#;; our love is thick like blood like honey

[sugudoe]

☕️⌇ ◜ OFFICE HOURS ◞ ⠀⠀⠀

╰⠀boss!nanami x secretary!reader where . . . nanami kento can’t let people know the reality that he, under no circumstances, belongs to them. in fact, is quite the contrarie. everyone in this job is a puppet willingly letting him pull the strings. you more than anyone. after committing the bizarre mistake of telling nanami your true intentions with him, your boss is more than eager to comply your desires and just maybe, forget he first input of no belongings.

cw. too much swearing, fingering with others present (not caught), fem!reader, reader keeps daydreaming w. nanami, slightly age gap but non-important all legal, public sex, overstimulation, they both keep failing to hide, possessiveness, love bites, he slap her thigh once, bit of blood because of self lip biting 4.9k words, english is not my first language.

an. hi, hello, i want everyone to know i’m this man wife. this is, in fact, our love story, i used to serve his coffee, now i’m serving my puss— anyways, enjoy it. FYI nanami smells like either tom ford tobacco vanille or byredo bibliothèque.

There are certain events in the workplace ── a sequence, if you may ── that serves as a warning to everyone that Mr. Nanami Kento has arrived.

Not many months ago, you were clueless to the symphony of presentation he had, even before stepping into the room. Now, though, it’s engraved in your mind. Much like he is. It is, also, a dirty secret to have that you eagerly wait for it, everyday.

Halting the tack-tack of your fingers on the keyboard, your ears pick the first signal ── rushed footsteps. All opening space so he can pass without the need to raise his eyes, hidden by sunglasses, from his cellphone. The second is the whispers and swooning. Some, more brave than others, compliment him out loud. Always about his peculiar ties, and always he smiles back. Lastly, when Nanami is in your sight of view, he is accompanied by his signature scent that greets you before he even does.

The most raw way to describe his smell is by saying that you wish you could crack him open, and lay inside of him forever. It’s comfortable and addicting and it makes you want to kiss him until it can permanently fixates on you.

In more proper synonyms, Nanami Kento smells like caramel, wood and a bit smokey. He is hot to the touch, one can admit. You don’t fall far from these thoughts, but sometimes, when you are not eye-fucking your boss, you think he smells like a cozy cabin in the woods.

Perfect place to fuck him, though.

Is easy to imagine such a thing. You can picture him with thick sweat covering his body, like a second layer, as he comes inside with a hatchet and wood for the fireplace. And you can, also easily, imagine yourself on your knees sucking him so good, as way to thank him for keeping you warm.

It’s a Kento effect. Everywhere he passes, people tend to have a heat stroke. You are no better than the others. Probably worse. He, however, does not need to know that. Nanami’s plate is already filled to the brims with people gazing him as a snack, he doesn’t need his personal assistant to do the same.

Not in front of him, anyways.

So, when he comes near your table, and stop to take whatever you have for him (work related, honey, even when you wish it was your pussy), you present the calls he need to answer with a compliment for his shoes and a black coffee with pretzels.

He adores you.

You want to fuck him senseless.

A perfect imperfect balance of clashing feelings. His are professional, yours are not even close. He only steps over the boundaries when it’s to call you “Darling” and you only do so in your head, when you think of laying on his table and letting him feast on your dripping cunt.

He is gentle and caring.

You wouldn’t mind chanting his name loud enough for everyone to understand what’s happening.

He departs ways and you share a trembling sigh with your inner turmoil of emotions. He makes you have a constant fever. In fact, with him, everything is constant. You want to fuck him everyday, you touch yourself with his voice in your mind guiding you. He gets pretty out of character in your alone mind, though.

Real Nanami is a sweetheart. Your Nanami would make you cry while on his cock.

“── and the meeting room needs to be ready by eleven, you can do all that, darling?” He asks. He asks! He is talking with you.

“I, uh, I’m sorry, Mr. Kento,” You stutter before shifting your attention from your computer screen to his charming understandable smile. “could you repeat, please?”

“Sure, darling.”

You need to put extra neurons to work when eyeing his pink lips moving gracefully. Is it the same shade as his cock? Oh, you hoped so. That would be your favorite color, would paint your nails, your hair, anything.

“Got it now?” Nanami curls his lips as he question you. You can’t lie to him, so you sign that No, you did not payed attention. He chuckles and comes closer, resting both hands in fist on your table, letting himself down so he can be face to face with you. “I need you to order mine, yours and the lunch for the usual gentleman I talk about the finances, ── you have that noted, right?” You nod, and he proceeds. “Then, I want you to decorate the meeting room, the way you always do.” You nod again, and he moves back. You want to whine. “Good girl.”

Pause.

That’s new. It’s like achieving a new item in a game. A new level. That’s a prize, the greatest form of enlightenment one could have. You feel warm in your chest and cheeks, but dare not to sway your eyes from his twinkling ones. You wonder if he knows what you are thinking, or if he knows the power he has over you ── over everyone.

That’s Nanami Kento. The man with a dazzling aura, it touches all in proximity, no one survives him. If he wants, you are his. Hooked like a worm, willingly ready to be devoured by a fish, and the thing is no one knows if Nanami is said fish or the fisherman.

The secret about his success is not only the sweet talk he does, but the way he can easily take it away. And no one wants to be away from his warmth. You’ve seen it before, how he controls people ── some more powerful than your mind can comprehend, they all are puppets for him to pull the strings. He touches and praises them when they do what he wants, but Nanami grows cold and absent when they don’t.

Everyone wants to be loved by him, so everything this enterprise does, it revolves around Nanami.

He can be a scary man when he wants, and you’ve heard the tales, from time to time. With you, fortunately, he is just your nice boss. And a part of you wish he would cradle you into his arms and play with you like a marionete. His doll. Yeah, you want to be his fucking doll.

Tempted to ruin this lunch and be ravished by his famine, you shake your deranged thoughts and focus on ordering the food. Also asking for red velvet cookies for you and Mr. Gojo, the owner of this whole enterprise.

A cocky young man, that likes to devour your physique whenever you come inside the room. He is rich and beautiful and his name is always on the newspaper with gossip mostly involved. You could fall for him, could fuck him, but he is not Nanami.

He doesn’t boss you around gently, nor he makes you crave his scent on lonely nights. He makes you shy, but not timid and horny. In fact, you don’t even think about Satoru Gojo unless you are balancing his persona with Nanami’s. That’s sad for him.

You keep doing that ── the thoughts, the sexual dreams ── while preparing the meeting room with a charming decoration. Black glasses, black plates, all with golden details. Satoru Gojo himself payed for it, not that he knows or care. You commented once, Nanami liked, and moved his toys in favor of buying the expensive kitchen utensils you wanted. He even made sure to get some for your own house.

The last part is closing the thick black curtains around the room, for privacy. Someone comes inside the second you step back from the last tapestry, and when you turn, Nanami is there.

“How’s everything?” His fingers press on the table, moving swiftly with him, closer to you. “You’ve got cookies?” There is amusement in his question.

“Mr. Gojo’s secretary, Suguru, told me he was craving something sweet.” You turn back to the table behind you, stacking the sweet in a small mountain. “He always gets fussy if he doesn’t get his daily large intake of sugar.”

You grabbed one, knowing that half of it was rightfully yours, and twisted on your heels. Nanami scared you in two sequential situations after that. The first being his looming presence right in front of you, piercing gaze on you, shifting between your eyes. He was searching for something in it, so, you tried the hardest you could to give him something back. Eyes that said “please, fuck me.”

Maybe it worked. The next thing he did, that scared you, was bending down and biting your cookie. Eyes never leaving yours. You gulped, he smirked.

“Please, fuck me.”

He chocked.

See, your eyes were supposed to be the one speaking for you, but Nanami also has this super power that no one can lie to him. He wants something, he gets it delivered in a silver plate. He knows everyone’s secret, and yours were never safe, just happened to be hidden in a line of things that weren’t priority for him. Not until now, at least. He wanted to know what you were hiding, and you gave it to him.

“I ──” The words are struck behind your teeth. Nanami eagerly waits for them. “I’m so sorry.”

And with that, you leave him.

In a perfect world, he would have grabbed you by the wrists and fucked you against Satoru’s side of the table. But it’s not, because he lets you go. He has to let you go, even if you know that’s not the end of it. He will get you later, and like a little kid in science class, he will dissect everything you said. Therefore, during the thirty minutes of freedom you are granted in the bathroom, before the meeting starts, you try and fail and try and fail to conceal your thoughts into a perfect lie.

It doesn’t work. Not even a bit. Because Nanami knows you like the back of his hand, as much as he knows everyone that works with him. He knows when you lie and when you are truthful, and thanks to that, your work relationship had always been good ── you’ve never lied to him to stroke his ego. You were too busy wanting to stroke something else. Nanami let you slide your nasty comments about others, and he would share them, granting you some of their secrets.

He was a gossiper. He knew everything. You knew right there that lying would never work with him, so you just avoided to let him reach that horny part of yours that burned for him. Give him something else to sink his attention into. Your neck, you wanted, but rather you would feed him with gossips from your college classes, or what you got from Suguru Geto, your friend and Satoru’s assistant.

Now, you had already run out of distractions. Maybe that was his plan all along. If the world is correct, and it all falls down to Nanami’s desires, then maybe he was just waiting for you to crumble and admit. You had never been subtle with your eyes, anyway. That’s why he had been so fascinated about it, staring from time to time, trying to catch a glimpse of your true self, like a wishing star in a starry night.

The stars have gone dark, burned and busted away, when you come back to the meeting room and sit down on your designed chair, by his side. Nanami is focusing at you, again, like he needs more of your secrets at this moment. You have never gave him something so largue before, he is addicted.

But you, stubborn, appalled, stoic and all, think your plate of pasta is the most interesting thing in this whole world. You don’t eat much, because your throat is filled with all the words and screams you want to let out. You fear if you so much breathe loud, it will all come flooding this room.

“Are you annotating all of this in your head?” Nanami whispers in your ear, referring to the meeting now in progress. You sign no, and he sighs. “Your mind is far away, today.”

“Sorry.”

“What should I do with you?”

Someone coughs. An old man, standing by the edge of the table. He wants Nanami’s eyes on him, the praise, the goodness. Kento grants him half a smile, and that is not enough. Never will be. Everyone always wants more.

The lights are turned off when the projector is brought by Suguru, he comes and goes quickly, not before stealing a cookie from Satoru. That’s the first smile you present since the incident, and Nanami is back at staring at you with an intensity your heart fears but your pussy drips for. Are you scared? Petrified. And still, you are fucking horny.

He knows your secret, he is devoting his eyes to you, no matter what anyone else wants. He, in this moment, wants you. It might be because he needs to know what you meant, it might be because you are stroking his ego, finally. Or, you dare wonder, he is debating throwing you on that table and fucking you. Old men and Satoru aside, you wouldn’t mind. At all.

You take courage to look at him, and instantly you stare at his lips first, before his eyes. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. You go back at eyeing the projector. He does the same a long beat later. An even longer one, he slowly puts his hand on your exposed thigh, skirt raised since you set down.

You try to not fail in your stoic face, but you do so anyway. Because, for fuck’s sake, Nanami Kento has his hands on your thigh, his thumb in circular movements. Your lips instinctively curl up, he snorts by your side before going back to his serious demeanor.

You thought he would just keep his hands there, as if testing the water but deciding to stay near the shore. That’s not his case, though. Nanami loves to go to the beach, to swim far away beyond the waves, he likes to get damped. His hand move closer, and you open your legs absentmindedly. He wants, you give. As much as you have wanted, and now he is giving you.

When his hands are pressing against your lacy underwear, you hear a little “Fuck” coming from his mouth. You’re soaking wet.

It’s hard to keep your breathing pattern steady when he is near you. Even more harder when he has one finger slowly penetrating you. For the outsider viewer, everything is normal, and the two of you are just concentrated on the projector screen. The truth is you have no idea what’s going on, and maybe neither does him. You want to moan, and tug his hair until he groans. And you want him to replace his finger with his cock. You stare at the annotation book, empty of your handwriting, and use the opportunity of your head down to hang your mouth open and close your eyes.

Nanami shifts his eyes to you, and he drowns himself into your fucked gaze, even more so when he puts another finger. He can’t linger much, or others will notice, so he decides to keep his movements fluid and calm, and to stare at you from time to time.

He can multitask. Of-fucking-course. He asks questions, answers, he acts as if he is one hundred percent into whatever is going on. The reality is different. The truth is all about his curling fingers pressing themselves in a place inside you that will forever mark his presence there. Like a secret plaything only for him, no one, not even you, will ever reach that. It’s like he is signing it with either his name only or a “Nanami was here.”

You want him to stay, forever. Stay inside you, slow pacing, curling, sensitive.

He can’t, because what feels like hours later, turns into minutes. Everyone is raising up to leave, and he moves out of you so fast, you clench around nothing ── had you been quicker, grabbed his fingers, they all would know. You don’t give a fuck, you want them too know.

“Go to my office.” He whispers before going the opposite direction of the exit, and staying back to talk with the others. You walk without a goodbye, creating an excuse when Satoru wants some of your time.

Inside his office, you feel like breathing for the first time. It’s confusing, like your lungs are new and not fully connected to your esophagus, so it comes up weird ── in a mixture of laugh and relief, salted with a “what the actual fuck”.

You want to stop and think of what’s happening or what’s to happen, but you never had the chance. It’s a second later, and you are being pressed against his, now, locked door. His arms holding your hips, his head resting on your neck, sulking your scent much like you do with his.

“You meant it, right?” He asks, bringing his face up to yours. “You want me to fuck you. Please, darling, say you do, because I need to fuck you now, or I’ll go crazy.”

“Yes, please, please.” Midway through your desperate nod, Nanami lunged at you, catching your lips in his and conducting the rhythm, the strength.

He was so, so good. In all ways. His slow fingers had your legs shaking and his eager kiss has your mind fogged. All that he does seems to be professional, but you know deep down, this effect is all because is made by him. Just his presence alone could have you hot and bothered, but to actually be touched by him, it’s like adding the fire to your gasoline self.

You had always been meant to be burned by Nanami.

He hoist you up against the door, for a quick second his hands kept clawing your thighs, until he walked you both to his desk. He let you down on it, and at the same time, his kisses moved to your neck and shoulder. You could feel the scrape of his teeth, tempted to mark you with a significant bite ── tell them I’m yours, you thought.

He groaned against your flustered skin, because he knew he couldn’t do that. Mark you, that’s it. Fuck you? Oh, that he can, that he will do.

“I need you to be really quiet for me.” His hands are quick on his belt, dropping it with a thud against the floor. He raises your skirt to your waist, Nanami grumbled under his breath with the sight of your underwear. He had touched the elaborate details earlier, but to see it was another story. White, see through, a pink ribbon on the top. “I’m going to rip it.”

“No, you’re not!” Raising your leg, you pushed him away. Eyes still hypnotized by your clothed cunt. You removed the piece with a satisfied smirk. It had been months since you started to wear those type of under-wears, hoping one day this situation would come.

No one wants to fuck their sexy boss with granny’s pants.

The cold table coming in contact with your intimacy made you moan a bit, and Nanami’s attention was back on you. There you were, beautifully waiting for him. Fuck-me eyes, pleading mouth, hands gripping the edge of the desk. You were at his mercy, had been for a while now. And he? Well, Nanami was yours now, that’s what matter.

One of his fingers, the same one he had penetrated you earlier, came back inside you. Smearing itself with your wetness. His other hand gripped your hips, bringing you closer, and making him go deeper. There, right fucking there. He curled, and thrusted, and another two more out of nowhere.

Cruelty was not on the way he was ravishing your cunt, but the biting of your teeth on your hand. You have to be quiet, follow his orders, but Nanami seemed to want to make you scream. Let everyone know that he is fucking you. Nearly fucking you.

Combining this movements with the ones of earlier, you feel your insides getting tighter. He senses as well, and raises his peace once more. But, again, your legs push him away. Nanami doesn’t like that, he comes back quick, wet fingers anxious to reclaim their place inside you, but you sign no, and he halts. That’s it. The man that controls everyone, and he is at your mercy.

“I want to cum on your cock.” Maybe is the sweet and diabolical way you say, or the tilting of your head with a charming smile. What matters is, he complies right away. His pants fall, he takes off his blazer, and not a second later you are presented with what you’ve been craving for months.

Like a pregnant lady, you almost cry and fall on your knees, finally having your desire attended. He doesn’t want that either, instead Nanami takes a condom from his wallet. Before he puts it, his waiting fingers touch your cunt again, grabbing a bit of your liquid and smearing it on himself. You nearly ask him to throw the condom away.

Is a sinful sight. All of this. You on the desk, legs wide open. He in front of you, adjusting himself on the condom. Both groaning when he, fucking finally, align with your entrance, and slowly gets in. He is largue, and thick, and preparation might have been necessary had you not been daydreaming of this moments months ago.

Had he not been himself, that man that makes you drip with just a “good morning”, this might have hurt. Instead, it’s exhilarating to be parted by his cock. The condom does not stop you from feeling his veins tickling your walls, or his tip finally setting near your cervix. That was fucking new. Pleasant and scary, and fucking welcome as well.

“Say it again,” He asks, hands on both your hips and eyes looking over yours. Waiting for the stars to fall over the two of you. “tell me to fuck you.”

“Fuck m──” He doesn’t wait for you to end before he removes himself, and going back with a gushing sound. You nearly scream out of pleasure, but in the last second, you bite your lips strong enough to draw some blood. “Mmh, you fucking a-asshole.” He snorts at that, before slapping your thigh.

Seems that Nanami can do all the noises he wants. He groans against your skin, head hanging low to stare at the way you pussy suck his dick in and out. You have always been a good girl ── his good girl. Taking all the he gave you. Mostly work related, and now his cock. You truly were made just for him.

“You feel so fucking good, baby.” A moan scapes your hands, and he doesn’t bother spanking your leg again. He called you baby, and you’re strangling his dick perfectly. You can shout at this point, he is pussy fucked.

Removing your hands from your mouth, you decide to do something much better than guarding your pleasure. Instead, you open his button-up blue shirt. A dream come through, is what this day will be remembered as. Specially now, where he lets you do as you pleases, and you have the sight of his pecks ── bronzed from a beach trip he took last week, and glistening with sweat for your recent activities. You moaned again, before going for it, and marking him.

Nanami allowed you to do so. He only cared about holding your hips and raise your lower body, so he could make you meet his thrusts halfway. He didn’t hold a care in the world about his groaning getting louder, or the burning on his neck and chest caused by your eager mouth and teeth. Fuck that. Fuck everyone. The only thing he truly wanted was to be inside of you forever. To be planted in this moment of his life, on loop, being marked by you, having his cock milked out by your dripping cunt. That’s what his life was made for.

Nanami Kento had this aura that made everyone scramble for him and his left-overs, as a way to keep close. To say they have something that once was his. Because everyone knew that Nanami was no one’s property. This moment, this fuck, this pussy proved that statement to be contraire ── he was yours. From the first day he saw you and specially one hour ago, when he had eaten your cookie and you told him to fuck you. He knew right then that he would shift the whole balance of the world to give you what you want.

And if that’s his aching cock, fucking be it. It’s yours. You’re taking it so good, and barely paying attention to it. He keeps bruising your cervix, and you respond with little whimpers and more bites. He quicken his peace, you close your legs around his waist, as if giving him more opening.

A perfect synchrony.

“Wan’ to cum.” You mumble just right after he senses your wall get tight.

“C’mon, baby, ugh, cum f’me.”

“Mmh, fuck, ngha.”

You do right after, going limp on his arms, he slow his thrusting with a snort and laying you down on the desk. He shuffles something by your dazed-self side, before he brings a black sharpie near your cleavage. He kisses and licks and sucks on it, before opening the pen with his mouth, and signing a straight line.

“How many more can you give me, pretty?” You don’t answer in words, but with more quiet whimpers, when his thrusts go back to pounding you in a maniac pace. He holds your neck down, leaning to kiss you through your beautiful moans.

You’re sensitive, he knows. Because you keep closing more and more around his length, trying to make him cum, unknown to you that it only makes you closer to coming again. You hit your head on the desk when trying to follow his departed lips, Nanami has your neck again on his mouth, tasting your sweat and lotion, and all you can give him. It’s only when he bites it slightly, you release yourself once more.

“Mmph, fuck, fuck, argh.”

Nanami keeps jerking his hips onto yours, not even having cum once. He takes pleasure in yours, you can see. With a proud smirk, he grabs the sharpie once more, but this time, he makes a diagonal line that touches the top of the first.

“Mhm──!”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, baby. Just a bit more.” He cooed at you, sweet tone diverging from his animalistic movements.

You’re not complaining, not even regretting. So you keep yourself down and let Nanami control both of yours fun. He is ruthless in his pace and fantastic with his kisses, he doesn’t mind your moaning anymore, or the fact that everyone on your floor already knows. What can they do? Stop you? Nanami will rip everyone apart and just return to your pussy. Threaten him? No one would dare. He is still their sweetheart, their most sacred prize, beautiful and shinning to look at. Never to have.

“I’m, ugh, I’m yours.” He grunts.

This time, you sense a shift in his thrusts. So methodical now sloppy, and his cock kept twitching inside of you, sending more waves of pleasure to your core. Yes, fucking finally, he was near.

“All fucking m──mine.” You agreed with his words, grabbing the back of his neck and slamming your lips together. “I’m yours, always had been.”

Nanami can’t even control himself anymore. He groans and pants as he releases himself inside you. With a mist of swearing and praises you could barely decipher. After all, his own release had triggered yours.

When you both had come back from the high, Nanami raised himself from your chest, and kissed you, tongues intertwining, teeth clashing and biting. When he parted, leaving you breathless, he had then pen in his hand again. It touched your skin, once more, connecting from the bottom of his last line, going up straight.

It’s a “N”.

“You think we can spell my name?” He asks, leaving your inside to throw his condom out. He opens a drawer, where a box with more is presented.

“That would be more 17 fucks.” You support your weight on your elbows while counting.

“It’s that a no?”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up your throat, before beckoning him closer. He does right away, kissing you hungrily once more. As if he is trying to record forever the taste of your mouth. He has your hair in his fists, pushing it back so he can go back to your, now, heavily marked neck.

“Let’s see how far can we go.” You indulge into his crazy erotic idea.

Nanami smiles triumphantly. He removes himself from your body, but doesn’t put condoms, instead, he falls on his knees, diving straight for your pussy.

Hours later, the sun beginning to set on the horizon, you leave his locked office with a smug smirk and timid eyes. Both accompanied by messy hair, flushed cheeks, marked neck and… “Nana” written on your chest.

“We’ll finish this later.” He comes behind you, closing his shirt, but letting the top buttons opened enough to catch a glimpse of your love marks on his chest. Specially the one with “Mine” marked in it.

[shomixremix]

THE ALTAR OF ADORATION ♥︎

recently i've been getting more and more into my zhongli brainrot (even though he's been one of my fav characters since forever lol) so here you all go!!

oh also tysm for over 1k notes, 100+ reblogs and 50 new followers!! you guys are the best <3 i really didn't expect that kind of support on my last post - turns out everyone likes some dragon men!! so i decided to write some more, here you lovelies go!!

tags: Zhongli, female! reader, dragon! zhongli, religious themes, sacrificial offering, smut, fluff, mating, breeding, creampie, monsterfucking

-> you have been chosen as a sacrifice to the great geo lord rex lapis, during a period where everyone believed he was mad at mortals. scared for your life and trembling, you now realize there was another problem troubling lord morax.

reqs open ♡︎ | minors DNI

great lord rex lapis roamed the earths and heavens for centuries, ruling the land of geo and its people through the thick and thin. they were very devoted followers, obeying his every wish.

however, the height of his reign has long passed, and people simply stopped caring about their archon. until recently.

crops began to wither, mines dried out, contracts were getting broken left and right - rex lapis has had enough of their careless behavior. his people have disappointed him, and this was a sign of his fury. if something wasn't to change, he would abandon them completely.

the people of liyue decided to recommit to their religion, prepared to offer the geo lord a sacrifice of any kind, just so he'd once again bless them. you, even though born in a time where people lost their respect for the geo lord, have always been a devoted follower, praying to him each day and leaving flowers and beautiful crystals under his statue of the seven.

already being a believer of the geo archon, you were chosen as the ceremonial sacrifice.

while nobody knew where rex lapis resided, the site of the ceremony was chosen to be on mt. hulao. as the crowds of people gathered from all over liyue around the lake on the top of the mountain, you stood in front of them, shaking. while you were a follower of morax, you didn't feel it was right to die for the sins of your people.

"it's time to pay our sacrifise!" yelled one of the townsfolk, holding your wrist in an iron grip as he he slit your palm with a sharp knife. you screamed out in pain as maroon blood dripped down your hand. the man who slit your hand placed a valuable cor lapis stone in it, watching as the orange stone quickly became stained with your red blood.

you held your breath as they placed you on the highest point of the mountain and pushed you off, chanting morax's name over and over.

falling seemed to last centuries, even though it was just seconds. you waited and waited for your body to hit the ground, tightening your hold on the cor lapis and in your head praying:

"rex lapis, if you're here, if you hear my prayer, please, i beg you, save me!"

suddenly, your feel onto something, tightly closing your eyes. was this... death?

you open your eyes and realize this wasn't any kind of afterlife - in fact, you were very much still alive, spread on top of the back of a large dragon. your mortality was confirmed by the sharp pain you still felt in your left hand.

"..r-rex l-lapis..?"

the dragon stayed quiet as you clutched his mane, holding on to him for dear life. he only let you get down once you were inside a large cave, seeming like it wasn't a part of the human world - no, this had to be an adepti realm.

an uneducated mortal maybe wouldn't be certain just who was standing between them, but you knew oh so very well. his goldenish brown scales, the big, honey-colored eyes and the tail which ended in a mosaic of clouds all gave him away. standing before you was the geo archon, the adeptus who saved your life even though you were a peace offering.

he stayed quiet, removing you from his back like it was nothing and moving to a completely different side of the cave, laying down on the cold ground with his back turned to you.

he was in no mood to talk, you knew, but you had to thank him for saving your life.

"lord morax..?"

he grumbled in response, steam coming out of his large nostrils.

"i cinserely thank you for saving my life... i was supposed to be a mere sacrifise, yet you still showed me mercy.. i.. just, thank you so much.."

the second the word "sacrifise" leaves your lips rex lapis perks up, turning to you with frantic eyes. he grabs your hand to inspect the still slightly bleeding cut, tearing a piece of your skirt to wrap around your wound as a bandage. morax tightly ties it, then quickly moves from you.

"it should stop the bleeding," he grumbled low, never turning to look at you, almost as if he was completely uninterested, "i will bring you to the villege tomorrow, little mortal. now sleep. your body needs rest"

how could you rest after such a traumatic experience? after almost having your life, all your hopes and dreams, unfairly thorn from you?

"no, i.. i can't return! they will all know that i failed, that i wasn't the sacrifise they all needed to save liyue from your punishment!"

morax huffs, his tail hitting the ground with a loud thump.

"then you can tell them all that i do not wish for a sacrifise. spilling innocent human blood is not only unecessary but also completely repulsive to me."

your eyes widen as he says this, your body instinctively moving a little closer to him: "you.. do not wish for a sacrifise, my lord? then how should we repay you for our sins? how can we ever make you forgive us for losing our faith in you..?"

rex lapis growls lowly, his body tightening like he was in some kind of discomfort or pain.

"the lack of my blessing isn't for the reasons your kind believes," he growled, "i'm not upset at you humans. now sleep." you knew well that that was an order, and an order coming from an archon must always be obeyed. yet, you didn't, scooting closer to him.

"the only thing to be upset about is that they sent you as the offering. how unfair it is to send one of my most devoted followers to die for my amusement.."

you hold your breath, afraid that he was actually considering killing you.

"i've recieved all the little treasures you leave out for me and have heard your every word. you're a persistant little one, aren't you?" even though you couldn't see him, you could feel the smirk on his face.

the knowledge that he has seen and heard how you worship him makes your heart thump loudly in your chest, a pool of pride and flusterness swirling in your belly.

suddenly, morax smells the air sharply, then started writhing on the ground in pain, cursing out a deep yet broken"fuck..!".

"are you in pain, my lord? can i do something to help?" you ask eagerly, wishing to help your saviour.

"move away!" he roared, steam coming out of his mouth. "go to sleep and stop talking to me when i ask, mortal!"

you frigtenedly to as told, laying down on the ground and turning away from him, squeezing your eyes shut. suddenly, you hear little muffled whines and cries coming from him, which immediately makes you look at him again.

his large head is completely flushed red, his lungs heaving up and down quickly. he panted out short little puffs of air, his eyes bloodshot ready and his body trembling slightly. you didn't know what was wrong with him, he acted like some kind of a wild animal in a rut-

"lord morax, are you.. in a rut..?" it was a shameful question to ask the archon, yet your curiosity got the better of you.

he huffed out, more and more in pain with every passing minute. "i haven't... hah... i haven't been in centuries... it's inevitable i go through it every couple of hundred years..."

morax groans, visibly in a lot of discomfort.

"and of course that when i'm in a rut they just have to send me a gorgeous woman as a sacrifice to worsen my state..."

your cheeks darken as he murmurs this, blood rushing to your head.

"how do i worsen your state..?"

"your arousal" he rasps, "i can smell it, little mortal. i can smell you, and it's torture. it pains every muscle in my body to resist you, but i have to; it's my duty"

your heart aches at his words.

"i can help" you breathe, unsure what you were even offering. his sharp eyes turn to you, piercing you with his gaze.

"no", his answer is short but stern, "i could kill you, i could harm you and leave you not remembering your own name. i cannot do that to my most devoted follower. not to you, y/n"

your heart stops, dropping to your feet.

"how do you know my name...?"

he groans as he explains: "i often wander around the mortal world in my human form, to feel closer to your kind... i have met you a couple of times during your prayer at the statue of the seven. i cannot use your pure body to breed when i know how much respect and hope you have in me. it would be betrayal to you, and you would never see me, nor my human form, the same"

"it pains me to see my archon in pain" you whisper as you get closer to the large dragon, your stomach stirring. you gently touch the scales down his back and feel how he shivers under your touches.

"i want... i want to help you, if i can... i want to help you through this.. you have helped me through the darkest points in my life, and even though i don't know who your human form is, i have a feeling i'm close to you even then... i just desire to help you, lord morax..."

"do you even understand what kind of help i need? what i will do to you if you allow me?"

you smile, running your hands through his shiny mane.

"yes, i understand. use me however you like, my lord."

his self control snaps, big paws pinning you down on the ground. he's panting like a dog as he nuzzles his head against your neck, tearing the rest of your skirt off. only left in a pair of underwear and a thin shirt, you tremble under the archon's touches.

"hm.. such a beautiful mortal..." he hums as he tears the rest of your cloth from your body, leaving you completely bare. you try to cover yourself with your arms, yet morax grabs them and pins them by your sides.

his large mouth comes in contact with your skin, licking, kissing and biting as he moved down. morax grazes your skin with his teeth, never biting down hard enough to draw blood from your veins. you had already done your sacrifice, more blood wasn't needed. his tounge moves from your neck to your exposed breast, swirling around your hard nipples, earning a little whimper from you.

then, he moves even lower, nipping at your stomach. he forces your tighs apart, burying his large head to your folds and forcing you to hold on to him by his horns. rex lapis tastes you eagerly, lapping up any slick your body oh so willingly gave him. you moaned and whined as he fucked you with his tounge, making you come almost instantly.

"ohhhh!! m-morax~ ahh..." you moan as he helps you through it, sharply tugging on your sensitive clit with his sharp teeth, always careful not to hurt you.

"celestia" he sighs into your slick folds, earning a tremble from you. "you taste devine, my dear. i haven't enjoyed such a sweet taste in centuries"

he shows you no mercy and continues to eat you out as if you were his last meal, one paw holding down your wrists and the other secured on your hips, not allowing you to move at all. after about three delicious highs he pulls from your frail body with his tounge, you start begging for the real thing. you knew his rut wouldn't be over unless he fucked you, and you were kinda hoping this torterous foreplay would be over soon...

"m-morax... please.." you whimper, squeezing your legs around his snout. he grumbles low, giving one final lick to your greedy pussy.

"i have to loosen you as much as possible so you could even try to take me. preperations can take up to days."

your eyes open wide and your mouth partens. you couldn't wait days to get him to fuck you, and you certainly didn't know how you'd survive days worth of eating out!

"but i cannot wait that long" he smirks, rubbing your outter tighs and ass. in one swift motion he flips you over so you were on your knees, face down and ass up. you feel his length rubbing up on you; even though you couldn't see him, your eyes went wide in shock. you felt how impossibly large he was, both in size and girth, almost being comparable to your legs.

but another thing surprises you - the head of his cock is poking at your tight entrance, but another thing is poking at your ass! you turn your head in shock, and he reassures you.

"i am different than a mortal, my dear"

you let out a loud scream of his name as he harshly thrusts both of his heavy cocks into you. he thrusts as far as he can, entering your cushy womb from how big he is and almost ripping your ass apart. you scream and cry and writhe yet he doesn't budge, letting you get used to him inside you for a few moments before he starts thrusting.

he starts moving without a warning, dragging you back on his cocks. you turn into a sobbing mess as each one of his thrusts so pleasantly tease your g-spot, bullying your tight walls.

"ahh.. ahhh! mphhh! mmphshs! m- mor... ah! ohhh!"

you cry and cry, not even knowing your own name out of so much pleasure. you feel like your holes are completely loose and yet, clamping down on him greedily. he tugs your head back by your hair, snuggling his nuzzle in your neck so you'd hear him better.

"shh, don't cry... you've asked me for this, little mortal. you asked to be fucked like this, hm? look at you, so pretty like this. so no need to cry, you will be fine. i allow you as much pleasure as you need. "

you couldn't stop yourself from coming, squirting your juices all over his cock. he watches this in amusement, fucking into you harder and faster. in one moment, he threw his head back in pleasure, making a loud roar.

"fuck, y/n..." he groaned as you hiccupped your sobs, finally giving a harsh, last thrust and stilling inside. you felt an impossible amount of warmth spread through your body as he filled you with seed, spilling a wave after wave of cum in your womb. he had filled you so much that it spilled from you, leaving you entirely breathless.

as soon as he's done he pulls out, letting you fall to the floor. he picks up your limp body, curling himself around you and cuddling you close.

"it's alright, my dear... you did perfect. you were just devine, and you've felt better than anything i've ever felt in all my years. rest, now. i will take care of the rest tomorrow."

your head hazy, your mind fuzzy with pleasure and your eyes heavy, you lay curled against him and finally get the much needed sleep.

the next morning, you wake up with a human, veined arm around your bare waist.

"there you are... you are too adorable in your sleep" a deep voice said from behind you, and you turned around, expecting to see the geo archon.

yet, you were faced with a man you knew all to well - the man you had deep feelings for ever since he first arrived in liyue harbour.

"mr. zhongli?!"

he hums out a laugh, tightening his hold on you.

"yes, if i'm correct, we've met in my human form a couple of times?"

you blush deeply, reminiscing on the few blissful times you talked to him. he was a very handsome, successful young man, with great wisdom and a clever mind - and you admired him very much, so much that you couldn't help but fall in love.

"you look dissapointed... are you not fond of me after finding out who i am?"

he asks, his gaze softening and looking almost saddened. you quickly reassure him:

"no, no, i'm not dissapointed! more like stunned.." you blush and he notices, twirling a strand of your hair between his fingers.

"oh? why is that? i have always assumed we had a fairly good relationship, y/n. you have always been so nice to me"

"i.. i've had feelings for you for quite a while..." you say shyly, almost embarassed of the fact.

his lips curl into a genuinely happy smile, his arms pressing you closer to his bare chest.

"then everything turned out alright"

you smile, but everything suddenly dawns on you - that zhongli seemed to be okay with your feelings for him, that you almost died yesterday as a sacrifice, that zhongli is morax and most importantly, that oh, you fucked the geo archon, in his dragon form no less!

"am i pregnant now..?" you ask quietly, reminded that the act of a rut is mainly to breed and create off-spring. zhongli laughs at your question, leaving a quick peck on your forehead.

"no, most likely not. but you will be, in a few hundred years, once i have to go through this all over again" you almost choke on your own spit as he says this.

"but... i won't be alive in a few hundred years... you will have to find another to help you through this.."

as soon as you mention him sleeping with another woman his face turns into one of disgust, his strong arms gathering your entire body in his hold.

"as my mate, you will live as long as i do, and i'm immortal, my dear."

"your mate?!"

"yes. by helping me through my rut, you have become my mate. of course, only if that's what you wish" he says, pressing a loving kiss to your eyelid. "and do not worry, my dear, dragons mate for life"

he almost purrs into your warm skin, making a referance to what you said about him sleeping with another woman.

"...being your mate.." you sigh, cuddling into his chest.

"it's like what you humans call "relationship" except a stronger bond, sort of an unbreakable contract between the two of us. a forever promise of care, love and loyalty."

"i think i would like that" you humm into his chest, "but, let's take it a little slow?"

he kisses you full of warmth, his hands soothing your sides.

"of course, my dear. i will take you on a proper date when we get back. for now, just lay there and let me thank you properly for your help last evening..." he sighs as he kisses your shoulder over and over again.

yesterday at this time of day you were supposed to be nothing but a sacrifice to the geo lord, and now here you were, getting your body worshiped by him, forever safe and secure in his arms as his mate.

[makeyoumine69]

Hey! I don't know how to ask you this, but can you please do breeding kink fic from Patrick's POV? Thank you anyway!💋

HELLO NONNIE! 🥰 Breeding kink is my everything! *dying*

Captivated by your shaky breaths, the way you writhed beneath me, I kept thinking that I was about to lose control. I wanted nothing more than to ruin your pretty little body, to ravage you, and I could care less about your pathetic attempts to stop me. But I couldn't do that, not now, knowing that soon your belly would swell with the life we were both going to create.

Running a finger along your trembling lips, I descended to your neck. "You said you wanted to carry my child, right?"

Strained, you only nodded in response, but I wanted you to say that—I needed that. In one swift movement, I turned you to look at me, your big, beautiful eyes now mirroring mine. "Use your words, sweetheart, I want to hear you say this."

Your furrowed eyebrows and shyness almost made me want to stick my thumb deep into your mouth, but then you finally began to speak. "Yes, Patrick," you licked the tip of my finger, driving me completely wild. "Please... put a baby inside me."

Oh, God. There was no way I could resist when you talked like that.

And then I stuffed my thumb into your warm mouth, which you gladly accepted and sucked on as if it were your pacifier. "You're such a good girl," I rasped, nipping at your neck. "So good for me."

Without waiting, I pulled your hips up and placed a pillow under your ass so I could fuck you deep, I wanted you to feel all of me, every fucking inch, and you were gonna like it. A shaky squeal vibrated around my finger as I brushed my hard dick against your succulent pussy, so wet and ready to take me.

"I'm gonna fill you up with my cum, doll," my voice wavered with excitement, I could feel the blood pounding against my eardrums as I stroked myself several times before I teased your swollen clit with the tip of my thick cock. "And then you'll give me a child."

"A-ahh, Patrick," you whimpered, closing your eyes as I slowly and deliberately rammed into you. "You… you're so big-mhhm!"

Letting out a guttural grunt, I pushed myself further, enjoying your little sobs as I stretched you out so deliciously I could sense your velvety inner walls encasing my dick, inducing me to hold back my breath for a moment before I fully sheathed myself inside your dripping cunt.

"Jesus, you're already clinging to me," I drawled in total ecstasy, gripping your gorgeous hips to keep you still. "Keep your legs open for me, honey."

I watched you desperately clutching the sheets with pure delight, knowing you wouldn't last long as your tight pussy encircled around me like a vine. "Pat…Patrick...it's so d-deep!"

Eventually your voice was like white noise as I concentrated on fucking you, a loud slapping sound of our bodies colliding mixed with your wanton screams soon filled my bedroom. I could swear that no one else was making such noises, urging me to thrust harder, pinning you against the bed.

"Oh, I know, baby," I drew close to your embarrassed face, kissing you briefly to calm you down a bit before shifting my weight to my hands, trapping you completely under my muscular body. "I know, but you can take it."

"Pat…" You cried out as I bent your leg and pressed it against my torso, making the penetration even deeper. "Mmhm, Patrick!"

"Shhh," I pecked your forehead gently, but kept my pace pretty brutal. "I'm here," I murmured in a praising tone, putting my hands under your back to hold you even closer, encouraging you to wrap your legs around my waist. And when you did, I couldn't help but smirk devilishly. "Let it go, babe. Let me feel you clenching around me."

Overwhelmed with unbridled passion, I was ready to use every little detail I remembered about you. For example, you loved to feel protected and adored, and I was so eager to do that and give you everything I had. When I noticed your legs quivering along my back, I rolled my hips against yours, hitting all the right spots inside of you, and the next moment I felt you spasming around my throbbing cock, milking it deliciously.

"Mmhm, fuck," I cursed under my breath before brushing my messy hair away so I could peck your forehead. "Good girl, I'm so proud of you."

And I really was proud of you, your courage and obedience took me higher, I felt the pulsation cursing through my whole body, starting at my tensed balls and going right up to my very brain. Thrusting into your malleable body with pure abandon, I finally surrendered to the crashing wave of pleasure that washed over me, spurring me to unload my fertile seed deep into your womb. The vision of you carrying my child flashed through my mind, increasing my climax so that I had to hold you tighter because you were mine and I'd never let you go.

Never.

[vaperarmand]

my friend rashid: a fic rec list

welcome back to iwtv fanfic friday! this week's theme was born out of my love for rashidmand, but of course i couldn't stop there, so i've included some featuring real rashid as well. on that note, if you're looking for a sign to write a fic featuring real rashid or rashidmand, THIS IS IT.

drawing in a subject by nestorius (e, 1.7k words)

Armand interrupts. (immediately post season one reveal, teensy bit character study, daniel's "inexplicable" desire for rashid. made for me in a lab)

a memo from human resources by nestorius (not rated, 2.5k words)

The pitfalls of having a vampire boss. (the real rashid prelude to above. his relationship with louis in this drives me wild. i still believe this is rashid's lore and you can't stop me.)

Live your role by Thunder__Puss (e, 1.5k words)

Louis and Armand bed down in the penthouse. Rashid overhears a bit more than he'd care to. (ARMAND PLAYING RASHID IN BED WITH LOUIS ... THIS IS WHAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF)

honey and pineapple by duri (e, 3.5k words)

Rashid pays Daniel a visit. (hey girls did you know that uhmmmmm... armand wants daniel so bad. like OH MY GOD)

I like your getup, if you know what I mean by cannibalenthusiast (aka yours truly) (e, 1.7k words)

His brain conjures the image of Rashid standing primly with a plush towel draped over his slim wrist. “For your jizz, Mister Molloy,” he says. Daniel snorts and spits onto his hand. (sorry to be reccing my own work but it was my first one for the pairing and i'm proud of it ok? daniel jerks off thinking of rashidmand and rashidmand sort of unknowingly provides a helping hand. it's important to me)

Taking All That A Person Can Give by anonymous (e, 6k words)

Daniel fantasizes about "Rashid". Set during and after 1x05. (mind the tags on this one! daniel and armand both get tortured. sexually. awesome crazy work.)

honeysuckle sips from your rolling hips by ultraviolet_glow aka @lesbians4armand (m, 1.4k words)

It was the viscosity that got to him, Daniel thought. Something deeply obscene, sensual about the viscosity of honey compared to the viscosity of blood. Both were natural, bodily fluids, if you thought too hard about it. Thick and dripping and sweet. (YAAAAY more wet dreams for daniel!!! this is just one of many awesome rashidmand fics violet has written <3)

honey and pineapple by softestbutch aka @softest-butch (e, 1.8k words)

He’s thinking of you, Rashid. Louis felt Armand’s body flush at the use of the name. He ran the flat of his tongue over the wound in his neck, continuing to drink. Our boy. He wants you. (awesomeeee take on the 1.5 scene with a little bit of loumand as well. i can never get enough)

[drgnmnts]

knuckles bruised (like violets) │ jacaerys velaryon x targaryen!OC

Title: knuckles bruised (like violets)

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Targaryen!OC (Daenys Targaryen, daughter of Viserys I Targaryen and Alicent Hightower)

Summary: There is no war so hateful to the gods as a war between kin, especially for those caught in between, longing only for peace as they're met with fire and blood.

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Chapter 2 - A Fair Exchange

Word count: 3.1K (sorry)

Laena Velaryon was dead. 

The details of her passing brought tears to Daenys’ eyes: burned alive by her dragon as an act of mercy, following complications during her baby's delivery. Daenys recalled Laena from a visit to King’s Landing a few years prior; she remembered feeling jealous of how lovingly Laena treated her daughters— the kindness in her eyes when she looked at them, the honey in her voice as she called their names. 

It was decided that they would all depart for Driftmark right away— Daenys, Aegon, and Helaena on their dragons, while the rest sailed to the island. She would never admit it to them, but Daenys loved flying with her siblings, especially with Aegon: he was insufferable on land, always drowning in his cups and picking on the weak, but while riding Sunfyre he turned into someone high-spirited and lively. It was the only time Daenys felt truly close to her eldest brother. As they both circled around Dreamfyre, trying to playfully disrupt Helaena’s imperturbability, Daenys was able to catch sight of Rhaenyra’s family, coming from Dragonstone opposite to them: her half-sister on the beautiful Syrax, hatched from one of Silverwing’s eggs when it was placed in Rhaenyra’s cradle as a babe; Jacaerys on his young dragon Vermax; and Lucerys on Arrax. Seasmoke was nowhere to be found, and Daenys guessed Ser Laenor was probably already at Driftmark, sick with grief. The fear of ever losing one of her siblings haunted her thoughts for the rest of the journey. 

_______________________________________________

High Tide was damp and dark, but there was something about the Sea Snake’s castle that Daenys found enthralling. The marble of its walls looked like mother-of-pearl in the afternoon sun, and its halls were as beautiful as they were unsettling, crowded with bronze statues covered in corals and sea sediments that reminded every visitor of the Velaryons’ deep connection with the sea.

The families were gathered at the low cliff by Blackwater Bay, the one which Daenys assumed was intended for ritualistic purposes. She could make out the coffin containing Lady Laena’s remains by the edge of the cliff, the narrow box carved to resemble the woman’s appearance. After Vaemond Velaryon’s speech about the thickness of their blood—an odd choice since it had little to do with Lady Laena’s legacy—the guests moved to a small plateau where, as per tradition, they were to wait for the tide to carry the casket further out to sea. 

Standing by her brothers, Daenys noticed Rhaenyra speaking to her eldest son, which reminded her of the abrupt and rather suspicious death of Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin Strong only a couple days prior. If the rumors were true, which Daenys was certain they were, perhaps Jacaerys was sad. Just as Baela and Rhaena had lost their mother, Jace and Luke had lost their father. Daenys wondered if someone had offered their condolences to the boys in any way, but quickly discarded the thought.

“We have nothing in common,” Aegon declared as he observed Helaena with a furrowed brow and a cup of wine in his hand.

“Have you ever tried to at least show her any regard for her interests?” Daenys asked him, squinting up at him against the sun.

“What interests, exactly? Bugs and riddles?” he inquired, making a face. “She’s just so… odd.”

“She’s our sister,” Aemond intervened.

“You marry her, then,” replied Aegon.

“I would perform my duty, if mother had only betrothed us.”

“If only,” Aegon scoffed. “We can exchange, if you want. You marry her, and I’ll marry this one,” he added, pointing at Daenys with a nod of his head. “At least I know she wouldn't bother me, since she spends more time in the sky than at home.”

“I would rather have my dragon chew me up,” Daenys deadpanned, Aemond chuckling next to her. 

After a grimace and a long sip of wine, Aegon intercepted a cup-bearer. “We actually do have one thing in common,” he said, giving his siblings a look as he took another cup, “we both fancy creatures with very long legs.”

Daenys gagged at her brother’s comment, to which he replied by smacking her on the back of her head.

“Aegon!” she protested, hitting him back as he laughed, but the sibling squabble was quickly brought to an end by Queen Alicent’s reprimand.

“What is the meaning of this?!” she whispered, her eyes on Daenys.

“He started it!” the girl tried to excuse herself, and this time her mother believed her, swiftly sending Aegon away from the group to take his mischief elsewhere, out of everyone’s sight. 

“I’ve told you many times, Daenys, you must not fall into your brother’s provocations,” Alicent warned, fixing her daughter’s hair where Aegon had hit her. “Why don’t you go speak with the girls? I am sure they could use a kind word from someone their age.”

Daenys nodded, eager to comply with her mother’s instructions, and immediately made way to where Baela and Rhaena were sitting. The twins offered her a sad smile as she approached them, making room for her on the wooden bench.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Daenys spoke.

“Did you know that my dragon was born from one of Vhagar’s eggs?”

At the mention of their mother’s dragon, both girls smiled as they nodded.

“I’ve always wondered if dragons can… sense who their mother is. Silverwing does have her occasional spat at Sunfyre, but I believe that is just because he’s Aegon’s,” she said, making the girls chuckle.

“It would be nice to see Silverwing interact with Vhagar, but she is too sad now…” said Rhaena, looking down. 

“And without a rider…” added Baela.

“Then you should claim her,” Daenys quickly resolved, grabbing Rhaena’s hand. “Wouldn’t it be nice to ride your mother’s dragon?”

Rhaena smiled timidly, and Baela spoke what her sister was thinking.

“She still waits for her egg to hatch. I’ve told her many times to just let it go, but… she keeps her faith.”

Daenys nodded, understanding. “It’s a rare gift, bonding with the dragon given to you at birth. I can see why you would want to hold on to it.”

Rhaena thanked her kindly, finding comfort in the princess’ sympathetic words. Before she could speak further about the topic, the three of them noticed Jacaerys standing next to them. He seemed unsure, hesitant, probably having been sent to speak to the girls by his mother, just like Alicent had sent Daenys.

Daenys found it difficult to meet his gaze, for the brown in his eyes told a story of treason and deception. Yet, she felt inexplicably drawn to them, as if Jace were some creature from a bedtime story rather than just a boy.

“Sorry,” he blurted out, looking at his feet. His shoes were dirty, covered in ash from riding his dragon. Queen Alicent would never allow her children to walk around in unkempt clothes.

“Thank you, Jace,” said Baela, smiling warmly at him.

The boy was clearly not a wordsmith, unable to elaborate on his condolences any further. Instead, he just stood there, holding Rhaena’s hand, until Princess Rhaenys came to comfort her granddaughters, allowing him to slip away.

Giving them their privacy to mourn their loss, Daenys quietly followed Jace to a nearby firepit, the crackling flames casting dancing shadows between them. She couldn't explain the impulse that led her to speak.

“I was sorry to hear about Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin,” she uttered, keeping her gaze fixed on the flickering fire to avoid his eyes. “They were kind.”

The princess could feel Jacaerys’ eyes on her, perhaps filled with confusion, or gratitude, or distrust. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to know. 

As Jace poised to speak, Daenys simply turned around, retracing her steps to her mother’s side without uttering another word. 

Queen Alicent stood tall, engaged in a quiet conversation with Ser Criston Cole, her sworn protector. Daenys held a fondness for Ser Criston; he had taught her archery and the nuances of horseriding, despite her insistence that mastering the latter was second nature to her as a dragonrider. He was ever-present, a stalwart guardian always ready to assist, escort, teach and protect.

Her mother acknowledged her presence by concluding her conversation with Cole, and turned her gaze to Daenys with expectation.

“The girls feel better, I think,” she informed. “We talked about dragons.”

“Of course you did,” Ser Criston quipped, eliciting a smile from Daenys.

“Good girl,” her mother approved, gently stroking Daenys’ hair. The brief display of affection quickened Daenys’ heartbeat, leaving her to ponder if this was Alicent’s way of apologizing for the incident the other day.

“Perhaps I could show them Silverwing up close tomorrow, if Uncle Daemon allows it. I gather they would like it.”

Alicent breathed a sigh and nodded at her daughter’s suggestion 

“You can ask him later, should he be willing to talk.”

“Yes, he must be terribly upset…” Daenys concurred with solemnity, missing Ser Criston’s glance at her mother upon the mention of Daemon’s grief for Lady Laena.

The crowd parted to make way for King Viserys. It was growing late, and the ceremony was becoming too long for him to remain outside. Viserys had his good and bad days, and on the latter, Daenys often wondered how she would feel if he were to pass away. Would she feel grief, or sadness? Would tears come as easily to her as they did now for Baela and Rhaena, mourning the loss of their beloved mother?

Daenys bowed her head as her father walked past her.

“I’m going to bed, Aemma,” he announced.

The confusion was nothing new. Daenys had lost count of how many times her father had mistakenly referred to her by Rhaenyra’s name, especially since his illness had begun to deteriorate not only his body, but his mind as well. 

“Shall I see after Queen Alicent, Your Grace?” Ser Harrold asked, attempting to gently remind the king of his wife’s name, but Daenys knew the damage had already been done.

As Viserys retreated inside, Daenys squeezed her mother���s hand. Queen Alicent, momentarily paralyzed by her husband’s error, met her daughter’s gaze, finding within it a look of the purest sympathy. For a fleeting moment, it seemed she might embrace Daenys, but instead, Alicent let go of the girl’s gentle grip on her hand.

“Go with your sister,” she ordered coldly, and walked away from Daenys, Ser Criston following closely behind his queen.

_______________________________________________

It was well past the hour of the Owl when Helaena woke her sister with a gentle shake on the shoulder, Daenys making a great effort to open her eyes as she had been deep in her sleep just mere seconds before.

“Something’s happened,” Helaena announced, her tone filled with anguish, prompting Daenys to sit up immediately.

“Are you hurt?” Daenys asked, reaching for her sister's arm to check for injuries despite the dimness in the chamber. 

“Not me,” the girl reassured, already getting out of bed.

“Where are you going?” she questioned, still confused and groggy from sleep.

Pausing in her steps, Helaena turned to her sister. “Will you come with me? I’m afraid to go alone,” she pleaded, looking once more like the youngest of the two instead of the other way around.

Unable to deny her sister, Daenys threw back the bed covers and joined Helaena by the door, both of them barefoot and clad in their sleeping gowns.

Slowly opening the door, Daenys's heart sank as she saw several guards rushing down the corridor, confirming her sister’s premonition.

Now filled with curiosity and a strange fear, the girl followed them quietly with Helaena right behind her, fist clutching Daenys’ robe. Together, they arrived at the room of the Driftwood Throne, where chaos reigned. 

The boys were there: Aegon, Jace, and Luke, and so was Ser Criston, Ser Harrold, and the King.  Baela and Rhaena stood aside, embracing each other. Sitting on a chair, Aemond sniffled, their mother at his side while a maester examined his bloody face. Heart shrunk in anguish at the sight of his injury, Daenys took a few steps closer, gasping in horror as she realized that her dear brother was missing one eye.

“Wh- How did this happen?” she was able to ask, wincing as she watched the maester finish stitching the boy’s flesh.

“I claimed Vhagar,” Aemond answered, and Daenys thought she saw a hint of satisfaction in the curl of his lip, despite the pain.

Before she could even begin to question how he had gotten his injury, Ser Criston effortlessly wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her away from the horrid scene.

“Baela, Rhaena!” called Princess Rhaenys, descending a nearby staircase with Lord Corlys close behind. “What happened?”

Almost simultaneously, Rhaenyra hurried into the room with Daemon, rushing to check on her sons, who sported bloody noses and scratches on their cheeks.

Upon the Princess' inquiry into her sons' injuries, accusations flew from both sides of the dispute while Aegon, Daenys, and Helaena watched with a mix of doubt and curiosity. Only after the King commanded silence did the protests from both parties cease.

“Aemond,” he called, visibly exhausted as he approached the boy, using his cane for support. “I will have the truth of what happened. Now.”

“What else is there to hear?” Alicent questioned on behalf of her son. “Your son has been maimed; her son is responsible.”

“It was a regrettable accident,” Rhaenyra defended, further infuriating Alicent.

“Accident? The Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush. He meant to kill my son,” she declared, and the image of the knife cutting through her brother’s face made Daenys’ stomach turn.

“It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves. Vile insults were levied against them,” Rhaenyra stated firmly. “The legitimacy of my sons’ births was put loudly to question.”

“What?” questioned the King. It was still a mystery to Daenys how her father could be so short-sighted when it came to his grandchildren’s parentage.

“He called us bastards,” Jace interjected, and Daenys was once again unable to meet his eyes, fearing he might accuse her of all the times she had participated in her brother’s mistreatment of the Velaryon boys.

“Aemond,” Viserys called once more, bending slightly to meet his son’s gaze. “Look at me. Your king demands an answer. Who spoke these lies to you?”

Daenys felt her mother tense next to her as she waited with bated breath for her son to answer the question, knowing full well she had been the one to share the truth of the matter with all her children.

She had nothing to worry about, however, as Aemond’s loyalty to their mother was unwavering.

“It was Aegon,” he lied, and it even caught their eldest brother by surprise, as Viserys quickly advanced towards him demanding he confess where he had heard the accusations. 

“We know, Father. Everyone knows,” Aegon replied, eyes still fixed forward. “Just look at them.”

The silence that befell the room felt asphixiating, broken only by Viserys’ comandment for harmony between the younglings. 

Otto Hightower, who had been observing from afar until then, approached the King and whispered something in his ear. Viserys nodded, glancing briefly at Daenys before clearing his throat to speak again.

"I believe this is an opportune moment to announce the decision the Hand and I have reached, in hopes this endless strife may finally cease," he addressed those gathered.

"Father," Rhaenyra interrupted, briefly meeting Daenys' eyes, leaving her more confused than before. "Do you think now is the best time to tell her? After tonight's events?"

Daenys looked up at her mother in search for an answer, but the woman’s eyes were fixed on her husband, wide in panic as if she already knew what was coming.

“What is the meaning of this, Viserys?” she dared to ask.

The King held his wife’s gaze, unbothered by her tone. “After conversing this afternoon with Princess Rhaenyra about the future of House Targaryen and House Velaryon, we have decided that my daughter, Daenys, shall marry her son, Jacaerys, when they’ve both reached the appropriate age.”

As soon as those words left her father’s mouth, Daenys’ face, which had been tinted a soft shade of pink from the adrenaline of such an unfortunate night, turned pale as if she had suddenly transformed into a corpse. She opened her mouth, but the torrent of words piling up on the tip of her tongue failed to come out, as she felt an unfamiliar tingle at the tips of her fingers.

“No,” Alicent disagreed immediately, shaking her head as she firmly grabbed her daughter’s wrist, keeping her close. “No, you may do as you please when I’m dead, but I will not have my children taken from me anymore; you’ve already sent Daeron away, such thing will not happen again.”

“The decision is final, Alicent,” said Ser Otto, not a trace of fatherly love in the way he looked at her. “I understand your discontent, but this is for the good of the realm.”

“This proceeding is at an end,” the King declared, already turning towards the corridor connecting the throne room with the apartments. “The Princess Daenys shall part for Dragonstone on the morrow, accompanying her sister and her family, and remain there until they decide to return to King’s Landing. Is that understood?”

No one dared to utter a word. The crackling flames emanating from the fireplace felt suffocating instead of comforting, and Daenys’ eyesight became blurry as the tingling sensation from her fingers spread up to her head.

The events that followed happened too quickly: Alicent rushed to grab Aegon the Conqueror’s blade from Viserys’ belt, wielding it as she charged at Rhaenyra, who was quick to stop her before she could harm her. Screams and commands surrounded the scene, chaos reigning once again.

“You’ve gone too far,” Rhaenyra accused, arms keeping Alicent —and the blade— as far away from her as possible.

“I? What have I done but what was expected of me?” the Queen cried. “And now, not happy with having taken my poor son’s eye, you wish to rip my daughter from me? She’s mine, Rhaenyra, mine!”

“Exhausting, wasn’t it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness. The kingdom, the family, the law: you don’t care about those things, only yourself…” Rhaenyra affirmed, her voice wavering with the effort of keeping Alicent away. “But now they see you as you are…”

The sound of Valyrian steel cutting flesh silenced the room immediately. The women separated, and everyone, included Alicent, watched in consternation as blood slid down the Princess’ arm. 

The silence was broken by Daenys’ small voice.

“Mummy?” she called, before collapsing onto the cold stone floor.

_______________________________________________

Just some quality time with family, what could go wrong?

The time jump is coming, just bear with me!

Also, Daenys being a little devil on every single dragon-less Targaryen's shoulder whispering to them to 👏 just 👏 claim 👏 one 👏.

If you liked this, let me know in any way! :)

Series Taglist: @void21, @burningwitchobject

[dark-and-kawaii]

✧₊⁺ Be A Good Little Thing ⁺₊✧

You’re bound and helpless at his feet, the man you once looked up to now blowing smoke in your face, his lips dangerously close to yours… And that shiny knife of his that used to protect you now dragging up your shirt to expose those wondrous tits of yours. You wish you hated it, wish you could curse him, but the way your breath catches in your throat, the way your pussy tightens… Gods how your body betrays you every time ♡

✧˖°. Pairing: Absolute Zevlor x F!Tav/Reader

✧˖°. Content: NSFW - Knife Play - Zevlor Eats You Out Like A Starving Man - Tail Throat Fucking - Large Cock Stretching You

✧˖°. Notes: Thank you @cinnasalmon for talking with me about Zevlor puffing smoke at our pussy before eating us out so nicely xoxo I dedicate this to you my love ♡ ♡ ♡

The way he drags the knife across your perky little nipples, ever so slightly pressing the tip of the knife into one of those cute hard buds of yours.

It causes you to gasp and whimper, a dust of pink spreading across your cheeks- the cold blade contrasting with the heat of your skin. He wonders how you’d react if he just gives those beautiful tits a small little slice, a thin line of blood trickling down your chest. Would you be scared? Would you cry his name out, as he licked away the droplets?

The smell of his cigar fills your nose, a thick cloud of smoke swirling around your head as he takes a puff from his cigar, letting the smoke seep through his nose and mouth, his fingers trailing across your cheeks before gripping your chin. You feel like a pretty little doll in his hands, and he likes that.

As he grips your chin he bends over and blows the smoke into your face, chuckling darkly as you cough and sputter, “You look so beautiful when you’re bound. All helpless, all mine...” He breathes, leaning closer to you, his nose brushing yours.

His hand moves down from your chin, his fingers gliding down that pretty body of yours. He lets his nails rake across your skin, watching the little red lines form across the smoothness of it until he reaches your thigh.

Zevlor pushes your legs apart, and he can smell you already. He grins as he watches how your juices coat your pussy lips… You try to close your legs, but he holds them open with ease, his gaze never leaving the apex of your thighs, as he slips a single finger into your pussy, “Such a wet little thing you are, hm? So filthy, and needy for a foul blood like me.” He chuckles, his tone mocking you.

He slips his finger out of your pussy, a low groan falling from his lips when he notices just how much of your wetness is coating his fingers. His tongue peeking out to lick at the pads of his fingers, “So sweet, too. Would be a shame not to savor it properly, yes? A shame to let such good taste go to waste, no?”

You watch as he takes a long drag from his cigar, the smoke swirling in his mouth before he exhales it slowly against your pussy. The mix of the smoky aroma and your sweet sweet honey fills his nostrils, creating a heady blend of flavors for the tiefling. Without hesitation, Zevlor dives in, eagerly eating you out, savoring the unique combination of his cigar smoke and your intoxicating taste. The contrast of the earthy smoke and your sweetness creates a decadent meal on his tongue, driving him to explore every inch of your pussy with his tongue.

He laps and curls his tongue within you, his fingers digging into your thighs, his nails pressing into your skin as he keeps you spread wide open. He wants nothing more than to devour you whole, his tongue pushing deep into your pussy, memorizing every inch of you, his nose brushing your clit as he does so.

He eats you like a starving man, moaning and growling as he does so, his hands slipping to your ass and squeezing the mounds tightly, his nails digging into the plumpness of your ass, sure to leave a mark on the delicate flesh.

It never takes him long to lose himself in his lust, his tielfing instincts kicking in to claim every inch of you including your womb and throat. And before you know it he has you on all fours, his cock stretching your raw pussy out, the length hitting your cervix with each thrust. Slamming into you at a brutal pace, his fingers pulling your hair, his teeth sinking into the crook of your neck.

“Z-Zevlor, fuck! I-It’s s’so fh’at, g-gonna t-tear m-me in h-half, ahh! S-So big, hnng, a-ahh! S-Stop, I-I c-can't- Aha-“

His tail snakes around your delicate throat, squeezing just enough to cut off your words as his hand comes to rest his knife just above where his tail is.

“Keep that mouth of yours quiet,” the spaded tip of his tail prods your mouth, forcing it past your lips, “be a good girl-“ without hesitating you begin to suckle on the tip obediently. The point almost pricking the roof of your mouth, making you flinch. You nod shakily, letting the tip of his tail slide deeper, until he can feel it pressing against the back of your throat… careful not to cut your insides with it. He doesn’t want to do any permanent damage.

You start to bob your head up and down the spaded tip, a string of saliva dripping down the corner of your mouth.

“That’s my girl, we don’t want the others to hear, do we?” He purrs, his hand holding the knife moving to rub at your clit, the sharpness of the blade dangerously close to it.

By the end of the night your body is coated in cuts and bruises, the pain almost numbing your senses as you lie on his bed roll, unable to move. The sheets under you soaked in a mixture of your cum and his. His cock buried inside of you, his hot cum flooding your womb, and the cigar that is hanging out of his mouth is almost burnt down to the butt… “To think an old soul like me could still make such a mess. Hah, and here I thought I was past my prime, what a treat you have been tonight.”

His hand comes to rest on your belly, rubbing small circles around the soft flesh, a pleased grin tugging at the corners of his lips, “rest now. For tomorrow is a new day”

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Congrats on 1000 you deserve 10000000 and I love you very many ♥️ for the requests:

J, mafia AU, smut, ring

You know how I like it ���😘

Mickala!!! 😍😭💖

Thank you so much, I couldn't have made it without all of your lovely support. I'm so happy to have found you as a friend. Hope you enjoy my silly little Mafia AU!

Coup d'etat

Rated: E

Words: 999

Tags: Mafia AU; dark Eddie Munson; intrigue; blood and violence; bondage; nudity; explicit sexual content; consensual non-con

“Nice pool,” Eddie drawls, walking back from the patio into the house. “Could’ve made a bit more of an effort to clean it. I said to leave the place as you’d like to find it, Dick.”

Richard Harrington’s eyes scream bloody murder, but he doesn’t dare speak. Jeff and Frank have him flanked on either side, guns ready in their holsters, and Gareth is manning the door. Just a precaution. Harrington has been in the business for long enough to know he has lost. All of his most loyal henchmen are dead or on the run, and the more fickle ones have joined Eddie’s side.

“Aw, don’t pout.” Eddie pats the man's cheek jovially. “This is just how it works. Survival of the fittest and all that. Now, I believe that concludes our little tour of the house? Or am I forgetting something?��� 

Harrington’s face twitches. Jeff laughs and rolls his eyes. 

“The bedroom, Eddie?”

“Ah, of course!” Eddie snaps his fingers, like he only just remembered. “Shall we, gentlemen?”

*

A giant bed dominates the far wall of the master bedroom. On the mattress, wrists tied to the headboard, is a boy. The soft, muted light glows off his naked skin. 

“Ah,” Eddie mutters. “That’s what I’m talking about. Turns out you can follow directions.”

Harrington says nothing. The boy, who stopped tearing at his restraints when he heard the door open, stares at him with wide, panicked eyes. 

“Dad? What- … Who are those people?”

Eddie coos. With a few long strides, he’s at the bed, sinking down onto the mattress. One of his hands finds the boy’s bare ankle, sliding up his leg to a firm, freckled thigh.

“Aw, darling. He didn’t tell you?” 

“Tell me what? Leave me alone, perv!”

The boy tries to shy away from his touch, but he doesn’t get far, bound in place as he is. Eddie chuckles. 

“Shhh, honey,” he scolds, cradling that pretty face with both hands. “It's okay. The name's Eddie, I work for your dad. Well, worked.”

The boy blinks at him, hazel eyes large and confused. Eddie laughs softly.

“See, the firm’s under new management. My management, to be more specific. I’m trying to keep it minimum bloodshed, so your old man’s gonna make himself scarce and I’ve agreed not to bother him. In return, I get to keep this fine house … and everything in it.” 

Understanding dawns in those pretty eyes. 

“No! Don't- don't touch me. Stay away from me.” 

Eddie makes a soft shushing sound and wipes the first tears away as they spill over.

“Oh no, sweet thing. It’ll be alright, I promise. I’ll take such good care of- wait a sec.” 

Because one of his hands has just slipped up to the boy's temple, fingers carding through thick, chestnut hair - only to come away red and sticky. The boy flinches, but Eddie grabs his jaw, holding him in place so that he can comb his hair aside. There’s a large, bleeding bruise on his temple. For a moment, the only sound in the room is that of the boy's hitched breathing. 

“Dick?” Eddie growls. “Explain this?” 

“He fought back,” Harrington mutters defiantly. “What was I supposed-” 

Eddie has him up against the wall, gun to his throat, before he can finish the sentence. 

“Are you kidding me? Trying to slip me damaged goods? I should fucking kill you, you son of a-” 

“Eddie,” Frank mutters. “C'mon, man.”  

Eddie blinks. 

“Right,” he says. “Get him out of my sight.” 

Relief washes over Harrington’s face as the gun disappears from his throat - only to be replaced by incredulous horror a second later, when Eddie holds out his hand before his face, palm up. 

“Go on, Dick. It's traditional, right? A sign of respect.”

Harrington growls. His hands curl into fists. Eddie smirks, raising an expectant eyebrow. Then, quickly, as if the touch will burn him, Harrington bows his head and kisses Eddie’s rings. 

“Not so hard, was it?” Eddie calls after him as he is escorted out. The door clicks shut. 

Eddie's smile slips. 

“Shit, Stevie,” he breathes. He's back on the bed in an instant, tilting the boy's head with gentle fingers to look at the injury. “What'd you go and do that for? I told you not to fight.” 

“And I told you it had to look convincing,” Steve retaliates. “Was I just supposed to let them tie me up and tear off my clothes and thank them for it?” 

Eddie's mouth twists into a grin. 

“We both know that's how you like it, honey.” 

He leans in, claiming those plush lips for a long, filthy kiss. Steve puts up a brief symbolic struggle, but Eddie growls warningly and slips a hand between his legs, and his protests turn into the sweetest little moans. Eddie only allows them to part once they're both out of breath and Steve is starting to buck and grind in his hold.

“Everything went well, then?” Steve asks. His voice is hoarse and raspy, and he needs to stop halfway through for another moan. “The- … the security codes all worked?” 

“Flawlessly, you sly little minx,” Eddie murmurs. He bites down on the perfect stretch of that long throat, rolls Steve’s balls in his hand, and delights in the full-body shiver it gets him. “That old asshole didn’t know what hit him.” 

Steve lets out a breathy laugh, rolling his hips to meet Eddie’s touch. 

“Good. Now untie me, so we can celebrate.” 

“Oh?” Eddie smirks, crawling further down and leaving a trail of biting kisses all over the soft skin of Steve’s chest and stomach. “But I am celebrating already.” 

Steve groans. “Eddie, c’mon!” 

“Ah-ah-ah, Stevie. There’s people out there who think I’m gonna ravage you tonight,” Eddie tuts, grabbing the boy’s twitching hips and blowing a warm stream of air on that pretty, flushed cock. Steve fucking mewls. The sound is like the sweetest music. “Be a good boy now. Gotta make it convincing, no?”

Part 2

More celebration ficlets

[honeytonedhottie]

HONEYS TEA ON SELF CONCEPT୧ ‧₊˚ 🌸

this post will include affirmations that i use on a day-to-day basis, and in general things that i do for my god-tier self concept <3

tier one : AFFIRMATIONS (thoughts i frequently have)

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟi know for a fact that i have all my desires because i am god

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟi know for a fact that i have all my desires because i am the creator

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟi am the source

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟi have perfect self concept

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟim on the pedastal

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟi get everything i want because i say so

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟi am (insert desired traits)

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟi am a master manifestor

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟmy manifesting abilities are unmatched

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟi am the star in every room that i stand in (nicki minaj)

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟeverything goes my way

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟi have everything i want because i said so

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟeverything in life exists to serve me

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟi mold my reality the way i want to

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟim limitless

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟim barbie

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟim a literal goddess

tier two : MUSIC (song recommendations and brief science)

listening to or making music increases blood flow to brain regions that generate and control ur emotions. its called the limbic system and it "lights up" when our ears perceive music. more-so the type of music that u listen to can have an impact on ur MOOD.

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟbig difference - nicki minaj - THIS SONG HAS SO MANY GOOD AFFIRMATIONS IN IT. i literally catch myself singing it to myself in my head and its so productive bcuz im implenting self concept while listening to good quality music

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟqueencard - (G)IDLE - this song is all about empowerment and its so catchy so i 10/10 reccomend it

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟprincess diana - ice spice - im thick cuz i be eatin oats

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟdeli - ice spice - literally any song by ice spice is such an amazing manifesting tool

໒꒱ ⋆ﾟthot sh*t - megan thee stallion - i love love love megan's music

other artists like britney spears, flo milli, ariana grande, black pink, and beyoncé are artists that helped my self concept

tier three : IMPLEMENTATION (how i implemented my mentality so that its set in stone)

i have a habit of while im in my bed (in the state akin to sleep) of just whispering to myself and vaunting about my self concept. and then i go to sleep in that state of being and its just amazing

i'd listen to my playlist ab self concept and sing in the mirror the lyrics word for word while admiring myself

acting. as. if.

the key thing was CONSTANTLY reminding myself bcuz the concept of a self concept was so foreign to me at one point so back when my self concept was weak, whenever something undesirable would come up in my reality my self concept would constantly fluctuate and then i'd wonder why im not getting the results i wanted.

repetition is KEY

now its just like second nature, now what were once affirmations that i repeated to myself consciously, became thoughts that my brain generated subconsciously.

[rollingsins]

all hers, part xxiii

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v | part vi | part vii | part viii | part ix | part x | part xi | part xii | part xiii | part xiv | part xv | part xvi | part xvii | part xviii | part xix | part xx | part xxi | part xxii | part xxiii | part xxiv | part xxv | part xxvi | epilogue

summary: Tara and Sam rush you to the hospital. You see a familiar friend.

warnings: (+18), Tara is Ghostface, graphic violence.

word count: 4.9k

a/n: let me know what you think, love you guys as always ;)

In all her life, Sam has never seen so much blood.

It’s everywhere. All over the back of her hands, in her hair. It’s all over the floor, all over the ceiling, all over Tara.

All over you.

Everything is soaked crimson red.

She presses her hand a little harder against the wound in your stomach, trying to stop it. 

But it spills out, flushing the floor like it’s a red sea.

Tara’s sobbing.

Her hands are on your face, your eyelids have long fluttered shut. There’s a pulse, Sam can feel it, but it's faint. Barely there. 

And there's nothing Sam can do but watch as she listens to her baby sister wail for you to open your eyes.

“Tara,” Sam murmurs. She’d touch Tara’s shoulder, try to snap her out of her grief infused trance, but she’s too scared the moment she lifts her hands you’ll bleed out all over the basement floor.

Tara rests her forehead to your cheek, the water from her eyes staining with the blood on your face, turning it a light shade of pink.

She murmurs something Sam can’t hear. Presses her lips once more to the side of your cheek.

“Tara!” Sam says, a little more forcefully.

The ambulance should have been here by now. Sam had called ahead of time and then again once more. The moment you’d passed out.

But it’s been ten minutes and there’s no sign of them.

“Call them again,” Sam instructs, once she’s sure she has Tara’s attention, “Tell them she’s bleeding out.”

Tara’s bottom lip wobbles, but she does what she’s told.

She sinks her face back down into your neck and presses her phone to her ear, her words a desperate mumble.

The ambulance arrive not five minutes later.

It’s a flurry of lights, and stretchers and crime scene tape as the police follow, not long after.

These are Millwood police officers, and Sam doesn’t recognize a single face.

But for all their questions, they don’t get much out of either one of them. Tara’s at your side, hurrying out with the EMT’s as they pull your limp, bloodied body onto a stretcher, hooking an oxygen mask around your face and taking Sam’s place putting pressure on your wound.

Sam follows, not wanting you or Tara far from sight.

“Is she going to be okay?” Tara asks, voice frail as they pile into the back of the ambulance. Sam presses her hands to Tara’s shoulder in support.

They’d very nearly kicked Sam out. The ambulance isn’t massive, and Sam had half-expected to be relegated to riding in a squad car on the way to the hospital. But Tara’s near hysterical, and the only thing slightly calming her down is Sam’s hand wrapped tight around her shoulders.

“We’re doing our best, honey,” Says the EMT, not unkindly, “But we need to focus on her, right now. Okay?”

There’s a thick layer of gauze pressed to your stomach to soak up some of the blood. But within seconds it’s coated through.

The EMT’s barrel off to each other, almost speaking in code. Heavy medical terms Sam doesn’t understand. But she gets the gist.

It’s not looking good.

She squeezes Tara’s shoulders a little tighter as Tara’s whimpers break out into sobs.

-

When the ambulance pulls into the hospital they take you away.

You’re rushed through the cool linoleum floors, whisked behind a pair of swinging doors that Sam and Tara aren’t allowed through.

You’re going straight into surgery, is what the EMT had said. It could be hours before there’s news.

It had been a fight to stop Tara from barreling in after you.

She stands now, looking horrific; covered in blood, sweat, and her own tears as she argues with the receptionist. Bloody shoeprints follow in her wake.

“There’s a viewing platform,” She says, voice shrewd, leaning down onto the receptionists counter, “There’s a viewing platform to watch surgery. I’ve seen it in Grey’s Anatomy. I need to be there.”

“Ma’am,” Says the receptionist, looking pointed. Her phone is pressed to her ear, no doubt trying to call for security, “There is no viewing platform. That’s a TV show.”

“Tara,’ Sam murmurs, tugging at her sister’s arm, “Come on. We can’t do anything now. We just have to wait-”

Tara shakes off Sam’s hand, shooting her an angry glare.

“My girlfriend needs me,” She says, voice desperate, “If there’s no viewing platform, can’t I be in there? I’ll take a shower. Where one of those hospital gown things. Please.” Her voice cracks, “I have to be in there. I have to be with her. If she dies and I’m not there…”

Her voice trails off. She looks like she’s about to cry again.

Sam reaches out, presses her hand firm against Tara’s back.

The receptionist looks up, pity overtaking her features.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” She says, “You need to let the doctors do their job. I’ll have them update you when they can.”

-

She doesn’t call security.

Tara deflates like a lead balloon. Sam is alert, on guard, a little concerned Tara might take matters into her own hands and careen through the hospital in a sprint to find you.

But instead she lets Sam take her by the hand and lead her to the waiting room.

And then, she promptly takes out her phone, shoulders seizing in aggravation. Anger overtakes her features. The tears promptly stop, like someone has just turned off a hose and replaced it with a flamethrower. 

“I’m suing the hospital.” Tara says, voice a growl. She’s swiping through google for lawyers.  Sam bites her lip and welcomes the distraction. Better Tara take out her emotions via google than swinging a punch at the hospital receptionist. 

“Okay, Tara.” She says, voice tired. Her knee bounces. Sam had called Woodsboro hospital, and your Mom and Dad had been rushed to the emergency room, their fate not dissimilar from yours. It feels wrong to be sitting. Sam feels like she should be pacing, or checking on you or doing something. 

But there's nothing she can do except sit. Stew in her own panic. 

“I’m suing the police, too.” Tara says, looking up, “What kind of police force doesn’t know their Sheriff is Ghostface?”

Sam hums.

Usually, she’d argue. In the overarching sense of morality, she often ends up on the opposite side of her sister.

But privately, she agrees.

How could no one have seen the town Sheriff had been Ghostface all along?

Tara drops her phone. The anger, quick as it had come, evaporates. Her lip quivers. 

“Sam?” Tara asks, voice small. Sam looks up. Tara’s eyes are red, a little puffy. She’s wiped most of the blood from her face but speckles of it still linger in her hair.

She looks as if she might cry again.

“Do you think she’s going to be okay?”

It’s not a question so much as a plea for comfort. Sam scoots a little closer, draws Tara’s head onto her shoulder.

“She’s in the best place,” Says Sam, voice a little hesitant, “They’ll do everything they can to make sure she’s alright.”

She doesn’t want to lie. In truth, it had looked bad, and Sam has no idea if you’ll pull through or not. Tara sniffs against her shoulder, and Sam feels the thin material of her t-shirt soak through with Tara’s tears. She rubs Tara’s back, comfortingly.

“If she dies, I don’t know what I’ll do,” Tara murmurs. She loops her hands around Sam’s arm, clinging to her like a baby koala in a tree, “If she dies, Sam, I’ll die.”

“Don’t say things like that,” Sam says. She squeezes Tara’s shoulders once more, “And let’s not get ahead of ourselves. She’s in surgery, she’s not gone yet. Okay?”

Tara says something inaudible. Her grip around Sam’s arm tightens. She settles for resting her head against Sam’s shoulder, and Sam’s heart soars.

Tara isn’t affectionate, not with her.

She’d be lucky to get a hug out of Tara most days. They snipe at each other like sisters because that’s what they are. When they were kids it was hair pulling. Silly, bouts of sibling rivalry. But Sam’s older now, and that isn’t what she wants their relationship to be.

It’s more than sisterly for Sam. It’s maternal. Their own mother off god knows where, not a care in the world her youngest daughter is covered in blood and falling to pieces in a dingy hospital waiting room.

And so Sam will be the mother Tara needs. She presses a quick kiss to her sister’s head, and closes her eyes. She doesn’t believe in God, not really. But she prays hard now.

Because if she doesn’t pray and beg and cry she knows her sister will never be the same.

Please, God, she thinks, desperately, please let her wake up.

-

When you wake, you’re in a meadow.

You blink up at the pale blue of the sky, not a cloud in sight. You sit, rubbing at your eyes. 

This isn't Woodboro, is all you can think. Woodboro is winding suburban streets and million dollar houses. This is a grassy field in the middle of nowhere. 

You turn, confused, looking for any sign of life. 

And then you see him. 

Clear as day, standing over you. His expression is mild, he looks almost pleased to see you. 

And you can't think of why. 

"Wes?" You ask. You blink, then clamor to your feet. He doesn't move, or speak, or make any effort to acknowledge his name. You step a little closer, mind whirling. 

“Are you real?” You ask, wide-eyed.

He looks real. Floppy, blonde hair. Searing blue eyes. Stubble dotting the round of his chin. His lips, slightly chapped, they way they always were. You can smell him - that cologne he liked, you can feel the warmth from his body.

You blink.

Wonder if he’d be weirded out if you touched him.

But you do it anyway.

He smiles, a little lopsided, as you graze the skin of his forearm.

“You’re real.” You breathe out in wonder.

Then you frown.

“But you’re dead. I-”

Killed you.

His smile fades.

You swallow.

“Where’s Tara?” You ask, as if you'd just realized she isn't here. 

The look on his face is pained.

Panic surges through you. You whirl around, looking for her. Grass blooms as far as the eye can see. There’s nothing else. No roads, no signs. No power poles, nothing.

No sign of anything else. Anyone else.

“Where is she?” You ask again, “Wes, tell me where Tara is. Has something happened to her?”

You rack your brain, trying to think of the last time you’d seen her. But your mind draws a blank. You don’t remember anything. Nothing but her and her pretty smile.

You grab at Wes’ arm, shake him.

He blinks. And suddenly, the look in his eyes is mean.

“You’re not going to see her again,” He says. His lips purse, “You’re not going to see anyone again. And it’s your fault.”

And then he disappears.

His body crumbles like paper under water. You falter forward, your grip on his arm the only thing keeping you upright.

You cough, eyes watering as the ash hits your mouth.

You look up, desperately.

The birds chirp. A pleasant breezes settles through the blades of grass. You panic.

“Tara!” You cry out, wildly fumbling your way through the meadow, “Tara, where are you?”

You break out into a sprint. But the meadow doesn’t end. You run and run and run. A mile. Two miles. Until your chest is heaving and you’re covered in sweat. And then you collapse to the ground. Your stomach aches like someone is twisting metal through your insides.

You pant, tug your shirt up to see a bare patch of skin. There’s nothing wrong with you. Your eyebrows knit together as you start to cry.

You don’t know where you are, or what’s going on.

You can’t remember yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that.

You just think of Tara. You wonder where she is. She wouldn’t leave you alone in the middle of a field. She loves you.

Surely, she’s looking for you.

And then a soft voice draws you out of your stupor.

There’s a road behind you that certainly wasn’t there before. You blink, mouth falling open. It’s Chase, eyes sparkling. He’s in his old pick-up truck, the one with the paint peeling off the sides and the stupid ‘ladies man’ charm hanging off the rear screen mirror.

“Hey,” Chase says, with a smile on his face, “Get in.”

-

Tara had settled for maybe thirty minutes.

She’d closed her eyes, and for a moment, Sam had almost thought she'd drifted off to sleep. And then, inevitably, someone had to ruin it. 

"Samantha Carpenter?" He'd called. He's wearing a uniform, a Sheriff's badge pressed to his chest. The badge is old, looking a little rusty. Sam frowns, and sits slightly upright. 

Tara rises at the same time. 

“Who are you?” Sam asks, frown on her face. 

The man charges forward, a little awkwardly. He accidentally bumps a coffee table, sending a slew of magazines careening onto the ground. 

"Sorry," He says, as Sam and Tara blink up at him, "Should have introduced myself. I'm the new Sheriff. Well, the old Sheriff. The old old Sheriff. I've been asked to step in." 

He reaches down onto the ground and fumbles with the magazine. 

His smile is sheepish. 

“My name is Dewey,” He says, “Dewey Riley.”

“Okay, Dewey,” Sam says, frowning slightly, “This really isn’t a great time. My sister's girlfriend is in surgery." 

The look on his face is apologetic. 

"I know," He says, "I'm sorry." 

He reaches into his pocket and draws out a small notebook, "We didn't get a statement, back at the house. I know it was a little - hectic. But we really need to get an account of what happened." 

“What happened was your Sheriff was a raving psychopath who kidnapped my girlfriend and tried to murder her,” Growls Tara, "What happened was she stabbed her so hard she's been in surgery for the last three hours-" 

Dewey purses his lips.

“I understand,” He says, “I’m sorry this happened. I know it must be very traumatic.” He lets it hang. Sam frowns.

“I know you,” She says, suddenly, it all coming at once. His face is so familiar, “You knew my-”

Father. Is what she wants to say. She catches herself just in time. Tara doesn’t know. Nobody knows. And it’s not the time or place for family revelations.

“You knew the original Ghostface.”

Dewey tilts his head.

“And the one after that,” He says, with a weak smile on his lips, “And the one after that. And the one after that. I know what it’s like to survive a Ghostface attack.”

He touches Tara’s shoulder, sympathy on his face.

“Like I said, I’m sorry this happened to you.”

“I’m suing you,” Tara says, quietly. Hatred brews behind her eyes, “I’m suing the entire Woodsboro police force. For all I know you were all in on it. I’m not talking to you without a lawyer.”

Sam pinches her nose.

“Tara, he’s just doing his job-”

But Dewey smiles.

“It’s all right, I understand.” He says, but he doesn’t step away. Instead, he sits down. Tara stares, “But it’s a bit conspiratorial, don’t you think? A police force of Ghostfaces’? Logistically, it’d be a nightmare.”

Tara blinks.

“You don’t have to talk to me,” Dewey says. He leans back in his seat, “But if you don’t, they’ll send someone else. Maybe the state police. Maybe the Feds. And they won’t do it here. They’ll take you to the station, keep you in the interrogation room for hours. The death of a police officer is a very serious matter.”

Sam swallows.

“I think you should stay here and be with your girlfriend,” Dewey says, quietly, “I think she’ll want you here when she wakes up. But that will only be the case if you can tell me what happened.”

Tara’s quiet a moment.

And then she speaks.

“It all started four weeks ago.”

-

Infuriatingly, Chase doesn’t say anything for a long while.

He hums along with the radio, taps his fingers against the wheel. Ignores you staring at him. 

Ignores your barrage of questions.

“Where am I?” Is the one you keep repeating.

This reality isn’t reality. That much is obvious by now. You’ve been in an endless field talking to ghosts all day. Tara is nowhere in sight.

Chase looks over at you.

“You’re nowhere.” He says. And then he smiles again and tilts his head back. Mumbles along to Bryan Adams’ “Heaven”.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” You snap. You lean forward and shut the radio off, “Is this heaven? Is that where we are?”

Chase laughs.

“You really think you’re going to heaven?” He asks, bemused. His eyes twinkle.

You swallow.

“So, I’m in hell?”

Chase shakes his head.

“No. Not yet, at least. You’re nowhere.”

You grind your teeth, frustration overtaking you. Chase and Wes are some incredibly unhelpful ghosts.

“How can I be nowhere?” You ask, “Am I dead? Is this- limbo, or something?”

Chase looks over at you. He tilts his head, taking pity on you.

“You’re in your own head,” He says, softly, “You’re dreaming. This isn't real. None of it is real.”

You blink. This doesn’t feel like a dream. It’s vivid. You can touch, feel, smell everything around you. You press your hand to the dashboard. It’s solid under your hand.

“I’m dreaming?” You ask, confused, “So this isn’t real? You’re not… real?”

Chase shrugs.

“I’m dead, remember?” He says, “But I guess, dead or alive, it doesn’t matter when you’re dreaming."

You close your eyes and picture Tara. You want her here now. You want her to take you in her arms and kiss you and tell you everything’s going to be okay.

But when you open them, it’s still Chase staring back at you.

“If I’m dreaming, then I want her here.” You say a little accusatory, looking at him as if he’s the one keeping her from appearing.

“That’s not how a dream works,” Says Chase with a quiet hum, “You might want her here, but your subconscious doesn’t.”

“Every part of me wants her, especially my subconscious.” You growl.

“I think the point of a subconscious is you’re not conscious of it.” His eyes twinkle again. You huff, irritated.

“Are you a ghost or my psychologist?” You grumble under your breath. You stare out the window. That damn meadow still rolls in its wake.

“Neither,” He drawls. His hands tighten on the wheel, “Maybe I’m your guilty conscience. Him and me, maybe we both are.”

You draw in a breath. Remember Wes’ eyes. Blue, so blue. Trusting right up until the moment you’d turned your knife on him.

“But we don’t have to talk about that,” Chase offers. His smile is sad, “We could pick up where we left off. Like we’re best friends again.”

You hadn’t thought much about Chase, if you were telling the truth. You hadn’t thought much about any of them. Tara’s good at that, making you forget.

It hadn’t occurred to you that it might not necessarily be a good thing.

“I’d like to wake up now.” You declare, loudly.

Chase peers over at you.

“I don’t think that’s how it works.” Is all he says.

You frown.

“Something’s really wrong.” You murmur. You don’t know it but you feel it. Your stomach aches once more. Desperately you try to remember.

But there’s nothing.

Not a single fleeting memory from the last time you’d been awake. Vague memories, all cobbled together. Like the time your father had taught you to ride a bike. The first time you’d scraped your knee. Your first kiss with Tara.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Ghostface, something about Ghostface.

But you can’t quite work it out. It’s like you’re moving in slow motion, your thoughts not quick enough to keep up.

Chase turns the radio back on and belts out the rest of the song. 

-

Dewey doesn’t stay long.

Tara talks quietly, but quickly. Like she’s trying to get him out of there as fast as possible. She tells Dewey about Richie, about the attack at the house. She tells him about that time he’d stabbed her, about how she and Sam had worked it out.

The Sheriff had taken them down to the station and left them in her office.

Tara had seen the suspect board, the dotted lines drawn between the victims. And then she’d remembered something that had sent her flying out of her seat.

Stab 2, the only clue Ghostface had ever left you.

The movie where Ghostface had been the mother.

He leaves with his well wishes and a promise to follow up when the investigation had started. There would be more they had to do, he assured. Witness statements, likely long talks with the state police. But he’d hold them off for a while. Allow them to wait for you in peace.

Tara returns to her seat, hands twitching in her lap.

And Sam’s quiet as she thinks.

Through all the frantic panic of the last few hours she hadn’t allowed herself to think of why.

Why had the Sheriff targeted her sister? Why had Sam’s own boyfriend joined her? Why had the Sheriff killed those poor kids - Sadie, Aaron, Amber, Chase, Sam. They were children, after all. Eighteen year old children.

And then she thinks of her father.

Some people are just bad, Sam, he sneers at her now, some people just want to cause hurt.

Sam thinks of her own sister.

Tara had been violent, so so violent.

She’d taken the knife out of the Sheriff’s throat and all but used her as a pin cushion. She’d screamed, and cried, the look in her eyes terrifying as she’d taken what little life the Sheriff had left in her.

Tara got angry sometimes, this Sam knew.

But not like this.

Sam swallows. She leans forward and touches Tara’s arm. The Sheriff’s blood is dried now, but it seems to be the least of Tara’s worries. As if, sitting here, covered in blood is an everyday occurrence.

“Are you…” Sam thinks, trying to phrase it the right way, “Are you alright?”

She fails, clearly.

Tara looks over at her as if she’s an idiot.

“Am I alright?” Tara asks, eyebrows knit together. Her voice rises. The other people in the waiting room look over, “My girlfriend is in hospital. She has a stab wound in her stomach and no one will tell me what’s going on. Am I alright?”

“That isn’t what I meant,” Sam says, hurriedly, “Sorry. Forget I said anything.”

Tara shakes her head, expression sparking with annoyance.

“I’m going to talk to the nurse again,” She says, standing, “Before you ask me any more stupid questions.”

And she’s back. The sister Sam knows so well.

Sam rubs her eyebrows and tells herself not to think so hard.

Tara approaches the receptionist once more. Sam watches, eyes squirting as she tries to make out their words. When Tara hurries back in a sprint, Sam’s heart leaps.

Tara’s eyes are wide as she approaches.

“She’s out of surgery,” Tara says, and her voice can’t hide her excitement, “She’s not awake, not yet. But she’s out of surgery, Sam.”

-

You feel sleepy.

Sleepier than you should, considering you’re in a dream.

Chase is humming again, his hand sprawled across the back of your seat, the way it always was. Like he’d just wanted to be close to you.

One of his few, fatal mistakes.

It had been so easy, then. Just you and Chase, taking on the world. Laughing at dumb twitter memes, watching movies together at his house. The days when he’d been staring with puppy dog eyes and you’d be too blind to notice he’d been looking at you.

You try to think about a reality where you’d never met Tara. Never fallen in love with her.

You imagine yourself in the 1950s. Chase would have been your sweetheart. You’d go out with him on weeknights and drink milkshakes, and hold hands, and make out in the back of his truck just down the street, so your Dad couldn’t see.

No Tara, no murder.

Just life.

And it makes your stomach turn.

“I would have never been happy with you.” You murmur. He looks over. There are those puppy dogs eyes again.

“I would have never been happy with any of them.” You continue. Not Aaron and his pretty eyes. Not Sadie and her sweet laugh.

Pretty, sweet and boring.

“No,” Chase agrees. He’s slowing down the car, but you barely notice. Your eyes are drooping, “You wouldn’t have. You’re too fucked up for that.”

You can see Tara now. Almost feel her. The ghost of her lips brushing yours. Her hands in your hair, brushing it back. Her eyes wide, desperate. Like she’d give anything in the world to see your eyes open.

“Wake up, baby,” She’s murmuring. Quiet, like it’s just for you, “Wake up and come back to me.”

You hum. That sounds nice. Chase withdraws his hand from your seat. He touches your arm, smile sad. Like he’s about to leave.

“I’m sorry that you’re dead.” You murmur.

You’d say it with more reverence but there’s no point. He is, after all, a figment of your imagination. You’re talking to yourself.

Chase leans forward. Presses a long kiss to your forehead.

“Me too.” He says. He squeezes your hand.

“But I think it’s time for you to wake up now.”

-

When the nurse tells Tara the room they’re keeping you in, she breaks out into a sprint. 

Not a quick walk. Not a light jog. 

A sprint. 

The nurse stands in her seat, screaming at her to slow down. Sam scrambles up out of her seat, apologizing quickly to the nurse and hurrying along after her sister. 

Hallways pass by in a blur. Doctors shout as Tara barrels past them. She shoves everything out of the way. A stretcher is sent careening into a window. Medical supplies burst and are sent sprawling all over the floor as Tara charges a rolling cabinet out of the way.

She all but shoves a little old lady in a wheelchair out of the way in order to reach the elevator. Leaves Sam there, apologizing profusely as she does.

But Tara doesn’t care.

There’s only one thing that matters; you.

She’s out of breath when she finally reaches your floor.

There’s a nurse by your bedside, plugging you with an IV drip.

Your face is white, so pale, you almost look as if you’re made of marble.

Chest heaving, Tara approaches. She ignores the nurse and sits down at your side, taking your limp hand between her own.

“It’s okay, baby,” She murmurs. Her lip trembles. Her heart is racing. She reaches over the bed and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, “I’m here now.”

The nurse retracts from you, studying her.

“You must be the young lady who’s been giving our receptionist hell.” She says, but her voice is light, teasing. She reaches out and squeezes Tara’s hand.

“I’ll send the doctor in to give you a rundown of the surgery,” She says, “But don’t worry too much, sweetheart. We fixed her up. She’s going to be alright.”

Tara’s heart sings.

She looks up at the nurse, wide-eyed. Her lips are chapped, her face still stained with blood. She looks terrible, frightening. But her eyes spark with hope.

“Promise?” She asks, with all the energy of a small child asking for a bedtime story.

The nurse squeezes her once more.

“I’ll send in the doctor.”

And with a wink, she turns on her heel and closes the door behind her.

The heart monitor beeps, steadily. You don’t move. Your eyes firmly pressed closed. Tara touches the tip of your jaw, working her fingers along the ridges of your face. Your chin, your nose. Your closed eyelids.

You look perfect, Tara thinks, even like this. Her beautiful, perfect girl. 

She settles on your cheek and cups it, moving in closer to press the softest of kisses to your lips.

“I love you so much,” She murmurs. The heart monitor is in tune with her own heartbeat. She links her fingers with yours and presses a kiss to the back of your hand, “And it’s over now.” She promises, “No one will ever hurt you again. I’ll die before I let anyone ever hurt you again.”

She wants to climb into bed with you. Take your frail body in her arms and hold you close. Curl her hands through your hair and cradle you into consciousness. Wake you with soft kisses and soft words and never let you go ever again.

But she doesn’t.

There’s a tight bandage around your midriff that has her wary.

Instead, she scoots herself as close as she can possibly get, and rubs her nose against yours.

“Wake up, baby,” She coaxes, voice soft. She presses another soft kiss to your lips, “Wake up and come back to me.”

The heartbeat monitor beeps.

And then you feel it all at once.

Color drains back into your cheeks. There’s air in your lungs. Your throat is dry, like sandpaper. Pain, and drugs pump through your body.

You groan, your eyes flitting open.

And the first thing you see is her pretty brown eyes staring back into yours. Her eyes are wide, loving, hopeful. Like she's just witnessed a miracle. 

“Tara.” 

[steddieunderdogfics]

honeyed affection by cuips_not_cute

@cuips-not-cute

Rating: Explicit

52,813 words, 10/10 chapters

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apple

Tags: oh god okay here we go, take 3 guys, Homoerotic Wound Care, Eddie lives (duh), Getting Together, Pining, First Kiss, First Time, Falling In Love, Virgin Eddie Munson, they're switches bitches, Top Eddie Munson, Bottom Steve Harrington, Top Steve Harrington, Bottom Eddie Munson, spitty kisses, since that's my thing now, Car Sex, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, literally sleeping together, as well as the slutty kind of sleeping together, eddie "heart-eyes" munson, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, So is Steve, They're Dumb And In Love, Rimming, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Anal Sex, So much kissing, Making Out, pining then just porn, u know the drill by now, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Gay Eddie Munson, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Bottoming, Hickies, Grinding, Shotgunning, Inexperienced Eddie Munson, i read like 3 fics like that and got sucked in sue me, Sexual tension so thick you could cut it with a knife, Drunk Kissing, Spit Kink, gross misuse of the wall slam scene, Roleplay, does it count as roleplay if you are roleplaying yourself?, do u see what i'm getting at here, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Sickfic, Fix-It, the babygirlification of steve harrington, Drunk Sex, Sex Toys, Steve Harrington Has a Praise Kink

Summary:

Eddie doesn't particularly like the smell of blood. However, he's growing awfully used to it. It’s what he’s choosing to focus on. The smell of it. How it burns his nose. Clings heavy in his throat and fills his lungs with its thick, metallic haze. That is, when he can breathe. It’s awful hard to breathe. But he’s trying. God fucking damn it, he’s trying. And it hurts worse than anything, worse than the bites or the torn flesh or the aching all over. It burns worse than the smell. He can’t tell if it’d be easier to breathe through his nose or his mouth, so he just sort of heaves with his mouth open and hopes that air gets in somehow. He might be dying. Steve says he’s not dying, very insistent on that, in fact, but Eddie’s not sure if he believes him.

Thanks for the rec! This recommendation is apart of our Writer's Wednesday! All of the recs today are written by @cuips-not-cute. Want to nominate an author? Fill out this form!

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[babyjakes]

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event | april '23 ddlg-themed blurb night

requested by @brandycranby | ahhh bb eu 🥺 was just thinking of ari and his thick beard aaaa 💕✨️🩷🍒 for ur blurb night if u have room, soft!daddy!ari + crying?

warnings | ddlg. ari is soft and little dark, pushing baby way past her limits (dub/noncon). oral (f receiving). clit play, real puff puff behavior. overstimualtion. mocking/degredation, praise, dumbification. forced orgasms. squirting.

word count | 531

as punishing as the trash stache is, i’m of the controversial belief that ari is probably the oral king when it comes to facial hair. like there’s just so much of it, and he totally knows how to weaponize it against you and your poor little pussy.

maybe he’s got you spread out on the couch, arms resting over your knees and big hands holding your thighs right in place. you’re not going anywhere, no matter how much you beg and cry😌

he takes his time with you like always, teasing you with his lips and fingers, enjoying your soft moans and hums of initial approval. the first orgasm is of course a fine and grand ordeal, though it’s not the main event.

that would come after, as he’s overworking your poor, puffy folds. after cumming so hard, you’re a drippy, drooly mess, your little clit now fully exposed and engorged with blood. ari knows, he knows it’s so sensitive now. throbbing. hot. achy. needy, as your daddy puts it. which justifies what comes next: the torment of your overstimulated pussy, especially your precious little button that ari loves oh so much.

“c’mon baby, just look at it. so swollen n’ angry lookin’, needs daddy to take care of it.” using a hand to pull back the skin around it, bringing his tongue down to dip into your sore cunt as his nose and mustache scratch against the aching bead of nerves. dragging the wetness of your last orgasm up to roll over it, earning soft sobs from you as you cry into your hands.

“please daddy, t-too much, please don’t—”

he pulls back to look at you with false concern. “honey, daddy’s just taking care of you. know your little baby pussy gets so sensitive after you cum, doesn’t it?” he brings a single finger up to rub over your poor nub as he speaks, worsening your tears to his delight. “see? can feel it throbbing against me. think you need to cum again for me, sweetheart. your body’s begging for it”

you struggle against his hold but it’s no use 😖 he coos at your pathetic attempt, soothing, “shhh baby, don’t cry. daddy’ll be real gentle, promise” but he’s not fooling either of you, you both know he’s loving this. the tears, the resistance, the abuse of your poor cunt

his mouth returns to its spot between your trembling legs, his tongue licking a fat stripe up from your dripping hole to your clit as he circles in on it with skillful precision, eventually easing the bud back into his mouth as he presses two fingers against your opening

“that’s it, baby. i know, i know sweet girl,” his voice comes out so patronizing through his sucking and kissing. he doesn’t fail to notice the way your whole body’s tensing up in preparation for your next climax. “almost there, angel,” he breathes against your burning button, nursing lovingly on it as you tumble over the edge. he groans and moans against you as you cum, the vibrations of his deep voice sending pleasure and pain shooting up through you as you squirt into his awaiting mouth—

yuh huh!! yum!!😌🫶

[pursuitseternal]

“Collaring:” nothing but a sweaty smut update for “Our Blood is Thicker:”

(Ascended) Astarion x Cordehlia | E | 2.8K

📷 by @mouldering-casket 🎨 by @marimosalad, co-creator, 📖 by @nyx-knox

Summary: No ordinary bauble or toy this time, Astarion and Cordehlia bring out that old collar from their adventuring days… but it takes a little more than that to make the Ascendant her pet this time around.

CW: Orgasm denial/control, DommyMommy Cordehlia, collaring, Cock Ring for that whiney Ascendant, retaliation DomDaddy…

Previous Ch | ao3 link | Masterlist

Chapter 23: Collaring…

🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️

It’s a high-pitched whine, hissed between fangs. “Please…” Astarion whimpers, sweat running down his brow to make his pale skin glisten in the roaring firelight.

Cordehlia only smirked, lips parted to show off her right fang as she leaned forward. Adorable… she thought, those wider red eyes that crinkled up at her with need and pain and pleasure. It only made her spread thighs clench harder as she rode on top of him. Everything was wet and sweaty and drenched, but that was to be expected. And it was deserved, calling her ‘pet’ one too many times, a little dare that Astarion just couldn’t pass up regarding his stamina, and now an hour of hard fucking in front of their grand fireplace…. Too many orgasms for her to even keep track of anymore.

While for him… she grinned as he languished still. That grin made him whine out another pitiful ‘please’, his hands clawed into the white fur rug beneath them. Her strong fingers hooked beneath the collar around his neck. “No,” she simply replied, and then stilled her hips to let his cock just sit inside her. “For someone who enjoys making me beg so… very… much, you are pathetic at it.”

He grunted as she yanked him a bit higher to let him go suddenly. “Please, my love,” he whined again louder, trying to swallow over his parched and cracked throat.

“Please… who?” She practically crowed from above him, the skin beneath their thighs so slick with sweat and her arousal. “After an hour of this, I would think the mighty Vampire Ascendant would have learned by now what to call me,” her voice was velvet and ice all at once. Sharp and tempting.

“My Lady Corvus,” he ground out, bucking his hips into her drenched folds as subtly as he could. “Please release me,” his humility dripped like honey, or like the sweat that gathered over every inch of his chest.

Cordehlia leered softly down at him. “Oh… and from what shall I release you? From this little thing?” She reached between them, gripping the base of his cock, finding the ring that wrapped snugly around his thick and throbbing shaft. “A little toy of a ring reduces you to a whiny little brat…”

“Excuse me?” his voice sounded pressed, irritated… until she pulled on that collar again.

“I’m sorry, I don’t listen to insolent pets,” she tutted her tongue, mimicking the way he had all too often teased her over the months they had been reunited. “Now… don’t be fussy, and I might just finally let you come,” her smirk widened wickedly, her hips canting slowly, her hand slipping through her own slick to tease her own clit, making his crimson eyes fix on the sight of their coupling. He licked his lips, eyes fluttering between open and shut, mouth working between clenching and panting. “You could help me, instead of me pampering you, little lordling. Put those amazing hands of yours to use,” she simpered down at him, her free hand reaching for his from the fur rug below them to claw around her swaying breast.

“You’ve grown rather demanding, you know… bound in blood to that powerful Vampire Lord of yours,” Astarion panted beneath her, playing his strong, smoothe fingers over that fullness and plucking at her rosy nipple. “So needy and selfish…” he hissed as she rode him harder, her hand working furiously at her clit the more he taunted her. “Someone might need to check you on your own indulging tendencies. That Lord you belong to seems a bad influence…”

“The worst of influences,” she nodded and groaned, looking down at him with heavy-lidded eyes. “But you’re mistaken, pet… he belongs to me…” she sighed at the wicked smirk that turned his open mouth.

“Cordehlia,” he growled her name, just a hint of warning in that tone, one he knew all too well would go unheeded.

She just tossed her fiery red hair over her shoulder, letting it glow and catch the light from the merry fire in the grate. “You know it’s only fair, given the number of times you’ve had me kneel for you… sometimes in public.”

He could swear he felt her wetness seep more at the memories, at the debauched thrill it was to flaunt their power and notoriety, when mostly appropriate. His Raven… his pet… his Right Hand. Cordehlia shivered as she savored what his right hand was doing now, that slow rolling, worshipful touch of her breast that didn’t fit his massive palm.

Breath whistled in her mouth, her head thrown back to make the perfect picture of indulgent pleasure for him to revel in. Her fingers were soaked in her cum yet again, her body hitching as she bucked out her release on his throbbing cock. And Astarion pulled her down to cover his damp body with her own, filling her panting, gaping mouth with his tongue. Kissing him, she felt his hand wind into her hair, subtly guiding her lower down his body. “If you don’t stop pushing me with that hand on my head, I swear I’ll bite it, Astarion,” she growled a bit mischievously.

And it only made him laugh, quietly and exhaustedly. “Now, now… which one of us is the feral, untamed pet, hmm?”

Lowering her mouth, the damp of her tongue licked up that groove of his abdomen, the salt of his skin filling her taste buds. His belly quivered under her mouth, making her smile as she felt him brace those taught muscles before she nipped. A sharp admonishment, he hissed her name in pain and pleasure. She sucked and licked as she drank from him slowly, languorously. Scarlet, bloody lips twisted in a sultry smile, she slid over his damp body to kiss him, to share that coppery taste of his powerful blood. Little rumbles of his own pleasure tickled her tongue as he lapped the rest of his essence from the nooks of her mouth. Laughing, she slid quickly before he could wrap his arms around her.

A sigh from her lungs, she settled herself at his groin.

The smallest tip of her tongue tickled just around that hot and blushing head of his cock. Another exasperated groan from above her, another grip of his hand in her hair. She laughed again, deep in her chest, that arrogant, teasing kind she knew her found enticing. Slowly, she sucked, and even more slowly, she eased that ring up off the base of his shaft.

“Good girl,” he groaned loudly, thumb caressing the edge of cheek and tapping on the little tip of her nose. He felt her lips part in a smile around his length, that ancient familiar shiver of pleasure coursing down his spine to the base of his cock. Centuries old, the worship of her mouth around him, it filled him with more pleasure than anything… almost anything. Only one thing was tighter and warmer and slicker. He grinned, reaching to ease that ring off more, even as she licked and drooled around it.

Those lean, elegant fingers of hers caught his reach, clasping it tightly. A silent command not to interfere. Astarion only laughed quietly, huskily to himself, bucking his hips deeper into those smirking, rosy lips.

Instantly, she slipped away from his cock, hand still gripping his, as she kissed her way lower. Bringing her mouth to suckle around one of his balls, she sighed dramatically. That loose, silky skin was sticky slick from all her riding, and eagerly she lapped around it. Soft little suckles reduced him back to deep throated whimpers, his hand struggling to break from her grip to touch himself.

One last swipe of her tongue up that tender crease between his balls, and she smiled at him, his body propped up on one elbow for a better view. “Say pretty please one more time, and I’ll let you free, my love.”

He gave a disgruntled, petulant snarl. “Pretty… pretty…” his voice shifted even more guttural as he leaned higher on his arm, “please,” he finally added as he gripped harshly into her hand.

“You sound positively feral and unkempt, my love,” Cordehlia chided with a musical laugh, lapping up the underside of his shaft again and twisting the ring in place. Granting him no relief. “Not to mention, you’re rather rude. Did you forget, little lordling, whom you are addressing?”

“Lady Corvus…” he growled that name deep in his chest, more seductive and ravenous than ever she had heard it spoken before. It made her shiver, and not with the thrill of bloodshed. It was the thrill of desire and dominance and the battle for an edge of power between them, that merry dance between playfulness and destruction. “Release me,” he ordered, that tantalizing tone of danger in his command before he softened it with another, “please…”

Cordehlia held her breath; she knew that shine in his eyes as he looked down his body at her— fierce, hungry, and most of all, unsatisfied. One last lick up his manhood, from the base of his tightening balls to the weeping slit of its head, and Cordehlia slipped that ring off more and more from his shaft. He growled in release, his length throbbing more under her touch with every little bit she slid it. Wrapping her mouth around that ring, she sucked it off at the very end. She made a show of it, pulling it free from her teeth to set on the fur rug beside them.

Astarion’s mouth hung slack, his grin turning with confidence and a surge of dominance as he reached for it. Holding the stretching ring, his glistening chest rose and fell with a loud and rasping breath. “Well, now that that is settled… fair is fair…” And then, he tossed that blasted ring to clink and roll across the floorboards somewhere in the distance.

Smoother than feline, more silent than breath, he swept his legs from under her, crawling on all fours. Cordehlia’s undead heart stopped, she swore. That glistening, predacious body coiled tight like a spring. With a laugh on her lips, Cordehlia scrabbled away, fingers dug into the white fur rug…

…only to have her ankle arrested in his vice-like grip and have her body yanked onto its back in the same place his sweat-streaked frame had been. “Tut… tut…” his fang-toothed smirk glinted in the flickering light, that collar around his neck jangling mutedly as he unclasped it with his other hand. “Such a naughty little brat…” his smirk widened as he licked the corner of his mouth. “You’ve had your fun, now let’s see… how you like some of your own treatment, darling.”

Caging her, he slank his body to cover her own supple, sweating frame. That hand around her ankle ghosted with featherlight touch up the side of her slick skin. Catching one hand, he placed it pinned overhead, a single eyebrow raising as silent order to have her other join its partner—an order she obeyed with a thump of her heart against her ribs.

That leather collar was warm and smooth against her skin as he dragged it up her belly and between her breasts ever so slowly. Dexterous as always, he secured it quickly around her neck, the leather damp from his own wearing. It made her shiver and forced a swallow to press against where it choked her just slightly. “There now,” he crooned in those sweet, rolling tones, “back where you belong.” Brow canting, he teased her, taunting her. “Tch,” his smirk curled as he aucked his teeth, “naughty girl…” Smirking lips captured hers, his kiss was all fangs and tongue, hungry and salivating with unmet need.

“A spoiled bully,” she groaned as his fingers slid inside her overstimulated and swollen fold, “that’s what you are, Astarion.”

“Mmm, I prefer to think I’m more of your irksome, demanding lover,” he rasped, his fingers picking up the pace as he stroked inside her channel and teased her clit, just hard enough to make her hips buck against his touch. “The mate you’ll never be rid of, sorry darling…” he chuckled deep in his throat as he caught her nerves under his nail, making her cry with bliss.

Those long, muscled legs of hers wrapped around his waist, a silent affirmation that she would never wish to be rid of him. She needn’t say a word, her mind filled with the joy of him, of all he was and always had been to her… The feelings flooded his mind, a wave of her love sent careening down their mental bond.

And it made him slam his cock home, deep inside her, where he loved to belong.

Neck arching, spine tingling, blood pumping… Cordehlia groaned as he filled her again. Her voice hoarse against the pressure of that collar, she gasped and panted as he chuckled, slamming his hips over and over with all the pent up need for release she had long denied him. Sweat dripped from his flushed skin, his breath was hot on her neck and heavy in her ear as he fucked her, hard and fast. Snarling, his grip tightened around her wrists pinned overhead, and still she laughed. Breathless and blushing herself. Astarion pushed her harder, legs forcing her to widen all the more, his cock reaching and slamming the end of her cunt in rapid succession. Searing, burning, that wave of bliss crept closer and closer until it shattered her from the inside out the moment his fangs bit into the canting crook of her neck.

His name echoed in the room, only masked slightly by Astarion’s own grunting laughter. “Aren’t I generous?” He panted, his hips snapping with more force through the clutching waves of her orgasm. “I allowed you your release, my little raven, like a consummate… attentive lover should.”

“Fuck you,” Cordehlia grinned widely, catching her breath even as her voice rasped those two all-too-familiar words at her love.

“Are you just being observant, or are you just insisting on being ever the foul-mouthed elfling you have been….”

She shook her head, biting her lip and grinning like a fool as her fiery hair grew tangled in the furs beneath her.

“Well… say please and I’ll fill you, my love,” he whispered right into her ear, tingles racing down her spine. His thrusts grew tantalizingly slow, that sleek body of his undulating with precision into her.

Teasing. Toying. Enjoying himself.

And it made her heart nearly burst. “Please,” she sighed behind grit teeth.

Fang points, still crimson with her blood, glinted in the firelight as he gave that smirk of victory. That prideful, arrogant, insufferable, open-mouthed half-smile that instantly made her walls clench around his cock as he fucked her hard and fast. Head hanging lower, his thrusts grew erratic and sloppy, until at last that aching, burning pressure burst. A groan from his parted lips, his body surged in pleasure, stifling his breath and making his legs twitch, that warm slick of his seed erupting after such a long time of teasing and denial. Arms shook; he stared into her own matching crimson eyes, their haze of lust glimmering back as she matched his final thrusts.

For a moment, they froze, blistering hot and dripping sweat as they caught their breaths. Astarion’s lips pressed against hers first, the rest of his sleek body lowering bit by bit until he wrapped Cordehlia in his arms and rolled them both on their sides. Fingers deftly removed that collar, setting it carefully on the furs beside them. “Of all the baubles and loot and trinkets from our journey,” he laughed, winded and parched, “this one has by far proved its invaluable worth.”

Cordehlia’s musical laugh made his own smirk broaden, his thumb tracing over those rosy lips. “I still like the trinkets you spoil me with now,” she wiped, voice husky in her throat.

“Well, it wouldn’t do to have the Ascendant’s Right Hand go unarmed, or for his Consort to leave the palace without positively dripping with jewels…” A single finger traced over the angry red lines from the collar, that taunting smirk twisting all the more rakish. “But this souvenir from our adventures is perfect for my beloved pet…”

Cordehlia rolled her eyes and sighed. “Don’t make me put it back on you, the ring too…”

“I think that has conveniently disappeared not to be seen for a long while…” he shook his head, the look of perfectly feigned innocence making her overused folds clench again.

“I suppose I should just be thankful for… my Lord’s generosity,” she sighed, purest sarcastic venom dripping in her voice.

“That… and his stamina,” he fired back, a squeeze of her breast in his palm, a laugh tickling his tongue as he kissed his love beside the fire.

[lalilaloli]

I was going to wait for the livestream...

Really, I was, but eventually I couldn't wait. Especially with all the spoilers all around. So my first reaktions is of the songs is:

The challenge: Anna Lea has an wonderful voice. She's perfect for Penelope. Strong, emotional but fierce. She and the song is made for each other. She is the wife who has been waiting for 20 years without giving up on her husband. But she's at her wits end. The vultures (suitors) are losing their patience and are closing in on her and her son. She's fighting with everything she have for her husband, her son and herself and now she's going to gamle everything on all all or nothing roll of the dice: Odysseus bow. Her desperation, her refusal to give up hope, her love and her fierceness is all combined in just one song. Queen.

Hold them down: Dark, twisted, cruel, soft and deceitfully seductive. Ayron Alexander gives once again such an amazing performance as Antinous. Softer than velvet, almost like a caress, but with such an darkness and cruel threat barely hidden under the honeyed tones. The lyrics gives me the shudders and goes under my skin.

Odysseus: Oh. My. GOD. SLAY KING!! Literally. The music gives me doomsday feelings. The king is back and have no more fucks to give. And no more mercy. I could write an essay on this song because it's utterly and completely magnificent. Which I might do in the future. The music, the lyrics, the performances. It's just... I lack words right now.

I can't help but wonder: The reunion of Odysseus and Telemachus. Seriously Jorge? You're sending your audience in a mind blowing blood lust induced frenzy à la Ares and then you follow it up with this?? Really, you don't have any consideration for our hearts? Obviously not and I love him for that. Even if you probably could hear my heart break a mile away. Odysseus finally got to meet his baby boy. All grown up but still his beloved child. And Telemachus, he has been waiting his whole life to meet his father. The man who he only know through legends and tales. And now he's finally there. And Telemachus is worried that he's not going to be good enough and Odysseus is so happy and proud over the young man who stands before him and I can't! Also, just one thing more, the way Odysseus voice changes. From the ruthless monster in the song before till the incredibly soft, thick with love and emotional delivery in "I can't help to wonder." Ok. Fine. One thing more. Athena!!! She's back!

Would you fall in love with me again: Also called, Odysseus is an idiot but he's Penelope's idiot. The way that he stands before her. So scared that after all the time and after all he has done that she's not going to be able to love him. He has changed. He has done unspeakable things. He's broken. He not the optimistic and happy young man who left 20 years ago. He is, as Zeus called him "A man full of shame". He has scarified his innocence, his morals, his mercy, his values, his friends. Just to be able to get home to his family. He can barely recognise himself. So how can he expect Penelope to still love him? To ever fall in love with him again. And Penelope won't have it. She. Don't. Care. She loves him. She will always love him. Her delivery of: "Only my husband knew that. What does it make of YOU?!" and Odysseus: "Penelope." His tone so full of wonder and reverence. Penelope "I will fall love with you over and over again. I don't care how, where or when." "Don't tell me your not the same person! You're always my husband!"

Jorge Rivera Herrans. You didn't disappoint.

[rottingcherub-txt]

❝ To The Bone ❞

🫀・・・contents: sapphic relationship, obsessive behavior, mentions of religion (specifically Catholicism), blasphemey, Sexual Assault by religious leader, mentions of animal death, not being believed (referring to SA), gore and blood, graphic depiction of murder, cannibalism

I can still hear him.

If I’m quiet enough, if I press my ear against the walls of my bedroom, I can hear his footsteps, his humming of hymns as he makes his way towards my room. When I lie in my bed at night, between the buzzing song of crickets and cicadas outside of my bedroom window I always leave just slightly ajar, I can see his silhouette standing at the end of my bed before I blink and realize that it’s simply a poorly shaped shadow and the figment of my imagination coming to remind me. I close my eyes and roll over with my face pressed into the pillow, waiting for Dawn to stretch her fingers across the horizon and soothe a finger across the slope of my exposed thighs. Mama would come into my room to wake me, tell me to take a bath, and get ready for church.

I always dressed in white for Sunday mass. He liked me in white but you liked me in white as well. You’d smile every time I came into the church, following closely behind my mother and father as they greeted Reverend Hall — that beautiful, paled piece of raised skin against your honeyed cheek and narrow jaw shifting slightly with the pull of your lips. I wanted to kiss it, to trace my finger over the edges of it, to tell you I loved it, that horrific scar.

But he smiled at me too. “Good to see you, Ada. I’m happy you’re here.” Reverend Hall placed his hand on the small of my back, his thumb pressing circles through the cloth of my dress. His smile kept secrets, secrets only kept between me, him, and God. His looks whispered of the handsome man he once was. His hair still thick yet graying at the sides and around his hairline, wrinkles forming from his narrowed nose and curving around his thin, rosy lips from all the years he’s spent smiling at me. He held his bible in his large, paled hand; the same bible he read to me as I sat in his lap as a child, listening while he expressed to me the importance of purity — all while he twisted the purity within me.

I offered him a smile as well, brief and placid before moving on and my gaze found you once more. You had turned your back on me, listening to Mr. Williams — your father — speak to you and your brother. My father guided me to our usual pew towards the front of the church in front of the altar.

Reverend Hall stood at the podium as he did every Sunday morning and addressed the church. “The Lord is good, is he not?” And while a chorus of hums and “yes”s and “praise Him”s echo off the walls of their poor, little church house, weathered down and rotting from the inside out from the constant rain and perpetual, never-ending Georgia heat; I was just looking at you from across the way. You didn’t seem all that interested and you never have. You’d rather be with your studs and bitches despite the beasts attacking you when you were young. That’s how you got that scar along your cheek and the vicious bite marks across your arm.

“Father stresses purity. First Timothy chapter 5, verse 22, ‘Do not be hasty in the laying on of hands, and do not share in the sins of others. Keep yourself pure.’” Reverend Hall glanced down at me. Me in my pretty, white dress matched with lace-trimmed socks and mary jane shoes, me the image of purity in a town like this, me, the girl of which he ripped the flowers from the garden bed of childhood.

He loved me like this. Pure. The white against my dark skin, my wide, innocent eyes looking up at him. He loved standing above me, loved looking down at me, loved me. 

And I hated him. He dirtied me, defiled me — me. My purity, my perfection, my godliness. He tried to take that from me. But divinity can not be extinguished. It is eternal.

After a sermon, hours long, and even longer songs of worship, church was over. That meant me and Mama would spend the rest of our day cooking after church dinner. Papa would be in the living room, leaning back in his recliner with a beer in hand, calling for a sandwich and getting increasingly irritated by the minute.

“Mama, could I go to the Williams’ for a little bit? I wanna see if Ruth can come to dinner.” I tugged on the back of my mother’s skirt while she took her church hat off of her curled head. “Fine, but you stay away from them dogs, ya hear? I don’t want you comin’ home with no bites on ya arm. Them damn mutts vicious.” Mama never liked the Williams’ dogs. All them bully breeds, muscled-up pits, Rottweilers, all the sorts. They were fighting dogs. The Williams bred them, best in the state.

I was already out the door by the time she let out her last words, still in my church dress and my pretty Mary Janes I didn’t want to scuff up but I was so excited to see you that I didn’t care.

We lived in a small town. Population all of 100 some people. The Williams’ ranch was about half a mile down and the walk was marked by tall grass and powerlines. Cicadas sang constantly, day and night, all hidden between the shadows of Magnolia trees not yet bloomed.

Your land was often muddy, wet, full of boot and paw prints. The air seemed to get all the more humid, mosquitoes trying to land on any piece of exposed flesh. I always appreciated mosquitoes. They were in and out before you knew it with only an itchy bump to mark their existence. The best way to leave a mark is in discomfort. The grass was always half-dead and I never understood how you and your family managed to keep the few cows and goats you had. 

You, my precious, glorious, scarred god, were in a pin outside with a heavily pregnant red-nose Pitbull. You in your boots, always caked in dry and wet mud, and flannel with the sleeves always rolled up to your elbows. Your hair is tied up into a messy bun of curls and sweat is already dripping from your hairline down your dark caramel skin. Your scars on your face and arms from being attacked by one of your daddy’s dogs.

I remembered seeing the stitches, your split open cheek and arm. I wanted to lick the blood from your wounds. I wanted to cut you open, to part your ribcage and eat your heart. I wanted to slip into your skin and wear it like a blanket to forever keep me warm and I hope you wanted to do the same. I wanted to kill that stupid mutt that dared to hurt you but your daddy took it out back and shot it first. That was when I decided I liked your father.

"Oh- Ada." You seemed to brighten at the sight of me approaching. Your skin glowed gold when you walk into the sun to meet me at the fence. "Came right on time, 'm 'bout to put Missy back in her kennel. Her puppies should be coming any day now." The dog was fat and stout with engorged pink nipples bursting at the seems to feed the pups to be. She drooled with her tongue hanging out of her mouth, panting. "Tryna take a walk around?" Your voice was so sweet, so melodic.

I smiled softly at you. "No. I wanted to see if you could come to my house for dinner." As long as I could remember, you and I have always been best friends. Our families weren't close. My family was evangelical and yours could take or leave church. My house, littered in crosses and peeling floral wallpaper, a box TV in the corner. Your house was just the same but covered in animal heads instead. You come from a family of hunters, animal people. It shows in how we present ourselves but the love was there nonetheless.

I've never told you what happened though. I know you sensed an irreversible change in me after the first day it happened but your comments were always kept to a minimum. I appreciated it. I never wanted you to know I wasn't pure for you, that I was a disgusting harlot capable of seducing this town's Mother Teresa. I wanted to be, but my thoughts were already taking a turn.

I wonder how you taste. Will you taste like salty sweat? Like dirt? Like dog? Like love? I wanted to love you down to the bone. I wanted my love to consume you whole and leave nothing left behind.

But you and I were cut from the same cloth of the universe. I knew you were just as demented as me from late night talks on the roof of your farmhouse. I had turned to you, looking away from a night sky so clear it glowed with stars, and I asked you, "Are you ever hungry? And I don't mean physically but…deep somewhere in your soul. No matter how much you stuff into your face, you can never feel it."

And without thought you said, "Yeah. It's the kinda hunger everyone has but can't feed without another person. Even then, very rarely does it go away." Your face was blank solemn and I knew our thoughts were running parallel to each other. 

Then you kissed me that night, sweet and tender at first, then harder, hungrier. It was a sin for two girls like us to kiss like this. Both of our families would have never let us see each other again. My daddy would have drowned me in holy water. I should have felt guilty but I didn’t, I couldn’t not when I tasted you. We were hidden beneath the cover of night, no one had to know.

I bit your lip so hard it drew blood. You hissed and pulled away a bit and for a moment I had worried that I had ruined everything. But you had looked me in the eyes, yours glittering under the stars and you smiled with that bloody lip of yours and kissed me harder. I tasted your blood on my tongue — tangy and metallic — and I was intoxicated on it. You bit my tongue and our life sources mingled in a way so intimate I thought we might transcend this plane of existence.

The way you were — I wasn't sure if I wanted to have you or wanted to be you. You in your silent confidence and quiet perfection. Nothing bothered you. You were holy without even trying. Was wanting to be and wanting to have so innately intertwined that one could not exist without the other? When it came down to it, I simply wanted to possess you, completely.

Your crooked grin faded. "Oh Ada, I can't tonight. Ma need my help 'round the house later on but maybe another day." You always let me down easy so I'd take your small rejections lightly. I could see in your eyes that you always hated saying no to me. I always hated when you said no to me too.

I took it with ease though I was seething on the inside. 'Your mother can wait. What about me? You're breaking my heart here.' "That's okay." I was always told I had the smile of an angel. By my mother, friends of the family, Reverend Hall as he grabbed my chin with a, "you look prettier when you smile".

"Promise you not mad at me, sugarplum?" You hold out a long pinky to me with a smile so sweet it makes my cheeks burn. I loved the way you called me endearing nicknames. Sugarplum, sweetheart, darling. If I hadn't known any better and if I weren't dissecting you from the inside out, I would have assumed that's just how you are. A lot of southern folks call everyone those kinds of names. Our southern manners and hospitality.

But I can see, you use those southern niceties to wink at me, nudge me to realize your adoration of me, your worship. You recognize the divinity within me and I see it within you as well; within your dirt and mud and sweat.

I wrapped my smaller pinky around yours and smiled. "Never." I didn't want to leave you yet. I wanted you to hold me. I wanted to get dirty in the mud with you, but never impure. Never tainted. How could perfection be tainted? I was whole with you, a stolen piece of me returned. Together, we could transcend all of this and be more than everything, more than God.

But you had things to do, my love, and I never want to hold you from your duties. "I'll see you around, Ruth." I blew you a discreet kiss and your pink lips curled up, your scar shifted, and you caught the sun just right again. My golden god.

You took my wrist gently and pulled me back to press your lips to mine. Just a peck, a discrete kiss. It couldn’t be anything more, not now, not in the day. You let me go as quick as you grabbed me and I was dizzy on you, high on your love. I might have looked ditzy and lovesick as you leaned in and whispered in my ear, “See ya ‘round, Ada.”

The walk home was uneventful. I was far too busy tracing my fingers over my nether lip to feel the pressure of your lips on mine. Only that a rusty old truck making a whining screeching sound passed and I heard a faint, "Hey Ada!" Everyone in this town knew each other but I never bothered with learning names. No one mattered to me except you.

I returned home dappled with sweat and aching feet, still giggling to myself. I came through the back door that led into the kitchen and dining room. I stopped in my tracks, struck in the chest as if God had chosen to smite me on the spot. Reverend Hall sat at our dinner table with his trusty leatherback bible sitting beside him.

“Ada. You’re home.” Mama ushered me in. “Wash ya hands and help me with this potato salad.” I never expected him to be here at my table again, smiling at me knowingly. He hasn’t done it in ages, years, not since I was 15. I thought it was over. But politeness was key. He would not have me again, my soul, my dignity. I was above him. I was above everyone. He was just a maggot under my shoe. But that did not explain why I was so terrified of him.

“Ada. I’m so honored to be having dinner with your family. I hope I am welcome in your home.” I wanted to tear his throat out with my bare hands, shred him to pieces before his God and curse Him and His evil ways.

I did not answer him. Instead, I went upstairs to calm myself. My heart threatened to break my ribs, to suffocate me. And for a moment, I wish it would. But I reminded myself of who I am. I am greater, I am God. Who was he to scare me? He’s the one who should be scared. But that ideology did not comfort me when I went back downstairs and kissed Papa’s cheek and he whispered to me, “Don’t you go causing trouble now. Screaming your accusations up and down the street. You know Reverend Hall is a good man. Don’t act up.”

My Ma and Pa never believed me when I tried to tell them. How could a man of God ever do such a thing to a child? I was lying for attention apparently and was made to apologize to Reverend Hall which he graciously accepted. “It is alright. All children have wild imaginations. She must have taken my afternoon private lessons in an unsavory way.” He smiled at me with a glint in his dark eye and that was the end of it.

Sitting down for dinner was Hell. I was forced to sit beside him, my hand in his as we lowered our hands while Reverend Hall led us in prayer. He held my hand tightly, his grasp bordering on crushing as he glanced at me. I could feel it, his gaze burrowing into me, carving out my insides, hollowing me.

Dinner was unappetizing. I simply pushed my food around my plate, thinking of you, Ruth, how I wished you were sitting here instead of him. I wished we could share smiles across the table with our own secret shared between just the two of us because the way he smiled at me showed his secret, the secret I tried to make known only for it to be shoved into a box. The thing about a secret like that is that it’s not dying to get out. Whether it's known or not, a secret that is not cared for is not a secret.

We were all sitting in it. The mess he made of me. The secret between us, all of us, would simply stay here. I did not know whether my parents truly believed me or not. A part of me thought they did, but knew something like this would mean reshaping their worldview, something they weren’t ready for. But what about me? What about the little girl that had her world shattered by someone she was meant to trust wholeheartedly? 

"Adaline. Stop playin' with ya food and eat." Papa snapped. I stood abruptly, pushing my plate away. "'m not hungry. I'll just go to bed." I didn't wait for a response. I just left and no one tried to call after me because they knew. They all knew why I didn't want to be there, why I could feel myself growing angrier by the moment.

I lay in the dark on my bed with only the comfort of crickets and cicadas. With my ear pressed against the wall, I listened and the world fell silent. The creaks and groans of this old, withering house disappeared.

And then I heard him. His hymns, his slow, dragging footsteps weighing down the floors as he made his way to my bedroom. I fell into bed before he opened the door with my back turned to him.

"Adaline." He called my name and I shivered. The door clicked closed and I could hear the way his leathery fingertips rubbed his bible as if ready to open it to justify what he was about to do.

I stared at the cross above my bed the whole time. By now, I had known it intimately. The way every end comes to a decorated point, a golden carving of Jesus hanging from it, His blank lifeless eyes staring down at me, condemning me, berating me like I asked for any of this.

There was something here once. A little girl with stars in her eyes and hope in her heart. Undying love for her Lord, her Father, who would protect her from all.

I was defiled by him and when he kissed me, I wanted nothing more than to kill him. If I killed him, would it make me good? Would it make me holy? Would it make me whole again?

No…only you would make me whole.

I think– in his own way, he loved me. The sick, twisted kind of love. The love one has for a possession rather than a person. The kind of love that is ownership, a pet. I didn't want to be loved that way. And I didn't love him.

I will not go into detail what he did to me for I will never give him the satisfaction, but I was left in my bed with tears streaking my cheeks. I did not fight him. I never fought. Maybe I should have but you understand, right? At my core, I am just a child. What was I meant to do and if I hadn't done it, would that make me to blame?

I was not the same person in the morning. Like a layer of skin peeled off of me and left me cold, slimy, and trembling. I was reborn. He had molded me into a monster. I went to the bathroom to find myself staring at my own reflection. My hair was tangled and frizzy, the tips unkempt and ragged. My face was blotchy and red. And I wanted him to see me like this. I wanted him to know I wasn't afraid, I was angry. My eyes were wild and black as I stared accusingly into his already dead eyes. Do you know how many times he did this to me? How many times he has hurt me?

What would you do if you found out? Would you be outraged, threaten to kill him, to protect me? Or would you look upon me in disgust, finally see me for the unworthy, disgusting being I am. A fallen angel? A broken God?

I could feel him inside of me.

I sat unmoving at the table, my head down low. The world had felt so fragile, like it was about to shatter. And I didn't want anyone to see through my eyes because if they did, they would see that I was a demon. I was the one who should be burned. I was the one who cannot be forgiven. My mother brought me breakfast and it sat on the table in front of me, untouched.

  "Adaline? Ada, are you alright? I've made you a plate. Eat." She placed a cool hand on my cheek and that was it. How dare she? How dare she ask if I'm okay as if she didn't know, as if they all didn't know? They knew what he was going to do the moment he began upstairs and she had the audacity to ask me if I'm okay.

"No, Ma! I'm not okay! How could I be okay?!" I screamed, picking up my plate and tossing it to the floor. The glass shattered into fragments and my mother gasped in shock at my outburst. "Why didn't you protect me? Where were you when I needed you? Where was God when I needed Him?" Why was I sobbing? Why should I give anything to them? Why should they see me at my lowest?

Still in my nightgown, I left out of the door of our small, decaying house, littered in the judgmental eyes of Christ. I wanted you. I wanted you to hold me, to touch me, to tell me I am worthy, I am pure, I am Holy. So I ran to you, Ruth. I ran with my soft soles against asphalt and broken glass. I bled, leaving my sins in my wake with each footstep.

I wanted to run away from God, away from Him and take you with me. We could be more than all of this.

Who, but God above, if there even is one, would forgive me? Forgive me for being created with a sacred heart. Forgive me for being born into a world where my purity was meant to be coveted. Forgive me for being born a woman. Forgive me for being born with purity, with pain and suffering. Who here would forgive me? Who would be merciful enough to accept me?

I am an effigy of purity.

Do you blame me for this? Do you hate me as I hate myself? Do you blame God as I blame myself? Did he hurt you like this? Did he? Did he? Did he?

I ran through dirt and mud, through the cold, whipping wind as with early morning came frigid air.

My feet did not stop until I was at your doorstep and I knocked, hoping that you would answer. You and your brother were usually up by now, checking up on the dogs. But your Pa's old pickup was gone and I feared you had gone with him.

I heard the peephole open, heard you answer. "Ada?" you called, your voice weary and scratchy. I was scared you wouldn't open the door because this was too much, too fast. I need you to accept me. I need you to be the first to forgive me so maybe I can forgive myself.

"Adaline? Hun, what's wrong?" You opened the door and I fell into your arms, weeping.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." I sobbed into your chest and you stood still, just holding me. I was in your arms for a long time, trying to calm my breathing, calm my heart.

"Good Lord, Sweetheart. What happened?" You asked, your voice pained as you pulled me inside. I stood in your kitchen and could only stare at the floor. You pulled out a chair and I sat down. The way you looked at me, I felt safe. I felt like enough. 

“Ya feet all bloody. Look like ya got the devil on ya heels." You left the room to grab a rag and soaked it in water to clean my feet just as Mary Magdalene did Christ. You were tender with me, taking my ankle in your slender, calloused fingers and cleaned the blood and dirt from my feet with diligence. I’ve never felt so loved, so cared for. You wiped my tears and told me it was okay, comforted me without interrogation, and stroked my head until I finally calmed down enough to speak.

“Now, tell me what’s goin’ on here. You scarin’ the daylights outta me.” You knelt before me with your hands on my soft, brown knees. Your eyes were earnest and open, ready to accept the wildest of all I had to say.

"He did it again," I whispered, my voice hoarse from crying.

"Who did what again?" 

"The Reverend. He defiled me again." I said, my eyes pleading for you to understand. I didn’t want to go into detail but with those few words, you knew all you needed to know. The thing about you, that I loved and appreciated, was that you didn’t look at me with pity in your eyes. I wasn’t suddenly something irreversibly broken to you. I wasn’t a victim. I was a person first and foremost. You looked upon me with sympathy, even empathy and accepted my accusation wholeheartedly, without question. That’s how much you loved me, trusted me.

You didn’t ask how it happened or try to deny or justify it. You just accepted it and loved me deeper, harder. You saw me, felt me and buried your face into my stomach. I wrapped my arms around your head. You held me, rocking us back and forth for a long time, holding onto my purity for me, for us, while I sobbed.

"It’s okay, Adaline. I’ve got’cha. I’m here for ya." You stood up and I followed, standing on my tiptoes to kiss you because you were so tall for a girl. Our lips grazed with the same tenderness seen in depictions of angels in church.

“I want to kill him,” I murmured against soft, yet dry lips. “I don’t want him to hurt me anymore. Please don’t let him hurt me anymore.” My fingers traced your deformed cheek with love and admiration for the beauty of it.

I knew I wasn’t wrong to see the darkness within you when you said, “I won’t, I won’t let him hurt you. Let’s kill him.” And that darkness that melted so nicely together with mine, made you all the more divine; all the more beautiful. I wanted so badly to be one with you and I’ve never loved you so badly. I kissed you again and you kissed me back, all while knowing that if your Pa caught us we’d be strung up as a spectacle of the devil. Your flesh tasted so bittersweet. I wanted to sink my teeth into your skin and consume you as we started to that night and I could tell you were holding back as well.

“Let’s do it tomorrow after church.” I needed him gone. I needed to bathe in his blood to make me pure once again. I’d take back what he had stolen from me. You soothed a hand down my arm and your fingers laced into mine. “What’s the plan?”

—

“Reverend Hall.” I stood with my fingers wrapped around the cross above my be behind my back in my favorite Sunday best. The white against my dark skin, the bow pinning my curly hair back, allowing the youthfulness of my face to show through. Round and chubby, a well-fed girl that hasn’t yet slimmed out from puberty. I knew it would entice him.

His thin lips curled into a smile. It was just the two of us in the church house after a late sermon. “Ada, what can I do for you?” He liked the look on my face, the innocent unawareness scribbled across my face. I was vulnerable and vulnerable meant easy. He knew I wouldn’t fight him.

“I am having trouble having faith in the Lord, Reverend.” My cross in my hand, given to me by my mother, the God that stood by and let me hurt, that protected all his secrets, would be his undoing.

He came down from his podium, off the stage where he would stand before the choir, and met me in the middle of the aisle. The sun hit the stained glass at just the right angle and it cast a rainbow across our faces. “Of course, child.” His hands reached out to cup mine, never without his sacred book. “I’m glad you came to me.”

I glanced past his shoulder as you came from your hiding place behind a pew. I smiled, at him and at you. “I’m glad I came too.”

You grabbed him, took him completely by surprise, and dragged him to the floor. You pinned his arms down while I got on top of him, straddled him the way he always did me. We were basked in the multicolored light of God. This act was holy. He was terrified, the same look of utter fear that would draw on my face every time he touched me. I had never felt so powerful.

My fingers wrapped around the cross, I rose it high above my head. “This is for everything you’ve done to me.” And I plunged it down into his beating heart. “You bastard! You sick!” I stabbed him again, “Twisted!” And again. “Bastard!” I didn’t know how many times I stabbed him but by the end, I was covered in blood and screaming, crying. I grabbed that Godforsaken bible he always carried around and tore the faded pages of them out. I jammed them into his bloody mouth, down his throat.

“Ada, Ada.” You reached out to me and cupped my face in your hands, stroking my cheeks with the pad of your thumbs without a single care of whether you get blood on you or not. I was free. I was pure. I looked at you and felt whole. I wanted to be one with you. You in me, me in you, no distinction between the two of us.

“He’s dead. He’s gone. We’ve gotta get out of here.” The two of us already had our things packed and in the bed of your dad’s pickup. Just the bare minimum. All we needed was each other.

You grabbed my hand and I grabbed yours as we rose to our feet. Together, we ran out of the church to escape this town so small it could never hope to contain the two of us. You in the driver’s seat and myself in shotgun, we rode off down the dirt roads leaving dust in our wake. We drive into the sunset, drive until we feel we’re far enough from our little hometown. You pull over on the side of the road so I can change beneath a streetlight.

But I couldn’t contain myself. I took you and I kissed you, the rush of it all. I’ve never felt so free, so unrestrained in everything I wanted. I loved you, Ruth. I loved you to death. Now nothing can keep us apart.

I kissed you, I bit you. I loved you. And you loved me just the same. The bitter taste of your blood coating my tongue, mine coating yours. The hunger we always longed for filled. We consumed each other, beyond the struggling, the pain.

They found us later on at the crack of dawn. Just a pile of flesh and bones, teeth marks everywhere. It was hard for them to determine who was who. We had accepted each other so thoroughly that they were forced to bury us with pieces of each other in our caskets. We filled our hunger for each other, our love so strong it became blasphemous. We ascended to something greater, something beautiful. Something whole.

We loved each other down to the bone.

[lagunapoint]

The lyrium dagger sliced through the veil, and the world shuddered. The air quivered like a taut string, and Lavellan’s chest tightened with the fear. Magic flared in her veins, and the hum in her ears swelled, drowning out everything. It seemed as if time itself was stirred, breaking under an invisible force. Lavellan fell to her knees, and a furious whirlwind spun around her, shredded by warped space. For a moment, her gaze drowned in the chaos surrounding her. 

Rook was screaming nearby, helplessly trying to bring Neve to her senses. Morrigan had vanished, as though she had never existed at all. Lavellan barely managed to lift her hand to her ear, trying to protect herself from the invisible pressure, but her fingers felt a sticky dampness. She looked at her palm: blood. At the very instant her mind began to yield to despair, everything around came to a halt. Space grew thick and viscous, like honey, and time froze, as if it decided to grant them one last chance. She raised her eyes. Solas stood before her, his back turned, yet even from a distance she could see how tense he was. His hand clenched the dagger still buried in the veil. Concentration and resolve were etched into his every movement, but he did not dare take the final step.

"Vhenan…" she whispered, yet her voice echoed through the distorted space. Solas froze, turning toward her. In his eyes burned a mixture of pain and desperate determination.

"I must do this," he said, not releasing the dagger’s hilt. "Even if it destroys your world."

Lavellan tried to stand, but the energy around twisted into dense vortices, as if thousands of invisible ribbons were binding her.

"My world is you, my love," she said, feeling the pressure grow, as if about to crush her. Solas closed his eyes, and his voice trembled.

"You are too close to the rift, vhenan. If I do it now, you can die."

"I always end up in the right place at the right time," she smiled through the pain. "One day my luck was bound to kill me, wasn’t it?" Solas hesitated, as though battling himself. 

"Is it you who’s distorting time?" she asked. 

"No," his voice became muffled. "It is the magic of spirits. They gave us this moment so that… we could say our goodbyes." 

"No matter how kind their intentions, and if this truly is our last chance…" her voice scorched the space like a blade. Despite the pressure around her, Lavellan forced herself to her feet and, moving through the whirling currents of time as if through thick fog, approached Solas. She stepped between him and the rift, feeling as if a million needles pierced her back with a new, frightening, unfamiliar magic.

"We will do this together," she said, reaching out her hand and touching his palm that gripped the dagger. "Take my magic. All of it, to the last drop. If this is a farewell, and if it will kill me, then you must know… I have never had a better life than the time I spent with you."

She reached for his lips, joining them in a kiss filled with tenderness and despair. Suddenly, Lavellan sensed someone’s presence nearby. She broke off the kiss and saw a small spirit appearing beside them, slowly taking on a shape resembling a human body.  "Save everyone you can," Solas said, granting hope where none remained. The final command was received, and the spirit dissipated. Lavellan felt Solas’s hand tense. He made a decisive pull, the dagger driving deeper into the veil, tearing it apart. Reality shattered into countless fragments, and everything around them went dark.

Thank you for feeling this with me xoxo

[holybibly]

Divine Rosa  ❢ot8xreader❣ 

❣ Pairing: yandere!otx8 x reader ❣ Genre: Dark Romance, vampire au, angst, horror, yandere au, smut ❣ Summary: The moth always pours itself into the flame; what a pity that in the end it burns out. After the tragic death of her sister, MС tries to find answers to the questions she left behind. This leads her to a gated cottage town known for its luxurious rose gardens. In addition, there are also these mysterious men who manage all the affairs in the city. Too sweet, too helpful, too intrusive, and too in love. ❣ WARNING: only!18+ Themes of death, suicide, severe depression, stalking, blood, yandere behavior. ❣ Disclaimer: I don't support yandere behavior, stalking, or religious imposition. Themes include violence, obsession, possessiveness, and emotional or psychological manipulation. This book is intended solely for entertainment purposes.

English is not my native language, so if you see any mistakes, please let me know.

Published on AO3 like FleurRi

❣ Prologue: Roses scarlet like blood ❣

 Every story has a beginning: a magical, inexplicable moment—an elusive contact between reality and dreams. When thoughts emerge from the edge of consciousness, a stream of colorless letters appears on the parchment of our fate, eventually becoming an event. Life's intersections, fragments of various plots, are continuously repeated, lost, or deliberately forgotten. They are like unwritten melodies; the echo of their angelic voices follows us through life, like the bright tent of a wandering circus that incessantly makes noise. is full of tinsel, and raves with dreams.

  There are millions of them. No. Billions, like the sleeping stars, sway peacefully on the sky-blue wire; their scattered light tells the wayward souls the way in the velvet folds of the night's darkness. These are our memories. Some are dazzlingly bright, as fresh as summer breezes, while others are barely flickering, covered in the marble ashes of time and a diamond crumb of emotion. And they all live so far away and at the same time prohibitively close together, there, in the labyrinth of the underground sky and on the endless roads of the blood rivers, where it is impossible to find them: in our memory.

  Just as a pebble thrown into the ocean sinks into the murky depths, so does memory. Drowning into the viscous muddy depths without a bottom, in that rich and uncharted area that we call “oblivion,” it sinks in time. And few of us have been given the opportunity to preserve living images of memories of the feelings we have ever experienced: to drown in the bittersweet water of sorrow and joy; to fill our consciousness to the brim, like a vessel with golden honey, with the feelings of pain and keen passion, and to die. Die happy. The greatest privilege of all.

  Seconds, minutes, days, and years—colorful fragments of time; sharp crumbs scattered under our feet. Unlike us, those who plunge into eternal sleep, our memories that have insidiously dissolved in ink in our blood will not disappear. They fear death, flee from it, and hide in the thick of the earth that blossoms with fluttering glass, forget-me-nots and drunken petunias that, in their intoxicating happiness, kiss the eyelashes of the blind God. You hear them whisper, “I’ll never forget you…”

  My story begins with an innocent question that I’m sure you’ve heard more than once: “Do you like roses?”

  Once upon a time, I would have answered, "Yes, I love roses." But, as it turns out, all our words are followed by consequences, and small rosy spikes can be much more dangerous than they seem at first glance, just like in the fairy tales that we were told in childhood.   You know, there are things that we might call fatal: people who decide other people’s lives as long as they reach out to them like they're God. And then there are the flowers, which keep the mysteries tenebrous and ancient.   I'm almost a hundred years old, maybe more. I should start my story right now; this is the perfect moment.

  I will tell you about who I once was and who I am now. I will tell you about love, which is akin to obsession, and the death of her faithful friend. I will also tell you about the people, ghosts, or maybe illusions that were around me. They were with me once…   Now, there are others, but they’ll be in my story later. They will come into my life with a chorus of angelic voices; the sound of a heavy autumn downpour, and the pretentious solemnity of death. Yeah, they’ll be there, though, if you think about it, they were always there, from my first breath to my last breath, by my side.   But I’m forgetting what’s important.   I have to tell you about the roses, and only about them.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

Mina's long hair shimmered like luxurious silk under the early morning light. Bloody strands fell in curled doll curls onto her bare shoulders, as if in Baroque paintings. The lush blossoms of white roses woven together in her hair made her look like the ancient Greek goddess of spring.   Her appearance has always been astonishing, blatantly perfect rather than real, but that was sometime in the past. Now she was like a pale ghost of herself, a blurry reflection on a black surface of water on a moonlit night. The only thing that reminded her of her former beauty was her hair, which remained perfectly groomed and scarlet, like blood. Oh yeah, there are still roses.  These flowers… there was something unnatural about them, something otherworldly. Each petal was painfully perfect, as if made of satin. But the flowers were real; they were alive and breathing and too demanding. It seemed that just because they wanted this, Mina could wear them in her hair. It was their choice, not hers.  “Do you like roses, Rosa?” · · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

This is the moment when my life changed forever. If I had known that this innocent question would be the beginning of my end, but can this be called the end? Would my answer have been different?

  I’ve thought about it a thousand times. Over and over again, I played this scene like a broken record, crossed my answer out of the script, wrote a new one, and made comments and footnotes, but…   But the answer was the same. I couldn’t change anything; it was destined. Much later, when I fall asleep in a warm bed, I will feel a gentle kiss on my closed eyelids and hear San’s angelic voice whisper in my ear that fate is never wrong. That they would find me or that I would come to them does not matter; in the end, we would still be together in life and in death. In eternity.

  I’ll come back to that later, I promise. In the meantime, I’ll continue. · · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

“They’re beautiful, Mina, but I don’t like them anymore.”  I sounded terribly rude from the outside, and I could see Mina’s eyes filled with tears, as if I had slapped her.

 “But Rosa!” Mina reached out her pale arms to me. “Look how perfect they are; don’t you care about their beauty? Doesn’t your heart beat faster when you look at them? O Rosa, these flowers are special; they never wilt.” She shook her head, as if confirming her words. “Yeosang gave them to me before I left” Her long, thin fingers reaching for the white rosebuds in her hair. “I want to give you one.” Hooking the flower, Mina gently pulled it out of her curls and stretched it towards me. I didn't have the desire to accept her gift; something in her behavior and her voice caused me anxiety. And there was this name: Yeosang. It wasn’t the first time I heard it, but it was a long time ago, and I still remember that Mina mentioned others with that name: Hongjoong, San, and Mingi. They sounded familiar to me as a song once learned by heart. She pronounced them in a special way: with a gentle intonation and an exciting euphoria. As if it had been repeated countless times at the same completely new to her.  All I could hear was the echo of that song, which came along with those names in the conversation. It was an ominous echo, like an impending, inevitable storm. Mina was still holding out a rose, and I looked at her hands. Arms with a faint web of blue veins that looked like dried stems of faint flowers. For some reason, I came up with the idea of sirens holding out their hands to pirates while their voices led them into the welcome embrace of death. Did they look like Mina’s hands now?

I remember these hands weaving long pearl threads into my hair during festivals. I remember the feeling of intertwined fingers as Mina led me down the dark corridors of my grandmother's old house. I remember them gently wiping my tears when I was rubbing my feet until I bled in ballet class.

I remember the touch of those hands… I know him. These cold fingers that so carefully hold the snow-white flower no longer belong to my sister. Their touch changed, becoming foreign and distant, as did the mysterious land where these perfect, never-fading roses grew.

Didn’t that sound like a fairy tale? Just in our history, there has been no magic mirror, no Queen-Witch whose crown shines like a star, and no apple full of poison, but there is a coffin of shimmering crystal, and a prince that sleeps in it. Of course, there are also roses—thousands of roses.

“Rosa” Mina turned to me again. “Please take them; you will surely love them. Just try to feel them…”

She put a flower in my hands. The drops of nectar froze on the wax petals, and the first rays of the dawn sun made them sparkle like diamonds. “This variety is special.” Her voice sounded soft. “It's called the Deva-Rosa. I want to show you where they grow. It’s so beautiful. I want you to come with me, Rosa. We’ll be there together, you and me.” Mina smiled dazzlingly, but something was wrong with that smile. The once-sensual kiss lips were painfully curved, the corners awfully lifted, like the forever-frozen smile of a Venetian mask, and the warm pink shade was gone.

I was always jealous of her lips. They were so tender, plump, and enticing. All her features attracted attention, but it was her lips that made Mina's beauty unique.

She shone like the sun, easily becoming the center of everyone's attention—a beautiful white swan. The main heroine of the story. 

Then there was me, only a shadow of her perfection—gloomy and pale as the moon, the complete opposite of the burning heat and the sexuality of my sister. Unlike Mina's, my features were not sensual and breathtaking; no, they were old-fashioned, like those of a porcelain doll. I didn’t find myself ugly or unattractive; just ordinary. One of a hundred million. The classic tragic heroine of a Gothic novel, someone like me, doesn’t make it to the finale.

Now looking at Mina, I can no longer see her life; her fire has almost been extinguished, leaving embers smoldering. And only her hair, like a burning sunset, was the only bright spot in her appearance. They crimson her white dress like blood rivers in the snow. 

 “Rosa, come with me.” The touch of her hands was icy and gave me a nasty shiver. It wasn’t Mina anymore. “Let's go, please. We can admire roses together. We can be together, Rosa. Remember what we promised each other when we were kids? Forever.”   Mina leaned towards me with her whole body, completely trespassing into my space, and with her intimacy came the suffocating, sugary smell of roses. It was a thick, enveloping aroma that instantly sat in the lungs. I thought that if I breathed it in deeper, these strange, unnatural flowers would sprout in my veins, intertwine with my bones, and create a new home for themselves in my body.

 “No!” I exclaimed, pushing Mina away from me. “I don’t want that, Mina. I don’t want you or those freaking roses in my life.”

  Suddenly on my feet, I took a few steps away from the pale Mina, who was staring at a rose that had fallen to the ground. Her posture was as vulnerable as that of a wounded animal, and her limp arms reached for the flower, which, surprisingly, began to darken and fade, touching the ground.   In her eyes, once radiant with happiness and dreaming, stood tears, and her lips began to tremble. It was as if a child whose beloved toy had been mercilessly abused had fallen to her knees, picked up a dying bud, and, in despair, pinned it to her lips.

“How can you be so cruel, Rosa?” Mina whispered, her lips gently touching the petals. “You hurt them; it breaks their heart. Can’t you just accept their love? Accept the roses?” She continued to kiss the petals.

 “What are you talking about, Mina? Whose love should I accept?” I asked cautiously. Her behavior began to frighten me.

 “You must give yourself to them, Rosa; I must give you to them.” Mina ignored my question, methodically kissing a faded flower. His dead petals began to fall away, slowly, baring his heart. “O Rosa, the rose is a rose; the rose is a deva; the deva is a rose; is a rose.”

 “Mina!” I called her by her name in an alarm. The entire situation had me in a state of primitive terror.   Mina began slowly swaying from side to side in time to your words, all the while continuing to say, “Rose is a rose, the rose is a deva.” It was meaningless, like the ravings of a madman.  The words were repeated in an endless circle, like a prayer or a ritual chant. Mina’s voice grew louder, higher, and higher until it broke, and abruptly she stopped all movement, standing there like a graceful statue.

  Once I admired her every move; now I want to cover my eyes so I never have to see her again.   What happened after became the most traumatic thing in my life. I can never forget it, no matter how much I want it. It seemed to be imprinted on my eyelids, and even after closing my eyes in my sleep, I couldn’t get rid of those memories.

  Her movements were fleeting, like the wings of a butterfly. Here she is before me, tense and waiting, and then her throat crosses a ragged line, and blood rushes through her body like a waterfall.

  Eyes shining from tears are wide open and so resemble smooth black pearls, and lips are opened as if waiting for a kiss.   For a second, Mina's body stretched like a thin string and then softened, falling on the grass.   I heard someone start screaming; the sound was so deafening and heartbreaking that I wanted to curl up in a ball and cover my ears with my hands, so I couldn’t hear.

  I found myself screaming. I needed to call for help; I had to call an ambulance, and I had to try to help her. Put my arms around her neck and cover her gaping red velvet wound.

  But I was yelling about something else instead.   My name is not Rosa; you hear me, Mina!   I am not her. · · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

I awoke in a frenzy, sweating profusely and with a wildly pounding heart from an endlessly recurring nightmare.

 This dream has haunted me for months since Mina’s funeral. Night after night, I have lived this sunrise over and over again. I didn’t like morning anymore; I started avoiding sunlight and hiding in the velvet folds of the night, sharing my loneliness with the darkness. I made the moon my friend, and the stars my silent witnesses.

  My memory is folded paper, folded a thousand times. Sometimes, I want to unwrap it, but not completely: open the brittle edges of the fragile sashes, smooth out the folds and creases with my fingers, spread out the time sequence. Unwrap it just a little, and then fold again, mixing letters and days, reality and dreams. I never want to open the pages where the memories of that morning are stored. Every time I get almost to the end, moments before the final, I run away to the safety of happy days.

  I try to come up with a new ending to this story, a different ending, but the dream comes to me like a cat, gently calling me into its embrace, and I find myself again in a place I don’t want to be.

  It’s early in the morning, and the sun is just rising above the horizon, shimmering like a limitless purple-pink ocean.

 In Mina’s crimson hair are snow-white roses, and her dress looks like an intricately woven ruffle and lace. Her pale hands holding flowers, her puffy lips in a painful smile, and her bare feet—the ground must be cold since it was the middle of October.  Her blood… and the roses.   And if it were possible to personify hatred and death, then for me, it would be roses.

  I hated and despised these flowers with all my heart. They brought only sorrow and gloominess into my life. The beautiful symbol of mourning solemnity.   They started it. They ended it all.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

I was sixteen when Mina first called me Rosa. One January afternoon, she came home with a basket of the most gorgeous flowers I’ve ever seen in my life. Scarlet like the blood of a rose, they were magnificent and perfect. From that day on, I became Rosa. Why did Mina start calling me that? She never spoke.   But she completely forgot my real name. For the whole world, I was now Rosa.   After this case, every day in our small apartment, the roses became more and more numerous, until every inch of free space was filled with scarlet buds. Their smell was suffocating, thick, and sticky like honey. It is absorbed into the skin, hair, and dissolved in the blood. It made me dizzy and nauseous, and I could taste it on my tongue with every breath.   But it wasn’t just a smell. It was a color that screamed “red,” like blood itself. It poured over our house, coloring the entire apartment in a disturbing shade.

  After that, every day in our house, the roses became more and more numerous until they filled all the surrounding space.

  Soon, they became so numerous that our house looked like a tomb filled with scarlet petals hanging from the ceiling. We've been arranging here with all honors, breathing in a haze as imperceptible as rose-scented mist. 

  In all the time I lived there, not a single flower withered. It was frightening and exciting at the same time. Day followed night, and night gave way to day; but no petal lost its pristine beauty, and no bud bowed its heavy head in sorrow. There was not a single bouquet that would dilute this velvet sea with its mourning black.

  And if that did happen, Mina cried long and hard over these flowers and blamed herself for not saving them. At night, I heard the sound of her apologies and her fanatical prayers. 

  Whether she prayed to God or to the Devil, I couldn't tell. I'll find out for whom these prayers were intended many years later.

  Roses were always sent with a postcard and a box of expensive chocolates with some intricate filling. The box was necessarily in the form of a heart. The signature was also one; once the unchanged calligraphic handwriting deduced only one phrase, “For you,”

  Mina never told me who gave her these magic flowers or why the roses didn’t wither.

  I tried to ask her these questions several times, but she only brushed them off, throwing her long hair from one shoulder to the other and angrily declaring, “You must love them; you don't need to know more.”

 Mina also dyed her hair scarlet, like roses.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. Constantly surrounded by these flowers was unbearable, and one day I packed up all my things and moved in with a friend, leaving Mina alone in her regal rosary.

  My first night away from home, away from the roses and Mina, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned anxiously in bed hour after hour; but the dream never came, and then the phone rang. Mina called. Crying, she begged to come home, and when I asked her why, she barely whispered, “The roses are wilted.”

  I hung up, and Mina never called me again. Two years had passed. My life had changed, and I think my luck had smiled. I found wonderful friends who were eccentric and bright. I had a great and caring boyfriend, and the internship at ballet school was promising. Everything worked out perfectly, and there were no more roses.

 Until my twentieth birthday, a huge bleeding bouquet of scarlet roses tied with topaz-embroidered ribbon appeared in my new apartment. The candy box was heart-shaped, and the caption read, “For You.”

  I burned the bouquet, threw out the chocolate, and tore the note apart, and blew it to the wind.

  No one was supposed to see or know.   Even me.    Exactly eight days after these flowers appeared, I got a call from former neighbors in the apartment complex Mina was still living in.   I was urged to come and deal with the situation; the smell of rot and death was unbearable, and Mina didn't open the doors or answer the phone.   I opened the door with my key. Opening it wide, I crossed the threshold and could not contain a short scream. All the once-luxurious roses had rotted, dripping thick, stinking jugs on the floor and accumulating in gleaming poisonous lakes. Every corner of the space was occupied by large vases with black velvet buds and tall candles. After my move, Mina got rid of all the furniture, leaving only the big bed, which was now covered with dried stems strewn with thorns.

 This place was like a grave — cold and dark — where my sister was supposed to rest.   Going deeper, I found no hint of Mina's presence. Absolutely nothing.     Only putrid roses and an empty heart-shaped box.

  Mina was gone. For a whole year, I tried to find her without success. Old friends, distant relatives, acquaintances, and any other connections she might have ever had—I checked everything, but there was nothing to help me find her. It’s like she never existed.

 In the two years we’ve been apart, I didn’t know anything about her. Mina didn’t call, and when I tried to contact her, she would reply with a short message, always the same: "Roses have wilted; come back." just like the night I left her.

  All Mina had ever thought about since that unfortunate January day were these sinister roses.

  The police began an investigation. Two years after her disappearance, Mina became officially missing.

  And a year after that, she showed up at my door in the twilight of the fall morning, barefoot, in a sophisticated lace dress with a rose crown on her head. From the Mina that I knew, all that remained was her hair—long, silky, and crimson like blood and roses.

  She still kept calling me Rosa, calling me out, and promising that we’d be happy together. That it will be only us, forever. She promised to show me where these strange flowers bloom, which she called the Deva-Rose, although these were not her words, but those of someone distant and unfamiliar to me, Hongjoong.

  And then...then Mina died. The dawn painted her body in pink shades, flooded the grass with sparkling gold, and dyed the white roses of her crown scarlet. She slit her throat. Ragged a sharp spike into it. As it turned out, even the tiniest rose spikes were deadly.   It was a nightmarish and, at the same time, majestic end to her story.   The image of Mina haunts me in dreams even now—this distant gaze in her pearly eyes and a complete absence of fear of death. No, Mina wasn't afraid. She welcomed death as an old friend, graciously opening her arms.

  It was her exodus.   I remember screaming loudly. Blood thundered in my ears, and tears flowed in an endless crystal stream. I screamed that my name wasn’t Rosa; that I wasn’t her, and never would be.

  Her funeral was truly a royal one. Rain and thunder rattle in the sky, as if raising a toast in her honor. The flat haloes of the black umbrellas swayed peacefully as the guests made their sorrowful speeches.

  Mina seemed to fall asleep, dressed in an old-fashioned wedding dress, lying there like a princess, drowning in thousands of roses.   The flowers were brought at dawn. Their color was deep and dark, as if every petal was filled with the gloaming of the night. They mourned with me.   But I knew better. It wasn’t the end; it was the beginning.  Death follows life in an endless cycle of rebirth. When one flower fades, plant a new one.  Back home that night, I found a black envelope at my door, sealed with a monogram wax seal.

  It lacked an address and the sender's signature. The message was clear and concise. "I live for you, my Rosa."

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·   I went to the window and opened the curtains with my newfound determination. It’s time to stop being afraid and run away. Whatever it is, I’ll find out what happened to Mina. Let her start it all, but I’ll be the one to finish the story.   The last surviving girl.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·   How naive I was then, how stupid. The moth always flies to the flame, attracted by the warm fluttering light; he himself goes to his death.

I was that moth. Without realizing it, I came to my inevitable fate, which has been waiting for me for centuries, maybe longer. Their hands have stretched out since the darkest times, when the light didn't exist, and the Devil was as real as you and I. At that time, everyone knew his face, felt his hot breath on his skin.   The story I’m going to tell you isn't going to be bright and sweet; we’re going to go down to hell and come back. I'll take you through the dark woods to the horrors of uncharted lands where barefoot priestesses rock their sharp teeth in alluring smiles. I will take you to the castle where the prince rests in a crystal coffin and make you drink wine that tastes like blood.

  Now I have to ask you, "Are you afraid of the dark and what’s hidden in it?"   But my question is, "Love, do you like roses?"