People who came across Ryland Grace tended to make two assumptions about who he was as a person. Assumption one: Ryland Grace was kind. Assumption two: Ryland Grace was always kind.
Typically people who believed assumption two were those who were too young or have had yet to see Grace's very public crashout during his academia days (and Ryland dearly wished for the day where is outburst would be forgotten about entirely).
The truth was Ryland Grace had to learn how to be kind. He chose to be kind; Ryland's anger had always gotten him into trouble ever since he was a child. From slapping away hands who hadn't asked permission to touch his belongings to yelling at others whenever they 'weren't doing x activity properly.' Ryland had quickly been labelled as a troubled child, a classroom nusiance, a brat who thought he knew better and refused to accept when he was in the wrong.
In actuality Ryland just had trouble reniforcing boundries and asking others to follow them; instead his brain automatically went to anger because anger was better then drowning in shame and anxiety. Anger was respected. Anger was better than bursting into tears in the middle of the classroom and being accused of being a crybaby.
So yeah. Ryland was angry. Less so since now he had a classroom full of twenty something kids for six hours a day and he would rather eat gum off of the sidewalk than make a kid cry just because he, the adult in the room, couldn't keep his temper in check.
If Ryland Grace was kind, it was because he chose to be kind.
When people met Ryland's partner, Simon, (No last name, that last name was dead and gone for all Simon cared-) they often made two assumptions about him. Assumption one: He was always serious. Assumption two: He was the angry one in the relationship. People who made assumption two insantly changed their attitude upon properly meeting Simon and realizing the man was actually very kind, if a little sensitive, and just had the unfortunate luck of having a very intimidating resting face.
It wasn't always like that. The resting face.
Simon was an expressive child, he wore his heart on his sleeve. His facial expressions and body language always gave away his feelings, his thoughts, his fears. He was the complete opposite of the word 'stoic.'
Eden ate him alive because of that.
Simon quickly learned how to school his expression, how to bite his tongue, how to repress sobs, how to hold himself rigid and always at attention.
Simon learned that anger was respected, anger could be a shield. And so Simon learned to wield anger as both a shield and dagger, he hid beneath anger, he sheltred behind rage.
...It was tiring.
It was performative.
It wasn't real. The anger.
It was because if people thought Simon was angry they'd leave him alone, and he would be safe.
Crying wasn't safe.
When people saw Simon and Ryland together they'd always assume Simon would be the one that needed to be held back during an altercation.
And there were times where that was true, though Simon would always attempt to solve conflicts with words first. (The one time he had hit someone was because they kept putting their arm around Ryland despite being brushed off several times. Stupid Tom Ryder-) and even then Simon had grabbed ice for the jerk celeb afterwards.
Simon's temper didn't hold a candle to Ryland's.
Ryland would soon be getting his wish of his academia crashout being forgotten.
Because now he would be remembered for tackling a Brother Of Eden who had begun harassing Simon. From an outside perspective Simon appeared unaffected, bored even. But Ryland knew his partner.
Ryland knew that when Simon's jaw tightened it was because he was holding back tears (Simon's true anger was always in the form of tears much to the man's chagrin. Ryland would always kiss away the tears if Simon let him (which he did)). Ryland knew that when Simon's shoulder's curled around his ears he was fighting against long honed instincts screaming at him to either run away or hurt the threat before it could hurt him.
(Simon wasn't a violent dog. He didn't want to bite but his body trained him to in order to keep himself safe).
Ryland Grace chose to be kind. He chose -when- to be kind and to whom.
Ryland's kindness was an intentional choice. Not an inherent part of his character.
So he tackled the Brother Of Eden and verbally tore into him, defending Simon with everthing he had while also denouncing the death cult that Eden was.
(If Ryland were asked if it was worth needing to go into hiding for about a month he'd say yes because it meant he and Simon got to spend more time together.)
Ryland Grace chose kindness and Simon chose to wield anger as a protective shield.
if you’re still taking requests i would give my left arm to see simon get to just sink into a hug cause he finally feels comfortable/is offered affection 👀
Considering that Simon comes from a world where space travel has been a thing for centuries, he knows his way around a spaceship pretty well.
Since they found him, he's made it his mission to maintain the ship until they make it to Erid. He's been working diligently since his health stabilised. Grace and Rocky tried to tell him to rest more and that it wasn't necessary. But he said working is the only thing preventing him from thinking about what happened to him and keeping him sane. They couldn't really keep arguing with him after that.
He tends to lose track of time while he works, too absorbed in it. It’s like everything around him disappears for a moment. Grace completely understands; he's exactly the same. Though Simon is still recovering, he checks on him often and tries to encourage him to take breaks.
He's been running diagnostics and recalibrating things. Grace often hears him grumble about how ancient this ship is and how unnecessarily complicated everything is. Grace once asked him where he learned to fix spaceships and he paused for a moment before answering. As if he were considering whether to tell him or not.
"There weren't enough people left to have a specialist taking care of or fixing ships in every space station and we couldn't afford to lose one. So, if something broke down, you had to know how to fix it. Especially if you happened to be travelling alone. Otherwise, you're dead. Couldn't afford to waste anything on a rescue mission. Not to just save some useless dumb bastard, they said. It would cost more than a spaceship. So, I read what I could about it, which isn't a lot, watched how the best did it and studied how they were built. That's it."
Grace had been floored. Simon basically explained being a self-taught aerospace engineer, like it was nothing to write home about.
"I know how to fix machines and ships are one of them. That's it. It's not like I'm a genius or something. I just did things that felt right, hoped it wasn't going to blow up and when it didn't, assumed I did it right."
Grace blanched at that and Rocky paused the tinkering he had been doing.
"Calm down," Simon said with an eye roll, "This was when I was still learning. This isn't what I'm doing right now. I know what I'm doing. I have the manual and your ship is outdated, but in perfect condition. It won't blow up if I change something. I've worked on way more advanced ships in shit conditions that could explode if you breathed on them wrong because it was held together with duct tape and desperation. You're fine."
Grace relaxes and Rocky continues working. He remembers telling Simon about the manual. Since he started reading it, he's been catching Simon putting it down and complaining about how unintuitive this ship is or loudly asking, "Who made this?" Grace keeps telling him that the best of the best made it, and he sighs that this version of humanity still has so much to learn about space travel.
Today, Grace is checking on how far along they are in their journey to Erid, making sure everything is going smoothly. He is sitting in the pilot seat, trying to push the buttons on the ceiling, but they're not working. He hears Simon climb the ladder and stops to watch him once he reaches the top.
"What is it?"
"They aren't working,"
"Fuck, okay, let's see."
His eyes lock on the dysfunctional panel as he joins Grace under it. Before he can register what is happening, Simon climbs onto the chair, straddling him. He stretches out to reach the panel above their heads, takes off the cover. He starts working on it and Grace forgets to breathe for a second. He's now on eye level with his um impressive pecs and wide shoulders. He can see the outline of his harness and nipples under his shirt. Grace digs his nails into the armrests. This is too dangerous. He needs to look somewhere else.
He looks down and immediately has to close his eyes for a second to calm down. This isn't better. Simon's shirt rode up, exposing his navel and a part of his stomach. The happy trail and the healthy layer of fat on his stomach make his gums tingle with the desire to just bite and–No, he's not finishing this thought.
He looks lower and the sight of his bulge shoots heat throughout his body. Why does he wear his jeans so low? Stop! He needs to get it together! To look away! He can tell through his jeans that his thighs are huge and probably muscular. Okay, down is bad, maybe up his better.
Oh gosh, why out of every person Grace could have found in space did it have to be the only person who manages to look good from this angle? Simon is fearful and makes himself small except when he's working. The way he breathes confidence, quick-thinking and resourcefulness is beyond attractive. It doesn't help that he's stunning with his sharp nose, defined jaw, gentle eyes and soft-looking hair. Or that he's incredibly gentle with everything he touches, patient and extremely smart, unlike what he says.
He's also talking but Grace isn't listening; he can't. The smell of his skin slips down his lungs and Grace has never done drugs in his life but right now he gets it, he completely understands why it's so easy to get addicted. Higher. His bulging bicep. He swallows with difficulty. Forearm muscles are dancing under his skin. His breathing is getting heavy. Hand, veiny and visible tendons working. Calluses that would feel divine tracing naked skin. Meticulous fingers harbouring countless tiny scars that Grace wants to trace with his tongue. He just knows that the metal of his prosthetic will feel delicious on his feverish skin.
"Are you even listening?"
It shocks him out of his fantasy and when his eyes meet Simon's, shame overtakes him. He looks down, again, big mistakes and tries to concentrate on his own laps. A hand cups his jaw and makes him look up. His touch feels like sunlight on his touch-starved skin. His brain splutters, overwhelmed by the feeling and Grace has to swallow a whine back down. His eyes fall into his and Simon's face is firm and serious but his eyes stay gentle. They always are. They are so close, his heart is threatening to beat out of his chest. This is bad. He wants to reach out, cup his face in his hands, guide him down, devour his lips and lose himself exploring his skin.
"Look and listen. You need to know this in case it happens again and I can't help you," he chastises. He then angles Grace's head so that he can see inside the panel again. This is really bad. He feels himself lean into it. Oh, he knew it, the calluses do feel amazing. His grip is rather strong. He could easily force his jaw open by pressing his fingers in his cheeks. Oh gosh, is he getting hard? Please, not right now!
"Grace! Really? What's with you? Am I boring you or something?"
Crap, he's pissing him off. He needs to fix this. Say something.
"You're sitting in my lap,"
Simon goes completely silent and Grace freezes at his own words. He watches as Simon slowly and carefully looks down at their position. Next thing Grace knows, Simon is on the other side of the room. Wow, he's fast. He didn't even see him move.
"Why didn't you say something sooner?" Simon exclaims but then rubs his hand on his face. "No, it's not your fault. It's me. I did this and made you uncomfortable. Fuck! I'm sorry, Grace. I can't believe I did this," he continues, looking embarrassed, not angry.
"It's fine, I wasn't uncomfortable. I was just-," Grace interrupts himself before he says something stupid.
"What?" he asks, his voice wavering."Too scared to speak?" Simon asks and he looks heartbroken at the idea. Shoulder down and fear in his eyes just at the thought of scaring him. His body curls on itself with crippling guilt.
No, no, no! They made so much progress, he can't let this destroy it. He needs to say something! Fix it! He's the one who was perving on a man recovering from severe injuries, PTSD and who was just doing his job... While being on top of him, but still.
"No, I wasn't! It was just um distracting," he splutters, digging himself into a hole.
This is so incriminating, he's done for. Okay, he can fix this!
"Since, you know, it's been a while since I was last touched," Grace continues.
Terrible phrasing, Simon will never want to speak to Grace again. Simon stares at him in silence and Grace watches in horror as his eyes widen in realisation. It's over for him.
"Oh. Oh! Oh, okay. So, that's, um, that's why uh?" he stutters, looking away.
Is it too late to throw himself out of the airlock? Hasn't this man been through enough? Now he has to put up with Grace's stage four horniness. What is wrong with him?
"I'm so sorry," is all Grace finds to say as he buries his face in his hands. Ashamed of himself. He literally has no excuses.
"It's fine."
"It's really not."
"Grace," Simon starts but he interrupts him.
"I'm just going to go now," Grace says, unable to look him in the eyes right now.
He turns around to walk to the ladder.
"Okay, but you better not make this a bigger deal than it is, Ryland. It's fine really, I mean it," Simon says firmly but with a warmth in his voice.
Grace freezes in front of the ladder and considers his words for a second.
"Okay," he whispers before climbing down.
Grace climbs down the ladder and throws himself on a chair next to Rocky. Grace is going to spend the rest of his life with Simon and he just had to embarrass himself in the worst way possible in front of him. This is a catastrophe. All of this because he can't control his feelings for Simon. Simon, who forgave him even after making things incredibly uncomfortable between them.
Waking up is a slow, warm, languid thing. It's emerging from one dream only to find yourself within another, sighing and stretching and pressing into blissful comfort. It's peace in the truest definition of the word.
Grace's return to consciousness feels like floating in warm syrup. Sensation returns gradually, the slip of sheets against Grace's bare skin and the firmness of a body beneath his. There's an arm wrapped around Grace's waist, firm and fast in its possession as Grace sprawls atop the other man.
Grace sighs, pressing his face into Simon's neck and drawing in a slow breath. His lungs are flooded with the scent of iron and shared shampoo, a clean musk that makes the anxious critter in Grace's mind settle every single time. Not that Grace is anxious right now— Grace can think of little other than the rise and fall of the broad chest beneath his, a calloused hand lazily tracing the knobs of Grace's spine.
Neither of them speak. They're both awake, content to simply luxuriate in the undemanding presence of the other. Their bedroom is lit by a sunrise just as sleepy as the pair, reds and oranges falling over blankets deemed favorite enough to earn a place on their bed.
The hand fluttering over Grace's back disappears, an action that begins to earn a protest before Simon is slipping his hand into Grace's hair. Simon drags his nails along Grace's scalp, twisting through soft strands of gold with a practiced ease that makes Grace purr with contentment.
Simon chuckles as Grace drags his cheek along Simon's collarbone, stubble scraping over soft skin in sleepy delight. Simon continues his ministrations, movements sluggish but no less affectionate as the pair gradually wake with the rising sun.
Grace lets one of his hands wander along the side of Simon's ribcage that he can reach, the tips of Grace's fingers trailing over the thin material of a borrowed shirt and finding the dips and divots where flesh softens between bone. Simon grumbles above him, a half-hearted protest pressed to the top of Grace's head.
Grace giggles sleepily, delighting in the reaction of the other man enough to redouble his efforts. Grace is intentionally light with how he skirts his fingers up Simon's side, grinning into Simon's neck when the man jolts beneath him.
"Quit that." Simon mumbles, voice hoarse with disuse. He sounds far from displeased, more of a fond protest for the sake of protestation as his nails dip to scratch at the nape of Grace's neck.
The placation works easily, Grace dropping his hand and humming as he leans into the gentle touch. Simon makes a small, pleased noise, clearly delighting in how pliable Grace became when lavished with enough affection and Grace is far from complaint.
Simon ducks just enough to press his lips to the top of Grace's head. A smile blooms across Grace's face, a delight so pure and simple and raw with affection that it makes Grace feel like his chest is going to burst.
Grace lifts a hand, blindly flailing as he reaches back until his hand knocks against Simon's own. Simon huffs a laugh as Grace's fingers wriggle in demand, obligingly lacing their hands and giving Grace's a soft squeeze before letting them fall to rest against Grace's back. They sigh in mutual contentment, so little said but everything understood.
Summary: Maekar is trying to provide a good life for his new wife by removing himself from her company and offering alternatives. He fails. Warnings: a bit of angst because of pining, a bit of smut.
The morning light cut through the high, narrow windows of Summerhall with a pale, wintry insistence, and Maekar Targaryen, prince of the Seven Kingdoms, found himself staring at the ceiling of a room that was not his own. It was decorated with painted vines, a delicate feminine touch he had never bothered to notice before. The bed linens smelled of lavender and something else, sweet and warm. The weight on his arm was the source of the latter.
You were curled against him like a dormouse seeking warmth, both your hands wrapped around the corded muscle of his forearm as if he were a lifeline in a storm. Your cheek was pressed to his shoulder, lips slightly parted in the ease of deep, trusting sleep. A strand of your hair had escaped your night braid and lay across his tunic.
Maekar did not move.
He was a prince, a warrior, a man who had crushed rebellions beneath his mace and watched men die without flinching. But this, the soft, contented curve of your mouth, the way your breath puffed in tiny, even waves against his sleeve, paralyzed him. He cast his mind back, desperately trying to remember when exactly his careful, honorable plan had crumbled to dust. It was the previous night. It had been a fool's errand, a mission of pure and unparalleled idiocy disguised as magnanimity.
For months, he had constructed a cage for you, gilded and sprawling, and called it a marriage. After the death of his first wife, the mother of his children, the very concept of a new bride had felt like a betrayal, a picking at a wound that had barely scarred over after years. His brother, King Aerys, had insisted. The match was politically sound. You were from a fine lineage, a daughter of a loyal house, and your dowry was a collection of trade agreements and land rights that made the court accountants rub their hands with joy.
And you. You were a pretty thing: young, sweet, blinking up at him at the Sept with your big eyes, he had noted absently, and a slight pout on your mouth. He recognized that pout now, not as petulance, but as a sign of deep concentration, an unconscious expression you wore when you were trying very, very hard to be brave.
At the wedding feast, you had tried to engage him in conversation, your voice a soft, hopeful melody against the droning noise of the hall. He had grunted in response, complaining about the seasoning on the boar. You had blinked, then smiled, a small, tentative thing, and said, "Perhaps the kitchens will do better with the lemon cakes, my prince. Would you like me to ask them to bring some?" Deflecting his rudeness with a kindness so artless and sweet it had made his teeth ache.
He had taken you to Summerhall, the seat of his power and the monument to his own complicated legacy. He gave you servants who curtsied low, spacious rooms filled with sunlight and tapestries you seemed to admire, and a generous allowance that could have purchased a small fleet of ships. He had daughters, Daella and Rhae, who were delighted with you, finding in you a new playmate, a doll who could speak and laugh and teach them new embroidery stitches. His sons were a different matter. Aerion was a burning star of chaos somewhere in Essos, Aemon was at the Citadel, chaining himself to books, and Daeron…Daeron was usually never counted. The thought of his eldest, a dissipated dreamer, brought a familiar, leaden weariness to his gut. But the girls were happy, and you were occupied.
He thought he had it all handled.
Everything was provided, he had reasoned, watching you from across the courtyard one afternoon as you and Rhae chased a butterfly. You were a young maiden. His idea of a comfortable existence was good service, a sturdy roof, a well-stocked armory, and a couple of friends with whom to share a flask of strongwine. He had assumed, in his colossal, self-absorbed ignorance, that your needs were the same.
Until he started to see it. The quiet sigh you suppressed when he answered your sweet inquiry about his wellbeing with a noncommittal grunt at the dinner table. The way your eyes, those big, expressive eyes, would track a young knight in the yard as he laughed with his comrades, not with lust, but with a kind of wistful, academic curiosity. You were studying a creature you had never encountered. Daella, his sweet daughter, was already starting to enter that phase of mooning over singers and sighing at sunsets, a phase he dreaded with every fiber of his being. And you, his wife, a lively girl not much older than his own children, were saddled with a grumpy man whose range of communication with her was limited to tactical assessments of mutton and grunts about the weather. You were drowning in comfort and starved of life.
He could commission solutions. Jewelry? A cascade of sapphires appeared on your vanity. New dresses? Bolts of lace and silks in hues of deep green and amethyst filled your wardrobes. Rare books? He had a first-edition history of the Rhoynar, bound in pale leather, delivered to your solar. You had been effusive in your thanks, your pout melting into a radiant smile, but the smile never quite reached your eyes. The problem, he realized with a cold, hard jolt, was not resources.
The problem was romance. He couldn't morph himself into a handsome young knight with a carefree disposition and light humor, the kind of man who would compose a song for you, who would bring you a wildflower he’d picked on a reckless morning ride, who would whisper sweet, foolish nothings in your ear. He was Maekar Targaryen, a blunt instrument, a man of duty and gristle and a simmering, constant irritation at the world.
His poor wife. You were left to smile and giggle quietly at his dry, caustic remarks about a visiting lord’s speech. And you seemed genuinely amused by them, your laughter a soft, surprised ripple of sound that made him pause, mid-chew, in confusion. You were so deprived of pleasant company that you took what you could get from him, poor sweet thing. The realization had made him want to kick himself.
So, he had formed a plan, a scheme that, at the time, had seemed the pinnacle of rational, self-sacrificing genius. He went through his guards the next day under the guise of a brutal, unforgiving drill. He had them running siege patterns, sparring until their padded armor was dark with sweat, watching them like a hawk. He found the one he was looking for: Ser Elyas, a bastard from the Reach. He was honorable, sharp as a blade, and handsome in that sun-kissed, broad-shouldered way that maidens were supposed to swoon over. His laugh was easy, his temperament unruffled.
"Ser Elyas," Maekar had rumbled, his voice a low thunder. "You are being reassigned. You are now the personal guard to my wife, the princess. You will see to her safety at all times. You will accompany her on walks, attend her in the gardens, and ensure no harm befalls her."
He had made it clear to you on your wedding night that he had no intention of bedding you. It was a statement of fact, delivered not out of cruelty but out of a misguided sense of honesty. He had seen the flash of hurt in your eyes, quickly masked by a composed, brittle acceptance. So, naturally, he reasoned, after some time spent in the company of the charming Ser Elyas, you would come to love him. It was a natural, tragic story. A handsome knight and a neglected princess. He had practically gift-wrapped a discreet, passionate affair for you. It was the least he could give it to you, a substitute for the husband you had probably imagined, a way to satisfy that aching, youthful urge for romance that he, a man carved from stone, could never fulfill.
Yet, from what he observed over the following weeks, the plan had failed with spectacular precision. He would watch from a high balcony as Ser Elyas, in his gleaming plate, offered you his hand to help you over a damp patch of grass. You took it with polite, distant courtesy. You would exchange a few words, an occasional jest that made the knight chuckle, but your expression remained serene, unmoved. Maekar, a veteran of countless campaigns, knew the look of a soldier performing a duty. And your nights, as the quiet reports from your maids confirmed, were spent solely in your rooms. No secret knocks, no furtive shadows slipping from your door at dawn.
He was at his wits’ end. What did you want then? He had given you everything your station and age could desire. What would wipe off that pretty, unconscious pout off your face? Perhaps, he had finally conceded, if he talked to you. A novel concept for a marriage, he knew. He would go to you, and perhaps, in a moment of unguarded frustration, you would let your grievances slip.
The previous night, he had gone to your chamber. Your maid, a timid wisp of a girl, nearly dropped her mending box when she saw him at the threshold. "Leave us," he had commanded, and she fled. You had been seated by the fire, a book open on your lap, and you looked like a startled doe at his unexpected presence, your body going rigid, your eyes wide.
"My prince," you had said, your voice a breathless question.
He had felt like an intruder in his own wife's space. "I…I came to see how you were faring," he had managed, the words feeling foreign and clumsy on his tongue.
You recovered quickly, your innate grace taking over. You poured his wine yourself, and offered him a plate of fruit and honey cake. "I am well, my prince. Truly. The book you sent is fascinating. The accounts of the Rhoynish are almost unbelievable." You were making conversation. You were making it easy for him. And so you spoke for a while. It was surprisingly pleasant.
He found himself relaxing into a chair, debating the tactical blunders of the Valyrian conquest of the Rhoyne, and you had listened with rapt attention, asking pointed, intelligent questions that surprised him. You had a mind, he realized with a start. A sharp, curious mind hidden beneath the pout and the big eyes.
But he didn’t catch any clues. No lamenting a lack of knights, no forlorn sighs about the gardens, no veiled complaints about his absence. Just you, being…pleasant. So, eventually, he rose to leave. "It is late. You should rest."
The change was instantaneous. The spark of animation in your eyes died, replaced by a stricken, hollow look, as if you were wondering what you had done wrong. Your fingers tightened imperceptibly on the spine of your book. "Of course, my prince. Thank you for your company."
He hesitated. He was a man of military precision, and the sudden, palpable drop in your mood was a tactical variable he hadn't accounted for. He was already in your bed chambers. What kind of husband left his wife's bed chamber right before going to bed himself? A churlish one. A neglectful one. The servants would talk, of that he was certain. The walls of Summerhall had ears and mouths. But he did not care what servants would see or say. Their gossip was the chaff of court life. The thought that stopped him cold, that made his feet feel nailed to the floor, was simpler. He owed you basic courtesy, did he not? He had denied you everything else. He could not deny you the simple, public dignity of a husband who shared your bed for a night.
Before he could overthink himself out of it, he gestured to the bed. "Move over, then."
Your eyes, if possible, grew even wider. "My prince?"
"I will not sleep in my boots," he said gruffly, sitting on the edge of a chaise and beginning to unlace them. "I will stay. Just to sleep." He made a promise to himself then, a sacred oath. He would lie down with you, and he would speak to you until you fell asleep, so you would not be insulted by a silent, rigid vigil. Then, he would leave. He had been insulting you for months by refusing to do his duties as a husband, and this small act of presence would at least be a temporary salve on a wound he had no intention of healing.
He lay down atop the covers, fully clothed in his tunic and breeches, a stiff, awkward pillar of a man. You slipped under the furs with a rustle of linen, lying rigidly on your back. The silence was deafening. Maekar cast about for something, anything, to say. "Tell me more about the Rhoynar," he commanded, his voice a little too loud in the quiet room.
And so you did, your voice soft and hesitant at first, then gaining strength. You spoke of the legends, the songs of the Mother Rhoyne, the giant turtles that were said to be gods. He listened, inserting a dry comment now and again that made you giggle, that beautiful, rippling sound he was growing dangerously accustomed to. He stayed, and continued speaking to you about the defensive layout of river cities, the logistical challenges of moving a legion through marshland, until your words began to slur, your breathing deepened, and your face went slack with peace. He had done it. He thought he would leave when he was sure you were deep in sleep. He would just wait one more minute. Just to be certain. The fire had burned down to embers. The room was warm. The scent of lavender was soporific. And that was the last thing he remembered.
Now, it was morning. The maid’s insistent knocking on the door was a relentless, chipper assault on his senses. He was still fully clothed, his tunic creased. And you were curled up next to him, clutching his arm as if it were the most natural, obvious thing in the world. The knocking roused you. You stirred, a small hum of contentment escaping your lips before your eyes fluttered open. Your gaze, hazy with sleep, traveled up his arm, over his chest, and settled on his face. The reaction was not one of surprise, or at least not the kind he expected. It was pleasure. A deep, luminous, bone-deep pleasure that transformed your features. You were smiling. A shy, pleased smile, as if you had just woken from a beautiful dream and found it still real.
"Good morning, my prince," you murmured, your voice thick and honeyed with sleep. There was a newfound confidence in it, a possessiveness that hadn't been there before. "Are you to have a busy day? I thought I might join you, if it were permitted. Perhaps I could assist you with your letters?"
Maekar found himself staring. The words were simple, but the meaning behind them was not. His plan, the handsome guard, the neglected lady, the grand affair, it all crashed down around his ears in a shower of broken, idiotic pottery. He realized his mistake with the force of a warhammer to the chest. You thought your husband was finally coming around. The gift, the miraculous, improbable gift you had wanted all along, was not a surrogate. It was him.
You wanted this. Him. His presence. His attention. His dry, sarcastic remarks. His tactical critiques of ancient river warfare. His grumpy, unyielding, solid self.
All this time, you had wanted him.
He felt a strange, tight sensation in his chest, a feeling he hadn't allowed himself to entertain for many, many years. It was a seed of warmth, cracking through the cold, hard stone he had meticulously built around his heart. He cleared his throat, his voice emerging as a low, rusty rumble.
"You can join me," he said, the words a surrender. "If you wish."
The pout was completely gone now. The smile that remained in its place was brilliant, a sun emerging from behind a lifetime of clouds. It was a smile just for him. And for the first time since he had been forced to take a new wife, Maekar Targaryen didn't feel saddled. He felt, with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty, that he was about to be completely, irrevocably unhorsed.
The days that followed that first, accidental night established a new rhythm in Summerhall, one Maekar found himself falling into with a disquieting ease he refused to examine too closely.
You had asked to assist him, and Maekar, a man who had never refused a direct request from a lady in his life out of sheer, blunt propriety, could find no reasonable grounds to deny you. You appeared in his solar the next morning, freshly dressed in a gown of pale yellow that made you look like a spring daffodil, and settled yourself in the chair across from his great oaken desk. He expected you to be a distraction. Instead, you proved infuriatingly useful. Your handwriting was elegant where his was a cramped, soldierly scrawl.
You sorted his correspondence into neat piles: urgent, routine, and the one you tactfully labeled "probably insincere flattery from lords who want something." He had let out a surprised bark of laughter at that, and you had beamed at him as if he'd just crowned you Queen of Love and Beauty.
This became your habit. Mornings in his solar, you with your neat piles and your quiet, intelligent questions about the running of the lands. Afternoons, you would walk with him along the battlements, your hand resting lightly on his arm as he pointed out the defensive improvements he was making to the eastern wall. You listened with genuine interest, asking about murder holes and arrow slits with a curiosity that was wholly unfeigned. Evenings, you dined together, and your sweet inquiries about his wellbeing were no longer met with grunts. He found himself actually answering you, describing the frustrations of a dispute between two minor landed knights or the irritating news from court. You would nod, your brow furrowed in thought, and offer observations that were often startlingly perceptive.
And every night, the same delicate, unspoken negotiation occurred.
The first time it happened outside of your own chambers, you had been in his rooms. It was late, the fire burning low, and you had been reading aloud to him from a treatise on dragonlore while he sharpened his dagger. Your voice had grown hoarse, and he noticed the way you rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand. He could not, in good conscience, send you shuffling down cold corridors to your own chambers. The very idea was absurd. What kind of husband kicked his own wife out into the night like a stray cat?
"The hour is late," he had said, sheathing his dagger with a decisive click. "You will stay here."
You had looked at him with that expression again, the one that was half hope and half caution, as if you were afraid of misinterpreting his words. "Here, my prince?"
"In my bed," he clarified, the words coming out more gruffly than he intended. "I will take the chaise."
But you had looked so stricken at that suggestion, your face falling in that way he was growing to dread, that he had found himself amending the plan. "Or I will join you. The bed is large enough. It is not seemly for a prince to sleep on a chaise in his own chambers."
It was a flimsy justification, and he knew it. But the way your expression brightened, the shy, pleased smile that curved your lips, was worth the internal grumbling. He lay beside you that night, a careful distance between your bodies, and spoke to you about the properties of Valyrian steel until your breathing evened out into the soft rhythm of sleep. He awoke to find you pressed against his side, your head on his shoulder, one of your hands resting over his heart as if counting the beats.
This, too, became your habit. You clinging to him in sleep like a limpet to a rock, and Maekar waking each morning to the scent of your hair and the warm, trusting weight of your body against his. He told himself it was for your dignity. He told himself it was a small kindness, a basic courtesy. He told himself many things, and believed none of them.
Then there was the incident with the lamprey pie.
A lord from the coastal holdings had sent a gift of lampreys, and the kitchens had prepared them in a rich, heavily spiced pie. You had eaten only a small portion, politely complimenting the flavor, but within hours you were taken ill. Maekar was in the yard overseeing a drill when your maid came running, her face pale as milk.
"My prince, it is the princess. She is unwell. The maester says it is the lamprey, that it has irritated her stomach something fierce."
He did not remember crossing the castle. He only remembered the cold spike of fear that had lanced through him, the way his heart had hammered against his ribs with a violence that had nothing to do with exertion. He found you in your chambers, curled on your side in the great bed, your face waxen and beaded with sweat. The maester was there, a fussy old man who was doing far too much hand-wringing for Maekar's liking.
"She will recover, my prince. It is a mere gastric disturbance. But she must eat to keep her strength up, and she refuses. The princess will not touch the porridge."
Maekar looked at the tray on the bedside table. A bowl of plain, unappetizing porridge sat there, cooling and congealing. You were facing away from it, your eyes closed, your pout firmly in place.
"Leave us," Maekar commanded. The maester and the maids scurried out like mice before a dragon.
He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Your eyes fluttered open, and you looked at him with such a mix of misery and embarrassment that it made something twist painfully in his chest.
"I am sorry," you whispered, your voice thin and reedy. "I am being foolish. It will pass."
"You will eat," he said, reaching for the bowl.
"My prince, I cannot. The very thought..."
"You will eat," he repeated, and this time his voice was gentler, an unfamiliar softness creeping in despite his best efforts. He scooped a small portion of the porridge onto the spoon. "Open your mouth."
You stared at him, those big eyes glassy with discomfort, and for a moment he thought you would refuse him. But then you parted your lips, a tiny, obedient gesture, and he carefully slid the spoon into your mouth. You swallowed with visible effort, your face scrunching up, and he immediately had another spoonful ready.
"Good," he said, the praise awkward on his tongue. "Again."
He fed you the entire bowl that way, spoonful by painstaking spoonful, his large, calloused hands surprisingly steady. He did not rush you. He waited between each bite, murmuring gruff words of encouragement that felt foreign and strange, like a language he had never been taught. When the bowl was empty, he set it aside and reached for a cloth, dabbing gently at the corner of your mouth.
Your eyes were wet, but you were smiling. That smile. The one that made him feel like a hero from a song, when all he had done was feed you porridge.
"Thank you, Maekar," you breathed, using his name without his title for the first time. It hit him somewhere deep, a blow he had no armor for.
"Rest now," he ordered, his voice rougher than he intended. "I will stay."
He stayed. He lay beside you, fully clothed, and let you curl into his side. He stayed until your breathing steadied and the color slowly returned to your cheeks. He stayed even after that, watching the firelight play across the ceiling, feeling the steady rise and fall of your chest against his, and wondered what in the seven hells he was doing.
But still, still, he put off the matter of bedding you.
It was not that he did not want to. The realization had crept up on him with the slow, inevitable force of a rising tide. He wanted to. Gods help him, he wanted to. The sight of you in your thin nightdress, the way your hair spilled across the pillows, the warmth of your body pressed against his each morning, it was testing the limits of his resolve, which had never been particularly strong where matters of the heart were concerned. He had simply never had his heart involved before.
But to bed you would be to open a door he was not certain he could close again. He had built his life around duty, around the cold, hard certainties of obligation and honor. He had loved once, and loss had carved a hollow in him that he had believed was permanent. You were filling that hollow, day by day, smile by smile, and the sensation was as terrifying as it was intoxicating.
He was a coward. Maekar Targaryen, who had faced down rebel lords and laughed at the prospect of single combat, was a coward when it came to his own wife.
Then came the night of the kiss.
It was an evening like any other. You had spent the day in his solar, helping him draft responses to a particularly tedious batch of petitions. Dinner had been a quiet affair, just the two of you, and you had made him laugh, actually laugh, a deep, surprised rumble of sound, with a wicked impression of a pompous lord who had visited the previous week. You had retired to his chambers, as had become your custom, and he had told you about the Dragonknight's campaigns in Dorne until your eyes grew heavy.
"Goodnight, Maekar," you said, your voice soft and drowsy.
And then you kissed him.
It was not a forceful kiss, not a demand or an invitation. It was a brief, gentle press of your lips against his, as natural and unthinking as a breath. A goodbye. An act of simple, uncomplicated affection. You pulled back, your eyes already closing, and nestled into your pillow with a contented sigh, as if you had done nothing of any particular note.
Maekar lay frozen, staring at the canopy above him, his heart thundering in his ears.
You had kissed him.
This was his fault. The thought careened through his skull like a loose cannon on a ship's deck. This was entirely, unequivocally his fault. He had done this. He had planted this notion in your head, watered it with his attentions, and now it had bloomed into something he could no longer ignore.
A fortnight ago, you had been helping him remove his heavy outer tunic after a long day of inspections, your small fingers working deftly at the clasps. It had been such a wifely gesture, so intimate and so natural, that before he had known what he was doing, he had leaned down and pressed his lips to your brow. A brief, chaste kiss. A thank you. He had not even realized he had done it until he saw the way you had frozen, your eyes wide. He had cleared his throat and muttered something about the fire needing more wood, and the moment had passed.
But you had taken that kiss, that single, thoughtless gesture, and drawn a conclusion from it. You had decided, in your sweet, hopeful way, that your husband wanted you to initiate affection as well. That he was too reserved, too gruff, too locked within his own silences to ask for what he wanted. And so, with that gentle, trusting kiss, you had reached across the chasm he had placed between you and offered him a bridge.
Did he want you to? The question burned in his mind, insistent and demanding. Did he want you to kiss him goodnight, as if it were the most normal thing in the world? As if you were truly husband and wife in every sense?
He certainly was not complaining. The ghost of your lips still tingled on his, and his body was reacting in ways that were entirely inappropriate for a man who was supposed to be letting his wife sleep. He was not complaining at all. That was the problem.
He should be complaining. He should be panicking. Because this, this sweetness, this trust, this quiet, domestic intimacy, led inexorably to one conclusion. You would expect children now. The thought hit him like a splash of ice water. Of course you would expect children. A princess, a wife, a woman who had been raised to understand that the bearing of heirs was a fundamental part of her duty. And you would want them, he realized with a jolt. You would want his children. Not out of duty, but out of genuine desire. You would want a babe with his silver-gold hair and your eyes, a child you could hold and nurture and love.
Gods be good.
He turned his head on the pillow to look at you. You were already asleep, your face peaceful, your lips still curved in that small, contented smile. You had no idea of the earthquake you had just set off in his chest. You had kissed him and promptly fallen asleep, trusting him completely, utterly unaware of the crisis you had left in your wake.
Maekar stared at you for a long time, watching the steady rise and fall of your breath, the way your lashes cast delicate shadows on your cheeks. His mind was a whirlwind of duty and desire, fear and longing, the cold echoes of past grief and the warm, insistent pulse of something new.
He could not keep putting this off. He could not keep lying beside you, night after night, pretending that this was a mere courtesy. He could not keep telling himself that he was doing this for your dignity, when in truth, your dignity was the last thing on his mind when he felt the press of your body against his in the dark.
But not tonight. Tonight, you were asleep, and he was a coward still. Tonight, he would lie here and listen to you breathe and feel the warmth of your kiss still burning on his lips.
Tomorrow, perhaps, he would be braver.
Or perhaps, he thought grimly, you would kiss him again, and the choice would be taken out of his hands entirely. The thought was not as unwelcome as it should have been.
The kisses continued.
Every night, without fail, you would bid him goodnight with that same gentle, fleeting press of your lips against his. It was never demanding, never lingering. It was a question posed in the softest possible terms, a door left slightly ajar, an invitation he could accept or decline as he saw fit. And every night, for the first several nights, Maekar accepted it the same way: by remaining perfectly, rigidly still, a statue of a man enduring a pleasant but bewildering assault.
He felt you withdraw each time, felt the tiny, almost imperceptible slump of your shoulders as you settled back onto your pillow. You never said anything. You never complained. But he knew. He was a dull rock, an unresponsive lump of granite, and he was hurting you with his passivity. The knowledge gnawed at him, a persistent, guilty ache that followed him through his days and haunted his waking hours.
The fifth night, something in him snapped. Simply, as you leaned in to press your customary kiss to his lips, he found himself moving. His hand came up, rough and calloused, to cup the back of your head. And he kissed you back.
It was not a passionate kiss. It was not the kiss of a man swept away by desire. It was a careful response, a returning of pressure, a silent acknowledgment. He felt your startled inhale against his mouth, the way your body went taut with surprise. When he pulled back, your eyes were wide, your lips parted, and there was a look on your face that made his chest constrict.
Expectation. Hope. A question that had been waiting, patient and trembling, for an answer.
Maekar looked at you, at your big eyes shining in the firelight, at your kiss-swollen mouth, at the delicate line of your collarbone visible above the lace of your nightdress. He thought of all the nights he had lain beside you, rigid with restraint. He thought of the way you smiled at him, the way you laughed at his dry remarks, the way you clung to his arm in sleep as if he were the only safe harbor in a storm.
He resigned himself. The decision came not with a sense of defeat, but with a strange, liberating clarity. He did not want to become the object of your resentment. He could not bear the thought of those eyes looking at him with bitterness, with the slow, corrosive realization that your husband was a man who denied you not only his affection but the most basic experiences of womanhood. You were young and full of life, and he had been keeping you in a gilded cage, feeding you porridge and kissing your forehead as if you were a child rather than a wife.
"You deserve pleasure," he said, his voice low and rough, the words feeling as if they were being dragged from some deep, hidden place within him. "I have been remiss in my duties."
Your breath caught. "Maekar..."
He moved before he could lose his nerve. His hands found your waist, and he lifted you as if you weighed nothing, settling you onto his lap with a decisive, careful motion. You were warm through the thin fabric of your nightdress, your body soft and pliant against the hard planes of his chest. He could feel the rapid flutter of your heart.
"I will not take what I have no right to claim," he said, the words a rough murmur against your temple. "But I can give you this. Let me give you this."
His fingers found the hem of your nightdress, and he pushed it up slowly, giving you time to object. You did not object. You only watched him with those enormous eyes, your hands resting on his shoulders as if you did not quite know what to do with them. He touched you gently, so gently, his battle-roughened hands moving with a delicacy that surprised even himself. He explored the soft skin of your thighs, the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist. He learned the shape of you by touch alone, his gaze fixed on your face, cataloguing every flicker of expression.
When his fingers found the center of your heat, you gasped, your head falling back, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He moved with slow, patient circles, learning what made you sigh, what made you shudder, what made your hips buck involuntarily against his hand. He was methodical in his attentions, as he was in all things, and he brought you to the peak with the same focused determination he might apply to a siege.
You shattered against him with a cry that was half surprise and half relief, your body arching, your hands fisting in the fabric of his tunic. He held you through it, his free arm wrapped securely around your waist, anchoring you against the storm of sensation. When the tremors subsided, you slumped against his chest, breathing hard, your face buried in the crook of his neck.
He gave you a moment. Then, with the same gentle efficiency, he rearranged your nightdress, lifted you from his lap, and placed you back onto the bed. He drew the furs up to your chin and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"Sleep now," he commanded, his voice a low rumble.
You blinked up at him, your expression dazed and soft and so full of something that looked terrifyingly like adoration. "But you..."
"This was for you," he said, cutting you off with a firmness that brooked no argument. "Rest."
You slept. He did not. He lay beside you in the darkness, his body aching with unfulfilled need, and told himself that this was enough. He had done his duty. He had given you pleasure without complicating matters with his own involvement. It was a tidy solution, a clean, surgical strike. You were satisfied. There was no need to get himself fully involved.
This, too, became a habit.
Every few nights, when the expectant look in your eyes grew too pronounced to ignore, he would pull you onto his lap and touch you until you came apart in his arms. He learned the rhythms of your body. He knew the spot just below your ear that made you whimper when he pressed his lips to it. He knew the pace that made you clutch at him desperately, the slower, teasing touches that made you gasp his name like a prayer. He gave you pleasure as a general might distribute supplies to a besieged city: regularly, efficiently, and with a steadfast refusal to partake himself.
He thought you accepted this. He thought you understood the unspoken terms of this arrangement. He was a fool.
It was a quiet evening, the fire burning low in the hearth, the castle settling into the deep hush of night. He had just returned from a grueling inspection of the eastern watchtowers, his muscles aching, his mood as dark as the storm clouds gathering over the mountains. You were waiting for him in his chambers, a book open on your lap, a cup of warmed wine already poured and waiting on his desk.
You were always waiting for him now. The thought should not have warmed him as it did.
The night's ritual had been completed. You were nestled against him, your body still humming with the aftermath of pleasure, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He was preparing to settle you back onto your pillow, to pull up the furs and press his customary kiss to your forehead, when you spoke.
"Maekar." Your voice was soft, hesitant, but there was a thread of steel beneath it that he had learned to recognize. "May I ask you something?"
"You may," he said, his guard instinctively rising.
You were silent for a moment, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the fabric of his tunic. Then, you lifted your head to look at him, and the expression in your eyes made his heart stutter.
"Why do you not want anything for yourself?"
The question hung in the air between them, simple and devastating. He opened his mouth to deflect, to offer some gruff platitude about duty and obligation, but you did not give him the chance.
"Every night," you continued, your voice still soft but gaining strength, "you give me such pleasure. You are so gentle, so careful, so attentive. But you never…" You hesitated, a flush creeping up your cheeks, but you pressed on with the same determined courage you had shown since the day you arrived at Summerhall. "You never let me touch you. You never seek your own release. It is as if you believe you do not deserve it, or as if you think I am not capable of giving it."
"You are capable," he said, the words escaping before he could cage them.
"Then why?" Your pout was there, that unconscious, pretty pout that he had come to know so well. But it was accompanied by a look so loving, so open and earnest and full of desperate hope, that it struck him like a blow. "I could learn. I could learn how to please you, if you are willing to teach me. I am not afraid. I want to be a true wife to you, in every sense."
He felt something cracking inside him, the carefully constructed walls he had built around his heart beginning to crumble. "It is not a matter of teaching," he said, his voice strained. "There are…consequences. You are young. You should not be burdened with..."
"Children," you finished for him, and he was stunned into silence. "You are worried about children."
It was not the only thing, but it was the easiest to admit. He nodded stiffly.
You took a deep breath, and he watched as you gathered your courage, your hands clasping together in your lap. "If you do not wish for children," you said, your voice steady despite the tremor he could see in your fingers, "I can drink moon tea. We can postpone the idea. I have spoken to the maester, and he has assured me it is safe when used sparingly."
Maekar stared at you. You had spoken to the maester. You, his sweet wife, had gone to the old man and asked about moon tea. The image was so absurd, so unexpectedly bold, that he almost laughed.
But you were not finished. "I would like to have a child someday," you continued, and now your voice grew softer, more wistful. "One child of my own. No matter a boy or a girl. And I would raise it with the best of my ability, with all the love I have to give. But…" You reached out, your small hand coming to rest on his cheek, your thumb brushing the line of his jaw. "I would like to have a life first. A marriage. A husband who does not treat me like a delicate piece of glass that might shatter at his touch."
Your eyes were wet, but you were smiling. That smile. The one that had undone him from the very beginning.
"I want you, Maekar," you whispered. "I want my husband."
The walls crumbled. The last defenses fell. Maekar Targaryen, prince of Summerhall, breaker of rebellions and terror of his enemies, looked at his young wife and realized he was only a man. A man who had been fighting a losing battle against his own heart for longer than he cared to admit. A man who loved his wife.
He loved you. The truth of it was a physical thing, a weight in his chest, a fire in his blood. He loved your laugh, your pout, your clever mind and your gentle hands and your infuriating, wonderful habit of clinging to him in sleep. He loved your courage, standing before him now and baring your soul with nothing but hope to shield you. He loved you.
"Gods be good," he breathed, and then he was moving.
His hands found your waist, and this time there was nothing careful or clinical about the touch. He pulled you against him, crushing you to his chest, and his mouth descended on yours in a kiss that was nothing like the chaste, hesitant presses of lips you had shared before. This was a surrender. A desperate, hungry admission of everything he had been too stubborn to say.
You gasped against his mouth, and then your arms were around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair, and you were kissing him back with an enthusiasm that made his head spin. When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, your faces inches apart.
"You foolish, stubborn man," you whispered, but your voice was thick with tears and joy. "I have been waiting for you to understand."
"I understand now," he said, his voice a low, wrecked rasp. "Forgive me. For all of it. For the neglect, for the distance, for the guard I foisted upon you like a fool..."
"You gave me Ser Elyas?" Your eyes widened, and then a surprised laugh bubbled up from your throat. "Oh, Maekar. I thought he was just a very attentive guard. I wondered why he kept trying to recite poetry at me."
Maekar groaned, dropping his forehead to yours. "I am an idiot."
"You are my idiot," you corrected, and the possessive warmth in your voice was his final undoing. "My husband. And I believe you owe me a proper wedding night."
He looked at you, at the mischievous glint in your eyes, at the loving curve of your smile, and he felt something he had not felt in many, many years. Hope. Joy. A future unfolding before him that was not merely duty and endurance, but something bright and warm and achingly beautiful.
"I owe you much more than that," he murmured, and he lowered his mouth to yours once more.
a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
Kinktober Day 10 - Tentacles, Moon Presence x Reader, Bloodborne
Masterlist
Misc. Tags/Info - Reader is good hunter who takes gehrman's place after the hunt and is Flora's plaything, but is Strangely into it. GN reader - usage of ‘hole’ specifically anal. Angst, actually kinda sad but that is expected of bloodborne, long set up sorry. Flora is referenced as the Moon Presence the whole time and has it/its pronouns, bcuz unfortunately the reader does realize the feminine grace of Flora. Monster fucking ofc, its bloodborne, eldritch horror fucking.
WC - 707
Nsfw under cut
Every Great One loses its child, then yearns for a surrogate. For a long time, that so-called surrogate child was the pathetic old man you knew as Gehrman. You heard him weep, heard him cry out for a release in the darkest of nights.
So you released him, were embraced by the Moon Presence in his stead, and took his role. It was a cycle, the night began again, then you were alone with the Doll, the night began again, then you were alone with the Doll, the night began again -
You were tired. So very tired. The Doll, for as kind as she was, did not have much to offer you. She was a mimic, a doll, a copy, a clone, a puppet, and the more you wanted something else, someone else, someone to hold you who’s hands weren’t jointed and cold.
The Hunters who came were hard to talk with. Some were hysterical, some were downright sociopathic, some were hardly human. The blood, the hunt, the wolves, the flowers, the moon, everything was getting on your nerves. Yet the Moon Presence never seemed to come down - staying stationary and sad, solemnly mourning the loss of its surrogate.
That is, until you were fed up enough to yell for it, to let out your anger and sorrows in a rampant and rage filled string of words that you were sure it wouldn’t quite understand. But for the very first time, it seemed as though the Moon Presence would recognize you as its surrogate’s successor and do something.
But it didn’t, not in the way that you believed it would.
Like the very first time you beheld it, it held you, large spindly boney fingers wound tightly around your torso. You gulped as you stared at it - fear or awe - it didn’t matter, you were long in its grasp.
It tilted - what you thought is - its head at you, peering close, almost brushing up against you. It was a cold neutrality, its grip neither warm nor cold, like some dead zone, like you were incapable of feeling its touch. But you weren’t. You had drawn its attention, and was now rigorously examining you, like some kind of plaything.
Your breath stilled, you didn’t even struggle in its grasp. The feelers - the tentacles? - behind its head crept forward, slithering over your face, points caressing and dipping against your skin. It wasn’t quite scaly, nor was it fleshy, it was soft and slick, but not sticky or wet. It was a sensation unlike anything you’d ever felt before - one that made your skin tingle beneath it - made you want it to touch you more.
Once it had sufficiently investigated your face, the Moon Presence’s tentacles slid down your chin, your neck, and between your skin and clothes. Little effort seemed to come from its part, effortlessly extending its reach against your skin, leaving that same impression on your chest as it rubbed against your bare skin. The deeper it stretched its tentacles, the thicker the gap was, tearing your clothes like a letter opener for the curiosity of what was hidden.
Just as you were curious of the Moon Presence, it was curious of you. Curious of all of your cracks and crevices, taking the time to gently explore you, sliding its tentacles between the part in your lips. Rolling the strange appendage over your tongue, over your body, and investigating you further.
It didn’t taste bad, not like iron or rot, it wasn’t pungent but fragrant, flowery or floral and tingling on your tastebuds. It left a blooming sensation in your head as it slid inside of you, hardly needing any time to prep you, as its tentacles were thin and slick until they weren't. You couldn’t contain the squeak you made as it rolled inside of you, your rage long gone, disappeared by the ribbed sensation of its tentacles within you.
Again, it tilted its head, the Moon Presence so very curious and repeating the motion several times in the attempt to coax another noise out of you. You failed horribly in trying to keep anything contained. It seemed intent on exploring every cavity you housed. You didn’t know if you were more afraid, aroused, or amazed.
Okey, I’m kind of obsessed, so I’m thinking feverishly about how exactly would Bloodborne characters propose. I mean, most of them would probably do it in some extraordinary way, like knee deep in blood with hunter’s weapon on their shoulder or with hands digging into someone's insides. It even seems to me like a classic marriage proposal from the time when one of the partners asked their parents for permission to wed someone (*cough* Alfred *cough*) would be in the middle of the Hunt or something. Hm, also how good are hunters as suitors? So much potential for forbidden marriage, gosh.. I don’t have any suggestions on characters, I’m simply dying to hear your thoughts on anyone! The more the merrier!!
married life ☆ lady maria, valtr, & laurence x gn! reader
wc — 1,763 words
a/n — i apologize for vanishing again </3 this ask was sooo cute btw and i had a ton of fun writing for it :] i've been trying to platinum bloodborne recently so i'd write in between chalice dungeons lol
Maria
She’s been preparing herself to ask for your hand for a very, very long time.
Practices reciting her proposal in the mirror so she can work on that smile of hers, the one you say looks more taunting than cheery
Maria wants to be anything but scary when she asks to be your wife
On nights where the Hunt drags on and the streets are soaked with the blood of felled prey, all will be heavy with silence save for the love-drunk recital of a lone hunter’s proposal
She carries the ring on her at all times, as both a good luck charm and an anticipatory measure
She’s so worried about her proposal going awry, about it not sticking the landing and leaving you more uncertain than excited, that she’ll often be lie awake beside you just imagining everything that could possibly go wrong
… And you’ll be none the wiser. She’s quite the stoic.
But Maria can only take so much
It’s the night of the Hunt, and she hadn’t slept the night before. Or the night before that.
She’s exhausted, a total mess — and you’re being so kind to her.
You’ve brought her treats, made sure she’s drinking enough water, and cuddled her to no end. And when it was finally time for her to get up, you helped her get ready.
You even pretended not to notice when she lowered her hat, flustered by your sweet words and warm touch
So when she’s finally headed out the door, she can’t help but do away with formalities and propose to you right then and there
And she does it in the most Maria-like way, too. She’s intense, monotone, speaking at a volume only you can hear …
She doesn’t even bother with that rehearsed smile
But you don’t mind it. Of course you don’t
She pulls her hat down over her eyes again once she’s done, embarrassed by how unprofessional she’d just been
But her spirit is quickly lifted after hearing your excited, affirming chirps
When she returns she’ll try to be more suave, pull you tight to her and ask if you really meant it. You did, obviously. Then maybe she can convince you to give her the ring back so she can have a more proper “do-over”
Maria is an absolutely stellar spouse
Her love is unconditional, she remembers every little thing you tell her, helps you out any chance she gets, buys you a whole bunch of pretty little things …
Maria treats you like royalty, and she’s your most loyal knight
The changes in her demeanor are very subtle, but her fellow hunters can tell just how much your relationship has impacted her
Her movements seem much more purposeful and she oozes a confidence that your unyielding admiration no doubt plays a part in
Gehrman’s pretty down in the dumps about the whole thing, something Maria notices but doesn’t understand. She’ll try and get him to crack a grin, but honestly it just makes him worse
Very amusing for the other hunters to watch
She holds your hand everywhere you go. It doesn’t matter if she’s leading or lagging behind you, your hand is always in hers. She’ll even swing them together sometimes if she’s feeling playful
Definitely made some sort of gift for you out of a blood gem (brooch, bracelet bead, ring, little decoration on top of a ribbon), maybe even started the trend of doing so.
Valtr
It’s very unlikely you’ll get a traditional proposal out of this guy
You’ll be beside him, cutting down vermin in a fleshy frenzy until all that's left is viscera and a tension
He’s all worked up, bubbling with courage and excitement, and decides right then and there to turn on his heel and vomit out the most suave, on-the-spot proposal ever uttered
You’ve been together long enough for him to constantly joke about the two of you being espoused, so asking feels all too natural to him and not at all like some sort of heavy, life-changing question
His clothes are still slick with blood and he’s very obviously trying to kick whatever creature you’ve just killed out of your line of sight with his boot.
It’s messy, unorthodox and very, very Valtr
He didn’t even buy a ring
Fret not, he’ll let you pick one out later!
There likely won’t even be a ceremony unless you request one, and even then it’ll probably be quite small — in some itty bitty chapel, crammed with close friends and loved ones
But again, adjustments will be made in accordance with whatever his darling beloved wants
The honeymoon phase never ended with him
He’s always going to be infatuated with you — awe-inspired, even
He still flirts with you like how he would when you’d first met; maybe even more than before. This sort of non-stop playfulness is in his nature
He may be a tease, but he’s also a gentleman. He’ll reign himself in if he ever feels as though he’s gone too far. He knows when he’s in the doghouse, and he’ll stay there until you’re ready to deal with him again.
He’s showy. Offers his arm to you when you go out, makes a huge fuss about how he absolutely must buy you whatever it is you’ve so much as blinked at, etc …
His fellows all know just how obsessed he is with you. He had them make introductions early on into your relationship; ensure you’re all friendly with each other
It’s not at all uncommon for him to get drunk while he’s out with them and ramble about you till he’s being carried out the door
Valtr is a lot to handle, but what you’re willing to take will most certainly be worth it
Laurence
Childhood friends to lovers … walk with me …
Staying over at each other’s houses to read together, having picnics and stargazing together, sitting on opposite ends of church pews and peeking over at each other, being each other’s greatest supporter…
Laurence has always envisioned a future where you’re both by each other’s side forever and ever – he’s just too naive to realize the future he’s thinking of is one where you’re married
It’ll click with him later, after some incessant teasing from your shared neighbors (“If you like them so much, why don’t you just marry them?” and the like)
One realization comes after another, and he realizes (quite ashamedly) how much he really likes you
From then on he’s much more bashful and awkward with you, though he remains the same friend you’ve known for so many years
It’s right before he leaves for Byrgenwerth that he decides to change all that. There’s no way he’s moving out and leaving you for gods know how long before telling you how he feels
He arranges a meeting with your parents, baring his heart and asking their permission for him to court you. He’s a nice young man – lots of potential – and your best friend, so of course they permit it
His confesses to you in earnest, a hymn of total adoration that would put the greatest of poets to shame
He speaks with a mild desperation and a strain in his voice that harkens back to a time when he’d tug on your sleeve, eager for your attention
He looks so relieved when you accept; shoulders dropping and eyes softening as he promises to write you every day
His devotion is unwavering, even when he’s off at Byrgenwerth
Poor guy’s diary is filled to the brim with love poetry and sappy musings
Being apart from you just makes him think of you more, and how badly he wishes that future he’s envisioned since childhood was real
It will be, he knows that, just not yet. He wants to be something first, accomplish something
So yeah, he’s making you wait. He promises to himself it’ll be the last time he ever does.
It’s agony. He has tea with you twice a month and he has to keep himself in check, try not to bring up the concept of marriage to you until he feels deserving enough to do so
You don’t press him on the subject, but there is some light teasing here and there – nothing Laurence can’t handle
Skipping ahead a bit, after finally getting the Healing Church off the ground his first priority is to wed you
Again he’d ask your parents for permission and again he’d receive it – swiftly, might I add
The clergy all know of their Vicar’s beloved and are absolutely buzzing with excitement the day they expect him to propose
As traditional as it gets. Probably brought you to some pretty, scenic area. Some high up balcony in Cathedral Ward so you can watch the city turn gold when the sun begins to set on it … There’s also definitely some nice gazebos in Yharnam, so maybe there, too.. Either way it’ll be somewhere just as private as it is beautiful.
He’ll be down on one knee, waxing poetic, promising you a wonderful life, the whole thing. Maybe the engagement ring holds the same stone as the cosmic eye watcher badge, signifying how you’re just as much his duty now as the rest of his work is
Gods forbid you ever catch a cold; you’ll have 15 different doctors looking after you
The wedding is held in the Grand Cathedral, obviously. The public one is, anyway. The two of you got married in a much more private setting about a week before this, accompanied by friends and family instead of a whole bunch of clerical strangers. While the second time around is mostly for appearances, it’s still greatly enjoyable. Laurence seems less nervous and stiff; much more used to the role of being your husband than he was the week prior. Much more smiley.
There’s a lot more eyes on you now that you’re married to a man of such importance, but Laurence is more than happy to accommodate you. He’s good at keeping things under wraps, and will gladly help shield you from the public eye as best he can
Honestly he’d be a good 9/10 spouse if it wasn’t for all his secrecy. What the Choir is up to and the more negative effects of the good blood are things he refrains from telling you until maybe a day or two before he goes the way of the beasts
But he’s erected a statue or two of you around Cathedral Ward so maybe he can be forgiven
how they say goodnight ☆ lady maria, alfred, eileen, djura x gn! reader
wc — 905 words
a/n — whats a 'talking stage'? go harvest blood echoes and get sent to the nightmare!!!
Maria
She’s shockingly quiet as she prepares for the Hunt, determined to give you no cause for concern. Her strong silence, she’s sure, will reassure you more than any amount of comforting blabber could
She instructs you to take care of yourself while she’s away; squeezing your hand and having you promise your own safety
How disappointed she feels, to have to charge you with a responsibility that should be her own
Such feelings dissipate the moment you kiss her — on the cheek, as usual — and bid her a sweet farewell
Warmth floods her, and she sets out with a newly invigorated spirit, stirred solely by her beloved
Maria doesn’t bother to wash up before she sees you again. Beast hunting, it seems, brings to her a surprising increase in impulsivity
She rushes home, flirts with you incessantly, buttering you up as you squeal and swat at her blood-soaked form …
Maria’s typically stern countenance is easily eclipsed by your cheery giggling, and soon enough she’s snickering through kisses; breathless in her revelry
Alfred
Nearly sets your home on fire with how much incense he lights for you
He’s certainly one of the most confident in your safety on this list, believing his work to aid in it above all else, but he can never be too careful
Rushes in and out of every room as he prepares to set out on the Hunt, gleefully yapping as he does
Tucks you in before he leaves if you plan on sleeping, resting on his knees and praying by your bedside to his sovereign master for a fruitful Hunt
If you insist on bidding him farewell at the door, he’ll muss your hair and land a merry kiss on your forehead before heading out
Washes off before seeing you again; wishing to spare you the fright of seeing him splattered with blood and viscera
Once he does reunite with you, you can be sure he’ll have you swept off your feet in his embrace before you can even utter a “welcome home”
Eileen
Not as nervous about the beasts causing you trouble as she is about the Hunters
tells you time and time again to not answer to anyone who happens upon your shared home during the Hunt, no matter how kindly or familiar
Tries to stay as optimistic about the oncoming night as she can — for your sake.
Often jokes about her position, keeping up a playful attitude until she’s finally out the door
You’re well aware, however, how much her job wears on her
You remedy her weariness as best you can, taking care of her and showering her with affection as the Hunt nears
She’s appreciative of this of course, lends some more thought into the idea of finally marrying you; keep things how they already are …
Leaves you with her usual words of caution and a bittersweet kiss on the cheek
Returns bloody as usual, though hardly a drop is her own
She’ll greet you before washing up, wanting nothing more than to envelope herself in your loving presence as soon as possible
Only bothers to clean off once she realizes how much blood she’s tracked in
She retires to the washroom once she’s done soaking in your embrace, her mind made up
Her next Hunt, she’s sure now, will be for a wedding band
Djura
Doesn’t have to say goodnight each night, if you accompany him on the tower
While he may prefer you staying inside so you don’t catch cold, he does greatly enjoy your company
Either way, the both of you make little meals for each other. You exchange food at the door if you’re staying inside, or atop the tower if you happen to convince him to let you tag along
While Djura does worry for your health and safety when you’re up there with him, all his concern seems to melt away once your moonlit picnic begins
He’s pretty on edge when he’s up there, so once you’re both done dining he’ll stiffen up quick. He’ll still hold conversation with you as long as you want him to, but it won’t be as pleasant as your idle sun-up chats
He understands that he’s not one for talking during the Hunt, and will make up for it by spending time with you during the day
The two of you will spend time together doing whatever it is you feel like, so long as it brings you joy
If you’re fine with his silence while up on the tower, you can enjoy yourself to a full night of stargazing and quality time — as long as no pesky Hunters show up, of course
Should you instead choose to stay indoors (or your persuasion wasn’t enough to allow you to accompany him), the next time you’ll see Djura is in the morning, slumped over on the dining table asleep.
He’s absolutely exhausted at the end of the night, and would rather pass out somewhere discreet than risk waking you up
Give him a few hours and by sometime in the afternoon he’ll be your beloved djura again, mumbling a hoarse 'good morning' as he stumbles into your arms
Rook is trapped in the Fade for longer than she thought.
Pairing: Rook x Lucanis / Rook x Spite
Genre: Angst
Words: 2.7k
Read it here on ao3!
Chapter 1 (Chapter 2 will be Lucanis’ pov <3)
How long has it been since she had stepped out of reality and into the Fade? Rook lay on her back, atop of the stairs by the ritual site the Fade handcrafted for her to admire and feel regret for how she failed to stop Solas’ ritual and let Varric die out here, in the cold. This is the last place of her prison the Fade has not transformed and reshaped yet, this is the only constant in her new reality, despite being here for a very long time.
How long, Rook was not sure. She can’t count how many moons risen and fallen, how many times the sun came to shine on her face and encourage her to start her day, nor did she possess the feeling to tell the time anymore. At some point, all of her senses mush together into one pile of confusion, loneliness and emptiness.
***
During the first few months, at least she thought those were months, Rook still had Varric to talk to.
She knew he wasn’t really there, but it was nice to have someone here with her. They talked about past jobs they did together, Rook’s royal fuck-up with the Antaam that caused Viago to send her away, how hurt she felt at the time and how much she missed Antiva, her home. She’d punch herself how she’d hate listening to Viago’s endless lectures and scoldings, only to miss them now so much it hurts.
At times, Rook and Varric argued, even if it was rather one sided. She screamed at him, cried into his shoulder, threw rocks and whatever else she got into her hands against walls or into the endless voids, while he let her. He never yelled back, never tried to stop or calm her, rather just let her be and do this until she was tired of it. That’s when he spoke to her again.
"I don’t know, kid. They should’ve gotten to you by now, but what do I know? I’m no mage." Varric fiddled with Bianca on his lap, leaning against the rock pillar behind him. Rook sat silently across him, her body and hands aching from punching and clawing at the statues of her companions, crying and yelling at them, asking the statues to speak to her again, show her a way out of this, but no answer ever came.
Her hand reached up to her face, brushing some sweat and stray tears away. “They’re still working on it, I know it. They wouldn’t leave me here like this.” Varric glanced up from his crossbow and up to her face. He heard how she still had hope, but one look into her eyes told him that the spark of hope diminished more and more over time. After closing her eyes once more to rest and opening them once she believed the night was over, Varric was gone, the Fade rearranging itself once again.
It’s almost mostly quiet in the Fade, apart from the stray Spirit managing to get lost and stumble upon this black and white painted prison of regret, immediately making their return back before they accidentally get themselves turnt into a despair demon or something similar of the sorts. Apart from that, no one ever came back to visit. Not even dreamers. Above her she saw shapes and shades of grey rearrange themselves, creating new areas of the prison she was trapped in for her to explore, but at a certain point, she stop bothering. Having one constant thing, the ritual site, despite how much it hurt to be here, was nice.
***
At first, after Varric left, Rook was alone with her thoughts. To entertain herself she took walks around the areas of the Fade she can reach, explore new areas and admire the ones she already knows over and over again, trying to find special new things every time she takes the same route. She talked to herself out loud, acting like somebody is going to respond someday, hoping someone will.
"So. How’s… Minrathous? We should get some of that fish by the docks again sometime." Rook cocked her head up to look at Neve’s face.
'Still blighted. The Shadow Dragons are trying their best, but the Venatori still hold most of the power. It’s.. (sigh) …hard.'
She could’ve sworn Neve did answer her this time. It almost felt… real. "I’m sorry, but—" 'You did what you could, but it wasn’t enough, Rook. You could have done more, done better. Because of you and your leadership Minrathous burned.'
Nothing was ever enough.
All of the things she did before; it was all never enough. She didn’t do enough to stop Solas’ ritual, not enough to save Minrathous, not enough to protect to Treviso, never enough for Viago, never enough, never enough.
At some point, even the smallest regrets circled inside her mind on loop over and over until it finally came to a halt after someone entered his mind.
***
The Fade changed around her to create new places and remind her of her biggest and most tragic mistakes while she walker circles in her prison, her eyes stopped registering what was around her at a certain point she cannot pinpoint. A mix of sand and gravel being crushed under her boot dragged her out of her daydreams of nothingness.
Lifting her head and taking the area around her, her heart stopped for a moment. This was the Ossuary. But how? It looked exactly the same to when Rook first stepped into this dammed prison to retrieve the grandson of Catarina, even the bodies of the slain Venatori were scattered around as blood slowly pooled beneath their bodies. Why did the Fade bring her here after… maybe months? She wasn’t sure. Rook’s mind cleared for a brief moment as she took a look around, taking the same route as before when she got here the first time. The fish outside the Ossuary were standing still, the water that was supposed to be pouring out of the cracks of the veil protecting the prison was unmoving.
It was too quiet.
Finding the cage where Lucanis was held, there was no trace of him. A fraction of her hoped he might be here, or at least, a piece of him. She felt selfish for even thinking of having him be trapped in here with her, even if it is not his real person that would be here. She felt selfish for wanting him.
Him, Lucanis Dellamorte, grandson of the First Talon and the future of the crows. The man that makes coffee to avoid falling asleep and let the demon residing in him to take over and possibly endanger the others, the same man that cooks for everyone and to their individual preferences, no matter how achy his body might be after being tossed around like a ragdoll by a Ghoul or how exhausted he was, the man whose eyes lit up like fireworks when Rook handed him the wyvern dagger, the man that didn’t believe he was allowed to love those creatures even as a grown man, the person that blindly loved his cousin to the point of not being able to recognise betrayal, the one that practically ran away in distress after experiencing an ounce of flirtation and real admiration. Lucanis.
Rook never wanted to think of him. She was unworthy to do so, because every time she did, she wished for nothing more than for him to be here in this black and white prison of endless agony and regret and suffer alongside her as they waited for rescue. She knew she was selfish for wanting him to experience more pain just so that she could have the person she loved most by her side until the end of time, or at least as long as their bodies allowed it. To trap him once more after releasing him from the Venatori prison, to lock him into another cage where he helplessly can wait for ultimate demise or let himself descend into insanity as the Fade created a new room handcrafted to reopen a wound that never really closed.
She knew she was selfish for wanting him. But was it selfish of her to wish that she still had a chance to return back home and ask for him to never leave her side again, to promise her that he loved her as much as she did him, or was it plain ignorance that led her to believe that she could ever leave this place and live in peace with her lover? Lucanis will never be here with here and she will never be with him again.
After leaving the Ossuary-copy of the Fade and taking her walk back to the ritual site, Rook felt glad that he wasn’t here. There was no coffee maker and no coffee beans, who knows how long this man could’ve survived in here before willingly giving his body to Spite to end his suffering? A small chuckle escaped her lips as she thought about that, a rare occasion in these times.
***
It was less painful to just not think, Rook found out. Maybe it was some sort of meditation she never was aware of, but at one point it felt nice to lay down on the ground and do nothing, feel nothing, think nothing. Her eyes stared at the air while her limbs were sprawled out into all directions. Varric used to make her lie down like this on the floor. "We called it Floortime in Kirkwall, does good to your mind to sometimes just do… nothing."
Her brain was painfully empty, not having enough energy to form one coherent thought. Even the Fade gave up on trying to lure her into exploring new areas of the regret prison by recreating some of her companions, kneeling down to her body and talking to her like nothing ever happened.
"It will do you good to stretch your limbs every now and then." Emmrich’s tall stature loomed over her, an unsure smile forming on his face as if not sure how to handle Rook in a state like hers. His hands clapped together. "Come on. We don’t have all day, dear! The Fade might change again and we will miss whatever it offered to us to experience it first hand, you wouldn’t want to miss that, would you?" Not even his professor voice and attitude, which usually made her perk up and sharpen her mind to prepare and listen to one of his lectures and informative rambles, instead leaving her to close her eyes is aspiration as to not having to look at him.
She knows he’s not real. There’s no point of talking to this skinwalker, this mimic trying to make her stand up and push herself to do something utterly meaningless.
It would only make her even more upset, frustrated at how a so-called damned Fade expert hasn’t managed to retrieve her out of this gods-forsaken place, even after months, maybe years of time!
The Fade understood that Rook didn’t want to see any of her other companions, so it created an imagine that made her stir and briefly believe that they were really here. The moment where hope shimmered to the surface that let her jump up to her feet was brief. "Rook?" She knew that voice. It was not exactly the voice she yearned to hear for all the long past moments, but it was similar and not unwelcome. “Found. Rook!” Spite’s toothy grin on Lucanis’s face almost made her throw up. "Spite! You—?"
Her throat felt incredibly dry and her words died on her tongue after not speaking for such a long time, but it seems like Spite understood whatever she tried to say. This was his domain in a way after all, Trade Speak wasn’t needed here. The demon stepped closer and invaded her personal space, but she didn’t mind, especially after his arms pulled her into an incredibly crushing hug against his (surprisingly) firm body. He was real. Spite felt real. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes as her shaky arms reached out to wrap around his shoulders, to convince him silently to never let go of her ever again. “S-Spite.” Is the only thing she managed to press out of her mouth.
“Rook lost. Spite found! Curiosity and Prof-fes-sor work on dagger. For Rook!” Spite spoke against her skin as they were still holding each other. She couldn’t help but chuckle at how Spite was still trying to pronounce words slowly to get them right and buried her face into his surprisingly warm shoulder.
"Y-You found me." Spite, seemingly confused at how Rook repeated what he just said and now worried she might’ve gone deaf, decided to speak the next few words more loudly. "YES! CURIOSITY. AND. PRO-"She stopped him with a laugh and pulled away from his hug slightly to make him stop yelling by putting a finger on his lips.
"You’re going to get me out." Spite nodded furiously. "Yes. But. Go there first. Closer." The demon pointed at somewhere behind him. Hope bubbled up to the surface and dared to overflow, thinking Spite was trying to bring her somewhere Emmrich, Bellara or whoever else was working to get her can reach her more easily. She took his hand into hers and dragged him along to where Spite had pointed at.
"Where do you want me to go? Up the stairs? We can also go to the right, I thought I felt the Fade being weaker there because you know, lots of new rooms over there, but we can also…” Rook’s words died out as she turned around to look back at Spite and ask him where to go next, but the demon was gone.
Looking down at her closed fist was nothing, not even dust. Spite was gone. She was really there though, right? Spite, doing his very best and working hard to get Lucanis to bed so he can go access the Fade, finally found here wandering around.
Surely the Fade did not create another copy of someone she adores just to push her and face new regrets again. Surely she did not imagine the whole interacting, hallucinate Lucanis’ face, the body-crushing hug.
There was simply no way, is there? He must’ve been here.
He must’ve.
He HAD to.
There was no other choice.
No choice.
No.
***
There it was again; regret and shame.
Walking in circles at the ritual site, Rook’s mind repeated her own thoughts to her until it spiralled into the endless void and what was beyond it again. Maybe the others back home simply couldn’t get to her because they got distracted and busy by their own personal issues, even after Rook tried to solve them together with them.
Or maybe because they noticed they would fare much better without the overbearing, bossy, selfish leader. Or maybe because the world was consumed by blight, ruled by an unforgiving god that managed to get what he had ultimately wanted in the end. Perhaps there was nobody to retrieve and save her.
Thoughts like these are why Rook fell into this vegetative state of mind, not allowing herself to think or feel. If she could not think about her regrets, react to the Fade forcing all her smallest and largest mistakes to be faced and reviewed second by agonising second, let both frustration rise through her body and make her angry at perhaps already perished people for not coming for her, let her yearning for him crush her from the inside and out, maybe then she would be at peace.
Maybe then the unthinking Fade will show mercy and finally let her pass away.
***
After experiencing denial, anger, bargaining and depression both at a time and at the same time, there was nothing left but acceptance. What else was there as to accept that this is her fate from now on, to wander the Fade as a mortal now immortal, mourning over a lover she never had, mourning over a blighted world ruled by an even more blighted god, mourning over herself and how she never came to live her life to the end of her years. Acceptance is all there is, and Rook experiences it as an unending, stomach churning mourning and grief.
There is nothing else.
Nobody else. Nobody but her, forever and ever.
💠
Author’s note. Thanks for reading!
My best friend is FED UP with me takking about Lucanis she can’t take it anymore I gotta spread my hyperfixation elsewhere. Also I posted it on ao3 but I’m uploading here too because I yearn for instant dopamine boosts 🙂
Next chapter is gonna be all about Lucanis and Spite being bad at feelings
Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough <33
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