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nyrrwrites · 3 months ago

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✮⋆˙ 𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭��𝐫, 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐤𝐲 ( n. sully )

✮⋆˙ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : neteyam ✘ omaticayan!reader ✮⋆˙ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 1.3k+ ✮⋆˙ 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 : fluff!! heavy descriptions of affection & intimacy (not explicitly!) , themes of war/burden ( from neteyam ), mild angst & vulnerability, deep yearning, we're just lovesick and missing neteyam over here <3 ✮⋆˙ 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐲 : @cafekitsune !!!

Him.

Neteyam.

His name is not just an appellation —it is a celestial phenomenon, something too vast, too consuming to be contained in mere syllables. It is an eclipse, a supernova, a ruffle between the flickering stars. It is the slow-burning fire that never dies, the heartbeat beneath the steady pulse of the universe. It is the way he exists, not softly, nor fleetingly but fiercely, with the entirety of eternity carved into the sinew of his being.

And tonight, he exists around you.

The skies stretch in its vastness, velvet blacks, deep violets, and fractured indigos, speckled with silver lights that watch but never speak. The fires burn low in the distance, scattered embers smoldering beneath the bones of the Omaticayastronghold, dusting the treetops with the faintest glimmers of bioluminescent longing.

But none of it, none of it, scorches the way he does.

Neteyam is warmth for he harbors the heat of distant suns across foreign galaxies. He is gravity for he tethers you to the ground beneath your joined figures. He is the sculptured ember of a dying fire and the soaring inferno of a newborn star. He is the steady thrum of a heartbeat in the hush of the night.

His flesh, deep and rich azures, streaked with bold, winding stripes, transforms into glaciered sapphires beneath nature's light, a constellation of the cosmos itself splattered across his canvas.

And you are here, tangled within him.

Pressed against his chest, where the rhythmic cadence of his heart beats beneath your flitting ear — strong, fervent, a palpitation so deep, so ancient, it feels like the pulse of Eywa's child. The sound deeply lulls you, swaddling itself around your tired limbs, slipping beneath your skin until it becomes one with you.

His arms are a fortress, a place where no harm can ever reach you. They cage you in: strong, certain, protecting.

Devoted fingers drift in tender spirals along the dip of your waist, delicate and leisured, not finding the necessity to hold tighter in order to be known —he is already there, perceived, already part of you. He maps the familiar terrains of your body; contours, planes, curves, no line left untraced.

“Yawne…”

A murmur. Aerated, deep, husked. Voice a tide of burning honey flooding your senses, dribbling down the curve of your throat and sinking into your very essence, not just heard but consumed.

The moment hangs in fragile suspension — almost as if the very air between you could shatter with one wrong exhale. There is something tender lodged beneath your ribs, your heart aching and bare, pressing subtle to compacting against bone and breath. It makes you feel full and hollow all at once, and it swells to the point of breaking and spewing wide open, ready to become.

Because this, him, Neteyam is everything.

He is fragranced of rain-soaked forests, whirled with sun-warmed leaves, wafted in dusks and dove-hued rivers.

Your own digits wander over him, taking in the shift of pure muscle beneath the flawless blue flesh. He shivers beneath your touch — just the tiniest of tremor one perhaps would not be able to decipher. But you.

He is beautiful. Fuck, he's breathtaking.

"My beautiful boy," you always used to croon to him. Back before scarlets and conflicts tainted your young souls' childhood. He would always attempt to fight against it, the nickname, though his body's reaction to your voice uttering it rendered his actions pointless.

The burnished glow of his stare rests upon you, half-lidded and ineffable when you speak those three words. His eyes — twin suns, flaring golds, liquefied brilliance poured down on you, smolders and captures breaths in its silent intensity.

And oh, how you burn beneath that gaze.

Neteyam.

The quiet protector. The firstborn son with the weight of the whole world sunk between his scorching shoulder blades. You can feel it beneath your hands — the knots in his muscles, the tension clawed in the hollow of his spine. He carries everything, only to realize, here, in this moment, that he does not have to carry it alone.

You sink into him without questioning. Without pondering. His arms tighten — his breath cutting for a split second — before he lets you have him.

No one has ever simply let you have them before.

There is reverence in his touch, palm finding a niche on the nape of your neck, large and gentle. Fingers weave through the stray curls and cascades of braids. His thumb's pad strokes sweetly along your jaw and over your neck, coaxing the tension from your figure until you're a little more over the statement of just pudding in his hands.

He soothed you without even trying, without even the raw knowledge of how much you have longed to be touched like this — to be loved without needing to plead for it.

He is not a gentle man — no, not always. The world has not allowed him to be, for hands were built to fight, to protect, to bleed for those who cannot bleed for themselves.

But when those same hands find you, when they follow along the bent of your waist beneath the moonlight, when they knot into your hair,

They are not the hands of a warrior then. They are the hands of a man who would kneel at your feet if only to press his mouth to your blemishes, to taste every sorrow and wound the world has seared into your being and make it his own.

Your chest flutters — soft and overbearing, such a peculiar join— because you are not used to being tended to.

“Sleep, ma y/n,” he insists one more with a sweet voice that is so soft, afraid he’ll break you if he speaks any louder.

But how can you sleep when he is the one keeping you awake?

How can you sleep when he is fire wrapped in flesh — the churn of some faraway galaxy buried beneath skin and sinew and breath?

Solace and yearning collide — warmth and ache, safety and hunger all in one being. He gives without asking. He holds without keeping. He touches without taking.

Your fingers find the stripes etched across his ribs, tracing them with your own overpowering worship. Blue melting into darker blue —linking with the faint bioluminescence of Eywa’s kiss. His skin is burning threads of silk beneath your touch, every inch of him carved by the hands of the Great Mother herself.

You feel him shiver again with the added physical contact, and you beam at how his heart vividly stutters beneath your ear.

His exhale kisses your forehead as you nose his cheek, knotting your fingers between his. "Sleep with me, my love."

His breath stirs against your temple, as if the whole world could fall away and he would still hold you like this. But what gnaws at his bare mind is, will he always be granted to do such a beautiful thing?

You know his dreams are plagued with war.

You feel it in his breathing patterns alone — the weight of everything he carries, even now, even in sleep.

But he has never neglected your words, your queries, your pleas, your commands. The universe could burn down right before you and you’d still be safe here. In one another's embrace, heat.

He does not let go, and he attempts to sleep for you as you shift in his arms. And this time you cradle his head to your neck. Let his face find solace in the crevice there, breathing you in, letting the heat increase tenfold.

Not two halves of one whole, not tethered by tsaheylu alone. You are one soul — created from the same breath, and from the exact heartbeat as he felt yours synchronizing with his own beneath his cheek.

if fate were cruel, if time were unkind, if the world dared to pull him from your grasp he would find his way back.

Because love like this does not end. It does not break or bend, nor does it fade with the tides or crumble with the years. It remained.

Neteyam firmly, fervently believes he would spend eternity past his life chasing this, you across every star, every ocean, every sky, every brewing cosmos.

You know — you are more than aware — that he would still find a way to hold, to reach, find you.

Because that is who Neteyam is. And because you are his.

#avatar the way of water #avatar #neteyam #avatar james cameron #atwow #neteyam x reader #neteyam x omatikaya!reader #neteyam te suli tsyeyk'itan #neteyam sully x reader #neteyam x reader drabble #neteyam sully #neteyam fanfic #neteyam avatar

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fairyysoup · 9 months ago

Text

the devil i know

chapter one: god you've got the blackest eyes

(repost)

fic tag | fic playlist | fic masterlist

pairing(s): crossroads demon!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: To summon a demon at a crossroads, simply cast a circle, make an offering, and recite an incantation. What happens from that point on is subject to your desire… and the demon’s.

cw: explicit, smut, dubcon elements, making a deal with a demon, inspired by american and european folklore, sacrilegious themes, horror, witch!reader, reader is 21+ in modern day, eddie is immortal, coercion (a bit), sex pact, marking, possessive behavior, animal death, trauma, reader is ostracized by her very religious hometown, dark comedy, tfw your accidental boyfriend is a demon who is obsessed with you bc he doesn’t know how to be normal about anything ever, dead dove: do not eat

please check masterlist and individual parts for content warnings before reading. this fic contains dark themes. your media consumption is your own responsibility.

a/n: Hi folks, for the month of October this year I'm going to be reuploading all the chapters of this fic onto tumblr, this time hopefully for good. I apologize for the time that it's been taken down. Genuinely, this fic has garnered so much kindness and support and I think of it as one of my biggest accomplishments. I hope you all enjoy it just as much the second time around as the first.

ALL OF MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

Through me you pass into the city of woe, Through me you pass into eternal pain, Through me you pass among forsaken people. Justice moved my exalted creator; I was wrought by divine power, Supreme wisdom, and primal love. Before me all things created were eternal, And eternal I endure. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. -Dante Alighieri, The Inferno, Canto III

The book you’ve used for ages now, since late in your junior year of high school, has only one page in it that you haven’t utilized. You don’t know how much faith to put in it– you’re a little short on faith, these days– but, the spellbook lays it out simply, so you follow its directions to the letter.

To summon a demon at a crossroads, go to a place where two paths meet on the dark moon. You find peace and quiet in the woods, deep where you know no one walks at night but two paths cross in a small clearing banked with trees. It’s your favorite place to go when you want to do a spell– ritual– and you don’t want to be bothered. The whole thing can’t be more than twenty feet across. Above the overhang of trees, there’s no moon in the sky, only stars.

Cast a circle of protection. That took more research than just the book in your hands, but years of collecting information have given you learned knowledge– there are a million ways to cast a circle, and different circles for different purposes. You do your best to create one for protection. You draw a literal circle in the dirt with a stick, fill it with salt, and walk around the circle three times clockwise to cast it. You light candles to give yourself some light, and to free up your hands of the flashlight you carried to see your way through the woods.

Make an offering of copper. Your hand pauses on the copper dog tag in your hand. You’d thought of just offering a penny, but you remembered reading somewhere that pennies barely contain copper anymore, and you didn’t have anything else that was entirely made of the one metal.

You run your finger over the embossed name on it. Lacey. Your pet’s old collar feels heavy in your hand as you remove the tag from the leather strap and bury it in the earth, you guess, to reach the… Underworld? Hell? You can’t honestly say, considering the text you’re referencing only calls it the Otherworld.

It’s a big sacrifice. It’s personal. But, you guess, that gives it more meaning. Making a deal is personal business, and you have your reasons.

Recite the summoning incantation. A stanza of words you don’t understand. You don’t think it’s in Latin, but you try your best, all the same. You read them from the book before you, and feel your blood rushing in your veins as you do.

State your desire out loud in a clear voice. Well, that’s a little more difficult. What is it that you want?

You take a breath, go to speak, and then stop. You don’t know how to start. You don’t know exactly how to describe your pain. You don’t know how to voice your anger well enough, you just know you need to… you need to get it out, somehow. This is a very crucial step in the ritual, you have to do it.

“I came here to make a deal,” you speak frankly, clearly. “I’m prepared to do anything. I’ve run out of options. I’ve been hurt too many times, by too many people who didn’t care what they did to me. I’ve lost everything I genuinely loved. I’m… I’m angry, and desperate, and I’m frightened. And I feel so alone. It’s eating me alive, and I just… I just want the ability to make things go my way, for once.” Good enough, you hope.

Wait for an answer.

You do. You listen intently, to the song of the leaves in the trees rustling in the slight breeze, to the crickets chirping in the grass. You wait long enough that you start to rethink your approach.

It could be that things will turn around if you just wait another month, or another month after that. Maybe you’ll get the car back. Maybe you’ll get the promotion that was given to the newbie that you trained. Maybe your ex will stop coming around your work to intimidate you. Maybe you’ll get a new dog to take the place of the one that he killed. Maybe the evangelical town you live in will stop shunning you and calling you a witch, like something out of the middle ages.

Unlikely, that last one.

Just when you swear it’s a failure, that you should just pack up and leave, that’s when a strong gust of wind rips through the clearing out of nowhere. The candles blow out– and then, oddly enough, relight themselves. There’s a slight scent of smoke on the breeze, and you look around to make sure none of the candles fell over in the wind.

They’re all perfectly fine. There’s nothing amiss, it seems, until you hear a cough and movement across the clearing. You look forward, and see a pair of black combat boots in the stream of light from your flashlight. You follow the boots up to a pair of legs, clad in dark jeans, and then further up, to a torso, and a head, and a pair of sparkling eyes.

“Hi.”

You stare at him, probably looking like a fish out of water with the way your mouth opens and closes. You’d fully expected the traditional scary depiction of a demon– maybe horns, goat hooves, et cetera. But the man that answered your call is… just a man. A pretty one. He has long, curly hair, which falls over his broad shoulders and stirs in the wind. His plush lips curve up in a relaxed, cocky smile, as he takes in the sight of you in return.

He quirks an eyebrow at you. “Are you just gonna stare at me all night?”

“Sorry, hi. Hello.” You shake your head. “Can you believe I honestly thought I’ve been doing it wrong this whole time?”

“I can believe a lot of things. You know, there’s a reason why the demon summoning ritual is first in that book.” His voice is soft and resonant. You get a mental image of heat waves radiating from tar-black and glowing magma, rolling slowly over lava beds. The image disappears just as soon as it flashes into your mind.

“Well, to be completely honest, I wasn’t sure how I felt about making a deal with a demon first thing,” you explain, looking away shyly. “But I’ve tried all the spells in this book and not a single one of them worked. Just seems like everything is getting worse all the time.”

He doesn’t look away– rather, he keeps staring at you, unblinkingly. Like you’re the most fascinating creature he’s ever seen. He leans up against the tree that he appeared beside, his leather jacket falling open to reveal a shirt with a demon’s head on it. Fitting. He takes a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket.

“So, now you wanna make a deal with little ol’ me, huh?” He grins, a gorgeous smile that flashes bright, sharp teeth at you. He lifts a cigarette to his mouth and bites it gently between his teeth. He doesn’t pull out a lighter. Instead, you watch him light up with a small flame that erupts from the tip of his thumb.

“Depends on who you are,” you retort, eyes following the movement of his hands. They’re weighed down by large, silver rings that reflect the light of the flame before it snuffs out. “What’s your name?”

He makes a short noise in his throat, shaking his head abruptly. He doesn’t look nearly as intimidating as you feel he should– more like he’s trying to warn you against something you don’t want. He peers at you from beneath his wavy bangs as he pulls the cigarette from his mouth and uses it to point at you. “Names are really powerful things where I come from, babydoll. Best not to bite off more than you can chew yet. Once we cut a deal– that’s when you get my name.”

You make a face as you mull that over. “So what do I call you, in the meantime? Demon daddy?”

“You could,” he chuckles. The demon rocks to the side, crossing his legs at the ankles. “If you really wanted to. I wouldn’t mind, it’s flattering.”

You grunt. “I think I’ll pass on that, actually.” He tilts his head with a sicker, watching you with an amused smile while you shift in place. “So, do I– I mean, you need to know what I want, right? Is that how this starts?”

“No, I know what you want.” He exhales a stream of smoke from his nostrils. “You want power. To get a fair shake, find your place, change your life. Defend yourself against the assholes making that life, well. A living hell.” As he spits out the words, his voice rings sharp through the trees, like the strike of a hammer on glowing metal, shooting sparks off into the air.

“I want to take all this pain and just… return to sender. Give it back to them, y’know? I never wanted any of it,” you justify. Your voice is too small in comparison with his. “Maybe then I’ll be able to fucking breathe.”

For how little space you allow yourself to take up, he seems to consume the rest of it. He nods slowly. “That’s a fair request, sweetheart.”

“It’s selfish, I know.”

“Making a deal for power is inherently a selfish thing,” he shrugs. “Own it. I’m certainly not judging.”

You let out a shaky breath. You’re still so nervous, being so near him– ten feet away and growing closer every second, it seems, even though neither of you have moved. You feel like, no matter how far you pull back, the flow of fiery lava he seems to embody will keep creeping towards you until you’re burned alive.

His dark eyes glow like coals in the night as he looks you up and down, and then he quickly pushes himself away from the tree. You startle at the abrupt movement, and watch as he swings around it like Gene Kelly on a lamp post.

When he rounds the tree, he uses the momentum to throw himself toward your circle. You flinch, and he frowns, but continues moving toward you at a slower pace, holding his hands out innocently. “Wanna know a secret? About how all this,” he twirls a finger in the air, indicating the ritual you’re in the middle of, “works?”

You nod, gazing up at him shyly. If you felt at all powerful while casting the circle and starting the ritual, he’s managed to take the wind out of your sails. You can feel the power radiating off of him in waves.

He smirks at you. “You make your petition– when you say the words in that little book,” he points at the volume at your feet, “and that petition is answered by whichever demon caters most to that desire.” He points at himself emphatically, his eyebrows raised. “Me? Infernal majesty of freaks and misfits. I’m your demon daddy.”

You finally giggle, and it makes him smile fondly, like that’s what he’d been gunning for all along. He backs up a step and puffs his cigarette.

“I’m here to help you, sweetheart.” He regards you for a second, like he’s thinking things over. “That is, as long as you agree to my terms.”

“Terms?” You echo, but you were sort of expecting that. Nothing for nothing, right? “What are the terms?”

“Ah, they’re simple. Very traditional,” he waves his hand like it’s frivolous. He holds his hand out in midair, and just like how he’d conjured the flames, he produces a weathered book. It looks like a composition book that has scribbles and doodles all over the front of it– the same demon head that adorns his shirt. “You sign your name with your blood in my little black book, you hop on one foot with your hand on your head and pledge your undying fealty to the dark lord Kthulu, and then you meet me on the sabbath to kill a child and make them into soup.”

He smiles, fluttering his eyelashes at you innocently.

“Are you fucking serious?” You blurt.

“Of course I’m not fucking serious– what is this, the dark ages?” He snorts as he lowers the composition book. “Nah, we don’t do human sacrifice on the sabbath anymore, it was getting too difficult to evade the witch hunters.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He flashes you a disarming grin. You can feel yourself halfway smirking as well, incredulous but somehow enjoying his humor. Then he shakes his head and says, seriously, “No, you do have to sign my book, though. And then meet me back here on the full moon to fuck.”

You blink at him, reeling from the whiplash of that. “You… I’m sorry?”

“I find it best not to sugarcoat it, y’know.” He shrugs, “Think of this as a marriage, of sorts. I give you the power to smite thine enemies, live deliciously, blah blah blah, and then you meet me at the crossroads every full moon to be my whore and we fuck like bunnies all night. Simple as that.”

“That’s far from simple.”

“It doesn’t have to be monogamous, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he continues frankly, “except on the full moon. I won’t compromise about that– you’ll be all mine, and I’m all yours. No takesies backsies.”

“No– that’s not–” You exhale, holding your hands over your eyes. “I’m just… not promiscuous like that…”

“Sweetheart.” He waits until you’ve lowered your hands to look at him, and he hums, with a saccharine smile that reminds you of the power you’d felt sweep through the clearing when he arrived. “You won’t be the first good girl I’ve broken, and you won’t be the last. If you’re worried about promiscuity, well… I answered your petition. I know what goes on in that pretty head, and it barely scratches the surface of what I’ve seen and done.”

The toe of his boot barely nudges the edge of your circle, and a spark crackles in the dark from the impact. The light dances in his eyes longer than it remains in the air, like they caught the spark and ignited.

“Trust me,” he says, drawing you in with the low register of his voice. “I can give you more than power. I can give you protection. I can give you real happiness. Karma’s a fucking bitch, so I can be, too. This is just such a little thing in return. And who knows… you may even like it.”

You shiver at that, even though his presence feels hot, like his stream of lava is surrounding you, crowding you in, boiling you where you stand. He’s right– you absolutely might like it.

Because there’s just something magnetic between you, isn’t there? You can sense it, more than any heat and any sort of primal fear you might have instinctively at his presence. There’s a certain pull you feel toward him, emanating even through the salt barrier on the ground.

You want to wrap yourself in him. Boil you alive, burn you to a crisp, destroy you– you don’t care.

“Or… is it that you don’t like this body?” He wonders aloud, striding backward two steps. He turns, his hand lifting his seemingly ever-burning cigarette to his lips. “Figures– y’know, I can be anything you want me to be, babydoll.”

Confused, you watch as he transforms in front of you. In the length of two steps while he paces across the clearing, his face and body stretches and contorts, until you’re not staring at the same visage anymore. He stops, and he turns to you with his palms up, like he’s waiting for your approval.

You’re looking at Tom fucking Cruise.

“Oh, no, absolutely not,” you shake your head vehemently, scowling. You wave your hands demandingly, “Put it back. You were so hot before– please, please go back to the way you were.”

The demon grins and turns his head, throwing the cigarette away. His hair grows back to its previous length, his face morphing as if made of clay until you meet the same pretty smile you’ve come to enjoy looking at.

He chuckles, grabbing a lock of his hair and drawing it across his lips. “You think I’m hot?”

“Of course,” you murmur, but you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he can hear it. His eyes are embers, blazing at you from beneath his bangs. “Is that what you normally look like? Is that your true form?”

He makes an iffy sound. “It’s what I looked like when I was human. My true form has more horns and unhinged jaws and claws and all that. You wouldn’t like it.”

“I thought you said you could read my mind. Do you know how much monster porn I’ve consumed? That’s hot as shit to me,” you argue, and he snaps his head towards you in surprise. You point at yourself. “Freak and misfit.”

He laughs, and it sounds like the roaring of an out of control fire, burning up everything in its path. He kicks his heel on the ground and steps up to your circle again. “I like you, baby. I really do. What do you say?”

“How do I know that I can trust you?” you ask, an annoying lump forming in your throat with the question. You’ve been burned before by people far less powerful than this demon, yet who still hold so much power over you. However much they have.

“You can’t,” he answers, more honestly than most would. He tilts his head with a crooked smile. “Not to get all preachy on you, but even if I wasn’t a demon… trust is built, not a given. ‘The devil you know,’ right? Better than the one that you don’t.”

“Yeah,” you agree, your voice coming out breathy and winded the longer you gaze up into his eyes.

“Trust me to be… intense, I guess,” he shrugs. “And probably impulsive. But I’ll always deliver on our deal. Be my witch, my wife, my whore– whatever you want to call it, but be mine. I think we’ll have so much fun together.”

“Yeah, I think– I think I will.” You’re nodding, and his smile grows with yours. “I want to.”

“Let me in, sweetheart.”

Your toe scuffs the boundary on the ground, breaking the circle. Immediately, your senses are assaulted by smoke, not just the tobacco he’s been smoking but the scent of a wildfire, of cities burned to ashes, of desolation and destruction and pyroclastic flow and roaring, exploding volcanoes.

Your demon crosses the line you’d drawn on the ground with ease, producing the worn composition book in his hand again. The cover reads Hellfire Club in chicken scratch handwriting.

“Are there others?” You ask, prompted by the word Club on the front as he flips open the book to a middle page. An agreement is already written out in red ink. “Do you have more than one, um…”

“Consort?” He whispers in your ear. Goosebumps rise on your skin, and your stomach flutters. “Not for a long time. I’m very picky about my partners. They have to be just as much of a freak as I am.”

Your heart thumps loudly in your chest, although the admission makes you feel… better, in a way. You squint in the dark, but with the exception of the candles around your circle, there’s nothing to allow you to properly read what’s written on the page.

He sighs, shifting on his feet beside you. “Are you one of those people who’ll read the whole contract?”

“Absolutely I am,” you hum. The book feels heavier in your hands than it should. “Can you give me a light?”

“Jesus Christ.” He produces a flame from his forefinger just as you turn to give him a confused look.

“Shouldn’t you, like… evaporate after saying that?”

In the yellow glow of the flame, he just blinks at you, looking amused. “Things aren’t as black and white as you think they are, believe me.”

You snatch his wrist and yank his arm closer to the page. His body collides with yours, and he grunts in your ear as he wraps his other arm around you, embracing you from behind. You’re engulfed in the scent of smoke and the heat of his flames, impossibly hot and comforting all the same.

His hair brushes your shoulder as you read his contract. It’s just a few lines, but the weight they hold will seal your fate.

The agreement made this night of the dark moon shall henceforth be enacted from the signing of this document, that hereby renders the human party’s soul bound to the infernal party. Witness that the first party must appear before the second party each full moon to lay in matrimonial fashion, and that in return the first party shall be protected and given the powers of the second from here until the human’s mortal passing.

“Aww, that’s sweet,” you coo, tracing the red ink with your fingers.

The demon over your shoulder rolls his eyes. “It’s a fucking pre-nup.”

“Doesn’t seem like a fair trade, though, does it?” You murmur. “I mean, I get the power to change my circumstances and you get– what– sex once a month?”

His hand tightens on your waist, and you pause. You turn your head to look at him, and his eyes flicker dangerously, so close to yours. They aren’t just glowing coals- this close, you can see the small details. You can see the swirling, the churning of lava within them.

“It’s not just sex, is it?”

“What do you think making a deal with a demon entails, sweetheart? Read the fine print.”

You look back at the page. There are no other words on it, save for the ones you’ve already read. “I don’t…?”

“It’s your soul, honey,” he mutters, pointing at the word. His mouth is muffled against your shoulder as he peers over it. “I won’t ask anything of you other than the sex, as long as you live. But right now, you’re offering up your soul. And once your life is up, you get to be just like me. Understand?”

“I… yeah. I understand.” You let go of his wrist, but pause over the pages of the book. “I don’t have anything to sign with.”

Wordlessly, the demon takes your hand. You let him caress your wrist, feeling your pulse with his thumb. Then, before you realize what’s happening, a sharp sting makes you yelp as he cuts your skin with his pointed thumbnail.

He shushes you, letting the blood well up on your skin. “I did say you needed to sign with blood.”

Your voice shakes when you hold your dripping wrist over the page. “I thought you said you were joking.”

“Not about the book. Rules of the trade, I can’t change it.” Your blood splatters the notebook, dripping into the crease of the page. Once he’s satisfied, he lifts your wrist to his mouth and closes his lips around the small wound. It heals in a heartbeat.

“Is that it, then?” You ask, mesmerized by the sight and feeling of his mouth on your skin. “Don’t you have to sign?”

Your demon kisses your wrist gently, his lips soft, inviting. “This is going to hurt,” he warns, and you nod. The heat of his breath makes your skin tingle, all your nerves on high alert.

But then that tingling turns into a burn, that turns into a searing pain. You feel like your skin is on fire, an invisible hot brand held against your wrist. You cry out as he holds you close, letting you bury your face into his neck, holding you up as your knees threaten to buckle.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs to you as you whimper. He holds your arm as the pain fades into a throbbing ache, cradles your hand against his cheek as he coos into your hair. “You’re so strong. Not many people can handle my mark, you know. Fate works in funny ways.”

Your demon holds you until you can stand on your own, until your breathing evens out and you can compose yourself. He shushes you quietly, rocking you from side-to-side with a soothing hand stroking your head. Then he holds your face, and kisses your tear stained cheeks. The touch of his lips stokes at flames beneath your skin.

“I’ll look forward to our time together, little witch,” he whispers. And with a quick, chaste kiss to your lips, he disappears entirely.

You stay in the circle for a while, clutching your throbbing wrist and crying frustrated tears. You wonder if you made the right decision, and yet, you don’t understand why you just want him to come back. You miss the comfort of his presence, even if you don’t know enough about him to justify it. All he did was hurt your arm and take your blood and kiss away your tears and make you a witch.

It’s too late to go back on your decision now. There’s an all-encompassing fire you can feel burning in your veins, emitting from the pulsating wound on your wrist. His power. His fire.

You pull your hand away from your wrist to finally inspect the mark that he branded you with, declaring you his in the same chicken scratch that had been on the cover of his book. It’s small enough that a well placed bracelet would cover it, but you don’t know that you’ll want to.

Eddie.

Your demon’s name is Eddie.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #tdik!fic #stranger things #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #demon!eddie #demon!eddie munson #stranger things fanfic #roses*

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glitteringdust · 6 days ago

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The first time Davrin realized he was in love was in the heat of battle— covered head to toe in muck and gore as wave after wave of darkspawn poured through the flooded parts of Lavendel. He swings his sword and downs the hurlock throwing spears, turning on his heel just in time to see Rook surrounded by a seething mob.

He stands knee-deep in stagnant water, lightning trailing from his fingertips, dancing up and along his arms as he coats his entire form in glimmering purple sparks. Bending his knees into a crouch, he waits for the exact moment to unleash the storm.

It's brief, the hint of delight that crosses Rook's expression. He had been waiting to try this move out, practiced it at least a dozen times at this point but without the payoff. He'd always let the magic die out.

The darkspawn slashes forward, claws connecting at the same time he jumps up. The lightning forks itself outward, pouncing eagerly upon the dampened darkspawn. Rook fade-steps out of the fray, watching the calamity of his work fry every last darkspawn into ash.

Davrin can't help the words that leave his mouth, "Damn, Rook."

He's panting, but grins all the same, "A bit more lively on the follow through than I expected. My fingers are stinging."

All Davrin can see is explosive strength in a tightly packed form, a force of nature. It was… entirely the wrong time to be thinking of Rook's beauty, but the fact that the elf could take down just about anything in his way was more than attractive.

They push deeper into the overrun fort, the last of the horde contained to the boarded up entryway. This time, Rook replaces lightning with fire, the puddles of blight glistening as the flames ignite the entire area into an inferno. The darkspawn all but melt, and any stragglers are easily put down by Harding's arrows.

The whirlwind of flames releases Rook, "Fire is… that needs a bit of work." He coughs little puffs of smoke, "Mission successful, though."

He never thought Rook could look any hotter than he did already, until he'd seen him coated in flames one moment and completely fine the next.

"That was beyond impressive Rook." He says the words intentionally, hoping the other would blush in response.

He doesn't disappoint, running a hand through his hair as he looks away, cheeks flushed, "Still needs tweaking, but you can watch me any time you'd like."

"Any time I'd like, huh?"

"I'm told I put on quite the show."

"I bet you do—"

Harding clears her throat, "If you guys are done flirting now, we should probably go let Evka and Antoine know the good news."

"What? We weren’t… that’s not…" Rook begins to protest, Davrin doing the same. Harding looks unconvinced, but shrugs her shoulders as she starts to head back, the two wardens following behind.

—

He didn't think about the consequences of doing too much too fast, and it wasn't until he was back at the Lighthouse that he knew what those consequences were.

Every muscle fiber stings, pins and needles in his fingers slowly traveling up his arms. Other parts of him feel as though flames still licked at tender flesh, searing hot and almost numb in some spots.

Almost, but not quite, the pain reminds him.

The bath house is full of steam, but Rook can barely relax enough to remove his clothes. He should just give up, crawl back to bed and hope the worst of it fades by morning.

"Looks like we had the same idea." Davrin says from behind him.

"After Lavendel, you kind of have to," He carefully looks over his shoulder, but ends up wincing anyway.

"Hey, what's wrong? Are you hurt?"

Eyes like an eagle, Davrin never seemed to miss anything he did, "I'm fine. Just… sore."

"Kal, come on. You're a terrible liar."

His name coming from Davrin’s mouth always sent his heart fluttering. It was good, when he said it. It felt right.

"Sometimes, trying new magic comes back to bite you in the ass. I can barely move my arms."

"I see. I guess that explains why you were about to take a bath fully dressed."

"You're funny."

"You know, I think I might have just the thing to help."

"Yeah? Let's hear it."

"Well," Davrin moves closer until he's just behind him, voice like velvet in his ear, "First, we need to get rid of these clothes."

The smooth rustle of fabric behind him, Davrin's shirt tossed to the floor. Rook clumsily fingers the hem of his tunic, attempting to follow suit but Davrin is quicker. Gentle, careful movements as his shirt joins the other.

Hands on his waistband tug downwards, and although he's gotten undressed in front of Davrin more than a few times, he's nervous. This time was different.

This was an intimacy not born of lust, but of intention. This was devotion. Raw and vulnerable.

Davrin takes Rook's hand and steps down into the pool, gesturing for him to sit on the side, "We'll work your way in."

He hisses in pain as he sits on the edge, feet resting on the step and completely submerged in the warm water. Davrin takes one foot in his hand and squeezes, starting near his toes, then along the arch, back to the heel. He massages right where they hurt most, and Rook can't help but groan with pleasure.

When both feet have been tended to, Davrin works his way up Rook's legs. He sucks in a sharp breath when his calf seizes up, but Davrin is there kneading out the knot immediately, murmuring softly to him as he soothes the pain.

Soon, he's being pulled further into the steaming water, humming his approval as both heat and hands reach his thighs. He exhales through his nose, having to consciously calm his thoughts and keep his body from reacting like it usually did when Davrin was naked and this close to him.

"You doing okay, Kal?"

"Mmmm, more than okay."

Davrin sinks himself lower, water just below his pecs as he settles on the last step. Rook sits himself between his legs, and Davrin begins massaging all around his shoulders, then down his back, along his arms. He takes great care to go slowly, leaving no part of him aching. His thumbs run circles along tensed muscles, working them loose inch by inch. The pins and needles retreat from the combination of Davrin's strong hands, and the steady warmth of the bath. He melts into the water around him, closing his eyes briefly as he lets himself fade into nothing.

Nothing but him and Davrin, bodies close.

Davrin, who saw right through the walls he hid behind and saw him for who he was, not what he could be. Who cared deeply for the things he loved, and wanted nothing more but to mean something to this world.

Well, he certainly means the world to me.

"Kal? How do you feel?" The other's breath on his ear sends a shiver down his spine.

He feels completely unwound, the worst of the symptoms fading into the water. He leans back against Davrin's chest, "You have your own set of magic hands. I feel like a new man."

Davrin rests his chin on Rook's shoulder, "As breathtaking as you are when in your element, Kal, I don't enjoy seeing you in pain. So I’ve got you, anytime you need me."

Rook finds the hand resting on his thigh, entwining his fingers with Davrin's, "You know I've got you, too, right? The feeling is mutual."

They stay sitting like that for a while, Davrin's arm around his waist and Rook's hand in his. Neither one wanting to pull away from the other, even if the water was growing cool.

"Stay with me tonight, Kal. We'll both sleep better if you do."

"Trying to get me into bed, are you?" Rook teases.

"Oh, I don't really have to try. I know you'll come."

He shakes his head, stifling a laugh, "And you say my puns are bad."

Later, with Davrin sleeping soundly beneath him, it hits him with total and complete clarity.

He's falling in love.

#dragon age the veilguard #dragon age veilguard #davrook #davrin x rook #rook x davrin #Davrin #kalais thorne #my writing #ship: tell me you love me #datv fanfiction #davrook fanfic #davrook fanfiction #datv fanfic #davrook fic

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batmanlovesnirvana · 7 months ago

Text

‘our love still remains.’

BRUCE WAYNE X FEM!READER

ONE SHOT | angst, death, murder, depression, drugs, suicidal thoughts.

synopsis : A year had passed since you died, but grief lingered, clinging to Bruce like the ash of a fire long extinguished.

A/N : This was inspired by this haunting scene between Thomas Shelby and Grace’s ghost. It’s one of my favorite moments—so raw and emotional—and I couldn’t help but feel it resonates deeply with Bruce. The weight of grief, love, and unresolved pain feels like a perfect fit for his character.

English isn’t my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes!

WAYNE MANOR had never seemed so empty.

A place once filled with quiet purpose, with the steady rhythm of lives intertwined, was now a mausoleum—a tomb for memories that Bruce could neither escape nor embrace.

You had been dead for a year, and with you, everything human in him had begun to rot.

He was barely functional. No. That wasn't right. He wasn't functional at all.

A ghost of himself wandered these halls, sat in these rooms, wore his skin, but it wasn't him.

Not anymore.

The fire in the study crackled weakly, but its warmth never reached him. It flickered, casting trembling shadows on the dark oak walls, as if mocking his inability to burn with anything but guilt.

Bruce sat hunched in his chair, his head low, his shirt disheveled and sleeves rolled up.

The man who had once stood as Gotham's unshakable guardian, a force of sheer will, was now a fractured thing.

His eyes, sunken and bloodshot, stared into the flames, but they saw nothing. He didn't need to see. He had already memorized the way the world looked without you in it.

The decanter of whiskey shimmered in the firelight, its amber liquid untouched at his side. He had never been one to drink—not before. But since you'd been gone, nothing was the same.

Tonight, though, the glass remained full. Not yet. Not for this.

He couldn't dull the edges of this particular torment. He had to feel it, let it pull him under, heavy and unrelenting, like a stone tethered to his chest, dragging him to the depths.

His hand hovered over the glass, fingers curling tightly around it, the tension in his knuckles sharp and pale. The tremor wasn't from the cold but from the brutal weight of his own restraint. His mind hissed its merciless refrain, over and over, unyielding:

It should've been me. Not you.

Me. Not you.

The glass gave way with a brittle snap, the shards biting into his palm, the sound cutting through the suffocating quiet like a scream. He didn't flinch. The brief sting was insignificant, a pale shadow of the raw, festering wound buried deep within—a wound that time had refused to heal, a wound that still bled.

He craves the burn. Craves the searing pain, the consuming fire that might finally match the inferno raging inside him—the fire that could never touch you the way it's devoured him.

The night presses close, suffocating and merciless, but he doesn't move.

He doesn't patrol. He doesn't sleep. He doesn't eat.

He simply exists, caught in the liminal space where grief and guilt coil around each other, tightening like a noose. Waiting—for the silence to break, for the weight to crush him, for something, anything, to drag him back from the edge of this endless void.

The door sighed as it swung open, the faint creak swallowed by the oppressive stillness.

Alfred entered, a silver tray balanced in his steady hands, its polished surface catching the flickering glow of the fire. Every movement was deliberate, quiet, as though the room itself demanded reverence. He set the tray down with a soft clink, his weathered face composed, but his eyes—sharp and searching—betrayed the concern he could no longer contain.

"Master Wayne..." His voice was soft, hesitant, like stepping onto fragile ground.

Bruce didn't stir. His gaze remained fixed on the fire, the flames reflected in his eyes like ghosts of battles fought and lost.

Undeterred, Alfred took a step closer, his measured footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. "I thought you might need something to eat. It's been... some time." His tone was calm, but beneath it lay a quiet plea.

The silence stretched, vast and unyielding. Bruce remained a statue, motionless, unhearing—or perhaps unwilling to hear.

Alfred lingered, his hands clasped behind his back. He studied the man slumped in the chair, once an unshakable force—a sentinel against the darkness, a man who bore the weight of Gotham like it was his birthright.

But now?

Now, he was something hollow.

A shadow consumed by grief, its edges blurred, its substance eaten away until nothing but silence remained.

"No patrol tonight, then?" Alfred asked, though he already knew the answer.

Bruce's hands trembled faintly—not from the cold, nor from the blood still drying on his knuckles—but from something far deeper, raw and unrelenting.

The old butler sighed.

Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew a small glass vial and placed it on the tray with deliberate care. The gesture was quiet, pointed—a subtle admonition wrapped in concern.

"I'm worried, sir," Alfred said, his voice thick with the weight of restrained emotion. "About the medicine. You've been relying on it too much."

Bruce's eyes flicked to the vial, his fingers curling involuntarily, but his lips remained sealed.

His gaze turned distant, unfocused, as though he were retreating into some unreachable corner of his mind. The flicker of firelight played across his expression, but it gave nothing away. The silence, though, spoke volumes.

The fire crackled softly, its warmth feeble against the icy void that seemed to envelop the room.

"She wouldn't want this," Alfred ventured at last, his voice trembling at the edges. The words came haltingly, heavy with pain. Saying them was a struggle; even he found it difficult to speak of her. "I know it's hard, but—"

But he faltered.

What could he say to a man who had lost so much? To a man who believed the one constant in his life—the one light in his endless night—had slipped from his grasp because of him? What comfort could Alfred offer someone who carried the unbearable weight of guilt and grief and punished himself for it, day after day?

Not even the ever-thoughtful Alfred had answers for that.

He lingered for a moment longer, his weathered gaze heavy with unspoken worry, before letting out a quiet, resigned sigh. Stepping back, he retreated as softly as he'd entered, unwilling to disturb the fragile stillness any further.

The door closed behind him with a muted click, leaving Bruce alone once more in the oppressive quiet, the firelight casting shadows that danced like ghosts around the room.

Bruce didn't move. The tray remained untouched, its polished surface glinting dully in the flickering firelight. The room seemed colder somehow, emptier, as though the flames themselves were losing the will to fight against the encroaching dark.

The silence pressed down, heavy and suffocating.

His hand moved slowly, hesitantly, reaching for the vial. His fingers trembled as they closed around the cool glass, the faint quiver betraying the storm raging beneath his impassive exterior. He held it up, watching the liquid swirl under the amber glow of the fire. For a moment, he hesitated—then tipped his head back, letting the bitter contents slide down his throat in one unbroken motion.

The burn was sharp. Familiar. Almost comforting.

But it fixed nothing.

The ache inside him remained, raw and unrelenting. He stayed rooted to the chair, unable to move, the weight of his grief pinning him down. His eyes drifted to the shards of glass scattered across the carpet, their jagged edges catching the firelight like cruel reflections of his fractured soul.

With a sudden, violent motion, he hurled the empty vial into the flames. It shattered on impact, the fire greedily consuming the fragments until nothing remained.

His head dropped into his hands, shoulders curling inward as though trying to shield himself from the crushing weight of everything he couldn't escape. The room fell silent again, save for the crackle of the fire, each ember rising like a ghost of what once was.

And then, it happened. Just as it always did.

The impossible.

You appeared.

Bruce's cold, detached eyes flickered, his breath hitching as the warmth of an illusion—one he neither welcomed nor could let go—took shape before him.

You were perched on the edge of the canopy seat by the window, your silk pajamas catching the soft firelight in a way that felt achingly real. One leg was tucked beneath you, the other dangling lazily, your toes grazing the rug in that familiar way that sent a sharp pang through his chest.

Your hair spilled loose around your shoulders, soft and untamed, just as it had on those stolen nights when dawn would catch you both mid-conversation, the rest of the world forgotten.

And then there was the smile. That quiet, tender smile—the one that had unraveled him every time, breaking through walls he hadn't even realized he'd built.

The billionaire swallowed hard, his voice hoarse when he finally spoke. "What now?"

Bruce's bitter smile wavered as you tilted your head, amusement flickering in your eyes like embers in the fire.

"What am I, a genie?" you teased, your voice light but carrying an undercurrent of something deeper, something unspoken. Your gaze darted to the flames, where the shattered remnants of the vial had disappeared. "Summoning me with your little bottle of dope?"

His laugh was dry, almost inaudible. "I take it for the pain," he murmured, the words heavy, fragile, as if they might shatter under the weight of his grief. His eyes found yours, softening in a way that made him feel utterly exposed. "To keep warm."

You moved then, gliding across the room with that effortless grace he had memorized, your bare feet soundless against the carpet. He stiffened when he felt your fingers ghost across his shoulder—a touch too warm, too tender to be real. Yet he didn't pull away.

"Is that what it's for?" you asked, your voice wrapping around him like a balm for a wound that would never heal. "The warmth?"

Bruce closed his eyes, his head dipping forward slightly as if trying to catch just a moment more of the phantom sensation. "The warmth," he echoed, his voice breaking. "All this time..."

You moved again, slipping into the space beside him on the couch, your presence as vivid as the firelight dancing in his peripheral vision.

He turned toward you, and for the briefest, most treacherous moment, it felt real—your scent, your nearness, the way you looked at him like you could see straight through to his soul.

He leaned in, his breath catching as he inhaled the memory of you, his eyes fluttering shut in the desperate hope that he could hold on just a little longer. Just a little longer.

But deep down, he knew.

It wasn't real.

It never was.

The realization struck like a knife twisting in his chest, but he clung to the illusion all the same. He would take anything—anything—to feel you again, even if it was a cruel lie conjured by his own fractured mind.

To touch you. To kiss you. To lose himself in you, the only solace he had ever known.

Since your death, there had been no one else. No empty arms, no fleeting connections. He didn't want anyone else. Couldn't. It was always you. It would always be you.

"I know," you whispered, your hand brushing his cheek in a gesture so gentle, it nearly broke him. His breath hitched, a tear slipping free.

"Our love still remains," you said, your words a quiet promise in the suffocating silence.

And you were right.

Because no matter who tried to step into his life, none of them could ever compare to you.

Bruce's head bowed, his shoulders trembling as he pressed his forehead to the illusion of your hand.

He didn't speak, didn't dare. He let the hallucination linger, let it fill the gaping void inside him for as long as it would. When it faded—and it always did—the cold would return, and he would be alone once more.

They lingered in that fragile silence, heavy with the weight of unsaid words, the room echoing with everything neither could bear to voice.

At last, you broke it, your tone steady yet tender. "But you have to listen, Bruce. To the voices you hear. To what they're telling you."

His brow furrowed deeply, his eyes squeezing shut as if to block out everything but you. "There's too much to do," he whispered, his voice trembling, breaking under the strain. His breath hitched unevenly. "The kids... the city... it never stops."

When he finally opened his eyes, they met yours, glassy and filled with unshed tears. "I need to say goodbye," he confessed, his voice a raw whisper, hoarse and fractured.

He rubbed his face with trembling hands, weary to his bones. "I need to sleep... just for a little while."

Your hands cradled his face again, grounding him in the moment, as real to him as the warmth of the fire. "Then think, Bruce," you urged, your voice a mix of unwavering love and quiet strength. "Think about what I would tell you. About what you need to do."

A tear slipped down his cheek, his body trembling as he leaned into the phantom touch. He tried to form words, but they came out as fractured pieces of his anguish. "It's too much... I can't... I should've..."

His voice cracked and faltered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should've protected you. I should've saved you."

"You don't need to apologize," you said softly, your voice cutting through his despair like a light in the dark. "I was never angry with you, Bruce. I never could be."

His chest clenched painfully, a fresh wave of tears spilling free. "But I failed you," he choked out, his voice barely audible.

"You didn't fail me," you replied, your words sharp yet soothing. "But you're failing yourself."

You moved in closer, kneeling in front of him, your hands lifting his face so his eyes met yours.

There was a love in your gaze that steadied him, but also something more—a heaviness, a truth he couldn't yet name. "This isn't the way, Bruce. I won't let you destroy yourself like this."

His grief overtook him, his entire frame trembling with the force of it. "I can't let go," he admitted, his voice breaking as fresh sobs racked his body. "Not of you. Not yet."

Your smile returned, soft and filled with sadness. "Then let go of the pain," you said gently. "Let go of the guilt. Let go of the past. I'm here, but I can't stay. Not like this. Not while you're lost in the dark."

His heart shattered again, the pieces cutting deeper, but he couldn't deny the truth in your words.

"Please," he whispered, his voice raw, pleading, desperate. "Please don't leave me. I can't do this alone."

But you were already slipping away, your warmth dissipating like smoke, fading from his grasp.

He reached out, his hands trembling, but there was nothing there—nothing to hold onto. The room grew colder, your presence vanishing into the shadows, leaving him alone in the silence.

The fire crackled softly, its flames flickering weakly against the oppressive darkness. The emptiness of the room settled over him, pressing down with a weight he couldn't bear.

"I'll never let go," he whispered, his voice fragile, a shattered promise he knew he could never keep.

But you were gone. And the silence consumed everything.

Bruce's hand lingered on his cheek, still warm from where you'd touched him, but it too began to cool, slipping away too quickly.

Long moments passed before his voice cracked through the stillness, breaking the silence like glass. "I'll think," he murmured into the void. "I promise."

Even as the words left his lips, they felt empty—hollow echoes in a room full of nothing.

As hollow as the man who spoke them.

go check [ TU’BURNI (Bruce Wayne fic) ]

Little thing while I write the next chapters of TU’BURNI :)

I’ve been considering publishing one of my Tommy Shelby fics, so if anyone’s interested, please lmk.

#bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne headcanon #bruce wayne #batman #the batman #dc comics #the batman 2022 #dc movies #bruce wayne x reader #batman x reader #batman x you #bruce wayne x you #oneshot #battinson #batfleck #bale!batman x reader #gotham

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2b4st4r · 9 days ago

Note

I see your requests are open so id like to request something! So im a little nervous going back to work next week after being out for a month due to surgery. Could i maybe get Marco, Shanks, and/or Ace helping reader readjust with going back to normal crew life after being out with an injury? Fluff if possible! Thank you!

Rekindled Fire

Ace x reader

words: 5,604

warnings: descriptions of violence , use of y/n, F!reader.

━°⌜ 赤い糸 ⌟°━

The clash of steel rang in your ears, a symphony of destruction you'd grown intimately familiar with. Sweat stung your eyes, but you didn't dare blink, your gaze locked on the chaotic maelstrom of the battlefield. This wasn't just another skirmish; this was a brutal, no-holds-barred brawl against the notorious Black Tide Pirates, a crew as relentless as the very waves they sailed. Their captain, "Barnacle" Barty, a hulking brute with a hook for a hand and a sneer permanently etched onto his scarred face, was a force to be reckoned with. Your trusted cutlass, Seasplitter, felt like an extension of your arm, its familiar weight a comfort as you parried a vicious blow from a burly Black Tide first mate, his weapon a crude, spiked club that whistled dangerously close to your ear.

Around you, the Whitebeard Pirates fought with their usual ferocity. Jozu, a shimmering diamond, tore through their ranks, leaving a trail of stunned and bruised enemies. Vista's graceful swordplay was a deadly dance, cutting down foes with elegant precision. But your focus was narrow, your world shrinking to the space between you and your current opponent, and the reassuring, fiery presence beside you.

Ace.

He was a whirlwind of flames, each punch a scorching inferno that sent Black Tide pirates scattering. His signature "Fire Fist" erupted, incinerating a cluster of enemies who dared to get too close. A surge of warmth, not from the heat of his Devil Fruit but from the sheer comfort of his proximity, washed over you. You moved in sync, a deadly pas de deux amidst the chaos. When he needed an opening, you created it. When you were pressed, his flames were there, a blazing shield.

Suddenly, a massive shadow loomed over you. Barnacle Barty himself. His single eye, glinting with malice, fixed on you. "So, the Whitebeard witch," he rasped, his voice like grinding stone. "Heard you're quite the handful. Let's see if those pretty eyes can still see after I'm done with you."

Before you could react, his massive hook swung in a wide arc, aiming for your head. Time seemed to slow. You twisted, Seasplitter coming up to block, but the force of the blow was tremendous. Your arm screamed in protest, and you skidded back, your boots digging trenches in the splintered deck. Just as Barty prepared to follow up, a wall of fire erupted between you, forcing him back with a roar of frustration.

"Leave her alone, Barty!" Ace's voice, usually laced with an easygoing warmth, was now a low growl, filled with barely contained fury. His body was wreathed in crackling flames, his eyes burning with an intensity that mirrored the inferno within him. You felt a fierce protectiveness bloom in your chest, even as you rubbed your aching arm. He was always there, your fiery anchor in the storm.

Barty sneered, "Ah, the brat. Still playing hero, are we? You think you can stop the Black Tide?"

"I don't think," Ace retorted, his fists igniting, "I know."

You knew what was coming. Ace, when truly angered, was a force of nature. But Barty was no pushover. This wasn't going to be a quick fight. You adjusted your grip on Seasplitter, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. This was your life, this exhilarating dance with death, side-by-side with the man you loved, surrounded by your family. The stakes were high, the air thick with tension and the smell of gunpowder and salt. The roar of the ocean, the cries of battle, it all faded into a dull thrum as you prepared to jump back into the fray, ready to protect your crew, ready to protect him, no matter the cost.

Your decision was instantaneous, a primal instinct overriding all else. Barty, fueled by rage and the promise of a decisive blow, brought his hook down with terrifying speed towards Ace, who, despite his fiery prowess, was momentarily caught off guard, a split-second opening in his defense. There was no time to think, no room for hesitation.

You lunged.

The world blurred, the cacophony of battle fading to a distant hum. All that mattered was the space between Barty's lethal hook and Ace's unshielded form. You pushed Ace with all your might, a desperate, forceful shove that sent him stumbling out of the direct path of the attack.

Then, an agonizing, searing pain blossomed in your side. The hook, meant for Ace, found its mark in you instead. It wasn't a clean cut; it was a brutal, tearing rip through flesh and muscle, a searing brand that felt as though molten iron had been plunged into your body. A choked gasp escaped your lips, raw and involuntary, as your vision swam. The impact spun you around, sending you crashing to the splintered deck, Seasplitter clattering uselessly from your numb fingers.

The world tilted, painted in shades of blinding white and an encroaching darkness. The scent of your own blood, metallic and sickeningly warm, filled your nostrils. You heard Ace's roar, a guttural sound of pure anguish and fury, echoing in the hazy distance. He was there, suddenly, kneeling beside you, his hands hovering, unsure how to help, his face a mask of horrified disbelief. His usual fiery aura flickered, diminished by the shock.

"Y/N!" His voice was raw, laced with a torment that tore at your heart more than the wound itself. He gripped your hand, his touch oddly gentle, yet trembling.

Through the haze, you could see Barty, his face contorted in a sneer of triumph, already preparing for another strike, this time aiming for Ace, who was still reeling from the shock of your sacrifice. But Ace, seeing the renewed threat, erupted. His body became a supernova, flames licking hungrily at the air, his eyes blazing with an intensity you had rarely witnessed, an unholy inferno born of despair and vengeance.

You wanted to tell him to be careful, to not be reckless, but the words wouldn't form. Your breath hitched, each inhale a fresh wave of agony. The deck beneath you felt cold, hard, unyielding. The battle raged on, a distant, muffled roar, but your world had shrunk to this small, agonizing space, illuminated by the desperate fire in Ace's eyes. You could only watch, helpless, as your sacrifice ignited a storm within him.

Ace was a blur of righteous fury, his Hiken erupting with a force that sent Barnacle Barty reeling back, momentarily stunned. The air crackled with the sheer heat of Ace's anger, and the Black Tide pirates surrounding them instinctively retreated, their faces pale with fear. They knew that rage. They knew what it meant to cross a Whitebeard commander, especially one who had just witnessed a loved one fall.

But Ace’s focus was already off Barty. He was by your side in an instant, his fiery aura still simmering but his hands now surprisingly gentle as he tried to assess the damage. He tore a strip from his own shirt, pressing it against the gaping wound in your side, trying to staunch the gushing blood. Your vision was tunneling, the edges darkening, but you could hear the frantic shouts of your crewmates.

"Doctor! Get the doctor!" someone yelled, and the words barely registered through the fog of pain.

Suddenly, a familiar figure appeared, his lean frame moving with an urgency you rarely saw from him. It was Marco, the First Division Commander, his usual calm demeanor replaced by a look of grim determination. He was the crew's doctor, his Phoenix Devil Fruit abilities granting him extraordinary healing powers, but even he couldn't fix everything with just a touch.

He knelt beside you, his bright blue flames flickering around his hands as he gently pushed Ace's makeshift bandage aside. A sharp intake of breath from Marco confirmed your worst fears. "This is bad, yoi," he muttered, his voice unusually strained. "The hook went deep, caught something vital. We need to get her to the medical bay, now."

Ace scooped you up with a tenderness that belied his usual boisterous nature, holding you close to his chest as he sprinted towards the lower decks of the Moby Dick. The battle above still raged, but for Ace, nothing else mattered. You could feel the warmth of his body, the frantic beat of his heart against your back, and it was the only thing keeping the encroaching darkness at bay.

The medical bay was a flurry of controlled chaos. Nurses, usually tending to less severe injuries, moved with frantic efficiency, preparing instruments. Marco barked orders, his voice sharp and clear despite the urgency. He had shed his usual jacket, his arms bare, revealing the strength that belied his often relaxed posture.

He looked at you, his gaze piercing through the pain-induced haze. "We need to operate, Y/N. The wound is severe. I can stabilize you, but it's going to be a long shot. There's internal bleeding, and a major artery might be compromised."

You wanted to nod, to tell him you trusted him, but even that small movement sent a fresh wave of agony through you. You could only manage a weak squeeze of Ace's hand, which he still held tightly. His face was pale, drawn, a stark contrast to his usual vibrant self. He looked at Marco, desperation etched across his features.

"Do whatever it takes, Marco," Ace pleaded, his voice hoarse. "Anything."

Marco nodded, his expression resolute. "We'll do our best, yoi. But... it's going to be touch and go. It’s a very serious injury. She’ll need all her strength to pull through this."

As they prepared for the surgery, the last thing you saw before the world dissolved into blackness was Ace's face, hovering above yours, his eyes filled with a raw, agonizing fear you'd never seen before, and a single tear tracing a path through the grime on his cheek.

The world returned to you in fragments, a mosaic of muffled sounds and hazy sensations. The rhythmic creak of timbers, the distant roar of the ocean, the soft murmur of voices – all slowly coalesced into a fragile reality. You felt a dull ache, a persistent throb that was a constant reminder of the gaping void in your memory. It was as if you had been adrift in a vast, dark sea, and now, slowly, you were being pulled back to shore.

The surgery, you would later learn, had been a brutal dance with death. Marco, with his steady hands and keen medical mind, had fought tooth and nail for your life. The internal bleeding was extensive, the damage to the major artery severe. He’d worked for what felt like an eternity, his blue flames a constant, flickering beacon in the operating theater, sealing wounds and cauterizing torn tissue. He'd poured every ounce of his Phoenix Devil Fruit's restorative power into you, pushing his own limits to the brink. It had been a desperate race against time, a battle you were losing until the very last moment. Your life had hung by the thinnest of threads, a testament to Marco’s skill and the sheer will of your body to survive.

Slowly, carefully, you opened your eyes. The infirmary of the Moby Dick was exactly as you remembered it, familiar in its clinical warmth. Sunlight, filtered through a porthole, cast a gentle glow on the crisp white sheets pulled up to your chest. The air smelled of antiseptics and something faintly sweet, perhaps a medicinal herb. You tried to shift, but a sharp tug in your side stopped you, a stark reminder of the massive bandage covering your torso. It felt tight, oppressive, but also reassuringly protective.

You were alive.

A wave of profound relief, so intense it almost brought tears to your eyes, washed over you. You had survived. The fight, the pain, the terrifying darkness – it was over. For now. Your gaze drifted around the room. Empty beds, neatly made, lined the walls. A small, familiar figure was slumped in a chair beside your bed, his head resting on the mattress, his spiky black hair a chaotic mess.

It was Ace.

He was fast asleep, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. Even in slumber, a faint trace of exhaustion lingered on his face, a testament to the ordeal he had endured. A bandage, neatly wrapped, was visible on his left forearm – a minor injury, you realized, in comparison to yours. He must have stayed here, watched over you, for who knew how long. A warmth spread through your chest, eclipsing the physical discomfort. A silent testament to his love, a comfort deeper than any medicine.

A soft groan escaped your lips as you tried to shift, the sound barely audible, but it was enough. Ace’s head snapped up, his eyes, usually blazing with life, now wide with a dazed, disoriented look that quickly transformed into pure, unadulterated relief.

“Y/N?” he breathed, his voice rough with sleep and emotion. He scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over the chair, and was instantly by your side, his hand gently covering yours. His touch was hesitant, as if you were made of glass. “You’re awake. Thank the heavens, you’re awake.”

A small, weak smile touched your lips. “Hey, you big dummy,” you whispered, your voice raspy. “Did you really think I’d kick the bucket that easily?”

He let out a shaky laugh, a sound that was half-sob, and leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours. You could feel the tremor in his body, the sheer exhaustion and worry he’d been carrying. “Don’t you ever do that again,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”

Before you could respond, the infirmary door slid open with a soft swish, and Marco stepped in, a medical chart in his hand. His gaze immediately fell on you, and a rare, genuine smile broke through his usual stoicism.

“Good to see you awake, yoi,” he said, his voice calm but with an underlying current of relief. He walked over to the bed, pulling up a chair on the opposite side from Ace. “You gave us quite a scare. It was a close call, kid. Very close.”

He began to check your vitals, his fingers light and practiced on your wrist, his eyes scanning the monitors beside the bed. Ace, still holding your hand, watched Marco with an intensity that could burn holes in steel.

“How is she, Marco?” Ace asked, his voice tight with a lingering anxiety.

Marco finished his assessment, then straightened up. “Stable. All vitals are strong, given the trauma. You’re incredibly lucky, Y/N. The hook went deep, perforated your peritoneum, and came dangerously close to your kidney. But we managed to stop the bleeding and repair the damage.” He tapped the chart. “You lost a lot of blood, and you’ll be on a strict recovery regimen for a while, but you’re going to pull through, yoi.”

He looked directly at you, his blue eyes serious. “You’ll be weak for a bit, and that wound will take time to heal. No fighting, no strenuous activity for at least a month, possibly more. We’ll keep you here in the infirmary for a few weeks to monitor for infection and ensure proper healing. We’re not taking any chances.”

You managed a small nod, relief washing over you in waves. You were alive. You would recover. And Ace was right here.

The first few days were a blur of pain, exhaustion, and the constant hum of the ship. Your world was confined to the infirmary bed, punctuated by Marco's regular visits. He was a meticulous doctor, his assessments thorough and his instructions clear. He’d check your bandages, listen to your breathing, and prod gently around the wound, always with a reassuring, "Looking good, yoi," even when your own body screamed otherwise. Ace was a near-constant presence, rarely leaving your side unless it was for a quick, essential duty. He'd bring you broth, read to you from tattered adventure novels, and simply sit there, holding your hand, his quiet strength a palpable comfort.

Your first real failure came on Day Five. Marco decided it was time for you to try and sit up. The simple act felt monumental. You braced yourself, pushing with your arms, but a searing pain ripped through your side, making you gasp and collapse back onto the pillows. Shame washed over you. Ace was instantly there, his face etched with worry. "Easy, easy," he soothed, gently pushing a strand of hair from your face. Marco just nodded, unperturbed. "It's a big incision, yoi. Your core muscles are still healing. Don't push it. We'll try again tomorrow." It was a small setback, but in that moment, it felt like an insurmountable obstacle.

Small Victories

The next day, with Ace propping you up and Marco supervising, you managed to sit upright for a full minute, your teeth gritted against the protest of your wound. It was a tiny victory, but a victory nonetheless. Each day brought small, incremental improvements. Soon, you were shuffling a few steps to the bathroom, then taking short walks around the infirmary, clinging to Ace's arm like a lifeline. The feeling of your feet on solid ground, even just for a moment, was a sweet taste of freedom.

One afternoon, about two weeks after the surgery, Marco brought you a light training dummy. "Time to start building that strength back, yoi," he said. You scoffed. "You want me to fight that?"

He just raised an eyebrow. "Just gentle movements. Focus on your stance, your balance. Don't engage the core too much yet."

Your first attempts were pathetic. Your arms felt like lead, your movements sluggish and uncoordinated. You tried a simple parry, and a sharp jolt of pain reminded you of the internal stitches. You wanted to scream in frustration. Ace, watching from a nearby chair, looked like he was biting his tongue to keep from rushing over.

"Again," Marco instructed calmly. "Slowly. Focus on the form, not the power."

You gritted your teeth and tried again. And again. And again. You failed to hold a stance without wobbling. You stumbled when trying a simple lunge. But with each attempt, the movements became a fraction smoother, the pain a tiny bit less jarring. You focused on the muscle memory, on the years of training that were embedded deep within you.

A Glimmer of Hope

Then came the day you truly felt a shift. It was three weeks post-op. Marco had cleared you for slightly more active, but still gentle, exercises. You were practicing a series of slow, deliberate sword forms with Seasplitter, its familiar weight now comforting rather than cumbersome. You moved through a sequence, focusing on breathing, on balance, on controlling the slight tremble in your limbs. As you brought the blade down in a controlled, fluid arc, there was no sharp pain, just a dull ache. You completed the sequence, breathing heavily, but feeling a surge of satisfaction.

Marco, who had been observing from the doorway, gave a rare, genuine nod of approval. "Good, yoi," he said, pushing off the doorframe. "That's progress. Significant progress."

Ace, who had been leaning against the wall, watching your every move, straightened up, a wide, relieved grin spreading across his face. "Told you she's tough," he boasted to Marco, then winked at you. "You'll be kicking ass again in no time, Y/N."

You smiled back, a real, unforced smile. You still had a long way to go. The scar tissue would ache for months, and your full strength wouldn't return overnight. But you had faced down death, endured the pain, and pushed through the frustration. You were getting stronger, day by day, with your family by your side. The open sea called, and soon, you would be ready to answer.

The day finally arrived, a crisp morning bathed in the golden light of the rising sun. It had been two long months since you’d last felt the bracing wind on your face outside the infirmary, two months since you’d heard the true, unadulterated roar of the Grand Line from the open deck. Marco, after a final, thorough check-up, had given you the all-clear, with the stern caveat to still be mindful of your limits. "No heroics just yet, yoi," he'd warned, a rare glimmer of concern in his eyes.

You stood before the full-length mirror in your cabin, pulling on your familiar pirate attire. The fabric felt foreign after weeks of soft infirmary gowns, but also wonderfully normal. Your cutlass, Seasplitter, hung at your hip, its weight a comforting, familiar presence. You traced the faint, reddish line of the scar peeking from beneath your shirt – a permanent reminder of how close you’d come. A wave of nerves, cold and unsettling, washed over you.

You'd fought countless battles, faced down monstrous beasts and formidable foes without a flicker of fear. But this was different. This was the fear of being less than. The fear of not being able to keep up, of being a burden, of failing the crew, of failing Ace. Your hands trembled slightly as you buckled your belt.

Ace found you just like that, leaning against the doorframe, a soft smile on his face. "Ready to rejoin the chaos, Y/N?" he asked, his voice laced with his usual easygoing charm. But then he saw the subtle tension in your shoulders, the slight tremor in your hands. His smile softened, and he pushed off the frame, moving to stand behind you. He wrapped his arms gently around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "What's wrong? You're usually busting down the door to get out there."

You leaned back into his warmth, drawing strength from his embrace. "I don't know, Ace," you confessed, your voice barely a whisper. "I'm... nervous. What if I'm not ready? What if I'm too slow, too weak? What if I can't pull my weight? What if I get in your way?"

He squeezed you gently. "You think I'd let you get in my way? Never. And you're not weak, Y/N. You faced down death and spat in its eye. You think a few weeks off deck is going to change that? Marco said you're cleared, and if Marco says it, it's gospel. Besides," he chuckled, a warm breath against your neck, "you've been driving him crazy with your endless questions about when you could get back to sparring. He practically begged me to take you off his hands."

He turned you gently in his arms so you were facing him. His eyes, usually so full of fire, were soft, reassuring. "Look at me. You're a Whitebeard Pirate, one of the best. You're my partner. We're a team, always have been. And if you're feeling a little rusty, we'll knock that rust off together. I'll be right there, every step of the way. Just like you were there for me." He paused, his thumb gently stroking the curve of your cheek. "You saved my life, Y/N. You think I'm going to let anything happen to you out there now?"

His words, simple and heartfelt, were a balm to your frayed nerves. The warmth of his touch, the unwavering trust in his eyes, slowly chased away the chill of doubt. You took a deep breath, the salty air of the ship filling your lungs. He was right. You weren't alone. You never had been.

"Okay," you said, a genuine smile finally breaking through. "Okay. Let's go."

With renewed resolve, you stepped out of the cabin, Ace's hand finding yours. The familiar sounds of the bustling deck, the laughter of your crewmates, the distant cry of gulls – it all enveloped you, a warm embrace. You were back.

Stepping onto the main deck of the Moby Dick was like breathing fresh air for the first time in months. The salty spray of the ocean instantly invigorated you, chasing away the last vestiges of infirmary stuffiness. The familiar rumble of the ship beneath your feet was a comforting rhythm, a heartbeat you’d sorely missed. Your eyes, accustomed to the muted light of the medical bay, drank in the vibrant chaos of daily crew life.

Thatch was bellowing orders in the galley, the aroma of a hearty breakfast already wafting tantalizingly through the air. You caught a glimpse of Jozu, his diamond form gleaming as he effortlessly lifted a massive crate, while Vista’s laughter drifted from a group gathered near the mast. It was all so wonderfully, gloriously normal.

As you and Ace walked hand-in-hand, heads began to turn. Smiles, wide and genuine, broke out across familiar faces. Hands waved. "Y/N!" someone shouted, and then a chorus of welcomes erupted. "She's back!" "Lookin' good, Y/N!"

Your initial nervousness began to melt away, replaced by a surge of warmth and belonging. These were your people, your family.

Pops, massive and imposing even in his seated position, boomed with laughter from his usual spot. "Looks like my troublesome daughter decided to rejoin us, huh?" he rumbled, a fond smile on his face. You grinned back, feeling a lightness in your chest you hadn't experienced in weeks.

Ace, still holding your hand, steered you towards the bustling galley. "First order of business: getting some proper food into you that isn't bland infirmary slop," he declared, pulling out a chair at a table already laden with plates of eggs, bacon, and freshly baked bread.

You spent the morning simply being. You ate, laughing at Thatch's boisterous stories, feeling the easy camaraderie of your brothers and sisters in arms. Later, you sat with some of the younger recruits, listening to their tales of recent adventures, offering advice, and feeling the familiar pull of mentorship. You still felt a slight stiffness in your side, a dull ache that served as a constant reminder, but it was manageable, easily pushed to the background by the sheer joy of being back.

The real test came in the afternoon. Ace, true to his word, found you. "Ready to knock off some of that rust?" he asked, a playful glint in his eyes, gesturing towards a less-crowded part of the deck.

You grinned, a challenge blooming in your chest. "Lead the way, firecracker."

He started you slow, just as Marco had instructed. Gentle sparring with staves, focusing on footwork and balance. Your first few moves were clumsy, your timing off, and you stumbled more than once. Ace, ever patient, simply adjusted his own movements to match yours, offering quiet corrections. "Too much power in that swing, remember your core," he'd say, or "Shift your weight, like this."

Then came the moment you felt the old rhythm return. You ducked under a feint from Ace, pivoted, and brought your staff up in a clean, swift block that met his with a satisfying thwack. Your movements were fluid, precise, and for the first time since the surgery, you felt your muscles respond with the familiar strength you'd always commanded. Ace grinned, a flash of genuine surprise and pride on his face. "There it is!" he exclaimed. "Welcome back, Y/N!"

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues, you stood on the deck, a comfortable fatigue settling into your bones. You were back in your element, back with your family. The road to full recovery was still ahead, but you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your heart, that you wouldn't walk it alone.

Life aboard the Moby Dick quickly resumed its familiar rhythm, and you found yourself seamlessly re-integrating into the sprawling family that was the Whitebeard Pirates. The initial aches and stiffness from your injury slowly faded into a dull background throb, a constant, low-level reminder of your near-fatal encounter.

Back in the Fray

The first time you were truly tested came a week later during a routine patrol. A smaller, rogue pirate crew, emboldened by rumors of Whitebeard’s commanders being temporarily indisposed (no doubt thanks to the Black Tide Pirates spreading misinformation), dared to make a move on a supply convoy under Whitebeard’s protection.

You found yourself on the front lines again, Seasplitter a familiar weight in your hand. The sounds of battle – the clang of steel, the shouts, the impact of blows – were no longer a distant echo of trauma but a vibrant, immediate reality. Your movements weren't as reckless as before, a newfound caution guiding your parries and thrusts. You moved with deliberate precision, valuing efficiency over flashy displays. You remembered Marco’s words, "No heroics just yet."

Mid-skirmish, a hulking pirate swung a heavy axe towards your head. Your instincts screamed to dodge, but your recovering core muscles protested. Instead, you pivoted sharply, letting the axe’s momentum carry it past you, then countered with a swift, clean strike to the pirate's arm. It wasn't the powerful, sweeping blow you might have delivered before, but it was effective, disarming him instantly. Ace, who was scorching a group of enemies nearby, glanced over, a proud grin flashing across his face. You caught his eye, and a silent understanding passed between you – you were still a formidable fighter, just a smarter one now.

Camaraderie and Comfort

Evenings on the Moby Dick were often filled with laughter, music, and the clinking of mugs. You found yourself drawn to these gatherings on deck, no longer retreating to the quiet solitude of the infirmary. One night, while sharing a bottle of sake with Thatch and Vista, the conversation turned to the infamous Black Tide Pirates.

"Heard Barty's still spitting mad about the beating we gave him," Thatch chuckled, taking a long swig. "And even more so about his little 'victory' being short-lived, with you up and about, Y/N."

You raised your mug, a wry smile on your face. "He'll get no sympathy from me. Some lessons need to be taught more than once."

Vista, ever the elegant swordsman, nodded approvingly. "Indeed. Your recovery has been remarkable. Many would not have made it back to the deck so swiftly."

You felt a blush rise to your cheeks, grateful for their unspoken acknowledgment of your struggle and recovery. It was moments like these, surrounded by your brothers, feeling their acceptance and respect, that truly solidified your return.

Later, you often found yourself on deck with Ace, leaning against the railing, watching the stars blaze across the endless sea. He'd tell you about the latest islands they'd visited while you were recovering, or recount some new, ridiculous prank Thatch had pulled. Sometimes, you'd just stand in comfortable silence, his arm slung around your shoulders, the gentle sway of the ship beneath you.

One night, he squeezed your shoulder. "You know," he murmured, his voice soft, "it feels right, having you back here. The ship just wasn't the same without you."

You leaned into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart. "It feels right to be back," you agreed, the vast, star-dusted ocean stretching out before you. You were a Whitebeard Pirate, a frontline fighter, and a survivor. And you were home.

Life on the Grand Line, however, rarely allowed for prolonged periods of peace. Just as you were settling back into the rhythm of daily life, a new, ominous shadow began to creep across the horizon. Whispers, then outright reports, began to filter through the pirate grapevine: the World Government was making an unprecedented push into a notoriously volatile stretch of sea, an area known for its independent pirate strongholds and treacherous currents – an area the Whitebeard Pirates frequently navigated.

One blustery morning, a lookout’s shout pierced the usual deck chatter. "Marine ships! Bearing down on us!"

The announcement sent a ripple of tension, quickly followed by a surge of readiness, through the crew. This wasn’t a rogue pirate skirmish; this was the World Government, a direct confrontation with the might of their naval forces. As the Marine battleships, sleek and imposing, emerged from the mist, their cannons already swiveling to target the Moby Dick, a grim determination settled over the deck.

Whitebeard’s booming laugh cut through the rising tension. "Hah! Looks like the old man's still got their attention, eh?" He rose from his captain's chair, his massive figure casting a long shadow over the deck. "Alright, my sons! My daughters! Show these dogs of the government what happens when they cross the Whitebeard Pirates!"

You felt the familiar thrill of battle, the adrenaline coursing through your veins, but this time, it was tempered with a sharpened awareness. Your hand instinctively went to Seasplitter's hilt. Beside you, Ace ignited, his fists already flaring with hungry flames. He glanced at you, a familiar fiery grin on his face, but his eyes held a deeper, more serious resolve.

"Ready, Y/N?" he asked, his voice low, a promise and a challenge rolled into one.

You met his gaze, the vast, unforgiving ocean stretching out behind him, the imposing Marine fleet ahead. The scar on your side gave a phantom throb, a quiet reminder of battles past, but it no longer felt like a weakness. It was a testament to your resilience, a symbol of your survival. You had faced death and returned stronger.

"Always," you replied, your voice firm, a fierce light in your eyes. "Let's show them what a Whitebeard Pirate can do."

As the first cannonballs screamed through the air, heading straight for the Moby Dick, you and Ace charged forward, side by side, a united front against the encroaching tide of the World Government. The fight for survival, for freedom, and for family had truly begun anew.

#one piece x reader #one piece #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #one piece fanfiction #reader insert #ace x y/n #ace x you #ace x reader #portgas d ace #whitebeard pirates

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novaursa · 9 months ago

Text

The Price of Fire (Final Chapter)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Pairing: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: 17

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @mrsjohnnysuh @your-favorite-god

King’s Landing looms ahead, the sprawling city spread out beneath you like a sprawling beast, its narrow, twisting streets a maze of stone and shadow. Silverwing soars above it all, her powerful wings beating against the wind, her silver scales gleaming in the midday sun. The Sept below, a vast and imposing structure of pale stone and stained glass, stands as a symbol of the Faith’s influence—a symbol that is about to be obliterated.

You guide Silverwing down, your heart a steady, unyielding beat in your chest. The wind whips past you, carrying the distant sounds of the city—cries of alarm, the tolling of bells, the shouts of people fleeing as your shadow falls over them. You can feel Silverwing’s anticipation, the simmering rage that mirrors your own as she descends, her massive form casting a dark shadow over the grand edifice.

“Dracarys,” you whisper, the word a deadly promise, a sentence of destruction.

Silverwing’s roar splits the air, a sound of pure, unbridled fury. Her jaws open wide, and a torrent of flame erupts, a searing wave of heat and fire that engulfs the Sept. The stained glass windows shatter in an explosion of color and sound, shards raining down as the stone walls crack and blacken under the onslaught. The air is filled with the acrid stench of burning wood and melting metal, the screams of those inside drowned out by the roar of the flames.

You guide Silverwing lower, her claws tearing into the roof as she lands, the stone buckling and crumbling beneath her weight. The flames surge around you, the heat searing, the smoke rising in thick, choking plumes. Below, the once grand interior of the Sept is a blazing inferno, the pews and altars consumed by the relentless fire, the sacred tapestries reduced to ash.

Silverwing roars again, a fierce, triumphant sound, and you raise your sword, the blade gleaming in the light of the fire, a symbol of your wrath, your vengeance. “This is what you deserve!” you shout, your voice carrying over the roar of the flames, the destruction. “This is the price of betrayal!”

The city watches in stunned silence, the flames casting eerie, dancing shadows over the rooftops and walls. The Sept, once a place of worship and power, is now a blazing ruin, the Faith’s hold over the city crumbling to ash.

You pull Silverwing up, her wings beating against the smoke-filled air as she rises above the burning structure. Below, the flames continue to rage, the fire spreading, the screams of those trapped inside a haunting counterpoint to the crackling of the inferno.

Your gaze sweeps over the city, taking in the chaos, the panic. This is your city now. The city that once a cheered for you now screams. And you will drive every last remnant of the Faith from it, root and stem, until not even a whisper of their influence remains. And they will scream more.

With a final, defiant roar, Silverwing turns, her powerful wings carrying you away from the smoldering ruins, back toward the Red Keep, where the rest of this grim play is set to unfold.

Within the high, forbidding walls of the Red Keep, the atmosphere is charged, every face pale, every movement edged with fear. Rhaenyra strides through the corridors, her presence a storm of barely contained fury. Daemon walks beside her, his expression that of cold determination, Dark Sister at his hip, ready for whatever comes.

They reach the throne room, the doors swinging open with a heavy, echoing thud. Inside, Aegon sits slumped on the Iron Throne, his crown askew, his face drawn and haggard. Alicent stands before him, her hands clenched in front of her, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and defiance. Beside her, Helaena clutches her children close, her face pale and tear-streaked.

Rhaenyra’s gaze sweeps over them, her eyes hard, unyielding. She steps forward, her voice ringing out clear and cold. “It’s over, Aegon. The city is ours.”

Aegon lets out a bitter, broken laugh, his head dropping back against the cold metal of the throne. “Is it?” he mutters, his voice filled with a hollow mockery. “You have the city, but at what cost?”

Rhaenyra ignores him, her attention shifting to Alicent, who takes a shaky step forward, her face taut with desperation. “Please, Rhaenyra,” she begins, her voice trembling, her eyes pleading. “For the sake of my children, for my grandchildren—”

“It’s not up to me,” Rhaenyra cuts her off, her voice sharp, final. “I am not the one who will decide their fate.”

Alicent blinks, confusion and fear flickering across her face. “What do you mean?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze is steady, unyielding. “It is for my brother-husband to decide. He will decide their fate as he decides the fate of those who betrayed him, who crowned you king in his place.”

Alicent’s face drains of color, her hands trembling. “Please,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “You must stop him. He’ll destroy us all.”

Rhaenyra’s expression doesn’t change, her eyes hard and cold. “He’s finishing what he started. He’s driving the Faith from this city, from his throne. And when he’s done, he’ll come here. And then we’ll see what justice is to be done.”

Daemon steps forward, his gaze locked on Aegon, his voice low, edged with menace. “You thought you could steal the throne, and there would be no price?”

Aegon’s eyes meet his uncle’s, a flicker of defiance in their depths, but it’s weak, hollow. “What would you have me do?” he mutters, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Kneel?”

Daemon’s smile is a thin, dangerous thing. “It’s too late for that, boy.”

The room is silent, the weight of the moment pressing down on them all. Alicent’s eyes fill with tears, her hands clutching at her skirts as she looks from Rhaenyra to Daemon, her voice trembling. “Please… please, I’m begging you…”

Rhaenyra turns away, her expression closed, unreadable. “It’s out of my hands.”

And as the tension thickens, as the silence stretches, you can feel it—the storm building, the moment before the strike, before everything changes forever.

And soon, very soon, the fate of King’s Landing will be sealed in blood and fire.

The heavy, iron-studded doors to the throne room creak open, the sound echoing through the vast, silent space. You stride in, your armor stained with soot and ash, the scent of smoke clinging to you like a second skin. The flames from the Sept still linger in your eyes, a searing, fierce light that draws the gaze of everyone in the room.

Rhaenyra and Daemon stand at the base of the Iron Throne, their faces a mixture of relief and resolve as they watch your approach. Behind them, Alicent and her children are gathered, their expressions ranging from fear to defiance. Aegon sits slouched on the Iron Throne, his face pale, his eyes hollow, his fingers drumming nervously against the armrests.

In your hands, held with reverence despite the blood and grime that stain your gloves, is the crown of Visenya Targaryen, its silver and black jewels gleaming dully in the low light of the throne room. You come to a stop before Rhaenyra, your heart steady, your gaze locked on hers.

“Rhaenyra,” you say, your voice carrying through the stillness. “I found this in the ruins of the Sept.”

Her eyes widen, the breath catching in her throat as she stares at the crown, a mix of sorrow and pride flickering across her face. You step closer, your hands trembling slightly as you raise the crown, placing it gently upon her head. The cold metal settles against her brow, the weight of it a testament to her birthright, to her strength.

“For you, my Queen,” you murmur, your voice filled with a fierce, unyielding love. “For Visenya.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes shine with unshed tears, her hand lifting to touch the crown lightly, her gaze never leaving yours. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “For everything.”

You nod, your heart swelling with a fierce, protective pride, and then your gaze shifts, your eyes hardening as they fall on Aegon, still slumped on the Iron Throne. He looks up at you, his face tightening with fear, his body shrinking back as if trying to meld with the twisted metal of the seat.

You take a step forward, your gaze locked on Aegon, the silence in the room crackling with tension. Aegon’s eyes dart around wildly, his fingers gripping the armrests of the throne so tightly his knuckles turn white.

“Brother,” he begins, his voice wavering, but whatever words he’s trying to find seem to choke in his throat.

You ignore him, your steps slow, deliberate, your gaze never wavering. You can feel the eyes of everyone in the room on you, the air thick with fear and anticipation.

Alicent moves suddenly, her face stricken, tears brimming in her eyes as she steps into your path, her hands outstretched, a desperate, pleading gesture. “Please,” she begs, her voice cracking with desperation. “Don’t do this. I know… I know there’s still a part of you left from when we were young. I know you remember.”

You pause, your eyes meeting hers. There’s a flicker of something—an old memory, a distant echo of a time when things were simpler, when you were different people. But it’s buried beneath the weight of all that has happened, beneath the anger and the loss that have shaped you into the man you are now.

Your gaze shifts past her, to where Helaena stands, clutching her children close, her face pale and tear-streaked. The sight of them tugs at something deep inside you, but it’s not enough to sway you, not enough to pull you back from the path you’ve chosen.

“Step aside, Alicent,” you say quietly, your voice steady, though there’s a dark edge to it, a finality that sends a shudder through her. “This is not your choice.”

Alicent’s face crumples, her hands trembling as she reaches out, her fingers brushing against your arm, her voice breaking. “Please… they’re just children. He’s your brother.”

You pull away, your eyes hardening as you push past her, your steps sure, your gaze fixed on Aegon. The athmosphere in the room is suffocating, every breath a struggle as you ascend the steps toward the Iron Throne, your heart pounding with a fierce, unyielding resolve.

Aegon stares at you, his expression set in fear and confusion, his mouth working soundlessly as he tries to find words, to find some defense against the storm bearing down on him.

“Please, brother,” he finally whispers, his voice breaking, his body hunched as if to shield himself from your wrath. “I didn’t want this. I never wanted any of this.”

You stop before him, your eyes cold, unyielding. “And yet you took it,” you say softly, the words heavy with all the bitterness, all the betrayal that has brought you to this moment. “You took what wasn’t yours.”

Aegon’s face crumples, his body trembling as he shrinks back, his eyes wide with terror. “I was pushed… they made me—”

“No more excuses,” you cut him off, your voice a sharp, unforgiving blade. “You took the crown, you took my throne, and now you will face the consequences.”

The room is silent, the air thick with the weight of what’s to come. You can feel the eyes of everyone on you, can feel the fear and hope and anger swirling around you like a living thing.

And then, with a slow, deliberate motion, you reach out, your hand closing around the armrest of the Iron Throne, your gaze never leaving Aegon’s.

“It ends here,” you say, your voice steady, implacable. “The time of the usurper is over.”

The silence that follows in the throne room is suffocating, each breath held in a suspended, uneasy stillness. Aegon sits rigid on the Iron Throne, his knuckles white as he grips the armrests, his eyes darting around the room, fear and confusion written across his pale face. Alicent remains frozen, her expression stricken, Helaena clutching her children, their soft sobs echoing in the stillness.

You turn away from Aegon, your voice carrying a calm, implacable authority as you speak to the guards positioned around the chamber. “Take them to their chambers,” you order, your tone brooking no dissent. “They are to remain there, under watch, until I decide their fate.”

Aegon’s breath leaves him in a shuddering exhale, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of the world has suddenly fallen upon them. He looks up at you, his expression a twisted mix of relief and resignation. “Thank you…” he murmurs, his voice trembling, but you ignore him, your gaze already moving to the next battle ahead.

Daemon steps forward, his presence a looming shadow of grim determination. “Aemond is still at Harrenhal,” he says, his voice carrying the barest hint of a challenge, his eyes fixed on yours.

You nod, your mind already racing ahead, the thought of your younger brother a burning coal in your chest. “I’ll deal with him,” you say, your voice steady, your resolve unyielding.

Daemon’s eyes narrow, the muscles in his jaw tensing. “You almost died last time,” he reminds you, his voice hard, his concern thinly veiled behind a mask of irritation. “You know what Vhagar is capable of. Let me go. I’ll handle Aemond.”

“No,” you say firmly, your gaze meeting his, a silent, fierce determination in your eyes. “I need you here, Daemon. To hold the city, to keep order. If anything happens to me…” You let the words hang, the unspoken possibilities stretching between you.

Daemon’s expression darkens, his eyes searching yours, his mouth tightening with frustration. “You’re risking everything,” he says quietly, the words almost lost in the cavernous silence of the room. “There’s no telling what that mad dog will do. You need to think this through.”

“I have thought it through,” you reply, your voice a low, controlled burn. “Aemond won’t stop. He’ll keep coming, keep fighting, until one of us is dead. This has to end. And it has to end now.”

The room seems to close in around you, the weight of your decision pressing down, the air thick with tension. You can see the worry in Daemon’s eyes, the anger, the fear he’s trying so hard to hide. But you also know he understands—better than anyone—the cost of inaction, the price of hesitation.

He exhales sharply, his gaze flicking away, his jaw clenching. “And if you die?”

“Then you’ll do what you have to,” you say, your voice softening, the edge of command giving way to something deeper, something raw. “You’ll protect Rhaenyra, the children, the throne. You’ll finish what we started.”

Daemon’s eyes snap back to yours, his expression fierce, almost defiant. “You’re not dying,” he says, the words a low, harsh growl. “Not like this. Not to him.”

You reach out, gripping his shoulder, the contact solid, grounding. “I’ll be careful,” you promise, a ghost of a smile touching your lips. “But this ends now.”

He looks at you for a long moment, the storm of emotions swirling behind his eyes, and then, with a reluctant nod, he steps back, his hand falling away from the hilt of his sword.

“Fine,” he mutters, his voice thick with reluctant acceptance. “But if you come back with so much as a scratch, I’ll kill you myself.”

You chuckle softly, the sound incongruous in the tense, heavy air of the throne room. “I’ll hold you to that.”

With a final glance around the chamber, your gaze lingering on Rhaenyra, who stands watching, her eyes dark with worry and understanding, you turn and stride from the room, your steps echoing through the silence, the weight of what you must do settling on your shoulders like a shroud.

This is it. The final move in a game that has cost so much, that has left so many scars. You know what you must do, what must be done to end this. To bring peace, or at least, something resembling it, to the realm.

And as you step into the cool, shadowed corridors of the Red Keep, the roar of dragons echoing faintly in the distance, you let yourself feel, just for a moment, the fear, the uncertainty. And then you push it aside, your heart steady, your mind clear.

This will end. One way or another, it will end.

The sky above the God’s Eye is a vast expanse of dark clouds, roiling and churning like the surface of the lake below. The air is filled with the promise of rain, the scent of the storm mingling with the tang of smoke and ash still clinging to your armor. Silverwing’s powerful wings beat rhythmically beneath you, carrying you higher, closer to the heart of the approaching tempest. You know what awaits you in the storm—Aemond, Vhagar, and the final reckoning that has been a long time coming.

You spot them in the distance, a dark silhouette against the storm clouds, Vhagar’s enormous form dwarfing even the vastness of the sky. She is a beast of legend, her wings stretching wide, her body coiled with lethal strength, and Aemond, perched atop her back, is a small, dark figure, his gaze already fixed on you, even from this distance. The sight sends a surge of anger through you, but you force yourself to remain calm, focused. This is what you came for. This is how it must end.

Silverwing roars, her voice a defiant challenge that echoes across the skies, carrying through the thick, stormy air. She pulls back her wings, gaining altitude as you approach, your gaze locked on the monstrous form of Vhagar, her ancient eyes gleaming with a dark, terrible intelligence. Aemond’s face is set into grimace of rage and something else—anticipation, a fierce hunger for the battle he knows is inevitable.

You draw Blackfyre, the blade heavy and familiar in your hand, the dark steel gleaming in the flickering light of the approaching storm. The wind whips around you, tearing at your cloak, but you hold steady, your focus narrowing to the task ahead, to the fight that will determine everything.

“Come on, Aemond,” you mutter under your breath, your voice swallowed by the wind, the storm. “Let’s end this.”

Silverwing surges forward, her wings cutting through the air with a powerful beat, her body coiling and tensing, ready for the clash. Vhagar responds with a deafening roar, her jaws snapping open, flames licking the edges of her teeth as she dives toward you, her massive form a terrifying sight against the darkened sky.

“Dracarys!” Aemond’s voice carries across the distance, his command a whipcrack of fury, and Vhagar unleashes a torrent of flame, the searing heat turning the air around you into a furnace.

“Dive!” you shout, leaning forward, urging Silverwing into a sharp, gut-wrenching descent. She responds instantly, her body twisting and folding as she drops, the flames barely missing you, scorching the air above your head. The force of the dive tears at you, your vision narrowing as the ground rushes up to meet you, but you hold on, gritting your teeth against the pull of gravity, the force of the descent.

Silverwing levels out, her wings beating furiously as she skims the surface of the God’s Eye, the water churning beneath her, the spray dampening your face. You glance up, your gaze tracking Vhagar as she follows, her massive body plummeting toward you, a dark shadow against the storm.

You pull Silverwing up, her wings straining as she climbs, spiraling upward, the water spinning away beneath you. Vhagar follows, her roars shaking the air, her massive form closing in, her claws outstretched, her jaws snapping. You twist in the saddle, raising Blackfyre, the blade catching the dim light, a stark contrast against the darkness of the sky.

Aemond’s face is a mask of fury, his eye blazing with hatred as Vhagar closes the distance, her jaws snapping at Silverwing’s tail, her breath hot and foul. You can feel the heat of her flames, the searing intensity of her rage, but you don’t flinch, your focus locked on Aemond, on the end that is coming.

“Is this what you wanted, brother?” you shout, your voice raw, your words a challenge thrown into the wind, the storm. “Is this the price you’re willing to pay?”

Aemond’s laughter is a harsh, jagged sound, echoing through the storm. “You’ll die here, just like you should have above the Storm’s End,” he snarls, his voice filled with a cold, pitiless fury. “You’ll fall, and your family will burn.”

You grit your teeth, your anger surging, the fury of his words igniting something deep and primal within you. “Not today, Aemond,” you growl, your grip tightening on Blackfyre. “Not today.”

Silverwing roars, her voice a furious, defiant challenge, and she dives again, her body twisting, her wings folding as she drops beneath Vhagar, the wind whistling around you, the ground a blur beneath your feet. You shift in the saddle, raising Blackfyre, the blade gleaming darkly as you aim, your heart pounding, your mind clear.

“Dracarys!” you shout, your voice a command, a promise.

Silverwing’s jaws open, and a torrent of flame erupts, a searing, blinding wave of fire that engulfs Vhagar’s side, the heat of it turning the air to steam, the sound of it a deafening roar that drowns out everything. Vhagar roars, her body turning, her claws slashing through the air, but Silverwing is already moving, her wings beating powerfully as she pulls away, the flames still licking at Vhagar’s scales.

Aemond curses, his voice a harsh, guttural sound, and Vhagar lunges, her massive jaws snapping, her claws tearing at the air. Silverwing twists again, her body coiling, her wings beating furiously as she dodges, her movements fluid and graceful despite the size difference.

You see the opening, a fleeting moment where Vhagar’s massive body shifts, exposing Aemond, his face twisted with rage and frustration. You don’t hesitate, your hand steady as you raise Blackfyre, the blade poised, your heart a steady, unyielding beat.

“This is for my son you wanted to slay!” you roar, your voice carrying over the storm, over the chaos of the battle, and you hurl yourself from the saddle, the wind tearing at you, your body hurtling toward Aemond, Blackfyre gleaming in your hand.

Time seems to slow, the world narrowing to this single moment, this final, irrevocable act. You see the flash of shock in Aemond’s eye, the sudden, dawning realization as you close the distance, your blade aimed straight for his heart.

Blackfyre strikes true, the blade piercing Aemond’s armor, sinking deep into his chest. His eye widens, his mouth opening in a silent scream, his body jerking as the steel drives home. The impact knocks you both from the saddle, Vhagar’s roar of fury and pain a deafening, all-encompassing sound as you fall, the wind tearing at you, the world spinning in a dizzying blur.

You feel Aemond’s body convulse beneath you, his blood hot and slick on your hands, his eye staring up at you, wide and uncomprehending. There is no more hate, no more fury—only shock, only pain, only the cold inevitability of death.

The water of the God’s Eye rushes up to meet you, a dark, churning expanse, and you feel the impact, the icy cold engulfing you, pulling you down, down into the depths. You hold on to Blackfyre, the blade still buried in Aemond’s chest, the weight of him dragging you both down, the world fading to black around you.

And then, there is nothing but the cold, and the dark, and the silence of the deep.

An Excerpt from Fire and Blood by Archmaester Gyldayn

The Reign of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and the Aftermath of the Dance of the Dragons

With the death of Y/N Targaryen, eldest son of King Viserys I, in the skies above the God’s Eye, the Dance of the Dragons reached its final, bloody crescendo. His confrontation with his half-brother, Prince Aemond Targaryen, and the destruction that followed their deadly clash, marked the beginning of the end for the bitter war that had torn the realm asunder. Yet, the consequences of his life and actions would continue to ripple through Westeros for generations to come.

Rhaenyra’s Reign and Legacy

Following her husband’s death, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen held the Iron Throne, her claim uncontested for a time, though her rule was fraught with tension and unrest. The death of King Y/N left her heartbroken and enraged, but she remained resolute in her determination to rule in his memory. Rhaenyra's reign, while short-lived, was marked by a period of brutal consolidation of power.

The destruction of Oldtown, the ancient seat of the Hightowers, and the burning of the Citadel sent shockwaves throughout the realm. The loss of so many maesters and the destruction of centuries of knowledge left a scar that would never truly heal. The Faith of the Seven, deeply weakened by the annihilation of their central seat of power, was forced into a position of subservience, the remnants of their once formidable influence shattered.

For years, Rhaenyra ruled with an iron fist, her sons—Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys—by her side. It was said that she kept Visenya’s crown close, a reminder of the sacrifices made and the blood spilled for her throne.

The Fate of Prince Daemon Targaryen

After the tragic death of King Y/N Targaryen above the God’s Eye, Prince Daemon Targaryen, his uncle and closest confidant, was left to navigate the aftermath of the war that had claimed so many lives. Known as the Rogue Prince, Daemon’s life was marked by bold decisions, fierce loyalty, and unyielding ambition. The loss of his nephew and the violent end to their shared struggle left an indelible mark on the man who had once been the scourge of the Stepstones and the terror of Oldtown.

Daemon's Role in the Aftermath

With Rhaenyra on the Iron Throne, Daemon took up the mantle of protector and enforcer of her reign. As the queen’s most trusted general, he was tasked with maintaining the tenuous peace that had settled over the realm. His presence in King’s Landing, commanding the loyalty of the City Watch and wielding the fearsome authority of his dragon, Caraxes, kept potential dissenters at bay. Despite his age, he remained a formidable figure, his sharp mind and ruthless disposition ensuring that no one dared openly challenge Rhaenyra’s rule.

Daemon's ruthlessness in quelling rebellion, particularly in the aftermath of the war, became a source of both fear and respect. He was instrumental in crushing the remnants of Green loyalists and those who still harbored sympathies for the late Aegon II. His actions were decisive and often brutal, his reputation for dealing harshly with any who threatened his family solidifying his position as Rhaenyra’s enforcer.

The Decline of Daemon Targaryen

As the years passed, the fire that had driven Daemon began to wane. The loss of his nephew and brother-in-arms, combined with the weight of his own advancing age, left him increasingly isolated. Those close to the prince spoke of his growing melancholy, a shadow of regret that seemed to haunt him. The Rogue Prince, once so full of life and passion, began to withdraw from the court and the world he had helped shape.

In his later years, Daemon spent more time at Dragonstone, where he had first made his mark as a young prince. He took solace in the company of his daughters, Baela and Rhaena, and in the memories of his lost loves and lost battles. The fiery spirit that had once driven him to lead men into battle, to carve out his own kingdom in the Stepstones, and to burn Oldtown to the ground in vengeance, seemed to flicker and fade.

The Final Flight of the Rogue Prince

It is said that in the end, Daemon’s last act was one of defiance, an echo of the man he had always been. Mounting Caraxes one final time, he took to the skies above Dragonstone, his dragon’s roars echoing over the island. Where he flew and why is the subject of much speculation among the chroniclers of the time. Some say he flew to the site of the God’s Eye, the place where his nephew had fallen, seeking some form of peace or perhaps simply to rage one last time against the cruel hand of fate.

Others whisper that he flew west, to the lands beyond the Sunset Sea, chasing some distant, unreachable dream. Whatever his final destination, Prince Daemon Targaryen was never seen again in Westeros. Caraxes, too, vanished from the skies, leaving only rumors and legends in his wake.

The Fate of Alicent Hightower and Her Children

After the fall of King’s Landing, Dowager Queen Alicent and her remaining children were confined to their quarters in the Red Keep under constant watch. It was here that the woman who had once been the power behind the throne slowly withered away. Alicent, stripped of her influence and wracked with grief over the loss of her son Aemond and the destruction of her ancestral home, spent her remaining days in isolation, her pleas for mercy unanswered by Rhaenyra.

Aegon II, who had briefly held the Iron Throne, was imprisoned and remained a shadow of his former self. The torments of his mind, compounded by the separation of his dragon Sunfyre and the crushing weight of defeat, left him broken. He spent his final years in a gilded cage, watched over by guards who once knelt before him as their king. His life ended quietly, his body found cold in his chambers, the crown of Aegon the Conqueror resting beside him—untouched and unworn.

Helaena Targaryen, gentle and soft-spoken, was spared much of the cruelty that befell her mother and brother. Allowed to live out her days in the Red Keep, she devoted herself to her children, her love for them a rare light in those dark days. She passed peacefully, though some whispered of a sorrow that had never left her eyes since the day the dragons came.

Daeron Targaryen, the youngest and only survivor of the old king’s sons, was missing for years after the fall of Oldtown and the death of his dragon Tessarion. It was rumored that he had fled to Essos, the scars of war etched deeply into his heart. He never returned to Westeros, and his fate remains one of the many mysteries left in the wake of the Dance.

The Legacy of King Y/N Targaryen

The war on the Faith waged by King Y/N forever altered the relationship between the Iron Throne and the Seven. The destruction of the Starry Sept and the Citadel not only broke the Hightower’s influence but also diminished the power of the Faith of the Seven to challenge the Crown. His brutal campaign, while criticized by many as an act of barbarism, effectively cowed those who might otherwise have stood against Targaryen rule in the name of the Seven.

The maesters of the Citadel, decimated and scattered, struggled for years to rebuild. The loss of so many records and the erasure of much of their accumulated knowledge left a void that could never truly be filled. The Citadel became more cautious, its influence waning as the memory of dragonfire over Oldtown haunted its halls.

The smallfolk, left in the ashes of their burned city, spoke of King Y/N with a mixture of fear and reverence. He was both the dragon who had laid their homes to waste and the warrior who had avenged his daughter, Visenya. His legacy, like his life, was marked by fire and blood, his name etched into the annals of history as one of the most ruthless yet undeniably effective Targaryen princes.

The Line of Succession

After Rhaenyra’s death, her eldest son, Jacaerys Targaryen, ascended the Iron Throne as King Jacaerys I Targaryen. His reign, though challenged by those loyal to the memory of Aegon II, was one of relative stability. He was known for his efforts to heal the scars left by the Dance and to restore the fractured realm his parents had fought so fiercely to claim.

King Lucerys, Jacaerys' younger brother, succeeded him, and his rule was marked by a more peaceful consolidation of the Targaryen legacy, though his life was overshadowed by the tragedies of his youth. The remaining brothers, Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys, played significant roles in the court, their presence ensuring that the Targaryen line remained unbroken, their family ties unassailable.

Conclusion

The Dance of the Dragons left the realm scarred and divided, the shadow of the conflict lingering long after the final dragons had vanished from the skies. Yet, it also forged a new era, one in which the Targaryen dynasty emerged both weakened and strengthened, their hold on the throne unchallenged but their losses incalculable.

The legacy of King Y/N Targaryen, his war against the Faith, and the burning of Oldtown remain topics of fierce debate among the maesters and lords of Westeros. Was he a tyrant, a madman driven by grief, or the necessary fire that cleansed the rot from the realm? Perhaps he was all these things, and more.

But one truth remains unchallenged: the fire he unleashed, the blood he spilled, and the throne he fought to defend shaped the destiny of the Seven Kingdoms, and the echoes of his actions will reverberate through the histories of Westeros for generations to come.

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

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lila-lou · 1 year ago

Text

✨His true fate - Part 3/?✨

Summary: Jensen hasn't been happy for years. But it seems almost impossible for him to escape. After another nasty argument between him and his wife, he decides to visit his ´former´ best friend for his birthday. Back in Austin, an encounter awaits him that will turn his life completely upside down.

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: Language, age gap, some heated scene, "cheating"

Word Count: 6155

A/N: English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

Amidst the cheerful toasts and raucous laughter, the crowded gathering led to a slight jostling, causing your smaller frame to be nudged aside. Sensing your displacement, Jensen's hand found its way to the small of your back, offering a supportive touch as he gently guided you forward, subtly positioning you in front of him to shield you from the movements.

The unexpected contact sent a jolt of electricity coursing through your body, igniting a fierce heat that spread from the point of his touch throughout your entire being. As you leaned into his reassuring presence, a shiver of anticipation rippled through you, leaving you breathless and exhilarated in his proximity.

With your back pressed against Jensen's solid chest, you could feel the rise and fall of his chest against your spine with each steady breath he took.

The mingling scents of his minty breath, his own natural scent, and the subtle hint of cologne sent a wave of intoxicating sensations washing over you, overwhelming your senses with their heady allure.

As Jared began his speech, the attention of the party shifted towards him, leaving you and Jensen momentarily cocooned in your own private world. Sensing your slight unease amidst the growing crowd, Jensen leaned down towards your ear, his warm breath sending shivers cascading down your spine. "You okay?", he whispered softly.

You just nodded softly.

Without a second thought, Jensen's hand instinctively found its way to your waist, drawing you closer to him in a protective embrace.

Feeling him so close stirred up a strong desire within you. The heat between you was undeniable. You couldn't help but wonder why everything felt so intense, why such a little touch and a few whispered words seemed to make you loose your damn mind.

Meanwhile, Jensen wrestled with his own internal battle. Your proximity alone was enough to stir up arousal within him, and he struggled to keep it in check.

You found yourself teetering on the edge, yearning to turn around and press your lips against his. So, when you could barely contain yourself any longer, you whispered softly, "I need to use the restroom real quick".

Jensen's hand fell away from your waist as he nodded in response to your whispered request. His eyes lingered on you for a moment before he quickly scanned the area, ensuring no one was watching. He cursed under his breath, taking deep breaths as he tried to calm himself down.

As you stood in front of the mirror in the restroom, you couldn't help but notice the flush on your cheeks and the wild look in your eyes. Your face was bright red, completely flushed, and you could feel the dampness between your legs, evidence of just how intensely aroused you were. You had never experienced such a powerful reaction to simple touches before. What was it about that guy that had such a effect on you? He had your head spinning and your stomach churning, your heart racing in your chest. Sure, it had been a while since you'd had sex, a whole year in fact, but this was unlike anything you'd ever felt before.

You splashed some water on your face, hoping to cool down the heat that seemed to radiate from every pore of your body. But no matter how much water you splashed, the inferno inside you wouldn't subside. "Get your shit together", you muttered to yourself, staring hard at your reflection in the mirror.

Jared approached Jensen just as he was pouring himself a generous amount of whiskey into a glass. He raised an eyebrow at his friend, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "So, how's it going?", Jared asked casually, though his eyes flickered with curiosity, indicating that he was referring to you.

Jensen took a deep breath, emptied the glass in one gulp and poured it full again. "She's…", he started, his voice barely audible over the chatter around him. "The most easygoing person I've ever met, and here I am, making a fucking fool of myself".

Jared placed a reassuring hand on Jensen's shoulder, offering a supportive smile. "Hey, I bet you're doing just fine", he said, his voice filled with encouragement. "Relax, man. Just be yourself. She seems cool. You got this".

Jensen's doubts lingered, his thoughts swirling with uncertainty. He admitted quietly to Jared, his voice barely above a whisper, "I'm… I'm fucking turned on by her in a way I've never experienced before". The confession hung in the air, revealing the depth of Jensen's internal struggle.

Jared raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued by Jensen's admission. "How turned on?", he inquired, his tone laced with intrigue and a hint of amusement.

Jensen hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering uncertainly as he grappled with how much to disclose. "Uh, let's just say… pretty fucking turned on".

Jared chuckled and shot Jensen a smirk. "Well, Looks like someone's got it bad".

Jensen rolled his eyes and punched Jared lightly on the chest. "This isn't funny, man", he muttered, his tone tinged with frustration. "I swear I'm gonna mess this up, I just know it".

But Jared couldn't help but be amused by Jensen's predicament and the fact, that Jensen had finally met someone who made him nervous and not the other way around. "Looks like you finally met your match".

Just then you returned from the bathroom and found Jared with Jensen, shooting Jared a soft smile. "Dude, your house is amazing!", you complimented.

Jared grinned in response, thanking you. Then, with a mischievous smirk, he added, "You should see Jensen's place. It's just a five-minute drive away".

Jensen shot Jared a deadpan glare as you raised an eyebrow, curious about the exchange. "I thought you moved away", you remarked.

Jensen nodded, confirming your suspicion. "Yeah, but I still have the house in Austin", he explained.

You nodded in acknowledgment as Jared continued, singing praises of Jensen's property. "Jensen has a beautiful view of the river, a big garden, and an even nicer pool", Jared chimed in, casting a knowing glance at Jensen. "You should definitely check it out".

Jensen cleared his throat, his cheeks flushing slightly as he tried to downplay Jared's suggestion. "Uh, yeah, it's not that big of a deal", he mumbled, avoiding your gaze. "Just a humble little place".

Jared snorted a laugh, shaking his head at Jensen's attempt to downplay his home. "Oh, come on", he teased. "Don't be modest now. You know your place is amazing. (Y/N) would love it".

"Yeah, I mean, it's not bad", he muttered. "But it's nothing special, really".

You looked at the two of them with raised eyebrows. "I'll get something to drink", you giggled and left.

"Jared! The fuck you’re doing?", Jensen nudged his friend.

Jared chuckled, nudging Jensen back. "Just trying to help my best friend out", he replied with a playful grin. "Besides, she seems pretty into you".

Jensen muttered, "Even if she is, what am I supposed to do? Lead her to my house, show her my kids' rooms, and screw her over the dinner table? Or better yet, in mine and Danneel's bed?".

Jared rolled his eyes and muttered back, "Well, if so, there would finally be some action in that bed again", knowing that Jensen and Danneel hadn’t slept in the same bed together for ages.

Jensen rolled his eyes, a mixture of frustration and resignation evident in his expression.

Jared muttered, "Wouldn’t be any different than what Danneel did with that other guy while you were on a convention, huh?".

You returned with a drink, feeling a rush of nerves as you stole a glance at Jensen. Biting your lip nervously, you took a sip of your drink, trying to appear casual despite the fluttering in your stomach.

Jensen caught your gaze, his heart skipping a beat as he met your eyes. Clearing his throat, he tried to muster a casual smile, but his nerves were palpable. "Find something good to drink?", he asked, his voice slightly strained. You just nodded.

"I think Gen called me", Jared said and quickly left the two of you alone again.

After a few moments full of uncomfortable silence, Jensen spoke up. "What do you wanna do?".

You blushed lightly, realizing the implications of your suggestion, but you pressed on nonetheless. "I'm… actually down for a little walk", you mumbled, referencing Jared's earlier suggestion about Jensen showing you his house.

Jensen's gaze lingered on yours for a few moments longer, his mind racing as he weighed his options. With a subtle lick of his lips, he made a decision, draining his glass in a single swift motion.

"Well, let's go for a walk then", he replied, his voice slightly husky as he gestured towards the door.

As you walked, the conversation flowed naturally. You shared stories about your travels in Europe, while Jensen recounted tales from his childhood in Dallas and his time in California. The more you talked, the more comfortable you both became, and the 15-minute walk felt like it passed in an instant.

However, Jensen was careful to steer the conversation away from his career, focusing instead on your experiences and mutual interests. You found yourselves laughing and sharing anecdotes, creating a connection that felt both effortless and genuine.

When you finally arrived at his house, you were almost surprised at how quickly you had reached it. Jensen paused at the gate, giving you a moment to take in the sight of his home.

“Well, here we are”, he said with a slightly strained smile, his eyes watching your reaction closely.

You looked at the massive house, swallowing hard. “Wow, it’s huge”, you breathed, your eyes wide with awe.

Jensen chuckled softly, though deep down he hoped there were no traces of his kids' toys or any other personal items left behind. He took a deep breath, catching the key Jared had handed him earlier while you were getting yourself a drink. Crossing his fingers, he opened the door and led you inside.

The house was pretty much how he had left it. Most of the furniture was still inside, but it was clean and tidy, with no stray toys or personal items in sight. Jensen let out a small sigh of relief as he stepped aside to let you in.

“Welcome to my humble abode”, he said with a hint of sarcasm, giving you a small, genuine smile.

You stepped inside, looking around with wide eyes. “It’s really nice”, you said, admiring the spacious living room.

Jensen nodded, feeling a mixture of pride and nostalgia. “Thanks. It’s been a while since I’ve been here, so it’s nice to see it still looks good”.

You walked further into the house, feeling a bit overwhelmed by its size and beauty. “I can’t believe you have all this to yourself”, you said, glancing back at him.

Jensen shrugged, trying to downplay it. “Well, it’s not exactly just for me. I’ve got family and friends who stay over sometimes”.

You nodded. “Still, it’s pretty amazing”.

Jensen smiled, feeling a bit more relaxed now that you seemed comfortable. “Come on, let me show you the backyard. Jared wasn’t lying about the view”.

He led you through the house and out to the backyard, where the view of the river and the expansive garden took your breath away. The moonlight shimmered on the water, creating a picturesque scene that felt almost surreal.

“Wow”, you whispered, taking it all in.

Jensen stood beside you, looking out at the view with a sense of calm. “Yeah, it’s something else, isn’t it?”.

“It really is”, you said softly.

For a moment, the two of you stood there in silence, the night air cool and refreshing.

Jensen felt a pang in his heart as he stood in his backyard, the familiar surroundings stirring up a whirlwind of emotions. He loved Austin; it was home. Now, living in Connecticut, everything felt different. His whole life felt different. He wasn’t happy there, not happy in his marriage. Just… not happy. The ache of those realizations pressed heavily on him. Taking a deep breath, he tried to shake off the emotions, turning away from the view.

“Where are you going?”, you asked, noticing his movement.

“Just give me a second”, he said softly, disappearing into the house.

Left alone, you looked around the beautiful backyard, soaking in the tranquility of the night. On a whim, you slipped off your shoes and walked to the edge of the pool. Sitting down, you dipped your feet into the cool water, the sensation calming your racing thoughts. The peacefulness of the moment enveloped you.

A few minutes later, Jensen reappeared, a bottle of whiskey and two glasses in hand. He paused for a moment, a soft smile forming on his lips as he saw you sitting by the pool, enjoying the serene atmosphere.

“Looks like you’re making yourself at home”, he remarked, walking over to join you.

You looked up, returning his smile. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s just so peaceful out here”.

“Not at all”, Jensen said, sitting down beside you and placing the glasses and the bottle on the ground. He poured two generous servings of whiskey and handed you a glass.

You raised the glass, swirling the amber liquid and watching it catch the moonlight. “Where did you get this from?”, you asked, curiosity piqued.

Jensen chuckled, a soft, almost mischievous sound. “I always have a secret stash”, he mumbled, eyes twinkling. “A little something for moments like these”.

You smiled, clinking your glass against his. “Cheers to secret stashes, then”.

“Cheers”, Jensen echoed, taking a sip and savoring the warmth of the whiskey. You both sat quietly for a moment.

“So”, you began, breaking the silence, “what made you leave such an awesome place?”.

Jensen sighed deeply, staring into his glass for a moment as if searching for the right words. "It's… complicated", he finally said, his voice tinged with a hint of melancholy. "There are a lot of things I can't really get into right now".

You nodded, understanding that some things were just too personal to share with someone you had just met. "I get it", you said softly. "Life has a way of throwing us into complicated situations".

Jensen looked at you, gratitude in his eyes for not pressing him further. "Yeah, it does", he agreed, a small smile forming on his lips. "But sometimes, those complications lead to moments like this, and maybe that's what makes it all worth it".

You smiled back, taking another sip of your whiskey. "I suppose you're right".

The conversation flowed easily after that, touching on lighter topics and shared interests. The connection between you grew stronger with each passing moment.

Jensen leaned back, looking up at the stars. "You know, I haven't felt this relaxed in a long time", he admitted, his voice almost a whisper. "Thank you for that".

You felt a warm blush spread across your cheeks, touched by his words. "I'm glad I could help", you replied softly. "I feel the same way".

Eventually, the two of you were pretty drunk, laughing and having a good time. The whiskey had worked its magic, easing any remaining tension and making the night feel light and carefree.

You nudged Jensen gently, a mischievous smile on your face. “You’re the funniest old man I’ve ever met”, you giggled teasingly.

Jensen feigned offense. “Old man? I’ll have you know I’m in the prime of my life!”, he retorted with a grin.

You laughed, and Jensen joined in, the sound of your laughter mingling under the night sky. Without thinking, he nudged you back, a little harder than he intended. You lost your balance, your eyes widening in surprise as you tumbled right into the cool pool with a splash.

“Whoa!”, you exclaimed as you hit the water, the shock of the cold taking your breath away for a moment. You resurfaced, gasping, pushing your wet hair out of your face.

Jensen’s eyes widened in shock and then he burst into laughter, doubling over as he tried to apologize. “Oh, shit! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to push you that hard!”.

You couldn’t help but laugh too, despite the sudden chill. “Well, at least the pool is nice”, you joked, swimming over to the edge.

Jensen reached out a hand to help you out, still chuckling. “Here, let me help you”.

As you took Jensen's hand, a mischievous idea sparked in your mind. With a wide smirk, you tugged on his hand, pulling him towards you with surprising strength. Before Jensen could react, he found himself stumbling forward and plunging into the pool beside you, fully clothed.

The splash echoed through the air as Jensen hit the water, his expression a mixture of surprise and amusement. For a moment, the two of you were submerged, the coolness of the water enveloping you both.

When he resurfaced, you couldn't contain your laughter, the joy bubbling up inside you as you shook your head, water droplets flying from your hair. "Oops, sorry about that", you said with a grin, trying to stifle your giggles.

Jensen blinked, his laughter mixing with yours as he shook his head, his clothes clinging to his body. "Well played", he admitted, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

As the laughter subsided, a playful glint danced in your eyes as you swam closer to Jensen. "Looks like we're both a couple of wet rats now", you teased, splashing water in his direction.

Jensen chuckled, swiping a hand through his dripping hair. "Speak for yourself", he shot back, splashing water right back at you. "You're the one who dragged me in here!".

You grinned as you playfully splashed each other, the water rippling around you. "Hey, you pushed me first!", you countered, ducking to avoid another splash from Jensen.

As the water splashing began to subside, Jensen leaned against the edge of the pool, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. "You know", he began, his voice taking on a slightly flirtatious tone, "if you wanted to get me all wet, you could have just asked".

You laughed, shaking your head. "Oh, is that right? Well, maybe I just wanted to see if you could swim", you teased back, moving closer to him.

Jensen raised an eyebrow. "Trust me, I can swim just fine. But I have to admit, I never thought I'd be having a midnight swim with someone who calls me an old man".

You splashed him again, giggling. "Hey, it's all in good fun. Besides, you're not that old".

"Not that old, huh?", Jensen leaned in slightly, his gaze holding yours. "I'll take that as a compliment".

There was a playful spark between you, the teasing taking on a more flirty undertone. "So", you said, tilting your head, "do you make a habit of inviting girls over for midnight swims?".

Jensen smirked, shaking his head. "Only the ones who can handle a bit of a splash", he replied.

You laughed, feeling a flutter in your stomach. "Well, I think I passed the test".

Jensen nodded, his smile softening. "Yeah, I think you did". The two of you stood there, the water gently lapping around you, the connection between you growing stronger with every moment.

You leaned back against the pool's edge, your eyes sparkling with amusement. "So, Mr. Prime-of-His-Life, what other surprises do you have up your sleeve? Midnight swims, secret whiskey stashes… What's next?".

Jensen chuckled, shaking his head. "Wouldn't you like to know?".

"Oh, I definitely would", you replied, your tone playful. "I'm starting to think you're full of surprises".

He smirked, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe I am. But you'll just have to stick around to find out".

You shifted a bit closer, closing the distance between you. "You know, for an old man, you're pretty fun".

Jensen laughed, shaking his head. "You really like that 'old man' thing, don't you?".

You shrugged, grinning. "Well, if the shoe fits… But in all seriousness, you don't seem old to me. You seem… experienced".

"Experienced, huh?", he replied, his voice dropping to a playful whisper. "I think I like that better".

You smiled, feeling a warm thrill at his tone. "Good. Because I think there's a lot I could learn from someone as experienced as you".

Jensen's eyes sparkled with a mix of amusement and something deeper. "Careful what you wish for. You might get more than you bargained for".

You laughed softly. "I'm willing to take that risk".

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still, the night air cool against your wet skin.

Jensen licked his wet lips, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your lips and back. You were just inches in front of him, your lashes wet and making your eyes sparkle even more. He took a deep breath, his voice lowering to a soft, almost husky tone.

“You know”, he began, his eyes locked on yours, “there’s something about you that I just can’t shake. The way you look at me… it’s like you’re daring me to do something”.

Your heart fluttered at his words, and you felt a blush creeping up your cheeks despite the cool water.

“And what if I am?”, you teased, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jensen’s smile widened, his eyes darkening with a mix of amusement and desire. “Then I’d say you’re playing a dangerous game”, he murmured, leaning in just a fraction closer. “Because when I want something… I usually get it”.

You felt your breath hitch at his words, the space between you seeming to shrink even more. The intensity in his gaze was almost overwhelming, but you found yourself unable to look away.

“Maybe I like danger”, you whispered back, your lips so close to his that you could feel his breath mingling with yours.

Without thinking of any consequences, Jensen reached out, grabbed you by the waist under the water, turned you around and pushed you against the edge of the pool with some force. Trapping you between the cool titles and his chest. Your heart starts racing as his touch sent a jolt of electricity through you. His closeness was intoxicating, his warmth contrasting with the coolness of the poolside tiles against your back. You could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, matching the rapid pace of your own.

Jensen's gaze burned into yours, a mixture of raw desire and a hint of vulnerability flickering in his eyes. He hesitated for just a fraction of a second, as if silently asking for permission, before his lips found yours in a hungry, fervent kiss. The world around you faded into a blur as his kiss deepened, sending waves of heat cascading through your body.

His hands, firm yet tender, trailed along your waist, sending shivers down your spine. The scent of chlorine mingled with his cologne, creating a heady aroma that filled your senses. You melted into his embrace, your fingers tangling in his hair as the kiss intensified, each moment feeling both timeless and urgent.

Lost in the intensity of the moment, you surrendered to the passion that had been simmering between you. The poolside seemed like a universe of its own, secluded and intimate, a space where the boundaries between you blurred into nothingness.

As you broke the kiss, breathless and gazing into each other's eyes, the world around you slowly came back into focus. The cool water lapped gently against the edge of the pool, a soothing contrast to the heat that still lingered between you. Jensen's forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours as he whispered softly, "I knew you were trouble".

You couldn't help but smile, a mixture of exhilaration and contentment washing over you. In that moment, there were no consequences, no boundaries. Just the undeniable pull between two souls drawn together by desire and a shared sense of daring.

As Jensen’s hands cupped your face with a tenderness that belied the urgency of his kiss, you could feel his longing mirrored in the way his lips sought yours once more. The sensation was electric, a surge of passion that coursed through you like lightning.

His touch was both gentle and possessive, his fingers tracing the curve of your jawline as he deepened the kiss. There was an intensity in the way he kissed you, as if he was trying to convey a thousand unspoken words with each brush of his lips against yours.

Your own hands found their way to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your touch.

As you kissed him back with equal fervor, your senses heightened by the taste of him, you knew that this moment would forever be etched in your memory. It was a moment of surrender, of letting go of inhibitions and embracing the undeniable pull of attraction that had drawn you together.

As Jensen gently pulled away to take a deep breath, you were on the verge of saying something. Yet, the fear of disrupting the bubble of intimacy you both shared held you back. As your lips parted, ready to form words, he silenced any potential interruption by pressing his mouth back onto yours without hesitation.

His kiss was a seamless continuation. It felt as though his lips were made to fit perfectly against yours.

His hands cradled your face with renewed urgency, drawing you nearer until there was no space left between your bodies. Each touch conveyed a deep longing and desire that spoke louder than any words could.

When Jensen finally broke away, both of you were breathless, his gaze locked with yours in a silent exchange of understanding and desire. Again, his forehead rested gently against yours, his chest rising and falling with the effort to steady his racing heart.

With your heart racing and your stomach turning, you held onto his biceps to steady yourself. Without hesitation, Jensen's lips found their way back to yours, before brushing over your jawline, down to your neck.

"You shouldn't…", you whispered softly, your voice betraying the desire that pulsed through you.

"Hmm…", Jensen mumbled against your soft skin, his breath warm and teasing.

One of his hands hooked under your thigh, lifting you effortlessly as he brought your leg around his waist. His body pressed against yours, the unmistakable hardness of his arousal evident through the fabric.

The intensity of the moment was overwhelming, a mix of desire and hesitation swirling within you. Yet, as Jensen's kisses trailed along your neck and his touch sent shivers down your spine, you found yourself unable to resist the pull that drew you closer to him.

Your head spun even more as you felt his arousal pressing against you, making your breath hitch. His kisses trailed along your neck and down to your collarbone, each one sending shivers through your body. The sensation was overwhelming, a blend of excitement and vulnerability that left you breathless.

Jensen's hands roamed your body with a mixture of tenderness and urgency, as if he couldn't get enough of you. His fingers traced the contours of your back, pulling you even closer to him. The heat of his body against yours was intoxicating.

"I… I don't know if we should", you whispered, your voice shaky with emotion.

"Shh", he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and reassuring. "We don't have to decide anything right now. Just feel this".

His words, combined with the intensity of his touch, made it impossible to think clearly. All you could do was surrender to the moment, letting the passion between you take over. Jensen's lips found yours again, and you kissed him back with everything you had, pouring all your longing and desire into that single, electrifying connection.

The way Jensen kissed you, his tongue skillfully rolling over yours, his big, heavy hands holding your face in place, made your stomach churn with an intense mix of excitement and desire. He was everything you had ever wanted in that moment, his kiss leaving you breathless and yearning for more. This man could kiss like no one else, and you found yourself utterly captivated.

The way he held you, with just the right amount of firmness, made you feel so desired. It was as if he was pouring all of his emotions into each touch, each caress, and it was impossible to resist the pull you felt towards him.

Jensen’s kisses grew more insistent, more urgent, as if he couldn’t get enough of you.

For what felt like forever, the two of you clung to each other, lost in the intensity of your connection.

But then, the shrill ring of Jensen’s phone shattered the moment, pulling both of you out of your intimate bubble. He growled in frustration at the interruption, his forehead still resting against yours. You could sense his reluctance to let go, but the persistent ringing demanded attention.

“I hate this”, he muttered, the irritation clear in his voice.

Jensen’s phone was next to the empty whiskey bottle beside the pool. He reached above you, his body brushing against yours as he grabbed the phone. Glancing at the caller ID, his expression harden slightly. With a sigh, he turned the phone upside down, silencing it, and then let it fall back onto the ground.

His eyes returned to yours, filled with an intensity that made your heart race. “Sorry about that”, he said softly, his voice filled with a mix of apology and desire.

“It’s okay”, you whispered, shivering slightly from the sudden coolness of the night air and the break in the heated moment.

Jensen noticed your shiver and pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you protectively. “You’re cold”, he murmured, concern lacing his voice.

“A little”, you admitted, leaning into his warmth.

“Let’s get you warmed up”, he said, his tone gentle yet filled with an undercurrent of longing.

Jensen climbed out of the pool first, reaching down to help you out with a gentle but firm grip. Water dripped from both of you, your clothes clinging tightly to your bodies. He ran a hand through his wet hair, sucking in his lower lip as he contemplated the situation. The tension in the air was palpable, a mixture of lingering desire and the abrupt intrusion of reality.

His eyes flicked over you, concern mixed with longing evident in his gaze. He quickly retrieved some towels, wrapping one gently around your shoulders, his touch warm and reassuring.

“Let’s get inside”, he said, nodding towards the door leading back into the house. His voice was steady, but you could sense the underlying tension.

As you walked towards the house, his mind raced with thoughts of how you might perceive him. The intensity of the moment had left its mark on both of you, but he worried about whether he had pushed too far, too fast. His arousal was still evident, the outline unmistakable against his wet jeans, and he felt a flush of embarrassment mixing with his desire.

Jensen led you towards the main bathroom, his hand warm and steady on the small of your back. As he opened the door to the bathroom, he turned to you.

“You should take a hot shower”, he mumbled, his voice low and almost hesitant. “I’ll find some dry clothes for you”.

Before you could respond, he had already turned and was heading towards another part of the house. “I’ll be back in a bit”, he called over his shoulder, his footsteps quickening as he disappeared down the hallway.

You stood there for a moment, absorbing the whirlwind of emotions and sensations from the evening. The coolness of your wet clothes began to seep into your skin, making the suggestion of a hot shower all the more appealing.

Stepping into the bathroom, you closed the door behind you and turned on the shower, letting the steam fill the room. The hot water cascaded over you, washing away the tension and bringing a sense of calm. As you stood under the stream, you couldn’t help but replay the moments by the pool, the intensity of Jensen’s touch, and the connection you felt.

Meanwhile, Jensen hurried to JJ’s bathroom, stripping off his wet clothes and stepping into the shower. The hot water hit him, and he closed his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts.

The intensity of the evening weighed heavily on his mind, and the reality of his situation began to sink in.

"Fuck", he muttered under his breath, his fist connecting hard with the tile wall. The impact sent a sharp pain through his knuckles, but it barely registered against the turmoil of his thoughts.

He leaned his forehead against the cool tiles, the water continuing to cascade over him. He couldn't control himself back in the pool; the desire, the connection, it was all too overpowering.

His mind raced with the possible consequences. He was still married, and if something came up, if someone found out what had happened tonight, it could ruin everything—his image, his career, his personal life. The stakes were incredibly high, and yet, in those moments with you, nothing else seemed to matter.

Jensen knew he had to be careful, had to think things through, but the pull he felt towards you was unlike anything he had experienced before. It was as if the world had narrowed down to just the two of you, and all his usual restraints and rational thoughts had vanished in the heat of the moment.

After he finished the shower, Jensen wrapped a towel around his waist and made his way towards the guest room he had slept in for years. He dried himself off, slipped into some fresh clothes he kept there, and began searching for something suitable to offer you. He hesitated for a moment, knowing that Danneel might have left some clothes behind, but the thought of you questioning why he had women's clothes was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now.

Eventually, he settled on a comfortable pair of his own boxers and a soft shirt. Carrying them with him, he walked back towards the main bathroom where you were still showering, his footsteps heavy with contemplation.

He knocked softly on the door, calling out your name. "Hey, I've got some dry clothes for you", he announced gently, hoping his voice conveyed reassurance despite the underlying tension.

You opened the door a crack, peeking out at him with a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty. Taking the clothes from him, you managed a small smile. "Thank you", you said softly, your voice still carrying a hint of the evening's lingering intensity.

Jensen nodded, returning your smile with a warm yet cautious one of his own. "You're welcome. Take your time", he replied, stepping away to give you space.

Once you were dressed in the dry clothes he had provided, you emerged from the bathroom, feeling more composed but still unsure of where things stood between you. Jensen was waiting for you in the living room, his expression a mix of relief and concern.

"Feel better?", he asked quietly as you approached, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort or regret.

"Yeah, thank you", you replied, offering a small nod. "And thank you for the clothes".

Jensen nodded in return, a flicker of emotion passing through his eyes. “Of course”, he murmured. He hesitated for a moment, then added softly, “That shirt suits you”.

You glanced down at the shirt he had given you, a small smile playing on your lips.

As you stood there, unsure of what to say next to break the tension, Jensen’s demeanor shifted subtly. Unknown to you, it was his wife who had called earlier, a fact that weighed heavily on his mind despite his attempts to focus on the moment with you.

Jensen put his phone down, ignoring the messages from Jared as he kept his gaze fixed on you. He nodded towards the empty space on the couch beside him. “Why don’t you sit down?”, he suggested quietly.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

Part 4

Taglist: @cheynovak @chriszgirl92 @jenniferr0323 @angelbabyyy99 @cevansbaby-dove @muhahaha303 @jackles010378 @suckitands33 @n-o-p-e-never @mayafatimakhan @ladysparkles78 @viviandarkbloom06 @jassackles @evasmlp @acklesaddict67 @mostlymarvelgirl @emma1998sblog @mishaesque @headinthemoon87 @hobby27 @winchesterwild78 @impala67rollingthroughtown @manicjk

#jensen ackles #jensen x reader #jensen ackles the boys #jensen ackles x you #jensen ackles x reader #jensenedit #jared and jensen #jared padalecki

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tinytinyblogs · 11 months ago

Text

Are you defying me, darling?

The more you distance yourself, the closer they might become. Take it slow if you're unsure.

⚠️ yandere theme, unhealthy obsession, and a lot more⚠️

Hyung line, Maknae line

stray kids masterlist

Your insights and reactions make these posts come alive. Love reblogs, comments, and all the good vibes welcome ✨

Han

The words tore out of you, a torrent of pent-up frustration. You screamed at Han, demanding he just leave you alone. The air crackled with the raw emotion, and for a horrifying moment, he did freeze. His eyes, usually holding a gentle warmth, were wide and vacant, a reflection of the shattered world you hadn't meant to create. Here's the thing: Han craved control. He wasn't some villain, not in the traditional sense. He just wanted his perfect world, one where everything unfolded like a meticulously planned story with a happily-ever-after starring you both. But your outburst, that desperate plea for space, had ripped a hole in the tapestry of his delusion. This wasn't part of the script. The unease that had always simmered beneath the surface, a constant low hum whenever things deviated from his ideal, flared into a roaring inferno. He spent the night tossing and turning, the echo of your words carving a canyon in his sanity. He couldn't lose you. He wouldn't. But to keep you, he concluded, the "soft" Han wouldn't suffice. The next day, the man who stood before you was a chilling stranger. The gentle affection in his eyes was replaced by a steely glint.

He wasn't asking anymore. Demands, laced with a terrifying desperation, spilled from his lips. He became a constant, suffocating presence. He wouldn't let you out of his sight, wouldn't tolerate an argument, wouldn't even acknowledge the dawning fear in your eyes. This wasn't the love you craved, it was a twisted obsession, a warped interpretation of your outburst as a sign of weakness, a need for him to become the 'monster' he believed he needed to be to keep you by his side. His voice dropped to a sinister whisper as he stared into your eyes, a predator sizing up its prey. "Look at me, darling," he commanded, the term dripping with mockery. He paused, letting the silence tighten its grip around you. "This whole charade? It's under my control. You have no say in it." His hand reached up, a single finger gently tracing your jawline, sending a jolt of fear through you. "Don't even think about defying me again. Leaving isn't an option. Ever. Get that through that pretty little head of yours. Now." His voice hardened with a barely contained rage. "Because next time, darling, the scream will stay trapped inside."

Felix

He sighed, a sound that seemed to scrape against your nerves. "Look," he started, his voice deceptively calm, "I might have let the first thing slide. Maybe even the second. But this? This is pushing it, love." A thin smile played on his lips, but it never reached his eyes. They remained cold, devoid of the warmth you were used to. Disappointment gnawed at you. You'd always thought him different, the one person you could rely on to be gentle, understanding. Now, faced with his steely gaze and the way he kept inching closer, you realized how wrong you'd been. "Being the good guy all the time," he continued, his voice low and dangerous, "it gets old, doesn't it?" He stopped just a hair's breadth away, towering over you. Your back hit the wall with a thud, the trapped feeling mirroring the growing panic in your chest. "Especially," he leaned in further, his breath hot against your ear, "when the person you're being good for doesn't seem to appreciate it." A single finger grazed your cheek, sending shivers down your spine. "You made a mistake, love," he murmured, his voice a silken threat. "Let's hope you learn from it."

Looking into his eyes, you saw a storm brewing within. A storm you never knew existed, a monster you never wanted to see unleashed. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring the terrifying image before you. You'd never seen him like this – his voice, usually warm and melodic, was a low growl, his hands, normally gentle, were clenched into fists. This wasn't the Felix you knew. This was a stranger, fueled by a rage so potent, it choked the air from the room. The weight of your mistake settled on your shoulders like a physical burden. You hadn't meant to push him, to awaken this monstrous side. But the damage was done. His anger, a white-hot inferno, was directed solely at you. His words, usually laced with playful teasing, became barbed weapons. He lashed out, not physically, but his every utterance felt like a blow, tearing down the foundation of your trust. He paced the room, a caged animal seeking an escape that wasn't there. Each movement seemed to shake the room, each breath a gust of wind that threatened to extinguish the fragile flame of hope flickering within you. The lingering ache of bruises, the sting of dried tears - these were the haunting echoes of a moment you swore to never relieve.

Seungmin

The air crackled with a sudden tension you hadn't anticipated. A single, sharp laugh escaped Seungmin's lips, devoid of any humor. "No," he spat, his voice laced with ice. "Don't even think about it." The playful glint in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a cold fury that sent shivers down your spine. How dare you? You, his darling, to utter such a word – 'leave'? The audacity of it burned in his gaze. Respect was paramount to Seungmin, and your flippant demand was a blatant insult. "Jerk?" he echoed, the word dripping with dangerous venom. "That's a cute term for someone who forgets their place." He took a menacing step closer, his towering frame casting a dark shadow over you. "Don't mistake my kindness for weakness, darling." His voice dipped to a low growl, sending a primal jolt of fear through you. "There are things I can do," he continued, his words slow and deliberate, "things you wouldn't even dare to imagine. And you, my love," he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, "will learn exactly what happens when you disrespect me." A cruel smile played on his lips, a terrifying reminder of the power he held over you. This wasn't the Seungmin you knew, the charming and attentive boyfriend.

This was a predator, baring his fangs, and you were caught firmly in his sights. The playful facade had shattered, revealing a darkness you could only begin to comprehend. Suddenly, he tilted his head, a gesture that sent a fresh wave of panic through you. "Perhaps," he began, his voice low and silken, "a little reminder is in order." He took another step closer, the space between you shrinking with each calculated move. Your back hit the wall with a thud, the trapped feeling mirroring the growing terror in your chest. He reached out, a single finger tracing the delicate skin of your wrist. "Let's see," he murmured, his voice sending shivers down your spine, "how long it takes you to change your tune once you understand the consequences." A sharp sting echoed through the room as his fingernail dug into your flesh, drawing a gasp and a tear. It wasn't the pain, though it was agonizing, that made you flinch. It was the cold emptiness in his eyes, devoid of the love or concern you were used to. This single, calculated act shattered your resistance. Tears streamed down your face, hot and uncontrolled. "Seungmin, please," you choked out, your voice thick with fear and regret. "I didn't mean it, I..." His finger remained in place, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Didn't mean what, darling?" he taunted, tilting his head to listen. "Speak clearly. I wouldn't want any misunderstandings."

Jeongin

Jeongin wasn't known for his temper, but the way his smile stretched a little too wide, a little too manic, sent a jolt of terror through you. You'd never seen him like this – his eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, now held a glint of chilling obsession. "Obsessed?" he echoed your words, his voice a sickeningly sweet drawl. "Perhaps that's a bit dramatic, wouldn't you say?" He took a menacing step closer, the air around him crackling with a dark energy you'd never felt before. "But let's get one thing straight," he continued, his voice dropping to a low growl. "That little outburst of yours? It wasn't cute. Not. One. Bit." He circled you like a predator stalking its prey, his smile morphing into a grotesque parody of amusement. "You see, darling," he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, "I find your defiance… intriguing. A challenge, even." A dangerous glint flickered in his eyes. "You think you can scream at me, tell me what to do? Think again." He straightened, his smile widening as he threw his head back and let out a chilling laugh. The sound echoed through the room, devoid of any warmth or joy, sending shivers down your spine. "This," he gestured around wildly, "isn't ending, sweetheart. This is just the beginning."

Jeongin straightened fully, the manic glint in his eyes replaced by a chilling calmness. His hand dipped into his pocket, emerging with a glint of silver – a small pocket knife, its blade catching the light with a predatory gleam. The playful facade had vanished completely. In its place stood a stranger, a predator with a dangerous glint in his eye. The air grew thick with a suffocating silence, broken only by the shallow rasp of your breath. "Since you seem to have forgotten your place," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, a chilling monotone that sent shivers down your spine, "perhaps a little reminder is in order." He took another deliberate step closer, the knife held loosely in his hand, the tip pointed demonstratively at the floor. You backed away instinctively, the wall stopping your retreat. Jeongin didn't seem fazed. He circled you slowly, the knife a constant, menacing presence. His gaze flickered from your face down to your trembling hands, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "You will learn," he continued, his voice low and menacing, "exactly what happens when you defy me." The playful pet names and teasing had been replaced by a cold, calculated cruelty. This wasn't the Jeongin you knew, the playful boy who made you laugh. This was a monster you'd unwittingly unleashed with your harsh words.

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geeks-universe · 1 year ago

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The Fallen pt. 4

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Cooper Howard x F!Angel!Reader

A/N: This contains smut.

Cooper was angry.

No, he’d been angry when the shit-for-brains had the audacity to look at you like he was stripping your body bare with his eyes.

Now, he was furious.

Rage was an easy emotion, a comfortable one. For years it’d been his only companion, and slipping back into its familiar embrace felt almost natural to him.

Lucy had been too preoccupied with saying goodbye to her lover boy to see the carefully lidded fury, a snake in the grass ready to strike.

You’d noticed though.

Of course you noticed, just like you did every other damn thought that crossed his mind. Maybe you’d noticed the hundred different ways he’d imagined popping that weasel’s head off, of making you pay for the tiniest bit of himself he couldn’t let die.

When you’d proclaimed a shelter for the night- a sad little shack with three walls- Lucy had wandered off with some lame excuse of looking for supplies, the dog trotting happily along with her. Or maybe it was checking the perimeter. He didn’t care, hoped she died, really.

You set a lantern on the ground between the two of you, laying out your pack to get comfortable on the floor. Cooper didn’t bother, couldn’t sit down while the fire burned through his veins. It roared through every inch of his body, consuming him with a vexation he hadn’t felt in a long time.

That fucking roach should’ve lost his hands for touching you, for thinking himself deserving of your silky skin.

“You should rest.”

He barked a laugh- a harsh, aggravated noise wrangled from his chest.

“Ain’t as delicate as you.”

It was meant to be an insult, and fuck didn’t that just piss him off that you let it slide right off you. Unbothered, the same way you’d been the day he first met you.

The same way you’d been when that rat had scurried to you, vying for your attention.

“Coop-“

“So now you want to speak to me?” He straightened his back, standing to his full height as he glared down at your sitting figure.

It was an intimidation tactic, and he knew you well enough to know that it wouldn’t have the effect he was hoping, but it would make you privy to his frustrations.

“Seems like I’m a great choice when I’m the only one.”

Confusion furrowed your brows, quickly replaced by understanding. You let out a low sigh, eyes tracing Cooper’s figure in the dim light.

He didn’t like that you could be so calm, that you didn’t feel his wrath.

“You’re jealous.”

He snarled, angry at the insinuation- even more so that it was correct. It wasn’t just jealousy though.

You were his.

He hadn’t had something worth holding onto in a long damn time, and nobody would take what was his.

“If I was jealous everytime you opened those pretty legs for someone else, I’d never get any rest.”

Your eyes flashed- hurt, followed quickly by anger.

Good.

He wanted you angry.

Wanted you to feel the inferno in your chest, the way he did- to let it consume you in a blaze of abandon, come undone at the seams and show the person beneath.

“We’re not doing this,” you stated bluntly, still holding onto the last bit of restraint.

That wouldn’t do.

He wanted you unraveled, raw.

“Runnin’ won’t change a damn thing.”

Your hands pressed into your knees, a quick outlet of irritation before you stood up. Your eyes were still burning, but it wasn’t enough. You still had too much control.

“You’re such an ass.”

The smirk he flashed was cruel.

“‘M honest,” he argued, “and doesn’t that just piss you off?”

Your chest expanded with a deep breath, eyes unfocused as you talked yourself down. He was so close, you just needed a little push.

“Poor little dove, just wants to run away from her problems like she did her family.”

Bingo.

Faster than a blink, you were in his face, your teeth bared as you raised a fist. He took the opportunity, watching your rage swelter as he grabbed hold of your wrist and twisted it behind you.

Fuck if your rage wasn’t the most intoxicating thing- the rise and fall of your chest hypnotic, the bare of your teeth captivating. You growled, an angry, ominous noise that went straight to his cock.

Your back was pressed against his front, moving with the rhythm of your erratic breathing, teasing friction exactly where he wanted you. His fingers pressed into your wrist harder, his mouth dangerously close to your ear. You weren’t fighting his hold- waiting, listening.

“Maybe that’s why your daddy left you too.”

Your eyes seemed to glow with an inner fire as you tried to pull your hand from him. He held fast though, put every ounce of his strength into restraining you. You lashed out like a wild animal, movements irrational and erratic. Finally, when it was clear you wouldn’t get free, you spit at him.

“Fuck you.”

It was the most vulgar he’d ever heard you, his wrath mixing with desire. Warmth seeped into his cheek where your spit had landed, and in a quick kick of his legs, he dropped you to your knees hard.

And wasn’t that a damn sight.

“If that sweet mouth wants to be filthy so bad, why don’t we put it to good use.”

He talked slow, controlled, as he grabbed your hair, pulling your head back. Wild eyes traced the arch of your back, the smooth column of your exposed neck.

He wanted to take a bite.

Your eyes were burning into his, an anger he’d never seen before from you shining through. You looked like you hated him, like you’d burn him on the spot.

“Now, sweetheart, try not to use your teeth.”

He clicked open his belt buckle, positioning himself just enough to free his hardened length. He’d dreamt of this moment, had pleasured himself to the thought of you more than he could count. The realization that it was coming to fruition had him so hard it fucking hurt. He took pride at the hunger in your gaze, your mouth still twisted in a scowl.

“Don’t act all innocent now.”

Almost as if it were a challenge, spurred on by your temper, your hot mouth took his entire length in one quick movement and-

Holy fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You were impossibly warm, your tongue sliding the length of his cock while your eyes, the ones he’d spent so long admiring, stared into his own. You held his gaze, refused to look away as you hollowed your cheeks, daring him to keep going.

He didn’t disappoint, wrapping his hand around your hair just like he’d done with his lasso. Sturdy hands forced you to take him to the base of his cock, before pulling back out. He thrusted back in hard, unconcerned with the tears that gathered in your eyes as he slammed into your throat.

You were defiant in the way you took him, forcing a harsher pace than the one he’d set.

This had to have been heaven. Nothing on Earth could possibly feel this fucking good. His thrusts were feral, unrelenting, and you were meeting them with ferocity, your pretty lips wrapped so perfectly around his cock.

“Takin’ me so good,” he groaned, his abdomen spasming. The sound of your gags filled the air, tearing through any restraint he might’ve had.

It’d been a while since he’d felt any sort of pleasure, even longer since it’d been anything more than a quick fuck.

This, though…

This was a whole different beast.

Fuck.

He wiped at the saliva coating his cheek, staring into your eyes as he slid his fingers into his mouth, tasting your sweetness.

You moaned, and he was sure this had to be a dream.

Reality had never been this nice.

“My filthy girl.”

Another moan, and this one almost dropped him to his knees. Pleasure tingled up his spine, down to the tips of his fingers and the bottom of his toes. His body was practically vibrating, begging him for release.

He didn’t want it yet, wanted this moment to last an eternity. His cock was pounding into your mouth, your fingernails digging into his thighs- sweet pain mixed with hot pleasure.

Please, his body sung, begging for a release he desperately fought against.

His pace was brutal, chasing the high he both wanted more than anything, and wished would never come.

It wasn’t enough.

This wasn’t enough.

He needed more.

Needed all of you.

“You are mine.”

He emphasized on a growl, savoring the taste of you that still lingered on his tongue.

He was desperate for more, for every damn piece of yourself you’d give him. It’d never be enough, not enough time in the universe to get the fill of you he wanted- needed.

He was close now, only holding on by sheer will, and all it took was a tilt of your head and a long, low moan of what he only prayed was his name around his length.

Like a band, his restraint snapped, his hips surging forward as he grunted your name.

Fuck.

Fuck, his body was singing.

Fuck. Curses, unbidden, were falling from his lips. Pleas, praises, worships- fuck it all he couldn’t even tell anymore, blinded by the feel of your mouth.

It was hot, so hot, and you swallowed every drop he gave you, his sensitive cock was twitching, his knees trembling with the effort to stay on his feet.

You kept going though, pulling your lips back just far enough to lick his length clean, your eyes still so full of fire, the same fire racing through his body.

It was so much, too much almost, and yet he gave into the torturous pleasure, desperate for you, for whatever you’d give him.

His hat had fallen off his head when he threw it back, his legs shaking as you finally pulled away- and despite the overstimulation, his body still chased your mouth, not ready to feel the empty, consuming void left in your wake.

A breath.

A moment to consider what he’d done, what he’d said to you. It wasn’t anger in your eyes- not regret, either. He couldn't read it, couldn't grasp what you were feeling.

His heart pounded against his chest, exhausted arms releasing your hair as he slowly, cautiously, raised his fingers to your cheeks. Tears had fallen from how far he’d thrust himself into you. He wiped them away, let them press into the fabric of his gloves, as the air grew thick.

It was a soft moment, a gentle one, and he didn’t want to be the first to pull away.

So you did.

You got your feet and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, your jaw flexing as you looked like you hadn’t just sucked him fucking dry.

He tucked himself back in his pants and secured his belt, waiting for you to speak. It was a tense moment, drawn longer by the way you wet your lips, like you wanted to talk but couldn’t quite form the words.

“Oh, fudge, are you two okay?”

His finger itched with the desire to end the vaultie for interrupting this, for causing you to cast a worried glance in her direction before your damn walls were thrown back up. Whatever you’d been about to say, you definitely wouldn’t now.

“Just peachy,” you smiled, one that screamed inauthenticity as you took a step to face away from Lucy.

“Think I need some air though, I’ll be back in a bit.”

It was a dismissal if he ever heard one, and the vault dweller had the good sense not to try and follow.

“Your hat’s on the ground, there.”

She went to pick it up for him, but he swooped down before she had the chance and deposited it on his head. On a good day he didn’t have the patience for her, but right now he was feeling downright venomous.

“So-“

“Leave it.”

His words were final, tone brokering no argument. That was the only bit of grace he’d give her- one more word and his reply would be a bullet. She understood, could see the tension in his stance and gave him the space he desired.

But it wasn’t space he wanted.

It was you.

It was your voice, so gentle and melodic.

It was your touch, sweet and resolute- full of heat, of passion, of something that resembled life.

Instead, he got the cold, hard ground and a head full of vicious thoughts. Why did you plague his thoughts the way you did? Why did you make him feel so fucking human?

He didn’t want to.

Didn’t want that, any of it.

Not the fucking feelings, not the guilt, not the stupid fucking spark of hope in his cold, dead heart.

Let Cooper Howard die.

But it wasn’t that simple.

All of the anger in the world couldn’t turn his affection for you to hatred. It was a stubborn thing, and a solid one. No amount of pressure could bend it. He’d just learned to live with it- a deficiency he’d carry for the rest of his miserable time on Earth.

He fell to the ground there, not bothering with getting comfortable, almost like it was a punishment. Truth be told, he didn’t have the fight in his veins anymore, didn’t wish to have to struggle to get comfortable.

He was ready to lie down and accept what he earned.

His eyes slipped shut, and though the vault dweller fell into a light sleep easily, he could not. His mind simply wouldn’t stop, kept replaying that look in your eyes.

What did it mean?

Did you hate him?

He wouldn’t blame you, could never fault you for hating the monstrous thing he’d become. He’d bet you’d have fallen in love with him before- Cooper Howard, the gentleman.

That was the kind of thing you deserved, the kind of life he’d dreamt about with you.

He’d love you in those dreams, so unconditionally and flawlessly, with no restraint or regret. He’d praised the ground you walked on, and would cherish every moment he had with you.

Not now.

He couldn’t love that way, not anymore- didn’t want to, didn’t remember how, if he were honest.

There was a quiet, tempered crunch of sand, a boot moving slowly towards him.

He knew those steps though, knew that it was you who approached him. He kept his eyes shut, curious as to what your intent was.

If you killed him, so be it.

“Cooper,” you breathed.

It was a prayer, an admission, and a promise. He didn’t reply, didn’t even crack open an eye, just listened with all the ravenous hunger of a starving man, hoping you would say more.

You didn’t.

A shadow casted from behind his lids as you knelt down, reminiscent of earlier, but of your own volition. This wasn’t with rage, with an animalistic hunger.

This was with compassion, with something that resembled fondness.

A soft exhale left your parted lips, and if he imagined hard enough, he could see the expression you wore. It was kind, open- something he rarely saw anymore.

A weight settled on his chest then, your head pressed snug against the tattered shirt he wore. An arm wrapped around his middle, holding him close to your warmth. The words you spoke in then sounded lyrical, more natural than anything you’d ever said before.

He didn’t know the meaning, wasn’t even sure what language it was- but a heat emanated from the feather he’d tucked into his chest pocket, and he understood that it was you sharing a piece of yourself.

He listened to the beating of his own heart, the slowing of your breaths, as he felt a peace wash over himself that he thought was long gone.

There, in the dim glow of a worn lantern, with the most beautiful soul he’d ever had the pleasure of meeting tucked into his side, Cooper Howard emerged- the man he was- if only for a moment.

Tags: @lacontroller1991 @giggle-shade

#cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #cooper howard insert #the ghoul x reader #the ghoul x you #fallout x reader #fallout reader insert #cooper howard imagine #the ghoul imagine #fallout imagine

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mylove-iv · 1 year ago

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⠀𐔌 . ⋮ stars, he wants you in some chaste, victorian way .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

ʚ hw! link x fem! reader ɞ

synopsis: the hero of warriors catches glimpses of your skin and he’s entranced, lustfully so.

genres: romance.

rating: mature, 18+ (mdni).

reader specifications: reader is written dressed in a silk robe and slip dress, reader is also written to have long-ish hair and uses lip rouge, no pronouns are used but was written with a female reader in mind.

content warnings: suggestive, contains depictions of implied smut, bruising, and biting.

word count: 849 words.

author’s note: based and inspired by this post on pinterest! i’m slowly getting into writing linked universe (lu) members, so stay tuned for more!

―originally posted on @mydarling-iv, apr. 2, 2023

‎‧₊ part i ─ masterlist .ᐟ ༘

Warriors sighs, running a hand over his face in frustration because of high society's conformities and the annoying nobles. Fake smiles, poison-drenched words, and wavering loyalties amongst the nobility had always drained him.

But as he reaches your door, a smile can't help but tug on his lips, the exhaustion in his bones evaporating at the thought of spending time with you.

He forgoes knocking, knowing that you are in your quarters and won't mind his presence. His steps are quiet and the soft smell of jasmine your room is encompassed in hits his nose in an almost wanton and sensual way that reminds him of silk and rouge.

The very same silk draped against your smooth skin and the rouge he noticed you'd sometimes apply to your kissable lips.

Warriors ignores his straying thoughts as he reaches the archway that leads to your room, silken threads tangling and hanging from the arch and his breathing nearly halts at the sight before him.

Sitting atop a creamy white vanity stool, there you were, clothed only in a silken robe, soft and smooth legs on display for Warriors.

He had never seen you in such little clothing—skin exposed for his vivid cerulean eyes to feast on—forcing Warriors to lose himself to the burning inferno within his mind.

Goddesses, how he wishes he could embrace you with no barriers of clothing in between, feeling your heartbeat hammer against his chest in a raw, wanton way.

He longed to have your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, hips swaying in a sinful, lust-filled dance as he kisses and bites your saccharine lips so much your lips would blush as if you had freshly applied rouge. You'd sing sweet nothings and praises, whines and whimpers tumbling from your kiss-bitten lips from how good he'd make you feel-

Warriors' body starts to warm up, a blistering heat he could only recognize as desire flaring beneath his skin as his eyes follow and trace your every move.

Removing the hairpin that tucked your hair neatly, your h/c locks fall over your shoulders and down your back in soft waves. His hand twitches at the urge to thread his fingers through your hair before pulling gently, hoping to elicit a sound that would only feed the raging fire of want simmering within him.

Warriors closes his eyes as a means to keep the bubbling of his yearning from spilling over before he opens them once more. A grunt nearly tumbles from his lips as you gently and carefully slip your robe off your shoulders, movements slow and teasing.

You run a delicate hand through your locks before swiping your hair over your shoulder and he can't help but let out a barely audible groan tumble from his lips. It becomes apparent how much he desires you, his groan borderline sounding agonized at the sight of your bare back your silk slip dress presents to him.

The skin of your back looks so smooth and so soft and the need of bruising your hips and love handles with marks of his hands having a tight grip on the flesh of your waist becomes prevalent, growing stronger with every passing second.

The skin of your shoulders tempt him to dig his teeth into your sweet skin to leave hues of red and purple that'd stain your skin for weeks, letting the world know who you belonged to before he'd move his lips to your ear, whispering sweet nothings and the sinful things he'd do to you-

He silently groans at the rush of blood flowing through his body—goddesses was he screwed.

Just the mere sight of your bare legs and shoulders could get him going. Just a glimpse of bare skin from any part of your body can and will kill him.

You'll be the death of him. Warriors swallows thickly, eyes squeezing shut before a quiet sigh leaves his lips and he makes the decision to leave.

He turns and his body suddenly freezes, shuddering as you call out his name softly, your voice ever so soft and filled with an apparent wanton need that sent off a chain reaction within his body, want blooming into full-blown desire and lust.

It's silent and it feels like an eternity to Warriors before you murmur his name again, voice teasing and smooth as the obvious want dripping from your honeyed call of his name coaxes him into turning around.

Warriors' vivid cerulean eyes meet yours in the mirror sitting atop your vanity and his heart nearly stops, The fires of want and desire for you blazing strongly as your e/c look into his, mirroring the same carnal desire he's sure is apparent in his own eyes.

The air between you fills quickly with tension as you smile softly—teasing even—and it evokes a heated reaction from the man that he could no longer ignore and hold back.

Warriors’ legs bring him closer to you in long strides before you're encased in his strong arms, lips moving hurriedly against each other’s in desperation overflowing with a love-filled yearning and raw desire.

#𝐢𝐯'𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.°♡༉‧₊#legend of zelda: gallery of warriors ༉‧₊˚✧#legend of zelda #hyrule warriors #loz #hw #legend of zelda link x reader #hyrule warriors link x reader #linked universe #linked universe x reader #lu #lu warriors #lu warriors x reader #warriors x reader #linked universe fluff #linked universe angst #link x reader #link x fem reader #reader insert

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bardic-tales · 3 days ago

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The Ghost Within the Flames: An FWC / FF 7 Crossover FIC

Summary: Zack stumbles upon a mysterious winged figure silently snuffing out pockets of flame in a burning Nibelheim only to realize she’s not there to save the village, but to follow Sephiroth. This is Zack's POV from when he first saw Bianca Moore

Pairing: Sephiroth / Bianca Moore(F!OC)

Other Characters: Zack Fair

Possible Trigger Warnings: Blood, fire, grief, implied violence, smoke inhalation

Spoiler Warning: This piece contains material that may reveal sensitive plot developments related to key characters and locations of Final Fantasy VII. Reader discretion is advised.

The acrid stench of smoke and burning wood hung thick in the air, choking the sky and pressing down on Zack’s lungs with every ragged breath. The village lay in ruins, like an inferno clawing at the heavens. Its flames flickered and twisted like desperate fingers trying to snatch the stars themselves. A chorus of crackling, groaning timber and collapsing roofs echoed across the hollow remains, a dirge sung by a world burning apart. The orange glow painted everything in hellfire hues, casting long shadows that danced wildly across the rubble and fallen water tower, a grim reminder of what Nibelheim had been and what it was becoming.

Zack’s boots crunched over shards of glass and shattered beams, senses sharpened and aching in the stifling heat. His throat was raw, the smoke clinging to his flesh like an obsessed lover's hands. Every step disturbed ashes that clung to his exposed skin and SOLDIER uniform. Every flicker of smoke demanded his attention.

His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his Buster Sword, ready, though he knew nothing good awaited. He wasn’t just looking for survivors. He was searching for any trace of hope or any sign that this nightmare had not swallowed the town whole and he was searching for him. But the suffocating haze made it almost impossible to see beyond the devastation, a suffocating grip of grief and ruin.

Then, a sudden chill brushed against his neck, as sharp and unexpected as winter’s breath in the midst of fire. A whisper of frost caressed his skin, fleeting but unmistakable, like the breath of a ghost passing through a burning room. His muscles tensed, instincts flared, and he turned toward the source, eyes narrowing against the smoke.

There. Movement.

Amid the swirling smoke and glowing embers, a figure drifted through the chaos, silent and ghostlike.

"Stop! This isn't you!" Her hair caught the dying light, golden strands pulled half-up with a white ribbon that shimmered faintly like a fragile promise against the ruin. The ribbon fluttered gently, tied just so, holding back waves of hair that cascaded to her waist in luminous strands. Her sweater was stained deep with dried blood, the dark marks marring the fabric’s soft fibers, threadbare in places, as if it were fragile armor barely holding together.

Black slacks clung to her legs, dusted with soot and ash. Open-toed sandals barely touched the scorched earth. their celestial charm dangling like a talisman from another world.

But it was her wings that froze Zack’s breath. The vast white and black span of feathers flecked with rare gold that gleamed softly even in the firelight. They folded tightly against her back. Their edges trembled as if caught in a storm only she could feel. The wings didn’t belong here. Nothing about her did.

"An angel?" Zack whispered to himself. "Here?"

Zack’s heart stuttered at the sight of those wings. He’d faced winged warriors before: Angeal’s perfect white span and Genesis’s single ebony wing. Never anything like this. Those wings were too alive, too otherworldly to belong to any human and certainly too magnificent for a village burning at its foundations.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat, remembering Genesis in the reactor room. Genesis had called Sephiroth's mother a monster then, driving Sephiroth over the brink. Zack had watched in horror as his friend’s defiance sliced the first cut of violence upon those materia pods, thus paving the way for the fire that would consume them all.

But this woman's wings was different. Here was no defiance in the wings’ motion, no challenge or fury: only a quiet, broken grace, as though each feather carried its own sorrow.

Zack clenched his glove, trying to steady himself. He’d always known the world he fought in held impossible things: SOLDIERs enhanced by mako, flowers blooming in the middle of a church in Sector Five, eerie whispers through the Lifestream, and nightmares made flesh. Yet seeing her wings in the flickering firelight felt like seeing a living myth unfold before him. She was both ruin and reprieve: an angel forged in chaos, and to Zack, that vision wrapped tighter around his chest than any cold breeze could.

Around her wrists curled a thin red thread, glowing faintly and pulsing in delicate heart-shaped patterns. The thread seemed alive, breathing alongside her, twisting and pulling gently, as if tethering her to some distant, unseen presence. Zack’s gaze lingered, fascinated and wary, as his heart pounded a confused rhythm he couldn’t explain within his untrimmed chest. The red thread throbbed with a life of its own. It seemed to respond to some unspoken emotion.

She moved with quiet grace, a ghost in the inferno. She knelt by a burning hut whose timbers cracked and spat in protest. Her hands rose slowly, as her fingertips weaved invisible patterns through the smoke, tracing elegant arcs in the thick air. Then, cool, steady icy blue light spilled from her palms, snuffing out patches of flame as it crawled over the burning wood like a winter frost claiming a scorched field.

The fire hissed and recoiled and was reluctant to die. The cold, however, was insistent, as if it were a silent reclamation that crept over charred beams like frost creeping across the earth on a bitter dawn. The heat around her twisted and shuddered, but the magic held firm. Her breath seemed to pull the temperature down despite the hellfire around her.

She didn’t put out all the fire. Only pockets. There were patches where the flames dimmed to embers and the smoke curled softer and the ground seemed to breathe again. It was like she was trying to preserve the ruin’s raw pain, to ease its cruelest edges without erasing the scars. Her expression was distant, as golden eyes flickered with something too heavy for words. The weight of sorrow clung to her like the smoke clinging to Zack’s skin.

Zack swallowed hard. The knot in his chest tightened. The air was heavy with loss, but also something else: a strange, aching resonance he couldn’t place. He wanted to step forward and speak to her, to ask who she was and why she moved through this burning hell like a phantom. But she gave no sign that she noticed him or anyone else really.

The angel rose. She folded her charred wings back carefully as if shielding herself from a world gone mad. The red thread wrapped around her wrist blackened before pulsing brighter. Its glow shifted subtly, flashing deeper crimson, and then softening to a pale ember. Zack couldn’t understand what it meant. All he could do was watch the thread’s silent rhythm.

Then, they both heard screams. She pushed forward in the direction of the cries. That was when it hit Zack.

She wasn’t here to save Nibelheim. She was here to follow. To find him. Sephiroth.

The thought was a bitter weight in Zack’s mind. He felt it like cold stone settling in his gut, and a pain tightened his chest that was heavier than the smoke and ash choking his lungs.

His fingers twitched at his side, aching to draw his sword and to demand answers. But the smoke thickened once more and obscured her figure as she melted into the ruins like a half-remembered dream. Her golden hair was the last thing to vanish: a soft glow in the flickering darkness.

Zack clenched his fists. As his heart pounded, he stayed rooted to the scorched earth. There were no words exchanged. No stories told. Just the burning village and the silence between them.

His gaze flicked to the distant silhouette of the mountain, where the reactor loomed like a sleeping beast glowing faintly in the dark, as he remembered the crazed look in Sephiroth's eyes. He could only hope he would reach Sephiroth before it was too late: to face what felt was coming, and maybe, somehow, stop it.

But beneath it all, the image of the angel with the black-and-white wings haunted him. She was a ghost of light and shadow amidst the flames of destruction, a connection to Sephiroth that Zack didn't understand then, but he would soon. So, Zack followed.

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