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lorelune · 4 months

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cicatrix

|| jing yuan x reader || E/18+ || hurt/comfort, cathartic smut || wc: 21.5k || ao3 ||

Both you and Jing Yuan are known to put well-being aside for the sake of others. You reckon with it.

minors, antis and ageless blogs dni

notes: i've been COOKING!!!! please enjoy this very cathartic, gooey oneshot 😩💕!!!!! jing yuan is so beloved and getting to chew on him and his character makes me wanna roll around and scream (positive). thank you so much to bee (@suguwu) for talking this piece out w me each step of the way and andy (@andypantsx3) for a so helpful final read through 🥺🩷 read and enjoy loves!!!

CW: reader is referred to with they/them pronouns and afab anatomy, author-created lore & worldbuilding, reader visibly loses weight due to bodily stress, general talk of weight and bodies, reference to pain during intimacy, a single pregnancy joke made entirely in jest

“You should go see him.”

This is not the first time Diviner Fu has told you this. It’s actually the third time. It’s her third time attempting to have this particular conversation with you, one which you are becoming increasingly adept at parrying around.

“Who?” You lie. You already know who.

“The General?” Fu Xuan sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “He’s awake, you know. Barely. But he has asked for you. Both while he was mostly unconscious and since he’s regained his lucidity. Go see him.”

“I’ll pass.” You shift on your knees with a heavy thump. Bone on metal. “Besides, can’t you, of all people, see I am hard at work here? I don’t exactly have the time for personal visits at the moment.”

That is not a lie. That is a steadfast truth. One both you and Fu Xuan, as the Master Calibrator and the Master Diviner respectively, fully understand.

Fu Xuan has sought you out deep within the Luofu’s inner structure. Far below the sprawl of metal-plated cities and neighborhoods, are the catacomb intestines you’ve been toiling in for... sometime now. Since whenever the Lord Ravager harnessed the Arbor, and the roots of a dead tree powered by an Aeon mutilated the Luofu’s most delicate innards. Innards you need to fix, rather than having frustrating conversations with Lady Fu.

You tap around on the interface on your wrist-bound jade abacus and curse. Your fingers are newly calloused, irritated at the tips from all of the poking and prodding you’ve had to do. You dip your hands into one of the opened buckets fastened to your belt, pulling forth when you’re sticky with iridescent sludge that slowly drips down your wrist like thick syrup.

Returning to the utility panel you were previously working on before being interrupted, you tinker with a few of its delicate dials. All thrown off by the overabundance of... Abundance and the physical impact of the roots growth, deeper in the Luofu’s structure. You concentrate and thread quantum with the sap on your hands, trying to coax the machines into a more stable stasis.

“At least consider it.” Fu Xuan says. Technically, she could order you, as she is on some administrative level, your superior and (from what you last heard) the acting General of the Luofu while the Divine Foresight has been indisposed. And yet, she does not force you.

“Fine. I’ll consider it— if and when the Luofu is running diagnostic assessments with an average above fourty.”

“That’s— somewhat agreeable. But, I do think you’re being entirely—”

“Foolish?” You interrupt her with a laugh.

“Childish.” Fu Xuan taps her foot. The sound bounces around the narrow passageway, rattling into your skull. “Can the two of you not talk like adults and settle things?”

“I’m not sure what there is to ‘settle’ with him, Lady Fu.” You twitch your index and pinky finger at the same time. The internals sing, a hymn you know, the chord is a step or two too low— fucker. “He did something supremely stupid, and I am working.”

“That’s an obtuse way to look at things, and you know it.”

“In what way?” You crack open your eyes. You hadn’t realized you’d shut them. You’re sure they’re bloodshot. “What do you think about the General’s actions in subduing the Lord Ravager, Lady Fu?”

“I do believe he was reckless— as reckless as that man allows himself to be.” Fu Xuan has clearly thought about this before. Frustration pinches in her voice. “But it was not without the results.”

“So calculated recklessness is fine if, in the worst case, you end up as the Luofu’s next Arbiter General?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“I am.” You say, sighing. Anger prickles under your skin. This is all easier to deal with (read: ignore) if you focus on the ship and its internals. Its stupid, destroyed, obliterated internals. “I apologize.”

“When was the last time you slept?” Fu Xuan asks.

“... Yesterday? Probably?” There’s no daylight. You conserve battery life on your various devices by keeping screens dim, so you don’t know the hour. Time has felt liquid for some time now.

“I could take over.” Fu Xuan suggests.

“You still have a ship to run, I assume. Unless the Divine Foresight was so eager to get back to work already.”

“... Tasks can be delegated accordingly.”

“It’s not necessary.” You shake your head. “I mean this as no slight, but the rate at which you would be able to complete repairs and calibrations would be at the same rate at which the ship’s fail-safes and functions are degrading. It isn’t worth it.”

Perhaps, under different circumstances, Fu Xuan would squawk at you for discounting her skills as a calibrator so quickly. She is trained, not to your degree or expertise, but in a pinch, she can complete repairs, hear the chords, see the quantum maps required to keep the Luofu and its many delicate parts and pieces functioning accordingly.

However, the Luofu’s current circumstances do not constitute a ‘pinch’ and rather a ‘once-in-an-era disaster that nearly killed the long-lived, beloved General, destroyed the longstanding Creation Furnace, revealed the previous disgraced High Elder of the Vidhaydara, nearly reawoke the Ambrosial Arbor’. And, as Jing Yuan had told you in confidence— “It’s a Stellaron.”

And hence, you and your expertise are best-suited for the task of repairing the insides of the Luofu.

“... Even still.” She says somewhat gravely. “This is unsustainable.”

“I recognize that.” And you do, childish avoidance of the General aside. “Once the ship’s up to forty percent attuned, the diagnostic algorithms attached to the internal citrine abaci should stabilize and begin to re-establish a self-healing cycle. At which point, my manual diagnostics and repairs will no longer be necessary at the level at which I’m completing them now.”

“What percentage attuned is the Luofu at, as of now?”

“... Twenty-seven.” This is, technically, the truth.

(However, you have little confidence in that number, as it fluctuates heavily based on time of day and your own location within the tunnels and mechanical catacombs. You imagine this may be due to any number of things— there may be a gamma leak down deeper, where the radiation sponges are not as effective. There could still be creatures and roots of Abundance, alive in the passageways, wreaking havoc on the systems in real time. The diagnostic systems themselves could be failing, or at the very least damaged, which means that prescribing a number at all to the Luofu’s condition is a stupid idea to begin with—)

Fu Xuan says your name sharply.

“Yes?”

“... I’m worried.”

“That’s probably for the best.” You wish there was more sympathy in your voice, but it sounds cold and outside of your body.

(You’re so tired.)

Fu Xuan sighs, and drops to her knees next to you, peering in one the copper box you’ve been wrist deep in for the better part of ten minutes. Distractions slow down the process so immensely.

“Your reasoning is sound, and I understand that this isn’t entirely some ploy to skirt around the General’s requests to see you.” Fu Xuan hands you a small pendant, cut of purple stone and lit from the inside out. “Please, wear this. It will transmit your vital signs and location to a monitor on the surface.”

You blanch, “Is this for you, or the General?”

“For the Divination Commission on paper.” Fu Xuan loops it around your neck. “You’re the only Master Calibrator on the Luofu. To lose track of you, or lose you, would be dire. It will also assuage some of the General’s anxieties and keep him from pestering me about you.

“The general, anxious?” You throw back your head with a laugh and withdraw your hands from the paneling. The sludge has liquified further, more mucus-y now as it drips down your forearms. You wipe away what remains with a well-used rag from your belt. “I’ve never known Jing Yuan to be anxious.”

“He is now.” Fu Xuan says simply. “Or, as much as he allows himself to be. I am not interested in delving into the General’s psychology, but I am interested in keeping you in decent condition. That pendant has an emergency function. If you tap it three times, it’ll send a distress signal with your location.”

You want to say that that’s ‘unnecessary’, but you know that’s your bad mood. There’s a reason why Fu Xuan made this journey, alone, and is speaking to you so frankly. There are bags under her eyes too.

“Thank you, Fu Xuan.” You say, softly, kinder than you have been.

Despite your grime, perhaps mutual, you wrap your arms around her shoulders and squeeze. She hugs you back and deflates, if only for a moment.

...

The Luofu’s utility organs are built downwards, filling what would be considered the ‘hull’ of the ship, until you hit the Hall of Karma. There’s insulation between the ship’s most vital part and the weary souls of the departed, which provides you some comfort as you must descend deeper and deeper.

The Luofu is as much a ship as it is a planet— a live ecosystem, adapted to fit the various immortals who call it home. The bowels of the Luofu are truthfully a combination of metal and plant matter— dirt and mechanical roots meant to hold the ground in one piece around you. Much of the organic matter of the ship is covered behind metal plating, lest risking a collapse.

Most of the damage you must tinker to fix occurs in the small, delicate panels that are placed in the walls every ten meters or so. They’re nondescript, mostly. Surrounded by a few various dials— a few circular meters are faded and out of use (relics from when the Luofu left its parent civilization, millenia ago), and a port to sync up a jade abacus to for more detailed readings.

Most of the data is slop to someone without training.

Even with training, your exhaustion is making the various numbers, symbols, and graphs feel like slop.

The panel can be disconnected with a small, quill-looking tool (there’s only a small amount left on the Luofu, maybe twenty in total. The head of the tool is carved from an old, red stone, burnt in an old fire by a forgemaster long dead. You keep track of your handful diligently, lest you lose them without another smith to make them.) Once the utility panel is pried off, it reveals a suspended layer of liquid, far deeper than it looks. If you really tried, you probably could fit your entire arm in and still have depth.

Suspended in the liquid are the mechanisms that truly run the Luofu. It’s hard to describe how they fit together. It takes an affinity for quantum, a century (or three) of training, to make sense of how to parse together the ship's parts. The parts are various small machines, crystals, living ecosystems bound into balls and sustained by astrosynthesis beyond this world.

You’re used to the awe of it.

Along your waist, you carry several pots of stellar lubricant. The grease provides... some amount of slip when poking around in it yourself. It resonates with the quantum and allows you to see the stretches of energy that allow the ship to run as it does. Tender leylines, woven threads, songs and hymns that are of many familiar beats and melodies.

Everything slips together as you pull yet another panel from a wall. The mechanisms sing out of tune, in dissonant chords, off-beat in the wrong time signature.

You dunk your hands into the lubricant, ignoring the slowly erupting burns on your forearms from over-exposure.

You shove your hands into the wall. You work. You fix.

...

Not so long ago, you and Fu Xuan were not the only two Calibrator on the Xianzhou Alliance’s Luofu. There had been an apprentice in the Divination Commission who was studying, seeking mastery, just as you yourself had. They were more skilled than Lady Fu in the arts of calibration. You think they hailed from the Yaoqing. They were soft, gentle-hearted and young by the standards of Xianzhou natives.

So perhaps, this is why they became Marastruck in the mouth of one of the utility tunnels after seeing footage of the Divine Foresight being dragged unconscious and limp into the apothecary. Gingko leaves tearing their skin, an unholy sob turning to a shriek to cut the air. You were lucky the transformation occurred while you were above ground, and a patrol of Cloud Knights was nearby.

You’re probably lucky that you hadn’t (haven’t) succumbed to Mara. If you were a few centuries younger and less trained in the arts of meditation, you might have been swallowed up like the apprentice had been.

Jing Yuan, for all of his many games and schemes and tricks, radiates the air of someone almost infallible. He is not perfect; he has never been one for edges that are too manicured. He’s far more content dozing the afternoon away or taking a stroll through one of his gardens than hosting war-meetings. He prefers to wear plain clothes to the market in hopes he will not be recognized (though, he always is).

But, he is strong and remarkably difficult to phase or bother in any setting. On more than one occasion, you’ve spent the evening trying to rile him up and get him to pounce, but the General is always content to watch your attempts with a lazy smile on his face. Content to sweetly watch you struggle in getting under his skin. He may be affected, but he is hard to break. If he does, it is with such grace that you wouldn’t have any idea he did break, and it feels as if you’ve somehow slipped, rather than him. He is cunning and sure-footed in a way that you can’t help but admire.

You’re not the only one to feel that way.

(Though, you’re the only one who shares a bed with him. So.)

The Xianzhou has little place for legends, yet Jing Yuan is old enough and well-thought of enough to have become one. So, you cannot blame the apprentice for falling to Mara. Not when they, and the rest of the Luofu, saw a legend buckle at the knees.

...

You were right about diagnostics being inaccurate. However, the reason was a mix of your two initial hypotheses.

Parts of the diagnostic system, deep and low within the Luofu’s internal organs, had been damaged. Radiation leaks from the core of the ship, usually held back by sponges and filters, was drifting upward to damage any number of sensors and organic processes keeping the Luofu operational.

(All useless details really, none of it makes sense anymore. The ship is fucked. You must fix it.)

And you have been fixing it.

You reek of stellar lubricant, skin stained pearly and glittery under the fluorescent lights that dot the tunnels. Your eyes ache; it’s gotten quite difficult to focus them. You’re lucky that there’s occasional spigots tapped into the walls, with some type of freshwater flowing from them, even if it does take awhile for any liquid to run. They probably haven’t been used in decades— maybe centuries. Most of the internals of the Luofu heal and repair on their own.

A calibrator would only need to step-in in the case of a calamity.

Time has gotten slippery. Though you send up status reports (of varying quality) through your wrist-bound jade abacus, you can’t say it’s on a schedule. You do them when you have the mental fortitude to craft something acceptable for the Divination Commission to scoff at.

You’re tired, maybe.

There are some mediary chambers between levels. Old, dust-covered rooms with a cot and some rations. Though you raid the ones you come across for emergency food stores, you don’t stay to sleep. You usually keel over on the metal flooring with your outermost robe thrown over you like a blanket. Your pillow is your own folded hands.

It’s viciously uncomfortable, but you find sleeping difficult regardless. The offensively bright grow lights are sensitive to flesh life, and will not turn off in your presence. The floor is sometimes searingly warm, sometimes ice cold. If you stop working, your own thoughts threaten to swallow you whole. You only achieve sleep in brief moments, perhaps a few hours at a time, when you’re entirely spent.

It is unpleasant sleep. A mix of recent horrors and faraway comforts.

(You initially heard from Fu Xuan what Jing Yuan had done.)

(Shortly after, footage was posted of the Divine Foresight, unconscious and being dragged across the Luofu for medical attention. Jing Yuan was entirely unresponsive and cradled in the arms of the Vidharayda’s... reawoken? Returned? (You stay out of Lizard Politics.) (Regardless, it still burns.))

(There’s chaos in the sounds captured on the video, the shocked, disbelieving voices.)

(You had turned off your phone (you have still yet to turn it back on) and dragged the apprentice to the tunnels. You ignored their crumbled expression and all of their disbelief. It would not serve either of you— anyone— in that moment. This was foolish of you.)

(You remember your apprentice and how their panic grew to Mara so quickly. How they looked sick to their stomach, braced against one of the entrances to the tunnels of the catacombs, clutching their skull. You urged them forward, begged them to hurry— that the diagnostics were grave. You could see the gnarled roots of the arbor already having penetrated some of the ancillary walls.)

(They looked so scared as they were swallowed by Mara. Eyes flashing scarlet, gingko leaves spilling from their mouth as they screamed. Flesh tearing to be healed wrong seconds later. Beautiful silk robes torn to shreds, body mutilated from the inside out.)

(They’d lunged at you, howling, and you’d barely side-stepped them. You ran to a patrol of Cloud Knights, overworked and clearly battleworn themselves and exhausted. Regardless, they took down your apprentice. Cut them at the back of the knees, called a Judge, dragged them off to the Hall of Karma.)

You dream of Jing Yuan often.

Sometimes, these dreams are awful.

Lady Fu had told you to visit him, prior to your initial descent into the catacombs. She said he was unconscious and battered. He would certainly recover; the General is particularly hearty. She urged you to see him in the Alchemy Commission. She said this as if Jing Yuan hadn’t just thrown himself in front of a being that rivaled some Aeons. She said this as if the Luofu wasn’t a few mechanical failures away from ceasing function and you were the only one aboard the Luofu able to stop it with any efficiency.

You dream of Jing Yuan being lanced through with his own guandao. You dream of him falling to the stone of Scalegorge Waterscape, eyes blooming red, and ginkgo leaves erupting from his shoulders. You dream of him mutilated beyond belief by beings so much more powerful than either of you. You dream of having to watch a patrol of Cloud Knights pin him to the ground as Mara consumes him.

Sometimes, the dreams are pleasant.

The worst are those where you think you have woken up in bed with him. Mimi purrs at the foot of his stupid, indulgently large bed. Your cheek is pressed to his chest, warm and alive and okay, and he rumbles some laugh when you seem confused. He asks if you’d like breakfast. A bath. You should go to the markets together, shouldn’t you?

You dream of his body next to yours. Well and whole and intertwined.

You prefer to be awake; it allows you to feel like you have some semblance of control over your own mind.

Horrors crop up into the forefront of your mind without warning often. Staying focused on your repairs helps you. Grounding yourself in the sting of the lubricant over your skin keeps your thoughts closer to the material, rather than the intangible fears that threaten to swallow you whole.

Leaving only you to your work. Fixing.

You wipe sweat from your brow, uncaring of the grease that smears across your skin and clumps in your hair. The panel in front of you is being particularly fuzzy. The parts are old. The impact from the Arbors sudden growth had damaged the delicate nature of the mechanisms.

So, you tinker away.

Quantum threading, weaving, unraveling, trying again. And again, and again.

Your head pounds.

...

At some point, when checking your jade abacus, the diagnostic percentages have stopped going down. They’re actually going up, steadily and on their own.

You don’t believe it at first, but after... a while of keeping an eye on it, it doesn’t appear to be a fluke. Functionality is hovering around thirty-three percent, unfailingly, and rising a percentage every day or so. The panels you check appear to be healing themselves as well, albeit slowly. Thin, vermillion tendrils snake around in the oil to poke and prod as you have. Albeit, it’s not enough, but it provides a kernel of respite nonetheless.

Coincidentally, you run out of stellar lubricant around this same time as well.

The only option (as you’ve already pilfered the stores you’ve come across) is to ascend back to the surface of the Luofu and fetch more from the Artisanship Commission.

You feel delirious when you rise fully and stretch your arms above your head. Your hands knock into the metal ceiling as your back cracks in at least four different places. Your knees ache. Your legs have long since cramped up. You feel stiff down to your bones, but you separate from the feeling. You must, there’s more important things to worry about.

Ascending the catacombs is difficult. You hadn’t... realized quite how deep you’d gone for repairs. It takes quite some time to climb the thin utility ladders and weave the correct path upwards. You’re slowed by gravity and your own lethargy. The exertion takes its toll quickly, but you ignore it. You have a task to complete.

(Your body's slick with sweat. Your vision threatens to tunnel.)

Perhaps you’ll pick up some proper rations as well. The nutritional power you had pilfered from the tunnel’s stores probably isn’t meant to be consumed in the long term.

You come to surface through a shrouded doorway in a residential neighborhood. It’s warm, temperate as the Luofu usually is. There’s a pleasant breeze and the smell of grass and water in the air. It’s a sharp contrast to the metallic tang of oil and lubricant that you’re slicked with.

You try to think little of it. Artisanship Commission.

On your way, you get the occasional odd stare. A child points at you. You, perhaps, are covered in grime and attribute any gawking to that. Maybe? You’re due for a bath. Though with all the errands it appears you need to run, do you really have time for one?

There’s a shop on the edge of the Artisanship Commission you duck into. The shopkeeper is speaking to another customer at the counter, but goes silent when you give him a friendly wave. You’re a regular here, after all.

You grab as much of the lubricant as you can carry in your arms and place it on the counter, poking around in your pocket for your... phone. It’s probably out of battery.

“Could you put this on the Divination Commission’s tab?” You ask him. “It’s being used for official business.”

The shopkeeper is still looking at you, wide-eyed. Mouth hanging open. He stiffly nods and rings you up.

Odd.

You think little of it. He slowly loads your jars into an old crate and hands it to you.

“Be well.” You say on the way out. The shopkeeper does not reply.

The interaction leaves you with a vague sense of unease.

That feeling mounts the more you realize that people are looking at you, as you make your way to Aurum Alley for rations. One woman even tries to stop you, but you wave her off. You need to—

Get rations. Maybe take a shower. Descend again because there’s no way the systems can be sustained and heal fast enough on their own. You must work, you must toil.

And you mustn’t visit Jing Yuan.

Not yet. Not until you can forget how he looked, slack and half-dead in the arms of his men. Perhaps you should forget the face of the returned High Elder as well. You’ve— you’ve put together that he and Jing Yuan have some type of history. You know from the whisperings that the man saved Jing Yuan.

(You can’t ever save him. You are not a fighter. You’re a well-paid mechanic.)

Rations.

You’re stopped before you ever are three steps into Aurum Alley by a group of Cloud Knights.

“Halt.” One of them says, raising her weapon.

“... Pardon?” You ask, raising an eyebrow. The crate in your arms is too heavy for this. “Can I help you?”

“Please wait,” the tip of her guandao shines, “you are the Divination Commission’s Master Calibrator, correct?”

“... Yes?” You sigh. “I apologize, but I must get past you. I’m on official business. Supply run.”

The Knight rotates her blade to the butt of it against your chest, applying light pressure. Holding you there, tucked between several buildings and fairly out of sight. Your stomach drops.

“I can’t allow that.”

“... Excuse me?”

You’re about ready to snap at the nervous-looking knight once more, but you’re interrupted. The sound of quick feet over stone stops behind you and frigid air begins to spill down your neck. You turn your head painfully over your shoulder.

Yanqing, the fierce little thing, is poised behind you, spitting steam and frost. His gold eyes are angry, teeth bared. He looks exhausted.

“You are being detained,” he says, angry and sharp.

“What?” You snap, turning to face him. He looks ready to raise his blade against you, hand twitching at his waist. That’s not your concern at this moment. “Yanqing— what are you—”

Yanqing’s eyes are shiny and wet.

Oh.

“You’re being detained by order of the Divine Foresight.” He says, voice unwavering despite the tears beading against his lower lashes.

...

Yanqing seems like he’s seething as he leads you to one of Jing Yuan’s personal gardens. It’s on a terrace, high above most of the Luofu, far-away from any of the Commission's that may bother him when he is attempting to relax.

You know this garden well; it’s your favorite spot to relax in with Jing Yuan.

He leads you directly to Jing Yuan who is standing on an overlook, hand behind his back as he stares out over a roiling sea. The waves crash far below, the sound a mere echo. His shoulders are slack. He hardly looks angry. It’s rare that he ever does.

“General.” Yanqing says— he is angry. “I’ve brought them.”

“Oh?” Jing Yuan turns, a pleasant smile stretching across his face. “You found them?”

“Yes, in Aurum Alley.” Yanqing salutes and steps to the side.

You cross your arms and try not to cry.

Jing Yuan looks fine. He’s clearly in one piece. Whole. Whole. No visible injury, no new limp as he steps closer to you, examining you just as intently as you examine him.

It’s a horrible relief to see him fine— even if you should scold him. If you had the energy, you would. You would rake him over the damn coals for endangering himself as he did. You will, later. Maybe. But for now—

“Am I done being detained?” You ask, malice in your voice. “I have work to do.”

“No hello?”

“Fine. Hello.”

“Hi,” Jing Yuan says more gently, beckoning you to a lovely looking pile of silk pillows and a thick mat. The perfect spot for a midday catnap. “I’m afraid I do intend to keep you for a bit longer. Sit, please.”

You don’t budge.

“Jing Yuan,” You say his name. Your voice doesn’t wobble, and you’re grateful for it. “I do not have time for this.”

He hums, “You do.”

“You must know the Luofu’s internals are shot.” He must, right? You need to get back. You need to keep fixing. “I do not have time for tea and a chat. Be forward with me, please.”

Jing Yuan, who has already sat down on the silks, looks up at you. He’s perfectly poised, relaxed like a big cat, but with sharp, watchful eyes. He’s choosing his words carefully, albeit quickly.

“Did you know the Matrix of Prescience resumed function earlier today?” He tells you. “Early this morning, it awoke. Diviner Fu says the function is still minimal, but improving by the hour.”

There’s a wave of relief hearing that— at least the Divination Commission can resume somewhat normal activity. Fu Xuan is probably overjoyed. Maybe. You should check— you need to check. There may be calibrations to reconfigure on the surface. Aeons, there probably is and you’re foolish for not addressing those yet. You should.

Jing Yuan says your name, gentle but unyielding, “Stay with me.”

“I’m— I’m glad the Matrix is working. But, there’s still much that needs to be addressed Jing Yuan. The Luofu’s fail safes— the vitality transmitters— the gamma diffusers—”

You feel overwhelmed and nauseous. You want to lay down and cry. You want to run away to the nearest hidden entrance to the tunnels and work. So badly do you want to flee, hide, and toil and fix this stupid ship.

(Because, you can’t look Jing Yuan in the eye for too long. He’s safe, but the memory of him half-dead is still living in your mind. It’s murky, but there. You need it to die. You need it to stop. You need—)

Jing Yuan takes your hands in his own. It shocks you out of your spiral as his thumbs graze your knuckles. It hurts. You wince without thinking to muffle it. Chemical abrasions and hives litter the skin of your hands. It tracks up your arms to your elbows, you see now.

You flinch and try to pull away, but Jing Yuan keeps you there. Suspended.

“I had a meeting with the other Arbiter-Generals, just the other day.” Jing Yuan sounds wistful. “I was surprised to find out that every other ship in the Xianzhou Alliance’s fleet has at least four Master Calibrators. They were shocked to find the Luofu only having one.”

“That sounds embarrassing.”

“It was, perhaps,” Jing Yuan laughs in a good-natured way. “The other Generals were quite kind, and have sent a handful of Master Calibrators to the Luofu to assist with repairs. They’ll be here in the next day or so.”

“... Really?”

“Yes.” Jing Yuan sighs. “I’ll owe a favor or two, but it’s more than worth it.”

You don’t know what to think.

“I have to—”

“You’re actually being placed on a somewhat indefinite leave.” Jing Yuan then yanks you down into the pillows, to the thick mat, and into his arms. “I’m afraid I’ve missed you terribly. You’ve been incredibly difficult to track down.”

“I was just in the tunnels.” You try to push away from him. “Fu Xuan gave me this little tracker.”

You tap the pendant on your chest.

“You went deep enough into the Luofu that this pendant only pinged your location every few days.” Jing Yuan raises you up, so you’re perched in his lap. You steady yourself on his chest. His living, breathing chest. “At one point, it didn’t register your vitals for a week.”

Jing Yuan says this quietly. It’s admission, given the tone of his voice. He sounds a bit stricken, almost pained. His brow is scrunched as he rubs up and down your shoulders.

“... A week?”

“Indeed. You scared me quite badly, you know.”

Something in you aches. Guilt rises up your throat, but you don’t give yourself much time to examine it. Not yet.

“You’re one to talk.” You murmur, hitting a fist against his chest angrily. “You threw yourself in front of a Lord Ravager?”

“A necessary blow that ensured victory.” Jing Yuan says simply. As if he is speaking about a feint during a sparring match, or a risky move in a star chess game. “A worthwhile opportunity, really—”

“You could have died.” You snap at him, finally looking at him down your nose, baring your teeth. You are tired and angry. It feels like you could swallow the sun and you would be fine with exploding.

“I could have.” He hums. There’s more that he wants to say, you can tell. You can imagine what he could wax on about—

(“It would have been worth it if it guaranteed the Luofu’s safety.”

(“Am I not going to die already? I would think it be better to give my life for the safety of the people, rather than be decimated by Mara.”)

(“There are worse ways to die.”)

“You’re so foolish.” You want to cry. Maybe you are. Your head is pounding and your eyes hurt. “You can’t do that.”

“Ideally, I wouldn’t—”

“No, stop, just—” You grab his cheeks in your hands and bring your nose to press against his. You meet his eyes, gold and molten. “You cannot sacrifice yourself in such a way. I beg you to be selfish. If for no other reason than to give me a proper goodbye.”

(Jing Yuan had been distant in the days leading up to the Arbor’s reawakening. He’d been dodging your calls, ignoring pre-scheduled outings, and skimping on sleeping in your bed. When you’d seen the videos of his limp body and heard from Lady Fu that he was still unconscious, there was, perhaps, a moment where you believed that that was it. You wouldn’t get a goodbye. You’d only see a ragdolled corpse to mourn.)

What you’re asking of Jing Yuan is a siren song of Mara. You know this. To yearn is to suffer. To be attached is to suffer. To cling is to suffer. And suffering is to mara. You both know this. You dance with the stars and their weavings often enough to be suspended somewhat above other immortals— such things seem small in avenues of Aeons and destiny.

Jing Yuan, however, is a master of separation. Meditation. He is quiet about the skills he’s cultivated. You notice them though— the way he measures his breathing, the conscious effort he makes to keep himself loose and slack. The way his memory is diced up, not from incensed Mara sprouts, but from missing pieces. Tragedies that have either been removed or blotted out from his own practice.

To save him from being swallowed by Mara.

And yet, you beg him to remember you.

You almost retract, recoil, and run. This is too real. You have been in the General’s bed for who knows how long. It doesn’t matter that you have been his partner for the last several decades. You’ve never asked him to keep you in his thoughts— keep you like this. It has always felt too unfair of a thing to ask.

“You,” You spit through tears, “Cannot leave me so cruelly. Not like that. Let me be precious to you, Jing Yuan, if only for a short time.”

There is no such thing as being endless without consequence, but perhaps the General can spare you his affections, truly, for a brief moment. Maybe it’s a pipedream. Maybe you’re delirious from lack of sleep and hunger and the high of feeling Jing Yuan solid and whole beneath you is simply too much.

Jing Yuan coaxes you to keep your head up when you try to duck into his neck. He buries a hand in your hand that quickly slides down to your nape. He holds a wide, warm palm there to steady you.

“Dear,” Jing Yuan strokes down your cheeks, rubbing away tears you can’t stop from falling. His smile is melancholy, his eyes crinkled at the corners with a broken smile. “I’m quite remissed. Have I not made it clear that I already think of you in such a way?”

You swallow.

“Probably not.”

“I apologize.”

“Don’t apologize— just— say it.” Not on his deathbed, or Mara-struck in chains and gnarled with Ginkgo leaves.

Jing Yuan pauses, rubbing away tears from under your eyes and squeezing his hand that lingers on the back of your neck. He opens his mouth, flounders, then closes it. Then speaks.

“Beloved,” He begins and you’re already breaking. “I am sorry that I haven’t made it clear to you that you are dear to me. There are certain things that I cannot promise you as they are outside of my control as well as yours. But what I can assure you is that you are so incredibly dear to me. If I must continue to live as I do now, I would like to do so by your side. I apologize for not being forthright.”

“... So, no throwing yourself in front of Lord Ravagers?”

“... Sacrifices must be made.” Jing Yuan says, though his voice is, perhaps, more mournful.

“You are not a sacrifice.” You swallow, the words burning you as well. “You are much more than just foder. You are— you’re dear to people. Dear to me. You are not to throw yourself in the line of fire as part of a convenient plan.”

“I will not make you a promise that I cannot keep.” He is too duty-bound; it’s a practiced thing. You’ve heard he was once laze-about oaf who could barely handle a sword. You try to appeal to any remnants of that man.

“Then at least tell me.” You urge, beg. “Maybe there are other options you haven’t thought of. You get stuck in your head, you know.”

“Do I?” His smile turns mischievous and teasing.

“You—!” You headbutt him lightly and he rolls you into the silken blankets.

The moment your back touches the softness below you, skull cushioned in the palm of Jing Yuan’s hand, you can feel exhaustion catching up with you.

“You must heed your own rules, love,” Jing Yuan tells you, covering your body with his. Silver hair falls in a veil around you. It’s like starlight. The memories of oil and machine parts feel far away. “No more running yourself ragged. Or hiding in the utility tunnels for a month.”

“... A month?” Your words slur. There’s no way you were down there for a month.

“Actually, a month and a week.” Jing Yuan says. His hand smooths over your front with a front. “You’ve lost weight. And as effortlessly radiant as you are, you do look quite poorly. I’m sure it’s nothing an indefinite, relaxing, extended, paid-leave can’t fix, hm?”

“Thas’ so long,” You say, your eyes rolling back into your head. You’re slipping.

“I know.” Jing Yuan kisses your forehead and remains there. “I missed you terribly.”

You want to say more. How desperately do you want to tell him, “I missed you too. I couldn’t stop thinking of you dying. I dreamed of your bed and warmth and wanted nothing more.” But your body is simply too tired. The... month of exhaustion catches up with you within the silks and you have to fight to keep your eyes open.

Jing Yuan hushes you when you whine, grabbing at him to drag him closer.

“Rest now.” He tells you. “You need it. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Jing Yuan holds you in the soft blankets, flush against downy pillows and the plush of his chest. One of his hands finds home around your waist, the other over the crown of your head.

You are tugged down— not in the bowels of Xianzhou’s Luofu, but into the arms of a lover and the hold of a deep and inexorable sleep.

The next time you’re awake, you’re swathed in buttery linens and pleasantly warm. Your world is fuzzy and unfocused, and at first you think you are dreaming.

It’s simply too pleasant.

Your cheek is pressed against Jing Yuan’s bare chest. You can tell from the softness of your cheek squished against the softness of his pectoral, along with the bit of silver fuzz that tickles your nose. He smells like you remember— notes of cedar oils and herbs, mixing with the scent of his own stale sweat from whatever training he completes with Yanqing.

It’s comforting and familiar. This is why it must be a dream.

So you cling to Jing Yuan. The arm thrown over his chest constricts. The leg you have loosely thrown over his own tangles and hooks him closer. You shimmy higher to press your nose to the underside of his jaw and inhale.

Jing Yuan chuckles, a rumbling thing that’s hoarse with sleep, “Good morning to you too.”

You do not open your eyes. Rather, you squeeze them shut, and cling to the dream.

His hand glides up your back, finding home on your waist once more before giving you a squeeze, “You can sleep more, you have quite the deficit to make up for.”

You grumble. You’re practically on top of him, like it would prolong the pleasant illusion your mind is creating.

Your own palm rests over his chest, and you pause. There’s a texture that’s new. Scar tissue beneath your finger tips that runs little rivers over his flesh. Jing Yuan’s breath hitches as you trace them. You pull away from the safety of his throat to peer down at his chest. New scars litter his chest, all connected webs of damage. The skin is puckered and freshly healed.

This is not a dream.

“Oh,” you say, softly.

“I apologize. Your favorite canvas has been a bit marked up.” Jing Yuan sighs.

“Jing Yuan.” You squeak and bat at his chest. “Don’t speak of your body and condition in such a way.”

“Why not? I so have missed your marks on me, you know. It’s been a lonely recovery period—”

“Jing. Yuan.” You tug at his hair playfully. “It is too early for you to be teasing me.”

“I don’t think it’s ever ‘too early’ for such things.” Jing Yuan laughs. “Besides, I think you quite like it.”

“Cruel man.”

“You wound me.” There’s no bite to either of your voices. Just something warm and underused.

You press a kiss to his cheek and nudge your nose into the pudge of it, “Truly?”

“No.” Jing Yuan pulls you up by your waist, holding you flush to him as he turns to face you. You are chest to chest, nose to nose. “There’s no need to worry about the nips of a kitten, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You awful, awful man—” You say with a burgeoning smile that you can’t help but wear.

Jing Yuan cups a large, warm palm against your jaw and presses his lips to yours.

It’s indulgent, just like the ridiculously-sized bed you’re entangled in and the silken sleep pants you can feel him wearing. Your smile into it— you missed this.

Why did you miss it—?

Oh.

You pull away, eyes widening, “Jing Yuan, the ship. I have— repairs. I have to—”

He silences you with a quick kiss, racking his nails down your back and you gasp.

“The repairs are being taken care of by a few honored guests from the Xuling and Yuque. Diviner Fu is their point of contact and guide for the duration of their stay. They will be completing the remaining restoration while you enjoy your leave.”

“I mean—” You flounder, panic is bursting in your chest. “They can contact me— I know what needs to be fixed, I can at least make a list—?”

Jing Yuan hums, grip getting tighter around your hips. It’s a shadow of something you’ve seen in him before— it’s a bit possessive.

“Once again, dear, you are on indefinite leave by order of the Seat of Divine Foresight by the Arbiter General himself.” He reminds you with a glint in his eye. “You needn’t make any lists or instructions for our guests. Diviner Fu is more than capable of directing them as necessary. Actually, I believe she’ll quite like it.”

“You’re pulling rank on me?”

“As I have every right to do.” Jing Yuan doesn’t relent. More sweetly, he continues. “As your lover, I would also be much happier to see you recovering in bed than anywhere else.”

“… Are the gardens off limits?”

“No, though I’d recommend giving yourself a few days of minimal activity.” Jing Yuan frowns then. “I don’t believe you realize it, but you are quite weak at the moment.”

“... Really?”

“Lady Bailu’s cloudhymns are quite advanced these days.” He rubs a thumb below your eyes, over what must be a dark circle. “But, her skills mostly lie in healing flesh wounds and disease. You are malnourished, dehydrated, and... overall rundown.”

“... The Dragon Lady is going to give me an earful, isn’t she?”

“In time.” Jing Yuan laughs. He brings one of your hands up to his face to press his lips to your knuckles. No longer covered in burns and irritated hives, but still bearing light scarring.

Neither you nor Jing Yuan escaped unscathed.

“Do I need to prepare?”

“Perhaps not as much as you think.” Jing Yuan hums, pulling the sheets over your heads. “She examined you while you were asleep a few times. She has already scolded you plenty, even if you don’t remember it.”

“Did I wake up at all?”

“Barely. It was almost concerning.” Jing Yuan tugs you closer and tucks your head under his chin. “I did manage to have you sip some water and give you a wipe down though. Admittedly, you do need a proper bath.”

You nearly moan.

The idea of a bath is downright erotic. Though you don’t feel as greasy and as sticky as you could, given Jing Yuan had kindly gotten the worst of it off of you, the idea of being truly clean sounded pornographic.

Especially, given you were at Jing Yuan’s residence, and in addition to his indulgently large and comfortable bed, he also had an indulgently large and opulent self-heating bath. The idea of having a long soak and scrub has you burying your face into Jing Yuan chest and squeezing around his middle.

“I want it.”

“A bath?”

“Yes. And you. And a meal. Lots of things, actually.” Enough to make your head spin. It feels like your slowly waking mind is all out of sorts.

“Let’s start with a meal and a bath, then.” Jing Yuan offers. “Perhaps after a nap?”

You don’t need to be persuaded.

It’s a kinder sleep you sink into. Less bottomless and far warmer. Jing Yuan kisses you breathless and a bit stupid as you drift off, chuckling against your lips as you grumble and grouse at him, before being tugged down into sleep once more.

...

“How are you feeling?”

You ask Jing Yuan this as you give yourself a pre-bath rinse behind an ornate screen. The wet cloth clutched in your hands drips fat droplets of water onto the polished, glass tile beneath your feet. Soap clings to your body, falling into little rivulets, taking the worst of your grime down the nearby drain. Watching the iridescent bubbles distracts you from the weight of your own words.

You’ve been wanting to ask Jing Yuan this for—

(Weeks, probably, actually, in the time of the Xianzhou Alliance’s calendar. At least you since you saw him nearly lifeless in the grainy cell phone footage.)

Since you have woken and were sleepily led to Jing Yuan’s opulent, resplendent private baths, at least.

From the other side of the screen, Jing Yuan answers, “I feel fine, dear.”

“Physically?”

“I’ve had more than enough time to recover.”

“... Mentally? All over, Jing Yuan.”

You hate asking this, but you know it’s necessary. You’re sure Jing Yuan is being monitored for Mara-onset symptoms; there’s no way he couldn’t be. You don’t see any obvious ones. But, Mara is the most extreme of afflictions.

He laughs again, and you can feel him shaking his head like it can shake off your concern, “I assure you, I’m more than fine. Having to be responsible for so much paperwork again is painful, but doable.”

He’s dodging your question, albeit with less finesse than he normally would.

“Would you blame me if I doubted that answer?”

“No, not at all.”

You sigh and rinse the last of the suds from your body. It’s tedious, this roundabout game with Jing Yuan, but he is rarely forthcoming with personal information. Whether that’s memories of his life before you entered it, political stratagem, or his own mental state— it’sall veiled. You’ve gotten more adept at playing his games, but you truthfully don’t know if you have the energy to try.

You rub your hand over your face. One thing at a time.

You pluck the robe Jing Yuan had supplied from the top of the screen and wrap yourself in the (thin, wispy, objectively indecent) garment. It’s not doing much to cover you at all, as the light, silken fabric clings to the wet curves of your body. You appreciate the attempt at modesty in the same way you appreciate Jing Yuan idling on the other side of the screen.

You feel like a doe on uneven ground still. Jing Yuan probably expects this.

He guides you to the bath, steering into more light-hearted chatter. He tells you what Yanqing has been up to since he has resumed his office, once again asking for swords and seemingly training with a new vigor and intensity. He has been begging the General to spar with him all hours of the day. Or, call back his newfound friends from the Astral Express for a round or two. Qingzu will be taking a much-needed vacation in the coming weeks. Jing Yuan’s carmelias and bluebell astrums have begun to bloom.

You nod along, only half-there.

Jing Yuan eases your robe off your shoulder as he speaks. His voice is low and a bit rough from his own nap. The broad planes of his palms and fingers smooth over your shoulders and peel the fabric down. His thumb worries the marred skin of your forearms.

“We’ll make sure your next meals are particularly hearty. These should heal up quickly, wouldn’t you say?” He coaxes.

You nod, staring at the burns. They’ll be nothing but worn-looking scars in a matter of weeks.

Your robe is slung over a cart, filled with a collection of luxurious bath oils and soaps. Jing Yuan only has a few indulgences— his sprawling, soft bed, his many gardens, and his opulent, resplendent private bath laid with emerald green glass tiles and a sunken tub that could’ve been counted as a pool given its size. You’re grateful for it— though you’ve only used it a handful of times. The General has a habit of taking quick showers, unless he has the better part of the day to lounge in the perfectly-warmed water.

You try not to linger on your own nakedness, though you can feel Jing Yuan surveying you. There must be bruises on your waist from the heavy belt you were wearing. Visible weight loss too. You busy yourself by untying the sash of Jing Yuan’s robe and pulling it from his shoulders. It had already been somewhat open, revealing the marred expanse of his chest. Thin, spidery scars that clearly stretched over most of his body.

Typically, Xianzhou Native bodies heal with little scarring. But, these wounds were carved by a Lord Ravager. You’re unsure if they will follow the same logic.

You will love Jing Yuan, obviously, regardless of any lasting marks. But the thought still makes you sad— something in you aches. You trace the scars leading down from his chest to his softened tummy to the v of his hips. His cock is soft between his legs. It’s too dark in the bath to tell if the scars extend there as well.

“You look troubled.” He says, pausing his stories.

“I worry for you, so much.” You tell him.

Meeting his eyes is difficult. The honey-stone color of them looks darker in the dimly-lit chamber, but you can easily see the crease between his brow. There’s clear concern, perhaps a bit overwritten by his need to conceal his hand.

Perhaps he is too tired himself to be as careful as he usually is.

(Good. If there’s anyone who he can let his guard down around, Aeons, let it be you.)

Jing Yuan helps you into the tub. First, he enters, sliding into the steaming water with a shudder. He extends his hand to you as you take unsure steps onto the slick tiling. The water is the perfect temperature— not too hot, but pleasantly warm in a way that won’t lead to overheating. You hide your body under the water and sink up to your chin and sigh.

It feels heavenly.

Jing Yuan chuckles as you do and smoothes a hand over the top of your head. He’s already reaching for a few bottles on the nearby cart, pouring a few under the steady gurgle of water that flows from a wide tap. It’s entrancing to watch— equally as entrancing is the breadth of Jing Yuan’s shoulder, marred by the scarring. He’s beautiful in a way that makes your stomach knot.

You end up settled with your back pressed to his front, laid in his lap, almost dozing as he massages shampoo into your hair.

“I’m filthy, aren’t I?” You ask.

Jing Yuan hums, “I’ve never seen you this unkempt, no.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” He kisses the back of your soapy skull. “You needn’t apologize for anything. I’m not upset with you.”

“... Okay.” You concede. He goes back to dutifully washing your hair, then follows it with conditioner and securing your hair up and out of the water as necessary. His idle talk has stopped, the space filled by the running water and your own breath.

“May I wash yours?” You ask.

“You still have your body, love.”

“I know,” You reply sheepishly. “At least let me get your conditioner in?”

Jing Yuan laughs, and coaxes you to turn with his big hands wrapped around your waist under the waist. You spin his lap, straddling him. It’s a precarious position, but you... missed it. Nudging yourself closer, you lean into him, chest to chest, and deflate.

He laughs, something rich and warm that radiates from his body into your own, “It really is hard work, bathing, isn’t it?”

“No,” You muffle your words into his collarbones. “Just give me a minute.”

“Of course,” His arms wrap firmly around your waist, locking you together. He’s hot— he runs like a furnace even when not in a toasty bath. There’s a bit of sweat dripping down his neck and you’re tempted to lick it away.

Maybe later, for now you bask.

You bask in the fact that Jing Yuan is here, warm and alive. You want to commit him to memory— better than you have. If it forsakes you to Mara in a few decades, you do not care. You had forgotten the softness of his chest, the curve of his waist and the point of his nose. The details of Jing Yuan had become so fuzzy in such a short time. You’re sure Lady Bailu would assert it had something to do with your ‘chronic sleep deprivation’, but you’re not sure if you agree with that potential diagnosis.

Spending too much time attuned to immaterial quantum fields erodes your psyche, probably.

“So deep in thought.” Jing Yuan runs a head down your back. “Take a break to rinse, hm?”

“I haven’t gotten yours in yet, though?”

“We can take our time. Besides, I bathed this morning. This is all for pleasure.”

“... Pleasure, huh?”

Jing Yuan flashes you a grin burgeoning on mischievous, “Yes, pleasure, in whatever form that may come. Is that what’s plaguing you, dear?”

“No, not at all.” You sigh and lean back from him, cupping his cheeks. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Jing Yuan says. His cards are showing— his voice is straining, pitched in a way that indicates he’s sad in his chest. The thing between your ribs aches.

“I was worried.”

“So you have said.” Jing Yuan cajoles you down, slipping your head half in the water to rinse away your conditioner. He suspends you with a single arm. His musculature is obscene.

“How could I not be?” You clench your jaw. “I saw videos of you being taken to the Alchemy Commission— you— you looked—”

Half-dead.

Corpse-like.

Steps from death’s door.

On your way to the grave.

Dead.

Jing Yuan calls your name, rubbing soothing little circles over the small of your waist, “I’m well now, dear.”

“But you almost weren’t.” Your voice breaks. You don’t mean for it to. You tuck yourself into his neck and hide.

You don’t want to cry, but you can feel something welling up from within your guts. It’s the thing you pushed down relentlessly in the bowels of the Luofu. As you tinkered and toiled in the depths of the ship, you never let this ache spill over, lest you drown. Whether that’s in Mara or a less permanent type of suffering, you do not know.

“But I am.” Jing Yuan assures you. “I am here now, aren’t I? Whole and in one piece.”

You know this. You know this. But— You drag your fingernails over his shoulder blades. Jing Yuan shudders as you do.

“It’s hard.”

“I know.”

The hands around you squeeze hard enough to bruise.

“I thought you were going to keel over in the gardens when Yanqing first brought you to me.” Jing Yuan confesses. “I’d been pestering Lady Fu on the hour for any updates about your whereabouts and communications.”

“... I wasn’t communicating with anyone, though.”

“I know.” Jing Yuan has a thread of... contempt to it. “I wish you would have.”

“What could I have said?”

“I’m not sure,” Jing Yuan tangles a hand in your washed hair and tilts your face to meet his. “But, I’m sure you would’ve found the right words.”

He kisses you. Or you kiss him. Who’s to say.

You don’t have the right words— you may never. Certainly not in your mind or on your tongue now. The thing that rises in your throat is carnal and old and writhing— want. Verging on need. You struggle to keep the kiss chaste, closed lips pressed together after so long apart

Perhaps Jing Yuan has a similar depth that’s clawing at his insides.

He tilts his head, dragging you closer. Close as can be. He kisses you in a silently desperate way. You accept his advances and tangle your hands in his hair. Tug him closer and closer and closer.

(Don’t go. Please don’t go. Not yet.)

(Not until we’re both split apart by gingko roots and dappled in noontime sunlight.)

You gasp his name as you break apart for breath, smoothing your thumbs down his cheekbones and jaw. His pupils are blown and desperate.

“Can I touch you?” He asks, always so polite.

“Please—”

Jing Yuan kisses you again, deeper and pulling you into the depths of the bath. His hands trail down to your thighs, squeezing along the way. Calloused and wide, familiar. The feel of them is coming home, you hadn’t realized how much you missed this.

You keen against his lips and Jing Yuan laughs— the gall of that man.

His flips you easily, caging you against the edge of the pool. This way, he has height over you. He looms, casting a flickering shadow in the amber light of the beeswax candles scattered about. You swallow as you watch droplets of water slide down his throat, chest, tummy. His forearms make you feel dizzy.

“May I have you?” He asks, once again. “Not yet— but I don’t want to progress if you’re not feeling fit for it.”

“N-No,” You feel desperate, you sound desperate. Sensitive and clawing, the beast that you buried in the depths of the Luofu crawls out of your throat and wraps itself around you. Tears spring to your eyes. “Please? Just— be slow—”

Jing Yuan must see your eyes water. He softens.

He thumbs over the fragile skin beneath your eyes, as if wiping the stray tear could wipe away the dark circles punched there as well.

“Of course.” He assures you and presses his lips to your forehead.

...

Jing Yuan takes ‘slow’ both seriously and literally. You are both grateful and horribly frustrated by this. You almost regret not telling Jing Yuan to simply bend you over the lip of the bath and fuck you senseless, though Jing Yuan probably would not have granted you that even if you had asked. He loves to savor when he can. Bedding you is no exception— even under more typical circumstances.

And these aren’t typical circumstances.

Perhaps you should’ve known Jing Yuan intended to break you apart and stitch you back together.

He doesn’t escalate things much further in the bath, despite petting down your sides and seeming to always have his lips on you. You wash his hair as you’d ask to, scratching at his scalp and relishing the almost-purr he lets out as he wraps himself around you. When you start to just barely grind in his lap (squirm, more than anything), he is quick to still you with an iron-like hold on your hips, pinning you down and over his thighs.

“Not yet,” He tells you, nipping at your jaw. “Be patient.”

You huff.

Jing Yuan takes charge of finishing washing you, using gentle touch and a soft cloth from your ankles to the crown of your head. His touch lingers, starting some low burning flame low in your gut that you have a feeling won’t be quenched for quite some time.

It’s tortuous. It’s wonderful.

After you towel each other off, he leads you back to his rooms, only in the damp robes and undergarments he’d dutifully remembered to bring along. The silk clings to Jing Yuan’s bulk as he walks beside you. His hand is on your lower back. Little bugs chirp in the courtyard gardens you pass. There’s the gurgle of a fountain. The soft breeze that Luofu always keeps, even on the most temperate days of summer. It’s all so different from the acrid smell of lubricant and the ambient machine hum you had become so used to.

“I’m only on leave, not house arrest, correct?” You ask as you enter his wing, to his bedroom.

He locks the door behind you as you step inside.

“No, no house arrest.” Jing Yuan hums as he strips off his robe. You want to bite him. “You’re free to roam within reason.”

“Does ‘within reason’ include the nursery that outlander keeps in the Exalting Sanctum?”

“Of course. Though I may assign you a chaperone.”

“Really? Would you send Yanqing with me for a quick run to grab a new shrub or two.”

Jing Yuan laughs, something rich and full that rolls over you like a fleeced quilt, “I figured that I would be your chaperone, dear. If you’d allow.”

“... You’re making this sound like a date, General.”

“Am I?” Jing Yuan smiles so honeyed, it makes something in your chest begin to crack. You lay your hands on his bare chest and hold your ear to his chest. He laughs when you do. “I’d like it if it was. If you’d have me.”

“Of course I would.”

You say it so simply.

You want to crawl into his body and live there, and break any spindly seedlings of Mara away with your own two hands.

Jing Yuan kisses you, walking you back into the door. His lips are soft, a bit chapped in a way that’s familiar and comforting. You run a hand up and down his chest, stopping to squish one of his ample pecs. You muffle a laugh into Jing Yuan’s lips as he stutters out a groan. Sweet, sweet man.

“I missed you,” You tell him once more, hoping your words seep past the seam of his lips, down his throat and sink into his guts.

Jing Yuan responds by pressing you into the door, using the warm line of his body to flatten you to the wood. His kiss verges on desperate, tongue insistent at the seam of your lips, hands tugging you close, close, closer. You yield to him, whining as his tongue licks into your mouth, the taste of him so familiar it makes you ache.

You tug at his hair and urge him closer, if that is possible.

His touch is searing as he breaks away, panting, eyes hot. Scalding. His hair is down, drying to a fluffy, untamed mane around his cheeks and shoulders. It’s charming. You thumb over his cheeks with a smile. He leans into your touch while giving you a soft smile.

“The reign you have over me.” He sighs. You don’t get a chance to question him— his thigh slots between your own and your breath catches with the contact.

You haven’t been touched in so long.

You cling to his shoulders and just barely grind on his thigh— as much as his hold on your waist will allow. Jing Yuan’s kisses trail from your lips to over your cheeks and down your throat. He stops at the juncture of your neck and shoulders, nosing into the spot.

“Such a lovely scent,” He hums.

“I-I bet I smelled horrible before, h-huh?” You laugh as he begins to worry a patch of skin. Tender and fragile, perfect for bruising.

“Hm, I wouldn’t say that.” His teeth graze your throat and your head falls back into the door with thud. Jing Yuan shields your skull with his hands a beat later. “You’d be surprised how many times we’ve shared a bed and you’ve reeked of your favorite brand of astral lubricant.”

“Jing Yuan!” You shriek with a laugh and bat at his shoulders. “You’re so cruel.”

“What, do you not like when I tease you?”

“Scoundrel.”

“I think you do like it.”

You missed bantering with him.

“I love you.” You tell him. He knows— you know this. Declarations of love are rare for the long-lived. At least so directly— to care so deeply is to damn yourself to a faster descent into Mara. Though, to live and deprive yourself of companionship and love is to be dead while living. There’s a tender balance between connection and detachment. Both you and Jing Yuan are intimately familiar with it and indulge together.

Jing Yuan bites down on your neck.

It hurts, enough that you jolt and squirm against his body. Jing Yuan holds you into place, sucking on the skin he’d sunk his teeth into. It’s higher on his neck than he’d usually mark you.

(He’s leaving it to be seen. You are Jing Yuan’s, loved and held.)

(What a wretched man.)

By the time he pulls away, you’re panting. Tears have welled up on your lash line. It hurts and it hurts even more when Jing Yuan runs a high thumb over the quickly rising skin. You gasp and Jing Yuan catches your chin in the wide palm of his hand.

You meet his gaze, intense and lighting-vibrant. You’re panting with an open mouth.

“How lovely.” And he presses a kiss to a corner of your mouth.

Jing Yuan guides you to his ridiculously large bed (that could surely fit up to five bodies and a fully grown, white lion.) The sheets have been changed, though you have a feeling they’ll be dirtied again by the morning.

It’s gentle, the way he hastens you higher up the mattress before giving you a light shove into a mound of pillows. You hook your legs around his waist, drawing him as close as he’ll allow.

He massages the meat of your thighs. His gaze goes long, and a bit unfocused, though it's trained on you.

(You wonder what he’s thinking. Jing Yuan is so careful, always so ginger and measured in his steps. Still, there’s a fire in him that you often overlook. It’s the part of him that keeps a lion as a housemate, raised a young boy into a champion, and... you suppose urged him to become the Luofu’s sacrificial lamb in the face of the Destruction.)

You gulp, throat bobbing. Perhaps, you know your General to be a docile, indolent man who prefers naps and board games too much else. Perhaps you have overlooked, or rather forgotten, that you once saw the Divine Foresight as a warlord, given what you’d read about him in the data banks during your studies on the Yuque.

Jing Yuan’s hand drifts down your front. You’re still wearing your robe. Gentle touch peels it away, leaving you in just a pair of thin panties. They’re a soft, breathable fabric— the kind that will surely show your interest in the General. (You have a feeling Jing Yuan picked them out for that reason expressly.)

Jing Yuan presses the pad of his thumb over your clit through the fabric.

You aren’t expecting it, and arch your back with a squeak. His hand lays hot at the innermost part of your thigh, at the fragile skin where it meets your more sensitive parts.

“I-I thought you said you’d go slow.” You squirm.

“Of course.” Jing Yuan remains unmoving, applying just enough pressure to be maddening. “I intend to.”

With how sensitive you are, you need him to be slow. Your body feels tender out of the bath— cooked and raw all at once. Your muscles still ache from your time in the tunnels and you feel... atrophied, if anything.

Jing Yuan must know this, and you trust him to keep his word.

He makes his way home between your thighs, laying over your front to kiss you once more. This is slow, every lick and nip thoughtful, every barely-there roll of his hips is intentional. You’re not sure where he finds the restraint.

You pet through his hair, softening incrementally with each soft touch he gives you.

He pulls away, lips kiss-bruised and cheeks flushed. It’s cute to see the General so disheveled. He’d never look this out of it and starry-eyed outside of this shared bedroom. It makes you giddy. You smother his cheeks with kisses and let him muffle laughter into your skin.

It’s all soul-splitting.

It’s good. The proximity is warm and inviting. You missed the richness of his bed, the scent of incense and the candles you stock the room with. You missed the roll of his muscles underneath your fingertips and the mirthful glint that flashes in his eyes whenever he thinks he has you on the ropes.

You were so scared of losing this.

It hits you in the chest, caving you in, breaking rib and bone. You were so scared— terrified that this dance you’ve become so adept at sharing with Jing Yuan would end before you were ready for it too. You know that you’ll both fall to Mara, it’s inevitable— but you don’t want it to happen yet. You’re not ready for the final flourish. You weren’t ready for Jing Yuan’s cradled, near lifeless body to be the dying gasp of the partnership you had.

You know it's foolish to think this way. Things— all things, are bigger than mortal minds. Paths cut by the stars, brushstrokes by Gods and Aeons that dictate the lives and destiny of all. You are one mind, one body, one tender spirit. You cannot fight against such forces. You will be crushed.

But, for now, you savor. Take each moment and be grateful even as it slips, honey-warm and molten, between your fingers to be replaced by another in the next instant, equally as lovely. Piled on each other. It is enough.

You crush Jing Yuan to you, hard and fast enough that the wind is knocked out of him, “Please be more careful with yourself.”

I can’t lose you just yet.

“I will try.” His voice is a comforting curl over you. He strokes over your temples and forehead.

“N-No, you must.”

You don’t know the words yet for what you want to tell him. The feelings are too large, too unmanageable. Maybe attuning to the Luofu’s quantum fields has rotted your brain. You’ve lost your words.

With some cajoling, you flip Jing Yuan onto his back.

Sitting up over his hips, you set upon his neck. First with soft kisses, just as he gave you, then with nips and stronger bites. Then a chomp below his jaw. His hips crest upwards, his hands spasming around your waist as he holds you steady. The sounds that leak from him make you want to crawl down his throat.

You suck and bite at the mark until you’re satisfied, pulling away to see his pale skin bruising darker by the moment. You admire the popped blood vessels with what must be a dreamy expression on your face.

“Leaving your mark on me?” Jing Yuan asks, breathless and light.

“It’s only fair.” You kiss his smile, sharing it, “Just as you did to me.”

Running your hands down his chest, you frown at the scars.

“What if I joined the Cloud Knights?” You ask him.

Jing Yuan looks a bit... surprised, “Why would you do that? Though, perhaps, giving up your position as Master Calibrator would be reasonable, given recent events.”

“No, no, it’s not that.” You watch the rise and fall of Jing Yuan’s chest with an ache in your own. “If I was stronger, I could protect you, couldn’t I?”

Tears well up in your eyes.

Jing Yuan opens his mouth to speak, you hear his inhale, but you cut him off, “I-If I was a fighter, or just a Diviner, couldn’t I help more? Could I— could I have stopped this? Or stop something horrible from happening in the future? I don’t want to see you hurt like this.”

It should be a bit funny, maybe, that you’re sitting on the waist of the half-hard Divine Foresight, in tears, asking him if you could protect him. A man treated as nearly infallible, a legend amongst people who so rarely have them. He has an eternal spirit gifted by an Aeon tied to his very being.

And yet you, something of a mechanic and professional tinkerer, beg to protect him.

“Oh, [Name].” He says, mournful.

You swallow down a sob and tears drip from your eyes to splatter on his chest. Your vision blurs and you rake your nails down his chest. More raised marks— yours struck on him this time. Jing Yuan winds a hand in your hair, strokes down your neck, tries to calm you but it's hard. You can’t catch yourself.

“I’m s-sorry—” You tell him between gulps of air. You’re supposed to be being bed right now, fucked stupid and more brainless than you already are, but you’re crying and the panic welling up in your chest feels bottomless and vast.

“No apologies,” Jing Yuan hushes you, rubbing away tears. “You’re alright. I understand.”

“You do?” You snort. It’s blotted out by a proper sob that you hide in Jing Yuan’s chest.

“How could I not?” He rubs over your dark circles under your eyes, then the bruising around your hips. The softness around your waist that’s not as plump as it was a month ago. “Do you think I didn’t contend with traversing the tunnels myself and pulling you out by your scruff?”

“... You did?”

He pauses.

“Everyday.” Jing Yuan admits after a moment. Any admission from him is hard earned.

“Oh.”

You blink, and cry all over again because you feel silly and foolish all over. He hushes you, petting over your cheeks, back, hips— anywhere he can reach. He’s good at soothing, knowing what strokes to provide and where.

“Did you think I didn’t worry?”

“I—I don’t know,” You shake your head. “You had more important things to worry about, right? And— and you were recovering.”

“I asked to see you, you know.”

“... I was told.”

“What did you think that meant?”

“... I don’t know.” You don’t. “I just— I was being a coward. I was scared to see the extent of your injuries before the ship was repaired fully. I wanted— I wanted things to be okay. I didn’t want to go to the surface and see that Vidyadhara who saved you.”

“... Dan Heng?”

“Sure.” Lizard. Fucker.

“... You’re jealous?”

“No.” Oh, yes. Entirely. “I just— he got to carry you. I have to join the Cloud Knights and get strong enough to do so myself. It’s only fair. You’re mine, not some lizard’s.”

Jing Yuan looks startled, then his expression softens.

You besmirch the not-quite outlander easily. You do not know him— you’ve heard whispers. Nothing from Jing Yuan, and you do not pry at his past (and he doesn’t pry at yours.) You know they have a connection from before your time on the Luofu. You don’t fully know its nature, but judging by the passing... grief that Jing Yuan wears, if only for a moment, you can guess. Infer.

(Something of lovers. Almost lovers. If nothing else, Jing Yuan cared for him very much.)

“You needn’t worry about Dan Heng, dear,” he gently. says. “Such things are in the past now. He has moved onto a different shore, and is quite happy on the Astral Express.”

“... He’s not coming to steal you?”

“No,” he laughs, looking mournful again. “I’m certain he has no interest in such things.”

He speaks so sadly. Not heartbroken, it’s not that fresh. He speaks through a wound with a type of melancholy that resonates in your chest like a minor chord. You resist the urge to say, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

“Do you wish he would?”

Jing Yuan pauses.

“No.” He shakes his head, “Not anymore. We have both grown.”

And he pets over your cheek before kissing you. You know he’s telling you the truth.

...

Jing Yuan does not allow haste, and neither do you. Perhaps, you both are feeling fragile. You keep breaking each other open, only to help the other reassemble their pieces a moment later.

Jing Yuan enjoys savoring physical contact, regardless of circumstance or propriety. He steals touches in public in a way that’s indulgent, but never overt. He licks into your mouth with the pace like cooling honey. Each does is meant to brand. You’re meant to feel it, feel him, for as long as the moment will allow. He savors you with hitches of his own breath, a desperation of his own bubbling under his surface.

You can be a bit shy when he truly gluts himself this way. It’s so overt. It tears something in you, and reveals a squishy, softer center that you’re anxious to show anyone. Even a lover like Jing Yuan who has shown you time and time again there is nothing to fear, other than his own foolhardy decisions.

Jing Yuan probably likes it when he gets to be this slow. Peeling back layer after layer of you, forcing you to luxuriate in the unfamiliar warmth, and be reminded that he is there and sturdy.

Jing Yuan is laid between your thighs, your legs over his shoulder. His thick forearm is braced across your navel, your hand held in his. Your fingers are intertwined. His other hand pets at the back of your thighs as you shudder.

You’re sensitive.

Jing Yuan eats your cunt with the pace of a man who has nothing to lose, no phases of the moon to observe, and something to prove. He laps at your center, squeezing your hand with each jolt of your hips against his mouth.

The stroke of his tongue is slow and unhurried. He’s enjoying himself, savoring your taste, humming and groaning when you inadvertently grind against his mouth. During a more routine fuck, Jing Yuan enjoys when you anchor yourself with a grip in his hair and fuck his face. Any impulse you could have to indulge in such a way tonight is quelled. His grip is unyielding on your hand. Your free hand is tangled in the sheets, occasionally shakily pushing Jing Yuan’s mane away from his forehead so you can watch him tongue fuck you with the pace of the lazy, sunbathing cat.

You drop your head to the nest of pillows behind you with a groan and throw your arm over your eyes.

Jing Yuan chuckles against your cunt and flicks his tongue over your clit. He sucks and you want to sob. He hasn’t let you built up to any release— it’s long form teasing, it’s torture. You can feel how wet you are between your thighs, sticky from your own slick and his saliva. You’re messy.

(This is how Jing Yuan prefers it anyways.)

Jing Yuan had made a point to tease you in your thin panties before putting his mouth on you at all. Stroking over the fabric, barely dipping his fingers under the thin, lace waistband. He kissed your covered pussy until you were almost tearing the sheets in your balled up fists.

Jing Yuan still hasn’t put anything inside of you. You know it will be— tight. Jing Yuan has large hands and a proportionally large cock (that most Xianzhou Alliance gossip forums still undersize). Part of his slowness is necessary.

The tip of a finger teases your hole and you kick at his back in surprise.

“F-Finally giving in?”

“I’m not giving in at all,” Jing Yuan pulls away from your cunt to speak, wet and sloppy around his mouth. Eyes half-lidded and so, so content. “I’ve never had anything other than the intention to open you on my tongue and my fingers. What gave you any other impression?”

“Bastard.”

He nips the apex of your thigh and you yip.

“Yours.”

You smile, stupid and a little love drunk, and stroke his hair, “Mine.”

Jing Yuan’s gaze darkens for a moment— something passes there. A thought you can’t read from him or glean anything from. The headiness of the moment temporarily breaks, and for an instant you think that something is wrong. You almost push yourself off the bed in a fit of concern—

But Jing Yuan begins the slow press of his finger into your cunt.

You gasp and squirm, flinching almost. Jing Yuan bears his weight on your waist and keeps you in place as you do, intently watching your expression and parted, wet lips. You’re flayed. It’s just a finger, but it feels big. His fingers are big— a bit calloused, but softer than you’d think.

As he sinks the digit into you, you pant. He kisses your clit, encouraging you to open up for him, murmuring little words of praise that sit in your brain pleasantly but are hard to make distinct. You go slack into the mound of pillows as his mouth returns to your cunt, the single finger fully inside you, resting as you tremble.

With a suck to your clit, he crooks the finger up.

It feels good. The spot is tender. Jing Yuan knows just where to apply pressure, the pace and angle are so, so good. He’s memorized this part of you. A month apart isn’t going to remove that knowledge.

He teases you like this— never letting you rise too close to release. The roiling tendrils of arousal in your gut stay there, like stoked embers without tinder to light anew. You take it— you take what he gives you. You relish each touch, lick, and kiss.

“Jing Yuan—” You gasp his name as he removes the single finger to begin to stretch you with two.

Two is— it’s a lot. Normally, it wouldn’t be. Maybe, you’d beg for more, and beg for more faster. But now, two stings and aches on your insides. You claw at his hair and whine in the back of your throat. Jing Yuan hushes you and spits on his fingers, the extra bit of lubrication helping somewhat, but you’re tight and wound.

“Are you alright?” Jing Yuan asks as he massages the most sensitive spot in your cunt. He asks genuinely, not as a tease.

“‘S tight,” You squeeze out, wiggling your hips.

“Am I being gentle enough?”

“Uh-huh,” You pet over his forehead. “Thank you?”

“Of course.” Jing Yuan chuckles. “Does it feel good?’

“Y-Yeah,” You whine as Jing Yuan curls his fingers, thumb pressed against your clit and rolling the pearl of itl. “I-It’s unfair.”

“What’s unfair?”

“That you make me feel s-so good,” You don’t know how else to articulate it. The feral thing in your chest crawls over your body once more, and jerks your hips for more of his touch. You urge his fingers deep, wordlessly beg for more pressure against your cunt.

“You’re so sweet,” Jing Yuan coos, rising to his knees and taking one of your legs with him. Your middle falls open. It feels... vulnerable. You feel exposed and sliced. Your stomach churns for a moment. You nearly ask Jing Yuan to stop.

(Except, Jing Yuan has fucked you enough times to know that you don’t enjoy the physical vulnerability of your sensitive core. It sets you off. He knows that you prefer to cuddle with his massive hand against your belly. He knows you even wear clothes that provide some protection, billowing fabrics and belts. You’re a sensitive thing.)

He slides his broad hand over your belly, and presses down as he leisurely pumps his fingers in and out of your core. The pressure of it burns— scalds you and your arousal feels white hot. He’s prodding you from the inside and the outside, and you feel something bubbling up.

“You’re close,” Jing Yuan says with a catlike smile. “Would you like to come?”

“P-Please—”

Jing Yuan hums, slowing, almost ruining the impending crest, but clicks his tongue and continues. It’s a farce, a little game he’s playing, and much to your (enjoyed) frustration, you’re his other player.

“I would love to hear you beg,” Jing Yuan croons, leaning over your form, bending your leg at an angle that is unfair in all regards. “But, I’d also like to be kind tonight. I think you deserve it— you need it, don’t you?”

“I—” You do. His hand quickens and with his other, he braces behind one of your knees. He ducks down to retake his place between your thighs, eating your cunt with a persistence and vigor that has your eyes roll back in your head. He drills your insides with a deep, steady rhythm that. Maybe could get you pregnant.

Who's to say.

“I’m—” You gasp, ready to beg regardless of what Jing Yuan wants or expects from you. You want to give him everything.

“That’s it. Let go.” He beckons you and you break.

Your orgasm slams into you. The teasing and playful edging made you sensitive and like a livewire. When you finally cum, you choke on your own breath, eyes rolling back into your head, and you shove your face into a pillow to muffle the half-sobbed moans that spill from your lips out of your control.

Jing Yuan continues his ministrations through it. Dutifully. Unyielding, even as you twitch with oversensitivity and wisps of exhaustion.

He gently lowers your trembling leg with a sweet smile. He pets you like a cat.

“You’re beautiful.” He says, softened in a way you only get to see.

“Thank you.” Your words slur as he settles beside you, tucking next to you.

He’s hard— so hard that there’s a wet patch on his bottoms from pooling pre. You can feel the length of him against your thigh, and you reach for him. You should really grab some oil—

Jing Yuan stops you with a gentle hand on your wrist.

“Slow, remember?” He reminds you with a grin that is mischievous. “Let’s take a break, just for a moment.”

“Are you sure?” You look down.

The bulge of him makes your mouth water.

“Entirely.” He brings your hand to his lips, pressing a reverent kiss to your wrist. “How about a quick snack, hm? I can fetch some fruit to cut.”

“... That would be nice.”

“Would you like peaches?”

“P-Please.” Your voice is watery and small. Jing Yuan looks smitten to hear the tone. “... Meldberries too? And apples?”

“Of course,” Jing Yuan looks happy. Relieved. Deflated in a way that makes you realize that he had been so tense before. Since you met him in the gardens, haggard and exhausted.

(You’re in his bed, sated and watery and being taken care of.)

“Can I come to the kitchen with you?”

“Are you sure you can walk?” Jing Yuan teases, thumbing at your trembling inner thigh, littered with fresh bruises.

“I can now—” you huff, playfully indignant. “We should bring some back. For... later. When I can’t walk. Hopefully.”

“Hopefully?” Jing Yuan tilts his head, eyes half-lidded and amused.

“Oh, don’t act so innocent!” You laugh and headbutt him lightly. If you had more energy, you’d play fight with him and ruffle the sheets up more than they already are. “I’m sure you’d like me immobile by the time you and your ridiculous cock are through with me.”

“... Ridiculous cock?” Jing Yuan can’t hide the laughter in his voice, or the flush on his cheeks. “So cruel.”

“I— I forgot how big it is.”

“I’m still covered, dearest.”

You gesture, panicked, below the covers to the bulge and still growing wet spot, “Your dick is close to the size of my forearm, Jing Yuan. I can see it without... seeing it.”

“You’re so complimentary.” He practically giggles. “So sweet. I had forgotten how sweet orgasm makes you. Or, is this your fatigue talking?”

“... Both? I missed you.” You say, using your un-held hand to pat Jing Yuan’s covered cock with a smile. “Missed this too.”

Jing Yuan almost squeaks at the unexpected contact. He apparently is just as sensitive as you. He hides his light blush in your neck, and you can’t help but laugh, and think about how sweet the peaches will be when cut by your lover’s hands and shared from the same plate.

...

Jing Yuan keeps his word. The early evening stretches into late evening, every touch and sensation coaxed and unhurried. Slow-stretched sugar, lest it shatters.

In the kitchen, Jing Yuan cuts you a plate of peaches while you rest on his lap, watching the hypnotic carving of his knife with half-lidded eyes. He feeds you slices on a small fruit fork while sending off a message or two from his jade abacus. He carries half a dozen other fruits back to his bedroom and prods you for a more substantial meal order at some point.

You finish off the last few slices while draped in his robe, dazed from your previous high. You feel— out of it. Raw and scraped out. Not much different from how you felt during your time in the utility tunnels, but instead of feverishly working, you’re in the warmly light room of your lover. His warm hand is splayed on the small of your back, rubbing little circles.

You want to ask him:

“How do you do this?”

And Jing Yuan, mirthful, would say:

“Do what?”

And you would say:

“This.”

This:

The way your mind resists fullness, empty by familiar nature. You’ve been cored, like the apple Jing Yuan dutifully cut and fed to you. Your thighs continue to shake. You’re bruised, marked, all his, in a way that cows and strokes the feral part of your mind still half-convinced this is all an elaborate illusion.

How could any of this be a fabrication? When Jing Yuan is so warm behind you, happy to bask in your presence while you bask in his. Jing Yuan’s contentment is infectious, it always is— but so quickly, he has stripped you of your ability to parry it. You can’t hold concern. You can barely hold your body upright. You want to fall into him, ask to take more, and hold him until you simply can’t anymore.

You do not ask Jing Yuan how he undoes you. Predicting the conversation seems— easy. Too easy. (Probably because calibrating a machine meant to sustain a civilization for weeks on end does damage that’s yet to be fully healed. Prediction is a symptom of overuse, divination a side effect. A cumbersome one.) You can imagine the way Jing Yuan would dance with his words, effortlessly sparring in a way that you simply couldn’t keep up with. You are already disarmed. You need his candor, and nothing is more honest than the General’s body.

“Come here.” Jing Yuan beckons you into the sheets to lay with him properly.

(It’s uncanny how he can predict your needs like a diviner himself.)

You follow his direction and let him tug you into his side. Your cheek rests over his chest, soft and a little rounder than it was when you first met him. He’s gained weight since then— which is good. He’s always been bulky under his uniform and regalia, toned muscle from centuries of training and sparring. But there wasn’t much else to him— he used to skip meals if it was too inconvenient to eat. If you were sharing a plate, he’d offer you a larger portion.

It was something so slightly self-deprecating. At first, you hadn’t noticed it. Jing Yuan is not a proud man, he is keen and clever in all regards— but his ego has stayed in check for as long as he’s been Arbiter-General. He commits this quiet act of self-harm, so miniscule that most wouldn’t bat an eye. His lack of appetite was a manifestation of some burden— as he will continue to live and slowly waste away, why should his body not as well?

You’d like to think you’d broken him of his destructive eating habits. Or, at least contributed. Warm meals, arm-in-arm snacking on street foods at night. Vendors are always happy to give the Divine Foresight a free treat, even if he offers them strales every time. He eats well around you, and you know it extends farther. He takes lunches with Yanqing at least once a week. There’s a stash of homemade honey oats and dried apricots stowed in his desk.

You are glad he eats. That he is full.

You appreciate the feel of him under your fingertips, how he has softened and grown a bit less worn during his own leave. He deserves a vacation. Maybe, you’ll sit on his cock and beg him to fucking retire with the promise you’ll be happy to stay that way for as long as he pleases if he does. Anything to keep him this lax and soft. You want to commit it to memory, but you still feel fuzzy.

“Enjoying yourself?” He laughs as he speaks, busying himself with the tacky skin on the nape of your neck. He pets you there.

“Yes.” You grab his chest, thumbing dangerously close to his nipple. “You feel nice.”

“I’m glad.” Jing Yuan says, tone curling and smitten. You feel drunk with it. He hums. “You seem a bit lost. May I guide you back here?”

“I don’t think I am.” You pout. “I’m here.”

“Are you sure?”

“... Fairly sure.”

“May I try anyway?” Jing Yuan asks. “It would make me very happy too.”

There’s no harm to it, really.

“I’ll be good.” He adds and holds your wrist so tenderly in his palm. “I’ll be gentle with you.”

Jing Yuan drags the thin skin of your wrist over his lips, kissing the flesh as he does. It’s reverent, slow as he promised. He peeks up at you as he does, a curtain of his silver hair almost obscuring the warm gold of his eyes. There’s want there, so caramelized that it makes you ache.

Jing Yuan rolls you, so that he’s above you, sitting over your hips. It’s— not too heavy. The weight of him is comforting if nothing else. The heat of him is grounding as he hovers over you, nosing at your jaw, nipping bruised skin. He licks the brutal bite he left earlier and you yip. You don’t have it in you to chastise him for it— you— you maybe like it too much to do so.

Like this, it’s easier to notice how Jing Yuan wants. How his hand is sliding between over your sternum, between your breasts, down the soft line of your belly and navel, and back up again. It’s slow, radiating a yearning that sinks down into your organs heat from a hearth. He thumbs over the line of your throat and kisses you.

He’s more insistent now, licking into your mouth immediately, keeping his rhythm slow and actions drawn out.

Jing Yuan pulls back just enough to speak, warm breath over your lips, “You’re doing so well.”

You feel warm in your cheeks and tug him closer. If only you burrow in his flesh bones, flush the marrow out to replace it with yourself. You’d do it if it meant keeping him upright for longer.

“I’m right here.” Jing Yuan hushes you, gathering your wrists in one hand. You hadn’t realized desperate little keens were leaking from your throat, soaking the room. Jing Yuan doesn’t seem to mind. “No need to fuss. You’re alright.”

“You’re sure?” You ask, you feel out of your body.

Jing Yuan knows this and he tethers you to him with a kiss and firm touch, “I’m sure. You trust me, don’t you?”

“So much,” you admit.

Jing Yuan looks down at your softly, expression beginning to shatter. He is a difficult man to work with— he wears many faces, several hats, and speaks in riddles more often than not. To receive his honesty is— a fucking gift. You want to hold it in your hands and swallow it. His hair falls over his face as he peers down at you, thumbing over the lines of your throat.

“You’re so good.” He says gently, quiet. Like it’s a secret for the two of you. “You’d do anything I’d ask you to right now, wouldn’t you?”

You nod, then think about what he asked. You still would. Probably. Maybe give him some grief along the way, “As long as you’re not too mean about it.”

“Oh?” He teases. He teases, even now. Even when your core is exposed and you’re bare and he’s stalling despite being hard against your thigh. “You’re still so sweet when I’m a bit mean. I think you enjoy it.”

A broken, nearly-pathetic noise drips from your lips. You clutch at his arms and try to bury your face in the sheets. Your face feels so warm, it's making you dizzy.

“No need to be shy,” he sounds smitten, a smile bleeding into his tone. He kisses you with it, again and again until you’re breathless and stupid once more. He pulls back until you’re nose to nose, hand drifting to the apex of your thighs.

You squirm, bucking your hips, urging him closer.

“Patience, love, I’ll give you what you need.” He tells you and kisses the corner of your mouth. You believe him.

Jing Yuan settles himself between your thighs, holding them open with his own. He is not a small man, and it leaves you very exposed. More exposed than you would like, and it makes something in you writhe. Jing Yuan hushes you, soothes you as he’s so good at doing as he drenches his fingers in oil.

(The first time you fucked, you did not do this step. Oil and any type of lubricant was skipped, and you paid the price the next morning with a bit of light bleeding and an ache that would send Jing Yuan to the Alchemy Commission to fetch some specialty painkillers. He was very apologetic the morning after, guilt-ridden even. At some point, he started carrying little vials on his person and insisting lubricant be used regardless of how impromptu of a lay it was.)

(That is all to say that Jing Yuan’s cock is huge and has the capability to break you.)

He presses a finger into you— it goes in easily, slides with the aid of lubricant and your own slick.

“Oh,” Jing Yuan breathes, gaze drifting from your parted lips to the finger he sinks into you. “You’re so wet.”

You want to be snarky. Of course you are, he’s already had you on his tongue earlier in the day— now, he’s been teasing you, playing with you, and being sweet with you. How could you not be? It’s the only natural response to your lover treating you in such a way.

However, you do not get a chance to show him any sass as he crooks his finger upwards and rubs the pad of his thumb in a familiar pattern, little circles over your clit. A gasping moan spills from your lips and Jing Yuan holds you down with his free hand on your hips. He pets you when you shake and yearn for more too quickly.

“‘S okay?” You ask.

“Very.” Jing Yuan smiles, beaming, almost purring. “I’ll tell you if it isn’t.”

“Okay.” You nod, feeling wrung out already. Beads of sweat rise between your breasts and drip down your skin.

Jing Yuan must notice too, as he ducks forward to lick a firm strip over your tacky skin, groaning as he does before moving to one of your nipples. He kisses around the bud, nips just enough to make you fuss, before wrapping his lips around it. He bites, sucks, and groans into you as he does.

You pet through his hair, scrapping your nails down his neck and back. Marking him however you can.

Jing Yuan pulls away from you, panting, and kisses you hard on the mouth. It’s a clash, really. Harsher and more desperate than he usually would give you. He’s usually not this messy, but your teeth clack together awkwardly and you swallow around the discomfort. Jing Yuan is quick to correct himself, deepening the kiss more sweetly as if to apologize.

He slips a second finger inside your cunt, next to the first, drenching your hole in slick and lube. It’s— messy. It is wet. The sound is obscene, even if Jing Yuan is being slow and gentle with your most delicate parts. Arousal pools in your gut, and want makes you feel like a sinking puddle, spreading out over the sheets like you’re going to absorb into Jing Yuan’s lavish mattress.

You open up for him, relax with the contact and let him take care of you as he wishes.

He presses another finger into you— this one stings, despite the preparation and slick drenching you down your thighs and the sheets below you. He moves slowly, kissing your cheeks and hushing you when you whine.

“I’ve got you,” He smiles, and drags his lips over your cheeks. It’s reassuring, and something blooms from the base of your spine up to your throat. He gives you playfully chomp over the apple of one and you let out a little laugh. It bubbles up out of you and Jing Yuan shares it with his own deeper one.

He fans out his fingers inside you, slowly, with each thrust. It’s measured, practiced. Despite the time apart.

Jing Yuan is hard against your leg. You can feel him, though Jing Yuan is still wearing his own robe and silks which simply will not do. Tugging, you drag it off him, and push yourself half up. You attempt to reach for his cock, you want it— him. But Jing Yuan stills his fingers inside you, clicks his tongue, and knocks you back into the mattress with a gentle (albeit firm) shove.

“Not yet.” He scolds, though there’s no bark behind it.

You frown. “But I want you.”

“And what if I want you too?” Jing Yuan asks.

It’s something he’s never raised directly before.

He’s made such a fact known, however. You know he wants you. Jing Yuan was happy to complete a number of courting gestures, prior to becoming something of an official couple. He keeps you close, he is kind to you, he even tells you a secret or two. He fucks you like he loves you and wants you close. He leaves marks all of you, from your neck, all the way down to even your ankles and calves on occasion. He shares drinks with you in his gardens, offers you a place in his bed and somewhere in his heart, even if you’re still (after decades) understanding where that is.

But, so rarely does he state that he wants you so plainly.

Want is dangerous. Yearning and all. Yearning must be a passing emotion if one is to resist Mara. If anything, Mara is accumulated and rotting yearning.

Jing Yuan has lived a long life due to how he copes with yearning.

To admit to it— it is an act of vulnerability. To admit a weakness, a thing that could tear him full of undying roots and strike him down. It is the danger of the Divine Foresight finding a partner and becoming coupled. It invites such feelings.

You had assumed Jing Yuan hadn’t entertained such notions directly. To give them time in his mind could bring rumination. Which— could easily go sour.

“... You want me?”

Jing Yuan tilts his head cutely, “Yes, of course. Was that not obvious?”

“I inferred,” You feel sticky and sloppy as Jing Yuan withdraws his fingers.

He climbs off the bed, only for a moment. He shucks off the last of his clothing, leaving him bare. Candle light casts shadows over the contours of him. His cock looks— painfully hard. As he climbs back into bed, it bobs, swollen and dark red at the head. Almost purpling. It’s slick with pre that is still beading from his slit.

“... Can I suck you off?” You ask, a bit entranced. “Please?”

“Not now,” He tells you with a laugh. “Later, if you ask me nicely again.”

“Okay.” You can do that.

Jing Yuan huffs out another laugh with a shake of his head, “Insatiable thing.”

“I missed you.” You tell him. Your voice is watery. Your own admission.

Jing Yuan flips you by your midsection, coaxing you to raise your hips enough to sandwich a few silk pillows between your hips and the bed. His hands linger over the bruises on your hips, then slide down the swell of your ass to the backs of your thighs. He pets you until you’re relaxed, boneless.

He parts from you over for a moment, rummaging through a nearby cupboard for oil. You hear him slick his cock. The sound makes you squeeze your thighs together and bury your face in the sheets.

Jing Yuan surprises you by pressing a finger into you from behind. A sound rips from your throat as he finds your sweet spots, adding another finger quickly, then a third. You’re drenched between your thighs, so slick you feel drunk. Jing Yuan positions your legs a little wider and settles between them.

“D-Don’t aggravate your injury,” You remember, beginning to push yourself up. A moment of lucidity as you can sense Jing Yuan lining him up. “Not on my account.”

“I won’t.” He promises, running a hand down your back from tailbone to nape to coax you back against the mattress. He presses a kiss to the base of your spine. “Always so caring and diligent.”

“I—” You cut yourself off as the head of his cock teases your folds. Rubbing. “Jing Yuan—”

“I want you.” Jing Yuan tells you, doubling back, bumping against your clit as you moan.

“Y-You can have me,” You want to see his face, rub his cheeks. “You do have me. You’re mine and I’m yours.”

Damning yourselves.

Can’t the General be selfish in lieu of his looming retirement? Can’t the Master Calibrator enjoy the company of others, and not the mechanical hum of a God Ship?

“I have you?” Jing Yuan asks, beginning to push into you.

You can’t reply— you can’t. Despite the prep, and oil, and arousal all together, it’s still tight. Jing Yuan is thick enough that it’s outlandish, and you’re feeling every inch of that girth as he enters you. You clutch your balled-up hands in the soft sheets near your head. You try to keep your breathing even but it’s hard. Jing Yuan pets down your sides, leaning over your back, whispering little words of praise and encouragement as you take him.

“You’re so lovely. Look how well you’re doing.”

“You’re going to take all of me.”

“I’ll be gentle. I’ll be good to you.”

He is, and you don’t mean to cry, you don’t, but you do when he bottoms out, and you can feel him so, so deep, it’s in your throat. The heat of him inside you is searing. You’re changed. You’re being carved out by him anew, and he wants you.

“You h-have me,” You tell him. You scrambled a hand behind you, shaking as you brace yourself against the bed. You manage to get a handful of his head and drag him down over your back. “Jing Yuan, please have me.”

You’ll beg for it; shame has been lost.

You want to stay here. In his bed. By his side. You want him to want the same with you. Not with old flames. You don’t want Jing Yuan to deny himself pleasure in the face of duty, as if the two cannot exist. As if rules cannot be bent or changed by the hand that rules them or the Calibrator who tweaks the vessel that you both live on. Things change. It is the nature of life and starshine.

Even with the Xianzhou Natives' lifetime, they are bound to grow, endlessly.

Jing Yuan pauses above you, stills so deep in you. You’re worried for a moment you’ve crossed a line. That your desperation has spurred him away, rather than closer. It terrifies you. It grips you so hard that it feels like your heart could shatter to pieces.

(Your worry is misplaced.)

Jing Yuan lets out a shuddering sigh, pulling out almost completely. You panic (“no, no, no, don’t, ‘M sorry”) and nearly flip over to try and recover the situation. However— you’re mistaken.

He groans as he slams back into you, curling over your back, gathering you up in his arms, and rolling his hips. He’s scraping the insides of you. You’re raw.

“N-No apologies,” His voice breaks. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Y—You offer me yourself so sweetly. I only feel guilty that—”

He cuts himself off with another deep thrust that punches a broken sound out of you. Tears begin to drip down your cheeks.

“No guilt—”

“I feel guilty,” Jing Yuan punctuates his words with a cant of his hips that has you going slack in his arms, ragdolled by pleasure, “that you think you must beg to be had. I feel immensely guilty that you could have any doubt toward me as a lover.”

He guides you back down to the bed, steadying himself with a searing palm on the back of your neck and a hand leveraged on your lower back.

You really won’t be able to walk tomorrow.

“I don’t doubt y-you like that.”

(It’s less about some nebulous insecurity you keep as his lover, and more about the solid knowledge that Jing Yuan is so careful with his connections. You cannot believe yourself to be the exception.)

(Sometimes, you doubt that he has any tether to anyone. Like he’s waiting to die. No matter how fond he is of you, that this will supersede it. It damns his well being. It damns the future. But, how steadfast does it make the present? You’d like to think its enough for him to keep you as company due to legitimate desire and care, rather than balming of some wound as your insecurities tell you it could be.)

In retrospect, you’ll feel foolish for thinking so little of Jing Yuan’s feelings toward you.

He grabs you by your cheeks in one hand, craning your neck back to face him the best you can on your tummy. He levels his face with yours, nose to nose. Eyes alight. He looks... almost angry. Jaw tight, seated and still inside you to the hilt. You’re full— bursting at the seams, but you have enough lucidity to focus your vision and see how pained he looks. Pained and enraptured, loving and loved. He’s bound up with it, the same way that you are.

“If I could, I would keep you in this bed. If not this bed, then the gardens I would follow you into your tunnels and learn the harmonies and chords you know, even if I couldn’t keep a tune. I would keep you full like this. I would cut you stone fruit whenever you’d like something sweet.”

It’s a declaration. It might as well be a proposal.

You don’t get a chance to reply. Your breath is knocked out of you, like every thought and fear and insecurity that you’ve been shouldering. Jing Yuan fucks you with the full force of his hips, thighs bracketed with your own. It hurts— barely. Enough that you’ll feel it for days and carry a limp for just as long.

His pace is quick and deep. He’s not chasing— he’s creating. Marking a spot inside you that’s just for him. Only him. It makes you feel giddy and stupid and you laugh through the tears streaming down your cheeks. It’s— all a lot. Jing Yuan keeps you tucked so close, pressing you into the silks sheets. He breathes through his mouth, panting against the back of your neck , sucking more marks into the skin, darkening the preexisting ones. Claiming, in a way that feels different from the hickeys he had given you in the past.

You sob as he tilts your hips up. He drills downward, hitting your sweet spot with each thrust. You’re— you’re going to explode. The friction of the pillows below your hips isn’t enough to come,but Jing Yuan drilling your insides is getting you close to something. It feels like a peak you’re not meant to climb, and you sob at the sensation. Like you’re free falling.

Jing Yuan holds you closer, wrapping an arm around your midsection, and the feeling disappears.

He sneaks a hand to your cunt. First he feels where you’re joined. The sticky, sloppy mess of pre, slick and lube that you’ve made. You’ll need another bath. Maybe two. He runs gentle fingers along the seam of your cunt, where he’s slowed his thrusts so he can feel where you’re practically tethered together.

“Taking me so well,” Jing Yuan is breathless. He rubs your clit, bracing himself over your front, and fucks you so wonderfully that your vision begins to darken at the edges.

It’s unfair how quickly he gets you to your peak, touching you like this. He knows your body, and you squeeze down around him with a cry as you crest. Your cunt clamps down as the knots in your gut unfurl. You jolt back with the sensation, overwhelming and all consuming. Jing Yuan moans behind you, a beautiful sound you want to have so committed to memory so that even when you’re riddled with mara, you’ll remember the sound.

Jing Yuan doesn’t chase his relief, he lays over your back like a blanket as you shake through the aftershocks of your orgasm and fucks you slow and deep. He only hastens when you let out a warbling little sound, something hurt from your bruised insides making themselves known.

He quiets you with a soft, dragged out whisper of praise. He thrusts harder— faster— and moments later there’s a gush of warmth in your guts that makes your eyes roll back into your head. You want to come again, and you can’t help the temptation to reach down and get off, just once— more.

Jing Yuan nearly growls as you do. He bats your hand away, flips you so you’re belly up. Your hips are raised on the mound of pillows and it hits you what he intends to do.

To have both of you.

He throws your legs over his shoulders. Your thighs shake around his cheeks as he gives them a quick kiss, before diving into his meal. He moans and groans into your cunt, out of breath from fucking you still, but no-less diligent. He fucks his cum back into your with a thick finger for a few thrust, just barely— you’ll be too sore and he knows it.

He eats his release from your cunt. It’s— debauched. It’s so, so much and you can’t do anything other than writhe and tug at his hair. Your hips hurt, but you still find it in you to grind against his mouth. It’s— one of his favorite things. He likes to be used sometimes. This is one of his favorite flavors, when his tongue is inside of you and you drag him closer by his hair and let the friction bring you to orgasm, however long it takes.

You, truthfully, do not have much left in your body to chase this.

Jing Yuan must know this, or he is feeling similarly— or both. Probably both. You’re too floaty and gone to tell. You’re still crying as he moves to your clit, licks and sucks until you fall apart on his tongue once more, full and sated with him.

Both had by each other.

You fall into the bed sheets as you finish, dragging a sweaty Jing Yuan closer. So close. He keeps you closer still, over his chest, cheek pillows on the swell of his pec (breast) and a dusting of silver hair. You’re shaking from the high— so is he. You feel like you’re going to fall into a million pieces.

(It reminds you, briefly, of how it felt when you first dropped into the utility tunnels, after the calibration apprentice went Mara-Struck. How you felt so— alone— gone. How fragile you felt sprinting through the tunnels with the knowledge that your world was being torn apart by forces beyond your control.)

(You felt small and helpless.)

The feeling is quickly extinguished— or maybe made to feel pleasurable. Jing Yuan practically purrs underneath you, petting you, stroking over your new bruises and marks. You keep a hand buried in his hair, petting over his cheeks. Staying lucid— is hard. The last thing you clearly remember was hopelessly fond, adoring, gold eyes, gazing back at you so lovingly, that they could remake you.

Perhaps, they already have.

It’s sometime later, in one of Jing Yuan’s gardens. This one is nestled, lush, in the large courtyard in the center of his home. A pond gurgles with the bubble of fat fish that swim near the surface of the water. You fed them earlier and they’re still looping, searching for an extra snack.

You lay some distance away from the pond on a blanket that Jing Yuan has designated as your ‘outside blanket’ as it is particularly large (tall enough for him to sprawl out on and more than wide enough to fit the both of you) and thick. Your head is pillowed on Jing Yuan’s arm as he is curled toward you, legs tangled with your own. It’s late afternoon, and the General is taking one of his beloved naps. You’ve taken to combing a hand through his hair, scratching along his scalp and behind his ear and contenting yourself with the little sighs and almost-purrs he lets you.

It is good to rest.

Your leave has, overall, been quite restful. Mostly. Aside from the times that Jing Yuan cannot keep his hands of you and you end up fucking whereever is convenient before retiring to your (now shared) bedroom. The bouts leave you tired and worn, but in a satisfying way. Jing Yuan has been particularly dutiful and attentive post-fuck, always handing you chilled water to sip and offering a treat. Sometimes a fruit or a candy he has apparently been stashing away. He gives you as many kisses as you can bear, and you return the gesture as much as you’re able.

Jing Yuan has become... handiser. Needier. You’d say clingier, but as much as he tends to cling when he’s around his estate with you, it never feels overbearing. He indulges in closeness with you in a way that feels shameless in the best way.

It’s the same in public. You’ve gone to the night markets, once or twice to indulge in street foods, and Jing Yuan is equally as touchy, albeit it’s more subtle. A hand on your lower back, standing behind you while he orders with an arm wrapped around your waist. You hold hands when you walk, or you loop an arm through his elbow if it's particularly crowded. He did these things before, but they seem more... necessary. Like he has to keep you close. The contact he shares with you is firmer. Richer, even. He’s always been intentional with you, it's his nature, but now his actions have taken on a different shape. Intentionally showing want, rather than showing closeness.

It creates both a softness and an edge to him that you are thoroughly enjoying.

There’s softness in how lax he is next to you, dozing the afternoon away after completing the bare minimum of work for the day. His cheeks are rounder, and a bit rosy. It’s warm today. It’s the softness of skinship, how you’re both seeking out each other’s barest parts, even if it's only for a moment or two of skin-to-skin contact. It’s how his care is so explicit these days.

The edge of it is how the General is anxious, perhaps. It’s a possessive flavor that Jing Yuan has, perhaps, always has, but is simply more apparent now. His touches in public flaunt the fact that you’re clearly a couple, nevermind what gossip magazines and street whisperers will say. It’s the consistent marks he leaves on you— those visible hickeys on your neck, down to the dark, sore ones he leaves on your inner thighs and the softness of your stomach. It’s the way he commissioned a set of earrings, one for each of you to wear.

(He had looked a bit melancholy, just for a moment, when he first presented you with them. Like a memory had surfaced but then was quickly let go and set adrift in favor of the present.)

The set is crafted with gold connected with a flat, rectangle of stone that dangles down from it. The stone is red, inlaid with gold veins. Some alloy that was probably mined on an asteroid— a rarity. They’re beautiful. You hardly know what to say when you receive yours; Jing Yuan had presented you the gift while already wearing his.

Marking each other as each other’s.

It’s brazen— and you like it. The beast of feeling that tore you to shreds in the utility tunnels feels far away, lately. Your extended leave has been good and you’re... grateful Jing Yuan has been quite official (and strict) about keeping you away from work.

You run the pad of your thumb under his eye. The skin is delicate, wrinkled just the slightest. It’s a tragedy, for many reasons, that you both are long-lived and cursed with Abundance. You’d like to see the crow’s feet Jing Yuan would have, if his skin did not keep itself so elastic and young.

Apparently awake, Jing Yuan grabs your wrist and brings it to his lip. He sets upon you with a lazy smile. His eyes open, just halfway, and he looks at you, so adoring.

“Are your thoughts entertaining?” Jing Yuan asks, gentle as he holds you closer. “You seem quite lost in them.”

You hum, kissing his jaw with a drag of your lips, “Not lost. Just reflecting.”

Jing Yuan hums himself, nosing into your temple. Then your hairline, where he leaves a line of kisses in his wake. You shudder with the feather-light feeling.

“Would you like to share?” Jing Yuan asks. “Or, perhaps take a rest with me? Though I am very appreciative of the head massage, I do believe you could use a rest. Unless you wish to take a stroll, and turn in early?”

“A stroll sounds lovely in a bit. I don’t mind sharing, though,” you answer.

Jing Yuan smiles against your skin. You wish it could brand you, “I’m listening, whenever you’d like.”

You gather your words for a moment. It takes— a second. A long one. The Dragon Lady says that you’re experiencing some lasting effects from being attuned to the Quantum fields for too long in the wake of the Stellaron Crisis. She seemed confident your impairments would heal but your mind is that of a mortal. It will take time.

Jing Yuan is ever patient with you.

“I suppose I’m grateful,” You tell him. “I am glad I have a space in your life, and I am grateful that you show it to me in the ways that you do. I would be— very sad, if I was not by your side, I think.”

It is a simple way to put something much larger.

Jing Yuan seems to understand regardless.

He takes a deep breath, then squeezes you to his chest. It forces the air from your lungs in a way that makes you light-headed.

“How kind are you.” Jing Yuan sighs, nuzzling into your hair. “To think of me so sweetly, without prompting. I’m very fortunate to have you as a lover. I hope you know that.”

“I try to remind myself.”

“Do I need to remind you more myself?” Jing Yuan asks, his smile turning a bit mischievous. He rolls himself over you, caging you. “I’m happy to.”

“You’ll spoil me!” You laugh and bat at his chest, slipping your arms over his shoulders, locking your hands behind his neck.

“I quite like having you spoiled.” Jing Yuan contends with a cute tilt of his head. “I should resolve to spoil you more, actually. Do you have any ideas on how to do so? I’m happy to listen.”

“Jing Yuan—” You huff with an uncontainable grin. Your heart is going to burst from your chest. You would let it. You’d let Jing Yuan take its place. You practically already have.

“I think,” Jing Yuan whispers in your ear, breath warm and sweet. “I ought to keep you in bed for the afternoon, perhaps pause the plan for a stroll until later in the evening. Starfire flies have been gathering in one of the gardens near the Exalting Sanctum— what do you say to a post-coital jaunt?”

“I mean—” You flush and bump your nose into his cheek, like a cat giving ample affection. “I don’t think I’ll be properly spoiled if I can still walk after you’re through with me.”

“So, I’ll carry you? That’s doable.”

“No— I mean— You can—”

“I’m teasing you,” Jing Yuan murmurs with a tone so sweet and warm, you could melt into the soft blanket and soil below you. “Whatever you’d like. We can decide along the way.”

You smile.

“Yeah,” Your chest feels tight and warm and lovely all at once. Jing Yuan pulls away, and the earring that twins your own dangles, catching the falling sun in its veins of gold. “I’d like to decide along the way with you.”

It means more than this instance, it’s encompassing. To be long-lived and coupled is to tread the shallows of what could be Mara. To wear the mark of another is to dare to swim closer to the roiling beast of Abundance that none of the Xianzhou Natives can truly outrun.

But you think that, perhaps, you and Jing Yuan will be alright until that day, whenever it may be. You will spoil each other, hold each other, and take your steps while extending a patient hand to the other if they’d like to take it. You’ll listen to echoes together and learn to forget them. You’ll harmonize with stardust and Jing Yuan will play his games of many dimensional chess until he (hopefully soon) retires.

The smile that grows on your face is warm like a hearth, honeyed like a spiced tea, and kind. It splits the both of you open, and Jing Yuan kisses you like he can’t help but to do anything else. You don’t lose your grin, and you give it to him against his lips, laughing together as you share breath.

It’s sweet and lovely, you think, as Jing Yuan touches your foreheads together. You have this, and you’ll be happy to have this for as long as Fate and Aeons allow. You think that Jing Yuan will be happy too— with a coveted smile so kind given to you and a bed, shared.

You bask in it— this. The gardens and the heat of him and the warmth in your chest, for however long you’re given.

#lore writes #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x you #jing yuan reader insert #hsr x reader #cooking complete. meal on the table :'^)#enjoy loves!!

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authorhjk1 · 5 months

Text

Surviving NNN

Part Three: A star

You sit on the balcony of your apartment, letting the cold breeze brush your face. The cold shower you just took helped. Or at least it eased the pain. Yena's gorgeous body still wanders through your mind. The way the towel slowly slid up, revealing her legs. How it created a small cleavage over her small breasts.

You are saved by the sound of the door being opened. Hearing small footsteps, you do your best to concentrate on the task at hand.

"Oppa?"

You recognize Chaewon's voice.

"Yeah."

"Minju made breakfast. You coming?"

"Of course. Give me a second."

You feel a little guilty letting your guests cook, but the three girls can cook way better than you. Apart from some basic dishes you can't do very much.

"What are you doing?"

Chaewon steps closer, now standing right behind you, while looking over your shoulder as you sit in one of the comfortable chairs.

"I'm working on some lyrics." "Really?"

You hear the excitement in Chaewons's voice.

"I'm a huge star, you know?"

She grabs another chair and sits down next to you, looking at the ipad in your lap.

She referred to herself as a star, which is the name for your fandom. Your stage name is Jin-wol. It translates to moon or jewel in English. That's why the fandom name stars somewhat fit.

You are happy to hear that Chaewon is a star, she is a well known idol after all.

"Really?"

The young woman nods in excitement.

"I watched your recent MV like a million times."

You chuckle as Chaewon tries to glance at your ipad. Unfortunately, there is nothing much to look at so far.

"What's the new song about?"

"Read for yourself."

You offer her the ipad and Chaewon starts to read. It isn't much yet, but you can see her blushing harder and harder with every word.

"Th-This is gonna be your song?"

"Yeah. I can write and produce my own music, but usually the company decides on what theme we do for every album.

"Ah, I see."

Chaewon's cheeks are still a little red as she gives you the ipad back. It is hard work to write this stuff right now, beacuse of NNN. It's supposed to be a sexy concept. A combination of obvious hints about sex and some a little less obvious. It wouldn't have been a problem without NNN at all. You could just take more than enough "inspiration" from Karina. And even if someone would catch up on that, it's no big deal, since the two of you are together anyway.

You eat breqakfast in silence, while you listen to three girls chatting. With your mind still on the song and your mind capable of more than just vivid imagination, you keep your head down.

"Oppa."

You slowly raise your head, barely able to look at Minju. The things that went through your brain during your run make you feel bad. How could you think about her like that?

"Since its Saturday, the three of us wanted to go shopping. You wanna come with?"

You rather not. You need to keep writing. And you need some space to breath. Having these three girls constantly around you makes you anxious.

"I actually still have some work to do."

"Oh come on."

Yena looks at you.

"We will reward you afterwards."

She gives you a wink and your mind starts spinning again. What kind of reward?

"What kind of reward?"

Yena chuckles. Your voice may have sounded a little too desperate.

"I'm tot gonna tell you. But it has something to do with cream."

She smirks at you.

New pictures flood your mind.

Yena on her knees, holding a can of wipped cream. She pours some of it into her mouth, before looking up at you. Her hands work to take of your pants. You groan as you feel her warm lips part around your cock. The cold wipped cream is a great contrast to them. It slowly starts to melt in Yena's mouth. She pushes it around with her tongue, while looking up at you.

"Oppa?"

You slightly shake your head, trying to get rid of these thoughts.

"No."

"Why not?"

Yena pouts. You can't stop looking at her lips. Just a moment ago they were wrapped around your cock....

"Please, Jin-wol oppa."

Minju pouts as well.

"Karina unnie told us to take you. She said you hate shopping."

That's somewhat true. You never liked it. Which means Karina usually does it for you. She knows evry size, from shoes to shirt. She also has a better sense of style than you.

The person who breaks your last resistance is Chaewon.

"Like you wrote in your lyrics: 'I see donuts left and right, but I just want to glaze yours all night' you know?"

No. No way in hell she doesn't know what you meant by that. She must. Chaewon must know exactly what you meant. The other lines are even more explicit. She must have picked up on this.

And yet, she looks at you with an innocent face.

"We could get you some donuts."

Yena chips in.

"I like my donut glazed as well."

You almost have to take another shower as you hear her say that. You stuff your mouth with food, trying to avoid the pictures coming back.

"Chaewon? Are you coming?"

Yena shouts through the apartment, while the three of you wait for Chaewon. She is the last on to get dressed.

"Oppa, why don't you go and get her?"

"Me?"

"Yeah. She is a big fan of yours. I'm sure she will hurry up when she sees you.

"Fine."

You walk towards Yena's and Chaewon's shared room.

"Chaewon."

"Come in."

You hesitate for obvious reasons, but you eventually open the door. Bad decision. Not just because of the way Chaewon is dressed, but because the two of you are alone.

"What do you think?"

You think a lot. Way too much actually. The number of days you survived without cuming is increasing steadily. And Chaewons outfit makes you dizzy.

You just want to take her right there.

Push her against the wall, throwing that large bag aside. Open the zipper of her jeans, while she does the same with yours. Your lips dance along her skin on her shoulders, enjoying the smoothness. Without much forplay, you would just enter Chaewon. Her eyes shut tight as her petite body tries to accustom itself to your cock. A moan escapes her mouth while you push inside. Your hands resting on her tight midriff. Your thumb playfully grazes over her mole as you make Chaewon sigh with pleasure.

You start to fuck her hard into the wall. More and more. Faster and faster. Your body releasing all the build up tension.

"Oh god! Your cock!"

Chaewon moans loudly as you pound her hard. Your dick is deep inside her pussy. Your girlfriend's friend's pussy. Your fellow idol's pussy. Your fan's pussy.

Chaewon is all of that. And more. Your lips find hers, trying to muffle her moans as you take her body. The young woman gives herself to you, relishing in the pleasure you give her.

"Harder, please! Fuck me good!"

Her high pitched yelps make you pound her harder. You feel Chaewon's walls contract around you. Her body shakes even more.

"Oh my god! I'm gonna cum on your cock!"

And so she does. Chaewon orgasms in your arms as you keep fucking her. You chase your own orgasm which is building up as well. After almost three weeks of no cuming, you feel your cock almost bursting as you are about to climax.

"Give it to me. Give me your cum."

Chaewon asks for it. She looks into your eyes, her head slightly swaying back and forth as you pound her against the wall. You are surprised when she manages to undo the button of her jeans in a frenzy. She pulls down her jeans just enough for you to get a good look at her pussy.

The sight makes you orgasm right there. You manage to pull out. You start cuming all over her. Your cum lands mostly on her freshly fucked pussy. Some of it on her midriff. The two of you breath heavily after your short fuck.

Looking down, you realize that you mad your lyrics come true. You did glaze Chaewon's donut.

________

Hi everyone!

I hope you enjoyed this. The lyrics might come of as a little cringe but I'm a writer not a composer , so please don't judge me to harshly.

Tomorrow will be the last day of round one for the Decmber speical, if i'm correct. You will be able to vote for the actual chapters as soon as this round ends

Have a great day!

#kpop #kpop smut #kpop girls #kpop gg #male reader #le sserafim #chaewon #chaewon le sserafim

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tmblrcolouredpaper · 3 months

Text

Period and Nightmare

Minho/ Reader

domestic fluff; acts of service; literal sleeping together; crying; kisses and cuddles; period pain; comfort

wc: 1877

'I'm tired', you whispered into Minho's hoodie. The TV screen flickered in various colours, presenting the current movie you were watching, while being all curled up together on the sofa. It was blurry though, because sleep was announcing itself by yawns and with its result of teary eyes. You were cuddling Minho's arm, chin resting on his shoulder and legs draped around his waist.

'Go to bed then', he huffed and gently pushed you away from him, freeing his arm. Your grip around his torso was stronger and you just shifted your position until you were seated on his lap, facing him frontal instead of sideways now.

'Carry me?', you asked and leaned forward to hug him. He sighed and you could register his eyes rolling around in annoyance without actually seeing them. His arms however mustn't have gotten the message of disapproval, because they immediately wrapped around you, welcoming your initiated physical closeness.

There was no verbal conplaint. When he actually got up, you were however so surprised about the fact that he would really carry you to bed that you almost fell if he wouldn't have held you so securely. He didn't show any sign of reaction, just walked towards the bedroom and put you down onto the edge of the mattress, placing a kiss on your forhead.

'Thank you', you mumbled under your breath.

Minho left, letting sounds echo through the bathroom and returned soon with one toothbrush in his mouth and one in in his hand. So, you lazily brushed your teeth and let Minho drag you to the bathroom to spit out the minty foam. A pair of fresh panties with an already applied pat was laying on the heater, as well as some other items of clothes. You noticed his shirt and a pair of socks.

'Wanna take another quick shower to warm up?', he asked and looked at you patiently. You were too tired and felt too weak to keep standing for much longer so you declined.

'Okay', he spoke and turned around to take the hair brush, to your surprise.

'Braiding it? So it won't annoy you at night?', he suggested casually as if it was totally clear what he was doing, as if this was the usual evening routine. It wasn't. Usually you let eachother alone and just got together in bed again. Minho needed his time alone to calm down after a long day and you enjoyed it as well, knowing someone is in the next room, while you can concentrate on processing your thoughts of the day, absently tidying up and getting ready for bed.

Today, however, you were clingy. Minho let you be. Your stomach was tight and despite not actually being in pain the comfort level wasn't high either and you could feel your body working hard. Being on your period was never easy, the fortunately only suble sensation in your stomach was omnipresent and absorbing all your energy, causing you to feel in need of some guaranteed safety. What else would make you feel safer than Minho being the reliable and supportive person he is?

Your hair was braided quickly, two strands of lose braids falling over your shoulders. Not too tight, so it won't hurt, but the hair was tamed, he explained. The pride in his tired voice was obvious and you were proud of him, thankful, so you took his hand and gave it a gentle kiss. That made him giggle and his eyes sparkled.

He cleared his throat and returned to his serious deminor, getting back into the role of your personal life assistant. This basically means, Minho seemed as stoic as possible, but was actually overprepared, oversupportive, overprotective and slightly nervous.

He tugged on your clothes, you were currently wearing and told you to switch into a new pyjama set. He helped you getting dressed, kneeling in front of you and let you hold onto his shoulders for balance when he put your fresh panties on. The fabric was warm against your lower stomach and back. With Minho's help you finished getting dressed comfortably and made your way to bed, finally. A few kisses, a few last words of the day and you were fast asleep.

The dream didn't start bad, but in classical fever dream manner the dream turned abstract and overwhelming right away. You were locked into a metal box of a room that was pushed deeper into the thick walls of a building where no phone would have connection to the outside world and of course, no one would hear your screams. You realized this quickly and typed a short panicked message to your friend and when you saw them hiding at the entrance, you got the chance to hand them your phone, so they could send the message where signal was more likely to be available. In the end you both got locked in and knocked out by getting electro shocked.

Fainting was your least favorite thing in dreams. Feeling the loss of consciousness and the pain of the cramping muscles caused by the electro shock in the intensity that could only be experienced so vividly in the rem phase was genuinely painful. Absurd that the brain had the capacity to put you into circumstances you'd never actually experienced, but using the current sensation of muscle cramps for the illusion of authenticity.

A few more scenes were shown to you, no cohesion, just scary examples of what could go horribly wrong in real life. You woke up with pain in your stomach and chest, immediately sitting up to distance yourself from sleep.

'What's wrong?', Minho asked panicked, but his tone remained gentle, maybe due to his own sleepiness.

You just shook your head, 'nothing', but he knew better, starting to rub your back to ground you.

'Wanna talk about it?', he asked, but again, you just shook your head. The echoing pain that could have either come purely from the dream or your uterus that was being lovingly dramatic, was overwhelming. You dropped down forwards, burying your face into Minhos stomach.

He was warm and the fabric of his shirt felt extra soft against your skin. His hands were still on you, massaging your scalp and making sure you felt his attention on you. With a quick shift you layed down again and pushed yourself into Minho's embrace. Him welcoming you with open arms was his default setting at night.

'Your heart beats like crazy', he remarked and his hand landed on your forhead.

'Are you feeling sick?', he questioned, a hint of panic in his voice.

'Of course I do', you whined and almost laughed at his oblivion. As well as he took care of you and learned more about how you experience your menstrual cycle with each month that he was with you, he wasn't able to get an understanding beyond the theory. He just woke up. You didn't expect him possibly acing an exam about your hormonal cycle and its effects on you. If it would be important to you, he would try to perfect his knowledge faster though.

'Let's get you a glass of water', he suggested and got out of bed.

'No', you panicked and ran after him, holding onto his arm, before he could step out of the room.

Baffled, he stopped and let go of the door handle. His hand found its way into your hair and he gently pattet your head.

'I'll be back in a second. Why don't you pick one of my hoodie in the meantime? You're freezing.'

His voice was soft and caring as if he was talking to an injured deer. And you felt like one. If he would leave you alone, you would just be killed by a wolf, you were sure.

'Please, don't leave me alone', he whispered, voice shaky, because you were really about to cry.

'Just 2 minutes', he explained and you tried hard not to start crying.

'Blue hoodie it is', you decided and went back to bed, hugging the blue fabric instead of wearing it.

The blanket lulled you into sleepy warmth that Minho's and your body radiated. Tears were still brimming in the corner of your eyes and finally rolled down and drowned into the pillow beneath your head. You didn't sob, you didn't whine, you just cried silently and too weak to control your mood in any sense.

Minho returned with a glass of water and sat down on his side of the mattress. He held the bavarage in one hand and gently caressed your head with the other, the whole time until your tears came to an end.

You felt calmer and sat up, his hoodie still trapped between your arms and you upper body. When Minho noticed, he let out a chuckle and gained your attention. He handed you the water, waited until you drank, took the glass again and placed it on the floor next to the bed. Then, he lifted the blanket and pushed himself underneath, sighing with the welcoming warmth on his skin.

'Are you planning on cuddling or wearing my hoodie?', he asked with a hint of amusement in his voice.

'Oh, ahm, wearing', you answered in surprise and sat up to pull the piece of clothing over hour head. You quickly adjusted it a bit and layed back down again.

Minho held the blanket open for you and tugged you in the second your body hit the mattress.

'Do you think you can sleep?', he mumbled and it was evident that he was about to fall asleep any second.

'I guess', you sighed, but weren't too sure.

'Come here', he mumbled even lower than before and welcomed you into his embrace, you squeezed right into his front.

'Can I hold you properly, under your shirt, or is it uncomfortable?', he asked, his hand resting on your shoulder, while you both were laying on your sides facing eachother.

'Is your hand warm or cold?', you questioned and felt first his fingertips and then also his smooth and warm palm on your cheek.

'Okay', you breathed out.

His mere touch directly on your skin felt wonderful. He stuffed his hand under the blanket and gently, in a slow motion lifted first the hoodie to rub up and down your clothed waist, only to then proceed to lift your shirt as well to finally let his hand rest on your bare body.

He gently massaged the side of your stomach with his thumb and you could literally melt into him.

'Please try to sleep', he almost whined, burying his face into the pillow.

'Sorry', you whispered, feeling guilt of being the reason he's awake wash over you.

'No, it's fine. I just want you to rest as well as possible', he declared and added, 'I can't stand it when you're in pain and uncomfortable'.

You leaned your forhead against his chest and laughed, his hand on your waist slightly urging you to get closer to him.

'You're so wonderful', you mumbled into his shirt and started caressing his back, not even one minute later hearing his soft snores.

His steady rhythm in combination with his warmth and his secure hold on you, made you eventually drift off to sleep as well.

#skz fluff #skz soft hours #lee minho fluff #lee minho x reader #lee minho imagines #lee minho soft hours #lee minho soft thoughts #skz soft thoughts #stray kids imagines #stray kids fanfic

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faith-forgxtten-land · 2 months

Note

Mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mikey mik–

Valentine's Day | Michelangelo

i agree, anon. bayverse again since i might as well complete the set!

warnings: shitty and uninspired title. swearing which i probably should've added to my other pieces too but oh well. everyone is always 18+!! hints of suggestiveness but its very minor. also fem!reader with mention of lady, gal etc. never proofread!!

summary: mikey loves valentine's day; side-note, leo is a communist

word count: 830

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Mikey loved Valentine’s Day. He’d woken up early to decorate the Lair with the most garish shades of pink he could find, and he’d covered Raph in flower petals while he slept, having to cover his mouth with his hand to hold back his sniggers. It happened every year, and every year he found it funnier. His brother’s didn’t. Raph would rage, Donnie would roll his eyes (although he would chuckle a little when no one could hear), and Leo would sigh.

He knew they saw the day as the epitome of a life they could never have. Raph especially found it hard so why not have him concentrate his insecurity and anger at the injustice of the world on Mikey for the harmless pranks he pulled? If it helped him forget the pain inside him for a short while, then Mikey would gladly face his ire. Donnie would just lock himself within his lab (how unexpected), and Leo would pretend nothing was wrong. Leo did that a lot.

The smallest turtle privately thought that their oh-so-Fearless Leader was more emotionally constipated than Raph. Especially on Valentine’s Day. Leo would never admit the real reason for his dislike of the day and Mikey could already hear this year’s excuse:

“Valentine’s Day is a capitalistic endeavour reliant on pressure and novelty, designed to scam consumers and perpetuate the relentless commodification of the self and emotions blah blah blah blah blah…”

Leo always got all preachy after reading. He’d go on rants (“calm and factual explanations that you might actually benefit from listening to Michelangelo”) about two dudes called Marks and Angles (who the fuck called themselves Angles?) and the others would tune him out. Maybe Leo was right, but Mikey didn’t really care. Especially not this year. Unlike his loser brothers, he actually had a date. Mikey resisted the urge to giggle at the thought. Of course, he was the most facially blessed so it would make sense as to why he’d have a beautiful lady accompanying him this evening. Plus, Donnie was a raging nerd, Leo was a fucking weeb, and Raph was, well, he was Raph.

He hadn’t told them yet. You wanted to keep things quiet, at least for now, and the terrapin eagerly agreed to your terms. Silence wasn’t exactly his forte, but he knew how to keep secrets even if his family didn’t believe that. He’d planned the date in secret; he couldn’t be too elaborate, he was still a mutant turtle after all, but he’d done everything he could think of to make it special. He frowned in thought at a fuchsia heart that he'd stuck on the wall. You’d like it. You always liked the things Mikey did; you always laughed at his jokes even when everyone else groaned.

“I’ll love anything you plan, Angelo.” He believed when you said that. You were patient and kind in a way his brothers rarely were with him. That didn’t stop the fluttering of butterfly wings in his stomach. He’d never been one to be nervous, he’d quite literally jumped out of an aeroplane on a skateboard, but you made his palms sweat, his heart jump, and his words stutter. He was normally so smooth with women (or, well, woman since he’d only known April before you but that was irrelevant), yet you made him a flustering mess. He’d never let you catch on to that, though; he preferred if you thought he was just feeling extra goofy in your presence.

“Angelooooooo–”

Speak of the devil. Or angel, he supposed. “ANGELCAKES!” Mikey grinned, hearing Raph curse at the booming shout, then curse again as he no doubt realised what his brother had done for the seventh year running. Last year, Raphael had stayed up all night to avoid the flowers, so Mikey had waited in the shower (also all night) to pop a confetti canon full of petals in his face. He’d probably resigned himself to his fate the night before, but that wouldn’t stop his irritation.

You raised your brow. “Roses again?”

Mikey winked at you. “Carnations. I was on a budget this year, spent all my roses money on this gorgeous gal, you wouldn’t know her.” He grinned wider at your snickers, then somehow even wider as you pressed a kiss to his cheek before anyone could interrupt.

“You’re so…”

“Handsome? Charming? Dashing?”

“Of course, babe.”

God, Mikey loved you.

“YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS NUMBNUTS!”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “Run, Forrest, run. Just try not to let him bruise your face.”

“Aw, I was hoping you’d kiss it better.”

You smirked and Mikey felt his face flush as you gave him a sultry look, your eyes tracing the length of his body and pausing pointedly. “How about this, I’ll kiss anywhere it hurts on our date tonight.”

If Mikey let Raph catch him quicker than usual and put up less of a fight than normal, well, that was no one else's business, was it?

#tmnt mikey #tmnt mikey x reader #tmnt michelangelo #tmnt michelangelo x reader #tmnt bayverse #bayverse tmnt #bayverse michelangelo #bayverse mikey #tmnt x reader #tmnt imagine #tmnt #mikey is so cute he needs more love

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mamawasatesttube · 7 months

Note

‘Hey, you’ve got something on your face. Here, hold still…’ prompt :3

As far as "ways to spend a Saturday night" go, Kon would rank this around a two out of ten. Not great. Definitely could be worse (he could be actively dying again!), but hoo boy, is there still a lotta room for improvement.

The enchanted robo-chimera slams its tail into his side. Kon goes flying with an oof, all the breath knocked out of his lungs, and slams into a wall, where he crumples to the floor, dazed; magic makes this bitch actually able to land a hit on him, and it sucks.

God, he's gonna feel that later. He sucks in a breath—

"Kon!" Tim cries. "Look out!"

—and barely has time to throw his arms up to shield his face before the robo-chimera's on him again, circuits in its damaged outer skin sparking. It snaps at his head and catches his forearm instead, snarling; Kon snarls right back as he forces his TTK into the circuitry and forcibly snaps its jaws back open.

Keeping his TTK inside the magic is like trying to hold two repelling magnets together, though, and the second his concentration slips, it throws him out. He barely has time to throw himself down; steel jaws snap where his head was a moment ago.

Sweet. Dodged that (cool!), but now the damn snake tail has his right leg (not cool!) and it's heavy and the magic burns, and—

Okay. So The chimera's got his legs pinned against the floor, the back of his hips digging painfully into the concrete wall. It roars in defiance at the sky, tail lashing, and Kon slams a fist into its shoulder. His TTK shoves its way into its joints, dismantles something that makes it stumble, before the tail lashes and squeezes hard and he cries out in pain, and the enchantment boots his TTK right out again.

Well, if he can't TTK it apart, he can always do this the old-fashioned way.

"Kon!" Cassie screams from across the hangar bay, where she's wrangling the magic robo-hydra. "Hang on, I'm—"

She doesn't need to do anything. Kon braces himself against the faux-fur-coated steel leg he just broke, shoves upwards, and sinks his teeth into the robo-chimera's throat.

It's harder than biting down on metal normally would be, but it still gives—fabric and steel and wires, that's what he's looking for, the wires—all breaking under his teeth. The shock sends reverberations up his jaw into his skull, but he gets a good grip on the cables that must be running this thing, snarls, and rips its fucking throat out.

The enchantment fights him, but it's no match for the full force of a pissed-off Kryptonian. Metal groans and screams; a great, heaving shudder runs through the chimera's entire frame, and then it collapses. Kon shoves it off himself and clambers back to his feet, spits out a mouthful of metal, and glares down at the sad, sparking heap.

On the other side of the hangar bay, something explodes, presumably Cassie's hydra. Kon glances over, sees that Cassie herself is fine, and kicks the sparking snake-tail off his foot. He turns, dusting off his jacket, and scrubs a hand over his mouth. Everything tastes of iron.

Tim swings down from the rafters and alights right in front of him. He stumbles slightly before getting his bearings, and Kon narrows his eyes—that's not normal. Is he hurt?

"Are you hurt?" Tim asks. His gloved hands reach out, skim down the sides of Kon's arms, as if he can detect any hidden injury with only the barest idea of a touch. The white lenses of his mask stare deep into Kon's chest like he's trying to see right through his skin to his ribs, his heart. "Did it get you anywhere?"

"I'm fine," Kon dismisses. "Just a couple scrapes 'n' bruises or whatever, nothing major. Are you okay?"

"Fine. Bart took care of the manticore before I even had a chance." Tim hesitates for a moment, still standing right there in Kon's space; he stares up at him with those unblinking lenses, then swallows hard. "You, uh... you've got something on your face. Here, let me..."

He reaches up with the edge of his cape and, with a gentleness that's almost ludicrous after how hard Kon just got smacked around, wipes his cheek and jaw. Kon's heart flutters in his chest.

The cape itself, of course, is black, so he has no idea what might have been smeared on his face. Tim looks satisfied after a moment, though, dropping it and stepping back. "There," he says. "Was a bit of grease. And lubricant from the ball bearings. I think."

"Right." Blech. Kon's mouth still tastes of metal. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Tim says. But his heart rate is strangely high; Kon eyes him with suspicion. If he's hiding an injury, he swears...

On the other side of the hangar bay, there's a second explosion, followed by Bart's holler of "YEAH, BABY!". Kon glances over his shoulder to see him and Cassie high-five.

"Guess we just need to go take care of that enchantress now," Tim says, and grapples up into the rafters again before Kon can so much as agree.

Fine, Kon supposes. The sooner this is over, the sooner he can get Tim back to base—he'll just have to pin him down for a proper examination later.

#rimi writes #timkon #tim #kon #yeah theres enchanted robots based on greek mythology or some shit like that going on here. dont worry about it #the point is kon ripping out a robot-lion's throat with his teeth and tim having a religious experience about it.

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its-actually-minicika · 1 year

Text

The Harshest Winters (18+!)

Part 4;;

Pairing(s): Jacaerys x Reader x bookcanon Aemond;

Warnings: all of them lmao - dubious consent, canon typical violence, lack of Jacaerys, death, blood and gore, Aemond - who forces the reader into holy matrimony in this one (oh yes it's happening), and of course engages in petty masturbation (it's not THW without him going ham on his own hand ♡)

Word Count: 15k+ (wowza i know)

Author's Note: Low and behold, part 4 is here!! Originally, this was supposed to be a 4 parts series, but that obviously isn't the case anymore. THIS TOOK SO LONG AND I'M SO SORRY - I had major issues with the tag list, and at some point, tumblr wouldn’t let me post this; I unfortunately couldn't solve those problems, no matter how hard I tried, so most of you haven't been properly tagged :") This update is a hot mess, and I haven't actually had the time to read through all the paragraphs that I wrote. I SHALL BE BACK TO EDIT

A huge thank you to everyone who's still following the story, though, and I hope you enjoy!

A war is in its midst.

When everyone else is readying themselves for the following decisive battles, you and Aemond are busy playing house.

Things get heated in Harrenhal, and one must decide when and where to pick their side.

The contact of the hot water upon Aemond’s ivory skin made the man shudder in naught but blinding pain. Achingly slow movements, followed by slow grunts echoed throughout the room – and Lady Tully stilled upon the silken sheets, moving her eyes over the book’s page for the thousandth time since he returned; thus driving all her peace away.

The baths Aemond determinedly took in the raptures of the late-night hours never failed to make her uncomfortable, and keep her on edge. Even so, being forced to hear the pained man move with such little stability and lack of confidence almost teetered the girl to the brink of madness.

Harrenhal had been in shambles since its proud conqueror beckoned his return on dragon back that very eve. Two young maids shouted for maesters, and Alys Rivers nearly caused a scene. As he got off his leather saddle, the Prince all but collapsed from tiredness and blood loss.

'He commanded his features to turn brave and taciturn,' his paramour had told her, 'as to not let a single hint of his condition spread throughout the Keep. My poor Aemond.'

The fool had been reached by an arrow.

An impressive feat, one had to agree – and wonder further on the identity of the courageous shot.

‘Struck right between his shoulder blade and chest,’ she had heard some lost girl utter, ‘It is a miracle he’s still alive.’

… Or the Gods’ cruelest punishment, the Lady compelled within her thoughts.

“Mmhh…” Aemond’s rugged breath deterred the girl to raise her glassy orbs from the confinement of the wilting pages. She schooled her eyes to stay above any level of indiscretion, and gingerly followed the trail of blood mixed with dirt, that seeped into and dirtied the once clear water.

Now that her curiosity was quenched, she could freely look away again.

Half a heartbeat later, she relented and surrendered in the face of his quarrelsome state. The Prince bit the inside of his cheek again, and raised his hand up to allow droplets of liquid to trail past his wounded shoulder… but to no avail.

“You could call in a maid, you know.” Her raspy voice descended upon his struggling body. Sooner than she may have liked, the Bliss of Riverrun closed her eyes, and concentrated on the languid noises that the Prince was making.

Seconds felt like pending minutes, until Aemond One-Eye graced her with a reply.

“I don’t need a maid to help me.”

Then that was that, the young woman soon concluded, returning her attention to the opened book.

'The Philosophies of the Riverlands', however, provided little to no aid to the situation at hand – and her overall station.

For she knew, perhaps far too well, that she had to play a different game than the one they'd engaged in, months prior to her imprisonment in that cursed place.

Insufferable man… she vexed him cruelly inside her head, I hoped by now you would be dead.

She raised one leg from the mattress that embedded her, and shifted it, so as to allow her limbs to hang lowly by the edge of the bed. Her thoughts formed and went as they pleased, but the girl settled on one final reach.

He hadn't even allowed Alys to help him undress. Suggesting her now was a deliberate waste of her time.

Not only that, but she still had to win his trust. Somehow, she promised herself, no matter what it takes, she'd do it.

Forcibly she rose from the bed, and made her way slowly towards his wide basin, fixating her eyes on the stone floor ahead. Her throat closed in on itself, and the girl pursed her lips into a tight line, whilst exhaling through her nose. It took a while for her to calm herself.

"... What about me?" She asked in a leveled tone.

Her gaze met his piercing orb, and the Lady nearly took a small step back. His face long washed the wave of shock from his sharp, Targaryen features – Aemond awaited her next words with a quirked up brow and a slight bite o'r his inner cheek. He seemed more than interested in her meek suggestion.

His wordless approval had left her speechless and, for a while, only her heartbeat emerged in her ears.

The Prince Regent trailed his eye hungrily over her extended arm. He took in a sharp breath as she grasped the rough sponge from his hand, and drained it of the putrid smell. She confidently brought it up to him – and teasingly trailed it over his hard chest, down to his lower abdomen, up again to his slouching shoulder.

"This… will hurt you a little bit." She whispered to him, skillfully averting her face from the man in question.

He gritted his teeth harshly, and almost let out a groan from his parted lips – with his dexterous and long fingers, he gripped the edge of the wooden basin, but dared not to look away from the kneeling Lady – choosing, instead, to focus on singling out her every soft and hard feature.

On her end, (Y/N) dabbed the piece of cloth over his wound gently, chanting inside her head to remain small and taciturn.

He shan't get more of a reaction from me, she promised herself through the span of an agonized huff, as she focused in on the task at hand.

Aemond's white skin revealed itself from the washed patches of dirt, and the Prince sighed a deep breath of contentment, as he felt his body be unintentionally caressed by her. His eye fluttered close, and a slight furrow of his tantalizing brow indicated the uncommon pleasure he took from their sporadic intimacy.

The two remain in awkward silence - the only noise that reached the girl's ears being the rattle of water and the occasional hiss from Aemond.

"... I'm sorry." She strained herself to whisper, whilst her hair fell seemingly out of place. "This looks as if it's painful."

The Prince Protector mirrored her stance, and glanced at her through the thick curtain of long, silver hair – the lilac in his eye complimenting the heatwaves of fire that danced across his marred skin.

"It's not painful." His gruff voice echoed in reply.

"... You –" The Lady began, but stopped on her tracks to level her voice again, by the aid of coughing in the back of her hand.

"You don't have to pretend in my company, you know."

She graced him with a forced smile, one she hoped seemed light enough to fool him. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't make fun of you."

Her eyes trailed over to the harsh stone floor, wrinkling at their sharpened ends – "When I was three and ten," she began, "My youngest brother betted against one of the stable boys: that he could ride faster than anyone on his horse, Middle." Her eyes spasmed close at the memory, and the girl wistfully smiled to herself, "The fool scraped his knees in that dreadful race. Middle threw him right out of his expensive saddle."

As she spoke, she brought the rough cloth over Aemond's shoulder blade, right above his wound, and began scrubbing the dirt that adorned over his skin.

"He didn’t want anyone to know what had happened, so he made me clean it, in the stead of a maester." The Lady let out an airy laugh, as her nose scrunched up with a pang of fondness. "I have never seen a boy get so worked up over a simple scratch before."

Aemond hummed in admission – half relieved by the distraction she was offering, and half worried by the impending pain he would soon feel. He shifted from inside the basin, as if to reach for the sponge in her hand himself, but the girl simply laid her hand away.

Her musings came to an abrupt end. She retreated on her steps lightly, and offered the Crown Prince a quirked-up brow.

"You need to stay put, Prince Aemond. Otherwise, I risk causing you more harm than good." She swallowed thickly, and only shook her head, "Your wound needs thorough cleaning, Your Grace. And it is too far in the back for you to clean it by yourself."

She glanced at his face anew, and let out a tumbling sigh as he nodded his head again, trying his hardest to relax into her touch once more.

Part of him remained put up – the bulk of his chest and shoulders still gloriously hunched over, ready to bolt up at any given moment.

"... I hate to admit it. I thought he was exaggerating then – with the discomfort which he feigned was feeling."

Her lips pursed into a tight line, as she glanced quickly at the laying man, "But how can one make fun of another's state of pain?"

A sympathetic look was shared between them.

Her eyes softened in admission to his furrowed brows and descended features. In that exact light, she couldn’t help but notice how much he resembled her Jace.

"Pain makes us human. And it's a reminder for us: to really cherish our times of incandescent joy."

The break of a cold sweat kissed over Aemond's forehead; droplets of which gathered at the base of his left eye, where his leather eyepatch stayed secured.

The girl pushed down a disdainful puff, as her eyes trailed him over, from the rosy blotch of skin, back to his hawk-like eye.

"Leather retains heat." She murmured before she could catch herself.

The Targaryen Prince expelled a deep breath, and, as her hand came to rest over the buckle that secured his patch into place, he primed his lips into a downturned arch.

"It can't be good for you to always keep it on."

"The sight of it frightens others. I don't want it to frighten you."

"I've seen you without your eyepatch before."

"That was different. This time… is different."

The latter of his words sent a shiver down her bent spine. Nothing is different, she was aching to say. Her lips pressed anxiously together, and the girl offered Aemond a curt nod. Just as she was about to pull her hand away from the nape of his neck, the Prince's wet palm came up to stop her.

His fingers shakily entwined with hers. The deep callouses of his hand scratched the softness of her open palm.

For a while, Time herself froze before them.

(Y/N) came to avert her gaze, but Aemond's eye feverishly searched for the relieving clash of hers. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and the Lady of Riverrun nearly choked onto the clogged-up air.

His silver locks curled slightly at their ends – the dampness of the room striking its claim over his perfectly straight strands of hair. In his own right, Aemond could be called beautiful. His striking Targaryen features might have ensured the favor of many young maidens, were it not for his rash and impetuous attitude, the bite that rested in his character – which no doubt spread like a disease over his life at Court.

"Look at me." Against his better judgment, and his innermost turmoil, Aemond allowed her small fingers to trail over the buckle of his blinder again. He drew out a comforting sigh, and, with her hand still in his, gently slid the leather off.

He sucked in a quiet breath, as the coldness of the air enveloped his throbbing eyelids.

The poise in his composure was cracking at the seams, with the passing of each second, during which she settled to remain silent.

Eventually, her hand came to rest over his face again. Her dexterous fingers began to leisurely wipe the sweat from his brow, his eye, by submerging them into the lukewarm water, and bringing them over and over to his clenched face.

"I'm sorry." She settled on to say instead, once the breaching of kind words failed to meet her. "No one deserves to be left without an eye. No one deserves such appalling cruelty."

"You appear to be sorry an awful lot this evening, My Lady." Aemond choked under his breath, taken aback by her gentle movements and sainty utter.

"I spend the better part of my days in the company of my own thoughts." She huskily reminded him, "... It's been increasingly easier for me to reflect on my past mistakes."

Wordless from her hoax admission, and desperate to feel her hands explore him further, the Targaryen Prince rose heavily from the dirtied water – his chest coming directly to her field of vision.

The girl let out a cutting gasp, as she turned swiftly on her heel, refusing to glance at his modesty, not any longer than she'd already had.

Her eyelids fluttered close, and she shifted from one foot to the other, but to no avail. For in spite of her desire to run away, the Lady found herself hammered in place.

The proximity between them laid out to be a problem – Aemond let out a frustrated sigh, and turned her head around with the clasping of his untouched arm. Two of his fingers came to rest at the base of her cheek and chin; the Prince let out a satisfied hum, as her body trembled in slight shock at their change of position.

"Gevie…" He muttered to no one but himself.

His cock stood proudly at attention, kissing over his prominent abdomen, trailing long past his belly button. Every now and then, white pearls pooled to the base of his length, weeping from his angry tip, trailing past his stones in the reach of the water below him.

"Look at me." He breathed again, and his sweet Lady obeyed.

She threw him a dejected look: half harsh and cold, half hardened and scorned. The tips of her ears matched the redness of her pale cheeks. Her eyes cast their curious glow throughout every corner of the room, yet stayed away from the scorn of indiscretion that called out to her, only centimeters below her swollen lips.

Aemond's thumb flicked once over her crimson labium, but the man sighed, seemingly discouraged, and settled upon gripping her dainty wrist instead.

"Gaomagon daor sagon zūgagon, issa dōna jorrāelagon. Nyke kivio ao naejot sagon gīda."

The gentleness that oozed from his voice could have had anyone fooled. But not her. The translations of the words he muttered against the skin of her wrist were lost on her, but the Lady of Riverrun still singled out a most protruding word.

He had never failed to call her 'his tormenting love'.

The girl's breath rose and fell with each agonizing word that befell over her face.

"Mēre tubis ao jāhor jaelagon issa." Aemond sighed against her wrist.

'I would sooner die than spread my legs for the Usurper's kin. I would sooner die than spread my legs for the Usurper's kin. I would sooner die than spread my legs for the Usurper's kin.'

Her words rang harsh and true inside her head – and, much like it was back then, her heart harbored no honorable intent towards the Trident's Terror.

He burnt your entire homeland, she chastised herself harshly, He killed thousands. Every day, even more find their end by the breath of his dragon. By the way of his wrath.

The ache in her heartbeat rang loudly inside her ears – her every pore aligned with her wish to run away, and her mind was screaming at her to retreat to a corner.

Comparing him to Jacaerys was a laughable feat.

"Let's… just finish getting you cleaned up, Your Grace" She struggled to finally suggest out loud, through the timid inflection of her outwardly calm voice.

She slithered her face away from his grasp, and began draining the sponge of the dark mud again.

Aemond sighed, and lowered himself back into the cold water – his lone eye never leaving the mould of her smaller frame.

"I heard that conversation… sometimes distracts the ill from the discomfort of the cleaning process, Your Grace."

Now turned to his exposed back, the girl's hand wavered over his punctured shoulder. She waited three, perhaps four seconds, before her arm finally breached contact with the wounded flesh.

Aemond took in a sharp breath, but remained otherwise silent, until she prompted him to speak again.

"How… how did such a thing even come to happen?"

Aemond's chest rose and fell with each labored pant. His eye remained tightly closed, his jaw awfully set. Her question registered into his mind, and a reply formed at the former base of his thoughts.

For a while, however, the One-Eyed Prince remained quiet – weighing the option of telling her the truth rather carefully.

"A Frey company was marching South." He hissed as her light hand came over his flesh, applying soft pressure in its wake. "The fog of the morning masked them from me – but Vhagar's shadow still went right above their heads."

The woman brought her free hand to rest over his lower back, and her fingers rubbed soothing circles into the dampness of his skin. "It was… very lucky that you didn't get more hurt."

She scorned herself inwardly, but kept her curiosity at bay. She wouldn’t ask him whether the company had risen victorious, or if he burnt all those men to the ground.

The latter option, in any case, seemed more than likely.

The Crown Prince tensed visibly, but didn’t scoot away from her soothing touch. A deep sigh parted from his cracked lips, and the man revelled at their sudden closeness.

He ached to talk to her, to plead with her to welcome him inside her heart – and into her bed. He could feel his own beat loudly, and his body trembled in unquenched lust and rage.

Still, he knew it was too soon for that.

Not once during their rash acquaintance, did the girl before he talk with so much interest about his day with him.

His thoughts trailed to Alys, and Aemond wondered if half her new admission was owed to her – if indeed the two women secured a friendship within the last two weeks, if his whore became her confidant, if she breathed in her trust in him.

He would have to talk to her later. Thank her, if he was feeling apt and generous.

(Y/N)'s breath caught in the shell of his ear, and the Targaryen Prince nibbled at his lower lip. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down; the coldness of the water gave him the strength to concentrate, by the sliding of small ripples down his exposed chest and abdomen. The ache of his wound was a small price to pay, if only to feel her knuckles working against his back.

"There we are. All done, Your Grace."

She rose up from her kneeling stance, wincing at the sudden change of perspective, and at the throb of her tired knees. She gingerly presented the clean set of clothes and bathing robes to him. Her head remained turned to the side, and her hand instantly let go of the heavy clothes, the moment his palm came into contact with them.

In the stead of returning to sit idly by their resting place, the woman graced him with a final look, and let out a faint mutter. "I'll leave you to it."

She wavered but a moment, and turned her stare to the ruined clothes; the ones that Aemond had so carelessly discarded on the floor, as he prepared for his undeserved nightly soak.

The shadow of a long-laid plan gleamed beneath her silent gaze.

"I can wash them for you tomorrow – after my bath. It might be wiser to keep the nature of your wounds hidden. The maids needn't worry over how much blood you lost."

Aemond's brows furrowed in slight shock, and the Prince remained wordless in the face of her sensible suggestion.

And yet her eyes spoke with so much sincerity, that he gleefully allowed the pang of hope to warm his unforgiving features.

"As you wish." He rumbled out, while forcing himself to move his stare to the folded clothes before him.

His eye trailed back to his hands' agile ministrations, and Aemond soon began to roll over his linen breeches, covering his half-hard cock with the help of the rough material.

A throaty groan etched from deep within his throat, however, as he reached for the pristine shirt.

The girl stopped in her tracks, and a deep scowl settled over her fair features.

The struggle he was undergoing would have been music to her ears – were it not for the solidarity of her position. For the millionth time that night, she reminded herself of her plan and her desperation to escape.

Thus, unbeknownst to her own better judgment, the Lady compelled herself to seek him further.

Although her words failed to assist her, the way she gingerly reached, with her hand wide and outstretched, made Aemond aware of her pending intent.

Their bodies were inches apart. The girl sucked in a hurried breath, and neglected to exhale it as the oxygen hit her lungs.

Aemond was burning up – and whether that was from the lack of fresh air within the confining room, or the first telltale sign of fever, or her – he was lost on saying anymore. His weakened arm slithered into the sleeve of his shirt, though the pain was long forgotten.

And instead of focusing on his poised movements, his glassy eye ran hungrily over her face and hypnotic features.

(Y/N)'s fingertips grazed over the light material. Her tired eyes softened at the familiar feeling. The threat of tears beckoned at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them all away in a hasty movement. Melancholy ate away at her, far more often than she knew was wise to allow.

Still she remembered, if only for a moment, the raptures of Jacaerys' warm embrace. And how, in the heat of summer, that very same cloth felt against her heated cheek.

They must have had the same seamstress, the same tailor. Of course, she thought to herself in a bitter manner, after all, they are both Princes.

… Were.

But if she closed her eyes, she could pretend – No, she chastised herself fully, such a thing just cannot be. And you'd be a fool to attempt to it.

The magnetic pull between them trebly pried the two souls together. And it would be yet another minute, until (Y/N) finally took a step back, opening her mouth to announce the end of her intimate task.

Her eyes fell on the stone hard floor, and she carefully turned her back around him.

The long waves of her hair shifted over her modest nightgown, covering her mounds of flesh with a slight shift to the left.

"I'm going to sleep." She pathetically uttered, as the warmth that emanated from Aemond's form not moments prior, still fell heavily over her slight frame.

Mechanically she gripped the satin sheets and engulfed herself with them – a slight comfort came over her, as the coldness of the unused bedding fanned gently over her scorched limbs.

Aemond remained stuck in place, and a heaved breath rumbled from within his chest. The red in his cheeks would have put both their Houses' seals to shame – For once, he was glad she wasn't looking his way.

***

The rest of the night was spent in washed quietness.

And his Lady might have made it up: the dip at the edge of the bed, the smell of fresh pine and wildfire that caressed her in her sleepy state, and the slight "Thank you" that dabbled from her captor's lips.

“You plan to ride on dragon-back again? So soon?” The echo of Alys' voice carried her worry throughout the silent clearing.

The first rays of sunlight caught flame into her raven hair, lighting her features in such a way, that it accentuated her every perpetual scar and wrinkle. The fire inside her eyes could rival the one of a trueborn Targaryen, were it not for her strong outer appearance.

Aemond moved his body at a leisurely pace, not even bothering to throw the woman one of his usual vexing looks.

"Do you think dear nuncle will put a stop to the siege of the Twins, should the word spread about my condition?"

His cutting words rendered the woman speechless, and the Rivers witch simply clicked her tongue, whilst glancing at the green grass below her.

"War awaits no one, my dear." He asserted definitively, as he gripped onto Vhagar's long bridles.

The mighty beast let out a shaken roar, as Aemond winced once his wounded shoulder made light contact with her dark-green scales.

"Gīda ilagon, Vhagar. Sagon nykeēdrosa... Sȳz hāedar." He instinctively reached for her, and caressed her lower belly with one of his gloved hands.

At their calm exchange, Alys bit over her lower lip, harshly enough to draw her own blood. "You should stay." She managed to draw out, "At least a while – going in search of your uncle today, instead of tomorrow, won't make a difference to your brother's cause."

But her voice of reason reached deafened ears. For Aemond Targaryen was set on paying the debt he owed. The debt he agreed to take on, the moment his dragon clasped onto Lucaerys, swallowing the bastard whole.

"Everything matters at war, Alys." He hummed impatiently, while snapping his head in her general direction. "What do you think will happen to you, should Daemon reach Harrenhal? Your pretty head will rest near mine, impaled on a sharpened spike."

But if she told you to stay put, you would do just that, wouldn’t you? Her bitter thoughts chewed her conscious away.

Alys spat out a lowly curse, as she shifted uncomfortably in place. "Daemon Targaryen was here once, not long before you. He didn’t kill me then."

"Because you didn't matter back then." The Prince Protector of the Realm hissed through painfully gritted teeth, "You were no one to him. You were a wet nurse who merely spread her legs for him."

The man turned his back to her, as he wordlessly bound Vhagar's bridle over his wrist again and again.

"And last I checked, your cunt failed to inspire him."

Her mouth parted in a silent protest, and her green eyes widened in partial distress. "Still I should remain in luck," She choked out through a breathless laugh, "for it has never failed to inspire you."

"You are perfectly right," Aemond's laughter was humorless and brash, "And it is because of this loose cunt that Aegon nearly lost the support of Storm's End."

The Prince spun around on his heel's end, and trapped the woman in between his hard chest and restless dragon. "Sometimes I think you cost me more than you're worth." He whispered calmly into her ear, while trailing his index finger over the sharp edge of her jaw. "For speaking back to me, I could have you executed."

The finality of his words drew her body closer to the ancient beast, and Vhagar let out a displeased grunt. Amusement pulled at the corners of his downturned mouth.

"Still you should remain in luck," He mocked her with an airy laugh, "I find myself in an exceedingly good mood today."

The back of his hand came to play with a loose lock of her messy braid, and the Prince smiled at her stance and her bewildered look. "But you've been a most useful asset, haven't you, my dear?" He obliged her with a teasing smirk, "Lady Tully responded well to you, hasn't she? Tell me," He paused momentarily, as he trailed his hands to the narrow middle of her waist, and back up again. "Have you kept up your training with her?"

Alys' face fell into a frown, as she staggered a frustrated look. Aemond was toying with her.

"That dull book she pretends to read at night has the maps of three secret passages hidden amongst the latter pages. Two of them lead to that cell into the West Wing – but of course, she doesn't know that. The third one leads to the stables of Harrenhal."

Aemond hummed pleasedly, and the man soon took a wide step back, allowing his paramour enough space for proper breathing. "You did well." He smiled wistfully, "I should reward you well tonight. You may think of something you desire. I will see to it once I return."

"I would very much like you to stay and heal today." She urged him not a heartbeat later, surprising even herself with the intensity of her tone.

Aemond's composure broke with the licks of roaring laughter – one that was empty, and fell devoid of any feelings of fondness or grief.

"Think of something else." He urged her coolly, and dismissively pushed past her, to reach for his dragon's saddle.

"'Tis a good thing you shall never be a wife, Alys. The role of the worried wench doesn't suit you one bit."

"Keep feeding her half-truths and lies." He encouraged the woman with a final reach over her hand. He squeezed once over her balled-up fist – acting as both a promise, and a taciturn warning on what should happen, should she let him down again. "Regarding whatever else she may have to say… you'll report it back immediately."

With that, the Kinslayer of the Trident took off, leaving the promise of bone and ash behind his dragon's menacing ascend.

The Eyrie was, on all accounts, smaller even than Maegor's Holdfast. Inside the stronghold nestled the Arryns, hidden deep beneath the illusion of the smallest stronghold of the main seven Kingdoms. Despite its intermediate size, the Keep of the Giant's Lance deemed itself one of the safest places to be – Hardly a lie, especially now, Cain Waters ineptly hummed, once his wobbly feet carried him over the stoney threshold.

Despite its less-than-imposing size, and lack of sheer volume, (Y/N)'s sworn shield felt himself smaller than ever before.

How would he dare account for his whereabouts? Reason his shortcomings?

How could he hope to explain to his Lord that not only did he return empty-handed, without his beloved granddaughter on horseback – he returned without the notion of a hand at all?

Between the two strange figures with whom he traveled, it was Mira Florent who rested loyally by his side – her strength and stability allowing the Waters bastard to lean into her, if only for a fleeting moment, during the ascend of the narrow stairs.

"Take heart," She whispered, "Your Lord is a kind and understanding one. You won't be facing trial for this."

His mere reply was a solitary grunt, and a quick smile, dejectedly thrown her way.

Between the two strange figures with whom he traveled, Albar had remained behind. The mute man shrugged his head decidedly when Cain gestured towards the waiting castle, and Mira explained to him that the Vale scarcely left him feeling safe and wanted.

And he understood, perhaps far too well – the feeling of dejection a bastard boy felt, as he stepped foot into the land of his birth.

***

He'd been granted the comfort of a Maester and a hot soak, almost immediately after his appearance at the Arryns' Great Door.

The Lady of the Vale proved to be a kindred spirit, capable of great nurture, despite her lack of heirs to her family's ancestral throne. She gasped loudly at the sight of him. Her eyebrows furrowed in grave distraught, and her lower lip trembled as the healers informed her of the state of his right hand.

Her searching eyes reminded him of the ones of his own mother – neither particularly warm nor cold towards him, but fair and just in their own accord.

She almost decided against calling upon him to the Trouts' Black Council, but the young Oscar Tully had entirely different plans.

His eyes, as they were, were socketed by a deep, but elusive brown. They spoke and reminded him of a whole different tale than the one of his fair, poor Lady.

And it was Oscar's eyes, so similar in shape to hers, who bore ghastly holes into the back of Ser Cain's skull. His arm rose up, as if to cut off the man's retelling – his nostrils flared up in disgust, and his face twisted into a painful scowl.

"So what you're telling me… is that you failed to bring her back."

Cain's eyes hardened at her brother's words, and the knight nibbled on his lower lip, in an attempt to calm himself.

Although a brave and honest man, he dared not look in the eyes of Lord Grover Tully – he dared not see what lay beneath his wilted face. Thus, all his attention focused in on the chirping lass.

"Aye, my Lord." He mustered up to tell him, "I lost her to the One-Eyed Prince. We escaped Harrenhal, and managed to get as far as the Saltpans, but –"

The boy scoffed at his attempt to pardon and explain himself. He nodded affirmatively, and scrutinized Cain with his piercing gaze.

"You returned with an empty hand, Ser Cain. You failed: miserably."

His back straightened in an attempt to appear bigger, and the hot-headed lass rose from his chair in a hurling daze.

"Because of you, my sister is in the hands of that cycloptic freak. Because of you, we don't know anything about her whereabouts. She could be tortured, enslaved, sullied – worse!"

Lady Jane Arryn clicked her tongue in disbelief, and beckoned her guard to guide the boy back into a sitting stance.

"That is quite enough, Oscar." She asserted calmly, "We have no evidence of such a feat."

"Of course we don't!" The young Lordling huffed annoyedly, jolting on the brink of madness, "The deranged cripple wouldn't reply to any of our ravens!"

His face contorted animalistically, the freckles on his face being taken by the deep shade of crimson that coloured in his plumper cheeks. "And with you here, Waters, we don't even have the certainty that (Y/N) is still alive!"

"Oscar." Grover's deep voice echoed a warning through the quietness of the tiny Keep.

As if struck in the face, the youngest of the Tully brothers shifted in his seat again. "My sister's fate is breached unknown," He cried out in a collapsing tune, "She's our family, grandfather, my only sister! Pray tell, why does it look as if I'm the only one who gives a damn?"

The graying Lord and the narrow Lady both leaned towards a perplexing look. But before any of them could reply to his laid-out challenge, (Y/N)'s brother urged them further, as he hissed through his gritted teeth. "It would have been better for you not to return at all, Ser Cain. It would have been better for all parties involved to have sent me in his stead, Grandfather!"

His shoulders slouched forward, and the brazen boy fought with Grover's intense stare. "Had I failed, I wouldn’t have even returned at all." Oscar roared over the silent council, proclaiming his intent with a defying raise. "I would sooner have died, than see her be taken by that monster again."

"What would you have had me do, boy?!" Grover Tully raised his voice in turn, "You fool. Would you have had me send you away for her? Do you think your death would have made you a martyr?!"

Cain's lips pursed into a tight line, as the Riverlords before him bickered further. Even Lady Jane Arryn seemed to be left speechless, unsure of when or how to stop their arguing.

Family feuds were neither one's strongest suit.

"Do you think," His Grandfather uttered, "that if you were to die, anyone would remember you fondly?!" The red in his cheeks matched the one on his grandson's face, and the elder Lord broke out into a coughing fit. "Your sacrifice would mean nothing. And when the dust settled over Westeros, and the war was done, you would just be another casualty. Another body to burn in a communal."

Almost immediately, his eyes softened, and their deep creases faltered on his face.

The Lord of Riverrun grunted in fatigue, but still rose himself securely on his two able feet. He marched towards the huffing boy, and placed a wrinkled hand over his sweaty forehead, urging him to quiet down.

"It's not about glory, Grandfather." He spat out lowly, as his ears began to match his fiery locks of curly hair. "It's about family. Our family. It's about ensuring its survival."

The older man gave the lass a curt nod. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, and turned to the knight with a downturned smile.

"There wasn't a knight more fit for the task than Ser Cain." He confirmed his judgment with a tired gesture in his direction. "He was knighted at five and ten. You are over your seven and tenth birthday, boy, and haven’t been even mirthed a squire."

Oscar sucked in a protesting breath, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room fall before him. His brows furrowed in a dangerous quarrel, and his blood ran hot. "Yet even with all the skill in the world, he still failed."

Lord Grover was losing his patience, "Yes, grandson, that he did! He failed, despite all the signs that pointedly told us otherwise – do you think you'd do an equitable job? When you haven't even once crossed swords in a Joust or Tourney?"

Nearby the aching knight, Lady Arryn renowed her position.

She whispered to her waiting guard, and the man took a step ahead, hitting over the chantry with the hilt of his sword.

The noise that erupted grabbed the attention of both grandson and grandfather.

"The turn of events marked by Ser Cain's departure means we need to readjust our plans." She commanded their heed calmly, "It is… unfortunate; that Lady Tully's sworn shield failed to protect her. Yet here we all stand, warming our bottoms on a mine of gold."

Cain should have been grateful for the distraction she was offering. All the displeasure surged upon him evaporated within the click of her tongue, and less conventional language – still, even he had to remain weary on the subject he opened.

"On a mine of gold?" Oscar spat out sharply, feeling his self-control disperse by failing him again. "My Lady, do you think my sister's condition is a situation of great rejoice?"

The Lady's blue eyes cut through the boy deeply, and the young man closed his mouth in embarrassment, before sitting down again.

She reached for the goblet of wine, and wet her lips with it, "Our strategical situation couldn't be better. Not once have we had a spy of Harrenhal successfully return. In truth, we didn’t even think it possible." Her lithe hand pointed towards the bloodied knight, and her eyes glimmered in mischief, "Yet here stands our living proof."

She elegantly rose from her ivory throne, and signaled the man to take a seat at the bent table. As he gingerly followed her lead, the woman spared him with a kind glance, and met his glance with her deep azul gaze.

"From what I gather, you spent the better part of a month undetected in the Strongs' Keep. Is that true?"

Cain nodded stiffly, and rested his bulky hands over his tired knees. "Yes, my lady. That I have."

"And you were knighted at fifteen?" She alluded to what was early spoken.

"Yes, my lady."

"By Lord Hunter Redwyne." She urged him to clarify, through the edge of a quirked-up brow, and the callings of a small smile pulling at her dusted lips.

"Yes, my lady. The very one."

Lady Jane hummed, seemingly satisfied by his short answers. She turned her attention to Lord Grover and his tiresome grandson, and merely asked Ser Cain again.

"And you faced the Kinslayer in combat, cut by a Valyrian blade, and lived to tell the tale?"

"... Aye, my lady."

Oscar's eyes remained unyielding. But Grover Tully glanced at the man before him, and offered him a wordless bow.

"Tell me, Ser, how would you like to command your own battalion?"

"You have to be patient." Alys chastised her deeply, as her luring features turned from flaccid to sharp. "Hardly enough time has passed since your last attempted escape – Aemond is still very much on edge."

The Lady's eyes turned to her. With the bridge of her nose scrunched up, and her fair features molded into a desperate plea, the girl looked more like a lost child, than an able and resourceful Lady.

Alys regarded her as such, and sighed deeply as she grasped onto her shoulders carefully.

"If I wait any longer, it'll be too late. I've already wasted three moon turns in this cursed Keep. I have to return to my family." The Tully spoke decidedly, leaving behind no room for arguing. She took a seat before the tiny mirror, that breached her modest vanity – a recent gift from Aemond, deduced by him to make her feel more like a proper lady.

The image that reflected within it looked at her like a dire stranger. The green silks she was dressed into, the pristine, braided hair that framed her pale cheeks perfectly; She was the vision of a flawless royal, a soft and polite maiden, untouched yet by the spoils of death and war.

'Would this be enough?' She asked herself desperately, whilst gripping the edge of her chair painfully.

Was this what Aemond had always wanted? The proof of her lack of autonomy, finally presented to him on a silver platter, as he returned from war every night?

Was he, perhaps, congratulating himself, every time he glanced at her, thinking himself master of the universe for making her arch and kneel?

Alys shook her head once more, and rested a hand over her bouncing knee.

"Patience is a virtue, Lady Tully. You needn't put yourself through any more unnecessary risks."

The Lady of Riverrun shook her head vigorously, finally snapping herself back to reality; Her actions were defying, and devoid of any capacity. Alys felt herself more confounded by the second. "I'll help you plan this thoroughly." The wood witch adverted. Her head quirked to the side in an encouraging gesture, and the girl nodded feverishly in reply.

Her green eyes widened in fair delight, and Aemond's lover lowered her gaze over the girl's book. "You memorized the passages well enough. Very soon, you shall put your knowledge to practice."

(Y/N) let out a tired sigh, and graced the older woman with a pleasant smile. "I'm lucky to have you, Alys" She played with her rings as she spoke, "Thank you. For everything."

As the elder woman finally left her Quarters in favor of bringing out the order for dinner, (Y/N) let out an aggravated groan.

Her long pretense would surely make her nauseous. But she would be a simpleton indeed, to place all her trust in Alys.

The walls preleened with the doom of silence. A cold breeze dug its way deeply into her spine, and the silent taste of passing and demise left a sour taste in her parted mouth.

***

Aemond began dinner as he wontedly did every day – praying to the Warrior to grant him strength in battle, to the Smith, to mend all that was left broken, to the Father, "to shine his light", and lead their souls out of the brink of darkness.

Each and every time, without fail, the girl would bring the pristine napkin to her mouth, masking the obvious way her lips would quirk into a most unyielding smile. His pious speech, and the way his hands painfully clasped together, begging for the blessing of resolve, made her scoff in blinding wonder.

Was he even aware of the words he mostly muttered? Did he ever stop to assess himself throughout the day, and realize the sin in which he debaucherously bathed in?

As his speech came to an end, the Lady preleened forward, grabbing a hold of the boiled-up stork.

How lovely it was to sit between comfort and chaos.

"You've never been one to speak much during our time spent together." Aemond remarked through the rumble of a solitary hum. "Yet I had hoped this last week softened your resolve, My Lady."

Her eyebrows rose in slight discomfort, as her eyes focused on the leisure movements of his bigger hands.

So he was softening up.

She opened her mouth almost immediately, but her hesitant eyes danced around his blinding stare. Her plump lips pressed into a hard line, and she exhaled loudly through her nose, in an attempt to ground herself.

"Not at all, Your Grace, I assure you." The cluttering of her fork came to a hoisted end, as Lady Tully aligned her head to focus directly on the One-Eyed Prince. "I should love nothing more than to talk to you… Please, do advise me on what you would like most to hear."

She fidgeted nervously with her silver rings – a quirk she developed whilst imprisoned in the Strong's Keep – and gingerly awaited his reply.

Your Grace. Your Grace. Your Grace.

The stillness in her speech and eyes drove the man effectively wild.

"Aemond." He stilled her faction through the reign of a distorted sigh.

She regarded him with a petrified stance. Her hands fell heavy over her legs in the wake of anticipation.

"... I-I beg your pardon?"

"Aemond." He repeated his name again, "We already break bread and sleep in the same bed." His lilac eye rose from his plate, and singled out her reddened cheeks. The man paused a while, as if to weigh his words carefully, and his cold, glassy orb, hungrily ran over her form. "It seems inevitable that we'd call each other by our given names. Yet you never once said mine throughout."

The girl could feel her throat dry up. While still maintaining his awkward stare, she reached for the glass of wine that rested by her left side. She wrapped her hand around its stem, and brought it to her paling lips.

The liquid courage slid down her throat in a quick, though burning manner, and (Y/N) had to swallow down an erratic cough. Her brows furrowed amidst, as she picked her words out slowly.

"I have called your name before, Prince Aemond. Many times throughout the moons, in fact."

He smiled at her perturbed reply, and shook his head in coy distraught.

"Not without the honorifics." The man clarified in a pleading tone, his voice growing hotter now. "... Just say my name." He sighed defeatedly. His hand gripped the edge of the table, silently, as the Targaryen Prince could feel his mind running with a thousand thoughts per passing minute.

The silence ate at him alive. She drowned the wine in a swift swing, and slouched forward to pour herself another glass.

She was too sober for this.

Lucaerys, Jacaerys, Cain.

Part of her wanted to pluck his eye out. Part of her wished nothing more than to make fun of him. Laugh, perhaps, at his desperate indiscretion. Do something – anything – to gauge a reaction out of him.

Any sort of reaction, that would make her pestering feelings for him leave her heavy soul.

Surprising even herself, adamantly going against her own wishes, the woman caught herself breathing out.

"... Aemond."

Unexpectedly he moved, by jumping to his ready feet, fully disregarding the oak chair as it hit the floor in a most perused manner.

The pang of noise alerted her, and seemingly, the guards outside. A while they remained in silence, listening in to the clash of metal that announced their unsure shifting.

But they wouldn’t come inside. The girl was lest aware of that.

As time pressed on, Aemond remained hammered in place, heaving out his weighty breaths and clasping his hands in aching fists.

Her eyes momentarily left his shadow – to turn again towards the poach of wine, and empty another glass in rapid gulps.

The heavy atmosphere inside the room hung lowly over their tired heads. (Y/N) resumed her mellow eating, wincing at the shakiness within her hands. She grabbed another piece of the boiled meat, though Aemond's stare soon made her drop it, and the girl clicked her tongue in disbelief; grabbing it instead with a piece of cloth, and securing it into a tight knot.

This time, it was her actions that had failed her. And perhaps it'd be her ready words that would prevail.

"Aemond." She spoke again, this time more confidently than before. The bitter liquor was burning her throat, her chest, her heart. She felt her limbs heavy – with both anticipation and frustration - borne out of lack of relief. She wanted to slap him, to hit him, to crush him beneath her feet.

She wanted to run away, to stay confined, forever inside this room, forever astute to what was going on in the outside world.

She wanted to feel something.

She wanted…

"Yes." Aemond encouraged her softly, and her attention came back to the raptures of the present tense. "There we go." He worded out, keeping his tone barely above a whisper.

Neither could tell when or how it happened – but Aemond's body was inches away from touching hers. The heat emanating from his beating heart washed over the meek form of the tipsy Lady. His Lady.

She gulped painfully, and the Prince could feel how his hands started spasming with the need to feel her. His nails bit the inside of his calloused palm, leaving deep and angry marks inside them.

His prominent veins shifted with his every faction. His face morphed into hopeful disarray.

"There we go." He repeated gently, "I want to hear your laughter. You never once laughed with me."

Her stare was hard to decipher. And yet confliction danced across her face. Aemond turned serious, and the stammering of his hands came to an untimely end. His eye bared holes into her reddened face; and the Lady humorously thought, if only for a moment, that it was a lucky thing he didn’t still have both his eyes. For such a stare would be embedded in her subconscious, bringing forth her swift undoing.

The corners of her mouth felt painful to bend and break. Shakily she smiled at him, and opened her mouth in shocked reclusion.

A shy laughter erupted from her unquenched throat, and the woman shuddered, surrendering the reins of reason to the drunken thoughts that sieged her.

Her laughter wasn't her own. The languid movements of her hands, that trailed over Aemond's chest, were not her own.

His finger came to caress her cheek. Her nose. Her brow. Her lips. Her mouth. The Crown Prince sucked in a dangerous breath, and secured his left arm loosely around her waist.

"Good girl," He spoke tenderly, his voice going from gruff to rough, "Such a good girl for me." His fingers combed through her messy braids, marking their swift undoing – taking a step back, he could feel the heat leave his head, in the favor of traveling lower, to meet the almost flaccid cock confined in the tightness of his pants. "Say my name again. Laugh again." He commanded in a pleading meowl. His lips twitched in anticipation, and his eyes trailed lower, lower still, from up her face, down to her soaring bosom.

"Aemond."

"(Y/N)."

A solitary look of shame was shared between them. Perhaps pushed forward by the only remaining faction of rationale, the two placed a step in between each other, but even that proved to be too fickle of a barrier to keep them whole apart.

Aemond reached to cup her face with his own trembling hand – on her end, the girl's digits trailed over from his high cheekbones, down to his prominent cupid's bow, in an all but gentle caress.

"Avy jorrāelan." He hissed through painfully gritted teeth, allowing his head to rest in the crook made of her shoulder blade and neck. "Avy jorrāelan." He repeated, the vulnerability in his voice making him lose the hold he had over himself.

"Se Jaes emagon qrimbrōstan issa naejot jorrāelagon ao." His feathered breath came into contact with her dainty neck. (Y/N) gasped lightly, as she felt the first of his many kisses being tenderly placed over her jaw and neck.

Her head was pounding, and her eyes were screwed shut, as the coldness of the wall hit her in perused waves. The impropriety of the soft moans and sighs that filled her ears to the brim left her confused and wanting.

The worst of it was that she didn’t know whether they came from her or him.

She felt as though her head was being harshly held below the water, and the girl clawed at her dress to loosen her tight bodice, which seemed to constrict even her erratic breathing.

Aemond's attention moved from her earlobe back to her lips. He felt how her hands contorted sporadically, and he placed his own palm over hers, to put an end to her hasty movements, and give her a sense of calmness. His fingers suddenly entwined with hers, as his form hovered above her. His throat etched with a lousy moan, and his mouth finally crashed with hers.

(Y/N)'s eyes opened at the shocking scene, and her lips suddenly parted, either to beg or to protest against him, but Aemond's hot tongue found entrance into her warm cave – deciding instead to deepen the kiss, and press himself further against her smaller form.

The outline of his throbbing cock molded against the shape of the woman's thigh, and the Prince Protector of the Realm let out a pleasured hiss, once her insistent writhing ended up brushing up his weeping tip. "Jaes, ao istan vēttan syt issa." He mumbled against her swollen lips, "Sepār jurnegon skorkydoso īlon kostagon fāelor hēnkirī."

She let out a fatigued whimper, and swiftly turned her head around, putting an abrupt end to their meek and vicious pecks.

"What's wrong, hmm? Dōna hāedar… ȳdra daor hakogon qrīdrughagon hen issa sir."

Aemond's lips were soft and tender, leaving behind an almost vivacious bite over her exposed parts. His pace had been filled with an animalistic hunger; the longing inside his eye caught her unprepared, and her lips parted with the desire to feel something – anything – that his palpable mouth would keenly offer.

(Y/N) shuddered with her eyes closed, and grabbed a hold of his long, white hair, leading the man closer yet to her swelling heat.

The way in which he held her should have felt so very wrong. But at that moment, the only thing she could do was extend her arm back up to him, and guide him with an insistent pull over his silky locks: encouraging him to bring forth his descent upon her lips.

She disregarded the way a figment of her psyche screamed at her. To stop her ministrations, to slap his calloused hands away from her. For if she kept her eyes closed, and focused solely on the shape of him, then she could almost pretend that the man before her had nothing to do with her beloved Jace.

She could almost pretend that he was Jace.

Aemond's pupil was left blown wide – so much so, that the lilac of his iris could almost be left neglected. He wrapped his hands around the lady's thighs, and hoisted her up to meet him by his narrow hips. Both moaned into the other's mouth, and the Prince soon found his way into the raptures of the silken bed.

His heated cock kissed the outlines of her soaked cunny. Aemond sighed deeply over the arch of her neck, and pawed away at her untouched bodice.

(Y/N)'s hands rested still upon his eyepatch, and, with a swift and hasty movement, she yanked it off his sculpted face.

"We need to stop…" She moaned, defeated, and felt how Aemond's body stiffened up below her, as the harsh realization finally hit them both.

She had uttered the words aloud.

Half expecting him to blow out fuming, the woman tried to pry herself off his fevered body, but his hands reigned like iron shackles over the inside of her spreading thighs.

"Do we?" He whispered lowly, whilst leaning in to steal another kiss from her again.

"We shouldn’t." She strained herself to say once more, and Aemond nodded, still chasing her lips with his.

She melted into his reluctant touch, and hummed against his beating heart. His hands dug deeply into her resting sides; his fingertips scattered over her translucent spine, leaving their possessive mark. "This isn’t right."

"I know, I know," He gasped, "Seven Hells, I know…"

"Yn nyke istan zarvīzis," He pressed a finger over her swollen lips, "Nyke emagon issare sīr sȳz se… sīr, sīr zarvīzis."

With the last ounce of her strength, she bit over his lower lip, dragging a wanton moan from out of his rosy lips.

"Ao aehron raqagon ao ȳdra daor jaelagon bisa..." He chanted, while latched onto her burning sear, "Yn ao jaelagon issa sepār hae olvie. Ao mazilībagon syt issa – sepār hae qosaevaerī."

His High Valyrian had made her dizzy. And at first, she tried to pay his words her mind, she tried to grapple and understand what he was saying.

A starved meowl left her panting lips.

"You can tell me to stop," The words that poured out of his mouth washed upon her like a rippled tide, "You can tell me to stop… and I will..."

Her body quickly arched against him; her shaky hands came to rest over his hips. She laced her mouth again with his, expecting rough, dominant kisses – but Aemond's hands propped themselves loosely against her cheeks, his thumbs pliantly stroking her with untoward devotion. His single eye drank her in with reverence.

"Please…" He whimpered into her mouth, "Avy jorrāelan." He confessed to her, again and again, trying his hardest not to take her against the cold floor – and not fuck her straight into the messy mattress.

Her limbs felt heavy. Lacking their autonomy. The body she was nestled in still wasn't her own.

"... Why?" She asked him disdainfully, sporadically, as his index finger came to pry open her haughty entrance.

His eye widened in perplexed ruin, but the Prince soon stumbled over his words again.

That bastard Jace must have taught her the gist of that.

"... I wish I knew." Came his sole and sincere reply.

Just like that, her eyes welled with the threat of tears.

His hands, his hold, his voice, his mouth. It was all wrong. In truth none could ever hope to feel right.

Flashes of her old lover, of his baby brother – who was so small the last she'd seen him –, of her sworn shield came into view. All of them, gone as if they never were. All of them, with their memories trampled deep beneath her sprawled-out form.

She wasn't a woman of the Faith. Not after what had happened. Not after the spoils of war that she, herself, felt like angry whips upon her skin. But her eyes fluttered close, and she begged the Mother for forgiveness, whilst a tear rolled off her ticking cheek.

She brought a hand to her wobbly lips, and began to violently rub away any remaining trace of Aemond's presence.

She was disgusted. With him, with herself, with the world, with the image of her Jace – that surged in her mind the second she blinked, the moment that she jolted awake in her misery.

On his end, (Y/N)'s display of pure abhorrence failed to falter Aemond's lustful grief. Why, if she did not desire him, did she fall into his arms again and again?

Love was the death of duty. And longing was the doom of all.

"Fucking cock tease…" The Prince growled, grief-stricken, "How much longer are you going to give into me, just to push me away?"

His patience had been running thin. The ache in his breeches was long forgotten. In its stead, the urgent sting in his heart dragged the man into the pits of madness. "What is it this time?" He groveled over her closed legs again.

Her recuperation had been jovial and quick. Adrenaline replaced the pain and shame, and the woman tried to get off the bed, put as much distance as she knew how in between her and the ravished Prince.

For the first time since he came to be, Aemond would not let her escape his clutches. As she moved backwards, he persisted forward – following her wobbly feet throughout the room with the spare of his predatory eye.

"Y-You said –" She tried ceaselessly to accuse him. "You said you wouldn't –"

"And you're right. I meant every. Single. Thing. I told you." He growled into her frightened ear, as his hands came to cage her, trap her under the seclusion of the hard, stone wall.

"You're mine." He hissed desperately, as he clasped her jaw to face him. "You've always been mine, you fucking harlot. From the moment you stepped foot into Harrenhal, your life belonged to me."

Perhaps Aemond was right, and she was nothing but a harlot. A treacherous swine that hung onto whatever he could give her - so starved and devoid of love and warmth, that she'd dare to stoop so lowly with him.

Aemond descended his unquenched rage over her exposed neck, and began leaving tender love bites all over, in spite of her lackluster pleas.

(Y/N)'s head felt like it was about to explode. She felt sick to her stomach – the wine and the distraught both built up inside of her. All she wanted now was to be left alone. For Aemond's touch felt oddly comforting, and her tired eyes began to close. "You drive me insane." She heard him choke.

She wanted to open her mouth. To urge the Prince to stop; but her word hole was sewn shut, taken over by the grip of feared confusion. While his hand hoisted her up by the waist again, her hand went around him, to grab onto whatever she could find. Finally, she stopped at the dragon-glass dagger, that securely latched onto Aemond's waist. Effectively, she wrapped her fingers around its silver hilt, and sheathed it out of its confinements.

"I swear on whatever God you want me to, I'll slit your throat if you don't stop touching me –" She wailed into Aemond's form, as she felt him stiffen up in tumultation.

His nostrils flared up at her attempt to intimidate him, and yet… his face looked most serene, as the cutting edge of the dagger reached close to his ivory skin. She raised her brows at him in utter surprise; for she expected him to surrender. His arms snaked away from her, and Aemond watched her intensely with his piercing gaze.

She could kill him, consequences be damned. And if she faced trial for this, then at least she'd have taken out a Green and Vhagar.

Her hand was shaking. Her breathing became erratic. She'd held a blade on multiple occasions; she'd fantasized about cutting Aemond's throat more times than she could bring herself to count. And yet…

His lack of movement – of worry – rattled her endlessly. She wanted to scream at him, to push him, to cut him. But for some reason couldn't bring herself to do it.

The realization that she just couldn’t do it made her almost drop the knife from the tight hold she'd kept it under.

"Why aren't you the least bit worried?" She spat out lowly, with her body trembling and her jaw set tight.

Aemond remained quiet and taciturn. His eye fixed her face carefully, and his hand gently wrapped around her quivering wrist. "Come on now…" He whispered to her, and watched how her eyes filled with the endless tears of frustration, how the hot droplets rolled down her reddened cheeks.

It would take another moment for her to drop the blade.

A moment she would forever grow to resent.

"I fucking hate you." She hissed through a breathless sob.

Oh, how she wished to hate him. Hate him as she did when they first clashed swords. Hate him as she did when she heard Jace talk about Lucaerys' death.

"Liar." Aemond rasped in acknowledgment.

And, just like that, the damage had been done. The blade rested back into his hand within an instant, and Aemond hit the wall behind her with murderous intent. "Fucking liar." He whispered again, breathing less and less sporadically, trying to wash his nerves away.

"I have been so good to you. But no matter what I do, it'll never be enough for you. Hmm?" He shook his head adamantly, and dug his fingers into the cold tiles of the cursed stronghold. "I am a patient man. But I will not wait a minute longer."

Her face twisted into a painful scowl, and the girl pushed over his chest roughly, but Aemond was quick to deny her exit. "This is not ideal," He muttered lowly to himself, "Yet you need to be taught a lesson."

"What are you d–"

Her words died upon her lips. Aemond hummed in dissatisfaction, and immediately brought the blade into her view.

She let out a scream of pure horror, but his pliant mouth silenced her with a scorching kiss. Her whole body was shaking, and the Prince Regent let out a frustrated sigh.

"Cease your crying, you hateful woman." He chastised her cruelly, "The fucking Gods sent you to ruin me."

At that moment, she wasn't above pleading. Her knees wobbled in place, and her orbs frantically searched for a way out. For something to grip and swing at the man before her.

Aemond's eye softened at the sight of her. Despite the pang of guilt he felt, a teasing and self-assuring smirk formed at the corners of his upturned lips.

So Jacaerys hadn't told her. He never mentioned their Valyrian way to her.

His triumphant feat soon washed away, as her trembling hands came into contact with his. "Ÿdra daor dīnagon, issa gevie Dāria. Nyke jāhor dōrī jaelagon naejot ōdrikagon." He told her adherently, truthfully, despite the obvious language barrier.

He took a moment to regain his composure. Grab a hold of her balled-up fists and remember the ancient words he'd only ever read about in his history books.

"Hen lantoti ānogar. Va sỹndroti vāedroma."

He ripped the sleeve from his linen shirt, and placed it over their entwined fingers.

"Mēro perzot gīhoti. Elēdroma iārza sĩr. Izuli ampā perzī."

The blade finally pressed down, over the softness of his left palm. Aemond winced at the sudden pain, and made a mental note to only nick the frightened girl with it, when the time came for that.

"Prūmĩ lanti sēteksi. Hen jenỹ māzīlarion. Qēlossa ozündesi."

(Y/N)'s eyes widened to a comical amount. Somewhere along the way, it seemed, she grew aware of Aemond's intent. She refused to show her hand to him, placing them both behind her back, and holding on for her dear life.

He let out a disapproving grunt, and reached his bloodied hands to her, yanking her right hand from underneath her strong grasp.

"No! No –!" She kept on screaming, and the guards outside shifted in place, before they fell under their oath of silence once again.

The cold and slick edge of the dragon glass pressed lightly against her writhing palm. Aemond made a smaller cut, and carried on with his rapid mumbling.

"Sỹndroro öñö jēdo. Rỹ kīvia mazvestraksi."

His very fist came to cut over his lower lip. His gory hand then reached for her jaw, hammering her in her place, and a sharp sting reflected on her weary stance. Aemond profited off the moment, to ease the dagger into her waiting mouth.

The metallic taste flooded her senses – the girl saw red before her eyes, and failed to register how his fingers came upon his and her forehead, painting them over with a ghastly symbol.

The Targaryen Prince reached for her hand again, and pressed her wounded palm cohesively with his.

"Following the tradition of my House from before the Doom of Old Valyria, I, Aemond of House Targaryen, bind myself to (Y/N) of House Tully, by blood, by soul, by life –"

"NO!"

" – And I pledge to her: that we are now one flesh, one heart, one body. Now and forever."

As he finally pried his limbs away from her trapped body, Aemond allowed his lips to feathery trace over her twisted mouth. She glanced at him, with wide-set and teary eyes.

"Fuck your fucking pledge."

Some grand venue she received.

A single question hung loosely into the air.

"Are you going to rape me now?"

She scarcely registered her own words as they left her mouth.

Aemond's eye widened at her query, and the Targaryen bit over his lower lip, as a deep grimace morphed the fairness of his features. He looked almost dumbfounded by her made assumption.

As soon as it came, the look of utter betrayal left his face.

"You would slit my throat with the knife." Was his mere reply.

***

Sometime along the night, he left.

The mighty roars of Vhagar registered themselves in the far-away distance.

That night, and only that night, she allowed herself the sacrilege of prayer. And she did so, again and again, pleading to the Seven for a blind arrow to reach his neck.

On the back of Vhagar, Aemond shuddered away from the impossible waves of heat, that licked deliciously at his stiffened cock; whenever her breathing would reach his ears, he felt tortured, trapped beneath the swell of lust and wanton desire.

Despite his abhorrent decision, he knew what their marriage meant. He knew all too well what his cruel bind had done, and yet… he felt no plausible remorse for the situation at hand.

The support of Storm's End, Floris Baratheon, Alys – mere casualties compared to the brink of having her, to knowing that she was finally his, as he was wholly hers.

Eventually, she'd have to love him. Eventually, she'd learn to do so.

A marriage wasn't a marriage until it was consummated. But he would give her, as he had promised, the illusion of choice, if nothing else.

As the cold night's air whipped his face again and again, and as Vhagar's thundering resounded over the burnt trees of the Riverlands, Aemond sighed, and brought a shaky hand to the strings of his breeches.

Scared as she was, his Lady made for a beautiful bride. It was such a shame that he didn’t get to see her wear the traditional Targaryen gown.

The pad of his thumb trailed over the cut he'd made – the same cut that now rested over her extended palm.

The flesh would scar, he thought, well pleased; whenever he looked at her, he'd get to see how she was undeniably his.

A possessive growl etched from his parted lips. Images of her paling skin, of her laugh. Her smile. The way her eyes bore into him, as if she always knew something he didn’t.

Leisurely, he began to pump his cock. Below him, Vhagar let out an anguished roar.

"Nyke gīmigon, Vhagar. Gīmigon."

Droplets of precum rolled over his clenching digits, coating his knuckles and the base of his shaft in a translucent, but thick ropes.

He groaned desperately, aching to relieve his frustration deep within her, but alas…

His gruff moans filled the air around him; and Aemond could feel his climax building up, as visions of her flooded his thoughts.

How she would feel underneath him. How she would writhe on the edge of bliss, begging, pleading for him to finally take her.

He could feel her legs wrapping around him, and feel himself sliding inside her with ease, praising her for being so good to him.

He wrapped Vhagar's bridle tight over his arm, and secured himself better in his leather saddle. His grip tightened around his dripping cock, but it was just not good enough.

The pace with which he fucked his hand picked up in a wilding speed. Aemond sighed in pleasure, and felt his hips move to their own accord. His breathing became rugged. His very mind was not his own.

He wondered what other scars her body bore. What the story behind them was, and how many of them came by his swift undoing.

Would she lie down and let him take care of everything? Or would she want to stay on top, jumping up and down on him, each time with a harsher thrust?

His hips rose and fell with his less than gentle pace, and the man pushed his length deeper into his steadfast grip.

He knew that if she let him touch her, he wouldn't be leaving her bed for weeks. He would pull countless orgasms from her, time and time again, until she begged for him to stop. He would have her so full of his seed, so the Gods' help him, that she would swell with his child – his trueborn child – before the rise of the first rays of sun.

Feeling his release beckon, the Prince set on a final rhythm, one that left his loins more in need than ever. With a loud hiss, he pushed himself inside his fist one final time, spilling his seed onto the saddle beneath him.

He panted wildly into the night, and suddenly opened his lustful eye, allowing a tear of ecstasy to roll off his scarred cheek.

"Se Jaes daoriot rȳbagon naejot nykeā vala raqagon issa. Yn nyke jāhor jikagon va issa knees se kostilus zirȳla naejot ivestragī issa emagon ao. Ao issi issa rōva botagon se se olvie rivaestra lambraes aohvra."

He couldn't keep up the charade with her. He would tell her all about it, once things finally settled down.

Word in Harrenhal traveled fast.

First it was her brash arrival. Then her impromptu marriage.

No one dared to talk to her. Yet she was never without the indiscreet eyes that followed her about.

Her situation wasn't without its ups and falls: Aemond felt no need to guard her as stiffly anymore – For where would the former Tully go, now that she bared his Targaryen name?

She was allowed to breach into some castle corners, always in the company of hefty guards, of course, and basked herself in some new acquired perks of freedom.

On the same account, whilst Alys remained loyal to her role as her lady-in-waiting, the tension between them couldn't have been more pain-strikingly high.

"I never asked for this. You must believe me."

She gave the younger woman a domineering stare, and only shook her head, obliged.

"And yet here you stand, inside his bed."

Word in Harrenhal spread fast – like a fire left unattended, like the so-called "Targaryen madness".

But a new, particular rumor gobbled the attention of everyone present.

Daemon Targaryen was to return to the Riverlands. And with him and Caraxes, he'd bring forth the formerly wild dragon, Sheepstealer, mounted by none other than Nettles.

The Lady had been acquainted with the bastard girl before – when the Sowing of the Dragon Seeds reveled in their first borne crops.

Another troubling report came forth. King's Landing had been secured by Rhaenyra.

When (Y/N) heard the news be whispered, she almost collapsed on her knees in glee. This must have marked the end of it. Surely, the usurpers would be put through the sword, leaving all to be well, and right again.

The Greens would die. They would face trial.

The Greens.

Indeed, word in Harrenhal spread fast. And she'd just been made the wife of the cruelest of them all.

Dread filled her insides. Her eyes cast their darkened shadow over the walls of the cursed Keep. A single, fundamental truth raised strongly from her anxious wallowing.

If Daemon Targaryen should find out about her marriage to his nephew, and get to her first… naught of the loyalty of the Riverlords would have a single say in her decided fate. And she would meet her end by the way of his blade, Dark Sister.

Now, more so than ever, it was pivotal for her to escape.

The clock was ticking.

And she was running out of time.

***

Her last day in Harrenhal was spent making plans. She'd rubbed her temples a myriad times, and paced about the room in a dizzying trot.

It wasn’t enough for her to disappear – she had to ensure everyone else thought she was gone.

When Aemond returned, she beckoned his call by jumping to her ready feet. The girl took him in, in his devillished state, and merely raised her brows at him. Whenever she saw him, the nick on her palm and lip itched at her relentlessly.

Neither was willing to recognize aloud what had transpired two moons ago, but both knew the inevitable punishment that would come with Aemond's actions.

He took a seat by the edge of their bed, and took his dagger out to play with it.

In vain he had asked Alys to share with him what she could see. She laid in broken, cradling her forming bump – the one she so desperately tried to hide away from him. The one thing that once meant her protection and raise in rank, now could very well heed out her doom.

Her green eyes raised from the floor below them, and Alys merely shook her head.

"There is fire, my Prince. Fire, and blood, and death."

"Going out to face two dragons is a death sentence." His deep voice rumbled through the silent chamber, "I can't afford that risk anymore with you involved."

And there it was. The silent admission of what he had done.

"We'll have to move from Harrenhal. You'll get to meet Daeron in Oldtown."

Was he sorry for what he did?

"It was about time you got acquainted with the rest of the family."

Aegon's cause was lucky that Storm's End was already too involved. They couldn't turn in their banners to the other front. Not now.

"It's a wonderful idea." She uttered in a glacial tone, barely above a whisper. "When will we depart?"

Sharpened orbs came in contact with the loneness of a purple eye.

The man took in a sparring breath, and hummed at her obedient retreat. The Prince's fist clenched over his cutting wound, and he nodded his head firmly.

"Should we be graced with the Gods' favor, issa jorrāelagon, then on the morrow," He explained, "but no sooner than that."

The girl's brows furrowed in discontent, as Aemond faltered in pressing the matter further. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with the aid of two long fingers, and heavily rose from his seat.

"Don't wait for me tonight. I shall return to you in the morning. I have unfinished business to attend to."

Lack of air. And crippling fear.

Her tiny world had been thrown into the arms of chaos. But everything fell so perfectly into place.

As soon as Aemond had mounted Vhagar, as soon as her father of wings died upon the night's first watch, the woman sprung to her feet, and began her soul's ascent into the pits of the Seven Hells.

She started off by breaking in her tiny mirror, placing a goose feather pillow below and over it, to somehow mask the clefty noise.

Her long hair was the first to go. She began cutting it swiftly, using big and brisk movements to chop off as many of her luscious locks as she possibly could.

She ripped the mattress of the bed open with one of the bigger shards, and revealed Aemond's dried-up shirt, that she had tucked well under after washing it, long preparing it for that occasion.

Her stomach churned as her hand went to her chamber pot. Risking her own deniability, she submerged her digits deep within it, letting out a victorious huff as she brushed across a piece of cold felt.

The insides of the sack revealed fermented meat – putrid, more like. She scattered the final remains of it over the stone floor like a mad-woman, and ripped the latter pages of the book Alys had gifted her.

She would take the passage to the stables, and simply hope for the best.

Her eyes searched feverishly about the cluttered room, but the hammering in her heart stilled only as she gaped upon the lower left corner of the wall full of banners.

There it was. Exactly where Alys told her it was going to be.

She tore into the mattress further, spreading the wool around, and grabbed a hold of a piece of wood from the crackling fire.

May she be forgiven for what she was about to do.

Her shaky hands grasped the lumber strongly, and she let it roll in the middle of the room, allowing it to fall with a loud bang.

***

The sound of wailing screams echoed inside her head, scratching at her ears, to the point of making them almost bleed. The heat of the fire she caused fell over her skimpily clothed back, and the disgust she felt with herself was palpable against her tongue.

With every turn she took, she made herself another promise. She would not rest until the war would see its end. She'd never sleep warmly again, and forever remind herself of the sacrifice she had to make – of all the lives that she undoubtedly ended, if only to meet her selfish ends.

For once, this was not just Aemond's doing. This was her fault all alone.

Blinded by rage, and seething with fury, her feet carried her down the crooked set of stairs. The woman brought a hand up to her face, and coughed wildly in the back of it. She'd have to make a bold turn soon. Then the outside world would heed, and she would be free again.

With just a twinge of luck, the guards should think that whatever was left of her room collapsed upon herself inside. Her burnt hair and clothes would create the wanted look – the meat would add the unmistakable smell of rot and death, and the lack of an actual body would take days to figure out.

And she prayed. She prayed, she prayed, she prayed: that no one else knew of the passages that she was threading through below.

Her eyes could barely see in front of her. Smoke rose to unforgiving levels, and the Lady swore it could be cut even by the dullest knife. As she reached the crossroads of the secret tunnel, her hands came to grapple at the breeches' pockets, turning them inside out – trying to find the torn pages of the book she'd just previously carried.

A sigh of relief rumbled from within her throat, as the pads of her shaking digits stroked across the withered, olden pages.

Her relief would be short lived.

Boney hands snaked around her, and the girl nearly screamed – until the familiar scent of mint and wild berries floored her senses.

"Alys?!" Her voice let out in an exasperated high. "Alys, we need to hurry!"

But her able hands still hesitantly clung to the soft material of her shirt, digging so deeply into it, that she could rip it in a downward pull.

"You –" She began to say, but cut herself short as she momentarily closed her eyes.

No matter what, she couldn’t tell the Lady before her that she'd have sent her upon her death.

"You took a wrong turn. This isn't the right way towards the South Gates."

The adrenaline flooded her veins. Her heart was pumping wildly against her ears. Lady Tully only nodded, failing to process that Alys had, in fact, never given her access to such an option on the crudely drawn map.

"This way, (Y/N) – came quickly!"

Two sets of legs descended further into the murky passages of Harrenhal. At one point, the smoke had gotten so very thick, that both women had to feel their way out, by touching the corners of every tunnel that they surpassed.

When all seemed lost, Alys finally spoke, "Over here!" She yelled out to her, and latched onto Aemond's dampened shirt.

They stumble into each other, as the small opening of the stifling cellar reaches the South Gates. The witch stops hastily on her heel, and the young Lady nearly busts their cover.

A raid of soldiers came flocking out, with what then looked like tens of thousands of squealing maids. So frightened by their own demise, they bumped into the oak doors and onto each other – choosing to, instead of unlocking the main Gates, reach and pull at the other's hairs, cursing loud and wildly.

Alys let out a bemused huff at their perused antics, but her reglament was short lived; as one of the smarter lassies reached for the illustrious piece of wood, and opened the doors with the loudest of creak.

"Now's our chance," The Lady of Riverrun whispered to her fellow escapee, grabbing onto her wrist harshly, and dragging her out and into the light. "Mingle in the crowd, Alys –"

"My Lady, do not stray far –"

The older woman let out a staggering breath, as she raised her skirts to follow suit on the trail left by the hot-headed girl.

She is Elmo's daughter alright, she disarmingly told herself, Just as hopeless and reckless as he once was.

Alys almost tackled her to the ground, as Lady Tully succumbed herself deeper into the burnt out forest. She gripped onto her hands with hers, so harshly, that she'd definitely leave her mark. "I thought I had told you not to stray far."

The breathless form of the lost child before her appeared to be enough to soften a tad of her resolve. "When I tell you something, I expect you to do it."

Whilst chastising her deeply for her foolhardy behavior, the woman searched her pockets, and pushed out two quarter silvers into her trembling hands.

"You'll go towards the Rushing Halls and buy yourself a mule from the Half Calf's Inn."

As the younger Lady nodded feverishly at her late advice, Alys clasped her cheeks with her hands, and brought her head further towards her. "You'll keep a straight line to the Green Fork. You won't stop to eat or drink – you won't stop until you reach Hag's Mire. Make sure to cover the cut on your hand with this." As she spoke, Alys pushed a black glove into her resting hands.

The Bliss of Riverrun threw the witch a bewildered look. Her eyes searched adamantly for hers, and the woman panted out in pure wonder. "How did you know I intended on migrating North?

"I've already seen you do it." She shook her shoulders promptly, "I've already seen you succeed."

Her green eyes softened, if only for a blazing moment; but the crackling of the trees behind them snapped her out of her inward trance. "Don't waste anymore time. Your diversion was smart, but he will try to find you."

The girl reached down, to squeeze her hands, perhaps, in a wordless display of gratitude and affection. Her soft fingers interlaced over her boney knuckles, and Alys muttered a faint blessing over the twisted arch of her furrowed brow.

The Lady turned around, but not before pausing and shooting the witch one last fiery look. "Come with me." She offered determinedly, and shook her head strongly as Alys took a step back. "He'll try to punish someone for it. You're his next available girl." She begged her to see to reason.

"My place remains here. By his side."

(Y/N)'s eyes hardened at her thorough admission, but she strained herself to shoot the wet nurse back with a curt nod.

"I shan't forget what you did for me." She promised her elder with a minute smile.

"A heads-up when you next decide to set the whole stronghold on fire would be most appreciated…!" She lightheartedly told her, despite the obvious wabbling of her lower lip.

(Y/N) nodded, but remained hammered in place for another while. Alys' hand reached to cup over her face, but a brisk moment of clarity was quick to change her mind.

"Go, you foolish girl…!" She snapped, "Make good use of that promise you made."

Her feet began moving on their own accord. Her mind was blazing with all of the unfinished tasks at hand.

She would run towards the Rushing Halls. Buy a mule. Retreat towards Green Fork. Reach the Twins.

Her road shall lead to Winterfell. If Forrest Fray remained the same kind fool that he once was, she should have no trouble sending Cregan Stark a raven.

And if she could reason with Jacaerys' friend, take in his testimony of protection, perhaps her life wasn't lost just yet.

The gusts of wind ran through her shortened and unkempt hair. Aemond's clothes hung loosely over her, and the stench of fire and ash filled her nostrils with something else other than hopeless dread.

Never before in her life, did the girl run so fast.

Taglist:

Translations:

Gevie… = Beautiful;

Gaomagon daor sagon zūgagon, issa dōna jorrāelagon. Nyke kivio ao naejot sagon gīda. = Do not worry, my sweet love. I promised you I would be patient;

Mēre tubis ao jāhor jaelagon issa. = One day you will desire me;

Se Jaes emagon qrimbrōstan issa naejot jorrāelagon ao. = The Gods have cursed me to love you;

Gīda ilagon, Vhagar. Sagon nykeēdrosa... Sȳz hāedar. = Calm down, Vagar. Be still. Good girl;

Jaes, ao istan vēttan syt issa. = Gods, you were made for me;

Sepār jurnegon skorkydoso īlon kostagon fāelor hēnkirī. = Just look how perfectly we fit together;

Dōna hāedar… ȳdra daor hakogon qrīdrughagon hen issa sir = Sweet girl… don't pull away from me now;

Yn nyke istan zarvīzis. Nyke emagon issare sīr sȳz se… sīr, sīr zarvīzis. = But I've been patient. I've been so good and… so, so patient;

Ao aehron raqagon ao ȳdra daor jaelagon bisa... = You act like you don't want this…;

Yn ao jaelagon issa sepār hae olvie. Ao mazilībagon syt issa – sepār hae qosaevaerī. = But you want me just as much. You ache for me – just as badly.

Ÿdra daor dīnagon, issa gevie Dāria. Nyke jāhor dōrī jaelagon naejot ōdrikagon. = Don't cry, my beautiful Princess. I would sooner die than hurt you;

Valyrian Wedding Vows: Blood of two, joined as one, ghostly flame, and song of shadows, two hearts as embers, forged in fourteen fires, a future promised in glass – the stars stand witness, of the vow spoken through time, of darkness and light;

Nyke gīmigon, Vhagar. Gīmigon. = I know Vhagar, I know;

Se Jaes daoriot rȳbagon naejot nykeā vala raqagon issa. Yn nyke jāhor jikagon va issa knees se kostilus zirȳla naejot ivestragī issa emagon ao. Ao issi issa rōva botagon se se olvie rivaestra lambraes aohvra. = The Gods don't listen to men like me. But I would go on my knees and beg them to let me keep you. You were once the bane of my existence… and now, you find yourself the center of it.

#aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #the harshest winters #aemond imagine #aemond fanfiction #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys strong #house of the dragon #jacaerys valaryon #jacaerys imagine #jacaerys angst #aemond smut #bookcanon aemond targaryen #dark aemond x reader #dark aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #yandere aegon targaryen #unhinged aemond yep yep

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ronearoundblindly · 3 months

Text

Heat Tank

Johnny Storm x ghost!reader from the Phantom Pleasure series

One of my Valentine's Fics for 2024. Prompt: A kiss in relief. WC 782

Summary: Though you've grown closer, Johnny has spent months unable to touch you. As a spirit, you are attracted to heat, so there's a chance his energy can actually offer you a form--if only temporarily--for him to see and feel. This is Johnny's first chance to test the Heat Tank.

The science of the structure makes no sense to Johnny, but he knows he has permission to go supernova while inside. The venting and dispersion will work for a prolonged period, and as an unexpected bonus, Richards was able to channel the energy to heat the entire block.

Johnny doesn’t care about that.

Why he needs the Tank is vague, but the Four know Johnny rarely asks for technology unless absolutely necessary. If it can help prevent any direct damage to the brownstone or the neighborhood, Reed and Sue are on board.

The apparatus is simply a more powerful version of the original assessment chamber in the Baxter Building, less the flaw where his maximum temp can melt the walls.

Johnny does the song and dance, listens to the explanation of controls—door stays locked until a specific sensor reads below 110* F—and then dismisses Reed and his sister to go out to dinner or whatever it is they do. He doesn’t pay attention after the necessities.

He contemplates inviting you in verbally, but instead lights his hand. That’s your ghost-equivalent of an attractive offer: concentrated heat. If this works at all…

As soon as the thick door shuts, its pitch black save for his hand, and Johnny stokes the fire. He gets more and more nervous, letting the smooth, gradual increase boil atmosphere like a frog in the pot, until the first shapes of you lick through the distortion.

You’re here.

You’re really here—right there within reach—and he pushes for more, more heat, more pressure, more you.

There’s not one whole part of you that becomes clear first; it’s wisps of a hip, a curve of a jaw, leg. He simply watches intently, unable to hear over the roar of flame around him—around you both.

But he can hear your voice in his head so clearly, joking, poking fun at his needless intensity, his perpetual impatience.

Johnny…

I’m always here.

I’m not going anywhere.

You aren’t though. He wants more. For once in his constantly un-alone life, he wants just one thing: to see you, to be with you physically.

Then you’re there.

Suddenly, the nuance of oranges curve over every inch of you, and Johnny’s body feels hotter than it’s ever been, in pain or pleasure, in fear or safety. He’s on fire inside and out.

He hardly imagines what your skin will be like in his palm because the burnt clay undertone of it seems hard. If Johnny’s learned anything about you, “hard” would describe none of it. You’re malleable like amber and fragile as rust.

The shared presence of blood-red is the most you and Johnny have ever had in common to date, and yet he feels a connection in the destruction, the dispersion of his life-force. If only he could truly give himself to you…

His bare foot steps forward in a cloud of plasma and smoke, sliding through the blaze.

He is the only source of oxygen now. There is nothing but Johnny to galvanize life within the Tank, and he has a goal.

Touch her.

That’s all he has to do: suffer and incite thousands of degrees for a corporeal taste.

Just one. Just one touch. Just touch her.

But Johnny Storm has never settled for the bare minimum. He steals the whole show. He shoots all the way to the stars. He can’t be held back, and there’s no one who cares to hold him back.

Before he can close the distance between you, your arm raises, a palpable hand resting on his chest which he greedily covers with his own and continues. Onward to you. Nearer. Hotter. Sooner. Until he arrives, lips kissing the beautiful, pouting plume of your lips.

To his utter delight, you feel…cool like fog rolling over his molten skin, and his lungs fill with the contradiction, veins opened wide to the shock of dopamine injected by new.

Johnny’s power makes him impose on others—on the world—because he controls the climate around him. Climate never fights back.

You do. You can affect him, and he’s instantly addicted.

He’ll fuse straight to your soul if you let him. He’s that far gone in seconds. The chain reaction simply floods through him, and he pumps more and more heat out to keep you tangible.

He’ll die without friction. He can’t imagine living without.

He presses, smelting your essence into his memory and hoping.

Stay, he thinks. Stay even when I burn out.

The hand on his heart squeezes, a cool rock to rest his sweating skin upon.

You’re a balance. You can keep him grounded even after all the hot air of this life floats away.

A/N: well, I'm really praying that read as interesting rather than confusing because I've had to come up with odd ways to describe how Johnny and a ghost can interact. Had this idea for Reader to be attracted to heat (i.e. her consciousness gathers around that energy which is the only time she can kinda really *think*) for a while, and it struck me that it would be novel to have a cold kiss be more tantalizing for the Human Torch. Anyway, I overthink everything, so yep, all is fine here!

Jake Jensen and a kiss to distract ⬅️➡️ Ransom Drysdale and a kiss as a yes

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#valentine's day fanfic #valentine's day prompts #johnny storm fanfiction #johnny storm x reader #johnny storm x you #johnny storm imagine #phantom pleasure

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strongheartneteyam · 12 days

Text

I wet you like water but she stained you like blood.

Pairing: widowed!dilf!jake sully x younger!female!human!reader

CW: slight sexual language, can be triggering to some, heartbreak, age gap kink, hurt/no comfort, age gap relationship problems, angst, reader reminiscing (pls tell me if I missed anything)

So, yeah... I never know when I'm gonna come back with another writing. My hiatus n working periods are all a bit unpredictable lol sorry. Anyways... I literally spent the whole night awake n I was struck by a sudden lightning of creativity early in the morning and I edited this chapter n wrote a bit more, but I still haven't slept at all, so, I apologize if some parts of this make no sense at all. I'll fix it when I can. Hope you guys like it <3 ily guys a whole lot :)) obs: this chapter is a shorter one.

Slightly proofread.

Chapter 4 𓆩♡𓆪

They say all's well that ends well

But I'm in a new hell every time you double-cross my mind

You said if we had been closer in age maybe it would've been fine

And that made me want to die

The idea you had of me, who was she?

A never-needy, ever-lovely jewel whose shine reflects on you

All Too Well - 10 minutes Version (Taylor Swift)

𓆩♡𓆪

It had been 1 year since the last time you saw Jacob Sully. Or Jakey, like you used to call him. The wound never healed. It still throbbed and bled every time you remembered the words he told you that dreadful day. "I think we should stop seeing each other." It felt like you would never get over him. How can one get over such an overpowering, raw feeling? He marked you forever, like a bruise that seemed to never disappear from your skin.

The flashback came like thunder in a storm, haunting your thoughts with a loud pain that echoed through your mind. What you told Jake that night.

“The truth is I love you. The truth is I can't take this anymore. I'm giving you my everything but you don't seem to be doing the same. You're still guarded.” There was a tense period of silence “Jake… I love you. But I don't think you feel the same.”

Maybe you shouldn't have said anything. Maybe if you had kept your mouth shut, he would still be with you.

Ugh!! Stop that, now, (y/n)! Some self love, please? You're better than this. You deserve better.

You tried to convince yourself of that, at least.

The pain was unbearable at times and almost easy to conceal at other times. It depended on how distracted with work or your studies you were. These days you ran to any distraction that could ease the perpetual angst that squeezed your heart inside its hands all the fucking time. It had been like that ever since Jake left you. What were you expecting anyway? You should have known you were never truly loved by Jake. The love of his life was Neytiri and it would always be, alive and walking through Pandora or dead and with Eywa.

It felt beyond weird to have to hear people talking about Jake and have to pretend he was a stranger to you, someone you barely knew, when he had actually left a mark so strong on you, a memory ingrained in your brain, a feeling, a pain buried inside your heart that made you want to scream and hit your head against a wall. That's how much it hurt.

You would never have his body against yours again, warming you up when it was cold, after you spent the whole day in that damn lab, studying Pandoran plants but all you could really concentrate on was how much you missed his reassuring, protective presence. He made you feel safe for the first time in your life. But now he is gone. Just like every single good thing you ever had in your life. But you know what? Maybe your mother was right, maybe love wasn't really something that could ever last forever.

Did Jake ever really make a real effort to be with you? Thinking back, it was extremely easy for him to just come to you and fuck you anytime he felt sad and lonely. What if you had just been a naive, dumb girl all this time? Were you mourning a love that never actually

existed? It was always so hard to talk to him about his feelings for you, he never actually let you in, to be honest. All the time you two spent together, you were never able to know if he ever saw you as a partner or just a fuck buddy.

Oh, but the high… it was worth all the lows. The butterflies in your stomach every time you guys were almost caught fucking in the back of your work room by Norm. Eventually you guys had to tell him about your situationship because, oh well… he already knew what was going on, really. Norm is not a fool or a child. He could add 2 plus 2.

The adrenaline was worth all the tears. And, fuck… you would do it all over again in a heartbeat.

𓆩♡𓆪

Taglist:

@aonungsoneandonly

@coldbabyheroin

@fairyyrosee

@myh3artttt

@explosiongamora

@ufiy

@yeosxxx

@happyyappysworld

@avatar4eva

@henhouse-horrors

@jakesullyfatjuicypeen

@fujimoribaby

@layla2-49

@zoetrope1997

@yeosxxx

@luvv4j4ybe11

@bakugouswaif

@slytherdor01

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her-satanic-wiles · 3 months

Text

Masterlist ⛧ Lost in Translation Masterlist ⛧ Ao3

Words: 13.1k.

Reading Time: 53 min.

Warnings: biting, caught having sex, cheating?, corruption kink, cum eating, cum kink?, creampie, cunnilingus, detailed depression, detailed panic attacks, dry humping, exhibitionism, face sitting, feelings of lonliness/abandonment, low self-esteem, marking, mild mind break, naked woman clothed man, pain kink, poor mental health, primal kink?, public sex, salirophilia, spanking, taint tickling (woohoo!), under the influence?, unprotected sex (wrap the shlang before you bang m’dudes), vaginal sex, worship,

Please note that some of these tags are a smidge inaccurate if you want to talk about specifics, but they’re the closest thing I can think of to give you somewhat of a warning without actually spoiling anything. Like, they’re under the influence but not of drugs or alcohol, and everyone’s consenting but they’re also kind of not in their right mind as well but they’re not under the influence. Like it’s not primal, but it is mind hazy/breaky animalistic in a sense so like? Idk how to tag it. You’ll get it when you read it but if these are triggers for you then I’d recommend just skipping.

Taglist: @zombiesnips-blog @da-rulah @teenage-birt-dag @ellenokumura @thew0man @sodoswitchimage @the-real-eggplany @deathmimedream @love-is-all-you-need-13 @kadedoesthings @rosyerato @xshadyladyx @popiaswife @perpetratorwithaquill @punkiy50 @onlyhereforghost @kaijukimchi @copiaspet622

As the newly appointed Cardinal Copia struggles with the weight of a looming prophecy, a resilient scholar challenges the narrative, uncovering a conspiracy that reaches beyond the walls of the Ministry. The emergence of a forbidden love ignites a rebellion against a power-hungry Sister, whose thirst for control threatens to reshape the very foundations of the Church. Will the revelation of those schemes lead to liberation or plunge the Ministry into chaos?

Previous Part ⛧ Next Part

🔞 MDNI 🔞

The snake was watching you the whole time, its marble eyes staring into your soul and laying it almost as bare as your physical body. There was no judgment, quite the opposite actually. It was praising you, egging you on as Copia’s hands held your thighs down so he could get at your cunt from beneath you.

Your sodden folds dripped onto his face the more he sucked on your clit, getting wetter and wetter with your arousal and his added saliva. Your hips bucked wildly of their own volition, his tongue dragging across your core as you took your pleasure from his mouth. Your habit had been hiked up to your waist, allowing Copia full access to your core. All the while, your eyes were locked onto the snake, moans echoing throughout the ancient library.

You felt sinfully filthy. The library that was once your private sanctuary away from the stresses of daily life now lay underneath your knees, reverberating your wanton sounds as you traded knowledge for lust. Once again, Copia’s moustache tickling your clit with each thrust of your hips, causing one of your hands to tangle in his locks. Your clit would occasionally hit against his nose as you rubbed yourself against him, crying out ever louder at the feel of his warm breath hitting your core. He was pinned beneath you, there was nowhere he could go so easily - yet there you were, trapping him with your thighs and clasping onto his hair for extra security.

Copia let this happen - he allowed you to jump his bones after the library closed for the night and it was just the two of you. You looked divine anyway, all sleepy and eyes slightly red from the dim light of your office as you’d worked for hours upon hours deciphering that text, starved of any touch from him as all of his advances were met with pleas for concentration. When you locked eyes with him towards the end of the night, after Sibling Riley had dragged you out for some fresh air, you were delirious, ravenous, downright feral - and Copia was rock hard.

He lay on the cold floor, in the shadow of the snake, both hands on you and ignoring his own arousal, dedicating his body to you and you alone. He buried his tongue wherever your desperate cunt would let him, inside your hole, over your taint, sucking on your clit. He was still learning your body, everything that made you tick, everything that made you scream his name so the whole Ministry could hear exactly who was turning you into a filthy animal. The quiet librarian, on her knees in front of Lucifer as the unholy connection between Earth and Hell was at her mercy.

The orgasm you had was so mind-numbingly good, you heard your drool hit the laquered floor beneath you. It was all electric shocks bursting from your cunt and splitting every single one of your nerve endings in half, freezing your body and curling your toes as you were leaking all over your lover’s big nose.

Your body felt numb, like it wouldn’t respond even if you forced it to. Somehow, you weren’t sure how, you remained upright, on your knees and steady. You vaguely registered your habit being lifted over your head and hearing Copia’s groan when he discovered you were bra-less and completely nude for him. You hadn’t heard the zipper of his jeans drop.

You felt your flesh being trapped roughly between his teeth as he bit your ass, your back, your shoulder blade, your neck, and finally your ear. That was taken into his mouth as he pushed into your cunt, already sloppy and and prepped enough for him to just slide all the way in with no resistance. Another groan escaped Copia when he bottomed out, the vibrations of the deep noise standing all your hairs on end.

It had been days without you, despite Copia’s attempts at getting into your pants then having to accept the rejection when he saw how stressed you were over these translations. He had already found himself becoming addicted to you after he entered you for the first time back in London, and the last few days had been damn near punishing without you. Sliding into you felt like the closest to Heaven he’d ever be, and he, too, felt the effects of the snake’s eyes on him. He felt more animalistic in his needs - his mind so clouded that fucking you in the middle of the public library felt like the only thing he ever needed to do.

Every drag of his cock against your walls was heightened by the haze clouding both of your minds, driving you to carnal lust and only that. You were so far gone from your stress and now your relief, that you just couldn’t form sentences at all. Your mind only focussing on the feel of his length ramming into you hard and slow, hitting your cervix with enough force to have your whole body shaking. Copia, on the other hand, was unable to shut up. His words slurring between the Italian expletives and the filth that was spewing from his mouth.

“I can feel you squeezing every time the door rattles, amore. Do you like knowing that someone could walk in and catch you on my cock, hm? The way you’re moaning, I would think you want them to come in and watch. Or is this performance for the Dark One only, amore? Cazzo! You’re so fucking tight for me.”

He smiled at the sound you made in response, a deep chuckle sounding at the back of his throat. His tongue caught between his teeth as he hissed at a particular thrust that felt so, incredibly delicious, he thought he’d go insane. His hands moved to your shoulder blades, situating right in the centre and he pushed you down onto your elbows, moaning at the way your back arched and your ass jiggled with each snap of his hips.

His hand came down and landed on your asscheek, making it jiggle a little more, his lips catching between his teeth as he watched the skin turn redder and redder. You clenched around his cock at the feeling, which only egged him on to do it again.

Slap.

Slap!

By the third one, your clit was dying for attention, and so you reached down and started playing with yourself, your fingers working quickly over the bundle of nerves in the dire need to reach orgasm. Copia’s large hands reached your hips, and pulled on them, gripping them so hard they might bruise. His pace was unforgiving at that point, just taking what he needed from you as you continued to get tighter and tighter around him, closer to orgasm. Your ass ricocheted off of him with each snap of his hips, the sound combining with the stickiness of your cunt and the noises coming from it had Copia’s cock twitched. You were so wet and pliant for him, a good girl using him and letting him use you. He could hardly breathe, and you could feel him all the way up into your stomach.

“Cumming!” That was all the warning you could give before your fingers, frantically stroking at your sensitive clit, had now worked you into your second orgasm of the evening. Your cunt quivered as each wave of your climax hit, sending him into his own. His hips jerked to a stop, each thrust still as rough as the last but slow in their hits, a grunt slipping out of his mouth with each one. His cum poured deep into you, and you were so sensitive you could practically feel it.

But Copia wasn’t done with you yet.

He lay back underneath you, pulling your pussy back down onto his mouth and began licking and sucking away again, your cry so much louder than either of you had anticipated. His tongue worked deep into your core while your hips slid across his face, once again rubbing your clit against his nose. He made short work of your third orgasm, especially with you knowing that he was sucking his own cum out of your messy cunt with such fervour, you were surprised he didn’t want to bury himself deep inside you again and take you one more time. But, once you’d finished shaking, he gave your ass two playful taps before sitting up and pulling you into his arms, both of you kneeling on the cold floor panting and gasping for air, your minds clear and your bodies nude and sweaty from the exertion.

You were the one to break the silence first - not with words, but with laughter. Your body was doing its own thing, trembling in his arms from the adrenaline that was beginning to leave your body, as was your sanity by the sounds of it. Copia pressed kisses over your face, fervent, loving kisses as he rocked you gently. “Are you okay, amore?” He asked, his voice a whisper.

You nodded. Though your brain regained some of the clarity it lost when you first saw Copia, you were still very much fucked out of your head, to the point where you could still feel it spinning. “Sleepy.” You told him simply.

“Non sono sorpreso. When was the last time you had a good night’s sleep, eh?”

You chuckled. “Right back at you, Cardinal.”

“You’re right,” he relented easily, rubbing his fingers up and down your arm, “let’s get you dressed and back to my room, hm?”

“Why? So you can ruin me again?” You teased.

“Maybe in the morning.”

Warm light filled the room as the gentle morning light entered through the open drapes. You awoke slowly from a sound sleep, and the unfamiliar surroundings of Copia’s bedroom became clear. There was a wrapping of calm in his private quarters, even with the distant, rhythmic noises of the Ministry humming in the background, the day beginning as usual for everyone there.

With the softness of dawn light on his features, Copia lay alongside you. His dark hair was all over the pillow, and his chest was rising and falling in a pattern that suggested he was sleeping soundly.

Recollections of the previous night surged back as awareness engulfed you. The hours you spent translating the unholy scripture, the pounding you received in front of the Statue of Eden, the jokes you told each other, and the private talks you had in Copia’s chamber felt unreal, but the fact that he was there to support you kept it grounded.

You shifted slightly, careful not to disturb his slumber, and took a moment to observe the details of the room. Curiosity eventually got the better of you, and so, as if you were someone straight out of a movie, you gripped onto one of the blankets that sat on the bed and wrapped it around your body to preserve your modesty. You could have put your habit back on, but you also needed a shower, and you had no idea what Copia had planned for you. With your new and unusual outfit draped precariously around your body, you slowly began to tiptoe around his room, getting a sense of who he was when he wasn’t in charge of an entire religious sect.

A plethora of volumes from all genres and eras filled the bookshelves, which was a testament to Cardinal Copia’s wide-ranging interests and tastes. Every spine appeared to tell a story as you read the titles: A collection of philosophical essays and reflections. Another book indicated Copia’s love of music and seemed to delve into the mystical elements of melodic compositions.

There was an anthology of occult knowledge and rituals, showcasing Copia’s interest in the esoteric also sat upon the shelf, standing between a historical account, likely chronicling the rise and evolution of the Ministry under various leaderships; and a compilation of folklore and mythologies from different cultures, reflecting a broad interest in the stories that shape human imagination.

Turning the pages of “Infernal Insights: A Treatise on Satanism,” you found a comprehensive, multifaceted investigation into Satanism. The text analysed the ideology in detail rather than offering a straightforward defence or criticism.

The first section of the thesis addressed the development and historical foundations of Satanism, following its inception across many theological and cultural contexts. It explored the various ways that Satanism had been viewed and applied throughout history. It illuminated the symbolic aspects and intended spiritual or psychological repercussions of a number of Satanic rituals and practices by providing in-depth explanations of them. The author looked at the ways in which rituals could be used to celebrate personal empowerment and establish a connection with Satan Himself. You pondered the number of these rites that Copia had carried out and the number that he would carry out with you.

As you placed the book back on the bookshelf, your curiosity continued to guide you through Cardinal Copia’s private space. The transition from the bedroom to the main living area was seamless, and the atmosphere shifted as you stepped into a room adorned with a rich blend of Gothic aesthetics and modern comfort.

The space was centred on a large, antique wooden table that was flanked by luxurious chairs with velvet upholstery that radiated luxury and cosiness. A variety of candles in elaborate holders glowed on the table, creating shimmering shadows on the glossy top. The room’s furniture was tastefully mismatched, with a mix of modern and antique items that gave the space a distinctive look.

Copia watched you wander around his living room in nothing but blankets from the bed, and stayed in the doorway silently, smiling at your curiosity. You had no idea he was there until you turned to go to a different area of his apartment and saw him there, your eyes widened like a deer in the headlights and looking absolutely delectable.

He had a dark glint in his eye at the sight of you, cock hardening at your innocence. His lip trapped itself between his teeth as he stalked towards you, preparing to take his early-morning prize. He took you on that antique table, throwing the blanket on the floor and bending you over the wood so he could bury himself deep inside you and have you screaming out for him. Scratches appeared down his back at the force of his hips slamming into you. You walked to work that day with a limp, while he walked to work with his ears ringing from the sound of your pleasure.

Life carried on this way for some time - a few weeks at most. Every day, you’d translate the Chronicles, and then find yourself in Copia’s arms come nightfall, or even speared on his cock. Neither of which you complained about, of course, more than happy to be the one he looked for in the comfort of the night. He took you wherever he could: your office, the floor between the library shelves, in his room, his office. Any time he could get his hands on you, he absolutely would, and he’d never let you go once he had hold of you. All other responsibilities came second.

The haze that had fallen over the two of you dissipated just two days after that, and in that one moment, you felt the tides change for the rest of your life.

You were sat upon Copia’s desk, his head between your thighs and tongue lapping at your core when a knock at the door brought your pleasures to an end. The person who knocked didn’t bother waiting for an invitation, pushing the door open and cutting your activity short. Both you and Copia fumbled quickly, to both preserve your modesty and pretend that nothing had actually happened - though, your flushed cheeks and his wet chin was evidence enough.

“Ah, Sister!” Copia said, straightening his hair and trying to make himself presentable for Sister Imperator, whose face was eyeing both of you with a stern look plastered upon it - clearly unimpressed. “I didn’t expect you… here… today… right now.”

“No,” Sister Imperator said, her eyes raking over your body as you tried to straighten your habit, “clearly not. So this is why none of your work is getting done.”

“Sister, I can assure you that I’m not slacking.”

“You don’t need to be here for this, Sister.” She said, looking directly at you. “Off you go to your duties.” You looked briefly at Copia, and before he could say anything, she spoke. Her voice was filled with frustration now, “Now.”

“Yes, Sister.”

With your tail between your legs you quickly made your escape, closing the door tightly shut behind you. Nothing good would come of the Sister Imperatrix kicking you out like that, and your stomach dropped at the dread. It was only when you were walking back to the library, you realised that Copia still had your panties in his pocket.

Sister Aisha laughed at your dishevelled appearance when she saw you, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Look who finally graced us with her presence!” She teased.

Your face flushed with embarrassment, and you stammered in an attempt to regain composure. “I-I didn’t mean to disturb him! I just wanted to update him on my progress.”

Sister Aisha chuckled, “I think something else progressed judging by the state of you.” She moved around the desk to help straighten your clothes and make you presentable again.

Although the feeling of discomfort remained, Sister Aisha’s humorous manner calmed the mood. “Sister Imperator walked in on us. She kicked me out.”

Sister Aisha’s hands froze at your veil, her eyes widening slightly as she clearly understood what you were saying. Copia was getting a verbal lashing.

“Ah, these things happen,” Sister Aisha said with a playful wink. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

You nodded in response but your stomach still churned.

Sibling Riley raised an eyebrow at your disheveled state, walking over to the desk with a cart of returned books being dragged behind him. “Midday escapades, Sister?”

Before you could defend yourself, Sister Aisha interjected, “Our dear Sister here has become a muse for Cardinal Copia. A living, breathing inspiration, if you will.”

Sibling Riley smirked. “Oh, is that what they’re calling it these days? Inspiring Cardinals in the middle of the day?”

You groaned, the teasing from your companions proving relentless. “Can we please focus on the important matters at hand?”

Sister Aisha looked at Sibling Riley, her eyes widened, conveying a silent message. “Sister Imperator caught them - but everything’s fine, isn’t it, Sibling?”

Sibling Riley picked up what Sister Aisha was putting down. “Of course it is. So she caught you mid-fuck… not like you’re defying the Dark One or anything.”

You said, “You didn’t see the look on her face. It was like we were converting to Catholicism right in front of her.”

Sister Aisha, “Come off it. The Cardinal’s meant to be balls deep in anything that moves - Papa Terzo was.”

Sibling Riley, “He was removed, though.”

“For not sticking to the teachings of the Church, not for fucking as many people as he did.”

You sighed, feeling a mix of frustration and amusement at the absurdity of the conversation. “This really isn’t helping.”

“Listen,” Sibling Riley said, “you won’t get into trouble - you’re going to be fine, everything will be fine, okay? She probably kicked you out for Upper Clergy matters. I mean, let’s face it, you’re not exactly privy to the every day runnings of the church, are you?”

You took a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves and believe your friends. “You’re right. Thank you. I have work to do, and I’d rather not dwell on personal matters right now.”

Sibling Riley nodded, a hint of sincerity in their eyes. “Fair enough, Sister. We’re here for you, regardless.”

“Thank you.”

There was a hint of tension in the Ministry in the days that followed. The typical sibling banter and friendliness felt strained, and you were forced to contend with the knowing looks and quiet murmurs that followed you. Sibling Riley and Sister Aisha appeared to be watching you more intently, showing a mixture of wonder and worry in their expressions, in spite of their earlier assurances.

Your thoughts started to become troubled by Cardinal Copia’s lack of contact. Your concern increased with each passing second without hearing from Copia, and transcribing ancient writings felt like an uninteresting routine that just seemed to be a pointless waste of time, though you knew it wasn’t. The fact that the Upper Clergy had been radio silent, too, wasn’t lost on you.

Sister Imperator was a mysterious and powerful person in the Ministry who inspired terror in the hearts of many. Her acts were frequently surrounded by an air of secrecy and harshness, and her presence alone was capable of inspiring a trickle of piss to run down your leg when you least expected it. While your brain knew that you hadn’t done anything wrong, you still felt like a naughty schoolchild just waiting for punishment.

She never came to you. You were summoned to her.

One of her own Ghouls came to collect you in the days after Copia’s office, interrupting your work and walking you down the cold, unfeeling corridors you once used to marvel at. The whole Ministry felt darker, as though a witch had cast a curse on the place and was taking pleasure in the way you squirmed in discomfort. The long walk to Sister Imperator’s office felt like a murderer’s walk to the gallows - like you were about to be put to death for treason against the state.

The Ghoul knocked on the door, and the Sister’s voice boomed from behind the wood, inviting you both in. The Ghoul, speaking for the first time since pulling you out of your office, announced your presence, then promptly left.

Sister Imperator put her pen down, and turned her attention to you, her brown eyes scouring over your body again, as if she were studying you. “Ah, Sister,” she said, her tone much softer than it was the last time she saw you, unnervingly so, “welcome. Please, take a seat. Would you like anything to drink?”

You shook your head. “No thank you,” you told her as you sat on the chair in front of her desk.

“I apologise for distracting you from your work, but it turns out you and I have important business to discuss. As Sister Imperatrix of this Ministry, and close advisor to the Cardinal, it’s my duty to act on the Cardinal’s behalf when he’s unable to do so. Now, it’s come to my understanding that you and the Cardinal have been… spending some time together, yes?”

“Yes. He asked me to help him translate-”

“I know. You both got carried away since then, hm?”

“I… I’m sorry, Sister, but what’s this about?”

“Right, yes. Let me get straight to the point. Unfortunately, Sister, any escapades you’ve had with the Cardinal must come to an end. His work is beginning to suffer, as is his personal life.”

You frowned. “I’m sorry, Sister, I’m not following. I didn’t realise we’d done anything wrong.”

“Well, you wouldn’t. The thing is, Sister, the Cardinal has been consumed by his fun little distraction. While that’s all you were to him - a distraction - he allowed himself to ignore all of his other duties and responsibilities. As a result, the Upper Clergy have decided to cut him off from the temptation of the flesh… for the time being at least. Until his partnership is finalised and he takes a Prime Mover.”

The realisation from Sister Imperator hit you like a lightning bolt, leaving you dazed and confused. Her remarks held a whirlwind of emotions that swirled around feelings of betrayal, rage, and perplexity. “You’re saying I’m a distraction? That I’m somehow hindering the Cardinal?”

Sister Imperator nodded. “The Cardinal’s commitment to his work and the Ministry’s objectives is of utmost importance. Any personal entanglements that divert his attention from these priorities must be addressed.”

A mixture of disbelief and hurt welled up inside you. The connection you felt with Copia, the shared moments and the blossoming understanding—all reduced to a mere distraction in the eyes of the Upper Clergy.

“But we were translating an important text, a sacred text for the Ministry,” you protested, seeking a thread of reason in the unraveling situation. “Our work was in service to the Church. How is that a distraction?”

“Sleeping with him isn’t beneficial to the Church when the Church has already decided his future, Sister. A future that doesn’t have you in it, I’m sorry to say. Now, you still have a place at the Ministry if you want it - you are incredibly valuable to our dark cause and we need you and your mind. However, we must ask that you please refrain from speaking to the Cardinal, or even being in his presence as much as possible.”

“But how am I supposed to do that when I’m translating the Chronicles for him?”

“All important information can be given to me and I’ll relay it to him.”

“But-”

“Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Sister.” Sister Impertor was clearly getting more and more agitated the longer you spent in her office defying her demands. “I… we have worked too hard for the Cardinal and his career for someone to come and ruin it now.”

“And he doesn’t get a say in this?”

“He does. These are his wants and wishes, too.”

“I doubt that. I want to see him.”

“I’d advise against that, Sister.”

You stood, “I appreciate your advice, Sister, but I’d rather hear all this from Copia. Excuse me.”

The Sister’s words were swirling round in your head, fear building in your stomach with every step you took towards Copia’s office. You didn’t want to believe it, that he would treat you like this without so much as a conversation beforehand. He acted like he was enamoured by you, infatuated with you to the point where all he could do each day was exist for you.

But he hadn’t told you that he loved you.

Actions spoke louder than words, and Copia’s actions seemed like they were shouting to the world from the peak of a mountain: “Look! Look at her! I adore her with ever fibre of my being. I live for her! I breathe only her! I would die without her near.”

Seemed. You don’t know.

You hit the side of your head with the heel of your palm, trying to dispel the negative thoughts. The internal argument you were having with yourself over Copia’s actions was enough to drive everyone mad, and you could feel your body running on everything other than logic and sanity. Your breath was getting lodged in your throat and tears stung at your eyes. You were so close to his office now - you’d see.

He’d be sat at his desk doing his work and he’d look up in surprise. He’d see you, and he’d start to chastise you for distracting him when he was busy, but then he’d notice your tears, wrap his arms around your body and hold you close as you let the panic fade away into his warm embrace. He’d rock you, shush you, comfort you. He’d tell you that he loved you. He’d kiss you. He’d remind you that you were his, and he was yours.

Or he’d echo Sister Imperator’s words.

If he does, then so be it. Better those words to come from his mouth than a messenger’s. At least then you’d know.

But you’d never have him again.

You turned the corner and rushed towards his office door, the cold, iron handle biting at your skin as you pushed down on it and forced your way in. You hand may have been cold from the iron handle, but your blood was cold from the sight that lay before you.

Copia was sat at his desk but he wasn’t doing his work. You couldn’t see his body properly as he was hidden behind a mass of black. At first, you couldn’t tell what was happening, but the longer you stayed there, the clearer it became. That was unmistakably Copia sat beneath another Sister of Sin, his gloved hands clutching onto her ass as she sat on his lap. Her hips moved, grinding down onto his crotch as her whimpers filled the air, accompanying the sounds of their lips smacking together.

You didn’t realise you’d made a noise until their attention both snapped to your direction, the Cardinal’s mismatched eyes finally registering who was standing in his doorway and interrupting his break. A small gasp fell from his kiss-swollen lips, before, “merda!” was uttered. He tried pushing the Sister of Sin off of him, but it was too late. You’d seen what you needed to see. You’d turned and started to make your way out of his office.

“Sorella, wait please!”

The door slammed shut behind you and you’d already made your way out of sight when the Cardinal had finally reached and opened the door.

You’d got halfway back to your room when you saw Sister Imperator walking towards you, no doubt making her way to the Cardinal’s office to watch the drama unfold. The tears that you’d held back when you’d closed his office door were out in full force by the time Sister Imperator had reached you, and there was nothing you could do to hide them.

She sighed and looked at you, her hands holding onto your shoulders in a feeble attempt at comfort. Her eyes were filled with sadness, a sadness you didn’t expect to see from a woman as coldhearted as she was, but it was there. A faint whisper of a connection telling you that she’d been through the exact same thing once upon a time, and knew what this heartbreak felt like. “He didn’t see you cry, did he?” She asked, a gentleness to her voice that you never thought you’d hear.

Your words failed you, and instead you just shook your head.

“Oh, sweet child.” She pulled you in for a hug and began comforting you in the way you’d wanted the Cardinal to. It was surprisingly warm and caring, filled with compassion and kindness. “Never let them see you cry - never give them that satisfaction of knowing what they’ve done to you.”

In the corridors of the Ministry, you cried in Sister Imperator’s arms until all the tears had been shed and your teeth were tingling from the numbness you were now feeling. To her credit, Sister Imperator never left your side until she knew that you were strong enough to walk on your own. She’d told you to take the rest of the day to yourself, and maybe even the rest of the week if you wanted to, and had you go back to your apartment and take care of yourself. She sent one of her Ghouls to the library to inform the Siblings there that you’d not be returning to work for at least the rest of the day - though, of course, she had no idea just how close the three of you were. Everything was already arranged. There was nothing to be done except wallow.

And wallow you did.

Sister Aisha and Sibling Riley took it in turns to come to your apartment and keep you fed and watered, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to eat more than a few bites, the depression was too strong for that.

The days passed in a veil of sorrow, the seclusion of your apartment accentuating the echoes of broken dreams. Lost in the devastation of your emotional turmoil, the manuscripts and parchments that once promised ancient mysteries now sat ignored on your desk, while you felt your heart shatter with each memory that played in your head. All the late-night conversations, the touches, the glances, the feel of his breath in the crook of your neck as he slept - or even rocked into you passionately under the veil of night. Lying there, in the darkness of your room, it was almost as though you could feel his arm draped over your waist, phantom fingers on your thighs and the haunting smell of his cologne on your habit.

Your world fell apart following the office, leaving behind a barren wasteland of emotional debris. Your life’s formerly vivid colours faded to subdued greys, with the ghost of his memories resonating through every day. The promise of shared laughter and whispered confessions had long since faded, leaving the air weighted with grief.

Heartbreak’s fingers wrapped themselves around you, entangling every idea you had in a web of despair. The manuscripts and parchments that once piqued your interest now lay untouched, a glaring monument to the numbness that held your soul. The Ministry, which had previously been a refuge of shared moments, had morphed into a tunnel of solitude, with echoes of laughter reverberating as bitter reminders of what had been.

Your bed had become both a sanctuary and a prison, its embrace a frigid consolation against the searing ache within. The world outside the covers grew lifeless. With every day it became a shapeless haze of pain and hopelessness. It was impossible to get out of bed; the sadness of your loss bound you to the nothingness that around you.

The prospect of facing the Ministry, where every nook contained whispers of shared secrets and stolen glances, became an excruciating agony. The formerly known hallways appeared to be a maze, with every turn serving as a reminder of the joy that evaded you. You felt the weight of loneliness pressing down on you, pulling you more and further into the pit of despair.

He was everywhere, his energy was all over the corridors and rooms of the Ministry and you felt suffocated and trapped. There was not a single inch of you apartment alone that didn’t resonate with your previous relationship with the Cardinal, even the look of every day items enough to send you into some kind of flashback, where you could see him, feel him - where every inch of your senses was clouded by him as if he were there with you.

Your waking hours were plagued by visions of him laughing, of his awkward charm, of the delicate minutes spent delving into old mysteries. No amount of sleep could save your dreams from the bittersweet reel of recollections that played endlessly in the back of your mind.

Sister Aisha and Sibling Riley, ever-supportive, tried to coax you out of your grief, offering comforting words and attempts at distraction. They understood the pain you were going through, having witnessed the deep connection between you and the Cardinal. However, healing from such emotional wounds was a process, and time seemed to move at a glacial pace.

At first, they were gentle with you, handling you as if you were a delicate piece of glass that could shatter at the sound of a pin dropping - or rather, a souffle in front of a crying baby. But eventually, Sibling Riley had had enough of watching your despair firsthand, and feeling just as hopeless as you.

People never really think about the friends and family surrounding the person going through something like this. Of course, because they’re not the centre of attention. But sometimes, they suffer as much as you do because they’re watching the person they love the most go through some of the worst things imaginable and they’re unable to do anything.

Sibling Riley experienced a deep sense of powerlessness as they saw you deal with the fallout from the separation. The typical humour and friendship that marked your interactions now devolved into a solemn mood as they struggled to heal the wounds in your soul.

Every attempt to provide solace felt like tossing pebbles into an abyss, the echoes of your pain reverberating against the walls of their own sense of inadequacy. The weight of your despair pressed upon their shoulders, a burden shared but seemingly insurmountable.

Words, which were often their ally, started to become elusive, as if speech itself had deserted them in the midst of your pain. Every effort to console you felt like a weak effort because the depth of your suffering was greater than the comforting words they could offer. But even they could see that the gentle approach was no longer working. That they needed to do something more than tell you how loved you were, and how the Cardinal was a dumbass for letting you go so easily.

They couldn’t let you wallow in self-pity anymore. While unable to mend the wounds or erase the shadows, they clung to the hope that, with time, the echoes of laughter would return, and the vibrant hues of life would once again paint the canvas of your shared existence. But this could only begin when you allowed it.

So, they stormed into your room with all guns blazing. They flicked the lightswitch on, and made the loudest noises they could. “Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty!” They yelled, clapping their hands together. They watched you flinch at the sudden intrusion, covering your head with the blanket. That wouldn’t do.

Their hands gripped the bedsheet and pulled it off your body, nose twitching in disgust at the smell of your body-odour that wafted along with it. “Come on, stinky. Up! Up! Up!”

“I don’t want to.”

“Tough shit. I’m sick of you wallowing here and rotting away in your bed. You gotta get up, you gotta get moving. Sister Aisha’s made a pig’s ear of the organisation in the library, and you’re gonna have a fit when you see it. If I don’t get you down there now, then the entire place will be upside down and inside out by the time you get down there.”

“But-”

They grabbed hold of your wrist and pulled you off the bed. “Buts are for goats, my dear. Now, get your ass in the shower. You stink.”

You tried to protest further, but this earned you a push and a shove as they forced you into the bathroom. They turned the hot water on and made for the door. “I don’t want to have to strip you but I will - either that or you can shower in your pyjamas. I’m not asking you to leave the house right now, ___. I just want you to wash your goddamn hair.”

Sibling Riley went beyond the typical work/friend dynamic to offer support, realising the weight of emotional stress. They made the effort to clean your room so you could have a more peaceful and cozy environment.

Sibling Riley moved around the room gracefully, gathering stray objects and trash from wherever it had fallen. Everything was put away properly, and misplaced items were returned to their original locations. A small but meaningful gesture, cleaning was done to create an atmosphere that reflected a new and fresh start.

Once thick with the lingering odour of heartbreak, the air started to smell clean and well-maintained. Knowing that the outside world could affect one’s mental health, Sibling Riley worked to establish a foundation that allowed you to feel safe enough to begin healing - truly begin healing. No more wallowing in self pity, or snacks as dinner. Now you could return to the dining hall and eat good food with the other siblings. Was the food always healthy? Absolutely not. But recovery didn’t require healthy food - just the good shit.

The change became obvious as soon as you stepped into the bedroom. The bed, which had formerly represented shared moments and entwined destinies, was now a blank canvas representing revival. Sibling Riley had even gone as far as to change the linens, selecting a black forest set that they remembered you got so excited for. You almost cried, until Sibling Riley had raised their voice a little to snap you out of it.

“A fresh habit is on the bed. I’ll wait for you outside. Don’t dry your hair, leave that to me.”

“Riley, I-”

“___.” They raised their hand gently to stop you from talking, their voice now matching the action. “Call me when you’re dressed.”

You nodded and watched as they left the room.

The drop of Riley’s title didn’t register until they’d already left, but it made so much sense now. Riley was more than a coworker who you’d become friends with, they’d now become a friend who you worked with, and that realisation alone was enough to almost send you back over the edge and into a fit of tears. Snivelling, you began to dress in the clean habit Riley laid out for you, feeling more than grateful for them taking such good care of you when you needed it the most. Sister Aisha, too.

You started to feel more human when Riley walked back into the room. The more they brushed your hair, the more relaxed you began to feel. Their gentle fingertips over your scalp as they massaged in your favourite heat protector, the softness of the comb as it ran through your hair. You remembered the times when your caregiver would brush your hair as a child, and how rough they tended to be in order to get it done quickly - but not Riley. Riley took their time, as if each, slow and precise movement was bringing you back to life.

They played with your hair immaturely at times - of course they did. They did anything they could to have you crack a smile again, even if it meant tying your hair into a topknot do right at the tip of your scalp. “We’ll paint you green and put a TV on your tummy.” They teased.

Eventually, though, your hair was dry enough to be covered and Riley helped you with that, too, fastening your veil to your head and pinching your cheeks. “Right,” they said with a sigh, “let’s go get your library fixed.”

After the mental turmoil you went through, going back to the library felt both familiar and unsettling. The empty corridors that had once smelled of old books and faintly of study, seemed to be ridiculing the shattered remnants of your previous “relationship” with the Cardinal. Once a place of calm reflection and thought-provoking study, the library now held the broken shards of memories that were at once priceless and heartbreaking.

Your eyes couldn’t help but lock onto the snake behind the front desk, its eyes baring into your soul again, but this time making you shiver with a chill you couldn’t quite explain. It was like the statue was alive - like it was watching your every move and judging you for each step taken. It felt like it knew your thoughts, and only wanted to serve as a reminder to the last time you and the Cardinal were here together. Locking eyes with it had another flashback haunt you, his hands ghosting over your skin with a spectral grip so realistically, you could almost feel the long-since-healed bruises.

Your footsteps echoed throughout the library, producing a harsh song against the bookcases. You headed over to the desk that you always used, the one that had become an anchor in the whirling mass of books. The chair creaked as you settled in, greeting you with a solemn air fit for an old friend who had shared in the joy of discovery as well as the heartbreak’s agony.

The hush that had descended upon you like a thick shroud was broken by Sister Aisha’s approach. Her sympathetic eyes locked with yours. She was aware of the underlying pain that you were still feeling, no doubt being filled in briefly by Riley when you’d split off from him and gone back to your office, but there was a small piece of guilt within her. She hadn’t come to see you in a while - not that you’d held it against her. What, precisely, could she have done to make you feel better? To make you not hate yourself and the Cardinal the way that you did? There was nothing. It was somewhat of a miracle that Riley was able break whatever curse had fallen onto you.

“Welcome back, Sister,” Sister Aisha said softly, choosing her words with care. “I missed you.” Her bottom lip trembled as she said it - you’d never seen her cry before, and you weren’t sure you wanted that image in your head. She was always this strong rock that turned sadness into humour and cheered everyone up around her. It was easy to think that life didn’t bother her as much as it did everyone else. But in that moment, she suddenly became more human to you, and you were able to see that she was just as heartbroken for you as you were.

Without uttering another word, you wrapped your arms around her and pulled her in for a tight hug, feeling a lump form in your own throat at the feeling.

Sister Aisha returned the hug, her usually jovial demeanour dampened by the intensity of your feelings. The unsaid understanding that soaked into your relationship was a subtle recognition of the fragility that each Sibling in the Ministry carries beneath the surface. The embrace served as a shelter and a sanctuary where the barriers of stoicism fell away to show the true feelings that brought you together for that little moment.

The library seemed to soften as you grabbed onto each other, making a shared place of comfort among its maze-like aisles possible. A scene of comfort amidst the intellectual expanse was created by the hug’s warmth and the subtle scent of aged paper and ancient knowledge.

And with a swift goodbye from Sister Aisha, you got stuck in once more in translating the Chronicles…

Copia’s POV

Sister Evelyn Chandler possessed an ethereal beauty that captivated those fortunate enough to have laid eyes upon her. Her skin, rich and dark brown with a bronze undertone. She was more radiant than a smoky-quartz in the midday sun, exuding an angelic glow that captivated all those surrounding her.

Her eyes, the color of a morning cup of coffee, held a captivating depth. They were pools of clarity that seemed to have harbored the wisdom of ages, framed by long, dark lashes that cast subtle shadows upon her high cheekbones. Sister Evelyn’s gaze was both tender and commanding, a reflection of the myriad emotions that danced within her soul.

Cascading waves of black hair framed her face like a silken waterfall. The strands were lustrous, tightly curled and well-cared for falling gracefully to frame her delicate shoulders. Occasionally, she tucked a stray lock behind her ear, revealing the subtle glint of finely crafted, gold earrings that adorned her lobes.

Sister Evelyn’s lips bore a natural liner, inviting and delicate, forming a captivating contrast against her complexion. Her smile, when it graced her features, was a radiant expression that lit up the room, captivating all who had the privilege of witnessing it.

Tall and gracefully poised, Sister Evelyn Chandler moved with a dignified elegance. Her habit, a seamless extension of her being, draped around her figure in a manner that spoke of both modesty and timeless grace. There was an undeniable allure in the way she carried herself, a quiet strength and confidence that marked her as a woman of substance.

In the presence of Sister Evelyn Chandler, one couldn’t help but feel the gentle pull of her captivating charm, an enchantment woven from both her external grace and the inner luminosity that defined her spirit.

Copia didn’t know why he was letting her sit on his lap like this, why his lips were dancing against hers as deftly as they were, why his hands were defying him and pulling her closer against his body. He didn’t understand why his body had reacted to her when all he wanted - all he ever wanted - was you. He’d tried to push her off, which is why his hands were on her hips in the first place. But she smelled like you, felt kind of like you beneath his fingertips, and if he closed his eyes, he could pretend she was you.

It wasn’t until another sound registered in his ears that he’d realised what was going on. It wasn’t until he saw your body in the doorway, he realised that it wasn’t you on his lap, captivating him in such a way. It wasn’t until he saw the look of hurt on your face, he truly understood the gravity of what he’d allowed.

You, wonderful you, intelligent you, beautiful you, now running from him with tears in your eyes and a heart breaking louder than any car crash he’d ever heard. He couldn’t reach you in time, despite the quickness in which he’d thrown the unsuspecting Sister off of his lap in order to get to you and explain just what the hell you’d seen, but by the time he’d reached and opened the door again, you had vanished out of sight.

Copia’s heart sank as he stood in the doorway, paralyzed by the realization of the damage he had caused. The echoing emptiness of the hallway mirrored the void now expanding within him. Panic and regret clawed at his insides, the gravity of the situation settling heavily on his conscience.

He stumbled forward, calling your name desperately, but his voice sounded feeble against the silence that enveloped the corridor. The haunting image of your retreating figure, tears glistening in your eyes, replayed in his mind, each step you took away from him echoing like a thunderous accusation.

The air felt heavy, suffocating, as Copia’s mind raced with the implications of what had just occurred. He never meant for this to happen. The Sister’s presence, her proximity, had been an innocent mistake, a fleeting distraction he never intended to indulge. Yet, here he was, standing in a doorway, watching you disappear, and it felt like the world was crumbling around him.

Copia’s breaths came in ragged gasps as he clutched at his chest, aching with the weight of regret. The realization that he had shattered the fragile connection he had forged with you, the trust he had meticulously built, overwhelmed him. He sank to his knees in the dimly lit corridor, a broken man.

The anguished silence of the hallway seemed to mock him, reflecting the hollowness echoing in his soul. Copia’s mind raced with scenarios of what he could have said or done differently. The profound emptiness he felt was punctuated by the knowledge that he had hurt you, possibly irreparably.

“That was her, then?” Sister Evelyn asked, crouching next to Copia and putting her arm around him.

He nodded in response, looking to pathetic beside her.

“And given her reaction, you didn’t tell her.”

He shook his head. “I wanted to - there was never a right moment. I didn’t mean to-”

She rubbed his back. “I know, Cardinal. I know.” Cardinal. Not ‘Your Dark Eminence’, not ‘Your Unholiness’. Cardinal. Already she treated herself like she was closer to equality beside him than any other Sibling of Sin in the Ministry.

“Why did you have to do that?”

“Because it’s about time you started seeing me as your Prime Mover, Cardinal. This has been arranged for decades and you hardly even acknowledge me. I almost had you.”

“I couldn’t give less of a shit about some prophecy, Eve. You know that.”

“And yet,” she stood, “here I am, ready and waiting for the ritual. Get your shit together, Copia. I won’t wait forever.”

Sister Evelyn walked away, leaving Copia on the corridor floor completely alone. “I don’t want you to wait.” Copia whispered to the empty air, cursing his cowardice. “I don’t want you at all.”

The library, which had once been a haven of whispered confessions and shared secrets, now loomed as a maze of echoing shadows. The sacred quiet that had welcomed your partnership suddenly seemed like a crushing burden on Copia’s back. With every stride he took through the labyrinth of shelves, his inner struggle was echoed hesitantly. The smell of old books, which had previously been reassuring, now had a regretful aftertaste. Copia looked in every direction, into every quiet alcove, hoping to see anything, anything, of you, but the library was empty. Every beat of his heart echoed through the ancient halls of knowledge, pounding in his chest like a drum. His every stride is now shadowed by the memories of the last time he was in there, with you wrapped in his arms and the warmth of shared laughter.

In a whisper, he called your name, a cry that echoed through the stillness. The academics and librarians who had previously shown no interest in the secret meetings held inside their revered premises were now watching him with curious eyes. They saw a Cardinal devoid of his customary composure and troubled by the memory of a love lost. Copia was clearly suffering as he walked through the steps of your daily routine towards your office. It felt stale and lonely, the once bright electricity in the air now gone. The very spirit of the library seemed to lament the loss of a relationship that had once thrived inside its walls.

Copia’s speed quickened as he made his way through the maze-like aisles, his search growing more urgent. His cries became more intense and louder, resonating through the silent cathedral of books. However, you did not respond or show up.

The force with which the door flung open matched the turmoil in Copia’s heart. “___!” His words echoed like a frantic plea off the walls, resonating around the room. However, the office was now a mute reminder of your absence.

The soft light created an eerie radiance on the empty desk, reflecting the emptiness within Copia’s chest. The documents you had so carefully arranged were still in place, unaffected by the person who had breathed new life into the room. The smell of old parchment lingered, a painful reminder of the times you had spent together, when there had been laughter and passion, but now there was just a sombre silence.

Copia’s gaze swept throughout the entire area, looking for any indication of your existence. It seemed as though the walls were closing in on him, making the room feel cramped and oppressive. With his regular trappings stripped off, he walked out of the room, showing weakness beneath the weight of his title.

As Copia got closer to the desk, the atmosphere in the library changed, a tension that lingered silently between the old bookshelves. With a look of fury and cold that reflected the storm building within of her, Sister Aisha Banerjee looked up. Copia now had to deal with the consequences of his actions. Sister Banerjee looked directly at him, silently accusing him in a way that echoed throughout the calm library. The murmur of books seemed to stifle with expectation, as though the walls themselves were listening in on the drama that was playing out.

“Sister Banerjee,” Copia began, his voice carrying a note of urgency, “I need to find ___. Have you seen her?”

Sister Banerjee, who was usually quite amiable, responded to his questioning with a chilly silence. Her eyes reflected the storm of emotions roiling inside. She got up from her chair, her actions slow and deliberate, a sharp contrast to the turmoil that was developing in Copia’s mind. “Like I’d tell you. What did you think you were doing?” Sister Banerjee’s words were laced with a biting coldness, the hurt and anger seeping through each syllable.

Copia’s eyes widened with realization, the weight of his actions crashing down upon him like a cascade of unforgiving stones. “No, Sister Banerjee, you don’t understand. It wasn’t what it looked like. I never meant to hurt her.”

“You should have thought about that before you let someone else into your bed, into your life. She’s not just anyone. She’s ___. She cared about you.”

The truth of Sister Banerjee’s words broke through Copia’s layers of denial, causing his heart to sink. Not only had he broken the link that had grown between you, but he had also lost you, leaving an emptiness in its wake.

Sister Banerjee turned away, and the hush descended again, leaving Copia standing in the great space of the library in silence, like a cardinal without his compass. She waited until he turned to leave the library before she spoke one final time. “You don’t deserve her, I think. She’s far too good for you.”

Copia froze in his tracks, Sister Banerjee’s words hanging in the air like a heavy verdict. The weight of her judgment bore down on him, a burden he had no choice but to carry. Slowly, he turned back to face her, a mixture of desperation and remorse etched on his features.

“I know,” he admitted, his voice a mere whisper, the echo of a cardinal laid bare. “I know I messed up. I never meant to hurt her. She means everything to me.”

Sister Banerjee’s expression remained stern, a blend of disappointment and sympathy in her gaze. “Words are easy, Your Dark Eminence. It’s actions that define us. She’s not a pawn in your games, and if you truly care about her, you’ll find a way to fix this mess you’ve made.”

Sister Imperator would allow him to do no such thing.

Standing before Sister Imperator’s office, Copia hesitated, a weight of doubt crushing down on him. The door squeaked open, and he stepped inside, his eyes locking with the dark woman behind the desk.

“Sister Imperator,” Copia began, his voice carrying a plea laced with desperation. “I need to know where she is. I need to find her and explain.”

Sister Imperator regarded him with a measured silence, her eyes penetrating into the depths of his troubled soul. The air in the room hung heavy with unspoken tension, and Copia’s heart raced with the anticipation of her response.

“You want answers, but answers are not always what you need, Cardinal,” Sister Imperator responded with a foreboding tone. “The prophecy grows, and you have to concentrate on the path laid before you.”

Copia’s frustration simmered beneath the surface as he struggled against the constraints of the prophecy. “Sister, please. I can’t bear not knowing where she is. I need to make things right.”

With a faint smile on her lips, Sister Imperator reclined on her chair. “Cardinal, making things right is arbitrary. Think about the repercussions if you don’t walk the path you were destined for.”

Copia clenched his fists, torn between the desire to defy fate and the duty he owed to the Ministry. “Sister, I can’t lose her. She’s…”

Sister Imperator interrupted, her tone unwavering. “The prophecy is greater than individual desires. Sister Evelyn plays a crucial role, and you can’t let personal attachments cloud your judgment.”

Copia felt a surge of frustration and helplessness. “What about us? What about what we feel?”

“Sacrifices are demanded by fate. Find comfort in your duty, Cardinal. The Prophecy awaits, and you have to focus on Sister Evelyn now - your Prime Mover.”

“She’s not my Prime Mover yet.”

“No but she will be on the next full moon.”

“Not if I step down as Head of the Church.”

Sister Imperator’s eyes narrowed, her gaze piercing through Copia. “Do you truly believe abandoning your post will change your fate? The Prophecy is not swayed by your whims. You are the appointed leader of the Church, chosen by Satan Himself. You’re His son, here to do His bidding! To defy that destiny would be to court chaos and go up against the Dark One. After everything we’ve done to get you to this position, and this is how you want to thank me?”

Copia gritted his teeth, torn between the weight of his duty and the ache in his heart. “I won’t let Sister Evelyn become a pawn in this game. I won’t let the connection Sister ____ and I have be sacrificed for some cosmic plan.”

Sister Imperator’s anger flared, her tone sharp and authoritative. “You will not step down, Copia. Your role is crucial, and the Church cannot afford such disruptions. Sister Evelyn is part of the grand design, and so are you. Embrace your destiny, and in doing so, you honor the Church and its purpose.”

Copia’s shoulders slumped, defeated by the inevitability of the situation. He had no choice but to submit to the forces that bound him. “What about ___’s feelings? What about what we had?”

Sister Imperator’s expression remained unyielding. “Feelings are secondary to the greater purpose. Your personal desires must be set aside for the sake of the Church. It is a burden you must bear. Now,” she continued, letting out a calming breath and returning to her usual calm demeanour, “don’t you have Mass to plan for? Perhaps Sister Evelyn could help you announce to the Clergy your future plans.”

“But-”

“Off you go.”

Copia felt guiltier than ever as he left Sister Imperator’s office. The upcoming marriage to Sister Evelyn hovered over him like an omen, overshadowing the love he once imagined could defy fate.

He felt the weight of his choices like a vice as he meandered through the Ministry’s dimly lit hallways. His thoughts were filled with the echoes of Sister Imperator’s remarks, and he couldn’t get rid of the picture of your wounded look when you saw him and Sister Evelyn. He was disturbed by the pain engraved onto your features and by the resonance of your name. He looked for comfort in the shadows of the Ministry, but there was none. Just his stupidity and his fate that had ruined everything.

He had spent weeks without you - not hearing a peep from you, never entering the library in fear he would see you and that hurt look on your face. He stopped asking after you eventually, knowing that it would end up doing more hurt than good for his own mental health more so than yours, as selfish as it sounded. He couldn’t bear the thought of you moving on with someone else after everything he’d felt - and he thought you’d felt it, too. He couldn’t imagine what you’d feel if you saw him again with Sister Evelyn. How would you feel if you saw them together? Would you care? Would you be over it, over him? Would you pretend to not see him? He knew you were back at work now, given that Sister Imperator would send a Ghoul to relay any important translations you’d done. He’d assumed that was your decision - that it would be easier for you to create a middle man in order to never have to see him again.

Copia decided this week’s mass would be about loss and the grief that surrounded relationships that had died, and how you could turn to loved ones, or even Satan for comfort.

With his ceremonial robes draped over his shoulders like a thick shield, Copia stood at the pulpit. The anxiety that filled the Basilica was palpable, an unsaid weight that enveloped the assembly in a dense mist. There was an uneasy calm in place of the usual Monday Mass atmosphere of reverence and expectancy.

The Basilica’s elaborate walls were illuminated with shimmering shadows created by the wildly flickering candles that lined the aisles. The gloomy atmosphere and the seriousness of the choices that had been made in the weeks before seemed to be emphasised by the dull light.

With their eyes concentrated on the Cardinal at the pulpit, the devout were crammed into the pews. Ghouls and Siblings alike made up the eclectic congregation, but they were all devoted to the Church’s doctrines. Normally ringing with authority and conviction, Copia’s voice held a strain as he led the assembly in prayer. The unholy words that had seemed to have a purpose before now echoed with a strange turmoil. The recent decisions he had made weighed heavily on him, undermining the sacred ceremonies.

The perfume of incense filled the Basilica as it floated through, swirling and twisting in the shadows. Originally a sign of sin, the scent now carried a hint of unhappiness. The general unease that saturated the worshippers’ hearts seemed to have been absorbed by the very spirit of the unhallowed sanctuary.

Copia looked out over the assembly as he raised the sacramental chalice. A sea of faces, some displaying unshakeable faith and others displaying uncertainty and curiosity. The knowledge that his actions had shattered the oneness that had once united them was something he was unable to ignore. Everyone had learned of what happened by this point. Everyone heard the whispers of drama echoing off the Ministry’s walls. Everyone cared enough to talk about it, but no one seemed disappointed in him. They should be, Copia thought.

You sat in a lonely corner of the pew among the devoted worshippers, your presence like a still shadow in the dimly illuminated Basilica. Copia looked at you out of the crowd as he talked passionately from the pulpit. The world seemed to stop for a split second as his gaze lingered on your shape, his mouth running dry and the words following suit.

A painful hush descended on the area between you and the Cardinal, the words of his sermon hanging in the air like an ominous melody. For the tiniest of moments, Copia’s countenance wavered between sadness and surprise. It had not occurred to him that you would be here, a sobering reminder of the broken bond.

When your gaze met his, a wide range of emotions flashed across your faces in that tense instant. Like an unheard confession, the pain of unsaid words, a weight of unresolved emotions, and the real tension of a shared past hung between you. Copia stammered to keep his sermon composed, his voice wavering briefly as the realisation of how serious the situation was dawned on him.

The congregation was unaware of your presence, especially since they were unaware of this Sibling’s identity whose heart was broken by the bumbling idiot in front of them. For Copia, though, it seemed as though the Basilica itself had shrunk to concentrate only on the ache in your eyes.

Every now and then, Copia’s eyes would return to you as he finished his sermon, each snatched glimpse bearing a heavy weight of regret. His words of wisdom seemed to resound with an imploring undertone, a last-ditch effort to close the distance that had opened up between you. The melancholy of the situation was emphasised by the haunting melody of the organ, which accentuated the poignant atmosphere.

The Basilica’s calm exterior disguised the chaos inside. A story of love and separation that played out silently in the midst of unholy rituals was carried by every word spoken and every look shared. Copia’s eyes followed you as the assembly stood for the Gratiarum, a mute acknowledgement of the pain that lingered in the sacred space between the pulpit and the pews.

Copia could barely contain himself and concentrate on the remainder of the congregation when he saw you join the queue. With each blessing he gave, he knew there was something wrong with it, but he couldn’t help himself. His eyes wandered over to your frame when you were in direct eyeline. He watched as you tried to not look at him, sparing him an accidental glance every now and then but ultimately fighting with yourself to just pretend that nothing was wrong. The butterflies in his stomach wouldn’t settle, doing the most in his gut and making it difficult for him to function as usual.

You kissed Lilith’s statue with the same gentle movements you used to kiss him. Then you turned, eyes planted to the ground and took a step towards him.

Another step.

And another.

Closer…

Suddenly you were right in front of him, your eyes focussed on the floor and your hands clasped politely in front of your stomach. You didn’t want to look at him, and he certainly couldn’t blame you for it. You looked so shy again. He hadn’t realised just how much you’d come out of your shell since you’d spent all that time with him, and now you were back in it, no doubt afraid to have your heart broken again. Again, he understood, even though the action was killing him with each second that passed. His heart raced in his chest as he looked you over and without thinking, uttered, “Ciao.”

That was the first time you looked at him since the sermon, properly looked at him. And there was no mistaking the hurt in your eyes. In that moment, he realised you probably thought he was making fun of you. “Sorella, I-”

“May I be excused, Your Dark Eminence?”

No, you may not! He wanted to scream. He wanted to grab you by the arms and shake you, steal you, and lock you in a room with him to give him the chance to explain just what was going on. The drop of his given name also felt like a punch to the gut. The last time you talked to him, it was when his tongue was between your folds and his name was spilling from your lips. Now, you were trying your hardest not to cry in front of everyone. So no, you couldn’t be excused! How dare you even entertain the thought? “Please allow me a moment to explain, Sorella.”

You turned to walk away, but he grabbed your arm.

“Wait for me, in the pews. Please.”

You didn’t answer, or even acknowledge his request, but he watched as you left and went and sat at the back of the Basilica. Relief washed over him as he realised you were giving him a chance. One final chance to make everything right. He turned to look at Cumulus, and asked her to sit with you while you waited. “Make conversation,” he ordered, “I don’t care. Just keep her there. If anyone tries to override this, don’t listen to them. Understand?” He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he rushed through the rest of the congregation, eager to rush to you before you changed your mind.

Of course, Sister Imperator had clocked what was happening and tried to get you to leave, but Cumulus stood her ground. Clearly she was the right Ghoulette for the task. When he was finished, he awkwardly ran to you, his legs resembling an ostrich the way he threw himself up the aisle and toward you. He loved you - he was in love with you. And to hell with the prophecy if it meant he could have you.

“Thank you for waiting,” he began, a little out of breath from the exertion.

You stood and bowed a little, formally greeting the head. “Your Dark Eminence.”

“Please call me Copia.” He sounded much sadder than he intended to.

“I can’t.”

Cumulus cleared her throat beside you both, drawing the attention to her.

Copia nodded. “Right, right. Thank you, Ghoulette. You may leave.” When you were semi-alone, Copia continued. “I wanted to explain myself - tell you about what you saw.”

“Forgive me, Your Dark Eminence, but I don’t want the gory details.”

“No, no. Please just let me explain. It wasn’t what you think - well, it was, but it wasn’t. Sister Evelyn is supposed to be my Prime Mover. There’s been a prophecy for a few hundred years… something about the antichrist only producing offspring with a person who has three sixes in their birth date. It’s ridiculous, I know, but Sister Imperator is adamant it is Sister Evelyn. She’s also adamant that I am the antichrist but, again, I don’t believe her.

“Comunque, I was never meant to see anyone else… I was never meant to fall in love with anyone. But then you come along with your intelligence and your sweetness and become so irresistible that I can’t help but… fall in love… with you.”

He watched your face anxiously, waiting for something that would help relieve the tension in his stomach. But you remained deadpanned, hidden from his gaze.

You started to speak, choosing your words carefully. “If this is how you show love, Your Dark Eminence, then I’d rather not be loved by you at all.”

“Sorella?”

“Why didn’t you say anything? Why did you let her… in your office… why?”

“I…” he paused, thinking about what he should say next. “Per cominciare, I don’t believe in the prophecy anyway, so it seemed irrelevant at the time. I didn’t intend on choosing Sister Evelyn anyway so I didn’t tell you because it just didn’t matter to me. But also… in my office… I did try to push her off me, really I did. I so desperately want you to believe me. I didn’t try hard enough, and I wasn’t strong enough. And I couldn’t be sorrier for it. If you’ll let me, I’ll spend every day for the rest of my life making it up to you. Whatever you need to trust me again, I’ll do it. I love you, ___.”

You stood there for a moment, a little dumbfounded. You were trying to think of something to say, some way to answer him the way you wanted to.

However, the words stuck in your throat, causing an explosion of feelings to pass through you, including hurt, rage, confusion and the last traces of love. Copia’s fervent request lingered in the atmosphere, weighted with sincerity, but your emotions stayed guarded, hurt by the latest discovery. “I can’t just forget everything, Copia,” you finally spoke, your voice a delicate whisper. “I saw what I saw, and it hurt. It hurt a lot.”

Copia’s eyes pleaded with yours, a look of profound regret on his face. He made a hesitant move to close the emotional gap that had formed between you, but you pulled away, keeping a precarious distance. “I love you, ___,” he repeated, the sincerity in his voice echoing through the sacred space of the Basilica.

Closing your eyes briefly, you took a steadying breath. “Love is supposed to be about trust, isn’t it? And I… I just don’t know if I can trust you after what happened.”

His shoulders slumped, a profound sadness settling upon him. “I understand. I’ll do anything to earn back your trust. Just give me a chance, please.”

A heavy silence hung in the air as you grappled with the conflicting emotions within. The sacred surroundings of the Basilica seemed to amplify the weight of the moment, the echoes of your shared history and fractured trust resonating within its hallowed walls.

“I need time, Copia,” you finally admitted, your gaze meeting his. “Time to process, to heal. I can’t promise anything right now.”

Copia nodded, a mix of acceptance and determination in his eyes. “I’ll wait. For as long as it takes. Please just remember that I never meant to hurt you… no matter what anyone says.”

With his mistakes weighing heavily on him, Copia stood there in the dimly lighted Basilica. The lingering smell of incense filled the air, and the elaborate decorations were softly lit by candlelight, creating shadows. A knot clenched in his chest as he watched you walk away, each step bringing you further away from him. Copia became overcome with a deep sense of loss as the heavy door creaked shut behind you. His heart was hollow and empty, and the Basilica, which had previously been a place of devotion and peace, now rang with that. There was a deafening quiet after he had bared his soul and exposed his feelings.

The cold stone under him was a sharp contrast to the warmth that had once filled his heart as he fell to his knees. His gaze remained fixated on the path you had followed, which appeared to extend into an unclear and lonely future. His fingers trembled as he struggled with the regret and shame that were threatening to overwhelm him.

“I’ve lost her,” he muttered to the hallowed area surrounding him, the declaration more of a regret than an assertion. His own remarks seemed to mock him as they echoed off the Basilica’s great vaulted ceilings.

His eyes began to brim up with tears, but he forced them back. The weight of his cardinal robes felt like an anchor, keeping him grounded in a world where love had managed to evade him. His hands balled into fists, anguish and annoyance blending into a soundless orchestra of loss. Copia sensed the loneliness of the Basilica drawing closer to him in the dim light. Kneeling there, a broken man in a spot that had seen the highs and lows of his trip, he couldn’t fathom a life without you, without the warmth of your presence, without the hope that love had once kindled within him.

The compassionate Ghoul, Cirrus, had a great deal of empathy for their leader. She took a step forward without saying anything, her quiet comprehension echoing in her footsteps. The other Ghouls exchanged a look, not knowing how to step in or offer comfort at such a gravely vulnerable moment.

In a show of solidarity and support, Cirrus knelt next to the Cardinal. As Cirrus approached, her hand settled softly on Copia’s shoulder, her wordless presence speaking loudly. The touch, which went beyond the formality of their jobs, was a lifeline amid the sea of grief.

The other Ghouls remained a few steps back, unsure how much to get involved in Copia’s privacy and how much they could help. Worried emotions could be seen on their masked features as each Ghoul struggled with the emotional upheaval that had befallen their leader.

Cirrus stuck by Copia’s side. She didn’t try to make light of the situation or try to make it seem less painful. Rather, her presence was evidence of the unsaid connection that bound them together—a connection made in the furnace of similar experiences, both happy and sad.

“She’ll be back with good news, Cardinal.” Cirrus said. “I saw the way she looked at you.”

Copia, still processing what had happened, glanced up at Cirrus, uncertainty and hope mixed together in his eyes. His face was shadowed by the Basilica’s low light, highlighting the lines of exhaustion in his features. “You really think so?” Copia’s voice carried a vulnerability that contrasted sharply with his usual authoritative tone.

Cirrus nodded, offering a reassuring smile beneath her Ghoul mask. “I’ve seen a lot of love in my day, and the one between you and Sister ___ is far from over. She’ll return.”

Copia let out a heavy sigh, a mixture of relief and uncertainty. “I just… I can’t bear the thought of losing her. She means everything to me.”

Cirrus squeezed Copia’s shoulder gently. “‘Love will out’ as they say, even in the face of trials. Trust in the connection you share, Cardinal. It’s stronger than you realize.”

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