#A Man Above Reproach | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cheriecelestial · 2 months ago

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You get me closer to God | [1/3]

pairing *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Alexander The Great x fem!reader

disclaimer *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ fluff. dark themes. yandere content. mentions of injuried animals. alex is highkey manipulative. misogyny. severe historical inaccuracies.

a/n *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ So I don't know what made me do this. I read this one Alexander the great fanfic was my brain starting cooking on its own and came up with this while walking to Programming Class. Told @joekitsu abt it and all of this is cuz of them. Hella inaccurate but we ball cuz this is fiction and I don't really care. Also Y/N is 12-13 and Alexander is 15-16. Comment, Like and Reblog (ㅅ´ ˘ `)

comment to be added to taglist.

[2/3] [3/3]

“You must believe me—I know what I saw!” Alexander insisted, his voice sharp with frustration. His usually bright eyes burned with an intensity that bordered on desperation, as if the weight of his conviction alone could force Hephaestion to see the truth.

The other boy sighed, rubbing his temples in a futile attempt to stave off the headache brewing behind his eyes. “My prince,” he began carefully, choosing his words with the patience of a man caught between loyalty and reason, “I do not doubt your judgment. But you must understand—claiming to have seen Lady Aphrodite herself is... extraordinary. Even for you.”

Alexander bristled, his jaw tightening. “You think I would lie about such a thing?”

Hephaestion held up a placating hand. “Not lie. But even the keenest eyes may be tricked by twilight, and sacred groves are ever the domain of visions.”

A tense silence stretched between them before Hephaestion pressed further, seizing the opportunity to steer the conversation toward firmer ground. “And, if I may ask—what were you doing near that place at such an hour? The laws of Meiza are clear: no pupil departs temple grounds without leave from kin or tutor. And you, my lord, sought no such permission.”

The prince stiffened, caught off guard. His fingers twitched at his sides, betraying his struggle to conjure a convincing excuse. After a moment of hesitation, he exhaled sharply and surrendered to the truth. “I saw Cassander slipping beyond the wall that way. I wished to see where he was going.”

Hephaestion groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as if beseeching the gods for patience. The son of Antipater was a notorious instigator, a boy who treated rules as mere suggestions rather than boundaries. Like Alexander, he had been raised under the shadow of power—his father, the king’s most trusted general, ensured that consequence rarely touched him. The two were cut from the same defiant cloth, each believing themselves the exception to every rule.

“My prince,” Hephaestion said, his voice edged with reproach, “Cassander is no beacon of conduct. Must you trail after his every folly?”

Alexander’s lip curled. “Folly? I call it vigilance.”

“Vigilance that conjures goddesses from the mist?” Hephaestion countered, his brow arched.

Alexander’s retort died on his lips, replaced by a stubborn silence while thinking back to his encounter.

Sleep had eluded him. The hour was late, the halls of the temple of the nymphs hushed, but his thoughts raced like chariots at the Hippodrome. Resigned, he had risen, slipping into the cool embrace of the night. Above him, Selene reigned in silver splendor, her celestial handmaidens—those distant, twinkling stars—scattered across the heavens like diamonds cast upon obsidian. He knew their names, their myths, their paths—Aristotle had made certain of that. Yet tonight, their brilliance offered no solace.

Seeking refuge, he had settled beneath one of the garden’s pillared gazebos, its stark white columns entwined with ivy, their leaves swaying in the faintest breath of wind. It was a portrait of tranquility—or so it seemed.

Then—movement.

A cloaked figure slipped between the shadows near the temple, footsteps careful and deliberate. An intruder? A thief? Instinct flared hot in Alexander’s veins. His fingers twitched toward the dagger at his belt as he melted into the darkness, trailing the stranger with the precision of a hunter.

Yet something gnawed at him. Something about how this man moved felt familiar, whether it was the rhythm in his step or his posture. Recognition hit Alexander like Zeus' lightning.

The hood slipped, revealing the sharp features of Cassander, scion of the noble house of Iolaos. What madness drove him beyond the walls at this hour? The rules of Meiza were the iron girders of discipline, absolute and ultimate and Cassander, for all his posturing, was no fool. Unless his purpose was worth the risk.

Alexander tensed—he had to follow, demand answers—

“My prince?”

He was about to follow him out but he heard a voice call from behind him.

The voice, low but unmistakable, froze him mid-step. He whirled, blade half-drawn, before his eyes settled on Ptolemy—a close friend and companion.

“What business have you here?” The prince countered, his tone sharper than intended.

Ptolemy’s gaze flickered toward the wall, then back. “I might ask the same.”

By the time Alexander turned again, Cassander had vanished—swallowed by the night. Reluctantly, he allowed Ptolemy to steer him back to the dormitories, but the questions festered like a wound left untended. Why? Where? How often?

Days passed. The mystery festered. Alexander watched, patient as a sage, as Cassander moved through his routines—attending lectures, drilling in the palaestra, laughing with friends. But always, always, there was that gleam in his eye—the look of a man who knew a secret. Then, the pattern emerged. Once every fortnight, Cassander would slip away.

Tonight, Alexander would not be thwarted. With Ptolemy’s aid—ever willing, ever unquestioning—Cassander was lured into a late-night game of kottabos, his attention ensnared by wine and wit.

And Alexander moved.

He retraced Cassander’s path, fingers skimming the rough-hewn stones of the perimeter wall, searching, probing—

There.

Behind a curtain of thick ivy, the mortar had crumbled, the bricks pried loose just enough to form a narrow passage. Alexander exhaled a laugh, triumphant. So this was how the fox slipped its leash. With one last cautious glance behind him to ensure he hadn't been followed, the young prince dropped to his hands and knees and squeezed through the gap. The rough stone scraped against his shoulders, but the thrill of rebellion burned hotter than any discomfort. This forbidden act of slipping beyond the walls sent his pulse racing in a way no training yard spar ever could.

Beyond the wall, the trail revealed itself through flattened grasses and broken twigs— a path worn by frequent use. The corners of Alexander's mouth quirked up in satisfaction as he noted the clear signs of Cassander's regular trespasses. The foliage grew denser as he pressed forward, vines and branches snagging at his chiton with increasing persistence. Where a more patient man might have carefully parted the vegetation, Alexander slashed through the greenery with impatient strokes of his dagger, sending leaves and tendrils flying. Answers waited ahead, and he'd be damned if some stubborn plants would delay him.

Just as the thicket seemed impassable, silver light flickered between the leaves ahead. With one final, determined push, Alexander burst through— only to stumble and fall gracelessly onto his hands and knees in the soft earth. The indignity of it burned his cheeks— a prince of Macedon, sprawled in the dirt like a clumsy child. He scrambled up quickly, brushing the soil from his knees with sharp, embarrassed movements while glancing about to confirm his humiliation had no witnesses.

Before him stretched a vision so perfect it seemed ripped from the dreams of poets. A tranquil lake reflected the full moon and star-strewn sky, gentle ripples danced across the water like nymphs at play. The surrounding meadow glowed emerald in the moonlight while fireflies weaved through the air— living sparks from Hestia's eternal flame. Towering over the scene stood a magnolia tree, its pearl-white blossoms luminous against the night, petals drifting down like snowflakes to carpet the ground below. The air hummed with the rhythmic chorus of crickets like delicate lyres strumming in harmony to the wind's gentle melody. And there, beneath the magnolia's boughs, stood the source of the ethereal radiance that illuminated this hidden sanctuary.

Time itself seemed to pause as Alexander's eyes beheld her. Flowing H/C locks cascaded over her shoulders draped in silken fabric of her chiton that appeared woven from morning mist and pearls. Golden bracelets glimmered at her wrists as she cradled a dove with infinite tenderness, her lips murmuring comforts only the divine could impart.

Alexander's pulse thundered in his ears. The air grew thick, time itself pausing in reverence. No mortal woman could possess such unearthly grace, such effortless perfection. The stories, the statues, the temple frescoes - all had failed to capture even a fraction of her beauty. That was when he knew that before him stood none other than Aphrodite herself, goddess of love and beauty.

Driven by a hunger that burned hotter than reason, Alexander stepped forward, his fingers trembling as they reached for her—not in worship, but in desperate, human need. To touch. To prove she was real. But the forest betrayed him. A branch snapped beneath his foot, the sound as sharp as a blade through the sacred silence.

Her head whipped toward him.

And in that instant—reality shattered.

The face that met his was young, terrified. A girl. No older than him, if not younger. Her eyes—wide with panic—locked onto his for a single, breathless moment before she scrambled to her feet, the dove still clutched protectively in her hands. Then she was running, her bare feet kicking up dew as she vanished into the trees.

“Wait!” Alexander's voice tore from his throat, raw with something between command and plea.

Doubt clawed at him. Had he committed sacrilege? Was she a nymph, a spirit, forbidden to mortal eyes? The way she had looked at him—not with divine indifference, but fear—gnawed at his certainty. Yet even as guilt prickled at his conscience, a darker, hungrier thought took root.

She had run from him.

And Alexander of Macedon did not tolerate flight.

His mother’s voice slithered through his mind, seductive as a serpent: “You are blessed by Zeus. The world is yours to claim.”

If this girl was divine, then she belonged among his conquests.

If she was mortal—then she had no right to refuse him.

The days stretched on, each one longer than the last, as Alexander returned again and again to the hidden glade. But the girl—the vision—was nowhere to be found. The magnolia tree stood as silent witness to his frustration, its petals drifting onto the undisturbed surface of the lake. She had vanished like morning mist under the sun.

“As I have told you before, my prince, it is... improbable that she was divine.” Hephaestion's voice was measured, the way one might speak to a restless hound before it snapped. “More likely, she was a girl from the village—perhaps the daughter of some wealthy merchant.”

Alexander scoffed, fingers tightening around the edge of his cup. “You think I do not know the difference between merchant's silk and the raiment of a goddess?” The fabric she had worn had seemed spun from the finest of pearls of Poseidon's waters, the gold at her wrists too pure, too alive, to be the work of mortal hands. “No village girl owns such things. No noble in this city could afford them.”

Hephaestion exhaled, weary. “Then what do you intend to do?”

Alexander's gaze darkened. “Find her.”

Then—a thought struck him like a blade between the ribs.

Cassander.

Had he known her? Had he been sneaking out to meet her all this time?

Cassander was seated in the courtyard, methodically running a whetstone along the edge of his sword when Alexander approached. The son of Antipater glanced up, his usual smirk in place. “My prince,” he greeted, setting his blade aside. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Alexander forced a smile. “I was hoping you might join me in the library tonight. I mean to study the old texts—perhaps you could lend your insight.”

A flicker of hesitation. Then Cassander sighed, rubbing his temple. “I am honored, but I must beg your pardon. I’ve been feeling unwell—I thought to retire early.”

Liar.

Alexander’s blood burned. Today was the night—the same pattern as before. Cassander knew. He had to. And now he dared refuse his prince’s request, hiding behind false weakness? “I see,” Alexander said, his voice dangerously smooth. “Then may Apollo’s grace restore you swiftly.”

He turned away before Cassander could see the fury in his eyes.

Hephaestion was waiting where Alexander had left him, arms crossed, watching the exchange with quiet unease.

“You will come with me tonight,” Alexander commanded, his voice low. “To the meadows.”

Hephaestion frowned. “My prince—”

“You will see her,” Alexander interrupted, his eyes alight with something perilous. “And then you will understand.”

The sun had barely dipped below the horizon when Alexander and Hephaestion slipped through the crumbling gap in the wall. The prince moved with the precision of a seasoned hunter; his every sense attuned to the whispers of the night. Hephaestion followed, his unease growing with each step deeper into the forbidden woods.

“We shouldn't be out here after curfew,” Hephaestion muttered, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Alexander didn't slow. “Then consider this a royal command overriding temple law.” His voice left no room for debate.

The forest grew denser, the path Cassander had taken now illuminated only by the faint glow of fireflies. Alexander's pulse quickened—every rustle of leaves, every snapped twig could mean she was near. Or worse, that Cassander had gotten there first.

Then—her voice.

Sweet and clear as a songbird’s call, it floated through the trees:

“Cassander… is that you?”

Through the tangled foliage, torchlight flickered, painting the trunks in gold and shadow. There. The girl stood just beyond the thicket, her silhouette haloed in firelight.

Hephaestion’s sharp inhale confirmed it—she was real. Not a specter, not a trick of the moonlight. Alexander’s grinned in triumph.

Then, like a predator coiling before the strike, he stepped back—once, twice—before surging forward, bursting into the clearing with the force of a storm.

The girl whirled, her eyes widening in terror. She stumbled back, but Alexander was faster. His hand closed around her wrist, yanking her to a halt.

For a moment, he said nothing. Just stared.

Up close, she was more breathtaking than he remembered. Her skin was impossibly soft beneath his calloused fingers, warm as sunlight. Her hair—loose and tumbling over her shoulders—gleamed like spun gold. And her eyes… wide, luminous, frightened. Tears welled along her lashes, but she didn’t look away. Alexander’s breath caught. Gods. Even in distress, she was radiant.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Let me go.”

She twisted in his grip, but Alexander barely registered the struggle. His free hand rose almost of its own accord, brushing a stray lock from her face. Her hair slipped through his fingers like silk, finer than any royal weave. He ached to cradle her cheek, to claim this moment—

“Alexander.”

Hephaestion’s voice cut through the haze, sharp as a blade. The girl seized the distraction, wrenching free with a sob. Before Alexander could react, she darted behind Hephaestion, fists clutching his chiton like a lifeline.

Alexander blinked, disoriented. “Y/N?” Hephaestion murmured, half-turning to shield her.

Cassander burst from the trees then, his face paling as he took in the scene. “Y/N! Wait— Hephaestion? What in Hades—?”

“Cassander!” The girl lunged past Hephaestion, crashing into Cassander’s chest. His arms closed around her instinctively, his glare snapping to Alexander.

The prince’s blood turned to lava.

“Explain,” Alexander snarled. His hand flexed at his side, fingers itching for his sword. The pieces crashed together with brutal clarity. Hephaestion, who’d doubted her existence, now stood as her protector? Cassander, who'd lied to his prince, held her like she was his? Every muscle in his body coiled, ready to strike. Betrayal. Hot and noxious, it coiled in his gut.

The girl flinched at his tone, pressing closer to Cassander.

Hephaestion stepped forward, his voice low. ”Alexander, this isn’t what you think.”

“Then enlighten me,” Alexander bit out. The words dripped venom.

Cassander’s grip tightened on the girl. “It is not what you think my prince. She’s my—”

Alexander took a menacing step forward, the air around him crackling with barely restrained fury. “Your what?” he interrupted, each word a dagger thrust. His voice dropped to a whisper that carried more threat than any shout. “Finish that sentence, Cassander. I command you.”

The clearing seemed to hold its breath. The rustling leaves stilled. Even the ever-present chorus of crickets fell silent, as if nature itself recoiled from the storm about to break.

Hephaestion, standing rigid between them, finally broke the suffocating silence. “Alexander,” he said carefully, “she's Cassander's sister.”

The words hung suspended in the air, heavy with implication.

For several heartbeats, Alexander simply stared, his mind struggling to reconcile this new reality with the divine vision he'd convinced himself he'd seen. Sister. The word echoed in his skull, unraveling the fantasy thread by thread.

“Then how is it I've never known of her before?” he demanded, though the fire in his voice had dimmed, replaced by something perilously close to relief.

Cassander sighed, his grip on the girl loosening marginally. “My lord, she is the daughter of my father's third wife,” he explained, his tone carefully neutral. Alexander knew Antipater had taken multiple wives—common among nobles—but had paid little attention to any offspring beyond Cassander, the only one deemed worthy of political consideration. Noble daughters, especially young ones, were often kept out of public view until marriageable age, and this girl was clearly not yet of that station.

Hephaestion added quietly, “Our mothers were close in their youth. Cassander and his siblings have always been welcome in our home.” There was an unspoken truth beneath his words: the sons of nobles moved in circles Alexander, as prince, could never fully inhabit. They respected him, yes, even cared for him—but there were lines they would not cross, boundaries he could never breach.

Alexander's fingers uncurled from the hilt of his sword.

But Hephaestion was not finished. He knew Cassander's pride was a brittle thing, especially when it came to his family's honor, and Alexander's actions had skirted dangerously close to insult. “Cassander,” he began, choosing his words with the precision of a diplomat, “you must understand. The prince acted out of concern. He believed Y/N was a common village girl distracting you from your studies at Meiza. His methods were... misguided, but his intent was pure.”

A beat. Then Cassander nodded, though his jaw remained tight. “I understand.”

Behind him, the girl—Y/N—remained half-hidden, her wide eyes darting between them like a hare assessing its predators. Cassander turned to her, murmuring something too low for the others to hear, before stepping forward to clasp Alexander's arm in a gesture of truce.

Hephaestion seized the opportunity to lean down to Y/N. “Are you alright?” he asked softly, his voice the gentle cadence she had come to associate with safety. She nodded, though her fingers still trembled from uncertainty.

When Cassander returned, the tension in his shoulders had eased. “It seems introductions are in order,” he said, with forced lightness. “My prince, may I present my sister, the third daughter of the House of Iolaos— Lady Y/N.”

Y/N dipped into a flawless bow, her eyes demurely lowered.

“And Y/N,” Cassander continued, “this is Alexander, Prince of Macedon.”

Alexander offered her a smile that might have been charming under different circumstances. Then, to the shock of all present, he extended his hand—not in command, but in request.

Y/N hesitated, her gaze flicking to Cassander, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. Swallowing her fear, she placed her hand in Alexander's.

Instead of shaking it, he raised her fingers to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles with a reverence that bordered on theatrical. “Forgive my earlier discourtesy, my lady,” he murmured, his voice smooth as honeyed wine. ”I meant you no harm.”

The gesture was one reserved for cherished friends—or equals. A blatant lie, given the fury of moments before, but a necessary performance.

The tension in the clearing eased, but the air still thrummed with unspoken words. Alexander released Y/N's hand, though his fingers lingered for a heartbeat too long—a silent promise that this encounter was not the end, but the beginning.

“We should return before the night deepens,” Hephaestion urged, his voice low but firm. “Before the temple masters notice our absence.” His eyes flickered between Alexander and Cassander, well aware that this peace was as fragile as spun glass.

Cassander gave a curt nod, turning to Y/N. His expression, so often sharp with arrogance, softened as he cupped her face. “Go,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Your nurse will be waiting.” A gentle nudge toward the path where he knew her attendants stood guard—his silent assurance that she would be safe from prying eyes, from him.

But the prince of Macedon wasn't one to be shaken off so easily.

“Y/N.”

Her name rolled off his tongue like honeyed wine, smooth and deliberate. She froze mid-step, the fine linen of her chiton whispering against her skin as she turned just enough to meet his gaze over her shoulder.

Alexander smiled—not the charming grin of a prince, but the slow, deliberate curve of a predator savoring the scent of its prey. “Now that we are properly acquainted,” he said, “I would be honored if you would grace us with your company again. Soon.”

A command disguised as a request.

Y/N’s throat tightened, but she dipped into a flawless curtsey, her lashes brushing her cheeks. “As you wish, my prince.”

As Y/N's retreating footsteps faded into the night, Alexander inhaled slowly, savoring the lingering scent of magnolias that clung stubbornly to the air. The taste of victory was sweet upon his tongue - but incomplete.

The group moved in heavy silence, the crunch of leaves beneath their sandals the only sound. Cassander lingered a few paces behind, his brow furrowed in quiet contemplation, while Hephaestion walked slightly ahead while, his shoulders tense. Alexander, meanwhile, seemed almost at ease, his hands clasped behind his back as if they had merely enjoyed a moonlit stroll.

Hephaestion’s stomach twisted with unease. He cared deeply for Alexander—had followed him without question through battles and trials—but he knew better than anyone the dangerous fire that burned within the prince. It was the same fire that had burned Troy to the ground, the kind that consumed everything in its path. And now, it had fixated on Y/N. Gods help her, he thought, if she becomes the kindling for that flame.

“Your sister,” Alexander mused suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade through silk. “She is timid, yet there is a sweetness to her. So marked, in fact, that I find myself questioning if the two of you share any blood at all.” He chuckled, as if it were nothing more than a jest—a jest that expected laughter in return.

“My sister is merely unaccustomed to strangers, my prince,” he replied, his tone carefully measured. “Particularly those who... handle her so callously.” The unspoken accusation hung between them.

Alexander turned, his smile sharp and humorless, never quite reaching his eyes. “Ah, then I shall have to make amends,” he said smoothly. “A proper apology is in order, wouldn’t you agree?” Hephaestion suppressed a grimace. They all knew it was nothing more than an excuse—a thinly veiled ploy to see her again. Yet neither he nor Cassander dared voice the objection aloud.

In the days that followed, a calm settled over them. Alexander played his part flawlessly. He drew closer to Cassander, engaging him in debates, training alongside him, even jesting with him as though the incident in the woods had never occurred. There was no mention of Y/N, no lingering questions—at least, not spoken aloud.

To an outsider, it might have seemed as though Alexander had moved on, his fleeting fascination with Cassander’s sister forgotten as quickly as it had ignited.

But Hephaestion knew better.

It was during one of their evening walks through the olive groves that Alexander finally struck.

“What I still don’t understand,” he began, his tone deceptively light, as though discussing nothing more consequential than the weather, “is why your sister is not with the rest of your family.”

Cassander stilled, his fingers twitching imperceptibly at his sides. For a moment, it seemed he might not answer. Then, with deliberate calm, he replied, “Her mother has little interest in child-rearing. She prefers her own pursuits to the duties of motherhood.” A flicker of disdain crossed his features. “I despise her for it, amongst other things. But Y/N... she is nothing like her.”

Alexander arched a brow, feigning polite curiosity. “And so she remains here?”

“The great Aristotle resides in Meiza,” Cassander said, his voice softening slightly. “Scholars and thinkers frequent these halls. I convinced my father to let her accompany me so that I might oversee her education.”

“How... noble of you,” he murmured, the words dripping with false admiration. Then, with a calculated shift, he added, “Speaking of nobility—regarding that apology I owe her. I was thinking of compensating your sister for the distress I caused. Silk from Corinth, perhaps? Or gold from Lydia’s mines? Pearls plucked fresh from the Aegean?” His tone was smooth, but the glint in his eyes was anything but benign.

Cassander shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, my prince. Your words that evening were apology enough.”

Alexander waved a dismissive hand, though his gaze never wavered. “Nonsense. I insist.” The air between them grew heavy, the unspoken challenge unmistakable—refuse me again, and see what happens.

Hephaestion, sensing the tension coiling like a viper ready to strike, stepped forward. “With all due respect, my prince,” he interjected smoothly, “Y/N is the daughter of Antipater, the most celebrated general in Macedonia. Silk and gold are hardly rare treasures in their household. Rather words of sincerity are gifts unparalleled.” His voice was light, but his stance was firm—a shield thrown between Alexander’s will and Cassander’s rising temper.

“You are correct. I suppose I shall have to look for another gift then.” Alexander conceded, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

True to his word, Alexander spent the following days in quiet deliberation. He dismissed the obvious offerings—jewels, silks, perfumes from the East—all trinkets that might impress a courtier’s daughter but would mean nothing to a girl who valued thought and effort over finery.

Then, one evening as he walked past the magnolia tree where he had first seen her, inspiration struck.

With meticulous care, he selected a sturdy branch and set to work, his dagger carving delicate strokes into the wood late into the night. The servants whispered about the prince’s strange new obsession, but Alexander paid them no mind. Perfection could not be rushed.

When the next fortnight arrived, Alexander appeared at Cassander’s door unannounced, his smile as polished as his ceremonial armor.

“Walk with me,” he said, and it was not a request.

Cassander knew better than to refuse.

The meadow lay bathed in silver moonlight, just as it had been that fateful evening. And there, beneath the great magnolia, stood Y/N—her silhouette haloed in pale blossoms. At the sound of approaching footsteps, she turned, her face alight with expectation... until she saw Alexander.

The prince's heart stuttered in his chest like a startled bird.

Discomfort flickered across her features, swift as a shadow over water. It's alright, Alexander told himself, the words a mantra. She'll come to see me. She must.

“Why is His Highness here?” Y/N's voice was small but clear, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her chiton.

Cassander opened his mouth to reply, but Alexander was already stepping forward, his every movement calculated to disarm. “To offer my apologies properly, my lady.” He turned to Cassander, one brow arched in silent request.

With a barely perceptible sigh, Cassander squeezed his sister's hand—be brave—and withdrew to a discreet distance. Close enough to intervene, far enough to grant the illusion of privacy.

Alexander was every inch the royal heir in that moment: his bearing regal, his chiton draped to perfection, the very air around him seeming to hum with latent power. He had inherited his mother's effortless charm and his father's commanding presence—qualities that, when wielded together, could bend wills without raising a sword.

“Greetings, my lady. Are you well?” he began, his voice warm as summer honey.

Y/N's gaze darted to the ground. “I am, my prince. And you needn't—”

“Please,” he interrupted gently, lifting a hand. “Allow me this.” He inclined his head, the very picture of contrition. “I was discourteous to you, and I regret my actions deeply. More than that...” Here, he paused, as if searching for the right words. “I wish to know you, Y/N. Not as a prince to a subject, but as one soul to another.”

From his belt, he produced a small wooden dove, its wings delicately carved, its surface polished to a soft sheen. The scent of magnolia clung to it like a memory.

“I carved this myself,” he admitted, running a thumb over its back. “From a branch of this very tree. The imperfections are many, I fear, but...” He held it out to her, his expression uncharacteristically vulnerable. “Perhaps that makes it more honest.”

Y/N's breath caught. The dove was exquisite—the wings tapered to near-translucent thinness, the feathers etched with painstaking care. This was no hastily purchased trinket, but something made with time, with attention. Her fingers trembled as she took it, tracing the grooves left by his knife.

“You... made this?” she whispered, her eyes wide.

Alexander nodded, uncharacteristically silent.

For the first time, Y/N looked at him—truly looked at him. Not as the terrifying prince who had chased her through the woods, but as the young man before her now: his usually impeccable hair tousled by the night breeze, a smudge of wood dust still clinging to his wrist.

Her smile, when it came, was like dawn breaking over the Aegean—slow, radiant, utterly disarming.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” she said, cradling the dove to her chest. “I will treasure it always.”

And Alexander, a child born to be the conqueror of men, the scion of gods, found himself struck dumb.

In the weeks that followed, Y/N had grown bold enough to insist that Cassander bring both Hephaestion and Alexander along during their fortnightly visits. The prince, of course, was all too eager to oblige. For Y/N, who had spent most of her life sheltered within the confines of noble propriety, these gatherings were a rare taste of companionship beyond her brother’s watchful presence. They would talk, play games, and laugh—just as young people ought to.

But not all was as harmonious as it seemed.

Though Hephaestion occasionally excused himself—whether out of discretion or discomfort, none could say—Alexander never missed a single meeting. His presence, once a novelty, soon became a constant, and Cassander found himself increasingly sidelined. Here, in this meadow that had once been his sanctuary with Y/N, he now felt like an intruder in his own sister’s affections.

Worse still, he could not deny the irony: Alexander, his closest friend, now stole the very moments Cassander cherished most.

And Alexander, for his part, had begun to see Cassander not as a brother-in-arms, but as an obstacle—a necessary nuisance, yes, but a nuisance all the same.

One evening, as silver light filtered through the leaves, Y/N sat weaving a crown of flowers, her fingers deft as they threaded blossoms together. Nearby, Hephaestion and Cassander sparred with wooden swords, their mock battle filled with laughter and good-natured taunts.

Alexander, leaning beside Y/N with his head in her lap, watched her work with quiet fascination.

“My lady,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “May I be so bold as to make a request?”

Y/N didn’t look up, her fingers still busy with the flowers. “Go right ahead.”

Alexander took a breath. “I’ve noticed how much Cassander values his time with you. As do I.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. “But when we’re all together, it feels... crowded. I was thinking—what if we met at different times? Just you and I?”

Y/N’s hands stilled. The flower crown slipped from her fingers.

“What are you implying, my prince?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Alexander sat up, turning to face her fully. “Nothing untoward, I assure you. It’s merely practical. Fewer people mean less risk of being caught by the temple masters. And it would give Cassander more time with you as well.”

Y/N bit her lip. “My mother says a young lady shouldn’t be alone with a man unchaperoned.”

“But you wouldn’t be alone,” Alexander countered smoothly. “Your guard and nurse are always stationed nearby, are they not?”

Y/N hesitated. Technically, he was right. Seeing her waver, Alexander leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Unless... you’re afraid my company will ruin all others for you.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. Then, with a huff, she did something no one had ever dared—she smacked his arm.

It was a light tap, the kind she often gave Cassander when he teased her too much. But coming from her, directed at him—Alexander gasped in exaggerated offense.

“You dare strike a prince?” he declared, his tone dripping with mock outrage. “ This is treason! Punishable by—”

Y/N didn’t wait to hear the rest. She was already running, her laughter ringing through the trees.

“Forgive me, O merciful prince!” she called over her shoulder, her voice bright with amusement.

Alexander gave chase, his long legs closing the distance between them with ease. When he caught her, his arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the ground in a spinning embrace. They were both breathless with laughter as he gently placed her onto the soft grass.

“Traitor,” he accused, looming over her with a grin. “By the decree the heir of Macedonia, you shall be punished.”

And then—he tickled her.

Y/N shrieked, her laughter bordering on hysterical as she writhed beneath his relentless fingers. “Stop! Please! I yield!”

Alexander relented, but only slightly. “Only if you say yes to my proposal,” he bargained, his eyes alight with mischief.

Y/N’s laughter faded. She searched his face, her expression turning serious. “And Cassander?”

Alexander’s smile softened. “He’s too overprotective. But you deserve freedom. It can be our secret, yes?”

For a long moment, Y/N was silent. Then, with a slow nod—

“Alright.”

The oil lamps in Alexander’s chambers flickered, casting long shadows across the walls. The scent of spiced wine and burning wicks hung heavy in the air, but the tension between the two youths was thicker still.

Hephaestion stood rigid by the doorway, his usually composed features strained with uncharacteristic intensity. “My prince,” he began again, his voice carefully measured, “I must ask—why are you doing this?”

Alexander didn’t look up from his wine cup, his fingers idly tracing its golden rim. The ruby liquid within caught the light, shimmering like spilled blood. “I’ve no idea what you mean,” he murmured, his tone deliberately light.

A muscle twitched in Hephaestion’s jaw. “Lady Y/N,” he pressed, refusing to let the prince feign ignorance. “She is Cassander’s sister. Antipater’s daughter. Your... interest in her is more than concerning. If word got out—if rumors spread—it could ruin her reputation. Is that what you want?”

For the first time, Alexander lifted his gaze. His eyes, usually so vibrant with mischief or command, were unnervingly still—like the calm before a storm. “And what if it is?”

The words landed like a blow.

Hephaestion actually took a step back, his breath catching. Had he heard correctly? The prince couldn’t possibly mean—

Alexander smirked, tilting his head like a predator studying wounded prey. “Does my friendship with Lady Y/N truly threaten you so much, philos?” The endearment—friend—was laced with mocking sweetness.

Hephaestion’s hands clenched at his sides. There was nothing he could say—nothing that would sway Alexander once his mind was set. And if he breathed a word of this to Cassander? The consequences would be catastrophic. Cassander’s temper was legendary, and no amount of loyalty would stop him from confronting Alexander directly—a death sentence, whether by the prince’s hand or his father’s.

So Hephaestion did the only thing he could.

He stayed silent.

For the first time in their long friendship, Hephaestion felt genuine fear - not for himself, but for Y/N, for Cassander, for the fragile peace that Alexander seemed determined to shatter.

“You wouldn't.” The words escaped Hephaestion's lips before he could stop them, raw with disbelief. “Not to her. Not to Cassander.”

Alexander finally set down his wine cup with deliberate slowness, the metallic clink echoing in the tense silence. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its mocking edge, replaced by something far more dangerous - absolute certainty. “I am Alexander of Macedon. I take what I want.”

The casual brutality of the declaration struck Hephaestion like Zeus’ lightning. This wasn't the passionate declaration of a lovestruck youth - it was the cold calculation of a conqueror assessing new territory. The realization made his blood run cold.

“She's not a city to be besieged,” Hephaestion countered, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. “She's a living, breathing woman who—”

“Who will be honored beyond measure,” Alexander interrupted, rising from his couch with panther-like grace. “Imagine it - the daughter of Antipater, raised to the future king of Macedon's beloved. Why, I'd be doing their house a favor.” He began pacing, his excitement growing with each step. “Cassander should be thanking me. But he doesn't has to know. Yet. Though a part of me wishes to tell him.”

Hephaestion's stomach twisted violently, as though he'd swallowed poison. “You cannot be serious,” he repeated, his voice low and urgent. “Cassander will not simply see reason—you know him better than that. He would rather throw himself from the cliffs of Mount Olympus than allow you to—”

Alexander cut him off with a flick of his wrist, his rings glinting in the lamplight. “He will rage, he will bluster, and then he will kneel,” he corrected, his voice smooth as polished marble. “They always do.”

Then, with terrifying suddenness, the prince stilled. His gaze—sharp as a dagger's point—locked onto Hephaestion. “Unless,” he mused, tilting his head with feigned curiosity, “you intend to warn him first? Is that your plan? In some pitiful attempt to keep from me what the Fates have already decreed mine?”

The threat coiled between them, serpentine and suffocating. Hephaestion felt the weight of it press against his ribs, stealing his breath. This was no mere test of loyalty—it was a blade held to his throat, waiting to see if he would flinch.

To oppose Alexander now would be exile.

Or death.

“Of course not,” Hephaestion forced out, the lie bitter on his tongue. “I am, as always, your loyal friend.”

Alexander's grin was a flash of white in the dim light, triumphant and terrible. “I knew I could count on you.” His hand came down on Hephaestion's shoulder—a gesture that might have been comradely, had his fingers not dug in like talons. “You should rest,” he advised, his tone deceptively light.

Then, with the casual cruelty of a cat releasing a half-dead mouse: “And I, it seems, have a tryst with a lovely lady under the moonlight.”

Outside, the moon hung full and bright over Meiza, its pale light doing nothing to dispel the darkness gathering in Hephaestion's heart. Somewhere in the night, oblivious to the storm brewing around her Y/N waited for the prince— blissfully unaware.

The tall grasses swayed gently in the cool breeze, their silvered tips whispering secrets to the stars. Fireflies drifted lazily through the air, their golden lights flickering like distant stars brought down to earth. And there, in the heart of this enchanted clearing, stood Y/N.

In her hands, she cradled the small wooden dove, Alexander’s gift, her fingers tracing its delicate wings absentmindedly. The night was still, save for the distant chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves.

Then—footsteps.

The crunch of dry grass underfoot made her turn, her heart leaping in her chest.

“My prince?” she called out, her voice light but tinged with uncertainty.

From the shadows of the ivy-clad trees, Alexander emerged, his figure cutting a striking silhouette against the moonlit backdrop. He was dressed more casually than usual, his chiton simpler, his hair slightly tousled—as if he had hurried here. Yet even in this state, he carried himself with the effortless grace of royalty.

“Greetings, my lady,” he said, his voice warm, his smile as charming as ever. But then his expression shifted, a playful glint entering his eyes. “Though I must say, the titles ‘my prince’ and ‘your highness’ feel far too formal for such a setting, don’t you think?” He stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking. “After all, we are friends, are we not?”

Y/N’s lips parted slightly. “I’d say we are...” She nearly added my prince out of habit but caught herself, her brow furrowing in confusion. What was he asking of her?

Alexander didn’t miss her hesitation. “I wish for you to call me by my name,” he said, his tone leaving no room for misinterpretation.

Y/N’s breath hitched. “I-I couldn’t,” she stammered. It was common knowledge—addressing royalty by name without honorifics was not just improper, it was forbidden unless given explicit permission. Even Cassander and Hephaestion only did so in private, and even then, it was a privilege earned through years of friendship. For her to do so? It felt like stepping onto sacred ground.

“Consider it an order,” Alexander said, his voice firm but not unkind. “From this moment on, you shall call me by my name.”

Y/N swallowed hard. Then, softly, testing the weight of the word on her tongue—

“Yes... Alexander.”

The moment his name passed her lips, something shifted in the air between them. Alexander’s entire body thrumming with an electric thrill. The way she said it—hesitant yet sweet, like a secret whispered for the first time—sent a rush of heat to his head, dizzying in its intensity. It was unadorned and intimate yet sharp and intoxicating.

“Say it again,” he commanded, his voice low.

“Alexander,” she repeated, this time with less hesitation, though her tone still carried a note of uncertainty, as if she were speaking a word from a foreign tongue for the first time.

“Again.”

“Alexander.” Louder now. Steadier. As if she were shedding her fear, layer by layer, revealing something new beneath with each utterance.

A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips. “Again.”

A sigh escaped her lips, followed by a small, bemused smile. “Is this a new game you’ve devised, Alexander?” The way she said his name—teasing, almost musical—sent another jolt of pleasure through him. It was nectar to a man starved, and he found himself craving more.

Alexander shook his head, his smile widening. “No game, my lady. Merely... an indulgence.” He stepped even closer, close enough that the scent of her—honey and wildflowers—filled his senses. “Though if you’d like to play one, I’d be happy to oblige.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, the silver light catching in her dark eyes like stars reflected in still water. “Then what are we doing tonight?” she asked, her voice carrying a new note of confidence now that the barrier of formality had been broken between them.

Alexander's smile was slow, deliberate—the expression of a man who knew exactly what he wanted but was content to savor the anticipation. “Whatever you desire,” he murmured, watching her closely.

A small, knowing smile graced Y/N's lips as she reached into the leather satchel slung over her shoulder. “In that case,” she said, producing several tightly rolled scrolls, “I brought some light reading. Do you like to read, my—” She caught herself just in time, her cheeks flushing. “—Alexander?”

The prince's eyebrows shot up, his grin turning wolfish. “‘My Alexander’?” he repeated, his voice rich with amusement. “That sounded far better than I expected. I think I shall allow it.”

Y/N's mouth fell open in protest, her hands fluttering in embarrassed denial. “That—that wasn't—I didn't mean—”

Alexander threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing through the quiet meadow. “Oh, but you did,” he teased, delighted by her flustered reaction. “And I rather like it.”

Composing himself, he gestured to the scrolls. “To answer your question properly—yes, my lady, I do read. In fact, I'm quite fond of the literary arts. Aristotle would say they are the very foundation of human existence.” His tone was light, but his surprise was genuine. It was uncommon for women to be educated beyond basic household management—a deliberate limitation, his mother had often explained, meant to keep them from grasping true power.

Olympias had taught him that oppression was simply another tool for those strong enough to wield it. “Fill the people's minds only with thoughts of bread and spectacle,” she'd said, “and they will never think to question their chains.” But Alexander didn’t always agree. Knowledge was power, and power should not be hoarded—it should be taken, by those bold enough to seize it.

Y/N, however, was no commoner to be kept ignorant. As the daughter of Antipater, her education would have been carefully curated—though clearly, Cassander had taken matters into his own hands.

“Let's take a look,” Alexander said, reaching for the scrolls.

The moonlight, while beautiful, was too faint for reading. Y/N produced a small oil lamp from her bag, and as she struck flint to steel, the warm glow illuminated the delicate planes of her face. Alexander watched, mesmerized, as she unfurled the first scroll and began to read aloud.

Her voice was melodic, each word shaped with care, and for a long moment, Alexander was too lost in the sound to register the content. Then, abruptly, he stiffened.

“This—” he interrupted, leaning forward. “This is taught in the temple!”

Y/N paused, meeting his gaze evenly. “Yes,” she admitted. “Cassander gives me his old scrolls and teaches me what he learns within those walls. It's the only way he trusts the quality of my education—especially after my last tutor.”

There was a story there, Alexander could tell—one laced with bitterness. But for now, he was too intrigued by the revelation before him.

“So,” he said slowly, his voice carrying a note of genuine admiration, “you've been studying in secret.”

Y/N's smile was small but unmistakably proud, her fingers tracing the edge of the scroll with quiet reverence. “Not so secret anymore,” she replied, meeting his gaze with a steadiness that surprised him.

Alexander chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s an admirable trait, this hunger for knowledge. Your brother clearly intends to raise you as more than just another noblewoman draped in silk and jewels. He wants you to be a woman of intellect—of substance.” He tilted his head, curiosity sharpening his features. “But tell me, my dove—what crimes did this former tutor commit to earn such exile from your education?”

Y/N blinked. ”Dove?” The endearment had caught her off guard, derailing her thoughts entirely.

Alexander’s lips quirked. “Yes. You remind me of one.” His gaze lingered on the delicate curve of her neck, the way her hands fluttered nervously when surprised—graceful, fragile, yet somehow enduring. “Gentle. Quick to startle. Beautiful in flight.”

Y/N’s cheeks warmed, but she didn’t press further. Instead, she exhaled, her expression darkening as she returned to the question at hand.

“My previous tutor was hired by my mother,” she began, her voice carefully neutral, though Alexander didn’t miss the way her fingers tightened around the scroll. “A woman who did everything except impart actual knowledge—though, in truth, I’m not certain she possessed any to begin with.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “She insisted a woman’s place wasn’t in literature or philosophy, but in perfecting the art of being a nobleman’s wife. She policed my appearance—how much I ate, how long I stayed in the sun lest it ‘mar my complexion’ and ruin my prospects. ”

Alexander’s brows drew together. “And your mother allowed this?”

“Encouraged it, actually,” Y/N said flatly. “Mother reminded me often that I was but three, perhaps four winters from marriageable age, and that I should focus on ‘womanly skills’ rather than—” She gestured to the scrolls with a dismissive flick of her wrist, “—all of this.”

“Nonsense!” The word burst from Alexander with unexpected vehemence, his hand slamming against the tree trunk beside him. “You’re a child. Marriage? That’s outrageous.”

Even as he said it, he knew the hypocrisy of his words. Girls were routinely married at fourteen, sixteen at the latest, often to men twice their age. He had attended enough political unions to know how the game was played. But the thought of Y/N—her quick mind, her bright laughter, her spirit still unbroken by the world—being handed over to some aging lordling like a prize mare made his blood boil.

Never, he thought, the possessiveness startling even him. Never will something of this sort happen to her. Ever.

Y/N, oblivious to his internal fury, continued. “That’s why Cassander brought me here. He was livid when he discovered what passed for my ‘education.’” A fond smile tugged at her lips as she recalled her brother’s outrage. “He fought with Father for months—said he wouldn’t let me be sold off like some broodmare or a pleasure sleeve, though I'm not sure what either of those words actually mean— I’ve heard Cassander say it in one of his arguments. Regardless, he won. Meiza was the compromise.”

She laughed then, the sound bright and clear in the night air. “He ranted for days about how he wouldn’t let some ‘old pervert’ lay a finger on me. Swore he’d only approve a match if the man proved himself worthy.”

Alexander’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “Worthy, hm?” He leaned forward, the lamplight casting sharp shadows across his face. “And what, pray tell, does your brother consider ‘worthy’?”

Y/N shrugged, unaware of the trap in the question. “Someone of status, power and valor. Someone who sees me as more than a pretty accessory, I suppose. Someone who has the intelligence to respect my mind as much as my face.”

Alexander hummed, his gaze never leaving hers. “A high standard indeed.”

And one, he thought, that I fully intend to meet.

╰┈➤ Masterlist

#yandere male #male yandere #yandere x reader #male yandere x reader #alexander the great #yandere history #yandere historical characters #alexander the great x reader #yandere alexander the great #yandere alexander the great x reader #yandere historical characters x reader

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fernslivers · 1 month ago

Text

The Marriage Game

As the only child born to your parents, a girl, you were raised as a boy to ensure your parents could pass on their wealth–and so far, the ruse has held. There's one little snag though… you need a wife. Lucky for you, your parents seem to have found the perfect match, the unwanted former wife of a disgraced samurai.

A/N: AHHH, whew! I hope you like this, anon!! It's going to feature a slightly sweeter Mizu, since I'm trying to write her as she was in the flashback. I figured since that bad moment with the betrayal didn't happen, she would be more guarded but not AS broken and jaded as in canon. I hope it translates correctly and not too OOC. It got a little more spiced than anything I've written so far! I know that wasn't included in the ask so I hope that's okay! :,) [Not beta'd so apologies for any errors in spelling!]

Reader is wlw!

TW: Spice, loss of virginity, unpleasant parents all around, internalized self-hate, gratuitous mentions of M*kio being a dick

-----

“It's not going to work–she's not going to want me,” you mumble to your mother as you wait for your new bride to arrive. She hushes you.

You subside obediently, but your doubts persist. Your family might have money, plenty of it, but that hasn't stopped several fathers from looking down their noses at you as a husband. Uncommonly delicate for a man, one has said. Too short, snorted another. And the daughters, while they kept their gazes lowered demurely as they'd been taught, had let you know with one glance that they agreed with their parents’ disdain.

You hadn't wanted them anyway, no more than you wanted a man. There was something missing from them, something blank in their yielding sweetness that did not appeal to you. Is there something broken in you?

–

“This one will be different,” your mother had insisted, when she first brought home the news. “She's already been sent home by one husband for being unfit–too ugly, I heard. But strong. She'll be in no position to complain about your looks, and she'll be able to handle the chores you can't.”

You had flushed, stung by the implied insult. All you've ever really wanted to do was express yourself through art–lingering in front of painters’ displays, tracing your fingers over the wares at a pottery booth. Or perhaps to be let alone with your animals, which never wanted you to be anything but yourself. Both choices were actively discouraged in favor of menial chores that added muscle to your limbs and calluses to your hands. But nothing your parents did could make your frame taller, or your features less feminine.

–

Now, as you give her a reproachful glance, she sighs.

“Oh, don't look like that,” she waves your feelings away, as usual. “Besides, she can't refuse you. Her mother has already agreed on her behalf–this isn't a prospective meeting, it's a wedding. Your wedding. Be glad!”

Even still, that might be worse. Gods above, how humiliating would it be for your bride to walk away from the very wedding itself?

You're not even sure what your parents expect to happen here. Yes, in theory, they have a son to inherit their wealth and status.

Then what?

Again, it wasn't that you wanted a man. To be sure, your budding orientation had been a fortuitous development for your parents. But most brides are expecting you to be something that you are not. You certainly don't have the necessary parts to give your new bride an heir to follow you, and carry on the family name. Are they already assuming she'll grow dismissive of you, and take a lover to put a child in the cradle?

Probably, you think grimly. Why would they care about your feelings on the matter? They know you're too gentle to be angry with her, and they'll be happy to know there's a continuation of their name. After all, they sacrificed your happiness just to keep their wealth in the family.

There’s some commotion outside, and your stomach lurches. She's here.

You follow your parents outside, telling yourself not to trail meekly behind like a daughter; you're a son. You have to be strong, confident. Assertive. Yeah, right. Framed between them on the porch, you know you cut a small, unimposing figure, one arm nervously rubbing the other.

Two women are climbing out of the litter that's touching down in the front yard. One, the shorter one, steps forward, as the other hangs back. You hang back also, staying up on the porch, where maybe you'll look taller.

Between you and the other woman, the older folks all congregate, loudly greeting each other with exaggerated politeness and cheer. They’re happy, chatty–proud of themselves for making a deal that each person thinks benefits them the most.

Above their heads, you and your new bride lock eyes.

Oh.

You are so far out of your depths.

Strong doesn't begin to cover the aura of the woman you're set to marry. All the confidence you’re pretending to have, she truly owns, carried as lightly as a cloak around her shoulders, moving with an easy grace and smooth bearing that you could never hope to manage. Even from a distance, you can tell she's got to be at least a half a head taller than you.

At least in expression, you can tell she isn't much more confident than you are. Her eyes travel from your nervous shifting to the softness in your features, to the large amount of space between the top of your head and the doorframe above you. You both have the same trepidatious look, watching each other with the mutual wariness of cats meeting for the first time.

Your mother was wrong about the other thing, though. She certainly is strong, but she is far from ugly. You can feel your breath catch as those startling eyes meet yours… and then your heart sinks as her mouth tightens, and she looks away. Disappointed by you, no doubt. It seems impossible that she could expect you to dislike her. Something inside you folds up in defeat.

This is going to be a disaster.

—

Once again, Mizu finds herself in the position of lying silently, waiting for a husband to arrive to claim his bride. This time, she feels no fear of ravishment; she knows what to expect, physically…and unlike Mikio, you were far from gruff during the ceremony and the dinner afterwards. You had carefully offered her the choicest bits of food, asked respectfully about her interests and her travels to come here. Indeed, you were shockingly kind, compared to her last experience.

In some ways, that makes this wait worse. She expected rejection already, and from you, it seems even more likely than before–and she doesn't want it. Mizu doesn't find you undesirable, not by a long shot. But next to you, she feels even less ladylike than she had with Mikio. You are the prettiest, most delicate man she's ever seen, you look like she could snap you in half one-handed. Not the kind of man that's going to go for someone like her.

No. She fears this time that her previous husband was right to call her unlovable. That you won't want her. The thought of having to go through all of this drama to be rejected again fills her with a deep depression. She recalls with horrible clarity the way Mikio had stared at her coldly when she greeted him in her bridal attire, barely bothering to form the words get out. If Mikio had been horrified by her, how much more so will you be? You're no tough old samurai.

She would love to be able to live happily with a husband as pretty and kind as you, even if it meant giving up on her demon’s path. But to do that, she'll never be able to connect with you.

She'll have to forever guard her true self or run the risk of being sent away yet again. Or worse, she wonders if unlike Mikio, you can't choose for yourself; she saw how your parents stomped all over you during dinner. What if they won't allow you to refuse? If you can't send her away, then you might hate her, leaving you both trapped.

She had argued and fought this marriage for so long; only the heavy guilt trip from her mother brought her here. Her mother… the only person ever to accept her besides Eiji; even with the woman's habits and guilting, Mizu finds it impossible to simply leave her uncared for. It’s her duty; something she would never shirk, even if it hurts.

But what about you? She knows from her mother’s long haggling that you've struggled nearly as much as she has in finding a spouse (though, seeing you, she can't understand why), so perhaps you feel as strong-armed into this marriage as she does. Do you resent being shackled to her by a pair of pushy mothers?

She searches every hint of your behavior today in her memory, looking for some clarity on your opinion. Unlike Mikio, you had made no comments on her appearance, but she could feel your eyes lingering shyly on her when she wasn't looking your way. Were you staring out of interest, or distaste?

The door slides open behind her. Mizu squeezes her eyes shut, biting her lip in prayer even though she feels foolish. She'll never be able to admit to herself how much it means to her that someone out there might want her. You were kind at dinner, that must mean something; please reach for her, please show interest, please let it work out this time…

Your footsteps, her new husband’s footsteps, hesitate, standing a few feet back, as though watching her. Then, with a pit of dread opening in her stomach, she hears the steps turn away, and the shuffling of another mat being set out. Her breath hitches in pain, before anger sets in.

No. Not this time. She can't do this again.

She's not going to lay in the dark like a heartsick girl because a pretty man didn't reach for her in the dark. She wants it laid out here and now. She won't deny her ember for another loveless marriage. Not even for mama.

She rolls over abruptly, brow already furrowed.

You freeze in the middle of laying out the blanket, the whites of your eyes glinting as they widen in the dark. Your heart thumps to see the scowl on your new wife's face when she pushes herself up on one elbow to look at you. You had assumed she would not want your attentions, and would pretend to be asleep to avoid them, so you wanted to accommodate her–not as though you could ever lie with her anyway, not in the way you think she's expecting.

“S-sorry, did I wake y–”

“Am I unappealing to you?”

Her voice is different, somehow, low and raspy–nothing like the softer feminine tones she'd tried to use during the day.

Oh no. You stammer for a moment, frozen, unsure what to say, even as you feel a strange flutter in your lower belly. No. Definitely not… unappealing.

“I…I…What?”

Your eyes dart away from hers; do you dare to turn away and ignore her? Instinctively, you know better than to try and command her to hush, whether you're the “man” or not. The very air of the room tells you that you're not in charge, here.

Mizu sits up, still frowning, as dogged in her pursuit of the topic as she is with every other goal.

“It's our wedding night. Why do you want to sleep over there?” She tells herself she's not afraid of failure or rejection anymore; she already believes herself unlovable. But she's bracing for the words all the same. She wants you to say it, admit it, so she can feel justified in abandoning this duty to pursue her revenge. Tell me, she thinks, her eyes boring into you piercingly. Tell me the truth so I can be set free.

For a moment, there's silence, as you meet her gaze, looking stricken. She thinks–at first–that it’s because you're too kind to want to hurt her with the truth.

Internally, you're panicking. What if the truth makes her leave, and your parents turn on you for ruining this? What if she tells her mother, who spreads it across the region via gossip? What if she simply pounds you into a pulp for deceiving her? You saw her lean, muscled arms as she carried in her luggage–she's more than capable.

You’re about to invent some excuse, some lie to buy yourself another night, when you see the barest hint of a flicker in her eyes. Old pain, buried beneath anger and bold demand. What did her last husband say to her, you wonder. You know the humiliation you felt when the word spread that multiple fathers called you undesirable for their daughters. Did she hear the similar rumors that she was somehow undesirable? You feel suddenly sorry for her, stuck with you– a husband that can't give her what a husband should.

At least you can give her the truth.

You look away, sucking in a deep breath.

“I can't… be a husband to you.” Your voice is hushed, the tone cracking at the edges. She takes it exactly the wrong way.

“Because I am ugly to you.” She says flatly, fighting to conceal the sting of hearing her fears confirmed, but then your head snaps around to meet her gaze. So she has heard the rumors, you think.

You have no idea how often she has.

“No!” You exclaim, and the earnestness in your voice disarms her, makes her believe that you mean it even when it seems impossible. “No. You're… you're not at all… you're very–…any man should be proud to have you as a wife.” Your words are a shock, making her heart speed up rapidly as you stammer. Even in the dark, she can tell that you've started to blush, and the ice building in her chest cracks ever so slightly as her own face warms. She can't meet your eyes, suddenly…but then, you’re looking away, too.

“Don't lie.” But her voice wavers uncertainly. She recalls Mikio’s revulsion, his utter refusal to ever look at her again. You're only saying that because you haven't seen the real her, yet.

You shake your head, hands trembling. She deserves to know the truth. But the confession sticks in your throat.

“You deserve better than this,” you mutter, sinking down on your sleeping mat criss-cross, putting your head in your hands. The strangeness of that response gets her attention again.

Mizu stares at you, confused. She deserves-...? She feels suddenly cold as the thought strikes her that you could be feeling an attack of a guilty conscience. Is this all a setup? Were you going to turn her in, but now you feel badly? Was this all a trap?

You’re looking down between your fingers, so a tiny rustle is all the warning you get. You yelp aloud when a sudden weight tackles you to the mat, and she claps a hand over your mouth to silence the noise, both of your other wrists grasped easily in her other hand. Pinned, you’re left staring up at Mizu’s abruptly fierce expression in shock. Despite your alarm, there's a sudden, illogical stab of something squirmy in your lower belly. Her eyes catch the moonlight through the paper windows, gleaming like clear ice in the dark, all shadows and pale blue. This-... this is what was missing from those other girls, you realize, even if you can't parse exactly what this is. She really is something amazing…you can feel your breath catch in your throat, a sudden twinge of mingled regret and desire choking you. If only you could be what a wife would want… you would be hers in truth if you could.

If she isn't about to kill you.

“Who did you tell that I'm here?” She demands, releasing your mouth to let you answer, ignoring her own mixed feelings at the way she can still feel the imprint of your mouth on her palm. Lying below her, your eyes wide and your hair spread across the pillow, you really are lovely. Almost feminine, with your delicate features and full lips. She feels an instant throb of desire, something that had never come on so suddenly or so fiercely in her last marriage. Damn it, she could have been so happy to be married to someone that looked like you. Why does she have to be who she is?

“What do you mean? Why would that matter?” you stammer, confusion dancing in the wide dark pools of your eyes. You've no idea she's got a bounty–you’re sheltered, your parents are wealthy, and don't concern themselves with tracking criminals.

There's something in your genuinely perplexed tone that makes her believe you. You're no fighter, no warrior, only something soft. She knows she would recognize a lie.

As her anger fades, she looks again from your eyes to the wrists that her fingers are wrapped around. Belatedly, with her heart seizing, she realizes that she's done it again.

Attacked her husband, frightened him. Her hands release their grip as she sits back.

Her eyes are stricken, wide with the remembered fallout; the harsh words, the silent packing up, mama’s unforgiving blame. Her heart begins to pound fast once more, certain she's ruined everything. Again.

You sit up, slowly. Seeing her wide eyes, a flicker of fear is building in your chest, too, for a different reason. Her distress seems almost like shock to you, as though she's seen something… You don't bind at night, did she see–...?

Fearfully, you tug the collar of your sleepwear more tightly together.

Mizu recognizes the motion instantly; recalls her own compulsive tugging… and why. Something clicks, cutting through her panic and steadying her. A suspicion, tiny but impossible to ignore, as she watches you look away, your face tight. Your soft-featured face, with that smooth, delicate throat–

It's not possible. The coincidence would be too…

Her expression shifts from guilt and horror to sudden focus. Again, she shoots out a hand, covering yours against your collar, gripping it tightly. You look up, prey-animal fear in your eyes.

“Don't…lie,” she says again, more softly, and the blue searches over your face like an illuminating shaft of moonlight. Your own eyes are luminous in the dim room, wet enough to reflecting the low light, even if men aren't meant to cry.

But… you aren't that, are you–and now she knows it.

—

You explain it all slowly, with your knees pulled to your chest. An instinctive shield.

“My parents… tried very hard to have a son to carry on the family line,” you whisper at the end. “But… after me…something had gone wrong. My birth made it so that there were no more babies. They only had me.” You hang your head, and Mizu recognizes her own guilt, that of a gaslit child, in your face. It stuns her, to see it in another, clarifying her own mother’s actions with sudden horror. She doesn't resent the freedom she's gained to seek her revenge, but in you, she sees that the disguise only came with more shackles. “So because it was my fault… they felt I had to make up for it.”

Anger curdles in her chest.

“It was the gods’ decision if it was anyone’s,” she says fiercely. “Not yours. You were a child.”

You look up at her, hope and hesitance warring on your face. In the silence, an owl cries outside, the haunting call drifting in through the open window. She stops, shocked by the impact of her own words on herself, hearing them said aloud in her own voice. It wasn't your fault. How long has she waited, without realizing, to hear someone say that to her?

“How do you know?” You ask, your smile growing crooked.

Mizu’s hands clench into fists in her lap. Only moments ago, she had felt certain to find herself rejected yet again, certain she would be slipping away before morning, finally feeling freed of obligation, having truly seen the proof that she could never live a normal life.

Now conflict dogs her conscience.

You see the consternation in her eyes, and though you could never know the reason, you rightly assume the situation is causing her some mixed feelings.

Hesitantly, you reach out, your hand covering hers.

“Don't lie.” You murmur her own words back to her, and she can't find a reason to fight the invitation in your gentle gaze.

—

You're astonished when she explains about her vow, about the similar disguise she adopted.

“But you're so beautiful,” you blurt out, unable to believe she could pass for a man, then flush when she meets your gaze with disbelieving surprise. A little scoff escapes her, but when you hold her gaze steadily, serious, she looks down.

“...I'm sorry,” she replies, stumbling a bit over the honesty. You smile shyly, your turn to be flustered, and she feels her heart turn over. Cute. It startles her to realize her attraction hasn't lessened now that she knows the truth.

“For what?”

“I nearly killed you just now. I frightened you.”

You remember the heart-pounding sight of her above you, her gaze glinting like a blade, teeth bared fiercely. The squirm in your belly has nothing to do with fear.

“You didn't hurt me,” you tell her reassuringly. “Startled me, only. You moved so fast. It was…”--hot–“...impressive.” You give a short laugh. “Perhaps you should be the husband. You're better at it than me.”

Belatedly, you see the flash of pain in her eyes. You have to be a boy, Mizu. Stricken at her expression, you begin to stammer out an apology, but she shakes her head, waving it away as though her moment of vulnerability is too uncomfortable to linger on. All she says is, “Being violent doesn't make a better husband.”

“No,” You agree, apologetically. “But I wish I could protect you the way you seem able to protect yourself.”

“I don't need protection,” she says, more harshly than she meant to. At your flinch, her brow softens. There's a little pause.

You draw your knees up, hugging them. “I guess you'll want to leave, now?” The thought is depressing, but hearing her speak of her vow, the spark in her eyes, you can't stand the idea of trapping her here as your fake wife.

“What?” She looks up, eyes widening.

“On your quest?” You clarify. “I would not force you to stay here, no matter what our parents say.” When she doesn't reply, only stares openmouthed, you add, “I can get you the things you need. We have money. I can get you a travel pass, a horse… whatever might help you.”

She closes her mouth, opens it–closes it again. She looks genuinely moved, the icy edge of her eyes softening as her hand convulsively grasps yours, gratitude bubbling up inside her; of the tiny number of people she has let past her walls, you are the first to ever offer even a scrap of encouragement towards her goals. To Eiji she was foolish, to her mother–selfish, to Mikio… well, even in the beginning he had laughed skeptically, and it had only gone worse from there.

But…

“I owe it to mama to make this work out,” she says with a sigh, though resentment burns in her heart. A disloyal voice mutters in her heart that Mama only wants her as a meal ticket, but she dismisses it.

“We could keep your mother here, while you get your revenge,” you offer, wanting to please her so badly, trying to hide your reluctance; already, you don't want her to go. Her hand over yours is warm, it feels so strong…it's the first time anyone besides family has touched you in any capacity.

She smiles ever so slightly, a rare moment of humor, tinged with the truth. “I could not leave you with them; you've done nothing to deserve such a fate.”

You smile gratefully, then bite your lip, thinking.

“Maybe you could…pretend to be me?”

Her brow furrows. “What?”

“On the travel pass–it would have my name. We could travel together, the husband and his new wife,” you expand on the thought, speculating as you go. “You can take up your disguise again when you want to, I can take it up when you don't… either way, all anyone would see would be a man and his wife, traveling legally.”

She's staring again. She looks so blankly dumbfounded that you begin to feel like maybe your plan really is that stupid.

“I'm the heir, remember? I can do as I like, technically.” You grin reluctantly, even as you heart thumps at the idea of your parents' reactions. You've never defied them this outrageously before, but since you're meant to be their son, it occurs to you that they can't protest without outing themselves or losing their heir. It's funny; you've never realized how much power you had, that they need you as much as you need them. Not until you had someone you wanted to help.

“I…I can make sure we have money, and I can stay out of the way…if we can afford horses, and places to stay it will be easier for me to stay out of danger. Maybe with bigger bribes, you won't have as much trouble…”

Still, she says nothing.

“...And your mother can stay here! My parents can't say you left me if we go together, not if they want to keep their son, so they will have to…care for her as an in-law…honorably…” her staring is really starting to make you nervous. “Mizu…?”

She lunges forward again and you freeze; only to feel those hands gently cup your face instead of squeezing your wrists. Softly, at odds with the quickness of her movements, she kisses you.

All your life, you had wondered what it would be like to be kissed; you had simply assumed it was a privilege you would never be allowed. You had no desire for men, and surely no wife would want to once she knew your secret…

It's everything you had never thought you would be allowed to have; her lips glide smoothly and sweetly against yours, lighting up nerve endings you didn't know existed, sending cascades of tingles down your spine. Despite the softness of it, there's an easy sense of control in the way she tilts your face with her hands, guiding you where she wants you, one callused palm sliding down to stroke over the skin of your neck, tugging you closer. You shiver at the muted strength behind that easy tug, how it pulls you forwards against her without the slightest effort.

There's a heat coiling in your belly that you've never felt before by the time she pulls back, her eyes searching your face.

There is a pause.

“...I don't want to sleep alone,” she blurts out, cheeks flushed. Your heart, already fluttering, begins to thump hard.

“Neither do I,” You say breathlessly, watching the way she smiles again, shakily.

You stare at each other, lost as to how to proceed.

“I…I don't know how to please a woman,” she says finally, her flush deepening.

“I don't know how to please anyone.” You admit.

You both stutter out a laugh, mutually nervous, but then the laughter fades to a charged silence.

Slowly, as if trying not to scare you away, she reaches out for you again, cupping the back of your head. This time the kiss is only soft for the first moments before it grows heated, hungrier, both of you relaxing into a desire you never expected to be reciprocated.

The swipe of a tongue over your lower lip startles you; it slips between your lips when they part on a gasp. At your tiny noise, you can feel her tense; she rises from sitting, to her knees, shuffling closer to you, her hand sliding down your spine. Without breaking the kiss, she guides you back to lie down on the mat.

This time when she looks down at you, the fire behind the ice has a very different burn to it, still focused like a beam of light all on you; no less of a thrill. Desire is written across your flushed features, easy to read…along with anxiety; this is all so new to you.

Long fingers stroke your cheek. The blue eyes are intent, focused as always, but determined on something more pleasant now. “I will take care of you,” comes the whispered reassurance. She presses another kiss to your lips, then another, pulling back to watch the way your eyes slowly lose their nerves and become hazy. Her gaze roves over your pretty features, down over the smaller frame beneath her. She swallows back her own nerves; she wants to make this good for you, better than what she had.

The neck. She remembers how good that, at least, had felt with-...no. She's not going to think about him anymore–not ever again.

It's easy to redirect her thoughts; the first brush of her lips against the delicate skin beneath your jaw rewards her with the sound of you moaning her name softly, sending a pulse of desire straight down through her core, more potent than she can ever remember feeling. Without thinking, she bites down, reveling in the soft skin yielding beneath her teeth. You grit your teeth to stifle your cry, desire pooling with sudden intensity between your legs at the little spark of pain.

“Too hard?” Oh by the gods, that raspy voice in your ear…

“Mm-mm,” you manage shakily, teeth digging into your lip.

“Tell me if it is,” comes the reply, firm voice breathless, lips already finding your skin again. Your fingers tighten against her shoulders as she buries her head deeper against your neck.

Her fingers are careful when they part your shirt, while you fumble nervously with the many, many layers of her kimono. She isn't exactly helpful, more interested in letting her long fingers map the contours of your body, finding places that make your fingers stumble and your body twitch. She leaves you to puzzle out her clothes, distracted and eager, so that you’re too busy to be shy…up until the moment her hands push your thighs apart.

You freeze with a gasp, your face going deep red so fast that heat prickles behind your eyes. Nobody has ever, ever seen you like this, exposed, openly desirous.

“Mizu…”

She pauses immediately, breathing hard. Her eyes are piercing, hungry. She looks…incredible. You've managed to get her down to her hadagi, with the base layer garment falling off one lean, sharp shoulder, her hair falling in a rich dark curtain around you both. She looks like a wolf crouched above you, a feast waiting within its grasp, predatory in a thrilling way. But then she looks up at you, and you can see that she's waiting–she's used to self denial. She'll wait forever for you to be ready. “We can stop–” she murmurs.

No. You shake your head, but you’re too overwhelmed to speak. I don't want to stop. Feeling desperate to make it clear, you reach out and take her hand, pulling it down to the pulsing ache at the apex of your thighs.

The touch is a shock to you, even self-inflicted. You suck in air sharply at the feeling of her hand, cool fingers against wet heat. Wide eyes meet hers; you see the predator flare again as the blue color darkens. Cute, she can't help but think, flexing her fingers against you and seeing you arch immediately, biting your lip to stifle your cry. So…sweet.

Once she's seen your face crease in ecstasy, she will take the time to disrobe, properly; she'll teach you how to touch her. She can feel herself throb at the thought of your face in flushed, shy concentration as your hands find the places on her body that ache to be touched. For now she straddles your thigh, pressing her heated core against it as her fingers press inside you, burying her grunt of pleasure in your neck as she feels you shift your muscles to press up against her more firmly. Even in the throes of losing your virginity, you respond to her pleasure.

It's nothing like what she knew before; as she brings you forward into submission, everything is soft and slick and easy, and there is nothing but a pleasure that builds on and on. She knows that for you, this is all you know, and she is determined that this is all you will ever know; easy pleasure under her possessive touch.

–

She wakes you before the sun is up, and you gape at the person above you. It’s still Mizu, but dressed as a man, her hair scraped back into a bun, only that one stubborn curl escaping. She looks sharper, more dangerous, and you feel a pulse of delighted attraction. No matter how you dress, you are stunning.

You pack as quietly as possible. By mutual agreement, you'll stay dressed as a man for now; it's easier to ride, and all of her kimonos are at least a foot too long for you. Besides, frankly, you have no idea how to dress or behave as a woman.

She looks over her shoulder at the house, seeming guilty, as you pack up.

“She'll be fine,” you murmur, taking up your reins. Internally, you think with some vindictiveness that the three of them will probably drive each other completely crazy, and they'll deserve it. But Mizu has honor, and duty, on her mind, and you want to save her the conflict.

“We can come back to visit, or stay, when you're done,” you offer, and she turns to you with a grimace. You have to laugh. You agree with the unspoken thought of how unpleasant that could be.

“Then we’ll settle somewhere new, when this is all over,” you promise her, your chest bubbling with happiness at the thought.

“Hm,” she grunts. Something about her male disguise in the light of day seems to make her more taciturn, more guarded from the soft openness you saw last night in the darkness.

But there's still a tiny hint of that same smile playing at the corner of her mouth as she glances sidelong at you from under the brim of her wide hat.

“How do you feel about raising horses?”

You smile. “How do you feel about becoming artists?”

Something about the word artist seems to brighten something in her eyes, even behind the glasses; she looks almost light for a moment at the prospect.

“An artist,” she says, low and contemplative, turning back to face the road, thinking with a pang of her sword father, how much she can't wait for you to meet him. “Perhaps that is my fate.”

#mizu x reader #mizu #bes x reader #mizu blue eye samurai #anon ask #blue eye samurai #bes mizu #bes #mizu bes #mizu x y/n #mizu x you #prose #wlw #bes x you

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theladystrikesagain · 2 years ago

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anyone who is disagreeing with this has not seen the full extent of what is posted on AO3.

I want to agree with the sentiment that fiction isn't reality & people are allowed to utilise taboo subjects in order to full explore themes or ideas, or to critique aspects of society in an especially confronting way (e.g. Lolita showing through Humbert praying on Lolita how perverted rich men will, even to themselves, intellectualise their depravity in order to keep praying on kids with a clear conscience). but OP is right. people are not doing that. pretending otherwise is disingenuous.

AO3 currently doesn't have a limit for how young the minor in your posted story can be. The vast majority of written erotica websites have a firm boundary against content featuring kids. Why is there written sexual content on AO3 that features 6 year olds? Why is there a writing tag for specifically little kids, designed so that you can easily find those works VS those featuring older kids? These are written purely to titillate both the author and their readers. You don't get to act coy and start talking about differentiating fiction from reality when people rightfully call you a fucking pedophile.

i think when someone replies to the thought of "your triggers don't get to determine the kind of art other people make" with "maybe not pedophilia and incest though" maybe they are not talking about the controversial novel "lolita" or anything else with "dark themes that may make you feel uncomfortable" and are in fact talking about the people online that write thousands upon thousands of words about fictional kids being abused purely for fun and pleasure. like i dunno. uncomfortable themes have a place in something with good writing, sure. but maybe i'm tired of seeing this fucking "let people write what they want to write uwu" type bullshit post every other day, even if the OP means well. no one on fucking ao3 is vladimir nabokov. let's be honest

#the tagging system has rotted y'alls minds #just bc it allows you to filter away from things you don't like doesn't mean those things are above reproach #I don't want to see stories with toddlers man #ao3 #Maria rants #sorry for the essay #the older I get the more this upsets me #child abuse tw

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snowballseal · 8 months ago

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Guard Dog AU - Zayne

Summary: AU where you are the Foreseer, and Zayne is a human you've given your blessing to who has devoted his life to staying by your side, protecting you, and worshipping you. He would do anything for you. Anything.

Word County: 2744

Note: Sooooo, I went a bit feral with this one... Could be interpreted as very sub-like behavior for Zayne, but I feel like we all know this man just wants to worship his partner. So yah. I'll be writing similar au's for the other guys too, but this one might be my magnum opus.

Coming soon: Sylus / Xavier / Rafayel

Warning: Gets a little, spicy at the end, but mostly by implication. Reader likes to touch Zayne's face a lot. Someone calls Zayne a concubine and you get pissed.

Enjoy!

---

“Kneel.”

You stare, features a mask of icy indifference, at the human envoy wavering at the foot of your throne. They shiver in their thick coats, no material warm enough to keep out the biting cold of the Tower of Thorns. The biting cold of your glare.

Yet, still, they don’t kneel. You can see the hesitation on their faces, the pride flashing behind their irises. Humans. They always come, high and mighty, thinking themselves better than you, a demigod.

Your lips part, a scathing reproach ready on your tongue, but you don’t get the chance to correct their insolence.

“I said. Kneel.”

Zayne slams his staff into the polished, white granite. The sound of it echoes all the way to the far halls of the tower. The thinly veiled threat behind his words is unmistakable. Kneel before I make you.

The humans all crumble under the weight of his command. They drop to their knees, one by one, trembling at the pure contempt burning behind his gaze. Contempt for them and their human greed. They don’t even deserve to gaze upon the threads of your robes, let alone kneel in your presence, yet they think themselves above it? You may have mercy on their kind, but Zayne would rather cut them to their knees than allow them to show you such disrespect.

A faint smile ghosts across your lips. With the barest flick of your fingers, Zayne returns obediently to your side. He drops gracefully to one knee, head bowed, eyes locked on the unblemished edge of your robes.

It’s almost amusing, watching him turn so docile, so small for you. A man who conquers you in height and strength, who holds himself with the regal poise of royalty, who you’ve blessed with powers no man can dream of - a submissive guard dog at your feet. Ready to kill if you desire him to. Willing to die for you.

“Foreseer-”

Your smile falls away. Right, the humans. Eyes icing over once more, you turn your gaze to the envoy, regarding them with disinterest.

“What do you want, that you’ve come all this way and disturbed my peace?” Your voice rings like a delicate chime, but carries the bite of a frigid river.

The one who spoke - a man dressed in expensive looking furs, his skin covered in a layer of sweat - flinches at the sharpness of your tone. He seems to steel himself for a moment, collecting whatever pathetic bravery he has gained from his comfortable life, and looks up at you with a determined glare.

“We’ve come here for a prophecy, Foreseer,” he starts again, voice muggish and demanding, “Our kingdom has experienced prosperity in the passing years and our king would like to be certain that it will continue.”

Zayne tenses beside you, his fingers tightening around his staff. You can see him fighting the urge to put this man in his place, his jaw drawing so taut it almost looks painful. Letting out a low hum, you reach out and brush your fingers through the dark strands of hair. A silent request. Zayne wavers, his breath faltering as all his attention falls back on you.

Always on you.

Your touch is gentle but insistent, your delicate fingertips tracing his temple, his cheek, his jaw. It leaves his skin tingling, pleasant and cold. It’s an addictive feeling and he can’t help but yearn for more. Zayne nuzzles into your palm, pressing his lips to your skin in reverent gratitude when you give him exactly what he wants, your fingers brushing more firmly against his face.

An uncomfortable cough breaks the silence, “Foreseer-”

“I heard your explanation,” you interrupt him sharply, a wave of frustration washing over you. Zayne can feel it, feels his own frustration at having your attention drawn away from him. But he doesn’t dare make that known, instead watching your face attentively as you speak. “And I will remind you that my prophecies will not be bound to your expectations. They are bound to nothing but fate, so I advise you to deliberate on what you are asking of me.”

“Our King simply wants to ensure that our prosperity will continue,” the man insists, as if you’re the fool who is missing the point. He levels you with a look of disdain, his eyes not so subtly darting to the hand you now have resting in Zayne’s hair. “Though I am certain now that our Highness would not care for the words of a mere oracle who keeps a concubine as her guard.”

The air in the chamber goes deathly still once the words leave his mouth.

Your eyes narrow at the man, glacier and even, but he keeps his chin held high. The rest of the envoy all shift, sharing uneasy glances between themselves. It seems even they know that what he said was a foolish mistake.

One should not anger a god so carelessly.

Slowly, deliberately, you stand from your throne. A flick of your hand and your own scepter appears from the air, the Creatio Protocore glinting dangerously from its tangle of wood. All eyes fall on it, a mix of fear and greed, all eyes except for Zayne’s, which remain glued to you.

Every step you take, every subtle movement, is controlled, the utter definition of grace. Even the air bows to you, shivering around your form, any remaining warmth fleeing from your presence. Tendrils of ice spread along the granite, creeping up the walls, covering the windows, turning the room into a prison of your anger.

And Zayne can’t help but watch, transfixed, adoration curling in the depths of his being. Because this is you, his goddess, his queen. He may be your guardian, but he is well aware that his title is by grace alone, and not necessity. You’ve never needed him. Not like this.

“You seem unaware of whom you speak to,” you murmur, patience tested and gone, “So let me remind you.”

The man lets out a yelp as ice suddenly grips his boots. You feel a flicker of satisfaction at the panic in his eyes, his confidence disappearing like a leaf carried away by the wind. His companions scatter back, looking on in terror as the ice travels up his legs, encasing the entire lower half of his body.

“I am the Foreseer,” you say, stopping a mere foot away from him. “The demigod of the Tower of Thorns. This is my domain, my home, and you are a pest. I owe you nothing. I owe your king nothing. As far as I am concerned, he is beneath me.”

“You insolent- He is our king!” The man spirts, turning a drastic shade of red. “I demand you show him respect, you despicable wi-”

A dagger presses deftly to the man’s neck and he goes silent, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head.

“Be silent,” Zayne snarls, “How dare you speak to the Foreseer in such a way.”

You glance at him over the man’s shoulder, brow flicking up. Any other time, it would warm your heart to see Zayne stand up for you, and you would gladly let him cross the boundaries of his position, to act as he sees fit. To act freely. But in this moment, all you can feel is the rage boiling in the depths of your soul. It’s your turn to show them their mistakes.

So you click your tongue, eyes narrowing, “I did not ask for you to intervene, my dearest.”

Zayne doesn’t miss the sharp disapproval in your voice, his breath catching somewhere in his chest. How thoughtless of him. Dagger slipping back into the sleeve of his robes, he forces himself to step back, head bowed like a wolf bearing its neck submissively.

“I apologize, my lady.”

You don’t offer your forgiveness, only giving him a stiff nod, and Zayne can feel his skin prickle with unease. Every fiber of his being aches, desperate to earn your affection, to please you, to offer an apology you deem sufficient.

If you want him to grovel, he will. If you want him to beg, he’ll do so until his voice gives out. Even if you want to punish him, he’d take it with such deep affection, because anything from you is more than he deserves.

But until you ask anything of him, all he can do is wait.

And currently, you must deal with the nuisance in front of you, even if you can feel Zayne’s laden eyes locked on you so intently.

“Now let’s talk about your king, shall we?” You muse, turning your attention back to the man. He swallows, regret showing in the way his hands tremble so viciously. “You humans have such a twisted view of power. Whether it’s money or prosperity or health. You are all subject to fate and that is why you hate my prophecy. Your king is no different, and I presume he’s looking for someone to blame when your land inevitably falls into poverty. In fact, I feel confident in saying he already sees it coming, and I would wager that he is the sole cause of it. Am I wrong?”

A low murmur spreads among the envoy. The man goes nearly purple in front of you, face tight with indignation, but he doesn’t dare utter a word, not with the looming threat of Zayne’s blade still nearby.

You don’t need him to confirm what you already know, though. And you’ve had enough of this messing around. The day has been too long, and you desire nothing more than to rest.

“Tell your king that this mere oracle wishes him well in his remaining time on the throne,” you chime and turn to walk away. Your voice carries on over the clicking of your heels, “However short that time might be.”

“You can’t-! Foreseer!”

“See them out, my dearest, and then meet me in my quarters.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Foreseer-!” The man calls again, but Zayne doesn’t even allow him another glimpse at your figure. He’s lost that honor.

“I believe it’s time for you to leave,” he snaps, and breaks the spell of your ice.

The man immediately tries to make a run for you, desperation carved into every line of his face, but Zayne catches him by the collar of his coat and throws him back towards the rest of his party. His eyes set on them, harsh and cold, a sneer pulling at his lips.

“She has dismissed you. I suggest you leave quietly before you test my patience.”

“I will not listen to the orders of a-”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see a sigil carve into the air before a blinding light fills the space. The humans flee from the sudden ice clawing at their feet, voices tight with panic, boots slipping against the granite in their desperation.

A faint smile pulls at your lips as you dip into a hallway. Zayne always has been good at scaring people away.

It’s a quiet venture to your room at the top of the tower after that. The howling gale outside is all you can hear, muffled by the thick stone of the tower’s walls. It’s a somehow comforting sound, soothing some your prickled nerves.

Still, you feel tense as you settle on the edge of your bed. Dealing with the humans always does this to you. That’s why you ended up here, in the desolate, snowy mountains, far from any village or kingdom. Dealing with them is too exhausting.

How many humans have come to you, begging for an audience, only to throw themselves into a rage after you share one of your prophecies? A prophecy you can’t control, you can’t change. Yet they always blame you.

You can hardly be blamed for resenting their kind.

All of them except Zayne.

Your dearest. Your steadfast peace. The comfort of your isolation was no match when he came to your tower.

And your frustration melts like snow in the springtime when he appears at your door, wavering at threshold. Hesitation furrows his brow, his fingers twitching against the frame. Features softening, you gesture for him to enter.

“Come here, my dearest,” you murmur, tone impossibly gentle.

He hesitates for only a moment before sweeping across the room, reaching you with only a few long strides. You watch as he kneels at your feet, the thick fur of his robes gathering on the stone floor around him. And of course you notice the way his lips press together so vehemently, like he’s biting back something.

“Please speak, darling.”

Zayne’s eyes flutter shut, a shuddering breath passing his lips. You always say the term with such sweetness, such tenderness. It makes him feel dizzy and near breathless, loved in a way that makes his chest ache.

“May I touch you?” He asks, voice a low rasp.

You don’t even have to think to answer, “Of course you may, my dearest.”

With all the care in the world, Zayne gathers the edge of your robes in his gloved hand, drawing the silken material to his lips. His touch is reverent, like even the clothes on your body are deserving of worship. He takes his time, showering each fiber with devout affection, eyes slowly trailing up the material to gaze at you through ebony eyelashes. And you can’t help the way your breath falters so easily for him, always taken aback by the desperation, the hunger you find there.

Something dark glints behind those mottled depths at the sound. Slowly, experimentally he presses closer. When you don’t correct him, his fingers brush questioningly against your ankle, the warmth of his skin seeping through the leather of his gloves. And you’ve never been one to deny him.

Parting your legs, you let Zayne settle between them, your knees bracketing his wide shoulders. His fingers trace adoringly up and down your leg as he nuzzles into your clothed thigh, like a pup starved for affection. You can feel the warmth of his breath, even through the thick material of your cloak, and it makes your usually sharp mind spin.

“Please forgive my earlier thoughtlessness, my love,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, lips brushing insistently against your inner thigh. “I will accept any punishment to atone for my actions.”

Gods, you never thought you would be so weak for one man. But how could you not be? How can you not crumble under such earnest devotion?

You’d freeze the world over if it meant having him forever at your side.

“You have quite the tactic for coaxing me to forgive you,” you breathe, reaching a hand down to trace through his hair. Zayne immediately leans into your touch, molten eyes soft with feigned innocence.

“I am simply a humble servant, unworthy of your favor, my lady,” he hums, eyelashes fluttering when your grip tightens momentarily in his hair. It’s only then a mischievous smile reveals itself on his lips. “How can I coax a goddess such as yourself to do something against your will?”

“You know full well what you’re doing, dearest.” You lean down, until your cool breath ghosts over his skin, sending a shiver through Zayne’s body. His bravado slips away, replaced by an uneven breath, his lips parting ever so slightly. “And there’s no need for it. Everything I have, everything I am, is yours, and that includes my forgiveness. All you ever have to do is ask.”

“You shouldn’t offer such things so lightly, my lady,” Zayne rasps, fingers pressing tightly into the softness of your leg as he forces himself to glance away. “You underestimate how selfish my desire for you is. I would take everything if you allowed it.”

Suddenly, your touch is on his chin, drawing his face back to yours, until he can feel the brush of your lips against his, taunting and delicate.

“If you want everything,” you challenge softly, gaze unwavering, “then take it.”

Zayne inhales sharply. And then his lips are on yours, kissing you so deeply, so tenderly, like he wants to draw the very breath from your lungs, like you’re the only one who can sate his hunger burning inside of him.

And you let him. You let him take everything he desires, because he always gives you everything you could ever desire.

That is how it has always been between the two of you. And that’s how it will always be.

---

This felt pretty different from what I usually write. I was inspired by an Xavier fic I read sometime back, and I just loooove the concept of truly feral levels of loyalty. And I love the idea of reader being just a feral for him.

Can't wait to write Sylus' 😉

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace reader insert #reader insert #x reader #lads x reader #lads zayne x reader #love and deepspace zayne #zayne x reader #love and deepspace x reader #guard dog au series #sub zayne #love and deepspace zayne x reader #feeling feral

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pseudowho · 1 year ago

Text

A Reliable Man

Sometimes the hero you want, isn't always the hero you need.

A Kiyotaka Ijichi appreciation smutfic.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, loss of virginity

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"Ijichi...can you come and collect me, please?"

"Of course. Just send your location over."

----------------

"Ijichi, it's so late. Are you okay to collect me?"

"Don't worry, I've been waiting. Have you eaten?"

"Oh...I haven't. It's alright, I can sort myself out--"

"I'll pick something up. It's no trouble."

----------------

"--ah, shit-- Ijichi, call the school-- I need backup, urgently."

"Hold on. Get somewhere safe. I'll call everyone-- anyone. Get to safety. Please."

----------------

"Ijichi, I--...I can't thank you enough. I wouldn't have made it out of there if you hadn't called for help. I...I really am sorry."

A pause. A soft sigh.

"...please, don't be sorry. You're out there saving lives. You don't have to be sorry about anything."

----------------

Ijichi--

...your finger hovered over your phone screen. You saw the time; 10pm. You felt a familiar squirm of shame, disgusted by yourself for demanding so much of Kiyotaka Ijichi.

He was off the clock...you were in the middle of nowhere. Somewhere along the way, you had forgotten how hard he worked; while directing all of the assistants should have been a full time job in itself, Ijichi stepped above and beyond, by sacrificing his time, his effort, his safety, shift after shift after shift.

You tapped your phone against your forehead, eyes closed as you sighed. You decided to walk home. It would take you hours, but it was still better than--

Your phone vibrated in your hand. You looked at the screen.

Kiyotaka Ijichi.

You answered immediately, flustered, the words catching in your throat. Ijichi got there first. His voice, calm, soft, worried.

"I just...thought I'd check in. There aren't any drivers on tonight, but you're out on a mission. Are you home yet?" Tears pricked in your eyes, and you gulped.

"Ijichi.. you're not even at work. What are you doing? Calling me? You need a break." You chastised him. He laughed weakly, apologising in a flurry as you told him off.

"--it's my job to make sure you get hom--"

"--no it's not, Ijichi." Silence on the line. Ijichi waited for you, as he had a hundred times before, "It's not your job to get me home. Not every time. You...why are you...you need a break."

Another soft sigh; another warm pause.

"And I'll have a break," he continued, quietly determined, "when you're home safe. Send me your location. I'm on my way."

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He had opened the door for you. Gently laughed off your reproach. The seats were already warm. A hot drink, in a thermos. A snack bar in the glovebox.

Ijichi looked tired; by this point, you weren't sure if that was just his face, but you felt a strange flutter of sweet relief, joy, to be smiled at by him, as if you were worth the late hour and lack of sleep.

Ijichi cast his eyes over you, relaxing, "You're...not hurt. That's good. I'm--...I'm happy to pick you up," he offered, awkwardly, "but I've had enough of scraping you up and dragging you to Shoko."

You felt such prickling uncertainty bubble in you. Why were you suddenly shy in his presence? Why did his eyes casting over you feel so like a caress? Why did you not want the journey to end?

"Dinner," you blurted out, and Ijichi raised his eyebrows, eyes fixed on the road, "we should get dinner. If you've not eaten. I've not eaten. But if you don't want to eat then that's fine too I know it's late--"

"No no no, please don't-- yes, please, dinner sounds...lovely."

You took a moment to look down at yourself; muddy, dirty, bedraggled.

"Uhm...at yours, maybe? We'll order takeout?" You were too busy examining the state of yourself to see the blush that fizzed across Ijichi's sharp cheeks.

"I-- uhm--...sure. Yes. That would be...agreeable."

"So formal, Ijichi."

"Shush. I'm a professional."

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"So..." you finished your mouthful, trying not to feel embarrassed about being dressed in one of Ijichi's old t-shirts and sweatpants, "...he really said that? To quit, and get a driving licence?"

Ijichi laughed, his smile parting the clouds and making him look fifteen years younger. You couldn't help but laugh with him, your hand coming to cover your mouth, giggling together on his sofa like teenagers.

Ijichi wiped his eyes, sighing; "Gojo's a force of nature, it's true...but I probably owe him my life. I...feel like I can do more good in my current role, than I could have ever done on the front lines."

Setting down your plate, and wrapping your arms around your knees, you watched Ijichi, fascinated to see him slowly unwind, his loosening coils releasing the stresses of the day. You had never seen him like this...so relaxed. So happy.

You felt another odd squirm, this time a possessive, protective determination that he should never participate in Jujutsu Sorcery. That he should always be safe. You reached out for his hand, stroking his long, smooth fingers in yours.

Ijichi froze, so uncertain about how to react, having never had anyone show interest in him, barely even his parents, let alone a beautiful woman like you--

"You are the lifeblood of the sorcerers, Ijichi," you smiled, "and we'd fall apart without you. I'd fall apart--"

You were close now, almost sat on his lap. Your face was so close to his, that he felt your breath fan against his neck. He couldn't keep pretending he only checked in on you because it was his job. He couldn't keep pretending it barely bothered him when he saw you walk into danger. He couldn't keep pretending he didn't think about you all day and all night--

Ijichi pressed a kiss to your lips so fast, it felt like butterfly's wings. You gaped, wide-eyed, a blush creeping across your cheeks.

"I--I'm so sorry, that was-- that was highly inappropriate of me and I--...mmmfff..."

You had pulled Ijichi in by his collar, continuing the kiss he had started, with such heartfelt sincerity that Ijichi could have cried. You felt the wounds of so many horrible, selfish, unreliable boyfriends past. Ijichi felt the wounds of so many crushes, hopes and rejections past. Neither of you had noticed the treasure beneath your feet for the longest time-- unforgivably long.

Ijichi's hands clenched uncertainly as you kissed him, unsure where they should sit. He happily took your lead, tentatively responding to every press, every fluid movement of your supple lips against his. Only when your tongue swiped across his mouth, did Ijichi groan and respond instinctively, one hand coming up to push his glasses on top of his head, the other snaking to the back of your neck as he tugged you onto his lap.

You had never kissed someone who you knew would fight to the ends of the earth for you, and for whom you would reciprocate without question. A man who appreciated you as you were and wholeheartedly, and about whom you felt the same. A trustworthy man. A sincere man. A reliable man.

You pulled away for a moment, still holding his collar as you straddled his lap, panting against his lips; "Where have you been all my life?"

"In the front seat...just hoping to catch your eye in the mirror."

Crashing your lips against his again, sighing into his mouth, Ijichi's body strained with the heat of your thighs trapping him in. He was desperate to pull his shirt off, to feel your skin on his...except you needed him to act like he knew exactly what he was doing and--

"--wait...wait," Ijichi panted, resting his head against your shoulder, his hair ruffled, a pained grimace on his face. You cupped his cheeks, feeling him, hard and aching beneath you as he squirmed with an uneasy admission.

"I've...I've never-- I haven't--..." Ijichi winced, moving to lean back, mortified and humiliated. You saw his shame start to bubble over, and quickly slammed a lid on the pot. You did not let go of his collar, and did not let him lean back. Instead, you whispered against his lips, enough to make a whimper leave his lips and a drop of pre-cum leave his cock.

"Let's fix that then, shall we?"

Standing, full of divine purpose, you pulled Ijichi to his feet, nuzzling up into his ear until he shivered, his hands ghosting over your hips again.

"My room-- please--" he pressed, smiling into your neck as you laughed, being pushed gently backwards towards his bedroom. Stumbling together into his bedroom, giggling, stealing kisses, and necking like teenagers, you felt yourself thrown back into some sweet young love that you always wanted to have, but never received.

You fell back onto his bed with a bounce and Ijichi stood nervously before you, wanting to follow his instinct to crawl on top of you and bracket you under his arms, but crippled by his lack of confidence. You raised your foot, slipping your toes under his t-shirt and tickling his belly. Ijichi smiled, buckling and grabbing your foot, crawling over you with lovesick eyes. You made it all so easy.

"Ijichi..." you hummed, nosing at his neck, "...whatever your gut tells you to do, is probably right. I trust you. So please, show me what you want."

Ijichi felt shivers down his spine at your open invitation. His fingertips grazed down your plush inner arm, the little squidge of fat between your breast and armpit, the smooth untouched plane beneath your breast. Your eyes fluttered closed, delighted by his reverent touch. His hand gripped your shirt, and you almost felt tears prick in your eyes as he gently shielded your face to pull it off over your head.

Your bra had shifted with wandering hands, and your nipple peeked half-in-half-out, pressed by the edge of the cup. Ijichi ducked his mouth towards it, and you saw him hesitate again. You reached back, undoing your bra and removing it. Your eyes flicked down to his mouth, and back up to his eyes, dark and drunk.

"I'd like that," you whispered, and Ijichi breathed a shuddering gasp of relief before taking your nipple into his mouth, tasting you with open-mouthed sucks and laps. You heard his wet little grumbles of appreciation against your skin, when his hand came up to gently finger the softly yielding squidge of your other breast, Ijichi's fingers playing with your nipple with delighted exploration.

Ijichi was so overstimulated already, so touch-starved, and his cock so rigid, that he felt worryingly close to finishing-- so unable to control his own excitement at exploring someone's body so intimately for the first time. That the body belonged to you, the woman he had been falling in love with for years, was the final nail in the coffin, of him threatening to spill in his boxers.

You felt this in him, already prepared for him to want to curl up and die from embarrassment, if he didn't last. You were thrilled by his worship of you, having been treated as expendable more than once before. Teaching him would be a privilege and an honour. All the while, you failed to see how he taught you the bare basics of being respected and revered by a lover.

Ijichi was finely-tuned to subtle shifts in the atmosphere around him, and he learned quickly what you liked as he took your breasts into his hands and mouth. He felt the flickering of your hips up towards his when he licked you a certain way, and the hairs on his neck stood up to hear the breathy moans from your lips when he countered, pressing his twitching cock down against your clothed pussy.

Feeling a warning trickle of pre-cum, Ijichi pulled away from your breasts with a hiss, wrapped up in need and barely ashamed to hear himself beg you; "--please, I-- gosh, I'm sorry so sorry-- not going-- not going to make it--"

You kissed him again, soft and reassuring, as you finished unbuttoning his shirt. Ijichi moaned, long and shaking, as you draped his tie around your neck, the tails trailing over your wet-nippled breasts.

"God, you're lovely," he blurted out, blushing as you laughed, your head thrown back in genuine joy.

"Not nearly as lovely as you, beautiful man," you purred, ecstatic to see Ijichi's blush deepen when he moved to hide his face, his nose nuzzling in unbridled affection against your neck. Pushing his shirt off his slim shoulders, you raised your feet to hook around his trousers, looking at him with a playful glint.

Ijichi raised his eyebrows in question, and cried out to feel you push his trousers and boxers down, shivering as his cock bobbed out, red-tipped and wet with pre-cum. Ijichi quaked to feel the cool air hit his length, a drip of pre-cum dropping onto your belly.

You felt Ijichi tensed, brittle above you, and knew he risked spilling in your hand if you touched him. Still, you trailed your hand down his belly, nails grazing in the barely-there black hair, before slowly encircling his cock, hot and heavy in your hand.

Ijichi saw stars, his own hand the only one his skin had even known, and groaned into your neck, instinctively bucking into your grip; "--ooohhh, f--...gosh," he whined against you, coughing in alarm as you giggled again, your fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around his length. Your other hand pushed down Ijichi's borrowed sweatpants and your panties.

"...are you ready?" You asked Ijichi, smiling at his enthusiastic nod. You rolled the head of his cock between your folds, wet and warm, and Ijichi's arms almost buckled with the bliss and promise.

You guided Ijichi into you, squeaking as he bucked into you, bottoming out in one thrust. Ijichi snapped, cursing in a way that was so alien to the Ijichi you had always known. He gasped, one hand reaching down to sink into the side of your hip, relishing the way you jolted beneath him as he filled you with ragged thrusts.

Never had a man been so captivated by you. The feeling of Ijichi's inexperienced desperate rutting, was so vastly outweighed by the enthusiasm with which he treated your body. By the time you rolled your hips in time to meet his thrusts, pushing his cock deeply enough that you felt the first hot stirs of pleasure in your belly, Ijichi was crumbling around you.

"--please please please...please please please-- oohhhh fuck-- ooohhh fuck a condom, shi--"

Ijichi came with a strangled cry, so lost in his base instinct to cum inside you, that he couldn't help but let his seed spill into you, in ragged, disjointed bucks. You drank in the bliss on Ijichi's face...slowly seeing it morph into horror, and you were quick to reassure him, peppering kisses on his lips and cheeks.

"You're okay, it's okay...I'm on protection, shhh it's okay, I loved it, I loved it--"

"God I forgot all about you--"

"---you didn't, you did so well, and besides, we've got all night--"

"All ni...? Oh...oh. All night," Ijichi smiled, absolutely burning with adoration, as you burned for him. Your eyes flickered up to his head, and you pressed a hand over your mouth, eyes sparkling.

"...your glasses are still on your head, Ijichi."

"Ah! Oh...gosh."

#jjk #jjk x reader fluff #jjk x reader smut #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #ijichi kiyotaka fluff #ijichi kiyotaka smut #ijichi kiyotaka #Ijichi smut #Ijichi fluff

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blessedbyahuntress · 7 months ago

Text

Blessed by a Trickster

Chapter Four: The Scary Part? He's Tiny

Prev/Next

Warnings: None!

Word Count: 763

You stood at the helm of the ship, next to Eurylochus, who kept glancing at you when he thought you weren’t looking. He’s rather awful at judging that.

“Is something wrong?” You asked, turning to him.

“What?”

“You keep looking at me weirdly.”

Eurylochus hummed, debating whether or not to tell the truth. He settled with telling half of it.

He shrugged. “Nothing’s wrong.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I don’t believe you in the slightest.”

Eurylochus was saved from having to try and stutter out an excuse by Polites, who sprinted up to you, barely acknowledging the second in command’s presence with a small nod as he turned to you.

Polites’s glasses kept slipping off his nose and he continued to adjust them as he spoke. “There’s an island- Ody thinks it might be- what the lotus eaters were- talking… about.”

You blinked. “Oh,” was all you said.

Polites raised his eyebrows. “Oh?” He demanded. “That’s the first thing you think to say?” You shrugged. “Pretty much, yeah.”

Eurylochus snorted in amusement and Polites narrowed his eyes mockingly at his friend.

Then the world seemed to move in slow motion. Eurylochus was speaking to you, but you couldn’t hear a word he was saying. You yourself seemed to move fine; you could shake out the stiffness in your arms and legs in normal time. You snapped your fingers in front of Polites’s face, but you didn’t get a reaction.

You heard laughter from above your head, and you looked upward.

“Reveal yourself,” you ordered.

“Hm… I don’t think I will.”

You smirked. “I meant, please reveal yourself, Lord Hermes.”

A handsome yet short man appeared before you. He had a mop of curly light brown hair and a black mask covering his eyes. The snakes that were curled around his staff flicked their tongues at you as the tiny wings on his sandals flapped. “How did you-” He looked down at himself in surprise and yelped.

He gave you a reproachful look. “Please don’t do that again, little lady,” he said, shaking his caduceus at you.

You crossed your arms. “Hello, Lord Hermes. Please stop stalking me.”

Hermes giggled and glided around you, studying your stance and scars. “Now, now,” he chided. “You shouldn’t talk to a potential patron like that!”

You raised your eyebrows. “Patron?” You asked, unable to keep the skepticism from your voice.

“Oh, yes.” Hermes came to a stop in front of you, still hovering a few feet above the ground. “I’ve been watching you for quite some time, Y/N of Ithaca.”

“Yeah, I sort of got that part. Your voice in my head and all.”

Hermes laughed again. “Ooooh. Quick-thinker, too, I see.” The tips of his sandals skimmed the deck of the ship as he looked at you thoughtfully. “I think of myself as lucky to have reached you first, before any other god could offer to be your mentor.”

You blinked.

“Come on,” the god urged. “I’m sure Odysseus has told you of his own mentor, Athena? Shame she abandoned him.”

“I-I…” You couldn’t finish, your mind skimming through the possibilities of how this could end. “What could you offer? Why should I not wait for a different god or goddess like Ares or Artemis?”

“So glad you asked!” Hermes beamed. “I am the god of thieves. I will teach you how to steal more than objects in the heat of the moment. I will teach you how to detangle hidden meanings and important information from the most confusing of sentences.”

You tilted your head slightly. That skill sounded useful.

“I am the god of travelers,” he continued. “I can aid you in your journey home.”

“I am the god of speed. I can train you so hard, you’ll have more stamina than any man. You’ll be as fast as Achilles was.”

“I am the god of language, and I can teach you the skill of negotiating-”

“Let me sleep on it,” you interrupted.

“Oh.” Hermes gave you a sad smile. “You won’t be sleeping tonight.”

“What do you-”

Suddenly everything sped up, leaving you stumbling. Eurylochus grabbed your shoulders to steady you. You could feel Polites’s concerned gaze on your back as you grabbed Eurylochus’s forearms in an attempt to make the world stop spinning.

“Whoa,” Eurylochus said as you swayed slightly. “What’s wrong, Y/N?”

You opened your mouth to respond, only to slump forward.

“I forgot about how fragile mortals are,” Hermes giggled inside your head. “You might be having that sleep earlier than either of us expected.”

Then you blacked out.

#eurylochus #epic musical #epic the musical #cyclops saga #epic the musical x reader #polites #polites x reader #eurylocus x reader #hermes x reader #hermes #blessed by a trickster

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pearlywritings · 11 months ago

Text

Surprisingly

synopsis: for the public eye, the head of the Oak Family and his wife are a loving couple. In private they are astonishingly content with each other too.

pairing: Sunday x fem!reader

tw: fluff, arranged marriage, reader is halovian, established some time before the game quest on Penacony.

word count: 2.8k+ words

Nothing supports the man’s prestige and public image more than a proper marriage with a proper woman. So, I want you to meet this very woman, my child…

Two months, fifteen days and one hour. That’s exactly how long ago Sunday became a husband. A role he didn’t imagine himself playing, not with the role assigned to him from above. But, it was Gopher Wood - his adoptive parent basically, who brought you to him and announced his grand plan. And even if the head of the Oak Family had his doubts initially, a thorough conversation held with and without the Dreammaster, plus your immaculate background and some more specific matters proved to him that you were indeed chosen rightfully. He wasn’t sure if it was Mr Wood’s way of helping him, offering you as an aid at handling some of the work-related matters but with the seemingly perfect image of being wed - the elder gave no answers, however Sunday knew better than to question some of his schemes.

And so, your union was sealed. The ceremony wasn’t something exceptionally huge, none of you wanted that, but it was public enough for everyone and their mother to be talking about it. A couple of perfectly sterile interviews, some joint photos and three or four public appearances together, and people have been fooled enough to believe that.

That was enough.

Something as shocking as a wedding would avert the public eye and serve a great purpose in deceiving the people. After all, newlyweds are far too busy for one of them to be plotting something, right?

Right. So right, that Sunday himself was in a somewhat daze for the first week. But it’s understandable - on top of his regular responsibilities he had to prepare for the wedding and get to know the person he was about to spend life with better. Surprisingly, you turned out to be very understanding and supporting from day one, actively participating in whatever additional activity served on the man’s plate. It was weird, new and confusing, but above all he caught himself considering it not unwelcome.

You are astonishingly easy to work with. Well-versed in the matters of Family (but he shouldn't be all too surprised, given who brought you to him), soft, yet - when needed - firm spoken, not afraid to face the crowd in your husband's place for a public announcement and taking a portion of his responsibilities without any questions asked. If not for your interactions outside of all of that, Sunday would've thought you were his secretary and not a wife (but even a secretary wouldn't have known as much as you are aware of).

You are…comfortable. Sunday should really reproach himself for giving in so quickly, but it’s so hard not to. Maybe his vigilance is lulled with security of his patron’s choice or maybe it’s his own longing for normal civil interaction with someone close, but it didn’t take much time to start entertaining your sparks of curiosity.

Oh, how curious you are. Despite being trapped in a loveless marriage, you’ve been willing to learn about him from day one, trying to unfurl at least one tiny secret of his every day. He knows that because you are methodical, because you write it down (and you don’t hide the fact - when he, alarmed, asked or rather demanded you to show him that little notepad of yours, you just did so, with an explanation of your reasoning.)

Speaking of getting to know each other better… It’s still half an hour before your recently established tea time, but… But maybe he could summon you earlier?

I hope, my child, this woman will become your reprieve. You are not obligated to love her, see her as just a companion, but feel free to treat her as a continuation of yourself. I educated her to match you specifically, after all.

As a continuation of himself… Isn’t it cruel to speak such things of a sentient being? Isn’t it putting one into the position of submission?

Somehow it feels bitter on the tongue when he thinks of you.

His hand reaches for the bell, but promptly stops before the fingertips can touch the polished metal. Ah, of course, he asked to not be disturbed today. So, let him not violate his own order. He can find you on his own, not to mention, a small walk around the building might help clearing up his mind. Lately, he’s been thinking too much.

Spacious halls of the Dewlight Pavilion are empty, he knows as much, yet he hopes he won’t have to roam for too long, as the gloved hands push the doors of the meeting room. Today you two decided to work from the main Family residence in need of some materials here, and since no congregations were scheduled for the day, the building was all yours.

Each step of his is muffled by the carpet, lining the exactly 39 stairs, every next one lifting some of the weight from his shoulders and smoothing the deep frown of light gray brows. When his heels click on the small podium with the additional three steps, Sunday feels like his head is cleared.

Stepping on the carpet again, he finally ends up in the big hall with the 5 Lineages symbols and a big City Sandpit in the middle. Quickly fishing his phone out of the pocket, he swiftly unlocks the screen and finds your name in the recent calls, dialing it.

When did it happen that conversations with you outnumbered ones with his sister?

You pick up the phone after just two seconds.

“Hello? What is it, Sunday?”

Ah, straight to the point, he admires that. And the calmness of your tone is surprisingly grounding.

“I was wondering if you’d join me earlier,” he speaks softly, barely holding off from calling you ‘dear’. It’s not wrong for the spouses, but how would you react? He asks strange questions lately. “Tell me where you are, I’ll come fetch you.”

“To answer your first question, I’d love to,” the young man might lie to himself, but he swears he heard your voice sweeten just a little. It makes the little wings behind his ears flutter, which he is quick to still. “As for your second one, however, you might want to look down.”

Sunday follows your instruction without much thought, looking right at the red carpet covering the marble floor.

“...I don’t believe I understand.”

He hears you chuckle, a tinkling sound, lacking any malice. His left wing slightly jerks as the favorable noise fills his left ear through the phone.

“The City Sandpit, beautiful. I am not far from the origami birds’ nest.”

As he moves to round the table, your husband’s heart skips a beat. You called him beautiful, you have done so on multiple occasions already. You praised his intellect, you gently clapped for the perfect choice of the clothes for the day he made, you agreed with him on the most mundane things incorporated into your daily lives. And not once it felt forced or fake. You were surprisingly sincere with him - he would’ve thought that with the Dreammaster’s upbringing you’d have been all mastered flashy smiles and sickly sweet polished words.

But here you’ve been, admiring him in your own quite blunt kind of way.

He immediately spots your tiny figure among the fake buildings on the city’s layout. You are waving at him with a smile.

“Found me,” he hears again in the speaker, but now also from you as well.

“Found you,” Sunday echoes, reaching his free hand to you. When he curls his fingers, you understand and, clutching the strap of the bag hanging from your shoulder, carefully climb onto his open palm.

Your husband is careful, finishing the call and putting the phone aside, before cupping the other hand under the one holding your sitting figure. Bringing you closer to his eyes he can see all the little details on the pretty pale blue dress you left home in this morning, with your second pair of clipped wings wrapped around the waist like another skirt. Then his gaze skims along your neck, adorned in one of the pendants he gifted you and then up to the first pair of wings, bigger than his when you are your normal size.

He doesn’t have an opportunity to marvel over your intricate halo, because your eyes capture his in a vice, looking at him inquiringly.

“Didn’t expect you to take a break earlier. I thought you liked to stick to your routine.”

This was probably the first thing you learned about your back then betrothed.

“I do,” a tiny smile adorns his pale lips, “however, today I managed to wrap the most attention-requiring matters up earlier. Now only the mundane cases are left.”

“Good to hear that,” you hum, swinging your stocking-clad legs a little. His golden eyes look over your form once more, capturing the image of surprising comfortability in the hands of a bigger being, one that could crash your body so easily at the moment.

“I do wonder however about the reason behind your current predicament,” the male tilts his head in an inquiring way. “I believe I’ve never seen you enter the City Sandpit.”

Well, not to count the very first time he was giving you a tour.

“Oh, as I said, I know your routine, so I usually leave it before our meetings. I actually enter it quite often when we stay here,” is your answer that makes Sunday’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Pardon?”

“It’s easier to do paperwork this way,” motioning to the bag still on your shoulder, you then huff in annoyance. “If only you knew how eager your subordinates to bother me whenever you are unavailable. I am well-informed of my seeming position as the “lady-of-the-house”, but I’ve never signed up to be a link element between you and them, let alone a pawn in someone’s game of becoming first to seek your favor. Pardon me for my straightforwardness, but I much prefer interactions without actual feedback from the interlocutor if the situation doesn’t require otherwise. Except for you, of course.”

Except for him.

“You are my equal. You can always order them not to bother you,” drawing his hands closer to the chest, Sunday turns and starts walking closer to the table’s side where the gates are located.

“As if,” he glances down and catches just the end of your eye roll. “Mister Wood would have had my head if I ruined your picture as little as being distant from your inner circle. I’d much rather prefer just to hide away when needed and return to my secondary duties once I’m done with the primary.”

With the Dreammaker’s upbringing you would think a person can’t be as open-minded. Sunday is sure that it was no different from his - after all you have the clipped wings to match his. But, it seems, you found a way to temporarily escape from the suffocating clutches. Today he learnt a new thing about you, and, surprisingly it warms his soul instead of feeling repulsed.

He carefully puts you down just in front of the gates from the city’s side. Almost knocking off a little ”DO NOT TOUCH” card near it, your husband moves to the right to let you step out. And in a couple of seconds of blinding light you stand before him in all your tall glory.

“Thank you for making the trip across the city so much shorter,” you grin, shaking the bag’s strap down your shoulder and rolling it, before unwrapping the wings from around your waist and spreading them in a stretch.

“It was my pleasure,” his tone is even, yet the gaze with which he watches you move gives him out. To this day and probably for a long while the levels of intimacy that used to be unknown to him yet which you display are going to surprise him. Sunday almost feels an annoying twinge of upsetness when you rewrap your wings around the dress’s skirt. Though it lets him see a couple of ruffled feathers and he has to suppress the urge of his hand to reach and fix them for you.

Yes, there is some intimacy between you lately, but not close enough.

“If you give me a moment to drop off my papers, I’ll be swift in joining you,” your voice breaks the man out of his self-restraining thoughts, and he lifts his eyes from your waist back to your face.

“Ah, it won’t be necessary. I’d like to have our tea time back at the meeting room, I have some things to discuss with you.”

“So official,” you smile, taking a step to join his side. “Alright then, let us be on our way up. Would you like to fill me in on the agenda of our ‘meeting’?”

“Sure,” Sunday chooses to ignore your teasing, but habitually offers you his elbow to hook your arm in it. “My sister is going to visit soon and she seems to be quite pissed at me.”

“Miss Robin?” Your question is laced with puzzlement. “I assumed from your stories of her that she is hardly in a sour mood.”

“It is true, yes,” your husband sighs, leading you up the first set of stairs. “But I would’ve been mad too if my sibling had gotten married and I did not know a thing.”

“She does not know about us?”

The man nearly halts in his ascending. If he didn’t know better and where your thoughts and loyalties stood in this marriage, he would’ve believed you are offended that he kept such an important fact a secret from his only family member. Nevertheless, he continues his walking.

“I sent her an invitation, you know that. But it seems the planet she’s been on is pretty far away and she’s gotten my message only recently, on her way back. I loathe to admit it, but now I feel very bad and the situation itself is iunjust. I am aware we were in a rush, all because of the- you know why,” he sees you nod from the corner of his eye and feels your fingers carefully dig into his arm, “but Robin has always wanted to be a maid of honor at my wedding. And I ripped this opportunity from her.”

And I am not going to get married the second time. This he did not voice out loud.

For a moment you both fall silent. You get lost in thought, Sunday does so too, analyzing his own words, wondering if this speech of his was too personal, if it was painting him as weak in your eyes.

And his own.

You speak only when he reaches for the knob and twists in to swing the door open and lead you two inside.

“So, how much time do we have before she gets here?”

“Maybe a couple of days,” he breaks the lock of your arms and gets a hold on the strap, sliding the bag down your shoulder and turning to put it aside for the time being. “Why asking?”

“You are a good brother, I can see that, “ ah, here you are, praising him again. “And it’s obvious you care for your sister and wish to give her the world. I suggest organizing a small party for her. This way she could experience what she missed and get familiar enough with me. I can negotiate with Mister Wood, I am sure I can convince him - he has some sort of a soft spot for you, Sunday.”

Surprisingly, it twists something uncomfortable in the halovian’s stomach.

“It sounds… delightful. However, are you certain you’d like to go to such lengths for Robin?”

“Well, she is your sister,” you chose the table farthest from the one your husband has been working at and grab the back of the chair to move it so you could sit, “and I am your wife. I’d love her to believe in us too. If I am not overstepping, of course.”

That’s actually not a bad idea. If almost four months ago someone - even you - suggested he let his sister and future wife meet, he’d be hesitant. He knows his little sister, he knows how perceptive she is - he is not so sure he wouldn’t have cracked under her inquisitive questions about whether he was happy with the arrangement or not. Plus leaving her sad and aching for brother if he let her know of the unjustness of the situation and still chose to proceed with the wedding is just too much for him.

Now he, at least, will not be lying that he is content if being asked.

“I accept your offer and thank you profusely for it,” Sunday slightly bows his head, to which you shake yours, reaching your hand out to beckon him to join you.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You’ll have time to thank me later, once we’ve already done something, alright?”

Surprisingly… It is indeed alright.

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #sunday x reader #sunday x fem!reader #hsr sunday #hsr fluff

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zepskies · 4 months ago

Text

BUBBLY

Pairing: Russell Shaw x Reader

Summary: On your first vacation together, you and Russell take advantage of the hotel hot tub.

AN: This can be a stand-alone drabble, but it’s really set after More of This and Lost Time in the Every Second Counts-verse.

Originally released on Patreon: 2-25-25

Word Count: 800

Tags/Warnings: Fluff and feels…tinge of angst?

“Careful!” you giggled, trying to keep chlorine water from getting in your (third) glass of champagne.

Russell was less tipsy than you, but his cheeks were starting to hurt from smiling. The hot tub water splashed when he vaulted himself back in. In one hand he held above his head, he carried a tray piled with assorted mini quiche, finger sandwiches, and his personal favorite, some mini buffalo chicken empanadas. When he lowered the plate between you, your eyes widened at the haul.

“Oh my God,” you said in a hushed whisper. “Did you steal that from the buffet?”

“Steal is a strong word. I prefer the term secured,” Russell whispered back. “Procured. Liberated, if you will.”

You bit your lip, but couldn’t stop yourself from reaching for the quiche. You still shot him a warning look. “The hotel’s going to liberate us from our suite if…”

The reproach died on your tongue as you watched him pull out an entire (opened) bottle of champagne from under his shirt. You gasped.

That’s why his other arm was bent like a chicken wing, you realized.

“Jesus, Russ,” you whisper yelled. You looked around discreetly to make sure no one was paying attention to you two on the far end of the pool site. But you were begrudgingly impressed. By that self-satisfied grin on his face, so was he.

“We could’ve just paid for another bottle,” you pointed out, even as you let him refill your glass, a smile playing on your lips.

“Now where’s your sense of adventure,” he teased. “Besides, this shit is way overpriced.”

He set the plate on the edge of the hot tub and stripped off his shirt again. He’d only put it back on to attempt his little foodie heist. After he submerged himself half under the water and into the seated spot beside you, he slipped an arm around your shoulders to guide you against his side. You went willingly, releasing a sigh. You rested your head on his shoulder.

“Here’s to us, sweetheart,” he murmured, and pressed a kiss to your temple. “Six months down.”

Your heart swelled with loving affection, along with your smile.

“Six months,” you echoed, clinking your glass with his. Half a year you had been with this man, and you two were finally on a nice weekend away together. The thought made you set down your glass.

You turned towards him and reached up for his cheek. His brows rose in question, but you just smiled and guided him down for a kiss. It was gentle, just a slow meeting of lips. Your thumb caressed his jawline, prickling a bit on his beard.

Russell set his glass on the edge of the hot tub so he could pull you tighter against him. His free hand slipped into your hair as he dove in for a deeper kiss. He tasted bubbly champagne on your tongue. He caught the faded scent of coconut lotion on your skin. His fingers slipped under the strings of your bikini.

You broke from his lips slightly and hissed in pain. “Careful, baby. Think I got sunburned.”

Russell hummed in sympathy. “Mmm, sorry. Let me see.”

He hugged you to his bare chest and swept your wet hair aside so he could take a peek at your back.

“Ooh yeah, you’re well cooked. Think I’m gonna eat you up with some butter,” he joked. “Maybe some chimichurri sauce. You know me. I’m a zesty kinda guy.”

Scoffing, you pinched his side in retaliation. He flinched with a laugh. You actually got him in the one place he was ticklish.

“All right, no need to play dirty,” he said. He gathered you tighter in his arms, so you couldn’t move yours. You laughed and struggled to get out of his hold. Your hands pressed against his chest, but it was no use.

“Russ!”

“Nope. This is penance. You’re gonna stay right where I want you.”

He had you trapped. And if you were a good girl about it, maybe he’d feed you an empanada.

Russell’s amusement softened into fondness. Part of him still couldn’t believe he’d been able to make it work with you for this long.

Just three more months, he’d promised you, and he’d be done taking contract jobs for Horizon. He’d be out, and he’d start working on his brewery. He’d start truly setting down roots with you in Laramie, building something that would stick.

For once in his life, Russell was optimistic about his civilian future.

If only he knew what was coming.

AN: 🤭 Yes, I do plan to continue this, don't worry lol. I don't have it written yet, but it's aaaaall up here. 🫡

Special thanks to Michelle - @luci-in-trenchcoats - for giving me tons of Tracker spoilers from the books that helped me shape the idea for "what's coming" next. 💜

Join My Patreon 🌟 For early access to new stories, bonus content, first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 months ago

Text

The Pact 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, violence, size kink, blood, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your city has been ruined by goblins and must make a deal with a different sort of beast to save your people.

Characters: orc!Steve Rogers, orc!Bucky Barnes, human!reader

Note: here we go.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The mist wafts around the mountain pass, the dulled glow of firelight speckled through the camp. As the sky dims, bodies shiver, with more than the cold, and voices lower as ears listen for the howl of wolves or winging of fanged bats. You hunch down between your sisters, Medra and Castina, holding your hands up to the flame above the kindling and cinder. Your brother, Ralf, whets his blade, as your other, Frin, chips stones to points for the tips of arrows. The same labour can be heard from around the encampment.

Your mother and father are in the tent already. The rest of you are sleepless. You don't think they are dreaming peacefully, only hiding as their aging bones ache from the damp cold. You glance down and scratch away the dry blood around the linen wound tight around your hand. Castina reaches to pet your arm as she notices the movement.

"I can smell the smoke from here," she whispers.

"The foundation will hold," Ralf intones, always the one who knows. "It's stone. The pillars are strong. There won't be much to rebuild."

"Only goblins to chase out," Medra, the youngest retorts. "Ugly creatures."

"Beasts," Frin agrees. "But we will regroup and we will reclaim the city."

"Will we?" Castina asks. "Or shall we perish here in these crags? A fortnight now and we only move between the same caves."

"What do you know of war, hm?" Ralf challenges. "Here, take my sword and go down there. See how far you get, girl."

She frowns and rescinds her hand from your arm, pulling her cloak tighter, "I don't not reproach, I only wonder."

"You speak too much," he snorts.

You lean into her as she wipes her nose and her teeth chatter. You open your cloak and spread it over her shoulders. You are the middle of your sisters, of all of you. She is the eldest girl and yet she is so thin she cannot stand the frost. Her nose has been dribbling for days. You hear her trying to clear it at night. That and many noises which trouble you more.

"It is late, arguing cannot do us any good," you gird as you welcome Medra under the other wing of your cloak.

"Then go and put your head to rest, sister. Hide in your fancies as the men tend to the real world," he scoffs.

Frin tosses a stone at him. "Don't be such a mule. Did you not snore until midday?"

"I was on night watch last eve," Ralf hisses.

"Yes, I'm certain your rumbling scared away the night creatures," Frin chuckles.

"At arms!" The holler brings both your brothers to their feet and you squeeze your sisters. "At arms! At arms!"

Footfalls sprint in all directions as the men stir to action, each quick to man the border of the encampment with steel and hide. You shudder as Medra whimpers and Castina wipes her nose. Your father pokes his head out and hacks into the dirt.

"Have the come to finish their work?" He asks dryly and pulls on his pointed helm. "Aditha, my sword."

He turns back at the rustling within. You stand and Medra clings to your arm. You tug on Castina as she struggles. She needs to keep warm.

"Halt!" The echo rolls around the stone wall of the mountain and sends a ripple through the women and children as they recede from their fires, clustering against the stone. "Men, to your lines."

The bodies in armour, leather and otherwise, form a boundary around the camp, locking together in formation. Shields at the front, arrows to the rear. Yet, you do not hear marching in responses.

"A shadow--"

"Shhhh---"

The voices hush as the collective draw in a terrified breath. Your father emerges and scrambles to join the ranks. A child cries and their mother cooes. An infant begins to fuss. You squeeze your sisters' wrists.

"You should only draw steel if you mean to use it," a sonorous voice carries as if from the heavens.

"East!" A soldier hollers.

"No, west," another claims.

"Well, city of man, is it blood you search for in these mountains?" The voice bounces off the walls once more.

"Show yourself!" The general demands. "What foe hides himself like a snake?"

A rock tumbles down the rock face and lands in the midst of the camp, sending dirt up at impact. You cry out in surprise and turn to look above. Tall shadows loom on the narrow ledges. You back away with the rest of the women in children, likes tides off the coast. The men redirect their bows.

"Ah, now, you will not fire," the beast above proclaims. The mist slowly clears. "For your women and children are not behind your shields, rather at my mercy." The large figure lowers himself to sit, with his legs hanging over the rock face. He is not spindly and sickly like the ravenous goblins, rather thick as a great oak. His dark hair hangs past his shoulders, his beard thick around his square jaw, two teeth poking up from beneath his lower lip. Orcs.

"Beasts! You would savage the defenseless," The general accuses.

"If I wish to do so, so I would," the orc replies.

"Knock," the general calls.

The orc shows a palm, "loose your bows and I shall loose hellfire." He closes his fist and lets it drop.

"You are upon orcish lands. We only wonder why." Another appears behind him. His skin is a fairer shade, yellowish green, and his hair is gold, a braid on each side of his head against his loose locks. He looks over the edge.

"We men do not fear monsters," the general calls.

The soldiers break out into a rabble, clanging their shields and swords, shouting to the sky. The orcs laugh. Both of them.

As silence casts back upon the men with the weight of their fear, you peer between them and the creatures above.

"There are only two," you say. Medra squeaks and Castina hisses as she tugs on you weakly.

"Who speaks?" The general snarls. "This is no business of women."

"Sister," Ralf booms, "silence."

"Is sense not in a woman's domain?" You return. "There are two against you all. Has enough blood not been shed?"

The dark-haired orc scoffs, "your wench speaks sense, does she not?"

"It is not her place." The general snaps.

"Nor is this yours," the blond orc insists. "Though we can see that your own is in ash."

"Are orcs and goblins so different?" Another man shouts. "It is a trap!"

"Goblins," the brunette spits at the very word. "Those mongrels."

"I'd listen to the woman. She speaks wisely," the blond adds.

"We would not let ourselves be seen if we meant harm," the other adds.

"Then what is your meaning?" The captain barks.

The dark-haired orc laughs, the blond puts his hands on his hips.

"The goblins are a plague and we mean to cut the disease out of these lands," the golden-haired orc declares. "So let us agree over a keg of ale, lest we drown in blood."

"And how do we know you are not the ones to hold our heads under?" Another accuses.

The rumbling from above is like an avalanche. More laughter. Medra nestles closer and Castina groans. Her hand is clammy in yours. You let go of your younger sister to untie your cloak and slip it fully around the eldest.

"Let us hear them out," the captain counters, then moves closer to the general to speak unheard.

"We will feed your masses. Your stores will have been raided by the heathen," the blond orc avows.

"A discussion might be held, beyond our camp." The general agrees. "My people are tired and scared."

"I do not blame them," the dark-haired one returns, reaching up as the other helps him to his feet. "There is a pass, west from here. A series of stones jutting out like a great wave. We will await you there."

The orcs disappear as swiftly as they appear, the mist curtaining their departure. The general convenes with his officers as the soldiers exchange looks of concern. The women and children wail and whine in a tempest.

"You," a captain approaches, "since you do think yourself fit to meddle in the affairs of men, you will attend to pour the ale."

"My sister is sick," you hug Castina.

"You have another," he grabs your arm and tears you away. "You undermine not only the general but the city with your tripe. Come, lest you bring further shame to your father and brothers."

Ralf lashes your name out and you wince. You turn and bring Castina's arm around Medra, "take her to mother."

You face the solider and let him lead you away. You knew better than to speak up and yet you could not witness any more blood. You cannot stomach it.

"Churlish girl," the man grips his sword as you follow at his heels.

A party forms near the edge of camp. The general leads four captains and a dozen common soldiers. You walk amidst them with your hands clasping your skirt. Your father will have another reproach waiting.

You shiver without your cloak as you walk along the craggy ground, stones skittering away from your shoes and bouncing off the soldiers' boots. The scout ahead whistles but you can't see much beyond the wall of bodies around you. There's a grunt and a loud thump as the party comes to a halt and you nearly stride into the back of one of the men.

"As promised, fine orcish ale," the voice carries on the wind. "We will light a fire to keep warm and speak."

The soldiers fan out in a line. The general keeps to the head of the pointed formation. Your sights are obscured.

"We've brought a wench to pour serve the ale," a captain declares.

You are thrust forward suddenly by your arm. You scramble to keep up and are hurled ahead. You stagger and crash against the tall barrel before the two tall orcs. You catch yourself on the slats and peek up at them meekly. The dark-haired one reaches for you and you exclaim and collapse to the dirt, shielding yourself in fear.

He is unexpectedly gentle as he lifts you to your feet, "only meaning to keep the lady on her slippers."

You steady your legs as he releases you. The other reveals a wooden tap and shoves in into the barrel. The men reach for their belts and free their bone cups and brass flasks. The orcs reveal long tusks hollowed out for drink.

"General," the blond orc stands patiently.

You pour for the general first, then the orcs, and finally the assembly of men patiently approach and claim their frothy prize. The general and his captains stand in a half-circle as the dark-haired orc strikes a fire over kindling and stone. He stands and claims his ale from his companion.

"A truce between man and orc," the general mulls as he eyes the ale. The orcs drink.

"A pact which might prove fruitful to both," the blond suggests.

"You offer homecoming and food, but what do you ask?" The general growl.

"Let us introduce ourselves, first, eh? Let us meet with more than suspicious. You may call me Steve, my companion is Bucky. We hail from the Stonehead horde." The blond declares.

The general clucks, "General Howler," he returns. "The Duke was slain in the fire. His son is but a lad."

"Tragic," Steve replies with no lack of pity. "You require to rebuild, to feed those who will soon starve in theses passes. And labour to aid in all that. We have many who are strong who might bring timber and fortify your city anew. We have stores of stock to share. We do so with open hands in exchange for one thing."

"One thing?" The general repeats warily.

Steve and Bucky share a glance. The latter beckons to you and hands over his empty cup. You fill it and return it to him. His thick fingers brush yours. He is gargantuan compared to you. His brows are heavy, his jaw is square and stone, and his skin has a reddish undertone. His blue eyes gleam as he looks upon you, he cheek twitches. The other orc skims you with a glance.

"Daughters," Steve says at last.

"Daughters," the general echoes.

"Aye," Bucky says. "Women."

"For what purpose? You think we would let you desecrate our wives?"

"Wives? Not your wives. Ours," Bucky argues.

"Can not you lay with your own kind, cretinous beasts," a captain snarls.

"A plague," Steve intones. "A plague has swept through us and it took as many mothers as it did their babes. My own beloved among them. There are few left, not enough."

"It's... no, it cannot be done."

The orcs look to each other again then to the men. They dip their chins. "Enjoy your ale then. Go back to your people. Batter down and pray."

The general winces. The other men whisper and the captains drone behind their gauntlets. You skirt toward them.

"One daughter," the general says. The crowd grows silent. "Her." He points at you. "Prove that it can be done. That your seed does not split her in two and you will have more. And you will deliver us food enough for the winter to come. Should you bear fruit, you will have more and you will help us rebuild in the spring."

The orcs shift and turn to each other. You back away from both monster and man, pressing yourself to the rockface. The dark-haired one spins around and gestures to you.

The blond presents his sword. "On my blade, let it be done," he declares.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark bucky barnes #bucky barnes #dark!steve rogers #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x reader #series #the pact #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #orc au #marvel #mcu #captain america #avengers #winter soldier

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novaursa · 6 months ago

Text

Legacy (homesick)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing.: trag!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: of snow

- Next part: the north and the south

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril

The stormy skies above Dragonstone broke with the resounding cry of a dragon, echoing across the volcanic island. Viserion descended from the heavens like a creature of myth, her cream-and-gold scales were brilliant against the muted gray clouds as her massive wings beat against the air. The castle's courtyard, quiet just moments before, erupted into movement as guards, servants, and soldiers hurried outside, their faces a mix of awe and apprehension.

Tywin Lannister was among the first to step through the gates, his crimson cloak billowing behind him as he strode forward with purpose. His eyes scanned the sky, locking onto the dragon’s approaching form. His composure remained intact, though the quickness of his steps betrayed his urgency.

Viserion circled once above the castle before landing in the courtyard with a thundering impact that shook the ground. Dust and loose stones scattered as her powerful wings folded against her sides. Her eyes surveyed the crowd, and a low rumble vibrated from her chest, a warning to anyone foolish enough to come too close.

Perched atop the saddle, you exhaled a deep breath, the weight of your journey still heavy on your shoulders. You patted Viserion’s neck gently, murmuring a soft word of thanks before sliding from the saddle. The ground felt solid yet foreign beneath your feet after so many days in the air.

Tywin approached swiftly, his usual mask of stern control slipping just enough to reveal the faintest glimmer of relief. “You’ve returned,” he said, his voice low but steady.

You turned to face him, your heart easing at the sight of his familiar, commanding presence. “I have,” you replied, your voice equally calm, though your exhaustion was evident.

He stepped closer, his sharp gaze sweeping over you as if assessing for injuries. “You were gone longer than expected,” he said, his tone carrying an edge of reproach. “I assume there was a reason.”

You nodded, your expression softening. “Jon needed me.”

His jaw tightened slightly, though he said nothing, his silence speaking volumes. Instead, his hand moved to your arm, his touch firm yet careful. “We’ll discuss it inside. You look exhausted.”

Before you could reply, Jaime Lannister emerged from the crowd. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said with a grin. “I thought you might’ve decided to stay in the North and make it your kingdom.”

You smirked faintly, shaking your head. “The North already has its king.”

Jaime’s expression sobered slightly at your words, though he quickly masked it with his usual humor. “Well, you certainly know how to make an entrance. The dragon’s been missed—almost as much as you.”

Viserion let out a low growl, her eyes narrowing at Jaime. He held up his golden hand in mock surrender. “Not by her, I see.”

You placed a hand on Viserion’s side, soothing her with a soft hum. “She doesn’t forget who she trusts.”

Tywin’s gaze flickered to the dragon before returning to you. “And I assume your trust has not been misplaced,” he said, his voice measured. “You’ve accomplished what you set out to do?”

You hesitated, your mind briefly flashing back to Jon Snow, to the sight of him rising from death, to the fire and betrayal that had scarred Castle Black. “As much as I could,” you said finally. “But there’s still so much more to do.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his understanding evident even without words. He gestured toward the castle. “Come inside. You need rest, and we have much to discuss.”

As you began to follow him, Jaime fell into step beside you, his tone light but curious. “So, how was the North? Did it change in the last few years?”

You shot him a look, though the corner of your mouth twitched upward. “It was everything you’d expect—and more.”

Jaime chuckled, though his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, as though searching for answers you weren’t ready to share.

As the group reached the castle doors, Viserion let out another resounding roar, her wings shifting restlessly. The sound echoed across the island, a reminder of the power she carried—and the power that now resided within Dragonstone.

Tywin paused, glancing back at the dragon before looking at you. “You’ve brought back more than just news, haven’t you?” he said quietly, his gaze piercing.

You met his eyes, your expression unreadable. “I always do.”

And with that, you stepped inside, the weight of your journey still heavy on your shoulders but the warmth of home easing its burden. You were back. And the battles ahead would soon demand all of you.

The chambers of Dragonstone were warm and comforting, a stark contrast to the chill you had left behind at Castle Black. You sat in the small sitting room adjacent to the nursery, where Damon and Maelor played under the watchful eyes of their wet nurses. Damon babbled excitedly as he stacked wooden blocks into a precarious tower. Maelor cooed happily from his cushioned seat, clutching a stuffed lion in his tiny hands.

You smiled faintly as you watched them, your heart full despite the lingering weight of your recent journey. Damon turned to you, his eyes bright with excitement. “Mother, look! It’s a castle!” he exclaimed, gesturing proudly to his tower.

“It’s a fine castle,” you praised, leaning down to kiss his head. “Stronger than Dragonstone, I’m sure.”

Damon giggled, clearly pleased with your approval. Maelor let out a soft gurgle, waving his lion in the air, and you reached over to gently stroke his chubby cheek. “And you, my little lion, will have your own castles one day,” you murmured.

A knock at the door pulled you from the moment. You turned to see Tywin Lannister entering, his presence commanding as always. He paused briefly, his eyes softening as they swept over the scene before him.

“They’ve grown,” he remarked, his voice quiet but firm.

“They have,” you replied, rising to your feet. “It feels as though I was only gone a few weeks, but so much has changed.”

Tywin stepped further into the room, his gaze lingering on Maelor for a moment before shifting to Damon. The boy noticed his father and ran toward him, arms outstretched. “Father!” Damon cried.

Tywin knelt briefly, allowing Damon to hug him before resting a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You’ve been behaving?” he asked, his tone even.

Damon nodded eagerly. “I built a castle! Mother said it’s stronger than Dragonstone!”

A faint smile tugged at Tywin’s lips. “That’s quite the achievement,” he said before standing. He turned to you, his expression hardening slightly. “Walk with me.”

You nodded, pressing a quick kiss to Damon’s head before following Tywin out of the room. The corridors of Dragonstone were cool and quiet, the sounds of the waves crashing against the cliffs faint in the background. Tywin walked beside you, his stride measured and purposeful.

“You haven’t spoken much about what happened in the North,” he began, his tone leaving little room for evasion.

You sighed softly, clasping your hands in front of you as you walked. “There’s much to tell. Jon is alive. Melisandre brought him back… somehow.”

Tywin’s brows furrowed, though his expression remained composed. “Alive?” he echoed. “And you believe this?”

“I saw it with my own eyes,” you replied. “He was dead, Tywin. I saw his body. And then… he wasn’t. He’s changed, though. Death does that to a person.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened as he absorbed the information. “And what does he intend to do now that he’s risen from the grave?”

You hesitated before answering. “He plans to take Winterfell back. To rally the North against the Boltons.”

At the mention of the Boltons, Tywin’s expression darkened. “I put them in power for a reason,” he said coldly. “Their betrayal at the Red Wedding ensured the Starks’ rebellion ended. If Jon Snow succeeds, that alliance crumbles.”

You stopped walking, turning to face him. “The Boltons are monsters, Tywin. You must know that. Jon has no choice but to fight them—especially after what they’ve done to Sansa.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Sansa Stark is of no concern to me.”

“She’s of concern to Jon,” you countered, your voice firm. “And to me. She’s family, Tywin. And she’s suffered enough.”

He studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke, his tone clipped. “If Snow succeeds in taking Winterfell, it will disrupt the balance I’ve worked to maintain.”

“Perhaps that balance needs to be disrupted,” you replied, your voice soft but resolute.

Tywin’s gaze lingered on you, his mind clearly weighing your words. But before he could respond, he changed the subject. “There’s another matter,” he said. “One that concerns your dragon.”

You tilted your head slightly, curiosity flickering in your eyes. “What about Viserion?”

“It seems she has not been alone in Dragonmont,” Tywin said, his voice measured. “The young dragon my men encountered—smaller, about the size of a horse—it appears to have come from one of her clutches.”

Your breath caught, and you stared at him, your mind racing. “One of her eggs hatched?” you asked, disbelief mingling with awe.

“It seems so,” Tywin confirmed. “The creature has shown no inclination to leave its lair, but it has proven… difficult to subdue.”

You exhaled slowly, the weight of the revelation settling over you. “A second dragon,” you murmured. “This changes everything.”

“It complicates everything,” Tywin corrected. “But we’ll deal with it—when the time comes.”

You nodded faintly, your thoughts still swirling. Another dragon meant another piece of the puzzle, another force to contend with as the world seemed to edge closer to chaos. But for now, you took comfort in knowing you were home, with your sons and your husband by your side.

The battles ahead would come soon enough.

The evening was quiet within the private chambers of Dragonstone, the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth the only sound apart from the rhythmic crash of waves against the cliffs outside. The heavy stone walls seemed to cocoon the room in warmth, the shadows flickering across the intricately woven tapestries and rich furnishings.

You sat near the fire, a goblet of wine resting on the small table beside you. The faint exhaustion from your journey and the events in the North still lingered, but there was a sense of comfort being home again. Across the room, Tywin Lannister stood by a tall cabinet, his broad frame silhouetted against the dim light as he poured himself a drink. His movements were precise, but there was a noticeable tension in the way he held himself.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” you remarked, watching him closely. “More so than usual.”

Tywin turned, his eyes meeting yours as he approached. He handed you your goblet, his fingers briefly brushing yours. “Much has happened in your absence,” he said simply, his tone even. “There is much to consider.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him. “That’s never stopped you before. Something’s different.”

Tywin arched a brow, his lips pressing into a thin line. “What are you implying?”

A small smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. “That you missed me.”

His jaw tightened slightly, though he didn’t deny it. Instead, he took a seat across from you, his piercing gaze never leaving your face. “That is not a joking matter,” he said firmly, though his voice held a softer edge.

Your smile widened, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Is that so? Then perhaps I shouldn’t tease you further.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t,” Tywin replied, though there was a faint glimmer of something warmer in his expression.

You leaned forward slightly, resting your chin in your hand as you regarded him. “I think you did miss me,” you said softly, your tone playful but laced with genuine affection. “And I think you’re terrible at hiding it.”

Tywin’s gaze darkened, though not with anger. “Your absence was felt,” he admitted after a moment, his voice low. “That is all I will say on the matter.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound light and genuine. “Spoken like a true Lannister. Always so guarded.”

He stood then, moving toward you with the kind of deliberate purpose that always set your heart racing. When he reached you, his hand brushed against your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Guarded, perhaps,” he said quietly. “But not unfeeling.”

The warmth of his words surprised you, and before you could respond, you leaned up and kissed him. The gesture was tender at first, but Tywin deepened it almost immediately, his hand slipping to the back of your neck to hold you in place. The firelight danced around the room as the kiss grew more fervent, years of passion and restraint bleeding into the moment.

You gasped softly as Tywin pulled you to your feet, his other hand finding your waist. Before you knew it, he lifted you effortlessly, setting you on the edge of a nearby table. The cool surface beneath you was a stark contrast to the heat of his body as he stepped between your legs, his hands gripping your hips firmly.

“Do you always have to take control of everything?” you teased breathlessly, your fingers tangling in his hair.

Tywin’s lips brushed against your jaw, his voice a low growl. “Always.”

You laughed softly, the sound cut off as his mouth found yours again. The air in the room seemed to grow warmer, the crackling fire casting flickering shadows across the stone walls as Tywin’s lips claimed yours with a fervor that belied his usual restraint. His hands, strong and sure, gripped your waist, pulling you closer to him as though he couldn’t bear even the smallest distance between you. Your fingers still tangled in his hair, tugging gently as the kiss deepened, your breaths mingling in the quiet of the chamber.

Still seated on the edge of the table, you tilted your head back slightly as his lips moved to your neck, the scrape of his beard against your skin sending shivers down your spine. His hands slid lower, gripping your thighs firmly as he pressed himself closer to you, his presence overwhelming yet intoxicatingly familiar.

“You’re sure you missed me,” you teased breathlessly, though your voice wavered as his mouth found the sensitive spot just below your ear.

“Enough,” Tywin growled, his voice low and commanding, though the heat in his tone betrayed his desire. “You’ve made your point.”

You smirked, though the expression faltered as his hands slid beneath your gown, his fingers brushing against bare skin. His touch was deliberate, every movement calculated to elicit a reaction, and you couldn’t suppress the soft gasp that escaped your lips.

Tywin stepped back slightly, his eyes locked on yours as he reached for the laces of your gown. His movements were slow, methodical, as though savoring every moment. The fabric slipped from your shoulders, pooling around your waist as his gaze swept over you, his expression both possessive and reverent.

“You are exquisite,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp.

You felt your cheeks flush, though you refused to let him see your embarrassment. “You’ve seen me before,” you replied, your tone light despite the pounding of your heart.

“Not like this,” Tywin said, his hand brushing against your cheek before sliding down to rest against your bare collarbone. “Not after thinking for a second time I might not see you again.”

The weight of his words settled between you, and for a moment, the playful banter faded. You reached for him, your hands tugging at the fastenings of his doublet until the fabric fell away, revealing the hard planes of his chest. The scars of battles fought long ago marred his skin, but to you, they were a testament to the man he was—unyielding, unrelenting.

Your lips met again, the kiss hungrier this time, as though both of you were trying to make up for the time spent apart. Tywin’s hands found your hips, lifting you effortlessly as he carried you to the bed. He laid you down with surprising gentleness, his weight settling over you as his mouth claimed yours once more.

The rest of your clothing was discarded quickly, the cool air brushing against your skin before Tywin’s body replaced it, his heat enveloping you. His hands roamed over you with a practiced precision, finding every place that made you gasp, every touch that made you tremble.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with desire.

“Of course,” you whispered in reply, your fingers tracing the contours of his face before pulling him down for another kiss.

When he finally moved to join with you, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of you, the sensations overwhelming yet achingly familiar. His movements were deliberate, controlled, yet there was a fire behind every touch, every thrust, that spoke of the depth of his feelings. Your hands clutched at his back, your nails digging into his skin as you moved together, each of you chasing the moment where nothing else mattered.

“Look at me,” Tywin commanded, his voice low but insistent.

Your eyes met his, and the intensity of his gaze nearly undid you. There was a vulnerability there, a rare glimpse of the man beneath the armor, and it made your heart ache even as your body burned with desire. You reached up to cup his face, your thumb brushing against his cheek as you whispered, “I love you.”

The words seemed to break something in him, and his movements became more urgent, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was almost desperate. The rest of the world faded away, leaving only the two of you and the fire that consumed you both.

When the end finally came, it was with a shuddering release that left you both breathless. Tywin collapsed beside you, his chest rising and falling heavily as he pulled you into his arms. His fingers traced idle patterns on your back, the silence between you filled with a quiet intimacy that needed no words.

For a long time, neither of you spoke, content to simply exist in the moment. Finally, Tywin broke the silence, his voice a low rumble. “You should never leave for so long again.”

You smiled faintly, your head resting against his chest as you listened to the steady beat of his heart. “I’ll try,” you murmured, though you both knew the world had a way of pulling you apart.

The memory was as vivid as the day it happened, though it belonged to a time long past. Tywin Lannister, who just arrived in King’s Landing, stood in the shadowed recesses of the Red Keep, his composure unshaken despite the rising anger of the man before him. Robert Baratheon, now King of the Seven Kingdoms, loomed large, his broad shoulders taut with fury and his face flushed from too much wine—or perhaps from the betrayal he felt simmering in his chest.

“You smuggled her out,” Robert growled, his voice thick with disbelief. “A Targaryen! The blood of the dragon, Tywin! You smuggled her out and gave her to the Starks? Do you take me for a fool?”

Tywin’s eyes remained steady, his hands clasped behind his back. His expression was unreadable, save for the faintest flicker of disdain that crossed his face. “I did what was necessary to preserve the stability of the realm.”

“Stability?” Robert’s voice rose, echoing through the chamber. “The Starks sheltering a Targaryen is not stability! It’s treason!”

“Eddard Stark was loyal to your cause,” Tywin replied evenly. “And his father, Rickard, was a pragmatic man. The arrangement ensured that she would pose no threat to your rule.”

Robert slammed a meaty fist against the nearest table, causing goblets to rattle and wine to spill. “A pragmatic man who’s now dead, thanks to her mad father! And yet his family harbors her under their roof? You expect me to believe this isn’t some Stark ploy to restore the Targaryens?”

Tywin stepped forward, his presence as imposing as the king’s, though he did not raise his voice. “The Starks are no fools, Robert. They know the cost of rebellion. The girl was harmless when the rebellion ended—no titles, no claim, no power. She is nothing but a ward.”

Robert’s glare darkened, his hand moving to the hilt of the warhammer at his side. “A ward who bears the name of Targaryen and the blood of a king! You dare tell me that isn’t dangerous?”

Tywin tilted his head slightly, his expression calm but sharp. “Dangerous to whom? To you? The rebellion crushed House Targaryen. Their forces are scattered, their dragons extinct long ago, and their dynasty is ashes. A single girl hidden away in the North changes nothing.”

“That’s easy for you to say!” Robert barked, his voice dripping with venom. “You weren’t there when Aerys burned my friends. You didn’t hear the screams.”

“And you weren’t there when Aerys humiliated my house,” Tywin countered coldly. “I’ve no love for Targaryens, Robert, but I also understand when vengeance becomes wasteful. Do you want peace, or do you want the entire realm to burn?”

Robert faltered, his grip on his warhammer loosening. He turned away, pacing furiously before rounding on Tywin again. “You made this decision without consulting me—your king! You think I’ll just forget this?”

“You agreed to marry my daughter,” Tywin said smoothly, his voice cutting through Robert’s rage like a blade. “A union that solidifies your rule and ensures the loyalty of the most powerful house in Westeros. If you wish to jeopardize that alliance over a powerless girl, then by all means, do so.”

Robert froze, his face twisted in a mixture of fury and frustration. “You would threaten me?”

“I do not make threats,” Tywin replied, his tone deadly calm. “I make calculations. The girl is no threat to you, Robert. But if you insist on pursuing this, you will force the Starks to choose between loyalty to their king and their honor. Do you truly wish to provoke the North so soon after uniting the realm?”

The weight of Tywin’s words seemed to hang heavy in the air. Robert’s chest heaved as he wrestled with his emotions, his knuckles white around the hilt of his warhammer. Finally, he let out a frustrated growl and slammed the weapon onto the table, the force of the impact reverberating through the room.

“I’ll allow it,” he spat, though his voice was heavy with reluctance. “But mark my words, Tywin—if she so much as whispers the word ‘throne,’ I’ll see her burned along with anyone who stands in my way.”

Tywin inclined his head, his expression unchanging. “Then we are agreed.”

Robert glared at him for a moment longer before storming out of the chamber, his footsteps echoing down the hall. Tywin remained still, his mind already turning over the implications of their conversation. The girl had been a gamble, a carefully placed piece in the grand game of thrones. But Tywin had no intention of losing.

As the doors slammed shut behind Robert, Tywin turned to pour himself a goblet of wine, his movements calm and deliberate. He raised the cup to his lips, his mind sharp as ever.

The Targaryen girl would stay hidden in the North, safe and forgotten. For now.

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