#and people will have been terrible to them in general / more than not / perhaps always | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

blindmagdalena · 5 months

Text

All That Glitters

18+ 15.7k words. Dragon!Homelander x F!Reader fantasy au, messy world building, referenced cannibalism, handfeeding, super dubious consent, sexual coercion, monster anatomy, size difference, cunnilingus, breeding kink, dirty talk, marathon sex, mating bond/bite, knotting, tongue baths, virgins, scent kink, overstimulation, body betrayal, fairy tale schmoop. AO3 Link!

Summary: In a world where the only currencies that matter are gold and blood, the gods are lavished with both. Your regions god is a fearsome beast said to reign hellfire from the skies should his appetite not be satiated. When the demand for human sacrifices increases, you make the choice to volunteer yourself, determined to bring an end to the bloodshed, and ascend into the jaws that await you in the old stone tower deep in the woods.

illustration by the ever incredible @anon-nee, who was instrumental to the writing of this fic. see the full piece here! originally written for Monsterlander Mania, but obviously spiraled wildly out of control.

For as long as you can remember, there have always been sacrifices.

Such a thing is not unique to your village. Gods–and the creatures worshiped as such–throughout the world demand all manner of recompense for protecting the lands of those who idolize them. If the slaughter of a single lamb ensures green pastures in which the herd may thrive, few ever think twice before they lift the blade.

Not all townships worship for benevolence, however. Yours has always worshiped for mercy.

For generations, stories of hellfire raining from the sky have been passed by your people. A great, terrible beast with wings as wide as ten men were tall once patrolled the skies above you, wielding power so devastating that not even ballistae firing bolts the size of tree trunks could fell it.

It had a hundred names, each more terrible than the last. Scourge of the Skies, the Red Death, Flame’s Maw, and perhaps most unfortunately, the Devourer. Named as such for the countless lives it began to claim when treasures were deemed an insufficient tribute. Sacrifices were initially sparse, required only every dozen or so seasons. As time went on, the Devourer grew greedier and greedier, with the timespan between sacrifices shortening.

By the time you offer yourself to the council, there has been a sacrifice every month for over a year.

The wagon hardly jostles on this well-trodden road. You imagine it used to be a rougher ride, but with the increase in frequency of travel, it has smoothed. The thought worsens the feeling of icy weight in your stomach. One might think the exquisite fabrics you’re dressed in would bring some measure of comfort–softer than anything you’ve worn before–but the extravagance of them only serves to further alienate you from yourself.

You have become a thing. A finely adorned offering, and the fabric makes your skin crawl for it.

The tree cover breaks, revealing a monolithic stone tower that stands so tall, it splits the sky in two.

The Tower of the Seven. It’s been generations since anyone knew exactly what it was named for, but legend speaks of mythic creatures that were once held in such reverence, this tower was built in their honor. It served as both a temple and home to these venerated beings.

The years have not been kind to it. The stone pillars have become wild with overgrowth, and the air about this place reeks of stale, old death.

It stands now as a graveyard.

Even the horses refuse to venture much further than the threshold of the treeline, forcing you and your attendants out of the wagon to tread the remainder of the trek on foot. The men who walk with you carry short swords, but they serve no practical purpose, their edges having long since dulled. They are not here to protect you, they are as much a part of the ceremony as your fine clothes.

You shield your eyes as you look up at the staggering height of the tower, but swiftly drop your gaze. Best not to think of what awaits you.

On paper, sacrifice seems a simple thing. Slitting one’s throat upon an altar, floating a burning pyre across the river, or feeding the tribute a concoction of sleeping death and burying them into eternal slumber. Murder can be a righteous thing in the hands of a believer, or so they say.

For you, and those who have come before you, martyrdom is not as effortless as lying down and dying for the cause. The tower presents a trial to you. You must willingly climb the hundreds upon hundreds of large stone steps in order to prove yourself a worthy tribute.

Why you must prove your flesh worthy of consumption is beyond you. You’ve never heard of a farmer who sends his cattle to run laps before the slaughter. It seems a petty thing to demand. Perhaps the Devourer has grown indolent and slovenly in its feasting.

It’s easy to dream up nightmarish images of such an awful creature. A legless winged wyrm with a ribbed body, fat and slimy like an oversized earthworm. It would have an enormous maw with hundreds upon hundreds of jagged teeth, its breath reeking of charred flesh and sulfur. Such a wicked beast would stink like the layers of hell.

Somehow, tormenting yourself like this is an oddly calming distraction. The more nightmarish it becomes in your mind, the less real all of this feels. It’s just a bad dream.

No one speaks as you reach the base of the tower. There’s nothing left to say. You’re one of a dozen in the last year alone these men have ferried to their death. It almost seems cruel to expect eye contact, let alone sympathy. For that reason, it catches you off guard when one of the older of the three, a man named Hector with a thick set of troubled brows furrowed above kind but bloodshot, watery eyes puts his hand on your shoulder, offering a light squeeze.

The last sacrifice had been his own daughter.

In his gaze you find grief and gratitude in equal measure. Neither brings comfort. You return a small nod and move your eyes back to the ordeal that awaits you.

The tower is like an optical illusion: the proportions make it seem a reasonable size at a distance, but the closer you walk to it, the more mythical a thing it becomes. The archways curve high above your head, sized for creatures of legend, and the head of the building disappears completely into the sky.

In the center of it, a spiraling stone staircase beckons you. The masonry is exquisitely smooth despite the age of it, carved in an era when magic was a hundred times more prolific than it is now. It’s wide and open, the steps so large that you’ll be taking them one at a time. Worse than that, however, is the complete absence of any kind of protective railing.

If you sway, you very well may fall to your death.

At the center of the spiral stands a pile of debris. As you approach, a rustling catches your attention and you freeze, eying the pile warily. The head of a creature suddenly pops up, startling your heart into a thunder, but after a beat you recognize it for what it is: a small fox, its muzzle dirty. The two of you stare at one another for a long moment before one of the men behind you calls out, “Shoo, shoo now.”

Everyone keeps hushed, as if terrified of disturbing what is yet unseen.

Moving closer, you anticipate you might see a dead rabbit, or perhaps a chicken. Anything would have been a more welcome sight than the gnarled half-eaten body of a woman dressed just like you piled amongst the debris. You gasp, both hands flying over your mouth as you stumble a few steps backwards.

For a horrifying moment, you swear you see your own face in the rotten remnants staring back at you with black, empty eye sockets. It’s the hair that gives away the delusion, however, and with a chill down your spine you recognize the sacrifice who came before you; Hector’s daughter.

“Nadja,” the man groans morosely, the weight of grief in his voice palpable. You move away, towards the stairs, and watch with a morbid sort of fascination as the man weeps over the corpse of his daughter, touching her hair and her clothes, the only parts of her not twisted and rotted with death, the body left for maggots and scavengers. It’s sick, nothing like the beautiful and noble gesture sacrifice is always said to be. You look up at the dizzying height of the spiral staircase, following the line of it until the stone disappears into darkness. Did she fall, or was she cast away, having somehow proven herself unworthy?

In a strange sense, watching the men wrap her body in cloth to be carried home feels very much like playing the part of voyeur to your own demise. You stand at a distance, hand braced upon the stone, unable to shake the dread that you’re witnessing a vision of the future. Your future.

No. You will not be left for the insects and carrion-feeders. You turn your back to the sound of Hector’s weeping and, without another world, determinedly begin your ascent one large stone step at a time. Although you feel the men’s eyes heavily upon you, they remain silent, as if already grieving you.

Do not, you think brazenly, skin flushed with unexpected fires that bring your blood to a boil. Do not dare mourn what isn’t dead.

Those flames burn hot enough to carry you easily up the first several floors, indignantly stomping your way. You’ve heard stories of this tower all your life, but nothing could have prepared you for the true scale of it. Most of it is in a terrible state of decay, full of overgrowth and rot that, centuries ago, may have been wood and cloth.

You stop for a breath beneath the remains of what looks to have once been a vibrant mural. You can see trace evidence of beautiful paints, but whatever it depicts has been brutally clawed from the stonework. You lift a hand up high to trace one of the deep gouges in the stone; the marks are spread too far apart for your fingers to reach, but you can make out five distinct patterns nonetheless, like drag marks from a hand three or four times the size of your own.

Beyond the ruined mural, there are statues, too. You pass a grand monument of a woman who stands over seven heads tall wielding a sword of equal might, the statue adorned with steel bracers. You think she might have been beautiful in the same way a frightening storm is, but the head of the statue is long since gone.

On the next floor, you see upon the ground the ruins of a statue of a mermaid–at least, you thought it was. Upon further inspection, however, you see that the statue depicts a man. He has the lower body of a fish and strange indentations along his ribs, just beneath his bare carved chest. He, too, is headless, torso split horizontally, stone strewn across the floor.

This temple must have belonged to these lost figures, their monuments as desecrated as the rest of the tower. Whoever the Seven was, the world has since forgotten.

You wonder if the Devourer did this, defiled this temple to erase whatever history of heroes came before its tyranny.

Ultimately, you only find six statues. None of them have managed to keep their heads, and some are in worse shape than others. You imagine the seventh might have been destroyed entirely. It’s easier to imagine how or why these things might be than it is to focus on how badly your body aches, how you started this venture with the morning sun barely upon you, and yet you barely feel any closer to your destination as the darkness of night encroaches.

Every limb screams for rest. You stop occasionally, but you feel you must not sleep. Was poor Nadja pitched to her death for sleeping through her trial? You’d rather not find out. You’re not even sure if you would wake with the same angry conviction that drives you forward now, climbing step after unforgiving step. It’s gotten colder the higher you’ve gone, too. There’s a chance if you slept amidst the stone, you would turn to it yourself.

“Grant me strength,” you whisper to whomever may be listening. Be they fae or devil, benevolent or malevolent, it would be a boon to know there was some manner of being on your side.

You lean on the wall far from the edge as you ascend the spiral, too nervous of a fall to look over the edge and gauge your progress. A brisk wind chill has begun howling through the tower, whipping your clothing about and biting at your skin. You hug one arm tightly across your chest, bracing against the cold. At this rate, you’ll make for a crunchy meal not just for your bones, but for the frost you arrive covered in.

Your foot slides on something on the step that shifts and clatters. You nearly fall, heart hammering in your chest as you manage to catch yourself. Looking down, you’re shocked to see a pile of shining gold coins spilling down the steps amongst the debris. There is enough wealth discarded on these steps to see a dozen families fed for years and years to come.

You must be getting close. Carefully, despite the tremble running through your body, you shuffle your way through the mess, kicking it aside when you need to clear more of a path. The sound of rubble and gold and the like falling off the edge of the steps makes you flinch, the prolonged clattering of it serving as a reminder of just how agonizingly high you’ve managed to climb.

The familiar flicker of fire light draws a gasp of relief from you, tears gathered in your eyes from the sheer pain of moving your body forward. You can see shadows dancing across the walls, beckoning you from the cold with the barest hint of a warm draft. You’re practically crawling up the steps now, every part of you aching horribly. The tremble in your body is so severe, you worry you would fall to your death if you continued trying to walk through the hoard of treasures that have spilled down the steps.

You practically sob with relief when you reach the final step, limbs quaking beneath you as you haul yourself up onto the top floor and away from the awful railless edge of the spiraling stairs. You bury your face in the fold of your arms. The mixture of relief and exhaustion is so intense, the rest of the world falls away briefly, and the only thing that matters is catching your breath while you all but dry heave on the floor.

“I’ll be damned. I didn’t think you were going to make it,” purrs a resonant, honied voice, snapping you immediately back to reality. You shoot into an upright position so suddenly your head spins, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear your blurry vision.

Before you rests an enormous circular hall lit with dozens upon dozens of torches. The walls are lined with beautiful arched windows, and the interior is piled nearly to the vaulted ceiling with obscene amounts of coin, weapons, artifacts and similar treasure. Your gaze drifts towards the center of it all, where the source of the voice awaits you.

As it turns out, The Devourer is no oversized earthworm.

Reclined upon a magnificently carved marble throne, you behold a creature made of equal parts man and beast. Even sitting, his stature easily brings him heads taller than you. He is adorned exquisitely in gold embellishments–jewelry and piercings alike–and rich navy slacks, serving as a fine centerpiece to the lavish, untidy wealth that surrounds him. He wears a crown fit for a king, the jewel of it a radiant blue that matches his sharp predatory gaze. His lips spread into a wolfish grin. You’re utterly bewitched by the flash of his fangs.

“Rise,” he orders you, gesturing with a clawed hand that’s easily the size of your head. His rings shine beautifully in the firelight. “And speak.”

Shakily, you fight to climb to your feet. Worm or not, this man–this creature has been preying upon your people for generations. You remind yourself of the countless lives lost, of the mourning families, of Nadja’s desecrated corpse and the sound of her father weeping over the rotten remains of her. You steel yourself.

“You who the people know as Scourge of the Skies, Red Death,” you begin, blinking rapidly. Your head began swimming the second you stood. You’ve never been so worn out in your life, and though there are flames here that offer a slight degree of warmth, the cold has sunk deep into your bones. As you speak, your vision gradually begins to tunnel. “Flame’s… Maw… and the Devourer,” you address, fighting desperately to stay focused even as he fades in and out of clarity. “I’ve come to pay my village tribute, and to… to…”

The darkness at the edges of your vision thickens. Your words feel heavy and slurred on your tongue. You sway, feeling your own head slosh like a bucket of water, and before you know it, you’re pitching forward, and the world goes black.

That was anticlimactic.

There was a time he would have been met with awe. Reverence. He didn’t expect you to simply black out.

Scourge, Red Death, Flame’s Maw… Maw. He’s always despised that word in particular, and the ugly imagery it evokes. Just a handful out of hundreds of names he’s been called over the years–if you can call them that. Many border on insults, if not are so outright. The most tolerable name he can remember is Homelander.

They called him that in celebration, he recalls. Those were the last of the days he had any care left for them.

He blows a smoky little raspberry as he stands, hands clasping behind his back beneath his wings. His tail sways idly as he approaches, tentatively intrigued by your splayed form. It’s rare that a sacrifice makes it all the way to the top at all, let alone in a single day. The last one only made it halfway before she decided falling to her death was a kinder fate than him.

Truth be told, he should have reigned hell upon their little village for her insolence. Fortunately for them, her display filled him with far more apathy than it did fury. He crouches down near enough to touch, though he hesitates, hand ghosting just over your body. He tilts his head to the side. Your breaths are shallow in your sleep, a slight wheeze to each one. Your body is clearly overexerted.

Delicately, he slips his hand under your cheek to turn your face to him, examining your features. You’re prettier like this, the tension drained from your expression and replaced with peace. Certainly not the worst tribute he’s been offered. You were at least determined to reach him.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

He won’t kill you. Not yet.

Homelander lifts you up into his arms, supporting your comparatively slight form with ease. You feel as frail as any mortal might, but the weight of you in his arms strikes him with a peculiar sense of melancholy. He takes pause, more closely observing the shape of you cradled in his arms, head lolled against his chest. You fit there nicely, small as you are. He can almost pretend you’ve simply fallen asleep in the crook of his arm; somewhere you’ve always belonged.

It’s an intriguing little fantasy. He hasn’t felt the need to indulge in one of those in a long while. He keeps his eyes on you as he walks you to the collection of pelts gathered on the far side of the room, where he lays you down atop them.

What had you been intending to say before you passed out? Your departing words spin round and round in his mind while he looks you over, lowering himself until he’s on his hands and knees above you. Tributes used to come richly adorned in jewelry and glittering things, but such pageantry has long since vanished. He’s surrounded by enough of it that the absence doesn’t bother him anymore.

The glitter of gold hardly catches his eye these days. He doesn’t call for sacrifices to add to his wealth. He only seeks to quell his boredom. Perhaps you will prove useful for this, at least for a time.

Pressing his clawed thumb lightly to your chin, he tilts your head away and leans in, nosing up the line of your throat, lips barely ghosting your soft flesh. He inhales the salt-sweet smell of you, a mixture of sweat, the dusty stone steps you’ve scaled, and the sweet herbal oil bath your kind always receives before you’re sent to him. The blend is strangely intoxicating on you.

It makes him wonder if you taste as good as you smell. Parting his lips, his split tongue spills past them and drags a slow serpentine pattern from your neck to your jaw. Mmm, fuck. You taste better than you smell, the rich oil you were bathed in still clinging to your skin beneath the salty tang of your sweat.

It would be too easy to devour you. He groans quietly at the thought, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He’s known few things more intimate than sinking his sharp teeth into warm, pliant flesh. The feel of a pulse slowing against his tongue. The metallic rush of blood down the back of his throat. He hasn’t craved human flesh the way he does right now in years, yet something in the scent of you has ignited that primal aspect of him. Salivating already, he swallows it away and draws back.

Not yet. He still wants to hear what you were going to say.

It makes him smile to see the goosebumps that have erupted on every inch of your exposed skin. He cocks his head to the side and trails his index claw down the center of your chest, dragging down the pretty white fabric of your sacrificial dress, stopping just shy of the swell of your breasts. More goosebumps there, too.

None of it compares to the sound that you make. In your sleep, your brows furrow, and you exhale a noise somewhere between pain and sheer exhaustion, your small hand brushing his as you adjust against the pile of plush fur pelts. His gaze drops sharply, hand lifting tentatively. After a beat, he sets it down lightly atop yours. Captivated, he watches your whole body respond to his touch, turning and curling in towards him like a flora bending to the light of the sun.

Fascinated by your innate reactivity to him, Homelander lowers himself onto his side next to you. After a beat of hesitation, he encircles your wrist with his thumb and index finger and brings your palm flat to the warmth of his bare chest. A tantalizing shiver rolls through your unconscious form. Just as he had anticipated–hoped?–you follow the feel of him, moving completely onto your side and into him, breathing out a shuddering little exhale while the fire that runs through his veins warms you.

It isn’t enough to stop you shivering, though. Shifting, he spreads out his wing and curls that over you, blocking the draft that spills in from the surrounding windows. Only then does the tension in your body begin to ease, warmth chasing out the chill from your bones.

Homelander smirks, feeling inexplicably accomplished over this mundane little feat. He’s never particularly cared for the comfort of his tributes before; they’ve never served as anything more than playthings and meals. You should be no different. He knows you would be a delectable thing on his tongue, warm and wet down his throat, yet the thought of you in pieces–cold and unmoving–instantly vanishes his appetite.

He wants you in a new way entirely. Against him, with him. He wants to taste more of you, drag his tongue along the plains of your body and see how else you’ll react to him. He wants to find the places that quicken your breath. Would you sing your pleasure for him? He’s barely heard your voice, but already he can imagine it vividly.

You would. You will.

He’s begun to pant at the thought alone, smoke wafting from his mouth, his eyes softly aglow with crimson light. The smell of you has filled his senses so thoroughly he feels intoxicated by it, and between his thighs, his cock has begun to throb. He leans closer and nestles into your hair, inhaling deeply, a rumble leaving him on a warm exhale.

His entire body has taken on the heavy pulse of his heart, alight with the most visceral feeling he’s had in centuries. This is more than hunger, more than carnality–you mean something. Never before has he felt compelled to find pleasure in the frail body of a human, yet his blood sings it voicelessly in the back of his mind, his every instinct screaming one word again and again and again.

Mate.

Homelander had given up on the concept of a mate a long time ago, given that he’s… abnormal. Sterile. As an unnatural creature, there could not be a natural match for him. Someone who would call to his very blood and set it aflame. Yet here you are, seeking him as desperately as he once sought you. Is that why you were able to accomplish what so few before you had, pushing your body so clearly beyond your limits?

A low, possessive rumble leaves him. Reckless.

He pets your hair, testing the texture with his fingers awhile before letting his hand roam down the back of your neck, between your shoulders, up over your hip, down your leg. You’re no longer cool to the touch or shivering. He flattens his palm to your back and closes his eyes briefly. He’s never heard of a dragon bonding to a human before. He wonders if you’ll feel it too, recognize it for what it is, or if your mortality will make you oblivious to the depths of it.

It takes every ounce of his restraint not to shake you awake to find out.

Instead, he patiently learns the cadence of your heart. He commits your scent to memory, weeding out the natural musk of your skin beneath the herbs and oils you’ve been lathered in. Soon enough he’ll be able to pick you out of a crowd by the thump of your pulse alone, track you down from miles away with nothing but the barest whiff of you.

Not that he’d ever let you get so far from him now that he has you.

All you’re missing now is his scent. Leaning down, he licks a line adjacent to the one he had prior, and then another, mindful of his horns. The sweet taste of you makes him moan. He spends hours with you tucked in against him, idling away the time by learning your body as well as teaching you his. He nuzzles his cheek lightly against yours just so that he can turn and taste that same spot, something deep and primal in him appeased by tasting himself on your skin.

“My mate,” he half sighs, half growls.

He can’t wait to meet you.

Consciousness comes back to you in a gradual slew of sensation. Your fingers twitch, flexing in what feels like a lush, thick pelt of fur beneath you. Your whole body is pleasantly warm, as if you’ve fallen asleep in front of a crackling hearth, the cold of those awful stone stairs a distant memory.

The stairs…

Your eyes snap wide open, your spine going stiff. You’re laying on your back. Something wet and hot is dragging along the exposed skin of your shoulder–your dress pulled askew–in repetitive swipes. Looking down, all you can see is a mess of flaxen colored hair and one long, angular horn, the tip of it adorned in gold. The press of what you can only imagine to be a tongue is unnaturally smooth, as hot as settled coal against your skin. The beast gives a growl, and sharp teeth graze your skin. Your throat feels tight, the scream that bubbles up locked behind the tension of your jaw.

Oh gods, you think, beginning to shake. He’s eating me!

“Good morning,” purrs a familiar voice, the words vibrating against your skin. He lifts his head from your shoulder, though he doesn’t go far. You half expect to see his maw bloodied with your entrails from all the horror stories you’ve been told, but his grin is as clean as it was the first moment you beheld him. Up close, he’s even larger than you had initially realized. His face is well defined, with strong cheekbones decorated with smooth red scales that ascend into his hairline, where a golden crown sits neatly behind his horns. “Mmm, someone got their beauty sleep,” he says, the words a low, pleased rumble. You’re speechless, watching in bewilderment as he cups your face, hand so large it covers most of your neck, too. “You were out for hours.”

Your eyes dart to your shoulder, where your dress has been tugged down, but your skin appears unmarred. Around you, one of his enormous wings is curved over, shielding you both from the light and the cold beyond. You can’t move your legs, and with a glance, you understand why: his enormous tail is draped across both of them, pinning you in place. You look back at him, eyes wide in fear and confusion. You wonder if he’s been with you like this through the entire night. “You’re… You’re not eating me?”

The broad smile he flashes makes your heart skip a beat. His eyes, though sharp and a shade of blue you’ve only ever seen in the sky, are disarmingly human. Beautiful, even. They crinkle at the corners with what almost looks like fondness.

“No.”

“Why not?” You ask instantly, adrenaline making your voice sharp. “Not that I wish for you to eat me,” you say just as quickly. “But do you not–were you not–” He cuts you off with a noise that you belatedly realize is a laugh, the resonance in his chest so unearthly it gives every sound he makes an inhuman quality. “No, I was not eating you,” he says, sounding far too amused for your liking. “Tasting you, yes. And you do taste divine,” he says, leaning in again. You push your head back into the furs as much as you can, but he moves to the side, bringing his lips to your ear. “I knew my mate would.” Mate?!

Your hands fly up to his chest–gods, he’s as warm as hearth stones–as if to push him back, but you may as well attempt to push an oak tree aside. “What?”

He draws back, glancing down at your hands pressed to the bare skin of his chest before his gaze returns to yours, eyes narrowed in distinct pleasure. “Mate,” he says again, deliberately drawing the word out. “Dragons bond only once in a lifetime. Usually to another dragon. Clearly exceptions can be made, and you, precious little thing that you are… appear to be mine.”

His eyes fall shut, he leans in, and with a lurch of your stomach you realize he means to kiss you, his lips pursed and rapidly approaching. Your own lips part and a noise wholly outside of your control escapes you; a scream so shrill and sudden that it knocks even him back in surprise.

Blinking several times, he gives you a quick once over, visibly expecting to see you wounded and bloody somewhere. He looks back to your face when he finds nothing amiss. “What?”

“I can’t–I don’t know you,” you blurt out, equal parts flustered and alarmed. You can feel yourself burning up, and it isn’t just from the heat of him against you.

“So?” He dismisses, smiling with an array of sharp pearly teeth. “I’m your mate.”

“Humans don’t have those,” you counter, squirming under the weight of his tail. It’s like he’s draped several sacks of grain across your legs. “My lord Devourer, I–”

He scoffs, tail lifting as he shifts, bringing himself up onto his hands and knees over you, his wing unfurling and allowing the sun to spill in, washing you both in its light. “Homelander. If you must use one of those silly names, use Homelander. I’d prefer beloved, though,” he says with a sly lilt to his mouth.

A shiver rolls down your spine. Along with light, brisk morning air has slipped in between your bodies.

“Homelander,” you repeat, a name you’ve never heard before. It’s a great deal less menacing than the others, but that doesn’t change the fact that he has been eating your townsman for as long as anyone can remember. “I–”

He takes hold of your jaw with just his index finger and thumb, the rest of his fingers curling lightly over your throat. “You talk too much,” he tells you, eyes hooded and hungry. “Are you going to scream every time I try to kiss you?”

“Maybe,” you choke out, fists clenched tightly in the furs beneath you. He leans closer, tilting his head, his nose barely brushing the tip of yours. “I’ve never been kissed by a dragon before. Like I said, we don’t have m-mmm!”

It happens so swiftly you don’t have time to gather the air to scream. He presses his lips firmly to yours, making a noise so close to a moan that, despite the relative chasteness of the kiss itself, you flush with the indecency of it. It feels… hot. The heat of him is nearly too much to handle, like touching your lips to a hot mug of tea, but there is something intoxicating about it. He uses that heat to mold you to him, pulling you closer, his body sinking down against yours.

You’re too dumbstruck by the whole of the situation to struggle–not that it would accomplish much–which leaves you to simply experience it. His lips are tentative against yours, not harsh or demanding. He coaxes yours with his as if to dance, luring you into something that almost feels good.

Your heart hammers in your chest, his warmth pooling in your belly and spreading slowly through the rest of your body like boiled water poured into a lukewarm tub. He’s immovable, inescapable, and to your dismay, not entirely awful.

“I want to claim you,” he all but growls against your lips, his other hand clawing slowly down your side, tugging at your dress.

Your heart leaps painfully against your ribs. “Homelander,” you say, though he’s hardly paying you any mind, kissing your cheek now, your jaw, carving a wicked trail with his lips while his hand dips lower and lower, seeking the bottom hem of your dress. Heart racing, you breathlessly cry, “Beloved!”

That gives him pause. He rears back to look down at you, head slightly cocked, eyes bright and attentive. Your breaths are shallow, pulse pounding in your throat. You swallow dryly. “I’m thirsty,” you tell him, which is no lie. Your throat is so dry it almost hurts to speak. “Horribly. And hungry, I’ve not eaten since yesterday’s breakfast. You mean for me to survive, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he says, expression twisting like he finds offense in your words. “You’ll want for nothing.”

“Then please. Water?” You push, praying that he is more man than beast.

He regards you quietly, eyes subtly darting back and forth. There’s a petulant kind of impatience to his gaze that catches you off-guard, like a boy who’s been told he has to wait before he gets to play with his new favorite toy. “Water,” he echoes eventually. You nod. He startles you when he exhales a little plume of smoke from his nose, reluctantly lifting himself off of you. The chill of his absence is immediate. “Don’t move,” he says, suddenly looking displaced. You’ve caught him by surprise. Perhaps you’ll survive this yet.

You watch him rise to his full height, standing easily eight feet tall. You sit up, pulling the furs over your legs to combat the cold seeping in. The muscles of his back give a mesmerizing flex as he stretches his wings out, the span of them just as jaw-dropping as his height. He wears furs over his shoulders held in place with thick leather straps that cross over his back and chest, emphasizing his musculature as well as the crimson plating that covers his body. Spines run down the length of his back, transitioning down into a tail that’s even longer than he is tall. It moves along the ground in zigzags, almost like a serpent. You don’t realize how intensely you’re staring until you look back up and realize he’s looking at you over his shoulder, those piercing blue eyes keenly set on yours.

The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smirk. Something about his expression makes you feel like you’ve been caught doing something naughty. You drop your gaze. “Back in a jiffy,” he says. You look up just in time to see him step off the ledge, those brilliant red wings fanning out behind him. He disappears so suddenly that you can’t help but gasp, sitting up on your knees. You hear the beat of wings against the air, and then a second later see him lift back up into the skyline, twisting in the air before gliding back down out of sight.

You sit in stunned silence, listening to the fading thrum of his wings. It doesn’t feel real. You don’t know if this is some kind of twisted game he pulls with every sacrifice, or if you’re truly somehow different. You weren’t entirely expecting him to listen to you, but he did. He’s gone, presumably to fetch you food and water. You don’t know how, but you just commanded the Devourer to not only let you go, but bring you a meal.

In hindsight, you’re a little concerned that it was never specified what kind of meal. As far as you’re aware, he primarily eats people.

Adjusting your gown, you haul yourself up to your feet, crossing your arms in a vain attempt to protect the heat of his body lingering on your skin. When that doesn’t work, you pick up one of the several fur pelts strewn on the floor and drape it over your shoulders, sighing in relief. The pelt still holds some residual warmth; a boon over the lovely but ineffective fabric of your ceremonial gown.

In the light of day, you can make out a great deal more detail throughout the lair. The floor to ceiling archways deter you from venturing too far beyond the center, but still there is plenty to investigate. For example, the throne catches your eye immediately. The size of it makes you feel like a child again, navigating a world not built for you. The masonry of it is exceptionally smooth beneath your fingers, save for a handful of deep, jagged gouges that marr the arm rest. Tilting your head, you realize that you recognize these marks: they match those that you’d seen on the ruined murals.

You trace them with your fingers, connecting them now to the draconic claws that, just moments ago, had so delicately followed the curve of your body. He could so easily tear you apart, and yet in that moment you had never known a gentler touch. You pull your hand back beneath the pelt, feeling a shiver roll through you that has little to do with the morning chill.

Mate. That word sticks in your brain like a wad of gummy tree sap.

Circling the throne, you carefully step around the glimmering mess of gold, silver and jewels that litter the stone floor. There’s so much of it that it doesn’t even look real, stacked over itself like forgotten hay bales left to rot. There is more wealth here than you’ve seen in your life. A single satchel of it would keep you comfortable for the rest of your life, and yet here it serves as little more than clutter. As far as you can tell, it means nothing here.

The Devourer stopped seeking material treasure generations ago.

As you explore, part of you expects to find the corpses of all those who have come before you. Dozens upon dozens of bodies stacked up in varying states of consumption or decay, or maybe a monument built of their bones. You find no such construct, though. In fact, nothing about this place seems put together. You can’t imagine the madness that living like this for a week would induce in you, let alone decades.

To the east, movement catches your attention, startling your heart into your throat. It looks like a silhouetted figure at first, but your brain catches up quickly, and you approach the gently billowing fabric. It’s draped over a statue, giving it the illusion of a person, and your curiosity gets the best of you as you tug the drape down off of it.

You suck in a sharp breath. Once again, you find yourself faced with a legend given form– a painstakingly and intricately carved statue in the Devourer’s perfect likeness. It comes as no surprise that this is the only in-tact statue you’ve seen, but what you don’t understand is why it’s even here. If the Devourer was a usurper, some vicious interloper, why would there be a monument to him in the same vein as all the others?

The plaque beneath it reads: Homelander. Son of the Skies, Protector of the Earth.

Devourer, Scourge, Flame’s Maw–these names are all you have ever known, and yet this is the name carved in stone. He was once worshiped not out of fear, but reverence that you can see in every gentle curve of stone.

What happened?

Shuffling closer to the statue, the discarded fabric gathers at your feet. It’s not quite to scale, but it’s a handsome likeness nonetheless. It’s certainly been cared for more than anything else in this place. You wonder if it’s just vanity or if it’s something less obvious. You trace the smooth stonework, letting yourself get a better look at this version of him that’s less likely to eat you.

Objectively speaking, it’s a handsome visage. The resemblance is uncanny, clearly the work of an intensely skilled mason. His jaw is strong, eyes set forward in unerring determination. Tentatively, you touch the lips of the statue. He’d been so certain that he wanted to kiss you. Just the thought of his closeness and heat makes your stomach erupt in a flutter of butterflies.

Mate.

“I thought I told you not to move.”

You barely hear the full sentence, your own scream ringing loudly in your ears. You move to spin around, but your foot catches on the pile of fabric you had dropped to the ground and suddenly your whole body is pitching backwards, the back of your skull destined for the smooth, unyielding stone behind you. Fortunately for your brain matter, your descent is halted just shy of contact, one familiar clawed hand cupping the back of your neck while the other lands at your back, steadying you.

Homelander stands over you, a curious quirk to his brow. With his hand at the small of your back, his claws press lightly through the fabric, effortlessly upholding your weight. He holds you as if you’ve been caught mid dip in a dance.

“Gods, you scared me,” you say, eyes wide. “I didn’t hear you.” You had been so certain you would hear his return based on the sound of his wings when he’d left, but his approach had been terrifyingly silent.

“Yes, I know. It makes me a very effective hunter,” he says, dipping down to nuzzle at your neck, taking advantage of how the pelt has slipped off of your shoulder. He inhales the smell of you, prickling goosebumps all over your body. “I missed you.”

“You’ve barely been gone,” you reply impulsively, awkwardly trying to adjust yourself out of this arch he has you in. No use. His size makes him impossible to maneuver around, and your foot is still tangled up in the fabric that he’s currently standing on.

He gives another one of those rumbling sighs, drawing back to look at you. “You’re supposed to say that you missed me, too,” he chastises you, and though his tone seems light, you’re sure you see a flicker of impatience or irritation in his gaze. Maybe both. Despite how fearsome the sum total of his features make him, you’re once again caught off guard by his eyes. Though the color of them is icy, there’s a distinctly human warmth to them that grounds you in his gaze.

Still, the last thing you want to do is make him angry.

“Oh,” you croak quietly, realizing he’s actually waiting for you to say it, staring down expectantly while he holds you. “I… missed you, too,” you return stiltedly, unsure your hesitant delivery will be satisfactory. Shockingly, his expression lightens, lips curving into a smile. He lifts you off of your feet, untangling you from the mess beneath you and turning around to set you back down on relatively clear flooring.

“Good,” he purrs, stroking his hand down the back of your head like he’s petting an animal. He seems determined to touch you, but entirely unaware of how to. He cups the base of your skull and tightens the gap between your bodies, enticing you with his warmth as much as he terrifies you with the hunger in his eyes.

You put your hands to his chest, soaking up the heat of him as you vainly try to maintain an ounce of personal space. “Ah, the–the statue, it’s beautiful. Why do you cover it up?” You ask, the words leaving you in a flustered tumble.

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder, looking at the statue like he’s only just remembered it exists. “Oh, that. Mmm. Don’t always like what he has to say,” he replies, fitting his hand over top of yours, pressing it to his chest. You blink. What in the world does that mean? “You humans chill so quickly. I’ll have to light the hearth next time I leave you,” he says, earning a yelp from you as he abruptly lifts you up into his arms, tail slithering audibly along the floor as he carries you back to what you suppose for all intents and purposes is his nest. His touch instantly warms you to your core, making the fur you wrapped yourself in seem like a thin sheet in comparison. Despite your apprehension, you can’t help the way the tension in your body naturally eases with his warmth. Upon returning to the collection of pelts, you see the fruits of his labor.

Literal fruits, in fact.

Homelander has returned with a small bounty consisting of apples, two melons, and even a handful of peaches, all of it held in a beautiful–albeit aged–woven basket. You don’t get the chance to eat those often; the trees they fall from grow high on the surrounding mountains, and the farmers in your village are content enough with the established agriculture that no one bothers to grow them.

In addition, a tall golden pitcher stands filled to the brim with water. You’re once again hyper aware of just how incredibly thirsty you are, lips dry, throat parched. It’s the only thing you care about, clambering towards it the second Homelander sets you back on your feet.

The pitcher is heavy. It appears made of solid gold and it’s three times the size of any you’ve ever seen before. You don’t lift it so much as you just tip it back slightly, sighing loudly as you drink back the crisp, clear water. You sputter as the flow abruptly increases, water spilling from the corners of your mouth. Homelander has lifted the pitcher to help you drink, holding it one handed as if it’s no more than a drinking cup, his other hand settled upon your waist. He looks thoroughly pleased with himself, eyes half-lidded, lips gently curved upwards. Once you’ve drunk your fill, you push against his hold and he relents quickly, unnerving you with just how attentive he really is. He sets the pitcher back down and watches you wipe your chin dry.

“Thank the gods,” you sigh habitually, finally not feeling as though there’s grit in your throat with every word.

“I’d prefer you thanked me,” he says coyly, his gaze drifting down to where the water has wet your gown. The fabric clings to your skin, sheer where liquid has touched it.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Thank you, Homelander,” you correct. It’s taking every ounce of your fortitude to speak in full sentences with the way he’s staring at you, let alone the idle way his thumb is stroking your hip. No one has ever touched you with this mixture of ease and clear intent, the weight of his hand practically thrumming against you. The magnitude of him is a difficult thing to parse both in terms of his sheer size and the legend he represents. You don’t know how to reconcile him with the monster you grew up dreading.

No one warned you that monsters could be warm and handle you gently.

“Time to eat,” he says, setting the pitcher back down. He takes hold of both of your hips and pulls you down with him as he sits cross-legged on the pelts, the circle of his legs large enough that you fit perfectly inside it, your own legs hanging out over his crossed calves. His tail loops around as well, encircling him and draping over your legs. The underside of his tail is not unlike the belly of a snake, with large overlapping scales that layer down the length of it. It’s just as warm as the rest of him, and feels like an unnaturally soft stone that’s been baking in the sun.

Reaching over, Homelander plucks one of the peaches from the assortment. It looked perfectly average in the basket, but between his fingers it looks almost comically small. With a deftness that you wouldn’t expect from a creature of his size, he begins to slice through the peach with his blackened claws, delicately cutting out a wedge that he does not hand you, but he instead brings it directly to your lips.

You stare for a moment, struck by the rich red center of the fruit, how the juice of it drips onto his hand in sweet smelling rivulets. You turn to look at him over your shoulder, and he quirks a brow, nodding towards the slice of fruit. You decide that of all the potential battles you have in front of you, this one in particular isn’t worth fighting, and you part your lips, watching him as you do.

His own lips mimic yours, falling apart in quiet entrancement. He slides the wedge between your teeth and watches with rapt fascination as you bite down on it, holding his gaze in an exchange that feels so unexpectedly raw and intimate, your pulse ticks up a notch. You swear he notices it by the way his head tilts ever so slightly, almost as if he’s listening.

“Good?” He asks, voice little more than a rumble.

Gods above and below, it is good. Despite the preternatural heat of his hand, the succulent flesh of the peach retains the morning chill, sweet and cool on your tongue. It’s perfectly ripe, yielding easily to the cut of your teeth and flooding richly across your tongue as you chew. He feeds it to you until it disappears, pressing the last of it in with his thumb, which then follows the line of your bottom lip, smearing the sweet juice on it. You nod and lick your lips, tongue narrowly missing his thumb, and what that does to his expression makes your stomach flip.

He’s quick to cut another slice to offer you. You repeat this process in silence, the air thick with tension that feels so palpable you’re sure you could swim through it. The sounds of the world have narrowed entirely to the sound of his claw cutting through the delicate flesh of the fruit and the tip lightly scraping the pit inside it. His hands have a sticky shine to them by the time he’s tossing the pit back into the basket, stripped as clean as a bone.

You chew your final bite, jaw slowing as you watch him take his fingers into his own mouth. He’s unabashed in the way he slurps the nectar off his digits, tongue slipping between them. That’s when you realize that his tongue splits down the middle, dexterously sliding over his fingers to lap up every drop of juice. Not only that, but you spot a flash of gold; the same kind of piercing he has on his ears. Watching him stirs something hot in you, a radiating heat that lights a flickering pulse between your thighs. You audibly gulp the last of your bite, tensing subtly when Homelander looks at you.

Slowly, his lips curl into a devious smile. “See something you like?”

You flush, fighting the urge to look away. Don’t play into it. Change the subject. “What happened to your last mate?”

His expression shifts to something slightly more incredulous. “There wasn’t one. You’re my first, my last, my only. Dragons only bond once,” he says, that split tongue rolling along his sharp teeth, that gold tongue piercing clicking against them. You wonder where else he’s decorated himself with gold.

Wait, what did he say? Your gaze snaps back up from his mouth to his eyes, which are once more set into that self-satisfied slant. He’s closer to you now, and nearing by the second.

My first, my last, my only.

“But I am no dragon,” you say, leaning away subtly, though there isn’t far to go. He’s got you trapped nicely in place, like a butterfly beneath pins. “How could such a bond form?”

“I’m as mystified as you are,” he says, his hand sliding up the small of your back. “I didn’t think a bond was even possible for me. Apparently there’s something different about you,” he says, and you notice a brief twitch of his lip, a flicker that looks just a touch like disdain. It disappears as quickly as it had appeared. “Something special,” he murmurs, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath on your cheek.

Your heart races, your capacity for thought slowly disappearing the closer to you he gets. New subject, new subject! You think, frazzled by the warm spiced smell of him. His hand flexes on your hip, claws prickling your skin through your dress. “Aren’t you hungry?” You ask, eyes darting to the basket full of fruit just to his side.

“Yeah,” he rasps, voice so low you feel it reverberate. His nose brushes your cheek, trailing down from your jaw to your neck. You shiver, and the pulse between your thighs grows into a steady throb. He inhales deeply. “I’m famished.”

The world around you spins and the next thing you know, you’re on your back staring up at the aged banners draped along the stone ceiling, the fur pelts warm and plush beneath you. Homelander pins your arms down at your sides, once more poised on his hands and knees over you. His tongue draws a wet molten line from the collar of your dress to your throat, and you let out a soft, nervous cry as his teeth graze your skin.

Perhaps he’s going to devour you after all.

Oh gods! Gods, gods, gods, please no!

“Wait, wait! Don’t–please don’t eat me,” you plead in a panic, pushing up against his hands with all of your might. He doesn’t yield at all. You may as well be pushing against the stone walls of the tower itself.

He does laugh, however. It’s that same rumble of amusement that travels through your skin and into the core of you. “For the last time, I’m not eating you. I can smell your arousal, though. Practically taste it in the fucking air,” he says, trailing lower down your chest with every word, brazenly nuzzling the space between your breasts before continuing down. A wave of humiliation rolls through you at his words, and you look away. He releases your arms in favor of sliding his hands up your bare legs, pushing your dress up with them. “I’m just going to have a little lick.”

Frantically, you try to grab at him as soon as your hands are free. “Hold on, stop–”

“Enough!” He snarls suddenly, startling you quiet. You swear for just a moment that his eyes flash crimson. You clutch your hands to your chest. “You’ll not be harmed. Understand? Just… let me,” he says tersely, gaze hard before gradually softening as you silence yourself, watching him with wide, uncertain eyes. Satisfied, he lowers back down.

His sharp claws kiss harmless welts all the way up your legs, up to your hips, where he catches the band of your undergarments. He hooks his fingers over the waistband and drags them down, seeming to enjoy the way you pant and writhe under him, your heart racing.

“Have mercy,” you slip in quietly, squirming beneath the hot press of his hands, though you’re no longer struggling against him. “I’ve never–no one’s ever–I’m inexperienced,” you desperately explain, your mind running wild with what his size will mean for you if he decides he wants more than to taste you–to claim you, as he’d said before.

“Good,” he replies simply, pushing your knees up into a bend on either side of his head. “As you should be. As am I,” he says, turning his head to drag his split tongue in swirling patterns on your inner thigh, moaning at the taste of you.

You grip the pelts beneath you, brows furrowing. You stare down at the top of his head in confusion. “You are?”

“I told you. I’ve never had a mate. I’ve never felt the need to put my cock into what I intended to eat,” he says against your skin, erupting goosebumps all over your thighs. That should horrify you, but you’re instantly distracted by the sheer burning heat of his breath wafting over your wet cunt, a gasp slipping from your lips when he eagerly presses his tongue to it.

His tongue feels as smooth as glass, like liquid in the way it contours to your every curve. The split of it rubs on either side of your clit, massaging it between the two sides in a way that makes your knees shake. “Ffffuck,” he groans, immediately pushing his tongue into you, licking up the wetness of you twice as eagerly as he had that ripe peach.

You buck against him, a moan escaping you. The sound only encourages him to plunge his tongue deeper, that golden stud on his tongue brushing hotly against your inner walls. He drags it up and pushes it flush, half inside you and half grinding against your clit before pushing back in deep. It feels unlike anything you’ve ever known, so much better than your own curious, clumsy fingers. He laves attention on you like he’s starved for it, drinking just as thirstily as you had from the pitcher.

There’s no rhythm to the way he moves, no sense of consistency. He slips his hands under your ass and tugs you forward with ease, lifting you to push his thick split tongue even further inside you, plunging it in and out, growing greedier with every dive. He growls low in the back of his throat, tail thudding repeatedly against the floor. Instead of the little lick he claimed he was after, he’s working himself into an obvious frenzy feasting on you.

“H-Homelander, please,” you keen, his relentlessness rapidly building an unfamiliar pressure within you. He’s as sloppy as he is voracious, the wet sound of him obscene and loud in the enormous lair. His claws bite into your ass where he holds it firmly to his mouth, but he doesn’t seem to hear you. If he does, he’s taking it only as encouragement.

His tongue touches something inside you that makes your whole body jolt. You grab hold of both of his horns, your back arching as you desperately cling to them. You’re certain you meant to shove him back, to struggle. Instead, your body is ablaze as you yank hard on his horns, hitching your leg over his shoulder and riding his tongue with a shaking gasp.

The pressure bursts, and the wave of euphoria that crashes down on you is unlike anything you’ve ever known. You convulse against his mouth, walls tightening around the intrusion. You don’t recognize your own voice in the sounds you make as he continues to ruthlessly fuck you soaked and open with his tongue, his breaths so hot they nearly burn. The waves of your climax feel like they’ll never end, spurred on by every deep, wet thrust.

“Homelander! It’s too much, Homelander, too much, please, please–beloved, please, I can’t, I can’t,” you beg, desperate to get his attention. You’re on the verge of sobs when he finally withdraws his long molten tongue from you. You suck in a shuddering breath, releasing his horns and collapsing back against the pelts, sweat prickling along your hairline.

However, your shallow breaths are nothing compared to the sound of Homelander’s ragged panting. He looks entirely wild, smoke billowing from his mouth and nose, his cheeks flushed a dark red, the lower half of his face shiny with a mixture of your slick and his own drool. He takes his hands from under you and yanks the sash around his waist loose, dropping it to the side. Reaching behind him, he unfastens his pants.

Your mind is still a haze, but even through the delirium, you’re shocked by what you see when that rich navy fabric falls from his waist: his cock is as large as the rest of him, thick and dripping. The underside of it is strangely ribbed, a feature you’re certain is to be attributed to his draconic nature. Not only that, but he’s adorned in gold here, too, with a ring pierced into the head of his cock and studs between each ridge. Your eyes widen.

It’ll never fit.

Nevertheless, he looks entirely undeterred. Homelander adjusts himself between your legs, eyes thoroughly glazed over with lust, and presses his nearly scalding palms to your inner thighs, pushing them into a wide spread and down to the ground. Arousal and fear lance through you like a twin bolt of lightning.

“H-hold on,” you stutter, lifting a trembling hand. “I–” Bending over you, he silences you with a firm kiss. You press your hands to his chest and feel it thrumming beneath your palms, the heat of him more intense than ever. You can’t help but moan softly into it, overtaken by the smell of sex and something akin to burning incense. His tongue slips as deftly into your mouth as it did your cunt. Even after having felt it inside you, it’s thicker in your mouth than you’re prepared for, sliding in deeper, like he means to fuck you with it here, too.

It wholly distracts you until you feel a heavy, blunt press to your wet cunt. You make a half-hearted noise of protest, but his only answer is a low rumbling growl, claws biting into the meat of your thighs as he holds you still, effectively gagging you on his tongue.

His cock is as hot as the rest of him, but a great deal more solid than his malleable tongue. The thickness of it slowly spreads you wide, an aching pressure. You’re not sure if the burn of it is from the stretch or the heat, but either way it’s driving you insane. It’s hot and painful and good, frictionless with how thoroughly he soaked you, and despite your nerves, your cunt is loose with orgasm. It’s as if your body, independent of your mind, is eager to welcome him in.

You make a keening noise, the sound of it muffled in this devouring kiss. You grab hold of the leather straps across his chest and yank on them, twisting at them, but nothing takes your mind from how intense it feels to be split apart on the fat head of his cock.

The sounds Homelander makes in response are downright bestial, low and rumbling from his chest. Your only relief is when the widest swell of his cockhead finally breaches you, just the tip of it settling perfectly inside you. You cry out when he gives an exploratory backwards pull, and then shivers as he begins to rock gently, breathing heavily from his nose as he fucks you with nothing more than the head of his cock.

You’re starting to feel lightheaded, pitchy little noises leaving you with every exhale. Homelander sharpens his pace, breaking the kiss with a loud, carnal moan as he tips his head back. He’s barely even inside you and yet the girth of him is overwhelming, the ridges of his cock stimulating you in ways you didn’t know possible, the fat curved head rubbing against that same spot inside you that his tongue had previously made you see stars with.

Thoroughly overwhelmed by the incomprehensible assault of sensations, tears gather in your eyes. That pressure is building back up in you once more, starting at the base of your spine and slowly crawling up it. Desperate to tether yourself, to feel connected, you move your hand from the strap at his chest and touch his face. To your surprise, that instantly snaps his attention down to you, his beautiful blue eyes lost in a crimson glow.

Homelander meets your gaze, some level of cognizance returning to him, and whimpers, something hidden and vulnerable escaping in that exchange. He bends down, his nose brushing yours, and rests his forehead against yours while his thrusts grow more and more erratic, but never deeper. He fucks you in shallow, jagged snaps until finally that mounting pressure overwhelms you and you come again, simultaneously squeezing him into his own sudden release.

The flood of him inside you is burning hot, spilling into your core even from here, and he practically roars with it, burying that loud primal cry into the crook of your neck while his body stills, releasing pulse after pulse of thick, hot seed into you.

His breath billows hotly across your neck, the burning scent of him thick in the air. Your mind is so addled by your own euphoria that it takes you time to realize he’s speaking, fervent murmurings against your skin. “M’sorry, still, be still, I’m–don’t move,” he rasps, fractured little noises leaving him in between his words. You choke on your own breath when he sinks in, working you open slowly, shivers pitching up and down your spine. Gods above, he isn’t done.

Surely he doesn’t mean for you to take all of it… Does he?

You moan weakly, pushing your hand up into his hair and grabbing hold, which elicits a rumbling sigh from him in return. It’s silkier than you expected it to be. “Too big, it’s too much, it’s not–it’s not going to fit,” you pant out, screwing your eyes shut tight. While his release had initially softened him some, you can already feel his cock filling back out. Every bit he slips in further, you feel the mess of his release being forced out of you, come dripping down your thighs, slicking the way for the rest of him.

“It will,” he says at your ear, kissing the spot just below your earlobe, then your neck, his tongue slipping out to taste the sweat there before he kisses that same spot. He’s set upon you like an animal, lost to the drive of instinct, determined to fulfill his promise to claim what is his. “It will because it must. Because it’s yours. Because you’re mine.”

Homelander releases a breathy whine, sounding just as overstimulated as you are, nuzzling at your throat while he slowly works his way deeper, practically vibrating with restraint. He sounds as overwhelmed as you feel, but he refuses to stop, to lose. He holds you in place, growling whenever you squirm or struggle against him. The feel of it is dizzying, unbelievably hot and heavy, like fire given form, filling you in ways you didn’t know were possible. You’re feeling it again, the slow rise of that carnal pleasure building to an inevitable climax, and your whole body trembles with it.

You make a desperate keening noise, and Homelander hushes you, kissing your shoulder. “Sshhh, good, you’re doing so well for me. Don’t move yet, it’s almost over. You were made for this, for me. You feel it, don’t you? How easily your cunt opens to me. Nnngh, hah… Fuck, you fit me. You fit me. You do, and you always will,” he pants, voice hitching.

He slides his hands from your thighs to your waist, the press of his claws just shy of painful. With one final move, he lets out a quaking moan as he pulls you down onto the last of it, finally burying himself completely in your snug, come-soaked cunt.

The fullness of it breaks you–snapping the last tether that was holding you in place–and you come again, your velvety walls seizing up around him impossibly tight before spasming your pleasure around every vein, ridge and piercing he has. You can feel the shape of him so viscerally that you’re sure your body will remember it, carved out in the shape of his cock forevermore.

He cries out with your release, a reverberating sound that you feel all the way down to the marrow of your bones. You don’t know if he’s more in pleasure or pain, but he makes no move to retreat. Instead, he brings you that tiny bit closer, pressing every inch of your body to his. He rides out your pleasure, panting a wet spot into the crook of your neck.

Tears roll from your eyes to your temple, disappearing into your hairline as you breathe roughly. You’re overwhelmingly hot, oversensitized and raw, but as the aftershocks of your orgasm fade, your body steadily loses that quiver. You feel as if you’re melting down into the furs, struggling to even keep your eyes open as a gentle ecstasy sweeps over you.

Once he recovers enough, he lifts himself up onto his hands, and then sits back onto his legs, his hands on your hips to lift you partially into his lap to keep himself buried deep, hitching your legs around his waist. His eyes are completely glazed over, lips parted around heavy, hungry breaths. He doesn’t look at all sated. If anything, the look of his desire has only intensified, despite his obvious sensitivity. Sliding his hands up your body, he pushes your pretty white dress all the way up over your head, tossing it to the side so that he may finally see all of you.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice utterly frayed. He stares at you as though you’re a vision sent from the gods, a nymph plucked from the heavens and nestled snugly upon his cock. His hand sweeps down your stomach, settling low on it, where he lightly presses down. You both moan with the pressure, with how keenly you both feel it. “Told you it would fit,” he says, but his voice is not smug. There’s a breathless wonder to it, like he’s awestruck by the look of your body against his.

His tongue rolls out to sweep along his lips. He opens his mouth, and you can see threads of saliva snapping between his sharp teeth, his mouth wet with hunger. He continues to reverently stroke your stomach, his large splayed hand easily covering the expanse of it. “You’ll make a beautiful mother,” he says, a concept you don’t even know how to begin to unravel, but the way he says it makes you feel worshiped. “Perfect. So fucking perfect for me,” he says, a shudder in his voice. His crimson wings spread and curve in on either side of you, the hooked tips of them bracing on the stone floor.

“Mother?” You slur belatedly. You feel dizzy, your body as warm as burning coals and tingling all over. He lifts your legs one at a time, bringing each one up parallel to his chest. They hook over his shoulders as he leans forward, wasting no before time kissing you. His wings support his weight while he grips your thighs, squeezing possessively.

“Mother,” he confirms between kisses, bending you practically in half as he begins to rut against you. He’s not thrusting so much as he’s grinding into you, wringing a low moan from you. “You want that, don’t you? I’ll keep you safe. Feed you. Fuck you. I’ll take care of you, be yours, and you’ll be mine, won’t you? Sweet little thing, fucked happy and heavy with my children. Tell me. Tell me you want that.”

“Yes,” you moan, kneading the furs on either side of you. He paints a beautiful picture in your mind of fresh fruit, crisp water, and this dreamlike pleasure for the rest of your days. Beneath him, any thoughts of the world outside this moment melt away. There’s only the two of you, resplendently warm and living amongst the clouds. “I want it. I want–I want you,” you say, touching either side of his face. He leans heavily into your touch, his eyes falling shut. A soft noise that sounds like relief escapes him as you kiss him, coaxing that long, clever tongue out to meet yours.

The eagerness with which he reciprocates nearly chokes you, his tongue slipping over yours and halfway down your throat before pulling back, practically devouring you in this kiss. In your fever, this consuming passion feels so much like love it makes your head spin, makes you forget where, when and who you are. He breaks the kiss to moan unabashedly, shifting to put his lips to your throat, mouthing at your skin like he’s trying desperately not to sink his teeth in. The thought thrills you. You almost want him to.

“Again,” he pants, grip tightening on your thighs. “Say it again, please.”

“I want you,” you say again, more certain now. The desperation in him is disarming, and despite the animalism of him, you can clearly see the man in him now, hear it in the way he pleads for you to indulge him. That and the euphoric spill of pleasure electrifying your every nerve imbues you with some kind of sense of power, and however misplaced it may be, you immediately feel drunk on it. You can feel your body beginning to build back towards that ultimate swell of euphoria again. “I want to be yours. I want you to be mine.”

He groans, dipping lower to suck a mark at the junction between your neck and shoulder. This time, when you feel the brush of his teeth, you don’t shy away. You cup the back of his head and drag your nails down his scalp. Homelander thrusts his hips jaggedly, wringing a throaty gasp out of you. “Keep talking,” he demands, but you hear the plea for what it is.

“You feel good. Y-you fit,” you say, echoing his own words, though it’s getting harder to speak with the way he’s starting to fuck you in earnest, just barely withdrawing before he drives back in, as if he can’t bare to be more than an inch outside of you. You moan for him, chasing the bliss swelling rapidly between your legs.

Wait… Something really is swelling.

“What is that?” You ask, voice reedy. You whimper. Somehow, it feels as though he’s getting bigger. “What’s h-nnngh, what’s happening?” Your words are starting to slur together again, your mind split down the middle between your mounting orgasm, and the surreal feeling of the base of his cock growing inside you.

“Knot,” he explains between swipes of his tongue. “Keeps every drop of me inside you,” he says, giving a shuddering moan as that swell catches on the rim of your cunt when he tries to draw back. Just when you thought you had adjusted, that swell makes you ache, has you whimpering and squirming under him.

He could have told you it would get bigger!

“Oh gods, it–mmm, I’m–it feels–” You stop and start again and again, writhing, but he keeps you firmly in place, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh loud in your ears as he fucks you harder and faster, spurred on by the quiver of your cunt as your own climax nears.

“Come for me again. Show me that you want it. I want to feel your pretty little cunt squeeze my cock for my come,” he urges, voice reduced to a rough growl in your ear. He sounds like he’s barely holding himself together, every word more strained than the last. “Give it to me. Give yourself to me.”

The tug of his swollen knot bouncing off of your rim and the feel of his thick ridged cock massaging your walls completely overwhelms you. “Y-yes, okay, I’m–oh gods, gods, I’m–I’m coming, Homelander, Homelander!” You call, lips falling open on a silent scream as your throat locks up, a third orgasm crashing down on you with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs.

Homelander muffles his own cry into the crook of your neck, stilling halfway through your orgasm with one final slam. This time, the rush of his release is pressed tightly against your cervix, pooling inside you with nowhere to go, his knot doing precisely what he said it would. The heat of it fills you in hot, rushing spurts, his cock jerking against your spasming walls with every load he empties into you.

A sudden stinging pain makes you gasp, confusion seeping into the euphoria that has thoroughly addled your brain. Fuck, you realize he’s biting you. His teeth sink in as smoothly as a knife through fresh butter, the sting giving way to the sheer heat of his mouth, the stroke of his tongue, and the inexplicable way it intensifies your orgasm.

The room falls deafeningly quiet save for the pound of your own heart in your ears and the heavy way you’re each catching your respective breath. Your arms fall bonelessly to your sides as you pant, your vision slightly blurry. Homelander begins lapping at your shoulder, soothing the spot he’d bitten. Your whole body feels heavy, stuffed fuller than you ever could have conceived possible. All you can do is whine as he adjusts you, gingerly bringing your legs down to settle on either side of him.

You’re not sure how you’ll ever get off of his cock now that you’re on it. His knot feels like a permanent part of you, fitted so snugly that, just as promised, you don’t feel a single drop spill.

Homelander doesn’t stop at your neck. He drags his tongue down to the dip of your clavicle, where it splits apart slightly anywhere it moves over bone. It feels surreal, but somehow different from the first time you woke to him licking you. For starters, you’re not terrified he’s going to eat you. That has an entirely new connotation now.

He moves down further, slinking down into the valley between your breasts, sighing as he pushes them together to lave his tongue between. He’s languid, practically purring with each breath as he savors the feel and the taste of you. You don’t have it in you to feel much more than exhausted, your limbs as heavy as stone, but it does feel good. Your breath catches when he opens his lips around one of your nipples, sucking almost half of your breast into his preternaturally hot mouth. His pierced tongue swirls over your nipple while his teeth flex precariously against the tender flesh. You lurch, letting out a breathy noise.

“Careful, please,,” you exhale, earning a glance up from him. His eyes are completely glazed over, soft and dark in a way that takes your breath away. He hums quietly in some weak acknowledgement before his eyes flutter closed, his throat bobbing with every swallow as he sucks your breast with unexpected gentility.

Watching him stirs a wash of strange feelings in you. With what little strength you have, you bring your hand up to touch his horn, contemplating the texture of it beneath your fingers. You follow the line of it down to his skull, tracing his hairline just beneath the crown that adorns his head, slipping behind his sharply pointed ear. He’s truly incredible to behold up close like this, beautiful without the lens of terror you had been viewing him through.

On some level, you know you should still be afraid, but it’s a difficult feeling to muster when he’s warm and lax on your chest with his cock buried inside you, suckling on your breast as you’re still riding the high of three consecutive climaxes.

You push your fingers into his flaxen hair. You’ve never seen hair this color before except in very young children. In your experience, age always darkens it away to a sandy color, but his is as bright and warm as sunshine. There doesn’t seem to be any part of him that isn’t golden. He exhales a deep sigh as you run your nails along his scalp, nuzzling sweetly against you. You smile despite yourself.

Who would have thought that a dragon might be so very much like an overgrown house cat?

When Homelander lifts his head, his tongue is the last to leave, returning to his mouth with a wet slide across his lips. He’s left your skin shiny with saliva, but he isn’t finished. He immediately lowers himself to your other breast, taking it into his mouth in precisely the same way. You bring your other hand up into his hair and continue to massage his scalp, earning yourself an appreciative little moan from low in his throat, his tail sliding audibly back and forth on the stone floor.

The two of you lay like that for an indeterminate amount of time. You drift in and out of consciousness, worn thin and soothed by the heat of his body seeping into your muscles, fairly certain you’ll never be able to sit up on your own again. Homelander eventually releases your breast with a soft pop and settles his head on your sternum, narrowly avoiding taking one of your eyes out with his horn. You continue to stroke through his hair as your strength gradually returns.

The swell of his knot, too, lessens, but even soft his cock fits snugly inside you. It isn’t until Homelander gingerly lifts himself off of you that it slides out, coming free with a significant gush that soaks your thighs and puddles beneath you. You flush, making a strained little noise. You feel carved out and left hollow by the sheer size of him. His wings withdraw and tuck in behind him while he sits back on his legs to admire the splay of you beneath him.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, smoothing his hands up and down your thighs. You’ve never felt as exposed as you do in this moment, laid bare under his gaze. Even now, visibly drunk on pleasure and thoroughly satiated, there is an undeniable lingering famine in his stare. He sinks down and slowly spreads your legs apart, leaning in to run his tongue up the crease of your inner thigh. He laps languidly at your skin, earning hitched little breaths and sounds from you as his tongue deftly cleans the mess he’s made of you. He’s much more tame now than he had been, focusing not on overstimulating you, but simply washing you. It’s a strange and animalistic thing to do, but it’s intimate, too. Sweet, even.

Gods, he’s really done a number on your psyche.

Once he’s satisfied with the state of you, he climbs back up and settles on his side, looking at you with his hand poised over you, hovering like he isn’t sure what to do with it. His expression starts to shift, concern seeping into it. “You’re quiet. Did I hurt you?”

You huff a little breath. You’re quiet because you’ve just been fucked within an inch of your life by a dragon’s cock, but aside from that, of course he had. “You bit me, for starters.”

He turns somewhat sheepish at that. “Instinct. I wanted to mark you.”

“You succeeded,” you say, touching your shoulder tentatively.The skin is still raw, but it isn’t bleeding. It doesn’t even feel like it’s going to scab.

You must wear your confusion plainly, because Homelander is quick to explain: “I sealed the wound. It should be fully healed by sundown.”

“How did you seal it?” You ask, bolder now with how you touch it. It feels like simple indentations, a perfect mold of his teeth.

“My saliva has particular properties. There was a method to my debauchery,” he says, pointedly licking his lips.

You suppose that’s far from the most miraculous thing about him. “That’s convenient,” you say, to which he smiles. It’s bizarre how easily this comes now. You’ve heard of breaking the tension before, but this is certainly the most intense way you’ve ever broken through that initial barrier to more casual conversation.

Seeing that his hand is still hovering over you, you make a choice and take it, pulling it down to settle on your hip. Relief and excitement flash in his eyes in equal measure, and he takes that as permission to tuck you the rest of the way against him, settling on his side. He rests his head in his palm, propped up on his elbow. You curiously explore the plains of his chest with your fingertips, testing where flesh meets scales. They feel almost like bone, crimson colored protrusions that catch the light as prettily as rubies. They’re smattered along his body in the same way a human might have moles or birthmarks, incidental and seemingly without rhyme or reason.

His ribs are guarded by stiff plates that aren’t as solid as the scales, but look to serve as hardy protection. You let your fingers swoop down the ridges of them, comparing the textures along different parts of his body. It’s fascinating.

“I’ve never seen anything like–” you begin to pull your hand away as you speak, but Homelander takes hold of your wrist, bringing it back to his chest.

“Don’t stop.” You look up at him. His expression catches you off guard. He looks wounded, those fiercely blue and ever human eyes of his intensely focused on you. Swallowing, you nod. He lets go, and you begin to traipse your fingers along his chest again, following the line of the leather straps that cross over it. He lets out a heavy breath. “No one’s ever touched me like this,” he tells you after a long few beats of silence. “Not that I can remember.”

You glance up at him, but he’s staring down at your small hand tracing patterns on his chest. “What happened to this place?” You ask, because that seems politer than asking what happened to him.

“Guess it’s been too long for anyone else to remember. They’re all dead,” he says, the mood of his words difficult to discern. He inhales a contemplative breath, clicking his tongue at the end of it. “Time happened. I used to be something else to my people. I was… war. I brought fire down on their enemies, and they loved me for it. I won them their home. Homelander. There were others like me, but I was the best of them,” he says with conviction, though you sense bitterness in his voice, too. “When all the wars were won, they built this tower. They built monuments to their gods, and they placed us here with them as though we ourselves were relics.”

The end of his tail has begun to slap lightly against the ground. You can feel a slight uptick in the heat of him beneath your palm.

“They placated me with gold. Adorned me in it. At times they would summon me to festivals. Use my strength to build their stone cities, but they didn’t celebrate me. They had forgotten their love. They treated me as you would any other tool. Something to be taken off the shelf for work and put away when the task is done.”

The seething resentment is more clear in his voice than ever. While you didn’t ask it, it seems he understood what you really wanted to know. You’ve never heard this story before; The Devourer had only ever been a tyrant upon the people. No one ever spoke of a Homelander. No one ever spoke of a hero.

“When treasure failed to keep me impotent and obedient, they tried meat instead. They sent me livestock, as if the simple act of killing a cow would satiate me,” he snarls through his teeth, smoke wafting between them. He sucks it back, tipping his head up slightly in a bit to regain his composure. “They thought they could control me indefinitely. Out of sight, out of mind. It worked for too long, but only because I allowed it. Because I thought things would change. They never did. So I took their gold and their cattle and their crops and demanded more still. I demanded until they couldn’t ignore me any longer. When they failed to provide, I reigned fire down on them as I did their enemies two hundred years ago, and I gave them no choice but to look at the monster they made.”

His tail cracks like a whip against the stone floor. His anger is so visceral it makes your heart race, but there is more in his gaze than just fury. You feel as though you’re watching him rip apart the stitching over a wound that has been festering for far too long. “After that, they sent people. Simpering peasants who had no fucking idea who or what I really am. They bathed them in oils like slaughtered lambs basted for roast,” he growls, the blue of his eyes fading into an eerie crimson glow. “So I did. I devoured them, and I spat their own blood in their faces. If they wouldn’t have me as a man, they would have a beast instead.”

The Devourer.

You sit in stunned silence, watching as the glow of his eyes gradually fades, though his temperature remains the same. He looks at you, his expression braced, as if he anticipates a specific reaction. Rejection, you suppose. It seems to be the only thing he’s known for centuries. Within his gaze, you recognize a profound need to connect, to feel you, to hear that there might be a single soul in this gods damned world that wants him.

What does one say to such a story? The anger in his voice strikes such a wounded chord, you can practically smell the blood. The rawness of it alone makes your eyes prickle with tears, a lump gathering in your throat. How warped he has become not for the absence of love, but the deprivation of it. It’s clear in the way he speaks of them how desperately he wanted them to still love him.

“I’m sorry,” you say so quietly it’s a wonder he hears you. His expression flips completely, morphing into bewildered surprise.

“What?” His voice sounds small.

“I’m sorry that they abandoned you.”

If his own words are a knife in the wound, yours twist it deeper. He flinches like he’s been struck, staring at you with such bruised incomprehension. He opens his mouth to speak, but it’s as though he doesn’t even believe what you’re saying enough to formulate a response. He kisses you instead, holding your jaw in his claws. “I was good once,” he says against your lips, voice hushed as if he’s confessing a far graver sin. “I’ll be good for you. Let me be good for you.”

The desperation in his voice sets loose your tears. You nod, kissing him just as fervently. Centuries of bloodshed on the back of willful neglect is difficult to stomach, but you believe him. You believe the love that went into this tower–this beautiful prison–that they made for him, and you believe the love that you saw in his face carved in stone. You have no doubt that the wonder of him once inspired all those who beheld them, and that they were fickle enough to grow weary of him. Desensitized and disinterested.

When he rejected their apathy, they rejected his humanity.

Homelander lifts you up into his arms, sitting up, kissing you properly with a hand cupping the back of your head, his arm around your middle. His wings curve in around you, and he kisses you until your lips turn sore and you have to protest, your words melting into muffled laughter. He draws back with a brilliant grin. It’s different from the others you’ve seen; it’s the kind of smile that brings deep warmth to his eyes, crinkling them at the corners. He lingers close to you, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

“I stopped believing a long time ago that you could be real,” he murmurs, unable to stop himself from stealing another quick kiss, his nose purposefully brushing yours. He’s thoroughly starved for every little touch.

“I am. So are you. Not the Devourer, the Scourge, nor the Red Death,” you say, tucking back the stray locks of hair that have fallen over his crown. This, too, had been carved for him. He had been loved once, and as he said, he had been good. There is love in you enough to help him find that goodness again. There’s no reason you cannot live for the being you intended to die for. “Just you. Just Homelander.”

He kisses you, and suddenly you feel as if you’re free falling. From this point on, your life is something new. Something inexplicable and unpredictable. It’s yours, but it’s also his.

All that glitters is not gold, and sometimes the monster in the dark is just your reflection.

phew. thank you SO much for reading. this fic took me almost a full month to write, and it often felt like it was never going to end. that said, i'm already kind of chomping at the bit to write more in this universe. i feel like these two have a ton of potential, and there's just so much more that i want to do with them now that we have the groundwork done. once again, a huge shoutout to the amazing artist @anon-nee, who not only illustrated our dragon boy himself, but these awesome environment sketches as well. please be sure to go give them some love! The Tower of the Seven

The Dragon's Lair

#homelander x you #homelander x reader #monster romance #terato #monster x human #dragon x reader #monster x reader #homelander fanfiction #i'm gonna need so much aftercare from y'all on this one i've been writing it for the last 23 days lmao #and i'm posting it all at once because I LOVE U #my writing #monsterlander mania

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sinner-as-saint · 1 year

Text

heartless

Incubus!Bucky x Witch!reader (fantasy au)

Run-through: You learnt about them when you were young. You had tomes filled with information about them, how to invite one, how to control one, etc. You also knew that if done right, union with an incubus was said to result in the birth of powerful witches. And now, after having spent years all alone following the unfortunate slaughter of your family you have two strong desires; to have a child and to continue the witch bloodline. Both of which can be fulfilled by summoning and making the right arrangements with the right incubus. And the best part of it all, incubi were known to be incapable of love and emotional attachment, so ending the arrangement once you conceived wouldn’t be hard for either parties involved. Except, it’s not always that easy, is it? And perhaps, not all incubi are heartless.

Themes: breeding kink, smut, fluff, incubus!bucky, witch!reader, size difference, he has wings and a tail, some angst, HEA

a/n: nothing is folklore accurate whatsoever just excessive imagination and vibes hehe

You were prepared if ever it was not going to work the first time.

You’d been told, when you were a young woman who had just begun learning about the art of witchcraft under your mother and grandmother’s supervision, that incubi were particularly stubborn and picky demons. They were strong, seductive with vigorous stamina.

Given their power, they aren’t summoned. No. They are invited. And if they are feeling mischievous and generous, they accept the invitation. Sure, most incubi visited weak mortals of their own volition however they did avoid witches. Because the power dynamic there was more or less in equilibrium. Incubi couldn’t mess with witches like they did with mortals because witches were strong and smart enough to mess with them right back.

Still, you had made sure that everything was just perfect. You had countless tomes and books and scrolls on your table, all containing multiple ways of inviting an incubus. So many rules to follow. But you had done everything right; every rune, every herb, every incantation, every offering - to complete the invitation you had always been taught to lure them with something they’d want. Other than sex.

You had been told certain secrets other witch families did not know. Like how incubi, though ravenous, had a weakness for embellishment. Trinkets. Shiny things. So you offered this one a crown made of gilded animal bones.

You had everything in place. All that was left to do was wait. So you sat there, in what you called your workshop. You had a quiet little home in the middle of the woods. Well away from the kingdom of the vile King who had your entire family eliminated after using your powers and cures to save his wife from a terrible disease. For years the King was kind to your family, but one day, his wife died of natural causes, none of your doing but still, the King went mad and ordered to have your family slain. You managed to escape, unfortunately your mother and grandmother couldn’t.

So you ran far, far away from the kingdom. Got on a ship and travelled to a new country. Here people were welcoming and kind. No kings and queens, just people living together in harmony. So with what little money you had, you bought a plot of land and built a house. You had neighbours, but since you all had a large country all to yourselves, everyone was scattered rather far and wide from one another.

This country was unlike anything you’d ever heard or dreamt about. You had friends here who did similar things like you; warlocks, necromancers. Then there were the mermaids in the lake, and the fae people living in the same woods as you, centaurs and wolf shifters lived deeper in the woods, and so many more you still had to meet. There were no wars here, just peace.

But peace, after some years, started looking a lot like loneliness. During the initial years it seemed like you could do this forever, run your little shop, help your new friends when they needed you, socialise and learn about so many new people and animals, you thought you could spend a lifetime just being here and being happy. But then, as much as you adored your friends and neighbours, you missed family. Your own flesh and blood. And after years of living here and making sure that this was the happiest and safest place to have a family of your own, you wanted a child. And what better way of ensuring to pass on the gifts of your powerful bloodline than this. Besides, witches lived for a very, very long time and you couldn’t imagine spending centuries all alone.

You had envisioned your dream life often. Since witches most often had daughters, you often dreamt of you and your daughter living in this lovely place. Your home was spacious enough to accommodate around five people easily so you’d have more than enough space. You would build your daughter her own little workshop table. You’d teach her everything your mother and grandmother taught you, and all that you learnt by yourself. You’d watch her grow up and make friends of her own, maybe she’d like the faeries and the mermaids more. Or maybe even the gnomes. Or the pegasus in the meadows.

Maybe someday down the line you’d have another child. And you’d raise them both with the same kindness and love that your mother had with you. And life would be perfect then; with your girls, your friends, in this peaceful country.

If only…

“Such pretty dreams you’re having, little witch.”

A deep, smooth voice said. Sounding like it wasn’t too far from where you were… sleeping? Had you actually fallen asleep at your desk while waiting? You woke up startled, blinking at the demon in the room who was casually lounging on the chair by the window. The same chair on which you sat and read during the afternoons.

Except, the demon made the chair look smaller than it was. The chair still accommodated him well enough, but he was bigger. Broad shoulders, wide leathery wings folded behind him, long legs… he was surely taller than most of the people here. Shorter than the giants, but still. You had read that incubi were bigger in height and built and… other assets when compared to mortal men but seeing him in real life was still a little shocking.

Every other feature of his was mortal-like. Deep blue eyes, slightly darker here in your candlelit workshop. Pretty face, you noticed, if not a little arrogant looking but it suited him. Well defined features. Soft mouth, perfect nose. And he was slightly tanned. You thought he’d be ghostly white, with near translucent skin given there wasn’t any sun in the depths of hell that he came from. He also had shadowy, near black markings all over his hands, chest and some creeping up his neck. Swirls and symbols, and it only made him look even more dangerously attractive.

The candlelight reflected a little on the shinier parts of his large, leathery wings and you shivered a little before speaking, after clearing your throat. “You came.” You simply said and watched how his mouth twisted into a handsome smirk.

“How could I not?” He said, sounding cocky. “You gave me a proper invitation. And offered me such a pretty crown,” He twirled the gilded crown between his fingers, and added, “And such soft, delicious bread.”

Your face contorted in confusion at the sound of that. “Bread?”

He nodded, still toying with the handmade crown, “Forgive me, I didn’t save you any. I was famished. Butter and honey, was it?” His voice sounded like a purr, like a lover’s caress. Dangerous he was, this one. The handsome ones usually are if you remember your notes correctly.

You blinked at him once, twice and then looked down at your hand and sure enough, there it was - remnants of the butter. You had been nibbling on homemade bread as you waited earlier, but given that you fell asleep at your desk, the bread must have fallen out of your hand, rolled and landed near the runes. Had you messed up? You couldn’t have. He was here, wasn’t he?

The demon gave you another arrogant grin, “I assume the bread was a mistake.”

You stood up from your chair and thought well before speaking, “I apologise.” You said. Even though it is always said to never seem shy and docile in front of the likes of him. You were supposed to assert dominance. But… how could you when he was looking at you like that? Himself looking all regal in all his naked glory.

He chuckled. Chuckled. Then said, “No matter.” You noticed he remained seated. He said, “I heard your invitation, heard what you wanted from me.” He paused for just a second and noticed the way you squirmed. Then continued, “I appreciate your gifts, witch.” He admitted. “So,” He spoke in the voice which was equivalent to a lover’s soft caress again, “A child?”

“Yes,” You said firmly, finally able to stand your ground and act like the powerful witch that you were. “A child.”

He nodded slowly, “I can’t say I’ve ever encountered a motherly sorceress before. Most of them are nasty and cruel.” He spoke with such honesty. It was refreshing almost.

You managed a faint smile as you looked down at the rings on your fingers, many of them were passed down to you, the others you had handcrafted, “Most of us develop a hard exterior because of how we are treated by most mortals. Half of them are afraid of us and the other half despises us enough to hurt us for no reason.”

He cocked his head to the side, “Who hurt you?”

“A King. He… hurt my family.” You answered.

“Hence the empty house.” He noted.

“Yes.” You said, finally looking up to meet his deep blue stare. He was… devilishly handsome. Even as he sat there looking all princely which should’ve irritated you because it was your favourite chair. What if his devilishly strong body breaks it?

But then…

Then he stood up. Proud and tall. Other parts of him stood proud and tall as well so you couldn’t help but look down, following the many muscles on his broad chest, down to his navel and down to his jutting cock.

Holy gods.

He was very, very well endowed. It took some seconds before you moved your shamelessly leering gaze up to his eyes again. And then… holy gods, he was tall. Taking up much more room now that he was standing up in the middle of your, what now seemed cramped, workshop.

He smirked as he looked down at you. Crossing his muscular arms over his chest he said, “I assume I am to your liking then?” He teased, obviously enjoying the way he had you tongue-tied.

You looked up at him nervously. You’d never done this before. And now, standing in your dimly lit workshop, wearing your black flowy black robe, the demon did make you feel a little subservient. “I… um, yes.” You struggled to answer, struggled to hold his lordly stare.

You mindlessly took a step back the moment he began approaching you. Steadily, slowly, letting you see all of him before he came to a stop only inches away from where you stood, near your desk.

“Well then, little witch. Shall we?” He said, before placing his warm hands on either side of your waist and lifted you up to set you down on the edge of the desk with ease. You never quite realised how strong incubi were until now. They were some of the strongest demons of Hell.

You were sat on the edge of your wooden desk, legs dangling off the edge as you looked up at him. Only then did you notice his slender tail, as it wrapped around your thigh which was now exposed due to the slit in your black robe.

The demon seemed to inhale deeply before saying, “You smell absolutely delicious.” He stepped in between your legs, spreading them as he placed both of his hands on either one of your thighs. “May I have a taste?” He asked, slowly pushing your back down on the surface of the table so you lay on it, with your legs still hanging off the edge.

You nodded. “Yes,” You murmured, watching him lean over you for a moment before he pulled your robe up to your waist, taking in the sight of your bare body under it.

He hummed in appreciation which shouldn’t have made your body tingle the way it did. Then he grabbed you by the hips and lifted your lower body off the table with ease, enough so that he could comfortably bend and place his mouth right where you didn’t realise you’d been aching for him to touch.

Your legs hooked easily over his shoulders as his ridiculously soft lips brushed against your inner thighs before you felt his warm, long tongue slide in between your wet lips. He somehow managed to spread your legs even more, leaving you completely at his monstrous mercy as his tongue teasing your entrance, lips sucking on your clit. Damn him. But at least now you understand why most people let incubi feed on them. It’s because their touch was this addicting.

Your hands rested on either side of your head, limp on the table as you threw your head back and moaned, unable to stop yourself. He growled against you, sending pleasurable vibrations all over your body. His tail remained wrapped around your thigh, slithering along your skin in tandem with his devious tongue as he ate you out ravenously, savouring your taste while holding your heated stare.

His strong body in contrast with your more mortal-looking one. His hands and arms, covered in those shadowy markings gripped your thighs securely, keeping you spread open for him. He almost made you forget the reason he was here was beyond just pleasuring you. “You taste exquisite, little witch.”

He knew he could only take minimal energy from you. Mortals were left drained after incubi were done with them but you were stronger, and with your protective wards around you, you didn’t feel as drained. Neither did he feed on you like he would on a mortal. Still, you felt a little delirious, almost euphoric as he tasted you.

You gasped and moaned as he almost made you come all over his tongue. You’d let yourself go under his irresistible touch. It was high time to get to business. “Don’t forget why you’re here, demon.” You managed to say before he slid his tongue inside you once more before pulling away and placing your lower body back on the wooden table.

“Of course. You need more than just my tongue, little witch.” He teased, keeping your legs wide open for him as he reached down and easily tore the rest of your robe off your body. You noticed his eyes got darker as he grabbed and fondled your breasts.

His shadow filled hands slowly trailed down your bare body. He reached your folds and once again teased your clit with his fingers, slowly sliding his one finger down your slit to your opening. His other hand grabbed his cock, guiding it over to your hole. You were drenched down there, he noticed. He was in a mood to play so instead of just sliding into you, he teased you by sliding his tip up and down your slit.

He rather enjoyed watching you hiss, and whine and whimper, and squirm on the tabletop. “You are going to have to put in some effort to fit me inside you.” He said, purposely pushing his tip against your tight opening, just applying enough pressure to make you lose your mind but not quite enough to slide in just yet.

Your voice trembled as you spoke, “Don’t… don’t play with me, demon.” You tried to sound as assertive as you could. But you ended up sounding like you were begging him to keep playing.

“No?” He cooed, almost in a mocking tone. “But you make such pretty sounds when I play with you.”

You arched your back, moving your hips forward, desperately trying to get his cock to slide inside you. You whimpered when he kept teasing you. “Please,” You murmured. Damn this demon and his enchanting touch.

He smirked. “Very well then.” He slowly pushed the tip of his cock inside of you, carefully watching you to gauge your reaction to his size. You felt his length stretching you like no one ever did. You gasped and moaned as he filled you up.

He grabbed your bent legs and spread them open, pushing them as far back as they would go before burying his cock fully inside your tight, warm hole. He held your stare the entire time, even as he pulled out and pushed back into you.

You gasped for air, the snugness of him feeling unbearably good. With your back flat against the wooden table top and you whined at the feeling of his cock moving swiftly in and out of you. You could feel your walls gripping him and milking him as he pounded into you.

“You feel just as good as you taste, little one.” He whispered as you threw your head back and moaned, feeling him moving in and out of you to the point where the only thing you could focus on was the snug way he felt inside you.

His large hands grabbed you by the hips, lifting your lower body just inches off the table and pulling you in each time he pushed inside you with enough force to drive you insane. Then… then you felt something pressing against your clit, rubbing it in sync with how he moved against you. His tail. The flat end of it, sliding across your sensitive clit while he fucked you.

You cried out loud, somehow managing to hold his stare as you slowly felt your brain getting foggy with intense pleasure.

“Look,” He whispered, pounding into you relentlessly, as he lowered his gaze to your lower abdomen. You followed his gaze and let out a gasp of both surprise and bliss. You watched how each time he pushed into you, a soft bulge formed against your stomach. “You’re so soft and delicate.” He said, his voice steady and calm as if he wasn’t rutting into you like an animal.

Mindlessly, you placed your hand right where the bulge formed each time and you felt it against the palm of your hand. You cried out in pleasure again.Your legs trembled as he held them spread open for him, not willing to let them go yet.

You closed your eyes as you felt your walls clenching around him and the pressure around your lower body felt tight and hot. The handsome demon looked down to where you clenched around his cock. And he sped up, moving the desk along with his thrust and causing books and scrolls and pens to fall carelessly on the ground.

Somehow, it felt like he fucked you deeper now. Faster. His damned tail moved against you in equal vigour, flicking your clit until you cried out again. He chuckled, watching you nearly come undone beneath him. So he leaned in and said, “Should I fill you up nicely now, little one?”

His voice, the surprising warmth of his body, the feeling of him inside you, the candlelight which made him look like a wild god. You whined, and said, “Yes, please.”

He smirked, letting go of your legs and instead leaned over your body so he could get close to your mouth. His hand grabbed your wrists and pinned them down on the table, above your head. This close, your breaths mingled. His heated stare, his warm body pressing against yours while his other hand reached up to toy with your breast. “So soft,” He whispered.

For some reason, that was all that you needed to hear, all the stimulation you needed to come undone, clenching around him violently as you did. He held your stare through it all and soon after, he spilled inside you too, grunting and gasping for air.

Your back arched off the wooden table as you felt his warm release filling you up. He pulled out a little and pushed inside you one more time before stopping, properly emptying himself inside you. You were still whimpering and moaning as he pulled out. You could feel his release slowly trickling out of you.

You closed your eyes for a few moments. And you fully expected him to be gone by the time you caught your breath and opened your eyes. But there he still was.

He picked you up from the table, cradled you in his arms and asked, “Where’s your bed?”

You lifted a shaky hand and pointed in the general direction of your bedroom, just outside your workshop and he began walking towards it. He stopped outside the dark doors and nudged them open with his broad shoulder, walking into your bedroom.

No one had ever been in here. Wherever you had your neighbours and friends over for dinner or the afternoon tea, you hosted them in the kitchen or the other rooms. He was the first person to ever walk into your bedroom and honestly, he didn’t look that out of place.

Your bedroom was spacious, mainly dark except for some candles which thanks to your magic could be left unattended and would never burn your house down.

“Here,” He placed you down in the middle of your bed and said, “I’ll take your leave now, little witch.” He spoke, smirking as he let his eyes roam your bare body one last time before turning around.

You reached out and grabbed his wrist before he would fully turn away. You managed to say, voice a little raspier now after all that moaning and gasping earlier, “You… um, in case this doesn’t work the first time around,” You spoke, hoping he read in between the lines, “And if I find myself in need of your, uh, help again. Would you come if I call?”

He grinned. “Of course. No need for shiny crowns next time, just leave out some warm bread.” He left you with a playful wink and a handsome smirk. And then just like that, as if the shadows of your room swallowed him whole, he disappeared.

—

For the following week that passed by, you paid extra attention to your body and with the help of your magic, you’d know if conception occurred. But also, you couldn’t bring yourself to forget the demon.

He’d been just as energetic and thorough as you expected him to be. But… he had also been much more gentle than you expected him to be. The bread incident made you giggle quietly to yourself now that you thought about it. And you did think about it each time you baked.

You were extra nervous the next time you sent out an invitation to him. The conception hadn’t happened, as expected because they rarely work the first time. Which meant that you needed the demon again. So as you waited for him to show up, awake this time, you found yourself feeling unnecessarily giddy.

You not only tried to lure him with your best bread this time, but also a cloak. Not that you minded his naked form but… you felt the need to give him something nice. Not quite like a payment, just a gift if you will. You had made the cloak in a way to accommodate his wings comfortably as well. And those broad shoulders, and strong limbs, and-

You were lost in thoughts of him when a voice spoke up from the corner of the room, “A cloak this time,” He noted, grinning already. “I think you like me quite a lot, little witch.”

You smiled at him. Your heart almost skipped a beat at the sight of him. The handsome demon came wearing the crown you’d made him the last time. And he looked like a god. Naked, golden skin, shiny crown, dark wings and those shadowy markings all over his skin.

“It’s just a way of thanking you for, you know, helping me.”

You didn’t feel so nervous when he approached you this time. You let him come closer until he was standing in between your legs again as you sat on the edge of your desk. He placed his large, warm hands on your thighs as if it were a habit and his tail wrapped around your calf, squeezing just a little to remind you of last time. You shivered at the memory.

“But do you?” He asked playfully.

“What?”

He gave you a cocky grin. “Like me?”

Well that came out of nowhere. You chuckled, “Yes. I wouldn't have sought you out again if I didn’t.”

He smirked. Then reached out to touch your face so gently that for a moment you forgot he was a demon from Hell. “I take it that you need me to fill you up again, little witch?” He asked so brazenly, while your face felt hot.

You managed to say, despite your racing heart, “I do. And I’ve even come up with a plan in order to ensure that it works this time.”

He raised an eyebrow at you, “What plan?”

Your face heated up again as you said, “I suppose for it to work this time around, maybe you shouldn’t, um, pull away so soon after…”

“Ah.” The demon’s smirk denoted that he understood. “I see.” He said, “So you wish for me to remain buried deep inside that tight warmth of yours after I’ve filled you up.” He said, purposely just so he could watch you squirm. “I can do that.”

A sudden confidence shot through you, “Good. That is precisely why you are here, demon.” You sassed.

The demon chuckled before reaching out to grab you carefully by the jaw. His actions were slow and gentle, as if worried he might accidentally hurt you. “Careful with that mouth of yours.” He hissed playfully, “Don’t you know what happens to pretty little witches when they run their mouths like this?”

You held his stare, playing along, “No.” You whispered, “What happens to them?”

He leaned in and whispered against the corner of your mouth in a sinful voice, “They get pinned to the wall and fucked until they cannot think straight.”

You felt your heart racing faster. Your thighs desperately wanted to clench together but he wouldn’t let that happen. His tail slowly moved up and down your leg, stroking your skin and making you crave his touch even more. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this, right? You were supposed to just take what you needed from one another and that should’ve been it. But… you didn’t mind this.

His mouth moved along your cheek and you lost your ability to speak. He kissed along your jaw and down your neck, then he said, “I can hear your heart racing, my little witch. Tell me, is that what you want?” He kissed along your collar bones and the top of your breasts. “Do you want to be pinned to the wall and fucked by a cruel, greedy demon like me? Hmm?”

“Yes…” You managed to whimper. “Please.”

He scoffed, kissing his way back up your neck before he reached your mouth again, “Alright, little one.” He breathed against your parted lips and moved the two of you with such ease and speed that all you did was blink and you found yourself away from the desk and now naked and pinned to the nearby wall, bare legs wrapped around his torso and his mouth pressed against yours.

His wings spread wide behind him, blocking the candlelight from reaching the two of you and shrouding you both in unnatural shadows. Almost as if he couldn’t bear the thought of anything else touching you except for him and his darkness. Not even light.

Your hands wrapped around his broad shoulders, pressing you tightly against his firm body as his mouth moved against yours. His tongue slipped into your mouth, making you moan into the kiss as he undid the tie of your robe, letting it slip down your body until it fell to the floor.

His large hand cupped you in between your legs and he pulled away from the kiss, grinning at you like the Devil himself. “All that for me?” He asked, sliding his knuckles along your wet folds, smearing your arousal around. “How very immoral of you. Spreading your legs and getting all wet for someone like me.”

You whined when he slid a finger inside you, followed by another before he curled his fingers inside of you, hitting all the right spots which make you weak in the knees. You bucked your hips against his hand involuntarily, and he chuckled as you moaned out loud while he touched you.

“Are you ready for me now?” He mumbled, kissing down your neck, nibbling on your skin around your collar bones.

“Yes,” You cried out when he wrapped his mouth around your breast, sucking just enough to drive you wild, making you grind your hips against him, chasing whatever friction you could get.

His cock briefly brushed against your wet folds in the process and you whimpered. You felt his body tense up against you as well and a quick moment later, he aligned his tip to your dripping wet hole and slowly pushed in.

His fingers dug into your skin as he held you by your hips, and yours scratched at his shoulders as he filled you up like the previous time, making you whine and moan as he went. His body was familiar now. His heat, his scent. The sound of him breathing, his warm chest pressing against yours. And when you looked down, you already knew you’d find that bulge forming against your stomach each time he buried himself all the way inside of you.

When he began rocking in and out of you, your body remembered. The stretch of his thickness, the snugness of him, the way he started out with slow strokes and then gradually sped up into you. It was all familiar. Except this time, you could feel his back muscles moving along with each thrust of his. Each movement of his reminding you of the sheer power his sinful body contained.

“You feel even better than last time, little one.” He said as his devious tail reached up and wrapped around one of your breasts, pumping it before moving to the other one, and repeated.

His strong arms supported you up by grabbing you at the curve of your ass, holding you against him, as he sped up into you. He fucked you relentlessly, with a little less caution this time. Your back hit the wall with each thrust and you couldn’t stop whimpering, whining and moaning as he fucked into you with the intensity only a demon like him could.

Your hands somehow slid beyond his shoulders, grabbing onto the base of his large, dark wings. He stilled. Then supported you up with one hand thanks to his devilish strength, while the other pulled your sneaky hands away from his wings and pinned them above your head. He began fucking you again and said, flirtatiously warning you, “Wings are extremely sensitive.”

That only intrigued you even more, but all that for later. You needed him right now. And you needed to come.

He leaned in and nibbled at the skin under your ear and you lost all control you had left. Your thoughts became cloudy and all you could focus on was how his body brought you immense pleasure, your mind a foggy mess. Your clit rubbed against his stomach each time he buried himself completely in you, and he soon quickened his pace, earning even more moans and gasps from you.

Your legs started to shake around him as he quickened his pace, pounding into you relentlessly. The pleasure built nicely as he took you higher. The bulge in your stomach forming and disappearing quicker now. Your moans were wanton.

“Ready for me to fill you up again, little one? Hmm? You’re going to be so full after this,” He whispered, leaning in just so his mouth would brush against yours as he spoke. “Perhaps you’ll still feel me in between your legs when you wake up tomorrow. Is that what you want? Huh? Is that why a pretty little witch like you invited a filthy beast like me? Because you wanted to be so full.”

You couldn’t hold back anymore. So, you came undone around his thickness. Walls clenching around him, nails scratching down his shoulders and chest as loud moans escaped your mouth. He came right after you did, cock throbbing against your pulsating walls before he filled you up with his warm release. Pumped you full of it until you could feel it inside you.

And just like you’d instructed him earlier, he didn’t pull away immediately. He caught his breath for a few moments before he moved, keeping you pressed against his chest, still buried deep inside you he pulled away from the wall and walked out of your workshop, towards your bedroom.

You felt a soft pinch inside your chest at the thought of him being so comfortable with moving around in your house.

He opened the bedroom door, still holding you close to him as he carefully laid the two of you in your bed. He barely fit in your bed which was in fact made to hold two people. He pressed closer to you as you both laid on your sides facing each other. “Are you alright, little one?” He asked softly. With genuine care.

You blinked at him lazily, feeling boneless because he’d worn you out. “Hmm, I’m alright.” You whispered, feeling his tail stroking your leg as if comforting you while his hands held you close to him.

He gave you a rare, soft smile. Then said, “Tell me about your shop.”

You smiled and answered, “Well, it’s a typical witch shop. I sell crystals, candles, herbs, and medicine. The children get hurt often, especially when they play in these woods, so I sell stuff that heals them even quicker. I have special crystals, laced with magic to help my friends shift quicker. The mermaids love them. The dragon folks up on the mountains love them too. The wolves wear them around their necks like necklaces.” You paused, “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged, the movement also moving him while he was inside you so you whimpered in pleasure. He pulled you closer, kissing your forehead as if apologising and answered, “I’m just curious about your community here. It all seems so… peaceful.” He said.

“It is.” You gave him a faint smile. “Everyone is welcomed here. A family of moth people just moved in down the creek. They have the most adorable little children.” You giggled. “And-,” You stopped abruptly at the sight of the longing and slight envy in his eyes. “What is it?” You asked, sensing the shift in his demeanour. He seemed sad.

He gave you a faint, fake smile. “I’m just thinking about how nice it must be. To be accepted for being whatever you are. To have friends and not have people look at you and run away screaming.”

Your heart ached for the handsome demon. You reached out and laid a hand on his cheek. “I’m sorry.” You whispered, sincerely. “Is it that bad where you’re from?”

“It’s lonely.” He answered truthfully. You knew the feeling all too well.

Your thumb instinctively began stroking his smooth cheek. “And you can’t leave.” You stated, suddenly feeling very bad for the demon.

“Oh we can leave. I know a few of my kind who have left and moved elsewhere, but it’s not common.” He said, “There are not many places where beings like me are accepted.” Then he smiled and said, “I’m not like you, little witch. I have no skills. There’s nothing I can do to contribute to a lovely community like this one and have its people accept me as one of their own.”

You chuckled, “Well, I’m sure we could find something for you to do.” You said, “You have wings and can move at incredible speed, maybe you could be a mail carrier.”

He laughed. Truly laugh, louder than he ever had. And he looked like a god while he did. His boyish laughter echoed around your bedroom and if you could bottle up the sound and keep it forever, you would.

When he finally stopped and looked back at you, you could’ve sworn you saw something resembling affection in his eyes. “You truly are something, little witch. I’m very glad I met you.” For some reason, his words felt like goodbye.

And then it hit you. If you managed to conceive this time, maybe this would be goodbye. You snuggled closer to him, refusing to think about that right now, and said, “And I’m glad I met you, demon.” His wing wrapped around you and you fell asleep some moments after, cocooned in the warmth of his body and wing.

—

When you woke up in the morning, he was gone. The entire day went by in a blur. You worked at your shop, met up with your friends for afternoon tea, made yourself dinner and then you went back to bed. And repeat.

It was only two days later, when you sensed something different about your body did you realise that it had happened. You were expecting. And your heart sank, solidifying the fact that you would never see the demon again. It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, but you couldn’t get rid of the sadness.

But that was the initial plan, was it not? So what if you’d miss his handsome face, his cocky humour, and his touch. This is what you wanted, a baby. And now you were going to have one. And yet, you couldn’t help but miss him.

You thought the absence of him would not matter in time, but weeks later, it felt the same. Each time you made your bed, each time you baked, each time you saw a couple walking hand in hand, everything reminded you of the surprisingly kind demon.

But then one evening, as you returned home from your shop, you sensed something different in the air the moment you stepped inside your house.

And something stirred inside you, that pinch in your chest, the way your heart fluttered. You knew.

“You’re here.” You whispered, shutting the door behind you. You placed your basket down and waited. And then, as if he stepped out of shadow itself, one moment he was nowhere to be seen and the next, he was standing a few feet away from you.

Wearing his dark cloak and his golden crown. He looked like a forgotten, ancient god. One so handsome anyone would willingly worship at his altar. “I am.” He answered, looking at you with sad eyes.

You held his stare and both of you were quiet for a while. You hadn’t invited him tonight. It had been weeks since you last saw each other and seeing him right now, it hurt. It hurt even more because he seemed… lost, hurt and confused. And you didn’t know what to do.

Then his eyes trailed down your body, stopping around your midsection. You smiled and placed a hand on your abdomen, even though you hadn’t started showing just yet. “It worked,” You told him. “I’m expecting.”

“I see.” When he looked up to meet your eyes again he looked even more miserable. And heartbreakingly alone.

“Well,” You said cheerfully, hoping to make him feel a little better. “I was going to make dinner, would you like to join me? I even made fresh bread.” You said, smiling up at him.

He gave you a faint smile, noticing how you weren’t asking him what he was doing here. He nodded, following you to the kitchen and the cosy dining table.

–

Dinner went well. The conversation flowed. He asked you about your neighbours and friends, and your shop. He laughed at your jokes and you laughed at his. Yet once you were both done with your food, the tense silence was back.

Then, while he helped you put away the dishes he said, “I wanted to see you.”

You placed the last plate down and then turned to look at him. “I’m glad you came.” He was so tall that you had to extend your arm up completely to be able to touch the shiny crown on his head. It warmed your heart that he wore it. You smiled and asked, “You really like that crown, don’t you?”

He smiled back at you and said, “It’s my favourite gift I’ve ever been given.”

“Do you show it off to everyone?” You asked, teasing him.

His smile fell a little. “I have no one to show it off to.” He stated.

Your heart broke at the sound of that. You couldn’t help but lean in and wrap your arms around his torso. He was warm, his body heat wrapping around you as you hugged him. “I’ve missed you too.” You said.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer and kissed the top of your head. “Can I stay for a while?” He asked, and the softness of his voice made you tear up.

“Of course you can stay,” You said, then pulled away to look up at his pretty face. “For as long as you wish to.”

So you and the handsome demon found yourselves on that favourite chair of yours, with you on his lap. You tried to read but then ended up engaging in playful banters with him until you slowly drifted off to sleep right there on his lap, with your face nuzzling his neck. He had his arms wrapped protectively around you, reminding you a lot of how the dragons guarded their hoards.

So you fell asleep, dreaming of random things until…

You were in the meadows. The sun was about to set so the sky was nothing but golden and pink and purple. But you weren’t alone. A little girl was holding your hand tightly.

Your daughter?

You looked down and she was barely tall enough to reach your knees but she squealed in happiness, pointing up at the sky. You followed her small finger and found a dark spot in the pink and purple sky above. A dark spot, like shadows, that grew and grew until it looked like it was getting closer and closer to the ground. It was. He was. Mighty wings flapping in the wind as he flew above you in circles until he landed on the grass with a loud thud.

Your daughter dropped your hand and ran to him, to her father. And he picked her up, holding her high up in the air, laughing as she giggled louder than ever, before hugging her close as he walked over to you. Once close enough, he bent down to kiss your forehead, curling a wing around you. As if it were a habit. As if he’d done it hundreds of times.

“Let’s go home, my love.”

You woke up, and immediately pulled away to meet his eyes. Incubi could infiltrate dreams with ease. And your handsome demon had done just that.

You held his stare in silence for a while. Then you managed to ask, voice a little shaky, “Is that- what you just showed me, is that something you would want?”

He grabbed you by the hips and pulled you even closer, “You are what I want.” He whispered, inches away from your lips. “You and…” He placed a hand on your not-showing-yet stomach. “Her. And however many more babies you would want from me. I want everything with you.”

Your eyes watered, and you managed a faint smile as you said, “And here I was taught that demons were heartless.”

He chuckled, and grabbed your hand and brought it up to his chest. He placed your palm down on the material of the cloak, right in the middle of his chest and said, “Feel that?” He pressed your palm against his chest. And you felt it, the steady beat of his heart. “I forgot it was even there. Until it began racing the other day when I thought of you.”

You blinked away the wetness at your waterline, sniffled and said, “How poetic of you, demon.” Then you realised, “I don’t even know your name.”

He laughed again, eyes filled with adoration as he looked at you. “I don’t have one. Then again, my name can be whatever you want it to be.”

Your heart doubled in size just looking at him. “Are you sure you want this? You’ll have to pull your weight. I’ll make you do chores.” You teased.

He smiled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. “Anything you want me to do, I’ll do it.” He smirked then added, “I’ll even carry mail around if you want.”

You couldn’t help but lean in for a kiss. A deep, passionate kiss. One that made him growl possessively against your mouth before he claimed it with enough passion that had you undoing the buttons in the front of your dress as quickly as you could.

He helped you in getting rid of your long, flowy dress. Then as you straddled his lap properly, he shrugged off his cloak and dropped it on the ground. And all it took was one silent, pleading look from him and you bucked your hips against his, your wet core rubbing against his erection and he grunted. His hands rubbed up and down your sides lovingly.

“Don’t tease me, little witch.” He whispered mischievously against your mouth, your warm breaths mingling. The fact that he was willing to just sit there and let you take whatever you wanted from him turned you ravenous.

You lifted off his lap and slowly lowered yourself down on his cock, or tried to because you still had trouble taking him given his size. But with a little help, he grabbed you by the hips to keep you in place and he pushed up into you. Making you cry out as you finally began sinking down on him. Somehow, he felt bigger this way and your body resisted just a little to fit him inside.

An arrogant smirk formed on his pretty face as he watched you struggle for a while. “Do you need help, little one?” He asked, and once you nodded, looking at him with pleading eyes, he grabbed your hips in place and gently began thrusting his hips up into you until you found a pleasurable pace.

When you felt that your body could take it, you began moving against him. Lifting up just the slightest, before sliding back down on his cock, you whimpered as he groaned, snug inside of you. In this position, the tip of his cock reached sensitive places you never knew existed.

“You’re so warm,” He whispered, his eyes locked in place where he disappeared inside you each time you moved. Lust-drunk, both of you. You leaned in closer, cradling his head as he took one of your breasts into his mouth while his tail wrapped around the other.

Crying out in overwhelming pleasure, you moved faster, impaling yourself down on his cock each time. You whimpered shamelessly as you felt him filling you up completely each time, feeling him reach deeper into you with each thrust.

His hand slipped between the two of you and he placed his palm against your abdomen. Your heart melted as you remembered the dream you just had. You cupped his face and he released your nipple to look up at you. Nothing needed to be said, the sincerity and adoration in his eyes spoke volumes. You leaned in for a soft kiss, moaning against his lips as his hand circled around your waist and he pulled your warm body closer to his.

He felt warm from deep within. Warmth he had never felt before. Your lips brushed against his each time you moved up and down his cock. He mostly let you set the pace and he took whatever you gave him, only guiding you up and down his cock when you needed him to.

You pulled away, bouncing on his cock as you stared into his pretty eyes. He whispered gently about how perfect you felt around him, wet and warm all for him. He panted against your cheek, kissing the side of your face and gripping your jaw with his hand. “You’re mine,” He whispered.

“And you’re mine.” You didn’t slow down as you felt your orgasm wash over you, and he kept thrusting his hips up into you as your eyes rolled back and you moaned out loud as you came, hard, feeling your walls squeezing and clenching around him.

He came right after you, his warm release filling you up once again as he wrapped his arms around you and pressed your warm body closer to him. “I’m gonna take care of you.” He promised.

You smiled, pulling away to look into his eyes. “You’ll never be lonely again. I promise.” You sealed your promise with a kiss on his forehead and he couldn’t have smiled any bigger.

“Do you have to go and bring back all your belongings?” You asked, kissing down his face until you could nuzzle his chest. Secretly not wanting him to leave even for just a minute.

“I don’t have any. All I have is the crown and cloak you gave me.” Something about that made you tear up as you looked up at him. He smiled at you, pulling you closer.

You sniffled, snuggling closer to him. “I'll make you a drawer full of clothes and cloaks. Some pants too. Maybe even a hat or two for when it gets cold.”

He laughed, kissing the top of your head. No one had ever cared for him this much, let alone a fraction of this. And in that moment he knew there was nothing he wouldn’t do for you, and the family that you two would have soon. ��I’ll love you till the end of time, little witch.”

“And I you, demon.” You wrapped yourself around him, placing your ear right above where you thought his heart would be. In the middle of his chest and there it was, his steady and strong heartbeat.

—

Part 2 (just in case you wanna read more about these two)

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes #demon!bucky #marvel

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youremyheaven · 8 months

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The 8h in Astrology💀🦇✨

(this can apply to both tropical and vedic placement of 8th house because regardless of the system employed, the energy felt and experienced is the same :-)

The 8h is perhaps the most mysterious house in astrology and is most commonly associated with sex, death and unexpected events. Its also related to one's longevity, wealth, debts, transformation etc

It is a very misunderstood house, so I thought I'd make a post analysing it and shedding light on its nature<3

8h is connected to finances, occult, revenge, taboos and fears.

Sex, death and transformation form the core of 8h (scorpio). These are very Scorpionic themes and we must understand why. I had already explained how sex and death are interrelated and kind of go hand in hand. Sex and death are similar in the sense that they both offer release from life; the former temporarily and the latter permanently 💀 and when there's talk of sex and death, there is bound to be talk of transformation because both of these are deeply transformative activities.

It is interesting that a water house, like the 8h rules over sex because water is an element that absorbs things quickly. Sex can be best understood as a transfer of energy between two people; this is why sometimes with certain people, sex can feel very draining and post-coitus, many people describe feeling melancholic. Water is the most emotional element because, unlike other elements, it's in the nature of water to merge itself, like rivers merging with the sea; union is essential because water by design flows from itself to eventually reach the ocean.

Each water sign expresses this emotional depth differently but it is at its height in Scorpio which is generally understood as a very "intense sign".

Scorpio is known for its highly sexual nature but it's very rare to see a Scorpio enjoy casual sex (unless they have other placements that encourage it). This is because they deeply crave emotional connection and emotional intimacy.

It is why it's advised to be selective about one's sexual partners; because sex can have a profound impact on one's spiritual energy and cannot be considered a purely physical activity. it's possible for one to be disconnected from their emotions but being intimate with someone is not an un-emotional act by nature since sex is ruled by the water sign of Scorpio/8h.

In French, an orgasm is called "le petit mort" or "little death" and its safe to say that sex & death are closely associated in many cultures.

there is a reason why sex, fears, trauma, taboos are all 8h topics. if you've ever come across someone who naturally exhibits a very potent, magnetic sexual energy and aura, 8/10 times they've lived very messed up lives or come from a home that was less than ideal. this is because sexuality is inherently dark and shadow-y; someone who has a very potent sexual aura can easily intimidate others; they're bound to have a very unsettling effect on others; this is because we unconsciously pick up on the fact that they've been through things we can't imagine. they project things we fear. historically sex symbols have always come from really abusive families, have terrible relationships with their father, usually had to bear their mother's emotional burdens, they've most likely had a string of bad relationships and likely suffered abuse. why is this? whatever we project on the outside is a reflection of what goes on within us.

There is a reason why most people say Old Hollywood actresses were so much more unique and better than the current lot. Not only did they have a distinct persona but they each reflected it energetically. True raw sexuality always points to darkness lurking underneath; this is what makes us curious about them, what draws us in and what makes their presence so intense; like they suck up the air around them.

Most celebs today are beautiful on the outside and possess every feature it takes to be "sexy" but they do not have sex appeal. They lack presence.

(I went off on a tangent lmao, anywayyyyys)

8h is connected to transformation. Birth and death are two of the most fundamentally transformative experiences, not just for the people undergoing it but also for everyone in their lives. In our lives, we also experience ego deaths and spiritual re-births, so we live and die many times before we actually die. Sex too is an activity that is supercharged with transformative potential. There is a reason why sex is performed ritualistically in many occult initiation ceremonies and why Tantra is so heavily associated with sex that it is practically only known as some kind of crazy yogic sex thing. Sex opens up an energetic channel, a doorway so to speak, that allows for new energy to be invited in. There is a reason why many creatives consider their partners to be their muses (although its not necessary for a muse to be their sexual partner; i will get into this in more depth in a future post).

the 8h is connected to unexpected events because by nature we cannot predict either birth or death. we can come up with a tentative time frame but it's not possible to conclusively say someone will die/be born at this specific time. 8h governs all matters that are unexpected; positive and negative. life can turn on a dime. you can go from rags to riches over night but you can also lose your empire in minutes. 8h transits bring about crazy transformative experiences and depending on your placements and aspects, create a lot of emotional turbulence as well.

I have noticed that many 8h natives tend to be heavy sleepers whereas 12h natives often struggle with insomnia.

8h is connected to both wealth/finances as well as debts. This comes down to the fact that the 8h is connected to transformation. Our resources/money is a significator of our karma (in spirituality karma means actions) and therefore they are always undergoing change. There are certain aspects of our life we cannot change (where we are born, who we are born to etc) but our finances are up to us to change and transform. Its interesting that the 8h is linked to loans, debts etc. and not just accumulating wealth. An afflicted 8h can show someone who has a lot of debts or an inability to keep hold of money.

8h is also related to what is kept hidden or secret and finances/debts are usually the things that people are extremely private about (so are other 8h activities like sex and death).

Wherever you have your 8h, you're probably better off keeping those matters very low-key and private because its easy to attract evil eye.

the reason 8h is also associated with revenge is because it represents our shadow side, its the 8th house from the 1st house of self/ego, so it represents what we keep hidden/our shadow. The reason why we feel so triggered by certain people is because they project our shadow (in the Jungian sense of the term). If we ever hate some people for no reason, there is a HIGH chance that our 8h placements are present in their chart.

8h synastry can create some of the most toxic relationships and lead to a lot of purging and projecting on to each other. This is never good for long term relationships.

This is also why 8h is connected to fears. Our fears are usually subconscious and hidden from others and even from our conscious selves. This is again why its also connected to taboos. The 8h essentially covers all that lies underneath the surface.

"A human being is a part of the whole, called by us “Universe”, a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest — a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty. Nobody is able to achieve this completely, but the striving for such achievement is in itself a part of the liberation and a foundation for inner security."- Albert Einstein (Jyeshta Moon) 8h

its very common for 8h natives to feel trapped or stuck in their circumstances. being "caged in" is a very definitive 8h experience.

In Tibetan Buddhism, the concept of "Bardo" is present. It is the intermediate, transitional or liminal state between death and re-birth. This need not refer to literal death and re-birth of course.

The experience of Bardo is transcendental, allowing an individual to experience reality in the clearest way possible but it can also be terrifying. It is an opportunity for liberation but it can also prove to be dangerous as one experiences hallucinations based on their karma.

Bardo can be experienced during times when the usual way of life is interrupted, such as during the course of illness, during meditation etc. Such times can prove fruitful for spiritual progress because external constraints diminish. However, they can also present challenges because it can also make us impulsive.

8h transits can often feel this way and having 8h placements itself can feel this way; you're capable of immense spiritual depth but also of causing so much trouble and sometimes its impossible to separate the two.

8h natives could be heavy sleepers or struggle with insomnia (this is more 12h imo)

8h transits are often connected to death 💀 and the 8h placement can provide significant clues about one's lifespan, nature of death etc

“Whoever loves becomes humble. Those who love have , so to speak pawned a part of their narcissism.”― Sigmund Freud (Moon in 8h)

8h natives experience a riptide of emotions but are unable to channel it effectively. They are not the best at expressing how they feel verbally. The reason why Moon is debilitated in Scorpio is because these natives are unable to express how they feel and unable to receive energy in the same way as Cancerian natives (Moon rules Cancer) this is not due to any other reason but that these natives have such a vast reservoir of emotions and such depth that it's almost too much for them to process and grasp emotions in a nonchalant way.

“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them -- words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.”― Stephen King (Jyeshta Moon/Moon in Scorpio)

8h in an earth sign could signify dying of old age, 8h aspecting neptune/uranus/pluto could signify unnatural death, 8h in fire signs could point to violence/accidents.

since the 8h is connected to the subconscious realm, its also linked to psychology, magic and secrets. magic involves tricking the mind into believing something is real when it's not, it's a very 8h activity.

the subconscious also stores our secrets which is why its connected to hate and revenge.

the natural ruling planet of 8h is Saturn and Saturn stands for discipline, justice, karma and time. in life we get what we give (this is also a sexual principle) and this explains the connection between 8h and sex, as well as 8h and saturn.

ultimately scorpio's waters represent that which we hide, be it desire, fear, traumas or taboos.

in vedic astrology, scorpio is exalted in ketu whereas rahu is exalted in taurus (the opposite sign of scorpio is taurus). the fact that ketu is the tail of the dragon with no physical form of its own and that its exalted in a water sign is very telling.

"Ketu signifies the spiritual process of the refinement of materialisation to the spirit and is considered both malefic and benefic, as it causes sorrow and loss, and yet simultaneously turns the individual to God. In other words, it causes material loss to force a more spiritual outlook in the person." (this is from wiki)

I would say Scorpio/8h can be described very similarly. experiencing loss is a big theme in the life of an 8h native. its very easy for 8h natives to give into drugs, other substances and live a very hardened life. its through experiencing loss and heartbreak that an 8h native can break through the cycle and seek spirituality because the 8h is innately connected to the spiritual realm.

these natives can veer between either extremes, i.e, they can be alcoholics/addicts, never experiencing true love/meaningful relationships but through pain, a divine channel opens up and many reform their ways for the better. because an evolved 8h native is capable of profoundly deep intimacy and are the most loyal and protective of companions/partners/friends.

its hard for these natives to find stability and most 8h natives are naturally guarded people, suspicious of others and their intentions which makes them true blue introverts.

🌹true romantics deep down, these natives desire love profoundly but feel unable to express it adequately. if your partner is an 8h native, they'll remember all your likes and dislikes, every little thing about you, pick up on your habits and preferences but they'll seldom verbally gas you up or be affectionate. they're more covert with their love.

being extremely mysterious, many 8h natives could have a not so good reputation. people perceive them in ways that are far removed from who they are. they could also have many secret admirers.

symbolised by the scorpion, a fiercely guarded creature that is intelligent, defensive, dangerous and ruthless to its enemies, 8h natives imbibe quite a few of these traits. they are so defensive because they feel like they have to protect themselves. being a water sign, they absorb things easily and this pollutes their energy.

they're the kindest people underneath it all<33

#sidereal astrology #astrology notes #astrology observations #vedic astrology #nakshatras #astroblr #astrology #vedic astro notes #astro notes #astro observations #8th house #scorpio #water sign

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cookinguptales · 8 months

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As someone who grew up in a bilingual household where we spoke English but also signed, the part of Mabel and Theo's relationship that fascinates me the most is the communication, or lack thereof.

I'm mostly hearing (...sort of...) but grew up around a lot of d/Deaf people, CODAs, interpreters, etc. so while I can't give any input on the experience of profound deafness, I can at least tell apart different styles of signing. It's a little hard to tell sometimes how much of this is characterization vs. the skill level of the actors, but it is interesting.

Teddy Dimas does not sign fluidly. It's immediately obvious. It's not that he's terrible or that he can't be understood... it's just that there are a lot of tells that he does not sign as a primary language. The terseness of the signs, the deliberateness. You can tell that there's a second of thought before each sign, a jerky sort of compactness to them, that's common with people who learn to sign later in life. (Or who don't get a ton of practice with it.)

Signing, when you do it right, requires the use of your whole body. That can be hard for hearing people, who are generally used to more restrained movements. Teddy Dimas has never quite lost that restraint. He still can't go all in, not with his signing or his parenting.

I always thought this was really interesting, because it means that Teddy most likely learned to sign for his son (tragically uncommon with hearing parents of Deaf children) but that he still can't quite translate his thoughts properly into sign language. He can't quite get his emotions through to his son. There's a barrier there between them, and it seems to be largely one that Teddy's erected -- until Theo starts snapping back.

What I'm getting at is that Teddy has always forcibly drawn his son into his world instead of immersing himself in Theo's, and it shows. And it has really harmed their relationship, in more ways than one.

Zoe... we don't see a ton of her signing, but there does seem to be something somewhat performative about it. It's more fluid, like perhaps she's done it her whole life, but there's also something sort of... idk, false about it? And I wonder if that's just Zoe. It felt like she was always covering up her true feelings of loneliness and emptiness with a flamboyant personality, and the little flourishes to her signing seem to convey that as well. Her signing feels almost theatrical to me.

Theo and Mabel, though... I've always loved that episode where they go to Coney Island together. I get the criticism that Theo said at the beginning that he couldn't understand much of what she said when he was reading lips -- and then she proceeded to just talk at him for the rest of the episode anyway. But to me, at least, that always seemed like it was kind of the point. They couldn't understand each other, not fully, and that was something soothing to them.

There's something healing, I think, about shouting into the void. Letting out all of your most personal, complicated feelings without fear of repercussion or judgement. Talking into the wind because you know it won't talk back. You need to feel that echo but also know that it won't be heard.

I think there was some of that there in their initial relationship. Both of them desperately needed to talk, to get everything off their chests, but both of them also have trouble opening up to others due to trauma. So I think speaking to someone who couldn't understand them was, in some ways, ideal. They could make a human connection while keeping it fairly impersonal. They could unload without fear of judgement -- or worse, understanding.

Oddly, I think their mutual need to communicate without being understood was the one thing they understood best about each other. They could sense each other's loneliness and wariness and inability to trust that they could tell someone something important without it being used against them -- because their love and their trust have always been used against them.

So maybe in a way, their inability to talk to each other was actually what helped them communicate on a deeper level...?

Still, though. Still. I was so pleased to see that Mabel is learning more sign language so she can talk to Theo. She's got a long way to go, but no one learns to sign overnight. She's making progress, and you can tell that Theo appreciates it. There are still times where he gets too excited and signs too fast and she doesn't catch all of it, and there are times when she gets so wrapped up in her own soliloquies that she forgets that you have to face Deaf people while talking to them, but there's a familiarity to it now. When he signs too fast, she smiles and teases him. When she talks too quickly or forgets to sign or turns away from him, he just smiles and sighs and shakes his head. Then waits for her to come back.

Theo finds it irritating, obviously, but also understands that it's just... Mabel. She spends so much time in her own head that she has trouble communicating even with people who speak her language, as evidenced with Tobert. And maybe Theo does understand her in ways that others can't. Maybe it's the very fact that he accepts that he can't always understand her that makes her feel comfortable with him.

I also have to wonder, y'know... Has anyone ever learned to sign for him before, other than his father, who clearly saw it as a burden? Has anyone ever seen him as worth the effort of learning, not out of an obligation to speak to him but a desire to? No wonder he's being patient with her. I wonder if anyone has ever put in as much effort for him as she already has. It makes me so sad to think about, because what she's doing now is so... bare minimum. Theo has been so desperately alone, and so much of that is because his father isolated him. It's because no one else ever reached out. :(

idk, it just makes me happy that these two people who originally bonded over their inability to communicate are now comfortable enough with each other to try actually talking. There's something so shy and so joyful about it. I love that for them, especially Theo.

I don't want him to be alone anymore!! I want him to have someone he can talk to, whom he trusts enough to talk to, who thinks he's worth learning to talk to back!

Their odd brand of bilingual communication (or lack thereof) is just fascinating to me. ;;

#omitb #omitb spoilers #only murders in the building #long post #look I'm not going to pretend to be an expert #I learned to sign from parents and siblings and babysitters and a WHOLE bunch of nuns #some of whom knew ASL and some SEE #I never had formal training because I just learned kind of... organically I guess #and my signing is VERY pidgin #I can talk to my family obviously but I'm never going to call myself an expert #but these are my thoughts at least

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dinofromspac3 · 10 months

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Hi! Could I have 10,11 and 12’s reaction to alien reader? Perhaps realising their supposedly’human’ companion is very obviously in a human form. And that they aren’t themself, human?

I’m thinking maybe they convince reader to show their alien form more, or etc in general!

Maybe have readers alien form have yk, multiple arms? Or multiple eyes!

Sorry if this is to specific!

I absolutely love this idea! I sort of made into head canon form, I hope you don’t mind<3

Also, thank you for being my first request!

Enjoy <3

(also I think I may have only done what you actually asked for 12… oops)

Doctor Who Masterlist

10th Doctor

You’ve been traveling with the Doctor for a while, and you feel like he’s opened up to about some pretty serious stuff.

You’re happy that he’s come around to trusting you, but you can’t help but feel terribly guilty for hiding your true identity.

You were a Stask. A shape-changing lifeform that allowed you to pass as human for many years.

Your true form, however, was a grey-skinned, six-eyed, humanoid, with long white hair.

The longer you traveled with him, the more it ate away at you. Until one day, you couldn’t hide it any longer.

You left your room on the TARDIS and went to find the Doctor. He was easy enough to find, he was almost always in the console room. And if he wasn’t he was usually in the library.

“Um, Doctor?” You spoke up, calling his attention to you. You were nervous. What if he hated you for this? No, you mustn’t dwell on such things.

“Y/n!” He replied enthusiastically. He took a few steps towards you, but stopped in his tracks when he saw your face and your stature. “Y/n? What’s wrong?”

“I… I have something to tell you,” you expressed, as you fidgeted with the hem of your shirt.

“What is it? What happened?” He pressed, growing more concerned.

No matter how many times you stammered, and started over. You just couldn’t seem to get the words out.

He stared at you, his face full of worry. He could tell something wasn’t right, but he wasn’t sure why. And didn’t like not knowing.

You took a deep breath and did the only other thing you could think to do. You changed back to your true form, right in front of his eyes.

Your hair went white, and your skin back to its dull grey that you never liked. It was one of the reasons you never stayed in your true form.

His eyes went wide for a moment before his face scrunched up in total confusion. “What?!”(WOT!?) He exclaimed.

“Please don’t be mad!” You winced at his reaction, holding your hands out in front of you.

“You’re a Stask,” he pointed out the obvious, clearly dumbfounded by it all.

“Yes…”

“But-but-but what!?” He said again.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” you began dejectedly. “I understand if you want me to go.”

“Go? Go where?” The Doctor asked. Seriously, after one big shock, it takes a minute for his brain to reboot.

You just shrugged.

He shook his head, sympathetically. “No, I don’t want you to go.”

“Really!?” You felt your heart swell at that. He didn’t want you to leave, he was just a bit surprised.

11th Doctor

You’d been traveling with the Doctor for over 2 years now. Ever since he saved your life when you were trapped on that 54th century space shuttle.

The crew was human, so you’d disguised yourself as a human to avoid awkward stares. As your true form had deep violet skin, 5 inky black eyes, and pointed ears.

Your species was called Anziks. Of the many shape changer races in the universe you were not one of them, however, your people had the most advanced Shimmer technology in 3,000 neighboring galaxies. It was almost undetectable and much more comfortable than most others.

Of course, you had been wearing one when the Doctor found you. And you had been wearing it since, only taking it off when you were alone in your room on the TARDIS.

Often on your adventures you’d make passing remarks or jokes about how “humans are silly” and remembering things from your home planet. The Doctor never seemed to notice, at least he didn’t let on that he did.

Even with Anziks’s advanced Shimmer technology, it still got stuffy and little difficult to breathe after wearing it for a long period of time.

Today it was particularly bad.

The Doctor was rambling on about something, you really couldn’t say what. You had dismissed yourself quickly, heading straight to your room.

Immediately when you entered your room, you dropped the shimmer, and your deep indigo skin faded back to view, along with your ears and eyes.

You could’ve sworn you shut the door, but the next thing you knew you turned around after taking a breath, only to freeze completely, like a deer in headlights.

The Doctor stood there, a strange metal box he was holding, clattered to the floor.

“Doctor!” You practically screamed, as you quickly put the Shimmer back on, hoping somehow he’d forget.

But it was no use, he’d seen it. You’d been caught.

“Y/n?” He sputtered out, pointing at you. “No! No, no, no, no!”

“I can explain!” You blurted. “I swear I can explain! P-please don’t be angry!”

The Doctor opened his mouth to speak several times, each time with a new hand gesture, but he wasn’t really making any progress on saying anything.

You sighed, still feeling a little like you were choking in your Shimmer. And so you dropped it again, allowing the Doctor to see you how you truly looked.

His mouth snapped shut as he gaped at you.

“I don’t know why I hid it,” you admitted. “I’m sorry.”

“S-so y-you’re a-a-a—“ he stammered.

“An Anziks,” you finished for him. “I’ve been wearing a Shimmer. At first it was just for the job, to keep people from staring at me.”

“Then… we got stranded, and hunted by those Kruuls…” You explained. “and then you came and rescued me and I… there just wasn’t a good time.”

“I see,” he said, his face still slightly pale from the unexpected news.

“Are you angry with me?” You asked, hopeful he would say no.

And to your delight, he shook his head, and relief washed over you like a warm blanket of water.

He smiled and said, “It’s just nice to finally see you.”

12th Doctor

You’d only been traveling with the Doctor for a couple of months.

He was strange, and wonderful and kind, but still you were nervous to tell him your secret.

Today, you decided to confess to him, before the lie went on for too long.

You walked into the TARDIS console room, where he was reading a book on the second level. He noticed you come in but he didn’t look up.

“Doctor,” you said, taking a few more steps toward him. “I have something to tell you.”

He still didn’t look up. He licked his finger, and turned the page of his book. “Okay,” he said.

You let out a sort of shaky sigh at his aloof attitude. “Doctor, I think you should put the book down for a moment. It’s a bit… serious.”

He looked looked up at you, realizing how serious you were being, and decided to close the book as set it on the table next to him. He waited for you to continue.

You took a deep breath, before looking back at him. “I am… not human.”

He stared at you blankly, and you cringed at what that could mean.

“That’s it?” The Doctor asked, taking you completely off guard.

“W-what?”

“I mean, no offense, Y/n,” he continued. “But you’re not exactly good at hiding it.”

Now it was your turn to stare blankly at him. He’d known? How long had he known?

“So tell me,” the Doctor smiled at you. “Where are you from?”

“I…” you started, wanting to question him, but instead answered his question. “Scravikos 5.”

“Ah, Scravikos 5,” he repeated warmly. “So, you must be hiding that lovely second set of arms then?”

“Um… yes,” you said, still completely dumbfounded that he knew all along. “H-how long have you known?”

“Oh, I knew right away,” he scoffed. “It was very obvious.”

“But… you never said?”

“Why would I?” The Doctor questioned.

You shook your head, and shrugged. “Because I lied to you, I suppose?”

“Oh really it was nothing,” he waved off your reasoning. “How long have you had your arms tucked away?”

“About 8 months,” you responded. You had crashed landed on Earth a few months before you met the doctor, and you’d hidden the only thing that was your dead giveaway that you weren’t human.

Well, that must be terribly uncomfortable,” he sympathized. It was a little, and you silently tilted your head in agreement. “Well, you don’t need to hide them here,” he said, urging you to be comfortable in your own skin again.

“Oh, you mean…” you started, eyes wide in surprise at his acceptance, although truly you weren’t sure why you were surprised. He just nodded.

At that you allowed your second set of arms to sprout out of your back. With them out again, it felt instantly easier to breathe.

The Doctor smiled, and you smiled.

And you never hid them again, save for a few choice time period adventures.

#doctor who #doctor who x reader #doctor who x y/n #11th doctor x reader #11th doctor #fanfic #10th doctor #10th doctor x reader #12th doctor #12th doctor x reader

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traumasurvivors · 8 months

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Here's another article I wrote. You can read it below the read more if you prefer.

Many people blame themselves for the abuse that they have lived through. This is a very normal way to respond, but the fact is that abuse is never your fault. Whether the abuse is physical, emotional, sexual, or any type of abuse. It is not your fault. This is no matter what the circumstances of the abuse are, or what your age is when it happens. This article is going to focus specifically on childhood abuse.

Many people who have been abused blame themselves for reasons they have come up with themselves, perhaps on a subconscious level. One of these is because they feel it gives them a level of control. If there is something you could have done to stop the abuse, then you might feel that there are things you can do to avoid bad things happening to you in the future. It also might be a way to justify to themselves why it’s okay to keep a connection with their abuser, especially if their abuser is a parent or other family member. They may feel they owe loyalty to their abuser because they love their abuser and feel sure their abuser loves them. They may believe breaking bonds with their abuser would be a betrayal of that love. If you were abused by a parent, you may subconsciously believe that admitting your parent abused you would also mean admitting your parent doesn’t love you, which may seem more painful than blaming yourself.

Many abusers will make all sorts of justifications for why they acted as they did, but there is something you should always keep in mind when you hear such arguments: There is *no* excuse to abuse a child. Ever. For instance, some people may claim the reason they were abusive was due to an emotional reaction, such as feeling extremely angry. But no matter how extreme a person’s emotions may be, it is their responsibility to control how they respond. It is never a child’s responsibility to manage other peoples’ emotions, especially those of an adult. Many abusers are well aware of how to manipulate children in order to make children blame themselves.

People abused as children may blame themselves because an abuser has convinced them it was their fault.

If their abuser told them such things, they generally did so only as part of their plan to transfer responsibility and guilt to the one abused. Abusers know that if they make a child take on responsibility, it will make the child less likely to tell anyone and improve the abuser’s chances of avoiding being caught and/or facing consequences. You were not abused because you were “bad.” You were abused because they were an abuser and trying to justify their abusive behaviours. Abusive adults find ways to emotionally manipulate children such as making them feel they are unlovable or deserve whatever abuse they receive - this is not a child’s fault at all. Abusers know how to exert power and pressure on children and make those children believe there are very good reasons to stay quiet. No matter what reason an abuser may give, the only one to blame is the abuser.

A child may blame themselves because they did not tell anyone, but there are many valid reasons a child would not tell.

It may seem easy, as an adult, to look back at your childhood and think, “I should have told someone.” But the reality is that it is not so easy when someone is only a child. (And even in cases where someone is not a child, this can be unimaginably difficult.) A child may not have told someone about abuse because they were threatened. The child may have felt no one would believe them. If they felt like no one listened to them about other subjects, it might feel very unlikely that people in their lives would believe them if they accused an adult of terrible actions. The child may have been conditioned by their abuser to see their abuse as normal. If they thought what was happening to them was nothing unusual, they may have seen no reason to talk to others about it. The child may be convinced that they would be in trouble for the abuse that was happening to them and worry for the consequences.

The child may not have understood what was happening to them. They may not be aware it was abuse. If this was the case, they may have had no idea how to put it into words in order to tell someone. The child may think it's okay for parents to say whatever they want to them. The child may have felt ashamed of what happened to them. Particularly if their abuser told them it was “dirty” or they had heard about someone else being bad for doing something which seemed similar to what the child went through, they might feel they shouldn’t tell anyone about it. Related to this, the child may have been convinced, by their abuser or by being told they are “bad” for other reasons, that they deserved their abuse. This is particularly true if that abuse was framed as “punishment.”

Even for an adult going through abuse, reasons such as these can be very convincing. As a child, it can be even more difficult to decide to go against such reasons and tell someone about abuse, because it is harder to have the knowledge and understanding that allows a person to disprove these reasons.

Many children feel they are to blame because they let abuse continue over more than one incident. While it is easy to look back and say, “I could have stopped things after the first time,” the truth is that abusers have the power in an abusive dynamic, especially when they are an adult abusing a child. Most children feel very little power to stop the abuse in such a situation, and their abusers manipulate things to make them feel more powerless. Even if a child feels like there is something they could have done or their abuser told them they just needed to behave better, the truth is that they had very little if any power to stop things. If a child “behaved better,” and their abuser wanted to abuse them, they would find a way to say the child still “misbehaved” or find some other excuse to abuse them.

In cases of sexual abuse, there are other reasons a child may blame themselves.

When a child is sexually abused, that abuse may not feel entirely unpleasant. They may have enjoyed the “special attention” because it made them feel important. Every child needs love and attention, and to feel special, and abusers know how to use this to take advantage of children to get what the abusers want. The child may be convinced that this is a way they are shown love. The child may have experienced arousal or physical pleasure during the abuse, and believe this means they wanted it to happen - but these are physical reactions and do not at all mean it was wanted or is okay.

In some cases, they may have thought or even said they wanted it. Children are not mentally or emotionally ready for a sexual relationship and adults should be mature enough to understand that and should decline any such “offer.” Instead, abusers take advantage of children in these situations.

A child being sexually abused may be convinced that if they tell someone, they will be the ones in trouble. They may feel ashamed or any number of things.

There are many reasons a child may blame themselves for their abuse. This is not even close to an exhaustive list. A child may blame themselves because they didn’t say “no” or didn’t say it “enough,” or feel they didn’t fight hard enough, or acted submissively, or did things to try to please their abuser. None of these actions means the child was in any way, “asking for,” or condoning their abuse. They were trying to find whatever way they could to make their abuse stop or make it not as severe, or at the least survive it. A child who is being abused has very little if any power over the situation, and it is not wrong or shameful or in any way wrong of them to have done what they could to survive.

No matter what your reasons might be for blaming yourself, your abuse was not your fault. The only one who should be blamed for your abuse is your abuser. No matter what they or anyone else might have said, there is never an excuse to abuse a child. And there was no reason, explanation, justification, argument or excuse that would make your abuse okay or make you to blame for it.

It was not your fault. It was never your fault. I promise.

#tw abuse #my blog posts

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queenshelby · 7 months

Text

Chemical Reactions (P. 19)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy as J Robert Oppenheimer x Student Reader

Warning: Age-Gap, Infidelity, Smut, Torture

Words: 1,807

Note: The fic is spoiler free and my own fantasy and imagination. It is not historically and scientifically accurate.

Meanwhile, in Los Alamos, Robert was on the lookout for you, wondering where you were. It was unusual for you not to check in with him and, when he looked for you in the plutonium laboratory and at your lodging, you were still nowhere to be found.

Confused and worried, Robert made calls to other members of the team and questioned those responsible for guarding the facility. Yet, nobody had seen you since yesterday evening and this alarmed him.

Had you left Los Alamos without informing him about it? Did you decide to proceed with an abortion despite him begging you not to?

It all made no sense to him and, eventually, even Kitty caught on that her husband was distraught.

Robert began pacing restlessly around his living quarters, thoughts whirling in his brain.

"Would you stop it, for god's sake!" Kitty interrupted Robert abruptly, snapping him out of his reverie. She saw her usually calm husband losing himself to frustration and worry about you, another woman out of all people.

"I am sure your whore is fine, wherever she is," Kitty remarked angrily, causing Robert to look at her sharply. The hurt flashed briefly in his eyes before masking them. He knew better than to argue with her, especially right now.

"Perhaps she came to her senses and decided to terminate the pregnancy, because if she doesn't Robert, it will ruin us both," were Kitty's final words before she stormed off, slamming the door shut behind her. Her bitter words continued to haunt him as he returned to his ceaseless wandering. He couldn't shake the fear that somehow, everything might come crashing down around him, tearing apart his world.

Outside, the sky turned gray, threatening rain. Inside, Robert paced aimlessly in his living space. He wanted nothing more than to find you safe and sound, secure in knowing that his worst fear wasn't coming true. But try as he might, there was only silence on the phone lines, and the faces of his colleagues became increasingly grim.

They too realized that something was terribly wrong. Time passed slowly, torturously, but Robert refused to yield to despair. There was always hope—it didn't matter how small—that you were alive and well.

And so, Robert sat, waiting patiently amidst these thoughts, hoping against hope that someone would provide news about you. As minutes ticked away, his desperation grew stronger, consuming him whole until, suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

Robert quickly crossed the room, opening it cautiously. To his immense relief, it was Lesley Groves standing outside, carrying a somber expression. Robert had called him earlier that evening, trying to find out where you were but Groves had information of your whereabouts at the time.

“General,” Robert exclaimed, his voice filled with urgency. “Have you heard anything?” he asked worryingly and Groves took a deep breath, visibly attempting to regulate his emotions.

“There’s been a development,” he finally responded, taking care to choose his words meticulously.

“She was apprehended early this morning," Groves informed Robert and a weight seemed to descend upon him, crushing his chest.

“Apprehended? What does that mean exactly?” he asked, and Groves cleared his throat, clearly choosing his response carefully.

“Someone claimed that she was passing along classified material to the soviets and now she’s under investigation by Pash," Groves informed Robert and these words hung in the air, leaving Robert reeling.

"She would never do that! She understands the importance of confidentiality," he argued vehemently, his conviction evident in every word.

Lesley Groves simply nodded solemnly, acknowledging Robert's concern but refusing to comment further. "These allegations need to be thoroughly investigated," he reminded Robert, "and until they are cleared up, you must put aside any personal feelings, Robert."

"Absolutely not," Robert insisted, unwilling to accept such accusations leveled against you before making his demand.

"I expect her to be released immediately. This is ludicrous and I won't stand for it!" Robert protested fiercely, his determination apparent in his tone.

"Calm yourself, Robert" said Groves, trying to placate Robert's growing agitation. "We cannot force her release as the charges remain serious."

"Serious charges based on what evidence?" retorted Robert angrily.

"If they have concrete proof, let them present it. And if she is held in confinement based on a mere allegation, then I am afraid my position here becomes null and void and I will be required resign immediately. She is the third scientist who has been arrested this week and I cannot run this project under such circumstances," Robert threatened as, with an intensity that surprised even himself, Robert held Groves' gaze. They both knew that should you truly betray them, the consequences could indeed be dire.

Groves' face tightened, showing a mix of anger and resignation. Clearly irritated by Robert's stubbornness, he attempted to reason with him.

"Look, Robert, I know this situation is difficult for you, but you can't let emotions cloud your judgment. Our mission depends on trust and loyalty amongst everyone involved. I assure you, I will personally see to it that proper procedures are followed and she receives fair treatment. However, please remember – it's crucial for you to maintain composure," Groves lectured him and inwardly, Robert cursed his own weakness.

He knew that he could not simply resign from the project and, yet, he considered it.

The thought of seeing you locked away in prison, enduring painful conditions that may harm both you and the baby...it was beyond his comprehension. The notion of bringing forth new life under such terrible circumstances felt utterly incongruent with his dreams of a hopeful and war-free future together with you.

"I need you to get her away from Pash. You warned me about his techniques, and you said he wouldn't hesitate to use extreme measures," Robert pleaded fervently, his eyes full of desperation.

"This is out of my hands, Robert," replied Groves reluctantly, feeling helpless in the face of mounting pressure.

"She is pregnant," Robert pressed, his voice trembling slightly, unable to hide his anxiety.

"Jesus, Robert! Is the child yours?" Groves enquired gently, probing into matters he hadn't expected to broach today. Even though he recognized the depth of Robert's love for you, the potential complications arising from your affair remained uncertain territory for them both.

"Of course, the child is mine," Robert confirmed firmly, displaying a mixture of pride and protectiveness towards you and your unborn baby.

"Unbelievable!" muttered Groves, seemingly lost in thought. "I will talk to my superiors and see that she is transferred to a proper military facility for investigation," he promised Robert sincerely.

Seeing no alternative solution, Robert sighed heavily in agreement, grateful for whatever chance there was for you to be safe.

"Thank you," he breathed, conveying his gratitude nonverbally.

He believed that you could help save countless lives in ways undreamt of, and it broke his heart to think that your brilliance might go unrealized due to false allegations. In addition to being your lover, you also played a vital role in Robert's ambitions, having brought fresh perspectives that often led to breakthroughs. With a heavy heart, he retreated back to his residence, struggling to hold onto his dwindling hopes for your freedom.

It pained him deeply, imagining you trapped beneath layers of bureaucratic red tape, potentially subjected to Pash's cruel tactics. Every second spent contemplating the possibility evoked an unshakable terror inside him. The prospect of you suffering torment while awaiting trial weighed heavily on his conscience, stirring anguish he struggled to suppress.

His sleep eluded him throughout the night. Each toss and turn merely intensifying his dread, reflecting his restless state.

As dawn approached, he found solace in strolling through the small gardens surrounding his quarters. Nature's beauty served as a temporary balm to the distressing situation, allowing him a momentary respite from reality.

When the sun rose high overhead, casting warm rays across the landscape, he returned indoors, determined to focus on his work. Though he tried valiantly to immerse himself in projects pertaining to weaponry, his mind continually drifted toward you.

He was at breaking point not knowing what would happen to you and his unborn child, the baby conceived in secret. It haunted him all day long, and little did he know that it would be almost a year until he would see you again.

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#cillian murphy #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy imagine #cillian murphy x you #oppenheimer movie #j robert oppenheimer #oppenheimer 2023 #oppenheimer #robert oppenheimer

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moodymisty · 7 months

Note

Hi love your fics. Would you be willing to do an angron x reader. He gets so little content

Part 2

Author's Note: You are my light, anon. Thank you for giving me the platform to go fucking apeshit about my favorite Traitor Primarch. Even if he's not a traitor (yet uwu) in this. It's not my best work, but I've been sitting on this idea for awhile now and decided to just write it before I lost it to time.

Summary: Angron takes interest in a poor young soul who's presence can soothe the nails, much to your own terror.

Relationships: Angron/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Uhhh it's fucking Angron?, It's pretty early so he's not as consumed by anger as he is later in the Crusade, Angron looks at another Primarch's serf and goes yoink I want that, He doesn't kidnap you yet but he wants to lmao, General 40kness so war death blood mentions etc etc (for those curious, this is vaguely based after canon, where it's said that the thought of Sanguinius could soothe Angron's Butcher's Nails)

Word Count: 2002

You have ten more minutes. You know once these men finish their set of training drills, you'll have to be back in the librarium. Your desk and it's piles of documents hails you like some sort of terrible beckoning call.

This has been your system for awhile now, as the frigid air blows through your clothing. The Astartes in training are entertaining during your rare moments of peace, as you lean against the railing to watch.

To think so few people will ever live to see an Astartes, and you watch them train so often. A luxury to be taken advantage of, you suppose.

You lean against the railing with more weight, your arms crossed over the ornate topping. They're so far away you can't quite tell what chapter they belong to, but you can see bits of white and red on the few men that are wearing pieces of their armor.

You wonder if they even know you're here, and if they did, if they'd even care. You're not of their chapter that much is for certain, as they lack the blue gold coloring and the stalwart regime that is signature of the Ultramarines. These warriors fight like it's a free for all, unlike the rigid one on one training the Astartes of Macragge are accustomed to.

You swear you feel the ground almost shake for a moment, but you just end up assuming that it's from the training down below. Or perhaps something elsewhere out of view. You pay it no mind, and continue enjoying your few minutes of respite.

Then there's a feeling in the pit of your stomach that makes your lips purse, looking up at the sky. You can just barely see the legions of ships moored close enough to the planet. There's always so many, even more so when a chapter returns to Terra for brief periods of time.

You hear footsteps coming from behind you; Heavy and armored. More than likely an Astartes, if you had to take a guess. It's better for your own well being if you just make yourself small and don't catch their eye, hoping they don't even notice you.

The footfall continues closer, and closer, until it sounds like they're mere centimeters from you. They must be passing by, until they suddenly stop. There's a shadow overtaking your form from behind, And when you see it's outline, you freeze.

The shadow is massive. It swallows you up and the ornate edges of the armor cue you into the fact that this isn't just anyone. Unless they are of a high enough ranking to sport such unique armor. But you're gut says that this shadow is far too large to belong to an Astartes, and every other sense in your body agrees.

It has to be a Primarch. You can see the absolutely massive shadow, the booming footsteps from earlier, and the feeling. The feeling alone makes you know well this isn't a random Astartes who's becoming oddly interested in you.

The sons of the Emperor are known to have what can only be described as an aura around them, which seems to affect anyone in there vicinity. How they react to it depends on the person, but for most, it's usually fear hidden underneath a mask of stalwart servitude.

Thickly swallowing, you glance as far to the side as you can to see if you can figure out which one it is.

You can see, gold. brushed, but faded gold armor. Beaten and worn though still containing a particular luster about it. Higher up your eyes travel, and you see a faded outline of something around the kneeplate. It looks like, spikes, or a crude representation of teeth. Up a little farther, and you see something dangling from his hip; Cleaned bleached skulls and-

Oh god. Oh god.

You feel your heart slamming against your chest. It's going to break out, you just know it and you can't do anything to stop it.

It's not as if coming face to face with any Primarch is something to be taken lightly. But this isn't The Angel or The Raven. This isn't even your own Primarch Guilliman, who you've only seen a few times in your life.

This is Primarch Angron.

You can't run from him. He'd kill you within an instant if not for the sheer disrespect of it, but for triggering something in him that makes him think you're prey. You only hope that you can hold strong enough that he doesn't hear your heartbeat, or how your trying not to shake in your boots.

Slowly you turn your head more, eyes trailing up his legplate, then his chestplate, before finally reaching his face.

The metal cords coming from his head fall over his armored shoulders almost like chunks of hair, though distinctly old and worn. The metal is rugged; Beaten and warped. Underneath some of them you can see deep red tattoos, some of which trail onto his face. They're warped and shifted by his numerous scars, scattered across his face from forehead to neck. They're all old, long healed and forever telling a story that only he knows.

His eyes bear down on you, the deep red unreadable. He isn't reacting to you at all, but that angered expression is permanently spread across his face. The deep furrow in his brow, the look in his eyes. He's like a pot constantly on the edge of boiling over and scalding everything close.

He has to be toying with you. Like a Fenrisian wolf tossing it's broken, beaten prey up in the air like a game before finally taking the final bite. Is there any other reason why someone who dances along the line between man and god would look your way? Is he just waiting to see how long until you react?

But as quickly as he arrived, he leaves. Turns on one massive armored boot and begins walking down the gilded hallway.

You only have the will to turn your head and watch him move away when he's taken more than a dozen steps away, seeing the battered gold of his armor. His thick furred cape just barely brushes the ground- the frayed edge ripped from endless wear and tear flowing behind him . You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and look back down towards the training Astartes. You peel your hands away from the railing you didn't realize you'd been holding with a death grip, palms slick with sweat.

You hoped desperately that it would be the only time you'd see the Primarch of the World Eaters. To survive once you'd already consider a miracle.

But it wasn't. Maybe the gods that are whispered about in various tomes have something planned for you. Maybe it's some sort of sick joke.

You see him once more not long later, and the exact same interaction occurs. You don't say a word, he doesn't either, and you assume you either pass some sort of trial only he knows or he just grows bored of you, and leaves.

The third time however, you dare to speak.

"Lord Primarch, do you, require something of me?"

Your voice is so soft he barely hears it, over the sound of clashing weaponry and fists on flesh. You look up at him but hesitate to look him in the eyes, but his own look traps you none the less.

You're a librarian or historitor of some sort in allegiance to the Ultramarines. He recognizes the blue and gold symboling embroidered onto your clothing from the various Astartes that traipse around with it plastered all over their armor, and their fancy, hand woven capes.

Gawdy and pointless. You'd topple over your own robes if you tried to run.

But you aren't running, aren't you?

Other serfs he passes by crumple like paper and plastic flimsies, but you're holding strong; A steel box that might be crumpling and walls concaving but still held together.

Angron looks to his left and over the railing out onto the vast open area. Khârn is out there, training Neophytes and newly blooded World Eaters. The warrior has no need for the diplomacy that you're more than likely used to from the Ultramarines, as Gorechild smashes into a thick plating of ceramite with one heavy swing. It sends the Neophyte to the ground in a split second. He looks back towards you, and notices that while your eyes glanced for a moment to follow his own, they now look back at him.

"You enjoying watching them fight." It's what he's found you doing every time he's passed you.

But it takes you a moment until you look up and see that he's staring at you, and that he wants an answer from you.

"Yes. I do."

You see his hand reach out, massive- Your eyes blink closed for just a moment in preparation for whatever he was about to inflict on you.

But instead, he grabs your jaw.

It still hurts, squishing your skin upward and forcing you to look up at him from an awkward angle, but it's far better than dying. You notice the way he stares at you.

He stares back, watching as your wide eyes dart around his face looking for answers.

Then he feels it.

He feels the stabbing, shrieking, aching pain of his nails dull ever so slightly as he watches. Glances over your soft skin. Meets your eyes. So the first time hadn't just been a trick of the light.

Your hands are frozen hovering at waist height, trying to figure out what you should do. Should you put them down, hold completely frozen until he finds or doesn't find whatever he's looking for in you? Or should you reach up and dare to touch the tarnished golden armor that has such a hold of you?

"Lord Primarch?" You mutter, hoping for an answer he doesn't seem keen on giving.

If anyone has passed by this scene they've not so much as uttered a word. None of them would, you'd have to be insane to interrupt a Primarch doings. You wonder for a moment if this scene would look comical from another's point of view.

One of your hands reaches up, shaking as you place it on the armor of his forearm. It's almost hilariously tiny- but much to your surprise the armor feels less cold that you would've thought. You place it there in the rough area of his wrist and try gently hold on and support yourself.

You're still petrified; Angron can see that emotion no matter how deep it's layered beneath other emotions on someone's face. When young men were thrown at him to die in those sandy pits, and he'd see the fear hidden underneath their anger. But as it fades and you become more confused by him than frightened, he feels yet another soothing wave go over his Butcher's Nails.

It's nowhere near enough- they still rip through his brain demanding him to kill to main to scream and bellow, but to edge that away just slightly is to give him relief he hasn't felt since before they dug this hideous tech deep into the recesses of his skull.

He doesn't know what it is about you that's doing it, but he knows he wants it. He wants you.

"Your name. What is it."

You stutter for a moment before speaking. The name is foreign; But given you more than likely hail from one of the many planets under Guilliman's rule, it makes sense.

His fingers shift over your face, and your jaw aches. He notices your hand on his arm and when he lets go, you use that same hand to rub your face.

He'll have to be careful. You're more breakable than him. But if you can dull the pain that sears through his head at every aching moment, then perhaps he'll have enough room in his head to spare the thought to be.

#i love a man that would literally just kill me. rip my head right off.#Angron x reader #primarch x reader #warhammer 40k x reader #Angron/Reader #reader insert #reader #mywriting

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chernabogs · 7 months

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` I wish I never met you.. ` but with general lilia and a human reader... 👀

this took a turn lmao

Mead & Ignicolists

Inc: General Lilia, human reader (GN), Maleficia, Meleanor, Levan, platoon of soldiers, 1 barmaid. Warnings: War, mentions of death, mentions of political strife, possible graphic description of conflict (village burning), alcohol mention WC: 4.7k (help) Summary: Repeated meetings in conflict can sometimes lead to interesting terms, and debts must always be paid.

Hate does not appear immediately. It’s a slow brewing concoction, crafted from a myriad of ingredients that bubble and broil in one’s guts like a black ichor until it’s all that your body becomes knowledgeable of. Lilia did not hate the humans when they initially arrived. In fact, he’d say he never knew hate in his life at that point. Their arrival was heralded more as a vague notation in the bottom of the meeting agenda—a ship spotted on the shores, with a crew of people clearly not of the fae race.

He doubts anyone batted an eye at the comment. He knows he certainly didn’t, nor did Meleanor, whose mind was too preoccupied with important matters pertaining to the swell in her stomach beneath her dress. Perhaps out of everyone present, it was Levan who paid the most heed, as it was Levan who asked the valuable question of—

“What is it they seek?”

A question glossed over until the intel unit could gather more information. Lilia remembers not missing the concern etched in Levan’s body language, nor the way he leaned close to murmur in Meleanor’s ear. Her brow had arched slightly, her lips turning to a frown, but then her gaze had gone back to the court at hand and the matter was dropped until further notice.

It’s two weeks later—a mere sigh for a fae—that Lilia and Levan are both called to a private meeting. It’s not Meleanor who has summoned them, but rather Maleficia, with her ungiving gaze that held a weight so great that Lilia still finds himself unable to meet it nearly 200 years later.

“Resources.” She explains, her black nails tapping an indiscernible rhythm on the desk she sits at. “They seek resources. Which resources we remain unsure of, but they have been lurking about the mountains and the valleys to our east. They even have a camp.”

“They were not authorized to harvest,” Levan murmurs, his golden eyes wide in surprise. “Is it not protocol to gain permission from the royal authority before digging into foreign land? I do believe that to be a standard for human culture… or perhaps what I read is outdated…”

“It is a standard, for both humans and fae. You would not see us digging into diurnal lands without permission, hm? Lest we wish to have a multitude of curses from their court upon us.” Maleficia’s voice drips with some wry contempt as she slides a paper forward. “I have spoken with Princess Meleanor. We will send scouts to the nearest camp—Lilia, you will be the authority for that.”

Of course, he would be. Levan is being put on house arrest—palace arrest? —as Meleanor’s pregnancy progresses. He’s as valuable as she when it comes to the life of the egg they had sired. Lilia takes the paper and skims over it, memorizing each pattern and coordinate, before rolling it up and pocketing it with a bow.

“With pleasure.”

—

He doesn’t go alone, nor does he go with a small unit. Lilia prides himself as a man who, when he commits, truly commits to what he’s tasked. He travels to the nearest human encampment—on the very fringes of the dark woods—with a platoon. He had tried to persuade the royal family to allow an entire company, but Meleanor had rendered that idea null with a single lightning bolt to the floor.

A rather dramatic reaction in his opinion.

The ride is silent, mainly because Baul wasn’t assigned to attend, which means it’s also a terribly boring journey as well. Lilia’s gaze continues to dart from tree to tree as they move. His breath rattles against the mask that sits snug on his face, making him far more intimidating than his appearance may give. Intimidation is the tactic here. Levan wanted this done democratically—but Lilia is aiming for results. He can feel his body nearly itching for some kind of confrontation as he hears the hisses and snarls of the platoon that accompanies him.

They don’t need to wait long. Within a few hundred yards from the campsite, they’re swiftly confronted by a unit of humans adorned in armor that glistens under the sparse light. It’s silver, and gaudy, and could get them killed within minutes in these woods with the way they look like tiny beacons in the night. He can feel his lips curl under the mask.

“Halt!” One voice command. He looks at them—looks at you—impassively. He cannot discern your gender, as you wear a helmet that partially covers your face, and your armor looks the same as everyone else that emerges around you. “State your name.”

Another rapture of snarls emerges from behind Lilia, which he silences swiftly with a single raised hand. He then takes a step back with one foot and sweeps into a mocking bow. “General Vanrouge, of the Thorn Court. We are curious of our unexpected visitors, and so we arrive with a request for answers to our inquiries.”

He thanks the stars that Levan forced the human language down his throat in the form of too many tomes to count. You observe him—or so he thinks, as he cannot see your eyes—before looking back to the others. “Inform the captain that a representative of the Thorn Court has arrived. With company.”

There’s already tension brewing. He can taste it on his tongue, and it takes the form of a wavering grin beneath his mask. He shouldn’t want a fight, but he has enough pent up energy to do so, and he could tell that the presence of these humans has stirred up stress within the court now, including with Meleanor.

In her condition, she doesn’t need the stress, and that puts him on edge as well.

Your head turns back to look at him, and his masked face tilts up to look at you. No words are exchanged—the conversation between unseen gazes says it all.

—

The Thorn Court doesn’t progress in communications past the sparse camp that Lilia visits, which he learns is nothing more than a scouting camp designated to establish perimeters—basically, a group of low, low ranking soldiers wandering about. They send a unit to the main camp, and that unit vanishes off the face of the earth.

So, they send another, and another, each unit resulting in the same outcome of nothing but vague wondering and whispered words regarding their whereabouts. The assumption is that they’ve been killed en-route. With a forest full of dire beasts and humans, Lilia wagers that to be quite accurate.

He doesn’t run into you again until those tensions have mounted higher, and this time, he’s alone. It was more by fluke than anything else—he had simply wandered too far into the dark woods, his mind fraught with concerns regarding the barrage of meetings he had earlier. Another village burned; another valley stripped bare of resources. The depletion was already beginning to impact the Valleys financial standing—by a fair amount, considering how close to tears the royal accountant looked giving his updates.

When he spots you, you have yet to see him. You’re without your blinding armor and standing at the edge of a lake, a rag in hand and a furrow in your brow. You remain blissfully unaware of the monstrous fae that’s laid claim to that lake, as well as the way that very creature is watching you now from the reeds just a few feet ahead.

Lilia see’s It. He’s quite familiar with It, as the same bastard had tried to drown Levan when they were younger. His lips curl into a grin again. He has half the mind to let It pull you under. That would be one less human to concern himself with, after all. Until, like some horrible divine intervention on your behalf, he hears Levan’s voice whispering in his mind.

Democratically.

He tries to ignore it, but he can so perfectly picture his friend's disappointed face in his head, to the point that he feels a cold chill up his spine like the man is watching this from afar. Knowing Levan, this isn’t too outlandish of a fear.

“Niftehn,” he hisses, his native tongue slipping through as he steps forward from the shadows and—rather than announcing his presence—fires a rock into the nearby reeds. There’s a gaudy screeching sound as the fae—a cross between a scaled beast, a horse, and a man—launches forward in a bid to grab you before Lilia’s next move.

It’s fast, but Lilia is much faster. He has his sword tip against the beast's forehead in seconds, halting It in Its tracks as It tenses, snarling and drooling in hunger and rage. It’s starving and for a moment Lilia feels sympathy. Thanks to the humans, they’re all starving as of late.

“Zyln-imna.” He coos, a shit-eating grin on his lips as he and the creature square off. It gives him one last filthy look before sinking back down into the mud and reeds, until only bubbles indicate Its presence to begin with. He lowers his sword with a sigh and turns back to address you—

Only to find you well and gone.

He stands for a moment, up to his calves in mud, and then scowls as he shoves his sword into the sheath on his back. How ungrateful of you to not even thank him for such charitable heroics.

—

After that encounter, you cross paths several more times, to the point that he’s beginning to wonder if you’ve placed a tracking spell on his body. He even checks his supplies just in case—a childish action. The two of you don’t converse much between the multitude of squabbles that seem to break out as your scouting unit runs into his platoons. He doesn’t kill any of your men—but he certainly guarantees that you’ll all be carrying the message to your superiors, and you return the favour as well.

This back and forth continues for months as the summer season weens into winter's embrace. The first snowfall is cutthroat, as it often is in Briar Valley. The platoon he guides cannot move until the unexpected squall dies away by mornings light, and so he makes the tactical decision to have everyone bank in a nearby village in the meantime.

Unfortunately, as fates would have it, you seem to be doing the same with your unit as well.

It takes a lot of dancing around for him to make sure his men don’t know about your men in the village. He doesn’t want a battle—he wants a drink, which is how he finds himself slinking into the town tavern with his hood up and his face tilting down. As a fae, he should be quite welcome here—but he knows that some villages have declared neutrality, and others in favour of human occupancy. This village he can’t get a read of quite yet.

He does manage to get a drink without much hassle, and he’s settling down in a booth in a dark corner when the sound of another pint slamming on the table snaps his attention up. He hopes it’s one of his men—instead, he sees your scowling face looking back.

“What a sunny greeting.” Lilia mumbles wryly as he narrows his eyes. You sit down across from him and proceed to make yourself quite at home. Months of repeated interactions appear to have made you quite bold. “I could kill you right now.”

“You don’t have your sword.” You counter as you take a swig of your drink. It seems like this isn’t your first one, with the way your sharp tongue is in full effect. “Are you going to strangle me across the table instead?”

“I should. It might teach you manners for once.”

Despite the threats, he has no intention of doing anything like that right now. Instead, he takes a swig of his own drink, watching you from over the rim with interest. He vaguely recalls a quote about ‘feasting with the enemy’ that he likely read during some tutelage session many years back. How ironic that he would be living it tonight.

“You age yourself with comments like that.” You set your mug down on the table and observe him back. Despite the pouring drinks, your eyes remain sharp and alert—eyes he’s become quite familiar with as of late. “People here will catch on that you’re not human.”

He chuckles, giving a flash of white fangs against the dark. “Oh? You think my people will be so quick to rally against me? There must be a reason your unit is dressed in plain clothes, with your weapons and armor well-concealed from curious eyes.” A click of his tongue, and he leans close. “At least the lamb is aware of its place amongst the starving dogs.”

He leans back again as a beat of silence follows. You seem unaffected by his words as you take another drink. “Quaint. Is that your default line for those you meet on tavern nights?”

For a second his mind doesn’t process your words. Then it clicks, and his brow furrows deeply in annoyance. “Disgusting. Your implications are souring my drink.”

“Implications? I implied nothing of sorts.” You touch a hand to your chest and grin a little. “You were the one who put those implications in place.”

He feels red hot irritation for a moment before he stifles it by downing the rest of his drink. Fae mead is meant to be savoured—but with your presence, he has a feeling he’ll finish the barrel by the end of the night. He waves a hand for a refill before his expression softens slightly into one of mild annoyance instead.

“Why is your unit passing through here, anyway? You have already scouted these hills—months ago, in fact. I do recall our encounter then.”

“Quite unforgettable,” you grumble back, grimacing as you do. You’re probably remembering the clash between you both, and perhaps you’re remembering the spirited banter that also occurred. Lilia wouldn’t admit it out loud, but you have the honour of being the only enemy he’s tried to have a conversation with mid-conflict. “We’ve been sent to scout again. I haven’t the faintest idea why, by the way.”

Your quick explanation silences his next comment. He bites his tongue and leans back. There’s a passage nearby that leads through the forbidden mountains—it’s only mildly less treacherous than crossing the mountains directly. He already knows this is what Heinrich seeks in sending your unit here. “How drab.”

“Drab?” You wave a hand for a refill as well before fixing him with a glare. “My apologies that I don’t have exciting news of espionage and murder plots to keep you amused.”

“Oh, I dare say you’re doing wonderfully right now without the murder to boot.” He pauses as the barmaid sets down two new drinks before departing. He tugs the hood a bit lower before taking a drink. “If you’re merely scouting out the passage within the mountain, then that’s hardly worth a full-scale confrontation between us, no?”

Your gaze snaps up to him quickly when he relays your units plan, only for you to see the cheeky little grin he wears. Then your expression falls flat again, and you sigh. “Why do I even try?”

“Because you like trying to play soldier. It’s quaint. I tried hard to do the same when I was still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed too.” He hums. Silence falls between you both once more as drinks are poured and emptied. There really is no need for conversation, and yet by the fifth pint, he finds himself growing restless once more.

“Why are you still sitting here?” He finally grumbles as he sets the half-empty pint down. “I’m starting to believe you’re plotting something.”

“Can I not have a drink with an acquaintance?” You counter, not budging from your position across from him. He narrows his eyes again.

“Acquaintances? Is that what we are?” Another sharp grin. “And how do I get the term ‘companion’, then? Is it a promotion by dual, or do I just need to drop you on your ass a few more times?”

Your leg shoots out to kick him underneath the booth, making him hiss in pain as his hand comes down to rub his knee. “Brat. I should have you dragged out for that.”

“Delarynn surith.” The words that leave you are pronounced so poorly, it takes him a minute to process what it is you said. He doesn’t even recognize it as his own native tongue until you repeat it again.

Delarynn… lord. Surith…

Lord.

Lord bitch.

Lilia can’t help the cackle that escapes him, loud enough to draw a few gazes their way as he slouches over in the booth. Perhaps its the fae mead, or perhaps it’s the scowl on your face when you said those words with such confidence, but the whole situation is coming across as the funniest shit he’s heard in a while.

“Who taught you that pronunciation?” He gasps between laughs as he wipes his eyes. “I’ve heard infant fae speak better!”

“Oh, shut it. At least I’m integrating with the culture here!” You counter, scowling still as you take a drink. Then your expression starts to crack a bit as well, and soon your shoulders are shaking with chuckles. “God, I did butcher that…”

“Delarynn is not del-rye-win. It’s deh-lahr-rin. Surith, though, you did quite well. I suppose it’s a word many who come to the Valley learn quickly.” He muses as he chuckles a few more times before falling silent. The barmaid brings over another pint. “I should teach you some more before you piss off every villager you meet.”

“That would be nice.” You murmur as you take a drink. It doesn’t occur to either of you until a few seconds later that such an occasion would, in all reality, likely never happen. When will you two meet amicably after tonight? Perhaps there’s a thin chance, but you’re more likely to encounter it in dreams than anywhere else.

This seems to dawn on you slowly as you set your pint down. He watches your face, watches the thoughts flit by, before you sigh. “... I wish I never met you; you know.”

His eyebrow arches at the comment. “The feeling is mutual. Never meeting you would mean none of what we are living would have ever happened.”

No war, no death, no conflict day in and out. He would still be working at the palace by Meleanor and Levan’s sides, poking fun at courtiers and assisting in the arduous process of nursery planning. He wouldn’t be leading platoons, spending cold winter nights alone in taverns, and feeling an ever present sense of doom about what was to come.

A curious expression crosses your face. It’s a mix of both contemplation and conflict. You seem to be fighting yourself for a moment before you finally clear your throat and lean forward. “The lake. When you stopped that thing from attacking me. I never thanked you for that,” you begin.

“No. You scurried off into the bushes like a scared little lamb.” Lilia shoots back with a smirk. “Are you thanking me now? You can always do so by covering my tab.”

“No. A tab wouldn’t be enough.” You lean close then, close enough that he feels your breath on his skin. It smells sweet, like the mead you’ve both been drinking tonight, and he tenses at the proximity. A part of him wants to grab your neck and slam you on the table for having the audacity to come so close. Another part, which confuses him the most, wants to grab you there and do something entirely different. “A life for a life.”

“What?” His voice sharpens as your words quickly sober him. You hush him and glance over your shoulder.

“Ten kilometres east. Tomorrow. There’s a unit moving into the village there. It’s a supply stocking mission.” You then lean back and take a swig of your mead, like nothing ever happened at all. He stares at you blankly as you rise from your seat and push the empty pint aside. “Do stay warm, General.”

Before you can move away, his hand snaps out and wraps around your wrist in a vice grip. You look down at him in shock and frustration, and he returns that expression tenfold. “Why tell me this?”

“Because I owe you. I don’t want to be in debt to a fae.” You hiss back, looking towards the rest of the patrons in concern. He remains unwavering in his approach.

“Really? You could have just paid the tab, not inform me of crucial information. Why tell me this?”

“Because I owe you,” you double down, and he hisses at those words.

“Do not lie to me.”

You twist back, leaning close to his face once more. There’s that sweet scent again—although this time he can’t be sure if it’s from the mead or not. “Because I am tired of death, and I have been reconsidering where I stand.”

There’s a pause. Lilia isn’t a gambling man, but in times of conflict, sometimes a gamble is all that one can do. He squeezes your wrist once. “The birch tree, just beyond the village line. Seven sharp. If you are reconsidering, then reconsider fast.”

Then he releases you and turns away with a wave. You watch him for just a moment before you finally slip back into the crowd of patrons that now fill the tavern. He feels that sense of doom in his gut once more as he nurses his drink just a bit closer.

A gamble.

He hopes this doesn’t flip on him.

—

The snow lets up in the morning and it is with this revelation that he changes the course their platoon is moving. Rather than return directly to Black Scale Palace, they would divert ten kilometres east—to avoid drafts, he explains. The platoon moves steadily towards the town line, and it’s at the birch tree that he spots a familiar figure ahead. His stomach turns as the platoon begins to whisper and hiss.

They know you.

“At ease.” Lilia orders them sharply as he approaches you—alone. You observe him with a blank look. You have no weapons, but he searches you anyway.

“I don’t know if I consider you wise or foolish,” he mumbles as his hands pat you down. You could be a valuable asset for the information you know—and that’s how he’ll pitch it to his unit. “Forgive me for the next moments.”

You hiss as he yanks your arms behind your back and binds them tight. “... I think both foolish and wise are correct.”

He says nothing further beyond the explanation of your surrender as the platoon sets off once more, with you now trailing by his side. He considers that he should have blessed you last night—it may have done well to ease the tensions from the others in the group. Perhaps this is something he can do when the two of you are alone next.

The walk through the dark woods to the village you revealed is a silent one filled with a sense of dread on his part. He can feel your unease as well, and it’s beginning to affect the rest of the soldiers. The snow muffles all sound around them, save for their footsteps as they move. They only stop for a moment to recoup before he demands that they push on.

A supply stocking mission is a common mission the humans embark on, and one that his soldiers have dealt with many times. It’s a simple and petty way to disrupt business for the Silver Owls—so he doesn’t expect much of a hassle.

Which is why he’s rendered to a halt when the first faint scent of smoke reaches him. The other soldiers soon draw to a pause as well. Fae are blessed with senses far more advanced then humans, and so the confusion on your face is easily written off.

“General…” one soldier begins slowly, his mask tilting up towards the treeline above. Lilia follows his direction.

There’s a light in the distance. It’s an orange haze, and as he continues to watch, he sees the first tongues of flames begin licking at the sky. A plume of smoke rises—black, as dark as the clouds swirling above—and then grows.

That sense of doom Lilia has felt since this began suddenly ignites to a full blown inferno in his abdomen. He rattles off orders to the platoon before his mind has even caught up with his tongue, and within moments the unit is dashing through the forest at a breakneck pace. He grips your arm in a vice-like hold as he drags you along, snarling with every step.

“A supply stocking?” He spits as he yanks you closer to the clearing. The village you had informed him of was a small plot, consisting mostly of fae families that work the surrounding fields for the grain harvests each year. It’s a picturesque place that Lilia visited a few times on royal tours.

It isn’t picturesque right now. Orange and red clash to create a painting of chaos. Buildings now stand as silhouettes against the great blaze that’s being fed by the grain, and the wooden structures, and the many trees that used to line the village streets. Lilia’s breath hitches as he observes the scene before them.

“This wasn’t what I was told!” You gasp as you look on as well. He can see the abject horror in your gaze, the genuineness behind the fear in your voice. This wasn’t what you were told. Something went wrong, or something else was planned the entire time.

Someone lied.

Someone lied, lied, lied.

But of course, they did.

This is a war, isn’t it? His kind against yours, those who want versus those who have. You both should have assumed that others would take note of your encounters over these past few months, of the banter you’ve had and the grins you’ve exchanged mid-conflict. Perhaps someone set you up to be at that tavern, where he would be that night as well. Perhaps someone put all the pieces in place which would lead for you both to share a night, to whisper words, in hopes that you would tell him what was to come.

He says nothing to you, but the look he gives shows that you are not accountable for this as of right now. He waves a hand for you to be taken somewhere safer than here—after all, it seems you’ve been marked as an aid to his side anyway. He may as well make you one.

Then the scent hits him. Scorched earth: there’s a lingering aroma of charred something. The crackle of buildings crumbling from the heat and the high pitched whine of glass shattering under pressure. His men rush around him, ripping into the village and shouting for backup, for water, for survivors.

And he stands there. He stands there, drinking it all in, his eyes wide yet unseeing, his pupils dilated with adrenaline. Until a laugh bubbles from his lips. A wry, tiny chuckle, which quickly grows into a hysterical cackle, which somehow evolves to a scream of fury that tears apart his throat as it leaves. It cuts through the smoke and the ash and the snow that he can hardly see now from the burning tears—not from soot, not from soot—that blind his gaze.

Families. Children. People who have done nothing but simply exist. He can visualize tiny forms charred black, their limbs stiff and curled in a last effort attempt to shield themselves from the heat they’re consumed by. He can see mothers holding children, husbands holding wives, lovers in their last moments.

He knows it now as he bears witness to fire, as he smells burning memories, as he hears history crumbling to its foundations.

He knows what it feels like to hate.

#twst #lilia vanrouge #twst lilia #twst spoilers #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #not even in a romantic sense bro its so vague LMAOO #also just threw a language i made in there for fae talk bc idk man #they scream n shout #im so sorry if u wanted more romance but... man lilia was somethin else durin the war

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writing-for-marvel · 1 year

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In The Margins

Bucky Barnes x GN!Reader

Summary: At first you’re confused by Bucky’s choice of gift for you, until you look a little deeper.

Warnings: this is meant to be a general holiday gift exchange fic and I’ve tried to make it as holiday neutral as possible but please let me know if I’ve missed something, a little light angst at the start cause it’s me, but other than that just fluff

Word count: 717

A/N: banners by @vase-of-lilies, dividers by @firefly-graphics. I haven’t written in over a month cause work has been insanely hectic so please be kind, I’m a little rusty 💜

Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Library

It was clearly a book.

Bucky’s untidy, and sticky tape littered gift wrapping did nothing to hide the size, shape or pliant feel of the present. You had been gifted enough novels in your life to know there was indeed a paperback book underneath the holiday themed wrapping paper.

And as reading was one of your favourite pastimes, you were excited at the prospect of having a new story to absorb. A complex world with compelling characters you could fall in love with for the first time, the possibility of finding a new author with a fresh and unique style that would capture your intrigue to delve down a rabbit hole of their publications.

As you unwrapped the gift, you were met with extremely familiar cover art. One that had become your greatest source of comfort, an intricate world you loved to get lost in and one you frequently returned to when times were at their toughest. These particular set of words felt like a warm and protective embrace, one that you could alway rely on being there for you when you needed solace.

You chuckled nervously, unsure why he gifted you a copy of your favourite book, one that was clearly secondhand if the crack in the spine was anything to go by.

You already owned a copy that was extremely well loved, and you knew it wasn’t a first edition based on the cover age, so it puzzled you as to why he thought this would be the perfect gift he had teased in the lead up to the holiday.

Bucky knew this was your favourite book, he had listened for hours as you dissected apart the themes, your favourite scenes, the character you identified with most and how their love interest would go to the ends of the world to protect them.

Your heart sank - had he truly not been paying attention all that time?

Perhaps you were being too harsh, maybe he was just one of those people that was terrible at giving gifts.

Every interaction with Bucky always felt as though he knew you like the back of his hand, that he could read how you were feeling as if you were his favourite book.

You smiled at him, trying to avoid that awkward exchange of pretending you liked the gift when in reality it was something you already owned, but he was already on the offence, knowing you well enough to tell you were attempting (and failing) at hiding your true reaction.

“Open it.” He chuckled, as if to say ‘give me a little credit, there’s more to it than that’.

Once you flipped to the first page it dawned on you what Bucky had actually done. Scrawled in the margins of the page was his own handwriting, having underlined certain lines and scribbled annotations beside them.

Flicking through each page his handwriting gradually became messier, but the commentary didn’t abate. And when you finally reached the chapters you loved most, you could tell he had been paying attention during all your rants because his comments included ‘I see your point about…’ and ‘I can see why you adore this part so much’.

Lost in your own little world, you could hear Bucky’s voice in your head as you read his annotations, his chuckle when he underlined certain phrases and wrote ‘this reminded me of you’. The way your heart swelled in that moment could rival when the grinch's heart grew three sizes.

It was the most extensive love letter you had ever received, the person you loved most in the world providing you with his intimate thoughts on a book you treasured with your whole heart. Every time you picked up that book you would never be alone, Bucky would now forever be reading it alongside you.

Tightly clutching the book close to your chest, you finally looked up at Bucky with teary eyes to find his own softly gazing at you, brimming with affection.

“I don’t have any words except thank you. I love it.” Your throat felt dry, though a tear slipped down your cheek. Bucky reached up and carefully wiped it away.

“And I love you.”

Next year you’re really going to have to up your gift giving game if you’re going to outdo him.

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icycoldninja · 23 days

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Long dead memories (Sephiroth X Reader angst)

Tw: Death and sickness; DNI if you are not comfortable with these themes.

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Geostigma. The most debilitating, terrifying, fear striking disease to have ever existed, it wracked the bodies of most of the survivors of Sephiroth's heinous scheme to destroy the planet with Meteor. It appeared to be most prevalent in those who were closest to him, therefore it was only natural for you to be one of the most heavily afflicted.

The disease had claimed your entire body, primarily concentrated in your legs, making them so weak it hurt just to move them, thereby rendering you bedridden. To make matters worse, the majority of your body, except for your genitalia, face, hands and neck, were covered in large, ooze-secreting sores that burned when exposed to air, covered in cloth, or touched in general. Your entire existence was that of misery and pain--this applied to both your mental and physical state.

Honestly, you were well aware your end was approaching. After all, no known cure for Geostigma existed, and no scientists were around to try and make one. Thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of people had already succumbed to this terrible ailment; you would just be another corpse in the pile.

Such depressing thoughts were only natural of someone on their deathbed. As most people do when their lives are slowly slipping away from them, you began to recall some of your most beloved memories. Memories of your childhood, your happiest moments, your accomplishments, but more importantly, your memories of Sephiroth.

That beautiful, green-eyed, silver-haired angel had been the sun of your life; the atmosphere to your earth, the salt to your food. He was the most precious thing in the world to you, and just like that, he'd been ripped away. His death, combined with your contraction of Geostigma, sent you into a depressed spiral. There was only one thought that brought you comfort: He was in the Lifestream now, and therefore all around you, so technically you weren't dying alone; he was there too, silently watching over you. You wanted this fact to be true so badly, you forced yourself to believe it--not that there was anyone around to tell you otherwise.

Closing your eyes, you turned over in your bed, wincing when you felt sharp pains shoot throughout your legs and shoulders; your sores squelching under the weight of your decaying body. It hurt, so, so, much, the pain was enough to bring tears to your eyes, making you wanted Sephiroth by your side more than you ever did in your lifetime. He always knew what to do, what to say, or what not to say, and how to hold you so the pain would go away. You could picture it in your mind's eye, the way his would circle his arms around your torso; how he would press kisses to your forehead and shush you, reminding you of how much he loved you in just a few words. You could hear it even now, the timbre of his low, rumbly voice echoing in your ears.

"Do not be afraid. Sleep, for I am with you, and always will be."

Though he rarely used pet names in times like these, the gentle tone of his voice and soft caressing of his lips against your skin reminded you of how much he loved you in ways words never could.

You shivered, wrapping your blankets tightly around yourself, mentally cursing the coldness of your room. At the very least, you wanted to die in a nice, toasty room, perhaps by a blazing fire. As you tried to remember what comfort felt like, memories of Sephiroth cuddling you flitted into your mind. Snuggling with him always felt the best; his large frame constantly emitted warmth, much like a human heater; resting your head near his broad, warm chest was pure bliss. As you reminisced, you could have sworn you felt his presence surround you even now as you lay on a cold mattress in a freezing, heat-less room.

Small teardrops spilled forth from your eyes, the nostalgia of events long passed filling you with a profound sense of sadness you couldn't fully understand. You gripped your sheets tightly, screwing your eyes shut in an attempt to hold on to this soothing feeling that you hadn't felt in years.

You wished you could stay like this forever, wrapped safely in the arms of your dearest love. Your mind began to fog over; the burning pain of your Geostigma sores beginning to vanish as your mind slowly sank deeper and deeper into sleep. The further into the darkness you went, the calmer and more at peace you felt.

A small smile crept onto your face as you finally let go of your last threads of consciousness, glad to be able to depart in the tender embrace of some long dead memories.

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ewanmitchelll · 3 months

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Imagine Taylor Swift’s songs (XVII): Anti-Hero.

Imagine Aemond is the King of Westers when you, a Greyjoy, rebel against his rule on behalf of a pretender to the throne.

Warnings: lots of drama, angst; smut, fluff ending like always.

***

•I have this thing where I get older but just never wiser. Midnights become my afternoons when my depression works the graveyard shift all of the people I've ghosted stand there in the room.

Just as Aemond lands, rain begins to fall. Storms usually bring bad omens, but he takes his time in going back inside. He knows he’s expected and yet the prince has no need to rush inside.

His hair is soaked as well as his leather robes. Nevertheless, he acts as if he’s been barely touched by the foul weather. Iron doors are pushed so Aemond walks inside. The moment he does Ser Criston Cole greets him.

“I salute you, lord. It appears you bring me bad news.”

“Has my grave look delivered it?”

Aemond doesn’t show him any emotion.

“The king lays in his deathbed and has requested your presence.”

Tragedy has marked the few years since his older brother won his crown upon the longer period of time spent fighting Rhaenyra and her children. Madness followed when sweet Helaena went on her free will to the grave once the twins were bitterly deprived of their lives.

Because Lucerys had to be avenged for what Aemond caused. Their mother, some would whisper, did not last longer either. Victory came when most of the greens were buried and the blacks were dead and gone.

Now all that has remained is Aemond, recently a widower after his lady wife, the unpopular Alys Rivers, died in childbirth, preventing the greens to continue their lineage since their unborn child never breathed their first breath.

He tries not to dwell in the dark waters of the past if he does not wish to be drowned in the worst depression that could make any sane man sink into it.

But a path of blood has led him to this moment. One that he always desired. At what cost, though?

“I shall see him. No need to show me the way.”

Ser Criston doesn’t seem pleased with the cold remark of the prince who has been like a son to him, but the knight knows his place and lets him be.

Aemond soon takes the stairs and in this state, he walks to his oldest brother’s privy chambers. Once he gets in, unannounced, the silver haired prince is surprised by the bad smell that comes in.

It’s the smell of death.

“Brother”, the ghostly, pained voice reaches his ear in a most unpleasant way.

Aegon II is prostrated unhealthily in bed, the opposite of what his young self used to be. The weight of the crown costed much, but no price was high enough to restaure his sanity, health or, worse perhaps, his glorious past. In his eyes, there is nothing but the disgrace of another kinslayer, consumed by remorse.

A terrible sight to behold.

“My king”, he bows his head.

“Even in my darkest hour you are tied to formalities”, Aegon snarls in disdain. “It should have been you here, not me.”

“Time has always been a great thief, on that we agree, but do not think the shadow of death will not be casted upon me”, responds Aemond in a whisper.

“I should have been wiser”, says Aegon with eyes blurred by tears. “The older I grew, poorer were the decisions made.”

Aemond doesn’t know what to respond, opting for silence. In truth, he’s always been more of a soldier than a general. Always one to follow orders than give them. Or perhaps the civil war has led him to shape this perspective of himself.

“What good is there to think of what should or could have been done? The past is there for a reason.”

“How can you be so cold?!”

“I am being reasonable, logical even. Where is the need of being sentimental when pointing facts?”

“The woman whom you fought so hard has died! And here you are!”

Out of respect for the dying king, Aemond doesn’t pick this battle to fight. Not again. Not now.

“The crown is yours to use. But there is one thing you must be told before I’m gone…”

Aemond steps closer now, accustomed with the bad smell. The heat of the fireplace seems unwelcoming now that he’s friends with the cold.

“Yes?”

“Not every kin has perished in the war”, he murmurs.

“What the hell are you talking about?”, this is the first time in a while that Aemond has shown some emotion.

Aegon smirks at his brother, pleased to get him some reaction.

“Two of Rhaenyra’s sons are living”, but for some reason the dying king thinks it’s not his problem to give Aemond their whereabouts. Or perhaps this is remorse for all that he’s done.

Who knows? Who could tell what’s in his mind?

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me…”

“I am not”, and as if he is suddenly tired of living, Aegon coughs.

Aemond spots blood in his brother’s mouth, but by now his heart and mind are divided in between genuine concern over Aegon, his last remaining family, and the whereabouts of possible pretenders to his throne.

“Aegon…”

“Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown, brother.”

That being said, Aegon’s life has been turned into nothingness. The old king is dead. Long live the new king.

***

• I should not be left to my own devices. They come with prices and vices. I end up in crisis (tale as old as time). I wake up screaming from dreaming. One day I'll watch as you're leaving 'cause you got tired of my scheming (For the last time)…

You stand in black leather robes by your father’s side the moment a messenger enters the great salon. Outside waves hit the shore violently, announcing a tempest that has been forming in the past twenty and four hours. Clouds have been obscuring the skies, but only by this twilight they’ve been producing electric sounds.

A lightening is heard.

“Well, lord. Under hospitality laws you are welcomed in this household”, says the chieftain of the House Greyjoy. “What news do you bring us?”

The messenger inspires some sympathy in you. He’s younger than your youngest brother and appears to have been made of summer. He knows naught of the perils that coming to Pyke might indulge him. But to his fortune Lord H/N Greyjoy is the head of the House at the moment, which means that he knows the aforementioned laws and would never harm a messenger.

“We have a new king”, by his accent you know he comes from a mid noble house of King’s Landing. “Aegon, second of his name, has died and transmitted the crown to his successor. His brother, lord Aemond Targaryen, is now the new king.”

“Ah”, says Lord H/N, playing with the knife. “A usurper following another usurper. Why does he care about us, often ignored by most Targaryens? Is he familiar that our laws somewhat differ even though we have been paying tribute and homage to them for a while?”

The poor messenger is sweating cold. You think wise to interfere when Lord H/N smiles benevolently.

“Young man, as bad reputed as my house is, we are honorable. At least I like to think my kin and I are. The laws of hospitality mean a great deal to us. But I appreciate the message you delivered us. I presume this means Lord Aemond is expecting that we submit to him as our overlord and king.”

The boy swallows again in relief. You see he’s considering correcting your father for the misuse of titles, but opts not to ruin his fortune.

“Aye, lord. The time to pay homage is soon.”

“Indeed it is”, your father strokes his chin. “These are the days I miss King Viserys. Many took him for a fool, but peacekeeping is the product of hard work. This is what made him a good king. And His Grace respected us, the houses that made his reign proper to rule.”

Then he stands, indicating the time to talk has come to an end.

“Tell lord Aemond that we recognize no king but the one who attends the name of Aegon III, son of the formidable Lord Daemon Targaryen and the queen who should have been, Rhaenyra.”

The warning is done. When the messenger leaves, you pity the poor lad’s fate. As you see the wind whirling against the sea, you say:

“The bad omen is sent by the God.”

It’s your elder brother, your father’s heir, who says:

“What do you understand of such things?”

You shoot him a gaze as if you are speaking with someone whose comprehension equals that of an ant.

“Great tempests like the one that’s been forming is hardly favorable. It is known.”

“A bad omen for the self pretentious new king”, you hear your father correct you. “This is our God preparing us for war.”

“War”, your brother repeats. “Was it necessary, father? We do not know whether the offspring of Queen Rhaenyra are alive.”

“They are”, lord H/N says in a tone that makes clear he knows many more things than he’s letting show. And here is how the schemes begin. “However, we must test the new king’s forces.”

Looking at you, his favored daughter, the head of Pyke says:

“Take with you a great number of men. You do well in tempests like this. The new king will assemble his army, but he’s not foreseeing our attack against his shores, assuming we are going to Lannisport again.”

You nod, unquestioning. Another brother, however, meddles:

“Is it prudent to underestimate the usurper, sire? He collects epithets that make quite a powerful sobriquet.”

“Words as those are meant to break fools by creating unreasonable fear of a man who is just that: a man.” And giving you a look, he says: “You may go.”

You hide away your fears, taking his orders. Unlike your brothers, you don’t question your father and you have no taste for blood. Though sensitive you may be—grieving the loss of your sister springs ago when she was forced to marry a green partisan only to die in childbirth and that of your mother by melancholy made you deal with your rage through violent seas—, you hide away your true self off the eyes of others.

Despite the beauty that brings admirers to your side, iron is set above it so though you never caused any death directly, you had enough power to bring it—which only means how fearful to some you can be, not to mention the protection and favor you have of the family.

Now here you are with the men under heavy rain. It’s time to scheme. Despite the bad feeling you bear with you—the fights you won previously during the civil war for the blacks usually occurred in calm sea, not amidst violent waves—, what else is there to do but to obey your father and overlord?

You turn at the ship and instruct your loyal men to follow you. But you do not enter in it before praising the God you serve and yelling after taking a long sip of wine:

“What is dead may never die!”

***

• It's me, hi, I'm the problem, it's me. At tea time, everybody agrees. I'll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror. It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero

Aemond’s coronation may have happened with no issues, but brought vices of temper that were not sufficiently tamed during his days of prince. One of which was the obsessive search for the lost sons of Rhaenyra.

Amidst this inconclusive search, the wolves of Winterfell are threatening to revolt at the same time the Krakens of Pyke delivered the message of subtle warning of war.

In spite of the circumstances, he is more than acutely aware of the fragile state of his kingship. This is the time to show his subjects he is not like Aegon.

Nay. He is better.

All the whilst the whereabouts of his nephews remain inconclusive and unknown, Aemond concentrates in issues that expect pragmatism of his part.

The North can still be dealt with the use of diplomacy and he sends his Hightower cousin to Winterfell with gold and an arrangement that works for his cause—presumably a match between a daughter of Lord Cregan and his envoy himself since Aemond has no desires in remarrying.

However, the Greyjoy assault assumes preoccupying colors. What could possibly lead an old house to open rebel against his rule?

“This is easy to resolve”, he shares his thoughts with Ser Criston Cole. “Their fleet will burn with fire and blood.”

Aemond does not fantom how the glory of his moment, albeit with a bloody path that brought him there, can be eclipsed by the refusal of a general acceptance of his rule.

Leaving personal vanities aside, cleaning his judgement of probable vices, the new king understands that the civil war of years ago has not yet been put to an end.

As he watches from the Red Keep the storm outdoors, calmly and steadfastly, a part of him comprehends that he may not be the best loved king time has witnessed and the pen of the maesters registered, but duty is what will always impel him to do what’s best.

If those will not see it through his good, may they see through his worse.

You cling onto optimism under the advantage that this is a surprise attack well coordinated, not a spontaneous sack in search for gold, nor an occasion fighting with random pirates.

This is not, however, a mere thirst for adventure being satisfied. The purpose, although ignored by you in great measure, is bigger than what your reason can conceive.

Perhaps you lack ambition to fight your wars, to be manipulated by your father like your brothers accuse him of doing—but what other choice do you have? He’s never treated you unkindly nor forced you upon an unwanted marriage, giving you liberty to do as it pleased you as long as you’d not forget your duties to your house.

You had your mother and your sister to tame your worse tendencies—whether to be slaved by the passions of the flesh or under the sins of pride—, some of which you’ve learned to repress. Now, however, you are where you belong. In the midst of chaos.

You do not like to fight it or to shed blood. To waste lives is a purpose you take no pride of. But leading others to it… or letting them choose to do what circumstances impel them to do so… this is what you are born to do. This is what makes most men fear you, comparing you to your father.

But they don’t see that, underneath this iron, there lies something pure and good. Sensitive. Aiming to be seen, aiming to be truly free of the duty that ties you to your family.

For however loved or useful you may be to your father, you are still under his command. Even here, even now.

However, it would have been prudent to question it, to have followed your instincts. For you have forgotten, or perhaps not have been told, that a storm never stopped King Aemond of flying his great legendary beast.

Waves clash against the ships, threatening to drown the men in them, or perhaps, as you hopefully attempt to see, leading you all to your destination.

But you miss a great shadow following above clouded skies. The night looks longer and deadlier, specially when it’s heard a roar right when a lightening bolt hits the ocean.

It doesn’t take long before you and your men pale as a shadow of the largest creature you’ve ever put your eyes on is casted upon the ship. You yell orders to separate the ships, with each carrying a beast to put it down.

The rain is too strong now and thus muffles your commands. To worse all, fire comes from above. Two of your ships are gone. You try not to succumb to your fear, soon leading the ship yourself. The desperation of your men is heard, but you try not to let the sound shake your core to join them in frustration.

Some of them opt to jump into the arms of the Drowned God and you cannot blame. But as you try to flee out of the dragon’s grasp, to your dismay you spot an outstanding number of fleet coming to your direction.

You flush violently.

“Fuck, we are ruined! This mission has been…”, your voice dies out. What is there to say? Has your father sent you to a trap?

“What should we do, lady Y/N?”, the second in command asks you.

“Never surrender”, your pride takes the iron shield back to surface. “If we must die, so be it.”

Aemond, however, has other plans. Despite burning and leading his own men to suffocate your rebellion before it reaches land, he wants to imprison the leader of it, which means you.

Soon, your ship is bombarded—and you watch as the king’s men slay all of yours, but you.

“Why are you sparing me?”

To no avail you seek death or protest. As if you are nothing, Lannister men hold you tight, removing you from the wrecked ship. By then you do not know whether you are weeping or the rain is washing your face. What difference is there?

You understand death is coming to you soon or later. Realizing that gives you strength, but paradoxically descend into melancholy.

***

• Sometimes I feel like everybody is a sexy baby and I'm a monster on the hill too big to hang out, slowly lurching toward your favorite city, pierced through the heart, but never killed…Did you hear my covert narcissism I disguise as altruism like some kind of congressman? (Tale as old as time)

Aemond’s victory upon the two threats against his rising reign leaves him comfortable to deal with upcoming events. Whilst there is no indication that only the names of his nephews are alive in the memory of his enemies, with no bodies found he focus in the real threats and these have been placated.

But curious in meeting the leader of what he judges to be a piracy house, he expects to see you soon. Barely he knows, as well as you, what will result of this.

In the meantime, as comfortable as you are in new robes and in fancy quarters of the Red Keep, protected from the storm that is still daunting outdoors, you have your nightmares to deal with.

The sounds of the men screaming as they either embraced death willingly or were deprived of their lives with inutile resistance bend you to your tears. Never before you felt so weak for loving the sea, the wilderness in it.

What hurts more is the realization you were not born to be a soldier. A part of you always expected to be equal your brothers, but your failure shows precisely that you are not like them.

Lost in your contemplations, you are trying to think of a solution about leaving the place when you are surprised by the presence of no one but the king himself.

Aemond has no time to waste in delegating useless tasks that he can do it himself. Thus it is this anxious warlord comes to the chambers he located you.

Whilst he stands there, you and him share a silent stare. The silver haired prince is significantly taller than you, possessing, as you first notice, a long sword in his right side and a dagger in his left. The idea that he came protected to meet you almost makes you smile.

“What reason is there to your lips twirl in a smirk? You have no reason to commemorate”, his husky voice assaults your troubled mind, forcing you to focus on him.

“You came alone to meet me, lord king. Armed. Do I pose you enough danger for that?”

Aemond takes a seat before you. His good, lilac eye studies you intently. Despite feeling crimson paint your cheeks, you do not look away.

“You think too high of yourself, lady Y/N Greyjoy. I suggest you to know your place.”

You fold your arm, mockery rising to your eyes.

“Please, lord. Enlighten me what place is this when you have no morals to speak in such terms.”

Aemond is patient. And unlike many of the men that crossed your path, not tempted to easily demonstrate or slip into his temperament.

“I wear the crown and impose a defeat on your feeble attempt to overthrow me, lady Y/N. It is unwise to dictate the rules of this game.” And then he adds. “A game that you perhaps have not been prepared to play. Has your good father not instructed you on it properly? By the sounds of your defeat, I guess not.”

You clench your jaw. Despite the broken pride and the heat in your throat that might vert in unwelcoming tears, you hold back the instinct of throwing your hands around this king’s neck and break it.

But you’ve never been one back to violence, have you?

“Has the cat eaten your tongue?”

You stand at last.

“Why coming to insult me so freely? Kill me if you must, lord king. One less enemy to humiliate!”

Aemond too stands, hands contrived in his back.

“Nay”, he speaks in almost a whisper. “The rules are not yours to dictate. Besides, with your supporters dead, I have a guess that your father will not come for you.”

With a side smirk, he leaves you. Victoriously so. And as he closes the door, there locking you in, the prince hears your screams.

But he wonders what to do with you. This is not a typical rebel, nor a natural leader who easily inspires dissent. A soldier. The word brings him back to his memories when, as the right hand of King Aegon, his brother, he did what you are doing now. Obeying orders.

Intrigued by this comparison, he goes back to your quarters after he finishes dinner. Unannounced, he surprises you combing your long y/c hair, wearing a white night gown. As you readily stand before the noise of opening door, he sees not only fear behind your eyes… but comes to notice the strong firm breasts the silk poorly disguises.

However, to his own sake he best not to look too much in you.

“What are you here for, lord king?”, you ask away, throwing robes over your shoulders. “I-It’s too late for a visit and I shall not be your whore.”

Your words, much to your dismay, make him chuckle. Aemond pulls a chair and there sits, holding your uncomfortable gaze still.

“Despite the inappropriate hour, I had to speak with my lady”, says he.

“What for?”, you retort, still at a corner like a frightened animal.

“I will do no harm to you, Y/N Greyjoy. I am not my brother”, he clenches his jaw, waving his hand dismissively. “All I want is talk. You have my word.”

You hesitate and Aemond sees distrust in your eyes. He doesn’t blame you for this behavior. Now wondering what he’d do if his sister’s forces had captured him many moons ago, he comes to think he’d behave similarly. If not more rudely.

Eventually you cede and take a distant seat of him.

“Well?”, you say, anxious. “Speak your terms.”

“I did not come to bargain”, Aemond smirks. “Why, as a victor, would I do so?”

“I am not your trophy, lord king”, you frown your eyebrows in clearly displeasure. “Either send me home or execute me. Other possibilities are out of consideration.”

Aemond is entertained by how your pride takes the reins of the situation. Ignoring what you just said, he proceeds rather cautiously.

“You are a soldier.”

On that you don’t see it coming. You tilt your head and had not it been for a few scars over your eyebrows and on your neck, besides the calloused hands, he’d take you as a princess.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Patiently, the king explains.

“You were following orders to bring your men here. When we captured you, I’ve already had some informations about you. You are the only daughter of Lord H/N of Pyke, but hardly as skillful as your brothers… at least where bloodshed is concerned. You have a tender heart and even when you sack or pile you tend to have mercy on your enemies.”

You look at him in between astonishment and embarrassment.

“You planted a spy at my father’s household.”

Aemond’s lips twitch in a smile.

“You are clever, my lady.”

You feel a strange urge to weep, but you blink a few times, refusing to cede to it.

“I will not ask why. You’ve been counting on that, haven’t you? But seeing I am useless to my father, why keeping me here at your mercy?”

“I do not think you are useless to him. On the contrary”, Aemond rests his hand over his knee. “I know how cherished you are for him.”

“You are using me to bring out my family and defeat it publicly. My House will stand, lord.”

“There are many ways a House can perish, lady. But this is not about it. Disregarding what you may have heard about me, I was a soldier like you. Obeying orders blindly without questioning. However, I was born to hold a sword. You, perhaps, to command.”

Silence hangs in between the two of you. Aemond sees the value you have for your family, but what surprises him is that you don’t share the perspective.

They see the beauty in you, not the iron that lies underneath.

A thought he doesn’t find convenient to share. He stands, having collected enough for his judgement.

You watch as he stops by the door. He knows you have the urge to beg him to spare your family. It is an instinct that many would have in your position. But because you know that he studied you well, you say nothing.

You turn your back on him, disappointing your captor for sparing him of temperamental exhibition.

***

As days turn in weeks, you have been forced to deal with eminent loss of the main purpose that has led you there. Serving your family has not only brought you disgraces or exposed your fragilities to your enemies, but comes to nothing when no news of your father or brothers searching to avenge you reach you.

“A soldier is replaceable, whether by blood or not”, says Aemond.

This evening you two are dining together at his privy royal chambers. You realize the king is a lonely man with unseen scars. Like you.

“You have offended my honor and disgraced my pride”, you speak softly as you take wine to your lips. It’s sweet and part of you wishes it to be poisonous. “Until when do you intend to break my spirit?”

When Aemond raises his eyes to meet yours, your soul is perturbed. You wish you could look away, but not even vengeance is a scheme tolerable by your mind now.

“Despite the circumstances, I wish you had not seen me as such”, he speaks behind the glass he takes to his lips. “I believe there’s much to gain in here.”

“What’s there to gain?”

“Liberty.”

“By what means?”

No answer comes. As you now start to study him, you come to see him as not the villain many folks had moulded him to, but not the hero either. Somewhere in between.

Aemond doesn’t say. Silence again hangs in between you, but this time it has not the same shades of awkwardness.

By the end of the dinner, he is leading you back to your quarters. He sees that you still shake when he takes your hand.

“Lady Y/N…”

You look at him, deprived of your pride.

“Y-Yes?”

“This would all be different had you not openly rebelled against me on behalf of phantoms. I sought about the whereabouts of the princes myself and didn’t find them. Why letting yourself be the pawn of others game?”

You lower your eyes so he doesn’t see the depth of melancholy that has hammered these questions long ago, but the king lifts your chin, there gently holding it.

“What other choice did I have? You, of all, should understand what is like to be tied to the family. Have you never sacrificed anything for them?”

Aemond contemplates you in silence, words that echo that fatidic night where his mother claimed Lucerys’s eye for the loss he suffered.

“I have”, he admits. “More than you will ever know.”

A ghostly smile is seen forming shyly on your lips.

“Then we are not different. Soldiers, like you said.”

And then you stop by the door. Looking back at him, you find the king staring at you. Why, this time, does his intent stare shake you? Why do the parallels between you two bring something more?

Worse is, why does your prison doesn’t feel like one anymore?

***

Aemond leaves the council, certain that no more rebellions will spread. There had been no more words from Pyke, though he’s more than aware that the remaining of your brothers might attempt something in not a near future for he’s been informed that they plan another sack at Lannisport.

In that order, he instructs his spy to pay enough gold to have the Greyjoys protecting the bays of Westeros if they occasionally let go of supporting names that are nothing but a memory of days long put to rest.

However, a question remains: what to do with you?

***

You are allowed to walk freely through the castle. At first this intrigues you. As you love the unknown, you occasionally lose your fear as you start to explore this new environment.

But when going to the gardens and there spotting the sea, your heart aches. As you contemplate those calm waters, you wonder why your father had sent you in such a suicidal mission. He knew you had won previously in placid seas. It was never prudent to combat in ugly storms.

Such are your thoughts that you do not see him coming. Aemond has realized that for a long while he hasn’t come to enjoy a feminine companion, gotten now used to you.

Like a hawk in guard, he sets his good eye to scrutiny over you. This time, your beauty captivates his sight. Your y/c hair, falling down to the mid of your back, is only partially tied according to the local fashion; he notices it’s cleaner and better brushed too. As the sun lights on it, it makes it shine in almost a different shade of y/c.

The gown you dress is silk made and it slips delicately in your body, shaping your curves. Aemond’s good eye notices your hips, how firm they are. He thinks you look good in red and black, the colors of his house. This perception makes him smirk unconsciously.

Feeling you have been under observation, you promptly turn in defense mood, admonishing yourself for letting your guards down, until you see it’s the king, your captor, who’s been the observer.

“Staring is rude”, you do not know how else to greet him and curtsying is not an option; this means that you are subduing to his authority, and as much as you are thankful for his clemency to you, you still have your pride.

Aemond notices it, which amuses. Nothing different that what would have he done, had he been in your shoes.

“Not greeting your king properly is as well”, he remarks. “I thought that even the Greyjoys had some manners.”

You scoff at him in defiance.

“Who do you take us for? Barbarians?”

“No”, Aemond wrings his hands behind his back in his usual composed posture. “Only a folk who is often on combat with their own kin when not assaulting other shores.”

“Please”, you snarl in response. “Says the one who came to power after murdering a few of his own kin.”

Any sign of humor dissipates of the king’s eyes. Darkness casts its shadow upon his face and your smirk is instantly wiped off yours. You instantly regret saying it so, even though you cannot understand why.

“Do not speak of matters that you don’t understand”, the king addresses you in a cold tone.

“Then you should not judge a life that you never lived.”

No one admits defeat. Pride takes victory, thus separating one from the other. For the moment.

***

But your remorse begins to hammer against your conscience. You know if you wanted to make your way, you would. Perhaps seducing the king to buy your ticket to liberty.

As days turn into months and these begin to slowly turn into another year, no signs of the Greyjoys in avenging you shows that there is no point in going back home.

Have you been tamed? You fear to find the answer. It’s when you come for him.

“I need to find His Grace”, you ask Ser Criston, his closest advisor.

The knight looks down upon you and you detest to feel small by this man’s gaze. I’m still a Kraken’s daughter. But you keep the thought to yourself.

“He’s occupied at the moment.”

Sounds come from the king’s bedchambers and you narrow your eyes at what you hear. Why are you flinching upon hearing these scandalous noises?

You do not answer the knight. Lifting your chin, you storm out, perhaps prompted to do something very impulsive.

Which is, for now, getting yourself drunk. Now familiarized with the kitchen and collecting a few friends amongst the servants, you get yourself some good bottles to yourself.

“I do not think wise that you should drink alone, my lady”, a maid responsible to look after you named Gisla tells you concerned.

“Who cares if wine takes my breath away, dear? I am forsaken by all, a prisoner whose life turned into dust.”

As you lock yourself in your bedchambers, you get to wonder why the possibility that the king has found lovers to warm his bed should affect you.

Trying to dissipate these uninviting thoughts, you begin to unlace the gown he gifted you, ready to toss it in fire. Pouring wine in the glass, you try to release your caged spirit in the best way you can.

Now wearing nothing more than undergarments, you open the window in search of fresh air. Moon rises high at sky and when looking at the reflection it casts down the sea, melancholy strikes again.

Having calmed your temper, you start to reason with yourself. Who are you now? A memory that remains, a survivor long forsaken? As you taste the sweet flavor of red wine—Dornish, you are sure—you don’t see the king getting to your chambers.

Aemond is dressed in his usual robes, but looking somehow less than a royal. He throws his cape at the seat, his good eye scrutinizing over your melancholy. Almost twelve months have passed and somehow one remains unreachable for the other.

Under moonlight, he spots a free spirit caged. A woman born to rule, his other half in another life if defeat was meant to him. He did to her what others would do to him. And he realizes how unjust he was.

To secure his throne, he did what he must. But growing used to you, he refuses to let you go. The mere thought of you abandoning him is… unacceptable.

Nevertheless, the king wishes to compensate you. Desire arises, sparked by perhaps his utmost selfishness in keeping you with him.

Or perhaps you are only a gift by the Gods to put an end to this misery. His head is heavy with the crown he wears, a burden that tests his limits and feeds his ambitions.

Yet, all is set aside when he looks at you. Slowly he comes behind you. Sensing an enigmatic presence behind you, you abruptly turn only to find him this close to you.

“Lord king! Your Grace!”, you exclaim out of short breath.

“I see we are welcomed properly now, my lady”, he never noticed until now how deep your y/c eyes are, as if sea is calling him. “I have missed you.”

You scoff, trying to find a way out of his arms, but Aemond doesn’t let you to.

“Will you please let me go?”

“Nay. I was prepared to do so, but I am a selfish man, Y/N. I care about you.”

You clench your jaw, frustrated. So many men have been pushed away, despised and looked down by you, but this king… When you look up, you are trapped.

“You care not!”, your voice betrays your spiritual state. “You have been whoring!”

Aemond’s eye twinkles with amusement. He is now holding your wrists as he pushes you against the wall, his knee gently parting your legs. You feel a strange ache burning your womanhood, rising to your chest.

“What makes you think I was?”

His long, slander pale fingers wrap around your fingers, eyeing your chest with lust, perceiving the hardened nipples under the white nightgown you dress. Then he raises his eyes only to meet your inexpressible face completely red.

“I… It doesn’t matter how I think when it’s a fact”, you try to protest, but it dies incomplete in your throat the moment Aemond gently rubs his knee against your entrance.

You should not enjoy this, but by the Kraken, here is no ordinary man.

“And if it was? Why would you care?”, he is pleased to find some reaction in your eyes at the moment he speaks with his husky voice, a positive effect of him over you.

“I don’t”, you squeak as he continues doing what he’s been doing with his knee.

“Deny me, then. Send me away the way you sent your suitors all before”, Aemond defies you, aroused as you begin to rub against his knee, willingly this time.

Eyes locked in one gaze, no one is ready to surrender. Yet.

“My king should know better whom you speak to.”

“One day you’ll wake up with regrets if I leave.”

You move closer to take hold of his long face, fingertips daringly touching his cheeks, up to his eye—but despite your staring you don’t touch the eye patch. Letting them slip to his silvery hair, wrapping your fingers around his locks, pulling him closer to you.

“Will you dare to leave me, Aemond Targaryen?”

His eyelashes barely open as his lips remain close to yours, his left hand holding your waist as his right one leaves your neck, slipping vaguely and purposely over your breasts before resting over your waist.

“Will you stay, Y/N Greyjoy?”

When you dare to remove his eye-patch, Aemond surprises you by not fighting away your curiosity. Knowing how this means he trusts in you, it’s enough to knock down every other barrier you’ve held up to him.

“Must be exhausting to repress your sentiments to this anti-hero”, he stares at you intently.

“It is”, you gasp, spreading your legs as his hand finally moves under the skirt of your nightgown. But he doesn’t make to your core, not yet, which makes you mewl.

Aemond side smirks at you, waiting to bend you to his will. You barely breathe, but this time you turn the tables by letting another hand finding the way to his pants.

“My lady!”

“You did not take me as a damsel, did you?”, you chuckle, even though he sees you are misleading in your eyes.

In truth, as you feign a confidence you don’t have, all you did was having a limited experience with men. So you did know some things as he can tell by the form your fingers skillfully unlace his pants and…

“Shit!”, Aemond curses.

You giggle quietly, appreciating the mix of shock and libidinous in his wide-eyed gaze. It feels good to have his length throbbing against your hand, how you manage to have him under your control.

It feels so good to deflect him to you, to have captured your captor.

“Gods…”, his moans are sensually low, the pleasure stamped in his features making you wet in your legs.

What is meant to be an instrument of domination is now domineering you. And oh you want more… But then, you stop.

“Y/N…” Aemond groans in between annoyance and disbelief.

“I cannot do this”, you say, detesting to break the spell, but then…

He gives you a quizzical look, perhaps thinking many possibilities of why you are doing this to him after he let himself be so crudely open to you.

Precisely why you are surprising him again when you tell him.

“I am not your whore, Aemond. You either make me your wife and queen, or my life ends right here, right now”, you indicate with your head in direction to the opened window. “I am a Kraken’s daughter. I am the sea, I cannot be caged for longer.”

Maybe it’s the wine, but you are scarcely afraid of holding back a character that hasn’t fitted you for long.

“I grew to love you and even though I am forsaken by my family, more painful would be if I were deserted out of your heart.”

Aemond’s features sooth before your words. Indeed he’s been taken by surprise, a deed few would have claimed to do.

“You could have said this earlier”, says he, shortening the distance between you two, cupping your face with his. “I meant not to dishonor you, my lady.”

“I was afraid you would not…”

“…love you?”, he chuckles, resting his forehead against yours. “I fucking do. Hence why I said I’m not prepared to let you escape. I cannot do so. And I am ready to make you my queen.”

One smile is enough to firm the peace between hearts in array.

***

• I'll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror. It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero…

Aemond admires the wild beauty that sleeps next to his side. His queen, at long last announced before the whole realm notwithstanding the disapproval of his council, his wife.

He begins to kiss your face, before burying his face against your hair. No more sorrow when your sea salt scent envolves him in a jolt of happiness never before experienced… not before Alys.

No more past to daunt his heart and torment his mind as his tongue slips to your ear, biting your earlobe and sliding to your neck, his hand pressing against your waist. His eyes remain glued at your peaceful, serene face, despite the shivers that begin on your skin and, as he discreetly pulls off the blankets, sees the exposed nipples hardening.

Aemond is careful not to wake you yet. Admiring your nude frame as his lips move to your neck, he keeps in mind the events of the day before. No protest came from Pyke as one of them is crowned their queen. But you are still resented to write them letters, despite the efforts of your brothers in renewing a direct alliance with the crown—to the Lannisters’ preoccupation.

The king is not here to please anybody, but you. He recollects how beautiful you were in a green, silk gown, appropriated for summer feasts. His mother’s tiara was placed above your head, and your hair down reinforced your sparkling beauty.

As his mouth leaves bruises against your skin, you move lightly, making incomprehensible noises. Aemond smirks, slowly turning over your body, always careful when doing so.

Contemplating your nudity under his gaze, he recollects the night before—and the nights beforehand where he took you as his wife, never able to leave your body, remembering how you mewled under his touch, how humbled you were when you begged.

“My lady likes to be commanded in bed”, he said in the occasion.

“Only you has possessed this right”, so you snapped in between short breaths.

Smiling at the retrospective moment, his lips now move delicate to mouth out your nipples, finally awaking you as his fingers move down to your womanhood.

“Oh Aemond!”, you cry out in pleasure, eyes open with despair, as your body reacts like a big wave sets to hit the shore violently.

“Yes, my lady?”, he takes his time in each nipple until your cries get louder, all the whilst his now two fingers make way deep inside you, already familiar with the walls that clench around it, the spot that is soon making you call his name.

And then…

“I need you!”, you whimper.

Your wishes are prompted complied. What a good way to start your tenure, you remember thinking. When looking at you, Aemond Targaryen knows he is not merely a king, but a man who finally found love in his lifetime.

#ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #house targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #aemond one eyed #aemond targaryen fic #aemond #prince aemond #prince aemond targaryen #taylor swift #anti hero #midnights

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hehe-hoho-ohno · 4 months

Text

So, uh, I get the general vibe that people are expecting a new chapter for Misfits on Christmas. Honestly, I was also hoping that I would be able to update on Crisis. Unfortunately, the chapter is not even close to being ready to be posted. I'm really sorry. (Combo of busy irl, writers block, and a new hyperfixation grabbing me by the throat.)

However! As a holiday treat, I do have a snippet from the next chapter of Misfits. Spoilers under the cut!

----

People Who Might Be Persuaded To Wind Ingo Up; a numbered list:

1. Emmet

I cannot ask Emmet, he gave a very clear no, as is his right. He seemed extremely distressed by the prospect and I don’t want to upset him further. There’s no need to burden him with my problems.

2. General North

I know that if I asked him he would oblige me, as he has done so in the past. After the entirety of the Taffy Battalion rebuffed me he came to my aid. However, this also caused him to reassign me to the Pine Battalion, effective immediately, because if they refused assist me with basic maintenance then our working relationship had clearly deteriorated beyond repair. He would not listen when I tried to persuade him otherwise.

I cannot risk him removing me from Gear Battalion. Do not approach under any circumstances.

3. Whoever it is that helps Emmet?

It doesn’t make any sense. Who winds Emmet up? He’s been working on his own for quite some time, and he doesn’t appear to have any friends. General North? It can’t be, Emmet hates him. Besides, if he asked the General now he would simply redirect him to me, or worse. There must be something I’m missing.

I can’t ask Emmet directly, but perhaps there is some other way to find out?

4. The fairy floss spiders

I talked to Emmet’s spiders about my dilemma and they were very good listeners. I had a far fetched and rather outrageous theory that Emmet might have trained them to wind him up. In my defence, they are the only living beings Emmet has a positive relationship with. Further thought proved that this was an even more ludicrous idea than first assumed, as they are too small and lightweight to physically turn a key, even if a whole cluster of them worked together. It is possible that exhaustion is making me slightly delirious.

It was not a complete waste as I feel better after putting my thoughts into words. Additionally, spending time with the spiders always puts me in a positive mood.

Update: a cluster of them worked together to drag a candy cane to me. They must have misunderstood my worries about running out of energy for me being hungry, not understanding that I don’t need to eat like they do. All the same, it was extremely sweet of them to try to help me and it’s a gift I will treasure.

5. Donner

Even when we were in the same battalion our relationship was transactional in nature. If I did a chore for him, such as cleaning or moving cargo, he would return the favour and assist me with maintenance. I have not spoken to him since my removal from his battalion. Although we parted ways on a sour note, he might still be willing to aid me if I offer my services.

Update: He refused. He laughed at me.

6. Captain Jawbreaker

Previously, he gave me an ultimatum: no member of the battalion would wind me up unless I smiled convincingly beforehand. At the time I was unable to. If this ultimatum is still in effect, perhaps it works in the reverse as well.

Update: I’ve tried in front of a mirror and I was unable to produce anything that Captain Jawbreaker would be satisfied with. Since my removal from the Taffy Battalion I have not been practicing as frequently and upon joining Gear Battalion I stoped completely. It’s noticeable. I’m terribly rusty.

Update: I can’t do it. My more recent attempts would be more likely to elicit a punishment than a reward. My cheeks hurt.

Update: I still can’t do it, I wouldn’t be able to even if I had days to improve and I don’t have days. I shouldn’t be wasting my time trying but I don’t know what else to do.

Update: I can’t

7. ???

I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know, who else is there? Everyone hates me. Everyone hates me. I can’t even bring myself to try pleading with more of my former squad members I already know they’ll say no they don’t like me no one does

I’m running out of time

8. Emmet

Beg. I could throw myself at his feet and beg for mercy. He’s been kind before and he’s shown concern for my well being in the past, he might take pity on me. He’s my friend, isn’t he? If he knew how dire my situation was

What a horrible thing to do to a friend. He was so distressed the first time I brought it up, I won’t add guilt to that too. I don’t want to risk our friendship by pushing beyond what he is comfortable with. I don’t want him to hate me.

Maybe he already does

9. Nobody

#misfits #wip Wednesday #submas #Tumblr did not want to play nice with the formatting orz #perhaps its for the best that its not ready for chimbsmas #this isnt a particularly festive chapter #like #I got a gift for you!#IT WAS PAIN #people in the comments last chapter were really worried about Ingo #as they should be #submas angst #<- I am not kidding

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utilitycaster · 3 days

Note

💙💜

Which character is not as hot as everyone else seems to think?

We've talked about this in DMs anyway but OTOHAN. She's physically attractive I suppose, although that's 100% from official art and absolutely not from initial description (perhaps that's just me, but Matt described her as having eyes like a bird of prey, and somehow the image of her in my head has always been. does anyone remember the weird turkey pictures of Ole Golly in Harriet the Spy (the book). Is this too weird a pull? Did I make it up because I can't seem to find an online image? Unclear.) But point being before the official art came out I was not imagining her as attractive, even. And then there's personality. Like, yeah, you can say someone is hot based on just a physical image without knowing them; this is how celebrity works. But when you've only one got one singular physical image and it doesn't really match your mind's eye which isn't terribly attractive, anyway and then there's no personality but...I can't even say zealotry because we literally don't know anything about her motivations other than raw murder. I can't even enjoy the inherent eroticism of the sword. Anyway. If you want hot middle age women villains why not og Delilah before she became a loser, or Raishan's human form, or Ripley, or Avantika, or Vess deRogna, or Liliana. If you just want hot middle age women with a propensity for violence why not Deanna with Jerry the Goat. If you are specifically interested in the "milf" archetype (Otohan is not a mother, so this is rather telling) then might I suggest Veth, who is not middle-aged yet but she is a mother and she is super good at violence. All of these women have hopes and dreams and personalities and aren't a blank dull slate to project upon, as I personally am entirely unattracted to the latter. Anyway hopefully this also fulfills one obligation to either @playerkingsley or @whirlingbadger who asked about "mischaracterized"; Otohan is a polarizing figure with many who agree with the above as well but she is also wildly mischaracterized as hot and interesting when she is at best depicted as attractive and deathly (and deadly) boring. She bored everyone to death; the sword just got in front of her.

Which character is way hotter than everyone else seems to think?

Eshteross. I fear we moved on too soon when he died. Everyone in Bells Hells wanted a slice of this hot old orc man when he was doing his sword practice, and also he was community-minded and loyal and devoted. More generally you know that post that's like "hobbits have it all figured out, farmers market high as shit, why are people horny for elves"? This is true but also might I suggests orcs. Elves are overrated. Why are people's fantasy lithe hairlessness. This is a very narrow beauty ideal and I reject it. We, as a fandom, and dare I say, a society, need to be hornier for orcs.

I'm going to go watch candela and the inbox remains closed and will for much of the rest of the day but there are two more asks that have the exact same two hearts and I will be providing two more separate answers as well as another mischaracterization answer, and possibly making an eye appointment although I'm inclined to think the hearts just look super alike on my computer.

#cr tag #unpopular opinions ask meme

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robininthelabyrinth · 9 months

Text

The Other Mountain - ao3 - Chapter 10

Pairing: Lan Qiren/Wen Ruohan

Warning Tags on Ao3

———————————————————————-

It was time, Lan Qiren thought. Time for him to stop lying to himself.

Time to stop pretending that he was doing fine.

He was not doing fine. He was doing terribly.

He’d noticed, of course, that there was a problem with his cultivation – he could hardly miss it, given how much time he spent on contemplation, meditation, and music these days. By all rights, he ought to be seeing tremendous returns on it all by now, with his spiritual power increased, his control strengthened, his abilities grown further than he might have ever dreamed possible.

Instead, he was blocked.

He had been blocked since the moment he first entered seclusion, which was only reasonable. Ever since he’d first rushed home at the news of his brother’s hasty marriage and found out the fate to which his brother had sentenced both himself and his new bride, Lan Qiren had been possessed of an irrational fear of seclusion, and being forcefully sentenced to it had felt like dying every day. It was little surprise that he couldn’t make any progress while in there, alternating between days of profound sorrow, complete listlessness, apathy, and active self-hatred without any relief.

But he wasn’t there any longer.

Even if sometimes it felt like he was…

Though – more rarely than he’d expected.

Ironically enough, Wen Ruohan had been a great comfort to Lan Qiren, which wasn’t exactly a sentence he’d ever thought that he’d think in this life. Wen Ruohan, the tyrant, the madman, the man whose sect slowly but steadily gnawed away at the rest of the cultivation world and who swept into every discussion conference with a palpable sense of superiority that seemed to say that the rest of them were dirt under his feet rather than his equals, the man whose primary hobby appeared to be hurting people…no, Lan Qiren had never thought that he’d ever think a good thing about him, much less find comfort in his presence.

But he did. He had.

Lan Qiren supposed it was somewhat reasonable, or at least not completely unthinkable, that Wen Ruohan might be more considerate to the man he’d married than to a rival sect leader, though admittedly he would have guessed otherwise if he’d been asked. Perhaps it was simply him having not given Wen Ruohan enough credit –

Or perhaps it was merely that Wen Ruohan was preferable to Lan Qiren’s brother.

After all, if Wen Ruohan was occasionally malicious, then at least the malice was mostly generalized, consisting more of an apathetic hatred for the rest of the world at large than a specific and targeted hatred for him specifically.

It wasn’t as though Lan Qiren had entered the marriage with illusions, or anything of that sort. By the time he’d been performing his bows, he’d already resigned himself to a fairly miserable and likely very short future, and everything since then that had gone the other way had come as a pleasant surprise. It had been his good luck when it turned out that the purposes Wen Ruohan intended for him – which, ridiculous as it might seem, appeared to consist primarily of sex and (improbably enough) agreeing to continue teaching students – by definition involved his presence, which in turn provided him with some limited protection from the worst of Wen Ruohan’s temper. Still, Lan Qiren didn’t deceive himself into thinking that anything about their marriage or Wen Ruohan’s plans for him meant that he wasn’t one mistake away from the Fire Palace, if he were lucky, or being buried alive and forgotten, if he wasn’t.

Despite all that, Wen Ruohan was still preferable to Lan Qiren’s brother.

And that was terrible, wasn’t it?

The rules said Be a filial child, and custom said treat your older brother as your father. Lan Qiren…Lan Qiren had tried. From the very first moment he’d learned the rule and even before, he had tried to please his brother. He’d loved his brother, who was so much older than he was, whom everyone always spoke so highly of. His brother the prodigy, his brother the treasure of the Lan sect, his brother as peerless as the finest jade, incomparable, matchless – Lan Qiren had admired him so much. Lan Qiren had been so proud of him. He had been proud to call himself his younger brother.

His brother, as far as Lan Qiren could tell, had never been proud of him.

It had taken many years for Lan Qiren to understand that, and still more to accept it. He had never been good at understanding people, relying more on lessons and pattern recognition than social cues, and for a very long time he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge that his brother’s behavior fell into the pattern that signified people who disliked him. The rules said Do not harbor doubts, and so Lan Qiren had tried, time and time again, to give his brother his trust, his love, his best efforts, hoping that one day his brother would love him in return.

It had been his only hope. His mother had already died, and his teachers had been clear enough with him that his father was unlikely to ever be able to love him properly. They had explained how the death of his wife, Lan Qiren’s mother, had thoroughly broken his heart and with it his ability to love, and that Lan Qiren, whose birth had been the ultimate cause of that death, was too much a terrible reminder of that loss for him to overcome; he would never be able to so much as look at Lan Qiren, much less treat him with affection. It had been a kindness in its way, Lan Qiren supposed, for them to tell him such a thing so early, to try to prepare him or shield him or teach him to shield himself from inevitable disappointment like that. Presumably they had done so in order that he would know not to blame himself and, eventually, after quite a long while, he hadn’t. He’d learned to expect nothing from his father, and therefore to be content when that was precisely what he received.

But his brother…

No one had ever said a bad word about his brother. And so Lan Qiren hadn’t, either.

The rules said Be filial, and Lan Qiren had been filial.

The rules said Be loyal, and Lan Qiren had been loyal.

The rules said Be grateful, and Lan Qiren had been grateful, even though his brother had given him little enough to be grateful about.

Even when his brother had retreated into seclusion, even after everything that that seclusion meant, Lan Qiren had tried to find a way to continue to love him. He’d tried to convince himself to be forgiving for what his brother’s decision had taken away from him, because the rules said Do not hold grudges, and he’d tried, time and time again, to have respect for his brother’s decision, too, though he’d never succeeded. He’d contorted himself for years and years, twisting himself into all sorts of shapes to try to force himself to accept it, merely accept it – he’d practically blinded both his eyes trying to understand it, and yet in the end he never really had.

In the end, Lan Qiren had not even managed to learn to accept it. He had instead grown to resent his brother, even to hate him, a secret sort of hate that he’d never admitted to even himself. He’d lied to himself for years to pretend that he didn’t – less for the sake of the brother he never saw any more, and more to try to pretend to himself that he wasn’t that sort of person. That he wasn’t the sort of person who would turn against his family like that, no matter what the provocation was; that he wasn't the sort of person who would hate like that.

It had been a lie.

Do not tell lies.

Loving his brother – that hadn’t been a lie. Lan Qiren had loved his brother. In truth, he still loved his brother, even if it was mostly theoretical, a love of thought rather than feeling. Even if it was just the love that he felt that he owed to him as a brother, rather than a genuine love.

Lan Qiren knew that despite everything he’d done, despite their dislike, Lan Qiren’s brother was still his family, the fact of it as inescapable for him as it was for his brother. He knew that you were supposed to love your family. You were supposed to love them more than anything else in the world.

And yet…and yet, if given the choice between evils, Lan Qiren would pick Wen Ruohan in a heartbeat.

Wen Ruohan.

It seemed like a betrayal, somehow.

It was true that the Nightless City wasn’t the Cloud Recesses. In the few instances when Lan Qiren had woken up alone, he had known at once that he wasn’t at home, and the continuous background patter of noise, so different from the Cloud Recesses’ serenity, had after some time even made the idea of any degree of isolation return to being mildly pleasant rather than terrifyingly awful. He had no expectations here, and fewer fears. After all, even if Wen Ruohan did eventually force him into seclusion the way his brother had, at least it wouldn’t be in He Kexin’s old house.

But…he hadn’t been forced into seclusion, or tortured, or even harmed in any way (a few scratches and sex-induced bruises aside). Instead, Wen Ruohan had been…almost kind, really, in his own way. He’d let Lan Qiren take up a truly inappropriate amount of his time and space, and if he remained dangerous and unpredictable, then at least the danger was enough to take up virtually all the attention Lan Qiren had to spare at any moment they shared space together, distracting him from all the things he didn’t want to think about.

Somehow, as unbelievable as it might seem, Wen Ruohan’s presence and company had single-handedly made everything bearable again.

Everything.

All the music and the contemplation and the meditation that had been completely useless to Lan Qiren in seclusion, the serenity his brother had robbed him of –

It was his once more, as it always should have been. And it had been Wen Ruohan who had helped him regain it.

Undoubtedly that was why Lan Qiren was having his moment of crisis now, in Wen Ruohan’s temporary absence.

The absence itself wasn’t anything unusual. Wen Ruohan was a sect leader, after all, and no sect leader could escape the burdens of the role. He’d been summoned away two days before, grumbling about some problem with his cousins – ones that shared his surname, and were therefore in his eyes better than normal people, qualified to have a problem that demanded the personal presence of the sect leader to solve.

Lan Qiren had been quietly breaking down ever since.

(Was it merely the change in his routine, however minimal, that he disliked? Or did he genuinely miss Wen Ruohan? He couldn’t be entirely sure. Though perhaps it didn’t make a difference, in the end, whether the problem was the injury originally incurred, bleeding out, or the loss of the crutch that he’d use to support himself…)

He had reverted entirely. He couldn’t sleep properly, he couldn’t meditate properly. He’d more or less had to stop cultivating entirely lest he induce a qi deviation, and precisely at the moment when the century-old master of a sect known for medical marvels wouldn’t be there to save him from it. Of course, if he died, Wen Ruohan would probably assume he’d done it intentionally, paranoiac that he was, as some move made deliberately to spite him. It would infuriate him – he was that sort of person, seeing plots in every shadow and taking any loss far too personally. If Lan Qiren died before he got the use he wanted out of him, he might even blame Lan Qiren’s sect for it, somehow, irrationally, and take it out on them.

Also on Lan Qiren’s brother, which very nearly made the thought a little tempting, but Lan Qiren would never willingly do anything that could harm his nephews even inadvertently. He certainly would never let Wen Ruohan loose like a mad dog in their general direction, not if he could help it.

…and his sect, of course. His nephews and his sect; he was loyal to them both.

His nephews…

Yes, it was time.

Lan Qiren had put off thinking about it for long enough already. He’d steadfastly avoided his courtyard in the Nightless City, the one with the moon name he’d already forgotten because everything in the Nightless City seemed to be named after some celestial body or another, and more importantly, within that courtyard, the note his nephews had sent him that he knew was waiting for him. He’d avoided the note, as if by avoiding the piece of paper he could avoid thinking about what it meant, the grief and sorrow that he suffered and would suffer and which seemed as though it would never end – he’d been ignoring the issue so far, but that was no solution.

Do not grieve in excess.

Some people might have been able to live in denial forever, but not Lan Qiren.

He’d had his fill of closing his eyes and looking away, a lifetime’s worth of it – he hadn’t felt as though he had a choice but to look away, when it came to He Kexin, though he’d hated every moment of it. She hadn’t had a trial, though she should have had a trial. Even if the sentence at the end of that trial would have been death, she was entitled to that much! In their strict sect, death would not have been an unreasonable punishment for the murder of a sect elder inside their own home, without any reason that anyone had ever mentioned, but that punishment, like any punishment, could and should have only been imposed in the right way, or not at all.

Or so Lan Qiren had always thought.

He'd never said it, though. He hadn’t felt like he could.

Lan Qiren hadn’t been there at the time. He hadn’t witnessed the event or the immediate aftermath himself. He’d only seen the later effects, the results, arriving home just in time to learn that his brother, newly married, would be retreating into seclusion while his new bride went into a seclusion of her own alongside him. Because he was late, because he wasn’t there, Lan Qiren had always felt that he had no choice but to accept the answer his sect had settled on: imprisonment for life, without a trial, instead of death following one. It had been a reasonable answer, he supposed, even if it was one that had made no one happy.

It had still gnawed away at him.

Perhaps it was just that he’d been forced to become a part of it. Lan Qiren had had nothing to do with He Kexin before her imprisonment, and it had always seemed incredibly unfair that after it he should be made one of her jailors through no choice of his own. Going there every month, often more than once, seeing her constantly miserable and unable to do anything about it, wanting to do something about it and having to tell himself over and over that it had been her own crimes that had brought her there – probably that was the real reason he hated seclusion as much as he did, as much if not more than anything to do with the brother he’d once loved and now hated. His sect’s rules reminded them all to Uphold the value of justice, and he did, he tried,but He Kexin’s seclusion had terrified him nonetheless.

He…could not say that he missed her, not really. They’d disliked each other, quite thoroughly, and he suspected they would have even if she hadn’t been the woman who’d dragged his brother down and he hadn’t been the brother of the man who’d pursued and married her despite her disinterest. He’d pitied her, she’d resented him; he’d resented her, she’d scorned him. They’d simply had nothing in common…except for Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji.

That had been enough.

Shufu we miss you lots, the note said when he saw it again, neatly placed onto the writing desk in preparation for his visit. Childish, hasty, badly composed – Lan Xichen must have been in quite a hurry when he was writing it. “Lots”, really. He knew better than that!

Please come back soon!

Lan Qiren swallowed.

His grief was as vast and all-encompassing as the sea, and he was drowning. His brother hated him, his sect had left him to rot, his nephews…missed him. His nephews needed him, and he had let them down, and that was the worst of all.

His brother who hated him, he could hate in return, however futilely. His sect that had allowed him to be locked in seclusion, he could understand and maybe even forgive, however much they did or did not need his forgiveness. But his own failure…

He could do nothing about that.

Lan Qiren gently traced the words Xichen had written to him, thumbed Wangji’s blunt signature. He carefully held the page away from himself so that the tears that blinded him did not wet the paper.

He could remember how Wangji’s little hand had felt in his, the first time he had wrapped his little nephew’s fingers around a brush and traced out the characters of his name. He remembered how fascinated Lan Wangji had been by it, how solemn and serious – completely unlike Lan Xichen, who’d giggled and wiggled the entire time it had been him and promptly (somehow) splashed ink into his own face. And yet, somehow, it was Xichen that had grown into an amiable, biddable child, while Wangji, no matter how much he matured, often reverted back to being a vicious little terror…

Lan Qiren hoped Wangji wasn’t biting anyone. Or, well, no one whose cultivation was low enough that they might get hurt.

(No one whose cultivation was high enough that they would hurt him.)

Lan Qiren missed them. He missed them so much. He hated being away from them. He hated being afraid all the time. He hated the way his mind would read out the list of punishments his sect permitted to be meted out to young children, reminding him of everything his nephews could be suffering. He hated the way his memories whispered long-forgotten reminders that his brother had once imposed punishments on him that went beyond those allowed for his age, on the basis that Lan Qiren had been mature enough to take them. He hated the way he obsessively reflected on both Xichen and Wangji to see if they had any traits that might be similar to the ones his brother had so disliked in him. He hated the way that the thought of them going about their daily business the Cloud Recesses was a thing of fear and vain hope, not joy. He missed them, he feared for them, he loved them, and it hurt.

It hurt.

Love hurt. He’d always known it would.

It felt as though everything reminded Lan Qiren of them. His wonderful nephews, who were so good and sometimes bad and who Lan Qiren loved no matter what. Even if they grew up and turned away from him the way his brother had, he would never blame them, never resent them, never hate them – that was the familial love he ought to have had for his brother, he supposed, if only he’d remembered Do not be haughty and complacent or Do not hold others in contempt a little better.

He loved them, he adored them, he connected everything to them. He ran his fingers along Wen Ruohan’s bookshelves and thought Xichen would do well to read this one; he looked out the window to see the gardeners chasing a gopher and thought We must not let Wangji find out or else he will attempt a rescue. He had even started imagining them here in the Nightless City, running down the corridor Lan Qiren trekked down every morning in naughty violation of the rule against running, sitting in the gardens awed by the fireflies that here seemed to be everywhere at night, waving at him from the dinner table with smiles of genuine contentment –

Lan Qiren wasn’t losing his mind, but sometimes he wished he was.

There was no qi deviation waiting for him, filled with inviting illusions, easy to blame for everything. Nothing like that. He was just…suffering. Tired and afraid, painfully often. Helpless to change his fate. Hopeless.

Xichen, Wangji, I’m sorry –

Lan Qiren took a deep breath, held it for a little while, and then exhaled.

It was not hopeless. That was the misery speaking. Lying. Do not tell lies. It was nothing but his irrational fear of seclusion abruptly brought to life, wrapping him in chains until he choked; it was his own overactive imagination, torturing him more effectively than any punishment. Those listless days, grey as dirt and heavy as a mountain; those days where he could do nothing but weep for everything he’d lost. He was doing it to himself.

What use are you being to Xichen and Wangji now?

(What use have you ever been to anyone?)

Once, when Wangji was about nine months old, Xichen had caught a cold. At least, it had seemed like only a cold at first, and Lan Qiren had been fretful, a little worried the way inexperienced parents often were, but not worried enough. Wangji had gotten it almost at once, of course, and his cute little offended face when sneezing almost made up for the way he wailed and cried after he’d woken himself up in the middle of the night. But then the next morning Xichen had woken up with a high fever, and Wangji did, too, and that was when Lan Qiren had become truly afraid. For seven days and nights he had not slept more than a few moments here and there, irrationally terrified that closing his eyes for too long would mean that they’d slip away from him, and on the eighth day when their fevers broke at last, he’d realized that they’d missed their usual appointment with He Kexin by two days.

Bleary with sleeplessness and giddy with relief, Lan Qiren had not immediately gone to rest the way everyone had told him to, but instead dragged himself to He Kexin’s house to tell her that her sons were getting better, hoping to share the joy of it. It was only when he’d gotten there that he’d realized that she hadn’t even known they were sick.

No one had told her.

After all, who would think to bother? Other than her servants, who were under orders not to bother her and whose company she disdained, Lan Qiren was the only one He Kexin ever saw besides her husband, who was even more secluded than she. It was Lan Qiren and only Lan Qiren, her husband’s younger brother who visited her only from a sense of duty, that was her sole connection to the outside world. It had always been so, ever since her imprisonment, but somehow it had never seemed so stark.

What isolation. What misery.

Lan Qiren had been weak. He’d seen himself in her mirror, finding that he looked as if he’d just crawled out of his grave – he was haggard and exhausted, his expression somehow bemused, staring at her with red-rimmed eyes and a mark on his cheek from where he’d leaned against his hand for too long, his clothing crumpled and dirty from not having been changed in too long.

He’d blurted out, “How can you bear it?”

“I wasn’t aware I had a choice,” she sneered at him. “Are you going to give me one?”

“If you want,” he said in return, too tired and lost to think better of it, to remind himself that she was here because of her own actions, her own crimes, her own perfidy. A man was dead because of her, yes, but it had been years and years already, and she’d already borne the Lan sect two boys to replace him, with a husband that to this day Lan Qiren wasn’t sure she very much liked. Surely, surely, it had to have been enough? Surely at some point, the punishment had to end? Even if it meant breaking his sect rules, surely… “Just tell me what you want. Tell me, and I will do it.”

He Kexin had studied him in silence for a while.

“Go home,” she finally said with a faint sigh. “You stupid man.”

He’d gone home.

Lan Qiren wasn’t actually stupid. He knew that his current state was what his brother wanted, his brother who’d so inexplicably disliked him in his childhood, his brother who for no reason at all seemed to hate him in their adulthood. His brother’s goal was Lan Qiren’s suffering. He wanted him to break, and he would find it all the more gratifying if he could do it using the same methods that hadn’t broken He Kexin in all those years – although Lan Qiren supposed it must have, in the end. It must have worn her down slowly, like water on a stone, wearing away at her strength until there was nothing left. Why else would she have killed herself? She, who had always persisted, stubborn to the last, even if only out of sheer spite…

What use are you to Xichen and Wangji now?

Lan Qiren breathed deeply again.

His nephews loved him. His nephews needed him. Right now, he could do nothing for them.

His failure –

No.

Not his failure.

His brother had done this to him. His brother had done this to him purposefully, maliciously. He’d stolen Lan Qiren’s life away not once but twice – he’d taken away Lan Qiren’s dreams of freedom when he’d first entered seclusion, and he’d taken away everything else when he’d left it. He’d stripped Lan Qiren of his sense of purpose. He’d taken the roles Lan Qiren had borne for so long, sect leader and father both, and thrown them around his own shoulders like an ill-fitting cloak. Like being a father was something you could just step into, after so many years of indifferent absence. Like it was something you could take away.

You’re hopeless. A failure. You can’t do anything to help them –

“Fuck you,” Lan Qiren said to the air, to his absent brother. No vulgar language. “I hate you.”

He’d never said it out loud before.

Do not take your words lightly.

“I hate you.”

He meant it.

Another deep breath. Another.

He Kexin hadn’t given up, not until the very end, and neither would Lan Qiren. So what if his brother had taken away his sense of purpose? He would find another.

Please come back soon!

Lan Qiren would likely never return to live in the Cloud Recesses in this lifetime, he knew that. Marriage didn’t work that way. What was sent out was not so easily brought back, not like that, not in the same way it had been before. But…that didn’t mean he was helpless. It didn’t mean he was hopeless. It didn’t mean he had to resign himself.

Be a partner to your wife, if your wife will be yours.

Lan Qiren’s wife…

Lan Qiren’s wife was Wen Ruohan.

Lan Qiren’s wife was the most terrifying man in the world.

He hadn’t planned for that, and he doubted his brother had, either. In fact, he doubted that his brother had thought any more of this marriage than the prospect of the Fire Palace and Lan Qiren’s future torment therein. After Lan Qiren had had some time to reflect on it, this entire marriage had the sight and smell and sound of one of Wen Ruohan’s wilder schemes, the risky ones that failed more often than they succeeded, but which, in the rare times when they did succeed, could shake the world.

One way or another, Lan Qiren was determined to make this time one of the successes.

Perhaps it was true that Lan Qiren was not a man meant for marriage. Perhaps someone who was better suited to it would have already been moved by Wen Ruohan, who had been a comfort to Lan Qiren in his misery, who had, other than a bit of mockery, done nothing bad to Lan Qiren so far, despite having every opportunity to do so. Even if Wen Ruohan couldn’t really be trusted, on account of being an unstable madman with a penchant for hurting people, then at least Lan Qiren had the luck of having something that he wanted, at least for now. There were marriages based on far less than that, real ones, good ones.

But Lan Qiren –

Lan Qiren was not moved. Lan Qiren was not thinking of Wen Ruohan as a man should his wife.

Lan Qiren was thinking of Wen Ruohan as a sword that he could wield.

One of those guqins Wen Ruohan kept pulling out of his treasury, perhaps. Beautiful, deadly, and left too long unused. Out of tune and more than a little broken, dangerous, but also powerful, capable enough in the hands of someone with the will to use it.

Lan Qiren wasn’t going to let his brother break him. No matter what.

No matter what he had to do.

No matter who he had to use to do it.

A breath. An exhale.

A purpose.

Do not fall to evil, the rules said. Do not associate with evil. But they also said, Do not fear. Do not give up. Love and respect yourself.

Have courage and integrity. Do not lose your life’s goal.

Do not break faith.

A breath. An exhale.

Please come back soon! We miss you!

Lan Qiren closed his eyes tightly, then forcefully relaxed, releasing the tension within him.

Xichen, Wangji, wait for me, he promised. I will find a way to help you.

He gently folded up the page they had written for him and tucked it within his robes, putting it right over his heart. He left it there for the count of ten, then removed it once more and hid it in his bookshelves, tucking it into Xichen’s copy of the Lan sect rules.

He felt…better, Lan Qiren thought. Lighter.

He hadn’t realized how much his lingering efforts to absolve his brother, by now as much habit as breathing, had been a burden on him, not until he had consciously decided to stop doing it. His brother’s behavior could not be understood, could not be rationalized, could not be forgiven. His brother’s behavior was detestable, as so much of what he had done had been detestable. He was wrong, and always had been wrong, andLan Qiren would no longer blame himself for what had always been the fault of another. Or, well, he’d try not to, anyway – he really did hate change, even when it was the right sort of change, made for the better.

He was still bleeding, but he’d at least admitted that the wound existed. Now he could break and reset the injury, in order to let it heal…

Wen Ruohan would be appalled if he heard me mangling my medical metaphors in such a way, Lan Qiren thought to himself, suddenly amused, though in a fragile sort of way, not disrupting his overall feeling of solemnity as he walked once more out of his courtyard. Is it a stab wound or a broken bone? Is he a crutch or a bandage? Why would you even need a crutch if you’d been stabbed…?

“Oh, there you are!” a female voice trilled.

Lan Qiren came to a sudden halt as a woman he’d never seen before bustled right up to him and slid her hand into his arm, clinging to him like a limpet. Or possibly like a leech…

“Miss – Madam,” he corrected himself, seeing her hair done up as a married woman. “Can I help you?”

“We’re having tea in the gardens, and you absolutely must join us,” the woman said, shaking his arm purposefully. She jangled as she did: she was wearing an absolutely atrocious amount of jewelry, including a full headpiece set, several necklaces, bangles and bracelets, each and every one made of gold and encrusted with precious jewels. Her underlying outfit was somehow even louder, with multiple shades of bright red in appallingly shiny fabric. Lan Qiren was certain that her outfit constituted overdressing even in sects that didn’t have a rule against more than three adornments.

His eyes hurt just looking at her.

“I won’t take no for an answer,” she said, and started tugging at him as if she intended to drag him off by force. Not that she could. She was around the same age he was, he’d guess, even though her make-up resembled that of a much younger woman, but her cultivation was far lower. “You’ve robbed us of your presence for too long, Lan-gege. How long have you been in the Nightless City without coming to see us…?”

Lan Qiren grimaced.

Tearing his hand away would be rude, he reminded himself dolefully. And the woman, whoever she was, was probably right about how he’d isolated himself since arriving in the Nightless City – which was hardly in line with his rules about supporting his wife’s family and not embarrassing his wife in public. He really should make an effort to be…sociable.

(On second thought, was seclusion really that bad…?)

The woman’s intended destination turned out to be one of the Nightless City’s many gardens, this one with an outdoor pavilion next to a small pond over-filled with water lilies. There was another woman already sitting there waiting next to a table already filled with snacks – also married, older and with features less classically beautiful than the lady that had brought him, though with more presence and grandeur. She was wearing an outfit that was not nearly so appalling, although it was every bit as rich. Still red, but with precious gems instead of gold, using patterned embroidery with (comparatively) demure little rubies twinkling throughout…

“Oh, Shen Mingbi, how wonderful! You found him!” the seated lady called, clapping her hands. “Come sit, come sit, both of you.”

“I did, I did,” the woman who’d dragged him here boasted, beaming. “Lu-jiejie should be proud of me!”

Lan Qiren blinked, a little surprised. Given how they were both dressed head-to-toe in the colors of the Wen sect, he would have assumed that their surnames would be Wen. How had that list he’d gone through at the beginning gone? Wen Tian, Wen Shi, Wen Jing, Wen Meitan…

No, wait a moment.

Lu and Shen – he knew those surnames. He knew those sects, though he hadn’t bothered thinking of them in years, if he’d ever thought of them at all. There hadn’t been any point, not since they’d been wholly gobbled up by the Wen sect following…well, following Wen Ruohan’s very astute political marriages.

These were Wen Ruohan’s wives.

Lan Qiren felt his face and ears start burning hot. He hoped he wasn’t blushing, but he had the distinct suspicion that he was.

“Thank you for inviting me,” he said out of lack of anything better to say.

He was mortified: he should have recognized them at once. Wen Ruohan’s wives had acted as hostesses when the discussion conferences were held at the Nightless City, though Wen Ruohan had generally not invited them to attend or sit beside him during the conferences the way Madam Jin or Yu Ziyuan did when their sects were acting as host. As a result, Lan Qiren had only really seen them at a distance and, being single, had never been forced to actually interact with them or really hear much about them. The job of dealing with them should rightfully have been He Kexin’s, as the sect leader’s wife, but the Lan sect had always pleaded illness for her just as they pleaded seclusion for their sect leader. One of Lan Qiren’s more reliable female cousins had been in charge of dealing with them to the extent it was necessary, and she had not been inclined to gossip.

Somehow, he’d completely forgotten that they existed.

“Nonsense, it’s our pleasure,” Lu Qipei, the previous first Madam Wen, said with a smile. It was a believable one, unlike Shen Mingbi’s expression, which even Lan Qiren could figure out was actually a grimace, a slash of bright red twisted into bared teeth. The Wen sect and its subsidiaries did not believe in the rule against lying. “We’re all one family now, are we not? We should get to know each other. Please sit and drink some tea with us.”

Do not argue with family.

Lan Qiren sat.

“It’s so nice to finally have a chance to speak with you, Lan-gege,” Shen Mingbi said as Lu Qipei passed him a cup. “Our dear husband has been positively inseparable from you since your arrival. We were starting to think that he’d never let you go!”

Lan Qiren choked before he even took a sip of the tea he’d been offered.

“Ah,” he said, and cleared his throat, putting the tea back down on the table. “I – apologize. It had not been my intent to…monopolize.”

Was it too much to ask that the earth open up beneath his feet and swallow him up?

Probably.

Oh, but Lan Qiren wanted to slap himself for his foolishness. What an idiot he was! He knew that not all sects were like the Lan sect, marrying for love and taking only a single dao companion in a lifetime. Most cultivators married only once, yes, but that was largely on account of there being relatively fewer powerful female cultivators in comparison to the men. Certainly most sects were more than comfortable with men marrying more than once, and with the notion of keeping a handful of concubines or raising mistresses on the outside – Lao Nie had had two wives, albeit in succession, and everyone knew about Jin Guangshan’s habits, though Madam Jin had enough power to ensure that he’d never brought any of them home…more embarrassingly, Lan Qiren had known about Wen Ruohan’s previous marriages. Did he not pride himself on how much knowledge he’d accumulated about the cultivation world and how it helped him navigate the murky world of intersect politics? How could he have forgotten about something as obvious as a fellow sect leader’s immediate family, much less one that would be so relevant to him personally…?

How could he have forgotten that he was going to have to share?

“Oh, not to worry, not to worry,” Lu Qipei said, still smiling. Lan Qiren was sure there were daggers in her smile, even if they didn’t show. “We of all people know how our dear husband gets when he’s got some plan in mind. Isn’t that right, Shen-meimei?”

“Absolutely, Lu-jiejie.” Shen Mingbi played with one of her assortment of hair ornaments, jingling a little as she giggled. “But it’s all right, we’re not jealous…or at least not too jealous. There’s no doubt that our dear husband will come back to us soon enough, once he needs something more than mere politics to get him through the night.”

Lan Qiren blinked owlishly at her.

“We are not spending our nights discussing politics,” he said, almost wishing that they did. That at least would be a good excuse. “That was why I was apologizing.”

For some reason, that got both women to stare at him, first in shock and then in dismay, their eyes widening, then narrowing.

“Are you saying you’re actually sleeping together?” Lu Qipei asked, her mask of sweetness abruptly replaced with sternness, and she scowled when Lan Qiren nodded. “How often?”

“I – do not think that is relevant – or – or appropriate – ”

“We’re all married to him,” she reminded him. “Naturally we must know everything about our husband if we are to serve him properly. How many times have you done it so far?”

“…I…have not been…counting…”

No one had told him he had to keep track!

“Are you saying you’ve been doing it every night?” Shen Mingbi’s eye was twitching. “That’s ridiculous. Let’s see, how many days have you been here – ”

Lan Qiren wanted to die. “That calculation method will not work.”

They stared at him, not understanding. He was going to have to explain.

He cleared his throat again. “Sect Leader Wen has occasionally requested – ah, that is – during the day – on occasion – more than once – ”

That was verging on near incoherence, though technically correct, if rather understating the matter. In fact, Lan Qiren had found Wen Ruohan to have a particularly voracious appetite for such things. When the mood struck him, it wasn’t uncommon for him to ask for it twice or even three times in a day. And the mood seemed to strike him quite often…

Lan Qiren trailed off, noticing that the two women were staring at him again, but now they were frowning.

“You call him Sect Leader Wen?” Lu Qipei asked. There was a strange twist to her voice, difficult to interpret. It was not quite the hard edge she’d had when talking about Lan Qiren’s sexual activities but also not the false sweetness she’d pretended to have at the beginning.

“Naturally.” Lan Qiren wasn’t sure what she was getting at. He’d always called Wen Ruohan by his sect title, at least out loud. The man was an ancient monster after all, and as far as Lan Qiren knew he didn’t have a personal title. What else was he supposed to call him? Wen-xiong? Ridiculous.

“Naturally,” Shen Mingbi echoed, and giggled again. That, at least, had a familiar tone: she was mocking him. “Naturally. You’re not really sleeping with him, are you?”

Now it was Lan Qiren’s turn to scowl. “My sect is Gusu Lan,” he said stiffly. “Do not tell lies is a rule.”

“Oh, sure, of course, of course. You’re sleeping with him, but you call him Sect Leader Wen. Tell me, Lan-gege, do you call him that in bed, too?”

Lan Qiren cast his mind back, but the memories that returned were all the same: yes, he did.

It all came out pretty much the same, too: Are you having trouble with your self-control, Sect Leader Wen? Would it help if I tied you up? or Sect Leader Wen, stop wiggling so much! You said you would behave or If you persist in doing what you are doing, Sect Leader Wen, I will not hesitate to thrash you, do not think that I am unwilling or I expected better of you, Sect Leader Wen. Is this really all you can handle…? or I am not certain I heard you, Sect Leader Wen. Is there something you want of me? Speak clearly. No, clearly and precisely – I want you to tell me exactly what it is that you wish me to do to you. In detail. Or what? Or else I will do nothing at all…

Wait. Had he been bullying Wen Ruohan?

Had he been enjoying bullying Wen Ruohan?!

Lan Qiren swallowed down his alarm and tried to figure out how to best answer the question.

“Well?” Shen Mingbi jeered when he didn’t respond right away. “If you’ve done it so many times, you must know by now. Tell me, do you shout out ‘Sect Leader Wen, Sect Leader Wen’ when he’s – ”

“This is nice,” Wen Ruohan said from where he was standing at the entrance to the pavilion, and all three of them startled like chickens discovering a fox had sauntered up to them without their notice. “I’m so glad you’ve gotten a chance to meet.”

Lan Qiren recovered first, or at least spoke first: “You finished the business you had with your cousin already? I thought you said you would be gone at least three days.”

“I got bored,” Wen Ruohan said with an indifferent shrug. And then he smirked, though his eyes remained cold. “Why? Were you making plans without me?”

The slow, lingering emphasis he gave to the word “plans” was suggestive in a way that brought to mind Lan Qiren’s rule about not giving his wife reason to doubt his fidelity. Though surely that was unnecessary in this circumstance, given that the women he was sitting with were Wen Ruohan’s own wives…?

“Not at all,” Lu Qipei said. She looked wary. “We were simply becoming better acquainted.”

“Really,” Wen Ruohan said. “Is that what you were doing…”

Between his emotional turmoil from earlier and the hideous awkwardness of being questioned about his sex life, Lan Qiren had already been developing a headache. To now be faced with Wen Ruohan’s unreasonable paranoia seemed truly unfair.

Perhaps unsurprisingly for him, he took refuge in propriety – and bad temper.

“They were expressing justifiable complaints that I have been monopolizing your time,” Lan Qiren said tartly, and Wen Ruohan looked at him in surprise. “My own rudeness was regrettable enough, but you have no such excuse. What were you thinking?”

Wen Ruohan’s mouth opened and then closed again without any sound. Eventually, he choked out: “What I was…thinking?”

“You have wives! You have a duty to them, just as I do to you. How can you neglect them?” Lan Qiren scolded. “And beyond that, why have you not introduced us? Really, Sect Leader Wen – ”

He abruptly choked, suddenly awkward with the title in a way he’d never been before.

Lu Qipei and Shen Mingbi weren’t wrong, exactly, that the familiar term of address wasn’t quite right anymore – it had been one thing when he’d been Sect Leader Lan, but now he was just Lan Qiren, and moreover he’d married into the Wen sect. At minimum he should just be calling Wen Ruohan “Sect Leader”, the way the Wen sect disciples did, but even that seemed a little distant for a married couple.

…have we really been doing all that without even being on close enough terms to speak informally?

Lan Qiren felt his face heating up again, even worse than before. For some stupid inexplicable reason, he could hear the stentorian voice of one of the teachers from his early adolescence bellowing Promiscuity is forbidden! Do not indulge in a life of pleasure! enthusiastically into his ear the way he used to. Lan Qiren could even see the way that old man would wildly wave his arms in the air while detailing, with no little gusto, all the terrible things that would undoubtedly happen to all of them if they disobeyed those particular rules…

“You know,” Wen Ruohan said after a moment, “I will be extremely annoyed if I went to all that effort to bring Lan Qiren back here only for the two of you to make him die of embarrassment.”

He sounded like he wanted to laugh, though, which was an improvement over his earlier coldness.

“He’s not dying,” Shen Mingbi protested, then frowned, squinting at Lan Qiren. “I think?”

“I am not dying,” Lan Qiren said, willing his heartbeat to slow down and not make a liar out of him.

“He might be dying,” Lu Qipei said with a faint sneer. “Really, husband, where did you find him?”

“Gusu Lan,” Lan Qiren said, incredibly thankful for a question he could actually answer without ripping off the rest of his already too-thin face. “I already told you that earlier, did I not?”

Wen Ruohan coughed in a way that suggested amusement, probably at Lan Qiren’s expense.

“I will introduce you all properly later today, at dinner,” he announced. “For the moment, Lan Qiren, come with me. I require you – ”

“I bet you do,” Lu Qipei said, leaning back in her seat and glaring at Wen Ruohan, who looked briefly surprised once again, this time from being interrupted. “Tell me, do you intend to leave us any face at all? Is it not enough that you’ve stripped us of our positions – ”

“Oh, that again,” Wen Ruohan said, interrupting her with a casual wave of his hand. “Is that all? I don’t care about that. Lan Qiren, with me, now – unless you’d prefer to continue your earlier conversation?”

Lan Qiren had not known that he was a rude and unchivalrous coward until this very moment, but also the thought of continuing to talk to either woman for a single moment longer was completely unbearable.

“I will be going, then,” he told them, and swept after Wen Ruohan with as much dignity as he could piece together.

Once they were safely out of the garden, he glanced sidelong at Wen Ruohan, wondering how much of the earlier conversation he’d heard. Likely most of it. “Sect Leader Wen, on the subject of terms of address – ”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Wen Ruohan interrupted. His eyes were gleaming. “I rather like ‘Sect Leader Wen.’ Unless you’d prefer to use some sort of nickname…?”

#mdzs #lan qiren #wen ruohan #my fic #my fics #don't let LQR mislead you he's doing much better #Megafic

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