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littlejuicebox · 5 months

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Mermaid whiskey.

Pairing: Spawn Astarion x F!Reader/Tav Summary/Setting: 2 weeks after BG3 final battle, Elfsong Tavern / Astarion has been ignoring you and spending too much time reading for your tastes, you aim to distract him. Rating/Warnings: M+ / Smut / Light BDSM / Soft Dom Astarion vibes / Some mild in game spoilers/allusions to events / Overstimulation, Teasing, Bondage, Blindfolding etc Word Count: 4.3K Notes: Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off x Whiskey Girl

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Two weeks after the final battle, Astarion is lounging by the crackling fireplace on the upper level of the Elfsong Tavern, a large goblet of red wine in one hand and a book in the other.

Everyone else spent time after the battle exploring the city or downstairs drinking and celebrating their victory as they all prepared to move onto new adventures. But Astarion had chosen nearly every opportunity over the past two weeks to hang back and enjoy some much-deserved alone time. Now that the constant worries about Cazador and the overall impending doom of Baldur’s Gate were all behind him, the rogue threw himself into finding bits of individual enjoyment whenever and wherever he could. He'd fixated himself on hobbies and leisure, and reading had seemed an obvious first choice. He'd easily idle hours away, sometimes reading an entire book cover to cover in one sitting.

Often, you would sit with the elf as he read, snuggled in a blanket or cuddled up against your love, but eventually you always got the urge to get up and do something else. You'd tried on more than one occasion to interest the rogue in another activity, but Astarion remained glued to the couch for those two weeks, barely stepping away to hunt, bathe, or trance. You'd noted, with a bit of concern, that he hadn't even asked to feed on you in more than a tenday.

Tonight, you’d tried more than once to pull him down to the tavern, but the elf quickly refused, barely lifting his eyes from the pages in front of him. Astarion seemed particularly obsessed with this book; you were almost convinced he’d already finished it and had started a second reading.

Several hours passed while you socialized down at the bar and Astarion's perfect nose stayed wedged in a book before a very tipsy Karlach decided to climb the stairs and speak to the vampire. “Oi! C’mon, Astarion! Close that dusty tome and join the fun. We’ll all only be together for a few more days. Me, Lae’zel, Shadowheart, and Tav are taking shots!”

The vampire’s ears perk up and he furrows his brow at the woman, snapping his book shut in the process. “Shots? Of what, exactly?”

“Mermaid Whiskey!”

“Oh no. Oh no, no, no! Karlach! Mermaid Whiskey practically makes Tav’s clothes fall off!”

Astarion is on his feet now, the book abandoned as he rushes past the Tiefling and down the flight of stairs into the tavern. He quickly spots the silky blue bandana you use to tie your hair up at camp strewn upon a forgotten bar stool. Knowing it’s possibly your most prized article of clothing, the elf tucks it into his back pocket. Scarlet eyes perform a hurried scan of the room and the vampire bristles when you’re nowhere to be found.

The others are still at the bar, where Lae’zel just challenged a bartender to an arm-wrestling competition. The women warriors are cheering Lae’zel on as she’s locked in a stalemate with the man.

“Shadowheart, have you seen Tav?”

Shadowheart barely acknowledges the vampire, too engrossed in the show. “What do you mean? She’s right—“ Her gaze flicks to the abandoned stool as Lae’zel successfully slams the worker’s hand onto the sticky bar, causing the campmates and some other patrons to erupt into cheers. “She was right there a moment ago.”

Astarion runs a stressed hand through his curled hair, inspecting the room for any sign of you. Soon enough, he spots a familiar pair of shoes and hurries to them, eyes already searching for the next clue. A discarded earring floating in a glass of half-drunk whiskey is sat on the bottom step of the stairs. That hadn’t been there when he descended down them, had it?

The vampire’s gaze trails up the stairwell and his suspicions are confirmed. Your navy-blue dress is draped across the back of an armchair he can barely see from his low vantage point.

‘She must’ve snuck around when I was talking to Shadowheart.’

The rogue dashes up the stairs to find you reclined on a chaise lounge, body flushed from the whiskey coursing through your veins. You are strewn suggestively across the chaise, clothed in only your laced undergarments and thigh high stockings. The alluring vision caused Astarion's heart to leap into his throat.

“Darling, what on earth do you think you’re you doing? You’re barely clothed in the middle of the tavern. This isn’t the wilds anymore.”

You’re lying on your side when Astarion finds you, and you pout in his direction as he scolds you, waving a dismissive hand. You roll onto your stomach, bending your knees and crossing your legs. You’re pleased to see the vampire's gaze drag down your body, pausing at the curve of your bottom, before flitting back to your face. Astarion licks his lips as he looks at you, the first sign that your little plan is working. You’ve finally gotten his attention after trying to steal him away from that damned book he was so enamored with all night.

“I know my love, but I’m just so unbelievably hot right now. You wouldn’t believe how hot I feel.”

Astarion quickly crosses the few feet between you two, placing a cool, concerned hand on your flushed cheek. “How many shots did you take?”

“Oh, just two. Maybe three? I kept losing the stupid ‘never have I ever game’ because everyone made all their questions about vampires.” You pout at your lover again before turning your head to press your lips against his thumb, lingering there intentionally, your wide eyes still focused on the rogue.

Astarion was no fool. With your mouth holding his thumb in that suggestive manner, he soon realized what you were doing. You adored the vampire with your entire heart, but on your drunken nights, you knew how to be a perfectly tempting, needy little brat. “And why, my sweet, did you keep playing the game if it was so clearly rigged against you?”

You groan, moving to a sitting position, while your hands toy with the laces of your bodice. “Because…” You sharply tug at the flouncy strings and Astarion’s hand catches yours in a tight grip, moments before you’re about to expose your breasts in the center of the lounge. “You’ve barely paid attention to me the past two weeks… and I was lonely and bored and wanted to have fun.”

“Darling, I know what you’re doing... I thought we agreed that tonight you’d go to the bar, and I would stay up here.” Astarion murmurs, nimble fingers toying with the strings of your bodice. He tries to resist the temptation to look down at your cleavage and fails; you see his eyes roll up in annoyance at himself and his inability to fight off his baser instincts in your presence. Inside you’re practically giddy that you’re winning the charade, but you keep the pout plastered to your face.

“We didn’t agree to anything, my Star. You didn't give me a choice.” You huff, pointedly brushing your hair away from your neck to reveal the little pinprick scars made by your lover. The rogue's eyes trail to the marks and he licks his lips again, suddenly quite aware of how long it’s been since he’s sunk his fangs into your flesh.

Gods you were frustrating. Astarion both loathed and loved that you could play him like a lyre; you knew him so well that you understood exactly what would make him tick. Every. Single. Time.

The vampire shakes his head, trying to rattle the fantasies out of his brain and not allow you the upper hand. You were being ridiculous; if you’d wanted attention, you should’ve just asked instead of acting out. Trying to turn the conversation, Astarion asks, “What is it you even like about whiskey? It’s vile.”

You sigh and roll your eyes before sliding off the chaise and sauntering away from the elf. For a moment you think he’s going to let you leave, but then he’s trailing after you like a lost puppy and you know you've got him hooked.

“Excuse me? You’re just going to walk away? Conversation over?”

You shrug and sigh again, stopping just in front of the door to your bedchamber. You turn to face the rogue, leaning back against the door and crossing your arms. Astarion’s eyes are narrowed as he stares at you with some level of frustration and incredulity at your antics.

“If you must know, I suppose I like a bit of edge… and a bit of pain with my pleasure.” Your voice is coy, eyebrow raised, and you're fully leaning into the innuendo of your statement. “And you like that I like it... don’t you?”

Astarion chuckles at this, a smirk ghosting his lips. “You are a wicked little thing, aren’t you? Using my own games and my own tactics against me now?”

You’re wearing a mischievous grin as the rouge saunters forward, closing the distance between your bodies. He firmly grasps your chin in his hand, scarlet eyes studying your face. Just as his lips brush against yours, and you're thinking you've won this little game, you murmur, “I guess the apprentice has become the master.”

Astarion pauses and draws back for a moment, the darkening of his gaze and his raised eyebrow causing you to shudder where you stand as he grips a bit tighter on your chin. “Oh darling. You’re cute. But now I think I have to teach you a lesson and remind you who the master truly is here.”

And then his lips are on yours, fangs clashing roughly into teeth. He feels for the knob behind you and turns it, forcing you both into the room before unceremoniously slamming the door closed. Your mouths are melded together as the vampire effortlessly guides you to the bed and shoves you into the mattress. Quick, pale hands tug at the strings of your bodice and your breasts are released from their confines, spilling out in front of the vampire’s eager gaze as he drags the undergarment off your arms and throws it aside.

Then Astarion grabs something from his back pocket — your blue bandana — and dangles it in front of you with a mock-condescending pout on his lips. All you can think about in that moment is how you want to take that pout into your own lips and bite.

“Darling, you left this downstairs and I had to retrieve it. I think I may need to teach you to take care of your belongings. You only have two of these, my love, and I know you would be so desperate to find them if they were permanently lost, wouldn’t you?”

You nod as you reach for your bandana, but Astarion is faster and pulls it away just in time, smirking at you all the while. “Come to think of it… where is your other bandana, my sweet?”

"It's in here." You murmur, lips already swollen from the rough kiss he'd pulled you into. You turn to the nightstand and withdraw your second bandana, an identical twin to the first. Astarion quickly takes it from your hand and grins mischievously, pressing a soft kiss to your lips as the silken fabric glides from your fingers.

“Good girl. Now, give me your hands.”

You oblige and the rogue deftly binds your wrists together with an expertly tied knot. He tugs at the bindings, testing their strength. Astarion lifts your hands to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of one before taking the second bandana and folding it into a long strip. Your eyes are fixated on his lithe fingers. Then he presses forward, face mere inches from yours. His eyes are dark and intense, but glimmering with adoration all the same, in a way that floods you with the overwhelming sensation of excitement and safety all in one.

“You’ll let me know if it’s too much, won't you, my love?”

“Y-yes.” You whisper, almost breathlessly and wholly impatient for what is coming next. Your body still burns with desire and Mermaid Whiskey. The last thing you see is Astarion’s eyes before the second bandana shrouds you in darkness.

Cool hands guide you to lay back onto the mattress and soon enough long, nimble fingers languidly trace their way down your body. You feel Astarion’s hands ghost over your arms, down your collarbone, and then trail circles around your breasts where he gives both nipples a gentle, teasing tug before moving on. His fingers brush your abdomen, around the curve of your hips, down the tops of your thighs, and finally to your calves. Then his lips press to your foot, and he works at pressing feather light kisses up your leg.

He continues kissing up your right leg for what seems like forever, fingers still moving tantalizingly along your calf and thigh. By the time the vampire makes his way back up to the top of your thigh, you are wiggling and keening in anticipation. He hovers over your still-clothed mound for a few beats before shifting slightly and returning to kissing down your left leg. You whine in disappointment, your bound hands straining against the fabric as you try to grip your lover. A dark chuckle is all you get in response as Astarion continues to kiss your opposing thigh, nibbling here and there, at a rate that seems somehow even slower than the first leg he worshipped.

By the time he’s placing a kiss to the top of your left foot, you’re writhing wholeheartedly, pressing your thighs together in an attempt to give yourself more stimulation. You don’t dare use your bound hands, knowing the punishment would be further binding and teasing. Astarion unhurriedly runs his hands up your legs once again, stopping to draw leisurely circles at the apex of your thighs before tracing one chilled finger along the waistband of your underwear.

“A-Astarion!” You choke out with another whine, just as the vampire runs that same finger down your still-clothed slit, feeling the wetness now soaking through the fabric from his torments.

Your lover chuckles in dark delight. “I’ve barely even touched you, my needy little love, and yet here you are, positively soaked. Your lesson is far from over, darling.”

There is a moment of silence apart from soft rustling; you cannot see anything, but your ears pick up the sound of Astarion’s buckle coming undone. And then you feel his weight on top of you. You can tell he’s still wearing his briefs as he presses his groin against your sex, legs straddling either side of your hips. Suddenly you feel a sharp pinch on both your nipples. Your back arches in response to the sensation while a pleading groan shoots from your mouth.

“Mm… I think you quite like that, don’t you?”

“Y-yes!” Is all you can reply as you feel Astarion's cold hands kneading the flesh of your breasts before he resumes pinching the swollen buds.

You try to buck your hips, but the bastard knows what he’s doing, and he’s got you pinned perfectly beneath him in a way that renders you all but helpless. Your bound hands search for Astarion’s body, and you barely graze against his abdominals before the vampire rips your hands away with a little tut, laying nearly all his body weight atop you as he raises your hands up over your head. You can feel his breath against your ear before he takes the lobe in his mouth and nibbles. Gods the torture was becoming unbearable. You buck again, another frustrated whine escaping your lips.

“Shhh now, darling. Shame we don’t have a third bandana or you would be gagged. We are quite impatient today, aren’t we?”

You whimper as he continues the abuse to your ear before trailing his tongue down to your neck. “My little whiskey girl…” His lips hover over that familiar little spot on your neck, his breath tickling your skin. Your pulse jumps to greet your lover. “May I?”

You barely nod, “Yes. Please.”

Astarion groans at your response, thrusting his hips forward to press his rock-hard bulge into your folds. You feel a sharp, icy sting in your neck before your body gives way to the delectable ripples of pleasure. The vampire laps from you lazily, rutting against your mound, the still-clothed underside of his cock sawing torturously between the folds of your still-clothed but now dripping slit. He continues suckling, not really drinking for sustenance but more for his own pleasure, his hardening member abusing your swollen clit. You’re keening again, and one of his hands moves to tease your nipple while the other gets lost in your hair, holding you in place as he takes his lazy laps.

“A-Astarion. Astarion! Please, I’m gonna—“

But before you can finish, you feel the wave of pleasure crashing over you and your legs are trembling as you find your release. The elf groans again as you orgasm, now suckling and rutting with more fervor as the taste of your ecstasy courses through your veins. When the crescendo wanes and you’re left panting, Astarion retracts his fangs from your neck with a pleased little hum.

Suddenly the bandana is pulled from your eyes, and you blink, adjusting to the light. The vampire is still straddling you, an arrogant smirk plastered across his face as he wipes the final rivet of blood from his mouth and licks it off his thumb. “Satisfied, darling? Have I paid enough attention to you now?”

You groan and buck your hips again, your drenched undergarments barely rubbing against the rogue’s stiff cock. “No!” You shriek as your bound hands pound back into the mattress.

Astarion’s lips are on yours anew, swallowing your protests as he delves his tongue into your eager mouth. You taste the iron of your own blood and groan, writhing against him and desperately pulling at your bindings. When the rogue pulls back he chuckles before easily delving two fingers inside your ruined undergarments, curling his fingers to barely strum against your swollen clit. You try to arch to meet his digits with a desperate, pleading moan, but the weight of him on your legs keeps you pinned, and you cry out.

“Please, please, please.” You whine in a soft chant coming from your lips, still using all of your strength to barely buck your hips. Your hands are twisting desperately in their bindings. “Please, please, please.”

“Such a needy little thing, aren’t you, my love?” He coos, continuing to barely tease your throbbing clit with expert fingers. “What is it that you want?”

“You know what I want!” You hiss through gritted teeth, your frustration bubbling over as the rogue torments that sensitive nub between your legs.

“Hmm… perhaps I do. But you need to ask for the things that you want, my sweet. The parasite is gone and I’m no mind reader.”

“Please put your cock inside me! Please.”

“Hmm... there we are. That’s my good girl. Now, was that really so hard, little love?"

Before you can answer, Astarion’s mouth is enveloping yours as he works to quickly remove his own undergarments. The feeling of his barren member on your mound renews your desperation and you keen into your lover's mouth, causing him to smirk into the kiss. He quickly maneuvers his knee to the inside of your thigh, hitching his own leg up to spread you wide, granting him full access to your sex. Deft fingers slide the thin, arousal-soaked cloth of your underwear aside and then you feel the head of his cock pressed just against your entrance.

“Who do you belong to, my love?” The vampire asks when he pulls away from the kiss, scarlet eyes peering into yours. He’s rocking his hips just slightly, the tip of his member barely teasing in and out of your desperate pussy. He brings his hand to the side of your face, stroking his thumb along your cheek.

“You, Astarion.” You whisper, so entranced by the look in his eyes and the feeling of his cock pressing into you that you can barely think or breath. You try to thrust down to meet your lover's miniscule ministrations, but his other hand has your hip pinned in place.

“Give me your hands again.”

You oblige, and the rogue quickly undoes your fastenings, gently pressing his lips into the angry red marks around your wrists. He takes one of your hands and interlaces your fingers in his. Astarion pins one hand back above your head, but allows you the freedom of the other hand, which you bring to the side of his neck.

Then the vampire kisses you once more. As his lips press into yours, his cock slides into your eagerly awaiting cunt. Every ripple of Astarion's thick shaft makes your body sing in delight, and you're groaning into the elf's mouth as he begins to make fervent love to you, hips snapping with vigor as he sheaths and unsheathes himself in a steady rhythm.

“You are… entirely infuriating… and vexing, sometimes. Do you know that, little love?” He purrs between his lips enveloping yours, tongue exploring your mouth. The vampire plunges into you with steady determination, slowly picking up his tempo.

You’re breathless, rolling your hips to meet the rogue’s. Your eyes are shut as you smirk at his comment. “I know.. I just think you’re so sexy when you’re frustrated.” You respond between panting breaths, and that earns you a rough thrust that hits your cervix and knocks the air from your lungs as you moan in surprise.

Astarion’s hand that isn’t intertwined with yours comes under your chin and takes a firm hold, pressing just enough on your windpipe to create the delicious feeling of breathlessness without actually preventing you from breathing. Your eyes snap open from the sensation.

“You. Are. A. Naughty. Girl.” He hisses, eyes boring into your own, face mere inches from yours, and each word punctuated by another forceful snap of his hips. You moan at the feeling of his length slamming into your cervix. By this time, he’s panting and the flush on his ears is rising, and you know he’s close to his own release. One of Astarion's fingers is lingering dangerously close to your mouth as he clutches your neck; you take the digit between your lips and begin to suck.

As the vampire sees your tongue snake around his finger, he’s done for. All resolve is gone, and your lover fucks into you with reckless abandon as you moan around his hand. The grip on your neck tightens as he starts to emit his own cries of pleasure, and your hand wraps tightly onto his neck in response, nails digging into cold flesh.

“Do you see what you do to me?” He asks through gritted teeth as his thrusts become sloppy. You’re seeing stars, and the friction of his pelvis paired with the intense throbbing of your abused pussy is sending you towards a second climax. As your body reaches its crescendo, you release Astarion’s finger from between your lips and cry out in a mixture of pleasure and pain. The rogue hears your beautiful cry and feels the pulsing of your sex, which finally pushes him over the edge as he spills into you, cock twitching with every new stream of seed.

His mouth is on yours before you finish your strangled cry of release, and Astarion’s works to kiss you down from your incredible high. The vampire releases your neck, and the passionate force of his lips slowly ebbs into a gentle, lazy kiss. Eventually, with both of your bodies fully spent, the rogue rolls onto his side, sliding himself from you and spilling the evidence of your love making across the silky sheets.

Astarion rolls from the bed, and you whine, but he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear as he promises he will be right back. He slips his trousers on and exits the room for a minute, only to return with the book he seemed obsessed with. Part of you is annoyed when the rogue settles back into bed, opening his arm so you can nestle yourself in the crook.

You give him a little pout. “Do you not love me more than you love these books? I’m beginning to worry I’ve coupled myself to another Gale. I was sure that tonight would distract you and I would have you all to myself.”

Astarion chuckles, shaking his head slightly before turning to kiss you on the forehead. “My sweet, surely you know the depths of my love for you far surpass the pages of a book. And you are always distracting... even when I am thinking of something else, I am also thinking of you.”

He shuts the book and taps his hand on the cover, lithe fingers moving to trace the embossed words of the title. “I apologize if I’ve been consumed and you’ve felt neglected, my darling. This book is just… intriguing.”

You turn your head and for the first time, read the title: ‘The Creation of Dhampirs: A Guide.”

Oh.

Your brow furrows as you turn to look at Astarion, and you see a wistful, faraway look in his eyes. This look was different from his unfortunately familiar one that he displayed during flashbacks and night terrors… this one contained hope.

“Are you imagining your future, Astarion?” You ask, sitting up just enough to place a kiss on your lover’s cheek and brush a few wayward curls back into place. “If you are, then I’d better be there by your side.”

The rogue snaps out of his reverie and turns to look at you again, his expression laced with love. He extends his long arm backwards, dropping the tome on the nightstand before placing his hand on your face. Astarion’s thumb strokes your cheek and he sighs happily before whispering, “Yes, you’d better be.”

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randomdragonfires · 2 months

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Pieces of a Woman | One Shot

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | Even when his life takes a turn for the worse, Aemond Targaryen endures.

WARNINGS | 18+; Canon Divergence AU; Smut; Insanity; B&C; Gore; Delusions; Miscarriage; Yearning; ANGST

WORD COUNT | 7.2k

A/N | This is my personal favourite out of all the stories I've ever written, reposted with a new header and all that fun stuff! Beta read by the lovely @ewanmitchellcrumbs ❤️

They say madness is a slow disease, and that nobody truly knows when it begins.

They were wrong. Aemond Targaryen knew very well the exact moment the madness had sunk its claws into his wife. He had watched as her once bright and hopeful eyes became empty and devoid of emotion. He had watched as she was pulled into the darkness completely, becoming a shell of the woman she once was.

As much as he wished he could turn back time, he had accepted his fate. He accepted that he would never have his wife back. He would never hold her in his arms again and never get to lay his head on her lap as she embroidered. She would never read to him in her mellifluous voice ever again, despite the fact that he would give everything he had to have her with him once more.

What good was all this power and wealth, if he could not protect his own family? What good was his title as Prince Regent, if he did not have her to stand by his side? If he could not protect his little boy?

His hair, once braided to the side by her deft and nimble fingers with love, remained uncared for, left loose in all its glory. Training his one dark-rimmed, tired eye at the crypt that held the ashes of his heir, Aemond Targaryen let the sadness take him - for when his son’s life was brutally snuffed out, his wife’s very soul had been too.

There was nobody to blame for it all apart from himself.

Ever since their wedding, she had been a steady and calm presence in his life. She was the quiet to his rage, the water to his fire. He had always been a sullen and lonely child that harbored resentment for those who had wronged him, but he felt his heart steadily calm down with every moment he spent in her presence.

It wasn't until he met her that he realized he was lacking love and consideration, both of which he believed had never received before - not like this. She gave him an opportunity to be a better man; one that he took eagerly with both arms.

In return, he was a respectful husband who did his very best. He wasn’t adept at great gestures of love, but he always made sure that his wife woke with a kiss to her hair and his arms enveloping her body. He wanted her to never know loneliness for as long as he lived, he would make sure of it.

For all his reading and knowledge, Aemond was not good at making his appreciation known verbally. Instead, he would bring her huge tomes from the library so he could read to her. These books covered topics that he was passionate about, so everytime he brought one, he was offering up a part of his soul. Who better to give it to than the woman he has sworn his heart, soul and loyalty to?

He needed her. He needed her from deep in his soul, and he needed her carnally, always. She was all that was missing in his life, and now that he had her, he would always need her.

But right now, as her screams erupted through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, Aemond’s heart lurched in his chest, becoming heavier with each passing moment. The babe was arriving, and it would seem that the child was taking her for all that she was. Everytime she groaned in pain, he held onto the railing tighter than ever, as though it would make her pain go away.

They would not let him in, no. Childbirth was a woman’s fight, and the men would have to wait outside - much like the women did when the men went to battle. There was nothing he would not give to hold her hand right now; to tell her that she would be an absolutely beautiful mother, and that all she had to do was summon all her strength and emerge victorious.

As though she had heard his thoughts, her pained wails slowly died down, replaced by the first cries of a newborn. Boy or girl, the babe had an incredibly strong pair of lungs on them, their mighty cries could overshadow even the loudest of thunderstorms. The cries echoed through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, and the servants outside immediately jumped to work. A new royal babe had been born after all - there was work to be done, celebratory feasts to be organized, chambers to be prepared, nothing but the best for a Targaryen.

His mother stepped out of the chambers and laid a hand on his back in comfort. She kissed him on the cheek and smiled in congratulations. “Mother and babe are well, my son. She has made me so proud. The little one is beautiful, he would go on to achieve many great things. Just like you.”

A son. She had given him an heir to carry his bloodline. How would he ever repay her?

He walked into the chambers with speed that he did not know he possessed, his purpose made clear with each stride. The midwives and maids moved to make way for the One-Eyed Prince, and in he went.

She laid in the middle of the chambers, looking like she had braved the worst experience of her life. Her hair was askew, with sweat coating her entire body, her fatigue was palpable. Blood and waters coated the floor, and the chambers smelled like death. The bloody spots on her shift alarmed him, and it concerned him to see his usually happy and energetic wife look so thoroughly worn out. But then she smiled.

Through all her weariness from the challenges of the birthing bed, she had meekly smiled at him - and all was alright in his world again. He held her cheek in his palm and kissed her forehead, heart full from knowing that she was alright. She reached for his other hand, holding onto it like it was the last thing that kept her tethered to reality.

“Are you well, wife?”

The seemingly simple question certainly did not project the waves of concern that had plagued him outside while he waited with bated breath, but she knew. She saw it in the crinkles on his forehead and the widening of his good eye.

“I am now.”

She had braved battle, and had never looked more beautiful to him than she did now. Her voice was hoarse from all the pained screaming, and she certainly had no business being awake right now - but by the Gods, he was the happiest man in the realm.

The maids were done with wiping the blood off of the babe and had handed the boy to her. Aemond knew right then that he would have to compete for his wife’s attention from then on, for his little son had clearly stolen her heart, and his, within moments of his birth.

Her weak voice called out to him once more. “Aemond, husband… look what we made.”

He was exquisite. Aemond reached out to the babe, his son, and his son's pudgy rose finger latched onto his long, sturdy one as he continued to cry. “He has a strong grip. He shall be a storied warrior." She smiles at the possibility, and he cannot help but kiss her hand once more.

"You’ve given birth to a boy as strong as you are, wife.” He watched as she nudged her nose to the babe’s and smiled, her face glistening from sweat and tears. His newborn son’s cries got louder with each passing moment, but despite being a man of silence and solitude, Aemond had never felt more at peace.

“Thank you.”

Aemond would be the first to deny that he was a doting paragon of a husband that the bards would sing about, but he certainly was a good man who loved and respected his wife.

In the days that followed the birth of his child, he had spent every waking moment that he could spare with the pair of them. Both mother and son had the fierce One-Eyed Prince wrapped around their fingers. Between sparring sessions and battling his family’s idiosyncrasies on the daily, his little family had given him quite the reprieve, one that he was infinitely thankful for.

But now, his son is gone, and his wife is too.

“The heirs need to be kept safe. The twins, little Maelor, all three of them,” his mother said.

He may be in the middle of a war, but it was moments like these that seemed hardest to him. Aemond sat quietly by the hearth, in the very same chair where he always rested. His wife used to sit by him or at his feet as she embroidered. Now, her absence was a gaping hole each time he sat.

“Aemond…”

He turned to the sound of his grandfather calling out his name, looking cold and calculated. It did not escape Aemond that he was discussing the safety of his brother's children while he had lost his own child. The irony of it all was stark and jarring.

“Yes,” he curtly responded.

“It is in our best interests that you…” His grandfather paused midway through his words, and Aemond knew well that the man did that only when unsettling news was to follow. “...that you take a new wife. We’re in need of an alliance, and she can be sent to the motherhouse at Oldtown. She will be cared for, she will be fed-”

He saw red. “My son is dead!” The words tumbled out of Aemond’s mouth like shards of glass before he could even comprehend the gravity of his grandfather’s heavy, cutting words.

"My son’s death is on my conscience, his blood is on my hands. I did not do the deed myself, but it certainly feels like I was the one who wielded the knife that killed him.” The people had taken to calling him a kinslayer, and Aemond felt it in his bones everyday - not because of Lucerys Velaryon, but because of how his rash actions had resulted in the death of his little boy.

“My son is dead, and my wife has not been the same ever since. How do you think I can start a new family, with a new woman, when I know very well that I have caused all the grief that has driven my wife to madness? When I caused the death of my own child?”

Aemond Targaryen always made for a menacing sight, but his grandfather was not prepared for the kind of anger that his grandson had kept stored in him - for himself, his wife, and his son. They were not here, and he was angry enough for all three of them.

The Dowager Queen watched the entire conversation unfold, and she held her hand to her chest, feeling her heartbeat become frantic with each moment that she saw her son in distress. She knew how content he was in his wife's presence, and how much he loved her. To watch a child grow and fester in his own resentment - no mother should have to witness it. And yet, the Gods saw fit to give Alicent Hightower the closest view to her son's heartbreak.

“Get out,” he seethed. Otto Hightower took Aemond’s raw and angry words in stride before walking away, his head still held high.

His mother stood in front of him, held his hand and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m sorry, my boy. I’m so sorry…”

She wept until she could not, and it took everything Aemond had in him to not do the same.

When he tossed and turned in his bed in the middle of the night, he would always reach out for her.

She would always welcome his touch and curl into him, her forehead resting on the smooth planes of his chest and her warm breath making goosebumps rise on his skin. He would hold her tight until neither could ascertain where one ended and the other began, and sleep that normally eluded him would come to him faster than anything else.

Tonight, her spot on the bed is empty.

When he woke in a hurry, he noticed the crumpled sheets and the pillows left askew, the only evidence of her having retired to bed alongside him. He quickly rose from the bed and tried to calm his rapidly beating heart, wondering as to where she could have gone at this ungodly hour.

Gods, was she hurt?

He did not have to wait for the divine deities to answer, for his answer came in the form of the sweet humming sounds that he had grown to love. He followed her voice as he walked through their apartments, and it led him to the chamber where his son’s crib was kept. She was sitting next to it in her white shift, her head peeping in as she let her hands rest on the crib. She hummed softly and happily, marveling at how beautiful her little boy looked as he slept - looking much like the man she shared her bed with.

Aemond wanted to ask her to come back to bed immediately. The maesters had advised lots of rest for his wife, given the stress of the labors and the damage her body had taken. But as he watched her and his boy, he knew he couldn’t. He needed a moment to drink in the sight of his wife and son - his entire world, all in one chamber.

He held so much love in his heart for them both despite seeing them only with one eye. Perhaps he’d be able to love them more if he could see them with two.

“He’s going to be there when we wake, wife. Come back to bed.”

She turned to him and smiled, a warm smile that he wished he could brand into his mind for all eternity. “Did I wake you?”

“You did not. Your absence from our bed did.”

She chuckled softly, and he walked over to her. He positioned himself behind her chair and kissed her temple, letting his hands rest on her shoulders. “I don’t think I shall ever tire of looking at him,” She said.

“Hm.” His gaze rested on the sleeping babe, tired from all his crying throughout the day.

“My son, a dragon prince,” She mused. “He’ll be charming, strong and intelligent, just like his father.”

At that, he chuckled darkly and she rose, turning around to face him. Her hand found his cheek and he leaned into her touch, leaving a light kiss on her wrist as he held her hand in place. “What’s so amusing, husband?”

“Charming is not the first word anyone would use to describe me, wife.”

“Well, you are. To me.” Her whispering siren-like voice was like music to his ears.

She reached up on her toes and left a light kiss on his brow, and Aemond was quick to hold her to him by the waist, wanting to have this - this quiet solace - all to himself for a time.

Who was he to argue with the woman around whom his entire world revolved? The very one that held his heart in her hands?

He stands in the middle of what used to be their shared chambers and sighs.

The entire room is covered in pieces of her - fragments of her that he desperately clings to for dear life. Robes and dresses that she had not worn in a long time, but still manage to somehow retain her scent. Quills and ink that she used to write her correspondence with, now left to gather dust. Ten Thousand Ships, her favorite book, one that he had given to her as a name day present, laid abandoned on the bedside table.

This was the very same chamber where he had claimed her. This was where he had first admitted to loving her. This was where she had told him that she was with child. This was where they had spent countless nights talking well into the night, their bodies entwined and voices coming out in hushed whispers and low giggles. This was where they had discovered and learned of the passions of the marital bed, together. This was where their marriage had grown and bloomed.

If he walks a little further, his feet will take him to the adjoined room where his son used to sleep - but try as he might, he does not have the strength for that. Not yet.

He sits by the edge of their bed, the sunlight passing through the windows in streaks of yellow gold. He closes his good eye, hoping for a little time to adjust to the light. Perhaps if he closes it hard enough, he will be able to picture her sitting by the window with her focused eyes trained on her embroidery or one of his books, waiting for him to come back to her after his daily duties.

His nose flares at the unearthly reminder that his wife is no longer his by side. She had been full of happiness and life, and she had brought light into his life. He welcomed it for as long as she was around, but now that she was gone, he closes his eye and avoids it like the plague, much like he does with the sunlight that now warms his skin.

Her world has become dark because of him. How can he sit in the light in good conscience, when he knows he has lost all right to it?

The waves crashed by the shores of Blackwater Bay and she sat on the sands, watching them. She had a book in her hands, and a basket of food that she had the maids prepare for them to take.

Her eyes closely followed her husband as he held their baby son’s hands upright, his little pudgy feet resting over his huge boot-clad ones as he led them forward. The little boy’s gurgling and laughing echoed through the wind, and she took a bite of a juicy apple while holding a book in her other hand.

They were the picture of a happy family, the stories of whom may be immortalized in songs for years to come.

He had not yet begun to walk, and his words were all a blubbering mess - but Aemond Targaryen was not known for being patient. He insisted on guiding his son to his feet so his first steps would come to him quicker, and spoke to him in High Valyrian in hopes that his first words would be in his native tongue.

Her boys had walked all the way toward her with her baby’s toes pressing onto Aemond’s feet harshly. He picked him up and held him then, and his son’s hands landed on his eyepatch. It had become his favorite little plaything these days - the boy took to wrangling it off his father’s head and swinging it with his two fat fingers until he grew tired - that was if he did not notice the sapphire first. By the Gods, if he did, he would insist on taking that off to play with too. His son, like him, had a taste for the finer things in life, it would seem.

“He’s taken well to the waters, I think,” she said. Her fondness for the little lad and her husband was evident in her face as she watched them. Her son had taken to swinging his arms in all directions, occasionally hitting his father’s face.

“Water does not mix with fire and blood. He should not be taking so well to the waters.”

“Suppose he can embrace it all then. Perhaps he’s… special.” She rose to meet her son’s eyes, leaving a kiss on his cheek. The boy smiled, a handful of his father’s alabaster hair in his hands as he pulled. Aemond winced, and she giggled.

“Zaldrītsos…” Aemond murmured, a quiet plea to his son to stop. It fell on deaf ears, but he did not mind. [Little dragon]

A maid had come to inform them that their presence was requested in the keep, and Aemond handed the boy over to her before walking back to give his wife his hand. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles and rubbed her hand with his before leading them away, their steps slow and relaxed.

“We should have another,” she said. Her smile, the source of all his content, was as bright as the sun. “You should take me tonight,” she murmured then, eyes quickly blackened by lust. He watched as the girl with childish wonder transformed into a seductress, and he lost even before he tried - defeat had never felt sweeter.

He could never deny her anything she wanted.

“Do you want me, wife?” He muttered darkly as he halted his steps, turning towards her. He held her by the waist and kissed her brow, waiting for her to respond.

“I always want you,” she murmured, eyes fluttering at the closeness of his lips. Her bright eyes sought his lilac one as the sound of the waves rippled through the air. “I also want to bear you another child. Would you like that, husband? Another little babe for us to love…”

He nodded and kissed her, pouring all his passion into it as he devoured her lips. “You do look beautiful, belly round and full with my child.”

That night, he choked her name out like an urgent prayer while he spilled into her, his peak following soon after hers. He then peppered kisses across her face and neck as the smell of sweat and coupling engulfed them, while she held onto his hair and let her hand wander over it in a soothing manner. He rubbed a hand over her belly, praying that his seed had taken. If not, he would seek her out and touch her everywhere once more - he would never be tired of her.

If another child was what she desired, then she shall have it - for how could he ever deny her?

The burns and injuries had ruined any spirit Aegon may have had as King.

He had watched his brother as he grew into a fierce protector of his family soon after being crowned. Ser Criston had made clear the dangers that they posed to Rhaenyra with their very existence, and it was all Aegon needed to grow into his role as the rightful monarch. However, he had gotten ahead of himself and underestimated his skills as a dragonriding fighter and gotten himself hurt.

Aemond’s role as Prince Regent was something that he slid into seamlessly - he had always known that he was the better fit for the throne after all. His first action was to ensure the safety of his own wife, Helaena and her three children.

“They’ve been moved to our father’s old chambers. Deep in the Holdfast, far away from any possible intru-”

“I know where the chambers are, Aemond. Will you shut up? You’re giving me a headache.” Aegon interrupted, words slurred as he sipped on Arbor Red. The wine sloshed in the cup as it moved in his unsteady hands.

His eyes were trained on his brother, a tired and tested man who was now incharge of running a Kingdom. Aegon knew that the crown was heavy, but it did not compare to the weight of the world that Aemond always carried on his shoulders. It only seemed to have gotten worse since his son’s death and his wife’s isolation.

“Does she fare any better?”

“No.” It is all Aemond wishes to say on the matter.

While he may not want to speak of the family he had lost, Aemond knew that he would protect those he was left with every breath in his body if need be. He may not have been there for his little boy, but he would die before he let a hair on any of his remaining family members’ heads be touched. The regret of being an inadequate husband and father pricked at him like the heat from the bright blaze of the fire in the hearth, and he walked out with purpose.

He knew where he was going next. After all, his feet always carried him to her at nightfall.

When Aemond came home dripping wet from the rain that had drenched him at Storm’s End, he was convinced that he had ruined everything good that he had. He could not imagine a simple scratch on his little boy without feeling angered - how could he expect Rhaenyra to simply accept her son’s death?

He had to get them safe. He had to keep them safe. He had to keep them safe. Safe, safe, safe.

She had just left the babe with the nursemaid and come to their chambers to find a moment of quiet before her son’s inevitable crying began again. Her eyes widened when she opened the door to find her husband completely drenched, looking like he was inviting death with open arms. He may as well have.

“Aemond..” She rushed to him immediately, hands going to his damp hair and clothes. “Gods did it rain on your ride back home? Let me fetch you some clean clothes and something to dry yourself with.” He reached out to her before she could go too far, and she gasped at how cold his touch was.

It was always warm, and tonight it was not.

“Stay, please.”

“I need you to put on something warm first, Aemond. You’ll catch a chill.”

She was too distracted by his wet state to notice the tears mixed with the raindrops. He said nothing as she walked away and brought back fresh garb for him to change into. She quietly bade that he raise his arms and he obeyed, not having the strength to do anything else. Slowly, each garment fell with a wet thwack to the floor and she took to wiping all the water off of him.

His grave silence unnerved her immensely, and she knew something was wrong. She would wait for him to say it.

She dressed him in a linen undershirt and breeches and took him to his beloved chair by the fire, in hopes that it would warm him up and encourage him to tell her of what plagued him. He sat in silence for a long while as she sat cross-legged on the floor, her forehead leaning on one of his thighs while her finger drew mindless patterns on the other.

His hand always reached for her hair when they sat like this, but tonight, that was not the case. She looked up at him with inquiring eyes, and as he caught her vision with his one eye, he did not have the heart to tell her what he had done, but he had to.

“I killed Lucerys Velaryon.” His voice is hoarse and the words are choked out with difficulty, and while the weight of his actions hit him hard, it was harder to watch his sweet wife’s concerned face morph into something else entirely.

“What?”

“He was sent as an envoy. I only meant…” He gulped, and the tears fell freely once more.

She quickly lifted herself up and straddled him, holding his face in both her hands. Her fingers caught every tear that fell in quick succession. “Tell me, go on.”

“I only meant to scare him. I need you to believe me, I did not mean to kill him.”

Her husband was a proud man, and it made her stomach churn to see him sound so broken. She feared that she may not like what she was about to hear, but she had promised to be his other half for all his life, and now he needed her.

He may be fearsome, but he was not a cold-blooded murderer. He did not mean to kill him - but how much weight did his intent hold, now that the boy was dead?

“I believe you. Go on.”

“The dragons…” He let out a hoarse breath and she continued to wipe at his tears with the tips of her thumbs - softness that he right now felt very undeserving of. “Arrax breathed fire at Vhagar and she retaliated, she bit into the dragon’s neck and Luke fell, so did Arrax.”

She felt light headed with worry. How could she stomach the thought of a young boy falling to his death from the skies? How could she, when she was a mother to a little boy herself?

His uncle, Daemon, was going to come for them, Aemond was sure of that. But he could not bring himself to think of much else as he watched his wife digest all that he had told her, never once ceasing to remind him that she believed him, even if nobody else would.

When they rose, Aemond’s anger knew no bounds. The possible consequences ran through his mind as he pushed his desk onto the floor with brute force. The sharp edges of her vanity had drawn blood from the back of his hand as he moved in frustration, and she was quick to hold onto him and remind him of her presence. He was not alone, he had her.

“Take me. Take it out on me.” Aemond could not think straight, and she could not bear to see him hurt himself, any more than he already has. It is this very thought that drives her to take his hand and lay it upon her clothed chest.

He took her from behind that night, hands clutching onto her bouncing breasts. Every string that was stretched had snapped with each rough thrust into her, the sounds of skin slapping skin somehow seeming too rough that night. “We’re going to be fine, wife,” he groaned - and she did not know whom he was trying to placate - her, or himself?

“I will keep you safe, the both of you.”

When he was done with her, she was left looking ragged with dried tear tracks on her face. He wanted to apologize - it seemed as though he hurt everything he touched, and after his now dead Stong nephew, his own sweet wife was his latest victim.

She held him between her breasts that night as they both wept, at a loss for words at what he had done. She did not know how to comfort him or rid him of the guilt or paranoia that his mind now played host to.

What she did know is that her husband needed her, and that she was not going anywhere. So when he suggested sending her and their son away, fearing for her safety, she begged him to let her stand by his side.

“If something were to happen to me, there would be nobody to protect you and our boy.”

“If something were to happen to you, our son and I would much rather follow you than brave many years alone.”

He reluctantly gave in, thinking that an increased guard and his constant presence around them would be enough to keep them unharmed.

How wrong he was.

He had walked away only for a moment.

His wife had wanted to eat some cake during the night - he suspected that she was with child again. Little did he know that it was the last moment of their happy marriage. The sight that he had walked back into was something that would never fail to haunt him.

Dead guards, a whole litany of them. His wife in her bloodied white shift, holding onto their son’s decapitated body. All the light in her eyes had dimmed as he stood frozen in place, his eye widened at the harrowing sight before him.

She wailed as she clutched the corpse to her chest, with no care for the injuries on her own body, or the blood of their babe that was now mixed in with her own.

“My boy, my precious boy…”

The rest of the royal family soon followed and his mother pulled her away from the babe’s lifeless body. He fell to the floor with no one to hold him, and Aemond could do nothing but watch. Aegon’s angry calls for his nephew’s head to be brought back along with the killers slipped into one ear and slipped out the other, and he went numb as he realized that the consequences of his actions had caught up to him.

Him, he could understand. But his sweet wife, his little son? What had they done?

A son for a son.

The rational part of his mind would have argued that Luke’s death probably left Rhaenyra feeling the same tragedy that he was faced with - but he was anything but rational in that moment. His fists clenched as his knuckles met the wall, and Aegon had to physically restrain him from walking out to catch the rats himself.

“She needs you. She needs you. She needs you. Listen to me, Aemond!”

Helaena had collapsed onto the chair entirely, repeating ominous words that he did not register at all.

“Blood and Cheese. Blood and Cheese. Blood and Cheese.”

Aegon had gone to join in the hunt for his nephew’s killers, and she kept rocking herself back and forth at the sight of the blood that now painted the walls and floors of her brother’s chambers until she was led away. Aemond stood, all alone in a pool of his son’s and wife’s blood.

When the Silent Sisters were led into the chamber by his grandfather, Aemond froze. His wife had held their lifeless son to her breast as she cried, but he could not bring himself to look at him, much less touch him.

Hours later, with patches of his own son's blood soaked through his clothes, he had gone to see her. He held her in his arms as she sobbed through the night, trying to push him away with each firm hit to his chest. Aemond shushed her over and over to no avail, holding her closer each time she tried to separate herself from him. Sometime during that night, her eyes had become lifeless; a deep abyss. The sight of it finally drove him to tears too, with his good eye becoming a glistening violet ring floating in a sea of angry red.

They say madness is a slow disease, and that nobody truly knows when it begins. They were wrong. Aemond Targaryen knew very well the exact moment when the madness had sunk its claws into his wife.

It was right then as he held her, comforting her and apologizing like a madman for tainting her life with his presence.

The moonlight diverged through the stained glass windows that directly faced the room where she now resided. She had been kept in these chambers before their wedding, and she often spoke of how beautiful the lights were when they fell directly onto the corridors, reflecting the colors of the glass that they slid through. He wondered if she still thought the same. He wondered if she even looked.

In the day that followed their son’s death, they had burned their little boy and watched as his body was wheeled around the streets of King’s Landing for their benefit. Aemond had wanted to retch then, but he held his wife tight as the people empathized with the kind princess whose time as a doting mother had been brutally cut short.

She fared worse - she looked dead in her eyes, and he was sure she was lost on the inside too. He did not know if she even sensed his hold on her as she kept muttering their dead boy’s name in a series of weak whimpers.

Two days later, she had lost their second child. He held her from behind and rocked her gently as the blood flowed from between her thighs for hours, the babe coming out in clumps of bloodied skin, having never drawn breath. Every moment of his wife’s torture plagued Aemond’s existence, and he questioned his abilities as a protector while grieving his son and his unborn child all alone.

The Gods were cruel to him in their games. They made him watch as his son’s life was taken, and they took bits of his wife’s mind and soul with each passing day. He supposed that this was the hand that kinslayers were dealt.

It was a slow death for Aemond, and it had begun the day his son was killed. Now he had to watch as his once vivacious wife completely lost hold over all her senses, and lived in a world where he could not reach her.

On some days, she would receive him with love, as though his presence in her life had not destroyed her completely. He would be able to revel in her touch once more, if only to simply be able to remind himself that she was still alive - in body, if not soul. He missed her, his wife, his woman, his entire heart. But his actions had killed her from the inside - did he have a right to his yearning anymore? He did not want to know, for he feared that he may not like the answer.

On other days, she would be the complete embodiment of madness. She would fight the maesters and scream at them, begging for them to let her die and throw herself off the window. She would pull at her beautiful hair, blame him continuously and shriek, mourning the loss of their child.

When she was done, she'd lower her voice and murmur words into the air. Speaking to no one in particular, almost like a ghost, she'd fidget with her dress and say, "His body twitched after they hurt him. My baby boy suffered. Oh, my boy!"

He may not have wielded the knife that removed his head, but his actions caused it. He may as well have killed his son himself. Guilt was not an emotion that Aemond Targaryen knew well as a boy, but it was all he now knew as a grown man.

She would bawl and cry at him to go away. She would scream at him to leave her alone, and blame him for killing her children - and rightfully so. And though it pricked at his heart, he would come back every night.

He wonders how she is feeling tonight. He wishes she was ignorant and unaware, for he is desperate for her touch, her company. It has been weeks. He is brought back to reality when the Maester’s gown billows behind him in the night wind.

“Your Grace.” he bows.

“How is she?”

“Somewhat calmed tonight and not lucid, my prince.” The old man sighs before continuing. “The Princess continues to ask for her little prince. We have given her milk of the poppy, so she may fall asleep soon enough.”

“Hm.”

He is mildly relieved to hear that she is not herself tonight - for it allows him to relive some of their happier days.

In his hand is a book - Ten Thousand Ships, the very one that he had gifted her. He dismisses the maester and his stewards follow behind him. Aemond walks into the room with his mind steeled, ready to be brave - for himself and for her.

“Husband! Come, come!” Her cheery voice is not quite hers, and it unnerves Aemond - her words are not from her heart, and it takes everything in him to not fall to his knees and apologize once more for what he has done to her. “The Maester said our boy’s learning to walk! Did you see him? I was promised that you would bring him tonight! Where is he?”

Gone, where we cannot see him, he wants to say. But how could he, without wanting to throw himself at her feet in regret? “He is tired. All that walking has exhausted him.”

“I suppose, yes! They tried to force me to take that vile concoction once more tonight, I managed to push it away and evade them! Look!” His gaze follows her hand and sees the spilled milk of the poppy on the floor. His wife was a calm and steady woman, and now she was behaving like a child and mistreating maesters.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

“You should not do that, wife. It is not proper.”

He holds her hand and kisses her knuckles, before leaning his head back to look at her. Her hair has not been combed today, and he gently turns her around to run his fingers through her hair, digits trembling at touching her once more. She could come to at any moment and remember who had caused her such distress, and then she would cry until he walked away - the very real possibility rakes at Aemond, so he remains prepared for her to push him away any time now.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

"I know. I drank it the second time. I'm sorry."

He then turns her back to face him and notices the dark rims around her empty eyes. He sighs and lets out a long, heavy breath. If he was drunk enough and she was unaware, he would fool himself into thinking that they were alright. But they aren’t.

“It is time to go to bed, wife. Will you come with me?” I love you, I miss you and I am sorry. Will you come back to me? Please?

He kisses both her eyelids and leads her to the bed in her shift. He gently helps her lay down, following her immediately as he lays next to her. She leans into his hold seamlessly and he tightens his arm around her - it hurts him how despite her madness, her penchant to seek out his touch never changes.

He takes the book from the bedside table, and she squeals. “Will you read to me tonight, husband? I do love it when you read to me. Perhaps a quiet moment between the both of us before the maids bring our son back? You know how he makes a fuss and refuses to give us a moment of quiet!” She laughs, and Aemond holds his tears back once more.

“Of course.” He kisses her temple.

He begins reading and the dry sounds of his throat lull her to sleep in his arms as he rakes his fingers through her hair. When she has completely drifted away from him, he allows himself a moment of thought and kisses her on the lips - watching as she murmurs his name.

He had taken her to wife, and sworn to protect her from any harm that may come her way. In the end, the only one she had to be protected from, was himself. He failed her, and now, he would not rest until he picked up all the pieces and put her back together.

When morning comes, she may still be unconscious of her surroundings and allow him some more time, or she may be lucid and scratch at his face until he leaves her alone. The uncertainty kills him, but he will allow himself to enjoy her tonight.

It was on this very day that he had kissed her for the first time, in the Sept, between the statues of the Mother and the Father. On this day, four years ago, they were married.

And on this day, he continues to read to her because she had asked, even when she had fallen asleep - for how could he ever deny her?

BONUS CHAPTER FOR THIS FIC, HERE.

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MASTERLIST

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mcflymemes · 8 months

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FANTASY SETTINGS / LOCATIONS PROMPTS * fantasy location based prompts for starters, adjust as necessary

[ 01 ] under the shelter of an ancient oak tree in the depths of a dark forest

[ 02 ] a rickety bridge hanging over a massive waterfall

[ 03 ] a tiny village bakery, the shelves stocked with freshly baked goods

[ 04 ] standing beside a massive magical portal. who knows where it might lead?

[ 05 ] the darkest depths of a dragon's lair, gold glittering at your feet

[ 06 ] a vast, empty field with a bright blue sky overhead

[ 07 ] the space between two shelves stuffed with magical tomes and old leatherbound journals

[ 08 ] a rowdy village tavern crowded with drunk, singing patrons

[ 09 ] a winding path in the dark that leads to nowhere

[ 10 ] the crumbling remains of a burnt-out homestead

[ 11 ] another realm, unknown to you, the lights bright enough to blind you

[ 12 ] a tiny tent in the middle of the woods, the fading embers of your campfire still glowing just outside the door

[ 13 ] a tidy apothecary shop crowded with labeled jars and bowls of supplies

[ 14 ] the fiery lair of your mortal enemy

[ 15 ] the hallowed halls of an ancient sanctuary, stone walls covered in vines and light peeking in through cracks in the ceiling

[ 16 ] a civilized throne room, lanterns lit on the walls leading up to the throne itself

[ 17 ] a dewy meadow perfect for a picnic

[ 18 ] a valley packed with tents, knights , and weapons all readying themselves for a major battle

[ 19 ] a bright, snowy glen

[ 20 ] a strange village doused in darkness, the streets teeming with cloaked figures and suspicious individuals

[ 21 ] a chilly cave hidden behind a waterfall

[ 22 ] in the midst of a dangerous battle, bandits attacking from all sides

[ 23 ] at the foot of a massive, venerated shrine, one that's been forgotten by time and worn down with age

[ 24 ] a busy village market, shopkeepers shouting their prices and selling their wares to curious passerby

[ 25 ] a magical greenhouse with glowing plants and precious, healing herbs

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girlwiththepapatattoo · 10 months

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you see through me what lies beyond

Fandom: Legend of Zelda

Pairings: Ganondorf/Female Reader

Warnings: smut, vaginal sex, fingering, oral sex, embarrassment, some feels, messing a bit with canon

Notes: Here, have 13k words of Ganondorf smut lmao. This was a ton of fun to write, and I hope that you all enjoy! (If anyone sees any errors, feel free to point them out!)

Read on Ao3 here!

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Awareness comes to you slowly, a drift of your senses waking, as though they were asleep for decades rather than a full night’s rest. Touch comes first: the sleek softness of silk sheets under your hands, against your fingertips, smooth against your bare legs. You weren’t wearing what you normally did to sleep, either: enfolding your form is what feels like a nightdress, also made of silk.

Next comes your hearing. It’s raining outside, the gentle taps of water on a glass windowpane from somewhere nearby periodically drowned by the distant rumble of thunder. The crackle of a nearby fire filters in, gentle and welcoming.

Whatever wood is in the fireplace (it can’t be a campfire, you wouldn’t be on this plush bed) is fragrant as your sense of smell returns. Other scents filter in: leather, old books, and closer to you, some sort of spice mixed with sandalwood and copper. It’s alluring, making your nostrils flare.

Your eyes flick open. There’s only a hint of firelight coming through the almost-sheer, black drapes on the gigantic four poster bed that was most certainly not your own.

You swallow thickly, your heart-rate picking up as you realize that, wherever you are, it’s not home.

Mattress creaking gently as you sit up, the strap to the nightgown you’ve been changed into slides down one shoulder, the soft touch making you shiver in your unease. You pull it back up and carefully ease yourself over to the edge of the bed, reaching one hand out and shifting one gauzy curtain to the side.

Bookcases line the walls, filled with tomes that look both recent (though not modern) and ancient. Candles flicker on nearby tables, safely away from the books. What walls aren’t covered in books have tapestries hanging, depicting what looks like a desert fortress on one, a great battle on another. A plush, dark red carpet surrounds the bed, and also the giant armchair in front of the crackling fireplace.

“Are you going to sit there all day, woman?” comes a sudden voice. You jump as you realize that there’s someone sitting in the chair. “Come here.”

The voice is low, a bass growl, commanding your attention and action all at once. Swallowing hard once more, you stand, taking a moment as your legs wobble.

“Ah, yes. Travel is hard on mortals without power. Your strength should return soon.”

“...w-where am I?” you ask, more fear in your voice than you’d like.

A soft chuckle meets your ears, and you wish you found the rumble of his voice much less attractive than you did. “I think you are smart enough to know once you see my face. Come.”

You feel goosebumps spread over your shoulders, and not just from the sudden cold stone floor under your bare feet as you step forward. Hesitantly, you approach the great armchair, standing at a distance away that you feel fairly safe from whoever’s in it. Of course, you don’t know if he has a weapon, gun or otherwise…but you’ll take what reassurance you can get right now.

You take a deep breath, then finally take your last step forward and turn to face the man in the chair. A gasp of disbelieving shock leaves your lips, your eyes wide in recognition.

A massive frame fills the chair, the man before you the biggest you’ve ever seen in your life. Legs nearly as thick as your own torso are crossed comfortably at the ankles, stretched out along the carpet to warm his bare feet in front of the fire. The glint of a gold anklet shines briefly. A core thick with strength, leads up to mountainous shoulders, biceps you don’t think your fingers would meet around, distractingly strong forearms, hands that rival dinner plates in size. One hand is closed in a fist, upon which is propped a red-bearded jaw. Your eyes roam over smirking lips, a large and dignified nose, and finally the golden eyes that pierce through yours…

Ganondorf Dragmire, King of the Gerudo, Bearer of the Triforce of Power, sits before you.

You know you’re gaping, mouth hanging open in shock. His smirk widens just a hair as his eyes roam your form. “It seems I was right. That shade of red is lovely on you.”

You pinch yourself hard on the arm. The pain makes you hiss, and he laughs, a soft, amused rumble that you can almost feel in your skin.

“Do you think yourself dreaming? I suppose you must. Power such as mine has no place in your world, after all.”

“Y-You…you can’t be real,” you finally gasp. “That’s not…”

“Possible? I assure you, little one, I am as real as you are.” The hand not pressed to his jaw lifts up a golden goblet, and he sips at the contents within, his golden stare not leaving yours. He licks a droplet of crimson wine from his lips before setting the drink down on an end table next to him.

You suddenly feel very vulnerable, standing before such a man in nothing but a thin silk nightgown. Your hands clench nervously in the material. “W-Why am I…w-what happened to my pajamas?”

His air turns amused, though his gaze loses little intensity. “Would you prefer I seduce you whilst you wear pink clothes with kittens on them? No, I much prefer you in something like this, something more…elegant. Sensual.”

His words feel like a lightning bolt just hit your spine, and you feel a hot blush spread over your cheeks. “W-Wait, you–what did—”

Another rumble of laughter escapes his throat. “Oh, yes, red is certainly your color.” He shifts, sitting up and bracing his forearms on his thick thighs. Muscles ripple as he moves, one half of his torso bared from his robes, the firelight playing over darkly tanned skin. “Come here.”

One huge finger points to a spot just before his feet. Your knees tremble at the thought of being so close to him, but you can’t make yourself move.

His eyes glint as you stay put, and instead of getting angry like you expected, he simply chuckles. “Stunned, are you? Not an unreasonable reaction. But I am a patient man, when I wish to be.”

“Why am I here?!” you finally blurt, before gasping and clapping your hands over your mouth.

He laughs fully now, one massive hand splaying over his stomach in his mirth. “Oh, how adorable you are! Why do you think you’re here?” He smiles, wide, delighted, a hunger in the expression that makes you swallow. “I have lived, in one form or another, for a very long time. You pick up a few secrets of the universe when you have an awareness that spans over ten thousand years.” He leans back in his chair once more, propping his bearded cheek on his fist again. “I know there are universes, dimensions, whatever you want to call them, that are not my own. I know that some of those dimensions touch mine in some small way. You know exactly who I am…and you know exactly what you want from me.”

Your face goes sheet white, and then beet red. “W-Wait, t-that’s–”

“Oh yes. I’ve felt your desire for me clear across worlds, my flustered little admirer,” he purrs. “Your overwhelming need for pleasure at my hands…” To your surprise, he huffs a little. “To put it frankly, it is very distracting. I have important plans to oversee, which I cannot be doing when every ten minutes I hear your desire for my mouth to–”

“S-STOP, STOP I GET IT!” you cry, quaking in embarrassment.

His grin is pure dark mischief. “I truly wonder if you do though.” He’s quiet a moment, just watching you stew in your mortification. You hate this, hate the fact that he’s already gotten you so riled up…

And by hate, of course, you mean love.

“You have two options,” he suddenly says, and the tone in his voice is commanding, ordering you to listen. You couldn’t not listen if you tried. “Either I send you home, right now, to live out your boring little life, never knowing what wonders I could have shown you…” He smirks, teeth flashing for a moment in the firelight, glinting off the pronounced fang of one canine. “Or…I take you. I make you mine, little one. I fuck you so thoroughly and so well that I will ruin you for other men the rest of your life. I will prove that even your persistent daydreams pale in comparison to the real thing.” His eyes flick away from you, looking into the fire, almost dismissive of you standing there, shivering in arousal. “But the choice is yours.”

He picks up his goblet again, sipping at the contents within, watching the flames dance in the fireplace. There’s a part of you that’s almost angry at how he can be so casual after completely turning your world upside down…after giving you such a difficult choice to make on the spot.

“C-Could I…?” His eyes flick to you, the golden, expectant stare making you shiver for a moment before you take a deep breath and try again. “Am I allowed to ask questions?”

“I’d be concerned if you did not,” comes the amused answer. You blink in surprised confusion, and for the first time, a hint of anger enters his eyes. “I know, from these desires of yours, that you think me more than some one-note villain. My goal may be conquering Hyrule once and for all, and I may think nothing of the pawns I use to achieve that goal, but one thing I am not, nor will I ever be, is a rapist.” His nostrils flare in his ire, one lip curling in disgust. “I may have brought you here, but I will not force you. You are free to ask questions, and you are free to say no, without fear of violence from me.”

In spite of this bizarre situation, in spite of the man before you, you can feel your shoulders relaxing. “Thank you.”

He flicks his hands dismissively at your words, before looking towards the flames once more. “Ask your questions.”

“Can…” You swallow hard. “If I say yes, is there…some sort of protection we’ll use? Can you get me pregnant?”

He chuckles, that low rumble you wish didn’t do funny things to your belly. “I have sired many children during these eons. Yes, I can get you with child, and yes, there is protection.” He opens the drawer of the end-table and draws out a small medallion on a length of soft cord. A simple golden triangle gleams in the firelight, much like his eyes do. “There’s a charm of protection on that. Wear it the entire time, and my seed will not take within you.”

He tosses it to you, and you nearly fumble it away before securing it in your grasp. Flushing, you hold it tightly to your chest. “Thank you.” You take another deep breath. “If I…say yes…what happens after? I just go home?”

“Yes…if that is what you wish.” He smirks, stretching out his long body again, and you fight to keep your eyes on his and not on the wonderful play of muscles under his skin. “As I said, magic does not belong in your world. If, after I make you mine, you find that you just cannot live without feeling my touch again…well, I cannot come to your home myself. As it is, it took a great deal of power to bring you here to begin with.”

He shakes his head, though there’s an expression on his face that’s almost...curious. As if he has an academic interest in the subject. “The way that the walls of your dimension fight my sorcery is, admittedly, fascinating. I would like to study it properly someday.”

He seems to come back to himself, his eyes focusing on you again. “After I have shown you what it will truly be like to lie with me, you may decide you wish to stay for a time. I would allow that. Truthfully, I would be amenable to having a woman at my side who is not terrified of me. How long I would want you here is still up for debate.”

You nod slowly, your mind trying to fly into the well of possibilities. But you stop it almost before it begins: you aren’t here to be his equal, his partner. You’re here to warm his bed, to stop being…a distraction.

Your eyes widen as it really hits you. You aren’t here because he saw something special in you, or because of some hidden talent. You’re here because you were so pathetically desperate for this man that it actually breached dimensions. Your eyes fill with tears as humiliation rises in your chest.

Ganondorf blinks in surprise as you look away, your shoulders beginning to shake. “I…I-I’m so sorry for disturbing you,” you say, your voice thick with barely held-back sobs. “I…never knew you really…were real, and I…never wanted to annoy you. I-I’m so sorry.”

He stares at you, before he heaves a sigh. You don’t see him move, but you hear his chair creak. Before you know it he’s swept you up into his arms. You yelp in surprise through your tears–no one’s ever picked you up like this before. “Hush,” he says, though his voice is softer and not unkind. He sits back down, setting you across his lap, and one huge hand presses to your head, forcing your cheek to rest on his chest. Were you not so upset, you’d have loved to enjoy it.

“...I think, perhaps, I have worded something wrong,” he murmurs after a minute of silence. “I am not displeased to be the recipient of your affections, little one. On the contrary, I have been planning this night for some weeks.” His fingers, warm and surprisingly soothing, stroke gently over your cheek. “I was impressed with the depths of your affection, of how strong your feelings are. For them to reach across the dimensional veils…that is no small feat. Were you born here, I could see you being a great sorceress.” You can hear the faint smile in his voice. “In fact, were you to stay, you may yet develop magic of your own. But that is neither here nor there.” He tilts your head up with a gentle finger under your chin, and a careful thumb wipes your tears away. “No more of this, hm?”

“So…” You swallow thickly. “So I’m not here just because I was…distracting you?”

He laughs softly, a gentle rumble of amusement that you almost feel more than hear, like velvet over a rockslide. “No, that is far from the only reason.” He snorts in amusement. “You know who some of my past servants have been. You must remember Zant. In comparison, your attentions would have been a breath of fresh air.”

You can’t help but laugh, and his lips twitch up faintly. He begins idly twirling a piece of your hair through his fingers, bringing a flush to your cheeks. “But I also need you to understand: beyond your affection for me, I have no idea who you are. So do not expect more feelings from me other than lust and some vague fondness. I say this not to be cruel, it is simply the truth.”

You give a hard sniff, but you nod. “Yeah, I get it. This isn’t…” Your eyes widen. “This really isn’t one of my fantasies, you’re…you’re real and here and–” He watches with a smug smirk as your blush deepens rapidly. “A-And I’m sitting on your lap oh my god.”

He laughs, a deeper, full-throated sound that makes you hide your face behind your hands. “You are adorable, all flustered like this. You turn such pretty colors so easily…”

“A-Anyway!” You know he’s grinning down at you, but you forge on with your point. “Y-Yeah, so, this is real and you’re not just pixels. You’re a real person, with agency, and I…I don’t want you to do anything that you don’t wanna do just because my thoughts were um…loud.”

The look in his eyes plainly says that you couldn’t make him do anything he wouldn’t want to anyway, but he still nods to you. “I appreciate the sentiment, and return it.” He brings the lock of hair he was still toiling with to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the strands, his golden gaze still boring into your own. He sees the way your breath hitches, and it makes a soft rumble of interest emanate from his chest. “The things I want to do to you…” he all but growls, and a candle of desire bursts to life in your lower belly.

In a flash, he’s turned you on his lap. Your back presses to his chest, the top of your head tucked up under his chin…and your legs are spread around his thighs. You gasp in surprise, at how fast that was, at how vulnerable this feels, spread wide over his closed legs, the nightgown pulling up so that most of your thighs are on display. “O-Oh, f-fuck, I–”

He chuckles darkly, lowering his head to press his bearded cheek to yours. “What a mouth you have…” he purrs, enjoying the way that you shiver at the prickle of his facial hair. “I look forward to finding out what else it is capable of…”

Your eyes slam shut as a wave of lust washes over you. His voice, the tone, the suggestive words…he was right: none of your fantasies are measuring up to the real thing, and the fun hasn’t even started yet!

One huge hand splays over your belly suddenly, the warmth of him felt easily through the thin fabric. He feels your abs jump under his touch, and a pleased grin pulls at his lips. You can feel it, feel it when he smiles against your skin.

Your body is burning already.

“You are very sensitive…” The thumb of his free hand suddenly caresses over the top of your thigh, and a gasp bursts out of your throat without permission. He’s tall enough, his frame dwarfing yours enough that he can get a full view of the front of your body, and his grin widens to see the skin of both thighs pimpled in goosebumps. To see the juts of your hardened nipples pressing against the silk they’re hidden in. “Beautiful…oh, I am going to enjoy playing with you…”

“I-I’m so…y-you feel so good,” you breathe, and then blush darkly as you realize what you said and turn your face away in embarrassment.

He chuckles deeply, lifting the hand that had touched your thigh to stroke a thumb along your jawline, making you exhale hard. Then his lips press to your neck, his nose brushing over your jaw, his beard a wonderful scrape on your skin, and the sound that bursts from your throat…it isn’t like any sound you’ve ever made in your life.

He feels you tremble on him, enjoying the way your skin flushes in arousal all the way down your chest. He presses a line of achingly slow kisses up and down the column of your throat, and with each caress of soft, warm lips your body becomes more and more impatient.

You open your mouth to beg him to do something more, but the only thing that comes out is a desperate cry as he bites down on the juncture of your neck and shoulder.

You writhe on his lap, heat racing over your skin, every inch of you shivering in need at feeling his teeth in your flesh, at the almost-but-not-quite harsh pressure, at the points of his canines. They could easily break the skin…but they don’t, and the strength and control he has is just another source of arousal for you.

You can feel sweat beading in your hairline as he removes his teeth, and you shudder and whine softly as his tongue gives a lap over where he just bit. “My marks will look good on you,” he praises, caressing his nose over the side of your neck almost fondly. “I am eager to leave more…”

“P-Please,” you gasp, unaware in the haze of your pleasure that you were wriggling your hips, trying to get some sort of friction where you most need it.

“Hm. I want you to tell me if this gets painful for you.”

“W-What?”

Your legs are still spread over his thighs, your toes almost tucked behind his knees, which were pressed together this whole time. But now he pulls them apart, opening his own legs so that yours spread even wider. You gasp loudly as you feel the relatively cooler air of the room against your overheated core, against the slickness coating your underwear. He feels a shudder work its way up your spine as his legs stop.

You feel somehow even more vulnerable, the edges of the nightgown hiked up to where your legs connect to your torso. There’s a slight burn to your hips from how wide he’s spread you open, but it’s one you know will fade if you let it. You sit there shivering, panting; in all your life, you’ve never felt arousal like this before.

“How are you feeling, my beautiful one?” he rasps. You know, deep in the part of your mind that’s not completely taken with lust, that he’s affected by this too. The gravel that’s suffused his voice is evidence enough of that, even if you couldn’t feel the hard ridge of his cock pressing against your backside.

“Good,” you manage to gasp out. “I feel so good, everything’s so…so sensitive. I need…I-I need you…”

He nuzzles once more into your neck, making you shudder on him. “And you will have me…but not quite yet. I am going to take my time with you, take you apart piece by piece…”

His hands, his massive hands, suddenly curve over the soft skin of your thighs. His skin is calloused but warm, providing a wonderful, gentle scrape of sensation that leaves you shivering all over again. He feels your muscles jump under his touch, and he smiles once more against your neck. “I want you to tell me, lovely one, about your favorite fantasy.”

You have to fight to push through the haze of lust enough to really understand his words, and they bring a flush of embarrassment to your face. “I-I’m sure you’ve…you’ve heard it…”

“I have,” he replies agreeably, and he gives your thighs a gentle squeeze, enjoying the way you quiver at the sudden pressure. “But I want to hear it from you in person.”

You swallow thickly, trying to form words, trying to make your mouth work to tell him what he wants. But you’re too overwhelmed, too embarrassed to speak the words out loud.

He, however, has no such qualms.

“Speechless I see…hmm, well, I can understand that. It is our first time together, and you are unused to such…lust.” His hands begin to rub slowly, softly, up and down your thighs, the roughness of his callouses making you shudder and twitch. His fingertips get closer and closer to your core with each pass. “So I shall speak the words you cannot.”

“A-Ah, um, you really d-don’t have to,” you reply, your voice a quaking whisper.

He chuckles darkly, brushing the tip of his nose playfully down the shell of your ear. “And leave such a good idea to the recesses in your mind where your fantasies play? No, beautiful one, such…creativity should be shared.” His fingernails begin to gently scritch at your skin, and he feels your toes curl hard against his calves.

“I have you suspended in the air, caught up in magical binds. Your legs are spread and bent, as if squatting, your hands behind your back to push those lovely tits out for my enjoyment. You are blindfolded, but not gagged, so that I may hear each sound I drag out of you. A series of three wooden cocks are taking turns pushing deep into you, guided by magic as well. One is fully smooth, one has large bumps over its surface, and one has a set of ridges. You also have a small plug in that lovely ass, which I make shift every so often just to remind you that it’s there.”

His words come slowly, smoothly, as if reading from the morning newspaper, and listening him describing the debauchery you’ve come up with in that deep, sonorous voice is making your clit throb.

“The entire time, I watch from a nearby seat, telling you my every thought of your body and how it’s being pleasured. And once in a while I float you over to me, so that I may drink of your pleasure, and admonish you for dripping on my pants.”

The last part is said in a growl, and one huge hand suddenly cups you firmly between your legs. A cry tears from your throat at the sudden delicious force, and your hips buck toward his touch desperately, seeking any sort of friction you can get.

He laughs as he gives a gentle squeeze to your mound, a smug smile tugging his lips up as you almost gurgle at the pressure where you need it the most. “Dripping indeed…we will not be able to salvage your small-clothes, my beautiful little faucet.”

While his left hand cups you, his right begins slowly working up your body, stroking here, gripping there, until his fingers splay just under your breasts. By now, your desire has been stoked into an inferno. Your hips can’t stop rolling into his touch, though he does nothing but cup you and give a soft squeeze every so often. Your torso arches into his hand, begging without words for him to finally touch you, take your desperate body the way you need.

You’re pretty sure that you’d do whatever he asked right now, if only he’d bring you to your peak. And with a man like Ganondorf, that’s a dangerous place to be…

The hand on your chest moves, and your face flushes darkly as he tugs the hem of the silk nightgown down, baring your flesh to his hungry gaze. “Lovely…” he purrs, and he finally, finally cups his hand around your right breast.

You cry out his name as he gives a gentle squeeze, your achingly-hard nipple scraping against his palm, the feeling enough to have your words breaking free in a frantic ramble. “Yes yes yes please, Ganondorf, please I-AH!”

“Unfortunately,” he says, as if you’re not losing your mind at his touch, “my magic is not suitable for telekinesis, so your fantasy cannot come true. At least, from a magical source.” He smirks, kneading your breast in his hand. “Thankfully, there are other ways to hold you in midair.”

Quaking and whimpering in his hands, your own raise. He hadn’t said that you couldn’t touch him. So you reach behind yourself, cupping your hands eagerly around the back of his neck, trying to anchor yourself to earth, to bring the frenzied need of your body down a notch. His skin is so warm under yours, and you feel his beautiful, fiery hair gently brushing over the backs of your fingers.

It works, though, your mind lifting a little from the haze of lust you’d been drowning in. You start to take slower breaths, trying to calm the racing of your heart. It wouldn’t do to pass out your first time with the Demon King.

He lets you, lets you get a little of your breath back…but not for long.

Two fingers suddenly press to your clothed folds, the drenched fabric pushing against your outer lips, and with a firm but teasing pressure, rise up your slit. At this angle, he only gets the barest hint of pressure over your clit before his fingers part, dragging back down to press over your entrance and then repeat the process.

All your muscles, from your toes to your fingers, clench in desperate need as your hips thrust toward his teasing touch. A broken-sounding sob is wrenched from your throat, and he growls softly as your nails dig into his neck, closing his eyes to enjoy the tiny bite of pain as his fingers continue their circuit.

Sweat drips down your spine, sticking your skin to his chest as he works your body into a frenzy. You can feel your inner-most thighs becoming absolutely drenched in your own slick, his fingers gliding easily over the ruined fabric. “I believe…you are ready for your first peak,” he purrs. “I have teased you long enough. I do not wish to be cruel…at least, not more than you can handle, anyway.”

“P-Please, please,” you gasp.

“So polite…”

His hand at your core shifts, and there’s the sudden tearing of fabric as he rips your underwear away. He chuckles darkly, teeth glinting in the firelight, as he holds up the drenched, ruined scrap of cloth to examine it. “Long enough indeed…look at me.”

That tone of voice can only be obeyed, and you turn your head, letting your eyes meet his. That golden gaze spears you, and maintaining devastating eye contact the whole time, he lifts the sodden scrap to his lips and takes a long, slow lick. You turn crimson and break the gaze to look away, but his hand leaves your breast to grip your chin, turning your face back to him. “I said, look at me, my pet,” he growls, before licking again.

You squirm on his lap, and he growls in pleasure at both your taste bursting on his tongue, and the way your ass rubs against his cock through the thin material of his pants. You suddenly hear a rather wet sounding splat as he tosses the ruined underclothes away. “Be ready,” he rasps into your ear.

And that’s all the warning you get. A giant arm wraps fully around your middle, and without any more preamble, one thick finger slides deeply into your sloppy cunt. You scream his name, and he grunts at feeling your walls clench and grip his finger. He has to fight the urge to just slam you down onto his cock now.

You’re more than slick enough for even a finger of his size to move easily, and so he pumps you, a slow but steady pace, the arm around your waist preventing you from moving overmuch. Your hips didn’t get the memo though, bucking towards the questing digit, but unable to get much friction from the way he’s clamped you down.

The next time he pulls out, two fingers press back in, stretching your walls. “FUCK!” you shout, the curse involuntary. He laughs, dark and menacing as he pumps slowly back into you, and once the last set of his knuckles press to your folds, he wiggles his fingers. You sob his name, a broken prayer to your dark god as he works your body open.

And then he stops playing.

His fingers suddenly piston in and out, a rapid pace that fills with air with the lewd squelch of your sopping walls welcoming and releasing his intrusion. His thumb presses to your clit and rubs rapid circles over the throbbing bud, and your orgasm rises so fast that you stop breathing. The pressure builds and builds in your core, an endless wind up until you feel like your body is going to break apart with its force. You lose control of your limbs, thrashing in the circle of his arm.

And then your world explodes.

Your vision bursts into white light, your hearing cuts out with a sharp whine, and your awareness of your own body has been reduced to nothing but the raging torrent of pleasure emanating from your cunt. You don’t hear it, but you can feel him growling against your back, the deep reverberation feeling more bestial than man. His fingers don’t stop, and he laughs in triumph as your walls squeeze him so hard that you squirt, your slick splattering along his hand and the floor at his feet.

You don’t know how long he keeps you flying. When you come back to yourself, you’re sitting sideways on his lap, cradled in the warmth of his arms, your face nestled into his chest. Your muscles ache softly, the sort of ache you usually only feel after a long workout…and you supposed this definitely counted. “G-Gan…?” you rasp, your throat sore from screaming.

“Ah, you’ve returned,” he says softly. One hand leaves off curling gently around your hip, and he conjures a warm cup of tea. “Here, drink. It will soothe you.”

You peel your eyes open, and your arms shake a little as you take the cup from him, tiny in his huge hands. He keeps one finger underneath it just in case, and you sip deeply, your eyes closing again as the perfectly warm liquid slides over your sore throat. Warmth seems to cling to the affected areas in your esophagus, and you realize that in short order, your throat feels completely fine. “That’s some great tea,” you murmur as you finish it.

He chuckles softly. “A favorite blend of mine, with a bit of healing potion mixed in.” The tea cup disappears, and he brushes a fond kiss over your forehead. “How do you feel now?”

You flush darkly, but you can’t stop the smile tugging at your lips even if you wanted to. “I…I feel wonderful. I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard in my life.”

He smirks faintly, a smugness to his lips that you very much would like to kiss away. “I would be very surprised if you have, my beautiful one.”

Your blush doesn’t abate, and for the first time since you realize you were here with Ganondorf, you speak to him as if he were…normal. “You’re going to be so smug about this, aren’t you?”

He throws his head back and laughs, a full-throated belly laugh that, despite your wanting to stay vaguely annoyed with him, has you grinning. “Oh, insufferably!” He grins, his eyes glinting in mirth as he leans down and playfully bites at your cheek. “But I do believe I’ve earned it.”

You gasp and laugh at his bite, before pausing. His face is close to yours, his breath fanning over your jaw, warm and somehow…comforting. Here you are, sitting in the lap of the main villain from one of your favorite game series…and there’s no fear. In fact, it’s very much the opposite of fear. And that worries you, a bit. Because Ganondorf has the moniker ‘The King of Evil’ for a reason.

He watches the happiness dim slightly in your eyes, and one thumb comes up to gently caress over your cheek. “Are you well?”

You try for a smile. You’re not sure how successful you are. “Oh, um…yes, I’m all right.”

He snorts, propping his bearded jaw on his fist and giving you an unimpressed look. “You are a bad liar.”

“Yeah…”

“What is wrong?”

“...nothing that I think can be fixed, Ganondorf. I think talking about it would just make you angry and me frustrated…and I don’t want this night to end on a note like that.”

His lips thin out at your answer. “That is a very diplomatic way of saying nothing at all. Perhaps instead of bedding you, I should hire you to improve public relations.”

You scowl faintly. “Maybe you should! Maybe that way…” Like you’d predicted, frustrated tears spring to your eyes, and you slide off his lap. Your legs tremble visibly, your body still recovering from the incredible orgasm he’d given you. You pad away from him, adjusting the nightgown to cover yourself once more.

You hear the chair creek as he stands, and after a moment his hands, warm and wonderful, come to rest on your shoulders. “...you are not of this world,” he rumbles down to you, thumbs gently rubbing circles at the base of your neck that you wish didn’t feel so good, “and as such I have no right to judge you for your opinion on me and what I do. If it were someone from this world, then yes, I would be angry. Furious even. But from what little I have gleaned, your world can see all sides of the story, not just what people are told in hushed whispers over meager fires.” You hear him sigh, and his tone becomes tight. “I…apologize for pushing. You did warn me, after all.”

It sounds like it takes a lot for him to say the words. Honestly, you’re faintly surprised that he apologized at all. You’re softening, you can feel it, and your lips curl into a resigned, almost amused smile at your own expense.

You turn in his hands, looking up at him and gently wrapping your own hands around his wrists. “Ganondorf…you must know that I care about you for more than what you can do for me…in bed. I do believe that your…” You fall quiet, and he can see in your eyes the uncertainty of whether or not you should continue. He gives you a gentle nudge, nodding for you to go on. You take a deep breath. “I do believe that your original goal, back in…well, I guess you’d call it the Time Era? Maybe?” You shake your head. “Shit’s complicated.”

His lips twitch at your vulgarity. “Shit is indeed complicated,” he says wryly, and you can’t help but snort a surprised laugh.

“Don’t make me laugh, I’m trying to be stern!” His amused smirk widens a hair, and he mimes buttoning his lips. You huff at him, then forge on. “I think your original goal was noble. You wanted a better life for your people, wanted your sisters out of the desert that’s incredibly harsh to live in. But the Power…went to your head. You lost sight of your goal, of your people, and all you wanted was more power and to rule over everything with an iron fist, and it’s just like. What’s the point of that?” Your eyes glint, and he’s surprised to see you becoming angry. “Let’s say you take over everything, rule as a tyrant, great, congrats. What then? What was your plan? Just sit on your throne, hoard the world like a dragon, be cruel for cruelty’s sake? Wouldn’t that get boring after a while? You have everything, there’s nothing left to accomplish, you can’t tell me that would make you happy!”

He stares down at you, and there’s no emotion in his face whatsoever. It’s quiet for a long moment, before his nostrils flare and there’s an odd look to his eyes. Part of it seems to be approval, oddly enough. He seems impressed with the tenacity of your words at the very least. But the other part is a rising anger…though not, perhaps at you. “...you feel very strongly about this,” he finally murmurs.

You flush faintly, and offer him a shrug. “Yeah, I do. I grew up with this world, Ganondorf, it’s important to me. You’re…important to me.” Your blush deepens at the confession, and you hold your hands up. “A-And I know, I remember what you said earlier. But yes, I do feel strongly about this.”

He can’t help a soft, almost wry chuckle, before he snaps his fingers. On one of the tables nearby suddenly appears a small feast, an array of foods that’s already making your mouth water. “Let us eat. You need to recover your strength before we continue…if that is what you wish. As we eat, I will…explain something to you.”

With a hand on your lower back, he guides you to sit at his right hand. Before you settle down into the richly stained oak chair, he smirks at you and conjures a towel for you to sit on. You flush crimson, and he chuckles darkly, before you both sit and begin to pile food onto your plate. “Partake lightly, my beauty. Too full a stomach will be…uncomfortable for you, to say the least.”

You shiver faintly. After what he already did to you, you can only imagine…

And so you took mostly fruits and a little meat, staying away from the bread and the pastries, as much as you’d like to indulge in some carbs. You couldn’t pass up the chocolate covered strawberries though.

Once both your plates are ready, you look at him expectantly. He sighs, lounging in the huge chair, his brow furrowed with the weight of the distant past. “The problem, beautiful one, with coming from a world that only touches mine is that you do not know each reincarnation cycle. These…games of yours, did not cover everything. But how could they? They have not been out long enough to cover the length of time I have been alive in one form or another.”

He takes a sip of wine, looking down into the swirling burgundy depths. “I have won before.”

Your eyes widen in shock.

“Oh yes, I have won several times. The world was mine, to rule as I see fit. The first time, yes, I ruled as the worst tyrant any timeline has ever known.” He huffs at himself. “Even I myself am quite appalled at what I was like, back in ages long since ash. Then, I was killed.

“The second time I won, I did things…better. I was a difficult king to live under, to be sure, but I was fair. If a petitioner came to me with an actual problem, then I would do my best to see the problem solved.” He smirks faintly. “Whether or not the petitioner appreciated the solution was another story.”

He pauses. “...then, once more I was killed.”

He’s quiet for a moment, staring into the middle distance. “...the third time that I won is my favorite out of all my lives. I took over after minimal violence, only the royal family and their honor guards were killed. Once I was in place, I began to turn the world into a paradise. Every citizen had access to clean water, healthy food, and medical care. I opened schools that were free to all citizens. I rebuilt the infrastructure that the royal family had let go for far too long. I invested in what’s most important to the long term health of a kingdom: farmers, fishermen, builders, carpenters, and the like. I built up the arts, threw festivals on holy days.” He smiles. “I was able to bring my people out of the desert, to settle in Hyrule. And the people…grew to love me. I became the beloved king that almost everyone was loyal to. They cheered, genuinely, when I passed.” To your surprise, his lips curl up in a tender smile, and his golden eyes soften, buttery warm in the candlelight. “I met my beloved, Amara. She was the woman who ran my stables, who cared for my personal warhorse when I did not have the time. She could have easily been one of my own people…we fell in love, and I made her my Queen, and she bore me several beautiful, strong children.

“Things were…perfect.”

His eyes darkened. “Then the princess and the hero were reincarnated, and I was killed once more.”

You gasp, and he glances at you, to see tears swimming in your eyes, your hands over your mouth. He sighs, reaching over and cupping a huge hand over your cheek, his thumb wiping away a tear.

“It does not matter what I do, beautiful one. I may be a tyrant, or a benevolent ruler, and the cycle will complete anyway.”

The chair scrapes along the floor as you push away from the table, and Ganondorf makes a sound of surprise as you leap into his arms. He catches you, his eyes wide as you wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face into hair. “It’s not fair,” you sob. “It’s not fair! You deserve happiness too! You didn’t ask for this!”

He blinks. He’s not sure how long it’s been since someone cried for him…He softens faintly, and he hugs you back, pressing his cheek to your hair. He doesn’t say anything as he closes his eyes, and he just lets himself enjoy your tight hug…and your empathy.

Your tears eventually slow, before coming to a full stop. You give a hard sniff, sitting back, Ganondorf’s hands sliding along your back to cup softly over your shoulder blades. “I-I’m sorry, I…I didn’t mean to get so upset.”

“Think nothing of it,” he murmurs, conjuring a linen handkerchief and gently wiping your face. “Yours is a tender soul.”

You give a gentle sniffle, and then a wet laugh. “I swear, I won’t cry the whole time I’m here.”

He chuckles softly as he cleans you up. “Do not make oaths you may not be able to keep, hm?”

Your eyebrow quirks up at him. “Are you saying you’re gonna make me cry more?”

His beautiful lips quirk up into a smirk. “Oftentimes after a physical release, people experience a psychological one as well. And you will be having many physical releases.”

His voice drops down into a deep purr, full of dark humor and promise, and you can feel yourself flushing darkly. “W-Well…that’s not fair.”

He laughs. “I never claimed to be.” He cocks his head as he considers your plate, how little you ate through his story. “Come, return to your seat. You have not eaten enough to regain your energy, my little lovely.”

Still blushing, you slide off his lap, and take one step to go back to your seat. But his huge hand suddenly catches your arm, and he tugs you back around. You gasp, stumbling, bracing one hand against his chest as he cups the back of your head and…kisses you.

He’s kissing you.

His perfect, beautiful lips are on yours, soft and warm and his touch is almost…tender.

Your heart skips a beat as your eyes widen, before fluttering shut. You make a soft sound into his lips as you begin to return the kiss. He molds your lips together, slow and sensual, even if just a tiny bit out of practice. Your hands raise, cupping over his bearded jaw, and when his thumb strokes so gently over your cheek you part your lips for a sigh.

He takes advantage immediately, his tongue stroking over your lips before dipping into your mouth. He feels you shiver hard, and he rumbles deep in his chest as his agile tongue licks against your own.

Then, he pulls away, and you’re left dazed, staring up into his face in wonder. He grins, deeply smug and satisfied, but in his eyes is the very slightest hint of gratitude.

“There. Now, you may eat.” He gently turns you around, and gives your rear end a pat to get you going. You let out a little squeak and quickly sit, your face red.

It’s quiet for a while as you and Ganondorf finish your meal. Your blush fades as he concentrates on his food and not you, and you’re left dealing with the surreal feeling of having a meal with the King of Evil. It's…bizarre, and it almost makes you want to laugh.

Then, a thought has you gasping: if The Legend of Zelda world is real, if he’s real, then what other worlds you thought were only fantasy could be real?

Unfortunately, you inhale while a piece of melon is in your mouth, and you immediately begin choking. “Hrrk!” you say eloquently. His eyes flash to you as you clutch at your throat, and his eyes widen.

“What–?!” He leans over and slaps your back, once, twice, before the melon dislodges and you’re able to swallow it.

“Gah!” You breath deeply, the air sweet into your briefly abused lungs. “T-Thank you, f-fuck…”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, but you can see he’s trying hard not to laugh. “I see that I will have to be careful with you, if you cannot even handle a piece of melon in your mouth.”

You squeak, scandalized. “Ganondorf!”

He does laugh now, a full-throated belly laugh. You protest and pout and finally pick up another bit of melon and throw it at his stupid, smug, beautiful face. It bounces off the tip of his nose and lands onto his own plate, where he looks down at it, bemused.

His golden eyes flash to yours, and you see a deep mischief flicker to life in their depths. “Oh? Does my little pet challenge me?”

“Uh…” is your reply. You quickly analyze his expression: no anger, no darkness (or at least, no more than there ever is), just…humor? “...maybe?”

He smirks, picking up a grape from the nearby bowl of them and examining it. “You will not win,” he purrs, before flicking his wrist. The grape hits you square between the eyes.

You stare at him in shock, but then a grin starts to worm it’s way across your lips. “Probably not,” you agree, reaching out and picking up a slice of cake. His eyes widen. “But it’s gonna be fun anyway!” And you throw it. It smears across his chest and a little way up his neck, and you have the urge to lick it off of him.

But maybe later, because all hell breaks loose.

The food flies, and both of your laughter bounces off the walls with it. You’re both quickly filthy, smeared in various sauces and desserts, and though he gets you far more than you get him, he doesn’t come out of the fight undecorated. The sight of a slice of banana stuck onto one of the spikes on his diadem has you laughing so hard you fall over, and he shows no mercy, taking the opportunity to drop half a pie directly down onto your face.

You splutter through the dessert, and he squats down, pushing the pie off your skin, his lips in a wide grin. “Surrender?” he asks, eyes sparkling in amusement as he wipes it from around your eyes.

“Yes! Yes, I surrender,” you giggle, licking at the cherry pie filling on your lips.

He leans down before you can get it all and kisses you deeply, suddenly, and you gasp as his tongue licks away the sweet dessert that you hadn’t gotten to yet. You moan into his mouth, opening for him and licking against his questing muscle. He growls softly, his hands cupping the sides of your head, and even upside down and covered in food his kiss is a thing of beauty.

All too soon he pulls away, his eyes darkened with desire, and he licks his lips. “Dinner is much more delicious when I eat it off of you,” he purrs, and you flush faintly.

But you surprise him, turning and rising up onto your knees to swipe your tongue over the cake and frosting smeared on his massive shoulder. “I could say the same,” you reply, your voice husky with desire.

One massive arm suddenly wraps around your waist, pressing you hard against him. His other hand cups the back of your head, and he kisses you deeply once more, devouring your lips as though he’d never eaten something so decadent in his life.

You groan loudly, kissing back, doing your best to keep up with his passion. Soon enough, he stands, bringing you with him, and begins walking. Your legs wrap around his waist for support, and he growls again, the feeling of such a dangerous sound vibrating into your chest making you whimper.

You expect to be laid down in the bed. Instead, he walks with you through a door, and you’re dropped suddenly…into a hot bath. You surface immediately, spluttering as water pours down your body, the silken nightgown immediately sodden. You hear the rustle of fabric, and when you push the wet hair out of your face, you look up to see Ganondorf standing there…completely naked.

Your jaw goes slack as your eyes drink in his body. Powerful muscle ripples along his limbs. His forearms, legs, chest, and crotch all sport a faint dusting of red hair on his darkly tanned skin. A gnarled scar rips through the center of his chest, looking at the very least rather uncomfortable. Many other scars mar his limbs, making him look, somehow, even more dangerous than he already does.

Then your eyes fix on his groin, and all the moisture in your mouth heads south.

His cock is…proportionate to his size, the head darker than the base, with two pronounced veins that run side by side on the top, along the slight upward curve. Because he’s sporting half an erection after everything that happened earlier.

You swallow thickly. Your apprehension must have shown on your face, because he chuckles softly and wraps a huge hand around himself. “There is no need for fear, my beautiful one,” he all but purrs, golden eyes glinting. “I am well versed in sex with people smaller than me. That is, after all, most of them.”

You want to laugh, but before you could he starts walking down into the tub.

The tub itself is huge, inset into the floor, made out of black marble threaded with gold. If it had been any sort of different situation, you would have taken the time to marvel at its beauty. But all your attention is on the man who walks right up you, smirking deeply.

His presence is overwhelming. You feel tiny, a speck before his mountain, and yet…the way he’s looking at you, desire beginning to burn in those golden depths once more, the appreciation of seeing the silk nightdress cling to your form…you begin to feel a little…beautiful. You’ve never been wanted before.

Not like this.

“Take that off,” he rumbles, almost growls. “I greatly enjoy it on you, but I will rip it off if I must.”

Your heart is hammering with a combination of excitement and nerves, but you quickly pull the sodden, now heavy fabric off and toss it away to land with a wet splat on the floor.

Fully naked before him for the first time, you watch as his eyes roam your form, taking their time, looking at every detail. You flush darkly under the scrutiny, your mind conjuring up all the flaws he could analyze, all the perceived imperfections in your body that you weren’t happy about, and you look away. You don’t want to watch his face fall.

A gentle finger presses to your skin, and though his touch is almost tender, his strength cannot be denied. Your face is turned back to him, and it seems like the passion in his gaze softens a bit. “You are beautiful,” he says simply. But the conviction in his tone, the matter-of-fact way he says it, like saying ‘It’s Tuesday’ or ‘the sky is blue’...he says it as fact. Your beauty was never a question for him.

You couldn’t stop your grateful smile if you tried.

He smirks faintly back, then sits down and makes a motion behind you. You turn to spy soap, shampoo, and some sort of hair oil lined up neatly, along with a washcloth. “You made a mess, my little pet,” he purrs. “It is time you cleaned it.”

Your eyes widen. Oh, to get your hands on him like this…you nod, and you bid him to lean back. He does, his eyes never leaving your face, and an amused light enters his eyes as he watches you frown at his diadem. “How do you…?”

He reaches up, and with a deft flick of his fingers (and gifting you a wonderful play of muscles in his shoulders) the diadem comes free. He sets it carefully down on the side of the tub, then looks to you expectantly.

Your surprised by what sort of difference just removing the diadem makes. He’s always regal looking, but right now, without the gold and large topaz on his brow, he seems a little more…normal. On your level. You can’t help but lean down and brush a kiss to his bare forehead.

He blinks in surprise at the affectionate little touch, but then he smiles softly, gentle creases in the corners of his beautiful eyes. Without a word he gently wraps one arm around your hips, giving you a brief squeeze, before dropping his limb and closing his eyes, clearly expecting you to get to work.

And so you do. You wet down his thick hair, working the shampoo through it, making sure that all the bits of food are gone. His fiery hair darkens to almost burgundy in the water, and your touch turns reverent. “You’re very beautiful too,” you murmur, stroking your fingers through his sudsy hair.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, clearly enjoying the wash and scalp massage you’re giving him. You smile, enjoying the thought of bringing him some form of pleasure. His face is relaxed, any tension gone…it makes you happy.

You rinse his hair clean, then pick up the bottle of oil. You nibble your lip, never having used something like this before, but you figure it can’t be much different from conditioner. “Could you…I mean, I would like a comb to work this through your hair.”

He lifts his hand and a comb appears, sturdy but also golden. “Will this suffice?” he asks, not opening his eyes.

“Yes, that’s perfect,” you reply, gently taking it from him. You spend a good deal of time making sure the oil reaches every strand, and he’s quiet, just enjoying your ministrations. “Does this get left in for a while?” you ask softly, unsure if you’re meant to wash it out immediately.

“Yes. I usually rinse it out once I am done with the rest of my wash,” he murmurs.

“Okay.” You set the comb aside, twisting the mass of his hair up and out of the way. Then you pause. “Um…what about your beard? Does that get the same treatment?”

“Yes. Go ahead.”

You do so, using the shampoo and then the oil on his beard. No one you’ve been with had this kind of facial hair before. You found it quite intimate to take care of him like this, your heart thrumming in your chest.

It doesn’t help that his eyes have opened, watching you work.

Once his beard is taken care of, you grab the bar of soap and the washcloth. There’s a gentle scent to the lather, sandalwood and spices, without being overwhelming. It’s extremely pleasant, and you can’t wait to smell it on his skin. The thought makes you flush faintly, and he chuckles, curving a hand over your hip and making your blush deepen.

“What thoughts run through your mind, my beautiful one?” he rumbles, his thumb stroking over the small of your back.

“I-It’s just…this soap smells very nice,” you explain, dropping your gaze shyly as you start scrubbing the cake from his shoulder. “I-I’m just…expecting it to smell really good on you.”

“Is that so?”

“Y-Yeah.”

He makes an approving noise. “It is adorable how flustered you get over the sensual, my little one. There is no shame in such thinking–in fact, I’m pleased that you enjoy this scent. I shall keep using it, just for you.”

“Oh!” You flush, but you can’t stop the smile from curving your lips. “Thank you.” You swallow hard. “Y-You could…choose one you’d like on me, if you want.”

He smirks. “What makes you think I have not already done so?” He suddenly leans forward, pressing his nose to the hollow of your throat, and inhales deeply. “Mmm…” He lets out a rumbling purr of pleasure.

You gasp, your flesh raising in goosebumps at the touch. He hums at your touch, his other hand joining the first around your hip, gripping your curves and giving a soft squeeze. You groan, the washcloth coming to a stop on his skin, quite thoroughly distracted from your job.

His lips brush over your pulse point, once, twice, the touches leaving you trembling. Then he pulls away, eyes flashing molten in the low candlelight. “Come on now,” he purrs, a dark delight in his voice for getting you so flustered. “You have a job to do.”

Swallowing thickly, most of the moisture in your mouth having moved south, you start scrubbing him once more. The food stains slowly disappear as you cleanse his skin, and you can feel his gaze on you the entire time.

The mess finally clean, he plucks the cloth from you and shifts, sitting up more fully. His arm suddenly swipes around your waist, massive and thick, and you’re pulled onto his lap with a gasp. You feel his breath puff over the side of your neck, you feel his lips brush just under your ear, and you tremble as you sit on his massive thigh. “Your turn,” he rasps, his voice rumbling into your back.

You’re not sure you’re going to survive this.

His huge hand cups the back of your head, and he leans you down, holding you steady as your hair dips below the water. His other hand strokes through the wet strands, getting out as much of the food particles as he can. He’s…actually shockingly gentle with you, making sure he doesn’t pull too much. The feel of your head cradled in his palm…you exhale slowly, and for the first time that wasn’t because you were boneless from an orgasm, you can feel yourself fully relax.

He smiles as he feels the release of your tension. “Good girl,” he purrs softly, and you smile and close your eyes, trusting him to take care of you.

And take care of you he does. He washes your hair and gives it the same oil treatment you did for him. Then he scrubs the food from your skin, rinsing you clean, and all the while you just relax into him.

That is, until he’s finished rinsing you clean.

The oil is washed out, the suds left floating in the water, and he carries you out of the tub. You can feel his cock, fully hard against your ass as he doesn’t even bother with a towel. He just carries you into the bedroom, still dripping, and lays you down on the edge of the bed. “G-Ganondorf, we should–”

“Quiet,” he replies, his voice commanding. You fall silent as he gently pulls your legs apart, his eyes fixed on your pussy. You flush darkly, and he can feel your thigh muscles push against his hands, as if trying to close your legs. He smirks, his gaze piercing yours for a moment. “Do you seek to deny me the sight of your desire, little one?” he asks, almost laughing. “My fingers have already been inside you, have already sent your body soaring. What is left to feel so modest about?”

Your words are locked behind your embarrassment, and so you hide your face behind your hands instead.

He does laugh, now, a full-throated and husky sound that dances wonderfully over your nerves. “Very well. Hide if you wish, but that will not stop me from enjoying the fruits of your body…”

You expect him to dive right in after a statement like that, but you don’t feel anything. He just looks at you for a long moment, and though you’re hiding, you can almost feel his eyes on you.

His thumbs press to your outer lips suddenly, and you inhale sharply at the touch. Slowly, almost tenderly, he rubs them up and down, stroking the outside of your pussy and building the flames of your desire. His skin is calloused, but it feels divine on such a sensitive spot. He rubs all the way up, caressing through the soft curls of hair, then all the way back down, and as he moves up again he gently pulls your lips apart.

“Such sweet petals,” he purrs, now moving his touch to the insides of your outer lips. You gasp his name, and he sees your entrance twitch as you clench around nothing. “Your body wants to be filled with me…do not worry, my little beauty. We will get there.”

He mimics his previous motions, his thumbs rubbing up, and this time the very tips of his thumbs brush ever so gently over each side of your clit. A jolt snaps against your nerves, and you cry out, bucking up against his touch. “Lay still,” he grumbles. You try your best, settle yourself back against the wet silk underneath you as his thumbs trace their way back down.

As he draws them back up, this time you feel his skin is more slick. You’ve started leaking for him, your desire coating his thumbs and aiding in his journey, and this time his touch on your clit is less harsh and more delicious. You whimper in pleasure, your hands curling into the sheets at your side as he groans softly.

“Your nectar smells delicious, little one. Heady, but delicate. Oh, I will enjoy drinking from your spring…”

Your toes curl at his words, desire making your skin flush. He’s being almost poetic, and you wonder at it, wonder if this is how he becomes when he’s enjoying his lover. You definitely don’t mind.

But then he leans forward and flutters his tongue in your folds, and your brain shuts down any thinking at all.

This…him…is the best thing you’ve ever felt in your life. Soft, slick, thorough is his questing tongue as he laps slowly through your folds. He groans, his voice a rumble through your flesh, and your legs turn to water, your bare feet pressing to his shoulder blades. He hums at the feel and continues his slow, exquisite torture, pausing here or there to suckle on your lips, to run his nose through your damp curls. Every nerve on your cunt alights at his touch, arousal threatening to swallow you whole, and you mewl desperately, a soft, broken sound that makes his hands tighten on your thighs. You’re sure that later there will be finger-shaped bruises…but the thought simply makes you shiver.

Your hands leave the sheets, reaching down to curl through his hair, and he groans softly, giving you a sudden soft suckle onto your clit as a reward. You cry out, your hips trying to arch off the bed, but his strength isn’t to be denied, and you stay right there. Right where he wants you.

His clever tongue dips down now, pressing against your weeping entrance, lapping at your slick eagerly, greedily, as though you were the finest wine. He curls it up, firming it, pressing it into you centimeters at a time before pulling out, teasing you with what you could have but never giving you what you want. It swirls and licks and he groans and growls and you are melting.

Your clit aches for him, the pressure enough to nearly reduce you to babbling pleas. Never in your life have you felt this aroused, this desperate for someone else. “Please,” you beg, your eyes hazy with lust as you look down at the god between your legs.

His golden eyes flick to you, meeting your desire-drunk gaze, the corners crinkling in amusement…

…and then he shoves his tongue inside you as far as he can.

You shriek wordlessly, one leg kicking out, the other heel drumming on his back. His lips are firm to your flesh, nose pressing hard to your clit, and that tongue, that tongue, is writhing deep in your channel, stroking along your walls, fucking you as his fingers did earlier. He licks at your insides, drinking down your gushing slick, and all the while his nose rubs on your clit at his motions, grinding and brushing in equal measures. You can feel your orgasm lighting deep in your belly, the swirling pleasure soaring higher and higher, and you think he’ll stop, to draw out the torture but he doesn’t, he keeps going, feeling the sudden fluttering of your walls, growling and redoubling his efforts and his sounds are muffled into your cunt as the pressure begins to crack…

You come, and you come and you come and you come and he bellows into your flesh as he feels your walls squeeze hard around his tongue.

Your body is still twitching in orgasm as he pulls his tongue out of you, and he pulls you up, your legs up around his shoulders as he looms over you. His cock is suddenly nestled between your thighs, pressed tight against your drenched cunt, and his arms wrap around your legs, squeezing them gently together. He groans deeply at your body surrounding everything but his tip, and he begins to move, dragging the underside of his cock through your slick, making the glide easier.

He speeds up, his hips slapping against your ass, and you cry out as there’s a near constant drag on your throbbing clit. “There we go,” he all but growls, pressing his lips to the side of your calf muscle. “Drench me in you, get me nice and ready…” Then he huffs a laugh and snaps his fingers. You feel a bit of coolness at your throat, and he smirks. “Good thing one of us is not lust drunk…”

You flush darkly. “T-Thank you for remembering,” you murmur, curling your hand around the triangle charm that’s quickly warming from your body heat.

For a split second, his expression softens, and he nods in response.

Then he pushes your legs apart and guides his tip to your sopping entrance. The sheer size of him is so intimidating that you feel yourself tense, and he pauses. “Now, this will not do,” he rumbles, and his hands rub gently at your thighs. “You must relax for me, beautiful one. I promise, even someone of my size will not hurt as long as you stay pliable.”

“I-I’m sorry,” you murmur, flushing darkly. “I…I’ve never had anything even half your size.”

He smirks faintly, eyes glinting down at you, spots of gold in his shadowed face. “Do not apologize for what you feel.” He looks thoughtfully down at you, then chuckles and lowers you back down to the bed. “Well, I suppose I will just have to spend more time opening your body for me.”

He shifts, laying down near the head of the huge mattress, and he reaches out, wrapping one hand around your bicep (his fingers meet around your arm, and a thrill runs through you once more at how deliciously small you feel). He pulls you up to him; you let out a slight laugh of exhilaration, and he smirks in amusement. He presses your back to his chest, his arm curled around your waist so he may cup and knead your tits, and his right hand slides down your thigh.

He pulls your leg up and tucks your foot behind his knee. You feel his fingers brush over your curls, then down over your lips, wet with your own dew. You choke on a gasp as one thick finger presses deep into your sopping heat. “Relax, little one,” he all but coos into your ear, his beard scraping wonderfully against your neck. “I have you. Trust me to take care of your body, hm?”

You shiver hard, but you take a deep breath, feeling yourself shift around his finger. You let it out slowly, and with it you work on releasing all the nervous tension in your limbs. He’s patient with you, nibbling and kissing at your ear and neck, letting you work on relaxing yourself. Only once he feels your walls are gently gripping him instead of clenching does he speak. “Good girl,” he purrs, and he makes you whimper. “Stay just like that.”

Slowly, his finger pulls out, then pushes back in. Even just his index finger is a lot, much thicker than your own. But this is quite doable, and after only a few moments he’s moving easily in you. “Here is a second. You have taken two before, little one, you will be fine.”

A second finger pushes in, and you groan deeply at the gentle stretch. He can feel your walls tense for a second, but he’s patient, and before too long you relax once more around him. “There you go…my good girl,” he praises, and you all but melt against him. “How do you feel, my beauty?”

“Really good,” you murmur, and he feels you shivering gently. “I-I feel…full.”

He hums in amusement, and you make a strangled sort of sound in the back of your throat as he suddenly wiggles his fingers in you. “Not nearly full enough…yet…”

He works you open, slowly, playing your body like an instrument he’s familiar with, knowing just how to warm up your strings to make you sing. His fingers are slow, gentle as they rock in you, and after a few minutes of this he begins to make a scissoring motion. You gasp and clutch at him, turning your head to press your face to his chest.

“Shh, I have you,” he soothes, giving your breast a gentle squeeze with his left hand. “You are doing so well for me, little one…”

The praise makes you feel all warm once again. His thumb gently rubs your clit again, making you gasp his name, hips twitching. He chuckles softly, and then, on the next thrust in, he presses his ring finger in with his middle and index.

Your heart about stops. Three of those massive digits is more than you’ve ever taken in your life. Your walls twitch and squeeze hard around his fingers. He growls, nipping down on your shoulder, his hand still for now. “So tight, my beauty…we must get you relaxed.”

All you can feel, all you can focus on, is the feeling between your legs. You’re so full, so achingly full…you pant softly, your eyes hazy as you feel your walls squeezing him, rippling gently around his fingers. He feels you trembling against him; you feel him smile against your shoulder.

Then his thumb starts rubbing over your clit, small, soft circles, and his name gets caught in your throat as you make a strangled cry and come. There was no warning, no build up–you’re so full that the sudden pressure, the sudden hard squeeze around his digits at the touch on your clit, forces you to come. You writhe against him, each squeeze of your walls around his thick fingers prolonging your orgasm, his thumb keeping you high. He’s growling softly, and as you get lost in the haze of pleasure, he pulls his fingers out and presses the tip of his cock in.

He growls something in a language you don’t recognize, but you know a curse when you hear one. And frankly, you agree: the stretch he’s giving you, even after preparing you like this, is incredible.

Slowly, achingly slowly, he pushes into you, inch by inch, until he bottoms out. You’re gasping his name, soft little puffs of breath, and he can feel a small bite of pain where your nails have dug into his thigh. It only makes him growl once more in approval. You feel impaled, you feel so thoroughly full of him that you don’t think you’ll ever be empty again.

“You feel…exquisite,” he rasps, leaning down to brush his lips over the shell of your ear. “You have all of me you can fit, my little beauty…I knew you could do it…”

“G-Ganondorf,” you gasp again. You press one hand above where he’s filling you full, and you can feel him, feel his firmness inside you. You whimper.

“I know…do not worry, we are going to stay just like this for a little while,” he purrs, nipping playfully at your ear, at the side of your neck. “I do not want to hurt you. We must get you used to me, hm?”

You can only nod, quivering against his chest. He makes soothing sounds as you wait, his fingers stroking over your skin, almost delicate touches that serve to make you shiver and twitch around him. But you’re relaxing, melting back into his ministrations, and slowly you feel the death grip your walls have on him easing.

“There…that is much better, my lovely,” he praises. “Now, stay nice and still for me.”

Gently, he rocks his hips forward. It’s less of a thrust and more of a roll, but the drag he gets against your walls, the way you can almost feel those veins, feel the edges of his cock-head pressing and rubbing against you…curses fall from your mouth, and your hand scrabbles at his thigh.

He groans your name, slowly rocking and grinding his hips into yours, until he’s pulling out an inch and pushing back in, another inch, another, and he’s speeding up, unable to resist the pull of your body on his lust. Before too long, he’s pulling out to his tip and thrusting back in, snapping his hips, and you’re crying out, his name a prayer on your lips as the pleasure scours you from the inside out.

“Come with me,” he growls–no, commands into your ear. “You are going to come with me, lovely. Let us peak together…” His fingers find your clit once more, rubbing rapid, tight circles over the oversensitive bud.

You shriek his name, your hips jerking, and you’re not sure if you’re trying to move towards him or away. “C-Can’t, c-can’t, ‘s too much!”

“You can, and you will,” he growls, not letting up. He speeds up, both his fingers and his hips, fucking into you with barely controlled strength. “Come, little one, come with me!”

You’re helpless but to obey.

You shriek his name as you’re flung into an orgasm that once again has your vision whiting out, your hearing cutting off with a sharp whine. You lose control of your limbs, thrashing against him, as he roars at feeling your walls absolutely strangling his cock. His cum pours into you in thick waves, and you can almost feel the pulses against your walls. Your slick and his cum are fucked out of you, all but splashing over you both, and the feeling has you whining as the tail end of your orgasm begins to fade, leaving you absolutely boneless on the bed.

The only sound for long moments is the nearby gentle snapping of the fireplace, and the ragged panting from the both of you. He’s still inside you, his cock slowly softening in your walls, and when he slips out you wine softly. He chuckles, a low sound that’s still fairly breathless. “Are you…able to speak?” he asks, and you feel him shifting on the bed behind you, his massive hand curling gently over your hip.

“Mmph,” you say in response. Your limbs feel heavy, weighed down by the force of so much pleasure in your body at once.

“Are you in pain?” he asks, and you feel him shifting you, checking you over just in case.

“No,” you mumble. “Well…a bit sore…but you’re huge, so…makes sense…”

He chuckles again. “Fair enough. That will fade.” He stands, and when you peel your eyes open you’re a little gratified to see his legs wobble faintly. He notices your grin and huffs faintly. “It has been some time since I had pleasure like that, little one. Do not give me that look.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply, but it’s obvious you’re trying not to laugh.

He tries to look stern, but he can’t help the faint smile that breaks out anyway. “You are lucky I like you,” he replies, and pulls you up and into his arms. He walks into the bathroom, setting you back down into the hot water of his tub, and you flush as, for a moment, the water turns cloudy around you. He smirks, golden eyes glinting in amusement.

He gets you cleaned up, for which you’re grateful because your limbs are still like jelly. Once you’re clean and dry, he snaps his fingers in front of his bed, and the sheets are clean. “Handy,” you murmur, your cheek pressing to his shoulder. “Literally.”

He snorts. “Did you just seriously make a pun?”

You grin against his skin. “Maybe.”

“I am rethinking my fondness for you,” he grumbles, but he’s still gentle as he gets the both of you under the covers.

“Nah, you like me,” you chirp, already feeling sleep tugging at you.

“Hmph. Hush, my beautiful one, you need your rest.” You can hear the promise in his voice as he adds, “I am definitely not done with you…”

Too far into slumber’s pull to answer, the last thought that crosses your mind is: Good…because neither am I.

#ganondorf #ganondorf x reader #the legend of zelda #legend of zelda fanfiction #my writing

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swordcreature · 5 months

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HCs for Rolan/Dammon(/Zevlor) on how Tav would care for Their wounds 🥺🥺 learning a new spell goes wrong, burning himself at the forge, battle training mishap and now Tav has to take care of them even though They are usually the Adventuring Hero who comes home beat up after Going Out and Risking their Life to Save The Day

hi anon i hope you like it!!

thank you for the request!

Dammon, Rolan, & Zevlor - Tending to Their Wounds

no explicit content, just some minor descriptions of injuries

How the tiefling boys are tended to

Dammon:

Dammon, although brilliant with his hands, is accident prone. He’ll burn his tail when it accidentally whips into the embers of the forge, or he’ll touch a piece of metal that’s still too hot, having thought it cooled down.

Funny enough, Dammon swears he didn’t use to be so clumsy. Maybe he’s just been distracted lately by something. Or someone.

Either way, he needs help when he absentmindedly backs into his anvil as a molten hot metal ingot sits atop of it, singing the skin of his tail.

The sound Dammon makes when he gets hurt is strangely high pitched for how low and smooth his voice is, and he’ll totally blush if called on it (because he totally doesn’t make the same sound in bed ever, no not him)

He’s really quick to ask Tav for help. He’s not ashamed of needing it, though he does feel somewhat guilty for bothering them with his “little wound” – it’s definitely a second-degree burn though.

Tav will make him lay on the bed, to get a better look they swear! And they’re very tender with his sensitive tail, covering it in a medicinal salve and wrapping it in gauze. They’re not a healer, but they’ve learned enough on the road to help with smaller burns and cuts.

They’ll give his tail some tentative strokes, or, if feeling cheeky, they’ll give it a firm squeeze around the base.

Dammon normally likes to be the caretaker in the relationship. Not only is he old fashioned – he wants to make Tav feel safe, provide for them, meet all their needs – but he also recognizes how much Tav has done for him, for all the refugees, really.

But he’ll still look at them while they tend to his burn, love struck and just so very happy. Like they’re giving him a massage instead of dressing a wound. He knows how lucky he is to have someone like Tav to help him when he needs it.

Rolan:

Is anyone really surprised to hear that I think Rolan is a bit of a crybaby when he gets a minor injury? He would probably complain less if he got stabbed in the chest.

So, when he’s toying around with a new form of thunderwave that goes awry, slamming himself into a bookshelf a couple feet back, tomes falling out and onto his head, he dramatically announces to his family that he most certainly has a concussion or a broken wrist.

Maybe both!

But he doesn’t want Tav to take a look, oh no. They’re not allowed to touch him at all, lest they hurt him more. Even though Tav has seen more than their fair share of broken bones and head trauma.

Rolan’s ego is wounded more than anything, so it’s hard to convince him that if he is indeed hurt, that Tav should at least double check.

He’ll agree when he realizes that Tav is actually worried about him, but he makes them promise to be gentle.

Tav’s touch is feather light on Rolan’s head, brushing over the bump that’s forming between his horns. He’s definitely got an egg there, but it’s no concussion.

They’ll hold his wrist with the same tenderness they would a baby bird, turning it over in their hand, moving it ever so slightly.

If you think Rolan wouldn’t yelp like a kicked puppy at the littlest bit of pain, you’re wrong!

But Tav quickly assesses that his wrist is, in fact, fine. Just a little bruised.

Rolan blushes because of course he would make a big deal over a non-injury. He doesn’t love the idea of pulling Tav from their normal activities, his adventurer who faced the godsdamned Elder Brain, just to deal with his dramatics.

That doesn’t stop him from repeating the process once more when another spell backfires.

Zevlor:

Zevlor would rather die than admit when he’s in pain or hurt. He hates the idea of anyone worrying about him, especially Tav. There are greater things to care about than him, in his opinion.

One day, when he is working with the Flaming Fist to train the city’s children in proper weapon safety, he catches a stray short sword to the leg, slicing his thigh from knee to mid-thigh.

It’s not a particularly deep wound, but it’s enough to make him favor that side.

Zevlor has enough combat training to know how to dress a wound himself, so he’s able to stop the bleeding enough to not draw attention.

But Tav still notices, as the slight limp in his step gives him away. They’re immediately worried, demanding to see his leg, asking what happened, pulling him to sit down.

Zevlor tries to hush them, to let them know he’s okay and that it’s just a scratch – nothing for them to worry about. But Tav is relentless until he finally agrees to roll up his pant leg.

It’s not as bad as Tav initially imagined, but it will need stitches. They grab the kit Zevlor keeps for emergencies and attempts to lay Zevlor on the bed.

They’re a little shaky as they try and close his gash. They’ve done this a million times before, but this is the first time they’ve seen Zevlor wounded, no matter how small the wound may be. It’s a dark reminder that he isn’t the invulnerable Hellrider that Tav sees him as.

They’re reminded of all the times they’ve come home injured from whatever adventure they were on and the look on Zevlor’s face as he tried to help them in whatever way he could. Suddenly, they feel guilty. If this is how he’s felt all those times, they certainly owe him an apology.

The next time they go off on a mission, they're more careful – more cautious – thinking back to the way they felt seeing Zevlor hurt that day.

#bg3 #bg3 dammon #bg3 rolan #bg3 zevlor #dammon #rolan #zevlor #my writing #anon #zevlor x tav #dammon x tav #rolan x tav #requests/suggestions

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heich0e · 8 months

Text

THE WITCH'S SONG - part two knight!osamu/witch!reader tags: fem!reader, royalty!au, supernatural!au, witchcraft, enemies to lovers, mentions of violence/illness/death, persecution and oppression, tw blood/gore, please read the tags on each chapter as updated and minors do not interact. crossposted to ao3 MASTERLIST

For as long as you can remember, you have always risen with the sun.

It’s a habit so deeply constitutional that you've never bothered to question that part of your own nature—the breaking light cresting over the horizon each day, perfectly in time with the first flutter of your eyelids.

Your bedsheets are gentle against your skin as you rouse from your slumber. They're buttery soft, perfectly worn-in from the many nights of rest you’ve found under their cover, and the scent of fresh air still clings to them from an afternoon spent hanging on your clothesline a few days prior. You nestle your cheek into the downy embrace of your pillow, breathing in deeply to savour those lingering notes of summer breeze. You let the breath fill every corner of your chest as you inhale, feeling the way your ribs rise to make room for it, and then you let it out again in a warm rush. You repeat the cycle a few times more, and slowly take in the first moments of your day as your eyes adjust to the early morning light.

With your your arm crooked at your elbow, your hand sweeps lazily around beneath your pillow. You search blindly for a moment, unhurried but sure, and then your fingers brush against something solid and cool hidden away under the feathery mass. You wrap your fingers around the object and draw it out, holding it up above your face to appraise it.

It’s a pair of silver scissors, with a sprig of dried lavender fastened to them beneath a thrice-knotted length of thin white twine.

Outside your window, the milky indigo sky provides very little light. The distant sun is still only a sliver of light peeking out over the eastward sea, but what little glow the new dawn provides catches in the scissors's polished silver surface. You see the distorted image of your own eye, just a glimpse reflected along the narrow blade, staring back.

Sleep does not come to you peacefully, and it hasn’t for a long time. It seems to fight you, tooth and nail, each night, but the battle is ever-changing. Sometimes sleep evades you completely, leaving you to toss and turn restlessly until the moon disappears and the day starts anew. Other nights, slumber overtakes you quickly, but its true violence strikes when you’re left at your most vulnerable—nightmares whose claws sink themselves so deep into you, you can still feel their phantom pain long after you tear yourself awake in a cold, trembling sweat.

Your fingers tighten around the scissors in your grip—still cool to the touch, as though your body heat cannot warm them.

The scissors are a simple charm to keep away terrors that might creep in while you sleep. Just like them, the collection of carefully crafted and curated trinkets that surround your room—dried flowers, jagged crystals, hand drawn sigils inked upon slips of silk and parchment—are all kept in an effort to rest peacefully. To ward away anything that may prevent it.

You didn’t always have so many.

You didn’t always need them.

These items are tacked to your walls, line your windowsills, and hang from the tall posters of your bed—each and every one a remedy originating from a carefully documented entry in your mother’s grimoire. The massive tome rests presently at the foot of your bed, tangled in your quilt. You often fall asleep—as you had the night prior—poring over the parchment pages, bound in strong leather tanned a deep midnight blue, filled with a familiar sloping script that makes your heart ache. Her life’s work and story, her own magic and every piece of knowledge ever shared with her, is contained within those precious pages.

It’s one of the last parts of her that remains.

Thankfully your mother's charms served you well throughout the night, as you feel relatively well rested as you rise from your bed—pulling a housecoat on atop your poplin nightdress and stretching your arms up over your head to welcome the day. You tug your quilt up to meet your pillows, tucking it in neatly at the corners, and then you close the heavy cover of the grimoire that rests at the mattress’s edge. You let your fingers trace lightly over the embossing on the cover as you appreciate it, and then you slip it safely into the trunk at the end of your bed where it belongs.

You’re a little surprised that your visitor from the night before hadn’t caused more of a disturbance to your sleep, already so capricious, particularly given the terrible sense of foreboding that had been hanging over your cottage in the days leading up to his arrival—like a heavy, briny fog rolls in from the sea. You choose not to question good fortune, at least not so early in the day—shaking your head as if willing the unwelcome thought away—and you set about your usual morning routine as though nothing in the width of the world is different than it has been any day prior.

You wash, prepare a light meal, and dress yourself in simple attire suitable for a day’s labour, all before the sun has fully risen from the cradle of the horizon. You plan to work in the garden again today, tending to your plants with the meticulous care they require. You aim to start early in hopes of completing the task before the hottest part of the day makes the work less pleasant—the air at dusk the night before had smelled so sweet, a faithful harbinger of a sunny day ahead.

The grass still glimmers with dew as you step outside your cottage, breathing in the clean, crisp air. Across your property, the sun is just about to creep up over the sea, though there’s a lilac brume that cloaks it—a gentle shroud that lets you see her shape without straining your eyes. You keep your feet bare as you tread towards the garden, listening to distant birdsong, and the blades of dew-damp grass kiss against your soles with every step.

You pause at the break in the wall that surrounds your cottage, the threshold between your garden and your home, and take a deep breath in. The wind kisses your cheek as a breeze rushes past, and the plants rustle around you as if bidding you good morning. On your exhale, you breathe the greeting back.

The light continues to rise in the sky as you labour, soon burning off the gossamer mist that tends to linger early in the morning until the day is bright and warm and fully underway. You shuck the knitted sweater you’d worn out at dawn as the temperature climbs with the sun, and eventually cuff your trousers at the ankles too, but you pay little attention to the heat of the day as you go about making sure your plants are watered, pruned, and any that require special attention are given what they need.

You sing softly while you work.

Witches have long sung songs while they toiled, or gathered together, or just as a means to pass the time. It's a cherished tradition among your kind, and you were taught when you were very young that a witch’s song is a sacred, honoured thing—her voice a gift and a powerful tool.

You don’t sing as much as you ought to, nor as loudly. Perhaps, not least of all, because there’s no one there for you to sing to save for your budding rows of plants. Some of y our earliest memories, the ones hazy at the edges as they’ve been eaten away by time, are of your mother singing in her own garden at the house that you were born in.

Why do you sing to them, mother?

On the edge of a northern breeze, you can hear your own voice—higher, lighter, happier than what it grew to be. You squint up into the midday sun as you reflect.

So they can remember us, Button.

Button.

She called you that because you were always losing yours when you were young; returning to the little cabin you called home at the end of the day with dirty knees, pockets full of shiny rocks, a handful of berries to share with her before dinner, and with one less button on your dress than you’d set off into the woods with that morning.

You remember her impossibly soft hands patting over your head, your arms, your legs, as she appraised you for any bumps or bruises. You remember her breathy laugh as you told her your scrapes and nettle stings didn’t even hurt. You remember her gentle eyes, always sparkling like she was telling you a secret.

Don’t you like when I sing to you? Doesn’t it make you happy?

Your little ribbon-haired head couldn’t have been quicker to nod if you’d tried—your answer to her question came immediate and fervent. Your mother's voice was your most favourite thing.

Well, it makes the plants happy, too—and that happiness will help them grow. Their roots will dig down deep into the earth, and they’ll take all our stories that I sing to them there, too.

You recall the childhood fantasy of each word of your mother’s song spelled out in sprawling, knobbly roots, hidden underground, being kept safe by the earth.

Your eyes flutter shut, blocking out the sun and trapping in the fleeting memory.

The songs she sang to you, the stories that she told, the grimoire in the truck at the end of your bed. Those are all that you have left of her now. You keep them safe just like the soil covered up the roots.

Since time immemorial, song has been used to pass tradition from one generation of witches to the next—the legends of your people, the same ones you recite now as you snip the reedy leaves away from your precious plants, were all taught to you in verse and chorus.

Men flock to the melody of the witch’s song like moth to flame. To hear it is to be bewitched by it. Your mother warned you of such a thing, in the same way all young witches are, and of what might happen should your song be overheard.

The history of man calls the witches temptresses, because of their own weakness to their song. Sirens. Man-eaters. That’s how they choose to remember it in their own egocentric folklore; the witch's song is a weapon used to ensnare them, and nothing more. They hide their own antecedent failings by laying blame, and burning any testament that remembers it otherwise.

You've known one truth as long as you've known anything: men are gluttonous, self-serving beasts. They see the world solely as it relates to themselves. They'll take anything in which they see beauty. And they'll immortalize their story, inked in your kind's blood, only as seen through their own eyes.

But the witch’s song was never meant for man.

You pause, your eyes still tightly closed, with your face turned up towards the sun.

Miya Osamu is standing at the forest’s edge.

You know he’s there even without opening your eyes, but when you eventually do, your sight immediately catches on the glint of the polished sword hilt at his waist.

He’s come armed today.

It’s noon on the day following his unceremonious arrival—the one where you had warned him, at risk of his own life, not ever to return. You know it’s noon, or very near to it, because the sun sits at its highest point in the clear midday sky as he emerges from the thicket of the wild, towering woods at the edge of your property.

For a moment upon seeing him, you wonder if you ought to flee—if you should seek shelter on the other side of the little rock wall you know he cannot cross. Instead, you hold your ground, still resting in the dirt of your garden—the knees of your twill pants stained with grass and soil, with grime caked beneath your fingernails.

You will not run from him.

He approaches you slowly, with careful steps as not to tread upon any one of your still-budding plants. You don’t bother watching him draw nearer.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve to come back.” You sink your spade into the earth at the base of a plant that’s showing signs of rot. Its your final task in the garden for the day: you plan to cut it out at the root, take it back into the greenhouse, and try and salvage at least a few slips for propagation.

Your only hope now is that any affliction hasn’t spread beneath the soil.

“I’m not here to prove my nerve,” he says to you, pausing a few paces away between a patch of rosemary and another of oregano. His voice is clear and sure like the blue sky overhead. “I’m here to help Atsumu.”

You place the uprooted plant into a small tin pail beside you, prodding into the soft edges of the hole you’ve dug to excavate it for any signs of further blight. You see none, thankfully.

But rot’s a tricky thing. Sometimes it's in plain sight, and others it hides where the light can't reach it.

“I don’t care why you’re here,” you tell him, setting aside your spade and meeting his eyes as you drag the back of your wrist against your perspiring brow. “And I don’t care about your brother.”

The knight looks worse than he had the day before when he showed up in your workshed, but you’re not surprised by that fact. He spent the night in the woods, that much you’re certain of—not least of all because the nearest village is too far for him to have travelled their and back by midday. His hair is unkempt, his clothing rumpled like it’s been slept in, and the shadows under his eyes are darker, more severe than they had been the night prior—though perhaps their stark contrast is just more evident in the light of day.

At his waist, Osamu’s hand rests lightly upon on the hilt of his sword, but it seems more instinctive than threatening given the way his fingers are slack. There’s a frustrated furrow in his brow that deepens in the wake of your words, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

“Yer the only one who can help him.”

“No, I’m the only witch your king hasn’t culled,” you parry. “There’s a difference.”

Osamu’s lips pull into a thin line. “So you admit it.”

You blink.

You suppose this is the first time you’ve confirmed his accusation. The first time you’ve admitted to your truth. It wasn't so much a slip of the tongue as it was an inevitability.

“It does me little good to say anything otherwise,” you respond, unshaken by his observation. “You need me to be a witch. As you’ve made clear: your brother’s fate relies on it. The help you hope for me to provide to you is all that’s keeping that sword in its sheath.”

The knight’s fingers curl loosely around the hilt of his weapon at your mention of it, as though becoming conscious for the first time of its weight against his hip.

But it’s not strictly true, what you’ve said, and you both know it.

There’s one other option Osamu has available to him—one other cure to heal what ails his beloved brother—and it very much requires the use of his sword.

Witches have been driven to near extinction now—every coven you’ve ever known to inhabit this kingdom wiped out in their entirety—with little more to prove they ever existed but your own fleeting memory of them.

The only pieces of them worth saving were their hearts.

There’s a reason why witches have forever been hunted for them—a reason why the king’s knights would cleave them out before their bodies were burned. The hearts of your kind have long been coveted by men for the residual magic that they hold. Even when a witch dies, her heart will keep beating, though only for a short while, and to possess a witch’s heart while it still beats—however faintly—will bring luck to the one who possesses it. It can cure any ailment, or end any drought, or even turn the tides of a battle.

Those hearts and the promises that they assured were worth more to glory hungry men than the lives of the witches they rightfully belonged to.

You feel a white hot flash of anger roll through the pit of your stomach like a violent tide at the thought of it, digging your fingers deep into the soil below you to find comfort. You stare up at the man above you, no different from any of the rest of them, and your eyes narrow resentfully. You clutch dirt by the fistful.

“All the hearts the crown has ripped from witches over the past two hundred odd years, and to what end?” you ask him, disdain dripping thick and venomous from every word. “The fortune of a trophied heart is fleeting, their power fades with every passing beat until eventually the pulse stops altogether. Your king knew that, and he chose to pillage them regardless. That old bastard was born with the world in his hand, yet he hoarded those spoils for himself—wasted them—only to die, like all mortal men do, and leave the rest of you behind to suffer for it.”

“Hold yer tongue,” Osamu warns you sharply, his lip curling in time with his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword in a white-knuckled grip. “How dare ya speak ill of the late king.”

“Why defend a man who left his country in ruins?” you goad him further, twisting the knife you’ve managed to wedge between the plates of his composure’s already straining armour. “A man who stripped his kingdom of its greatest resource—of the lives dedicated to the keeping of this land—and left his infant son to take a throne he drove into the ground with his greed. A son I’m sure has grown into just as pitiful a ruler as his father.”

The knight’s sword glints in the sunlight as it’s quickly drawn. The sound of the finely honed blade scraping against the sheath is almost pleasant; surprisingly delicate in its own way, even in its violence.

You kneel beneath Osamu in the glare of the all-seeing sun, the point of his blade held level at your throat.

“Don’t say another word against King Shinsuke,” the man hisses, and much like the first time you mentioned his brother by name, it seems you’ve struck a tender nerve.

You don’t flinch, but your eyes do flicker down towards the garden beds.

A tense moment passes with his steady sword resting just beneath your chin.

“You’re stepping on my spearmint.”

Osamu’s gaze follows yours down to his feet in surprise, to where his left boot treads upon a small mint plant. He inches his foot back slightly, almost without thinking, after you point it out. Some of the outer leaves are bruised, but you’re fairly certain the plant will still survive.

A breeze rolls in from the east, rushing through the blades of grass and rows of plants until it lifts the sleeve of your shirt as it passes like a kiss from the sea. You find it comforting. Reassuring.

Osamu speaks again.

“I could just take it, y’know.”

You don’t need him to clarify what it he speaks of.

What’s strange to you isn't the threat he utters, but rather that the words were spoken so quietly they were very nearly lost in the passing breeze. Part of you can’t help but wonder if he knows he uttered them aloud at all, or if they were merely one final fervent encouragement to steel his own resolve. You look up at him, and see his eyes are burning with insistence—wild in their hopelessness.

His expression is grave, remorseful almost. “I’ve got no other choice.”

Ah.

The final fraying morality of a desperate man.

“Good luck,” you say to him. You still meet his gaze without flinching. His sword is still pointed at your throat. “You’ll have to find it first.”

Confusion flashes behind those frantic grey eyes, and then creeps in the horrified realization.

At the tree line in the distance, a raven takes off from the highest bough of an old oak tree with a piercing caw.

“I don’t believe you,” he says, but his voice is tight and unconvincing—almost like you can hear the bile creeping up his throat. You wonder if he’s saying it in hopes of persuading you or himself.

You lift your shoulders in a dispassionate shrug, reaching up towards the neckline of your blouse. “Would you like to check?”

It’s quiet for a moment as you wait for a reply you know will never come.

Behind the knight’s own rigid shoulders, the soaring raven swoops down into the treetops out of sight.

“You cut it out yourself,” he finally breathes, your finger pausing where it’s looped underneath your collar. His expression clearly conveys the disgust he feels at the very premise.

You drop your hand, swiping your dirty fingers on the thighs of your trousers in a lazy attempt to clean them.

“I thought I ought to beat a man like you to it.”

The knight before you looks like he might be physically ill, a sallow hue overtaking his skin that wasn’t there a moment prior. You’re not sure you entirely blame him for the revulsion, considering what he must be thinking—considering the vile things he must be picturing in his mind. The image of you harvesting your heart from the cavern of your chest; the idea of you holding it—beating and bloody and hot to the touch—in your own hand.

Your gaze hardens with renewed contempt.

“I watched my people be massacred for their hearts," you tell him. "I watched knights just like you drag them in front of crowds, tie them onto stakes, and burn them for a spectacle. An immolation that the king—the one whose precious memory you stand here and defend with that sword—presided over like a jubilee,” your voice threatens to waver, but you keep it even as you stand. Osamu’s blade follows you as you lift yourself up to your feet—but his wrist is limper now than it was when he first drew it. Weakened. You swallow back the bitter taste creeping up your throat. “If not for my mother, I would undoubtedly have been among those lost, and I swore to myself that if it was the last thing I did—the only thing I ever did—I would never let my own heart suffer the same fate.”

Osamu lowers his arm to his side, his blade withdrawn.

You meet each other, eye to eye, but there’s no doubt now who stands as victor.

“Kill me if you want to,—” you tell him, your tone indifferent to the very challenge you make on your own life.

From deep in the forest, you hear the raven’s caw once more—the shrill cry of a predator catching its prey. The knight’s head turns slightly towards the sound, just the subtlest tilt of his face in the direction, but yours doesn't.

Your eyes don’t leave his.

“—What’s one more dead witch atop the grave of hundreds?”

He considers you for a moment in silence, and then slowly he sheaths his lowered weapon.

He turns his back to you, and your eyes trace the broad lines of his shoulders as he retreats in the direction of the forest from whence he’d appeared.

“I will not help you, no matter how many times you seek me here. If your brother's days are numbered as you say, save your efforts and return to him.”

Osamu pauses, a few furrows away from you in the lush green of your garden.

He's unnervingly still for a moment, still facing towards the forest, but then he turns to you once more.

His eyes are supplicating—no trace of the anger or the malice they’d held moments before. His voice is soft when he speaks again.

“I’ll give ya anythin’ you ask in exchange for yer help. Anythin’.”

You laugh, but the sound is acerbic like the taste clinging to your tongue. The chill in your voice stands in stark juxtaposition to the gentle warmth of the early summer day surrounding you.

“There’s nothing on earth that you could give me that could ever make up for the things your kingdom took away.”

Osamu’s face falls, but he nods almost imperceptibly. It catches you by surprise, that seeming resignation—acceptance—to the only answer you offer him.

Wordlessly, the knight turns and continues towards the trees.

He doesn’t tread on any of your sprouting crops as he departs.

#osamu x reader #miya osamu x reader #osamu miya x reader #hq fic #hq writing #writing #tws

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khaosrealms · 7 months

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oh, EXCUSE me? your writing is spectacular and i'm not exaggerating!! - the way you wrote and described the first meeting between syzoth and the princess was so good that it left me wanting more!

i beg and still on my knees for more!! 🥺

LACERTA’S GEM. (PART THREE!) / SYZOTH X PRINCESS! READER.

a/n: thank you so much for the receptive response! you beg and what am i to do but give to you more content? your wish is my command! also, for any of those who see this without reading the previous parts, here you go! the first two parts + the intermission and the conversation with the princesses !

- It's been a whirlwind, the ascension from jailer to free man-- but every step of that way for Syzoth, you are there. His closest ally, his first friend, his princess. Of course the gossip is plenty even before his induction as emissary. Whispers aplenty of the moment you two had shared at the end of the battle for Outworld and the Empress' acceptance to allow a Zaterran to hold a court position. Insistent on screeching and yelping about matters that held no importance to them. Of your relationship with Syzoth and the matter of the green shifting fabric wrapped around your right arm. But you don't allow their words to poison you. You have two wonderful sisters-- and they are there for you as Syzoth is given the honor of emissary for Mileena's court. There to look amongst the court and speak of his achievements; and to challenge anyone who might speak ill of someone revered by the Empress herself.

- Pulling Syzoth and yourself away from one another becomes an impossibility from that point onwards-- in equal measure intentional as it is unintentional. Drawn to one another like song birds. Sharing your walks in one another's company, spending his nights at the door of your chamber, never entering, but leaned against the door frame. Minutes turning to hours as the two of you conversed. Wasting the time you could spend sleeping instead talking with the Zaterran whom you'd never would have met had you not parted into that alley that night of the festival. Not wasting, no, reveling; the both of you.

"It's getting late, Princess." As if either of you care. He's smiling as he speaks it; arms folded over his chest where he stands. He knows it distracts you. Brushing past him to grab your tomes for the small touches it gifts you of his biceps, gently slapping his forearm when you laugh; innocent gestures of hidden desire. Syzoth indulges it. He indulges it knowing it brings your touch, your warmth. Even now, as you gently shove his shoulder at his words, rolling your eyes, he doesn't move away. He anticipates it. You'd be blind not to notice. You've never been more thankful for the privacy your Umgadi guard has gifted you both-- or, well, was rather ordered to.

"Late? I see no sun on the horizon, Syzoth." To a nearby window, you gesture and his eyes remain on your own despite it. Not allowing himself to rid himself the sight of you for even a second to look away. It makes something hitch in your throat; and even as you laugh to cover your pause, it does nothing to hide it. Warmth swimming itself up to your cheeks as he stays there in the silence between you two. His verdant gaze briefly flitting to your lips and back up to your eyes. "Is that so?" Even when he whispers, Syzoth's voice rumbles. Resonating off his chest and into your ears; and straight down to the bottom of your stomach. "I hadn't noticed, Princess."

- Syzoth can't take his hands off of you when you finally take the leap and pull him into your chambers, shutting the door behind you both with his tail. Tossing every bit of formality and restraint in his body out to meet your hungry lips. Desperate for his touch, his taste, his cold skin, his everything. Even as his hands slip as they clutch onto the fine fabric of your bed, your body laid across, he catches himself. Standing over your willing body, gaining his breath back.

"You're beautiful, Syzoth." Shifting between his Outworlder and true form above you, his tail wrapped around your thigh, his sharpened teeth and tongue. All stained in the dark green hue of his beating lifeforce. You might just be the first person in all the realms, so full with so many lives, who has ever called him beautiful. And you might be the first person, in this cruel terrible world, he'd ever believe was telling the truth with such honeyed words. "Be true for me." "Are you sure, Princess?" He could hurt you, Syzoth thinks. His acid, his size; but all you do as he despairs is capture him into another kiss. Melting his worries, dissolving away his shifted form-- and parting to meet his crimson eyes. His scaled chest rumbling with a hissed, deep groan. "Certain."

#mortal kombat x reader #syzoth x reader #syzoth x princess! reader #mk1 imagines #mk1 #syzoth #khaosrealms #HIIII #it's 6 am and i'm taking my ass to BED #i'm so excited 2 drop this on y'all #you all deserve it :heart:

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mattapparentlystumbltourneys · 9 months

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Welcome to the Virtual Character Tournament!

Wanna find out who the #1 character of 1's and 0's is? That's what we're gonna find out. Welcome to the Virtual Character Tournament!

The classification can be a bit vague, so let's get into the rules and definitions.

A virtual character is described as a character existing in a digital space (classified by the narrative as such) who primarily operates within said space.

They can have a physical form in some capacity, but it cannot take precedence over their virtual form. (If they do not have a singular physical form and are known to body-hop, that's fine.)

A franchise can have up to 3 representatives.

No OCs. Sorry.

Be respectful of other people. The characters are fictional, but the people rooting for them are not.

No n*zis, t*rfs, tr*nsphobes, or any other related bigots. Not even as an easy springboard for another character to win.

I say virtual characters due to stipulation against AI. AI could work, but in this case, I mean fictional AIs that exist for all kinds of narrative purposes, and not current modern AIs, which exist to let techbros steal from people and cross moral boundaries.

I guess while I'm on that, let's talk about franchises or properties that are excluded from the running.

Real life AIs (ChatGBT, etc.)

South Park

Minecraft SMP

Ender's Game

TOME: Terrain of Magical Expertise

Harry Potter (Unlikely to appear. I'm just covering my bases)

Also, while these characters can still be submitted, do so primarily for propaganda, as they will already be included.

Megaman.EXE (Mega Man Battle Network)

Ai (Yu-Gi-Oh! Vrains)

Cortana (Halo)

Other than that, if you have any further questions, submit them to my ask box, and then I'll answer them there and the form accordingly.

DEADLINE TO GET YOUR CHARACTERS IN IS AUGUST 20TH! SO LET'S GO!

Lastly, tagging other great tournaments, like @fandomanimatic-tournament, @mattbracket, @elementspecificcharatourney, @retirement-home-rumble, @sharp-teeth-swag, @enemies-to-allies-tournament...and my past tournament, @elderlytourney!

#virtual character tourney #nominations #character tournament #character polls

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annadoingshitpoorly · 1 year

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Towers Built, and Towers Falling Down

Medieval AU! Knight Abby x Chubby Princess Reader (Part One)

Minors, Men and general fuckheads DNI please 💚

Content Warnings: It’s pretty much just fluff… reader is thirsty for Abby’s muscles, damsel in distress type shit. No use of Y/N and lots of cutesy nicknames.

{Yes. This is for me entirely. My chubby gay ass needs love and attention.}

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Stepping out from the door leading into your bed chambers the dim lighting of the corridor makes you blink rapidly as your eyes adjust to the darkness, the large windows on the southward facing wall of your room always let in so much natural light that the contrast between the large openness of the spaces designed for you and your ilk and those of the common folk, the staff and your lover.

The soft footfall of leather and cloth covered feet followed by the easy swishing of smooth pink and green linens are the only sounds left to fill the winding corridors and stairwells that make up the tight and narrow servant’s passageways of the stone fortress and castle you call home. Ducking around dark corners, with only the light from the slight, almost slit, like windows in the wall at the end of each corridor, you rush as much as your slipper-clad feet will allow without tripping against the long trains and skirts of the gown that fall down from your hips. Coming around the bend, the thin wooden door that leads into the library lies shut.

She should be here. But she’s not.

The minutes you wait grow longer and longer, and an anxious pit begins to form in the depths of your stomach. The black snake of nervousness twists and turns tumultuously with no rest or break to its movements in sight. That is until the door you are leaning on is pulled backwards causing you to fall back with it and into the strong chest of the blonde woman you have been waiting restlessly for.

“Abby!”

Her large hand instantly clasps over your mouth as she brings her lips next to your ear.

“Shush, easy princess.”

Her hand lowers to wrap around your waist as you turn around to look up at her, eyes wide as you take her in. You always forget how little of her massive size is armour when on the field or patrolling, wide shoulders carry large muscled arms and frame a firm hardened torso. She’s the perfect parallel to the soft curves and rolls that royal life has thus far afforded you. And Abby loves it.

“I thought you weren’t coming, that perhaps you had forgotten?”

“When you’re involved and our time together is at stake, your highness, I’d sooner be dead than forget.” Her voice exudes sarcasm, and the title sends a smile across your face knowing the nature of her and her often relentless teasing.

“Oh, hush.” The hand you hold against her chest shoves into her, but it makes no difference to her stance.

She pulls your chin up so that her lips can easily collide with yours, as you kiss she takes a tentative step backwards and into the library pulling you with her. An intricately woven tapestry depicting an ancient battle from aeons past with soldiers wielding spears and bows carrying out their assault on a large grotesque creature with many limbs is all that hangs in front of the servant’s entrance. The tapestry acts as the only thing shielding you from anyone or thing in the large tome filled room.

Large windows allow for light to flood into the room, and with the bright mornings that come as standard for the early summer, slivers of sunbeams cut through the gaps and holes that time had left in the cloth of the tapestry. Breaking away from her lips, almost immediately you miss her chapped lips and their heat against yours, but the new angle allows you to admire your love and admire what you do. The sneaking golden light of the late afternoon that pokes through those holes adds an almost ethereal glow to Abby’s sun kissed skin and freckled cheeks, the loose dirty blonde strands of her hair that have fallen out of her braid turn into a crown around her face as the sun hits it at the perfect angle. Oh how much easier this all would be if that were an actual crown adorning her head, but alas…

A smirk befalls her lips as she removes her hands from your side, and bends to fall into a deep bow

“Well, your highness, if you would be so kind as to join me by the fireplace?” Abby’s forearm is offered to you as you’re left giggling at her antics.

“Why, kind knight! I’d be honoured.”

Allowing her to lead you over the fur rug that lies on the oak wood floor in front of the seemingly ever-roaring fire, as she moves to get comfortable on the furry mat the position she ends up in can only be described as completely lounging. With her back pressed against the birch chest used to store firewood, her legs spread as she looks up at you from her seated position. “Are you planning on standing there watching me,” A hand pats the space on the rug between her thighs, “or would you rather join me?”

Instead of answering, you drop to your knees and crawl up into the gap she’d left for you. “Good choice, princess.” Your hands are captured in one of hers, large calloused fingers wrap around the little chubby knuckles and lily-soft fingers all the while her other hand moves to its favourite position on your lower stomach, rubbing against the soft flesh under the layers of rosy linen.

“I do wish that you’d call me something other than ‘princess’, you know?” you mumble into her neck.

She laughs, the chuckles causing you to jostle lightly as you lean against her chest, “I know, but even you can’t deny it’s perfectly fitting.”

Pulling away from her warmth, icy eyes meet with yours and you frown. “True that may be, but it doesn’t pardon or excuse the teasing that comes along with it, Abigail.”

As her name leaves your mouth a pout subconsciously dons your lips, her gaze flickers downwards at your lips before she pulls you back towards her giving her the opportunity to pepper kisses across your face.

“Pretty girl, you expect me to not tease you? Even when we both know all too well how preciously adorable you become after such jabs.”

“Let’s just count ourselves lucky that I haven’t fainted from your jabs, and we haven’t yet had to call upon your father and his expertise.” Your response sends her into a fit of laughter, a heavy heat comes over her cheeks and her already warmth reddened face grows even deeper with colour as she attempts to catch her breath again.

“Okay, okay, I’ll hold back on my torture, to an extent... That is, I’ll hold back if you’ll give me a kiss.”

Rolling your eyes you place a singular chaste kiss on her lips before getting up from her lap and stretching, your face scrunching up as you do so and allowing Abby to admire how cute you are, eyes closed and little creases appearing as lines across your skin. She watches contently as you wander away and into the rows of shelves lined with various books.

“Princess, where are you headed off to?” Asking even though she could hear you clearly, moving various books.

“Somewhere…”

“Do you need any help?” She could hear the confusion in your voice.

“Nope, I’ll manage.”

The crackle of the wood in the fireplace and your footsteps soon were the only sounds to fill the library and Abby sighs, you’re being a lot more self-sufficient than norm-

“Abbyyyy! Help please?”

Your whines come just as she’d anticipated.

“I’m coming, don’t worry.” As she rounds the corner she sees the cause of whining. There you are halfway up the bookcase with your arm outstretched and one leg hiked much higher than the other a couple of shelves difference between them. You had gotten yourself stuck a full four five in the air.

She grins at you and your predicament.

“Has her highness found herself in a bit of an awkward situation?”

“Abby… it’s not funny. I can’t get down and I can’t reach the book I want.”

She rolls her eyes as she wraps her arms around your upper thighs and takes your full weight onto a single shoulder causing you to squeak above her, allowing her to bend at the knees and have you hop down safely. You don’t think you’ll ever not get warm in the cheeks when you feel how her muscles strain against the soft leather and linens of her casual wear, gods only know what you’d give to see her in a tunic without sleeves or a blouse that’s so thin the curves of her biceps practically burst from the cloth concealing her skin… her soft skin and her hard muscle…

“Which one?”

Abby’s talking to you and snapping you away from your train of thought.

“Pardon?”

“Which book are you looking for?”

“Oh the new one, ‘Sir Orfeo’ I think it’s called?”

You watch as Abby scales the shelves with far greater skill and agility than you ever could and as she reaches up to the top shelf she grabs a small book, bound in a deep blue leather with engravings on the front cover.

She drops back down to the ground, book in hand. Abby holds her arm out, “Here you go.” As you reach out to take it from her, she shoots her arm up into the air withholding the book from you by at least 2 feet.

“Abby. Give me the book.”

“So demanding? What if I don’t want to give it to you, besides I am the one who was able to actually get it from the shelf. I’ll give your precious book to you when I get my reward.”

You huff an exasperated sigh. “Fine.” You reach on tiptoes to plant a kiss on her cheek. And are thus granted access to your book.

You make your way to the armchair that had, up until this point, remained neglected and although its rather grand size would’ve easily let you both sit on the chair, Abby opts to take a seat on the rug by your feet, resting her head on your thigh. Opening the book you begin to read to yourself and get a full page in before being rudely interrupted.

“I wanna hear too, baby.”

You begin again from the top of the page.

“Grief filled the air upon the death of the dear wife of the beloved bard, Sir Orfeo. His lute that normally filled the walls of the castle grew silent and abandoned as unhappiness filled his heart instead…”

Neither of you know when you had fallen asleep, Abby drooling onto your dress and hair slightly tussled and you imagine yours is much the same. The fire has been whittled down to embers and the light coming in from the windows is deeply tinted red, the setting of the sun seemingly imminent.

“Abby,” you place a hand in her hair, “you have to get up.” Your movements cause her to stir and wake, instantly she’s up and rushing to her feet and pulling you to yours. She snatched the book from the rug and places it in your hand while grabbing the free one and pulling you to stand up.

Before you can ask what she’s doing she picks you up in her arms and carries you bridal style, back past the bookshelves, behind the tapestry and through the hidden door. She’s relentless as she passes through the corridors and up the stairs leading to the servant’s door to your bed chamber. Setting you down in front of the door she tentatively opens the door and glances inside, deeming it safe enough she proceeds into the room with a hand in yours, leading you.

“Get on the bed, princess.” Still a little tired and in no mood to argue, you do as instructed. Abby’s warm hands fix the quilt and tuck you in. “If anyone asks where were you?” She kneels down to make straight on eye contact with you as she speaks.

“I was in bed, feeling a little bit sick.”

“Good. And if someone asks ‘Do you need the doctor’?”

“I shake my head, say ‘It’s not serious enough to worry the doctor, but the doctor’s daughter might be free’ and I wait for you.” You follow through with the actions as you give her the memorised spiel.

“Atta girl.” Her hand ruffles your hair, and she stands up and turns to leave through the servant’s door once more. “Abby?”

“Yes, your highness?”

“I love you.”

“I know, princess, I know.”

This is my baby, my love child. I love hearing what people think about this stuff so any comments or reblogs are fondly found. 💚

Part 2 is out and on my master list

#abby anderson x reader #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #chubby reader #tlou x reader #medieval au

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twisted-wonderland-but-gayer · 2 years

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Leona vs The Tarantula Wizard

Gender Neutral, Spiders. For Context: It's a joke on this blog that Yuu has a magic tarantula that can use magic to protect Yuu. The only thing it chooses to do, however, is freeze people and dance on them. This takes place where Leona tried to beat the shit outta u.

Keeping your familiar happy is the number one rule to being a beast tamer, which is why you made your way to the botanical garden with your new friend in tow. The tarantula in your palm loves to go on walks with you, even more so when it involves plants. The little wizard would often scuttle off to lay on a leaf or sunbathe, occasionally having you hold onto its hat.

You would have never guessed that this little creature would be one of your first familiar, and possibly your strongest ever. Sam offered to use his magic to appraise your familiar with his friends from the other side. Sam ended up discovering that his power surpassed even Malleus but at a cost; it can only have a very limited set of strong spells.

You met the little spider around the woods of Ramshackle while foraging for the food Crowley failed to provide. Suddenly, you started to hear some strange boss music in the distance. Going to investigate, you saw a bird of some sort. It dived into the fields, engaged in a fight with… something.

You tried to look through the grass to see what was happening before a small bolt of lightning shot out from the grass. The bolt was small but left the bird frazzled as it flew off. The boss music suddenly faded out. It wasn't your wisest idea, but you needed to investigate what caused it.

Carefully combing through the grass you notice something poke out; A small tarantula with a staff in one of its arms and an oversized pointy hat. The poor thing looked tired from its previous battle as it curled up. The second it noticed you, it raised its staff. You suddenly felt a chill go up your spine, and boss music came on once again. Your body felt heavy and lifting an arm was strenuous under its spell.

The tarantula hisses at you, wobbling the full time. The spider looked pitiful in this state but was still very powerful. Your beast tamer instincts kicked in, hand moving quicker than your brain. You pulled out some berries you foraged from earlier and offered them in your hand. The tarantulas spell wavered. It hesitantly crawled into your palm, munching happily. The boss music stopped.

After a bit of chittering, the spider offered out one of its legs to you, which you pressed your fingertip to. And with that handshake solidified your first beast. The second it was complete the spider crawled into a stump and later emerged with a bindle attached to its staff. The bindle contained a few miniature tomes, some tiny chemistry beakers, and other assortments of tiny alchemy and wizard equipment. Before you knew it, your nightstand became its home, with a mini bed, bookshelf, desk, and even electricity for its tiny home.

Your spider friend would always badger you for more plants it can use in its spells and make books from, so off to the garden you go. You both were having a conversation, oddly enough you quickly learned how to understand its chittering. You were so into your conversation you didn't notice a tail covering your path.

You felt something twitch below your foot, but continued, knowing that your familiar would not appreciate waiting. That is when you hear a growl.

"Oi, you there, herbivore." A tall, tan lion beastman stood before you, Leona, you think. His tail flicked in anger and emerald eyes glared daggers into your soul, one of which had a scar going over it. His hair was unkempt from his earlier nap. "Did you think you can step on my tail and get away with it?

He approached you slowly, each footstep being enunciated with a tap against the stone floors. "My apologies sir I didn't mean it," you ducked your head down "I'll be sure to watch my step next time, I'm in a rush and have to go."

Before you can take another step and get out of there, the man's claws hand grabs your shoulder and yanks you back onto place. "Don't think you're getting away that easily, herbivore. No one steps on my tail and gets away with it." The lion was glaring through you as you tried to apologize again, needing to hurry up before your spider friend got upset.

"Enough." Leona barked, at your pathetic apology. Suddenly in a flash, Leona's body twisted into position. His leg was raised and his stance was equipped for balance as he held his arms and fists in a defensive position. His kick was lightning fast as his nearly bare sandaled foot approaches your neck.

Suddenly time stopped– time stopped? Leona was frozen in front of you, his foot inches away from the side of your face. You took a step away. The lion seemed just as confused as you were. His body twitched and refused to budge. His mouth couldn't even open, the corners of it flexed before returning to their original position. His expression was kept in perpetual rage. What you can describe as boss music played in the background...

How? This student was magicless there's no way they could have done this. Suddenly, Leona is snapped out of his thoughts at the feeling of something on his bare ankle. A small tarantula in silk robes, a pointy hat, and a "staff" crawled out of your shirt and onto him. Its soft hairy legs tickled his skin as crawled up his leg.

If looks can kill, you and you're familiar would be dust. Leona glared down at the spider, ears pressed back. The spider looked up at him, all eight beady eyes making sure Leona's focus was on it. The second the tarantula knew that Leona was watching it went to work.

Leona watched in a mix of astonishment and abashment, horrified by what he was witnessing. The familiar tucked away from its staff and got into position. Its arms waved and its body moved in a rhythm as it performed the ultimate victory dance: Gangnam Style, an absolutely devastating move. A growl rose from Leona's throat.

Once your familiar was finished with its victory dance, it scuttled in a 180° motion in place, comically. The spider lifted its thorax and dropped it down on Leona repeatedly. It then scuttled off and hopped back onto you and into your shirt. You didn't want to risk standing around any longer and walked off immediately, cradling your familiar close and praying that you haven't made an enemy of someone.

At least he didn't meet your other familar...

#twisted wonderland #not requests #twisted wonderland x reader #leona kingscholar x reader #leona kingscholar #tarantula wizard supremacy #tarantulas #spiders #twst #beast tamer yuu #twisted wonderland yuu #yuu #gender neutral

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kudzuoath · 8 months

Text

Needful Things

With the reappearance of symptoms foretelling of his arcane hunger, Gale seeks out the party’s paladin to plead his case. He needs help. Hopefully Odette is the kind of person he believes her to be.

Or, Gale and Odette experience mutual attraction and care. Neither one of them acknowledges it.

—

The party’s paladin was taciturn, and brutal on the field of battle. Not someone he typically would have felt drawn to. But then he watched the way Odette interacted with the tiefling children at the grove. Kindly. With a soft voice and a reassuring hand.

Or in the case of the little helion Mol, with a grin and a witty rejoinder that came to her lips as if it were second nature.

There were other things, too. The way she threw herself headlong into danger, flaming greatsword first, the moment she spotted someone in need. How she treated each battle like a game of lanceboard – or the way she carefully handled and collected the books they came across in their travels.

That last bit was the first thing he’d noticed actually – only someone who loved them the way he did would handle them with such care. Even the copies she set back down. It’s not what he expected from a warrior – though perhaps he was letting his biases get the better of him with that.

There was something about her. Under the blood and the bared teeth and the black tattoos covering her neck and forearms. A cleverness. A curiosity. And tying it all together, a surprising kindness.

So one evening in camp he approached her. She was sitting close to the fire, hunched over a tome they’d found in the ruined temple of Jergal.

“That looks like a fascinating read,” he said, unable to help himself.

Odette startled. She nearly took his leg out with her tail when it whipped back and forth. “What?”

“The book?”

“Oh – oh. Yes.” With a faint frown, she closed it and gave him her full attention. Her mismatched eyes were curious – but wary. Not unusual for her, he’d noticed. Though he had also just managed to sneak up on her.

“Did – you need something, Gale?”

“Well, all this travel and adventure has made it somewhat difficult to find my moment, but there’s something rather important I need to speak with you about – if you would be inclined to listen to me this fine evening.”

“Isn’t everything these days?” She gestured at the log she’d perched on, the faintest of half smiles breaking through her stoicism. “Have a seat. Unspool your woes. You won't be the first.”

He itched to ask more about the book. But that wasn’t what he was here for. “How shall I begin… ah! Yes! The beginning. You see, since you freed me from that stone I found myself trapped in I have seen you demonstrate remarkable guile and courage –”

Her smile dropped for some reason. And – was her gaze a little frosty all of the sudden? Did she not believe him?

“ – The way you diffused the tension between Aradin and Zevlor! How you convinced Kagha to release the girl. Or charged in to save that boy from those harpies. And you’ve demonstrated a fair amount of temperance as well – many a paladin would have run that fellow at the bottom of Jergal’s temple through, even though he’d shown no will to harm us! In short, I’ve grown to trust you, Odette.”

Silence. For several seconds that, by the third one, were starting to send prickles of unease down his spine. My but didn’t this woman have a stare on her that could freeze fire! The thing was, he couldn’t see what he’d done to invite it.

Though… perhaps it was just her face? It wasn’t the first time. She only really seemed to gentle around the very young, or very vulnerable. Perhaps it took conscious effort to do so.

“I see.” Another pause. “You’re being genuine, aren’t you?”

He balked. “Of course I am! I am many things, but I’ve never been accused of lying about my feelings towards others.”

That faint smile returned, and she let out a soft little laugh under her breath. She shook her head and ran a hand through her short raven curls with a sigh. “No, you wouldn’t would you? You have my apologies, Gale. I’m not particularly used to people being so complimentary.”

“With how often you save people?” He couldn’t help but ask.

“Gratitude and… flattery are different things, I think. Or… compliments, isn’t it? That’s what they are when they’re genuine…” This last bit was to herself.

He might have been offended if not for how clearly baffled she was. Personally, he didn’t know what to make of her reaction. It was… odd. And it made him wonder what she’d been doing before the Nautiloid captured them. What roads had their Paladin walked? And what Oath now kept her?

“Well, nevertheless,” he said, pushing forward. “The reason I make a point of saying this is that I’ve grown confident enough to tell you something I’ve yet to tell another living soul. Except for my cat.”

She turned to face him fully now. The only hint of emotion he could glean from her face was in the tilt of her head, and the slight furrow beginning to form between her brows. His heart leapt into his throat as the moment came to bear down on him. This was it. He may well find himself a wizard alone. And he was no Elminster – particularly not now, between the tadpole and the orb.

“You see I have this… condition. Very different from the parasite we share. And just as deadly.”

“Can it be cured?” she asked. Immediate, serious. She was sitting at attention and leaning in, examining him with fresh eyes and real, visible concern. He noted the moment she spotted the darkened veins around his eye, and began to follow them down to where they vanished under his shirt. Surely not the first time they’d been noticed. But the first they might hold her any significance.

The way she looked at him. Ready to leap to his aid. It made his throat feel a little tight. And brought to mind his befeathered and bewhiskered friend back in Waterdeep.

“No, it cannot be cured,” he said softly. Swallowing around a lump in his throat. He cleared it and sat up straighter himself. “And I can assure you I left no page unturned in reaching that conclusion.”

Odette seemed to draw back slightly as he said this, eyes shuttered. Something he couldn’t blame her for, given he’d all but told her his days were numbered. Woe betide them all should she learn of exactly how numbered all of their days might be, purely by virtue of his company.

Though that revelation… that one he’d keep close to the chest a while longer. If he were very lucky – lucky enough to survive the tadpole, and find his way back to his tower – she need never know the extent of the threat he posed.

“I can keep this condition under control, as indeed I've done for a significant amount of time! But that was under different circumstances altogether. Home, in Waterdeep.”

“Gale… stop blowing hot air and tell me what you need.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and her hands were fists in her trousers.

“What it comes down to is this,” he said, holding up a finger. He was patently unable to give up his habit of lecturing. Particularly with his nerves strung tight enough to snap and his heart a throbbing drum trying to choke him. He trusted her. He could only hope she proved worthy of it. He thought she would. Hoped.

“Every so often, I need to get my hands on a powerful magical item and absorb the Weave inside.”

There.

“...Are you telling me you’re addicted to magic?” Odette said. Her voice was flat, toneless. But her hands were no longer fists.

“What? No – no. It’s nothing like that. Magic isn’t some – some narcotic to me. It’s literally a lifesaver.”

She stared at him. “It’s not that I doubt you – only that I’ve seen what can happen to people addicted to drink when they go too long without it.” Her voice darkened. “What they can do to people. And how, ultimately, the lack of it can kill them.”

The unfortunate thing was, she had a point with that comparison. Even if it didn't apply here.

“Were it an addiction, it might provide some other benefit than keeping me alive,” he said. And realized a moment after doing so that technically, it did. In that it was also keeping everyone and everything else in his vicinity alive and intact. But – no. Not that. Not now. “It is more a salve for a burn, medicine for an infection – though it wont cure what ails me.”

A new tension in her shoulders drained away. “I see.”

“I would not burden anyone other than myself with this were the stakes not so high, and the means of obtaining such artifacts challenging for a humble wizard to face alone.” He leaned forward. Fear sawed at him now. He hadn’t expected her to agree outright of course – he still didn’t. But he had to absorb something, and soon. Elsewise all might well be lost, tadpole be damned. “It’s been a tenday at least since I last consumed an artifact – since before we were abducted. It’s only a matter of time before my craving returns.”

In truth, he could feel it already. An unpleasant tingling numbness deep in his chest. One that made his heart beat just slightly out of tune. That froze his lungs. It was only a bit of morning frost at the moment. But all too soon he would be reduced to gasping on his back, hands pressed to his chest as if that might hold the snarling demon within at bay.

“That is why I turn to you, I need you to help me find magic items to consume,” he said. Intense. Unable to help himself even though he’d planned the rational facade. His hand was pressed over his hammering heart, fingers clawed in his shirt. The memory of what was soon to come biting under his palm. “It is vital. Dare I say it, critical.”

There weren’t words to describe the danger. His panic at perhaps being rejected. He would turn to petty thievery if he must. Not for his own sake, but for the sake of every living being around them, should it come to that. He would need them, if only to clear enough ground so as to minimize the hells he would unleash in his death.

Odette was watching him with a new wariness. His intensity had perhaps been… a little much. But once he’d noticed that creeping hunger in his chest… the panic had taken root in his tongue. Though it might prove needful. And may well have served to illustrate his genuine need better than if he’d managed to remain collected.

“Where are we going to find these items?” she said.

That wasn’t a no.

“We’ve already done the finding – in fact you have one in your possession as we speak.” He gestured to where her greatsword lay. It glowed like a dying ember, even sheathed. “You know for yourself how hardwon such an item was and it will be no easier when even more are required to assuage my hunger.”

As he’d said before – he was no liar. He wouldn’t pretend this would be easy. The least of what he owed her was that honesty.

“There will be danger involved. Or great cost.”

Odette’s eyes had remained on her sword as he spoke. He’d heard the tale of how she’d gotten it. On the Nautiloid. From a devil. His understanding was that it had been a difficult battle, barely won and only undertaken out of sheer desperation with the temporary alliance of her illithid captors. Giving her allies the time they needed to reach the alien transponder that had ultimately dumped them all into this wilderness.

She let out a long sigh, and unsheathed the weapon. Flames danced up and down the blade, merrily viscous. Its sudden heat made the night air steam slightly around them. Very carefully, she offered him the hilt, and met his gaze.

“Take it."

Gale’s mouth didn’t quite fall open, but it was near thing. He stared at the sword instead.

And then his panic melted away like so much snow falling on a wildfire. He’d expected… well. He hadn’t known what to expect. But Odette disarming herself was not among them. He’d been right. As he typically was of course. Right to trust her. Right to tell her. Like his panic, his tension drained too. And all at once the symptoms of his hunger felt far less pressing.

For indeed, they were less pressing. It was the fear. There was still time. And to feed it too soon… it might upset the balance. Might increase its need to consume. He would have a hard enough time keeping up with it as things were. No need to tempt fate.

“I knew I could count on you!” he said. “And – and utterly pleased as I am by your enthusiasm, there is still time. I did not leave things quite until the last moment. I’m a good deal cleverer than that! Keep your weapon for now. Perhaps we shall find something less dear to be parted with. Faerun overflows with magically infused treasure after all!”

Odette considered him for a moment, but re-sheathed her sword.

Then, in a move that made his heartbeat stutter she set her hands on his shoulders and squeezed lightly.

“Thank you. For asking for help, Gale. I know… it’s not an easy thing.”

Her gaze was as true as her heart was. And he found himself wondering how he’d written her off, no matter how briefly. A wizard she was not. But perhaps she was something just as good. A truly, deeply, decent soul. No matter her viciousness in a fight.

“Nor your promise to sacrifice these items, Odette,” he said, his voice dropping with softness unfeigned. “I know what I am asking –”

“There’ll always be magic daggers and enchanted rings,” she said, cutting him off. “You’re the only Wizard of Waterdeep I know, though. Don’t…” she swallowed. He caught a glimpse of an old pain on her face. One that made those eyes – one brown and one purple – look so lightless he might have been frightened had the emotion not been so clearly one of hurt. Her grip tightened slightly on his shoulders and she wouldn’t meet his eyes. When she finished her thought, it was in a whisper soft voice. “Don’t kill yourself with your silence.

He lifted his hands to cover hers. “Believe me, I shan’t be quiet should my need arise.”

“Good.”

For a moment, they watched each other. And Gale couldn’t help but think of how long it had been since mortal hands – or the hands of anyone at all – had touched him. There had only been Tara. His heart beat stuttered as he looked at the planes of her face, illuminated by the firelight. It was a beautiful sight. He found himself wishing to stroke his thumb over the black flame tattooed on her forehead for some odd reason. Or better, to follow the curved pattern of dark flames along her jaw with his fingertips.

Odette was smiling back at him, and there was a softness there. But then she seemed to notice their closeness. She let go of him abruptly and pulled back. Put distance between them as she busied herself with setting aside her sword, with repacking the book.

He was all at once given the impression of many doors closing and locking one after another. By the time she turned back to look at him, her face was settled back into its normal vaguely intimidating neutrality.

“I should try to get some sleep,” she said. “And so should you. We need to find where those bloody goblins have holed up with the Druid. Interesting as that ruin turned out, our new friend is not the cure we’ve been looking for.”

“Indeed not,” he agreed, standing. He recognized a dismissal, no matter how kindly given. He made a dramatic gesture and half bowed. “Dear lady, may you sleep the sleep your kindness so richly deserves!”

She let out a surprised laugh, that mask breaking again. “And may you rest your eternally wagging tongue, dear wizard.”

A dig, but she said it with a fondness he found gratifying. He wasn’t unaware of his talkative nature, when he’d been given half the chance to chatter. Good that she seemed to like it.

“I shall do my very best to oblige.”

Gale returned to his tent with a lightness in his heart most unfamiliar, and a smile he would have been hard pressed to extinguish.

#gale #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #gale bg3 #gale/tav #named tav #tiefling tav #paladin tav #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #my writing #crossposted to AO3 #featuring vague story based justifications for taking the devil comanders sword #also remixed canon dialogue #i love this wizard disaster #also some of you know of odette #yes i made her a tiefling even though the screenshots are half-elf #i wanted to used different face options without modding

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valphorien · 2 months

Text

Metamorphosis

Rating: G Pairing: Elucien Word count: ~2,000 TWs: None Summary: How a butterfly and some reference books led Elain to reconsider the mate she'd been trying so hard to ignore.

Read on AO3!

He’d sent her books.

Elain thought it a strange change of strategy at first, until she realized he’d sent books to Feyre as well, tomes on Prythian art history. He’d even sent Nesta a slender copy of a volume on Valkyrie battle strategies. It seemed he had a surplus of books in his new home in the Day Court, where he now resided full time.

Feyre had not given her the details on that particular bout of drama, and Elain had refused to show any interest in the matter, even though it was exactly the sort of gossip she would’ve devoured in her old life. Spite won out against curiosity, but only just.

She’d accepted the books from Feyre without reading the titles and dropped them onto a shelf in her closet–atop the brown jacket whose pockets held enchanted gloves and pearl earrings. Despite her best efforts to glean no information from his latest gifts, she’d not been able to miss the elegant depiction of a butterfly etched into the top book’s cover. That drawing had tickled the dark corner of her mind that wondered about him, wondered what about these particular books had reminded him of her.

He thinks I am simple, she decided, that all I see are pretty flowers, and that I know nothing of their inner workings. He thinks I should learn about butterflies because I don’t know anything about them already.

In the spring, that butterfly resurfaced in her thoughts, when one wholly unlike any she’d seen before floated through her garden. She watched it flit on orange and black wings over rose bushes and between stalks of lavender. It drifted like a leaf on the river, never once landing before it dove behind a hedge and out of sight. Beautiful as Elain’s garden was, it did not offer whatever that butterfly sought, and watching it wander fruitlessly had sent a spear of longing through her chest: longing to provide, to nurture. To be useful in the one domain she was allowed to control.

She hoped the butterfly would return and give her garden another chance; but first, she had to learn what it needed.

That night, Elain peered into her closet. The butterfly book sat on top of The Classification of Soils and A Botanist’s Guide to the Night Court, Volume 1. Carefully, she slid Lepidoptera of the Solar Courts off of the stack.

Thankfully, there were illustrations. She didn’t let herself stop to skim any of the words as she flipped through the pages until she found one that looked promising. The illustrations were not colored, but the black lines and white spots along the wings’ edges matched quite well with what she could recall of her garden visitor. The word Monarch sat in bold script above the illustration, with a descriptive paragraph on the opposite page.

A brush-footed butterfly, orange with black veining, white spots along the edge of the wings, white spots on black body. The black veins on the female will–

Elain blinked and shook her head. She couldn’t read the whole page. That set a dangerous precedent to the book being interesting–it was intolerable enough that it be useful. She instead set to scanning the page for anything about eggs or caterpillars. Luckily, in addition to providing illustrations, the book’s author was also concise.

Host plants are any milkweed varieties native to the solar courts. Females lay eggs on the underside of the milkweed leaf, and larvae feed exclusively on the milkweed until the fifth instar. Larvae prefer to pupate as far from the host plant as possible. Chrysalis is a bright green with gold–

Elain slammed the book shut. She didn’t need to read about the chrysalis. She’d see it for herself. She only needed to find a milkweed plant that was native to the solar courts.

Her gaze drifted to the other books, where A Botanist’s Guide to the Night Court, Volume 1 sat with the silver foiling of its spine shining in the faelights’ glow. Taunting her.

Scowling, Elain stood and placed Lepidoptera of the Solar Courts on her bedside table. As she blew out a long breath, she willed the tension from her shoulders and picked up the other book. Lucien Vanserra could win, just this once. It’s not as though she had to tell him about it.

—

Those varieties of milkweed had turned out to be rather difficult to acquire. Her supplier in Velaris had few seeds and even fewer plants available. Elain cleared out their stock, much to the nursery owner’s surprise. Milkweed was highly uncommon in Velaris gardens, being considered, as its name implied, a weed. But he assured her that she’d have no trouble sowing more seeds come autumn.

As soon as she returned to the river house, she put the three plants in the ground. Two specimens had tall, gangly stalks topped by clusters of pink flowers, while the third was smaller with thin leaves and had not yet begun to bloom. Only an hour after planting, Elain was rewarded with the return of her orange-and-black visitor, who floated directly to the leaves beneath the pink blossoms.

Elain’s fae eyes found the eggs right away, dotting the undersides of the leaves like tiny pearls. Every day, sometimes every few hours, she bent over the plants until her hair nestled in the dirt to peer at those little eggs. At last, she ventured out to the garden one morning to find holes in the leaves where the eggs had been, and dozens of larvae the width of her smallest fingernail and half as long.

She tried to focus on other tasks throughout the garden, to stop herself from spending all her time worrying over the caterpillars; but it was summer, and there were only so many deadheads to prune, only so many leaves to sweep from the stone steps. Some days, when the river house was silent and there was nothing left to water, Elain allowed herself to lay on her stomach on the grass, her chin upon her hands, and watch the caterpillars nibble and creep, allowed herself to feel that swell of pride–that these creatures might not have found a home if not for her.

She did not allow herself that faint flutter of affection, stirring in the pit of her stomach, for the one who’d gifted her the knowledge she’d needed. She stamped it down whenever it threatened.

He couldn’t have known about that butterfly whose name she’d wanted to learn. He couldn’t have known how bugs like that made a garden, gave it blood and breath, just as surely as the soil. That they elevated the flowers to a purpose beyond beauty.

He could not have known, she insisted to herself, even on that day she spotted him on the other side of the windows of Feyre’s solarium. He did not look out to the garden even once as he spoke to her sister, but she knew that golden eye of his saw too much. Could it see even down to the fat, wriggling buds of life on the leaves before her?

It didn’t matter. As long as they were bound to the plants she’d planted, these caterpillars were hers alone. She could claim that much, at least.

As much as she could claim anything in this court.

—

Elain glared at the new plant in its makeshift paper pot, two vines adorned with broad, heart-shaped leaves winding around a wooden post.

It was a clever ploy. Gloves and pearls could be stashed away; gardening books, begrudgingly used before they, too, were shoved into the darkest corner of her closet. But a plant was alive, a gift that she could not, in good conscience, condemn to death by neglect.

Worst of all, it was a climbing vine, and damned if Elain hadn’t been looking for something to train on the garden’s eastern fence.

A tag sticking out of the soil read, Wooly Pipevine. A smaller tag, written in a different, elegant script, stated, host plant to swallowtail butterflies.

Elain folded her arms across her chest and huffed out a sharp breath through her nose.

Beside her, Feyre shifted on her feet. “Do you want me to get rid of it?” Ironic, as she’d been the one to accept it, the one who’d let that red-haired menace into this house to begin with.

“That won’t be necessary.” Elain bent to wrap her arms around the paper pot and, without a glance back at her sister, marched outside.

She grumbled to herself on the arrogance of the fae as she paced the length of the fence in search of a suitable spot. She grumbled more as she dug a hole, as she tossed in fertilizer and packed down the dirt with more force than was necessary. And standing back to observe her work, she grumbled still, on the choice of pipevine, of all things.

“They don’t even have pretty flowers!” she pouted to the plant in question.

Yet there it was again, that flutter of delight trapped inside her ribs; much of it came from the simple joy of a job completed, of new life and growing things. But there was that spark, too: warmth that circled her heart and squeezed it tight, etching upon it the words on that little tag, the words of someone who looked just a bit closer.

Two weeks later, a butterfly in shades of velvet midnight with a trail of black-rimmed suns along its wing drifted through her garden. It passed by roses, morning glories, even the pink and white blossoms of the milkweed, ignoring them all to alight upon a leaf of the pipevine.

—

Lucien looked as if he’d been caught in the middle of an attempted robbery–only he’d brought something into the house instead of taking something away. Elain wished she felt vindicated about catching him in the act, but it was a different sort of emotion tangled inside her chest, sending tremors through her limbs.

He’d brought another plant.

Elain kept her face a haughty mask, raising an eyebrow as she asked, “Passionflower?”

Still no vindication came to her, but she did feel a tad smug at how off-guard she’d put him. He inclined his head, looking suitably cowed. “Yes, my lady.”

“Why?” She forced accusation into that word, more than the curiosity that she’d spent so long swallowing, curiosity that had now grown so large she feared she’d choke on it.

Lucien met her gaze at last, and Elain caught a glimpse in his eye of the vulpine predator her sister had warned her about. That gaze held a danger that did not seek to intimidate or overpower, but to analyze. Dangerous in how much that gaze saw. Dangerous in how it did not feel dangerous at all. “I thought you might be looking for more host plants to add to your garden.”

Elain narrowed her eyes. “Are you well versed in the raising of insects, sir?”

He shifted the plant and its pot into the crook of his left arm. He winced as one of the little vines whipped at his cheek. “Not in the slightest.” Though he angled the plant away, the thin, curling tendril still swayed towards his face. Maybe it thought it had found the sun in his gold eye, or the reddish flakes of pine bark in the other.

Elain squared her shoulders and jerked her chin towards the plant. “It’s a host for the solar fritillary.”

He nodded. He did not look surprised. He’d done research on insect larvae and the plants that nourished them, a subject that he admitted little interest in. What led you to this? What did you see? The questions burned down her throat as she swallowed them. Did you look past the rose blossoms and see the thorns, the grubs, the detritus beneath? But it was too much to ask, too soon to hope.

“Fritillaries are rather plain,” she said instead, a half-truth. Fritillaries were a rusty orange with small streaks of black, but if one looked close enough, they would catch the striking white spots on the undersides of their wings. Had Lucien researched enough to learn that much?

But Lucien tilted his head and gave a smirk that somehow wore the guise of a frown. “I did not realize your garden had such a strict dress code, my lady.”

Elain blinked. She’d expected an empty apology. She’d grown used to being placated, to being offered deference that sounded suspiciously condescending. She did not expect a riposte, nor did she expect the smile that tugged at her lips in response. “Are you good with a shovel, my lord?”

It was a relief to see his eyes widen, to know that at least here, with a vine tickling his face, he did not feel the need to wear a mask, to hide his fear and hope. “I’m afraid I am untrained,” he said.

She turned to open the door to the garden. “Well, if you’re such a quick study on butterflies, I’m sure you can learn about planting.”

#elucien #elucien fic #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #elucien fanfic #pro elucien

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use-your-telescope · 7 months

Text

When Everything's Made to be Broken - Chapter 1: It's Still Not Quite the Way It Was

Author's Notes: We've made it to the posting of chapter 1! Each chapter has a corresponding song, noted (and linked) at the beginning of the chapter; the italic paragraphs between sections are lyrics from the corresponding song. After this chapter it'll make sense, I promise 😉

This is multi-chapter friends-to-lovers, angst with a happy ending fic. Full synopsis/masterlist can be found here (and read on AO3 here)!

Content Warnings for this Chapter: Medical whump, near-death experience, description of serious injuries. Angst for dayssss. If @loki-cees-all and @infinitystoner are to be believed, you might want kleenex. It gets much lighter after this (for a while, at least), I swear!

Word Count: 5,217

It’s Still Not Quite The Way It Was

Song: Hospital - Lydia

So I’ve been sleeping with This silence in my mind And all I see scares me And no one knows it but she– She saved me

It was a reality that Loki could no longer ignore: they were running out of time.

After hours hunched over in vigil, he sat up a bit taller in the stiff plastic chair that could have doubled as a torture device, stretching aching muscles and sore joints that had yet to recover from a battle unlike any the god had ever seen. Raking one hand through unkempt curls, he bit back a snarl when a passerby glanced into the cramped infirmary room and made the mistake of locking eyes with the Asgardian prince.

Perhaps he ought to be proud of himself for the restraint; hardly thirty minutes prior, he allowed the tempest within him to take control, unleashing his worst upon his elder brother. It was not fair to Thor - everyone was reeling from the aftermath of what transpired, and though Thor may not have been as intertwined with the very heart of the matter, the repercussions impacted him too.

But Loki?

He was not merely impacted by the fallout; it tore his world asunder.

Before him, the harsh reminder of the upheaval endured over the three days prior laid unconscious, reliant on Midgardian medicine and machinery to give her a fighting chance at survival.

Not an inch of Theo had been spared from suffering. The blood, the dust, and the grime of battle had long been washed off of her body; now, her wounds were covered with pristine, crisp white bandages. Swaths of jagged, indigo bruises marred her otherwise ghostly complexion, which appeared more sallow under the harsh infirmary lights. Sweat poured off her skin and soaked her hair. Half-open, glassy yet clouded eyes seemed to stare right through Loki as if he wasn’t there. One eye sported a bruise, swollen and tender, beneath it.

The sheer volume of wires and tubing connected to her body gave the appearance of a puppet. Multiple intravenous lines were placed in her arms and collarbone. Wires under her shirt collar and a sensor clipped to her index finger provided vital signs. Tubes trailed down her mouth and nose to provide oxygen and sustenance.

And yet, it had become clear that no machine, no medicine would be enough to save her from the eldritch infection that tore through her side.

Though no one admitted it, the truth could be found in the silence between the discordant rhythms of beeping monitors and the hissing ebb and flow of the ventilator, none of which ever aligned to the ticking of the clock on the wall. Amidst the shuffle of muted footsteps and hushed conversation in the outside corridor, the truth echoed within sterile infirmary walls. It scrawled itself along the monitors filled with vital signs that crept further and further towards demise, numbers and lines blurring together as time passed.

Scattered across the room, stacks of ancient tomes failed to provide any insight or solution. Loki was supposedly the most powerful sorcerer in the nine realms, yet he could do nothing to help. The Scarlet Witch, with chaos magic at her fingertips, was helpless in the face of this affliction, as was the Sorcerer Supreme. Even Vision, who had the power of the mind stone and held the full knowledge of all of Midgard, was useless to stop the spread.

It was the subject of taboo: they were running out of time.

This affliction was unlike anything they’d ever encountered. Then again, Theo was unlike anyone Loki had ever encountered.

Leaning forward once more, he carefully enveloped her pale, cold hand in both of his.

“Cheating death is my forté, not yours. Healing is your forté, darling.” He said to the perfectly still form before him. “Forcing a reversal of roles was not a wise decision. I imagine you would know how to cure this malady; one of the many secrets tucked away in that memory of yours.”

One of many secrets that until recently, were incomprehensible to the God of Trickery.

“It is rather ironic, isn’t it?” Loki said, brows furrowed as he focused on Theo’s face. “The most powerful healer in millennia, one who rivals that of myth - unable to save herself.”

The steady, incessant beeping of a monitor above the head of the bed echoed through the room, reminding Loki that his scolding fell upon deaf ears. No response was expected, but that did not mean the silence stung any less.

“If I could, I would admonish you thoroughly for such a reckless decision.” He continued, “You have done no less to me, dove, and they say turnabout is fair play.”

The late hour, though hauntingly still, brought the assurance that any further visitors were unlikely. Perhaps a nurse might pause and glance into the room, but the rounds which took place in the dead of night were less frequent than during waking hours.

Solitude was rare - between the steady stream of medical professionals and visitors paying what very well might be their final respects, it was perhaps the second time since Loki’s life was violently upended in which he had a moment to himself. Theo - or, who Loki believed Theo to be - was well-loved on Midgard, so perhaps it was little surprise that her imminent demise affected so many.

Most were oblivious to the truth - that the woman they had come to love was little more than a lie. Yet, he did not have the heart to reveal such information; though he held a multitude of emotions regarding the situation, he could respect it was not his place to say anything.

Getting lost in the ebb and flow of breathing was easy - it certainly made it easier to lose track of time. With each rise and every fall of Theo’s chest, Loki committed it to memory, unwilling to admit to himself that it might be her last.

“Feeling any better now?”

Loki’s attention snapped to the doorway, where Maximoff leaned against the frame. Loose copper strands fell from a disheveled ponytail, framing pursed lips and a furrowed brow. She crossed her arms crossed over her chest, the sleeves of her hooded sweatshirt shoved up to her elbows as almost an afterthought.

“You seem more calm,” she continued, pressing herself up and stepping further into the room. “Did yelling at Thor make you feel any better?”

Loki rolled his eyes and with a huff, settled back into his chair. “He sent you, didn’t he?”

“He’s worried.” She tugged her lower lip between her teeth, bloodshot eyes flitting towards Theo. “We’re all worried.”

Of the many words the silvertongue wished to say, they all vanished the moment he opened his mouth to speak. Unable to provide a retort, Loki simply glowered at the Scarlet Witch.

“She loves you.”

Loves, present tense, as if Theo was not on the precipice of death.

Loki scoffed. “And how would you know?”

“Because she’s the one in that bed, and not you. You love her too; if you didn’t, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

“One cannot love something which they do not know.” He muttered, shifting around in his seat for the umpteenth time as he sought out a tolerable position for sitting.

He had been foolish enough to love her, for all the good it had done either of them. Her, on her deathbed, and him, left to reconcile the woman he thought he knew with the woman she truly was.

Though he had averted his gaze, Loki felt the heat of Maximoff’s disappointed stare.

“Spare me your pity, witch.”

The sigh which Maximoff replied with was akin to how a mother might respond to a petulant child. “Look, you need a shower, and some water. Sleep, ideally. Food if you’re feeling like an overachiever.” The hint of concern which wove itself into her tone only added to the festering unease within Loki’s chest. She turned on her heel, making as if to leave; however, she lingered in the doorway, twisting to face Loki one final time.

“We’re here for you, you know… Even when you’re being a jerk,” She murmured, amber eyes glistening as she met Loki’s bitter gaze. “... Maybe especially then.”

The soft padding of feet in the hall grew faint as Maximoff departed, leaving Loki alone to face the painful truth:

They were running out of time.

So I’ve been sleeping with This silence in my brain, my brain I wake up every day In this goddamn place But I won’t wait here anymore

Stepping outside of Theo’s infirmary room reminded Loki of what it must feel like for an animal to be released from its cage. Granted, an animal would likely relish the newfound freedom, even if it was only temporary. On the contrary, Loki dreaded such ventures.

Leaving Theo’s side was unavoidable - it was required for examinations and procedures, as well as basic elements of care like bathing and changing bandages. This particular instance was the result of the medical staff calling everyone together for a conference regarding Theo’s prognosis, as if there was anything to discuss. Everyone knew what the future held; discussing the inevitability of demise seemed rather pointless.

… Not that Loki had much choice in the matter.

Though he had no desire to be present, his pride refused to allow him to reveal the precarious state he lingered in. A quick glamour gave the impression that he maintained full control of his composure by obscuring wrinkled clothing, tangled curls, and the permanent crease between his brows that came from a deep-set frown. Only artificial light filled the corridor, casting a sickly glow on all who occupied the space.

Those who walked past him in the hall provided a wide berth, reminding him of his earliest days among the team known as Earth’s mightiest heroes, when treading on eggshells around the Asgardian prince was standard protocol. It was just as well - Loki was entirely prepared to snarl at anyone who dared draw near. Approaching the conference room door, Loki could make out hushed voices engaged in tense conversation.

“Have you talked to him?”

“I… yeah.”

“And?”

Before Maximoff could answer, Loki forced a cough and stepped across the threshold.

Dr. Harper and Maximoff both whipped around, eyes wide as saucers at the sight of the obvious subject of their discussion. Scattered about the room, the rest of the Avengers, along with Dr. Cho, had packed themselves into the rather claustrophobic space. Some sat in leather-backed chairs around the table, while the rest leaned against the walls with expressions ranging from confusion to displeasure.

“Loki, good - you’re here.” Dr. Cho said, flashing her best attempt at a placating smile as she clasped her hands together. “Now we can get started.”

“Yes, please do share what could be so important to necessitate the abandonment of other responsibilities and gather in this prison cell of a conference room.” Loki snipped, crossing his arms and ignoring the disappointed glare that Thor flashed at him.

Dr. Harper glanced at Romanoff as she drew in a deep, cautious breath. “Max figured out what the magic is that’s infecting Theo.”

Stunned silence permeated through the room; only the ticking of the wall clock gave the indication that time had not come to a standstill. Around the room, nervous glances accompanied mouths which hung slightly agape. Loki waited expectantly for a follow up, some sign that there was a positive outcome to the conversation or additional information.

When none came, Loki steeled himself to ask the question which lingered in the darkest corners of his mind: “What good does that do if there is no means to reverse it?”

“That’s why we called you all here—“ Undeterred by Loki’s cynical inquiry, Dr. Cho replied, only to be interrupted by Maximoff.

“You’re saying there may be a cure?” Something between hope and desperation seeped through her question; Loki could not ignore the stutter of his pulse at the prospect, though he quickly tamped it down.

“According to Max,” Romanoff interjected. She leaned back in her seat, legs crossed as if this were simply another mission briefing and not the life of an Avenger in the balance. “From what he gathered, there are documents with the information about how to remove whatever this is. Last he heard, they were stolen… by Theo.”

“Then what are we doing here?” Barnes leaned forward, tapping vibranium fingers clinking against the steel table. “She already has what we’re looking for.”

“That’s the problem—“ Rogers spoke from the head of the room, leaning against the wall with arms crossed. Dark circles beneath his eyes and a five-o’clock shadow revealed the toll the recent events took on the captain. “We’ve searched her entire suite and can’t find them anywhere.”

Romanoff leaned forward once more, resting her elbow on her knees. “Tony has FRIDAY reviewing the security footage—“

“Not that it does any good if she never took the documents out of her room.” Stark cut off Romanoff, massaging his temples with both hands. Somehow, the engineer appeared to be even more sleep deprived than usual.

“Assuming that’s the case, she would have known where they were stored, right?” Dr. Banner chimed in, sounding unnervingly calm given the circumstances.

“Even if she did, it’s not like she can tell us,” Wilson interrupted, shaking his head. “She can’t even breathe right now.”

“...Maybe she doesn’t need to.” Dr. Banner replied, adding on a thoughtful hum.

“What?” Belova piped up from beside her sister, mirroring the elder Widow’s posture; however, unlike the stoic expression which Romanoff maintained, Belova openly wore her confusion.

“We do have two people who can read minds…” Dr. Banner glanced between Loki and Maximoff, silently dragging the pair of sorcerers into the fray.

Combing through the memories of another was something Loki would not give a second thought in his younger years; if he could access the memory, he assumed he was entitled to know.

Yet, after the Mad Titan and the void, he had no interest in the act. The vulnerability of having one’s mind scoured brought an ominous chill to Loki; though he was uncertain of his feelings towards Theo, he had no desire to cause her to feel violated, even if she had withheld such vital information.

“Absolutely not.” Loki crossed his arms and stood a bit taller, fiercely shaking his head with feigned determination. “I refuse.”

“You’re afraid.” Stark cocked a brow at Loki, nodding as if he understood the sorcerer’s motivations.

“Why would I be afraid?” Loki snapped, glowering at Stark for daring to leverage such an accusation.

Stark rolled his eyes, then leaned forward in his chair while locking eyes with Loki. “Because you don’t know what else you might find?”

“Hardly,” he scoffed, “I simply doubt it would be a fruitful venture.”

“Wanda, what about you?”

“I don’t know…” The witch hesitated, frowning as her attention skittered around the room. “Are you sure you know what you’re asking me to do? It’s pretty invasive.”

“Would she know if you tried?” Parker frowned, arms crossed while one leg bounced incessantly, contradicting the rhythm of the clock.

“I don’t think so.” Maximoff shook her head. “But would you want someone digging through your thoughts and learning all your secrets?”

“We’re out of options,” Romanoff pointed out. “Shuri and Bruce haven’t been able to replicate this thing, and if we do nothing she’ll die. I think, all things considered, she could forgive you for invading her privacy.”

A tense silence fell over the room; outside, muffled footsteps and assorted announcements reminded everyone that while they dithered over the subject, time continued to pass - time which they did not have.

If anything, perhaps having one of the sorcerers search the suite would be more useful - if Theo had some sort of magical ward placed on the space to hide the documents, they would be able to detect it.

“Okay,” Maximoff’s agreement, though quiet, rang clear. “I’ll try - I mean, it can’t hurt, right?”

Rather than argue, Loki held his tongue and prayed the witch would be right.

Oh, no one is watching now Sing like you just might drown But always come back for air

Though he dreaded what he might see, Loki could not resist the curiosity of what might transpire at Maximoff’s attempt to enter Theo’s mind.

Two hours after the meeting, everyone gathered to witness what was hailed as the only way Theo’s life could be saved. There was a certain buzz, an almost frenetic hum to the space. Doctors and nurses stood by, ready to act, as if Midgardian healers would be able to do anything in the face of magical destruction.

Loki stationed himself near the door, leaning against the wall with arms crossed while watching the scene before him with open skepticism. His position allowed for a clear view once they began, yet kept him out of the traffic patterns as others moved about the space.

Meanwhile, Maximoff positioned herself at Theo’s bedside. As she waited for instructions, she carried a certain heaviness in the slump of her shoulders and the crease of her brow that Loki hadn’t seen in some time. The Scarlet Witch might have been the more optimistic of the sorcerers, but she too understood the gravity of the situation before them.

A roiling, churning sense of dread pitted itself in Loki’s stomach, swelling as the anticipation increased. He hadn’t noticed that the rest of the room had drawn to a standstill until Dr. Cho made the announcement:

“Wanda, we’re ready when you are.”

Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, Maximoff nodded, then turned her attention to Theo. She leaned over the bed, hands hovering just beyond Theo’s temples as tendrils of translucent crimson energy curled and disappeared beneath Theo’s skin. Maximoff closed her eyes, lips downturned as she focused her attention on the task at hand.

All hell broke loose.

Alarms erupted while a horde of doctors and nurses swarmed the bed. Despite her many injuries, Theo thrashed about on the bed, back arching and hands clawing at the sheets with a face twisted in anguish. Despite the tube down Theo’s throat, Loki swore he saw her lips twitching in a cry for help.

A panicked glance at the monitor revealed a mess of flashing crimson numbers glaring at Loki, taunting him with how foolish this entire scheme was.

Cry as she might, nothing they could do - nothing he could do - would be of any help.

The realization rendered Loki unable to fight as a Midgardian pushed him away, while another grasped his arm and dragged him through the threshold and into the hall.

Though forced from the room, Loki plastered himself against the glass door in a futile attempt to remain close. He caught a glimpse of her body falling limp against the bed, not moving whatsoever; meanwhile, discordant shouting and alarms slipped beneath the door. A scarlet glow reflected from the monitors onto the crowd surrounding Theo, casting a menacing air on the scene as it unfolded. The doctors and nurses moved with a brisk, detached precision, as if oblivious to the knowledge that Loki’s love balanced on a knife’s edge.

Just when he thought the situation could not worsen any further, a nurse noticed Loki. She remained stone-faced as she yanked the curtain closed, fully obscuring his view.

Elaborate possibilities of terrible outcomes spun through his traitor of a mind. Every footstep echoing down the hall felt akin to the Hela and Fenris approaching. The sound of monitors spilling from other patients’ rooms was the countdown prior to a bomb detonating. He hardly realized when his knees gave out and he sank to the floor, blocking out his surroundings before he could spiral further.

A lifetime and a moment passed all at once, Loki sitting with his back against the wall and knees against his chest, palms pressed to his eyes in a pathetic attempt to stop any further tears. He may as well have been nothing more than a child, pitifully helpless to stop the slow dirge that accompanied mortality. Theo’s final moments would be spent in a hurricane of chaos and fear, devoid of any form of comfort or meaningful companionship.

“Loki?”

The internal debate of whether to remain in the purgatory of the unknown or face a truth that might very well be Hel stopped Loki from immediately reacting. The tone offered little indication of the outcome, increasing Loki’s hesitancy to respond.

“Loki.” The repetition was firm; enough so that he realized that there was no ignoring whatever was about to come.

He drew a deep breath and braced himself for the worst before lifting his head.

Dr. Harper stood before him, offering him a hand and a weak smile. “She’s still here - gave us a bit of a scare, but she’s hanging in there.”

Relief washed over Loki, though it was short-lived at best.

Theo couldn’t leave him - not like this. He would not - he could not allow it.

Then again… what could he do to stop it?

‘Cause I never got to See you once more, no I guess that’s all I wanted I guess that’s all I needed

“Brother, please - you must try.” Thor all but begged his younger brother, trailing behind Loki’s relentless pace like a puppy chasing its master.

In the same cramped conference room where the idea of entering Theo’s mind was initially entertained, those who had not yet given up hope of rescue gathered to discuss the best path forward.

“In such reckless desperation to save her, all that has been done is hasten her demise.” Loki snarled, “And yet, you continue to believe that such barbaric methods could reap any benefit! Has she not suffered enough?”

“We would try something else if we had another option,” Barnes pointed out, aggressively massaging where vibranium connected with flesh. “but we don’t. It sucks, but it’s our best shot.”

“I doubt it would prove successful,” Loki muttered, bravado giving away to bitterness; another reminder that being among the most powerful sorcerers of the nine realms was of no value; for all the magic in the world, he was useless. “If Maximoff could not break past the wards in her mind, what makes you believe I would be capable?”

“Isn’t there something about the power of love?” Whether Stark was serious or facetious was difficult to ascertain; regardless, Loki found both possibilities to be utterly infuriating. “True love conquers all, yada-yada fairytale sort of thing?”

“That is nothing more than myth,” Loki hissed, blood boiling at such an insolent proposition. “There is no evidence to indicate it would make any difference in such matters.”

“Loki, please–”

“Do you truly wish for my magic to strike the killing blow?” Loki slammed his fist against the table, stunning the others into silence. Every muscle in his body wound itself tight with tension as he struggled to maintain any semblance of respect for those who asked him to commit such a horrific act. “You ask of me the impossible; my seidr would be the last touch of life she feels before she is thrust into a painful, cruel death. How could I live with that?”

His voice betrayed him, breaking as he asked the question; with it, he felt his carefully composed mask begin to crack. The heat which built behind his eyes spilled over, seeing nothing but burning red as his cheeks grew wet. Before the others could comment, he turned away and wiped his eyes, forcing a glamour for just long enough to hide his slip in composure.

When he returned his attention to the others, Thor stared at him as if he saw through Loki’s tricks. “Brother, can you live with yourself if you try nothing?”

“There must be another way.” Loki implored, clenching his jaw to stop the trembling of his lower lip. He let out a tense breath, raking one hand through what had become unkempt, tangled curls. “Something we’ve not yet tried–”

“Fine - if you won’t try, maybe you can make yourself useful and go through her laptop.” Romanoff’s own carefully composed mask of indifference began to slip, allowing the faintest hint of tension to show in the manner in which she scrubbed her face with her hands.

“What exactly do you presume I will find?” Loki drawled, though he accepted the device when Rogers held it out to him.

Romanoff massaged her temples, her frustration more openly on display. “We won’t know until you look, will we?”

Try as he might, Loki could not conjure a counterpoint.

Not long after, Loki sat in the torture chamber of an infirmary room, staring at Theo’s laptop before him. Searching through files seemed like a fruitless task, however he could at least acknowledge that it might prove more beneficial than other means of research.

Unlocking the device was simple; such a task could be completed in his sleep. However, the image that greeted him upon entering the password triggered a memory so painful that Loki nearly slammed the damned contraption shut and banished it into another plane.

It was a picture of Theo and Loki, from the day he took her to Coney Island. They were at the top of the ferris wheel, with a view of the city in the background as the sunset stretched across the sky. It was relatively early in her tenure as an Avenger - in need of an opportunity to destress, Loki suggested they spend an afternoon at the amusement park.

By the time they boarded the ferris wheel, Loki’s sides ached from the endless laughter between them. Theo’s cheeks flushed the faintest pink from sunburn, but the sparkle in her ocean eyes told him that the adventure was worth the slight discomfort. He remembered how she pestered him to take the photo because he had longer arms, and how at the last moment Theo wrapped an arm around him and pulled him closer to her, causing him to laugh in surprise right as he took the picture.

Everything had been so simple then; what he would have sacrificed to go back to that moment and linger there eternally.

Rather than casting the laptop aside, the desire for connection pushed Loki to see what else he might find. He methodically worked his way through the files, searching folder by folder for anything that might have even the slightest connection to the predicament before them. Hours passed as he worked through the multitude of files, the motivation from earlier replaced with hopelessness as he failed to find anything that might be useful moving forward.

After he closed the final document, a different folder caught his eye.

Titled “Covers,” inside were the recordings of the many songs which Theo performed her own renditions of and shared online. The files dated back to approximately when she began her role as an Avenger, covering a variety of styles and genres of music.

In a way, looking through her music felt like he was reading her diary: intimate, vulnerable, and candid. But he also knew that this was the closest he would get to easing the ache of not being able to talk to her, to apologize endlessly for his foolishness, to understanding and reconciling the woman he thought he knew with the woman she truly was. He could always tell how she was feeling based on what she was listening to; right now, with their relationship in such a precarious place and her well-being in the balance, he craved anything that allowed him to feel closer to her.

Just before he could press play, a nurse entered, politely requesting that he take his leave as they tended to Theo.

Loki glanced one final time at the laptop, the question lingering on his mind: what if entering her mind truly was the solution?

As if on cue, Thor’s voice echoed in Loki’s mind: Could he live with himself if he did not at least try?

Then again, if she perished, could he live with himself knowing he was the cause?

Now look, you’ve made a fool out of love When all you want is to be enough, When all you want is to feel enough

In the end, desperation won over.

The Norns must have truly cursed him, to force his hand into taking such action. The stacks of texts which failed to provide any hints about a path forward, the laptop which held no documentation of the secrets Theo kept, the chimes of machines which provided borrowed time - they all taunted him as he sat alone in the darkened room, with nothing but one small lamp above the head of bed illuminating the space. The corridor outside was eerily still, no doubt from the late hour, with not even the squeak of rubber sole on polished floors making it to Loki’s ears.

Before he began, he decided to revisit the playlist of covers she recorded. If there was one thing that had not been cast into doubt after everything that transpired, it was that the music she created always provided a window to her emotions at that moment in time. Though it was a long shot, Loki hoped that hearing the very songs she covered might help Theo subconsciously lower her guard, allowing Loki to see into her memories.

Selfishly, he hoped it might also offer him the opportunity to determine if the bonds between them were true, or if they were little more than illusions.

If nothing else, the sound of her voice floating through the air offered him a comfort that he desperately craved, particularly as he stared down the prospect of being both her lover and executioner.

In the dead of night, with no one around to witness, Loki said a prayer to whatever deities might offer him grace. He leaned over, delicately cupping Theo’s cheek in his hand. His gaze carefully cataloged the features he’d come to love and the remnants of a war she hadn’t chosen to fight in, committing them to his own memory.

“If this is to be your final moment, I hope that it is peaceful,” he murmured, as if she could hear his voice or comprehend his message. “Come what may, I pray you will forgive me for that which I am about to do; I wish nothing but the best for you, my dear.”

Theo’s eyes slowly fluttered open, and for a moment, Loki’s pulse stuttered as he swore traces of recognition could be found. Yet, it was a fleeting moment before they fell shut once more, and the reality of their situation set in.

It was now or never.

Taking Theo’s hand in his, Loki closed his eyes. The tingle of Seidr flowed through his veins as he channeled it into Theo, uncertain about what he would find when he attempted to probe her mind.

In some sort of poetic irony, that was exactly how he found himself back where most stories start - at the beginning.

It’s still not quite the way it was, But you promised me that this is love, so stay and Watch the hospital that’s Just across the street From your apartment balcony I’ll never ever leave, I’ll never leave

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