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grapenamjams · 3 years

Text

Yours

Genre: Smut/ NSFW

Characters: Muriel from the Arcana & Female Reader

Contains: fingering (F. receiving), against the wall sex, mutual orgasm, dirty talk? slightly jealous soft dom Muriel.

A/N: I've had this thought in my head for awhile now! im glad that I could finally write it out.....

Stepping through the threshold of the hut, hearing the door close on the orange evening sun outside, muriel had not said a word the entire way back from the shop. which was not something unusual but you could feel that there was something on his mind.

“muriel is everything okay?” You say as you hang up your coat and bag. The dark haired man looks at you for a second but his eyes dart away. Puzzled you try again, you put a hand on his arm rubbing it gently as you face him head tilting slightly trying to give him a light smile. “I know something has been bugging you ever since we left the shop. You wanna tell me?” You Can see behind those eyes that he was still thinking but saw a flicker of something else within them.

You sigh knowing that sometimes it takes a bit for muriel to open up. “Okay, it’s okay you don-“

“Who was that person in the shop when I came in?” His deep voice finally makes an appearance in your shared space.

At first you were relived that he had finally spoken to you but then your mind caught up to his words making you confused. “W-what do you mean? Who?”Your hand drops from his arm. His gaze looks to the side “The person at the counter before you closed shop” you furrow your eyebrows together thinking about who was at your shop that could cause Muriel to brood all the way home like this. but your mind came back empty only remembering a usual costumer you were helping.

“Muriel, they were just a shop customer. I don’t understand why you are upset.” Muriel sighs “I’m not-“ he turns towards you his eyes roaming your face. You give him a raised eyebrow not believing him. Having him being upset was a rare occurrence, when it did happen it was usually something reasonable that you both talked about and agree on what to do next. But this? This was new and you couldn’t figure out where it came from. untill he asked mumbling “do they usually go into the shop?”

Your a bit taken back at his question but as you look at his face you suddenly know what was going on and you couldn’t quite believe it. seeing this was the first he outwardly demonstrated that he was

“Muriel, are you jealous?”

You say trying to not let your lips turn up in a smile. You see that a blush appears on his face but his eyes, his forest green eyes look at you in a way that makes your own cheeks heat up. A familiar warmth courses through your body as you tilt your head and gave him a sly smile as a wave confidence comes over you. “I- Im not jealous. I don’t get like that” he mutters out.

Your hands go to his sides moving them up and down slowly feeling him tense for a second. “You sure? You’ve never asked me about a costumer that way before.” Your voice coming out slowly. Dragging a finger to his strong Abdomen moving your fingers mindlessly against his skin as you continue speaking to him softly.

“Asking me if they come to the shop often. Muriel you know the shop has a good amount of customers and” your innocent eyes meet his “I have to treat them all nicely” you raise your feet a bit to be able to kiss him on the shoulder, placing another hand on his cheek directing him towards you. “There’s nothing to be jealous of.” His lips inches apart from yours “I’m yours arnt I?” you breath out before your lips meet his.

You swear you hear him growl when you kiss him sending a delighted shiver go through you as you kiss him again and again. Each kiss becoming more passionate and harder than the last, your hands going into his dark hair and his hands to your hips. a moan escapes pass your lips as you feel your back press against the wall. The harshness of the stone softened by the thick tapestry hanged up behind you.

“How can I not be jealous when they looked at what is mine the way they did” Muriel’s deep voice comes next to your ear making you shudder at his words. Your eyes widen at the possessiveness and dominance he’s demonstrating making your legs weak, A slow pulse felt between your legs as your arousal makes itself known.

his hands come up from your hips grabbing the hem of your shirt lifting it up his fingers gliding over your hot skin but still shivering at his touch.

“Like you said y/n” he takes off your shirt his dark lustful gaze falling on you again making your breath hitch “you’re mine.” You see a blush starting to make its way into his cheeks as he takes in your state before him. His hand caresses your cheek in the gentlest manner as in asking for your permission to continue. Your heart squeezes at how much he cares for you wanting to know first if you were okay.

You lean your head against his palm while looking up at him. “Tell me what’s yours” your hand reaches out to his waist pulling him closer “show me.” Seeing your green light for him Muriel smirks.

He firmly kisses you, tongues meeting each other as you hum against him. His hands go on either side of your head trapping you against the wall and his muscular body “mine.” His voice rumbles against your lips. Your hands freely roaming touching anywhere you could, your desire for him increasing by the second. “your lips are mine” he kisses them again. when he parts away you are left gasping as you see his eyes lower. “your neck” he dips down placing a hot kiss to your skin and moving up, his scruff adding to the sensation. he sucks on your sweet spot having you let out a small moan feeling muriel smile as he licks and kisses.

His right hand moves away from the wall and removes your bra. You suck in a breath at the air on your exposed chest. Then a whimper when Muriel’s large rough hand grabs it. He cups It having his thumb rub the nipple. You moan at the feeling, “your breasts” he breaths against you kissing where he Can on your neck and jaw while his hand messages you. Your head falls back allowing him to kiss more, grab more as your back pushes your hardened nipples into his hands. Kneading them and pinching them.

The throbbing between your legs increasing with every kiss, rub and words against you it was becoming unbearable, aching for him to touch you. “Muriel” you moan, Your hand goes down his stomach but before you can reach his pants Muriel’s left hand grabs your wrist and the other one at his chest pinning your arms above your head.

“I still haven't finished” he mumbles against your neck. He parts away to look down at you as you feel the hand that was kneading your breast go down the valley between them. knuckles slowly going down your stomach raising goosebumps. “Your beautiful body” he continues.

You can’t help but moan as he reaches the waistband of your clothes, pushing them down leaving you in just your undergarments underneath him. You hear him curse at the sight of you, already breathless and shaking without being touched.

Suddenly Muriel’s hand cups your heat over the covering making you let out a gasp and a moan at finally having some contact. he groans feeling how soaked the fabric is. “Its mine. You chose me to be able to make you mine, to kiss, touch you like this” he rubs you through your panties as you hum the action not enough hips moving against him.

“They wanted you I could tell” his hand swiftly pushes down your panties falling down your legs. The air again making you ache, his hand stalls for a moment again as he takes in a breath before a finger passes your folds and goes down your slit, making you moan as he groans “shit” at how wetness you coats his finger, seeing his face redden.

He swallows before repeating the motion again watching your body react to him. “I bet they were thinking of doing this too you” his voice takes an edge, his eyebrows furrowing. His finger goes to your clit and begins to rub it slowly having you moan. “I saw it in there damn eyes.” His eyes look down to his hand and sees your hips moving against him making him moan at the sight as he speeds up.

He looks back at you and it takes all his self control not to take off his pants and have you against the wall right then and there. eyes closed, lips parted, head back as you arched into him having your hands pinned above you. Even Muriel didn’t fully understood what came over him, how he got the confidence to do this and say those things to you but he was to far ahead to go back now and he didn’t want to go back. he wanted to make you feel good, of course he still had the bit of consistent doubt that this wasn’t what you wanted but by the fates and gods, with moans you were letting out and how you were reacting under him he knew you wanted him just as much as he wanted you.

“More….Muriel please” you pant as you continue to rub your soft clit against his rough finger pads. “Whose the one that Can touch you like This?” He states kissing you again, you moan as a response but he dosnt except that as an answer. although he relishes in the sound going straight through to his hard cock which you feel against you as he puts a knee on your leg spreading you more.

Muriel slows the pace of his fingers triggering a whine from you opening your eyes. “Answer?” He asks eyes filled with lust and dominance no where to be seen that usual shyness and hesitance he usually had when he touched you. and honestly you couldn’t express how much it turned you on to see it especially be expressed towards you.

Kissing him with pure want you answer him. “You Muriel” he hums against you at the sound of his name. He speeds up pressing another finger, adding to the feeling building up in your stomach. “Mmm yes” you moan closing your eyes again. Muriel kisses your shoulder and jaw “whose the one allowed to fuck you?” His words muddle your brain taking away your breath for a second, loving the way he’s taking control of you by his words and fingers.

Not wanting him to slow down again you answer breathlessly. “You are, you’re the one who can fuck me…please” hips jutting out again. the smile against your skin is the only warning he gave as Muriel slides two thick fingers into you pumping gradually to a speed that makes your Moans leak through the stone wall as your own walls stretch.

“Oh fuck” you pant, your pinned arms push against his grasp but his hands reaffirm his grip on you as his fingers keep moving in and out of you completely to his mercy, letting him witness and accesses to every inch of you like a painting. Nothing was hidden from him you were his to admire.

Your climax not far away as you hear Muriel moan at your reactions and the feel of you. already imagining his dick inside you, the one he tries to not to rub against your hip desperately. Muriel kisses you anywhere he can as his hand curves up making his large palm slap your heat and hit your clit each time he inserts his fingers.

“Ah! M- muriel im- I’m ugh” you moan, words failing you. Your walls clenching around his fingers and hips fucking his palm. Muriel cruses again at the sight, dick involuntarily thrusting against you. “You’re close baby arnt you?” You node your head and let out a small whine.

“tell me whose allowed to make you come? Whose gonna make you come right now?” His fingers not stoping instead curling up pressing lightly against the soft spot that sends a jolt of pleasure through you. Not a moment after he asked the word falls from your lips “you! Oh please, please muriel”he curls his fingers again touching that sweet spot. “Say it again” He growls making you moan. “You’re the one that’s gonna make me come so hard!”

he groans, placing his thumb on your sensitive clit rubbing it in small quick circles, with a last brush of his fingers inside you, you let your climax take you. Arching your back of the wall hands still pinned over your head allowing Muriel a perfect seat to completely see you come undone over his fingers.

“That’s it y/n, feel all of it” Muriel slows his fingers down helping you ride out your orgasm as you try to bring back air to your lungs. He lets go of your arms having them drop at your side as you try to get your heart rate back to normal. Whispering his name is all you can manage before he kisses you softly pulling his fingers out of you. You moan at the motion feeling the emptiness replace them in your throbbing heat.

Muriel kisses your head gently after he knew you had gotten your composure back. A hand going up and down your arm reassuringly. “W-was that okay? Are you okay?” And just like that the large dark haired man before you is back to his kind caring self. You give him a small chuckle with a easy smile as you look up at him. “You did amazing. I love it when you use your fingers to make me come.” you can see a slight blush come to his cheeks as he hums at your words knowing that he loved it when you gave him praise, making him know again that he’s the one that can make you come with just his fingers.

Muriel’s hand that was on your arm continues his way down to your side keeping you close causing you to become aware of him against your hip, prominent as ever. you make your own hand movements down his muscular tan stomach, need flourishing again inside you. “However it seems that you need a little help with something hm? if I remember correctly”

your fingers go down his happy trail to the waistband of his pants. Hearing his breathing become uneven as you continue to look at his face while his eyes lock onto your hand. “You asked who’s allowed to fuck me” your hands slowly unbuckle his belt. “And who did I say was allowed too?” Your voice coming out in a sultry whisper as you remove his belt around him tossing it to the side. seeing his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as you unbuckle his pants, hands going on either hip rubbing your thumbs against his skin in a comforting manner. “Me” you hear him whisper out.

You smile “I’m sorry baby I couldn’t hear you” you push down his pants hearing fabric land on the floor, leaving him in only his underwear resuming the circular motions. You hear him take in a sharp breath and you smile to your self. arousal throbbing as you catch the change in his energy. “Me” he states both hands grabbing your hips.

Fingers hooking into his underwear you pull them down finally freeing his large cock that has your mouth watering and heat glistening at the sight of it, the air making it slightly twitch. The pink head already dripping Precum you can’t hold back the moan that escapes you and you swear you could’ve heard him chuckle above you. Looking up you see that his green eyes had once again gain that gaze that made your knees weak. Your hands go up his body feeling his hot skin. “And whose gonna fuck me right now?” You say trying to keep your voice calm.

“I am” Muriel says definitely his lips capture yours as if he couldn’t hold back any longer. Kissing you as if he yearned for your touch against his. Muriel’s hands left your hips and went over your ass going to your thighs lifting you up. Your legs wrapping around his waist arms around his neck. letting out a loud moan when you feel your back hit the wall.

Muriel lets out a sigh at the feeling of his cock against your slit. The throbbing between you unbearable, you roll your hips gaining a moan from him which makes your insides clench.

“You’re so beautiful” he kisses your neck giving him a hum in response his eyes finding yours and finding yourself lost in them that you don’t see his left hand grab his cock. “Always so good to me” he runs his head against you making him catch his breath. He aligns his head to your entrance “and all mine” with that he inches his way inside with breathless moans. his large cock stretching you out in the most pleasurable way. Once he goes all the way to the hilt he swallows your moan as he kisses you, placing his hand on the wall steading himself as his body shivers from the feeling and tightness of you, making you become once again surrounded by him in every sense of the word.

Muriel kisses you giving you time to adjust to his thick length, filling you up completely. “So warm and tight like always…fuck” he whispers. When he starts to move against you a series of whimpers and moans follow as your mind becomes blurry the feelings of pleasure and him filling up your senses leaving you speechless. His thrusts are slow and gentle building you up knowing that you were probably sensitive from his fingers. which you were, but you are so needy for him it didn’t matter, rather it added to your pleasure knowing that he had already made you come with his rough fingers.

Your own fingertips go over the ridges of his back and shoulders as you moan. “You feel so good muriel” you hear his small grunts knowing that he was holding himself back not wanting to hurt you. Your fingers go into his hair pulling lightly so that his hooded eyes refocus on you, blush on his cheeks. “Faster baby please” you kiss him as you whisper “I’m yours”

Something snapped in him at your words. growling, he pulls his cock halfway out and thrusts back into you. A Yelp escaping you at the motion then turning into whimpers and yes’s as Muriel finds a blissful rhythm for you both. pushing you against the wall hearing Muriel’s wonderful grunts and moans reach your ears as you let him take control of you again.

Muriel clenches the tapestry in his hand as he pumps in and out of you losing himself in your scent, your warmth and tightness. He can’t get enough of you, hearing your moans, knowing that he was the cause of them and no one else, adds to him reaching his high. He was always grateful to have you in his life, fearing that you might walk away still haunts him. But every time he sees that smile, hears that laugh and feels those moans against his skin he knows that he is yours and will be yours as long as you’ll have him and you will be his.

“Muriel” you moan as his hips keep thrusting. You clench around him feeling him twitch inside you as he curses at the feeling. Your hands roam his back giving you a image of his back muscles moving under his skin as he pounded into you making you clench again. “I’m close“ Muriel pants as you feel his hips jerk up contradicting the rhythm. “Me too baby, you’re doing so good” you kiss his neck “you’re gonna make me come, please make me come” you whimper out.

His thrusts slow down with a groan from him. The hand that was on the wall beside your head lowers and both of his hands secure your thighs and shifts you slightly. He begins to thrust again harder and faster that you can’t help the loud moan that fills the hut as Muriel’s cock hits the soft spot inside you that his fingers grazed earlier perfectly with each thrust.

You look down and see Muriel’s handsome face covered with a thin layer of sweat his hair sticking to parts of his face and the expression of ecstasy he displayed, eyes shut, eyebrows furrowed and mouth parted. That and his thrusts were enough to send your over the edge. “Oh Imma come! Imma!-” Muriel continues his thrusts although you can feel them getting sloppy and harder. “come for me y/n,” your walls close around him as you moan his name as you come undone. Muriel gives a few more thrusts and grunts as you feel him twitch inside you before he fills you up with his climax with a Loud moan.

Muriel puts a hand against the wall and rests his head on your shoulder to steady himself. messily thrusting into you helping you both ride out your orgasms. Trying to regain composure your breaths hitting each other’s skin, you peck his shoulder, rubbing his arm reassuringly.

“I’m yours Muriel” you breath out

You feel him smile against you and you can already tell his cheeks were pink.

“And I’m yours”

#murielsmut #murielnsfw #muriel the mountain man #muriel x reader #muriel x mc #muriel the arcana #muriel the hermit #muriel x apprentice #thearcanagame #thearcanastory #the arcana muriel #the arcana smut #writting #asra alnazar #the arcana julian #the arcana nadia #the arcana drabble #the arcana portia

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singlecelledthot · 3 years

Note

🗣RONNIE!!! May I have Kuai’s titties drenched him in his own cum😬

💕I may have taken this a whole different direction than intended, but I promise, you get what you asked for!💕

Whisper, Whisper!- Solo Tundra/Kuai Liang (mentions of Fem!Reader) Warnings: NSFW, masturbation, solo male, pining, edging, Summary: Kuai Liang just can't keep it in anymore, you're driving him fucking crazy.

Tags: @lilliannmac @icy-spicy

Quietly, Kuai Liang stole into his room, pushing his way into privacy at last. Outwardly, Kuai was taciturn as he began the arduous process of removing his armor. His fingers worked slow and steady, pulling leather straps, tugging off strings and belts and letting each hardened piece of armor slide off to the floor. It wasn’t until he was left in his basics; unrestrained by claustrophobic gear, and sat down on the edge of his sleeping cot, that his jaw muscle quivered. He clenched his teeth, working them against each other as the roiling emotions in his belly churned up into his throat, threatening to gag him.

Would your cruelty know no end?

The entire day you both had gone about business as usual. He performing his duties with the Lin Kuei in training, patrolling to the grounds and attending the Grandmaster when summoned. And you, spending your time strapping fighters with tape, bandaging wounds and reorganizing and scheduling (bullying) young assassins into their physicals. As a medical authority in the clan, you always had a reason to put your hands on him, and at first it had been benign for the both of you. But as the months rolled into years, you two had somehow managed to grow close, stranger still that you both did so without the normally stilted way that he flirted with women getting in the way. Almost every encounter now, three years after you had first met, was fraught with some sort of temptation. He delighted in your touch, your whispers as you purred innuendo into his ear when you would bandage his injuries. You would always teased then retreat, laughing and smiling in a way that found his eyes glued to the soft swell of your bottom lip. He smiled rarely, flirted back even less, but always spoke softly, never chasing you from his close proximity with coldness or the blunt superiority people like his brother and Sketor threw around. No, it was clear he wanted you there, at his side, with your hands soothing the pain from his body---and yet.

Lately it had been altogether too much, and not enough. You lingered, growing more bold, sneaking touches even in mixed company where the act would cause sweat to bead at the back of his neck each time your fingers ghosted over his skin. It had slowly begun to strain him, pulling him taut like a piano wire, poised to snap with the vicious twang of a clever finger.

Who could have foreseen that, that day was the final stroke that sealed his fate?

You had tutted over him as you always did, fussing at either his carelessness or his sparring partner’s foolishness. This time it had been a spar with Bi-Han that had done it, coming in the form of a back hand landing on his jaw so hard Kuai's neck had snapped to the side and sent him sprawling. When his ears stopped ringing he overheard the harsh trill of your voice barking out at the more subdued tone of his brother. Kuai had blinked away the momentary loss of consciousness, sat up and was immediately set upon by you now that you had taken your pound of flesh from Bi-Han. Your hands were on his face in seconds, stroking along his jaw where he’d been hit, tapping gently on his scalp and through his hair--the sound he made was easily passed off as a groan of pain and he made no move to speak in agreement or otherwise.

“Tundra,” Were your eyes always this bright? “I cannot believe you would go out of your way to ignore me when I TELL you not to do full contact directly after a mission.” Were your fingers always this warm?

He had blinked owlishly, staring from you to his brother who stood behind you. “I cannot believe that your ability to listen is worse than Sub-Zero’s...” That was what had done it, that one little comment spoken in genuine exasperation. He loved his brother, he never felt lesser when it came to Bi-Han and he had never before experienced jealousy over something so small. It’s how he found himself where he was now, fists clenching so hard his bones creaked.

The wire finally snapped.

Kuai Liang stood up as he kicked a small side table that sat near the head of his cot, sending the object flying across the room to bang against a wall. Clearly broken. He continued on in relative silence, beyond the harshness of his strained breathing, clenching his jaw to keep the shout building in his throat behind his teeth. Pacing back and forth across the length of his room, he recalled how smug Bi-Han looked as you compared the brothers, how your small hand had gripped his sore jaw firmly and you held his gaze as you glared into his very soul. And he throbbed from the want. The sheer desperation for you came upon him like a typhoon, whipping up how he perceived your friendship and smashing it to pieces before settling, and what was left was a fractured and terrible need. His cock lay heavy and thick across his thigh, angled down his pant leg, each time the coarse fabric of his pants slid across his aching flesh, he had to fight the urge to growl. He’d been hard since you grabbed his chin and forced him to hold your eye contact.

How had he not realized how quickly these feelings had been building? How had he not seen this coming from a mile away? How could he have ignored the small ways his body screamed at him to heed it? To pursue you?

It punished him now for his negligence, Kuai let himself lean back heavily on the edge of his cot, palming the painful hardness of his cock. He was breaking, shattering like so many shards of ice across the harsh, stone judgement of your words--your touch.

He tugged the waistband down so that his hefty length could spring free, slapping against his exposed belly with a meaty ‘thwack’. He stared down at himself, taking in the thickness, the throbbing vein along the side that disappeared into the base of his cock. How dearly he wished that it was not by his own hand, but yours, that would relieve this horrible ache. Kuai hesitated for only a moment before he reached down to wrap a fist around his cock and give it an alleviating squeeze. It made his hips buck up to meet the pressure and he had to bite his tongue to stay quiet. His nose crinkled into a silent snarl as he dragged his rough palm down to pull the skin back as taut as it could go, before pulling it all back up to stimulate his already leaking cock head. His breath frosted the air, free hand scrabbling to pull his shirt up to bunch under his chin---for whatever reason the fabric was unbearably hot. With his torso naked, and his hand squeezing pre-cum out of his tip, Kuai Liang sighed your name as tension pooled in his belly.

He knew he’d never be able to withstand your teasing again, foreseeing many nights spent in the state he was currently in, but also finding he did not care. Heat mixed with the ice in his belly, egging him on as his fists set a slow, tight pace along the thick length of his cock. He imagined you, methodically tracing patterns along his veins, stroking the bunched skin beneath his glans--his hips lifted as he pictured your smile as you breathed molten heat against his tip. A promise, or maybe a threat. His eyes slammed shut as his pace increased, he did not have the patience at the moment to tease himself as you would and the fantasy he’d been playing in his mind flew out the window in favor of more heated, frantic visions.

You throating him diligently in some secluded hallway in the barracks. His other hand reached down to give his heavy balls a squeeze.

Your eyes, lidded in desperation as you begged for him not to stop. His head fell back, his hand working an aggressive pace across the entirety of his length, the wet noises of his pre-cum smearing across his skin filled the room.

You, saying his name, a whisper in his ear as he pinned you to a wall and took from your body the pleasure he violently craved…

That was what undid him. His fist pulled down his shaft until it was squeezing the base, his cock twitched, once, twice before hot strands of cum splashed over his belly and chest. His pectorals heaved as he caught his breath, smeared in the trickling viscosity of his own cum. His nipples hardened as the wetness cooled in the air. Kuai’s eyes rolled back, his thighs shaking as each pearlescent shot of cum that hit his skin sent volts of pleasure through every inch of him. He panted through his teeth, collapsing back on his cot once he was spent, cum dripped down his collar bone, dirtying the black shirt that he’d had tucked under his chin, sliding down his abdomen to pool into the dip of his belly button.

He was a mess, mentally and physically, the visions of what he wanted to do to you faded to the chilled realization that he could never let you know how he felt. Kuai managed to open an eye, staring at his hand, now soaked with the evidence of his desperation. Though he would never reveal to you this hunger, he knew he could not--would not--ever possess the discipline to stop your touches and whispers. It would be his burden to bear, his secret to keep---his deepest indulgence.

Your touch would undo him one day, but until then, he’d torture himself with this sweet sickness.

#mortal kombat x reader #Kuai Liang x Reader #MK #Mortal Kombat #Kuai Liang/Tundra #x reader #n/sfw #Fem!Reader

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glowingbadger · 3 years

Note

Okay, I LOVE the Spiky sword boy and his sheer inability to handle most emotions. May I ask how would Felix handle being teased throughout the day by his S/O? Like maybe she wears a little more revealing article of clothing than normal or other small things to really get at him?

Full disclosure, when I first started playing FE3H, a friend of mine asked which route I had chosen first, and I told her I'd joined the Blue Lions. And she had the audacity to look me in the eyes and say, "Because of Felix?" And like, yes because of Felix, but also fuck you.

Anyway, more content from me about teasing an uptight, emotionally congested man with a heart of gold (y'know, for something different xD)

Felix (FE3H) x Fem/AFAB Reader - teasing

NSFW 18+

If you'd known that Felix would be so easy and so fun to tease, you would have tried something like this far sooner. You'd watched him gape openly when he'd first seen you at the dining hall that morning with your blouse opened deep at the front ("It's so warm today!") and a skirt that hugged a little too tight and far too short. Later, you had made sure to sit across from him at the day's strategy debriefing so you could watch him struggle to keep his gaze above the neckline. By the time you'd insisted on joining him to spar in the afternoon, he was so off-kilter that even his swordsmanship began to suffer. Even in less-than-optimal attire for combat, you were able to keep up with him- for a while, anyway.

At last, he rallies his focus and blocks your strike just above the hilt. The impact so close to your grip manages to disarm you, and Felix takes a firm step forward and levels his practice sword at your throat. You're both panting, both red in the face- but you wear a grin while he scowls in reply.

"You had the upper hand a minute ago," he says, not lowering his blade, "If you were actually dressed properly for a fight, this may have been a real match."

"If I were dressed properly for a fight, I would never have had the upper hand at all." You retort, your wicked grin widening. It's the first time you've called attention to his reaction to your ploy- and his expression shows how your acknowledgement only flusters him further. Dark, narrowed eyes scan your body down, then back up.

"You're trying to get under my skin."

"I'd say I'm succeeding." you quip back. You see his chest rise and fall heavily in the moment of tense silence that follows. Finally, he lowers his weapon with an irritable exhale. Every muscle in his body is wound tight, his posture stiff, as though consciously holding himself in place. You bite at your bottom lip, just imagining that restraint snapping and coming undone.

"We're on the night patrol together tonight, right?" you say as you come to stand beside him.

"Uh- yeah, I guess so." Felix mutters. You smile and kiss him lightly on the cheek- a deceptively innocent gesture.

"I'll see you later, then."

Evidently, Felix had managed to collect himself by the time you joined him at the Monastery Gates that evening- at least outwardly. Eyes that had wandered your body all day are now kept strictly in check as you walk side by side around the perimeter walls. He even manages to chat with you more or less as usual as you make your rounds. In a way, you're impressed. But that doesn't keep you from wondering how you could push him just a little more.

"Soo..." you trail off for a moment, walking a bit ahead of Felix with your hands innocently behind your back, "I was chatting with Sylvain earlier today, and-"

"Sylvain?" he says sharply- and you know your bait worked. Too easy.

"Yup! We had a nice long chat, it was really sweet of him to take so much time out of his day for me."

Felix seizes your wrist in hand and tugs you back to him.

"He saw you like this? Did he try anything? If he did, I'll slit his-"

"Felix, come on," you cut in with a laugh. You face him and gently brush his bangs aside, admiring the way his sharp features are accented by cool moonlight. He gives an irritable sigh and steps forward, and you subconsciously step back in unison.

"You have no idea how people have been looking at you today." he says with a dangerous edge in his voice. You feel your back hit the wall, trapping you between cool stone and Felix's harsh glare.

"I've only been watching how you've been looking at me," you say, closer to a whisper than you'd intended. And in an instant, Felix's lips are on yours. He grabs onto your wrists and pins them above your head, and as he secures them in place with one strong hand, the other tugs up at the hem of your skirt. You whimper into his kiss like a mewing kitten as his tongue thrusts past your lips. He's harsh and unforgiving, and it's all you can do not to lose your breath as his touch runs unabashedly up your inner thigh.

"Felix...!" you gasp as two fingers press against the thin fabric of your panties, rubbing firmly along your wet heat.

"Quiet," he hisses, "Do you want the knights to hear you?"

Frankly, when you see that intense look in his eyes and feel his rough fingers slide into your clothing and between your lower lips, you couldn't care whether the archbishop herself heard you. Still, you manage to bite your lip and stifle a moan as two digits surround your stiffened clit, rhythmically stroking the sensitive nerves and sending sparks of pleasure through your core. Your thighs twitch inward, squeezing around him as he runs his fingers slick across the aching bud, setting your legs trembling. Felix must be able to feel your body going weak- or perhaps, he's every bit as impatient for satisfaction as you are. His touch leaves your needy body before long, and he releases your wrists. But before you can question him, he hikes your skirt up your hips without a word, then fumbles open the front of his pants to free his member, already throbbing hard and flushed a dark crimson.

Then, muscled arms wrap under you and lift you up against the wall. He hooks your knees over his elbows, spreading your legs wide for him as he aligns with your eager pussy. Sighing out his name, you wrap your arms around his strong shoulders for support. Then, you feel his warm cockhead parting your slickened folds. With a low groan rumbling in his chest, Felix pushes into the tight heat of your cunt, stretching you around him as he plunges inch after inch into you. Somehow, he feels bigger than usual. Perhaps a day of teasing has had a more tangible affect on him than you'd anticipated.

Felix brings his lips to your jaw, kissing and biting his way back to your ear, where the heat of his breath sends a shiver down your spine. His hips begin thrusting into you, pumping his cock into you until your overflowing arousal coats his full length. Thick veins drag along your inner walls, stimulating a range of wonderfully tender spots, and your nails dig along his upper back in desperation. You've known that Felix isn't much of a dirty talker- and given the circumstances, that's probably for the best- but the way he softly pants and groans into your ear floods your body with a new, more urgent need. The thought that this is what he's wanted with you, that all day Felix has been one taunt away from fucking you against the nearest surface, is such an intense rush that you can already feel yourself clenching and gripping around him.

"I'm- I'm gonna-"

"Do it," he whispers harshly along your neck, "cum for me- now."

He bucks his hips upward, sheathing himself deep inside of you until you can feel the pressure up through your center. His lower body is partially supporting you, so your weight pushes you down onto his throbbing length. Felix kisses you, not even bothering with skill or finesse- only raw need. And you cum, hard. Your body shudders, your pussy squeezes around him, and the knot of pleasure built inside of you comes undone at once. His kiss muffles your helpless, blissful whimpers, and before you've even ridden the full wave of your climax, his own begins to take hold. He holds you almost painfully firm against the rough stone wall as you feel him shoot his cum into you in powerful volleys, one after another. Felix breaks away from your lips, his head coming to rest at the crook of your neck. He utters a tortured groan as his manhood swells and flexes from base to tip, pouring out the last of his release into your over-used and over-full body.

You're reminded of your sparring match earlier that day. The two of you are both thoroughly spent, panting heavily and struggling to steady your breathing. Felix tries to be gentle when he sets you back on your feet, but neither of you realize how unprepared you are to use your legs again, so you stumble forward into him. You expect a disgruntled comment, but instead, he wraps his arms around you and holds you steady while you regain your bearings.

"Wow..." you murmur, clinging to the front of his shirt, "I should try teasing you more often."

#felix hugo fraldarius #felix x reader #fire emblem #fe3h #feh #fire emblem three houses #fire emblem x reader #fire emblem smut #fire emblem imagines #felix fire emblem #x reader

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nationalharryleague · 3 years

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Ivy: Chapter One - Incandescent Glow

A/N: Chapter One is here!! I’m so excited to share this with you all and I hope you enjoy it!! You can find the rest of my writing in my masterlist and I would love love love to hear what you think about it in my ask! Thank you so much for reading I hope you enjoy it!!

Word Count: 6.5k

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Before their paths had crossed, she had resigned herself to an existence void of the excitement, passion, and the simple enjoyment of a life in love that she consumed every day in her books. Their worn and yellowed pages held stories of adventure, mystery, and her personal favorite, romance, etched onto pages that held the ability to transport the novel’s reader. She turned to their worn leather binding as a way to escape her own dismal and boring life, living vicariously through star crossed lovers, double agent spies, and explorers who had set out to find the fountain of youth.

The tall tales were never enough to fill the void or tame her desire to escape, but they placed a temporary bandage on the wound she would rather keep covered.

She spent most of her time among her books, curled into the small pink velvet couch that sat next to the large fireplace, immersing herself into the words on the page and the silence that surrounded her, as she reveled in the warmth of the open flame. The library was the one place in the large estate that felt like a home to her. Books lined the walls, placed carefully into floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Most of them had been read through already, patiently awaiting their turn to be picked up once again for her to experience another journey through their pages.

She chased a homey solace within those four walls, a comfortability she could never obtain anywhere else on her husband’s large estate. The mansion was a massive stone fortress that sat on acres of land she had never been granted permission to fully explore. The greatest freedom allowed to her were the well mannered and dignified walks she took around the garden, sometimes a trip to the small stream that ran across the edge of the property with a book tucked into her basket; but as winter fell, as it always did, she was forced back into her library.

Snow fell gently outside, covering the large and manicured lawns with a bright white blanket of quiet, but her concentration and tranquility were startled away from her when three too loud knocks fell onto the large mahogany door. She knew the knocks well, and exactly who they belonged to. They were the only ones that ever seemed to disturb her.

“Dear,” she heard her husband, William, call through the door. “May I come in?” He was boring and overbearing, but he was always polite when it came to her library. She could give him that.

“Of course,” she hummed in a slight annoyance, hearing the door swing open with a creak, as she tucked her bookmark into Gulliver’s Travels’ well loved pages. It was hard for her to tear her eyes from the book, not yet fully out of the story land she had been consumed by for hours now, but when she did, she was met with two men instead of one.

“I wanted to introduce you to the new groundskeeper, Mr. Styles.” William spoke far too loud for her quiet room and in his usual dull tone, which was somehow made even more boring by the beautiful man standing next to him.

Mr. Styles was striking.

He had chocolate brown curls that fell in tousled waves pushed back from his forehead and vibrant green eyes that zeroed in on her with an intense but friendly gaze. A polite smile graced his pink lips which caused a pair of dimples to ghost over his cheeks, softening his rather imposing large figure.

He was tall and had broad shoulders and muscular arms that didn’t completely fit into his vest and suit jacket, and she could tell he was uncomfortable in such formal dress. He stood perfectly straight up and down, like any sudden movements might bust him out of the most likely hand me down outfit, and his slightly awkward appearance made it difficult for her to fight off a more than friendly smile.

She moved towards him, the pink roses embroidered on the delicate white fabric of her dress falling down around her as she stood from the couch, and with a greeting knod of her head, she extended her hand towards him to delicately shake. His hands were frozen as he took her hand and bowed his head to her, a side effect of the snow blanketing the ground outside, but they were also strong and calloused.

Their contact shot a spark up her arm, assuredly from the cold of his fingertips.

“It’s delightful to meet you, Mr. Styles,” she spoke with a soft but confident voice, bowing her own head towards him gently as he released her hand.

“Thank you for having me, Lady Taylor,” he spoke smoothly, with a deep and musical voice, his sharp jaw brushing against the starched high fabric of his collar. She liked the way he spoke and made a note to make sure she heard more of it in the future.

She hoped she had controlled her face and didn’t outwardly cringe when he called her by her formal title and her husband’s last name. It was an identifier she deeply loathed, representative of all she had become. She looked forward to whenever they got a moment away from her husband and she could ask him to call her Y/N, similar to moments she had in the past with all of the staff in the mansion.

“Of course,” she smiled. “We’re glad to have you.”

“He’ll be staying in the cottage on the east side of the property,” William informed her, bringing her attention back to him.

“That is the one near the stream with the ivy on it, if I’m not mistaken. Correct?” she directed her question towards her husband, toeing the line of an appropriate amount of small talk, while also encouraging the conversation to move fast so she could return to her book.

“That’s the one,” the dull man answered with a nod. “I’m going to show him to it now. I wanted to introduce him because you might be seeing him around the estate.” He paused, stepping closer to her and she felt her muscles tense slightly. “We wouldn’t want you getting startled by a stranger, now would we, darling?”

“No, we wouldn’t,” she answered with a tight lipped smile. She could never get used to his patronizing tone, even after three years as his wife. With a deep breath, she steeled herself as he got even closer, reaching his hand out and pushing a curl that had fallen from her gathered bun at the base of her neck behind her ear, then pressing a kiss to her cheek that lasted far too long to be in front of a guest. Her cheeks heated in embarrassment and she watched as Mr. Styles’ gained an uncomfortable blush to his as well.

With a patch of dampness still clinging to her cheek, William backed away and returned to their new guest’s side.

“It was lovely to meet you,” the new man said, a seemingly sympathetic look in his eye. “Your library is beautiful.”

His complement of her books brought a hint of joy back to her features. “Thank you very much. If you ever need anything to read, I may have something you could borrow,” she chuckled, raising her hand to gesture towards the rows and rows of books. “I can only read so many at a time.”

“I will keep that in mind,” he said, his lips perking up in a sideways smile that showed off one of his dimples.

William left the room without anything else to say, Mr. Styles following soon after, but for some reason she could not shake the sound of his voice and the look of his dimple from her mind. Even when she settled back down next to the fire, knees tucked up beneath her and Gulliver’s Travels back in her hands, his face remained. She found herself rereading sentences two or three times before comprehending them, her focus lost to the handsome man who was now living in the small ivy covered cottage. She was intrigued.

A few days passed before she saw him again.

Once again, he had roused her from a book while she read, making an awful scraping noise as he tried to remove the ice hanging from the outdoor windowsill of her library. He must have been watching her through the window because when her head shot up to investigate the noise, he already held an apologetic look in his eyes and mouthed ‘I’m sorry!’ to her through the window. He looked quite cute like that and she couldn’t help but release a laugh.

She decided to abandon the epic love story she had been consuming, choosing to focus on another object of interest as she moved towards the large window and opened it. A frigid wind seemed to slap her in the face, making her realize just how red his nose was. She could only guess how cold he was and how long he had been scraping ice off the house in only a flimsy wool coat.

“I am so sorry I disturbed you, Lady Taylor,” he profusely apologized, but she only smiled in return.

“No trouble at all,” she shook her head. “And please call me Y/N. I’m only Lady Taylor in front of my husband.”

His face held a slight surprise, obviously unfamiliar with such a casual relationship with his bosses. “Oh, alright then, Y/N.” He held a shy grin on his face as he looked up at her through the window, extending a hand for her to shake. “Well then, call me Harry.”

Harry, she repeated to herself. It suited him. She liked his name and the way his strong jaw and pink lips moved when he said it.

Their hands met in a less formal handshake this time, her body hanging halfway out the window into the cold to reach him. The same shocks made their way up her arm again and she blamed them on his frozen hand.

“Harry,” she started, liking the way his name felt on her lips. “You seem like you are about to freeze to death out there. Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea?”

She knew her husband wouldn’t be home for at least another hour, a result of meticulously monitoring his schedule for the last three years in an effort to appreciate her limited freedom to its fullest. William was a creature of habit, spending every Wednesday across the county with his younger brother in his own massive home; allowing her time to relax, no longer held to the absurdly formal high standards her husband held for ‘the lady of the house.’ And today, she decided she could exercise that freedom by inviting Harry in for tea.

“I couldn’t,” he tried to politely deny, bound by strict rules of etiquette in ‘high society,’ whatever that meant.

“I insist. You look frost bitten.”

When he nodded his head in concession, she couldn’t help the bright and triumphant smile that stretched across her features.

It wasn’t long before she was leading him through the massive home towards the servants quarters and her favorite part of the mansion: the kitchen. As they walked, they moved under ornate arches and impressively high ceilings, passing walls decorated with portraits of her husband’s dead relatives that seemed to judge the two commoners as they passed. She assumed her husband hadn’t given Harry a tour of the main house, as every time she snuck a peak at him, his eyes were wide in amazement at the lavish home.

The deep maroon satin fabric of her dress flowed behind her as she led him down winding hallways and past massive grand staircases. The grandiose decorations and atmosphere began to dwindle as they made their way to the servants quarters, the house taking on a much more bare-bones look. The hallways were smaller and left a pale white, a stark contrast to the brightly colored walls that lived in the rest of the house.

He followed her down a small spiral staircase that opened into a kitchen that emitted a welcoming warmth the rest of the sterile house lacked. A large stone fireplace was set into the wall to their right and copper pots and pans hung from the walls. A large cabinet held stacks and stacks of dishes of every sort and a perpetually bubbling pot of water hung over the open flame. But the centerpiece of the room was the long wooden table that was covered in flour and surrounded by smiley women kneading balls of dough.

“Hello sweetheart!” chimed one of the women from the table, her older round face framed by grey hair holding onto flushed cheeks and a wide smile. Her grin seemed to calm an anxiety that was perpetually inside her. “How are you doing today?”

“I’m doing very well. Thank you, Mary,” she smiled back at her. “How are you?”

“She’s been talking our ears off all day, Y/N,” the youngest girl, Grace, piped up from across the table, her long black hair pulled from her face in a ponytail that reached her bum. She couldn’t have been older than 16. “Thank goodness you came down here to distract her for a moment.”

“Oh hush, Grace,” Mary playfully scolded her before turning her attention back to Y/N. “My boy had the highest marks in his class this week. Isn’t that just incredible?”

“That’s fantastic!” she exclaimed, knowing how hard the boy had been working on his studies as of late from how highly his mother always spoke of him.

“It’s all because you let him borrow your books,” the older woman said in a softer and more sincere tone. “He reads them so fast now and his instructors are so impressed.”

“I am always happy to lend them to Robert. He’s such a good boy. I always miss him in the winter when it is too cold for him to come to the grounds to play.”

“Spring will be here soon enough,” the last woman at the table, Siobhan, spoke up in a thick Irish accent. Her fiery red curls were pinned up on top of her head and flour was smudged onto her freckled nose.

“The almanac predicts that we should have an early spring this year,” Y/N heard Harry’s deep voice cut into their conversation behind her. She watched as all the eyes belonging to the women at the table went wide in his direction like they hadn’t noticed him prior.

“Ladies, this is Harry Styles,” she introduced him, turning back to face him just long enough to take in his shy and somewhat awkward wave to the women. “He’s the new groundskeeper.”

“What happened to John?” Grace asked in a slight whine, her face falling in disappointment at the news.

“She had a crush on John,” Siobhan cut in quickly to give Harry context. And while Grace denied her infatuation with a defiant ‘did not,’ her cheeks betrayed her as they turned a beet red.

“William said he got married or something of the sort,” Y/N lied, knowing William had fired him during a particular mood swing. While she held a deep distaste towards her husband, she was afraid to hint at that to the women in the event they didn’t follow his explicit orders due to their second hand dislike of him. She would never forgive herself if they happened to lose their jobs because of her.

These women were her only friends and she cherished them.

“Good for him,” Mary said before quickly turning her attention back to the curly man in the corner, staring at him intensely, as if she could see all his deepest secrets if she just looked hard enough. “It’s good to meet you, Harry,” she finally spoke, voice holding a motherly suspicion. “How did you become a groundskeeper?”

He seemed shocked that anyone would ask him a question at all, stammering slightly as he answered. “I always enjoyed being outside when I was a child, and as I got older, I found that I had quite the green thumb,” he spoke shyly, pulling his hand from behind his back to flash the ladies a thumbs-up. “I started working on estates a few years ago and I send whatever I can back to my mum and sister in Cheshire.”

At the mention of his mother and sister, Mary’s face softened. All in the room could tell that she had deemed him trustworthy and respectable, pushing away her worst nightmares of him having bad intentions on the estate she ran inside and out.

“What a good boy,” she spoke jovially, like if she was closer to him she could have pinched his blushed and dimpled cheeks.

“Well,” Y/N began in an attempt to change the subject, “Harry has been out in the cold for who knows how long so I’m going to fix us up a cup of tea.”

“Y/N, that is what we are here for,” Siobhan said, letting out a chuckle.

“Oh no,” she waved her off, making her way towards the cabinet and retrieving a sachet of her favorite tea and a teapot. “You’re all busy and I am very capable of making my own.”

She felt Harry’s eyes on her, surely confused about the relationship she had with her staff, as she skillfully navigated around the kitchen. She knew she looked out of place wearing her formal dress, a jeweled belt even wrapped around the empire waistline, as she moved about with the women in aprons covered in flour. But she felt comfortable here, like she was experiencing a loving hug from an old and less stressful life she once lived.

Soon she was holding a silver tray with an ornately decorated tea set delicately placed upon it, Harry trailing behind her while she carried it back to her library without spilling a drop. He continued to watch her with an inquisitive eye as she expertly crafted teas for both of them, although she knew his chill had long left his bones, before she settled onto her pink couch, Harry sitting in a matching armchair across from her.

“The way you are looking at me makes me think I owe you an explanation,” she smirked over her tea cup as she brought it to her lips.

“Ma’am,” he began, but corrected himself to “Y/N,” after she shot him a playful yet disapproving look. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Fine then. I’m just going to talk to myself and if you happen to hear details about my life that might help you understand me and this house a bit more, then so be it.” She spoke calmly, with a regality that she had spent years perfecting.

Harry’s lips perked up with a closed lipped smile that seemed to say ‘you got me’ and an attentive gaze, signalling her to go on.

“I think it is probably quite obvious at this point that I did not grow up in wealth like this,” she started, ready to explain herself to the man across from her for some reason she couldn’t pinpoint. “I’m friendly with the staff because I was one for most of my life. I was a servant girl growing up, very much like Grace. My family did not have much other than too many children and I left home to start work in estates like this one when I was 11.”

He watched quietly from his seat, not giving her much of a reaction at all.

“I met William when I was 17, when I started working for his aunt in her home. He tried to propose, for the first time, after I knew him for three weeks, but his mother said no because I wasn't born into the nobility. And honestly, I was relieved because I did not like him one bit.”

Harry let out a small chuckle at her words that quickly and involuntarily brought a grin to her face.

“His mother died two years later and he proposed again, no longer needing her blessing as he then became the head of their family. He offered me the world if I were to accept. He told me that we would travel and see the sights and that he would support my dream of becoming a writer. But most of all, he promised to take care of my family financially.” She took a long sip of her tea and swallowed hard before finishing the most painful part of her story. “So I accepted, but he never followed through on any of his promises.”

“William isn’t a bad man,” she continued, “although he isn’t a particularly good one either. He likes control of his house and his wife. It is I that made a naive promise to him and I have spent every day of the last three years paying for it.”

She watched as Harry’s exterior softened slowly as she spoke with radical honesty, looking like he wasn’t sure what to say that could comfort her. While she retold the story in a calm, cool, and collected manner, she hoped she was able to fully conceal her true hurt that attempted to fight it’s way to her face.

“Well,” she said with a cheerful new tone to her voice, brushing off her somber and self-pitying mood, “now that I have spoken about myself and you may have heard some of it, would you like some more tea?”

He raised his eyebrows inquisitively at her sudden change in tone, but decided not to push it any further. “I would,” he nodded. She felt his eyes on her as she stood up and made her way back to the tea pot, wishing she could read his mind. When she returned, she poured his tea carefully and went to set the pot back down, but she was stopped when his hand grasped onto hers.

His skin was now warm, hot even, from his tea cup; but the same shocks still remained when he touched her. She couldn’t help but notice how well her hand fit in his. Her eyes first found where he held her, both of his hands cradling one of her’s gently, then they flickered to his face. Emerald green eyes bored into her own, that surely held an element of shock in them at their contact. His face was soft and sympathetic as he looked up at her from his seat. “Y/N,” he sighed, goosebumps forming over her arms as she felt his warm breath float over her skin. “I’m sorry.”

Before she could answer, she heard the familiar roll of the wheels of her husband’s carriage begin to crunch on the gravel outside the window. Her eyes shot towards the sound coming from the circular driveway and she regretfully peeled her hand away from his own, immediately missing his warmth.

“You have to go,” she instructed softly. “Head out the door to your left, make a right at the end of the hallway, and then head down the second staircase. There’s a door that leads out to the back garden on the left.” Her directions were detailed and concise, like she had used the escape route herself many times.

Harry quickly scurried out of the chair and towards the door she was now holding open for him, but before he made his departure he turned back to look at her one more time. “Thank you for the tea, Y/N,” he said, previous panic traded for sincerity on his face.

“You’re welcome, Harry. I quite enjoy your company,” she confessed. “We will have to do this again.”

He smiled softly before turning on the ball of his foot and taking off down the hallway. As he rounded the corner and disappeared, she heard the front door open and William’s lumbering footsteps clomp onto the shiny marble tile of the foyer. Her eyes flickered back towards the two tea cups that sat on the small table in the library, knowing if William came to find her, he would inquire about who she had tea with. Gritting her teeth and letting out a sigh, she made her way to the front door to greet him. But not before she closed the library door tight behind her and made a mental note to ask Mary to retrieve the cups.

“Hello my dearest,” she breathed through her perfectly rehearsed smile. “How was your visit with Gregory today?”

“Fine,” he dismissed, leaning in to kiss her cheek and scratching her skin with the stubbly mustache he was desperately trying to grow for some reason. “What’s for dinner?”

“I can go ask Mrs. Jefferson if you would like,” she offered, always feeling odd when she referred to Mary by her last name. He didn’t answer her with words, just a negative grunt that she assumed was denying her attempt at escape.

“Is that a new corset?” he asked abruptly and she watched in disgusted horror as his eyes settled in on her chest. She knew that she was just a warm body to him most of the time, but his grotesque excuses for manners always shocked her.

She pressed her lips together into a hard line, holding back every awful thing she could think of that she wanted to spit in her husband’s direction. Instead, she just sighed and gave him a kurt “yes.”

“Alright,” he grumbled. “They looked bigger. I thought you might finally be pregnant.”

Just the thought of being pregnant with William’s child made her want to refund her lunch onto his riding boots. She could only imagine what a child consisting half of him would look like. She hoped it wouldn’t inherit his bulbous nose, or his beady eyes, or his sparse black hair that seemed to be perpetually greasy.

She prayed every day that the rank smelling tea Mary gave her to drink every morning was enough to stave off a pregnancy forever. It came from a healer woman a few counties over, that some insisted was a witch, but the tea had kept her from falling pregnant so far and she had no plans of stopping her morning routine anytime soon. She didn’t care if the woman was Satan himself, as long as she never began to swell with whatever creature William routinely attempted to put inside her.

“No.” She tried to sound regretful. “I started my cycle this morning.”

“Too bad,” he said, eyes still staring down the front of her dress. “We will just have to keep trying.”

He eventually stopped oggoling her, starting down the hallway and leaving her in the foyer without another word. She let out the sigh of relief that she always did when he left her, releasing the tightly wound ball of stress inside of her that tightened whenever he was near, but she felt it return to her when she sat down at the long dining room table for dinner later that day.

She sipped her wine carefully, watching her husband scarf down his meal at the other head of the table, thankful for the long wooden surface that kept her far from him. But for the first time in forever, her husband and his revolting habits were not at the forefront of her mind.

Her thoughts were occupied almost exclusively by Harry. Surely it was because he was new, like when a little girl receives a new doll and it becomes the center of her universe until the novelty wears off. She also realized she knew almost nothing about him, cursing herself for overrunning their conversation with her own story before they were rudely interrupted. But the small fragments she did know about him, like his love of nature, the care he took for his mother and sister, and his general kindness and care for those around him, had begun to take root in her brain and she just couldn’t shake him.

“What are you thinking about?” William seemed to shout across the table, pulling her from her dreamland.

“I was trying to decide what china pattern we should use for this year’s spring gala,” she lied seamlessly.

“There will be no spring gala this year,” he said with a mouth full of food. “I’ll be in France on business.”

The spring gala was the highlight of her dismal life and she couldn’t help but feel like she had just been punched in the gut by the news. It was a celebration on the spring solstice that the Taylor family had been holding for the last century and was the most lavish and exciting event of the year. There was endless food and drink among lively music and beautiful opulent gowns, but most of all, there were people. This party was a priceless connection to the outside world and to have it ripped away like this was heartbreaking.

“But I’ve already had a dress made,” she weakly argued, picturing the light blue satin ball gown overlaid with a delicate white floral lace.

“You can wear it next year. I have to go to France for six weeks.”

“What is in France that is so important?”

William let out a frustrated huff and looked up from his plate for the first time to shoot her a threatening glare. He was not used to this sort of push back from the usually docile woman, even if her passivity was a meticulously rehearsed act. “A lady should not concern herself with her husband’s business.”

Knowing not to push the conversation, she kept her mouth shut but shot him angry daggers for the duration of the meal. She barely touched her food, but she continued to drain and refill her wine glass.

He pushed himself away from the table after his plate was all but licked clean, looking over at her crossed arms and slumped drunk body in the chair at the other end of the room. “I know you enjoy the gala,” he spoke as gentle as his brooding voice could. “But we will not be discussing this manner any further.”

“Fine,” she said curtly. When he turned to leave the room, she childishly stuck her purple tongue out behind him. She listened to the small bursts of air Grace released next to her, stifling laughter. She grinned lazily at the young girl clearing his plate. “What a pompous knob,” she muttered as she pushed herself away from the table and exited the grand dining room through the opposite exit William had taken. She heard Siobhan’s delicate footsteps following behind as she marched towards her bedroom, the thoughtful woman knowing she wouldn’t be able to undo her tightly laced corset with her currently clumsy fingers.

Siobhan held her hand and securely guided her up one of the many massive staircases that inhabited the mansion, saving her when she tripped on the fabric of her dress. Y/N was thankful for her support, but couldn’t stop thinking about how her contact with Harry felt earlier in the day felt so different. She had originally attributed the electric feeling to the cold, and then considered it a result of not being touched by another person in so long. But Siobhan’s hand did not hold the same sparks.

She stood facing the mirror in her bedroom and stared at herself as Siobhan carefully removed the layers upon layers of her clothing. Her fingers skillfully released the corset from her body and Y/N took in what felt like the first real breath she had taken all day, leaving her in the bright white shift dress that was the first layer she put on every morning.

“Siobhan,” she spoke softly as if she didn’t want to disturb the silence, “do you believe in true love?”

She was quiet for a moment before she answered. “I think I do.”

“Do you think everyone gets to have it?”

“I think everyone has chances, but not everyone actually gets it.”

“Do you think a life with William is a life worth living?”

Y/N’s own question startled herself, her lips letting the words materialize and fall from them without her consent. Her eyes fell towards the floor, unwilling to make eye contact with the other woman in the mirror after the jarring question.

“Y/N, you have had a tad too much wine tonight to be asking big questions like that.”

“I know.” Her voice was just above a whisper and laced with shame. “Will you get me my nightgown? I want to go down to the library and read before bed.” Siobhan nodded behind her, slipping the lilac fabric and wrapping a cream colored night robe around her, before helping her back down the stairs and into her library.

She ripped a dark red leather bound book off the shelf, not particularly caring what it was called or what it was about, plopping herself down on the ground next to the warm fireplace. She just needed to be somewhere else, transported far away from the nightmare that had become her life.

It took three pages before tears began to prick at the back of her eyes. This book wasn’t a tale of pirates, or war, or mythology; it was a romance, one she had read before. It told of a soldier returning home from war to rescue his one true love from a domineering stepmother, sweeping her off her feet and escaping to start a new life together. She remembered that they lived happily ever after at the end.

She couldn’t help the jealousy and sadness that boiled within her, mourning for a love and a life she would never get to have. She would be trapped within the giant fortress that had been designed to keep enemies out, but had ended up keeping her shut inside with her own nemesis. She grieved for a life she would never be able to experience.

A gentle knock on the door interrupted her wallowing. She didn’t recognize it. Mary knocked loudly, but only once, and William always knocked three times, with Grace and Siobhan usually knocking softly twice.

She unwillingly dragged her still wobbly limbs off the ground and made her way towards the door. When she opened it, she was met with the bright green eyes that had been stuck in her head all day.

“Harry,” she greeted with a weak smile, trying her best to wipe all her tears off of her hot and angry cheeks. “What are you doing here?”

“I was hoping to borrow a book from your collection, but I can come back later,” he said hurriedly, eyebrows knitting together as he took in her tears.

“No, come in,” she said, sniffling and stepping aside so he could enter.

“Y/N,” he said with concern in his voice, his gaze narrowing in on her like the books no longer existed, abandoning his original goal of the visit. “Are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him, not sure if she was telling the truth or not. She held her robe close to her body, trying to hide herself from embarrassment, refusing to make eye contact with him and directing her attention towards the walls. “Uh-,” she stumbled over her words, “what kind of book were you looking for?”

He got the hint to stop his line of questioning about her emotional state, turning his body to face the walls as well. “I was going to ask you for recommendations.”

Her heart swelled with his words. No one had asked her about her opinions on anything other than drapes or china patterns in years. In this house, she was meant to be a proper lady, and proper ladies weren’t allowed to have brains with real thoughts or opinions.

“I have a few,” she cleared her throat. “I keep my favorites on this shelf,” she said, directing him to follow her. The shelf was at eye level for her and when she went to stand in front of it, she felt Harry hovering over her shoulder, his warm breath falling over the skin on the back of her neck. He was too close, far too close for ‘proper society,’ and too close for a married woman to be to a single man. But she couldn’t bring herself to ask him to move back because all she wanted in the world was for him to move even closer.

“These are adventure stories,” she stammered and pointed to a few, thrown off by his proximity, “and these are mysteries.” He hummed in her ear as she spoke. “And these,” she spoke softly and pointing towards the largest section of books, “are romance.”

She stepped aside so he could examine the spines of the novels, watching closely as he recited their names under his breath, perfect pink lips moving smoothly as he spoke quietly. She couldn’t take her eyes off of them. She jumped when he moved to grab a book off the shelf, breaking the trance she had fallen into as she took in his incandescent glow.

“I think I’ll take this one,” he said just above a whisper when he turned back to face her, his face hovering only inches above hers. Their faces were so close, one move and their lips would connect, indulging herself in her wildest fantasies since she had met this man only days ago. He brought the book up beside their faces and she quickly stole a glance.

Pride and Prejudice, was embossed in gold on the dark purple cover. It was new, but had quickly become her favorite romance of all time.

Her eyes connected with his once again, taking in the mischievous glint they held and the boyish smirk that had found its way onto his lips. His smile was contagious, her previous angry tears swapped for a small grin of her own. “Who doesn’t love a romance?” he asked her, smirk turning into a dimpled grin.

She wanted to reach out and grab him by the lapels of his jacket when he stepped back from her and pull his face to meet her own. She wanted to tell him not to go, to lock the door, and take her on the couch. She wanted to ask him to take her far away from this fortress and never return again. But she didn’t. She just let him walk to the door, a new book tucked under his arm.

“Before I go,” he said abruptly, turning around once again to face her. “I have a question.”

“I have an answer,” she quipped, earning a laugh from the man that sounded like the most beautiful symphony she could have ever imagined.

“There’s ivy crawling up the house on the east wall. Would you like me to take it down?”

His words reminded her that he wasn’t some gallant rescuer coming to save her from a loveless marriage and bring her to a better life. No, he was the groundskeeper of her husband’s estate. Her heart sank slightly, but she was glad to be back in reality.

“Let it grow,” she instructed softly. “Let’s see where it goes.”

Chapter Two

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yostresswritinggirl · 3 years

Text

The One The Bard Once Loved

NEW Vibe check (appropriate song to cry to while reading)

"The bard, the sprite, the archer. The trio of young dreamers that wish to witness the blue skies past the raging winds that lock their freedom. But those are more than mere dreams, for it requires the sacrifice of those you love, to grace the courage to fight a God. And Barbatos, poor Barbatos, sacrificed more than he wanted."

Pairings -> Venti x Fem!Reader x Bard (Gale)

Word Count -> 4,337

Theme -> Angst, Backstory, Long Fic

Series -> #Bonafide specials (100 followers event)

Warnings -> Spoilers to Venti's story, character death

"Oh little sprite, from whence beyond

Does thou reminiscent of a vagabond?

Curious to which it whisks upon

Trapped now in desolate, forlorn"

Venti the wind sprite had always been curious, the single whisk of air that always goes the opposite way, hanging behind from his fellow currents to be distracted by a curious thing. So it was no surprise to anyone that he had gone lost once more in their rounds swaying but when he'd not return, long ago has his current passed the nation of Mond. Yet there was no way he can fly by his family of winds, for he finds himself trapped within the walls of a grazing storm that cages the stone walls of the city, of winds that he could not control nor agitate.

No matter how hard he tries the wind does not part, and so little Venti was stuck inside brooding skies and angry blasts. No mere sprite can go against the mighty strength of an archon.

So he resigns to his fate and wanders in this new place. Of a city wide and barren, why dare the Decarabian hide such dwelling? And even with the raging howls of the walls of wind, Venti couldn't help but wonder the silence it traps within.

A tiny ball of white in an expanse of gray. The thought scares the little sprite enough to make him scurry for the smallest bit of sound he can decipher. The loneliness creeps into his core—

And his little body bumps into that of a soft material. "Oh! Goodness, one should not run off without looking like that-" the figure turns and finds itself face to face with a floating blob, deep blue eyes wide and mouth hangs with wonder. Venti recognizes this creature in one of his endeavors as the wind, a human being, the true wanderers of Teyvat. Yet what is one doing trapped? "Such a peculiar being! What could you be?"

Yet it is not frightened by Venti's rarity, well, given he is not the most frightening wonder in this continent this was no surprise.

The sprite did not mind being found out. No, no, quite the opposite honestly, as he flies closer to the young boy and hides in his upturned hood. Nuzzling against the junction in his neck as he expresses gratitude in the company and presence of another in this desolate world.

The young boy chuckles and it reminds him of a song. "Perhaps you do not understand what I spoke?" The sprite shakes its head and the ticklish spot is tickled again. "Or do you not know how to speak?" A nod. And another giggle.

Without another word, the human slips back into the alleys of winding yet thin roads before making his way inside what looks to be a cathedral of tall composition. Glass windows of the same length tinted in kaleidoscopic patterns of color. There is a light in them you would usually bask in during the 'outside world', but in here it replicates that of an oasies in the deserts of Sumeru.

Underneath the artificial haze it beams a seeming spotlight at a figure clad in a dark ebony cloak. Venti felt the vibrations of an elated gasp as the human rushed over with a smile and frantic waving.

"My fair muse, how you've brighten my day, bestowing your presence tonight!"

The cloak tenses before immediately relaxing, the 'muse' he speaks of turns with its loose hood falling as it bundled around the shoulders, and Venti the sprite couldn't help but gasp too at the sight!

Fair is lacking, no words can describe the essence of bloom and beauty at the beholder as you stood there almost sparkling, hair catching the twinkle of light. Your plum lips caught itself smiling yet your eyes twinkled double the amusement at the sight of the human before you, "Gale." You murmured with an undertone of annoyance as you trudged over, flicking the boy's forehead so suddenly he'd voiced his hurt loudly. "Where have you been?! You've never been late to our daily rendezvous, you had me worried-!"

"Oh, such a cutie when you worry!" The young boy, Gale, cupped your cheeks in the middle of your spiel as he softly pats it with his fingers. Venti had never seen such creature change colors as fast as you, not even a chameleon, or an octopus in hiding. "I've simply found a new companion while I was out and about!"

As if a spotlight was caught unto him this time, your blown eyes wandered to the sprite floating by your company's neck. And oddly he'd found the attention appreciated.

"Who is this? An elf?"

"Venti!" There was a distant jingle of imaginary bells in his squeak of a voice.

"It/You can talk?!"

(Y/N) Lawrence.

Gale the Bard.

Venti the El- Wind Sprite.

Gale was a bard that resides in the cathedral of Mondstadt, homeless and without blood and kin, the nuns had took him in and lead their choir in turn for their hospitality.

You, on the other hand, lived with a clan of hunters that once ruled the mountains and forests. But with the emergence of the inescapable walls of wind, your family had been on the forefront of the protection of the citizens.

There were a lot of struggles in communication between you two and the lil sprite. He only knows his name and how to copy words (not so fluently) so questions had to be foregone, teaching the little one took priority. And Gale being the weaver of words took it upon himself to teach him frequently as you had your duties and family to go to.

Venti would sometimes disappear for a majority of the time and you'd figured he finally found a way to pass through the winds without shredding himself among the blades of current. And then he'd pop back in to listen to the merry tunes Gale had come up with, both of them waiting for your return.

"Ah Venti, is she not a beauty? The youngest daughter of Lawrence, as divine as that of incense. Oh tell me those dotted eyes could see it too!" The little sprite eagerly nods as he follows the bard's stride across the aisles in the holy cathedral, once again barren of other souls except for them. Whenever his human friend finds time to muse, it would be most about the maiden he fancies, the muse of most of his songs. Venti had been captured by his delicate tunes and savory lines to the point that he too had been overly enticed by your grace when your presence shines.

Your strength, your smile, your laugh, your hair. Your gait, your poise, your eyes, your glare. You had caught their stares dozens of times in silence before and it was always up to you to put them back to present time.

Venti simply basked in your warming aura and indulges himself outwardly, often you'd find him dozing off on the crown of your head. And often times you'd find a little pout on Gale at such a sight that you had no choice but to tease. In those moments, the wind sprite knew he had come out triumphant.

The cathedral doors open as quickly as they had closed, your windswept and frantic form appearing from the storm outside. The two boys in your life immediately lit up on your appearance but you'd know most of it was directed at the numerous scrolls and books you currently cradle in your shivering arms.

You offered them a grin, one of victory, and you'd all cheered at your success.

Soon, your merry trio made its way to the second floor of the cathedral in front of a faraway hallway that looks over the vast floor of the first yet still had the glow from the looming illuminated glass windows. Beholden in front of you are illustrations of a world beyond, filled with colors and shine, a world you had only imagined from stories now pictured perfectly.

Venti would hover over the illustrations at random intervals and giddily point at some of those he recognized, squeaking incoherent noises yet reflecting happiness and familiarity. While you fancied with indulging the sprite in his incomprehensible stories, Gale sat beside you with adoring yet distant eyes upon the images laid before him. Looking through them, and projecting himself in such a world. The books of the outside world you'd stolen from your clan's sacred libraries will be the start of a spark of desire to be free. And with it the start of a new era.

"The true sky, and songs that cageless soar...

Were they not wishes worth fighting for?"

Long had you gone and abandoned your stolen goods for them to admire more, at least until the day your clan finally realized the missing materials in the vast expanse of the bookshelves they own. There was more to marvel at yet you feared if you linger longer, your sister would look for you and find your little crime all too soon.

Venti quietly watches the familiar illustration of a beach littered with creatures of the sea on its glittering sand before he'd lift his tiny head up, witnessing the intense stare his bard friend had on the scroll where lies an overgrown tree and a stone structure. The sprite noted he had not seen this one.

"How marvelous it would be, to celebrate the most joyous moments under this tree," Gale mumbled in a quiet lilt of longing in his voice, "Imagine (Y/N) and I, with you by my side, as I finally pluck the courage to get down on one knee." Venti bumbled in slight jealousy, buzzing in front of the bard that could only cast a laugh. "Oh hush, dear friend, is it not appropriate to take an arrow to the knee for an archer such as she?"

Yet even with his desire to be by your side, the little sprite knew that he would be there to support his friend for the happiness you two deserved. In a land where you are free. Still, Venti hopes his cuteness would be enough to prolong you just a little bit more.

Drunk in passion and dreams, the next day the bard was scheming. And when you'd come to his cathedral of a home, he finally poured out his plans to you with a Venti quipping with cheers on the side.

The Mondstadtian had predicted your hesitance, even your disapproval on the notion, and were ready to chip in to persuade you once more— yet you gave in. Immediately. The same fire burned in your eyes at the thought of being unshackled and caged from the world begging to be explored. Your sentiments together with the bard fueled the desire between you three, and through the brainpower of a trio of young minds, you had drawn your plans.

Gale aided by Venti would try and coerce with the Ragnvindr clan's leader, and you would work on convincing your eldest sister Amos for the help needed to coerce the whole Lawrence bloodline into the battle. You knew there was an undeniable hatred within her against Decarabian and you wanted her to fuel that fire once and for all, for one great cause.

And soon enough, the strings of fate had come into play, and the one who shall record this momentous history has taken its seat by the balcony of war. Only the last piece of the puzzle is left in this grandoise play—

"Gale, Venti, are you sure this is the right direction to the hideout? We're taking a route longer than usual, surely you're not making last minute pranks..."

Your bow smacks at your back as you made your way inside the dark closet. It was two cycles before the fated ambush would come and in your nerves you had not realized how amiss things had been for the others. You were more than ready even if your fingers were to tremble everytime it holds your bow and arrow, predictions of the war that shall come floats within the expanse of your mind.

In your limited vision, your bard friend and sprite shared a look that did not pass by you. The tension had only caused you to gulp in your nervousness, were you found out? Did the participants of the revolt suddenly back down? "There has been a change of plans, but worry not for history still pans. My Muse, it is best you stay to assure you will not be caught in the storm's disarray-"

A hand flew across the bard's pristine white skin and his dark ocean hues could not help but widen. Is he... telling you to not participate in the war?! What kind of— a sob left through your gritted teeth despite your best efforts, and you're not sure who was more broken between your friends upon the sight. "How could you, even think- Gale, you carry no arms but a lyre! And Venti still has no means to go against the Archon that controls the winds! What kind of absurd idea is this?!" In the middle of your rage, your friends had already wrapped you in their sentimental hug, expressing their own misery with free-flowing tears." I'm supposed to protect you... t-the three of us were supposed to lead the path of freedom..."

"You've always protected us, (Y/N). Now would be the best time... to return the favor," and as your friend stepped back to give a parting smile, your whole world suddenly engulfed in black as the door shut with a slam and a final lock.

"Gale! Venti! No, please no! Let me out! Don't do this, PLEASE!"

"Please hear us out, our dear (Y/N)," Gale leaned his forehead against the thick door that separates you two, shedding the last bit of tears he could muster before the end of an era. The desperation in your every bang against it, breaks apart a hole in his own heart, "For your own good, and your own future."

When Gale described love to the little Venti, the latter was certain that he felt the same way for you. Yet the human ever so jokingly laughed at how he was still too young to fully understand the implications of such words. But he desired just as much to protect you, to be by your side, and to see your smile. But the human was right for he did not truly understand the reasons WHY he felt like so...

So he asked instead, dear friend Gale of Tales, why have you come to cherish this human in devotion? And quite so the other was happy to indulge!

"It starts with young Mondstadt when the walls were young and the people still knew the tales and what they sang. I was a poor little bard with a broken lyre, when living alone was nothing but dire.

Without a home, without a bed, I was ready to starve to death. But an angel clad in white suddenly lead me to bright light. My muse had brought to me a cathedral, yes the one we are in now! And since then I've lived a proper choir life, always wondering how...

just how things would be without (Y/N), my angel? Continuing to live in the dark alleys, would I have been able? Even now I have yet to repay her act of kindness. But one day, for sure... " Perhaps, this act the young boy now follows, was the payment he had been waiting for.

How long you had stayed there, you had no clue but by the sounds of war cries and clashing steel had told you enough. You'd been there for too long.

Blessed with some luck that a crowbar had found its way in this janitor closet in a cathedral no less, you had immediately set out to join the battle: beyond the holy doors flames had lit up from the torches the revolt has carried, many bodies lay by the stone grounds of the city, some moving and struggling while some... you spare them not a second thought as you rushed past the stone pillars to where the heat of the war should be. If the battle plan had gone as it should then—

A hand gripped your arm with such force it had you cry out before you even registered you were being slammed to the floor. A shadow of a knight that serves the God of Storm looms over you with a glare blazing past his helmet. "You're one of them, I recognize that face! You're not winning today-" yet another blade suddenly pierced through his chest, and your shirt had been splattered when it was pulled. The now lifeless body falls past you and another replaces him.

"Sir Ragnvindr!" The knight shared the same shock and relief you wore before it steeled, immediately pulling you up and away from the on-going exchanges of blows. "Everyone- how's the war looking?"

"Men had fallen from the green-tipped arrows, but we are making progress," the redhead gestured to the tower where the greatest enemy lies, taking note of the cracks and crumbling structure, a sign of his coming doom. A very good sign. "Amos took it upon herself to climb the tower-"

"What?! That's beyond the plan, she- she could get herself killed!" You brought your own bow from your back at the mention of your sister archer, bringing the strings back with an arrow at the ready, your intention clear. The redhead had shown a glint of worry but his gaze had been resolved once again at the hope of freedom, and he leaves you to your chase as he fends off the guards that dare go after you.

You expertly evaded blows and parried kicks with your bow and arrow, yet no sign of the heads of the resistance had caught your sight. The longer you climbed, the more you feared for the worst. By 2/3 of the tower you had scaled you managed to poke your head out to see the scale of war. Of red and orange floated below as the razor winds felt more violent than it had been ever since you had been born within its impenetrable walls, even from this distance high up you could still hear the clash, the warmongers held up in the central square where all battles now takes place.

And within that chaos you managed to single out a lump of black and a dot of floating white. Miraculously, your scream had reached their faraway ears and looked up, just in time to see your aerial shots of support.

"(Y/N)?! What is she-!" His words had been cut with an arrow wheezed past his head to bring down a foe that had sneaked behind him. Right, battle. Many of the immediate threats had been neutralized and the resistance had found the upper ground thanks to the archer's barrage. "How-how is she up there!"

Another body had fallen next to him with a cut on its back, a certain knight rushing past him to hit another. "Watch your back, bard! Now's not the time to monologue, she's going to backup Amos."

You were too far to hear the horrified gasp and the fearful expression your two faithful friends adorned. But the ground you were on began to shake, and you know you had to go on. "Venti! Gale! Focus, I'll be there with you two soon!" You screamed at the top of your lungs in hopes that it will reach them before continuing your ascent to the most treacherous area you had to be in—

You barelled towards the woman with silver hair with a pace you've never seen and a strength you'd never thought you carried, exchanging the shot you felt lodge into your left side as you sent one right through the guard's neck. You fell on your bottom and clutched the wounded area, but kept it there, if not to make sure the blood does not pour if you were to take it out.

"Sister!" The familiar voice cradled you as gently as she could with a fear-stricken face. But you assured her that it had not hit anything major, the way her worry didn't dissipate seem to hide a kind of anguish she couldn't name. "We must get you to safety, the clerics- the clerics could-"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," you grunted as you pried yourself out of her grasp to prove your point, still able to keep your stance. You see Amos struggle from fatigue yet about to bite back, "We're so close, sister, any moment we linger is another body on the list of deaths." Painfully she'd bitten on her own tongue, finally relenting as you ascended the last few steps.

Normal arrows are nothing but toothpicks against the mighty God of Storms, the Anemo Archon, who easily flicked your futile attempts to graze him. And yet Decarabian was losing power just from fighting off not only your barrages but those even from below. His walls were thinning and his heart crumbles, from the thought of his once devoted followers turning back on him.

With one last strength the Lawrences gathered every piece of energy and power they could into their shot, and Decarabian looked at them with tired eyes and a raised hand. "Finally, I shall hold his gaze." The voice next to you spoke before your charged shot, swirling with beaming light flew past the sharp gale of wind and pierced through the God's core. Your ears had picked up on a violent crack before you were hit by the razor breeze upon the dying breath of the archon, sending you and Amos off the crumbling tower to free fall to your deaths.

In the edge of your peripherals the bleak gray walls of storms dissolved into rays of natural light, giving way to a hue of blue you had never seen before. As the wind wheezed past your ears, you smiled at the face of death—

When a jingle of little bells suddenly slowed your descension, and you were softly met with the hard floor on your back. With tired eyes you'd found yourself next to the pioneers of freedom, conscious and unconscious. You had felt Venti nudge your hand to those of another's limp ones, soft palms yet calloused fingers, you intertwined your hands with that of the bard's.

"We did it, we finally... did it..." A pulling force drains the consciousness from your mind and body in laboured breaths, and despite your protests to keep staring at the beautiful sight of the true sky, your eyelids were pulled shut by an unknown exhaustion.

Past their closed state, a flash of light was the last thing you had thought. Bruised and beaten, your warm hand did not register how the ones you clung to... did not squeeze back.

...

The next time (e/c) orbs flew open their eyes the world felt that of a lucid dream, with silk of the cleanest white donned their body, and the softest breeze of a sweet flower you had not smelt passes by you. Teal orbs looked down at you with a gentleness you've felt from the artificial light from the cathedral. Speaking of- your eyes unfocused shifted its gaze to the light blue skies.

"You're... awake." Your bard friend breathed out in disbelief and another emotion your brain can't quite place. The cotton of clouds float above in painted beauty, and you had pried your sight away from it almost painfully just to spare your companion a look.

"It's..." your throat grated and ached at the attempt, coming out so weak and breathless, "It's very beautiful... out here, free... Have- have you gone to explore?" Your face twisted in numbing pain from talking, and the bard started to quiver yet stood strong with a smile.

"I had, it's - it's just like how we imagined, even better than we've taken for granted," wet spots adorned your cheeks in short successions, you couldn't help but smile. "I only wish you were there to see it first hand, the flowers, the sunsets, the land-"

"Yet I fell asleep," you laughed in mirth yet there was no sound that escaped. The grip around you tightens as you loll your head to the side; there lays a new city kissed by the huge orb of light in the blue veil of a sky, lush green grass of health you've never seen before shone with a moistness on it, and around its glory lays a beauty of a moat that mirrors the one above. Beautiful, you whispered under your long-awaited breathe.

"The people of Mond had done their best to rebuild, for the promise of freedom they had not wilt," a hand on your cheek, flawless, urged your gaze once more to lay upon the bard. "We've devised a festival to celebrate named Ludi Harpastum. Tell me... my muse, will you accompany me in this new custom?"

A new breeze had lulled you in your ears once again to sleep, and a flash of fear had passed over your companion's features before it dissipated when you opened your eyes once more. A festival, you haven't heard that in years, "I would love to. But maybe... tomorrow..."

"Tomorrow."

"Mhm, I feel tired... the sun invites me to sleep, will you wait for me tomorrow?"

"T-Tomorrow."

"Good." Your eyes were covered by darkness again as you felt a pressure against your forehead. "It's... a date..." And your tired heart finally found peace, after battling for 15 days restlessly, desperately.

Venti picked you up from where you laid on his lap, setting you down on the grass bed besides the giant roots of the Windrise tree. Nearest your left, a stone plate carved with words you never dare see lies next to you. And for the first time in fifteen days, a God cries again.

¹The green-tipped arrows were coated with poison.

²Reader's bow is designed after the Raven's Bow.

³Gale is not the bard's official name but was used to avoid too many confusion.

⁴This had a different, more painful and hatred alternate ending where you hated Venti for taking Gale's form, but I changed it so I could rest my own heart.

*in honor of your contribution to Mondstadt's freedom, the maiden who throws the Harpastum is made for your grace.

@boxofteenageideas @creation-magician @your-local-venti-simp @indigodreamtime47

#genshin impact #genshin impact oneshots #exile.flower #genshin impact Venti #venti #venti x reader #Bonafide specials #publish at midnight #genshin impact x reader #angst #female reader

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whatifxwereyou · 3 years

Text

The Oncoming Storm Part 2: Fire

Fandom: Mortal Kombat 2021

Liu Kang x Reader or Kung Lao x Reader

Summary: You wake up somewhere strange *again*. This time your underground and greeted by Liu Kang. For some reason you trust him, but why?

A/N: Have I mentioned I’m a huge fan of the slow burn? Whoops. I’ll let you guys know when the paths are branching between Lao/Liu. Thanks for reading and hope you keep enjoying! Also, thanks for coming to my TED talk.

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Warm flames flickered off brown-gray stone walls. Other than the burning flame to your right, the room was small and dark. There was no door and you could hear movement somewhere beyond its opening. I’m underground, you thought. The air smelled musty and it was so dry that your nose burned. Underground and maybe in the desert. You closed your eyes again quickly.

In your mind’s eye you pictured the small purple flower Kung Lao had given you in your youth. Frail and rare. Many flowers had grown in your hometown but purple had been a new and exotic color. You’d always been fond of it afterward. You’d never gotten the chance to tell Kung Lao that. For a time you had kept it pressed between the pages of your favorite book as a memorial to the boy who had been your best friend. You hadn’t thought about the flower in years. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about him.

The details of what happened were fuzzy. You remembered the fight in your shop and remembered waking up to the face of Kung Lao. It was still insane to think that the boy you’d thought dead was, in fact, alive and in good health. It was even crazier to think that he’d been the one to save you from the fire in your shop.

You shook away the memory lest it return you to the darkness of unconsciousness.

You were, again, in an unfamiliar bed but things were vastly different. You’d been cared for and changed into a modest dressing gown, judging by the soft but coarse material. This had likely been done by a health professional. You were certain that Kung Lao must have brought you somewhere to be helped. Then again, most hospitals you knew of weren’t underground and they certainly didn’t use these types of gowns. It wasn’t a hospital gown, more like the type of gown that would have been worn for bed in ages past. Long and thin, but warm. You pictured it off-white. The one you wore had no sleeves, most likely for ease of access since you’d been injured.

You had to decide if you should panic or not. If you looked around and saw a medical professional or Kung Lao then you would remain calm. If you didn’t then panic seemed the way to go. Opening your eyes again, you were relieved that the world didn’t spin and you weren’t nauseous. But there was no doctor and definitely no Kung Lao.

There was a different man in his place, unfamiliar, shorter in stature, his gaze focused on something other than you. He was dressed mostly in black, no sleeves (which seemed the fashion of this underground wherever), and a red sash tied around his middle. His demeanor was calm and quiet and in his left hand he clutched a string of prayer beads. His skin was dusted with soot or grease, you couldn’t tell. He looked as though he had been handling charcoal for hours. He was also surprisingly muscular.

And handsome. You wouldn’t deny that you’d admired him. His brow was knit with concern and as you shifted, he turned toward you. Brown eyes met yours with genuine concern and he held a hand up defensively. “Take it slow.” His voice was soothing but this was all too familiar.

A strange bed and a stranger next to it after having fallen unconscious. He was telling you how what to do and how to feel. Again. Not a chance! On the small table next to the head of the bed there was a bowl half-filled with water and some medical tools. The tool closest to you was a hook used for stitching up wounds. It wasn’t the best weapon but it was all you could reach. You sat upright quickly, snatched the hook, and moved far enough away from the stranger that you had room to breathe and could better gauge his intent and reactions.

But you had moved too quickly and suddenly there were ten of him as the room spun. You thought you might puke if he got any closer. That would get him away from you, probably better than the needle would. Much to your surprise, he laughed with the subtlest of smiles. The smile radiated more from his eyes amidst his worry than it did outwardly. “You’re surprisingly fast for someone who has been in and out of consciousness for over a week.”

“A… a week?” You stuttered and forced your vision to focus on the blurry version of him smiling in the middle. Thankfully, your brain obeyed and the room stopped spinning. He didn’t seem to pose you any threat. You could tell just by his smile. A smile that made him all the more handsome. The time that had passed was not important so you didn’t wait for an answer to your initial question. “Who are you? Where am I? And where is Kung Lao?” Those three things were at the top of your list now that you were thinking clearly. There were a hundred other questions you had about Mortal Kombat, the dragon mark on your back, and other realms but you figured those could come later. Dealing with the here and now; that was the right way to do it.

“I am Liu Kang.” He bowed his head, holding up his prayer beads as he did. “You are in Raiden’s Temple where the Order of Light gathers to protect Earthrealm. Kung Lao is off on an errand at Lord Raiden’s behest. I assure you that he did not wish to leave you but had little other choice.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, you leaned against the cool stone behind you. Answers, finally. “I’m Y/N. Thank you for answering my questions.”

“Kung Lao mentioned you would likely be defensive.” Liu Kang gestured to the bowl on the nightstand. “I have been caring for your wounds. I do not usually tend to the sick but I promised my cousin that I would see you were cared for.”

“Cousin?”

“Kung Lao. He is my brother. Not by blood but by bond.”

That was a relief. At least this complete stranger had a connection to the other near complete stranger that you’d met the last time you’d woken up in a strange place. Wait… hadn’t you gone blind? Setting the hook back down on the side table, you patted your face in search of a mark or wound that would have caused that. There was none. Liu Kang’s eyes were sparkling in amusement.

“The last thing I remember is losing my vision.” You explained.

“Yes, about that.” Liu Kang moved the hook back to its original place. “The men who attacked your shop were vicious and cruel warriors. They were gifted but squandered their gifts to satiate their greed, a thing that can never be sated. You did the world a favor by stopping them. However, the blades that wounded you were coated in a rare poison. It is lucky that Kung Lao found you and could bring you to us for treatment. The blindness was a temporary side effect of the poison.”

“Poison?” This was wild. That morning you’d been stocking your shop and had taught a class of ten-year-olds. Now you’d been attacked, killed a few men, and had been poisoned. Wild. You supposed, in reality, it had been over a week ago and not that morning. Whatever. You decided to take the blows as they came. Deal with the problems and insanity as it happened. It was the only way to keep a clear head.

“It took many days and much prayer but we bled the poison from your wounds. Now they should begin to heal.”

“I’m still stuck on the poison part of this story. Really? Who does that?”

“You must be very resilient, Miss Y/N. Even the mightiest of warriors poisoned so terribly would submit to death. You are a fighter.”

“Thanks… I think.”

Liu Kang bowed his head again respectfully. He was easy to talk to, you weren’t sure why. You’d been careful around Kung Lao but you found yourself immediately not careful around Liu Kang. There was an instant connection to him.

“I was ill as a child. It made me more resilient to sickness, perhaps.” You had been ill but it had been the kind of illness that parents sent their children away for, the kind where they couldn’t explain how their child saw or did things beyond their understanding. It had made you terribly sick and weak. Why were you telling him this? It’d slipped out of your mouth without permission from your lips.

“I have not met many who would credit childhood illness for their resilience.”

“Perhaps I’m more stubborn than most. I’ve been told I have thick skin. The kids would tease me for being different. I was told that I would never be strong. I would never catch up. Never be normal. I didn’t like that word, not even as a kid.”

“Which one?”

“Never.”

That subtle smile again. Damn, it was attractive.

“I’m sorry.” You laughed with an apologetic bow of your own. Your head spun and you mentally cursed your politeness. “I didn’t mean to say all that. It just slipped out.”

“It’s no problem. I would like you to continue your story if you would.”

“Only if you’re certain.”

“I assure you that I’m not merely being polite.” There was something genuine about his words, as if he considered them carefully before he spoke. Perhaps Kung Lao had warned him about you. Or perhaps he was just careful. Your first instinct had been to jump at them both. It was their every right to be defensive but you couldn’t be blamed either. “How did you overcome your illness?”

“I fought. I worked harder than most did just to be on the same level as everyone else. I grew out of my sickness with age and thanks to my hard work I became stronger than most. After that I dedicated my life to teaching others to become strong, to be more than the ‘never’ we’re told we’ll be.”

“Admirable.” Liu Kang seemed as relieved as you had been upon discovering he was not there to hurt you. Maybe he’d been worried about your intent too. “It is nice to have another worthy of their marking.”

“The dragon mark?”

“Yes.”

“About that…”

“Do you know why you are here?”

“Kung Lao said something about being chosen because of the mark but I’m guessing that the mark only came to me because I killed those men. Am I right? It had to belong to one of them. It’s less like I was chosen and more like… I stole it.”

“Yes. Did Kung Lao tell you? He said you wouldn’t understand.”

“I assume that he would have told me but then I went blind. As you can imagine, I no longer cared much about the mark after that.” You laughed and so did Liu Kang. His laugh was quiet and genuine. It made you smile far more than should have been allowed. His joy was as comforting as the flickering light of the candle on the side table. “I didn’t have the mark that morning. I can only assume that was when I got it. Weirder things have happened so it was as good a guess as any.”

“Your intuition is remarkable.”

“What happens next?”

“For now you heal.” Liu Kang gestured to your arms. The gauze wrapped around your forearms was stained with blood even though the dressings looked fresh. You didn’t feel any pain. Either you’d been given good drugs to deal or adrenaline was protecting you. “You are in no condition to begin training. Lord Raiden has been told about you. I am keeping him informed on your condition.”

“So, you’re my babysitter.”

“I prefer caretaker. But yes.”

“If it’s been a week and I’m still bleeding like this then I have a feeling it could take awhile to heal. Can I learn more in the meantime? About any of this? I don’t want to just sleep and sit around doing nothing. I don’t know anything about this place and I know very little about the Order of Light. And I definitely don’t know anything about this mark or Mortal Kombat.” Liu Kang seemed surprised, but pleasantly so, as if this were something he’d greatly desired to hear.

“You really want to learn more?” He smiled brightly. You nodded. “The masters have trained me for years in matters of Mortal Kombat and the protection of Earthrealm. I would be happy to teach you if you would allow me.”

“I would be delighted to have the company, Liu Kang.” You very much meant that.

“I have some work to do around the temple but we can start this evening.”

“Perfect.”

Next Chapter >>

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penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories · 4 years

Text

No Matter How Many Skies Have Fallen

A/N: I really have nothing to say for myself at this point.

Sequel chapter to this fic here, if you’d like to catch up.

Thank you to @caffeine-in-an-iv for being my incredible beta and to @maybege for letting me rant to you and giving me so many wonderful ideas when I hit my walls. Also to the Obi-Wan fandom in general: Y’all are some of the kindest, most supportive people I’ve ever encountered on this hell site. Thank you for your support and your content!

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Force Sensitive! Fem! Reader (no Y/N)

Word Count: 11.9K (I lost all control)

Warnings: SMUT!!! Soft Dom! Obi rights, Also, Sub! Obi vibes, Foodplay (but not how you’d think), Inappropriate use of the Force, Voice Kink, Obi-Wan Kenobi’s Hands Appreciation Society, As Usual: Too Many Feelings For Porn, Emotional Competence Kink, Trust Kink, TW: Pregnancy, TW: A character draws blood on themself unknowingly

Title from one of my favorite quotes:

“Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”

-D.H. Lawrence

What infinite irreverence the galaxy has for Obi-Wan Kenobi.

As if his master and only semblance of a parent wasn’t taken from him when he needed him most.

As if a boy who needed a father wasn’t entrusted to Obi-Wan quickly following, far too young and full of his own loss.

As if he wasn’t thrust onto the pedestal of parenthood when he really only wanted to be a brother.

As if that isn’t what they became anyway, and as if that wasn’t the exact cloud that hung over the atmosphere of your lives ever since you’d arrived on Tatooine.

As if the being whose life signature resided in your abdomen didn’t throw a punch into each of those blooming bruises by its very existence.

Which is why, you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that you couldn’t tell him yet.

Normally, it’d be no small feat to keep something of this scale from him. But these days, he’s so focused on having his shields up around you, keeping you from both being hurt by or helping with his torments.

You have to take great care to control your body language, because even when he’s shut off from you in the Force, his keen perceptiveness will pick up on something being off anyway.

The art of a convincing lie is having layers. If he senses your feelings and decides to dig, then only give up one layer, and he’ll stop looking.

In this case, it’s your worry over him. It is true you’re trying to shield him from feeling that, not wanting him to carry the burden of it on top of having to work through his own pain.

But it’s not everything you’re trying to hide from him. So you let a small projection of your fear over his well-being escape, like you’re losing control of your feelings. It’s enough to convince him, and something critical inside you dies at the victory every time.

He deserves your honesty, and you’ve never given him anything less until now.

You hate how well your strategic deceit takes root. Because only part is due to your talent as a liar. The rest comes from how much he trusts you.

You’re not stupid, though. You know it’s only a matter of time before the biological changes in your body betray you.

Obi-Wan said he needed time, and you’re going to give him as long as you possibly can before dropping this anvil on him, hoping the further he gets from it all, the better off he’ll be.

You could kick yourself for not being more careful. You hadn’t missed any dose of your herbal Ho’Din contraceptive. It was one of the few things you shoved in your bag with the mere minutes you had to leave Coruscant for good. It was from a reliable medicinal shop, and there’s no good reason it should have failed in any way.

But here you were anyway.

Of course, there are options that free you from the obligation of carrying the child to term. All are expensive, and Tatooine is sorely lacking in any trustworthy medical facilities. The alternative methods could put your own life in danger as well.

Even if it wasn’t, you’d feel so strange making that kind of decision without Obi-Wan. Not that he wouldn’t support whatever decision you needed to make for yourself if you did, but going behind his back is something you’re not sure his trust could recover from.

And really, far too much has been decided for him in his life.

The worst reason why you can’t bring yourself to move towards any solution that ends the pregnancy now, the reason you abhor, is because somewhere within you, despite the awfulness of the time and place, you want this baby.

You couldn’t give a definitive explanation for yourself, but you did. Undoubtedly

Obi-Wan doesn’t press when you ask to cease your combat training for a time, asking to start learning the new offerings of the Jedi texts instead.

He’s concerned when you tell him, but if he’s suspicious as for your reasoning, he doesn’t show it outwardly, at least.

The way he doesn’t even ask about why, though: It makes you wonder if he had a reason all of his own why he’d rather not fight, even in imitation.

The Jedi writings given to Obi-Wan by Master Yoda are often more cryptic and mystifying than logically applicable without deciphering, which you are at first annoyed by, but then strangely thankful for, as Obi-Wan verbally processes his understandings of it, knowing what he does of the Jedi way, and you adding your thoughts from the stance of fresh eyes.

The conversations distract wonderfully, and you savor any way you still get to connect with him.

You don’t push for the ways he doesn’t allow you to connect with him anymore. The way he won’t let you in his mind. Because now, you too have a reason to not let him in yours.

*******

When it’s time to go into town for supplies again, you make up some feeble excuse which you know Obi-Wan sees through as a lie, and this time, he does pry, eyes soft and concerned. He knows you love going to the markets. You simply explain that you’re tired, which is true enough to satisfy him, leaving you behind with a kiss on your forehead before you watch him saddle up your eopie and ride off.

You sigh, sagging against the closed door once he’s disappeared into the horizon. You do love the markets. They’re the most colorful thing the planet has to offer, textiles and rugs and shiny, hanging things.

But the spices. Fragrant and potent, usually so appetizing and intoxicating, you know would turn your stomach alone. And that doesn’t even account for the strange meats being cooked at different vendors, and Maker help you if anyone was selling raw meat of any sort today. You’ve done your best to keep your nausea at bay, at times even tapping into the Force for centering when the world felt like it was rocking. But you know the market would be too much, too many variables.

It’s not a fast journey, even on the eopie, and you don’t expect Obi-Wan to be back for hours. Which is why when you hear a knock on your door, the tool in your hand clatters to the floor, as does the remnants of your project.

You quickly grab one of the long staffs you and Obi-Wan had only begun to use in your defense training, trying to recall the lessons as adrenaline begins to rush through your veins. Tatooine isn’t known for its pleasant company, and if anyone was going to try to rob your home, now would be as good a time as any.

The knock sounds again, and you shout from the inside, “What do you want?!”

“A peace treaty in the form of baked goods,” comes the feminine voice, one you recognize.

Opening the door, you lower the weapon in your hand as Beru Lars blinks at you.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were…” You step aside, gesturing for her to come in.

She waves a hand, dismissive. “I understand.”

You lead her over to the small living area as you fix two glasses of water from the kitchen.

When you set them down on the table, Beru speaks. “I apologize for the intrusion, if there was another way of contacting you before coming here…”

“It’s absolutely fine, I’m glad to have you.” You smile in what you hope is an assuring way. “Although, I’m surprised at it just being you. Where’s Owen?”

Her eyes flick to the stone floor. “He um… doesn’t exactly know I’m here. He’s out on a business deal today.”

You feel your eyebrows go up at that, waiting for her to continue. But instead, she changes the subject. “Where’s Ben?”

“In town. We needed some things from the market.”

Awkwardness settles in as a conversation topic evades you.

She breaks the beat of quiet. “Here, I brought these for you.”

You take the basket in her hands from her, peeling back the thick woven cloth to reveal a simple form of bread. It looks so appetizing your stomach clenches, and you instantly realize you haven’t had anything since breakfast.

But then the smell hits you, hard and powerful, and stars, it’s just bread, there’s nothing that should do that about bread, but you’re on your feet in a minute, forsaking the basket on the ground as you bolt to the fresher, barely making it in time to the sonic sink before you start heaving.

In a moment, you feel soft hands at the nape of your neck, gently holding back the fabric of your shirt and blowing cool air as you continue to wretch.

By the time everything has settled again, you’ve dealt with the aftertaste in your mouth, and splashed on your face with a precious cup of cool water, hot shame rises in your cheeks at how this must seem to Beru.

You wipe at your face with a rag, half muffling your words when you address her. “I’m so sorry, I’m sure they’re absolutely delicious, It really has nothing to do…”

“How far along are you?”

Your spine straightens instantly, and you let the cloth drop to the floor.

“I… what?”

Now she’s the one to flush. “My apologies, it’s just that it’s known for being a very gentle bread, it’s one my mother used to feed me when my stomach ached. If that smell turned you... I just assumed, and I shouldn’t have.”

Your lips purse as you consider your options. It’d be easy to say nothing, or just to nod.

“Two months,” you hear your own voice answer despite yourself. You’ve never been one for easy anyway.

A surge of emotion wells up in you at even being able to speak it aloud, aloud to another human, and next thing you know, to your absolute horror, you’re crying into your hands as your shoulders crumple in on themselves.

Why now, of all times? In front of Beru Lars? Whom you know accepted Luke with her husband without question because they couldn’t biologically have any children of their own?

“I’m… so… sorry,” You manage to choke out through the sobs, disgusted at your own lack of control.

At some point Beru must join you on the floor, patting her hand soothingly on your back. “Shhh, it’ll be alright. You’ll see. It’s not so bad having a young one around, you and Ben have so much to look forw…”

“He doesn’t know.”

Her hand pausing briefly on your back is the only indication she gives of shock.

“Would he not be happy?”

You take a steadying breath in, trying to calm yourself. “I don’t know,” you whisper, small and almost frightened to let the room hear you say it.

It falls silent again, but it echoes around in your brain, bouncing against your thoughts until you feel the onset of a headache.

After you’re to a numb enough state to enjoy yourself, you and Beru make tea and bring it back to the living area.

She lifts her glass to yours, clinking them. “To secrets kept from men and the mischievous company they bring.”

Your head now throbs with pain, but you smile anyway. “Thank you,” you say to her, and you mean it so very much.

********

The next time Obi-Wan goes into town, you’re feeling well enough to go with him.

You’re not visiting the food portion of the market, after all, so you’re not as much of a risk to set your stomach off. He’s taken to fixing small machinery for trading with the Jawas recently, the extra income helping with the projects around the house.

There’s a trap door that you found within the first day of being there. The staircase carved out of the bedrock beneath the hut leads to a small room that has now served as additional storage and a place for Obi-Wan to work. It’s also quite cool during the day, so if you can stand the smell of the various meats hung to dry, you’ll sit down there with some sort of project, or even reading material if you come upon it.

So today, he’s looking for a few specific tools that will streamline his working.

It doesn’t take long to find a promising stall among the maze of shopkeepers, selling everything from trinkets to weaponry of questionable legality. Obi-Wan finds what he needs easily enough, and it looks like the trip is going to be as efficient as it is successful as you walk through alleyways with him.

At some point, he takes your hand in his, squeezing it gently, projecting an assuring strand of affection toward you. It’s such a small gesture, but you’ll never tire of the feeling of his hand clasped in yours.

You’re almost back to where the eopie, Rooh, as he named her, is stabled when Obi-Wan abruptly slows his pace, dropping into a stall. An alarm goes off in your head when you watch him pick up a frivolous trinket on a table that you know he has no interest in.

You open your mouth to inquire at his actions, but it answers itself once you see him glance out of his peripheral vision to where the holonews plays in the stall adjacent.

Battle footage on what you recognized to be Kashyyk at the presence of the many Wookies plays with the Emperor addressing the viewers in a very two-dimensional, sugar-coated, thinly-concealed threat to any other world that would try to resist occupation.

There’s wreckage and uncensored violence, and you turn your head away.

“May it be known that Lord Vader is quite capable and willing to help those into compliance that require assistance... “

The item in his hands crushes, ceramic tile cracking into his hands, breaking the skin and drawing out drips of red.

But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even seem to register the glass he’s pushing into his own hand. His eyes are wide and he makes a wounded noise from the back of his throat, eyes peeled to the holonews now, not even trying to feign disinterest.

His signature sparks, giving a flash and then a severe cry of anguish, and it hits you then. Pieces of information coming together as you feel Obi-Wan tear apart at seams.

Anakin Skywalker turned to the Dark Side, and Obi-Wan thought him dead. There’s a new Sith Lord now; the correlation and timing can’t be coincidence.

The Toydarian male behind the stall shouts something about paying for it in full, and you quickly hand over the credits with a glare.

You start to pull Obi-Wan’s other hand off the table, but you quickly realize your mistake in that.

The moment it isn’t holding his weight anymore, his knees start to give, and you’ve only a second to react, jamming your body under his arm to keep him upright. His momentum nearly pulls you forward, but you plant your feet and remember at the last second to call on the Force to assist you.

He seems to come to himself enough to walk somewhat as you steer him to the nearest alley away from the vendors.

He braces a hand on the stone wall, but even it isn’t enough as he drops to his knees. He doesn’t even seem to have the will to stand.

Crouching beside him, you place one of your hands on his chest.

“I…. I…” The tremor in his usually so crisp wording and steady voice crushes your chest, making it hard to breathe. “I failed him. I failed him.”

“Obi-Wan,” you start, trying to grasp at anything, everything to comfort him, not even thinking of how you can’t call him that here, even if there’s no one in sight.

If he registers your call, he doesn’t let on, continuing in his whispers to the wall. “He was burning. Burning, but I couldn’t do it. It would have been mercy to kill him, it was my mandate to do it, but I could not...” his voice gives out on the last word, and his shoulders fall forward in a shuddering inhale that transforms into a cut-short sob on its exhale.

“And now…” as the words pour from him, his shields fall, and so do the floodgates on his emotions, and it takes all the training you know to not be washed away in the torrential current of his grief. Does he even know he’s doing it, or has the insurmountable weight of his burden finally overridden his innate control over them?

“I’ve sentenced him to a fate worse than death.” He’s only barely choked out the end of his thought before his shoulders start to shake in earnest and he crumples in on himself as he begins to weep for his brother.

Giving no heed to the odd angle, you throw your arms around him. Trying to get your arms around his body is exactly the embodiment of the feeling of the moment, this anguish you don’t even begin to be enough to cover.

What could you say? What could you do? What would even begin to…

When you press your fingers to his temple, it’s light, a show of how unforced this is, how much he can say no if he needs. Because this isn’t for you. No, it’d be so much easier to not know the exact depth of his pain and rip your chest open with that knowledge. But you’re offering it, meaning it absolutely, desperate for him to take the hand offered to him. “Please let me in. Don’t do this alone. Let me…”

Then he’s pulling you in, not just letting you come in yourself, clinging to you like a person drowning. You remember to steady, to try to keep your own head above the water as wave after surging, overpowering wave of soul-crippling agony like you’ve never felt it engulf you in their surge.

You can’t hold out against it no matter how hard you try, so you refocus from centering yourself to pulling his signature into yours as you wrap your arms tighter around his torso.

And you begin to weep with him.

*********

The suns are drifting low by the time both of you have any intelligible thought, far too late to start the journey back to the hut.

At the inn, as Obi-Wan falls into the beginnings of a restless sleep, a thought emerges, clear and crisp in its awful truth.

You cannot tell him for a long while still.

*******

It’s different now. Because when he wakes in the night, he doesn’t give you falsehoods you see right through. He lets you into the terror and distortional dreams that all reside over one theme.

There’s silence in the first days after. Just silent tears and still embraces and the way time seems to freeze when grief is at its worst.

But then he starts talking. It comes in little pieces, then in larger ones.

The loudest thing his signature screams is guilt.

You tell him how it isn’t his fault, how Anakin is responsible for his own choices, but he just gives you a new reason every time as to why it is his fault, how he could have stopped it.

Because even in what he considers his worst failure, his verbiage is indicative of how it’s not his own image and pride hurting that he’s even considered. All of his thoughts, all of them, are on what Anakin needed that he didn’t give.

At first, it’s just impressions from his mind, unsorted, blurry thoughts and feelings, but it eventually begins to become words.

“After his mother died… I know that he blamed me. How couldn’t he? He told me of his dreams, dreams he knew were foresights, but I dismissed them, multiple times, at that. And the council… advised me against comforting him, but he… I… I did anyway.” His shoulders are forward, body sagging with unsureness that doesn’t fit him right in the slightest. “But it was far too late. I know there was something pivotal about the death of his mother, and I am...” he hesitates, seemingly not because he doesn’t know what to speak, but because he does. “Terrified. Terrified it’s all because I didn’t validate him sooner. If I had not...” His voice breaks off, as he shuts his eyes.

Fear is not something admired by the Jedi, you know. When he speaks of his own emotions, he speaks them like he’s confessing them.

And as he confesses and confesses, you comfort where you can, cry with him when you cannot.

*****

The swells of sorrow ebb and flow in their intense bursts and receding stillness, and despite the moments of not being able to breathe under the weight of it, there are miniscule, almost violating, hysterical intervals where smiles and life spring to the surface, gasping for air.

Or in this case, the inexplicable desire to dance.

You don’t even really know when you start, simply going about cleaning clothing in the sonic washer, and the next, some ridiculous, repetitive tune sweeps you to move your hips and feet, uncoordinated and graceless. The tune itself played from a datachip, scrapped with some pieces Obi-Wan was repurposing to make repairs. You’re not even familiar with the type of music, and it’s hardly the type of music you’d normally choose, but you find that today, it’s an improvement on the quiet that falls upon the house as Obi-Wan works outdoors.

The song swings into a bridge, and you slide across the stone floor, imitating something you saw in a music holo years ago, as you do, your foot catches on the rug you recently added, sending you fumbling for your footing. You eventually catch it before you fall, but as you look up, you decide to lower yourself to the ground anyway at the sight of Obi-Wan, leaning up against the door frame, watching you with an amused expression, the fingers of one hand tracing between his lips and chin.

You sit splayed as tactless and gangly as you danced and let out a short, startled laugh.

“Please, don’t stop on my account. I was quite enjoying myself.”

Maker, could you just hide under the rug you tripped over? “Please tell me you haven’t been standing there long.”

He pushes off his lean on the wall, crossing the room to you. “I won’t tell you lies, my love.”

Shame twists in your gut at his words, chasing the laughter in your throat away. But Obi-Wan extends a hand down, and you take it, letting him draw you to your feet.

He kisses the back of your hand before taking it in his, extending the clasp out to the side of your bodies as his other hand rests hot on the small of your waist.

“But I will join you, if you don’t mind a style change.”

“I don’t know how to dance like this,” you say, factually.

“Then allow me to teach you.” When you look in his eyes, they’re lined with the etches of heartache still, but there’s something else too, brimming to the surface.

“What, to this music?” You give your last, unconvincing protest.

He simply drops his forehead to yours, and the small sounds of the room fade to white as a sweet, moving melody replaces it. It’s not perfectly clear, and it takes a moment to realize that it’s because it’s coming from Obi-Wan’s memory.

The music has a distant, foggy quality, and it has potential to be eerie, but instead, it just lifts you into an ethereal feeling.

He steps, and your feet follow, not as graceful, but he makes it easy for you, the steps hinted out in his thoughts before taking them in actuality.

When you start to feel confident enough in the movements, you look up at him. “Does this mean I can teach you my dances next?”

He laughs, laughs, unabashed and with no emotion harbored under it, and some torn piece of your heart mends at the sound.

“Certainly not.”

You laugh too, even at the thought of him trying. The laugher rolls into a smooth quiet, and you let yourself bask in the feel of his body against yours, the press of his hand on your back as you rest your cheek against him.

Obi-Wan cradles you to him, forsaking the pattern of the dance as he encompasses you in his arms, lowering his lips to your cheek, then your mouth in a blazing kiss.

He takes your hand in his, lifting it above your head. Then you’re guided into a spin, and the room spins double with it as you abandon all endeavors of trying to get the dance correct. Your hand drops protectively to your belly before you can even think better of it, and by the time you know you’re not going to throw up, it’s too late. You already feel Obi-Wan’s unmistakable concern right before he asks, “What’s wrong?” extending an arm out toward you.

His complexion is ashen with worry, and when you don’t respond, you feel him start to reach out to your mind; a spike of panic zaps down your spine, and you’re suddenly not sure you’re not going to throw up after all.

Your shields crash down, not enough time for subtlety, and he retracts both his hand and inquiring tendril of energy as hurt and confusion shape his features.

You can’t do this. You can’t keep up this facade or cover this moment with a lie you know he’ll see through. But you can’t tell him either. After all the weight he’s carrying, the weight of the being that grows in you should be yours alone. You can’t thrust that upon him.

But it’s a delusion that you can keep this from him forever. You’re going to hurt him one way or another, and the weight of your silence and lies multiply every day you insulate him from the truth.

You take in a shuddering breath as dread settles into your bones. You know what you have to do.

Even as you slowly lower your shields, opening your signature, your mind screams at you in opposite directions, ripping you in half, and your hand shoots out to the nearest wall to stabilize yourself. How could you be so sadistic to tell him this? How could you not tell him? After all the trust you have in each other?

But he doesn’t take the invitation. “I will not touch your mind if you are still unsure you want me to,” he says softly but resolutely as he approaches you, but stays an unthreatening distance away, as if approaching a frightened animal.

No, no, no. You won’t have him being the one to sturdy you through this. You need to be strong, be ready, don’t force him to coddle you through the blast to his own chest.

So you dial down your own emotions and switch your absorption to amplifying the still tiny, barely recognizable life you’ve been carefully censoring ever since you heard it yourself.

You want to close your eyes, blockade the pain of both how it impacts him and how it will impact you, but that’s not how you two do things.

Summoning every iota of bravery and resolve running in your veins, you force yourself to look up at him as you watch understanding coat him.

His eyes go wide, and his hands clench and flex at his sides in an erratic, nervous pattern.

You can’t keep your signature open to his mind’s reaction, you just can’t. He’s seen enough, and you can put your shields up again. His face is enough to confront all on its own.

Obi-Wan steps toward you, slowly, dazed in a completely uncharacteristic way. With the way he seems to ever be prepared for the blows life throws at him, you hate how you have to be the harbinger for the second one that’s knocked him off his feet.

When he stops in front of you, he places his hands on either of your shoulders and looks into your eyes, searching for confirmation, and you nod, trying to not let fear seep into your expression.

One of his hands covers his mouth as he takes it in.

And then he’s sinking in front of you, off of his feet indeed, and onto his knees. You want to follow, ready to hold him through the heartache sure to follow, at the second child he didn’t ask for while he still grieves the loss of the first.

But his hands instead take purchase on your stomach, tightening the fabric of your tunic around the barely-visible bump before bunching it up and lifting, just enough so he can tilt his forehead against the skin there.

You can feel him reaching out, not taking him long at all to find what he’s searching for, and curiosity beats self-preservation at the last moment, prompting you to open your mind again, just for you to be able to catch elation coursing through Obi-Wan.

You don’t even bother trying to stifle your confusion as he looks up at you with glassy eyes.

Sinking to your knees to meet him, you take his face in your hands, trying to make sense of it all as he takes your hand in his. “I never... “ when his voice comes out unsteady, he clears his throat and tries again. “I never thought I’d have... That we could… didn’t occur to me that now...stars above, how long have you known?”

You don’t recall when you start crying, but tears are falling freely down your cheeks as you shake your head. “I’m so sorry. I… I would never want to keep something like this from you, Obi-Wan, but I couldn’t tell you, not with everything, not with all you already have…and i’m so sorry.”

“Oh, heavens, no. You should not have to do this alone. Please don’t keep things from me, even if you think it to be for my sake. We can…”

You fix him with a pointed, unamused stare. He exhales as he must notice his hypocrisy.

“Your point is well-put and taken, but the sentiment still stands. We’ll not keep secrets from each other anymore. Do we have an accord?”

Despite it all, you smile at his overly-formal phrasing, something you’d normally have a quip about if it weren’t for the concern still nagging at you.

“Are you not angry then? Or disappointed?” you watch him carefully, praying to any deity listening that he doesn’t concoct some half truth to placate you. His first instinct is always to protect, but you’d never want it at expense of his authenticity.

Bafflement marks his brow at first, then he takes your face in his hands. “Darling, no.” He says your name, gathering every bit of your attention. “I dreamt of you. During the war, when I was away. I did not sleep well, even then, but when I did, I’d sometimes dream of you, holding a child that I knew to be ours. When I woke, I would remember it so vividly, so painfully, because I never thought that was an attainable future for us.”

But that doesn’t need to matter if you… do you want this child?” His eyes are so full of hope, and it was the last thing you expected, but here he is laying it down on the altar of your preference, and maker, are you glad those two things aren’t opposing each other.

Because his hope and yours are one in the same, and once he knows it too, at your whispering, choked, “yes,” he’s clutching you in his arms.

And for the second time in a month, you’re both huddled on the ground in tears. The first, bowing under the mass of catastrophe. Now, at the glowing relief of the sprouting of a dream sown in tears, too tender before to even say aloud.

But now? You’re saying it, back and forth, from him to you as your walls fall, permitting him into your mind as he welcomes you into his, and finally you take true comfort once again in the home you’ve built in each other.

*******

The night after, you lie side by side, hand in hand, on a blanket splayed not far from the hut. The suns have sunken, but the pinks and oranges of their palette still paint the sky where it hasn’t yet turned to midnight cobalt. The light of the lantern gives off a similar hue, dousing everything in your reach in soft, warm hues.

It has taken Obi-Wan some convincing, being so out in the open with everything he had to worry about wasn’t his first choice, but you compromised for a small alcove in the rock formations which surrounded you on two sides. More easily defensible. Not that he needed it, but if he was cautious before, it was borderline unbearable now. With the added danger of the Empire knowing without doubt that he lived. With more than ever to lose.

So, he was in charge of safety, you were in charge of snacks. And if they so happened to be almost entirely comprised of those melons you couldn’t quite get enough of lately? That was no one’s business except yours. You brought a few things you knew Obi-Wan liked too, of course.

What little remains of the miscellaneous spread you push to the edge of the blanket so you can both lie down.

“I dare say it’s almost pleasant out tonight.”

You turn your head to him, a snort ready at him discussing the weather of all things, but it instead forms a cloud in your throat at the sight of him.

His eyes are closed, hair rustling in the slight evening breeze, a tranquil ease over his profile.

The small patches of grey in the part of his beard next to his ears catch the first glints of moonlight in a way the rest of his hair doesn’t, giving them away.

The mellisonant lowness of his voice brings you back to yourself, cheeks heating.

“I can feel you staring, little one.” He opens his eyes, leisurely rolling to his side. “Some say it’s quite impolite.” Slanting over you, he lifts a brow, daring your response.

“And is that a problem?” You look up at him through your eyelashes, feigning innocence.

Obi-Wan’s gaze follows back up to the stars, as he plays right along, pretending to have to think on it. “I suppose it depends.”

“On?”

“On whether or not you allow me to return the impropriety,” he responds with a coy smile, moving back to you, so close now you can feel his exhales on your cheek.

Warmth blooms through you as you answer back, “You can always look, Obi-Wan.” You lift yourself to close the short distance between your face and his, pressing your lips together, which he deepens right away. Using the hand not supporting half his body off of you still, he fans out his fingers across your belly, towing the line between caressing gently and clutching protectively.

You pull your lips back from his as an uninvited slither of insecurity slips into your chest.

He senses it, of course, so you speak before he even needs to ask. “Are you really, truly, certain this is what you want? Now? I don’t want you to just say so because…and we could wait, we have...”

“I am,” he says, adamantly, before you even have a chance to finish. His eyes flash to the side. “I…” He rolls back onto his back, looking straight up as he talks seemingly half to you, half to himself. “There is not much I know for certain these days. Some days… I scarcely can remember who I am anymore.”

He turns his eyes back to you, unwavering. “There are seldom few things I haven’t questioned of late, and my love for you isn’t one of them. And from the moment I’ve known, from the very first instant you let me feel the life within you, my love for them hasn’t been one either.”

Your thoughts split into two, one wanting to lean into it, to take him for his word that’s always true, and the other cautioning you, telling you to keep distant and watch for the surface level honesty he gives that hides the brutal one he safeguards you from.

But you’re not hiding anymore, feelings unconcealed in your energy and on your face, so he leans back into you, grasping your arm in his hand, squaring your shoulders to him. You cringe at yourself when you know he’s heard the impression of you questioning. It’s redundant, but self-doubt always is. “Know, please know, my darling.” Taking your hand in his, he brings it up to his temple with an insistence that you have no desire to counter.

And it’s there. Right there and sparking in its clarity, right at the threshold of his mind as you enter it. How much he means his words, no holds barred, no cleverly crafted glazes to an unly underbelly of reality. His reality was this, how severely he craves starting a family with you. How much he already loves the being within you, how he looks forward to the day he gets to hold them in his arms.

The fear is there too, quiet, but not kept from you. The fear of failing as a father, unsure of assuming any role that resembled a mentor again, all-too-familiar with the ghost that will float over him in every lesson he teaches.

What shocks you there is his faith in you. In how much he’s already learned from you about the impact of open affection, in how you don’t let your feelings lead you, but you let them breathe, not suffocate them. It’s part of how he even can acknowledge his fears to himself and to you without berating himself under the too-simple phrase “fear leads to the dark side.” There’s truth in it, but also inaccuracy.

Because he’s afraid, and yet, there is so much light in the acknowledging of it to himself, and in that very act, it loses much of any power it could have had over him. Oh, how deeply he wishes he could have articulated that understanding to Anakin.

The pain is fresh, but so is his anticipation for the future, swirling together in a potent drink, and his throat bobs with the effort to swallow them down simultaneously.

He knows you’ll help ground him through it, he trusts you, even in his uncertainty in himself.

It breaks your heart but also warms it: the knowledge that he lets you into that place where he keeps the questions of himself, the place only you and the man who’s caused most of this doubt have been permitted.

With a thankful short farewell, you part from his mind as you know exactly what you want to do.

The remains of your snacks still rest on the edge of the blanket, including the shells of the deep purple-pigmented melons. The one draw-back to their delightful taste was how badly they stained your fingers. You had to break them into tiny pieces, plopping them into your mouth without allowing them to touch your lips unless you wanted your mouth to stain too.

But right now? The staining quality was just what you needed.

Although first you needed a blank canvas.

“May I take your tunics off?” you ask, sitting up.

Despite a short twitch of confusion and then interest, Obi-Wan follows, raising himself up into a kneel, slightly lifting his arms in compliance.

The paleness of his skin catches all the light of the lantern, highlighting your view as you slowly slide the fabric up and off, gliding your hands up the line of hair dipping below his navel as it becomes more exposed. It grants you a quiet, steep intake of breath from him and you suddenly give halt momentarily, distracted by the alluring appetite you’ve created.

No, you won’t give in. Not yet. He needs to know this.

You take one of the broken pieces of melon rind in your hand, where little tart bits of the fruit still cling, dribbling pigment, but before your finger makes contact with the taut skin of his chest, you pull back at the realization you might have bitten off more than you can chew.

How do you even begin to describe him? Obi-Wan is so many things at once, so many attributes, and every descriptor that comes to mind falls blatantly short of him.

Then you recall Obi-Wan going through the motions of Alchaka, watching his body fight to maintain the poses at times. Being such a personal practice, you felt honored that he let you see him go through the exercises, and even more honored that he opened up to you about the purpose behind it later. It was an exercise of both physicality and Force use, and the goal was absolute exhaustion. That was the destination. Trying, knowing from the start that he’ll fall short in the end, but doing it all the same. Because there’s so, so much to be said for the trying.

So you do. You bring the messy fingertip to his clavicle, smearing the first word you know to absolutely be true of him, as if starting the premise with a whisper of I know you’re even more than the sum all of these singular praises.

The word “complex” appears in your penmanship on his skin as you drag it to life. You look up to his eyes, and his curiosity is clear there, but also so is the tenderness that is elemental to any time he looks at you. And just like that, you have your next word.

Kind.

And at the way he flushes so lovely for you at that?

Beautiful.

You feel his protest before you see it, the objection in his signature, and you know you’re going to have to switch methods.

Just then, a droplet from where you’ve written the last word on his pectoral falls, down, down, threatening toward the hem of his trousers, but you’re fast, dropping your mouth down and catching it all on your tongue before it can stain the bleached beige of his remaining clothing.

When his stubborn revolt at the affirmation quiets in his mind in exchange for a flash of searing lust, you know exactly how you’re going to continue.

Because Obi-Wan Kenobi, general, warrior, negotiator, Jedi Master, legend, has rarely ever been affirmed as such, and he squirms under the thick blanket of his humility and deprivation anytime someone endeavors.

So you need his mind to be preoccupied enough, guards down low enough, so he can even hear the message get through.

When you place your hands over his waistband, locking eyes in inquiry, stopping when he hesitates, scanning the area around you, vigilant as always. Overly so now.

“We’re alone. And wouldn’t you be able to sense it if we weren’t?”

He looks down at you as he answers. “If I stay mindful enough to do so, yes.”

Good, he’ll be even less prone to fight you if he has some of his mind sensing outward.

You look back up at him with the facial equivalent of asking “well?” to which Obi-Wan sighs in response. “Very well then.”

With your familiarity with ridding him of clothing, it only takes moments before you can finally taste him where you want to, where he’s already hard and swollen for you.

You know you won’t be able to take him as much as you want, a recently-developed overactive gag reflex preventing you. But it just so happens to be convenient tonight, as the resulting taunt should have him right where you want him.

A gentle kiss, right to the head of his cock is all the warning you give him before taking the whole tip in your mouth, swirling your tongue around him, pulling a choked hum deep from his throat.

Oh, oh, Maker, have you done a grand miscalculation, because you forgot an entire factor in this equation: the way you have been borderline hysterical in hunger for him.

You’ve kept so much from him, and part of how you’ve even managed is starting to convince yourself of less than fact. Facts like how many times you’ve had to change underthings recently, physical evidence of desire unwilling to comply to your head’s demands. Facts like how you’ve literally had to bite your finger to keep the feelings at bay.

You’d expected changes in your body even before your belly grew, but this was one you hadn’t anticipated. In some ways, it wasn’t that different than usual. You never knew you could want someone with the breadth that you want Obi-Wan.

But this? Of late? It feels like it’s been amplified tenfold.

You’re not keeping any cards close to your chest anymore, but you do have to ignore your own body’s screaming cries as you complete this.

He needs to know.

Nerves still serenading his brain with feedback, you re-wet your finger with the purple juice and write the next words across his abdomen.

Wise.

Perceptive.

He’s caught on to your scheme by now, cued by the all-too appropriate addition of the last word, and he lets you know it, an impression projected, speechless but still unobstructed. He’s still powerless against it. Or rather, letting himself be powerless. Trusting you with the control he has left, trusting you in his vulnerable places. The places where he’s weak.

Strong.

The word spread over his right upper arm, where he’s obviously just that. But may the tint of the word bleed through his skin, may it run through his veins, because that’s how deep and deeper still that his strength runs. It’s in the way he doesn’t flaunt it. It’s in the way he chooses to wield it.

Gentle.

He closes his eyes, flinching at the onslaught of acclamation, and you dip your head down again, wrapping your lips around his cock, letting him slide to where you can take him comfortably, just starting to build a pace as his hips squirm in harmony with his suddenly erratic breaths. Oh, how you’d love to let him deeper, allow his cock past your lips beyond the teasing amount you can take now, but the little writhes his body gives in protest are enough to almost make you okay with how your mouth won’t agree with your ambitions. He says your name, groaned out in bliss as he cups a hand on your cheek.

His barriers are down, so it’s easy to hear when his deprecating thoughts quiet again, and you switch back to coloring him again.

You know the moment you look up at him that it’s a mistake, because he’s flushed, so torn, suspended in the limbo of your give and withdrawal, mouth ever so slightly open, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.

You’re only human, so before you draw anything else, you bring your lips to his, which is yet another mistake, because among the many things Obi-Wan is, he is a deep kisser, and as his tongue delves into your mouth, your will power takes a devastating blow.

You pull back, reeling at the reminder of how easily he can take back control, knowing you have to complete this before you let him.

Stars, how you want to let him.

For now, you need that control back, so you take him into your mouth again, filthily wet and not nearly long enough as you quickly pull back, watching in satisfaction as he heaves forward at the loss, correcting himself quickly back into straight posture.

With a smirk, you drag your slippery, pigmented finger across his lower stomach.

Disciplined.

There’s so many more words, so much more he needs to know, and if you covered every inch of his skin in the smallest writing it still wouldn’t be sufficient of all that he is.

Or you could whisper it all through the Force, embed it all in his mind.

But because you’ve been there, know his mind inside and out, you know every time he sees his own skin, all he sees is the red of blood on his hands. The blood of his brother.

And that’s exactly why you’re going to stain it in your own colors. Take back territory and push back the front lines that the army of guilt has taken over on him.

Your Jedi, ever-adorned in unassuming beige, now drips in the color of royalty.

Charming.

Humble.

Confident.

Steadfast.

You’re only left with enough space for one more word, and you want some sort of conclusion to it all, something to summarize the expanse of the man kneeling in front of you.

Nothing can.

But maybe, just maybe, one word encapsulates what he is to you.

Treasure.

This time you do chant it across his thoughts, prompting him to open his eyes and look at you.

Cerulean blue blinks open, slowly, almost painfully and nearly overflowing with emotion.

Thank you, is all he says, unable or unwilling to say it out loud, much too heartfelt and newly-budded for that.

You know his pain has older roots than those tended to in this moment, but you vow to yourself that you’ll never stop trying.

Lowering your mouth around him once again, you don’t tease him anymore, at least not intentionally, even though you still can’t take more than half of him.

“Look at you, you’re…” he hisses in a breath as you swipe your tongue against that vein on the underside of him. “Stunning. You’re doing so well, little one.”

The taste of him compels you as much as his words, seizes you in spice-like addiction, and how interesting it’s going to be explaining that taste craving to him, among your sudden adoration for those damn melons.

“Darling, I’m…”

You feel it in his energy before he says it, already pulling off, replacing your mouth with your hand, dropping your lips down even lower, mouthing at his balls, and the feedback is instant. An outpouring crest of his pleasure blasting outward as he lets out a depraved moan, netting his hands into your hair.

Your hand is wet and so is where he’s spilled on his still flexing and releasing stomach, clear white maring the lettering halfway through “disciplined.” You’d clean it with your tongue if you weren’t sure how your overly sensitive taste buds would react now.

It’s not the first time you’ve had sex since you’ve known you were pregnant, but it’s the first time since he’s known, and it’s the first time you’re not hiding the symptoms. Before, you carefully shied away from anything that might give you away, and between the preoccupation of everything on his own mind he was trying to keep from you and his respect for your boundaries, he never pressed. He had questions in his eyes, but you knew how to carefully reveal partial vulnerabilities to keep him off your trail.

Your chest flares at the memory.

We’re not hiding now.

It’s your chant, your reminder, your comfort. How nothing of this caliber will be kept between you again.

His eyes confirm it, sincere and exact as they fight to break through their dazed slipping.

Never again. His voice in your head is home, so consoling it can and has put you to sleep before.

Right now, it wakes you up in a different light, dowsing you in heat as Obi-Wan takes your hand in his, wiping it on a piece of his discarded clothing before wiping the spend off himself.

Then he’s taking your face in both his hands tilting you up before kissing you soundly.

I love you, he says across the wire that ties your minds, the wire that keeps growing stronger every day. So, so very much.

You say it back, a fact as simple as breathing. You love him.

You want him, borderline need him the way you need your next inhale, you don’t say, but he must hear it anyway, because that cocky little smirk that’s been gone far too long is back.

“Shall we do something about that?”

You’re about to just lift your shift dress up and off in response, but he halts you, grasping your wrists.

“Allow me.”

He pulls you into another sultry kiss, completely neglecting the task of ridding you of clothing.

Or so you think.

There’s buttons all the way down the dress, and you’ve never used them, always wondering at their purpose if it can so easily lift over your head.

At first, you don’t even know he’s doing it until you start to feel the coolness of the night air on your nipples. Opening your eyes, you pull back from him to watch as seemingly in thin air, your buttons undo themselves.

“You needn’t seduce me further. You already know how much I need you,” you gasp, breathless from the kiss.

Obi-Wan just gives a small smile as he drops a hand, dragging it down your side, then down your thigh. “Hm. So impatient. All this from just pleasuring me?”

Maker, he knows! He knows that you are. You always have been, and it’s not as if you weren’t projecting your feelings too.

When he reaches a hand between your thighs, parting them and making a single, tempting stroke through them, his fingers come back glistening.

“I should think you could feel that I am.” You let the tide of your frustration spill over into your connection to his mind.

You know he had to hear you, but he gives no indication that he did.

“Mm. Desire needn’t always be indicatory of impatience,” he punctuates his statement with a hand at the base of your skull, tipping your head back to expose your neck. “I need you to be patient, little one. Let me savor you.” And with that, his mouth makes contact with your neck at the same time his other hand plays with one of your exposed nipples.

You whimper at the attention, quietly pleading with him for more. Among the still slight changes to your body, this has been the most notable one. How sensitive your breasts have become to even the scrape of the fabric of your clothing.

And with the rough pads of his fingers working only one, leaving the other to pang in want...

“Obi-Wan,” it’s a prayer, a request. He doesn’t need his hands to cause sensation, and you’d beg him right now if he asked.

He lets up on your neck, only barely, lips moving against the now throbbing skin. “Answer me first.”

Clearing your throat, you give the most cogent response you can muster. “Depends on if you’re definition of savor is synonymous with torture.”

He locks eyes with you then, gently grasping a breast in each of his hands, dragging his thumbs over the nipples as you moan out your assent.

His chuckle is far too self-satisfied to be becoming of a Jedi, but you’re already too far gone to call him on it.

“Is that what you want, little one? For me to torture you so?”

An affirmative whimper is all the response you can give, and Obi-Wan reacts quickly, taking your chin in his fingers and tilting your eyes up to his again.

“Then you will be patient for me. Because I’m always happy to stop, and we can begin again when you decide to adhere.”

Your brain short circuits on the spot, and all energy is redirected much, much lower. His voice, stars above, his voice when it takes a commanding tone.

It’s intimate, it’s personal, and yet this game is almost inappropriately playful for how sincere the moment is.

But such was being loved by Obi-Wan. Full of dissimilar feelings that shouldn’t fit, but moved together in liquid consistency. Like metaphors that didn’t rhyme but still somehow gave their own life-giving rhythm, not dissimilar to the sound of his heartbeat when you lay your head against his chest at night.

Making quick work of the remaining buttons of your shift and underwear, he beckons you to join him as he lies back down, large, warm hands guiding you to turn around so you’re facing away from him.

You know that the purple stickiness of the fruit will smear from his body to yours like this, but you can’t at all bring yourself to care.

You gasp a sigh of relief as one of his hands finds your breast, brushing a knuckle over the too-sensitive nipple.

“Please.” Your whispered beg sounds pathetic, even to your own ears. But as you arch against him in a frenzied attempt at skin contact, Obi-Wan juts his hips forward, grunting into the exposed column of your neck, and stars, yeah, maybe he didn’t find that so pathetic after all.

“What do you want, darling?” His voice doesn’t divulge any desperation, and for only the hundredth time do you envy his immaculate self-control.

“You know, don’t pretend you don’t.” Leaving any doubt to the wind, you push your chest against his barely-touching hand.

“Specificity can be a virtue; that I also know.”

You change techniques, driving your hips back softly into where he’s hard and insistent against your ass, hoping it compels him.

Then you simply… can’t anymore. You’re frozen, unable to move your lower half at all.

Tangling your desires into a knot and tucking it away, you find the mindfulness to reply. “Yeah, so is mercy.”

“Indeed it is. I shall concede when you do.”

You won’t win a battle of the wills with him. You’re not sure anyone could.

So you bring his hand over to your nipple. “Touch me here.”

You feel his smile without even seeing it as he starts tweaking the bud. “Like this?”

It’s so much sensation, all concentrated on such responsive flesh, that you want to beg for him to switch to touching you between your legs.

You haven’t even finished the thought when you feel his unmistakable metaphysical brush against your thigh.

Extending a tendril of your own energy, you invite him in, and he takes it eagerly, ever as eager if not more to be entwined with your mind as with your body.

He hears it all, the besottment, the arousal, the neediness. The panic that he might drag this out longer, that you’ll have to go a single minute longer without...

“It’s alright. It’s alright.” He sends soothing waves through your connection, and he swaps the positioning of his hand with the curl of power. He turns his hand so that the back of it runs through where you’re aching for him, gathering up your slick on the backs of his knuckles. You have to contort your neck to see what follows when he takes the hand back behind you, and your mouth goes dry when he sucks the knuckles in between his lips.

You want to hear, you want to know what he’s…

He’s welcoming you in, navigating you to the brink of his mental barriers, letting you take that final plunge into the unsuppressed fullness of your bond to each other.

Now it’s your turn to hear it: how his carefully constructed unaffected persona is not at all a match for his naked, wanton need for you.

And under that, the foundation on which that desire is built, not the product of it, is his love, his unyielding, unashamed, iridescent love for you.

It’s all you can do but to pour it back, affirming and soothing and calling his love into action with your own.

You both don’t want anything else except the most complete of entanglement, and that’s exactly what he moves to do, situating your bodies, hiking your top leg in the crook of his arm as you feel the initial breach of his body into yours, and all breath leaves your lungs in an exhilarating evacuation.

His audible gasp is an echo of his emotions, how he thinks he’s prepared for this onslaught of feeling, but how you take him off guard, how his equilibrium threatens to teeter every time.

The web of his consciousness enveloping you, it’s easy to pick out a single thought blaring within him: How much he adores the way you fit together. Your back against his chest, how your breast fits in his hand, how the snug joining of where his cock presses into your body sends you into trembles, how comforting your very presence is to his soul when he lets you in like this.

Tears, without warning, seep out of your eyes as he starts to move against you, slow and deep. You close your eyes, willing the powerful emotion away, but glimmers of light flash out behind our closed lids the moment you do, and how the kriff does he stay composed?

Anchor. Anchor against me.

He stills, letting you have a break from the barrage of pleasure blinding you as you search him out, looking for the cords of his intellect that seemingly both steam downward and beam upward, grounding him.

You find it, and you clasp on tightly.

But the moment he starts moving again, you lose sight of it all over again.

Your heightened hormones make your flesh so susceptible, and the tears start to fall again. Obi-Wan rolls your nipple in between his thumb and index, and he’s so good, and you’re so full, and you can hear his pleasure as your own, adding, doubling everything…

Scorching, electrifying heat speeds through your veins, hitting hard and fast, leaving you astounded and even more sensitive than before.

Obi-Wan’s signature spikes as your climax resounds through him, and you can feel the vibration of the wanton noises he’s making right where his beard scratches against your neck.

But he doesn’t allow it to overtake him, letting it run through him without resistance, making himself pliable but unmovable, keeping himself back from the edge.

You still have much to learn.

Because that control? Gives him the ability to not even stop, not even hesitate once, even at both yours and his own ecstasy flowing through him.

When he starts striking his hips hard into yours, the weight of him inside you dragging exactly in the right place, you start to cry in earnest. Obi-Wan stops for a millisecond, concern radiating off of him, even when he can hear how much you want this so clearly, has access to every little passing thought.

“Don’t stop, I’m fine, I pro…” He does just as asked while moving his hand down to your belly again, a soothing touch to his rough thrusts. Your eyes are blurred with wetness, overwhelmed with him.

He’s listening to it all, applying every micro-feeling of feedback into action against your desperate, post-orgasmic skin, hand switching back and forth from your nipples to loosely clutching your neck, Force energy focused on applying pressure to your clit.

“You’re doing so well, so good for me,” comes the wisp of his sultry tone, lips pressed against your ear.

Since you aren’t even thinking about changing position, you know it’s his own preference that has him withdrawing, guiding you onto your back.

There’s no inhibition this way, not the way there is when you’re on your side, no separation from your bodies being flush when he pushes into you again. You have to anchor in him, both mentally and with your fingernails clawing at his shoulder blades as your body starts into tremors.

He’s keeping the weight of his chest off of you, even though your belly is still barely swollen into distinguishable roundedness, and as much as you miss the contact, you can look into his eyes like this, can see the unfiltered attachment and all the weight of all the emotion he wills his body to not cave under.

But then the tremoring transforms into series of contractions throughout your body, centering through your slick core, and you thrash your head to the side catching a glimpse of Obi-Wan’s fingers clenching into white knuckles, grasping into the exposed sand from the blanket being bunched up.

He projects his thoughts across the tether to you, how thoroughly impacted by the very fact you’re carrying his child, how affected he is by every little thing about you, honored that he’s allowed to touch you like this.

You roll your hips back up into his, and that’s what it takes. His stuttering body is the lightning, and the searing, molten pleasure across your connection is the thunderous repercussion.

It completely overthrows you, and your body bows against him as his high instantly cues yours again.

You can feel him throb inside you at the very moment you do, his turn to experience the secondary sensory white-out of your mate’s climax through the Force, his shuddering shout meeting your breathy whines in the close distance between your mouths.

And he does kiss you then, soundly but with the haze of afterglow slowing it.

“Have you any idea how bewitching you are to me?” He breathes it out, and despite all the ways you’d normally scoff at such words, his eyes tell the story, and you listen to it’s truth.

His eyes hold that constant infiltrating study of you, the one that could be unnerving if his mind, still tethered to yours didn’t hold such amor, heart bleed such fondness that settles in the creases around his eyes.

How interesting it is watching someone as knowledgeable as him having such an inquisitive outlook on life, and being so frequently the object of those investigations.

Did the galaxy know her debt to him? Did she know the sum owed to inflicting the worst of life’s pains on someone who refused to let it build anything except an even gentler man of himself? When does she plan on repaying him? What does she offer in exchange for her cruelty of the hand she’s dealt Obi-Wan Kenobi?

Then the whisper comes, soft but crisp, from somewhere in the threads of existence around you, “Can’t you see? It’s you, child.”

You could argue it. You could scream how it’s not enough, how you’re not enough, how he deserves so much more from some dark insecure place inside you. Or how love shouldn’t be treated as currency in exchange for pain, how the galaxy could still have your fists if that was how it tallied.

But the finality of it settles in your soul, more impressionistic than in solid wording: there is no easy conclusion that ties the suffering of life into purpose, no experience that erases or mends its pain. But love. Love makes the complicated endeavor of trying to find purpose in the madness worthwhile.

Obi-Wan’s hum of agreement resounds in your ears and through to your head. His Force signature feels so familiar, so at home within yours and yours within his, that you’d briefly forgotten he could still hear you.

With all the strength still left in quaking limbs, you wrap your arms around him, and he melts into it.

The compassion of his soul hardly matches his war-ravaged skin, his guilt-ridden memories. Every good thing here came to be with a war waged, refined and not burnt away in fire at his sheer tenacity.

It’s a growing thing, blooming in the desert. The beliefs in both of you. Your love for each other. Your own trust in the Force.

Healing is no short journey, but her two sojourners here are determined.

And if that tender hope can blossom here?

Then maybe, just maybe: Tatooine is exactly the place for a baby after all.

*********

In the valley beyond the hut, a boy jets quickly away in some mechanical contraption he recently motorized, a girl in a similar vehicularized compilation of junk not far behind.

On the cliff’s edge stands Obi-Wan, eyes scanning the landscape intermittently for any sign of threat between longer affectionate looks at the children before him.

He turns, feeling your approach in his keen awareness as you set a hand on his shoulder from behind. His temples are now even thicker with sun-bleached silver, and his eyes wield the lines of laughter around them.

And you? You’re as roped in by his gravitational pull as you’ve always been.

He puts a hand over yours, clasping it to bring you in front of him, where he can still watch the children and encase you in his arms at the same time.

“Slow down, Luke! You’re going too fast!” comes the distressed cry of your daughter, Ahlina, drawing your attention away from admiring Obi-Wan and back to the valley. Her vowels curl in the same way her father’s does, but her more casual phrasing was certainly thanks to you. Luke shouts back at her, “Come on, keep up!” while he races on ahead.

Obi-Wan smiles, seemingly amused at a secret joke.

“They are much too young for this nonsense still,” he speaks, muffled slightly as he hides his lips in your hair.

“Probably,” you reply with an airy laugh.

Not long after, the engine on Luke’s small contraption gives out, jutting him off and tumbling forward into the sand.

“I told you!” Ahlina yells, her own machine coming to a halt not far away from Luke.

When they make it back up the cliff, Obi-Wan couches and opens his arms, and they both come running with smiles. They’re still young enough to be unshy about affection, and Obi-Wan knows to soak it up, closing his eyes in relishment.

Luke is the first to wiggle down, waving before running over to hug your leg, which you happily return, brushing some of the blonde mop of hair from his forehead. You adored the nights that the Lars let him sleep over.

Although the nights that Ahlina slept over at theirs certainly had their allure too.

“Can we have a snack, Daddy?” Ahlina asks, still happy to be hoisted up on one of his arms.

“Hm. Perhaps I can make some of those ahrisa sweet breads again?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Can Mommy make them?”

“Why not mine?”

“Because you always burn them.”

He bops a finger lightly on her nose with a smile. “Cheeky.”

She goes to bop him on his nose in return, but he catches the finger, holding it.

“Give it back!” she screeches through a giggle.

“No, no. I think I’ll keep it now.”

The suns are dipping low as you retreat into the hut, the two children running ahead, racing to gather the ingredients to help you bake the bread. Luke especially was an enthusiastic sous-chef.

You step to follow them, but Obi-Wan grasps your hand. You turn back to him, and he barely gives you a second before he joins his mouth to yours. Sliding a hand into the auburn beard, you open your mouth to him, letting his familiar taste permeate your senses.

He reluctantly breaks after a long moment, and you take his hand in yours. When you turn back to the horizon, the suns are dipping, blanketing the landscape in the most celestial light of the day.

The planet’s eyes aren’t harsh in the way you used to see them. They’re still intense, and frequently unforgiving.

Perhaps they never changed. Maybe only you did.

But as they sink now, you give a silent, partial farewell, knowing they’ll greet you again in the morning.

Because if Dark’s patience is infinite?

So is the promise of the return of the Light.

Tagging upon request: @million-dollar-legs

#obi-wan kenobi #obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan kenobi x you #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan kenobi x you #obi-wan x reader #obi-wan x you #obi wan x you #obi wan x reader #obi-wan kenobi smut #obi wan smut #obi-wan smut #obi-wan #obi-wan x oc

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a-luran · 3 years

Note

For the ship ask, general 3, 8 and love 9 scoteng~?

ahh ❤︎

3. What was their first kiss like?

See for this one I'm torn so I'll simply say that they had three first kisses, of a sort:

the first

Was an indulgence, after the first time they fucked. Arthur's first time but not Alasdair's, and he was... rough. In measure. (Arthur doesn't realise until much later all the ways in which Alasdair was patient with him; almost gentle, despite the deep bruising on his hips and the stinging soreness.)

They don't kiss; not on the mouth. But after... Arthur thinks that Alasdair is asleep. So he leans in closer, drawn by the fan of Alasdair's eyelashes; the crooked set of his nose. Alasdair catches him at it, opens his eyes when Arthur's fingers hover over the line of his jaw.

It's easy to push Arthur on his back, and easier still to slip back between his thighs. To draw his lips into a kiss, slow and deep as the candle burning low on the bedside flickers.

the second

Was furious.

There was nothing of the early patience, and less still of affection. Just bitter anger, resenting weakness. Alasdair throws him against a stone wall. Arthur bites him hard enough that he'll bleed and scar (a small silver line on Alasdair's bottom lip that lingers for years; decades). They're caught in the thick of war, pushing at each other's boundaries; each other's borders (always). Razing an empty expanse of no man's land between them where nothing will grow for a generation.

it's a long time before they kiss again.

the third

Came easily.

They're home. Warm with drink but not quite drunk; only hazy and at ease. The collar of Arthur's shirt is crooked and it’s bothering Alasdair so he reaches over to fix it; brushes a knuckle against Arthur's neck when he does and in that casual touch, a history.

They're not sure who leans in first, but Arthur tilts his head to let their lips dovetail. Alasdair's fingers slip into his hair and hold him firmly by the roots.

8. Who gets jealous easier?

Outwardly it would seem like Arthur does but really I think it would be Ali. And I have it that he would also be the one to lay quiet claims in public; not very subtle ones. A hand on Arthur's shoulder, butting into a conversation by stepping up to Arthur's side like he belongs there. Stealing a cigarette straight from Arthur's mouth, drinking from his glass instead of ordering his own pint.

Arthur might make a fuss now and again but his is the quiet sort of jealousy. The kind that cuts inwards and festers if left unaddressed.

9. Who whispers inappropriate things in the other’s ear?

ksksks ALASDAIR. Unprovoked, for the fun of it (because he likes to watch Arthur get ruffled, likes peeving him off and provoking him; more than that does genuinely enjoy tempting him into a closet, and usually can).

Get a few drinks into Arthur though, and he's the one whispering filth into Alasdair's ear and letting his hands wander.

#anon #scoteng #chuffed to get scoteng asks thank you for keeping me going #hhhhhh i still have that wee ask about their first time from Jay i swear I'm not ignoring it I'm just #drowning in work #and trying to decide whether I want to answer with a 5k oneshot #that is currently only half-written and cannae finish proper until i hand in my work #or just a very very long ask that gives the deets away #and about that second kiss hhhhh Border Wars my beloved historical WIP that languishes in the dark

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tmae3114 · 3 years

Text

IT MAY HAVE GONE MIDNIGHT MY TIME BUT IT’S STILL HERO APPRECIATION DAY IN SOME TIMEZONE AND THEREFORE YOU GET THIS FIC I HAVE FINALLY FINISHED AFTER WORKING ON IT FOR A WHILE ON THE BEST DAY FOR POSTING IT

The position of this in the Book 3 timeline is ~nebulous~ but it’s sometime after the hero sees Warlic again for the first and before Warlic and Alexander started working together

trust in me (and I’ll trust you too)

For a moment, the words refuse to make sense. He knows what everything she just said means individually but those words put together in that order don’t make a coherent concept. Only for a moment. All too soon, clarity crashes on him like icy water down his spine.

“…you’re here to invite me to a party?”

Or: a hero and a mage have a conversation, trauma sucks, and actual age differences mean nothing in the face of Big Sister Instincts™

[AO3]

There is, for some yet-to-be-determined reason, an adventurer asleep on his couch.

Warlic pauses mid-step to contemplate this fact for a few moments, then realises that the cup of tea he forgot in the kitchen is going to keep going cold if he doesn’t return to hurrying to fetch it.

One severe disappointment in the form of a stone cold cup of tea and the necessary subsequent brewing of a replacement later, there continues to be an adventurer asleep on his couch. In full armour, no less. Even after all these years, he is no closer to understanding how that can possibly be comfortable, for all it never seems to bother her.

He sips his tea contemplatively, then clears his throat pointedly.

That prompts a stirring. Ro blinks up at him, looking for all the world like there is no reason at all to question her napping on his couch. She yawns widely, her jaw audibly popping, and stretches languidly in a very catlike way.

Then, in a movement that is all seal, she twists and flops sideways off of the couch.

“Hi, Warlic,” she greets from the floor, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Hello, Ro,” he replies, taking another sip of his tea. “I assume that Cysero let you in?”

“Mmhmm.”

There is no elaboration on that. She seems perfectly content to simply lie on the floor and wait for him to say or do something else.

He drinks more of his tea.

She tilts her head slightly.

His sigh is fonder than he’d care to admit.

“Not that I’m unhappy to see you,” he says, arching his visible eyebrow “But are you here for a reason?”

She clicks her tongue and twists in a way that is probably supposed to help her get upright but more strongly resembles a seal in the banana pose than anything else.

“I needed a nap and your tower is always so nice and quiet,” she says, voice cheerful and dry.

In the distance, something – hopefully on Cysero’s side of the tower – explodes.

Ro giggle-snorts as she leverages herself upright using the arm of the couch she rolled off of.

“Aye, awright, point taken!” she calls in the general direction of the explosion.

“A social visit, then?” Warlic prompts, hiding his smile behind the rim of his teacup. “You usually give advance warning for those.”

“Ehhh,” Ro replies, making a wobbly see-saw motion with one hand, halfway sitting on the arm of the couch now “Social with a purpose?”

“Do tell.”

“Artix is wanting to dae a thing,” she says, twirling one hand in a circle as though to encompass the incredibly vague concept of ‘a thing’ “Away out at the keep? Hanging out and having a meal and stuff, ‘cept he doesnae know who’ll be up for it. I-” here, she makes an overly dramatic gesture to herself, the fingers of one hand splayed over her heart “-volunteered tae come see if you lot-” a wide sweeping gesture, clearly meant to encompass the tower and its inhabitants “-were free and when, seeing as I’m popping ‘round t’see Cysero aw the time anyways,”

“…you’re here to invite me to a party?”

“I mean…” Ro leans back, one arm braced against the back, one ankle loosely slung over the other, casual and so, so at ease “Less a party and more just dinner wi’ friends but aye, thereabouts.”

Are you mad?

The words stick in his throat. His stomach twists painfully. Just as he vaguely begins to hope that it isn’t showing outwardly, that he’ll be able to excuse himself quickly and without a fuss, his tea betrays him by sloshing loudly over the side of the cup.

Ro is by his side in an instant, one hand whisking the cup away from him and the other winding around his back to support him by the opposite elbow, gently but firmly steering him to the couch. He is vaguely aware of a quiet narrative litany – “Woah, ‘kay, c’mere, let’s just-” – accompanying these actions, then he blinks and is sitting with his hands clasped in his lap, knuckles white and chest tight. He blinks again, once, twice, staring down at his hands, then up to look at the adventurer sitting at his side. The way that she meets and holds eye contact with him for a few moments more than gives away the worry lurking underneath the calm on her face. His cup of tea is no longer in her hands. A quick glance reveals it to be set down on a coaster on a side table.

“So,” Ro says, pulling his attention back to her “That was a reaction.”

The noise he makes in response to that is somewhere between a snort and a gasp.

“Do you realise,” he asks, voice trembling despite his best efforts “how dangerous what you suggested is?”

She leans a bit closer and rests one of her hands over his clasped ones. The cool metal of her gauntlet is almost grounding.

“It’s not,” she says. Just like the way she guided him to sit, her voice is both gentle and firm. Kind but unyielding. It’s the voice she uses for Heroics.

“It is, how can you not-”

“Ah, of course, silly me,” she interrupts, voice now completely flat. “How could I not have foreseen the incredible danger inherent in you leaving this tower for a few hours to spend some time with your friends. You’re right, that’s an absolutely mental idea. Whatever was I thinking.”

His breath shudders. A distant part of him notes that she seems to have switched from the casual mix of Common and her native tongue she favours in the company of friends to the – as she puts it, with air quotes, rolled eyes, and disdain – “more proper” Greenguardian dialect of Common that she uses for everything from strangers to snotty nobles; the one she uses to ensure she’ll be understood, for better or for worse. She almost certainly doesn’t realise that she’s done it. That distant part of him aches.

He takes another hitching breath.

“I don’t appreciate the sarcasm.”

“You weren’t supposed to.”

She sighs and shifts to face him more fully, tucking one leg up underneath herself as she sits sideways, and moving her other hand so that both of hers are covering both of his. It helps stop the shaking, a little bit.

“You’re scared. I get it. You’ve told me it wasn’t safe for you to leave before and I believe you. But it’s been years now, Warlic, and if it’s safe for me to come here, why isn’t it safe for you to leave, just for a little bit?”

Because it’s different. Because he could lose control at any moment but maybe here it could be contained. Because it’s his fault, all of it, Alex and Jaania and the Rose and-

Because that monster was a part of him, is inside of him still, and what if I-

Because-

“-I’m dangerous.”

Ah.

Oops.

The look that she gives him somehow manages to be drier than the Sandsea and utterly sympathetic at the same time. He has a feeling that he knows what she’s going to say next, can practically already hear it – So am I. We’re all dangerous, it comes with the territory.

He can see it in her face, begins preparing his counterargument.

“You’re not a threat, Warlic.”

Crystallised disbelief is, apparently, a noise and his vocal cords are capable of making it.

“You’re not.” She squeezes his hands. “You’re in control. You’re not Wargoth-” He flinches at the name, the one he’s only heard in his own thoughts for some time now “-and you’re in control. You are exactly as dangerous as you choose to be and not a whit more and I think I know you well enough to say that that amount is minimal.”

“You didn’t see,” he replies, quietly, staring past her head to trace the grain of the wooden beams in the wall behind her with his eyes “What it was like in the early days. What I was like when I was only just recovering.”

It’s a statement, not an accusation. They both know she would have been there, given the remotest choice. They both know she couldn’t be there. They both know why and who is to blame for it.

She flinches anyways.

It’s the Wargoth in him, Warlic thinks, that makes him be so cruel to a friend who is only trying to help.

Ro breaths in, holds it for a few seconds, then breathes out. She flexes her fingers where they rest across his clasped hands. The motion draws his focus back from the wall just in time to see something in her eyes go firm.

“Right,” she says, with the air of a decision made. “Palms up, in your lap.”

Before he can respond to that non-sequitur, she has swiftly, methodically, somehow still gently, pried his interlocking fingers apart and arranged his hands so that they are resting in his lap, one arm to a leg, palms up. He twitches his fingers a little, wincing at the stiffness in his knuckles after clasping them so tightly for so long.

“Now, close your eyes.”

“Ro, I-”

“Wheesht and dae it, Warlic.”

He closes his eyes.

There are several long moments filled with the sound of rummaging and rustling. She grumbles under her breath a couple of times – at one point, he hears a distinct “why do I even have that?” – and then makes a distinctly satisfied rumble that would be much more suited to her seal vocal cords than her human ones.

A beat after that, something heavy and so very soft is settled into his arms.

“’kay, you can open your eyes now.”

He doesn’t want to. His heart is pounding so wildly he half wonders if it’s visible from the outside. A part of him is desperately hoping that she’s just handed him a blanket, some sentimental symbol of comfort she hopes to share, maybe even something with childhood importance. Something, anything, like that.

The rest of him knows better.

Definitely not a blanket.

The noise he makes isn’t so much a vocalisation of her name as it is a plaintive cry made of vaguely similar sounds. His eyes snap to her in panic and-

-she’s smiling. He can tell not just by the way the outer corners of her eyes have tilted up but by the way he can just barely see her teeth because her mask is pooled around her neck and she’s smiling and she looks absolutely, utterly at ease and-

-and her sealskin is in his hands.

“I trust you,” she says, as thought that isn’t a completely redundant thing to say, as though she hasn’t just made herself impossibly vulnerable, hasn’t just- “I trust you, Warlic. Even if you can’t trust yourself right now, can you trust me? Trust my faith in you?”

The sealskin in his lap is thick and soft and warm. He’s bunched his hands in it, pulled his arms in a bit to hold it closer, without even realising he was doing so and he can’t quite convince himself to let go. He’s never seen it close enough to realise just how much the white-on-blue markings look like clouds before.

His heart pounds and his mind races. There are a million and one things that a mage of his strength and knowledge could do with a selkie’s coat and almost none of them are good. I trust you she says but how can she be anything but terrified in this moment, this moment where she has all but put herself into the worst horror stories of her people, how could she just hand this to him-

Wargoth enslaved people. He’d stolen them from themselves, reached in to grab the fire in their souls and twisted to chain them to his will, to turn them into puppets in his hands-

-and his friend has just unhesitatingly handed him the power to do it again. To do it to her.

“Warlic, hey, Warlic, look at me.”

Her hand is on his shoulder now and he turns to look, a million repetitions of the same question on his tongue – how can you…- and then she stands up.

She stands up and takes one step backwards.

A second.

A third.

She stops there, three paces away, smiling all the while.

“I trust you,” she repeats for the third time.

As his vision first blurs, then swims, Warlic finds himself thinking it’s a good thing that selkies live in the sea, it would be incredibly rude of me to give her coat water stains after a gesture like that. He takes one breath, then two, and then lets go.

Warlic bawls like a baby.

Ro returns to the couch, sitting close enough that their legs are pressed together, and starts rubbing circles on his back, between his shoulder blades.

It should feel ridiculous, with how much younger than him she is. He remembers when she had to look up just to look him in the face while he tried to convince her to take a nap, assuring her that the world wouldn’t end when she wasn’t looking if she took some time to rest. She’s grown a lot since then, he knows, but the number of years is such a drop in the ocean of those he’s lived that it feels like she must have barely aged at all. And yet, somehow, the rhythm of her comforting him as though he’s the child in the room doesn’t feel out of place at all. It just feels…

…safe.

Inevitably, he runs out of tears to cry. Ro wordlessly passes him a tissue to blow his nose, then another to wipe his eyes. He has no idea where she got them from, as there aren’t any nearby. He can’t remember the last time he cried like that. It feels… good, in a way, to have let it out.

When his breathing settles into a more sedate pace, Ro pats him on the shoulder.

“It’s okay to be scared, Warlic,” she says, voice quiet “You know that I know what it’s like to be scared of yourself. I get it. Just… don’t go letting your fear control you, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he breathes out “Yeah, okay.”

She shuffles aside a bit, giving him some space, but makes no movement to take her coat back. Not even an aborted grasp towards it, though he can see a line of tension beginning to form in her shoulders that she is clearly fighting.

…oh.

Oh. Of course. Trust. The whole point is trust.

He gathers her coat up in his arms, allowing himself just a moment to appreciate all that just being allowed to touch it would represent, let alone having the entire thing dropped in his lap, and passes it over to her.

“Thanks,” she says as she takes it from him, as though this is in any way a casual exchange. She slings it up and over her shoulders, settling it against her neck where the fur will rest against the few uncovered parts of her skin.

He nods, not entirely trusting his voice.

They sit in silence for a few moments and then she tilts her head to the side.

“So,” she says, drawing the vowel out, deliberately light-hearted, testing the waters “Artix’s thing?”

He thinks it over for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. Considers all of his reasons for saying no; considers the possibilities for saying yes. Thinks about keeping himself locked away where it’s safe; thinks about spending time with people again.

He takes a deep breath in, feels his lungs expand. He thinks about a time when, despite everything, he had trusted himself. Even if you can’t trust yourself right now, can you trust me? He breathes out.

He knows his answer.

“No,” he says, letting the syllable hang in the air for just a moment before turning to face Ro with a small smile “But tell him… maybe next time.”

#dragonfable #dragonfable fanfic #Hero Bhaltair #Warlic #hero appreciation day #it's important to me that you know that less than a minute before this fic begins #Warlic fully and entirely did the 'AGH MY /TEA!"/ thing #and yes I did put in some blink-and-you'll-miss-it language angst in there #bc that one book in the Libraseum is like 'some of these nursery rhymes were phonetically transcribed from lesser known dialects'#and then one of the parodies is A /SCOTS/ NURSERY RHYME #so as far as I'm concerned this particular issue Already Exists In Canon And I Have Proof

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eremiss · 3 years

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14. Commend

The auditoriums and ceremony halls of Ishgard are usually drafty and cold in Gwen’s experience --cold for her, anyway, but surely comfortable to everyone else-- but now it’s so packed as to be nearly sweltering. It’s stuffy, and not just because of all the nobles in attendance, and quiet enough to hear a pin-drop if not for the speaker, his magically amplified voice bouncing off the high ceilings and stone walls.

Gwen makes a concerted effort not to peer around for a chronometer, or ask Alphinaud how long they’ve been listening to the priest at the podium ramble on. He’s the first speaker and he’s been talking for what feels like ages, when she’d been promised that the ceremony was supposed to be quick.

But, by Ishgard standards, maybe this is quick.

Alphinaud is politely listening with the sort of composure that she can only hope to emulate, though every now and then Gwen catches a trace of discontent touching his features. Perhaps he’d expected things to move along a bit more quickly, too.

The two Scions are in attendance as a favor to Aymeric, otherwise they both likely would have found excuses to avoid the whole thing. She’s no stranger to requests for her presence at various functions and parties simply for the sake of the host getting to brag about the Warrior of Light being in attendance. She wasn’t exactly excited to attend a commendation ceremony for Ishgard’s heroes of the Dragonsong War, but Aymeric had asked and said it would do both him and those in attendance good to see their hero among them.

She still wasn’t entirely comfortable being ‘the hero,’ particularly with the War’s ending barely more than a moon behind them and her face and deeds still so fresh in everyone’s mind. They’d left the Fortemps manor early and had taken alleyways and side roads to reach the ceremony hall, and even then she’d been stopped so many times as to nearly make them late. Thankfully, Alphinaud is fully experienced in polite but firm exits and had help keep them from getting caught up for too long.

But it’s hard to say ‘no’ to such a simple request from a good friend. After all, it’s not as though she has to speak or participate beyond polite applause. And what’s so hard about sitting in a mildly comfortable chair for a few bells?

...Sitting still, mostly. It’s difficult not to fidget or doze, and it’s too quiet to have a background conversation. The stillness is uncomfortable, but she fights the urge to fidget in her seat and pick at her clothes, even as her thoughts wander and her hands itch to move.

He suddenly glances at her, smiling just slightly, and politely clears his throat.

Her knee is bouncing, and rather more vigorously than she thought. She plants her heel on the floor, embarrassment tugging her chin down slightly.

And then, finally, the man finishes speaking and steps aside with a bow. The crowd applauds politely as Aymeric steps up to the podium, thanking the priest for the enlightening words which Gwen caught none of. He casts his gaze around the gathered crowd, stopping on Gwen and Alphinaud.

The two of them offer encouraging smiles and small nods.

He doesn’t look outwardly relieved, but at the same time something about him seems to relax and loosen slightly. It wouldn’t do for the Lord Speaker to be anything less than poised during such a ceremony, but even the subtle sign of ease inspired by his friend’s presence is enough to make Gwen less annoyed about the priest’s rambling. He’s just as accustomed to addressing crowds as she is to fighting monsters, perhaps even moreso, but friendly faces are always a welcome sight nonetheless.

While Aymeric is just as capable of being loquacious as Alphinaud and the priest, perhaps he’ll have mercy and be brief.

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Commend - verb praise formally or officially present as suitable for approval or acceptance; recommend

The struggle continues lol. But I’m still managing to get stuff written!

When in doubt, complain about boring ceremonies lol. You KNOW Ishgardian ceremonies have got to be hella drawn out and boring.

#FFXIVWrite2021 #Guinevere Ashe #My writing #Ishgard #silly

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yandere-sins · 4 years

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It’s tough to be a god

Summary: “Disturbed, that's what you were. Disturbed by the people acting as if you weren't a living being anymore. No matter their love or devotion, no one wanted to see you for what you were, they just wanted to see the illusion they had of you as their god.”

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Rating: Explicit Characters: Reader (AFAB), Multiple unnamed characters (Villagers) Word-Count: 3615

Warnings: Blood, Non-Con, Yandere, Mistreatment, Mishandling, Gore, Degradation, Mentioning of Starvation

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a/n: Yay, I finished it! Yes, it was inspired by same-named song, though, as this is no happy-go-lucky story, it isn’t as chipper. Please proceed with caution reading this, and I’d love to hear what you thought, so please let me know! ♥ Enjoy!

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Chapter I

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't remember their face. Neither the shape of their nose nor the color of their eyes still remained in your brain. You didn't remember if they had big ears or long fingers, and you couldn't recall the name they had before they became 'It'. After twenty years of them gone, how could you possibly remember someone you maybe never truly looked at in the first place?

If you believed the tales, they had been a beautiful, young man. He didn't come from your village, wasn't born here, and never grew old in the huge walls of the palace the people only build for him. They used the last of their gold to make him a home, last of their silk to make robes for him, and they fed him the last of their corn. All of that, and much more, they sacrificed, just so he'd become what they desperately needed him to be.

A god.

Your people wanted nothing more than a deity that would reign over them. Who would make the harvests great, the rivers clean, and the people healthy. Considering that a couple dozens of those families had nothing to their own before their god arrived, it wasn't a surprise that they'd be seeking divine help to even make it through the day. You hadn't been born back then, but you knew first hand how hard it must have been for them.

This… god, he helped them. He made it rain, and he gave them instructions. In return, they kneeled at his feet every day, praising him, telling him about their sorrow and worries. He listened to them, helped them find a way to restart their lives and to become better than what they were before. The villagers settled on mud and barren land, and your town rose from the ground as if he had snipped his fingers to build it in a little under a night. Never again had your village known hunger or despair. There hadn't been a day that anyone suffered, no illness that managed to spread and destroy their happiness. It was pure bliss, and it was all thanks to their god.

Yes, you didn't remember him. At least, not entirely. Strangely enough, you remembered a time where he held you in his arms. And you knew it was him. You felt safe and sound as he hushed you, rocking you lightly, blessing you with his presence. No other feeling could compare to the one as you laid there, still a baby, just a few days old. You still heard his voice call your name, a sweet ringing sound, and the only other thing you could remember of this god.

But never would you be able to hear the sound again, as he vanished when you were only two years old. He vanished, and no one ever saw him again. And with him, everything that was good and well, disappeared too, leaving your village in ruin and dirt. You were a mere toddler then, you couldn't possibly have known anything about the world yet. But still, his voice haunted you in your sleep, when at two years old, you heard his scared whispers as you laid in bed, your parents thinking you were asleep.

"I need to leave."

"It's not safe."

"We need to go. All of us."

"Don't let them take the child away--"

Your memories got ripped off by the sound of a loud gong, the echo vibrating in your head. It was the usual signal, every day, at the end of every mass, every important event. To say it was making you sick, was an understatement. With always the same sound - and you heard it so much - you couldn't help but want to cry with how loud and obnoxious it was to you by now, years of its nuisance clogging your ears.

Even after all this time wearing them, the chains around your wrists and ankles were still too heavy, cutting into your flesh. The weights on the other ends were solid, placed in little molds on the ground so they wouldn't move. No matter the struggle, nor the strength you managed to bring up would even sway them. If not a strong warrior came, or the high priest with the keys, you wouldn't get out of them. They kept you in place on the throne; kept you seated well. You may have stopped the struggles months ago outwardly, but at the first chance of being free, you would have run, and everyone knew that.

Accompanied by the gushing 'Ah' and 'Oh' of the people kneeling before you, you lifted your gaze. Usually, your head hung low, the crown on top of your hair was of solid gold and as heavy as a stone crushing down into your skull. But you had to resist the urge to curl up even more into yourself, knowing this midday-mass was the only time you would be able to see your mother.

Scanning the area, you felt sick to the stomach as everyone looked at you. If you said only a word, they'd be drooling at your feet, eager for more. You were their everything. The cities most valued thing. All day long, you were on their minds, even if they weren't attending your holy presence. Even then, they would praise you at any given moment while they were living their lives peacefully, away from you. But to mass time, everyone was attending, no exceptions, no matter the age or gender. They hoped you'd bless them with your gaze, that their attention would gain your favor. Yet, you had no favors left to give them.

Finally, you spotted her. Your mother was a beauty, no one could ever come closer to how pretty she was. She had been a priestess to the god way before you were born because of her highly regarded wit and cleverness. And she had been in favor with everyone, because she was so forgiving and beautiful, like a rare, strong flower blooming between all the weeds that the village offered.

Even now, bruised and famished to her bones, to you, she was still the prettiest woman in the village. You were well aware that she wouldn't last much longer, but her attendance and the small smile she'd give back to you as you looked at her, gave you the tiniest sparks of hope. They were the only things worth living for anymore.

Oh, what had you pleaded and kissed the feet of the priests that they'd forgive her for trying to break you out? Take those chains off of you, and run with you? What all had you done to make them soften her sentence? Never in your life would you have endured the embarrassment and pain to be mishandled by these people if it wasn't for her. But, in the end, they never followed through with your wishes.

Wasn't it weird to deny their deity's wishes? It was almost like they wanted her to slowly wither away just so they wouldn't have to deal with a mother that wanted her child to be happy and free from the burden that had been shoved onto it. As if they knew that what they did was wrong, and yet, they didn't care as long as they had a god to worship, and NO ONE would take that away from them. Not even the god's own mother. If only she could have at least lived alongside you, that was your dearest wish.

You had just turned 20 when your life was turned around. Undoubtedly, ever since the god left your village, it had been rough for everyone involved. He had abandoned everyone - you and your mother included. The land turned barren once more, the rivers dried out, sickness spread quickly. It had been 18 long years of barely making it through the day, but living off of carrots and water that you fetched every day from miles away, you two had made it somehow, no matter how hard and endless the days seemed.

That was until you cut yourself in the hand while working on the fields.

And from your blood, which fell to the ground, a flower rose, red like blood and big as your hand. And another, and another, just as long as your blood dripped into the ground. On your twentieth birthday, a long, painful life laid behind you, but no more. You discovered why the god talked about leaving when you were merely two years old, in a matter of hours, which you wished you had never have to experience.

Because not only you discovered your 'power', but everyone in the village did. Someone on the field next to you ran to get the next best priest they could find, and he inspected you right then and there, his robes sullied by the earth he had to cross to get to you. You remembered the look on his face, the hitch in his voice before he fell to his knees, bowed his head to you, and so did everyone else under his shouts of submission.

The priest took you away from your part of the town, without even letting you say goodbye to your mother. You wouldn't see for a long time after that, but you didn't know as you stumbled after him. Never had someone touched you so roughly, his hand on your wrist as tight as the fear of losing you was. You remembered stumbling, falling a few times, your shins cut open by little stones and branches. But where your blood touched, new life sprouted, and a path of fresh green followed you as you were taken to the holiest place your village had to offer.

He took you from the fields to the palace of gold, the old home of the god they worshipped. Never before had you seen so much gleam and glamour, only the priests being allowed to go to this place still after it was abandoned by the most holy. People were cleaning and scrubbing everything before you even arrived. They all looked at you in awe as you finally got dragged through the door, cheering and bowing to you.

They already saw something in you that you had yet to discover. Being cleaned and put in silk, you felt embarrassed by all the people watching you, giggling and merrily touching you up and down. There was no way you could have ignored the dreadful feeling as you were pushed and directed to an ancient stone table in the back of the palace, engravings carved into it in a language you didn't know. But despite your anxiety, you did what the people of your village instructed you to - the same people you were supposed to trust and bond together with.

Now, two years later, all you remember from that day was the pain. The terrible pain as they let you bleed out on top of the stone, collecting your blood and distributing it everywhere. You thought you'd die then and there, but you didn't, even though the altar was stained by your extremities. You couldn't. Gods cannot die.

Since then, you never had taken a bath alone anymore. You had been placed under constant supervision from the moment you woke up after being milked for your blood. There were eyes on you even when you slept, when you ate, when you studied ancient scrolls you couldn't even read. No one would let you slip out for even a second, let you get a breather alone on the balcony. It didn't help that you tried to run in the first few months of being announced god, tried to jump out the window to end this misery only when you realized you couldn't escape from them. It only made them more careful and suspicious of you. But despite their sideglances and whispers, they still crowned and put you in golden shackles. They put you on the throne of your people and called you 'God', and you had no opportunities to object.

Because it was who you were, a child of a god. A god.

Before that, no one had batted an eye at your dirty form, muddled by the filth of the fields, and clothed in ruined clothes. You weren't a candidate for marriage to anyone, and you were called 'stupid' and 'useless' more than thanked for the hard work you did every day. You were no one and nothing, and it had been okay. You and your mom alone had been everything your mind had been thinking about anyhow. It didn't matter if they called you a 'bastard', and it didn't bother you to be the least welcome person to any festivity. Your mother, too, was an outcast, so you two just stuck together as much as it was needed.

If you looked at yourself in the mirrors these days, you didn't see a god. You still saw the same young person that stood on the fields with their hands in the dirt to get the vegetables out of the mud. You saw the person making soup for their sickly mother. You saw yourself. But that wasn't what everyone else saw by now. They saw their god, their deity. The thing they'd have to worship, so their lives were full and splendid - that's what they saw. You had transcended the stage of being called a person, and you had to agree.

It had been forever that you felt alive too.

Some part of you must have died on the altar on that day. You were sure of it. The feeling of their knives cutting open, so you'd give them more of the precious blood that would make the land healthy again, still haunted you when you thought about it. But the next day, your body had been whole again, no bruise, no cut, no scar. And that's when they knew you had the genes of your father. Your father, the god.

You didn't even know why your mother never told you about it. Maybe, she tried to forget. Perhaps she knew what he had gone through - the same you were now. Just maybe, that was why she wanted to keep you from it as long as she could. She must have been glad that by 20, you still hadn't shown any signs, completely forgetting about it. If only she hadn't. If only she would have gone with him back when he pleaded for her to leave together. Then maybe you wouldn't have needed to end up as miserable as you were.

But it wasn't her fault, and neither was it yours.

As much as you wanted to blame your father, after being under the attentive eyes of the priesthood for two years, you couldn't find it in your heart to be angry at him anymore. At first, you had screamed and cursed him, but now you understood. If he felt the same as you did now - miserable, lonely, wishing for your death rather than your life - then you understood him. Even if you wished he had been more insistent on leaving with your mother, or at least taken you with him, who were you to judge him, feeling his sorrow more than anyone ever could?

But you didn't have the strength to ponder. You were tired from not sleeping as you were always surrounded by ten people staring at your uncomfortable form lying in bed. You were in pain from your shackles, your crown, the heavy jewelry around your neck. Jewels, laced into gold that made for nothing but a beautiful sight, even if they felt like the most expensive cut to your throat. You were embarrassed by the lack of privacy, not remembering the last time you had taken a bath anymore without dozens of hands washing you. And you lacked the nutritions, from not eating off their elegant plates full of every fruit, vegetable, and meat that you could have only dreamed of growing up. But you just couldn't bring yourself to eat any of it, knowing it was nothing but the fruit of your own blood.

Disturbed, that's what you were. Disturbed by the people acting as if you weren't a living being anymore. No matter their love or devotion, no one wanted to see you for what you were, they just wanted to see the illusion they had of you as their god. You should have been at the top of the village, but really, you were at the bottom. The producer of fertilizer for their best lives, you had to bear the pain for their sake, without anyone asking if you wanted that even.

The most disgusting thing, though, were the expectations. You were expected to bring the people good. You were expected to put all your life aside just to serve them. You were expected to put up with anything and everything if it meant to be a good god to them. But at what cost? Your life? Your humanity? Your dignity?

There was no other explanation than expectations, as to why it would be necessary for you to be strapped to a bed regularly, people undressing you, themselves, with their eyes shining in the darkness. The sights of naked skin, paired with the feeling of greedy fingers was something that would forever haunt you.

"We are not doing this for fun," they'd say. "It's an honor."

"It's nothing but necessary."

"Sacrifices must be made."

They called themselves the elite. The purest of the pure. The servants to their god.

But they were nothing but pigs. Ugly, disgusting pigs. No god would ever forgive them for the sins against you. You would never forgive them for sweating, moaning, saying your name in delight. The only time they let the formalities fall was to ask you how good you felt as they all towered over you. And suddenly, you were nothing again - no god, just the same, dirty person, as you were back on the streets. No, now you were less. You were a glorified whore, covered in white dirt, instead of the common brown one. There was no such thing as love or affection when they rammed you into the bedsheets mercilessly, despite your screams and tears.

The only joy you had was when one of them clasped their hand over your mouth, unable to stay aroused with someone wailing about wanting to go home to their mother and how much it hurt. You bit off his ring finger, without hesitation. No one knew how you did it, but divine wrath was a pretty excuse to leave you alone for the rest of the day. That priest never got his finger back, and it was your only meaningful achievement since you were theirs. Afterwards, you were treated even worse than cattle, gagged and blindfolded, turned onto your stomach so you couldn't do something like this again.

If there was anything good in your life, any hope for a god still watching over you being mistreated like this, it was never getting pregnant from the amounts of semen the left you with. That was what the priests wanted: For you to produce more god-spawn, secure the bloodline. They never wanted to go back to the dread of being without a god; in the rare case, you did run away or died. But from the first time someone had his way with you, you swore you wouldn't let them have this. You wouldn't let someone else take your place after you. This wouldn't continue with another miserable, innocent life destroyed like they had with your father's and yours.

"You can rot for all I care," you sighed longingly, the mass finally ending. It was what the villagers wanted, right? You, talking to them, letting them hear your divine voice. Collective gasps ran through rows of people, with children starting to cry when they saw their parent's horrified expressions. From your lowered gaze, you couldn't see the red heads of the priests, upset about their deity's words. But they didn't take long to make you feel their wrath. The people's wrath, even.

Everyone got ushered out of the temple as you were dragged over the floor, blood gushing from the cuffs cutting into every limb. The sound of metal filled the halls as your crown plummeted to the marble, as did your head, a terrible crack hitting your ears. They had no restrains on themselves as they carried you away, limbs cracking as the weights held you back. All despite you never resisting their demand to get you back to 'your' chambers. But no one could relieve you of the burden that was your life, no guard rushing to get the weights, not your mom having to watch her child being mishandled and bathed in its own blood, none of your handmaiden that cowered in fear of more divine punishment.

By the time you woke up again from your torture, painfully aware of the reality, the people of your village had collected at your feet once more, everyone bringing presents of food and wine, jewels, and flowers.

Thinking that all that you were going through was going to be solved by worshipping you more. By loving you in an unhealthy way, and by allowing to have their lives bound to one being, innocent of their delusions and things they swept under the rug. They did all this and more if only to gain your favor, and to have your attention on them as if you were something special.

All just for the sake of you loving them back someday as the god they wanted you to be.

#god!reader #yandere!village #yandere #yandere x reader #Yandere Tw #yandere scenarios #yandere headcanons #yandere fanfiction #yandere imagines #yandere x darling #lemon

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