#anti dawn of x | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ereardon · 3 months

Text

Before I Knew [Jake Seresin x Reader] Chapter Six

A Jake Seresin unexpected pregnancy fic

Overview: On your first night after moving to San Diego to spend more time with your brother Bob, you unknowingly have a one night stand with his teammate Jake Seresin. For the first time in his whole life, Bob has a closely knit friend group and you’re desperate not to rock the boat. But an unexpected and unplanned pregnancy upends your world, forcing you and Jake closer together, against Bob’s wishes. What will happen when you find yourself actually falling for the father of your unborn child?

Pairing: Jake Seresin x Reader; Bob Floyd x Sister!Reader

Warnings: Pregnancy, cursing, eventual smut, angst

Chapter summary: Ducky goes to her first doctor's appointment; Bob and Jake fight it out; Jake makes a staggering proposal

WC: 2K

Masterlist here; previous chapter here

You caught the bus a few blocks from the library and rode it across town to the doctor’s office. Waited in the front area with all the other women in various stages of pregnancy. Your heart sank as you watched woman after woman file in with a partner at her side or a friend.

You felt utterly alone as they called your name and you stood up alone.

The sonographer pushed off of her stool and smiled. “The doctor will be in soon.”

You nodded, laying back against the paper-coated exam table. When the doctor entered, she smiled softly. “Hi there, I’m Dr. Whitman.” She took a seat on the stool. “Let’s take a look here.” She pulled up the sonogram charts. “Everything looks good. You’re measuring at eight weeks and three days. How do you feel?”

“Nauseous,” you replied. “Tired.”

She smiled. “That’s par for the course, unfortunately. The second trimester gets better for most patients.”

“Thank God.”

The doctor clicked off the screen and folded her hands in her lap. “Y/N,” she said softly. “A core part of a pregnancy is a support system. Are you married?”

You shook your head. “No.”

“Do you have a boyfriend or family to lean on?”

“It’s complicated,” you whispered.

“I understand.” There was something so soothing about her. “But I also know that what many people don’t realize is that a core part of a healthy pregnancy is having people to lean on. Stress is not good for the baby.”

“I barely know the father,” you replied. “And I’ve been staying with my brother. But he’s not happy about all of this.”

The doctor nodded. “No pregnancy is easy to plan for,” she replied. “But keeping your stress levels low is critical, especially during this first trimester. Do you have any friends who can help support you?”

You thought of Phoenix. So far she was the only one who seemed to want to help. You nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Good.” The doctor scribbled on a pad. “I’m going to write you a prescription for an anti-nausea medication. Take it once a day for at least a week to see if it helps.” She ripped it off and then handed you the sonogram. “And here’s a photo of your baby.”

You held the black and white photo in both hands, choking on air. For perhaps the first time, it dawned on you.

You were going to be a mother.

***

“Fucking shit, Floyd, what the hell was that?” Jake whipped off his helmet the moment they stepped foot on the tarmac.

Bob grunted and turned to storm away. Phoenix put one hand on his arm and he shrugged her off. She looked at Jake and raised her eyebrows. “Above my pay grade.”

“He’s your back seater, Natasha,” Jake said and Phoenix’s lips pressed into a fine line. Jake only called her by her first name when things were serious.

“He has his own mind,” she hissed back. “I can’t help it that you knocked up his sister.”

Jake’s green eyes went wide with anger. Bradley stepped between them, trying to diffuse the attention. “Alright, hold on. Let’s just take a step back here before we say things we don’t mean.”

“I meant it when I said you only think about yourself,” Phoenix said. Her words landed on Jake with a solid delivery. It had been three years, but their last fight still stung.

Jake shook his head, heading toward the locker room where Bob had disappeared. Behind him, Bradley held both of Phoenix’s arms, keeping her back, his whispers blending into the whirring background noise of jets landing on the tarmac. “Floyd!” Jake’s voice rang out in the empty changing room. He was quiet for a moment before a clang caught his attention, the sound of a locker door slamming. He moved further down the halfway, rounding the corner where Bob stood wearing a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans, a frown laced over his delicate face. “Floyd, listen–”

“I pretty much raised her,” Bob interrupted. Jake frowned, but stayed silent as Bob laced his shoes, refusing to make eye contact. “Our dad left. Our mom worked all the time to put food on the table. So that left taking care of Y/N to me. And I did it, because I loved her. I did it because I wanted what was best for her.” He looked up, blue eyes hollow against sullen skin. “And now you’ve shown up and ruined everything.”

“I didn’t know she was your sister,” Jake said. “And we didn’t mean for her to get pregnant. It just happened.”

“But it happened to her!” Bob shouted and Jake took a step back. There was something unhinged about angry Bob. So different from the wallflower that he had always been. You were the one thing that he cared enough about to pick fights over. “You happened to her. You ruined her fucking life, Hangman.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” Jake said. “It’s her life, Floyd. Not yours. It’s hers. You’re acting like I did this to you as a personal attack.”

“She was just starting to get her footing,” Bob said quietly. “And you took that away from her. You took away her future. Everything she worked so hard for. Everything we both worked so hard for. To get out of Chattanooga. To not end up like the rest of them.”

Jake sighed. “So that’s what this is about, isn’t it,” he said. “It’s not about me. And it’s not even really about Y/N. It’s about you.”

Bob squinted. “What?”

“You’re mad because you think this foils all of your plans, all of your work, everything you did to get the two of you out of that small town life.”

“She deserves better.”

“I agree.” Jake shook his head. “Listen, man, I’m not going anywhere. This might not have been what I expected. Hell, it might not even be what I want. But it’s where we are. I’m not going to leave her alone in all of this.”

“She isn’t alone,” Bob said. “She has me.”

“Does she?”

***

A little girl set a pile of library books on the counter in front of you. She was barely tall enough to reach, her thin arms struggling beneath the weight of the books. “Hi,” she chirped.

You turned and smiled. She had big ears and a wide, uneven grin. “Hi there,” you said, scanning the first book. “Wow, you scored big.”

“I like bugs,” she explained and you slowly noticed every single book was about snakes or bugs. You could feel bile creep up your throat as you nodded.

“That’s nice.”

“Do you like bugs?”

“Not really.”

She frowned. “That’s too bad. Do you like puppies?”

“Yeah, puppies are better.” You finished scanning her books. “Do you need a bag?”

She shook her head. “No, my mommy is over there.” She pointed at a pregnant woman standing next to the door looking at her phone. The little girl cocked her head to the side. “You look like her.”

“Really?” You squinted. The woman by the door was taller, with different hair. “How so?”

“You’re going to be a mommy,” the little girl said. “All mommys look like that.” And then she grabbed her books and jogged off toward the door. You had to practically pick your jaw up from the ground, hands dropping to your barely visible bump. How had she known? Then again, kids were like animals. Sometimes they knew things. You watched the little girl hand the books to her mom, who slid them into a tote bag before grabbing her hand tightly.

Something stirred inside of you. It was too soon to be the baby, realistically you knew that. But somewhere, deep down, you knew it was the baby making their presence known.

“Hi there,” you whispered, one hand over your belly button.

***

It was late. You were asleep on the couch when the door opened. You opened your eyes wide, watching as Jake and Bradley dragged a barely coherent Bob through the door. You stood up, wiping at your eyes. “What the hell?”

“He’s wasted,” Bradley said. “We tried but we couldn’t stop him.”

You put your hands on your hips, turning to Jake. “Did you do this?”

“I’m so tired of everyone blaming me,” he replied.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Bradley cocked his head. “Here, let me take him.” Easily, he slung Bob over one of his shoulders, carrying him straight into the bedroom. You dragged your hand over your face, turning to Jake.

“What’s going on with him?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Jake replied, looking at his feet. “He and I, we uh, we had a fight.”

“About what?”

He lifted his gaze to yours. “You know what.”

“Oh. That.”

Jake nodded as Bradley stepped back into the living room. He looked at you, and then Jake. “I'm going to head out.”

“Thanks for bringing him back.”

“Any time.” Bradley paused by the door. “Hey Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Be patient with him. He’s still processing.” The door shut softly.

“He heard me say that I hate him,” you whispered, moving back onto the couch, curling into a ball. Jake followed, sitting on the other end of the couch, a safe distance away. “Maybe he hates me, too.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Jake replied. “He wouldn’t act like this if he didn’t love you.”

“Then why is he hurting me?” you whispered, a tear slipping down your cheek.

“Because he’s hurt, too,” Jake said. “And it’s easier to be mad.”

You tipped your head to one side. “That night we met. You had no idea I was Bob’s sister?”

“Fuck no,” Jake replied and you smirked. He shook his head. “You’re gorgeous, but I never would have looked at you, let alone did what we did if I had known.”

“So it wasn’t some ploy to get back at him for whatever the hell you two have beef about?”

“This has become a lot bigger than I ever imagined.”

You sighed. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a cool girl you met in a bar and had sex with and never saw again. I’m sorry I’m ruining your whole life.”

“Maybe it’s not so bad,” Jake whispered and you looked up, surprised. “Maybe I needed something to change.”

“So you’re not upset?”

“I’m upset,” Jake clarified. “This isn’t at all what I expected. But it’s done, right?” he asked. “We just have to deal with the consequences.”

“How romantic.”

“Fuck.” He leaned back. “Shit, I, I didn’t mean it like that.”

You shook your head. “It’s OK, it was a joke.”

“But is that what you want?” he said quietly. “Something romantic?”

“No. I don’t know.” You pulled your hair back into a loose bun, fighting for words. “I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know anything.”

“Are you happy here?”

You frowned. “What do you mean here?”

“Staying with Bob.”

“He’s my brother.”

“I know, Y/N.” Jake rolled his eyes. “That’s why we’re in this lovely predicament. I’m asking if you feel safe here.”

“Bob would never hurt me.”

“I think he already has.” Jake’s words stung and you realized for the first time that hurt was much more than just physical. “I was thinking. There’s an apartment across the hall from mine. It’s two bedrooms.”

“Are you asking me to move in with you?” You practically scoffed.

Jake shrugged. “Why not? At least for now. Until he cools down.”

“That’ll only make him angrier.”

“I don’t give a shit about what makes Floyd happy,” Jake said. “I care about what’s best for you.”

“Do you actually?” you pressed. “Or is that just what you think you’re supposed to say and feel and do? Take away all of the outside voices and opinions. What do you, Jake Seresin, want?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, in the smallest voice you had ever heard, he replied, “To be a good dad. To do the right thing.”

You nodded. “OK. I’ll move in with you.” You looked up into his clear green eyes. For the first time in weeks, you felt hopeful.

Please follow my library page @ereardonlibrary as that will largely serve as my tag list. Anyone I previous promised to tag is here:

@bobfloydsbabe @blue-aconite @wkndwlff @mamachasesmayhem @mandylove1000 @djs8891 @clancycucumber230 @rosiahills22 @buckysteveloki-me @kmc1989 @gigisimsonmars @eloquentdreamer @mjisbby @shanimallina87 @seresinslady @seresinhangmanjake @blackwidownat2814 @yanna-banana @bbyvanessaa @mrsjobarnes @midnightmagpiemama @ingoaliesitrust @rockbottomphilosophies-blog @iangiemae @joaquinwhorres @boiolay @sometimesanalice @spinning-away @mycobrakai1972 @xomrsalliej4787xo @na-ta-sh-aa

223 notes · View notes

theredofoctober · 2 months

Text

MANNA- CHAPTER THIRTEEN: TEA

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse and more

Read after the cut...

For a near week your deceptive submission endures, the hours newly tightened by a schedule your host has contrived to divert you from your anti-appetite.

Days rise from the borderless veil of time like castles from a dawn mist. Made a school child again, you sit before documentaries and foreign art films, take up a journal whose pages bear but glances of your internal woe.

You find yourself wishing that you could write with any particular talent.

As a girl you’d yearned to be an author, never daring to materialise the urge with any substantial effort. Now you can’t imagine you’ll ever be allowed so loose-penned a profession, if any at all, kept covetously home and infantilised until you cannot think beyond a fraction of words.

Why, then, does Hannibal go to such arduous lengths to educate you? Surely it is only so that—before the eyes of peers��you'll be the cultured averment of triumph through therapy.

In the soirees of your doctor's hopes you cleave, willing, to his side, bewitching the throng with smirking witticisms before sucking his cock with that same clever mouth when the last guest steps, merry and ignorant, into the night.

Already Hannibal aspires to materialise that abstraction. You find proof enough of it in the wardrobe he’s amassed for you, which expands as the days progress.

Some of his choices are attractive to you, reluctant though you are to consider this— long velvet gowns in puce, umber, black, blouse and skirt co-ordinations plucked from the runway, some still in boxes emblazoned with designer names.

Others of the selection offend you, however, in their bald intent for closed-door wear. Girlish dresses in light chiffon, corseted silk in flowering lace. Short necks and hemlines, some of them scarcely reaching the knee. Then there are sheer nightclothes stored in perfumed sheets, no practicality but for the sort of sleeping in which no slumber is to be had.

You’re to dress like some obscure young celebrity, a whimsical echo of an era thirty years passed. Still, there is an attempt in this incredible closet to appease you as well as to change, adapting your preferences to a style acceptable to Hannibal’s eye.

It’s of particular note to you that the garments are each the same size, implying that you haven’t gained significant weight since your last awareness of its value. Conceivably the labels might have been replaced, but it’s so unlikely a trick that the theory is quickly thrown out.

Hannibal is inviting you to trust his process with a peace offering of equilibrium, the second-best prize to starvation.

You are not such a fool as to take it yet, though in action you may appear to have done so.

When in the presence of your keepers you remain in unwavering character, an amplified, changeling copy of the child you'd once been. In this way you're allowed your little misbehaviours—pulling a face at food you do not like, or the shrugging rejection of an idle caress.

So long as you sit at meals, and don’t speak in any manner that threatens the illusion of family you are unharmed, and laden with unending gifts. It would be a winning childhood, had you been born into it through a far less insidious violence than that which brought you here.

Still, the awareness that you must simper and lisp for another month before you venture an escape soon wears upon your tolerance.

One Saturday morning, alone in your room, the silence of that cushioned cell amplifies your every thought to a piqued tenor.

You miss when hunger bled like smoke through your skull, ridding its halls of all but its fey shape. With a scalding clarity you behold what you are now: a homunculus, the issue of diablerie, cut small by men’s black magic.

You cast yourself amidst a tide of cushions and mimic your own words upon them in a bitter snarl.

“‘Yes, Daddy’”, ‘no, Daddy’. ‘Little one’. Oh God! It’s all so stupid. Stupid!”

An involuntary laugh chatters through you like a coin thieved from a beggar’s cup, hateful and maniacal. Yet you perform this anger as you do the docile coquette, the bounds between that self and your own a gradient that softens by the day.

It’s become rather easier to be a monster’s daughter than a woman, this you cannot deny. The longer you are extracted from the world the less you’ll remember of how to live within it, if you ever knew, before.

The misery of this thought proves too much to bear.

You cry until your head is as hot about the brow as a horseshoe turned white from the forge. The sobs wrench the muscles of your stomach in two pained halves, and still you weep until you laugh again, thinking how deranged you’d sound to any eavesdropper in the rooms below.

Afterwards you sit very quietly, like an ailing bride in a Victorian novel; you are, after all, very ill, and it suits you well to behave so.

Having nothing better to do, you switch on the television and skim through the channels with neither aim nor interest.

Thin, beautiful women populate the screen, their waists like darner flies, their wrists as narrow as your thumb. Even the history programmes feature experts with trim figures in sensible interview dresses.

Perturbed, you flick on and on until you find something on eighteenth century Paris, hosted by a grandfatherly old professor marked safe from scrutiny in the absence of compare.

You watch until your lids fall, thinking of catacombs full of monk bones, the cloying scent of ancient death, each as forgotten under dust as you are by all those who once loved you, and revered by those who never have.

In the afternoon Hannibal wakes you gently by turning the television off at the set.

“Are you feeling alright, little one?” he asks. “It’s unusual for you to sleep in so late.”

You hum in a noncommittal fashion, scarcely bothering to open your eyes.

Perhaps he’ll let you drowse the day away; you’d dream through all horrors like this, should your insomnia give you reprieve. A week, a month, a year sold to the sandman in exchange for peace— yet the dark would follow you there, also, antlered men in imagined night.

“You’ve been in bed long enough,” says Hannibal, peeling back your sheets with a brisk tug. “Up you get. Alana is visiting us this evening. She’ll have some questions for you.”

Weakly attempting to thieve back the blanket, you say, “I really don’t feel like talking to her. Can’t you do it? Please?”

“Jack won’t be satisfied with a second-hand report. Alana must see that you’re comfortable here. Not a particular incentive for you, but I can provide others.”

You open one eyelid, enticed by this readiness to bargain.

“So what do I get if I say yes?”

“A light dinner,” says Hannibal. “And—depending on your behaviour—perhaps another reward we’ll negotiate later tonight.”

At this you sit up; starving is a precious contraband in the doctor’s abode, worth more to you than every decadent thing under its rafters.

“Feeling better already, I see,” says Hannibal, through one of his charitable smiles. “Please stand by the mirror and allow me to dress you.”

Unbidden there comes the thought of his hand under your skirts, pressing inwards like a starfish sucking at a stone.

“Oh, come on, Dad,” you say, in flustered haste. "Really?”

“There’s a certain picture I’d like to create for Alana’s benefit,” he insists. “One of wellness and serenity. Your selections tend to imply something far more brooding and morose.”

With a testy little sigh you slip out of bed, rubbing your arms free of rising gooseflesh.

“You bought me those ‘brooding and morose’ outfits, remember, Dad? What does that say about you?”

“That I seek to please you,” says Hannibal, touching your mouth with playful thumb. “Today I hope that you’ll return the gesture.”

He holds aloft a pastel blue dress in transparent lace, a beaded line of detailing pointing downwards at the hips in a suggestive v.

“I don’t know,” you say, far more sharply than intended. “It’s short. And I don’t like the colour.”

“The shade will suit you,” Hannibal replies. “And you’ll wear a shift underneath for modesty, if that’s your concern.”

You don’t bother with reproof; he’s guiding you out of your nap-rumpled clothes and into the dress before you can think of an excuse he’ll entertain.

Unresisting, you only glance aside, breathing shallowly so as not to brush your chest against him as he adjusts your collar.

That Hannibal hasn’t made love to you since you shared a bed makes you think that he’s waiting for something, a moment fermented to sweeten the sex. He is, you warrant, as driven by pleasure as any man, being only of a tighter and more methodical restraint.

You can’t decide whether you’re glad of the wait or if you’d prefer he throw you down on your bed and ravish you now to have done with it.

Doubtless Hannibal considers an identical dilemma, turning you before him like a ballerina in a mirrored jewellery box.

“Even the greats couldn’t hope to replicate this image of you,” he says, as he inspects his work. “To attempt it would have them rending the canvas to pieces rather take credit for their failure.”

The compliment is long forgotten when, later, Alana breaches the house, her pretty face above her mulberry blouse like a lily in a violet bouquet.

Her casual manner in kissing Hannibal’s cheek at the door suggests a social visit, as does the gift of white wine under one thin arm. Still, she remembers her duty, taking you aside with a subtle professionalism within two minutes of having greeted her host.

Her kindness is a shingle in a cyclone, dashed away by the futility of its own existence.

“Dr Lecter told me you’re doing a lot better than when I last saw you,” says Alana, placing one of her graceful hands atop your own without comment as to its frigidity. “Are you feeling more positive now, or would you disagree with that?”

Slipping your fingers out from under hers, you say, “Well, I have a TV now. I’m allowed to do a lot more things I’m actually interested in. That helps. Thanks for that, by the way. I know you talked Dr Lecter into it.”

Smiling, Alana says, “I can’t take credit for that. He was already making preparations when I brought it up. He's racked up quite the shopping bill.”

The notion of Hannibal navigating the catalogues of online stores is ridiculous, somehow anachronistic, but then again you’ve witnessed him tapping at a sleek iPad, a jarring sight, on every occasion.

“How about mealtimes?” asks Alana. “I understand you’re working towards a plan that’s easier for you.”

“It’s still hard,” you mumble. “Tough. You know.”

Your eyes are on Alana’s patent court shoes, picturing a blandly organised rack of identical heels in alternate shades. Perhaps ankle boots for the colder days. Simple. Nothing flash.

Alana pauses, quickly assessing your disinterest in the exchange.

“Hannibal says he’d like you to agree to more therapy sessions,” she says. “He feels you’re opening up. I think we both know that’s probably wishful thinking on his side, but don’t shoot him down just yet.”

“I won’t,” you say. “Couldn’t anyway, right?”

Alana rearranges her discomfort into another closed-lipped smile. You can’t envision that lipstick ever moving, striped across her face as yours has been by both of the friends that she holds dear.

“So how are things between you and Will now?” enquires Alana, quite on cue. “Rumour has it you’re getting along like a house on fire.”

Truthfully Will has rather cooled since the night of the seizure, his envy retreating to the black of some inner primordial cave. He seems both caustically amused by your recent performance and cynical of its longevity, yet neither judgement is as severe as before.

The thought of your kindness sits with him, has been taken up with the cagy hunger of an orphan to a heel of bread. Piece by piece you’ve given him more of it in flirting words, but these he’s yet to take, turning each away with a smirk.

“Don’t try so hard,” he’d said, only a day ago, but when you’d thrown an idle foot across his lap as you read a book beside him he hadn’t removed it, only pretended to ignore the intrusion.

“Me and Will are okay,” you say to Alana. “That’s all.”

You must give away something of your successes in your expression, for Alana’s mouth twitches into a coy grin.

“Just okay?”

At that moment Hannibal knocks on the open door, a merciful trespass, setting you free of her.

As promised, you’re offered a modest salad while Hannibal and Alana make their way through numberless courses over the gifted wine.

At first you’re too absorbed in the mortification of eating in front of the other woman to pay attention to their mounting chemistry, dragging the same tattered leaf through streams of congealing oil.

It’s only as you’re making a fortress of cutlery across a lump of uneaten meat that you take full stock of the flirting at work before you.

Though attempts are made by both parties to fold you into the conversation they are mild at best, almost neglectful.

Alana glances up into Hannibal’s eyes in frequent, laughing enjoyment, touching his shoulder or forearm lightly; he, for his part, looks upon her lips and the curves of her form and speaks fondly to her, his voice hushed with a want of sex.

You’ve heard it often enough to know it, and should be glad to have his attentions otherwise distracted.

Yet your hands creep under the table, squeezing your thighs and stomach as though to claw out the matter you've ingested through your meat.

"I'm done," you blurt out, cutting across Hannibal's opinion of a recent classical performance he’s attended. "Can I go upstairs?"

It's with difficulty that you bite off the habitual 'Dad' that has replaced 'doctor' in your vocabulary.

Hannibal offers you a near invisible look of disgruntlement at the interruption, quickly mollified by Alana's fingers at his elbow.

"I'm sure we're boring you," she says. "Go on up and relax. You don't have to stick around just to be polite."

You glance at Hannibal, seeking his approval before you stand. His eyes, within so static a face, are black glass in their suspicion.

"I'll come up to speak to you later on," he says, at last. "If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask for it."

Rather than go immediately to your den above you linger to watch as the couple drink in the parlour, so close as to almost be in one another’s arms.

You see from Hannibal's relaxed posture that he is not ablaze with a fascinated love for Alana as he is for Will; he holds her merely with the affection of an old friend, and, too, with an uncomplicated desire.

He would never rape Alana Bloom; such violence, to Hannibal, is an entry into a cabal of which she has no part. Her value to him is as representation of his treasured comforts, and all that which Hannibal would not willingly change.

Alana is as used for her parts as you are, in her way, and oblivious to it, like some grinning scarecrow blind to the birds that snicker and creep at its back.

Yet as you watch her lean, murmuring, into Hannibal’s neck you feel a tooth of ice grind through your heart and turn away, feeling numbly for the bannisters behind you.

Almost on hands and knees you climb the steps to your bed, brought low by that astonishing cold.

Pausing at the bathroom you prostrate yourself at the toilet’s mercy, still unable to empty yourself of the pain and bile you'd evict to be naked of your jealousy.

In surrender you rest your head on the cool floor and remain there even after the compulsion to vomit subsides.

If you cannot flog yourself for your sins as the saints did then this will do, sprawled before the porcelain God of another degredation.

Presently the bathroom door creaks open, striking an unwanted rod of light across your face.

“Go away,” you mutter, wiping your face with an angry scrub of your knuckles. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

Hannibal looks at you with a minister’s pious severity.

"I see. So I was correct. You object to Alana and I having a sexual relationship. Any other father would sternly inform you that it’s none of your business, and as your therapist it’s even less so.”

Raising your head, you snap at him as fiercely as you dare.

“What about me?”

“My friendship with Alana is very different to what you and I share,” says Hannibal, and you snort, wiping a stream of clear mucus across your lips.

“I’ll bet.”

Hannibal turns his head at a quizzical angle, and you perceive the very second of his understanding like the unveiling of some trick.

“You must explain yourself, darling,” he says. “What is it about this that has upset you?”

The logical answer should be that you wish to save Alana from him, that you cannot watch her beaming, black-haired head roll out from under the axe.

Instead, you blurt out, “Don’t you get it, Dad? How it makes me feel? You’re supposed to understand me, and I’m pretty sure you do. You knew that it would hurt me. You did this on purpose the way you wave me around in front of Will.”

Using the sink to right yourself you get to your feet, standing on pathetic, defiant tiptoe so that you might gaze into the devil’s face directly.

“If you have to do this, then please, just me. Just me. I can’t stand it. It makes me feel sick to think about you and her together. Knowing you’ll touch me afterwards. Don’t do this to me. Please."

“I see,” says Hannibal.

He speaks with such calm that you deflate from your anger at once.

“Very well,” he says. “I can make an excuse for Alana to leave. Would that please you, little one?”

This time you don’t answer, only stare at him with huge and terrible eyes until he retreats to the stairway.

“Oh, god,” you say, under your breath. “Amy, you’d really hate me right now, wouldn’t you?”

You hear Hannibal and Alana talking in low undertones, the female voice a coo of thoughtful sympathy. In time Alana collects herself to leave, but only when her car propels itself quietly from the driveway does Hannibal come to you again.

By now you’re sitting at your dresser, making a humiliated attempt to recollect your dignity with cosmetics. You know that Hannibal will not like what you’d made of your face—the eyes painted black, your lips the colour of your heart, a sinking, well-bound stone.

Yet all he says as he stands behind you is, “Look at me, little one.”

Your hand shakes, blotting your eyelid with an errant apostrophe of mascara.

“Don’t want to.”

“I know. I’d like you to, even so.”

The gentleness of Hannibal’s voice is an agony to you. You’ve never hated nor been more drawn to him than you are now, this impossible spirit in the vessel of a man.

Stiffly you turn on your chair, meeting his gaze to find it truly repentant.

“I won’t make love to Alana again,” says Hannibal, and you know as you do the reality of elements that he does not lie. “I see that this triggers your fear of abandonment too greatly. But it might not be possible for me to avoid all romantic advances.

“There are rumours abound as to our arrangement already, and it will seem suspicious if I don’t take a lover. But I’ll do my best to be faithful to our family.”

He pauses, watching you battle to suppress your disgust for him, for yourself, for all things in the bracken of his design.

“For now, I’d like you to relax,” says Hannibal. “This level of distress will make you ill. I’m concerned that it already has.”

Taking you by a hand as clammy as mermaid skin he leads you down to the living room to serve you from a pot of fragrant tea.

Though its calorific value is likely near to air you catastrophize with immediacy, unable to touch the cup, let alone drink.

“I’m not doing it on purpose this time,” you babble. “I’m not, Dad, please, you’ve got to believe me.”

Hannibal raises a hand to caress you— that, and only that, and yet you shrink against the couch in expectancy of a blow.

An appalled look tightens Hannibal’s expression, a hypocrisy of which he seems endlessly capable.

“There, now,” he says. “I can tell the difference between unruliness and genuine struggle. You and I both know that tea is only leaves and water— why do you believe against logic that it will affect your weight?”

“I don’t know,” you say, with a helpless shake of the head. “I feel like if I drink it I won’t be able to stop myself. I’ll eat and eat until I’m... big, and then I won’t be able to go back to the way I was. Everyone will see me differently. Treat me like they used to. People can be cruel.”

“And none crueller than you are to yourself,” says Hannibal, and he eases the cup between your hands so that you must take it or scald yourself raw. “There is nothing shameful in having a body of any kind, and any who judge you for that would wear their foolishness like a flag for all to see. Nevertheless, I’ve balanced your weight here, and will continue to do so if that is what’s needed for you to believe in my intentions.”

He aids you to drink, lifting the cup to your mouth over and over until the last drop. From the bitter taste you know it altered by some drug.

For once you do not care.

The night has left you so ashamed of your bearing that you’re half joyful to be done with it, sinking back as euphoria transforms all things that touch you into nirvana.

Your fingers drape across your body in aimless exploration, stopping only as Will enters the room with Hannibal at his side.

The younger man’s eyebrows jump as you giggle and hide your hands behind your back.

“You’re smiling,” says Will. “And I’m not sure how I feel about the circumstances.”

“Our girl is relieved to see you, Will,” says Hannibal. “A familiar face is a balm for even the most taxing day.”

Will looks from you to Hannibal ponderously.

“Alana was here earlier,” he states.

“She was, much to our little one’s chagrin.”

“Do you have to talk about her?” you interrupt, in loose-tongued irritation.

Hannibal chuckles.

“We do not. There are other topics I’d find far more engaging.”

You watch from under heavy lids as the men discuss the Lover’s case in low, library murmurs.

“Tanya Marrow was found washed up by the Patapsco River this morning,” says Will, with a grim regret. “Her wounds were fresh, meaning the Lover only mutilated Tanya and placed her into the doll when he was ready to throw her away. He was content with how closely she resembled the woman he’s desperate to make, for a while.

“But she wasn’t close enough. In the end he had to remind her that she was just a toy to him, and punish her for her lacking.”

The contrast of these dreary horrors with the rainbow light of feeling through your needy cunt should sicken you, but your mind is in disorder, barely one thought akin to the next.

“We’ve made a breakthrough in regards to the dolls,” Will continues. “The well-made ones are expensive; for one person to have so many implies that the Lover is either a wealthy collector, or that he’s able to access them at a considerable discount. Possibly for free.”

“I’m assuming the factory producing these dolls has been identified,” says Hannibal.

Will swallows a mouthful of whiskey.

“There are only four vendors known to produce the style of doll the Lover uses. Jack’s got someone looking into their customers, narrowing down the suspects to buyers in Virginia. Considering how specialised these clients are that shouldn't take long.”

The older man listens with a solemn intensity, scarcely drinking from his own glass.

“I see the Lover almost exactly now,” says Will. “He knows he has to take his bride eventually; he’s circling her, choosing women that are closer and closer to her physical proximity. The next target will be someone she knows.

“It’s a dangerous move, but by now the Lover wants someone that’s stood so close to this woman that he can taste her. Imagine her beneath him when he defiles the inferior victim.”

Fear swims, crocodilian, within you, disturbing your narcotic stupor.

Seeming to sense it, Hannibal says, “Let’s continue this line of conversation later on. I wouldn’t want to give our surrogate daughter bad dreams.”

Will glances at you, watching you fumble idly with the hem of your dress.

“You don’t plan to cast her as our daughter in tonight’s play, do you?” he asks, plainly.

“That would unnecessarily chasten the evening,” says Hannibal. “She’s the woman for whom we are legally responsible, and what we deem fit for her continued health is ours to determine.”

You recline across the couch like an empress, watching the firelight glance shadows across your skin like a garment in a dream. Hannibal slips a hand from your shoulder to your breast, teasing the tiffany lace across your nipple, and the warmth and delicacy of the touch breathes through you a shiver of ermine delight.

Only vaguely do you acknowledge your revulsion, a whisper at a keyhole on the other side of the house.

“What did you give her for her to let you touch her like that?” asks Will, curiously.

His hands play upon the sides of his whiskey glass, and the thought of them upon your thighs or between them drives your lower lip between your teeth with unbeckoned desire.

“I’ve offered her release from her spirited rebellion,” says Hannibal. “Even having promised us fealty, this act she wouldn’t easily endure. I wish for her to experience intimacy unhindered by her mental bounds.”

His fingers glance beneath the neckline of your dress and cross your bare skin as a swan's wing meets the sky, rushing a moan from you more akin to a sob in its juddering resonance.

“Besides,” Hannibal continues, “she’s had a trying afternoon. Her body welcomes this.”

Will’s face, washed honey bronze by firelight, is so neutral that even if you were not high you’d fail to extract the mechanisms of thought behind it.

“We’ve both succeeded in bringing her to climax,” says Hannibal, as his other hand folds your skirt against your pelvis. “But never her consent. Tonight, perhaps we will.”

“In this state she has no real autonomy,” Will argues. “We’re witnessing an illusion.”

Hannibal pauses, his face like that of an antiques dealer slyly unveiling some stolen wares.

“Not exactly,” he says. “Little one: you’ve described me as handsome. Do think that Will is good-looking?”

Your concentration wavers as two digits inscribe an ouroboros in your arousal. The wrongness of it all only enhances the sensation, the thought of being a lovely toy for older men to play with.

Your name on Dr Lecter’s lips recalls his question.

“Yes,” you say. “I— I do.”

You don’t know why you’re honest. Even a child, embarrassed, could lie.

Will smiles, and for a moment there is something almost sweet in his expression.

Then the dark of him slithers behind it again with predatory ease, and he leans forward, knees apart, possessed of a revelation of self-assurance.

This is the self he becomes when challenging Dr Lecter, the arrogant observer of all living things.

“I already knew that,” says Will. “I don’t mind hearing it clarified, though.”

You can’t imagine him ever admitting that you’re beautiful in return. Hannibal would, has done so already in such a succulence of language that your mouth could water with it, but not Will, not in so many words.

All that he will allow thus far is that you are not ugly. Blearily you vow to unwind from him his obsession.

“Puppy love,” says Hannibal, looking into your face with a gentle irony. “You’d like him to touch you, wouldn’t you, little one?”

This you don’t answer, and rather than press you again Hannibal makes you come with three fingers inside you, patient as you cry out and roll your head aside in conflict and delirium.

You cannot decide if he means to reward you for your participation with Will or to humiliate you for that same eagerness. It is bewildering and erotic, this envy they have for one another; to quell it you must kneel to the hierarchy, submissive always to your covetous masters.

“Join us, Will,” says Hannibal, at last.

Briefly you think that he won’t, a scoffing lord, above it all.

Then he crosses the room, sets down his whiskey and kisses you, first your mouth, then your neck, leaving the taste of smoke and almonds wherever his lips meet.

Whimpering, you kick your feet on the couch as each petal of ecstasy comes loose from a branch within you.

Sometimes Will’s teeth push against your flesh, not quite biting; Hannibal, on the other side of your neck, gently does, as though inheriting the expected assault from his would-be lover.

His fingers form a cylinder of delight in you, the pad of his thumb undoing another orgasm in a trio of strokes.

“How gifted we are to receive such delights,” says Hannibal, and as you groan he docks his arousal in your own, filling you so entirely with his cock that you think and feel only the fucking and nothing more, a witless hole.

Will brings your hand to his erection, and there is no uncertainty in that motion, nor in his lips about your breast. His rough tongue, the saliva like a paste jewel on your nipple—

Writhing, panting, you stir through pleasure upon pleasure like the layers of the earth, soft, dark, deep.

Your palm tightens on Will’s cock like a night sea about the lighthouse it yearns to bring down, working him with a knowing purpose. As Hannibal continues his pelvic rolls against you Will draws back, avoiding the early release that your cunning fist would bring.

Not once do the men make contact in a sexual manner with each other, and you don’t understand it, this avoidance of the ultimate lust. Yet perhaps it is that they fuck through you, for when Hannibal achieves his orgasm and moves away Will pushes into you without caution of the other man’s seed still warm in that same place.

He looks up into Hannibal’s eyes as he does it, watching his response as he weaves pleasure from a loom of servile flesh.

But then you make some shapeless sound of need, one hand extended, not quite touching him, and Will's eyes return to you with such intensity that you forget that brief, lost woe.

He mimics Hannibal’s command of your body, hands moving, unrushed, from breast to hip as he opens you further to him. His violence is a mage’s dance, something once done around fire, and charged now through the vessel of a young and studious man.

No wonder, then, that you have neither strength nor will to repel him. You roil, loose-limbed as the dead, only your noise and perspiring response to sensation to evidence your ongoing life.

Hannibal’s arms go loosely around you, holding your head in his lap as Will makes love to you with a brooding fervour. Every touch is like the discovery of a new and indescribable existence, having traversed to some frontier of feeling only sects of pleasure have previously founded.

You know yourself wanted by both men, now, feel it through their mutterings of ecstasy, the unending pressure of mouths and hands upon your skin. They crave your wanting of them in return, lap up your slightest sign of it, tainted as it is by Hannibal’s poison.

Will pours in you his ending, his breath a kiss against your eardrum.

You come again with both men gazing upon you, their faces as close and beautiful together as stringed pearls.

Dimly you fear that they will succeed in their work with you, no matter how fiercely you defy their twofold will.

“Hey,” says the younger man, nudging your shoulder lightly. “Snap out of it. You’re bleeding. Did we hurt you?”

Your first thought is, “yes, of course you did.”

The next, having looked down at the red dart through the milk of semen on your thigh, is the same nip of terror you know from an unexpectedly high number on the scale.

The final cognition—and one almost certainly true—is that this carnival of sex has brought that crimson forth like the incitation of bacchanalian madness.

The shock of it wrings you near dry of the doctor’s drug, a bald winter sobriety.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “It’s my period. I haven’t had one in years.”

#manna fic #hannibal fic #hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #tw noncon #tw eating disorders #tw bulimia #tw anorexia #tw dubious consent #tw nonconsensual drug use #tw fatphobia

94 notes · View notes

mother-above · 4 months

Text

The Golden Warrior | Chapter 7

Azriel x Reader

Summary: To you, love was a poison that slowly killed. It was something that could make the strongest of warriors and leaders weak and vulnerable. You had successfully evaded romance and relationships for a century until the day you realized it had been plaguing you from within.

Chapters: 7/?

Word Count: 8.6k

Warnings: suggestive, violence, and swearing

*masterlist*

A/N: please bare with Azriel and the reader. They’re both stupid and have deep-rooted problems.

Azriel burst through his shadows and startled his family who were sitting by the campfire. They stopped their tasks to watch Azriel swiftly walk by them with clenched fists. He acknowledged no one as he entered his tent. Feyre and Mor looked at Rhysand and Cassian to see if they knew anything, but they shrugged. Giving him a few minutes to simmer down, Rhysand and Cassian make their way to Azriel’s tent to find him lying on his cot staring at the ceiling. After a few minutes of pestering, Cassian finally got Azriel to tell them about his frustrations toward your obliviousness to the bond.

Rhysand puts a comforting hand on Azriel's shoulder. “I know how you feel Az, I truly do. All you can do is be patient. She didn’t reject the bond, she doesn’t even know it exists,” said Rhysand. “Think about it, she just started getting to know you. It’s normal for her to assume you are inviting her as a friend.”

“I’m worried that the bond hasn’t snapped because she doesn’t like me,” admitted Azriel.

“That’s ridiculous,” exclaimed Rhysand. “Just give it time and everything will fall into place.”

Azriel shook his head. “We don’t have time,” he snapped. “I don’t know if we’ll survive this, and I can’t die knowing I never told my mate. I’m beginning to think keeping this from her isn’t a clever idea,” said Azriel as he pressed his palms over his eyes.

Cassian had avoided thinking about the possibility that his friends wouldn’t make it alive, their stories ceasing to exist beyond this war. It’s a miracle they’ve lived this long, and he was beginning to think that this was it. He couldn’t blame his brother for feeling desperate, Azriel found his mate and had no idea if they had any time together.

Cassian chewed the inside of his lips as he weighed Azriel’s options. “You told us she has some issues with relationships, right? I’m not going to tell you what to do but do you think it’ll do more good than bad? She might freak out and we need her full concentration, Az.”

Azriel sighed deeply and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his whole body slumped forward. “You’re right.” The conversation in the Palace’s courtyard was still fresh in his head. He’d never met anyone so passionate and anti-relationship in his life.

He said nothing more as his shadows swarmed him. Rhysand and Cassian patiently waited for him to elaborate but they knew better, Azriel wasn’t going to say a word and would just sit there and ruminate in his thoughts. Once left alone, Azriel laid back down and stared at the ceiling. He could feel his chest tightening, the golden cord desperately reaching for its nonexistent other half.

Of course, my mate doesn’t want me. How foolish of me to think that the second-in-command of Dawn Court would give me, an Illyrian bastard, a chance, thought Azriel.

***

Hybern was moving fast, they had reached the border of the Winter Court and those who could winnow were scrambling to transfer the troops to the correct location. While the camps were being set up, the High Lords sent you on a reconnaissance mission. You were the fastest of the Peregryns and could glamour yourself to avoid detection. When you were airborne, you took notice of a shadow that was struggling to keep up with you. Rolling your eyes, you hold your hand out allowing the wisp to latch on and wrap around your fingers.

“Tell the shadowsinger that he needs to start trusting me to report accurate information,” you whispered to the shadow.

It chittered back but of course; you couldn’t understand it. Little did you know Azriel sent his shadows to alert him of any sign of trouble. With one whisper of danger from his shadows, Azriel would drop everything to find you.

After a couple of hours of scouting and traveling as fast as you could, you arrived at the main war tent to report to the High Lords and their military commanders. Sweating profusely, you dumped your helmet on the floor as Callon handed you a cold drink of water. The shadow that was curled around your hand skittered back to Azriel who stood in the corner of the room. Thesan, Rhysand, Tarquin, Helion, and Kalias patiently waited for you to catch your breath as you plopped onto a chair.

“I’m not going to lie, boys,” you said solemnly. Azriel held back a chuckle, only you would get away with calling the High Lords ‘boys.’ Except for Thesan, the other High Lords were secretly afraid of you. “What I saw was disheartening, the army was twice the size of the first battle. I tried looking to see if more ships were arriving by sea, but I saw no movement as far as I could see. It’s a possibility they glamoured their ships so I don’t know for sure.”

There were so many things to prepare for and you were constantly moving around the tent strategizing over the war table’s scale map of the battlefield. Despite being busy all day, so much of your attention was spent keeping track of Azriel’s whereabouts. You always wanted him in your line of sight, it was easy to evade him that way. Despite your diligence, it was hard to truly avoid him, especially after you realized that whenever his gaze landed on you, it felt like a cool breeze caressed your skin.

The last interaction you had with Azriel at the healer's tent was so intimate that it terrified you. You remember reveling in his presence and you hated that you were still thinking about it. Then there was the possibility of Azriel asking you out on a date. You were curious to know if that was what he meant or if your paranoia of someone getting close to you was affecting how you viewed his intentions.

Once battle strategizing was done, you allowed yourself to look over at Azriel who was talking to Cassian. You had to admit he looked incredibly handsome in his Illyrian leathers that it was tempting enough to go and talk to him. Before the Shadowsinger had the chance to make eye contact and weaken your resolve, you grabbed Thesan and Callon and winnowed them to the Dawn Court camp. The two males looked at your retreating form in shock, the force of your power making you winnow so fast, it gave them whiplash. They watched you enter your private tent and gave each other concerned looks.

Lounging in bed, you rubbed your chest hoping to get rid of this tight feeling, but it never prevailed. It was one of the reasons why you were so tired after your mission, the whole time you felt constricted even though there was nothing physically wrong with you. It was anxiety but you couldn’t pinpoint what was causing it. Was it about the upcoming battle? Your family's safety? The court's safety? Whatever it was, you hoped it would go away soon.

***

The cool crisp air drifting from the Winter Court felt like a blessing as it dried your warm and clammy skin. From the sky, the battlefield looked even more chaotic in comparison to what you saw on the ground. The Prythian troops were getting slightly overwhelmed, which prompted Thesan to signal that now was a suitable time to use your ‘venom’. Breathing hard and rubbing your chest, you force yourself to concentrate and harness your power. With enough of your golden energy gathered at the palm of your hands, you send a burst of magic to the Hybern soldiers.

Moments later, about two hundred soldiers dropped to their knees as they coughed up blood and keeled over. Some were screaming in pain and others just dropped dead. You tried to muster more magic, but it sputtered and only reached a couple dozen Hybern soldiers before noticing your magic reserves had run dry. The soldiers you killed allowed a few moments rest for Prythian, but it wasn’t enough, everyone was back to fighting. Joining the soldiers on the ground, you felt your cheeks redden knowing you barely made a dent against the enemy. The Courts desperately needed the upper hand, and you couldn’t give it to them.

Using your embarrassment as fuel, you moved swiftly and cut through the Hybern soldiers. Caked in dirt, blood, and sweat, the Prythians slowly moved forward as the scale tipped in your nation’s favor. At one point, you, Wyla, and Azriel formed a trio that worked well together quickly taking down the enemy. A day ago, you were avoiding the male, but you couldn’t afford to think like that. In battle, all of that was irrelevant, it was either kill or be killed.

It was mesmerizing watching Azriel fight, he was like an impenetrable wall with his sword and dagger. Even his shadows worked in tandem with him, they watched his back and were weapons themselves. You had forgotten his shadows were weapons too, those same wisps that once gently wrapped around your hands were now striking for the kill.

All was going well until you watched a Hybern commander cut Cassian from his navel to sternum. With your eyes wide open, a scream escaped your lips as your death and poison rolled off your fingers. With precision, you directed your magic to every single Hybern soldier within ten feet of Cassian. They dropped dead within seconds. With a beat of your wings, you were the first person to reach the General, your glowing hands the only thing keeping his organs inside.

“Shit!” you roared, laying Cassian on the ground. “Stay with me Cassian!” He was screaming in pain and there wasn’t much you could do but keep your glowing hands on him. If you let go, he was going to die.

His skin was stitching too slowly, and he was losing too much blood, you willed more healing magic toward his abdomen, but you were too tired. He was going to need a well-rested healer or Thesan, but he was still fighting. In seconds, you decided that you had to save your new friend. You winnowed the both of you to the joint Dawn and Night Court's healing tent, your abrupt arrival made them jump in surprise. They helped you place a too-pale Cassian on a cot and immediately began to help you heal.

Quickly wiping your bloody hands with a cloth, you efficiently ordered the team of Night and Dawn healers. “I want one of you to focus your magic on stopping his bleeding, someone to clean the impurities that got into his body, and I want another healer to start stitching the skin on the sternum. I will focus on the arrangement of the organs and begin reconnecting the abdominal muscles. Please and thank you.”

The Night Court healers knew who you were, word had spread that the Dawn healer they learned from decades ago was the 2nd in command and Golden Warrior. Most healers in Prythian learned what they knew from the schools in Dawn Court, and under the guise of a normal Dawn Court citizen, you were able to work and teach healers from all over Prythian. After careful and fast work, you were able to reconnect the abdominal muscles which meant the worst part had finally passed. His body would have to finish the rest of the healing but with the work you did, he was going to survive.

Cassian was only asleep due to a strong painkilling potion, but you could tell the pain was still there because his brows were furrowed. You and a healer named Madja were stitching his skin together when Azriel and Rhysand winnowed into the tent. You lifted a quizzical brow at Rhysand, and he verbally confirmed that the battle was over, and Thesan was safe. Rhysand stood over Cassian, his features a combination of concern and fury. From what you could gather from his and Azriel’s conversation, Cassian had disobeyed a direct order from his High Lord, and it resulted in today’s injury.

After you and a healer named Madja finished stitching to the best of your abilities, you sagged against the wall in complete exhaustion. Healing Cassian took all your remaining energy. Azriel rushed to your side and helped you sit on a cot. He felt how drained you were and drew you close to lean your body against his. You were so tired it didn’t even cross your mind how intimate this gesture was.

Rhysand and Azriel profusely thanked you for all you’ve done for their brother. Feyre and Mor rushed into the tent and the blonde made a beeline toward you. She wrapped you in a big hug and blubbered her ‘thank yous’ before making her way to Cassian.

Azriel was looking at you with his eyes wide open and his pupils blown out. He was so impressed he couldn’t believe you were his mate. Without you, he would have lost his brother and that alone made him forever indebted to you. He felt good now that you were safely by his side, the feeling of your weight against him made his heart flutter.

You cast your magic over Cassian one last time and nodded in approval. “He’s going to be fine, a few days rest and he’ll be back to normal. Make sure he takes it easy.”

Realizing how close you were to Azriel, you sat up and leaned away from his warm body. You stomped down the feeling of comfort you were getting from him. He opened his mouth to say something, but you didn’t give him a chance.

Azriel’s cheeks burned as he watched your mud-stained wings grow smaller as you briskly walked away. He was glad that his family was occupied with Cassian to take notice of him. He could tell you were avoiding him, and that very idea made him feel like shit. He knew he pushed too far by inviting you to Velaris, he should’ve listened to that little voice inside his head that told him he wasn’t worthy of love.

Turning his attention back to Cassian, he inspected the work you’ve done. He listened to Madja as she spoke to Feyre and Rhys. Madja was Rhysand’s most trusted healer and to hear her speak about you in such high regard made his chest swell. His shadows whispered their approval as they danced around him. He just wished he knew what you were thinking.

***

With your skin scrubbed clean and a fresh set of clothes, you walked into the main war tent with confidence. The icy blonde heads of the Winter Court swiveled in your direction, Kallias gave a nod to Thesan as Viviane waved you over to the chair next to her. The two of you were chatting about what type of potions you use for clear skin when you found out that Kallias had banned his wife from fighting.

Leaning forward dramatically, you glared at the High Lord of Winter. After semi-hostile banter and input from the other courts arriving, you helped convince Kallias to let Viviane fight in the next battle. You and Viviane were giggling about Kallias’s pout when you felt a cool caress on the scarred side of your face. You turned to see Azriel’s earnest eyes on you as Night Court filed into the tent.

Captivated, you keep eye contact before you see Viviane bristle in the corner of your eye. Her eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and fascination, following her gaze you saw someone you’ve only heard about.

Amren. Rhysand’s 2nd in command.

You could feel her power now that you noticed her presence. Her sharp eyes fleet across the room as she nods to everyone in her presence. The only thing you know about her is that she was thousands of years old and extremely powerful. Thesan and Rhysand waved you over to officially meet her and you could understand why everyone in the room stiffened when she came in, Amren was terrifying. Her stature was one of the shortest in the room and yet, she had this menacing aura around her.

Her silver eyes scanned you from head to toe and then looked curiously over to your wings. Everyone held their breath as they watched two powerful beings size each other up. Amren flashed her perfect teeth and grinned at you wickedly. She grasped your hand in a hold that you assumed was a custom way of greeting in whatever world she came from. She told you she was excited to work with you in the future.

The meeting finally started, and the High Lords and Generals discussed any advantages we could have. The court’s scouts were reporting that the next fight was most likely the last battle. Hybern’s forces increasingly grew as more ships transported them from their island. They were also moving into human territories, which posed another problem. The odds against Prythian’s armies and Hybern’s forces were looking grim.

While discussing Spring and Autumn Court’s participation, High Lord Helion pointed out that he could tell you were not reaching your full potential. He criticized Thesan for keeping you hidden away for all these years when you could have been trained to do bigger things. This pissed Thesan off, his teeth gritted as he tells Helion he had his reasons, but Helion was having none of it.

“Maybe that’s the extent of her power,” interjected Kallias. “She may be a great warrior but there could be a chance she’s not as powerful as we think. I think we’re putting too much pressure on someone who just can’t perform.”

Viviane grimaced as she looked at you for a reaction. Sometimes she couldn’t believe her husband didn’t get in any more fights with the way he talked and presented himself.

“There's no way in Hel her little display in yesterday’s battle is all she could do,” pressed Helion. “Do you not feel her power? I choke on it every time she walks into the room. She’s just untrained, that’s all.”

You cringed as the other High Lords and their entourage agreed. Feeling embarrassed, you reigned in your power and stored it in the sapphire necklace that appears on your neck. It was humiliating to hear them agree that you could do much more… save more Prythian lives if you were strong enough. Your heart started to pound, you wanted to defend yourself, but they were right.

Azriel could feel the anguish under your calm demeanor, he wished he could bash the heads of everyone who was speaking ill of you. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and comfort you, but he couldn’t. Instead, he let a shadow discreetly curl around your ankle. Even if it was a small gesture, he had to do something to show his support.

The moment you felt the cool wisp touch your skin, you knew who and what it was. The burning anger in your chest slowed as you held the gaze of the Shadowsinger. You give him a discreet nod and he responds with the smallest quirk of his lips. To your surprise, another gesture of comfort came from Tarquin who sat on your other side. He placed a large reassuring hand on your thigh and kept it there, it was affectionate, and bewilderingly, you didn’t swat him away.

Tired of all the bullshit the males were spewing, Amren piped in as she picked on her red nails. “You choke on it because you’re all too weak to handle it,” she said coolly. “Don’t worry about our angel of death, she will be powerful enough when the time comes.”

You're not sure whether it was because everyone was afraid of Amren or because of the finality in her tone, but the topic thankfully changed. Her support was appreciated but you have no idea why she was confident in you. With a shadow still wrapped around your ankle, you sat and contemplated how you could reach your full potential.

***

The next few days were spent doing everything you and Thesan could think would help you harness control of your power. The problem wasn’t the stamina of your magic, for 12 hours straight you were doing extensive protective magic around the camps and your magic never faltered. After many theories were evaluated, it all boiled down to either a mental block or something the Mother or Cauldron intended. Thesan had ordered you to relax as much as you could but that was a ridiculous request. An attack on the camps could happen at any moment and it was impossible to relax when that was a possibility.

You had just spent the last 8 hours back in Dawn Court checking the magical shields in the borders and doing research with the priestesses. You invited them to your private library, and you all scoured the books for any information on how to develop your magic. No one found any new information on how to boost your powers, but the priestesses did stumble on something that could be useful. There was a death god named Achlys from thousands of years ago who could poison people like you. The ancient tome didn’t have much information, but Achlys was noted to have developed their magic and had become incredibly powerful. The priestess made a point that in theory, you should be able to cultivate your powers to grow stronger and do things you never imagined.

The head priestess, Irabel, revisited one of Thesan’s theories about your problem being connected to the Cauldron or the Mother. After some prayer, meditation, and focusing on your aura, she believed you were having problems because you were not “whole”. She said she sensed that there was a missing piece in your soul. You blinked at her as if she had two heads. You were more than a hundred years old; you would have noticed if a piece of your soul was missing.

She shook her head, “You may feel perfectly fine because you’ve never felt your soul completely intact.”

“Prythian is at war, and we desperately need every advantage. How do I find the missing piece?” you asked urgently. “I need to find the other piece.”

Irabel looks at you with a fond smile. “My lady, I think the Mother may be implying that you are blessed with a mate. I suspect that you won’t have full capacity of your powers until you are mated.”

Your ears started to ring. No fucking way. This was the last thing you wanted.

“W-what?” you stammered. This may be one of the worst news you’ve ever received. “High Priestess… a mate… the bond… that’s not an option for me.”

“This is all theory, but you do seem to be glowing brighter since the last time I saw you which was before Thesan came back from Under the Mountain. Maybe you’ve met your mate since then. Has there been someone you’ve met and had a connection with?”

Your mind drew a blank until a certain male with rich brown skin and turquoise eyes popped up. Tarquin. It had to be the High Lord of Summer; you should have suspected since you two became easy friends. Until Tarquin, you’ve never slept with the same male twice. Hot panic flooded your bloodstream, you couldn’t believe your worst fears were coming true.

“There’s not enough time for a mating bond,” you diverted. You were going to spare the High Priestess from your slander against something as sacred as a mate bond. Taking a moment to gather yourself, you looked at Irabel fiercely. “Please, there must be a way to be stronger by the time the battle arrives.”

She rested her chin on her steepled fingers. “We mustn't forget the power of sheer will. This may not be the answer you were looking for, but it may be your best chance.”

Once you said goodbye to the priestesses and received word they were safely back in their temple, you winnowed to the war camps. You trudged to Thesan’s tent where you ranted about the discoveries to your cousin and Callon. Thesan kept note to do further research on the god named Achlys, but Callon was far more concerned about finding out who your mate was. At first, you weren’t going to tell them who you thought it was but Thesan and Callon were persuasive. Thesan promised you an exceedingly long vacation if you told them, so you did.

The shock on both their faces was almost worth the agony of knowing you might have a mate and it was probably Tarquin. Thesan didn’t say a word as he looked at you quizzically. Callon on the other hand could barely contain his excitement. He knew you never wanted to be in a relationship, but he couldn’t help but feel joyous for you.

You weren’t on a battlefield today but the level of exhaustion you were feeling felt like you’d participated in one. The weight to perform in the final battle sat heavily on your shoulders and all this nonsense about a mate made things worse.

Saying goodnight, you walked to your tent warily looking around hoping a certain High Lord wasn’t popping by for a visit. You had no idea if you could even look at Tarquin now that you knew what you knew. You scrutinized every interaction you had with him and the more you did that, the more you were convinced he might be your mate. Despite everything, the mating bond must not have snapped because you felt nothing, and you were grateful for that. It would be difficult to avoid Tarquin forever, so you vowed to never touch him again to avoid the snap.

Irritation crawled up your neck at the thought of the High Lord of Summer. In an attempt to forget about him, you submerged yourself in the hot bath water. After washing up and getting dressed, you were so tired that you only bothered to wear underwear and a long tunic that stopped mid-thigh.

Flopping into bed, sleep quickly took over as vivid dreams enveloped your mind. It was a strange dream, nothing was making sense, but you felt like you were being chased, the sounds of howling behind you. The rest of the dream was muddled, the only thing you could clearly see was a scene of Azriel only wearing his Illyrian leather pants. He was leaning forward like he was in pain; blood was dripping from his torso and wings. The rest of the dream was bland, you were just about to peacefully doze in dark bliss when a heavy hand shook your shoulder.

“Quick! Get up, it’s the Shadowsinger!” said Callon urgently. “He needs a healer.”

You rolled out of bed and sprung onto your feet at the mention of Azriel. “What’s happening? Did Hybern attack the camps?” you asked, frantically looking around the tent.

Callon shook his head. “Something happened with the Night Court. Rhysand winnowed in Azriel and requested you since you know more about wings. It’s bad.”

The graveness of Callon’s voice made you make a beeline toward the exit only stopping to tug boots onto your feet. It was past midnight, and the only bright light was coming from the healer's tent. You strode in and the first thing you saw was Azriel who was bickering with Rhysand who was trying to get his brother to sit down and relax.

A gasp escaped your lips as you saw the injuries inflicted on Azriel’s body. There he was- shirtless and roughed up just like the scene from your dream. There were slow healing cuts everywhere and parts of his wings were ripped to shreds. Your eyes roamed over the expanse of his tattooed chest, he was still glistening in sweat, and it made the black swirls that decorated his skin pop out.

Their eyes snapped at you, Azriel’s eyes widened and then his body went slack as he sunk onto a cot. The sudden movement made the claw marks bleed more. Thesan who was assessing the damage looked up and sighed in relief.

“Thank goodness you’re here! He was shot by a faebane arrow and Nuan’s anti-faebane compound can only do so much. It’s affecting both of our healing abilities, and his wings aren’t looking too good,” said Thesan. “Do you think you can extract the poison?”

You stepped closer and peered at his lacerations. You could smell the sharp scent of faebane from the arrow wound on his shoulder. This was something you’d never done before but you could try.

Sitting next to Azriel, you hovered a glowing hand over a wound and you felt the strange resistance of faebane. You grasped his shoulder and Azriel winced at your touch.

“How bad does it hurt?” you asked.

Azriel rolled his neck trying to ignore the burning pain. “The arrow puncture doesn’t hurt much, it’s my wings I’m worried about,” said Azriel.

You sucked in a breath as you glanced at his wings. They were going to need extensive work and it was going to be extremely painful for him.

“You didn’t answer my question,” you said as you started the process of concentrating energy onto your fingers. “How are you feeling right now?”

“I feel better now that you’re here,” said Azriel honestly.

Rhysand’s eyes widened as Thesan and Callon shot each other looks. Your mouth curved into a smile as Azriel sputtered.

“You know- I feel better because you’re a master healer with wings,” said Azriel. “I’m in good hands.”

“Of course,” you said taking hold of his shoulder once more.

Azriel wanted to disappear into his shadows. He couldn’t believe he said that in front of everyone.

Closing your eyes, you breathed deeply as the magic concentrated in your hand. Instead of willing the poison to be released from you, you pressed your fingertips onto his skin as you tried to will the faebane out of the wound.

“I am death and poison,” you whispered, barely audible. Golden tendrils from your hand are absorbed into his skin. “Like calls to like. Come to me.”

Azriel’s eyes widened as he felt the strange sensation of your magic, it stung but your proximity was enough distraction. He let your presence calm his mind as he watched your magic in awe. Azriel moved his gaze to see your face slightly scrunched in concentration, the scar on the side contorting as your eyes crinkled. From the beginning, he was always attracted to you but the more time he spent with you, he found your beauty to be always flourishing.

Ever so slowly, you retract your fingers, and the tendrils had latched onto blood that was poisoned by faebane. Carefully, you pulled out all the faebane you could detect in Azriel’s system. Rhysand, Thesan, and Callon watched in wonder as they had never seen anything like this. Once you were finished and had a mass of Azriel’s poisoned blood properly disposed of in some pocket realm, they exploded into excited chatter.

While you appreciated their appreciation, there was still much to be done and they were far too distracting.

“Boys!” you snapped. “I may have gotten the poison out, but we are not out of the woods yet. Either shut up and let me work in silence or get out of the tent!”

Azriel chuckled as he watched his brother, Dawn’s High Lord, and a strong warrior shuffle out of the tent. He loved the idea that his mate had the power to make the High Lords do what you wanted. Granted it was your cousin and Rhysand, but it still meant that his mate was powerful, and he was beginning to adore that about you.

With no distractions, you were able to carefully work on Azriel’s wounds. To distract him from the pain, you asked him what happened. He explained that Hybern had taken Feyre’s sister Elain and that he and the High Lady went on a mission to retrieve her. He ended up having to carry Elain and a human girl while under attack. You gaped at him as you thought of the sheer strength it must have taken to do that. It explained the feminine scents that lingered on his skin you noticed earlier.

The scents weren’t the only thing you noticed. The black swirled tattoos that covered his chest and arms were so beautiful, you had to keep refocusing your attention. The swirls were mesmerizing, they reminded you of his shadows and you couldn’t stop looking. The black ink curved against the muscles under his skin, you had never gotten over how muscular this male was.

Once the wounds on his torso were taken care of, you moved to sit behind him so you could start mending his severely injured wings. Well aware Illyrian wings were sensitive, you wanted to survey what you had to work with before you touched him. Callon wasn’t lying when he said the wings were bad, they were wrecked, and you had no idea if they would heal in time for the big battle. With how tense Azriel was, you were sure the male was putting on a strong façade because if your wings looked like this, you’d be in agony.

“Azriel, I'm going to need to touch your wings to heal you,” you said. “Do I have permission?”

Azriel suddenly felt a little light-headed, he wasn’t sure if was from blood loss or the anticipation of you near his wings again. He nodded and sucked in a breath when he felt your warm hands poke and prod his wings as you examined him. He was glad he was in pain, otherwise, he didn’t think he’d be able to resist you.

“How do they look? Will I fly again?” said Azriel. He was so caught up in your presence that he had almost forgotten why he was in a healer's tent.

“I’m not going to lie,” you said softly “It doesn’t look good, but I haven’t started yet, my answer could change when we’re done.”

He turned to look at you and your heart plunged a little. He looked scared and vulnerable, the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen a warrior be. You don’t blame him, the idea of losing the freedom to fly was something you could understand.

“You should know it’s going to be painful, pain like you’ve never felt before,” you warned. “I’m going to do my best, but you’ll have to bear with me.”

“I trust you,” said Azriel.

It was strange to hear that coming from his own tongue. He had never trusted anyone this quickly, but he knew who you were to him. Despite the knowledge that you were his mate, his gut could tell that he could trust you with his life.

He said it with such conviction, that a gentle smile graced your lips.

“Thank you, Azriel. Good to know I have it,” you said. Clearing your throat, you place your hands on his shoulders and make him turn around again. “I want you to talk to me, tell me anything that’ll get your mind off the pain.”

He nodded and then the slow and excruciating process began. He felt every tug and magical stitch and it sent him rambling more about the mission and how he had to escape Hybern while carrying an Archeron sister and a human girl. You carefully worked and listened intently, his deep voice letting you slip into an ultra-concentrated trance. It was broken when you hit a nerve which sent Azriel gripping the cot and letting out a strained yelp. You apologized and let him gather himself before leaning down to continue healing.

“What was your childhood like?” you asked, trying to distract him.

Azriel’s shadows began to swarm around him, protective of their master. He wordlessly told them that it was alright, so they calmed.

“My childhood was… difficult,” replied Azriel. “You know, I’m no stranger to pain. It’s all I’ve felt my entire life.”

Your fingers froze over his wings, was he going to talk about the scars on his hands?

Letting out a shaky breath, you replied. “Oh?”

Blinking, you continued to heal while doing your best to calm your heartbeat. A part of you was eager to find out if you did have dreams about Azriel being locked in a cellar. A larger part of your subconscious was scared to find out because it would mean there was a deeper connection between the two of you. Even when you weren’t thinking about it, your heart was always protecting you.

Azriel glanced down at his clenched fists. Those scarred hands that he hated so much. He decided not to tell you what really happened to him, he didn’t want to scare you away with his childhood trauma. So instead, he resorted to deflecting which he was an expert at.

“Enough about me, I want to know what’s troubling you,” said Azriel as he smirked and looked back at you.

You raised a brow. “What makes you think something is troubling me?

“First of all, your energy is practically suffocating me at this moment and the second reason is you’re not wearing any pants. You’re Thesan’s 2nd, you would never step out in public looking informal.”

Jerking back in surprise, you looked down to see that he was right. You were only wearing a tunic and boots, your bare skin brushing against his waistband and back. Hyper-aware of how close you were to Azriel, you moved backward as heat rushed to your cheeks.

“I apologize for my appearance; I was in such a rush I didn’t realize I only had my tunic on!”

Azriel shrugged nonchalantly, the movement making him grimace in pain.

“It’s alright. I appreciate the urgency,” said Azriel.

You continued your delicate work on his wings while making sure there was enough distance between the two of you.

“You didn’t answer my first question. What’s gotten you so distracted you forgot to put pants on?” asked Azriel. “Is it the upcoming battle?”

Chewing the inside of your lip, you contemplated whether you should say anything. This was an incredibly personal topic but the weight it had on your shoulders was intense, you needed to talk about it. Choosing your words carefully, you make sure you don’t reveal too much.

“I was recently told that to be more powerful, I would have to find the other half of my soul…” you said quietly. “When I was searching for answers, that was the last thing I wanted to hear.”

Is she talking about the mate bond? Does she know about our bond? thought Azriel.

His heart started to pound as he tried to form the proper words in his head. Azriel stammered, “Uh- when you say your other half, do you mean—"

“The oh-so-sacred mate bond?” you interrupted; your voice laced with dismay.

Azriel felt the blood drain from his face, you sounded scared. “You told me you didn’t like relationships, but I didn’t think it extended to the mating bond.”

You sighed as you focused on healing a tendon in his wing. “I told you I have complicated feelings about love. What’s troubling me is I think I may have met my mate and I know who it is.”

“Oh?” said Azriel shakily. “Who do you think it is?”

“Before I say anything, you need to promise you won’t speak a word about this to anyone else. If you break my trust, I swear I’ll make sure you shit and vomit for an entire day. It’ll be the worst day of your life.”

Azriel hastily agreed. He wanted to laugh but the suspense was overpowering everything.

“Well, I don’t know for sure, but the High Priestess suspects I have a mate, and if her theory is right…. I think it’s someone I've recently slept with,” you admitted.

Jealousy ignited within the shadowsinger as he turned to look at you. You protested his sudden movement and his wings and muscles screamed at him, but Azriel couldn’t care less. He felt his blood boil as he thought of another male touching you. It took everything in him not to demand who your lover was, you had every right to sleep with anyone you wanted and Azriel had to live with that.

“What are you going to do about it?” asked Azriel lowly. His head was spinning, he wasn’t sure if he was ready to hear your answer.

You looked down in shame, were you going to tell Azriel how you planned to never talk to Tarquin again? The entire idea was ridiculous, but you were going to do anything to make sure that bond would never snap between the both of you. Slowly, you looked up to see Azriel’s exhausted features but despite everything he’d been through today, his gaze was sharp and calculating. There was a tinge of vulnerability in his hazel eyes, you weren’t sure why but that was enough to convince you to be honest.

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you looked down at your still-glowing hands. “I don’t know… ignore him forever? All I know is I’m terrified.”

“I don’t understand, what’s so scary about it?”

“Something as strong as the mate bond makes you so vulnerable and weak. I’ve seen what it’s done to my parents and other couples, the bond is a weakness and I refuse to let it distract me,” you admitted. “It doesn’t even have to be a mate bond, love itself is a corruption.”

Azriel was speechless as he tried to come up with something to say. He had never met anyone like you, and it made his heart twist knowing that his mate thought like this. In his silence, you gently urged him to turn around so you could continue to heal him. You were almost done stitching his wings when he finally spoke.

“What happened to you?” he asked, he didn’t bother hiding the sadness and confusion in his voice. “What happened to make you think like this?”

You thought about telling him about your parents, but you stopped yourself, it was too difficult and too personal to talk about. Instead, you let your hand's repetitive movements lull you into a memory.

“25 years ago, I was out on patrol with two Peregryns who were spouses. A creature was wreaking havoc on a town and at the time, we didn’t know it was a Puca.”

Azriel breathed sharply, he already knew it was going to be a horrible end.

“At one point, we were all separated and the Puca lured the wife pretending to be her injured husband. It was too late when we noticed, I didn’t even hear her yell…it was her blood that I smelt first. Her husband and I killed the Puca but the scream he let out when he saw her body—I can still hear it sometimes,” you said thickly. “We would check on him occasionally, but he was never the same. He was a shell of a male; it was only when the curse broke that I saw him walking around the city and even then, he looked ghastly and bleak.”

No one spoke after that, just the quiet shuffling of your hands moving and you and Azriel’s heartbeats. You wondered what Azriel was thinking, he probably lost all respect for you once he heard your opinions on something so sacred. Casting your magic over his wings and other injuries, you concluded that you did everything possible and that only time would heal the rest of his wounds.

Mindful you were going to face him after your haphazard explanation of why you don’t want a mate, you gathered your courage to reveal the bad news. Moving to sit on the cot across from Azriel, you explained to him that he was going to need at least 2 weeks of complete rest. It took him a second but when it dawned on him that he wouldn’t be able to participate in the big battle, he slumped forward and covered his face with his hands.

You looked at him in shock, you expected him to argue and fight against your orders, but he just sat there and breathed heavily. While you were concerned for the shadowsinger, Azriel was holding back hysterical laughter and roars of frustration. He wasn’t angry at you; he was furious at the world for all the hardships they’d thrown at him.

His own mate was so frightened and resistant of the mate bond, that you had deluded yourself into thinking another male was your mate. If only you knew who you were talking to, thought Azriel, you’d have a heart attack. He also cursed the universe for his injuries. How could he keep still while you and his family were fighting for their country? Azriel thought he was going to snap until he felt you place a hand on his knee.

“Azriel? I’m so sorry, I know how much you want to fight but your wings won’t last,” you said gently. “If you try to fly too soon, you’ll have irreparable damage on your wings.”

Collecting his thoughts, it took him a while to respond. “What if I don’t fly? Can’t I stay on the ground and fight there?” asked Azriel.

You looked at the beautiful, battered male in front of you. The healing you and Thesan could only do so much once faebane had affected it. You were able to remove the poison from his blood, but the damage was already done.

Shaking your head, you squeezed his knee in an attempt to comfort him. “I’m sorry, baby bat. I wouldn’t risk it if you want to fly again, I’ll make sure Rhysand gets briefed, so you don’t try to undermine my orders.”

He chuckled and a smile made its way to your lips at the rich sound. The both of you sat in silence once more, listening to the nocturnal animals make their faint sounds around the war camp.

“I think I understand you better now,” said Azriel, his voice slicing through the air. “You’re not scared of love or relationships. You shut yourself out because you’re scared of losing people. You’re scared of how much it’ll hurt once someone you genuinely love disappears from your life.”

Your jaw dropped as you blinked at him. No one had ever spoken to you that bluntly, let alone try to analyze your character like that and you did not like it. He was wrong but something about his words rang true. It almost seemed like Azriel was trying to make you feel bad for feeling like that, but it only did the opposite.

Memories of your parent's abandonment flooded your mind, and you blinked back tears. You were going to make sure that bond would never snap between you and Tarquin.

You would do anything.

“I don’t think you understood my story,” you chided, leaning closer to Azriel. “I don’t want a mate or a lover because I don’t want to be weak.”

Azriel raised a brow, he didn’t think you’d be this hard-headed. “Love doesn’t make you weak, little dove. Ignorance does.”

“It’s not ignorance, it’s awareness,” you quipped back. “Look me in the eye and tell me that you haven’t been worried sick about Morrigan in the last two battles. You took your eye off the enemy, Azriel, that sounds like vulnerability to me.”

Azriel couldn’t believe you mentioned Morrigan. He wished he could tell that it was you who he was always checking on, but he couldn’t do that. He wished he could tell you that a mate is what he’s been waiting for all his life.

The world felt eerily still as you and Azriel gravitated closer to each other, both of you desperate for the other individual to see their point. Azriel’s burning gaze took in the beauty of his irrational mate. If only you knew the whole truth, you’d be swallowing your words. With your faces inches apart, your eyes hovered over his lips and something within wanted to press your lips against his… to do anything to forget the High Lord of Summer.

Slowly, the scent of the disinfectants and potions in the tent dispersed into the nether. The only thing you could smell was the pleasant waft of cedarwood and the chilled mist of night. Your gaze flickered to his hazel eyes and suddenly, all thoughts of formality, consequence, and reason flew out the window.

“Can I kiss you?”

Azriel sharply inhaled. Did he just hear you correctly? He thought his mind was playing tricks with him until he saw the intensity in your eyes. “Why?” he asked shakily.

“Help me forget him,” you whispered. “I don’t want to be weak.”

Azriel should’ve said no for both his and your sake. He could only imagine how furious you would be once you found out he was your actual mate, but he couldn’t resist this request. He was desperate for you, and he would take scraps if that was all you would give him. For you, he was learning he would do anything.

He never thought he could feel heartbroken and elated at the same time. Azriel took his hand and placed it tenderly on the scarred side of your face. Your eyes go wide as he gently strokes your cheek with his thumb. Wholly taking advantage of the opportunity you gave him, he memorized every single detail, down to every hair, fine line, freckle, and beauty mark on your face. Gathering his courage, he pulled you towards him and you met him halfway.

The moment your lips met; everything went blank. All was forgotten but Azriel. His presence was the only thing you could sense. Everything felt magnified. His lips were soft as they slowly moved against yours. The scrape of your tunic sleeve as it brushed against his chest sounded like thunder. The smooth glide of your hands felt like silk as you gently pulled him closer where his neck met his shoulder.

Being this close and kissing Azriel felt exhilarating, so much so that your golden glow was detected with closed eyes. You don’t know if it was 30 seconds or 30 minutes but time felt different. Slightly out of breath, the both of you leaned your foreheads against each other in disbelief. Suddenly, the loud chatter of Rhysand and Thesan by the tent opening makes you and Azriel spring apart.

You were just able to stand up and straighten yourself out when Rhysand and your cousin casually strode in, their faces smooth and unreadable. Moments later Calon and Cassian walked in, and they met your eye with smirks on their lips. You cringed at the thought of the four fae hearing what went down between you and Azriel. You gave the warriors a warning glare that would ensure their silence for the time being.

Still slightly dazed from your kiss with Azriel, you gestured to Rhysand to walk with you to the corner of the tent in a desperate attempt to clear your mind before speaking to the High Lord. Clearing your throat, you explained to Rhysand what you were able to mend and how much damage the faebane had done to his body. You tell him that you highly recommend Azriel to be banned from fighting in the next battle. Rhysand asked questions and you prayed to the Mother he wouldn’t mention anything about the shadowsinger’s scent that wafted from you.

As the shadowsinger watched his mate talk to his brother, Azriel tugged hard against the golden thread in his chest but to his dismay, the other side was still vast and empty. He still couldn’t believe he’d kissed you, with the way things were going, he never thought he’d get the chance. Despite the bond not snapping for you, Azriel could tell with the way you were breathless and glowing; that at this moment, whoever your lover was, was long forgotten.

For now, this was enough for Azriel.

#azriel x reader #azriel fanfiction #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x you #azriel angst #azriel x y/n #azriel fanfic #acotar #acomaf #acotar fanfiction

135 notes · View notes

utau-fanchildren-combos · 15 days

Text

Error x Ink (part 1)

Acrylic, by @drawingerror

Acrylic, by @drawsomeshet

Acrylic by @rats-inyourtrashbin

Adobe, by ?

Aelis, by @ari-cuno

Axel, by @ari-cuno

Airbrush, by @adorablemew

Amarant, by @kotikaleo

Amour, by @melody69dark-thelostboy-blog

Anti, by @redcas121

Āto, by ?

Binary, by @azulsundertaleblog

Blank Canvas, or Black Page, by @help-im-a-gay-fish adopted by @ari-cuno

Blank Page, by ?

Blur Color, @arkangel-vidraws

Blurry Color, by @bealdash12

Bonbon, by @sosozsofieia

Book, by @glitchy-post

Broomie, by @pulpitava

Brushy, by @uv_ruru (Twitter / Deactivated)

Caper Pen, by @/lostorigin

Captcha, by @bobateaboo

Canvas, by @myta

Cartridge, by @officialwretcheddarkness

Checkmate, by @radio-y3n / @0zmodeus

Chroma, by @autoartist

Cinnamon, by @thesmallsoul (Deactivated)

Clause, by @lolXnota (twitter)

Color Code, by @0tterLucy (twitter)

Contrast, by @kurolini909

Copic Marker, by @maple-and-pie

Copic, by @bobateaboo

Crystal, by @artybone (not a fanchildren anymore)

Cyclone, by @nova-blues

Cyral, by @nova-blues

Cytrait, by @nova-blues

Dawning, by @star-gamerxox

Defectum, by @defectiveask

Delete File, by @glitchy-post

Delette, by @gvaries

Design, by @pepper-mint

Despair, by ?

Dexterity, by @ginganinja

Digit, by @llwandehll

Drop, by @mini-shrimp14

Drop, by @uyuni-poyo (deactivated)

Easel, by @clearlyclueless

Ei, by @pocketbonesstuff

Ekon, by @ooyoichioo

Embree, by @edinchik

Eraser, by @anxi-undertale-bog (deactivated)

Erin, by @premiumsans

Erin, by @supermidnightqueen

Errin, by @verinel2

Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I Part 4

#errink #errorink #errorink fanchild #errorink ship child #errink fanchild

65 notes · View notes

simsim54 · 3 months

Text

Edward: Black. Jacob: *overhears* Edward: Black? Jacob: *about to speak up* Edward: No, Cullen-Black? Edward: Jacob Cullen Or Edward Black Jacob: *from around a corner* Edward Cullen sounds much better if I do say so myself. Edward: How much of that did you hear? Jacob: *walks out* or you and I could be Cullen-Black. But I think we should plan this once we start dating Edward: Are you asking me out? Jacob: I don't know Mr. Cullen-Black, am I?

68 notes · View notes

bobauthorman · 2 months

Text

I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I want to bring it out into the open. Each of Oz’s main lieutenants are deconstructions of character archetypes. Well, everyone in RWBY is a deconstruction, but no one wants to talk about Oz’s circle.

Oz, as has been established, turns the fantasy mentor archetype on its head. Not only is he a bad mentor, whose reckless manipulations never pan out, but the protags are far less forgiving of his string-pulling, and have every right to be. Unforgiving, that is.

Ironwood, similarly, deconstructs the ‘Anti-authority authority figure’; like Captain Kirk (Star Trek) or Nick Fury (Marvel), they are military leaders who frequently chaff under their more politically-minded peers and superiors, who undercut those peers whenever they can. Unlike Kirk/Fury, this is not a sign of open-mindedness, but arrogance and stuborness, the childish belief that the rules don’t apply to him.

Qrow is much like Wolverine (X-Men), a ‘Bad Boy with a Gold Heart’ who is kept in line by his loyalty to the mentor figure. In this case, Qrow’s Too Cool For School ‘tude is coping mechanism and mask for the massive chip on his shoulder, and because his self-worth was tied so deeply to serving Oz, when Oz is exposed as the fraud he is, Qrow has a full-on breakdown.

Lionheart was much harder to figure out, given that he only has one volume’s worth of screen time, and even we don’t get much of Lionheart’s personality. I theorize that Lionheart was intended to be a dig at the ‘Token Minority’ archetype. For many series in the old days, there are these characters who supposed to represent different races. (For example, Haji from Johnny Quest). Unfortunately, these characters are rarely given any personality outside of ‘Guy from foreign culture’, often becoming a deliverer of stereotypical views showrunners have. CRWBY has stated that Lionheart was made headmaster by Oz as a token for Faunus (The series allegory for minorities), but we hear nothing of whether that did any good (Blake even accuses Oz of not doing more for the Faunus). It’s possible that because of this Lionheart lacked the strength of self to stop Salem from forcing his compliance with the attacks on Vale and Haven.

Theodore hasn’t appeared in the series proper, but from the book Before The Dawn I could make a case that he encompasses the stock shonen hero; destructive strength and a destructive temper. The problem is, he’s a moron, but lacks that ‘Deeper wisdom’ even himbos like Son Goku and Monkey D Luffy have to compensate. And his dependence on the smarter but weaker female lead (In this case, Rumpole) to handle the more organizational aspects of his position means that when Rumpole is compromised, Theodore’s shoddy management nearly causes Shade Academy to implode.

#rwby #Greenlight volume 10 #Analysis #theory #character archetypes #deconstruction #Ozpin #Ozma #Oz #James Ironwood #qrow branwen #leonard lionheart #Theodore #Xanthe Rumpole #constructive criticism only #no hate

65 notes · View notes

kwop-kilawtley · 6 months

Text

CH 3 of Golden Hour is up!

Breaking Dawn rewrite where Bella goes through hell with trauma, dumps Edward, heals herself, and ends up with Jacob. Wolfpack focused. Cullens are evil. Character focused. Slowburn.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14298499/3/

#twilight #team jacob #twilight renaissance #jacob x bella #jacob black #new moon #bella swan #bella x jacob #breaking dawn #twilight fan fic #twilight fan fiction #twilight saga #anti edward cullen #quimbry

12 notes · View notes

jellalism · 6 months

Text

Diluc x GN!Reader fic: In safe hands

You are having a depressive episode. Diluc takes care of you.

Word count: 1018

Genre: Comfort

Content warnings: Depression, not wanting to eat, and anti-natalist thinking (i.e. thinking it is better not to be born).

Notes: First published on AO3 a year and a half ago. Thought I'd finally post it on here, too.

Read below or on AO3.

You sit on the couch of the Dawn Winery Manor. Knees up, nestled under a blanket, staring into space. Comfy, but you’re not happy. It isn’t that anything is particularly wrong, but you’ve been feeling down today. The whole week, really. It’s just one of those episodes you have every once in a while. You know you’ll get through it, but that doesn’t make it any easier to bear. On the worst days, you can barely drag yourself out of bed, eating is a chore, and doing any actual work is an impossible task. Today is perhaps not that bad, but not much better either. Add to that, the terrible boredom. If you had anything to distract yourself with, it might be bearable – but what do you do if your very diversions seem insurmountable tasks themselves? You sigh.

“y/n?” Diluc stands in the middle of the room, taking his coat off. You hadn’t even noticed him coming in.

“Hey,” you say. You wish you could be more outwardly enthusiastic, but you’re too sapped of energy. Inwardly, though, you are quite happy to see him.

“I see you are not doing so well.” He pauses, then walks up to you, bends over, and kisses your forehead. “Hold on, I will make you some tea.”

You murmur a word of thanks, but probably too softly for him to hear as he leaves the room. He could just have one of the servants make the tea, but he prefers to care for you with his own hands. Besides, his expertise doesn’t only pertain alcoholic drinks. He knows the exact right way to make tea, too. None of the servants’ tea can match the Master’s.

You listen to Diluc making noises in the kitchen, as he left the door open. Bringing the water to a boil, measuring the amount of tea, taking the pot from the cabinet – all the while humming a soft tune. Diluc has told you before that humming is an indispensable part of making good tea. You have your doubts, but have no reason to complain; you’re quite content listening to his song. Diluc isn’t free of his own demons, but he can get into the tasks at hand and lose himself in it, which allows him to hum in such a carefree way.

After a couple of minutes, Diluc returns, carrying a tray. On it, a pot of tea, two cups, and… a croissant. Why must he be so perceptive? you wonder. He definitely noticed you haven’t eaten – it is like a sixth sense he has. Diluc places the tray on the table and, without a word, starts pouring the tea. Then he puts one cup in front of you, giving you a smile and a wink. The second cup he places next to yours, and then he seats himself next to you on the couch. His arm goes over your shoulder and pulls you closer to him. You relax, leaning against his body. It’s warm, comfortably warm. You close your eyes.

“Tell me what is on your mind.”

You are silent for a moment, collecting your thoughts. “I don’t know,” you start softly. Diluc murmurs an encouraging sound. Still trying to find the right words, you continue: “Sometimes I just feel so down without an apparent reason. And once I’m that way, the negative thoughts come pouring in, to keep me held down. I fear that I’m never gonna be alright. That I’m not worthy of love. That I’ve misled people into loving me, because if they truly knew me, they wouldn’t stick around. That it'd be better for everyone if I were never born.”

“I respectfully disagree, my love.” Diluc replied. “You are… quite someone, you know? There is no need to be afraid that people would cower at the sight of the ‘real you’. I have been with you for some time, and you have bared your soul. And I am still here, remember? I love you with all your insecurities and wounds, all your mistakes and the things you think are imperfections. I have seen all of you, and I am ‘sticking around’. I love you, and I love being with you.”

A single tear runs over your cheek. “Thank you,” you say. The response feels inadequate, but you can’t quite put your feelings into words. “That means a lot,” you add, turning to face him. He smiles at you in a loving way. His right arm still wrapped around your shoulders, he brings his left hand to your face, holding your chin. His touch is ever so gentle, like you’re a beautiful yet fragile flower. You close your eyes as he leans in. His lips touch yours, press upon them with reservation betraying unparalleled devotion. He tastes like apple cider, with that slight taste of cinnamon.

As the kiss comes to an end, Diluc doesn’t lean back, but rather embraces you tightly. “You mean a lot to me,” he murmurs in your ear. “Don’t you ever forget that.”

You make no sound, letting yourself melt in his arms. They are so warm, so safe. Diluc breath tickles your neck.

After a while, Diluc lets go of the embrace, though one of his hands searches yours and holds it. With the other hand, he reaches for the plate with the croissant and picks it up. “Eat something, sweetheart.” You look at the pastry with aversion. Diluc doesn’t fail to notice. “I know you do not want to, but I do not wish to see you neglect your body. If you cannot do it for yourself, do it for me, alright?” He looks at you imploringly and softly squeezes your hand.

“Alright.” You remove your hand from his hold, take the croissant from the plate and take a small bite.

“Good,” Diluc mumbles under his breath. His now-freed hand goes to your head, and starts playing with your hair. “It’s so soft.”

As you slowly eat the pastry, Diluc continues his play with your hair. His fingers are so delicate, so careful. If it’s under his care, eating isn’t all that bad, you suppose.

Notes

Thanks for reading! I really enjoy reading your comments, whether that's as an actual comment or just your reactions in the tags of a reblog. So if you enjoyed, please leave a comment!

#genshin impact #diluc x reader #genshin x reader #diluc #diluc ragnvindr #diluc x gn!reader #diluc x you #genshin x you #genshin x gn!reader #my writing

104 notes · View notes

sundrop-writes · 9 days

Text

When Doves Cry

Jason Todd x Gar Logan

How can you just leave me standing - alone in a world that’s so cold? So cold. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like: When Doves Cry.

This fic is dedicated to a husband who has never given up on me.

Love is infinite, patient, and always welcomes you home.

Summary:

At Dick's insistence, Jason comes back to Wayne Manor to help the Titans end Crane's deadly plan. Jason doesn't want redemption or forgiveness - he's done believing that he's worthy of those. Once Crane is back at Arkham where he belongs, Jason plans to disappear, never to be heard from again.

But Gar - someone who never stopped loving Jason and never stopped believing in his goodness - has other plans.

Jason Todd x Gar Logan. Friends to Lovers/Lovers Reunited. Smut and Emotional Angst. Set during Season 3, Episode 13.

Word Count: 11,100

DC Titans Masterlist | AO3 Link

Detailed warnings and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: this is a character x character fic - no reader character here; this is M/M; emotional angst - Jason's self deprecating inner monologue; Jason being emotionally constipated; mentions of Jason's past trauma - including being kidnapped by Deathstroke, and his canon suicide attempt; canon level violence (mentions of guns/gun violence, mentions of killing/mentions of Jason killing people); mentions of Jason's death and resurrection; mentions of Gar mourning Jason's death; mentions of Gar's canon trauma - being forced to murder people while under Cadmus' mind control, having brain surgery performed on him to achieve that mind control; implications of Dick/Hank/Dawn being in a poly relationship because I literally cannot help myself; mentions of Jason being injured from the confrontation that goes down at Wayne Manor in 3x13 (which is canon) - the injuries are vaguely described as 'bumps and bruises'; mentions of Jason's substance abuse - including the Anti-Fear Gas (which yes, even though it's fictional, is still substance abuse), alcohol, and implications toward other unnamed drugs; there is mentions of Jason/Rose - but in this version of things, their interactions were one single kiss and Jason never had any true feelings for her; because of his attraction to Rose - Jason is very much bisexual in this, and though it's not mentioned that Gar has been with a woman (or anyone aside from Jason lmao) - I always headcanon him as bi and write him as bi just so you know; mentions of Gar and Jason having a previous sexual relationship during their time living together at Titans Tower (but that relationship was purely sexual and not romantic); implications that The Pit changed Jason's body somewhat, including making his dick bigger; smut - M/M smut; biting/marking kink (from Gar toward Jason) - at one point, Gar bites down hard enough to draw blood; wet ?? humping/grinding; mentions of Jason and Gar masturbating; passing mention of sex toys (a dildo); anal sex with lots of (real!!!) lube; unprotected sex - they don't use a condom (but there is no mention of STDs and technically they are monogamous even if they didn't discuss it, but irl you should always use one!! don't be like them); Jason bottoming while Gar tops; scent kink - Gar and Jason both really like the way that the other person smells; Jason is a power bottom at first and then becomes more submissive; Gar is very possessive/animalistic during sex; some dirty talk; emotional/passionate sex; creampie kink - Gar cums inside of Jason and they both really like it; a warning for literally licking wounds - Gar licks a cut on Jason's forehead that he has from the fight (this IS NOT blood kink - it's about him caring for Jason because his animal instincts are telling him licking the wound will make it better/soothe it) (btw I am not shaming those with a blood kink, I have written blood kink before and I love it - I just wanted to clarify the tone of the moment); this fic does have a happy ending if that makes you more motivated to read it. I believe that is actually, finally it.

A/N: In case it's not already clearly labelled - there is no reader character in this fic! It is very different from what I usually write, but I felt very inspired and the request that @nctzenkane gave me was just too good not to write. Jason and Gar have so much chemistry in the show, they are such an obvious ship, and they never even got to say goodbye to each other. (The writers make it so convenient that Gar is just not in the room during Jason's pivotal moments - sigh.) Anyway - I love JayGar as a ship and I feel like this fic sums up everything I love about them, as well as giving them the ending they should have gotten. They should have ended up together and Jason should have gotten forgiveness from the Titans family. I hope you guys enjoy this fic even though it's not like my typical stuff, and if you sit this one out - please know that this one did wonders for my creative flow as a writer, and I will be back with more amazing things later. Also, I know that this fic is gonna make my Top Ten Favourite Fics of the year when I make that list for 2024. I was not at all expecting to write this fic but I absolutely love it so much omg. Also - even though I started my taglist a little while ago, I decided not to use the taglist for this particular fic because it's so different from my usual stuff. But the taglist will be used for all upcoming fics.

...

“I have to believe that this dude we fought alongside - my friend - he’s not all bad.”

Gar purposefully put emphasis on those two words, trying his hardest to remind Dick of what Jason was to them. At least, what he should be. A friend. Even if Dick wanted to deny it, Jason had been a Titan once. He had been part of their family. Even if Gar was the only one who still remembered that; even if he was the only one who still remembered Jason’s good side. Even if Gar was the only one who had ever truly loved him - the others needed to remember what being a part of that family meant, and what their obligations were to Jason because of it.

No matter what Dick claimed, Jason hadn’t turned into some evil villain overnight. He had his own reasons for what he was doing, and that meant he could be reasoned with. (Gar knew that it was difficult to reason with Jason - but he knew it could be done.)

Dick’s silence was deafening. Maybe he didn’t want to tell his tender-hearted friend what he really thought of Jason now; those tiny streaks of things that he had been secretly thinking for a long time. Or perhaps - Gar was really getting through to him.

Jason needed to come home. Despite what everyone else believed: he could be saved.

…

All of it was Dick’s idea. Gar still wasn’t even entirely clear on half of it, but the bulk of it involved using his newly acquired - still very undeveloped - ability of turning into a bat so that he could fly up to Jason’s unlocked bedroom window and breach the house’s security system undetected.

No matter how much Gar stressed the fact that he can’t fly, Dick kept telling that it would be okay - that he just had to believe in himself, blah blah. The typical leader speech jargon that he used to convince people to do dangerous things. Gar felt like he shouldn’t have been so easily convinced, but he knew that a lot was on the line - he knew that Crane needed to be stopped. So he put aside sense and transformed, and flew off toward the window even though he barely knew how to control himself in this state.

He was so damn dizzy when he landed. He could taste vomit swelling up inside his mouth and he forcefully pushed it back down. The world was spinning around him in an utterly cruel way and he could barely comprehend anything - he was naked and he needed clothes, so grabbing Jason’s shirt off the floor was nothing but pure instinct. The smell of Jason’s stupid strong cologne - so entrenched in the bedroom’s walls, mixed with the natural musk of sweat in the bedsheets - it should have made Gar even more dizzy and nauseous, but instead, it grounded him. It made him feel safe.

Dig, if you will, the picture of you and I engaged in a kiss. The sweat of your body covers me. Can you, my darling - can you picture this?

It was one of the only things that gave him a true, firm center while the world was spinning so damn hard, still undulating under his hands and knees while he dug his fingers into the expensive carpet, gritting his teeth with how much he absolutely hated the sensation.

Gar and Jason have always been the same size.

It was something they found out days into living together at Titans Tower, when Jason got out of bed and put on one of Gar’s favorite hoodies without a word. He never apologized for getting milk chocolate on it and letting it stain. From that point on, their wardrobe easily blended into one. Jason wore ‘nerd shirts’ with logos that he had no clue about the meaning behind, and Gar found himself wearing more black and more band tees with logos for bands that he couldn’t stand the loud, angry music of.

After Dick had confessed everything that had happened with Jericho, Jason pulled away on the screeching tires of his motorcycle, and ended up taking some of Gar’s clothes with him. This left Gar with the pain of accidentally pulling something out of his drawer that still smelled like Jason - sleeping in sheets that definitely still reeked of that strong cologne. In fact, Gar had been wearing one of Jason’s black hoodies on the night that Cadmus had stormed the Tower - on the night his life had forever changed.

In the present, when Gar left Jason’s room dressed head to toe in Jason’s clothes, it felt natural. It felt natural to be surrounded by that scent. It gave a certain kind of unconscious comfort to his overwhelmed instincts during such a chaotic time. It wasn’t even something he had put that much thought into. Instead, he was far more focused on using the remote Dick had instructed him to grab in order to disarm the alarm system - a task he was incredibly worried about getting right.

With Dick in his ear giving him instructions to defuse the alarm, even with the terrible itch of anxiety creeping down his neck - he felt a certain sense of safety from being wrapped in Jason’s clothes. Even when the sound of gunfire came from down the hall - something that nearly paralyzed him with fear, part of him still foolishly felt bulletproof because of that familiar shirt on his back.

When he rounded the corner, the first thing that truly made him freeze up during all of this was actually seeing Jason for the first time in so long.

It was a true shock to his system.

After all the talk of Jason - a death that he barely had time to mourn, so heavy in his heart and barely processed by his mind. After finding out that the person behind Red Hood’s mask had once been his best friend, somehow stolen from the morgue and woken up from what should have been a permanent sleep due to the treacherous waters of the Lazarus Pit. After spending all that time talking Dick’s ear off, trying to convince him to let Jason come home, where he truly belonged; after feeling so damn fruitless in doing so. After tracking down Molly, trying to stand united with one of Jason’s last true friends in an effort not to see him hurt.

After all of that, everything Gar had been through over the past few weeks, actually seeing Jason in front of him - it was like having ice water poured down his back.

He froze up standing there, and he knew that the expression on his face must have been that of dumbstruck delirium.

He hadn’t expected their reunion to be anything like this.

When Jason had first stormed out of Titans Tower, Gar had imagined that he would come back. Even after he had screamed at the top of his lungs, telling Dick to fuck off, and followed that up by screaming at Rose not to touch him when she had tried to grab his arm in some poor attempt at ‘comfort’, daring anybody else not to follow him - Gar had thought that it would be only a matter of hours before Jason came back.

At the time, he had texted Jason after everyone else scrambled out like cockroaches fleeing from the light, and he had told Jason that it was safe to come back because they would be alone together (save for Conner’s unconscious body). He had expected that statement alone would cause Jason to eagerly come running back.

He thought that it would be a predictable reunion.

Jason would come back puffy-eyed and stinking of booze, stumbling, furiously denying that he had even been upset, saying that he would never let Dick Grayson get under his skin. Slurring his words while also denying that he had been drinking and driving his bike - because he didn’t want Gar to ‘narc’ on him about it.

Gar would put him in the shower and douse him in cold water to sober him up while trying not to scold him about the potential of crashing the stupid speeding death machine due to being drunk. They would go to bed together and Jason would fall asleep holding onto him for dear life. And he would still make Jason the best hangover breakfast that vegan soy substitutes can offer (and Jason would complain about Gar not cooking with ‘real’ bacon, but he would still clean his plate). And Jason would sneak a kiss over the sudsy dish water that would turn into soapy grab-ass, and he would have wanted to fuck Gar across the kitchen counter just because nobody else was around to complain about it.

(Maybe that last part was just a fantasy Gar cooked up with his hand on his cock in his bed at the Tower when he was missing Jason a bit too much. But still, it felt like something Jason would do.)

When the days passed and Jason still hadn’t responded to him - still hadn’t come home, Gar tried to deny that he missed the mouthy asshole. He tried to weed those shirts out of his laundry so that he could stop being constantly reminded of Jason. He tried to keep his crying limited to the shower, or muffled into his pillow at night.

And then, he didn’t have to worry as much about that stuff, because he got distracted and busy when Conner woke up. Introducing the clone to the world, teaching him to be a Titan.

When he got his brain scrambled, between the taste of blood in his mouth and the distant sound of a done drill - memories of Jason flickered in front of him, and when he was present enough in reality, he knew that Jason running far away was a good thing. It meant that Gar couldn’t hurt someone like him. Someone he loved who didn’t have any meta powers to defend himself - someone who was only flesh and bone with no way to defend against a six hundred pound uncontrollable tiger pouncing on him.

There were moments of mental clarity, tiny little moments when Mercy wasn’t humming in his ear. Moment when he prayed that he would never see Jason again - because he never wanted the blood in his mouth to belong to Jason.

After Rachel helped him gain back control, he still wondered if he was capable of hurting Jason, even by mistake. He was almost glad when Jason rode away from Donna’s funeral in the opposite direction. (Almost.) Because that feeling of missing him came back harder than ever days after the funeral, when the dust had settled. When he realized that he was fully in control of his powers - working well as a Titan, and the only thing missing from the picture in his mind was having Robin right there by his side, working as the perfect duo Jason always knew they could be.

When Gar found out about Jason’s death, he felt numb. It had never felt real. Sure, denial is the first stage of grief - but Gar never truly felt like he was living on the same earth where Jason was not. He felt like the world should have stopped. Or at the very least - he should have gone down with Jason.

He kept imagining that someone would wake him up from the nightmare - that someone would shake him and he would wake up in his bed months earlier, with Conner still in a coma, only to find out that everything that had happened at Cadmus had been one big horrible dream. He would open his eyes to find out that Jason was still alive, waiting to sneak out and get veggie burgers with him at three in the morning.

But no. There was a grave in the backyard of Wayne Manor with his name on it - even if Gar had seen it empty after Dick had dug it up in a manic state. Just to make himself feel like he wasn’t totally crazy, Gar had searched through Bruce’s files and found Jason’s morgue paperwork, wanting to fully confirm that Jason had even died in the first place. After seeing the attached photos of Jason’s bashed-in skull caused him to lose his lunch, he knew then that it was very much real. It wasn’t just a horrific dream.

Jason had died and somehow been brought back from that.

Even then, Gar imagined their reunion to be very different from this.

But here he was - standing in one of the many hallways of Wayne Manor, staring Jason down like a deer in headlights, his heart pounding while his wide eyes fixated on the person he thought that he would never get to see again. Someone covered in bumps and bruises from a fight, looking much more worn down by the world than the guy who used to laugh at Gar’s shitty puns.

Dream, if you can, a courtyard- An ocean of violets in bloom. Animals strike curious poses. They feel the heat - the heat between me and you.

Jason’s eyes flickered down and locked on Gar’s chest, or rather - fixated on his shirt. Jason’s shirt that Gar was wearing. In a moment, he felt more naked than he ever did when he stripped down in public to transform. He felt so fucking caught. Of course Jason knew that Gar was wearing his clothes. Gar could have claimed that it was out of pure convenience, but somehow, as if he was part animal himself - Jason’s pupils dilated and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly. It was almost like he could smell the fatal yearning coming off Gar, everything about him that said: ‘I love you, I missed you, I need you’.

“Jason-” Gar croaked out.

There was no chance for conversation.

A streak of movement behind Jason’s heavily armored shoulder realigned Gar’s priorities in a snap.

“Look out!” He shouted, pointing sharply behind Jason before he ducked for cover himself.

Jason didn’t hesitate - he fired his gun, taking the enemy out. He did a visual check of the hallway to make sure that nobody else was coming before he turned back to Gar - who was crouching tightly against one of the divots in the complex design of the old house.

“I’m here for you.” Jason said - finding that he felt far too naked in his own way with how utterly vulnerable this sounded.

Especially when Gar’s lips quivered, almost as if desperate to cry out for him, to thank him for coming home - something.

“I’m here to help. Dick sent me.” He quickly amended, attempting to clarify that this was all business.

Even though, with Gar’s large, glassy eyes staring him down - he couldn’t be sure that’s what it was.

He didn’t have too much time to grind through the details of it, though. They had to get through the business aspects of it or there wouldn’t be any personal details left to untangle because they would all be dead.

They split off, following a plan that Dick had carefully laid out, and Gar was proud when Tim and Dick led Crane out of the Batcave in shackles.

With the relief of knowing that they had won, Gar quickly set about finding Jason once again - to thank him, to ask him what their next move was, to kiss him - he wasn’t quite sure yet. But he felt gleeful.

All that glee was slashed when he caught Jason in his old bedroom, packing a bag.

He had stripped out of his Red Hood armor from the waist-up, and Gar was met with the shocking sight of bright purple welts smothered across the broad of his back. It made Gar’s natural urge toward sympathy ache, especially when it came to Jason. But that feeling conflicted with nothing but boiling anger at the sight of him furiously stuffing things into a duffle bag he had placed into the middle of his bed - clearly trying to rescue everything he could from his old life on the way out.

How can you just leave me standing alone in a world that’s so cold? So cold.

He was running away. Again.

“Going somewhere?” Gar asked, trying to sound tough when his voice was trembling at the very thought of Jason leaving him again.

If he was less mature, he would have dropped to the floor and thrown a catastrophic toddler fit, flailing his limbs and screaming at the top of his lungs. He would have demanded that Jason stay, telling him that he simply wasn’t allowed to leave.

He knew that it was selfish, but it just made Gar feel so disposable. The fact that Jason came into his life, made him laugh, made him smile, fucked him like they were in love, made him care - and then he wanted to run away like Gar meant nothing to him. He knew that Jason had his own issues - a list of problems and past traumas longer than his arm, but Gar would have run away with him. Jason didn’t have to be sentenced to solitude.

All these thoughts caused a sheen of tears to form in Gar’s eyes - the sadness battling with the anger inside his chest. He was threatening to spill those tears by the time Jason whipped around - partially startled, partially angry that his plans to disappear again had been disrupted.

Jason mirrored back his own wet eyes at seeing Gar so upset, but quickly blinked the tears away.

“I was never here.” He quietly croaked. “I can’t-”

“You can’t ‘what’?” Gar barked back, cutting him off.

This was the most cruel way that he had ever spoken to Jason, but he was fed up, to say the least. All of the emotions that he had been politely festering with now boiled over. The grief, the mourning, the loneliness - all of it spilled over at once.

“You can’t stay?” He asked, raising his voice in anger. “You can’t admit that someone actually cares about you for you for once in your fucking life?”

Maybe I’m just too demanding. Maybe I’m just like my father - too bold.

Jason’s face quivered at this.

He knew Gar cared about him. Of course he did. But that was why he had to run. He couldn’t let Gar risk his place with the Titans for a murderous piece of shit like himself. He threatened to break into sobs and he forced himself to become steel. Without Crane’s drugs running through his system, he felt even more weak and chaotic - but he couldn’t let Gar be the drop of water that broke his dam after all these weeks.

“I can’t stay.” He said solemnly, his eyes glued to the floor, refusing to look at Gar. “I - I can’t… stay.” It hung in the air for the moment as the words truly sunk in for him. He had been so busy packing in order to flee that he hadn’t even fully realized why. Now it was even more painful. “They won’t let me.”

The realization pierced through Gar’s heart like a knife.

This wasn’t just about him. Of course it wasn’t.

The thing that he had been fighting for, fighting against all this time - the idea that Jason wasn’t even worthy to come home because he was some crazed killer. Gar wasn’t the only one who got a vote. Gar wasn’t the only one to claim love for him or deny him.

If Gar’s love for him was the only thing that mattered, then the whole thing could have been smoothed over weeks ago. Maybe Jason wouldn’t have left in the first place. Maybe Jason wouldn’t have been balanced on the edge of a roof about to jump off while Gar had been sleeping.

Gar wheezed out a harsh breath - almost as if the pain of the realization had literally pierced his lung, and he was having difficulty breathing because of it.

“Stay.” Gar begged, hardly realizing that he was crying openly now. “I’ll talk to Dick, I’ll-”

Maybe you’re just like my mother: She’s never satisfied.

“I can’t.” Jason said bitterly, entirely defiant. “You know I can’t. Not after everything that’s happened. Especially not after Hank.”

There was a careful kind of mourning in Jason’s voice when he said the name - and potently, he flipped back around then, unable to face Gar after bringing it up. He continued to pack his bag as Gar stared at his back, his throat tightening harshly around everything that he had to say in reply.

Gar loved Hank as a friend - as a mentor, someone to look up to. But even now, he couldn’t fully blame Jason for Hank’s death. He knew that it was all a part of Crane’s plan. He knew that Jason was sorry. Before, that fact was something he had based solely on his knowledge of Jason - but now he could base it on Jason’s very clear guilt towards the situation.

Gar knew that if he told Dick that he forgave Jason for Hank’s death - it would put them on bad terms. Dick had known Hank for longer. And there had been something more there (something more between Dawn, and Hank, and Dick). Something that made that scar extra tender for Dick.

Gar had to find a better way to explain it. Perhaps tell the team that he had once been a pawn himself - he had been to Mercy Graves what Jason was to Crane. And he knew that if she put him alone in a room with Hank and told him to kill, he couldn’t have been sure that his sterling morals and his willpower alone would have held up against everything that she did to him.

Why was the situation with Jason any different?

Why were they so determined not to forgive him?

Out of the corner of his eye, something broke up his contemplative thinking - Jason slipped a tee shirt over his head, and Gar couldn’t ignore the glaring shade of green that said it was one of his. It caused a possessive streak to roll through him - he had a difficult time holding back a feral growl as it flared up in his throat.

It made him only able to focus on one thing.

“What about before?” Gar croaked out, disappointment apparent in his voice.

Jason looked over his shoulder with gentle confusion, and he felt the need to clarify.

“What about everything that happened before Hank?” Gar rephrased the question. “Doesn’t that matter?”

Why do we scream at each other?

Jason wanted to say - yes, of course it does.

But it felt so much more complicated than that.

“Gar-” He barely choked the name out before he was cut off.

Gar couldn’t stand to hear more excuses - more reasons as to why Jason was going to cut and run. He reached a hand up to Jason’s neck and pulled him into a kiss before anything else could come spilling from his mouth.

It felt like trying to desperately claw his way into the front door of a home he once knew - a house that was now cold and abandoned as Jason stood stalk still, purposefully not kissing him back. Jason wasn’t letting him in - not giving him a single sign that there was any love left there. That there had even been love here in the first place.

Deep down, Jason was terrified. If he gave in and kissed Gar back - he would be done for. He would be opening himself up to a world of hurt that he once thought he could erase with doses of Anti-Fear Gas.

Gar was used to playfulness; teeth nibbling on his lips, laughter in the air. He was used to a hand reaching for the tie on the front of his sweatpants while that cocky voice muttered lustful ‘threats’ against his mouth - something about how he was ‘going to get it’ - when in actuality, Jason was always the one who ended up a moaning mess on his cock.

Tears spilled hotly from the corners of his eyes and a sobbed choked out from the back of his throat when Jason was completely still against him. He was being so coldly denied - Jason was like stone, fighting off everything he had missed most from Gar because he still felt like he had to run, and this was nothing more than a distraction from that.

“Please.” Gar wept against his mouth.

It was one of the hardest things he had ever done, but - Jason didn’t move.

This is what it sounds like: When Doves Cry.

Gar pulled back harshly then. When his wet eyes fell to the Triforce printed in the middle of Jason’s chest, further signaling that it wasn’t his shirt (because he likely had no clue what the symbol meant or what it even was) - Gar felt a wave of rage overtake him. He gripped the hem of the green shirt and didn’t hesitate to yank it up over Jason’s head. Rather than the typical heat that this action would lead to, there was nothing but bitter tension in the air as Gar waved the ball-up fabric in front of Jason’s face.

“This is mine.” He choked out, barely holding back a wave of sobs. “So - so if you’re leaving, you can’t take it with you. You can’t be that much of an asshole. You can’t just take everything that belongs to me.”

Gar choked on his own words, holding back more.

They both knew that the words held a dangerous double meaning. If he was going to run, he would be taking so much that belonged to Gar - so much more than some fabric that they had once blissfully shared.

He would be ripping Gar’s heart out of his chest and taking it with him.

Jason looked at him with tears now leaking from his eyes. Oceanic blue swimming in bloodshot red - not a pretty sight, by any means. He took in a heavy breath, but his stomach was visibly trembling where he was holding in his own sobs.

He wanted Gar to tell him to stay. He didn’t want Gar to be okay with him leaving - he wanted it to be such a fight that he couldn’t just walk away.

Touch if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. You’ve got the butterflies all tied up. Don’t make me chase you - even doves have pride.

Gar - still feeling the need to comfort Jason, even stewing in all his anger toward this man he called lover, enemy, or friend - dropped the shirt on the floor and reached out, smoothing his hands over Jason’s hips. He leaned in and laid the most feather-light butterfly kisses across Jason’s shoulder, and Jason choked on another sob.

Gar smoothed a hand over Jason’s stomach, and under the intense heat of Gar’s large palm - his muscles calmed. Any cries of anguish died off inside of him and he was able to gather enough breath to speak as Gar laid a gentle cheek on his shoulder.

“You - you can’t do this.” Jason whispered, the weakest protest he could have come up with.

Gar only hummed in response. This close to Jason, he could almost feel that thing inside Jason, yearning for him, crying out to him.

He knew that Jason didn’t want to leave. He knew that if he was patient, Jason would crumble to the need as much as he was.

He already felt as though he had won.

“You’re a fucking hypocrite.” Jason added on, his words slightly steadier now. He curled his fingers into the fabric of the shirt Gar was wearing - the one he had picked up off of Jason’s bedroom floor when he had landed. “This is mine.”

Gar wanted to make some sarcastic jest about how he wasn’t planning on leaving while wearing it - but he became choked up at how the words sounded. As though Jason was truly claiming him - something he had been waiting to hear for so damn long.

He lifted his head to ask if it was true - if Jason would stay for him or if they could flee together - but Jason caught the back of his neck and slammed their lips together, stealing any words that Gar was planning to speak.

There was a certain fierceness that followed next - a battle of stubborn wills that was as stiff and tense as their words.

Passion and love and anger are spears all lined up on the same fence, all equally sharpened - Gar was still angry with Jason for leaving in the first place and never coming back. He still blamed Jason for all those months of bitter loneliness that he had felt, for being left there in the Tower with no help when Cadmus had attacked. Deep in the back of his mind, there was a fantasy of the night they attacked - of Beast Boy and Robin operating as the perfect team to snub out evil.

Jason was still mad at Gar for not chasing him, for not asking him to come home. Mad at him for not making more of an effort, for siding with Dick on seemingly everything.

He had no clue how hard Gar had fought to bring him home. How much Gar’s voice had burrowed into the ears of the others, especially Dick, being the only remaining one to speak up, vouching for Jason’s good side. If he had been a fly on the wall, perhaps he would have bowed at Gar’s feet, thanking him.

But instead - these lopsided views created a bitter stubbornness. Something that made the kiss feral and angry - gnashing teeth and hot, hard breaths as they grabbed and groped at each other, battling with their own anger and swelling up with that love they tried so hard to deny.

Why bother staying so angry with someone if you didn’t care about them? Why take that much time and effort to be pissed off if you wouldn’t just forgive the person out of love at the end of the day?

Jason ripped off Gar’s shirt - the borrowed shirt that only further reminded him of everything he had missed out on, the home he couldn’t come back to. He threw it to the floor, trying his best to forget about it - but this only made way for Gar’s hot skin underneath his own, forcing more temptation as they made more skin-on-skin contact.

He let out a kind of wounded sound when Gar gripped the back of his head and swept down, his mouth tracing along Jason’s neck, digging his teeth in. He was still unsure if he was trying to claim Jason in that animalistic way and make it impossible for him to leave or if he was just taking that anger out on him, trying to cause a little bit of pain - trying to make Jason feel a fraction of what he had felt. Either way, his teeth were savage and frantic on Jason’s skin, and Jason’s nerves screamed pleasurably with the full effects of it.

“Fuck,” Jason moaned out as Gar sunk his teeth in harder. “Fuck you.”

Gar was about to make some clever reply - the typical ‘you should’ or ‘I’m trying to’.

But he was caught off guard, silenced when Jason put a hand in the middle of his now bare chest and shoved him back toward the bed - causing him to sprawl beside the bag that Jason had been trying to steal away with. He poofed out across the luxurious, expensive mattress; there was a worrying second as he looked up at Jason when he believed that Jason might just pick up that bag and run.

He could use this as his opportunity to flee.

But instead, Jason eyed him up and down heavily - lustful eyes casting a thick gaze over Gar’s body. Looking over every inch of him carefully, from his now ruffled hair, down across his heaving chest, to the place where Jason’s borrowed pants were hanging low on his hips - the thickness of his hard cock very apparent between his thighs with no underwear on underneath them.

Jason knew it was temptation. Fondness.

At the time, perhaps he considered it ‘one last hurrah’. But in truth, it was the breaking point - the point of no return. The point at which Gar had truly hooked him in and reeled him back. Between those big, beautiful brown eyes staring up at him with a combination of intense affection and fear at the possibility of him leaving and that fat cock practically calling to him - Jason was done for.

Jason reached for the button on his own pants, and Gar remained frozen for a moment.

“Well,” Jason said impatiently. Gar still didn’t move, unsure what was expected of him in that moment. “Get your fuckin’ pants off. I know you’re not shy about stripping down, ya damn nudist.”

Gar felt the tension leave his body with a stiff exhale. He wanted to make some smartass comment, but found himself lacking. Instead, he became distracted by rushing to get the pants off and watching the flexing of Jason’s muscles while he worked to get his own pants and boots off.

All he could muster up was:

“You - you’re an asshole,” Gar chuckled out, throwing Jason a genuine smile as he kicked the fabric off his ankles, leaving himself wonderfully bare in the middle of the bed.

Gar’s eyes traced over Jason’s naked body - he seemed more thick and muscular than the last time Gar had seen him. Had he been training harder in the time that he’d been gone? Though his overall build was still much the same - matching Gar in stature, though Gar’s muscles were leaner and softer compared to Jason now. And if Gar wasn’t mistaken, Jason’s cock was bigger? Though that seemed more like a trick of the eye. (Though, it was still a good two or three inches smaller than Gar’s, which Jason often called ‘monstrous’ and joked that he could barely walk after taking.)

Gar didn’t have too much time to admire Jason’s nudity before Jason was on top of him, bumping their cocks together as he climbed onto Gar’s lap.

Gar let out a harsh growl from deep within his chest at the feeling of his sensitive dick being touched by someone else for the first time in months - for the first time since Jason had stormed away from the Tower in a fit. Since then, he’d had nothing but his own hand and distant memories of Jason fueled by the fading smell on the clothes he’d left behind.

Even then, it’s not like he had the opportunity or even the desire to touch himself all that often - not with the chaos going on in his life. So having a warm body in his lap again - the warm body of someone he had missed so fucking much - it reignited the fire inside of him like poking holes in a gasoline tankard and lighting a match.

“Fuck, Jay.”

Gar reached up and tightly, possessively grabbed Jason by the ass, pulling him closer instinctively. This caused the echo of a whimper from within Jason’s throat as he bent down to take Gar’s lips again. Jason’s hands planted firmly on the hard muscle of Gar’s chest and Gar kept that needy grasp on Jason’s ass - wanting to keep Jason as close to him as possible.

The touch quickly turned into moving Jason on top of him, grinding Jason’s body on top of his so that their cocks were gyrating together - a perfectly filthy clash of hot skin that fit together so well after they had been apart for too long.

They moaned into each other’s mouths and Jason forced his tongue past Gar’s sweet, pink lips - as if he was still trying to put up that fight, still trying to show that he held some power over the man underneath him. Gar’s cock was leaking furiously and soon the slide of their two cocks became wet and glossy while Gar’s bright pink cockhead was continually nudged against his stomach, making a mess against his abs and staining slickness all over Jason’s eager, throbbing dick.

“Fuck. Fuck, man.” Jason hissed, pulling away from the kiss, a new urgency pumped into him.

Gar felt a slight streak of disappointment when Jason looked away from him - like a fictional pixie, fading away for the slightest moment without Jason’s attention. The feeling was doubled when Jason took the touch of his chest. He actually found himself whimpering like a pathetic puppy as he wondered what Jason was doing.

It made a bit more sense when Jason frantically unzipped his would-be getaway bag - rifling through the pockets, ripping out spare underwear and - fuck, of course, more of Gar’s bright green shirts that he had stolen - until he came back with a bottle in hand.

Lube.

Of course. Of course that would be something Jason considered to be an essential to travel with when he was stealing away into the night, never to be seen or heard from again.

Gar would have made some kind of joke about it, but he found his mouth dry, and he was far too horny and mesmerized, his blood pumping through him at top speed as he watched Jason. Who uncapped the bottle and squirted some onto his fingers - then his hand disappeared behind him while he tensed his thighs and hiked his body higher up onto his knees, clearly with the intent to finger himself open in preparation for Gar’s cock.

Gar huffed out hot breath.

It had been so damn long.

He felt his cock pulse with fierce need and spurt out more pathetic spurts of precum, making his stomach even more shiny as it began to pool inside his belly button. He rubbed his hands lovingly over Jason’s thighs as he continued to watch with the utmost rapture, his eyes drinking in every single inch of the beautiful body in front of him - the flexing muscles, the sharpness of Jason’s hips, the thickness of his thighs, the way his perfect, modest cock bobbed between his thighs while he worked. His plump, pink bottom lip snagged between his teeth while he tried to contain his moans. Something that turned the sounds into the most beautiful little grunts that Gar had ever heard.

After a few moments, Jason pulled his fingers from himself with a sinfully wet sound, and then he reached for the bottle of lube again. Gar was surprised though when he went straight to pouring the shockingly cool liquid across Gar’s cock.

Typically it took them a lot more work to get Jason ready to take Gar, seeing as he was a bit longer than nine inches, impressively thick - and though he tried his hardest to be gentle - when Jason begged him and nagged him with purpose, he could sometimes get carried away. (Jason claimed that he liked the feeling of soreness afterwards, but Gar sometimes felt guilty for letting go of self control and pounding into Jason like an animal.)

“You - you want more help?” Gar choked out.

With Jason’s hand on his cock, spreading the wetness, he was already pushing his orgasm down past the onslaught of sensations - the lube warming under Jason’s hot touch, the purposefully loose grip that Jason had on his dick that just made him itch and made him want more.

Jason grunted in reply.

“I fucked myself this morning.” He said, distinctly not making eye contact with Gar. Instead, continuing to stare at his own hand as he picked up the bottle and poured more wetness around his grip on that impressive, thick cock, and then spread it around.

He almost added on: ‘I was thinking about you when I did it.’

But somehow, even now - that felt too emotionally vulnerable.

Gar quickly became swallowed up by heated thoughts of this. He became consumed by the visual image of Jason splayed out on a bed somewhere, (wherever he had been staying since he had left), fucking himself with his fingers shoved deep inside his well-lubed hole while his other hand moved frantically on his cock. Or even better, pounding a toy inside of himself like the one Gar had found snooping through his room while looking for anything he could use to help Jason against Crane.

He would look so fucking good like that, spread open on the unforgiving thickness of the silicone, desperate whines and moans coming from his lips because it was good, but it just wasn’t right. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t perfect like having Gar’s hot body on top of him while Gar’s big cock carved out a spot deep inside his guts-

While Gar was distracted by these thoughts, Jason took the opportunity to line up the now well-lubed dick with his prepped hole and sink down onto Gar without another word. This caught Gar off guard, stealing his breath in the best way. It was smooth and slick and he didn’t waste a second before putting his entire body weight onto Gar, letting his ass rest flush with Gar’s pelvis so that Gar’s impressive cock was fully inside of him.

“Jay - oh, fuck.”

Gar let out a chest-rattling moan and quickly became dizzy, and it didn’t even occur to him that Jason had skipped putting a condom on him. So, this was the first time that he was bare inside Jason, absolutely no barriers between them. He couldn’t mentally comprehend it, and all he could think was - of course it was hotter, of course it felt better - he hadn’t seen Jason for so long, he had forgotten how perfect Jason felt around him, he had forgotten that it felt this fucking good.

“God, fuck, Gar, your dick-” Jason mumbled out, clearly lost in a haze of pleasure himself.

Jason didn’t waste a second - with Gar too pleasure-numb, Jason simply took what he needed. He planted his hands on Gar’s chest while Gar’s hands rested dumbly on his thighs, and he began frantically bouncing up and down on Gar’s dick, impaling himself on that beautiful big cock, quickly creating a good rhythm. He watched with awe and swelling adoration as his eyes locked on the man below him.

Gar looked so perfect like this.

His body was a sculpture of perfection, like Adonis himself, carved from marble. Every single time Jason got him naked in bed, he wondered how the hell he had gotten so lucky. With his pink lips parted as increasingly loud moans escaped him and his brows creased with pleasure, bits of that distinct green hair stuck to his forehead from the efforts. His stomach fluttering and flexing every single time Jason slammed his hips down and took Gar back inside him fully, Gar’s body glistening with sweat, slick from their encounter so far - he was a picture of perfection, not a single flaw that Jason could pick out.

And while his hole was tingling with the pleasure of having Gar inside him again and his cock was throbbing as it danced between them, beginning to sputter out precum now - he was beginning to ache with a brand new need.

He was chasing a sexual need, of course, but he was also growing frantic with an emotional need that he had pushed down for so many months. He had missed Gar so fucking much. So much it hurt - and he had used so much to try and forget about it - the Anti Fear gas, the intense focus on Crane’s mission, the booze, the distance.

But now it was all right here in front of him - those moans he had missed so much, that green hair, the smell of someone so distinct that he had tried huffing off clothing like a drug that he couldn’t buy anywhere off the street. He swallowed thickly and tried his best to hold back tears, and was only reminded of this more when Gar’s fingers dug into his hips - a firm but loving grasp that only more deeply reminded him of who he was fucking. Reminded him of what he had missed out on.

“Dammit,” Jason huffed out. “Fuck - your-your cock is so good,”

Usually he was a motormouth during sex. He was infamous for never shutting up until his orgasm hit him like a truck. If it was spitting out ‘fuckboy’-esque promises that he never could keep because he usually wasn’t the one fucking Gar’s brains out (but rather, mindlessly taking a cock), or horny blabbering as he begged for more - his tongue was constantly sputtering out something while Gar touched him.

So he thought that talking would be a good distraction from the horrible knot in his gut - from this thing that he was feeling. He didn’t need to deal with those stupid fucking feelings right now. He just didn’t.

“So fuckin’ big.” Jason whined. “You feel so good inside me.”

Gar grunted in return, taking a tighter hold on Jason’s hips and helping more now. He helped Jason slam down harder, causing a harsher collision of their skin each time - a sharp, wet slapping that sounded absolutely sinful in the room. It made Jason feel fuller somehow, and he let out a downright whorish sound, struggling to get out his next words.

“God - I - fuck -” He whined. “Your cock - Gar - you feel so-”

“Yeah.” Gar breathed back in reply, encouraging him. “Yeah, Jay.”

With another hard slam of Gar’s hips up into his hole, Jason’s mouth was knocked loose.

“Missed this dick.” He breathed out. “Missed this - missed this so much. Missed you.”

It was a stubborn admission that even the world’s harshest torture couldn’t have pulled out of him. But the feeling of Gar’s cock deep inside of him, those fingers digging into his flesh like he owned Jason - that was enough to have his tongue loosening around his secrets and have him spilling into vulnerability like it was his fucking job.

Jason didn’t have enough time for the sting of regret to settle over saying the words, because something inside Gar snapped. The mourning in Jason’s voice, knowing that Jason has missed him just as much - he went from dumb and lustful as Jason bounced on his cock to swelling with that passionate anger once again. He had missed too much time with Jason, and he needed to make up for it. He needed Jason to know that he couldn’t just run away - that he mattered.

He became filled with the determined need to show Jason that he couldn’t leave - he could never leave, because Gar had missed him too.

Gar loved him. Gar needed him.

They needed each other.

Gar grabbed him around the waist and with a deep growl that was truly bordering on animal this time, he flipped Jason over onto his back. His cock slipped out of Jason, slick from the lube, causing Jason to make a startled, disappointed noise as he suddenly felt far too empty. When Gar leaned over Jason and felt Jason’s getaway bag brushing against his knee, a swell of offense came over him. He reached for the bag, shoving it off the bed without a second thought - spilling clothes and other random items across the floor out of the open zippers, something that neither of them paid any mind to in the following hours.

“Please, Gar-” Jason breathed out, and from there, anything else in the world was shut out for him and Gar.

Maybe what they had done before could never be considered making love - but they certainly had their moments. Times when Jason would kiss Gar’s forehead after making him cum, before getting out of bed without a word. Times when Gar grabbed both of Jason’s hands and interlocked their fingers while he rocked his cock deep inside of him. But for the most part, they fucked filthy and horny and desperate. They fucked like two guys in a race to get each other off - and it worked for them.

But this felt different.

As Gar slipped his cock back inside of Jason, he locked eyes with the man below him and a spark ran through him that said this was different. This wasn’t turning to the closest warm body out of convenience or boredom. This wasn’t just a friendship with some very particular, spectacular benefits. This was the intense gaze of a lover, locked into a stare that said the rest of the world was locked out, completely forgotten just because Gar was touching him.

This was coming home.

This meant that nothing else mattered - no past transgressions, no supposed mistakes, no demanding corrupt figures that had used them as pawns in their own games - none of it could even be seen as Jason locked his knees around Gar’s lower back, holding him tightly in place, silently begging him not to go too far.

A quiet: please, don’t leave me, I need you.

I need you just as much as you need me. I swear it.

Gar held back more tears, and his next huff of breath turned into another low growl - a sound that had Jason whining quietly and clenching down on his cock. That hint at his more animal side had always been something Jason had liked - especially knowing that Gar was the most tame ‘beast’ he had ever met. Ironic, considering that Gar could turn into a six hundred pound tiger and he could shred people with his teeth at will. But Gar was the most gentle person Jason had ever known - someone he trusted with his life within a day of knowing him. Someone better than his own blood relatives and shitty foster ‘families’ who had tossed him out onto the street without a second thought.

Gar was never a beast, no matter what he was capable of.

“Please.” Jason begged, his voice slightly choked and breathless.

He held on tightly to the side of Gar’s face, the other hand straying around to grip the back of Gar’s shoulder - and though Gar’s cock was already throbbing and threatening to blow far too early, he knew he couldn’t deny Jason any longer.

Gar pressed his forehead into Jason’s neck, unable to stand the piercing interrogation of that gaze - looking for atonement, looking for validation, looking for love. Gar would give him all of those things, and he fucking will - but he couldn’t concentrate on that and delivering a quality fuck at the same time. Jason deserved that, too. He deserved to cum in a spectacular and satisfying way.

With his concentration a bit steadier, Gar began to fuck his hips forward - fucking into Jason in slow, smooth strokes.

“Jay, fuck,” He moaned out. “So fucking good. You’re so fucking good.”

Jason let out a high whine in return and Gar sped up his hips - fucking into Jason faster, but nowhere near as fast as Jason had been riding him. It was still so tender and slow, deep and firm as the thickness of his cock truly made a home inside of Jason that reminded them both exactly where he belonged.

Jason’s voice warbled - becoming nothing but a nonsensical echo of weak sounds dispersing into the air. Gar couldn’t help himself; he kissed a trail from the middle of Jason’s chest up his neck once again, taking the time to lay a few more possessive bites across Jason’s neck before he reached his face. When he felt roughness under his lips, it truly sunk in that Jason had been hurt - he had picked up a few injuries while fighting to defend him and the other Titans. Jason had put his body on the line for them.

How could Jason ever be bad if he was willing to get hurt in order to protect his family?

A swell of passion and possessiveness streaked through him again.

His tongue sneaked out of his mouth and he licked over the cut above Jason’s eye like a cat trying to lick the wound clean, all of his instincts heightened with the lust pumping through him. Something in his lust-drunken brain was screaming at him that Jason needed this care, and nothing more than the saliva from his tongue would make Jason feel better.

He did this, kitten licking across the cut, while he continually ground his hips deeply against Jason’s, stuffing his cock ever deeper into Jason’s needy hole. It made for a breath-taking combination of care, attention, and heat that made Jason’s stomach curl.

“Gar-” He gasped out. “I - ah - fuck!”

Gar gave another little lick and then moved to grab both of Jason’s hands, entwining their fingers on both sides as he had done in the past. Previous times Jason had laughed about it or called him cheesy, or even suggested that Gar use handcuffs instead if he truly wanted to pin Jason down. But this time, as Gar brought the grip of their tangled hands up above Jason’s head and continued fucking him so deeply. Jason only let out another shuddering gasp and looked Gar in the eyes with a glassy look that said he was truly gone.

He had surrendered everything to Gar now.

He couldn’t have run from this if he tried.

“Come on,” Gar grunted, slamming his hips a little harder, a little more determined - pulling back a bit more, going a bit deeper. It was a motion that pulled louder sounds from Jason, that made him tremble.

“Cum for me.” He breathed into Jason’s ear. “Cum on my cock - so good for me. Cum for me, show me how much you missed me.”

Gar kept Jason pinned by their joined hands and by his hips holding Jason tightly to the bed. With his cock slamming into Jason in fierce, heavy, hard strokes - and with Jason’s cock jostling between them, brushing against Gar’s impossibly hot stomach - it was difficult for him to deny the order. With those words spoken in that perfect voice, floating in his ears, the orgasm shot through his body like his soul awakening - like he was truly feeling himself for the first time since he had woken up after The Pit.

“Shh - shit! Ah! Fuck!”

He gasped and struggled to get air into his lungs, and Gar cloaked his mouth over Jason’s gaping lips, fucking him right through it. Jason’s cock jumped and jolted between them, painting both their stomachs with his cum while his hole tightened and clenched around Gar - while he shook beneath Gar and tightly grasped Gar’s hands.

It was utterly perfect.

“Please, please, please-” Jason gasped, frantic.

He needed Gar to cum, too. He needed the feeling to be complete.

Gar let out another growl, shoving his head into Jason’s neck, taking a healthy whiff of his sweat as he fucked his hips hard into Jason.

“Mine.” He growled possessively into Jason’s skin. “Mine, mine, mine-” He punctuated each slap of his hips into Jason’s ass with the word, his mind filled with this as though it were the one true thing in the world.

“Mine.”

A final pathetic dribble of cum escaped Jason before Gar’s cock began pumping into him. As he came, Gar’s teeth latched onto his neck once again, biting down hard enough to pull blood this time - creating a twinge of copper under Gar’s tongue and wringing even more inhuman sounds out of Jason.

Gar pressed his hips as deep as possible into Jason, making them both utterly high on the feeling of his cum fucking deep into Jason for the first time. Jason feeling it so warm inside of him and having it pool and leak down over Gar’s balls - it only further reminded them how utterly close they were, how deeply Gar had marked Jason, how Jason was cursed to return back to Gar because he needed this - it was a deep reminder of how Gar was his home.

Tears leaked from Jason’s eyes and Gar licked them away, grinding his hips deep into Jason - causing stray whimpers and aftershocks of pleasure while his cock began to soften.

“God, oh-”

“I know.” Gar replied, his voice more ragged than he imagined it should be.

When he pulled out, it felt like a shock to both of their systems. Too empty, too distant - even still so close to a warm body, too cold.

Jason’s first instinct was to get up and go to the bathroom to clean up. Especially feeling the stickiness and the mess all over his body as he came down from the high. But Gar rolled onto his back and put a tight arm around his back.

“Sleep now.” Gar told him, puffing out an oddly cute little yawn. For someone who had just fucked his brains out - he now resembled a sleepy little house cat.

Jason found that he couldn’t really argue with that.

…

Even though Jason was exhausted and hadn’t slept much in the past few weeks, he woke up long before Gar did.

There was still so much worry plaguing him.

Oddly enough, Gar’s snoring was more of a comfort than it was a disturbance. It reminded him of sharing a wall with Gar when their bedrooms had been so close together; when he had laid awake at night after scurrying out of Gar’s bed at top speed after they had fucked, wondering what it would have been like if he had decided to stay.

Back then, it felt like the end of the world to open up to Gar. But now, he couldn’t help but to wonder if it would have saved him in the long run.

Titans Tower was never the perfect place for him. It only ever felt livable because Gar had been there. They grew so close so quickly - at the time, Jason had tried to convince himself that it was just friendship. That it was the delusion of being stuck in close quarters. Gar was convenient - he was a good fuck, close by, and he was hot. He was someone Jason could get off with while Dick and Bruce had him locked up. And most of all, Gar was pleasant to be around. He didn’t look down on Jason like he was just some street rat, and he didn’t expect Jason to perform miracles just because he had taken on the mantle of Robin.

Gar treated him like an equal. At the time, that was the best that Jason could ask for.

Jason didn’t think there were any possible downsides to being close with Gar, and letting himself have some sexual relief in the process.

Until Deathstroke.

If he had any feelings for Gar, he had been suppressing them, and then - Gar argued with him about going out to hunt down Doctor Light. He felt betrayed. He felt like Gar didn’t understand him anyway, like Gar would always side with Bruce’s favorite - Good Old Dickie. The one thing he had been putting Gar on a pedestal for - treating him as an equal - was slashed away within seconds.

Back then, Jason couldn’t think rationally. He felt like he needed to capture Doctor Light and bring him in to get back in Bruce’s good graces, to show the Titans what he could do. He had no clue that Gar was scared for him; that he was acting out of fear, trying to protect Jason. (Something he would continue to do no matter what, apparently.)

At the time, Jason was insecure and stir crazy and he let it get to him.

And then, he was blindfolded, strapped to a chair, stabbed, and beaten, and all he could think of was how much he was going to disappoint Gar. How much he was going to hurt him. Bruce, Dick, and the other Titans were the farthest thing from his mind - all he could think about were the last time those soft lips had been on his, the flash of green hair. The utterly disappointed look Gar had given him when he had declined to call Dick for back-up before going into the train tunnels.

Gar thought Jason was stupid. But Gar was so damn soft-hearted. And Jason couldn’t stop thinking about how much he was going to hurt Gar with his idiotic antics. How much he was going to take from someone who didn’t deserve it.

As he was strapped to that chair, watching Deathstroke sharpen the sword, all he could think about was the look on Gar’s face - the tears he was going to cry when he was eventually told about Jason being sliced open. Especially because he knew that Gar would blame himself for not saving Jason, for not calling Dick sooner - and it was all Jason’s own stupid fault.

When he got back, somehow unscathed, he kept his distance from Gar. It hadn’t happened then, but the day would come when he would bring Gar a lot of undue pain - and if he started severing their ‘friendship’ now, then he could eventually soften the blow. At least, that was his line of thinking. He kept far away from Gar’s room when he needed that comfort more than ever, thinking that it would both do them better in the long run.

When a knock came on his door, he was surprised that it was Rose, and not Gar - and he was pissed off and annoyed more than anything. She was persistent and he was tired.

When she barged her way in, he found a particular part of his brain nagging at him - telling him that technically, he was still single. He shouldn’t get so attached to Gar anyway, because it would only hurt them both later on. Maybe it was because he didn’t want to be attached - he wanted to know that he could run at any time. He needed to know that he wouldn’t get hurt. More importantly, that he wouldn’t hurt someone soft and caring like Gar.

He wanted to be able to say that everything going on between him and Gar was just sex.

So he let himself kiss Rose.

And he felt absolutely nothing.

When she told him: ‘Don’t be stupid and maybe it’ll happen again.’

He wanted to bark out: ‘It won’t.’

But he didn’t want to lay it all out. He didn’t want to tell her of all people that he was in love with his best friend and that’s why he wasn’t available. He wasn’t ready to say it out loud - and that’s why he settled for simply telling her to loudly fuck off as he stormed out of Titans Tower, determined to be alone. Especially when Gar did nothing more than stare him down with sad eyes, not moving a muscle, making no efforts to chase him.

He was meant to be alone. Or so he thought.

It was very clear that Gar had other plans.

Gar - who was currently snoring beside him with the presence of a slumbering lion. Perhaps Gar had skewed his idea of what it might actually be like to sleep beside a lion - wholly warm, downright hot, with heat radiating off his skin like a furnace, utterly soft and cuddly even though he was so muscled, someone who slept with his mouth agape and snored loudly - but in a pleasantly rhythmic way. He was a perfect, quaint, slumbering beast.

He made Jason feel safe.

It was not a luxury Jason had often in life. Maybe it was the thing that kept him coming back to Gar, again and again - that precious feeling of safety. It truly was better than any drug.

More and more presently by the minute, Jason was reminded of the mess - the unpleasant drying cum between his cheeks and on his lower stomach, leaking out of him and no longer pleasantly warm. It made him want a shower. He didn’t want to scare Gar by having him wake up to an empty bed, but he also didn’t want to wake him, steal sleep away from him when he clearly desperately needed it.

Jason nudged his way to the edge of the bed, trying to sneak away to the bathroom - but when he heard a harsh snort from Gar, he knew him well enough to know that this had signaled the end of his sleep; a harsh jolt awake.

“Where are you going?” Gar mumbled tiredly, not even having his eyes fully open yet before he frantically looked around for Jason.

“I was just gonna go shower, crawl outta my ass.” Jason hissed back, still feeling a bit raw and defensive.

He knew that Gar would sacrifice anything for him, but he still felt unworthy. Like a puffer fish growing big in defense, Jason was spitting out sourness in a last-ditch attempt to get Gar to change his mind - to shift his thinking last minute and suddenly see the truth: to find him unworthy.

Jason was almost shocked when Gar smiled.

Gar held back a clever quip about how he had made a home inside Jason’s ass and he wasn’t going to change that now.

“I’ll come with you.” He said instead. “Hot shower sounds nice right about now.”

“You should stay and sleep.” Jason told him, still teetering on the edge of the bed. “You’re clearly tired.”

“And you’re not?” Gar probed back.

There was a moment of tense silence. Jason didn’t offer up a reply.

“Come on, what’s this about?” Gar asked, fully opening his eyes now, propping himself up on one elbow to stare Jason down.

“After I get dressed, I have to go and talk to Dick.” Jason declared.

The words were heavy in the air.

The admission that he no longer felt the need to run. That he wanted to make an effort to stay, that he actually wanted to ask for his place back with the Titans.

Gar wanted to squeal with glee. Naturally, he held himself back. There would be a few more bumps in the road before Jason was officially home.

“Not by yourself.” Gar told him sharply.

Jason’s jaw clenched. He was afraid to admit that he needed the help. It was something he had been afraid of for a long time.

But he knew that without Gar’s help, without Gar vouching for him in Dick’s eyes, the conversation would likely only go one way.

And he needed to come home. He needed to stay.

Jason felt weak, and his voice was quiet when he finally mustered it up.

“Okay.”

It was a weak surrender. But things between him and Gar had never been that kind of battle. Not the kind of battle that he had with Bruce, or with Dick, or even with himself. There was never any true hatred there. Just the kind of fierce anger you feel when you love someone so much that you fear losing them.

So this surrender didn’t feel like a stain on his record - didn’t feel too much like giving up, after all. Not when the picture he ended up with had him and Gar in the same frame. It was something that made him feel more content and less defeated when Gar poorly concealed a smile in response - and then pulled him in for a kiss before getting up to grab towels for their shower.

...

A/N: This is a standalone oneshot, so please do not ask for a second part or a continuation. If you are going to comment, please comment about the body of work that has been written.

Also, typically, I don't write character x character fics, so if you randomly found this in tags and you really like it - I apologize, because the rest of my masterlist is not like this and I won't be writing anything else like it anytime soon. I do write a lot of Titans fics and I have a lot more of them on my masterlist, so if you enjoy my style of smut or if you really enjoy my characterization of these two, then you should definitely check out the other things I have written - particularly No Place Like Home, which has a lot more JayGar scenes in it.

If you do really like my writing style and you want to see Titans x Reader fics (which is what I typically write), then you can follow me and sign up for my DC Titans Taglist by replying to this post asking to be put on the taglist or sending me an ask about it. Anyway, glad you enjoying the fic if you read this far, thanks for reading!!

#sundrop writes #dc titans #titans fanfiction #jaygar #jason todd x gar logan #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd smut #gar logan fanfiction #garfield logan fanfiction #gar logan smut #dc titans fanfiction

42 notes · View notes