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rustedhearts · 10 months

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the incident ♡ pt ii (boxer!steve x librarian!fem reader)

summary: in the aftermath of your fight with steve, you appear on the munsons’ doorstep in search of shelter and a friendly face. the munsons get a glimpse of the real you—and the version of steve hiding behind closed doors.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ part i, part iii ✶ the king of the ring ✶ main masterlist

the rockstar eddie setlist by @carolmunson

tags: angst, hurt (practically no comfort), stella and libby being besties, violence, a whole lot of crying, talk of domestic abuse-ish stuff.

malibu california, november 1992. the munson residence.

The Mustang's tires squealed over the slick brick of the Munson driveway with a speed that made even you wince. The gear clunked into park by your not-so-gentle hand, still unsteady and covered in snot. You wiped it on the skirt of your dress: billowy, soft pink cotton now stained with tears.

You flung the door open and stomped your feet to the ground, rushing to make it to the door. You weren't sure why you were so frantic. Maybe somewhere in the back of your mind, you were worried Steve would follow. And you weren't sure you could look at Steve right now. You weren't sure you could stomach the sight of him.

Just as you reached the arched doorway of the Munson's looming mansion, lifting your hand to knock, the wood fell away to reveal a bare-chested and wide-eyed Eddie Munson.

"What the fuck is—Libby?"

You dropped your hand, sniffling. "Oh, hi Eddie."

You suddenly felt silly. Standing there in a disheveled, crumpled mess—hair astray, makeup soiled, dress collecting wet spots and wrinkles. Your shoes were strangling your feet. The brown belt around your waist was squeezing your lungs. And you had nothing. No purse, no house keys, no car of your own. Just Steve's brand new Mustang and a wobbling lip.

For a moment, Eddie just stared. His mouth fell agape, arm dropping from the doorway where he'd been preparing to lunge at some sort of paparazzi or other unwanted creep lurking in his driveway, more than ready to serve a stern scolding for streaking his newly-lain brick. But instead, there was you: swollen-nosed and sticky-cheeked, an unkempt version of the joyful girl he was used to seeing. Even when he knew you'd been fighting with Steve, Eddie had never seen you shed a tear or break a pout. You always kept a sugar-sweet poker face on for the public.

You were damn good at it too—nearly as good as his professionally-media-trained fiancée.

Eddie broke out of his stunned stupor at the sound of the latter's footsteps pattering behind him, slipper-clad and unprepared for what she was about to see.

"Ed, who was it?"

"Uh..." Eddie trailed off, stepping aside when Stella appeared beside him in a satin robe, tying the strings around her waist.

Stella, much like Eddie, paused. It seemed as though her entire body seized, like she'd just seen a splattered raccoon on the side of the road—pity and horror, all at once. You let your eyes fall to the stone steps, wiping your cheeks to freshen up a little. God, you felt so silly.

"Well, for god's sake, Munson, invite her in. Jesus, the poor thing's shaking!"

Stella swooped in, slipping her arm around your shoulders to push past her husband and guide you inside. She smelled delicate and expensive, her hand soft against your arm. She shook her head at Eddie, who flushed red as he swung the door closed and slid the lock.

"I'm sorry for showin' up like this unannounced," you murmured meekly, still avoiding their gazes as Stella gently guided the pair of you down on the cream-colored couch in the first living room. "I meant to call on the car phone, I just..."

Eddie carefully took the seat across from you, glancing at his fiancée over your head.

"Don't worry about it," Stella cooed, rubbing your arm, her own still draped over your back.

You nodded, wiping under your eyes. Your finger came away streaked in charcoal and sticky black. You wiped your hands together with a sigh, freshly manicured nails clacking together.

"Is everything okay?" Eddie offered, head tipping to see your face.

You took your lip between your teeth, scraping them over the plush flesh. You sniffled again, and it was as you dropped your head to your hands in your lap that the Munsons realized you were crying again. Eddie's head snapped toward Stella, who glared at him. Nice going, she mouthed over your head, tightening her hold on your frame against her body.

Eyes blown wide and cheeks flaming hot again, Eddie shuffled toward on the oversized armchair. "Fuck—shit, Libby, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"No," you chirped, voice strained with another cry. "Don't worry about, I-I'm okay."

You lifted your head halfway and flashed him a weak smile. Eddie's seemed strained in response—more a grimace than a grin. Stella rubbed your arm again, bringing your hair away from your face where it was beginning to cling to your cheeks.

"Do you want to take a bath? You can borrow some of my clothes, or we can have Tiffany go run out and get you some—"

"Oh gosh," you sighed, head shaking. "I don't want to be a bother. I-I'll take whatever you have."

Stella nodded, standing to her feet. "Alright, come on, I'll get you set up."

Eddie watched you walk side by side toward the double staircase: you a small, trudging, hunched figure and his fiancé a mess of poorly-concealed concern. She looked over her shoulder toward him as you ascended the stairs together, shooting him a look of panic. Eddie only ran his hand over his face and nodded in agreement.

The entire way up the stairs, you murmured more apologies and promised to be gone by tonight.

"Oh hush," Stella soothed as she guided you toward the guest wing. "You're staying. We'll make it a girl's night."

She opened the bathroom door, padding across the marble toward the clawfoot tub. You lingered like a child in the doorway and twisted your fingers behind your back.

"Are you sure—"

"Libby. I'm more than sure. I'll go get you something to wear, just get comfortable."

You stepped into the bathroom, aching to undo the straps on your heels and free your feet from their uncomfortable confines. Stella turned the faucet on, releasing a stream of hot water into the pristine white tub. She flashed you a smile as she headed your way toward the door. She came to a stop beside you, squeezing your shoulder.

"And whenever you wanna talk...I'm here, okay?"

You bobbed your head, matching her smile with teary eyes. Her hand slipped away from your arm, and she disappeared through the door. She returned a few moments later with a fluffy robe (light pink, clearly new, clearly purchased for a guest stay) and a silk pajama set: delicately patterned and embroidered with a designer logo.

You thanked her, set the items on the sink, and shed your body of its bearings. You kicked your heels toward the corner, spiteful and wishing to light them on fire. You dipped your feet into the tub and sank into the steaming water, sighing as it lapped at your bare body.

You rested your head back against the lip of the tub, cushioned with a bath pillow, and closed your eyes.

It was so quiet here. And there was no Steve.

♡ ♡

When you were sure you’d scrubbed all the remnants of your blowout with Steve from your body, you pulled the drain and let the water gurgle down. The pajamas Stella gave you were soft and freshly washed, and though there were sizing differences between the pair of you, they were far more comfortable than what you came in. Anything that didn’t smell like Steve was welcome.

You tied the robe into a ribbon around your waist, feet bare and toes curling across the carpet. You hugged your arms tight over your chest as you pattered down the staircase, still wary and uncertain. You didn’t feel unwelcome, but you certainly didn’t feel at home. Not to mention, Eddie was Steve’s friend. You wondered if he’d even believe you if you told him what happened.

But you didn’t want to talk about Steve right now. Right now, you just wanted to stop crying.

So, eyes still aching and stinging with old tears, you wandered into the living room to find Stella perched on Eddie’s lap, his hand running through her hair.

“Oh hey,” she greeted you, sitting up. “Everything okay?”

You bobbed your head, mustering a toothless smile. “Yeah, thank you.”

“You want something to eat?” Eddie asked, head tipping to find you around Stella.

You shrugged. “I’m alr—“

“Eddie’s got the fridge stocked at all times now that he’s beefing up,” Stella giggled, squeezing Eddie’s firm bicep.

Eddie’s mouth slipped into a grin, half-cocked and charming. “What can I say? I’m giving Harrington a run for his money.”

Your giggle was faux and cracked somewhere in the middle. Stella’s smile slipped, rubbing her fiancé’s arm for a moment more before sliding to her feet. Eddie wished he could swallow the mention of his friend’s name. If the way your face crumbled and your eyes welled up held any indication of what happened between you two—Eddie figured it was best not to mention your boyfriend’s name at all.

“Or,” Stella sung excitedly, looping her arm through yours. “We can go have some of that champagne we just opened.”

You nodded, eyes meeting hers briefly. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

The pair of you headed to the kitchen, Eddie’s big, sweeping steps following suit. You took a seat at one of the leather stools flanking the marble island, placing your elbows on the smooth countertop to play with your nails. Stella clinked around the kitchen, pulling the bottle of Dom from its ice bath, locating two champagne flutes in a cupboard nearby. They clinked against the marble when she set them down.

"Let me open it, honey," Eddie cooed, quickly replacing Stella's hands on the chilled bottle of bubbly.

"I had it, babe," Stella huffed, though her tone had a dash of something gooey to it.

You smiled softly when Eddie leaned over and kissed her cheek, loud and quick. "I know."

Eddie popped the cork off with precision, the loud explosion of air quickly disintegrating, replaced by the 'glug, glug' trickle of champagne filling the flutes. When they were even and spritzing sparks, Eddie fished them from the counter and presented one to each of you.

"Ladies."

You cracked another smile, sniffling as you accepted the drink. "Thank you."

Stella shook her head, affection smeared across her face. She pressed another kiss to Eddie's waiting, puckered lips, and rubbed his bare arm again. "Alright, get outta here, Munson. It's a girl's night."

Eddie didn't argue. Instead, he pressed another kiss to Stella's neck, head tipping to fit the nook, and turned to you with gentle eyes.

"Shout if y' need me, 'kay?"

Stella, beaming despite the eye roll, slid to mirror your stance and rest her elbows on the island. "'Kay."

Eddie shuffled out of the room, and in his absence you sipped your champagne with tiny gulps. Stella pressed hers against her cheek, nails gleaming under the bright white glow of the kitchen chandelier. She watched you awhile, silently pondering. You tucked a strand of wet hair behind your ear as you set the glass down.

"Sure you don't want anything to eat?"

You shook your head, nail tracing the grain of the marble. "No, I'm okay."

"Because," Stella said, setting her glass down and twirling toward the double-doored fridge. "I meant it about Eddie keeping stock. I mean...four pounds of bacon? The man is insane."

The shiny steel doors swung open to reveal—just as Stella said—a fully-stocked fridge. An array of milks, juices, power and energy drinks, sodas, produce, dairy products, and all sorts of snacks revealed themselves to you. And though your stomach hollowed with hunger and sat like an owl's nest in a tree trunk, you couldn't fathom the idea of eating. You worried the taste of food on your tongue would trigger the bile that's been resting in your throat.

"I'm okay," you repeated, another small smile gracing your mouth. "Promise."

Stella gently closed the door until they suctioned shut. She returned to the island with a much smaller bout of enthusiasm. You felt horrible for mellowing the mood. You felt horrible for intruding in their home. You felt horrible for bringing them into this mess—a mess that, at the moment, they still knew nothing about. You wondered if Steve's blood was still on the car.

Taking another sip of her champagne, Stella inched closer to you. "Can I braid your hair?"

Your eyes flittered her way with swift surprise. She flashed a sheepish but hopeful grin, shoulders shrugging under silk.

"Oh, um...sure. That'd be nice."

Setting her glass down again, Stella clasped her hands together. "Okay, I'll be right back!"

She returned with a brush and hair ties, and situated herself behind your stool to approach your hair. The brush whooshed through the strands, scraping your back through the soft, terry pink robe. You suddenly felt like a Barbie. You suddenly weren't thinking of Steve.

She sectioned your hair in two, fingers delicately weaving. The hair ties plucked and snapped, and finally wrapped around the ends of two neat braids falling down your back. Stella smoothed them behind your shoulders and stepped back.

"There."

You swept your hands over the braids, damp and ridged before turning over your shoulder with a smile. "Thank you, Stella."

The other girl nodded, hand returning to her glass once more. "'Course. Now come on, we're watching Sixteen Candles in the screening room."

♡ ♡

You barely stayed awake during the movie. Eyes heavy and aching, fluttering closed between scenes only to snap open ten minutes later. By the time the credits rolled, your champagne had been finished and refilled twice, and you were more than half asleep. Stella, wide-awake and still waning with concern, guided you back to the guest room.

It was there that you snapped from slumber. You stirred in the sheets, cool and clean and crisp Egyptian cotton—but not yours. The pillow beside you was empty, perfectly plump and fluffed and missing the shape of someone's head. Steve's head. The room was void of his smell. That sweet, minty musk of nighttime. That soft, gentle warmth of his body winding down. Your heart wept for it.

And so did you, eyes welling and flooding with tears once again. You buried your face in the pillow to soften your cries and force sleep, but you only soaked the silk and clogged your nose.

You just wanted to call him. You just wanted to hear his voice, those whimpered apologies. You knew he was sorry, of course you did. He hadn't meant to do it. But he did. And he couldn't take that back with more teary-eyed apologies and petulant pouts. He couldn't fix it with flowers or kisses. This was different. He'd gone too far this time.

Worst of all, your body seemed to be in a tug-of-war contest between furious and heartbroken. You weren't sure which would win. The confusion of it all elicited a restlessness like no other.

You kicked the covers off and reached for the robe again. Fastening it around your body, you huffed as you headed toward the door. Quietly brewing and going over every moment of the day in your head, you wandered back to the first floor and into the kitchen. Even encased in the blue darkness of well past midnight, the Munson mansion seemed dauntingly massive.

"Couldn't sleep?"

A sharp gasp shot from your mouth, body jolting at the sight of Eddie's shadowed figure at the island.

Hand over your frantic heart, you sighed and stepped into the room. "God, you scared me."

He cracked a lopsided grin, teeth shining in a sliver of moonlight. "Sorry."

You slid into the stool beside him, wooden legs scraping on the tile. "No, been tossing for hours."

Eddie paused a moment. "Want some ice cream?"

You glanced at him. "Sure."

Eddie pushed away from the island, shuffling to the freezer. He pulled the drawer open and fished out a freezer-burnt tub. "Lucky for you, we've got the real shit now that Stella's off set."

A tub of strawberry ice cream found its way between the pair of you, two spoons forming craters in the frozen treat. For a while, the darkness of the kitchen was quiet. You dug in and swallowed it down with no words to pair it with. You knew your eyes were still wet, that dampness still gathered under your nose. But you just couldn't bring yourself to say it.

Swallowing around his spoon, Eddie pulled it away and licked it clean before letting it clink against the marble.

"Alright," he sighed, heavy and dad-like. "Give it to me straight, kid. What'd he do?"

You turned away, watching the smooth pink cream form a rolling ball with the pull of your spoon in the paper carton. You wanted to tell him; just as badly as you wanted to tell Stella. But part of you worried what might happen if you did. Part of you worried they'd doubt you.

"Hey." Eddie reached out, cold fingers tapping your hand. "You okay?"

You nodded once. Head bobbing in slow jerking successions until it dropped into your hand, palm over eyes. God, you were so sick of crying.

"I don't know," you croaked.

Eddie shifted in his stool, leather creaking under his sweats. "You—I mean...did you get in a fight?"

You sniffled, nodding. You still couldn't bring yourself to look at him. "It was so bad. W-we were saying such h-horrible things."

"Ah," Eddie scoffed, shrugging. "Nothin' you can't take back, I'm sure."

You shook your head, lifting it to swipe away more tears and snot. You were trying your best not to soil the robe. You rolled the sleeves to your elbows to avoid it. "N-no, not this t-time. I don't think s-so."

You could barely breathe. Saying it out loud, holding the entire night on the tip of your tongue and knowing how horrible it would sound coming out—it hit you then. What Steve had really done this time.

Eddie paused, and you reached in with your spoon for another bite of ice cream when Eddie's hand touched your arm. Halting its journey toward the dessert, Eddie's fingers looped around your wrist and brought it across the counter. Gentle but determined, Eddie flipped your arm to reveal the back plain of bone.

"What the hell is this?"

You turned away again. "Nothing—"

Eddie dropped your arm, taking quick steps toward the light switch to flick it on. He moved so swiftly that you barely had time to react before he'd taken your arm again and pushed the pink sleeve up to your bicep. In the white glow of the spotlights, more of Steve's handiwork was clear as day.

You sighed, twisting your wrist in Eddie's palm. "Eddie—"

"Guys, it's one in the morning what are we—ooh, ice cream."

Stella trudged into the room, eyes half-lidded with bleary slumber, clearly still teetering in and out of consciousness. She swiped the spoon from Eddie's place and reached for the carton, holding her robe closed with her other hand—but paused at the sight before her.

"What's going...on?" Her mouth hung open, a spoonful of soupy strawberry cream hovering nearby—but she stopped, taken aback by the fresh, vibrant colors on your arm.

Eddie's eyes were hard, teeth clenched tight. You were frozen in your seat.

"He fuckin' hit her."

You pulled your arm away, tugging the robe down. "No, he...he just—he grabs me too hard sometimes. I-it's not—that's not—that wasn't—"

"Libby," Stella's tone took a new smoothness, coaxing and gentle but sharp-edged with panic. "Did Steve hit you?"

"No," you insisted, eyes flicking between the couple. Eddie's hand swept over his face, leg bouncing beneath the counter. "No, I swear."

Please believe me trembled in the cadence of your voice. Your eyes rounded pleadingly, blurring with more tears that pained to shed. Stella dropped the spoon and rounded the island, placing her hand on your shoulder.

"It's okay, I believe you. Come on, let's sit over here."

Arm looped around your shoulders, Stella steered you toward the breakfast nook: white linen cushions, clean wooden table, a vase of fresh lilies. You gazed over your shoulder toward the abandoned rockstar at the island, and you knew he didn't agree with his fiancée.

"Okay, just...tell us what happened. And we will listen," Stella insisted, glancing pointedly Eddie's way where he still sat hunched and clearly itching to say something. "Without interruption. Right?"

Eddie huffed, whirling around in his stool. He eased against the counter and crossed his arms, shrugging. The "right" he parroted was clipped and tight.

You tried to remind yourself that it was Steve he was mad at.

"Okay, so...earlier today...at the gym...I was talking to another man. About nothing, just...stuff, you know? Just making small talk."

Stella nodded attentively. "Okay."

Eddie looked like he already knew where this story was going.

"Steve gets so jealous," you huffed, eyes rolling. You sounded congested and sad. "So, he hit him. Knocked him out cold for a second—all because the guy made me laugh!"

You pulled the sleeves of your robe down again, wiping at your cheeks. You felt bare with your mistakes worn so clearly on your arm.

"So, I let 'im have it. We fought the whole drive home. Just screaming at each other. And we fought when we got home, too. We both say mean things when we're upset. Sometimes it feels like we're competing, seeing who can hurt each other worse."

You'd never said that out loud to anyone before. For the first time, it felt like you were lending a piece of your life—one you usually kept hidden behind closed doors—to someone else for safe keeping. You felt a little lighter already.

"He called me crazy," you said, fiddling with the terry cloth fabric around your fist. "And...I told him he was just like his father."

Stella furrowed her brows, clearly missing pieces of the story. You glanced at her, anticipating this gap. "Like his father?" she pressed.

You pulled a thread loose on the cuff of your sleeve. "Steve's father was...abusive. To him and his mom growing up."

Stella's nod was slow, understanding. She didn't press any further, and you didn't expand. It wasn't your story to tell. Eddie readjusted his stance, sitting up a little straighter. His poker face reminded you of the days he came to the gym when him and Stella were apart. How desperate he was for release, but refused to let the pain of losing her show.

"I pushed him, you know? I...I was egging him on—I-I shouldn't have said that—"

"Libby," Eddie interjected lowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Tell me he didn't put his hands on you."

You deflated with another sigh. "No, no! He just...he had me against the wall and he...punched the wall. But it wasn't—"

“Hon.” Stella’s hand slid across the table to touch yours. “You know that’s not any better, right? You know that’s just one step away.”

You knew what she meant. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’ve told it to yourself. One day, he’s gonna hit you.

“But I shouldn’t ‘ve said that—“

“It doesn’t matter what you said, Libby. Nothing justifies this. Nothing.”

"This guy is fuckin' rich," Eddie scoffed, shaking his head. "Wait until I get ahold of him. Fuckin' prick."

You wanted to protest. You wanted to tell Eddie it wasn't worth it, that you didn't want to make a big deal of something small. But the words died in your throat. It was worth it, and it was a big deal. You couldn't keep excusing Steve anymore.

Sighing, Stella squeezed your hand and shuffled toward the end of the breakfast nook. "How about we all just try to get some sleep, alright? We can talk more in the morning and...figure this all out."

You nodded. Eddie just crossed his arms again. Stella, giving your hand another comforting pat, slipped out of the breakfast nook. The rubber pads of her slippers whooshed over the tile toward Eddie, the kiss she popped on his cheek delicate. He visibly softened a bit at her gentle affections.

"Off to sleep, kids."

♡ ♡

In the morning, your eyes ached, and a dull, incessant pounding nestled in your temples. Stella woke before you and left a change of clothes on the dresser: something comfortable, something clean. The fabrics smelled like laundry soap and eased your aches.

And the house was...quiet. It felt nice to wake up to quiet. It'd been too long since you had a morning of quiet.

You brushed your teeth with the toothbrush in the guest bathroom, fresh from the store packaging. You trailed downstairs, dreading the conversation that awaited with the couple in the kitchen.

Stella perched on the edge of the island, flipping through a magazine, eating berries from a bowl. Eddie stood at the stove, long raven locks knotted messily at the nape of his neck, flipping pancakes with a shiny silver spatula. They sizzled on the over-buttered pan and filled the room with a hint of hot vanilla.

"Oh, good, you found them! You look cute," Stella pipped, hopping off the counter to greet you.

"Yeah, thanks so much," you replied, tugging at the hem of the shirt.

Eddie peeked over his shoulder, sliding a pancake from the stove to a plate waiting on the counter beside him. The pile stacked high. Three plates and appropriate utensils waited at the breakfast nook. Staying at the Munson residence wasn't too shabby. Still, you couldn't help the stiffness to your limbs, your body's uneasy preparation for an uneasy conversation.

"Mornin', bookworm," Eddie called.

You cracked a breezy grin, trailing toward the bowl of berries. "Morning, guys."

Stella trailed to the fridge and filled three glasses with orange juice. You lingered near the fruit but didn't touch—it felt so strange staying with other people. Staying with people who were all you had right now.

"Hope you're ready for the best pancakes you've ever had," Eddie boasted, spinning around with a plate full of wobbling cakes.

Rolling her eyes and balancing the glasses in her hands, Stella drifted toward the breakfast nook. "He's exaggerating. But they are pretty great."

"You wound me, Rink."

You settled beside Stella on the end, across from Eddie. He slapped two cakes on a two plates for you and Stella, four for himself. Stella wasn't kidding about the "bulking up." As you reached for the syrup, you caught shape of the pancakes: hearts. Or...they were clearly supposed to be.

"Thought they might cheer you up," Eddie said, clocking your pause. "I know how the ladies love 'em." His head tipped toward his fiancée.

You glanced between them, grinning. "Thank you, Eddie."

You cut two pats of butter and poured a river of sticky syrup onto your pancakes, reaching for the fork and knife and getting two bites in before the doorbell rang. Heads turning, the three of you paused.

"Probably just a package—"

The doorbell rang again. And again. Soon, the gongs became interrupted by more pressing. Ding, ding, ding, ding. The pounding came soon after, a heavy fist banging into the glass—by then, everyone knew it wasn't a package.

Eddie tossed his fork toward his plate, table wobbling with the swiftness of his stance. Napkin crumpled and tossed aside, he stalked through the kitchen with intimidating purpose. You turned to Stella, and it only took a split second for her to read through the mask.

You were scared.

"Come on, let's go upstairs."

Skittering away from your barely-touched breakfast, the pair of you rushed the staircase arm in arm. Your heart was in your throat, throbbing with every stomp up the steps. You were inches from throwing up, and it took everything in you to swallow it down past the tears stinging your eyes.

Stella took a sharp turn into the master bedroom, tugging you along with her own look of wide-eyed panic. You whipped around as she reached for the door.

“I know she’s here, Munson. Let me the fuck in.”

Steve’s voice trailed the length of the home, menacing and gruff. You took a step back, and Stella shut the door.

You turned the lock.

628 notes · View notes

comfortless · 3 months

Note

hi angel! i have to tell you that ‘All That You Don’t Want’ was incredible- such a lovely, sweet tale! i keep revisiting it! would you consider writing a second part? or even a role reversal?

Roach Head

lich! König x fem necromancer! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. abduction, injury, mentions of insects (reader is the world’s worst necromancer), forced proximity, pining, violence/regicide, major character death, questionable morality, fluff, smut, a lil angst.

notes: i am so sorry you have had to wait so long, anon. ): though… i doubt that i will ever write a continuation of ATYDW, take this sickly sweet… (almost) role reversal, instead!

wc: 6.7k.

It’s an odd thing that, after finally having the blindfold removed, the first thing you notice are the cobblestones beneath your bleeding palms. Not a single one is in disarray; not cracked or crumbling from being used as any other common footpath. No, each stone is in it’s place, lain complete with not a single splintering crack or a sharpness to it from being broken. All pristine and smooth beneath your stinging scrapes.

Just like the cobbles, the air feels untouched here. There’s no stink of manure or spoiled food from the cramped streets of the inner kingdom. There are no roars of fighting men nor the baying of beasts, a lack of giggling women batting their eyelashes to lure those with jingling pouches of coins into brothels. You can’t even detect a breeze. Twisting onto your side, your eyes catch on the extending limbs of sturdy trees, and oddly… not a single leaf flutters or moves. The air is still.

There is only the absence of everything.

You should think it a blessing after your abduction, after being thrust into the back of a dusty carriage drawn by two massive horses.

You could almost swear you had seen the devil in their dark eyes, hellfire deep in those dark pits and you had known assuredly they would be chauffeuring you straight into the darkest circle of Hell. That was, until a thick, rigid cloth was tied around your head, forcing you into complete darkness. Your assailants had done well to bind you and leave your aching body only capable of wracking with sobs against the hard wood at the bottom. Every jolt of the wagon had caused you to flinch, to scramble as best you could, resulting in an array of bruises and your still bleeding hands from fighting at the ropes.

There had never even been a chance to fight back; you never even saw them. Even now as you raise your throbbing head to glance about, there’s no sign of the men that have left you here, in this silent place. Your heart almost seizes in your chest when you realize you can no longer even hear the cantering and whinnying of those dark, stoic horses.

You know that nothing good comes from silence.

It’s one of the first things that you came to learn as a fledgling witch. Quiet rarely ever bodes well. The prey animals in the wood all scurry to hide amongst fallen leaves and well-packed nests the very moment that a predator draws near, and you, still green with your admittedly lackluster talent in reanimating were little more than a fawn in the eyes of any beast.

A groan leaves your parted lips as you force yourself to your knees, ignoring the incessant sting of bruises and how your vision blots from even the barest of exertion. Your binds must have been cut free when you were abandoned here, you realize, as you twist around to crawl.

That’s when you see it— the glory of what lies before you.

Rather than being dumped into some desolate street for the vultures to find and pick apart like any common carrion, the men with their frightening steeds had left you at the steps leading up to a beautiful castle of sorts. The stone bricks and marbled towers above you, spirals of darkened blue shingles descended into gilded turrets, the rampart casting a shadow over all that settles beneath. There’s a flag there, too, positioned just outside of the wooden door leading into the heart of it all. The rich, blue fabric is torn in places, the tassels frayed, bare white thread visible near the paling center making the crest practically invisible.

Something draws you to it, that singular rotting thing in this bright, sterile void. Your feet move quicker than your thoughts as you pad up toward the flag, eyelids squinting as your palm dances over the canvas. The strangest thing happens as you finally make out what remains of a wolf’s head amongst the rips and splintering threads— the wooden door begins to move. It’s not one of those fancy, well crafted ones with those mechanisms you couldn’t fathom in the King’s keep, this one has to be pulled open from the inside.

You watch, lips pursed as the door continues to slowly creek open until finally, you can make out the small courtyard beyond it. A fountain, long since dried up sits at its center, and even with what you imagine must be little care in such a desolate place, the plants are all in bloom; petals of vivid blues and gentle purples fill your vision.

Amongst them, stands a shadow of the purest black, from the opaque veil shrouding his head to the soles of his boots. The cloak he wears is heavy, finely stitched with that very same blue crest embroidered into its chest, the stitching in equal disarray as the flag adorning the stone wall.

You’ve seen specters before. They haunt the kingdom in every nook, crawling over the tops of buildings, invading your dreams with threats of what will come to you if you don’t reanimate something, give them any body to inhabit and puppet so that they might just have a taste of the pleasures of being human once more. Greedy, malevolent things that make you feel ill from a mere glimpse.

This one is entirely an unknown.

He does not crawl from your gaze with the gait of a wary spider, he stands rigid, daring even as those eyes like sapphire lock onto your form. Not a word is uttered between the two of you, yet you feel a pull, one that curls at the bones tucked into the flesh of your legs, pushing and pulling you past the threshold as though an unseen dog were nipping at your heels. You don’t fight it. Your bare feet cross over smooth stone and your stare remains wistful on the figure until he simply strolls away.

That’s it. That’s all it takes before you’re snapped out of your trance and the wooden door swings heavy and violent behind you, closing and locking without a hand to guide it. Then it’s back to the nothingness, the silence.

You should be very, very afraid. In a panic, even as your hands flatten over the wood and you realize that there are no handles from inside at all. You are entirely trapped here, short of finding a way to carve through it or climb up the rampart and risk snapping every limb on your descent. Thing is— you are not afraid, at least not enough to do anything so rash.

A calm settles here, electric and tickling as it feathers unseen through the cool air.

You stay in that courtyard for a long time, admiring every flower and shrub, some you recognize and others you do not. The empty fountain is not empty at all; you find that the marble ring is filled to the brim with riches— gold coins, shimmering stones, all twinkling beneath the yellow glow of the sun overhead.

Inside of the castle is more or less the same, each corridor bathed in the glow of soft candlelight, highlighting paintings in gilded frames that must have taken months to complete, treasures you have only ever heard of seated on polished wood and fine metals. Like walking through a dream. Though your hands itch to pocket something, anything to take back with you when you find the will to escape, to free yourself from the reality of your little shack at the corner of the market that you share with a dozen other witchlings, you don’t touch anything at all.

Following a branch to your right, vast and equally laden with treasures, eyes darting from one shiny thing to the next until the tightly woven, ornate rugs beneath the soles of your feet wind to an end and you instead find your footing on smooth stone tiles.

You find yourself in the throne room, where the specter sits, lofty yet misplaced upon the soft, rolling velvet. That pull, like a lead drawn too tight, pivots you forward, one foot before the other until you’re kneeling at his feet. The figure remains still, watching you with that somber, unrelenting stare even as you reach up to take his gloved hand into your own, kissing along each knuckle until the hand coated in blackened leather moves to cup your face.

This is no king, you know it in your very bones. The dark veil stained by teardrops tells you everything, of a life trodden by deceit and pain untold.

“I know what you are, hündchen.”

The voice startles you, a rasp, alive only in the way that fire lives, crackling and swaying with each lilt. You must have flinched back, the spell weaved around you broken with all of the subtlety of a lightening strike, your elbows dig almost painfully into the rough tiles below, eyes locked to the veil.

Your own voice doesn’t come for a time. When it does, it comes tight; meek and quivering, almost absent entirely as though your own body refuses to bring a ripple to the quiet that has engulfed you.

“Why have you brought me here?”

The feeling that curls up in the hollow spaces within your chest when this enigma pulls you to your feet with a sudden curl of his hand over your wrist feels familiar. It’s not unlike how you felt when accidentally resurrecting that old mantis found dried beneath your bed. It had attempted to chew through your hand, but being so small it hardly seemed a threat, just offensively waving it’s front legs at you until you scooped the critter up and locked it up tight in an old trunk. Some strange tide of wonder, and it takes a moment for you to push it down enough to realize that… the specter is still stood before you, his grip still tight, not saying a word.

Why it brings a swell of warmth to your face should have you questioning your taste in men rather than what he may or may not have done.

“Sorry, I just—“

“You are hurt, hündchen.” He interrupts, turning your wrist over to inspect the flecks of dried blood littering your palm. It’s not the worst injury you’ve ever had, in fact, you had very nearly forgotten it even existed— just a few scrapes from a rope tied far too tight.

You shake your head, biting back that surge of… something, that furry something that crawls from the fluttering organ behind your ribcage and down into the pits of your stomach. That feeling is also familiar, you felt it the first time you laid eyes on that pompous, boy-man serving as heir to the throne in the castle, at least, until he turned his head to look at you and your ilk with thinly veiled disgust.

If the specter sees scum before him, the veil does well to conceal it.

His eyes seem to only light up the more he appraised you, rubbing his thumb over your scrape with such a gentle touch that a shiver rips down your spine.

“I see…”

He guides your wrist back down to your side, delicately trails his fingertips up to your shoulder and… that’s it before he draws away and steps right past you. That’s all the touch you’re given and you find yourself, humiliatingly yearning for it. There should be nothing but contempt scraping at your skull and yet you feel treacherously endeared by this strange, strange faceless man living in this lonely castle.

The risk of this being some bewildering trap weighs heavy on your mind; you’re far more intelligent than some scrappy undead insect, begging to be tossed into a dusty crate, after all. You had heard of the way other lands treated necromancers: shunning them, chasing them from villages, and in far more dreadful cases— leading them to kneel before a headsman for decapitation.

You center yourself, force your mind to conjure up any evidence of some magical foul play only to be left with the knowledge that these feelings are entirely your own.

This man does not have the sticky aura of one dripping magic from his palms like thick globs of honey. He seems almost vacant, devoid of even anything making him human, while you stand transfixed and lacking even the sensible reaction of fear.

You can only find comfort in his gentle hand, in his stare like an unholy flame.

So, when he guides you to what is to be your dwelling you mouth does not part to argue. You’re led to a room larger than the entirety of the cluttered home you shared with the other witchlings. Everything within is worth more than even you, and something about it stings, sharp and sudden like ant’s venom seeping into skin.

From the canopy bed, draped over with thick velvet curtains to protect from the chill of a winter’s night to the neatly polished wood of varying furniture, it all feels so rich— so foreign.

“You didn’t have to prepare all of this for me… I don’t even… why am I here?” You’re rambling, searching every corner of the room with a flitting gaze as if some small patch of dust will provide you with the answers.

Your specter only laughs as he nudges you towards the bed, now your bed, the motion only sending another question to the forefront of your mind.

Were you bought? Meant to warm some peculiar stranger’s bed without even the grace of having the knowledge to prepare?

Perhaps your concerns should have drifted as to why you were not entirely opposed.

“Sleep.”

The simple command leaves you stifled entirely, all confusion and tentative excitement dispelled in an instant.

He wants nothing from you, only to extend a foreign cup spilling over with generosity to one who would not admit it was ever even needed.

You find yourself nodding your head, unaccustomed to the kindness of a forgotten thing like him. In truth, you’re unused to anything but bickering between the other ladies in the witch’s house, the cobwebs stretching without end caking the ceiling, the scuttle of crawling legs over your flesh as you pulled your threadbare blanket over your body to shield you from the cold. From stark poverty to this… it claws at your eyes, steels your mind— man or ghost, it mattered not; your heart sang while your mouth remains pressed into a stiff line.

When he leaves you, your body cloaked in the softest gown you’ve ever worn, burrowed beneath sheets of the finest silk, that unknown thing in your heart seems to spill over, rushing through your veins like honeyed wine.

You dream through the eyes of someone else that night.

A woman kneels at your feet with tears in her dark eyes. She hasn’t slept, the thick, dark patches just above where her cheeks rise make it evident, and she’s pleading with the you who is not you; this woman tells you that she wishes to go home, that she could never be a part of what you are or are not.

Even in dreaming you feel your jaw tighten, sure that your nails have splintered from the shooting pain in your fingertips as your hands tighten over the hard wood of your seat. The not you speaks for you, his voice coming warbled and distant. You can not make out the words, but seeing how this pleading woman’s face seems to morph into an expression of terror, you’re grateful to not know what’s been said.

Nothing becomes of her. You watch as she strolls away, unharmed. This other you, however, is. It’s the tingling of so many unseen legs parading through your chest; spiders in a downward course to burrow in the shadow of your belly. The discomfort rings out as you feel this body rise from its seat, out to the courtyard with a fountain. The flowing water subsided the clambering of spider limbs inside, just enough for this body to pull a ring from its pocket and cast it down into the clear water.

You watch the ring seat itself at the marble bottom, the gentle flow of water causing small ripples to crest over that tiny band of silver until you wake.

Confusion twists itself into curiosity as you free yourself from the sheets, padding out of your room still only adorned in the thin, white fabric of the gown. Morning light filtering through each window of the castle carves a path where the candles have long since been blown out. The only darkness here is with your captor, all tall and shadowy, and you find yourself considering the fact that perhaps you’ve been sucked down into some strange afterlife, one where you and this specter would remain in a silent stasis for all time. You find that you don’t entirely hate the idea, either.

Most of the rooms in the castle are dull. It’s not that there isn’t plenty to look at, but a cluttering of what’s expected, all gold and ornate, only proves to bore you. There is little mystery to be found in riches.

None of it is of importance, anyway. It’s him you’re seeking out, and oddly enough, you find your specter in the courtyard staring down at the cluttered fountain. He shifts in place as you take to his side, fingers curling into loose fists momentarily before he offers you a small greeting by way of running a hand along the back of your neck, petting you as though you truly were only a puppy.

You shiver beneath that warm touch, seem to melt against him before collecting yourself enough to straighten up.

“I did not sleep well,” he says quietly, the look in his eyes tells you that he dreamt through your own. He had seen the decay and filth of the king’s city, perhaps even those angry, little things that you brought back to bite and sting and pinch.

“I didn’t either.”

You recognize that faint, strange smell when you move just a step closer to him, like dust and forgotten things. Not quite rot, but similar, a comfort for you as it’s all your fate has ever allowed for you to know. Yet, this is not one of your reanimations. Only a man.

A man, only, like you; touched by the rot.

The realization crosses your face by way of a widened glance, a sharp intake of breath. It stings again when he turns away from you, drops his hand back to his side.

“Will you walk with me, hündchen?”

“Sure.”

It’s no less strange pacing along at his side than roaming about the castle with no idea where he is. The specter still feels worlds away, even as your arm brushes over his, your fingers occasionally ghosting over his gloved hand. While the vivid blue of globe thistles and hydrangeas entertains your vision, that patient stare of his remains trained on you, even as the quiet settles over the garden once again.

In a way, you feel as though you’re being courted, even as the questions remain scurried and fluttering in your mind. The ghost, the man, whoever he is, refuses to sate that curiosity of yours even as you bring it up to him again. Why? He only responds in an almost boyish laugh that pulls at your heart, infuriating and delightful all the same.

You share a meal, something you’ve no idea how he managed to scrounge together or had the time to prepare at all. He’s been at your side all morning, yet the fruit pastries and tea are served warm as you seat yourself across from him at some grand, oak table. That sparked tingle of magic does not feather off of him as it does with your sisters, but you know without a doubt that he must have it. You glower at him a bit, lips pursed and brow pinched as he sips at his tea, not beneath but through the fabric of his black veil.

“You will have to explain what’s going on at some point,” you huff, pushing your plate away as if to make a show of it. No more accepting his gifts, even if your stomach growls in protest. “Especially if you’re trying to court me.”

It’s cute how wide his eyes go at that, his cup of tea nearly slipping from his hand. The surprise wears off almost immediately, his eyes narrowing in what you imagine must be amusement as you’re left feeling a bit humiliated. Your gaze flits over to the candles adorning the table as you nervously drum your fingers against the lap of your dress.

“Court you?”

“The gown, the walk, the food… is that not what this is?”

“Nein, hündchen…” He pauses to sigh, setting the cup against the table with a dull thud. “It’s better that I did not.”

You think to question him further, but hold back the words bubbling in your throat, sullenly picking at the food on your plate instead. It feels like courtship, would look like courtship to anyone else, but then again… you’ve never quite experienced it for yourself, either. You’re no noble lady, and it feels a bit silly to imagine yourself roaming a place like this with him as your suitor. For all you know, he could be some king from a neighboring kingdom, only offering you respite out of pity after falling from that wagon.

More likely, all of this is just some strange dreaming.

When your lunch is thoroughly picked apart on your plate, the cup emptied, you shift out of your seat and offer him a curt little bow of your head and move towards the door.

— — —

Your days are filled with him— the drab specter you’ve taken to calling König, King, simple and befitting a name as you can give to one without one. No one else lives here, at least that you can see. Not even the rats or scuttling insects you were used to dare to take up residence within this castle. Yet, you remain taken care of and well-fed. You walk at his side every morning and part ways after minimal conversation in the evening. It’s so simple yet odd it almost makes you feel uneasy.

The dreams remain through the eyes of another. Some are combat, and you don’t care for those, looking down to see blood on steel and settling with the odd sense of guilt that you’ve killed someone, even when the you who is not you does not seem to pause. In fact, he often laughs in those dreams, drinks his wine from a golden goblet while he polishes the thick mace in his lap, trousers stained with blood that is not his own.

Others are dreadfully dull. You watch as knights with long swords and silver plates circle around you, your muffled voice shouting demands of what you can only imagine must be tactics and plans for a war you would only ever be apart of in the late hour with your eyes closed.

Your unease nearly doubles on the fourth night, when you wake with a start, pulled from a dream where you see that same woman from the first wailing over a bloodied corpse to find König looming over where you rest. The curtains of your bed parted with what little moonlight filtering inside bathing him in an unearthly, bluish glow. As usual, he doesn’t breathe a word, only stares as you slowly peel back your sheet to sit up and face him fully.

“Is something wrong?,” you ask in a whisper, rubbing your palms against your eyes as you force yourself to pull through the haze of sleep.

“Du bist schön wenn du schläfst,” he hums. “Even having a nightmare.”

“You said you were not courting me.”

“I’m not, hündchen.”

He offers you a hand that you readily accept, hardly having time to marvel over just how cold his skin feels without his glove before you find your cheek pressed to a broad chest. Your breath catches in your throat, heart hammering with the urgency of a cricket’s song.

“You didn’t sleep well either?”

“Nein.”

“Maybe we could sleep together?,” you offer with a laugh that sounds stiff even to your own ears.

You expect some other quip about the status of your peculiar relationship, not a sigh, not the way König gently lowers you back into bed and climbs in to follow, not at your side, but rested with his head over the swell of your breasts. You’re almost certain your rib cage will bruise by the pounding in your chest this infatuation burdens you with.

He hums contentedly at the contact, props his chin up on the valley between your breasts.

“Warm,” he murmurs.

You reach to pull the blanket over you both without a word, staring up at the velvet curtain as you try to force yourself into a state of calm indifference.

It lasts for all of a single breath; König shifts, stroking over the fabric of your gown, bunching over your hip. His touch makes you shiver, too cold, as though he doesn’t have any body heat at all. Your arm settles over the expanse of his back, pulling him just a tad closer as you relax into the feather-stuffed mattress.

“Ja… I like this.”

“I do too...”

So, you sleep, so intertwined with one another that your body heat melts away the frigid touch of his own flesh with no discernment for where you end and he begins. Your dreams are absent in his presence, replaced by a solace you’ve never known as a comfortable stillness settles over you both.

When morning comes, an unhurried sun casting a dull glow through the arched window in the room, you’re pleasantly surprised to find him still here. You’ve shifted in the lack of dreaming, finding your positions opposite to when sleep had taken its hold; your head rests on König’s chest now, comfortably slow. He doesn’t feel as cold, though…

König does not breathe.

You hurriedly rise, throwing the covers off of you both and shove at him with a panicked urgency, desperately searching for any sort of reaction from him to ensure he hasn’t passed away in his sleep.

It’s not a corpse’s silence that you’re met with but an annoyed huff of breath as he grabs at your wrists and tugs you back down.

“Was..?” Your specter only sounds annoyed as he gazed down at you, keeping your trembling hands steady in his unyielding grip.

“You weren’t breathing! I thought…” You trail off, the words catching in your throat as you realize just how ridiculous that you sound. Of course he wasn’t dead. Even if he were a reanimation, no magic in the entirety of this kingdom would allow him to retain so much of his soul.

König only laughs at that, closes you in an embrace that sets your pulse racing again as he carefully maneuvers you below him. When he had become so familiar mattered not, you wouldn’t dare to complain. It’s achingly comfortable, brings a sigh from your parted lips as you fall back into that perfect, placid state of contentment.

“Hündchen… you worry too much,” he huffs, caging you in as he relaxes with his face pressed back to the divot between your breasts. “So many questions… too many concerns, ja?”

“I would not fret so much if you would just explain a few things.”

“Geduld.”

Though you do pout, make a show of your irritation by exhaling heavily, his tone harbors a calm finality. You’re not so sure that any reasoning for all of this would matter much at all anymore; whether it be a dream or some gentle corner of an afterlife you’ve found yourself tucked within, you only find that you never wish for it to end.

— — —

This dream is worse than any before it.

You feel your vessel’s emotions tenfold; a clamor of disquiet and rage, vicious and searing. The air is still and silent but heavy with the scent of iron. From the blurred view that you’re granted, the shapes of cadavers are easy enough to tell, all lain twisted in glistening pools of their own blood.

Your vessel isn’t moving, though you will your thoughts to encourage him to do so, he remains in place, a pillar destined to topple.

You don’t want to see it, yet waking eludes you.

The sounds of hurried footsteps fill the quiet, a shout to your right that you do not even have the capability to turn towards. Cursed are hissed, warbled and unfamiliar, only recognized by their venom. You know that this is the end, a brutal, grisly one for your counterpart and for these dreams in their entirety.

When wicked steel carves it’s way into your vessel’s middle, you feel how tightly he clenched his jaw to bite back a howl of agony, take the subdued, shooting pain spreading through him as though it were your own. Try as you might, you can not wake; forced to be a voyeur to this stranger that you’ve grown fond of’s gruesome demise.

The vessel’s head is tugged forward, forced to kneel at the feet of the brute who has buried a dagger into his side. A sneer paints the man’s face as your counterpart’s veil is thrown away, and you recognize it— that same shroud of black, stained with imagined tears as it falls to a small heap onto a bloodstained floor.

König.

You wake with a start in a haze of utter confusion, catching your breath as the truth of it all crawls down to settle someplace within you. A cold sweat settles over your skin, bringing with it the rise of slight goose pimples and an incessant tremble.

The specter is just as you had suspected in that brief moment between bonding and sleep, dead and long-forgotten; a corpse made man again. This isn’t some silent kingdom, but a well-preserved crypt.

It hurts.

You wash your face in the water of the small basin at the corner of the room, change from your bed gown into a dress of a drab gray. Even to yourself, mourning a truth that’s been glaring you in the face since your arrival feels misplaced and odd, but that horrible sadness does not subside.

At least, not until you pry your door open to find König waiting just on the other side. He cocks his head at you, gaze softening in a silent understanding as your hand is fitted into his own.

The morning walk is less quiet this morning, a single dove could be heard cooing, hidden beneath the green of some sprawling alder’s leaves. König speaks to, explains some without giving all away. He tells you what he can remember, the details of his failed courting of the foreign princess with dark eyes and a petrified stare, the plot against him that dwindled out into a curse that’s left him here, but never an estimate for how long.

You listen in a perplexed silence, clutching his hand just a bit tighter as each questioning cobweb is swept away with a low voice droning out a story better left untold.

When he finishes, with your free hand sifting it’s fingers through the petals adorning a hydrangea shrub, you think to tell him one simple truth: “I can’t bring you back.”

It startles you when he suddenly pulls you in, resting his chin atop your head and curling those broad arms over your shoulders. The embrace is tight, a certain desperation in his touch as though he almost fears the thought of you pulling away. Strange from a man you now knew had not even feared his own death.

“Nein. I just want to be understood.”

And you do understand, perfectly, as only one also touched by the rot could.

— — —

There’s never a night that you don’t find yourself asleep with König mere centimeters away, if there is any gap between at all, anymore. He feigns his breath until you’re fast asleep, takes to playing human enough to not worry you any further, even after you explain that it doesn’t, not any longer. Always, you wake to his head buried against your chest, listening to the fragile beating of your heart until you stir to wake him. Your hands rove over his veil, but never question what he hides beneath it. You already know without seeing— the wicked, sprawling scar from where his head was once wrenched from his body.

A necromancer and a lich, of all things. If the bards in the King’s city were to ever know, your story would be passed from tavern to tavern until it became little more than the stuff of myth.

The thought occurs to you when you wake, huffing a drowsy little giggle as you repeat your morning ritual, fingertips grazing over the dark fabric obscuring König’s face until heavy eyelids languidly part to focus his attention on that mirthful expression painted across your face.

“I have changed my mind,” he declares some moments later as he nuzzles in the divide between your neck and shoulder, unhurried and gentle as he always seems to be with you.

“Hm?”

“I will court you.” A statement that would make most with a better grasp on the disparity between what’s living and dead flinch back in horror. Though, where most would consider corruption, you only take it as further confirmation to your mutual devotion.

“You already have been.”

He falls silent at that for a moment, trailing a cold path of chaste kisses along your jaw, lazy and soft to a point you can feel the grin beneath his hood.

Finally, he hums in agreement.

“Then I should have you, hm?”

He drags a palm down your thigh to your knee, the pad of his thumb bunching up the fabric of your gown as he presses against you, tracing small circles.

Your mouth feels dry when you part your lips to speak once more. The words falter, engulfed in a far more desperate flame; someplace far off, in the back of your mind you can hear them echo, bouncing from cavern walls.

“Hündchen..,” he rasps quietly. Maybe he’s thought it too, that this should be far more innocent, but the way he furiously tugs your undergarments down to your ankles belies his interest far more than some ideal, ancient telling of courtship would ever allow.

“You want to..?”

König laughs, whether it’s at your words or the surprise on your face, you didn’t know. Despite your nudity, he doesn’t look at you down there, his eyes remain locked on your face. There’s something wild and uncanny about them, something bordering on madness. His breathing is heavier, as if he’s fighting back the urge to bury his head in your cunt and breathe you in, and you’re almost certain that after all of your yearning he could bring you to ruin from a puff of breath alone.

He echoes your question with barely contained amusement, until you breathe out your consent. You sound just uncertain enough to prompt him to pull away briefly, raising up to look you in the eyes as his own narrow in search of any signs of apprehension. Finding none, a heavy palm meets your chest to push you to lie down in full as his head dives between your thighs without hesitation.

The feeling of a wide tongue slipping over your slit prompts an immediate reaction— a sharp cry that has you slamming your palm over your mouth in an effort to not break the peace settled over this place.

Every lick is slow and deliberate, a far cry from enough stimulation to properly get you off. It’s as if he’s doing this to prepare you rather than bring you to ruin. His tongue thrusts into you at a languid pace, fucking you open with heady muscle rather than the cold touch of his fingers. For that you’re grateful, but it just isn’t enough.

König huffs another chuckle against your sex when you whine and buck your hips, desperately searching for a friction that just isn’t being supplied. His hands press against your hips to hold you in place, the pads of his thumbs circling against your abdomen as he tries to set you at ease.

“Be patient,” he mumbles as he raises his head, bottom lip slowly raking over the hood of your aching clit. You find it difficult to comply, but in a way you feel fortunate to even experience this much. Who else could say that they were being fucked by the tongue of a titan and be believed? His lips close around your sensitive bud, tongue languidly circling over it, kissing you there as gently as he can manage. The very moment a moan is pulled from you, breaking the silence of his concentration he tears back to lick far further down than you were prepared for, before climbing over you instead of allowing you a release.

The taste of you lingers on his tongue when your face is pushed beneath the veil, an urgent probing as he thrusts the muscle into your waiting mouth, sampling the mixture of your saliva and slick. A palm is splayed over your thigh, forcing you to open yourself to him despite the strain.

He proves he’s less patient than he pretends to be; that’s all of the preparation that you get.

A breath later you feel yourself speared open, the girth of his tip slipping into you with involuntary resistance. Your gasp is met with a keening groan from his open mouth, quickly stifled as he bites into the side of your neck. Each thrust is shallow, the head of his cock spreading you meticulously until you’re nearly in tears from your own impatience. His body temperature is far cooler than your own, and you feel as if you’re more of a mess than you’ve ever been prior as his own precum mixes with the arousal already freely dribbling past your swollen labia.

You kick your leg out, force your hips in a different angle to push him in deeper only to have his grip tighten and his teeth dig into your flesh. Again and again, until you’re a babbling mess beneath him.

“König… please..,” You manage to choke out, voice small and barely audible over the obscene sounds pulled from the wetness of your cunt.

Immediately, your pleading is answered with a slam of his hips, the thick cock forced to its hilt inside of your pulsing walls. König’s head lolls back, his free hand curling over your hip as he grunts. He isn’t making love to you, but fucking into you like a man possessed. A palm fitted over your mouth wouldn’t silence the obscene sounds of sex, nor the bed creaking beneath your combined weight as he pumps into you; each drag is pure rapture as he fills you entirely.

The repetitive spearing of your sweet spot brings you to a near-painful orgasm, trembling cunt only sucking him in further with each pulsing wave of bliss. The quiet is forgotten entirely as you whine out your praises between wanton moans and breathy cries.

He kisses you, proper and sweet when he comes. The thickness of his seed floods you, spilling out onto the sheets below as he fucks it back into you, his pace never slowing until the throbbing of his cock comes to an abrupt end.

The hand holding your leg in place retreats to gently brush your cheek, his thumb grazing beneath your eye until you reach for his wrist to pull it down to kiss over his palm. He returns your kisses with a breathy laugh before pressing his forehead to your own, kissing from the tip of your nose down to your chin.

“I do understand,” you whisper against cool flesh.

“Ja… because you were made for me.”

You don’t disagree.

This morning is the first you’ve caught sight of a breeze, gently pushing at the curtains lining the bed, the first you’ve heard of any semblance of life beyond yourself. When your eyelids flutter shut, relaxation prying away any residual tension, you almost think you can hear the pounding of a second heart— one you can only think to wish together with your own.

#könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig x you #cod fanfiction #könig #konig #and now i sleep for 40hrs farewell everyone everywhere

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bloodycassian · 1 year

Text

A Fire Inside 18+ - Reader x Eris smut

!!!!NSFW 18+!!!!

Reader is knighted to be Eris’ personal guard. Once she’s actually in the role though, she fights boredom and enters the Princes room one day...

A midnight breeze swept over the plains, shaking every tree in the orchard. Autumn had many of them, but this one in particular was the only one with guards at the ready to defend it. You sighed, pulling your hood over your ears. Though Autumn was perpetually in bloom, and the apples regrew monthly, the environment still swayed - slightly - to whatever season the Seasonal courts were in. It was by the High Lord’s magic that that stayed true, and that Autumn was able to make it’s fair trade with the rest of Prythian for their seasonal goods.

Making your rounds, you finally came back to the latrines, where whispered voices were murmuring over the fluttering leaves. You hung back a moment, hidden in the darkness behind a thick trunk of a tree, listening to the windswept voices.

“It’s not meant for him. Kill the one and the rest will follow, slitting each other’s throats until one stands.”

You clutched your dagger, ready to slice at any threats you didn’t hear while your focus locked on to the two speaking. “It’s not right, by any means. But killing one is easier than five..”

Gods… usurpers among the Lady’s orchard… You gripped your weapon like a lifeline, afraid that they would sense your insight on their scheming and come to kill you just like they spoke of killing the high lord’s sons.

You spared the smallest glance from around the tree, noting the build of the two uniformed guards. One held a torch, his helmet discarded on the bed of leaves that many used as a sitting place.

They departed after a few more grumbled complains, leaving you in the darkness.

Heartbeat going wild, you sprinted to the Forest house as quickly as you could in the heavy armor.

Eris stood proudly in front of you at your knighting ceremony. He’d been the only one to offer you solace during this process, telling you the blood of the two males wasn’t on your hands. That if you hadn’t informed the royals of the treason, then surely many more would have died.

You looked to him constantly during this, looking for the reassurance that still, you were innocent. That the would be usurpers would be taken care of quickly, however they saw fit. You’d glance from him, to his father reading out the ritualistic words, droning on and on until finally the skin of a red-brown fox was lain over your shoulders. “Rise, Royal Guard of the Autumn Court.”

You wanted to bash your head against the wall. More specifically, the never changing gold framed picture that you stared at day after day in front of Eris’s chamber.

You’d fallen asleep several times in the month you’d been assigned this position, but today was never ending. You’d already gone through your fantasy scenarios for how you’d block an attack from the hall, or what it would be like to have to evacuate the prince from his room. You were surprised that the twenty five worn bricks you paced from his door to the hall intersection didn’t beg you to stop dragging your feet across their surface.

The worst part was that this was the position that every swordsman outside these walls would kill for.

You leaned against the wall aside his door, ready to take off your helmet and scream.

A scuff of footsteps, light and sure. You tensed, hand going to the pommel of your sword.

A servant, red faced and carrying a silver platter of different fruits and cheeses turned the corner, paying you no mind, though you stood in front of the door to stop him.

“Did the prince send for you?” You asked, glad that your voice came off commanding, and less questioning.

“Out the way, pup. Brisket’s still hot, Eris-”

“I will bring it to him.” You said, ending it with ‘dog’ in your head. You wished you could show him just who the pup was. He didn’t look like he’d spent a day outside these walls.He scowled, but left you the tray of food and was off in a hurry.

You knocked on the door with your booted foot, but no answer came. Worry knotted your stomach, turning your last meal sour. Managing to press on the door’s latch and pushing it open. The room was dark, the glow from the fire making the air dry despite the trailing plants that slithered down from tall bookshelves. thin shafts of sunlight managed to filter their way through the gaps in the curtains, making the velvet chairs and couches glow with their rich color.

You placed the tray in front of one of the emerald couches, wiping a smudge from the glass and gold table. When you turned, the breath was nearly knocked from your chest.

Eris stood, illuminated from the light of the bathroom he’d just exited, a billow of steam following him out. You swallowed hard, trying to make your once over of his body quick. A towel hung dangerously low on his hips, revealing a patch of hair that led below. His hair was slicked to one side, darkened and still dripping with water. There, not fifty feet away, he grinned wide. He held his hands out, and approached with ease. Like he wasn’t almost completely naked in front of you.

Despite your duties to him, to the entire court… your stomach trilled with butterflies, heart beating at bit faster with his close proximity. And the scent of him - cauldron, he smelled good.

He clapped you on the shoulder, the metal of your armor warming where he touched. “Would you like some?” He asked, bending to pluck a grape from the tangle of fruit.

You were drooling, but not from the food. “No, sire, it’s alright.” You dismissed yourself, taking a dizzy step back from him and towards the door.

He cringed, and brought his fingers to his mouth, pulling out a pit. “Damn chef-” He rolled the hard ball between his fingers a moment, and his eyes raked across your bulky armor plating. “You could take that off, you know.. Have a break. I’m probably the son who needs the least protecting.”

“You are first heir to the throne. Some would say you need the most protection, sire.” You countered, hating the thought that anyone would ever target him.

“Eris. It is just Eris, none call me sire in these walls, aside from dignitaries and enemies.”

“What does that make me, prince?”

“I hope neither…” He paused a moment, and let the pit fall from his hand to the tray again “I hope something far more interesting, if we’re meant to be around each other often.” He floated closer to you, and it seemed like the water was burning off of him. Your eyes followed the trails of it in the ray of sun that separated you. He was gorgeous, so utterly completely gorgeous that it made you want to whimper.

Was this a test? To see if you would try to use him, as his guard? Or was this something real? Your mind bounced between the two, an eager child ready to play a new game. What were the rules here? You were genuinely attracted to him, you couldn’t deny that. But was this… wrong?

Once he crossed that unspoken plain, your mind could only hope to catch up with what your body wished to do. “How are you liking this new role?”

Your hesitation must have been answer enough, because his knowing grin was a bit sad. “It’s… different.” You supplied, unable to come up with a positive term for the unending boredom.

“They tell me the last guard went into the Shroud and never came back. I wonder if it was his version of…” He stopped there, eyes turning sad and distant. Seeing that darkness there, the wandering thoughts made you want to kill the guard yourself.

“I’d never, sire- Eris…” You caught yourself, and he seemed to come back to you. “I’d never abandon you like that.” Even if it were for your own sake. He was important. Not only to the court, but to you. He’d been your rock at the ceremony. He seemed to be the only sane person at times, in this court. He deserved a guard who was loyal to him. Not his father or his brothers, or anyone with enough gold in their pocket.

He gave you a small smile and nod, washing away the tension that was there just a second ago. He then stepped back to the platter of food and brought a cherry to his lips. “You ever play this one?” He said around it.

“Play what?”

“You’ve got to be terribly bored out there. Let me teach you something I used to do during my father’s odious meetings.” He held the cherry out to you, but you did not take it. You had to be watching his door, keeping him safe from assassinations. You glanced to the door. If you were caught playing some food related game with him then you Commander would - “You’re staying here. I’ll tell them I was choking if they question where my Royal Guard is.”

He held the cherry higher, at your brow level. You would have glared if it were anyone else, but the order form him seemed so charming.

You opened your mouth, and let your hands fall to your sides. You hadn’t realized that you’d been ready to attack this entire interaction. Like you were fighting yourself, warring with the need to be his protector but wanting to be something…more.

The moment the cherry touched your tongue, you questioned everything that brought you here. Biting it from the stem as Eris pulled was igniting something inside of you… this sort of intimacy between a guard and a royal was forbidden. If the high lord or anyone looking for a one up against you knew about this…

You sucked the sweetness from your teeth and watched Eris hold his and your own, comparing the two. He tossed his short stem to the floor, and picked a new one from the bunch. Plucking the long stem from it, he held the glistening berry up.He held it at eye level, yet again. This was… something. You narrowed your eyes, but He hardly looked up, and on a whim, you lapped it from his fingers, quickly pulling away after your tongue grazed over the pad of his thumb.

Something rippled through the air, and when he looked at you next his eyes darted to your lips. You leaned forward, staring at his own lips.. Waiting for him to damn you. Waiting for him to-

He leaned back, eyes dark with desire as he went from your lips, to your eyes and flushed cheeks.He approached you slowly, giving you all the time in the world to pull away. You could smell him. Could smell the oils he used in his hair, the soap he used on his body… and a definite spice that was pure him. A honeyed scent that reminded you of apples and maple, but also a wicked bonfire.

His eyes tracked yours down to the moment your noses touched, and he slid close enough to press his burning lips against yours.

Your breathing stopped completely, and you were frozen a moment before you could respond with your own, needing kiss. It was slow, tender at first. But within a few seconds your hands were pulling him closer, and his own were pulling at the straps of your armor plates.

He held up a hand and the latch on the door clicked shut. You buried your hands in his hair and crushed your lips together, his tongue sliding slowly over your lower lip, testing. Teasing.. His hands were alarming hot, and if he weren’t Autumn born you’d be sending him to the nearest infirmary.

But he was the prince. A true born son, and heir to the Autumn Court.

He was your prince and he was the one initiating everything you’d wanted from the moment in that ceremony- how could you deny that you wanted this… that you wanted him?

You didn’t. You fell into it, letting your unrivaled need take you. You became an anchor at the deepest pits of your desire. And you hoped that you’d never have to rise.

You were both unclothed in only a few moments.His hands roamed over your entire body, savoring all the dips and curves, never lingering in one particular area too long. He was surprisingly tender, dragging the tips of his fingers over areas that made you shudder in delight. He was able to go from a hard slap against your ass, appreciating everything there, to delicate tracing over your breasts. He had you arching against him with every movement.

. He tugged you back towards his bed, where the air still hung with damp heat from his shower. He had you on your back, pushed halfway across his deep grey duvet in seconds. You couldn’t help the whine at the loss of his body heat against you. He shushed you, though, and with a gravely voice said. “I’ll take care of you baby… there’ll be more.”

“Gonna get you nice and ready for me.” He muttered, fingers tracing over your mound of hair, then sliding over your waiting pussy lips. “Nice and wet already…Mmm-” He brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked a long, devious finger, relishing in it. Your breathing was choked at the sight of him.

“Fuck me-” You demanded, attempting to sit up. You managed a solid pump of his cock before he was gently pushing you back down on to the covers.

“Let me enjoy you first.”

How the hell could anyone argue with that?

If his fingers were any indication of how his mouth would feel, you’d come instantly. He played over your clit like he’d done it a thousand times before, perfect pressure and rhythm, and just when you thought he’d make you finish on that alone, he added a finger.

Your hips bucked into him, a feral cry coming from your mouth. So close. You were so close to the prescipse, and he lessened his pressure. Liek he knew you were going to finish around his single digit. He curled his finger and you nearly broke. You opened your eyes, silently pleading with him for something.. For release or for a break so you wouldn’t. His cock dripped, the length of him bobbing with eagerness. “You want this so bad… so tight and eager.” He hummed, pumping his hot digit into you a few more times, easing you away from that edge. He pulled away from you and pressed the wet digit to your lips, pressing your own juices to your tongue then on to his own. He hummed, like it was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted.

You rose again, and fisted your hand in his hair before he could press you back down. You tugged slightly at his roots, a strange challenge rising in your chest when he grinned wildly. “Fuck me. Now.” You demanded.

He caught your lips with his and pressed you back into the blanket. His teeth caught your lip for a brief moment, sucking hard enough to make you pull away. He raised himself over you, and brought a lick of saliva to coat his length. He slid over your slit, then pressed inside. You arched, making the angle a bit easier for him to slide in. The stretch he brought to your insides was a slight burn at first, but drowned quickly in a sea of pleasure as he slipped further inside.

A hiss of intense pleasure escaped his lips, as he worked his way into you. Inch by inch until he was full seated, the backs of your thighs pressed to his hips. His hands roamed your body, keeping you warm and stimulated while you adjusted to him. His finger went to your mouth, where you sucked it greedily, enjoying how it made his cock twitch inside of you while you did.

“Wicked thing.” he breathed, pulling out slightly, before pressing back in. He worked you easily, every slow moment paying off when he started fucking you fully. He hooked your feet over his shoulders, and pressed you down into the bed, his hips snapping into your wetness, both of you groaning out different obscenities.

He pushed you on to your side, laying behind you and fucking you so he could swallow your moans. When he felt your inner walls fluttering around him, he stopped and had to give himself a moment. “I want to keep fucking you.” He’d ground out, then had you on top of him, your back to his chest. He lifted you with ease, but worked slower in this position. You really didn’t care how he wanted you, as long as he was inside of you - it was exquisite.

His hands found their favorite spots, eventually. Tangled in your hair, around your waist or digging into your hips when you bounced on top of him. You didn’t want it to end, didn’t want go back to any life that didn’t revolve around his challenging evasive kisses and the way he groaned your name. Both of you were covered in sweat, sticking to each other on the bed when he hit that spot inside of you that had your entire being quaking. He must have noticed, his grin became wild, almost evil with eagerness. You nodded quickly, and he slowed his thrusts.He aimed the tip of himself to press into that spot again, and you knew you wouldn’t be lasting much longer. You were panting, rolling your hips upwards towards him, but Eris didn’t budge. He kept the slow pace, grazing against the spot inside you at his leisure.

“I can keep you busy. Keep you in here like my own fuckdoll-” He grunted, arching his back into you. “Send you back out there dripping with my come.”

Though the idea of being anywhere but inside his chamber sounded appalling, his words made your pussy throb with need.

“You want that? Want me to summon you whenever I need my cock sucked?”

His words had your breath coming quick, and his cock throbbing, surging inside you. “Come for me.” He said, eyes going wide. Your breathy pants turned into some mewling sound as you reached to rub your clit, the pressure was nearly enough you just needed something more-

and out of nowhere, Eris grabbed your hips and slammed himself into you. In three hard, fast thrusts he had your eyes rolling back, body shaking as your orgasm ripped through you. His nails dug into your skin, and you curled around him, locking your ankles around his backside, forcing him even deeper inside of you. Your mouth went to some part of him, sucking and biting there as the pleasure washed over every inch of you.

Your mind was untraceable as he collapsed on top of you, barely holding himself up as he came in time with your body milking his cock. His shuddered breaths were hot against your neck, but cooled the sweat there. You didn’t notice the bruise you’d sucked into his shoulder until your eyes managed to open again.

You grinned. A little damage to the prince wasn’t such a bad thing.

#eris acotar #eris vanserra #reader x eris #eris x reader #acotar #acotar fic

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thegoosewiththemost · 1 year

Text

Slice of Life with BJ

For @nak3d-snak3 , I finally finished off your prompt!

Hey how you doing? Could i have a day in the life hc's with bj and his s/o? Like whats a common day for them? I have other ideas for requests but don't want to be to demanding. Cheers!

- you cannot drag this man out of bed to save your life if he doesn’t want out. Beetlejuice sleeps like a sack of bricks that have been haphazardly thrown across your mattress and if he’s somehow lain on top of you, good luck getting out of there.

- cuddle time in the mornings is a regular occurrence and most days you set the alarm half an hour earlier to make time for that daily morning debrief, allowing yourself that buffer time to wake up slowly and enjoy each other’s company.

- sometimes when it’s cold you find the excuse to drag the entire blanket with you both to the kitchen

- you work together like a well oiled machine in the mornings. After much dedication, determination and false fire alarms being set off, Beetlejuice turns out to be a surprisingly capable cook. Typically he’s the one who will make breakfast if it’s more complicated than cereal and milk. You’re in charge of making the beverages and doing the dishes afterwards.

- the bathroom is your private space away from each other and the one boundary that you insist on keeping with Beetlejuice. Despite the progression in your relationship with each other, he is as clingy as ever and though he is less insecure about himself, he still struggles with the fear of losing you and so he compensates for this with constant touches whether it’s from his feet seeking your legs under the blankets when you sleep to a protective arm around you when you’re out together.

- takes the initiative to order for you when you’re going out for coffee because he knows exactly what you want.

- while his possessiveness of you had lightened up significantly after knowing how you felt about him and after much reinforcement of the fact that you weren’t leaving him high and dry, he still occasionally feels threatened by people who he thinks are better than him.

- good luck to anyone who decides to hit on you, because they might just encounter a very spontaneous accident like a spilled drink or have their belongings swept away by a strong wind. He’s the first to defend you against any unwanted attention.

- some things don’t change, like his mischief and his sexual appetite, but for the most part, you can tell that he’s much more relaxed than he ever was before. More genuine and less of a parading conman because he has no need to hide anymore.

- he takes pleasure in the smaller things in life, like watching the lizards catch their prey or the sensation of being hugged and loved as he is without fear and pain.

- when you’re home he’s joined to you at the hip, going where ever you go and leaning into your touch where he can.

- loves being held and sinking into you during movie nights. The combination of your familiar scent and the security he feels with your arms around him is what does it for him. He absolutely melts when you feed him snacks or massage his scalp and shoulders.

- chick flicks take pride of place alongside horror flicks and comedic movies in his preferred movie lineup.

- likes to become your personal cushion when you read your books aloud to him.

- he likes to partake in your daily rituals, maybe in an attempt to copy them but also out of intrigue and because he likes to imitate what he deems as normal for living people. You have a skincare routine picked out specifically for him and you go through the motions together every morning and night. You have too many pictures of Beetlejuice with a wet face mask on saved to your phone.

- kisses goodnight happen without question. He likes to sleep with his face in your neck or your hair and it takes a while to figure out the ideal sleeping position where he isn’t snoring, usually with careful repositioning on your part after he falls asleep.

#beetlejuice x reader #musicaljuice x reader #beetlejuice musical

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hylfystt · 7 months

Text

i think i might've inhaled you

ship: leida valroux (wol) / ardbert hylfyst rating: explicit fandom: ffxiv word count: 3.7k phEW notes: major shadowbringers spoilers. baby's first smut. don't think to hard about the logistics of this, it works because it works. [ao3]

It’s late when she startles from her slumber, a stifled cry on her lips and sweat on her brow. Instinct drives her to throw the covers from her form, to free herself from the confines of her bed and bolt and —

Leida takes a shuddering breath, burying her face in her hands. She focuses on her breathing, trying to quiet the rush of blood in her ears and the echo of a shattered shield.

The Vault. It’s been a long time since that particular nightmare has come to plague her. She had hoped that she was finally free of it, that the peace she had made with Haurchefant’s death might finally absolve her of her nightly torments.

A vain hope, so it seemed.

“I was beginning to worry you weren’t going to wake up.”

Ardbert’s voice carries easily in the quiet of the room. She isn’t surprised to find him standing before her window, more than accustomed to his near nightly vigil. It’s a small comfort, knowing that he stays. There may be little he can do in the event of something truly disastrous, they both know that, but it is an attempt to ward away the troubles that would seek to plague her regardless. Something stirs within her at the thought. Leida meets his gaze, shuffling to rest against the wall, the cool bricks offering some measure of comfort against her still flushed skin. Ardbert glances away, turning his attention back to the night sky, something like regret flashing in his eyes.

“What time is it?”

“Dunno. Still a few hours before dawn, I reckon.” He casts her a quick glance. “You should go back to sleep. Tomorrow is sure to be a long day.”

Leida smiles thinly. “It always is.” The words sound more cynical to her ears than she intends them, but it doesn’t diminish the truth of them. Her days have been long ever since that quiet grey morning she slipped aboard a ship bound for Limsa Lominsa some five years ago now. At this point she doesn’t much know what she would even do with peace, anyways. “I doubt I’ll find much rest now regardless.”

“You want to talk about it?”

The elezen huffs a laugh. “Not in the slightest.” Leida closes her eyes and lets her head fall back to rest against the wall. “I’ve told you of Haurchefant.”

Ardbert hums in acknowledgement. He understands then. “Aye, that you have.” Silence settles between them, heavy as they contemplate the weight of their respective ghosts. Leida frowns, cracking an eye to gaze at the gentle glow that radiates from Ardbert. The figurative kind, she supposes.

She has seen ghosts before, spirits that cling to this world by sheer force of will or by magicks beyond her purview. Her expertise lies in living aether, in arcanima and the egi. The more spiritual studies of aetherflow have always lain in Y’Shtola and Urianger’s domains, and she’s been more than content to leave it with them in the past, despite her fascination. Run so ragged as she’s been these past years, she’s had little time to dedicate herself to new areas of study.

Looking at Ardbert now, not at all like the specters she has battled in the past and yet not quite living, she wishes she had never given up that particular thread of curiosity.

“Well,” Ardbert says suddenly, snapping Leida out of her quiet contemplations. “If you’re going to be stubborn about it, might as well make yourself useful.” He crosses the room and settles on the edge of her bed, raising an expecting brow. “Go on, then. You promised me another one of those tales of yours.”

“Useful?” Leida sputters, unable to help the grin that blossoms under his teasing gaze. “Arse.”

Ardbert returns her grin, eyes softening. Leida knows what he is doing, and she is grateful for it—grateful for him and this easy comfort that has grown between them since her arrival on the First. They’ve come a long way from their meeting on the Source, from the cynical jabs and mistrust that marked their meetings after. She’s not entirely sure when the shift happened, but she has come to care for him, and she knows that she is not alone in her sentiments.

Sitting here close to him, a small part of her, quiet and longing and foolish, wonders what it would be like to touch him.

“Let’s see,” Leida starts, shaking the thought from her head and scooting to sit beside Ardbert. She has much she can tell him, much she wants to, good and bad and much somewhere in the middle. But tonight is a night for good, she thinks. “Have I told you of the Churning Mists?”

“In passing, I think.”

Leida smiles fondly. “There are a particular inhabitants there, a rather funny people called moogles—”

Ardbert casts her a flat look. “The First has them too, you know.”

“Shush, you. You wanted a story, I’m giving you a story. Now, as I said, moogles…”

Ardbert listens intently as she tells her tale, of the restoration of Zenith and the misadventures along the way. It’s almost a relief to talk about something that, in the grand scheme of all that she has done since shouldering the mantle of Warrior of Light, seems relatively mundane. Not that she herself would call it so. Her work with Mogzin, Ohl Deeh and Tarresson is something she is proud of and holds dearly to her heart.

She is glad to share this with him, too.

“I should visit them again when we get home,” Leida says, laying back so that she is stretched across the bed, legs left dangling over the side. She doesn’t catch the brief flash of sorrow her words bring.

I would have liked to have seen it with you. “I would have thought you’d be sick of the creatures after all that,” Ardbert says instead. He shakes his head, forcing a smile. “Honestly. Drunk moogles…”

Leida laughs. “Yes, well, I find them quite endearing.”

“You would.”

Leida rises quickly, casting a look of mock incredulity at the man. She reaches out, shoving him lightly. “Now just what do you mean by that?”

Something shifts in the aether.

Ardbert sits frozen, eyes blown wide. Leida stills, too, when the realization dawns. She looks at her hand, still resting on the pauldron of his armor, cold and rough and so incredibly tangible under her fingers. Her mouth drops open, a small oh slipping past her lips as she stares at the point of contact.

“So it wasn’t my imagination, then.” Ardbert’s voice is more fragile than she has ever heard it before. He can’t seem to look away from her hand. “You can feel me.”

Leida swallows. “Before,” she starts, moving her hand from his shoulder to trail down his arm. She is careful with her movements, as if he might fade once again under her touch if she moves too quickly. She’s not sure she could bear it if he did. “When the Light…”

Ardbert nods, almost imperceptibly. “I thought I had felt something…I thought I had felt you.”

He watches her hand intently, brow pinched as it comes to rest at his wrist. Were it not for his very nature, he would have wondered if this was somehow a dream. He’s still not sure he believes it at all, that he won’t blink his eyes and she will still be lying back on the mattress, ready to expound on the virtues of moogles.

Instead Leida’s fingers brush the clasps of his bracers and he swallows hard. “May I?” she asks.

Ardbert nods again, not daring to trust his voice.

With careful consideration, she sets upon freeing his forearm, undoing clasps and buckles with a quiet reverence. She sets the gauntlet aside, hesitating only just before she reaches to remove his glove, careful not to touch the expanse of skin now exposed to his eyes for the first time in a century. He feels nearly faint with this simple intimacy. She reaches for his other hand, divesting his other hand with the same tender care until both his hands are left bare to her and the night.

“Leida…” He watches her, intensity burning in those blue eyes of his despite the way that he trembles. After an achingly long moment she moves, brushes her fingers ever so gently across his palm and marvels at the way he feels so solid under her touch.

Ardbert exhales sharply at the contact, trembling still. He feels hot—her touch a searing warmth with every careful brush of her fingers against his. Ardbert flexes his hand, a vain attempt to steady himself. Leida meets his eye, apology ready on her lips, when he surges forward, entwining their hands and slanting his lips against hers.

The result is blinding.

All at once Ardbert is everywhere. Her senses are overwhelmed by him and the impossibility of his touch, of his breath – gods, his breath! – entwining with hers. Ardbert squeezes her hand, near hard enough to bruise and to ground him in this impossible moment.

“How is this possible?” Leida gasps in the desperate break for air, chasing his lips nevertheless.

“Don’t know,” Ardbert grunts as he pulls her into his lap. Closer — he needs her closer. Leida shudders delightedly as his hand tangles in her hair, the other dipping into her shirt as he holds her flush against him. “I don’t care.”

There will be time for questions later, time to puzzle over why her and why him, but right now—

Right now, the only thing that matters is that he is kissing her and she is kissing him back and nothing else in this world or hers has ever made more sense.

Lost in the feel of his mouth on hers, lips parting to deepen the kiss, Leida is inclined to agree; for if this a dream, or a construct of her own longing, she isn’t inclined to be woken.

He has long lost himself in the feel of her when he feels her hands move to his shoulders and the straps of his armor. It’s a clumsy thing, one that has them both huffing a quiet laugh as he moves to help her when it becomes clear that she is close to just burning the damn straps away if it meant divesting him of his armor that much faster. The cuirass falls away, followed closely by his shirt, clumsy hands moving to cast them aside somewhere, and Ardbert pulls her in again.

Her hands explore the expanse of his back, tracing the lines and valleys of whatever scars she comes across.

Her hands are nearly his undoing. How long has he been without the simple comfort of another’s touch? How long has he been left aching and wanting for her? To touch her now, to feel her warmth and warrior’s strength…

It’s too much, and not enough at all.

“Gods,” he breathes as she pulls a trembling sigh from him. He trails his lips against the line of her jaw, stopping at the base of her ear, the low timbre of his voice causing an eruption of gooseflesh down her spine. “Tell me you want this. Tell me that you ache for me just as badly as I ache for you.”

Leida brings his face back to hers and looks at him through half lidded eyes, desire and affection read plain. Her look only serves to kindle the fire that erupted in his belly the moment he first kissed her.

“I want this,” she says, bringing her forehead to rest against his. “I want you.”

Never before has he heard words so beautiful.

His mouth meets hers hungrily and her pulse quickens, fire racing in her veins as he draws from her a desire she’d thought long since locked away. His hands find her waist, fingers hooking on the bottom of her shirt and she smiles, breaking apart just long enough for him to pull it over her head. He casts it aside, leaving hungry hands to explore her skin freely. Calloused fingers trace every scar and every line, and he pulls away to marvel at her freely.

He wants to ask her about every mark and know every story behind them. He thumbs a particularly egregious mark, the taught pull of new skin indicating it’s newness in comparison to other scars. Leida takes one of his hands and brings it to her mouth, kissing his palm.

“Later,” she tells him with a small smile. “I will tell you everything.”

“Later,” he agrees. He keeps her eye for a moment, caressing her cheek softly as his other hand slides up the expanse of her stomach. He can’t help the self satisfied smile at the shiver the action draws from her. He grins fully at her gasp when his hand finds her breast, thumb swiping teasingly at a hardened nipple. His mouth is soon to follow, drawing a contented sigh from Leida.

“Ardbert…”

She has always been beautiful. From the first time he saw her on the Source—a radiant storm of fury and fierce protectiveness of her world, of her family—to their meeting here on the First, she has been radiant. He thinks she has never looked more beautiful than like this, however, in the way she unfurls for him as he tips them back, rolling to dip her into the mattress.

All his long years cursing Minfilia for leaving him to wander as a shade has surely been worth it for this sight alone.

Ardbert’s hands continue their exploration, strong hands gliding down the length of her sides until they stop at the waistband of her sleep-shorts. He keeps her eye, noting the high color in her cheeks and the hitch in her breathing as his thumbs dip teasingly below the hem.

“Gods, but you are beautiful.”

Then he is tugging the fabric away, down her legs until he can toss them aside, and Leida can’t be sure if the way her skin prickles with gooseflesh is from the exposure to the chill night air or his hungry look.

He kisses his way down the expanse of her stomach, lips finding every scar, every errant freckle, until he presses a kiss to her hip bone and Leida can’t help the longing sigh he pulls from her. Her breathing kicks higher in anticipation when he lowers himself further and kisses the inside of her thigh as he hooks her knees over his shoulders. He meets her eye, a silent question raised. She nods, almost imperceptibly and his eyes dance.

She nearly lurches off the bed at the first swipe of his tongue over her folds, a soft moan falling sweetly from her lips. Ardbert’s hands grip at her hips to keep her steady as he repeats the motion, eager to draw out the sound again. He is slow in his ministrations, almost painfully so, as he takes his time to discover what makes her tick. It’s near enough to drive her to insanity, the way he so pointedly avoids her clit. She wiggles her hips, chasing the friction she so desperately longs for and yet he denies, having half a mind to tell him to stop with his teasing her and just get on with it—

As if hearing her thoughts, Ardbert takes the bundle of nerves into his mouth and sucks and it is as if every nerve in her body is alight with lightning. Her hand shoots down, finding purchase in his hair as she is suddenly desperate for an anchor. “Fuck,” she gasps, head falling back against the mattress as she loses herself in the feel of his mouth on her. One of his hands slides from its place on her hips and he teases a finger at her entrance, drawing another moan from her. He feels his cock twitch in response.

He sets upon her with earnest then, dipping another finger into her aching cunt as his mouth and tongue drink from her greedily like a man possessed; like a ghost who has felt nothing, tasted nothing for a hundred long, lonely years. To be seen, felt, loved…

He would do anything for her.

“Please,” comes the strangled gasp as his mouth and fingers work her higher and higher towards the precipice. “Ardbert,” she whines.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, withdrawing from her folds to meet her eye. Want burns bright through her at the sight of him looking at her with such reverence, the evidence of her desire slick on his lips.

“I need you,” she breathes. “Please.”

Ardbert holds her eye as he kisses the inside of her thigh before turning over the length of her body, mouth and tongue tasting every ilm of her until he reaches her mouth. Leida moans at the taste of herself on his lips.

“Tell me.”

“I need you inside me,” she pants, fingers scraping lightly against his scalp as she holds his gaze. “Ardbert…”

He kisses her deep, settling between her legs with a shaky sigh. He feels her hand reach between them, wrapping around his cock and giving it several slow, teasing strokes.

“Easy there, sweetheart,” he groans, nipping at her jaw. “I won’t last long if you do that.”

“Mercy, then.” Leida gives a breathy laugh, kissing his temple as she relents, moving her hand to guide him to her entrance. Ardbert rests a hand against her cheek, thumb brushing her cheek affectionately. Gods, but he loves her.

The first push of him inside her has both their breaths catching. She clings to him, forehead resting against his as he takes his time entering her fully. He wants to savor this, wants to sear the memory of her open mouthed gasps and the feel of her into his memory forever so that not even another century could take this from him.

Ardbert shudders as he sheathes himself fully inside her, marveling at the way she feels so right, like she was made for him and he for her. Leida takes a moment to catch her breath, for she feels nearly faint with the way her very aether seems to respond to him. When she kisses him, silently begging for his movement, she nearly weeps at the first slow roll of his hips.

“‘s been so long,” he groans, head dropping to the crook of her neck as he drags long and slow within her. Leida gasps at the scrape of teeth at her pulse point. “You’re so perfect. So perfect for me.”

“I am yours,” she sighs, legs shifting upward to take him deeper. “From the first, I have been yours.”

She rises to meet him for every movement as he sets his pace faster, deeper, chasing a bliss she never thought possible before. Their union feels somehow sacred, inevitable, like something that should have been long ago has finally shifted into place and now the worlds are in alignment. Later, she will ponder what this means, what the tug of her aether towards him and his towards her means but right now—right now, nothing matters outside of the feel of his skin against hers.

Their shared gasps and moans fill the night, the sound of skin moving against skin a melody sweeter than any orchestrion could capture. Leida feels all at once too hot, the steady drive of his cock working her back to the precipice. She wants more. She slides her arms around his neck, legs wrapping around his waist as she is desperate to feel him closer, deeper. She can feel his answering groan rumble against her breast as he obliges her, arm looping under her back and holding her impossibly close as he shifts to a near relentless pace.

“Ardbert, I—I’m…” She can barely think through the heady pleasure, all means coherent thought thoroughly chased away with each snap of his hips. “Fuck.”

Ardbert places a sloppy, open mouthed kiss at the base of her ear as he speaks. “Let go for me, sweetheart.”

The rough timbre of his voice is enough to send her over the edge. Ecstasy crashes around her with his name on her lips in a desperate, repeating prayer. He guides her through it, fingers digging into the soft skin of her back as he holds her close and it isn’t long before Ardbert’s hips stutter, thrusting erratically as he follows with a rough gasp of her name.

They fall together, in the aftermath. A tangle of limbs and languid bliss in the wake of their lovemaking. Leida presses a kiss to the sweat matted hair at his temple, Ardbert’s hold around her tightening. She doesn’t know how long they stay like this, holding each other in the afterglow as they struggle to regain their breaths. Eventually Ardbert pulls away, and for a moment her heart aches at the absence of him. He is quick to pull her back to him as he rolls onto his back, and Leida sighs contentedly as she settles against his chest.

His hands trail lazily along her back, playing with stray lilac locks as they languish in the post-bliss haze.

“What happens now?” Leida asks quietly. Ardbert sighs, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “We keep trying to save our worlds. We find a way to keep you from turning into a sin eater. Everything else can come later.”

Leida props herself up on her elbow, small smile playing on her lips as she looks at him. “We?”

“Aye.” Ardbert reaches up, letting his thumb caress her cheek gently as he gives her a faint smile. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. For as long as you’ll have me, anyways.”

“I would always have you.”

“Then will figure it out.”

Ardbert cards his fingers through her hair, sighing in content when Leida leans down to press her lips against his in a slow kiss.

“Together,” she says.

He knows that this could very well end in heartbreak and failure, that they could fail to save their homes. She could lose herself to the Light when she fells the next Warden, despite his best efforts to keep it contained. He can imagine a hundred and more ways in which it could all go to shit before the week is out, has imagined it time and again.

But with Leida at his side, each horrible scenario seems further and further from being inevitable.

“Together.”

For the first time in many long years, he dares to hope.

#well i did it lmao #c: leida valroux #x: leida/ardbert #writing tag #g: ffxiv #oc: leida valroux

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what-the-fuck-khr · 1 year

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A Year With Amano: 2016

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ivvwwwwwi34 · 4 months

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the realization that I have so many unfinished doodles, unfulfilled promised things, and a trillion and billion other ideas for art that have lain dormant in my head is just fucking crushing me like a truck loaded with bricks

#vilka shitpost #i dream of making several copies of myself so that each of them can fulfill all those ideas swarming in my head #I'd like to draw EVEN more but I'd probably explode from overloading my brain.#or my brain will give a blue screen of death #😬#да простят меня ребята которым я наобещал чтото но руки не дошли до реализации

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voraciousvore · 5 months

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The Giant (5/16)

***Contains some mild sexual content***

------Chapter 5------

When I woke up the next morning, I was surprised to find myself on Chester's chest again, in the bedroom. He must have carried me to bed while I was fast asleep. I could feel his heart beating in the great expanse rising and falling beneath me. An emotion within me stirred that I didn't quite understand. Maybe I had gotten too comfortable when my fear had subsided, but I had not lain so close, so intimately, to a man in a long time. Or been held by a man in his hands. Of course, I had never been eaten by one before either, so there was that.

I put my cynicism aside for the moment, and snuggled against his warm body. It wouldn't hurt anything to enjoy this feeling after all, as misguided as it may be. The last few days had been very stressful for me, and I was in desperate need for some comfort. For the moment, I didn't feel so alone or afraid.

The realization hit me like a sack of bricks. Deep down, I was starting to feel very attracted to Chester, both emotionally and physically. Was that even possible, for the frightened prey to become attached to the voracious predator? On the one hand, Chester had been kind and gentle to me, fighting his natural instincts the best he could to protect me. On the other, I had been terrified of him. He was so huge, and had almost killed me the night he ingested me and trapped me in his gut. Not to mention, he still wanted to eat me; his hunger had not subsided.

Something had definitely changed in me after our encounter last night. I realized I wasn't so afraid of him anymore. We had an arrangement that could ensure my survival. Not the most pleasant circumstance for me, but the best I could reasonably ask for. Additionally, he had kept his promise not to swallow me. I could trust his word. At least I hoped I could. The scales of my heart were weighted in his favor apparently.

Chester's enormous body began to awaken underneath me. He stretched back his long arms and yawned, and I felt his monumental muscles flexing in his chest. He raised himself up, forgetting in his sleepy state that I was on his chest, and I exclaimed in surprise as I lost my balance and tumbled down his body. To my shock I flipped over past his belly and landed right on his groin, my arms and legs straddling his morning wood through his underwear. I gasped and froze briefly, not believing what had just happened. I quickly recovered and jumped back as fast as I could, colliding with his upright midsection behind me. I pushed my tiny body rigidly against his belly to get as far away as possible from his crotch. I was mortified. I felt my face grow hot as I blushed bright red. Reluctantly, I rotated my head upward to see Chester's reaction. I saw my embarrassment reflected in his facial features as he stared down at me: mouth agape, eyes wide, skin flushed red as a cherry. We made eye contact and gaped at each other awkwardly, unable to move. Finally, I couldn't take the humiliation any longer and cringed away on my knees, hiding my face in my hands.

"Oh my gosh, I can't believe that just happened, I'm so, so sorry!" I sputtered out, barely coherent.

Chester finally recovered from his astonishment and started laughing at the absurdity of the situation. "It's alright, it's alright! I know it was an accident! I should be apologizing to you." He curled his fingers around me and gently elevated me to his eye level. I peeked through my fingers at his smiling face. His green eyes gazed upon me affectionately. A fresh bloom of hot blush rose to my cheeks as I saw how handsome he was, and the look in his eyes. I lowered my hands from my face and pressed them against the palm of his hand, propping myself up.

"I'm so embarrassed," I mumbled. Sheepishly, I avoided eye contact and traced the large lines in his palm with my fingers.

Chester brought up his other hand and began caressing my side with his finger. "It's okay," he said in a soothing voice. "Why don't we get some breakfast?" He was always thinking about his stomach. After throwing on some clothes, he transported me to the kitchen and poured himself a bowl of cereal. He crumbled up some cereal for me too, and put it in a bottle cap with some milk. I didn't have a spoon but I was still able to drink from the cap. He slurped up his cereal with his usual gluttony. I was relieved he didn't bring up the subject of tasting me; I really didn't want to be consumed with milk and cereal.

"Want to go outside for a walk? I could use some sunshine," Chester asked cheerfully. He was in high spirits.

"Sure," I responded. Some fresh air sounded nice. Chester reached his huge hand towards me and I was enclosed briefly in the darkness of his fist. When his hand opened again I found myself on his shoulder. I climbed into the collar of his flannel shirt and rested myself against his neck for stability.

The sun outside was beautiful and temperate. Yet again, I felt like I was in a fairy tale, and in a way I was, since I was sitting on the shoulder of a giant after all. I felt calm and happy. I could feel the cords of muscle in Chester's neck shift through his skin with slight movements of his head. I looked above me, admiring his masculine jawline and the hint of stubble that peppered his chin. Although the outside world was lovely, my attention was, in all honestly, elsewhere. Even though I had been with the giant for a few days now, I still wasn't accustomed to the overwhelming vastness of his presence. Every movement that Chester made was monumental due to his size: his lengthy legs striding across the earth, his extensive arms swinging slightly as he moved, even his prodigious breathing. At first all these things had been terrifying, but now... I found his giant body to be not only comforting, but irresistible.

What was wrong with me? Of course, I realized in a rational sense the obvious folly of entertaining such primitive animal feelings. If I allowed my heart to get carried away, I would be running into a dead end. I seriously doubted a giant would even consider a romantic relationship with a pathetic little human like me. How would that even work? It was impossible. Yet, I felt lonely and vulnerable in the Land of Giants, and Chester was my only lifeline. Despite my feeble attempts to pull back, I was falling hard and fast for him. Laying against the giant's neck, I could feel the lovely warmth of his body, breathe in his enchanting manly scent. I felt like I was in heaven.

"Jackie?" Chester piped up. I could feel his neck vibrating with his deep full voice as he spoke. "I can feel your little heart beating so fast, are you alright?"

I felt my face grow hot. I had no idea he could sense my heartbeat when I was leaning against him. "I-I'm fine," I answered hastily, pulling myself up.

"Are you still afraid of me?" Chester asked, a hint of dejection in his tone.

"No, no! It's not that, I'm not afraid. I'm fine, really." I stumbled over my words like a lovesick fool. I realized I wouldn't have a good excuse if he asked me for the real reason why my heart was fluttering.

Thankfully, the giant didn't push the issue. "Ok, good." He didn't sound entirely convinced. I rubbed his neck with my hand to reassure him.

Changing the subject, he said, "I want to show you something." I snapped back to awareness of the surrounding environment. We had been ascending a steep hill shaded by a canopy of trees. As we emerged from the shadows back into the sun, Chester reached up and plucked me from his collar with his thumb and forefinger. He sat down on a large boulder and placed me on his lap, close to his knee. "What do you think?"

I gasped. From the top of the hill I could see for miles, and the view was a pastoral paradise. Farms and red barns and cottages, presumably the homes of other giants, were scattered across the landscape. The clear blue of the sky overlooked seas of golden grain and verdant foliage. There was a lake that sparkled like a sapphire in the sun. I could make out the figures of ducks skimming across the surface, leaving shimmering ripples in their wake. Other animals--cows, chickens, horses--dotted the countryside. I could even see a few giants, although they looked smaller from so far away.

"It's beautiful," I stated breathlessly.

Chester gently massaged my back with his thumb. "I thought you might like it." I looked up at him and smiled shyly. The sun lit up his face like a painting, making his green eyes shine, and his hair danced in the light breeze. My heart melted like butter. "See, the Land of Giants isn't so bad, now is it?"

"I suppose not," I admitted, not looking away from his face. After a pause, I added, "I'm glad that you're here with me." Chester beamed and scooped me up in his hands.

"Let's go home," he said, and started hiking back down the hill.

Chapter 6

Chapter 1

#g/t writing #tiny #giant/tiny #giant #g/t #giant tiny #size difference #g/t fluff #the giant #gt fluff #gianttiny #gentle giant

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packetpixie · 6 months

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hi, i'm packetpixie, but you can also call me cass. i was tracking my progress with learning ethical hacking on here, but recently i got insecure and deleted all my posts. but theoretically this is a cs studyblog lol. i'm not so active right now, but everyone here is really nice, so when i am online i'm always happy to meet people and chat :)

i like:

- linux <3

- thinkpads <3

- network hacking (mostly wifi and i'm learning bluetooth)

- hardware hacking (but i'm shit at it)

currently learning:

- duckyscript

- how to do ctfs/web application hacking so i can do bug bounties

- how to flash firmware off the jtag without bricking my device so i can finally install coreboot 😭

- cryptography even though i'm not a math person 😅😅😅 but it's still fun! :D

current projects:

- text adventure game in python, i'm really having fun with it so far

- working through hackerone's ctf, currently at 7 points

currently reading:

- network basics for hacking by OTW, progress: 99 pages in

- hacking apis by corey bell, progress: 25 pages in

tv obsessions:

- serial experiments lain

- mr robot

- how to sell drugs online (fast)

i will make a better intro post once i have the energy but i hope this is enough for now to give you a sense of who i am/what i tend to post about

hack the planet :)

#about me

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hikari-ni-naritai · 6 months

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do you like Lain's Cereal Experiments™

i desperately want to respond with the picture i used to have on my phone of a girl talking on the phone saying 'i cant talk right now im doing hot girl shit' while pouring pink monster juice into a bowl of cheddar cheez-its. but i lost that picture when my phone bricked and idk how to find it anymore. the regrets pile on me like cats on a heating vent.

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llyncooljones · 1 year

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one winter's night - twelve days of rowaelin '22.

ao3 || masterlist || twelve days of rowaelin ‘22 masterlist

prompt: a christmas carol-esque retelling. word count: 1302 trigger warnings: language, tag list: @live-the-fangirl-life @rowaelinismyotp @leiawritesstories @fireheartwhitethorn4ever @elentiyawhitethorn @rowanaelinn @autumnbabylon @backtobl4ck @letstakethedawn @rowaelinscourt

downtown orynth, the evening.

Rowan Whitethorn exited his building, a glass and brick masterpiece he’d overseen the design and construction of, it was to a scene out of winter wonderland.

Snow was falling, landing in his hair and melting off immediately, and the streets were turned some idyllic, hopeful shade of white that had every child losing their mind. Smiles had never been so broad as the children’s smiles were as they kicked at the snow under their boots, and Rowan narrowly missed a load of it heading for his shin—and ultimately the three-thousand-dollar trousers that covered his legs.

Some would call him extravagant, too attached to his money, and what it could mean for him, and he would call them naïve, and childlike in return. They’d huff, no doubt, and would sulk on the minutes for but half an hour before they found themselves in front of him—begging for a hug.

Not that he had a specific person in mind, not that the exact scenario had played out more times than Rowan could be bothered to remember.

Rowan shook out his hair when enclosed in his car, pulling down his visor to check over the fine ins and outs of his outfit and hair. He slid the glasses on his nose higher, allowing him to see better, whilst he adjusted his tie—straightening it.

He couldn’t afford to be caught with his pants around his ankles, so to speak. He’d been named Terrasen Magazine’s Most Stylish Man in the last month, which as much he hated the showboating around the fashion industry, he’d appreciated, and made an effort to continue.

His briefcase was lain on the passenger seat, driving gloves bundled inside, being able to have forgone them in his vehicle, equipped with heated seats, and a heated steering wheel. The engine spurred to life, and he was able to pull out of his parking space. He’d moved his driver to a different sector the previous month, after the light of his life, the love of his life, had complained to him about how pretentious it was, how rich it was.

She seemed to be shy when it came to some of the more common aspects of the upper echelons of society, whilst she had no problem accepting some of the more crazy, unexpected, and stupid aspects. He wasn’t sure why, but Rowan was pretty sure Aelin existed to confuse him, to keep his brain working even when he knew and understood most else.

Because he will never understand the crazy, bold, blonde he’d somehow made space for in his life. He’d forever be able to wax poetic about the golden hour sunshine on her hair, or the exact marbling of the turquoise in her eyes, or how he hoped that the gold of the engagement ring he’d chosen somewhat matched with her eyes.

He’d spend forever trying to solve her, in all her gorgeous entirety, only for her to reveal a new puzzle each time he thought he got close. He’d never tire of the surprises and the gifts and the love she granted him with—her whole heart full of love for him, even when each day she decants half of it into her actions towards him.

He’d given up some of the luxuries he most loved, purely because she had expressed an opinion that was decidedly not positive.

Each time he got home, he could barely believe that it was his life that he was living, not some alternate reality, not some dream universe he would wake up from. He never could remember what had been so twisted, so convoluted in his brain, and his heart, that had led to him almost losing her.

What was it inside of him, that had replaced her with money, with the insatiable desire for money, success—everything he could possibly have? How could money ever compare to the heat in his heart, and the warmth in his body she brought on? The sense of home, he’d never felt before.

She was invaluable to him, she always had been, and he would never let her slip from the number one space on his list of priorities (or his to-do list). Which was why he was leaving the office at five o’clock in the evening, saying goodbye to the executives who remained. Which was why he was headed home, an unshakeable smile drawn across his lips, too excited to see his wife, to see the love of his life.

The drive sped by, as he thought of nothing but his wife, of nothing but her hair, and her eyes, and her lips, and her body. The excited smile that shone every time she pulled open the front door pre-emptively, her body curled around it, watching his every move as he parked the car.

And before he knew it, he was pulling into their driveway, his wife was leaning around their front door, smiling the kind of smile that made him smile, and he was throwing the car into park. Grabbed his briefcase, and slammed the door.

The few metres between them were agonising, and each centimetre closer was like a breath of fresher, cleaner air. Her body draped in comfortable fabric, he envied her, sick of the suit he jammed his body into each and every morning. He was sick of the tie that choked him, and the cufflinks which clinked against his desk when he did anything.

He just wanted to be home, with his wife, with his Aelin, cuddled together on the sofa. They didn’t even have to be doing anything, just relishing in the other’s company, the underlying tone of undying love, the atmosphere of ‘to whatever end’. With Aelin, he was absolved of the pressure the world put upon his shoulder, he didn’t have to do anything.

He didn’t have to be some kind, benevolent, CEO; he didn’t have to be cold, calculating, and controlling, the owner and ultimate king of a fucking empire (of his own fucking making); he didn’t have to be anything but a man who loved his wife—and more than anything, that was why he loved Aelin Ashryver Galathynius-Whitethorn.

Because she would love him if he lived in a trailer, she would love him if they lived in an apartment above a Chinese takeaway, she would love him if they lived in a three bed two bath in the suburbs, and she loved him as they lived in an ostentatious monstrosity that satisfied all of his alpha male ego bullshit, that allowed him to sleep at night—knowing there was a state of the art security system protecting them.

His world came together as the front door closed behind him, and he felt complete: stood opposite his wife, he felt everything at once, and for once he wasn’t overwhelmed. He was calmed by the rush of emotion that overcame him as he watched her shift, and saw the fabric of her sweater reveal the bump to her belly.

His heart crumbled and came together stronger each and every time he saw his wife pregnant, each and every time he remembered that this ethereal, this powerful, this crazy, loving, wonderful, amazing, simply majestic woman was creating, was threading together a life. A life made of him, a life made of her, a life made of them.

This amalgamation of the parts of them, the very picture of their love and devotion to one another. He knelt before her, smudging the bottoms of his dress shoes against the seat of his slacks, hitting his knees too hard on the floors, hands flying up to cradle her bump. He pressed a kiss to it, and he was home in a way that could never mean four walls, a roof, and some trick of a mortgage.

#12 days of rowaelin #twelve days of rowaelin #rowaelin #rowaelin fic #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #tog #tog fic #throne of glass fic #throne of glass #my fic #my writing #llyncooljones' writing

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