little monster. Guarded the necklace, bit anyone who tried to take it off. They kept trying, y’know. Could smell your magic on it, and they didn’t like it one fuckin’ bit.”

Your stomach turns.

You look down, at the bruises on his wrists, at the necklace still hanging from his throat. That ridiculous little charm you gave him centuries ago, when you never thought you'd see him again. And he still has it. Worn and bent and bloodied.

“You bit them?” you whisper. “You fought for it?”

“Didn’t want ‘em to touch it.” His eyes flutter closed. “Didn’t want ‘em takin’ you off me. S’stupid, I know. You never belonged to me.”

“No.” Your voice cracks. “No, Remmick. I didn’t.

He flinches. “That’s what I said.”

Your hand goes to his face. Gentle. Real.

“I’m not a dream,” you say, your voice cracking on the edges. “Look at me, Remmick. Look at me.”

His gaze flickers, fogged and wavering, but it holds.

“I didn’t come for my pet. I didn’t come to leash my monster.” You press your forehead to his. “I came for you. For the only fucking thing that’s ever felt like home in this endless life of mine.”

He doesn’t say anything.

So you go on. “You think I’d wear these rags, swear vows to a god I don’t believe in, kneel for weeks beside their altars—bleed for it—if you were just some plaything to me?”

Still, nothing. His eyes glisten. His throat tightens. But he won’t speak.

“I’m not here because you’re mine,” you whisper. “I’m here because I’m yours.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. His lips part. Still no sound.

You lift your hand, shaking ,and without hesitation, drag your fingernail across your palm. A clean, straight line. Blood wells up fast and dark, thick as molten iron. It smells of night and wild earth. Of every root you ever grew and every fire you ever lit. Of you.

His head jerks toward it. Not by choice. By need.

“I want you to drink,” you say, bringing your hand to his mouth. “No games. No servitude. This is a gift. I want you stronger. Because I need you alive. Because I can't—I won’t—lose you.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours.

Then, carefully, reverently, his mouth parts.

You place your bleeding hand, then, softly, reverently, his lips close over the wound.

The first pull is shallow, like he’s testing the edge of a dream. But when your blood hits his tongue, something shifts. His hands twitch. His breath hitches. His body jerks like it’s waking up after years of drowning. His eyes flutter shut, and a low sound escapes his throat, something between a growl and a sigh.

He drinks.

And drinks.

You hold your hand to him, even as your knees wobble, even as your head spins. His mouth is hot now, his breath warming. You feel his grip strengthening where it clings to your arm. His fingers dig into your waist like he's anchoring himself back to life.

You feel him coming back to you.

“Slow down,” you whisper, dizzy. “Take only what you need.”

But he growls softly, shakes his head. “I need you, mo ghrá. I need all of you.”

Your other hand cups his face.

“You’ve always had all of me,” you whisper. “Even when I wouldn’t admit it. Even when I tried to leave you behind.”

His lips slow, soften. His jaw slackens, but not in weakness, this is reverence now. When he finally pulls away, your blood stains his mouth like wine and war. His eyes open again, and they're no longer dulled by pain.

He rests his forehead against yours, both of you trembling from what just passed between you.

“We’ll find somewhere,” he murmurs. “A place with trees. Quiet. Hidden.”

Your breath catches.

“Somewhere y’don’t have to pretend to be anyone else.”

Your heart cracks wide open. For him. For everything that could still be.

You nod, barely able to speak.

He smiles, weak but real. “I’ll help y’put your roots down again, love. This time, I’ll guard the fuckin’ soil myself.”

#jack o'connell #remmick #sinners #angst #fem!reader #remmick x reader #vampire #fanfiction #sinners fic #sinners remmick #witch #remmick is a terrible pet #witchcraft and bad decisions #you says jump he bleeds #ban draoid

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mullermilkshake · 17 days ago

Text

Removal of the Chair

Part 32 <- Part 33 -> Part 34

Jinwoo falls off the wagon.

Yandere!Jinwoo Sung x Fem!reader Tags - Dilf!Jinwoo, Graphic depictions of Blood/Gore/Violence/Death/Murder, Angst, Loss, Threats, Manipulation

Divider by @/diviniyae

<<< For more Dark/Yandere content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

<<< Or back to this fic's Master list. >>>

I have only watched the anime and haven't gotten round to reading the manhwa yet. Please refrain from spoilers. And please refer to the master tag list for the full list of tags + major tags, I'm updating it where I can.

TAG LIST RE-OPEN (The tag list is back up and open for a little while, if you'd like to be tagged, please let me know! 🤗)

One question that played over and over in Jinwoo's mind was why the Chairman hadn’t made an appearance yet when his life was falling apart. He stayed holed up in the association headquarters, obviously behind the twins disappearance.

Two birds, one stone. The twin’s mana resided somewhere inside.

Whoever took them, and Jinwoo had an idea who, they had to be close by. Unlike Jong-in’s baby, the twins' incubators couldn’t be so easily moved and couldn’t go about unnoticed. That doctor had to have something to do with it. Jinwoo’s hackles stuck up like miniature daggers in his back, pointing right towards that woman. Right from the start there was something about her.

He should have just ended her life months ago.

“W-wait! Mr Sung, the Chairman's currently talking in private with Manager Woo- Mr Sung!”

Jinwoo stormed the association headquarters ready for blood, for vengeance and wouldn’t rush things until he was satisfied. The Chairman had his babies, Jinwoo’s paternal instincts overruled everything, he couldn’t think until he found them.

He wanted blood as a down payment to something that never could be paid in full. Nonetheless, he craved blood. Enough blood to bathe in. Enough to splatter up against the headquarters front door on view for the city to see that the association were heartless murderers, and Jinwoo’s Fiancé was dead.

You were dead.

He never wanted to acknowledge it, to ignore it for just a little while longer, but the truth was bare in front of him.

“Go back to your desk.” Jinwoo halted his footsteps, just once. “Better yet, get out of the building before you get hurt. I’m a pissed off dad and you’re just collateral that won’t rest on my conscience.”

Jinwoo’s glowing eyed glare caused her to back down and walk away from Chairman Go’s office. He ripped the brass name plate from the door with his own bare hands, lunching it across the room with enough force that it embedded itself into the brick foundation. He kicked the door in and prepared to abandon every single moment he’d held back on blood and violence for you. Every instinct he suppressed to keep you happy returned in full force to plead for the blood it wanted, a cruel beast he couldn’t keep in check any longer.

You kept a tight leash on him and now there was no reason to hold back.

“Jinwoo-“ The Chairman stood and adjusted his suit. “I’m so sorry, I must offer my condolences.”

“Yeah, condolences.” Jinwoo said back. “That’s all you have to offer me, after what you did?”

Jin-chul eyed him closely, standing off to the side to await his orders. The Chairman stepped aside from his desk, almost frowning and feigning confusion just to piss Jinwoo off.

“I apologise I haven’t been by, I only heard the news not half hour ago, I was heading to see you shortly.”

Did he think Jinwoo was an idiot after all the pushing he did to move you to the facility and take his babies away to test them?

“Like you weren’t there already.”

Jinwoo watched Jin-chul with the same glare and fire in eyes, squeezing his fists so much they shook. He planned on tearing the whole building apart as soon as his children were returned to him. Then to tear the two men apart in the room with his bare hands.

“Loss of a child can be difficult.” Chairman Go took two steps closer without a hint of something Jinwoo could turn his nose up to. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through losing both of them.”

Oh, so he was taking the piss then? Rubbing the fact that his children were missing right in his face. Losing you and his babies. How fucking useless was he now?

Worse and more hopeless than his E-Rank self.

Jinwoo summoned his daggers, wanting to see the light fade from the Chairman’s eyes.

And make Jin-chul watch.

Though Jin-chul hadn’t been much help either.

He’d die too.

“Rubbing it in my face won’t bring her back-“

The Chairman spoke at the same time, essentially cutting Jinwoo off. “The doctor informed me that the twins didn’t make it and I wanted to offer you and your fiancé my condolences officially.” The way the Chairman said your name set Jinwoo off to the side, blinded by the syllables.

What?

Jinwoo blinked a shade of rage away temporarily, his daggers stayed out. “My twins were born just fine. They’re missing- where did that doctor go?S he's involved somehow… I want to know who murdered my fiancé. She’s dead.”

Neither men said a word, eyes wider than their sympathy allowed. Jinwoo’s eye twitched, the air left the room like a vacuum.

“She’s fucking dead! Where were you?!”

Was he yelling at him like the monster he wanted him to be, or the father figure of the association? Either one was responsible.

“Where the fuck is that doctor? She conveniently went missing when I was getting Jong-in’s child back from a helicopter full of people I didn’t recognise.”

“Jinwoo…” The Chairman stepped closer, his hands raised like he could calm the bubbling beast in Jinwoo’s chest. “What are you talking about?”

“My fiancé is dead. My children are missing. And you’re just standing there!” Jinwoo abruptly summoned Iron. “Stand by the door and let no one in or out. If anyone tries, kill them.”

He turned back to the Chairman, eyes so wide and sunken. “If either of you leave this room, or attempt to aid anyone involved in this, I’ll burn your worlds… waiting here will give you time to rethink your actions.”

Even with Iron’s level, Jinwoo knew both men would give his shadow everything they had, but at least it would take time to make any sort of dent. And knowing Iron was getting attacked would fill Jinwoo in on their positions.

For now, Jinwoo followed the faint aura, replaying your death over and over in his head. He ruminated on your last words and what his babies' names were.

Min-ho and Jun-hee. Names you chose, names that were perfect because you chose them.

You chose them. And you were dead.

Jinwoo released his shadows through out the building with two orders.

Tear apart.

And Protect.

Tear apart the building. Rip anyone away who defied his shadows. Pull apart the very foundations of what the association stood for until Jinwoo found his children, safe.

The quicker and more efficiently Jinwoo found them, the less damage to the association… for now.

His shadows tore through the hallways, knocking doors down like a police raid with sniffer dogs homing for narcotics. Screaming staff who ran away at the first sign of trouble were left to their own cowardly devices, those who tried to act the hero received more than just a trashed room.

“W-what are you doing?! You can’t be in here!”

“Oh…” Jinwoo recognised him. “You’re the man that upset my fiancé when we had the twins ranked.”

A weak slime ball of a man that hid in the corner when the room blew up, the one who wanted to agree with the Chairman that you were exhausted.

“M-Mr Sung… what are you doing here?”

“Now you decide to play someone better than who you actually are?” Jinwoo’s eyes were empty, dead inside and completely empty. “Why are you pushing so hard? Do you know where my babies are?”

He noticed Jinwoo encroaching on his personal space, papers flying everywhere in the wrecked room. The shadows threw office desks and full trash cans in corners and out windows before fleeing into the next closed door down the hallway.

“I… I don’t know- I don’t know why you’re talking about.”

Even if he didn’t know, there was a flicker of uncertainty, it could have been pure fear, though Jinwoo didn’t care.

“I told you that you would wish you’d died in that explosion.”

“Wha- wait, wait!”

Jinwoo walked him to the open window, his feet scuffing along the floor and terrified pleas leaving his lips.

“I wonder if you can fly, is that your ability? I see your aura, but it’s so weak. Shall we test it out? I’ve always wanted to do this.”

The man clawed at Jinwoo’s arm, his hand, pleading and clinging to him at the same time like it would do anything. Jinwoo just healed and stood there overlooking the city skyline getting darker.

“She was meant to be my wife. We were meant to be together forever, and the association took her away from me… do you have any idea what that feels like? How bad it is inside my head right now?”

Jinwoo let no tears from his eyes fall in the presence of someone so weak. No. The man did not deserve to see that vulnerability.

“I-I don’t know what’s going on- I-I’m so for your loss- so sorry for your loss, please don’t throw me-ugh!” He almost choked by the way Jinwoo held him up by the collar of his shirt like an animal.

“You’re worthless to me. I have to find my children and you’re wasting my time. Good luck flying.”

“Wait!”

Jinwoo threw him out the window, one hand tucked into his pocket as nonchalantly as he could appear on the outside. The man plummeted and his cries became distant the further he fell from the high floor.

“I guess he couldn’t fly. Shame.”

He should have felt something, anything. Something to take the edge off of his indescribable pain. It didn’t. He craved more violence.

“More blood.”

Jinwoo trudged out of the office and kept moving, looking for anyone else who thought they were brave enough and killed them if they weren’t dead already. Unsurprisingly, there weren’t many.

The ones who were left, and were unfortunate enough to be stuck with Jinwoo, they got the most imaginative deaths.

Two of interest were two lower rank hunters, staff who took up the Chairman’s offer of security, ultimately causing their deaths.

One hung out of the window like a victory flag, his own intestines wrapped around his neck in the cruellest display of violence Jinwoo could think of. Hot and iron fuelled red over his hands, the gurgling tickling his skin and splatters all over the generic, company issue, blue carpet. His legs kicked for a while, but Jinwoo was unsure whether he bled out or suffocated.

The second one, Jinwoo took the industrial paper guillotine and cut one finger off at a time, soaking in the man’s cries, regretting ever trying to stop the shadows and the hunt for the lost babies. After that, he forced them down his throat until he choked on them, suffocation by his own fingers that didn’t bother to help, that neither played a part in backing the association or fighting them.

Pathetic bystanders, the lot of them.

It wasn’t until Jinwoo was halfway down the building that he got the notification he was looking for. The babies he been moved to the basement. The aura was thicker down there then they had before, meaning whoever moved them must be close by.

Jinwoo exchanged with his shadow, clocking the incubators immediately. “Keep searching and look for the doctor, the shadow I have on her isn’t responding. Find her. I want her alive.”

The shadows vanished and left Jinwoo on his own with the twins. Their silence should have settled him, sleeping away in their little cases like dolls moved about between owners.

But they weren’t dolls, they were his children. They were motherless now.

Jinwoo approached them, noticing the little bangles on their wrists, their names written on the piece of care attached in your handwriting.

“Min-ho… Jun-hee…” Such beautiful names.

With silence, came the crushing reality that Jinwoo was all alone now.

“I don’t know how I’m going to do this on my own…” He was doubting himself. “But I’ll promise you one thing. I will end the person who hurt your mom. You won’t understand it yet, but when you’re older, I’ll tell you.”

They needed to know of the horrors the world had waiting for them, that people weren’t to be trusted and how they could tear everything apart in a single moment. How could he let them out of his sight now when the world was so cruel? Jinwoo’s chest closed and constricted, just seeing their innocent faces. He sobbed, leaning over the incubators to the babies he hadn’t even held yet.

You never had a chance to hold them either.

“I’m sorry. I-I’m so sorry… I failed you- I failed your mom. She’s gone, how am I supposed to do this on my own?” His emotions whiplashed his neck and fell into the pit of anger. "I'll fucking kill everyone... If I can't be with her, wy should anyone else deserve to-"

“Jinwoo-“

“I said stay upstairs.” Jinwoo growled, seeing Chairman Go and Jin-chin in the doorway.

“Your shadow let us past, I think he knew how distraught you are.”

Fucking Iron. That idiot.

“You can leave right now, you’re not getting anywhere near my children. You were gone when we needed you and now you want to help? No.”

The Chairman made no attempt to move, in fact, he backed away. “I know what you’ve done, Jinwoo. You've hurt people- I understand it, I just want to help.”

"Why were my children here in association headquarters if the association had nothing to do with this?"

Jin-chul stepped past the Chairman and brazenly approached him. Jinwoo didn’t move. “Hunter Sung, it may be lost on you that neither myself nor the Chairman had any idea of the going ons at the hospital, and to add, what happened here in the basement. We relied solely on the report of the doctor to fill us in until it was appropraite to visit. I’ve sent hunters to the hospital to investigate and the findings are most unsettling from what little information I've received so far.”

“I could have told you that.”

Jin-chul continued. “I understand your experiences, but I needed information from others who aren’t experiencing great emotional upset to relay important information. We are currently investigating this matter, but I can assure you, the association had nothing to do with this.”

Bullshit. Bullshit.

“All that pushing on us to get pregnant and have more kids and you’re telling me that the association wasn't involved? Bullshit. it's fucking bullshit!”

“Jinwoo.” The Chairman entered the room with caution, eyeing Jinwoo's posture and closed fists. “I really didn’t know. I’m so pleased your children are okay, but I knew nothing about their mother either… whoever did this is no ally to the association and they will be apprehended. You will get justice, Jinwoo. But in order to do that, you'll need to step back from the ledge you're standing near. If you step off of that, there's no coming back from this.”

“Justice isn’t enough.” He said, hands gripping the incubators like they'd get taken again if he stopped contact. He blinked his tears away too before they could obscure his vision. “The love of my life is dead and I want blood, it’s too far gone now for only justice. I'm far too gone to even come back. I don't want to come back."

“Then I have a proposal to stop the bloodshed, if you’d be open to it?”

Fuck propositions. Fuck everything.

Still, Jinwoo entertained it. “What compromise could possibly fix this?”

“Not fix, but prove to you that the association is loyal, trustworthy and just wants the best for the country. Jinwoo, I think of you as close to a son as I could have. I've protected you from consequences and until now, you seemed to be easing off. But I have to stop this from going further if I can. I want you to know that you can trust me.”

Trust, what a fucking funny word.

“Go on.”

“I’ll step down as Chairman, and Manager Woo will take my place. A sign of fealty to my Hunters.”

No, it was just a lame way to save his head. He must have known Jinwoo wanted to hurt him.

Jinwoo shook his head with conviction. “Not good enough.”

“I thought you might say that.” The Chairman hummed to himself, watching Min-ho and Jun-hee closely with a defeated huff he tried to disguise. “Then why don’t you take my position?”

“Chairman Go.” Jin-chul’s mouth hung open, his neutral expression vanished completely. “This is most unorthodox, he’s nowhere near ready for that kind of responsibility. If you wish to step down then allow me-“

“Jinwoo is in a vulnerable position, I’m more than aware of his mindset and experience. But if it stops the bloodshed, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep the peace… as you're aware, Jinwoo could kill us both with what he has in his arsenal and given his emotional state, consider his power more erratic. With the power of the association at his back, he wouldn’t need to use his abilities for violence, he can approach it diplomatically.”

A way for more power to use to punish those who hurt you? Now things were beginning to show the little cracks inside the association. Jinwoo couldn't wait to split them apart.

“I’ll do it.” Jinwoo said, scooping up the incubators with blood smears over the acrylic from his hands. He pushed past the two men excusing his murder with no interference. “We’ll rectify the paperwork once I have things settled on my end. ”

And just like that, he left for the hospital with his babies and the new title of Chairman Sung. So much for a guild now, but it was an even better result than he could have anticipated. Now no one could ever stop him making things right and would allow him to stop those who acted against him and took you away from him. Freely, without consequence.

He didn’t fully believe the Chairman, or Jin-chul, but keeping them alive proved more useful to him for now.

Useful enough to manipulate in giving him what he wanted.

No grand prize, but a consolation for now until he could rest peacefully knowing true justice had been served.

And until his shadows found that fucking doctor.

Part 32 <- Part 33 -> Part 34

TAG LIST RE-OPEN (The tag list is back up and open for a little while, if you'd like to be tagged, please let me know! 🤗)

Thank you for reading and all of the support on this fic! ❤️ Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated and I appreciate you all! See you next time 🤗

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DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime or manhwa. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work, thank you!

#jinwoo x reader #solo leveling #jinwoo x you #sung jinwoo #x reader #solo leveling anime #yandere jinwoo #solo leveling x reader #jinwoo sung x reader #sung jinwoo x reader #fem reader #reader insert #minors dni #minors do not interact #solo leveling jinwoo #jinwoo #sung jin woo x reader #jin woo sung #jin woo x reader

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wife-of-all-dilfs · 2 years ago

Text

rosé | f. odair

(final part of red wine)

part one, part two

summary: in the final part of the red wine series, secrets are revealed, and miscommunication threatens to tear you and finnick apart.

pairing: finnick odair x reader

warnings: angst, fluff, blood, minor injury, mentions of forced prostitution, swearing,

notes: i’m sorry this took so long to come out y’all. thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed this mini fic <3

word count: 4.1k

Finnick believed he had made a lot of smart decisions in his life—like rigging a net made out of vines to ensnare tributes in the arena, accepting secrets as a form of payment from his patrons rather than material goods, and mastering the art of seduction to manipulate his way out of various difficult situations. However, shutting you out was not one of them.

Half an hour had passed since the incident on the staircase landing. He lingered within the mansion’s extravagant walls, where other guests mingled and dined on a range of bizarre delicacies. He couldn’t eat a thing. His stomach churned at the image of your hopeless expression as he walked off. The expression he caused.

It had to be done. That is what he had been telling himself. It had to be done, otherwise, everyone in the Capitol would learn of his feelings for you. Snow would find out and most likely punish you for interfering with the arrangement he had—the sale of his body. And Finnick was very aware of what happened to people who disrupted the president’s plans.

Partygoers would have already begun to spread rumours of the scene in the courtyard. Hopefully, it would just be chalked up to a simple argument between friends. Friends. The label borderline disgusted him. You don’t fall asleep to the thought of someone and think of them the moment you wake up if you’re just friends. Nor do you look for them in every room you walk into.

Even now, Finnick was scanning the lavishly decorated banquet hall for a glimpse of your pure white gown, despite being the one who walked away. It was an instinct at this point. But there was no one in the room wearing white but him; his matching half was still outside, blending in with the winter snow. Or maybe gone home.

One colour did catch his eye though. A vibrant, almost tacky red, worn by a woman who was strutting towards him, her chin held high with pride. Finnick noticed the material of her floor-length gown. Silk. She was wearing your old dress, only the colour was incredibly off, and each hem was lined with red fur, conforming with her implanted whiskers. That was when he realised who the woman was.

Her ensemble was entirely made out of fur that clung to her body, complementing the whiskers that were embedded in her face which made her look feline.

“Where’s your dancing partner tonight?” she asked, her voice low and seductive.

The bright saturation of her dress was almost blinding as she stopped in front of him. He held back a grimace and plastered on a smile even faker than her voice. “She wasn’t up for it this time,” he lied.

“Well, everyone knows she’s out of touch with our way of life,” she said. Finnick ground his jaw, struggling to maintain his façade. Words could not explain how condescending these people were. “This dress is an adaptation of one she wore quite a while ago. Such a plain thing. I only liked the colour and bodice. The only way I could wear it in public was if I spruced it up.”

He thought back to the dress you had worn. Nobody had even come close to how phenomenal you looked. Where others needed extravagance and flounce to stand out, you only needed a simple red dress. Yet here this woman was, thinking she had the audacity to call you plain.

“I noticed. It’s very… striking.”

“Thank you, darling,” she purred. There was a predatory gleam in her eyes, like that of a wild cat about to pounce and devour its meal. “I was waiting for the perfect occasion to wear it.”

His forced smile twitched. “You’re certainly turning heads.”

“Did I turn yours?” she asked, batting her eyelashes.

Truth be told, Finnick hadn’t even remembered her existence until she walked right up to him. Obviously, he couldn’t tell her that, so he told her that she did. For a long period of time, they bounced back and forth, complimenting and flirting with each other, never dipping below the surface into a real conversation. Not that he wanted to anyway. Not with her. The only person he longed to conversate with was now out of reach.

The woman started talking about colourless topics such as the latest fashion trends in the Capitol and her opinions on the victor of the 72nd Hunger Games, all of which made Finnick wish she would just gouge his eyes out with her sharp claw-like fingernails. He couldn’t do anything but stand, smile, and agree. Doing anything else would result in Snow staying true to his very detailed threats

As the conversation continued, his attention began to drift. He surveyed the outfits of everyone in the room, amusing himself by deciding whether or not each person was making a fashion statement or tragedy. Only one person claimed the former title—the one in white.

Finnick watched as you entered the room. The giant golden chandelier cast down a bright light which caused your skin to glow with radiance; its glare enhanced the brilliance of your white dress. This brief moment ignited a fear in him that you had died in his absence because there was no way a mere human being could look so angelic.

“Finnick?” the feline asked, but her voice barely registered in his brain.

Captivated. He was utterly and completely captivated. One after the other, sudden realisations conjured in his mind. The first—there wasn’t a life worth living ahead of him if you weren’t by his side the whole way, and not as a friend or a fellow victor, but as his partner. His lover. The second—he would never let any harm come to you. He would keep you safe from Snow’s clutches, from the Capitol, from anyone who would put you in danger, even if it meant the two of you had to disappear into the vast forests of Panem.

And lastly, he was now absolutely certain that the woman in front of him could never compare to you, nor could anyone else in the ever-expanding universe. You were a basic human necessity to him. Without you, his heart might as well stop beating. Your laugh, your smile, your kindness, your unwavering support—every part of you kept him alive.

“Finnick?” the voice that went disregarded hissed again.

With a half-empty wine glass in hand, your anxious eyes searched the room. Finnick wanted nothing more than to sprint over, pull you into his arms, and cast away every trouble plaguing your mind. He couldn’t. Almost all eyes were on you, yet you hadn’t even seemed to notice. Only one person finally seemed to gain your attention, and that was Finnick, standing in the middle of the room, his eyes locked on yours.

The neurons firing in his brain signalled him to move and he did. But just as his legs started to walk, a forceful hand jerked his face to the side and a pair of harsh lips were crushed to his. Glass shattered on the marble flooring. Momentarily paralysed from shock, Finnick stumbled backwards, briefly catching the twisted triumphant smirk on the woman’s face before whirling around.

Your face was frozen with devastation; his heart dropped. Splatters of red wine had stained your gown, pooling in a crimson puddle of glass shards by your feet. Quiet mocking chuckles and whispers echoed around the room. Oh, if only he had his trident; they wouldn’t be laughing then.

An Avox rushed forward, attempting to clean up the mess, but you had crouched down with them.

“No, please,” Finnick heard you say to the Avox as he strode toward you. “Please don’t. I can do it.”

But delicate hands and glass shards never mix well. You gasped in pain. A jagged fragment you collected had sliced into your palm, creating another crimson pool in your hand.

Finnick’s strides quickened, eventually leading him to stop and kneel beside you. He wordlessly took your hand in his, cradling it as he inspected the damage. Blood coated his fingers, but he didn’t care. He might as well have cut your hand himself. None of this would have happened if it weren’t for him.

Pink blush overtook your face. For once, it wasn’t because he made you flustered or bashful, but because you were humiliated. He knew how much you disliked attention; now you were at the centre of it. Beside you was the Avox, tending to the mess of broken glass.

“Could you bring me a first-aid kit, please?” he asked with a polite smile.

They nodded and silently left. Finnick returned his attention to you, applying pressure to your wound. Your gaze was lowered, unwilling to meet his own. There was more to your demeanour than just embarrassment. There was sadness. Disheartenment. Neither of which were present when you walked in, only appearing after the feline woman had kissed him.

His brows furrowed in confusion. “Y/N—”

“Don’t,” you whispered, eyes unmoving.

The Avox returned holding a medical kit; Finnick thanked them, taking the box into his hands. He climbed to his feet, hesitating before offering you a hand up. Much to his relief, you accepted his assistance. And then, without a word, you began walking towards the nearest exit with apparent indifference to the engrossed eyes following you.

Finnick didn’t bother to conceal his icy glare toward the crowd as he trailed behind you and exited the room.

*******

Pain of a thousand unrelenting bees stung the broken flesh of your palm. Even the slightest movement of your fingers sent waves of throbbing agony up your arm. But it was nothing compared to the brutal ache of your heart.

You had entered the mansion in search of Finnick, determined to mend the crack in your friendship before it crumbled completely. What you got instead was humiliation and heartbreak. What you saw was another woman kissing the man you loved, whilst wearing a horrible adaptation of your red gown no less.

The air had been sucked from your lungs. Believing he would kiss you on the dance floor in the courtyard was nothing more than a fantasy, a dream, a pathetic fool’s wish—every term under the sun that defined something not real. At least now you understood why he was acting so differently. Because he had found someone else and that someone wasn’t you.

A lump formed in your throat and you knew tears were approaching. As if your night couldn’t get any more embarrassing.

Your feet carried you down a long corridor, far enough away from the banquet hall that listening ears and prying eyes were unable to reach. Finnick still followed behind you, though you weren’t sure why he bothered. How could he explain what you saw with your own eyes? Plus, the last thing you wanted was for his new romance to think something was going on between you and him. Only in your dreams.

Unsure of your destination, you decided to enter the first room you came across. It turned out to be a lavishly decorated library, walled with large wooden bookshelves which were filled endlessly with novels and historic paraphernalia. Sitting within the bookshelves was a stone fireplace.

The door closed as Finnick entered behind you, the silence so loud that the crackles from the fireplace reverberated through the room. Your hand still throbbed something awful so you looked down, taking in the gruesome sight of your dress. A stranger might have thought you had just murdered someone. If it were televised, it would have been deemed acceptable.

You sniffled, wearing a small bitter smile. “I ruined Snow’s pretty white dress.”

A few moments passed before Finnick replied. “Red always was more your colour,” he said, his tone anything but playful.

Ahead of you was a great wall of windows; in the reflection, you saw him staring back at you with an unfamiliar expression. His brows were pinched upwards, pronouncing the lines in his forehead, and the corners of his mouth drooped in a slight pensive frown. He didn’t look like the Finnick you knew. This Finnick looked pained. Anguished.

You dropped his intense gaze and ambled across the room. By the lit fireplace was a cushioned stool which you sat down on, eyes staring into the flickering flames. If you were lucky, maybe your dress would catch alight and whisk you away from your troubled life. Okay, perhaps the thought was a little morbid, but so was a broken heart. Of all people, why did you have to fall in love with Finnick Odair?

Cautious footsteps followed behind you, coming to a stop beside your feet. Without your acknowledgement, Finnick crouched down, eyeing the bloody mess of your hands with concern. His gaze lifted to yours, which was still on the fire, and he sighed.

“Let me take care of your hand,” he murmured.

Before you could refuse, you realised contracting an infection was worse than giving in to your stubbornness. So, you nodded.

Finnick opened the first-aid kit and began tending to your wound; his touch was so gentle it was like he was piecing together a broken china cup. Using an antiseptic gauze, he attempted to clean the damaged skin, whispering apologies whenever you winced in pain. After carefully applying a dressing, he began wrapping a bandage around your hand.

You stared into the orange flames, wondering how he would explain to that woman why he left her behind. You wondered when their relationship started and why Finnick continued to shamelessly flirt with you in her absence. You wondered if their relationship would be the end of your friendship.

“Are you in love?” you quietly asked.

His hands stilled at your sudden words, then he continued wrapping the bandage. “Not with her.”

He secured the binding with medical tape and climbed to his feet, placing the supplies back into the kit on a small side table.

Brows drawn together in confusion, you turned to look up at him. “But I thought—"

“Things are much more complicated than they seem,” he interrupted. There was a clear vase of white roses on the table. Finnick toyed with the petals, caressing them between his gentle fingertips. “No one understands me better than you do, and there is no one in this world I trust more. But… there are still things I’ve been keeping from you.”

The troubled expression on his face melted into one of vulnerability. This was a new appearance for him. Finnick was known nationwide for his radiant confidence and charm; he never let his guard down. You have had difficult conversations before, such as discussing each other’s hardships and innermost secrets, but none of them seemed to affect him like this.

“Everyone knows about my visits to the Capitol,” he continued. “How I spend nights with different people every time as if it’s all a game for my pleasure. But it’s not true. It’s not my game I’m playing.” He began walking over to the wall of windows, overlooking Snow’s gardens. “There’s a part of it that no one knows about.”

You rose from the stool, beginning to take slow steps towards him. “Which is?”

The fire flickering behind you deepened Finnick’s features. It intensified the shiny bronze of his hair and enhanced the defined contours of his face, making it easy to see the muscles in his jaw clench with apprehension. He stared out the window so intensely that you were sure his usual green eyes were blazing with their own inferno.

Even full of angst, he was painstakingly beautiful.

His chest inflated with a deep breath. “President Snow… sells me to the Capitol.”

Horror washed over you in monstrous waves. Sells? Only one explanation appeared in your head as to what he meant. You remained silent, praying he would prove your assumption wrong.

“After I won my Games, he saw my success as an opportunity to please his citizens. He began offering me to potential buyers—'admirers’ is what he called them—who soon became my regular customers. They would use me however they liked. Some would pounce on me the second I stepped through the door. Others were relatively tamer. Kinder. They would have me take them on dates or watch a movie with them, but one way or another, it all ended the same way at the end of the night.” He sucked in a sharp uneasy breath before continuing. “Then there were the rare few—the ones who treated me like I was nothing more than a ragdoll for their amusement. They did things that were… unspeakable.”

Nausea churned in your stomach as your mind conjured sickening images. It couldn’t be true. You refused to believe that human beings could stoop to such levels of atrocity to make one person endure so much cruelty. Then again, you lived in a world where children were sent into an arena to fight to the death on live television.

Finnick looked like he was holding himself together by a thread. Every word he confessed shattered your heart into a million pieces. How could this have happened to him?

“I’ve tried to refuse but Snow threatened to harm the people I care about—my family, my friends. After I met you, I knew you were added to that list.” He finally turned around to face you, his eyes filled with such anguish, it shook you to your core. “The Capitol owns me, Y/N. Body and soul.”

Despair riddled your entire body. As you stared at him, the image of a teenager appeared in your mind—eyes sea green and hair a fiery bronze. He was just a boy when it started. A child.

“I’m—I’m so sorry,” you managed to whisper. “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t want you to know.” His eyes dropped to the floor. “I didn’t want you to think less of me.”

“Less of you? Finnick,” you said softly, stopping in front of him. Your eyes beckoned for his; you needed him to look at you, to really take in your next words. “There isn’t a single person alive I think more highly of than you. No one even comes close. Can’t you see? Just having you in my presence makes me feel whole. You make me whole.”

Tears glistened in his eyes as they flickered between your own, absorbing every reassuring word you said into his mind, his bones, his entire being.

“You have brought so much into my life,” you continued. “So much good. And I would never have made it to where I am now without you. So please, don’t ever distance yourself from me because you think I will judge you. I won’t and I never will.”

As the room stilled with silence, a lone tear rolled down Finnick’s cheek. His Adam’s apple bobbed, revealing the sob he was keeping restrained within his throat. And then a smile started to grow on his face, small at first, but then it stretched wider and wider, deepening those dimples that you adored so much.

You knew that your words had touched the deepest parts of him. That you had managed to convince him ‘less’ could never be a word used to describe him. He was more. More kind, more genuine, more caring than almost all of Panem.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered in awe, looking at you as if he were witnessing the birth of the universe. “Sweetheart, you’re incredible. Do have any idea how rare that is for a person to be? I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve someone like you in my life, but I swear I’ll do whatever I can to keep you. And if—” His gaze drifted, seemingly wrestling with a decision in his mind— “if that means I have to share all my secrets with you, then I will.”

“Have you got any more secrets, Finnick?”

He returned his attention back to your face. The indecision from moments ago had disappeared and was replaced with certainty, which was underscored by a sort of tenderness that settled in his features.

“Just one,” he murmured. He paused, observing the universe before him and wondering how on earth he got so lucky to have the privilege of having it staring right back at him. “I’m in love with you.”

Electricity shocked your heart like someone had placed a defibrillator over your chest and hit charge. Love? You? He was?

“What?” you asked, dumbfounded.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” he said, shaking his head. “I should have told you everything. Even if saying this means I’m risking everything between us, I can’t keep it from you any longer. God, sweetheart, I love you so much it fucking hurts. I always will, even if you never feel the same.”

Somehow in the span of twenty minutes, everything you thought you knew came crashing down. First, your heart was broken by the thought of Finnick kissing another, and then it was healed. And then it broke again as he voiced his arrangement with Snow. It could never fully heal again while Snow was alive, not with what he was forcing upon Finnick.

But Finnick pieced together every piece he possibly could with his confession, one heartfelt word of declaration at a time.

The weight of his confession hung in the air. His eyes held a mixture of anxiety and hope for your response. Time seemed to stretch out as you tried to find your voice. How do you declare your love as powerfully as someone who just bared their soul to you?

An emotional laugh bubbled up your throat, your eyes brimming with tears. “You idiot,” was what you said, the words spoken with utmost adoration. “I’ve loved you this whole time.”

Finnick’s eyes widened in amazement and a brilliant smile broke across his face. Before you had a chance to react, he had moved towards you in one swift step, pulling you into his arms and crushing his lips to yours in a powerful, passionate kiss.

Your hands were quick to cling onto him, desperately terrified that if you let go, he would vanish into thin air. Every ounce of yearning and hidden affection from the past year poured into this one single moment, into the movement of your lips against one another, and the feeling of your hands cradling each other’s bodies.

Emotions were running high. You could taste both your own and Finnick’s tears as they streamed down your faces, salty and palpable with affection. The sheer relief of finally being free to express your love was so unimaginable that you felt like you would be crying with happiness your whole life.

Finnick’s hand cupped the side of your jaw and he lowered his head, deepening the kiss as much as he physically could to make up for all the time he wasted. His lips were soft and adoring, savouring the sweet taste of your lips on his. His other arm tightened around your lower back, pulling you even further against him.

You felt like you were melting into his embrace and happily, you would have. It felt so right, so safe to be held by him. The world outside the library no longer existed; there was only Finnick and you. Your hands settled on either side of his jaw, staining his skin red from your blood-soaked bandage. You knew he wouldn’t care—the blood belonged to you.

And that is how you spent most of the night. In the library, in that one spot by the windows, in each other’s arms. At some point, you ended up sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, both covered in red and feeling blissfully content. Your back was leaning against Finnick’s chest, his arms wrapped around your middle as he occasionally pressed his lips into your hair.

You toyed with the fabric of his sleeves, your head leaning against his collarbone as you watched the flames once more.

“If Snow ever finds out…” you murmured.

“He won’t,” he reassured quietly. “I won’t let him. He’s taken too much from me; he won’t take you too.”

You turned your head to peer up at him, wearing a teasing smile. “Can’t live without me, Odair?”

He grinned, leaning in closer. “Never without you, sweetheart.”

Once again, Finnick’s lips were on yours, conveying every ounce of immense love he felt for you through his kiss. The only time either of you broke apart was to whisper sweet declarations of your devotion and reverence before returning to each other again. This was when you felt most complete.

When you felt whole.

tags: @queenofspades6 @powellssaturn @bellamybellamyblake @heroinhchicblog222

#wife-of-all-dilfs ✍️#finnick odair #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair smut #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair fluff #sam claflin #the hunger games #catching fire #mockingjay #peeta mellark x reader #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen

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starsofang · 1 year ago

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Change of Heart

hitman!simon x f!reader / part 6

previous part

tw: gore, violence, blood, ghost makes a return ooo, please be warned! <3

When life has completely and utterly failed you, you hire a hitman to take you out, too afraid to do it yourself. Instead of killing you like you had planned, he strikes up a deal with you, and you're too stubborn to bail out.

Simon had never felt such a boiling rage to the point his blood was bubbling, ready to explode out of his body and paint the walls of your apartment a crimson red that would stain the chipped-away white with messy splatters. It simmered hotly beneath his scarred skin, sifting through his veins like wildfire and egging him into dangerous territory.

He was no saint. He killed people for a living. He took the money of pathetic, lowly people who had the coldness in their heart to request his favor in killing somebody they didn’t like. Lawyers, CEOs, big name people who ate with the silver spoon embedded in their teeth and tainted their smiles with a greedy unnerve.

So no, Simon was no saint.

But he’d certainly ruin any chances of redemption when he got his hands on the coward who’d brought you harm.

Simon didn’t need payment to seek him out. He didn’t need a stack of cash waved in his face, or a bank transfer notified on his phone.

All he needed was to see the pretty girl in tears and blood, lying broken on the floor like a toy, used and tossed aside – worthless, undeserving. His pretty girl.

You were enough to tear down the concrete walls he’d encased around himself, built with his own bare hands. You were enough to wake the flame in his soul, to remind him just what he was capable of.

Simon was tired of killing those who did nothing to him. Sure, many deserved it, but they hadn’t done anything to him. He was a mediator. A spectator. He was a part of a story as a side character, only rising from the shadows to cut that story short and end it with bloodshed and a transaction. Their pages were quipped, torn from the spine of the book with no prospect of a completed ending.

Now, the plotline had changed.

He had the upper hand in this story. He was able to rewrite it without the complications of another’s orders. And he’d be damned if he didn’t tear the man who hurt you right out of the pages.

Simon didn’t want to leave you. He knew how disoriented you were from the fists that had put you through torment – torment he wasn’t there to protect you from. You were dazed and lost, hanging on by the thin of a wire that Simon was the one desperately clinging to.

When he had patched you up and put you to bed, he waited until you succumbed to the exhaustion and fell asleep for him to strike.

He was a man on a mission. A dog off its leash. His nose flared from under his mask as if he was a damn K-9 tracking down his suspect.

He searched through the entirety of your apartment, tearing it to bits in order to find a hint, a clue. All he needed was one quick search of your phone through your blocked numbers to find what he needed.

There was no contact name. No indication of who this man could be.

But a phone number was enough, and when he texted it to Gaz with the demand of finding it out for him, it wouldn’t be long until your ex-boyfriend would be another name on a crumbling gravestone.

Gaz was quick to find him the information. No questions asked, and that’s why Simon loved working with him. He minded his own, and trusted him to complete a job alone. He was good at tracking information for Simon, good at all that he did, and he was sure as hell good at picking up on the signs that Simon was involved in something, or someone that made him bend the fabrics of reality for them.

The name left a bitter taste in Simon’s mouth.

Phillip Graves. American. Bastard with a sharp tongue and a cockiness that’ll get him killed.

Ghost could make that happen.

The man walking down the streets, prowling with a threatening cloud of smoke around him wasn’t Simon.

Simon was the one who tucked you into bed, who wiped off every dot of blood that tainted your pretty skin. He was the one who watched over you in the corners of the night, making sure you got home safe, making sure you were keeping up your end of the deal.

He was the one who you baked pastries for, and didn’t have the heart to tell you he didn’t have a sweet tooth. He stuffed his mouth full of every single crumb despite the fact, just to see you smile.

He was the one who thought you were beautiful at first glance, and didn’t have the capacity to take your money and rid the world of a human being carved like a piece of art in a mausoleum. He was selfish, and he wanted you.

The man in the reflection of every store window as he strode by was Simon no more. Simon was gone, tucked away in the back corner and replaced by the brute of a man he’d been before you.

You were Simon’s religion, his reason for salvation. He’d bow at every altar, pray to every God with his blood stained hands clasped in a plea, just to worship you – but Ghost wasn’t a religious man, and he garnered no peace from anyone. Not even you.

Simon was the one who would protect you. Ghost was the one who would kill for you.

All Ghost had on the screen of his phone besides a name, was an address. It was a temporary one, judging from how recent your ex had moved into it, and the thought of it caused his teeth to grit in annoyance.

The fucker was staying close to you, with intentions so sick it could only make Ghost’s fire burn into grueling embers. He was stalking you, tracking you down, plotting.

Ghost knew exactly what he needed to do to ensure your safety. He made a promise to you, a promise that he hadn’t vocalized but rather slipped in when he made that deal with you. It was written in small lettering, so small so you’d gloss over it and he’d be able to hide away the watchful eye he had on you.

Finding Graves’ apartment was an easy feat. He nearly laughed at how effortless it was to stalk his way up to the apartment building that was somehow even more rundown than yours. But it made sense – Graves wasn’t planning on staying for long, and he was going to flee after latching his grimy hands on you once and for all. He didn’t need a fancy apartment to stalk his claim.

On normal jobs, Ghost was discreet. He’d figure out an alternative for breaking into one’s apartment or home, one that required no curious eyes or witnesses to see. He was quiet, like a shadow moving across the walls in dark anticipation.

This time around, he found himself stomping right up the musty stairwell, boots clattering along every step that creaked beneath his weight. He was an incoming storm the way he clouded over the hallway with impending doom, rain clouds hovering over him with lightning prepared to strike at any given moment.

He didn’t knock. He didn’t wait or stall.

He kicked at the door with the heavy soles on his feet, wallowing in every crack and snap the door made under its sudden force. It withered, flying off of the hinges and slamming up against the wall as it smacked open.

The apartment was a shithole. Messy, cluttered, and uninhabited. Dust collected on every surface, furniture bare from every room, and all that was used was an old mattress with blankets to keep Graves warm from the chill of every night.

Graves stood in the aging kitchen, cooking up something that made Ghost’s nose flare. The bastard didn’t deserve to have an appetite after what he had done to you. He didn’t deserve to use his tongue, didn’t deserve to keep his teeth.

Stood like a deer in headlights, Graves quickly regained his composure, sneering at him with a mock threat made Ghost snort.

“What the fuck?” Graves shouted in a fit of anger, stumbling in the kitchen as he caught himself from the sudden surprise. His narrowed eyes stared Ghost down, taking in every inch of him.

A looming mass with a skull painted mask with eyes that could kill. Graves would be a dead heap on the floor if that was so.

“You,” Ghost spat. He walked slow and dangerous, darkened glare focused on Graves without a single intent of leaving. It was cold, piercing, full of millions of daggers that he wished could mutilate Graves in front of him. “You should’ve gotten a more secure place.”

“The fuck are you talking about? Who are you?”

Graves was tougher than he thought, Ghost had to give him that. He didn’t cower in fear, nor did he try to run like most people did. Ghost was a force to be reckoned with, and looking at him was like looking the Devil himself in the eye.

Ghost continued stalking towards, like a predator to prey, every step calculated. His boots were like hell’s bells ringing as they hefted with every step, stomping clouds of musty dust around his ankles. It was enough to have Graves leaning back, the action so small Ghost would’ve missed it if not for his keen eye and trained skill.

“You touched her,” he stated. His tone was so calm it caused unease to smother the room, suffocating the two of them in a thick cloud. “You hurt her.”

It took a second for Graves to understand, and when he did, he scowled, perfectly aligned teeth just begging to be knocked in. “You’re Simon.”

“Ghost,” he was quick to correct. “Not Simon to you.”

Graves laughed mockingly, the sound more like a scoff as it escaped his thin lips. “Oh, right. She calls you Simon. Little whore, that one is.

Ghost stopped when he was in front of Graves. He peered down at him with a thirst for blood glimmering in his eyes, locked in on Graves’ own and burning the retinas with the flames that danced around his pupils.

“You hurt her,” Ghost repeated. “I don’t like men who hurt women. Don’t like men like you.”

Graves’ expression soured and he stared up at Ghost with a mix of confusion and offense. He was trying to read Ghost from under the mask, see what was burning in those embers of his, but he only saw rage. A calm, brewing rage that held no remorse and no sympathy for a man like Graves.

“I’m going to rip the flesh off your fucking bones and pluck every single one of those teeth out with my bare hands,” Ghost threatened, and it was only then that Graves showed a single sign of fear. His lips twitched, hands flinching at his sides as if debating on whether or not he could throw a punch at Ghost and scurry his sorry ass away.

Back to his town, far away from this shitty apartment, and far away from you.

He didn’t know Ghost never left a job unfinished. Not until he was left a bloodied, gory mess on the floor of his kitchen, face unrecognizable, tiles stained with the red he had colored your own bathroom the night before when he laid his hands on you like the weak link he was. Graves’ eyes were glossed over, lifeless, staring blankly into the pit of Ghost’s as he took each and every brutal impalement from the kitchen knife Ghost had snatched from the counter.

Ghost didn’t falter, nor did he stop until the fire in him slowed to a stop, leaving behind nothing but ash and debris. He stared down at the man who had hurt you, watched the way his blood seeped into the grout of the tiles like a sponge absorbing water.

It was a picture Ghost never wanted you to see. A side he never wanted you to take a glimpse of in fear of you running.

Ghost wasn’t religious. He didn’t worship you like Simon did. Wouldn’t get on his knees for you and beg for forgiveness for his sins.

Ghost was hungry. Starved. He’d shed the whole town’s blood for you. He’d bury every fucking soul six feet deep if it meant none of them would have a chance to hurt you.

When you woke up from the deep slumber you found yourself in, everything ached. Your body was crying for help as it twisted and stiffened when you sat up in bed.

The apartment was quiet. Cold. Simon was nowhere to be found, nor did he leave you a note when you got up to look for it. The kitchen was void of his presence, void of the banter you two had shared just nights ago when you baked for him and he sat with an admiring gaze.

Last night began to resurface, and your mind flashed you the ghostly images of Graves’ face as he stood over you, lips pulled into a menacing sneer, bitter laughter leaving his lips as he kicked and slashed every part of your body. He didn’t leave a single bit unscathed from the torment, and you felt the weight of it with the way your skin hissed when it tugged or how your nose gasped for air beneath the swelling and ache.

Bile filled your lungs as you replayed the painful memory and recalled every hit and strike he laid upon you. Recalled Simon not answering the phone, not showing up until the damage was done.

Your legs moved before your mind did, and they took you back to that very bathroom where you were nearly left for dead. The contents in your stomach were minimal, and when you emptied them out into the toilet, you were left dry heaving and begging for air. Pangs of grueling pain fluttered in your stomach, and the butterflies that once flew freely had turned into overbearing moths that were desperate to get out.

You didn’t know tears began to flow down your cheeks until they caused your open cuts and wounds to sting. They cascaded in waterfalls, bathing you in a cold, sticky sheen of despair.

Your mind was angry at Simon, but your heart longed for him. The loneliness of the bathroom as the tiles dug into your bruised knees was just an aching emphasis that he wasn’t there to fill that void, to help pick you back up like he’d been doing ever since the two of you met.

Anger you could get over. The hurt of knowing he didn’t answer your call, you could get over.

But the yearning in your heart was something that no amount of anguish could get rid of, for it filled you up like an overflowing glass, pouring and pouring over the rim until you couldn’t take it.

So you waited. And waited. You laid curled up in the same bathroom he found you in the night before, all the way up until he showed – because even if it was late, it was always.

Simon was a mucked up mess when he came ducking into your apartment the same way he left. His hands, covered in dried, cracking red, and his shoulders pulled taut with unfurling tension were the first thing you saw when he entered. His eyes had immediately searched for you, and just like before, willed himself to you like a moth to a flame when he saw you in the bathroom once again.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted softly. His voice sent warmth through your bloodstream, lighting you up from the inside and out. “What’re you doin’ in here?”

Simon crouched to your level, lifting a hand to grace it across your features before it froze up and dropped away when the sight of red reminded him of the sins etched into his skin. The sins performed by Ghost, with Simon seeking redemption.

“You weren’t here when I woke up,” you sniffled, a pathetic sound leaving your mouth, almost like a hiccup. It shattered Simon’s heart and buried a knife through the arteries.

“M’sorry sweetheart. M’here now, I promise. I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he promised, and blood be damned, he wanted to touch you, to reach out to you and cradle him in his loving light.

So he did.

You didn’t flinch away when he shoved aside his worries and placed calloused hands on each side of your face. You stilled, melting into him like a child would its mother, sinking yourself into the tranquil solace of his touch. It chased your demons away, filling you with angelic purpose.

When you allowed yourself the brief slice of heaven in the form of a man, you worried your gaze on the blood that soaked from his hands and up his tattooed arms, lacing him with a layer of damnation. Your eyes trailed up, slow and unsteady, before reaching his eyes, which were softened and filled with apologies.

“What did you do, Simon?” you asked in a whisper, and for the first time, he flinched as if you burned him.

“I took care of it,” he assured. “I handled it.”

The it being him. The him being Graves.

Simon didn’t go into the details, but he didn’t have to. Given his track record and the reason as to why the two of you met in the first place, you could assume the worst – but really, it was far from it. It was a taste of freedom.

You would no longer have to walk on eggshells, or peek around every corner. You wouldn’t have to remain bound to shackles that were never meant to be chained to you in the first place.

Simon freed you from the demon you were indebted to, and he did so without a single ounce of hesitation or regret. He’d do it all over again if it meant releasing you from hell and showing you a glimpse of heaven. He broke the contract you signed when vulnerable, and freed you from a lifetime of purgatory.

“Why did you do that?” you asked, and he smiled under his mask. You could see the faint imprint of his lips curling up on the edges, and the crows feet that wrinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Nobody hurts my pretty girl. They’ll be sorry if they do.”

My pretty girl. His pretty girl. It was a claim, one that didn’t feel like a trap that will lure you in and sink its teeth into you, but it was also a declaration of his devotion for you. It posed the option to back out, leaving you no longer bound like you were with Graves. A choice.

Your hand moved on its own accord, and it sauntered its way up Simon’s arm. Fingertips brushed along coated and marred skin, until they rested on the bottom of his mask. You heard him inhale a sharp breath, but made no move to stop you, so you continued.

Grasping on the hem of the mask that laid upon his throat, you lightly tugged it up, and up, until blond hair fell in short tufts along his forehead. The mask fell to the floor of the bathroom where you both resided, but that wasn’t what you focused on, no.

You were seeing his face for the first time, all of it. Not just his mouth where he’d nurse a cigarette, or would stuff your crummy pastries. You saw every blemish, every scar, every bit of stubble that poked from his skin. His cheekbones, high on his face, and his eyebrows, thick and unkempt yet soft and lax without a hint of daunt or upset.

The fingers that had taken off his mask with such care slowly traced along his features, grazing the plush of his lips, to the prickle along his jaw that scratched your fingertips in a way that had you smiling.

Simon was unsure why you smiled, but he offered a pleased one back, his shoulders releasing the tension that had stiffened them before.

“You’re pretty, Simon,” you complimented, and your eyes watched his lips as they parted into a laugh. Teeth, aligned and pretty, making him light up the entire room in a luminescent glow.

“Yeah?” he asked. “Thought you were the pretty girl, sweetheart.”

Your smile grew, nearly cracking the cuts littering the skin of your lips.

“Your pretty girl,” you reminded, and he gazed at you in a mix of adoration and amusement.

“My pretty girl,” he repeated.

The way he said it, so sweet and treacly, caused your mind to fuzz over with unrelenting homeliness. This was what it felt like to be loved, to be cherished, to be at home.

“Can you say it again?”

Simon beamed. “My pretty girl.”

You sucked in a breath. “Again.”

He leaned closer, his own fingers cradling the plains of your bruised face and layering the black and blue with tender touches and glimpses of a world where your skin would never feel the tortures of pain again, but rather longing and care.

“My pretty girl,” he repeated one more time, and by the last syllable, his breath was fanning across your face, warming you and nuzzling you with unfathomable fondness. “I really want to kiss you. You know that?”

Your eyes fluttered as you stared at him, feeling those moths transform back into butterflies from the simple weight of his words, swarming you with a never ending fervent.

“Would you do it if I said yes?” you managed to murmur through your newfound shyness.

“I’d be an idiot to ever deny you, sweetheart,” he muttered sweetly, and with no more words needing to be said, he pressed his chapped lips to yours, taking you with such gentle care it left you dizzy.

Home was where Simon went, and to Simon, he’d go with you to the ends of the Earth if it meant you’d follow him.

With close to three days left of your deal, he had high hopes you'd pull through.

posting this and running away (also thank u to my bbg abby for the BAR of a line about you being simons religion I LOVE U)

#cod #call of duty #simon ghost riley #cod mw3 #ghost cod #cod mwii #cod x reader #cod fanfic #ghost simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #hitman au #lets fucking GOOOO

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routefusion12 · 4 months ago

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myownwholewildworld · 8 months ago

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veni, vidi, victus sum (a "per aspera ad astra" drabble)

main masterlist | series masterlist | read on ao3 pairing: marcus acacius x emperor's daughter!reader. summary: marcus returns from war with the worst news possible. a/n: considering that i started this story here by posting the end first... may i interest you in how it all started? c: i appreciate comments and reblogs, they make me happy knowing that people enjoy my writing <3 take care x warnings: 18+, mdni. pure angst because i don't know any better. death of a secondary character. w/c: 2.3k

July, 106 AD

Marcus’ right hand shook uncontrollably. So much so, he had to wrap his left around the opposite wrist and squeeze as hard as he could, hoping to stop the tremor that suddenly took hold of his muscles and soul.

He hadn't even had time to wash off the mud and sweat. Nor to process everything that had happened in the last few days. Once his mission was done and dusted, only then and in the privacy of his own company, would he give himself permission to break down. He would be a terrible General if he let himself be dominated by emotion at such important moment for the Empire.

Returning from Dacia after an intense campaign, Marcus had been at the head of the Roman column that would carry out the offensive towards the east of the Dacian capital, Sarmizegetusa, while General Atticus, his inseparable friend to whom he would have blindly entrusted his life, and son-in-law to Emperor Traianus, led the battle towards the center of the town.

That week the Empire had annexed a new region that would bring great wealth. But Marcus, personally, had lost much more than what he truly had gained. Lady Justice had spoken, letting the balance tip completely in favour of collective Roman rule and not his personal one.

Marcus walked between the marble columns of a secluded hallway in the Domus Flavia, the public area of the Imperial Palace on Palatine Hill, as if he was an umbra. He put one foot in front of the other automatically, his mind on a land more than six hundred Roman miles away.

The siege of the Dacian capital to the east had been especially bloody. The enemy had presented a good strategy; the thread of many souls being skewed by the Parcae on both fronts. Among them, that of his own son, Augustus. At eighteen years old, he had been a great military promise, the best candidate to one day replace his father.

If Marcus closed his eyes, he could still remember Augustus’ warm, battered body in his arms. His empty orbs, observing the infinite, reflected the horror of his last seconds in this world. A thick and rudimentary pilum protruding from his chest was a macabre picture Marcus would have trouble forgetting. Its tip so sharp, it had pierced through the segmented lorica with ease, embedding itself in his heart, blood still gushing out.

By the time Marcus’ knees hit the ground by Augustus’ side, Pluto had already claimed his son to join His ranks. The bloodshed had continued to unfold around him, a maddening dance of swords, as if the world had not just stopped —as if Marcus had not just lost the only reason that kept him standing.

His reality had just sunk into the blackest misery and the rest of humanity was there, present yet impassive, blind to his pain.

But there had been no time to grieve — not there, during the darkest hour.

An enemy sword hovered over him, and he had to react.

When the battle died down and his soldiers celebrated the victory, Marcus dragged the corpse of his only son to the edge of some oleanders, where he managed to dig a hole with the help of his gladius and his own fingers.

Time was of the essence, which prevented him from laying Augustus to rest following the rituals of the Roman religion. He could only place a bronze coin over Augustus' mouth as payment to Charon, the ferryman of the Underworld, before throwing dirt on him. He then had composed himself as best he could, letting the General's façade fall on his face, and headed east, unaware that his friend Atticus had suffered a similar end.

On one day alone, he had lost two of the most important people in his life.

His mind returned to the present. From his right hand hung the decapitated head of Decebalus, already so decomposed that there was no blood left inside. The coward had tried to escape to Ranisstorum and, in his last desperate moments, committed suicide when Marcus and another officer, Tiberius Maximus, were hunting him down.

Finding his enemy defeated by his own demons was an anticlimactic moment, given the events of the previous days. Tiberius circumambulated towards Sarmizegetusa again, while Marcus and his legion, along with Atticus’, returned to Rome.

He was defeated, physically and mentally. Marcus just wanted to finish that damned mission and return to his villa. An empty one, devoid of a family he once revered.

In the blink of an eye, he found himself in the throne room, with Emperor Traianus staring at him, a sardonic smile painting his lips. After placing the head of Decebalus at the feet of the Emperor, he gave his last report of war. When the time came to deliver the news that his son-in-law, General Atticus, had perished in battle, the smile faded from Traianus’ face. That would be a hard blow to recover from.

Marcus explained the details that had been entrusted to him, omitting the death of his firstborn and ending with the fact that Atticus’ legion was carrying his corpse through the streets of Rome at that very moment, heading to the basilica of the Domus Flavia to begin with the funeral rites.

At least one of the two would have proper burial.

He said goodbye with deferential courtesy and shuffled out of there. He still had one last assignment: to inform the wife of General Atticus and daughter of the Emperor, you.

With heavy feet, Marcus ambled towards the most private wing of the Palace, the Domus Augustana. One of the maids guided him through the unfamiliar corridors, leaving him in front of a basin raised on a half column. Marcus took the hint, realising that there was still dirt—and specks of dried blood—embedded in his face. He did as he was asked, drying his skin with a linen cloth, before resuming his pace.

Finally, they stopped in front of double doors, and the maid knocked.

A minute later, they swung open.

Steeling himself for what was to come, Marcus bowed his aching back, keeping his eyes on the expensive stone that lined the floor.

“Domina mea (my lady),” he greeted you with deference.

Keeping busy while worry stalked the back of your mind was a colossal task. One you should have been used to by now, but it was nonetheless nerve-wracking.

Having to wait around until you heard news from your husband was not how you wanted to spend your days, but for love you had to. For Rome, you had to. Your husband, Resius Atticus, was your father’s most trusted ally, which meant he was kept away from you for long nights.

You flicked through the pages of the shabby parchment, its ink slowly fading with the passage of time. Finding yourself reading the same paragraph again, you decided to put it aside. You curled up on the chaise lounge, hugging your knees as the sun filtered through the slit window — a ray of sunshine kissing your skin, leaving a warm trail.

Closing your eyes, you revelled in the rare moment of quiet, of peace, a smile lingering on the corners of your mouth.

A knock on the door swept the instant away, and then your heart fluttered uncontrollably.

Today was the day when Resius was meant to return. To his duties in the court, but also to you. You looked forward to settling back into a routine with him, lazy afternoons spent by the private gardens, talking sweet nothings to each other. Despite the years spent by his side, you didn’t tire of him, of your unbreakable relationship.

So, when you swung the double doors open with a pearly smile tugging at your lips, you did not expect to see your husband’s best friend instead.

Your heart suddenly stopped in your chest, swelling to an uncomfortable point. It stretched, a crawling feeling tearing your skin apart from the inside out.

Widened eyes, they locked on his, searching for answers and finding none. Marcus wore an impassible expression, but the way he averted his glassy eyes told you everything you needed to know.

This could only mean one thing. Your worst nightmare taking form, escaping from your dreams and filtering into reality.

Still shocked, you saw the server scurrying away, leaving you alone with the General — but not your General.

“May I come in, Augusta (Imperial Princess)?” his soft voice broke through your blocked eardrums.

Jarred, you nodded, stepping aside to let Acacius in.

You stood there, numb and confounded, your brain trying to find another reason for General Acacius’ visit.

“Please, let us sit down,” Acacius spoke gently, a firm hand on the small of your back guiding you towards the chaise lounge.

This truly felt like a dream, ethereal and foggy, something your vivid imagination had come up with during an unrequited afternoon nap. That had to be it, because this could not be it. You still had a thousand lives to live besides Resius — you had prayed to the Gods for his safe return and they never failed you.

Under Acacius’ direction, you sat down, the pillow underneath giving way to the weight of both of you.

“Domina mea, I regret to be the bearer of bad news. General Atticus perished at the mercy of a Dacian sword, defending two of his fallen soldiers from certain death,” his words shook your system, the numbness taking hold of all your being.

Silence lingered, and you both sat there with eyes fixed on nothing.

This just wasn’t real, couldn’t be. You refused to register such cruel information, shaking your head to unhear what had been spoken aloud.

“No, you have to be wrong, Acacius. I am sure you are,” you finally replied, eyes looking for his tired orbs. A hand flew to one of his resting on his knee, squeezing it tight. “You are wrong. This must be some twisted joke.”

Acacius’ sight did not lie though. You could see the pain emanating from his eyes, the utter bareness they exuded. With pursed lips, he just stared at you, his free hand hovering over yours on his knee until he stroked it warmly.

“I am truly sorry, Domina mea. I… I wish I was lying,” his voice faltered momentarily. “I lament not having been by his side. Had I been, I would have gladly traded my life for his. I would have…”

Acacius did not finish the sentence, because the wail that tore through your throat interrupted him. A fresh wound split your chest in half, all emotions pouring out in a sudden burst. Tears welled up, blurring your vision, and you clutched at your chest, your lungs shrinking with your heart. A burning sensation filled you and then deserted you, leaving you empty, cold — broken.

Losing Resius was a death sentence to your heart, to your soul. To all you were and would be. Life would not—could not—be the same if he was no longer brightening it for you. Hope was no longer your companion, the easy happiness that usually shimmered within you all gone with the blow of a few simple words.

Something crawled inside you, twisting and twitching and breaking and consuming. Something dark, something sad, something shattered. Grief suffocated your heart. This was not pain, this was torment. Living hell.

The raw intensity of it all clouded your mind. Your fractured soul looking for a chink of solace, wanting to cling onto a sliver of hope. Before thinking, you let go of the dam of your emotions, sobs flooding your mouth, as you turned around and hugged Acacius.

Little did it matter the blood and dirt on his worn armour, you needed the comfort of a friendly shoulder. Acacius would understand your pain, the suffering that crushed your soul, because he had also lost his best friend. The two of them had been inseparable for decades — you both had lost someone important that day. He would understand. You knew he did.

Threading your arms around his shoulders, you cried your sorrow in the crook of his neck, kind palms rubbing your back, commending your pain to leave your body. So, you wept until your eyes were bloodshot, until they itched and dried like a river during the worst drought of the century. Trickles of tears stained your cheeks, lashes clumping together under the heaviness of tearful dew.

Time was lost to the dragging pain, and only when Acacius’ hands stroked your shoulders, did you venture a look in his direction, leaning back. The naked expression on his face told you how much agony he carried. The soreness his eyes distilled was on par with yours.

“I am sorry for your loss too,” you offered your condolences. After all, he had lost his best friend. “I trust that your son Augustus found his way back home safe.”

Before their departure, Acacius and his son had paid you both a visit, a meal shared at night between old friends’ jests and company. You remembered Augustus’ enthusiasm to make his father proud on their first campaign together. How Acacius had looked at his heir with adulation and pride — the apple of his eyes. Acacius’ wife had died during childbirth, which had only reinforced the close relationship between father and son.

A feeble smile loitered on his mouth, a brief nod putting your mind at ease. Neither of you needed more suffering tonight.

“He is resting now,” was his succinct reply.

But Acacius always was, so his reassurance soothed your soul a little.

At least Acacius and his son had made it out alive.

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