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in-som-niyah · 10 months

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"No, none of that baby. Let me see that pretty pussy of mine."

in which you catch Jason mingling with a girl you think is prettier at a gala, and he reminds you who he belongs to with his face between your thighs...

The night is young and alive. In the four walls of bruce's charity gala, there was expensive champagne, rich people music and gorgeous women.

You were advised, no instructed to come with Jason to his father's galas for a while now. The scene was nothing new.

Bruce would throw millions at a gala for a bunch of rich people 4 times a year to keep himself in their good graces. You would stand in the corner and watch people pretend to like each other with wide smiles and chaste hugs.

Secretly, you hated these events. Well, Jason knew you would rather stay home, but he thought it was because you just find them boring.

He could't be more wrong.

As you claimed your usual spot with your back to the wall in a corner, you watched the skinny, blond-haired girls in their tastefully fitted dresses garner the spotlight of the event. The way they batted their blue eyes up at a mesmerized man was the 8th wonder of the world. They were so effortless in their seduction, so enamouring in their figure.

So stunning.

It wasn't that you weren't pretty, no, it was that you were sorely out of place.

And Jason had no Idea.

How could he, when he stood at six foot something, broad shoulders and a physique to die for. Lush green eyes and prominent yet soft features.

And Gods above, his smile.

Any girl would have won the lottery if she saw his genuine smile.

It was no secret that you didn't match him, not at all.

It is in these moments that you begin to question your relationship. If these are the kinds of women he is surrounded with, why the fuck was he with you?

You scoffed and took a swig of your Champagne as you watched yet another girl wave to him.

Presently, he was doing his job, talking with investors and other important people in Gotham.

He was talking to some high up CEO when a gorgeous girl bumped into his side. He turned around to meet her embarrassed gaze.

Though you were out of earshot, you could make out her flustered apologies and Jason's attempts at reassurance. Out of courtesy, he asked for her name or other surface info and the two seemed to get to talking. She was blabbering on about who she was and what she does for a living and she made a joke. And Jason Laughed.

He laughed. Fully and genuinely. He laughed.

Then so did she, sparkling blue eyes looking up at him once again as they laughed over something you couldn't find funny. You would never find this funny.

Soon enough, the lights dimmed and Bruce called the attention of the crowd to welcome them and thank them for their attendance. His list of thanks and acknowledgements went on as normal.

"...And I'm so glad my son Jason found a friend at these so-called 'boring' events he hates going to." Bruce joked.

The crowd laughed.

But so did Jason.

You took this as your opportunity to leave, slamming your champagne flute down on a nearby table and making a swift exit.

Hot tears threatened to burn rivers down your face as your legs carried you out of the venue as quickly as they could. You found an elevator, and decided to take it up to Jason's bedroom.

Once on the correct floor, the floodgates opened and you began to sob.

You flung open the door to his bedroom and slammed it shut. You took off your expensive heels and pelted them across the tidy room. Everything reminded you of him; the portraits on the wall, his diplomas, old weapons, even the faint scent of him.

This was something you could no longer take. You were so tired of feeling inadequate, silently counting down the days until he found someone better than you. In your mind, that day had come and though it had been in the back of you mind for as long as you were with him, you were damn unprepared.

You undid the zipper on your dress and flung it off your body. Jason picked out this dress for you when he mentioned that he wanted you to come to this last gala with him. You painfully recall how happy and excited you were to be able to wear a dress in his colour that he picked out for you.

How foolish.

Your sobs grew stronger as you began to think that your relationship should have never happened, seeing that he would have found someone prettier, skinnier, funnier smarter-

Knock

"Y/N?"

Jason was at the door to his room. Growing bored with the festivities below, he wanted to find you and go back to your place. When he couldn't find you in the crowd, he went up to his room to check something. It was then that he heard your heavy sobs coming from behind his door and panic filled his system.

You stopped crying immediately and moved to dry your tears that have surely ruined your makeup by now.

"Yeah baby. J-just give me a second." you blurted in an unconvincing tone.

He couldn't know how distraught you were about something so trivial. It wasn't his fault that he was so hot, and it wasn't yours that you thought you weren't. There was nobody to blame for your insecurities, and you didn't need him to know how terrible you felt because of your own self-inflicted wounds.

"Can I come in?" He pried gently.

You appreciated his courtesy of asking if he could enter his own room. You scrambled to find a shirt of his to cover yourself with. There was no need for the added anxiety of what you thought you looked like right now. Your heels still splayed across the room and dress slumped against his armchair.

"Sure." you let out with a defeated sigh.

The audible twist and click of the doorknob filled the quiet space. Jason's brow was pinched with worry as the door swung open to reveal you, sitting on his bed in his shirt, in pretty bad shape.

He closed the door and locked it behind him, something you appreciated, and took off his jacket. He made his way to the edge of the bed and sat on the mattress with his back to the edge, facing you.

His soft gaze took in your state, and his shoulders slumped because he didn't like what he saw. He hated seeing you sad, it broke his heart into a million little pieces.

Jason reached out his hand for you to take, but you curled in on yourself and inched further away from him. You were still overwhelmed with your thoughts of his hands all over someone elses' body.

You wanted to vomit.

"Can you look at me, Y/N?" Jason asks cautiously. He doesn't know what you're thinking, and the last thing he wants to do is scare you.

The tears came back and you struggled to keep them at bay.

"C-Can't" your strained voice came through gritted teeth.

"Oh come here pretty girl" he cooed.

You resolve was gone and you moved to throw yourself in his arms.

Jason's strong arms came to wrap around your back, one hand on the back of your head and the other around your abdomen.

Your hands grabbed at his ironed dress shirt. Usually you were courteous, but now you were too hurt to care. Makeup, snot, tears and other fluids rubbed into his clothes as you broke down in his arms.

You were grateful he didn't say anything about his ruined shirt as his hand rubbed up and down your back.

Jason's mind was racing, searching all corners of his brain to figure out what would make you this upset so quickly.

Your sobs began to slow but your breathing remained erratic. There was too much and not enough air at the same time. Jason stepped in quickly to make sure you didn't pass out.

"Hey hey hey slow down baby girl. Follow my breaths alright? In. Out. Keep going sugar. In. Out. Atta girl"

As you breathed with him, you felt calmer, but the guilt of him having to deal with your outburst began to gnaw at you.

You lifted your head from his shoulder and broke out of his embrace. He studies your state, which was much better now, but stayed quiet.

"I-I'm sorr-"

"Absolutely not." Jason sharply interrupted your attempt to apologize

"There is nothing for you to be sorry for sweetheart."

You could tell he was searching your face for any kind of acknowledgement, but you couldn't look at him.

"Look at me baby. Please?" he whispers as his hands roam up your neck to cup your cheeks.

You shook your head no.

Jason tries again, pressing his forehead to yours, looking at your tightly closed eyes.

"You're breaking my heart pretty girl. Please? For me?" he whispers so softly.

Deciding to obey, you look up at him. A single tear escapes your eye as you stare into his worried green ones.

"None of that anymore sugar" he reassures as his thumb wipes away the tear.

You nod in agreement.

Jason and you stay close with your forheads on each others for a while, basking in the intimacy of it all.

He breaks the silence.

"Talk to me love. What happened hm?" he asks, his breath dancing on your lips.

You take a deep breath

"What got my girl so upset?"

Truthfully, you had no idea how to start. How to tell him you've been feeling like a horrible girlfriend since you've been having darker thoughts about your appearance. How can you tell Jason, whose only fault was loving you, that you feel inadequate in his presence. That you feel that it is only a matter of time until he finds someone prettier, skinnier, smarter-

"Baby?"

His inquiry pulls you out of your head.

"It's stupid." You respond in a small voice.

"No. Not if it made you feel this way."

You drop your head again in shame. You don't deserve this kindness after you just questioned his intentions with you.

"But it has nothing to do with you" you mumble.

"It has everything to do with me because I love you. And I cant stand to see you so hurt over something I don't know about or help you with." He countered.

"But-" your voice begins to shake once more

He sneaks his index finger underneath your chin and lifts, giving you no choice but to look at him.

"But nothing." he shuts you down simply.

Jason kisses your forehead, then your cheeks, then your nose, making you giggle.

"There's my girl" he mumbles to no one in particular.

His face lines up with yours once again. This time, it is you who moves closer to capture his lips in yours. It was a soft and passionate kiss, a silent thanks for his patience with you.

Jason broke the kiss before you could and smoothed a braid from out of your face.

"Can you tell me why you're upset? You don't have to if you don't want-"

"I want to." You interrupted him.

After a long period of explaining your feelings with a few more stray tears, you both came to an understanding of how the situation came to be. Jason told you how much he loves you, and that nobody with a smaller figure or more socially "beautiful" than you could take him away from you. You were his girl; his to love, his to smile at, his to laugh with, his to touch, his to feel, his to caress-

His lips were now on yours. He kissed you with a fever of determination, a thousand feelings infused into the union of your lips.

His hands began to roam your body. Up your back and down to your hips. You know he loves seeing you in his clothes.

As the kiss deepens and both of your hands are all over eachother. Your hand roams down his front to find his bulge. He stops you abruptly, and you raise you head to look at him questioningly.

"Are you sure?" Jason whispers.

You chuckle at the question.

"Yes, of course" you answer incredulously.

At that, your hand made its way down again and was stopped once more.

"I want tonight to be about you, princess. Let me prove how much I love you."

You shot him a questioning look.

He smirked.

You have no idea what's coming He thought.

With his hands on your waist, he gently pushed you down onto the bed. He hiked up your (his) shirt to reveal your pretty tits.

Jason pressed open mouthed kisses on your neck, shoulders and chest. A hand came up to massage your breast and play with your nipple. His actions earned a moan from you, which only spurred him on in his antics.

"So beautiful" he murmured into your skin.

He continued down your body, only stopping to catch a glimpse of your head thrown back in painful anticipation.

Once he made his way down to your underwear he kneaded the flesh of your thighs and pressed kisses on the inside of each one.

"Gorgeous" he breathed between kisses

"Can I take these off?" He asks

You nod your head yes, but this is not sufficient for him.

"Need words pretty girl" Jason presses.

You let out a breathy yes and he begins to pull down your panties.

They were his favourite colour, Red.

"No other girl could wear my colour and be a sexy as you are. Understand?"

"Yes" you moan as his hands are at your feet, tossing your panties and rubbing your ankles.

At the cool breeze in the air, you snap your thighs together, unfamiliar with the change in temperature on your heat.

"No, none of that baby. Let me see that pretty pussy of mine."

You swear you could have cum at that statement alone.

Jason takes matters into his own hands as he gently and slowly pries your legs open, while maintaining eye contact to make sure you're still okay with what's going on.

Before he makes his descent, he lifts you slightly to move you further up the bed. A swift hand pulls a pillow and places it under your hips.

Clearly, he meant business.

Before your nerves had a chance to ruin the moment, Jason cuts the tension by turning to your inner thighs, leaving little bites and dark marks.

Without warning, he dives right in, relieving your sopping cunt of its misery.

The flat of his tongue drags up your soaking pussy, eliciting a surprised moan from you.

He continues with his affirmations.

"Nobody's pussy is a perfect as this one right here, yeah?"

You moan out at the praise.

"Need words baby or I'll stop"

"Y-Yes Jason!" you gasp as your hands desperately grip his sheets for relief. His tongue dancing with the devil on your soaked folds.

Briefly, he rises from between your legs and a scene of his saliva and your essence coats his lips and chin. His lips, now puffy, curl into a smirk.

"Now repeat after me. You make a mistake and I'll stop. Understood?" he continued.

"Fuck- Yes, I understand"

"There's my good girl" He affirms.

He goes back down with fervor this time. Jason's tongue wasted no time before lapping up what ended up on your thighs and circling your clit.

He begins. "There is no girl more perfect for Jason than me"

God he's good.

"T-There is- shit no girl- oh" You start, interrupted by his lips sucking on your clit.

"M-More perfect- ugh for J-Jason than me" You finish, proud that you were able to complete your first sentence.

Your success earned a proud "atta girl" from Jason as he continued his mission on your folds.

"There is no woman on this planet prettier than me" He started again, before his tongue resumed his actions.

This one was a challenge. Between his tongue and the suction of his lips, your orgasm was approaching quickly.

"There i-is no shit woman- fuck Jason I'm gonna-" you spit our frantically.

"Not yet. Finish the sentence first. You're almost there." He says as he raises his head from between your legs.

You let out a desperate whine at the sudden lack of stimulation and pushed your hips up against nothing. A strong forearm came to stop you, which your desperate state didn't appreciate.

You are left no choice but to continue.

"on this planted p-prettier than me." You finish.

Before you could beg, he was already there, hot breath ghosting over your need.

"Last one pretty girl. You can do it." Jason whispers. He moves his unused hand to interlock with one of yours that was previously gripping the bedding for dear life.

"Ready?" He asks

You nod weakly, followed by a whiny yes, knowing that only words will get you what you want.

"I am the only woman Jason has ever loved" He speaks over your heat.

You swore you came instantly.

Jason's heavenly mouth got to work again, leaving you a panting, mewling mess on his dark sheets. You were sure there was a puddle where his mouth met your cunt, and lewd, wet sounds filled the room.

Desperately needing your release, there was only one way to get it.

"I am t-the only fuck-" You were stopped by a particularly intense suck on your clit.

Jason's hand squeezed yours in encouragement. A silent "you can do this sugar" was mumbled over your pussy.

"Woman Jason ha-has ever- Ohh I'm so close Jay pleasepleaseplease". Your attempted recitation died with a desperate babble of his name.

His hand squeezed yours tightly, encouraging you once again to continue.

The tight coil in your tummy grew stronger and harder to ignore as Jason picked up the pace between your legs. It was as if he was a starving man, craving only one thing and finally receiving it.

"L-LOVED" You screamed as your release washed over you. Your eyes rolled and your back arched at the sudden sensation. Every nerve in your body was lit ablaze, burning so sweetly as he continued to lap at you through your high.

Nothing but, white-hot bliss filled each of your senses. You were so lost in your own pleasure, it almost hurt to come back down to earth.

When you opened your eyes again, you were met with a panting and disheveled Jason, juices all over his chin, and sweat down his brow. His collared dress shirt was unbuttoned and sinfully wrinkled. You couldn't help but marvel at his beauty in such an unkempt state.

Slowly, he began to remove the pillow from under you and pull your shirt down over your body. You hissed at the fabric dragging across your still-sensitive nipples, for which he apologized with a kiss on your nose.

Aligning his face with yours, he looked deep into your eyes and used his free hand to thumb away the tears of overstimulation on your cheeks.

"Don't you ever feel like you're not worthy of me again without telling me okay?" he remarks as he gives you a small, kind smile.

You nod, and he doesn't press you about it this time.

"I'll repeat this as many times as I need to sunshine, no questions asked."

He continued.

"I love you."

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rie-092 · 7 months

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CURSED CHILD

chapter two : the rumour.

summary : clopeh can't enter the henituse museum without finishing his book length prayer for his cale-nim.

★﹒ ( First name ) doesn't know if Clopeh Sekka has things for redheads. But there was a thing that she was sure of, Clopeh is a certified crazy bastard. He was worse than that dragon who commits arson and burns down a whole damn mountain while laughing like a madman. And what's the reason why he did that? Simple, because he was sleep deprived and the elementals won't let him have his peaceful sleep.

The girl deadpanned at the sight in front of her. Clopeh had promised that he would take her out to a museum today. So that's the main reason for the extravagant outfit that the staff of the orphanage prepared for her. But, before they could even enter this damn museum, Clopeh had his hands clasped as he recited a prayer.

Does.... He finally lost his mind? The little redhead crossed her small arms as she looked at Clopeh. Her hands were sweating to the fact that people were looking at them. While her lips unconsciously pouted. Fuck, her child's senses were screaming at her to throw a fit right here, right now to get this bastard's attention.

So, instead of doing that. She tugged the end of the cape of the knight who was escorting them. "Uh... Mister... Is sir Clopeh alright? He's been like that since earlier."

The knight sweatdropped at her question, he awkwardly scratched his cheeks and crouched down at ( first name )'s level. "Little miss, the young master is always like this when uh.. visiting this museum."

"Why?" The little girl innocently asked. "Because he is obse— I mean, he idolizes the firstborn of the family who founded this museum."

( First name ) couldn't help but notice how forced the knight's expression was. He was practically praying to Angela, the God of War, the God of Death and whatever mythical creature that this kid would stop asking him about his liege's weird habits. Yeah, this is considered weird— but just remember that one time when he accidentally entered Clopeh's room and those concerning amount of pictures and drawings of the Young Master Henituse plastered on his liege's room. It was more than enough to traumatise his poor self.

' Maybe I should ask the Duke for a bonus.' he thought.

"Okay." ( First name ) simply said, as the knight's face brightened. "I'm going to look around, Mister! Please tell me when Sir Clopeh came back to reality!"

( First name ) waved her small hand at the knight as she started looking around the museum. Then, a certain painting caught her attention. She noticed how detailed the painting was. And how beautiful the man in the painting is. He was wearing a commander's uniform and had a small smile on his face.

"Pretty." Her reddish brown eyes shone as she looked at the painting. She was caught up in her small words where she was cursing the gods and goddesses for being unfair to her because she wasn't able to get the beauty of this red-haired man in this painting. She wasn't able to hear the murmurs of the people around her.

All of them were flabbergasted because of one thing. They've seen a peculiar sight of a small redhead that looks a lot like their Young master Silver Shield! What? And this kid was looking at Cale Henituse's portrait with those longing expression (when the truth is she was planning the whole event where she will be burning all temples of the God of Death and Angela, the Sun Goddess across the continent) does the young master has an illegitimate child that the people doesn't know of?!

As they started making their gossip inside their little brains. Clopeh's knight had already called for ( first name ) saying that Clopeh was looking for her and they should go to a restaurant nearby instead of staying here. Because Clopeh wasn't able to finish his one book-length prayer and he couldn't enter the Henituse Museum without finishing it.

"Okay." ( First name ) stoically said as she walked away from the painting. Not even aware that a certain orange-haired butler had seen her and now he was speechless and couldn't move from his spot.

Hans, that butler has his jaw dropped as he remembers the little girl that he saw earlier. Those lazy reddish brown eyes that can look down at you like you were some kind of dirty insect were very similar to his liege! That crimson hair! And those mannerisms!

Hans swallowed hard as he started hesitating whether he should tell it to Cale or the Duke himself. But then, decided that the Duke had the right to know about the existence of his granddaughter.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

Later that day, those rumours about Cale having an illegitimate child that he kept from the public's eyes had already spread to the Roan Kingdom and the other neighbouring kingdoms. Those rumours kept on getting more and more ridiculous.

And Cale Henituse, the person on the rumour was now laying inside his room on the Henituse estate while sleeping. Ah, slacker life, how sweet it is. He can sleep 15 hours straight now and can laze around after all of those shits that he got involved with. His lips then curved into a sweet smile as he opened his eyes. Only to find two pairs of cat eyes and a pair of dragon's blue eyes staring at him.

"What the fuc—"

Cale almost falls from his bed after seeing his children, On, Hong, and Raon staring at him. He was about to ask what was wrong when he noticed that everyone, by everyone I mean the Molans, Choi Han, Lock, Rosalyn, Mary, and Eruhabe was staring at him with those eerie smiles.

"What?!"

"Unlucky bastard, tsk, tsk." Eruhaben shook his head making Cale more confused. "Cale-nim." This time it was Choi Han who was looking at Cale with a hint of betrayal in his eyes.

What the heck is going on?

This time, Rosalyn chuckled as she spoke in amusement. "Have you heard the news, Young master Cale? The crown prince had fainted."

"What? Why?"

"Because he heard that his younger sworn brother has a secret child that looks a lot like him." Cale deadpanned, is that so? But then he realized something causing his eyes to widen. He is Alberu's only sworn brother! "Huh? What the fuck?!"

"So, be honest to us young master-nim." Ron spoke with his benign smile. "Young master-nim, are you hiding something from us~?"

Vicious people. Cale suddenly wanted to escape this hellish place. What the heck are they talking about?! What secret child?! What happened while he was asleep?!

Then, Hans barged into his room. "Mister Ron! The Duke has fainted!" Fuck it, let him sleep slack in peace!

#manhwa x reader #platonic yandere #platonic yandere x reader #tcf x reader #tcf #trash of the count's family #cale henituse x reader #tcf eruhaben #tcf choi han #tcf cale #trash of the counts family #tcf white star #lout of the count’s family

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azrielslittleslut · 2 months

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"The Lost Queen"- Chapter 8

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary: A magical incident causes Azriel to unexpectedly tumble through a portal into modern-day Earth. Confused and injured, he is discovered by a compassionate human woman with a hidden past. She takes care of him and helps him discover the complexities of the modern world, completely unaware of who she truly is. Meanwhile, Azriel struggles with his conflicting desires: his duty to the Night Court and his growing love for the woman who saved him.

Their journey unfolds amidst ancient prophecies and the looming threat in Prythian. As they uncover the truth about forces conspiring against them, they must confront their deepest fears and make choices that will change their lives and the world forever.

Warnings: language, heavy angst, character deaths (not main), mentions of torture, mention of miscarriage, seriously this is a dark one

Word Count: 5.4k

series masterlist

a/n: i am so sorry... *hides behind computer screen* i promise this story has a happy ending...

Enjoy!

Azriel opened his eyes slowly, his head throbbing as the memories of the night washed over him. He was lying on a cold, hard floor in a dimly lit room. Each breath he took sent sharp pains coursing through his body due to the tight ropes binding his wrists behind him.

Pain pulsed through his body as he struggled against the ropes, each movement exacerbated by a deep, throbbing ache in his abdomen. The hard surface beneath him drew the heat from his body, leaving him cold and shivering.

Azriel’s jaw was clenched in a mix of anger and pain, sweat beading on his forehead as he fought to control the agony and think clearly. Despite the overwhelming pain, his eyes scanned the room for any detail that could be used to his advantage.

He lay on the floor of what looked like a dining room. It was elegantly furnished, with a large dining table in the center. There were plates on the table, full of half-eaten food. Above the table, there was a simple chandelier, casting soft, scattered light across the room. He narrowed his eyes as he scanned the portraits on the wall above the table.

There were different portraits of a man, a woman, and a young woman, all smiling at each other. Some of them were of the man and woman together, while others were of the young woman alone.

Az forced his eyes to focus, grunting against his blurry vision. His heart stuttered as he realized the portraits were of Lou, Celeste, and you.

He was at your parent’s house.

He struggled against the ropes, his shoulders screaming in agony as he tried to free himself. Azriel’s mind whirled, trying to figure out what the hell had happened. Had your parents been the ones who kidnapped him? Had you told them about the paintings, making them so angry that they decided to take matters into their own hands? Did you know he was here?

Azriel was so focused on himself that he almost missed the sound of labored breathing to his right. He paused and turned his head, his eyes scanning the dining room, the room falling away into silence as he looked.

Celeste was lying on the ground against a bookshelf. Her leg was twisted at an odd angle, and her floral-printed shirt was stained with blood. Her pretty face was marred by bruises and dried blood, and her eyes were closed in a peaceful yet haunting semblance of sleep.

She was dead.

“Damn it,” Azriel groaned, dragging his body across the floor to reach her. As he got closer, though, he saw her chest rising and falling with labored breaths. “Celeste. Wake up,” he said softly. “Please wake up.”

Slowly, she opened her eyes. They were red and bloodshot, as if she had been crying. “Azriel,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Where is Y/N?” Blood trickled from the corner of her lips as she spoke.

Azriel leaned forward to look at the wound on her chest, careful to balance himself despite his bound hands. The wound looked like it was caused by a knife or dagger, and it looked like a mortal wound. “She went home,” he whispered, his voice laden with pain and guilt. “You told me to keep her safe. I failed you. I am so sorry.”

Celeste shook her head slightly. “She isn’t here, is she? If she were here…” she trailed off, taking a rough breath.

Azriel looked around the room, searching for her husband. “Where is Lou?” he asked.

She closed her eyes, and Azriel saw a single tear fall down her swollen cheek. “He’s dead. He tried to fight him off, but he wasn’t strong enough.” She tilted her eyes up, gesturing toward the hallway to their left. Azriel turned his head, and he gasped as he saw Lou lying there in a puddle of blood.

Even from here, Azriel could see that he was gone, that the life had left his body.

Icy rage filled Azriel, and he began to pull at the ropes again, not caring how badly they were biting into his wrists. “Who did this?” he snarled.

A low masculine chuckle filled the room, followed by lazy footsteps. “Look who’s finally awake,” the man said. But the voice was familiar to Azriel, and his vision went red with anger as he looked up at the man.

Matt stood at the doorway at the far end of the dining room. He was wearing a gray suit, and it was splattered with drops of blood. He held a silver hunting dagger in his hand, and he twirled it lazily between his fingers. “Sorry to ruin your evening, shadowsinger,” he drawled, leaning against the doorframe, “but it’s just business. I’m sure you understand.”

“You,” Azriel growled, still pulling at the bindings. They weren’t budging, and a small part of him wondered who the hell had taught Matt how to tie such pristine knots. “You were at the ball. I saw you.”

“I was following you,” Matt responded with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. “I had planned on taking you earlier, but after what I witnessed between you and darling Y/N on the balcony…” He clicked his tongue before continuing, “I decided to wait and see what happened.”

Azriel’s body went numb as he mentioned you, and a horror he had never known filled his body at the thought of what this man could have done to you. “Where is she?” Azriel asked, afraid of the answer.

He normally wouldn’t be so straightforward. He was a spymaster, and he knew the dangers of revealing too much information. But he was desperate, and there were no other options.

Matt raised something in his hands. It was a cell phone, Az realized. “She should be here soon,” he said with a smirk. He looked over at Celeste, who was squirming uncomfortably on the floor. “The bond between a mother and daughter is truly something to admire.”

Celeste groaned. “Don’t you fucking touch her,” she said, her voice nothing but a whisper.

“What do you want, Matt?” Azriel asked. “Leave Y/N out of this. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Matt chuckled. “Well to begin, I would like you to call me by my real name, which is Mathias. But, unfortunately, Y/N is the one I came here for. And you, of course.”

“Then why did you do this to her parents?” He could have just taken Azriel and left them out of this. There was a special place in hell for Mathias, and if Azriel ever got the chance, he would make sure to be the one to send him there.

“They were just collateral. Wrong place, wrong time, as they say.”

Azriel gave up pulling at the ropes, his body filling with a heavy exhaustion. He glanced down to his pockets, and he felt a small sense of relief when he saw that his siphons were still there.

But they were still empty, and he still didn’t have his magic. He was weak. Completely useless.

“But this is all an easy fix,” Mathias continued on. “I will kill you, shadowsinger, and I will take your sweetheart with me back to Prythian.”

“Back to Prythian?” Az asked. “How do you know about Prythian?”

Mathias chuckled. “Did you really think I was human?” he asked. “Some spymaster you are if a measly glamour can fool you.”

Azriel looked at the male again, but this time, he saw a glimmer around Mathias, as if he had shielded himself with something. He looked human, but now that it had been brought to Azriel’s attention, he could sense a strange, otherworldly power radiating from Mathias. He had been fooled.

Just another failure to add to the list.

“Why are you here?” Azriel demanded, looking over his shoulder at Celeste. She was looking at him with pleading eyes, and he understood what she was asking. Keep my daughter safe.

Azriel didn’t know how he was going to keep you away from this male, but at that moment, he decided he would do anything to accomplish it.

Even if that meant giving up his own life for your safety.

He was saved from doing and saying something profoundly stupid as he heard a car pull into the driveway. He held his breath as he heard footsteps- your footsteps- running up the stairs outside. His mind went quiet entirely as the front door opened, and your sweet scent filled the room.

Azriel could do nothing but stare at you as you stalked into the dining room with eyes full of enough rage to bring down an army.

---

“What the fuck is going on?” you snarled, your voice sounding foreign to you.

The drive to your parent’s house had seemed to take forever, and you had nothing better to do but think. The more you thought about that strange text message from your mother, the more alarmed you became.

Your mother was a creature of habit, and you knew that she would never text you past 10 p.m., even if Azriel had shown up at their door. She was the type to deal with it and text you about it later in the morning.

Hell, the woman didn’t even sleep with her phone in the bedroom.

Your anxiety reached new heights as you drove up to the house. It was dark, save for a dim light in the dining room. Unease had filled your veins as you got out of your car, your legs taking on a mind of their own as they carried you up the steps and into the quiet house.

Now, you glanced around the room, your eyes stopping as you saw Azriel sitting on the floor. He was covered in blood, and his face and eyes were almost swollen shut. It was clear that he was in pain, and your nurse instincts took over as you looked at him. “Azriel,” you gasped, lurching toward him.

He shook his head, angling his body away from you. “Don’t worry about me,” he mumbled. “Go to your mother.”

Your entire world stopped as you looked behind Azriel and saw your mother lying in a pool of her own blood. Her face was pale, and her chest was shaking, as if she were struggling for each breath.

“Mama,” you cried, throwing your body over hers, not caring that her blood was soaking through your dress. You didn’t care that you called her Mama, which is something you hadn’t done since you were a child.

“My darling,” she whispered, reaching up to push your hair behind your ear. Her fingers on your cheek were cold, as if the life was already leaving her body. “Are you alright?”

You choked out a laugh as tears began to well in your eyes. “You’re bleeding on the floor, and you ask me if I’m alright?” you responded as you started to look at her wounds. You pulled her shirt down to look at her chest, and you gasped as you saw the hole there. Blood was pouring from it, so you reached down and tore off a large piece of fabric from your dress. You bundled it up in your hands and placed it on her chest, applying pressure as needed. “Where is dad?”

“He’s gone,” your mother said, her tone distant, her eyes empty.

“Gone where?” you asked as you continued to look over her body. Her leg was twisted, no doubt broken, and you quickly tried to think of all the things in this house you could use to stabilize it. There was nothing here, though, so you reached down to the pocket of your dress to grab your phone. “Damn it. I left my phone in the car. I need to get you to the hospital.”

Your mother grabbed the hand that was on her chest, her fingers digging into your wrist. “Your father is gone, Y/N. He’s dead. He died trying to fight him.”

The room around you started to spin as her words washed over you. Your father… the man who had raised you and loved you always, no matter the hell you had put him through. The man who had worked long nights and early mornings to provide for his family. The man who had taught you how to ride a bike and drive a car. Even now, you could hear his hearty laughter in your mind, and it was with a sharp pang in your chest that you realized you would never hear it again. But your mother had said he had died fighting someone.

Your body was numb, your mind silent, as you asked, “He died fighting who?”

From behind you, you heard a sinister laugh that made your entire body shiver. “The old man put up a good fight,” the voice said. It was masculine and strangely familiar. “But he was no match for me, especially when I shoved a dagger through his heart.”

Slowly, you turned your head to face the man who had killed your father. But it was no ordinary man that stood before you. It was Matt, dressed in a tailored suit. “You did this? All of this?” you asked, your voice cold. Deep in your bones, you could feel a tempest raging, like a storm on the ocean. “Why?”

Matthew laughed again, his head thrown back as if the two of you were talking about the weather. “For you, of course. I’ve already told your dear Azriel the whole of it. My name is Mathias, and I was sent here from Prythian to bring you back. I have been following the two of you all night. I was surprised to see you had left poor Azriel alone on the streets, but it gave me the perfect opportunity to lure you here, and to kill him.”

You glanced at Azriel. His head was lowered, his shoulders hunched, as if he were carrying the weight of the world on them. “I am so sorry, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice ragged. “I couldn’t stop him. He knocked me out, and he did all of… this before I woke up.”

All of the anger you had felt earlier dissipated in a moment. Perhaps when you were faced with life and death, things were put into a different perspective. You slid across the floor to him, grabbing him gently by the shoulder. You leaned forward to whisper in his ear, “I forgive you, Azzy.”

He shuddered under your touch, his breath leaving him in a hiss. “If we survive this,” he said, turning his head to the side to look at you, “I will explain everything.”

“The two of you look so cute together,” Mathias drawled. He took a few steps toward you, and you felt Azriel tense under your hand. “Too bad your love for each other will be cut short.” He pulled a silver dagger from the inside of his jacket pocket, the blade gleaming in the light. “I’ve always wondered if the half-breed Illyrian warriors bleed red like the rest of us. I guess I’ll find out tonight."

You moved your hand down to the ropes binding Azriel’s wrists, your eyes on Mathias as he stalked toward you. “Can you fight, Azriel?” you asked as you started to undo the bindings. He was injured, but he was a warrior. An Illyrian warrior.

Whatever the hell that was.

Azriel sucked in a breath as his hands were freed, but he kept them behind his back. “Go to your mother,” he whispered, his eyes locked on Mathias. They were filled with predatory focus, a dark gleam that promised unending pain to anyone who hurt those he loved. “I will try to fight him off.”

You leaned down and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. “I expect an explanation when all of this is over, Azzy,” you whispered.

He didn’t respond, but you didn’t miss the slight smile that he gave you. Azriel braced himself on the ground and pushed himself up, standing to his full height. Even from where you were on the floor, you could see that he was taller than Mathias, his shoulders broader, his body built to kill.

Mathias looked down at you, his eyes full of hatred. “Conniving little witch,” he snarled. He lunged at Azriel, his dagger at the ready. Azriel stepped to the side, his body moving so fast he looked like a blur. He grunted in pain as he moved, but he stayed upright.

You pushed away the thought that plagued your mind, the one that wondered where he had learned to manage pain like that.

A part of you wanted to watch the two of them fight, but you had to take care of your mother. You scrambled back to her side, placing your hand once again on her chest. Her eyes were closed, her lips blue. “Mom?” you whispered. “Please wake up. Please don’t leave me.”

Slowly, your mother opened her eyes. Her pupils were blown out, which wasn’t a good sign. “Y/N,” she gasped, “I need you to listen to me very carefully.” She coughed, and you watched in horror as blood spilled from the corner of her mouth.

“Shh,” you cooed, running your hands through her blood-soaked hair. “Don’t speak. It will only tire you out.” You needed to get your phone to call for help, but you also couldn’t tear yourself away from her. A part of you knew that it was too late, and you didn’t want to leave your mother dying on the floor alone.

“Your father and I tried for a child for many years, but we were never blessed with one,” your mother whispered, her chest rattling. “We had many miscarriages before the doctors finally told us my body was not capable of carrying a child. Twenty-five years ago, we were sitting on the front porch when a woman dressed in black approached us. She handed us a child, a baby, and she told us to protect her. To keep her safe. We didn’t have to time answer any questions because she disappeared as quickly as she came… Y/N, that baby was you.”

You stared down at your mother, the room silent except for the sound of Azriel and Mathias fighting behind you. You wanted to turn around to see if Azriel was alright, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the woman on the floor in front of you.

What Mama Laveau had said was true. Your parents… weren’t your parents.

“I did not give birth to you, Y/N, but you are our daughter. You are the best thing that ever happened to us,” she said, her eyes moving to stare up at the ceiling. “I don’t have the answers to your questions, my love, and I am sorry for not telling you sooner.” She looked at you then, steel entering her voice as she said, “Stay with Azriel. He can protect you. Promise me you will stay with him.”

So many things raced through your mind. There was so much you wanted to say, so many questions you wanted to ask. But for now, you could only say, “I promise.”

Your mother smiled, that kind smile that had eased your mind for years. She kept her eyes on you as she closed them, death finally claiming her broken body.

“Mama! No!” you screamed, but you knew it was too late. You lowered your head to her chest, sobs wracking through your body at the silence that had replaced her once-beating heart.

Azriel’s pained groan caught your attention, and you sat up, turning around the watch the scene behind you. Mathias had Azriel in a chokehold on the ground. You caught Azriel’s gaze, and his eyes were filled with pain and sorrow.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he gasped. “Please forgive me.”

You quickly moved down and pressed a kiss to your mother’s cold forehead. “I promise I will stay with him,” you whispered to her, hoping she could hear you through death’s divide. “I promise to make this right.”

You stood and turned around, squaring your shoulders against the heartbreak you felt. You didn’t know how to fight, but there had been too much death tonight. You wouldn’t stand by and let Azriel fight alone. And if he died…

Well, he wouldn’t die alone, either.

But you weren’t fast enough. You turned around just in time to watch as Mathias shoved his dagger into Azriel’s heart.

The world went quiet. You didn’t even hear Azriel’s scream of agony. You could only watch as his blood poured down his chest and splattered onto the floor. He crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap, and Mathias tipped his head back and laughed.

“It seems you do bleed red, bastard,” he mused, raising the blade to look at the blood covering it. He turned to face you, his expression nothing short of evil. “Now that we have no more distractions, my dear,” he said, pulling something that looked like glass from his pocket, “let’s go back to Prythian. The queen has requested your presence.”

Azriel raised his head just enough for you to look at him. Blood was spilling from his mouth as he tried to speak, but he was unable to form the words.

Stay with Azriel. He can protect you.

From deep within, that tempest that had been raging rolled on. Fire spread through your bones, your body, and an otherworldly anger filled your heart. Mathias had taken your father and mother, and it would be over your dead body that he took Azriel from you.

The world narrowed down to a single ember that seemed to burn within your chest. You closed your eyes and reached down deep into yourself, coaxing it to come alive. The ember turned into a living flame, so bright that it seemed to burn through your chest. You snapped your eyes open, gaze locked on Mathias. Something like fear raced across his features as he stepped back, his hand gripping the glass. You smiled at him as that fire roared through your body.

There was a voice inside of your head, old and ancient. It said, Rise up, our queen. Rise up.

You exploded.

---

Azriel was standing in a stark, barren landscape from his childhood: the unforgiving terrain of the Illyrian camps. The sky was overcast, a heavy gray that pressed down, totally suffocating the light. In the distance, a woman appeared, her face more familiar to him than his own.

His mother’s figure was shrouded in mist, her face dark and unreachable. She stood on the other side of a wide chasm that split the earth between them, her hands reaching out towards him with a desperate urgency he could feel even from afar.

Azriel ran towards her, his feet heavy, each step a struggle against the cold wind that ripped across the barren land. Her voice called out to him, carried on the wind, saying, “Azriel, my son. Do not give up. She needs you. We need her.” Her figure started to flicker, like a candle struggling against a storm, and no matter how fast he ran, the chasm remained wide and insurmountable.

He called out to her, but the wind swallowed up his words, and her image dissolved into mist. He grasped at the air as pain surged through him, not just from physical wounds but from a deep, aching sense of loss. He heard the voices and screams of all of those he had tortured and killed in his five hundred years. He heard your voice telling him how badly he had failed and hurt you.

“If this is where it ends,” he said to himself as the world started to fall away, “let it be so.”

The world shifted, the landscape crumbling away, and he was left falling, the echo of the voices growing fainter as he too dissolved into the darkness…

Azriel’s eyes snapped open, wrenching him back to the harsh light of reality. He was lying crumpled on the ground, and for a moment, he couldn’t distinguish between the dream and the waking world.

He raised his head, desperately looking around the dining room for you. He remembered seeing you hovering over your mother’s dead body. He remembered Mathias’s dagger going into his chest.

His memories were murky, but he did not recall the room being engulfed in flames. And he definitely did not remember being engulfed in flames himself.

Azriel scrambled back as bright, orange flames licked their way up his broken body. For a moment, the pain was so blinding he couldn’t even scream. He was suddenly taken back in time, back to that dark dungeon in his father’s keep. He could hear his half-brother’s laughing. He could smell the scent of his burning flesh.

But as soon as the pain started, it ebbed away. Azriel looked down at his body as the flames wrapped around him. They were no longer wild and uncontrolled. Now, they licked up his flesh in soothing waves, calming him. Healing him.

As the strange fire enveloped Azriel, the hole in his chest began to close, the flesh knitting together. The pain in his face went away, and he felt his broken nose and swollen lips and eyes heal in an instant. Deep within his pocket, the siphons suddenly sparked to life in a pulsating wave of blue light. The sudden wave of power rushing through him was strong, flooding his veins like a river breaking through a dam.

He roared in pain as his wings forcefully erupted from his back. The fabric of his jacket tore with a harsh rip as he instinctively spread them wide. The sensation was excruciating yet exhilarating as his wings found their strength again, the muscles and sinews awoken by whatever magic was coursing through him.

Simultaneously, shadows began to gather around him, their darkness mixing with the healing flames around his body. They swirled and danced in the air, caressing his newly healed skin and wings with a familiar coolness, their whispers filling his ears with the sounds of hidden secrets and silent promises.

As the pain subsided, Azriel felt more alive than he had in ages. His connection to the shadows deepened, their presence reassuring and empowering. With each beat of his heart, power pulsed stronger, fueling his senses. The raw energy was intoxicating, filling him with a potent mix of relief and invincibility.

He braced his hands against the floor, pressing down to raise himself up. The shadowsinger and spymaster of the Night Court stood, the flames winking out as his shadows surrounded him.

Master, master, they urged, their familiar whispers calming him enough to focus. Y/N needs you.

As Azriel spun in a circle, his wings clipped the wall, sending a spray of dust into the air. Panic surged through him as he frantically scanned the burning room for you. His mind recoiled at the thought of finding your body consumed by flames. You were human, so the fire would be merciless to you.

He froze, his breath catching in his throat as he caught sight of a burning figure before him. His heart thundered, pounding against his chest as he took a tentative step forward. “Y/N?” he whispered, his voice raspy and strained from shouting over the roar of the flames.

Throughout his long life, Azriel had faced death and countless horrors that haunted even the bravest souls. He had stared down enemies and survived battles that would be spoken of in hushed, reverent tones for generations. But none of that, no terror he had ever known, could compare to the gut-wrenching fear clutching at him now.

Yet, as he stood there, something miraculous unfolded before his eyes. The flames that engulfed your body didn’t consume you; instead, they seemed to become a part of you, a blazing aura that radiated with intense heat and light. Your figure stood resilient, unharmed amidst the inferno, your eyes opening slowly to reveal a fierce, fiery gaze that matched the surrounding blaze. The room was illuminated brightly by the flames, revealing not a scene of destruction, but one of transformation

Your eyes were like liquid gold, flames dancing within them. That strange symbol on your chest was burning bright, like a powerful beacon. Your hair was moving in a strange wind, embers dancing around your head, almost like a crown. And at your back… you had wings. Great, mighty wings that were laced in fire.

You were truly a wildfire, powerful and untamed.

As Azriel’s eyes met yours amidst the swirling flames, a profound shift occurred deep within him. It was a startling sensation, a moment of recognition and connection that went beyond this realm, this world. The was a tightness in his chest, an ever-growing tension, like a cord waiting to snap. His heart, which had been pounding with fear, now beat with a new purpose, as if a missing piece had been locked into place.

He gasped as the cord snapped into place. You were his mate.

A sudden clarity washed over him. Every doubt and fear was swept away, replaced by a certainty that you were meant to be his, just as he was meant to be yours.

You were his mate, and you were burning, just like the world was burning. And Mathias…

Azriel searched through the flames for that traitor, that male who now posed a threat to the other half of his soul. “Mathias!” he roared, his voice dripping with venom. “Where the hell are you?”

He saw a flash of something through the flames, like glass, and he heard Mathias call out, “I’ll see you on the other side, shadowsinger.”

Azriel caught sight of Mathias for only a few seconds before he vanished into thin air, as if he had winnowed away.

“I will find you, you fucking bastard!” Azriel yelled, but Mathias was gone. Azriel’s mind was already whirling, thinking of all the ways he would torture that male when he got his hands on him.

Azriel reached out toward you, intent on grounding you from the maelstrom of power you were unleashing, but he recoiled sharply as your scream pierced the air. The sound was primal, full of raw energy, resonating with such force that the windows of the house couldn't withstand the vibration and shattered into a thousand pieces. Glass flew like crystalline rain, catching the light of the fire and twinkling in the chaos.

The room trembled, the foundations of the house groaning under the sudden, overwhelming force. A fierce wind whipped through the broken windows, howling like the spirits of the Whispering Woods themselves had been summoned into this small space. It swirled around you, the flames dancing wildly, coalescing into a vortex that centered on your figure. Azriel watched, his heart caught between awe and fear, as the air around you shimmered with the power of raw, untamed magic.

Suddenly, the space before you began to warp and twist, the air thickening as if struggling to contain the power you were channeling. A hole tore open with a sound like ripping fabric, revealing glimpses of another place—a hole like the one Azriel had fallen through a few days ago. Through the portal, he could see passing images of Prythian, his home. The energy pouring from you intensified as the portal stabilized, the edges of the tear glowing with the same fierce light that enveloped you.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, the storm of magic ceased. Your body, overwhelmed by the exertion, went limp, and you collapsed. Azriel, reacting instantly despite his shock, darted forward to catch you before you hit the ground. Cradling you in his arms, he gazed down at your exhausted face. The flames had left you completely unscathed, but your entire body was covered in sweat, and your dress was handing in tatters. Your wings had disappeared, and he held your shivering, small body close to his.

“Fyrvor,” he whispered, running a finger down your cheek, “let’s go home.”

Azriel adjusted your weight in his arms, ensuring you were secure and as comfortable as possible given the circumstances. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever lay ahead. The last time he had traveled through a portal, it had been intense and blindingly painful.

Azriel cast one last glance at the burning house, his eye catching on Celeste’s body lying on the floor. The flames were reaching her now, and it would only be a matter of time before she would be engulfed entirely. “I swear on my life to protect her,” he promised the woman, hoping she could hear him beyond the veil of death. “She is mine.”

He crossed the threshold into the portal, his eyes closing as the world he had come to know fell away for a few moments.

With his mate secure in his arms, Azriel went home, back to Prythian.

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#azriel #azriel shadowsinger #acotar fanfiction #a court of thorns and roses #acotar #azriel spymaster #azriel x reader #azriel fanfic #dee writes #azriel acotar #azriel fanfiction #acotar series #acotar fic #azriel angst #the lost queen

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moxfirefly · 7 months

Text

Greetings and salutations. I bring you a little nugget of something that’s been on my noggin for a while. I haven’t had the pleasure to experiment too much with AU’s so here I bring you two segments of just that.

Rated Mature.

So please enjoy and let me know if maybe y’all want more?

It was that scar.

You hadn’t been necessarily subtle about it. You’d stared, wondered what could’ve gone wrong to have a man nearly lose an eye.

You liked making up stories of strangers, what their backstory and futures could be just on looks alone.

But when blue eyes had met your own, looked up from the local news paper, you felt as if he’d heard your mental fictions.

He was pretty.

Blue eyes, strong features and built.

Because mutants tended to be built, imposing, rough, dangerous.

But there was a softness to Blue Eyes here.

Somewhere between restarting your brain and the soft rattling of him pushing his mug towards your outstretched hand, you had finally poured a re-fill of a lemony scented tea he had ordered twenty minutes ago.

The cafe was a passion project, something you’d done on impulse when you hopped on a plane to run away from New York and its hollowness and move to Osaka.

To run away from the bad memories…

A bad guy.

“Are you alright?” Oh? He spoke English.

You nodded, dipped the kettle and refilled his mug. “Sorry, mornings aren’t really my thing.” You chuckled to lighten the mood, watched the corner of his mouth lift as he reached for the mug.

“Working in a cafe must’ve been a tough option.” His lips pressed to the ceramic, a large hand holding it as he softly blew.

The peak of a finger missing an inch to it making you squint.

Just how many scars could one individual have?

But he had looked at you again, piercing blue eyes gaging your thoughts, somehow digging into what your story was. Maybe he had made up his own.

You should’ve known, should’ve seen the tattoos peaking from the cuff of his dress shirt, the roughness to his demeanor.

You should’ve sensed the danger.

________

You ran from danger back in New York only to somehow find yourself enchanted by something far worse.

Because Leonardo (he had introduced himself at long last) screamed dangerous.

But he kept coming back to the cafe, each day he stayed just a little bit longer, his small talk became more of a lighthearted interrogation.

And those damn eyes of his never seemed to not follow you around the counter as you prepared and brewed for the patrons of the morning. His eyes were watchful, something kind of protective to them. Whenever the bell for the door ran he’d always cast a careful backwards glance.

Anticipating something?

He seemed to travel on the edge of a knife, waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop.

And you wanted to ignore the obvious, the setting, the place, the fresh cuts and bruises on his hands. You wanted the fantasy to remain just that.

Because deep down you knew that he ran in that lifestyle.

Yakuza.

It rang like an alarm in your brain, warning sirens to not get involved, to not find yourself in the fire pit.

One afternoon as he remained during your closing, he had stood up and adjusted the cuff of his suit.

“Do you wanna have dinner with me tonight?”

It was a simple question, a razors edge to it, the anticipation mixing with water running from the sink. You had stopped, hand sopping wet from washing mugs and glasses.

You stared at him, watching those calculating eyes of his gage your reaction.

That little voice told you to say no, desperately to just let this be a fleeting thing. Let Leonardo be a fantasy, don’t jump into that dark ocean and let the current sweep you away.

“Yes…I’d like that.”

‘These violent delights…’

It felt more like a light version of Wack-a-Mole. Gently but intentionally shoving all these screaming adolescents and young adults away from the object of their desire.

You waved and smiled, signed what you could when several high glossy portraits of yourself were shoved into your eyesight. A massive arm wrapped around your shoulders and tugged you into hard scales and you caught the warning glare Raph had shot to a handsy guy.

‘Just get her to the hotel entrance’ That was all Raph was thinking, if he could haul ass with you through this sea of screaming fans in the next sixty seconds he’d pat himself on the shell.

So he held you closer, pushed through and as gently and professionally as he could pushed through the doable doors.

Hotel security could keep everyone at bay, your poor assistance somehow alive and inside as well moved quickly to the front desk to check you in.

“Never get tired of that shit?” he asked you with a smirk, making sure to keep your body covered by his much larger form.

“Just part of the job description, some of them can be endearing.” You adjusted your sunglasses, shooting a thanks to your assistant when they jogged back towards you with a room card.

“Y/N you have an interview tomorrow at 9am so there’s a 7am wake up call for hair and makeup to get up to your room. After that it’s the photo shoot at noon and finally the concert at MSG, I’ll be here early to get everything started.” They were an efficient assistant sometimes doubling more like a parent.

“She got time to sleep somewhere in there peepsqueak?” Raph was already escorting you towards the elevator. Your assistant rolled their eyes.

“Be nice Raphie, they keep the order, I just do the fun stuff.” You waved back as you climbed into the elevator with Raph.

In the quiet steel and glass you took a minute to sigh and stretch. While it was fun it could be pretty exhausting running around from show to show. You felt your phone vibrate, the work one, and allowed yourself the luxury of not dealing with it. Closing your eyes briefly you centered yourself.

“Ya good?” Raph’s voice, the soft one he only reserved for you, mixed with the ping of each floor.

“A little stiff, but I’m alright. What about you?” You watched Raph huff a little laugh, incredulous to assume that this was enough to even remotely tire him out. When the doors open he stepped out first to make sure the halls were empty before alerting you to follow suit.

“You know you can chill out now, clock out technically.” You opened the door to your latest hotel suit and watched Raph go in and do his usual perimeter walk.

One time some obsessed fan had hidden in the suit you had stayed in, and while it hadn’t been a violent situation it had spooked you and angered Raph enough to always check the room before letting you settle in.

“Looks clear, although C- for not having those chocolates on the bed.” Man he kinda wanted something sweet.

He smiled at your laugh watching you plop on the chase lounge near the window.

He could feel his own phone, not the work one, vibrate in the pocket of his jeans.

“Do you want to stay?” Came your voice, light and floaty like an inviting drink.

Raph knew this wasn’t exactly right, but it hadn’t been right the last fourteen hotels ago.

You turned to study him, a flirtatious smile spreading across your beautiful lips.

Those lips had been around his dick last night on the limo ride to some after party.

Something in the jittery electric feel of his legs, urging him to move, to put an end to this not so professional relationship.

“Raphie?” You asked, jacket coming off, heels being kicked off, skin inviting him.

He ran the back of his palm across his mouth, caught the faint scent of you from just this morning (where he had fingered you in the shower of the last hotel).

“Yeah, I’ll stay.”

He swallowed the nerves, swallowed it and let it simmer in the pit of his stomach.

#tmnt bayverse #tmnt leonardo x reader #tmnt raphael x reader #leonardo x reader #raphael x reader #tmnt au #tmnt leonardo #tmnt raphael #Raphael #Leonardo

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sillyteecup · 2 months

Text

The Wrong Way

Roman Reigns x black!o.c

Jey Uso x black!o.c

Chapter 4

Warnings:

18+

Strong language

Misogyny

Mention of sexual assault

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A.N: This took me too damn long😭😭in my defense though, school has been drowning me and I've barely had the time to get this done quick enough, but ke...what can be said? Anyway, here is chapter 4 of The Wrong Way. I hope you like it. Enjoy❤️

Lori did not believe in setting expectations for people. As it was, she tried to keep her social interactions with anyone she did not know or trust to a minimal. Being a certified introvert, she thought it to be unrealistic to hold people to any social standards before speaking to them. All expectations bred disappointments as life is fickle. Human beings weren't nearly as fickle as life, but they could never be the exception to the rule.

All of that to say, she didn't know what to expect from the Tribal Prince Jey, as the first they met he grinned at her as though she were a piece of meat, and then the second time he glared at her like a foe. Now they were seated opposite each other in the matte black suv that Paul assigned to them, and he still had a scowl on his face.

"Have we met perhaps?" Lori questioned, breaking the heavy silence.

Jey tilted his head, features dancing between confusion and wondering if she was just stupid. "What?" he asked.

"Well you've been glaring at me since I landed, so I couldn't help but wonder if we had crossed paths and I happened to have wronged you by chance," she said indignantly, her irritation at his current expression slowly boiling.

"You're one to talk, when you don't look like the happiest trooper yourself," Jey said evenly, trying to keep an iron grip on his temper.

"Well I'm sure you can agree that there is nothing to be happy about as it stands," Lori pointed out bitterly.

Jey's face scrunched up in mild annoyance. "Yet you asked to ride with me. And for what? So you can shit on me for not acting like everything is sunshine and rainbows?" Jey spat, getting angrier by the sexond.

"I asked for you to accompany me so that we could perhaps get to know each other and maybe figure out a way to make this work, not have you sit there pouting like some petulant child who was denied pudding after dinner!" Lori hissed, finally losing her temper.

She watched as Tribal Prince Jey sat in his seat, jaw clenching as he likely fought the urge to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze till she was dead. If only he knew that she had the same thoughts swimming around her mind.

"Says the immature little bitch that threw a tantrum in the middle of a meeting because things weren't going her way," Jey said venomously.

"Tribal Prince Jey I assure you that while I respect your royal standing, I cannot allow you to call me out of my name. I shall hold my tongue because I was raised to be a respectable young lady, but-" she had begun to rant before being cut off by a mirthles chuckle from Jey.

"Respectable? Girl you a whole ass ho that runs around serving up pussy to every man that smiles at you," he said maliciously.

At this, Lori's heart stopped. Her hands began to tremble as tears threatened to spill form her eyes. She mentally condemned her father to hell for the way he painted the loss of her virginity as her being promiscuous. She had always rued the day she trusted him to understand and empathize with her for what actually happened that night. But now, at this very moment, she hated him for this false portrait he had sold of her to this family. He threw her trauma like a piece of raw meat into a den of lions. One day, he would pay.

"You do not know anything about me," she said, tone lowering as she seethed in rage.

There was another one of those mirthles laughs. "I don't need to. And frankly, I don't want to. Just 'cause we engaged, don't mean I need to coddle your feelings or be your friend or whatever the fuck you were hoping to achieve here!"

Lori bit the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from speaking out of line. Just because he was an insulant fool, it did not mean she had to stoop this level down in hell to defend herself. She was a woman of honor and dignity; there was no place in her mind that was reserved for engaging in petty spats with an individual such as Tribal Prince Jey.

"If that is what you so wish, then very well," she said evenly, marking him as dead to her.

No one could say she did not try.

➽──────────────❥

Roman, Paul and Sami arrived at the family mansion, or "the palace" as they usually called it, to find Miss Loreal Moore with her maidens, and Jey waiting for them. While the maidens each took in the courtyard with awe, Jey and his fiancé seemed disgruntled.

"Damnit," Roman whispered to himself. Even after the clear warning he had given Jey, his cousin did not cooperate. Roman could not let his incompetence slide as it would set a bad example to his brothers and the rest of their cousins. But he would deal with that later.

"The lady looks unhappy, my Tribal Chief," Paul pointed out, only adding to the grating of Roman's nerves.

"Wiseman, please tell me something. Do I look blind maybe?" Roman questioned him sarcastically, to which he shook his head rapidly while stammering for an answer.

"N-no, never my-my Tribal Chief. Your eyesight is absolutely perfect. 20/20 vision I would say-" Paul rambled, attempting to calm Roman down before he angered him even further.

"Then what made you feel the need to point out something that I can so obviously fucking see?" Roman said through gritted teeth. Everybody just seemed keen on trying his patience today and he couldn't understand why.

"I apologize my tribal Chief. But, may I ask, are there any plans by chance that the Tribal Chief may have to sway the lady in our favor?" Paul genuinely asked. If there was one thing Roman appreciated about his Wiseman, it was his dedication to the family. However Roman couldn't let his real plans be known, as one of the pieces to his little chess game was in the front seat.

"The best we can do right now is be hospitable. Show her that she's in the right place," Roman said before flashing a smile at Sami through the rearview mirror. "Ain't that right Sami?" he asked Sami in what has half a joke and half a threat.

Sami caught onto this and his lips curled up nervously. "Yes my Tribal Chief, definitely," he laughed nervously, earning a pat on the shoulder from Roman.

"Wiseman, get my door," Roman commanded while keeping his eyes on Sami. The moment Paul left the car, Roman leaned in to whisper into Sami's ear. "You and Miss Loreal Moore friends, Sami?" he asked in a hushed tone.

"She's been very kind to me my Tribal Chief," was all Sami said.

"I hope you've been returning the energy. After all, she might need a new friend around here," Roman whispered, sounding genuinely concerned for the lady.

"Oh, yes definitely, my Tribal Chief. I have shown Miss Loreal Moore nothing but kindness and I would be happy to be her friend if she allowed it," Sami rambled nervously. Roman moved back and smiled.

"Good, good. You're a good man Sami," he said, ending the conversation right before Paul finished announcing his presence and opened his door.

Right as he stepped out, Ms Loreal Moore's sharp gaze shot into his direction. "Miss Loreal Moore, you seem displeased-" Roman began to say, being cut off by his cousin's fiancé.

"I wish to go home. Now," she stated, her voice trembling as she struggled to hold it together.

Roman was taken aback by her demand. Her tone sounded to him like she had likely been angered or triggered by something Jey said. His neutral gaze quickly shifted into questioning glare towards Jey, who only scowled and turned away.

"I'm sure that whatever that happened to to make you wanna do that can be fixed. I don't know you well but you seem like a smart, mature and level headed woman. So let's just-" Roman began to say to calm her down only it be interrupted again. Which was beginning to get on his nerves.

"That thing you just did; attempting to soothe my ego to gaslight me into agreeing with whatever" solution" you were going to come up with? I hate it. It is an insult to my intelligence. And from what I can see, this family seems to be built on the foundation of insulting those they feel are lesser beings to them! I am by no means a fool! I know why that-" she took a breath to control herself mid-rant before continuing.

"I know why my father sold me to you people. I did not expect to be treated kindly or for this to be a fairytale of sorts, hell I did not even expect to be treated with integrity. But what I cannot take is being refferred to by obscene words, and then having my intelligence insulted less than 4 minutes later. If this is how it is to carry on going forward, then I would rather you put me on the next flight back to my home, so that I may live out the rest of my days in unmarried bliss," she finally finished before letting out a heavy exhale.

Roman clenched his jaw and nodded. He began to rethink every time he said Naomi was too stubborn for her own good. Compared to Miss Loreal Moore, Naomi was child's play. Even though she always gently kept them grounded, she had never outright called them out on their bullshit. Let alone on her first day on the island. As much as Roman appreciated this woman's strength, he also understood that she was going to be a nasty piece of work to mould into their image. Yet he found himself enticed by the challenge. Clearly he would have to break her and rebuild her in an image he saw fit. And one thing about Roman? He enjoyed playing God. But he would have to be smart about this. She had already seen through his first trick, which to be fair he hadn't even thought was one to begin with. He was just used to solving problems like that. Nevertheless, he was going to have to get far smarter than he ever had.

"I see. Wiseman, show them to their rooms. They've all had a pretty long day and are in no state to travel right now," he commanded, noticing the storm grow in Miss Loreal's eyes.

"Miss Loreal Moore, I shall speak with you tomorrow morning at 07:00 once you've had enough sleep," he added, hoping to quell her still rising temper.

Her eyes narrowed as she bit the inside of her cheek. It was as if she had realized that now that Roman had made his choice, there was no arguing. At least she held authority to a high regard to some extent.

➽──────────────❥

Skin illuminated by the sun rising, Lori took in the appearance of her room. The walls were a dull dull beige that contrasted poorly with the dark oak doors and large, arched windows. The curtains were a glaringly bright red, an irritating sight that drove Lori to open the curtains at the crack of dawn. They with the bedding sets and the velvet couch on the other end of the room. It was big, more spacious than the one back home. She hadn't bothered to check the size of the closet as she had no intentions staying long. The carpet and sheets were black, along with the blackwood vanity set. The whole room was dreadful.

And so was this family. Lori's mind had been flooded with predictions of how the Tribal Chief would try to coax her into staying. Having caught on to his tactic yesterday and with the understanding of the weight this marriage holds, she figured that Tribal Chief Roman would likely attempt slither his way into her mind to convince her that all of this was worth it in the end.

And maybe it was, but a few words dipped in caramel would not suffice in proving that to Lori. She glanced at the huge round clock on the wall next to the bathroom door, 05:30. Her maidens had insisted on making sure that they were at her side by five o'clock sharp, however Lori resisted. Insisting that she would much prefer if for the first time in a very long time, they rested. They deserved it. And her parents were not there to tell them otherwise.

After bathing and moisturising in complete solitude for the first time since she was born, she took the long-sleeved cotton sundress that. Minerva had picked out and ironed for her, and put it on. Lori then moved to sit by her vanity and frowned. She had never done her own hair before, and now with the bonnet covering her braided hair, the lack of experience had come back to bite her in the ass. From what she had observed in Willow doing her hair, her long, voluminous afro was no easy feat when it came to styling.

What if I just woke Willow up to help with my hair, then immediately after, she goes back to sleep? That would not be cruel would it?

Her pondering of her dilemma was interrupted by a knock on the door. Confused, Lori checked the time again, 06:30. Could the girls already be awake? She stood up from the stool and cautiously made her way to the door. The knock sounded again, right as her hand had touched the handle. Finally she opened, and on the other side was the last person she had expected to see.

"Sami? What are you going here so early?" she asked him. As nice as he was, and as much as she planned to utilise him if things went south, Lori was still guarded when faced with all the members of the Bloodline. After all, who was to say it wasn't an act?

He stook tall in her doorway with a boyish grin. He sported a black Nike t-shirt and sweats with sneakers to complete the ensemble. "Good morning Lori! Tribal Chief said I should swing by and check if you're ready," he explained cheerfully. His grin however faltered when he took note of the bonnet.

"What?" Lori said, noticing the change in expression. Sami grimaced in response and gestured for her to let him in. Hesitantly, Lori stepped to the side only for Sami to usher her back to the vanity. "Sami what is the meaning of this?" she demanded only for Sami to gently push her into the chair and smile at her through the mirror.

"You don't know how to do your hair do you?" he asked slyly, causing her eyebrows to furrow in confusion.

"How did you know?" she questioned, wondering what had given her ineptitude away.

"Educated guess," Sami shrugged as his hand hovered over her bonnet. "May I?" he asked, earning a nod from Lori which prompted him to remove it, revealing her hair. "Wow," Sami gasped as he felt the soft texture of her hair.

"What's wrong?" Lori asked in concern, not sure how to take Sam's reaction to her hair.

"Nothing, it's just-I've seen healthy, beautiful long hair before but this? God, your mom must love you," Sami said, still in awe of the sight before him.

Lori just wore a wry smile at the last comment. While she was sure that Sami meant no harm as he was unaware of her relationship with her family, he still struck a nerve. When speaking of her connection with her mother, Sami wasn't asking, but Lori had been for the longest time. And by the looks of it, she would never get an answer.

"Actually, Willow is the mastermind. Before that it was her mother. The two of them have been so kind to my hair in the way they have taken care of it. In fact, I would probably have cut it all off had it not been for them," Lori explained, notes of gratitude in the way she spoke. Willow and Mrs Graham had been taking care of her hair and keeping it healthy since she was born. They were the real heroes.

"Either way, they are hair goddesses," Sami chuckled as he began to braid Lori's hair.

That's when it dawned on her. "You know how to do hair?" she questioned, eyeing Sami suspiciously as his red locks were out and untamed.

"Yup, an old friend taught me," he replied, not seeing the way she looked at him.

"And where is she now?" Lori asked curiously as Sami kept unbraiding and gently detangling.

Sami glanced at her through the mirror, eyes gleaming with a hint of sorrow. "She-uh, got married," he said before clearing his throat. He was then quick to change the subject to how he barely saw the point in styling his anymore since the island's climate was never kind to it. Lori zoned out as he rambled on and on, watching as he carefully brushed and styled her hair into a simple low ponytail with a puff at the bottom, completing the look with sleek baby hairs.

A white man can do my hair better than me? I need to up my game.

Despite the huge favour he had done for her, Lori still couldn't help but be unconvinced. Apart from him, she had met two direct members of the Bloodline, and both of them have proven to be...unappealing for lack of better words. Why would she trust that Sami hadn't had the same ideals indoctrinated in him. After all, as much as he was "an outsider", he had still been there longer than her. And since he did not offer the family prospects of wealth as far as she understood, there had to be another, more sinister reason to keep him around. If only she had thought of this on the plane yesterday.

"Sami, why are you helping me?" Lori asked, her trust issues suddenly flaring up.

"Because you're cool, duh," he replied as if it were obvious.

"Cool?" Lori questioned, unsure what he implied with the term. Her father had always considered that kind of language to be juvenile and forbid it around the house, however Lori had heard it time and again at her old University and during the two years when Lord Byron had allowed her to go to a private high school to graduate instead of finishing with a home school education. Still though, she was not very familiar with the context of the word.

"Y'know, good, nice. Cool," he simply said. Although he was not clear, Lori understood just fine.

"Oh okay. Lovely." If Sami was acting, he sure was doing an amazing job at it. Either way, her oncoming talk with the Tribal Chief would determine whether or not it mattered.

➽──────────────❥

"The Tribal Chief requested that I escort you to his office."

Tribal Chief Roman's office was cold...fitting the stories she had been told of the man who inhabited it. Perhaps it was the intense air conditioning, or maybe it was the lack of a personal touch to it's decor. Either way, apart from the spread out red and black furniture pieces, it was rather dull. Lori doubted he cared to much about the aesthetics anyway.

She had been seated on the black couch situated next to the door, about 5 feet away from his desk where he sat, nose buried in his work. Her eyes followed the clock's hands as time slowly ticked by, foreshadowing her slow and agonising ego death, should she choose to stay here. It had been 3p minutes and the man hadn't said a thing aside from "Have a seat." Part of her felt like there was an angle he was playing at here. A psychological one that she couldn't quite point out. Perhaps he was asserting dominance by making her wait on his time. If that was the case, then the one he had hoped to present would not hold up too well.

Her eyes scanned the bookshelf to her left. The names on the spines of each book caught her by surprise. While some of the books were typical of what was seemingly his nature, such as The Art of War, the others were unbecoming of what she had noted about him so far. Romance novels.

The rest of the titles were in Samoan and Italian, two languages Lori had not an inkling of an idea about. Still though, the very idea that Roman likely not only spoke these languages, but also read them was somewhat attractive. An observation she mentally chastised herself from. The very reason she had let her sights roam around the office was to avoid settling her gaze on him. Lord knows how he would react to his cousin's fiancé staring at him.

Speaking of his cousins, before she slept, Lori had done everything in her power to cleanse her memory of her interaction with Jey yesterday. Better to pretend it never happened than to let it hold power over her. Her logic was faulty, but it worked. But that did not by any means imply that she would be thrilled about being in the same room as him. The last thing Lori wanted was to be executed for murdering her fiancé. Regardless of how satisfying it would be.

"I take it you slept well?" she suddenly heard Tribal Chief Roman say.

Keeping her gaze on the window behind him, she nodded. The room was ugly but the bed was comfortable. "Yes, my Tribal Chief."

"Good. As a future member of this family it is only fitting that the best is what you are offered," he said, causing her to scoff. His gaze narrowed at the action. "Why do you want to leave?" he asked her, tone completely neutral.

"I was quite clear about my feelings yesterday, my Tribal Chief. I do not appreciate being treated like a street urchin by your family," Lori responded coldly.

Tribal Chief Roman placed his forearms on his desk to lean forward. "What did he say to you?" he asked. His voice had dropped to a dangerously low octave that struck a feeling that Lori was not familiar with in her chest. It was a mix of two feelings really; fear that was all but expected, but more surprisingly, yet minimal, lust.

"Things I would rather not repeat," she said.

"Because you're afraid?" he questioned with an arched eyebrow.

"Because I am a lady who refuses to compromise herself by spewing anything unbecoming of me," she retorted with a scoff. Yes, Tribal Chief Roman himself was terrifying, but that was not a sentiment she held towards Jey.

He leaned back into his chair, firm gaze remaining on her. "Whatever it is that he said, does not reflect our views of you. He will be corrected-"

"You mean punished," she commented, cutting into his sentence. She noticed his jaw clench at her interuption and swore she choked on her breath.

"And I will make sure, that nobody else treats you like that again," he finished, patience waning with each word.

"Why go out of your way instead of allowing me to go home?" she questioned, knowing the answer but still wanting him to completely clear up his intentions.

"You said it yourself yesterday. You know why this engagement was arranged; political gain for my family in return of financial gain for yours," he explained with a shrug.

Lori slowly nodded, the sound of the clock ticking re-invading her ears. "Where is he?" she asked. She wasn't sure why she was curious, but she was.

"His house not too far from here. Sami neglected to tell you that you two will not be living together until after your wedding," he explained, causing Lori's eyebrows to shoot to the edge of her hairline.

"How come?"

"Tradition," he stated vaguely. "Some things I have no control over, although something tells me you don't mind," he said, subtly pointing out her already existing grievance with his cousin.

"Do you have control over how often we are to interact?" she asked half-jokingly.

"Don't push it," he responded in a tone similar to hers. "I would advise you not to worry too much about the personal aspects of your engagement. The moment you two are married, you can get your own place nearby and only have to interact during public appearances," he said, tone reverting back to serious.

She fought the urge to ask if that was his arrangement with his wife a she had not seen her yet. Unless of course the divorce rumor was true.

"Until then, I am to stay here with you and Sami?" she inquired.

"Are you comfortable with Sami's presence?" he asked. His omission of her comfort with his own presence did not slide past her though. But she would let it seem as if it had.

"Yes. He is good company," she acknowledged.

"Then he will stay here as well. Anything else?" he asked. An answer immediately came into mind.

"Yes, actually. Could one of your staff perhaps get an interior decorator on the phone?" she requested, taking him aback.

"I do not like how my room looks," she specified, putting him at ease.

"I'll have it arranged as soon as possible. Is that all?"

She nodded wordlessly.

"Good. I'm assuming Sami informed you about today's agenda if you stayed?" Lori shook her head 'no' in response as her features festered into a look of curiosity. Sami must have thought that there was no way in all seven variations of hell she was staying there. Never say never, they say. Tribal Chief Roman ran his hand down his face and sighed, attempting to quell his frustration at Sami omitting this information.

"Today is your welcoming ceremony. The day when you're being introduced to the entire family and our ancestors as Jey's future bride and as a future princess to the people," Roman explained.

Lori's stomach twisted into knots. If there was anything she hated nearly as much as being blindsided to marriage, it was large gatherings and parties. All of those eyes on her, perceiving her always sent her into a spiral. If the very people that conceived her saw her as inadequate, who was to say that these people who did not know her from a table spoon harboured similar sentiments. Not to mention the whispers of gossip that she found mind numbing. A fact that would be hypocritical if Lori herself was a gossip.

She preferred self-preserving journalist anyway.

Nevertheless, she had chosen to stay and become a part of this bloodline that many considered to be of high esteem. Lori had chosen to become Tribal Princess Loreal. No longer Miss Loreal Moore. She would finally be rid of the last tie to her wretched father. If anything, that just sweetens the deal. This ceremony was just the starting point, one she would overcome with poise and grace.

"Is there a specific dress code, my Tribal Chief?"

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marionluth · 8 days

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[...] The room was just as he remembered it. Heavy velvet curtains, crimson Persian rugs, large carved wooden furniture. The marble fireplace in the center of the room looked like it hadn’t been lit in a long time. Alfred had placed a floral arrangement on it, and next to the large framed picture of Martha and Thomas Wayne was now a portrait of Bruce. Jason wondered if a framed picture of his own had ever stood on that mantle, then been taken down—maybe even smashed against the wall.

Several smaller framed photographs hung on the wall next to the fireplace—of Bruce, Dick, Tim, and Damian. In some, they posed together; in others, alone. A single centrally placed photo was of Jason, sitting in an armchair in this very room. He must have been fourteen at the time, engrossed in a book, his profile softly lit by the floor lamp next to him. Jason stared at it, and bile rose in his throat. He drew his fist back and slammed it against the frame. The glass shattered, shards raining down on the floor along with drops of blood. The frame and photograph remained on the wall, still hanging, his young self’s face now smeared with blood. He raised his fist again and slammed it down forcefully, time after time, targeting different photographs. He snarled and panted, breaking them one by one, tears carving trails down his cheeks without him realizing.

“Jason?”

He stilled at the sound of the voice echoing in the room, his fist hanging mid-air and his breath labored. It couldn’t be. It sounded like Bruce, but Bruce was dead. He’d seen the grave; he’d stood hidden in the shadows, watching the memorial from a distance. He’d broken every finger in his left hand that same night from repeatedly punching a wall. The shiny mahogany coffin flashed before his eyes, but it wasn’t Bruce’s—it was his own, and he was trying to smash it to get out. Panic rose inside him, and he slammed his hand on the frame, letting the pain pull him back to the here and now. No, no, he wasn’t buried, he wasn’t in the coffin; he just felt like he was because he was in the manor, and the manor was a grave of its own kind anyway.

He turned around slowly, searching for the source of the voice. His disoriented gaze landed on Dick. A flicker of movement somewhere on his right caught his eye, and Jason turned sharply, barely glimpsing a black shadow vanish as quickly as it had appeared. Or was it never there? Or was it still there, always had been? The room spun lightly, and his head hurt. Why did his head hurt so damn much?

“What are you doing here?” Dick asked. Jason winced at the sound of his voice, at how oddly familiar it was, even though he hadn’t spoken to him in three months, since the funeral. He stared at Dick, wondering if his brain was playing tricks on him or if Dick really looked that different, all hollow cheeks and tired eyes. [...]

From my new Whumptober story Broken frames on the wall (maybe we never really existed)

#jason todd #whump #whumptober2024 #batman #dick grayson #tim drake #damian wayne #red hood #angst #hurt/comfort #dc #fanfiction #dc fandom

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leiawritesstories · 2 months

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swords and sea breezes, 3

part one // part two //

word count: 3.5k (oops)

warnings: weapons, pirates, swearing ;)

enjoy!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After two weeks with the pirates of the Queen's Cadre, Aelin was convinced that Rowan was deliberately sailing in large circles to throw her off. Little did he know that she had an impeccable sense of direction, and she'd seen the same constellations in a circular pattern over the last fortnight.

She may be the wealthy young heiress to the Ashryver-Galathynius duchy, but she was no vapid damsel.

Aelin yawned as she strolled into the galley, stretching her arms above her head. Thanks to Elide's daily knife lessons, her body was remembering the skills she'd learned as a young girl before her parents had decided that self-defense was unladylike, and her aim and accuracy were rapidly growing sharper. Almost too rapidly---she had to remind herself not to advance too quickly lest the pirates suspect she was hiding more than her weapons skills.

"Morning, everyone!" she chirped as she picked up a tin mug and filled it with coffee. The dark, bitter beverage had been strictly a servants' drink in her family home, and she reveled in the freedom to drink it, though she had to stir in nearly half as much sugar as coffee.

"Hullo, milady," drawled Fenrys, one of the ship's two lookouts. "Much better of a mornin' now that you're here with me."

"Your flattery is entirely unnecessary, Fen," Aelin smirked. "I'm still not going to let you into my bed."

Fen shrugged and draped one broad arm around her shoulders. "I'm a patient man, sweetheart."

"Like hell you are, Fenny," Elide scoffed, fondly tugging on the man's curly blonde braid.

He squawked in protest. "Don't mess up the beauty, Lochan!"

She snorted. "Is that what you tell the endless string of partners you bring into your room every time we're in port? Because I recall you saying something very different."

"What happens in my bedroom---"

"Can't possibly stay in your bedroom, because we all have eyes and ears," Aelin cut in, grinning. She winked at Fen as she sipped from her sugary coffee. "Right?"

"All I'm sayin' is that it proves my prowess," he sniffed, pretending to be offended by the good-natured teasing.

"Aye, is that what you tell yourself at night, Fenny boy?" Rowan strode into the galley, and once again, Aelin had to force her heartbeat to remain calm and steady at the sight of the man.

"Sure is, Captain!" With a blindingly sunny grin, Fenrys got up, tipped his empty mug in a salute, and tossed the cup across the room. It landed neatly in the dirty dish bin. "Right, I'm headed up to the lookout."

Rowan nodded. "You know what to do if you spot anything." He picked up two bowls of oat porridge, thanked the cook, and sauntered over to sit directly across from Aelin. "Good morning, my lady."

She arched a brow. "If it's such a good morning, why are we still sailing in circles?"

The galley---hell, the whole damn ship---went silent.

Very, very slowly, Rowan raised his eyes to hers, unable to hide the pure unfiltered shock in them. With his spoon frozen halfway to his lips, a blob of porridge splattered on the table from where it had fallen, he made a perfect portrait of incredulity. "What?!"

"Don't play stupid with me, Whitethorn." Aelin placed her hands flat atop the worn wooden table. "You are clearly clever enough to sail in a wide pattern so that ordinary people wouldn't suspect we aren't going anywhere, but you forget that I am not ordinary."

"Clearly," Rowan whispered, something almost like awe hidden beneath the rasp of his voice. He cleared his throat, placed his spoon back in his bowl, and narrowed his gaze, his moment of wonder shifting to calculation. "How long have you known we're sailing in circles, Aelin?"

The rest of the ship was utterly silent, waiting with bated breath for their captive's answer.

She shrugged. "I realized several days ago that the constellations looked the same as they had on my first night here, and further observation confirmed that we're traveling in a circular pattern."

"You got all that from the...stars?"

"You can't believe a noblewoman would know how to track the stars?" she shot back, irritation sparking her blood.

"Actually, that part is no surprise." Rowan tipped his head to the side, assessing her. "My shock comes from how you didn't hesitate to confront me in front of my entire crew."

"I thought an audience would keep you honest." She sipped her coffee, willing her expression to remain calm, if a bit smug.

He huffed in disbelief. "Well, it certainly did." His lips tipped up into a grin. "Eat, Aelin." He pushed the second bowl across to her.

She stared blankly at the bowl. "I'm not on any kind of hunger strike, Rowan. There's no need to be concerned that your ticket to Dorian Havilliard's whatever-it-is will keel over from starvation."

Rowan chuckled, low and throaty and warm. "Would you believe me if I said this was an attempt at proper manners?"

"What are those?" With an angelically innocent smile, Aelin picked up the spoon and took a bite of the porridge. For ship's fare, it was surprisingly good---steaming hot and slightly sweetened with sugar and a hint of warm spices.

"Something you constantly remind me I lack." Rowan's smirk lit up his features, and Aelin couldn't help but return it. That calculation had returned to his gaze, though, and he had the decency to wait until she was finished eating before he took up his usual train of questions. "Perhaps we're sailing in circles because we know we're near the island."

Aelin burst into laughter.

Rowan's brows quirked. "We could be."

"Awfully hard for you to be near something that doesn't exist," Aelin chuckled. She brushed a few loose strands of wavy red hair out of her face. "It's been two weeks, Rowan. Surely you have enough sense to tell that I'm used to your questions."

"Apparently not," he muttered, half to himself. Abruptly, he stood up, collecting both his and her empty bowls and setting them in the dish bin as he left the galley.

That went fucking brilliantly, Galathynius, Aelin thought to herself, mentally giving herself a slap upside the head for potentially revealing more than she was ready to reveal. She stood up, waved cheerily to the few crewmen still lounging around, and tossed her empty mug into the bin as she left.

She stopped at her room to tie back her hair and strap her two daggers to her hips before she went up to the deck to meet with Elide. They had developed a routine of training in the mornings, when the heat wasn't quite so bad, though Elide had been trying to convince her to start shooting pistols with the crew in the evenings.

But Aelin and explosives were...a bad combination. For many reasons.

"Ready to pick up a gun yet, milady?" Elide joked as Aelin came up to the deck.

"Ask again when pigs fly," Aelin laughed, taking her stance next to Elide and stretching her arms above her head. "I'll keep to my knives for now, thank you very much."

Elide shrugged. "Suit yourself." She spun a pair of ebony-handled pistols around her thumbs, squeezed the triggers, and with a bang and two puffs of smoke, two of the bottles sitting on the deck railing burst into shards.

"You weren't lying about being the best sharpshooter here," Aelin mused, in awe of Elide's skills.

"Course not." The shorter woman raised one of the pistol's muzzles and blew the curls of smoke away from its barrel. "Why else d'ya think I have the grumpiest man on this ship on his knees for me?"

"Gods above," Aelin groaned, squeezing her eyes shut. "We already hear you two every night."

"Damn right!" Elide snickered.

Aelin shook her head, laughing, and launched both of her knives at the corkboard target, one after the other. The blades thudded into the dead center of the circle painted onto the cork, barely a hairsbreadth separating them, with their handles pointed outward at opposite angles so the tips of the blades could both hit the center.

Elide whistled. "Shit, Ae, looks like ya hardly needed my lessons!"

"More like your lessons have taught me that I can do this," Aelin replied, shrugging off Elide's praise. "I guess the self-defense lessons I used to take as a child are still lingering."

They trained for their usual hour before they had to part ways, and as Aelin tucked her knives back into their sheaths, Elide glanced up at the sky and whistled, long and low. It had been a cloudy morning, and as the day went on, the clouds had gathered ever closer, coalescing into an ominously dark mass that thickened the air with the promise of a storm.

"Might want to get below, Ae," Elide said, her brows furrowed. "Looks like we're in for a squall."

Down in his office, Rowan paced back and forth across the floor, a scowl etched into his face as he argued with his right-hand man.

"Dammit, Whitethorn, stop being so fucking stubborn!" Lorcan snapped. "We aren't gonna make it past this storm unless you pull your head out of your ass and get us through."

"We're still too fucking far away!" Rowan shot back, his jaw clenched. "I don't have much left, and getting through the storm is probably gonna take all of it. Where the hell will we be then? Powerless?"

Lorcan shot him a fierce glare. "Those ain't the words of the captain I signed on with."

"Well, that captain was fresh from Doranelle," Rowan retorted.

"And just what the hell difference did that make?"

"All the difference." Rowan stopped pacing and braced his hands on the wall, staring out the window across the choppy waves. "A year ago, I didn't realize I couldn't return to Doranelle without a guide."

"A year ago, you were so goddamn drunk on power that you didn't listen to the warnings." Lorcan spoke softly, but no less fiercely. "Where's that confidence led you, Whitethorn?"

"Here." Rowan's admission was hollow.

Lorcan nodded, one sharp dip of his chin. "Here. In the middle of the ocean, without a map or a guide, 'bout to hit a storm that'll take the last of that goddamned token to get through."

Rowan's expression tightened. "We do have a guide, I know it."

"The Galathynius girl?" Lorcan scoffed. "You're desperate, and I can understand why, but you're wrong about her." He paused for a moment, then continued, ruthlessly. "Pull yourself together. I'm goin' up top to get ready for this storm."

Rowan just nodded. "I'll be up."

"You know what happens if you're not." With that, Lorcan left.

One deck above, Aelin stood frozen with shock as the conversation she'd just eavesdropped on raced around her mind. The token. A year ago. Get us through the storm. In her mind's eye, all the pieces started to click together, threads weaving into a tight pattern that revealed why Rowan Whitethorn, pirate captain of the Queen's Cadre, was so insistent upon getting to the island Doranelle.

Power.

She shoved down the thick fear that clogged her throat at the thousand possible implications of that word, and she hurried back to her cabin as the ship's lights began to go out. Salvaterre, who was second in command, had ordered that all open flames be extinguished as they sailed into the storm---to lessen the risk of fire, for there was nothing so feared and dangerous as fire aboard a ship. Back in her cabin, she made sure the small window was securely latched, and then she changed into trousers and a blouse, stepped into the set of water-resistant oilskins that Elide had given to her, tied her hair tightly back, and went up to the deck to join the crew.

Nobody paid any special attention to her, since she was dressed like the rest of them were and the pelting rain blurred the field of vision. Her hands were sure and nimble on the lines as she helped secure the ship, and she followed a crewman towards the stern, in the direction of the captain's cabin.

The winds picked up, throwing the ship back and forth as she fought against the choppy waves, struggling to keep her balance as she sailed deeper into the maelstrom. Aelin ducked behind a bulkhead wall and peered cautiously out to the stern deck, both surprised and not surprised to see Rowan standing there, his face turned into the howling winds.

An opaque white spear of quartz dangled from a silver chain in his hand, the stone faintly flickering with light. Aelin closed her eyes, straining her hearing against the powerful shriek of the storm winds, and just barely managed to pick up a faint counterpoint melody, its notes halting and frail, coming from the stone in Rowan's hand.

A storm token.

The Queen's Cadre lurched sharply, timbers creaking as she clawed through a steep cresting wave, and a fresh wave of the downpour soaked Aelin through her clothes as a gust of wind tore her hat off her head. Grunting with effort, she grasped the lines above her head and hauled herself up, bracing her body in the net of ropes.

"Now, Captain!" Lorcan yelled over the roar of the storm.

Rowan set his jaw, a fiercely determined look settling like steel over his face, and raised the storm token above his head. His body shook with effort, but ever so slowly, a ripple shuddered out from his fists that were clenched around the flickering quartz. The ripple grew and broadened as it rose into the sky, shaking and shuddering against the force of the storm, until it exploded outward and upward with a faint, high-pitched keen that Aelin just barely heard over the wind.

And the sky went silent.

Cautiously, Aelin lifted her head, and her eyes widened. A bubble of calm surrounded the ship, keeping the storm at bay and propelling the ship through the fierceness of the maelstrom. His feet rooted to the stern deck, Rowan gripped the storm token tightly, his body quivering with the strain of keeping the ship protected as she pushed through the rough waters. Getting through the storm will take all of it. The words, a snippet of the conversation Aelin had spied on, echoed through her mind.

She'd barely thought the words before a fissure cracked through the bubble of calm protecting the ship.

"Hold on!" Lorcan roared. "Nearly there!"

But the wind shrieked louder, as if enraged that Rowan had dared to use his storm token against it, and the bubble of calm fractured, once again exposing the ship to the storm. The quartz in Rowan's hand flickered once and went dark, its opaque hue as ordinary as any other stone. A sharp gust of wind scraped across the deck, pushing the Queen's Cadre into the trough of an oncoming wave.

And Rowan, drained after the effort of using the storm token, tumbled off the side of the ship into the surging waves.

Fuck it all to hell.

Aelin leapt off the ropes, her booted feet slipping on the drenched deck, and hastily freed the stern rowboat. With a grunt and a heave, she shoved it over the side of the ship and dove after it, abandoning the pirate ship as the storm finally subsided.

She clutched the side of the rowboat and dragged herself in, spluttering and coughing. The oars practically fell into her hands, and she pushed backwards, towards where Rowan had fallen, cursing him and herself the whole way. Stupid fucking pirate!

"If you're not fucking floating, I'm leaving you to the sea goddess," Aelin seethed as she scanned the waves. There! A surprising jolt of relief shot through her, but she smothered it as she headed for Rowan's prone form. "Get...in," she grunted, hooking her arms under his armpits and practically throwing him into the rowboat.

He lay sprawled on the floor of the tiny boat, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, passed out asleep. Clearly, the storm token had protected him from inhaling any water, but he remained unconscious.

A small mercy.

"Now stay the fuck asleep," she muttered, pushing her soaking wet hair out of her face. With a deep sigh, she settled herself on the bench, hoisted up the oars, and began to row, guiding the boat through the subsiding waves. The rain had slowed from a deluge to a shower, and it eventually trickled to a full stop as the sea calmed from the storm.

Aelin closed her eyes, tipped her head back, and opened her eyes again, staring up into the stars as they appeared in the night sky, breaking through the darkness. The storm clouds had blown away, revealing the constellations etched into the skies, a map for anyone who could decipher it. She glanced down at Rowan---still asleep---and back up to the stars, scanning the shape of their paths.

The Queen's Cadre was to the southeast of them, and by now, she would probably have recovered enough from the storm to discover that her captain was missing. A brief twinge passed through Aelin's heart, for despite her pretenses, she had come to find friendship among the crew of the pirate ship.

But Doranelle came first.

The island lay to the west, so it was westward that she turned, nudging the little rowboat onto a new course. As she rowed, Aelin sent up a quick prayer to the gods. Please, let Rowan stay asleep. It would go better for him if he didn't wake up before they'd reached their destination, both because he had no idea what the island actually protected and because her fear lingered. What Doranelle protected was power, and men were known to do terrible, terrible things for power. Even if Rowan had changed from the "power-drunk idiot" Lorcan had called him, she still couldn't trust that he would leave Doranelle in peace.

The sun rose and fell in cyclic rhythm as Aelin steered the little boat, switching from oars to the boat's single sail after she'd established her course because constant rowing would drain her entirely. Almost miraculously, Rowan remained in his stupor for the five days it took to reach the mists encircling Doranelle, and Aelin breathed just a bit easier knowing that he was unaware of their new path.

When the rowboat reached the mists, Aelin struck the sail and took up the oars again, and she rowed through the thick films of mist that veiled the island. The mists served as both a protective barrier and a misdirection tactic, since the ancient spell woven into the mists kept away anyone who approached with ill intent. As the rowboat broke through the mists, Aelin tilted her head back and inhaled deeply, basking in the achingly familiar richness of Doranelle's air and its faint trace of rain and embers. The island sprang up ahead, and she steered the rowboat into the docks at the land's edge.

Rowan stirred, his eyes cracking open. He blinked several times, clearing the bleariness from his face, and slowly raised his arms, as if testing his range of motion. "Where am I?" he croaked, not yet having recognized that he was alone with Aelin.

"Awake, apparently," she said.

He bolted upright into a seated position, wincing at the ache of the rapid movement. "What? How long...?"

"Five days, give or take, ever since your stupid ass fell off the ship during the storm." She stepped out of the rowboat, keeping a cautious eye on him, and slowly walked backwards up the dock's weathered wooden planks.

"My ship," he breathed, fear flickering across his features. "Where are we, Aelin?"

Her booted feet hit the soft, grassy ground, and she nearly wept with joy at the feeling of standing on her beloved island's turf once again. "A place that does not exist."

Pure shock slackened Rowan's jaw. "Doranelle," he whispered, his voice echoing with awe. He pushed himself up onto the bench, only wincing a bit at the tingling in his legs after five days asleep, and began to stand, clearly intending to get out of the boat and walk into the island.

Aelin's hand flew to her knives, and a blade was clenched in her raised fist almost before she could blink. Her other hand curled behind her hips, her stance defensive. "Stay in the boat, Rowan." The voice that came out of her rang with a note of command that he'd never heard before.

"Aelin, I---"

"Stay. In the. Boat." Her shoulders tensed, and she rooted her feet to the ground as a familiar tingling rose from the ground up to her raised hands.

Confusion crossed Rowan's face. "I mean no harm, Aelin, truly." He swallowed thickly. "But this place...it is a miracle."

"A miracle that is unforgiving to strangers." Her fingers curled.

Brows furrowed together, Rowan abruptly stood up and stepped out of the rowboat. He reached for the pistol that he habitually kept on his hip before remembering that he'd lost it in the storm, but he walked forward, his gaze trained on Aelin. She pressed her lips together, the knife quivering slightly in her raised fist. He reached out towards her. "I won't harm anything, I swear."

She shook her head. "I can't trust a pirate's promise." Deep in her soul, Doranelle called, sending a warm wash of sparks through her blood.

And finally, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius burst into fire.

~~~

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#my writing #swords and sea breezes #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowan x aelin #rowaelin #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #elide lochan #lorcan salvaterre #elide x lorcan #elorcan #throne of glass #pirates au #pirate au #throne of glass au

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strongheartneteyam · 1 year

Text

I wet you like water but she stained you like blood.

Chapter 2

Pairing: widowed!dilf!Jake Sully x younger!female!human reader

CW: angsty as hell, Neytiri is dead in this AU, unrequited love, older man & younger woman relationship (y/n is in her 20's), feeling like you're only there to fill in the gap someone else left (Neytiri, in this case), mentions of death and being a widow, complex feelings, talks of trauma, CAN BE TRIGGERING TO SOME, mentions of sex, mentions of sexual fluids, reader feeling guilty about being with Jake not long after Neytiri's death

Not proofread. And I can't even read what I just wrote, without even correcting it, because I have to feed my cat and take care of dinner right now. I'm just praying this stuff makes sense. I'll correct any mistakes as soon as I can. Sorry in advance lol This amateur writer here never has enough time on her hands...... 🥲

Chapter 1 𓆩♡𓆪

You're so much older and wiser

And I wait by the door like I'm just a kid

Use my best colors for your portrait

Lay the table with the fancy shit

And watch you tolerate it

If it's all in my head tell me now

Tell me I've got it wrong somehow

tolerate it (Taylor Swift)

𓆩♡𓆪

Jake was a widowed father of 4, he was an attractive, responsible, charming, older man. And he was also funny when he was just chilling, hanging around his friends or his family. Last but not least: he had a delicious "dad bod", a word people came up with to describe older men who are still toned but have some cute fat here and there.

You were a girl in your 20's, a young xenobotanist living in Pandora, who used to spend her nights alone, eating cup noodles, watching and rewatching old TV shows from when the planet Earth was still a place where humans could actually live in, and feeling lonely. So, when Jake Sully got his eye on you, you fell head over heels for him.

You knew well you could never replace Neytiri. Even after her death, she still had a place in Jake's heart that nobody, not even you, would ever be able to claim as yours.

Still, you could not let Jake go. Still, you insisted in staying. Still, you didn't seem to love yourself enough to say to yourself "I deserve better" and wait for a guy who actually loves you, not one that seemed to only love your company and well... your body most of all, as it seemed.

Okay, maybe you shouldn't think this bad of Jake. You knew he felt really connected to you, in a deep level. You two would talk late at night and he would always be vulnerable and tell you about real personal and deep stuff about his life - the one in the human body and the one in the na'vi body -, while the both of you would eat roasted meat and fungi, up in some tree in the middle of the Pandoran forests. But you knew he did not love you. Even if you could feel his heart beating fast through his chest when he kissed and touched you, away from everyone, never in front of anybody, because you two were adults and knew damn well that situation, him seeming like he was so happy and living his best life with another woman, a much younger human girl, who was at an age where she could actually be his daughter, wouldn't sit right with anybody, not human, not na'vi - given that he had children that were still mourning the death of their mother (one of them being a little girl, Tuktirey).

That sacred feeling, love, was saved inside of Jake's heart for Neytiri, his deceased mate, even after death. He bonded with her through tsaheylu. You, as only a human, no neuro queue to connect with his in sight, knew you could never compare to that primal bond he had experienced with her. But worst of all (you felt horrible saying "worst of all" but you knew you didn't mean it like that, like you didn't care about other people's feelings), Neytiri was the mother of his children. She might be with Eywa now but you knew Jake would always remember her looking all beautiful and incredibly feminine carrying his first born, Neteyam Sully, and his other two biological children in her belly (Kiri was adopted after her biological mom died, a dear friend of the couple, Grace Augustine. Kiri was a miracle kid. Her mother was bearing her inside of her body after her own death, inside the lab. That was crazy stuff your human mind would never understand, you thought. Only the na'vi could understand the magnitude of Eywa's power. You yourself knew she was strong and respected her but didn't love and worship her like they did.)

Thinking about the way Jake must still adore the memory of Neytiri and think about her and even cry missing her gave you a big lump in your throat and made you wanna throw up. You felt like the worst being in the Universe thinking like that, but you swore, truly, that feeling that way was not you being a petty selfish girl, jealous of the man you were currently in a situationship with and not even considering to have some respect for his grief and the grief of his children - who had just lost their mother -, but it was actually the love you felt for Jake manifesting in your body, in a psychosomatic way. The pain and desperation you felt thinking about the possibility of him never getting over Neytiri made you sick to your stomach, it made the bones inside of your flesh ache.

The first time you saw him talking to Norm one day at the lab, his tall, large frame in all its glory, his blue skin so beautiful, his dark blue stripes adorning his whole body in intricate patterns, his long brown hair falling on his toned back, his tail looking so cute, reminding you of a kitty cat.... "I'm fucked" You thought to yourself. "Am I really catching feelings for this older na'vi man who will probably never want me in this way?! Damn, he's still mourning his dead mate.... Neytiri died not even a whole year ago... I must be evil to be thinking about him this way at this moment. Stop that, you crazy stupid heartless girl."

You looked at him again and he was smiling, his fangs touching his lower lip. He had such a cheerful, precious smile, even though you knew he had been through a whole lot of pain and trauma in his life. "He must be really strong and resilient. That's beautiful." You thought to yourself

Jake Sully had the right amount of muscles but still had soft flesh in all the right places, his tummy just perfect enough for you to be able to squeeze it if you wanted to, his thighs thick but the muscles were balanced with sweet softness. He made you feel a raw kind of heat in your lower belly and think about him just before sleep, like you were a damn schoolgirl. Sometimes (okay, many times...) he made your panties slick with your own juices when you imagined him taking you in his arms and kissing you hard, dominating you like you were his. Which you wished you were. Until one day that wish was fulfilled. You were in cloud nine when that happened.

Jake had been in the marines back when he was human and lost the movement of his legs, being left needing a wheelchair to move himself around and do day to day activities. He lost his twin brother back on Earth, too, after he - Tommy - had been mugged. And now, he had just lost his wife to death too and was left alone to take care of his 4 children. Poor thing must have PTSD, if the na'vi brains were able to have the same disorders as humans brains had. You didn't know, to be honest. You were a xenobotanist. Your area of expertise was the biology of extraterrestrial plants, not the biology of extraterrestrial bodies.

The fact that he still was capable of irradiating happiness through his eyes, smile, voice and overall presence made you weak with admiration. And love, you must say. Because thats what you were: weak and in love, all for and with Jake Sully.

Too bad his feeling were not even close to being the same as yours. He loved you as a friend and he lusted over your body. He wanted to protect you from any harm anyone could ever do to you. The bitter part of it all is: he could never protect you from the harm he himself did to you. The harm being giving you pieces of what could be his love, but it wasn't. That was the worst crime he could ever commit against you. At least that's what the pungent pain deep inside the arteries of your heart told you. Every night. Every time you remembered he didn't love you, but he loved Neytiri. Everytime you got reminded of the fact that you were alive and she was dead but you still were not his favorite.

Goddammit. How did you end up competing with a dead na'vi woman over a na'vi man's love? You sure were losing your mind.

But falling in love with Jake Sully proved to you that you were not the nerdy science girl who used to always put reason first and feelings last, that you always thought you were. Not when it came to love, at least. Or not when it came to this relationship.

𓆩♡𓆪

If any of you wanna be in the taglist for this fanfic, just leave a comment 🤍 ily n hope you're having a nice day/night 💓⚘

#jake sully x reader #jake sully #jake sully avatar #dilf jake sully #avatar twow #avatar 2009 #avatar james cameron #avatar the way of water #avatar pandora #jake sully x you #jake sully x human!reader #jake avatar #avatar fanfiction #avatar fanfic #avatar fandom #dilf jake sully x reader #avatar au #kxamtxomaw writes

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puffyducks · 2 days

Text

DCRC Week #16

Wiggity what's up my fellow book clubbers, today we're taking a look at the ethics of treating artificially made intelligent lifeforms as second class citizens and what the qualifying factors are to determine a being as truly "sentient" and deserving of basic social rights. And by that I mean we're reading PKNA #12: "Second Draft" which is a comic where nothing bad happens!

This post is LOOONG btw.

okay we're just gonna start off our comic as normal and-

WOAH who's this handsome young devil in his little fancy suit??? What's that? Head of Ducklair Industries?..... yeah sure that makes sense I think.

Everett Ducklair 🤢🤢🤢 get a job stay away from him. Also this is a really nice way of saying you had to stop him from being overtaken by insane homicidal tendencies and putting guns in all his inventions btw

Haha woah what was that. Did the fabric of reality just tear for a second there or did my ADHD meds just kick in. Probably just me.

MASTER Donald???..... I don't even think I can write out the jokes I wanna make here they're too inappropriate for this blog sorry. But also what the fuck.

Uno stop mothering maybe I WANT to get frostbite and lose all my fingers

Not to take a sudden side tangent here but is this supposed to be like, a good thing? Don't the other seasons exist for a reason? I always thought fall and winter were meant to be like a cleansing period, they bring balance to the two other hotter seasons. If it's eternally spring, do some plants just never die? Are animals ALWAYS in the breeding season? Today we're going to overanalyze this one concept in an essay where-

OH MY GOD IT'S ODIN wait nevermind hiii Odin hiiiii. what's lookin good cookin. I mean- shit. fuck. shit.

I'm kind of obsessed with the way Odin is drawn in this comic. His whole body is all wiggly like a bendy straw. His stances go crazy.

gayass

Guys ever since I made that post about Odin's outfits and noticed that he's barefoot here it's been haunting me. Like it might just be a coloring error in this panel but also... why'd he take his shoes off. Also sorry for immediately revealing that it's Odin but um uhh I totally don't know who the OTHER cloaked figure is.

girlll you're giving away the game SHUT YOUR MOUTH

TWO Lylas?!?!?!

I'm loving Donald's shock lmao bro is fucking flabberghasted

This picture is so fucking silly bro. Nooo you can't put Odin in jail, he has such a nice suit on :(

Donald getting offended on Uno's behalf, not knowing that Uno is literally sitting right behind him. SURELY he'll figure it out eventually right.

Omg guys it's Geena!!! Remember Geena? From Portrait of the Young Hero? Anyways she has a gun now

Way to go Donald, you showed her basic empathy for like 2 panels and it gave her an actual sense of self value and NOW she thinks she deserves rights 🙄 she's gonna Detroit Become Human up in this bitch

beaming you with my evil lasers. what if he just fucking fried her brains here I think it would've been funny

Oh that's. probably bad.

ohhhh noooo.....

OOOOHHHH NOOOOOOOOOOOO

Ok so bad news, Geena fucking exploded and her droid rebellion is presumably over. The GOOD news though is that droids are destined to get their rights anyways, just in a less violent manor than in the timeline Geena had started. So... I guess that's a win?

Disappears in a cloud of beautiful sunset smoke... Goodbye Odin 👋

Donald. Please. DONALD.

Okay so there's a LOT to say about this comic (so much that I kept hitting the image limit and having to make edits to my post to make it more concise) but if I could summarize it into one word: damn. Like I'm just kinda sad now.

The whole concept of "do robots deserve to be treated like human beings" is a common argument to explore, we've seen it in all kinds of media before. The ethics that get touched on in this comic are nothing new, but I can't help but find this comic incredibly interesting to read in the year 2024. Maybe in 1997 the idea of robots integrating into our society seemed like a far-off concept, but in present day the ever-growing integration of AI technology really makes this chapter feel a little more close to home.

I mean, it's easy to be like "yeah, well of course the droids deserve to be treated like people." I mean, Lyla and Odin are droids, and we like Lyla and Odin! Odin is literally so lifelike that people don't even KNOW he's a droid. But I can't help but think about how this all ties back to the current ongoing debates surrounding the usage of AI, and specifically AI-made content. Obviously the AI we currently have is nowhere near the level of the characters in this series (chatGPT fucking WISHES it was Uno) but there's really interesting debates to be made here.

What qualifying factors determine whether or not a living being is deserving of the same rights we humans give to ourselves? Is it being biological? I mean, there are literally millions of types of animals on our planet, but we don't even treat them with the same level of respect we give to ourselves. So, is it intelligence? If we were to create a computer with the intelligence level of a living, breathing human person, would they be entitled to basic "human" rights? HELL IF I KNOW.

I love the way this comic handles exploring this topic. Geena isn't WRONG for wanting more, she's wrong in the way she went about it. Going as far as to literally alter the course of spacetime only further complicated things, for her AND for the other droids. Had Geena instead devoted her energy into droid advocacy in the modern day, things may have gone differently. This story isn't the end of droids getting rights, but it is unfortunately the end of Geena.

We ended on a happy note, but overall this story is a pretty melancholic one. Especially that whole "only machines can be rebuilt" like DAMN.

Anyways that's enough media analysis for today, time to take off my smart thinking hat and go back to being generally kinda stupid. I'm not gonna add anything about Angus Tales here at the end because I already hit the image limit lol. Umm shoutout to Angus Fangus for having like 110 parking tickets. Idiot.

#dcrc #dcrc week 16 #paperinik

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personaswrld · 1 year

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"The Boy"

Brahms Heelshire x Female!Reader

This is a just a story of the movie of The Boy but instead of Greta , Female!Reader will take her place. The ending will also be different as I wanted to change it to how I wanted the movie to end like , Ive Also changed some other things in the story.

Sorry for any misspelled works as I'm just now getting into writing . Sorry this is a female reader story as I'm a female and that's what I'm used to writing but I will eventually write different versions of my story's that have different genders , Male!Reader & Gn!Reader.

Y/n - Your name

L/n - Last name

R/n - random name

Slashers Masterlist

Y/ns text and thoughts are going to be (pink¡)

Brahms will be (red!)

These -> " are thoughts

Others text will be (purple¡)

Chapter 1 | Meeting The Heelshires

My name is Y/n L/n and for the last few weeks I've been running away using from my crazy abusive ex-boyfriend , R/n. He was constantly hitting and yelling at me and eventually I got tired of it and ran off to move to the United Kingdom. I wanted to move far away from (State) and start a new life never look back, but yet the familiar overwhelming feeling of being scared that he'll find me always seems to find it's way back to me.

Sighing at the thought of it I quickly clear my head as I keep my eyes on the road heading to the Heelshire Residence where I will be nannying a older couples little boy named Brahms. It made me feel off thinking at the thought of a older couple having a young child "maybe it's their grandson" I thought. I pull up to the address given to me looking up at the house already gives off a creepy vibe and im slowly regetting my decision in taking this job but i need the money and maybe it'll look better on the inside then what it does on the outside + it'll be better once i meet brahms maybe he'll distract me from my mind of my ex.

Finally Pulling into the house parking my car and putting the keys into my pocket I exit my car and head to the trunk of it to grab my backpack and suitcase. I grab my suitcase and walk towards the front door as I'm settling the backpack straps comfortably on my shoulders.

Finally arriving at the door I put a few knocks on the door , taking a deep breath and exhale as a few minutes go by I knock again but get no answer. Opening the door I slowly walking inside closing it behind me setting my bags down by the door as I do so I call out to see if anyone's home.

"Is anyone here?" I say as I look around the house that looks like it could have been built in the 19th century. "Mr and Mrs Heelshire? , Brahms?" as I say the name brahms I hear a thump near the wall but quickly ignore it figuring out that it's probably a rat or mouse.

After calling out you shortly realized no one was going to answer you so you start to walk up the stairs to explore a little as your were walking up the stairs you saw a family portrait of a family that you assumed were Mr and Mrs Heelshire, and looking down at face of the little boy below , brahms.

"This must be the little boy that I'm nannying" you thought to yourself. Soon after your done with your little exploring session you head back downstairs but as soon as you do so you hear an voice of an older woman calling out to you from the top of the stairs.

"Up here Miss Y/n , sorry for the wait" you look back up to where you heard the voice "There you are Mrs. Heelshire it's finally nice to meet you" you said as you walked all the way back up the stairs but what you really wanted to say was

"I know damn well I did not just come down from those stairs looking for you just to make it back to the bottom of the stairs just to hear and see your old ass at the middle of the stairs after all of that" but you held back for the sake of needing a job and money.

"Let's head upstairs , so I could introduce you to my son brahms and my husband." She says as you make it up the stairs there waiting was a older man you that you assumed was Mr Heelshire.

"Ms Y/n I would like you to meet my husband, Mr Heelshire" said Mrs. Heelshire.

"It's very nice to meet you Ms. Y/n" he said as he stuck out his hand for you to shake.

"It's nice to meet you too Mr Heelshire"

"Okay now y/n I would like you too meet our son brahms" Mrs. Heelshire said , as they soon moved aside putting a glass-like doll into view that looks similar to the boy you saw in the family portrait.

Not wanting to be rude you put a smile on your face bending down to the height of the doll , figuring out that the elder couple must of had a loss of their son brahms years ago and this is how they cope.

"Hello brahms"

#brahms heelsire x reader #brahms heelshire #slashers #slashers x reader #the boy 2016

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georgianaortiz · 2 months

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OPEN | @lunarcovestarters

A. Capture the Flag [ The Cove's Jail ]

The retreat events weren't the kind of games Gia liked to play. Still, the vampire participated on behalf of the clan. Her loyalty to her people unassailable but questionable with everyone else. "Well I study prehistoric archeology, mostly, but a colleague of mine is a maritime archaeologist. Brilliant in his field." The brunette commended. "But bless his heart, he's a mess of a man. Steps out on his wife who gave him five children. He can't keep an assistant, either, and no one has to guess why." Head still shaking in disapproval, Gia continued on. "So this colleague, he told me that the bottom of the ocean is called the abyssal plain and isn't made of sand but sediment from everything that's ever lived in the sea. How interesting!" The exclamation was followed by an abrupt change in her tone as the eyes in the back of her head, from motherhood, told her someone was trying to escape. "Sit back down."

B. Canoeing [ During the Vampire's bracket ]

Wearing a long, flowing skirt, and kitten heels with a parasail and picnic basket in hand, Gia declined her canoe's paddle and settled into her little boat. The only thing she knew about boats was how to float down river. Which was a favorite past time of hers, growing up, as a young girl in Savannah. The middle child of a dozen and one siblings, they all loaded into oak boats with picnic lunches to bask in the southern, summertime sun. Today filled Gia with nostalgia and champagne, which she packed in lieue of her childhood's picnic lunch. She popped the bottle the second she set sail, bubbling with delight as the liquid poured over the top. "What a lovely day this will be!"

C. Bonfire [ Opening Night ]

They were all just stories at the end. Stories and bones; two of Gia's great loves. Scary stories her favorite kind, ever since childhood when she'd sneak out of bed, wander down the hall, and eavesdrop on her older siblings attempts to spook one another. In a sort of poetic irony that Georgiana amusedly appreciated, she was a ghost story. "They say I haunt the house where I died in Savannah. The story seems to change every few decades. I tripped down the stairs, my husband's misstress pushed me, an evil spirit from beyond did the deed.." A laugh, half-hearted in sound, proceeded the recount. "All are false, of course. They do have my portrait up, though the artist's rendition is hardly as damning as a photograph." Her tongue clicked in audible annoyance, as she grumbled something about stupid cell phones.

D. Werewolf BBQ

Why the clan was invited to a werewolf BBQ was beyond Gia's knowing. Once more, she joined in on the festivities like a good sport and brought baked goods for the food table. One look at the cuisine and she knew she wouldn't be eating anything she hadn't brought herself. Georgiana had a particular palette for human food these days, and it did not include anything that could be prepared on a BBQ. She resigned herself to drinking and people watching, making observations in her mind until someone was in ear shot to hear her commentary. "That guy.." The vampire gestured at someone, random, in the crowd. "..is a beer shy of being able to start a brewery. I give him another half hour, at best. That's being generous." Not so quietly she scoffed, "Light weight."

#lunarcovestarter #tw infidelity #tw alcohol #tw death #tw dying #tw evil spirit #tw misstress #tw haunting

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yes-i-write-fanfiction · 10 months

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Hi I wanna know how would the tfa bots elite guard and cons react to meeting a female bot who is like Barbie who came to life by an allspark fragment and developing a crush on her

-Optimus feels ashamed of his crush because he doesn't think he's worth her. She's just so... so perfect. Beautiful, kind, funny, intelligent. She's got it all and Optimus doesn't. He'll probably try to avoid her for some time after realizing how he feels about her.

-If Optimus feels ashamed then Ratchet feels embarrassed. He's an old mech, past his best years and he's not supposed to go after some young, pretty bot that's just started figuring out life. Not to mention that he's long since given up on having a love life. Like Optimus he'll probably avoid her if possible in an attempt to smother these feelings.

-Despite his claims, Bumblebee don't have a lot of experience with lady-bots. You know what, scratch that. He's got ZERO experience. That doesn't mean he'll dive right in and do his best to impress her. Super nervous about making a fool out of himself but he masks this with false confidence. Starts stumbling over his words whenever she smiles at him though.

-Bulkhead in love is just so wholesome. He realizes he's got a crush on her when he finds himself painting nothing but portraits of her. Tries to woo her the old fashioned way, with flowers and poems about how pretty her optics are. Will ask her to model for his paintings as an excuse to spend time with her.

-For Prowl, him having a crush is divided in two parts. First, he ignores it. Ignores her. Tries to be smooth about how he leaves when she shows up but he's just desperately trying to avoid her so he won't fall deeper in love. But he can't focus on anything, all his thoughts keeps drifting back to her so eventually he accepts it. Now he's determined to woo her though he feels intimidated by how amazing she is. How is he supposed to prove himself?

-It's been centuries since Ultra Magnus last had a crush but he just can't help it with this bot. She's everything he looks for in a conjux. Graceful, gentle, determined, intelligent, kind. She would make a perfect First Conjux (cybertronian version of First Lady). Now, he's not been in the dating game since he was a new frame but he's still confident that he can muster up the old charm.

-Fuuuuuck, Sentinel is so damn annoying about his crush. He flirts, says a million different pick up lines that makes everyone else cringe yet he fails to notice how hard he's failing. In his mind, a perfect mech like him deserves nothing less than a perfect bot like her. Thinks she's got a crush on him just because he can't imagine otherwise. Tries to impress her all the time.

-Jazz, just like Sentinel, flirts, but he's so much better at it. At first the flirting is mostly playful, trying to test the waters and see if she's interested, and once he's more confident then he'll lay it on real thick. Loves coming up with improvised love songs on the spot, singing about her many amazing qualities.

-The jettwins, Jetfire and Jetstorm, are like two puppies the way they follow her around, desperate for any scrap of attention. Like, they are down BAD. They hang onto her every word and think she's the most incredible bot in the world. Desperately try to impress her.

-Every lord needs a lady and that includes warlords so of course Megatron is determined to make her his. While she's a little too kind for the position as Lady of the decepticons he doesn't mind it. Her intelligence and charm more than makes up for it. Super suave with his flirting.

-Starscream tries so badly to impress her, be it with his intelligence, power or by flying. He tries to to act confident and suave with her but the moment she does anything he feels completely lost because she does everything with such ease. She's naturally graceful, doesn't even have to try to make people like her and that's everything Starscream wishes he had.

-She's got Blitzwing's personalities rapid switching because they all want to spend time/look at her. Hothead's usual anger and bravado turns into a blustering mess around her and all he can say are simple sentences like "You're pretty" or "I want to hold your hand so badly". Gets so flustered by his admissions that he willingly switches out. Icy is better, he is calmer about his crush and tries to woo her by being a gentleman. Too bad Random suddenly switches in and ruins it by saying that he wants to eat her so they can be together forever. Awkward.

-Look, Lugnut already got a conjux that he loves and adores so he feels super guilty about his crush. Whenever he sees this bot he will shout at them to stay away, calling her a temptress. Secretly though he's wondering if Strika would like to meet her. He's pretty confident that she'd like this bot and she's always been up for a third.

-Shockwave is torn between acting professional and ogling her like an idiot. She's perfect in every way, sense and form and he'd be an idiot to just ignore her. But because she's so perfect he finds himself so taken off guard that he doesn't know how to react.

-Yeah, Blackarachnia feels terrible. She's got a crush on her bot at the same time she's super jealous. This bot is beautiful and highly sought after by everyone and she feels so lacking in comparison to them. Might try to flirt but honestly don't think it will go anywhere, even if they for some reason were interested. Blackarachnia simply couldn't bear constandly comparing herself to this perfect bot.

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nemaliwrites · 5 days

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some hecate Thoughts on waxwitch hehe

The boy-shade comes every day.

He’s gone by night, which is the only reason you allow it — or else you would have blasted him out of the Crossroads with nothing more than a crook of your finger, no matter who his father.

You should, anyway. He’s nothing but a distraction. A hindrance. A danger, even; the green glow of Melinoë’s arm proves that, a lesson she’ll never forget. It’s one thing to have those wings on his back. Another entirely to use them.

But there’s something you see in his eyes: hunger. Desperation to prove himself. All good things. Necessary things, the same that your ward carries with her in every step she takes.

It is those who failed and still rise whose next attack is the strongest. You know that better than anyone —and when you’re finished with Melinoë, the Titan Chronos will learn that, too.

For you, too, have fallen. Wax wings, the Scythe of Time, it’s all the same. Falling is falling.

So you watch and you wait. If he hurts her, you think, you’ll rip those wings off his back yourself, magick be damned. But when he looks at her, it’s with respect. Head bowed, eyes averted. No blood left in his body, and yet he blushes all the same.

It isn’t a distraction she uses him as, you see, but motivation. She pushes herself further at the cauldron — though careful not to overextend, not anymore. Spends every free moment she has in the training ground.

It’s the sound you hear, though, that makes you pause. Around the boy-shade, the princess laughs. She sounds like her mother, like her father, like everyone whose company she should have grown up in had she not the misfortune to be stuck with you.

She cannot defeat Time with a smile on her face. There is no place in a war for laughter. You should set her straight. Remind her of your task. Her task.

But…

Laughter so seldom has a place here in the Crossroads. It is a safe haven — but it is not a home. No room here for happiness or love. Only anger. Only grief. Just more weapons to wield like these torches of yours.

One red eye, one green. An unfinished portrait. A green arm. It’s all the same. Falling is falling.

In the end, you stay your hand. After all, you were young once, too.

#hades 2 #hades game #hades fanfiction #hades fanfic #melinoe hades #hecate #hecate hades #icarus hades #waxwitch #waxwitch fanfic #icarus x melinoe #melinoe x icarus #nemali writes #nem drabbles

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whimzeee · 8 months

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Audaciously Yours,

Ramazith tower has ten billion stairs.

At least that’s how it feels to a pair of drunk fools leaning on one another while trying to climb them.

It’s late evening, perhaps a bit too late to be proper. Dinner lasted into the night and was served with one glass too many of the finest wine Dammon had ever tasted. At the hands of the three siblings he had been hosted like royalty that night. After Cal and Lia had called it a night, Rolan and Dammon stayed a bit longer. To have a conversation they could no longer pretend wasn’t needed.

They had both needed a drink or several to get through those nerves. One more so than the other. And the effect shows plainly; Dammon’s fingertips are a bit numb, but the entirety of Rolan’s legs seem to be that way.

He has Rolan’s arm hooked around his shoulders in the dimlit staircase. His warmth slumped against him. Arm around his waist, hand on hip. He’s not sure if the purple blush on Rolan’s face comes from the wine, or from the words they’d exchanged at long last. It’s no less pretty either way.

“Nearly there,” he encourages gently.

Rolan pauses, huffs an annoyed breath. “I am going to figure out portals…if it kills me.”

“Before these stairs do?”

“Mm.” Rolan glowers, but from the way his eyes blink, it seems less a glare of frustration and more just that he’s trying to see clearly. Were Dammon sober, he’d have stifled the snicker that bubbles up. He’s too tipsy to catch it in time.

Rolan’s sharp gaze is blunted and slow as he turns the glare on him. Maybe it would have been scary if he hadn’t started laughing too.

“Alright,” he slurs, gesturing loosely forward. “Laugh at me all you’d like, if you get us up these…damned steps.”

“I’m sorry,” Dammon giggles. “You’re just so...intimidating when you’re sober. It seems silly now.”

“Am I?” Is he…pouting?

“No,” Dammon corrects quickly. “Perhaps not after all.”

Rolan’s arm has begun to slip from his shoulders, so he hefts him higher—closer. Rolan's body curves to fit into his own and Dammon feels his face warming.

“I was the one intimidated,” Rolan mutters quietly. “You won’t believe how nervous I was. Still am, honestly.”

This is a brand new side of him. Rolan’s never been so honest. It’s always pomp and face, lace and ruffle when he talks. Always so concerned with decorum. Never just…real. Real like the friction between them as they lean drunken on each other in the small hours of night.

“No need for that,” he soothes, and pulls him up one more step. “It doesn’t need to be scary.”

Many missed steps and poorly stifled giggles later, they finally pour through the door to Rolan’s room. Dammon looks about with a mix of giddiness and trepidation. It feels like he’s not supposed to be here, somehow. But he is. For the first time.

It’s sparser than he’d expected. Cozy, but minimal. Organized so neatly it barely feels like a bedroom at all. But for a few books and two standing picture frames on the nightstand, one would hardly know whose room it was at all. A standing three-pronged candelabra next to the purple-quilted bed holds three perfectly un-melted lit candles, even though they must have been burning all night. Ah, right: Archmage Rolan. Downstairs he has a chandelier whose crystals lit up in different colors with a wave of his hand.

Dammon hauls the Master of Ramzith Tower's ragdoll body over to the bed and eases him down to sit. He takes this opportunity to get a closer look at the portraits. One is of Rolan and his siblings—gods help them trying to get Cal to sit still for that long. The second is quite older, faded and creased in some places. It depicts an older tiefling woman he doesn’t know, with a baby in her arms and a very young girl at her side, her hand resting on top of the child’s head. He recognizes the girl's horn shape, shared by the woman.

In the state Rolan’s in now, Dammon knows that if he asked he’d easily get an answer. So he doesn’t. It feels wrong. Like cheating at chess.

Rolan’s staring blearily at nothing, his head drooping. Dammon can’t help but smirk, biting his lip to keep from laughing at him any further. “Here,” he says gently, kneeling in front of him. “Let me help.”

Rolan’s eyes focus as he watches the blacksmith take his boots off for him. Unlaces them neatly and slides them off one by one with painstaking gentleness. When he’s finished, he’s a bit startled to see how big Rolan’s eyes have gotten, how he stares at him in…well, shock, really.

“Um… Was that okay?”

“I.” Rolan shivers, breaking the gaze as he feels suddenly self conscious. “Yes.”

No one has ever done something like that for him. So small but…just. Taking his shoes off for him. No one has ever.

“Are you. Sure?”

Rolan covers his face with his hands and falls backward onto the bed, flopping like a limp fish.

Dammon’s eyes peep over the side of the bed before he rises up onto his knees, leaning on the bed with his elbows. He observes Rolan quietly, waiting, but he doesn’t say any more.

"You've gone very quiet very quickly. Are you alright?" His smile fades to the touch of concern. "Not feeling sick are you?"

Rolan stares up at him like a first-time stargazer. His wide, shining eyes striving to focus.

"Rolan?"

"Mm. Mnyes."

"Did you hear the question?"

“Hn. 'F course."

Dammon waits, then huffs a laugh. "Would you care to answer it?"

"...I'm not sure."

"You're not sure what? ...Not sure you're going to answer or not sure if you're sick?"

"Right. Yes. You understand."

Dammon chuckles again, hanging his head. "Ohh, I wish I did."

Rolan catches his laugh, humming a lazy giggle as his sharp teeth flash in a manner he'd never allow sober.

Dammon takes a moment to admire it until it fades, Rolan's eyes slipping closed and his breath falling into rhythm. There is the faintest tug of disappointment in his heart, like when the top edge of the sun dips out of sight. He pulls himself to his feet and reaches down to lift Rolan’s legs, turning him rightways on the bed. He carefully places his head onto a pillow--fine downfeathers. Rolan must have been miserable on the road. While pulling a blanket over him, Dammon has the quite sudden thought that he wouldn’t mind doing this every night for the rest of his life.

For a moment, he waits there, staring at the gentle peace in Rolan's sleeping face. A thousand daydreams float through his buzzing mind. His hand twitches with the impulse to reach out and brush that stray lock of hair out of his face, but he's just sober enough to hold it back.

He'd better leave while he still has that much self control.

Before he can move two steps, he hears a short gasp, and Rolan snatches his wrist with surprising speed.

"W-what—"

"I am, actually," Rolan's voice tumbles over itself; he's more drunk than Dammon thought.

"Am...what?"

"I—yes, I'm. Feeling ill, actually, yes."

Dammon may have been concerned, had he not recently learned that Rolan is a terrible liar. His smile spreads slowly, like a new candle wick that must melt before it lights.

He sinks to his knees by the bedside, leaning on his crossed arms on the mattress. Rolan’s grip moves to his bicep and won’t let go. "Quite stricken, are you?"

Rolan swallows. "Terribly."

Dammon leans closer. His eyes glow in the candlelight. "Then I can hardly leave you all alone, can I?"

He can practically hear the perfectly fitted clockwork gears that power Rolan's mind grind to a halt. He looks for a moment as if he really is ill, the way his face pales and breath quickens.

"St…you must stay with me."

"Mm. Seems I must."

Despite having just insisted on it five seconds ago, Rolan shakes his head and covers his face with his hands. "No, no, of course not. It wouldn't be proper. Not proper at all."

Dammon's mild eyes sweep over Rolan as if he's never held such fondness before.

"Never much cared for what's proper," he smirks, gently prying Rolan's hands away from his face. "Unless you do."

"..."

"Would you like me to stay, Rolan?"

"Well...but. It wouldn't be..."

"But would you like it?"

"...Yes."

He smiles. So bright Rolan's eyes close against it. The hand that grips his is heavy and solid. The heat it stokes in Rolan’s chest going to make cinders of him. Once the fire hits him he’ll change shape—and does he want that? He won’t survive the night. Morning will see him darken again, made brittle by cold water. It’s not going to turn out. He’s sharp and thin and riddled with impurities. No matter how careful the hands that strike him, he will break beneath the hammer.

He jumps at the sound of Dammon’s voice. "Can you sit up a moment?"

Rolan opens his eyes just enough to glare. "Nn. Why."

"So I can take your hair down for you."

Rolan's squinted eyes go wide an soft. How is he going to say no to that? He tries to sit on his own, but because he is never one to miss an opportunity, he begins to roll and tilt toward the edge of the bed.

"Oh--gods, don't fall." Dammon catches him quickly, arm around shoulders. Rolan's entire body freezes. His face is buried in the crook of Dammon's arm, he can smell warm steelsmoke and hearth. And...rosemary. Has he used cologne?

It's too soon that Dammon pulls him back to balance, sitting him up properly. Rolan sways in place, hoping the cover of being drunk is enough to explain the starstruck glaze in his eyes.

Rolan must bite his tongue to stop himself making an absolutely unacceptable sound when he feels Dammon's fingers thread through his hair. Sharp, careful nails scrape the base of his neck and drag upward along his scalp. The violent shiver that overtakes his body is about as controllable as a sudden rainstorm in summer.

"Sorry," Dammon laughs, and begins to pull away.

"Oh don't you dare stop."

A pause, another small breath of laughter. Rolan wishes he was sober, so that he could memorize that beautiful sound in vivid detail, be sure that he could recall it at any moment he chose for the rest of his days.

With a touch so delicate as to belay fear, Dammon carefully pulls his hairtie free and shakes loose the wiry, tangled locks. With no comb nearby, he uses his claws. It's not the touch of a smith, but rather a jeweler, precise and delicate and no more than needed. So gentle. So unbearably delicate. Torture.

He wishes he’d grab a fistful and pull.

Rolan sucks in a breath and even he is surprised at the volume of the smack that comes from his hands against his own face. He's gone mad. He’s out of his godsdamn mind. He's terrible.

Dammon instantly lets go, flinching back. “What!” he pulls on Rolan’s shoulder, trying to get a look to see if he’s hurt himself. “Are you—wh-why—”

Rolan groans and flops back onto the bed, burying his face into the pillow instead. “T-thank you, that’s quite enough!” he panics.

Completely bewildered, Dammon reaches toward him, but hesitates.

He said it didn't need to be scary, but. It is. It’s still so new between them. Fragile and uncertain without structure. A seedling too delicate to bear weight just yet. It's only ten minutes ago they've confessed to feeling something more. Dammon wants this, he’s sure, but he’s painfully aware that he has no idea what he’s doing. How fast to move. And Rolan…deserves the best, after all of it. He deserves joy. Dammon wants to abandon caution and explore this newness, but more than the thrill of it all he wants this—the idea of them—to give Rolan something safe. It needn’t be painful, uncomfortable. It needn’t intimidate either of them.

“Wait here a moment,” Dammon says, his voice calm and soft. He pulls the blanket back to Rolan’s shoulders then steps softly away.

Rolan stays frozen in place, listening over the sound of his own pounding heart as Dammon leaves the room. Once he hears him on the stairs, Rolan sighs, cursing himself under his breath. The mess this man has made of him…shameful. Shameful, the way he’s acting. Drunk. Ridiculous. He’s driven him away now.

No. He said wait. Rolan does. He listens for the creak of the stairs, inexplicably desperate. He's felt this way before, hasn't he. He almost forgot being six. Listening for footsteps on the stairs.

“You won’t come back, will you.”

Out loud, he’s said that. Gods. How pathetic is he going to show himself?

Rolan opens his eyes, staring listlessly at the empty doorway. If he focuses hard enough, he can still feel the ghost of careful hands on his shoulders. If he concentrates, he can remember the warmth and weight of their sides pressed together, that hand gripping his hip ever tighter. Rolan wanted more. Still does. But it wouldn’t be…proper.

Gods. Who cares?

He doesn’t want to care. About appearance. About pretense, impression, fronts. How things are supposed to be done. Dammon doesn’t seem to. He loves that about him, admires it. The most genuine person he’s ever known. Never pretentious, never a liar. Like himself. How can he claim to care for him and yet lie to him—posture in front of him with lavish gifts and braggart peacocking in his big fuckoff tower?

It’s all he’s ever known: display. No one cares for you as you are. No one looks twice at you. No one ever gave one fuck. They struggled for so long. So long. The people most important to him in the world went hungry and abused, all the time, because he wasn't anyone. Couldn't do a damn thing for anyone. He’s better now. He pulled them out of the gutter. He’s worth something now. Isn’t he?

So why isn’t he coming back?

Rolan stares at the photos on his bedside table. He feels his eyes stinging.

“Dammon,” he calls, because he’s drunk, because it’s not fucking fair that he’s alone again. There’s a sob in his voice, anger. No dignity whatsoever. He doesn’t care. “Dammon!”

There are hurried steps in the hall, and Rolan regrets it instantly. Dammon appears in the doorway, alert, a steaming mug in his hand and a small towel draped over his forearm.

“Just here,” he assures, all soft worry and attention. “What’s wrong?” When Rolan doesn’t answer, he comes to sit on the edge of the bed, smiling gently. “Did you think I’d left?”

“No,” he lies. Because that’s all he fucking knows how to do. He groans at himself, shaking his head so that it starts to spin again. “Maybe…”

“I won’t.” He drapes the damp cloth over the back of Rolan’s neck. It’s cool but not cold and feels wonderful. “Not until you want me to.”

Rolan pouts up at him, disgruntled. “Where did you go?”

“To borrow Cal’s kitchen. Apologies to him.” Dammon reaches for the cup, little white steam rising from inside it. “Here.”

He helps Rolan rise, not really sitting up but at least leaning on an elbow so that he can take the cup. Inside is a light amber liquid which he only questions after he’s had a sip. “…Bitter. What issit?”

“Hangover killer. Smiths don’t get the next morning off. Dad set me up with the recipe; never failed him once.”

Rolan takes sleepy sips of the draught, grimacing throughout but refusing to put it aside. In the softness of the scene, Dammon sits by his side with his elbows on his knees and gazes at him.

“What are you smiling at,” grumbles Rolan, his face going darker again.

Dammon laughs softly, his eyes going shy as he turns them downward. “Only thinking.”

“…I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to share what about.”

“I’d answer anything you asked me.”

Rolan’s heartbeat is doing all sorts of wacky little tricks today. Before he can get hold of himself, Dammon continues, “Thinking how I’ve never had someone to make tea for. It’s nice.”

Rolan wants to tell him he’s the same, that there’s never been anyone in his life he’d wanted to care for so tenderly. To take off their shoes for them, carry them up the stairs, sit by their bedside until they feel safe enough to sleep again. He wants to. Instead, he says, “You’ve got a…unique idea of what tea is.”

Dammon smiles. The picture of patience.

“Thank you,” Rolan adds, so low it’s barely audible.

Dammon takes the empty cup from him, leaning across toward the nightstand to do so. It brings him quite close to Rolan. And when he begins to move away, something in him ignites—cold fire, frightened and desperate. He strikes out and snatches a handful of Dammon’s shirt collar.

Dammon’s startled, but his voice is slow, steady. Hardly a whisper. "...I meant it. I won't leave."

He's...not just talking about right now. Is he. Rolan feels himself start to tremble. So does Dammon.

“Are you alright?”

Rolan shakes his head, dismissive. “I’m fine, just. Feel a bit…dizzy, suddenly.”

“Mm…I might know the feeling.”

Their faces are so close together now, he can smell the sweetness of Dammon’s breath washing down over him. Peach and white wine. Moonlight from the window wages quiet war with the candles inside and their graceful clash drapes the room in flowing shadow. Rolan’s head spins trying to make sense of it all. He feels like they’re in another realm. A dream. Where maybe it’s not as frightening to reach out and touch whatever is hidden from light.

He does. His fingers are clumsy as they tilt Dammon’s chin and turn upward his eyes. Bluegold, like the sun breaking through a long winter’s frost.

"Did you mean what you said to me," he murmurs, his eyes flaring brightly with ache. "Would you take it back?"

Dammon holds his stare. "There's still time, you're saying?"

Rolan feels himself about to cry. He’s so afraid. So exposed. It’s here where they cut away the lifeline, or follow it back to safe ground. His voice shakes, only a whisper. "Still time. Should you have doubts."

Slow, gentle, Dammon slides his fingers beneath the palm of Rolan's hand. You'd think it was carved of precious stone, the way he cradles it so carefully. He raises it to his own face, presses it against his cheek and holds it there. Firm enough to impress his feelings, loose enough that Rolan could pull away.

"No there isn't," Dammon says, and turns his face into Rolan's palm. His lips press the softest kiss into it, a fragile thing, a clockwork butterfly that flutters so small and vulnerable inside the cage of his fingers. And then Dammon folds his hand into a fist.

"And no I wouldn't." His gaze is that of a prisoner looking out from between bars. He repeats what he’s said, nails shut his last window of escape. “Rolan. I care for you in a way I’ve never felt before. I don't know what it is exactly, yet. But I'd like to find out. And what I do know...is I want to feel like something special to you. Something you can use. I want to be for you what I’ve never been for anyone. No one has ever known me that way. I want it to be you.”

Rolan’s breath has abandoned him. He’s whimpering to get it back. His every nerve alight and shimmering like the weave. When he strikes out to grab the back of Dammon’s neck, electric tendrils spark out from his fingertips, unbidden. His eyes are glowing with white light. How swiftly, how easily he surrenders the run of himself.

Before reason can stop him, before sanity can intervene, Rolan wrenches Dammon close and crashes their lips together like tide on shore. What’s left of the wavebreak spills from his eyes, shut tight, brows arched and desperate. He feels Dammon tense, hesitate…then curl toward him. His mouth opens to his tongue and his head rocks in rhythm with the sudden seastorm.

Rolan feels as though he may faint. And like he'll never rest again. He feels awful, and ecstatic, and pathetic and happy and free. He could drink the ocean Dry.

Dammon’s hand snakes around his side and rests in the small of his back. Rolan arcs up toward him, his hands curling around the curve of his skull where it meets his work-tensed neck. Rolan lets himself explore the finely chiseled curves borne of every hammerswing he’d ever struck. The muscles so hard, sinew like braided iron cords—and yet the skin above so delicate soft.

Dammon breaks for breath.

“Rolan,” he mutters, keening, urgent. “S…stop.”

It takes a painful few moments, but Rolan does. He rips himself away with a delirious moan and buries his face instead into Dammon’s neck. His breath rasping hot and ragged. "I'm. Ngh. Sorry."

“It’s just…” Dammon sounds just as overcome. “Not that I don’t…but. You’re drunk, is why. I can’t.”

“Yes,” he whispers, teeth grinding together so tightly that they squeak. “I. Forgive me…I-I don’t know what…I.”

“It’s alright.” His hand grips the back of Rolan’s shirt, the other cupped behind his head. “Shh. Nothing’s wrong.” Dammon laughs, incredulous, giddy and tearful. He plants a kiss into Rolan’s hair, just between his horns. “Far, far from it.”

He clings to Rolan while a thousand fireflies buzz inside the hollow of his chest. He’s never been so happy, he thinks, not in all his life. Rolan is shaking, shrinking into him to try and hide. Though he’s more than a little worried, Dammon is nevertheless glad for the chance to be his haven. Honored. And he doesn’t aim to fall short of the role.

He lays the two of them down in the soft quilts, holds him against his chest. Rolan is beyond speech. For long minutes that stretch into hours, Dammon hushes him softly, repeats assurance and affirmation of safety and peace. Whether because of this, or simply from being so overwhelmed, Rolan eventually sinks below the still pond of sleep.

For a long time, Dammon stares at thin air in a wide-eyed daze. He can hardly believe…it plays over and over in his mind. He keeps still, daring not to move a muscle. He fears to wake him. Fears to shatter the wild dream they’ve fallen into. Gods above. All the fucking hardship. All the loneliness. Done. All of it behind them now. Rolan…

Rolan.

He loves him.

…Oh, gods. He needs to process this. Calm down. But his mind is spinning and he’s so emotionally exhausted, but there’s no chance in six hells he’ll get any sleep tonight. Maybe that’ just as well. He'd been invited for dinner. It would be a wild disrespect to sleep off Rolan’s wine, in Rolan’s house, in Rolan’s bed. On his first proper visit to Rolan’s home. A measure of guilt creeps into the bliss. He's always so concerned with appearances. What would his siblings think? …What would he think, more importantly, if he woke and found Dammon beside him?

As much as he'd like to get lost in the pretty dream of waking up at his side every single day to smiles and sleepsoft kisses...perhaps this time, it’ll be kindest to spare him the morning after. The last thing he wants is to imperil this…this miracle he’s just been given. He’ll wait a while longer, make sure Rolan won’t wake in the night and feel abandoned, and be gone by tomorrow. Tomorrow he will rise and run straight to the tabernacle to thank Tymora. Hells, tomorrow he will sing praise to every god he’s ever heard the name of. But tonight belongs only to himself and Rolan. To him…and the one with whom he is fully, irredeemably, fervently in love.

Audaciously.

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