#A Young Woman Whose Body was Burning

[bunnis-monsters]

The mating bond of a prince

Yandere!Demon Prince x Fem!Reader

Bunni’s Monstertober Event

Oct 17th

Oct 16

Oct 18

summary:

warning: dubcon, kind of angsty, breeding, mating, marking, possessive and obsessive behavior

a/n: I wanna do more with this concept, but here’s a snippet for monstertober because I’m behind ><

Demons were said to be cruel creatures incapable of love or empathy, soulless beings that fed on fear and misery… and for the most part, that was true.

But what humans didn’t know about demons was one simple fact. There is only one person that they will ever love and care for…

Their mate.

Every demon was born into the world with one thought in their mind.

To find their mate.

Soon, other thoughts would pop up from time to time. They had to eat to continue the search for their mate, tear down humans cities to help their species thrive so their mate would have a comfortable place to live once they found them.

If they didn’t fight to end human civilization, where would their mates live and raise young? Taking their beloved back to hell with them was out of the question!

This was how the demon king managed to help demon numbers increase and keep his army growing. If each demon was born with the urge to procreate and create a good nesting ground for their mate, they could be easily controlled.

He just hadn’t expected his son, the prince of hell to be bound to a human.

The prince had recently conquered a small village. As he went about killing the men, his entire body began to throb.

In the distance, he smelled something that had his head spinning. One of the small cottages was on fire, that heavenly scent coming from inside.

He felt his body being pulled towards it, so he completely ignored the humans attempting to kill him and walked towards the cottage.

Breaking down the door was easy, but being enveloped in your overwhelming scent made it hard to think.

The second he saw you, injured and barely confused as a fellow demon stood over your fragile, human body, he felt something he had never felt before.

Protective.

Within seconds he was shirking your body, his claw drenched in the demons blood from ripping his throat out. Why was he doing this? You were just some human woman, but his soul was bound to you.

He couldn’t let you die.

When you woke up, you were somewhere strange… some sort of contraption beeped next to you, the beeps increasing in frequency as you sat up and looked around… only to spot a demon by your bed.

All you felt was pure terror.

You stared at the creature whose specifies was responsible for the deaths of so many of your friends and family, who killed innocents in cold blood. Tears streamed down your face as you tried to speak.

“Please… let me go…”

But when the prince looked into your eyes for the first time, his body felt like it had been set on fire.

He loved you, and you were his mate.

Not once in his life had he ever looked upon another creature with such fondness and care. The prince made his way to your bed, kneeling by your side and taking your hand.

“My love… oh, my darling do not fear… here you are safe, you’ll be treasured for all eternity…”

He kissed the back of your hand, your gut burning with anger and shame. This thing had taken you as some sort of… bride?

“W-what about my family?”

The words finally came out after a few days in the hospital. In this time, you learned that demon society was far ahead of the human one, with machines that could monitor your heart rate and medicines that kept you from being in pain.

It was… comfortable.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark and cold. “What about them? They are humans, they will be culled like the rest.”

You clutched your blanket in your fists, your eyes welling up with tears. Something about you crying made his chest ache, and the prince reached out to caress your cheek.

“Why do you cry? Are you not comfortable?”

The demon could not comprehend your feelings towards your loved ones. He simply saw them as pests that needed to be eradicated, and could only feel love for you, his mate.

“They’re my family, I love them!”

Your sudden exclamation had him raising an eyebrow, his tail twitching. Were they really that important?

The prince knew that every human from your village was already dead, there was no way your family had survived. But to placate his mate, he wrapped his tail around you, using his soft black wings to encircle you and bring you close.

“I’ll have my men escort them somewhere safe. You may not see them, but they will live.”

This lie made you relax, and you settled into his arms. You felt like you could finally rest, and slept like a baby for the first time since you had been taken away.

The prince wanted to take things slow, but news that his mate had turned out to be a human woman spread through the kingdom until it reached his father.

He was called in to meet with the King, who was displeased, but mildly amused.

“I hear you’ve taken on a human mate, my son. You know how the royal court will react.”

The prince nodded, standing tall and confident in front of his father. “I am prepared to defend my mate to my dying breath, as would any demon.”

“That’s all well and good, but a human mate is an eyesore. You should hurry up and get her pregnant, there will be less danger once an heir is produced.”

Everyone knew that demon blood was powerful, being the dominant trait in every pairing. Once she was pregnant with the heir to the throne, not a single creature would dare to touch her.

It had only been a week since you had been home from the hospital, staying with the demon prince when suddenly approached you.

“My love…”

His lips peppered across your neck, hands holding onto your waist before sliding to your hips. “I wanted to wait… to give you time to adjust…”

You froze when his tail moved between your legs, rubbing against your clothed cunt. “But this is the only way to keep you safe… please, don’t be afraid… I’ll be gentle.”

The pieces slowly came together as his tail played with your cunt, rubbing against your panties before slipping under them and toying with your clit.

His hand was on your belly, eyes darting between your face and thighs. The way he moved his hand around your stomach…

He was going to breed you.

You squirmed for a bit, letting out an uncomfortable whine, but settled down when his clawed hand danced across your chest, groping one of your breasts as his face buried itself into your neck.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be, love… this life is comfortable, isn’t it? I can give you a life of peace and safety, where you don’t have to fear war or pain. You’ll be taken care of.”

The very thought of some human male touching his lover made a growl rumble in his chest. You’d be staying with him, that wasn’t an option… but he wanted it to be something you chose yourself.

It felt sinful feeling wet from the demon playing with your fat pussy. His fingers pumped in and out of your as the tip of his tail continued to stimulate your clit, your juices flowing down your thighs.

He said your family was safe… was it so bad to let this demon take you as his mate? You were tired of long nights full of screams from people running from demons, of days without a proper meal as you rationed your supplies so you wouldn’t have to leave your home.

Couldn’t you live a comfortable life? You’ve suffered enough…

So you let him pin you down, watching as his fat cock rubbed against your leg. You had never seen a man naked before, so you were unsure if the size was normal… but you knew it had to be bigger than average.

His wings fluttered as his cock rested against your thigh. It nudges you, his tail lifting from your cunt to your tits, playing with them.

“I love you… more than you could ever imagine. You never have to want for anything again. I’ll give you everything…”

The pain of him taking your virginity made you cry out, your nails digging into his forearm. It didn’t hurt him at all, and he simply cooed, his wings soft as he dried his best to comfort you.

“Shh… shh… oh, my love I know it hurts. It won’t be for long…”

His lips pressed against your forehead, sweat already beading down. It wasn’t easy trying to take something so large inside of you for the first time…

The second you eased into it a bit, he pulled back out and slammed into you. He hadn’t meant to be rough, but he had struggled to control his urge to breed you from the second he realized you were his mate.

“I love you…” he murmured, gripping your hips as he fucked you, his teeth lightly gracing your neck. He wanted to cover you in bites and hickeys, claiming you completely.

He wasn’t done with you until your belly bulged with his cum. You smelled so much like him that he was a sappy mess.

You were exhausted, sore, and in need of a bath… but your demon mate curled around you protectively, kissing all over your body.

Within a month you were confirmed to be pregnant, and were moved into the palace as a princess.

You’d live a life of comfort… but were practically betraying your species by baring the future demon prince.

The current demon prince would soon be king, and you his queen.

An honor and the biggest shame.

———————

NSFW TAGLIST: @sunset-214 @strawberrypoundtown @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @unforgettablewhvre @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat

[mariacallous]

“Did they really decapitate babies?” my 14-year-old daughter asked me yesterday. She was pointing to a text message on her phone from a friend. “They’re saying they found Jewish babies killed, some burnt, some decapitated.” And I froze. Not because I didn’t know what to say—though in truth I didn’t know what to say—but because for a moment I forgot what century I was in. All of the assumptions I had made as a Jewish father, even one who had grown up, as I did, with the Holocaust just a few decades past, were suddenly no longer relevant. Had I adequately prepared her for the reality of Jewish death, what every shtetl child for centuries would have known intimately? Later in the day, she asked if, for safety’s sake, she should take off the necklace she loves that her grandparents had given her and that has her name written out in Hebrew script.

The attack by Hamas on Israeli civilians last Saturday broke something in me. I had always resisted victimhood. It felt abhorrent, self-pitying to me in a world that seemed far away from the Inquisition and Babi Yar—especially in the United States, where I live and where polls repeatedly tell me that Jews are more beloved than any other religious group. I wasn’t blind to anti-Semitism and the ways it had recently become deadlier, or to the existential dread that my family in Israel felt every time terrorists blew up a bus or café—it’s a story whose sorrows have punctuated my entire life. But I refused to embrace that ironically comforting mantra, “They will always want to kill us.” I hated what this tacitly expressed, that if they always want to kill us, then we owe them, the world, nothing. I deplore the occupation for both the misery it has inflicted on generations of Palestinians and the way it corrodes Israeli society; when settlers in the West Bank have been attacked, it has pained me, but I have also felt anger that they are even there. In short, I wasn’t locked into the worldview of my survivor grandparents and I felt superior for it.

But something in me did break. As I was driving on Tuesday, I heard a long interview on the BBC with Shir Golan, a 22-year-old woman who had survived the attack at the music festival where more than 250 people were killed, her voice sounding just like one of my young Israeli cousins. She described, barely able to catch her breath, how the shooting had started and how she’d begun to run. She’d found a wooded area and tried to hide. “I got really into the ground,” she said. “I put the bushes on me.” Covered with dirt and leaves, she’d waited. A group of terrorists had shown up and called for anyone hiding to come out. From her spot under the earth, she’d seen three young people, whom she called “children,” emerge. “I didn’t go out because I was scared. But there were three children next to me who got out. And then they shot them. One after one after one. And they fell down, and that I saw. I saw the children fall down. And all that I did was pray. I prayed to my god to save me.”

I pulled my car over because my own hands were shaking as I listened. She then described waiting, hidden in the dirt under bushes for hours, until she saw the terrorists begin to light the forest on fire. “I didn’t know what to do. Because if I’m staying there, I’m just burnt to death. But if I go out they are going to kill me.” She crawled over to where she saw dead bodies and lay on top of them, but the heat soon approached, so she found more bushes to hide in until she could run again. Burnt bodies were everywhere, and Shir looked for her friends but couldn’t find them, couldn’t even see the faces of those killed because they were so badly burned. “I felt like I was in hell.” She finally escaped in a car.

Her story flung me back to my grandparents’ stories. My grandmother hid in a hole for a year in the Polish countryside, also under dirt, also scared. My grandfather spent months in Majdanek, a death camp, and saw bodies pile up in exactly this way. Stories are still emerging of families burnt alive, of children forced to watch their parents killed before their eyes, of bodies desecrated. How was this taking place last Saturday?

But these stories aren’t what broke me. What did was the distance between what was happening in my head and what was happening outside of it. The people on “my side” are supposed to care about human suffering, whether it’s in the detention camps of Xinjiang or in Darfur. They are supposed to recognize the common humanity of people in need, that a child in distress is first a child in distress regardless of country or background. But I quickly saw that many of those on the left who I thought shared these values with me could see what had happened only through established categories of colonized and colonizer, evil Israeli and righteous Palestinian—templates made of concrete. The break was caused by this enormous disconnect. I was in a world of Jewish suffering that they couldn’t see because Jewish suffering simply didn’t fit anywhere for them.

The callousness was expressed in so many ways. There were those tweets that did not hide their disregard for Jewish life—“what did y’all think decolonization meant? vibes? papers? essays? Losers”—or the one that described the rampage as a “glorious thing to wake up to.” There was the statement by more than two dozen Harvard student groups asserting, in those first hours in which we saw children and women and old people massacred, that “the Israeli regime” was “entirely responsible for all unfolding violence.” And then there were the less explicit posts that nevertheless made clear through pseudo-intellectual word salads that Israel got what it deserved: “a near-century’s pulverized overtures toward ethnic realization, of groping for a medium of existential latitude—these things culminate in drastic actions in need of no apologia.” I hate to extrapolate from social media—it is a place that twists every utterance into a performance for others. But I also felt this callousness in the real world, in a Times Square celebratory protest promoted by the New York City chapter of the Democratic Socialists of America, at which one speaker talked of supporting Palestinians using “any means necessary” to retake the land “from the river to the sea,” as a number of placards declared. There were silences as well. Institutions that had rushed to condemn the murder of George Floyd or Russia for attacking Ukraine were apparently confounded. I watched my phone to see whether friends would write to find out if my family was okay—and a few did, with genuine and thoughtful concern, but many did not.

I’m still trying to understand this feeling of abandonment. Is my own naivete to blame? Did I tip too far over into the side of universalism and forget the particularistic concerns to which I should have been attuned—the precarious state of my own tribe? Even as I write this, I don’t really want to believe that that’s true. If I can fault myself clearly for something, though, it’s not recognizing that the same ideological hardening I’d seen on the right in the past few years, the blind allegiances and contorted narratives even when reality was staring people in the face, has also happened, to a greater degree than I’d imagined, on the left, among the people whom I think of as my own. They couldn’t recognize a moral abomination when it was staring them in the face. They were so set in their categories that they couldn’t make a distinction between the Palestinian people and a genocidal cult that claimed to speak in that people’s name. And they couldn’t acknowledge hundreds and hundreds of senseless deaths because the people who were killed were Israelis and therefore the enemy.

As the days go on, the horrific details of what happened—those babies—seem to be registering more fully, if not on the ideological left, then at least among sensible liberals. But somehow I can’t shake the feeling of aloneness. Does it take murdered babies for you to recognize our humanity? I find myself thinking—a thought that feels alien to my own mind but also like the truth. Perhaps this is the Jewish condition, bracketed off for many decades and finally pulling me in.

When news broke of the Kishinev pogrom in 1903 that took 49 lives (compare that with the 1,200 we now know were killed on Saturday), it caused a sensation throughout the world. “Babes were literally torn to pieces by the frenzied and bloodthirsty mob,” The New York Times reported. “The local police made no attempt to check the reign of terror. At sunset the streets were piled with corpses and wounded. Those who could make their escape fled in terror, and the city is now practically deserted of Jews.” In response to that massacre, the emigration of hundreds of thousands of Eastern European Jews to the United States began in earnest; the call of Zionism as a solution also sounded clearly and widely for the first time.

In his famous poem about the massacre, “In the City of Slaughter,” the Hebrew writer Haim Naḥman Bialik lamented, even more than the death, the sense of helplessness (“The open mouths of such wounds, that no mending / Shall ever mend, nor healing ever heal”), the men who watched in terror from their hiding places while women were raped and blood was spilled. I can’t say I know what will happen now that this helplessness has returned—if I’m honest, I also fear that Israel’s retaliation will go too far, that acting out of a place of victimhood, as right as it may feel, will cause the country to lose its mind. Innocent lives in Gaza have been and will be destroyed as a result, and competing victimhood is obviously not the way out of the conflict; it’s the reason that it is hopelessly stuck. But in this moment, before the destruction of Gaza grabs my attention and concern alongside fear for my relatives who have been called up to the army, I don’t want to forget how alone I felt as a Jew these past few days. I have a persistent, uncomfortable need now to have my people’s suffering be felt and seen. Otherwise, history is just an endless repetition. And that’s an additional tragedy that seems too much to bear.

[marysoncrost]

𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞

Apollo(Blood Of Zeus)/Reader

NSWF!

First part!

Unexpectedly and unpleasantly, she found herself the owner of a body she didn't desire. Entering into harsh situations with even harsher outcomes, she ends up in a place where she's found by a man.

He was in search of another nymph with whom he desired to indulge, as his current life, while passionate and lively, brought him no pleasure at all. Therefore, stumbling upon a small and strange creature in the body of a young woman caught his attention, appealing to his tastes a bit too strongly.

Pressing her palm against the wet pomegranate peel, she moved her hand to clean it of dirt. Concentrating all her attention on cleaning the pomegranates in the lake, she tried to ignore the reflection of the young woman before her. Although she could say that the woman in front of her was similar in appearance, she didn't really think so, and looking at someone else's face that you found yourself in was simply unpleasant.

She didn't know how it happened; all the sleepless nights spent in contemplation didn't help, causing apathy for her lost life. What scared her most was that the old memories didn't become clearer; on the contrary, everything in her memory seemed more and more blurry.

A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she set the pomegranate into the shallow water, into a basket she had woven herself, to pick up a new fruit. Starting to carefully wash it, she repeated her actions once again. For a moment, she was stopped by the sound of splashing water, realizing that she was no longer alone in the lake. Maybe this would have alarmed her before, but now she just ignored it. Despite the hot sun rays strongly heating her back, the gaze of the one behind her was so intense that it burned. The cool lake water didn't help her cool down, but pride didn't allow her to lift her head and look back.

—Phos.— pronounced a gentle male voice. It might have evoked some emotions if not for the fact that she did not understand a single word. This was his nickname for her, given from the first days they met. Although she didn't know the meaning of these words, she just accepted them as given, since she didn't know the name of the woman whose body her mind inhabited. She didn't intend to reveal her name; maybe it was for the best - he didn't need to know the name of the one who would soon leave.

The movement of the other in the water became louder as he approached her, and the small waves he created while walking lightly hit her back. Approaching her, it seemed she didn't care - not a single muscle twitched when he stood at his full height behind her, casting his shadow over her body. Finishing with the second pomegranate, she intentionally acted slower to observe the behavior of the reflection of the big man behind her, ready to throw the fruit in his face if he dared to touch her. She didn't know exactly how much time she had spent here - maybe more than a few days, a couple of weeks, or even months - but it was enough to study the inhuman man she had to come to terms with bitterly.

—So lately, you've been showing a bit of resistance towards me and accepting more of my gifts. I'm not lying, this pleases me.— the voice calmly pronounced, squatting behind next to her, but maintaining a small distance between them so as not to force her to get up and leave. Her face wore a neutral expression, especially when he spoke words in a language she wasn't destined to understand. It seemed foolish to her that he was trying to talk to her, knowing that for her it was just a usual combination of sounds.

Calmly sitting in the water, one cleans the fruits while the other attentively watches as she rinses the dirt off with her hands and then returns the fruit to the basket. Feeling a breath toward her face, reflexively she turned her head towards where the man had approached a little closer to her. His eyes carefully watched her facial expression, as if studying every detail, wrinkle, and scar. It was one of the things she noticed he liked to do, causing her discomfort as she always responded to his gaze by looking into the eyes with a golden iris. Perhaps she would have been flattered by such attention from a visually appealing man if the body belonged to her, but now everything showed that he liked the appearance of someone she wasn't.

—Apollo.— she pronounced the name of the god with a heavy breath, trying to fend him off and let him know not to come too close. Watching as the large figure of Apollo didn't move, seeing how he placed his palm on his chin to hold his head in place while his knee pressed into the water. The light ends of his hair became wet as they fell into the water, and the white fabric wrapped around his hips was already transparent, not hiding the darkened skin beneath that was deliberately covered. The first time she had witnessed this, feelings of awkwardness and shame lingered with her for a few days, but only recently had she been trying to show her indifference. Especially when her light-colored clothes were also in less-than-perfect condition due to the water.

Turning her head towards her reflection, she grabbed a new fruit, but her ears attentively listened as a pleasant smirk escaped his lips.

—So paradoxical, it makes you until now the interested human pursuit that I have..— she won't lie to herself - it sounds very beautiful from his lips, but his nature spoils the whole picture. He justifies all the stories she studied in her teenage years, instead of lessons at school, but knowing his ''loving" side strains her. Before she ended up here, she briefly became fascinated with Greek mythology a few years ago, when she was very young. She studied the stories of the Greek gods to conclude that they are quite vicious with dirty deeds. This is just one of the reasons why she is so unhappy that he is too often nearby for her taste, but she is forced to endure it.

As soon as she finished washing the fruits, she reached for the basket to grab it, but the big hand was faster. Raising an eyebrow, she momentarily lifted her head to see the self-satisfied smile of the god, she just stood up and walked towards the shore, ignoring the cheerful sounds of the god. Feeling the sand under her feet, she stood up and looked around, feeling a big body bump into her, but knowing that he was doing it intentionally. Even though a slight irritation, it didn't make her stop admiring the amazing nature around her. The trees and plants make this place magical.

The only thing that bothers her is the absence of wildlife. There isn't a single soul, birds don't sing, animals don't run, insects don't eat plants, and fish don't swim in the lake. All this makes her wonder how she managed to get here if ordinary creatures can't. A big palm rested on her shoulder, and a male voice became slightly concerned, but not enough to say that he was worried about her. She moved away from him, shaking her shoulder to sit on the ground and lean her back against the tree.

After looking up at the sky, she expected the basket to fall at her feet, and she was not wrong. Bringing her knees closer to herself, she leaned over to pick up an orange from the basket. Taking the fruit in both hands, she drove two large fingers inside to tear the peel. Juice streamed down her palms, leaving a sticky trail, but it didn't stop her from continuing to read, paying no attention to it. Tossing the peeled skin onto the grass, she separated one segment and reached out, expecting someone to quickly take it. However, after a few seconds, she looked up and silently asked what had happened, seeing a blank expression on her face. Her body tensed as she realized her clothes were sticking to her body because of water, and she sitting on the dirty ground, which only exacerbated her position is from the realization that she will then need to wash her clothes again after this.

—Well, so be it.— she muttered quietly, even if he didn't understand a word. Although it sounded a bit unusual due to the strong accent she had never had before. Slowly lowering her hand to her face, but felt a segment of orange burst from her hand, to which she surrendered, continuing to tear it apart. Hearing the sound of a strike against a tree, she noticed a large golden bow that was behind Apollo's back. Quickly returning to the orange, she put one segment in her mouth, crushing it with her teeth and feeling the sweet-sour juice spreading on her tongue. Trying to enjoy the taste, she closed her eyes and leaned her head against the tree until memories of the first day of her stay here began to haunt her again. Frowning with a displeased, she still didn't open her eyes, immersing herself in painful memories.

Everything happened too quickly, so much so that she still couldn't fully comprehend what she had just done. In an instant, it was as if she woke up from a massive headache, opening her eyes to find herself in an unfamiliar place, with a heavy body lying above her. Understanding the man's motives immediately, she began to resist, but he proved stronger.

A surprise was evident on his face, quickly replaced by a sinister smile as his rough hands grabbed her by the waist and pulled her closer to him. The rough skin on his hands was calloused, scratching her delicate skin through the thin fabric, and an unpleasant feeling twisted in her stomach. The man muttered something, but she didn't understand a word, which made her ponder about another possible language. His dialect and speech style were completely strange and new, and the only thing confirming his bad intentions was his actions and tone.

She tried to push his hands away, but it elicited nothing but grumbling. She attempted to scream but couldn't, so she twisted her head to see anything that could help in the situation. Next to her head, she saw a rock with fresh bloodstains and immediately, using all her strength, reached for it. The man pushed the fabric aside to free himself and pressed against her abdomen.

In one moment, her eyes caught a nauseating sight, and then, with force, she struck the man's head with the rock. When he released her, she immediately kicked his body away with her feet and, rising to her knees, struck him again with the rock, this time with both hands, before he could recover. The man's head fell onto her lower leg, and she quickly grabbed it with thin fingers, pushing the weight away from her. As she did so, she quickly inspected the man's position that caused her harm and saw an open crack in the skull, through which something began to seep along with crimson fluid.

She couldn't hold it back; stomach acid erupted from her mouth and nose, burning her throat and nostrils, splashing onto the man's head and her knees. Her eyes caught how the nausea mixed with the man's blood, seeping into the crack in his skull, triggering a fresh wave of vomiting. She had to exert all her strength to distract herself and move away from the body lying in front of her to stand up, though it was difficult for her. So she reached for support, stretching her arms.

Her fingers grabbed onto the bark of a tree she managed to find, slowly rising to her feet. Surveying her surroundings more fully now, she noticed the long figures of trees nearby and realized she was next to a forest, as there was an open expanse before her where distant lights of houses flickered. Squinting in the darkness, she realized that the houses looked unconventional and most likely not part of a small village. With only the moon and stars as her source of illumination, she couldn't see much detail, so she lowered her head and inspected her body.

Realizing that the cold night air cut through, as she was practically naked except for dirty fabric because of the dirt from the ground and blood on top, which was so thin that it was see-through.

Feeling the hot liquid scorching her delicate cheek, she let out an unfamiliar whimper and collapsed into hysteria. She didn't recognize her voice, which left her puzzled as liquid snot began to trickle from her nostrils, running down her lips to her chin. Burying her face into the tree, pressing her forehead against the hard and uneven bark so tightly that she feared indentations would appear. At this moment, she didn't care; she tried to recall how she could have ended up here, but nothing came to mind. It seemed her memories were absent, only a small part of someone and something from her life remained, but it couldn't explain how she ended up here with a stranger and in a strange setting.

However, distant sounds halted her despair, forcing her to turn her head towards the village. A small figure screamed aggressively, holding something emitting fire in its hands, but she couldn't say exactly what it was, as panic began to overwhelm her. Especially when more of the same figures appeared beside it, their screams sounding not friendly, making her realize her predicament. As the lights began to move towards her direction, she quickly tore herself away from the tree, casting one last glance at the man she had killed with a stone before sprinting straight into the depths of the forest.

With swift steps, without looking back, she ran as fast as she could, without stopping for a second. Her breath became heavy due to her blocked nose, and now, due to the running, she began to breathe more intensively through her mouth, causing the cold air she inhaled to feel like knives in her lungs.

Fear and adrenaline overcame any pain that was there; her vision was blurred from the excessive moisture in her eyes. Hot tears burned her delicate cheek skin, mixing with snot as they landed on her swollen lips, leaving a salty taste on her tongue. Stepping quickly barefoot on dry, sharp grass, she stepped on small stones and twigs, each time causing more pain to run further. Despite the unpleasant stickiness and moisture on her face, she couldn't wipe the blood flowing from her forehead, not when her hands were covered in someone else's blood.

Her ears caught distant rough voices, men's voices, which made her body tremble. The only goal now was to run wherever her eyes could see to save herself, even when her muscles painfully pricked and her knees refused to move straight. She grabbed onto a tree, forcing herself forward until she reached the cliff. Her eyes spotted a river ahead, which didn't seem too deep to offer even a little safety, but the sounds of approaching footsteps strained her body every second. Realizing how close her fate was, she was torn between the unknown and swift death.

Deciding not to wait for the best in the future, the people in the forest were chasing her not out of good intentions. Although she didn't understand the words shouted by the people, she was sure there was aggression in them, especially when she possibly killed one of the residents. This person could have been respectful, possibly with a family, and in their eyes, she could have been seen as a killer who replaced and killed. After all, when she used a stone to strike, it was already covered in blood, and the intense pain in her head and blood on her scalp were likely evidence that before this strange situation, she had fought with a rapist.

Perhaps that's why no one reacted to her screams, especially since the screams of that man elicited a quick response. Fearing the terrible fate that might await her if she stayed, she moved towards the edge with trembling knees. But her body seemed not to listen to her, ignoring her, but when she turned her head towards the source of the cracking branches, she saw the approach of lights. There was an expression of pure fear on her face, her eyes wide open and her lips tightly pressed together. An unpleasant churning sensation arose in her stomach, and she grabbed it, pressing her hands against it and staining the fabric with blood even more.

She quickly returned to the edge of the cliff, where the wind was making the waves mercilessly crash, and then turned back to the approaching crowd of people through the forest. Closing her eyes and pressing her eyelids tightly together, she took a small step back towards the cliff; on the next step, she felt the absence of ground, which made her muscles tense.

The sound of a snap made her quickly open her eyes and look down, and in a second, she felt a sharp pain in her ankle. A long, thin wooden arrow under her feet almost pierced her leg, cutting through skin and muscle, instantly drawing blood. The pain reflexively made her step back, causing her to fall from the cliff, not realizing until she felt the air rushing past her body. A loud cry of desperation erupted from her throat as she instinctively tried to grasp onto something with her hands, but it was all in vain, especially when her back hit the water swiftly.

She immediately closed her mouth, feeling the water entering her ears and nostrils. With her hands reaching for the light, moving them to avoid drowning, the water painfully stung her eyes. She thought things couldn't get any worse, but fate today continued to unpleasantly surprise her, plunging her into madness. She wanted to live, so ignoring the pain from the wounds on her scalp and ankle, she tried to swim, even when she felt there was nothing left to breathe.

She managed to lift her head out of the freshwater, already feeling the waves pushing her harder, but her ability to see was hindered by the water constantly hitting her face, and it was difficult to hear because of the water slamming her ears. Now she was in the hands of nature, hoping for mercy for the pain she had endured. But the sharp blow to her already painful wound showed that no one was going to show mercy, and the great fatigue didn't help her cope with the situation.

Despite her weakness, she weakly continued to fight the water, the waves hindering her vision and breathing. Her hand grabbed onto a large branch behind her, which further intensified her headache, but realizing that in this situation she had no one to trust except the lifeless object. Extending her arms forward and pressing them to her chest, she helplessly hit her cheek against the rough and prickly surface of the branch, but due to fatigue and significant blood loss, she was more concerned about how tiredness overwhelmed her, and her eyes began to betrayingly close.

Trying to cough and spit out the water, she felt her strength leaving her, and she wanted to cling to the branch. Quiet groans accompanied the closing of her eyelids, and her mind began to shut down, and the only thing she hoped for was that she would wake up later.

A gentle hand lay on her cheek, stroking the sensitive skin with its thumb. But the touch was so light and careful that it seemed unreal. Through closed eyelids, she saw a bright light but couldn't open her eyes to see who was touching her. The gentle voice was so quiet, it sounded like a whisper trying to soothe her, yet there was a hint of guilt in it.

—Get up, they're waiting for you…— She frowned, as the strange but gentle voice felt familiar, yet even in her foggy memories, she couldn't recall this person. Reaching out to grab the wrist of the one holding her cheeks to ask a few questions, she found nothing when her hand reached the face. The touch remained ghostly on her skin. Hearing a light shuffle, she felt irritation, even opening her lips to complain, but nothing came out. Placing her hands on her chest, she decided to surrender, simply allowing everything to unfold.

—I know this may be… unpleasant for you,— the voice said with each word sounding increasingly sorrowful, yet it made her realize that the words were understood. Whatever was said made her recall events leading up to this moment. Unaware of herself, her face easily yielded to the gentle touches.

—I would love to stay with you for just a second longer, but someone already demands your attention…— Words spoken caused her to clench her teeth, her thin fingers gripping the sheets. This greatly alarmed her, even though she didn't fully grasp the meaning. However, the sadness in the voice caused pain in her rapidly beating heart. There was something important in that voice, making her worry, but also feel embarrassed about not being able to see what was before her, likely responsible for the terrible situation.

—I'm very sorry, but I have to ask something of you…— A sour expression appeared on her face, feeling her lips press together, eliciting a slight chuckle from her interlocutor. But there was nothing joyful in the light laughter, and the following words only confirmed it.

—Please, make it so we never meet again.—

This is my first fanfiction in two years, as well as my first fanfiction in this format and with this word count. Despite my efforts, I can't vouch for the quality, as I'm sure I've made a few mistakes unnoticed by myself.

Also, I'll mention that I planned for Apollo to speak in Ancient Greek, as the main character shouldn't understand him. However, I realized it would be cumbersome and boring for you.

[nebbyy]

Can I request king Baldwin being jealous I just would want to see how it everything would go down 🤔🤔

King Baldwin x reader - Jealousy

A/N: uuuuh I like this concept!! I can't lie it was pretty hard imagining him being jealous, especially since I myself wouldn't even look in other men's direction have I had Baldwin next to me😩😩.

Anyway, hope you like my interpretation of your prompt :))

Painting is "A Midsummer Night's Dream - Hermian and Lysander" by John Simmons by the way :))

Warning: angst, jealousy and talks of insecurity. Reader is specifically described as being female!

I think it's common knowledge at this point that Baldwin is a man of many virtues, who likes to act guided by reason, not by the heart

The only exception to this ironclad rule is, well, you. You're his beloved wife, the only woman who had ever walked this earth able to make him swoon and lose his collected reasoning, in the name of his love for you

In his eyes, you were the most beautiful creature God has created, and your virtues to him had to be honored and made an example to the rest of the world

He knew you really had not much choice in marrying him: after all, it was a political marriage. But the moment he saw your cheeks get warmer, your eyes avert his own and your breath hitching as he got closer to you

He couldn't fathom how he got so lucky to be worthy of even the slightest of your attention, let alone your love. It was something that he cherished like the holiest of relics, and he made sure to show it by showering you in gifts, spending every breathing moment he had as close to you as possible, learning your passions and hobbies and introducing you to his own

But as much as he loved to shower you in the affection you so much deserved, he remained a man whose mind reigned over every other part of him, and that meant that he knew that he wasn't easy to love, mainly because of his appearance

He wasn't unaware of the fact that his decayed face, his bandaged limbs, his sometimes showing wounds,.. they made people feel a sense of uneasiness, it even repulsed some at the mere sight of it

He knew that a pair of soft, full lips would be preferred by any reasonable woman over his own scarred and partly destroyed ones

He knew that a vigorous man, strong enough to fight and ride on his own, to carry you and protect you would be much preferred to his weakened, often bedridden, mangled body

And he also knew that it was the norm that in most forced weddings, infidelity was so normal that it was even romanticized by singers and poets

So as time went on and his condition worsened by the day, the dooming feeling in his mind that warned him about you possibly growing a liking to someone else started to become more and more present in his mind

Especially one time, when a dashingly handsome prince has just arrived to Jerusalem's court, and he seems that you have piqued his interest, for he seems to make it his personal mission to be as close to you as he possibly can

It's almost as if he's forgotten that you’re married to the king of the realm that is hosting him!

Baldwin first noticed a rather unusual demeanor from the prince on the first night that he's been there, when he started to make a never ending string of jokes, all in order to get a melodic laugh out of you

Then came the walk through the garden, where you usually went with your husband to unwind from your royal duties. And now there he was, this bumptious young prince that acted like he could win you over your own husband

It was right then and there that his own self deprecating tendencies left him to be replaced by a burning flame inside of him, the desire to publicly show your belonging to him and him alone

And so he took it upon himself to muster up all his strength in the following hours, before making his appearance in the main hall. Of course he knew he'd found you there, along with your suitor

Oh how his heart swelled when he saw your eyes, firstly semi-closed from the boredom the prince was causing you, light up at the sight of your husband entering the room

He confidently walked through the room until he was right in front of you, gently taking your hand in his and bringing it to his veiled mouth and holding it there for just a little longer than usual, while his celestial eyes never leaving your own

The simple action left you breathless, mostly because you'd never seen that fire within his stare before, yet in that moment he seemed to you as if he had been possessed by some sort of force that granted him such confidence

Breathing in the sight of you for just a little longer, he then turned his gaze to the prince, talking in a satisfied tone

"What a sight for sore eyes is my wife, am I right? I feel sorry for you that you can enjoy of her company for so little, but I'm afraid that she's needed somewhere else."

If you didn't know him any better, you wouldn't be able to comprehend that there's nowhere where you're needed at the moment other than your husband's arms, and you're glad to fill in the empty spot without hesitation

Because, let's be honest, you took this suitor's attentions as a tool to spur your husband, to test his devotion to you and his desire to have you all to himself. You wanted him to see you as not something gave for granted, no, he had to fight for you like the knights fighting in the name of the women they love in the jousts

And that he did, and you could swear that you have never in your short life have felt so loved and wanted as he picked you up midway through the hallway, smiling playfully at you as you lowered the veil off his face

"You're gonna make me have a run for your attentions, my dear. But I must inform you I'm not prone to sharing when it comes to my beloved wife"

You wouldn't want it to be any other way, as he gently laid you on your shared bed before joining you. And there you spend the rest of the day, after he'd called off both of your daily duties just so that he could have that time dedicated to just the two of you, to make a point of the tie between you two, that no man, much less prince, could ever break

So yes, at times Baldwin can become jealous because of his insecurities and your undeniable beauty, but his combative nature gives him the right spur to make him act on it, never letting anything get in his way

[little-diable]

A hunger for blood – Feyd-Rautha (smut)

This character brings out the worst in me, this is full on psychotic. But I love it, and I know you will too. But be warned, this is a new version of fucked-up. A big thank you to @whitedarkmoonflower for letting me ramble about ideas and for sharing an idea that gave this fic a whole new touch. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: Feyd-Rautha's betrothed, the reader, is even more blood hungry than he is. She challenges him to a fight, giving him the chance to claim her even before their wedding night, should he win the fight. But perhaps that is what she had been working towards, all for the touch of a sociopath her body ached for.

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, oral (m), heavy pain kink on both sides, choking, blood tasting, killing, fighting, psychotic reader

Pairing: Feyd-Rautha x fem!reader (about 3k words)

“What does one have to do to end up in the arena?” Her voice was dripping with curiosity, forcing the men’s eyes slowly towards her. (Y/n) kept her gaze focused on the muscular frame of Feyd-Rautha, her betrothed, the man she had only shared a handful of words with. She was surrounded by advisors, strategists, and wealthy men whose names she hadn’t cared to remember, fully entranced by the spectacle they were watching. 

“Commit a crime and end up as a prisoner.” The men laughed, speaking to her with a condescending tone that made a fire burn inside of her. They treated her like a child, a woman without her own opinion, nothing but a toy for Feyd-Rautha to play with and to breed. 

“Not as an opponent, but as a fighter.” No longer were the men laughing, once again turning towards (y/n) with confused expressions. The smile tugging on her lips had a sinister touch to it, leaving the men shuddering as one of them eventually cleared his throat. 

“Only Feyd-Rautha gets the honour, Lady (y/n).” Excitement buzzed through the arena as Feyd killed his last opponent, grinning at the crowd with his black teeth exposed, with blood sticking to his features. His eyes met hers from afar, momentarily getting lost in her challenging gaze. She was hungry for the same high he now felt, hungry to feel a blade pressed to her skin after all these weeks without any training.

She had been raised with a hunger for blood urging her on, trained by her father’s closest companions, men who were supposed to help the young girl pass her time as everything but fighting seemed to bore her. She had turned into a cunning, ruthless form of herself, a form neither her parents nor her mentors had eventually recognised – forced to accept that she had always been the perfect match for Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. 

“Take me to him.” Her voice echoed through the air, forcing a few men to their feet to guide her towards her betrothed. No words were spoken as the small group moved through dark hallways, taking turns every now and then, giving (y/n) a few more moments to cling to her excitement. 

“Na-Baron, Lady (y/n) wanted to see you.” She stepped into another dark room, with her twinkling eyes focused on his barely dressed frame. Feyd wore nothing but his trousers, his muscular body on full show for her wandering eyes. He was still holding onto his blades, covered in the blood of his opponents – a sight some of the maids and servants seemed to cringe at, a sight that made her smirk grow even wider. 

“You fought well, na-Baron.” Her heels clicked against the ground as she walked closer to him, not giving the others a chance to stop her from doing so. They expected him to lash out, to push her from him with his blade pressed to her throat, but he kept holding still – patient almost. Feyd watched her with curiosity, studying her as if she were an experiment, a new pet he was still unsure about keeping. “Tell me, Feyd-Rautha, what does it take for one to gain the Baron’s approval for a fight?” 

“Why are you asking me this, woman?” No longer were his lips pulled into a smile, no longer did he seem as relaxed, as arrogant as only a second ago. Feyd’s jaw muscles were clenched, ticking in anger as (y/n) ran her fingers over his naked chest, down to his tensed abs. Their eyes kept holding contact, but while (y/n)’s joy only seemed to grow, Feyd began to lose his patience, letting one of his blades fall to the ground to wrap his bloody fingers around her throat. “This is not the time or the place for games, speak when your na-Baron asks you to.” 

“Perhaps I want to take part in a fight.” Her voice had an almost naive touch to it, the words were spoken with a tone so breathy, that Feyd dropped his hand as if she had burned him. His smirk fought its way back to his pale lips almost instantly, exposing his black teeth to her wandering eyes. 

“Only criminals get to fight. You’re nothing but a noble lady, it wouldn’t be a fair fight between us. It’d be a shame if I had to kill you before I get to fuck you, future wife of mine.” His words had a teasing tone to them, words that drew laughs out of the men who had stepped closer to the couple. They made fun of her, trying to embarrass the woman whose smile never fell. A deadly mistake. 

And then everything happened within seconds: Her hand snapped out to reach for Feyd’s blade, ripping it from his loose grasp to slit the throat of the man standing closest to her. She hadn’t even looked at the man, had snapped her hand back with a movement Feyd was all too familiar with, copying him without ever having seen him doing it. 

“I just killed a high-ranked member of the Baron’s inner circle. Am I a criminal now?” Silence engulfed them as she brought the blade to her lips, letting her tongue run along the cold metal to moan at the copper taste. Feyd and (y/n) held eye contact as she did so, while all others were crouched near the man who was choking on his blood. 

Feyd moved fast, and with his hand finding its way back to her blood-covered throat, he pulled her in for a teeth-clashing kiss. The moan rumbling through them in unison reverberated through the room, momentarily drawing the attention of all other bystanders towards them. His touch on her was strong, possessive almost as if he was worried that somebody could try and rip her from his grasp, “It seems like my uncle meant well with me. You’re perfect for me, Lady (y/n).” 

“Send word to my uncle, tomorrow we will fight.” The men scurried out of the room, desperate to flee from the couple who couldn’t stop looking at one another. The energy between (y/n) and Feyd was palpable, bound together by a magnetic force that buzzed through both their veins. “If I win, I’ll get to fuck you tomorrow, claim you however I want.” 

“And if I win, na-Baron of mine?” (Y/n) shifted her weight onto her toes to ghost her lips over his. (Y/n) didn’t find it in herself to care about broken traditions, about being claimed by her husband-to-be before their wedding night. Her body was aching for his touch almost the same way it was aching for a gruesome fight, anything to keep herself excited. 

“You’ll get the honour to cut out the Baron’s heart when I kill him.” 

……

“Feyd-Rautha!” The voice echoed through the arena, ringing in her ears as (y/n) tightened her grip on her knife. She was filled with an almost childlike giddiness, it wasn’t about winning for her, she wasn’t oblivious; she knew that Feyd had a clear advantage with his muscular, towering frame - it was all about the chase, the thrill of the fight for her. 

The people in the arena cheered for their na-Baron, growing only louder as her name was announced, opening the doors to expose her grinning self to the brightness momentarily blinding her. She found her way into the arena, nodding at the Baron who watched her every step, before letting her gaze focus on Feyd. 

He didn’t wear the same grin he had worn for yesterday's fight, he wasn’t as focused as he had been yesterday, no, this was a game to him – a clear advantage for her. She could lure him into her trap, could give him the feeling of winning, quickly gaining the upper hand, till he’d take a risk too big. 

Feyd didn’t waste any time, he charged at her with his full strength, set on knocking her to the ground. She barely managed to step aside, just a second too long and he would have buried her beneath him. But (y/n) was dancing around him, giving room to her laughter clawing through her. Her husband-to-be moved quickly, but (y/n) could pick up on the confusion guiding him, he hadn’t expected her to move like this, perfectly copying him. 

“I’m growing bored, na-Baron.” She tainted him, gleefully chuckling as he snarled at her, charging at her once again. This time, (y/n) allowed Feyd to rip her to the ground, but just for a second, before she flipped them around. The crowd gasped all too loudly as she raised her knife, only to ram it into the ground right next to his throat while winking at him.

(Y/n) sprang to her feet before Feyd could react, circling him to reach for her knife. He was urged on by his anger, and yet both felt the excitement binding them together, all too aware that no other person had ever dared to fight like this, not against the Baron’s nephew. Feyd’s blade met hers as he attacked, unable to stop his ticks from growing stronger. 

“I can already taste the Baron’s blood coating his heart.” Her teasing whispers rang in Feyd’s ears, distracting him for just a second too long. (Y/n) threw him to the ground with all her weight, once again straddling him. She was too focused on him to feel one of their soldiers nearing, stabbing its hook into her shoulder to rip her off Feyd. 

“You dare hurt my betrothed?” Feyd’s screams filled the arena as he charged at the soldier, cutting their throat before (y/n) could regain her position. Pain was clinging to her as blood oozed out of her wound – a wound she would have found enjoyment in if Feyd had been the one to mark her. But even though she was angry at being interrupted, she couldn’t ignore the heat now simmering inside of her, urged on by his anger, his will to kill for her.

A heat that whispered to (y/n) to give in, to allow Feyd this win. 

For a few more moments, all the two did was look at one another, silently communicating about their fight, moments of silence that were interrupted the second he attacked for the last time. She had grown bored, letting Feyd push her to the ground with a heavy thud. (Y/n) was too focused on the sensations her body was taken up with, begging for his touch, his lips, his hands, his cock. 

“I yield.” Her tongue kissed her teeth as she murmured the words. No reply left Feyd at her words, all he did was dip his head down and kiss her breathless, while allowing her to feel his hardening cock, begging to be freed, to sink into her aching cunt. 

……

“Your blood is even sweeter than I imagined, I bet your cunt tastes just as sweet.” He had her pressed to the cold wall, with his hand wrapped around her throat and his eyes burning through her. Both had been too impatient, desperate for one another’s touch, clinging to one another the second they had been left alone. “Tonight I will feast on my wife-to-be.” 

“You’re wasting my time if you only speak of promises, na-Baron.” She gave Feyd a harsh push and flipped their positions. He found himself pressed to the wall, and before he could even begin to realise what (y/n) was doing, she had reached for his hand, pressed it against the wall, and rammed her knife through his palm to pin it against the cold substance. Blood oozed out of his wound heavily, but all Feyd did was let go of a raspy moan, clearly enjoying the pain. 

She sank to the ground in front of him with a smile so sinister, it gave him a clear warning to stop himself from touching her. It didn’t take her long to free his twitching cock, letting her tongue run up his length before circling his pre-cum bearded tip. Feyd’s moans echoed through the room as she swallowed parts of him, pumping the remaining inches with her nimble fingers. 

“You were made for me.” It was a simple praise that rolled off his tongue, and for the first time since he could remember, Feyd found himself unable to speak anything else. His mind was hazy, the words no longer came to him as they always did, choked up by the feeling of (y/n) choking on his cock. 

It was a messy sight, with spit dripping from her chin, with tears welling up in her twinkling eyes. She moaned whenever he twitched inside her mouth, fuelling her excitement whenever her gaze flickered from Feyd’s pleasure-drunken features to his bleeding palm. Deep down, (y/n) could only hope that he’d paint her with his blood the second she’d free him, allowing him to regain his power while fucking her bruised. 

“My seed shouldn’t be wasted, it was made for your womb only.” He warned her to pull away, to stop her movements before he could cum down her throat. But (y/n) took her time, she kept bobbing her head, letting him graze the back of her throat a few more times to leave him moaning. Only as he was about to let go with curses rumbling off his tongue did she pull away, rising back to her feet. 

Feyd pulled the knife out of his palm with another heavy moan, letting it drop to the ground as he manhandled her down onto the bed. His blood was everywhere, marking her skin, and his bedding, a sight that only urged the two on. She was pulled into a teeth-clashing kiss as they rid themselves of their clothes, naked bodies searching one another as if they were high on spice. 

“Claim me like you said you would!” Both were fuelled by impatience, an impatience that urged Feyd to thrust his cock into her aching cunt before touching her with his fingers. For a second, they held still, foreheads pressed together, lips parted to let go of heavy pants, but the second he felt her flutter around him, he began to ruthlessly fuck her. 

Their visions were hazy, blurred almost, overcome by their pleasure, by the adrenaline they have felt ever since their fight in the arena – and yet another high was awaiting them, set on binding them together for eternity. (Y/n) tried to speak, wanting to rile him up even further, but all Feyd did was press his blood-covered hand to her lips, leaving his stain on her mouth. 

“I allowed you to play your games, now you’re mine to toy with.” He had her flipped around within seconds, fucking her from behind as he pressed her face into his pillow. Even though the fabric managed to muffle her moans, he still picked up on them – grinning as if he had fought hard to claim her, nothing but lies she had fed him. 

Feyd-Rautha had fallen for her games quicker than (y/n) had thought, high on the challenge she had tossed at him, unable to back down from a fight. All for him to touch her, to fuck just like he was doing now.

He had fallen under her spell, feeling sensations he had been unfamiliar with until this very day. Even though Feyd fucked her rougher than he had ever fucked before, leaving marks with every thrust, drawing blood from her hips even with his short fingernails, he found himself drawn to her like to no other being, making a promise of keeping her chained to him till the end of their time together. 

“You take my cock like a whore. I will kill every man who has touched you before me.” Spite dripped from his jealous words, unable to accept that she had been pure before this very day, moving too experienced, too perfect for a woman without any guidance. (Y/n)’s chuckles tainted him, forcing Feyd to tighten his grip on the back of her neck. 

“No other man has touched me, na-Baron. I was destined to be yours, my soul and my body.” The words were enough to draw a moan out of Feyd, feeling their highs creeping closer as they got lost in their emotions. He didn’t reply, didn’t find the strength to protest as she came on his cock. He fucked her through her orgasm with his teeth buried in his lower lip, keeping himself from giving in before she relaxed beneath him. 

Feyd eventually came with a groan, a sound so sinful, (y/n)’s walls fluttered around him once again. Both clung to one another as he filled her with his cum, not daring to let it go to waste. He stayed buried inside of her, with his tight grip on her neck, with his teeth scraping their way up to her shoulders, “You should know that from tonight on you’re my wife. I never cared about traditions, you’re now fully claimed.”

[madamspellmans-met-tet]

🔮 Brooklyn 🔮

Lilia Calderu x disabled!reader

tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Implied/Referenced Su!cide, Disability, Chronic Illness, POTS, Angst with a Happy Ending, Loneliness, Alternate Universe

summary: Lilia Calderu, a bar singer in Brooklyn, NY, took on a tenant who suffers from chronic illness. Unbeknownst to them, their fates are intertwined.

wc: ~ 3k

A/N: veeeeerrryyyy personal this one. I know the audience for this is very specific but it's worth it to me if only one person might feel understood and comforted by this.

TRIGGER WARNING as stated in the tags. Reader discretion advised.

*************************************

The door fell into the lock behind Lilia, and a breath that had been stuck in her chest expelled like a dislodged piece of apple she'd been choking on all day. She loved her job; she really did, but she was getting old.

Singing in The Tower, the dive bar around the corner, every night between middle-aged drunks and pool players with terrible aim—they refused to play with her these days because she kept taking them for all they'd got—took its toll on the body of a 75-year-old woman.

Her voice was hoarse. She kept clearing her throat as she locked the front door and went into her apartment on the ground floor of the two-story building she owned. The upper one she'd rented out to a young woman she never saw but whose lovely smile she hadn't been able to get out of her head after the first viewing. She'd taken it as a sign that she was the right choice for a tenant. And so far, she's had no complaints.

She shrugged off her black parka, the cigarette she'd smoked on the way home still perched between her lips, and threw it on the rack, unwrapped her scarf, and kicked off her loafers. The bottle of Single Barrel waited for her together with a crystal-cut glass—one of two she owned—on the drink table next to the sitting room door.

Grabbing the bottle by the neck and the glass between her fingers, she settled on the couch, took the cigarette between two fingers, and poured herself a drink. She took a last drag before stubbing it out in the ashtray and trading it for a couple of smoked almonds she tossed into her mouth.

They mixed well with the smooth burn in her throat as she drank, a spicy aftertaste on her tongue, and she picked up the tarot deck she kept on the coffee table. As she set her intention and drew the first card, a thud knocked against the high ceiling, then another. Thud, thud, thud.

-> continue

[phaedraismyusername]

Happy International Lesbian Day! Here's some super brief book recs to celebrate

Books dealing with love, loss, longing and abandonment

This is How You Lose The Time War is a short but beautifully written epistolary novel between two agents on opposite sides of a time war as they slowly fall in love.

Our Wives Under the Sea is one of the most beautifully written debuts I've ever read about a woman whose wife comes home wrong after they thought she'd died at sea and how it feels to grieve the loss of someone who's still in your home.

Lucky Red is a western novel about a young girl working in a brothel who meets her first female gunslinger and falls head over heels for her, and the consequences that come with loving dangerous people.

Body horror galore

Camp Damascus is about a young woman living in a super conservative christian town built around the worlds most successful conversion camp and the horrors that are uncovered there when praying the gay away fails.

To Be Devoured is about a woman whose fascination with the local vultures turns into obsession and the urge to know what carrion tastes like overtakes her life and leads her down stranger and stranger paths.

Chlorine is about a girl whose entire life revolves around being a competitive swimmer, and how abuse, neglect, and obsession with being the best takes its toll on the young women caught up in these destructive cycles.

Flawed character studies

Big Swiss is about a woman who has a kitchen floor reset in her 40s, moves away and starts a new life as a transcriber for a sex therapist and becomes obsessed with one of his clients before inserting herself into this poor woman's life.

The Seep is a speculative sci-fi set in a future where there's been a quiet alien invasion that has given people the ability to make almost any changes to their own bodies and what that world feels like to someone who doesn't want to partake.

Milk Fed is about a woman in therapy who feels cut off from almost everything until she meets another woman who triggers in her a melding of sex, hunger, and religion and where that takes her. Huge trigger warnings for ED content. It gets tough, y'all.

Fantastical wlw books

Bitterthorn is an amalgamation of fairytales retold as a slow burn sapphic love story between a sad young girl from a cursed land and the evil witch who takes her as a companion in the latest of the generational sacrifices made to appease her.

All the Bad Apples may be set in contemporary Ireland but it is a fairytale following a young girl as she travels across the country looking for a sister she refuses to believe is dead and the people she meets along the way.

Gideon the Ninth needs no introduction on this site but for the sake of formatting - lesbian necromancers in space who find themselves in an isolated murder mystery plot. It's not a romance but it is a love story and this series will change your life if you let it.

Translated novels

Boulder is a short character study following a free spirited woman when she accidentally settles down with the woman she loves and how love and resentment can take up the same space in your chest when life doesn't turn out the way you hoped it would.

Notes of a Crocodile is a cult classic coming of age story about queer teens in Taipei in the 1980s. It was written in the 90s so please keep that in mind if you choose to read it.

Paradise Rot is about an international student studying in Australia and her growing obsession with her housemate as they share a space that allows no privacy. I've never read anything that feels stickier.

[foundtherightwords]

Fallen Empires - Chapter 2

Pairing: Geta x OFC

Summary: Having done the unthinkable to secure his throne, Emperor Geta rules with ruthlessness and paranoia. Now, after escaping an assassination attempt, a badly injured Geta is saved by Daphne, a young widow, who takes him back to her remote village without knowing his true identity. As Daphne nurses the former emperor back to health, attraction blooms between them, and Geta discovers a soft side he didn't know he possessed. But can their love survive his thirst for revenge and his desire to reclaim power?

Chapter warnings: none

Chapter word count: 4.2k

Prologue + Chapter 1

Chapter 2

He was burning up. He had gone through the Styx, so this must be Phlegethon, the river of fire that coils around the Earth and flows into the depths of Tartarus. Would that he was in the Lethe, so he could forget all this pain. The twin blades in his shoulder and his ribs were back, and the awkward position of his body only exacerbated them. He was face down, sprawled across some sort of chair or saddle, which lurched and jolted underneath him like a boat over a fierce river. This confused him, for there was no boat across the Phlegethon, only the fiery current that burned the souls of sinners.

And he could spy those souls now, dark shapes that emerged from the flames and rushed at him, trying to drag him down with them. He thought he recognized one of them, a young man who struck him as particularly familiar, even in silhouette. And behind this young man, thousands and thousands more. His victims. But that made no sense. If his victims were here, that meant they were sinners and he had done right to kill them. So why was he here as well? Why were the flames licking at his head and his neck and his body, burning, scorching? And if he belonged here, why were his victims suffering along with him? Who was the righteous?

A jolt of pain shot through his torso, taking his breath away, and he came back to reality. Light was shining into his eyes, hurting them, though it was firelight or sunlight he could not tell. He couldn't lift a hand to shield himself or turn his head away from it. His limbs and even his eyelids appeared to be made of stone, so heavy they were, and a fog had settled over his brain, blurring everything and robbing him of any control over his mind and body. More than anything, it was this loss of control that frightened him. He had always been in full command of himself, and to be unable to speak or move was a terrifying form of torture he wouldn't wish even on his worst enemy.

Then the lurching stopped, and after some violent jolting, he found himself lying on hard ground, on his side, which made breathing less painful. He opened his eyes and saw flames. This really was the Phlegethon then. A dark figure crouched by the fire. One of those lost souls? Charon? No, there was no Charon. No Phlegethon. Only the stream. A horse. And a woman. And those green, green eyes. He couldn't see the eyes of the dark figure, whose face was hidden under a cowl.

The figure moved toward him. An arm slipped under his shoulder, lifting him, which hurt, and he felt a cup pressed to his lips. He closed his teeth against it and turned away, instinctively. He never drank or ate anything without having his taster test it first. But the cup followed his mouth.

"Drink it," a soft voice said. "It will make you feel better."

Better, meaning he would be well again, or better, meaning he would be dead and no longer in pain? He wasn't sure which would be preferable. That terrible burn of anger during his flight had been replaced by a creeping, nagging fear, brought on by his vision of the Phlegethon, and he was afraid that, should he recover, those ghosts in his dream would become too tangible, too real.

"Drink it," the voice repeated, a touch more impatient now. "I haven't gone through all the trouble to rescue you only to poison you. Drink."

He couldn't argue with that. And either way, he was too weak to fight off the cup. He unclenched his teeth, a bitter dose was poured into his mouth, and soon, darkness obscured everything.

But even in this darkness, the ghosts, the lemures, refused to leave him be. The darkness splintered into a million pieces, and each piece became a shadowy spirit that circled him, howling in his ears, clawing at him with their sharp talons and teeth, like a swarm of harpies, and he was too weak to drive them away. Some pieces of darkness coagulated into a bigger, human shape. It was the same figure of the young man he'd seen in the river of fire, now moving toward him with deliberate, inexorable steps. He curled up, trying to shield his eyes from its vengeful stares, but as it often happened in dreams, he found himself unable to move. It moved closer to the fire. Now there was nothing to prevent him from seeing its face—only there was no face. Above the neck, there was just a blank slab of skin, no eyes, no nose, no mouth, nothing at all. Yet somehow, as this abomination bent over him, Geta could still feel hatred radiating from it, like a heat wave over the desert.

He lashed out his arm with a feeble cry.

Something—or rather, someone—caught his arm. A hand slipped into his, a small, cool hand, soft of skin but firm of touch, and a gentle voice murmured something in his ears. The lemures and the shades were driven back, faded away. The dark became as it used to be in his childhood, friendly and restful, and he slept.

That was how it went for the next few days, though in truth he didn't know how much time had passed. Things happened in flashes and flickers, like shadows surrounding a campfire. He would open his eyes and see the dark figure stirring the fire, and a cup would be pressed against his lips, sometimes containing the bitter drink, sometimes containing something else, more palatable. Then sunlight would be hurting his eyes and he would feel coarse hair under his cheek and an animal smell in his nose. The pain in his shoulder and his chest was back, but he was grateful, for it helped him stay awake and avoid the realm of Hades in his dreams. But sometimes the pain was too much and he would slip into the world of darkness and ghosts and fire again, until that soft hand, that gentle voice, and occasionally those green eyes as well, brought him back.

He thought it would never end, this torturous journey with the brief rests that didn't bring much reprieve at all and only worsened the misery. Perhaps this was his punishment in Tartarus, just an endless, painful journey in a guttering dark that led nowhere at all.

At some point, the jolting worsened, and he felt himself sliding off the saddle, until someone caught him and righted him, wrenching a groan of pain out of him. They were going uphill. Then he was half-dragged, half-carried into a thicker darkness, and, thank Jupiter, there was no more bumping or jostling after that.

The journey was over, though the fire in his body, the pain, and the ghosts remained. More liquids were poured down his throat, something slightly sweet, something savory, like a broth. He felt better and then he felt worse. When the fire threatened to burn him, the bitter drink was brought out again, which sent him into a heavy, dreamless state of unconsciousness that was worse than even the ghosts. If he had been able to talk, he would have told whoever was looking after him to stop, to find him those hands and those eyes, which could help him much more effectively than a thousand bitter doses, but the mysterious Hippocrates remained inexorable, and the medicining continued.

Things swam into his view and took shape—a rough wall, a crudely made table, a small window, and a dark, scurrying shape. His mind knew them to be real, even that dark figure, who moved in a human way that was far different than the lemures of his nightmares. But before he could grasp them and form a picture of his surroundings, they were gone again, slipped back into the fire and the darkness. They came back though, more and more often, until one day, the fire finally cooled and the darkness receded. He opened his eyes and saw, clearly, not Hades, but a small, bare room—little more than a cell, really. He searched himself. He was dressed in a linen undertunic, coarse but clean, and there were bandages, smelling pungently of vinegar and some sort of herb, around his torso. His shoulder and ribs still ached, dully, and then sharply when he tried to move, and he was still lightheaded, but his mind was clear for the first time in days.

He sat up, stifling a groan, and discovered that he was lying in a low bed, on a lumpy mattress and pillow stuffed with what felt like raw sheep's wool, and covered with linen sheets. A tiny window gave the room its only source of light. The wooden shutters were closed, so only a few scattered rays came through, but they were enough to show him mud-brick walls with a door set into the far end, earthen floor smoothed by years of footsteps, and all the furniture, which consisted of the bed, a table, and a trunk. His cloak and belt were hung on a nail on the wall, and his boots stood underneath, but there was no sign of his tunic or his dagger. An earthenware jug and cup sat on the table.

So this was where he was. The picture he'd only seen in snatches and fragments was now whole at last.

The sight of the jug made him realize how thirsty he was. He reached for the cup, but his arm was weak as a newborn's and fell short. His hand dropped onto the table, rocking it, and the cup fell over with a clatter.

The door opened. Light poured into the room, momentarily blinding him. A hooded figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light. Geta's heart seized as the old superstitious fear came creeping back. Was it Thanatos, coming to claim him at last? Then the figure moved into the room, and he breathed more easily. It was a woman. He peered at her, trying to see if she was his guardian spirit with the green eyes. She lifted a hand to pull down her dark mantle, revealing a long, thin face with sharp features, accentuated by dark hair smoothed back over her brow into a simple knot at the back of her head. Her eyes were green, but they were a muted, pale green, nothing like the brilliant, calming green that had saved him from his nightmares. Could she be the same woman?

"You're awake," the woman said in Greek. Her accent was strange, though it was Syrian or Arabic, he couldn't tell. "Feeling better, I hope?" He tried to match her voice to the murmurs he'd heard in his sleep, but couldn't remember what it had sounded like. He only remembered being soothed by it.

"Who are you?" he asked. His voice only came out as an incoherent rasp. Seeing him struggle to swallow, the woman rushed forward, picked up the fallen cup, poured some water from the jug into it, and held it to his lips. The water was cool and sweet. He gulped mouthful after mouthful, almost without stopping to swallow. As the water slid down his throat, his chest unexpectedly tightened in pain, and he spluttered, spilling water and spit everywhere.

"Slow down," the woman said unnecessarily. "Your wounds are not yet healed."

He coughed and coughed, feeling as though his torso may tear open. It was a long time before the coughing subsided and he lay back on the bed, exhausted. By Jupiter, had he been reduced to such a weakling that a sip of water could hurt him so?

The woman put the cup to his lips again. He took smaller sips this time, letting the water cool his parched mouth and throat.

"Who are you?" he repeated. His voice was still faint, but at least it was audible. "Where am I?"

"My name is Daphne, I'm a healer," the woman said. "This is my hut. I found you floating on a stream in the Balikh Valley and brought you back to my village."

The Balikh! That was near the border between Osroene and Syria! By Jupiter, how long had he floated in that stream? But at least they spoke Greek here, that meant he was still within the Empire and hadn't strayed over to the Parthian side.

"My knife?" he demanded, not caring how brusque he sounded. His chest hurt so much he could only speak in short sentences, politeness be damned.

"I put it away, so you won't injure yourself or others." She glanced at the door, and that was when he noticed a strip of linen tied around her face, covering what looked like a cut. Had he done that?

"Give it back," he said.

"You've no business wielding a knife in your condition."

"Give me my knife!" he growled, and fell into another fit of coughing.

The woman looked at him critically for a moment, then she heaved a sigh of resignation and went into the front room. She returned a moment later with the dagger, still in its sheath, holding it strangely, like one would a kitchen knife, not a weapon. She handed it to him and quickly moved away, as if afraid he would spring out of bed and attack her.

"There," she said, "though I must say there is absolutely no need for it here. You're safe."

Safe? He was far from safe. Even as his body writhed and trembled from pain, his mind was clearing up fast, and memories came flooding back, vivid without the nightmarish haze that had veiled everything during his fever.

He remembered everything now. The march from Edessa to Carrhae to visit the temple of Sin, the Babylonian moon god, to pray for victory in the upcoming war with Parthia. The stop by the side of the road, overlooking a ridge, so he could relieve himself. The sound of furtive footsteps on the gravel behind him. "I've told you men not to follow," he'd grumbled, not bothering to turn around. "I need no attendant just to take a piss." Then the white-hot explosion of pain across his shoulder, spinning him around. The face of his attacker swam in front of his eyes, twisted in hatred. Martialis. One of his most trusted guards. Martialis had been pestering Geta to grant him a centurion position, but Geta had refused, preferring to keep a man he could trust close by. That had been his fatal mistake... or near fatal.

In the shock of the moment, somehow, Geta had had the presence of mind to pull out his own dagger and bury it Martialis's neck with one hand, while with the other hand, he'd grabbed at Martialis's knife as it stabbed into his chest, toward his heart. He had stumbled backward, rolled down the ridge, and then there was a dark, blank space in his mind, only broken up by snatches of memories like an unfinished mosaic—the painful staggering across a rocky landscape, the stream, Charon, the fire, and that hellish trip... He tried not to think of the ghosts.

"What happened to you?" the woman asked. "Was there a battle?"

Clearly, she believed he was a soldier. Good. He had no intention of persuading her otherwise. How lucky it was that he now preferred the simple clothes of a soldier to the elaborate imperial garb he'd once been used to. His intaglio ring, carved with the eagle and wreath that symbolized his power, was still on his finger, but the woman didn't recognize the image. No one would, save for those who were privy to seeing it on the seals of official documents.

"No battle," he said. "I was—attacked."

"By whom?"

He gripped the knife, finding comfort in its weight in his hand, thinking how ironic it was that the dagger that had meant to kill him was now his only weapon. How much should he tell her? He thought of Martialis again. The man couldn't have acted alone. The journey to Carrhae had been spontaneous, suggested by Macrinus, the praetorian prefect, who believed such a visit would bolster the army's failing morale and prepare them for the renewal of their campaign against Parthia. Whoever wanted Geta dead would have had to plan the assassination for a long time in order to seize this opportunity. Martialis didn't—hadn't had it in him—to seize such an opportunity, much less to plan and scheme. That was another reason why Geta hadn't wanted to make him a centurion. He didn't think Martialis would have made a good commander. A soldier through and through, a follower. Then who could have whispered poison in Martialis's ears and turned him against Geta, against his own Emperor?

He motioned to the cup, and the woman obligingly put it to his lips again, before retreating a safe distance away. "How far—are we—from Carrhae?" he asked.

"Five or six days' walk, over the hills. Is that where you came from?"

He shook his head. "Going there," he said. "From Edessa." It was a known fact that the army had been wintering in Edessa; it should be safe to tell her that much.

"Why were you marching on Carrhae?" the woman inquired. "Those two soldiers said the Parthians weren't going to attack us, but I don't like the looks of them. And they mentioned nothing about Carrhae."

This was new. He lifted his head. "What soldiers?"

"They were asking around for you," she said. "The day after I found you. But you said to hide you, so I told them I've seen nothing." She peered at him closely. "Was that wrong?"

So they had been searching for him. But why only two? Why weren't they tearing up the entire province to find him?

"What do they—look like?"

She described them, a rat-faced blonde and a dark-haired one with a scar. "To own the truth, they didn't seem too concerned about finding you," she added.

Geta didn't remember such men from his retinue. That raised his suspicion. He believed the army was loyal to him, but sending only two, seedy-looking and apparently incompetent men to search for him didn't inspire much confidence.

"Did they say anything else?"

"They mentioned someone called Martialis."

So they knew. Of course they had to know; the knife to the neck was enough to kill the traitor, and once they saw Martialis's corpse and discovered the Emperor missing, they should come to the right conclusion immediately. And yet—

"What's the date?" he asked.

"Three days past the ides of April," the woman said, and again he felt a shock. It had been eight days past the calends of April when they set out from Edessa. So for ten days he had been missing, yet there had been no widespread search, no outcry. It confirmed his suspicion that there was a conspiracy.

Who could it be? Could it be Artabanus IV, the Parthian king, wanting to dispatch him by subterfuge rather than facing him on the battlefield? Could it be someone hired by a disgruntled Senator, or by the entire Senate, who was tired of emptying the Empire's coffer for his wars? Could it even be a follower of his brother, someone he'd missed? He had too many enemies to count, and thinking of them made his head pound and his chest hurt. He dropped back on the mattress with labored breaths. One thing was clear: regardless of who was behind this conspiracy, he was in no condition to do anything about it.

The woman, the healer—he hadn't caught her name—was still peering at him. "I understand if you do not wish to tell me what happened to you," she said stiffly. He could tell she was not used to formal speeches. "But I cannot in good conscience let you perish here if there is help and better care elsewhere. If there is anyone you wish to send words to, let me know. The commander of your legion, perhaps, or a magistrate?"

There were only two people he trusted—Macrinus in Edessa, and his mother, currently in Antioch. But before he knew who wanted him dead, it would be too risky to contact them, lest the missive fell into the wrong hands. No doubt Macrinus was even now rousing all forces for a search, and Macrinus would know to proceed with the utmost caution. If the Parthians or any enemy of Rome got wind that the Emperor was missing, it would be the end of the Empire. 

"No," he said at last. "It's best that no one knows I'm here. But if you hear of any talk in your village, you are to inform me immediately." He heard the commanding note in his voice, and realized a simple soldier shouldn't be speaking thus. "I mean, I would be obliged if you let me know of any news or rumors," he corrected himself.

The woman still hesitated, and he thought he understood her concern. "See me through this," he said, "and you'll be handsomely repaid for your trouble."

"I don't need your payment," she said, sounding offended.

He snorted. "Do you heal people out of the goodness of your heart then?"

She ignored his jab. "All I need to know is, will I be in danger for taking you in?" she asked. "Either from you, or the men looking for you?"

He lifted himself up, with difficulty, to look at her. Seeing him struggle, she rushed forward and put her hands under his arms to help him. Her hands were strong, capable. He remembered how they had reached for him through the darkness and the fire and brought him out of hell itself. She had saved his life. And no matter what people called him, tyrant and murderer and worse, let no one say that Publius Septimius Geta was an ingrate.

"You won't come to harm," he said. "I swear it, by Jupiter and Minerva and—"

She shook her head. "I don't need your vow, just your word."

"Then you shall have it."

The woman fixed her gaze on him, her eyes piercing and inquisitive, with none of the softness he remembered from his dreams. But it had to be the same woman; who else could it be? All that nonsense about her eyes being greener than the hills of Caledonia must be the imagination of his fevered brain, no more. And it was nonsense. The hills of Caledonia were a hostile place, cold and craggy and full of hiding Picts waiting to drop boulders onto his men and bury axes in their skulls, not the place of rest and peace he'd dreamed of at all.

The woman weighed his word and seemed to decide that it was good enough. She eased him onto the pillow and got to her feet. "Can you tell me your name, at least?" she asked.

A simple question. He could have given her any name, any at all. Yet the question nagged at him. He had been born Publius Septimius Geta. He had become Severus Antoninus upon his father's ascent to the throne. He had been Caesar and Augustus and Domine. He had been called, both in friendly jest and in sneering mockery, Tarautas, after a famously violent gladiator. Now, he had no idea who he was.

"Romulus," he said eventually, thinking of the first king of Rome. The one who had struck down his brother and built an empire. The one who survived. "You may call me Romulus."

The woman frowned slightly. He held his breath. It was a common enough name, with no connection to his own. Did she suspect something? He put his hand under the pillow, closing his fingers around the hilt of the dagger.

"Just Romulus?" she asked.

"Romulus Publius," he said before he could stop himself. Perhaps it was foolish of him to use his praenomen, but then again, he thought to himself, it was common enough.

Thankfully, the woman raised no further questions or comments about his name. She merely nodded and turned to the door. Geta let out a small, almost imperceptible breath of relief, and released the dagger. 

"I didn't catch your name," he called after her.

"It's Daphne," she said.

"Like the tree?" he asked, puzzled.

She smiled. "My true name is Nysa, after my grandmother, but she called me Daphne because I was always climbing her laurel tree as a child." Her face softened at the memory, and for a moment, Geta could almost recognize the guardian spirit from his dreams.

"Rest," she said. "If you need anything, I'm right outside." She went out, closing the door behind her.

Geta put his head on the pillow and tried to relax. Rest, yes. That was what he needed. Revenge would have to wait.

Chapter 3

Again, I'm sticking with historical facts by keeping Macrinus's office as praetorian prefect, which he held during Caracalla's reign.

Taglist: @sheneedsrocknroll92, @justnobodynothingmore, @barcelonaloverf1life, @myotakureprieve (if you want to be tagged, let me know!)

[sehaedazokla]

he that dares

part four

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems. 

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

chapter warnings: canon-typical violence, blood, assault, attempted sexual assault, grief mention

word count: 8.2k

previous part | next part | series masterlist

Cregan Stark grows restless as the days pass. In the late afternoon he finds himself sat in his chambers, taking a moment to organize his thoughts. 

The castle is abuzz with a low hum of anxious rumor and bated breath, given the increasing number of arrests as more and more turncoats are revealed. To round them up and sentence them is his duty, and a task he does not take lightly. It is impossible to, when he sees the young Prince Aegon. A boy of one and ten whose situation dances about like the familiar ghost of Cregan’s own past. 

Yet the vultures circle high above his head, close enough to hear the flapping of wings, only kept at bay by the army of Northern wolves. The Southern nobles bide their time, allowing him to retain power for now. But the more men that are arrested, the more fear begins to spread. Festering in the castle like an open wound. The glares he receives when he walks the halls are more venomous than ever. 

His informational network has been firmly set into place. Sooner rather than late, the scorpions will be dealt with and justice brought to both Aegon II’s poisoners and the final remnants of those who might wish to see the young prince dead instead of upon the Iron Throne.

As Cregan sits in front of the hearth in his room, his jaw tenses. The storms of his eyes stare down into the flames as they splutter and dance atop the thick logs they burn upon. A poisoned leader and a young heir. Is it fate that has him once again in this circumstance? Only this time, he is not child. Justice will be carried out properly, and swiftly. One of his fists clench tightly, his expression growing darker. 

How deeply he longs to return north, to smell the pine and feel the crunch of snow beneath his boots. To breath freely, in clear air, rid of the stuffiness of the Red Keep and the general oppressiveness of the capital. The Lord of Winterfell is quite glad to have spent his time far from here, away from the choking toxicity that seeps through the walls and penetrates minds and bodies alike.

He rubs a hand over his chin as her visage flickers through his mind.

Perhaps it is no surprise to Cregan that Lady Tyrell is as she is when she has spent so much time here. She has roots planted firmly within the weeds and she blooms beautifully in the muddy and trampled wreckage left from the war. So much so that even when presenting with lies and deception, two things Cregan has little taste for, she has ensnared his attention beyond what he can excuse as primal attraction.

It would be a lie to say that he does not find his eyes trailing her figure, absorbed by her lips and their fullness. Any man with eyes and a cock would do the same, Cregan thinks. No, it is the little flicker of truth that he sees from time to time, beneath the honeyed words. He cannot help his own curiosity, and the desire to see more burns in his chest brighter than the fire in front of him. 

One of his arms comes to rest on the side of the plush armchair. Everything in the castle is so ornate that it is almost nauseating. Longing for the simplicity of Winterfell echoes about his body.

Lady Tyrell remains the sole noble who consistently seeks out his presence, regardless of rumor or what she sees. The woman is frighteningly persistent and quite smart; if she were not so determined to manipulate him to her whims, Cregan might want her as an ally. It would be a relief, to have one amongst the vipers who is not trying to sink their fangs into him with the intention of poisoning him. Lady Tyrell certainly wants something from Cregan Stark, but at least she does not want him dead.

He believes it so, anyways. 

With the twisting of a wry smile onto his lips, Cregan finds himself with the distinct thought that if the lady wished him dead, he might just be so already considering how much food and wine he has consumed in her presence. Still, the lack of clarity regarding her true intentions claws at the back of the lord’s mind. His hand comes to rest under his chin as he considers what he might do to shed light on the truth of the matter.

It is not an impossible task. While Lady Tyrell has forced their repeated proximity for her own interest, Cregan has learned more of her just as she has learned more of him. And she is not the only one who is accustomed to the intricacies of political power dynamics. Cregan’s eyes narrow, pupils reflecting the glowing firelight.

The hour draws rather late as Lady Tyrell flips through the pages of a thick tome within the castle library. Hair falls carelessly into her face but she cannot find herself bothered enough to brush it aside, her bottom lip bitten slightly as she focuses on the words. A single lantern rests on the long wooden table, illuminating the pages as she lifts her hand to turn yet another. Her brows draw together as she continues.

The library has remained rather empty since the war began. The delicious irony of this is far from lost on her. Yet it serves as a relatively untouched sanctuary in which one can gather their thoughts or simply have a moment of peace. The tall walls of books extend out in a vast hall of knowledge, the shelves turning into each other at different points to create soft pools of shadow one might easily hide themselves within to escape the world around. The long wooden tables are dotted with carefully covered candles, many of which remain unlit. The large windows have the thick fabric of their curtains drawn closed, as the sun has recently set. 

Reading serves her in more ways than one; much is to be learned from the pages of history and so much of it is wholly ignored. Lessons that have already been learned throughout time, forgotten. Only to be learned again a hundred years later, and the same price paid. She is cautious to consume as many historical texts as might be possible, lest she fail to find valuable insight that might change her fortune. With a sigh, she lowers her chin onto her hand as her elbow rests on the cool wood of the table. There is no need to be proper when the only other visitors to the library are aging maesters who pay her little mind as they shuffle through books as thick as the one before her now.

This is why her back stiffens at the sound of approaching footsteps. Heavy boots and a pressure to each intentional step that has her holding the edge of the cream page in her hand so tight it wrinkles beneath her fingers. The library does not seem so sacred any longer.

She need not turn to know whose presence has interrupted her solitude. The steps come to a stop behind her chair and the lady is met with the scent of pine and the faintest hint of woodsmoke. With delicate fingers she releases the page crinkling in her grasp as the man behind her walks around to the other side of the table. He lacks hurriedness, languidly making his way to the chair across from her and pulling it out, a soft scraping sound echoing as he does.

Her face remains innocently neutral as he sinks down, all heavy limbs and a low tilt to his chin, into the chair like molten lava in the blacksmith’s workshop. With a gentle touch, she brings together the worn pages of the wide book to close it, and one hand lingers delicately atop the cover. A sweet surprise catches in her eyes as her eyebrows raise.

“I cannot say I was expecting you, Lord Stark.” Slowly, Lady Tyrell opens the conversation with an amiable cadence and tender softness about her face. She wonders briefly how he knows where to find her, but before the thought can fully take form in her mind, Cregan dips his head.

“I was told by your handmaiden that I might find you here if I wished to speak with you, Lady Tyrell.” The Northern depth and slowness to his tone still sends chills down her spine. The library is far from cold. At his words, she blinks slowly, lashes brushing against the top of her cheeks. Her pause is not performative, but genuine surprise at the revelation that he was purposefully seeking her out – going so far as to knock on her chamber door to call upon her. 

Adelin has been smart to send Cregan directly to the lady, even without warning. This is hardly an opportunity she will pass up upon.

“And found me you have.” Delicately sweet words fall between them with the parting of her lips. Her hands reach up to push lose hair from her face, before she takes a deep breath and settles further into her chair. She does attempt to keep the intrigued glimmer from the depths of her eyes; it is only that she has been pursuing him with such ardent fervor that it delights her to see this take a more interesting turn. How repetitive it can get, her faux gentle smiles and his polite northern reservation. The heated looks down each other’s bodies go poignantly ignored in her head.

Cregan beholds her wordlessly, head tilted back and chin lifted to observe her coolly.  There is a simplicity to her gown today as well, as it had been during their private dinner. The gentle swell of her breasts can be seen more prominently in this dress, even if the lord has found the other ones dangerous enough. “Aye, I have.” 

She knows well when something is wanted from her. And here sits the Lord of Winterfell, who she knows for certain has not sought her out for the darling pleasure of her company. Taking a breath through her nose, her shoulders rise, the low neckline of her gown drooping slightly further with the movement. “Might I be of some assistance, Lord Stark?”

Cregan’s grey eyes glimmer at the quickness of her saccharine reply, the direct yet demure way she demands his cards on the table immediately. There is no sound from the rest of the library, the castle’s inhabitants seem more occupied with other matters for the evening. His hands come together on the surface of the table and her eyes drift down, catching a glimpse of the veins on the back of them. “I have a matter with which I would very much like your thoughts upon, my lady.”

Taking another slow breath, she nods thoughtfully and her gaze falls to the single candle upon the library table. A sheepish hesitance flutters across her face as if brought about by butterfly wings, and she presents him a tiny smile. “It would be my honor to offer my opinions, my lord, but I fear I know little of warfare or the ending of it.”

Round doe eyes cast themselves upon his face, decorated with the gentle glow of humility.

“It is you of all people who might offer insight,” Cregan’s hands tighten against each other slightly as they rest between them. His broad shoulders lower, his stern expression folding to become impossibly more serious. A moment of leisurely anticipation stretches between them in the pause he takes, his gaze seemingly searching hers. It is with utmost delicacy that she maintains her passive, pastel pleasantness. “It is a matter of a proposal, my lady.”

Her blood pounds in her ears. Tension spikes through her head, sharp behind her eyes and heavy on her shoulders. Cregan opens his mouth to explain his reasoning further, his eyes gazing slowly about the library as he speaks. But the Lady Tyrell pays his following words little mind, frozen like a doll left out in the cold by a little girl who had been called in for supper. All slow blinks and that eerie, easy smile upon her lips.

“I have grown so keenly aware of my lack of allies at court…” His voice is a distant drone, she pays no attention to the heavy raise of his brows and the weary sigh that droops his figure. While he speaks, she finds herself lost in the maze of her own thoughts, spinning around lost and confused. The walls of her fears loom over her, draped in thorns and ivy, at the prospect. 

It should not be as shocking as it is. They are the same age, both young and unmarried, both in need of something from the other. And yet – is this not the physical manifestation of all that she has been dreading since the passing of her betrothed? To be married off to some lord she barely knows, subjected to a life at the hands of a husband who is just as likely to treat her callously and cruelly as he is to respect her, no matter how handsome he might be? Her mother told her to win his favor, not marry him. But in truth, if this is what is takes for peace to be achieved then she is wickedly selfish for considering a mad dash for the door.

Her mouth has gone dry and her fingernails dig so sharply into the fragile skin of her hand that she fears she will draw blood and stain the book cover below it. She continues to smile. 

“Would it not serve our houses well?” Cregan’s voice drives a swift dagger through her turbulent thoughts, and she readjusts herself in her seat. Her hands fall to her lap and she agrees demurely, forcing her smile wider when she dips her chin.

“I cannot say it is not…a kind offer, Lord Stark,” Lady Tyrell murmurs with delicate, plucking cadence. She swallows, hoping to rid her tongue of its dry heaviness. The library, its calming atmosphere of scrolls and books and candles, has suddenly lost all of its usual comfort. The shelves about the hall loom ominously above her, trapping her beneath their massive structures. Cornering her here with this man and his propositions. “House Tyrell is honored by your consideration.” 

Cregan watches her carefully. Studying her for a glimpse of masked pride and pleased simpering. This is what she wishes, is it not? Power and wealth through an ambitious match.

She reaches up to twist a strand of hair out of her way with a purposeful breath, wisps of lashes aflutter once more. Her beating heart is a weighty stone inside of her chest. “If it is what you wish, I would hardly feel the need to present my opinion upon the matter, my lord.” 

“It is only that you know your sister so much better than I,” Cregan tells her with a raise of his thick brows, a hand coming to rest on his chin as he leans back in his chair. His gaze remains cast to a bookshelf, as if lost deeply in thought. “Perhaps you might have some insight upon the nature of such a union.” 

There is a heartbeat where not a single thought occupies her mind. Lady Tyrell merely looks upon the man in front of her with empty, unblinking eyes. Her smile twitches at the corners, the edges of her cheeks rounding at the movement. It feels as if her hands are beginning to grow numb, as if an hour has passed before her dry lips part with disturbed slowness. “I beg your pardon?”

It is all that she can manage to breath, giving her a moment to collect the wild frenzy of thoughts. Where there had been silence only a moment ago, floodgates have been shattered to splinters as the torrent of words spill into her brain like the ocean itself has descended upon her mind. If she could sound alarms, she would. Their blares would better suit the panic in her heart than the silence of the castle library. The nonchalance of Cregan’s tone is not lost upon her.

“Your sister – the Lady Cassia. I have been told she is quite beautiful, and of a very agreeable countenance,” The Lord of Winterfell talks as if he is simply commenting upon the shade of blue in the sky or the taste of red wine at dinner. It has been some time since she has been this shellshocked. This utterly thrown by anyone, this completely caught vulnerable and off guard. She knows her smile no longer reaches her eyes; it barely remains upon her face at all.

The obvious question is to ask him why he would not simply wish to marry her – she knows well she has not imagined the way Cregan Stark rakes his eyes down her figure and about her face. Like a man starved. But far be it from her to understand the whims of men, Northern men even less so. She gives another slow blink. He is waiting for her to say something, she realizes. With a swallow, she does at least attempt to carve something resembling pleasance onto her features.

“She is but five and ten, my lord.” Her lips hesitant around the words, betraying a slight nervousness that makes her blood spike with irritation and worry. Rapidly, she attempts to pull for excuses she can offer to prevent him from marrying Cassia. The task proves rather difficult given the quickness with which she must accomplish it. She can feel fear dulling her senses, which only sets the feeling alight further. The jumping of the candleflame between them nearly makes her draw back.

“The age of marriage, is it not?” Cregan easily provides an answer with a heavy shrug of his shoulders. Lady Tyrell knows his words to be true, but it does not stop her eyes from darting about. She lowers her chin, trying to bring a semblance of composure to herself. There is too much to think of at once; she needs time to consider.

But in her head, she knows with a sinking feeling what her mother would say. Her eyes grow dull as she realizes that if Cregan follows through with this proposal, her mother will happily send Cassia off with this stranger if it means securing peace and the future of their House. His words cannot leave this room. The realization rises with a crushing swell in her chest. 

“I do not believe she would be a suitable match, in truth.” There is a sharper edge to her saccharine tone than has ever been present, and she does not meet his eyes as she usually does. She imagines her sweet sister, who adores flowers and the fields of Highgarden and the sunshine, whisked away to a castle surrounded by snow and ice and dying trees. “Cassia is a delicate girl. I cannot imagine she would fare well in the North.”

Cregan finds it a refreshing change of pace to see her squirm for once, the delicate balance of her performance shattered by his words. Yet he still has not found the answer he is looking for.

“She would adjust, in time,” Cregan offers politely, his red hair shifting slightly to frame his face. She takes no note. “If it is for the sake of peace. Especially if she is as agreeable as is suggested.” A slight smile spreads to his face.

Her eyes flick to his with the sharpness and severity of a sword.

And she holds his gaze for quite some time. For the first time since their meeting, she looks at him without performance. Lady Tyrell meets him upon the battlefield of their game free of armor and weapons and nauseatingly sweet illustration.

Her eyes are piercingly jagged, wider as they bore into his own, and her lips are parted. A loose strand of hair falls into her face, catching stray candlelight in a haunting glow. She is just as beautiful, Cregan realizes with a start, when she is staring him down as if she intends to have his head on a spike by the end of this conversation. 

Lady Tyrell will have just that before Cregan Stark lays a hand on her sister. He will spend his final moments in agony if he believes he will take Cassia anywhere, if he thinks he can demand her. She will not be threatened by the prospect of war or the destruction of her House. The Lord of Winterfell would soon see just how many men she would let burn before she sacrifices her sister to be taken by a man who wants a quiet and submissive bride to use as he wishes. 

“It would seem I misread you, Lord Stark,” It is chilling to hear her true voice after Cregan has grown so accustomed to the gentle manner in which she presents even the few biting words she has allowed pass her lips in his presence. There is a haunting emptiness to the phrase and in her eyes that takes him aback. “It does not happen often.”

Her brows lower darkly, a shadow passing over her gentle features.  There is a barbarous sting in her tone that pulls to mind images of snakes, still yet poised to strike. Disgust curls at her lip, the look she gives Cregan as her eyes rinse over his figure dripping with poisonous distaste. “Here come the carrion birds, whispering of frost-bitten savages who will wet our gardens with blood. I watched and I waited and foolishly drew the conclusion that as great of an irritation as you are, you are not a conqueror. Not a man who would seek a young girl as a spoil of war.”

She does not blink one time as she speaks. Eyes wide as saucers, thinly veiled anger simmering beneath her skin. “Do you think I will allow you to sit across from me and demand I hand my only sister to you because it will bring about peace? Because it will ensure the enduring security of my great House? I imagine you did.”

A huff of cold laughter quite nearly twists its way past her lips. The pumping of her beating heart feels akin to nails being hammered into her chest. Anything else she would gladly sacrifice to fulfill her mother’s wishes and win Cregan Stark’s favor. But never this. “No, my lord. You shall not have my sister, nor peace.”

With the screech of a chair scraping against wooden paneling, Lady Tyrell pushes her chair back and draws herself upright, body as tight a strung bow. She glares down at Cregan with such ferocity that he briefly wonders if she might try to fight him then and there in the castle library. But she merely glowers at him, scoffing with disgust as she lowers her voice to a whisper. “Find your submissive bride among the many Houses that will happily offer up their daughters as lambs to slaughter. You will not lay a hand on my sister in this lifetime.”

His eyes catch sight of the way her hands are trembling. 

She spins with such a violence that her skirts billow out in an angry storm cloud about her, the heels of her shoes echoing in the silent library. Never in her life has she been so utterly fucked, so desperatelystupid and brash. Her shaking hands ball into fists as she stalks towards the library door. Fear prickles at every nerve in her body, the immediate regret washing over her in a chilling wave. 

The sound of a chair tipping over makes her jump, her shoulders jerking and her hand hesitating on the gold doorhandle of the grand library. She does not know whether to freeze or run, unsure if Cregan is getting up to strike her for her insolence, or to simply leave. It was idiocy to speak to him as she did, she of all people knows this painfully. She turns her head over her shoulder, palms shining with sweat, catching a glimpse of him as he approaches.

Anxious helplessness claws its way up her throat, stifling her breath at the sight of his imposing figure drawing nearer. She does not have enough time to open the door, he will reach her before she leaves. Neither can she imagine she has much time to scream. As breath evades her further, she parts her lips to murmur a shaky apology against the thrumming of her rapid heartbeat. But his voice carries out into the space between them first.

“Please, my lady, a moment.” Cregan speaks the words quietly, his rich Northern tone softer than she has ever heard it. Her back presses into the great oak door as he draws nearer, stopping in front of her. She does little to hide the worry upon her face, her brows drawn together warily. There is a horrible guilt that has begun to spread in Cregan’s chest.

Confusion stirs in her gut as she looks up to find only a stoic concern in his eyes, his lips parted slightly as he searches for the words he wishes to say. A part of him wants to reach out, to try and comfort her, but he imagines it would do little but set her off. “Lady Tyrell, I did not wish to frighten you.”

His voice is scarcely above a hum in his deep tone, the quiet and tender manner in which he presents it only serves to deepen her misunderstanding. She gazes up at him with suspicious concern, searching for some sort of ploy or deception. A heavy sigh lowers Cregan’s shoulders, drooping his figure slightly. This is why he despises these ridiculous court games. “I have no intention to marry your sister, in truth. She shall be perfectly safe, I assure you.”

A shudder of a skeletal breath rattles its way out past her lips. Her eyes flicker, crinkling with confusion, as she regards him with wary unease. But there is nothing but seemingly genuine worry for her wellbeing as the Northern lord hovers hesitantly in front of her. 

“I do not understand.”  There is an almost petulant softness to her words as she looks up at him, clawing for an explanation so that she might regain a semblance of control as she remains pressed to the oak door, Cregan only a step in front of her. Gazing down with such eyes. 

The man opens his mouth to speak but finds any explanation he can provide for his actions will only seem cruel. Cregan has been so blinded by the toxicity of the Red Keep and the politics played by the nobles that he had acted with prejudice against her, assuming her some power-hungry bird of prey, trying to sink her talons into him to raise her own status. But here in front of him is a girl who loves her sister, who would risk incurring his wrath to tell him directly that she would do anything to protect the girl. He does not consider himself someone who toys with people’s feelings. Perhaps the capital has had worse influence on him than he realizes.

“I only wished to determine your intentions with me,” The man quite nearly winces from how stiffly aware he is of the callousness of his actions, and how terribly he is excusing them. He tilts his head, a pained expression flickering across his face like the lighting of a tea candle. “I had believed you wished to marry me yourself. I could not determine whether it was for your own gain or your House so I…”

Lady Tyrell sees it quite clearly now, even through the dense fog of her anxiety. It is a good plan; she can give him that compliment at the very least. Had he used anything aside from her sister, she might have caught on. It is Cassia above all that is her weakness, especially after the death of Helaena. She is foolishly and vulnerably blindsided when the girl is brought up. Cregan Stark likely does not even know to the full extent. Truly, a masterful scheme. 

But the anger burns hot in her chest, fueled by her fear, the flames wildly licking and spitting about in her lungs. 

Her wide eyes look up into his as the realization settles upon her face like an unforgiving dawn. A heavy silence falls between them and Cregan finds himself longing to fill it, to apologize further for behaving in a manner unbecoming of his character. 

“You must think yourself very smart, Lord Stark.” The lady’s tone is dangerously low and airy. That sickly sweet smile peels its way onto her face, an eerie ghost of the look she has given him time and time again. 

Cregan’s heart plummets in his chest. All he had wanted was to know the truth. He has seen it, clear as day, the depth of the love she has for her sister. The bravery and ferocity with which she will meet him with in order to defend the girl, even in the face of the lady’s own fear. His head tilts, his brows drawing together in gentle apology. 

“Lady Tyrell, if you would please let me-.” But Cregan Stark is not given the chance to do anything nor say anything. She turns quickly, hand gripping the golden doorhandle to yank the library door open with such force that Cregan steps back. Her body slips through the partially open door. It closes with a violent slam and Cregan is left staring at the wood, alone in the vast and silent library.

When she hears the muffled sound of a man’s footsteps behind her as she walks down the hall, she does not bother to turn around. The hour has grown late and most of the castle has drawn away to their bed chambers or to skulk in shadowy corners. She parts her lips to snap something rather barbarous about not wishing to be followed, but the words are lost in her mouth as she feels a hand grab her wrist.

After much heavy pacing, Cregan Stark finds his boots carrying him to Lady Tyrell’s bedchambers. He simply cannot allow the night to pass without the deliverance of proper apology. Despite getting the answer he had been seeking, the truth behind the nature of her character, there is no satisfaction in his chest. Far be it from him to engage in such deceptions, and yet he has offended and frightened her in a manner that is so deeply against that for which he stands. The capital will not turn his heart rotten nor dispel the sacrosanct honor he strives to uphold. 

Guards are stationed outside of her door as the lord rounds the corner, the Tyrell rose blooming in vibrant gold against the silver of their breastplates. Her personal guards, whom had not been stationed there when Cregan had knocked upon her door earlier that evening. A deep unsettling wariness finds its way into his mind, and it only increases when the guards move to intercept him as he draws nearer. The flicker of torchlight upon the walls ripples across the shining armor as Cregan’s narrowed eyes flick between the two men.

Lady Tyrell can hear the muffled exchange of words through her thick door, her eyes jumping sharply to stare at the oak.  Sharp anxiety shoots through her frayed nerves, but simmers to a hum at the deep rumble of a Northern tone. The fire in her hearth crackles as she sits on the floor in front of it, the plush rug beneath her partially balled up in one tightly closed fist. With an eerie stillness, she rises from her place upon the ground and steps slowly towards the echoes of voices, her bare feet soft against the cold wood. 

When she draws the door inwards, opening it, all parties involved in the exchange turn their heads to meet her. She hovers at the edge of the frame, one hand curling delicately against the thick wood as the remainder of her body remains obscured. Her guards turn and the taller one, Leo, gives her a deep and apologetic dip of his head.

“I apologize for the disturbance, my lady, we were sending him away at once.” Leo assures her firmly, one hand resting atop the shining hilt of his golden sword. But her tired eyes fall upon Cregan Stark’s face instead. He is beholding her with faint surprise, his lips parted and brows low, his red hair loose about his face and falling down to brush the tops of his shoulders. His eyes rest on her lips – far from the first time such a thing has occurred, but it is not through half-lidded desire with which he stares now. It is shock.

A ripening cut pulls at her lower lip, ruby against reddening and swollen skin. Her eyes reveal nothing as he finds a stern and questioning expression twisting its way onto his face as he takes a slow step back. One of the guards moves to further push Cregan away, but with an unreadable neutrality, she shakes her head, loose hair spilling down about her face and over what little can be seen of her ivory nightgown.

“It is alright,” Her voice is hoarse, as if the act of speaking is foreign in her throat. Her grip tightens on the edge of the door before she draws it open further. “If Lord Stark wishes to speak with me, he may.” 

There is no need to acquiesce to his wants, nor to prevent her guards from running him off. Performance is no longer required as she has already destroyed all of the time spent crafting a sweet disposition to charm him with. But now that her heartrate is steady and exhausted, the veins connecting to her heart too tired to thrum with the rush of adrenaline and anxiety, she can see Cregan quite clearly. There is nothing false about the firm worry he extends silently to her, a demanding question barely bitten back upon his tongue.

“But my lady--.” Leo begins with a start, concern in the man’s eyes for his lady. She shakes her head again, stepping back in an unspoken invitation for the Lord of Winterfell.

“I shall scream if need be. Do not go far.” It is a quiet order, a bitter amusement bubbling in her throat but stifled down by a rush of exhaustion yet again. The guards exchange a worried look but know better than to argue with her. Cregan stands as still as a stone statue, as she turns her back to him to walk further into her room. His stormy eyes trail after her, uncertain if he should ask her if she truly wants him to follow her inside. Yet his feet carry him forward before his mouth can form words, the closing of the door behind him. The sound echoes with a quiet tolling of finality that Cregan cannot identify.

Lady Tyrell’s chambers are expansive and comfortable, the large bed on the far side covered in satin and silk blankets and a mountain of fluffed pillows at its head. The warm oak posters of the bed spiral upwards, a sheer canopy of pink fabric shimmering softly in the firelight of the hearth. Two plush chairs stand before the hearth, before a thick rug that the Lady Tyrell stands upon. There are shards of glass at the base of her bedside table, shining like small knives as they catch light, and interwoven into puddles. A bunch of dried roses rests upon the floor, scattered haphazardly, their crisp petals soaking up the water that had once been in their vase.

Cregan’s eyes cannot be torn from her figure, and he imagines that would be the case even if the castle around them began to collapse in that very moment. Her hair is completely loose, messy strands falling in front of her face and down her back, and her eyes are dull and red-rimmed from the remnants of shed tears. There is a gaunt look to her skin, only strengthened by the small wound on her soft lips.

Even though it was her own decision to invite him into her quarters, she has to resist the urge to squirm under the heaviness of the Northern lord’s stare. It is too steady, too intense, and her eyes narrow in challenging response despite herself. When her lips open into with a callous twist, her voice comes out dry and rather cold. “Have you come simply to stare at me, my lord?”

“What has happened?” The heavy lowness of the phrase morphs it into a demand, rather than a question. Cregan’s hands are gripped in tight fists, his shoulders raised. The man is always serious, but the severity of his tone has her remembering just who this man is – the Lord of Winterfell, the Wolf from the North who has forced King’s Landing into submission and rules in all but title. Towering within her chambers, mandate weighty upon his lips. The storm clouds upon his face darken as she does not answer immediately. “I have only just seen you, but hours ago. Can I not take my eyes off of you for a moment?”

The growl in his normally politely resigned tone sends a chill down her spine. She does not understand the rough urgency of his voice.

If she asks after it, she will discover he does not understand it either.

Unconsciously, her fingers reach for her reddening wrists, her eyes lowering and gazing about the room while a syrupy swallow makes it way down her throat. Cregan’s eyes flick down, taking sharp note of the marks that blossom upon the skin of her arms. His anger burns hotter, and when he meets her avoidant gaze, it is clear that he wants an answer immediately.

Letting out a huff of breath, stopping just short of muttering something about brutish Northern impatience, she turns elegantly. Wrists wringing in her hands, she lowers her eyes and opens her mouth, shoulders drawn back gracefully even in the disheveled state of her appearance. “I do not know, to be perfectly honest, my lord.”

Her eyes find their way to the fireplace, willing herself to still her hands and folding them over top of her stomach. She smooths a wrinkled portion of her nightgown before continuing, her back partially turned to him. “I was not paying much mind to where I was going, the hour was late. A hand came upon my wrist and when I pulled towards someone, I screamed. He smelled of wine and strong spirits and my shouting must have made him panic.”

A slight wobble of her damaged lower lip makes Cregan’s heart plummet further. This is not how he wishes to see her, eyes dim and thinly veiled anxiety covered with a cloak of indifference. He has grown used to the pleased glimmers in her pupils when she believes him to not be looking, that bright intelligence reading his every move and word. The sound of the crackling fire fills the pause.

“He struck me when footsteps could be heard, and then ran. He did not say what he wanted from me. He did not need to.” The vacancy that occupies her stare is ghostly, and the burdening truth hangs between them weightily. Neither of them are fools. Her chin lowers, lashes against the tips of her cheeks when she pulls her gaze to the floorboards. The rug atop them is soft upon her feet. 

Cregan takes in her bruising wrists and the cut upon her mouth, before his attention turns to the fallen roses and shattered vase. When she catches this, a bitter smile cuts through her thoughts and she lifts her shoulders slightly, hands clasped together as she walks towards him.

“That was my own doing. Perhaps not very ladylike of me.” Lady Tyrell muses with tiredly cool sarcasm, her brows raising. Cregan turns as she draws near, looking down at her with a cross between concern and frustration at her breezy nonchalance. 

There is a dimple between his brows due to the severity with which he is furrowing them. With little effort to conceal his anger, he shakes his head slowly. “Who did this?”

“I did not get a clear look at his face.” A rush of an answer, a breath she lets out while she begins pacing in small steps, the wood panels creaking slightly as she glides to and from. 

The fists at his sides tighten, pressure squeezing his fingers as he stares at her, looking every ounce the fearsome Northern lord that he is rumored to be. “Then I shall drag the men of this castle before you so that you might point him out.” 

“There is no need for theatrics, Lord Stark.” She fixes him with a dry look, seemingly unimpressed by the severity upon his face and the intensity with which he speaks. His visage darkens thunderously at her easy dismissal of his words and he has to force back a sharper retort, attempting to be gentler with her instead.

“It is a matter of justice–.” He begins, but she is quick to interrupt with a wave of her hand. A gust of cool air blows in through her open balcony, sending the sheer curtains blowing about.

“Oh, spare me your monologue on justice and duty and honor for one night,” The words drip from a curled lip with soft irritation as she casts him a rather scornful glance, drawing her arms across her chest protectively. The fabric of her nightgown is soft against her skin. “If I wished to be lectured upon righteousness I would summon a priest instead.”

In exasperation, she gazes to the balcony with a huff, eyes falling upon the moon and stars that dazzle brilliantly in the dark night. The sound of leaves can be heard outside of her window, plants growing on the outside wall blown about in the wind. A foghorn blares in echoed low tones, drifting in from the harbor.

Cregan’s jaw clenches, tightening as he wrestles back the desire to meet her stubbornness with equal force. But as his eyes drop to her lip again, he remembers with a tightening chest that he had come here to apologize to her, not to bicker like children. Before he expresses this to her, his eyes soften. “I had come to apologize, my lady. For my actions in the library earlier that were callous and frightened you.”

Although she had been quick to direct her ire at him, the start of the quiet apology draws her pacing to a pause. It is the reason she had allowed him into her chambers in the first place, that genuine concern that he displays so openly upon his face, as he had in the library once he had seen the truth of her fear. 

“I had believed you to be seeking power, to marry into my House for your own gain. Hoping to determine your intentions, I wished to know whether your loyalty was stronger to yourself or the strength of your own House.”  Cregan does his utmost to explain himself in a quiet yet quick tone, lest she might decide to interrupt and throw him out at her whim. The look on his face captivates her attention. “But I was wrong to level your sister as a weapon against you. I did not know – how much you love her. I am truly sorry.”

Lady Tyrell’s eyes lose some of their harsh edge as she watches the rugged Northern lord express his regret so genuinely. Rare is it that she has been apologized to, rarer still that the apology is of such a truthful and straightforward nature. Cregan stands quite still as he anticipates her reply, the seriousness upon his face giving him the appearance of a man awaiting sentencing. 

“Do you think I enjoy playing darling here at court?” It is a softly posed question, her hands tightening as she keeps them together in front of her. “That this is a hobby I do for my own amusement?”

Her voice is laced with a weary exhaustion that does not quite fit her age. Cregan has heard a similar tone leave his own lips many times before. 

“The safety and security of my House – a house whom has no male leader at present – rests on my ability to hold my own in this twisted, toxic den of vipers. I am weak, I cannot fight. But what I can do, I have honed my skills in. I will not claim to be a saint, but I am not scheming for the sake of seizing power if that Is what you think.” Her voice quivers slightly but her eyes remain firm as she holds his gaze steadily. 

“Yet you would risk the safety of your House for the safety of your sister.” Cregan points out quietly, his hand extending out as he speaks. Lady Tyrell gives a frustrated shrug, keenly aware of her own foolishness, and shoots him a withering gaze.

“We all have something we would sacrifice the world to protect. What your suffocating honor is for you, my sister is to me.” She has always been protective of the girl, who had been her only sibling until the recent birth of her younger brother. But since Helaena’s death, the paranoia and anxiety that gather her mind in their clutches are persistent and cruel. She fears, perhaps irrationally so, of all manner of terrible fates that might befall the girl. Waking from nightmares, clothes and blankets soaked in sweat and lungs burning as she gasps for ragged breath.

Cregan keeps his gaze upon her, a heavy sigh falling from his lips. For a lady which such a delicate frame, she seems to love with a strength rivaling any warrior and a determination that is as clear as the moon in the sky outside her balcony. It is obvious to him that she is willingly to do whatever it might take to defend those in her heart, at the risk of her own safety or peace of mind. 

She stalks across the room, returning to the plush armchair by the hearth. Sinking into the soft red seat, she picks up the bandages that she had been attempting to wrap around her bruising wrist. The last thing she wishes for is for someone to see and ask questions. Adelin normally assisted in such manners, but Lady Tyrell had been in such a state that she had demanded to be left alone.

“Your apology has been heard, Lord Stark. You may leave.” She murmurs quietly, the fireplace casting a warm light upon her face and her messy hair. Stretching the bandages in front of her, the lady bites back a curse as she fumbles with the ivory cloth. Cregan watches her for a moment before a heaving sigh moves his broad chest, and he crosses the room to her with large steps. Her eyes jump up to him, slight worry and fear flickering like fireflies, but when he drops to one knee before her chair, she finds there are no words upon her mouth.

“Allow me, my lady.” The sternness to his rumbling tone makes it seem more like an order than an offer, but it is said with such politeness that despite the way suspicion swims in her eyes, she pauses. There they remain, the Lord of Winterfell on his knee in front of her armchair, the golden light from the fire bathing his features. As he looks up at her, she realizes that despite the gruff, masculine stature of his imposing figure, the brightness of his eyes and the soft nature of his red hair give him a fairness that she hesitantly describes as beauty.

The sound of a clock fills the darkness of her chambers, tick after tick reverberating into the silence.

Wordlessly, she hands him the roll of bandages. Cregan takes no time to gingerly reach for her wrist, taking it into his much larger hand. He holds it tenderly, intentionally drawing his mind away from the softness of her skin and the way his hand can wrap around her entire arm. The faint smell of vanilla fills his nose, and he feels his stomach jolt at the imperceptible breath she takes as his thumb ghosts over the pressure point on her wrist. He reminds himself to breath.

The ivory bandages are wrapped around her reddened wrist slowly, glowing in front of the firelight, the warmth carrying over to both of them. Yet Cregan’s body has already grown hot. Neither of them breathe a word, eyes cast down to the simmering points where their skin meets. When he finishes his work, Cregan’s hands jerk back slightly, as if he has been burned. Lady Tyrell’s lashes flutter slightly at the motion, and she draws her wrists to her with a small frown. He remains on his knee a moment longer, before rising to his feet and breaking the spell that has fallen between them. Cregan swallows thickly, his eyes cast to her wrist as she stares into the fire with an unreadable expression.

“Rest well, my lady.” He murmurs to her, before his heavy boots carry him with unnecessary quickness across the wooden floor panels and out of her door.

a/n: this was supposed to be a short chapter, but it is another monstruous piece and half of it was written on an airplane so please bear with me. i know the ‘who did this’ trope is low-hanging fruit, but i fall for it every time so here it is. i cannot believe i have written so much of this work so quickly, and i am even more surprised at the lovely interactions it has had. thank you for every like, reblog, and comment on this little story that i love.

[alessiamalfoyzabini]

Dark Moon | Chapter Thirteen

Pairing | yandere!Jimin x Reader

Word Count | 2,7k

Warnings | +18, angst, blood, risk of death, Jimin is absolutely beside himself, lots of tears and guilt, kissing and promises, mention of rape, mentions of kidnapping and past abuse, mention of murder, feeling of shame, Stockholm syndrome, yandere themes, triggering content

This fanfiction is yandere, if you don't like the genre, don't read and if you are not of age, don't read.

I don't want to hear any complaints in the comments, thank you.

This does not reflect my way of thinking or living at all, it is just a work of fiction, it is like watching a horror movie, many of us love horror movies, but we would never dream of what we see in those movies happening in reality as well.

Simply put, this story was written for entertainment purposes, it should not be seen as a reflection of my values, opinions or morals. I absolutely do not condone such acts.

⤷ Summary | She just wanted to escape her past, take charge of her life and break out of her steel cage, praying in God for a miracle that could change her life for good.

And her prayers were heard, but it was not the Divine that answered her.

That was certainly the devil in the guise of an angel, she thought as those corrupted and empty eyes searched her soul with extreme voracity.

He turned a sweet, false smile on her, before pushing her into the abyss.

➢ Author's Note | Hi, guys ❤️ This is one of the chapters I loved writing about Dark Moon, I hope you will like it too! Always let me know what you think, I love your comments ❤️

Taglist: @katherine-kookie, @dragons-flare, @m00njinnie, @seokjins-luigi, @pjmsneverland, @jimincrystal, @ajkwww, @ungodlyjoon, @hecateslittlewitchling, @namjoonsbuspass, @darkuni63, @xicanacorpse, @jiminismine4ever, @btssimpjaneth, @antisocial-mochi267, @reallygenerouskoala, @velvet-stardust2002

Taglist is open!

Chapter List - Previous - Next

Everything around him was smeared with blood and dirt, gunpowder shrouded that mansion in the open country that was teeming with Choi's men, but Jimin crushed their heads with ease, he would have eliminated them all, from first to last.

He struck the side of yet another idiot who thought he could confront him and ran toward the dungeon; Hoseok had told him that was most likely where they kept Y/N, because in checking the main rooms he had found no trace of the girl.

At his side Taehyung pinned a man by the arm and with a kick to the throat threw him lifelessly to the ground.

Even with confusion like the clash that was raging it was easy to find the room, although there were many only from one came the inhuman screams of a woman.

With icy chills on his neck he knocked down the door following a violent and desperate shove, freezing in front of that macabre sight.

Y/N was completely tied to a table with her legs shamefully spread wide open, her naked body was littered with bruises and cuts, and she was shaken by violent sobs, not to mention the blood, there was blood everywhere and the sight made Jimin lose all glimmer of reason. What the hell had they done to her?

He sprinted toward her, whose increasingly dull face was stained with terrible purplish marks and red splashes, "Y/N?!" was that his voice?

The voice so shrill and distraught, he himself did not recognize it as his own, Taehyung wordlessly observed the scene before him, he was breathless, Jimin cradled the girl's head in his arms, shaking her hair away from her face.

"Taehyung, help me!" he shouted in his direction, causing his friend to recoil, who retrieved his gun and fired accurately at each handcuff that held the young girl still bound, the skin around her wrists and ankles was now gone, the handcuffs had as if given her burns as a result of the excessive rubbing.

Jimin slowly took her in his arms, trying to figure out where the spillage of blood was coming from, and clutched the girl spasmodically to him, his face a pure picture of shock, he left her just long enough to take off his shirt and press it firmly against the girl's chest, there was only one hole, the bullet had passed through her chest and most likely got stuck inside her, he instead used his jacket to cover his nakedness, Y/N looked at him with wide, vacant eyes, as if she was no longer there but somehow still recognized Jimin's figure.

"Y/N, I'm sorry," he said between trembling lips, "I made you wait too long," he found himself crying, crying like a child at the miserable sight of that girl who had fought him so hard, lying in a sea of blood. She didn't even look like her anymore.

He had not protected her, he lacked air, he had not protected her.

"Jimin..." she gasped instead, reaching out a hand to the face of the man who had made her suffer so much, "Are you... fine," she sighed through the unbearable pangs of that torment. He was alive, he was well, and he was there, there with her.

Seeing him in that place, to save her, made her inexplicably emotional, even though that made no sense.

Jimin tenderly grasped her hand, kissing it and shaking his head, "Don't talk, don't waste your breath," he raised his face toward Taehyung who was looking at them with a bewildered and guilt-filled expression, "Go get help, Tae, please!"

The friend revived and nodded hastily and rushed out of the room, leaving them alone.

"You're here," sobbed the girl softly, sinking her head into the young man's bare chest, Jimin kissed her forehead trying to comfort her somehow, just imagining what had been done to her destroyed him.

"Of course I'm here, did you think I wouldn't come for you?" he asked in despair in the face of her physical and mental torment, he pressed harder on her now-primed shirt with vermilion liquid, hoping Taehyung would hurry up, "You're mine, Y/N, you mustn't forget that."

"But you hate me," was the only response he received, at which Jimin growled.

"I already told you I don't hate you!" he exclaimed bringing his lips closer to hers, "Would I hold you close to me like this if I hated you?"

Y/N slowly closed her eyes, her conscience screaming at her to stay awake, to listen to Jimin as her increasingly tired body demanded rest.

"Y/N!" he cried anxiously, pressing their lips together for a few seconds, it was a gentle touch as quick as a flap of wings, but it was enough to make her open her eyes again, "Stay with me, baby" he said in a sob.

"I've missed you" she whispered with little breath, it cost her effort in every sense to admit it aloud, but it was so, she must have been crazy for a long time now, but in Jimin's arms, she told herself, she could die with peace of mind.

"I've missed you," he repeated with a strange emotion in his eyes, he looked at her with such a gentleness that she had never noticed in her regard, it contrasted so much with those piercings that adorned his angular and massive body and gave him a dangerous air, "I won't let you go again, Y/N," he said quickly, the girl nodded slowly with a small smile, shortly afterwards her vision darkened.

Their story was strange, inconsistent. A lot had practically changed in just a year, who knew her tormentor would hold her like that? Who knew she would let him, surrendering to his grasp?

A bud had managed to bloom into a beautiful rose, nurtured by the sweet blood and bitter despair that cradled the existence of both of them.

Jimin counted every second that he spent in that house.

Y/N was almost always in bed, even two weeks after the shooting, at first he thought it had something to do with what Minho had done to her, but it wasn't just that, he knew it well.

He had promised not to let her go again, but instead he was a shadow of himself and did not dare to get too close to her. He was ashamed, not because of the desperate and frightened words he had whispered to her in that place, but because he had not been able to protect her, she had almost died and he could not find peace, he was always thinking "What if...?".

He hadn't gone to work anymore, he knew Seokjin would give him a hard time, but he couldn't do it. Every night with his heart in his throat he feared she might disappear again, that house didn't make him feel safe, not anymore.

He shrugged his shoulders closing his eyes bitterly, he had been wrong again.

Ever since he had met Y/N it seemed that the only certain thing he knew how to do was to be wrong again and again, never learning from his mistakes.

Then his ears picked up something, it was Y/N's faint voice calling him, and he jumped up from the sofa, running into her room.

"Did you call me?"

The girl was half stretched out on the bed, wearing a nightgown over the chest bandage she still had to keep for safety, she was so small and delicate that it seemed to Jimin that he was facing a tender fairy.

"I'd like to take a bath," she said shyly, avoiding his gaze.

"I don't think that's a good idea, the wound might leak more blood."

"Please... I feel dirty," she begged him with doe eyes, the man found himself sighing.

"Wait for me here."

The attitudes of both of them had changed, it was different from just tolerating each other, there was a gentleness never seen before in the way they both spoke to each other, it was pleasant and not only for Y/N, even Jimin wondered why he hadn't done it before.

He prepared her bath and then returned to her, took her effortlessly in his arms, and the young woman breathlessly admired the sensual features of his relaxed and masculine face, but adorned with wonderfully swollen lips, to be kissed countless times.

He helped her undress without taking his eyes off her body, but not out of lust.

He wanted to thoroughly scrutinize those marks that invaded her body disrespectfully over and over again, he fed on them to fuel the svisceral hatred he felt for Minho, they were still looking for him but soon they would unearth him, Jimin was sure of it.

When he accompanied her to the water the girl sighed contentedly, she made to loosen the bandages, but there too Jimin stepped in, gently removing everything and revealing the hole just above her right breast, he couldn't help himself, he reached out slightly to kiss gently that still young scar, lifted his eyes to her and found her staring at him with sympathetic blush on her cheeks.

Their new intimacy was strange; the abduction had changed something in their relationship.

He went back to soaping her body, occasionally leaving more kisses on her soft skin, kissed a spot just below her ear and slowly brushed his hand over her belly, the desire to make her feel good was there, pressing into his chest where his heart was pounding, but Y/N shivered and closed her legs instantly.

"I... sorry," she said squeezing her eyes shut to chase away the tears, but Jimin shook his head.

"Take it easy, I don't want to do anything," he tried to reassure her, going back to cleaning less intimate areas to let her know he meant what he said, that he didn't want to force her into anything, but Y/N swallowed a knot in her throat.

"No, you wanted me here to give you pleasure, I'm here for you, but I can't for the moment, not after that..." she froze trembling, remembering all too well Minho's painful and brutal thrusts, as well as Minhyun's thrashing as his boss panted on her like a pig, she covered her face in shame.

Jimin had also hurt her, but there was something different between him and Minho, she was more familiar with Jimin, she ventured to admit that ... somehow he had always attracted her?

She could not reflect objectively, but she was sure that for her Minho had simply been a horrifying and terrifying nightmare experienced with open eyes. Remembering the sadism with which he invited Minhyun to strike her and hurt her as he forced himself inside her would haunt her forever.

"There are so many reasons behind my decision to bring you here, Y/N, that was just one of many, but now it's different, you don't have to if you don't want to" the boy's sincere voice brought her back to the present, Jimin was really trying to make her understand, "And you don't know how much I regret what I did that last night, I was a monster" he said taking it out on himself and once again the girl found herself split in two.

"I... I thought you were, but after Choi Minho and his henchman...after they..." god, she couldn't even complete the sentence, "I understood who the demon was between you and him, believe me Jimin" she preferred to end the speech like that, clutching herself with embarrassment. She wasn't saying that Jimin hadn't done anything to her, but the thought that he was finally by her side calmed her down and she felt a pleasant warmth surface inside her, she was crazy and she was also accepting it.

The boy understood her shame and with a weary sigh began to lift up the light T-shirt he was wearing, the woman looked at him strangely and interestedly, his defined and luscious abs bewitched her, but Jimin pointed to the numerous piercings and dark ink lines on his arms.

"You don't have to feel ashamed of what happened to you, you were a victim, just like me."

Y/N widened her eyes in shock, what did he mean?

With indifference in his eyes, Jimin began to explain.

"In the past I met a young girl, it was night and she was coming back from an evening spent having fun with her friends, a drunk man had attacked her and I stepped in to save her.... I didn't know that my action would also doom me, I just wanted to do a good deed.... but she was part of the wealthy Choi family and was convinced that she could have it all, and by everything she meant me too, she was obsessed and I at the time was a kid committing a few petty thefts here and there, nothing too serious, but it was enough to be labeled as society's trash, no one would notice I was missing, and it was all too easy for her to convince her rich and powerful father to kidnap me and make me her prisoner," the boy's jaw tensed at those memories, "I was under that woman's power for four years, like a toy."

"Jimin, you don't have to do that," she pleaded in a broken voice.

"I don't want there to be any secrets between the two of us, Y/N," he smiled slightly, wiping away a tear from her eyes, "She used to keep me tied by one ankle at the foot of her bed, said I was her prince in a cage, at other times she would call me a dirty dog and I would pray that she would finally let me go free, but she would always burst out laughing... she didn't smoke, but she would always light a cigarette and put it out on me when she wanted to punish me or just vent about something, I was her outlet, I was instead taken to the dungeon when I behaved "badly," she would order her father's men to beat me and sometimes I wouldn't eat for days."

The girl gently brushed all those piercings, each of them hiding that kind of wound, Jimin closed his eyes under her gentle touch.

"Her cravings eventually matured and she forced me to have intercourses with her, but I never came, she blocked every sensation, she made me disgusted," he hissed, "I hated all Choi and all women looked like her to me."

He inhaled softly, wiping his sweaty forehead, something in those memories - his demons - made him react that way.

"Seokjin had some things to settle with Choi Senior and when he saw me, he asked for me as payment to settle what Choi still owed him, it was a lie, he saved me and then exterminated everyone in that house, seeing what he had managed to do only because he had wanted it that way, he convinced me to join his family, I began to have real sex with all the prostitutes who roamed the Dark Moon, the only difference being that I was the one with the upper hand now, I used them to unload my lust and I treated them badly because they reminded me of her all too well, that bitch, I could see it in their eyes the desire to use me to live a more comfortable life," he chuckled without amusement, "Then you came along and turned my world upside down, you unnerved me with your purity, you rejected me and I wanted you instead, it was frustrating, with you I wanted to do everything I had always recommended not to do with anyone and I hated myself."

"What do you mean?" she now stared at him with fascination, in front of her was a man who could finally understand her.

"Love you. I wanted, no… I want to love you."

"Jimin, I-"

"Don't answer me now," he shushed her by pressing his soft, irresistible lips to the girl's sweet ones, "Whether you love me back or not, just wait a little longer, even if it takes fifty years if necessary, just...don't ask me to give you freedom, I can't do that."

That was the love Park Jimin could and wanted to give her; passionate, tender ... possessive, selfish.

As she watched the boy leave the bathroom she found herself longing for that sick love, but one she absolutely needed to feel safe.

[unsoundedcomic]

Whumptober 2024 - 09 - "Obsession"

Ruckmearkha prefered male spiderpaws because he understood the cock, the hunt, the need to hold a weaker creature down and destroy it so no one else could ever have it again. This was the most correct and natural urge. Some female spiderpaws had this too but it was rare, and strange, and somewhat distasteful to the efheby. They were made to be prey. There were sheep that bit too, but no one laid awake at night fearing their teeth.

Regardless, rarely, Ruckmearkha encountered a woman whose fragrance caused his venom glands to swell taut as ripe hedgeapples, and the scent patch across to chest to weep its coffee-coloured ichor. Sometimes… sometimes they excited.

One night, Ruck was so freshly awakened from the ogre caves that the earth still circled the roots of his tentacles, and crusted like sleep in his bleary eyes. Few dreams blossomed in that long, tarry hibernation. It had been an impression of viscera that had stirred him; of intestines uncurling from a slit stomach. He knew the smell of opened bowels, of fecal stink and the stinks of chewed food and acrid bile that progressed towards it. He'd rolled over and wanted to see those colours and smell that aroma again.

Trailing ogre earth still, he'd come across the crime scene too late. She'd been gone. But the victim remained: a young woman gutted beneath a pier, her insides now outside and the little crabs picking through them like finicky crones fingering melons at the market.

Ruck marvelled at the glistening organs all acrawl with arteries, besotted with blood. He found spiderpaws more beautiful beneath their skin. Clever little constructs, their soft flesh tented across sturdy frames, their most important secrets hidden in ivory cages.

Through a moonless night he'd followed the killer's bloody footprints, burning with a desire to win an aesthete, or at least someone whose soul would be heavy with uncommon traumas. Most spiderpaws were the same, he'd found. They wore identities like the most superficial clothing; the bodies beneath were all of too like a kind.

He did not let this body scream. When he tracked the motion of a woman turning towards him, startled, from a black doorway, he shot forward and upon her with all the weight of a god's judgement. Her bloody knife flew off into the night. His great shoulders splintered the door frame as he crushed her squirming panic to the ground, tentacles gone rigid around her smaller head, her torso, her arms, locking her to him. Two inches of fang punched through her neck. His glands pumped once, twice. The ecstasy of an efheby's purpose thrilled through him, jolting from the back of his tongue to the fire now awakened in his loins.

In an efheby, those loins were like a stag's horns. His prick existed to assert dominance. It rose and penetrated to humble a rival.

But no rival here. Only a curiosity. The most helpless and mewling scream gurgled from her, battling in her throat around the liquid intrusion of golden venom and her own coursing blood. With his huge right hand Ruck sought her mouse heart, massaging it through her back. Beat on, beat on, don't quit yet! It obeyed, a second syringe, dominated by the potent poison of his bite to palpitate in an alien rhythm. She grew slack even as she gasped, but it was not a distressed sound. She was happy! And Ruck was happy - as he had always been happy - that the rodents so seemed to worship and enjoy his attention.

Long starved, the efheby gnawed at her neck and could not stop his overfull glands from pumping again and again, swelling her beyond anything she could survive. Her body filled with him. Her skin puffed and lifted away from her bones. Venom seeped like liquid sunlight from her eyes and nostrils. She glowed burning hot in his hands, vibrating with her own pulse. He loved her in that instant more than-- why, more than he'd loved anything in the last few instants, haha!

Around her his bulk knotted, and they became a single amber muscle of feasting and need and adoration. His scent patch gushed, washing her in sticky ownership. She was claimed. She was his. She would never be anyone else's.

He let her soak. The night watched. An owl hooted far away, hearing the successful hunt. Envious? Haha!

Then Ruckmearkha began to drink his mouse.

Captured by the net of his venom, all the murderess' long years and longer soul hissed between his lips and down his abyssal throat. A prize this young he would drink all in one gulp.

Bitter terror of infancy, sweet nectar of childhood. With adolescence came complexity, and this was always Ruckmearkha's favourite. That first bloom of lust in untried parts; always a disappointment when dulled by shame, but no, no shame here. She had kissed a girl and realised she'd found where she belonged.

Ruck shifted his hold on her. The tentacle securing her head to his mouth dug between her lips, down her throat, but she was beyond feeling; beyond caring. A niggling tickle of blood rolled down his temple but was wiped away by the small hand there. Then it stroked her hair and he told her - secretly, wordlessly, in the whisper only he could whisper - that he would protect her forever.

Because the girl she had loved had not. The girl had been beaten by her father, and was too afraid to run away with her lover to some promised land for which she could show no receipts. Ruckmearkha tasted the rage that had risen in her then, and though it was a very familiar flavour, he radiated approval. Yes. The knife had slashed. And it had not slashed only to kill, but to torment, to open the inside to the outside, to splay open to the night what she had wanted for herself but which she would have to steal because it would never be given.

The body still was alive when Ruck swallowed the last of its secrets. To obscure his bite, he instinctively twisted off its head, threw it far away, slithered repulsed from the mess. Would the rodents say the father had killed his daughter and her demonic friend in order to restore his honour? Were they still doing that?

It would not surprise him!

Always little changes, here and there, every time he awoke. But never too changed. Always, in some way, deeply familiar. And may the simpering motherfuckers remain so, if they valued their future.

[beautification-tales]

The Tapes pt. 5

A slow burn transformation tale

Brian woke up covered in sweat. He ripped the headphones off his head. He felt so strange yet it felt so good. He remembered when Linda suggested he buy his own set of tapes. He thought of how confident she was and how she looked at him with lust the other evening.

She left and Brian quickly rush ordered his own set of tapes. Brian leaned back in bed as the memory replayed in his mind. “Do you want me Brian?” Linda asked on his lap. Brian grunted as he felt his hand stroke his hard cock. “I fucking want you so bad.” He answered in a deep confident tone. He felt like his body was on fire as if Linda was actually with him. The seductive look she gave him caused him to moan. He felt his cock twitch in his hand.

The memory was now replaced with a new fantasy as Linda was in lingerie now on his lap. She had tattoos on her arms and black lipstick covered her lips. Brian moaned her name as he stroked faster. She smiled and teased Brian pushing her big breasts into him. He felt her hard nipples against his chest. He then realized in this fantasy he also was different.

He felt stronger as his arms had more muscle. Linda was playing with his rock hard abs. She licked her lips then tongued his ear. The fantasy felt so real as he screamed in ecstasy. She pulled away and whispered. “If you want me so badly… take me.” In the fantasy Brian grabbed Linda’s neck and squeezed gently. He moved with lightning speed as he pushed her on the bed. He ripped off her panties and slid deep inside of her.

Brian in reality frowned as he didn’t quite recognize the behavior as his. He didn’t want to hurt Linda or be quite this rough. He almost stopped stroking himself wanting his fantasy to end. Linda grabbed the back of his neck and let out a determined, throaty moan. The sound was intoxicating and Brian wanted more. “ That’s it take me! Don’t stop!” Brian obeyed, doubling his efforts in reality and the fantasy simultaneously.

He could feel himself quickly approaching the precipice. Brian grunted as he felt his balls tighten. The room around him grew hazy, the lines between reality and fantasy blurring. In his mind, Linda's legs were wrapped around his waist, she squeezed tightly pushing him even deeper within her. “You’re mine now.” She said to him. Brian felt hot seed land on his chest as the fantasy evaporated.

Brian tried to catch his breath as he got up to clean himself. A voice that sounded like Linda spoke within his mind. “I need a real man. A man that takes what he wants. You know what you need to do.” Brian nodded in obedience as he stepped into the shower to start his day.

Linda woke up early again. She smiled as she remembered her night with Dave. She caressed her breasts as her nipples sprung to attention. She cooed with a sultry tone as she realized they felt larger than they were before. The voice spoke to her. “I told you I would help you stand out. This is just the beginning! Go see what else is new.”

Linda sprung from her bed, the excitement of the mysterious voice's promise thrumming through her veins. The early morning light danced across her floor, casting a soft glow that made her skin glow. She walked to her bathroom, her heart racing in anticipation of what she might find. The mirror reflected a young woman whose beauty had been magnified overnight, her features sharper, her breasts were bigger, her eyes brighter, and her lips fuller. The voice in her head grew more insistent, egging her on to explore further.

Linda turned her head and body. She looked back and saw that her ass was more round and appealing. Linda could feel that tingle once again between her legs. She hesitated as her hand rested on her abdomen as if waiting for permission. The voice knowing her desires answered. “Yes test it out.” She slid her hand down her stomach and let her fingers play with her clit. A shock of pleasure shot through her body and she let out a gasp. Her clit was bigger and more sensitive. She felt a sense of power and excitement as she realized she had been transformed.

Dave had been a bit rough with her the night before but she had liked it. It was like he had unlocked something primal within her. The voice whispered, “You liked it rough, didn’t you?” She nodded to herself in the mirror, her eyes glazed over with a mix of desire and wonder. “I knew you would. That’s why I gave you these new toys to play with. You can handle more now. Much more."

Linda moaned loudly as she plunged two fingers deep into her wet pussy. “Mmm yes I can handle much more!” She cried out as the feeling of pleasure and power overwhelmed her. Her pussy felt tighter, more responsive to her touch, as if it had been designed to give and receive greater pleasure. She bit her bottom lip, savoring the sensation as she began to pump her hand in a steady rhythm. The voice grew more playful, "You truly stand out now. Today do what bad girls do!”

Linda gasped at the revelation. She was much more than what she was. She could feel her orgasm closing in as thoughts of what this confidence and body could do. She pictured herself in the bar gaining more attention than any other woman in there. She trembled as her body shook with pleasure. She licked her fingers as she entered the shower to clean up.

Her thoughts swirling with excitement and the voice’s seductive suggestions, Linda decided to indulge the suggestion as she put on her jeans and top. The new curves made her clothes tighter, and she knew they would leave nothing to the imagination. The tightness around her ass and breasts made her feel like a goddess.

She looked inside her purse and saw the money she stole from Dave. The guilt she felt the other night for taking it had evaporated. She wondered why the voice asked her to do such a thing but she learned it was good to obey it. She decided to put the extra funds to good use. She put on her sneakers and rode her bike to the tattoo parlor. She wanted to feel the pain and pleasure from the needle once again. She also wanted the vision she saw of herself to become a reality.

She sat in the chair as the artist inked the barb wire on her arm. Linda couldn’t help but bite her lip as she watched the artist concentrating but also taking glimpses at her cleavage. The artist finished the work on both arms as she slapped the cash on the counter to get to class.

She was late as she walked to the front. She could feel the stares from everyone in the hall. The familiar tingle began between her legs as her nipples poked through her shirt. She took her seat and grinned when even the professor lost concentration taking a look at her. “Do what bad girls do!” The voice repeated in her mind.

Linda waited until all her classmates had left the hall. She walked toward her professor to ask about the homework.

Linda looked down before addressing her professor. It was like she was the shy anxious girl she once was. However, this time she was doing it on purpose to put her instructor at ease. “Professor, I have a question about the assignment.” She paused, waiting for the nod that she could continue. “What do you mean by classical conditioning in humans?”

The professor leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard as he often did when contemplating a question. “Ah, a good question indeed, Linda. You see, classical conditioning is a psychological concept that Pavlov discovered with his dogs. But it's not just about animals salivating at the sound of a bell. It's about how we, as humans, learn to associate stimuli with responses. It's all around us, in every aspect of our lives, from the smell of our favorite food to the sound of a phone ringing, prompting us to answer it. It's essentially learning from experience and making connections between different things.”

“That is so cool ! Because I think I have been conditioned to want something and it’s making my mouth water right now.” Linda’s shy posture vanished as she eyed her professor’s crotch. Her voice had taken on a seductive tone that was as sudden as it was unexpected. The professor’s eyes shot down to his own groin area, unsure if he had just heard correctly. He cleared his throat, trying to ignore the stirring in his pants.

“I-I see. Well, it is indeed a powerful concept, but the next class is coming in soon. Perhaps we can discuss this further in my office?” The professor's voice wavered, and he shifted uncomfortably, desperately trying to keep his composure. She nodded in agreement as she licked her full lips.

10 minutes later

The professor was in his office groaning as Linda sucked his cock. “Ughh what happened to you? You used to be so shy.” He exclaimed between grunts as she took him deeper into her mouth. She felt his hands tug at her hair as she deepthroats him, her eyes watering but her resolve unbroken.

She stopped for a moment to answer. She looked up at him and batted her eyelashes as she gripped his member.

“I’m a bad girl now.”

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Hello. Can you write yandere/dark Maegor Targaryen and feamle reader ?

The king's blood and shadow

King Maegor Targaryen x servant!reader

warning : yandere, obsession, mentioned smut, tiny tiny comfort, dark blood magic, targaryen incest, death/murder

Summary : The third Targaryen king with his wives, Dragonstone and King's Landing filled with queens but not a single one pregnant with a son only monsters killed by poison. Until the king gets a new servant, a servant who is like him, embracing the darkness and personally chosen by his mother…a servant created to give him what he desires most.

info : Thank you very much dear anon i was very happy about the request ahh yandere Maegor is just so good and sexy so have fun and see you next time.

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Anger, despair and hatred surrounded the king, the second son of his father, and the image of a strong warrior on whose head lay the ruby crown, ruby taken with the blood and fire he had brought to his enemies and his own family to gain the throne.

The throne that belonged to him he was the stronger one his half-brother a weakling just like his aunt but he finally had the throne, Balerion and Darksister at his side but only one thing he did not have an heir.

A king had to take a queen, like his father perhaps two, but with lust and hatred and a hint of despair that he would end up without an heir, he took one after the other, even taking his own dragon blood Rhaena as his wife, but none, none of these ungrateful women could give him what he wanted.

The handsome king turned to his mother in the nights the no boy in him came out with hate and screams wondering why he had no heir, ,,Don't you see all these women are whores, even Rhaena she has already given her abdomen to someone else but he is dead you killed him, you my dragon must take the direct blood and bind it to you" her words echoed in her chamber as the wit queen turned to her table, she had spread power and terror in her bloom but now with a glance at the dark shadows and blood filled vials she could give her son the "sister" he had always wanted.

,,When this blood comes she will be mine mother i promise you and she will give the kingdom an heir" he replied with certainty in his voice knowing he appreciated his mother's work but never believing he would soon feel the true power of old valyria and magic.

He knew the legends and legends had heard the old tales in Valyrian from his father, mother and aunt even his hlabbrother of the magic his own dragon emerged from such wonders but what would come to him was something that happened in him like a coin toss, a god who would look at his creation and take care of it.

When only a few moons later the king was in his chamber writing letters with instructions for the marches to extinguish further ends of resistance, there was only one way to join or join the fire as his father had done, ,,It's open mother" he said as there was a soft knock and he heard the almost inaudible footsteps of his mother.

The dowager queen, however, had someone else with her someone he had never seen before but a young woman who burned like a flame in his heart, the same violet eyes as his and Visenya's, the same soft body as his mother a quiet smile light almost white hair and a sweet voice that gave a ,,Good evening my king" and she curtseyed, pushing her dress up slightly and he caught a glimpse of the pure skin on her legs.

She was like a light, purer than fire, purer than anything he had ever seen and the blood in his body boiled like flames before a war when he felt his hands clutching her stall, wanting to take her at once.

,,She is your half-sister from now on your servant…the gods have been kind to me once more" was the only thing his mother said to him, but the mischievous smile on her lips and the almost flashing of her violet eyes gave him a shiver as he felt the shadows surrounding his mother.

She was a witch, a former queen, and had helped her son once more when she presented him with his desired flesh and blood.

The night on Dragonstone was suffused with the flames and roars of Balerion as the light of the flames in the king's room did not seem to go out as he fell upon his new property, taking and taking her, her body responding to him as none of his wives had done before, her voice sweet and gentle as she praised him in Valyrian, telling of distant kingdoms and giving herself to him.

Even if she was his sister born of shadow, to him she was his blood, but to the court she was only a servant, a property of the king and a property to be claimed only by him, and in the next few days men and maids burned and torn from the walls of the castle, hanging themselves to death when they met the bright white shadow, wanting to commit crimes against the thief or escape this horror.

While his light brought him almost indifference during the day, it was the next in which she began to live, ,,For fear of your revenge, they would rather throw themselves into the deep than take you," she said and only for a fraction of a moment did he think he heard his mother speak from her before she sought his lips and entangled him in a kiss and his rough hands cut the dress from her body with a dagger.

Shreds fell to the floor and light cuts were visible on her skin blood was licked up by him he feasted on her sweet taste as he took her again and again.

But the hanging lowborns were only the beginning as he began to dress his "servant" in dark and reddish clothes, watching her wear his dragon symbol, her body belonging to him, ,,A shadow filled with the light of the Dragon King," she said as a hand placed itself on her belly and Maegor swore to feel life in her womb, she would give him an heir after all.

She was at his side only from then on, sitting next to or on his throne, her crown resembling his and he watched with her the executions of those who spoke out against his only queen, the madness and vengeance in the king growing worse and worse, Balerion winning every campaign and Maegor soon dying.

,,Let it be known that the king is expecting an heir, his only wife his light will give him a son born of blood and shadow" he demanded and soon the news reached the people and the surrounding highborn houses.

For every contradiction he had the one and his house killed, so much so that he pressed his light, her chains tightened and tightened around her neck just so that he could pull her close to him, embracing her, ,,You will never leave me" he told her the further her pregnancy progressed and the king locked her up so that only he had access and his mother could visit her "daughter".

He visited her talked to her hugged her and was so sweet to her he reeked of death and blood as she realized what he gave for her to expose liars ,,My heart and soul belong only to you my Maegor" she let him know when she put her hand on his cheek and he pulled her into a kiss his thoughts were on her and the son he had to have the same pure Valyrian look.

Look only through him because he had given her his seed, held her like a pretty bird in a cage knowing she was his and had no choice. Thoughts of his inheritance, his perfection he came close to surpassing even his father, he was the only one who would need his light and the kingdom.

A once dark figure of shadows, a servant of lust and soon to be her brother's only queen as on the full moon in the hour of the bat cries and moans almost driven by lust left her lips as Maegor held her hand in Valyrian assuring her that all she had to do was keep pushing.

Hours and hours of blood and pain had passed but only Maegor and Visenya were in the room to tend to the queen as more screams left her mouth and blood continued to pour from her as Visenya instructed her daughter to do something in past words and unknown syllables and Maegor watched as the younger one obeyed and the birth seemingly came to an abrupt end with a final scream and a baby was born on Dragonstone, a boy, heir to the throne.

,,Born of light and fire, this will be ours forever," the king said as he carefully took the child from his mother, who had wrapped it in cloth, and the king showed the creature to his queen, bright violet eyes looking at both of them and light hair with a single black strand hidden underneath that resembled a shadow as his mother gave birth to him and the creature of magic.

,,The future king," the young mother murmured, gently taking her son in her hand as Maegor went to her bed and Visenya left her children alone with a knowing smile while blood and shadows continued to surround her.

Knowing that she would do anything for her son, the kingdom and her late husband it was only a matter of time before Maegor wanted another heir and the kingdom would be plunged into suffering and death from his life and for the sake of his wife for whom he would do anything because she belonged to him and no one else.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[nebbyy]

hello could you do headcanons smut of baldwin and his chubby wife

King Baldwin x reader - Nsfw headcanons

A/N: Wow these is the first explicit stuff I write for Baldwin!! Thank you so much for this prompt, thinking of a chubby medieval woman makes me think of all the portraits of beautiful women with the most harmonious curves I've ever seen😩😩

As always painting name is Romeo and Juliet by Frank Bernard Dicksee for my art enthusiasts :))

Warning: SMUT, reader is AFAB and uses she/her pronouns!

Unlike modern times, a fuller body has always been sign of beauty and fertility through western history

Although during medieval times anything related to attractiveness and sensuality was deemed as "bad", that still meant that a chubby woman would've been judged not for being against the beauty standard, but to be actually too tempting for the public!

So it comes without saying that young king Baldwin thought he might pass out the first time he saw you, knowing you were his betrothed

You'd awakened something in him, this burning desire to have you, to know how your soft curves would feel in his hands, how your silky skin would brush against his own

I see him having a long series of consecutive days where he woke up drenched in sweat, body slightly trembling as he'd come out of yet another wet dream about you, lying beneath him as he had his sweet way with you

He felt himself getting more and more impatient for the wedding night day to come, to finally be able to call you his

He'd also be quite insecure at first, and scared too. What if the sight of his body repulsed you? What if you wouldn't want to go near him to avoid the risk of getting the disease as well?

He wouldn't blame you for it, it'd be the wiser decision for the both of you

But still, he prays and hopes and dreams that you'd return the attraction he felt from you from the very start. He longs for the feeling of your touch against his numb body

He's a bundle of nerves during the whole ceremony, but he's good at hiding it (well the veil covering his head is); he seems to all calm down only once you're both sitting next to each other at the banquet, and you tentatively lay your soft hand over his laying on the table, shy touches blessing his skin

That night your marriage is consumed in no time, he's basically as gentle as humanly possible while he holds you in his arms, as he's slowly penetrating you

There was no really developed knowledge of foreplay or female anatomy in the middle ages, but it just felt natural for Baldwin to keep his focus on your every reactions while the two of you are making love

He doesn't know what he's doing, and neither do you considering that at that time you probably haven't even seen a naked man other than Baldwin himself, but that doesn't stop the two of you from exploring each other, taking your time to get to know what you like, what makes your eyes roll back and your back arch

I'm not sure if he'd be down for oral, I kind of see him as being a bit self conscious of the level of decay his mouth and face has reached, and I'm not too sure his cum would actually taste good with leprosy and all

Nevertheless, his fingers and cock are more than enough to bring you more pleasure than you could ever imagine

Don't expect any public stuff, Baldwin is still an extremely religious man whose values are not to be messed with: these things are meant for the privacy of your quarters alone, there's no need for him to bring this sacred thing you two have out where all eyes could possibly see

He'd probably be more on the vanilla side, being mostly against anything related to giving pain (he'd be indifferent to receiving it since his body is mainly numb, but he wouldn't enjoy it either)

Although he would probably enjoy being the more dominant one in the bedroom, the power dynamic would still remain on a pretty balanced level: you're still his beloved wife, his only equal in his eyes. That's why I could confidently say that Baldwin is the perfect example of soft dom

His favorite position would probably be missionary, just so that he could be able to see your pretty face while he pounds into you

Also because he could get to hold your plush thighs and see the delightful rolls that form on your belly

Your body screams femininity and fertility to him, an alluring combination that gets him going for as much time as you two have

His numbness also grants him a reduced sensibility, so he can afford to go more rounds at a time without having too many problems from it

But as the years pass, his mobility becomes more restricted by his declining health, and along with his agility and stamina in battle his sickness gets the best of him even in the bedroom

And through it all, his burning desire for you was what got him going, what made him spare just a little more energies to later spend with you

The two of you would have to adapt, though, probably changing positions and frequency at which you guys have sex

You might start trying to be the one on top, and he'd guide your every movement while also trying not to lose his mind over just how perfect you look riding him, your every curve bouncing as you move up and down over his cock

He dreams of giving you a baby in those moments, filling you up to the brim, seeing your body get even fuller with your conjoint love. It really saddens him to think that it might never happen

But hope is the last one to die, and he gets his hopes up every time that he comes into your welcoming body, emptying his seed into you, hoping that one day this union will give life to a creature as beautiful as its mother

[illumiera]

a new moon rises

or: there is a loom upon which the fate of every mortal is woven, and she who works it is Azura's blessed and cursed all at once. pre-i fear no fate (for you are my fate), 801 words

Near a small island somewhere off the coast of Akavir, the sea glows as though brimming with a galaxy of drowned stars. Stepping onto its shores feels like stepping beyond time entirely, like yesterday and today have fallen away in favour of a breathless, everlasting tomorrow. It feels like a crossing-over, like a journey from death-touched to deathless, and Ilmarenya—Ilmarenya cannot be certain if the salt-haired woman climbing out of the little boat is still Ilmarenya, but she knows that she must try to be nonetheless.

Nerevar—silent now, but he will come if she calls, whether as sound or as a shadow—has never required it of her. Nor has fate, which cares nothing for the name or face she wears as long as she treads the path it unfurls before her.

But her son and his father can have no other, and so Ilmarenya she must remain.

Azura stands at the base of the island’s single mountain. All the art, the statues, the carvings Ilmarenya’s fingers have traced at every shrine—they depict her as the star-touched night with a string of constellations for her girdle, but the Prince of the In-Between is never quite the same. Sometimes, she comes as midnight given body, or the wine-dark of gloaming, or flame-streaked sundown, or the golden hour moving through the air like a dream. Now, at the end—or the beginning—of all things, she is as beautiful and terrible as the dawn, and her skin is lit from within beneath a gauzy gown dyed the precise pink of early summer roses.

“Are you ready, my Moon-and-Star?” Azura asks, and her voice is uncharacteristically soft.

Ilmarenya draws herself to her full height and meets the unblinking burning dusk-dawn of the goddess’ eyes. What passes between them is nothing short of a challenge: Remember our bargain, my lady. I will give you—give Morrowind—my whole body if I must, but never that which I formed within it, never my son. Only when Ilmarenya is satisfied does she at last permit herself a single nod.

“Then come, Ilmarenya Ara’dayn.”

The goddess’ hands are warm, soft, and yet fetter-firm as they close around her own. When the Daedric Prince of Dusk and Dawn leans in and presses her mouth to hers, so too are her lips.

—past—

—present—

—future—

—past-present-future-past-present-future-past-present-future-past—

It beats in her heart, in her head, in her soul like a doom-drum, Il-ma-ren-ya to the thundering of her pulse, and with the taste of roses and crystal sugar on her tongue, Ilmarenya sees.

Sees the spinning of the Wheel, the never-ending weaving of the loom her own hands must guide. Sees the sevenfold stories carved out by the strides of the Brass Tower, the breaking of the dragon, the wandering of the Soulless One, the making and dying of saints and soldiers alike. Sees the many paths of the world, of the worlds, of Ilmarenyas whose disparate choices tangle like caught threads, of Nerevarines who bear another name and face and fate, and sees—

Lliryn.

The image of her son is a beacon, a lodestar amidst it all. Lliryn growing—and she will not be there—into a lanky-legged young man with her nose and his father’s crow-feather curls. Lliryn the wizard’s apprentice, a scion of House Telvanni through and through, and a ghost to a father who sees only her when he looks into his face. Lliryn leaving to find her, and Lliryn collared and chained and seared from the inside out of everything that was hers, and then the fire and the wrath of their ancestors and the wrath of Nerevar come again, and Lliryn in the heart of the blaze with his chin tilted up to the moons-and-stars in prayer, in thanks, and then—

—and then she sees the First with his crown of storms, or the thrice-blessed Last with a healer’s bloody hands, or perhaps both at once, and either way, she cannot see her son, cannot see past the mess of thread that a Hero leaves in their wake. Dead, alive, a thrall of another kind—she can see everything, but not the most precious thing, not the one thing she needs to see.

Ilmarenya does not break. Boethiah’s children know that they must break the world that seeks to break them, and she—she has always been the rock upon which the waves break. Still, she remains on her hands and knees at the shoreline until any mortal’s bones would ache, and the tears that spill to the starlit sand are a bright, liquid gold.

What rises in the end is the Nerevarine, but Ilmarenya Ara’dayn, but something altogether other. Ilmarenya’s eyes, burning with all sundown’s fire, lift to the summit and the loom that waits atop it, and she begins to ascend.

[lurafita]

Malec Soulmate (angsty)

How about soulmates and (kind of) reincarnations. If we think that soulmates are two people whose souls are meant for each other, and if we further think that after a life is over, the souls get cleansed of the old life and then are (re)born into a new life.

But souls that are connected to each other will find their other piece in that new life eventually. Hence, soulmates. Right?

So now imagine one of those souls being in the body of an immortal. Like Magnus. Who doesn't grow old and doesn't die and is therefore not reborn into a new life. But his partner is mortal. And the one time they weren’t, they were killed by a shadowhunter.

And Magnus has connected with his soulmate many a time in his centuries of life. And has had to go through the pain of losing them to death just as many times. And he can’t anymore. It's too much. He can’t go through that again. Enter Alec. His soulmate. Who is mortal. And a shadowhunter.

I keep imagining that it would come out in a private conversation? Like Alec, fed up of being rejected yet again (they are soulmates! Magnus should know that there is no running from this and anything that Magnus believes stands in their way, Alec will do whatever is in his power to change. They are meant to be!), corners Magnus somewhere and things get to a head.

With Alec thinking that it's because of him being a shadowhunter and Magnus being known to have little love for them (which Alec gets, knowing that Magnus fought in the uprising and has been victim to the shadowhunter brand of superiority for many years), and he wants to prove to Magnus that he is different, that they are different and they belong togehter and Magnus just has to give him a chance. And then it just kind of spills out of Magnus.

How he has done this already. Met him already. Many times. "The first time I found you, you were a prince, but still a child, and I didn't want to do anything to… to manipulate or groom you. So I decided to come back when you were older, so that the power imbalance between us wouldn't be so severe. Only to learn that you had died from an illness just two years after I left. The second time, you were a woman working as a seamstress. We spent two wonderful decades together before the townspeople burned you at a stake while I was away, believing me the devil and you a witch for loving me. The third time, you were a young man, just recently turned into a vampire. And I thought this time, this time it will last. But a prejudiced shadowhunter found you a little too close to their headquaters and thought this grounds to end you. I found you a fourth, and a fifth, and even a sixth time. But our time together was always cut too short. I have lived through losing you far too often. And I can't keep doing it. And now you are once again a mortal, and a shadowhunter to boot. How long would I have you this time? A few years? A decade with any luck? Mere months? I'm sorry, Alexander. I can't."