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nackrosor · 10 months

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~Magic Hands~

𝓢𝓲𝓶𝓸𝓷 '𝓖𝓱𝓸𝓼𝓽' 𝓡𝓲𝓵𝓮𝔂 𝔁 𝓢𝓮𝓻𝓰𝓮𝓪𝓷𝓽!𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

warnings/tags: smut, massage, hurt/comfort, female receiving, v. fingering, soft Ghost, romantic tension, the room is packed with your mates so you have to keep quiet hehe

synopsis: in the aftermath of a rough mission, you find yourself unable to fall asleep due to muscle aches. Your Lieutenant offers to help you release the tension by giving you a massage, which escalates rather quickly.

word count: 4,1k.

[a/n: finally writing for my man Ghost and I'm quite proud of how this first story turned out. Now I'm curious to know what you think of it! Also, this wasn't beta-read so if there's any typo/grammatical error, let me know. Alright, enjoyyyyy 🌶️✨💀]

"You can't sleep?"

Ghost's deep hushed voice coming from somewhere behind you makes you turn in your bedroll. The room is nearly pitch black, with only a sliver of moonlight streaming in through the half-closed window, yet providing enough light to make your close surroundings visible. Therefore, when you turn around, you can see Ghost sitting on the floor a few feet away from you, his back to the stone wall, arms crossed over his chest and legs stretched straight in front of him. The thin dark gray t-shirt, paired with the intense chiaroscuro that imbues the room, highlights the outline of his massive biceps. Your eyes linger on his arms before they meet his, which twinkle slightly as they capture the moonshine.

"You neither?"

He hums in response.

A weary sigh escapes you as you sprawl on your back, hand flying to the nape of your neck, where the muscles tug and burn. You feel like a wreck. You knew today’s operation would have been rough, even more than the last ones and you were prepared for it, you had trained so hard for months. You've risked your own skin multiple times during the offensive, although in the end you got away with only a scratch or two; nothing major. You were still high on adrenaline as you made it back to the base camp -a dilapidated temporary facility in the middle of a thick forest- and you were even rather impressed of yourself for having handled it all so well… until fatigue came crushing on you like a double-decker bus, almost knocking you to your knees and you felt the magnitude of the efforts made in all its gravity. You tried to mask it as you dined with your brothers in arms, a scarce sorry meal that didn’t even quench a third of your appetite, then instantly dragged your 200 pounds heavier than normal legs to the storage room adapted for sleeping and flopped down on your bed roll. You thought the ache would pass, that you only needed to lie down and let your limbs rest but it has already been three or four hours since then and you haven’t been able to close your eyes not even once.

"Everything aches so much. I might have strained a muscle or something. Possibly all of them."

Ghost hums again in understanding. A moment of silence follows; silence only interrupted by the rhythmic snoring of your mates, laying in their bedrolls all around you in the tiny room.

"Come here."

Your head snaps up.

"Uh?"

"You heard me. We need to do something about those sore muscles. Can't allow them to get in the way of the mission tomorrow."

You look questioningly at him, eyes roaming over his masked face, as if expecting to be able to read his intentions. What can he do for you? The same as he can do for himself, which is pretty much nothing; he’ll give you a pat on the back and tell you to suck it up. If only there was a medic in the facility, you could have asked for an injection to ease the tension in your body but alas, you're on your own down here, equipped with no instant medication other than a pack of analgesics reserved for battle and a pain drug; but there's no way you'd take one on a night before a mission and risk waking up as a zombie in the morning.

You’d have to wait for a proper medical treatment when you’re out of this hell, assuming you’re still in one piece by then.

“We don’t have all night, Sergeant.”

Ugh, using your title, of course. It can only mean the Lieutenant won’t accept a refusal from you. And who are you to refuse anyway? Just a lower soldier in pain; nothing special about you.

Even though you are still perplexed about his intentions, you scoot toward him, crawling silently so as to not wake up the others. Fortunately you don’t have to step on someone’s lying body to reach your superior.

He spreads his legs to give you room to get closer and you swallow the thrill that inflames your body at the sight of that big hunk of a man welcoming you in his lap. This is not the time to give in to such fantasies. Nor there will ever be. Hard truth.

Ghost’s fingers masterly find the waistband of your cargo trousers and tug at it to make you slide closer.

"Turn around."

His commanding voice compels you to do as he says without question. There's no room for hesitation when he employs that tone; you must obey his directives, whether you're on the field on a mission or killing time at the HQ. Nobody can stand up to it, least of all you.

You’re barely able to suppress a gasp when you feel his huge hands take hold of your hips and settle you between his thighs, your back colliding with his firm chest. You can't, however, physically stop the shiver that runs down your spine as his palms climb up your sides, sliding upward over your back, causing you to bend slightly forward as he reaches your shoulders. There, he begins to knead your muscles carefully, knowing where to apply more pressure and where to let the tip of his fingers do most of the work.

You’re too stunned to speak. Never in a million years you would have guessed this is what he had in mind to do to help you. Ghost, your Lieutenant, has his hands on you, in a room full of fellow soldiers, in the middle of the night while you are on duty. What crazy-ass dream is this?

"Ghost-," you shudder, his hands working on a particularly sore spot, "a m-massage, seriously?"

“What?”

“They only make things worse-”

While having Ghost do it is a whole new experience for you, you've received your fair share of massages, both throughout your years of training and after you became a special agent and they never seemed to work on you. They always left you in more pain than you were in before. You could have blamed it on the medic if only you hadn’t changed so many during the past years; they couldn't all have been incompetent, could they?

"You never got one from me, innit? They don't call me magic hands for nothing."

You frown, throwing him a sideway glance over your shoulder.

"Nobody calls you that."

You hear him huff and your head is forced back to face straight by a firm nudge.

As strange and unexpected as it may seem, you must admit that his hands are truly doing Lord’s work against your shoulders, easing your tensed muscles and relieving some pain, so much so that you find yourself closing your eyes and taking a deep breath.

"See? Just relax."

His hands scoot lower, sliding down your back and sides, resting just above your bum. The warmth of his palms rubbing that sore area in circular motions sends more shivers up your spine. In his ascent back up, he pays attention to the tensed muscles of your arms, thumbs kneading deep into them and then finally, he goes back to your neck. Your breath catches at the feeling of his strong hands wrapping around it. His firm touch appears to arouse something primal within you. You can feel heat pooling in your core right away.

"Fucking hell. Your neck is rock hard."

He increases the pressure, rubbing the skin and working on the knots. His thumbs slide up and down your larynx, matching the movement of his other fingers on the nape. Your head bends backward on its own, landing on his chest.

Ghost hums again, appreciatively.

"You liking it?"

"Y-yes, sir-"

His chest shakes softly against your back, a light rumble coming from his throat.

"Good girl."

You bite back a gasp. Those hushed words only add to the growing ache between your legs. The massage is clearly starting to turn you on and you feel… conflicted. You know you shouldn’t let his skillful touch, nor his raspy voice whispering so close to your ear or the warmth of his chest pressed against your back affect you so much. However, you are basically caged in his lap, how are you supposed to not let that cloud your judgment? To not allow your fantasies to run wild in your head? Yes, you’re strong, but… not that strong. You can’t possibly stop your body from reacting so naturally to all of these overwhelming sensations. Especially when you’re so touch-starved, and having Ghost being the one to indulge your craving doesn’t help in the slightest.

" Mh, you're tensing up again."

Ghost swiftly resumes working on your back, placing the palm of each hand on either side of your spine and working his way up, keeping his hands parallel to one another. When he reaches the top of your back, he fans his hands outwards across the shoulders, as if outlining the top of a heart. Using a kneading motion, he returns to the lower of your back to work the large muscles on either side of your spine then presses his fingertips firmly into your flesh before quickly releasing as he works his way up. The constant pressing and releasing sends your spine tingling and you fail to hold back a moan.

“Yes. Don’t fight it.”

If only he knew what you were actually fighting against. How can the tension leave your body if his touch and his closeness and his voice are all working so hard together to make you tense up all the more?

You feel his hands close into fists and his knuckles start to rub gently but firmly across the tops of your shoulders and then glide down your biceps, the inner part of your arms, the side of your chest...

Inadvertently, your body jerks at the new sensation, and his hand accidentally brushes up against your breast, fingers knocking into the slight bulge in your top caused by your aroused nipple. You stifle the moan that erupts from your throat by biting your bottom lip hard, your body stiffening instantaneously.

Silence falls into the room, coating it in tension; your mates are not even snoring anymore. You don’t dare to move a muscle, you can barely keep your ragged breathing under control.

Has he noticed? Does he realize what has just happened? It’s so dark in here and it all happened so quickly, he may have no idea what he has just touched, he may have not caught the lewd sound that came out of your mouth, either. Your body has tensed so much, however, that your reaction must have caught his attention. Any doubt goes out the window when you feel his hands retract and his body shift uncomfortably behind you.

Well, fuck it . You just had to make it awkward, didn’t you? For both of you! How embarrassing. He will look at you and treat you differently from now on, you know it already. You're soldiers, for god’s sake! You're professionals! And he’s your superior! These things shouldn’t happen! They should stay out of work. And to think that you've managed to get this far, despite Ghost's strong magnetic pull on you since the first time you saw him... You’ve hidden your emotions so well for months. But unfortunately, no matter how hard you try and succeed at hiding it, you can’t really control your body and how it reacts to his presence, touch, or gaze. This was bound to happen sooner or later, as much as you prayed it wouldn’t. Besides, how could you have even imagined you would find yourself in such a crazy situation at one point? Working with him every day, getting very physical on the field and still keeping your emotions at bay was already enough to drive you insane. There was no way you could have handled this and came out victorious.

But perhaps you could still salvage this somehow, or at the very least escape the horrible truth-spilling conversation that awaits you. Yes, it is possible. You simply need to get the hell away from Ghost, crawl back to your bedroll, attempt to sleep it off, and put the burden aside to deal with it another day. Easier said than done.

Your hands fumble around you, hoping to meet the cold tiles of the floor -rather than those god-like legs stretched at either side of you- and you bend forward in an attempt to hoist yourself up.

“A-alright, this has been nice-”

A steel-strong arm snakes around your middle and forcefully pulls you back. You gasp as your spine collides with his chest once more.

Now that you're pressed up against him, even closer than you were before, you can feel his bulge against your lower back and your mouth goes dry.

"Ghost-", your voice comes out in a loud, unsteady squick and he instantly hushes you, tightening the grip around your waist.

You feel his hot breath caress your ear even through the balaclava. “We’re not done here, yet.”

His hands start to travel up and down your body once again, bolder this time, skimming over areas he hasn't touched before. The hand wrapped around your middle slips under your tank top, fondling the smooth flesh at your side as it raises, leaving a trail of goosebumps on your skin, until it reaches the upper area of your stomach. There, his fingertips tease the lower curve of your breast from above the fabric of your sports bra. Your breath catches again but you don't dare to move. He holds his palm there for a long minute.

Is he testing you? Is he messing with you? Is he silently asking for permission to move forward? The affirmative guttural sound that rewards you as you finally throw your morals out the window and boldly place your hand over his and tug it upwards, sweeps away any doubt. His big hand instantly covers your whole breast, groping it gently at first then squeezing it decisively. His other hand comes to match the motion as they both slide inside the cups and fondle your soft sensitive flesh before turning the focus onto your erect nipples, causing you to arch your back forward and shiver.

“Is this-”, your voice catches in your throat as his fingers pinch your nipples hard, lips squeezing together to muffle a groan, “-why they call you magic hands ?”

You feel a light chuckle rumble in his chest and against your back.

“You catch up real quick, Sergeant…”, he whispers in your ear in that gravelly voice that makes you squirm, “...but you don’t know the half of it.” And as if on cue, one of his hands sneaks out of your tank top and slides down your stomach, skimming over the inseam of your pants and resting on your crotch, causing a warmth to spread from deep within your stomach. Two fingers push against your core, suggestively and your heart races. Your breaths are ragged in anticipation.

“Bet you’re desperate to find out, innit?”

You don’t even realize you’re nodding in response until you feel him huff a laugh through his nose, blowing cool air right next to your ear.

"Curiosity killed the cat, didn't you hear?"

His palm rubs against your crotch up and down a few times before giving it a firm squeeze.

You suck in air through your teeth and your hand lands on his thigh at your side, fingers dipping in his firm muscle.

" Please -"

You're not sure what you're even begging him for, your mind dazed with desire, and all you can focus on is the heady sensation of having his warm palm rest so close to your aching cunt but still denying you the touch you desperately crave for.

Ghost doesn't need you to say anything, he clearly knows what you're pleading for and he makes quick work of unzipping your pants before sliding his hand inside. His eager fingers meet your panties which are, unsurprisingly, already soaked; a small detail that he seems to appreciate greatly. He runs his digits over the wet patch on the fabric, eliciting a loud moan from you.

An abrupt stirring sound freezes you and your head snaps up, heart jumping in your throat, while your eyes dart across the room expecting to meet the shocked expression of one of your brothers. The thought of having been spotted however doesn't seem to stop Ghost from pushing his fingers beneath the damp fabric of your undies. You don't have time to still the violent beating of your heart as he begins to circle his way through your folds, instantly drawing back your whole attention. A harsh whine crawls up your throat when the pad of his finger meets your clitoris and his free hand immediately moves to cover your mouth. His clad lips suddenly draw close to your ear, skin tingling at the contact.

"You don't want to wake up the boys, do you, kitten?"

You shake your head profusely and he hums softly.

"Thought so."

You suppress the cries of pleasure that he provokes by rubbing his fingers up and down over your slit in a slow intoxicating way, your hips shaking with each swipe. He presses his forearm against your stomach to hold your body still, squeezing you closer to him as a result.

You wince as you hear it; the wet sound of your desire seems to be the only noise in the otherwise silent room and it only grows louder when Ghost teases your entrance, rubbing his pads around it before easily pushing two fingers inside. You screw your eyes shut and throw your head back against his chest. As he thrusts inside you in a steady rhythm, he presses his palm on your most sensitive part, and drags his hand in a firm circle against it. The feeling is dizzying and it sends lightning jolting through you.

Ghost's hand leaves your mouth to grab your inner thigh and push it over his adjacent knee, spreading your legs wide apart to gain better access to your core and thus shove his fingers deeper inside you. In fact, his next thrust perfectly hits that sacred spot buried deep between your walls and you grasp a fist of his t-shirt and pull it against your lips to muffle your whimpers, while your other hand tugs firmly at his tensed arm lying on your stomach.

You are close, so close. You can feel the heat in your gut begin to bubble and spread, scorching and hair-raising, to the rest of your quivering body. Ghost too seems to notice by the way you tuck into him and clutch at his arm as if it’s the only thing keeping you grounded, your safe anchor. His fingers grab your chin and angle your head so that your eyes meet.

His eyes… his big eyes. The only visible part of his face, the only part you are allowed to lay your gaze on and let it linger. And oh, how beautiful they are. Especially now, glinting with moonshine and looking down at you with a special twinkle which you can’t quite decipher but that makes your heart swell.

You prompt yourself up in a daze, just enough to cup his cheek and pull him down to meet you in a quite unorthodox kiss. You press your lips desperately to his mask, just above his own and you feel them twitch at the contact, responding to the kiss only a moment later.

You stay like that while his hand still works against you, faster and sloppier but hitting you perfectly with each push. You keep your lips glued to his as the coiling pleasure in your belly finally snaps, a heady wave of pleasure washes over you and makes your body jerk uncontrollably. Your cries are muffled by the fabric of his mask, even more so when his hand cups the back of your neck and presses you harder against him. He continues to slowly dip his fingers inside your fluttering walls then litter your small bundle of nerves with a few more soft teasing caresses all the while subsiding your spasms with his strong embrace.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, your chest heaving hard, heart still racing and legs still shaking when his hand slips out of your pants and you pull back. You let your head rest on his chest as you take a deep long breath. Almost instantly a subdued ruffle of fabrics strikes your ear and you can feel a cool breath blowing on your neck before a pair of soft damp lips meet your boiling skin. You bite your lips at the shiver-inducing sensation; it feels like a vital secret shared in utmost confidence and you don’t dare break the touching moment until his lips retreat and the mask is safely put back on. Only then you chance a look up through a heavy-lidded gaze and you meet his beautiful eyes again, which in turn watch your reactions with a hazy, adoring gaze. All is forgotten; the packed room, the initial conflict you felt, the aching muscles… The only thing you can focus on is the tingling sensation abandoning your body, leaving the way to the heartening warmth of his embrace and gaze.

“Ghost-”

“Simon.”

You gulp, nodding feebly as you reverently search his eyes.

“Simon…”

Saying his name feels strange but also… meaningful. Like uttering a magic word or being handed the sole key that unlocks the armored door that keeps the treasure safe; treasure so priceless and vulnerable that only a few trusted people are allowed to take a glimpse at it.

“I’m-” you fail to find the words, mind dazed and heart hammering in your chest, “that was…”

“Kitten got more than she bargained for.”

You catch an amused hint in his voice and even if you can’t see it, you’re certain there is a smile tugging at his lips, for the corner of his eyes curl up slightly.

“I take it the massage didn't make things worse after all?”

"Well…", you shift in his embrace, turning to face him with a sheepish grin, "that was some effective massage, alright."

You prompt yourself up and reading your intentions he closes his legs to let you settle on his lap, your knees resting on either side of his hips. His eyes never leave yours as you lean up, arms latching around his neck.

"Nothing aches anymore thanks to you…", you grind your hips slowly down against his, relishing in the sound of his heavy breathing picking up, "...but maybe it's you now who is in need of a release ?" You bite your lip at the rousing feeling of his throbbing bulge rubbing against your still sensitive center, as well as at the rare thrilling satisfaction of seeing him crane his head slightly up to look at you.

His hands descend on your hips, fingers almost painfully gripping the flesh, causing you to groan.

"I wouldn't mind it one bit kitten, believe me…", his lust-clouded eyes rake over your body. You see him swallow hard as he glances down where your hips meet and a long breath escapes his lips. His gaze then trails back up, savoring every inch of you, until it finally locks with yours once again. "But you should hit the sack now."

Disappointment shows plainly on your face.

"But-"

"Besides, I'm on second watch tonight."

"T-That’s good! I can sneak out to keep you company. I'm not sleepy! Even less now than before. We can-"

" Negative .” His tone is peremptory and it shuts you up at once. “And don’t fret. You’ll be asleep before your head hits the mat.”

" But -"

His hands slide up your sides and squeeze your waist, pulling you down to sit on his thighs and hold you at eye level.

"We're taking a rain check, Sergeant."

The title again. His words are final, then.

A huge sigh escapes you and you nod at last. Reluctantly, you climb out of his lap, his hands following your every movement to support you. Before you stand on your feet and turn around, you chance one last look at him. Your heart swells as you meet once more his big beautiful eyes which look at you so gently, so wistfully… you think you can catch the promise behind them.

"Don't you dare die tomorrow, Simon."

The corners of his eyes curl up again.

"Surely not on your watch, Kitten."

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

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ñuhus prūmӯs (my heart) │Chapter 12: Dynasty

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Childbirth is the duty and dismay of all highborn women. Together, you and Daemon experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of expectant parenthood. You stand your ground.

(Set post-episode 7, though Daemon never married Laena or Rhaenyra.)

Thank you to my slap daddy @ewanmitchellcrumbs for editing this monster! Thank you also to @evisnotok, @connorsui and @ajthefujoshi for holding my hand throughout the drafting, teehee!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, dysfunctional family dynamics, brief reference to gore, brief reference to graphic child murder.

It’s been weeks, he seethes as he follows you back to the Keep, and those two fucks couldn’t even bother sending a raven to mark the deed as done? For his decrepit brother to bring the news before the cutthroats themselves…

Daemon reminds himself that it’s likely neither man had ever learned his letters. Nor had he extracted a vow through which he could come to expect confirmation of the slaying. He curses the oversight. How in the hells had he expected to discover if his target was successfully slaughtered without an adequate means of communication? Fucking lackwit.

You maintain as stony a silence as he while stalking your way up the path, past the Garden, through the heavy stone doors etched into the base of the fortress and along the halls of your island home. It is as though the varied aches and pains of childbirth have fled your body entirely, such is the stiffness of your disposition and the chilly wrath that chokes the air around you. The babes, foisted on that plain milk sow—Fredda? Freya? who knows, or cares for that matter—squawk with outrage as they are rattled about in her arms, assuredly disgusted by such indelicate management.

Good. He’d hate for his heirs to willingly submit to ill treatment by lesser hands.

Cargyll is escorting you all to the Chamber of the Painted Table, or so he surmises. There’s little else to be found in this direction. The stairs that wind up and up and up from the Great Hall lead to apartments and the relics of Aegon’s Conquest from long ago. You wave away his every attempt to assist you in climbing the steps, fresh from childbed as you are. He notes with some concern each wince and gasping breath, each press of hand to your side or to your belly like you are trying to hold the fractured parts of yourself together for just a little longer. By the time your party reaches the top of the tower, even he is winded. Too damn young to feel so old, his thoughts protest.

The doors creak open with a resounding echo as his foot meets the landing, the solid mass of Breakbones thumping through the parting of wood with heavy stomps. He pauses when he sees Daemon, a tempest raging across the terrain of his face. His fists ball up at his sides even as he remains stock-still.

Shit.

Daemon takes careful note of his surroundings—the lit torches mounted on the walls, the winding carvings of dragons etched into the rock around the window, the widening of the stairway as it approaches the open hall outside the Chamber—and assesses Strong, waiting for any indication that he will strike. He wouldn’t blame the man if he did. Larys might have been a treasonous viper and a cunt, but he was Harwin’s brother. No, he wouldn’t blame him. But neither will he allow him to attack without putting up a fight of his own.

A pale hand settles on Harwin’s arm. Rhaenyra moves out from behind him, communing wordlessly to her lover with solemn eyes and thin-pressed lips, a subtle shake of the head. The man huffs, working his jaw. Then, with an abrupt lurch, he storms past, deliberately avoiding Daemon as he marches down, down, down the stairs. Each footfall resounds with a dull thump, fainter and fainter.

She turns to Daemon. “With all this time having passed”—his eldest niece hisses as she steps forward to remonstrate him, though her attempt at privacy is utterly lost in the resonant composition of the space—“and you never once thought to tell me you’d ordered the man’s death?”

He glances at you. With a carefully blank expression, you’ve turned away to dandle at the babes in the wetnurse’s arms, tiny fists clenching onto outstretched fingers. You murmur in low tones to your companion, making it clear that you have no intention of participating in the conversation taking place. He knows not what you think of the revelation.

“You would have counselled caution,” he says, never once taking his eyes off you. She blusters in annoyance, but he hardly cares. A cold wash of triumph suffuses the very air he breathes, almost as though it is a tangible flavour collected on the tongue. They’ve done it. The traitor is dead. You are safe now, you and Rhaenar and Aelys. “I’ll not apologise for the deed. He deserved it.”

Rhaenyra sighs. “I know. But… Harwin—” She stops, shaking her head. “Never mind. The King is waiting. He is—most displeased.”

Daemon grunts. “When is he not?”

Her responding smile is wan. She nods her farewell in grave ceremony, sidestepping him and venturing to you. Reaching a hand forth to glide across the feather-fluff softness of each babe’s head, she presses a single, wordless peck of dry lips to your cheek before following her vexed paramour’s path down at a much more sedate pace, slippers barely to be heard on the stone steps.

Daemon’s pulse rumbles in his ears as he enters the Chamber with you and your attendants in tow. He knows most perceive him as someone who enjoys riling the King; but, in truth, he does not take pleasure in this. He never has, though he is by nature one who creates chaos wherever he walks, a blight upon the earth. It is his curse to crave approval from Viserys, even now that age and circumstance have elevated him so by comparison. He will forever be a little boy begging for scraps of his brother’s love, never to be satisfied.

Viserys sits at the head of the table, distinctly out of place. King’s Landing may be the epicentre of Targaryen power, but it is here at Dragonstone that the true vestiges of Old Valyria remain. Draconic, ominous, almost savage—it does not suit a man so affable, indecisive, common as Viserys.

“Brother,” Daemon says, stopping at the edge of the Painted Table opposite the King.

Viserys makes no attempt at greeting, nor any other movement. He simply continues staring at Daemon with a frigid countenance, purple eyes glinting like cracked ice in weak sunlight, dangerous and jagged. An excellent beginning.

Daemon doesn’t bother genuflecting. The concession would be pointless. Still, the King appears to take notice, jaw clenching faintly at the slight.

“I believe you summoned me,” he adds with an air of insolence, testing, needling. Silence in return. He lets his next statement hang. “If His Grace has forgotten the purpose…”

Viserys’s deformed face twists in anger. “I would have you silent, you—you plague! You do not speak unless I comm—”

“Father.”

The King’s gaze darts to you, surprised, starting visibly when he notices the wetnurse by your side and the wriggling forms of the twins in her hold. All at once, his disposition changes. He is no longer the austere arbiter of justice come to scold Daemon for his many failings, but instead a jovial, tender-hearted father. “Oh!” he says, exhilarated and overcome. “Oh!”

Though you smile as you approach him, there is a stiffness to your shoulders and an unhappy pout to your mouth that belies just how deeply the bond between you has fractured. You avert your eyes from the King’s, avoiding his upturned cheek to settle Aelys into the crook of his remaining arm and taking Rhaenar into your own grasp. Your voice is too light as you introduce your children—Daemon’s children—to their grandsire.

“Rhaenar and Aelys?” Viserys asks, distracted from his own words by the whimpering of the babe in his grip. “I cannot recall a ‘Rhaenar’ or an ‘Aelys’ in our histories.”

“They are new. Free from the burden of comparison to one’s namesake.” A moue of defensiveness colours your speech. The King does not notice.

“I’d believed you might call them ‘Viserys’ or ‘Aemma’, for those that bore you,” he says, entertained by Aelys’s scowling expression. He does not see the chill that sweeps across your visage, the traces of warmth that are stifled by wintry resentment, deadening the flush of your skin to pale ice and the brightness of your eyes to dulled jewels. “Ah, but ‘tis no matter. They are a fine pair, my girl. Well done!”

You nod jerkily. Daemon watches the scene with incredulity, stock-still at his post across the Table. Surely my brother is not that obtuse? he wonders. But of course he is. So proficient has he become at ignoring the discontent of those around him that it is probable that he no longer recognises the sight of it.

“I trust your labours were easy?” Viserys asks. It is the wrong thing to say.

You no longer hide your disdain. It mars the sweetness of your features like ink stains parchment, spreading swift and uncontrollable. “Aelys was breech. Maester Gerardys wished to cut me open to take her from my womb.”

Daemon’s gut roils at the reminder even as his brother’s face blanches.

“By the gods!” he gasps, peering up at you. “But—”

“But Daemon refused to allow him to do so,” you say, lower lip wobbling. “My life mattered to him more than the prospect of an heir, you see.”

Dangerous territory. The jibe almost hits its mark. The King’s brow furrows, creasing in concern as he notes your hostility.

“Why have you come to Dragonstone, Viserys?” Daemon asks, stopping the conversation in its tracks.

No good can come of such vitriol. Your umbrage may be justified, but you are too ruled by the irrationality of new motherhood to head down this avenue of discussion. You are too young to risk losing your father to your own bitterness. The time may come that the truth of Aemma’s death can be dragged into the harsh light of day—but it is not this day. He’ll not let you make this mistake. Not yet.

“I’d have thought Ser Arryk had made that abundantly clear already.” His brother appears to shake the uncertainty off as he refocuses upon his sole purpose for traversing the Bay alone, sighing. “Lord Larys was found in his chambers. Or, rather, his body was found in his chambers. His head is… elsewhere.”

“How unfortunate.” Daemon cannot help the drollness. It goads a twitch from the corner of Viserys’s eye. “We’ll all miss him so.”

“Daemon.” Ah, the aggravation has returned. His mouth curves cruelly at the sight of the King’s indignation. “I know it was you.”

“And how do you know this?” you ask, ushering the wetnurse forth to retrieve Aelys from your father. “My husband has scarcely left my side since our return. And whatever time he has had to spare was most certainly not long enough to commit the crime of which you have accused him.”

Daemon calls your name. There is still enough of the biddable little doll in you to follow his implicit command and come to heel at his side like a good wife, to turn willingly into him when his hand rests upon your waist. It’s hardly improper, but close enough to raise an eyebrow or two. His brother observes you, observes how you gladly obey his whims, how you have readily found another sun around which to orbit. How easily he has been replaced.

He stares impassively back while you mutter instructions to the nursemaid and the Mallery knight, while the pair convey his children out of the room, infant squalls fading with the clanging close of the door. Viserys is pained, sorrowed. That much is clear. He tries not to let the conceit play out so obviously on his own expression, but it is most difficult. Modesty does not become him, after all.

‘Do you see, Viserys?’ he wishes to say. ‘You are not wanted here, not anymore. I am her world. We are all each other needs.’

“Will you not confess to it, brother?” The man is resigned now; the wrath has fled, cowed by your frosty reception. “I remember your words to Lord Strong well: ‘One day soon, you’ll be alone. And one day soon, I’ll have my revenge.’ The day has come and gone, it seems.”

Daemon cannot resist drawing it out. “What strange customs you set stock by, Your Grace. Symbols taken from the attacker’s own bodies and confirmation from Harwin Strong himself will not incite action from you. And yet, mere words—spoken in anger, at that—have you traversing the waters to Dragonstone to seek confession? Strange, indeed.”

“Enough of the games!” Viserys snaps, sharp and discordant in the ringing hall. “Admit to the deed and let us be done with it.”

“Ha! ‘Be done with it.’ Yes, we are ‘done with it’—no thanks to you.” Daemon feels the urge to laugh rising, rising. This is fucking ludicrous. “What do you want so desperately to hear, Viserys? That I was the cause of his demise? Take your satisfaction, then. I did. I did it.” He persists through his brother’s gusty inhale of dismay. “I hired cutthroats before I even left your fucking city. I made sure that Larys Strong would be dead before he could come for my children again.”

The King wavers, astonished. It seems that for all his bluster, he had not actually expected Daemon to assert his culpability so brazenly. “You had the man killed? Even after I expressly forbade you from such violence?”

Daemon snorts. He is not ashamed of his actions. “You refused to act, so I took it upon myself to eliminate the threat to my wife.”

“Such—such impertinence!” Viserys sounds utterly winded, scored open at the navel. “Such disloyalty. Why must you betray me time and time again?”

Disloyalty. How insulting. How disappointing. How very like the man to disparage him so.

This time, he does laugh. It is more of a chuckle, but with none of the joy. Rather, it is harsh and biting, mocking. “Disloyalty? We aren’t in King’s Landing now, Viserys. You do not rule here. I’m well within my rights to tell you to fuck off.”

If anyone holds dominion over this rock, Daemon thinks viciously, it is not the battered creature before me. Any other may make their claim. Rhaenyra; you; even he himself.

You do not belong here, brother.

The man stands, slapping the jagged surface of the table with his sole hand. “I am the King!” He sits at the craggy North, where the surface rises and dips with the spiked contours of icy mountains. His action draws blood from skin, welling rapidly and oozing across the peaks. He does not notice, instead turning to you. “And you, girl,” he says. “What have you to say to this treachery?”

You twitch at the abrupt directive, having been but a bystander to the fray. “What have I to say?” Your voice is frosty.

“Yes! I demand you speak, child!”

You move away from him, clutching your hands together before you. The very image of maidenly grace, Daemon’s mind supplies. The sight of you standing so demurely calls forth a faint resonation of desire. It pulses in his gut like a broiling flame.

“What would you like me to say, Your Grace?” you ask flatly, the dawning thunder in your expression so at odds with your stance. “I could say many things. I could say that Daemon did what you would not. That for all my dislike of his methods, I can trust that he will keep me safe. That I have never, not once, been anything other than a loyal and obedient daughter to you—only to find that in my hour of greatest need, you would bend to the vultures that rule in your stead, cast the name of the man responsible for my plight aside like rot beneath your feet, without care. That you have failed me in every conceivable way; as a King, as the head of my House, as a father, as grandfather to the babes you never bothered to enquire after in the wake of the attack.”

Each word lands like a physical blow, and so it is fitting that blood drips readily from Viserys’s flesh. He jerks as if injured by your mounting pitch, as if your diatribe alone lays waste to his form.

You remain immobile, frozen in your ferocity, your seething misery. Still, you speak, trembling. “So, yes. I could say a great many things. Where would you like me to begin?”

Not even he can conjure up a worthwhile response to such a challenge. My poor, precious girl. Though you stand tall with chin jutted forth and brow arched in supercilious question, he can only see the quailing child in you, plaintive and forlorn, eager for the slightest validation from a sire who could never give you what you need. In this moment, he wants to tuck you away, coddle you close, hold you down and surround you so that all you can see or hear or feel is him, him, him—

The hush reigns long—until it doesn’t.

Viserys’s breathing can be heard even from here, nearly the opposite end of the room. His words are weak. “I did the best I could.”

“And yet, it was not enough. You were not enough.” Your address is just as quiet, distressingly saddened. “You did not even ask after me when you arrived, did you? Or you would have known beforehand that I had already given birth. So much for loyalty. Mother would be disappointed.”

It is here that Viserys protests. “Daughter—”

“No.” Daemon can see the threat of tears in your eyes. “You had every opportunity to use your voice before this moment, Father. I will not hear whatever excuse you have to make now.” At this, you turn back, angling yourself away from the King to direct your next words only to him. “I need to make sure the babes are settled.”

“Sȳrī iksā?” Are you well?

He cannot help but reach for you, to cup your jaw in his hand and collect the moisture from the corner of your eye with the pads of his fingers. He sweeps your sorrow away with the brush of skin on skin, shining iridescence that paints your cheekbone in glow.

You nuzzle against him like a cat, like a starved pet, like a little princess aching for care. “Issa,” you say—yes—laying your hand upon his own, cradling him to you as though you are afraid he will vanish if he lets go. “Kesīr humbon daor. Zijomy daor.” I cannot be here. Not with him.

Who else but he can understand that sentiment so profoundly? He nods once, stealing a final touch of thumb to the plush divot of your lower lip. “Jās.” Go.

You revolve like a puppet on strings, staccato motions of rote absentmindedness. Curtseying with perfunctory deference, your parting words to your father are chilling in their detachment. “I pray that you have a safe journey back to the capital, Your Grace.”

Viserys makes an appeal of your name, beseeching, but you are lost to him now. You lean up and—with more zeal than the occasion calls for—press your lips to Daemon’s, parting your mouth to welcome his instinctive drive to claim. He sinks into the flavour of you without thinking, gripping your waist to keep you on tiptoes and pull you tight to him, your soft little sounds coiling dark in his groin.

You withdraw with a smug half-smile, dimmed by your melancholy but beautiful, nonetheless. His impulses drive him to snatch you back to him as you step away. He won’t. Enough has been taken from you today.

You make your escape with poise, turning your back on his brother with a strength he had not known you possessed and seemingly gliding from the chamber, weightless.

When did she become so formidable? he wonders. It is no easy thing to deny a king. Perhaps motherhood—the fire of bearing babes borne of his own blazing nature, their father’s heirs in truth—has ennobled you with a tenacity you have long kept dormant.

“You have turned her from me.”

He’d forgotten Viserys is still here. The man is grey, hollowed out. Defeated. He has sunk himself back into the chair at the head of the Painted Table, hunched over and looking every inch the ailing life-form he has been reduced to. Malady has crept back in, casting a shadow of gloom across Daemon’s ire until it too feels as a void rather than a maelstrom.

With a tone just as resigned as his brother’s, he replies. “You did that yourself.”

Silence.

“I know.” The King stares at some fixed point on the Table, or perhaps he is unseeing. He has retreated into himself, into thoughts unknown to Daemon. “I did not wish for this,” he says, more air than word. “What happened to her… I wanted to strike the head from his shoulders myself. But I am—”

“—the King.”

The King, the King. Make way for the fucking King.

It is always the excuse, the reason, the proof that Viserys will forever remain powerless to the capriciousness of others. If he is the King, he cannot be the husband, or the father, or the grandsire. If he is King, he cannot be Daemon’s brother.

“Yes.” Viserys chuckles. It is a wretched noise, a mournful hacking from crippled lungs. “King of the Seven Kingdoms… and yet I am as limited by law as any other. More, mayhaps.” Finally, he looks up from whatever had taken his focus. When he does, his eyes seem eclipsed, without light or emotion. It is like peering into the face of the Stranger. “Maegor did what he wanted. He ruled according to his every whim. Where did that get him? Who today remembers him as anything other than a despot and a monster?”

Daemon scoffs. “And yet you allow your lackeys to call me by his name—to abuse my temperament and malign my character.”

“Not even I can control what others think, Daemon.” How kindly the man sinks the blade through my flesh. Viserys hums. “Be that as it may, I do not think you to be Maegor reborn. Unruly, yes. Reckless and brutish, at times. But not cruel.” Here, his voice gentles. “She would not love you if you were cruel.”

There are times that he wonders if he’d ever given you the chance to feel otherwise—if he’d taken and taken and taken until you’d reshaped yourself entirely, bowed and bent and broken under the weight of his ceaseless desire. What is worse? To be tormented by the thought that the one woman he’d ever loved had been forced to return the sentiment for the sake of survival? Or to find that very same thought maddening, stirring, thrilling beyond measure?

No, he chides himself. She loves me. She sees me for all that I am, and she loves me anyway.

Viserys resumes after a brief pause. “The details of Larys Strong’s death have been concealed from the commons. But the Council suspects you. They have charged me to summon you to court and arrest you for conspiracy to murder a member of the governing body. And I cannot say now that there is no recourse for it.”

“You’d arrest your own broth—”

“Of course not! Have I fallen so far in your esteem?”

‘You have,’ Daemon wants to say. He does not.

“Brother,” the King says. “You have committed the crime you are accused of, by your own admission. This is true, yes. But I will not throw you to the vipers. The price would be… too high.”

“Death?” At the vociferous shake of the head, Daemon revises. “No… Exile.”

Ah, his old friend. He recalls the occasions in which you had teased him for it in the past. How many times, indeed? It would be galling, yes, if he were alone. But he is not alone.

What of my wife? What of Rhaenar and Aelys and Daeron?

“Most likely.” Viserys’s upturned hand rests on the table, the blood clotting to dark in the centre of his palm. A minor wound by any other measure; but for the King, it is like to be the source of new infection. “Perhaps not a punishment you are unfamiliar with—but for my daughter and grandchildren’s sakes, I should seek some lesser consequence for your actions. There must be a reckoning, Daemon. For the sake of the Realm.”

“If you cared more for her than for your fucking Realm,” is his answering hiss, “perhaps we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Enough! I will not—enough.”

What little vexation that had been stirred by Daemon’s taunt vanishes like smoke in a dark sky. His heart sinks. There is no triumph in conquering a man so beholden to his own feebleness.

Viserys makes his proclamation with the weariness of one that may well have lived a thousand years. “You will be charged with perfidy if you return to the city. Thus… you shall not return.”

“So it is exile, then?” How uninspired. Daemon might have respected the man more if the sentence had been more dire. He is fully aware of how contrary that makes him.

“Is it so terrible? You despise the capital,” the King says. “Remain on Dragonstone, Daemon. Raise your children. Be with your wife. Tour the Kingdoms. Travel across the Narrow Sea, by all means. But you will not—you cannot—step foot in King’s Landing again. That is the price you must pay.”

It is not so bad, he thinks. Better than he had expected, though worse than he had hoped. Some small, naïve, foolish part of him had half-believed Viserys might spare him entirely.

‘But I am your brother, when Father died you made a promise, you swore—’

‘And what of your whore Queen, do you know what she’s done, do you know about the moon tea—’

‘Why don’t you love me as I love you, why was I never enough as I am—’

The possibilities crumble like ash, words floating by on a breeze just out of reach. Things he might have said, might have done, no more than unattainable futures now. There is no point. He is a haunted shade of the man he is, seated at the table in the room on the isle, forever wishing, wanting, waiting for the sun to shine a light upon him. And yet. And yet.

Daemon tries to convey a façade of agreeability. What comes forth is terse, a threat of temper lurking below the depths. “Fine.” Folding his arms, he cannot help but make one last query. “But you understand that you won’t see her again, either?”

His meaning is abundantly clear if Viserys’s reaction is anything to go by. Though the King does not move, he appears smaller, less substantial, the breadth of him collapsing like a dying star. When he concedes, it is with a burdensome breath out, a rattling knell of defeat. “I do,” he says, forfeiting all rights to you in so short a statement.

What a sire! What a man! Viserys may be a wretch, but he loves Aemma’s girls. His love is not enough, it seems.

Such folly it was, Aemma—dear, dear cousin—to depart so soon from this world…

Daemon is tired. “If that is all, Your Grace.” He dips his head, intending to make for the door, to seek out the place in which he truly belongs: in his chambers, by your side, with his children.

“Wait!” his brother says.

He turns back.

“One thing more. I… please. Here.” A scroll is drawn out from beneath the layers of cloak, bound in blood-red ribbon gilt along the edges in brilliant gold. Viserys holds it up, inviting him to take it for himself. “It is a pittance, but I… I hope it might ease the sting, if only a little.”

The temptation is great—too great. Almost without realising, he is where he wishes to be least of all: next to the King, cracking the hard wax of the royal seal open, unfurling the contents within with nary a word of thanks to offer the giver.

Daemon’s brow raises. The living sons and daughters of Our esteemed daughter… will have... the style, title or attribute of Prince or Princess.

Prince Rhaenar. Princess Aelys. Titles worthy of his heirs, after all. It galls him that he has no gratification left to indulge in, no reserves of feeling from which to draw his pleasure at finally, finally gaining at least something he has coveted.

“My thanks,” is all he can offer. It sounds feeble in his own ears, apathetic.

Clutching the parchment tight in his fist, he hopes that his response will not spur Viserys into reneging on the decree etched within. To his relief, the man only nods, ashen smile contorting the open sores on his face.

Daemon swallows; lays his hand tentatively on his brother’s shoulder. “Farewell.” It rings with finality, finality he is not ready for, he is not ready, not ready—

A light touch against his elbow. Viserys pats his arm, rueful, mired by all that is left unsaid. “Farewell… brother.”

Daemon pictures you in his mind’s eye—your strength, your steadfastness, the iron sturdiness of your willpower—and lets the thought surround him, overwhelm him, obscure the churn of his gut and the throb in his chest. He takes a step, and another, and another, resisting the urge to look back at what remains.

The door closes.

You will not deign to see him off.

“Let my disappointment be his last recollection of me,” you say snidely, swaying a whimpering Aelys from side to side. “Mine own mind remembers naught but a coward.”

Still angered, then. Daemon does not dare press you. With a nod and a gentle stroke of each babe’s head—daughter in your arms, son in the wetnurse’s—he goes forth to meet Rhaenyra at the shore.

The skies are dark and grey as he observes Viserys hobble his way through the sand, helped along only by the Cargyll man. Though it galls him to see his brother brought so low, he makes little move to assist. If he wishes to create some great observance of his departure, then let him do so by his own power.

He stands back and endures the parting words between the King and his heir—the only person on this isle he’d ever truly given a damn about—and the weak attempt at light-heartedness from Laenor, idling thoughts keeping him company.

‘Tis a suitable day for dragonriding, he muses. Not too bright, not too cold… Perfect for introducing fragile forms unused to the severity of the changing winds to flight. He is glad to have finally settled on the venture with you earlier.

“… and I’d best not keep Alicent waiting. She was much aggrieved by my venturing here alone,” the man says with a joviality that seems only slightly forced, ignoring the manner in which Rhaenyra’s countenance slides flat at the mention of her once-dear friend. “Alas! She herself would not brave the journey, and the Hand… Well, someone must keep things in order.”

He grits his teeth at the mention of Otto and his bitch of a daughter, paying no notice to whatever words spill next from Viserys’s overeager mouth. More of the same prattle, no doubt. From what he’d discerned, the man had tried his hardest to uplift the spirits of the Keep’s inhabitants for the remainder of his stay, desperate to alleviate the blow the news of the Rogue Prince’s latest banishment had struck.

What follows is of little pomp or curiosity. The King shares but one look with the brother he has forbade from his city, offering no words of leave nor of apology. Daemon had not truly expected any. All that could be said has been in days previous.

The Kingsguard escort their sovereign onto the ship docked at harbour, a further distance than he himself cares to traverse. The faint shouts from the crew above and below deck herald the unmooring of the vessel, the shifting tides taking it swiftly out to sea. He watches, and waits, and wishes that Viserys and he had concluded proceedings under better circumstances—that, for once, the parting had served to bring them closer together than further apart.

Until we meet again, brother. This is not the last time. Daemon knows better than most that exile is not tantamount to an ending.

A flash of silver appears at the window overhanging the beach, bright against the sombre hues of stone and capturing his notice even from a distance.

It is you. He is sure of it.

Never would you forgive yourself if you had allowed your papa to depart without at least seeing the event with your own eyes. A dutiful daughter, even to the very limits of your tolerance.

He thinks to make his way to where he assumes you must be surveying the Silver Firedrake’s slow shrinking on the horizon—but when he arrives at your chambers to don his sturdier riding boots (for if he should think to take the twins on their first trip in the sky, how can he be anything less than prepared for the task?), you are once more to be found within.

A melancholy princess is what he discovers, sitting on the great chair with knees tucked into your chest and staring unseeingly at the empty hearth. Jeyne and Bethany cluck over his children like broody hens across the room, overseen by that exceedingly loud-mouthed nursemaid, clearly waiting for his arrival so that he may take his heirs on the agreed-upon expedition. He disregards them as he always does. They are unimportant, all three of them, useful only in their capacity as your aides.

“Sweetling,” he murmurs, prying one of your palms free from the vice-like grip you’ve established in amongst your skirts.

Though you release easily enough, you do not look up at him. Indeed, there is no outward recognition of his presence from you at all, and so he is obliged to take your chin in his grasp and tug upwards until your gaze meets his own.

The words lodge in his throat. It seems rather redundant to ask if you are well at the sight of your deadened stare, rage and grief and discontent burnt out entirely so that all that is left is the husk of once-feeling. A not-uncommon mood after matching wits against Viserys. The man most certainly has a talent for ensuring the impossibility of victory regardless of the outcome of quarrelling with him. Dark circles have formed under your eyes, a memoir of disturbed nights imprinted in skin, the shade deep enough to tell him that you have slumbered poorly since rowing with your father some days previous.

How many more blows will she be forced to take for the sake of this fucking family?

He tuts, tilting your head to the light to examine the bruise-deep smudges marring your sweet little face.

No, you are not well—but it doesn’t mean you won’t be eventually.

“You’ll get some sleep while we’re gone,” Daemon says, already digging his hand between thigh and calf to curl an arm under your knees.

You squeak softly, fingers digging into the hairs at the nape of his neck as he lifts you bodily and carries you toward the bed. “I am not tired,” you say, stubborn insistence so like the choleric peevishness of a girl so much smaller than you are presently. “I don’t want to sleep—”

“And I don’t recall asking.” He shifts you in his hold so that he can free the sheets from where they have been tucked tight against the mattress and deposit you soundly below the covers.

You frown, glancing past him at the ladies ogling the scene. “But I want to go with you and the babes!”

A firmer touch. He is reminded of nights so long ago—back when Aemma’s love had softened Viserys’s opinion of his carefree younger brother—taking visitation with his King and goodsister (of course, these were the evenings where he had not been trussed up between some brothel whore’s thighs), only to be interrupted by a bashful, sulking girl-child of barely three summers, plump baby-fat fists rubbing gummy doe eyes as you’d toddled in with a babbled refusal of bedtime. “No, no, no,” you’d mumble, swaying on unsteady legs toward your uncle, so sure already that it would be he to support your juvenile rebellion.

He’d had regrettably little patience for the display back then. He’d scoop you up, whirl you about so that you were red-faced and squealing, and promptly march you back to the nursery to trap you beneath your coverlets until the exhaustion of wrestling against his much stronger arms had you fast asleep.

I’ll do it again right here and now if I must, he decides. “Do you happen to find respite easily on dragonback?”

“What?”

Daemon huffs, tapping you on the chin to regain your wandering attention. “I’ll be taking our son and daughter on Caraxes. You need your rest,” he says, a touch of condescension bleeding into his cadence. You flush, whether in ire, embarrassment or the faint stirrings of longing, he knows not—but it is gladdening to see the colour livening your wan expression. “So, you have two options: you sleep here in our bed, or outside in the saddle. Either way, you’ll do as you’ve been told. Unless you’d like for them”—he nods toward your wide-eyed spectators—“to see what happens when insolent girls disobey kepa. Which sounds better to you, hm?”

The hidden threat quails you. You sag into the pillows, no longer warring with him, with yourself, relief lingering in the capitulatory flare of nostrils. “I… I will stay.”

“Good.” Delighting in the sullen lowering of your lashes, he strokes your hair down, more proprietary than soft, and tucks the coverings around you tight, hushing noises escaping at your minute protests. “Don’t worry your pretty little head. Lay down properly, there’s a love. Tired little girls don’t get to make choices, do they? That’s why I’m here. Sh, sh.”

Truly irritable now, you turn away from his wandering hands and his patronising devotions, burying your face into the plush softness of the cushions beneath your head. By the time he has located those damned boots and tugged them on, you are already lost to your long-needed slumber, mouth lax and breathing slow and even.

Predictable, isn’t she? And a terribly easy thing to bend to his will. He takes one final look at you, that trace of uneasiness unclenching in his gut, and readies himself for the outing ahead.

Daemon selects no one save the Mallery man and a pair of the Keep’s guards to accompany him down the path to the craggy sunning spot so favoured by his dragon. He finds the walk somewhat arduous, hyperaware of every bounce his form makes along the uneven trail, every jostle that risks upsetting the babes strapped to his chest. Not the most accommodating of arrangements, it is true, but he had been loath to attach them to his back where he could not reach in the midst of strife. He’ll have to make do with minimal manoeuvrability in the air.

Caraxes chirrups when he approaches, a gust of hot air jettisoning out from between his teeth. It is rank enough to give his companions pause. They cough, stepping further back, ensuring they are well out of range of the Blood Wyrm and his famous capriciousness.

Fat fucking chance of frightening anyone nowadays, Daemon grouses to himself.

The scent of his son and daughter attracts the creature like a moth to flame. His whistling growls cease abruptly, head tilting akin to that of a curious hound as he bends forward to examine his rider closely. Then, what can only be described as a softening occurs, rippling over Caraxes’s massive frame like sunlight dappling across scales. The wyrm blows the gentlest of breaths across Rhaenar and Aelys’s heads, a sweet little greeting before he settles down, seeming to disregard Daemon entirely.

What has happened to my fucking dragon? The scourge who routed the Dornish, the fiercest of beasts—a doddering old fool in the presence of two tiny humans.

He’ll admit it to no one, but he is immeasurably pleased. There are exceedingly few who could claim the protection of so mighty a monstrosity as a battle-hardened dragon, let alone at less than a moon’s turn of life.

“Avy kipagon kosti, Karaksys?” Will you allow us to ride you, Caraxes? he asks, thumping the dragon’s flank good-naturedly. A needless gesture, to be sure—but still, it is best to make it clear that he intends to bring aboard new quarry today.

A soft hoot sounds. The ground shudders as the draconic being’s belly thuds to the grassy surface, wing flattening to a smooth incline so that he may tread upward without the necessitation of climbing.

With a wry grin—how sentimental you’ve become, old boy!—Daemon treks up sinew and cartilage, cupping the babes’ heads to his neck to alleviate the erratic shifting of live flesh below his feet.

Aelys wiggles in her bonds as Daemon adjusts himself in the saddle, neck craning to the side like she is desperate to take in the sight of the world atop this new summit. Meanwhile, Rhaenar has fallen promptly to sleep, utterly at home next to the pulse and warmth of his sire’s heartbeat. Both are endearing in their own way; his daughter for her ceaseless inquisitiveness, his son for his perpetual surety.

“Sōvēs!” Fly!

Rhaenar cries at the rough shaking as Caraxes skitters toward the precipice, ramping up his pace to build momentum, and so Daemon tucks the boy further into the wrappings to secure him more tightly and shield him from the elements. When the dragon takes a dive from the cliff face, Aelys squeals, legs kicking at the booming rustle of wings flapping once, twice, three times, each swift beat careening them up and up into the air.

There are but three things that ignite the flame of exultation in his soul: the newest being his children, whether they be but sleeping or screaming or shitting, because they’re alive and they’re here after so long waiting, wanting; the most maddening being you, his baby wife turned woman, pudgy-cheeked tot turned maiden whore in a mere moment, his obsession, devotion, frenzy; and the longest-serving being this, soaring atop a giant winged beast, the thin air and roaring breeze stealing the breath from his lungs and forcing his heart to pound almost through his chest. Even when he’d had nothing but his reputation across the Narrow Sea—“Rogue Prince,” they’d whispered, “brother to a King who’d rather banish him than address the failings that had brought him so low in the first place”—he’d had Caraxes, he’d had flight, and he’d had freedom.

As Caraxes careens further and further out from the hillside, Daemon glances down to his son and daughter. For once, Rhaenar is looking about curiously, taking interest in his surroundings in a way he has so rarely done thus far. For once, Aelys is silent, eyes wide but carrying none of the vitriol her waking hours usually comprise.

“This is what it means to be Targaryen,” he whispers to them, pressing his nose to the warm buttermilk suppleness of each tiny infant’s snowshine hair. He is sure that this is what love smells like. “Va Zaldrīzo Lentrot jemī jiōran, ñuhus dārannis.”

Welcome to the House of the Dragon, my heirs.

The whipping winds take his words unto themselves, conveying them henceforth to be lost in the great wild world. Still, he feels their power in his bones. His heels dig into Caraxes’s flanks to speed him onward, racing the sun to the very edge of the horizon, hues of brilliant gold nearly blinding him and the saline tang of the sea stinging sharp in his mouth.

Grinning like a boy, Daemon leans forward, revelling in his flight across the open sky.

A new normality weaves itself into the tapestry of life upon Dragonstone.

Soon enough—too soon—that blasted healer deems you healed enough from your labours to move around the Keep unfettered. “She have babe,” Ūlla snaps as she shoves him out of the way, silencing him with an admonishing noise. “You act like she almost die. A natural thing, birth. Calm yourself!”

Daemon had tried to pay her for her services and send her off on her way. She’d merely levied him with an unimpressed look in response to his attempt at a conciliatory farewell.

“I hear you both sometime,” she’d said pointedly, cackling at your red-faced splutters. “New babe come very soon, I think. Better stay here, or I leave for Qohor and you make boat turn around when I get there!”

“I thought you were living in Braavos before?” he couldn’t help but ask.

She’d sighed. “I tell you once, I tell you again: sometime Braavos, sometime Qohor, sometime other place. And now, sometime Dragonstone. I live where I like, stupid boy.”

If the woman wants to make yet another port of Dragonstone, let it not be for me to stop her. Besides, she’s probably correct. There are plenty of rooms in this wing of the castle to fill, after all. He’s not going to fund her bizarre lifestyle, though. She can find her own bloody income.

And so, with you fully liberated from childbed and no longer in need of him, it is with great reluctance and no small amount of relief—for a man can only spend so long staring at tiny beings that do little else but sleep—that he returns to the task of maintaining the fortress.

His routine of old awaits him near unchanged. His men-at-arms welcome him back with congratulatory slaps to the back and cheerful salutations, a whirlwind that ceases only when his particular training methods serve to wipe the smiles from their faces and sap the strength from their limbs. By the time they are finished that first day, not a single man is able to move about without hobbling, clutching at a spasm in their side or stemming a weakly oozing cut with grimy fingers.

Good. They’d gotten too complacent in his absence.

In running drills, reviewing the training of Jace, Luke and Daeron (and Baela, too, it had been decided), rearranging the shift of the guards, recompiling figures upon the ledgers—and he’d have to speak to Robert Quince about his fucking appalling sums, by the gods—it becomes a true effort to find a moment to spare for you or the babes. Gone are the hours of uninterrupted leisure where he could lounge about with a book or with his varied lines of correspondence, using such activities as concealment for his preferred pursuit of watching you learn and adapt to the ever-changing role of motherhood.

Whenever he can, he goes back to you. On those occasions, he makes little attempt to reveal his presence. Rather, he stands at the door to the solar or hall or garden and surveys you and Rhaenar and Aelys. You take tea with Ser Lysan, infants propped up on your laps as you converse over your philosophies and linguistics, treating each squawk or whimper like it is a serious contribution to discussion with solemn nods and mischievous eyes. You arrange and rearrange the furnishings of the cradle, pensive eyes lingering overlong on the stone-still eggs laying within before turning to coo in the tongue of his homeland, sweet words of adoration for the beings you’d made. You wave freshly plucked blossoms at the babes laid out on a woollen rug spread over grass, laughing with Daeron and Rhaena as Aelys sneezes after jamming a flower into her face.

Such a pretty little mama you make. There is a rightness to it, taking and claiming you for himself, a Valyrian maiden for a Valyrian man as it had always been and will always be. He’d felt it when first he devised to make you his, and he feels it ever more keenly now. A sweet baby cunt—a Targaryen cunt—ripened with his seed, pure blood sprung from pure blood as it had since the dawn of dragonbinding, since those with magic in their veins had climbed to the very peak of power so long ago.

He dispels the musings with a toss of the chin. Yes, you’d taken beautifully to your new station, cossetting his babes with a heartrending sort of tenderness that can only be born from having gone so long without that same unwavering dedication. He’d chosen the vessel to bear his heirs well.

But so enamoured of these new lives are you that he has become the one bereft. He’d almost think you barely notice his existence if not for your absent-minded requests to ‘hold Rhaenar, would you, kepus?’ or to ‘take Aelys for just a moment while I use the privy’ when he arrives to your chambers after a long day.

Daemon had never quite grasped how fortunate he’d been to have procured and made himself such a wanton little whore of a wife. He does now. The shifting humours of your blood—the arduous process of healing from the inside out, of producing sustenance for small hungry mouths, of attuning yourself to the innate needs of these whole persons formed from parts of you and him—had rendered desire utterly meaningless to you.

He’d love nothing more than to show you how deeply he appreciates the undertaking of your body and spirit over the previous moons. He mightn’t be able to fuck you just yet, but there are certainly plenty of other acts to partake in. And yet his overtures—sly stroking here and there, a lazy upcurve of lips awash with intent, his solid warmth pressing in in in against your smaller frame—remain frustratingly, vexingly unobserved. He makes do with a spit-slick hand to his cock and the dim of the moonlight casting a dreamy glow over you, ethereal, lovingly caressing your newfound curves and near begging him to follow the path of it with his own unworthy touch.

Alas, as Viserys might say. It is not to be. Thus, he trammels his want as far down as he is able and focuses on the things he can do, such as finalising this evening’s undertaking.

It is like any other evening in recent memory, save for one addition. Daemon sits across from Laenor this time, restraining the urge to beat the man about the head to finally, finally shut him up, the man prattling on and on about nothing of import instead of actually assisting with inventorying the reserves of dragonglass on the isle. The entire enterprise is pointless, he’s sure, but some stupid cunt had told Rhaenyra that obsidian may be a marketable commodity further East.

Not like there’s anything else of value on this rock. Dragonstone is rich in sentiment and strategy rather than in resources. He’d have gotten the castellan to do it, but after the bother he’d made of the ledgers… well.

When he is at last free to escape Laenor’s clutches, he immediately ventures to the relative safety of his apartments. Like any other evening, he finds you alone with the babes, the hearth lit to blazing despite the mildness of the weather outside. The ties at the front of your shift are loose, the smooth swell of your tits peeking out from just below the hemline as you bend down to settle Rhaenar or Aelys—he cannot tell from this vantage point—beside their sibling in the cradle.

Daemon pauses. There is an odd scent upon the air. It reminds him of the Stepstones. His stomach churns.

And then he sees it. The eggs on the table beside the cradle, blackened with ash, the wood beneath smoking at the points of contact.

“What are you doing?” He tries to keep the ire from his voice, but he cannot conceal the bewilderment. What the fuck is she doing? he thinks.

You smile, moving toward him in greeting like there is not, in fact, a pair of scorching dragon eggs destroying the furniture. “Daemon.” He wants to wring your neck. How can she be so simple-minded, how can she endanger herself, the babes—”I solved it.”

“What?”

You lay a hand to his chest, bracing yourself to stand tall and brush petal-soft lips to his jaw, docile little princess, darling baby pet. He grits his teeth against the temptation to teach you a lesson you’ll not soon forget. Grab her and rip those fucking silks into tatters, pin her to the ground and beat her arse until it’s blue, ‘no, kepus, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again’–

Your hand is bleeding. He snatches you by the wrist with too-rough fingers, tracing the thin gash in your palm with the pad of his thumb until you hiss at the sting of it.

“What is this?” he asks sternly. “What’s going on?”

Has she gone mad? It’s not an illogical assumption. Madness runs in the bloodline. ‘Tis the curse of pure breeding, he knows. There’s been a fair share of harebrained, eccentric, even downright cruel members of his lineage. He cannot say for certain that he would not also be named to such notoriety in the annals of history. But this: slicing your own skin open, for it can be nothing else to have done the deed; preparing to place dragon eggs scorched from the fire straight into the cradle beside your newborns, for the scene he’d walked in on can suggest little alternative…

There is a saying about Targaryens. He cannot recall it. Madness, greatness. Something about coins.

“Oh,” you murmur, half-absent, peering upon your rent flesh as though surprised by the blood that wells there. “I forgot about that.”

You hum as you pull away, wandering back over to your little arrangement. Stopping before the eggs, you lean forward and eye the surface of the yellow one with zealous interest.

“You forgot about your fucki—”

“Fire and blood,” you say, the absurdity of such a statement stopping his vehemence in its tracks. “Such strange words, no? What is the reason for them?”

Daemon frowns, heart pounding. He’s never seen this side of you before… this distant creature that seems two steps out of time, floating on a plane just out of his reach. Gael had seemed that way as her waist thickened and then thinned once more, growing pale and frenetic and prone to fits of howling. It had been no surprise to him to eventually learn that his dear, sweet wisp of an aunt had walked into the sea, torn apart by anguish.

The fear—that same fear—renders him mute.

You continue on. “I found it peculiar that the eggs had not yet hatched. My sister’s boys’ did on the days of their births. Why then did ours not?” You look up at him, brow furrowed, struggling with some great puzzle.

Fuck. Perhaps he ought to have taken more notice of your concern when the eggs had remained stone-still, unchanged by the emergence of their riders-to-be. He’d not been too bothered. Long has the notorious volatility of dragonspawn been known. Most Targaryens of note had had to claim a mount from among the riderless dragons. Still. He’d not been paying attention, clearly. Fuck.

“Rhaenyra told me a story earlier,” you are saying to him, earnest now. “How she’d been presented with Luke’s egg while her hands were still wet with birthing blood. He’d only just come from her, and the cord was not yet cut. Laenor put the egg back into the brazier, you see… the smell of burning blood made her retch as she delivered the afterbirth. That night, the dragon hatched. She meant nothing of it, but… I thought about it.”

You take the purple egg in your grasp, still smoking beneath, and what comes lurching from the bowels of his chest is a strangled noise of terror. It dies as quickly as he’d given it life.

You do not scream. You do not cry. There is no aroma of singed flesh nor sizzling sound of skin crisping like overcooked meat. Instead, you hold it out like an offering, mouth twisting up in recognition of his fright.

“There is magic in our blood,” you say, and suddenly your inexplicable fanaticism bears great weight. “We are the ones—the only ones—able to bring the fire to life. Fire and blood. Fire of home… and blood. My blood. It is no adage, don’t you see? It is a secret. It is the secret.”

He is torn. Part of him wants to dash the egg from your hands, to bellow for the guards to bring the healer or the maester, to force potions and tinctures down your gullet until the gleam, that perplexing, unnerving gleam, fizzles out and you are returned to him. But the other part—the other part wants to bend the fucking knee.

He chooses neither.

“Come, riñītsos”—little girl, oh gods, please just stay my little girl—“let’s go to bed.”

Daemon cleans and binds your hand himself, shoving you backward in spite of your stubborn insistence that the eggs “really must go in the cradle, kepus, please, wait a moment,” and so he does that, too, shrugging off his coat to use as a barrier between the consuming heat and his bare skin, only to find that the eggs really aren’t hot at all, though the wood still smokes and the table is singed and ruined. He ignores the significance of it. It’s too mad, even for him.

The babes—his Rhaenar, his Aelys, his littlest beloveds—are fast asleep, stirring not once at the exchange between mother and father, and they care little when he places the eggs beside them. Purple for him, yellow for her. He knows not why, but it’s a simple thing to heed your intuition. A brief caress to each small head is all that he can spare this night, all the disturbance that he can stand to risk what with their milkdrunk mouths slackened peacefully and their gossamer lashes unmoving upon their cheeks.

When Daemon sinks into unconsciousness, he is plagued by fragmented visions, your words spun around upon themselves until all he knows is the tang of copper stealing through the air and the choke of ash fumes and charred dust. ‘Fire and blood,’ your voice haunts him, the egg in your grip but this time the blood stains you dark, running rivulets down your arms and spurting from between your teeth as you grin, maniacal, an unholy light in your lilac stare. ‘Fire and blood,’ and he sees his own unwieldy fists as from above, watches his hands lay themselves upon Rhaenar and twist, wrench, birdbones cracking like paper overdried in the sun, watches himself hook around Aelys’s chin and tear the head from her shoulders like pulling apart bread, ichor coating his tongue. ‘Fire and blood,’ and the eggs hatch but they are no dragons, no, they are shrivelled and misshapen, maggots wriggling from deep wounds in the belly and claws snapping into a thousand pieces like hard wax, and when they scream it is not the sound of a dragon but your own voice, wailing, “I think I will die, oh, gods—”

He starts awake.

At first, he thinks it is his own mind to have drawn him from an uneasy rest. Casting his eye upon you—splayed out on your stomach in the moonlight, face turned to him, slow, even puffs escaping parted lips—he is satisfied that his dreams have not become reality. Rolling closer to you, suddenly cold, he draws the covers up higher around you both and presses his nose into your hair.

And then, he hears it.

A cry in the night. But it is not you, not Rhaenar, not Aelys. It is different, foreign. Wrong.

Someone is here.

Daemon lurches from the bed with a grunt, Dark Sister already in hand and drawn from the scabbard. The snick of the blade and the clatter of the wood-and-leather sheath as he casts it upon the floor is enough to rouse you, though he is heedless of the befuddled exclamations you emit, eyes straining through shadow to acquire a sense of whom has entered his chambers so brazenly.

One of the babes squawks. It is this that breaks his standstill. Stumbling toward the cradle, his pace quickens at that same hooting, unnatural cry, louder with each step he takes.

No. No, no, no. Not his heirs. Not his son and daughter, please…

“Daemon?”

“Wait!” he barks in your direction, barely registering the rustle of you fumbling with the tinderbox beside the bed. In the darkness, he is forced to feel rather than see, fingertips outstretched to ascertain the wellbeing of the babes. “Fuck!” he hisses. His hand throbs.

A dim light draws nearer. You follow his path onward, slower, the golden glow bathing the nearby furnishings. Daemon chances a look down into the cradle, searching for the cause of the sharp sting in the meat between his thumb and finger.

“Oh,” you say, stunned. “Oh!”

The paler one cocks its head at the sound, tiny snout craning up from where it had rested upon Aelys’s swaddled thigh. Unfurling wings so thin he can nearly see through them, no bigger than the span of his palm, the creature totters forward on unsteady legs, hooting again when it falls flat. This rouses the darker one—the shade of deep, glittering amethyst, tinged gold by candlelight—from beside Rhaenar, and it straightens itself much like a kitten might, stretching its spine out and hissing low, tinny. Though Daemon’s children are awake, they remain unbothered by these curious interlopers, these fragments of stone shell littered about their place of slumber, wide eyes watching as the baby dragons make themselves familiar with the world in which they have arrived.

By the gods.

“See, kepus?” you whisper, exultant. “Do you see?”

“I do,” he says, stunned and overcome, overwhelmed and overawed. “I see them.”

“Fire and blood. I was right. I was right.”

He sees. He hears. And he knows, in his gut and in his heart, that you speak true.

“Prince Daemon had at last a son and daughter both of his own blood, delivered unto him by his lady wife. Indeed, the early years of the marriage are widely regarded as some of House Targaryen’s most fruitful, as the young Princess proceeded to bring several of her husband’s children forth in quick succession. All would receive dragon eggs in the cradle, and all would hatch, bringing the might of the royal dynasty to astounding new heights.”

- 'Fire & Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros' by Archmaester Gyldayn

Read it on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44058132/chapters/119324212

Taglist (😭 thank you!):

Now in the comments!

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yan-lorkai · 5 months

Note

Imagine yandere Lucifer punishing his darling but instead of spells or line writing he goes for the silent treatment or just leaving them in a dark and enclosed space so and now there darling is getting flashbacks on how they were punished as a child and is begging him not to leave them

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Warnings: Yandere content, guilt tripping, child abuse, panic attack + comfort for the said panic attack, toxic relationship, probly some typos (❁´◡`❁)

You can still hear them, your parents screaming, their voices reverberating off the walls until everything goes silent. It is common for fights of this type to occur now; your father tries to protect you from your mother's extreme punishments, but he can never convince her to tell him where the basement keys are hidden.

Your father, blessed be his heart. He's was not good at defusing tension, throwing insults and punching things, and using a tone of voice so angry that it makes you shake and hold back crying.

Your childhood was like this, silent, ignored and sad, you often observed the world from behind the door lock. You could hear very faintly the news on television, you heard songs that your mother sang in an arithmic and out of tune tone, she gossiping with her friends, and above all you imagined a different life. A different world, with someone who loved you, with someone who protected you.

Things got even worse after your father's death, but you never told Lucifer these details. It wasn't a pleasant conversation to have, even though you trusted him a lot and you knew he would calmly comfort you and ease your fears, there was still distrust and pain present in your heart. You used to imagine a pink, pretty and glamorous love, and really Lucifer was all of that. But he had an additional danger lurking in the darkness of his heart, in his sharp-toothed smile and in his hands with huge claws that encircled your waist.

He was a demon and like all demons, the Morningstar loved possessively, a love so suffocating that it stole your entire essence. But you didn't care, you didn't know better and you let him take whatever he wanted from you without thinking twice. Lucifer was an extremely sweet and soft boyfriend most of the time, but he also was incredibly methodical.

Stopping to think now you don't know if he ever really loved you or the idea of you. The idea of a human lover who was strong and survived the seven lords of hell, the idea of a lover who was kind and funny and so fragile he could rip you in half with a single punch. Maybe that was why Lucifer loved having you on his lap so much, resting his face on your neck while he worked, he needed something weak to feel strong.

Just like your mother needed you to blackmail your father. The strong overcoming the weak, hunter and prey. And once again there was nowhere for you to run or anyone to help you.

The problem with ideas is that they are fragile, they break easily. Today instead of you coming to spend your time with Lucifer like you always did, you preferred to spend time with Simeon and Luke. They were your friends, it was only natural. But apparently it wasn't something that pleased Lucifer, he didn't like it one bit and he let you know this with the severe expression attached on his face.

"I will give you a chance to redeem yourself," ruby eyes staring into yours as if he withheld all the truth in the world and you were the most lying human he had ever seen. As if you were a flower that he needed to cleanse of the weeds that corrupted you. "Apologize if you will."

There was something different about him as soon as you found him. The soft sound of piano coming from his record player as the open windows let the air in and the dark atmosphere sink into your bones, a shiver went down your spine just like it did when you witnessed Lucifer punishing one of his brothers.

A bitter taste spreading in your mouth as you watched him cross his arms and smile. But it wasn't the same smile he gave you as soon as you got a good grade on your test or right after you two woke up. That smile was one of fascination every time he whipped Mammon or killed a demon, dark, sly smile that made a knot curl in your throat and tears of fear come to your eyes. A dark smile.

You remembered your father's voice. You remembered the slaps you received from your mother and your little world in the basement. You trembled, not knowing how to respond or act, only being able to count how many times Lucifer sighed or the number of times his feet made contact with the floor. The silence stretched until it seemed obscene. And the Morning Star had reached the end of his patience, disappointed in your silence and angry at being your second choice.

He crossed his office with slow steps, his expression now more neutral, Lucifer held your face between his hands tightly, his nails bruising your skin. You waited for anything, screams, attacks, except Lucifer touching his forehead to yours and looking into your eyes as if you were a dumb little thing. There was tenderness and there was fear, and there was a little of everything, your heart beating confusedly inside your chest as you drown on your own feelings.

"My sweet, naive summer child, you don't know what you did, do you?" He uses that condescending tone that almost makes you roll your eyes, but you don't, realizing that you're already in trouble and you don't want to irritate him even more. "Lovers are always each other's first priority, MC. Ever."

Your eyes widened as Lucifer freed your face from his hands and turned onto his back. "Wasn't I good enough for you, Mc? Have I not cared for and loved you always, as a good lover would? So why am I not your first priority like you are mine?"

Oh. You had hurt him. Oh my, you had hurt him.

You denied, pulling his arm so he turned to face you again. "No, no, I love you very much, Luci, I don't have eyes for anyone but you and I'm sorry if I made you doubt my feelings."

But he remained standing with his back to you, thinking, Lucifer was unpredictable when he was hurt, he was angry in his actions and vengeful in his words, and when he was quiet like this you always felt a little apprehensive. He walked away without saying anything in return, back to his paperwork, as if you weren't even there.

Was he ignoring you? You decided to move closer to him, guilt pounding in your chest as you sat down in the chair he always kept next to his. The same chair you left empty today while you were having fun with the angels, not thinking about how lonely he must be feeling being alone all day.

Were you really so wrong about spending time with your friends? Several minutes passed in silence, broken only by the sound of a pen dragging over paper and your breathing. It was so uncomfortable, the silence, you turned to see the closed expression that had closed on Morningstar's beautiful face, eyebrows twisted, lips set, he wasn't happy at all.

"Lucifer, can we talk?" You asked.

Lucifer, however, remained silent, not giving in to your words. He hummed his favorite song as he read and signed documents, smoothing his bangs as they fell in his eyes. In other times he would be reading to you out loud as you had confided in him that you loved listening to him speak, you would pull your chair closer and lay your head on his shoulder. You hated the silence.

In the silence you remembered the days spent in the basement, the sleepless nights and the shadows that crept from the walls to you, close to touching you before disappearing. And then the cycle repeated itself, your parents screamed, you listened the news and the gossips, night came and the shadows return, tauting you, mocking you.

You looked down, feeling the depth of the wound you had caused. The silence persisted, heavy, as you remained distant from each other, trapped in a moment of disagreement and hurt. The tightness in your heart became unbearable, suddenly you were back in your small basement room, the light fading, the cold crackling over your skin.

You looked down, your feet chained to the walls again while roachs and rats runned past you. And Lucifer... Lucifer had abandoned you because you ruined everything. Your body tightened, you took one, two breaths until you realized that the oxygen was not able to reach your lungs.

'He hates you.' An annoying voice screamed in your mind, making you flinch on your seat. 'He's going to break with you. He's going to leave you alone again.'

'If even your parents couldn't love, why he should?"

'Undeserving and ungrateful, good for nothing human.'

Too much noise. Too much silence. Too much everything. Invisible hands started to climb up your body, leaving you trembling and gasping for air.

Everything is crashing down on your already overwhelmed mind. You were stumbling in the darkness, without a light in sight, no end in the horizon. No switch to flick the light on, no Bringer of light in sight. Trapped forever here, alone. You clutched onto your chest with weak fingers. Your lungs were rising and falling at a far rapid pace, one you couldn’t gain control of. Everything was burning. What was this?

A panic attack? A heart attack?

A pair of hands found their place on your shoulders, nails digging straight into your skin, burning, scratching. You felt lightheaded, a thin line of sweat bathing starting to run down your neck as you tried to breath. Your eyes were open but you saw only darkness in front of you, you could breath only darkess, for it was only you and darkness that existed right here and right now.

The only good thing on your life was your relationship and you destroyed it so easily, so mindlessly.

There, in the darkness you could see your mom's face wearing a twisted smile. You struggled against your shackles backing away from her at every step she took on your direction, red painted nails trying to reach you, trying to harm you again as she always did.

“Breathe in, darling.” Lucifer’s voice cut through the panic, voice sounding too angelic for a demon like him. “Look at me, darling, I'II help you.”

You still looked at her, smile on her lips, eyes wild with angry. You whimpered, trying to put some more distance between you two.

She disapperead as soon as Lucifer placed your hand on his chest, freeing you from her mirage. “Slowly breath in!” You followed your lover's instructions, breathing through the nose at the same time as him. If anyone could save you from the darkness and the pain now, it was him. “And out- keeping going, darling, just like that.”

There was urgency in his voice you realized. But why? Why would he care when he hated you? The voices on your head had lied to you? But he also had leaved you alone - though you did the same to him just earlier, it's true.

“Breath in-” Light. It was you how would describe him, black as coal hair being lightned by a broken halo. He held onto you so softly, wiping the thick tears that you haven't even realized that were falling. You could see that he was confuse, scared even, since not even Mammon behaved like this after or during a punishment. "Everything's ok?"

The cat seemed to have caught your tongue, your head lolling forward as your entire body collapsed into his chest. Tired, that's how you felt, tired of the pain, tired of the darkness and having to remember that person.

That person who should love and protect you. That person that made your life a living hell just because she could, because it was fun, the same person whose house you would return after the exchange program.

Sobs erupted from your chest, trembling again in Lucifer's arms but from a different reason now. From exhaustion, from fear. Your arms circling his torso with enought stregth to knock him up if he was a puny and weak human. But he was not. He was not, if he was cruel like her then he would be laughing now, he would bellitle you.

He was not cruel. And he couldn't know that ignoring you would trigger such reaction. It was all your fault.

You looked at him, brows furrowed, apprehension on his eyes as he hold you, hands rubbing your sides and back. Lucifer was nothing like her, would never be like her even in a million years.

"I'm sorry." You whispered unable to formulate a better apologize. "Don't hate me, please."

Please, don't leave me. Please don't take the light away. Just please stay, you wanted to scream, want to let him know what happened. But couldn't, eyes blurry with fresh new tears, lips trembling, and Lucifer held you gently. He knew you couldn't talk right now, could see in your eyes that you were unable right now with panic and fear swimming in them - any and all reasons for your sudden outburst forgotten while he comforted you so gently.

The awful silence was replaced by your lover's loud little kisses that he peppered your face with. "It's ok, love, I've got you."

IBut you were right, he was nothing like your mother. In fact, he was worse and he recorded this entire event on his mind, replaying it, trying to find a reason why you reacted that way.

With time he could use this to shape you, could train you to never leave him, to never look at anyone else, to not even thinking any dumb throughts. He smiled, bringing you much closer than before, there on the floor, for you have fallen without realizing, hugging him, you felt safe again, felt loved, if only you realized that his love was toxic and suffocating... But it's too late now.

#yandere obey me #obey me #yandere lucifer #yandere lucifer x mc #yandere lucifer x reader #lucifer x mc #lucifer x reader #obey me lucifer #lucifer avatar of pride #lorkai drabble

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astraystayyh · 1 year

Text

Wait for me

Pairing : Bang Chan x reader

Genre : Angst and I mean ANGST

Warnings : hospitals, mention of terminal illness, it is implied that reader has cancer, major character death, talk about death, grief.

Please don't read if any of these themes trigger you.

A.N: Feedback is highly appreciated, i read and respond to each one of your comments and reblogs <3 they are what keeps me going!

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When Chan vowed that he would love you through sickness and health, in life and in death, he meant those words with every part of his being. He just never imagined that the bad parts of his promise would arrive so soon.

But here he was, sat on a chair near your hospital bed. He can't remember the last time you both went home. Those depressing white walls are all he has seen for the past few months.

He hated hospitals, the smell of alcohol, the lingering dread in everyone's hearts, the shrill cries that echoed from time to time in the long corridors. But most of all, he hated what this place did to you.

He could do nothing but helplessly watch as the life was slowly sucked out of you. You tried so hard to stay positive, to reassure him that you would be fine; but no treatment seemed to be working, and the doctor's tone grew more desolate after each test.

And you? You've grown weaker. Your hands started to shake each time you attempted to caress Chan's cheeks. And they became so cold, it scared him at times, because the hands of someone alive aren't supposed be that cold. So, he held them in his large ones, blowing on them in a useless attempt to warm them up. Because he couldn't heal you, so the least he could do is warm up your hands. But his efforts were fruitless. Your hands remained cold, and your body remained sick.

Breathing felt like a chore to you, your body was giving up on you when you still had so much life flowing within you. And on days where your voice particularly betrayed you and you couldn't bring yourself to speak, Chan would talk for you. He would tell you stories, new ones and old ones you've learned by heart. His voice would crack and waver but he'd still speak, and you'd still listen.

Music always played in your room- to fill the empty silences and to conceal Chan's sobs in the bathroom. He never cried in front of you, he wanted to appear strong, for the both of you. But his puffy eyes and reddened cheeks always betrayed him.

You couldn't blame him for hiding himself, because you cried too when Chan fell asleep.

Or so you thought, because Chan never slept at night. He was afraid if he closed his eyes, you wouldn't be there when he woke up the next morning. So he stayed silent, as your tears dampened his shirt. He allowed you this moment of vulnerability. Because that is what the night does to you. It forces you to face the fears that you avoided during the day. Because when the sun is streaming through your curtains, and the birds sing outside of your window, you can't bring yourself to think about death.

But one night, you could no longer bear this weight alone. So you called out to him, and your painful sobs felt like a knife stabbing through his heart time and time again. “I'm so scared Chan. I try to act strong but I'm so scared. I don’t want to go”, you admit, clutching onto his arms tightly. You hoped that if your time had come, it would wait upon gazing at you and Chan. Wouldn't it be cruel to take someone's life when they are embracing their lover?

“You’re here, you’re still here. You’re not going anywhere,” he reassures, kissing your forehead gently. You still felt butterflies when he kissed you. You were still alive, you tried to remind yourself.

“Please- please don’t let me go,” you sob, and Chan smiles at you, his hand grazing your cheek softly. “Where will you go, darling, hum? You’re staying with me, I promise."

That night, you both knew that Chan made a promise he was bound to break. But at that moment you didn't care, sometimes white lies did feel better than the truth.

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The doctor told you three days ago that your body is rejecting the chemotherapy. "How long?" you asked and he smiled sadly, "a couple of weeks, at most."

What are a couple of weeks in the grand scheme of things? Nothing. They are fleeting, like a breeze that ruffles your hair for a second then quickly leaves you be.

You bitterly think back to the times when you had wished the weeks would pass by faster, not knowing that one day they will become your remaining lifetime.

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Chan hated when you spoke about death. How your "if I die", turned into a "when I die". He didn't want to face it, so he shut you off each time with a kiss. "Later. We will talk about it later", he says, and you nod; although later feels much closer than it did yesterday.

Chan tries his best to ignore it, the impending doom awaiting you. He ignores death as it lazily walks up the hallway, as it enters your room, and sits right beside you. He ignores the dark shadow she casts on your face because he's afraid if he ever faces her, she would snatch you away from him.

But you can't let this go any longer, so one night, you turn down the music and pat the spot beside your bed. "Come here," you say.

Chan almost bolts out of the room. He didn't want to have this conversation with you. Because if he did, it would only be a matter of time before you left. He wanted to lie to himself; he wasn't strong enough to face reality.

Still, he sits besides you, because he loves you, and your smile renders him putty in your hands.

"I need to tell you something, Chan. But you won't stop me, promise me."

"Yn, I-", you cut him off, "Please, if you love me, you'll listen to me."

"Okay... Okay," he surrenders.

"I am dying," you say, tone firm. It felt weird to not whisper those crude words, to carelessly throw them like this in the open. But you wanted them to echo through the room. You needed Chan to accept them.

"It's okay. It's the truth, we can't change it," you smile sadly and Chan shuts his eyes forcefully, shaking his head left and right.

You gently hook your finger under his chin, urging him to look at you. "But you don't have to die with me, yeah? I don't want your life to stop because I am not near you."

Chan thinks that you weren't meant to be separated. Two people who love each other this much shouldn't be separated. They should live together happily and pass away in the same bed. A gentle death, a token of the soft love they once shared.

"When you'll... when you'll bury me," his sob cuts you off and you take in a deep breath. The word felt heavy on your tongue. It lingered in the air, stilling everything around you. He will bury you, there was no doubt in it. And you needed to say this while you still could.

"I want you to remember that it is only my body under the earth. I, the person you love, will still be with you. Here," you place your hand on his heart, "and here", you tap his temple with your finger. "I will live in there for as long as you have me."

Chan imagines that this is what it feels like to drown, to have your lungs slowly be filled with water with no means to escape. Because this is what your words did to him. They filled up his lungs, choking him from within. He could no longer breathe and you were still here, next to him. So how will it be when you are gone? How much more pain can a single human heart bear?

"Don't", he manages to utter through his tears, "I will never... I will never love anyone the way I love you."

"And I want you... I want you to love again. To feel again."

"Your heart is so big my Chan, don't close it off for my sake, please."

"Stop! Stop talking like this! Like you are already gone, I- I don't want you to go. Fight more, please. For us, for me. Don't give up on me," he begs, chest heaving from the sobs that ripple through him.

Chan buries his head in your chest and although it hurts, you let him. You try your best to thread your fingers through his hair, to make your hold feel safe and gentle. Because tonight, Chan needs you to be strong. Chan needs you to comfort him.

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The couple of weeks passed by. Each day filled with more pain than the last. You couldn't bear it anymore. All you felt was hurt and you hated it.

"I'm so tired," you confess one rainy night, and Chan looks up at you, dark circles adorning his face. "I know, my love."

"Will you be mad at me? If I go?" you ask in a quiet voice, eyelids slowly closing.

The look on your face haunts Chan. He wants to tell you that yes, he wanted you to stay for a little longer. But loving someone isn't about what you want, loving someone is putting them first. And right now, he needed to let you go.

"I won't. You can rest now, honey." You've always found Chan's voice soothing, but it is particularly gentle this night. His voice reminds you of honey, of walking barefoot on the beach, of the first snow of the year. His voice is everything good in this world. It will stay with you, his voice, long after it lulls you to sleep.

"Thank you, Channie. For loving me in this lifetime," you whisper and Chan smiles, although you don't see it, "I will find you in every lifetime and love you in each."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"Okay. I'll wait for you."

That night, Chan snuggles against you in the tight hospital bed. As he brings your body to his, he wishes there was a way he could intertwin himself with you, this way wherever you went, he'll be there.

Your body is frail, and your skin is so pale he can see the veins protruding on your face. But you still look so beautiful. No one could ever rival you.

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"Hi this is yn! I'm sorry I can't answer you right now. Please leave a message after the beep".

* 3 days after the funeral

"Hey, baby. I'm bringing home the soup you like. Love you."

* 1 week later

"I- I broke down sobbing in the street today. I think it just hit me, that you are gone. That all I have left of you is this prerecorded message. It hurts, it hurts so bad, yn. And you aren't here to make it feel better. I want to go back to when I brought home your favorite meal, and I- I convinced myself you were just in the other room and you'll come eat it soon."

* 2 weeks later

"I can't do this anymore- Why did you leave? Why did you leave me here alone. I can't- I can't breathe without you, yn. It's too much, too much. Why did it have to be you? What about the plans we had, huh? The house we wanted to build together and the places we still haven't visited because we thought we had time? What am I supposed to do with all the 'what if's' you left behind? I- I wish it was me who died that day."

* 3 months later

"I didn't- I didn't call for a while. You are not mad at me, are you? I'm sorry, for being angry last time. I wasn't angry at you, you know? I could never. It's just... my heart hurts yn, it feels heavy, so heavy to carry alone. And I cry, I cry a lot. I think I may have ruined our sheets from how much I cried in them (chuckles). But, today I smiled. I thought of you, and I smiled. That has to count as something, right?"

* 5 months later

"It's your birthday today. I bought you roses, your favorite. But I don't think I will water them, you used to do that and I... I can't even take care of myself, yeah... I didn't- I didn't go to your grave to wish you a happy birthday, because you said that you are here with me. I just whispered it to myself, did you hear it, baby? You'll tell me all about it when we meet again, right?"

* 8 months later

"I forgot- I forgot how your laugh sounds. I woke up today and I couldn't remember it, and I- I don't want to forget, I'm so scared I'll forget because if you don't live in my memory then where are you? I'm still... I'm still hiding under the covers, I don't want to go out and face a world where I don't remember the sound of your laugh."

* 1 year and a half later

"It's been two years since we got married. But we've been together for five years now, isn't that amazing? I... I have something to tell you. I came to realize that although only one body was buried, two people have died that day. And I'm okay with it. I only exist to wait for when my time comes, and then I'll see you again. Wait for me."

* 2 years later

"I got the promotion I've been dreaming of baby. I think you already know that because it rained so hard as soon as I got out of work. It reminded me of the way your hugs felt, or how I think they felt. I don't really remember them. My therapist said it's how our mind copes with grief. But, I know that they felt safe and gentle. So I stood under the rain for 10 minutes, and now I caught a cold (chuckles). If you were here, you would have scolded me. You were always so protective of me, so sensitive and sweet. That's why I take back what I said a long time ago. Do you even remember? I don't wish it was me who passed away that day. I would never want you to go through the pain of losing me."

* 3 years later

"My heart still feels heavy, yn. It may sound silly, but I like it. Don't judge me (laughs). I just remember when you told me that you'll be with me, in my heart. So I imagine that the weight on my chest is the weight of my love for you. Pretty cool, right? You're everywhere with me. And I miss you. I miss you, a lot. I miss you so much. I- I can't wait to see you again. My pretty angel."

* 3 and a half years later

"It's my birthday, today. As a gift, I bought myself your perfume. I know, I know, I still have two full bottles but I'm taking precautions. I don't want to run out of it. Our friends are used to me smelling like you. Some of my coworkers even bought your perfume because they liked it so much. And now wherever I go, I smell you. It's funny, how they never knew you, and yet your life intertwined with theirs. You are everywhere, you aren't forgotten, baby. Someone like you could never be forgotten."

* 5 years later

" Hey, my love. Seungmin got married a month ago. I know, no one was expecting him to do it first. It was a beautiful ceremony, but not as beautiful as ours, but don't tell him that (giggles). Do you remember when you told me that you wanted me to love again? I think I did. I think I'm starting to love life again. I woke up and breathing felt easy. I heard the birds chirping right outside our window and I didn't hate them. I realized that I've hated them for the past five years because they were so alive and I wasn't. But I'm starting to live again. I just had some oranges and they didn't taste bland. And I think- I think I'm ready to live, for the both of us."

* 62 years later

"I think I might see you soon, my yn. You've been waiting for me, haven't you? Just like we promised."

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urdepressedslut · 1 year

Text

Stray ❝part two❞

♡ Pairing: The Winter Soldier x Fem!Reader/Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

♡ Summary: Bucky takes shelter in your house, waiting for the storm to pass. He notices something a little off about you.

♡ Warnings: hinted dark themes, light angst, fluff

Part 3

“Okay, just for tonight.” He agreed.

Even though you had opened your home to him, letting him know he was allowed anywhere he pleased, besides your room, he made himself comfortable outside on the front porch. Attempting to take up as little room as possible, deciding to camp out in the corner.

You had offered to help him set his arm back in place, but he immediately grew tense and shook his head violently fast.

Note to self: He doesn't like to be touched?

You felt bad watching him grimace as he moved around, trying to make himself comfortable. But you had to respect his space. If for some reason he didn't feel his arm should be set, them so be it.

You watched him from the window, not feeling like you were doing enough. You felt overwhelmed suddenly at having a guest, wanting to care for their every need. Taking a deep breath, you forced yourself to let him be, and busy yourself with the multiple tasks throughout the house.

Just for tonight.

His words rung in your head, and you couldn’t stop yourself from feeling sad that he’d only be here a short time.

“It’s fine…” You mumbled to yourself, unaware that Bucky could hear your distant voice through the window.

Bucky didn’t know what to think of you, he was confused and cautious around you. Despite your kindness, he thought it was too good to be true. He was used to mistreatment and harsh environments, it was his normal for a long time.

Now he feels he has whiplash from how different things are. He was used to the cold, dark cells of HYDRA. Normalizing the guard’s treatment towards him, how he had been manipulated into thinking he deserved it.

But now he sits on a rustic front porch of a charming ranch house, in the middle of nowhere, it seemed. Patches of flowers covered large sections of the fields, the vibrancy of all the colors overwhelming to him. Although his environment was extremely different than what he’s used to, it was you that had him lost for words.

For so long he only ever knew pain, and the sudden change of character was discombobulating.

How could you be so caring towards him? Did you know what he’s done? We’re you secretly scared and just not showing it?

He didn’t think it was possible to find such a sweet soul after all he’s experienced, he truly believed he’d be surrounded by the abuse forever. But you showed up, offering food, water, clothes, even shelter, and he still didn’t believe any of this was real. He didn’t believe you were real.

God, he wished— hoped it all was.

✿

The storm had rolled in several minutes ago, the ranch now shadowed in darkness, harsh winds jingling the wind chimes. Bucky found the storm to be scary but breathtaking, watching the streaks of lightning paint the sky in beautiful designs. The wind felt cool and dried his clammy skin, relaxing him in a state of calm that he had forgotten he craved. Waves of rain would blow into the front porch with violent gusts of wind, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He was relaxed, and he feared if he moved an inch, he’d lose the calm.

He was perfectly content in his corner, not caring to even attempt to sleep.

That was until he heard a loud thud from inside the house, causing his body to tense up, fearing that HYDRA had found him.

Meanwhile, you were exhausted and frustrated, throwing things around in the basement. You had thrown the shovel down, not caring that you’d hit the furnace, causing the loud thud to echo the walls.

Glancing down to the dirtied sheet, you felt conflicted. How could one feel relief and guilt so strongly at once? Your eyes watered, your stare not breaking, your mind clouded once again with faces. Ones that felt familiar, but the harder you looked, you felt you couldn’t recognize them at all.

“Am I sorry?”

You whispered out to no one, the concrete walls of the basement making you feel claustrophobic. You couldn’t stomach the sight before you anymore, and turned and ran up the stairs, slamming and sealing the door of the basement.

Clicking the last lock in place, you pushed away from the door, backing up with slow steps, eyeing the door as if it would open itself. Afraid that you’d see the faces striding up the stairs, eyes red with rage.

“Not real.”

You whispered to yourself, in attempt to ground yourself from all the noise in your mind. You backed up more and more, eyes burning from the lack of moisture, but you felt terrified to blink.

Suddenly your back hit a solid mass of muscle, and you shrieked jumping back towards the basement door, fears forgotten as you turned towards the intruder.

Your eyes locked with the man’s fear blown orbs, and you instantly softened your gaze, in shame that you’d startled him.

“I-I’m sorry, you scared me I… I didn’t hear you come in.” You told him, trying to catch your breath.

Bucky had crept into the house, the wonder if you were okay lingering in the back of his mind, and he was concerned to find you creeping away from a door, unaware of his presence. You whispered something, he assumes to yourself—considering you didn’t know he was there, and he felt uneasy.

Something about the way you spoke when you thought no one was present, he was able to get a glimpse of your true self. But it disturbed him when your voice sounded so dull, empty of life. You had so far portrayed yourself as helpful and cheery, and this change in demeanor had him confused.

“Are you okay? Did you need something?” Your voice broke him out of his thoughts.

You were suddenly aware that he had come inside the house.

“I heard a noise.” He spoke, keeping his voice particularly quiet.

He watched your eyes flash from confusion to realization, watching you swallow nervously and glance back at the door.

“Oh…Uh I just dropped something downstairs, no biggie.” You waved him off, relaxing your shoulders and taking a deep breath to get yourself together.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, trying to get a look at the door behind your head. You noticed and tried to hide your panic. Luckily a loud clap of thunder broke him from his focus on the door.

“It’s getting bad out there, you can take the couch in the living room.” You offered, headed to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Bucky winced from your offer, he preferred to keep his distance. Your living room had looked comfortable and homey, but he didn’t want to burden you with… Well himself.

“I shouldn—“

“I insist, I promise you won’t bother me.” You told him, almost like you had read his mind.

He opened his mouth to object, but closed it once he saw you smiling. He didn’t want to make you unhappy, you had given him more than he could ever ask for. He couldn’t find it in himself to say no to you.

Bucky had grabbed his small collection of stuff, plopping it down on the floor near the couch. He sat on the window bench, watching you cover the couch in a silk sheet, then covering the sheet with a comfortable looking blanket. He felt guilty at the sight, he felt awful for taking up space in your home.

Finishing up, you plopped two white cased pillows down on top.

“This okay?” You asked him, watching him nod shamefully.

You wanted to ask what was wrong, as he always looked guilty like he was doing something wrong. But you decided not to pry, and left it alone for now.

The lights all went out in the house suddenly leaving you and Bucky in the dark. Immediately you knew where to find candles, and went and got them. You placed many candles around the house, lighting up the area. You didn’t want to admit it, but the dark was terrifying to you and if Bucky weren’t here you’d probably be freaking out.

Lighting the last candle on the table next to Bucky��s bed, the couch, you snuck a glance at him. He sat in the same spot, eyeing the couch but never making a move to get up.

“I know this isn’t much, and I’m sorry if it feels like I’m forcing you to stay here… I…” You trailed off, taking a breath, “You know you’re allowed to leave whenever you want… I just— I just wanted to help you.”

He listened to your nervous rambling, feeling bad that he’d unintentionally made you feel like you were forcing him to do anything. You weren’t forceful, not like the people from HYDRA, you were quite the opposite. He was suddenly tired of not being able to put a name to your face, and wondered why it had taken this long.

“What’s your name?” He asked you, and you seemed confused at his sudden subject change.

You hadn’t realized you’d never told him your name, that probably made him uncomfortable.

“Oh uh, (Y/n).”

Bucky hummed at the name reveal, and he decided quickly that it fit you well.

“What’s yours?” You shot back, watching his expression drop.

After a few moments of silence, you took it as a sign that he wasn’t going to answer. Thick tension filled the living room, making you fidget with the ends of your dress again.

“I think my name is Bucky.” He spoke, ruining the silence.

You smiled and repeated to yourself in your head, Bucky. You couldn’t stop yourself from asking.

“You think?”

He glanced at you, hesitating whether he should be honest with you or not. He feared you’d run, and for some reason he didn’t want you to be scared of him.

You sensed his discomfort from your question.

“I like Bucky. It fits you.” You told him cheerfully, watching his eyes meet yours and you swear you saw a smile ghost his lips.

Deciding to try and give him his space, and go to your room upstairs, you started to get up from your spot from the arm of the couch.

“(Y/n)?” Bucky got out before you took your first step away.

You faced him with a gentle smile.

“Yes Bucky?” You waited, watching his lip twitch at you saying his name.

“Can I ask you a question?” He asked quietly, watching as you sat back down on the arm of the couch.

“Sure.” You gave him the go ahead, and he surprised you by standing up.

You tried to keep the smile plastered on your face, but it wavered in shock that he was moving closer to you. You stayed very still, in fear that if you moved, you’d spook him. Instead you sat and watched him take slow steps, up until he got to the couch, and lowered himself, multiple inches from you.

Your smile grew back as you watched him sink into the couch, the soft feeling comforting him. He was relishing in the feeling like he had never been on something so soft.

Facing you, he held your gaze, and you grew nervous from the intensity that his blue eyes held. It was in this moment you realized just how blue his eyes were, they were piercing… Haunted.

“I saw some pictures… When I came inside before.” He started, and your eyebrows were furrowed in confusion.

“Pictures? I… I don’t…”

“It was of a family.” He finished, and you felt your limbs freeze up.

Bucky watched your eyes slowly go unfocused, and he grew concerned at the lack of light suddenly within them.

Swallowing harshly, you tightly gripped your dress on your thigh in attempt to ground yourself.

“Oh…” Was all you could muster.

“Is it your family?” He asked, debating whether he should stop, but he knew you wouldn’t answer if you didn’t want to.

“Some of them are, yes.” You answered, your voice more monotone then it was moments ago.

“You…” He swallowed nervously, “You said it was j-just you here?”

Finding out that there may be more people living here, he felt betrayed that you would lie to him. But he didn’t understand why he was so bothered, he didn’t even know you. He couldn’t help himself from clinging onto the first kind person he’d come across.

“No no—I swear it’s just me here.” You held your hands up defensively, “You can check the house, if you want.”

Bucky kept that offer in the back of his mind, not trusting you enough now that his mind was clouded with doubts about you.

“If what you say is true… Then where’s your family?” He asks, like the final nail in the coffin.

He was just a stranger to you, but you couldn’t help yourself from fearing what he might think of you, if he knew everything. You felt judgement from his questioning, but it was judgement in which you felt you deserved.

Just for tonight.

Right, he wasn’t going to be here in just a few hours. What’s the harm?

Unless he goes back to town, alerting the towns people of your baggage. He wouldn’t do that, he’s running too. Unless he’d use you as a distraction? No— Maybe?

Your head ached, your eyes threatening to spill tears. Faking a yawn, you stood up and started walking to the stairs.

“You can help yourself to anything in the kitchen, you can watch tv… I don’t care. Goodnight.” You muttered, feet heavy with dread, knowing what you’d see when your eyes would fall shut.

Bucky watched your form drag up the stairs, he was confused at what he had said wrong. He’d been getting a read on you ever since he’d seen you, and he never expected you to have something dark following you. His words seemed triggering, maybe something happened to your family. That thought alone made his heart hurt, you living here all alone. Well that made his heart hurt even more.

His mind was conflicted with thoughts, his brain not wanting to turn off. He knew it would be a sleepless night, instead he’d lie awake, wondering why a part of him didn’t want to leave tomorrow.

A/N: this is going to take a much darker turn than y’all were expecting 👀 hehe let me know what you think!

taglist: @viperchick47 @hunitweet @vixi-3303 @mirtaqueen

#reader insert #light angst #fluff #oneshot #imagine #buckybarnes #marvel cinematic universe #marvel imagines #bucky x female reader #the winter soldier #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes angst #sebastian stan #dark themes #dark character

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doormatty3 · 5 months

Text

Sinner's Salvation: Chapter 1 (Ed Warren x Reader)

Masterlist Ao3

Next chapter

Summary:

[Ed Warren x Female Reader] [Ed Warren x You]

You don't believe in the supernatural and superstition. Witchcraft and demonic occurrences are nothing but quackery to you. But when the room starts spinning, days start blurring into each other and shadows start dancing in every corner you wonder what is wrong with you. No doctor can tell you more about your condition - each and every one is insisting that you are fine and perfectly healthy. Seeking alternative help, you stumble across Ed and Lorraine Warren. They promise to help you, rid you of the demon that has taken hold of you - to drive it out. But you didn’t know what you signed up for and what an exorcism by Ed Warren entails. OR: Ed shows you how well he can possess your body - and your cunt

Wordcount: 8019

Chapter: 1/2

Warnings: 18+, description of violence, dirty thoughts, flirting, religious imagery

A/N: Peer pressure is strong - so here is another Patrick Wilson fanfic. This first chapter is pretty much swf, the smut is in the next one. And belief me…it is filthy. Anyway I need Jesus or Ed to exorcise me.

Next chapter

CHAPTER 1

Your head pounds as you try to busy yourself with the magazines on the glass table at your doctors’s waiting room. Headaches and migraines have been intermittent companions throughout your life - coming and going over the years with an emphasis on going.

However, for the past few weeks, they were persistent and overstayed their welcome.

What began as a dull ache that had settled in the front of your skull had slowly morphed and spread through your whole head until it felt like constant and pervasive pressure was applied to your temples, squeezing your mind between its fingers restlessly. The dull throb had escalated into a sharp, blinding stab, like invisible hands transforming into relentless claws.

It was at this point that you resolved to consult your doctor. Those headaches were out of the ordinary, deviating from their usual form and you were yearning for some relief and an explanation as to what was causing them. Because you were sure that it wasn’t just migraines or stress.

You sink back into the uncomfortable chair of the waiting room as you find yourself desperately seeking some solace from the sharp pain throbbing at your temple. The mix of the flickering fluorescence overhead and the bright daylight seeping in through the window seems to intensify your discomfort so you close your eyes to drown out one sensation. But the lack of one sense amplifies the other, so you hear the murmur of hushed conversations and discussions as well as the rhythmic ticking of the clock that has never seemed so loud as it does at this moment.

You bring your right hand to your head and rub your thumb in circular motions over your temple while your fingers rest on your forehead. Despite your best efforts, it does not really help against the throbbing ache and only provides some short-lived relief.

Each passing minute elongates your stay in the room, marked only by the clock’s relentless ticking.

On any other day, you would have read something or watched the other people sitting in the room but the headache makes everything tiring and painful.

Suddenly, your name echoes through the waiting room, your head jolts up and your eyes fly open. The doctor’s assistant meets your gaze with an expectant look and gestures with her hand, saying: “Please follow me”.

As you rise from the unyielding chair quickly, the ticking clock and flickering lights momentarily fade into the background when spots dance in the edges of your vision - a new side effect of your headaches. You blink a few times to regain your composure and balance.

The corridor leading to the treatment room is long and sterile - occasionally a colorful picture on the white wall breaks up the monotonous path. The echo of your footsteps sounds loud in your head and you feel the sharp stab in your temple with every noise.

With a smile and a nod, the woman opens the door to the doctor’s room: “He’ll be with you in a couple minutes. Feel free to take a seat”.

“Thank you”, you mumble quietly and pull out a chair to sit down.

The room is adorned with medical charts, anatomical diagrams, and informational posters that detail various parts of the human body. Anatomical models of organs and skeletal structures stand on shelves, their detailed features catching the sterile light.

You lower your eyes to your hands and away from the bright lights in the room when the door to the room creaks open.

“I’m sorry for the wait, dear”, the doctor enters the room, shutting the door gently and taking a seat opposite you, “What brings you here today?”

“I wake up with headaches almost every morning”, you admit, your voice carrying the weight of fatigue and frustration, “It started a few months ago and hasn’t gotten better - only worse.”

The doctor, a mix of empathy and expertise, leans in, pen poised over a notepad, ready to capture the nuances of your struggle.

“Tell me more about the nature of the pain. Is it sharp, dull, pulsating?”, he inquires, his eyes focused on yours, seeking a clearer picture.

You take a moment, searching for words to convey the indescribable sensations.

“It’s like… a relentless pressure, sometimes sharp and stabbing, and it just lingers throughout the day. It’s not just the pain; it’s the way it clouds everything else, like a persistent shadow”, you explain, your frustration evident in the furrow of your brow.

And then you add, almost as an afterthought: “I usually have migraines, but this headache feels different. It’s like a stranger invading my headspace, and nothing seems to help.”

The doctor nods thoughtfully, his brow furrowing in a half-hearted attempt at concern.

“I see. How would you rate the intensity on a scale from one to ten? And have you noticed any specific triggers or patterns that coincide with these headaches?”

You take a deep breath, appreciating the opportunity to provide more insight into the daily struggle you endure.

“The intensity varies, but at its peak, I would rate it around an eight or nine. It’s not just the pain…”, you trail off for a second, blinking your eyes rapidly against the throbbing of your head, “It’s the relentlessness of it, like a drumbeat in my head that refuses to fade away.”

The doctor scribbles a few notes, but his furrowed brow remains a mere semblance of genuine concern and you cannot help but wonder if he takes your concern seriously.

He continues, without looking up: “Triggers or patterns - have you noticed anything specific that seems to bring these headaches on? Certain foods, stress, lack of sleep, perhaps?”

Your mind races to pinpoint potential triggers, hoping to offer any helpful information.

“No, I don’t think I can pinpoint any specific trigger. I’ve tried tracking my diet, but nothing conclusive… I know stress can make it worse, but that just doesn’t seem right. It almost feels like they have a mind of their own.”

The doctor’s nod is accompanied by a distant sound of acknowledgment: “Understood. We’ll note the variability. Have you observed any changes in their frequency or duration recently?”

You pause, considering his question. “Yes, they’ve become more frequent, and the duration seems to be stretching out. Sometimes lasting for days.”

As you share your experiences, the doctor’s responses remain mechanical, lacking the depth and engagement you hoped for.

He takes down a note on his pad, his expression somewhat detached.

“Thank you for sharing that. We’ll explore this further. In the meantime, have you experienced any other symptoms alongside these headaches? Changes in vision, sensitivity to light, or nausea, perhaps?”

You take a deep breath before responding: “Yes, there have been moments where I see shadows dancing at the edge of my vision, and light, especially bright light, seems almost intolerable.”

“Well, headaches can be tricky. I’ll prescribe you some pain medication for now. It should help take the edge off. Let’s see how that goes before jumping into more tests.”

The doctor’s demeanour remains distant, his response lacking the reassurance you were seeking.

A pervasive disappointment sets in as you absorb his words, rendering you speechless. The doctor’s lack of genuine concern leaves you disheartened.

With a brisk movement, he rises from his chair, with a faint smile gracing his lips as he extends his hand toward you.

As the doctor withdraws his hand, he nods almost imperceptibly, a silent acknowledgment that punctuates the end of the consultation. With a parting glance, he pivots and makes his way towards the door, the echo of his footsteps emphasising the hollowness of the room. The door creaks open and then closes, leaving you sitting alone as you try to comprehend what just happened.

The initial hope for understanding and empathy begins to waver, replaced by a nagging question: are your headaches truly as severe as they feel, or are they being downplayed by the doctor’s lack of concern?

The doubt grows as you leave the examination room, and a wave of self-questioning accompanies you. Perhaps you’re exaggerating the pain, or maybe others endure worse without seeking medical attention. The once vivid description of your headaches starts to blur, muddled by the doctor's detached response.

This self-doubt, however, doesn’t entirely quash the very real and tangible pain you feel daily. The clawing at your temples persists a constant reminder that, regardless of the doctor's reaction, your struggle is genuine.

_____6 months later_____

The moment you pry your eyes open, you instantly regret it when a familiar surge of pain flares up and radiates through your head. The once-tolerable discomfort, only triggered by encounters with brighter lights, now manifests even at the gentlest touch of illumination.

The blinds in your apartment are drawn almost entirely shut in a deliberate attempt to shield you from the outside world. Only a handful of thin, feeble stripes of light manages to illuminate the room, casting delicate patterns on the floor. The room around you remains shrouded in a semi-darkened veil.

As you lay there, contemplating the day ahead, you can't help but wish for a respite from the relentless screaming in your head. With a groan, you push yourself up, your movements measured to avoid exacerbating the persistent ache.

The dull glow of a digital clock on the bedside table reveals the early hour, a reminder that the day has just begun, yet the promise it holds seems elusive under the weight of your current state. You’d much rather not have to open your eyes at all and retreat into the comforting embrace of darkness and the inevitability of facing the day ahead.

The current intensity of the throbbing headaches promises a rather bad day ahead - maybe the worst you’ve had in a while.

The cool surface of the floor meets the soles of your feet offering a momentary distraction from the pulsating discomfort in your head as you navigate the dimly lit space. The few rays of light filtering through the partially closed blinds create a chiaroscuro effect, casting shadows that dance along the walls like fleeting memories.

The weight of uncertainty presses down on you, adding an undercurrent of fear to the pulsating discomfort in your head. The unknown, wrapped in shadows, looms over your thoughts, intensifying the ache that reverberates through your skull and manipulating the threads of your mind like a malevolent puppeteer, weaving a twisted dance of uncertainty.

With each step, you can’t shake the feeling of being adrift in a sea of questions, with no clear answers in sight.

You lower yourself into the desk chair in your office, facing the computer. With a heavy sigh, you rest your head in your hands, succumbing to the pounding in your head that seems to be intensified by the soft glow of the computer screen.

A sense of worry washes over you as you contemplate the missing fragments of time. There are moments when waking up brings with it the haunting realisation that whole days have slipped through the sieve of your memory. You recall mornings when you’ve donned shoes and proper clothes, yet the specifics remain elusive, lost in the fog of an obscured consciousness.

Unexplained bruises are scattered across your body like cryptic symbols etched into the canvas of your skin. The morning light sometimes reveals these marks - random, and varied in size. Some bruises are inconspicuous, while others are more pronounced, a stark contrast against the pallor of your skin. You know that it may very well be a nutritional deficiency or just your clumsiness in general.

It's plausible that during the night, you inadvertently collide with objects or navigate your dimly lit apartment and stumble into furniture, while the pain is obscured by the prominence of your persistent headaches. Which rhythmic persistence feels as if someone else is dwelling within, an unwelcome tenant navigating the labyrinth of your thoughts.

Once again you google your symptoms just as you did before in hopes of finding something that provides you with the answers you so desperately seek. The tapping of keys echoes in the quiet room as you type in the details of your affliction.

The search results hold a plethora of possibilities, ranging from the mundane to the foreboding. Your eyes sweep across the information, revealing a spectrum of potential explanations.

Predictably, illnesses such as cancer or a brain tumor show up in the results. But you recall a recent and disappointing visit to the doctor during which you talked about the results of brain scans that were completely normal and unremarkable. The lingering sense of unease that clings to your every thought has not been dispelled by that and still remains.

As you delve deeper into your online search, the glow of the computer screen casts an ethereal light on your face, accentuating the furrowed brow that accompanies your contemplation when the search results take an unexpected turn.

Among the medical explanations and everyday ailments, there is a collection of pages adorned with ominous symbols, discussing the supernatural, and invoking the paranormal.

A skeptical scoff escapes your lips at the absurdity of such notions. The idea of demonic involvement feels like a fantastical escape from the reality of medical concerns. You dismiss these supernatural threads as mere distractions, remnants of an online world where fiction and reality often blur. But you cannot deny that you are intrigued and fascinated by those weird demonic and paranormal things.

So you decide to dive deeper and steer your thoughts in a different direction than your medical condition.

You stumble upon Ed and Lorraine Warren. Their names are etched in the annals of supernatural and demonologist lore, their photographs capturing a certain gravitas that transcends the ordinary.

As you delve into their stories, a mix of fascination and skepticism grips you. The tales of haunted houses, malevolent entities, and their seemingly fearless pursuit of the unknown unfold like chapters in a dark, mysterious novel.

The images of the Warrens show a tall, imposing couple that exudes an aura of authority. Their gaze seems to pierce through the screen as if they have encountered unknown forces that your brain cannot comprehend. Both exude attractiveness and Ed, in particular, captivates your attention with his clear blue eyes and a soft, reassuring smile.

As you sink deeper into your exploration, you come across intriguing details about the Warrens, including snippets about their artifact room.

Further research reveals that Ed is a non-ordained demonologist officially recognized by the Catholic Church and Lorraine, on the other hand, is described as a gifted clairvoyant.

Notably, you discover that the Warrens are scheduled to speak at a university near you in a few days, where they will delve into topics surrounding demons and the supernatural. This upcoming lecture piques your interest, as it offers the possibility of gaining insights on the topic you’re interested in and steering your thoughts in a different direction.

The next day unfolds with a disconcerting air that hangs over every moment. As you move through the routine motions of your day, a persistent sensation gnaws at the edges of your consciousness - a feeling that someone might be in your apartment, an invisible presence tracking your every move. The shadows seem to linger, conspiring to elongate and distort as if concealing the secrets of an unseen observer.

Unease settles in, and the weight of the unknown intensifies. Your senses are on high alert, hyperaware of subtle sounds and fleeting shadows. Paranoia casts a veil over your perception, transforming the familiar surroundings into a labyrinth of uncertainty. The notion that you are being followed, and watched, becomes an inescapable undercurrent.

As you sit down at your computer to continue your Google search about Ed and Lorraine Warren, the mysterious feeling of being watched persists and the noises in your apartment become more pronounced.

Suddenly, you hear a distinct tapping sound, like fingernails lightly brushing against a surface. Your head jerks up, and you glance around the room, searching for the source.

You decide to investigate the source of the sounds. Slowly, you get up from your chair and start to explore your apartment. The creaking floorboards and faint whispers add to the tension in the air. As you move from room to room, you can’t shake the feeling that someone - or something - is with you.

Jesus, you think.

Delving into the Warrens’ cases has genuinely left an impression on you. Despite your rational certainty that you'll discover nothing unusual, a small part of you wants to make sure that you are truly alone, so you look into your bedroom.

The room is dimly lit, and shadows dance on the walls, creating an unsettling atmosphere and you half expect to come face-to-face with an intruder.

Of course, the room is empty. You shake your head at your antics and the weird games your mind sometimes plays at you. So you return to your computer, determined to focus on your research.

As you delve deeper into their history, you come across tales of unexplained occurrences and inexplicable events. The line between the paranormal and the ordinary becomes blurred, and you can’t help but wonder if there's a connection between your eerie experience and the stories you’re reading.

The distinct creak of the front door opening sends a shiver down your spine, intensifying the unease that had settled in the pit of your stomach. Your head jerks up instinctively, eyes widening as you try to discern any movement or sound that may follow.

Slowly and cautiously, you ease yourself out of the office, your senses on high alert - your mind cannot have made that up again, it feels too real.

Each step is deliberate, the floorboards beneath your feet protesting with muted groans. The dim lighting in the hallway casts long, wavering shadows, creating a macabre dance of darkness that seems to come alive with each flicker.

As you make your way to the kitchen, you can't help but notice the play of light and shadow, accentuating the contours of the furniture and giving the surroundings an otherworldly quality. The eerie atmosphere lingers, and every sound, whether a distant whisper or the faint rustle of curtains, contributes to the unsettling symphony. Your heart pounds in your ears, the rhythmic thud echoing relentlessly as adrenaline courses through your veins.

The air feels charged with tension as you navigate through the space, acutely aware of your surroundings. The kitchen, once a place of familiarity, now holds an unfamiliar weight, and you find yourself glancing over your shoulder, half-expecting to find a presence lingering in the shadows.

You look around for a potential weapon in your kitchen. Your eyes land on a set of sharp kitchen knives neatly arranged on the counter. You grab one, the cold steel offering a reassuring weight in your hand. Gripping it tightly, you take a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves as the blade reflects the gentle glow that is emanating from the windows.

Your mind races with possibilities, ranging from a potential intruder to something more otherworldly. Your eyes blink rapidly, a reflex under the stress, and you can feel sweat building as your apprehension grows.

With the knife in hand, you decide to cautiously approach the area near the hallway that leads to the front door. Every step is deliberate, and the creaking floorboards beneath your feet seem to echo in the silence. The shadows play tricks on your imagination, making you question whether the movement you see is real or just a product of your heightened senses.

As you reach the entrance, you notice that the door is slightly ajar. The chill in the air sends a shiver down your spine. Holding the knife in a defensive stance, you push the door open, ready to confront whatever or whoever might be on the other side.

To your surprise, the hallway appears empty. The dimly lit corridor stretches out before you, devoid of any immediate threat. However, the feeling of being watched persists, leaving you on edge.

A shiver runs down your spine as you turn towards the living room, and your eyes widen with a mixture of fear and surprise.

In the dim light, you make out the silhouette of a figure standing in the shadows. The room seems to hold its breath as you lock eyes with the unexpected visitor.

Your grip tightens on the knife, your instincts urging you to be prepared for whatever may come. The figure remains still, a mysterious presence cloaked in darkness. Panic and curiosity wrestle within you, but you muster the courage to speak.

“Who’s there?”, you demand, your voice wavering slightly, betraying your inner turmoil.

The figure doesn’t respond immediately, maintaining an unsettling silence. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you start to discern features - the outline of a person clad in big, dark clothing wearing a hood. The air in the room feels charged with tension, and the quiet seems to amplify the beating of your heart.

A surge of fear courses through you as the stranger inches closer in the dimly lit living room. Your panic intensifies, and without thinking, you unleash a scream, a mixture of fear and warning, hoping to startle the intruder or whatever presence stands before you as you feel your whole body shaking.

“Who are you? What do you want?”, you shout, your voice echoing through the tense silence. The sudden burst of sound reverberates in the room, and you can feel your heart pounding in your chest.

The stranger freezes momentarily, their movement halted by your unexpected reaction. The dim light casts uncertain shadows on their stance, making it challenging to discern their intentions. You maintain a defensive stance, clutching the knife tightly in your hand.

In the wake of your scream, a heavy silence lingers, broken only by the sound of your own rapid breaths. The stranger remains silent, their next move unclear.

“I don’t want to hurt you! Please just…go”, your voice is shaking and the fear that settled itself in your core is palpable.

Suddenly, the stranger surges forward and in a split-second response to their move towards you, fear and adrenaline drive you to react instinctively. Without hesitation, you thrust the knife forward, aiming for the center of the oncoming threat. The blade makes contact, sinking into the stranger’s stomach with a sickening resistance.

The stranger gasps, a guttural sound escaping their lips, and their momentum falters. The reality of the situation hits you, and your eyes widen in shock as you release the blade and stumble back. You watch their hands instinctively clutch their injured stomach before inevitably collapsing onto the ground.

Time seems to stretch as you assess the situation, your mind racing to comprehend the events that have just happened.

You stand there, breaths coming in ragged gasps, staring at the figure now on the floor. The dim light accentuates the stark reality of the situation - their blood on the knife, their blood splattered on the floor, and their blood staining your hands.

A wave of panic grips you, and you feel the onset of a panic attack tightening your chest. The reality of the violence you've just inflicted crashes over you, and a whirlwind of emotions - fear, guilt, and shock - threatens to overwhelm your senses. Bile rises at the back of your throat, adding to the overwhelming intensity of the moment.

The heavy silence in the room is broken by the sound of your laboured breathing when you realise the gravity of the situation. You just stabbed someone.

You step closer to the figure on the floor, your hands are trembling and your mind is in turmoil. Your gaze falls onto the knife. It is still stained with their blood and lodged in the stranger’s stomach like a macabre focal point that rhythmically rises with their rattling, shallow breaths.

You hover over the figure and you reach out to grab the protruding knife with your bloody hands in a motion that you cannot stop. Your hand closes around the handle and you pull.

The knife emerges from the stranger’s stomach without much resistance but with a wet squelch and a deep, pained groan. Blood follows the blade out of the wound, drenching the stranger’s clothes as you watch mesmerised.

A few seconds tick by before you sink to your knees and lift the blade again as if pulled up by invisible strings.

The knife plunges into the stranger's chest, and a sickening resistance, a visceral clash of flesh, bone, and muscle, courses through your hands. The figure beneath you convulses, and the room is filled with the gut-wrenching sounds of their laboured breaths and pained noises, and the air is heavy with the metallic scent of blood, a salty tang settling on your tongue.

As you continue to stab in a mindless range, the blood pools over your hands, coating them like a warm embrace. The stranger beneath you convulses in response to each stab, their breaths growing more ragged with each passing moment.

Your frazzled breathing is loud in the room when you snap out of your frenzy. A sudden realisation grips you as the weight of what you've done settles in and the knife hits the wooden floor with a loud clink.

The dim light flickers, casting an eerie glow on the tableau of violence before you.

The dark clad, hooded figure that lays motionless on your floor in a pool of deep red blood surrounding them, drawing a macabre outline.

You reach out to the stilled stranger's form and tug the hood down from the stranger's head.

A jolt of terror courses through you as you reveal your own face staring back at you, eyes wide in terror. The shock is overwhelming, and you stagger back, falling onto your hands. The surreal horror of the revelation sends a scream tearing from your throat.

But then, as abruptly as the situation unfolded, you wake up screaming. Your heart pounds in your chest, and you're drenched in a cold sweat. The remnants of the dream cling to your consciousness, leaving you disoriented and unsettled.

As the realisation sets in that it was all a nightmare, a wave of relief washes over you. The room is bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, and the familiar surroundings of your bedroom reassure you that the disturbing events were only figments of your imagination. The oppressive shadows, the metallic tang of the knife, the haunting echoes of the chilling act - all dissolved into the hazy realm of dreams.

You extend your arm to hit the light switch for your bedside lamp, flooding the room with a brighter light. However, the sudden change triggers a throbbing headache, and spots dance before your eyes. The harsh illumination contrasts sharply with the peaceful moonlight, leaving you momentarily disoriented as you navigate the transition from the dreamworld to the stark reality of your lit room.

Abruptly, you raise your hands, a quick and anxious gesture, checking for any signs of harm or scattering of remaining blood. When you see nothing but spotless skin you take a moment to collect yourself, breathing deeply. Yet you still rub your hands together, attempting to rid yourself of the lingering sensation of phantom blood that appears to have permeated your skin.

The digital numbers on your clock glow faintly, spelling out the hour: 3 am. The unsettling residue of your nightmare clings to your thoughts, a haunting aftertaste that refuses to dissipate.

As you consider the option of getting up, you notice the gentle hum of the air conditioner and the distant sounds of the night outside. The weight of the bedsheets feels heavier than usual, as if reluctant to release you from the lingering grip of the dream's distressing scenes. The room, while familiar, carries an air of unfamiliarity, as if the vivid dream has cast a subtle shadow over your reality.

The intensity of your frustration grows as you realize that even your dreams have become a source of distress. The pervasive discomfort of constant head pain during waking hours now seems to extend its unwelcome influence into the realm of your sleep, turning what should be a respite into yet another source of anguish. The feeling of being trapped in a dual nightmare, both waking and sleeping, causes tears to well up in your eyes.

In all the months of your illness, you have never felt so completely and utterly lost and afraid.

A sob escapes your throat, and tears stream down your face as you succumb to the overwhelming weight of despair. You just want to get better - because this state is not living anymore, it is merely existing.

You recall the Google search from the day before - about Ed and Lorraine Warren being at a university for a lecture.

Maybe they can help you tackle whatever this is. Conventional medicine has failed you, leaving you desperate and adrift, and at this point, with nothing left to lose you are okay with anything. After all - it cannot get worse.

_____

The lecture hall at the university is packed, filled with an eager and diverse crowd, spanning different ages, all buzzing with anticipation as they gather to witness the renowned Warrens deliver their lecture.

Ed and Lorraine take their place on the stage, positioned behind a podium. You find yourself nervously seated in the middle of the audience, the bright lights exacerbating your headaches, the dull throb syncing with the beat of your heart as you feel anxious. Your attention shifts to the front, where Ed and Lorraine stand and you let your eyes rank over them.

Ed, with his impeccably styled short auburn hair, is dressed in a light grey three-piece suit paired with a black shirt and a tartan tie. Lorraine’s attire is a black vest over a light blue ruffle blouse and a long skirt carrying a matching tartan pattern, echoing Ed’s tie.

It’s a subtle reflection of their devotion to each other, you figure. Both of them emanate an undeniable attractiveness that seems to reel you in and you understand why they are so successful in what they do.

As they stand behind the podium, Ed exudes a grounded demeanour, his voice breaking the silence and resonating through the hall: “Fear is defined as a feeling of agitation and anxiety caused by the presence or imminence of danger. I don’t care if it’s a demon, a ghost, a spirit, or an entity - they all feed on it.”

Despite Ed’s composed presence, Lorraine appears unfocused, her eyes scanning the crowd as she nervously plays with her rosary.

The room is illuminated by a large screen, displaying rough film footage featuring a gaunt, despondent man in his late twenties - rail thin, eyes black like his hair, and skin pasty white. A Catholic priest stands beside him, murmuring Latin in a barely audible tone.

“Maurice here was a French Canadian farmer with nothing more than a third-grade education - yet after being possessed by a demon, spoke some of the best Latin I had ever heard - sometimes backward. He had been molested by his father, who also exposed him to bestiality. Evil found its home in this man because he was conflicted, and forced into this - he never had a choice. He thought he was saving his wife by shooting her - like his father did to his mother”, Ed informs the audience as the film unfolds before them.

You experience a mix of unease and captivation in Ed’s presence, marvelling at how he commands the room. His bright blue eyes gaze into the audience as he speaks, intensifying the dull throb in your temples as you concentrate on the lecture rather than the charismatic man on the stage.

Shifting your focus from Ed’s figure, you fix your gaze on the screen displaying the possessed man, Maurice, writhing in agonising agony.

Lorraine interjects as the film plays: “If you look at his eyes, you can see them tearing blood onto his shirt.”

You witness Maurice’s white T-shirt morphing into a canvas of dark crimson, accompanied by anguished screams.

“And upside-down crosses started appearing on his body”, Lorraine’s soft voice narrates as Ed lifts Maurice's shirt in the film, revealing two inverted crosses pushing out from the inside.

A sense of disbelief floods your thoughts - how is that possible?

Your headache pulses, prompting you to massage your temples as you watch Maurice’s struggle. The shocking scenes inadvertently bring back memories of the unsettling nightmare from the previous night. You blink rapidly, attempting to dispel the lingering thoughts and bring your focus back to the stage.

Ed takes charge, saying: “That’s good, Drew, why don’t you hit the lights.”

As Drew obediently follows Ed's instruction to turn off the projector, the room is bathed in light once more.

The harsh contrast between the vivid reality around you and the haunting scenes you’ve just witnessed on screen intensifies the unease. You notice others in the audience shifting uncomfortably in their seats, exchanging glances that reflect a shared sense of disquiet.

Ed’s silhouette becomes more pronounced against the darkened backdrop, and his next words pierce through the silence, undeterred by the discomfort permeating the room, as he begins to explain the significance of the possessed man’s ordeal.

His voice, a steady and authoritative cadence, cuts through the residual tension: “What you’ve seen tonight is not an isolated incident. Demonic possession is a very real and insidious force that can take hold of a person's soul.”

The rational part of your mind grapples with scepticism, but the visceral memories of Maurice’s screams and the grotesque symbols etched on his body make it challenging to dismiss the possibility outright.

Ed’s blue eyes, still holding the attention of the room, seem to penetrate the shadows of doubt. As he delves deeper into the supernatural narrative, your unease mingles with a growing curiosity.

Your attention is drawn to Lorraine, who still appears notably on edge. Her eyes nervously traverse the audience, revealing a subtle unease as her husband, Ed, steers the course of the lecture. It’s as though there's an undercurrent of tension beneath the surface, and Lorraine’s apprehensive demeanour suggests an awareness of something lingering in the air.

You wonder what she may be searching for or if that is normal for her - Ed doesn’t seem to be bothered by it.

“So, what happened to Maurice?”, a young man seated in the front row blurts out loud.

Ed responds with gravity in his tone: “Well, he tried to kill his wife but instead he shot her in the arm and then turned the gun on himself. Maurice had a very troubled life with little to live for...and not even an exorcist you bring him back.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, evoking a sense of sympathy for Maurice. The nonchalant demeanor with which Ed addresses the grim outcome leaves you intrigued and a bit unsettled. You can’t help but wonder about the myriad experiences the Warrens have encountered, considering their seemingly unshaken composure in the face of such dark tales.

As Ed turns to roll up the projector sheet, your attention briefly wanders. At that moment, you find yourself discreetly appreciating his form – his broad frame, strong shoulders concealed by the suit, and his ass that is pronounced by his tight pants.

“Which brings us to the three stages of demonic activity”, Ed declares, pointing emphatically to each word written on the blackboard. He begins to pace around the room, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the assembled audience.

“Infestation, oppression, and possession. Now, infestation: That’s the whispering, the footsteps, the feeling of another presence… which ultimately grows into oppression - the second stage. Now, this is where the victim, and it’s usually the one who's the most psychologically vulnerable, is targeted specifically by an external force. Breaks the victim down. Crushes their will. And once in a weakened state, leads them to the third and final stage: possession.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air, emphasising the ominous progression of these stages.

Ed’s eyes, still holding the attention of the room, sweep across the assembled audience, and he opens the floor for questions: “Are there questions?”

A smattering of eager arms shoot up, and you find yourself sinking deeper into your chair. While you too have a question, the nature of it – perhaps delving into the experience of possession – could raise suspicions, causing you to hesitate.

Ed acknowledges a male student in the front row with a subtle nod, indicating his readiness to entertain the question.

“I’d love to know what scares you the most?”, the student inquiries, his curiosity evident.

Ed’s demeanour shifts slightly, breaking into a small but genuine smile at the inquiry. His gaze is momentarily diverted from the audience to meet Lorraine’s. In that brief connection, it’s apparent that Ed’s gaze is filled with love, a sentiment that practically emanates from him, adding a layer of warmth to the otherwise intense atmosphere. Lorraine, still appearing unfocused and nervous, scans the room with vigilant eyes, seemingly attuned to energies beyond the visible.

“Being married to a clairvoyant - there’s not a whole lot I can get away with”, Ed responds, his smile widening as he adds a touch of humour to the gravity of the topic, “But there is just a base level of respect for everything we deal with.”

You can’t help but find Ed’s smile endearing and attractive. The way the skin around his eyes crinkles as he smiles toothily adds a touch of charm to his already charismatic presence.

As Ed shares this insight into his personal life, the room absorbs the shift in tone, the lecture momentarily transitioning into a more intimate and conversational atmosphere. The male student nods in response, seemingly satisfied with the candid revelation, as the audience gains a glimpse into the intricate dynamics of the Warrens’ unique partnership, accentuated by the palpable love that underlies their connection.

You raise your hand into the air since you thought of a question that won’t arouse suspicion among the gathered crowd. The odds of being chosen appear slim, given the multitude of raised hands, but you decide it’s worth a shot.

Yet, the moment your hand ascends, Lorraine abruptly grinds to a halt.

She suddenly stops cold - her smile vanishes, and her fidgeting with the rosary stops as her eyes lock onto yours with unexpected intensity. Under the weight of her unyielding, scrutinizing gaze goosebumps rise on your arm, and an unexpected chill ripples through you.

Simultaneously, as if in synchrony with the abrupt cessation of Lorraine’s movements, a searing flare of pain erupts in your head. It feels as though an unseen force is ruthlessly clawing its way into the recesses of your skull, compelling your hand to instinctively seek solace on your throbbing temple.

Breaking free from Lorraine’s gaze, you shift your attention towards Ed, attempting to regain a sense of normalcy.

However, Ed, too, has pivoted his attention from the audience to his wife. His gaze remains riveted on her, a pronounced crease forming between his brows as he meticulously follows the direction of her unbroken stare.

Your breath catches in your throat as you meet his eyes - bewildered and tinged with concern. As you lock eyes with Ed, a sensation akin to lightning strikes courses through you. The connection feels electrifying, and for a moment, the world seems to narrow down to the intensity of that shared gaze.

He takes in your form, trying to make sense of why his wife froze on the spot.

As he registers your hand that’s still suspended in the air, Ed’s tongue darts out to wet his lips before finally breaking the silence: “The girl in the fifth row. What’s your question?”

The exchange with Lorraine felt like an eternity when in reality it must have only been a few seconds. Strangely, it appears that no one else in the audience has noticed it.

Before you speak, you discreetly clear your throat. The disconcerting encounter with Lorraine has thrown you off balance.

“How do you protect yourself against the evil forces? Are there specific precautions you take?”

Ed Warren takes a moment to compose himself before addressing your question. The room falls into a hush, and all eyes are now fixed on you and Ed, with your heart still racing. The intensity of Ed’s gaze momentarily threw you off balance.

He responds with a serious expression: “Well, that's a good question. When dealing with the paranormal, it’s crucial to approach it with caution. Lorraine and I always ensure to say a prayer for protection before any investigation. We also use blessed religious artifacts, such as holy water and crosses.”

Lorraine, still visibly affected, nods in agreement, her gaze somewhat distant. You wonder if the people in the audience noticed her strange behavior or if your mind is just playing tricks on you.

“In addition to that, we have a network of clergy and experts whom we consult for guidance. Spiritual strength and faith are crucial when confronting dark forces. It’s about maintaining a balance between understanding the supernatural and respecting the spiritual realm”, Ed continues.

His intense gaze remains on you as he concludes the ghost of a smirk on his lips: “Well, rooms and artefacts can be blessed - but people cannot.”

“Thank you”, you nod and try to fake a smile.

Some part of you had hoped for a more detailed approach on how to deal with the unsettling experiences you’ve been facing. You doubt that you can just pray the persistent headaches and unexplained occurrences that have been plaguing you away.

The audience appears satisfied with the response and begins to murmur amongst themselves. Ed picking up on the collective mood, smoothly gestures for the next question, effectively shifting the focus away from the brief moment of tension.

Despite the outward calm, your mind is racing. You remain deep in thought, contemplating the practicality of the advice given.

You feel Lorraine’s gaze lingering on you, still scrutinising you but no longer frozen.

Ed occasionally diverts his attention from the audience, his concern evident in the subtle furrow of his brow and the way his eyes linger on Lorraine. His glances toward his wife carry an undertone of protectiveness, a silent reassurance seeking confirmation of her well-being as you wonder if it was a good idea to speak to them.

When your eyes meet Ed’s, there is an inexplicable intensity that steals your breath for a moment. The connection feels charged with unspoken questions and a shared curiosity about the peculiar reaction Lorraine had toward you. The exchange is profound, but it’s repeatedly interrupted, the moment broken again and again as Ed diverts his gaze back to the audience or checks on Lorraine.

You sense that Ed is wrestling with his own thoughts, wondering why Lorraine reacted in such a way, and, truth be told, you share the same curiosity.

As your headaches intensify with each passing moment, you find yourself yearning to escape the persistent gaze. The desire to leave this space becomes increasingly urgent as the weight of the unknown, coupled with the growing discomfort in your head, becomes almost unbearable.

“Well, that concludes this seminar; our time is up”, Ed declares, prompting the attendees to rise, and you join the collective movement toward the exit.

Just as you’re about to step through the doorway, a gentle, small hand is placed on your shoulder. The unexpected touch startles you, and you instinctively turn around. There stands Lorraine, her eyes carrying a mix of concern and kindness, and her voice holds a soothing quality as she speaks.

“Can we talk to you? Please, just stay behind”, Lorraine requests, her tone gentle but with an underlying seriousness.

The weight of her words feels like a sudden rush of cold water, and you can’t help but wonder if she has picked up on something you may not even fully understand yourself. A conflicting mix of desire for help and an underlying fear grips you in that moment. Despite the uncertainty, you decide to comply, nodding in acknowledgment and watching as the room empties.

As the door closes behind the last departing seminar attendee, you find yourself alone with the Warrens in the now-empty room. The weight of both Ed and Lorraine’s gazes fixated on you becomes palpable, creating an atmosphere charged with unspoken questions. It’s an unnerving feeling, like being under a microscope, and you can’t help but shift uncomfortably under their scrutiny as the pounding in your head reaches its peak.

Ed, ever perceptive, notices your discomfort and steps forward, breaking the silence.

“You don't have to be scared”, he reassures you with a calming tone, “My wife, Lorraine, she... well, she sees things that I cannot. And right now, she sees that something is bothering you.”

Lorraine, standing beside Ed, remains silent but her eyes, keen and perceptive, seem to penetrate to the core of your being. It’s both fascinating and unsettling, knowing that she possesses abilities beyond the ordinary.

Ed continues: “We’ve encountered many individuals who’ve faced unexplained phenomena, and sometimes, it helps to talk about it. Lorraine has a unique gift, and she might be able to offer some insights.”

As the conversation unfolds, the weight of your distress becomes increasingly apparent to Ed and Lorraine. Their expressions soften, recognizing the urgency of your situation.

“We understand that you’re going through something, and we’d like to help. Our home is a sanctuary, and Lorraine’s unique insights might bring some clarity to what you're experiencing”, Ed’s voice is marked by genuine concern as he reassures you.

Lorraine, who seemed to exude a calm and reassuring presence during the conversation, her demeanour a blend of empathy and understanding, gently adds: “Sometimes, being in a different environment can make it easier to open up and address these issues. We’ve assisted many people facing similar challenges, and we are here for you.”

The persistent throbbing in your head intensifies, and shadows seem to dance in the periphery of your vision as you stand before the Warrens. The pain becomes a tangible force, urging you to seek relief and answers. The sincerity in their words, coupled with the promise of potential resolution, convinces you to accept their invitation. Despite the lingering uncertainties, the hope of finding solace from the unexplained phenomena that have haunted you is a powerful motivator.

As you agree to visit their home, you take a moment to scrutinise Ed and Lorraine up close. The subtleties in Ed’s mannerisms captivate you - the way his hands flex when he explains something. The fluid movements of them, enticing your gaze to trace the contours of his rather large palms.

His lips curl in a subtle but genuine smile, revealing a warmth that contrasts with the gravity of the situation.

You notice that Ed is not clean shaven but instead, a carefully groomed short stubble graces his jawline, framing his face in a way that accentuates his features. The stubble adds a rugged charm, underscoring a sense of authenticity and strength.

You find yourself feeling a different kind of pull - a quiet and unexpected attraction to Ed.

As you stand near him, you catch a whiff of his intoxicating scent, a distinctly manly fragrance that envelops you like a comforting spell. It’s a blend of woodsy notes and subtle hints of spice, leaving an indelible impression that adds an intriguing layer to the enigmatic connection blossoming between you.

A momentary hesitation causes you to instinctively bite your lip, a nervous habit that betrays the complexity of your emotions. In that fleeting instant, you catch Ed’s gaze flickering down to your lips, lingering longer than appropriate.

The attraction to Ed catches you off-guard and the unspoken connection, heightened by your response and Ed's subtle acknowledgment, adds a subtle tension to the air.

Not only is the situation at hand graver and darker but he is also married - and his wife is standing right beside you.

A twinge of guilt creeps in as you become keenly aware of the poor job you are doing to hide the magnetic pull you sense toward Ed.

Next chapter

#patrick wilson #patrick wilson x reader #the conjuring #insidious #patrick wilson smut #ed warren #fanfiction #ed warren x reader #ed warren smut #lorraine warren #aquaman

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6lostgirl6 · 10 months

Text

Ties That Bind Part 2

Pairing: Yandere!Anakin Skywalker x Fem Jedi!Reader

TW: General Yandere Behavior, Kidnapping, Mentions of Murder, Angst, Arguing.

A/N: I hope everyone enjoys the second installment of Ties That Bind! I really enjoyed writing this with the amazing @britany1997! She is just so pleasant to work with and made this collab fun and exciting! Please, make sure to support both writers by reblogging both versions. Both writers put equal amount of work into this collab and both deserve equal treatment. Reblogs are always appreciated!

Word Count: 2.1k

When you regained consciousness, your eyes began to flutter open. The momentary confusion was evident in your gaze, and the surroundings around you felt hazy. However, the darkness was something you easily recognized. Your brows furrowed in slight pain, and you felt a severe headache pounding against your skull. Your Jedi senses appeared dull, leaving you feeling a touch jaded. While your mind was trying to catch up, you laid there for a brief period of time, letting your fingertips feel the silk sheets of a strange bed.

Slowly, you sat up in bed, wincing slightly as the movement worsened the ache in your head. Your eyes finally began to adjust as you took in your surroundings. Your brows furrowed as you tried to make sense of your surroundings, scanning the room with a mixture of curiosity and bewilderment. The fog of unconsciousness slowly lifted, allowing you to regain a basic awareness of your immediate environment. It was dark; the walls and floor were painted black, which matched the furniture within, and the blinds of the window shielded the outside world. The room looked extravagant yet simple, which reminded you of your home back in the temple-

The temple.

There was a subtle shift in your facial expression—a flicker of recognition—as your mind grappled with a dark realization. Your eyes widened as you proceeded to throw off the sheets, trying to hastily spring from the strange bed. You yelped when you almost stumbled, and your legs were tangled in the sheets due to haste. Your mind was in shambles as you continued your way to the window, blocking out any source of light. Despite your headache and the panic surging through you, you pressed the button on the wall to remove the blinds. You couldn't help but gasp at the sight, wishing that you had stayed unconscious.

You were surrounded by land that had been burned by fire, molten from lava, and much more. This gave you the impression that you were in an inferno or inside a volcano that destroyed everything around it. There are many tales of a planet like this that you have heard over the years.

Mustafar.

Your heart began to race as your mind whirled. ‘No, no, no,’ you repeated to yourself over and over again. You begged to be awoken from your slumber, surely this could be nothing but a bad dream.

But as much as you pleaded, you would never wake. Your nightmares had turned to reality.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes and you fought a losing battle to stay calm. You fell against the door, pounding it with your fists and sobbing as you called for Anakin.

When no one answered your pleas, and the door remained firmly shut, you pressed your back against it and slid down. With your knees to your chest and your head in your hands, you wept.

You wept for all the lives lost in the temple massacre as every face you would never see again passed through your memory. You wept for Anakin and whatever sickness had overtaken him to act with such carelessness for life. But most of all, you wept for yourself.

What had you done wrong? What atrocity had you committed to be deserving of such a harsh fate?

You were a prisoner who’d committed no crime, and you fought to resign yourself to an unknown future. You were at the mercy of a man you’d once thought more virtuous than any other. He’d taken everything from you.

After a few hours of weeping, you began to hear the distinct sounds of approaching footsteps from the hallway, heading towards your room. Your mind switched into defensive mode, quickly bringing yourself to your feet and facing the closed metal door. Your heart pounded against your chest, with anxiety and adrenaline rushing through your veins. You feared not what you would see on the other side.

But rather who.

It was at this point that the footsteps halted in front of the metal door, after which it automatically opened. The sliding of the door revealed the last person you had ever wanted to see, as your heart would no longer be able to withstand it. You couldn't bear to see him.

Anakin stood in the doorway, dressed in his previous robes. Your eyes darted over the fabric, looking for any hints of blood, that horrific shade of red that used to appear across the floor of the temple and in the cauterized wounds of your fellow Jedi. However, those hints were nonexistent, and you felt sick to realize that there was a glimmer of relief you possessed within. Perhaps he didn’t want to upset you more.

He moved towards you, kneeling to your level, his hand outstretched to cup your cheek. You recoiled out of instinct, turning your head to avoid the caress of your captor.

A look of pain crossed Anakin’s face before he quickly masked it. This was what he’d been afraid of. He’d let the whole galaxy think he was cruel, but not you. He’d never hurt you. He loved you. Why couldn’t you understand that?

“My love…” Anakin began, but you cut him off with a humorless laugh.

“Love?” you scoffed, “is that what this is to you?”

You turned to meet his gaze and your heart clenched inside your chest. His eyes looked into yours with longing and desperation. But their yellow tone confirmed your fears and reminded you of what he was. He was not your Anakin, not anymore.

“This is not love,” you whispered, “love should never come at such a high and terrible price.”

Though he hid it well, frustration ran through Anakin. He had to make you see.

He caught your wrist in his hand and brought it to his chest, holding your palm over his heart. You gasped and tried to pull back, but he would never let you go.

“Please listen,” he begged.

You sighed, if only to understand why he had done what he’d done, you would listen.

“I’ve spent my whole life loving you,” he confessed, “I couldn’t let some code keep us apart my love. You are my world, my whole universe, without you there is no reason to breathe. I could not stand another night pretending that I don’t want you, that I don’t need you. I’d sooner destroy every planet than live only loving you from a distance. I couldn’t keep denying what was true in my heart.” His grip tightened gently on your hand that was still pressed to his chest.

“I would do anything for you baby,” he leaned forward until his lips were pressed to the shell of your ear, “I already have.”

Your eyes brimmed with tears once more; the sick affection lacing his words made your heart skip a beat, and if the situation had been different, you would have returned his passion. However, the haunting images of those people who’d once walked among you, now dead in the hallways, couldn’t leave your thoughts.

“Anakin…” You began, your tears threatening to fall down your face once more as your body became rigid from the way his forehead pressed against your temple, his lips brushing against your skin. “You killed innocent people, our people; I would have never agreed to this!”

You pulled away from him slightly, making Anakin reluctantly follow suit as your eyes met once more, his yellow irises seeming to pierce your entire being. His grip on your hand pressed against his chest was strong, refusing the notion of losing your sacred touch.

“I know you wouldn’t, my love,” He replied, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close. “You’re so sweet and innocent, but that’s why I had to take you baby, don’t you understand?” Anakin brushed a piece of hair behind your ear, “every night I’d be plagued by visions of your corpse my love, I needed to protect you but the high council never would have let us be together. I did this for you. I refuse to lose you over some code; I’ll destroy the entire galaxy if it means making you mine and safe.”

His golden gaze darkened for a moment, which you almost didn’t catch. The idea of his visions coming true caused a sick feeling that threatened to overtake him.

“You’ll understand that one day.” He concluded.

Your jaw dropped. You were sure Anakin had had his fair share of girls falling at his feet, and maybe one of them would have envied your position.

But you were a Jedi Knight. You were once a youngling, chosen to be a Padawan, eventually advancing to your station now. You’d earned your place alongside Anakin and all those who had fought to maintain order and justice for the peace and freedom of the galaxy.

You may be sweet, but you were not innocent, and you certainly didn’t need anyone else’s protection.

The fear that had crept into your heart was replaced by a burning anger. It wasn’t up to anyone but yourself to decide what was best for you. Anakin wasn’t the master of your fate, you were.

“Anakin,” you began, maintaining your calm demeanor so as not to upset your captor, “you have to let me go. Nothing will hurt me Ani, I’m going to be fine, but you must atone for your crimes.”

You gathered your courage, “what you did was wrong, no matter if you think you did it for the right reasons. You have to turn yourself in, and you have to let me go.”

Anakin’s eyes widened, his heart racing from the words he was hearing fall from your precious lips. This wasn’t what he was expecting at all. In his mind, he thought you would have been happy for what he did—fall into his arms and return his feelings. He didn’t expect you to retaliate and say such horrible things. You’ve never spoken against him before, ever.

“Turn myself in?” He repeated as his eye gave a subtle twitch, his yellow orbs darkening as he tried to swallow his anger. “Don’t you turn against me now; nothing is going to harm you because I’m here, without the code getting in my way. You're safe because of me. You would do well to remember that, my love.”

"No Anakin..." You whispered, pulling yourself out of his grasp once more, the storm in your eyes growing stronger yet the breaking of your heart was undeniable. "I'm imprisoned by a monster and I would rather die than return your feelings."

"W-What?" He whispered, feeling like his heart was being ripped from his chest. It was like he could barely breathe. as panic began to course through him for the first time in a long while. "Don't you ever say that to me."

"I love you, my sweet girl..." Anakin continued, trying to step closer to you but you continued backing away. He felt like he could die at this moment, being refused your affection and love. "I know you feel the same way..."

"I did once..." You answered, sitting on the edge of the bed and crossing your arms, ignoring the tears threatening to escape you once more. "But I will never love a monster, the Anakin I loved is gone."

Anakin fought to keep tears from rolling down his cheeks, your words cut deeper than any swipe of a lightsaber he’d ever received. You were his everything, yet here you were, treating him as if he were nothing.

“Then the Anakin you loved was a lie,” he whispered, “I am who I’ve always been.”

He grasped your wrist firmly, careful not to hurt you but desperate to remind you that he was a powerful man. “All I want,” he ran a hand down your cheek causing you to flinch away, making his heart clench, “all I’ve ever wanted…was you.”

You pulled your wrist from his grasp. He sighed as he let you. “Now that I have you, I’m not letting you go, not ever.”

You lip quivered as you fought back tears of your own.

“I’ll be back when you’ve learned to accept that,” he told you, his voice breaking. The door closed behind him, sealing you into your room that might as well have been a cell.

“No! Wait!” you rushed to pound on the door but to no avail.

“Let me go Anakin,” you sobbed, “you have to let me go. Please, please let me go.” Your body shook and you choked as your tears flowed, forming a puddle on the ground.

Anakin leaned on the other side of the sealed door, head in his hands as his own tears fell. He hated to hear you so upset. He longed to pull you into his lap and wrap his arms around your cute, tiny frame. He imagined how he’d hum to you and dry your tears as he rocked you back and forth.

Yet he knew that you’d only reject his comforting embrace. He wept, your desperate cries too much for him to bear. He’d do anything for your love.

Anything but let you go.

Spam Liking W/O Reblogging = Blocked

Tagging: Comment to be added!!

@prettywhenibleed @leiasolo77 @britany1997 @misslavenderlady @arianamhm @rottent33th @slaasherslut @vampirefilmlover

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diejager · 2 years

Note

Hi this is my first ask! So uhm how would you feel abt writing a Capitano fic? Nsfw maybe? HES been my fav character since release BUF THERES BARELY ANY SMUT OF HIM 😭 so ^^ you can pick the theme and how ever you do it cause your writing is <3333 💓💓

Hmmmmmmm, it was really really interesting to write. I tried since I don't know much about him, but eh. Dude's hot, especially his voice.

Il Capitano smut

Cw: bruises, smut, fingering, riding, rough sex, wall sex, exhibitionism, creampie, alcohol,

Note: I tried making this gn- probably sucked bad but uh... enjoy?

Wc: 1306

A stoic and cold man, he was, yet so dignified and respectable within the ranks of the Fatui. He spoke scarcely, only keeping his orders to short sentences when he addressed those lower than him, but his deep tone sent everyone scurrying to do s they were told for fear to enrage the captain of the Fatui's army.

You weren't different, holding an average rank within the fresh recruits from last year, new but used to this treatment towards everyone lower than the Harbingers. You followed close by, standing a few feet away from The Captain - as per his order to follow him whenever you're not accomplishing an assignment - silent but unbothered by his pretence.

You didn't dare fathom what made him so keen you have you by his side, at his back and call whenever he wished. If he called for you, you'd answer quickly; if he told you off, you'd stand there; if he gave you an order, you'd do it; whatever he said goes.

A needy moan left your lips, hips grinding into his palm. Capitano's long fingers were deep within you, curling as he moved roughly, thrusting his fingers in and out at a delirious pace. Your face bled red, and your body burning with unbridled need, panting and gasping while he stayed collected, face hidden under the darkness of his mask and black locks ripping down his shoulders. Although he was silent as he always was, you could feel his gaze on you, it was solely devoted to watching your walls crumble around you, letting pleasure take hold of your rational mind.

You rocked your hips, trying to bury his fingers deeper as you called out his name, the title everyone called him with fear, respect or pain, but yours was lust-filled.

You knew he kept a close eye on you whenever you left this side, he would gaze down the window of his office that faced the training ground, watching you defend and return blows after blows. You often triumphed over the others, you were determined and strong - not as much as he or the other Harbingers were, but it was... respectable.

It was enthralling to see someone much fragile and smaller training with the older soldiers, still young with so much promise. How often did he see you train outside of his supervision, exchanging blows with the soldiers and trainees that agreed to hold a small skirmish? He saw the callousness of your fingers, the bruises and cuts that littered your arms and legs. If it were possible for you to reach his heights in power and strength, to be able to train you personally would be enchantingly tempting. To teach you the way of the sword or polearm in clearer ways than the sloppy trainers that taught the fresh soldiers. To be closer to you than when you stood beside or behind him, to be able to touch you without breaking a bone.

For someone who rarely paid attention to weaker people, he was extremely attentive to your needs. Back arched to meet his crotch and hands clutching the wall for your dear life, Capitano pushed you against the alley wall with each thrust. His low grunts and groans were muted by your loud moans as he filled you over and over, hasty and deep thrusts that were made easier with the sleek that ran down your thighs. Your knees shook, weak from exertion, you would've fallen if it weren't for his solid grip on your waist, pulling and pushing you. The more noise you made the more you feared that others would hear you, mouth shakily cupping your mouth to muffle your screams, letting a few blabber and whines leave as you called him.

How many times have you cum? How many times had you screamed his name, unaware of how a few lingering ears caught on to what was happening? How many times has he filled you? Your mind was numb, nearly fucked dumb as you waiting for Il Capitano to finish. Both dried and fresh tears stained your cheeks, eyes puffed up and red as you creamed once more around his shaft, still hard and filling the void he created. Eyes wide at the mind-numbing orgasm, you hunched over, depending heavily on your boss to hold you up; and hold you up he did. Pushing you firmly against the wall, his right hand twisted and pulled your thigh up. The change of position made you shriek, moaning when he hit deeper than before, cum leaking every time he pulled out and rammed back without a stagger. You clenched around him, feeling the tell-tale sign of another orgasm that had you teetering between the lines of consciousness and unconsciousness. Capitano's pace stuttered, hips rocking irregularly until it stopped, snug between your walls that enraptured him as he filled you with another load.

Panting lightly, Capitano backed off, peering down at your gasping figure that slid to the ground, face and palm placed flat on the cold wall - you hopped it would cool down the fire that boiled within you - without a single mutter that would indicate what he did to you.

"Were going back," his deep rumble shook your core, still fresh out of the lust-crazed haze he put you in.

Even on missions - albeit rarely - he would bring you along, the occasional revisions of borders or attacks he would lead. Wherever he went, he had a strong hold on you, needing your presence by him. If he entered the battle, you needed to stay within his sight, all the while you fought as if your life depended on it - it did. You would gawk at him if you could, how swift and strong his hits were, sending his enemies flying and falling until they gave up or died. He was merciless and dangerous, so much so that those who knew him hesitated to move against him. Although ruthless, he was patient and calm, almost eerily so from words you heard, but you digressed, you learned from experience that he was a great man. Rough on the edges but dependable.

Sitting on his lap, cock pulled between your thighs and harshly thrusting into your warm walls, you yelped as he moved you to ride him. Your knees bent under you, hands clutching onto his forearm for support. A drawled-out moan escaped your lips as he hit deep, cock twitching before he continued to ram against the spot that made your mind reel with pleasure.

"Ca-Capitano-" you cried out, head rolling to the side.

His only reply was a gruff grunt, bucking his hips to meet your mid-thrust. Rough and merciless, he chased his pleasure thoughtlessly with little regard for yours, but whatever he did to you had you begging for more - even unintentionally. The thick walls of the tent did little to quiet your moans that echoed out in the cold of Snezhnaya's borders, reaching the ears of the drunk and sober soldiers around the campfire. Dignity lost in the torrent of passion, you only saw the world inside the Captain's warm tent, made hotter by the sweat that coated your naked body and the heat of your lovemaking.

His grip would leave bruises, adding to the ones on your arms and legs from training. If he couldn't leave any from fighting, he would do it through sex, leave marks of his own in the forms of purple and blue swells on your waist, hip, thighs, arms and neck.

He may be cruel, unforgiving and silent towards others, but with you, he could be attentive, caring and loving in his way, whether physical or not, he wanted you to be a part of his solemn existence in the Fatui.

#genshin capitano #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #il capitano #capitano x reader #Il capitano smut #capitano smut #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #fatui harbingers #fatui capitano #fatui x reader

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jedipoodoo · 11 months

Text

Jump Then Fall (Sergeant Hunter x GN!Reader)

Notes/Warnings: Character almost-death, fear of heights, canon-typical firefight. Injuries, stitches, first aid treatment. Hunter is a Dad™. Hunter gets the chance to use his grappling hook.

I'M BACK BISHES

It was hard to watch your step while dodging blaster fire in the rickety, obsolete staircase of a skinny Coruscant high-rise. You dove around a corner to catch your breath as the lasers shot past your head. You shot a few more back in retaliation, and the Trandoshan pirates whose base you'd invaded shouted in indignation.

"Where are you?" Hunter demanded over the comms.

"Uh, I think my distraction worked...a little too well," You laughed nervously.

One of the pirates, with rectangular irises in his sharp red eyes, lunged at you, and you drew the knife Hunter had given you, slicing it wildly in defense. The pirate cried out and you saw red on the blade. Using his body to shield yourself from the blasters, you shoved him back towards his friends. They all stumbled back down the stairs, and you turned and ran.

You heard blaster fire over your earpiece, or maybe it was the blaster bolts that were being shot at you.

"What's your position?"

"I'm on the top level. Running out of stairs, and they're hot on my tail."

Hunter cursed over the comms.

"How many?"

"Too many to charge back through. Have you got the treasure, at least?"

"We've got it, sweetheart, but maybe tone it down next time?" Phee's suggestion made you flush.

"If there even is a next time," You muttered to yourself. You reached the door to the roof and closed it on the blaster fire. A few more shots from your own blaster flimsily promised to hold it shut, at least for a moment.

The wind blew past, making you shiver as you pulled your jacket tighter around your arms. A few steps brought you to the edge of the roof, where the side of the building disappeared between layers of traffic.

You could barely hear the pirates shouting obscenities beneath the noise of all the speeders, and you swallowed nervously. You were running out of time.

"We're headed your way!" Omega promised, but the scrapyard where you'd parked the Marauder was too far away.

"I'm gonna jump!" You blurted out. You looked down at your knife. It was crazy, and it wouldn't take you to the ground, but it was a durable blade, it had saved your life more than once thanks to Hunter's training. It might just be enough to help you slide down the side of the building to a lower floor, where the pirates weren't looking for you.

"What!? No!" Hunter screamed.

"It'll be okay! I know that I'm doing!" You envisioned your controlled fall in your mind and stood with your back to the edge of the building, gripping your knife in both hands.

The door burst open.

"There!" one of the pirates screeched. A blaster bolt hit you in the left shoulder.

You inhaled sharply, wondering why you couldn't feel the pain in your shoulder. Your arm went slack, and you stumbled backwards, still holding the knife in your uninjured hand.

"What's happening!?" Hunter's voice echoed in your ear as you began to fall. You couldn't form the words to reply as the windows flew past your field of vision.

You were falling. Blaster fire continued to rain around you, but somehow it didn't hit you. You had the knife in your hand, but you couldn't lift your arms to dig it into the wall to slow your fall.

Somewhere far away, you heard glass shattering, and the shadow of a guardian angel burst out of the side of the building, falling after you.

The angel drew closer, falling faster than you were. Hunter's face emerged from the shadow, his brows furrowed in determination above his dark eyes as he reached for you.

His arm wrapped around your waist, hoisting you tightly to hisbody

"Hang on!"

Your ears were flooded with sound, the air rushing past and Hunter's voice in your ear.

"I got you," He whispered. You wrapped your arm around his neck, squeezing your eyes closed as they began to water against the wind. And not a moment too soon, Hunter's body went taut, and suddenly you weren't falling anymore.

Hunter's grappling hook was secured to the floor he'd jumped from, and as the rope reached it's end, it swung you back towards the building, sending you both crashing through the window.

Hunter shielded you with his body as you rolled across the floor

"Gah!" Your wounded shoulder landed on a tiny shard of glass, agitating it further with a painful pricking sensation trickling up and down your arm as feeling returned to your limb.

"You alright?" Hunter asked, propping himself up on his hands and knees. He took his scarf and tied it around your shoulder to keep pressure on your wound.

"F-fine," You gasped as he tightened the knot around your shoulder.

Hunter placed both his hands on either side of your face, lifting your face so that he could kiss your forehead.

"Don't you dare scare me like that again, you understand?" Hunter shook you gently, all you could do was nod as the glass shattered around you.

A trickle of dark red bled out from beneath his bandana, and you hesitantly raised your fingers to examine the wound.

"You're... You're hurt," You murmured.

Hunter hung his head, and his hair fall in front of his face so that you couldn't see his expression, but you swore you could hear him chuckle.

"You just fell a thousand feet, and you're worried about me?"

"It wasn't a thousand..." You protested weakly.

"Sure, cyare," Hunter smiled in spite of himself and traced his thumb across your cheek. He looked up abruptly, glaring at the door of the room you'd crashed into. He yanked you up to your feet, pushing you behind him as the door burst open. Several more pirates, but notably less than the group that had been chasing you, charged in blasters blazing.

With a hand on your back, Hunter guided you behind a gaudy piece of furniture. The room you'd crashed into appeared to be a lavish living quarters. It looked exactly like you'd expect a greedy pirate's home to look like: ornate wood furniture covered in plush, elaborate draping and the softest carpet. One of those wookie pelt rugs could earn you a fortune in the Trandoshan black market.

The brylark desk held up under their fire, and Hunter made a few shots back at them. You were still uselessly holding your knife, dazed as to what to do.

"Tech, I'm not sure what floor we're on. lock onto my signal."

"You got your cyar'ika?" Wrecker asked, and you felt heat rising in your face at his teasing tone.

Hunter sighed and knocked his head against the wood. "Yes, Wrecker, they're here with me."

Hunter pulled you closer, his muscles and body tense as he prepared to run. You tried to get your feet beneath you, to bear some of your weight in an effort to help in your escape.

The Marauder swooped up to the window, ramp extended. Phee and the others were already on board, calling for you to hurry

Hunter hauled you to your feet, and one of the pirates tried to get the jump on you, digging a clawed hand into your injured shoulder.

Hunter was ready for them, though. He sunk his knife into the pirate's wrist, setting you free.

The pirate shrieked a reptilian cry of pain, and his compatriots tried to rush you in an effort to avenge him. Unwilling to let that happen, Hunter swept you up into his arms, sprinting towards the broken window. For a fleeting moment, you were soaring through the air, high above Coruscaunt traffic. You squeezed your eyes shut and buried your face in Hunter's shoulder.

Your moment of airbourne flight seemed to last forever and end too quickly all at the same time. You and Hunter tumbled head over heels yet again into the ship, and Hunter landed in a crouch with you cradled in his arms.

"Get us out of here, Brown Eyes!" Phee called. And just like that, you were safe.

The ship was quiet but for the heavy breathing on the heels of a collective adrenaline rush. Tech piloted the ship under Phee's directions while Hunter saw to your injuries.

"Hey, we actually got it," Wrecker said in disbelief, holding up the necklace you'd gotten from the Trandoshans. According to Phee, the pirate's captain, Rodak, extorted it from a family of Bothans in their attempts to flee the Seperatist invasion. They'd be overjoyed to have it back.

"Gotta admit, succeeding in these treasure hunts beats any wild brezak chase Cid ever sent us on," Hunter shook his head, his hair tied back to keep it out of his eyes while he cleaned each of the tiny cuts across your face and arms, making sure none of them still had glass in them.

His bandana made a sort of makeshift bandage for the cut on his head, and all the blood you could see was dried up, but you still worried about him. When you tried to lift your arm, even the uninjured one, it felt like you were trying to deadlight a starcruiser. So you stayed quiet for now.

Once your blaster wound was cleaned, it was time for stiches. Hunter settled on the bench behind you with the suture kit and you braced yourself.

"Here!" Omega sat on the bench next to you, holding out Lula, "Since you can't hold Hunter's hand for this one."

You laughed softly, taking Lula in your hands, tracing the tooka's ears between your fingers.

"You ready for this, Sweetheart?" Hunter massaged your upper arm to distract you (barely) from the sedative injection.

"Not really," You said.

"Well you seemed ready enough when you jumped off the top of a building," He muttered.

"Fell!" You insisted, "I was calculating the safest route down, and then I got shot and-"

Hunter pulled the first stitch through and you gasped, gritting your teeth against the pain. The sedatives you used now definitely weren't what they used to be during the war.

"Easy, cyare," He murmured. You bit your tongue and tried to breathe through the pain.

Omega stood by, watching with rapt attention that would have been creepy if it were anyone else. But Omega, you had learned, had been a medical assistant. And being a medical assistant meant that she knew much more about things like administering injections and securing stiches than the boys did. They may have taught her how to shoot a blaster and pilot the Marauder, but she was still teaching them basic first aid, and she was incredibly smug about it.

You heard Hunter grumbling under his breath as Omega scolded him for not making his knot tight enough. Phee was telling Wrecker the history of the necklace and the sizeable gem on the pendant, so you tried to pay attention to that rather than the throbbing in your shoulder.

Hunter's warm fingers traced the stiches to see if they'd hold, and then he placed a cool gel bacta pack on your shoulder, wrapping clean bandages around it to keep it in place, rather than just his scarf.

"Feel any better?" He asked.

You sighed, leaning back against his chest, "A little."

He had the audacity to smirk at you. "Would a kiss make it better?"

"Are you offering?"

Hunter pulled you closer, mindful of your injuries, and gently pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"Really?"

"What?"

"You know that's not where I-"

Hunter's lips gently brushed yours, not enough to really make you stop speaking, but enough to make the butterflies in your stomach get lodged in your throat.

"What was that for!?" You snapped, not sure if you were more angry with him, or with the heat that flushed your cheeks. Omega and Wrecker, used to this whole display by now, were laughing at your expense.

Hunter just shrugged. "I'm still mad at you," He said, lacking any venom in his voice.

"I'll be smarter about my distractions next time," You meekly promised, pressing your face against his shirt, as if that would wipe away the heat.

Hunter chuckled softly, pulling you closer as he placed a kiss to the top of your head.

"Still, seeing their reactions to being called a bunch of lily-livered bantha brains was pretty funny."

You smiled, chest swelling with pride.

"Can I please have a kiss now?" You begged.

Hunter chuckled softly, and cradled your chin in his hand, tilting it upward to meet his lips in a real kiss.

It was brief, but gentle. You kept your eyes closed for a moment longer, breathing in his presence as his forehead rested on yours.

Then is was your turn to give him a mischievous smile.

"Maybe I should fall for you more often."

Hunter sighed, and squeezed your hip.

"Don't even think about it."

#lizart writes #hunter #tbb hunter #the bad batch hunter #hunter x you #tbb hunter x reader #the bad batch hunter x reader #sergeant hunter #sergeant hunter x reader #Hunter is a Dad™

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