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goldfades · 4 months ago

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PLAYING WITH FIRE──FATHER CHARLIE

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─ summary | a preacher's daughter becomes involved in a secret and passionate affair with a priest, challenging her strict upbringing and the expectations of her family and faith.

─ pairing | father charlie mayhew x preacher's daughter!reader

─ warnings | NSFW (with plot) under the cut. fingering, heavy make-out sessions, praise/degradation?

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Your father always said the church was supposed to be your sanctuary.

From the time you were old enough to sit still on a pew, the towering stained glass windows and the echo of hymns in the vaulted ceiling had been your world. Every sermon, every candlelit service, every whispered prayer had woven itself into the fabric of your life, wrapping you in a cloak of devotion that felt as natural as breathing.

Now, standing in the shadow of the altar, that cloak felt a little too tight.

The evening light filtered through the stained glass, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the stone floors. Blues and golds stretched in long, quiet beams, like the church itself was holding its breath. Outside, the world was settling into the calm of twilight, but inside, the silence felt heavier than usual. It pressed down on your shoulders, thick and stifling.

You stood there, fingertips grazing the smooth surface of the wooden pew in front of you. The familiar scent of incense and old books filled your lungs as you breathed in deeply, trying to shake off the strange feeling that had been crawling under your skin for weeks now. Something was different, though you couldn’t quite place it. The church, once a place of comfort, now felt... constricting. Maybe it was the weight of expectation—or maybe it was something else entirely, something you didn’t dare to name yet.

Your gaze drifted to the large crucifix at the front of the room, eyes tracing the well-worn details of it, the soft glow of candlelight flickering at its base. You were supposed to feel something here. Reverence. Peace. But instead, a knot twisted in your chest, a tangle of emotions you couldn’t unravel.

Footsteps echoed behind you, soft but deliberate, the sound pulling you back to the present. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You could feel his presence like the air had shifted, like the temperature in the room dropped just a fraction of a degree.

“Evening service is in an hour.”

Father Charlie’s voice, smooth and low, cut through the silence, brushing against the nape of your neck like a whisper. You swallowed, your pulse quickening, though you weren’t entirely sure why. He always had that effect on you, though you told yourself it was nothing. Just nerves. Just... respect. Nothing more.

You turned to face him, forcing a smile as you nodded. “I know. I just... wanted a moment before the crowd comes in.”

His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary, and something in his gaze sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t just the way he looked at you—it was the way you felt when he did, like you were being seen for the first time, like every carefully crafted piece of who you were might unravel if you weren’t careful.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice still soft, but there was an edge to it now, something unspoken that hung in the air between you.

You looked away quickly, your fingers curling tighter around the pew. Your father’s words echoed in your mind, reminding you of your duty, of your place. You were the preacher’s daughter, after all. Everything about your life was tied to this church, to your father’s legacy, to the faith you were supposed to uphold with unwavering loyalty.

But then why did it feel like everything was starting to crack?

You forced yourself to stand taller, clearing your throat as you spoke again, your voice quieter this time. “I should probably go help with preparations.”

“Right,” Charlie said, though he didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes off you.

The silence stretched between you once more, and you could feel the weight of it, heavy and unspoken. Something was shifting, whether you wanted to admit it or not.

───

College had opened a thousand new doors for you, each one leading you further away from the world you had known for so long. The freedom was intoxicating—more than you could have imagined. Late nights spent in libraries, impromptu road trips with friends, a city that felt alive beneath your feet, humming with possibilities you had never considered. For the first time in your life, you weren’t tethered to the expectations of your family, the expectations of the church.

But even as you explored new ideas, met people who challenged the beliefs you had grown up with, and carved out space for yourself in a world much bigger than the small town you’d left behind, something kept pulling you back. A tug, a whisper, a lingering sense of obligation that gnawed at you when the campus quieted down in the early hours of the morning.

It wasn’t just the faith you were raised in that haunted you; it was the weight of your father’s voice echoing in your head, the way he spoke about duty, commitment, and sacrifice. His sermons had always been about more than just scripture—they were about life, about how the world tested you, how sin was a slippery slope. How it could seduce you without you even realizing it.

You thought you could ignore it for a while, push the thoughts aside as you embraced everything new. But when the holidays came and you found yourself back home, the old routines settled over you like a heavy coat. The Sunday services, the church events, the constant watchful eyes of the congregation. You could feel them all waiting, wondering if the preacher’s daughter had come back changed, if the world had gotten to you.

And then, there was Father Charlie.

You hadn’t expected to see him again—not like this, not after everything had shifted inside of you. College had given you new perspectives, yes, but it hadn’t prepared you for the way your pulse raced the moment you saw him standing in the front of the church, speaking with your father as if everything was still the same.

But it wasn’t.

Charlie looked different. Or maybe you did. He was older now, though not by much, and there was a certain weight in his eyes that you hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t just his sermons or the way he carried himself with that steady, unshakable calm; it was the way his gaze lingered on you, the way it seemed like he could see through the mask you were trying so hard to keep up.

You’d always known him as the priest who helped your father, the man who had been an almost constant presence in your home, at dinners, at family gatherings. He was someone you trusted, someone you never questioned. Until now.

There was something about him now, something that made the air feel too thick when you were in the same room. Maybe it was because you had changed, maybe it was because you had seen more of the world and realized how small the one you left behind had been. Or maybe it was because for the first time, you were looking at him not through the lens of innocence and trust, but through something darker. Something you weren’t ready to name.

It started innocently enough—helping your father prepare for services, catching up with old friends from the congregation, falling back into the role of the dutiful daughter. You had perfected that role long ago, and slipping back into it felt almost too easy, like muscle memory. But every time you caught a glimpse of Charlie, that mask cracked just a little more.

You told yourself it was nothing, that it was just the stress of being home again, of reconciling who you were now with who you had been before. But it wasn’t long before you found yourself lingering after church events, staying late to help clean up, just to see if he’d still be there. Just to see if his eyes would meet yours again, if that strange, unspoken tension between you would return.

And it always did.

It was subtle at first, the way he looked at you from across the room, the way his gaze lingered just a little too long before he turned away. You tried to convince yourself you were imagining it, that it was just your mind playing tricks on you. But then there were the conversations, those moments when the two of you were alone in the church hall, the only sound the distant hum of people outside. The way his voice softened when he spoke to you, the way he leaned in just a fraction too close, the way his hand brushed yours when you passed him something.

It was nothing. Or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

But one evening, after a particularly long meeting at the church, when everyone else had left and you were gathering your things, you turned around to find him standing in the doorway, watching you.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart skipping a beat. The look in his eyes was different this time—darker, more intense. There was something there that you hadn’t seen before, or maybe something you had been too afraid to acknowledge.

“I didn’t expect you to come back,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. His gaze didn’t leave yours, not even for a second.

You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening as you tried to gather your thoughts. “It’s home,” you replied, though even you could hear the uncertainty in your own voice.

He stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. The sound of it clicking shut seemed to echo in the silence, making the space between you feel even smaller. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you, his eyes searching yours like he was trying to find something, some answer to a question he hadn’t asked yet.

You should have felt uncomfortable. You should have made some excuse to leave, to get out of there before whatever this was could unfold. But instead, you stayed rooted to the spot, your breath shallow, your heart racing in your chest.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he admitted, his voice lower now, almost a whisper.

Your heart skipped another beat, a wave of heat washing over you at his words. You didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know what to say to the man standing in front of you—the man who had always been so steady, so composed, and now looked like he was standing on the edge of something dangerous.

“Charlie, I—”

“I know,” he interrupted, taking another step closer, his eyes still locked on yours. “I know this is... complicated.”

Complicated didn’t even begin to cover it. He was a priest. You were the preacher’s daughter. There were rules, lines that couldn’t be crossed, things that couldn’t be said.

But here you were, standing in the quiet of the church, and those lines had never felt more blurred.

It was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. You knew it deep down, felt it in the pit of your stomach. He was a man of God, your father’s closest confidant, the last person you should have these thoughts about. And yet, here he was—standing before you, watching you with an intensity that made your breath hitch, like you were the only person in the world at that moment.

He was too close now. You could smell the faint scent of incense still clinging to his clothes, could see the slight furrow in his brow as he struggled to keep his composure. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The only sound was the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the muted shuffle of footsteps outside the room.

You should leave. You needed to. But instead, you found yourself taking a slow, steady breath, trying to calm the rapid beating of your heart.

“I don’t know what’s happening here,” you finally whispered, your voice barely audible.

Charlie exhaled softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Neither do I,” he admitted, his voice low, almost broken. “But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The confession hung in the air between you, heavy and dangerous. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be a man above these temptations, above human desires. And you were supposed to be someone who understood that, who respected the boundaries that came with it. But somehow, those boundaries had started to blur long before either of you realized.

His hand twitched at his side, like he was fighting the urge to reach out and touch you, to close the distance between you. For a moment, you thought he might actually do it. That he might cross that final line. But he hesitated, clenching his fist as if to hold himself back.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered under his breath, taking a small step backward, as if the space would help clear the growing storm between you.

You bit your lip, trying to find the right words, the right way to make sense of the tangled mess of emotions inside you. “Charlie...”

“Don’t,” he cut you off softly, shaking his head. “You don’t understand how wrong this is.”

His words hit you like a cold splash of water, but they didn’t stop the way your heart fluttered in your chest, or the way your stomach twisted with something dangerous. You knew he was right. This was wrong, on every level. And yet, the way he looked at you, the way his voice dropped when he said your name—it sent a shiver down your spine that you couldn’t ignore.

“Then why do you keep looking at me like that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, he didn’t respond. He just stared at you, his expression a mixture of frustration and something darker—something you didn’t dare name out loud.

“Because,” he finally murmured, his voice thick with restrained emotion, “I can’t help it.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of those words settle over you. It wasn’t the confession you had expected, and it wasn’t one that made things any easier. If anything, it only made the situation even more complicated.

“I should go,” you whispered, your voice shaky as you tried to take a step back, to create some distance between you and the storm brewing in the space you shared.

That was all you said before turning around, and leaving the room.

───

You weren't sure how this had happened, but sure as hell did. Charlie's lips were on yours, pushing you into the door with force. You hummed into his lips, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

All you remember was his hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. The world outside that door no longer existed, fading into a blur as Charlie’s lips moved against yours with a fervor that felt like it had been building for far too long.

All you remembered was the sound of your own heartbeat, pounding so loudly in your ears that it drowned out everything else—the quiet of the church hall, the soft creak of the door behind you, the whisper of your name on Charlie’s lips before everything had spiraled out of control.

You had always imagined this would be different, more hesitant, slower, maybe even sweet. But this? This was something else entirely. It was rushed, desperate, like both of you had been holding back for so long that the dam had finally broken, flooding every bit of restraint.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him to close the gap between you entirely. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place as if he was afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t. His lips were warm, insistent, and you couldn’t help but melt into him, surrendering to the pull you had resisted for so long.

The weight of what you were doing hit you in flashes—between the soft gasp that escaped your throat and the way Charlie’s breath hitched when you responded with equal need. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be doing this. But nothing had ever felt so... inevitable.

The taste of his kiss lingered on your lips, sending sparks through your body that only grew more intense the longer it went on. You could feel the tension radiating off of him, the battle he was fighting between what he knew was wrong and what he wanted more than anything at that moment.

It was a battle you were losing, too.

You broke away for a second, gasping for air as his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing heavily. His eyes—dark, conflicted, and filled with something so raw—locked onto yours. For a moment, the weight of what you’d just done hung between you.

But then, before either of you could think too much, his lips were back on yours, silencing any doubts. This time, softer.

This time, his kiss was slower, more deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. The urgency had dimmed just enough to let the moment stretch out, to let the reality of what was happening sink in. His hands traced a path from your hips to your waist, pulling you even closer, while his lips moved tenderly against yours, tasting you in a way that made your knees weak.

Your mind was a blur of sensations—the warmth of his breath, the soft friction of his body pressing into yours, the quiet hum of the world outside this stolen moment. Every touch, every kiss, felt like it was lighting a fire inside you that you couldn't put out, even if you tried.

But then, as his lips left yours to trail softly down your jawline, the weight of it all crashed down on you. What had you done? What were you doing?

“Charlie,” you whispered, your voice trembling as reality clawed its way back in. His name fell from your lips like a plea, though you weren’t sure if you were asking him to stop or to keep going.

He froze, his breath hot against your neck. For a long moment, he didn’t move, his hands still gripping your waist as if he couldn’t bear to let go. Then, with a shuddering breath, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression filled with a storm of emotions—regret, desire, conflict, everything.

“I... I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and broken. His eyes searched yours, as though he was looking for some kind of answer, some justification for the lines he had just crossed. “I shouldn’t have...”

You shook your head, still catching your breath, your hands sliding down from his shoulders. “No,” you whispered, feeling the heat in your cheeks. “Don’t apologize. I wanted this, too.”

Charlie swallowed hard, his gaze flickering between your lips and your eyes, torn between the undeniable truth of your words and the overwhelming guilt gnawing at him. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came out. Instead, he took a step back, running a hand through his hair as if to ground himself, to keep himself from falling further.

“We can’t do this,” he muttered, almost to himself, though the words were meant for both of you. “This... it’s wrong. It goes against everything.”

“Charlie,” you scoffed as you straightened up. “So what? So what if this is wrong, who said we can't have fun every once in a while?”

Charlie’s eyes darkened at your words, a flicker of something dangerous crossing his features. You watched as he clenched his jaw, wrestling with the temptation that you had just fanned back into life with that careless, reckless comment.

“Fun?” he repeated, his voice low and strained, almost like he couldn’t believe you had said it. “You think this is just fun?”

You tilted your head, shrugging, though you could feel your heart pounding in your chest. “Why not? Why does it have to be this heavy, guilt-ridden thing? It’s only wrong if we make it wrong.” Your voice was bold, but there was a trembling edge beneath it, one you hoped he wouldn’t notice.

Charlie’s hand ran through his hair in frustration as he stared at you, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “You don’t get it,” he muttered, taking a step closer, and for a moment, you saw the fire in his eyes again—the same fire that had pulled you both into this moment in the first place. “This isn’t just some game. You have no idea what you’re risking.”

You stepped forward, closing the distance again, the tension between you crackling like electricity. “I know exactly what I’m risking, Charlie. And I don’t care. Don’t you get that by now? I want this.”

For a split second, you saw the conflict in his eyes again, the internal war he was waging, but then his hand reached out, gripping your arm, pulling you closer. His breath was ragged as his forehead pressed against yours, his fingers tightening around you like he was holding on for dear life.

“You’re driving me insane,” he murmured, his voice thick with desperation. “This isn’t something we can just... play with. It’s wrong, and I—”

“Do you want me to stop?” you cut him off, your voice soft but firm, your lips inches from his.

Charlie’s breath hitched as his grip on you tightened even more. His eyes searched yours, the weight of the decision heavy between you both. For a moment, neither of you moved, the air thick with anticipation, with the unspoken truth neither of you could deny anymore.

“I don’t want you to stop,” he admitted, his voice a hoarse whisper, filled with all the tension and desire he had been trying so hard to suppress. “But I should. We should.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his confession, and without thinking, you leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “Then don’t.”

That was all it took.

In an instant, his resolve crumbled, and Charlie’s lips crashed into yours with a force that sent a shiver down your spine. All the restraint, all the guilt, evaporated in that single moment as his hands gripped you tighter, pulling you against him like he couldn’t get enough.

That was how this little affair had began. What started as a reckless act of rebellion, something thrilling and dangerous, had spiraled into something much bigger, something neither of you could have anticipated.

For Charlie, everything began to shift. At first, it was just the stolen kisses and the hurried, whispered moments behind locked doors. But then, gradually, you noticed the change in him—subtle at first, but undeniable as time went on. He wasn’t the same devout, principled man he’d been before. The conviction that once held him together was starting to unravel, and it wasn’t just about you anymore.

His sermons, once delivered with unshakable passion, began to falter. He spoke the words, but there was a hollowness to them now, a lack of fire that hadn’t been there before. The weight of his role as a priest no longer seemed to sit so heavily on his shoulders. It was as though he was slipping further away from the man he had been, day by day, like he had loosened his grip on the faith that had once defined him.

It wasn’t just in the church either. You saw it in his eyes, the way they lit up when he saw you, no longer clouded with guilt or hesitation. The same man who had once knelt in prayer for hours, seeking forgiveness for even the smallest of sins, now seemed to be the furthest thing from repentant. There was a spark in him that had nothing to do with religion—a hunger for something more, something that you had awakened in him.

You had become his escape, his release from the rigid life he had once lived. And it was clear that, for the first time in a long while, he was having fun. Real fun. The kind that made his eyes light up with a mischievous glint, the kind that left him grinning after each secret encounter. He was no longer the solemn, restrained Father Charlie that everyone in the church knew. Around you, he laughed more, joked more, and seemed more alive than he ever had before.

There was a recklessness to him now, a side of Charlie that had been hidden beneath layers of duty and piety. When you were together, it was as though none of the rules applied. His hands roamed freely, his lips found yours without hesitation, and the weight of his priesthood—the guilt that had once threatened to crush him—seemed to melt away with each touch, each kiss, each stolen moment.

He wasn’t praying for forgiveness anymore. He wasn’t praying for anything at all.

And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all. Charlie was slipping further and further away from the man he had been, from the role he had devoted his life to. But even as you saw him change, a part of you knew—you liked this version of him better. The one who wasn’t weighed down by morality, the one who let himself live, who let himself enjoy this, enjoy you.

Because, in truth, he had never seemed happier.

Then, your family's Christmas Eve dinner came and of course, Charlie would be invited. Your mother and father were practically buzzing with excitement—this was their biggest event of the year.

It would be in your home, just as it always was, with the dining room decked out in festive decorations. The smell of cinnamon, cloves, and roasting meat filled the air, and the flicker of candlelight danced along the walls. Your mother had spent days planning every detail, from the table settings to the perfect holiday playlist softly playing in the background. This was the night your family pulled out all the stops, and the guest of honor, of course, was none other than Father Charlie.

As you descended the stairs, dressed in a modest yet elegant outfit your mother had insisted upon, your stomach churned. The thought of Charlie sitting across from you, pretending nothing was happening between the two of you, made your skin prickle with a strange mix of anticipation and dread. You could already picture him, composed and serene, his priestly demeanor fully intact. But you knew better. Beneath the calm exterior, beneath the collar, there was a man who had unraveled, one you had helped tear apart.

The dining room was a scene of festive cheer by the time you arrived, your parents bustling about, greeting guests and making sure everything was perfect. You could hear your father laughing loudly from the other room, his booming voice full of pride as he told someone about how Father Charlie had become such an important part of the church community. How proud they were to have him there.

And then you saw him.

Charlie stood near the fireplace, talking to a few of the older parishioners who had arrived early, his usual composed expression firmly in place. He looked every bit the part—his black priest’s garb impeccable, his hands clasped in front of him in that familiar posture of calm authority. But when his eyes flicked over to you, for the briefest of moments, something shifted. His gaze lingered, and you saw the hint of heat behind them, a flash of memory that you were certain only the two of you understood. His lips quirked up in a small smile, seemingly innocent and kind. But you knew better.

Your heart skipped a beat as your mother’s voice pulled you back into the moment. “Sweetheart, come say hello to Father Charlie!” she called, her voice brimming with affection.

You swallowed hard, forcing a smile onto your face as you made your way toward him. Your mother was already gushing about how wonderful it was to have him here, how much your family appreciated him spending Christmas Eve with them. You barely heard her, your mind racing as Charlie’s eyes met yours, steady but unreadable.

“Good evening,” he said softly, his voice smooth as ever, though there was an edge to it that only you could catch. The soft smile that graced his features had turned into a small smirk as he took in your shy expression.

He extended his hand, and for a split second, as your fingers brushed his, a jolt of electricity surged through you. It was barely noticeable—a moment so fleeting your mother wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But for you, it was enough to send your mind spiraling back to all the times his hands had been on you in a much different way.

“Good evening, Father,” you replied, your voice steady, though your pulse was racing beneath the surface.

“Such a lovely home, as always,” Charlie said, turning his attention to your mother with a charming smile, ever the perfect guest. But as he spoke, you caught the way his fingers flexed slightly, like he was trying to hold back something deeper.

As the evening unfolded, you found yourself painfully aware of Charlie's presence, of the way he seemed just a little too comfortable, a little too close. He wasn’t careless enough to raise suspicion, not with your family and half the parish sitting around the table, but there were moments—subtle, fleeting moments—that made your heart race.

It started with the way he looked at you. His eyes would linger a beat too long whenever you caught each other’s gaze across the table. He spoke politely to your parents, laughed at the right moments, even indulged your father’s long-winded stories about the church’s history. But every time he glanced your way, there was something beneath the surface. A smoldering awareness.

Then, there were his hands. When he passed you the breadbasket, his fingers brushed against yours. Not an accident, not something your parents would ever notice, but it was enough. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, and the heat in his gaze told you he knew exactly what he was doing. His thumb grazed your wrist in a way that made your breath hitch, and when you glanced up, he was already looking away, like it never happened. But you knew.

Charlie was being reckless, though not in an obvious way. His behavior was just subtle enough to keep from drawing attention, but to you, it was impossible to miss. His foot nudged yours beneath the table during dinner, a simple tap, but the look he gave you when your knees touched—it was almost too much. You could barely keep yourself composed, your mind spinning with the memory of him pushing you up against the door, his lips on yours.

"Father, would you like more wine?" your mother asked, completely oblivious to the tension simmering between you two.

Charlie smiled, nodding graciously as he held out his glass. "Just a little more, thank you."

As your mother poured, his eyes found yours again. This time, he didn’t look away, not immediately. The corner of his mouth quirked up, just enough to send your thoughts into overdrive. It was like a private joke, one that only the two of you understood. A secret dance of hidden touches, stolen glances, and unspoken words.

You tried to focus on your plate, on the conversation happening around you, but it was impossible. Every move he made felt like it was meant for you, no matter how small. When he reached for his napkin, his hand grazed your thigh under the table, just for a second, but it was enough to make your breath catch in your throat. You glanced at him in shock, and he gave you a sideways smile, the kind that spoke volumes without a single word.

He was playing with fire, and so were you.

Dinner stretched on, with your father telling more stories and your mother doting on everyone, but all you could think about was Charlie. The way he leaned back in his chair, his gaze sweeping the room, but always coming back to you. It was reckless, the way he was letting his guard down, letting you see the cracks in his calm facade.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” your father asked, drawing you out of your thoughts. His concerned gaze made your stomach tighten.

You forced a smile, nodding quickly. “Yes, just tired, I think. It’s been a long day.”

Your father patted your shoulder, satisfied with your answer, but when you glanced at Charlie, you saw the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes—something that told you he wasn’t tired at all. He was far from it.

As dessert was served, the tension between you two only grew. He was no longer pretending to keep his distance, not really. His foot stayed lightly pressed against yours under the table, and when your fingers brushed again as you passed him a dish, he let them linger, his thumb trailing over your knuckles for just a second too long.

The worst part? No one else noticed a thing.

Charlie was playing this game with expert precision—just enough to make your pulse quicken, but not enough to get caught.

As dessert came to an end, Charlie's eyes flickered towards you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. He had barely spoken directly to you the entire night, but now, it was like he couldn’t wait any longer. You were both playing this game, pushing the boundaries of how far you could go without crossing an invisible line—at least in front of everyone else.

"Could you show me where the coffee cups are?" Charlie asked, leaning back casually in his chair. His voice was calm, maybe even a little too casual, but you caught the subtle undercurrent of something more.

Your mother’s head turned slightly, her brow furrowing in mild confusion. "Father, you’ve been here enough times to know where they are, haven’t you?"

You held your breath, your pulse quickening at the way your mother’s question hung in the air. Charlie smiled smoothly, shaking his head.

"Ah, but every time I’m here, something’s moved around. You know how it is in a busy house," he said, chuckling lightly, the picture of a gracious guest. But his eyes were on you again, and you knew this wasn’t about coffee cups. Not even close.

"Of course," your mother laughed, brushing it off with a wave. "Go ahead, sweetheart, show Father Charlie where everything is."

Your heart was pounding as you rose from your seat, barely able to look at your parents. The room felt too small, too hot, like every eye was on you as you and Charlie stood up from the table. But when you glanced back, your father was already engrossed in another conversation, and your mother was busy with the dishes.

Charlie followed you into the hallway, his footsteps too close behind you. Your breath hitched as you led him toward the kitchen, trying to act natural, but the tension between you two was suffocating. You could feel his presence like a shadow, his gaze boring into the back of your neck as you rounded the corner.

The second you stepped out of view, his hand caught your wrist, pulling you to a stop. You spun to face him, heart racing, and before you could say a word, his body was pressing you back against the kitchen counter.

"Charlie—" you whispered, but he silenced you with a look, his breath coming fast and shallow.

"I couldn’t stand it any longer," he muttered, his voice low and thick with something dark. His hands came to rest on either side of you, trapping you against the counter, and you could feel the heat radiating from him. "I need you, baby..."

Your breath hitched as his fingers brushed the side of your face, and you felt your resolve start to crumble. You knew this was wrong—knew it with every fiber of your being—but Charlie’s lips were dangerously close to yours, his breath warm on your skin.

"You’ve been driving me insane," he whispered, his voice ragged, filled with a hunger he hadn’t bothered to hide anymore.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the moment crushing down on you. There was still time to stop this, to step away, but you knew neither of you would. You had pushed each other too far, and now, there was no turning back.

"I know," you breathed, barely able to get the words out. "I’ve been waiting for you to crack."

A low groan escaped him, and before you knew it, his lips were on yours, hot and demanding. His hands slid down to grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the heat between you was overwhelming. It was reckless, dangerous, but it was also everything you had been waiting for.

The tension that had simmered all night finally broke, and you melted into him, your hands tangling in his hair as you kissed him back with the same desperation. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you impossibly closer, and you couldn’t help but moan into his mouth.

Charlie pulled away just enough to press his forehead against yours, his breath ragged as he looked into your eyes. "Your parents are in the other room," he murmured with a small smirk, though the way he held you betrayed any thought of stopping.

You smiled up at him, your heart racing. "Then why can’t you stop?"

His jaw clenched, and without another word, he pulled you into another kiss, deeper this time, his hands exploring your body with a reckless abandon that sent a shiver down your spine. The world outside the kitchen, the family dinner, the church—it all melted away as you gave in to the dangerous pull between you.

Charlie pulled away for a second, his hand reaching up to grip your face harshly. "Dirty girl, aren't you?"

You couldn't help but laugh, your eyes never leaving his. "You started this, Charlie."

Charlie's grip tightened, and you felt the heat of his gaze searing into you, both intoxicating and possessive. He kissed you again, his mouth fierce, almost punishing, as if he couldn’t stand the space between you. Your back hit the counter, but the discomfort barely registered—he pressed his body into yours, and you gasped against his lips, a mixture of pleasure and anticipation flooding your senses.

His hands roamed, fingers tracing the curve of your waist before sliding beneath your shirt, the roughness of his palms igniting your skin. You felt him pause, as if savoring the feeling of you under his hands, and when he finally pulled back, it was only to whisper against your ear, his voice low and thick with desire. "You like this, don't you? Knowing we could get caught..."

You could barely think, your body burning with need. You bit your lip, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. "Isn’t that what you want?" you whispered back, your own hands sliding under his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin.

Charlie groaned, his grip on you tightening. His fingers found the hem of your jeans, teasing, as he trailed hot kisses down the side of your neck. "Always so defiant," he muttered, his breath warm against your skin. "But I’ll break you yet."

The intensity of his words sent a thrill through you, and you tilted your head back, giving him access to more of your neck as he kissed you, nipping at your skin, leaving a trail of marks behind. His hands, strong and demanding, finally dipped lower, and you gasped as his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of your lower abdomen.

"Charlie," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath as your hands clutched at his shoulders, needing him closer, needing more.

Charlie’s breath was hot against your neck as his hands traveled lower, teasing the edge of your jeans. His fingers dipped just beneath the fabric, tracing your skin with maddening slowness. "Say my name again," he demanded, his voice husky and filled with dark need.

Your lips parted, a soft gasp escaping as his fingers toyed with you, just enough to make you squirm but not enough to satisfy the aching desire that built inside you. "Charlie," you breathed, your voice trembling, desperate.

His hand tightened around your waist, pulling you harder against him. "Louder," he growled, his lips brushing your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. He was taunting you, daring you to give in completely, and you could feel the power shift between you. You were no longer in control—he was, and the knowledge only heightened the tension.

You clenched your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, trying to keep your composure, but he wasn’t making it easy. His other hand slid to your throat, not choking but holding you in place, his grip firm as he pressed his lips against yours again, more demanding than before.

"You think you can push me, don’t you?" he muttered against your lips. "Make me lose control." His fingers slipped lower, brushing the spot that made your knees weak, and you gasped, unable to stop the flood of heat that rushed through you. He smiled, wicked and knowing, as if he could sense your surrender.

Your head fell back against the cabinet, your breathing ragged, your body burning under his touch. He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze again, his eyes dark with lust and dominance. "But you're mine," he murmured, his voice a promise and a warning all at once. "And you’ll break before I do."

Your heart pounded in your chest as Charlie's words sank in, his hand at your throat tightening ever so slightly, just enough to remind you of his control. The intensity of his stare sent a shiver of anticipation through you, and you found yourself caught between the desire to challenge him and the undeniable pull of surrender.

"Are you sure about that?" you whispered, your voice soft but laced with defiance, the words barely slipping past your lips as you fought to maintain some control.

A dangerous smile tugged at the corner of Charlie’s mouth, his gaze flickering with something dark and unrelenting. "Oh, I’m sure," he said, his tone low and dripping with confidence. His fingers danced over the waistband of your skirt before slipping inside, his touch both teasing and commanding, and the heat pooling in your lower abdomen intensified, your breath hitching in response.

His fingers played with your panties, that were already soaked before slipping in a finger. You let out a soft hum, your head falling back on to the counter as your eyes squeezed shut. You tried to steady yourself, your grip tightening on his shoulders as you fought to stay grounded, but Charlie’s presence overwhelmed you.

His lips found the hollow of your throat, and he kissed his way down, each press of his mouth against your skin sending shockwaves through your body. When his finger moved deeper, the other brushing against your clit, your body betrayed you with a soft, needy whimper.

"That’s it," he murmured against your neck, his voice a low growl, filled with satisfaction at the sound. "Let me hear you."

The tension inside you built, every stroke of his finger pushing you closer to the edge, and you were losing the battle of resistance. Charlie’s hand tightened around your throat, not enough to hurt but enough to keep you locked in place, at his mercy. His breath was hot against your ear, his fingers moving in a rhythm that had you trembling.

"Tell me what you want," he demanded, his voice rough with desire.

Your mind was clouded, your body aching for release, but you bit your lip, fighting the words he wanted from you. The defiance only seemed to amuse him further, his grip tightening slightly. "Still holding out?" he asked, a dark chuckle escaping his lips. "You think you can win this game?"

Your heart raced, your body betraying you as you squirmed under his touch, and you knew you were close to breaking. His fingers moved with more purpose now, pushing you closer to the brink, and a gasp escaped you as your resolve began to crumble.

"I—" You could barely form the words, your body arching into him, desperate for more.

"Say it," he commanded, his voice a rough whisper. His fingers curled, hitting just the right spot, and the pleasure coursing through you was too much to bear.

"Charlie—please," you finally gasped, your voice breaking as you surrendered to him completely. "Make me cum."

A satisfied grin spread across his face, and he pressed his lips to yours in a bruising kiss, his hand finally giving you what you needed as his finger moved deeper and quicker. "Good girl," he whispered against your mouth, his voice dripping with possessive pride. "Cum for me."

That was all you needed to let out a shuddering moan, your knees falling weak as the knot in your lower stomach snapped. Charlie's hand covered your mouth quickly, the sound muffled by his large hand. After you rode out your high, Charlie's hand slipped out of your skirt as you caught your breath.

As if on cue, your mother came in with some dishes in her hand. There wasn't even a trace of suspicion in her expression, she was too busy with the dinner to even question why you two were taking so long and why you two were standing so close.

"Did you guys find the cups?" She asked with a sigh, loading the dishwasher with the dishes.

Charlie casually wiped his hand on his pants, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he hadn’t just had you unraveling under his touch moments before. His lips curved into a smirk, eyes glinting with amusement as he shot you a sideways glance. The contrast between your rapid breathing and his calm demeanor was infuriating. He knew exactly what he’d done to you—and he was reveling in it.

"Yeah," he said smoothly, his voice steady as ever. "We were just…looking for them."

You tried to compose yourself, struggling to regulate your breaths without drawing attention. Your legs still felt shaky, and the warmth of his body so close to yours lingered like a sinful reminder of what had just happened. You forced a smile, hoping your mother wouldn’t notice the flushed look on your face.

Your mother barely glanced at you two as she continued with the dishes, completely oblivious to the tension hanging thick in the air. "Great, we're just about to leave for service," she said with a tired sigh. "I’ll need your help with cleaning the table soon."

"Of course," Charlie responded, his voice filled with an edge of playful charm, though only you could hear the smug satisfaction underneath it all. He took a step closer to you, almost brushing his arm against yours as he reached up to grab the cups from the shelf. The proximity sent another wave of heat through you, and it took everything in you not to react visibly.

Your mother turned her back again, preoccupied with the dishwasher, and Charlie seized the opportunity. He leaned in ever so slightly, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, "You’re going to have to work on that poker face, baby."

You shot him a sharp look, your body still buzzing from the intensity of earlier, and now his teasing only made it worse. The urge to wipe that smug look off his face was almost overwhelming, but you had no choice but to keep it together, your mother only a few feet away.

As he moved past you, you caught the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes. He knew how much power he held over you in that moment, and he wasn’t going to let you forget it anytime soon.

Your mother finally turned back to face you. "You okay, honey?" she asked, her brow furrowing slightly as she noticed you standing still by the counter. "You look a bit flushed."

You swallowed hard, fighting to find your voice. "Yeah, I'm fine, just a little warm in here," you lied, managing to give her a weak smile. "I'll help with the table."

Charlie glanced back at you, his smirk still firmly in place as he picked up the cups. His voice was smooth and casual, betraying nothing of the wickedness lurking beneath the surface. "I’ll take care of the rest," he said, shooting you a look that made your pulse quicken. "You just… relax."

Your mother nodded, oblivious. "Thanks, Charlie."

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

#charlie mayhew smut #father charlie mayhew x reader #father charlie #father charlie x reader #charlie mayhew x y/n #charlie mayhew x reader #father charlie mayhew #father charlie smut #charlie mayhew #father charlie grotesquerie #nicholas chavez #nicholas chavez x reader #grotesquerie #nicholas alexander chavez #nicholas chavez icons #nicholas chavez imagine #nicholas chavez fanfiction #nicholas chavez smut

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slut4jeon · 28 days ago

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hi sugarplums update!!! 𝜗𝜚₊˚

firstly…

happy new years everyone!!! <3, ik im a little late to the party but i just wanted to share a few things w you guys

about fics…

I’m currently on the works on a few little things atm teehee

so here’s a lil sneak peak of what I plan the release out of the vault soon!!!

taking idea suggestions <3

Company pt 2

Pairing: brothers bsf!jk x fm!reader

Sypnosis: the annual ski trip held by your school was right around corner, but your relationship with jungkook isn't exactly "exclusive".

Note: continuation of "Company" I'm basing this off "To All The Boys I've Loved Before"

70% done

The Boy is Mine

Pairing: city council!jk x seamstress!reader

Summary: You didn't just fancy New Yorks City Councilman Jeon Jungkook. You were head over heels infatuated over the man whom you've been tailoring suits for.

10% done

The Girl Next Door

Pairing: Mechanic dilf!jk x ex pornstar!reader

Sypnosis: In search of a clean slate from her past of being an ex pornstar, 23 year old yn decides to move into her nana's hometown. What wasn't expected was to get intertwined with the next door neighbor, a single 32 year old mechanic fathering a toddler on his own.

20% done

Money is The Motive

Pairing: lawyer!jk x gold digger!reader

Sypnosis: Would you set aside your greed for the man you love?

Note: my inspo for this fic was based on the Mexican soap drama "Teresa". Basically a beautiful and smart woman born in poverty. She knows her worth and has any man eating out of her palm. However, her ambition gets the best of her when she begins deceiving those around her. She's a social climber and a gold digger who heartlessly pushes aside or uses those who care about her for her own benefit. She sets aside her emotions as she finds them to be a nuisance, she gets what she desires. Every time the protagonist of the soap drama tries to control her feelings, she tells herself: "Entre ser o no ser, yo soy" translating to "Between being and not being, I am."

80% done

Nightcrawler

Pairing: ex!jk x fem!reader

Sypnosis: Ending on bad terms, over two years have passed since your split. Goosebumps cover your skin like scattered crawlers at the thought of your exes return. Subsequently, the one man you've been anticipating to see is back in town and has his eyes set out for you.

Note: 90's inspired ish. I forgot to post this on Halloween but I’ve been holding it off far enough I might as well get it done.

75% done

Flatline

Pairing: fwb idol!jk x fem!reader

“I was out there on the road. Life out of control. She became a victim to my busy schedule. And I know that it's not fair. That don't mean that I don't care. This one's dedicated to the girl out there.”

WIP

#jungkook smut #bts smut #jungkook x female reader #jungkook x reader #bts imagine #bts imagines #bts jungkook #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #smut #slut4jeon #jjk x reader #jjk smut

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cats-obsessions · 1 year ago

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If Durge Could Recruit Gortash Headcanons:

Once agreeing to ally with Gortash, Durge can convince him to join the party, but only if they agree to kill Raphael. If Karlach is in the party, this may be done in exchange for Gortash to fix her heart if Durge can pass the persuasion roll on Karlach.

• Upon joining the party, Gortash shows up in a more practical armor set, still gold and black but not as decorated as his robe. There’s scrapes and dents on parts of it, clearly having been worn before. Durge can ask him about it in conversation and discover he has chosen to wear the same armor as he did when they robbed Mephistopheles Vault. He never repaired it and can tell a story for each scratch.

• He does a lot to try to jog Durge’s memories, and it works a some degree. We hear little stories around the city, some more suggestive than others.

• Old habits never die. He’s constantly touching Durge, always walks next to them, has a lot of strong opinions but will only concede to Durge.

• Durge persuasion rolls on Gortash are DC10 and under. Anyone else it’s DC30.

• He absolutely compliments Durge a little too much. And he’s always the first at Durge’s side after the fighting ends. Grumbles if he has to rez anyone else but dotes on Durge.

• Gets along well enough with Astarion, Shadowheart, and Laezel. Respects Minthara and Gale, sees them both as potential allies if they know their places. Absolute bitch to Wyll. Actively the number one Ravengard hater.

• If Durge can convince Karlach to stick around, she will only be in the same party as Gortash once or twice. She’ll confront Durge about it after and either has to be kept separate or leaves the party.

• If taken to Astarion and Shadowhearts’ personal quests, he’ll be surprisingly respectful, and will tell them they’d make good Banites, particularly if Shadowheart resists Shar. (Kinda think he would tell Astarion not to Ascend but for his own advantage of not having to deal with an Ascended Vampire and not wanting the hells to gain power from 7,000 souls)

• Random gifts pop up in Durge’s inventory. He says nothing about them. One is definitely the hand of an enemy.

• When in the House of Hope, Gortash will only allow Durge to enter the prison with him until the warden is dead. He’ll tell them everything, but won’t let the others see it.

• Killing Raphael is very emotional. He’s proud, happy, relieved, but being there shakes him up. Durge can hug him in private when they talk about it.

• If Durge chooses to save Hope, she tries to hug ‘little Enver, all grown up’ before they leave. He does not like it, but part of him is happy to see her free.

• Durgetash romance can initiate after Raphael is dead. Sceleritas is so fuckin' pissed. Like, he kinda ships it, but he CANNOT handle Durge getting labotomized again for this Banite fool.

• He has random little personal quests and pop-up events like his formal coronation celebration ball, taking Durge to a fancy dinner, dealing with fans, and assassinating a rude journalist who called him not-so-young-and-handsome.

• If taken to Lady Jannath's estate, she flirts with him. Durge has an option to stab her for this- just once. Just a little. She'll be fine! Gortash approves. He apologizes to her, but he's absolutely into it.

• His two allied pathways at the end are to remain fully evil and control the brain/Faerun with Durge or absolutely still be, ya know, Gortash but destroy the brain and become archduke without the tadpoles' help as he’s now viewed as the city’s hero. This is his least evil option and requires a Durge romance or at least a Durge that will remain by his side regardless and saving Hope as pivotal moments.

• Durge's alliance or resistance of Bhaal would significantly influence this. Resisting Bhaal lowers the DC on any persuasion. Failing the duel with Orin would block any option except controlling the brain with Gortash as he sees it as the only way to protect Durge. Because controlling the absolute would offer them a large enough following to grant them literal ascension to godhood, freeing Durge from Bhaal's control. Plus, you know killing a god would only inflate Gortash's ego more, and that would be his new goal.

#This got so long but I have so many thoughts #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 spoilers #durgetash #the dark urge #dark urge #durge #enver gortash #lord enver gortash #headcanon #cats thoughts #honestly think hed be down for most quests #but like for the sake of order rather than helping people #like if they let a hag ruin their life thats on them #but he cant have a hag in HIS city #Saverok and Orin would throw SUCH a fit if you brought him to the temple #it would be delicious

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qroier · 6 months ago

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now that the olympics are officially over, i wanted to share some more of my favorite moments from the second week of these games:

Rebeca Andrade finally got her gold in floor!!!!

the kayak cross course in canoe slalom is wild, it starts with a huge drop into the water and ends with a required barrel roll

the entire men's pole vault final was awesome and had everything! Armand Duplantis of sweden broke the olympic record and his own world record while his fellow athletes cheered him on. Emmanouil Karalis won bronze for greece and gave Mondo (duplantis) a bandaid after he hurt his hand. Sam Kendricks, who won silver for the U.S., also cut his hand and wiped it off on his arm. Mondo's mom filmed his record breaking jump on an ipad. after making the jump, Mondo posed like Yusuf Dikeç (turkish shooter guy) and ran off to kiss his girlfriend. incredible. iconic. showstopping.

actually, posing like Yusuf Dikeç became the go-to pose for a bunch of athletes

Mijaín López from cuba won his 5th CONSECUTIVE gold medal in greco roman wrestling. that's 20 straight years of being the reigning olympic champion

Arisa Trew, the 14 year old aussie who won gold in women's park skateboarding, is getting a pet duck from her parents for winning

a whale decided it wanted to try its fin at surfing during the surfing semi-finals

UK's skateboarding team looked like a middle school field trip with the class' favorite math teacher, except that teacher just happened to be 51 year old skating legend Andy Macdonald. just to put it into perspective, Andy Macdonald is on the same legend level as Tony Hawk. they're close friends and used to compete in vert doubles together. Tony Hawk cheered him on from the stands with Snoop Dogg, and he got a huge ovation after his run. also shout out to Sky Brown, who's 16 and got bronze again this year, even with a recent dislocated shoulder injury.

Alice D'amato's reaction to winning gold on balance beam <3 the first gold women's gymnastics medal for italy

Tara Davis-Woodhall and her husband's reaction to her winning gold in long jump for the u.s.

there were so many proposals. sooooo many proposals

Guatemala and Botswana also won their first ever gold medals, with Adriana Ruano Oliva winning women's trap shooting and Letsile Tebogo winning men's 200m

and, of course, Imane Khelif winning gold after all the harassment against her

#speaking #olympics #2024 paris olympics #paris 2024

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kwanisms · 4 months ago

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Kinktober 「10:01」 — x.minghao

» seventeen menu | the8 menu | kinktober masterlist «

➮ half-dragon!Minghao × fem!Reader wc: 7.3k summary: After inheriting an estate deep in the Bavarian Alps from his maternal grandfather, Minghao arrives to find the estate has survived the war unscathed and that deep underground is a vault full of historic and old art dating back to the 8th century. He decides to hire an appraiser to inspect the collection but becomes enamored with her. genres/themes/au: angst/fluff/smut; supernatural, horror, thriller, historical; non idol au, monster idol au, historical au, post-ww2 au warnings: adult dialogue, female reader, mentions of: food & alcohol consumption, supernatural & horror themes, post ww2 in Europe, allusions to the Nazi party; sexual content (18+ mdni), see smut warnings under the cut! taglist has been moved to reblogs join my taglist! taglist for kinktober is CLOSED. Strikethrough means I cannot tag you. MINORS WILL BE BLACKLISTED & BLOCKED. AGELESS BLOGS WILL ALSO BE BLOCKED.

a/n: this was a rough time to get started and i have to restart twice, once after completely redoing the plot. it was difficult but once i changed the plot, things flowed so much more naturally! but here we are baybee! kicking off Kinktober 2024 with dragon!Minghao in the 1940's post WW2! i did minimal research on this cause I'm a stickler for world building but I hope you all enjoy the first part of Kinktober. one day, 30 to go! as always, this is a work of fiction and all characters are not reflective of their respective irl counterparts. for entertainment purposes only.

smut warnings: teratophilia (aka monsterfucking), mirror sex, sex photos, unprotected sex (don’t do this lol), use of pet names (bao bei, beibei, sweetheart, etc.), oral (f receiving, m receiving), fingering (f receiving), and that should be all but let me know if I missed some! kinks: mirror sex + sex photos dialogue prompt: ❛❛ Don’t cover your mouth, I want everyone to know how good I make you feel. ❜❜

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Whether it was the scenery itselves or the dragon blood in him, Minghao loved the serenity and peace that seemed to accompany traveling through the mountains. This drive was a vaguely familiar one though he hadn’t been on this road since he was a young child.

He looked out the window as the car climbed higher, the trees on one side giving way to the view of the valley below. It was a picturesque scene, a beautiful lake at the base of the mountains surrounded by a forest of oranges, reds, yellows, and greens. He turned his gaze away as the car turned, following the curve of the road as the mountain flattened out.

The road was lined on either side with trees, providing cover from the cloudy, gray skies as the car drove along. Minghao caught a glimpse of the manor through the tunnel of trees, intrigued to see what state it was in since the hospitalization and death of his grandfather.

He hadn’t been to this estate since he was a young child, visiting with his mother until he threw a fit about going again. Since then, he had not stepped foot on the grounds, preferring to spend the holidays with his mother instead in their ancestral home.

Now he was in his late twenties and returning to the vacation home of his maternal line after being bequeathed the estate in his grandfather’s will. The car broke through the line of trees, taking a slight curve, forest on one side and a stone wall that dropped into a lower valley on the other.

The manor was just as he remembered, imposing and gray with gothic overtones and the facade made almost entirely out of stone. The angled roofs curved at the base and sharp spires at the ridges along the roofs. The majority of the stone was limestone, edged with a darker color of stone.

As the car pulled up, a light wind blew, the mix of orange gold, and brown leaves blowing across the stone, hitting the wall overlooking the valley. Minghao settled back in his seat, looking up at the imposing mansion, wondering the state of the interior. Outside, the place looked well kept but the inside could be an entirely different story.

The car pulled to a stop, the engine cutting and silence falling over the interior as the driver got out. He made to open the door himself but the driver beat him to it. Minghao got out, buttoning his coat as he looked up at the manor, thanking the driver. Up close, the estate looked almost immaculate. The windows had the curtains drawn, not allowing him to see inside the house.

The front door opened and a rather serious and proper looking man exited the house, followed by an equally serious and proper looking woman. They waited as Minghao turned to look at the driver unhooking the luggage from the back rack. Minghao walked over to greet the couple.

“Good afternoon,” the woman said, curtseying while the man bowed his head. “You must be Minghao,” the man asked to which Minghao nodded. “Yes,” he said softly. “You’ve grown quite a bit since we last saw you,” the woman spoke. “I used to attend to you when you were a child,” she continued.

“Your bags will be brought into the red room,” the man interjected. “It’s the only renovated room.” Minghao nodded. “And you two are?” Minghao asked. “I’m Klaus,” the man introduced before gesturing to the woman. “And this is Renate.”

The woman nodded, giving Minghao a kind smile. “Please, come this way,” Renate said, gesturing to the house. They walked in silence to the house, up the steps and into the foyer. Minghao looked around, taking in his surroundings with an impressed air.

The foyer was small but spacious enough with a small coat room off to the left and to the right was the library, the door opened. “That library was your grandfather’s favorite place in the house,” Renate said, noticing Minghao’s wavering attention. “How many bedrooms does this place have?” Minghao asked, changing the subject.

“Ten,” Renate answered as the driver and one of the staff started bringing in his trunks. “Right, this way,” Klaus said, gesturing to them to follow him, leading them through the foyer and entrance hall and disappearing through an open doorway.

“Shall I give you the tour or would you like to rest?” Renate asked. Minghao looked around once more before turning to look at her. “I think a tour would be nice,” he said. “Will give me an idea of the condition and state of the house,” he continued, looking around once more. “Yes. I think a tour is in order.”

Renate took him around the house, showing him the different rooms. From what he could see, only a handful of the rooms were in need of renovations and a few could use upgrades but were not in dire need. The kitchen was functional and cozy with a large dining room attached.

Also off the kitchen and next to the dining room but not attached, was a decent sized sun room. On the opposite side of the house from these rooms was a guest suite where his things had been brought. “I had this room made up for you since it’s the only guest suite on the main floor,” Renate said as Minghao looked around. “It’s also the only one that has been renovated.”

Minghao stopped and turned to look at her. “It’s perfect,” he replied. “I think I’ll freshen up before dinner,” he continued, crossing the room to where she stood in the doorway. “If you could please produce a set of keys for me, I would appreciate it,” he added. Renate’s smile fell. “Why?” she asked.

“Because I’m the owner of the estate now,” Minghao answered. “I don’t want to have to seek you out to unlock doors in my own home.” Renate nodded, clearing her throat. “I shall see if I can’t locate the other keys. I’m sure they’re around here somewhere,” she replied. “Dinner will be in an hour.”

She left, closing the door behind her and allowing Minghao his much needed privacy. He moved over to his luggage and opened the top trunk, finding some of his clothes. He would unpack later, first he would explore the guest suite and see what he could find and if there were any secrets.

The guest suite was large, a massive four poster bed stood in the middle of the room, the headboard pushed against the outside wall. Thick, velvet drapes hung from the intricately carved wooden frame. Standing at the foot of the bed was an ornate bench carved, stained, and lacquered just like the rest of the furniture. Minghao walked over to a small seating area past two pocket doors that shut to close off the area from the bedroom.

On the opposite side of the bed from the sitting room was the entrance to a private ensuite bathroom with marble floors, two pedestal sinks sat under golden framed mirrors. A massive soaker tub with golden clawed feet stood opposite the sinks. A pipe protruded from the wall above the tub, curving downward and providing a shower head.

Minghao returned to the bedroom area and walked over to the bed, falling onto it and staring up at the drapes. Though he vaguely remembered this house from his childhood, nothing about it had seemed familiar since entering and he wondered how much had changed from when he was a child.

A knock at the door interrupted his train of thoughts and he sat up as the door opened, a young maid poking her head into the room. “Begging your pardon, sir,” she said softly. “I’ve come to unpack your luggage.” Minghao relaxed. “I see,” he said simply. He had assumed, incorrectly, that he might be allowed to unpack his own luggage but he was proven wrong again and again.

“Knock yourself out,” he replied, gesturing to the collection of trunks waiting at the end of his bed. The maid opened the door and Minghao realized it was not one but two maids. “We’ll work quickly and when we’re done, we can show you where everything is,” the first maid offered. Minghao nodded and got up as they started to get to work. “I’ll just get out of your way,” he said, walking towards the door and slinking out of the room.

He still had time before dinner would be ready so he decided to explore the first floor a bit more. As he walked past the foyer, he noticed a door with a round window and walked over, peering into the window only to see nothing but darkness. “The elevator,” a voice said, making Minghao jump. “Your grandfather lost a lot of mobility before he was hospitalized so he had this installed to make getting from the ground floor to the top floors easier.”

Minghao turned to look at the door once more. “Does it only go up?” he asked. “Sir?” Klaus asked. Minghao looked at him. “Does it go downstairs, too?” he asked. Klaus nodded, grimacing. “Indeed it does but there isn’t much down there except storage and cobwebs.” Minghao snorted and turned back to the elevator door. “Does this even work?” he asked, reaching for the door.

“Don’t!” Klaus snapped, making Minghao retract his hand quickly, almost as if he had been burned. “My apologies,” Klaus said, regaining his composure. “The elevator is turned off and very dangerous when not operated properly.” Minghao nodded, wide eyed. “Duly noted,” he said. “Is there another way downstairs then?” Minghao asked. Klaus gave him a surprised look.

“I’d like to see everything,” Minghao added. Klaus nodded. “I’m sure, sir,” he explained. “But you have more than a day to do so,” he continued. “How about you focus on relaxing today and tomorrow you can tackle the basement?” Minghao stared at Klaus but conceded. “I suppose the basement could wait,” he said softly. “Good. Dinner should be ready soon,” Klaus added, giving Minghao a nod and turning on his heel in the direction of the kitchens.

Dinner was a private affair as Minghao sat at the formal dining room alone. After eating, he returned to his room where the maids showed him exactly where they stored everything and even packed his luggage away. He thanked them and called it a night, getting ready for and settling down into the oversized bed.

Falling asleep in a new environment was always difficult no matter how comfortable things seemed and only after tossing and turning for hours did Minghao finally manage to drift into a dreamless slumber.

The following morning, he was woken by Renate. He cleaned up, dressed, and had dinner before he decided to explore the rest of the house, starting with the upper floors. He made a mental note of which rooms he wanted to renovate before finally being given a set of keys; a skeleton key for all the interior doors, a key for the exterior doors, a key to the storage sheds and garages, and a key for the attic which coincidentally also worked for the basement.

Minghao was more than pleased to be allowed to finally inspect the basement and Klaus had been right. It was a storage place for old furniture, all coated in a thick layer of dust, with cobwebs in every corner. As Minghao worked with some of the estate workers to shift the furniture aside he discovered something no one had mentioned to him. A massive vault door.

When asked, Klaus and Renate admitted they knew of the existence of the vault but that they didn’t know what was inside it. Neither also claimed to have knowledge of a combination. Minghao stood in front of the door for hours, trying to figure out the combination, trying several different ones but none of them seemed to work.

Days passed by and he grew more and more restless at not being able to open the vault. While inspecting the library for a book to occupy his time, he found a bright blue book, a copy of On Blue Water by Edmondo de Amicis. It was placed amongst a shelf of brown bindings and looked oddly out of place. Minghao walked over, inspecting the book and carefully removing it from the shelf.

He flipped through the pages, finding blue ink circling parts in the book. Starting from the first instance, he saw the number eighty-seven. The next was forty-two, followed by seven, ninety-nine, sixty-three, and finally four. He walked over to the desk, grabbing a pen from the stand and a blank piece of paper as he wrote the numbers down, taking into consideration the arrows drawn below each number.

When he was done, he returned the book to the shelf he found it and quickly made his way downstairs to the vault door. He followed the combination, hoping it would be correct and when he heard the click, he nearly cheered in relief. He lifted the handle, releasing the mechanism holding the door shut and pulled it open. Whatever he had been prepared to find beyond the metal door, it was not this.

Inside the vast vault was a collection unlike anything he’d seen. A collection of art. As he realized what he’d stumbled upon, he shut the door quickly and headed upstairs to seek out either Klaus or Renate. He needed to make a long distance call.

When you received the call from Germany, you could hardly believe it. A colleague of yours called to explain he had suggested your name to a potential client. Someone had just unearthed a rather large collection in an estate in the Bavarian Alps and needed an expert eye to evaluate and appraise the pieces. They were willing to pay handsomely as well as fund your trip from Portugal, where you currently called home.

You jumped at the chance to set your own price and also for travel to the remote location in Germany. The trip was long, arduous and by the end, you wanted nothing more than to never step foot on a train or ship again. You arrived in Innsbruck, Austria after taking train after train in Italy and that was only after taking a ship from Lisbon through the strait of Gibraltar into the mediterranean and to the Italian capital of Rome. You still had a drive from Innsbruck to the remote estate in the mountains but a car ride where you could sleep off your trip was more than welcome.

You woke up as the sun was setting, the car climbing into the mountains and you could see the valley below was bathed in shadow from the sun setting behind the crest of the mountains behind you as the car turned, following the curve in the road. A tunnel of trees lined the road, wind starting to whip violently as the car drove on and soon the forest opened up to show a massive mansion nestled in the mountains.

It was impressive with the dark storm clouds looming overhead, the light from the sun blocked by the mountain to your left yet golden rays of light hit the clouds behind the estate, making them look ever so darker as the car pulled up next to a blue Roadmaster.

You opened your door, refusing to wait any longer. A bed inside the estate was yours and you were ready to collapse into it and sleep off your travel. The driver unpacked your things, setting them down by the back of the car as the front door opened. A stern looking older woman greeted you, introducing herself as Renate. She had one of the young men from the garage carrying your things and welcomed you to the estate, guiding you inside.

The foyer was grand and dark with white tile flooring. The door to your right was open, displaying a few coats hanging up in what you surmised was the coat room. The door to your right was shut. As the door closed behind you with a loud click, you walked further into the house. “Your rooms have been drawn for you upstairs,” Renate said, guiding you towards the stairs.

You followed her up the sweeping staircase, looking overhead and taking in the details of the intricate and massive chandelier that hung from the ceiling. Once on the landing, you followed her down one of the halls to a door which she opened for you. “This will be your room for the duration of your stay,” Renate explained. “Your things will be brought up to your room and the maids will unpack your things,” she explained. “I will take you to meet the owner of the house now.”

You followed her back down the hall to the stairs as a door opened, revealing an elevator and the driver bringing your luggage upstairs. You continued down the steps to the ground floor and followed Renate through another hallway to a door where she knocked before opening it. “Sir, there’s a Miss Y/N here. She’s just arrived,” she announced, stepping aside and gesturing for you to enter.

Inside the room was a dark parlor decorated and furnished in the Victorian style. It was a cozy room, a massive fireplace with a roaring fire took up a great deal of wall space with built-in shelves on either side of the fireplace. Sitting in front of the fireplace was a seating area, two couches facing one another with a low table between them. Perched on one of the couches was a young man.

He had reddish brown hair, a slender build and was currently immersed in a book he held. At the mention of your name, he looked up and your breath caught in your throat when his gaze met yours. His eyes were red and orange, like fire. The pupils in the middle were vertical slits. “Perfect,” he said, snapping the book shut and setting it down on the table.

Renate gave a curtsey before exiting the room and shutting the door, leaving you alone with the man who now stood before you. He had his hands tucked into his pockets. He wore a simple black turtleneck under a thicker sweater with a v-neck. His trousers were a medium brown and made of what looked to be tweed. He wore simple brown plain toe derby shoes to complete the look.

“Based on Renate’s introduction, I can assume you are Y/F/N Y/L/N?” he asked, a neutral expression on his face. You nodded slowly. “And you are?” you asked, walking forward, intent on shaking his hand. “Minghao,” he answered as you held out your hand. Xu Minghao,” he added, taking your hand and shaking it briefly. “I assume you know why you’re here?” he asked and you nodded once more.

“For my expertise,” you answered. “I doubt you’d invite me here based on my good looks,” you joked. Minghao let out a chuckle, returning his hand to his pocket. “So,” you said, looking around the room. “Where is this collection?” Minghao smiled again, gesturing for you to take a seat on the couch across from him. You did so as he sat back down.

“Before we get into the thick of it so to speak, I’d like to set your payment, something you agree is fair and we can sign off on,” he explained. You nodded, narrowing your eyes. “My usual rate is a twenty percent cut of the collection, were you to sell it,” you explained. “Only twenty?” Minghao asked, tilting his head. “The more priceless a collection, the more money I get,” you added.

“If your collection is only worth a million, I would get two-hundred thousand. That’s a pretty fair price for evaluating and appraising the pieces. Especially with the amount of research I end up doing,” you said as Minghao nodded along. “I understand that,” he explained, leaning back against the couch. “I think what you do is worth more,” he added. “I’m willing to go up to thirty percent.”

Your brows rose, eyes widening. “Thirty percent? Goodness, you’re generous,” you said, your lips pulling back into a smirk. Minghao mirrored your expression. “So we’re in agreement?” he asked. “Thirty percent?” You nodded in response. “Sounds reasonable to me,” you answered. “Good,” Minghao replied. “Dinner should be ready,” he added. “How about you get changed and join me?”

You returned to your room, changing out of your clothes and into something more appropriate for dinner. You returned downstairs to the foyer where you were greeted by a stern looking man you had yet to meet. “I’m Klaus,” he introduced himself with a small bow. “Dinner is being served and Mr. Xu has asked me to escort you to the dining room.”

You followed him through the halls until you reached a door which he then opened and gestured for you to enter. Inside was a large dining room with a table large enough to seat 12. Sitting at the head of the table was Minghao. When you entered, he stood up quickly as Klaus exited, shutting the door behind him. “Please,” Minghao said, gesturing to the seat adjacent to him.

You walked over, thanking him and moved to sit. Minghao was quick to pull the chair for you and move it again when you sat down before returning to his chair. You thanked him as the door behind you opened and a small service staff entered, setting a few platters down on the table in front of you and Minghao. “I asked them to make something new,” he explained as they removed the lids, showing a vast array of dishes that all looked amazing.

“Something with goat,” he added as he inspected the dishes. “Please,” he continued, gesturing to the food. “Help yourself to whatever you’d like.” You thanked him, digging into the food in front of you, not realizing that you were ravenous until the food was in front of you.

Silence fell over the room as you ate, no conversation was being had until Minghao spoke up. “So you traveled from Portugal?” he asked as he cut his meat. You nodded, wiping your mouth before speaking. “Yes,” you answered. “I had an apartment just outside Lisbon.” Minghao looked up at you.

“Had?” he asked, picking up on your use of past tense. “Yes,” you answered. “I travel for work and often only rent places for as long as I’m there,” you explained. “The job in Lisbon lasted for almost a year,” you continued. “The collection I was tasked with evaluating was massive and ended up being worth a whopping eighty-seven million pounds,” you added. Minghao’s eyes widened. “Eighty-seven million pounds? Good gracious,” he said softly. “And you got twenty percent of that?”

You smiled, picking up your glass of wine. “It’s not a bad business to be in,” you explained. “It certainly isn’t,” Minghao said with a chuckle as you took a sip of wine. “My father was an appraiser,” you said suddenly. But he never made it a lucrative business like I did. We struggled a lot and he would disappear for months on end, never so much as sending a letter or calling,” you continued.

“My mother, God rest her soul, worked 12 hour shifts at the local textile factory just to make sure we had food on the table.” Minghao kept his eyes on you as you spoke. “As soon as I was able, I started working. Mainly bookkeeping and typing,” you continued. “I was able to put myself through college with a combination of working and scholarships,” you said with a smile. “I immediately made a name for myself, assessing art collections left and right in America until my first overseas assignment in London.”

Minghao couldn’t help but smile. It was clear you took great pride in your work. Your smile, nostalgic, slowly fell as a memory came into the forefront of your mind. “That’s where I was living when the war broke out,” you said, a bitter tone in your voice.

Minghao couldn’t help but feel a similar anger and hatred towards the war. He’d been living in China at the time, deep in a remote area and away from the cities for protection. The war hadn’t hit him but you, living in London, he could only imagine how it affected you. The destruction and danger lurking around every corner.

“I worked as an air raid warden during the first few years but in the last couple, I was promoted to evacuation officer,” you explained. “It was stressful, being in the midst of all the bombings and trying to keep my cool and help direct evacuees,” you continued. “But I learned a lot about the world and myself in those years.” Minghao took a sip of his wine. “I can only imagine what you went through,” he said softly, making you look towards him.

“I was hidden away in China,” he continued. “We didn’t see much war where we were,” he added. You smiled sadly. “China is a pretty big place,” you replied. “I’m sure places like Beijing, Shanghai, and Hong Kong saw most of the action,” you added. Minghao nodded. “I’m sure they did. I’m sorry you had to go through that. Especially so far from home.”

You shook your head. “Home is wherever I rest my head,” you replied. “My family is all gone now. It’s just me.” Minghao felt his heart sink slightly. He knew what it was like to be alone in a sense but he still had family that was alive, he was just estranged from them so it wasn’t entirely the same feeling. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied but you smiled, dismissing his apology. “It’s all right now,” you answered.

“Less to worry about,” you added as you picked up your utensils. “Dinner is delicious by the way,” you added, changing the subject. Though you maintained this calm, unbothered air, Minghao could see right through it. One of his many talents as a draconian descendant.

He wouldn’t push it though. It wasn’t his place. If you wanted to talk about it, you would.

The next couple days, Minghao showed you the house so you could familiarize yourself with the layout. On the third day, he finally took you to the basement, opening the vault and showing you the contents. As you entered, carefully examining the works with gloves, you cataloged things slowly.

“So,” you said, returning to Minghao who was standing outside the vault. “I have good news,” you said softly, lowering your clipboard. “Everything is labeled and there is a box full of documents, which I can only assume are the auction and purchase records. Whoever owned this collection took great care in keeping records which makes my job much easier,” you said with a smile.

“Lunch is almost ready,” Minghao replied. “Shall we eat first and then you can go over the records after?” You nodded, smiling at him. “Sounds superb.”

After a quick lunch of soup and sandwiches, you returned to work, pulling out the record boxes and going through them, matching the papers to the items. “This is incredible,” you breathed, pouring over the records. “Not only are the dates of purchases listed but the prices are also listed. This is an incredibly well documented collection.” Minghao smiled as you flipped through page after page.

It took a few days but you finally had a partial appraisal for the ceramics. “Two hundred thousand?” Minghao asked when you showed him your numbers. “Two hundred and forty-three thousand, six-hundred and fifty-seven to be precise,” you answered. Minghao let out a laugh. “And that’s just the ceramics?” he asked to which you nodded. “I expect that to be the lowest number of this collection,” you answered.

Your assumption was proven to be correct when you came back with the values for the other categories.

Minghao stood, reading over your numbers as you sipped whiskey from a crystal glass. “Are these numbers accurate?” Minghao asked. You nodded. “I’m nothing if not accurate,” you replied. “Are they lower than your projection?” you asked, suddenly worried about his response.

During your time at the estate, you’d taken a liking to Minghao, something you normally never allowed to happen with clients. It was easy to like him. He was handsome, charming, well-spoken, intelligent, and incredibly witty. He was good company during your meals and late at night when you were working on your estimates. You’d become very close with him, especially after he told you about his parentage and his nature as a half dragon. You’d never met someone like him before.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “They’re higher,” he added. “I expected a much lower number.” You smiled at him, setting your glass down and getting up to join him, taking the paper from him. “A great number of these items date back as far as the 8th century,” you explained.

“Like this one,” you said, pointing to an item on the list. “A silk print from eighth century China,” you said. “Or this one. A nineteenth century watercolor. There’s only one of these in existence. And this thirteenth century oil painting? The art community thought this was lost forever.”

“A lot of these items are worth even more because of the war,” you continued, handing the paper back to him and picking up your glass, downing the rest of the amber liquid. “A lot of art was lost, destroyed by the Third Reich. The Nazi stole a lot of art and we’re still trying to recover it. Most of the stolen art may never be recovered,” you continued.

Minghao held the paper in his hands but his eyes were on you. “A lot goes into appraising,” you explained. “Condition, rarity, age, authenticity, subject matter, and size are a few of the things I look at when appraising art collections. Many of these items are unique and only a few versions of them exist,” you continued, moving to the bar cart to pour yourself another drink.

“And every single one of these artists or sculptors are dead,” you continued, popping the top off the decanter and pouring more liquid into your glass. “Which makes these even more valuable. They can never be replicated by the original artist.” You placed the lid back and turned to face Minghao, holding the glass in your hand. He was still staring at you, a look of something you couldn’t place in his eyes.

He set the paper down and stalked forward slowly to where you stood until he had you caged in against the bar cart. “You know,” he said softly, eyes dipping down to look at your lips. “You’re incredibly sexy when you talk about this,” he said, tilting his head to the side. You swallowed nervously. “When I talk about art?” you asked, feeling a heat settling in the pit of your stomach.

“No,” he replied, taking your glass and drinking it in one go before setting the empty glass on the cart. “When you talk about something you’re passionate about.” He leaned in closer, lips inches from yours. You felt a shiver run up your spine, desire mixing with the sexual tension that hung in the air.

“I’m passionate about a lot of things,” you said, one of your hands moving up his arm to rest on his bicep. “Oh?” Minghao asked. “Like what?” He was teasing you now, the smirk on his face gave it away. He wanted to see how far he could take this. How far he could push you before you gave into him.

“Art, cuisine, fashion,” you said softly. “Photography, travel… sex.”

The next moment, Minhao closed the distance, his lips crashing against yours as his hands moved to your waist. You kissed him back with as much hunger, hand grabbing him desperately. Your lips parted, his tongue slipping into your mouth.

You moaned into the kiss as you felt one of his hands move down, cupping your ass and squeezing. Minghao pulled back, looking into your eyes, breathless as he spoke. “Maybe we should—”

“Take this somewhere else?” you asked, hopefully finishing his sentence. He nodded, pulling you into another kiss. “Your room or mine?” you asked as he left a trail of kisses down your neck. “Mine’s closer,” he murmured, his long fingers swiftly undoing the tie at the top of your blouse..

“Lead the way,” you said, pushing him back playfully. Minghao’s fingers instead closed around your wrist, pulling you from the bar cart and dragging you from the parlor, across the foyer to a pair of double doors you’d seen and knew was probably his room. When he parted the doors, he quickly pulled you into the room before shutting the doors.

You only got a brief look around the room before he was on you, kissing you and pulling at the buckle of your skirt belt, quickly undoing it and unzipping the skirt, letting it fall to the floor in a pool at your feet. You stepped out of the mess of fabric, letting him pull your green blouse off and tossing it to the floor with your skirt leaving you in your lingerie.

You felt slightly self conscious under his gaze as his eyes wandered, taking in your figure. You slowly moved back, taking a seat on the edge of the bed still in your heels. Minghao moved over, leaning over to press a soft kiss to your cheek, lips trailing down your neck to your chest. He glanced up, meeting your gaze before he started kissing his way down your stomach as he slowly knelt down.

He worked slowly, removing your shoes, one by one. You glanced up, eyes widening as you caught sight of your reflection in a massive mirror that stood across from where you sat. “My, that’s quite a mirror,” you said softly as Minghao continued to remove your shoes, humming in response.

Once your shoes were dealt with, Minghao’s hand slid up your legs, undoing the clips of your garter belt and then sliding your stockings down your legs, dropping both of them on the floor with your shoes before he got back up, climbing onto the bed over you as you scooted back. He captured your lips in a searing kiss, hands moving to slide your garter belt off along with your panties.

You let out a gasp as you felt two of his fingers spread your lips, finding your clit and muttering softly under his breath about how wet you felt. You tried to say something, to bite back, but your words failed you as he drew his finger in a languid circle around the sensitive nub.

You whined, hips bucking as he took his time, teasing you with long, drawn out massages. He chuckled, kissing down your chest and stomach again. He settled between your thighs, moving his fingers and pushing them into you slowly as his tongue descended onto your clit, tasting you with a groan.

Your thighs tried to close on his head but he pulled back, lightly smacking the inside of your thigh with his free hand. “Keep them open,” he growled before going right back into it. You moaned loudly, unrestrained, quickly reaching up to cover your mouth. Minghao reached up, grabbing your wrist and pulled your hand from your face.

“Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t cover your mouth. I want everyone to hear how good I make you feel.” You nodded slowly, moving your hand down to the sheets and gripping them as Minghao returned his attention to your clit, his fingers moving inside you. He pumped them at a steady pace, stopping to curl them up and making your back arch as you moaned again and again.

“That’s it,” he said softly, watching as your chest rose and fell with each labored breath. “Does it feel good?” he asked. You nodded with a whimper. “Yes,” you breathed. “F-feels so good!” Minghao smirked as he continued to curl his fingers, coaxing you closer and closer to the edge. “You gonna be good and come for me, sweetheart?” he asked. Your thighs had started to tremble, the tension in your body ready to snap at any moment. You whined in response.

“I need to hear you say it, bao bei,” he murmured, drawing out his motions, making them as slow as possible. “Yes!” you cried. “M’gonna cum!” Minghao resumed the same quick pace, rubbing against your walls as he drove you over the edge and your orgasm crashed down on you. You gasped, spewing out a slew of curses mixed with his name as he helped you ride out your high.

“Good,” he said softly. “Good girl.” You attempted to push his hand away when it became too much and sensing what you were silently asking for, Minghao removed his fingers, giving you a break. He cleaned his fingers, getting up from the bed. You heard him move around the room but were too exhausted to open your eyes and see what he was doing.

He returned to the foot of the bed and when nothing else happened, you finally opened your eyes and saw him standing at the foot of the bed. He held something in his hands. “I’d like to ask your permission for something,” he started.

You looked at the item in his hands and noticed it was a camera. You looked up to meet his fiery gaze. “I’d like to photograph you,” he continued. “Like this,” he added, gesturing at your posture. You pushed yourself up. “You want to photograph me naked?” you asked, slightly amused. Minghao chuckled, lowering his gaze to his camera. “No,” he replied, shaking his head before looking back up.

“I want to photograph you in the middle of sex.”

To say you were surprised was an understatement but you weren’t entirely turned off the idea. “And these would be for your eyes only?” you asked softly. Minghao nodded as he prepared the camera. “I plan on turning one of the bedrooms into a dark room,” he explained, raising the camera to look through the viewfinder and pressing the shutter button, before lowering it and smiling at you.

You leaned back, spreading your legs. “How do you want me?” you asked playfully as he raised the camera again, snapping another picture. You laughed and sat up, moving to the edge of the bed and grabbing at his belt loops, pulling him closer to undo his pants, starting with his belt. You unzipped his pants, pulling them down enough to pull his cock free from the confines of his underwear.

You wasted no time in taking the head into your mouth, surprising him into letting out a groan, his head falling back, exposing his long neck. You took more of him in your mouth, keeping your tongue flat against the underside as you took him further. You heard the snap of the camera and pulled back until just the tip was in your mouth, tongue swirling around the head.

You heard another snap followed by the automatic wind of the camera and kept going, each time taking him further and further into your mouth as you drew him to his full length and hardness. “Fuck, just like that, sweetheart,” you heard him groan, snapping another photo. You pulled back, moving your hand up and down the shaft and looked up at him.

“You gonna fuck me already?” you asked mischievously. Minghao tossed the camera onto the bed and pulled his sweater over his head, discarding it on the floor before pulling off his shirt and adding it to the growing pile. You scooted back to the middle of the bed, removing your bra and tossing it aside as he climbed onto the bed, trailing wet kisses up your stomach, stopping to nip at the skin under your breast. His tongue brushed over your nipple, swirling around it before he continued up your chest, running his tongue over your skin.

At the junction of your neck and shoulder, he sank his teeth into your skin, making you cry out and your body jerk suddenly. He used your movement against you, moving closer and taking his cock in his hand. He guided the head to your folds, rutting against your for a moment before pushing into you, letting out a growl as your warm walls enveloped him.

He grabbed the camera from its resting spot and sat back, holding it up to snap a photograph, aiming the lens at the place where your bodies met. “Oh fuck,” you gasped as he thrusted into you, bottoming out and his cock nestling against your cervix. He snapped another picture of your nude body before tossing the camera aside once more and grabbing your hips.

He neither eased you into it or warned you but started a rough, brutal pace immediately, hips snapping forward and burying his cock into your cunt repeatedly. You cried out in both shock and pleasure at the intensity at which he started right away. Your fingers curled into the sheets, thighs spreading more as he pounded into you. “You’ll cum if you go too fast,” you mused, eyes fluttering shut as you felt him throb inside you.

He chuckled, a breathy sound as his grip on you tightened. “I have more stamina than that, beibei,” he said softly. He gave you another harsh thrust, enjoying the way your breasts bounced with each snap of his hips. The room was full of the sound of skin against skin and your moans. It almost drowned out the sound of the rain outside. Almost.

Minghao slowed his pace before pulling out of you. You protested but he simply grabbed your hand and pulled you up as he shifted behind you, pushing you on to your hands and knees as he re-entered you from behind. You moaned, head dropping as he grabbed your hips, resuming that same merciless pace only now he was hitting even deeper.

“Look up,” he murmured in your ear. You did as he said, raising your head until you met the gaze of your own reflection. “Oh shit,” you gasped, walls clenching around him. He grabbed your chin, pressing his chest against your back as he leaned over you. “I want you to watch me fuck you,” he growled into your ear. “Watch yourself cum.” You moaned but maintained eye contact with him through the mirror. In the darkness of the room, his eyes glowed and he seemed even more dragon-like than before.

You pushed back, meeting his hips and thrusts with as much force as you could muster but you were getting weaker with each snap of his hips against your ass. His cock seemed to swell inside you or maybe it was your walls clamping down and not wanting to let go but he filled you so deliciously and with each rut, you were pushed closer and closer to your climax.

“That’s it,” Minghao said, his breath hot against your skin. “Cum for me, sweetheart. Be a good girl and let go.” His freehand moved from your hip to between your thighs, working your clit in time with his thrusts as he propelled you over the edge. You came with a scream as a loud clap of thunder shook the house and the very mountain it stood on.

Minghao fucked you through it, chasing his own high as he finally released inside you, painting your walls in his hot thick cum. There was more of it than you could initially comprehend, filling your walls and no doubt every crevice of your womb. Pregnancy was the last thing on your mind and you moaned, pushing back onto him, milking him for every bit of cum he had.

“Careful sweetheart,” Minghao purred into your ear, moving his hand to your throat and holding it firmly but not squeezing. “We have all night,” he continued. “I’m not done with you just yet.

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ladyddanger · 1 year ago

Text

thinking about the events of the dsmp hundreds of years later being just a bunch of stories.

In a village nestled between tall pines children play Manberg Vs Pogtopia, the names of nations and reasons for war long forgotten as they hit each other with sticks and tackle their friends to warm summer grass.

When their mothers tuck them in that night they tell them stories of a snowy wasteland, so ancient it still holds the scars of long wars forgotten. They tell them of the wasteland’s inhabitant, the greatest warrior this world has ever seen. His name is lost to history but warriors still pray to him on the eve of battle and tie ravens feathers in their hair in his honor.

If the children misbehaved that day their mothers tell them a different story, one of a masked man who steals bad children and drowns them in the sea.

There’s a crater a few miles east of the village in the middle of the marshlands up by a glittering ocean. The crater is so deep that you can throw rocks off the edge and never hear them hit the bottom. Legend says that once upon a time the goddess of death had a son who walked this earth and when he died in her rage and grief she tore into the city that once stood there with her bare hands and ripped it from the earth leaving nothing but a crater behind.

On long sunny evenings in the inns that dot the coastline bards tell stories of a cursed city of gold and glass buried in the heart of a desert where it snows. They whisper the city is full of riches but nobody who looks for it ever comes back.

On stormy nights the Bards tell a different story, a story of a town that sits over a slumbering god. Strange things happen there. Red vines sport up over night. If you listen closely, the people say you can hear them talk. Everyone there has red eyes and cold cold hands.

If you start at dawn and ride in the opposite direction of the carter you can reach the vault before nightfall. The locals claim it used to hold a faceless god guarded by a king but time has weathered the vault’s defenses and the towns children dare each other inside its walls, running though the tight passages.

An old fairytale says if you follow a small barely visible path from the doors of a vault beyond you’ll reach a forest full of trees so overgrown they block the sun. The fairytale says if you walk to the heart of the forrest there’s a prince sleeping there, nestled in the flowers and weeds. The fairytale says his true love and his knights are long dead. The fairytale says he dreams the whole world in existence. The fairytale says a lot of things but nobody really believes it.

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tossawary · 2 months ago

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I don't have a solid plot attached to this idea, I don't currently really have the desire to drop everything to go write "The Hobbit" fanfiction, but for a while I've had the idea of *gestures vaguely" some post-canon story (probably some form of fix-it) taking place before, during, and after a grand dwarven opera performance in Erebor.

Because I am absolutely certain that the Lonely Mountain had an absolutely stunningly beautiful Royal Opera House (and plenty of other, less grand performance halls) that, at the city's height, was putting at least one show every single day. Orchestral symphonies, operas and operettas, dramatic plays, dance performances... you name it, they had it and more. The various cultures of Middle Earth evidently ADORE music, dwarves absolutely included. The Company all bring instruments to Bag End to play and sing themselves off before their quest!

Also, beyond the music side of things, with how dwarves are named as master crafters? Smiths and toymakers and magicians? No way that they did not have some of the most gorgeous costumes, sets, and effects on the planet. Dwarves would go WILD with their articulated stage puppets, I know it.

One of my biggest issues with the film trilogy is that it failed to deeply explore the Company as people who had lost their home, beauty and culture included. Smaug not only killed countless people, entire families, and leave many of the survivors poor and desperate, the dragon went on to hoard their heirlooms and life's work and leave these priceless gold treasures UNUSED. It is an additional heartbreak to imagine Smaug tearing through Erebor neighborhood by neighborhood, house by house, so that he could tear out every gemstone in, say, mosaic made by someone's grandmother that sat above the breakfast table every morning. To think that Smaug in the aftermath tore magical lanterns off the walls, the sort that might have been decorated with animals or flowers, to make some daycare walkway just a little more cheery for the children, and in his greed left a dead city in the dark.

The live-action movies put both Smaug and the Balrog in these... absolutely enormous chambers that serve somewhat unclear purposes. The king's treasure vault and a former marketplace, I think? (Moria has been raised by goblins, I can forgive the emptiness.) It's a quick visual depiction of Thror's uncontrollable gold lust to give him a Scrooge McDuck room, sure, instead of anything with an actual organizational system (normally, I assume dwarves are big on sorting their vaults if they have one). Super big columns and hallways and staircases do somewhat effectively communicate the "lost glory" of Moria (I am very fond of these movies!!!), even if I also think it's not as interesting as it could have been. And the other obvious purpose of big, open warehouse-like spaces is 1) it's easier to animate the big creatures moving around in them generally and 2) it allows the films to show off the full-bodied visual spectacle of their big creatures.

But I think it would have also kicked ass to put Smaug in Erebor's former Royal Opera House or something, some enormous theatre decorated across generations. That could be big! The ART (statues, fountains, banners, windows, general architecture) that you could put on the exterior, which has had its face ripped open for the dragon to get inside? The ART that you could put INSIDE (mosaics, murals, and more) as Bilbo sneaks inside? Ohhh, you could include so many potential lore references with thematic relevance!

Also, Bilbo could get jump-scared by old articulated stage puppets or something. IT'S THE DRAGON-! Oh, no, it's some old opera prop. (Yes, we're talking more about an actual adaptation of "The Hobbit" rather than fanfiction concepts now.)

Sure, there's raw material treasure and coins hoarded here in this place, but there would also be musical instruments and toys and household tools and cookware and fancy dishes, wedding jewelry and anniversary gifts and family shrines and festival costumes, fountain statues and street lamps and mailboxes and business signs, and other evidence that people really LIVED here. These are all ordinary objects that Bilbo recognizes from the Shire.

We could tie these objects directly back to objects we saw featured in Bilbo's home early in this adaptation, which he was trying to "protect" from the dwarves during their "That's what Bilbo Baggins hates" song. There are half-burned portraits of people's late parents here too. Did he think that there weren't any dwarves who made doilies or handkerchiefs embroidered with flowers? Of course they made things like that too.

It's perfectly symbolic to, say, place Smaug's bed in an area like the king's throne room. The dragon is now the King Under The Mountain. But I think it would be deliciously haunting to have the throne room of Erebor be empty, the throne half-broken, the silver stripped from the walls and moved elsewhere, because Smaug doesn't care about Thror's old audience chamber. What's a dwarf king to a dragon? He burns the same as all the others. The dragon has instead made his bed in a beautiful public place of art and culture that was for the people, by the people, surrounded by the lovingly crafted belongings of the ordinary people he killed. Gold is gold to a dragon whether it's in a coin or a candlestick.

I think if you really want to sell one of the key messages of "The Hobbit", which in my opinion is: "If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world." then you ought to throw yourself behind EREBOR being a place where food and cheer and song had value, not just the Shire. Thorin isn't lost at the end because he's a dwarf and dwarves don't value such things, but because he as a specific person who makes the mistake of weighing pride and gold over people, and he comes to regret that on his deathbed.

So, back to the fanfiction idea, I think that Erebor had music again in it as soon as dwarves started living in it again. It will take decades and decades before the Royal Opera House is half as splendid as it was before, and there is a performance there with beautiful costumes and puppets and sets comparable to those that came before, some traditional historical show that is part of specific seasonal holiday for dwarves. But that very first winter, when the future still looked grim, I think the dwarves cleared out a small stage and cast the roles of this traditional musical retelling of their history among them, based on who knew the parts best, because they aren't just miners and smiths and soldiers, and there was music again in Erebor that winter despite all the damage that the dragon did.

#file this under: me banging on random doors demanding to be given a fortune to make an animated Hobbit movie again #I would kick so much ass; I would make Choices; the design of my adaptation would be the Most #tossawary tolkien #the hobbit #smaug #fic ideas #character death #gimli takes legolas to a very classic very famous very high art dwarvish opera once and it's five hours long and 1/12 in a cycle #long post

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aethon-recs · 2 months ago

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This Week (x2) in Tomarrymort (8 – 21 November 2024)

Hello! We have three multi-chaptered fics finishing this week, highlighted below. In addition, I made a rec list for Tomarrymort Necrophilia Fics 💀🤍 in support of the Tomarrymort Necro Fest hosted by @magical-menagerie-server, which kicks off in January.

Completed Fic:

Memories of a Killer by @chemfreak89 (M, 47k, complete) Age catches up with everyone. The infamous serial killer Voldemort now spends his time reading newspapers and making trips to the local library in search of a new crime novel. But one day he makes an interesting new acquaintance that shakes his quiet life and rekindles old flames and unknown desires. What quickens me is the violence in thee by @i-dream-of-libraries (M, 17k, complete) Harry is sold at auction to a man who is clearly in some kind of disguise - Lord Riddle isn't as charming as he looks, and the way he looks at Harry... A Regency AU inspired by the magnificent artwork of @stolenviolet. If I were you by @onehitpleb (E, 9k, complete) It is 1945 and Tom is eighteen, freshly graduated, and working a non-reputable job as a store clerk in Knockturn Alley. Somehow, he grows attached to the worst sort of person - an idiot.

In addition, a recap of the author notes from last week! (Please feel free to add some extra context to your fic update in the reblog, such as a little bit about the chapter(s) updated, and I’ll throw it in the update for next week!)

A Simple Request by @shyinsunlight (E, 70k, WIP) “As for the new chapter of A Simple Request, Harry tries and (unsurprisingly) fails to keep his personal life private. Some are having the time of their life, some others, not so much. Lifts can take you up, but going down is more interesting.” Wish by @sri-verse (E, 3k, WIP) “Wish is set after Harry's fifth year where he gets the ownership of Bellatrix's vault along side the Black vault. Looking at a gold goblet, he remembers his childhood wish of buying a gold cauldron and brings back Helga Hufflepuff's cup with him to fulfill that desire, unaware that he has freed the horcrux living in it.” To the Hilt by @izharmilgram (E, 28k, WIP) “To The Hilt is a royal arranged marriage au featuring nontraditional a/b/o, political schemes, ancient greek and abrahamic religion references, feral harry potter, and lots of power play and worship. It's neither only tomarry or only harrymort, but tomarrymort—meaning the core relationship is Tom/Harry/Voldemort. This includes Tom/Voldemort.” we made universes out of bitten lips and broken hands by @boyneptunee (M, 50k, WIP) “The consequences of Harry's Time Travel seem inconsequential, at first. Until they stare right back at him with vicious eyes. There's trouble brewing in every direction, and the Future is not as certain and set in stone as one might think.” Time Stumbler by @wintumnly (T, 102k, WIP) “Harry is stuck in 1937 and spends the holidays with almost-eleven-year-old Tom Riddle. On the first day of Christmas, they both anxiously wait for Tom's Hogwarts letter together. Fluff, humor, and Tom Riddle is not good with feelings." 7 by @moontearpensfic (E, 44k, WIP) “Harry goes back in time to raise Tom AU: the boys discuss what might have happened to make Voldemort go to "sleep."” Anytime, Anywhere, Always by @moontearpensfic (E, 22k, WIP) “Harry corrupts Tom AU: Tom and Harry celebrate Christmas--and something more! Your Wish, My Command by @moontearpensfic (E, 8k, WIP) “Hinny adopts Tom AU: Tom finally gets Harry to crack. 🔥”

Tomarrymort One Shots and Completed Fic

Complete | Chapters 8 and 9 of Memories of a Killer by @chemfreak89

Complete | Chapter 6 of What quickens me is the violence in thee by @i-dream-of-libraries

Complete | Chapter 4 of If I were you by @onehitpleb

Complete | Chapter 19 of Sits the wind in that quarter by @mosiva

One Shot | To be Imagined by @cyandenial

One Shot | god's hands by @curioushabitforarivergod

One Shot | bad behaviour by @milkandmoon-ao3

One Shot | two ways of being: the noun & the verb by cycloalkane

One Shot | set my soul on fire by @wynnefic

One Shot | Beach Episode by @crowcrowcrowthing

One Shot | First Duel by @being-luminous

Tomarrymort Ongoing Fics

Chapter 12 of Ills of Murder by @shadow-of-the-eclipse

Chapters 7 through 11 of in the silence by @satflesk22

Chapter 4 of friend of the devil (a friend of mine) by @shyinsunlight

Chapter 15 of Embryo by @cannibalinc

Chapter 4 of As It Begins by @duplicitywrites @moontearpensfic

Chapters 7 and 8 of Stygian by @crowcrowcrowthing

Chapters 15 through 17 of Saint Harry by @alenablack @chaos-bear

Chapter 1 of the night is cold in the kingdom by @girl-with-goats

Chapters 5 and 6 of you speak of the devil (like he's not your friend) by @amuria

Chapters 131 through 134 of Liquida Tenebris (Remastered) by @dymis

Chapters 1 and 2 of Small Mistakes by Crisis_Brewing

Chapter 5 of Hit 'N Run by @dragonaireabsolvare

Chapter 11 of Days always end in sunsets by @d00medbythenarrative

Chapter 25 of Time Stumbler by @wintumnly

Chapters 8 and 9 of Venom or Valor by @lightningant

Chapter 21 of Outrunning the Villain in You by @zenyteehee

Chapters 6 through 8 of To the Hilt by @izharmilgram

Chapter 9 of Do It Over by @marrythemonstersao3

Chapter 2 of Infinite by @moontearpensfic

Chapter 2 of Prizefighter by @dragonaireabsolvare

Chapter 8 of Fetters of the Damned by @sc0rpiflow3r

Chapters 13 and 14 of Hole in the Wall by tomrddle

Chapters 23 and 24 of Learning to love by @l-archiduchesse

Chapter 13 of He Who Shall Not Be Changed by @moontimefilter

Chapter 17 of Last Son of Black by @treacleteacups

Chapter 6 of Dreams Beyond Blood by @hikarimeroperiddle

#tomarry #tomarrymort #harrymort #tomarrymort recs #aethon recs #tomarry recs #ao3 recs #fanfic recs #hp fic recs #harrymort recs #tomarry weekly #this week in tomarrymort

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nightcxty · 1 year ago

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silverv out of context - holiday edition (x)

#ITS THE FUCKING SEASON FELLAS DEATH TO CAPITALISM #cyberpunk 2077 #oc: valory ann burton #johnny silverhand #my screenshots #vp #cyberpunk oc #silverv ooc #silverv #johnny silverhand x v #otp: mad love in g minor #johnny silverhand/v #[ vault old but gold ]

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novaursa · 1 month ago

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Legacy (contingency)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: dragonfire

- Next part: dragonstone

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal

Rich banners of crimson and gold draped from the high vaulted ceilings of the Great Hall, the sigil of House Lannister roaring above the gathering. The long tables overflowed with food: roasted boar glazed in honey, fragrant spiced wine, golden loaves of bread, and sweetcakes decorated with little sugar lions. Music filled the air—a lively tune played by minstrels whose strings and pipes accompanied the hum of conversation and laughter.

At the center of it all sat King Tommen Baratheon, his crown polished to perfection, seated proudly at the head of the royal table. Beside him, Queen Margaery looked radiant in a gown of green silk embroidered with golden roses, her bright smile lifting the mood of the hall. To Tommen's left sat Cersei Lannister, though her face was a mask of cold disinterest as she stared pointedly at her cup of wine, refusing to so much as glance toward her twin brother Jaime, who stood behind the king as his sworn protector.

Farther down the hall, the laughter of ladies mingled with the squeals of a happy child.

You stood near the far end of the hall, where a small play area had been set up for your son. Damon, now a year old, was surrounded by noblewomen who cooed and fussed over him as if he were the very center of the world. He sat on a plush blanket, his chubby hands reaching for the wooden lion and dragon toys set before him. His silver-gold hair shone under the light of the great chandeliers, and his bright eyes sparkled with curiosity as he looked from one lady to the next.

“My, but he’s a handsome little boy,” cooed Lady Tanda Stokeworth, bending down slightly to smile at Damon. “And clever, too, I’m sure.”

“Very clever,” agreed Lady Falyse, her hands clasped before her. “He has his mother’s eyes, but I daresay the strength of his father will be in him as well.”

“And the fire of a dragon,” added Lady Taena of Pentos, her dark curls spilling elegantly over her shoulders as she smiled warmly. “The realm will speak of him for generations to come.”

“Enough fluttering about,” came the sharp voice of Lady Olenna Tyrell, who sat nearby, cane resting against her chair. “You’ll have him thinking he’s a lord before he can even string a full sentence together.”

The ladies fell silent momentarily, though some tittered softly behind their hands as they moved away. You sat down beside Damon, brushing a hand gently over his soft hair as he giggled, delighting in the attention he’d received. “It seems you’re already a favorite,” you murmured with amusement.

Olenna sniffed, though there was a faint, approving smile on her lips. “That’s the way of things with babes and dragons. Give them a pretty face and a silver mane, and everyone flocks to them like flies to honey.” Her gaze softened faintly as she looked at Damon. “But he is a fine boy, I’ll grant you that.”

Damon responded by dropping his wooden lion and reaching for his dragon toy, gnawing happily on its tail. You smiled faintly, brushing your fingers over his chubby cheeks. “He’s my heart,�� you said softly.

“Let’s hope he has a good head on his shoulders, then,” Olenna remarked, though her tone was lighter. “He’ll need it, surrounded by spiders and vipers alike.”

You looked across the hall, your gaze landing on Tywin Lannister, who stood tall near the royal table. The Lord of Casterly Rock looked as proud and imperious as ever, his crimson and gold doublet immaculate, his presence commanding the respect—or fear—of every lord who circled him. They spoke in hushed tones, each vying for his attention, trying to curry favor with the lion who now had a dragon under his roof. Tywin listened with polite indifference, his face betraying none of the irritation he no doubt felt at the incessant politicking.

You caught his eye across the hall, and for a fleeting moment, his gaze softened ever so slightly as he looked at you and Damon. He inclined his head a fraction, a silent acknowledgment of the family he had built—a momentary respite from the endless droning of opportunistic lords.

Nearby, Varys, the ever-watchful Spider, lingered in the shadows. His gaze flicked toward the small gathering where you sat with Damon, his expression unreadable. It was no secret that Varys knew more than most, and the way his eyes lingered on your son made your stomach tighten with unease. You had no doubt the whispers of Damon’s first nameday would soon travel across the Narrow Sea and beyond.

At the royal table, Tommen’s young laughter rang out as he watched one of the performers juggle apples. Margaery leaned close to him, smiling warmly as she spoke softly, no doubt ensuring the boy king enjoyed the celebrations.

Cersei, however, sat rigid, her fingers curled tightly around the stem of her goblet. Her face was pale with irritation, her lips pursed as she stared at nothing. When she finally spoke, it was low and bitter, though loud enough for those nearest to hear.

“A feast for a babe,” she sneered. “One would think we were crowning him king.”

Margaery smiled sweetly, not missing a beat. “Perhaps we celebrate because it is a moment of joy, Your Grace. Something rare and precious in these times.”

Cersei turned a cold glare on Margaery, though she said nothing more, her expression souring further when her gaze landed briefly on Jaime, who stood silently behind Tommen, his golden hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. He offered her no support, no comfort, his eyes fixed instead on the room at large, detached and quiet.

“Your Grace,” said Varys softly, suddenly at Cersei’s side, his voice as silken as ever. “The realm rejoices at unity, no matter how small the occasion.”

Cersei looked at him sharply. “And what unity do you see, Spider? The kind bought with dragons?”

Varys offered his smooth, enigmatic smile and said nothing, his gaze drifting briefly to where Damon sat.

Across the hall, Tywin watched the exchange with the faintest flicker of disdain in his eyes, though his mask of control never slipped. He turned his attention back to the lords surrounding him, his tone clipped and final. “Enough of this,” he said coldly, brushing them aside as he moved away.

He approached you and Damon, his steps measured and deliberate, cutting through the murmurs of those who watched him move. When he stopped before you, Damon immediately looked up, his bright eyes wide as he recognized his father. He cooed happily, waving his dragon toy as though offering it to Tywin.

The corners of Tywin’s mouth twitched ever so slightly as he regarded his son. “He grows quickly,” he said, his tone softening just enough that only you noticed.

You smiled faintly, lifting Damon into your arms. “Too quickly,” you replied, brushing a kiss against the boy’s head. “Soon he’ll be running through these halls, terrorizing everyone.”

“I expect nothing less,” Tywin replied, his gaze lingering on the boy before shifting back to you. “The feast is a success.”

“For you, perhaps,” you teased lightly. “The lords seem eager to bow before the man who holds a dragon’s leash.”

Tywin’s expression turned cold, though his words were measured. “A dragon bows to no one. But appearances must be maintained.”

You glanced toward Varys, who still watched quietly from the shadows. “And the whispers?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened slightly. “Let them whisper. Whispers are meaningless unless we let them become something more.”

You nodded, though a flicker of unease remained in your chest. For now, though, you pushed it aside as Damon squirmed in your arms, reaching out toward Tywin with chubby hands.

Tywin hesitated for the barest moment before extending a hand, allowing Damon’s small fingers to curl around his thumb. It was a brief gesture, but one that spoke volumes. The Great Lion of Lannister stood proud, the boy in your arms his legacy, his triumph.

And as the hall rang with laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets, you allowed yourself to smile. For tonight, at least, the future felt secure.

The air in the Red Keep’s halls had grown cooler as the feast carried on in the Great Hall, but here, in the shadowed passageways away from the celebration, the silence was heavy. The distant echoes of music and laughter barely carried this far, and the flickering torchlight did little to soften the cold stones of the castle walls.

Cersei Lannister walked with purpose, her gown trailing behind, though her movements were sharp, her face still drawn with irritation. Her goblet of wine, long emptied, dangled carelessly from her fingers as she turned a corner and found Jaime Lannister where she expected him: standing near an open window, his white Kingsguard cloak a stark contrast to the gloom. The faint breeze tousled his hair as he leaned one elbow against the stone ledge, staring out toward the darkening sky.

“You always find the quiet places,” Cersei remarked, her voice breaking the stillness as she approached.

Jaime turned his head slightly, though he didn’t look at her. “Perhaps I prefer them,” he said simply, his tone disinterested.

She frowned faintly, stopping a few paces away from him. “You missed half the feast.”

“And yet,” Jaime replied dryly, finally turning to face her, “you followed me here. Did the wine run out already?”

Cersei’s face tightened, though she ignored the jibe. “No. But you’ve sulked long enough tonight. Or is it that you can no longer stomach these celebrations?”

Jaime exhaled through his nose, his green eyes sharp as they met hers. “Is it sulking to prefer the quiet over the spectacle?”

Cersei’s lip curled faintly. “And yet you remain, standing guard over Tommen like a dutiful knight. Always at a distance, always watching.”

Jaime’s expression didn’t change. “I do what I must.”

“And is that why you say nothing?” Cersei shot back, her tone edged with frustration. She stepped closer, dropping the empty goblet onto the stone ledge with a hollow clink. “You stand there, silent and cold, while Dorne sends me nothing but empty words. ‘Myrcella is well.’ Those are their only replies to my ravens. No assurances. No promises.”

Jaime’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his voice remained calm. “And you think I have the answers? You were the one who sent her there.”

“She was safer in Dorne than in King’s Landing!” Cersei snapped, though her words lacked the conviction they once carried. “Father would not listen, you wouldn’t listen—no one would listen to me.”

Jaime shifted, his gold hand resting lightly against the stone ledge. “And now you want me to do what? March to Dorne and demand Myrcella’s return? Or simply assuage your guilt?”

Cersei flinched, though she masked it quickly with anger. “I don’t need your lectures, Jaime. I need your support.”

Jaime looked at her long and hard, the silence stretching between them like a chasm. “Support for what, Cersei? Myrcella is well, or so we’re told. If something had happened to her, you would know.”

“And what if they lie?” Cersei pressed, her voice quieter now but no less fervent. “What if Doran Martell sends nothing because he’s toying with us? He despises our house—do you think he has forgotten Oberyn?”

Jaime’s jaw tightened slightly. “What I think is that worrying aloud will not change anything.”

Cersei glared at him, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “You sound just like Father.”

Jaime’s lips pressed into a thin line at that, but he didn’t rise to her bait. Instead, he turned his gaze back out toward the night sky, his voice low. “If you have nothing to say beyond paranoia and blame, then perhaps you should return to the feast.”

Cersei stepped forward, the shadows deepening around her. “Do you remember, Jaime?” she asked, her voice quieter now. “Do you remember our own namedays?”

Jaime’s brow furrowed slightly, though he didn’t turn to look at her. “Why bring that up?”

“Because Father never threw us feasts,” Cersei replied bitterly, her tone carrying the weight of old wounds. “Not after Mother died. There were no celebrations, no music. Just silence, year after year, as though we didn’t matter.”

Jaime finally looked at her then, his expression softening slightly. “You know why.”

“Because he couldn’t bear the memory,” Cersei answered, her voice sharp. “But what of us? We were children, Jaime—children who wanted to be seen. To be celebrated.”

Jaime studied her carefully now, his face unreadable. “What are you implying, Cersei?”

Cersei took a breath, her voice trembling ever so slightly. “Do you not find it curious that our father throws such a grand feast for his new son? Yet for us, there was nothing. Nothing.”

Jaime shook his head faintly, though his voice was tinged with exasperation. “You’re reaching for something that isn’t there. Damon is a babe; he means the world to his mother, and through her, to Father. That is all.”

Cersei stepped closer, her eyes blazing. “No, Jaime. It’s more than that. Can’t you see? That dragon—her dragon—flew across the Narrow Sea to her. To her. And Father—our father—stands at her side as though she were his queen, as though she has replaced us.”

Jaime stared at her for a long moment, his features hardening. “And what would you have me do about it? Challenge her? Challenge him?”

Cersei’s gaze flickered with something desperate, something unspoken. “You’re the only one who listens, Jaime.”

Jaime’s shoulders sagged slightly as he looked at her, his voice low and tired. “I don’t know what you want from me, Cersei. But whatever it is, I can’t give it to you.”

Cersei’s lips parted, as though she might say more, but the words died on her tongue. For once, her twin brother had no answer for her, no comfort to offer. Jaime turned away again, his gaze drifting back to the distant lights of the city.

“Go back to the feast,” he said softly. “Tommen needs his mother.”

Cersei stood still for a moment longer, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. Then, with a sharp exhale, she snatched up the goblet she’d abandoned and turned on her heel, the silk of her gown trailing behind her as she stalked back into the shadows of the corridor.

Jaime remained where he was, alone beneath the stars, his expression etched with something far darker than silence.

The sounds of the feast began to ebb and swell like the sea, the lively music and laughter punctuating the occasional clinking of goblets and roar of cheer. Yet away from the revelry, in a quieter alcove of the Great Hall, Tywin Lannister stood tall and still, his expression as unyielding as the walls of the Red Keep. Lords and sycophants continued to circle near him like moths to flame, eager to curry favor or win a moment of his time.

But when the soft, measured footsteps of Varys approached, the subtle murmur around Tywin dissipated, as though even the air itself sensed the Spider’s presence.

Tywin’s stren green gaze flicked toward Varys, who approached with a serene smile and hands tucked neatly within the folds of his flowing lavender robes. The Master of Whisperers stopped a respectful distance away and inclined his head. “My lord,” he said smoothly, his voice as silken as ever. “Congratulations are in order, I believe.”

Tywin’s face betrayed nothing, though there was a faint narrowing of his eyes as he studied the eunuch. “And what congratulations do you offer, Lord Varys?”

“For your son’s first nameday, of course.” Varys’s smile didn’t falter as he tilted his head. “Young Damon is a remarkable boy—strong and spirited, like his parents.” His gaze briefly flickered across the hall to where Damon sat on your lap, still surrounded by noblewomen and cooing servants. “The realm watches him closely, my lord. A lion born under the shadow of a dragon. It makes for an extraordinary tale.”

Tywin’s lips curled faintly, though it was more a tightening of his mouth than a smile. “The realm has a penchant for tales,” he said curtly. “I deal in truths.”

“Indeed,” Varys replied smoothly. “And it is truths that bring me to you now, my lord. Truths carried across the Narrow Sea, where the fires of another dragon burn.”

Tywin turned his full attention to the Spider then, his presence looming even more than before. “Speak plainly, Varys. I’ve little patience for riddles tonight.”

Varys inclined his head once more. “Very well. It seems your younger son, Tyrion Lannister, is alive.”

The words landed like a stone dropped into a still pond. Though Tywin’s face remained unreadable, there was a sharpness to his posture, a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. “Alive,” he repeated, his voice low and cold. “And where?”

“In Essos,” Varys said softly, as though revealing the answer to a carefully guarded secret. “To be more specific, he is now serving as an advisor to your wife’s younger sister, Daenerys Targaryen—the Queen of Meereen.”

Tywin was silent for a long moment, his piercing gaze fixed on Varys as though trying to unearth the depths of his machinations. “Should I believe you had nothing to do with his escape, Varys?” Tywin asked at last, his voice a blade honed to perfection. “Or with this news?”

Varys’s smile never wavered, though there was a faint flicker of amusement in his pale, watchful eyes. “I would be lying, my lord, if I claimed to be entirely blameless. I may have… facilitated certain circumstances during his escape from the capital. After all, chaos often creates opportunity.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, though his voice remained measured. “You’ve spent your life weaving webs, Spider. I wonder how much of this one is yours.”

“I assure you, my lord,” Varys replied calmly, “Tyrion’s path has been his own. I merely find it curious how Lannisters are so often drawn to flame. First you, with your Targaryen bride and her dragon… and now your younger son, whispering counsel to her sister.”

Tywin’s expression darkened, the weight of Varys’s words settling heavily between them. “What is your aim in telling me this?”

“My aim?” Varys echoed softly, his voice feigning innocence. “My aim is only to keep you informed, my lord. Knowledge, as you well know, is power.”

Tywin regarded him with a cold intensity, his mind already working through the implications. “A Targaryen queen rising in Essos is no secret. But Tyrion’s involvement complicates matters.”

“As it often does,” Varys replied with a faint smile. “Your son has always had a penchant for surviving where others would not. And now, it seems, he has aligned himself with a queen who bears the blood of Old Valyria and speaks of reclaiming the Iron Throne.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed. “Daenerys Targaryen is a child playing at power. Her sister has proven far more pragmatic.”

“Perhaps,” Varys said mildly, “but the young queen across the sea has grown formidable. Her dragons are a little bigger than Viserion, and with Tyrion at her side, her ambitions gain focus.”

Tywin’s gaze turned icy. “Then it will be dealt with—like every other threat.”

“Of course,” Varys murmured. “I have no doubt of that, my lord. Though I would suggest keeping your eye firmly on both sisters, lest fire burn unchecked.”

Tywin’s stare lingered on the Spider for a long, silent moment, unblinking and unyielding. Finally, he inclined his head ever so slightly, dismissing Varys with a flick of his fingers. “Go.”

Varys offered a smooth bow, his robes whispering against the stone floor as he turned to leave. Before disappearing fully into the shadows, he paused just long enough to add, “It is curious, isn’t it, my lord? How the lion and the dragon always seem destined to meet.”

Tywin said nothing, though his expression was carved from stone.

When Varys was gone, the Lord of Casterly Rock turned his gaze back toward the feast, where the sounds of music and laughter carried on without pause. Across the room, you cradled Damon in your arms, a faint smile on your lips as you whispered to him, oblivious to the storm now brewing in Tywin’s mind.

The Spider’s words lingered like smoke in the air, and Tywin’s jaw tightened as his thoughts raced. Tyrion. Daenerys. Dragons.

Whatever flame had drawn his family to it would soon demand reckoning—and Tywin Lannister would ensure it was met on his terms.

The hum of the feast carried on in the Great Hall, but here, on the far side of the chamber, where the air was quieter and the firelight softer, you sat with Damon cradled in your arms. The plush cushions around you provided comfort as Lady Olenna Tyrell remained seated close by, her sharp gaze scanning the room like a hawk watching prey. Damon cooed softly, his fingers grasping at the edge of your sleeve, his bright eyes filled with wonder as he looked around at the grand surroundings.

You smiled faintly, brushing your fingers through the boy’s curls. “You’ve quite the audience tonight, haven’t you?” you murmured to him softly. Damon giggled, clutching at your hand, his laughter like a balm amidst the constant thrum of the hall.

Olenna sniffed lightly, tapping her cane against the floor in idle rhythm. “They’re all waiting for the child to do something miraculous, no doubt,” she quipped dryly. “As if every noble babe doesn’t giggle and drool all the same.”

You chuckled, adjusting Damon in your lap. “Let them look. He’s a child born into a world where lions and dragons share a room. That alone makes him a marvel to them.”

“Indeed,” Olenna said with a smirk. “They’ll either worship him or fear him in time, depending on which beast roars loudest.”

Before you could reply, a shadow swept across the edge of your vision. You looked up, and there she was—Cersei Lannister, gliding toward you with a goblet of wine in hand, the golden silk of her gown flowing like liquid sunlight. Her face was composed, but there was a hardness in her gaze that was impossible to ignore.

“Lady Olenna,” Cersei greeted coolly, though her eyes barely brushed the Tyrell matriarch before settling on you. “And you, mother,” she added, the word “mother” dipped in a faint edge of mockery.

Olenna raised a brow, her expression sharp as ever. “How rare to see you so far from the royal table, Cersei. I was beginning to think you’d been fused to that chair.”

Cersei’s lip curled slightly, though she ignored the barb, her attention fixed on you and Damon. “You seem content tonight,” she said, her tone light but with an undercurrent of something darker. “The proud mother, adored by all.”

“I have every reason to be content,” you replied smoothly, glancing down at Damon, who stared curiously at Cersei with his wide, violet eyes. “He is my joy.”

Cersei’s gaze lingered on Damon for a moment longer than necessary, her expression unreadable. “He looks like father,” she said at last, though the words carried no warmth.

You raised a brow at her. “You sound almost complimentary, Cersei.”

She tilted her head, swirling the wine in her goblet. “Perhaps I am. After all, your son is a Lannister—is he not? My father has made that abundantly clear to all of Westeros.” Her voice was calm, but there was venom beneath it.

Olenna’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “It’s rather amusing, isn’t it? How quickly the world forgets old grudges when dragons return.” She tapped her cane sharply against the stone. “But here you are, Cersei, nursing one still.”

Cersei turned her gaze on Olenna, her expression hardening. “And why should I forget?” she countered, her voice dropping slightly. “A Targaryen sits where my mother once did. Her dragon looms where my son should reign without shadow. Should I smile and clap like the rest of you?”

You shifted Damon slightly in your arms, your tone calm but firm. “I sit beside your father because he chose me, Cersei. And this dragon you so despise would burn those who would harm your family—just as I would.”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed, her voice sharp as she leaned closer. “Do not pretend that your fire is for us. You serve your own blood first and the rest of us second.”

Olenna let out an exaggerated sigh, clearly enjoying herself. “Oh, do calm down, girl. You sound like a fishwife.”

Cersei shot Olenna a glare before looking back at you. “Tell me,” she continued, her voice deceptively soft, “do you think this peace will last? That my father will dote on you forever, while the realm holds its breath over your son and your dragon?”

You met her gaze evenly, your fingers brushing gently over Damon’s hair as his small hands clutched at the edge of your gown. “I think that the realm will endure so long as we do not tear it apart out of jealousy and spite.”

Cersei’s jaw tightened, her knuckles whitening around her goblet. For a moment, you saw the flicker of something deeper—loneliness, fear—but it vanished quickly, replaced by her steely veneer.

“Jealousy?” she echoed softly. “No, Y/N, you mistake me. I do not envy you. I pity you.”

Olenna laughed sharply, breaking the tension like a slap to the face. “Pity? How very charitable of you, Cersei. What next? Will you hand her alms like some poor beggar in Flea Bottom?”

Cersei turned on Olenna, her voice icy. “You should hold your tongue, old woman. You’ve meddled enough in my family’s affairs.”

Olenna merely smirked. “And yet here you are, meddling in hers.”

You shifted Damon in your arms, his small yawn breaking through the animosity. “Enough,” you said softly but firmly, your gaze steady as you looked at Cersei. “If you wish to speak of jealousy and pity, do so elsewhere. My son will not grow up hearing such poison.”

Cersei’s gaze flicked to Damon once more, lingering as though searching for something in his innocent face. Finally, she straightened, her expression smoothing back into icy composure. “Enjoy your moment, Y/N,” she said coolly, turning to leave. “Moments rarely last.”

As she walked away, Olenna muttered under her breath, “What a tiresome woman.”

You exhaled slowly, pressing a kiss to Damon’s head as his small hands curled against your chest. “She is a lioness protecting what she thinks is hers,” you murmured, more to yourself than anyone else.

Olenna leaned back in her chair, her sharp eyes watching Cersei’s retreating figure. “She’s a lioness who doesn’t yet realize the cage has been locked behind her.” She paused, her voice turning thoughtful. “Watch her closely, my dear. Women like Cersei are most dangerous when they feel cornered.”

You nodded faintly, your gaze drifting back to Damon, who had finally begun to drift to sleep in your arms. His quiet breathing, soft and rhythmic, grounded you against the undercurrent of tension still lingering in the air.

For now, the feast continued, the music played, and the Great Hall hummed with life. But somewhere deep in your heart, you knew Olenna’s words were true.

Cersei Lannister was dangerous—and her resentment burned just as brightly as any dragon’s fire.

The moon hung high over the Red Keep, its silver light spilling across the stone walls and bathing the castle in a cool, ethereal glow. The festivities of the day had finally come to an end, and silence reigned where music and laughter had once filled the air. The halls were empty save for the faint footfalls of a passing guard or the soft flicker of a torch burning low.

In your chambers, the fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting long shadows against the walls. The room smelled of lilies and warm candle wax, a comforting presence as you stood before the tall mirror, unpinning your silver hair. Damon had long since been carried off to the nursery, fast asleep after the excitement of the day. Now, the only sounds were the pop of the fire and your quiet movements.

The door opened with the faintest creak, and you glanced up as Tywin entered, his presence as commanding as ever, even in the stillness of the night. He had already shed his formal doublet, his crimson tunic and dark trousers immaculate, though his shoulders bore the faint weight of the long day. His gaze swept the room before settling on you.

“You’re still awake,” he observed, his tone calm but expectant.

You turned slightly, offering him a faint smile. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”

“I decided to retire here,” he said, moving toward the desk where a decanter of wine and goblets had been left for you. “The rest of the castle is far too restless for my liking.”

You nodded, returning to unpin the final strands of your hair. “The feast was a success, by all accounts. Though it seems you had little patience for the lords that circled you.”

Tywin poured himself a small measure of wine, his movements deliberate as he spoke. “They are drawn to strength, like carrion to a fresh kill. They think proximity to me will bring them power. Fools.” He turned, taking a slow sip of his wine, his sharp green eyes lingering on you.

You finished with your hair and moved toward the large bed, sitting on its edge to unlace the ribbon at your sleeve. “And yet you endure them.”

“I endure many things,” Tywin replied coolly, though something in his voice hinted at the weight of what lay beneath. He watched you for a moment longer before setting his goblet aside and approaching.

You could feel his eyes on you as he neared, the faint creak of the floorboards under his measured steps. His silence, though not unusual, felt heavier tonight. When he finally spoke, his tone carried the careful weight of deliberation.

“What do you know of your sister?”

The question caught you off guard. You paused mid-motion, turning your head to look up at him. “Daenerys?”

Tywin’s face betrayed nothing, though his gaze was unrelenting. “Yes.”

You tilted your head slightly, frowning faintly. “I know probably what you do. She was born on Dragonstone, after I had already been taken north to be a ward of the Starks. I never met her.” You paused, as though searching for fragments of memories long buried. “We exchanged letters, a handful over last year—most of which were formal, polite. There is little else I could say.”

Tywin regarded you carefully, as though dissecting your words for any trace of deceit. “And you never wondered about her? About the sister who shared your blood and hatched dragons?”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, your voice calm but firm. “What is this about, Tywin?”

He exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms as he stood before you, his towering form framed by the firelight. “Tyrion is alive.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavier than the silence that followed. You blinked, the revelation settling into you like a cold weight. “Alive?” you repeated softly. “How?”

“Varys,” Tywin said curtly, the name like poison on his tongue. “The Spider facilitated his escape after the trial.” His voice dropped lower, sharper. “And now my son sits in Essos as an advisor to your sister, Daenerys Targaryen.”

You stared at him, absorbing the full weight of his words. “Daenerys,” you said slowly, realization dawning. “She means to push her claim.”

“She will,” Tywin replied with certainty, his gaze unyielding. “A Targaryen queen with dragons at her back cannot be ignored. She will come for the Iron Throne.”

You shook your head faintly, your voice steady. “And you think she’s a threat to me? To Damon?”

“Not yet,” Tywin answered, though his expression remained hard. “But she will be. Your sister carries the blood of Old Valyria, as you do. She has armies, she has dragons, and now she has Tyrion whispering in her ear.”

You frowned, searching his face. “Why tell me this now? Why tonight?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his voice deliberate. “Because one of the dragons she hatched flew to you. Not to her. That matters.”

You rose from the edge of the bed, the tension in your body unmistakable as you stepped closer to him. “Viserion came to me, yes, but not because I called for her. She came for reasons beyond my understanding—perhaps instinct, perhaps fate.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You speak as though that makes no difference. But it does. To the realm, to your sister, to me.”

“And what of my claim, then?” you asked sharply, your voice rising slightly. “Is that what this is about? You would pit me against her because the blood of kings runs in my veins?”

Tywin did not flinch, his voice calm but firm. “You are a Targaryen. Your son is a Lannister and a Targaryen. That blood gives you a claim that will be undeniable to many—more so than hers. You could unite the realm, secure its future.”

“And at what cost?” you countered, meeting his gaze without wavering. “My sister is not my enemy, Tywin. She has never been.”

“Not yet,” Tywin said coldly. “But blood has turned to fire before. It will again.”

For a long moment, the two of you stood there, locked in a silence that crackled with unspoken anxiety. The fire in the hearth danced wildly, casting fleeting shadows across the room.

Finally, you exhaled softly, your voice quieter but no less firm. “Do you fear her?”

Tywin’s face remained impassive, though his tone betrayed a flicker of something deeper—calculated pragmatism, perhaps even unease. “I fear nothing. I prepare for everything.”

You shook your head faintly, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “Dragons do not bow, Tywin. Not even to lions.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping closer, his gaze holding yours, “Viserion flew to you. And now you bow to me.”

The words stung more than you cared to admit, though you refused to show it. Instead, you lifted your chin, holding your ground. “I chose this path—for my son, for myself.”

Tywin studied you for a long moment, the flicker of the fire reflecting in his green eyes. When he spoke again, his tone was softer, though still edged with purpose. “Do not forget the world we live in, Y/N. It will not tolerate two Targaryens. When the time comes, you must decide where you stand.”

You stared at him, your heart heavy as his words sank in. Tywin Lannister, ever the pragmatist, had laid the truth bare. And though you knew the fires of your blood would burn brightly in the days to come, you could not yet see which flame would consume the other.

The winds howled around Dragonstone, whipping against the cliffs with the fury of an ancient beast. The grey skies above the island hung low and brooding, heavy with the salt of the narrow sea. Below, the waves crashed relentlessly against the jagged rocks, echoing through the labyrinthine halls of the Targaryen stronghold.

Within the belly of the island, deep in the Dragonmont, the air was heavy with heat, thick with the scent of sulfur and ancient fire. The men of House Lannister—armored in crimson cloaks and polished steel—moved with uneasy steps as they followed their lord through the dim passageways. The sound of their boots echoed ominously against the black stone, though not a single man spoke.

At their head, Tywin Lannister strode forward with his usual measured calm, a figure of unwavering authority even in the heart of this dragon’s lair. Beside him, Jaime Lannister walked in silence. Unlike the other soldiers, Jaime’s face remained composed, though there was a flicker of doubt in his gaze as he looked toward his father.

“Is this wise, Father?” Jaime finally broke the silence, his voice low but clear. “Approaching the beast without her rider? Without your wife?”

Tywin did not slow his pace, his green eyes focused ahead on the faint glow that grew brighter with every step. “My wife is attending to our son,” he replied coolly. “She is not needed for what I intend to do.”

“And what is it that you intend?” Jaime pressed, though his tone carried the weight of caution.

Tywin glanced at him briefly, his expression unreadable. “To remind the beast of who I am.”

Jaime’s brows furrowed as they stepped into the vast, torchlit cavern that was the Dragonmont. The air was sweltering here, filled with the heavy pulse of something ancient and alive. The black stone walls shimmered faintly with heat, their edges glowing with the faintest ember-like gleam.

And there, at the center of the chamber, lay Viserion.

The she-dragon’s cream-and-gold scales reflected the torchlight like molten metal, shimmering with every slight movement. Her massive wings lay tucked against her sides, rising and falling gently as she breathed. Viserion’s head was curled over her claws, her eyes closed, though even in sleep, the slow rumble of her breathing filled the cavern like a distant storm.

The Lannister men froze where they stood, their faces pale as they took in the sheer size and power of the dragon before them. One of the soldiers murmured a prayer under his breath, though the words were swallowed by the cavern’s silence.

Jaime hesitated. “Father—”

Tywin raised a hand, silencing him with a single gesture. Without another word, he moved forward alone, his polished boots striking the stone floor with deliberate precision.

Viserion shifted. The great muscles along her flanks rippled as her wings twitched slightly, the air around her growing hotter. A low, warning growl vibrated through the chamber, deep enough to rattle the bones of every man present. The sound was primal, unmistakably a sign of her awareness.

“Father—” Jaime hissed again, his tone sharper now, though Tywin did not stop.

Tywin stepped closer still, his face a mask of calm as he approached the massive creature. Viserion’s growl deepened, and her golden eyes snapped open, locking onto the man who dared intrude upon her rest. Her pupils, slitted and sharp as blades, narrowed dangerously.

The men behind Tywin tensed, gripping their weapons instinctively though they knew they would be of no use against the beast. Jaime cursed under his breath, his hand hovering near his sword despite its futility.

Tywin stopped mere paces from Viserion, unflinching as the she-dragon lifted her massive head, her teeth bared in a display of power. Her wings unfurled slightly, casting vast, jagged shadows across the chamber walls.

“Viserion,” Tywin said, his voice steady, unwavering, as though he were addressing a courtier rather than a dragon. “I know you understand me.”

The growl from Viserion deepened into something more—half warning, half challenge. She loomed over him now, her neck arching as her throat began to glow faintly with the embers of fire. Her breath was like a furnace, a searing gust of heat that washed over Tywin as she let out a roar so loud the walls themselves seemed to tremble.

Still, Tywin did not move.

The Lannister men stumbled back in fear, one dropping his sword with a clatter. Jaime stepped forward instinctively. “Father, enough! She’ll—”

Tywin lifted a hand to silence his son once more. His sharp green gaze never left Viserion’s molten gold eyes. “You know who I am,” he said evenly, his voice cutting through the dread like steel. “And you know that I am not your enemy.”

Viserion bared her teeth again, her throat glowing brighter as smoke curled from the edges of her mouth. The heat was unbearable, the air thick and stifling. Tywin took another step forward, close enough now that he could see the faint flicker of the fire within her.

“You are fire made flesh,” Tywin said softly, his voice carrying across the cavern. “But you are also her dragon. You know that. And through her, you know me.”

Viserion’s gaze flickered, her growl hesitating for the barest of moments. Her massive claws scraped against the stone floor as she shifted slightly, her wings folding back closer to her sides. The light in her throat dimmed just enough to hint at restraint.

Tywin stepped forward one last time, his hand lifting slowly, deliberately. The men behind him murmured in shock and disbelief, but Tywin ignored them. Viserion watched him warily, her head lowering ever so slightly, her growl softening to a deep, vibrating rumble.

The moment stretched unbearably long, the firelight flickering against the metal of Tywin’s rings as his hand brushed against Viserion’s snout.

The she-dragon let out a deep, guttural sound—not quite approval, but not rejection either. Her massive body shifted again, settling against the stone floor with a huff as she allowed the touch, her eyes half-lidded and watchful.

Tywin let his hand linger for a moment longer before withdrawing. He turned on his heel, facing the men who had watched the impossible unfold before them. Jaime stood frozen, his face a mixture of shock and disbelief.

Tywin’s voice rang out, calm and authoritative. “I want armor made for her—Valyrian-inspired, reinforced and worthy of her size.” His gaze swept over the soldiers, cold and unwavering. “She is to be well-fed and kept under watch. This dragon is not some wild beast. She is a weapon, and like all weapons, she will be sharpened and honed.”

The men exchanged stunned glances but nodded quickly, murmuring their assent.

Jaime finally found his voice, stepping forward as Tywin approached. “You mean to arm her?” he asked, incredulous. “Father, why—”

Tywin cut him off with a sharp look. “Because I will not leave the fate of this realm to chance, Jaime.” His gaze flicked back toward Viserion, who now watched them with wary stillness. “Her fire is ours to wield. And we will wield it.”

Without another word, Tywin strode past Jaime and the men, his footsteps echoing through the cavern. Jaime lingered for a moment, glancing back at the she-dragon as she settled herself, the fire in her eyes watching them all with quiet menace.

He exhaled sharply, muttering under his breath as he followed his father out of the Dragonmont.

Behind them, Viserion’s growl rumbled softly, a sound that seemed to promise that no one—not even Tywin Lannister—could ever hope to fully control the fire she carried within.

#game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #fire and blood #house of the dragon #hotd #house targaryen #house lannister #legacy #got #got/asoiaf #asoiaf x reader #got tywin #tywin lannister #tywin x reader #tywin x you #tywin x y/n

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bailadeluna · 9 months ago

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there’s something so brilliant in cooper howard’s costume design - it’s so much more than just a simple blue and gold cowboy fit.

at the beginning of the show, before the bombs dropped, cooper howard was a good person - always kind to others despite the circumstances or how he was feeling in the moment.

you could say… he was exemplifying the golden rule.

this is evident in his costuming - cooper is decked out in gold even when the bombs dropped. the golden rule is still so close to his heart - i mean come on - look at how tight that bandana is around his neck.

even in certain lighting, his hat looks gold.

cooper howard being a good person and living by the golden rule is what barb probably fell in love with (she has her own interesting character analysis and thought process which i would love to discuss later). because this trait is so admired by her and those around cooper, she probably saw him as who she would hope future generations would become as they grow up in the vaults. people like him are the better future she envisions - so it’s no coincidence that the vault suit is in his colors.

what does the blue symbolize?

well, to me, i think it’s the corporate presence in the world. there’s more blue in the suit than there is gold - hinting at vaultech’s corporate greed, capitalism, and evil machinations. (there was also blue in his old cowboy costume - i.e. the presence of the studio and how they use cooper to push a mccarthyism narrative. kinda in the same way vaultech will use him)

the blue in the suit - symbolizing vaultech’s overwhelming presence and the reason for such a bleak and cruel world - does not swallow up the gold - the small semblance of humanity’s capacity to do and be good. it’s the small hint at barb’s intentions (analogous to the road to hell being paved with good intentions).

yet the man who was an inspiration for vaultech’s workers - the man who they all wished they could be like, the man who symbolized all the “do good” ideas they pass down to their children but in the end have no intention of following them (wink wink, looking at you, hank) - was in the end stripped of all his humanity by the world vaultech created (wow, would you look at that? another analogy for capitalism!)

this man, once rich in morals now robbed of them all, wanders the wasteland a ghoul. everything has been taken from him - symbolized being devoid of layers of skin.

now, he’s nothing but the ghost of the man he once was - haunted by what has been done. everything he wears as the ghoul is frayed, tattered, and dark - symbolizing that cooper howard, that kind and caring man before the bombs is dead.

but wait - is that…

you don’t see it? Ok, i’ll zoom in some more

GOLD? (perhaps even the same shirt he was wearing during the bomb drop??)

perhaps the golden rule, those values that he once held so dearly, are still there just dormant - waiting to be awaken again.

maybe cooper howard can come back… that just maybe there’s still hope for the good in humanity…

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theonottsbxtch · 1 month ago

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SACRED ASHES | CL16

an: this was a request from @waytooobsessedwithlife and i think edgar allen poe possesed my body and wrote this, enjoy

warnings: religous themes

wc: 5.2k

THE CHURCH WAS COLDER than she’d expected. A frigid December draft seeped through the old wooden doors, curling its way up her spine like an unwanted hand. She hadn’t been in a place like this for years, not since she was a child and her Sundays were dictated by her parents’ piety. The smell of wax and ancient wood was the same, though, as was the hollow echo of voices ricocheting off the high, vaulted ceiling.

She sat stiffly in the pew, her arms crossed over her chest, her mouth set in a defiant line. The hymns washed over her, half-forgotten verses bubbling up from the recesses of her memory. Her grandmother sang with fervour, her voice wavering yet unyielding.

And then, she saw him.

He was standing near the altar, his head bowed as though in prayer, the soft light from the stained-glass windows painting his pale skin in hues of crimson and gold. He was slender, boyish in a way that made her stomach twist unexpectedly. His dark hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck, and his lips moved in quiet harmony with the hymn, though his voice didn’t rise above the others.

Her eyes narrowed as she watched him, curious despite herself. He seemed untouchable, like something out of a painting—an angel that had stumbled into the wrong century. And yet, there was a fragility to him, a softness that made her bold gaze feel like an intrusion.

When he finally glanced up, his eyes met hers. They were a soft green, wide with surprise, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fall away. She tilted her head slightly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. He blinked, his face colouring as he quickly looked away.

“Mm,” she hummed softly under her breath, leaning back against the pew. Interesting.

The service dragged on, but she hardly noticed. Her attention flickered to him again and again, drawn to the quiet way he moved, the way his hands fidgeted with the hem of his choir robe when he thought no one was watching.

After the final hymn, she slipped out with the first rush of people, desperate for fresh air. Outside, she lit a cigarette, cupping her hands against the wind. The first drag filled her lungs, sharp and bitter, grounding her.

And then he was there.

He emerged from the heavy oak doors, his coat too thin for the biting cold. She recognised him immediately, even with the way he kept his head down, as though willing himself to be invisible. But when he noticed her, his steps faltered.

She exhaled a curl of smoke, the grey tendrils spiralling between them like a challenge. “You look like you’re freezing,” she said, her voice low, tinged with amusement.

He hesitated, his cheeks flushed from either the cold or something else entirely. “I’m fine,” he replied, his voice soft, almost musical.

“Sure you are.” She tilted her head, studying him with an intensity that made him shift awkwardly. “You always this shy, or is it just me?”

He looked away, his lashes casting shadows over his cheeks. “I… don’t usually talk to people out here.”

“Lucky me, then.” Her smile was slow, teasing, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of something deeper—curiosity, maybe even a touch of admiration.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence between them filled only by the distant hum of Christmas carols spilling from the church.

“You shouldn’t smoke here,” he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. “It’s… disrespectful.”

She raised an eyebrow, letting the cigarette dangle from her fingers. “Disrespectful?” Her tone was incredulous, but her gaze was steady, probing. “And what would you call staring at me during the service, then?”

His mouth opened, then closed again, his face turning a deeper shade of red. “I wasn’t—”

“Oh, you were,” she interrupted, the corners of her mouth lifting into a wicked grin.

He faltered, his breath visible in the cold air, before finally meeting her gaze. “I’m Charles,” he said, the words almost lost to the wind.

She let the name linger in the air between them, savouring the sound of it. “Charles,” she repeated, as though testing it. “Well then, Charles, maybe you should’ve kept staring. It’s the only thing about church that’s caught my interest in years.”

His lips parted, but no reply came. She took another drag, her eyes never leaving his, and for a moment, the world seemed to still once more.

Charles shifted on his feet, his breath fogging in the frigid air. “I… I wasn’t staring,” he said again, but the colour rising to his cheeks betrayed him.

She tilted her head, a slow smirk playing on her lips. “Sure you weren’t. You just happened to look my way… what, five times?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing nervously towards the church as though hoping for a divine intervention to save him. “It wasn’t five,” he murmured, his voice almost lost in the cold wind.

“Four, then.” She exhaled smoke in a languid stream, her eyes glinting with amusement. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”

Before he could stammer out a response, a voice cut through the evening air. “Darling! There you are!”

She winced. Her grandmother’s voice, clear and commanding, carried with the ease of someone used to making themselves heard. She turned her head to see the older woman striding towards her, a knitted shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

Charles’ eyes widened. “You’re Lady Carden’s daughter?”

She raised an eyebrow, flicking ash from her cigarette. “Granddaughter,” she corrected, her tone sharp enough to slice through the frost. “Why does that matter?”

He blinked, looking flustered as he glanced between her and the approaching figure of her grandmother. “I just—” He hesitated, fumbling for the right words. “I mean, Lady Carden is so… devout. I don’t understand how…” He trailed off, gesturing faintly towards her cigarette and the defiance etched into her every move.

Her lips twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. More like a flicker of something darker, something veiled. She leaned in slightly, just enough to make him take a half-step back, her voice dropping to a low murmur. “That’s the thing about belief, Charles,” she said, her words laced with a quiet, almost mocking amusement. “It’s not hereditary.”

He stared at her, speechless, as she straightened and tossed the cigarette onto the ground, grinding it out beneath the heel of her boot.

“Come along, dear,” her grandmother called again, her tone softening as she drew nearer. “It’s freezing out here.”

“Coming,” she replied, turning away from Charles without another word.

She had taken only a few steps when she glanced over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. “See you around, Charles,” she said lightly, before slipping her hands into the pockets of her coat and disappearing into the night with her grandmother.

Charles stood there for a moment, rooted to the spot. The smell of smoke still lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the crisp scent of winter. He couldn’t help but feel as though she had left behind more than just a cigarette stub—something intangible, something that stirred in the pit of his chest.

He whispered her words to himself, testing them on his tongue. It’s not hereditary.

And then, with a faint shake of his head, he turned and walked back into the church, his thoughts a tangle of confusion and intrigue.

The next evening, Charles found himself standing awkwardly at the doorstep of Lady Carden’s house, a modest but stately home tucked neatly behind an iron gate. He adjusted the strap of his bag, which was slung over one shoulder, and glanced up at the window where a wreath hung perfectly centred.

Lady Carden had asked for his help transporting the church’s nativity set. The pieces were too delicate and numerous for her to manage alone, and he, ever eager to assist, had offered without hesitation. Still, now that he was here, he felt an inexplicable twinge of nervousness—not because of Lady Carden, but because of her.

She hadn’t left his thoughts since the night before. The way she had spoken to him, so self-assured and enigmatic, had unsettled him in a way he couldn’t explain.

The door opened suddenly, and Lady Carden’s warm smile greeted him. “Oh, Charles, thank you for coming,” she said, ushering him inside. “It’s so good of you to help.”

“It’s no trouble, Lady Carden,” he replied politely, stepping into the warmth of the house. The scent of cinnamon and pine enveloped him, mingling with the faint strains of a Christmas hymn playing somewhere upstairs.

“The nativity pieces are in the sitting room,” she said, gesturing down the hall. “I’ll start wrapping them while you have a look. Oh, and my granddaughter’s here—she’s just upstairs. She might come down and give us a hand.”

Charles nodded, his throat suddenly dry. He wasn’t sure he was ready to face her again, not when her words from the night before still echoed in his mind.

He made his way to the sitting room, carefully examining the carved wooden figures of Mary, Joseph, and the shepherds spread out on the table. They were beautiful, each one intricately detailed and painted with care. He was just reaching for the angel when he heard the faint creak of footsteps descending the stairs.

And then she was there.

He turned, and the breath caught in his throat.

She wasn’t dressed for the weather at all—just a loose tank top that hung low on her shoulders and a pair of shorts that revealed long, bare legs. Her hair was mussed, as though she’d only just rolled out of bed, and a faint sheen of sleep still clung to her eyes. But even in her dishevelled state, she was radiant.

Her eyes lit up with recognition when she saw him, and a slow, knowing smile curved her lips. She leaned casually against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest, the movement drawing his attention to her collarbones.

“Well, if it isn’t the choir boy,” she said, her voice low and teasing.

Charles felt his face heat immediately. He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. His mind had gone blank, the words tangled somewhere between his thoughts and his tongue.

Her smirk deepened, and she took a step closer, tilting her head as she studied him. “You’re blushing,” she said, a hint of delight in her tone. “What’s the matter, Charles? Cat got your tongue?”

He shook his head quickly, forcing himself to look away, back at the nativity figures. “I—I’m just here to help with the nativity,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Hmm,” she murmured, leaning slightly over the table to inspect the figures as well. The movement brought her closer, and he caught the faint scent of her—a mix of something floral and the remnants of cigarette smoke.

“You’re good at this, aren’t you?” she said, picking up the angel and turning it over in her hands. “All these neat little pieces, everything in its place.”

“It’s just… careful work,” he managed, still unable to meet her gaze.

She set the angel back down and straightened, her expression softening just slightly. “Careful work,” she repeated, as though tasting the words. “You’re such a contradiction, Charles.”

He frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she smiled—a small, almost wistful smile—and shook her head. “Never mind. You’ll figure it out eventually.”

Before he could ask her to explain, Lady Carden appeared in the doorway, holding a box filled with straw for padding. “Thank you both for getting started,” she said brightly. “Charles, would you mind carrying this out to the car once we’re done?”

“Of course,” he replied quickly, grateful for the distraction.

But as he busied himself with the nativity figures, he couldn’t shake the feeling of her eyes on him, or the lingering curve of her smirk as she leaned casually against the wall, watching him work.

Lady Carden bustled into the room, her cheeks slightly flushed. “You know,” she said, placing the last wrapped figure into the box, “I really ought to start dinner. Why don’t you drive the car to the church, darling?”

The suggestion was aimed at her granddaughter, who was still leaning lazily against the wall, one eyebrow arching at the proposal.

“Drive the car?” she repeated, her tone incredulous. “What about choir boy here?” She tilted her head toward Charles with a sly smile.

“Charles has been kind enough to carry everything,” Lady Carden replied, smoothing her skirt and giving her a look that brooked no argument. “It’s the least you can do.”

Her granddaughter groaned, pushing off the wall. “Fine,” she muttered, dragging out the word. “But don’t blame me if I crash into a lamp post or something.”

“I’m sure you’ll be perfectly capable,” Lady Carden said with a serene smile.

With a huff, she turned to Charles, her eyes glinting with a mix of defiance and amusement. “Guess you’re stuck with me, choir boy.”

Charles opened his mouth to respond, but before he could string together a coherent sentence, she disappeared up the stairs, her footsteps echoing faintly through the house.

He tried to focus on the nativity figures, carefully arranging the last few in the box, but his mind was elsewhere. The thought of being alone with her in a car, of the charged silences and her sharp, teasing remarks, made his pulse quicken.

Minutes later, her voice drifted down from the top of the stairs. “Ready when you are.”

Charles turned toward the staircase—and froze.

She was wearing a skirt, short enough to show just a hint of her thighs, paired with a tight-fitting top that accentuated every curve. Her hair was tousled, her eyes bright with mischief, and she moved with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly the effect she had.

“Something wrong, Charles?” she asked, her lips curving into that now-familiar smirk as she descended the stairs.

“No,” he said quickly, averting his eyes to the nativity box in front of him. But his face betrayed him, flushing crimson as he busied himself with adjusting the straw.

She stopped in front of him, reaching out to pluck a stray piece of hay from the box. “You’re blushing again,” she noted, her voice low and teasing.

“I’m not—” he started, but his voice cracked, and he quickly cleared his throat. “I’m not blushing,” he finished, though it sounded more like a plea than a statement.

She tilted her head, clearly unconvinced. “Right. Let’s get this over with, then.”

Lady Carden reappeared, oblivious to the tension thickening the air. “Thank you both so much,” she said warmly, clapping her hands together. “Drive safely, and don’t dawdle, dear. Dinner won’t cook itself.”

Her granddaughter rolled her eyes but said nothing, grabbing the car keys from the side table and tossing them into her bag.

Charles followed her to the door, his heart thudding in his chest. As they stepped out into the crisp winter air, he glanced at her from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering just a moment too long on the way the hem of her skirt swayed with each step.

He swallowed hard. This was going to be a long drive.

The car rattled softly as they drove through the winding country roads. The heater struggled to keep up with the winter chill, and the faint scent of pine from an old air freshener lingered in the air. She drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping absently against the doorframe.

Charles sat stiffly in the passenger seat, the nativity box wedged securely between his feet. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, and he kept glancing her way, unsure whether he was more intrigued or unnerved by the nonchalant way she handled the car.

Without warning, she reached into her bag, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and lighting one with a practised flick of her lighter. The sharp scent of smoke filled the car, and she cracked the window to let the cold air swirl in.

Charles frowned, shifting uncomfortably. “Do you have to do that?”

She glanced at him, an eyebrow raised. “Do what?”

“Smoke. In the car.”

She took a drag, her lips curving around the cigarette before exhaling slowly. “Why? Does it bother you?”

“Yes,” he admitted, his voice firmer than he’d intended. “It’s not good for you. Or me.”

For a moment, she looked like she might argue, but then she sighed and rolled the window down farther, flicking the cigarette out into the night. “Fine,” she said, her tone laced with mock exasperation. “Anything else you want to complain about, choir boy?”

He shook his head, looking out the window. “Thank you,” he muttered.

They drove the rest of the way in silence, the tension between them crackling like static. When they reached the church, she parked haphazardly near the entrance and leaned back in her seat, watching as Charles climbed out with the nativity box in his arms.

She stayed in the car, fiddling with the radio as he carried the pieces inside, arranging them carefully on the altar. When he returned, he hesitated at the open car door. “I can walk home from here,” he offered.

She snorted, leaning across the seat to look up at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. Get in.”

He hesitated, then sighed and climbed back into the car. The door shut with a heavy thud, and she started the engine, pulling out onto the road without another word.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The low hum of the engine and the faint buzz of static from the radio filled the space between them.

“What does Christianity mean to you?” she asked suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet.

Charles blinked, startled by the question. “What?”

“You heard me,” she said, glancing at him briefly before turning her attention back to the road. “What does it mean to you? All of it—God, Jesus, the prayers, the hymns. What’s it for?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. What did it mean to him? It wasn’t something he’d ever really thought about—not like this, not in the way her question demanded.

“I… I don’t know,” he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

She smirked, her eyes flicking to him again. “You don’t know? You spend all this time praying and singing hymns, and you don’t even know what you’re praying to?”

Her tone wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t gentle either. It was challenging, like she was daring him to dig deeper, to confront something he’d never questioned before.

“I—” He faltered, running a hand through his hair. “I just… I feel it. When I’m in the church, when I’m singing… I feel something.”

“Something,” she repeated, her voice sceptical yet not entirely dismissive.

“Yes,” he said, a little more firmly this time. “Something bigger than me. Something… good.”

She didn’t respond right away, and he didn’t notice that the car had stopped moving until the faint roar of the engine quieted.

When he looked up, they were parked by a lake, the water still and dark beneath the moonlight.

“What are we doing here?” he asked, his voice unsteady.

She turned off the car and leaned back in her seat, her eyes fixed on the shimmering surface of the water. “You tell me, choir boy,” she said, her voice soft but tinged with mystery.

She stepped out of the car without a word, her boots crunching against the frosty gravel as she made her way toward the lake. A large rock jutted out near the shore, its surface smooth and pale under the moonlight. She climbed onto it with the kind of ease that spoke of familiarity, sitting cross-legged as the night wrapped around her.

Charles lingered by the car for a moment, watching her. The stillness of the lake seemed to mirror the confusion in his chest, the weight of her earlier question pressing heavily on his mind. Finally, he stepped forward, his shoes scuffing against the cold ground as he followed her.

She didn’t look up as he approached, but when he climbed onto the rock and sat beside her, she shifted slightly, making just enough space for him.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The lake stretched out before them, vast and quiet, its surface catching the faint glow of the stars. The crisp air smelled of damp earth and winter frost, and the only sound was the gentle lapping of water against the shore.

“I don’t really know what religion means to me,” he said finally, breaking the silence. His voice was low, hesitant, as if the words themselves were fragile.

She turned her head slightly, her eyes catching the silver light of the moon. “Then why do you cling to it?”

He exhaled slowly, the cloud of his breath dissolving into the night. “Because it’s the only thing that’s ever stayed the same. My parents…” His voice wavered, and he glanced down at his hands, fidgeting with the edge of his jacket. “They’re not… happy. They haven’t been for a long time. The fighting, the silence—it’s like living in a storm that never ends.”

Her gaze softened, but she didn’t interrupt, waiting for him to continue.

“When I’m at church,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “it’s different. It’s quiet, but not the kind of quiet that feels heavy. It’s… safe. Like maybe there’s something out there that sees me. That cares.”

She was silent for a moment, studying him with an expression he couldn’t quite decipher. Then she asked, her tone gentle but probing, “Do you really believe that? Or do you just need to believe it?”

Her question landed like a stone dropped into the still water. He blinked, startled, and turned to face her. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice cracking slightly. “I’ve never thought about it like that.”

She tilted her head, her hair catching the faint light. “Have you ever wondered what you’re actually praying to? Not the words, not the rituals. Just the feeling. That something you talked about.”

Charles hesitated, then shook his head. “No. I’ve always thought it was God.”

“Maybe it is,” she said softly, her voice barely more than a breath. “Or maybe it’s hope. Or love. Or the part of you that doesn’t want to give up.”

Her words settled over him like a blanket of mist, filling the empty spaces inside him that he hadn’t even known were there. He stared out at the lake, the reflection of the stars rippling across its surface, and tried to find an answer.

“I don’t know,” he said again, the frustration creeping into his voice. “I’ve never… I’ve never questioned it before.”

She leaned back slightly, propping herself up on her hands. “That’s okay. You don’t have to know everything right now.”

He turned to look at her, the moonlight catching the faint curve of her smile, and for a moment, the weight on his chest felt just a little lighter.

She glanced away, her eyes tracing the outline of the lake. “Sometimes, I think it’s less about finding answers and more about figuring out what questions you’re really asking.”

Charles let her words sink in, the stillness of the night pressing softly against him.

The stillness of the night wrapped around them like a cocoon, the faint rustling of the wind through the trees the only sound beyond their quiet breaths. Charles shifted slightly, glancing sideways at her. She was gazing out at the lake, her expression distant but calm, as if the vast expanse of water mirrored something inside her.

“Why don’t you believe?” he asked softly, his voice carrying a quiet weight.

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she let the question hang in the air, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the surface of the rock. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, almost bitter. “Feels pathetic to pray and not get listened to.”

Charles blinked, caught off guard by the rawness of her words. She pulled a cigarette from her jacket pocket and lit it with a practised flick of her lighter, the flame briefly illuminating her face. She took a long drag, the tip glowing like a tiny ember in the dark.

He hesitated, watching the smoke curl lazily into the air. “So… you seek your refuge in smoking?”

She smirked, exhaling a plume of smoke that caught the moonlight. “At least it doesn’t pretend to care.”

The words stung, but before he could respond, she turned toward him, the cigarette held delicately between her fingers. “Want one?”

He shook his head quickly. “No. That’s not… I don’t smoke.”

“Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug, but there was a faint glint of amusement in her eyes as she brought the cigarette back to her lips.

He tried to focus on the lake, on the cold night air biting at his skin, but he couldn’t ignore the warmth radiating from her, the faint, heady scent of the smoke mingling with her perfume.

And then he realised just how close she was.

Her shoulder was barely an inch from his, her breath warm as she exhaled again, the smoke curling between them. The world around them seemed to blur, the lake, the stars, the cold—all fading into the background as his awareness narrowed to her presence.

She tilted her head, her eyes catching his. In the dim light, they were dark and unreadable, like deep pools that threatened to pull him under.

“You’re quiet,” she murmured, her voice low and teasing. “Cat got your tongue?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat as she leaned in. Slowly, deliberately, her gaze dropped to his lips and then back to his eyes, as if waiting for him to stop her.

He didn’t.

Her lips met his, soft and warm, and the sensation sent a jolt through him, like the first spark of a fire catching on dry kindling. The kiss deepened, her hand brushing lightly against his jaw as if to steady him, and he felt himself sinking into her, the world falling away entirely.

But then, as suddenly as it had begun, he pulled back, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“I’ve sinned,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and trembling.

She stared at him for a moment, then let out a soft, almost incredulous laugh. “Sinned? Oh, come on, choir boy. It’s just a kiss.”

“To you, maybe,” he said, his cheeks flushed, his breath uneven. “But to me…” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair as if trying to make sense of the chaos swirling inside him.

She tilted her head, studying him with an amused but not unkind expression. “Relax,” she said softly, leaning back slightly. “Your God’ll forgive you. Isn’t that his whole deal?”

Her words didn’t soothe him, but they didn’t anger him either. Instead, they left him even more confused, his mind spinning with questions he didn’t know how to answer.

The smoke lingered between them, faint and warm, as he stared at the lake, struggling to catch his breath.

Charles stared at the lake, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. The weight of everything pressed down on him—the kiss, her words, the sudden chasm between what he thought he believed and what he felt now. His hands trembled slightly as he buried his face in them, his elbows braced on his knees.

“It’s all I’ve ever known,” he said, his voice muffled, almost to himself. “Church, the hymns, the prayers… the rules. It was meant to make sense of everything. But now…”

She didn’t respond, didn’t press. She simply watched him, her gaze steady, the cigarette burning down between her fingers.

“What if none of it means anything?” he continued, his voice cracking. “What if it’s all just… rituals we do to distract ourselves from the silence? What if God’s just… nothing?”

The lake seemed to mirror his turmoil, its surface rippling faintly in the night breeze. He let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh, but there was no humour in it.

“I’ve built my whole life around this,” he said, lifting his head, his eyes bright with anguish. “Every prayer, every song, every confession—what was it for? To feel like this? Lost? Alone?”

Her lips curved into the faintest of smirks, though it lacked her usual sharpness. “Existential crises look good on you, choir boy.”

He shot her a look, but there was no real venom in it. If anything, her calmness grounded him, kept him from spiralling too far into the void opening up inside him.

After a moment, she exhaled softly, the smoke curling around her in the cold air. “Want me to take you home?”

He shook his head almost immediately, his voice hoarse. “No.”

Her brow arched slightly, but she didn’t press. Instead, she took another drag of her cigarette, the ember glowing faintly. When she spoke again, her tone was softer, almost tender. “I can take you back to my apartment if you want. No expectations. Just… somewhere to land.”

He hesitated, the war in his chest visible in the tense set of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed restlessly against his thighs. But then he nodded, barely perceptibly, and she smiled, just a little.

“Come on,” she said, stubbing out the cigarette on the rock before flicking it into the dirt. She stood and offered him a hand, and after a moment, he took it.

The drive back was silent, but it wasn’t the awkward silence of strangers or the heavy silence of unspoken words. It was the kind of silence that allowed space to breathe, to think, to unravel.

When they pulled up outside her place, she climbed out first, waiting for him by the door. He followed, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were walking through a dream.

Inside, the air was warm and faintly scented with the lavender sachets she kept tucked into drawers. She flicked on a lamp, its soft glow casting long shadows across the walls, and motioned for him to sit.

He sank into the worn sofa, his head falling back against the cushions. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“I don’t know who I am without it,” he said finally, his voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.

She sat on the armrest beside him, her fingers idly brushing against the fabric of the sofa. “Maybe that’s the point,” she said softly. “You’re not supposed to know yet.”

He looked up at her, his expression raw, open. “What if there’s nothing? What if I let go and it’s just… empty?”

Her gaze softened, and she leaned down, resting her hand lightly on his shoulder. “Then you build something. Brick by brick, piece by piece. You don’t need a God to tell you who you are, Charles. You figure that out on your own.”

Her words echoed in his mind, sinking deep, unsettling and grounding all at once. He closed his eyes, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

And as the silence settled over them once more, it carried with it a weight he couldn’t quite define—a strange, aching liberation.

For the first time in his life, he didn’t pray.

And that terrified him.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow

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magnagaruzenmon · 18 days ago

Text

Blackberries and Vanilla

Part 2 to the collaboration with the nameless writer. If you see his work (you'll know it when you see it) please support him he's been very kind to us despite his upstart “attack” at us saying we don't know how to right Sohyun

Part I here

Doflamingo floated weightlessly in the void, surrounded by an endless expanse of stars shimmering against a backdrop of oppressive heat. The heat wasn’t external—it burned from within, coursing through him like molten fire. His mind was foggy, caught between dreams and reality, but one question burned through the haze like a roaring flame:

“What do you fight for?”

The voice was deep, resonant, and impossible to ignore. It echoed within him, reverberating against the raw edges of his consciousness. Doflamingo furrowed his brow, instinctively clenching his fists. Memories flickered to life like embers igniting in the dark: the moments of anger, the countless times people had tried to take what was his, the fights he had endured, not out of choice but necessity. Each image fanned the flames of a deep, abyssal well of ferocity—a ferocity he had always carried with him, buried just beneath the surface.

It was comforting, in a way, like the warmth of an old, familiar fire. He had been an outcast for so long, an intruder in a world that seemed bent on rejecting him. So when something—anything—fell into his grasp, whether it was success, security, or someone he cared about, his instinct was immediate and primal: Protect it. Fight for it. Guard it with everything you are. Even if it costs you everything.

As the flames surged brighter within him, the voice spoke again, each word like a drop of molten metal in his chest:

“A dragon draws strength from their hoard. So I ask you again, what is your hoard?”

The question lingered in the air, pressing into him. Doflamingo tried to dismiss it, tried to claim that he was above such things—that he didn’t need anyone or anything to define him. But the voice was not so easily swayed. It knew him too well because it was him, and it would not let him lie.

The stars around him began to pulse with a fiery glow, and scenes from his life played out before him, each one more vivid than the last. They weren’t material things—no mountains of gold or treasures locked away in vaults. Instead, they were moments of connection. Memories of the friendships he had forged, the bonds he had nurtured despite his rough exterior. Each face, each laugh, each fleeting moment of closeness lit up the darkness like stars being born.

He saw Sohyun, her sharp wit and radiant presence anchoring him in ways he hadn’t fully understood before. He saw the trust in the eyes of her friends, people who had once looked at him with suspicion but now saw him as family. He saw the countless times he had fought, not for wealth or glory, but to protect those fleeting, precious connections—to ensure that he was never alone again.

The flames inside him roared to life as the voice spoke, its tone shifting, tinged with curiosity and understanding:

“How curious. While many dragons hoard knowledge, power, or riches, you take a different approach. You hoard knowing. You hoard intimacy, not for greed but for fear of isolation. You gather bonds and guard them as fiercely as any treasure. You are gregarious, a trait most uncommon for a dragon, yet you provide a compelling argument for its strength. You fight with a vigor that rivals any dragon’s, yet your greatest strength lies not in what you take but in what you give.”

The heat in his chest swelled to the point of pain, but the pain was transformative. It was not destruction—it was rebirth. The flames burned away the doubts, the insecurities, the self-imposed barriers, until all that was left was warmth. Pure, steady, and radiant.

Doflamingo felt himself drifting among the stars, no longer weighed down by uncertainty or fear. The voice burned brighter, filling the void with its presence.

“A Dragon of Bonds… that is truly an interesting tale.” There was an almost amused warmth in the voice now, as if it relished the novelty of his existence. “Go forth, and take all you can. Protect what is yours. Build your hoard and let no one take it from you. You have the heart of a dragon, and now, you will have its power as well.”

With those final words, the stars around him flared into a brilliant, blinding light. Doflamingo’s body felt heavy again, the weight of the world pulling him back to reality. But the warmth remained, rooted deep within his soul.

Doflamingo groaned softly as his senses stirred, the world around him slowly coming into focus. The first thing he noticed was the scent of vanilla—a soft, soothing aroma that cut through the dull ache in his body. It was intoxicating, grounding, and oddly reassuring. He took a deeper breath, his newfound instincts sharpening the edges of the sensation, and realized the scent wasn’t coming from the air. It was coming from her.

His eyes fluttered open, drawn toward the source. There, sitting over him, was Sohyun. Her expression was a mixture of relief and exhaustion, her eyes shimmering with an emotion he couldn’t quite place but felt all the same. She smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she leaned closer.

“Don’t scare me like that, big guy,” she murmured, her voice low and warm, but trembling ever so slightly.

Doflamingo tried to sit up, wincing as the pain in his muscles flared like tiny embers beneath his skin. He wasn’t sure what hurt more—the fight he had endured or the weight of knowing he’d put her through that fear. He wanted to apologize, to say something that would ease her worry, but the words caught in his throat as her scent wrapped around him like a balm.

It was then that he realized his senses were no longer the same. Everything felt sharper, more vivid. The warmth of Sohyun’s hand on his shoulder was electric, her scent so rich and layered he could almost taste it. And then there was the faint hum in the air—a ripple of energy that emanated from her like a soft heartbeat.

“You smell different,” Doflamingo muttered, his voice hoarse but laced with curiosity.

Sohyun blinked, startled, before laughing softly. “Funny, I was just about to say the same thing about you.”

She leaned in slightly, taking a deliberate breath. His scent was no longer the neutral, faintly clean aroma she’d grown used to. It was deeper now, richer—a heady blend of blackberries and something warm, like smoked cedar. It was intoxicating and grounding all at once, a powerful signal of his new nature.

“You smell… amazing,” she admitted, her cheeks tinting pink as she glanced away.

Doflamingo tilted his head, confused but intrigued. “What’s happening to me?”

Sohyun’s gaze softened, and she brushed her fingers lightly against his cheek. “You’ve changed. I don’t know what kind of therianthrope you’ve become yet, but I can feel it. Your aura—it’s strong. And your instincts…” She trailed off, a small smile tugging at her lips. “They’re sharp enough to notice me, even before your eyes open.”

Doflamingo’s brow furrowed as he processed her words. He didn’t fully understand what was happening, but he felt it—the fire within him, the pulsing presence of something vast and primal that hadn’t been there before. And yet, none of it felt foreign. It felt like a piece of himself he had always been chasing but never quite grasped until now.

Sohyun’s heart fluttered as she watched him. Relief coursed through her veins, but it was accompanied by an uncomfortable pang of guilt. She hated admitting it, but part of her was glad—relieved—that Doflamingo was now a therianthrope. She hated how that part of her felt vindicated, like the world finally made sense because he wasn’t fully human anymore. It was selfish, and she knew it.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she brushed them against his cheek again. You’re still you, she told herself, trying to push the guilt aside. But the truth lingered like a shadow in her mind. She had always worried that their differences—her primal nature, her instincts as an alpha—would one day create a rift between them. And now? Now, those worries had evaporated, leaving her wondering if she had secretly wanted this all along.

Sohyun stood, offering him her hand. “Come on. Let’s go home,” she said gently, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within her.

Doflamingo hesitated for a moment, staring up at her. The way she looked at him—like he was still him despite everything—made something in his chest tighten. He reached up, letting her pull him to his feet, and as their hands touched, a spark of connection shot through him, more vivid and visceral than anything he had felt before.

He caught her gaze, his lips quirking into a small smile. “I think I’m going to need your help figuring this out.”

Sohyun grinned, a flicker of mischief returning to her eyes, though her heart still felt heavy. “You mean everything? Or just the therianthrope part?”

Doflamingo chuckled, his voice still rough but warmer now. “Both.”

As they stepped outside into the cool night air, Sohyun tightened her grip on his hand, her guilt still whispering in the back of her mind. You’re still you, Doffy, she thought again, and she vowed to never let her relief diminish the love she already had for the man he’d always been. For now, she chose to focus on the fact that they were together, and that, despite everything, they would face whatever came next as one.

“You’re still you,” she whispered under her breath, and this time, she meant it. She guided him out of the cafe. As they walked the owner; a werebunny named Nayeon apologized for not being able to help due to only being sigma. Maggy, Kazuha, Dino and Arin were still frozen in their seats processing everything. They all felt elation at Doflamingo’s turn like he now fully was what he was suppose to be but also guilt because they had partially wished he'd be like them. They all eventually left with gift baskets from the baker bunny though, with extras for the “Red Dragon Archfiend”

As they walked out of the café, Sohyun’s hand firmly wrapped around Doflamingo’s, he couldn’t stop noticing. Everything was sharper now—details he never would have caught before flooded his senses. The scent of the baker bunny Nayeon lingered, light and sweet like freshly baked bread, but beneath it was a thread of anxiety she was clearly trying to mask. The creak of the café door as it swung shut behind them resonated in his ears like a chime, and every shift of Sohyun’s body as she guided him was something he felt acutely: the warmth of her skin, the subtle hitch in her breath, and even the way her thumb stroked his hand absently, almost like she was trying to ground him.

The dragon inside him, however, wasn’t so easily calmed. It wasn’t frantic or panicked—it was methodical, constantly observing, cataloging. Her friends were scared of us. They’re relieved, though. The werebunny has a good heart but weak instincts. Is she safe in a place like this? That man at the bar—he’ll regret crossing us if he ever tries again.

Doflamingo’s head throbbed slightly as his consciousness struggled to keep up with the relentless observations of the dragon. It wasn’t just thoughts; it was sensations too. The distant hum of a streetlamp buzzing with electricity a block away, the vibrations of an engine as a car passed, the rustle of a bird’s wings as it flitted into the night—everything pressed on his mind, layering one on top of the other.

And yet, it wasn’t overwhelming. It was exhilarating.

He could feel the streaks of crimson, gold, and teal that now marked his body glowing faintly in the dark, as if they were alive, pulsing with energy. He caught glimpses of them as they walked, reflected in windows and puddles on the street. They were an extension of the dragon’s presence—a sign of its watchful, tireless awareness.

The arrival at their home was quiet but charged, a thick anticipation lingering in the air. Doflamingo stepped through the doorway with measured steps, the weight of his transformation and everything that had happened resting heavily on his shoulders. Sohyun, however, had no intention of letting the moment pass quietly. As a born and raised Werekirin, and an alpha through and through, her curiosity burned bright. She wanted to see the full extent of who and what Doflamingo had become.

The moment the door clicked shut, she turned to him, her eyes glowing with excitement. “Okay, let’s get it out of the way, baby. I need you to shift for me,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Doflamingo froze. His dragon stirred beneath his skin, humming softly in encouragement, but all he could feel was an overwhelming wave of hesitation. The thought of fully embracing this new side of himself in front of Sohyun—his equal, his partner—terrified him. Would this change how she saw him? Could he still meet her expectations?

He took a shaky breath as his senses continued to heighten. Her scent—sweet and grounding, like vanilla and fresh rain—pulled at something primal within him, and his fire surged in response, his dragon reveling in her closeness. Yet his mind remained locked in a storm of doubt.

Sohyun noticed his struggle immediately. She crossed the space between them and placed her hands on either side of his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. Her expression softened, and her voice dropped to a tender murmur. “Babe, babe. Look at me. I’m here with you. It’s okay. You won’t hurt me. You’re too noble for that. The dragon and you are one now—not separate, not enemies, just you.”

Her gaze was , calm yet commanding, staring at him like a steady current, grounding him. She leaned in and kissed him, soft and deliberate. It was a kiss that spoke of reassurance, of love, of her unshakable trust in him.

The storm in Doflamingo’s mind stilled. Slowly, the barrier between him and the dragon dissolved, their essences merging fully for the first time. His body began to shift, a feeling of heat rushing through him. At first, it was sharp, almost painful, but as he let go of his resistance, the discomfort transformed into euphoria. His muscles stretched, his skin hardened and gleamed as crimson scales emerged, each edged with streaks of gold and teal.

His senses sharpened even further, the world around him coming alive in exquisite detail. Every flicker of light, every shift in Sohyun’s scent, every hum of energy in the room—he noticed it all. Power coursed through him, raw and untamed, and for the first time, he didn’t shy away from it.

Sohyun stood back, watching in awe. Her inner kirin purred with excitement, practically stampeding in delight as she took in the sight before her. Doflamingo’s weredragon form was magnificent—regal and commanding, every inch of him exuding strength and dominance. His aura, however, was what truly captivated her. It was unlike anything she’d ever felt before.

It wasn’t just powerful; it was layered, complex, a tapestry of emotions and energy. She could feel his joy, his hesitation, his protective instincts, and, most importantly, his unwavering devotion to her. It was intoxicating, emboldening. Her kirin surged with pride and desire, its hooves stamping impatiently as if to say, This is ours.

And yet, even as her heart swelled with love and excitement, a pang of guilt struck her. It was small but sharp, like a pebble caught in her shoe. She felt the weight of her earlier desires—the secret, selfish wish she’d harbored for Doflamingo to be like her. She had never wanted to admit it, even to herself, but now that he stood before her, fully transformed, the guilt was impossible to ignore.

Her momentary lapse didn’t go unnoticed. Doflamingo’s keen senses picked up the slight hitch in her breath, the flicker of guilt in her aura. His glowing golden eyes narrowed as he shifted back to his human form, his expression etched with concern.

“Soho,” he said softly, stepping closer to her. “Is something wrong?”

Sohyun blinked, caught off guard by his question. She forced a smile, but it was weak, betraying her inner turmoil. “No, everything is perfect,” she said, her voice wavering. “Too perfect, actually.” She sighed, looking away. “I feel bad because… you’re everything I’ve ever wanted now, but I can’t help but feel like I didn’t consider your feelings. Like I wanted you to be like me so badly, and I don’t know if it was right to want that.”

Doflamingo tilted his head, his expression softening. “Wait,” he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. “You didn’t set up that weredragon attack, did you?”

Sohyun’s eyes widened in shock. “What? No! I’d never put my babygirl in danger like that!”

Doflamingo chuckled, the tension in the room easing. “Good,” he said lightly, though his voice carried an undertone of sincerity. He stepped closer, cupping her cheek. “Listen, Soho. First please don't bring that nickname back. Second, It’s understandable to want an equal. I get it. And honestly? I’m not mad about it. If anything, I’m glad you pushed me—because now I know what I’m capable of. And if this is what it means to stand beside you, then I’m all in.”

Sohyun’s eyes shimmered with emotion as she pulled him into a deep, passionate kiss. It was a kiss of relief, of love, of letting go. For the first time, she allowed herself to fully embrace this new chapter of their relationship.

As their kiss deepened, her kirin purred within her, basking in the warmth of their connection. She had an equal now—a partner who matched her strength and fire. It wasn’t what she had imagined, but it was everything she had ever needed. As the kiss deepened the couple shifted as if second nature as their truest natures took center stage. Sohyun smiled as her cerulean werekirin form stood in front of Doffy’s weredragon form. Their scents growing intense as their desires grew until neither could take it anymore. Sohyun ripped off her clothes desperate to be bare for her mate and Doflamingo followed suit.

As they stood before each other bare Sohyun noticed a new thing about Doflamingo…well two new things. She marveled at his two cocks. She raised an eyebrow before saying, “have you always had two um…dicks?”

she was obviously surprised as was Doflamingo. He stared at them before he said “um we should probably research weredragons but not right now because I need to fuck you…no I need to breed you. I need you to have my litter,” he said as the dragon took over. He crossed the distance between them and traced her jawline before lining his bigger cock with her slit, Sohyun moaned as he filled her with him. Sohyun moaned.

“Fuck!” Sohyun groaned as she grabbed Doflamingo’s horns and locked her legs around his hips.

“Come on Doffy take me.”

Doflamingo groaned as he grabbed her waist. Sohyun smiled as she felt his manhood pierce her. As they mated their scents danced around each other Sohyun smiled as she smelled their scents mixed and moaned as the pleasure overtook her. Doflamingo smirked happy his mate was lost in the pleasure. He dug his claws gently into his mates hips and increased his intensity. Sohyun groaned as she came on one of Doflamingo’s cocks.

“Fuck you fill me so well. Get rougher with me,” she moaned knowing that both of them needed this. Doflamingo then fully let go and let the dragon take over. His blackberry scent amassing and claiming Sohyun as hers reciprocated the action. He rammed his cock in and out of her as his inner dragon overtook all of him.

“Youre mine. My greatest treasure nothing compares. Not diamonds not gold, nothing.” he says as his cock tears through her walls. Sohyun moans and teases.

“How sappy.” her words hit their mark as Doflamingo loses himself to his orgasm. His smaller cock explodes all over Sohyun’s chest and torso. Doflamingo watches with lust as Sohyun rubs his cum all over her body

“Fuck now I'm properly yours,” she says as she cums for the second time before collapsing on the couch. She turns to Doflamingo staring at both his hard cocks hungrily but the soreness preventing her from satiating that lust frustrates her.

“Fuck I'm exhausted but I want more,” she groans.

“Fuck I have felt like I've entered a rut, but Im too sore and tired.”

She turns to Doffy and says, “Tomorrow we are gonna whenever we can. Got it,”

“Okay take tomorrow off then. You have a previous engagement,” Soyhun

The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, bathing their room in a soft golden glow as Doflamingo stretched his limbs. His dragon form was still prominent, the crimson and gold hues of his scales glinting faintly in the light. The sheer weight of his body now felt oddly natural, but his alarm clock blaring had jolted him into a grumpy mood.

“Ugh,” he groaned, slamming the clock off with more force than necessary. “Why is everything louder now? Even that damn alarm.”

Sohyun chuckled softly, her kirin form still draped lazily across the bed. Her silver and cloud-like markings shimmered, her mane wild but elegant. She turned to face him, her voice teasing yet tender. “You know, babe, after the success of my last book, we’re pretty set financially. You really don’t need to keep dragging yourself to that boring office job.” She smirked, her eyes gleaming with playful mischief. “I’d much rather have you as my house husband—or my babygirl if that suits you better.”

Doflamingo’s dragon stirred, growling low in his chest. The teasing was good-natured, but his alpha instincts prickled. He wasn’t going to be anyone’s “baby girl,” even if the thought of staying by Sohyun’s side all day was tempting.

“You know what?” he said, his voice deep and commanding, the resonance of his dragon evident. “Screw that job.”

Sohyun’s laugh was rich and delighted as she watched him march over to his laptop. He quickly fired off an email to his boss, cashing out his vacation time. The decisiveness in his actions only made her kirin purr in satisfaction.

When he returned to the bed, Sohyun let out a dramatic groan, her tail flicking in protest as she noticed him gathering clothes. “Ugh, I thought you weren’t going to work today. Why are you getting dressed?”

Doflamingo smirked, shaking his head as he slipped into some comfortable jeans. “I’m not going to work, but I do need to figure out what this new life is going to look like. Being a weredragon comes with its own… complications.”

Sohyun perked up, rolling onto her stomach and propping her chin on her hands. Her voice was laced with excitement as she asked, “Oh? And what does figuring it out involve?”

He glanced over his shoulder, holding up his phone. “I’m scheduling an appointment with a weredragon expert.”

That caught her attention. She jumped out of bed and bounded over, her body brushing against his as she peeked over his shoulder to see the website he was browsing. Her scent—sweet and electric—wrapped around him, making his dragon rumble in approval.

“Oh,” she said, her voice brightening. “He’s a college professor. Wait, I know this guy!”

Doflamingo raised a brow, intrigued. “Do you?”

“Yeah! He came to one of my book signings.” She grinned, her kirin tail swishing behind her. “He asked some really deep questions about the abuse in therianthrope communities, like the werehyena and wereorca packs. Super passionate guy. Gave me a scathing review, though, for how I framed matriarchal customs.”

Doflamingo chuckled, turning to face her fully. “Sounds like he knows his stuff, at least. That’s what we need right now.”

Sohyun nodded in agreement but quickly shifted the topic. “But before we dive into all that, don’t forget we’ve got my parents to meet today. They’ve been dying to know when I’m finally going to settle down.” She smirked, running a clawed hand gently over Doflamingo’s chest. “And I want them to see my new alpha partner.”

He laughed, the deep rumble in his chest making Sohyun’s kirin hum in delight. “Your parents, huh? I hope they’re ready for this.”

“Oh, they’ll love you,” Sohyun assured him, her eyes sparkling. “And if they don’t, well, I do, and that’s what matters.”

The two of them exchanged a quick, affectionate kiss before setting about their morning routine. Even as they prepared for the day ahead, their natural chemistry and ease with each other shone through. Whether it was Doflamingo playfully swatting Sohyun’s tail as she teased him about his outfit, or Sohyun stealing bites of his breakfast while declaring she wasn’t hungry, the comfort and love between them were undeniable.

By the time they left the apartment, they were ready to face the world together—new challenges, nosy parents, and all.

The cafe buzzed with quiet conversation as Sohyun and Doflamingo entered, the scent of fresh coffee and baked goods filling the air. But to Doflamingo, the sensory overload was more pronounced than ever—scents, sounds, and even the faintest hum of emotions seemed amplified. His dragon thrummed beneath his skin, purring with approval as his eyes locked onto the two figures seated by the window: Sohyun’s parents.

Both alphas, Sohyun’s mother a regal wereKirin with a shimmering silver mane, and her father a stately wereGriffin whose piercing gaze seemed to cut through the room. Yet, as they turned to greet their daughter, their composure faltered.

The presence of another alpha rolled through the room like a tide. It wasn’t oppressive or overbearing, but it demanded acknowledgment. Sohyun’s parents froze momentarily, their instincts forcing them to reevaluate this newcomer. The aura was unlike anything they’d expected. It was commanding yet warm, feral yet refined.

Doflamingo.

When they’d first met him months ago, he’d been ambitious but very much human—a scrappy, determined man who exuded potential but lacked the innate authority of a true alpha. Now, that same man stood before them transformed. His aura was magnetic, his presence so grounded that even Sohyun’s parents, both experienced alphas, felt a pull toward him.

Sohyun’s mother stammered, breaking the silence as she tried to reconcile this man with the one she’d met before. “Doflamingo, you’ve… changed.”

Doflamingo smiled, the gesture as charming as ever, but there was an edge to it now—a sharpness that wasn’t there before. He shrugged casually, his voice steady and smooth. “We’re always changing, aren’t we? But yeah, I suppose I’ve been through some things. It’s not an issue, is it?”

His tone was pleasant, almost disarming, but the weight behind his words made Sohyun’s parents hesitate. For a moment, they felt like prey before a predator—a sensation they hadn’t experienced in years.

Sohyun’s father cleared his throat, trying to shake the unease. “You’re the Red Dragon Archfiend we’ve been hearing about, aren’t you?”

Both Sohyun and Doflamingo frowned in confusion before her mother explained. “There have been rumors. A human turned by a weredragon who fought tooth and nail to protect his mate. The description matches you.”

Sohyun beamed with pride, leaning slightly into Doflamingo. “Yep, that’s him. My Red Dragon Archfiend.”

Her parents exchanged a glance. Weredragons were rare and notoriously unpredictable, their power immense and their temperaments volatile. To have someone like Doflamingo, already fervent and intense, take on such a form… It was both exhilarating and terrifying to witness.

Still, they couldn’t deny the way he carried it. The strength, the confidence—it radiated from him like sunlight. Even as fear lingered in their hearts, there was a magnetic pull that left them enthralled. Sohyun’s parents found themselves unconsciously leaning into his presence more than once, unable to resist the sheer gravity of his being.

Sohyun and Doflamingo noticed the shifting emotions rolling off her parents, their scents a tangled mix of pride, fear, and awe. But it hit Doflamingo harder than he expected. His senses, sharper since his transformation, picked up every nuance, and his dragon stirred with interest.

Dragons liked power, and power was everywhere. Sohyun was powerful, of course—his equal in every way—but now, sitting across from these two dominant alphas, his dragon was curious. It wasn’t attraction in the traditional sense; it was more primal, instinctive. His body hummed with the latent desire to engage, to test boundaries, to claim.

Doflamingo found himself flirting unconsciously, his tone charming, his words laced with subtle compliments that made both Sohyun’s parents pause. Sohyun’s mother laughed at one of his remarks, her cheeks faintly flushing, while her father raised a brow, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

Sohyun watched the interaction with amusement and understanding. She knew what was happening. Her mate’s dragon wasn’t tied to the rigid human constructs of attraction or preference—it was fluid, bound by power and connection. Doflamingo was still hers, fiercely loyal and devoted, but his instincts were awakening in ways that neither of them had fully anticipated.

By the time brunch ended, Sohyun’s parents had softened considerably. Their initial reservations about Doflamingo had melted away, replaced by cautious admiration. They could see he wasn’t a liability; he was an asset. And as they said their goodbyes, her father muttered, almost begrudgingly, “Maybe we were wrong about that arranged marriage idea.”

Sohyun grinned, her arm looping around Doflamingo’s as they walked out. “Told you they’d love you.”

Doflamingo chuckled, leaning down to kiss her temple. “I think your mom has a crush on me.”

Sohyun rolled her eyes but laughed. “Don’t push your luck, Red Dragon Archfiend.”

As they strolled down the street, Doflamingo felt more at ease. The swirling emotions, the shifting dynamics—it was a lot to process, but he wasn’t scared anymore. He was finally beginning to understand who he was and what he could become. And with Sohyun by his side, he knew he’d figure it out.

After leaving the café, Doflamingo and Sohyun headed to the expert’s office. The building itself was nondescript, nestled between an herbal tea shop and a quirky stationery store, but the moment they stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted. The air was heavier, charged with a tension that made Sohyun’s inner kirin stir uneasily. For Doflamingo, though, it was different. The air felt alive, saturated with a primal energy that sent a shiver down his spine. His dragon rose to the surface, not in defiance but in silent, almost reverent recognition.

The receptionist, a sharp-eyed werefox, waved them through with a knowing smirk. “She’s been expecting you,” she said lightly. “Good luck.”

Sohyun raised an eyebrow but shrugged it off, leading the way. Doflamingo followed silently, his dragon buzzing with an almost childlike anticipation.

As they entered the spacious office, the overwhelming presence hit him like a wall of flame. The room was a curious mix of academia and mysticism—bookshelves stuffed with tomes that looked older than most civilizations, tapestries depicting ancient dragons, and artifacts that thrummed faintly with energy. But the true source of the oppressive energy wasn’t the room.

It was her.

Seated behind a massive oak desk was Dr. Park Sooyoung, a woman whose aura was like a living thing. She stood as they entered, her soft, round face framed by a sleek ponytail. She moved with an ease and confidence that spoke of centuries of experience, and her golden eyes gleamed with something ancient and all-knowing.

“Welcome,” she said, her voice deep and resonant, but with a warmth that belied her intimidating aura. “I’m Dr. Park Sooyoung, but most people just call me Joy.”

Doflamingo froze as her presence crashed into him. His dragon didn’t bristle as it had with Korvold; instead, it quieted, settling into a submissive calm he’d never experienced before. The feeling was… confusing. His dragon didn’t feel afraid or inferior—it felt safe like it was in the presence of something worthy of its respect.

“You’re a weredragon,” he blurted, his voice lower than usual, almost reverent.

Joy smirked, her gaze sharp but amused. “Very astute, Red Dragon Archfiend. Or should I say, Doflamingo?”

Sohyun tilted her head, watching the interaction with interest. There was something strange about Doflamingo’s posture—he was standing still, his shoulders slightly bowed, almost deferential. For a moment, she blinked in disbelief. Is he acting like an omega? The thought was absurd; she knew Doflamingo’s confidence and dominance well. But then she remembered his peculiar adoration for powerful and wise figures. No, she realized, it’s not submission. He’s just… drawn to her aura, like a moth to a flame.

Joy chuckled, her laugh a melodic yet sharp sound that sent shivers down Doflamingo’s spine. His dragon all but purred at the sound, and he felt his face flush.

“I’m not just any weredragon expert,” Joy continued, leaning against her desk with casual grace. “And I already know why you’re here. News of a human fighting Korvold and surviving? It travels fast. But I wasn’t expecting you to look so… fresh.”

The jab was subtle but deliberate, and Doflamingo’s dragon rumbled faintly in protest. He stiffened, his jaw clenching. “Korvold was reckless,” he said evenly. “I did what I had to do to protect my mate.”

Joy’s golden eyes flickered to Sohyun, then back to Doflamingo. Her smirk deepened, amusement flickering across her features. “Protecting your mate? Admirable. Stupid, but admirable.” Her aura pressed against his, firm yet oddly comforting.

For a moment, his mind went blank. His dragon surged forward, a low hum of approval resonating in his chest. Before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out:

“Well, maybe I need a strong, wise lady like you to teach me restraint.”

The room went still for a heartbeat before Sohyun groaned, covering her face with both hands. “Oh my God, Doffy?”

Joy, however, threw her head back and laughed—a sound that was both mocking and strangely approving. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that. But I’m far too old for you, young one.”

Doflamingo’s lips curled into a smirk, his crimson eyes glowing faintly as his dragon murmured its agreement. “Age is just a number, isn’t it? Dragons don’t play by those rules.”

Sohyun watched the exchange with a mix of amusement and secondhand embarrassment. He’s hopeless, she thought, biting back a laugh as Joy’s aura seemed to soften, her amusement genuine.

Joy regarded him for a moment longer before shifting her attention to Sohyun. “You’ve got your hands full with this one,” she said dryly.

Sohyun grinned, crossing her arms. “Oh, you have no idea.”

The conversation turned to the peculiarities of weredragons, with Joy explaining their unique dynamics—how every weredragon was born an alpha but shaped their aura differently depending on their hoard and instincts. As Joy spoke, Doflamingo couldn’t shake the magnetic pull of her presence. It wasn’t romantic or even necessarily submissive; it was awe, plain and simple.

For a fleeting moment, Sohyun wondered if his dragon was trying to form a bond with Joy. But as she watched him glance at her, his eyes softening in a way they only ever did for her, she knew the truth. His loyalty to her was unshakable. Joy’s aura might be impressive, but it would never hold a candle to the bond they shared.

By the time they left, Doflamingo was uncharacteristically quiet, his thoughts a swirling mix of awe, respect, and confusion. Sohyun broke the silence first.

The walk back from Dr. Joy’s office was filled with an air of reflection—at least for Doflamingo. For once, he wasn’t his usual self-assured, frenetic self. His gaze drifted downward, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, while Sohyun walked beside him, clearly waiting for him to speak first.

She finally broke the silence, nudging his arm lightly. “Alright, out with it. What’s going on in that fiery head of yours?”

Doflamingo glanced at her, his crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dim light of the street lamps. “I just… I felt weird in there. Like, weird.”

Sohyun tilted her head, intrigued. “Weird how? Do you mean Joy? Or the vibe of the place?”

“Both,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But mostly Joy. The second we walked in, it was like… my dragon couldn’t stop staring at her. It was like…” He trailed off, frowning as he searched for the right words. “It wasn’t just admiration or respect. It was deeper. Like, instinct.”

Sohyun raised an eyebrow. “Instinct?”

“Yeah, like…” He hesitated, lowering his voice as if someone else might overhear. “For a second, I thought I was about to submit to her.”

Sohyun blinked, caught off guard. “Submit? You?”

“Yeah,” Doflamingo muttered, clearly embarrassed. “And that’s not normal for me, right? I mean, I’m a dragon now—an alpha. I don’t submit. But when she looked at me…” He exhaled sharply. “I felt small. Like she could crush me with just a thought.”

Sohyun’s lips twitched upward, though she quickly pressed them into a neutral line. “And let me guess, your dragon wasn’t mad about it.”

“Exactly!” Doflamingo said, his voice rising slightly. “It wasn’t mad. It was… content. Like it wanted to roll over and show her its belly or something. And for a second, I thought…” He trailed off again, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I thought I might be an omega.”

At that, Sohyun couldn’t hold it in anymore. She burst out laughing, doubling over and clutching her stomach as tears pricked the corners of her eyes. “Oh my God, Doffy! An omega? You?”

He scowled, though his ears turned a faint shade of red. “I’m serious, Soho. Don’t laugh.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said, waving a hand as she tried to compose herself. “It’s just—an omega? You’re the most alpha person I know. Even my parents, who are literal legends, don’t make you back down. And now you think you’re an omega because you got a little flustered around Joy?”

“It wasn’t just flustered,” he grumbled. “It was… more than that.”

Sohyun wiped her eyes, finally catching her breath. “Doffy, listen to me. You’re not an omega. You’re just… you.”

He frowned, still unconvinced. “Then why did it feel like that?”

“Because,” Sohyun said, smirking, “you’re a sucker for powerful, wise people. You always have been. And now that you’re a weredragon, your dragon is amplifying that. Joy’s not just powerful—she’s ancient. She’s everything you look up to: strength, knowledge, agency. Of course, you wanted to submit. It’s not about you being an omega—it’s about your dragon recognizing someone higher up the food chain.”

Doflamingo stared at her, processing her words. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Sohyun said confidently. “It’s like joy told just told you: dragons are drawn to strength. Joy’s aura is practically screaming, ‘I’m the boss.’ Your dragon isn’t used to feeling outclassed, so it panicked and latched onto her like a baby bird imprinting on its mom.”

That image made Doflamingo groan, covering his face with one hand. “Great. Now I feel even more pathetic.”

“You’re not pathetic,” Sohyun said, her voice softening as she reached up to tug his hand away. “It’s normal, Doffy. You’re still figuring out what it means to be a dragon. And honestly? I think it’s kind of cute.”

“Cute?” he repeated, his tone incredulous. “You think me almost groveling is cute?”

“Yeah,” she said with a teasing grin. “Because it shows you’re still you, deep down. You’ve always respected power and wisdom. You used to flirt with me for the same reasons, remember?”

Doflamingo blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Oh, come on,” Sohyun said, rolling her eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t know. You were totally into me when I gave that lecture on therianthrope hierarchy. You even stayed behind to ask questions you already knew the answers to, just so you could keep talking to me. Granted they were incredibly profound and probing but you love picking the brains of people who are equal or greater than you.”

He opened his mouth to deny it, but the knowing look in her eyes made him pause. “…Okay, maybe. But that’s not the same thing.”

“It’s the same thing,” she said, poking his chest. “The only difference is, now you’re a dragon, so your instincts are stronger. But it doesn’t change who you are. You’re still loyal to me. And that’s what matters.”

Doflamingo sighed, though his lips quirked up in a faint smile. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“And you love me for it,” Sohyun said, leaning up to kiss his cheek.

“Yeah,” he admitted, pulling her closer. “I do.”

As they continued walking, Doflamingo felt a little more at ease. He didn’t fully understand his instincts yet, but Sohyun’s insight helped him realize that he didn’t need to fight them. If his dragon wanted to admire powerful auras, so be it. At the end of the day, he was still hers—and that was all that mattered.

The day had been long, filled with miles of travel and lessons that left Sohyun and Doflamingo’s minds spinning. When they finally returned home, they fell into their usual rhythm of unwinding—Doflamingo diving into his music and Sohyun typing away at her upcoming novel. It was a peaceful ritual they shared, the perfect way to decompress after the demands of the outside world.

Sohyun leaned back on the couch, her laptop balanced on her knees as her fingers moved over the keyboard. The familiar sounds of Doflamingo’s studio work filled the air—guitar riffs, drumbeats, and his low hums as he pieced together melodies. Normally, she let the instrumentals blend into the background, an ambient accompaniment to her thoughts. But tonight, something tugged at her attention.

It was his lyrics.

Her fingers paused over the keys as she listened. For the first time, she truly heard his words, catching phrases that struck a chord deep within her.

“Pushed Aside to die slow inside. Face the pain to fight another day. This can’t be it this can’t be fucking it. Will you fold or will you hold the line?”

Sohyun’s chest tightened. The weight of the words hit her harder with each line, painting a vivid picture of pain, anger, and yearning. It was like listening to the very soul of therianthropes—of people like her and Doflamingo—laid bare. Themes of alienation, persecution, and the endless struggle for acceptance coursed through every line. She had been so focused on his melodies before that she’d completely missed the depth of his storytelling.

She was furious with herself.

Her gaze snapped to Doflamingo, who was seated in his studio corner, his headphones over one ear as he adjusted levels on his drum track. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his fingers moving deftly over the controls. He looked so calm, so casual as if he hadn’t just unraveled a tapestry of raw emotion for the world to hear.

Sohyun stood abruptly, her laptop sliding off her lap onto the couch. Her feet carried her to his side before she even realized what she was doing. Without hesitation, she raised her hand and slapped him lightly across the face.

Doflamingo jolted in surprise, his hands freezing mid-motion as he turned to her, his eyes wide with confusion. “Um… Soho? What was that for?”

She crossed her arms, her eyes blazing with intensity. “You went to that job day in and day out,” she began, her voice trembling with equal parts frustration and disbelief. “You’ve been sitting on this—this talent, this gift—and doing nothing with it?”

“I… what?” he asked, blinking at her like she’d just started speaking in tongues.

“Your music!” she said, gesturing wildly at his equipment. “Do you even realize what you’ve written here? The way you’ve captured what it means to be us? To be seen as monsters, to fight against it, to try and find a place in a world that doesn’t want us? This isn’t just a song, Doffy—it’s a masterpiece.”

Doflamingo scratched the back of his neck, clearly taken aback. “I mean… I just write what I feel. It’s not—”

“Finish it,” she interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Finish that song and release it. Now.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his lips parted as if to protest. But the fire in her eyes stopped him. She wasn’t asking—she was demanding. And he knew better than to argue when she looked at him like that.

“Okay,” he said finally, turning back to his equipment. “Okay, I’ll finish it.”

Sohyun stood over him like a hawk, her arms crossed as he got to work. He adjusted levels, tweaked the mix, and refined the drumline, his fingers flying across the controls. She didn’t move, her eyes fixed on him with an impatience that spurred him to work faster.

“Almost done,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the sound of his heartbeat.

Minutes later, he leaned back in his chair with a sigh of relief. “Alright. Done. It’s ready.”

“What’s it called?” Sohyun asked, her voice softer now but still tinged with urgency.

“‘Atlas,’” he replied, his tone hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure how she’d react.

She smiled—a small, satisfied smile that made his chest tighten. “Perfect. Now release it.”

Doflamingo hesitated, his fingers hovering over the upload button. “You sure about this? I mean, it’s kind of raw, and—”

“Doffy,” she said firmly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Release. It.”

He exhaled sharply, nodded, and pressed the button. The song was uploaded under his artist name, Red Dragon Archfiend, a name he’d never expected anyone to care about but it was starting to grow on him. Yet here she was, standing beside him like his fiercest advocate.

“It’s done,” he said, leaning back with a mix of relief and nervous energy.

Sohyun beamed at him, her earlier intensity giving way to warmth. “Good. Now come on.” She grabbed his hand, pulling him up from his chair. “You’ve just shared a part of your soul with the world. Let’s celebrate.”

Doflamingo let her lead him out of the room, his heart still racing from the whirlwind of her fervor. He glanced back at his studio setup, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. She led him to their bedroom and pushed him on the bed. Her gaze was furious as she said,

“You’ve been a little slut today a bratty little slut. First, you flirt with my parents, then you flirt with that sexy dragon lady yeah I found her hot too, but now I learn you have an artistic gift and you squander to work a menial office job. I’m fucking furious,” Doffy felt himself growing harder under her gaze but worried so he flared his aura to make sure she was okay. Sohyun got the marker and said.

“I’m not Angry babe, but if you don’t strip and shift right now I’ll rip your clothes off and forcibly send us both into a rut. So please strip and shift for me,” Doflamingo nodded as he complied. Sohyun purred but frowned when she noticed he was having problems shifting.

“Babe don't force,” Sohyun said as she watched noticing his body contort and not be able to shift.

“I'm sorry babe I just feel overwhelmed with everything that's happened the last two days,” Doflamingo said tensely. Sohyun nodded her eyes hazy as lust overtook her. She went behind Doffy and bent him over the bed.

“Just relax baby girl and let daddy take care of it,” Doflamingo’s heart fluttered but remained tense as Sohyun’s ardor was about to get lascivious but also intense.

Sohyun moaned as her member expanded from within her. She smiled before ramming the rod into Doffy’s ass. As she bottoms out Doffy moans his mind is cleared and he finally shifts for her as both his cocks harden at her penetration sending him into a rut. Sohyun smiles as her mate takes her full length. She spanks his ass and teases him as she fucks him, “Did my little slut like that? Did my baby girl need his daddy to clear that silly little head?”

Doflamingo whimpers as his ass tightens around Sohyun’s member. Sohyun moans as she feels the lust overtake her mate. She watches happily knowing that after she fucks him he’ll fuck her.

“God you just have juiciest sluttiest ass Doffy. I could spank and play with it all day.” Sohyun moans as tightens her grip on his pillowy ass. Doflamingo growls with lust as his mind tears between euphoria and aggression. Sohyun delights in watching her mate struggle with his impulses. She knows he wants nothing more than to submit to her but he's her alpha, not her omega he isn't just some tight hole to fuck.

So as Sohyun knots her mate filling his ass with her seed she is unsurprised when her mate is overtaken by his instincts and growls before placing her in the mating press position. Sohyun stares at her mate with an immeasurable lust that Doflamingo mirrors. His cocks throb and pulse violently in the air.

Sohyun stares into his crimson eyes as he caresses her body lovingly before sliding his smaller cock into her sopping pussy and his bigger cock into her ass. Sohyun moaned and whimpered as Doflamingo violated her. His thrusts were as wild and fiery as he was. His eyes wandered over Sohyun’s lithe body as he claimed her. Sohyun’s body readily submitted for her equal. She laughed as his cocks went deep inside of her and how they took her to new highs and fucked her rapaciously and rapidly until he couldn't take it anymore.

Doflamingo’s orgasm was as violent as a wildfire tearing through a forest it fully consumed him as his seed spewed into Sohyun’s greedy cunt, but their fervor didn't stop them… not consumed by instincts and primal ties the alphas bred each other until neither could take it anymore, by the time their ruts had finally abated they had killed an entire week and a half.

The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains as Doflamingo and Sohyun sat on the edge of the bed, lazily getting ready to start their day. The comforting quiet between them was broken when Sohyun groaned, dragging her hands down her face.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath.

Doflamingo glanced over, pulling a shirt over his head. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his tone warm and curious, though concern flickered in his eyes.

She let out a frustrated sigh, flopping back onto the bed dramatically. “The tour starts today.”

He raised an eyebrow, sitting down beside her. “The book tour?”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice tinged with annoyance. “Completely forgot it was today.”

Doflamingo chuckled softly and reached over to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. “Well, that’s not so bad. We’ve got time to get you ready. Let’s get you to the airport.”

Sohyun groaned again, burying her face in the pillow. “I hate being away for so long. It always feels like there’s so much going on, and I’d rather be here… with you.”

He smiled at her words, the warmth of her admission settling deep in his chest. “You’re not gonna get rid of me that easily, Soho. I’ll be here when you get back, same as always.”

She lifted her face to look at him, her pout unmistakable. “But I hate being away from my mate. It’s unnatural.”

Doflamingo tilted his head, his grin softening into something gentler. “I get that, but think about it this way—you’re gonna meet so many people who love your books. Your words change people’s lives, Soho. That’s worth something, right?”

Her pout didn’t budge, but her eyes softened as she looked up at him. “I guess,” she muttered.

“You guess?” he teased, nudging her shoulder. “Come on. You know I’ll be cheering you on from here. And hey, maybe you can write about how much you miss me in your next novel. Make me the tragic, romantic hero or something.”

That earned a small laugh from her, and she shoved him playfully. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted with a grin. “But seriously, Soho, you’ve got this. And you’re not gonna be gone forever. I’ll call you every day if you want. Morning, noon, night—you name it.”

Her lips curved into a small smile, and she sat up, leaning her head on his shoulder. “You’re the best, you know that?”

“Of course I do,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Now, come on. Let’s get you packed.”

It took about 45 minutes for Sohyun to get everything ready. As excited as she was for the tour, she still hated the thought of leaving him behind. She stood at the door with her luggage, glancing back at him as he grabbed his keys.

“You sure you’re okay driving me to the airport?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said, slinging an arm around her shoulders as they headed out. “Consider it a free ride from your biggest fan.”

The ride to the airport was quiet and solemn, with Sohyun staring out the window as if committing every detail of the city to memory. Doflamingo kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting comfortably on the console, his fingers tapping idly to a rhythm only he could hear.

Every so often, he glanced at her, his disarming smile never faltering. “You know,” he said, breaking the silence, “I’ve got a little surprise for you when you get back.”

Her eyebrows lifted, and she turned to him. “What kind of surprise?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” he said, his grin widening. “But I promise, it’ll be worth it.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a flicker of curiosity in them now. “You’re insufferable sometimes.”

“And yet, you love me,” he said, his voice playful.

“Unfortunately,” she said with a smirk, her mood noticeably lighter.

When they arrived at the airport, Doflamingo helped her unload her bags, refusing to let her carry anything heavy. As they stood near the entrance, the finality of their parting began to sink in. Sohyun hesitated, fiddling with the strap of her carry-on.

“Hey,” Doflamingo said gently, stepping closer. “You’re gonna be amazing out there. I know it.”

She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. “I’ll miss you,” she admitted, her voice quiet.

“I’ll miss you too,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “But you’ll be back before you know it. And when you are, I want to hear all about it. Deal?”

“Deal,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest.

As she finally turned to leave, Doflamingo called after her, “Don’t forget—tragic, romantic hero. Put me in the next book!”

She laughed, shaking her head as she disappeared into the terminal. And as Doflamingo drove home, he couldn’t stop smiling, already counting down the days until she returned.

As Doflamingo watched Sohyun leave, a pang of sadness settled in his chest. This would be the longest time they’d spent apart since moving in together, and the absence was already palpable. The apartment felt quieter, emptier, without her. He shook off the feeling and told himself to stay busy.

He threw himself into his usual distractions—writing more music, playing video games, and just messing around. Hours turned into days, and during one particularly restless night, inspiration struck. With the momentum of Atlas still buzzing in the back of his mind, he picked up his guitar and began crafting a new track. This one was heavier, more aggressive—a metalcore piece he eventually titled Duel.

The song reflected the growing polarization he’d noticed in society, the friction between people who couldn’t see eye to eye, and the struggle to find one’s place amid the chaos. The lyrics came easily, pouring out of him in a raw, unfiltered flow. Duel felt cathartic, but to Doflamingo, it was just another project. Metalcore songs about sticking out and finding your place were a dime a dozen, after all. He released it without much fanfare, assuming it would be a side note in his burgeoning music career.

Days passed, and while Doflamingo busied himself with writing and gaming, his phone began buzzing with notifications. Messages flooded his social media accounts from fans, bloggers, and even music journalists. The analytics for Duel were spiking, far exceeding his expectations. People were connecting with the song in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

He dismissed most of the messages at first, brushing off the requests for interviews as noise. But then one stood out—an offer from a reputable music platform, complete with a generous payment for his time. Doflamingo usually wasn’t one for attention, but the interview’s location happened to coincide with the city Sohyun would be in on the last day of her book tour. That was enough to convince him.

“Two birds, one stone,” he muttered to himself, a small smile tugging at his lips. He could do the interview, catch up with Sohyun, and maybe even surprise her. The thought of seeing her again brightened his mood.

As the day approached, Doflamingo threw himself into preparations. He notified his job that he was quitting—his music was picking up enough traction that he felt comfortable leaping—and began packing for the trip. He spent his evenings imagining the look on Sohyun’s face when he surprised her, her eyes lighting up the way they always did when she saw him after time apart.

But as the tour went on, Sohyun grew busier. The calls that had once been nightly became sporadic, then almost nonexistent. Doflamingo understood, of course. She was out there changing the world with her stories, touching lives in ways that only she could. Still, the silence gnawed at him, and his inner dragon rumbled with unease, missing the soothing presence of their mate.

One evening, as he scrolled through photos of her book signings online, he caught himself smiling. There she was, vibrant and radiant, holding her own among throngs of fans. She looked like she belonged, and even though the distance stung, he felt a swell of pride.

“Soon,” he murmured to himself, running a hand through his hair. “Soon, I’ll see you again, Soho.”

The days seemed to stretch endlessly as he counted down to their reunion. When the morning of his trip finally arrived, Doflamingo stood in his living room, suitcase in hand, feeling a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation. His inner dragon stirred, sensing that the wait was almost over.

With a deep breath, he grabbed his keys and headed out the door, ready to face whatever awaited him—whether it was a growing music career, an unexpected interview, or simply the chance to hold his mate in his arms once more.

Sohyun sat at a long, polished table in a bustling bookstore, her pen flying across the title pages of her latest novel as fans lined up, eager for a few moments of her attention. The air was filled with the soft hum of conversation, punctuated by excited whispers and the occasional click of a camera. Despite the long day, Sohyun maintained her warm smile, greeting each person with genuine interest.

A young woman approached, clutching a worn copy of Sohyun’s first novel along with the newest release. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement. “I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you!” the woman gushed. “Your books helped me so much. I used to feel so alone, but your characters… they made me feel seen.”

Sohyun’s heart softened. “Thank you for telling me that,” she said sincerely, signing the books with a flourish. “Hearing that my work resonates with people like you makes all the hard days worth it.”

The woman beamed, holding the signed books to her chest as she moved on. Sohyun sighed softly, relishing the sense of fulfillment her work gave her, even if it couldn’t fully replace the ache of being away from home.

The line continued, and Sohyun’s rhythm became automatic—sign, smile, thank, repeat—until something unexpected caught her attention. As the next fan approached the table, a familiar melody drifted through the bookstore’s speakers. She froze mid-signature, her ears zeroing in on the song.

It was Atlas.

Her heart skipped a beat as Doflamingo’s voice poured through the airwaves, raw and full of emotion. The lyrics she had heard him write in their home studio now filled the room, and for a moment, the world around her faded.

“You okay?” the fan asked, concern lacing their tone.

Sohyun blinked, snapping out of her trance, and offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I just—this is my boyfriend’s song,” she said, gesturing toward the speakers.

The fan’s eyes widened. “Wait, your boyfriend is Red Dragon Archfiend? That’s so cool! I’ve been hearing this song everywhere.”

Sohyun couldn’t help but grin, her chest swelling with pride. “Yeah, he’s incredible, isn’t he?”

The fan nodded enthusiastically, and Sohyun quickly finished signing their book before the line continued moving. As the song played on, she felt an overwhelming sense of joy. Doflamingo’s music wasn’t just reaching people—it was resonating with them, just like her stories did.

When the event finally ended and she stepped into the quiet of the greenroom, Sohyun pulled out her phone. She immediately dialed Doflamingo, pacing the small space as the line rang.

“Hey, Soho,” he answered, his voice warm and teasing. “How’s the glamorous life of a literary star?”

“Forget me for a second,” she said, her words tumbling out in excitement. “Your song! Atlas! I just heard it on the radio at my signing event.”

There was a brief pause before he chuckled. “You serious? That’s wild.”

“Wild doesn’t even cover it,” she said, her voice brimming with pride. “The fans were buzzing about it. Doffy people love it.”

“Well, that’s good to hear,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “But it’s no big deal.”

“No big deal? Are you kidding me?” she countered, leaning against the wall with a smile. “You’re making waves, Doffy. And I couldn’t be prouder.”

His laugh was soft and self-conscious. “Thanks, Soho. But don’t go getting too sappy on me. You know I can’t handle that.”

“Too bad,” she teased. “Because when I get home, I’m throwing a full-blown celebration for you.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said, his voice warm and steady. “But for now, you’ve got a tour to rock. And remember, I’m your biggest fan.”

Her chest tightened with affection, and she leaned her head back against the wall. “And I’m yours,” she said softly.

As they hung up, Sohyun felt lighter than she had all day. She stepped out of the green room with renewed energy, ready to tackle the next stop on her tour. All the while, the memory of Doflamingo’s song playing for the world stayed with her, a quiet reminder of the bond they shared—even when miles apart.

The hotel room was quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside. Sohyun sat cross-legged on the bed, her laptop perched on her thighs, a cup of tea cooling on the nightstand. She’d spent the day meeting fans, signing books, and answering questions, but now, as she stared at the blinking cursor on the screen, her mind was elsewhere. The book she was supposed to be drafting seemed to blur into the background, and the room felt just a little too empty.

She sighed, closing her laptop and leaning back against the headboard. This was the longest she’d been away from Doflamingo since they’d moved in together, and though she’d thrown herself into her work, she couldn’t help but miss him. Her fingers itched for her phone, but she knew he was probably busy too—writing, gaming, or just being his effortlessly charming self.

Reaching for the remote, she flicked on the TV, scrolling through channels aimlessly until she landed on a late-night music program. A familiar riff caught her attention, sharp and heavy, pulling her out of her thoughts. She sat up straighter, her eyes narrowing in recognition.

“Is that…?” she murmured, her heart skipping a beat.

The screen displayed the title Duel by Red Dragon Archfiend, and her lips parted in surprise. It was Doflamingo’s new song. She hadn’t even known he’d released another track.

The music surged through the room, raw and visceral, the powerful blend of guitars and drums carrying Doflamingo’s unmistakable voice.

“We build the walls, we draw the lines,

In this duel of yours and mine.

Through the chaos, through the fire,

Can we rise above the mire?”

Sohyun felt a chill run down her spine as the lyrics filled the room. His voice was charged with emotion, every word dripping with frustration and resolve. She could hear the depth of his message, the call to resist division and find unity in the chaos.

The chorus hit, a soaring crescendo that made her heart ache with pride.

“We stand alone, but not apart,

Seeking the light, guarding the heart.

The battle’s not to fight and win,

But to break the walls within.”

A smile broke across her face, small at first but growing as the song continued. He’d done it again—poured his soul into his music and created something incredible. She could feel him in every note, his passion, his fire, his unwavering belief in standing up for what was right.

When the song ended, she sat there in stunned silence for a moment, her emotions a swirl of pride, love, and longing. She grabbed her phone and quickly dialed his number, unable to stop herself.

It rang twice before his voice came through, slightly groggy but instantly warm. “Hey, Soho. Everything okay?”

“You didn’t tell me you dropped Duel,” she said, her voice teasing but laced with emotion.

He chuckled softly. “Figured I’d surprise you. Did you hear it?”

“I just did,” she said, her smile widening. “They played it on TV. It’s amazing, Doffy. I’m so proud of you.”

There was a pause, and she could almost hear him grinning on the other end. “Thanks, Soho. That means a lot coming from you.”

“It’s not just me,” she added. “People are going to love it. You’ve got something special, you know that?”

His voice softened. “Maybe. But I’m just glad it made you smile. That’s all that matters.”

Her chest tightened at his words, and she leaned back against the headboard, the longing she’d felt earlier now replaced by a deep, steady warmth. “I miss you,” she admitted quietly.

“I miss you too,” he said, his tone matching hers. “But hey two more days right?” he lied as he entered his hotel.

Sohyun hung up the phone and set it on the nightstand, sighing as she stared at the dark ceiling of her hotel room. The bed felt too big, too cold without Doflamingo beside her. Her chest tightened with the pang of missing him, and as much as she tried to focus on the fact that she’d see him soon, it wasn’t enough. She needed him now.

Without thinking too much about it, she reached for her phone again and dialed his number. It rang only once before he picked up, his deep voice filling her ears.

“Hey, babe, what’s up? Thought you were going to sleep,” he said, his tone laced with concern.

“Hey, baby,” Sohyun began, her voice low and husky, a mix of longing and something darker. “I need you.”

Doflamingo was silent for a moment, but she could hear the shift in his breathing. He knew this tone well—it was the one she used when her desires consumed her when the distance between them became unbearable. He sighed, a little frustrated but mostly amused.

“Well… this was supposed to be a surprise,” he said slowly, “but I’m going to send you an address. Take a taxi there and call me when you get there.”

Sohyun raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “A surprise, huh?”

“Yeah, just trust me. Get over here,” he said with a chuckle.

She didn’t ask any more questions, instead grabbing her bag and heading downstairs. The taxi ride was short but felt like an eternity as her mind raced with possibilities. When they pulled up to the address, she stepped out, staring at the tall, modern hotel in front of her.

“Another hotel?” she muttered to herself as she walked through the automatic doors.

The lobby was sleek and bustling with activity despite the late hour. Sohyun’s sharp eyes scanned the space until they landed on a familiar figure standing near the reception desk, his back to her. Doflamingo was casually leaning against the counter, his tall frame unmistakable even in the crowd. He was wearing his favorite leather jacket, the one she always teased him about, and his hair was slightly tousled as though he hadn’t bothered to fix it properly.

Her heart skipped a beat. “Doffy?” she called out softly, her voice trembling with both surprise and relief.

He didn’t hear her over the chatter and soft music in the background, so she did the only thing that felt right—she ran. Her feet carried her across the lobby, and before she could stop herself, she tackled him in a fierce hug from behind.

Doflamingo stiffened in surprise, spinning around to face his attacker, only to see Sohyun clinging to him. His eyes widened as he took in her appearance. She’d cut her hair shorter since he’d last seen her, and it framed her face perfectly. There was something strikingly powerful about her tonight—her usual graceful poise replaced with a more commanding presence.

“Sohyun?” he asked, blinking. Then his nose caught her scent, rich and intoxicating, flooding him with desire.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were here?” she demanded, though her voice lacked any real anger. She tightened her hold on him, burying her face against his chest.

Doflamingo chuckled, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. “It was supposed to be a surprise, remember? You weren’t supposed to find out until tomorrow.”

“Well, surprise,” she said, pulling back slightly to look up at him. Her eyes sparkled with joy, and the faintest hint of a smirk played on her lips.

He grinned down at her, his usual cocky demeanor slipping as the raw adoration he felt for her took over. “I didn’t expect you to tackle me in the middle of the lobby,” he teased, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“I missed you,” she admitted, her voice softening.

“I missed you too, babe,” he replied, his voice dipping into a low growl as his grip on her tightened. His eyes darkened as he caught another wave of her scent, and his inner dragon stirred restlessly.

As Sohyun squeezed Doflamingo in the hotel lobby, her senses immediately picked up on something different. His presence felt… amplified. The moment her arms wrapped around him, she was hit by the intensity of his aura—stronger, sharper, more commanding than ever before. It wasn’t just the comforting warmth she was used to; it felt like standing in the eye of a storm, a force of nature barely restrained.

When he turned to face her, she saw it in his eyes, too—a fierceness that seemed to glow beneath his usual mischievous gaze. She blinked, momentarily stunned, before whispering, “Doffy… what’s going on with you?”

He tilted his head, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Your aura,” she said, stepping back slightly to get a better look at him. Her hands lingered on his chest, feeling the faint vibration of his energy. “It’s stronger. Like… you’ve evolved or something. It wasn’t like this before I left.”

Doflamingo blinked, then chuckled softly. “You think so?”

“I know so,” she said firmly, her alpha instincts kicking in. She could sense the change as clearly as if it were etched into his skin. “You’ve grown, Doflamingo. You’ve leveled up.”

He scratched the back of his head, a little sheepish despite the confidence that always seemed to radiate from him. “Well… I have been working on myself while you were gone. Writing music, pushing my limits. Maybe it’s all starting to pay off.”

Sohyun smiled, her eyes scanning him with a mix of pride and awe. “It’s not just paying off. You’re on a whole new level. I can feel it. It’s like… you’re stepping into your power.”

Her words struck something deep within him. Doflamingo had always been confident in his abilities, but hearing her acknowledge his growth made him feel seen in a way he hadn’t expected.

“I guess it helps when you’ve got someone like you to inspire me,” he said, his voice soft but filled with sincerity.

Sohyun’s heart swelled, and she tightened her grip on his hand. “You’ve been doing this on your own, Doffy. And it’s amazing. I’m proud of you.”

Doflamingo’s grin returned, wider and brighter than ever. “Thanks, babe. But I’m not done yet.”

Sohyun smirked, her alpha confidence meeting his energy. “Good. Because I think you’ve still got more in you.”

Before Sohyun could say another word, Doflamingo leaned down, his lips brushing her ear as he growled, “Follow me to my room. I need you now.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she smiled, her alpha confidence shining through as she nodded. “Lead the way.”

Without another word, Doflamingo grabbed her hand and guided her toward the elevators, their connection palpable and undeniable. As the elevator doors closed, Sohyun couldn’t help but marvel at how this man—her mate—always found a way to surprise her, even when she thought she knew everything about him.

When she entered his room she smiled. Finally wrapped around his familiar scent and aura she purred with delight so much so she couldn't feel the lust emanating from her mate. In her trance of pleasure, she barely noticed how he ripped her white t-shirt open and grabbed at her breasts or how he growled as he stole another kiss from her lips. She just basked in his closeness until his voice rang out “Take your jacket and pants off now,”

Coming out of her trance she moans as Doffy kisses her neck and gently massage her breasts. Realizing how much they needed each other Sohyun takes her red jacket and pants off.

Unable to control themselves they shift as they kiss, thankfully this was a therianthrope hotel so the beds and furniture were built with their strength in mind.

Sohyun moans as she feels Doflamingo’s hands run all over her body. How he grips her breasts running his hands all over her body. She smirks as she feels his cocks harden under her.

“You look like sex,” Doflamingo moaned in between kisses unfamiliar with his shifted form’s long forked tongue however caused his s sounds to slur to almost a hiss. It made Sohyun purr with delight as her hands rolled over his crimson-scaled body. Eventually, Doflamingo can’t take it anymore and begins stroking his cocks to prep himself. Sohyun smiles and says

“What are you waiting for big guy? Fucking rail me!”

Sohyun’s slitted eyes dilate as she watches Doffy slowly push his smaller cock inside of her pussy. She moans uncontrollably as the bigger one approaches her other hole.

“Fuck Doffy put both in my pussy. Fuck! Give it to me,” she moans before Doffy rams his cocks in her pussy. Sohyun clenches around him as she tries to process her new sensations. Overwhelmed by the pleasure Sohyun moans as she cums all over Doffy’s cocks not long before Doffy follows suit. As their bodies relax from their expedited orgasms they fall into the bed. Sohyun purrs as stares wantonly at Doffy’s cocks. She reaches out slowly to massage the smaller one and watches Doffy squirm as his body jerks in her hands.

“Okay, so this is the sensitive one.”She says happily. “You’ve been cumming so much I wondered which cock was the one that drives you feral with lust.” She adds happily Doflamingo growls as he fights both his lust and fatigue. Seeing this Sohyun relents and lets him go to sleep.

“Sorry big guy,” she coos as the couple cuddle throughout the night.

#k pop smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #sohyun smut #sohyun fanfic #werewolf au #werewolf smut #omegaverse

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