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[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

INTRO POST

HIII!

this blog is just for posting about my unknown fanfic mostly for Rambol_VA serieses?? BUT

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[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

The Weight of Courtesy

The study spelled faintly of ink and burned wax. Elijah had cracked the window earlier, but the air still felt heavy, stale with words they hadn't spoken.

“Kitten, you think silence will make this all go away?” Elijah's voice was loud in this silence. Rough around the edges. “The bodies are buried, Lucian. The kingdom didn't just..forget that.”

Lucian stood by the desk, hands pressed on the polished wood. His reflection in the surface—pale..tight-lipped, restrained. “You act like I wanted this,” he muttered.

“You DID want this,” Elijah shot back. “Dont start lying to yourself now that it's all said and done.”

Lucian's jaw got tight. “You don't get to tell me what I want.”

Elijah moved closer, boots clicking. Elijah grabbed him by the throat. Gripping tightly.

“I dragged you through blood for YOUR cause. For your name. Do not pretend you weren't the victim of your own goddamn plan, boy.”

Lucian looked up sheepishly. But his eyes were flashing. “And you loved it. Don't act like you didn't. Every single..” he gasped for air..”scream–you were smiling.”

That seemed to get under his skin. He laughed…short, and ugly. “So what if I did, boy. At least i dont play innocent while the ink on YOUR fathers death warrent is still fucking drying.”

Lucian's composure cracked. “He was my father.”

“And you killed him anyway.” Elijah didn't let go. Tighter and tighter. Pulling Kitten closer, until their breath was the same air.

“Stop pretending you're something purer than what you made me.”

The room held the sound of that sentence like it might shatter under its own weight.

Lucian's breath was tight and shallow, running low on air. “You think I..wanted to be like this?” His voice started to break..tired. “You think I dreamed of turning into something like you?”

Elijah's expression flickered, something wounded ghosting through before it hardened again. “You're not me,” he said, quieter now. “You're worse.”

The body fell, letting Lucian collapse.

Gagging..he caught his breath. His hand twitched toward the collar at his throat—that damned thing that still hung there, the bell long gone but the memory, loud. “Then maybe you should stop pretending you own what you don't understand”

“Dont start,” Elijah warned, tone sharp.

But Lucian didn't stop. Standing slowly. “You act like you built me. Like I didn't already know how to survive men like you before I ever even met you.”

Then that door opened.

Elijah grabbed Lucian's arm, pulling him close. Hand on his knife.

The hand print is still red..and bruising.

Csepel stood in the doorway, he wasn't travel stained anymore..but he was wide eyed, his hand on the latch still. He looked at the scene—the closeness, the tension, words that had not yet been done cutting.

“Elijah,” he said first, like he wasn't sure which one of them to address. Then, carefully, “Lucian” Lucian stepped back, freeing his arm. His voice came steady but the crack beneath it was audible. “Csepel. You really shouldn't be here.”

“I had to see you,” Csepel's gaze flicked between them, landing finally on Elijah. “The capitals talking. About the Laerile massacre. About you.”

Lucian's throat went dry. Elijah, however, smiled–slow and deliberate. “Then I suppose we should make sure the rumors are worth telling.”

Lucian eyes darted away, back to the desk, the maps, the ink-stained paper of a future already collapsing in on itself,

“Maybe they should,” he murmured.

And for the first time science the blood had dried, Elijah had nothing clever to say.

[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

Ashes In The Air

The air inside the manor had a different weight now—not the press of the weather, but the heaviness of things left unsaid. Windows let in a flat, pale light that did nothing to warm the rooms. It hung over everything like a held breath

Lucian hadn't moved from his chair. The fire had burned down to faint coals, orange sparks hitting the grate. His hands were dry, starting to crack, a memory of what had happened seemed to sit under the cracks.

Behind him, Elijah poured another drink. The sound—the small glug, the clink of the glass—was too loud for the quiet. He didn't hand one to Lucian. He drank and looked, the gesture more assessment than comfort. 

“You let him get too close,” Elijah at last said, voice calm and flat. “You always do”

Lucian's gaze lifted, tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. “Csepel was a friend.” 

Elijah's laugh was a quiet thing that lacked humor. “No. He was a mirror. You get addicted to looking at reflections that tell you you're not a monster. That is dangerous.” 

Lucian rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You think everyone lies but you.” 

“I don't lie,” Elijah said, stepping around the low table. His boots made soft noise on the wood; the movement of him through the room felt like threat and comfort at once. “I tell you what you already know and won't admit” ‘

He stopped in front of the chair, close enough that Lucian could feel the show of him fall across his knees. The coals picked out the gold in Elijah's eyes, turning them liquid and bright. 

“Do you think Suzerine will fold their hands and wait? Csepel came with questions. He leaves with answers and a direction. If you hesitate now, the story will be written for you by men with ledger books and sharper thoughts.” 

Lucian's jaw throbbed. Holding back tears. “So you want me to kill him? Remove the only witness who could be useful?” 

Elijah's face was unreadable for a beat, then he leaned in–the smirk that came was small, precise. “I just want you to remember why you picked this. If you cannot hold the role you took, then everything we did has meant nothing. If Csepel is useful, you use him. If he's a risk, remove him. But don't let the privilege of decision slip from you because your hand trembles.” 

The words landed like iron. Lucian's fingers closed around the arms of the chair until it felt like the fabric was creaking. 

“I thought–” he began, then stopped. The confession was a small thing, almost private. “I thought that perhaps he could remind me of something softer. Of what I lost before I learned to hate.: 

Elijah's eyes sharpened. “And if he reminds you of who you were, not who you must be, what then? You'd let nostalgia carve a route back to being small and ignored. You think that will protect you? It will drown you.” 

Lucian swallowed. The room felt smaller, as if the walls leaned in to listen to his decision. 

Outside, somewhere in the servants wing, a shutter clicked. Small, ordinary sounds made enormous now. 

“What do you want from me?” he asked finally, voice rough. 

Elijah's face looked softened just a fraction—a quick, dangerous kindness. “I want you to lead. Use whatever tools you must. Use him, break him, charm him—whatever keeps the house in your name. And remember; once you pick a story, you must tell it without wincing.” 

Lucian sat with that like a stone. He thought of Dedric crumpling into ivy, of Raphael's wine mixing with his blood.  Of Theoford's fingers clawing at the silk. Alistair's surprised eyes. He thought of the portraits in the hall, of the way the ancestors looked down like judges who had been proven wrong. 

Slowly, he let his hands unclench. He looked up at Elijah, and for the first time the tiredness in his face made room for something else—a sharpness, a thin-hard resolve. 

“Prepare a room for him,” Lucian said. “Send a rider to Suzerine under the pretense of condolence; bring a servant to escort Csepel into the study in the morning. I'll speak with him first, quietly. Well see what he knows. Well see where his loyalties truly lie..” 

Elijah cocked his head, both pleased and amused. “yYou want to play diplomacy with a knife tucked in your sleeve.”:He paused, then added, “Fine. But if he slips, you cut him clean. No hesitation.” 

Lucian nodded. “No hesitation.” 

They agreed with the barest of touches—a world made of small cruelties and sharper promises. Elijah left to arrange what needed arranging. Lucian stayed, starting at his hands until the room blurred at the edges. 

Later, alone, he rose and moved through the quiet house like a man learning the geography of his own guilt. He walked past the portraits and paused before his mothers, which hung smaller than he remembered. Her painted eyes seemed softer than the rest, and for a fraction of a second he wanted to find some apology that could be given in the daylight. 

He found instead a scrap of paper in the study—a note one of their servants had dropped in their hurry: “Rider to Suzerain at first light. Csepel arrived. He is staying nearby.” 

Lucian folded the paper once and slid it into his pocket. It rested there, thin and warm against his palm. 

When Elijah returned, arrangements made and orders given, he found Lucian at the small family cemetery beyond the orchard. Four fresh mounds he had watched with the careful distance of someone burying less than himself. 

Elijah stood at the edge of the yews and did not speak. He only watched Lucian lower his hand to touch the soil—not with sorrow, not yet. But with the slow recognition of consequence. 

“Tomorrow,” Lucian said, voice small and clear in the hush, "I'll tell him the truth I want him to hear.” 

Elijah's jaw titled. “And if he refuses it?” 

Lucian considered the line of low graves, the way dirt settled in the dips of newly turned earth. “Then we will write the version that benefits us.” 

They turned back to the manor together, two silhouettes cutting through the pale light;one steady, the other trying to be. The house waited, full of bones and stories. Outside, the province moved—messengers and crowd and rumours ready to knock and remake the world. 

[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

The Dead House

sorry for any spelling mistakes, this was written when i had killer headaches. Please forgive me haha

The rain had let go, leaving the dark clouds remaining, the weather had been steady and patient, the hard water lines from the rain had left silver streaks on the windows. Lucian stood by the heath in the study, watching the light catch on the glass of brandy in his hand. The silence between him and Elijah was something alive—filling every corner, every soft creak of the old manor. Neither spoke until the knock came.

It was not a timid knock. Measured. Controlled.

It was a nobleman's rhythm.

Elijah's gold eyes shot to the door, the smallest smirk was hitting the sides of his mouth. “Are you expecting anyone, boy?”

Lucian didn't answer. His chest felt tight—a strange, anticipatory ache he couldn't name. He set his glass down with a silent click, tugged at his cuffs, and crossed the room as if to face a ghost.

When the door opened the smell of wet earth came with it.

Csepel stood framed in the threshold, the storm's dirt colored his nice clothes. A servant stood at his side, the bright purple hair, the black suit..holding his cloak along his forearm.

“Ah.” Lucian, Csepel and Bartholomew stared back. “Csepel.”

The man gave a short bow, formal only in gesture. “My condolences,” His gaze looked across Lucian, seeing Elijah lounging along the mantle, “And…to you as well, I suppose.”

Elijah smiled without warmth. “How kind of Suzerine to mourn strangers.”

“Ahah, servant boy..this isn't Suzerine,” Csepel replied smoothly, unbothered by his words. “It's me.”

The three of them gathered around the long table–the same table where Theoford once read his letters. It was now bare, save for the faint ring of where brandy had been spilled the night before.

Csepel removed his gloves with practiced ease, laying them neatly on the wood table. “You didn't send word,” he said quietly. “Not even after–” His eyes gazed at all the empty chairs. “After it all happened.”

Lucian's jaw flexed. “There was nothing to send.”

“No?” Csepel's voice was soft, almost kind. “Word spreads fast when blood stains noble soil, Lucian. The whole province is whispering. Some think it was thieves. Others…” His eyes focused on Elijah, steady and knowing. “Others think it was an..inside matter.”

Elijah met his look without flinching. “And what do you think?”

“I think,” Csepel said, leaning back in his chair, “That you've always enjoyed breaking things that didn't belong to you.”

Lucian's hand curled into a fist under the table. “That is quite enough.”

Csepel's tone softened instantly, like a flame being drawn down. “I did not come to accuse you. I came to make sure you're still breathing”

He smiled faintly, though there was no humor in it. “It would be a shame if Suzerine lost its prettiest spy.”

Elijah gave a low laugh “How touching. He does care.”

Lucian side nothing. His mind was stormy—memories of Csepel's confession, of the tension that lingered between them before all of his. Of how easy it would've been to run then, instead of now.

Csepels eyes flicked toward Lucian's hands. “Look at you,” he murmured. “Afraid of the hands that have done what they have done.”

Elijah's smirk went away. “Watch your tone.”

But Lucian…didn't stop him. He only looked down at his hands..the feeling of the silk over the skin, a barrier between him and the world–”Perhaps..I am.”

Csepel exhaled through his nose. “Then maybe..there is still something left of you..”

He stood, looking at Bartholomew. Who..only looked down the table at Lucian. He could feel the glare..tears formed into his eyes. He stood, letting his heeled boot hit the marble, walking away. Not looking at anyone.

Csepel looked to Elijah for answers now. “I will be staying in town for a few days. Suzerine will want answers soon, and you should figure out what story you are going to tell.”

Elijah's eyes lifted. “And what if we don't.”

“Then someone will tell it for you.” Bartholomew had spoken with finality. His gaze was dark and knowing. “And you know that won't end well for either of you.”

They left before Elijah could respond. Boots echoing down the corridor until the sound was swallowed by manors silence once again.

Elijah stood, looking out the window for a long moment, staring at the hard lines of the old rain. Lucian's seat remained empty, a spot where breathing got hard.

Finally, Elijah spoke to himself. “Lucian puts too much trust on him.” Elijah swallowed slowly…feeling every drop of saliva go down his throat. “Maybe..or maybe he's the only one left who remembers what he used to be.”

Elijah looked at the reflection in the glass, faint…and his features sharp. “And that's the problem.”

[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

Echoes in the Hall

I have an AO3 account that you can read all of my fanfic on. Its updated more commonly then this is, but i will upload here too more often. If you wanna check out the AO3 fics, heres the link

The doors shut behind the traveler with a heavy, final sound—the kind that lingered Lucian sat perfectly still in his chair, the weight of the world pressing the cushion of the chair down, something about him had gone brittle. The man's boots had left thin trails of mud across the marble, a small, ordinary stain that somehow made the entire room feel unclean.

Elijah watched him from across the hall, one shoulder braced against a column. His gaze had the same sharpness it always did when he felt trouble–it wasn't fear, but focus. The kind that came before violence.

“Hell right for Suzerine,” Elijah said finally, his tone was too even. “He's in such a rush, probably before sundown.”

Lucian's eyes flicked to him. “I'm aware.”

Elijah's mouth curved, humorless. “Then we should have cut his tongue out while we had the chance.”

Lucian was soft but firm. “No, no..let him speak.”

A pause. Elijah straightened slowly, crossing his arms. “You want them to come looking?”

“I want them to come knowing what I've already done,” Lucian replied, standing and moving to the windows. The light was dull, washed pale by the gray rain outside. “Control the story before it controls me..it's the only thing I can control.”

He leaned one hand against the frame, his reflection ghosting over the glass—pale, tired, with the faint shimmer of candlelight turning his eyes almost a golden yellow. “It is better than running.”

Elijah moved behind him, boots clicking quietly across the floor. “You call it control,” he said slowly. “I call it bait.”

Lucian turned at that, the motion slow and deliberate, “And what would you call doing nothing?”

A smirk touched Elijah's mouth, though it didn't reach his eyes. “Peace.”

Lucian's gaze dropped briefly to Elijah's hand—scarred, steady, the same ones that had drawn blood for him without hesitation. “Youve never cared for peace.”

“I care when it keeps you alive.”

Lucian huffed a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. “Alive to what end, Elijah? So I can rot in this house while family ghosts whisper about me?” he gestured faintly toward the portraits lining the corridor–the stern, self-satisfied faces of Laeriles long dead. “They already know what I've done.”

Elijah stepped closer. “Your family is dead, kitten, Ghosts don't matter,”

“They do when they come weaning Suzerine's colors.” Lucian murmured.

The two of them stood there for a moment—silence wrapping around their words like smoke. The rain tapped against the windows, slowly and steady.

Elijah's voice got soft, that low drawl that always carried more weight than it should. “You're shaking.” Lucian looked down. His hands trembled slightly where his fingers flexed against the window frame. He didn't try to hide it. “I haven't stopped science in the garden,” he admitted, quiet and raw.

“Since their blood hit the dirt.”

Elijah's hand rose—not quite touching, just hovering near Lucian's arm. “And yet here you stand.”

“Because I have to,” Lucian whispered. His throat worked around words. “Because if I stop…Ill see it again. Every single time I close my eyes.”

Elijah's eyes softened for a heartbeat. Then: “Stop pretending that you regretted it.”

Lucian's head snapped up, a flicker of real anger flashing in his eyes. “You think I wanted it?”

“I think you needed it,” Elijah said simply. He stood another step closer, his voice dipping to a murmur that brushed the edge of Lucian's ear, “And I think that terrifies you more than the blood itself.”

Lucian's breath caught. He looked away, but Elijah followed, close enough that the faint scent of smoke and steel seemed to fill the air between them.

“The control,” Elijah whispered. “The silence after. Don't lie to me—you felt it.”

Lucian's fingers curled tight around the window frame. “Enough,”

Elijah tilted his head, studying him. “Then say it.”

“I said enough!”

The command landed with more face than he intended. Elijah paused, then—with a faint curve of amusement on his lips—stepped back. In almost a joking manner. “As you wish my lord.”

Lucian turned away before Elijah could see his expression crack. “Leave me,”

For a long moment Elijah didn't move. Then his boots scraped softly against the marble as he obeyed, his shadow was peeling away from Lucian's. The faint scent of rain and leather lingered long after he was gone.

Lucian stayed where he was, staring at the windows, at the faint smudge where his hand had pressed into the glass. Outside, the storm had turned to a steady drizzle—soft, but relentless.

Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked. The house made its quiet noises again–settling, breathing. But the silence that filled it wasn't emptiness anymore.

And Lucian knew, deep down, that Suzerine would not wait long.

[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

The Hallow Manor

The manor was quiet, the shift and sound of servants moving around.

Lucian woke with that realization pressing down on his chest, heavier than the weight of the sheets or the pale morning light leaking through the curtains. The silence was not restful. It was a hum, stretching on corridors and chambers, a silence that reminded him of a battlefield after the last body had dropped—not peace.

But there is a vacancy.

The gloves were still on, Black silk, rumpled at the wrists from sleep. He flexed his fingers as though the fabric might crack. He hadn't taken them off since…since the garden.

The floorboards creaked. Elijah appeared in the doorway of their bathroom. Leaning on the doorframe. His hair damp from washing, his shirt open at the collar. The messers were at his hips, always, casual, like it had grown into him. His yellow eyes flicked over Lucian, sharp even in their lazy, half lidded way.

“You look like a corpse yourself,” Elijah drawled, stepping into the room. “Did you dream of them?”

Lucian swallowed, throat tight. “...No.” A lie..

He had dreamt of Raphael's hand twitching on the carpet, of Alistar's eyes fading to dull glass, of Dedric clutching his throat and making that horrible sound. Of his father—but the dream hadn't given Theoford a voice. Just a mouth open in judgment.

Elijah had moved to the edge of the bed, close enough to Lucian that he could feel the warmth of him. Smelling of smoke and soap. He reached out and idly tugged at Lucian's sleeve, inspecting the glove as though it were an ornament.

“You have to stop flinching every time you think of them,” he said softly. “If anyone sees hesitation, they'll smell weakness. And then all this will have been for nothing.”

Lucian stared at him. His lips parted but no sound came. The knot in his stomach tightened.

Downstairs, a door shut. Too loud. The sound rang through the house. Lucian looked at it. Elijah, however, didn't so much as blink. “Servants,” he spoke. “They're waiting for orders. You're their master now.”

The word cut him like glass

Master.

He rose at last, pulling the gloves tighter on his hands, as if they would hold him together. Elijah's gaze followed him like a shadow as he left the room

The hallways were washed in the pale morning light, dust motes drifting in the air. The portraits of Laerile ancestors—stern men and women, hollow-eyed in the oil paint-seemed to watch him as he passed. His boots sounded too loud on the polished stone.

At the end of the corridor, a servant froze when she saw him. She was young, clutching a tray, too tightly, knuckles turning white. Her eyes flicked past him, down the hall, as if expecting someone to follow.

Lucian almost spoke–some words of reassurance, some casual remark. But nothing came. He walked past her without a sound, and her breath shuddered out as he turned the corner

The manor was too quiet.

Lucian walked on. Every corridor felt longer than it should, every window spilling light on corners he didn't want to see. He could still smell it, even though the floors had been scrubbed, and the carpets killed, it still felt wrong. The stone wiped until his face was reflected into it. Blood never left completely. He wondered if the servants smelled it too, or if it was just him.

At the stairwell, Elijah's footsteps joined his own. He hadn't heard him follow, but he wasn't surprised. Elijah moved like a shadow wearing boots.

“You let her look at you for too long,” Elijah said quietly. His voice carried, but only to Lucian's ears. “Servants remember glances more than words. Don't give them anything they can and will whisper about.” Lucian sighed. “It's fine Elijah, she is just scared.”

“Good,” Elijah scoffed. “Fear keeps them useful.”

They descended together. The dining hall was set from last night, silver gleaming, crystal dull under the weak light. The chairs were all in place. No one had touched them. For a moment, Lucian almost saw them sitting there again—Dedrics laugh, Raphael's sharp tongue, Alistair's distance, his fathers looming presence at the head. He blocked hard until the table was empty again.

Elijah's hand brushed his shoulder, grounding and claiming. “Do not stare at ghosts. Eat. Make them see you eat. Make them believe this house still has a master.

But he couldn't. The thought of food turned his stomach.

The day passed in fragments. Whispers in the hall, doors opening shutting too carefully now that Lucian was who they knew they had to answer to. The world outside the manor seemed so far away still. But it was living in his home.

Dusk came after Lucian had ignored the traveler all day. It was a bell at his meeting door now. Twice. Its clang reverberated through the stone, startling him, and the crows in the trees.

Elijah opened the door. The traveler stood stiffly in the hall, cloak damp still. He walked in, still looking between Elijah and Lucian.

“My lords,” he stated, voice careful. “Word reached Suzerine…corning the Laerile family. I was sent to—”

“They are gone,” Lucian said, voice precise and quick, the gloves were gone.

“Gone?” The man's eyes widened. Jaws getting tight. “Dead?”

“Yes,” Elijah's voice cut in, sitting next to Lucian. His voice was calm, dangerous. “You may report that. They will not be coming back.”

The traveler's gaze darted between them. “This…is unprecedented. Suzerine—”

Lucian lifted his head, cold, controlled. “I am the last Laerile. It is…my responsibility”

“And you?” the traveler asked, wary. “Who are you to act instead of your mast–”

Elijah stood again. The messers showing. “I am his shadow, nothing stands in the way of me, and him.”

The travelers swallowed. “There will be many questions, my lords.”

Lucian's gaze didn't waver. “Then let the questions come.”

A long pause. The open windows with the smell of last night's rain coming in. The traveler's hands tightened at his sides. He nodded once, sharply. “I will..report..my lords”

[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

Ashes

The storm had broken at the dawn of that night.

Rain battered the rooftops in sudden angry sheets, rattling the windows of the Laerile estate until it seemed the whole house might groan under the weight of it. The sky was a bruise of grey and violet, split open over and over again by the veins of lightning.

Lucian stood at one of the tall windows, watching water stream down the glass. It . changed the world outside into shifting streaks of green and black, the orchard bending and swaying like something alive. He's gone cold in his hands. He hadn't even touched it.

Behind him Elijah was on that damn couch again, laying lazy. Looking as if the storm was made for him — one arm draped over the back, boots leaving muddy smears on the embroidered pillows. The flicker of lightning caught on his yellow eyes, making them flash like something feral.

“You look like a widow waiting for her sailor.”

Lucian's mouth got tight, but didn't stray from the window.

“Better than looking like a stray dog on the furniture. Leaving marks and such.”

Another rumble rolled in the sky, deep and resonant. Lucian could feel it in his chest.

“Sharp.” Elijah said.

The manor seemed to shudder with the thunder. For a moment, he thought of the mounds of flesh in the family plot—how the rain softened their skin, making the dirt even more heavy, pressing them down, erasing their faces through pressure and worms.

The bell at the gate rang.

Both of them stilled, Lucian's mind went blank.

The bell.

It rang again, louder than any storm, the metal clanged in uneven bursts. Someone was out there, braving the downpour. Lucian set his tea down, pinky then cup, careful with every movement. His hands started to shake, his throat got tight.

“At this..hour?”

Elijah was already on his feet. He didn't bother with dressing himself with anything but pants. He strode toward the hall, his stride loose but charged, like a predator curious about what had wandered too close.

Lucian followed, heart hammering against his ribs. Each step down the grand staircase echoed more than it should have. He couldn't help thinking the house knew—that the walls had been keeping their secrets and resented the interruption.

A servant had gone ahead to answer, but before they could unlatch the door, Elijah's hand stopped them. With a push, he swung it open himself.

Rain swept in, soaking the stone floor. Lucian stood back from the rain as Elijah got drenched in the water.

On the threshold stood a figure in a dark traveling cloak, water running from its hem. Beneath the hood, a pale face emerged—a man Lucian knew only by sight, one of the baron's old advisors. His expression was tense, eyes darting between them both.

“My lords.” he said, his voice raised to be heard over the storm. “I bring words from Suzerine. There are…questions about your family's silence.”

The storm howled around them, drowning the rest. Lucian felt Elijah look at him, sharp as a blade, but his own gaze was fixed on the messenger.

The outside world had come knocking.

[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

The Weight of His Silence

The manor was too quiet, it came with peace within it, it made the walls feel too close. It was the silence of something emptied out, something waiting for its absence to be noticed. 

The clock in the great hall kept on, oblivious of the things happening in its own home. Each chime was a reminder that time didn't stop for anyone. Not for Dedric, Raphael, Theoford, or Alistar. 

Lucian stood breathing the shadow of the grand staircase, still wearing the gloves. The silk lining clung fainting to his palms, holding the last warmth of the day. There was no blood on them, but he could feel the warm, slickness of it. Gone too quickly, he would say. 

Across the hall, Elijah stood by a column, arms folded, his gaze fixed on the portrait lining the wall. They looked down in gilded judgment: Raphael with his stiff, righteous posture: Dedric with his faint, strained smile, Theo with the cold, dead gaze. Alistars eys staring into the distance forever. They looked the same as they always had — but Lucian could still see the way their faces had shifted in the end. The shock. The fear. The realization. 

“You could take them down, Kitten.” Elijah said, breaking the stillness of the world. His voice was silent, but sharp. He knew to not touch Lucian unless he made the first move. 

Lucian didn't answer right away, sliding down the wall, resting his head on the wall behind him. His eyes looked though the edges of the frame, the brushstrokes that gave life to what was now rotting under the fresh earth. 

“I will,” he said at last. But he didn't move. 

They had buried them quickly just before the sun began to sink. The family cemetery lay past the orchard, under the crooked arms of ancient yews. No ceremony, or praying to the gods. The shovels bit into the soil, and the earth took them without protest. 

Now, in his mind, those mounds of earth seemed to pulse in the dark– not with life, but with the weight of what they contained. 

“You think too much,” Elijah rolled over in bed. murring. 

Lucian's jaw got tight, staring into Elijah's eyes, then his lips, then back to his eyes.. “Maybe not enough.” 

“Enough to doubt.”

Lucian didn't answer, scooting himself closer to Elijah until they touched, the roughness of Elijah's skin was perfect, warm, and smelled like leather. That evening had come, the sun was gone and the night had come. The air was so thick with the heavy smell of overturned soil and the faint sweetness of rain. 

That had yet to fall.

The gardens were going to bloom, so green even in the season, The ivy along the archways would move in the breeze. Hiding the hell that was made by man. 

The sound of blackbirds would sing, the same one from the morning. They would hop along the garden wall before disappearing into the orchard. Lucian would watch it go. 

“What happens now?” he asked finally, his voice so low it was almost lost in the rustle of the leaves.

Elijah's face didn't change, still resting his head on the pillow. “Now you lead.” 

Lucains gaze drifted toward the manor's tall, polished windows, the garden stared back. Looking back at Elijah he could see the reflection of himself in Elijah's eyes. Pale, sharp, and faintly distorted by the color of his eyes. There was no one left between him and the weight of the world. No father. No brothers. No mother. No one can dictate his place in this home. 

It should have felt like freedom. But it lingered like a cut, pulsing. 

The quiet was filling his ears—things unspoken, questions from the servants who had seen too little or too much, whispers in the village that would soon turn into rumors. 

Lucian could feel it pressing into his skull like a gun. A storm building in the distance. And yet all he could do was kiss Elijah one more time. 

[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

The Serpents Smile

cw: family death, pet/master

The courtyard was blooming. It was too warm for the season, unseasonably green, and yet Lucian still wore gloves. Thin, black, lined with silk. He flexed his fingers absently as they walked. Dedric kept pace beside him, his hands behind his back, talking about horses, of all things. 

Lucian barely listened. 

His head still hummed from the dream—or maybe from the conversation with Elijah before sunrise. The way Elijah had leaned in with that crooked, sardonic smile and murmured, “Do you regret coming back?” 

The words still clung to his tongue like honey, or venom. He wasn't sure which. He looked at his brother, nodding along to some story about a stablehand, and wondered—had Dedric ever seen him, really seen him, without looking through their fathers eyes? 

“Youve been quiet lately,” Dedric said, stopping beneath an arch of irony. “Even for you.” 

Lucian turned, his expression unreadable. “Have I?” 

“You have..been quiet lately. Since dinner. Since you came home, really.”  Dedric folded his arms. “I thought maybe being out here again would ease things. You loved these walks. Do you remember?” 

Luicans eyes drifted toward the manor windows, high and polished. He could almost  picture his mother waving from them, like she used to. 

“I remember a lot of things,” Lucian said softly. 

Dedric smiled faintly, as if reassured by the answer. “Good. Then maybe we can—”

A knife came out.

Dedric didn’t even have time to register the movement before the blade was in his throat.

The skin was soft, making way for the cold steel with a wet, tearing resistance. Each muscle, each ligament..felt like release. His voice died before it could even shape a sound—no scream, no cry for help, just a sharp intake of breath that caught in his chest and refused to leave.

His hands twitched uselessly at his sides. Heaving, desperate, his eyes went wide, the whites catching the sunlight in a glassy sheen.

Lucian’s grip on the hilt was steady. The silk-lined gloves caught no blood as he pressed forward until Dedric’s body hit the ivy and bush, hidden in shadow. When he pulled the blade free, the blood came in a hot, pulsing fountain, spraying across the grass, puddling in his own throat.

Dedric’s eyes rolled, his jaw slackening for one last, useless gasp.

The courtyard seemed to hold its breath.

“I’m sorry,” Lucian whispered, though the words were stripped of any true apology. “You were the easiest.”

From the archway, Elijah appeared, his messer still sheathed. He tilted his head toward the manor. “One down.”

Lucian didn’t look back. “Where’s Raphael?”

The study smelled of brandy and ink. Low lamplight threw lazy shadows across shelves and the glint of cut glass. Raphael was slouched in his chair, a half-drained glass of amber liquor in one hand, a book open but unread in the other.

Lucian stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click. His clothes were immaculate—no spot of blood on them—though the weight of the knife in his pocket was a quiet reminder of what had just been done.

“Little brother!” Raphael greeted, half a smirk curling his mouth. “Back from your—walk..? Where’s Dedric?”

A stupid question.

Lucian leaned casually against the door, eyes calm. “He’s not coming.”

Raphael’s smirk faltered. The book slid from his hand. Placing it down. 

Lucian pulled his bow and arrow from his back, loading it and ready to aim. Nothing new..

Raphael drew his sword, its polished edge catching the lamplight like an altar..a prayer to gods that would never hear him.

Lucian said nothing.

Raphael took a step forward, shoulders squared, voice a low growl.

The arrowhead caught the light. The bowstring pulled taut.

Raphael shouted and charged—too late.

The arrow punched clean through his neck with a meaty thunk. His momentum faltered mid-step, eyes wide, the sword clattering from his fingers. He collapsed forward, head smashing against the desk with a dull crack, the skull had cracked open..The glass toppled from his desk, spilling red wine across the carpet—wine and blood pooling together into one dark, sticky stain.

Lucian stared at the body.. Walking close and flipping it over empty heaves slowly disappearing. 

Rubbing his cheek gently, clearing the blood from Raphs mouth. A single hand, grabbing Lucian's wrist. 

“W..” a heave. 

“W..wh..y” 

The hand fell limp.

Elijah stepped in soon after, stepping neatly over the shards, retrieving the arrow with a slow, deliberate twist. “Two.”

Lucian’s eyes lingered on the body, voice almost idle. “A mess.”

Theoford Laerile’s chambers were steeped in shadow, the curtains drawn tight against the night.

The air smelled faintly of old wine, candle wax, and the faint must of velvet that had hung too long in still air. Lucian stood at the bedside. Grasping at his own hands, anger. 

The old man lay across the silken bedding. His breathing was uneven, a faint whistle in his throat, the chest rising and falling with an irritating fragility.

Lucian’s eyes lingered on his face—Theoford’s mouth slack, his eyes twitching beneath closed lids, the same brow that had so often drawn low over a scowl now smoothed into peace.

Peace he didn’t deserve.

The memory of cold dismissals crept up unbidden—His mother’s absence replaced by silence at the dinner table. Her face gone..her warmth that was healing..loving. But every conversation about the family’s future with every son but him. That same voice that could summon warmth for others reduced to a distant yes or no when speaking to Lucian.

His gloved hands found the pillow.

For a moment, he only held it there in his fingers, flexing them slightly against the fabric, feeling the fine embroidery catch against the silk lining. The pillow is like a moment to think, to reminisce. Elijah’s voice from hours earlier curled back into his thoughts. "And that is why you will never leave."

Lucian lowered the pillow onto Theoford's face. A gentle placement, before grabbing the edges hard and removing his oxygen. Theoford’s eyes snapped open—cloudy, confused—and then flared wide in shock as the weight came down over his face. He bucked against it, the frail strength of age clawing desperately at Lucian’s wrists, nails scraping the silk.

“Shh..please dad..you need to be quiet. Be quiet.”

 The muffled sound beneath the pillow was somewhere between a groan and a panicked plea.

Lucian pressed harder, his arms locked straight. Wrapping his arms around his head and cracking his neck until the thrashing weakened. The old man’s fingers twitched once more, then fell slack. Even then, Lucian didn’t lift the pillow. He stayed there, his breath steady. Holding his father in a hug…his eyes fixed on the shadow his body cast across the bed — until the clock on the mantel clicked once, twice more.

Only then did he pull the pillow away, setting it neatly back in place, as though nothing had been touched. From the doorway, Elijah’s voice broke the heavy quiet. “Three.”

The armory smelled of oiled steel and leather, a sharp, metallic warmth that clung to the air. Rows of blades lined the stone walls, each catching the torchlight in a cold shimmer. The room felt hollow, too wide, every sound stretched in the silence.

Alistar stood near the largest rack, a polishing cloth in one hand, working it slowly along the hilt of a longsword. The scrape of cloth on steel echoed in steady rhythm—a craftsman’s habit, unhurried, unthinking. He hadn’t noticed Lucian yet.

“Strange to see you here,” Alistar said without looking up, his voice carrying just enough to fill the armory. “Thought you’d traded steel for… well, whatever it is you do now.”

Lucian’s bow was already in his hand, the arrow nocked and ready — but the string remained still.

Of all of them, Alistar had been the most absent. Not cruel like Raphael, not suffocating like Theoford, not smiling with false sweetness like Dedric. Just… gone. A brother in title only.

Killing him didn’t ignite the same satisfaction. Instead, it scraped somewhere deep in his chest, leaving a splintered ache.

Alistar finally glanced up, his gaze snagging on the bow. The cloth slipped from his hand and drifted to the floor, his brow creasing. “Lucian? What the hell—”

Lucian could have ended it then. One clean release of his fingers, and it would be over. But his grip faltered. Muscles locked. His arm trembled under the weight of a decision that suddenly felt heavier than any blade.

Alistar stepped forward, confusion sharpening into something else — a flicker of realization. “You don’t have to—”

Those words did it. They cut through the hesitation like a blade through silk, unraveling the fragile thread holding Lucian back. Alistar was next in line. If he lived, this purge meant nothing. All the blood before him—wasted.

The string snapped forward.

The arrow struck low, slipping just beneath the ribs. Alistar staggered, his breath catching in a sharp, wet gasp. His hand pressed instinctively to the wound, coming away slick.

“Why?” His voice was quieter now, stripped of command, carrying only disbelief.

Lucian’s reply was just as soft, almost regretful. “Because you’d inherit.”

Alistar’s eyes searched his face, like he could still find a lie to cling to, something to make this untrue. But Lucian’s expression was carved in stone.

He took a step toward him — another mistake.

The second arrow hit center mass, the force driving him back into the rack of swords. The weapons clattered violently, steel on steel ringing through the armory like a final call. His knees buckled, but Lucian was already moving, catching him enough to lower him gently to the cold stone floor.

“My wife..”

“I know..I know..” Lucian began to tear up. Thinking of the life he took from others. Dedric's kids, Alistars wife. It all felt so far gone. Tears dripped into Alistars face.

Alistar’s gaze dimmed, his lips parting like he might speak again — but no words came. The light left his eyes, and with it, the last brother who had never raised a hand against him.

Behind him, Elijah’s boots clicked across the flagstones. He stepped into the mess without hesitation, plucked both arrows free, and glanced only once at Lucian before murmuring, “Four.”

The word lingered in the air, heavy as the smell of blood and oil.

[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

 Threads Pulled Tight. 

cw: pet/master

The corridor was dim when Lucian's stepped out from that room. The hush of the manor was as thick as honey, warm, but still thick. Somewhere behind him he could hear the hiking of Csepel's throat, holding back tears. Lucian entered into his temporary home. Elijah.

Leaning on the wall, half-hidden in the shadows. One boot braced lazily on the stone wall, arms folded and locked in on Lucian. With the intensity of someone who had been waiting for far too long. Moonlight kissed the edge of his jaw, turning his expression into something too sharp to be casual.

Lucian slowed. Neither of them spoke. The moment was pulled tight, taut, brittle, dry.

Then Elijah's voice cracked through the silence, low.

“So. Did the lover boy think he could save you?”

Lucian flinched, removing and unbuttoning his own shirt when he did. “He offered to take me away.”

Elijah's smirk grew larger, curling at the edge. “Let me guess A cute little cottage with bread and rainwater. No knives, no ghosts. How sweet.”

Lucian exhaled slowly. “He said that he loved me Elijah…”

Pushing himself off the wall, he walked forward, boots silent on the stone. He stopped just short–close enough for the breathing to be on Lucian's neck. “Did you tell him that you're under a new thumb now?”

“I didn't have to.”

Elijah raised a brow, not convinced of this answer. “Then why do I have a feeling of regret?”

Lucian's hand rose, grabbing onto Elijah's shirt—not pulling, not pushing, just..a gentle touch. “I only regret not doing this sooner.”

“Doing what, boy?” Elijah's fingers traced his shoulders. “Letting me ruin you?”

“Pssht..you're not ruining me,” Lucian whispered, with a slight laugh at the start.

“You sure?” Elijah spat out, lips getting closer and closer to Lucian's “I think you'd like it”

In a broken moment, Lucian shoved himself forward–mouths brushing, then pressing, then demanding. It wasn't soft. I wasn't careful. It was months parted with heat, with fury, with a hunger that wasn't about love. It was about the claiming of two monsters who recognized each others run and kissed it anyways,

When they broke, Elijah's voice was low and raw. “He'd never touch you like this. He wouldn't have a clue on how.”

Lucian swallowed, eyes dark. “He never tried to hurt me.”

Elijah paused, studying his face. “But I do?”

Lucian nodded once, like it hurt. Hurt to admit, hurt to say. “You hurt me where I can feel it..you know how I can feel it”

A beat passed. Then Elijah leaned in, lips to Lucian's ear. “And that is why you will never leave.”

Dinner was a performance.

The lesser hall was gilded and decadent, golden light glittering for the chandeliers above. Despite the smaller scale, everything still screamed wealth, Roasted meat steamed on polished silver. Crystal glasses rang softly beneath careful fingers. The table was set for eight. Only five had come.

Lucian sat at the head of the table in the Laerile blue, crisp and poised, the embroidered crest of his family heavy on his chest. Elijah was seated next to Lucian, a long sleeved blue sweater, padding on the arms, leather straps on his arms and belts with steel on his hips. Too regal to be a servant, too dangerous to be ignored as one.

Dedric filled the silence with buoyant chatter, charming as ever. He sliced through tension with easy laughter, talking about parades and how wonderful the preparations were, noble guests and feasts.

But Raphael…watched. Not eating, not speaking. Watching.

“You've stopped training in the yard,” he said, out of the blue, tone liked a rusted kitchen knife. “Cespel protects you now?”

Elijah didn't blink. “Absolutely not. But fear always does”

The room fell still.

Lucian raised his goblet. “Is that a threat?”

“Not from me of course!” Raph said smoothly. Ignoring the statement. “Other people can play games too you know”

Lucian lowered his glass with deliberate care. “Maybe that is why father has placed more guards near my room?”

Raph smiled–cold, snake-sharp. “You came back different, little brother. You've got something behind your eyes now. A leash in your hand and a wolf beside you? “

Dedric set his spoon down slowly, trying to cut in with a laugh. “Now now, lets not act like enemies at a family meal–”

“We ain't acting,” Elijah interrupted, placing his fork down in the improper way. His voice had teeth to it. “My lord's come back is whatever he claims it is. Sorry you don't like the shape of it.”

Raph turned harder, eyes getting narrow. “Is that what he told you?” That this place was for his taking?”

Lucian smiled thinly, a laugh at this perceived absurdity of that statement. “I didn't tell Elijah to do anything. He's independent of me when it comes to his thoughts.”

Raph leaned forward, elbows to table. “You bring a tank into this house, flaunt him like a prize and then act like that's enough for more than what you are?”

Elijah stood in his chair. “You take me for someone bought. I wasn't brought here to play games with pish posh rich fools. I was brought here to protect, no matter what is in his way.”

Raph stood as well. The scrape of his chair on the floor like steel on stone.

“Sit down Raph.” Lucian stated, calm, but ready.

But his eyes weren't on him—to Elijah . “When this burns, you'll be the first thing I throw into the fire.

“I'll be waiting,” Elijah said, eyes glinting. “Try to not disappoint me:”

The silence that followed was full of unspoken declarations.

Dedric laughs nervously, raising his glass in a light hearted way. “Well that was dramatic.”

The threads had been pulled tight. The table, yet again, was filled with a false comfort, now sat beneath the weight of war.

Lucian looked between his brothers–then Elijah, he stood as well. Simply turning to leave the dining hall.

Elijah merely followed, like a blade already drawn.

[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

 The Silent Offer.

cw: pet/master, sex

The chamber was dim in the temporary home, the flicker of a single candle casting long shadows. Csepels silhouette was tense, but his eyes held something softer—hope, maybe, tinged with the memories of pass nights. Lucian stood just inside the door, posture rigid, arms crossed, the weight of all they hadn't said hanging heavy between them.

Csepel broke the silence first, voice low and steady, but with deep edge that pulled at something deeper

“Lucian. You don't have to do this.”

Lucians laugh was bitter, but his eyes flickered—a trace of old warmth and old wounds.

“Do what? Kill my brothers? Take what's owed to me?”

“No, not that.” Csepels voice dropped, almost a whisper, as if recalling a secret shared in darker rooms and softer sheets. “I mean this path. The one you're on. I see where it's taking you.”

Lucians gaze hardened, but there was a shadow of something–remembered touches, the brush of fingertips, whispered promises in the dark.

“And where is that?”

“Dark places, places where there's no coming back.” Csepel got closer, his presence pressing in with a quiet urgency.

Lucians voice grew colder, but his breath hitched just slightly. “You think I want this? That I chose this freely?”

Csepels eyes softened with something like regret. “No. But you can choose something else. You can leave. Walk away from all of this. From the throne, from the blood, from all the weight you carry.”

Lucian shifted, muscles getting tight. “Leave? Run away like a bitch? That's not me.”

Csepels smile was brief, a ghost of the playful nights they shared. “It's not running, darling, it's freedom.” he spoke lowly.

“Freedom, from this suffocating family, this poisoned legacy. Come with me. I have a home—a home I want to build around love, and care”

Lucian looked away, thinking about this, how could he? How could he be so crude?

“I'm serious, Lucian, I fell in love with my servant! I know about love, how to love.” It was a moment of silence..beating hearts. “Somewhere where you are safe. Where you don't have to kill and pretend…”

Lucians hands clenched tight. “You make it sound so easy Csepel! Like you know what I am, and who ive lost.”

“I do,” Csepel said silently, his tone almost a caress on his cheek. “I lost you once. I don't want to lose you again. Not like this”

Lucians eyes flickered, the smallest crack in his armor.

“You lost me? You think you ever truly had me? I wasnt ever yours.”

“No,” Csepel admitted, stepping even closer, their breath nearly mingling. “But I loved you. I still do.”

Lucian swallowed, voice barely a whisper raw, and honest. “Love doesn't save you. It doesn't stop the pain or the hate or the rage. It leaves you weaker.”

“Or it makes you stronger,” Csepel murmured, hand reaching out as if to touch something long out of reach. “Let me be your strength. Let me hold you.”

Lucian shook his head, pain flickered behind his eyes. “Strength? Or chains? I'm already a prisoner—of my family, my name, my grief. This plan…it's the only way I can break free.”

Csepels hands hovered near Lucians arm but didn't touch.

“Breaking free doesn't mean breaking everything around you.”

Lucians jaw got tight, “I absolutely can't live in the shadows anymore. Not hiding, not pretending. If I don't act now, I'll never be more than the forgotten one.”

“And if you kill them?” Csepels' voice was soft, almost pleading. “What then? What happened to you?”

Lucians breath hitched, voice steady despite the storm inside “Then I'm free.”

Csepels eyes searched Lucians face—there was so much unsaid, so much between them..

“Please. Please, you know there are other ways”

“This is my only way. “

Csepel began to tear up as Lucian opened the door. The sound of his footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving Csepel behind with the flickering candle and an empty glass—a ghost of a touch that didn't come, tears curving down his cheeks.

[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

Like Lambs

cw: pet/master

Suzerain was always dressed for someone else's eyes.

Even in mourning colors for the Queens final court, the city shimmered like something dipped in silver. Drape of black velvet trimmed in gold hung from every balcony. Heralds on corners wore stiff expressions and polished boots. Music floated on the air, careful and subdued.

Lucian hated it.

He stood on the inner balcony of the Laerile appointed estate, watching the square below fill with guests. Nobles from across the Caine's region crowded the streets, all here to bear witness. It felt more like a stage than a city—everything was so fake.

Behind him, Elijah adjusted the cuff of his coat in the warped mirror. It was the nicest thing he owned, but even tailored black silk couldn't rid of Elijah's roughness.

“You ready?” Elijah asked.

Lucian didn't turn. “They’ll want to be seen. They’ll arrive last.”

“Figures.”

Below them, the trumpets started. A column of royal guards began clearing a path through the crowd. A shining crest was raised high—Laerile gold on a blood-red banner.

“There,” Lucian murmured. “That's Alistar.”

The eldest rode tall, the full regalia, his posture rigid and untouchable. Behind him came Dedric, and then Raphael. Each one dressed like they were already kings. The people bowed, shouted blessings, and reached for them.

Lucian didn't move.

He watches them in a strange kind of vacancy, like observing distant animals. Like they'd already died.

That evening, the palace hosted a banquet in the main hall. There were over three hundred guests—envoys from other provinces, courtiers, commanders, foreign nobility. The soon to be crowned prince sat at the center of it all, composed and smiling, the purple haired butler standing at his side. Lucian stood off to the side, half in shadow. He wasn't meant to draw attention here—not yet. He wore the family's crest but none of its warmth.

He watched. And he was being watched

From the far side of the hall the prince of Suszerine—Csepel, stood in silk robes, his crown absent but presence unmistakable. The light from the outside spilled into the rooms, but his eyes were sharp and dark, fixated.

Lucian didn't return the look right away. He sipped slowly from his glass, feigning boredom.

Eventually, the price stepped down from the throne. He moved gracefully—he always did. Parting through the admirers with a smile that didn't really reach the mouth. His gloved hands were folded neatly behind his back, but Lucian remembered what they felt like ungloved.

“I thought shadows were not your style,” Csepel murmured as he reached him. Lucian didn't turn.

“You know..I look good when I grow into things.”

Csepel's voice was soft, smooth, and low. “That's a shame.”

Lucian didn't turn from the treats table, grabbing another raspberry crème. Placing it gently in his mouth. “No. You did always like it when I begged for light.” he stated in a teasing way.

That earned the barest twitch at the corner of Csepels lips—something fond. “Don't be dramatic, darling. You were never that innocent.”

Lucian's gaze flicked to the goblet in Csepels hand, then back to his face. “I suppose, you saw the non-innocence”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The music played on. Laughter echoed from the long tables. They stood in a bubble just beyond it all—out of reach, but fully seen.

Csepel finally broke the stillness “I didn't expect you to come.”

He spoke again, his voice teasing “I invited everyone. But, you always liked pushing boundaries.”

Lucian leaned just a little closer, not enough for scandal, just enough to press breath between them. “We pushed the boundaries..Csepel. You're lucky that gender is not a problem for you.”

The prince's throat worked around a swallow. He looked away at first, just briefly, watching a servant pass a tray of pomegranate wine.

“I've changed.”

Lucian’s voice was quiet. “So have I.”

The silence settled between them, not empty—but weighted. History pulsed with the passing seconds. Long nights, naked bodies, locked doors, shared gasps and moans. Shattered rules.

Those years are far gone now. But their skin remembered.

Finally, Csepel straightened, fixing his collar with elegant fingers.

“I've been told you keep an interesting company these days.”

Lucian didn't answer. Just the corners of his mouth lifting, giving a small suggestion, not conformation.

The prince stared at Lucians lips. Sighing. “Be careful.”

“Why?” Lucian giggled a little. “You aren't worried about me, you never send letters anymore anyways”

Csepels' gaze got dark. “I'm worried about what you want.”

He turned away, walking off. Leaving behind the smell of burnt cedar and wood. Lucian exhaled slowly.

Elijah appeared beside him. Boots soft on the tile.

“That looked cozy.” He murmured.

Lucian looked to Elijah. “He talks far too much.”

Elijah raised an eyebrow. “You do realize he looked at you like he's already undressed you?”

Lucian slid his fingers around Elijah's glass of wine, gulping it down. “He has. That doesn't mean anything to me right now though.”

Elijah blinked in slight shock. “Makes sense though.” he scratched his stubble. “He looks pretty fuckable”

Lucian merely sighed. Saying nothing more as his knuckles got white around the goblet.

[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

The House Knows. 

cw: pet/master

The morning after felt colder than it should have.

Lucian rose before the sun fully cut through the mist choked windows. He stressed in silence, the room still carrying the scent of old lien and last night's stillness. Elijah had not spoken when he left—-just cracked one eye open, grunted softly, then rolled over to reclaim the warm half of the bed.

Downstairs, the manor was already stirring, staff moved like shadows in practiced formation, polishing surfaces that would only gather dust one more time. Laying out porcelain cups that no one would drink from.

Lucian passed them wordlessly. He didn't belong to this house anymore—but he wore the shape of someone who once did.

At breakfast, his father didn't speak to him. Not directly.

Theoford Von Laerile sat at the head of the table, his posture ramrod straight, dressed in a crimson trimmed coat that hasn't gone out of style simply because he refused to let it. Dedric and Raphael flanked him like matching wolves. Lucian sat at the far end—-his chair only half pulled in, untouched plate in front of him. It was arranged like a meal, but felt like a play.

“We’ll be departing tomorrow,” Theoford announced, slicing into soft fruit with mechanical precision. “The Queen's final court will be held before the coronation. We are expected to appear united.”

Lucian looked up to him, eyes relaxed. “Of course father,” he said, “Nothing more believable than unity.”

Raphael snorted into his drink. Dedric didn't bother hiding his glare.

Later, as Lucian stood in the east corridor, fingers tracing the fraying edge of a tapestry he used to hide behind as a child, Elijah reappeared at his shoulder like a ghost. He hadn't bothered dressing formally—still in worn grey, a leather strap across his chest.

“Well?” Elijah asked.

Lucian kept his eyes on the tapestry. “We leave tomorrow.”

“Straight to Suzerine?” “No, Through Rossfield. We’re expected to show our faces in the countryside. The nobles there like pretending they still matter.”

They moved through the halls side by side Elijah kept scanning the corners, mentally marking them the way he had in every house the touch together. But this one helped him longer. He paused near one door. Opened it. Inside were stripped walls and a child bed.

Lucian didn't step in, but merely leaned on the frame of the door. Elijah stepped in, covering his nose with his shirt. Dust soaked the walls.

“That was mine,” he muttered. “Before they moved me downstairs.”

Elijah turned, rolling his eyes. Leaving the room, Lucian slammed the door shut, causing a servant to jump and drop a basket on the ground.

“They locked you down there?”

Lucian smiled with too many teeth. “They said it was for the servants' convenience. Harder for me to sneak out when i was near the kitchens...”

[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

 Velvet Roads

cw: pet/master

The carriage rocked gently beneath them, wheels crunching along the winding, the slightly overgrown roads of Laralie. Mist clung to windows, hazing the views for the people outside. Lucian, sat awkwardly. After the moment they just had..that's all he could do. Not speaking much.

The bell on the collar jingled with slight movements, each sound felt more and more humiliating. He continued to shift, catching Elijah's eyes. He looked for a moment to see him. “I can't believe we are doing this again,” Lucian murmured, as if talking to the houses around him. “Parading through the city. Only pretending to care, wearing smiles.” he spoke, licking his lips one more time. Maybe to clean himself, or calm the nerves.

“You love it.” Elijah said. His voice was lazy, but sharp beneath. “I'm sure you like it when they look at you..when they don't know a damn thing about what we’re planning.”

Lucians lips curved, soft and cruel for merely a moment. “I know that wont be as good as when they start squirming because they are figuring us out.”

Elijah smirked. “That's it, Kitten.”

As they turned a corner near the old stone bridge, Lucians gaze snapped towards the trees. The woods thinned there, just enough to show the broken statue near the path—a riderless horse carved in pale stone, half-swallowed by vines.

He didn't say anything, but Elijah noticed the way Lucians shoulders pulled tighter. His jaw clenched like the sight hit something raw and unhealthy.

Elijah leaned in slightly, voice low. “You remember it?”

Lucian didn't look away “She used to meet me there when I'd sneak out. She’d bring sweets in her coat. It's where she told me to stop being afraid of being like them. Or she would simply laugh, and crack jokes with me.”

A beat passed.

“She said I was better, but, it's always the good ones that die?”

He phrased it like a question. Elijah didn't respond. Silence filled the room.

“It ain't always like that.”

The city was blooming into view by late afternoon, red-rooted and velvet draped. Flags fluttered from windows and gates, the noble crest of the capital city painted in gold. There were more guards than usual, and his carriage choked the main road, ferrying middle class folks and curious merchants desperate to glimpse.

They arrived, the manor just outside the central square—property the Laerile family kept in the family; it had been dusted and re-dressed for their arrival. But age still clung to it. The steward, an aging man with a crooked back and too-wide smile bowed as Lucian stepped out first, Elijah following at his heels like a dog on an invisible leash. The steward flinched just slightly at the sight of Elijah's blades and worn leather.

“Lord Lucian,” he stated, not meeting his eyes exactly. “Welcome home.”

Lucian nodded, striding inside like he'd never left. Elijah followed, sharp-eyed and silent.

The manor didn't change, just as Lucian remembered it—too ornate, too cold. Tapestries hung like reminders, and portraits of long-dead Laeriles watched their descendant with unblinking scorn. Elijah's gaze lingered on one painting…a woman leaning on a pale white horse, dark skin and long blonde hair. The painting stared, like the soul was trapped inside it.

Lucian ignored the painting, walking up the stairs, like he was running from it.

“Your mother?” Elijah rushed up the stairs, trying to catch Lucian.

They spent the afternoon reacquainting themselves with the manor, pretending to be the dutiful youngest son, and his devoted knight. Staff filtered in and out with food, clothes, updates. Elijah declined most offers, preferring to test the perimeter, walking the halls, mapping all exits. He noted which windows stuck, which stairs creaked, which rooms had locked that didn't quite click closed.

They didn't speak much after the staff left them for the evening. The bedroom Lucian chose was on the second floor—his old one, though he didn't say that out loud. Dust had been wiped from the wardrobe and fireplace mantle, but the bed still creaked in the same way when he sat on it . The sheets smelled like dry linen and unfamiliar soap.

Elijah leaned on the fireplace, looking at Lucian sitting on the bed. Lucian went to the nightstand, placing the collar back on with a simple tighten.

“You're quiet,” Elijah said without turning. Lucian unbuttoned his cuffs. Stripping his shirt off. “I’m tired.”

“You're bad at lying, Kitten.”

He sighed, and didn't argue. Leaning back, elbows behind him on the blanket. “I walked through this whole house today and yet—I feel like none of it mattered.”

“It don't mean anything.”

Lucian looked at him. “Then why do I feel like being here is burying me alive?”

Finally, Elijah grinned and stopped leaning.

“That painting—-of her. You saw it.” Elijah crossed the room and sat beside him, Lucian sighed and sat on Elijah's lap. “Yeah”

“She used to sit on that horse and let me ride with her. I was maybe four.” His voice was quieter, a smaller, scared side of him began to peer through the cracks. “She hated this place too. She was just better at hiding it.”

The room settled around them. As if holding its breath. The wind outside rattled one of the high windows. Like it was gonna swing the doors open.

Lucian rubbed his hands together. Staring at the fading scar on his hand from when his mother hit him with a ruler.

“My hands still smell like woods, and mud.”

“I'd hope they would.” Elijah said, grinning at Lucian choosing to sit on his lap. “We buried a boy in those woods.”

Lucian's gaze flicked up. “I know.”

There wasn't grief in his voice over such a thing. Just soft agreement. Like Elijah hit the play button again. His mind wandered, the death, the blood, the sweat he was going to see.

Elijah leaned back on his hands. More so watching, staring at Lucian then listening. “Are you going to sleep?”

Lucian shook his head. “Not here, I feel the eyes down my neck.”

“Well,” He lifted Lucian up, sitting next to him. Elijah stood.

“Come on then.”

Lucian hesitated—just long enough to feel the distance—then followed.

The guest room Elijah had gotten was smaller. Warmer. One of the oil lamps has been left on, low and flickering. His blades were stacked nicely on the dresser, boots kicked midway under the bed. There was something honest about the mess. So lived in, so alive.

They didn't touch in bed. Not at first. Just lay side by side, sharing the same stale air. The silence stretched long. Comfortable only because neither of them expected better.

The bell on his neck gave one small chime when Lucian rolled to face the ceiling.

After a while, he whispered, “I don't know if I'm scared....or if I'm...excited?”

Elijah didn't move, staring at Lucians face. “There's not a difference in this game.”

Lucian closed his eyes, fingers curling against the sheets. “What if I get too used to this?” Elijah scoffed, voice law and rough. “You already have.”

[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

Collar

cw: kidnapping, pet/master

It had been a week since the attack. A week since Lucian had vanished from his escort caravan, and a week since his world had been pulled out from under him like a silken rug slick with blood.

Elijah had not taken him far—-just far enough to be unseen. The bandit camp nestled in a forgotten forest, cloaked by gnarled trees and fog like something out of a half told fairy tale. Lucian had imagined worse places to die. But strangely, he hadn't died.

Not yet.

Instead, Elijah had kept him. Kept being the word Lucian turned over in his mind, again and again, as if it might take new shape under scrutiny. He was not imprisoned in chains or locked in a cage. He walked freely through the forested clearing. He was fed, dressed, and spoken to like a man. But still…kept.

Today, Elijah returned from a hunt at dawn. Lucian had watched him from the stump near the fire, chin in hand, as Elijah emerged with two rabbits slung over his shoulders, blood on his fingers and a grin stretched too wide.

“You always stare like that?” Elijah asked, dropping the rabbits near the firepit.

Lucian raised a brow. “Like what?”

“Like you've never seen someone gut dinner.”

“I was waiting to see if you'd trip, sadly no luck.”

Elijah chuckled—low, rough. “Smart ass”

Lucian allowed himself a small smile. But it slipped when he pulled the cheeks of his face up, the collar tight on his throat still, he lost the smile right away, grasping at the collar with hate. He stared at his arm grasping the collar, then Elijah, with a sigh.

Elijah didn't look up. He began skinning the rabbit with a casual flick of his knife. “ You made a deal. You're mine now. Don't be surprised.”

“I agreed to help you kill my family,” Lucian said, voice tight. “That doesn't really mean I'm your pet.”

“You sure?” Elijah glanced up then. Yellow eyes cutting through the morning mist. “You look like one sittin’ there pouting like that.”

Lucians heart leapt in a way he despised. “You're insane.” “Probably,” Elijah agreed. He stood, wiping his hands on his pants, then stepped on close—too close. He reached out, and Lucian froze. Elijah's fingers skimmed his neck, just under the jaw.

“No one touched you like this before. Huh?” he murmured. “Not like they wanted you anyway.”

Lucian swallowed. He hated how easily Elijah read him. Hated more that Elijah wasnt wrong.

“It's a symbol,” Elijah said, leaving heat where his hand had been. “You will wear it under all that noble silk, and I'll know youre mine. Whether were out in the dirt or in those gold halls you came from”

Lucian looked down at the collar again. It gleamed dully in the weak light “You think we'll make it that far?”

Elijah sharpened. “I will make us.”

After dinner that night, going late into the afternoon, Elijah left into the woods again. “Grabbing water,” he said.

Lucian was back to staring at the fire, thinking. Thinking of a way out, curling himself tightly, like he was hiding from something that would hurt him. When Elijah returned, arms and chest were streaked with water and dirt. He tossed a waterskin to Lucian, letting it fall onto the ground.

“You're still sulking.”

“I am not a sulker.”

“Easily could have fooled me.” Elijah sat beside the pseudo ball, not close enough to be touching but close enough for the warmth to brush Lucians skin. “You keep watching that fire like you're still behind palace walls. Still deciding if this is all beneath you.”

Lucian growled and turned. “I'm trying to figure out if this is all real!”

“It is,” Elijah said. “Every part of it, The mud, the clothes, the hunger, the fire. Me.”

Lucian stared at him. Trying to spit out a rebuttal for this.

Elijah leaned into Lucian, tracing the chest now, eyes gleaming in the fire. “You. aren't a prince here. You are nobody's brother. You are just mine.”

Lucian, open mouthed, trying to come up with something, anything. Could only spit out.

“Yes sir.”

Lucian didn't sleep that night.

The collar was too tight, it felt like it was watching him. Every turn, every struggle.

He told himself he was only playing along. That he would wear the mask as long as needed, until his family bled out at his feet and he could stand over them, victorious.

But in the silent moments—-between Elijah's slow breathing and the echo of the campfire cracking—Lucian wondered which mask was real.

He reached for the collar, he could have pulled it off and slept peacefully that night. But he didn't, he didn't throw it away. He didn't run off. Deep down, he knew this is what he needed…wanted.

It had been a week since the attack. A week since Lucian had vanished from his escort caravan, and a week since his world had been pulled out from under him like a silken rug slick with blood.

Elijah had not taken him far—-just far enough to be unseen. The bandit camp nestled in a forgotten forest, cloaked by gnarled trees and fog like something out of a half told fairy tale. Lucian had imagined worse places to die. But strangely, he hadn't died.

Not yet.

Instead, Elijah had kept him. Kept being the word Lucian turned over in his mind, again and again, as if it might take new shape under scrutiny. He was not imprisoned in chains or locked in a cage. He walked freely through the forested clearing. He was fed, dressed, and spoken to like a man. But still…kept.

Today, Elijah returned from a hunt at dawn. Lucian had watched him from the stump near the fire, chin in hand, as Elijah emerged with two rabbits slung over his shoulders, blood on his fingers and a grin stretched too wide.

“You always stare like that?” Elijah asked, dropping the rabbits near the firepit.

Lucian raised a brow. “Like what?”

“Like you've never seen someone gut dinner.”

“I was waiting to see if you'd trip, sadly no luck.”

Elijah chuckled—low, rough. “Smart ass”

Lucian allowed himself a small smile. But it slipped when he pulled the cheeks of his face up, the collar tight on his throat still, he lost the smile right away, grasping at the collar with hate. He stared at his arm grasping the collar, then Elijah, with a sigh.

Elijah didn't look up. He began skinning the rabbit with a casual flick of his knife. “ You made a deal. You're mine now. Don't be surprised.”

“I agreed to help you kill my family,” Lucian said, voice tight. “That doesn't really mean I'm your pet.”

“You sure?” Elijah glanced up then. Yellow eyes cutting through the morning mist. “You look like one sittin’ there pouting like that.”

Lucians heart leapt in a way he despised. “You're insane.” “Probably,” Elijah agreed. He stood, wiping his hands on his pants, then stepped on close—too close. He reached out, and Lucian froze. Elijah's fingers skimmed his neck, just under the jaw.

“No one touched you like this before. Huh?” he murmured. “Not like they wanted you anyway.”

Lucian swallowed. He hated how easily Elijah read him. Hated more that Elijah wasnt wrong.

“It's a symbol,” Elijah said, leaving heat where his hand had been. “You will wear it under all that noble silk, and I'll know youre mine. Whether were out in the dirt or in those gold halls you came from”

Lucian looked down at the collar again. It gleamed dully in the weak light “You think we'll make it that far?”

Elijah sharpened. “I will make us.”

After dinner that night, going late into the afternoon, Elijah left into the woods again. “Grabbing water,” he said.

Lucian was back to staring at the fire, thinking. Thinking of a way out, curling himself tightly, like he was hiding from something that would hurt him. When Elijah returned, arms and chest were streaked with water and dirt. He tossed a waterskin to Lucian, letting it fall onto the ground.

“You're still sulking.”

“I am not a sulker.”

“Easily could have fooled me.” Elijah sat beside the pseudo ball, not close enough to be touching but close enough for the warmth to brush Lucians skin. “You keep watching that fire like you're still behind palace walls. Still deciding if this is all beneath you.”

Lucian growled and turned. “I'm trying to figure out if this is all real!”

“It is,” Elijah said. “Every part of it, The mud, the clothes, the hunger, the fire. Me.”

Lucian stared at him. Trying to spit out a rebuttal for this.

Elijah leaned into Lucian, tracing the chest now, eyes gleaming in the fire. “You. aren't a prince here. You are nobody's brother. You are just mine.”

Lucian, open mouthed, trying to come up with something, anything. Could only spit out.

“Yes sir.”

Lucian didn't sleep that night.

The collar was too tight, it felt like it was watching him. Every turn, every struggle.

He told himself he was only playing along. That he would wear the mask as long as needed, until his family bled out at his feet and he could stand over them, victorious.

But in the silent moments—-between Elijah's slow breathing and the echo of the campfire cracking—Lucian wondered which mask was real.

He reached for the collar, he could have pulled it off and slept peacefully that night. But he didn't, he didn't throw it away. He didn't run off. Deep down, he knew this is what he needed…wanted.

[fuckyeahunknownfanfic]

The Ghost of Her. 

my Elijah listener Lucian full story...its ment to drop every Wednesday. But because im catching Tumblr up it will drop every day till its caught up.

cw: abuse, mother death, family hate

The garden hasn't bloomed since she died.

Lucian stood barefoot on the frostbitten path where the violets used to grow. The palace kept pretending it was still spring—-servants dusting marble fountains no one looked at, vines twisted into order by trembling hands—-but he knew better.

This garden had withered the day his mothers heart stopped.

He crouched beside the fountain, brushing a withered petal from the stone. It flaked under his touch, brittle like old parchment, and the smell, oh god the smell. It was rotting, the water made his stomach twist, This place had been her home, her sanctuary once. Now it was his graveyard.

There had once been music here. His mother used to hum while pruning the vines, her voice low and rough like river stone. Lucian would sit at her feet, no more than six or seven, pretending to read poetry while really just watching her.

“This ones clever,” she said once, snipping the head off a dying bloom. “Grow sideways when the others grow straight. Doesn't care about the rules.” She pressed it into his hand. “Be like that”

The flower had died days later, crushed in a forgotten book. The weight of her words never left him.

He heard his brother's voice behind him, smug and loud as ever.

“Still playing house with corpses, Lucian?”

Lucian didn't turn. “Better company than you.”

The slap came hard and fast, catching his cheek and spinning him sideway onto the stone titles. He lay there, blinking up at the pale, cloudless sky. His brother—Dedric, the second born, stood over him with a simple sharp as a dagger's edge.

“You have always been so dramatic,” Dedric sneered, adjusting the fur lined collar of his cloak. “Mother would have been so embarrassed”

Lucian didn't rise. Didn't even wince. He let the blood trickle from the corner of his mouth, dark and slow. The cold had numbed him to the strong humiliation years ago.

He waited for Dedric to leave before he moved. The garden was silent again. No birds, no bees. The creak of dead branches swaying like gallows. He stayed on the ground longer than needed. The stone burned cold against his skin, but the rage underneath ran hot. One day.

One day he would dig his finger into Dedric's throat and not stop until the kin split. He'd do it without shaking. Without screaming, he would smile.

And Dedric would finally know what it felt like to be so small.

But not today.

Lucian rose, brushed the blood from his lip with two fingers, and wiped it on the petal strewn fountain rim like a signature.

It was always warm in his memories.

HIs mother smelled like clove. She had hands worn from sword practice and eyes soft with mischief when she looked at him. She didn't smile at the court, only at him. Not even his father could coax it from her.

“You'll be better than all of them,” she had whispered once, holding him close in the dead of night. “Kinder. Smarter. Meaner, if you must be. But never smaller”

He had believed her.

Back then, at least.

The corridors of the palace were colder than the garden.

Lucian walked them like a ghost, unseen and unimportant. Servants passed without bowing. Guards barely glanced his way. His father—King Theoford—only summoned him when someone needed scolding and the others were too busy.

Lucian didn't mind anymore.

Obscurity had become armor.

Until the summons came. Tonight.

A feast in the great hall. All three princes expected. A show of family unity for the foreign envoys. Lucian would sit in silence, smile when told, and bear the weight of their sneers like a proper little shadow. But something in him had cracked wide open in the garden..

Something old. Something he'd buried with her.

That night, he didn't wear red, white, or gold. He wore all black.

The dining hall shimmered with gold and crystal. Candlelight danced in goblets of red wine. His brother laughed. HIs father gave speeches. No one noticed the way Lucians hands clenched in his lap beneath the tablecloth.

His brothers toasted to each other across roasted boar, teeth gleaming. Someone cracked a joke about “ghosts that won't leave the table” and laughter erupted. Lucian didn't move. His cup was full. His plate was untouched. He stared at the silver knife beside the bread, watching how it caught that same candlelight—how easily it could slide right under a rib. “Smile, boy.” his father muttered without looking at him. “You'll ruin the portrait,” Lucian smiled. No one realized how the thing that smiled wasn't him anymore.

But Elijah would have noticed.

He didn't know him yet. But he would meet him soon. And when he did, the fire would start