#The Tempest 1 Word Meaning

[comatosebunny09]

carpe noctem [ falling action ] | sylus

— summary: he kissed you. you pretend it didn’t mean anything. sylus tries to show you it meant everything. — cw: reader is not mc, language, sexual tension, self-loathing, mutual pining, jealousy, blood & violence, self-deprecating thoughts, profanity, misunderstandings, romance, self-indulgent, wild caleb sighting, mdni — notes: thank you @subliminalwish for inspiring this part! and thank you all for reading! [ pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3 | pt. 4 | pt. 5 | pt. 7 ] — now playing: fuel to fire - agnes obel btbt - b.i

Their timing couldn’t be more impeccable—the twins. Your saving grace.

Sylus is a tempest. A storm ravaging the rickety foundation of your boat. He kisses greedy. Commanding, sipping from you like a fountain amid a desert. Swallowing the gruff little keens you make. You burn hot wherever he touches. His hands are like branding irons on your skin, amplified by the thin taffeta of your dress as they smooth up and down the curvature of your waist.

You’re dizzy when he snatches away, a growl in his throat. His lips are kiss-swollen. Burn a pretty red, stained by your lipstick. His eyes smolder like embers through the living room’s haze. Catch in the moonlight, gleaming a potent shade of scarlet. He reminds you of something beastly. Predatory. 

You did this to him?

In contrast, you’re sludge in his hands, swimming, blinking, drunk, and trying to remember how to breathe. For a moment, he appears hesitant. Gaze flits between your eyes and mouth as he holds you by your hips. Rubs reassuring circles into your hip bones with his thumbs. He’s so pretty like this. Inebriated by passion, silken white hair mussed from your greedy fingers. Expensive, pleated shirt all rumpled, bow tie loosened, composure thrown to hell.

But his phone keeps ringing. An obnoxious chime that makes your lips quirk despite the vertigo sweeping over you. It cuts through the wispy film of the night. Cleaves through the nebulous cloud of desire hanging between you, and with a bitten-off sound, he finally tugs his cell free of his pocket. 

He watches you as he brings it to his ear. Cups your cheek, brushing over your bottom lip with the worn pad of his thumb. Tugs it down, entranced by its elasticity. Its fullness. Your fingers clasp around his wrist. You nuzzle into the safety of his palm. Turn your mouth inward, blistering it with a kiss. Affection intermingled with amusement colors your eyes. He’s like a spoiled child, snatched off the playground before he was ready to leave.

“What,” he clips into the mic. 

A hesitant voice peers through the low static. Luke. “Mission accomplished, bossman.” You imagine Kieran peeking over his brother’s shoulder in the background, wariness hidden behind that gaudy bird mask. “All cleaned up over here.”

Sylus sighs something weighted. Shaky. Relieved. His shoulders drop with it, then tense again. The agitation doesn’t leave his face. Something’s on his mind. Something more pressing than a few ornery goons trying to hunt you down. You nip at his fingertips to assuage the divot forming between his brows. The taut pull of his lips. 

He hangs up without another word, shoving his phone back into his pocket. Draws you close, preparing to kiss you breathless once more. 

But it seems fate is a cruel, mischievous mistress, intervening when she deems it fit.

Because, this time, your phone rings. 

You stiffen. Sylus glowers at your—his—coat pocket. Studies you. He’s conflicted. Looks as if the world is descending into hell around him. Like he wants to take your phone and shatter it on the wall. You offer him a placating smile. Smooth a hand over his cheek before tugging your cell out. It’s only fair you leave him as on edge as he left you. 

He doesn’t let it deter him, pulling you impossibly closer. Peppers your neck with kisses, drawing a soft huff of laughter from your chest. Your head falls back, and he cradles it with his fingers, baring your throat to him. Groans something appreciative, writing the most beautiful compliments of all against your skin with his lips. 

You’re not thinking when you answer, too swept up in the moment. Dizzy from the needy drag of his lips over your carotid. Don’t think until a familiar lilt touches your ear, and a cold thrill shoots down your spine.

Little. Ms. Hunter. 

Fuck. 

Reality trickles in like the slow creep of a rainstorm, mooring you to the spot. You shove against Sylus’ chest. He ingests you with pinched brows, heavy lids, an open mouth. ‘What’s wrong?’ his expression reads. He’s desperate. Needy. Like you’re his lifeline, an IV drip.

You push against him again, chest so very hard and so wonderfully defined against the heel of your palm. You need space. You can’t breathe, but for an entirely different reason now. 

His hands reluctantly drop from your waist, falling listlessly at his sides. He turns away, rubbing the scruff of his neck with a sigh.

“What’s up?” you bite. Try to mask the waver of your voice, your quivering tendons. 

“Hey, how ya doin’?” She’s infuriatingly chipper. Happy for someone halfway across the world, as if she knows you’re up to no good. 

You don’t bother with pleasantries. You’re caught between wanting to laugh and cry. Damn the universe for spoiling your fun. “What do you need?”

The hunter’s hesitant for a beat. You envision her shifting her weight between her feet. Fiddling with her nails, her gaze cast to the floor. It’s not often you’re terse with her, at least not these days. You worked through those kinks of your relationship months back. But forgive you for being a little impatient. A little snippy when you finally satiated the ache between your teeth. 

“Sooo, I’m back earlier than expected. My ride cancelled on me. Would you mind picking me up from the airport? I’ll pay you back! Promise!” 

“You can’t catch a cab?” You push back your hair. Peer over your shoulder, hand cupped around the mic as if you’re whispering a secret. Sylus is behind you a little ways off, hand on hip; silhouette suffused in amber as he examines some picture frames on the sofa table, pretending not to eavesdrop.  

“Yeah, but it’s late! I don’t wanna get kidnapped, ya know?”

You suppress a frustrated sound, disbelieving. Not just of her, but the timing of everything. The reminder of what you’ve done and what you still want to do. One day, you’ll learn not to answer your phone. And one day, you’ll learn to tell your conscience to fuck right the hell off.

“Fine. Yeah, sure. Just…gimme a minute.”

“You’re the best! I don’t care what the twins say about you!” 

The call ends, and you sigh, leaning into your palm, propped against the frost-bitten windowpane. It grounds you in a way, its crispness a welcome contrast to your fevered skin. 

You jolt when Sylus emerges behind you in the form of artful hands melding to your waist. In the form of warm breath kissing the sensitive space behind your ear. His lips graze the shell of it. You snatch away as if scorched by fire, turning, spine acquainting itself with the window. Space. You need space. 

He gives you no time to breathe, spilling over you like liquid fire. Cages you in with his arms. Angles closer, swaddling you in the dangerous warmth of his body. Bathes you in the bewitching scent he carries, in the lazy, lust-laden stir of his eyes. You shirk away from his touch when his fingertips graze your cheek. He bristles.

Your heart pinches at the wounded look on his face. At how his fingers twitch before curling into a loose fist and falling back to his side. You duck away from him, a nervous smile dragging itself across your face. 

“She’s back,” you state plainly. It tastes bitter, acknowledging it aloud. Your belly swoops. You think you might be sick. “Asked if I could pick her up.”

His expression slackens. Gaze descends to the floor. “This late?”

You nod solemnly. 

Shouldn’t he be happy his Aphrodite has returned?

It’s unnervingly quiet between you now, making way for the whisper of the wind threading through the leaves outside where the sticky click of your lips and labored breaths once lived. 

Your throat clicks when you swallow. You want nothing more than to pull him against you again, to be wrapped in the possessive circle of his arms. To pick up where you left off before morality leaked in. But that call served as your reality check, and you’re both grateful and resentful it came when it did.

Sylus beholds you with beseeching eyes. Looks as if he might protest, lips quivering around an excuse to draw you back in. But he drops it. Instead, he opts for, “I’ll bring the car around,” sounding so uncharacteristically somber that you wince. 

He brushes past you through the front door, swallowed by the dust-speckled night. Leaves you to nurse the violent thrum of your heart and battle the maelstrom in your head. 

She’s back. Things will return to normal. This moment never happened. This night never happened. 

Still, your lips burn with the remnants of the kiss. You unconsciously touch the trembling, distended things, deciding to tuck the memory into the furthest hulls of your mind. 

He’s not yours, remember? Never will be. Never could be.

—

The ride to the airport was uncomfortably tense. 

Sylus tried vainly to reignite the flames sparked by the night—little displays of affection, possession. Spindly fingers curling around your thigh, a peek at you through the corner of his vision, knuckles deftly brushing your cheek to bring you back to the present. 

You inched away from his touch despite every synapse in your brain screaming for you to let it happen. He gave up after the third try. Gripped the gear stick, white-knuckled and radiating a silent dejectedness. 

You forced out a shaky breath when the overwhelmingly bright, fluorescent airport signs panned into view. 

“Heya!” chirped Ms. Hunter, pulling you into a tight hug once you dismounted the car. “You look all fancy. What have you been up to?”

You were stiff in her embrace, a tight smile pulling at your lips. She smelled of stale perfume and wet earth. Long hair tickled your neck. She radiated a warmth you envied as you rigidly returned the hug.

“Oh, you know. Nefarious things and all that.”

Ms. Hunter drew back, hands roosted on your shoulders. Her smile faltered when she got a good look at you. When the driver’s door slammed shut, and Sylus rounded the car to stand behind you, hands stuffed in his pockets. Her honey-dipped eyes flit over your face. She sensed something was up. Of course, she did. Anyone within a 50-mile radius could see the tension dangling off your shoulders. She looked like she wanted to interrogate you, but—

“Welcome back,” said Sylus, his tone easy. You were thankful for the save. Didn’t have to look back to know he was wearing that familiar cant to his lips. A look he, until tonight, only wore for her. “I take it your mission went well, given how early you returned.” 

You would've tasted the faint notes of indignation there had you not been so swept up in your head. 

“You have no idea,” she laughed, exhaustion lancing through her words. You pat her head, fondly ruffling her hair. 

He helped her put her suitcase in the trunk as she animatedly regaled the details of her mission. He smirked and nodded, listening intently. You tuned everything out in favor of listening to your pulse drum beneath your skin. 

Sylus held the passenger door open, watching you expectantly. Signaled for you to get in with his eyes as Ms. Hunter stood awkwardly behind you. The tension was tangible. Obvious. It made you sick.

He frowned when you forwent the passenger seat, sliding into the back. The front seat was always her place. You were merely squatting there, keeping the leather warm in her absence. You caught sight of the tense set of his jaw when he shut the door behind her. Your heart sank to your feet. 

As Sylus eased the car onto the highway, they filled the stiff, blue-light-tinged air with small talk. Their conversation was seamless as if no time had lapsed between them. You propped an elbow on the door, watching the scenery fly by in a blur beyond your window. 

And you shut your eyes against those scarlet irises occasionally observing you in the rearview mirror, a silent question brewing beneath bowed lashes.

‘Have I done something wrong?’

No. Never. It’s you who’s royally fucked up.

—

“Listen, sweetheart. You both seem like nice girls. But I ain’t budgin’.”

You roll your eyes for the umpteenth time. Scoff, a rigid set between your teeth. You’ve been like this for what feels like hours, propped against a wall, arms crossed, mind tumultuous. 

A few days after the hunter returned, Sylus sent his two gems to reclaim some of his property. Thelma and Louis at it again. 

You should be thrilled. You’ve been itching for a distraction since that night. When you let your emotions overwhelm you, and you gave into your selfish little whims. You can’t focus on much else, the pressure of Sylus’ lips still ingrained in your mind. The texture of his shirt sleeves between your fingers, the sound of his voice as he rasped his satisfaction into your skin. It replays like torn film reels in your mind, refusing to release you from its flimsy clutches. 

Since that night, he’s been uncharacteristically attentive. Filling the space with errant touches and lingering gazes. Rare quirks of his lips, an affectionate, secretive undernote to his timbre whenever he speaks to you. And his eyes. They bear more emotion than what you’re accustomed to seeing. 

It’s all been so very confusing, this new attitude of his. You don’t like it when things aren’t clear-cut and dry. Hate to beat around the bush.

You figured his attention would shift with the center of his universe back in rotation. 

To your chagrin and surprise, you’re wrong. You assume he’s only being so disarming because he needs you. Not just as his pretty little violent marionette. His honeypot. When Ms. Hunter inevitably leaves again—the life of a hunter must be so taxing—he’ll need someone to fall back on. A failsafe to keep his loneliness at bay. You just so happen to fit the bill.

The notion makes you scowl. The butcher’s voice isn’t helping curb your vexation, his laughter obnoxious and filled with phlegm. His fat ass isn’t taking either of you seriously. Of course, if you were him, you wouldn’t, either. 

Ms. Hunter’s been at this for a while, playing good cop to your bad. Trying to nice her way into getting him to sign the deed to his property back to Sylus. Really, it belongs to the latter man. He was just allowing the butcher to squat here while he carried out his work for Onychinus, slaughtering its opposition and packaging up their remains like fresh meat, shipping them off to anyone who dared utter the organization’s name in vain.

His use has run its course. He’s grown sloppy. Complacent. Disloyal. Been letting other faction leads buy him off, selling his knack of butchering to the highest bidder. He should be so lucky you’re not here to slit his throat.

Inwardly, you wonder if someday, you’ll suffer the same fate. If Ms. Hunter will be sent to snuff you out—your successor wiping you off the map like a blip on the radar. 

Until then, you’ll make yourself as indispensable as possible. Prove your worth. 

You push off the wall with a huff, face set with determination as adrenaline spumes through you. You close the distance between you and the hunter in four brisk strides. Snatch her pistol from the holster at her waist, barring her sentence in her throat. It’s weighted. Loaded. Good. 

You rack a round. Release the safety. The butcher barely has time to register anything before you aim. Inhale. Exhale. Pull the trigger at the lowest lull of your breath. And it’s so gratifying, the sound of a bullet whizzing past his ear and embedding itself in the plaster behind him. 

He’s petrified with fright behind his desk, mouth hinged open. Ms. Hunter blurs into focus beyond the front sight, turning incredulous eyes on you before narrowing them. The barrel’s still smoking, a satisfying, wispy cloud furling skyward. The leather grip squeaks in your hand, you’re holding it so tight. 

“Was that really necessary?” she berates. She’s doing that whisper-yelling thing. You’re in for an earful later. 

You shrug half-heartedly, reholstering her weapon. Push past, tugging the sleeves of your blazer up. “I’ve had enough of this,” you grate, snatching your leather gloves from your pocket and slipping them on with practiced precision. 

Neither of them knows what’s coming until you step behind the butcher. Until you’ve taken a fistful of sweaty, grease-slicked hair and acquainted his face with the bubbling finish of his desk with a loud thwack!

Ms. Hunter watches the scene unfold with horror twisting up her features. She’s rooted to the spot. Something plops on the desk. Evolves into a steady, sticky drip. Blood. Corrupted speckles of red staining the deed you’re meant to get signed. 

You lock eyes with your partner, bending at the waist over the butcher’s shoulder, grip unyielding on his hair. A show of power. Dominance, meant to convey, ‘This is how it’s done.’

A smirk twitches onto your lips. Your mouth brushes the outer shell of his ear, voice coming out deceptively doting. “Sign the fucking paper, or I’ll string you up like one of your little pigs and turn you into dog shit.”

His voice is wet. Strained, unflattering streaks of crimson leaking from his nose to puddle on the desk. “But—”

The hunter winces when you slam his face down again. He’s disoriented now. Swaying. If not for your iron grip on his hair, he’d fall into the arms of unconsciousness. 

“Okay, okay!” he relents, garbled and wet. 

You release his hair, shoving at his head none-too-gently, a facsimile of a smile rounding your lips. Perch a hand on his shoulder, squeezing with enough coercion to remind him of your potency. “Pleasure doing business with you, old man.”

The air thickens with fear. It’s quiet, save for the scratch of the butcher’s pen, as he shakily scrawls his signature on the deed, relinquishing his shop back to Sylus. You scrutinize the blood-flecked paper, satisfied. 

“I’ll give you until midnight to get the fuck out of here,” you casually say, snatching off your gloves to smooth out the lapels of your blazer. “Otherwise, I can’t guarantee your safety after.”

You leave the butcher to nurse a broken nose and a nasty headache, pushing past Ms. Hunter with a cocksure grin. 

“What the hell was that?!” she squeaks, rushing to keep pace with you as you step into the warm atmosphere outside, walking towards the sleek outline of your SUV.

“Business.”

“Yeah, but…did you have to threaten him like that? I mean, you could’ve killed the guy!”

With a scowl, you snatch the passenger door open for her to get in. “If you have a problem with how I do things, maybe you’re not cut out for this life, sweetheart.”

She scoffs disbelievingly. Haughty as she plops down on the passenger seat, crossing her arms. You’re being more venomous than usual. More pushy. You’re too far gone. You’ll apologize for making her your punching bag later. 

“What’s up with you?” she pressures once you’ve settled on the driver's side, discarding your gloves in the center console. Leans closer, squinting. You ease back. “You’ve been more bitchy than usual. You and Sylus have been acting weird.” 

She’s closer now, bursting your metaphorical bubble. Dangerously perceptive. You avoid eye contact as if doing so will reveal all the contents of your mind. Not that you have to. She’s alarmingly observant for someone who acts so naive. 

“Did something happen between you?”

You side-eye her as you start the engine, unknowingly confirming her suspicions. She quirks a brow, catching onto your game. Falls back against the leather of her seat to sulk over folded arms. “I knew it. Unbelievable. Didn’t I tell you to play nice while I was gone?!” 

“I’m always nice,” you counter under your breath, glaring at the console screen as you back up the SUV. 

The steering wheel scrubs between your hands after you shift to Drive, and as you slide the vehicle into the steady stream of traffic, you catch sight of the blood mottling the cuff of your sleeve, begging to differ. 

Maybe you’re being more ornery than you think.     

— 

The base is a network of paneled walls and glittering floors. Had you not been well-versed with its layout, you would surely get lost. But you’ve been here too many times. Once slept between these walls, laughed with the twins, and shared a glass of wine or two with your boss. 

Sometimes, he’d let you lie in his bed when your head was too fuzzy, and you couldn’t stop smiling after the wine left you tenuous and dazed. Nothing ever happened, much to your dismay. He was a gentleman through and through. And you never questioned him on why it was always his bed.

Things changed once Ms. Hunter entered the scene. 

This place used to be your asylum. Your respite from a world so vapid. For a moment, you could pretend the blood caked beneath your nails didn’t exist. And you could pretend you weren’t a weapon to be used at your employer’s disposal. But these days, you’ve avoided his mansion like a sickness, instead retreating to your own place in the city. You’re impeding. These walls no longer welcome you. 

You feel like a specter with unresolved conflict as you round the hall where Sylus’ study sits at its center. Your heart hurls itself against your rib cage. You’ve been distant since that night, shying away from his attempts to disarm you. All half-hearted ventures to keep you dangling on a frayed string until he next needs you to fill the void the hunter inevitably leaves. 

You tamp down your anxiety when the cool steel of the door handle bites into your palm. The voice inside is muffled. Deep. Resonant. Sylus is talking business. Orchestrating things that don’t concern you until he makes them your problem. You’ll be quick. Don’t want to stick around longer than necessary.  

Pushing open the heavy mahogany wood, you’re greeted by a shock of white nestled behind his desk. He’s on the phone. Looks up upon your entry, scarlet eyes narrowing, then softening with recognition. Your throat thickens.

You try to ignore how his look makes your stomach somersault. How every crevice of his office smells like him—bourbon, raw energy, and all things safe. You’re thrown back into the memory of that dusky night. The seal of his lips to yours, his fingers easing over the contours of your body like points on a star map.

Ignoring your thoughts, you conquer the distance between the door and his desk in measured strides, looking everywhere but at him. It’s too risky to maintain eye contact. He has a hold on you without trying. Without the straggly pull of his Evol, without the smoky compulsion of his voice. 

You plant the deed on the desk’s center with a muted thunk. His fingertips brush your knuckles, over the clutch of your hand. Static radiates between you. You reel back quicker than you mean to, bereft of the roughened slide of his fingers. Clear your throat, straighten your jacket. There’s a pinch between his brows, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. 

Sylus peers down at the paper, an inquisitive brow lifting at the oxidized brown dappling it. You give him a half-hearted shrug. You did your part. How you got there is a story for another day.

You don’t wait for him to dismiss you, wordlessly stepping away with a curt nod. He continues his conversation over your shoulder, and your body swells with relief. It’s short-lived when Ms. Hunter brushes past you on your way out of the door, tight-lipped and side-eyeing you with all the vexation of the world. 

Before you leave, you wait for the door to click shut behind you, catching wind of the hunter’s ire before thick layers of wood distort it. 

“Hang up the phone. We need to talk. Now.”

—

It’s a pleasure to dance. To forget yourself. 

Lux is lively tonight. Colored with mirth and strobing lights. Pounding music. You feel it in your chest as you move, a seductive, rehearsed smile crooking your lips. You rake your fingers through your hair. Drag your hands down the sweep of your waist, swiveling your hips, playing up your allure. You don’t have to do much to garner attention—it’s your job, remember?

You peacock about in the white metal birdcage you're housed in. Grab the bars, grinning down at the writhing crowd. It was your idea to give Lux a little umph, sweet-talking Sylus into having massive bird cages mounted from the ceiling. Fitting, given his obsession with pretty caged things.

Lux’s theme is ever-changing, courtesy of your eccentric mind. It keeps people coming in droves. Forces his enemies to rear their hideous mugs, lured to the nightclub by the promise of pretty women. 

The air between you was still dense. Rife with pheromones and unbidden feelings. But you were back donning your playful, arrogant mask as if the night you shared never existed. Back to flirting and giving Sylus the piss. 

The large faux wings you wear are surprisingly light. Stark, like the beautiful white tiger lounging on one side of the cage. The Bengal tiger yawns wide, giving you a show of pointed teeth. Teeth that could easily rip you asunder, yet he’s as docile as a house cat when you bend to pet through soft tufts of white. 

He slow-blinks at you, his gorgeous eyes shining like emeralds uncovered in a cave. You smile as you smooth your thumb over his nose. A pink tongue darts out to lick your palm. He reminds you of yourself—capable of extreme violence, yet docile in patient hands.

Your skin prickles. You notice you’re being watched, but not in a way you’re used to. A way that typically exudes desire. 

You turn to ingest a set of galaxy-infused eyes watching you intently through the throng of people. Youthful pockets of fat hang beneath his lower lids. A dark sweep of hair, thick brows. He towers over the crowd, a distinct cutout of virility and shrouded intentions. You don’t recall ever seeing him before. 

When your gazes intermingle, he smiles something corrupted. It doesn’t reach his eyes. You’re all too familiar with that look—one of a predator scoping out its next meal. Prey it intends to take its time eviscerating, licking its bones clean.

You smile all the more wider, and you smooth your hands over your body, maintaining eye contact as you play up the theatrics. It’s ritualistic in a way, how you move. Like you’re provoking him. You don’t know who this man is, but he’s ballsy, stepping into your den, challenging you.  

You tear your eyes away when the door to your cage swings open behind you, rocking it slightly on its hinges. A sizable hand peers in. You glance out, met with a riotous mop of white. Sylus. Gaze half-slit, relaxed. 

“Take five,” he says above the thumping music. 

You peer over your shoulder while taking his hand. The stranger you earlier locked eyes with has vanished, almost as if he were never there. You don’t pursue it. Not now at least. You allow Sylus to coax you down from the cage via hands at your waist. Stumble into him once on the ground, the air siphoned from your lungs. You're dizzy and breathless, being so close. He’s warm, smells divine, and you feel safe. Your palms press against his chest, his fingers wrapped about the crooks of your elbows to steady you.

He studies you with a reverent gleam to his irises as if he intends to kiss you, uncaring of any witnesses. Any questions. You shake away the thought, remembering yourself—your stance in his life. You offer him half a smile before retreating past him to the private bar for a drink. Something to ease your nerves, to cool your fevered skin.

Sylus’ expression hardens behind you as he scrutinizes the space you once stared at yourself. You don’t see the tenebrous threads of his Evol pouring from his body, licking the air. Don’t feel his aura bleeding a quieted malice, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. 

— tags: @unknown-ends, @viqlume, @nicohii, @beewilko, @lunebulous, @subliminalwish, @emneedshelp, @inkonparchment, @snowfall-jess, @bingbongchu, @greeenbeean, @shiorihoshino, @sillyfreakfanparty, @glamouroki, @midiplier, @kiri-tuk, @delulusimps, @moonlight-inthe-sea

climax 2.0 | masterlist | resolution

[midnight-mourning]

Sweet Seas

💘💘Midnight's DCA Valentine's Day 1💘💘

Starting out strong with some fish! And by strong i mean this is very syrupy sweet/fluffy, hope you enjoy!

Prompt: Tempest coming in once again with the fish. How about a scuba diver yn with a houseboat? Fish boys trying chocolate for the first time with yn? Maybe catching special fish for them?

Word Count: 2498

Read here if you prefer ao3!

💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌

The wind sweeps up your hair through the open window, making you clutch onto your hat with your free hand. You glance back down to your map, making sure you're at the right coordinates. You swore this was the right spot. If it's not, you'll be a little more than stressed about it. Though, you're sure that if it came down to it, they'd find you before you'd find them again. 

Still, you'd only been planning on a brief trip back to land, just to refuel, stock up on food, and so on. And get your mail. Which there was lots of. Much more than you'd have thought. Though, it'd been a month or so, and with Valentine's day around the corner, you should have expected it. All your family and friends had sent their gifts early, like to make sure you'd receive them in time. 

One of the initial cons to living out on your little houseboat was the lack of proper communication between you and the outside world, but you'd made it work for the most part. Besides, at this point you don't think you could go back to a normal day job, pencil pushing at a desk all day. No thanks. 

Being out on the open ocean, documenting the sea life you came across up close and reporting back your first hand accounts, you'd take that any day. The crisp sea air, the sparkling waters all around you, the shining stars at night, it was perfect. 

A loud thump on the other end of the boat resounds throughout, just slightly rocking you. 

There was also the added fact of the matter that if you returned to land again, two certain someone's would be a little more than displeased about it. 

It had been an accident, coming across the two mers during your travels. You didn't even know they were real, much less that they could be giant sea creatures. All hiding down below the surface of that vast expanse. 

Why these two had decided to befriend you as opposed to making you a light snack, you still weren't sure yourself. Rather, after the initial shock on both sides, they'd seemingly grown rather fond of you, as you had them. Exchanging stories and laughter and the likes.

Both were rather large fans of affection and the likes, fighting over head scratches and forehead kisses. They loved to bring you things, as well, you'd noticed. Initially lots and lots of fish, though once you explained you had your own food they switched to things like shells or random human things that had sunk below. But also more fish—alive this time—for your research. 

You'd documented this in your own private research, especially their reactions to your reactions to the gifts. They always seemed to be seeking approval for some reason, and you were always sure to give it, but they seemed to be looking for something, more. You just weren't sure yet as to what. 

Another thump pulls you out of your thoughts. You grin to yourself, switching your controls to off so that you're now simply drifting along, and hurry outside. 

At first you don't see any sign of either of them. But then there's another thump, a little larger. This time you wobble on your feet and scowling as you scan around. Off to your left you see the edge of a yellow fin just barely peeking above the railing's edge. Another knock, and you hear snickering. 

You huff, but play along. "Well, I wonder what in the world that knocking could be. I sure hope I haven't run along a reef."

"Do it again, again!" You hear a not-so hushed whisper from the yellow fin's direction. 

Again, the boat rocks. You're not impressed. 

You sigh, turning as if to head back inside. "I guess I have no choice but to turn back then. What a shame, I was so excited to see the boys too." 

You stomp as if to head back to the controls and wait, listening. 

"They're, they're leaving!" Panic now. 

Another voice, harsher in its whispering. "It's a trick! They would never."

You hear an argument begin to form and you make your way to the railing, peeking over with a smug smirk. 

"You know, if you're going to pull a prank, maybe speaking in a language I can understand isn't your best idea. And also hiding a bit better would help too."

Both the mers in the water whip to look at you. 

"Told you." The blue and white one grumbles, though he appears undeniably relieved.

The sunny one ignores him, instead jumping up to grab the railing to meet you eye to eye. It forces you to step back to avoid getting headbutt by his much larger face. Water splashes all around him, and the resulting swells rock your boat, Sun oblivious as ever to his own strength and size. 

"Sunbeam! You're finally back!" He chirps, causing you to laugh. He sets his elbows on the railing, looking at you expectantly. 

You shake your head and reach out to give him scratches and such. You swear you think you hear him begin to purr as you stand on your tiptoes to kiss his forehead. "And you're already begging for attention, color me surprised."

Moon makes room for himself beside the other mer. "To be fair, it's been several days."

"Don't act like you didn't follow me as far as you could." You scoff, switching to give the lunar mer pets now, much to Sun's displeasure. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

Moon tsks, but revels in the attention just as much. "You certainly acted like it."

"Oh, did someone have to find food for himself for once?" You coo, planting a kiss to his cheek as he grumbles. 

Sun whines, either from lack of attention or being called out, hard to say. "It was terrible, Sunshine! Just the worst."

"Well you're both still alive and well, so I think you fended for yourselves just fine." 

Their shared grins all but confirm such, and you sigh as you step back again. "You're lucky I like you both so well, otherwise I wouldn't be sharing the candy I got while I was gone."

They watch as you enter the nearest door, snatching up your Valentine's gifts and coming back out to the deck to sit and open them. 

"Candy? Nothing like that sharp stuff from last time, right?" Sun scrunches his features. 

You chuckle. "No, no pop rocks this time,"—You hold up a heart shaped-box—"Chocolate! I think it's fish-safe." You examine the ingredients list, muttering more to yourself. "At least I think so."

You open the package and pop a chocolate into your mouth, savoring it. "Man, I love Valentine's day. Here, go long." You pick out a piece and raise your arm. Sun checks the memo, and mouth wide, you toss the chocolate his way. His jaw opens and snaps shut in an instant, and as he chews the—relatively small piece in comparison to himself—his eyes widen. 

"Good right?" You ask, doing the same for Moon. 

Sun nods rapidly, with Moon humming in agreement. 

You continue to indulge and share, opening your letters and valentine's cards. 

"Why are all your letters red and pink?" Moon asks, features quizzical. 

You snap your fingers. "Shoot! I didn't explain what Valentine's is, did I?"

Both mers shake their heads. 

You briefly give a rundown on the holiday, the traditions, and so on. They listen intently as you explain, soaking up all the information they could, as usual. 

"So when someone gives things like chocolate, cards, and so on, that means they're saying they love the recipient, right?" Sun questions slowly, uncertain. 

You nod, tossing another candy his way and eating a piece of your own. "Pretty much!" 

At this both mers turn to each other, voices hushed as they speak in that tongue you've not even begun to try and decipher. They seem rather excited about whatever it is they're talking about though. 

You're about to inquire as to what they're discussing when Sun suddenly disappears under the water, leaving you with just Moon. 

"Oh, leaving already?" You're surprised, you'd have thought they'd hang around longer since you'd been gone. 

Moon chuckles, there's an atypical lightness to it. "Not quite. How would you feel about a swim, Sweetfin?"

"As long as it's not too cold." You say, standing up with a stretch. "Give me a few to put this all away and change."

"Take your time." He drawls. 

You head inside, put everything away, and get into your wetsuit. When you walk back out on deck, you're flabbergasted at the sight before you. 

In a—rather large—pile are an assortment of 'treasures' as the mers had insisted upon calling them. Dozens of shells, sea glass, and more was piled up on your deck

 Before you can say anything there's a splash and Sun emerges from the water with even more to add to the pile, beaming upon noticing you. 

You're bewildered. "What's all this?"

"You got us something, it was only fair that we return the favor! Though, we've been trying for some time now, but it's good to know that's how it works with humans! Not that it matters now, but still."

Your brows furrow. "...How what works with humans?"

"Courting of course! If we knew it was a mutual exchange of gifts we would have been more patient." Sun chuckles

It takes a moment, then it all clicks into place for you. That's what all the gifts had meant. They'd been, trying to—your face starts to burn. Partly from embarrassment, partly from your own foolishness for not realizing sooner. You're also, incredibly flattered. You'd had a bit of crush, but had brushed it off because it seemed improbable that they'd feel the same. 

You shake your head, nodding as you start putting on your diving gear. "Right. Makes sense. My um, apologies for not responding sooner." You notice then that Moon's missing. "What happened to Moon?"

"He's waiting down below, we have something we want to show you." 

You glance up, eyes narrow. "What's 'something'?"

Sun's smirk reveals nothing. Hand tracing the water as you hop up onto the railing. "Something you'll really like, that's all."

"Well now I'm a bit suspicious, but I guess I'll go along with it." You adjust your goggles and your mask.

Once you're situated, Sun offers his hand to gently lower you in the water, coming face to face with a snicker. "Good. You weren't going to have much a choice, Starshine."

You shoot him a glare, but allow him to lead you down into the depths. You swim across large reefs brimming with fish, around vents and past seagrass forests. It stops being familiar territory after a bit, the terrain becoming rockier, and semi barren. At a certain point, Sun looks back to you and points to your tank, then down. 

You give a thumbs up, and he nods. 

You end up at the entrance to a massive cave, and after a moment Moon appears from the cave mouth. He and Sun chitter back and forth to each other, then Moon takes your other hand and they both take you inside. Upon entering, it's initially pretty dark, save for the glow of their eyes and fins. But going deeper a glow starts to appear all around you, and the cave grows wider until it opens up wider. 

Looking up, you can see there's an air pocket in space above you. You're not too far below the surface, and the boys seem fine as they break the water, so you do the same. Peeking out above the water, you find a massive open space, filled with various trinkets and the likes. On the ceiling above you, various plants emit a soft glow, similar to the glow in the water around you. 

You swim over to the edge of the pool, and with a bit of help, hop up onto it.

With a bit of hesitation, you remove your mask and are—thankfully—pleasantly surprised to take in a bit of breathable air. 

"This is, beautiful..." You look all around you. "How'd you find this place?"

Moon snickers, getting partly out of the water to sit next to you. His arm pulls you into his side and you feel your face warm again. "It's our home. You've shared yours with us for so long, it's only right we share ours."

"S-share?"

"Only if you'd like. Whenever you'd like." Sun rests his head in your lap, grin sharp. "Though we're hoping that will be often."

You put a hand up to hide your face. All this because of some Valentine's chocolate. You're not opposed, but you do feel overwhelmed, and guilty for not catching on sooner. Not to mention having given nothing in return beside a few measly pieces of candy. 

"Is everything alright, Star?" Moon asks. 

You nod. "It's, great, trust me. I just feel awful that you've been working so hard to... impress me, and I've gotten you nothing in return." You put up a hand as they start to take up for you. "No, really. I gave you a couple of tiny bits of chocolate! I'm gonna make it up to you. I promise. Whatever you'd like, consider it done."

"It's not necessary." Moon scoffs.

You shake your head. "It is!"

You bicker back and forth, then Sun clears his throat, grabbing your attention. 

"Well, there is something you can do..." He trails off, then looks but looks up to you with puppy eyes. 

Immediately you know exactly what he's thinking. "Oh, you're serious aren't you? They're an endangered species!"

"You said borderline! Pretty please? I'll give you the prettiest pearl I can find!" Sun takes your hand, kissing your wrist then snuggling into it. It doesn't slip by you how Moon's hold on your waist tightens just a tinge. Neither does the slight grin that flashes across Sun's features for a moment as he continues his actions.

You shake your head at their antics. Honestly, how you didn't catch on sooner is beyond you. 

"This is supposed to be my gift to you, silly. I'm the one in debt here." You sigh, folding near immediately. "Fine. But only a handful, that's it. If you eat them all up, there won't be any left."

Sun cheers, and Moon chuckles. "It's appreciated, Sweetfin."

"Told you they'd give in eventually." Sun snickers and you gasp. 

Moon's laughter rumbles against you. "You were right, I shouldn't have doubted their adoration. Or the tenderness of their heart."

You scowl at the two of them, grumbling as they coo and fawn over you to make up for their deceit. In all reality, you don't mind too much, you feel it's justified considering they've been trying so long to make their feelings clear to you. 

And now, you'd make yours clear to them.

💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌

Thank you @rosescarletful for the adorable little prompt! I had a lot of fun with the environments for this one, and making the fish very flirty and such hehe ^^

My writing masterlist

DCA Valentine's masterlist

Tag list (if you would like added, simply say so!):

@scarletcowboy @beemyhuneybee @fishm0ther @deviouscrackers @elsajoyagent8 @luckyyyduckyyy @zenkaiankoku @jogimote @local-shrub @milosmantis @robinette-green @everlightreader @sinister-sincerely @starredeclipse @dangerva @juukai @crystalmagpie447 @mothgutz236 @lizyxml @divinit3a @amarynthian-chronicles @crystalfay

[rika-mmendmethings]

Mirage l Caleb

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Summary: In a world where power is survival's currency, you are a former top Colonel in the Farspace Fleet, now demoted to lieutenant colonel. You've lost your rank to Caleb, a newcomer who has taken your place. But when fate takes, it also gives. You discover that the man you despise is linked to the very organization you've been trying to expose for years. Yet, you find yourself being deterred from your mission as the line between loathing and love blurs.

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story but main ones are: enemies to lovers, slowburn, major character death(s), extreme violence, yandere themes. For currently this chapter: reader has extreme anger issues (a coping mechanism atp), mentions of brainwashing, manipulation, minor character death and guns, use of nickname 'pretty' but it's not done affectionately, reality manipulation evol, lots of mocking ig, mention of alcohol (I'm bad at tagging, spare me pls)

Word count: 2.9k

Playlist coming soon.

Notes: This story is the Caleb girlies especially the ones who love Colonel Caleb. Farspace Fleet and EVER are not related, i.e., both are different organizations with distinct criminal histories. We know from the game that Caleb is tasked to infiltrate Fleet by the command of Prof. Lucius and another person in EVER. The timeline of this story is when Caleb is dead to MC but rising in ranks in the Fleet. The reader possesses a strong dislike for EVER for specific reasons. Ugh, I'm so bad at explaining. I hope y'all understand; if you don't ask me, though,h, it's no problem. If you have any more questions, feel free to ask me, and I'll try my best to give you a proper answer without revealing too much. I'd also like to tell you that Mirage is the work that I am very unsure of writing at times because of the centric themes, so if everyone shows some love for this, I might keep writing it. Let me know if you wish to be added to the tag list for this. ♥

Tag list: @browneyedgirl22

Your hands were fire, reckless and untamed. They swept across the room like a tempest, grasping and ripping with a violence that left destruction in your wake. The trophies — those hollow monuments of past victories — were the first to fall. The first one slipped from your fingers with a sickening crack, tumbling to the ground in a rain of broken glass.

"All this... for what?" You hissed through gritted teeth, the words sharp and jagged.

The shelves creaked under the force of your assault, and you tore into them, one by one. A silver cup — engraved with a title you no longer recognized — was wrenched from its place. The engraved letters seemed to mock you as you stared at it for a moment, then flung it across the room with a ferocity that sent it spinning in the air. It collided with the wall, the sound of its crash more satisfying than any applause had ever been.

Certificates lined the walls like silent judges, witnesses to your life's work, each frame a reminder of the sacrifice you made. You tore them down one by one, your hands shaking as you ripped the corners from each document. The parchment shredded under your grip, the ink smudging, as though even your own accomplishments now had no meaning.

"Meaningless," you spat, as if the word itself was the poison that had been eating away at your. "Meaningless... all of it. All for nothing."

The room was silent now, save for the heavy rhythm of your breathing. You stood there, surrounded by the wreckage, body trembling, not with exhaustion, but with the cold realization that no amount of recognition, no trophy, no certificate, could ever fill the hollow ache in your chest that was left by the events that had happened today. 

You had stood tall, as always, at the heart of that sterile, suffocating room — an expanse of metal and cold lighting. The space, shaped like the hull of an ancient warship, always made you feel as though you were walking through a monument — your monument, one built through years of sacrifice, unyielding duty, and a singular, unwavering vision of victory.

That morning, you’d expected nothing more than the usual pomp of the higher-ups making some ceremonial announcement, some vague praise for the fleet’s latest accomplishments, or perhaps a new award to add to your already weighted chest of medals.

You had earned those medals. Every scar, every sleepless night, every battle fought in the depths of farspace had sculpted you into the figure that stood at the front of the room, your colonel’s insignia gleaming proudly on your uniform. Your hands had been steady, as they always were, your posture rigid with the same professionalism that had carried you from the lowest ranks to the top of the Farspace Fleet. They called you Colonel, but that title was not just a word — it was forged from years of commanding the best and the brightest, from leading missions into the deepest stretches of unknown galaxies, from watching young, clueless officers grow into trustworthy accomplices beneath your discipline.

But when they called you up to the stage, when your name rang out over the loudspeakers like an old, familiar refrain, your gut twisted in a sense of foreboding. Then, the higher-ups, those polished faces and carefully measured words, had called forward a name you hadn’t heard before — Adjutant Caleb Xia. A young man, barely thirty, with a shining record and a string of flawless commendations. Top-notch training, they said. Top-tier degrees, they raved. They called him forward with the quiet reverence of those about to crown a new monarch.

And then, they did crown him.

The words still echoed in your mind, the sting of them as fresh as the first burn of a plasma wound.

“—decision to hereby elevate Adjutant Caleb Xia to the rank of Colonel of the Farspace Fleet.”

Your chest tightened. The applause erupted like thunder, filling the cold space with a chorus of congratulations, but it was like hearing a distant storm — nothing more than background noise to the sudden stillness that had seized your body.

And then came the presentation.

They removed your badge — your aiguillette — your insignia and then pinned it to his uniform. You had felt the loss of it like a searing wound, as though they were peeling the skin off your bones, exposing the raw, shaking self beneath. 

“It is with the highest honor,” they had said, their voices drowning beneath the weight of what was happening, “that we promote Colonel Caleb to the helm of this Fleet.”

And then, the words you had not expected were used to address you:

“Lieutenant Colonel.”

The title felt like an iron chain locked around your neck. You had not been demoted, not officially, but in the eyes of everyone in that room, you had been reduced, had fallen from the summit to a second-tier rank. You stood there, unblinking, as they clasped the new badge into your uniform — Lieutenant Colonel, like a whispered insult.

The younger officers — those who had once saluted you, who had once looked up to you — were now looking to Caleb. You felt the stares from your juniors, the pity from your allies, the way the room shifted — no longer with respect for you, but with reverence for someone who had not yet earned what you had sacrificed.

They had stolen your identity, not with the pull of a weapon, but with the quiet, poisoned stroke of ceremony. And you had stood there, motionless, as they sealed your fate with a handshake, with the hollow words of honor, and with the sweet, tragic sound of your own silence.

Now, in the echo of that ceremony, you sat alone in your study, uncontrollable rage simmering beneath your skin. 

You named the presence before you even saw it.

Percy.

One of the majors, your companion through countless battles and years of service in the fleet. His gaze swept over the disarray of broken glass and shattered pride, but he made no move to intervene. His eyes eventually landed on your back, the weight of his stare pressing in from behind.

He strode over to an armchair, sidestepping the jagged shards scattered across the floor with practiced care, and flopped down with an unceremonious grunt. He inspected his nails with a certain casualness, as if the chaos around him was little more than an afterthought, before offering his opinion in a voice that was more weary than concerned.

"Word is the new colonel was recommended by Professor Lucius. You think EVER has their hand in this?"

"Oh, definitely." You let out a bitter chuckle, humorless, as you methodically loaded ammo into the chamber of your revolver, the click of the bullets sounding far too loud in the stillness. With a swift motion, you cocked back the hammer, your fingers cold and deliberate. "Out of nowhere, the colonel of the Fleet for the past six years is replaced by a mere adjutant. Even if the kid's the second coming of Einstein, there’s no way he rises to the top rank without pulling a few strings. What EVER plans to achieve with this? I have no idea. But I will find out, no matter what."

Percy’s tone shifted, the weight of his years spent in the field drawing his words into something more measured, more concerned.

"For that, you’ll need to be in the right headspace," he pointed out, his eyes scanning the wreckage around you. "Look around you. This—" He waved a hand, gesturing to the mess of broken trophies, crushed awards, and torn certificates that littered the floor. "This isn’t healthy. And your rage... it’s not a testament to the truth. If you really want to do something—" He paused, his gaze fixed and steady on you, "—do more than just vent your frustrations on things."

You lined up the five empty bottles of alcohol that had served as your companions just hours earlier, as you grappled with the overwhelming surge of emotions. With a steady hand, you aimed your revolver at the first bottle and fired, savoring the sharp crack of the shot.

“Twelve years in the Fleet,” you began, your jaw tightening.

Another shot rang out, striking the second bottle. “Letting them manipulate me.”

A third shot followed. “Into killing my own brother.”

Breathing heavily, you fired once more. “Being fully aware, yet still choosing to endure it.”

The fifth bottle shattered in a cascade of glass, its remnants scattering at your feet.

“And this,” you muttered, pressing the cold barrel of your revolver against your chin. A maniacal smile twisted across your face as you finished, “is the reward for my penance.”

Percy watched you from his armchair, a frown etched on his face. He didn’t like the idea of you pointing the weapon at yourself, but he knew better than to interrupt your monologues. He leaned back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully before speaking up. “Someone else has been involved from the inside of the Fleet. This decision wasn’t solely because of EVER acting unilaterally.”

He was about to continue when the sound of approaching footsteps alerted him. He gestured toward the debris scattered across the floor and warned, “Someone’s coming. Handle this before your already tarnished reputation plummets into the Mariana Trench.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing nonexistent dust from your uniform. Glancing at the havoc on the floor, you sighed and summoned your evol. In the span of two seconds, the ruin had vanished as though it had never been. Well, technically, it hadn’t vanished, but that was the precise skill of your evol.

Reality manipulation.

Having the power of illusion and the ability to warp reality is akin to possessing the keys to a realm where the boundaries of what is real and what is imagined blur into an endless canvas. You can make people see things that aren’t there, feel sensations that don’t exist, or even warp time and space around you. One moment, you could make someone think they’re standing on a bustling street corner, only for them to blink and find themselves in an entirely different world. You could erase memories or implant new ones, shaping people’s perceptions to your whim.

The debris under your feet still existed, but it was now overridden by a powerful layer of reality—your reality—where the chaos had never occurred. In its place, the smooth, metallic floors remained, concealing the true state of the room beneath.

Percy didn’t even flinch at the display of your evol; years of being around you had made him indifferent to it. You pulled a napkin from your pocket and pretended to clean your revolver, not even sparing the door a glance.

To your far left, Percy stood up instantly, lowering his head in acknowledgement of the man who had appeared at your door.

“Colonel.”

Your grip on the revolver tightened ever so slightly, though your composure remained unshaken, eyes still fixed on the weapon in your hands. From the corner of your eye, you noticed Percy being dismissed by him. A shadow suddenly loomed over you, and with barely a flicker of impatience, you allowed your tone to take on a honeyed lilt.

“What brings you here?”

You didn’t need to glance upward to sense the weight of his calculating gaze. His voice was reminiscent of memories you thought had long been erased and you felt a dull ache rousing in the depths of your heart.

“I came to observe your shooting practice, Lieutenant. But clearly, I was mistaken…” His gaze swept the barren space. “…There are no targets to be found.”

The irritation was palpable. Everything about him, from his perfect composure to his disdainful tone, grated on your nerves. You finally raised your eyes to meet his amethyst gaze, offering a smile laced with insincerity, tinged with mocking politeness.

“How disappointing,” you sighed, a trace of venom slipping into your voice. You rose to your full height, towering slightly over him. “I just finished a quick warm-up. But don't worry, Colonel,” you continued, your voice dripping with sarcasm, “I always ensure my guests leave here satisfied. A little hospitality, you know?”

A single bullet materialized between your thumb and forefinger. With deliberate care, you loaded it into the cylinder, the click of the revolver resonating in the air. You clicked your tongue in feigned annoyance.

“Since I haven’t set up any targets…” Your finger tightened around the trigger, the barrel now aimed at him. “How about we make you one instead?”

You tilted the gun, moving it between his head and heart, the weapon swaying as you hummed a slow, indecisive note.

“So, Colonel,” you purred, voice laced with mock sweetness, “Which would make for a better target: your head or your heart?”

He remained silent, studying you, the calm in his demeanor unnerving. Even as you indulged in your little moment of madness, he didn’t flinch, not a flicker of fear or hesitation crossing his face.

His lips curled into a slight smirk, exposing his teeth. He sneered, his voice low and taunting.

“All bark, no bite.”

The words stirred a reaction you hadn’t intended to give, the barbed insult sinking deep into your pride. You went rigid, body tense, before speaking through clenched teeth.

“I’ll show you ‘bite,’ Colonel.”

In an instant, you aimed the gun squarely at his heart and fired without hesitation. There was no pause, no second thought — just the crisp sound of the shot ringing through the air.

Caleb stood frozen for a moment, momentarily stunned. He waited for the familiar sting of pain or the crumpling weight of his body to give way beneath him, but neither came. He was still standing, still breathing, as alive as ever.

His gloved hand instinctively went to his chest, fingers searching for the wound, but his uniform remained untouched, without even the faintest trace of damage.

He had seen you load the bullet, had witnessed you fire with perfect precision… So how was this possible? A confusion settled over him, as if his mind couldn’t reconcile the reality of the moment.

He looked down at his chest again, almost in disbelief, before raising his eyes to meet yours.

His gaze faltered, the air between you charged with a new understanding, as he saw the faint, electric blue gleam flicker in your eyes — an unmistakable sign that you had wielded your evol, a power he had yet to fully know about.

And in that moment, he realized: he hadn’t even begun to understand who —or what—you truly were.

You picked up the napkin, resuming your task of carefully cleaning the revolver. You allowed yourself a brief, inward smile, savoring his disorientation.

Without lifting your gaze from your weapon, you spoke, your voice low but edged with something almost playful. “What you see is not always what it seems. If you’re going to stick around in the Fleet, you’ll have to learn that, pretty.”

He scoffed, dismissing your words with a sharp chuckle. “What? Another brainwashed pawn is going to teach me that?”

A flicker of mirth danced in your eyes, and without breaking your rhythm, you closed the distance between you. You raised a single brow, your lips curling ever so slightly. “Sure, think of me as a pawn,” you mused, your voice smooth and deliberate. “But the pawn’s power is hidden in its potential to evolve. Its strength lies in reaching the other side of the board — where it can ascend to a queen, a rook, a knight, or a bishop. So, if I were you, I wouldn’t be too quick to underestimate the ‘pawns’ that the Fleet keeps around.”

You trailed your finger down the vein pulsing at his neck, your touch delicate but deliberate, before continuing, “And if I were you, I’d make sure to cover my tracks a little more carefully. You never know which one of us might expose your connection to EVER and, by the second day of work, you’ll find yourself…”

You didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, you raised your hand to your throat, fingers stiff and purposeful. You traced a slow line across your neck, from one side to the other, just beneath the jawline. As your finger moved, you tilted your head slightly, exposing the vulnerability of your throat in a way that felt almost instinctual.

A soft, unsettling hiss escaped your lips—shhhk—like a blade being unsheathed, the sound faint but razor-sharp.

There was no need for further words. The message you put was clear.

You held the pose for a moment longer, your head still tilted, your finger resting at the point of the imagined incision. Then, slowly, your eyes flicked open, unblinking. Your gaze slid sideways, locking on Caleb's with a predatory intensity.

A feral grin spread across your lips. The kind of smile that showed you were in control, that you knew exactly what game you were playing, and he had no idea what to expect next. You didn’t flinch, didn't waver as you gave him a single, deliberate wink.

“Bye, pretty.”

Without another word, you turned away. Your shoulders were relaxed, every step languid and unhurried as if the entire encounter had cost you nothing.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to.

You had him right where you wanted him.

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

[hivemuthur]

A Deer and a Man - Ch.6.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit - pure filth :v

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5.

word count: 7,6K

tag: #d&m

summary: You are the eldest daughter of a noble family, soon to be married to one of the most eligible bachelors in the region—Viktor, the adopted son of House Talis. The arrangement is simple: a marriage that secures your family’s wealth in exchange for access to Hextech. What could possibly go wrong?

author’s note: What's up Viktor Nation? First: @mithrava and @rennethen thank you for all your help with proof reading and helping me putting this into sort of historically accurate setting. Playlist on Spotify. I can't believe it's over!

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

For the first time in your life, you take your mother’s advice. And it is, to say the least, difficult. Maintaining a calm, composed façade while a tempest rages inside you is not unfamiliar, but the effort becomes infinitely harder when it is laced with longing—not for something, but for someone.

And Viktor is a worthy opponent. Neither of you plays this game out of spite; it is fear that guides you, the quiet worry that one wrong move will send the other bolting. From your perspective, your heart is already bare—it is his turn to pick up whatever you left on the library floor.

The days pass in a rhythm that neither of you dares disturb. Conversations are polite, words exchanged with careful precision—utterly unhostile, yet utterly empty. The thrilling tension that once crackled between you, charged with unspoken desire and sharp-witted challenges, has dulled into something else entirely. A tension of stress. Of careful treading.

Once in a while, he tries—you have to admit that. There are moments when he edges closer to something deeper, where his words hover on the cusp of meaning, where his eyes search yours as if waiting for permission to proceed. But each time, you falter. You do not know what to give him, what is safe to surrender. Your mother left you no further instructions.

Every day ends with you torn between giving up, knocking on his door, or screaming into the pillow of your own bed. You choose the latter and promise yourself that tomorrow, you will be braver. Until you see him—slouched over his coffee, exhausted by something beyond your reach.

Until one day, the wind howls against the windowpanes, rattling them like an impatient hand demanding entry. Inside, the house feels smaller than ever, every room suffocating with its stillness, its emptiness. Your notebooks lie abandoned, their pages filled with thoughts that have nowhere else to go. The piano holds no appeal. Eliza, dear Eliza, would offer kind words and warm company, but even that feels unbearable—words would make the frustration real, give it form, and you cannot afford that.

So, you take your mother’s advice more literally than she likely intended. You step through the door without a word, a book tucked under your arm, and let the wind take you.

In your mind, Viktor follows. He finds you before you reach the gate, seizes your wrist with a desperate sort of heat in his touch. He says your name like it is both an apology and a demand, like he has realised too late that he cannot let you go.

But there is no hand at your wrist. No voice calling you back. The wind is your only companion, and it cares nothing for your foolish fantasies.

You walk. Past the house, past the garden, beyond the familiar paths you have taken before. The land stretches wide, unbound by human hands, unfolding in an endless sprawl of untamed beauty. The hills roll like waves frozen in time, their slopes marked by patches of gnarled trees, black against the grey sky. Fields stretch beyond sight, the grass bending and thrashing beneath the force of the wind, caught between dance and struggle.

A river carves its way through the valley, its waters wild, swollen from recent rains. On the banks, delicate flowers cling to the earth beside jagged stones, their petals trembling with each gust. Above, the sky churns, clouds thick and restless, shifting between light and shadow, as if the heavens themselves cannot decide whether to bless the land or break it.

Here, beauty does not exist without violence. Here, softness and savagery do not contradict but coexist. And yet, for all its ferocity, the landscape does not rage against itself. It simply is.

You sit upon a smooth, flat rock, letting the world settle around you, pressing your palms to the cool surface as if to ground yourself in its vastness. The book opens in your lap, but for a long while, you do not read. You only breathe. And for the first time in days, your mind is quiet.

Back at the house, more than one mind is restless.

At first, your absence is barely noted. The house is vast, and you often take solace in its quieter corners, slipping away with a book or a blank sheet of music. But as the hours stretch and Eliza’s calls go unanswered, a ripple of concern spreads through the household.

It is Eliza who worries first, pressing her lips together as she checks the library, the sitting room, even the piano bench, expecting to find you lost in thought. When she does not, her steps quicken. The kitchen staff shake their heads at her inquiry. The drawing room is empty. Your bedchamber, undisturbed.

Then, the matter reaches Viktor.

He notices your absence in a far quieter way. A missed meal, an empty chair where you ought to have been. He is good at reading patterns, after all—seeing the way things are supposed to fit together. You have been in his periphery for days, a ghost of yourself, barely tethered to the present. Even when you sat across from him, you were elsewhere. And now, you are nowhere at all.

Viktor sets his fork down. The thought is irrational—this immediate coil of unease in his gut—but it does not loosen. He does not ask where you are yet. He only stands, slow and deliberate, as he leaves the otherwise empty dining room.

It is easier to look for you than to think about what he has not said.

He has tried. He swears he has tried. The words have reached the back of his throat, caught there, strangled before they could see daylight. You have let him speak before—really speak, about things beyond the polite nothings you trade now. But each time he has tried, something stops him.

Sometimes, it is you. A wary glance, a flicker of hesitation when he nears the subject too closely. Other times, it is himself—the heavy hand of caution gripping his shoulder, the fear that one wrong step will send you running.

And then there is the contract. A foolish thing now, a ghost in the air between you, binding him tighter than his own hesitation. What use is freedom when it tastes like regret? What use is it when, instead of granting him solace, it imprisons him—his thoughts spiralling in all the wrong directions? One particularly harrowing thought slices through his heart. He tries to chase it away, yet to no avail. What if?

Upon visiting room after room, he finally finds Eliza. She startles, her fingers tightening around the apron she’s wringing between them. She recovers quickly, smoothing her expression into one of careful neutrality, but Viktor catches the flicker of hesitation in her eyes.

“What can I do for you, sir?” she asks, voice light but not quite steady.

Viktor studies her, his grip tightening on the cane at his side. “Eliza.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for pretences. “Where is she?”

Eliza’s composure cracks for the briefest moment before she dips into a small curtsy. “I am so terribly sorry, but I do not know, my lord.”

It isn’t enough. His pulse beats hard in his throat, his mind filling the absence of answers with the worst possibilities. “Who is she with?” The words slip past his lips before he can stop them, sharp and urgent, betraying more than he wants to.

He knows the contract’s terms, remembers them too well. The very thing he once clung to as assurance that he would not hurt you, not cage you, is now a blade twisting in his gut. The notion that you might have given up—truly given up—and gone ahead with your initial deal, cuts deeper than he is willing to admit.

Whatever you please, with whomever you please. A term he regretted since the beginning.

Eliza’s brows draw together in something like surprise, as if she cannot believe he would even think it. “With no one, my lord.” Her voice is quieter now, something knowing and gentler lacing her words. “She left on her own.”

Before Viktor can react, before he can feel or say anything, a thunderclap splits the sky outside, shaking the very air around them. His head snaps toward the window, where the light has already dimmed, the once-placid sky now churning with bruised clouds.

Where you are, the storm is already raging.

You hadn’t noticed it at first—too lost in the hush of the hills, in the way the vastness of the land swallowed the smallness of your troubles. But then a thick drop of rain lands squarely on the open page of your book, the ink smudging beneath the sudden weight of water. Another follows. Then another.

Hastily, you snap the book shut and rise from your rock of solitude, a cold wind biting at your exposed skin. The first proper gust sends a shiver down your spine, but it is not until the rain comes in earnest—buckets of it, slanting and constant—that you realise how terribly unprepared you are.

You grip the book under your arm, shielding it as best you can, and start back toward the house. There is no avoiding it now; you will be soaked to the bone before you even reach the gates. The walk feels shorter on the way back, and whatever had calmed inside you now feels even softer, as if the tempest in your heart has poured out to be echoed by the storm raging around you.

Rain pours in relentless sheets, drenching you through and threatening to dissolve the book in your hands. You contemplate abandoning your shoes altogether—clogged with mud as they are—but the sheer absurdity of the thought makes you feel strangely light. Home looms on the horizon, and you almost laugh at yourself: a fully grown woman, trotting through the muck in a drenched dress, holding a book over her head as though parchment could shield her from the downpour.

A silhouette emerges in the distance, growing clearer with each step until you can make out Viktor approaching, his coat draped over his head. The mere thought of him sparks something sour in your chest at first, yet the fact that he came out after you—in the middle of a storm—warms you enough that your initial scowl evaporates.

“Thank God,” he exhales as he reaches you. He sticks his cane in the mud, hands grip your shoulders abruptly before pulling the coat from his head and draping it over you. It’s no use—the thing is already soaked through—but the gesture alone is enough.

“Now you’re a believer?” you laugh, swiping rain from your face to see him better.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his fingers come up to brush wet strands from your forehead, and your heart stumbles when he murmurs, “You know what I mean. Are you hurt?”

Before you can reply, his cold hands cup your face, his thumbs ghosting over your cheeks. You wonder if he notices the heat blooming there.

For days, the feelings had been easier to hold at bay—kept at a careful distance, left to sit absently beside you at the table or dissolve into silence when you passed each other in the corridors. But now, with his touch grounding you in this moment, the illusion shatters. The ache rushes back, stronger than ever, no longer something you can pretend away. His hands, warm despite the chill, cradle you with a gentleness that weakens your resolve, his fingers steady despite the storm raging around you. And his eyes—full of worry, of something close to tenderness—search your face as if you are something fragile, something to be handled with care. The sheer attention of it, the way he truly sees you, steals whatever words you might have said.

“No,” is all that is able to leave you. His gaze burns into you, so intense that you have to look away. “Just wet,” you add softly.

The moment he is certain you are unharmed, Viktor can no longer suppress the tumult of emotions churning within him. Insecurity rages, jealousy—uninvited and fierce—surges to the forefront of his mind, raw and stinging. Without thinking, his hands grasp your shoulders with surprising intensity, his voice taut with restraint as he demands, "Where in God’s name have you been?"

“I—” You start, caught off guard, searching his face for the root of his frustration. But you tell the truth as it is. “I wandered. Too far to make it home before the rain.”

“Who were you with?” The accusation comes faster than his mind can stop it. It is vile—he knows that—you have given him no reason to doubt you, yet he must know. He has to.

Offence flashes across your face, your expression hardening as you straighten and tilt your chin in defiance. “Myself,” you say proudly.

“Do not lie to me, girl,” Viktor growls, his face inches from yours, his breath hot despite the chill of the storm. He swipes a hand through his dripping hair, water trickling into his eyes.

“I do not.” Anger rises in you now, sharp and indignant. You wrench your arms from his grasp. “And what business is it of yours, anyway?”

“You are my wife,” he says, and the words surprise even him. His tone surprises him—self-explanatory and wounded, as if you have done something wrong. His hands surprise him most of all, when, in desperation, they come to your waist, pleading for you not to go. Apology, guilt, need—everything tangled together, because Viktor has no idea how to say what he truly wants to.

“On paper,” you say quietly, one last attempt to hold your ground.

“No.” His grip tightens at your waist as he presses his forehead to yours. “You foolish girl,” he breathes, eyes squeezing shut as his lips barely graze yours. “You don’t know the first thing.” His voice is raw, his fingers digging into the damp fabric at your hips.

“How right you’ve been,” he murmurs at last—before sealing his mouth over yours.

The tension that has stretched between you for weeks—unspoken words, lingering touches, stolen glances—snaps all at once. Viktor moves. His mouth crashes against yours, not gently, not sweetly, but with hours, days, weeks of restraint unravelling in a single, desperate instant. He groans low in his throat as he tastes you—rain and warmth and home—and his hands pull you flush against him, fingers gripping at the small of your back as if he means to fuse you to him.

Water soaks through both of you, but neither of you care.

You gasp against his lips, and Viktor seizes the opportunity, deepening the kiss with a fervour that steals the air from your lungs. His tongue sweeps against yours, demanding, devouring, sending heat searing through your veins. His hands, once gripping you so tightly, soften—one slipping to cradle the back of your head, the other splaying wide against your lower back, keeping you pressed against the solid warmth of him.

Your fingers find purchase in his soaked curls, tugging, eliciting a sound from him that makes your knees weak. He groans against your lips, the sound guttural, wrecked, as though this—you—are the very thing holding him together. He kisses you like he is starving, like he has spent his whole life waiting for this moment and can finally, finally taste freedom.

When you break apart, it is only for air. He does not let you go—his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your rain-slicked lips, his fingers trembling where they cradle your spine. His eyes, dark and blown wide with want, search yours, as if trying to make sense of what he’s just done.

He takes your hand and places it on his chest, the rattling inside thunders through your fingers. "My heart aches for you," Viktor clamours, muffled by the rain pouring down upon you both, his voice raw and raspy.

Hot breath fans against your lips, trembling as he clings to you as though letting go would tear him apart. "All of me… aches for you," he says loudly, the words tumbling from him in a pained plea, as if the very act of speaking them is both agony and relief.

His hands come back to tighten around you, fingers dig into your flesh and fist your hair, as though he fears you might slip from his grasp. "I want to worship you, body and soul, as I vowed," he breathes, the words catching in his throat, his lips grazing yours between each shuddering syllable.

"From the moment your lips touched mine, I was undone." His voice falters, thick with longing, as though the very memory of it is too much to bear. He presses his forehead to yours once more, exhaling sharply, as if on the brink of breaking.

"From the moment I saw you playing that wretched sonata, I wanted you." The confession escapes him like a broken thing, something ripped from the depths of him, his need so raw it borders on torment. His mouth hovers over yours, trembling, his breath unsteady, waiting—begging—for you to close the unbearable distance once more. “From the moment I’ve met you I have been a deer, startled and scared of you capturing me but I am no longer.”

And you stand there, his lips on yours, speaking of an unbearable love that has tormented him since the very beginning of this journey. Your heart feels as though it might burst, and for the first time—perhaps ever—words fail you. Your mouth falls open, but nothing comes out. Instead, tears spill over, the weight of his confession striking deep, touching the very core of your being. He has bared his soul to you—here, of all places—in the mud, in the rain.

Before your mind can summon an answer, your arms wind around his neck, fingers tangling in his rain-soaked hair, pulling him closer—deeper—until nothing remains between you. In this kiss, you try to convey everything your heart drives through your veins. Your lips ache, swollen from the force of his devotion, and his tongue—hot, insistent, unrelenting—feels nothing short of sinful against yours. And you want to sin with him, more than you have ever wanted anything.

When the kiss breaks, Viktor breathes heavily, yet a calmness washes over him. As much as he would love to stay here, far from everyone, his practical mind takes over. “Let’s get you home,” he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and retrieving his cane from the mud.

The journey back to the house is a clumsy one, filled with laughter and unspoken confessions lingering in the space between your bodies. The mud sucks at your shoes, threatens to steal them from your feet entirely, and more than once, Viktor nearly stumbles, caught between his cane and the treacherous ground. You reach for him instinctively, and when his arm slips around your waist in response, you smile and place your hands on his.

By the time the estate looms before you, the storm has softened into a steady downpour. Algernon rushes out to meet you, a look of pure horror crossing his face as he takes in your drenched and mud-splattered forms. Ever the devoted butler, he brandishes an umbrella as if it could somehow remedy the state you’ve both been reduced to.

“My lord, my lady—” He barely gets the words out before you both dissolve into laughter, Viktor’s hand swatting away the offered umbrella.

“I believe we are well beyond saving,” Viktor remarks, shaking water from his free hand.

You nod, wiping the rain from your brow. “It is a noble effort, Algernon, but I fear no umbrella could salvage us now.”

Surrendering with a put-upon sigh, Algernon steps aside as the two of you make your way inside. Mud trails behind you, streaking the floor, but neither of you care. Your shoes are discarded in the hallway, and you twist the water from your hair, watching the rivulets drip onto the stone.

Eliza appears a moment later, her face a mixture of worry and relief. She hesitates as though torn between embracing you and scolding you outright. Before she can decide, you reach for her, smoothing your hands over her shoulders.

“It’s all right,” you say gently, offering a tired smile. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Eliza exhales, her tension easing, though the concern does not fully leave her. “Come, let me draw you a bath, my lady. I’ll have warm towels sent up and—”

“No need,” Viktor interjects. His arm finds its place around your shoulders once more, his hold neither forceful nor uncertain, but deliberate. His voice is steady, brooking no argument. “I will... take care of it.”

A hush falls over the room. The weight of eyes upon you is unmistakable, the quiet, watchful sort of curiosity that cannot be helped. But you do not care.

You keep your gaze on Viktor as he looks straight ahead, guiding you forward. Only when you reach the top of the stairs do you falter, stopping by habit at the threshold of your own door. He nearly keeps walking, and when your pause forces him to a halt, he turns to you, hesitation flickering across his face.

Then you take the first step. Without a word, you move forward, past the familiar safety of your room, and he follows. He leads you down the hall, through the dim glow of candlelight and the quiet of the house, until he reaches his door.

It opens with a soft creak, and you step inside together, fingers still intertwined. The air in Viktor’s chamber is warmer than the hallway, scented faintly of parchment and oil, but it does little to chase the chill clinging to your skin.

You stand there, neither of you moving, uncharted waters spreading before you. The rain outside has dulled to a gentle patter against the windows, the only sound between you save for your breaths—his, steady but heavy; yours, shallow with anticipation.

Viktor’s eyes search yours, his grip on your hand loosening only so he can reach up, his thumb skimming across your cheek. The gesture is tender, reverent. His lips part as if he means to say something, but instead, he lingers, his brow furrowing as though he cannot quite believe this moment is real.

Then he exhales, shaking his head slightly, as if clearing his thoughts. “I will draw you a bath,” he murmurs, his voice quiet. He turns, about to step away, but before he can, your fingers curl around his wrist, stopping him. He barely has time to register the shift before you pull him back to you, your lips capturing his in a kiss that is anything but hesitant. It is deep, insistent, brimming with a need that has long since stopped being bearable.

He makes a sound against your mouth—a sharp inhale, half surprise, half surrender. His hands find your waist, hesitant only for a second before they tighten, pulling you close.

You break away only long enough to whisper, breathless and sure, “I cannot wait any longer.” Your hands tangle in his hair, holding him there. Your forehead presses to his, your lips brushing as you give him your confession. “I want you now.”

It is all that Viktor needs. It is more than enough—beyond anything he could have hoped for. He exhales, long and deep, and takes your hands in his.

“My wife,” he murmurs, bringing your knuckles to his lips. In a voice meant for you and you alone, he whispers, “Ask anything of me, and I will give it to you.”

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, and when he speaks again, it is as if his words are woven directly into the fabric of your being.

“You have bewitched me, body and soul, and—” His hands, still chilled from the rain but impossibly gentle, cup the base of your skull. His thumbs brush over your temples, reverent, trembling slightly as he breathes, “I love, I love, I love you.”

Heart, soul, and body seized, you let him guide you backward toward the bed. His fingers ghost along your back as he undoes each button—blindly, yet deftly, as though he has been preparing for this moment for the longest time. The ribbon at your waist slides free at his touch, and with steady hands, he eases the dress from your shoulders, baring the soaked chemise that clings to the contours of your body.

His lips find yours again, tender, slower, as the moment gets extended in time. Hands skim over your arms, then down, finding purchase at your waist before trailing higher. Through the damp fabric, his palms cup the curve under the hill of your breasts, thumbs grazing over the hardened peaks. His breath hitches, and a low, reverent sound escapes him as he squeezes gently.

“Forgive me for being such a fool,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours for a fleeting moment before his lips begin their descent.

He kisses down the column of your throat, lingering at your pulse before trailing lower, tracing a heated path to the curve of your collarbone. His mouth moves with purpose, and the wet layer of second skin clinging to you catches on his lips with a pulling, teasing touch. Where his breath and lips travel, warmth spreads; where he moves away, cool air rushes in, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

When his tongue swipes over where he knows you must ache for more, you gasp, your fingers burying in his hair. The tug makes his breath stutter, his heart wonder whether it’s a hesitation or eagerness.

“I love you,” he reassures into your chest. “My wife, I love you.”

Time folds around you, warping in the face of the moment you have longed for, the one you never let yourself believe would come to pass. It still feels impossible, like grasping at fog in the dawn—slipping through your fingers, becoming real where he touches you. You are trembling, though not from cold. The weight of waiting and yearning presses into your ribs like the wind before a storm, swelling until it threatens to break you apart.

Your fingers slide from his hair to the nape of his neck, where it clings to his skin in dampness. You tug to make him look at you. His eyes, burning gold even in the dim light, find yours at once.

“Viktor, I have never—” The words come fragile, barely more than breath. An unnecessary confession meets his kind eyes, and you realise he knows.

A quiet understanding settles over him as he nods thoughtfully, his hand gliding over the curve of your stomach, a grounding touch. “You know I won’t hurt you,” he murmurs.

And he won’t. Because you are not prey beneath him, not something to be taken. Now you are the wild creature caught in a snare, and Viktor is not the hunter—he is a man who has found you bound and trembling, and with steady hands, he grants you freedom.

Those hands slide down your sides and his mouth follows, pressing into your stomach, hums fall between each kiss. A tremor passes through him as he sinks to one knee before you, steadying himself on the edge of the bed. His palm presses against the back of your thigh, urging you to part for him. And then, with an aching slowness, he leans in.

His face presses against the apex of your thighs, and he inhales deeply—a shuddering breath that seems all-consuming. Heat pools, not only from the warmth of his lips but from the want that boils over, spilling right where his mouth lingers.

“Let me have you,” he pleads. "I beg you.”

Mouth agape, you lift your chemise—a non-verbal answer. You grasp it around your hips and lift, inch by inch, revealing your skin to him. Where it goes, Viktor’s hands follow. With its lift he rises, palms tracing up your body in a scalding touch. You rid yourself of your last layer shielding you from his eyes and stand naked before him, waiting and nervous. The air kisses your bare flesh before he does.

Through the kiss, his hands find yours, guiding them to his neck. Fingers on fingers, he ushers your palms to his buttons. You undo them one by one, yet your pulse pounds like rainfall against glass, impossible to still. You don’t know when it happens, but at last, his damp shirt gapes open, revealing glimpses of pale skin beneath.

You slip it from his shoulders and pause. Valleys of alabaster stretched flat over his chest lay before your eyes, marked by dark points of freckles and birth marks. Below, his stomach is hidden by layers of leather and suddenly you feel guilty for ever complaining about your breasts being bound. You search for permission within his eyes, and once more, his hands answer. He guides your fingers to straps and buckles and mutters a calming, trustful, “It’s alright. Here—”

You are granted a secret map to his ribs, when your arms crowd his frame and work blindly at the back—the brace gives with a small hiss, ungluing itself from him, pulling on the skin as you take it off. Underneath his flesh is tender, dent and blushed where the leather clung to it.

A shuddery breath escapes your mouth when you seek purchase of your forehead against his, and your hands trying to convey the feeling of awe press flatly to his stomach. Belly button sucks in on instinct, startled by the touch, meeting his spine before he relaxes into a breath and presses his naked chest to yours. He shudders then, as the meeting of skin and soul ripples through him.

Emboldened, you lean in and press your lips to his collarbone, tasting salt and rain. He sighs, the sound low and unguarded, and his head lulls back, offering more. Like the earth drinking in the first warmth of spring, he yields to you, welcomes you, as though you are the sun breaking through his endless winter.

Your hands begin their journey lower, trembling around his waist. Slowly, you dip your fingers past the clasps of his slacks, easing them down. He exhales when you free him, his arms loosen at his sides, fingers twitching as he stops himself from threading them into your hair and pulling your face flush against him.

There is one more cage stopping you from having him bare. It hugs his leg tightly, an embrace of metal tempered by Jayce’s hammer. The eye of Viktor’s knee stares at you when you mirror your husband and lower yourself to kneel. He leans to help you, guiding your fingers to where they should unclasp and pull, set him free if only for a moment. The brace falls heavy around his ankle, and without hesitation, you offer your shoulder for him to steady himself as he steps out from the last remnants of metal and cloth.

Your eyes remain fixed ahead as you take him in—half-hard, resting in the crease of his thigh. And Viktor does not need to guide you anywhere. Because just as he did, you lean in, pressing your cheek to the side of him, inhaling deeply through your nose as your eyes flutter shut. The scent of earth, rain, and soft skin fills your lungs, warming you from the inside out. Only then does his hand find your hair—because he can’t help himself.

The thought—insistent—may have first invaded his mind the moment he laid eyes upon your lips, only to return, night after night, as a recurring vision in the solitude of his room, mere walls away from you. But another, more pressing thought eclipses the last when he finally beckons you upward and whispers, his voice taut with restraint, “Please, lay down for me.”

You obey as you vowed—the mattress gives beneath you as you settle, breath unsteady, fingers twitching where they rest above your heart. Viktor follows, bracing himself between your legs, and with a  slowness that has your breath stuttering, he lifts them over his shoulders, wrapping his arms around your hips. His fingers press into the soft flesh, and he yanks you closer, his belly pressing into the bed.

Light of the day has vanished, and the night air kisses your skin where the clothes no longer shield you. He is careful, so careful, and yet you still tremble when his breath ghosts over the curls at the meeting of your thigs. He presses a kiss to the inside of your leg, and when you flinch, a hum, slow and deep, comes to reassure you. “There is nothing you must hide from me.” His hands squeeze gently at your hips, lips trailing lower. “Let me love you as you are.”

He bows his head, and you exhale—a breath long held finally set free. To see him better you prop yourself on your elbows only to fall back down in a seizing cramp when warm lips come to your centre—soft at first, a mere press, a breath, as if testing what can be done. Then firmer, more certain when Viktor begins to chart the shape of you with his mouth. A shiver rolls through you, coiling low in your belly, curling like ivy around your ribs.

His tongue is your tormentor—seeking, learning and teasing, and when you give away a sharp gasp, a low chuckle rumbles across your skin. His arms tighten around your thighs, holding you open as he delves deeper. And above all things—eager and careful, Viktor is meticulous, as he always is. You are certain a map to your undoing is being crafted in his brain.

Heat spreads in molten waves, pulling you under, swallowing you whole and your breath starts coming in fractured syllables. Viktor hums against you, the vibration alone makes you whimper. He is enjoying this, you realise with a fresh wave of disbelief. The way he lingers, drags his tongue in long, lazy strokes only to pull away and watch the way you writhe and have you reach blindly for him.

When he parts from you, just barely, you whimper at the loss. But then—oh—he presses a kiss to the aching place he has abandoned and murmurs, voice hungry and adoring, “You are even lovelier like this.”

He does not wait for you to answer—does not give you the chance. Instead, he dips his head once more, lips sealing around you in a way that has your neck exposed, your hands flying to his hair, pulling him closer, though you hardly know whether you mean to push him away or drown beneath his touch.

You choose to drown. Finding purchase in his curls, your hips press down, moving of their own accord against his lips as the tide swells within you. Heat surges through your veins, pooling low, taut as an overripe fruit on the verge of bursting, an eggshell cracking under pressure, a kettle whistling furiously, its handle too hot to grasp.

Your restraint shatters as his name spills from your lips, followed by a sharp, helpless fuck. Viktor nearly smirks—he wants to tease, to remark on how sweetly filthy your mouth is and how much he’s missed hearing it—but he does not dare stop now.

His tongue delves deeper, coaxing you over the edge with aching precision. Pressure crests, then snaps—your body seizes, taut as a bowstring, before releasing all at once. You break beneath him, limbs trembling, thighs quivering against his shoulders. The aftershocks roll through you in shudders, little earthquakes that leave you breathless, utterly undone.

You clasp a hand to your forehead and inhale deeply, and before you can say a word your man is beside you, lips glistening with your slick, eyes happy and complete. Affection surges through you when you wrap yourself around him, straddle his lap and sink your tongue into his mouth, kissing him greedily, tasting yourself on his lips and whisper a breathy, “God, I love you.” Before his startled chuckle forms into an answer you cut his breath off again, licking into his mouth, mussing his hair and teasing his cock with your ass and Viktor groans, overwhelmed, helpless hands come to steady your hips.

With this, you calm yourself. His tongue moves in an unhurried, gentle rhythm, his eyelashes brushing against your warm cheek with every slow blink. Your hair, still curled and frizzled from the rain, falls around you both like a heavy curtain, shielding your faces from the world.

Curious, you reach behind yourself, where he is hard and aching for you. Wetness beads at the tip, spilling like tears of pleasure, and as you spread it across his flushed skin, his hips jerk instinctively, seeking more of your touch.

His hand wraps around yours, guiding you, fingers threading through your own as he strokes himself with your joined touch. The sensation is close to unbearable—too much, too soon, after too long. A groan breaks from his throat, and his jaw tenses as if he is trying to restrain himself, to keep from losing control and joining you in little death too soon.

He feels foolish at the way his body reacts, at how the simplest brush, a touch close to innocent almost ends him. He presses his forehead to yours, breath uneven, and when he finally guides your hips lower, his length standing proud at your entrance, he whispers, “Slow.”

You nod, eyes glazing over him, taking him in as you sit up. His chest hollows with each breath, a sheen of sweat clinging to him like a satin veil. Strands of damp hair plaster to his forehead, and his throat bobs with a swallow as he looks at you—eyes full of reverence, of adoration so boundless it takes away your fear. Never have you seen a man this pretty.

Your hips lower to take him, and an unfamiliar stretch unlocks your jaw, making your mouth hang agape. Your fingers had done Viktor no justice, just as his did none to you. He is real and hot and solid, filling you in a way that leaves you breathless, caught between hesitation and wonder. A whimper escapes you as your body adjusts, as he parts you, claiming space within you that had never been taken before.

And you want it to belong to Viktor. A long moment passes in breath-filled silence as you accept him whole. He throbs within your muscles but does not rush you, waiting—always waiting—for you to move first. And when you do—oh, his poor soul nearly leaves his body.

Hands tremble as they brace against your thighs, his grip unsteady, barely grounding himself in the reality of you. When your hips begin to roll, he watches, helpless, as he sees himself peeking from the darkness of your curls, only to lose the sight again when you drag yourself up along his navel.

Daring to test his fate, Viktor presses a hand to your stomach, urging you to lean back. You obey, arching for him, palms braced on his thighs. And there—there is his fantasy made flesh.

His breath stutters as he sees it: himself, deep inside you, pressing against the taut plane of your belly, bulging beneath your skin. A sight he barely dared to dream would feel this intoxicating. Fascinated, he smooths his fingers over it, tracing the outline solemnly. Just as in the confines of his mind, your hair spills back, teasing against his thighs, and you move—slow and torturous. A rhythm of your own making, agonising him, locking him in the perversion he has dreamt of countless nights.

And you—God, you are full. Claimed in a way you had never imagined, the sensation unlike anything your fingers could have ever prepared you for. Not pain—something richer, deeper, something that makes you feel shaped for this. For him. But this time, you are not merely taken. You are taking. You are the one in control, the one choosing how he claims you, deciding how deep, how slow, how much he will be lost inside you.

Viktor curses, voice rough, and the sound ignites something in you, a power that spurs you to move again, to ride him deeper. He groans, his grasp flexing against your belly, then lower, until his fingers find where your bodies join. And then—oh.

A brush of his thumb. Once. Twice. A slow, teasing circle over your clit, like a scientist he is, testing a theory. Your breath snags, thighs tensing. Encouraged, he presses again, firmer this time, his touch finding a rhythm, coaxing pleasure to coil deep and hot in your gut.

Viktor watches you through heavy-lidded eyes, mouth parted as if he means to speak but cannot find the words. His thumb moves in slow circles, in tandem with the languid rise and fall of your hips, as if guiding you to ruin at a pace you dictate. And you let him, lost in the sensation of being utterly filled, utterly known.

Then, voice hoarse, he finally breathes, “Had I not been here, feeling you—God, seeing you—I would never believe it to be true.” His free hand, the one not lost between your bodies, slides up your ribs, splaying over your sternum, as if to hold this moment inside you, as if to brand it into your very bones.

Your lashes flutter, and you cover his hand with your own, pressing it against your chest, against your heart that beats wildly beneath his palm. “It would not be true without you,” you whisper, and the honesty in it undoes him.

Viktor groans, something guttural and raw, his fingers flexing as if to grasp every part of you at once. His hips jolt beneath you, breaking the rhythm, and you cry out, the sudden force of it igniting something deeper. His thumb falters, then presses harder, more insistent, chasing your pleasure as his own unravels.

“You—” His voice fractures, shaking like his hands as they map over your body, overwhelmed by this. This heart given to him. “You are—” He does not finish, because his mouth captures yours instead, open, desperate, as if he could drink the words from your lips, as if you alone make them true.

Holding hands at the edge of the mountain, you step forward with your eyes closed. A yapping dog of reason tries to stop you, but you long lost your sight for anything else than each other. Your bodies fall into one another—fast and seizing. Muscles contract, and what Viktor gives, you take—you draw his hot seed into you with the quiver of your core, tightening, milking, binding you as one. Your souls—two fools at the beginning of their journey—find solid ground on the invisible bridge of faith.

It unravels into breaths, into mouths seeking each other again—no longer grasping, only wanting. And you fall once more, this time into a tight embrace, joined by hearts, by hips, by hands tangled in each other’s hair, sweat mingling with the scent of rain you carried in from the fields.

You dream of them—sunken into mist that twirls around the trees, resting heavily upon the grass. The valley stretches wide, endless, as quiet as breath. Somewhere within it, a stag stands, noble and still, his antlers a crown of patience. Near him, his mate, delicate but steadfast, her ears flicking at the whispers of the wind. They do not startle, nor flee, for there is no threat here. No snare, no hunter—only the hush of dawn and the hush of their existence, intertwined.

You sleep upon the flat of Viktor’s chest, your fingers resting in the gentle ditches of his ribs, rising and falling with the tide of his breath. Peace holds you both, in body and in dream, where nothing must be said to be known.

Dawn peeks through the window, pale and silver-edged, stirring you from slumber. Viktor does not wake yet. You turn your head, watching him. Angelic, spent, and weightless in rest, his lips curve at the corners with a smile that lingers even in sleep. It is the expression of a man at peace, and it tightens something deep within you.

Quietly, you slip from the bed and move to the window, drawing the curtain shut—but you pause. There, beyond the glass, in the hush of morning, you see it.

A stag. Proud and slow, he feeds upon the grass at the edge of the forest. His hide gleams faintly in the light, the soft bristle of his fur shifting with the breeze. Beside him, a doe—graceful, watchful. She moves with him, unhurried, as if they have all the time in the world. Together, they exist beyond any tether, any force that would claim them.

You watch, transfixed, until warmth curls around your belly—Viktor’s arms, pulling you gently against him. His chin settles in the crook of your shoulder, and for a long moment, he says nothing, seeing what you are seeing.

Then, at last, his voice, soft and knowing: “My beloved.” He exhales, his breath fanning over your skin, and you feel it—a quiet, smiling revelation settling into your bones. “If I were ever a man in this equation, I fear I was a foolish one.” You turn to nuzzle into him, your lips brushing his jaw as you whisper, “I’m afraid neither of us, at any point, has been a man, my husband.”

[aleurain]

Hello there!

Gods, I adore your jayvik drawings, especially your illustrations for fics (your art of guys on the throne made me read Cup Rune Over 😌). And OH. MY. The one with 2 Jayces and 1 Viktor... It left me speechless, and the story written for this drawing is also incredibly cool. I must say that your art and that story made something with my brain chemistry, and I just can't help but ask whether you maybe were considering to draw...ahem ahem...just two Jayces showing love for each other? 🥺❤ (I also secretly wish to read one day the second part of the story where Jayce keeps the promise given in shower ahahahaha 🌚).

(these boys need some love waaaaaahhhhhh)

ANYWAY. I just wanted to say some words of love to you and your art 😌 thank you!!! Can't wait for what's coming up next! Have a good day ❤

Ohh, you mean these guys? 😏

Haha, thank you so much for your kind words! Me and @e11era are truly glad that you enjoyed the fic, and we absolutely promise at least one thing: Talis will keep his word to Jayce. Someday. It won't take long ❤️

Tempeste did her best, and she continues outdoing herself with incredible story narrative and study of characters' personalities on every single level. Please make sure to check out other works from her sin series if you're into Jayce/Jayce now ;) Jaycexuallity is spreading!!

[etherealily]

bets // f.odair

My other Finnick fics, if you have the time.

Part 1 : Guilt Part 2 : Art

[3/3] Long + also overdue.

Finnick Odair + fem!reader. Warnings : Cuss words, SFW but discretion advised, mature themes, hurt/comfort

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : Gasp in a tempest.

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There's a sort of domesticity to this that he despises.

Your features essentially flow under his fingers as he traces them, slowly, devotedly. And he doesn't know why.

He's just willed himself to stop in immaculate timing, because a couple of sharp knocks sound on the door.

You hear them, clearly, but you don't bother. He nudges you as gently as possible. "You hear that?"

"My niece and nephew. They know I nap in the afternoons. This is just to let me know they're home.", you inform, basically whine, before your face is in his chest, trying to get away from the fucking light.

He nods. "I gotta tell you something."

"Now?"

"Now."

He watches you groan, one eye closed as you sit up and try to adjust to the light, before you make grabbing hands for your clothes.

Great. Something to make the situation worse. Harsh reminders. So much for the last thing he'd do. But after you'd come from the market, he'd just... it seemed like doing anything else would just be stupid. Who wouldn't kiss you all over?

"Yeah?'

He's frozen. He's dying. He's terrified. He's never seen you mad, but he's sure that when it comes to your family, you'd wage wars.

"I talked to Snow about you."

"What?"

"I talked to him. I, uh, talked to him to get you out of this fake, um... agreement? Situation? I dunno."

You frown, standing up and disappearing into the bathroom to brush your teeth. "Get out of it?"

"Uh, yeah. Y'know. Come up with a breakup story that doesn't put me in a bad light and doesn't get you stone-pelted in the street."

"You want to get out of it?"

Your voice is quiet enough that he knows he's made a mistake, a huge, fucking mistake, and he hadn't even got to the worst part yet, the hey-so-I-used-you-and-now-you're-a-target part.

"You don't?"

"I-", you sigh, and he breaks. Shit. "I- no, yeah, no, I do.", you assure, nodding vehemently.

"If something's changed-" he'd be fucked. If something's changed, then he'd be completely fucked.

"No, I just, y'know, um.", you mumbled, spitting out your toothpaste. "It's like, me just being all... it's, uh, nothing."

"Wait, whoa, whoa, what do you mean?" No, no, no, please God, don't-

"That night was, like, my first time. So i just, uh, y'know? It's stupid, that's not how the world works, I know, it's-"

Jesus fucking Christ.

He'd taken your freedom, your life and your virginity.

"No, it's not stupid, you just- trust me, you don't want me."

"Why, because of what Snow makes you do?", you ask, softly, and he heavily regrets the lies he spewed to Snow about you. 'Didn't care'. Please. All you did was care. You gave way too many shits about him. "You know I care for you either way."

You're being very careful not to use the word 'love', and he respects it. You're hedging your bets and he's been there.

Kinda hates it, though, because if you did use it, then he'd have a clear plan - get you the fuck out of Panem.

"I- Y/N, you're so smart. You're so good.", he whispers, making his way over to your hands and lifting them, kind of like a barrier between you and him for what he's about to say. "You don't deserve me."

"Finnick--"

"Shut up for a second, baby, okay?", he mutters, kissing your palm. "Just listen."

He's not sure if he expected you to argue, but he sure as hell didn't expect you to comply.

The silence and your fucking eyes urge him to start. And he doesn't know where. His mind seems to desperately try to convince him otherwise, to convince him he could run away and build a boat with you somewhere, and you'd be none the wiser.

But he has to say this, because for all the absolutely evil shit he's been doing lately, he has to at least get an iota of redemption.

"I've been lying to you."

The words ring around the room, ricochet back to him and wrap around his neck like a noose. They wrap around your arms like handcuffs.

He's pretty sure he's stopped breathing.

When did he get this way?

When did he lose hope?

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ONE WEEK EARLIER

He didn't think he should start his birthday off with a lie. But sometimes, you don't have an option.

"It's not that I don't love her."

"Then what is it? Let me guess. You told her your whole sob story and she didn't care?"

He kinda wished that was true. "Yes." See? Lie.

"Shame. I really thought she was the one, y'know?", mused Snow, tapping Finnick's nose twice. If he could, he'd bite that fucking finger off.

But this was a political, mind war, not an actual, bloody one. Not yet, anyway.

"Yeah. Me, too."

"I had a whole thing planned. A whole storyline. She'd be the pathetic, yet down-to-earth, homely wife that let you do whatever you wanted around the Capitol because she loves you, and you'd be the hero-husband, who, no matter how many options you try, will always come back to the District 4 Girl. Poetic, right? Either way, you'd win."

Fucking hell. It disgusted him. Absolutely disgusted him. His whole life had been planned out by someone whose life should have ended ages ago.

"That sounds smart."

"I am a marketing genius, Finnick. A genius.", he declared, laughing as he wrapped a ringed hand around his shoulder and yanked him closer. Finnick grimaced and stiffened, and Snow reveled in it.

"It doesn't matter. Do whatever. Kill her, humiliate her, I don't care."

The thing is, Finnick had come to know Snow over the years. He loved brutal killings, only if they were a) fun, and b) profitable. Killing you would be neither, seeing as Finnick was now, in Snow's eyes, done with you.

He prayed that Snow wouldn't call his bluff.

"Well, I'll have to do that anyway."

What?

"Why?" The panic had begun to seep into his tone and Snow could sniff it out plainly. But he didn't care. Not anymore.

"You said you told her your whole sob story."

No, NO! Fuck!

"You realize, I can't let her live. Not after that."

He closed his eyes, clenching his jaw. "She won't tell anyone."

"How do you know that? She got her fifteen minutes of fame and now she might want more."

"She's not like that and you know it. Don't... I still do love her, and- and she has a family. Don't kill her." Please.

Snow, infuriatingly, never smirked. His eyes forever reflected contemplation, concern, even care, but never malicious intent. So, when he uttered his next words, his face was rife with softness. "She is beautiful, though."

Finnick immediately assumed the closest position to groveling he could politically get - he stood right in front of Snow, looking up into his eyes with a desperation unmatched.

"No. No. I will work double time. I will do everything the Patrons want, just don't... no, not her."

"I thought you'd like a bit of revenge. So she can witness your sob story firsthand. Though, I might agree with her on the stance that it's a mutually beneficial system."

"Please, President Snow.", he tried again. "Not her."

Snow stroked his hair, softly. "My sweet Finnick. How you've grown. You won when you were a child. But you're a child no longer."

"It's not fair. She doesn't know anything about that life." He's close to crying.

"What? Sex? She's eighteen. She should. And it's not like she's a virgin, huh? Having been with you, you beautiful creature, you."

"She hasn't been with-", he sighed.

"Well then, maybe you should get her used to it."

He'd thought that'd be the last thing he'd ever do.

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PRESENT DAY

It's been an hour since you've spoken to him and he finds himself desperately trying to remember what your voice sounds like. He doesn't want to ask you to say something because he's scared you will.

But he has to. Because you're out of time. Because Snow's coming for you.

He's tilting his head as you sit there, watching the sky through the window.

"I'm extremely sorry."

"You said that already." Your voice. Your voice, your voice, your voice!

"I know, but--"

"Who the FUCK do you think you are?!" Good, the rage would help the adrenaline, because your survival instincts better fucking kick in.

"Please, jus--"

"Who the FUCK do you think you are, deciding that YOUR family was more IMPORTANT than mine?! WHO gave you that right? To drag me into your fucked up life and use me like a fucking commodity?!"

"HEY! I helped you, too, I tried to make up for it!

You scoff, almost laughing. "How? By training Faye badly and not finding her sponsors, basically killing her?! Or by dragging me into your fucked up world of cameras and makeup and President Snow's little reality show?! Or by sleeping with...", your voice trails off.

No. That look on your face. NO.

"No. No, no, Y/N, no--"

"Is that-- Jesus, is that why you slept with me?! You thought you could have leverage? Or you thought you'd be so brilliant that I'd forgive you?!"

"Y/N, no.", he replies, firmly, trying his damndest to be calm, because he knew you were itching for a reaction, something that would result in a way to express your rage. "No, that was real."

You stare back at him, arms crossed, and he repeats. Maybe you didn't hear him? "That was real."

"What, I'm supposed to suddenly believe you now?"

He groans, his hands running across his face. "Please. Please, I tried to get you out of it, I did! But he's... Snow is coming for you, and I've got to get you safe!"

"My family?"

"They have time. He won't touch them until he's sure you're in hiding and he needs to draw you out. That'll be a month, maybe."

"You are the worst human being on this planet, and I hope you know it."

"I do. I do. But--"

"But what? Hm? But you had a 'good reason'? But your family was in danger? I don't care!", you cry out, and he breaks. Like, genuinely. He's not sure he's standing. He feels like a pile of broken glass, and he can't even warn you not to step on him.

"I'm sorry. But you have to get over it quick, because--"

"What?"

Shit.

He stares up at you, in absolute agony. That doesn't bother you too much, though, because the agony wasn't incited by you. It was directed to you. His agony is regret.

"What the hell did you just say to me?"

Your voice is not a whisper, but it is not a yell, either. You want yourself heard, but by only him.

"I'm sorry."

"I didn't ask what you feel, I asked what you said."

"Please, don't make me say it again. I take it back."

"What did you just say?"

"I said... no, please, let's just move on from this-"

"Say it again or I'm leaving." That was a lie. Both of you know you're leaving either way.

"Please. Please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I-", he sighs, ready to fall to his knees, but he knows you wouldn't like that, and he doesn't want to guilt you into forgiving him.

You clench your jaw, and he clings onto you, pulling you closer to him as he kisses all over your face. You're about to break and he can see it. "I'm so sorry, I never meant to let it get this far."

"What am I supposed to do now? Hide?"

He tilts his head, nodding. 'I know a place. There's a rock formation, a cave, behind the waterfall. I've been fixing it up since I was sixteen. Y'know, in case I got old and wrinkly and the Capitol was done with me."

He really tries to ignore the hard set of your jaw and the way you snatched your wrist away from his hold as he snuck you out.

Yeah, he knew he fucked up, but for some reason, no matter what worst-case-scenarios you expect, reality is always, always worse.

══════════════════ 🔹🔹🔹🔹═════════════════

ONE WEEK LATER

Your hand clenches on the knife and you start up, before you're met with the sight of Finnick's hands, from behind the sheet of water covering the entrance to the cave. "Hey, hey, it's just me, it's just me."

After your hands stop clenching, it's your jaw's turn. You turn away from him and bury your face back in the pillow, pulling the slightly worn blanket back over you.

"Can you at least talk to me?"

You don't respond. You like Finnick, and you're not sure what words will come out of your mouth if you end up talking to him. Hurtful words, probably. Jesus, you don't even know how to be betrayed properly. You're still worried about hurting him. But then again, no one had exactly touched you the way he had. In more ways than one.

"Please? We have to go over our game plan, anyway."

"My family?"

"Yeah, in a month. You're not high-profile. So he's not too focused on you right now, so your family isn't being targeted. Yet."

"Yet."

He sighs, sinking down next to you, one knee elevated with an elbow on top of it. "Y/N."

"What?"

"You, uh...", he struggles, biting the inside of his cheek. "You are so much better than me in so many ways. You know that. And I know that. And I guess I'm just... I'm sorry, is what I'm trying to say. Sorry about Faye, sorry about the cameras, the makeup, the... the fact that I yelled at you the first night we met, I just... I'm not a good person. I know that."

"Did you reh--"

"Yes, I rehearsed that. The whole way up."

"Is anything in your life real? Or do you try to follow some script in every aspect of it?"

Whoa. He'd hoped you'd see his rehearsals as effort, not fabrication.

"Would it make you feel better if you got to hit me? Or something? Or... or, uh... stabbed me? I mean, y'know that's how Faye--"

Fuck. Fuck him and his stupid mouth that had an affinity towards his own motherfucking foot.

"You think I'm gonna stab you 'cause Faye got stabbed? An eye for an eye? You think I'm you? 'My family's in danger, so I'll put someone else's in danger, too!'"

Ouch.

He's never seen a bear in real life, but he's pretty sure him moving to grasp your hands against his chest so you can't move would be equivalent to poking one. But he does it anyway.

"Listen, you are the first thing I've cared about in a long time--"

"Besides yourself?"

"You think if I cared about myself, I'd be here?! You think if I cared about myself I'd be alive?! No, it's for my fuckin' family, and the next generation of tributes!"

You flinch, but he keeps going, shaking your wrists - and hence, you - as he continues. He's crazy. You could kick him any time, hell, you could even take him up on his offer and stab him, if you wanted to. He's crazy.

"And you... you just... you just got mixed up in it all, and it's fucking your fault that I gave a shit, and your fault that I fell in love with you, and it's your--" Okay, fuck. He's not as good as you at the hedging bets thing.

He can't really tell what the look on your face is, because he's too busy trying to look everywhere but.

The silence screams at both of you over and over until he paid attention to it.

"I can't handle you hating me."

It's said quietly, like an afterthought, like a gasp in a tempest. You wouldn't probably hear him if it wasn't for the fact that you were in an echoey goddamn cave.

"Tell me you don't hate me. Doesn't have to be true. I'm good at living in make-believe. Half the time, I'm on a tropical island, eating fresh fruit or sm'n."

He's rambling. He knows that. He's also acutely aware of your eyes. You're hesitant, and you're stalling. Or maybe his rambling is his form of stalling. What if you tell him the truth? Or worse, what if you actually lie, like he asked you to? Would that mean you cared enough, or didn't care at all? Fuck!

"I don't hate you, Finnick."

He'd have assumed you'd lied to get him to shut his trap, but the use of his name stupidly sprinkles hope into him. That sounded sincere.

"Really?"

"I'm just disappointed."

Oof.

"I figured after everything you told me, you'd value honesty and kindness above all else. If even you don't, then what do I expect from... well, anyone? Who do I trust?"

"No one. Seriously, don't trust anyone. Not completely, at least. And not anyone who's not me."

"Right, 'cause you're the pinnacle of trustworthiness."

"I could've just let Snow get you, you know? I could've just let it happen, because honest to god, Y/N, that was my plan! I was just about ready to abandon ship and then this stupid fucking- god! I started caring, like a fucking loser."

"That's the problem! I'd have understood if you left me in the dark, but what pisses me off is you gave enough shits to actually tell me, so why did you even...?"

He doesn't like this whole conversation. Feels like a figment of his imagination. Because, for one, you're making really good points, and he's at a loss, and that's never happened before because he's Finnick motherfucking Odair and people usually gush over him before they yell at him.

He lets go of your wrists, his hand immediately moving to your hair. His forehead presses against yours - this is the first time he's touched you in a week. "I don't need you to love me. You don't have to love me. You don't have to like me. You barely have to tolerate me. But you need to be serious when you tell me you don't hate me."

"I don't hate you!"

"Promise?" He's so pathetic, he's about to off himself.

You nod, and he kisses you. It seems like it's a script, to him, an actual script, not like bullshit they tell him to do at the Capitol, but this time, you respond in kind (why, he'll never know. Maybe you just needed a win.) , and suddenly you're co-author.

"I lied, y'know?"

"I know."

"No, not the big lie, I mean, I lied about not needing you to lov--'

"I know."

You're still hedging your bets.

And honestly? With the fact that you're kissing him while hiding in a cave from a psychopath president because he was too much of a pussy to stab him in the heart himself?

He gets it.

You know. That's until two days later when he can't find you anywhere. Not a lot of places to look in a tiny cave. So what the fuck? Where the fuck were you?

And then, his head tilts. There's a fucking white rose on your pillow.

Okay, maybe stabbing that psychotic motherfucker in the heart was long overdue.

He takes his camera. And then a gun he nicked from a Peacekeeper. What? He's hedging his bets.

~~

check this out. just in case.

[multi-fandom-imagines8]

Torn by the Dark

Part 2

Summary: Confronting Vader reveals the truth of who he truly was, leaving you torn between conflicting emotions. As you continue to fight him, you come to a painful realisation: there's only one way this can end.

Warnings: angst, character death.

A/N: Here comes another angsty Anakin oneshot, because I can't seem to give that man a happy ending 😭.

WC: 2.7 K.

You can read part 1 here. Fictober Challenge

He inhaled deeply, his mind a tempest of emotions he thought he’d long buried. The name- the one you knew, the one he’d abandoned, hung on his tongue, a bitter reminder of the man he once was, a man he now despised . Unable to say it- to confirm it, he raised a trembling hand and lifted his helmet, revealing the face of the man you had once loved. His eyes brimmed with sorrow, pain, and unspoken regret.

You staggered back, a lump forming in your throat as tears threatened to spill. Shaking your head in disbelief, you whispered, “No… it can’t be.”

His eyes darkened, anger and resentment igniting. “I hate that name,” he said, the words escaping through clenched teeth. “Anakin was weak. I had to kill him.” 

Fury boiled over as you ignited your lightsaber once more, charging at him with everything you had. Your anger wasn’t just at him- it was at yourself, too.

He stumbled back, momentarily caught off guard by your relentless assault. But your anger made you predictable. He blocked your strikes effortlessly with the Force, his lightsaber untouched at his side. The fact that he didn’t even need it only fueled your frustration further.

“Slow d-” He stopped himself mid-sentence, catching himself in the old habit of advising you, just like he used to when you sparred.

“You fucking left me!” you screamed, breath ragged, exhaustion settling in, but you kept attacking, determined to make him pay.

“I had no choice!” he barked, his voice rising in raw frustration.

You glared at him, eyes burning with rage. “And I have no choice.” You swung again, but he easily deflected your blows with a mere flick of his hand.

After a few more strikes, your body screamed for rest, and you paused, gasping for breath. Through gritted teeth, you forced out, “Why haven’t you killed me yet? Stop playing games…fight me!”

“Because I still care about you!” The words burst from him before he could stop them, surprising even himself.

“Lies!” Tears streamed down your cheeks, blurring your vision. You were trapped, torn, and unsure of what to do next.

The monster before you resembled the man you had loved so deeply. If there weren’t traces of his old habits- those familiar gestures and expressions, it would’ve been so clear to you, so easy to hate him. But seeing parts of Anakin still alive within him only stirred your conflicted emotions.

You sensed the struggle within him, a battle between the mask he wore and the person he once was. You could see Anakin trying- fighting to reach the surface, but Vader was forcing him back down. Just as you wrestled with your own feelings, he fought his own war within.

“It’s not a lie! I still care!” His fists tightened at his sides, trembling as he tried to contain the storm building inside him.

“If you cared, you wouldn’t have left me! You wouldn’t have chosen power over me.” Your voice cracked, the weight of the words suffocating you. “You made me a promise.” You exhaled a pained breath, steadying yourself. “But you know what? I release you from that promise… You mean nothing to me anymore. Anakin is dead. You killed him.” Though the words left your lips, you knew you didn’t mean them. Frustrated by your own weakness, you attacked again.

His heart sank at your words, a sharp pain shooting through his chest- a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time. He had never wanted this- had never wanted to lose you. But he’d had to let you go- for both your sakes. 

“FIGHT ME!” you screamed, trembling with fury. His restraint felt like an insult, mocking you with its indifference. He wasn’t even trying. He wasn’t using his lightsaber, and it tore at you.

He hesitated, his inner conflict warring within him. But in the end, anger overtook him. “Fine,” he snarled, igniting his lightsaber with a sharp hiss. “You want a fight? You’ll get one.”

Though he still held back, his anger surged, as he charged at you, unleashing a flurry of strikes, faster and more powerful than before. You struggled but held your ground, desperately trying to keep up.

His anger fueled each strike, pushing you back until you stumbled, crashing to the ground. Yet he waited, watching you rise- granting you a mercy he offered no one else.

“I hate you,” the words slipped out, barely above a whisper. You hadn’t meant to say them, but his restraint, his pity- it only made you angrier. You hated how he still had this hold on you.

“You don’t mean that,” he said through clenched teeth, his voice tight with barely controlled emotion.

“I DO mean it,” you spat, trying to provoke him, trying to push him to the edge, to make him strike, to make him kill you. 

He sensed your provocation, felt your need for him to lash out, to end it. But he wouldn't give in. Not to that. He refused to let you bait him into something he would never forgive himself for.

“Stop it!” he barked, his voice shaking with rage. “You don’t mean what you’re saying.”

“Every.Damn.Word.” You spat, eyes boring into his, daring him to strike. If looks could kill, he would have been dead long ago.

His anger reached a boiling point, frustration and pain twisting together in a dangerous blend. He couldn’t bear to hear you say those words, couldn’t stand to think you hated him this much. He feared what his rage might lead him to do- he had always been impulsive.

Your fight became vicious, both of you moving on pure instinct, relying on your emotions. His strikes were powerful, almost overwhelming, but you held on, fueled by your own rage and determination.

Though stronger and more experienced, you sensed hesitation in him. His anger should have consumed him by now, yet something held him back. For a moment, you thought you saw fear in his eyes- not fear for himself, but fear of what you might become. Fear that your anger might lead you down the same path he had taken.

“You can’t keep this up forever,” he said, trying to mask his worry with a smug tone. “You’ll tire before I do.”

“Then strike me down,” you challenged, your voice defiant as you pushed forward again. Exhaustion tugged at your body, but you refused to give in.

He faltered at your words, his anger giving way to disbelief. You couldn’t be serious-  couldn't truly be asking him to kill you. Not now, not when he was already cracking, his walls beginning to crumble.

“No,” he said firmly, his voice controlled but conflicted. ”I can’t do that- I won’t do that.”

You scoffed at his words. He had already killed many of your fellow Jedi, so many of your friends, and you wondered if he would’ve killed you too had you been at the Temple during Order 66.

“The most powerful Sith in the galaxy can’t kill a rebel- a Jedi? That’s new,” you mocked.

He clenched his jaw, his anger resurfacing at your words. He couldn’t stand being teased, not by you- not like this, not now. “I don’t want to kill you…I could never hurt you like this.”

You lowered your lightsaber briefly, your voice laced with bitterness. “Could never hurt me? All you’ve done these past years is hurt me.” You held back a blink, determined not to let your tears fall again.

His heart ached at your words. The pain of your accusation cut through him like a knife. He had thought- hoped that maybe, just maybe, you would understand, that you might see why he had done what he did.

“I never meant to hurt you” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I thought…I thought I was doing the right thing.”

You let out a cold, bitter laugh. “In what world did you think turning to the dark side was the right thing? That killing all those innocent people was right?”

He hesitated, replaying all the thoughts, emotions, and choices that had led him to that moment. He knew some of what he’d done was wrong, though part of him felt it was justified. But this wasn’t about the Jedi, the Sith, or the Republic. 

“I thought… I was doing right by you-” he admitted quietly, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours.

“Right by me?” you repeated, your voice thick with disbelief. “By fucking leaving me without a word? By making me think you were dead while I mourned you?” Your grip tightened around your lowered lightsaber as the sting of betrayal clawed at your chest.

He couldn’t look at you anymore, his gaze falling to the floor. “I knew how you’d feel if you found out the truth- that I betrayed the Jedi… betrayed you.” His voice wavered, thick with guilt, shame, and regret. “I thought staying away would spare you the pain. That by doing what I did, I could save you from watching me fall to the dark side. I…I was afraid there was a chance you might follow me down that path.” He let out a frustrated sigh, his last words slipping out in barely audible tone.

His words stung. You could see the guilt that etched on his face, and it was so painfully familiar. The Anakin you once knew, the one who always feared loss, was right in front of you, but twisted by darkness. You hated that it made sense.

“You should have trusted me,” you said, your voice breaking. “You should have let me help you. I could have saved you.”

He sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping under the weight of all he had done. “I didn’t want to drag you down with me.”

“Then why did you turn?” you asked, your voice tinged with heartfelt bewilderment. “Why did you give in to the dark side?”

“I thought…the dark side would give me the power to save the ones I loved. I thought it would make me strong enough to protect you from any harm,” he admitted, finally looking up to meet your gaze once more.

You nodded slowly, a disappointed smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “Protect me?” You scoffed. “Well, now that you have it, tell me. How does it feel? To have all that power yet no control? No one left to protect?”

He paused, your words cutting deep. He had believed in the dark side, convinced of its power to make him stronger. And yet, here he was- emptier than he had ever been. He had wanted more power, yes, that was true. He had wanted the strength to protect those he cared about, to save them from death. He had thought that ending the Order and the Republic would rid the galaxy of corruption, that he would create a peaceful Empire. But in the end, all he had achieved was the opposite. 

“It feels…hollow,” he finally admitted, his voice barely a whisper. For the first time, you saw true vulnerability in his eyes.

You nodded slowly, a single tear slipping down your cheek. “Good.” 

Without warning, you raised your lightsaber, determination flooding your body. No more talking, no more dwelling on the past. This fight had to end.

He sighed deeply, sensing the shift in you, and prepared himself, knowing you wouldn’t back down.

As you engaged him, he sensed a disturbance within you- a grim resolve that wouldn’t end well.  You energy was fading, but you refused to stop.

“Stop this madness! You’re going to get yourself killed!” he shouted, panic seeping into his voice, his tone almost pleading.

“I don’t care! This ends now, one way or another!” you snarled, your strikes growing more desperate, your movements slipping as exhaustion took hold.

“Please!” he begged, his voice breaking. “Please, don’t do this.”

“You should have thought about that before you revealed yourself! Before you stopped me from leaving! Hell, before any of this…It’s too late now,” you spat, your energy fading, but your will remained unshaken.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, and this time, the words carried genuine sorrow. There was no mistaking the sincerity in his voice.

His apology shattered something inside you. He had never apologized, not like this. You knew that if you stayed, maybe- just maybe you could help him, save him- save countless lives. But after everything, after the truth had come out, you were selfish, impulsive- consumed by your own feelings and pain. You realized he’d been right: if he’d come back then, you might have followed him down the dark path. You couldn’t live with the possibility of becoming like him.

Now that you were fighting him, you saw just how much you’d changed. Anger, hatred, resentment, and pain- they were all-consuming. This wasn’t the Jedi way. Yet, even though they were ‘extinct’ now, you had tried to hold to their principles. But now…now you had nothing left.

And the worst part? After everything he had done, after all this time, you still loved him. But you couldn’t live with that fact, and so you knew there was only one thing left to do. 

Summoning all your strength, you managed to push him back one last time. And just as he prepared to strike again, seeing you about to block, you deactivated your lightsaber, letting his blade pierce through your gut.

Your weapon clattered to the ground as you fell to your knees. His lightsaber immediately switched off, and his eyes widened in horror as he realized what had happened- what you’d just done- what he’d just done. Before your head could hit the ground, Anakin was there, catching you, cradling you close in his arms.

“No!” he cried, pulling you close, his face twisted in panic and pain.

When he looked down, you were smiling softly, a single tear tracing a path down your cheek.

“No, no, NO! What have you done? What have I done?” His voice was frantic, laced with panic, pain, and fury. He couldn’t understand why- why you had let him do this, couldn’t bear the reality that you’d allowed this.

“It’s alright…Anakin,” you whispered, your voice weak as your trembling hand reached up to cup his face. He leaned into your touch, finally allowing himself to feel you. He had waited so long for this moment, but now…now it was all wrong.

“Why?” His voice cracked, the strain of his emotions uncontainable. “Why would you do this?”

“It was the only way,” you whispered, your breath growing weaker. “I…I still love you after everything, but I can’t live knowing what I might become.” You could feel yourself drifting away, your vision dimming as the end drew near. At least now, just as you promised, you’d die before betraying the cause.

“No. Please, don’t leave me,” he pleaded, his tears falling freely now. “My life without you was nothing but darkness. And now that I’ve found you again, you- I-…What cruel fate is this? To lose you all over again?”

“This time…it’s not your fault,” you murmured, the strength fading from your voice. “I…forgive…y-”

Your heart stopped before you could finish, and the light in your eyes flickered out as your hand slipped from his cheek, falling limp. There was so much more you had wanted to tell him, so much more you needed him to know, but time wasn’t on your side.

“NO!” he screamed, his voice echoing through the halls, the weight of your death crashing over him.

He held onto your lifeless body, his grip tightening as if he could keep you from slipping away entirely, almost crushing you in his arms as grief and rage consumed him. His hands clenched into fists, and in a moment of blind fury he couldn’t contain, he unleashed the Force in a violent wave, obliterating everything around him. Stormtroopers fell, machinery shattered- all caught in this storm of his despair. By the time he was done, nothing was left standing.

As the dust settled, an agonizing emptiness remained. Still cradling your body, he felt a hollowness more complete than he’d ever known. You were gone, and nothing- not even the power he’d sacrificed everything for could bring you back.

Tags: @mother-dragon-and-her-hatchlings @dcrthbaeder @aoi-targaryen

[panakinthedisco]

PART 1 | HEAVEN ━━ Marcus Acacius

summary: acacius' mother forged a blood pact with the goddess of love, vowing to safeguard and elevate her son, while dedicating her life as a delphi in return. through all general acacius' triumphs, you as the daughter of venus deftly orchestrated his victory as promised but then gradually nurturing a forbidden attachment.

author's note: don't get me started how i almost died with the trailer and the photos of papi pedroooooo so i had to do this (also i can use my greek mythology knowledge for some good use) so yup reader is an immortal goddess and possibly daughter of venus, idfc anymore because i'm making my own lore! they're going to be arwen and aragorn-esque ending coz i eat those kind of tropes lmfao

warnings: eventual smut to later chapters. mentions of misogyny, violence and also implications of sexual abuse.

word count: 4.4k

In the heart of a desolate village, a young woman stood at the fringes of society, shunned and abandoned for bearing the child of a powerful general. Clutching her infant son tightly to her chest, she wandered aimlessly, her heart heavy with despair and fear. The whispers of the villagers echoed in her mind, a cacophony of judgment and scorn. Tears streamed down her face as she made her way to the grand temple of Venus, the goddess of love, her last beacon of hope.

The temple, with its towering marble columns and intricate carvings, loomed before her like a sanctuary in the midst of her turmoil. The air grew thick with an impending storm as she fell to her knees at the entrance, her cries piercing the silence of the sacred place. "Great Venus, goddess of love and mercy," she sobbed, her voice trembling, "I beg of you, protect my son and guide us, for we have nowhere else to go. I fear for his life, for he is innocent."

As her desperate pleas echoed within the hallowed halls, the wind suddenly picked up, swirling around her with a fierce intensity. The sky darkened, and the deafening roar of thunder cracked through the air. In the midst of this tempest, a radiant light descended upon the temple. From the ethereal glow emerged a figure of unparalleled beauty, clothed in pure white robes that flowed like water.

Venus, the goddess of love, knelt before the fallen woman. Her presence was divine, her skin like alabaster, flawless and luminous. Her eyes, a captivating shade of deep blue, held the wisdom of the ages and the compassion of a thousand hearts. Golden hair cascaded down her back in waves, shimmering as if woven from sunlight. A gentle smile graced her lips, exuding warmth and serenity.

"Rise, my child," Venus spoke, her voice a melodious symphony that filled the air with hope. "Do not despair, for I have heard your cries and felt your anguish. I can offer you and your son protection, but it comes with a price. You must dedicate your life to me, serve as my devotee, and in return, I shall ensure your son’s safety and guide you both to a brighter future."

The young woman, overwhelmed by the goddess's presence and her words, gazed into the loving eyes of Venus. With unwavering determination and gratitude, she nodded. "I will do as you ask, great goddess. My life is yours to command, if it means my son will be safe."

Venus gently lifted the woman to her feet, her touch tender and reassuring. "Then it shall be so. From this moment forth, you are under my protection. Fear not, for love shall guide your path, and together, we shall overcome all obstacles." 

With that, the storm subsided, leaving behind a serene sky. The young woman, now filled with renewed hope and purpose, cradled her son as they both embraced the divine path laid before them by the goddess of love.

Years had gone by, the once forsaken young woman found solace and purpose as a devoted Delphi. She served with unwavering faith, her every breath a testament to the sacred bond she had formed with the goddess of love. Her son, Acacius, grew under the protective aegis of the temple, receiving the finest education and training from the wise sorceresses who resided there. His days were filled with rigorous training and study, molding him into a formidable warrior.

One golden afternoon, the courtyard of the temple buzzed with activity. Acacius, now a young man of remarkable prowess, moved with grace and strength as he sparred with his fellow trainees. His body, chiseled and powerful, gleamed with sweat under the sun. Every muscle in his arms and chest rippled with the precision and control honed through years of discipline. His jawline was sharp, his dark hair tousled, and his piercing eyes focused, exuding an aura of confidence and determination.

From a distance, Venus, resplendent in her divine beauty, emerged from the temple accompanied by you, her daughter. Venus’ robes flowed like liquid moonlight, and her presence illuminated the courtyard. While you, whose divine essence shimmered with an ethereal glow, stood by your mother’s side, your eyes subtly observing Acacius as he trained vigorously.

"Look at him, my daughter," Venus spoke, her voice a soothing melody. "Acacius’ mother devoted her life to serving as a Delphi, and it is now your duty to watch over him. He has grown into a man of great potential."

You were hesitant and prideful, replied, "Mother, surely I am capable of far more important tasks than merely watching over a mortal."

Venus laughed, "Ah, my dear, I see great things in Acacius. I made an unbreakable oath to his mother to protect him and guide him to victory. This task is of utmost importance, and you, my daughter, are perfectly suited for it."

Reluctantly, you agreed, though you felt the weight of the responsibility. As Venus gracefully returned to the temple, your gaze lingered on Acacius. You had watched him grow from a vulnerable child into the powerful warrior he had become. His masculine form, sculpted by relentless training, was a testament to his dedication and strength. His broad shoulders, strong arms, and defined torso were a sight to behold, each movement exuding a raw, magnetic energy.

As the daughter of Venus, you had spent millennia observing the ways of mortals. From the heights of the celestial realm to the depths of human existence, you had witnessed the endless cycles of birth, love, ambition, and vanity that defined their ephemeral lives. Mortal men, in particular, seemed ensnared by their own reflections, driven by a relentless pursuit of power, beauty, and validation. Their obsessions with vanity, you mused, were like chains binding them to an endless quest for an ever-elusive perfection.

In the sanctity of your divine solitude, you pondered these thoughts, your mind weaving through the countless interactions you had with mortals over the ages. Vanity, you concluded, was a double-edged sword. It spurred men to greatness but also led them to their downfall. How often have you seen warriors, poets, and kings, their hearts consumed by the desire for eternal youth, adoration, and glory? They built monuments to themselves, adorned their bodies in opulent garb, and sought the fleeting approval of their peers, all the while neglecting the deeper virtues of humility, wisdom, and compassion.

Living among mortals, you had grown accustomed to their ways, understanding the fragile nature of their existence. Yet, with each passing century, you have grown more disillusioned by their unchanging flaws. Despite the wisdom imparted by time and the guidance of the gods, mortals remained predictably obsessed with their own image.

When your mother, Venus, entrusted you with the responsibility of watching over Acacius, you could not help but feel a familiar pang of skepticism. Was he not just another man, destined to be ensnared by the same vanities as those before him? Despite his formidable strength and the disciplined mind he had cultivated, you feared that beneath his heroic exterior lay the same vulnerabilities that had claimed countless others.

As you observed Acacius from the shadows, your thoughts grew heavier. You remembered how, as a boy, he had shown signs of the same traits that plagued mortal men: the pride in his burgeoning strength, the flicker of arrogance in his victories, and the longing in his eyes for recognition and admiration. He seemed no different from the countless men who had walked the earth, striving for greatness yet ultimately ensnared by their own hubris.

Your divine heart, though swayed by eons of witnessing human folly, felt a curious twinge as she watched him. There was something about Acacius, a glimmer of potential, that both made you intrigued and worried. Could he break the cycle? Or would he, too, succumb to the inevitable downfall of vanity?

As you silently vowed to fulfill her mother’s promise, you found yourself grappling with an unexpected sense of protectiveness. Despite your reservations, there was an undeniable bond formed by watching him grow, a reluctant admiration for his resilience and strength. You feared for him, not because you doubted his abilities, but because she understood the weight of his mortality.

With a sigh, you resigned yourself to the task. "Acacius may be like other men," you thought, "but perhaps there lies within him a spark of something more." You would watch over him, guide him, and protect him from the shadows, ever vigilant and ever hopeful that he might transcend the very vanities that ensnared his kind. As the daughter of Venus, you knew that love and duty were bound by unbreakable threads, and you would honor them both, even if it meant confronting your own doubts and fears.

As you observed him and embedded in your own thoughts, Acacius suddenly paused and turned his head, his sharp eyes meeting yours across the courtyard. Startled, you quickly retreated into the shadows, your divine essence blending with the darkened corners of the temple. 

Hidden from view, your heart pounded. You realized the gravity of your new role, feeling a mixture of trepidation and an unspoken bond with the man she would protect and guide. As Acacius resumed his training, unaware of the divine eyes watching over him, you knew this won’t be an easy responsibility. 

As the daughter of Venus, you have watched over Acacius from the shadows, your divine presence hidden but your influence ever-present. From the moment he drew his sword, you felt the weight of your mother's promise pressing upon your shoulders, a vow to guide and protect him, to steer him towards greatness. Acacius was more than a mortal; he was the culmination of a divine pact, and your duty to him was as sacred as the bond forged between his mother and Venus.

In his youth, you whispered wisdom into the ears of his mentors, guiding their hands as they trained him in the arts of war and leadership. You ensured that the best teachers found their way to him, that he learned not only the strategies of battle but also the virtues of honor, compassion, and justice. Through subtle interventions, you shaped his character, molding him into a man worthy of the destiny laid before him.

As he grew, so did the challenges he faced. You were there in the thick of his battles, unseen but ever vigilant. During his early skirmishes, you would nudge his instincts, sharpening his reflexes and lending him the strength he needed to overcome his foes. When he faltered, you were the whisper of encouragement that steeled his resolve, the invisible hand that steadied his sword.

In the grand halls of strategy and politics, you guided his thoughts, helping him navigate the treacherous waters of Roman ambition. You planted seeds of wisdom in his mind, urging him to form alliances that would strengthen his position, to make decisions that would earn him the respect of his peers and the loyalty of his men. You were the unseen force that smoothed the path before him, ensuring that every step he took led him closer to his destiny.

When he was appointed as a general under Maximus Decimus Meridius, you knew that your efforts were bearing fruit. Acacius had become a formidable leader, his name spoken with reverence and fear across the empire. Yet, his journey was far from over. Under the rule of Emperor Geta and his co-Augusti, Caracalla, Acacius faced new trials. The invasion of Caledonia was a test of his mettle, a crucible that would forge his legacy.

As the Romans prepared for their campaign, you took on the guise of a tradesman’s daughter in Caledonia, positioning yourself to be near him, to watch over him more closely. The battles were fierce, and the land was unforgiving. You ensured that crucial information reached him at the right moments, that his strategies were sound and his decisions unerring. You softened the hearts of those who might have betrayed him, turned the tides of fortune in his favor.

Through the years, you have been his silent guardian, his invisible ally. You have seen him rise from a young warrior to a revered general, each victory a testament to the bond you honored. Even now, as you  stand among the captured townspeople, disguised and hidden, your purpose remains unchanged. You are here to protect him, to guide him, and to ensure that he fulfills the destiny that was promised.

In the moments when doubt clouded his heart, you were the light that pierced the darkness. When he faced insurmountable odds, you were the strength that carried him through. You have watched over him with a mixture of pride and affection, your heart swelling with each triumph and breaking with each loss. Acacius is more than just a mortal; he is a living embodiment of the divine promise you are bound to uphold.

Amidst the chaos of the Roman invasion of Caledonia, the air was thick with smoke and the cries of the conquered. The formidable General Acacius, now a seasoned leader under Emperor Geta and his co-Augusti, Caracalla, surveyed the battlefield with a steely gaze. His once youthful visage was now marked by the scars of countless battles, his presence commanding and unwavering.

In the midst of the turmoil, you risked disguising as a daughter of a tradesman, moved with quiet resolve. Clad in the coarse, earth-toned garb of a peasant, she blended seamlessly with the captured townspeople. Yet, even in your humble attire, your divine essence could not be wholly concealed. Your skin, a flawless alabaster, stood out against the grime and soot of the war-torn village. Your eyes, a striking shade of hazel, gleamed with an unearthly light, and your movements, though tempered to appear modest, held an innate grace that betrayed your true nature.

The Roman soldiers, drunk on victory, rounded up the women of Caledonia, separating them from their families with ruthless efficiency. Among the throng, the disguised goddess maintained a facade of fear and helplessness, your heart pounding as she witnessed the suffering of the innocent. The brutality of the soldiers, their coarse laughter, and lecherous gazes made you shudder inwardly, but you knew you must maintain your cover.

General Acacius, his mind burdened with the responsibilities of command, scanned the scene with a practiced eye. His soldiers were securing the captives, ensuring the spoils of war were collected. His gaze fell upon the group of captured women, and for a moment, he saw them as mere pawns in the grand scheme of conquest. But then, his eyes landed on you.

Despite your plain clothing, something about you stood out. Your skin, untouched by the harshness of the elements, was too smooth, too luminous for a common peasant. Your hair, though partially hidden beneath a simple headscarf, shone with a subtle, otherworldly luster. You moved with a quiet dignity, your posture erect even in the face of despair. Acacius's sharp eyes missed nothing, maybe a nobility pretending to be a peasant so they can escape from the invasion. He finds it as a clever tactic. 

As one of his soldiers, emboldened by the chaos, approached her with lecherous intent, Acacius felt a surge of anger. The soldier, a brutish figure, reached out to grasp your arm, his intentions clear. Before he could lay a hand on you, Acacius's voice rang out, authoritative and cold.

"Stand down," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. The soldier froze, his hand hovering in the air. "Do not touch her."

The soldier, taken aback, stammered a protest, "But, General, she's just a—"

"Bring her to me," Acacius cut him off, his gaze fixed on the disguised goddess. "Now."

The soldier, reluctant but obedient, withdrew his hand and roughly pushed you forward. You stumbled slightly but quickly regained your balance, your eyes meeting Acacius with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. As you were brought before him, he could see the subtle details that marked you as different: the refinement in your features, the intelligence in your eyes, the air of quiet strength exuded within you.

"Who are you?" Acacius asked, his voice softer but still commanding. "You do not belong here, do you?"

You hesitated, you mind racing to craft a plausible response. "I am the daughter of a tradesman," you said, your voice steady despite the fear you felt. "Captured like the others. Please, I mean no harm."

Acacius studied you for a long moment, his instincts telling him there was more to your story. "Take her to my tent," Acacius declared, his voice carrying an edge of finality. "She will be my personal cupbearer."

The soldiers, recognizing the unwavering tone of their general, nodded in agreement. They stepped back, leaving you untouched. Acacius's gaze softened slightly as he looked at you, a mixture of curiosity and protectiveness in his eyes.

"Find her something clean to wear," he instructed, his tone gentle yet firm.

Two soldiers led you through the encampment, their grip on your arms firm but not harsh. They guided you to the lavish tent of General Acacius, a striking contrast to the roughness of the battlefield outside. The tent was grand, its exterior adorned with rich fabrics and ornate decorations. Inside, it was a sanctuary of luxury and comfort amidst the chaos of war.

The interior of the tent was spacious, with plush carpets covering the ground and opulent cushions scattered around. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes of Roman victories and mythological grandeur. A large, intricately carved wooden table stood at the center, laden with an array of sumptuous food and fine wine. The scent of incense filled the air, mingling with the aroma of roasted meats and freshly baked bread.

As you stood in the middle of the tent, feeling the weight of her disguise, General Acacius entered. His armor gleamed in the soft light of the tent, and his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your heart race. He moved with the confidence of a seasoned warrior, yet there was a gentleness in his approach.

"Sit with me," he said, gesturing to the cushions by the table.

You hesitated but complied, lowering yourself onto the soft cushions. Acacius sat across from you, his gaze never leaving yours like a lion observing his prey. He offered you a plate of food, the array of delicacies a testament to the wealth and power he commanded.

"Please, eat," he urged, but you shook your head, declining politely.

"I’m not hungry, my Lord," you explained, your voice steady.

Acacius leaned back, studying you intently. "What kind of business does your father have?"

You took a breath, weaving the story you had prepared. "My father is a tradesman, specializing in silk. We travel far and wide, even to the distant lands of China, to procure the finest silk. He sells it to the emperor and to those of noble birth."

Acacius nodded, intrigued. "A tradesman of silk, you say? But then, you do not seem like a mere peasant."

You lowered your eyes, the weight of your divine secret heavy upon you. "We have faced many hardships, but my father has always ensured that we present ourselves with dignity."

Acacius leaned forward, his gaze unwavering. "Tell me," he said, his voice low and measured, "does your family live in Caledonia?"

Your heart is pounding. "Yes," you replied, your voice steady. "We come from an impoverished background. My father sought to make a better life for us through his trade."

Acacius studied you closely, his eyes dark and intense. As he reached for a cluster of grapes, he popped one into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. The act, so casual and yet so intimate, made your pulse quicken. His scrutiny was unrelenting, and you felt as though he could see through the layers of your disguise.

"You should know," he began, his tone carrying a note of warning, "that the nobility of Caledonia will be captured. There is no escape for them."

You remained silent, her expression carefully neutral. You knew he was testing you, probing for any signs of deceit. His words, though intended to intimidate, also carried a hint of concern.

"My soldiers are ruthless," he continued, his voice growing colder. "They would take advantage of you if given the chance."

You nodded silently, acknowledging the gravity of his warning. Your heart ached at the thought of the suffering around you, but you knew she had to maintain your composure.

As Acacius spoke, the flap of the tent was pushed aside, and a soldier entered, carrying a bundle of fresh clothes. They were simple but clean, likely taken from a Caledonian household. The soldier handed the bundle to Acacius, who thanked him with a curt nod.

"Here," Acacius said, extending the clothes to you. "Put these on."

You rose from your seat and took the bundle obediently, your fingers brushing against his for the briefest moment. The contact sent a shiver through you, a reminder of the thin line she walked between mortal and divinity. 

"You may change behind the screen," he said, gesturing to a beautifully carved wooden partition that provided a modicum of privacy within the tent.

You nodded and moved behind the screen, the fabric rustling softly as you slipped out of your peasant clothes. The new garments were a marked improvement, though still modest. As you dressed, you could feel Acacius's presence just beyond the screen, his protective aura enveloping you like a shield.

When you emerged, you found him watching you intently, his eyes reflecting a mixture of curiosity and something deeper, something you could not quite name. The new clothes fit you well, accentuating your grace and poise even in their simplicity.

"Better," he murmured, his voice softening. "You look more like the person you claim to be."

You offered a faint smile, lowering her gaze. "Thank you."

Days passed, and you, now working as a cupbearer in General Acacius's camp, endeavored to maintain your humble facade. Despite your best efforts to appear as an ordinary servant, your innate grace and poise occasionally betrayed your true nature. Acacius, ever observant, began to notice the subtle refinement in your movements, the way you carried yourself with a dignity that spoke of nobility.

Your body language, though deliberately subdued, hinted at a life of privilege and education. You moved with an elegance that seemed out of place in the rough-and-tumble environment of a military camp. The way you poured water into cups, the delicate curve of your fingers as you handled the pitchers, all bespoke a background far removed from the impoverished tale you had spun.

One afternoon, a group of generals gathered in Acacius's lavish tent for a luncheon. As you silently poured water into their cups, you could feel the weight of their gazes upon you. The generals, their voices booming with laughter and boasts, paid little heed to the solemnity of their surroundings. One of them, a burly man with a coarse beard, eyed you with a lecherous grin.

"Acacius," he called out, his voice thick with drink, "is your cupbearer good in bed?"

The tent erupted in raucous laughter, the crude jest echoing off the walls. Acacius, seated at the head of the table, narrowed his eyes. His gaze hardened, and he fixed the offending general with a stern look.

"Such things are not to be discussed," he said, his tone carrying a quiet authority that silenced the laughter.

The general, still chuckling, raised his hands in mock surrender. "Ah, Acacius, always so reserved. You'd do well to indulge a bit more."

The disguised goddess watched the exchange with keen interest, your heart pounding. You knew Acacius's character well, having observed him for years. You despised these gatherings, these displays of vanity and ego. He found no pleasure in the idle boasts of his peers, preferring the company of his own thoughts and strategies.

As you continued your duties, pouring water and refilling cups, you could sense Acacius's discomfort. He was a man of action, a warrior with a clear sense of purpose. These luncheons, with their empty chatter and frivolous banter, were a stark contrast to the disciplined life he led. You admired his restraint, his ability to maintain his composure in the face of such provocation.

The generals continued their revelry, their conversations shifting from one boast to another. They spoke of past victories, of conquests and spoils, their voices a cacophony of pride and self-importance. Acacius, though present in body, seemed distant, his mind likely focused on the next battle, the next challenge.

As you moved around the table, you caught his eye for a brief moment. In that instant, you saw a flicker of something deeper, a connection that transcended. You knew that he valued substance over show, strategy over vanity. His reluctance to engage in their crude jests and hollow boasts only endeared him to you more.

The luncheon dragged on, the generals growing more boisterous with each passing moment. Acacius, ever the disciplined leader, maintained his stoic demeanor, responding to their jibes with measured patience. You could see the tension in his posture, the tightness in his jaw, and felt a pang of empathy.

As the daughter of Venus, you had always found mortal men to be easily swayed by vanity and ambition. They are like clay, molded by the hands of society and their peers, their true selves often buried beneath layers of ego and pride. But Acacius is different. Despite the pressures and temptations that come with his rank, he remains steadfast and true to his values. You're secretly proud of him, of the strength he shows in resisting the crudeness and arrogance that so often define his comrades.

That evening, after the generals had left and the camp had settled into a quiet lull, you found Acacius outside his tent, gazing up at the night sky. The stars twinkled above, their light casting a gentle glow on his strong, chiseled features. There was a tranquility in the air, a moment of peace amidst the chaos of war.

You approached him silently, your heart swelling with admiration for the man he had become. "Thank you for everything, My Lord," you said softly, breaking the silence.

He turned to look at you, his eyes reflecting the starlight. "You don’t need to thank me," he replied, his voice steady.

You nodded, understanding the brusqueness of his words. "Even so, I am forever grateful."

As you turned to return to the tent, you could feel his gaze lingering on you. There was a mystery in his eyes, a curiosity that you knew he could not easily dispel. You wondered what he saw when he looked at you—this woman who appeared from nowhere, cloaked in the guise of a humble servant yet betraying hints of refinement and grace.

CONTINUE READING: PART 2 | PART 3 ━━ AVAILABLE ON AO3

☆ MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION | SOCIALS | SIGN OFF BANNER MADE BY. @ALDERAANDORS ☆

[krono2011]

Demon and the Moth Chapter 1 Part two Leaping back with clenched fists and narrowed eyes, she remained skeptical while listening. Her desperate look, eyes blazing with fury, affected him. To avoid another fight, he gradually lowered his arms.

“Okay, hear me out for a second. I’m Robin. I’m not from around here. I woke up in this awful place hours ago.

Recognition flickered in the girl’s eyes. Tilting her head, she studied him.

“Are you talking about Robin, Batman’s sidekick?” she asked delicately—was that shyness? Acknowledgment?

Sounds good. Someone recognized him.

“Yet... you look like a devil,” she added.

“Yes. There are unknown circumstances that led to my change in appearance. I assure you—I’m still human.” There was a delicate, non-threatening flutter of her wings; a slight movement. A sigh escaped her lips, still alert. He didn’t view her as an enemy. He could persuade her. He direly needed answers. He had to determine this girl’s nature—likely, a magic user. Her outfit looked modern; was it a superhero costume? A villain suit? He didn’t know. “Prove it,” the moth girl demanded. ”If you don’t mean any harm, let go of your weapon.” Sheathing his katana, Damian tossed it before the pedestal, pleased the girl would talk. The atmosphere was tense as they locked eyes. He was confident he could disable the enemy using family-taught methods. He watched her. He pictured a small child, yet her wings dominated his vision, reminding him of a peacock’s defensive posture. This caused him to smirk. “My name’s Tempest, though that’s not my birth name; it’s what I was called back home.” Damian was curious about the young woman’s experiences, speculating she might be a meta because of her non-despondent attitude as she talked about the harsh truth in those words. A magic user who slipped through the crack. It is of no importance. ”I am new here, similar to you, but I have been around for two days.” She’s pacing in circles, interested in him; He needs further information. He is following her actions, too graceful, stoic, there allure in there. She is attractive. I presume you hadn’t come here willingly?” he deduce. She nodded, with sharp distaste. he can use it to his adavntage, ”Knowing that I am a vigilante, I extend an offer for a temporary alliance to work together on finding a way out. “ She nods, thankful to have found someone to support her in this horrible situation. Tempest: He considers the unusual name, wondering if she’s a villain, but decides to postpone the question, preferring to observe her actions instead.

[moonchild912]

Chapter 2: Burial Mounds

His gaze moved from the spicy dish back to Lan Zhan’s unchanging expression. You can’t be this cruel to yourself, Lan Zhan. You need to heal. A-Yuan needs you to heal.

But even as the thought echoed through his mind, he knew that healing was not something Lan Zhan could do easily. He was too wrapped in grief, too bound by the past. He had lived through a storm of pain, and the past was a tempest that refused to let him go.”

Wei Ying’s chest tightened with a surge of helplessness. He could see Lan Zhan’s hands trembling slightly as he continued to eat, trying to endure the spice, but it wasn’t the spice that was making him suffer. It was the weight of everything—Wei Ying’s death, the world that had condemned him, the hollow absence of their family.

A small, flickering thought crossed Wei Ying’s mind—a memory of a simpler time. A time when Lan Zhan’s restraint had been a source of strength, not a wall keeping him from moving forward. He could see it clearly now—the quiet care with which Lan Zhan had shown in the cave of Xuanwu, gently cradling his head onto his lap, sending him spiritual energy to keep him alive, singing the song that he had composed just for him. He has always loved me, Wei Ying thought, his heart aching at the realization.

And yet, here they were, two souls separated by an impossible chasm of grief and time. He was no longer flesh and blood. He couldn’t touch Lan Zhan, couldn’t speak the words he so desperately wanted to say. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t help—didn’t mean he couldn’t find a way to guide Lan Zhan back.

Title: ‘A Soul Unheard’

AO3: Moonchild912

Wattpad: Moonchild0912

Etsy: https://lotuslovehaven.etsy.com

[ineffablelvrs]

THE BIG BYLER FANFIC RECS POST PART 1

PART 2 HERE

aka every byler fanfic ive ever had opened on my phone but never got around to reading (and i dont think i will because. change of fandoms lmao) (it was supposed to be just 1 part but apparently there's a link limit)

!! btw a lot of writers repeats so im tagging them only the first time !!

long post so everything is gonna be under the cut

movie magic by dragons_like_smores (@howtobecomeadragon)

Think I've Died and Gone to Heaven by 0_space_ghost_0

a real fucking legacy, to leave by andiwriteordie (@andiwriteordie)

the strawberries are dying by eggowlss (@eggo-owl)

strangely, he feels at home by andiwriteordie

lying on the floor (typing your name into the internet) by andiwriteordie

The Artist and the Writer by heyits_L (@buck-yyyy)

A Covert Cat in a Cramped Coffee Shop by if_the_stars_fall (@inky-iridescence)

Rock 'n' Roll by bylerisc4non (@bylerisc4non)

The Sharpie Effect by VibraniumStrap

what a match: i'm half-doomed and you're semi-sweet by perexcri (@perexcri)

your string of lights is still bright to me by heidibyers (emiliano)

I don't quite know what to say (but I'm here in your doorway) by mikeslawyer (@mikeslawyer)

beneath these boughs, my devotion blooms by perexcri

love in the time of dragons by mogiah (@morganee)

this is when the feeling sinks in by mogiah

a hundred thrown out speeches by andiwriteordie

i should be over all the butterflies, but i'm into you by willelfanpage (@willelfanpage)

you're stuck in my brain by delusionaltogether (Whyyyyy) (@parkitaco)

with all my heart by mogiah

The Breath That Passed From You To Me by AabH

The Tempests Created This Tide by AabH

just gotta call on me by wiseatom (@wiseatom)

somethin' about you (that i will always recognize) by andiwriteordie

there's nothing more cruel than to be loved by everybody but you by perexcri

Paper Faces by laozuspo (@henrysglock)

i know the end series by bookinit (@bookinit02)

take your time while you're mine (and smoke slow) by andiwriteordie

takes one to know one by andiwriteordie

sweetheart, you're so cruel by perexcri

The Secret to Being Unlucky by lovetriangled (@lovetriangled)

my life begins and ends with you by RomeoWrites (@itsromeowrites)

anything, anything by inblue

someone who loves me now (better than you) by SomeLovleyPopTarts

Daydream by disaster_energy

i had a dream (i got everything i wanted) by andiwriteordie

But Not Tonight by Matto (@mattuhoh)

Real sweet, but I wish you were sober by queercodedvillain

i'm not going anywhere by vissers

provide me sweet understanding by agustplz (shout_out_lou)

To Hell and Back Again by perexcri

an ode to hope (and other funny things) by pyschologicalrocketgirl (@pyschologicalrocketgirl)

i'll find myself in the moonlight by beansie (@byeler)

where the light glows by beansie

yellow is your favorite color by RomeoWrites

emotional motion sickness by delusionaltogether (Whyyyyy)

i'll be your first, i'll be your last by agustplz (shout_out_lou)

home is where the heart is by smoosnoom (moonsooms) (@smoosnoom)

let our walls cave in by andiwriteordie, kidovna (@kidovna)

the words we held back by mogiah

The Only Truth (that I could see) by DrunkenWhalerbitc4 (@drunkenwailerbitc4)

Landslide by hopelessromanfic (@hopelessromanfic)

landslide by chamb3rs

Mike Wheeler And The 5 Stages Of Dealing With Your Best Friend's Secret Admirer by onstoryladders (@onstoryladders)

summer days a plenty by RomeoWrites

running up that road by smoosnoom (moonsooms)

if i was higher, maybe i could see heaven. by bookinit

icarus falls by bookinit

Wrathful Wishing Star and Poisoned Apple Tree by DaineYui

now that we are both doomed by boryaundernight (orphan_account)

they don't know what i know (been thinking about you) by miketozier (smallcuts)

what it means to be gentle by Zara_Zara (@bylermyheart)

how light carries on endlessly series by andiwriteordie

undertow by beansie

cause i’m utterly useless (totally stupid now) by yemeoto

Jealousy (turning saints into the sea) by wasabi8000

Geography Notes and Doodles by midnighteverlark

Bring Your Roommate(?) to Work Day by sarah_tonin_on_the_rocks

stare at pictures of you 'til i'm blind by agustplz (shout_out_lou)

Sounds pretty gay by SkuldTheNorn

want for anything (and everything) by losingcontrolnow

no takesies-backsies by AttaboyLuther (@titforatat)

RESPONSIBILITY by Wheelerboi

poor old jim's white as a ghost (he's found the answer that we lost) by AttaboyLuther

I'll Be Waiting, Time After Time by Kakerutori

tell me, is it really love? by agustplz (shout_out_lou)

Teenage Blues by ThornyWords (@thornywords)

Secret Moments by ur_ur_ur_mom

touch like velvet by ciders

a dream always the same by sevensided (stonedlennon) (@sevensided)

harness your hope by johnnyfucksup

where is my mind? by ciders

yesterday, we were just children by andiwriteordie

selfless; self destruct by didthattwinkjustcommittreason

hanging on the telephone by elmaxed (orphan_account) (@elmaxed)

i will never rust (wanna be yours) by raedafan

Unbreakable Connection by Tea_For_One_Please

but i like you by felinecharismatic

Sleepaway by roady

i keep my distance (but you still catch my eye) by andiwriteordie

don’t you know (that i love you) by bookinit

if you kissed me now by astrobi (@astrobei)

i'm caught up in you by wiseatom

need-to-snow basis by smoosnoom (moonsooms)

[sacred-coffin]

Name That Ghoulette

Definitions & Justifications under the cut

Celeste: Woman's name meaning "heavenly." [OP's note, a 'celesta' is a small keyboard instrument described as giving an ethereal bell-like sound!] "The word celest often has to do with heavenly things and the sky (sort of like the word celestial) and then you can go one step further and add the E to make is Celeste which is a game about being transgender. It’s also really pretty"

Tempest: a violent windy storm. "goes hard, sounds dangerous" "Some variation from the cloud names and for the love of shit please not Nimbus all i can think of when i hear that is that fuckass broom from Harry Potter. I know it is a cloud but just no. It's already kinda catching on but please no. There are thousands of better names." "because im sick of seeing nimbus i have horrid associations with that name 😭😭" "She has an awesome fucking voice like a violent storm. Hence; Tempest" "I likey. :)" "Women" "Give an air ghoulette a name that isn't a fucking cloud for once guys." "It was the first suggestion I saw and I cannot get it out of my head! [positive] Thematically it feels right, I think it means a violent storm, and idk what the ghoulette is like but think that could fit how we’re all feeling about her! Also Tempie is a really cute nickname" "We've done enough cloud names for now, y'all! There's more air stuff around. Plus Tempest was the first suggestion I saw that I liked" "Because it's a kickass air name" "it's so cool" "I just think it sounds so cool!" "HOW COULD WOULD A STORM GHOULETTE BE?!?!?! LIKE HELLO?!?!?!?!" "1) I don’t like Nimbus lol 2) Her vocals (if people are IDing her correctly) are SUPER powerful and fucking gorgeous. tempest absolutely fits that"

[deny-the-issue]

Autumnal Reaping

Chapter Three: Nevarrite

Masterlist <- Previous chapter

Summary: While delivering your answer to Emmrich, Manfred finds something interesting.

Thank you to my wonderful friend for beta reading, @juniper-sunny <3 The next chapter has their first steamy moment! I hope to have it out within the next 1-2 weeks.

Like this -> post to join the tag list for this story!

AO3 link

Divider link

[MDNI] [Emmrich x you] [Emmrich x Reader] [no y/n] [fluff] [angst] [fat!reader] [reader has boobs and vulva] [eventual smut] [eventual romance] [non-binary pronouns] [angst with a happy ending] [3.4k words]

Torrential rain drowns out all other sound as green lightning crackles across the sky. The flicker of illumination reveals distant floating islands of barren rock, the same as the one beneath your feet. The water soaks your skin, yet you do not feel it—only the harsh tempest wind threatening to push you into the abyss. The static charge builds around you, a tickling taste of the incoming danger. 

Your heart pounds in your ears just as loud as the tumultuous thunder reverberating in your ribcage, a steady war drum telling you to run. 

Dashing from the island, you jump, your body weightless and your legs infinitely powerful. Landing on a treacherous island, the edge crumbles beneath your feet.  

Your hands hit the ledge but do not grip, leaving you with fists full of black rock-dust as you fall into the unknown. 

Gasping awake, you clutch your sheets as if they’d save you. Body slick with sweat, heart racing–you must’ve had a doozy of a nightmare. 

Another dream running from something, you guess. There is a distinct pressure behind your eyes, and a fuzziness to your thoughts as you try to remember. It’s as if your brain is rebelling–hiding your dreams behind a brick wall, and you only catch a glimpse as your mind slathers on the mortar to add another brick.

Sighing heavily, you rub your eyes as you swing your feet over the edge of the bed, curling your toes against the soft fabric of the rug. Hand firmly on your chest, you focus your breathing, closing your eyes. 

It’s ok. Nothing is wrong. You’re safe.

The inner mantra is now so familiar you could recite it in your sleep, and probably have. Your heart begins to slow, and the ambient air feels cool through your sweat-drenched nightshirt. 

Your breath hitches at the sound of scratching, heart jumping right back into your throat. Stiff joints crack from movement, but you don’t let that stop your creeping. On tip-toes, you approach the source—your bedroom door. 

Hiding behind the frame, you cautiously unlock the door and open it, peeking through the gap. Looking left and right, there’s nothing to be seen. 

Just before you close the door, movement below catches your eye. 

A heavy, relieved sigh relaxes your body and you open the door a little wider. 

“I’m starting to think you like to scare me half to death! You’re lucky you’re cute.” 

The black cat from the other night strolls into your bedroom as if it owns the place, rubbing its tail against your leg as it passes. 

After closing the door, you sit on the edge of the bed and the cat jumps right up, walking into your lap. Its sharp claws poke your legs, too long to truly retract, but you don’t mind. Not when a fluffy creature is making itself comfortable on you. 

Inspecting it as much as you can, you surmise it's either a female or a neutered male. Going by the head to body proportion, you’re leaning towards a neutered male. 

Not that it matters. Who needs gender anyway. 

But this does mean you’ll have to declare it to the registrar in case someone is missing this cute fluffy baby. 

“You’d tell me if you had an owner, right?” You scratch behind its ears. 

A yawn is its only answer, showing off pearly white fangs. 

You try not to get too attached but you know you’re in too deep already. You’re already thinking of names–this isn’t good.

Looking at the clock, you groan. It’s time for work and you haven’t mentally prepared for it yet. Begrudgingly, you move the cat onto the bed and stand to get ready, heart breaking as it looks at you with betrayal in its eyes. 

“I’ll be back tonight, little one,” you promise.

Humming as you brush your teeth and wash your face, you plan to stop by the kitchens before reporting in for work. Not for yourself, but for the cat. You don’t want it to go hungry while you work. 

What about a litter box?!

Oh—you’re going to be late for sure. Matron Thistle can suck it, though. The cat comes first.

Filled with energy you haven’t felt in months, you run around gathering supplies for your new furry friend. Arriving back at your room, you admire the small hoard with a tired huff. Litter, a litter tray, bowls for food and water, unseasoned chicken from the kitchens, and even a few mouse toys.

The only thing you’d like to add is a scratching post—but this will do nicely. It warms your heart looking at the cat curled up on your bed. The sight makes all of this effort more than worth it. 

You’re two hours late by the time you report in to Matron Thistle. 

“I’d be disappointed if it weren’t a habit for you, Watcher. Unreliable and chronically late—if I could relieve you of this position, I would!”

Head down, you wait out the storm while rhythmically tapping your fingers against your leg, taking whatever assignment she throws at you. If she goes on any longer she may have another spicy surprise waiting for her. 

She is right, as much as you loathe to admit. This is a normal occurrence for you. Your migraines are debilitating. Full stop. On the days where they aren’t as terrible, you take your time getting ready and still go to work. But the fact remains–you miss quite a lot of work compared to a healthy person of your age. 

It’s something that is constantly rubbed in your face by the matron.

If you accept Emmrich’s offer, it’s not like your health issues would magically go away. You need flexible hours and no small amount of understanding, all without an official diagnosis from a reputable healer. 

As you go about cleaning the dissection laboratories, you mull over the predicament. 

Not wanting to ask so much of the man who is throwing you a lifeline, the easy way out is to refuse the opportunity. That doesn’t sit with you well, either, and it takes some time before you see why.

It would be unfair to make the decision for him. 

The flurry of thoughts turn your stomach and cloud your mind. Feeling much like the mindless undead by the end of your shift, you drag your feet to the metaphysics laboratories, taking a right at the end just as Emmrich instructed. 

Coming to the last door, a gold plaque labeled “Professor Emmrich Volkarin” decorates the dark wooden door, and below it is a laminated schedule. 

Damn, it’s after his normal office hours already. 

Taking a deep breath, you knock on the door, half-expecting no one to answer. 

Your lungs turn against you, forgetting how to breathe when you hear someone approach from the other side. 

The door swings wide open, revealing Emmrich. Without his coat, you admire his usual attire in a new light. He’s wearing his teal vest, red waist-sash, bone-yellow dress shirt, and tan pants, all accentuated by his grave gold. Both of his forearms are encircled in gold bracelets, with rings decorating his thin fingers, a leather glove on one hand, a skull pin on his collar, and gold chains on his vest pockets. 

He is the painting of eloquence, as always.

“Ah! I was wondering when you’d come by,” he beams. “Come in! Come in.”

You expect the office to be, well, office-sized. But the room you step into is twice as large as your personal quarters, its walls lined with tall bookshelves. Thick tomes line the shelves, supported by ornate, griffin shelf-weights where they end and artifacts begin. At the back of the office rests a large window with a desk placed  in front, facing the door. The ample, empty floor space in which you stand emulates the typical classroom layout without the chairs for students. 

A small brown couch rests with its back against the window, adding a comfortable, lived-in feeling, decorated with a few lilac-colored pillows—a complementary accent from the usual green of the Mourn Watch.

There are two doors along the left side of the room, and you can see the flickering of a lamp through the closest one with its door slightly ajar. 

“How are you feeling?” Emmrich asks, and you notice a glimmer of worry in his tone. 

Do you really look that bad? 

Coming straight off a shift with no time for a morning shower—of course you do. 

“I’m fine! Just tired—It’s been a long day.” You rub the back of your neck. 

“Physical labor takes a heavy toll on the body. What do you do?” His polite curiosity catches you off guard. 

“Hm? Oh, I’m part of the cleaning crew.”

“Is it of your choosing?”

“It’s one of the only positions they can’t dismiss me from.” You wring your hands together. 

“What do you mean?” He asks, brow furrowing with concern. 

“I have… problems,” you shrug, looking at the floor. “I get frequent migraines that prevent me from working.”

“Have you been to the infirmary?”

“Lots of times.” You shuffle your feet. 

“What do they have to say on the matter?” Emmrich's tone is more stern by the moment. 

“They tell me to lose weight.” Your voice sounds distant, as if you’re only a passenger in the conversation. 

This is your life. You promised to be honest with him, and here it is. 

“That is entirely unacceptable!” he balks. “I’m sorry. You deserve better treatment.”

You smile sadly, knowing it’s true but too exhausted for righteous anger. 

Emmrich sighs and shakes his head.

After a few torturously silent seconds, he asks, “What kind of accommodations can I provide to make this position viable for you?”

Brows raised, eyes wide–you never expected to come this far. No one has ever asked you such a thing. White-knuckling your way through life, you never seriously stopped to think what would make it easier. 

“Um—a flexible schedule, for sure. I might need to rest in the middle of the day.”

“Would this sofa fit your needs?” he asks, gesturing to the couch at the back of the room. 

“Um, I don’t think so,” you dig a fingernail into the knuckle of your other hand. “It’s too out in the open.”

“Ah, I might have just the solution!” Emmrich suggests, walking over to the open door. “Right over here is a room I use for storage. If we clean it up, we could make it your personal refuge.”

He nudges the door open and calls out, “Manfred! We have a guest—oh, where did he go?”

The room appears to be devoid of life and spirit, though it’s hard to tell. It’s a hoarder’s delight with boxes, lamps, and errant furniture haphazardly stacked higher than you are tall. 

“I apologize for the state of the room. I suppose I’ve let things go a bit.” He smiles sheepishly. 

“It’s al—“ you’re interrupted by a displeased hiss coming from somewhere in the back of the room. 

“Manfred?!” Emmrich’s pitch is high as he quickly disappears behind a stack of boxes. 

You follow close behind. Who knows what Manfred could get up to here.

Skeletons are so very fragile, even at the best of times. Lacking the tendons and ligaments that keep the living together, their frames rely on regular maintenance and magic. 

Rounding a dark corner, you almost run into Emmrich as he stops abruptly. Peeking around him, it looks as though an avalanche happened recently—where there was clearly a stack is now a pile, blocking Manfred’s way out. 

Emmrich tsks, “Oh, Manfred. Again?”

Manfred is suspiciously quiet, his goggles glinting in the low light. 

“Let’s see here,” Emmrich mumbles as attempts to right an overturned box on the top of the mess.  

When the stacked items shift subtly, you shout, “Wait!”

Emmrich freezes just in time. The pile sways dangerously around Manfred as he screeches, shielding his head with his boney hands. 

“Makers breath! What were you even looking for back here?” Emmrich asks, cautiously stepping away from the mess. 

Manfred holds up a small rock proudly and hisses, “Crystal!”

“What—oh, I’ll examine it after we rescue you.” Emmrich sighs, placing his hands on his hips as he examines the pile. 

“May I?” you stand at the ready.

“Please,” Emmrich concedes with an exasperated sigh. 

This isn’t the first professor’s hoard you’ve had to deal with, and it certainly won’t be the last. At least this time, it’s for a person you like. 

He stands a few paces back, allowing you some space to work. With every piece you remove, you can feel his trepidation at your back. Including him in the process helps both your nerves. 

You never liked being watched, especially when the stakes are so high. 

Working in sync, you hand him the fragile items as well as things he’s excited to discover again. An ornate, ceramic lamp here, a small sculpture there, and multiple sets of tools to hobbies long abandoned—just to name a few. 

It takes some time and a good deal of effort, but you manage to clear a safe way out for Manfred. 

“Yay!” hisses Manfred, skittering away from the cursed pile like it wants to swallow him whole. 

“Manfred, don’t run off!” Emmrich chastises, and you both follow the rogue skeleton into the office. 

Emmrich holds out his hand. “Now, show me the crystal, if you please.”

Manfred places the dark crystal into Emmrich’s open palm, excited to see what becomes of it. 

“Very good. Thank you, Manfred.” Emmrich holds the seemingly opaque, black crystal up to the light to observe, revealing the shimmering blue, purple, and green tints within. “How exquisite!”

Hissing impatiently, Manfred raises his hands toward the stone. Viridescent light erupts from his boney fingers, gathering an etheric storm.

A gust of wind pushes you back a step, and you brace against it, static building within you. It lasts but a moment before Emmrich contains the glowing crystal, now a radiant azure color. 

Errant papers upheaved by the gust flitter to the floor as Manfred cheers.

“Ah, yes! If I remember correctly, this crystal belongs in a glass container. Where is it, and how did you open it?” Emmrich asks with infinite patience.

“I think I can answer that one,” you speak up. ��I saw some shattered glass on the floor as I was moving stuff around.”

“I see.” Emmrich addresses Manfred the same way a stern parent would. “Did you connect with the crystal in the storage room, Manfred?”

As they talk, the crystal’s brilliant color fades to its original shade, reminiscent of unfathomably deep water. You felt something when Manfred connected to it. Something calling to you–something like magic. It’s an exhilarating taste, and you fixate on the crystal.

“Yes!” Manfred hisses all too enthusiastically, like he didn’t just cause two near-catastrophes in a row.

“Then you should have no qualms helping me organize the storage room, starting tomorrow.” Emmrich calmly commands, and Manfred concedes with a mopey hiss.

You don’t know how you didn’t see it before, but it’s clear to you now. Manfred is Emmrich’s skeletal son. Of course, not literally–every Mourn Watcher would know a curiosity spirit when they see one. Their endearing dynamic fills your chest with warmth. 

Showing your observations only through a shy smile, you give in to your inquisitive side. 

“What is it?” You gesture to the crystal. 

“It’s a small piece of a very rare, fade-touched crystal! If you’ve taken the Watcher’s geology course, you should know such crystals are precious minerals imbued with ancient magic.

“As far as I’ve discerned, this particular piece of Nevarrite amplifies channeled magicks to a much higher degree than any other,” Emmrich elaborates excitedly.

You could listen to him speak all day, drinking in his words like they’re fine wine.

“Is that why I felt something?” you think aloud. 

“What did you feel?” Emmrich asks, eyes wide with intrigue.

“Kind of like a… tingly feeling? I guess? Sorry—I’m not good at describing things.” Heat creeps into your face.

“That’s perfectly fine! If this is something you wish to pursue, we could experiment together.”

“Even if I can’t channel?” Your voice is low and reluctant. 

“We won’t know until we try,” he answers, clasping his hands together. 

“I’ll think about it?” You meant it as a statement, but it comes out as a question. 

“Sounds perfectly reasonable to me,” he beams, “I do hope that means you’ve accepted the role as my research partner?”

You have to remember to breathe when he looks at you with such unadulterated joy. How can you say no to him?

“Yeah—yes,” you stutter, flustered and tongue-tied. “I will be your research partner.” 

Manfred hisses happily, breaking into a silly dance with entirely too much elbow jabbing. 

“Brilliant! I will send the appropriate paperwork over to Matron Thistle—is that right?” he asks, getting right to the heart of things. 

Imagining that crone’s face when she receives the transfer orders fills you with such spiteful, giddy satisfaction.

“That’s right,” you answer confidently. 

“I’ll hand-deliver them first thing tomorrow, you’ll report to Matron Thistle one last time, and then we’ll start our journey the day after. How does that sound?”

“As long as my health holds out–perfect!” you agree, feeling the need to add that little caveat. 

“Splendid!” A large, grandfather clock near the door chimes a perfectly in tune chord, interrupting Emmrich. “Oh dear, is that the time?”

It’s already been an hour and a half since you arrived at his door–where did the time go?! Even Manfred seems surprised, but he might just be emulating his father. 

“I’m terribly late for supper with a friend and colleague—“ he explains as he dramatically dons his signature green fabric and red leather coat. “I’m sorry to cut this short.”

“That’s ok!” You’re quick to soothe, backing towards the door. “I hope you have a good time.”

“I wish to say something before you go, dear.” He stops you with a light touch on your shoulder. “There are many important members of the Mourn Watch who are not mortalitasi. The two are not mutually exclusive, nor is it something that is detrimental to your position as a Watcher. I do not know why your research applications were denied, but I believe you have a bright future ahead, with or without necromancy.”

“Oh, that’s not why it was denied–I appreciate that, though. It means a great deal coming from you.” You smile as tension settles in your shoulders. 

“Curious as ever,” he exclaims with a sparkle in his eyes. “A topic for another time! I hope you have a restful evening, dear. And—thank you for helping Manfred. We would have been in a real conundrum if you weren’t here!”

“Anytime,” a lighthearted laugh accompanies your bashful grin. 

Manfred waves, “Bye!!!”

“Goodnight! I’ll see you two in a few days.” Your promise seems a lifetime away and just around the corner. 

Walking back to your room, a numb curtain drapes itself over your tired mind. Too many good things are happening at once, and you have no idea how you should feel about it. 

Happy, obviously, because you’re finally going somewhere. Anxious, because it would be so easy to slide right back down that ladder. Smitten with Emmrich, to a degree you have not admitted to yourself yet. 

And what was up with that crystal?!

Unlocking your door with glazed-over eyes, you open the door to your room, dropping your bag in its usual place with a heavy thunk. 

A shadowy blur bolts under your bed, bunching up the carpet in its fervor. 

“Shit, I’m sorry!” you wince. 

How could you forget about the cat?! 

Kneeling at your bedside, you lean down, peeking under the bed. Golden, glowing eyes are fixed on you, silently watching your every movement. 

“Pspspsps,” you call and the cat creeps forward. “It’s ok, baby. Come here.”

It stares at you from the inky darkness, unmoving. 

“I’m sorry, ok? I didn’t mean to scare you.” Pleading doesn’t seem to work, either.

You sit back on your haunches and sigh. Closing your eyes, the world spins ever so slightly around you. A loud gurgle brings you back to reality, and you absentmindedly rub your stomach. 

“How about we get some dinner, hm? You want some more chicken?” 

The cat crawls out from under the bed and chirps at you excitedly. 

“Oh, I see how it is. No treats–no love, hm?” You scratch his head adoringly. 

Its fur is so dark and lustrous, it makes you think of volcanic glass.

“Obsidian,” you name it, “Sid for short. How do you like that?”

Sid purrs loudly, rubbing its cheek against your hand for the tenth time in a row. On the eleventh pass, it nibbles your finger lightly, a thinly-veiled threat. 

 “Alright, alright,” you laugh, “let’s get some food.”

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[bonefall]

So why's BB!Skystar like That? I'm not looking for a justification or excuse mind you, and I understand he completely refuses to better himself, but not even someone like him is born evil.

I'll get to his origin and tell you exactly how he grew up, but lemmie be clear about something. I don't think people respond to what they experience in a proportionate, 1:1, "hard times go in, bad guy comes out" sort of way.

People aren't bread and yeast. We don't follow a recipe for "becoming a bad person." You don't add trauma and then from there they choose to be a bad person because of their pain or not. No one is born evil, and the other side of that coin is that EVERYONE has the capacity for it.

Extremely privileged, charmed, blessed people with wonderful home lives can also become awful people. Violent, demanding, murderous ones. The "why" is "choice."

That answer's not satisfying because we want it to be deep and interesting. Like it makes it "mean" something, or adds some kind of "logic" to it. But you won't get it.

EVIL is simple. It feels good to get what you want. It feels good to hurt the people who keep it from you. POWER is even simpler. It is the act of making others do what you want. It's as simple as childish entitlement, indifference, or spite. Gratification that outweighs guilt.

If you're looking for some grand tragedy, you won't find it here. Nothing he went through was particularly unique and there was no grand ideology at play. His dad vanished when he was young and so did Gray Wing's. The Tribe dealt with a famine and several people died, including members of Bright Storm's family.

The only thing special about his birth and upbringing, in particular, was that he was quite privileged from the start.

Clear Sky and Gray Wing in the Tribe

From their very birth, both kits were welcomed and celebrated. They were destined for greatness from the start. Their mother was Quiet Wing, a direct descendant of the Stoneteller, Half Moon, and the father was a respected leader and political figure, Tempest Sky.

(This was before the Tribe would eventually become three camps, "Wards," united by a river. Tempest might have been considered an early leader of such a Ward.)

The older kit, a perfect image of xeir mother, was said to be the inheritor of her legacy as a relative of their founder and holy speaker. Xey were named Gray Wing. The younger, who would surely become the natural leader his father was, got the name Clear Sky. In their language, Koof Yaawrl-- Not just a sky without clouds. A perfect, flawless sky.

The two of them grew up with great opportunities. Connections are everything to their culture, and they had their pick of any amount of interests they wanted a paw in. The hunters would happily bring them along if asked. The crafters had extra patience set aside just for them. A good deployment of a mew and baby eyes could get them some extra scraps at dinner. Everyone wanted to make their little mark on such special, talented kits.

Clear Sky was a little general type. He wanted to be a leader right away. He loved hunts, he loved being in charge of other kids, he loved the way people listened to him. He wasn't familiar with the word No and was almost always the top banana of a group of other children. Even if they were older.

(Gray Wing in contrast was more of the game-creator, the "old soul," the kid who got along better with adults than other kids. Less of a leader and more of the guru, good at networking and settling disputes between people.)

While they were still kids, Tempest Sky vanished.

He was missing for days, and was assumed dead. There's plenty of ways to vanish in the mountains, but no remains were found. The Stoneteller tried to contact his spirit over and over to confirm his death, and he never came. So it was most likely that he just... left. Or maybe was taken.

Either way, they didn't really get closure for it. It was an awful thing to happen to a little kid, and Clear Sky took it really hard. A while after that, their stepdad entered the equation. Stone Peak wasn't big or strong or special, he just made their mom happy.

Gray Wing LOVED this man. After some friction, him and Stone Peak became excellent friends. They had a deep sense of respect and camaraderie. Clear Sky hated this. It was like Tempest Sky was being replaced before his eyes.

It was years before Stone Peak and Quiet Rain had a litter, well into Clear Sky and Gray Wing's adulthoods. It burned Clear Sky a new one to think that she was moving on from his father, who could still be alive. Maybe it's part of why he was so willing to throw his half-brother out into the snow, that fateful winter.

When Jagged Peak and Fluttering Wing were about half a year old, there was a terrible drought. It wasn't "overpopulation." It was a bad season. NOTHING could have stopped it. Lots of cats died.

Fluttering Wing was one of them-- along with some of Bright Storm's immediate family, Fox Claw and Petal Claw's mother during a hunting accident, and many more.

At the height of this drought, the southern river's level was so low that it became a scorched, crackled path with only a wet scratch of mud running along the middle. This dry riverbed beckoned to be followed downwards, until the water could be found again. THIS is the "Sun Trail;" a path carved by the sun.

It was Gray Wing the Wise who interpreted this as an omen. Xey believed it was their ancestors showing them the way to safety. The rest is history.

But the bottom line is...

Skystar's upbringing wasn't a supreme tragedy. He faced adversity just like everyone else, but he'd NEVER bring up the privilege that he had when he was young as something unfair to be examined. Tempest being a respected leader whose connections gave Clear Sky lots of opportunities is only spoken about in terms of Clear Sky being a "born leader" or "coming from greatness."

All of his charisma, his achievements, his command over other cats, that's all something he's "worked for." All of the adversities are examples of how strong HE is, in contrast to other cats, even if they went through the same exact struggles.

Why is he the way he is? Why is he so controlling? Why is he violent? Because he will take what he wants, and no one can stop him. He likes power more than he cares about the consequences of treating people poorly, so he cries "unfair!" if you take his toys away.

Stand by him and the rewards are sweet and delicious. Deny him what he wants, and he will crush you. He chooses how he treats you based on how much he likes you, and at the rotten heart of his behavior, is the simple choice to be this way.

[autumnslance]

LynMars's FFXIV Write 2024 Master Post

We're back again! The list and links for all of my completed prompts for this year's FFXIV Write. Stats and ramblings about writing will go under the Read More cut. Eventually these will be revised in some manner and tossed onto Ao3.

Asterisks again mean there's wolship nonsense happening.

01. Steer - Vignettes of less sociable times over Aeryn's life. 02. Horizon - WoL at the end of Ultima Thule, EW 6.0. 03. Tempest - WoL returns to Amaurot to contemplate, EW 6.4. 04. Reticent - C'oretta & Dark Autumn have a chat. Sort of. 05. Stamp - Aeryn finds a memento while cleaning, post-EW 6.0 06. Halcyon - Tanzel, Emelia, & understanding grief. Backstory. 07. Morsel - Zenos heading to Camp Broken Glass, EW 6.0. 08. Free Day! 09. Lend an Ear - Emperor Varis is very much alone. StB patches. 10. Stable - Hydaelyn as the avatar of Light. Endwalker. 11. Surrogate - Weird West AU. Unexpected new roles for the Strikers. 12. Quarry* - Dominants AU. Thavnair comes to Tural's aid. DT 7.0. 13. Butte - Dark Autumn versus seedkin in Xak Tural. DT 7.0. 14. Telling - WoL reflects on Emet-Selch's expected reaction. EW 6.0. 15. Free Day! 16. Third-Rate - Aeryn's annoyed by the Unbound. DT Role Quests. 17. Sally - Dark pays a final visit to a traitor, post-StB 4.1. 18. Hackneyed* - Aeryn, Thancred, & terrible literature. 19. Taken - A young wood warder tries to save his sibling. Backstory. 20. Duel - Wuk Lamat's challenge does not go as expected. DT 7.0. 21. Shade - WoL ruminates on some of their ghosts. Thru DT 7.0. 22. Free Day! 23. On Cloud Nine - A chocobo & her Warrior of Light. End ShB 5.0. 24. Bar - 2 different adventurers starting out. Legacy & ARR. 25. Perpetuity - Aeryn, Deryk, & questions of faith. EW 24man raid. 26. Zip - C'oretta helping out Hamon at the Coliseum. Technically DT. 27. Memory - In a future, music makes Iyna remember. EW Patches. 28. Deleterious - Aeryn & Shale discuss regulators & history. DT 7.0. 29. (Free) Deleterious 2* - Thancred & self-recrimination. ShB 5.0. 30. Two Heads are Better than One - Gulool Ja Ja muses. DT 7.0.

Previous years: 2017 | 2018 | 2019 | 2020 | 2021 | 2022 | 2023

Ended up a touch Aeryn-heavy this year, though Generic WoL, various NPCs, the other OCs, forays in the FC's AUs, and some supporting family cast members make appearances. There's even a callback to a previous FFXIV Write entry. Lots of Endwalker and Dawntrail due to recency bias, but it manages to span the spectrum from backstories through various expansions.

I only did 1 Free Day, due to having 2 solid ideas I ended up writing for that prompt. It was right at the end of my annual birthday vacation week, so I was pretty rested (may also be why they're among the longer entries!). Unusually, the rest of that week's works are not any longer than the others.

I'm also still working on some original writing, though, so that did cut into fanfiction time.

Below 500 words: #2 Horizon (347), #3 Tempest (415), #7 Morsel (499), #10 Stable (400), #13 Butte (477), #14 Telling (355), #17 Sally (464), #20 Duel (499), #24 Bar (462).

500 - 1,000 words: #1 Steer (944), #4 Reticent (581), #5 Stamp (588), #11 Surrogate (964), #12 Quarry (844), #16 Third-Rate (564), #18 Hackneyed (577), #19 Taken (915), #21 Shade (764), #23 On Cloud Nine (728), #25 Perpetuity (958), #26 Zip (592), #27 Memory (810), #30 Two Heads are Better than One (500).

Over 1,000 words: #6 Halcyon (2,479), #9 Lend an Ear (1,326), #28 Deleterious (1,099), #29 Deleterious 2 (1,231).

Shortest: #2 Horizon Longest: #6 Halcyon

Total: 20,382 words. Not my shortest but far from my longest. Comparing with the previous years, I can see a clear improvement in my grasp of both NPC and OC voices, and more confidence in general.

Even so, "Butte", "Sally", "Bar", and "Zip" were the hardest for me this year, and I may need to warm up to them. I love "Halcyon" for a lot of reasons, and am also fond of the lighter offerings in "Duel" and "On Cloud Nine." I like a lot of the others, particularly when trying to get into NPC heads (even if they're really weird places to be ffs, Zenos).

Not too many shippy entries this year, one of them for one of the AUs, one mostly talking about it rather than seeing it, but I like "Hackneyed" a lot as it's been awhile since I've written about Aeryn & Thancred's literary tastes (and opposite ways of treating their books).

These will eventually be revised and added to Ao3, and then we await next year!

[lunastarlight593]

Gonna talk about my Cannon Rook and Dragon age a lot on here so I’m introducing Anna “Taron” de Riva!!! I love her so much and the questions are from @pinkhallaclub

1)Where in the Thedas is your Rook from?

Anna is born and raise in Tevinter, specifically from Minrathous until she was 13-15 years old

2)What is your character’s alignment?

Chaotic neutral or true neutral. Anna will do whatever she believes is right, even if it seems wrong to others and will be really reckless/won’t think before doing. At least at the beginning of the game

3)Race and subclass?

A human mage

4)If your Rook was companion, where would they be found?

She would be found in Minrathous on a contract, kinda. The “contract” is actually one she failed a year or two ago, before the game story takes place of course, and her mentor was killed by the man/contract she was supposed to kill and has finally found him again after that failure

5)What emotion did they usually pick?

Mostly the sarcasm/sassy ones and the stoic/serious ones

6)What companion are you platonically close with?

I would say Anna is close to Davrin and Bellara the most. After spending time with Davrin, she sees him as a genuine chill guy and not as bad as she thought for a Warden. And sees Bellara as a younger sister, like having Bellara ramble to her about anything

7)Romantically close with?

Lucanis :)

8)Who are they suspicious of?

Neve only cause she doesn’t trust any mages from Minrathous

9)Does your Rook get along with their chosen Faction?

Yes but after the fucking up the Talons operation, its now a “meh”, but slowly getting along again

10)Are they proficient in playing any instruments?

Yes, Anna plays a elven bass, specifically her father’s bassve

11)Weapon of choice?

Dagger and elemental orb, does use a staff from time to time tho. Uses thunder magic but knows a few neurotic spells

12)What is their orientation?

Bisexual

13)What are their thoughts on killing? Is it a necessary evil or do they enjoy it?

I mean to her it’s a necessary cause she is a Crow but if it’s not for her job, she still will depend on the situation

14)What hobbies does your Rook have?

Anna plays music and dances, training either her fighting skills or magic, reads but not as much, gambling in card games and making bets with her fellow Crows, cooking, making poisons and alchemy, and origami

15)What NPCs do they like? Which one's do they dislike?

Anna loves Antoine and Evka and is she is honestly surprised to get along well with the Wardens. Has a love/hate relationship with Viago, sees her as a brother but after sending her away, Anna is piss with him still but their relationship gets better later on in the story. Love Teia but who doesn’t love Teia. Kinda hates Illario but not really at the same time. Really hates the First Warden and Governor Ivenci but yet again she hates politicians/military

16)Do they have a favorite creature in the Thedas?

Likes snakes, halla, and birds

17)Do they enjoy life as an adventurer?

She does, especially when Anna is traveling with Varric to find Solas cause it’s not her typical contract

18)What would your Rook be doing if they weren't recruited by Varric?

Honestly, she would probably be either kick out by crows or might even be kill by them. Or she would still be finding that failed “contract”

19)How do you think they'll meet their end?

Either old age or on a contract

20)Would they side with Solas or fight him?

Anna would fight him for sure

21)What is your Rook's favorite ability?

Void Blade and Tempest

22)What languages is your character fluent in?

Common tongue and Tevinter, some Antivan, and a bit of elvish. But she knows every curse word lol

23)What do they do after an absolute crisis?

She will keep acting her usual self, until Anna is by herself and she will just yell and scream and cry

24)Does your character believe in the afterlife?

Not really

25)What specialization best represents your Rook?

Spellblade cause it was specialise with the Crows but it also works for her story too

26)What animal best represents your Rook?

A cat or maybe a falcon

27)What was their life like before the events of Veilguard?

Lived in Minrathous for 13-15 years, jump on a boat and landed in Trevio, robbed people including Viago, was brought in to the crows by Viago, Viago and someone else(don’t know his name yet)train Anna, loses her other mentor due to her mistakes on a contract, meets Lucanis and gets along with him, Anna gets captured by the Venatori while finding the contract, and gets magic at the age of 32 because of the Venatori

28)Is your character the de facto leader of the party? Or do they consider someone else to be the leader?

Took charge as soon as when Varric ask her to, but Anna is starting to regret it/thinks she is a awful leader after the dragon attack and Weisshaupt

29)If you could choose a different faction for your Rook, which one would they have joined and why?

Anna would either join the Shadow Dragons or Lords of Fortune. For the Shadow Dragons: if she had stayed in Minrathous longer, Anna would have found out about them and joined. For Lords of Fortune: would have probably ended up there instead, Anna didn’t know where the boat would have taken her when she snuck on

30)What's your favorite thing about your Rook?

Anna’s sassness and her relationships with the characters(and looks cause god damn she is fine)