#x: the sun meets the herald at the horizon

[lunardragon00]

The Heir (Choi San x OC)

Masterlist

Genre: Fantasy , Lord!San x Princess!OC

Words: 6774

Warning: funeral scene // suggestive themes // character deaths

Authors Note: Back with another update, it is finally the moment I have been waiting to release. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter as much as I did writing it.

Chapter Six --> Chapter Seven --> Chapter Nine

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔈𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱: 𝔈𝔪𝔟𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔄𝔪𝔟𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫

The sky is painted with vibrant hues of orange and pink, casting a warm glow over the landscape. As the sun dips below the horizon, its fading light creates a breathtaking spectacle, illuminating the clouds with fiery colors. Amidst the tranquil beauty of the sunset, the rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the rocky shores echoes through the air. Each wave carries with it a sense of timeless power, a reminder of the enduring force of nature against the backdrop of the majestic castle perched atop the cliffs.

Hana stood above her father's body, her husband Wooyoung by her side, a solemn expression etched on both their faces as they gazed down at the form of the once-mighty king who now lay in peaceful repose. Hana reached out, her hand trembling slightly as she brushed a lock of hair away from her father's forehead. She felt a rush of memories flood her mind—moments shared, lessons learned, the bond between father and daughter that had weathered the trials of time.

Wooyoung placed a comforting hand on Hana's shoulder, offering silent support as they stood together in quiet contemplation, honoring the memory of the king who had shaped their lives in ways both profound and lasting. Her brothers dragon, Valarys, stood off in the corner. Next to him was her own dragon Noctis. The dragons exhibited signs of restlessness, their instincts attuned to the emotional turmoil of their riders. Despite their formidable presence, they couldn't help but mirror the unease that permeated the air. Their towering forms shifted subtly, their eyes darting with a mix of concern and vigilance, a silent acknowledgment of the somber moment unfolding around them.

There were speeches given about the King, many applauding his peaceful reign and how it saddened them that he was gone. Lords and Ladies from all over shared their condolences, Hana heard them all but did not care to truly listen. As the closing prayers came from the maestor, she knew it was time. Hongjoong stepped forward, leaving his wife and sons side and ordered Valarys to approach. With a gentle squeeze of her hand, Wooyoung offered Hana the silent support she needed in that moment of profound loss. His touch was a lifeline amidst the sea of emotions that threatened to engulf her, a reminder that she was not alone in her grief.

"You do not have to watch." He whispered to her. Hana turned to meet Wooyoung's gaze, his words cutting through the solemn atmosphere like a gentle breeze. In his eyes, she found a flicker of understanding, a silent reassurance that she was not obligated to endure the weight of their sorrow alone. With a grateful nod, Hana acknowledged his offer, her heart swelling with gratitude for his unwavering support. Though the sight of Valarys and the solemn rituals of farewell tugged at her heartstrings, she knew that she did not have to bear the burden of her grief alone. "Valarys" She heard Hongjoong command, watching his dragon approach her father's body.

"drakarys" As the command echoed through the somber air, Hana felt the weight of impending farewell pressing down upon her. The word, sharp and resolute, sliced through the silence, heralding the final departure of her father's spirit to the realm beyond. Feeling the warmth of Wooyoung's embrace enveloping her, Hana sought refuge in his comforting presence, seeking solace amidst the tumult of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her fragile resolve. She buried her face against his chest, seeking refuge from the heart-wrenching sight unfolding before them. With each breath, each gentle stroke of his hand against her back, she found a lifeline amidst the tempest of grief, a silent reassurance that she was not alone in her sorrow.

As Valarys obeyed his master's command, unleashing a torrent of flame that consumed the physical vessel of her father, Hana closed her eyes, shutting out the sight of devastation as tears mingled with the silent whispers of farewell. In the midst of her overwhelming sorrow, Hana felt as though the weight of the world had descended upon her shoulders, crushing her beneath the burden of her grief. The loss of her father, a towering figure in her life, echoed the ache of previous wounds, reopening the scars left by the absence of her mother.

As tears streamed down her cheeks, each droplet a testament to the depth of her anguish, Hana found herself adrift in a sea of memories, each one a poignant reminder of the love she had lost. The echoes of her parents' laughter, the warmth of their embrace, lingered like ghosts in the corridors of her heart, haunting her with their bittersweet presence.

Amidst the tempest of her emotions, Hana clung to the fragments of her shattered resolve, seeking solace in the embrace of her husband's unwavering support. In his embrace, she heard footsteps approach them, boots heavy as they touched the ground. Wooyoung lifted his head, acknowledging the approaching figure, while Hana remained lost in her grief, unaware of the presence drawing near.

Sensing the solemnity of the moment, Wooyoung intercepted the newcomer with a subtle shake of his head, a silent signal that now was not the time. The figure acquiesced, retreating with a heaviness in each step. Unaware of the identity of the visitor or the exchange that had transpired, Hana remained cocooned in her sorrow, her tears a silent testament to the depth of her loss. In the embrace of her husband's comforting arms, she found solace from the tumult of emotions swirling around her, finding refuge in the warmth of their shared sorrow.

---------------

As Hongjoong stood alongside Arya and their young son Joon, the weight of grief bore down upon him like a leaden cloak. Each passing moment seemed to stretch into eternity as they awaited their esteemed guests, all gathered to pay their final respects to his father. In the quiet moments between, Hongjoong's mind raced with a torrent of questions and uncertainties. What would happen next, now that his father was gone? How long would he have to mourn before the weight of kingship fell upon his shoulders? Despite the tumult of thoughts that swirled within him, he found solace in the presence of his cherished family, their unwavering support a beacon of light amidst the darkness of his grief.

As Seonghwa approached, a comforting presence amidst the somber gathering, Hongjoong felt a sense of relief wash over him. Among their circle of friends, Seonghwa had always been a steadfast companion, a source of strength and support during the most trying of times. Seonghwa hailed from House Park of Rosethorn, a place of unparalleled beauty and natural splendor. The lush greenery that adorned the landscape, the vibrant fields of blooming flowers—it was a sight to behold, a testament to the bounty of nature that flourished within the fertile lands of Rosethorn. Despite the allure of its picturesque surroundings, Hongjoong couldn't deny his discomfort with the region's humid climate. While he appreciated the beauty of Rosethorn, the oppressive humidity proved to be a challenge for him, limiting his visits to shorter durations.

"My prince-" He bowed. Hongjoong bowed his head as well, a sign of respect between the two men.

"Lord Seonghwa, thank you for coming."

"Of course, my deepest condolences your grace. Your father was truly a remarkable man. His reign was a peaceful one, every land in the realm grew stronger during his rule. May yours be just as good." Seonghwa stated.

"Thank you my friend, your words move me deeply. While you are here, there is a matter I wish to discuss with you." Hongjoong removed himself from his wifes side.

"Why don't you go find Hana, I'm sure she and her husband are under the tent." Arya nodded and lifted Joon to carry him away, giving her husband privacy.

As Hongjoong and Seonghwa walked through the quiet grounds of Dragonspire, the weight of impending responsibilities hung heavy in the air. The breeze carried a somber tone, echoing the gravity of their conversation.

"My father has passed, Seonghwa," Hongjoong began, his voice tinged with a mixture of solemnity and apprehension. "He named me as his heir."

Seonghwa nodded, his expression reflecting the understanding of the weighty burden placed upon his friend's shoulders. "Yes, your grace," he replied softly, his mind racing. Hongjoong continued, his gaze steady.

"During my Father's reign, your uncle Takashi served as his hand. I fear me and him never got along," Hongjoong admitted, his voice tinged with a hint of regret. "He was a self-interested man, always testing the boundaries of respect and decorum." In Hongjoong's younger years, Takashi was very harsh to him. At times, he would cross the line of how one should behave when in the presence of the Kings son. He was a self interested man, but Hongjoongs father always found a way to put in back in his place. Takashi knew how to push his buttons, he knew what would make Hongjoong act irrationally. He had almost made Hongjoong draw his sword after a comment was made when Arya and his engagement was originally proposed.

Seonghwa listened attentively, his heart heavy with empathy for his friend's struggles. He understood the significance of the decision weighing on Hongjoong's mind, the delicate balance between duty and personal convictions.

"So you plan on taking a new Hand?" Seonghwa inquired, his tone gentle yet probing, seeking clarity amidst the uncertainty. Hongjoong nodded solemnly.

"Yes, and I request your council on the matter," he affirmed, his voice steady with resolve. "You have been a steadfast friend and advisor, Seonghwa. Your wisdom and loyalty are qualities I hold in high regard." With a sense of anticipation, Hongjoong reached into his coat pocket, retrieving a finely crafted pin bearing the emblem of the Hand of the King. Its intricate design spoke of authority and trust, a symbol of the profound responsibilities entrusted to its bearer.

"Lord Seonghwa of House Park," Hongjoong spoke with unwavering conviction, his gaze meeting Seonghwa's with unwavering resolve. "If you accept this offer, I would like you to take on the position." Seonghwa's heart swelled with a profound sense of honor and duty, his mind racing with the weight of the decision before him. In that solemn moment, he understood the significance of the trust placed in him, the gravity of the role he was being asked to fulfill. With a steady hand and a heart full of determination, Seonghwa accepted the pin, his voice resonating with unwavering commitment.

"I accept this honor with humility and unwavering loyalty, my prince," he declared, his gaze meeting Hongjoong's with steadfast resolve. "I will serve you and our kingdom with integrity, wisdom, and unwavering dedication." Hongjoong's smile softened, a flicker of relief dancing in his eyes as he beheld the unwavering commitment in Seonghwa's gaze.

"I trust that you will, my friend," Hongjoong echoed.

Under the canopy in Dragonspire's courtyard, Princess Hana and Prince Wooyoung stood alongside Wooyoung's brother, Yeosang. The atmosphere was heavy with grief as they engaged in polite but subdued conversation. Hana's usually vibrant demeanor was muted, her eyes betraying the depth of her sorrow despite her efforts to conceal it. Wooyoung, too, felt the weight of the loss, his concern evident as he exchanged words with his brother and wife. The somber air enveloped them like a shroud, casting a pall over their surroundings as they struggled to navigate the aftermath of King Kang-Dae's passing.

"How has Sunseth been?" Wooyoung asks, wanting to hear about his childhood home.

"The same as always, father has taken a trip to Essos to see the Unsullied." Yeosang stated. The Unsullied was an army of trained young men. The slave masters of that region mold them into killing machines, teaching them to be fearless and hold no emotion, they were experts in the field of battle.

"I've always wanted to see what they're like. You hear so many stories of them and their ruthlessness." Wooyoung replied.

"Yes, perhaps you and Hana can visit some time. The architecture is truly a sight worth seeing." Yeosang says. In Astapor, every structure in the city- the walls, the streets, and even the great stepped pyramids that dominate the bay shore- are all constructed of the same red brick, hence its moniker "the Red City". An old saying describing the city runs; "Bricks and blood built Astapor, and bricks and blood her people".

"We were discussing of taking a trip to essos sometime within the year. It would be- " Wooyoung is quickly cut off by his wife.

"I have no interest in seeing slaves." She states. Both men look at her, shocked at her abrupt interruption. Done with the conversation, she quickly steps away and decides to walk the beach. Wooyoung looks out to her, worry etches his face.

"She's not taking it well, is she?" A new voice pulls him out of his gaze. Before him and his brother stood Lord Jongho and Lord Yunho. "Her father just died, how do you think she should handle it?" Asked Yunho.

Wooyoung's brow furrowed with concern as he watched his wife's retreating figure, her abrupt departure leaving a palpable tension in the air. He exchanged a troubled glance with his brother Yeosang, both sharing a silent acknowledgment of Hana's evident distress. Yeosang's gaze shifted to where Hana walked along the beach, her steps heavy with the weight of her grief.

"She's struggling," he admitted softly, his voice tinged with concern. "She's always been close to him," he murmured, his voice heavy with sorrow. "His passing has left a void in her heart that I fear may never truly heal."

Lord Jongho's voice carried a note of understanding as he addressed Wooyoung's worry. "Grief is a heavy burden to bear," he remarked solemnly, his eyes reflecting empathy. "And each person carries it differently." Yunho's gaze lingered on Hana's solitary figure by the shore, his expression tinged with compassion.

"She will need time," he said softly, his voice laden with wisdom. "Time to mourn, time to heal." Wooyoung nodded in agreement, a silent vow echoing in his heart. "I will be there for her," he vowed quietly, determination coloring his words. "No matter how long it takes."

Hana walked along the shore, the rhythmic sound of the waves crashing against the sand providing a soothing backdrop to her thoughts. The salty breeze tousled her hair as she strolled, her gaze fixed on the endless expanse of the sea stretching out before her.

With each step, she tried to clear her mind, to find solace in the tranquility of the coastline. Memories of her father flooded her thoughts, his laughter echoing in the recesses of her mind, his wisdom a guiding beacon in her life. But now, he was gone, his presence a void she struggled to fill. The weight of her grief pressed down upon her, a heavy burden she carried with each footfall along the shore.

Lost in her thoughts, Hana wandered further along the beach, the soft sand shifting beneath her feet. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting hues of gold and crimson across the sky, a poignant reminder of the fleeting nature of time. As she walked, Hana found herself drawn to the water's edge, the gentle lapping of the waves beckoning her closer.

"I hope you don't plan on walking out there." Hana turned, startled by the unexpected voice, and saw Lord San standing before her, his figure stark against the backdrop of the beach. His presence caught her off guard, disrupting the solitude she had sought along the shore.

"I didn't mean to startle you," San said, his voice soft with concern as he approached her. "I saw you walking along the beach and thought I'd join you, if you don't mind."

Hana's gaze lingered on him for a moment, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. She hadn't anticipated encountering him here, not in this moment of solitude when she sought refuge from the weight of her grief.

"It's fine," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of hesitation. "I was just... trying to clear my mind."

San nodded understandingly, his expression sympathetic. "Losing a loved one is never easy," he remarked, his tone gentle. "If there's anything I can do to help, please don't hesitate to ask."

Hana studied him for a moment, noting the sincerity in his words. Despite their past differences, she couldn't deny the genuine concern in his demeanor.

"Thank you, San," she said quietly, her voice tinged with gratitude. "I appreciate your offer." They stood together on the shore, the waves crashing against the sand. The rhythmic sound of the waves provided a backdrop to their silence, filling the air with a sense of tranquility. After a moment of quiet contemplation, San spoke, his voice carrying a gentle cadence.

"The ocean has always held a special place in my heart," he began, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun dipped low, casting hues of gold and crimson across the sky.

"The sea has a way of soothing the soul, don't you think?" Hana nodded, her gaze drifting out to the endless expanse of the ocean. "Yes, it does," she replied softly, the weight of her sorrow lifting ever so slightly in the presence of the serene landscape. "There's a certain peace here, amidst the chaos of our lives."

After another moment of silence, Hana decides to speak again. "I hear you are to be married. To Lord Mingi's sister, correct?" She asks, San nodded his head.

"Yes, but the wedding will not be for a while." He responds, before prompting another question. "And how is your marriage to Wooyoung? Going well I hope." Hana's gaze softened as she considered San's question.

"Our marriage... it has its challenges," she admitted, her voice tinged with a mixture of reflection and uncertainty. "But we manage, as best we can." San sensed the weight behind her words, the unspoken truths lingering in the air between them.

"We're both trying," she replied, her voice gentle yet resolute. "In the end, that's all we can do, isn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose." He responds, the two continue to walk the beach. The sun dipped lower and lower, the sky darkening as it went. San decides to break the silence once more. "How are you feeling?" Hana's steps slowed as San's question pierced through the quietude of the beach. She cast her gaze out to the horizon.

"It's... difficult," she confessed softly, her voice carrying the weight of her grief. "Losing my father... it's like a part of me has been torn away." San nodded in understanding, his expression reflecting the depth of her sorrow.

"I can't begin to fathom the pain you must be feeling," he murmured, his tone filled with empathy.

"It's a wound that will take time to heal," Hana replied, her voice steady despite the tremor of emotion that lingered beneath the surface. "But I will carry his memory with me always."

As they walked in the fading light, the rhythmic sound of the waves serving as a somber backdrop to their conversation.

"I remember when my mother passed, how I felt during that time. It was similar to this, except-" She stops walking, eyes meeting San's. "this time, it is almost worse." she says, eyes watering.

"San....I don't have my parents anymore. The two people who helped mold me into who I am, the people I looked up to the most are just.....gone." Her voice breaks towards the end. San listened in solemn silence as Hana opened up about her profound loss, her words heavy with the weight of her grief. He could see the raw pain etched in her eyes, feel the weight of her sorrow pressing in on him like the crashing waves against the shore.

"I can't imagine the depth of your sorrow, Hana," he murmured softly, his voice filled with compassion. "Losing both of your parents... it's a pain no one should have to endure."

He reached out a hand, offering her silent support and understanding as she grappled with the enormity of her loss. In the fading light of the evening, amidst the gentle lull of the ocean, they stood together.

"Your parents may be gone, but their love and guidance will always remain with you," San said, his voice a gentle reassurance in the midst of her anguish. "And you are not alone, Hana. You have friends who will stand by you, who will help carry the weight of your sorrow." As tears filled her eyes and her vision blurred, San pulled her into his arms. Hana held him tightly, trying to quiet her sobs. He tried soothing her, petting her long hair and stoked her back in comfort.

"I wish I could be there for you, seeing the pain you are in now. Knowing you never fully healed from the loss." He said, regret filling his heart. Although it had been years since their last encounter, his desire to comfort her, to be with her was still as strong as ever. In the embrace of San's comforting arms, Hana felt a surge of gratitude mingled with sorrow. His words, spoken with such genuine concern, touched her heart in ways she couldn't fully express. Despite the passage of time and the distance between them, his presence offered a semblance of solace in her time of need.

"I appreciate your kindness, San," Hana whispered, her voice tinged with emotion. "Your concern means more to me than words can say. And though the pain may never fully fade, knowing that you're here for me brings a measure of comfort I can't describe."

In that moment, as the waves crashed against the shore and the evening breeze whispered through the air, Hana found herself drawn to the quiet strength of their shared bond. In San's arms, she found a sanctuary from the storms of grief, a refuge where she could let down her walls and allow herself to be vulnerable. As he held her, she calmed down. Sobs turned to sniffles, until they eventually stopped all together. She missed him, she missed the feeling she got when he was present. It had been so long, she had almost forgotten the tranquility he offered.

The tumult of emotions that had gripped her heart slowly began to subside, replaced by a quiet serenity born of their shared connection. As she nestled against him, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, Hana allowed herself to bask in the warmth of his presence, savoring the familiar comfort that enveloped her like a protective cloak. In that moment, the weight of her grief felt lighter, as if lifted by the gentle touch of his understanding. Memories of their shared past flooded her mind, reminding her of the laughter they had shared, the secrets they had whispered beneath the starlit sky. Despite the passage of time and the trials they had faced, the bond between them remained steadfast. Realizing how long they have been gone, she pulls back.

"I am sorry, I've ruined your shirt." She says, a small laugh in her voice. He chuckles, "It is alright, I do not mind." They stood close, too close to be appropriate for their stature.

"Thank you, San," she said, her words imbued with sincerity. "For being here, for understanding." San offered her a warm smile,

"Of course, you will always hold a special place in my heart princess." That statement, it reminded her of the one he had said so long ago. 'I will always love you, never forget that' It was what he said before leaving that day. The immense pain it caused her, a pain that to this day never quite healed. As she gazed into San's eyes, she found herself caught between the past and the present, grappling with the weight of what could have been and the reality of what was.

"We should head back, I wouldn't want them to worry about you." San started to turn back, but when Hana wouldn't follow him, he stopped. "Princess?" Hana, with newfound confidence, decided to confront him about what happened so long ago.

"I have been alone....." she looks to him, "You abandoned me." she continued.

"I didn't abandon you Hana, you were to be married." He says, confused on where this conversation was heading.

"Yes, I was to be married." she paused, "And look at what my life became without you." She scoffed when he didn't respond, throwing her arms up like a child before turning to walk away. "Trapped in a marriage, a drool tragedy." Before she could get far, San grabbed her arm, yanking her back to him.

"Oh, and I wonder what you think of mine by comparison." They stared at one another, caught in a standoff. "I know little of it." She admits. Caught in the charged atmosphere between them, San's grip on Hana's arm loosened slightly as he took in her words. His expression softened, a mixture of understanding and regret flickering in his eyes. Hana met his gaze, her eyes reflecting a tumult of emotions—pain, anger, and a longing for understanding. She had carried the weight of her unspoken grievances for so long, trapped in the shadow of what might have been, unable to voice the depths of her heartache.

"Do you love her?" She questioned. San keeps his gaze on her, debating on how to answer without further upseting her. "She makes me happy enough." He admits. She nods, face revealing a mix of emotions.

"Well....that in itself is a great achievement." She looks down at the sand, seeking it as a distraction. Hana shook her head before looking up to him again. This won't get us anywhere.

"I am sorry." It is now San who shakes his own head. "Don't be, you have every right to be upset with me." He says. Once again, they're both stuck looking at one another, neither knowing what to do now. Hana removes her arm from his hold, reaching her hand to rest on his cheek. When he doesn't move to push her away, she takes a step closer.

"Hana," he whispers. "You're not thinking clearly." She strokes his cheek, looking into the dark and familiar eyes she grew so fondly of.

"I am no longer a child..." She says. She moves her hand to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. A rush of conflicting emotions surged within him. He felt the weight of their shared history, the tangled web of regret and longing that bound them together. In that fleeting moment, as their gazes locked and their breaths mingled, San found himself teetering on the edge of a precipice. For Hana, the touch of his skin beneath her fingertips reignited a flame long suppressed—a whisper of longing that lingered in the depths of her heart, beckoning her closer to the man she had once loved. In the quiet intimacy of their shared space, she yearned to bridge the chasm that had grown between them, to reclaim a fragment of the connection they had lost.

San's heart ached with the weight of his commitments, his duties as a lord and soon-to-be husband bearing down upon him like an unyielding burden. Hana's touch stirred a tempest of emotions within him, threatening to unravel the carefully constructed facade he had built to shield his heart from the pain of the past. Their lips hovered just inches apart, a voice echoed in the depths of San's soul—a silent plea for redemption, a whispered prayer for forgiveness.

San closed the gap between their lips, surrendering to the intoxicating allure of their shared connection. In that tender embrace, he felt the weight of his burdens lift, replaced by a profound sense of liberation and belonging. For Hana, the touch of San's lips against hers ignited a firestorm of emotion, consuming the barriers that had kept them apart for so long. She cast aside the expectations and obligations that had bound her, embracing instead the undeniable truth of her heart's desire. As they parted, breathless and exhilarated, a newfound clarity settled over them—a shared understanding that their love was worth any sacrifice, any hardship that lay ahead.

"I want you" She whispered against his lips, holding him tightly, fearing he could disappear. "I choose you." He held her face and brought her to him once again. As their lips met, it was as if the world around them faded into insignificance, leaving only the electrifying sensation of their union. Hana's soft breath mingled with San's, creating a delicate symphony of longing and desire in the space between them. The kiss was gentle yet passionate, a tender exploration of the depths of their shared connection.

With each brush of their lips, they exchanged a language of love that transcended words, speaking volumes in the silent communion of their souls. Their hearts beat in unison, a rhythmic cadence that echoed the intensity of their emotions. San's hands enveloped Hana's waist, lifting her effortlessly as a joyous laugh bubbled from her lips. In that fleeting moment of pure, unbridled happiness, their laughter echoed across the shoreline, carried by the gentle breeze that danced through the air. Hana's heart soared as she gazed into San's eyes, finding within them a reflection of the boundless love and affection that enveloped them both.

As he set her back down, she pulled his neck to connect their lips once more. Hana's fingers curled around the nape of San's neck, drawing him closer as their lips melded in a dance of desire and devotion. In the sweet ecstasy of the moment, they lost themselves in each other, their souls intertwining amidst the symphony of their shared affection. Once parted, they leaned their foreheads together, not wanting to separate from one another.

"Tell me this is real." San's voice broke the tender silence, his words echoing with a mixture of longing and uncertainty. Hana gazed up at him, her eyes alight with unwavering determination and boundless love.

"It's real, my love," she reassured him, her voice a gentle whisper that echoed the depth of her commitment. With each tender caress, she sought to convey the magnitude of her devotion, a steadfast vow to stand by his side through every trial and tribulation. San's concerns lingered like shadows in the night, casting doubt upon the path they had chosen.

"What of Wooyoung? What of Alora?" he questioned, his voice tinged with apprehension.

"We will find a way," Hana declared, her voice resolute and unwavering. In that moment, she embodied the essence of their shared resolve, her unwavering faith a beacon of hope in the face of uncertainty. "All will be resolved."

--------------------

The vast library of Dragonspire, a sanctuary of knowledge and reflection. The shelves are lined with ancient tomes and scrolls, their weathered spines bearing witness to the passage of time. In the soft glow of lamplight, Prince Wooyoung sits at a mahogany desk, poring over a collection of maps and parchments spread out before him. His brow furrowed in concentration, he traces the lines and symbols with careful deliberation, lost in the intricacies of strategy and diplomacy.

Across the room, Princess Hana steps in. Noticing her presence, Wooyoung sits up straight. "Hana, did you need something?" He asks. Hana looks behind her before stepping forward.

"There is a matter I wish to discuss with you." Wooyoung sets a scroll down, standing from his chair and approaching her. "Yes, what is it my dear?"

Hana meets Wooyoung's gaze, her expression serious yet resolute. "It's about us, Wooyoung," she begins, her voice steady despite the weight of her words. "I've been doing a lot of thinking lately, about our future, about where we stand."

Wooyoung's brow furrows with concern, sensing the gravity of her tone. "Go on, Hana. Whatever it is, you can tell me," he urges, his voice laced with both curiosity and apprehension. Taking a deep breath, Hana gathers her thoughts before continuing.

"I... I feel as though we've drifted apart, Wooyoung," she admits, her words tinged with sadness. "Our marriage.....we've become bound by duty rather than love."

Wooyoung's expression softens, his eyes reflecting a mixture of understanding and empathy. "I've felt it too," he confesses, his voice gentle yet tinged with sorrow. "The weight of our responsibilities, they've pulled us in different directions. But that doesn't mean we can't find our way to each other."

Hana nods, her heart heavy with emotion yet hopeful for the future. "I want to believe that, Wooyoung," she says earnestly, her voice tinged with determination. "But it has been five years, we need to be honest with ourselves, with each other. We can't continue pretending that everything is fine when it's not."

Wooyoung reaches out, his hand finding hers in a gesture of solidarity and support. "You're right." he agrees, his gaze unwavering as he meets her eyes. "The court will not take this kindly, how do you propose we go about this?" He asks.

Hana considers Wooyoung's question carefully, knowing the challenges that lie ahead. "We must approach this with caution and diplomacy," she replies, her voice measured yet resolute. "We cannot disregard the expectations of the court, but we also cannot ignore the truth of our own hearts."

Wooyoung nods in agreement, his expression thoughtful. "We'll need to be strategic in how we navigate this," he acknowledges, his tone echoing her sentiments. "We must tread carefully." Hana places a reassuring hand on Wooyoung's arm, her touch a silent affirmation of their unity in the face of adversity.

"Together, we will find a way forward," she assures him, her eyes reflecting unwavering determination.

"Wooyoung...we may have to take drastic measures." Hana states, hesitant to approach such a topic. Wooyoung looks at her quizzically, before finding understanding. "How would we do it?" He asks.

"We would have help, if we are to do such a thing, we will need an audience." She says. "It's a risk, but one we must take if we are to forge our own path."

Wooyoung's gaze softens, "I see," he murmurs, his tone thoughtful. "It won't be easy, but if it means securing our future together, then I'm willing to face whatever challenges come our way."

Hana smiles, a mixture of relief and determination coloring her features. "Thank you, Wooyoung," she says, gratitude evident in her voice.

In the dimly lit corridors of Dragonspire, Lord Yunho walks with purpose. Each step echoes against the stone walls. Lost in thought, Yunho rounds a corner and nearly collides with Lord Jongho, who wears a troubled expression.

"Yunho, there you are," Jongho says, his voice tense with urgency. "There's something you need to know."

Caught off guard by Jongho's demeanor, Yunho braces himself for whatever news awaits him. "What is it?" he asks, his tone edged with concern.

"It's Wooyoung-"  Yunho waits for him to continue, but when he doesn't, he urges him to continue.

"Wooyoung? What about Wooyoung, has something happened?" Jongho swallows hard, he shakes his head before urging Yunho to follow him. The two men race to Dragonspire's throne room, when they enter, every working person and court members still present crowded the room. Confusion filled him, hearing some people chatter, some sobbing made him feel uneasy. A loud voice boomed throughout the room, startling almost everyone.

"WHO DID THIS? REVEAL YOURSELF." It demanded. The air crackled with tension, every eye fixed on the source of the commanding voice. They pushed through the crowd, their hearts pounding in their chests as they sought answers amidst the chaos. Before them, Dragonspire's throne stood empty, the courtiers whispered amongst themselves, their voices a symphony of confusion and fear. In the center of the room, Prince Yeosang, stood with fury etched across his features. His gaze bore into the assembled crowd, demanding accountability for the turmoil that had shaken the kingdom to its core.

"Who dared to betray the prince?" Yeosang's voice thundered, resonating through the cavernous hall with a fierce intensity. His words hung in the air, a challenge to those who dared harbor secrets in the shadows. Mingi stood next to Jongho, posture stiff and eyes on alert.

"What's going on?" Yunho asks him, hoping to gain some insight as to what took place. Mingi made eye contact with him, he opened his mouth to respond when the throne room doors burst open, Princess Hana rushing through them. Mingi was quick to act, running to her and stopping her from going further. "What is the meaning of this?" She demanded.

As Mingi intercepted Hana, the tension in the throne room surged to new heights, every eye fixed on the unfolding confrontation. Yunho's heart quickened with apprehension, his gaze darting between Mingi and Hana, his mind racing to grasp the gravity of the situation. Mingi's voice rang out with authority, his tone firm yet tempered with concern.

"Princess, you must remain calm," he urged, his words a plea for restraint amidst the chaos that threatened to consume them all.

Hana's eyes blazed with determination, her resolve unyielding in the face of uncertainty. "I demand answers, Lord Mingi," she declared, her voice echoing with a steely resolve that brooked no opposition.

"Prince Wooyoung......he's dead." Upon hearing this, Hana collapsed. Mingi tried supporting her to stand, but her legs gave out. The words hung heavy in the air, each syllable a dagger piercing the hearts of those who heard them. Mingi's expression darkened with sorrow, his features drawn tight with grief for the loss that had befallen them all. Hana's anguished cries echoed through the throne room, a haunting lament for the shattered dreams and fractured promises that now lay scattered at their feet. Yunho moved forward, his steps heavy with reluctance, a silent offering of solace in the face of unbearable sorrow. As Mingi attempted to support her, Hana's grief consumed her, her cries wrenching at the hearts of all who bore witness to her pain.

"We will find the man who did this...this....act of treason." Yeosang's declaration cut through the somber air, his words ringing with a steely resolve that echoed the collective determination of those gathered in the throne room. His voice, filled with righteous fury and unwavering conviction.

"Come princess, you should not have to witness this." A serving carefully took her out of Mingi's hold, leading her back to her chambers. Once inside, the serving girl was quick to run a bath.

"Here princess, let me help you-" Hana swatted her away, refusing her touch and demanding she be left alone. The girl bowed and announced she would be back with hot tea once Hana was done. When the girl leaves, Hana forced her tears to stop. She quickly wiped them away, stripping herself of the nightgown she had worn. 'Might as well take advantage' she thought. She laid herself in the tub, the heated water warming her body. Footsteps could be heard behind the room's door, moving quietly as to not make noise. The door opens and shuts quickly and softly, before the person makes an appearance before her, kneeling to be eye level.

"Is it done?" She asks, he nods. "Yes, he should arrive in Essos by tomorrow." She gives a hum of approval before leaning back. "You made quite a performance my love." Hana felt his hand stroke her hair and looks back to him.

"Good, we have them right where we want them." Their eyes meet, a shared understanding passing between them in the dimly lit chamber. As they bask in the aftermath of their meticulously orchestrated deception, a sense of triumph courses through their veins, fueling their resolve to see their plans through to fruition.

"We must remain vigilant," he cautions, his voice a whispered reminder of the dangers that lurk in the shadows. Hana nods in silent agreement, her gaze fixed on the flickering candlelight that dances across the room.

"The game is far from over," she murmurs, her words a solemn vow to see their ambitions realized. "But for now, let us savor the sweet taste of victory." With a tantalizing grace, she leans towards her lover, her eyes aflame with a mixture of desire and triumph. The ambient light casts a soft glow on her features as she pulls him in for a kiss.

Hana's lips, soft and inviting, meld seamlessly into San's. The warmth of the embrace ignites a firestorm of sensation that courses through every fiber of their beings. The world around them fades into the background, leaving only the intoxicating exchange of passion. As their lips part, a shared understanding passes between them, reflected in the soft smiles that paint their faces.

With a playful glint in her eye, Hana drags a teasing finger under San's chin. The gesture is laden with unspoken promises, a silent acknowledgment of the clandestine victories they've achieved together. "Strip for me," she whispers, her voice a sultry invitation to revel in the pleasures that follow their triumphs.

#ateez #choi san #park seonghwa #kim hongjoong #jeong yunho #kang yeosang #song mingi #jung wooyoung #choi jongho #ateez imagine #ateez x reader #choi san x reader #choi san x OC #GOT #game of thrones #house of the dragon #hotd #TheHeir

[aerynwrites]

Hiraeth || Part 2

Machine Herald!Viktor x Reader

A/N: part 2! Thank you to @thedreamlessnights for reading over this and proofing for me! ❤️ I hope you all enjoy! P.S. the past few days have been kind of crummy - So I would love to hear from you all on this chapter!

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Very very slight pining? Discussion of rehabilitation and pain, more slow burn.

Previous | Next

Being under the Machine Herald’s care turns out to be a lot of waiting. 

Waiting while he works on your leg. 

Waiting while he works on other projects at his workbench.

Waiting while he’s off doing…whatever he does when he’s not with you. 

And waiting turns into a lot of sleeping. Sleeping and healing and dreaming. 

Most of your dreams are about the riot at the marketplace. Terrible nightmares filled with screams and pain and fire that result in you waking in a cold sweat. 

So, you try to avoid sleeping for a while - until you simply have to sleep, unconsciousness pulling you under involuntarily. 

Eventually the dreams morph into something better. Gentler and sweeter than the nightmares. They feel like memories more than anything - like tangible things you can reach out and touch if you try hard enough. 

A mechanical toy boat, chestnut hair ruffled beneath your fingers. Wide eyes with amber iris’s that stare up at you when you tell the little boy you’ll come back to play with him the next day. 

When you wake, the dreams dissolve along with your sleep, scattered and fragmented like leaves swept away with the wind. 

But you hold onto what you can remember.

Your childhood wasn’t something you tried to think about often, more bad memories than good ones. So you want desperately to hold onto the feeling of nostalgia these passing memories give you. 

The more you have the dreams, the more you start to remember the boy that appears in them. He never played with the other kids your age, but to be fair, neither did you. 

You stuck to yourself and your own devices. Until one day you saw him emerge from a little cave with a toy boat cradled in his arm, leaning heavily on his crutch as it struggled to take hold in the shifting sand of the river bank. 

You had approached him then, asking about his boat. And after some hesitation on his end he was happily showing you his invention, letting you run after it before returning it to him to do it all over again. 

And when the sun started to dip below the horizon, he gave you a weak smile. 

“Thanks for playing with me.” 

You nodded, smiling. “Can we do it again tomorrow?” 

He looked up at you then, surprise etched onto his boyish features. “Again?” 

You scrunch your nose. “Yeah? I can bring some of my toys. They aren’t as cool as yours though.” You shrug, looking back over your shoulder at the setting sun. 

“I have to go. So meet here tomorrow? After lunch?” 

The boy just nods mutely, mouth agape. You smile and wave at him as you turn to run back home. 

“See you tomorrow!” 

It's only when you approach your parents’ small apartment do you realize you never asked the boy his name. 

———

While you appreciate the more pleasant memories, you can’t help but be confused as to why they are coming to you now. 

It’s been years since you’ve thought about your childhood friend. The boy with the cane who loved to tinker and was determined to get out of the undercity to make real change. 

You huff and look down to where the Machine Herald is doing some tinkering of his own on your leg. 

It’s been several days since he turned off your sensory receptors and he’s been doing much more work than you anticipated. 

He glances up from the wires at your quiet outburst and raises a brow. 

“Does something hurt?” he asks. Ever since the mishap a few days ago, he’s always checking in. 

You shake your head. “No. Just…thinking.” 

You expect him to leave it at that, but he surprises you by inquiring further. 

“Anything in particular?” 

You pinch your lips together, not wanting to bore him with stories of your childhood. Especially when you can’t even remember it clearly. 

“Just about a dream I had. More of a memory, I guess. Of a friend from when I was younger.” 

This makes him pause. You assume he will respond, but instead he closes up the panel he was working on and sets his tools aside. 

“Would you like to try walking?” 

Well, that’s the end of that conversation obviously.

But the prospect of getting on your own two feet pushes away any curiosity as to his avoidant nature. 

You nod eagerly, pushing yourself to sit up straighter. “Walking? Yes, yes I want to try!” 

“Slow down.” His words come out harsh, like a parent scolding a child, and it stops you in your tracks. 

“I have to turn on the sensory receptors again,” he informs you, grabbing the tools he will need before reaching for the appropriate panel on your leg. “I cannot promise it won’t be painful. But you need to be able to feel in order to walk.” 

You swallow thickly at the thought, but push it away. You need to do this. 

“Okay. Can I let you know if it gets too much, or something?” 

He nods, eyes never leaving the task at hand as he swiftly reconnects the wire he had cut several days ago. 

“Of course.” 

The moment the two ends of the wire touch, a wave of sensation washes through your left side, down to the tips of your toes. You can feel everything again, including the dull ache of pain. 

You wait patiently for him to finish and set his tools aside before trying anything. He stands back a bit from the edge of the bed and gestures to you. 

“Try to stand.” 

He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. 

The look you send him is meant to be scathing, but it comes off as bewildered. 

“That’s it? You aren’t gonna help me?” You reach your hand out for emphasis. “That didn’t go too well last time, in case you forgot.” 

His brows pinch together in frustration. “That is because your leg was not ready. It wasn’t finished or calibrated or many other things.” 

He gestures towards your legs now. “It’s completed now. So, no. I will not be assisting you at first. I need to see what you are capable of on your own.” 

You huff, and sit up straighter, bracing yourself. “Fucking prick.” The words are grumbled under your breath, and you watch as the man stiffens out of the corner of your eye. 

“What was that?”

You shrug, biting back a smile. “Nothing. Just talking to myself.” 

You don’t miss the sigh that slips from beneath his mask. 

“Enough talking, more…walking.” 

You huff out a laugh. “The jokes again?” 

He doesn’t respond, just crosses his arms and looks at you expectantly. This time, you heave a sigh of your own, bracing your arms on the bed beside you as you sit up. 

The result of your last attempt makes your belly roil with nerves. What if this doesn’t work? What if it fails and you won’t be able to walk? 

These questions and more race through your mind, so you decide to start small. See if your leg will even listen to you. 

Focusing on trying to move your ankle and wiggle your toes, your eyes widen when it listens. The little metal toes move just like you thought they would, and your ankle too. 

Holy shit, this is weird. 

It’s almost effortless how well the limb moves and listens to you, as if it seamlessly connects to your biological nervous system. Which it most likely does.

Slowly, much slower than you’re sure the Machine Herald likes, you shift to move your legs over the side of the bed. Your bare foot touches the floor at the same time as your mechanical one, and you're immediately struck by what you can and can’t feel. 

The floor is cold against your flesh foot, making a shiver race up your spine. However, while you can feel the pressure of the floor against your metal appendage, there’s no temperature input. No hot or cold or tickling sensations. Just pressure. 

It’s odd. This whole thing is weird. You can hear the quiet whirring of mechanics coming from your leg and the shifting of metal plates at your ribs as you shift weight onto the leg for the first time. Everything adapts to adjust for this new movement. All of it stretches to accommodate the way you straighten as you stand, just like regular skin would. 

“Woah.” 

The single word is whispered reverently as you wobble slightly on your new leg, one hand falling back to the bed for support. 

You haven’t fallen yet though, and that sparks an eagerness in you that you probably should suppress. 

But you can’t. 

Quickly, much quicker than you should, you move to take a step forward with your left leg. While it works, and your leg obeys, the white hot pain that races up your side causes you to stumble. 

A sharp intake of breath is all the sound you manage to make before you topple forwards. You expect your hands to meet hard ground, but two arms wrap beneath your own, stopping your descent. 

This action sends another pain through you, like white lighting crackling through your veins. The sensation forces tears to your eyes, and you’re unable to stop them from spilling over. 

“Stop, stop, stop!” The words spill from your lips in a rush, your hands gripping his shoulders as he leans you back to rest against the bed. “It hurts.”

“I told you it would.” The mechanical voice is surprisingly gentle as he pulls away from you, eyes searching your face. 

You take deep heaving breaths, trying to quell the pain that now throbs all across your left side. “It feels like I’m falling apart,” you tell him, wiping at your tears. “It’s just…pulling at me.” 

He nods. “Unfortunately, this is common. Your body is not used to the new weight of a foreign body. You’re also still healing.” He pulls at the edge of your gown until the area where skin meets metal is revealed. 

The skin is puffed up and pink where it meshes with the metal plates, looking much angrier than it had a few days ago. The man before you runs cool metal fingers across the exposed skin, presumably searching for more damage. But the relief of cool metal against the heated skin makes you sigh. 

He pulls away then. As if he’d been burned, and avoids your eyes as he steps away from you, your gown falling back into place. 

“Again.” 

———

Despite what he told you earlier, he does end up assisting you. You manage several, painful, but sturdy steps away from the bed before being ready to quit. 

However, he convinces you to continue if you are able to lean on him for help. Hesitantly, he approaches you on your right, wrapping a solid arm around your waist before leading you slowly around the room. 

You’ve barely made it through lap two and you are already drenched in sweat, strands of hair sticking to your face and neck. 

“Can this thing get wet?” You ask, swallowing the pain and trying to focus on conversation instead. 

The man beside you nods, adjusting his grip on you. “Of course. It would be very ineffective if it could not.” 

“Okay, cool. That’s good to know.” 

He glances down at you then, one brow raised. “Do you have plans to jump into a body of water that I need to know a about?” 

You bark out a laugh. A sound that comes out more pained than entertained. “I can barely walk, let alone swim.” You bite back a groan. “No. I want to take a bath. Or a shower, or something. I’m gross and sweaty, and have no clue when the last time I bathed was.” 

“Well,” he begins, turning you both back to head towards your bed. “Personal hygiene is important in this line of work. Preventing infections and keeping wound sites clean, so I can assure you that you have not been unclean this entire time-“ 

“So you saw me naked?” 

Your words cause his grip on you to falter, as he freezes in place. He stumbles over his words, searching for some way to respond to your brazen remark. 

Only your laughter soothes his stuttering. 

“I’m fucking with you.” You say, tugging at him so he will walk with you again. “I don’t care. You saved me, the last thing I care about is that.” 

The man beside you lets out an agitated sigh as you finally approach the bed, and he eases you to sit on the edge. 

“What?” You ask, eyes playful despite the pain. “You can make jokes but I can’t?” 

“My jokes aren’t crude.” 

You huff. “Yeah, well. You took me apart and put me back together again. Nothing’s off the table anymore, right?” 

He doesn’t offer a response, instead he turns towards the door, only glancing briefly at you over his shoulder. 

“I’ll have something prepared.” 

And then he’s gone.

———

It’s only after you finish dinner does he lead you towards the promised bath. Outside of the large room you’ve been in this whole time, you realize that it looks to be an old house.

 It doesn’t hold much in the way of creature comforts, and it looks as if it’s been redone to accommodate multiple people at once. You pass several rooms similar, if not a bit smaller, than the one you’ve been in. 

All of them are empty. Beds made neatly and tools organized on tables beside them. 

“Are you the only one here?” you ask as you pass another empty room, once again leaning against him for support as you walk down the hall. 

“You’re here.” 

You roll your eyes. “You know what I mean. There’s so many rooms, how do you manage if you have more than one person here?” 

“I have a few automatons. They help where they can. Delivering meals, changing IV drips. Menial things I do not have time for,” he tells you, slowing as you approach a door at the end of the hall. 

Brows furrow at his words. “I haven’t seen an automaton. Just you.” 

He pauses again. And you know by now that means you aren’t going to get a response. 

Instead, he turns the knob of the door and pushes it open, lending you into a room with a tub full of steaming water. There’s a small table sitting next to it with a bar of soap, a towel, and a fresh hospital gown. 

You’ve never seen a sight so welcome. 

“Oh, thank god.” You practically moan at the sight of the tub, breaking from the man’s grip once you’re close enough to lean against the edge. 

“Take as long as you need,” he says, before pointing to a small string dangling above the tub. “Pull this if you need assistance with anything.” 

“Help with what? Washing my hair? Because I do love it when someone else washes my hair,” you say, a teasing grin on your lips as you look over at him. 

You see him roll his eyes this time. “It is meant more for emergencies…”

That wasn’t a no, you think to yourself before waving him off. 

“I’ll pull the string if I start to drown,” you joke again, smiling when a small huff of laughter meets your ears. 

You hear his footsteps retreating and turn to call out to him before he can leave. 

“Hey!” Your voice echoes in the small room, and he glances over his shoulder at you. “Thank you.” 

He nods, and then leaves you to your own devices. 

———

You end up staying in the bath until the water turns cold, chill bumps raising on your arms. Once you towel off and slip the new gown over your head, you call out for him and he comes back in to help lead you back to your room. 

As he’s helping you back into bed, you finally voice the thoughts that have been plaguing your mind. 

“Why haven’t you used automatons with me?” Your voice is loud in the otherwise silent room, and you honestly expect to be left unanswered once more. 

But he surprises you. 

“I do not have any other patients.” 

Your eyes never leave him, his words not quite ringing as completely truthful. Instead of pushing that line of questioning you bring up another topic, one that is bothering you more than anything else. 

“You remind me of someone,” you blurt out. And for once the man adjusting your blankets doesn’t pause. 

“Oh?” The single word his hardly a response, but it is a response. And one that prompts you to continue. 

“I just…” You  trail off, unsure of how to voice the mess of jumbled up memories and thoughts in your brain. 

“My friend that I mentioned earlier. He was always determined to help people, it was why he…why he left. He wanted to help others, with no gain of his own. I don’t know.” You shake your head, eyes falling from the man beside you to the blanket under your fingers. “You’re the same in that way. Wanting to help people.” 

“What makes you think my help is entirely selfless?” The modulated voice is quizzical as he looks over to you. 

“You would have just let your automatons take care of me if you didn’t care,” you point out. “And I’ve heard the rumors. You hardly ever take payment for what you do.” 

He looks away from you again, and that’s enough to tell you that you’re correct. 

“What happened to your friend?” 

You're taken back by the question.

He hasn’t actually inquired about you since you woke up. Only asking questions about how you feel, your pain, and so on. 

But now…he seems genuinely interested. 

“He uhm…I don’t know, really,” you admit, your brain is trying to conjure up fuzzy memories. “He got accepted into the academy topside. I wrote letters to him for a while but he never responded so…I don’t know. I guess he’s still up there.” 

The memory of that, a memory you had apparently buried deep away, makes emotion well in your chest. So you clear your throat, avoiding the golden eyes boring into you. 

“Or maybe he’s dead. I haven’t seen any of the changes he talked about wanting to create down here, so…I don’t know.” 

It’s silent following your words, and you assume this is where the man beside you wordlessly leaves. But once again, to your surprise, he speaks. 

“Maybe you have not looked in the right places.” 

Confusion swarms your brain. “What?” 

You look over and see him shrug. 

“Maybe the change is right in front of you, and you just haven’t seen it.” 

What does that even mean?

You don’t get a chance to voice your question, because he must deem the conversation over. Something you’re silently grateful for. He turns to leave when you ask one last question. 

“What do you want me to call you?” you ask. “Machine Herald is kind of a mouthful.” 

He stops at the door, hand on the knob. It takes a moment longer for him to answer, and you yet again expect to not receive and answer. 

But he does answer you, and his voice is gentler than you’ve ever heard it. As if he's revealing a secret that no one else should hear. 

And when his response finally registers in your mind, it brings on more questions and memories than you’re prepared for. 

“My name is Viktor.”

#machine herald x reader #machine herald viktor x reader #arcane viktor x reader #arcane x reader #viktor x reader #arcane league of legends

[safarigirlsp]

Joyeux Noel

Joyeux Noel

Jacques Le Gris x Reader

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: None. Romance. Light Angst. Fluff. Humor. Weird, right?

Christmas Song Prompt: All I Want for Christmas is You

AO3 Link

Author’s Note: Please enjoy your first Christmas with Jacques!

Snow swirled on a crisp December wind, promising a beautiful Christmas at Aunou le Faucon. By all appearances, the first Christmas Jacques Le Gris would spend at his newly bestowed estate was going to be the whitest Christmas with the deepest snowfall the region had seen in years.

In celebration of both his newly appointed Captaincy and to establish himself as the new owner of his grand estate, Jacques had planned a great day’s long Christmas celebration. All of his friends and many of his enemies were invited to attend; his friends to share in his good fortune and his enemies to envy it. He ensured his estate was also open to the lower castes as well as the nobles; to those people who would otherwise enjoy no luxuries for the holidays, and the strata from whom he was only decades removed himself.

Only one guest’s attendance truly mattered to him, however. The woman who had fast stolen his heart since a chance meeting in the height of summer and during as many engagements since as Jacques could arrange. For you alone, he counted the long hours until the festivities began, heralding your arrival. You had mentioned in passing once months ago how you looked forward to the winter holidays, a detail which Jacques had engraved into his memory. He had seen to every detail, ensuring his castle was bedecked with Christmas splendor, his halls and chambers resplendent with every festive accoutrement he could arrange.

Jacques had personally found the finest, bushiest tree in the forest to decorate his great hall, its upper branches towering up into the beams of the arched ceiling. He had even decorated and placed a smaller but even more beautiful tree in his own bedchamber, in the hopes that he might be fortunate enough to spend Christmas Eve there with you.

The weather rendered correspondence and couriers slow, as it did to all travelers. Upon receiving word that your own arrival was delayed until Christmas Eve, Jacques’s heart sank and his spirits dropped. He had hoped very much to see you for the days preceding the holiday, but he resigned himself to make the most of the limited time he would have with you, and perhaps entice you to remain at his castle through New Year's Eve.

Missing a woman was new to Jacques. The melancholy sensation of feeling lonesome and as though he was incomplete, missing a piece of himself, in your absence was something he had never experienced and had heretofore thought himself immune. The entire month of December had passed without him being graced with your presence, which he found wholly intolerable. The ghost of you lingered in every room of his castle, haunting his every thought and dream.

*******************************************************************************************

A frightful blizzard on a blustery Christmas Eve found Jacques anxiously pacing his resplendent halls, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the one person he longed to see above all others. As other guests filled his castle, none could imbue him with holiday cheer the way a single smile from your lips or bat of your eyelashes could alight his heart for days. Even his dearest friend, Pierre, and his animated conversation could not distract Jacques enough to be ambivalent to your absence.

As the hour grew late and the snow fell deep over the grounds of Aunou le Faucon, Jacques’s anxious excitement darkened into worry and then darker still into fear when you failed to arrive, his heart sinking further in time with the setting sun as it lowered toward the western horizon. He had learned early on that you were both steadfast and tenacious, and you had assured him of your presence, which could be relied upon as testament.

By the time darkness had settled, earlier than usual due to the thick black clouds and heavy curtain of snowfall, Jacques kicked himself for waiting so long to venture out in search of you. Only an accident or some other misfortune would cause you such a delay, and his throat knotted and hands shook at the thought.

The few men Jacques trusted enough to ride out with him into such inhospitable cold to help him find you could be counted on a single hand. Unfortunately, they all had already succumbed to Jacques’s hospitality. Louvel could not be found, no doubt ferreted away with a woman or two in a counterfeit mockery of Jacques’s own exploits. Pierre was inebriated to the point of uselessness and altogether unable to seat a horse under even the most favorable conditions. Jacques would find you on his own and deliver you from whatever danger you had encountered.

Dressing in his warmest garb, leather and thick wool with a heavy fur-lined cape, and buckling his sword around his hips, Jacques resolved himself to find you, even if he had to ride all the way to your own estate in the blizzarding darkness. No obstacle would keep him from seeing to your safety nor from spending Christmas Eve with the woman he loved. He packed blankets and a jug of mulled wine into his saddlebags and set out on an enormous dapple-gray horse into the frigid winter night.

*******************************************************************************************

The distance between Aunou le Faucon and your estate was a long day’s journey for you in an enclosed wagon and a rigorous half-day’s ride for Jacques alone if he pushed his horse hard. He knew the route well, having traversed it many times during the past few months, spending long days on his horse only to bask in your company for a few hours with the hopes of endearing you to him with a fervor that equaled his own.

Riding now in a whiteout blizzard in which he could see no more than a few horse-lengths ahead, it was fortuitous that he had the route committed to memory. Every step of Jacques’s horse was slowed by the blizzard, the drifting snow that rose knee deep to his mount, and the slick ground beneath. Icy cold snowflakes stung Jacques’s face from gusts of frozen wind, numbing his nose and ears. The tips of his hair where it hung down near his jaw were now icicles, frozen with the moisture from his own fogged breath. The cold bit him through the layers of his heavy clothing as though it had razored teeth.

Jacques hoped to hell that you possessed the good sense to stay home, despite your promise to him, rather than venture out in such a storm. Yet, he knew with all possible conviction that you would not have done so. Fraught with worry, his mind ventured to scenarios he was loathe to entertain. Visions of you shivering and freezing cold in your wagon stuck in a snow drift, or lost after having taken a wrong turn in the blinding whiteout, or worse still, set upon by bandits who preyed upon travelers. He kicked himself for not escorting you personally, a mistake he resolved to never make again.

Hours down the snowy road, long after Jacques’s fingers had gone numb from cold, where the path led through a forest, his horse balked at a snow-covered obstacle, snorting thickly fogged breath through his nose. A large tree had fallen across the road during the storm, blocking the road entirely from any carts or wagons. Jacques maneuvered his horse around the tree, sinking deeper into the snow in the gulley off the side of the road. Although a seemingly likely cause for your delay, there were no traces of any travelers on the other side of the fallen tree. However, given the depth of fresh snowfall, it would have obscured any hoofprints or wheel marks made hours before.

Looking around the surrounding forest, the snow was slightly less blinding inside the trees. Jacques thought he could scarcely make out what looked like a path knocked through the trees with something large such as your wagon where the branches of trees appeared bent aside and broken. The path looked level and clear enough for a wagon to traverse. Were he the driver, it would have been his course rather than to sit idle alone on the road in such a harrowing storm.

Jacques debated whether to continue on toward your estate or follow what may be your trail through the woods. Compelled by instinct, he reigned his horse off the road and into the forest, following the semblance of a path through the trees. He vaguely registered that the path wound back in the direction of his castle, leading through the forested countryside through which he rarely journeyed himself.

After miles, the forest began to thin, the ground growing more even and the wind again blowing viciously, unchecked by trees. Ahead, a warm glow slowly came into focus through the frightful storm. Jacques thought at first that his burning eyes had conjured a vision after straining for hours to see anything but swirling white, until he drew close enough to make out a structure in the snowy darkness.

The humble dwelling of a peasant family materialized before him; one of the unfortunate hovels that Jacques would be rue to describe as a home, the likes of which he tried to forget that he spent his youth within. Belonging to a family who worked his estate, Jacques wondered vaguely why candlelight flickered inside the small windows and why the family was not in attendance at his banquet rather than choosing to remain inside a shanty in such inhospitable weather.

As his horse approached the hovel, Jacques heard a sound from within, drifting to him on the blistering wind. A siren’s song too good to be true, Jacques heard your laughter calling to him from inside.

Nearly diving off his horse and stumbling on the slick ground on legs stiff from cold, Jacques lumbered through the snow that rose above his boots to the door. Without wasting another precious second to knock, Jacques pushed the door open, bursting inside along with a strong gust of snowy air.

Jumping with a start from the sudden intrusion, your head jerked to the door to see Jacques’s dark and massive form erupt into the small dwelling. His cloak and clothing were heavily caked with snow that shook free as he rushed to you, his face a portrait of relief and elation at finally seeing you again.

Closing the distance between you, Jacques wrapped you in his arms, lifting you off the dirt floor in a powerful bearhug as his lips crashed against yours with all the abandon that his worry had etched into him over the past few hours. His nose felt frozen where it smooshed against your cheek and his hair truly was frozen in segments, ebony icicles that fell around both your faces as he kissed and kissed you.

“You’re freezing, Jacques!” you exclaimed when he finally pulled back for breath, resting a hand on his frigid chest as he returned you to the floor. “What in God’s name are you doing riding out in this weather?”

“What am I doing?” Jacques laughed at you, kissing you again before continuing. “Looking for you, mon amour. I have never known fear the likes of which gripped me when you did not arrive.”

“And yet, I am the one who is warm by a fire and you are an icicle colossus traipsing around in the snow.” You laughed with him, even as you felt him begin to shiver beneath your hands, a combination of excitement at finally having you in his arms and from the numbness of cold giving way to shivering warmth back into his limbs.

“How did you find this place?” Jacques asked of the home, vacant save for you and your servants, its owner no doubt enjoying Jacques’s banquet as he assumed, but no one would begrudge you making a fire in their hearth on such a night.

“A fallen tree blocked the road, but I would never let such a thing keep me from your festivities,” you told him with a smirk as he raised his icy gloved fingers to caress your cheek. “We only stopped here to warm ourselves before continuing on to your castle. We are very close now, are we not?”

Jacques had not considered it before, too consumed with his concern for you, but at your question, he registered that your path had indeed led back toward his estate. He smiled broadly when he confirmed, “Yes, we are but a stone’s throw away from Aunou le Faucon.”

Before you could reply, he snatched your hand, pulling you eagerly toward the door.

“Jacques, you must warm yourself before riding on,” you scolded him to no avail.

“Nonsense.” Jacques shook his head as he retrieved his coin purse from a pocket, dropping it on the hovel’s modest table. More wealth than this family would see in five years of toiling was contained in the small leather bag, but not nearly enough to repay the fortuity of keeping you safe and warm. “I’ll warm myself in my own home with you in my arms. It is Christmas Eve, belle dame, and I want to spend it with the woman I love in a proper setting. Your servants may follow at their leisure.”

Not allowing you to protest further, Jacques scooped you up off the floor, carrying you outside into the raging winter storm. He carried you through the snow to his horse, ensuring your feet did not get wet and cold like his own. Hoisting you easily up into his saddle, he pulled your dress back down over your legs where it had bunched before climbing up onto his horse behind you.

Jacques pushed his horse faster on the ride back to Aunou le Faucon, galloping and trotting through the knee-deep powder. The wind stung your cheeks, but the warmth you had absorbed from the fire kept you suitably warm during the short journey to Jacques’s castle. Jacques, however, was so chilled from hours out in the cold that you could feel his huge body shivering against your back and his arms shaking around you.

Twinkling lights of the castle welcomed you back, shining ahead through the blizzard from the luminous festivities within. Servants ran out to take Jacques’s horse and usher you both inside when you arrived at the great double wooden doors of the entrance, greeted by lights and sounds of merriment.

Jacques led you inside by your hand, refusing to release his hold on you now that he had you by his side. You were awed by the effort Jacques had put into the splendorous decorations that adorned his castle. The magnificent tree in the great hall was the most beautiful you had ever seen, enough to capture your attention much more than the party that danced and laughed around you.

Nevertheless, one guest could never be ignored.

“Christ, man!” Pierre’s jovial voice boomed beside you when he clapped a hand on Jacques’s back. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve had to endure a dross of the mundane from Latour due to your most ill-timed departure. I must say, my friend, despite your many qualities, you have not yet impressed me as a host.”

“It surprises me that you’re still out among the rabble,” Jacques teased Pierre. “I thought you would have stolen away to a room with a few women hours ago.”

“As did I. As did I,” Pierre lamented, shaking his head. “Sadly, the wife has only just retired and freed me from my chains.” Looking at Jacques, his face brightened with realization. “Which means that you have returned just in time for a proper Christmas celebration to begin!”

“I’m afraid you shall have to celebrate without me tonight,” Jacques laughed, pulling you close to his side. “All that I want for Christmas has finally arrived and I desire nothing more than to spend the remaining hours of the evening with her alone.”

“Alas, how can a man compete with such a beauty?” Pierre sighed, not entirely joking as he looked at you mournfully.

Reaching up to stroke Jacques’s cheek, you directed his head to you, drawing him down to kiss you in a show of possession to Pierre as you whispered against his lips, “Let me warm you up, handsome.”

You had never before seen such a flush of excitement alight Jacques’s features when he heard your offer. With a beaming smile and no further ado, much to Pierre’s displeasure, Jacques led you out of the great hall. Nodding appreciatively to his guests and bidding them good night as he took his leave, Jacques ignored the gaggle of women vying for his attention.

Striding swiftly with you in tow up winding staircases and down long torchlit hallways, you finally arrived at Jacques’s bedchamber. The grandest chamber in the castle welcomed you as though you belonged there. You had never before entered Jacques’s bedchamber, despite his hearty attempts to lure you, but you felt at home inside.  

A vaulted ceiling rose in high peaks above you, arched windows twice as tall as its owner showed the blizzard outside, storming white that contrasted with the warm dancing light of the fire that bloomed in the hearth. A grand canopy bed was centered in the room, its curtains tied to the four posts of its frame. Tapestries and plaques adorned the stone walls, scenes of gallant knights and beautiful damsels, of battles and of romance. Filling one corner of the room near the windows was a gorgeous Christmas tree, its branches full and bushy.

Turning to Jacques, you slowly reached to the ties of his cloak, unlacing them and letting the heavy garment fall to the floor. Jacques’s eyes gleamed with firelight and hunger as he watched you unlace the neck of his tunic before you helped him pull it and his undershirt off of his body. You had not seen his bare body before, and the sight of his massive torso alone was enough to steal your breath. His broad dense chest and powerful arms and shoulders were more spectacular than you had ever imagined. He looked less like a man and more like a finely carved herculean statue.

Befitting of a stone monolith, his bare chest was just as cold as marble when you placed your hands on its expanse, still so chilled from his ride in search of you. You pushed him backward in the direction of his fireplace, sweetly commanding him to lay down upon the fur rug in front of it.

Happily complying, Jacques reclined onto his back on the fur. Opening his arms with a grin, he welcomed you to join him. Lowering yourself first to your knees and then resting a hand on his chest, you brought your lips to his as you laid across his body, letting your heat warm him as you kissed. His arms wrapped around you, holding you tight against his chest; his hands smoothed across your back and along your sides; his fingers kneaded into your flesh; his hands skimmed up your body to cup your cheek and grip behind your neck; the entirety of his body encompassing you as he kissed you deeply, smearing his love against your lips.

“I love you, cherie,” he told you huskily, his breath hot on your lips. “Your love is all I want for this Christmas and every one henceforth.”

“You have had my love for months, Jacques,” you whispered as you kissed him again. “Surely, you know that.”

“I know only that for however long you have loved me, I have loved you longer.” He smiled against your lips, caressing you with his words. “I have loved you from the very first moment I saw you, and it has only burned hotter inside me until I am incensed with it. My love for you consumes me, cherie, a flame that shall never be extinguished.”

“No wonder you could brave such a blizzard,” you teased, pulling back from his lips to admire the handsome man beneath you.

Even as he smiled lazily up at you, his eyelids fluttered, drooping with the weight of his fatigue. You could see the weariness under his eyes and feel the exhaustion in his bones from a day spent fretting with worry over you and a night of braving the ferocious cold on horseback for hours.

Laying your head down on his pillowy chest, you held him just as tightly as he held you, listening to the sound of his heartbeat slowly grow steady as sleep overtook him. Falling asleep inside Jacques’s strong embrace on Christmas Eve was the finest gift you could ever receive. Or so you thought.

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Christmas morning sparkled outside the windows in Jacques’s bedchamber, the landscape coated in diamante frost and fresh powdery snow. Dawn’s light illuminated the room, falling gently over Jacques’s handsome features where he lay beneath you, snoring softly, his hair splayed wildly under his head on the fur rug. Beside you, the fire had burned down to glowing cinders, still emitting enough heat to keep you pleasantly warm.

Raising your hand to his face, you traced your finger down the aquiline bridge of Jacques’s nose, rousing him with your touch. Grinning up at you groggily, he took your wrist, bringing your palm to his lips to kiss your skin and tickle you with his beard, nuzzling you with his nose, like a great cat wanting to be petted.

“Joyuex Noel, mon amour,” he growled, his voice deep and smoky with sleep.

“Should we go down to have breakfast with your guests?” you asked as you brushed some of his long hair away from his face.

“It’s too early,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “I want you all to myself a while longer.”

“The sun disagrees with you.” Smirking down at him, you quoted sections of one of his favorite poems, “Busy old fool, unruly sun. Through windows, and through curtains call on us.”

Glaring out of his window at the offending sunlight, he replied with another verse from the same prose, “Thou, sun, art half as happy as we.”

“We can’t stay like this all morning, even if we would like to,” you said softly as you leaned down to kiss him before teasing, “What will people think of me? Spending the night alone with a known scoundrel such as yourself?”

“Hmmm, that is a dilemma,” Jacques mused, pursing his lips together. “Perhaps, I might have a solution for you.”

Gazing down at him, you raised your eyebrows in a silent question, tracing your fingers over his bare chest.

“Help me up?” Jacques asked you with a grin, giving your back a final caress with his warm hand.

Rolling your eyes at him, you pushed yourself up to your feet before offering him your hand. Jacques took your hand, theatrically groaning like an old man when he pulled himself up to one knee. He stopped there, kneeling before you. You pulled harder on his hand to lift him further, but such an effort was tantamount to lifting a horse from the ground and he didn’t budge. Jacques only grinned wider at your efforts before raising your hand to his lips.

“If I deserve any goodness in my life, let it be from you now,” Jacques told you softly while purposely poised on one knee, his grin gone, replaced by a serious expression, his eyes firmly holding yours. “Grant me a Christmas wish, the greatest desire in my heart.” Jacques paused to inhale deeply, steeling himself to ask you, “Marry me, mon amour.”

Tears swam in your eyes, threatening to drip down your cheeks and your breath caught in your throat as you struggled to form words. Jacques’s smile returned, broader than ever, seeing your answer plainly. However, the man kneeling before you was still Jacques Le Gris, and he simply could not be gifted your hand so easily and with so little strife.

“Do you realize how ridiculous you were to ride out into that storm last night?” you asked teasingly, not yet answering his proposal.

“Do you mean my gallant errand of risking my life to save yours?” Jacques asked in turn, feigning offense.

“But I did not need saving.” You paused to bite your lip, stifling a laugh at his mockingly wounded expression. “I was perfectly sensible and warm while you were nearly catching your death of cold riding out in the blizzard.”

“True enough, clever girl,” Jacques agreed, shaking his head at you. “Do I not get rewarded for my great effort? Is it not the thought that counts?”

“Perhaps,” you mused, seeming to consider his question. “But it makes me question your longevity as a husband.”

Jacques laughed at your remark, his eyes beaming with love for you when he told you, “Then honor me by allowing me to leave behind the most beautiful widow in all of France.”

“I refuse!” You joined Jacques in his laughter. “I shall only marry you only under three conditions.”

“I am yours to command, amour.” He again brought your hand to his lips, kissing you more heatedly as he held your gaze.

“First, you are forbidden from dying due to your own reckless idiocy.” You paused, considering your words. “Second, should you ever lay so much as a finger on another woman, I shall ensure your favorite toy meets with the guillotine,” you told him, more seriously than before. “And third, you are forbidden from attending any party thrown by Pierre unless I am present,” you finished, awaiting his acceptance of your terms.

“Being as how I never wish to be parted from you again, the latter is easily done,” Jacques assured you. “And your threat of the guillotine is well taken, although it is much less a threat than the turmoil I would face upon losing you, amour.” Squeezing your hand, he imbued his words with sincerity. “However, I fear the former shall require your constant attention. Lave it upon me in flagons, lest I find myself too idle and prone to feats of reckless idiocy.”

“You have made the necessary arrangements with my family?” you asked, knowing the answer.

“Of course, amour, but I must know that you want me of your own accord,” he replied, still awaiting your acceptance.

“Then you may arise now as my husband to be, Jacques.” You smiled, again fighting to hold back tears.

Surging up from his knee with vigor, Jacques shouldered into you, hoisting you up over his shoulder as he rose to his feet. Laughing from more happiness than he had ever felt, he spun with you playfully once and then again when he heard your own laughter encouraging him. Walking with you to his bed, he flipped you over his shoulder down onto your back on the plush bedding.

Jacques was on you instantly, crawling over your body and littering kisses over every bit of exposed skin on your chest, neck, and face, playful as opposed to sensual in his elation. You were giddy with joy yourself, overcome with the prospect of having this handsome man as your husband.

“I will devote my whole life to you, mon amour,” he promised you softly before capturing your lips in a genuine kiss that seared hotter than the embers gleaming in the hearth. “My heart beats for you alone.”

“That is the greatest gift I could ever imagine, Jacques.” Looping your arms around his neck, you pulled him closer, encouraging him to lower his weight over you. “You had best unwrap your present now.”

Drawing back from you just enough to look down at you squarely, Jacques searched your eyes, assuring you, “I can wait until we are married, if you wish it. I’ll do anything for you.”

“Do my ears betray me?” you feigned incredulity. “The infamous hound is suggesting we wait longer to enjoy one another?”

Baring his teeth in a decidedly wicked grin, Jacques kissed you again, letting his hands roam down over the curves of your body

“Don’t make me ask you twice, handsome,” you spoke into his mouth, already feverish with anticipation.

“Never, mon amour,” Jacques promised, kissing you with all the passion he had harbored since the first day he laid eyes on you.

© safarigirlsp 2021

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Tagging some buddies: @babbushka @in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather @mrs-gucci @mrs-zimmerman @iamburdened @gabesprincess @maybe-your-left @rynwritesstuff @candycanes19 @caillea @cas-backwards-tie @queeniebee @mythrielofsolitude @ghoulian13 @icarusinthesea @darkhairedmenrule @reyloaddict55 @fizzywoohoo @heartlight-starlight @richbrittstein @woken-ariadne @clydesfavoritegirl @emi11ie @bensolodyad @danidanisara @thepalaceofmelanie @celiholland

#my stuff! #my writing #jacques le gris x you #jacques le gris x reader #the last duel #winter #valentine #knight #best #fic #le gris

[thecoffeelovingfreak]

Hello! First off, congratulations on 50/60+ followers!! I wanted to tell you that 1. I love your blog theme 2. The fact you chose a medieval!AU for the event is awesome and 3. You’re an extremely talented writer <3

So, for the event — I’m not sure if I’m supposed to give any more detail (if I am, please let me know!), but I was wondering if I could request the astrologer prompt with Fyodor?

Hello anon! Thank you so much, I'm glad you love my writing! {I love the new theme too :)} No further detail is needed! I decided to go with astrologer!reader and courtier!fyodor for this work!

~~~

I Have Loved the Stars too Fondly to be Fearful of the Night

Pairing: gn!Astrologer!Reader x Courtier!Fyodor

Writing Genre: oneshot

Genres: medieval times, cryptic

Word count: 772

Warnings: slight angst/tension, brief mentions of war and death

Notes: the title is part of a verse in a poem titled The Old Astronomer to His Pupil by Sarah Williams! I'll include this link in case you'd like to read about the history of the astrolabe!

Read it on ao3!

for the Medieval!AU followers event

~~~

The fragmented light of the sunset shone through the towering window in the library. The space around you filled with the knowledge and prophecies of your predecessors. The queen has employed many astrologers, using them to predict the outcome of battles, the health of those in the castle, the wellness of crops, and various other subjects.

The black robe she had gifted you flowed as you walked outside to the sundial, light blue sleeves coming into view as you observed the garden. Approaching said sundial, you noticed a figure already sitting on the nearby dry stone wall. The familiar man with amethyst-colored eyes nodded at you, his white ensemble turning orange in the dying light of day.

You took a seat next to him, no note-taking materials in hand. Today he would be your sounding board, listening to your predictions with the occasional input. You stared at the Sun, now almost entirely under the horizon. 

Being a scholar of the Stars was a simple, rewarding life. Your queen had taken you from your small town and placed you under the previous astrologer’s care. He taught you everything you knew about mathematics, astronomy, philosophy, and medicine, creating an expert before his passing. You became well acquainted with a fellow courtier, figuring he was just as lonely as you were after hearing the cautious whispers of those around the castle.

“Have you found pleasure in the new astrolabe I bought for you?” Fyodor asked gently, turning his head away from the horizon to your figure.

“I have, thank you very much. I still cannot believe I lost the last one in the river!” you expressed.

He chuckled, watching you fiddle with the device hanging around your neck. 

The Moon had now veiled the lands with its liege of Stars, creating the world you had dedicated your life to. Your eyes shined with admiration as you observed the night sky, the ocean of the Gods, the herald of Heaven's wishes. Such astonishing creations, the Stars. The eyes of the Angels, protecting Earth's inhabitants throughout the night.

"Tonight, the Angels are blind." you spoke, "The new Moon has transitioned into Scorpio. I met with the monarchs this morning to share my findings, although you should not hold meetings of the court during this time."

"What about the battle in the south?" Fyodor pondered.

"The Moon is in conjunction with Mars. The battle, I am still unable to predict at this time, but I do know many will continue to die and those who return will not survive for long." you looked to the ground as a form of mourning.

He sighed, "And what about crops and trade?"

You smiled softly, "You should not sow crops or trade during the Scorpio Moon. Your best option is to remain stagnant; you can only do battle and take medicine. You should not even bathe."

"The Heavens are truly fascinating, are they not?" he smiled at you.

"Yes, they are." you shared.

"Our troubles seem to be so minuscule compared to the vastness of the universe. Our roles, our lords, our soldiers. What is your role, Y/n?" he queried.

You stood and smiled, spreading out your arms, and looking to the sky. "I am naught but a servant to the Gods, bestowing what they have written to the people. I am held up on a pedestal, but do I deserve it? I watch the people be sent into battle, knowing they will not live to see tomorrow's light. I watch society struggle, never learning any better no matter what I say. Will I find a source of salvation, to alleviate this guilt? Or will I be cast into the flames with the betrayers?"

Fyodor rose to stand beside you, calmly grabbing your hands. "You need only the salvation of companionship to alleviate your guilt. Allow me to share the burden of your prophecies, and we shall be plunged into the blaze together."

You stood watching him for a moment before dropping one of his hands and intertwining your others.

“I will gladly be your companion.” you said, “Now walk with me.”

You silently strolled through the garden, gazing at the stars.

“Do you favor a constellation?” Fyodor asked.

You turned to him. “I have always been quite fond of Lyra. What about you?” 

“Ever since my first night at the castle, I have always looked for Aquila.” he smirked.

You hummed and turned your head away from him.

As you neared the library, you released his hand and entered the archway. You exchanged smiles before the courtier vanished into the night, leaving his newfound partner to their work.

- - - - - - - - - -

If you would like to read similar works, why don’t you check out the rest of my Medieval!AU?

masterlists | upcoming works

#coff's 50 & 60+ event #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd x reader #bsd au #bsd fyodor #bsd fyodor dostoyevsky x reader #bsd fyodor dostoevsky #bsd fyodor x reader #bsd fanfic #bsd x gender neutral reader #bsd x you #bsd dostoevsky #bsd doa #bsd medieval au #bsd anime #bsd manga #bsd rats in the house of the dead #coff writes for bsd🥂

[poptod]

Pull the Stars Out of the Sky (And Gift Them to Me), pt. 2 (Ahkmenrah x Reader)

Description: The more you learn about why he’s keeping you there, the less you want to be there. Yet, there are parts of you that are becoming more comfortable in his presence.

Notes: I was a little worried, rereading the first part, that ahk being that affectionate was unrealistic for human behavior, but then this dude did exactly that to me n holy shit. okay. now i have a basis for my writing WC: 5.7k

+

As dusk began to claim the land, the thick scent of cooking meat and boiling beer began to drift from the city, a mouthwatering combination that quickly reminded you of your own hunger. The Pharaoh wasn't starving you purposefully––or at least you didn't think he was––but he had left you tied to his bed with no chance of escape. Your stomach bubbled as you stared out at the distant city, past the river and to the mirage of a horizon.

You tried to swallow, but your tongue cracked against the roof of your mouth. It had been a while now since you'd had anything to drink. As much as you hated it, you would have to ask Ahk for something to drink and eat when he came back.

Tugging at the restraints only worsened the burn around your wrists, your soft skin chafing against rough rope. Again you tried to swallow, muscles moving around nothing as you did, aching from misuse. You weren't sure if you should await his return with excitement or dread––yes, his return may herald food and water, but you were more at his mercy than ever before. Merely the fact that he knew of your existence set you on edge.

Outside the locked room, murmuring voices passed by, muted words accompanied by soft footfalls. You watched the door expectantly, but no latch clicked and no one entered.

A couple more groups passed by in the same manner before you stopped looking to the door. Instead you tried to focus on the city––if you squinted hard enough, you could see the moving heads of the market crowd thinning in the coming evening. How far away their life seemed and how you longed for it as never before. Very rarely did you ever take to idolizing or wanting things, as material possessions didn't ever interest you, and you were perfectly happy with the way your life was proceeding. Not anymore, of course. You wanted nothing more than an out for this. Terror didn't quite describe it––more of a quiet dread.

The click of the door caught your attention and you whirled around, eyes wide as they met the unfortunately familiar eyes of the Pharaoh. You hated to use his name. Too personal. He adored you, though––used your name often, smiled when he saw you.

"It's good to see you safe," he said as he approached you, a large and ornate tray in his hand. Once he reached the bed he knelt on it, setting the tray aside as he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"What's that?" You asked, motioning with your chin towards the tray. He brought it back to his side, pulling off the clay lid to reveal a wealth of fruit, bread, and wine. As if on cue your stomach growled, sparking a small chuckle from him.

"I realized you haven't gotten much to eat or drink since you've been here, so I thought you might enjoy it," he said, leaning forward further to untie your hands from the bed.

The moment he announced it was for you, you reached for one of the rolls and bit into it. Unlike much of the food you had during your life, it was soft, practically melting in your mouth as you chewed on the sweet flavor. It was, in a way, somewhat similar to what you imagined clouds would taste like.

He, in his naturally unsettling nature, watched you as you ate but did not partake in his gift. Halfway through the three plums you wondered if perhaps he had poisoned it, but considering how overprotective he was you didn’t consider it likely. If anything he would drug you into submission, and while that wasn't favorable outcome, it was a more lenient fate than poison.

"What kind of work did you do before you came here?" He asked. Your chewing gradually slowed as you looked to him, once again reluctant to inform him on yourself. But you swallowed, took a breath, and spoke.

"Small jobs," you said. "Favor for favors."

"Come now, I'm sure there's more to it than that. I'd like to learn about you," he said softer, as though his past cruel actions had not left blisters on your skin. You looked at him in contempt, let it simmer around him before you reluctantly continued.

"I travelled around a lot. People would ask me to do these favors for them––hunt the creatures taking their children, fix their roofs, crawl down the well to get the dead birds out, and in return I would have a meal and a bed for a little bit. Just a day or two. Didn't want to stay longer than that anyway," you said, trying to concentrate more on your food and less on his stare.

"How many towns have you stopped in?"

"I never counted," you said.

"Then how long have you been doing this for?"

"About as long as I can remember. Why are you keeping me here?"

He paused, taken back for a moment at your straightforward question.

"I told you, you're safer –"

"No," you interrupted him. "Why – why do you feel the need to keep me safe? You don't know me and I have been anything but kind."

This time he paused for longer, truly debated his words before he spoke them, and only answered when you raised your eyebrows expectantly.

"It's not like me," he finally said, deep and almost curt as his voice cracked. "My officials have been giving me strange looks for it, actually. I freed my slaves but kept you here... of course they'd have questions."

He looked down at his fidgeting fingers, trying to swallow through the lump in his throat.

"I don't know why, but..." he turned back to you, eyes meeting yours as he raised his hand to cup your face. You stayed stock still, trying not to give a single thing away. "... I want.. to keep you. There's something about your presence, the way you carry yourself, that draws me to you. In a way you remind me of a lot of the spark I.. I lost, sort of. It's not your responsibility to make me feel better, I want you to know that. I just have a deep appreciation for your presence. I feel as though I might get better when I see you."

That was, undeniably, one of the strangest things you'd ever heard about yourself. You could barely process what he was saying, an ineptitude of yours that only grew when he touched you.

"Do not steal my freedom for your own benefit," you whispered, just barely verging on fully speaking.

"I know," he said, and the guilt was clear on his face. Not that it mattered––no matter how guilty he felt or how wrong he knew his actions were, it meant nothing without the actions to back it up.

The silence that built up between you was broken not by sound but by movement. Ahk reached for one of the tiger rolls, sticky with the sweetness of sun-dried dates, and held it up for you. Confusion took you for a moment, quickly followed by hesitation as you realized he was trying to feed you. Himself.

Fucking –

You took a deep breath, calming the enraged thoughts in your head before you gingerly opened your mouth. Gently you bit into it. The bread of it squished, filling your mouth with a sweet, thick taste of honey, dates, and nuts. You chewed slowly before you swallowed.

"You're strange," you said.

"You're not the first to tell me that," he said with a grin. You smiled back, curt and polite and meaningless, but he still seemed to enjoy it.

"How long will you keep me here?" You asked, but with the quiet volume your voice cracked in the middle of your sentence.

"In my room? Or in the palace?"

"Both."

"Well," he glanced to the side uncertainly, "in my room until I am assured you won't run away, and in the palace... um, you shan't need to leave the palace without me. So I suppose you leaving the palace would coincide with when I do, or when you ask me. I'm perfectly happy to take the time to take you outside every now and then."

"So... never," you said, crossing your arms.

"Oh, don't be upset now," he said softly, leaning closer to you as his hand came to rest on your cheek. He led you to meet his eye. "You'll be alright. I know it seems like a lot, but you get used to it eventually. I speak from experience."

While curiosity did seize you for a moment, it dissipated at the sight of his wandering hands. As his thumb began to stroke your cheek, the other drew up your thigh, up your chest before it landed on the sensitive skin of your neck. He looked at you, tried to hold your eye as he touched you but you didn't dare look up. Instead, you stared at the edge of the bed, wondering what ideas he had in store for this evening.

"You are beautiful," he murmured, taking in every inch of your complexion. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

"I don't really talk to people," you answered quietly.

"Why not?"

"Never really interested me," you said.

"Then you're an opposite of me," he said with a growing smile. "I adore learning about others, about myself... and I think it'll be quite the adventure getting to know you, as well."

Not if I can help it, you thought, but you refrained from speaking the truth. Instead you nodded vaguely, still withholding eye contact.

"Are you tired?" He asked, tilting his head to the side.

"A little," you said through a hoarse voice.

"Finish the food you want," he said, pushing the tray a little closer to you. "Then we can sleep. I've had a long day, so I'm tired myself."

He's had a long day? You thought. Try attempting to escape a kidnapper and then failing ten feet. And being tied to a bed for several hours, you added on at the end, bitterness tainting your thoughts.

There was nothing you could do now––not with him in the room, not so late into the night. As much as you loathed to return to the position of the previous evening, you let Ahk move you as he pleased, accepting a more gentle touch over the forceful movements that appeared in your disobedience's wake. The sheets rustled for a good minute or two before he found a comfortable position, arms encircled tight around your waist with his face buried in your hair.

It wasn't a position you were particularly comfortable with, and you certainly didn't enjoy it, but the panic that had so fiercely seized you no longer plagued your sleepy mind. Discomfort, sure, but not panic. He would not hurt you. He would not force you into anything but staying with him, and while that fate may have been an unpleasant one that you'd rather not endure, it was better than the cruelties he could legally unleash upon you. And, you supposed, he wasn't horrendous looking. With his eyes fluttered shut and soft breaths leaving him, he was quite serene.

Almost... pretty.

You shifted back down into the position he pulled you into, settling your back against his chest. Once there he tucked you under his chin, arms tightening ever so slightly, before a long sigh was followed by satisfied silence.

You took a deep breath. Rose. Rather exotic. The only reason you could identify it, was because the you'd only smelled it one other time.

Wind brought you to stir, a brisk chillness that grew goosebumps on your skin. You grumbled unpleasantly, curling back into the one source of heat you had; another's body. It took less than a second for you to realize exactly where you were––cradled in the arms of the Pharaoh. Continued consciousness brought about another realization, as well. He was petting your hair. Again.

Opening your eyes, you found a decent amount of light in the room, and turned to find the morning sky.

"Morning," he mumbled, but made no effort to move. You struggled for a moment before giving in with a huff.

"Can I get up?"

"May you get up. And no," he shifted closer to you, "just a minute longer."

True to his word he soon released you, though still didn't make any attempt to get himself out of bed. He stayed sprawled on the mattress till the cool breeze became too much to comfortably bear. At that point he curled up, wrapping himself up in the sheets you left.

"Ugh," he groaned, "is Naguib here?"

"No," you said, eyes flickering to the door for a split second.

"Naguib??" He said, this time much louder, and scuttering came from behind the large doors.

"My King," Naguib acknowledged, gently shutting the door behind him.

"Why, in the name of Amun, is it so cold today," he asked gruffly, though entirely unmenacing.

"Piye says a wind from the eastern lands will be coming in for the next several days," Naguib said.

You watched from your seat against the wall as Naguib opened an expansive wardrobe, flicking through the various clothing till he found what satisfied him.   "It's far too cold, I live here for warm weather," Ahk continued to complain thoughtlessly, burying his face in his pillow.

"You live here because you can't rule a nation from an oasis," Naguib said, flipping a long skirt in the air to rid it of wrinkles.

"Speaking of the kingdom," Ahk said as he rolled off the bed and onto the floor, "how's it doing this morning?"

"You have court this morning on –"

"The embalmers from Thebes?"

Naguib nodded.

"God damn it," Ahk mumbled. "Why can't we ever have those meetings in the afternoon? Why is it always in the morning I have to hear about the rotting bodies?"

"Don't ask me, Sir. You planned the court hearing," Naguib said, helping the Pharaoh to his feet and promptly dressing him in his robes.

While the servant fit the beaded collar over Ahkmenrah's shoulders, he glanced to you, to your little space in the corner where a rug had been set. Chill bit at your fingers, forcing you to hide them between your thighs, though even those were beginning to turn cold. Egypt was the furthest north you'd ever been.

"My King, if I might make a suggestion?" Naguib asked quietly, straightening out the long cape. Ahk nodded, and he continued. "Maybe take your.. um, Amoke, with you? It's going to be pretty cold all day and you haven't got any blankets or curtains."

"Hmm?" Ahk said as he turned back, first to Naguib, before his eyes flickered over to your huddled form. Though you felt his eyes on you, you did not look up.

The two of them muttered amongst themselves for a little while longer before Ahkmenrah was fully prepared for the morning. Only then did the Pharaoh approach you, offering his hand for you to take. He gave his reasoning clearly––today would be chilly, and being tied up to a bedpost probably wouldn't do your already-present wounds any good. You didn't truly want to spend the day with him, but there was very little argument when the only other option was shivering all day.

Torches lined the hallways you walked down, illuminating the corridors and their storytelling paintings. Some were familiar, ones that had caught your eye, while others escaped your waking memory.

"Tonight we shall be staying in a different room," Ahkmenrah declared, placing his hand on the small of your back as though he was leading you. "One more deep inside the palace, where we keep the fires."

"Where are we going now?" You asked, looking up at him.

"To court, unfortunately. But breakfast first."

You sat at a table the likes of which you'd never seen; dark, glazed wood that stretched down the entirety of a dining hall, whose end you could barely identify in the dawn's awakening. The Pharaoh sat at the head, and you to his left on the long end of the table. Upon being seated, two servants brought out several different trays, setting them out in front of Ahk. Each of them had their own theme-sort of food––fruit, meat, cheeses, breads, a cup of beer and a plate to set it on. He was quick to notice they brought no plate for you, and quietly requested one.

The two of you ate in relative silence for a couple minutes before Naguib joined, sliding in across from you. At first your eyes went wide––rarely had you ever heard of a servant joining the head of the table, but with one glance to the Pharaoh, your anxiousness dissipated. He didn't appear to mind. Slowly you turned back to eating, eyeing the two men every now and again.

What strange people, you thought.

When you were first told you would be attending court, your instant imagery of the room was the throne room––wide arches overlooking the city, confirming the ego of the chosen Pharaoh, who would always believe himself above the lives of those he ruled. Instead, as you stood at the tiny threshold of the court, high ceilings towered above you in spirals and painted stars, long pillars calling from the marble and pooling on the crystalline floor, where your reflection sat stunned below you. Already people lined the sides of the long hallway. At one end sat the raised floor of the throne, accompanied by a few smaller seats, and at the other end were large, wooden doors allowing the light of the sun to come spilling into the room.

Eyes trailed after the Pharaoh as he took his seat, and by proxy the attention of the public fell on you, the unnamed, poorly-dressed stranger in tow. Naguib came up behind you, whispering in your ear to stand at the side of the throne, and to remain behind it at all times. Without thought you obeyed; this would be a long day, and it was one of the less demeaning rules to follow.

As the court was called into session, more servants came out from behind the throne, carrying sticks of fire with which they lit the beacons placed on either side of the room. The doors soon shut to keep out the unnatural chill, leaving much but the throne in shadow.

Every now and again you glanced to Ahk. He practiced much of the image you'd come to fear––the confidence, the succinct use of words, without a smile so much as occurring to him in thought. When he looked to you, though, in tiny moments where eyes were more trained on criminal testimonies rather than the Pharaoh himself, a familiar warmth filled his expression, and he would gift you a tiny smile. Each time you inhaled sharply and turned away––holding eye contact was a little much for you today.

Murmurings in the crowd grew steadily louder till you finally recognized the extra voices as coming from outside. Your fingers clenched into fists, staring at the doors as Ahkmenrah conversed quietly with his advisors.

As you suspected, the doors swung open, a soldier entering with subordinates behind him. He grew nearer to the feet of the throne, soon gaining the Pharaoh's attention along with your recognition. You'd seen this man before––your breath caught in your throat when you realized it was the same soldier who locked you up, and he was glaring at you with a menacing glint in his eye.

"My King," he said, bowing before he mentioned anything else. "I am Thaabit, I oversee the shipping complex in northern Memphis. A few days ago we lost one of our inhabitants. We have been searching, and... we discovered they made it here."

Ahk raised a single brow, scanning the man intently.

"Are you referring to Amoke?" He finally asked after painfully stretched silence.

"Yes, the slave beside you," he said with a nod, turning to you.

"I am not a slave," you said firmly, but Ahk silenced you with a raise of his hand, turning dully back to Thaabit, who was still bowed on his knees.

"Did they commit any crime?"

"Trespassing, for one," Thaabit said. "Not even citizens of Egypt are allowed in the complex, and I believe Amoke is from Mali. And without a legal card for travel and trade."

Ahk took another minute to process the man's words while you sweated beside him, your bottom teeth grinding into your skull.

"What do you suggest I do then?"

"Return them to the complex, of course."

He laughed––the Pharaoh, stone-faced and cruel, belted out a laugh in front of the whole of court. Wide eyes stared at him from the crowd, as did yours.

"Amusing," he said. "I'm not doing that."

"But my King ––"

"Silence," the Pharaoh commanded, and the soldier readily obeyed. "Anyone else to accuse Amoke of wrongdoing, or attempt to harm them in any way, will be punished henceforth. I'll let you off with a warning, Thaabit, as you did not know of this rule––but do not ask after them again, or you will be the one being sent shackled to Punt."

You watched from your spot in the shadows, watched the soldiers' deteriorating will, crumbling from a once-tall chest to hunched shoulders and a twisted, nervous expression.

"Yes, my King. Thank you," he said, much softer than any of his other words, and left with his spear gripped tight in his fist. Breath once taken from you returned in a relieved sigh.

"Thank you," you mumbled, half-hoping he wouldn't hear.

"Of course, my dear," he said, though didn't turn to you. "Anything for your safety."

He remained in a quiet mood for the rest of the day. Throughout dinner you tried to gauge his thoughts, to dig into what was on his mind, but there was little you could do without speaking. He didn't seem in the right mindset for a conversation, and you didn't want to open your mouth anyway.

"I enjoy taking you places," he said out of nowhere as the two of you strolled down the halls. "It's... cathartic, to see you smile during a long day."

You couldn't recall ever smiling today, but you didn't mention it. Instead you let his words sit for a moment before asking a question.

"Where are we going now?"

"I have to overlook our honey trade for the evening, make sure the transport and storage goes according to plan. Usually I'd have Piye do this, but... well, they're overlooking a ceremony tonight."

The sun had, somehow, already set behind the low mountains of the horizon. It was one of those rare times where you were surprised by the time of day––most days, you were outside all the time, and could easily predict the time of sunset. Being cooped up in the palace led you to this confusion, and for you to shiver from the chill wind of evening.

Like most Egyptians occupying the city, you were dressed in very light clothes, gifted to you by the King in lieu of your dirty outfit. While he conversed with the honey farmers, you wrapped yourself up in your arms and scanned your surroundings.

You stayed close to the small, outside door leading into the cellar, the open arch followed by lowering steps. Here the ground was pure, soft sand, unoccupied by buildings or citizens. Though you couldn't see the Nile, palm trees and small bushes surrounded you in little groves. The only movement came from the farmers and the Pharaoh. Tall, clay vases sat in a special cart, piled on top of each other with large corks stuck in the top.

"Perfect," Ahk said, counting the golden rings in his hand. "Safe journey to you."

"Thank you, my King," the main farmer said with a bow. He made a sign to the others, and they began to lift the jars into the cellar with great, careful effort.

"Most Pharaohs had their honey grown and harvested near the palace, for convenience," Ahk said once he stood beside you, his voice quiet for only you to hear. "I've found that the best honey is a little ways down the river––it's worth the payment for the delivery. Do you like honey?"

"I've only tried it a few times, but yes," you said.

"Mmm, I think you'll like this then," he said, smiling.

It wasn't long until the many jars were placed in the cellar, and the farmers were set off back in the direction of home. Ahk led you by your shoulder down the steps, where the air grew cooler yet, and the scent of fermented wine hit you strong.

"I believe we have some extra rations of sweet cakes down here," he said, leaving your side to search the rows of jars and pots. You watched from afar.

"It isn't necessary t-"

"Oh well of course it isn't necessary," he grinned, "but it is nice, isn't it? If you have wealth, why not enjoy it from time to time?"

You hummed acknowledgement but weren't sure whether you agreed or disagreed with his statement. Nonetheless, he continued his search, only returning to you when he found a sealed jar of the hard cakes. He paused in front of you, chest to yours as he smiled softly down at you. Gentle pressure of his fingers on your bare arm nearly had you flinching away, but he kept you in place, scanning you like a prized belonging.

"If I have you," he murmured, brushing the hair out of your eyes, "why not enjoy you from time to time?"

You could almost feel yourself go pale, but the Pharaoh just beamed and kissed your forehead, leaving your personal space with that small prize.

"Come now, Amoke," he said, calling you over to where the large jugs of honey were stored.

He handed the two biscuits in his hands to you, kneeling to work at the oversized cork. As it twisted, a soft hissing sound began to come from it, and slowly but surely it popped out of the vase's neck. Once he set the cork aside, he reached for a long stirring stick and dipped it into the golden honey. It dripped down sweetly as he drew it out.

"Hold this," he said.

The two of you switched positions, with him now carrying the biscuits and you holding up the stick of honey. He held the cakes out, letting thin strands of honey pour onto the top of the bread, breaking into thinner rivers that dripped back into the pot.

Once he was satisfied, he held the cake up to your mouth, letting you gently bite in as the stick in your hand went limp. While you slowly chewed, he closed the jug and set away the stirstick.

"Good?" He asked, biting into his own cake.

"Very," you said after much deliberation. It was almost too sweet. You liked it quite a lot, but you didn't want to tell him that, just in case it would inflate his ego.

"There is a great many of dishes I think you'll enjoy. I doubt you'll have had any of them before, if what you say about your past is true," he said, leading you out of the cellar as you both finished with your biscuits.

You'd almost forgotten his earlier words, but they quickly came back to you when he took you to a different bedroom. True to his word––deep inside the palace, where a fire was already stoked, lighting the room with warm light that flickered and danced with the shadows. Drapes of purple and pink fell from the ceiling, their curves leading to the image of the sky goddess, Nut. The bed was dressed in gold and blood red colors, blankets and pillows overflowing the mattress, while burning incense hung from the middle of the canopy.

Ahk took your hand and led you deeper into the room, pulling you to the center while he closed the door behind you. A lock clicked, but unlike the previous times, you didn't jump. By now you must've already expected him to lock it.

"I want you to be perfectly honest with me," he said, still standing behind your back. You froze, your posture straight as you stared straight ahead. "I won't punish you."

That's comforting, you thought to yourself, bitterly.

"How did you find yourself in that complex? Were you looking for something?"

"Is that what's been bothering you all day?" You asked through a tight throat.

For a moment he was quiet, and your heart was seized with fear, until he chuckled low and soft.

"Perceptive little thing, aren't you?"

"S-sorry, sir," you stammered out.

"No need to apologize," he said, and the heat of his words brushed the back of your neck, followed by a tracing finger as he circled you to face you. "Now answer me."

You could barely breathe, conscious thought more out of your head than ever before. Piercing eyes settled upon your own, staring through the walls you built between yourself and the world, devastating your shaky facade of safety.

"I thought I recognized one of the captives," you said, barely audible above the fire. Though your eyes fell from his gaze, he continued to stare. "It was a girl I met when I was younger. I played with her for an afternoon, and... she was begging with your soldiers. I couldn't leave her there, even if she wasn’t the girl I met."

He remained silent, waiting for you to continue.

"She is going to be turned to a slave, isn't she?"

"I'm afraid so," he murmured, almost sorrowful. Almost. "How did you escape?"

"They aren't very smart, your guards. It wasn't hard. Just had to wear down the restraints and leave when they were sleeping," you said with a shrug.

"And how did you end up in my room?"

Now he asks, you thought, internally rolling your eyes.

"It's... a long story," you tried, but your avoidant nature was caught quickly by the Pharaoh.

"We have all night," he said, stepping closer yet. "Unless you want to retire to bed already."

One glance to the small bed and you froze––not yet. You weren't mentally prepared quite yet.

"I got mistaken for one of your servants and I was herded into the palace by a guard. I managed to split off from the group, but you have patrols in the hallway, so I hid in the first room I found," you answered.

"I'm glad you did, then," he said softly, raising your head by a finger beneath your chin. "You are... perfect. Intelligent, passionate... beautiful. I am overjoyed to have met you in this life."

"As opposed to another life?"

"Yes, well," he chuckled, "the sooner the better, right? Take a seat, dear."

His hands held yours as he led you to the fireplace, pulling you to the carpeted floor. Piles of pillows and blankets surrounded you, accompanied by the ferns of palm trees hanging above you from the ornately painted vases, one on either side of the fireplace. As he moved to take a seat, you expected him to sit beside you or across from you like a normal person. Instead he placed his knees on either side of your hips, trapping you beneath him as he reached for you, pulling his fingers from your hands to your jaw.

You shivered from his touch and he laughed––cupping your face as he lovingly brushed the hair from your face.

"Sensitive, are you?" He asked in a teasing manner, clearly delighted by your reactions. You on the other hand hated it, and blushed brightly.

"It's only because I don't like people touching me," you said, turning away from Ahk. He was having none of that; forced you to look him in the eye, lips ever so slightly parted as his gaze fell to your own lips.

"Unfortunate," he said, sure to keep quiet in the small space between you. "I think you have touched me once, but I enjoyed it very much. You have nice hands."

It was obvious he expected you to touch him, to give into his questionless request. But you didn't. You barely maintained eye contact and your hands remained rooted behind you. Subdued irritation tugged at his smile, and to satisfy his need that you wouldn't willingly gift, he dipped his face into your collar, nuzzling his nose beneath your jaw and wrapping himself so tightly around you there was no space at all between the two of you.

He stayed like that for a couple minutes. When it became clear to him that you would not return the affection, he adjusted himself further, wrapping his legs around your torso as well and pressing the side of his face to your own. Like this he could easily tilt his head and kiss your cheek, which he did do inbetween playing with your hair and breathing your scent in deep.

"Mmm," he hummed softly, "you are a wonder of the Gods."

You didn't have the space of mind to tell him you don't follow his religion.

He pulled away, his hand still resting on your cheek, and said, "I will do anything to protect you. Know that, alright? And I will do anything in my power to keep you happy."

"I am not a person whose affections can be won with gifts. I'm sorry," you said, stating a simple truth.

"No, I didn't think so. You didn't seem the type. But I will grow gardens in your name. I will commission art of anything you like, and it shall be painted on the walls of the city. I will make you a God in my peoples' eyes."

A god? Your expression must've given away your alarm, as he smiled and explained himself.

"They listen to my every word. If I should say the night is day and the day is night, so it will be written... and so will you be remembered," he murmured, words spoken against your lips as he dipped in to kiss you. "A God for all of time."

#ahkmenrah x reader #Ahkmenrah #Night at the Museum #rami malek #rami malek character #ahkmenrah x female reader #ahkmenrah x male reader

[need-a-fugue]

Little Bird

Summary: A nice leisurely morning in your husband’s arms is exactly what you need right now. But feeling warm and safe can cause secrets and doubts to spill so easily…

Author’s note: For the Flex Your Muscles Writing Challenge from @captain-rogers-beard​ (6/18). This prompt sparked a little something-something… I’ve been struggling on piecing together a story I’ve been working on for a bit, and this scene just tumbled right out thanks to one lovely, little word… Leisurely.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: all pretty tame, just some sweetness and angst

Word count: 2K

Mornings had been rough lately, streams of light from the rising sun peeking through the window long before your tired body is ready to greet the day, the brilliant orange hues setting your stomach to clench and roil in bitter anticipation. Most days, you roll out of bed with a slow groan, hoping to make it to the bathroom before the full force of nausea hits, only to end up racing in a flourish the moment you leave the small air conditioned bedroom, the Wakandan heat prickling your senses to make this sickness that much more unbearable.

A typical morning meant violently emptying your stomach into the toilet down the hall, your husband at your back – only half awake himself – holding your hair and trailing a gentle, cooling touch down the back of your neck with his blissfully cold vibranium fingertips.

But today, for the first time in weeks, the swiftly rising sun seemed to herald little more than a slow and languid wakening, you and Bucky both stirring and stretching and shifting, leisurely curling round one another, just as you had before this new phase of life began.

For an hour or more, you’d been – gratefully, blessedly – slipping in and out of that splendid sort of sleep that only early mornings can bestow… the kind that had been eluding you for so damn long now. Bucky feels it too, the serene pull of respite that you both know is about to become increasingly rare, a new disruption to your life lingering on the horizon.

But today, there’s no disruption at all. No rush to rise – I’ll take care of the goats later, he whispers into your ear before sliding his way down the sheets – and no sickness churning within.

Today is… easy.

The smallest, softest sigh slips past your lips as you shift your hips beneath him. “You’re spending an awful lot of time down there,” you mutter, voice slow and deep with near sleep.

Bucky tugs you closer, right hand splayed over your hip, thumb tracing delicately along the tender flesh of your abdomen, and he looks up, propping his chin on your middle as he aims those dazzling blue eyes your way. “Never heard you complain about me hanging out down here before,” he intones lightly, wiggling his eyebrows before lowering his lips to your stomach.

“Stop it,” you laugh, squirming beneath him, sliding far enough down the bed that the back of your head flops off of the pillow entirely. “Tickles,” comes out in a barely there murmur as your fingers move down to thread idly through his thick, wavy hair.

He turns his head, laying his cheek once again atop your still-flat abdomen, staring up at you in a way that could only be described as utterly adoring. “I love you,” he announces, exhaling the words just as easily as if they were air.

The corner of your mouth quirks up, a single brow following it in an incredulous raise. “Are you sure it’s me that you love? Because I don’t feel like you’re really paying much attention to me at all.”

His face twists, forehead crinkling. “She is you,” he says plainly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

You let out a small groan, hips twisting a bit again before his hands settle you back into the sheets, holding you in place.

“Stop distracting me,” he tells you, tone chiding, but eyes gleaming as he presses himself closer, head angling a bit at your center. “I’m trying to listen to my baby girl.”

“Yeah, sure,” you sigh out dramatically. “I’ll bet she’s talking up a storm. She’s the size of a freakin’ kumquat.”

“I don't even know what that is,” he murmurs, completely unfazed.

You give him a playful shove, the heat from his body starting to get to you, sheets sticking to your naked thighs. “It’s a fruit. And much like your baby girl,” you mutter with a harrumph, “it doesn’t speak.”

He rolls his eyes and lets out an almost irritated sigh. “I’m listening to her move,” he tells you, an air of absolute duh coating the statement.

You give his hair a short tug. “You are not.”

“Am too,” he argues, raising a brow – but never moving his ear from your center. “Super hearing, remember?”

Now you’re the one to roll your eyes, shifting again, eager to move, annoyance at being held prisoner in your own bed beginning to swell. “It’s probably just her heartbeat.”

He raises his head and gives you a disappointed look. “I know what her heartbeat sounds like,” he says blandly before lowering himself back down. “Thrums like crazy. Like you when you try to run.”

Another light shove. “What do you mean try to run? Is that a crack about my perfectly acceptable human speed? Because I will have you know – ”

“You used to run cross-country,” he interrupts blithely. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

A slight frown tugs at your lips, your stare focusing on the ceiling above for a long, silent moment before you pull yourself up onto your elbows. Looking down at him – so content and relaxed as he rests with his head against your middle – you almost scowl at his ease, your brows tugging tightly together. “You can really hear her move?”

The widest, brightest smile flashes – along with a light laugh as he takes note of the concern belying your crumpled countenance. “Yeah. Does that freak you out?”

“Kinda,” slips out, almost a whisper, as you nervously pull your bottom lip in between your teeth. He issues another short chuckle, and you flop back to the bed. “Reminds me of Alien,” you say, throwing your forearm dramatically over your eyes. “Like I don’t have enough nightmares already.”

Bucky pulls away from your belly and slowly sidles up alongside you, his right hand raking up beneath your loose T-shirt and along your ribs as he goes. “Oh?” he murmurs into your neck, both arms wrapping around your torso as he snuggles in close. A chaste but lingering kiss is pressed to your warm skin, the slightest hint of vanilla – a taste, a smell – hitting his senses, enduring on his lips as he pulls away. “Why you having nightmares, baby?”

“I’m… stressed,” you tell him weakly, still hiding beneath your arm.

He pulls back a bit and lets out a languid sigh, reaches out and tenderly runs the pad of his flesh thumb over your dramatically pouting bottom lip. “Don’t want that,” he says with a frown of his own.

You shake your head and huff out a breath, finally pull your arm away and turn onto your side to gaze somberly at him. Your left hand falls to his cheek, heavily stubbled, the beard coming and going seemingly on a whim. Though you know the truth, his ongoing scheme to alternately annoy you with whiskered kisses and then delight you with long-awaited clean-shaven snuggles an ill-kept secret at best. You stroke your thumb down the length of his face, bringing it to rest in the divot of his chin. Your eyes fall down to stare briefly at the oh-so-familiar dimple, a soft sigh of a declaration tumbling out of you. “I hope she gets this.”

He shifts beside you, drawing your eyes back up to his, to see them narrow with concern. “Why are you stressed, baby?” he asks simply. As though there might actually be a simple response.

You shrug, gaze falling into the small space between you. Outside, the sun has fully risen, the sounds of chirping birds and naying goats filtering in through the half-open window. One of the cats jumps onto the bed, begins rubbing around your ankles, purring thickly.

Bucky gives you a tiny jostle with his vibranium hand, cupped low around your hip. “What have you been dreaming about?” he tries instead.

Another shrug, though this time you swallow thickly and tick your eyes up to meet his. “They’re just… they’ve been… I don’t know… weird. Not nightmares, really. Just… I don’t know.”

“Okay,” he issues out with a curious lilt. “What happens in them?”

You lick your lips, eyes darting away briefly, crease deepening in your forehead as you think. Think of what to say. Of how to explain. “Sometimes… I see her,” you murmur finally, the words sounding uncertain, almost iniquitous, even to your own ears. “As a baby. As a little girl.” You shift uncomfortably, letting out a small, agitated groan. And he tightens his hold on you, brings his flesh hand up to stroke soothing lines down your back.

“You see her?” he asks, a bit hesitant. “Our baby?”

You nod into him, ducking your face and burying it in the crook of his neck. “It’s never anything… bad. Never really anything at all. I’m rocking her at night. Or… I’m watching her color at a table. Or…” Your voice fades off into nothing, other words… other dreams sitting low in your throat, clamoring to rise as you effortfully swallow them back down.

“Sounds nice,” he offers simply, the heat from his breath – from his body, so close – setting your nerve endings aflame.

You shake your head, still choking on the truth. A deep tremble builds within your chest, spills out to quake Bucky’s gripping arms. “It doesn’t feel nice.” Your tired eyes blink shut, a barrage of simple, serene images playing on the backs of your lids. Simple, yet… “It’s like… there’s nothing wrong… nothing I can see. But…” You pull back just a bit, open hooded eyes to stare helplessly up at him. “It all feels… wrong.”

He’s silent for a long moment as he watches you closely, thinks on what to say. A single thumb begins to stroke along your shoulder blade, his hand beneath your shirt feeling sticky and hot, and… unwelcome. You twitch awkwardly, his thumb stilling as a soft sigh spills from his chest. “Just nerves,” he mutters then, no intonation of a question, but a lack of surety all the same. Another sigh falls as he tucks you in close, peeling his sweaty hand from your skin and instead draping his arm heavily over your hip. “I’m scared too,” he breathes into your hair, laying a lingering kiss to your crown. “Scared I’ll screw something up. Scared I might… hurt her.”

You shift in his grasp, head shaking fluidly back and forth. “You wouldn’t. You won’t.”

He rests his chin in your hair, reaches up to begin again the slow, soft stroke up and down your spine. “It’ll be okay, baby,” he whispers, the oft-repeated words laying out promises even he knows are brittle and frail. “It’ll all be okay.”

The anxious worry – the tattered fear – that sloughs off of him, sounding in his voice, pulsating through his fingertips, is enough to make you wish you hadn’t said a word. You shake your head again, an attempt to rid your mind of the building thoughts… the budding what ifs that these odd and portending dreams had been causing to ripple through your subconscious mind for so many days… nights.

But now it’s morning, so different from the night, when all your doubts come out to play. Sleep. Lazy, languid, sunrise sleep feeling like a warm and welcoming breeze blowing across your still-trembling body. The promise of sleep – light and airy and dreamless – seems but a breath away as you lay here… you and your baby both laying here in Bucky’s arms. Safe, if only for today.

“What does she sound like?” you ask, voice light, an almost forced optimism rushing through it.

A crooked smile blooms across his face as he presses another soft kiss into your hair. “Sounds like… a little flutter.”

“Hm,” you breathe out, eyes drifting shut, nothing but a tranquil, faded image of the partially open window playing on your lids. “Like a little bird?”

“Yeah, baby,” he whispers, tugging you close as your breathing begins to deepen, body growing heavy in his grip. “Just like a little bird.”

#bucky barnes x reader #flex your writing muscles challenge #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky imagine #bucky barnes imagine #marvel fanfic #avengers fanfiction #writing challenge

[a-mongoose]

Elgara Vallas, Melava Somniar

[This initially started out as the “Ambush” OCtober prompt but then it absolutely spiraled out of control. Tumblr really did a number on the formatting and I’m too tired to try and fix it.]

|| Cullen x Lavellan || Mentions of violence.

               Her breathing was quick and shallow as she shot up in bed, cold sweat covering her body. The room was dark, only illuminated by the light of the moon shining high. That was the second nightmare Sid had in the past four days. Cold stone pressed against her feet as she slid out of bed and wrapped herself in a shawl she kept on the nightstand. I probably won’t be able to sleep for a while, she thought as she stepped out onto the balcony, watching the snow sparkle on the mountain-tops. An unusual figure on the battlements caught her attention. The gleam of golden hair in the flicker of a nearby torch was all she needed to know who it was. Sid pulled on a pair of slippers before descending the stairs that lead to the main hall. Skyhold was still. The only sound came from her feet that plodded against the floor of the throne room. 

                The main hall door creaked as she pushed it open slightly. Her eyes drifted back up towards where he had been and she let out a sigh after seeing him still there. Perhaps now was the best time to make amends. As she crossed the courtyard, several night watchmen nodded to her. She waved back before she ascended the steps, careful to watch her footing. The night air made the stones slick with dew. Sid hiked up the hem of her nightgown as she reached the top and stepped carefully onto the wall. He was looking out at the mountain pass they had come to Skyhold by all those months ago, a thousand-yard stare that seemed to transcend space and time.

“I have a feeling I know why you’re awake.” She made sure to stay back while saying this. His eyes widened and he drew in a sharp breath before whipping towards her. Sid held up her hands.

“Inquisitor, what are you-” He cleared his throat, “You should be asleep.”

“So should you.” They stood in silence. Sid made the first move, taking a few steps towards the ledge and looking out, “Sometimes I forget how peaceful it is here. Especially when all of the others are asleep. I suppose that’s the blessing that nightmares give us. We have the chance to experience serenity, if only for a moment.” He stared at her for a moment before letting out a sigh.

“I hope it wasn’t about me.”

“It wasn’t, I promise.” She steeled her nerves before continuing, “Cullen, what did you see when….when you-”

“You don’t have to continue. I- When I first became a templar, I went on a mission with a senior member to track down an escaped member of Kinloch Hold. We were told that she didn’t pose much of a danger and we would be able to incapacitate her without difficulty. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. She caused an explosion quite similar to the one you created that day and I….was brought back to that time. The fear of the unexpected and fighting for my life. I didn’t see you.” His knuckles were bone white as he finished, refusing to meet her eye. She took a step closer, careful to gauge his reaction.

“I’m glad you told me this, Cullen. I think I’m starting to understand you a little better.” Sid let out a soft sigh, “On that day, all I could think about was ‘What just happened? How do I have magic?’” She kept her eyes on the horizon, “And ‘Is Cullen okay?’ I was afraid that I’d somehow hurt or, even worse, killed you. What would the Inquisition think of me then? Their Herald, revealing herself to be a poisonous snake and harming one of her most trusted advisors!” Her hands felt hot and she didn’t realize that she’d started crying until a tear shattered on the ground. 

”I was disgusted with myself for the longest time. How could I do that to someone I care so much about? And then when I overheard you talking with Cassandra, pleading with her to look for a replacement….” She could feel his eyes on her. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to cry. Cassandra’s always telling me I shouldn’t be so openly emotional. ‘It’ll be too easy for your enemies to use your feelings against you!’” Sid let out a quiet laugh, “What I mean to say is….please don’t resign. This Inquisition wouldn’t- I wouldn’t be where I am today without you.” Their eyes met and the softest smile graced his lips. It made him look like a sleepy lion with his messy hair and cloak draped over his shoulders. 

“Thank you, Inquisitor.” The meaning behind those words echoed through Skyhold and imprinted on Sid’s mind. Whatever tension or fear that remained was dissolved in that very moment.

“Cullen, I….”

“Yes, Inquisitor?” His voice floated towards her, a butterfly hovering above a flower. Waiting for a sign to land.

“Would you like me to sing you a lullaby?” Sid was glad for the darkness as her face flushed when those words tumbled out of her mouth like fish from a bucket. Cullen raised an eyebrow in confusion and she quickly continued, “Lysette often got nightmares when she was young and my singing seemed to be the only thing that could calm her. I just thought that since you- nevermind! I, um….”

“I would actually like that very much, if it’s not too much trouble.” He rubbed the back of his neck, the corner of his mouth upturned just like the time Leliana and Josephine teased him for styling his hair. Sid smiled.

“Alright, Commander,” She elbowed him lightly in the ribs, “Back to bed with you. I’ll be up in a moment.” As he turned back towards the door, she saw him mouth something to himself as a grin broke out across his face. Once she heard the distinct creak of him climbing up to his loft, she said a quiet prayer of thanks to whatever creator was listening. 

For giving me the courage to speak to him tonight.

Sid made a mental note to talk to one of the carpenters about getting stairs made for Cullen as she finished climbing the ladder. She made a mental note of the creaky rungs so that she’d be able to leave noiselessly. Cullen had already laid down, a candle rested on the nightstand next to his bed. Sid pulled a chair over and sat down. He was facing away from her. She understood, it was probably a little awkward to have the leader of your organization sing you to sleep. The candle flickered to life as she sent a spark out of her fingertip. Now, what to sing for him? 

Sid knew just the tune.

Lullaby, sing lullaby

The day is far behind you

The moon sits high atop the sky

Now let sweet slumber find you

Away, away

 The day is done and gone the sun

That lit the world so brightly

The earth's a-glow with speckled show

Of twinkling stars so sprightly

Away, away

 Where the sunlight is beaming

Through a deep cloudless blue

And the treetops are gleaming

With a fresh morning dew

Where the mountains are shining

On the meadows below

In a brilliant white lining of a new-fallen snow

 Close your eyes, breathe in the night

A softer bed I'll make you

The trial is done, all danger gone

Now let far dreaming take you

Away, away

 Where the ocean is lapping at a soft, pearly shore

And the swaying palms napping as their swinging fronds soar

Now the dark night approaches, yet so soft and so mild

 Lullaby, sing lullaby

Sleep, my child

Sid looked down at Cullen, her breath hitching in her throat at an unexpected sight. He had turned back towards her, eyes half-lidded as if he was a small child trying to say goodbye to a parent before they went off to work. It was quite endearing. She carefully pulled up the blanket that had slipped from his shoulders, not wanting to draw him out of his half-sleep. The candle’s flame went out with a puff as Sid got to her feet. For a moment, she watched him quietly. Like this, she couldn’t imagine him leading armies. He looked so soft, so peaceful. All she wanted was for him to be safe. To hold him in her arms and wipe away the pain of the world.

Was this what love felt like?

She leaned down and pressed a feather-light kiss against the top of his head. He’s too tired to remember this in the morning, she thought. “Goodnight, Cullen. Melava somniar.” His eyes were fully closed now, a small smile etched onto his face. Sid gently brushed a strand of hair from his forehead before she walked towards the ladder, suddenly feeling drowsy. Perhaps it was time for her to go to bed as well.

[If you’d like to, you can listen to the song here: Lullaby]

#cullen x inquisitor #cullen x lavellan #dragon age inquisition #dragon age #cullen rutherford #fluff #mild violence #i'm really proud of this #cullen dragon age #cullen x oc

[randomguywithwords]

As The Dust Settles: Chapter 11 (Dabi x Geten Slowburn)

Previous Chapters: 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

–––––––

Chapter 11: Tomura Shimura

“So, Shigaraki, what will you do now?” Garaki asked as the two walked down the path. 

“You told me you could give me the power to destroy everything. I want it,” Shigaraki said.

“Very well, but first, let’s have another little chat. If I’m going to help you, I need to know what exactly you plan to achieve.” Garaki gestured to two chairs in front of a hive of screens.

Once the two sat down, Shigaraki opened, “I just said it. Destroy everything. I don’t need the army. I’ll send them to do some random shit, make the heroes think that I have some grand scheme. I don’t, that is, if you’re not lying about this experiment, I can do it all by myself.” 

“I’ve told you, it works. Do you not remember?” Garaki said, slightly affronted. 

Shigaraki let the silence hang at the chiding undertone and eyed the doctor. “I remember everything now. Everything.” He saw Garaki shrink slightly under his glare. It was unspoken, but what was implied passed between the two. 

“I figured as much, judging from the awakening of your quirk,” Garaki murmured, unable to conceal a hint of nervousness. “Do you hate me and your sensei, Shigaraki?” A bead of sweat dripped down the doctor’s bald head. 

Shigaraki didn’t answer at first. Instead he looked down at his repaired hand; it looked no different than the hands of Everyone. He took a deep breath. “My family is gone. I killed them. I’ve...I think I’ve accepted that. The weight of them is gone. Sensei is the only family I have left – That’s what I thought. So I don’t hate you or him, because you’ve raised me. But that’s the thing, isn’t it?” 

Shigaraki looked up at the doctor. “The two of you raised me into a monster. Sensei’s monster. I’m both his student and his masterpiece. That disgusts me.” 

Garaki sweat. “But you said–”

“I might hate you, but I still respect you for your help.” Shigaraki nodded as a mark of acknowledgment. “I hate Sensei now as much as I love him. So if you’re thinking I’ll break into Tartarus to release him, you’re wrong.”

“I – I see.” 

Shigaraki continued with no relent. “I’m not following you, not Sensei, not anyone. I’m doing things my own way, and I have the League, the Liberation Army, and your help. So, doctor, tell me now, will you give it?” 

Garaki was visibly stunned by this abrupt display of power, but he recovered with an expression Shigaraki could only define as admiration and a hint of fear. “You’ll have it, Shigaraki. The power you desire.” 

“And what do you want in return? I assume the conversation would have led here at some point,” He said sharply. 

Garaki did not answer for a few seconds. “Let me live.” Was Garaki’s simple reply. “I’ve no wish to die now. Not ever.”

Shigaraki nodded. “I’m sure that’s what the League wants too. I’m not stopping any of you.”

“And you? Don’t you want to live too, Shigaraki?”

Tomura Shigaraki smiled, an action society associated with happiness. But Tomura was not part of society. He smiled because he could not reconcile with the twisted emotions haunting him. Despite all that had happened, he would never be able to fill that hole in his heart. He smiled because he understood something the Garaki, All For One, and everyone else in the world could never comprehend. He understood that...

“Live or die, I will one day be watching the most beautiful horizon of oblivion alone, forever.”

–––––––

“Ah, so you’re the squad.” Dabi eyed the three men in front of him. “Glad to meet you. But I thought I had another three…?”

“The rest are scattered across the country. They may return if needed, but otherwise they were posted on Skeptic’s request.” One of them spoke up, his voice muffled by the skull mask he wore on his face. 

“You’re Kami, right? Gasoline quirk?” Dabi asked. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I don’t recall seeing any of you. Where were you guys the past week?”

“Each of us takes charge of a squadron in a province. We were just close enough to Deika City to return home for tonight,” Another spoke up, his head oddly shaped, more akin to that of a shark than a human. Charioteer, Dabi guessed. 

“Which reminds us, we must go. It’s starting.” The third spoke. Shingu Takame, Beatdown. Dabi was stunned by how seemingly old he was. He could see the wrinkles around his face, and he was bald. Despite wearing a suit and tie, for whatever reason, Dabi could see his broad build. This is the person she was worried about. Why, though?

“Yeah, come on.” Dabi motioned for the rest to follow. The walk there was silent; Dabi found that the soldiers of the Liberation Front usually maintained a cold exterior. These guys are no different, he observed. Same as her. 

He gritted his teeth, correcting himself. No, she’s a victim. Unless these guys were forced by Re-destro and those bastards too?

They reached the secret entrance to their underground meeting chamber. While the three congregated with the rest of the massive crowd, Dabi walked up the stairs and took his seat with the rest of the lieutenants, some arriving, some already present. He saw Re-destro sitting a few seats away from him, looking down at all the soldiers like a proud mother hen with that trademark smile of his he’d seen on TV. 

He bit back a snarl, a part of him wanting to burn that smile off his face. Not now, he cautioned. Soon. 

“Hey.” Compress’ voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Dabi looked at him as he sat down beside him. “What’re you looking at Re-destro for?” 

“Don’t like him,” Dabi replied. It was a truth. 

“You and Twice, huh? Jin still hasn’t forgiven him for what he did to Giran, but he’s restraining himself because of this alliance and Shigaraki’s orders.”

“What about you? You mean you ain’t pissed?” Dabi watched Re-destro get up from his seat and address the crowd, heralding the arrival of the Grand Commander. 

“I don’t hold grudges, unless they ruin a performance of mine.” Atsuhiro leaned back on his seat, relaxing his arms on the armrests. “If we’re going to be working together, might as well forgive and forget.” 

“That’s nice,” Dabi mechanically said, as Shigaraki emerged onto the stage. “I think I’ll pass on using the power of friendship.”

Compress sighed. “You gotta drop it with Apocrypha. She doesn’t seem so aggressive now, anyway.  She did think you won that fight, didn’t she?”

Dabi saw the hooded girl in his peripheral, sitting quietly with her head drooping. Perhaps she was listening to Shigaraki giving his address, perhaps she was ignoring it in its entirety. 

“Yeah,” he said sourly, recalling what he had seen in her diary. All thoughts of lording his “victory” over her died in that instant. “But it’s not her. It’s Re-destro.” 

“I see. Well, don’t kill him like you tried with Apocrypha.” Compress turned to face Shigaraki’s form standing at the forestage. Dabi listened in to the remainder of Shigaraki’s speech as well. 

“You know your regiment leaders. Train hard this week, because we’re starting the next Liberation Festival in the next. That’s all.” Having finished, Shigaraki turned around and walked backstage, to resounding applause and cheers. 

Dabi caught a glimpse of Shigaraki’s expression. He was unsure of how to define it, but he recognised it well. As he walked through the tunnels out of the chamber, he kept coming back to that expression, that look on his leader’s face. 

He knew that Shigaraki was lying. Something about what he said was false. That damn look on his face... 

Dabi had wore that same expression before their last job. Before he realised it, Touya Todoroki’s memories resurfaced once more.

“You’ll cover me, right?” Touya said, looking at his mentor and partner. 

Dabi looked at him. “I got you, don’t worry. Let’s go.” He had a look on his face, a calmness to it, but also something else behind it that Touya had noticed, but had not registered. A subtle side glance. A tensing of his lips. 

Touya took a deep breath. His hands burned with orange fire, like the rising sun. 

As Dabi leapt down from the roof, Touya followed.

–––––––

So uh, you probably have forgotten about this Dabi OC, which I introduced in another flashback in the earlier chapters. I didn’t bring him up since then because I wasn’t too sure how I wanted him to work in my story, but now that I have a clearer idea of the character, I’m putting him back in. 

To sum up, there is Dabi, our MC, I.e Touya, and there is Dabi the OC. Yes, Touya took his name. 

Thanks so much for everyone’s support, and if I could I’d like to mention Kerasion and Kannra in particular. It really brightened up my day. 

Uh, thoughts about the chapter itself: This Shigaraki POV will probably be a rare, perhaps one-off scene, but I felt the need to address Shigaraki’s motivations and true plans for the PLF.

Moving forward, I’m hoping the relationship-building between the two MCs can finally begin, but also the politics within the PLF’s leadership won’t get better. 

#bnha #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha fanfic #bnha fanfiction #mha fanfic #mha fanfiction #dabi #geten #bnha dabi #mha dabi #bnha geten #mha geten #dabi x geten #geten x dabi #dabiten #getenxdabi #dabixgeten #ATDS

[papa-rhys]

Temptress (John Seed X OC Deputy)

Note: I’m editing this while in the midst of a gastritis flare up so apologies if I missed any mistakes. Have some completely lovestruck John creepin on my dep from a distance bc hell yeah. Enjoy!

Find more of my stuff here!

John watches intently through binoculars with his interest peaked as the newly appointed deputy arrives at a resistance outpost. He’d only settled along to treeline to watch the outpost out of curiosity. It had previously belonged to him, until two days ago, when an unknown woman, fresh from out of town, had taken it over and claimed it as one of the resistance safehouses. He was hoping to gain information from his little stakeout; maybe uncover a secret route between resistance bases or perhaps lay eyes on some new weapons that the resistance was hoping to surprise him with. He wasn’t expecting this new face to stroll into his path, but as he sits on the top of the hill, sheltered by the surrounding trees, he finds himself oddly pleased that she has.

He adjusts his binoculars, zooming in on her as she makes the walk from her car to the front of the building, repeatedly tossing her car keys in the air as she does so. The way she walks captivates John. The way she swings her hips from side to side in those little denim shorts. Her legs are glistening with sweat under the summer sun and they have John feeling an all-too-familiar feeling in his chest. One that bubbles up and whirls around inside him, threatening to spill out of his mouth in the form of giddy laughter.

Lust.

John is familiar with all seven of the deadly sins, but it’s been so long since he felt that one and he’d thought those days were long behind him. What would Joseph think if he here now? If he could see him watching her from the hilltop. John looks nervously over his shoulder, convinced that he, too, is being watched by someone; someone who will waste no time in running to Joseph with the news that John Seed, Herald of the Holland Valley, is a sinner. That he’s impure. That he’s irredeemable.

John follows the mysterious new deputy as she stops to talk to a resistance member. She’s animated in the way that she speaks to him, throwing her hands around and turning around on the spot as the man laughs along with her. John wonders what she’s talking about. Perhaps she’s telling the man of an encounter she’d had with one of John’s own people. Maybe she’s telling him about claiming another outpost; a battle that John will hear about later. She says her goodbyes to the man and heads inside the building.

“No, no, no,” John mutters to himself. “Come back, girl.”

As if God himself had heard John’s mutterings, the woman appears in front of a window on the upper floor of the building. John gets up and quickly moves along the treeline for a better angle, sitting back down again behind a fallen tree. He adjusts his binoculars once more, zooming in as far as they’ll go. The woman moves around in an old break room that looks to be repurposed as a dormitory from what John can see of it. She closes the door and heads to the bed next to the window, where she begins to unbutton her shirt.

John looks away, knowing full well that the church – nor God himself – would ever allow this kind of behaviour. Fornication is a sin and voyeurism is just as bad. But John was never much good at self-control, and he raises the binoculars to his eyes again.

She moves around the room in nothing but her underwear now, and John’s heart beats heavily inside his ribcage, each beat thudding in his ears. She’s completely bewitching; a dangerous temptress, sent by the devil himself to lure John into a trap. John is certain of this.

So why is he willingly following?

John gathers his thoughts for a moment as the woman parades around in front of him, dancing in the sunlight that spills in through the window that he watches her through. She’s blissfully unaware that anyone is watching her… or maybe she isn’t. Maybe she knows John is watching. Maybe she likes it.

John’s jeans begin to tighten and he swallows the guilt down with a hard gulp. He reaches one hand down and fumbles with his belt. Finally unbuckling it, he thumbs open the button on his jeans. He takes another look over his shoulder, taking his time to check every single inch of the horizon to make sure no one will ever know that this happened, and – more importantly –  to make sure Joseph will never catch wind of it.

He turns back around and peers through the binoculars again, but is left deflated when he discovers the room empty.

“Oh, no… No, no, no.” He scans the outpost in search for her, his eyes gliding over the scene. He’s met by nothing but crates of preserves and patrolling resistance members. “Where did you go, my darling?”

“Lookin’ for someone?” a woman's voice asks.

John’s heart stops and he immediately drops the binoculars from his face. A couple of metres down the hill stands the woman, now dressed and with her arms folded across her chest. She looks angry – as though could kill John then and there – but there’s a kindness in her eyes, hidden behind that rage. She looks even sweeter up close and John rises to his feet, fastening his jeans as he does so.

“I was just –“

“You were just what?” she asks, raising her eyebrow. “Go on. I’d love to hear you try and explain this one.”

John is at a loss for words and he opts for a shrug instead.

“So,” she says, making her way up the hill and stopping in front of him. “You thought it’d be a good idea to watch a woman while she changed? I don’t have much love for Peeping Toms.”

John gazes at her as she stands before him, her brows furrowed and her glossy, silver hair blowing across her face in the breeze. He’s completely smitten. Falling in love was not on his itinerary when he’d gotten dressed this morning, yet here he was… though he finds it hard to complain. He hasn’t felt this alive in a long time. The blood is finally pumping through his veins again – his heart skipping in his chest. For the first time in forever, he feels good. He wants to kiss her, pick her up and spin her around, tell her “thank you – thank you for making me feel like a person again.”

But he doesn’t.

He stays quiet.

Minutes tick by as the two of them watch each other in silence. The only noise that can be heard is the wind picking up and whooshing past their ears as a thunderstorm rolls in from the mountains up North. The woman chews on the inside of her cheek and John puts his hand in the pocket of his coat. Just as the woman opens her mouth to speak, she’s interrupted by a resistance member who has approached the bottom of the hill.

“Lucy,” he calls, cupping his mouth so that his voice is strong enough to be heard over the wind. “You’re needed down here!”

Her name is Lucy. A name that means light. A name that fits her so perfectly.

Lucy looks over her shoulder and waves her hand at him. “Okay, I’ll be right there.”

John turns to leave with his head hung low, sorry that his meeting with the love of his life has come to an end already.

“Wait, I didn’t catch your name,” she calls.

John stops in his tracks. She doesn’t know who he is yet? He plans his answer carefully, painfully aware that he’ll never have her if she discovers who he is. And he can’t lose her yet; he’s only just found her.

“My name is Duncan,” he smiles, turning back to face her.

“Okay... Well, Duncan, if I catch you watching me again, I’ll kill you.” She says it in slight jest, but John knows she’ll do it. He knows what this new playmate is capable of; her handy work is scattered all over Hope County – he sees it every time one of his men returns with a truck full of bodies.

“It was nice to meet you, Lucy,” he says politely.

“Yeah, I’m sure it was,” she smirks. “See you around.”

She tucks her hair behind her ear and makes her way back down the hill, trudging through the mud and battling the wind that threatens to knock her off her feet.

“Yes,” John smiles, looking over the binoculars in his hand before clipping them to his belt. “Indeed, you will.”

#idk if people wanna read about my dep but oh well #john seed #john seed x oc #john seed x deputy #far cry 5 #my writing #writing: john seed #deputy lucy-marie

[carolyncounts]

29, 39, and 47?

Thanks for the ask!

29. are there any minor characters you want to talk about? what is their role?

So far my only minor character of note is kind of a group of characters: the kids of the Knights’ Corps. Their role is probably to take sides as Bay’s friends and enemies, and to kind of help make the Corps feel like a whole fleshed out populated thing, and to take sides and act in any power struggles/machinations that may or may not develop … anyway here are some snippets:

Sheled Bay through the entry tunnel to the training yard at the heart of theHeraldic Quarters. A few squires sparred lazily in one of the rings, and a few more pages lounged in the sun against the nearest wall. Otherwise the yard was still.

“Are you free?” Wenna asked them.

“We are,” the eldest, a girl, replied. She climbed to her feet. They all stared at Bay curiously.

Bay was older than all of them except perhaps the girl, though he didn’t look it. Wenna held him by the arm, to demonstrate her ownership and to help keep him on his feet. […]

The two pages ran off to do as they were bid, and Wenna waved a dismissal to the rest. She could practically hear the murmur of their speculation as she turned away. The entire Quarters would know about the exchange and “Wen‘dull’en’s new boy” before the sun even brushed the horizon, but that had always been inevitable.

–

When the women left, the girl hung back a moment. “If you have lice, I’ll bring you a blade to shear your head,” she murmured. “Before you spread them and everyone knows.”

“I don’t,” Bay replied. “There’s not enough of me for them to take a bite of.”

She smiled, and he smiled back, and then she left him alone.

–

“Yeah, relax,” said the boy. “I didn’t mean to laugh. You’ll be all right with Wen’dull’en. Er …” He glanced furtively at Lady Wenna, who looked steadily back. He turned and dove for the parchment. “Here, just make an X right here and it’ll be official.” He arranged the parchment on Bay’s knee, and wet the quill in his inkwell, and stuck it in Bay’s hand. He tapped a finger on a sideways line. Bay drew an X – the pen dragged at the parchment, and it was hard to make the lines as smooth as writing always looked. As soon as he was done, the quill and parchment were snatched away and the boy retreated toward the door. “Great. Welcome to the Corps …” He glanced at the parchment. “Bay. Oh, ashes.” He came back, juggling the objects until he could stuck out his empty right hand. “I’m Ollin. Second Deputy Head Scribe.”

Thankfully, Bay had stopped crying at some point during that display. He shook Ollin’s hand and tried not to look too pathetic. “Good to meet you.”

“Good to meet you, too.” Ollin looked up at Lady Wenna with trepidation, then darted out the door.

39. are there any customs followed at important gatherings (e.g., funerals, weddings, birthdays, etc.)?

In terms of like hospitality and ceremony and things like that, I’ve really got nothing creative up my sleeve, at least not yet. Religion/day-to-day cultural stuff is still very vague, and that will probably inform it.

But more broadly: in a world where objects of deep sentimental significance have real magical value, gift-giving is serious business. Because it’s so personal - it has to be personal to work - there aren’t any hard and fast traditions. But usually one or both or all parents will make something special for a new child (a blanket, f'ex, or a comfort-toy) and let them start building a warm feeling toward it from birth, and it’s common to give really meaningful gifts at milestones like coming of age or marriage if the context is there for one.

47. what fantasy trope makes you want to punch a wall? which trope actually makes you smile?

Best first: I love prophecies, bc they’re just the most blatant form of a promise the story sets for you at the beginning, an invitation to see how it comes true even when it looks impossible. Plus there’s always an opportunity to have it happen creatively and in a way that delights. I’ll take a million “I am no man"s, please and thank you. I love the flaming sword from asoiaf and all the red-herring trails it traces.

It’s not really a fantasy-specific trope, but it drives me up a wall when literally anyone (in fantasy situations often a mystical mentor-figure) conspicuously doesn’t convey crucial information just to be mysterious/keep suspense in the plot.

Oh and also unexamined toxic masculinity as worldbuilding or plot. Thank u, next.

#high fantasy wip #i know this is too long #i tried to resist the siren song of the snippets #but i couldn't i think these kids are going to be fun #yolo #gosh i'm old lmao

[theharellan]

five times flirted

solas x nb!lavellan | @dalishfreckles

One. First watch is theirs. It begins just after sundown, before the horizon has forgotten the sun. A thin pink line runs over the hills before it fades to black. At first they speak as they normally would, but as the camp behind them settles and night arrives in earnest, their voices soften. The fire burns low behind them, orange embers warming their backs.

Ian scoots closer, wrapping his arms around his knees. In low towns they speak of magic, of spirits, gentle words a far cry from their first proper conversation. Solas had forgotten how intimate the simple act of speaking could be. Tonight the world does not seem to extend far beyond the ring of light cast by the fire, encircling only the two of them.

A silence passes between them, but the air is not empty. Crickets sing in the interlude, in the distance a wolf howls, its mind free of the demon that had taken its siblings. “I was worr– I was worried,” Ian says, words scarcely louder than the nature that surrounds them, “I was afraid when the Herald told me we were to take watch together, that you wouldn’t want to speak… speak to me, after we fought. Not for this long.”

“I asked her for first watch,” Solas replies, “or rather, to be paired with you.” Perhaps it is the fire that flares behind them, but he swears he feels the heat off of Ian’s cheeks. “We have never had a conversation that has not given me a great deal to think about, and I have always been fond of thinking.”

“Oh.” Ian packs a surprising amount of disbelief into one sound, but it still makes him smile. His arms unwind from around his legs to touch his gloves against his face. Their shoulders brush by chance, and again by design. “Maybe we can make a habit of it.”

Two. “I like how you dress.”

Of their party, only Solas seems to have heard Ian. His head moves to look at him as Dorian and Vivienne have moved on to comparing trends in northern and southern Circles. Beneath a mass of freckles and faded vallaslin, his face grows red. “I mean,” he begins, “your sweater, it’s always looked– soft.” The last word is small compared to the rest, as though Ian had to choke it out, and immediately regret it.

The compliment, however small, inspires a smile. His fingers stretch the sleeves of his sweater, testing the wool beneath the tips. It does not feel so long ago that he spent his days clad in armour, the kind that left his shoulders with sore spots that never seemed to go away. This suited him better, however unsightly it may be for his fellow mages.

“It is.”

Three. Having such affection for one so kind is more confusing than he anticipated. Solas will find himself convinced he knows Ian’s feelings, only to witness Ian utter a kindness just as blushingly to Sera. This world and its people are enough of a mystery under normal circumstances without factoring in the potential for– more. He may see the nervous smile upon Ian’s face, feel the heat off his skin, but the Veil stifles anything beyond the plainly observed.

They hesitate before one another at the gates of Haven, Solas weighing what is appropriate and what is expected, but it is Ian who speaks first: “Solas…”

It feels foolish, the giddy rush the sound of Ian’s voice gives him. He’s too old, he thinks, and yet it persists. When he looks, he is met with the sight of Ian’s teeth pulling at his bottom lip, and must remind himself to lift them to meet his eyes. “I–”  His teeth release his lip, mouth hanging open before his words find him. “I’m glad you’re back.”

Four. The fistful of flowers Ian offers him does not look any worse for wear after a trip up the mountains. Wild clover as pink as the day they were plucked, coupled with bright blue forget-me-nots. “Where did you get these?” Solas asks as he takes them. He glances around the hut that had become his home (for as long as Haven will have them) for something to keep them in.

“The Hinterlands. We were camped by a field, and…” The sentence ends with an aimless gesture.

“A week’s journey from here,” he notes. It is not meant to sound incredulous, but from how Ian’s gaze ducks to avoid his, it seems it was taken that way. “How did you keep them so fresh?”

“Magic. I… with a little care, you can keep them in good health. It’s– they do most of the work.”

“It is impressive, nevertheless.” The remark sends Ian’s face (already pink from the cold air) burning deep crimson.

“It isn’t– it’s simple, really.”

“For you, perhaps, but these–” Solas lifts the flowers demonstratively before he sets them in a wooden mug. Water, conjured from between his fingers, falls through the air like river rushing down a steep hill, filling the cup half-way. “They adapted through centuries to sustain themselves as you have learned in years. It is no small talent.”

This compliment Ian appears incapable of brushing away. Solas catches a weak smile spreading across his face before he turns it away. “Thank you,” he manages after a moment. “I thought they might brighten up your, ahn, your home.”

Haven is no beauty, and Ian is right. They bloom gladly, unaware of the snow that is piled up outside the door. “They will,” he agrees, then slyly adds, “at least, on the days you are not here to do it yourself.”

Five. With the side of his foot, Solas pushes through the pile of clothes that litters their bedroom floor. Most are Ian’s, too small to fit him even if he had a mind to try. “Have you seen my sweater?” he asks idly, knowing it is better to ask now before he has poured ten minutes into his search.

“Which?” Ian asks from the bed.

“My oldest.” And still the most comfortable, even if Josephine had outfittedhim with a larger wardrobe than what he could carry on his back. In her words, shopping for him was “cheap,” though he suspects she blames herself for the incident that resulted in a noble tossing wine in his face (and staining his coat in the process).

“Oh.” He hears Ian twist up in the blankets, shielding himself from the cold air that enters through their open window. “… No.” There is an unmistakable hint of guilt in Ian’s voice that draws his gaze to where Ian lounges on their bed, bare legs tangled in the covers, with his sweater pulled over his head. His lips spread in a toothy grin when their eyes meet, chin half-obscured by the sweater’s high neck. The sleeves hang off his hands, too loose for him, and yet… “Sorry,” he says, but his smile speaks otherwise. “I wanted to– wanted, that is– I was right,” he says after a steadying swallow. “It is soft.”

Solas can’t help but snort. “You knew that already.”

“I would never know for certain, not until I wore it,”

“Is that so?” As he speaks, he returns to the bed, sitting just past the mound that is Ian’s legs. “I will be needing it, now, though it is a pity. You suit it better.”

“You think– you think it’s going to… going to be that easy?” Ian’s shoulders swell with playful confidence (though it does nothing to fill out the material that bags around them) and he sits a little closer, setting a light in Solas’s stomach that is stoked by a kiss pressed against his cheek. “I won’t– I’m not just going to give it to you,” he says, teeth clamping down on his lower lip to bite back a nervous laugh.

It takes effort, this. It takes effort for Ian to say the things he says, for Solas to allow his thumb to push up the fabric around Ian’s waist and stroke over his hip. But for the thrill in his chest, the pleasant shiver Ian gives against his hand, it is effort well-rewarded.

#dalishfreckles #( asks ) #solas #solavellan #i have found a home in him ( ian x solas ) #( my writing ) #[ love u joly xoxo ]

[shift-shaping]

Glimpses: Flowers

@dadrunkwriting​

@talesfromthefade​, @zolamoonshadow​

Rating: M

Genre: Romance

You said any pairing so I thought... why not all of them?

Solas x Surana (Dancer, Student, and Canon verses) 

Dorian Trevelyan

Cullen x Surana

Alistair x Surana 

Yvelle Lavellan x Solas

Verse: Revolutionary

Pairing: Solas x Surana

Warnings: Age gap

She straightened her skirt and took a deep breath, holding the flower pot close to her chest. With a tightly-closed fist she rapped on the door, three swift knocks that made the wood shudder.

Her chest felt tight, her neck damp with nervous sweat. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, straightened her skirt again. Inside the townhouse, footsteps echoed nearer to the door. She breathed in again, still shaky, still tight.

Her ears perked as he swung the door open, her mouth opening pre-emptively. He had a small, confused smile on, and was wearing the business wear she was used to seeing him in.

“Uh -hi,” she said, and his smile widened. “I, uh, I can’t stay very long. But I wanted to give you something.”

He stepped outside with her and closed the screen door behind him. “The flowers?” His gaze fell to the small pot, to the bouquet planted in soil. “They look familiar.”

“Yeah, um,” she laughed and shook her head. “Sorry, I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Is... everything all right?”

“Yeah! Oh, yeah, definitely.” She nodded so vigorously it made her braids bounce. “It’s just really warm in my apartment right now.”

“I see...” He trailed off, awkwardly, then cleared his throat. “Ah, well, if you’d like to come inside...”

“No! I mean, I can’t. I have to go to work in like ten minutes.”

“Oh, right, of course...”

She swallowed hard, then held the flowers out for him. “They’re for you.”

He looked at her, confused, but took them. “You don’t need to give me anything, da’len.”

A small smile pulled at her lips and she looked between the flowers and his face. “They aren’t just anything.”

He looked back at the flowers, studying them closely. Realization dawned on him and he met her eyes again, blinking in surprise. “The ones I gave you...”

“Yeah. Turns out I have a bit of a green thumb.” 

“But, how? They were cuttings.”

She held her hands behind her back, pride calming her now, puffing her chest out. “I found a guide online and followed it to the letter. It took a while, and I could only save some of them, but... I think they look really nice.” 

His smile widened and he shook his head. “They are beautiful, da’len. Truly. You might have a future as a florist.”

“You think?” She’d genuinely never thought of that. “Hm... florist by day, stripper by night?”

“You’d always smell like flowers.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I just... wanted to show you that.”

“Thank you, truly.” He took a half-step closer to her, then stopped himself. “I... I’ll see you tonight then, da’len.”

She smiled, nodded, then started to walk backwards away. “We’re still meeting tomorrow afternoon, right?”

“Provided I don’t have too much to drink tonight.”

“Don’t drink!” She scoffed, grinning brightly. “Give all your money away in tips.”

“Mmm... I’ll consider that.”

She waved as she walked back to the street and climbed into her car. He watched her drive away, holding the flowers in his hands, then leaned back against his door and sighed loudly. There was a slim chance he could keep these things alive.

Pairing: Dorian x Trevelyan

As soon as Dorian learned Wessely’s birthday, he knew he would show no mercy. Wessely was modest to a fault, consistently putting everyone else before himself, and rarely took credit for his own victories. It was time to make him celebrate himself, whether he wanted to or not.

Vivienne and Josephine helped him secure hundreds of flowers and cover the Inquisitor’s room in them. Varric caught a glimpse and seemed to think all three of them had lost their minds, but Vivienne was quick to inform him that he had obviously never given a birthday gift to the Herald of Andraste. They needed his assistance, though, and instructed Varric to keep Wessely busy all afternoon while they made the final preparations. Wessely, in all his idiot kindness, made no complaint as Varric talked his ear off for hours in the courtyard.

Just as the sun neared the horizon Dorian shooed Vivienne and Josephine out, then immediately took off his clothes and climbed on to Wessely’s bed. He shifted amidst the flower petals until coming to a comfortable spot, then rolled on to his side and propped his head in his hand. The finishing touch was a single, very large rose over his crotch.

Varric was supposed to send Wessely in as soon as Josephine and Vivienne left, but Dorian found himself laying seductively in bed cursing the dwarf for over a half-hour. He must have gotten entrenched in one of his stories and lost track of time. Dorian groaned and cast a furtive glance to the setting sun. The timing wasn’t that big of a deal, but if he wasn’t in perfect position the entire effort was ruined, so he couldn’t just go and get his lover from the courtyard.

Time went on and dusk fell into night. After a while, with his wrist now thoroughly numb, Dorian relaxed on the bed into a more comfortable position. The work had been exhausting, and now that he lay in his lover’s massive bed he very badly wanted to sleep. He fought the urge for as long as he could, but eventually succumbed.

Another two hours passed before Wessely finally returned to his quarters. He immediately noticed the flower petals on the stairwell and smelled powerful incense through the door. Warmth flooded his chest and he carefully turned the doorknob, smiling softly when he saw Dorian sleeping on his bed in a pile of flower petals. As gently as he could, he climbed into bed and gave his lover a soft kiss on the forehead.

Dorian blinked and drowsily stretched, squinting at Wessely in the candlelight. “Where in the Maker’s name have you been?”

Wessely chuckled softly and brought Dorian’s hand to his lips, making the other man smile. “Emergency Inquisitor business. Apparently a druffalo stampede delayed our supply lines in the east.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “These southerners and their stinking, hulking mammals.”

“Giant snakes would have been preferable?” 

Dorian nodded and smirked, wrapping his arms around Wessely’s neck. “At least then you don’t get fur on everything.”

Wessely snorted before leaning down and kissing Dorian deeply, slowly. His partner tasted like wine and sleep, but not in the bitter way every other person did. It was a spell, Dorian said, a spell he’d personally perfected to rid himself of morning breath forever.

“Happy birthday, amatus,” Dorian said as Wessely pulled back. He looked tenderly into the other man’s eyes, quietly admiring their warm brown color.

Wessely smiled, though his brows knit in confusion. “My birthday isn’t for another six weeks.”

Dorian closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded slowly and sighed. “I knew that.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, of course.” He pretended to be offended as he shifted on to his elbows, bringing his face close to Wessely’s. “How could you even suggest otherwise?”

“Ah. My mistake then.” Wessely leaned down and pressed a kiss to Dorian’s neck, making his lover hiss softly with pleasure. Dorian felt a tantalizing brush between his legs, then raised an eyebrow when Wessely brought the rose to his lips. 

“I am exposed,” Dorian said simply, and Wessely laughed before kissing him again, harder now.

“Thank you, Dorian. This means so much to me.”

“Of course, amatus.” He smiled that same warm smile and pulled Wessely back down, drawing their bodies together in the tangle of rose petals littering their bed. 

Verse: Fire is Her Water

Pairings: Cullen x Surana

Warnings: Templar x mage

He always knew where he could find her, and not just because a mage’s schedule was meticulously planned to the minute. If she was not with the animals or in the dense, ancient greenhouses, she was in the library. The curfew for her age was only two hours after dark, but she was allowed to study late into the night. Her work was benevolent, according to the Chantry, even beneficial. Among mages, healers had value and privileges others did not.

He held the ancient tome in his hands and prayed his palms would not dampen the fragile pages. It seemed wrong for his harsh metal gauntlets to hold something so delicate, but he would not put it away. When he gave it to her, perhaps his hands would brush hers, or he could catch a glimpse of her narrow wrists, of her onyx skin peeking from beneath the long sleeves of her robe.

He pushed open the door to the library and narrowed his eyes in the darkness Magic torches cast dim, flickering light over the endless towering bookcases, filling the room with a sunset orange -save for one blue glow, one lonely light tucked inside the reference section.

He went to her, his boots so loud on the uneven floorboards that he cringed from the noise. When he saw her he paused, smiling when he noticed how focused she was on her reading. She didn’t even look up as he approached her, despite the deafening sound of his heartbeat.

“E-Eirwen,” he stuttered, then cleared his throat. She looked up, head tilting, pupils large in the dark. “I got you something.”

Her brows furrowed and she shifted to her feet, brushing dust from her robes. “From where?”

“A -a merchant in town. I thought you might like it.” He held it out to her and she rolled up her sleeves before gently taking it from his hands. Her skin was so smooth, so clear and shining in the dark. His breath caught in his throat and his tongue felt like cotton.

She looked over it, gingerly turning the fragile pages, eyes widening with wonder. The drawings were beautiful and detailed, the writing precise and clear. Page after page showed stunning pictures of flowers from all over the world, in faded but still vibrant color. 

“Cullen,” she said softly, tearing her gaze from the gift. “This is amazing. You... you didn’t have to do this. I... I don’t even have anything to repay you with.” She laughed and looked back down at it, shaking her head. “Thank you so much... this means the world to me.” 

He struggled for words, but they betrayed him like always. He hated how stupid he looked in front of her, how dumb he felt whenever she turned her eyes on him. 

She giggled then and gently shut the book. The floorboards creaked as she shifted forward, putting one hand on his chestplate. Her soft lips pressed to his cheek and his eyes widened, shock overtaking him as he felt her smooth skin against his. “Thank you, Cullen. Thank you so much.”

He stood there, stunned still, as she padded past him to the hall and shut the heavy wooden door behind her. She tore away any sense that he had, left him speechless and dumb, yet he wouldn’t trade her presence for anything. 

Verse: Confessions of a Teacher’s Pet

Pairing: Solas x Surana

Warnings: Teacher x Student, age gap

In three days, it would be six months since she kissed him in his car.

Six months of pining, of desperate sex that never slowed, of near-constant teasing and quiet, aching confessions of love in the middle of the night. It had been a tumultuous six months and entirely unexpected, and but also entirely heaven.

Six months wasn’t much time, but he still wanted to celebrate. Earlier that day, in his office, she’d pulled him close to her, made him corner her against the wall, kissed his neck hard and drew sharp gasps and guttural groans from deep in his chest. His hands grasped for her back and he held her body flush against his, grinding his hips against her, spreading her legs as he lifted her and shifted to swallow a hot moan from her lips. 

They hadn’t been able to finish, and he hadn’t stopped thinking about her. 

As had become their typical schedule, she planned to spend most of the weekend with him in his apartment. She lounged in his shirts and sometimes her underwear, filling his home with her presence. They cooked and watched movies and did their work beside each other on his couch or in his bed. More often than not he found his eyes drawn to her bare legs, or felt her gaze stuck on his forearms. Their distractions fed into each other and inevitably he’d end up between those long, muscular legs in one way or another.

This particular weekend she’d itched for warmth, constantly wrapping herself around him and holding his hand and laying across his lap. It kept him busy and, more importantly, kept her away from the refrigerator.

Normally she had free range with everything in his apartment, but this time he needed her away from the secret hidden behind the vegetables. Every time she got close he’d distract her, sometimes with sex, sometimes with other food or sweet words.

On Sunday, inevitably, she voiced her suspicions. “What are you keeping in that fridge?” Her voice was a low coo as she rested her head on his bare chest, her legs kicking the air, the blankets of his bed laying over her naked back. 

“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” he replied, smirking slightly.

“Every time I get close to your fridge, you pull me away.” She lifted herself up on her hands, pushing her breasts together, challenging him to keep his eyes on her face. “I’m starting to think you’re keeping a decapitated head in there.”

He snorted. “You are always so gruesome. I should think you’d know me better than that by now.”

“Oh, of course.” She grinned and shifted, tossing one leg over his hips and straddling him. He gripped her waist almost instinctively and gave her soft sides a squeeze. “You’re more the type to keep a heart in your fridge. Maybe a couple fingers.”

“That is disgusting.”

She grinded on him and he rolled his eyes. “You still aren’t telling me what it is.”

“I assure you, it is nothing that was once part of a person.”

“Oddly specific wording, hahren.”

“Alright,” he sighed and eased her off him, shaking his head. She giggled as he stood, crawling on the bed to suddenly pull him back. He gasped as she groped him a bit, fingers straying too far down. “I thought you wanted to see the refrigerator?” 

She snorted and moved her hands to hug him instead. “Sorry. I just can’t resist an ass like that.”

He smiled over his shoulder at her. “You are easily distracted, vhenan.”

“You still gave me an A.” 

He hummed softly and turned, greatly tempted to press her back down into the bed and make love to her again. He tucked his fingers under her chin and brought her mouth to his, kissing her deep and slow, letting his teeth pull at her lips before he broke away. She inhaled sharply as he stepped back, sliding his hand down to hers, gently tugging her to her feet. “Come, ma vhenan. Let me show you.”

She groaned but followed him, letting him lead her back to the kitchen. It occurred to him that she must be cold, wearing nothing but a pair of cotton underwear, so on the way to the hall he took a sweater from his desk chair and helped her pull it on over her head. It hung low, down to her mid-thighs, and covered her hands. 

“Should I be bracing myself?” She asked, leaning back against the counter as he opened the fridge. “Is something going to pop out at me?”

He said nothing, and she straightened as he pulled something in a box from the fridge. He laid it down gently, then gave her room to see what it was as he pulled the top of the box off. Her eyes widened and she gasped softly, bringing her sleeve-covered hand to her mouth. 

“Solas...” She said softly, shaking her head. “This is... this is beautiful.” Before her sat a gorgeous cake covered in flawless, colorful frosting flowers. As she looked them over, tears stung her eyes. “The flowers... are these...?” 

Soon after they’d started dating, she left a bouquet of flowers in his mailbox on campus. It was a beautiful collection, vibrant and reminiscent of spring. She saw that now on the cake, the same types of flowers, the same bright color scheme.

“Oh, Solas...” Her voice was small and quiet, and he started to speak before she turned to him and suddenly kissed him, hard and deep, hands on either side of his face.

He stumbled at first, hand barely catching the counter. He hugged her with his free hand, holding her close, and after a moment returned the kiss with just as much passion. 

Pairing: Solavellan

Warnings: Age gap

It took days to figure out what kind of gift Solas would actually like.

Josephine was genuinely shocked he didn’t like tea, and seemed unable to accept it at first. “Truly? But he seems like just the type... are you quite certain he dislikes all tea? Even the sweeter kinds?”

Vivienne had lowered her book and given Yvelle a withering stare. “Darling, just find him some weeds from outside; it’s you he’s after, anyway.” She brought her book up again and shrugged. “Though what the man really needs is a pair of shoes.”

Bull had leaned back in his chair and looked at Yvelle suspiciously. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and figure we’re talking about different kinds of gifts, boss. I mean... I’d consider it, but...” She’d needed Sera to explain what Bull was talking about, and she only told Yvelle five minutes later, after she finished laughing. 

Even Cole’s advice wasn’t particularly useful, but Yvelle didn’t have the heart to tell him that. “He has very few things. Mostly useful things... maybe he wants something that isn’t so useful. It doesn’t have to be real.”

So it was with a great sense of defeat that Yvelle confessed her failure to Cassandra, who she knew liked to read romance novels and might have some advice. She didn’t like admitting inability in front of Cassandra -she felt it made her look inept as a leader- but the Seeker didn’t seem to mind. The slightest hint of a smile pulled at her lips, and she brought Yvelle to the garden. 

“Now, I do not know about Solas specifically, but it is good to consider things he already has and get him something similar that is also unique to you.”

“He has... paints.”

“And books. And likely a great deal of very old things.” They stopped walking in front of a flower pot full of colorful daisies. Both of them were silent for a time, before Cassandra looked at Yvelle with a slight frown. “He enjoys candles, does he not?”

Yvelle tilted her head and nodded, not sure where Cassandra was going with this. “They usually have a bit of a scent, like pine or roses.”

The Seeker’s lips tilted into a smirk. “I believe I may know just the thing.”

A week later, after a small, unobtrusive package arrived for the Inquisitor, she met with Solas on her balcony. After their usual banter and teasing he pressed her back into the railing and kissed her, his hands gentle on her hips. She felt her heart racing, her breathing tighter and harsher, her hands grasping at the back of his shirt. 

He pulled back from her lips to kiss her neck, making her back arch in his hands and her voice break into a girlish moan. His lips tightened, and she felt him chuckle against her skin. “Are you wearing perfume, Inquisitor?”

A warm blush spread over her body and she cleared her throat. “Do you... do you like it?”

He kissed her neck again, then trailed his teeth against the skin. “I do. Very much.”

She shivered and swallowed hard, fingers still grasping at his back. “G -good. It’s, um... daisies...”

His hands slid up her waist, hugging her tighter, and he chuckled again. “Do you know what those mean?”

“...Mean?”

He nodded. “According to Orlesians, anyway. So take it as you will.” He pulled back, resting his forehead against hers and looking into her amber eyes. “The particularly wealthy use flowers to send different messages. Aster is patience, Gardenia is cheerfulness, Iris is wisdom...” 

She smiled and laughed. “How do you know all that?”

He kissed her again, quickly. “I’ve been known to read things from time to time.”

They kissed again, deeper now, and he held her close like he had before. When they broke apart to breathe, she closed her eyes and steadied her voice. “And... what do daisies mean?”

He laughed then, surprising her, and then sighed. “You, ah, you do not want to know.”

“What? Why?” She pulled back, brows furrowed. “What do they mean?”

He moved his hands back down to her waist, then lower, resting just over her rear and making her blush furiously. “Purity.”

She was silent for a moment, the joke sinking in, before she groaned and buried her face in Solas’s chest. “Creators, of course it does...”

He laughed and hugged her, shaking his head. “It still smells very good, Inquisitor. You shouldn’t worry about the meaning.” He kissed her head and she squeezed him tighter. “I love it nonetheless.”

Verse: Fire is Her Water

Pairings: Alistair x Surana

Warnings: Gore

Wynne held Eirwen’s head in her lap, her gaze locked on the girl’s bloodied face, the air crackling with her magic as she willed the destroyed skin back together. “Does anyone have saffron flowers?” Her voice was raw and harsh as she risked a glance upward. “Anyone?!”

Morrigan was already searching through her pack fervently, her hands shaking. “No. I cannot -of course it is the one thing I do not have...”

“There is only so much I can do on my own.” Wynne shook her head as Eirwen groaned in pain. 

“One of us could return to the surface, or at least to Orzammar.” Zevran paced, shaking his head, brows knit tightly as he thought. “Perhaps someone is selling it. They must have herbs down here, or... something...”

“I mean this with all due respect, Zevran,” Wynne started, her voice strangled with frustration as sweat began to drip from her hairline. “You cannot make it back to Orzammar on your own. You have no sense of where your enemy is coming from, without the Taint, you would not survive.” She sighed shakily. “And there is no promise Orzammar will have the herbs regardless.”

“I can do it, I’ll go.” Wynne glanced at Alistair, whose silver armor was dark with blood. He stood steady, with only a minor injury on his cheek.

“We need you here, Alistair.” But she knew that wasn’t true. With so many of them it would be extremely difficult for darkspawn to take them by surprise, and even if they did, the party was well-prepared. “Do you really think you could do it?” She asked, her voice low.

Alistair knelt before her, looking down at Eirwen, at her mauled face. He nodded, his jaw set. “Of course.” There was an unspoken emotion there, something much deeper than the overconfidence of a young man. He reached out and gently stroked her blood-coated braids. 

“Do you know the way?” Morrigan asked, her expression grave as she looked at him. “I could go instead. ‘Tis difficult for a hurlock to catch a crow.”

“What if your mana runs out, or you lose your way? You can’t read a map and fly.”

She stepped forward, arms crossed over her chest. “I could manage. There are other ways to find one’s way to the surface.”

“No, Morrigan,” Wynne cut in sharply. “I need you here, to heal her when I cannot.” Morrigan looked down at Eirwen, her expression hard, but said nothing. “Or at least to keep this from getting any worse.” With her free hand, shaking furiously, she licked her finger and wiped some blood from Eirwen’s forehead. The girl shivered and shifted slightly, so Wynne shushed her quietly. She looked up at Alistair, her gaze stone-hard. “Go, then. Get her Saffron, as much of the entire plant as possible. We’ll make a poultice from it to restore her vision.”

It seemed like an insurmountable task. 

The shriek had caught Eirwen by surprise while she was attempting a healing spell and ravaged the left side of her face, cutting deep from her forehead through her eye and into her cheek, splitting the eye itself in half. Her screams were some of the worst sounds any of them had ever heard, Zevran and Oghren included. Even Shale seemed horrified despite itself, mumbling something about how pitiful fleshy things were as it stepped away from the carnage.

But Alistair left in search of the flowers regardless. In his absence the others looked after his lover, as Morrigan and Wynne struggled to save her eye by sewing each strand of flesh back together with tenuous threads of magic. They were lucky to only face one darkspawn onslaught while they held their position.

He returned more than a day later, drenched in sweat and blood but holding a fistful of saffron in each hand. Much to his shock, however, Eirwen was already blinking and reading.

“What... I don’t...” As soon as she heard his voice the younger warden leapt to her feet and threw herself into him, evidently not caring about the impact of her body on his heavy armor. Despite his surprise he hugged her tightly, burying his fact in her neck, breathing in her scent before he pulled back to look at her. He saw now that her face was not completed healed -there was a strangeness to how she looked at him, her left eye tracking just slightly off from her right. A jagged scar cut through it, but it looked far better than he would have expected.

“You’re back!” She said, cupping his face with her hands. “Alistair, thank you so much.” She kissed him then, making him blink in shock, then stepped back and grasped his wrists in her small hands. “I can’t imagine what you went through... thank you, thank you so much.” She kissed him again, but a sharp, pointed ahem interrupted the moment. 

Morrigan held out her hand to Alistair. “The flowers, Warden.”

“I...” He nodded and handed them to her despite his confusion. “What happened? You...” He looked back at Eirwen. “You look a lot better than when I left.”

“Morrigan found some healing herbs in a side pocket of her bag.” Alistair just stared blankly at the apostate, who shrugged nonchalantly. “They fixed most of it, but I still need some to get me back to normal. I have virtually no depth perception at the moment.”

“Ah, and we cannot have that.” He kissed her again, then let her go when Wynne called her name. Before he went to see her, he stopped, gently grasping Morrigan’s upper arm before she could slip away. “Why, Morrigan?”

She wrenched her arm away from him. “I have no idea what you are referring to, and if you ever touch me again-”

“You know exactly what I’m referring to.”

She relaxed a bit, straightening her back. “I genuinely had forgotten about that pocket until long after you were gone, Warden. She is safe, and so are you. There is little more you can ask of me, so I suggest you let this go.”

He shook his head, his expression tightening, before he sighed and deflated. “Only for her sake, witch. Because she likes you.”

“As she should.” Morrigan shrugged, and a slight smirk pulled at her lips. “I did save her life, didn’t I?” 

Verse: The Lion and the Wolf

Pairing: Solas x Surana

Warnings: Age gap

“Supposedly, this was once a great plain.” Eirwen swept her arm out dramatically, indicating the wide swath of empty desert before them. “There were small oases all over, and legendary, long-gone animals like plains lions and pygmy elephants sought refuge in them.” She brought her flask to her lips and took a long drink before sighing heavily. “Come on, I want to show you something.” She urged her mount, an old grey mare, further toward the nothingness. 

Solas sat beside her atop a calm russet-colored horse. He wore a heavy hood over his bald head, and his robes fell low past his hands. A hot desert wind blew past him and he shifted uncomfortably in the leather saddle before following Eirwen. “The Blight destroyed this place, did it not?” He asked, looking over at her from beneath his hood.

She nodded stiffly, staring ahead. “It seeped into the soil and killed any signs of life within it. No soil meant no grass or trees, which meant no elephants, and therefore no lions. Nothing has grown here since.” She stopped them in a place apparently no more remarkable than any other in the wasteland and dismounted. He followed her, a few feet behind.

“From what I’ve read, it was the sight of a great battle during the Second Blight. The earth is stained with tainted blood...” He shook his head, feeling a shiver despite the heat. “I cannot imagine the horrors they must have seen. Even in the Fade, it is not the same.”

“No, it’s not,” she replied bluntly, and he swallowed hard.

“You have seen things most cannot fathom.” He shook his head. “Why come here, vhenan?”

“Because it’s not all terrible.” She stepped forward and knelt in the sand, gesturing for him to come down with her. “The Blight is like a scar here, but even scars can heal.” He looked at her, at the ragged, faded marks on her dark skin. “It takes time, and magic, but it’s possible.”

She carefully spread the sand apart, digging down until she’d created a semi-stable hole. He watched silently, curiously, as she took a small object from her pocket and pushed it gently into the ground. Then she sat back on her heels and took her water canteen from her bag. She poured it over the object, drowning it, then waved her hand over the hole.

He felt the Veil shift and saw sparks shiver from her hand. Lightning washed over the hole and spread out into the sand, darkening threads through the sediment.

“This is the important part,” she said, reaching into her bag again to retrieve a small vial of dark, glimmering blood. His brows knit and a question started to form on his lips. “Dragon blood,” she said, before he could ask. She popped open the vial and tilted it, letting red-black liquid fall into the hole. 

It hissed when it hit the sand, letting off steam as it seeped into the ground. He stayed quiet, patient, waiting for a purpose. She let out a slow, shaky breath and he felt the Veil shift again, shifting towards her, giving him the slightest tug. He looked at her now, at the concentration furrowing her brows, at the hard stare she leveled at the seed.

Another stiff desert breeze blew through them, disrupting the hole, but she didn’t seem to care. The harsh sun drew sweat to his forehead and he took a long drink from his canteen.

It happened slowly, so slowly that at first he didn’t notice anything was happening at all. But gradually, with an effort that made her magic twist the Veil tight as a vice, a small green sprout broke from the seed. It rose, fed by the sunlight and the magic she forced into it. Higher and higher it grew, until it was easily six inches tall. A thick bud formed on the end of it, and with another harsh tear of magic it spread into a vibrant purple flower.

She sat back, panting heavily, eyes closed. He kept staring at it, mesmerized, still entranced even as she collapsed into his lap and groaned with exhaustion.

He instinctively rested his hand on her stomach, touching her just because he could. His other hand reached for the flower, and he stroked the soft, sturdy petals with gentle fingers. “This is incredible, Eirwen.”

She laughed, and when she spoke he could hear her smile. “You think so? I’m glad. I wanted to show you something that would be new for you.” He looked down at her and raised an eyebrow. “It seems like you’ve seen everything before, in the Fade.” She lay on her side, eyes squinted nearly shut to protect from the sun’s violent gaze. “I wanted to show you something you couldn’t find there.”

He smirked and leaned down to kiss her cheek, earning himself a happy hum. “You already show me plenty of things I cannot find in the Fade, vhenan.”

She groaned and sat up, shifting so she was beside him again. “Don’t be so sappy, you’ll ruin it.”

“Is your flower allergic to romance?” He asked with a smirk. 

“Just excessive sweet-talking.” But she was smiling, and blushing, and then she kissed him slow and deep.

When they separated, it was not because either truly wanted to. The sun was too hot, the sand starting to burn through their pants, and frankly, they both could use a bath. “That technique,” he said as they stood, holding her hands in his. “How applicable is that to animals?”

“Not very.” She sighed. “Trust me, I’ve tried. You can clarify certain parts of the soil, but a body is too... fast. The dragon blood can do much worse things to you before you can actually get something useful from it.”

He clicked his tongue and frowned. “It is a start, though.”

“It is. But I feel like I never get far from that.” She pulled away from him and started to mount her horse, leaving him to watch her.

“Perhaps... one day you could return this place to what it was.”

She snorted and slung her leg over her horse. “I’d need a lot of lyrium for that.”

He smiled and walked up to her, admiring how the sun made her dark skin gleam. He also, admittedly, rather liked seeing her above him. “Or we could casually tear down the Veil and reshape the world how we see fit.”

She raised an eyebrow. “To grow a few more flowers?”

“And bring back some elephants.”

“Lions too?”

“Of course.”

She smiled and straightened in her seat. “I’ll think about it, love. It sounds like a lot of work, though.”

“Ah, perhaps too much.”

“I’m very lazy.” She leaned over, cupped his cheeks, and strained her side to kiss him. “Now get on your horse. I need more water.”

“Ma nuvenin, ma vhenan.”

As he walked back to his mount she grinned, watching how his hips shifted with each step. Her hands shook as she took the reins, as she hid how exhausted she was from him. Her magic was weaker here, though it shouldn’t have been. In this place, where the Blight scarred the lands, the song was much stronger. It interrupted her spells, made it harder for her to penetrate the Veil. But it was worth it to show him that renewal was possible, that beauty could be born from desert sand. 

if you enjoyed this fic, please hit the reblog button on this post. comments are cool but not necessary -you can leave no tags, a keysmash, or even just ‘nice’ if you’d like! thanks for your support -arden <3

#glimpses #solasmance #dorian x trevelyan #solavellan #alistair x warden #cullen x warden #alistair x surana #cullen x surana #verse: the lion and the wolf #verse: confessions of a teacher's pet #verse: fire is her water #Verse: revolutionary #dwc #student x teacher #i worked on this ALL WEEK #enjoy it #take it awaaay