Might not write another part for a while so asks for Caspian are welcome!
For the small percentage that voted for no smut, I got you🙏 I’ve marked the nsfw part you can stop reading at that point as it’s at the end of the post.
Taglist at the end of the post because it’s kinda long.
part 1 part 2
male yandere, female yandere
You nod and try keep your attention on the couple in front of you but you squirm under Caspian’s hold. He doesn’t seem to care that you’re not alone as he continues to cling and hold on to you like you’ll disappear if he lets go for one second.
After waking up slightly uncomfortable from your body still not being used to the water Caspian took you to a few other spots that were worth seeing before heading to his friends home. Darya, a mermaid, and her human mate Keith. Both pleasant and clearly hold a special place in Caspian’s life “He persisted. I was so worried about him leaving everything behind but he wouldn’t budge.” Darya looks at her mate with a smile, dark eyes twinkling at the memory. They light up with a new memory when she turns to look at you again “He tried to go after me but ended up almost drowning I had no choice but to take him here.” Keith rolls his eyes “She’s exaggerating I wouldve totally made it I’m a great swimmer.”
You laugh as they banter. They’re truly beautiful together and you can see the love they share even as an outsider to their relationship. You can feel your love growing for Caspian but can what he feels even be called love or is it an infatuation?
You’ve noticed his interest in humans. How he collects items and how he tries to replicate how human talk and act. You can’t help but wonder if you’re just the perfect piece that fit into his fantasy. That perhaps you’re his escape, the only way he can turn his wishes into something tangible.
You blink when Keith looks at you “You should join us.” You glance at Darya then back at Keith “Every year we do a celebration ritual. A rebirth ritual of sorts. Since merpeople live a long time rituals like this kind of remind them to still enjoy life and not be prisoners to routine and boredom.” Keith sends a playful look to Caspian “Caspian here would tag along as a third wheel but this year he can finally come with a mate.” You glance at Caspian and softly smile when you see his flushed face “I would love that.” Keith grimaces “You two are so in love it’s starting to gross me out.” Darya nudges his shoulder “Don’t start. We were the same way.” He rolls his eyes “Yeah whatever..”He snickers and looks at you while getting up “Hey wanna help me get all this out of the way?”
Darya pulls a reluctant Caspian who keeps looking over his shoulder like a hurt puppy out of the room leaving you and Keith alone.
Caspian and Darya’s muffled voices seep into the room as you work to clean up, the noise blending with the clinking of utensils.
Caspian glances at you “So..how are you adjusting? I can’t tell if you’re already used to living here or you’re going insane you’re not giving me much here.” You chuckle and shake your head “I don’t mind it I think it’s beautiful here, really.” He throws you a wary glance. Your words are to comfort him but you can help but feel like you’re telling yourself that more than him “It’s just..I feel homesick.” You sighs softly “Hey I get that. I do. A lot of humans love it here but it’s not in our nature. We need some balance. What does Caspian think about this?” You purse your lips and shake your head “Caspian is a bit..protective? I think he’s scared of me not coming back if I go back there.” Keith moves closer to you, voice low “Look Caspian never..found his match. From both worlds. He’s my friend and he was Daryas for much longer. I’m sure he’s scared you know?” You nod. You could understand that but you need to know this isn’t permanent. Your thoughts spiral and you feel your chest tighten “Hey..” Keith rubs your back, the soothing motion only lessens a fraction of your worries “I trust him. It might take him a minute but talk to him. And hey, you always have a friend here.” He smiles warmly and you have to admit you’re happy you agreed to meet his friends. It feels less lonely with another human here who can truly understand the concerns you have “Thank you Keith.” You smile up at him.
Just when you feels a weight pressed to your back Keith glances behind you biting back a smile as he moves away from you “I’m happily mated Cas. Not gonna steal her away.” He says in a sinsong voice as he makes his way out of the room, sending you a wink before disappearing.
You turn to Caspian to see a pout on his face “You were here too long. What were you talking about?” He pulls you into his arms cradling your head into his chest. You speak quietly into his chest as you wrap your arms around him “Nothing important. Were you worried?” He nods “Missed you..” You chuckles softly and move away “Come on. Let’s go back.”
You knew Caspian loved humans. You knew he was intrigued at the very simple things that made them what they are. How they talk, walk, laugh.
All the shiny little things they make that are meaningless in the grand scheme of things but somehow mean the whole world to them. Caspian studies humans without even realizing it. Peeking out the water and quietly analyzing every scene in front of him. Replaying words he learned in his head before he sleeps. You loved that about him. You thought his curiosity to learn more was endearing. Though, sometimes you can’t help but wonder if his curiosity had turned into obsession when you came along. If in that moment you called out to him in the water something had clicked and what started as an innocent interest turned into something more sinister. Possessive. You think about that late at night when his hands wrap around you so tight you could barely breathe. When his claws and teeth dig into your flesh when he takes you and swears that he won’t ever let you go. You know it without needing him to say it out loud; he wants to create his own world to hide the both of you away. Where only you two exist. Nothing else would matter. You know it but you can’t let it get to that point. That’s how you’ve found yourself in this position. Laying with Caspian and placing soft kisses all over his face slowly coaxing him to let you go back tot he surface “I can’t stay here forever..I’ll spend the day there and I’ll come back at night. Or maybe a week here and a week there?” You speak softly as you trail kisses down his neck. Caspian gently grips your jaw so you can look up at him. The familiar pout on his face “What is so important there that you’re willing to leave your mate for the whole day?” He frowns and you smiles and shake your head “I have friends and I have a job..One I still need to take care of. I can’t just disappear.” He looks away, lips twisted in displeasure. You sigh and cup his cheek “Please..” His eyes flicked between yours contemplating before he gives up, letting out a sharp breath and grumbling a “Fine..” You beam and wrap your arms around him “Thank you..I promise you won’t even notice it.” He sighs and pulls you flush against him “Of course I will, but I’ll do it for you. I love you, I want you to come to me not run from me.” You both lay tangled up with each other. He leaves a trail of kisses down the column of your neck, hands rubbing your hips affectionately.
!nsfw!
He gently nips your skins as his hands drift lower “Caspian..” he hums “Yes my love?” he flips you on your back as he continues to kiss down your body “Aren’t you- ah tired?” He laughs and looks up to you as he kisses down your stomach with a glint in his eyes “I’m never tired when it comes to pleasing my mate.” You sigh softly when he gently parts your thighs, your legs resting on his shoulders “You’re so pretty.” He groans before burying his face between your thighs. His long tongue licking your folds before probing at your hold. You moan softly and squirm as his tongue stretches you out “So good- You taste so good..” He stutters as he whimpers “I don’t want anything else. Ever. I just want to make you feel good.” His leaking cock slips out of his slit “Please- hah please can I make you feel good?” You whimper and nod, head clouded as you feel yourself getting closer.
You grind against him chasing your relief when he pulls away. Your body shudders and you whine at the loss. Caspian swallows up your protests, kissing you like he wants to swallow you whole. Letting out shuddered breaths as he rubs his heavy leaking cock up and down your folds “I need you. Please..” He growls and slowly rubs his tip against your hole before pushing it in. You both moan at the stretch. He’s so big and with the sensitivity of your interrupted release you feel yourself getting close again. Your walls tighten around him and you shudder as you finally cum before he’s even bottomed out. Caspian stays still letting you ride it out while you push down on his length mewling and whining. He lets out a low moan as your face contorts in pleasure “My beautiful mate. So beautiful. All mine, you’re all mine.” He snaps his hips and you gasp as his entire length fills you “I can’t hold back- I need you.” He growls and buries his face in your neck as he starts to pound you. Your body moving up and down at the force “Cas- wait I’m sensitive.” His claws dig into your hips as he growls “Again- I wants you to do it again. Together.” Your legs tighten around his waist but he roughly pries them open again, pinning them down as he leans back and watches his cock go in and out of you “Look at us. We fit so perfectly together..” He sucks in a breath “My mates taking me so well. So good for me.” A clawed hand slides up from your thigh to you hips then your stomach and pressing down. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and he hums in satisfaction “I can feel myself here. Does it feel good?” You sob and sputter “It feels so good- Please don’t stop.” He chuckles softly and leans down to gently kiss you.
His thrusts turn sloppy and your hand shoot up to claw at his back “Cas I-“ He kisses you and nods “I know. Let go for me. My mate. Mine, mine, mine..” He growls and buries his head in your neck sinking his teeth into the flesh sending another wave crashing through you. Seconds after you feel his cock twitch and sputter inside you. He doesn’t stop fucking you as his cum fills you up.
You feel some of it slowly dribble out as Caspian slows down. A white ring coating the base of his cock. He slowly moves the both of you to lay on your sides without pulling out. He sighs contentedly as he hugs you close “You did so good for me.” He rubs your back soothingly and kisses the new aching mark on your neck “I love you so much. So so much.” You feel the words threatening to leave your lips for the sole purpose of not leaving his words hanging but bury your face in his chest instead. You let yourself get lost to the sound of his heartbeat as all your thoughts and worries drift away into a sea of nothing.
Word count: 5.9k
Fluffy/ Hurt & Comfort/Blossoming love
When a young maiden of noble birth shows up at the Red Keep, accompanied by her father, a new member of the small council, the usually stoic Aemond is strangely enamoured with the new arrival, yet doubts the sincerity of her affections. The sudden appearance of an old companion brings the two together in a rather unorthodox fashion.
Beta read by @thenameswinter99 🖤
Pain is a great equaliser. Nobody can escape it, yet some suffer in its cruel grasp more than others. As Aemond Targaryen found out at a tender age, pain does not discriminate between the young and the old, the poor and the rich, the ones destined for greatness and the plebians destined to serve beneath them. Pain takes no prisoners, and holds no grudges. It can be a tool to be wielded, and in the hands of foolish young boys, it can be thrust upon those who scarcely deserve it. Brandished by the hands of a boy who despised him, Aemond was left maimed for life, plagued with an agony that would ebb and flow, but never disappear, and the crippling self doubt of a man scarred forever. Yet he blossomed into a true warrior with age, a man who walked hand in hand with his pain, rather than fighting against it. It had become a lifelong reminder of his childhood grievances, of deeds that remained unpunished, rather than a hindrance to his abilities, and the loss of his eye only became another obstacle to overcome.
Though as Aemond would soon find out, pain can not only drive a wedge between people, but also draw them together.
Small council meetings were rarely occasions of interest, though Aemond sat through each and every one he was granted entry to diligently, unlike his brother. Although Aegon was next in line for the iron throne, he paid little attention to the ruling of the kingdom or the petty matters of court. Aemond however, took a vested interest in how his kingdom was to be run, even if he wasn’t a member himself. If he was not present for meetings, his mother often recalled significant events and decisions to him over dinner. When the time came to replace a member of the small council, a trusted and integral member of the King’s advisors, Aemond had sway, his voice echoing through his mother’s lips.
The role of Master of Coin had long been filled by older members of court, typically of noble families who lived in Kings Landing. With the passing of the old master, the small council pleaded with the King to inject some youth and vitality into a stale system. The Hand of the King was instructed to search the realm for the most qualified, loyal men with families and ties to the realm, men of good standing, but with real world experience - who could give real insight into the plight of the people, yet handle the burden of the vast finances of the crown. He found all those qualities within your father.
You had never expected such a dramatic upheaval, a thorough uprooting of your entire life, yet you packed your belongings and endured the long journey to Kings Landing, everything you ever owned in tow. As an unmarried woman, you were tied to your father, supported by his finances and stuck under his thumb until you found a husband. It wasn’t the life you’d ever have chosen, but it was the one you were stuck with. Luckily your father wasn’t the type to force your hand into an unhappy marriage, and thus far all prospective suitors had been highly undesirable. Perhaps you had read too many books, too many stories of romance and the ardour of men who simply did not exist in reality. Perhaps your standards were simply too high. In any regard, this move would prove to be the start of a very interesting adventure, one you truly never expected.
Few introductions are memorable affairs, but the day Aemond Targaryen made your acquaintance was one he was sure to never forget. As the second son, it was his unfortunate duty to greet new members of court, along with his mother, the Queen and the King’s hand. As always, Aegon much preferred the company of his cups and the whores of the street of Silk, forsaking his obligations to the crown over his selfish pleasures. Aemond had seen in four Masters of Coin, all distinguished men in their fields, all of whom had flittered away the crown’s reserves, or had died before satisfactorily executing their duties. He wasn’t looking forward to heralding in yet another man severely unprepared for the responsibilities of such a role, but there he stood, pin straight and the picture of a Targaryen prince. He heeded his mother’s warnings, giving his guests ‘the courtesy of a smile’, with as much zeal as he could muster.
When you floated into his field of vision, accompanying a middle aged man who clearly hadn’t seen battle in some time, Aemond was rightfully stunned. He paid little attention to the new Master of Coin aside from a brief but polite greeting, so rapturous was your beauty, you stole the very wind from his lungs. Even as the older man introduced you, a far away voice muttering “Your Grace, this is my daughter”, and you lowered yourself before him, Aemond stood dumbstruck, all sense of decorum and propriety falling by the wayside.
Despite a youthful appearance, Aemond suspected you were of an age where most ladies would’ve already been married, and blessed with babes. Maybe, like him, you were disinterested in such things, or perhaps your father stood in the way of unsuitable matches. In any case, you possessed a rare beauty, even rivalling that of the Targaryen’s themselves. It wasn’t often a woman left Aemond stunned, even a little shellshocked in their presence, yet he stood silently as you passed him by. A bow of his head was the only reasonable action he could summon in that moment, his mind swimming as his eye locked onto yours. Yet despite this immediate infatuation, Aemond was also plagued by self doubt - the notion that such a woman could ever love a man so maimed and damaged was beyond all reason, and he put it to rest straight away, to shield his fragile self esteem from further disappointment.
The remainder of the evening was spent settling into your draughty chambers, and eventually roaming the castle. Although your father held a tight rein on some aspects of your life, he allowed you the freedom to go where you pleased unaccompanied. You knew it would cause a stir among the ladies of court, but you weren’t about to give up your independence to satisfy gossiping women who could never be satisfied, or to give into rules imposed by men who hardly knew you. The following day would be a flurry of strangers, a whirlwind of social obligation and overstimulation, so you enjoyed the contemplative silence of these small moments. These slivers of tranquility, where you could explore your new surroundings in peace.
Eventually after wandering the many cold and confusing corridors of the Red Keep, through the hallways lined with vaulted ceilings and intricate carvings, you found yourself pushing through the doors of a vast and sprawling library. Every twist and turn led to a new nook, a new cosy place to spend your days lost in the pages that filled this room.
The earthy smell of old paper swam in your nostrils, the twisting and winding labyrinth empty enough to think and daydream without interruption. Rows and rows of books lined the walls, entire generations worth of knowledge ready and waiting for your curious mind to soak in. You wandered the maze of stacked books, thoroughly astounded by the vast array of information at your fingertips. Books in the common tongue but also books in High Valyrian - an ancient language spoken almost exclusively by the Targaryen family, a language they used to communicate with the beasts that cruised the skies. You’d always thought that there was magic in communicating with such creatures, in a tongue older than most people could fathom. These books contained stories of their history, of the origins of the language itself, perhaps you’d learn it someday.
Your next turn brought you to a cosy alcove, where prince Aemond sat engrossed in his pages, his striking profile outlined by the orange glow of the hearth behind him.
He seemed oddly at ease, his body free of the knotted tension that pulled his muscles taut in public. The expectation of duty had been shed, a heavy weight falling from his shoulders with the turn of each new page. Now he sat in silence, in the company of wise words and the smell of decaying parchment, a place where Aemond seemed at ease within himself. A fire burned brightly in the wrought iron grate, illuminating the words of the thick tome in his slender fingers.
Thick flames licked at the mantle, threatening to escape. The warm light danced against his hardened features, softening even the sharpest of edges. He looked like a statue, carefully carved from the finest stone, each whack of the hammer revealing more of his chiselled beauty.
At first he didn’t notice you hovering, watching from a shadowed corner as he digested each and every word. His eye darted rapidly across the pages, a satisfied smirk painted onto his face as he consumed every line. There was something beautiful about him like this, at peace, thoroughly absorbed in the words of pages much older than himself, and you couldn’t help but watch. You stood there gaping rather unabashedly at the graceful flick of his fingers against the parchment, deftly turning one page after the next. The veins in his hand caught the light as he moved them, highlighting each and every ridge. Only a subtle shift in your stance revealed your position, the small movement alerting him to your presence, though he couldn’t see who was there until you stepped into the warm glow of the fireplace. His head swivelled to where you stood, his expression
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, your Grace.” You bowed your head and swiftly walked in the opposite direction, his wide eye following your every move until you disappeared from view. He didn’t even get the opportunity to respond before you disappeared into the dark once more.
Your adventures continued the following morning as you explored the entanglement of corridors of the keep, observing the daily happenings of its inhabitants. Through the winding hallways and beautifully manicured gardens, you somehow found yourself hovering above the training yard, eyes gleefully trained on the men refining their battle skills, the clashing of metal and crash of swords against wooden shields which provided a soundtrack for the graceful dance of flesh and steel. You stood mesmerised by the weaving of limbs around one another, the glimmering armour protecting hardened muscle. You watched from your perch high above and though other ladies passed by, you stayed for hours on end observing the men of the realm diligently practicing their craft among the dust and dirt of the training pit, thoroughly entertained by the display of testosterone and repressed rage.
Though you had been there from early morning, it wasn’t long before the swish of silver hair announced the arrival of prince Aemond. He moved like a specter in the night, swiftly parting the crowd to find his target, quickly setting into a well rehearsed dance around his sparring partner, moving through the space with ease and learned precision. He struck at Ser Criston Cole with a controlled ferocity, a rage tempered by poise and restraint. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the serpentine movement of his body, each strike of his sword communicating fury governed by a logical mind. Large palms held tight to his sword as if it had no weight, he could strike any opponent effortlessly. There was a deep seated anger behind his blows, a desperate frenzy at times, yet he remained in complete control, the steel in his hand obeying each and every command.
Your eyes were fixed firmly on the One Eyed Prince, captivated by every move imbued with grace and composure, yet with purpose. You couldn't help but think that he was the epitome of Targaryen beauty, despite his obvious physical imperfections. His build was slim, a little thinner than you typically preferred, but underneath layers of leather and cloth lay the sculpted body of a warrior. Clothing fit his svelte frame like a glove, the material molded to the contours of each and every muscle. As you watched from your high vantage point, you let your mind wander, imagining what lay beneath those layers of form-fitting leather and tight cloth. Thoughts highly unbefitting of a lady of the court, hell, even the women roaming the streets of Silk would blush at some of the visions that plagued you since your first awkward meeting. The one-eyed prince invaded your dreams, so striking was his beauty.
You did wonder why the most beautiful son of a Targaryen king was not yet betrothed. Perhaps it was his deformation that hindered a fruitful match, perhaps it was his rather disarming personality. You had an inkling that his disinterest was all a front though, you could see how intrigued he was when he spotted you staring. How taken aback he was when he realised you had eyes for only him. Perhaps he expected derision from yet another lady of the court, perhaps that was all he was used to. But you had your sights set on the pretty prince, and would use all your feminine charm to lure him in, to let him know your interest was sincere.
You wondered how long it would be until he approached, until he made a move - if he would do so at all. You could only do so much as a lady. You could choose how you present yourself, seek out his attentions, but you could only place yourself within his reach, it was up to him to chase after you. Would it be enough to lure in the famously aloof prince Aemond Targaryen? Most men of his station were already married, already courting mistresses or wading through swathes of heirs, nipping at their ankles. But this prince seemed only interested in bloodshed and his beloved dragon.
Perhaps if you made your affections for the prince known to your father, he would aid you in your perilous quest. He had always sought a good match for you, and despite the lines of noblemen that graced your door on a regular basis, vying for your regard, you took no mass in any of them. All of them pitiful, powerless men. They had wealth, certainly, but none of them deserved it. They let their wealth determine their worth, rather than the content of their character. They were defined by their blood, by the graces of their birth, rather than their achievements or talents. They skated by, as most noblemen did, with their servants doing the real work. You were not so easily swayed. One look at Aemond Targaryen though, and you were enraptured. His fearsome reputation paled in comparison to his beauty. He was a powerful man, sure, with a wealthy family and prospects for the throne….but that’s not what drew you in. It was the way he held himself, under your gaze. As if he didn’t think he was worthy of such attentions. As if he expected that your ogling was intended to offend, rather than to show the depth of your interest.
One look and he diverted his eyes, shrinking under the weight of your curiosity. Yet you couldn’t help but notice the ghost of a smirk form on his lips. Now, as he trained with ferocious precision, he couldn’t help but put on a bit of a show, swinging his sword with extra flair and flounce, just for your benefit. One misstep and he would succumb to the bite of Ser Criston’s blade, but his focus was pure and his motivation strong. Aemond scarcely realised it, but watching him train only furthered your quickly developing crush, never had you seen such a fine specimen of a man, such a fierce warrior in a form quite so beautiful.
Aemond could always tell when his eye would cause him trouble, when the flesh behind his crudely carved gemstone flared, and the nerves danced like they were set alight. It usually started as an ache, barely perceptible, a prickling sting he could ignore. Often it bloomed into a throbbing pain, debilitating and powerful. Sometimes it halted his vision, shrouding his good eye with black spots. Other times, it gave no warning and hit all at once, devastating and overwhelming his system without caution. This night was one of those times.
It had been a rather joyous celebration of your father’s appointment as the newest Master of Coin, with the Targaryen family and friends of the realm gathering to break bread in his honour.
The hall was filled with the din of merriment, clattering of silverware and half empty cups striking the solid table tops. It was rare to see the entire Targaryen family in revelry, no arguments or animosity to be seen on their bright, gleeful faces. It warmed your heart to see your father brought into the fold so quickly, he’d worked hard all his life, and even though he was a nobleman of some standing, it didn’t stop him grafting countless hours to be the best in his field. When the opportunity to work for the royal family opened up, he grasped it with both hands, and you followed gladly, looking forward to seeing the inner workings of the Red Keep.
You never expected to become so enamoured with the infamous one-eyed prince, the second son who was often overlooked in favour of his drunkard of a brother. You couldn’t see how that lout had the fairest of ladies fawning all over him, aside from his enormous wealth of course. Prospects are an enticing force, and Aegon came with the highest of prospects…the iron throne would naturally pass to him, as the first born son. You knew Rhaenyra had a claim, as the first born, but a woman would never be accepted on the throne, not in this lifetime. You certainly didn’t look forward to the grief it would cause. But for now, you enjoyed the merriment and respite your father’s appointment provided. Good food, plentiful wine, and a view of the most breathtaking man in King’s Landing.
Soft fluttery eyes met Aemond’s disarming glare across the room, his usual dour demeanour immediately softening with your bright eyes upon him. You tried to communicate your interest in him through those brief, but powerful moments.
Over seas of people, mountains of food and the rapturous cacophony of joyful conversation, you admired the one-eyed prince in his stoic, silent glory at the left hand of the king.
He didn’t quite know how to handle such attentions, though there was a glimmer in his eye that looked like fascination. He returned your stolen glances, to the best of his ability, relenting when he was sure that you weren't simply staring as others tended to do. Ladies of the court seemed utterly repulsed by his mangled face, often staring quite brazenly, but diverting their gaze just as quick when caught - but you seemed different, you seemed genuinely interested in the scarred and broken man across that enormous feast hall.
He had scrutinised your father at council meetings, looking for any fault, any sign of treachery or dishonesty, but he couldn't find a single trace of impropriety, in fact he seemed more honest than half of the men that previously occupied that role. Aemond saw a steadfast man, trustworthy by all accounts. He saw how he doted on you, accompanying you to meals, and on your leisurely walks about the castle.
In truth, he became slightly jealous at the loving relationship you shared with your father. It hurt more than anything to see such a bond between family, one he never experienced with his own father, the king. Theirs was a bond of blood, and not much else. Perhaps if he had that kind of support as a child, his life may have taken a different path. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been maimed, and wouldn’t have been subjected to a life of pain and torment. But he couldn’t blame anyone for that bar his father, and despite his poking and prodding, Aemond found no reason to hate yours.
Seeing integrity on full display eased his anxieties slightly, finally accepting that your intentions might’ve been pure, your subtle flirting and brazen gawking coming from a genuine place, not just toying with him as other maidens had done in his youth. He’d been hurt before for sure, and guarded as he was, Aemond wouldn’t let an opportunity to court a fair highborn lady, who showed genuine interest in him, pass him by.
As he sat distracted by your flirtatious ogling, picking at his plate of food, Aemond was struck down by a rather sudden spasm of the damaged nerves behind his missing eye. Stifling a groan with a barely audible hiss, he excused himself from the table quite quickly, before rushing out of the hall into an adjoining corridor. Only his mother noticed his departure, and the look on her face told all.
He went from flirting with you across the hall in a series of stolen glances, the corners of his mouth twisting into something resembling a smile, to clutching at the eyepatch laying across his damaged eye, his face contorting into a harsh grimace as he stumbled quietly out of the grand hall. Before you knew it, he had shuffled out of your eyeline, though some movement in the darkness gave hints to his whereabouts.
Seeing this unusual behaviour, and noticing his stagger towards an empty hallway, you quietly excused yourself from dinner, and assured your father you were okay. With an approving nod, you shuffled in the same direction as the prince.
You never expected to find him huddled in a corner, away from prying eyes, clutching the source of his discomfort, one hand braced against the cold stone of the castle walls. You could only see a vague outline in the darkness, but there was no doubt as to the shadow’s identity. A soft whimper came from the pitiful mass, and your heart hurt for him, knowing he must’ve been in significant pain to succumb in this manner. To see such a fierce and powerful prince, who was only hours earlier dancing and lunging around the training yard struck down, forced to his knees, it touched something within you.
You'd never seen someone in such agony, cowering against an invisible foe, the one enemy Aemond could never see coming, the only one he could never slay, never evade. Every fibre of your being longed to help him, so pathetic was the silhouette of the most fearsome prince of the realm, now knelt in a hallway, doubled over in utter torment. So you lowered yourself down beside him. You tentatively extended a hand to touch his sleeve, trying not to startle him, but with enough force to make him aware of your presence, you whispered “My prince, apologies for the intrusion, but may I be of some assistance?”
“Leave me be, woman..go!” he shouted, though his strained voice came through as more of a plea, than anything else. His usual irrefutable commands now sounded desperate, his throat tight as his body battled against unimaginable suffering. “Please my prince, I may be of use. Let’s get out of this place, I'll escort you to your chambers at the least” you extended a hand to Aemond, hoping he wouldn't be too proud to accept it. To your surprise, he grasped onto your hand, using your arm as a lifeline as you slowly guided him through the empty halls. You had to shoulder the majority of his dense weight, as he faltered under the hand of his invisible tormentor several times. Luckily everyone was tending to the guests at the feast, there were no onlookers to his misery.
As soon as you reached his chambers, he raised a flat palm to the smooth surface and pushed through the heavy wooden door, collapsing onto the first chair he could find with his limited field of vision. You helped him drop down, supporting his weight as best you could and immediately called for the maesters. Unfortunately they were busy tending to his ailing father….so you decided to take things into your own hands.
Your mother, in her short time on this earth, taught you a few useful tricks for remedying simple ailments. They wouldn't completely fix him, but you thought perhaps they may soothe the worst of his pain. Some herbs such as calendula and comfrey could soothe the skin, ease pain of irritation or open wounds…and you desperately hoped they would prove useful in this situation. Aemond’s servants fetched bowls of cool water, along with the herbs you requested, but you were insistent on doing the rest.
You thought he may have cowered away from you, from such an intrusion into his personal space, but instead, as you gingerly dabbed the cold water onto the inflamed skin around his eye, Aemond melted into your arms. His body was coiled tight, like a viper ready to strike, with his pain the source of all the tension. But your hands provided a welcoming source of warmth. He usually wasn’t one to lean into physical contact, but this was a comfort, a true balm to the permeating sting behind his damaged eye socket.
He heard a small resonating thud as your knees hit the stone floor beside him, and you settled by the leg of his writing chair, holding that wet rag against his inflamed skin. The herbs began their task immediately, reducing the swelling and fiery redness around his scar, while the water cooled his flesh. Every brush of your hand against his face set Aemond alight, and even through the fog and debilitating haze of pain, he felt every gentle caress, every soft and healing touch.
This was a man who was hurt, touch starved, in desperate need of comfort & companionship. To have someone on his side, someone to prop him up, meant the world, especially in a moment of true vulnerability. In this moment, in the privacy of his quarters, Aemond was free to shed the mask of the cold, uncaring weapon and just be a man.
His body unconsciously chased the warmth of your hand, the solace of your body heat against a frame wracked with pain. It was a type of intimacy he was woefully unfamiliar with, yet his body instantly craved more, clearly aching for a deeper human connection.
He had never even had company in his chambers before, save for the maesters and his sister, on occasion. Though with the white hot flames licking at the inside of his brain, he could have been in any room in this godforsaken castle. Now, to have the object of his affections doting on him while pain ran unrestrained through his body, it all felt slightly surreal. If he was a prouder man, he'd have been ashamed to have such a lovely woman tending to his wounds, but pain is a great leveller. All his notions of grandeur subsided with that first swell of pain, and again as he felt your soft hands clasped around his own in that hallway, his inhibitions ebbing away with his pain under your tender care. The throbbing behind his roughly cut sapphire eased a bit under your careful watch, the cold providing more relief than anything else.
“My prince, I will need to remove this..” you whispered as your fingers traced the edge of his leather eyepatch. You weren’t afraid of what lay underneath, however you were wary of how he’d respond. “You will only think me a monster. It’s unsightly...” Aemond croaked, his throat still tight, tears welling up in the corner of his good eye. “I will think you a man. A mere human, who feels pain. Please, let me help..” He looked at you for a second, his bright violet eye surveying the sincerity of your statement before nodding, allowing you to remove the leather standing in the way of your treatment, however basic it may be.
As soon as you removed the leather covering, Aemond cast his face down, detaching himself from the reaction he expected to come. But you merely looked at him for a minute, your eyes sympathetic but kind, before returning to the dappling motion of the rag against his severely inflamed flesh.
The skin underneath the eyepatch was worse than you thought, scar tissue had formed into jagged ridges, though the skin around the eye itself looked raw and angry. You couldn’t fathom the pain it must cause him on a regular basis, but you could sympathise and not judge him based on this one imperfection. What did bring you monetary pause, was the beautiful sapphire that stood in place of his eye. It sat in the socket, glimmering even in the dim dappled light of the moon. It was truly mesmerising and complimented the tones of his naturally striking lavender eye and his crystalline pale skin. It was certainly striking, but you could understand why he hid it from the world. His family were known for their flawless physicality, their silver hair and lavender eyes. They were the epitome of royalty, imbued with dragon blood. To feel imperfect in a world where perfection walked around you daily, it must have been impossibly tiresome.
When no visible gasp could be heard, no intake of breath or any sign of shock, Aemond raised his chin slightly, bringing his eyes back to meet yours, albeit sheepishly.
“How can you look at me and not feel utter revulsion at this hideous sight?”
“I find you remarkably beautiful, your grace. Tis’ but a blemish on a rather impressive canvas”
He tilted his head, studying your face for any signs of deception, as if he could hardly believe the words falling from your lips. He tried to furrow his brow, but this aggravated his swollen eye further. You maintained a steady, neutral expression, as if the words you spoke were fact, not open to interpretation. All the while, dabbing at the delicate skin around his raw, bright red eye socket. With your efforts bringing some relief, Aemond could think clearer.
Looking at him now, just a man tormented by a childhood wound, Aemond didn’t seem quite so menacing as his reputation led you to believe. You could see that underneath the guise of a warrior, of a mad man prone to violence and utter fiendish behaviour, lay someone broken, in need of comfort and love. Somehow it only made him more attractive, his imperfections didn’t detract from his beauty, only added backstory and context to a rather elusive man. If this would bring you closer, if this was the impetus he needed to make his feelings known, you were glad it was you tending his wounds, and not some sheepish maid or withered old maester.
In a moment of perhaps ill advised impulsivity, Aemond raised his hand and laid his large palm over your own, halting your benevolent ministry. Though you jumped slightly at his sudden movements, you were shocked at the pure heat emanating from his hands, as if fire ran beneath the surface of his skin, as if his veins held the same force that coursed through his dragon. He leaned into the comfort of your touch against his scarred skin, those healing fingers that brought him such relief. You could only look at him, mouth agape, slightly shocked by the sudden contact. He didn’t stop there though, eventually bringing your hand to the unexpectedly soft curve of his lips, pressing a reverent kiss to the flesh of your open palms, as if he was worshipping them before the seven, a chaste, yet surprisingly gentle gesture unbefitting a man with such a fearsome reputation. He clutched your hand to his cheek, hesitant to let it go, should this tender moment come to an abrupt end. His eye closed, afraid that if he looked at you directly, you’d come to your senses and abandon him to his torment. He certainly never expected you to reciprocate such a gesture.
“Aemond, look at me, please” you whispered.
He drew his eyes from the ground to look you in the eye directly. What he saw shocked him. He saw compassion, a tender and unfamiliar look, before you tightened your grip on the curve of his jaw, and leaned in closer, pressing a chaste kiss to the soft skin of his slightly parted lips.
It was merely a peck, an innocent gesture to test the waters, yet you saw the profound impact such a token had on the broken prince. You felt his breath hitch, sticking in his chest as if he didn’t know what to do with it. As you pulled back to let him breathe a little, Aemond soon chased after, quickly pulling you back into a rather tender display of affection. His lips were surprisingly soft against your own, traces of wine still lingering on them from the feast. A tender kiss developed into something frenzied, passionate, a clash of teeth and tongue utterly unbefitting a lady, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care much as he melted into your embrace.
You felt incredibly lucky to have been entrusted with something so vulnerable as his trust.
You knew prince Aemond was notoriously aloof, showing no discernible interest in ladies, but in a moment where his pain was raw and exposed, he sat unguarded before you, letting you in wholeheartedly. He softened in your arms, truly let himself relax into your touch, yielding to your tender kiss. Although you were taken aback at him letting down his carefully crafted walls so suddenly, you felt honoured to know that he felt safe enough in your arms to do so.
In that moment, all your selfish desires came to the fore, but you knew he wasn’t strong enough for more rigorous activities, nor was it proper to even suggest such things.
Pain still wracked his body, you could feel the trembling of his muscles beneath your hands, the adrenaline coursing through his system in the fight against an impossible opponent.
To be held by hands so strong, that had seen battle and bloodshed, hours of training, yet shook like a leaf under the torment of an invisible foe.
You wanted nothing more than to ease his pain, to soothe the demons that lay behind that glimmering gemstone. Yet, you couldn’t slay these enemies. You couldn’t use your wiles or charm on an adversary you could not see. Your tinctures and potions would only go so far, but to hold him, to be a support and a shoulder to lean on when he so desperately needed one, that was something you would willingly provide. You thought maybe showing him that wasn't alone, perhaps that would be enough.
They began the harvest early that year. A traveling merchant arrived with sparse wares and quick eyes. He reported an army moving from the west. Armies are a mouth, you see, that swallows down everything in their path. The village decided to reap everything they already had and store it. They slashed and heaved and worked in tandem—putting aside petty grudges of who slept with who and whose child set whose barn on fire last year. It was me, of course, but I believe my mother will forgive me.
As far as we understood, the army was coming with the westward sun, not our soldiers or our lords, barely within our family of known things, and if we were lucky they would be a passing shock. Maybe smash and grab and force some grain into that open mouth, but what army searched for very long or through every home? The woods would be our refuge and our sheep hidden behind hills. It would be a quick collision, they told us children, and no more.
I believe my mother will forgive me. I was a bad child, a poor one, born to an aging widow whose other children were fully grown. The seventh. I enjoyed the freedom of a soft parent who had become too weak for the switch and ready to indulge a round-faced child like me. Sometimes, I knew even then, I took advantage of it. Setting fires to make the other kids gasp or playing pranks like making the cat dance on the ceiling.
The men came, a great hungry maw just like they said, ragged as the day was new. The men spoke in gravel and grunts, mostly gestures and nonsense to me. We were foolish, hopeful, wishing for the best and offered cold hospitality. They were tired from their forced march to whatever far away capital laid claim to us. Grain, they conveyed, we must have more.
They slaughtered the sheep and raided the stores and forced the families of the largest houses to let them stay days and days. We were lucky then, to be poor and unwanted. I slept in the same bed as my mother, shivering together in the late summer heat like it was winter and squeezing our eyes closed. Surely, they would leave soon and we would not watch the Eating Mouth chew our village to the rind.
Daily, we watched drunken brawls and half-hearted drills and our village sons pressganged into their ranks, forcing on them strange guns that blew sparks and fire. I was growing tired of how they made the adults cower behind themselves. A little fire was growing in my center—the same little fire that lifted my hand to make the cat dance and my friend sing backwards now and then. I was a seventh child.
There was a bad-tempered ram they left alone. His black fur was coarse as gnarled roots and he would throttle anyone that approached him from a hard angle. They might've eaten him for meat or driven him off but had to first ask themselves if it was worth the risk of a gut injury or hoof to the head. They were almost never careful—often teetering back and forth around the village, strong drink on their breath.
I approached Knott, the ram with his horns twisting down, and fur black as night, and put my hand out. I asked. My mother will have to forgive me, but for all the world, I did ask. He bowed his mighty head. How many of his flock had they already slaughtered? How many of his ewes? No one believes me, but it’s true: He bowed his head and it fell off.
Down at my feet, Knott’s head blinked up, and I placed it over my own. We went together, me and Knott, walking in my ragged dress and on dirty bare feet. I had to walk around our church grounds and into the tavern. They were singing in their terrible gravel speech with their terrible teetering walk.
They don’t see me, until they do—me, and Knott. I play our game, the one I taught my friend, where we speak in reverse and walk on ceilings. Then, I speak using Knott’s voice, screeching for his ewes and ramming tables. Finally, I used the words I did for the barn last summer: smoke and sparks and fire blowing out.
The village had a second harvest that year, meager and small, but good enough and when we hear of approaching armies to our fields and hills, they are warned: the children here are born with horns.
CH. 1
Pairing: Shifter!San x demi-Fae!Reader (eventual OT8)
Word Count: 7.4 k
Summary: Aurorion - The Sunrise City. Where magic and technology blend together. Where Deihan–the immortals, Fae, Shifters, Angels–and humans live together in a unique harmony. As a demi-Fae, you fit somewhere in-between, but this city is your home, your heart, your soul. Days are spent working in the Fae Archive. Nights are spent partying and dancing until you're passed out in the bed of whichever male you followed home; though more often than not, you end up beside San, your best friend, your lover, your constant. You know your place in life, and you're content with it. For now.
Warnings: NSFW, Explicit sexual content, kissing, teasing, slight degradation, mild d/s vibes, mention of breeding, unprotected sex, fingering, multiple orgasms,
Chapter Masterlist coming soon
Matz-rpiece Masterlist
A/N: this is a shameless rip off of Crescent City. I don't care. I wanna write urban fantasy ATEEZ.
You hum along to the music that plays from the crackling radio beside you. The wards that protect the Fae Archive, and the ancient tomes and artifacts housed within, block out most technology, but the signal from the nearby radio station is rudimentary enough for the magic to ignore. Computers don't work inside the building, and your phone turns into a useless brick, but you at least have music to keep you entertained during your long shifts.
It's a slow day–an unusually slow one. Most of your time is spent cataloguing books and testing relics for authenticity. But the Archive hasn't received a new shipment this week, and you don't expect to get one for a while now. Not with the Solstice Festival this weekend, and not after what happened at the Sunrise Temple earlier this month.
The Aurorion Auxiliary hasn't released much information, but you've managed to get some information out of your best friend. San's pack runs routine AurAux patrols in the area near the temple, and he mentioned something being stolen. He wouldn't say what exactly, but you have a few ideas. The temple houses some old pieces from when Aurorion was first established, some several thousand years ago by the first Fae to land on the continent. However, you can't fathom why anyone would steal such old, dusty antiques, since according to the Archive's records, nothing at the temple was of any worth beyond sentimental.
With thoughts of San, you check the time, glancing up at the analog wall clock. It's not even noon yet. You heave out a sigh of annoyance. You still have more than an hour before you get to see him like you do every Friday for your standing lunch date. He's not your boyfriend, not exactly. He's your best friend, has been since you moved into the city proper during your second year of high school. The two of you have always been basically joined at the hip, only separated by your own duties as Fae nobility, and his role within his shifter pack. You didn't start hooking up until college. The both of you attended Sunrise City University together, and the first time you slept with him was a drunken accident. So was the second time. And the third. By the fourth, you couldn't deny that the two of you were down bad for each other.
But commitment was not your style. Not in the way San wanted. Not yet. You know you could be happy with him. In fact, a small part of you looks forward to the day where you're finally able to tell him yes. To the day, once you've both Ascended, when you can look at him and see not just Choi San, your best friend and lover, but Choi San, your Mate. You may only be demi-Fae, your Deihan blood diluted by your human ancestry, but that feral instinct to find your mate exists somewhere deep within you. You can ignore it for now, but you know that once you take the leap and become truly immortal, when you give into your Fae powers, you know that the mating bond will fully set. And once it does, there's no going back. Even...even if it's not San. Even if it's some other male.
The fact that it could be someone else is what causes you to hesitate. You love San. You've loved him for years, you've admitted that both to yourself and to him. The words are easy to say, and he's said them back with the same enthusiasm and frequency. But he knows you, knows your heart–sometimes more than you know yourself it seems. Even though you haven't been able to put it into words, he understands that you crave more love than he's able to give alone. And maybe it will be different when you find your mate. Maybe your heart will finally be satisfied. But until then, you have San, your best friend and lover, and whichever males happen to catch your eye in the meantime.
Your stomach lets out a low rumble of hunger, and you know you won't be able to focus on the task at hand while you're this hungry. You shove aside the pile of documents you were supposed to be authenticating. The old Fae language is scribbled in messy handwriting, and you aren't even able to read most of the old ink, so you don't even know why it was given to you. Part of you wonders if your boss is being pressured by your father to make your work as miserable as possible. If so, it's working.
Habit has you reaching into your purse for your phone, but the screen won't even turn on while you're this deep in the building. The wards make sure of that. Your father in particular makes sure of that. He upholds Fae tradition to an annoyingly intense degree. Several archivists, both from Aurorion and from the old continent, have tried telling him that the wards can be adjusted to allow for technology to work while still maintaining their protective nature. But does he listen? Of course not. He insists on keeping things difficult, always has. You can't fathom what your mother ever saw in him.
You drop your phone back into your bag. You've just about decided that you're willing to watch paint dry just for something to do when you hear a gentle knock at the door. You have a few coworkers that also work in the back of the Archive, though they typically don't have any need to pester you except when they need something translated from the old language.
"Come in!" you say over your shoulder.
His wolf-scent hits you immediately, the drafty hallways of the Archive move the air quickly through the doorway. You spin around in a second, his name already forming on your lips.
"San-ie!"
In a few quick strides, you're in his arms. He holds you close, burying his face into your hair, breathing in your scent and letting out a happy sigh. Every reunion with him is like this, no matter how long you've been apart. Which, unfortunately, has been often lately. He's been pulled in every direction trying to figure out what happened at the temple, while still maintaining his usual patrol with his pack. And you've been stuck here, getting your soul drained day after day working at the Archive.
"What are you doing here?" you ask. "We aren't supposed to meet for another hour. Aren't the pack alphas getting strict about patrols?"
San's hands settle on your waist. "Yeah, but I wanted to see you." You now notice that his cheeks are a little flushed, and he's a little out of breath. It makes you wonder how fast he ran to get here this early. "And I needed somewhere to put my gym bag, and you never use your locker."
"That's fine. I don't even think I remember the combination anymore," you mutter. And then you give him a look. "So are you actually here for me or just to store your shit?"
He returns the look. "Am I not allowed to visit you at work?" he asks, a teasing challenge in his tone.
You roll your eyes. "You're always allowed to see me at work," you tell him. "Except when it's raining. My coworkers don't like it when you come in smelling like wet dog."
His features contort, displaying his offense at your words. "I never smell like wet dog, y/n. How dare you say such a thing?"
You giggle at his dramatic tone. "When you've been in wolf form all day, running down the streets in inclement weather, you do get a little stinky." Though your words are laced with teasing, there is plenty of honesty in them. You nose isn't nearly as powerful as a full blooded Fae, like your coworkers, but it's sensitive enough. And when San, or any canine shifter really, gets their coat soaked, it tends to be very noticeable and hard to ignore. It clings to them even when they shift back into their two-legged form.
He's pouting at you now. It's a look you're incredibly fond of, and you can't help but reach up and press a kiss to his cheek. He takes full advantage of your invitation of intimacy and turns his head so he can properly kiss you. His hands tighten on your waist, making sure you don't pull away, not that you had intentions of doing so. Your lips melt against his, and you sigh into his mouth. His lips move on yours, deepening the kiss, and you feel his tongue teasing its way in. You happily let him in, savoring the taste of his mouth as his tongue explores beyond your lips.
You press your body closer until you're completely flush with him. Your arms wrap around his neck, clinging to him with more desperation than you usually show. He's been so busy with the AurAux and his pack that even though you spend most nights in bed with him, there hasn't been much time for anything like this. You've hooked up with others on occasion, but you've been craving San after not having him for the last few weeks.
But you remember where you are, and you pull away from the kiss. Not far, not out of reach, just enough so you can speak. Your lips ghost against his through your words.
"San-ie," you whisper, hearing the heavy need in your voice. "Not here." The walls of the Archive are thick, solid stone. Sound doesn't travel easily through it. Even with heightened senses, the others in the building shouldn't be able to hear you, not with where your workstation is, but the risk of getting caught is still present. And the two of you are one more incident away from your father banning San from the premises permanently.
He closes the distance between you again. The kiss is clumsy, landing on the side of your mouth. He doesn't seem to notice. "I need you, y/n." He peppers a few kisses on your cheeks and then moves down to give your neck some attention. You can't help but tilt your head back to let him.
You curse under your breath when you feel his hands move over you. Your breath catches when his fingers find the hem of your shirt and slip under to brush across your stomach. You whimper out his name again, but you don't tell him to stop. You don't want him to stop. His hands move up, fingers coming into contact with your bra. A low growl of annoyance rumbles from his chest at the lack of easy access to your breasts. If it were up to him, you'd wear nothing underneath your clothes, allowing him to touch you with no barrier or interruption.
He moves his hand around to your back to undo the clasp, but you grab his arm, stopping him. He pulls back to give you a look, as if to say really? Rolling your eyes, you shake your head, telling him no, the bra stays. He sighs, but obeys your silent command. You've told him a thousand times what a hassle it is to get it on and off, especially if you need to appear presentable in seconds, gods forbid someone walks in on you.
You guide his hand back around to your front, placing his palm right over the button of your jeans. His breath is hot on your face as he quickly gets them undone, shoving them midway down your thighs. He pauses for a moment to breathe in the scent of your arousal, and you can see the satisfaction in his smug expression. Any other male you might berate for such behavior, but you'll make an exception for San.
He nudges you back a few steps until your back comes into contact with one of the sturdy shelves that houses rows and rows of organized Fae documents. You know you can trust it to support your weight. This isn't the first time San has done this exact thing here, and it certainly won't be the last. He's taken you on most surfaces; against the shelves, the walls, over your desk. And while the two of you have broken a bed frame or two, you know these shelves will hold.
San squeezes your thigh and nudges your legs apart with his knee. You open for him, biting your lip as you stare up at him. You know your cheeks are flushed red, and you can already feel yourself beginning to pant with need. A whimper escapes you when you feel his fingers tease at your already soaked thong. The small strip of fabric is easily moved aside for him to caress between your folds. You can already feel your pussy clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled.
San lets out a satisfied grunt at your warm wetness. "All this for me?" he asks, leaning in close to press a kiss on you neck. He purrs into your ear, "Answer me, y/n."
You whimper and nod, trying to grind on his hand for any kind of friction. "Y-yes, San-ie," you manage to get out. "For you."
He kisses you neck, nipping at the sensitive skin. He's bitten you before, left countless marks all over you. Some are easier to hide than others. Though there has been a few times where you've begged him to leave his mark on you just so you could show it off. Usually to piss off your father.
He moans your name, his voice a low rumble in your ears. His fingers move with intention, gliding through your slick, teasing at your entrance. You let out a soft gasp when he slowly presses one into you. Your walls flutter at the feeling, but you still need so much more.
"San," you moan quietly. "More."
"Where are your manners, baby?"
You whine, the words difficult to find while his fingers go still. Your thighs are shaking, fighting to keep you up. You lean most of your weight onto him, needing him to keep you upright. You try to move against the hand that's between your legs, but he takes the other one and pins your hip against the shelf, holding you still.
"You were being such a good girl," he whispers, his lips trailing over your neck. "What happened?"
"Mmm...I am good," you mumble. "San-ieee, please."
He pulls back and angles his head to the side. He looks so much like the wolf he is when he does that. It makes your already weak knees turn into jelly underneath you. His eyes are predatory as he looks you over, as he takes in your desperation. You stare up at him, a pout on your lips, and bat your eyelashes at him. His lip twitches just slightly, the only indication that what you're doing is having an effect on him. You could be smug about that, let it show that you know you've won. But that might have the opposite effect. So instead, you double down.
"Please, San," you beg, letting yourself whine. "Please please please."
And just like that, he folds. He leans back in, covering your mouth with his. He breathes a moan into your mouth, a sound of primal need from the back of his throat. His hand begins moving again, a second finger finds its way into you, pressing deep. His fingers curl perfectly to give some much needed attention to your favorite spot. Your reaction is instant, and you let out a moan, half formed words fumble out of your mouth.
He keeps his fingers moving, pulling them out slightly before burying them deeper and deeper each time. And if that wasn't enough, his thumb finds your clit. The sensitive bud is already swollen with arousal, and the first brush of his fingertip sends a bolt of lightning up your body. The pleasure is blinding and nearly enough to make you finish instantly. San seems to sense this because he immediately backs off. He slows his fingering and moves his thumb in lazy circles, carefully avoiding the aching bundle of nerves.
Your heart is racing in your chest, and your breaths come out in uneven pants. Your head is dizzy with pleasure, and you know satisfaction is right around the corner. But you're all too familiar with how San works. You know he won't stop at giving you one orgasm. He probably won't even stop at two, if you're lucky. And he's going to draw this first one out for as long as time allows. You don't know when he has to leave to go back on patrol. It could be in ten minutes, or it could be in two hours. Either way, he'll keep his hands on you or in you the entire time.
He kisses you slowly, lazily, but not without intent. His lips move in time with his fingers. Every part of him that is in contact with you is moving like a dance, to a rhythm only he knows. It's not a beat you can follow, not now. Not with how horny and dazed you are. All you can do is let your body go limp, and let him keep you upright while he plays with you.
He coaxes the orgasm out of you with surprising gentleness. Your body shudders as pleasure pulses through your veins. You feel your walls tighten around him while he continues to finger you. You let moans slip out, your throat almost forms coherent words, you're almost able to say his name. But most of it is just soft, whiny babbling.
"That's it, baby," he croons softly, praising you for your performance.
As you come down from the high of finishing, he slowly removes his fingers. You feel empty without them, but you don't have time to think about that because all you can focus on now is how he brings his hand to his own mouth. You watch, unable to look away, as he licks your slick. His tongue swirls around his finger, not wasting a drop. His eyes dart to yours, catching you watch him. There's a gleam of wickedness in how he smirks at you.
"Open." The word is short, curt. Not a request, not a question. An order. A firm one at that. His tone leaves little room for disobedience. There's something about the way he says it that speaks to that primal part of you. The part of you that craves a mating bond. The part of you that calls back to the feral beasts your Fae blood hails from.
And you can't resist it. Not right now. Not while you're dripping with need still, while you can feel the walls of your pussy clenching around nothing. You let your jaw go slack, let your mouth fall open. The same fingers that were just buried in your cunt are now pressed against your tongue. A lesser female might choke on the size of his fingers, but you've always prided yourself in the skill of your mouth. You moan around him and suck on his middle and ring finger. You can taste yourself, taste the arousal that San drew out from you. It's almost intoxicating, and you can understand why the males you bed get drunk off your pussy.
"Good girl," San says, continuing with the praise. You bask in it, need more of it. You suck on his fingers, wanting to prove even more how good of a girl you can be. A pleased growl rumbles in his chest at your display. He keeps his hand in place for a few moments longer before pulling away. Your split and slick still cling to him, but he pays it no mind. Now it's your mouth that feels empty, and you're seconds away from sinking to your knees to take another piece of him. You're further encouraged by the quick sound of his zipper.
But you're stopped from moving by his hands finding your waist again. He lifts you up, just a little bit at first, mostly to get your attention back. You blink up at him, and you're met once again with the gaze of a predator. His knees nudge at your thighs again, and his question, though unspoken, is loud and clear. You nod, giving your complete, continuing consent.
Your tighten your arms over his shoulders, latching around his neck. He lifts you up, and you wrap your legs around his waist. Your bodies know each other's just as well as your own. His cock knows right where to go, drawn to your slit like a magnet. He grinds his tip against your clit, smearing his warm precum over the sensitive spot. You moan at the smooth friction of the movement. You're starting to pant again, and you're mere seconds away from pleading for him to fuck you.
San spares you from begging for his cock. He slides into you, meeting little resistance. You're so wet still, practically dripping, that you take him easily. Your pussy stretches around his thick shaft, your walls fluttering in excitement at the friction you're met with. Or lack thereof. San presses himself in deeper, keeping his movements slow to allow your body to adjust as needed. He's fully aware of his size, and when he first inserts himself each time, he always makes sure to not go to fast, to not hurt you. He would never hurt you.
A groan works his way out of him once he's fully buried in your warmth. He nuzzles your cheek with his, a gesture of affection that is so primal and purely animal. You can't help it, can't stop the soft purr that builds in your own throat. Only like this, only when a male is doing these things to you, do you find yourself unable to resist your Fae nature. But San doesn't seem to mind hearing it, he never does. In fact, you feel him begin to move, as if encouraged by your soft ferality.
He pulls out, not far, not even half way; just far enough that you can feel when he presses back in. You moan as he moves, your noises hitching when the tip of his cock hits your very core. You've seen how big he is, you've held him in your hands, taken him in your mouth. You still impress yourself every time you take all of him. It's like your pussy was made, designed by something divine, to envelop him.
Thinking becomes difficult when he moves again, and when he finds a rhythm and begins to thrust at a steady pace? Thought become fucking impossible. All you care about is where you end and where San begins. The only coherent thing going through your mind is his name. It's a chant that your consciousness repeats every time his cock hits its mark–San San San.
You've been fucked in countless ways. In beds. On the floor. The back of cabs. Once even in the middle of your favorite club while everyone else danced around you, none the wiser. You've seen the best and worst of males, allowed yourself to be used in any way they please. You're not ashamed of it, not one bit. You love the attention, love the feeling of letting yourself give into the pleasure.
But there's something about how San fucks you. It's not lost on you that this is still just a booty call. That he showed up at your workplace with the goal of getting into your pants, intending to leave and go about the rest of his day once he's done. But there's so much more to him that that. It's not just because he's a male, and you're the female he's decided he wants as his Mate. It's not that you're friends with incredible benefits. He respects you. Even when his cock, hard and throbbing, is inside of you, he respects you. More than that, he worships you. With all that he is–body and mind.
Being demi-Fae, society already has a preconceived opinion of you. Humans see you as an oddity. Similar to them, but alien enough that you don't quite fit in. But the Deihan? Those born with pure magic in their veins? The Angels with their gods-given superiority complexes? You've witnessed their sneers your entire life. It's the Fae, your flesh and blood, that stings the most. Though some of them, only once they learn of your heritage, regard you as they might regard the offspring of a prized dog–not an award winner herself, but perhaps a bitch they can breed to bring forth the next generation of champions.
But not San. Never San. You are something precious to him, something to be treasured. With him, you never doubt your worth. Even when strangers see you with him, and you know they can smell the scent of other males on you, judgement burning in their eyes. He pays them no mind, his focus always on you. Always on loving you. Even the parts you struggle to love about yourself.
He's moaning loudly in your ear now. His movements are turning frenzied, desperate. Each thrust gets rougher and rougher, and you feel the shelf digging into your back. The pain against your spine is second only to the pleasure that's flooding your every cell. You dig your nails into his back. Your acrylics have shredded through his skin before, but his Shifter body heals remarkably fast, even without him Ascending yet.
"Fuck, y/n," he groans out, words finally making their way out of him. His shoulder muscles roll under where your nails are. You can tell the pain of your grip is only adding to his pleasure, and you press harder. You wish you had the claws of a Shifter, talons to latch onto him and never let go.
Until now, he's had both of his hands on your hips, keeping you in place, at the proper height to fuck deeply and surely. But his composure is crumbling. One hand flies out beside you, and a screech of metal bending pulls you out of your sex filled daze for a moment. Just long enough for you to see where his hand grips the shelf's support beam, his fingers digging into the metal like it's putty. You knew San was strong, but this is another level. And fuck, you find it really hot.
Your tighten your legs around his waist, having to hold yourself up at least a little bit, since he only has one hand still on you. Your roll your hips in time with his frantic thrusting. Your motions make his movements that much deeper. You know you're close. You know he is too. You can feel it. The heat is building in your core, the fires of your shared thrill are reaching a boiling point. And it's only a matter of time now before both of you melt into each other.
Somehow San is able to find your mouth again. His breath hot against yours, and you can feel your name on his lips. You moan against him, needing him to swallow the noise, to devour your sounds. You need his tongue. Need even more of him inside of you. You coax it between your teeth and suck on it once you have it where you want. He curls it against the roof of your mouth, tasting you, savoring you. A small part of you wonders if he's still able to detect the slick he made you taste.
"Mmmclose," he says against your lips, your kiss interrupted only for that second.
You can only whimper in agreement. You can't speak, your mouth is too busy, and the part of your brain that controls speech might as well not exist. Not while every other synapse is being out-shined by the ones that handle the pleasure centers.
San manages to pull out almost all the way, only to bury himself in completely again. He repeats this, over, over, and over. The sound of your bodies meeting, the sound of your slick, messy pussy being ruined, it's downright filthy. You're incredibly grateful for the thickness of the walls here, sparring your coworkers from hearing you, and sparring your from the embarrassment of knowing they've heard.
San lets out a deep growl, this one even lower than his previous noises. If he wasn't right in front of you, doing what he's doing, you would have sworn he was in his wolf form to make such a noise. And only a second too late do you realize that his growl was a warning.
He thrusts himself as far as he'll go. Somehow deeper than every prior thrust. You feel him shudder inside of you, his cock twitching, the muscle pulsing slightly as he comes. His orgasm is hot, filling you with his warmth. He pulls out a touch, and shudders again, but he's not done yet. His cock swells slightly, your walls stretch to allow for him, the pleasure blurs with pain, and you feel tears in your eyes. It hurts so good.
And he's still moving in you, still working to make sure you finish too. Each time he pulls out, you feel some of his release leak out and drip down your thighs. You keep a package of wet-wipes at your desk exactly for this reason. The two of you tend to make a mess of each other. You'll need it when you're done.
The walls of your pussy flutter and pulse around his still swollen length. You roll your hips. The angle isn't quite right, but you're almost riding him like this. You move yourself, chasing your own pleasure. In the short moments before you come, you don't care about San. Don't care about how overstimulated he might be. You're faintly aware of him letting out a half gasp, half whimper. Your walls tighten around him, squeezing hard, clamping down like a vice. He lets out a string of pathetic noises as his cock twitches again, and your pussy milks another release out of him. He's shaking between your legs now, and fuck, that does it for you.
Stars implode behind your eyes as an orgasm courses through you. You feel the release travel at light speed through your veins. It makes you a little light headed. The panting breaths you're taking don't help matters. You should open your eyes, but seeing the world spinning might make matters worse. Fuck, you feel good. A giggle slips out of you, a near manic sound.
San's lips are on your neck a moment later, and he's whispering gentle words, soft praises. You hear several good girl's and a few deep breaths, baby. You try to obey, and it's difficult at first, but eventually the oxygen finds your lungs. Slowly, your head stops spinning, and the ringing in your ears goes quiet. You can hear your shared breaths, and both of your erratic heartbeats, and still playing music on your desk is the radio.
Only when your feet touch the ground do you realize that San pulled out of you several moments ago. You already miss the feeling of him between your legs, but you're comforted in knowing you'll have him again soon enough. Possibly tonight if his afternoon patrol doesn't kick his ass.
San presses a kiss to the top of your head. His hands squeeze your shoulders before slowly pulling away. You sway a little bit, but keep your balance, though you're relying heavily on the shelf to keep upright. He seems confident enough that you won't fall, and he steps towards your desk. In the second drawer, behind a box of tampons, he pulls out the aforementioned pack of wipes. He makes quick work of wiping you both up. He's gentle with you, knowing how sensitive the skin of your thighs can be afterwards.
You hum along to the song playing on the radio. The music helps ground you even more, your post sex daze fading. You can hear San humming too when he moves close to help get your jeans back on, knowing you struggle with the button sometimes.
"You know this song, San-ie?" you ask quietly.
His smile is shy, almost boyish. "I, uh, yeah." The blush that creeps along his cheeks is too fresh to be from the sex you just had.
You angle your head to the side. "You're being weird."
Oh, yeah. He's definitely blushing about the song. "I'm surprised you don't know why I know this song."
You move against him, bumping his shoulder with yours. "Why would you? It's not your taste." It's true. It's too singer-songwriter. Honestly, it's not even your favorite kind of music, but it's catchy.
"It played at that party," he says.
You blink in confusion at him. "Which party?"
He gives you a look. "You know which party, y/n."
"San, I've been to hundreds of parties," you say. "At least a third of them have been with you. You need to be more specific."
"Jackson's party," he says. "SCU. Spring fling, freshman year."
You wrack your brain, trying to remember the exact occasion he's referencing. Most of your time at the university was a blur of lectures and alcohol. You partied your way through two years of classes, showing up to class hungover more often than not. Somehow still managing to get your degree in half the usual time. You barely slept in your own dorm, and you can't even remember your roommate's name. If you weren't hooking up with someone on the sunball team, then you were usually sleeping in San's bed. But freshman year? It wasn't until after spring break that you–
"This played at the frat party," you say, repeating his earlier words. "The one where we–" It's your turn to blush. Which is an ironic thing to do, considering he just finished cleaning up his cum from all over your legs.
He kisses your warm cheek, a smile on his lips. "Yeah, y/n. That party." He pulls you into his arms, turning you around his your back is flush with his chest. You feel safe like this. Protected. Loved. "This song was playing when I finally worked up the courage to ask you to meet me somewhere quiet."
You smile and giggle at the fuzzy memory. You were both drunk, borderline shit faced. You know you had been flirting with any male who would look at you, even taking a shot at Jongho, San's slightly younger cousin, before the latter cornered you, suggesting you come outside. You were giggling then, too, when you followed San out to the backyard of the frat house. It was quieter out there, thought the music was still blasting from inside, having switched to some electronic beat. Hidden behind a garden shed, it felt like the two of you were in your own little world.
You don't remember what was said, if anything. Or who moved first. But somehow you ended up kissing and eventually stumbling back to his dorm. There was a shared regret the following morning, and a promise to not have it happen again, not wanting to risk your friendship. That promise was broken a week later at another party. And then a third time before the month was up.
You close your eyes and lean your head back against his chest. You love him. Love your relationship with him. Love that your friendship hasn't been diminished by the fact that you regularly have sex. He's not your boyfriend, he doesn't need to be. He's not your Mate, though he could be, and you wouldn't mind it at all. He understands you like only a rare few ever have. And you love him for it.
You open your mouth to speak, to tell him how you love him, but a sharp noise from the radio interrupts you before you can get anything out. It's a jarring noise, not quite a siren, but close. It's supposed to catch your attention, to make sure you listen to the announcement to follow.
'Good afternoon, Sunrise City!' The radio host is as enthusiastic as always. 'What a beautiful weekend it's looking out to be for this year's Summer Solstice. Our good friends and winged protectors from Sector 1 have some important updates to share with you all living and visiting the lovely Aurorion.'
You feel San tense around you at the mention of Sector 1. He runs patrols for the AurAux, which is basically the city's first line of defense. The pack Shifters are the peacekeepers of the neighborhoods, handling low level crime prevention duties. But it's the Angels of Sector 1 who have the final word in law enforcement. Their authority is divinely granted, their orders coming not from other Deihan, but from the Halazim themselves.
The Shifters have their packs, loyal to their alphas, and answer to their Prime–the strongest of them. The Fae have their courts, and live under the rule of their kings and queens–the Fae of Aurorion being the subjects of the Summer Court. The humans have no such organization, but they must submit themselves to the Deihan, follow their laws, nonetheless. The Angels are the heralds of justice, acting as both jury and executioner on the whims of the only true immortals of this world.
The Halazim are not gods, not quite. They don't require worship or sacrifice. They take no offerings, have no temples built in their name. They simply Are. They watch from their heavenly thrones, and bear the burden of ruling over a world of beasts and magic. Their sovereignty is absolute. To question them is to die. So people rarely do.
But with their rule, comes their protection. Though the Deihan have the ability to change form, to wield supernatural power, to live a millennia and never age–their magics are rarely enough to defend against the hell-born, the Demons, the beasts who wish to drain this world of its ether. It was the Halazim that defeated Hell's armies tens of thousands of years ago. The Halazim who continue to fend off the attacks from beyond the veil.
You would be grateful for their benevolence, for their watchful eyes that look out for you and yours...
If they weren't such assholes about it. If the Angels who do their bidding weren't smug and condescending, and so fucking out of touch with reality. And if they didn't constantly fuck with the AurAux patrols and make San's job a million times harder.
The radio host continues his report, 'Over the last few weeks, our city has seen an uptick in crime. I'm sure our listeners are aware of the recent murders the Fever Districts. A trusted source within Sector 1 has confirmed that the governor's office is now considering these homicides to be connected.'
San tenses behind you, but stays quiet, listening for whatever else is to be said.
'They have also confirmed that the governor himself has taken a vested interest in the recent theft that occurred at the Sunrise Temple. He is stated to be assembling a Formation to investigate.'
San actually growls this time at the news. "That asshole always sticks his nose where it doesn't belong," he says. "He's going to mess up the whole investigation the pack has been working on."
"San, it'll be okay," you say, trying to help. This isn't the first time the city's governor has interfered with AurAux business unnecessarily. You know San isn't a fan of the Angel that manages the city. In fact, he's made it incredibly clear that he hates the guy.
His arms are tight around you. He isn't gripping you hard, not hurting you at all, but you don't think you could get out of his hold easily. His heart is thudding in his chest, and you can feel it against your back. He moves his chin and buries his nose into your hair. You feel his chest expand with a deep breath. This is something he does often. When he stressed or upset, , he breathes in your scent. It calms him, he says, grounds him, reminds him of what's most important.
He relaxes after a moment, his hold on you lessening. "I should get back with the pack," he says eventually. "Figure out how we're going to deal with this."
'–no curfew in effect at this time,' the radio host continues. 'The last update of this afternoon comes from an anonymous source. Now, I know what you're thinking, Sunrise City. But I can assure you, this tip has been validated.' He pauses, perhaps making sure he has the city's full attention. Though, you don't know if anyone even listens to this station besides you and anyone else surrounded by wards.
'Last year, our Aurorion Auxiliary arrested the political extremist, Jeong Yunho. Charges included Arms-dealing, Unlawful Assembly, and Disturbing the Peace. We have just been informed that he has been cleared of all charges and is expected to be released from detainment this evening."
"Did he just say Jeong Yunho?"
You spin around in San's arms. "What did you say?" you ask once you're face to face.
He repeats the name. And it bounces around your mind like a marble in a pinball machine. Yunho Yunho Yunho. It can't be.
"He was supposed to be the big bust for the AurAux last year," San says, displeasure written all over his features. "I didn't realize they ever released his name. Remember around Hallow's Eve when the packs got assigned all those extra patrols?"
You do because you were really annoyed by it because it meant San couldn't come to Yeosang's costume party. "Yeah, you said it was a gun smuggler."
"Turned out to be a little more than that, but yeah," San says. He frowns and looks over his shoulder to the door that leads to the exit.
You pout at him. "You're leaving? What about lunch?"
San gives you a pleading look. "Baby, I promise to make it up to you," he says. "I'll bring you breakfast in bed for a week. I gotta tell the pack, figure out what we're doing about...all this."
You sigh before sneaking a quick kiss. "Okay. Fine. But I want pancakes," you say. "Stacked a meter high."
He smiles at you. "No shorter," he says, giving your waist a squeeze. "I'll see you later, okay?" He kisses your cheek before releasing you. "Love you."
"Love you, San-ie."
You're alone in the Archive again, such is fate. The radio newscast has ended and there's music again. You try to listen to the song being aired, but something else is playing in your head. Someone else. Jeong Yunho. And he won't get out. Not until you know for sure if it's the same one or not.
You grab your purse and turn off the desk lamp. You don't bother neatening up your workspace. You can do it later, the matter at hand is more important. You have to go through three different runed archways to get to the hallway that leads to the exit of the Archive. Your skin tingles under each of them, the magic of the wards in action.
It's blindingly bright outside. The summer sun in full swing, baking the city under its strong rays. You blink your eyes, trying to get them to adjust quicker. Your phone is in your hand a moment later, and you spam press the power button, hoping you're far enough away from the wards for it to work.
The screen comes on a moment later, and you impatiently tap until it responds. Your fingers are quick to open the browser and type out your search. The web icon spins for a moment while the results load, the connection slowed by the proximity to the wards. But eventually they populate. And you get your answer from the first article linked.
Jeong Yunho Terrorism Charges Dropped
And just below the title is his mugshot from when he was arrested last year. You stare at it, frozen, for a long time. It's been a decade since you've seen him. He never had social media, he didn't even have a phone when you left your mother's village to move to Aurorion. You had no way of keeping touch with your best friend. He looks so different and yet the same. Older, obviously. But still him. Still Jeong Yunho. Still your Yunho.
Finally pulling you eyes away from his image, you skim the article. There's not much publicly released for the case, just the bare bones. But it does talk about the pack that got him. It even names the Shifter that placed him under arrest. And you stare at that name longer than you stared at the picture.
Pairing : Royal knight!Price x F!reader
Cw : read at your own risk.
Word count : 3,3k
The house was hot, so hot. His lungs should be in agony, but the consistent humming, though faint now, was burning higher than the fire outside.
John climbed to his feet, but as he did, his knee throbbed faintly. He froze up and cursed under his breath.
This timing was less than ideal.
John blinked away the sting of the pain, trying to focus on the enemy.
The witch tilted her head, a dark smile forming on her lips at the sight of his resilience. You sneaked up behind her, the knife swinging towards her neck.
She deflected it with her spear, kicked her weapon up, the blade narrowly missing your head as you dipped.
Your knife was relentlessly swung. It wasn’t frantic. Every wave of the hand or flip of the blade was precise with a clear goal.
When you managed to slice her face and she groaned, catching your wrist on the next hit.
She had no time to go further, quickly retreating to avoid John’s upcoming blow.
“No burns,” she said, giving John a one over, before glancing at you. “You fully bonded,”
“You must be livid.” You taunted, your tone not any less bored. She scoffed, the cut on her cheek healing.
The witch lunged forward at you, but no matter how hard she tried to reach you, she was deflected by John’s swift counter shots. He was completely in a defensive stance, fearing that the second he tried to attack, she would use that opportunity to hurt you.
Especially since you refused to stay still behind him, trying to fight for yourself.
“Stay behind me, alright?!” he yelled.
“She can heal,” you muttered, “I’m testing something!”
“Was the knife she pulled out of her chest not clear enough for you?” he replied.
John didn’t mean to sound harsh, but he was getting a little irritated. His arm reached behind, pushing you backward.
“But she groaned—”
He yanked you back into his chest, and a vial missed you, smashing against the wall, hissing as it melted the wood.
“Watch yourself!” he scolded. How many potions did this bitch have? His eyes fell on her satchel. Usually, witches used spells too. Did she know any?
She was guarding the exit, so he pressed further into the building and finally managed to steer you away to an empty room.
The heat of the room was growing. The poorly insulated blade grew hotter in his now sweaty palm.
He was sweating buckets and growing tired. It was an odd feeling having your body aching one second and then feeling a soothing burn the next.
His gaze darted around for some type of escape from this burning house, blocking your incessant mutterings.
It was frustrating how he was the only one preoccupied by the life-threatening situation.
“John!”
“What?!” He barked
“She groaned,” you repeated.
“And? You’d rather she moaned? I’m sorry, but I’m failing to see the relevance, darling, we’re about to burn alive.”
“We won’t burn,” You said calmly.
Yes, only he would. If that’s any better.
He was to contest that absurd statement, but you caught his hand thrusting into the fire. He flinched, expecting pain but apart from a mild tingly sensation, his skin remained intact.
“Oh…That’s…alright then—”
“Listen to me,” you said, holding his face monopolizing his attention, “her lamenting means she still feels pain, she hasn't renounced all her humanity yet,”
He nodded your gentle stoke of his cheek helping him regain focus, “Yes,” he hummed “She said she was still in her early stages,”
“Clearly she hasn’t used any real spells,” you replied “If she is not fully changed yet, that means she's using magic to heal!” You smiled, “probably the only spell she knows by heart,”
“How’s that good exactly?”
“Magic requires energy! It's draining, especially for beginners. Even a man as strong as you could barely contain my essence without falling weak, and it wasn’t even really healing.” You explained, he held your gaze and saw you recoil.
“I have magic?”
Guilt flashed in your eyes, and your gaze fell to where your fingers held his, squeezing as though you were scared he’d pull away.
“In a way…yes, I’m sorry…” you replied sincerely, “I know you hate it, but it’s part of our bond, it protects you.”
Why would you apologise for something like that?
“Since we’re connected, and my blood is still trying to burn through the poison, it should feel weaker.” You continued, “For now, I’ll tire her out and go for her potion pouch. You have the strength I don’t, so aim for the neck, kill that bitch.” you ordered.
This plan would mean exposing you to danger longer than needed and also risking your life and also…his eyes trailed down to your stomach, but quickly shifted.
He shook his head. His job was to protect you, not let you join an active battle.
“How about you run instead? I’ll distract her, and you find a place to hide and recover—”
“You’re underestimating me again!” You growled,
“I’m protecting you!”
“Don’t be daft!” you snapped. “I can fight!”
He was about to insist, but you both shuddered and pulled apart.
The spear pierced the wall between the two of you with a rattling bang.
“Enough chatter!” She yelled, bursting through the wall.
Before John could move, she flashed before him, hitting him in the face, and as she pulled her weapon out, the back of it hit the side of yours.
“What? Am I not a threat enough?!” she yelled, attacking.
You managed to block the blow, only for her to aim for your stomach. You jerked back.
She kicked up her spear again, ready to land a devastating blow on you, but John got between you instead, which sent both of you flying through the wall and outside.
He took the damage of the fall as well, the skin of his back chafing against the road’s rocks, but he held you tight against him.
He had no time to dwell on the pain and pushed to his feet, avoiding the spear that came your way.
She really was adamant on hitting only you. Any other person, John would have used them as bait. But you? He would never dare. His heart would not handle another failure.
John dealt just as much damage, rattling her with his strength, but as he grew near her head, the blade cut through the air, and she disappeared in a mist.
He swallowed the curse words that burned his tongue. Frustration was not gonna help anything, but gods did he hate those fucking cunts.
“Your back is bleeding” your voice trembled from behind.
“It’s nothing, stay close!” He instructed, turning to you, expecting sadness, but light flickered in your eyes again, whining when what you tried failed again.
A sharp crash rang in his ear.
“Another vial...” you said behind gritted teeth. A thick smoke bloomed at your feet, clouds rising in a second, making it hard to see past an arm's reach.
“Come off it, brat!!” He exclaimed. “Enough tricks!”
The stamina of a 50-year-old man is not the same, especially if he spent most of it in war. This, mixed with the heat that wasn’t exactly healing, yet soothing, he understood what you meant. This was draining and distracting.
“Don’t mind the fog, just follow my lead!” You instructed
John wanted to protest. Yes, you clearly knew more than him, but you were fragile.
“We don’t have time to argue, you have to trust me!” You exclaimed, holding onto his arm, with this smoke and his growing fatigue, had no choice.
“I’ll aim for the head.” He reluctantly nodded, “She can’t grow a second head,” he replied, through a few heavy breaths.
“Hopefully.” You shrugged, and he stared unamused.
“Hopefully?”
The witch burst in through the mist.
Without a second thought, you stood managing to do swift parries with one hand after feigning with the other.
His sword was just as fast. To his surprise, you were never in the way, anticipating every one of his moves. It was evident you knew exactly how he fought and aided every one of his blows to land.
Deciding to go for you instead of John was the witch’s first mistake. As it revealed her position, for him to attack.
She cried out as his blade slashed at any flesh it found. She pulled back panting, but you gave no rest, following her into the haze.
“Shit!” John cursed, losing sight of you. He tried following the sound of the blade clashing, but that too stopped.
Calling you would reveal his position and swinging at any noise risked hitting you.
He was stuck.
“John!” You called, his feet turned.
“It’s not me!” Your voice came from the opposite direction. He halted, feeling the hope leave his body.
“Gods, give it a rest…” he muttered.
“Don’t go to her! It’s a trap!” The first said, but was cut off by more clashing.
Then suddenly you cried out. His brow twitched. Following a hunch, he ran to the voice.
A hand snatched his arm, “Wrong guess!” The witch said.
You said not to mind the fog, you could find your way through it, no matter where he went, you would—
He smiled widely, and he snatched her other hand, twisting it around her back, pulling her in a headlock.
Your knife sliced through the fog and thrust into her chest, right through her heart. She yelled out. You reached for her satchel, but she kicked you instead, sending you tumbling back.
Her head collided with John’s face, twisting her body and shaking him off, but like a wolf cornering a weakened prey, you two were back on your feet.
She tried using her spear to keep you at a distance. In a lucky motion, he managed to grab it.
You breached past her guards, her fist slammed into your face, and the knife rang as it hit the ground.
Blood flooded your nose, and you stumbled back to the ground. Your name tumbled out of John’s lips before he could stop himself.
A soft, vicious giggle left you as you pushed to your knees, holding her ripped satchel of potions.
Her eyes widened, her palm flying to her hips in disbelief. But had no time to focus on you, with John's angry hits.
You took no time rummaging through, smelling the vial before ripping one out, slamming it to the floor, igniting the surrounding area, the intense heat dissipating the mist. You threw the rest of it into the fire.
“No!” She yelled, reaching, John swung, and she dodged, anger now evident on her face. “Do you know how long it takes to make these?”
He braced, ready to dodge her punch, but she dropped, lifting her fist, letting it land on John's knee; a loud pop sound echoed in the room, and pain shot up his nerves.
“Fuck!” his jaw clenched, she ripped the sword away, throwing it down.
“Does it hurt? So does a stab in the heart!”
You interrupted, kicking her side, but now weapon free, you were not as efficient.
She caught you by your throat instead. You wheezed, clawing at her fingers in her grip as she lifted off the ground.
John kicked her legs in an attempt to make her stumble, but she only mirrored his movement, her blow hitting him in the face, making his brain rattle in his skull, a thick taste of copper taking over his mouth.
“I was gonna spare him, but you’ve pissed me off,” she snarled, sending you flying to crash into a nearby house.
John’s eyes widened, and he tried to push up, but pain shot through all his legs, and they buckled under him.
He reached for his weapon, but she kicked it away.
“Come,” she said, taking a fistful of his hair, dragging him back, his skin feeling every rough pebble on that damn road.
“Worry about yourself!” She yelled, throwing him against a brick wall, leaving him to wheeze on the floor.
She cruelly stomped on his knee. He refused to cry out and choked on it instead, his breathing becoming frantic, as his brain and body struggled to fend the crippling pain away.
“I could’ve given you so much,” she said, as her foot dug deeper. “I would have made you blissfully happy.” He raised his face, but her fist slammed against it. “No pain. No grief. Just bliss.” Each word was accentuated by a rattling punch.
She lifted his face up again, keeping his gaze on her, and sighed, “What a waste…” she hummed.
He heard the sound of wood falling. John’s bruised eyes immediately flicked to the house you were thrown to. It was the prison he was held in earlier.
You crawled out of the debris, holding what seemed to be a bow. Your face was filled with horror as your gaze met his, the ember beneath your skin grew again, and he felt a surge in his chest. Was it your magic coming back?
You turned around, removing wood and debris, rummaging through the house looking for something.
“Why is she deserving of gratuitous devotion, when I had to get mine through blood!” The witch continued her annoying ramble.
“What man would go for a rotting corpse, when they can belong to a mighty dragon?” he choked.
“Her? Mighty?! I beat her! Your heart is mine now!” Her palm slammed against his chest, and her nails began to dig into his skin.
He grabbed her arm, letting the humming inside of him course through his chest into his limbs.
She yelped, yanking away, letting him collapse to the floor.
Her face contorted as she watched her scorched fingers and wrist. Somehow, now it wasn’t as hard to manage as usual. Is it because it was weak inside of you?
“My heart belongs to my wife,” He chuckled through a groan.
You secured an arrow and wiped the blood blocking your eyes.
Though at that distance he’d never seen you hit anything, his lip twitched upward. His pain was slowly taken over by a humming heat again.
You then raised the bow over your head as you pulled on the string, the arrow pinched firmly between your fingers.
Near-perfect posture.
“I’ll carve it out!” She flipped the spear in her hand, thrusting at him, he caught it at the blade, but it managed to dig into his flesh.
Undeterred, his other hand wrapped around the staff, feeling heat growing beneath his palm, followed by a loud hiss. She let go and he ripped it out of his shoulder.
“It’s actually quite useful, when you get to use it.” He smirked, bending the now softened iron before throwing it far behind them.
Your eyes had never been more focused than in the moment you pulled and let go of the arrow.
It struck the witch’s arm, and she screeched in pain again.
She snapped the arrow out of her arm, but your eyes only narrowed in satisfaction.
“An arrow? Really?” she said, though she tried to keep the arrogant tone. Her voice wavered, and a frown took over her face as blood continued to spurt from her arm.
“My blood’s still poisoned," You smiled, holding up your blood-smeared palm, “and now, so will yours.”
“I suppose she'll catch something this time,” John said. She tried to go for him, but another arrow whistled and hit her in the back. She cried, stumbling back, her anger replaced by panic.
She wasn’t stupid. She knew she would lose. She rushed outside, trying to flee, but you were already on her.
She tried dodging you, but was now no match for your speed.
Each of your blows landed. She grunted but did not falter, but you ended up dodging one of her frantic punches.
John feverishly searched for his sword. He found it. Without wasting a second, he picked it up; it sizzled as it heated up in his palm, with a sharp metallic ring.
He bore down, pushing upward, hopping on his working leg, dragging the other along.
Just a few steps…you need him just a few steps.
Your eyes were quick to fall to John, and when she went for you again, you fell to the ground, twisting your body and kicking her in the stomach.
She tumbled back towards him, and with a swift motion, the glowing red iron went straight across her shoulders.
Her head slid from her neck to the ground, rolling.
The witch’s headless body did a few steps forward, then back before collapsing to the ground.
It was silent, the only sound was the crackling of the village raging in flames. John’s grip was still firm on the weapon, and you pushed up in case of an impending fight.
The two of you pant, looking at her corpse, stunned, as if you blinked, she would rise again.
Only after rot consumed the body completely, letting a putrid smell take over the air, did your shoulders relax.
Your knees gave up, and you fell on your ass, holding your side. John’s sword slipped from his palms and clattered to the ground.
He lost his footing in the process. You immediately went up again, closing the distance to him, “my love,” you called. He crawled, meeting you halfway.
“You’re alright? You’re okay?” He asked, brushing ash and blood from your face, only to smear his own on your cheek. You nodded, pressing your palm on his bleeding shoulder. Tears filled your eyes, and your voice was desperate as you spoke.
“Please tell me where it hurts. I'll fix it, my fire’s coming back. You feel it too, right?
“You need your energy, don’t waste it on me” He whispered,
“It’s not a waste, it's never a waste.” You rambled. He felt your palm grow hotter but it faded just as fast.
“Damn it!” You cried, his eyes surveyed over, your face, your glossy eyes, your runny nose, and, your pretty lips.
His pain was almost faint as he was distracted by the pleasure of drinking you in, and touching your skin, making sure you were in front of him, his hand slid to your neck before pulling you closer, and his lips were on yours.
Not sure if it was to comfort you or himself but he kissed you. All anxiety leaving his chest, the pain of the loss constricted his throat dissipating.
“I love you.” he breathed out against your lips.
“John—”
“I love you.” he repeated, scared he couldn’t say it again, and knowing he’d never get to say it enough.
“Even as you give me grief…I can’t help how much I love you.” He chuckled, “Do you understand, I–”
“I know” your lips trembled, “I always knew.”
“You did?” he asked softly and you nodded, letting your forehead collide with his.
“I heard it—I heard it every time your heart sang for me. I wish you could hear mine, and know how restless it has been for you too.”
His lips curled upward, “My wife–” he said, leaning in desperately wanting to kiss your lips, but his head fell on your shoulder.
He had no strength left to raise it so instead he lingered in your scent, you beautiful soothing scent. His arms fell limp to his side, he heard as your heart quickened.
“My love?” you called, he wanted to answer but couldn’t. You jerked your shoulder pushing him to face you. He’d groan if he had the strength.
Your shoulder was so comfortable. His eyes closed but you shook him vigorously again. He blinked slowly.
“No, no, no! John! Look at me,” you plead, but he couldn’t even hold his head up, “Just a little longer alright? Just a little longer, please, I’ll fix you! I will just stay with me!” you said.
He felt you trying to lift him up, but in your hurry and panic, you collapsed again.
He didn’t want you to cry. He was so tired though.
“Please!” you cried.
“I’ll…stay…” his eyes closed despite himself.
“John—”
Cor Unum ~ One heart
Masterlist - Next
*brings shaking fingers to lips and take a long drag* here it is guys...🚬🤏🏾
Thanks to @miggleverse for her beta reading, always such a source of inspiration & a great collaborator!
When a creature older than modern memory stepped off the edge of a plane into the abyss, he never imagined he would be dragging the only human he cared about down with him. Leaping into the dark was an easy task for a man who couldn’t die, for a creature with infinite time, but for a mere mortal, jumping into the vast desert below would change his life indefinitely.
One jump, that was all it took to shatter lives, to change the face of the SAS in an instant.
On a night where the elements shook the earth, where the wind whipped relentlessly and the night sky was a haze of grit and dirt, the men of the SAS leapt into the unknown.
They had no visibility, no alternative if things went wrong. They had their parachutes and their bravery. When Eoin McGonigal stepped over the edge, into the unfamiliar, he couldn’t have imagined the pain and the uncertainty that would follow.
The wind roared and groaned, as if enraged by the sudden intrusion from these foolhardy humans, each gust scattered the men to the far corners of the desert, leaving many dead, some captured. The lucky few who survived now wandered under the watchful eye of the moon, in search of their compatriots, in search of any sign of life.
Paddy landed in that barren wasteland just as they had practised, landing gracefully amongst the windblown sands, surrounded by high cliffs and rolling dunes. He accrued a few scrapes and cuts, battling the elements that raged around them in the night sky, but his body healed quickly. His skin had stitched itself together in a matter of minutes, each fibre and cell regenerating in the blink of an eye, erasing all evidence of a struggle. It wasn’t long before he was tramping through the rolling hills in search of his team, the sand parting before him with each step. The landscape around him swallowed the horizon, sand and rock stretching as far as his sharp eye could see. But absent from the vast landscape were his team, his men. Over 60 men had jumped that night, and thus far, Paddy had not encountered any survivors. Though anxiety wasn't an emotion he felt regularly, as he walked through that desert, utterly alone, Paddy felt unnerved, acutely aware that he may have been the only one to survive such a treacherous mission. The rest of his team, just ordinary men, had been condemned to an uncertain fate.
Under the sparse light of the moon, sand rolled with the wind, heat rose from the earth and a dust storm lingered in the distance, but generally the earth looked calm, as if a storm had never passed through at all. Only the lingering black clouds dropping their contents onto the sands below revealed nature's dastardly deeds that night, the remnants of a devastating tempest, a violent disturbance of what should have been a fairly mundane incursion.
As he pushed forwards into the night in total silence, the stench of blood rose into the air and called to him like a siren in the dark, giving him direction and a course. With heavy stride, he climbed the sand dunes, following his keen senses towards the source. Only the sound of grains crunching underfoot and the wind whipping through the undulating dunes could be heard. Each step seemed too easy, as if his body carried no weight. He floated on the wind, mindlessly following his nose towards that unmistakable iron rich scent, every sense heightened by the thunderous roar overhead and the aroma of death carried on the breeze. An eerie silence filled the humid air, carrying with it a sense of dread and remorse. His body struck by an inexplicable feeling that everything had gone terribly wrong and he had led his team to their deaths.
Paddy knew the smell of rust and salt, mixed with the stench of fear all too well. He could recognise such a distinct scent from miles away, though the closer he got to it, the more pungent it became, instinctively driving him mad with hunger.
Every man he had drained dry had the same scent, every poor soul he butchered in the desert emanated that putrid odour, it haunted him, yet it called to his body and drew him in, as if his bones moved of their own accord towards the source.
Paddy knew he was following the scent of a man close to death, the muted sound of a faint heartbeat in the distance echoed loudly in his ears. The beat was irregular and struggled onwards bravely, but he could tell it was fading, slowing down as the blood trickled from its master's body. Each thump quieter than the one before, each pulse of blood just that bit slower. Though every hair in his nostrils stood on end at the thought of a meal, a refreshing reprieve from the unappetizing rations he had been surviving on, he truly dreaded stumbling across a poor creature so close to their end, teetering on the precipice of life.
His feet followed the trail, the odour wafting around him getting stronger and stronger as he happened upon a lifeless figure in the dirt. As he trudged towards the body laying face down in the sand, that familiar metallic smell enveloped him, completely overwhelming his mind with pure unadulterated bloodlust.
But as he cast his eyes downwards upon that poor soul, as the moonlight illuminated their sharp features and he focused on their withered face clinging to life by a breath, a terrible dread settled in the pit of his stomach, snapping him from his thirst-fuelled daze. He could scarcely believe the sight before him, a man he knew intimately, a man he had come to trust, and loved dearly.
A face once so bright, so full of vigour and a genuine joy for life, now lay pallid and cold under the night sky. His heart struggled on, sluggish and weak, but his pulse beat faintly under his skin.
His body was strong, though battered and beaten by the unforgiving desert. He held on to this sliver of life as long as possible…..he fought hard and held tight to this world until Paddy found him, until he could be by his side once more.
His life force drained drop by drop into the sand beneath him, a pool of crimson stained the wretched earth beneath his body. His injuries were grave, and if Paddy had a heart to beat, it would have stopped at the sight of him.
Eoin McGonigal.
He immediately rushed to Eoin's side, his feet slipping and sliding clumsily through the tepid sand and his body lurched forwards as quickly as his legs would take him. His usual grace and coordination gave way to clumsy stumbling, all reasonable thought replaced by sheer panic. His blood lust now fully abated and devastating grief settled in its place, swapping one debilitating fog for another. Every thought consumed by Eoin and his beautiful face, his sun-kissed skin now marred and torn, his flesh ripped, blood pouring from every gash. Every fibre of his being ached at the sight of his friend, his confidant, his one tie to the mortal world, lying helpless to the elements under the pale light of the moon.
This was his fault. Eoin would've followed him anywhere. He would've walked through fire if Paddy asked him to. He was sweet, trusting, the closest thing to heaven that Paddy would ever see, yet he wasn’t naive. Eoin saw through the facade to who Paddy truly was - something no other human had done in a very, very long time. He saw the poet, the scholar, the creative soul hidden behind decades of wrath and untethered anger. When the world couldn’t understand him, Eoin always did. Eoin saw beneath the mask, beneath the unfiltered rancour and the tough facade, he saw past the walls Paddy had placed around himself as protection from a cruel world. Eoin saw the man beneath the beast.
He could hide himself from the world. Hide his true nature behind the fury of a beast, behind the mask of an enraged soldier…but he could never hide from Eoin. He could mask the parts of his being that he was ashamed of, his insatiable thirst for blood, his animalistic desire to feed. But there was no hiding his incredible strength, his keen senses or how his skin didn’t age in all the years they had known each other. Eoin had a rare talent for seeing the truth of things, and though the totality of Paddy’s immortality had never been revealed, Eoin knew he was a little more than human. A little more than a standard soldier. It didn’t colour his opinion of Paddy, or influence their relationship, but sometimes as he caught a glimpse of Paddy in the scorching desert sun, he saw more than a man. He saw muscles sitting sharply under his cool skin, he saw eyes bluer than any ocean. He saw a man enthralled, no, obsessed with him, and despite the enigma surrounding this mysterious fellow, Eoin rather enjoyed his attentions, so broached the subject. Whoever he was, whatever he was, he was kind and protective. He seemed to have the heart of a poet, despite his hardened exterior. That was enough.
Now, as Eoin lay before him, a whisper from his demise, Paddy could only mourn the time he had lost with him. Years they could have spent together after this blasted war, as friends or perhaps something more…but they would never get that chance. Paddy would never get to see Eoin grow old, see those wrinkles that he loved so much grow deeper, see smile lines form from decades of laughter and joy. He would never see those perfectly auburn, bouncy curls grow grey. Grief swallowed him whole, engulfed him in its open maw, though Eoin had not yet left this earthly plain.
That night, that terribly tempestuous night, he followed Paddy into the void, stepping into the blackness without a second thought, without thinking of what it would cost him.
He squeezed Paddy’s shoulder before they leapt; one last touch, one last moment of gentility before plunging into the terrifying black unknown. Paddy could still feel where his warm hand scorched his cool skin, he could still feel the pressure and the comforting presence behind him. Eoin had a way of making any situation okay; he had a calmness and a light that illuminated any shadow, a warmth that would heat any room. Paddy often imagined being the object of his affections, the focus of all that love and beauty, but he was a monster and he couldn't damn Eoin to a life with him. Instead, he basked in his radiance for as long as he was allowed, enjoying the comforts of Eoin's glow. But here, lying so close to death, Paddy felt the night creeping in around them once more.
Eoin had been dragged through the desert by blistering winds, his body mutilated and disfigured from rocks and brush. Paddy scarcely recognised the man by his side, he was a mess of muscle and bone, sharp edges protruded from his tattered skin, exposed to the brutal elements and glinting in the cold moonlight. Blood leaked out of his veins at an alarming rate, staining the earth a deep crimson where he lay.
Even with the iron-rich stench of blood wafting through the air and permeating his senses, Paddy could only focus on the man lying before him. Even with every fibre of his being screaming for blood, desperate for sustenance, Paddy only had eyes for the one man who ever truly saw him, not the thing he had become, but the man he once was.
If it was anyone else, any other hapless human, Paddy may even have relished in their impending death. He may even have rejoiced at finding nourishment in such a barren waste….but he could only mourn for Eoin McGonigal. He felt only grief and despair at the state of his friend, his one companion lying an inch from death in the dirt.
In the depths of grief and despair, Paddy barely registered that he was standing over Eoin, staring at his unmoving frame, as the full spectrum of human emotion came and went in a matter of minutes. Every possible feeling washed over him, pulling and dragging at parts he had buried for a long time. Parts of his humanity he thought long deceased, stolen by this condition, this affliction that had been forced upon him.
Decades of life replayed in his eyes, hundreds of years condensed into a matter of seconds. He saw the love, the pain, the loss - a lifetime of experiences that all came flooding back to him as he stared blankly at his soulmate in the shifting sand.
He vaguely remembered his own death - it was all a blur of pain and grief, but he remembered how it felt to have a life wrenched from him too soon. He was a little older than Eoin, but still in the throes of youth when he had everything snatched away. Everything he had, everything he was - taken in an instant. It took him a long time to adjust to this new existence, to find parts of himself that the creature who attacked him had stripped in a single bite. Eoin gave him back more than he could have ever imagined, more than he ever deserved. He gave him a semblance of humanity, something to live for. He gave his existence meaning again.
Paddy never thought he would have to go through this torment again, the agony of losing a person he gave a piece of himself to. A person he never meant to fall for, but who had captured his cold dead heart with simple glances and a gentle hand. Eoin was a rare gem in a life of death and suffering, a shining light amongst a life spent in the shadows. As he stood in shock, those dreadful years spent in solitude and total despair replayed, flashing across his haze filled eyes.
Only the faint cries of pain from Eoin’s lips broke him from his trance. Those pitiful sounds broke through and spurred him to Eoin’s side. Despite his blood calling to him, beckoning to him like a beacon in the night, Paddy knelt dutifully beside him, cradling his head in his lap as gently as he would hold a newborn babe. He ignored every instinct, every urge and demand his body gave him, burying his hunger beneath layers of anguish.
His hands held him firmly, as if he could somehow shield him from death’s call through touch alone. As if he could make everything right by simply cherishing him, as he should’ve done all the years they shared together previously. He had so many chances to show Eoin how he felt, to hold him against the world and shield him from it, but he let fear get in the way of happiness. Now Eoin was a hairs breadth from the snarling jaws of death. Paddy had many preternatural abilities, but calling off death’s hounds once unleashed was sadly not one of them. He would have given up forever if it meant shielding Eoin from the end.
Eoin drew quick, painful breaths as his broken ribs pierced his lung. Each inhale felt like the sharp point of a knife. He drifted in and out of consciousness, overwhelming pain and blackness overtaking his hazy vision as his body expelled his life force into the warm sands below. But he knew Paddy was there. He could feel the feather-light touch of a calloused hand against his cheek, the almost reverent way he held him and Paddy’s strong, muscular frame beneath him. It brought some comfort knowing he wasn't alone. That he wouldn’t die an unknown soldier in some faraway land, with nobody to remember him.
The weight of Paddy's hand against his skin brought some peace to his pain riddled body; heavy in its sincerity, yet gentle as though he would crumble beneath it.
Raindrops fell vigorously from the sky above, settling in the creases of Eoin's torn flesh and washing some of the dried blood from his eyes.
Paddy didn't even feel the water running down his cheek, the cold drops sticking to his hair and soaking his uniform thoroughly. In truth he felt nothing but sorrow, his body numb to his surroundings, to the remnants of the roaring storm overhead.
The weather seemed to mirror how he felt at that moment. He had often seen the poets describe how they use the weather as a personification of the protagonist's feelings, though he never thought it to be true until now. He never thought that such art would be reflective of his life, that he would ever go through such tragedy again. Fat droplets of rain camouflaged the tears gathering in his eyes, blurring his usually crystal clear vision & obscuring his view of the disfigured man in his arms.
But as he sat silently, Paddy thought even the poets couldn't have written a tragedy so poignant, so raw and indescribably painful. He had never imagined a scenario where the sweet boy he had grown to love would end up bleeding out in his arms, where this beautiful Dublin boy would be teetering on a knife's edge from death…with only Paddy standing in its way. It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Here he sat, immortal, immune to the bullets and bombs, the slashes of a blade and to the unrelenting forces of war, but half a man. The gentlest creature he had ever met, a truly kind soul with a pure and loving heart - lay crushed, maimed beyond repair.
It seemed rather an unfair end to their story, a true taunt from God or the devil, whichever one was responsible. True malignance from a higher power, the only justification Paddy could think of for this heinous act. Eoin didn’t deserve to meet his maker in this manner; he didn’t deserve to die at all. But surely in this state, he wasn’t long for this world.
His blood trickled onto Paddy’s hands, falling over the curve of his fingers and washed into the dirt by the drizzle of rain. Not even the sensation of blood running between his fingers summoned Paddy from his daze, instead he began to hum an old folk tune, one that had always stuck with him through the years and brought him comfort when he needed it. He couldn’t even recall the name of it now, just the lilting melody. He hoped it might bring Eoin the same comfort, even if he couldn’t hear it, even if it was too late.
As he sat, his focus purely on the heartbeat of the man in his clutches, Paddy wrangled heavily with his conscience, weighing up his options in a dire situation where hope seemed to be lost, with his friend withering away in his arms. Clinging to life, yet almost in deaths cold grasp.
His choices were few, and none of them were what he wanted. He could keep him company, do his best to make his final moments peaceful and steward him into the stillness beyond or he could selfishly offer him a taste of the life that had been thrust upon him many many years ago.
A life he never chose, but the one he was stuck with.
A barren, cold subsistence where death was a constant companion. Where time was no longer something to be feared and no longer a cause for celebration but instead a distant thought.
He never wanted to turn Eoin, he was the one bright spark in Paddy's world. Where there was once apathy, a void he had no interest in filling, Eoin stepped in and brought light. He reenergised a tired creature, bringing purpose and meaning to his days once more. Further still, he was the one man who made Paddy crave his own mortality again.
He longed to grow old with him, to spend his dwindling days by his side. But he knew, as soon as they jumped from that tin can in the sky, that their days on this earth might have been numbered. That things would irrevocably change from that night onwards. The jump was too dangerous for any mortal to endure, a true suicide mission for most. Never did he think it would be so gruesome, the very sight of Eoin's mangled body gave him pause - even with all the bloodshed, all the gore and horror he had seen in his long life, Paddy never thought he would see someone he cared about in such a state.
Now he was faced with an impossible decision. To offer Eoin a chance at eternal life, to help him yet damn him to a life he would never choose willingly, or to usher him into the dark peacefully. To remain in those sands, to spend his final moments with the one he loved dearly…. Or spend an eternity utterly changed. He would never be the same bubbly boy he was before that night. He would never have the same lust for life, the same endless optimism even in the face of hopeless situations. Paddy agonised over it, though he knew he didn't have long to consider the pros and cons of either option.
He had watched everyone he ever loved die….from time, from violence, by their own hand. He had never offered them this chance because he would not have taken it himself if he had been afforded the luxury of choice. He did not wish to damn the ones he loved to his fate, to a life of solitude and loneliness, to a life in the shadows, even when he could walk in the sun’s warming rays.
He would not have condemned Eoin to the cold, not if there was any other way.
“I wish I could take away your pain, mo chroí, but all I can do is offer you a lifeline…a way out of this”
Eoin always had an inkling that Paddy was different and not entirely forthcoming about his true nature, but it didn't matter. He never asked, never pried. But now, as Paddy held him gently against the harsh winds, and offered him an escape from the pain, in his brief moments of clarity, as his mind fought against the pull of sleep, Eoin wondered what kind of a life that would be.
He felt Paddy's uneven breath against his face, and though he was struggling to stay awake, his eyelids heavy against the tide of sleep, he heard what Paddy said next.
“It's your choice lad… I wouldn't make it for you”
Eoin couldn’t fully comprehend what Paddy was offering, his body had already started shutting down, and his mind had become trapped in a thick fog as the darkness rolled in, but even in his weakened state, he felt safe with him. He felt at home and knew that whatever came next would be better than facing eternity without him in it.
Paddy, despite his flaws and rather prickly demeanour, was always kind to him, always soft and almost sweet in his own way. The man who seemed to be around Eoin was a complete and total contradiction to how he acted with the other men in the unit. He seemed particularly fond of Eoin, almost smitten, and reserved a soft spot just for him, where poetry and gentility lived. He kept every drop of kindness he possessed for that man, and Eoin got to see a side to Paddy Mayne that was hidden from plain view, secluded and protected behind a thin veil of rage.
He saw underneath the shell, the rugged exterior and the pain that masked it all.
He had the privilege of peeking underneath the curtain of a vulnerable man, who kept his walls up at all times. Paddy never once raised his voice or lifted a finger to him, whereas other men felt his wrath on a regular basis.
Eoin would have followed him anywhere, so strong was the bond between them.
They were intrinsically linked, by fate or by love, whatever it was. But that night, as he stepped foot first into the abyss, Eoin knew there was a chance he was following him into forever.
He knew that this may have been the last time he peered into those striking blue eyes, yet he followed Paddy into the dark anyway.
Now, as his body struggled against the impending eternal night, Eoin lay in the lap of the one man he would have walked into Hades for. And despite not knowing exactly what he was signing up for, he simply nodded and accepted Paddy's offer. Anywhere Paddy was, he wanted to be. Even if it wasn’t the same, even if he wasn't the same.
Paddy had long accepted the fact that he would be alone forever. It was a fact of the life he led.
He avoided getting too close to anyone, for he knew he would eventually have to watch them die. He lived too long, had been hurt too many times.. but this man was different. The moment Eoin McGonigal stepped into his life, all his rules changed. Every code he ever lived by, gone in an instant. All his defences crumbled under the weight of those treacle brown eyes.
That smile melted his cold, unbeating heart and every time Eoin looked at him felt like the first.
He had never fallen in love before, let alone with a man, but Paddy couldn't help but succumb to the charms of this skinny Dublin boy. He was thin, but strong. And beautiful, so beautiful. Like a gift crafted specifically for him. Not just physically, though there were aspects of his form that stoked fires within Paddy, ones long extinguished by time and contempt.
He was light itself, a ray of sunshine in the everlasting darkness, a beam of light in the black night.
Paddy never thought he would end up in this situation, stroking the soft mop of curls on his head as his body lay broken and battered in the barren sands of Libya.
He never imagined falling this hard for a human, never thought it possible. But now, as Eoin inched ever closer to death, Paddy selfishly wished for more time. He wished to spend his life in Eoin's radiant light.
And even if he didn't want Paddy, he needed to know that Eoin still walked the earth….that those mesmerising eyes still roamed this plain of existence.
Paddy offered Eoin that chance; more time. Even if he didn't quite know what that entailed, he hoped against hope that Eoin would choose to live, would choose him.
When Eoin nodded, when he accepted Paddy's offer, he was set alight, but somewhere inside, a little part of him grieved the man Eoin could have been.
“This'll hurt a bit, I'm sorry lad. I'll make it quick” Paddy muttered, sniffling softly, hesitant to inflict any further pain.
Eoin nodded imperceptibly once more, peering into the glimmering blue pools of Paddy's eyes. Even in the dim light of the moon, he felt at peace lying in the arms of a man who cherished him.
Paddy repositioned Eoin carefully in his lap, taking one last look at his beautiful human form before sinking his teeth into the soft flesh in the hollow between his neck and shoulder, where the skin was thin but blood flowed in abundance.
His pointed teeth pierced through the skin before Paddy drew a mouthful, suckling at the tiny pink puncture wounds. A shuddering gasp & pained groan escaped from Eoin's lips, his body too fragile to fight against the sharp sting, against the intrusion into his fragile frame. Pain was no stranger to him now, but this felt different. It felt like a fire underneath his skin, scorching his nerves at the root.
He could feel the draw of blood to the surface, the pull of Paddy’s lips around the pierced skin and muscle. But he also felt Paddy, his lips, his breath, his teeth and tongue lapping at his essence. He felt every muscle as his body enveloped him, the smooth plains of his chest and the strength of his arms supporting him. It was as erotic as it was painful, but he felt secure knowing Paddy would not hurt him any more than necessary.
Never had Paddy tasted nectar so sweet, blood so pure, so velvety smooth yet riddled with guilt and heavy with anguish with each drop. For the first time, Paddy didn't delight in the ritual of drinking blood from another. Every drop came with a stark reminder of innocence lost, of his failure to protect the one person he cared about in this world.
Pangs of guilt overwhelmed him as he lapped at the open wound, at the decimation of Eoin’s humanity beneath his lips. He could have all too easily sucked him dry, drained his frail body of its life force and sent him hurtling towards oblivion without much thought. It may even have been kinder, but he trusted Paddy; he placed his future in his hands, and Paddy felt the crushing weight of that trust in every trickle of liquid that passed his lips.
His saliva quickly began its task of corrupting Eoin’s blood, paralysing his muscles and numbing his body. Though not its sole purpose, it freed him of mind altering pain yet prickled under the surface. Venom ran through his veins, coursed through his battered body and began its intrusion quite rapidly, but the real change would not yet begin to take effect until he drank from Paddy. Until he consumed that which bit him.
In the quiet of the desert, Paddy’s greedy slurping could be heard loud and clear against the silence of the barren nothingness. Once he had his fill, his spit sealed the wound, preventing blood loss when he withdrew from his flesh with a pop, his lips slick with blood.
Eoin could only direct his heavy eyes to Paddy’s plump lips, droplets of his own blood hanging on the skin, until his tongue darted out to lick the remnants from them, consuming each and every drop.
“I would not have you face the sweet pain of death alone” Paddy whispered, before sinking his teeth into the thinnest point of his wrist, an offering for the man he was about to save. It wasn't enough just to feed, in order to save him, he had to offer up a piece of himself too. In order to heal and transform, to truly change, he had to accept a part of Paddy in exchange. “Sup up lad.. it’ll help.” Paddy’s voice fluttered, unsure he was making the right choice. He nodded towards his wrist, where darkened blood dribbled from an obvious nick in the skin. Never had a decision weighed so heavy on his heart, never before had a choice caused him such distress.
“I long for our souls to be so deeply intertwined, that death himself would weep when faced with the thought of separating us” Paddy mused, his voice barely loud enough to carry on the wind, lost in thought as Eoin stared intently at Paddy's wrist, his eyelids weighed down and tired mind whirring before latching onto the exposed flesh.
Eoin, drained and weak, supped lightly at Paddy's open wound, while his hooded eyes were trained on Paddy's blood soaked face in a vain attempt at finding a focus through the haze. There was no animosity, no anger or rage to be found in his eyes…instead he saw sadness, even regret..
He didn't question it, or change his mind. It was this, or death of a more permanent kind.
Each mouthful of blood was electrifying, he could feel everything and nothing all at once. At first the change was painful, the sensations wracking his mangled body beyond its capabilities. But eventually Eoin felt a strange warmth bloom within him, almost as if his body was fighting against this foreign invasion, this unnatural transition.
His breathing gradually became easier.
The pain that kept him company in the hot sand gradually subsided, bit by bit. It felt like a sharp wave ebbed and flowed over him, taking his pain with it, replaced by a different sensation.
Every one of his cells saturated with Paddy’s essence. Perhaps in someone healthy, buzzing with the vitality of life, this may have been intense pain, shooting through their limbs like electricity through a wire, but for Eoin, whose body had been mangled by the harsh terrain of the Libyan desert, it came as a reprieve, a release from the prison of anguish he had been locked in since he fell from the sky.
Paddy couldn’t help but let the tears form in his eyes as Eoin’s heartbeat slowly faded away. That soothing sound that was his constant companion through the years of training, the only sound he focused on in the quiet of their shared tent in the desert, an invisible friend through those humid nights, a rhythmic almost hypnotic beating that signalled he was okay - now faded into nothing as his human form embraced his blood and began a slow transformation. A bittersweet metamorphosis indeed.
On one hand, it kept Eoin in his life, but he would be forever changed. He would no longer be the sweet, caring young lad Paddy had fallen so deeply for.
Eoin had awakened Paddy, he had stirred real emotion that he had long buried beneath rage and bloodlust. But more than that, the sight of him, limp and pathetic in his arms stirred up memories Paddy held most dear. Of youth and beginnings, of the very blossoming of their friendship.
They met on the rugby field, Eoin young and scrappy, Paddy desperately clinging to the vague remnants of his youth, but their friendship didn’t fully blossom until years later. Until they both experienced the sting of a bullet, the recoil of a gun and the bitter reality of life under constant fire from the enemy.
In a place not far from home, Paddy and Eoin reunited in the ranks of the Ulster Rifles. It was early 1940 in Ballymena Co.Antrim, but it could have been anywhere in the world. Time nor location mattered when the two of them were in the same place. There was something unspoken, something electric when they were near each other. An invisible connection neither of them could explain. Paddy wasn’t even supposed to end up back in the Ulster Rifles, but frustrated by the slow start and anti climax of the beginning of the war, he bounced from unit to unit, seeking adventure and excitement. He needed to serve, he wanted to be useful in this man made war, but he encountered bureaucracy and red tape at every turn.
Paddy had been part of various units in the British Army, serving in the Royal Ulster Rifles, moving between several Anti-Aircraft Regiments before he transferred back to the RUR, where he and Eoin reconciled once more.
Eoin, a mere teenager, gangly and practically all limbs, Paddy in his early 20’s. He had been in his early twenties for more years than he could count, his body stuck at the age he was when he was forcibly frozen in time. Although he and time were adversaries, always walking beside each other but never meeting, Paddy enjoyed seeing the inevitable change in Eoin as he aged. A transformation most natural and truly a pleasure to witness. He grew into a rather handsome man, honing his body to serve him well in battle. Strong, capable, yet beautiful. Cords of hardened muscle lay under soft, sun-kissed alabaster skin.
Freckles dotted across the surface, evidence of years spent training under the watchful eye of the midday sun. Speckles across his skin, accumulated and well earned. He transformed from an awkward, spotty teenager into a truly breathtaking young man before Paddy's eyes, seemingly in the space of a few short months. Every awkward feature just seemed to fit into place, his wide smile now his most endearing feature, his broad shoulders and strong arms drew Paddy's eye, despite all his attempts to keep things platonic. He brought joy to every person in his vicinity, an infectious happiness that even the grumpiest of creatures couldn’t resist - that even Paddy couldn’t seem to resist. One glance, that’s all it took to melt that cold unbeating heart, bringing warmth back to his chest with one errant smirk.
Paddy looked back at their time in the Commandos fondly. Before the world threw them into utter chaos, before fate saw fit to wrench him from his arms and throw him to the wolves.
In the scorching heat and unforgiving sun, he and Eoin became inseparable. Though he was prone to landing himself in trouble, Paddy made the most of each minute in their makeshift home in Cairo. Every second spent in eoin’s bright glow was worth the sweat and discomfort of sand wriggling into places it should never be. Paddy would have walked through fire to see that smile every day, and when he landed himself behind bars, yet again, he mourned those days together.
Eoin, selfless to a fault and secretly enamoured with his strange companion, joined the SAS specifically for Paddy. He transferred to an untested unit, an experimental regiment with some of the most unhinged officers in the British Army, just so the man he adored wouldn’t rot in a prison cell for his misdeeds. Paddy and his infamous temper had been in trouble one too many times, but it was this gentle boy from Dublin that saved him, and in the process, damned himself. True tenderness is silent and can’t be mistaken for anything else, Eoin showed the depth of his feeling for Paddy in a quiet gesture, but one Paddy would never understand, or ever be able to repay.
In the middle of the Libyan desert, a vast expanse of land the size of India, their bond solidified and grew into something truly special. Eoin and Paddy’s friendship was obvious from the outside, but only the two of them knew the true extent of their connection. Through gruelling training exercises under the blazing sun, to quiet moments shared in a humid tent while the moon peaked through, illuminating their stolen glances and comfortable silence.
Paddy often penned letters, though he had no family left to send them to. In them, he expressed his fondness for McGonigal, long sprawling poetic prose describing the pure unadulterated joy of having someone by his side as they embarked on such a perilous adventure. From those early days in the Commandos camp, under the heat of the Egyptian sun, to their assignment in Kabrit, Eoin was his comfort, his peace.
At night, when the world was asleep and the only sounds were the faint boom of explosives in the distance, Paddy often lay and stared at a sleeping Eoin in their shared tent.
As his body rested, Paddy watched, admired, and quietly protected. He often lay for hours looking at his broad chest rise and fall in time with the soft rhythmic thumps of his beating heart. A sound both comforting and foreign. A noise that had not emanated from Paddy's chest in more years than he cared to admit. That insignificant noise formed the soundtrack to Paddy's sleepless nights and became a sound he craved, a sound his keen ears could pick out of a crowd.
He could have never envisioned the tragedy that would befall them on their first mission out under the SAS. He could never have imagined the cruelty fate would bestow upon them.
“The terms of fate are past all understanding”
Eoin felt Paddy beneath him, the muscular strands of his strong legs supporting his head.
He felt his hands cradling his face, as he drew copious mouthfuls of blood from the fresh puncture wound on his wrist. It felt invigorating, healing…he no longer felt fragile under his soft touch, like he would snap under his fingertips. Paddy had been so gentle with him, so kind and unusually physical…he held him with such reverence, Eoin had never felt such peace in another's arms. And now, as he felt the broken pieces of his body repair themselves with every drop he ingested, Eoin became acutely aware of everything around him.
Everything all at once was quite overwhelming, all too bright and new. The world seemed to vibrate around him, as if the sands themselves were alive. As if the wind were an entity in itself.
A rush of vitality washed over him, a sudden surge of energy coursing through his veins, prickling under his skin, tongues of fire licking at his bones. His body felt foreign, sharper and new, as if it wasn't his own.
All his senses seemed to grow stronger. The air around him seemed crisper, the scent of his own sweat and blood wafted through his nostrils, mingling into one strange aroma. The pale moonlight shone just a bit brighter in the wretched sky. His vision unhindered by the darkness, unimpaired by the limits of human capabilities, he now saw every detail of the landscape surrounding him.
He felt each cell stitch into the next, his wounds healing with every drop of Paddy he consumed. Every mouthful, warm and invigorating. He became very aware of his injuries, but also noticed that some of the more minor ones had already healed over, leaving only miniscule scars on his pale skin.
Yet, despite his heightened senses, it took him a while to notice droplets falling on his face, coming from the face hovering directly above him. Paddy, in his grief and guilt, had let emotion wash over him. Masked by the rain, Paddy’s tears leaked from his hazy eyes and fell onto the man in his lap.
“Drink lad, keep drinking, it's okay.” he encouraged, his voice shaking and salty tears streaming down his face.
Eoin buried his head back down, the thirst more compelling than his curiosity. Paddy tasted like a new penny, his blood bright and fresh like a day reborn.
Paddy was glad to give him a new lease on life, to stop Death in its tracks and selfishly keep Eoin in his life for a while longer. But Paddy knew the sacrifice Eoin would have to make in order to live, in order to walk hand in hand with him once more. He would have to walk in Paddy’s shadow, would have to leave his old life and start afresh in the dark. He would have to give up too much, forsake everything and everyone he loved. He never wanted such a life for Eoin.
Paddy silently mourned the years of life he had stolen from him, the privilege of growing older, the sunrises he may never get to see. It was never his intention to take such valuable time, to rob him of a life he had yet to experience. Guilt had a way of truly gnawing at the soul. He was too precious, too naive. Too soft for the gruesome life Paddy led.
The rush of emotion surprised him, but Eoin always made him feel slightly more human. More in touch with the range of normal human emotions than he had in a long time.
Eoin dragged him closer to his humanity, forcing him to reckon with feelings that were long buried.
As he stared into the distance, a far away look gracing his features, Paddy wondered what aspects of humanity Eoin would miss most. Would he miss watching a sunrise without fear? A fresh breeze on a humid summer day?
Would he miss craving a cigarette first thing in the morning? The buzz from a good peaty Irish whiskey? Paddy found it was the simple things that he missed most.
And the most banal things that people took for granted. A deep breath of fresh countryside air, appreciating the smell of flowers. That quiet at dawn before the world woke up. The twittering of birds sitting on a line.
He missed just being.
His life now was a pretence, everything a rehearsed pantomime in order to fit in with humans.
Though it was his decision, and one done to save him from the crushing darkness, Eoin would've had no idea what he was sacrificing. What he would miss as he floated through the world, in it but nevermore fully experiencing all it had to offer. He would be but a shell of the bright, bubbly young man he was before.
"How cold love is, to rip him from his arms. "
The first days of a new vampire’s life can be intense, overwhelming. Paddy barely remembered his own transition, but he would never forget the white hot pain; debilitating and exhausting. He remembered how it felt, and was determined to help Eoin through the fever that wracked his broken body, hot and flushed as poison flooded every cell in his body, killing off the last parts of him that tied him to humanity. He cradled him through the shakes so strong Paddy felt his very bones rattle, as if evil had been trapped beneath his skin, desperate to get out. Paddy did everything that his sire failed to do for him.
Whether from guilt or a newfound sense of responsibility, Paddy clung closely to him in those first days. There was a newfound connection, a complete trust and bond forged between them but in spite of the tether they both felt, Paddy’s efforts brought about more strife than he ever intended.
In an attempt at sating his innate urge to feed, Paddy found Eoin blood, bringing him as much as the locals could spare. Paddy didn't enjoy killing, so he took as much as he could whilst leaving his victims alive. Little did he realise, new vampires require so much more blood than ancient, established ones. His memories of his own transition had faded, clouded by fear and frenzy. Despite his best efforts, Eoin remained painfully hungry, his new body craving the satiety of a proper feed. To quiet those hunger pains, to stave off the twinges and aches that come with a carnal thirst, Eoin snuck off each morning to hunt, to satisfy his gut wrenching cravings without disappointing the only person he had left. Paddy never noticed as eventually he returned to his post, he had to keep up a facade, maintain the life he had built in order to provide for Eoin. It was his responsibility, his duty to care for him and give him the life that his sire never thought to give him.
With the passing of time, Eoin grew into his new form, his body now strong and rejuvenated. All his injuries healed. Immortality makes itself known in many ways, for Paddy, his strength and intensely blue eyes were clear indicators. Eoin looked much like himself, but sharper, as if poison had taken all his beautiful soft edges and hardened them, his innocence lost in those Egyptian sands and something darker implanted itself beneath the surface.
In an attempt to bond, Paddy showed Eoin all he knew, imparted as much knowledge as he could onto the fresh new vampire, he was a clean slate with no preconceived ideas of this life. Paddy did his best to show Eoin how to feed, how to nourish his new body with life force freely given. Although Eoin inherited some of Paddy’s abilities, he was not yet able to journey very far in the sunlight. Under the safety of the pale moonlight, they hunted and gathered as much blood as they could. Eoin;s abilities would improve with time, eventually he could walk among humans, assimilate into their ranks once more, but for now, he needed the guidance of his sire, the protection of night and shadow.
Despite Paddy’s best intentions, reality proved that he was a much better soldier and leader on the battlefield than a tutor, a mentor in this unusual lifestyle. He was used to a solitary life, even when in the military, he much preferred the quiet solitude of his own company. Having someone around 24/7 was a big adjustment, especially when they depended on him, looked to him for guidance. Like a child, or a puppy he never wanted, but was burdened with. He was still hopelessly in love with Eoin, even in his new state, and it hurt seeing every aspect of this life take a toll on him, but Paddy didn’t have the skills to guide him through this period of change. He was never shown the path through this life, he never had anyone to mentor him.
The early days of Paddy’s transition were violent, marred with death and blood. He was drained by another, turned against his will and left alone in the night to face an unmerciless world as something new, something unholy. In the early hours, shrouded by darkness, he faced unbearable pain as venom tore through his body, every organ shutting down, dying a slow death before his time. Eventually his body stilled, face first in the mud on a lone country boreen. A rather undignified end for any man. It wasn't until he was revived by the same venom, his nerves firing anew and dancing under his cool hardened skin, that Paddy even realised what had been done to him.
His life had been stripped of meaning, his family and culture ripped from his grasp. He couldn't return to them now. Not changed as he was, not as something otherworldly, inhuman.
He could never go back, knowing he could rip the throats of the ones he loved from their fragile human frames. He couldn't go back to the life he had built, to the home he crafted with his bare hands or the job he loved,though times were often hard. An entire lifetime just wiped from existence, now only in memories of the ones he left behind. He often thought about them and wondered if they mourned him. Time would eventually remove him from memory of course, all too soon he became merely another presence in the night.
Scared and utterly ravenous, hunger pangs occupied his whole mind. He saw red, anger at his situation turned to incompatible rage, and he gave into the bloodlust wholeheartedly. With nothing left to lose, Paddy gave in to the life of a monster.
He ripped through a small community, decimating their population with very little effort and walked out of it still profoundly hungry, his intense bloodlust creating a waking nightmare for anyone who crossed his path.
It took him years to get a handle on his new abilities, on his new reality. It took him even longer to learn how to blend in, to walk among humans and live as one of them convincingly once more.
As he reminisced on the life he once had, and the gruesome method in which it was snatched from him, Paddy also thought of Eoin's predicament. Although he gave him the option that he never had, Paddy placed Eoin on the very same path. One of isolation and loneliness, of hunger and pain, a never ending stretch of purgatory. And as the man who turned him, Paddy had a responsibility to guide him, to teach him, but he didn't know how. His best didn't seem to be enough.
One particular morning, while Paddy was deep in paperwork and bogged down by bureaucratic nonsense, Eoin, in an impetuous moment of desperation, went in search of sustenance and ended up taking the life of an innocent. While out hunting alone, he followed his primal senses, his rational mind distracted by the beating heart and sweet smell of blood and a young boy suffered the consequences. Eoin latched onto him, desperate for relief from the pain that consumed his every thought and sucked every last drop from his veins.
Paddy, worried about his unusually long absence, went out to search for him. He found Eoin crouched over a lifeless corpse; grey, desiccated and utterly drained. In a moment of disgust, Paddy yanked him free of the dead body, and tossed him mercilessly into the wall a nearby alleyway. He saw the uncontrolled bloodlust in his eyes, shimmering and shining under the faint light of the rising sun. An irrepressible urge to feast, all human traits gave way to his most animalistic impulses. All sense of who he was before, devoured by an insatiable lust for blood.
As Paddy looked into his eyes, he saw only traces of the sweet, innocent young man he once was and he hoped against hope that he could find him in there somewhere, that his Eoin would return to him. In his heart, Paddy knew this transition would be tough for them both, but he never anticipated just how much would truly change.
As he stood there, redirecting his eyes back towards the lifeless body in the dirt, Paddy felt a wave of devastating guilt. Both for the life of the innocent boy Eoin slaughtered, and the man he used to be. He placed the blame squarely on his own shoulders, naturally.
He turned Eoin, cruelly stole his humanity from him, even though he was merely minutes from perishing and the choice was freely given. Death may have been a much kinder fate.
Not only that, but he had neglected to supervise him properly. It had been so long since he was turned, he forgot the intense hunger, the insatiable thirst for blood that happens in those first days. No amount of blood is ever enough, it’s a pang that refuses to be sated, refuses to be tamed. And when you don’t feed, the pain is enough to drive you to madness.
Eoin had felt that pain before, the night he turned. He couldn’t face that torture again, so he kept feeding.
Paddy confronted him, his face contorted from a rage Eoin had never seen directed towards him before. More than just anger, it was laced with bitter disappointment but also a hint of guilt, and emotion threatened to overwhelm him on the spot. Under Paddy's intense gaze, he could have broken from the weight of it alone. One hand gripped his arm, and as he wasn’t yet strong enough to escape Paddy’s clutches, he simply stood, trapped under his heavy stare. “I’m sorry Eoin, this is all my doing. I should have let you go that night…but I couldn’t face an eternity without you in it”, Paddy uttered, his face dropping as soon as he opened his mouth.
Eoin paused, in a state of shock. He wasn't expecting an apology and not for a minute did he expect Paddy to turn the blame on himself. That alone opened the flood gates of human emotion.
“I can’t stop Paddy, I don’t know what’s come over me…but I’m so hungry, it hurts…” Tears pricked the corners of Eoin’s darkened eyes, single drops falling onto his blood smeared cheeks and carving a path through the crimson stains as they fell.
Paddy had long learned to control his impulses, to only feed when necessary and only take enough to sustain himself. He forgot how debilitating those urges truly were, the vice grip they had on his existence, holding tightly until he succumbed to them and they turned him into a monster. He had no mentor to guide him, to put him on a less destructive path and for a long time he wandered the earth, plaguing small communities with his presence.
He brought death wherever he went, until he learned to pace himself - to only draw what he needed and leave his victims alive. He had no mentor, but Eoin did, and so far, he had failed him.
Not knowing any other way to show his devotion, Paddy gripped Eoin tightly and pulled him in to his chest. It wasn’t the reaction Eoin was expecting, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, so Paddy pushed further and kissed him deeply, pulling him in by the scruff of his neck.
It was raw, passionate..full of grief and regret, guilt and shame. But also hope, Paddy wanted this to work, he wanted, needed Eoin by his side. He would guide him through this.
Born out of an utter desperation for intimacy, for closeness, but also just for feeling. They both wanted more than the despair filling their chests.
The kiss showed a longing that had long been a companion for them both, a deep yearning for one another. Perhaps it was their newly formed bond, a connection so intricate and implicit in their being that neither man could explain. Perhaps it was the depths of their friendship, or their mutual respect for the other. Neither cared to delve too deeply into the why, in that moment thought disappeared completely, in favour of unadulterated passion and total abandonment of inhibitions.
The metallic taste of blood mixed with their combined saliva, prompted a low throaty groan from the younger man. Eoin’s fists grasped at Paddy's shirt, grabbing a fistful and holding him tightly to his chest. He pulled him in so close, the kiss became deep and almost desperate in its frenzy. Forlorn and tormented, Eoin ached for relief, to feel something other than hunger and pain.
Paddy was the cause and solution of his current predicament, but try as he might, he couldn’t place blame at his feet. Paddy saved him, he dragged him back from the edge of oblivion, he held him close and didn’t let death take him in a manner so ferocious.
Eoin knew how Paddy felt about him, he knew that man hung on his every word, as if the sun shone through him. He knew how Paddy felt, yet he didn’t have the courage to act upon it as a human. Now, with nothing left to lose and a plentiful abundance of time, all his misgivings and doubts melted away, and a powerful yearning for connection took hold.
Paddy was the one man he could share this life with, the one being who knew his plight yet also knew the depths of his humanity. Paddy never wanted this existence for him and never forced it upon him. Eoin never once blamed Paddy for his failures as a mentor, and as he held him tightly to his chest, Eoin felt nothing but love for the man before him.
It was a clashing of sharp teeth and tongues, wild and messy. Paddy barely felt the little nicks from Eoin’s awkward movements, his newly grown fangs nicking Paddy’s tongue, drawing small drops of blood to the surface and mixing with their combined saliva. Eoin was desperate for relief, for a connection, any contact with the one man who understood what he felt. He would have done anything to keep Paddy in that spot forever. To hold him like he was the most precious thing. In life, Eoin was independent but personable...he never shied away from human connection but he never needed it either. Now, he felt like he would shatter into a thousand pieces without Paddy grounding him. Like he would vanish without his presence.
Both men lost themselves in the swell of emotion they now shared, both overwhelmed by the rather unfamiliar sense of vulnerability.
Paddy never let himself break like this, he never let the fragile spectrum of human emotion cloud his mind. He always thought humans rather foolhardy to succumb to their emotions,but Eoin always had a way of shattering every pretence, every wall and defence he put up around his broken heart. It had been decades since he gave in to such simple feelings, they had been tucked away into some far recess of his mind, forgotten or simply ignored, but Eoin had a way of wrenching them from the depths.
Eoin’s hands grounded him in the moment, something oddly comforting and familiar to the man he was before. Long, graceful, but earthing; they held firm and steady against his heaving chest. He felt everything, from the tears streaming down Eoin’s cheeks to his ragged breaths, frantic and uneven.
Pulling back, breaking the tether that had formed between their bodies, Paddy held him just far enough apart so he could stare into his glassy amber eyes. They were brighter than before, but still had a familiar tint, a warm hue that reflected the lick of sunlight streaming across the horizon.
“We’ll get through it lad, it won’t be like this for long. I promise.”
Tears welled up in his own eyes, before finally breaking through and streaming down his face, a waterfall of raw emotion that refused his ancient commands.
He held him tight against the rising sun, protecting him from its rays. Cradling him against the merciless light of day as if he would wither in its unforgiving glow. Paddy held him as if his body would crumble under the warmth of the sun's rays, as if Eoin would simply disappear if he left his side again.
“If I could gather courage as one gathers roses, I would place a thousand at your feet and one, trembling, at your heart”
Paddy felt an intense sense of responsibility, a newfound longing to protect him from the world, from those who would wish harm against him, but also from himself. Eoin was new to this life, to the harsh realities that faced a being such as him. He didn’t yet know how to walk amongst humans, how to be accepted into society without prejudice or fear.
He didn’t yet know how to control his impulses, his urges. But Paddy vowed silently to be the one to show him. To teach him to the best of his ability, to impart every bit of knowledge he had gleaned over his lengthy lifetime roaming the vast expanse of this world.
As he held Eoin against the light, as his fingers threaded through that thatch of curls he adored, Paddy vowed to be the protector for Eoin that he never had himself. Not just for eoin’s sake, but his own. He needed him in his life. A lifetime without end was only worthwhile with love in it. And he had never felt a love so strong as he did with Eoin McGonigal.
Some day he could face into the roaring sun, some day he could walk in the light…for now he would need Paddy to shield him, to walk with him in the shadows.
“The best yuri is written out of spite.” -my friend Ashley, when I told her the reasons for writing this short were out of spite for Geoffrey Chaucer encouraging people to not believe in elves and my love of lesbians
Anyway it finally got done, some Elf Yuri TM for @jsketch12 ! Juno if you disagree with any of these descriptions or characterizations please do not hesitate to correct me
Anyway enjoy lol
With the holiday rush finally over, most of Santa Claus’ elves were out on the town, treating themselves to a nice break. Some were catching up on lost sleep. Some were using the leftover materials from their toy grind to make some personal knick-knacks. Sally, however, was heading to Scandinavia, specifically to the land of the Sylvanian Álfar, to visit her girlfriend. Despite the two groups partaking in trade and being on good terms, as far as Sally knew, she was the only one of the Arctic Elves to ever date one of the Álfar, since they were notoriously hard to please (as most elves who lived south of the Pole were). Sally still didn’t know how she’d managed to get on the good side of probably their most wonderful member, in all senses of the word: Lady Avylana, one of the keepers of the forests of Midgard.
Sally found Avy watering a small sapling in one of the sacred groves. She stuck out like a polar bear in a reindeer pen with her long, white dress against the brown and green forest. Knowing better than to trespass too far on holy ground without permission, Sally leaned on a tree nearby. “Hey, beautiful,” she said, not even trying to hide her smile.
Avylana looked over at her and smiled back. “Sally,” she chuckled, standing up straight.
“How’s it goin’ out here, m’lady? Need some help?”
The pair couldn’t have looked more different. Sally was pretty tall for an Arctic Elf, but she was still barely taller than Santa’s kitchen counter. She was full of spunk and sass, with brown hair that refused to lay flat on her head unless it was kept under a hat for at least three hours. Avylana was twice her height and then some, and regal and collected as they came. Her strawberry blonde hair was about as long as Sally was tall, always kept perfectly brushed. Yet despite those differences, they both took their jobs very seriously. Sally spent most of her year working tirelessly to build and wrap toys for children all over the world, and Avylana worked to keep the forests of her homeland healthy and alive. Sometimes, that meant helping each other with their tasks.
Avylana frowned a little, the glow in her silver eyes dimming a bit in her concern. “Haven’t you just gotten a break from your toy-making duties now that the holidays are over?” she asked.
Sally shrugged. “I like to keep busy, and I’m a capable gal. Besides, I wanna make sure we get all the time we need to chat, and that means getting you off work. You got a spare watering can or somethin’?”
Avylana had learned by now not to argue with Sally once she'd made up her mind on something, or at least that was what Sally thought. “I suppose there’s no harm in allowing you to lend a bit of aid.” She looked around. Her gaze settled on a few saplings in pots. “Would you like to help me re-plant these?”
“Sure thing. Can I, uh, come in?”
“After you remove your shoes, of course.”
Sally took off her shoes and trotted over to where Avy was. The saplings were about half her height, small enough for someone like Avy, but a hassle for herself. Nevertheless, Sally was used to having to lift things as tall as she was. She buried her hands in the pot, getting her arms deep enough in the dirt to where she felt some soil fall into her shirt collar, and lifted with all her strength. Up came the sapling. It wasn't heavy, just cumbersome. “Goodness,” said Avy from behind her. “Perhaps you should not-”
“Nah, I’m ok, babe,” said Sally. “Where do you want this?”
“Are you sure you can carry that safely?” The concern in Avy’s voice was tangible.
“I’m fine. I’m used to this. Where should I put it?”
Avy directed Sally to a hole she had dug prior. Sally lowered the tree down roughly, trying not to drop it, and plonked it into the hole. The whole front of her sweater was covered in dirt. Sally couldn’t help but see Avy bite her lip a little at seeing the mess the tree had made. “Oh, dear…”
“You’re actin’ like I don’t have a washing machine at home, babe,” said Sally, scoping out another hole that Avy had dug and marching toward another pot. “All in a day’s work! At least it ain’t paint. I’ve ruined plenty of sweaters to paint accidents. There was this one time-” She paused to heave the tree out of its pot. “-this one time that Pepper had the gall to try luggin’ a full paint bucket across the second floor walkways. Girly tripped and the whole bucket went top-down onto the floor below. Elliot, Devin, and I were right there. Bright orange paint, too! Poor Devin got the brunt of it, but I had paint in my hair for weeks afterward.”
“My goodness,” said Avy, sounding deeply concerned. “You weren't harmed, were you?”
“Nah, we were all fine, but Mr. Scott was livid. Pep was ordered to clean up the whole thing herself, which I personally think was a little unjust, since it wasn’t her fault. She bought us all hot chocolate afterwards as compensation for dunkin’ us. We paid her back in secret.”
Sally lowered the sapling into the hole. “I’m just glad you’re alright,” said Avy, coming over and helping her bury it. “Promise me you’ll never stand under a paint bucket again, though. Alright, love?”
“Promise,” said Sally, blushing a little at being called “love” and at being so close to Avy after so long of not seeing her.
Avy nodded in acknowledgement. “Bright orange, hm? I'm unsure how good you would look in that color. I'd say green matches your eyes a lot better.”
“Yeah, I think you're right,” said Sally. Having Avy so close to her after so long was making her a little flustered. “Hey, uh… mind if I gave you a lil kiss?”
Avy smiled at her, then gave her a peck on the cheek. Sally blushed even more. “It’s good to see you again after so long,” said Avy, brushing some of Sally’s hair behind her ear, then booping her nose gently. “Promise me you’ll tell me everything after we get done here.”
“Heh… yeah. Of course, babe,” said Sally, and promptly followed it up with a kiss of her own. After a long few weeks of toiling away almost nonstop, being alone in the woods with her partner was just the rest she needed.
