#Fade the shadow snake | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

antlersarchives · 2 months ago

Text

𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞

one-shot

bo chow x reader

summary - wandering on alone in the deep of the Mississippi Delta wasn't a favoured thing, but nor was it an uncommon one. some carefree few would end up along that track from time to time, and their consequence? the last path they'd find themselves walking down in the dead of night with enough living breath to carry them. those damn creatures of the night..

requested by: anonymous 💗

warnings; smut, 18+, vampirism, canon-typical violence, mild gore/violence, bloodplay, stalking, southern gothic erotica, biting, restraint, oral sex (r!receiving), pinv, worship kink, dirty talking, soulmates and soul tied, finding a mate, consensual, 1930s southern history, second person pov.

a/n: based on the song 'scared to live' by the weeknd because when I was thinking of this fic, this is what came up and I thought it was gorgeous,, also thank you to the many peeps who reached out and asked for this!! and yes I added the line between Stack and Mary because DAMN. i hope you enjoy, it might need some tweaks, but requests and comments are welcome and please let me know what you think!

w/c: 5.6k

It was unusual walking around this late at night. Especially alone; at least that’s what you’d been told.

Deep down in the heart and heat of the Mississippi Delta, right beside the marshes and desolate land, there was a calmness in the stillness of the earth, everything full of life and promise, only the devil creeping around the corner to take back what was his. And that’s what you clung to, no matter how much your mama would tell you otherwise, that the dangers out there are too much to cope with, or how the children back in your schoolhouse days would spread rumor; you always found yourself right back here.

Alone.

The night was especially still tonight, the darkness closing in tighter than usual under a cloudless sky. The only light came from a couple of flickering lanterns outside a dim Juke Joint, guiding your path as you walked.

On the porch of the joint, two old-timey musicians sat pouring their hearts into the music they created, without a care in the world, frozen in time, they could forget the industrialisation of the world around them. One man played a harmonica, his weathered hands cradling it with care. The soulful, fuzzy notes wrapped around you, a comforting urge to keep moving forward despite the shadows surrounding you.

Your feet seemed to carry you effortlessly through the opening of the wood, drawing deeper in as you looked behind you one last time, swaying with each step as the music faded into the distance. Heading to the only home you knew without a destination - your own company.

A few twigs crunched beneath your feet as you walked, and the odd branch creeping up on you, the left of you the bayou laid still, untouched - and to your right, the final twinkle of streetlights, was the edge of town, just before they turned off completely. Now, you’d never seen anyone else cross this path; by this point you’d think you owned it simply because you seemed the only one daring or reckless enough to walk it on your own- and you had heard both from just about anyone.

But this time was different.

All kinds of things were catching your eyes, something not ordinary. Snakes, alligators, even the nearest flock of herons that waded over the water, standing as tall as a small child. But that wasn’t it, it wasn’t innocence that followed you, and there was enough life and nature around you to tell you that, whatever it was, it wasn’t living.

Your mind stopped wandering at rustling that came from a bush behind you and you turned on your heel, the soil beneath you shifting with a sigh, and the rustling stopped. You halted, squinting your eyes at all around you, from the floor to the tops of the trees - nothing.

A pair of wings fluttered out before you could blink, hurtling toward you in one swift motion and you backed up into a tree beside you, gasping. You winced at the roughness, rubbing at the start of what would soon be a bruise. Taking a deep breath, you straightened yourself and kept on moving, cursing yourself for even being startled in the first place. It was nothing but a little house finch - your grandfathers old illustration books could have told you that, and you took your life studying this place, your home, this wasn’t anything to be worried about.

However your gut told a different story. You slowed, taking note of a blossom tree, the shadows of purple flowers, you traced the lines of the stems, putting your focus on that instead of-

“Shit-“ A voice rang out from the darkness ahead of you, out of sight, and you brushed the leaves out of your hand, swatting the branch away, crouching a little beside them. A figure stumbled out from the bushes, a man, dusting off his shoulders and catching his fall he stood up straight on the side of the path. He looked around for a moment mumbling something to himself, wiping something from around his mouth - you couldn’t quite make it out but whatever is was was dark, thick.

The breeze picked up and rustled the whole wood, and your eyes trailed him, not moving for a second. He was somewhat tall, with a dark head of hair - well kept and presentably dressed for this time of night. A pair of lined trousers and a white shirt, suspenders keeping his back straight is about what you could make out. A stranger, no doubt, but the voice.. the voice you recognised. His head snapped up and your stomach turned, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on where you’d heard it before.

The heat was unbearable.

And that was saying something for someone who grew up around here. Your arms felt like they were about to give out from the weight of the grocery bags, and you could swear the soles of your feet were nearly burned away in those flimsy old shoes. The street buzzed with life, cars and people rushing in every direction, while music spilled out from corners on nearly every block, making your head spin. You could feel your body start to sag a bit under the strain, so you set one of the bags down on the ground. With all this running around and the pressure to get home quickly, you leaned against the wall to steady yourself.

The only thing that pulled you from your daze was an arm wrapping around you, gripping your waist like a cool washcloth— supporting you. You looked up to meet the gaze of one of the local shop owners. You scrunched your face, trying to see him more clearly, only to focus on his warm and friendly smile.

“Hey, I had to catch you before you fell there, darlin'. Is everything okay?” He let out a nervous chuckle as he propped you up against the wall, gently taking the bag from your other hand and setting it down next to the first. Your ears were ringing, and dizziness washed over you,. You hadn’t realised how hard you’d been pushing yourself until it became almost impossible to move. His hand cupped your cheek, and he looked deeply into your eyes, as if he’d have been searching for signs of life.

He nodded to himself and looked up and down the street before standing upright.” How ’bout we go a little ways away down this street? I’ve got a store down there; I own it.” Pointing in the direction you were already headed, he clicked his fingers at a worker loading up a truck and waved them over to pick up your bags. Gently grabbing your hands, he placed them around his neck.

Bo paused for a moment, a smile spreading across his face as he watched you ready yourself. You twirled onto your side, and he slipped his arm back around your waist, guiding you a few steps and into the shop. He encouraged you the way there, playfully teasing you about being out in the heat and pushing yourself too hard. As you made your way into the store, he leaned you against the counter for support. Before you could voice any objections, his hands found the backs of your thighs, lifting you onto the counter with effortless ease and drawing his hands away.

You settled back with a huff, grateful for the brief respite. And as you took in the store, he had disappeared, returning just as fast with a glass of water in hand.

“Something to take the edge off, huh?” He offered, his voice a soothing balm, as he extended his hand toward you. You weakly accepted it, your fingers enveloping the glass. “Thank you,” you croaked out, your voice hoarse like gravel. He looked astounded, his eyes widening as he shuffled away from where he stood, placing his hands at his sides.

“Agh, she speaks; how are you feeling, Sweetpea?” The playful smirk on his face lingered as he watched your lips gently graze the rim of the glass. Your eyes fluttered closed in a moment of solace, and you raised your thumb in a silent saying of “okay,” feeling the chill of the cold water hit your mouth.

He slanted his side against the counter, his hips swaying slightly as he observed you, watching how your brows knitted together in concentration as you drank, and you could feel his eyes on you.

At that moment, a sense of longing washed over him, his eye lingering on you in a way he hadn’t meant to. He found himself thinking all those things he shouldn’t—how your lips curved into that bright smile, the static shock as your fingers brushed against his, and how your skirt senselessly bunched around your knees. His breath caught in his throat, placing his empty hand on the counter beside you, enclosing you at a distance.

You lazily pulled your hand back and shifted in your seat, meeting his longing look. You noticed the sweat beading on his hairline, trickling down his cheek just etching at his lip and how his mouth parted as he licked his lips, almost panting from the outside , before setting the glass down. Tilting your head slightly, you tried to read the familiar face, hoping by some miracle you'd remember an answer, a name, anything - but you'd only seen him a couple of times, watching lowly from the street. And before you could ask,

“It’s Bo, Bo Chow.” He paused for a moment, breathless. “But most folks around here just stick with Bo.” The smile he offered was like a daydream, a shared one, as he nodded his head, clasping his hands together.

It was him.

You drew a breath sharply. The brush from the leaves threatening to whip you in the face with the wind as you remained at eye-level with it but your crouched feet failed you. What felt like a distant memory was only just a few weeks ago, and it flooded back fast, the soles of your feet still burned and they gave way, but the ground beneath you shifted, you pulled at the earth and when the roots from broke, you fell backward, leaving a snap at your wake. You gasped as the hard mud hit your back, bunching your hand to make a fist to push at it.

Footsteps approached hurriedly and a presence peered from over you, familiar hands reached out for you, leaving no distance in sight, the moonlight lit up part of his face giving all your questions the truth you needed.

“Bo..” You wheezed out loud, grabbing at his arm as he towed you forward, letting you sit up. You felt this before, his touch, but now there was a grip that felt unnatural, it burned with his touch, your limb could have practically gone limp, and yet he barely moved a muscle.

“Woah there, careful baby.” You stood up and he stepped back a bit giving you some space, laughing as you both realised one another, you sighed of relief of seeing his face, something so unlikely here, in the dead of night.

Now it threw you off no doubt, but it was Bo, the shopkeeper down the street who took his own time to help you, the one you looked out for every day, a couple run ins without an acquaintance could tell you he was a gentleman, and many knew that, even you.The store had been shut down for while and he practically had wiped off the face of the Earth. After the incident you heard about in the papers about the Juke Joint everyone kept their heads down, keeping to themselves, apart from those whispers. Like the ones you’d heard since you were young, but now they were prime, the riddle on everyones tongue like a sermon, like some part the new gospel.

However, after that one day, you couldn’t help but think of him, the way he stopped to help you, to pull you close, the way he eyed the structure of your body like it was the holy grail itself. Leaving you to question, what would have happened if you’d have stayed? Maybe you hit your head that day, or perhaps it was the heat messing with you, but that didn’t change the heat you felt inside of you every time you thought about it, an aching, an uncontrolled urge with the way he rested against you, his hand near creeping up toward your thigh. And the way he looked at you now, breaking the silence, didn’t help your distress,

“I dropped my lantern around here some place, give me a second sweetheart.”

He snickered, kicking the dirt around his feet to find the lamp, and you stop there rocking on your heel unit he found it, picking it up and bringing it to the both of you. His eyes lulled at you, checking in as he pulled a matchbox from his pocket, reaching inside for one of them. He slid the box open and flicked one of the matches into his mouth, pausing to close the compartment. You could still make out the shading of his face, watching the way he moved, and the match in his mouth as he swiped it with his tongue, wrapping it tightly around so it wouldn’t fall. His gaze remained on you in the stillness, and as the tip guided along the top of his tongue, his eyes flashed starved with want.

It created a glow, lighting the woods and your faces up orange, he crouched to pick up the lantern beside his feet, sealing the glow inside its glass case.

“You could’a frightened me there.” You laughed off, trying to give some kind of lightness to what had just happened, spurring on conversation.

He held it close in his hands, enough to keep track of you and take a look around for any others, if there even was. “I didn’t mean to scare you darlin, probably shouldn’t have been wandering out here this late as it is myself, but thought I’d take a walk, it’s been one hell of a day.” You quirked an eyebrow now being able to focus on his face, eyes drawing to the corner of his dimples. His smile didn’t falter once, staying at the flat of his mouth, only gracing his face lightly, and beyond his surprise he seemed please. Pleased to see you.

“Yeah I could have guessed.” You wiped your fingers at the corner of your mouth, gesturing to his own. He looked pretty beat up, just without the bruises, or without injury of any kind, but the thick strands of blood that pooled from his mouth proved otherwise.

His face contorted into some sort of shock at your look and he pinched at the drying substance, wiping it into his pants without as much as a look. The look he gave went blank for a moment, like he wanted to say something but refrained, like he was fighting something on the inside.

“So why’re you out here this late?” He took a little step forward, stepping downward from the small, raised embankment he was on before, now at almost level with you, he hung the lantern in-between you both. You didn’t move, rather stilled in your step as he wandered over to you, his eyes squinting a little. “I usually come out here, on my own, it’s rare you see anyone down here past sundown.” You wondered why, why out here, and now. Everything seemed to go silent, enough to hear a pin drop, only that light breeze shaking up your skirts, and tousled his hair just enough to shag in his face, it was calm, gentle even, just like before - but Bo, he seemed out of place, shifting back and forth where he stood, yet confident still. More eager than before.

Like he was trying to make some sort of move.

You continued to ramble and he smirked, “I haven’t seen you or the shop open around here in a while, are you sure you’re alright? There’s been a lot happening in town while you’ve been gone.”

“You noticed I been gone?” He shot back suddenly, the only thing registering, his lip curling a bit.

“Well, you guys own a much needed store in this town, it would be missed if it were to go untouched.” He took another step forward, watching you stumble over your words seemed rewarding. All this time he’d been around, seen you, wanting to do something, it’s not like he was scared to do it, and to tell the truth he didn’t really understand his infatuation at first. He’d seen you walk the streets, crossing by his shop window whenever you’d head into town, the times you’d visit and leave just as fast, cheeks blushing pink when you’d see him. And that’s what stayed with him. Things weren’t all that it seemed behind those four walls, his life felt withdrawn of colour, everything was weight. But you, oh you were light, some beautiful sign, something he chased for, something he was determined to make his. And with his life now, he knew what that meant.

“You know what I mean. “ You feigned confidence in your words, now in reality that a truth, but in honesty, you knew it was more than that; much more.

He took another step forward, this time as you took one back, your heel clicked with the root of a tree, giving a thud as you braced both of your arms behind you, pushing you up as much as you could, feeling the rough bark at your finger tips. “You miss me?” His nature shifted, and his head tilted with it, swaying the lantern as he walked, a few steps distance between you both. The light flickered, so much so the shape of his face seemed to contort.

And his eyes, they glossed over an iridescent white, glinting specks of red and orange, something that you hadn’t seen before. Something that wasn’t human.

But you blinked and they were gone.

They were normal, a darker brown suited them, staring at you knowingly. “You could say that.” Your breath shook, but not out of fear, no, but instead the way he drew near, closer and closer. He flashed you a smile as you tried to think of the right words, but now his teeth.

Another blink.

And the once rounded molars were sharp and jagged, more like an animal, something made for tearing into flesh. And you felt your stomach drop and an ache that pooled downward, one you couldn’t control.

He staggered, dropping his head forward to look at the ground before looking up to you again. He rested his arm on the piece of tree behind your head, getting quieter, though his voice rang in your ears, ”Saw the way you looked at me back at the store, and I should have said somethin’.”

“Bo, that was just-“ He took the final step between you, leaving the lantern at your feet, his finger came up to your mouth shushing you, knowing where you were going with what you said next, seemingly before you did. His eyes still had a distinct gentile in them, the same as the one you knew before, even beyond his new form. And no words had to be uttered to tell you what that was.

The truth you both knew. The limited glint from the light reflected from his eye to yours, and you could see your face in the shine.

“You're telling me that was nothin’, that you didn’t think of about it,” A serious expression on his face, his brows furrowed, he brushed his fingers down against your side, drawing a line against the curve of your waist, “Not even once?” His face flashed with a sense of pride, and the way his pupils dilated was proof of what knew to be true. Your hips jolted forward at the feather light touch and he brought his hand down to cup your thigh, giving it a soft squeeze.

“Bo..” Your face grew red, so red someone would think you’d be laying in that beating sun all day long.

“Y/N.. Tell me.”

Inches away from your face he pressed against you, slanting closer, his voice a staggered whisper, and his lips damp.

“Ever since you saw me last..” You looked down at them, seeing drool at the edges of them and you chuckled a little. He sucked in a keen breath as you scraped yourself against the tree, gaining balance, bringing your finger up to wipe at it.

“Hey, you’re droolin’”

“You want some?” Your head shot up at his quip, bangs of his hair falling into your face, your noses touching. You smiled through your flushed expression, the wetness gathered on your finger and he leaned to kiss as it lightly, drawing his tongue at the remnants. Bo moved his face closer so that your hand laid on his cheek, nuzzling his nose up against your own, he pressed himself against you rocking his hips.

Without an answer, you tugged his face towards yours, closing the gap between you, gasping into his mouth at the friction he was causing. His tongue pushed into your mouth with passion, lips locking with yours as he slotted his knee between you, cupping your sex against his pants, leaving no resistance with the sensation, and you pushed down with a whine.

“God baby..” He licked at your mouth, biting at your top lip fiercely, and he dragged down kissing at your jaw, leaving soft chaste, open mouthed marks toward your neck. His lips felt familiar, so much so they tugged at you, on your heart, so much it almost hurt.

“Please..” You whimpered as Bo’s teeth bared at your neck, along your jugular long enough to feel your heart rumble beneath the canines, feel it even. He sucked in a breath, planting a hard, marking kiss before continuing down. His hands manoeuvred down your shirt, pushing through the soft fabric, bracing his fingers over your breasts and pulling away at the buttons, undoing them one by one by one. And he placed himself on the ground kneeling in front of you.

The tangerine tones scattered across your body like a reckoning, and he grasped with the sight of it, not knowing whether to sit and study or ruin you completely. His head rested against your lower stomach, almost begging you, his hands teasing up the backs of your legs, gripping you where you stood. Your mouth hung open, shivering at his motions. You watched, entranced, as he effortlessly lifted the hem of your skirts, pushing the fabric higher until it rested above your hips. With deliberate slowness, he tugged at the corners of your panties, peeling them down around your ankles. The cool air exposed your cunt, sending another wave of shivers through you as he began tracing the length of your thigh up and down with his tongue.

Your hips jolted forward, and he wasted no time in aimlessly yanking at your hips, his hands scooping up at the flesh of your ass holding you up just enough to reach your centre. Bo grunted as his mouth reached you, pulling you back and forth onto his tongue as he sucked on your clit, the tips of his fingers digging in as you brought your hand to his hair.

The black strands now turning into a disheveled mess in your grasp, there being no reservations at all about his drool slicking down the sides of his mouth as he was moaning into your cunt, fucking his tongue into you, fingers continuing to dig into your hips. He gets lost in the way your breath hitches, the way you say his name - over and over again without abandon, and oh how he’s been waiting, wanting to hear that.

“That’s it pretty girl, I’ve got you.” He groans as your taste coats his tongue, thick with your sweet slick, the height of his newfound senses alerting with each and every movement, and he swears that its the best thing he’s tasted, beyond the blood. He plunged deeper and you could do nothing but follow with a string of moans. You fell apart against him, arching your back into his face as you guided him impossibly close, your head falling back against the wood behind you. All of this time, imagining, yearning and here you were now without a care in the world hissing at every touch he gave, every ounce of pleasure he was willing to give.

His motions didn’t relent, mouth warming against you as his he flicked his tongue in figures of eight, only pausing to suck harshly, and it was too much.

Over and.

Over.

You came undone, a white hot strike vibrating through you and your legs trembled, clenching around him with a cry, “Baby..”.

That was enough for him and he nudged upward, cupping your one leg up to his hip and you circled it around his middle shamelessly.

The thick humidity enveloped you as you panted, heart racing, when he finally came face to face with you once more. A wicked grin spread across his lips, his fangs catching the dim light. You shuddered, but it wasn’t fear that coursed through you; it was the anticipation of what was about to happen.

He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours in a soft, delicate kiss, and you instinctively squeezed your eyes shut. You were standing before a darkness, a malevolence you had been warned about for years—an evil you were all too familiar with, yet never imagined you could draw so close to but your whole being knew.

“I don’t know if I can stop myself.” He breathed out, all restraint he took against himself, resting his head falling against your shoulder, still kissing at the curve of your neck. But you already felt it, with your body pressed against his, you hissed at the motion of his dick pressing through his pants. You reached down to the hem of his shirt, fingers trembling as you pulled it up, revealing the taut muscles of his abdomen. The heat radiated from his skin, mingling with the dew around you, the atmosphere made your heart race.

You could feel the tension building, the unspoken desires hanging in the air, thick and intoxicating you into a compulsion.

“I shouldn’t do this,” you whispered, though the conviction behind your words was faltering. Part of you wanted to push him away, to run from the danger he represented, yet another part—a part you couldn’t ignore—yearned to lean into the darkness he offered.

His lips ghosted over your collarbone, sending shivers down your spine. “But you want to,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, those dark eyes glinting with mischief and hunger. “You’ve felt it too, haven’t you darlin’? The pull between us?”

You inhaled sharply, the air thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and his intoxicating presence.

“Yes,” you admitted, a soft breath escaping your lips. “But it’s reckless. You could hurt me.”

His grin widened, a blend of danger and allure. “And I could do much more than that.” With a swift, fluid motion, he captured your wrist and pulled you closer, bodies flush against each other, the space between you ablaze with possibility. "But what if I promised to keep you safe?"

You hesitated, heart racing as your mind raced with the implications. Could you trust him? Your instincts screamed caution, yet your body betrayed you, yearning for his touch, for the thrill of the unknown.

As he leaned in again, brushing his lips just above yours, the world around you faded into insignificance. In this moment, it was just the two of you, teetering on the edge of danger and desire “Then show me,” you dared. “Show me what you can do.”

He hesitated for just a moment, as if weighing the gravity of your words, before his eyes darkened with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your neck, sending a rush of excitement coursing through you.

The moment his fangs pierced your skin, a sharp gasp escaped your lips and he bucked his hips forward. It was a mixture of pain and a wave of pleasure that stole your breath away. You felt a jolt of energy surge through you as he fed, the warmth of his body pressing against yours, igniting a fire deep in your core - your leg tightened around him.

He caressed your thigh, keeping you pinned between him and the tree and the other grabbing at what he could of your waist as he drank from you, his mouth moving with a sensuous rhythm that sent a heat radiating through your body. Mindlessly your fingers wrapped around his buckle, undoing the chipped metal with a clink that hardly met either one of your ears but he felt it. Your head slacked against the top of his, grabbing at his hips he groaned, and your wetness covered a patch against his clothed cock.

You could feel your heartbeat thrumming in your ears, each pulse syncing with the deep, primal need that blossomed between you, feeling the same dizziness you felt weeks before, this time only stronger. His hands, his mouth, while mostly solid, feel tingly, cold in a way that's akin to walking through fog. His breath is warm as it huffs against your neck, a delicious push and pull of sensation.

With a low growl, he pulled back from your neck slightly, his eyes glinting crimson, a reflection of the warmth of your blood glistened on his lips, a stark reminder of the line you had crossed. “You’re somethin’ honey, let me take care of that for you,” he breathed, his voice low and husk.

The pulse in your neck rippling with every beat of your heart as he rested his forehead against your own, darting his tongue out to kiss you again, giving you the taste of your own blood, now yours, now his.

Bo leered at you and you all you could muster was a dumb smile back. He undid the rest of what you started, eyes watching you and you only as he pulled his dick from his pants. Long, and thick, and leaking, he cursed to himself at the aching and moaned, kissing your cheek. The stretch ignited an intense burn and your hands travelled down his back, tugging at the tight muscle, feeling the weight of everything he put against you.

He leaned you all the way against him to where you were nearly laying as though on a bed yet still angled as though lounging on upright against the tree. The new angle pushed his cock to the sweetest pull, pushing against your plush walls and letting a gasp escape you in turn. Bo smoothed the sides of your body while your feet turned under you and you let your body rest on him. He ran over your breasts slowly through the opening of your lace shirt. Nipples long and pebbled, he squeezed the flesh and brought them up before releasing them again. Bo brought his head to rest beside yours as he thrusted into you once more, blood curdling at your cheek from his mouth.

The wound at your neck stung, with every delicious snap of his hips it jerked your bodies, a solidified reminder now every time he pounded into you. Each snap hitting perfectly deep as his hands cradled you and his words filled your mind with him.

“You’re my girl.” He declared before you could even conjure up the thought. “Say it darlin’.” He continued guiding his hand at your leg, hoisting you as he brought is finger to your clit, rubbing the sensitive bud, as his end neared.

“I’m yours.” You whined, bringing your finger to ghost atop his own as it circled your clit. The familiar heat in your core began to bubble like the markings of a burning fuse. You turned your head to his and kissed him deeply at the thought, rubbing your clit furiously with the help of his hand and relishing the way his cock completed your body.

“You’ll be mine.” Bo reaffirmed as his words caught every second his hips threatened to stutter at his release. “You’ll be mine forever ain’t that right.”

You could have sworn you saw the waves of Heaven wash over you as the eruption of your orgasm shakes you to the core. The blinding shades of his orbs stuck on you leaving you heaving for breath. Left thoughtless and wordless of promises that carry on with the shaking of your thighs and soft whispers of an ‘always’ from his lips. Bo stilled as he released, head slacking and mouth hanging open he moaned, his hips stuttered into you and the threads of his cum began to leak beyond where he filled you.

He released his hand from your own and rubbed your arms soothingly as you laid heavy against him, bracing you against the tree, his hand smoothing over your shoulders as to be careful. Sweat stuck to you as your hair frizzed out of place, the last droplets of blood dribbled out down your neck and he caught it with his finger.

You let out a hiss at the sensation but pouted, he readjusted your skirts, letting his forehead rest against yours once more, closing his eyes as your head knocked into his own and he grinned lightly. And you regained what was left of your breath as your vision faltered, only able to see his face in the dim glow.

“Now you will be.”

And a promise or a guarantee, who could know? But he intended to keep both.

#sinners x reader #sinners 2025 #sinners movie #bo chow x reader #bo chow #yao #sinners #bo chow fic #its finally here #come get your good good

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pucksandpower · 9 months ago

Text

Royal Pardon

Charles Leclerc x Arthur’s best friend!Reader

Summary: Charles isn’t a violent man at heart, but when he saves you from being harassed while celebrating his Monaco win, he quickly realizes that there’s not a single line he wouldn’t cross if it means keeping you safe

Warnings: attempted sexual assault, violence, and injury

Note: a break from your regularly scheduled October programming because Charles just won the United States GP and that calls for a celebration

The music pulses through the club, a steady, hypnotic beat that thrums in Charles’ chest. He’s never felt like this — untouchable, invincible — as if tonight could stretch on forever, an endless loop of victory and laughter.

He’s just won Monaco.

Monaco. His Monaco.

The thought alone makes him smile, a small, private thing that he hides behind the rim of his champagne flute.

Around him, the crowd swirls in a blur of lights and shadows, everyone shouting their congratulations over the music, pulling him into hugs and clapping him on the back. Arthur is here somewhere, of course, dragging you along because where else would you be? The two of you are like shadows, inseparable since childhood.

Charles can still see you, just barely, out of the corner of his eye, chatting with a couple of Arthur’s friends near the bar. You’re laughing, a sound that somehow cuts through the noise and settles in the back of his mind. It’s a good sound, one that feels familiar, like home.

“Charles, mate!” A voice shouts, pulling him back. Max is there, leaning in with a grin that’s all teeth, like he’s just as buzzed on adrenaline as Charles is. “I swear, you’re going to be insufferable after this. Monaco, finally!”

Charles laughs, shaking his head, though the truth is he probably will be insufferable. But can anyone blame him? He’s worked so damn hard for this, pushing through every setback, every disappointment. And now, here he is, celebrating the win of his career in the only place that really matters.

He’s about to respond when someone else pulls him into a hug, a flurry of excitement and congratulations that Charles barely processes. He doesn’t mind, though. Tonight, it feels like nothing can touch him, like nothing could ever bring him down from this high.

But then, something shifts. It’s subtle at first, just an itch at the back of his mind, a sense that something isn’t right. He glances over to where you and Arthur were standing, but Arthur is gone, nowhere to be seen. And you … you’re not laughing anymore.

Charles’ stomach twists. You’re cornered against the bar now, a man leaning in too close, too aggressive. Charles can’t see your face clearly through the throng of people, but the way you’re holding yourself, tense and small, tells him everything he needs to know.

His blood turns to ice, freezing the euphoria in his veins. He can’t hear what the man is saying, but it doesn’t matter. The way the man’s hand snakes around your waist, the way you try to push him off with trembling hands — Charles’ vision goes red.

He’s moving before he can think, pushing through the crowd with a single-minded focus. The people congratulating him moments ago scatter as he brushes past them, their laughter and cheers fading into the background noise.

“Hey!” Charles’ voice cuts through the music, sharp and commanding. The man doesn’t even turn at first, but you do, your eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. Charles feels something break inside him at the sight, but he channels it into a fury that propels him forward.

When the man finally notices Charles, it’s too late. Charles is on him, grabbing the man’s shoulder and yanking him away from you with a force that sends the man stumbling backward. “Get the fuck away from her,” Charles snarls, every syllable dripping with venom.

The man barely has time to react before Charles slams him against the wall, the impact rattling the bottles on the shelves behind the bar. Charles’ forearm presses against the man’s throat, cutting off whatever protest he might have had.

“Charles, stop!” You gasp, your voice choked with a mix of fear and something else, something that twists the knife already lodged in Charles’ chest. He doesn’t stop, though. Can’t stop. The image of the man’s hands on you is burned into his mind, and all he can think about is making him pay, making him hurt.

The man struggles, clawing at Charles’ arm, but it’s useless. Charles is stronger, fueled by a rage that’s been simmering just beneath the surface for too long. The man’s face turns red, then purple, and still, Charles doesn’t let up. His grip tightens, and he leans in closer, his voice a low, dangerous whisper.

“If you ever so much as look at her again, I’ll fucking kill you.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and deadly serious. The man’s eyes widen, a flash of genuine fear crossing his face, but Charles doesn’t care. He wants him to be scared. Wants him to know that there’s no escaping this, no escaping the consequences of what he’s done.

“Charles, please!” Your voice breaks through the haze of anger, and it’s only then that Charles realizes how close you’ve gotten. You’re right there, your hand on his arm, tugging gently, desperately trying to pull him away.

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and sees the tears streaming down your face, the fear etched into your features. It’s like a bucket of cold water dumped over his head, shocking him back to reality. The club, the music, the people — all of it comes rushing back in a disorienting wave.

Charles blinks, his grip on the man loosening just enough for the man to gasp for air. He’s still furious, the anger simmering beneath the surface, but he’s no longer blind with it. He takes a breath, then another, trying to regain some semblance of control.

“You’re lucky she’s here,” Charles says quietly, his voice barely more than a growl. He shoves the man away from him, watching with cold satisfaction as he stumbles and nearly falls to the floor.

The man doesn’t stick around. He scrambles to his feet and disappears into the crowd, no doubt eager to get as far away from Charles as possible. Good. Charles hopes he never sees the man again, because he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop himself if he does.

For a moment, Charles just stands there, his chest heaving with the effort of reining in his emotions. The crowd has started to notice the commotion, a few curious onlookers craning their necks to see what’s going on. But none of that matters. None of them matter.

All that matters is you.

Charles turns to you, his expression softening as he takes in your tear-streaked face. “Are you okay?” His voice is gentler now, full of concern that wasn’t there a moment ago.

You nod, but it’s a shaky, uncertain thing. “I-I’m fine,” you manage, though it’s clear you’re anything but. You look like you’re about to collapse, your legs barely holding you up.

Without thinking, Charles steps closer and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. You don’t resist, you just sink into him, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if he’s the only thing keeping you upright. And maybe he is.

“It’s okay,” Charles murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “You’re safe now. I’m here.” He holds you tighter, as if he can shield you from the world, from everything that just happened. And for a moment, it feels like he can. Like nothing bad can touch you as long as you’re in his arms.

You don’t say anything, just press your face into his chest, your breath hitching with the remnants of your tears. Charles presses his lips to the top of your head, a gesture that feels both instinctive and impossibly intimate. He’s never held you like this before, never been this close, but it feels right.

The music still pounds in the background, the lights still flash in a dizzying array of colors, but it’s all distant now, muted. The only thing that matters is you, and making sure you’re okay.

Charles pulls back just enough to look down at you, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Where’s Arthur?” He asks, his voice still soft but edged with a protective concern.

“I-I don’t know,” you admit, your voice small. “He was here a minute ago, and then …” Your words trail off, and Charles doesn’t need you to finish the sentence to know what happened next.

He clenches his jaw, trying to keep his anger in check. Arthur should have been here, should have been looking out for you, but he isn’t. Charles isn’t sure where his brother is right now, but he’ll deal with that later. For now, he needs to focus on you.

“It’s okay,” he says again, though the words feel inadequate. “You’re with me now. No one’s going to hurt you.”

You nod again, but this time it’s a little steadier, a little more certain. “Thank you,” you whisper, the words barely audible over the music.

Charles shakes his head. “You don’t need to thank me,” he says, his voice rougher than he intends. “I’ll always protect you. Always.”

The weight of those words hangs between you, a promise that feels more real than anything else in this moment. Charles knows, without a doubt, that he means it. He’ll protect you, no matter what. Even if it means facing down every threat, every danger, with the same ferocity he showed tonight.

He takes a deep breath, trying to let go of the lingering anger. The night isn’t over yet, but he’s not sure how much longer he can stand to be here, in this place that suddenly feels too crowded, too loud, too full of people who didn’t notice, didn’t care. Charles’ grip tightens on your shoulders as he scans the room, trying to spot Arthur in the sea of faces. But it’s a lost cause — the club is packed, and he knows Arthur could be anywhere.

“Come on,” Charles says, his voice a bit steadier now. “Let’s get out of here.”

You don’t argue, just nod and let him guide you through the crowd. The bodies pressing in around you both feel suffocating, the music that once electrified the night now grating on Charles’ nerves. He keeps a firm hold on your hand, as if letting go might mean losing you to the chaos.

As you near the exit, the cool night air becomes a welcome relief, a sharp contrast to the oppressive heat inside. The streets of Monaco are quieter now, the party shifting indoors as the night grows late. Charles doesn’t stop moving until you’re both far enough from the club that the noise fades into a dull hum, barely audible over the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks.

He finally releases your hand, only to immediately wrap his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. You’re shivering, whether from the cold or the shock, Charles isn’t sure. Either way, he holds you tighter, wishing he could do more, say more.

But the words don’t come easily. They never have. So instead, he just walks with you, slowly, allowing the night air to calm the both of you. You lean into him, and he can feel the tension gradually leaving your body, though you still seem a little too fragile, too breakable.

Charles isn’t sure how long you walk like that, side by side in the near silence, before you finally speak.

“Charles, I …” Your voice is hesitant, unsure. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been there.”

He stops walking, turning to face you, his expression serious. “You don’t have to think about that,” he says, his voice firm. “I was there. And I always will be.”

You look up at him, your eyes searching his face for something — reassurance, perhaps, or maybe just understanding. “But what if next time-”

“There won’t be a next time.” Charles cuts you off, his voice harder than he intends. He takes a breath, softening his tone. “I won’t let there be a next time.”

He can see the worry still etched on your face, the remnants of fear that haven’t quite faded. He wishes he could take it all away, erase the memory of that man and the way he made you feel. But he knows he can’t. All he can do is be there, to protect you, to make sure you know that you’re not alone.

“You’re safe,” he repeats, quieter now, but with no less conviction. “As long as I’m here, you’re safe.”

You hold his gaze for a long moment, and he wonders what you’re thinking, what’s going on behind those eyes that have always been so easy for him to read. Eventually, you nod, and some of the tension in your posture seems to melt away.

“Okay,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

Charles nods too, though a part of him still feels on edge, like the danger hasn’t completely passed. But he pushes that feeling down, focusing instead on you, on the fact that you’re here with him, and that’s all that matters right now.

“Let’s go,” he says again, but this time, his voice is softer, more gentle. He takes your hand again, lacing his fingers with yours, and starts walking, leading you away from the club, from the noise and the memories that he hopes you’ll never have to revisit.

As you walk, the tension between you both begins to ease. The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of the sea, and for the first time in what feels like hours, Charles allows himself to breathe.

He glances over at you, your profile illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlights. You look calmer now, more like yourself, though there’s still a shadow of what happened lingering in your eyes. Charles’ heart aches at the sight, at the knowledge that he couldn’t protect you from that, even if he was there to stop it from getting worse.

But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he just keeps walking, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your knuckles, a silent reassurance that he’s here, and he’s not going anywhere.

Eventually, you reach the familiar streets that lead back to your apartment. The night is quiet now, the revelry of earlier giving way to the peaceful stillness of a city that’s finally starting to sleep.

When you reach your building, you both stop, lingering on the sidewalk as if neither of you wants the night to end just yet. Charles knows he should say something, anything, but the words are stuck in his throat, too heavy and too complicated to untangle.

You’re the one who breaks the silence, your voice soft but clear. “Thank you. For everything.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t need to thank me,” he says, echoing his earlier words. “I meant what I said — I’ll always protect you.”

There’s a pause, a beat of silence that stretches on just long enough to make Charles wonder if you’re going to say something more. But you don’t. Instead, you step closer and, without warning, wrap your arms around him in a tight hug.

Charles is momentarily stunned, his breath catching in his throat as he processes the warmth of your embrace, the way you cling to him like he’s your anchor in a storm. He hesitates for only a second before his arms come up around you, holding you just as tightly, if not more.

The hug lasts longer than it probably should, but neither of you seems to want to let go. When you finally do, you pull back just enough to look up at him, your eyes searching his with a softness that makes his chest tighten.

“Goodnight, Charlie,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“Goodnight,” he replies, his voice equally soft, as if speaking any louder would shatter the fragile moment between you.

You give him one last, lingering look before turning and heading into your building, the door closing softly behind you. Charles stands there for a moment, staring at the door, as if willing it to open again, as if hoping you might come back out and say something more.

But you don’t, and eventually, Charles turns and starts walking back the way you came, his thoughts a tangled mess of emotions he’s not sure how to deal with.

The night is still, the only sound the distant crash of the waves against the rocks. Charles lets the quiet seep into him, trying to find some semblance of calm, but it’s difficult. The image of you, scared and vulnerable, keeps flashing through his mind, a constant reminder of how close you came to being hurt.

He knows he should feel relief — that you’re safe, that the night ended without further incident. But instead, all he feels is a gnawing sense of guilt, of not having been there sooner, of not being able to protect you from everything.

Charles clenches his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he walks. He doesn’t want to think about what could have happened if he hadn’t been there, doesn’t want to imagine the fear and pain you might have endured.

But he can’t stop the thoughts from coming, can’t shake the anger that simmers just beneath the surface, threatening to boil over at any moment.

As he rounds the corner to his own street, Charles makes a silent vow to himself. He’ll be more vigilant, more careful. He won’t let anyone hurt you ever again. He’ll be there, always, to protect you, no matter what.

And if anyone tries to come between you and your safety again, well … Charles isn’t sure he’ll be able to hold back next time.

He reaches his apartment, but he doesn’t go inside right away. Instead, he stands outside, staring up at the stars barely visible above the city lights, his mind still racing with thoughts of you.

Eventually, he takes a deep breath and turns to unlock his door, stepping inside and letting the door close behind him with a quiet click. The apartment is dark and silent, but it doesn’t feel like home tonight. It feels empty, hollow, as if something is missing.

And Charles knows exactly what that something is.

As he heads to bed, his thoughts are still on you — on the way you looked at him tonight, on the way you clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. And somewhere, deep down, Charles knows that you’re more than just Arthur’s best friend to him.

But he’s not ready to confront that just yet. Not tonight.

So he pushes the thoughts aside, focusing instead on the promise he made to himself: to always be there for you, to protect you, no matter what.

It’s a promise he intends to keep.

***

The morning sun stretches over Monaco, its golden rays catching on the waves that lap against the harbor. The city is just beginning to stir, and for a moment, everything feels like it should: calm, peaceful, normal. But as Charles hits his stride on his morning run, his mind is anything but calm.

The events of last night replay in his head on a loop, the image of you — shaken, scared, fighting back tears — burned into his memory. Every step he takes feels heavier, weighted down by the anger simmering just beneath the surface.

He’s tried to push it down, to focus on the steady rhythm of his breathing, the sound of his shoes hitting the pavement, but it’s no use. The rage is still there, as fresh and raw as it was the moment he saw you in that club.

Charles turns a corner, heading down toward the harbor where the yachts bob gently in the water. The morning air is crisp, a stark contrast to the heat that still lingers in his chest. He needs to clear his head, to shake off the lingering sense of helplessness that clings to him like a shadow.

But then he sees him.

The man is walking casually along the harbor, hands in his pockets, his face a picture of smug indifference. He looks like any other tourist enjoying a morning stroll, not like someone who was grabbing you, hurting you, just hours ago.

Charles stops dead in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat. For a split second, he thinks he’s imagining it, that his mind is playing tricks on him. But no, it’s him. The same face, the same sneer that Charles wanted to wipe off with his fist last night.

Something snaps inside Charles. The anger he’s been trying to control, trying to bury, erupts like a dam breaking, flooding his veins with adrenaline. His vision narrows, locking onto the man who dared to touch you, who thought he could get away with it.

Without thinking, Charles changes direction, his strides long and purposeful as he closes the distance between them. The man doesn’t notice him at first, too absorbed in whatever thoughts a man like him could have. But then, as Charles gets closer, something makes the man glance over his shoulder.

His reaction is immediate. The smug look falters, replaced by a flicker of recognition, then quickly by a lazy grin that only fuels Charles’ rage.

“Well, well,” the man drawls, stopping to face Charles, clearly not sensing the danger. “If it isn’t the big hero himself. What’s the matter, Leclerc? Didn’t get enough attention last night?”

Charles doesn’t answer, his jaw clenched so tightly he can feel his teeth grind together. He’s close enough now to smell the lingering stench of alcohol on the man’s breath, the same breath that spewed vile words at you.

The man chuckles, a sound that grates on Charles’ nerves like nails on a chalkboard. “You know, she had it coming,” he says, his tone almost conversational. “The way she was dressed, the way she looked at me — what did she expect?”

That’s all it takes. The words cut through Charles like a knife, sharp and searing, and before he knows what he’s doing, he’s grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, shoving him back against the railing of the harbor.

“What did you say?” Charles’ voice is low, dangerous, barely more than a growl. His knuckles are white where they grip the man’s shirt, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring ready to snap.

The man’s grin only widens, unfazed by the fury in Charles’ eyes. “You heard me,” he sneers. “And you know what? There’s nothing you can do about it. We’re in public, Leclerc. You’re a famous guy — can’t have your precious image tarnished, can you?”

Charles’ lips curl into a smile, but it’s not the kind that reaches his eyes. It’s cold, calculated, the kind of smile that sends a chill down the spine. “You think I care about that?” He asks, his voice dangerously calm.

The man’s bravado falters just a bit, uncertainty flickering in his eyes, but he doesn’t back down. “Yeah, I do. You’re not gonna do anything. Not here, not in front of all these people.”

Charles laughs, but there’s no humor in it, just a bitter edge that makes the man shift uncomfortably. “You really don’t get it, do you?” Charles says, his voice softening into something almost pitying. “This is Monaco. And I’m Charles Leclerc.”

The man’s face pales slightly, but he still tries to hold his ground. “So what? You think being a driver gives you a free pass to do whatever you want?”

Charles’ smile widens, though there’s nothing friendly about it. “Exactly.”

Before the man can react, Charles yanks him away from the railing, dragging him along the harbor. The man stumbles, trying to pull away, but Charles’ grip is ironclad, unyielding. The few people who are out this early watch with interest, some even clapping or calling out congratulations as they recognize Charles.

“Hey, what the hell?” The man protests, his voice rising in panic as he struggles against Charles’ hold. “Let go of me!”

Charles doesn’t respond, his eyes focused straight ahead as he forces the man to walk, his grip tightening whenever he feels him start to resist. The man’s attempts to free himself are pathetic, laughable even, compared to the strength Charles has built up over years of training, of pushing his body to the limits.

As they pass by a group of people, one of them cheers, “That’s the way, Charles! Show him who’s boss!”

The man tries to appeal to the onlookers, his voice frantic. “Someone stop him! He’s crazy!”

But no one moves to help. They just watch, some amused, others indifferent, as Charles continues to drag the man through the streets of Monaco like he’s nothing more than a piece of trash that needs to be disposed of.

“Where are you taking me?” The man demands, his voice trembling now as fear starts to seep in. “You can’t do this! I’ll-I’ll call the police!”

Charles’ laugh is cold and devoid of any warmth. “Go ahead,” he says, not slowing down for a second. “Tell them Charles Leclerc is dealing with a problem. See how far that gets you.”

The man’s protests grow weaker, his struggles more desperate, but it’s clear he knows there’s no escaping this. Charles is too strong, too determined, and the reality of his situation is starting to sink in.

The two of them reach a more secluded part of the harbor, where the buildings are fewer and the noise of the city fades into the background. There’s no one around to witness what’s about to happen, no one to hear the man’s cries for help.

Charles comes to a stop in a narrow alleyway, shoving the man against the wall with enough force to knock the breath out of him. He leans in close, his face inches from the man’s, his voice a low, dangerous whisper.

“You made a mistake last night,” Charles says, his tone icy. “You thought you could get away with it because you were in a crowded club, because she was alone. You thought no one would stop you.”

The man’s eyes are wide with fear now, all traces of his earlier arrogance gone. “I-I didn’t mean-”

“But you did,” Charles cuts him off, his voice like steel. “You meant every word, every touch, every threat. And now, you’re going to pay for it.”

The man tries to push Charles away, his movements frantic, but Charles is relentless. He grabs the man by the throat, pinning him against the wall, his grip just tight enough to make him understand how serious this is.

“You think I can’t do anything to you because we’re in public?” Charles hisses, his breath hot against the man’s ear. “You’re wrong. In Monaco, I can do whatever I want. And no one will stop me.”

The man’s hands claw at Charles’ arm, trying to pry his fingers away from his throat, but it’s useless. Charles is too strong, too focused, his anger giving him a surge of power that the man can’t hope to match.

Charles leans in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You hurt someone I care about. Someone I’ve known my whole life. And for that, I’m going to make sure you never forget what happens when you cross me.”

The man’s breath comes in short, panicked gasps as he realizes the gravity of his situation. He tries to speak, to beg for mercy, but Charles isn’t interested in hearing his excuses.

“Please …” the man finally manages to choke out, his voice barely a whisper. “I-I’m sorry …”

Charles’ eyes narrow, his grip tightening for a moment before he abruptly lets go, letting the man collapse to the ground in a heap. The man gasps for air, his hands trembling as he scrambles to his feet, his eyes wide with fear.

But Charles isn’t done. He grabs the man by the collar, dragging him deeper into the alley, where the shadows swallow them both. The man’s struggles are weak now, more out of instinct than any real hope of escape.

“People like you,” Charles says, his voice low and menacing, “think you can do whatever you want. But here’s the truth: you’re nothing. Just another coward who preys on the vulnerable. And cowards like you don’t get to walk away.”

The alley is cold and dark, the early morning light barely reaching the grimy corners where Charles drags the man like a lifeless doll. The sounds of Monaco are distant now, just a low hum that fades into the background. The only noise that matters is the ragged breathing of the man at Charles’ mercy, and the echo of their footsteps on the uneven pavement.

Charles stops abruptly, his grip still tight on the man’s collar. He looks around, taking in the silence, the isolation. This place, this forgotten corner of the city, is perfect. No one will find them here. No one will hear what happens next.

He shoves the man against the wall again, harder this time, the force of it knocking the breath out of him. The man lets out a choked gasp, his eyes wide with fear, the bravado from earlier completely gone.

“Please,” he stammers, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean-”

Charles cuts him off with a sharp punch to the gut, and the man doubles over, wheezing. “Don’t bother,” Charles says coldly. “You’re not sorry. You’re just scared. There’s a difference.”

The man tries to straighten up, but Charles doesn’t give him the chance. He lands another punch, this time to the man’s jaw, the crack of bone echoing in the alley. The man’s head snaps to the side, blood already beginning to trickle from his split lip.

“You like hurting people, don’t you?” Charles asks, his voice calm, almost conversational as he paces in front of the man. “That’s what you were doing last night, right? You saw her and you thought you could do whatever you wanted.”

The man groans, trying to push himself up from the ground where he’s fallen, but Charles is on him in an instant, his knee pressing into the man’s chest, pinning him down.

“You thought she was alone,” Charles continues, his voice still eerily calm as he looks down at the man struggling beneath him. “You thought no one would stop you.”

He leans in closer, his knee digging into the man’s ribs, making it harder for him to breathe. “But she wasn’t alone. And now, you’re going to pay for what you did.”

The man tries to shake his head, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. “I’m sorry,” he gasps out, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know-”

Another punch, this one to the side of the man’s face, silences him. Charles doesn’t care about his excuses, his lies. All he cares about is making sure this man understands the pain, the fear that you felt last night.

He grabs the man by the hair, forcing his head up so their eyes meet. The man’s face is already swelling, bruises blossoming under his skin like dark flowers. “You think this is bad?” Charles asks, his voice low, dangerous. “This is nothing compared to what you deserve.”

The man whimpers, his hands weakly trying to push Charles away, but it’s no use. Charles is relentless, his grip like iron as he drags the man up and slams him back against the wall.

“You like to take what you want, don’t you?” Charles says, his breath hot against the man’s ear. “Well, let’s see how you like it when someone takes something from you.”

Without waiting for a response, Charles delivers a brutal kick to the man’s knee, and the sickening sound of bone cracking echoes in the alley. The man screams, a high, desperate sound that only fuels Charles’ anger.

He watches dispassionately as the man crumples to the ground, clutching his leg, his face contorted in agony. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” Charles asks, his voice devoid of any sympathy. “Now imagine how she felt. Imagine how scared she was, how helpless.”

The man tries to crawl away, his movements sluggish, hindered by the pain, but Charles isn’t done. He grabs the man by the ankle, dragging him back, his face set in grim determination.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Charles says, his voice flat, emotionless. “Not until I’m finished.”

He pulls the man up, slamming him into the wall again, his grip never loosening. The man’s head lolls to the side, blood dripping from his nose, his mouth, but Charles doesn’t care. He won’t stop until the man feels every bit of the fear and pain he inflicted on you.

“You think you can just walk away from this?” Charles asks, his voice soft, almost a whisper, but there’s a dangerous edge to it that makes the man’s eyes widen in fear. “You think you can just go back to your life, like nothing happened?”

The man shakes his head weakly, but Charles doesn’t believe him. He knows men like this, cowards who prey on the vulnerable, who think they’re invincible because they’ve never had to face the consequences of their actions.

“Wrong,” Charles says, his voice hard, unyielding. “You’re not walking away from this. Not ever.”

He lands another punch, this one to the man’s ribs, and the man gasps, the air knocked out of him. Charles steps back for a moment, watching as the man collapses to the ground, coughing, wheezing, barely conscious.

“Look at you,” Charles says, his voice filled with contempt as he circles the man like a predator. “Pathetic. All that confidence, all that arrogance — gone. Now you’re just a scared little boy, begging for mercy.”

The man’s eyes flutter open, bloodshot and filled with pain. He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a low, pitiful moan. Charles crouches down beside him, his eyes cold, calculating.

“Did you really think you could get away with it?” Charles asks, his voice soft, almost gentle, but there’s a cruel undertone that makes the man flinch. “Did you think no one would care? That no one would come for you?”

The man doesn’t answer, his body trembling, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Charles watches him for a moment, his anger still simmering, but there’s a part of him — a small part — that feels a twisted sense of satisfaction. This man, this coward, is finally paying for what he did.

But it’s not enough. Not yet.

Charles reaches down, grabbing the man by the throat, his fingers digging into the bruised flesh. The man’s eyes go wide, panic setting in as he struggles to breathe, his hands weakly clawing at Charles’ arm.

“You’re not going to forget this,” Charles says, his voice low, dangerous. “Every time you look in the mirror, every time you see those scars, you’re going to remember what happens when you cross me. When you hurt someone I care about.”

The man gurgles, his eyes rolling back in his head, his body going limp in Charles’ grasp. For a moment, Charles considers finishing it, squeezing the life out of the man until there’s nothing left. But then he releases his grip, letting the man collapse to the ground, gasping for air.

The man barely has the strength to lift his head, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and desperation. “You … you can’t … do this,” he wheezes, his voice weak, barely audible. “I’ll … have you arrested … for attempted murder …”

Charles stares down at him, a cold, humorless smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He chuckles, a low, dark sound that sends a shiver down the man’s spine. “Go ahead,” he says, his voice dripping with contempt. “Try it. See how far you get.”

The man’s eyes flutter closed, his body trembling uncontrollably as the reality of his situation sets in. He’s helpless, broken, barely clinging to consciousness. And Charles knows that the man’s threats are empty, born out of desperation, a final attempt to grasp at some semblance of control.

“You’re nothing,” Charles says, his voice cold, final. “No one is going to believe you. Not after what you did. Not after what I’ve done to you.”

The man’s breath comes in short, shallow gasps, his body shuddering with pain and exhaustion. Charles watches him for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before he finally stands up, looking down at the broken, bloodied man at his feet.

“Consider this a warning,” Charles says, his voice low, menacing. “Stay away from her. Stay away from Monaco. If I ever see you again, I won’t stop next time. I won’t show mercy.”

The man doesn’t respond, barely clinging to consciousness, his body slumped against the wall like a discarded puppet. Charles takes one last look at him, his eyes cold, before he turns and walks away, his footsteps echoing in the silent alley.

As he steps out into the morning light, the anger that had consumed him begins to fade, replaced by a cold, detached calm. He knows what he’s done, knows that he’s crossed a line that most people wouldn’t dare to. But he doesn’t care. He did what he had to do, what you needed him to do.

And he’d do it again in a heartbeat.

***

The atmosphere in the police station is tense, a quiet hum of activity threading through the open space. Officers move about, their conversations muted, eyes occasionally flicking toward the door where Charles Leclerc is expected to enter any moment. There’s a palpable discomfort in the air, a mix of respect and unease. No one wants to be the one to arrest Charles Leclerc. And yet, protocol demands his presence.

When Charles finally walks in, the room seems to still. Heads turn, eyes widen slightly. He’s dressed casually — sweatpants, a loose-fitting t-shirt, and a pair of sneakers. Despite the nonchalance of his appearance, there’s an unmistakable tension in his shoulders, a hardness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

The desk sergeant, a middle-aged man with graying hair and a lined face, stands up hastily. “Monsieur Leclerc,” he begins, his tone overly formal, almost reverent. “Thank you for coming in on such short notice. We’re, uh … we’re very sorry about this.”

Charles offers a curt nod, his expression unreadable. “What’s this about?” He asks, even though he already knows.

The sergeant hesitates, glancing around nervously. “We, uh, received a complaint this morning,” he explains, his voice wavering slightly. “From a … an individual who claims that you assaulted him.”

Charles’ lips twitch into something resembling a smile, though there’s no warmth in it. “He’s not wrong,” he says, his voice low, almost a growl. “I did.”

The sergeant’s eyes widen slightly, and there’s a nervous shifting among the other officers in the room. This isn’t how these things usually go. “Monsieur Leclerc,” the sergeant begins again, more carefully this time, “we understand that this man may have … done something to provoke you. But we have to follow protocol. We need to ask you some questions.”

Charles crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back slightly as he regards the sergeant with a cold, detached stare. “Protocol,” he repeats, his voice dripping with disdain. “Fine. Ask your questions.”

The sergeant shifts uncomfortably, clearing his throat. “Did you, uh, did you physically assault the complainant?” He asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes.”

There’s a collective intake of breath from the officers around them, as if they can’t quite believe what they’re hearing. The sergeant blinks, clearly taken aback by Charles’ bluntness. “And … do you regret it?”

Charles laughs then, a dark, humorless sound that sends a shiver down the spines of everyone in the room. “Regret?” He echoes, shaking his head. “No, I don’t regret it. In fact, I’d do it again.”

The sergeant’s face pales, and he looks around as if searching for some way out of this conversation. “Monsieur Leclerc,” he begins again, his voice trembling slightly, “I don’t think you understand the situation. You’ve just admitted to a serious crime. We … we can’t just let you go.”

Charles’ expression hardens, his jaw clenching. “Yes, you can,” he says, his voice cold, unyielding. “And you will.”

The sergeant opens his mouth to protest, but before he can get a word out, the door to the station bursts open, and the man from the alley stumbles in. His face is still bruised, his movements stiff and pained. But there’s a look of triumph in his eyes as he spots Charles standing there.

“There he is!” The man shouts, pointing a shaky finger at Charles. “That’s him! That’s the bastard who tried to kill me!”

Charles turns slowly to face the man, his expression unreadable. There’s a moment of silence, the air thick with tension. The man, emboldened by the presence of the police, takes a step closer, his voice rising with every word. “You think you can just walk away from this, Leclerc? You think you’re untouchable? I’m going to see you rot in prison for what you did!”

Charles doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. The man falters slightly, confused by the lack of reaction. Charles taps the screen a few times, then puts it on speaker.

“What are you doing?” The man sneers, though there’s a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “Calling your lawyer? That’s not going to save you.”

Charles doesn’t bother to reply. The phone rings once, twice, before a familiar voice answers on the other end.

“Charles,” comes the smooth, authoritative voice of Prince Albert of Monaco. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Charles doesn’t take his eyes off the man as he responds. “Your Highness, I’m at the police station. There’s a man here trying to press charges against me for something I did last night.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line, and then Prince Albert’s voice, calm and steady, fills the room through the speakerphone. “I see. And what exactly did you do, Charles?”

Charles’ eyes narrow as he stares down the man, who is now looking increasingly nervous. “I made sure he understands that there are consequences for hurting people I care about,” Charles says, his voice low, menacing. “I made sure he knows that no one lays a hand on her without answering to me.”

The silence in the station is deafening. Every officer in the room is holding their breath, waiting to see what happens next. The man’s face drains of color as he realizes what’s happening, who Charles is talking to.

Prince Albert’s voice is measured, careful. “And you believe this was necessary?”

“Yes,” Charles replies without hesitation. “It was necessary.”

There’s another pause, and then Prince Albert speaks again, his tone decisive. “Then I trust your judgment. You did what you had to do. Consider this a royal pardon. I’ll have an official document delivered to the station within the hour.”

The man’s mouth falls open in shock, his eyes wide with disbelief. “You … you can’t do this!” He sputters, his voice rising in desperation. “He assaulted me! He nearly killed me!”

Charles finally lowers the phone, ending the call. He slips it back into his pocket, his expression as cold and unyielding as ever. “You heard him,” Charles says quietly, his eyes locked on the man’s. “You’re done here.”

The man looks around wildly, as if searching for someone to back him up, but all he finds are the wary, sympathetic gazes of the officers. No one is going to help him. No one is going to defy Prince Albert.

The desk sergeant clears his throat, stepping forward. “Monsieur Leclerc,” he says, his voice carefully controlled, “it appears that you’re free to go.”

Charles doesn’t smile. He simply nods, his gaze never leaving the man who stands trembling before him. “Good,” he says softly. “Because I have more important things to do than waste my time here.”

The man opens his mouth to protest again, but the words die on his lips as Charles steps forward, his presence overwhelming, almost suffocating. “You should leave Monaco,” Charles says, his voice low and dangerous. “Before I change my mind about letting you live.”

The man stumbles back, his bravado crumbling as fear takes hold. He casts one last desperate glance at the officers, but they all turn away, unwilling to meet his eyes. He’s alone in this, and he knows it.

With a final, defeated whimper, the man turns and flees from the station, his steps hurried, unsteady. Charles watches him go, his expression unreadable, his heart pounding with a mixture of adrenaline and satisfaction.

The desk sergeant shifts awkwardly, unsure of what to say. “Uh, I … we’re sorry for the inconvenience,” he stammers. “It’s just … we had to follow procedure …”

Charles waves a hand dismissively, already heading for the door. “It’s fine,” he says, though there’s a hardness in his voice that suggests otherwise. “Just make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

The sergeant nods quickly, grateful for the reprieve. “Of course, Monsieur Leclerc. It won’t happen again.”

Charles doesn’t respond. He steps out into the sunlight, the tension slowly draining from his body as the warmth of the day washes over him. The streets of Monaco are as busy as ever, people going about their lives, oblivious to what just transpired inside the police station.

He takes a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs, grounding himself. The day is far from over, and there are still things he needs to do, but for now, the threat has been neutralized. The man who hurt you is gone, and Charles made sure he’ll never come back.

As he walks away from the station, Charles can’t help but think of you, your face, your voice, the way you smiled at him when you were just a little girl. He knows he’s crossed a line today, done things that most people wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t condone. But he doesn’t care. He did it for you.

And he’d do it all over again if he had to.

***

Charles stands outside your apartment, a paper bag of takeout in one hand, his other raised to knock on the door. He hesitates for a moment, nerves he didn’t expect twisting in his stomach. It’s strange, feeling nervous about seeing you. He’s known you for years — watched you grow up, shared countless family dinners with you, laughed at your jokes, teased you about your school crushes.

But this … this feels different. Everything feels different now.

He finally knocks, a light tap that he knows you’ll hear. A few seconds pass, and then the door swings open, revealing you standing there in a casual outfit, your hair pulled back, a soft smile on your face.

“Charles,” you greet him, your voice warm, familiar. “Come in.”

He steps inside, glancing around the cozy space. It’s a small apartment, but it’s yours, filled with little touches that scream your personality — bookshelves overflowing with novels, a blanket draped over the back of the couch, a half-finished puzzle on the coffee table. It’s homey, comfortable, and it smells like the vanilla candle you always seem to have burning.

“I brought lunch,” Charles says, holding up the bag. “Figured you might be hungry.”

You smile, your eyes brightening at the sight of the food. “You know me too well. What did you get?”

“Your favorite,” he replies, setting the bag down on the table and beginning to unpack it. “Pasta from that little place near the harbor.”

“Perfect,” you say, moving to grab plates from the cupboard. “You always know how to spoil me.”

Charles chuckles, though his mind is far from the light-hearted conversation. There’s something heavy sitting on his chest, something he knows he needs to tell you, but the words stick in his throat. Instead, he focuses on the food, dishing out generous portions onto each plate.

You both sit down at the small dining table, and for a few minutes, there’s nothing but the sound of forks scraping against plates and the occasional hum of satisfaction as you enjoy the meal. It’s comfortable, easy — just like it’s always been between you.

But then, as if sensing his unease, you break the silence. “So, I heard the craziest thing this morning,” you say, your tone light, almost teasing. “One of my friends told me that you were almost arrested yesterday. Can you believe that?”

Charles’ fork pauses midway to his mouth, his heart skipping a beat. He hadn’t expected you to bring it up so casually, hadn’t prepared himself for this moment. He forces a smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh? What did she say?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “She said she heard you were involved in some kind of fight and that the police were called. I told her she was crazy. I mean, you wouldn’t hurt a fly, right?”

There’s a playful glint in your eyes, but Charles can’t bring himself to join in. Instead, he sets his fork down, the sound of metal against porcelain unnaturally loud in the quiet room. He looks at you, his expression serious, all traces of his earlier smile gone.

“Actually,” he begins, his voice low, steady, “it’s true.”

Your smile falters, confusion flickering across your face. “What do you mean?”

Charles leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he meets your gaze head-on. “I was at the police station yesterday,” he says, the words heavy, deliberate. “They called me in because that guy — the one who … hurt you — he tried to press charges against me.”

You stare at him, the shock evident in your wide eyes. “Wait, you’re serious? This isn’t some joke?”

“I’m serious,” Charles replies, his voice calm, almost too calm. “I’m not proud of what I did, but I’m not ashamed of it either. He deserved what he got.”

For a moment, you just sit there, trying to process what he’s telling you. You set your fork down, your appetite suddenly gone. “But … Charles, what did you do?”

Charles takes a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. “I made sure he understood that there are consequences for his actions. That he can’t just walk away after what he did to you.”

Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for your glass of water, taking a sip to steady yourself. “You … you didn’t …”

“I didn’t kill him,” Charles says quickly, sensing your fear. “But I hurt him. Badly. And I don’t regret it.”

You’re silent for a long moment, your mind racing. The Charles you know — the Charles you grew up with, the one who used to give you piggyback rides when you were too tired to walk — wouldn’t do something like this. But then again, this isn’t just anyone we’re talking about. This is you. And for Charles, you’re different. You’ve always been different.

“I did it to protect you,” Charles continues, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “I couldn’t just stand by and let him get away with what he did. I couldn’t …”

He trails off, his gaze dropping to the table, his shoulders slumping slightly. It’s as if all the fight has drained out of him, leaving behind only the raw, honest truth of his actions.

You swallow hard, trying to make sense of everything. “But … you could have been arrested. You could have gone to jail.”

Charles laughs, a bitter sound that holds no real amusement. “Not in Monaco,” he says, shaking his head. “Not for this.”

You furrow your brow, confusion evident in your expression. “What do you mean?”

Charles sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I talked to Prince Albert. He gave me a royal pardon. The guy had no chance.”

You blink, stunned by the casual way he says it, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “A royal pardon? Charles, that’s … that’s not normal.”

“No, it’s not,” Charles agrees, his tone somber. “But I don’t care. I’d do it all over again if it meant keeping you safe.”

The weight of his words hangs between you, the gravity of the situation finally sinking in. You’ve always known Charles was protective of you, but this … this is something else entirely. He’s crossed a line, and there’s no going back.

For a moment, you’re both silent, the tension in the room thick, suffocating. Charles watches you, his heart pounding in his chest, waiting for you to say something, anything. He’s prepared for you to be angry, to be horrified by what he’s done. But he wasn’t prepared for the look of sadness that crosses your face, the way your shoulders slump as if the weight of the world has suddenly fallen on you.

“I don’t know what to say,” you finally whisper, your voice shaky. “I never wanted you to do something like this for me.”

Charles leans forward, reaching across the table to take your hand in his. His touch is warm, steady, and for a moment, it grounds you, pulls you back from the edge of the panic that’s been rising in your chest.

“I know,” he says softly. “I know this isn’t what you wanted. But it’s what I needed to do. I couldn’t just stand by and let him hurt you.”

You squeeze his hand, your grip tightening as if you’re afraid to let go. “But what if you had been arrested? What if you couldn’t get out of it? I couldn’t bear the thought of you being locked up because of me.”

“I wouldn’t let that happen,” Charles replies, his voice firm, resolute. “I told you, I’d do anything to protect you. And I mean it.”

You look up at him then, your eyes searching his, trying to find some sign that this is all just a bad dream, that you’ll wake up and everything will be back to normal. But all you see is the truth — the raw, unfiltered truth of what Charles has done, and why he did it.

“I don’t know if I should be angry or grateful,” you admit, your voice trembling slightly. “You’ve always been there for me. But this … this is something else.”

Charles smiles then, a small, sad smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You don’t have to be anything,” he says softly. “Just know that I’ll always be here for you. No matter what.”

For a moment, you just sit there, holding his hand, the silence between you heavy with unspoken words. There’s so much you want to say, so much you want to ask, but you can’t seem to find the right words. Instead, you focus on the warmth of his hand in yours, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his eyes never leave yours.

And then, before you can second-guess yourself, you lean across the table and press your lips to his. The kiss is soft, tentative at first, but it quickly deepens, the tension that’s been building between you finally finding release.

Charles’ hand comes up to cup the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you closer. The kiss is everything you didn’t know you needed — desperate, passionate, full of all the emotions that have been bubbling beneath the surface.

When you finally pull away, you’re both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other as you try to catch your breath. Charles’ eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there’s a look in them that you’ve never seen before — something raw and vulnerable, something that makes your heart stutter in your chest.

For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence heavy with the weight of what just happened. Charles’ hand is still in your hair, his thumb gently stroking the back of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. You can feel his breath on your lips, warm and steady, as if he’s trying to anchor himself in this moment, to hold onto it for as long as he can.

Eventually, you pull back just enough to look into his eyes, your own heart pounding so loudly in your ears that you’re sure he can hear it too. “Charles …” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper, but the words catch in your throat. You’re not sure what you want to say, what you’re supposed to say. Everything feels too big, too overwhelming.

Charles doesn’t say anything, just watches you with that same intense gaze, his eyes searching yours for something — reassurance, maybe, or understanding. Slowly, he lowers his hand from your hair, his fingers trailing down the side of your face before he lets it fall to his lap. The loss of his touch leaves you feeling cold, and you almost want to reach out and pull him back to you, to kiss him again and forget everything else. But you don’t.

Instead, you take a shaky breath and try to gather your thoughts, your mind racing. “What … what does this mean?” You finally manage to ask, your voice trembling.

He looks down at his hands, his brows furrowing in thought. “I don’t know,” he admits quietly. “All I know is that I’ve never felt like this before. I’ve known you my whole life, but … this is different.”

You bite your lip, trying to make sense of it all. “I’ve always cared about you. You know that. But I never thought …” You trail off, unable to finish the sentence, but the implication hangs in the air between you.

Charles finally looks up at you again, his expression softening. “Neither did I,” he says, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “But now that it’s happened … I don’t think I can go back. I don’t want to.”

You’re silent for a moment, the weight of his words settling over you. There’s a part of you that wants to be cautious, to protect yourself from whatever this is, but there’s another part — one that’s stronger — that wants to take the leap, to see where this could go.

“I don’t want to either,” you whisper, the admission almost too much to say out loud. But it’s the truth, and once it’s out there, you feel a sense of relief, as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders.

Charles’ eyes soften even more, his smile widening slightly. He reaches out, taking your hand in his once more, his grip warm and steady. “Then let’s see where this goes,” he says, his voice low and full of promise.

You nod, unable to keep the smile off your face. “Okay.”

For a moment, you both just sit there, hands intertwined, the food on the table long forgotten as the reality of what just happened begins to sink in. There’s still so much you need to talk about, so many questions that need answers, but for now, this is enough. The kiss, the confession, the promise of something more — it’s all more than you ever expected.

Charles gives your hand a gentle squeeze, his eyes never leaving yours. “Whatever happens next, I want you to know that I’m here for you.”

You smile, your heart swelling with affection. “I know,” you say softly. “And I’m here for you too.”

He nods, his expression earnest. “Good.”

The silence between you is comfortable now, the tension from earlier finally dissipating. You feel a sense of peace settle over you, a feeling that everything will be okay, no matter what comes next.

Finally, Charles glances at the table, his smile turning sheepish. “We should probably finish our lunch,” he says, his tone light.

You laugh, the sound easing the last of your lingering nerves. “Yeah, we probably should.”

You both pick up your forks, and the conversation shifts back to lighter topics, the ease between you returning as if nothing has changed. But you both know that something has. There’s a new understanding between you, a new connection that wasn’t there before. And as you finish your meal, stealing glances at each other across the table, you can’t help but feel excited about what the future might hold.

***

Monaco at night is a different kind of magic. The streets are quieter, the buzz of the day replaced by the hum of luxury cars and the distant sound of waves crashing against the harbor. The city glows with a soft, golden light, the kind that makes everything look a little more romantic, a little more surreal. And tonight, with you tucked into Charles’ side as you walk home from dinner, it feels like the world has shrunk down to just the two of you.

You’ve been together for a few years now, and yet there’s still a thrill in the way he holds you close, his arm draped around your shoulders as if he’s claiming you all over again. There’s something comforting in the familiarity of it, the way your bodies just fit together, like two puzzle pieces that were always meant to be.

The conversation between you is light, filled with teasing banter about the dessert you shared at the restaurant — how he insists you ate most of it, and you argue that he’s the one with the sweet tooth. It’s the kind of easy back-and-forth that comes with knowing someone inside out, with having weathered storms together and come out stronger on the other side.

But as you turn down a quieter street, the atmosphere shifts. It’s subtle at first — a flicker of movement in the corner of Charles’ eye, the sense that you’re being watched. And then, out of nowhere, a voice cuts through the night, crude and jarring in its tone.

“Hey, baby, how about a smile?”

You freeze, your muscles tensing instinctively. The voice belongs to a man leaning against a lamppost, his eyes raking over you with a leer that makes your skin crawl. You feel Charles stiffen beside you, his arm tightening around your shoulders protectively. But before you can react, the man pushes off from the lamppost and approaches, his hand reaching out to touch you.

It all happens in a blur. The man’s fingers graze your arm, and you flinch back, your heart racing. But before you can fully process the disgust that courses through you, Charles is already moving.

The look in his eyes is one you recognize — a dark, dangerous glint that you’ve only seen a handful of times, but each one burned into your memory. It’s the same look he had that night at the club, the night he became more than just your protector, the night everything between you changed.

He’s about to lunge, his body coiled like a spring, ready to unleash all the anger simmering beneath the surface. But you place a hand on his chest, stopping him just in time.

“Charles,” you say softly, but there’s a knowing edge to your voice, a familiarity with the situation. “Should I call Prince Albert? Let him know you might need another pardon?”

Charles pauses, his gaze flickering to yours, and for a moment, the tension eases. The corners of his mouth twitch upward, a dark, almost feral smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice low and laced with a dangerous amusement. “This must be the fourth one this year.”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound lightening the mood, if only for a second. “Actually,” you correct him, your eyes sparkling with mischief, “it’s the fifth.”

His smile widens at that, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest. But the humor doesn’t last long. The reality of the situation pulls him back, and his expression hardens once more as he turns his attention to the man who dared to touch you.

“Stay here,” Charles says, his tone leaving no room for argument. It’s the voice of a man who’s about to do something he won’t regret — something he’s done before.

You nod, trusting him, knowing that whatever happens next, it’s out of your hands. And as Charles steps away from you, you can’t help but feel a strange sense of satisfaction, a sense of justice in knowing that this man is about to face the consequences of his actions.

The man, oblivious to the danger he’s in, sneers at Charles, clearly unbothered by the presence of another man. “What are you gonna do, pretty boy?” He taunts, his voice dripping with arrogance. “You think you can scare me?”

Charles doesn’t respond immediately. He takes his time, closing the distance between them with a measured, almost predatory grace. And when he finally speaks, his voice is as cold as ice.

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” Charles says quietly, the words laced with a threat that hangs heavy in the air.

The man laughs, the sound grating and unpleasant. “Oh, I know exactly who you are,” he sneers. “You’re that driver, right? Leclerc? Big deal. Doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want.”

Charles tilts his head slightly, as if considering the man’s words, and then, to your surprise, he laughs — a dark, cruel sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

“You think being in public will protect you?” Charles asks, his voice dripping with mockery. “You think because there are people around, I won’t make you regret ever laying a hand on her?”

The man falters, some of his bravado slipping as he realizes that Charles isn’t backing down. He glances around, perhaps expecting someone to come to his aid, but the street is empty, save for a few onlookers who are too far away to hear the exchange.

Charles doesn’t give him time to think. With a speed that takes the man by surprise, he grabs him by the collar, yanking him forward with a strength that belies his lean frame. The man stumbles, his cocky demeanor evaporating as he realizes he’s in over his head.

“You should have walked away,” Charles murmurs, his voice dangerously calm. “But now … now you’re going to pay.”

The man struggles, trying to push Charles away, but it’s futile. Charles is a professional athlete, his body honed for strength and endurance, and the man is no match for him. Within seconds, Charles has him pinned against the wall of a nearby building, his forearm pressed against the man’s throat.

“Get off me, you psycho!” The man chokes out, his voice panicked as he claws at Charles’ arm.

But Charles doesn’t budge. He leans in closer, his face inches from the man’s, his eyes filled with a cold, calculated fury. “You’re going to regret ever touching her,” he says quietly, his words laced with venom.

And then, without warning, he drags the man away from the wall, pulling him down the street with a force that makes it clear this isn’t just a warning — it’s a promise. The man tries to resist, tries to fight back, but it’s no use. Charles is stronger, faster, and more determined, his grip unyielding as he hauls the man toward a darker, more secluded part of the street.

You watch from a distance, your heart pounding in your chest. Part of you wants to stop him, to tell him it’s not worth it, but another part of you— the part that remembers the fear and helplessness you felt when that man touched you — wants Charles to follow through, to make sure this man never does this to anyone else again.

As they disappear around a corner, you take a deep breath, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions inside you. You trust Charles, you know he’ll be careful, but you can’t help the worry that creeps in, the fear of what might happen next.

Minutes pass, each one feeling like an eternity, and then finally, you hear the sound of footsteps approaching. You look up, your breath catching in your throat as you see Charles emerging from the shadows, alone.

His expression is unreadable, his eyes dark and stormy as he walks back to you. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the silence heavy with unspoken words.

Then, without a word, Charles pulls you into his arms, holding you close as if he’s afraid to let go. You wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding you.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your hair. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

You shake your head, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “You don’t have to apologize,” you say softly, your hand cupping his cheek. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

He smiles then, a small, tired smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m okay,” he says, though you can hear the weariness in his voice. “But he won’t be bothering you — or anyone else — again.”

You nod, knowing there’s more to the story than he’s telling you, but you don’t press him. Not now, not when he’s holding you so tightly, as if he’s afraid to let you go.

“Let’s go home,” you say gently, taking his hand in yours.

Charles nods, his grip on your hand firm as he leads you back down the street, away from the darkness and into the light. And as you walk together, side by side, you can’t help but feel a sense of relief, a sense of safety in knowing that no matter what happens, Charles will always be there to protect you.

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desire4ella · 3 days ago

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❝ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐁𝐄𝐆 ❞

♪‧₊˚ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Poly! Stack x Brat!Reader x Smoke ( no incest between the two brothers dw)

⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You always knew just how to push a nerve didn’t you? ‘ that slick mouth of yours gon get you in serious trouble lil girl’ they always said, but you always failed to listen, until today….

ᝰ.ᐟ𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.9k

۶ৎ𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: (THIS FIC IS A KINDA LONG AND NOT PROOF READ ), Spit!play, Bigdick! Stack , Daddy!/Sir! kink, Dumbification!, squirt!, eaten out ( w receiving), Orgasm denial!, HardDom! Smoke, SoftDom! Stack, Chocking!, Gagging! with fingers, Fingering!, Spanking!, Panty sniffing! and just down right nastiness so buckle in.

Them to men of yours were damn right trouble, especially stack, his eyes always shone bright right before mischief was to occur, twinkling like the vast midnight sky, the hazel brown tint that was once there faded out into the shadows, overcame by the darkness all compressed into two eyes. And oh baby that cheeky smirk of his could make any girls panties drop, it sure did yours…his teeth were lined up straight to perfection, pearly whites always on display like a propaganda, with a snake like tongue that was sharp and ready to lash out in an instant at anyone who even dared to look at him wrong. metal grills placed at the centre of his chompers,showing richnesses and wealth in one clean smile.

Let’s not forgot about the honourable smoke he exudes a dangerous charm that’s impossible to ignore—a perfect blend of stern authority and raw, magnetic allure. His presence commands attention the moment he steps into a room, dark eyes sharp with a calculating edge, scanning every detail like he’s always five steps ahead. There’s a cold precision in the way he speaks—measured, low, and laced with quiet dominance—that leaves no room for argument, yet somehow draws you in deeper. His voice, rough like gravel but smooth enough to make you lean closer, holds secrets you want to uncover but know better than to ask about. Always cloaked in shadow—whether it’s the low light of a backroom or the metaphorical weight of his past—Smoke carries the kind of mystery that burns slow and steady, like a lit cigarette between gloved fingers. He’s not the type to smile, but when he does, it’s the kind of smirk that hints at trouble and promises a thrill. Stern, sexy, and wrapped in secrecy, Smoke is a man you shouldn’t trust—but can’t help wanting to.

And then came you….

A regular girl, living a regular life that just so happened to catch the eyes of two big burly men. Nah fuck dat, I got the scenario wrong; You were not just some regular girl living a boring life,no-you were a spoilt brat that got WHATEVER she wanted by any means necessary, you had hips,ass and a banging body that many had to cop using surgery-nah baby it’s all natural round here! face card neva declined even on your worst day; a baby face that could get any man whipped with the batter of your eyelashes and a pout— oh, and God did you smell heavenly!! skin drenched in all of the finest coco butter oils and rich vanilla/ strawberry perfume encased around your wrist and neck , the typa smell that clung to others like a vice, the typa smell that introduced you before you even did; the typa smell that intoxicated anyone within a 50 mile radius - you get it by now. Your scent was distinct but not unknown, always wafting in places that it shouldn’t be. Fingers and toes always kept prestigious a nice baby pink that looked delicious when white stains got on it.

Nobody knows how you did it, two of the most notorious men in all of Mississippi, already crawling on their knees for your attention ? Hell ! you didn’t even know how you did it yourself. But you know what they say, ‘good things come to those who wait’ so i guess your prize came in a double package, but hey! you damn sure ain’t complaining.

Right now, these two were giving you hell all you because you decided to have a little girls night out, what? a woman can’t go out and have person now? i guess not seeing the way that they acting….

The night was still young as you stumbled through the front door, giggling to yourself. Your heels clicked loudly against the hardwood floor as you made your way inside. The house was dark and quiet, the only sound the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. You smirked to herself, thinking that Stack and Smoke must be asleep already."Hmph, too bad," you muttered under your breath. "I was hoping for some fun tonight."Just then, the lights flicked on and Stack and Smoke emerged from the shadows like the men in black , their faces set in hard lines. You faltered for a moment, taken aback by their imposing presence."Where the hell have you been?" Smoke demanded, his voice low and dangerous. "It's after midnight."

You rolled your eyes and sauntered over to the couch, flopping down onto it with a sigh. "I was out with the girls, what does it look like?" you said, feigning innocence."You reek of booze and...other things," Stack growled, his eyes narrowing as he took in her disheveled appearance. "You better not have been with anyone else.”You scoffed and crossed your arms over your chest. "Oh please, like either of you can talk," she said with a sneer. "I've seen the way you two look at other girls, back in those days."Smoke stepped forward, his eyes flashing with anger. "Don't try to change the subject" he snarled. "We're not going to tolerate this kind of behavior from you, little girl." You just smirked back at him, clearly enjoying the power you held over them. "Or what, big boy?" you taunted. "You gonna spank me?"In a flash, Smoke had you by the arm and was dragging you to your feet. He spun you around and pressed your face-first against the wall, his body pinning you in place.

"You're playing with fire, brat," he growled in her ear. "And me and Stack are gonna enjoy putting you in your place." You squirmed against him, you squirmed against him, as you could feel his hard cock straining against his pants pressing against your ass. You bit your lip to stifle a moan. "Go ahead then," you purred, looking back at him over her shoulder. "Show me who's boss sir”Smoke's eyes darkened with lust and he reached down to grab a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back. “ Stack gon head and take of her panties and smell ‘em, gon head and see if the little whores been out and about cheating or not” Stack smirk widened as he roughly pulled down your panties, accidentally ripping them in the process of his eagerness.

Stack’s nostrils flared as he held the torn panties up to his nose, inhaling deeply. His eyes narrowed as he searched for any hint of a male scent on the delicate fabric. But all he could detect was the sweet, musky aroma of your arousal.He turned to face Smoke, a smirk playing on his lips. "Well, well, well," he drawled. "It seems like our little brat has been a good girl after all." Smoke tisked in mockery as his eyes bored deep into yours “ well that’s to damn bad sweetheart, we still gon have to punish you”. In all honesty you couldn’t wait to be punished, because at the end of the day, you’re still gonna get that sweet release, or so you thought. *SMACK*, *SMACK*, SMACK* you mewled as you felt your ass sting from the harsh spanks, those would definitely leave a bruise on your delicate skin “ ah ah ahh, ion wanna hear no winnin or nun, you gon take these hits like a good lil girl, ya understand me?” Smoke screwed up his face in annoyance as he didn’t hear any reply from you. “ I *SMACK* said *SMACK* do *SMACK* you *SMACK* understand *SMACK*” the last smack had you buckling at the knees as you let out pathetic whimpers and whines “ Yessss! sir i understand!” his mf hands were heavy.

“ shhh shhhh, you know i love it when you cry pretty girl” Stack muttered close to your face as he wiped your tears from your face with his thumb, placing it in his mouth he closed his eyes in delight and moaned “ very sweet with a hint of salt, just how i like it” you looked at him in with wide eyes as you never expected him to be THAT much of a freak, i guess you learn sumn new about people everyday. Stack perked up as he just got a new idea “ Speakin of sweet, lemme eat that pussy”, getting underneath you he wasted no time in latching his plump lips unto your pulsing clit which caused you to yell and brase your full body on the wall, He licked and sucked at your wet folds with unbridled enthusiasm, his tongue delving deep inside you as he sought to taste every drop of your essence. Your head fell against the wall, mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure as Stack's skilled mouth worked its magic on your sensitive bundle of flesh.His fingers joined in, two of them plunging deep into your soaked cunt as he curled them just right to hit that perfect spot inside you that he knew would have you spinning .Your body shook and trembled, hips bucking against Stack's face as you rapidly approached your peak. With a final, hard suck on your clit, Stack sent you hurtling over the edge and into oblivion. Your body convulsed once again, as your juices flooded Stack's mouth and coating his face as you squirted all over him. He lapped it up hungrily, his eyes never leaving hers as he savored every last drop of you release.

Releasing your clit of his mouth with a nasty “pop” he smiled up at you cockily as your juices dropped from his beard “ damn girl, i knew you could squirt, but dat right dere is a waterpark ” he joked and patted your pussy. Laughing at his brothers remark Smoke reached down, gathering some of the grool leaking from your soaking pussy, causing you to wince from the sudden contact. He brought his coated fingers to your lips, forcing them between your teeth. "Clean them off, slut," he demanded.Moaning in response you felt his two fingers hit the back of your throat, causing you to gag reaptidly as spit spewed from the corners of your mouth. “ There you go” he cooed in your ear as he sped up his fingers. Tears fell from your face and your eyes rolled back at the protrusion in your mouth. Pulling his fingers from your mouth you gasp for air, only for it to be cut short as you felt Stacks plump lips forcefully press against yours. Gripping your throat tightly he groaned as he began to lick the spit from around your mouth, pulling away he said “ can’t be wasting your precious juices, now can we ma?”

………………………………

"On the couch," Stack barked, jerking his head towards the cushions. "Ass up, slut." You scrambled to obey, presenting yourself like a bitch in heat. Your pussy clenched with anticipation as the two men loomed over her, their eyes dark with hunger."Who do you belong to?"Smoke asked, trailing his fingers along her slit. You shivered at his touch. "You and Stack," you whimpered. "I'm yours."Smoke chuckled darkly. "Damn right you are." He slapped your pussy hard before turing around walking towards the wooden chair in the far corner “ brother you can go first, I wanna watch her crumble” smoke grunted out and opted to just just sit and watch.

With that Stack,buried himself to the hilt in your tight heat, causing the you to scream in ecstasy. You pushed back against him, desperate for more as he began to pound into you ruthlessly."Fuck, this cunt is divine," Stack groaned, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "Gonna fill it up real good."You could only moan in response, your body shaking with the force of Stack’s thrusts. Your pussy spasmed around him, growing tighter and wetter by the second. You could feel that delicious tingling sensation in your stomach as your toes clenched and mouth gaped open ready to catch flies, “ mmmmm fuck Sir, r-r-right thereee” just as you were about to cum, he slowed down his movements and instead focused on hitting deeper inside your cunt, reaching round to grab your throat, he pushed you up so that your back was touching his sweaty chest “ cum without my permission and i’ll make sure you don’t cum for a week”

You couldn’t handle it, the feeling on his cock hitting spots in your body that you never knew you had, those veins big and pulsating, bullying your little cunt with every thrust. Your hair disheveled and strewn over your face, sweat coating your body like a second skin “please daddy pleaseee let me cum!” you cried out and you felt your near rising. “ Awww my pretty princess, you look prettier when you beg” Smoke outed from the other side of the room, slouched on a chair, lighting up a joint allowing the fumes to travel out of his nose “ but sadly no.” All you could do was babble nonsense and gasps and you felt like you couldn’t even speak, every word was knocked out of you with every snap of Stack’s hips. You could feel his heavy breaths hitting your skin and his loud boisterous groans only turned you on more—making it harder to keep your orgasm at bay.

“ Awnnn FUCK! your pussy was just made for me mama, imma cum soon, and you best not dare cum after me” his thrusts sped up and you felt his meaty sacks slapping heavily against your aching clit, why did they have to be so mean to you? welp i guess you deserved it. Naughty girls don’t get to cum, now do they?.When he finally filled you with his hot seed, he moaned loudly, thrust slowing down and he stilled inside you, marking you inside and out as his property, you barely registered what was happening. You didn’t get to cum, but just the feeling of his cum painted inside your walls was enough to keep you satisfied until next time. You layed there limp and compliant as Smoke wiped you clean and dressed you in a fresh pair of panties and a t-shirt emblazoned with "Property of Stack and Smoke."

As you curled up on the couch next to your sweet men , boneless and sated, the last coherent thought that crossed your now-dumb mind was that you belonged to these two men forever now. And she wouldn't have it any other way.

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: YALL ALREADY KNOW I HAD TO HOP ON A WRITE SUMN FOR THEY FINE ASESS. Sorry i’ve been gon for a LONG time, ya gurl is extremely busy.

Reblogs and likes are highly appreciated <3

Ya'll please follow me! my goal is to reach 1000 followers by the end of this year!🎀

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒:@prettygirl2800, @levibabymama-blog, @aretasreads, @keenkittyconnoisseur, @wingedpeachjudgegiant

#sinners #michael b jordan #michael b jordan x reader #michael b jordan smut #smoke and stack #stack moore smut #smoke moore #elias stack moore #elijah smoke moore #stack x reader #smoke x reader #smoke moore smut #daddy’s brat #vampire #vampire x reader #sugardaddy #spoilt brat

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e1dritchjackal0pe · 2 months ago

Text

ᴋᴇʏꜱ ᴛᴏ ʟɪᴍʙᴏ

Synopsis: A man arrives at your door in the dead of night asking for a simple favor, but once he's let inside, he begins making offerings too good to be true.

Now you're alone with a stranger that's odd in a way you can't quite place, trapped and isolated within a house that offers no safety . . . and normal men don't drool like that, do they?

Warnings: Fem! reader (in pronouns and body descriptions). 18+ content, MDI. Oral (Fem! receiving). Hints of sub! Remmick, but he's still a manipulative brat. Drool, religious themes, abusive relationships (nothing too graphic), infidelity (but her husband's abusive, so who really cares).

Notes: 28.9k words (This is way too long, I'm sorry). Not yet proofread, so please ignore any errors. I'll fix them later.

You've been staring at it for too long. Possibly only minutes, but truthfully it must be closer to an hour. You've long since fallen into a sort of daze, glazed over and trapped while your mind wanders, but you're still able to notice how the muted sunlight has dulled from the soft way it had streamed in through the window. Faded from the powdered shade of dusk and dimmed into a thick dark that eclipses shadows over everything.

The only light now comes from the old fixture on the ceiling above, spreading out over the room in a warm, yellowed glow. Somehow, it only seems to make you feel more suffocated. The almost rhythmic drip, drip, drip, of the leaking faucet does little to quell the dread prickling and coiling in your stomach.

It's haunting somehow, if not a little pathetic. Your hands have gone clammy. Palms turned damp from the thick air, all humid and dark from the night. Not even the setting of the sun has helped to cool the temperamental heat. It makes the atmosphere feel like a physical thing. Weighted; a damp blanket that's been draped over your body and tucked tight around the shapes of you.

It makes you uncomfortable in your own skin, held in too tight it. The unease skirting across your nerves does little to help your predicament, and the wink of the light reflecting from the glass of the bottle, catching across the clear liquid contained inside seems like a taunt. It makes it tempting to drink from it. To feel the scorch of it run down your throat, fueling the fury in your veins.

You had intended to simply pour it empty down the sink. To crack the top open and watch the booze spill down the drain. And you were planning to do the exact same to the three other bottles of gin that your husband has hidden beneath the floorboards, but you've found that he's already drank them empty. And somewhere along the way, the liquor has wound up out of your hand and down on the kitchen table. It's been sitting there for roughly around the last forty-five minutes.

Never in your years could you have imagined that a simple bottle would be so intimidating. You've been eyeing it as though it's a snake, all coiled in, ready to strike. But it isn't just a bottle. Not anymore with the dry laws, and if Colin knew what you were planning to do with it then you're certain it would send him into a frenzy. You can already hear the echo of his booming voice in your ears, ringing so loudly that you nearly flinch.

You draw in a deep breath instead, curling your fingers tight to keep yourself still in your seat. He'd paid a fortune for the liquor; you know that well enough. Paid too much. Dug through the tin box that had once been hidden in the floor - the same space that the liquor now occupies - to remove the bills that had been kept there for safe keeping. Wasted through the little you had for some bathtub liquor.

He needed to take the edge off, he deserves it after all the work he's been putting in, laboring for hours out of the day, callouses built on his skin and sweat staining his brows. His voice had edged close to that tight drawl, anger biting at his words while he seethed through his teeth while he had kneeled on the floor over the open gap in the planks. All you could look at was the money clutched in his tight first, the fierce, irritated glare of his eyes.

You knew not to pry then. To agitate him any further. Not when his mind had already been made up. It might as well as been set in stone then. Once he's made a decision, he latches on with all the fury and ardor of a dog. You had swallowed down the angry words that welled up in your mouth, trapping the fire behind your lips to keep all the frustration he's been harboring for the past week from releasing out onto you.

You can't stand the sight of booze anymore. It only reminds you of loses and arguments over money and his dependency. You've found that the fights are more trouble than it's worth. But the impact of them remains vivid. Stained behind your eyes, and the bottles always seem to be the incarnation of all that strife.

You should pour all of it down the sink and be done with it. It's not a solution, but you know that it would feel good. A temporary relief but one that you would hold onto for years to come. A small retribution for his wandering eyes . . . and hands.

It makes you nauseous to know that's where he reasonably is now. Out indulging in another woman. Finding pleasure between her thighs and comfort in her arms. He's turned his back on you long ago. You've known it for longer than you'd like to admit. He should have been home at dusk. You would have heard the thump of his footsteps on the porch, the low metallic whine of the door hinges as he let himself inside, his dirty boots would have thumped a little when he slipped them from his feet.

And yet, he's still nowhere to be seen, but you can hazard a simple guess. Always bending to his impulses, he's probably already dragged himself up to whatever shady gambling den or dingy back alley that might still be willing to take him. If you're lucky, he might be holed up in the house of one of his friends from work, drinking up their booze and taking up a spot at their dinner table.

He's built a name up for himself for being a man with a shaky poker face, poor luck, and stupid persistence. In some respects, that's what is more embarrassing, what stings and gnaws at you the most. How people look at you now, passing you fleeting, sympathetic glances as you walk past them. Now you're only the wife to the unfaithful gambler, the man who drinks himself into a stupor. Who finds solace in other women while he lays all of your funds out on a table.

When they all look at you, all you see reflecting back is pity, oversaturated sympathy. It fills you with loathing, mostly because you can't blame them. If you were in their shoes, what more could you do but watch hopelessly from the side lines?

They hardly see you as an individual anymore, only a woman who can't keep her man from straying. But that's the thing about some dogs, no matter how much love you give them, you can't always keep them from wandering from home. Sometimes you wish that he would wander so far off that he couldn't find his way back. That would save you from the agony of it all.

But mostly you just wish that you could leave this place yourself. Countless nights you've sent a prayer out that you'd find the courage to finally save yourself and pick up the pieces you have to search for something better. That nerve hasn't found you yet.

Now you just sit alone, plopped on a rickety chair in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the bottle as though it's full of kerosene that might light up at any moment. Take you up in a roar of fire. That might be a mercy.

Your mind wars. It tells you to snatch up the liquor and dump it all, while another, more vindictive, fantastical side demands that you finally face your reality for what it is and leave. Fold and pack your belongings into that special suitcase and take off into the night.

A wife's job is to endure, the words that your mother had said to have all but been branded across your psyche, burning. Permanent. What would God think? You made a promise, sweetheart - a vow, as the Lord your witness!

The pain you've almost come to grow used to in a twisted way. Though the debasement is another beast in its own right. It digs deep, burrows down into your marrow and carves you out of your skin until you're nothing but bare. Stripped for the judgment and prying eyes to hail down upon.

Common sense warns you to take the bottle and put it back in its place. He wouldn't even know that it's been moved. You could still nestle it down under the floor, tuck the wood back over into their places and he'd be none the wiser. And yet, you don't move. Don't so much as twitch in your seat.

Defiance rages inside of you. Thick, heavy, pinning you down in place and thrumming through your limbs, making your fingers tremble. The hatred smoldering in your chest frightens you sometimes, as hot as it burns. Scalding and boiling just beneath your breasts. Sometimes it makes you feel as though you can't breathe, lungs choked on your own ire.

You've gotten little victories in this marriage, and it's made you desperate. Foolhardy. Downright stupid from your anger and hopelessness. Often times you find yourself thinking, so what if he gets mad? What could he possibly do that he hasn't already?

Let him hit, let him swear. Like a vagrant you'd take what you could get, no matter how lowly you'd have to scrounge, or how pathetically you'd strike back, you'd get yours. The urge dawns on you suddenly, a weak, scrambling idea, but you cling to it all the same. Colin can go out all that he likes. He can waste himself away, stick his hands up other women's skirts, and in turn you'll take what you can get. Scavenge and prod for the little triumphs you're afforded.

You almost feel detached from yourself as your hand slips across the tabletop and reaches for the bottle. The chilled glass somehow seems hot on your skin, but you keep your fingers fixed around the shape of it. You hardly think, hardly resist the urge when you lift it up, listening to the liquid sloshing within the vessel as you press the mouth up to your lips to toss back a swig.

You wince as soon as it touches your tongue, lukewarm and stinging as it slips down your throat, traced with smoke and earth. You haven't bothered with a sip of liquor in years. It wasn't worth the cash or the trouble, from the law or Colin. The last you drank had to have been back when you were a young girl, and your curiosity had you searching through the cabinets for your father's bourbon. He'd caught you red handed. You had expected a punishment then. For him to order you to scavenge the yard and search for your own switch among the fallen branches and twigs from the black gum and oak trees. You had stood awkwardly while you waited, bottle held in a shaky grip while your heart fluttered wildly.

But there had been no discipline dealt that day, only a small drink shared on the porch while he made you promise him that you wouldn't do it again. When you had first tasted the unpleasant burn of the booze, it had been easy to agree to that vow. But the odd tenderness that he had regarded you with had alleviated the sting of it. If you concentrate enough, you can feel the balmy glide of the breeze on your skin from that evening, you can hear the soft thrill of the birds that had been chattering nearby, the rustle of the trees.

That memory seems a lifetime ago, and the next gulp you take of the gin seems to bring you closer and pull you farther away from it all at once. You bring the bottle down on the table with a noisy thump. Your muscles tense while you suck a breath in through your teeth through a revolted grimace. The alcohol tastes as awful as you remember. Harsh, biting, and the hint of juniper, distinct and a touch too bitter, it makes your mouth twist.

For a moment you consider actually just evicting it down the drain, but your hatred keeps your hold fixed around the bottle, though you don't make any moves to lift it back up to your lips. It sears its way into your stomach, settling there heavy and warm. It doesn't help. It doesn't soothe to ache that's been splitting you apart. It doesn't quell the anger and hurt. Not even while you imagine the indignation Colin will feel when he finally stumbles home and finds the last of his booze gone. The brief show of betrayal that will be in his eyes, the irritation that will show there, will be enough to turn your rage into a smug satisfaction.

But it's difficult to allow yourself to try and bask in what that might could feel like while you're sitting alone in the kitchen with nothing but the sound of your own quiet breaths and the dull chirp of the crickets outside to occupy the silence. It's times like these where you start to fantasize. It becomes a simple thing, for your mind to drift somewhere safe and better.

There's a suitcase in the closet inside your bedroom. It's made of dark, chestnut leather and brass buckles. You can't recall where exactly you got it from. It might have been an old purchase that's slipped your memory, or it's possible that you had taken it from parent's home when you had finally left it, when the wedding band around your finger was shiny and new. Despite the kind of enigma around it, you think of it often for an entirely different reason.

Sometimes, when the house is quiet and vacant like this, you take it out of the closet and open it up on the foot of the bed. You remove your clothes out from the dresser - only after thoroughly evaluating each garment - and choose carefully. The room available in the luggage is sparse, and you'd have to make do for the journey ahead. You pick through all of your clothes, picking meticulously - sometimes for different destinations. You went through all of your thicker clothes for a trip to Missouri; you know the winters there can be brutal. You had selected all of your best dresses for a journey to California, the ones made of lighter materials to keep you cool during the heat, though you're sure that the dry temperatures would be nothing in comparison to the humidity down here.

You organize all of your things, packing only what you'll need. You fold up your clothes, tuck in a book or two for something to entertain yourself during the monotony of travel, some of your makeup and the little pieces of jewelry you own, and then you shut the suitcase tight. You flick the buckles closed and it's a noise that's final. You still don't think you've ever heard a sound sweeter than the heavy, metallic click that always echoes out against the four walls of the small room. A private, gentle noise.

It's the sound of being able to go anywhere, and you like to tell yourself that that's true. One day you'll get on a train. You'll head to the depot in town and buy a ticket. You don't care where to - Las Vegas, New York, Boise, Charleston. Anywhere else is better than here. But you think of the Californian coast often, sand under your bare feet and a sweet sunrise blooming over the stretch of glittering water in gold and blush.

You have a postcard of the ocean. An artist's rendition of the waves, done up in pastels, watercolors, blues and beiges and pinks. A pier stretching out over a large body of water. You imagine often stepping out onto it and walking into the sunset, to be touched by a new light. You've held the postcard so often that the corners have become all bent up, weakened from too much touch, turned soft from your palms. You keep it safe inside the suitcase, but sometimes you can't keep yourself from admiring it, tracing the elegant font that's scrawled across the face of it, dreaming you were there instead of here.

Deep down in the pit of your soul, you know that you'll never leave. That's what's killing you inside. Twisting you up, chewing you down and grinding you into a pulp. Brutalizing you in a way that not even Colin can. The hatred is like an affliction that's tainted you down the marrow. It's festered. Turned your blood black and eaten you down from the inside out, and now you hardly recognize yourself. When you look in the mirror you hardly see the person you had once been. You aren't the naïve girl who had fallen in love with Colin all those years ago, when he had been alluring one-liners and the protective nature he had shielded you with seemed well intentioned and not stifling and controlling.

How dumb you had been. All ignorant and blinded by sugared feelings and young love. You'd dug yourself into a hole. Allowed yourself to be pulled in by the charm he'd once had, now curdled and rotten by time, and it's become too late to dig yourself up from the soil. This is where you'll take your final breath, curled up in a quiet house, blood on your busted lips while the cicadas send you off with a warbling cry.

It makes your heart burn like a coal. It spreads through the sinew inside of you white-hot and coiling. Worse than that is the emptiness. The defeat that hollows you out in a shell. You're a ghost now. Dead and dull. You have no choice but to hate who you used to be, to be jealous of that youthful spark you once had, but it's all but been snuffed out and relit into something hateful.

You want to scream. No one would here you all the way out here, tucked around the thicket of heavy trees and the swaddle of the night. It would be your secret if you let it all out, pitched your voice up into a wail that you know would pierce your own ears, release the tension that's been trapped in your lungs. And yet, no matter how much you long for it, the cry never rattles past your teeth. It's stays lodged there, like a rock behind your sternum.

You hardly recognize the desperate reach your hand takes for the bottle again, slipping over the scuffed tabletop to grasp the smooth glass. The feel of it in your palm feels wrong, like it doesn't fit, but you hold onto it all the same. You don't want it, the bite of the liquor on your tongue. Not even the soft warmth that's scattered over your limbs, as balmy and satin as heated water, is tempting enough to want you to keep drinking, but the ire you have for Colin is.

Your fingers slip up, smoothing up to clasp tight around the neck so that you can lift the bottle up from the table. The glass is cool on your skin, just whispering against your bottom lip when you tilt your head back to take another swig.

Your grip slackens just a bit, a clumsy error, but that's all it takes for the bottle to slip from your clutch. The bottom of it hits the table with a heavy thud, and you hardly have time to track it as it tilts on its side and careens over the edge. It's a blur of silver as it hurtles towards the floor, and your breath snags harshly when it meets the wood in an eruption of shards.

Everything in you locks in place. You go completely still as you stare down at the mess, taking in the liquor staining the floor, darkening the worn oak. The sting of the spilt gin pierces the air in a pungent bite that makes you sick to the stomach, blending with the sheer horror wracking your body and for a moment you fear that you might actually be sick. That you might double over and evict your guts all over the wooden planks; the pungent scent of alcohol already permeating across the air, staining the walls.

You don't give it an ounce of thought when you crumble out of the chair, falling so abruptly the seat's legs scrape in a shrill cry and your knees smart when they strike the floor. You can't pay it any mind though. Not while you're cursing in a frantic stream, reaching down with shaky fingers to pluck up the shards of glass, desperate to pick it all up.

Suddenly you don't feel invigorated or empowered, but just foolish. A dumb girl who tried to get the upper hand, who tried to feel big and crumpled under her own weight.

You pick up the shards as quickly as you can, cradling them within a shaky palm one delicate piece at a time. It seems not even the universe is willing to allow you a victory, as miniscule as it may be.

A cursory glance out through the kitchen window confirms that it is indeed deep into the night. It's so dark out that there's no definition to what lies outside the pane; there's simply just a strip of black velvet. An infinite void that stretches too wide, means to swallow you entirely.

You aren't certain for how long you've been sitting here, stewing in your own chaos, but if you had to try and guess it must be close to 10 p.m., if not nearing midnight. When Colin vanishes like this, he often isn't back for hours, sometimes not making his way back until the dawn, all but barraging through the door in a noisy shuffle as though he'd been ushered in by the rising sun. It makes you thankful at least, that you'll have time to clean up properly without him stumbling upon you, a mess in the kitchen with his drink now a collection of glass on the floor. The very thought of it makes your hands shake, fingers trembling.

A hiss rips from you when a sharp throb pulses through your hand. When you look down again, there's a bit of red beading from a sliver in your skin, long and thin from the serrated edge of jagged glass. It's a clean cut, narrow and not too deep from what you can make of it in the low light and the smear of blood, but it still palpitates white-hot across your flesh. Sliced from the heel of your thumb and easing off just shy of the direct center of your palm.

"God dammit all," you swear but your frustration is snuffed out by the tone of ragged panic and defeat in the inflections of your voice. You lift yourself up to your feet on wobbling legs, knees turned feeble from the dread weighing you down, but you still manage to cross over to the sink. You toss the glass shards that you picked up and toss them into the basin as though they're hot coals; the clatter of them striking across the cast iron sounds akin to a round of gunfire.

You snatch the rag draped over the lip of the sink up in a mean jerk to press it against the wound. It burns to hold it to the laceration, but you clench your teeth together to distract yourself from the pain. You're almost entranced in your watch, seeing how the scarlet blossoms across the thick cloth, turning some of the fabric a rich red, distant from yourself as your mind chants to hide the evidence - to hide the remnants of the bottle before it's too late. You got too big, too bold, and now God or fate set out to knock you down a peg. To remind you of who's in control. Humiliation burns at you, unforgiving, fire raging, violent and fueled by hatred. The smell of the gin is noticeable in the air. Thick, burning in your nostrils. He'll smell it once he gets home. It'll hit him as soon as he steps through the door, distinct, undeniable. Truthfully, if you had drunk it or broken the bottle, the result would still be the same. It would earn nothing but one reaction: anger, the strike of an open fist. But somehow this seems so much worse. Perhaps it's the lack of control. The fact that it hadn't been a conscious decision, not part of the plan. But it's horrific, leaving you panicked and frantic, mind spinning out in a blind terror. You'll have to open some of the windows, let the house ventilate and breathe and hope that that'll be enough to get rid of the smell - A repetitive noise sounds out from the front of the house. Steady, polite. Knocking. Someone is knocking on your door.

If Colin had come home, he wouldn't bother with announcing himself. He'd simply ram in through the front door without a care, probably dragging his feet and slurring his words as he mumbled in a drunken drivel.

Not many drift this far out, apart from the occasional neighbor you might spy while out pulling weeds in the yard, many driving out in their vehicles or hitching it on foot for a trip into town. You're all fairly quiet. And despite the cordial wave in greeting or a nod of acknowledgement while in passing, you mostly keep to yourself unless something calls for it. The last time you had someone at your doorstep was when Helen Young needed to borrow some flour, and that had been nearly a year ago; you'd kept her for as long as you could, sharing recipes and nuggets of gossip.

You can't think of a single reason why anyone else would be at your house at such a late hour. You struggle to come up with a logical explanation and it only seems to sweep you up in a bigger whirlwind, one too great for your scattered psyche to handle. There's another knock tapping on the door, still mild, considerate. Decidedly unlike Colin, but you're still unable to deny that there's a slim possibility that it might be him regardless. That all it takes for your body to go up in an uproar of confusion and dread, but it can't help but to obey the call coming from outside. Not if it's Colin who's out there, waiting and impatient, temper turned hot by alcohol.

Every facet of you winds tight from the possibility of him actually being home. But the nature of his arrival is abnormal. Though maybe, the prospect of someone having dragged him back here, having become too drunk and incoherent, isn't an absurdity. Just the thought douses you with the sensation of cold water, and you long to move to crawl back over to the splinters of glass on the floor and clean them up, to toss them away in the bin and pretend that your ignorance never got the better of you.

But that's only a temporary fix from the inevitable. Colin will find out regardless. He'll know what you've done. Look in the hollow under the floorboards and find that it's empty. Smell the fumes in the air. It's pathetic how all of the defiance and rage in you has been snuffed out into a wild disquiet, traded in for fear.

Despite your panic, your feet don't stop in carrying you towards the door. It goes in a blur how quickly you cross the space from the kitchen to the adjoining living room until you're standing in front of the entrance with your heart thumping wildly inside your chest . The floor creaks under the shuffle of your feet, seeming too loud. The door seems to stand imposing, nothing more than a tall structure of wood, and yet it might as well as be the Grim Reaper standing before you. Ice sinks low in your stomach, becoming weighted as you eye the knob in your cautious approach.

You wind the cloth around your hand, binding it tight and tucking the loose edge into the wrap of the fabric so that you can hide your hand behind your back, just out of sight without fear of the makeshift bandage falling free and giving evidence to your crime. You have to steel yourself as best as you can, sighing deeply to calm your nerves, but it does little to help as you twist the knob until you hear the telltale click of the latch bolt slipping from its divot.

It's cold when you finally grip it, a shock to your skin despite the sticky warmth that's swaddled the air. You have to brace yourself, swallowing a shaky breath as you prepare for who's on the other side. But as much as you'd like to cling to the shaky bit of peace that you have, you can't hold onto this moment for long.

You loathe the low whine of the hinges as you draw the door open, like the hissing of feral cats. It nearly sets your teeth on edge when you press yourself to lean out and peek around through the gap between the threshold and the door, just enough to be able look out onto the porch.

The dark outside dares to swallow you whole. It's only from the dull light of the oil lamp on the accent table on the far side of the room that offers a wisp of illumination to slip out past the threshold. A muted, buttery hue that struggles against the oppressive shade of the night, but it's enough to highlight the figure that stands at the edge of the porch, just above the first descending step.

It strikes you immediately that you've never seen this stranger before, and that manages to alleviate you from the fear of facing Colin and distress you all together. Uncertainty seems to press down on your shoulders, nudging at the nape of your neck as you eye the man warily. You can feel your brows pinch close from your confusion as you sweep a glance down at him from down to his shoes and all the way up to the relaxed smile on his lips.

The expression on his face is polite, friendly, but that doesn't make this situation any less odd. He - whoever he is - doesn't seem to have the same reservations or thoughts as you, not with how relaxed his posture is. Fully comfortable in a space that doesn't belong to him in the late hours. His boots are a little worn, the leather scuffed slightly around the toes from all of the walking he's probably done, and there's a banjo hanging from his back. Not by a proper shoulder strap but by a pale, old rope.

It isn't entirely unusual to have travelers come walking through here. All in search of different things, individual goals and destinations. Many follow after the train tracks that depart from town, using the rails as a guide to help themselves along to the next town over. What is unusual is to have one standing outside of your house. It sets you on edge, and you're taken away with the worst-case scenarios, the possible horrors that might arise from being alone out here. Horror stories of people attacked and murdered in their own homes.

It makes your heart thud.

"May I help you?" you ask, and you hope that he doesn't take notice of the way you scan a vigilant glance around the surrounding land, looking out for possible figures lurking off on the dirt road in the near distance or hiding in the trees. Luckily, you see nothing out of sorts.

When your attention flickers back onto him, something about him seems amused. There's a glimmer in his eyes and the shadows that are being spilt across his face seem to pronounce the lilt at the corners of his mouth. "I'm sorry for disturbing you at such a late time, but I'm on my way through here and I was wondering if you'd be kind enough to spare a sip of water."

It's a simple request, and good manners encourage that you comply, but common sense presses you to slam the door shut and lock the bolt. The urge to deny his ask rests in your mouth, right there on your tongue, but the refusal never makes it past your lips. It dies out when he dares to creep a little closer, stepping further into the murky fire light, and the weight of his shifting feet, despite their soft shuffle make the boards beneath creak. It could be a trick of the shadows, but you're sure that when he lifts his chin just the slightest, that his nostrils flare likes a dog that's caught onto a scent, and his eyes seem to flicker down to trace down your shoulder, following where you've tucked your wounded hand behind your back.

Then his eyes are on yours, a movement so quick that you think you might have imagined the entire thing. The dark fashioning illusions, exacerbated on by your frazzled state.

"I can't let you in," you blurt. It's all rolled out as though it's been struck from your chest, like you were worried he might try to shove past you and allow himself through the threshold. "My husband's asleep - he doesn't like to be disturbed." The lie rolls from your tongue easily enough, but it feels clunky too, unnatural. You find yourself hoping once again that he can't notice your discomfort, that the night will cloak your expression enough to keep your uncertainty hidden, the ceaseless cries of the crickets will hide your tone.

"I don't need to be brought in," he replies. A reassurance, but you swear that something about its delivery seems . . . entertained. Like you've said something vaguely amusing. "I can stay right here on your doorstep. Take what you're willin' to give me and then I'll be on my way. It'll be like I was never here."

There's something unsettling about the suave nature of his voice, like velvet wrapped around teeth, honey soft to lure you in and placate you. As tempting as it is, something animal skirts down your spine. Still you stand in the part in between the open door. You don't move. It's as though you've been stuck in place, caught by the societal etiquette that's been engrained in you since birth and something more damning, the weight of his stare.

It isn't right, you know, to turn down a person in need, but your paranoia demands that there's a menace in the air. That danger might lurk right around the corner. Or that it's already standing directly in front of you, watching with a smile.

You should step back, bid him to leave before your husband does actually make his way home, slam the door shut and sweep up the glass, tend to your wound. But you don't do any of those things. Instead you move back a hair, sparing the stranger a brief look as you begin to nudge the door closed. "Wait here," you relent. "I'll be back. But once you're done drinking, I expect you to leave."

You don't wait to hear his response, but you think that you might catch a distant 'Yes, ma'am' passed you way as you head off towards the kitchen. You make quick work, opening the cupboard above the sink and grab the first glass you see to begin filling it from the faucet until it's full, almost trickling over the rim. You try not to glance at the broken shards still dusted over the floor beside the table, glittering and winking under the light, taunting you from the distance. You ignore the heated pulse that thumps and flares across your hand in time with your heartbeat.

You twist the water off, catching it before it can overflow from the cup, turning the knob with a pronounced, rusted squeak.

With another deep, steadying inhale, you find yourself opening the front door for a second time tonight. It's all too soon, as though you've blinked and lost time even though you can remember the steps you had taken to get back to this point. Your nerves feel shot, all fired up and confused, and it makes the minutes pool around you in a blur. The faint warmth that you had just begun to feel from the gin has all but left your system; chased out by the anxiety.

When the door rasps open again, a part of you is disappointed to see that the stranger is still standing on your porch even though you fully expected for him to be there. When your eyes meet it's as though you've entered some sort of stalemate. He creeps closer, but there's a calculated edge to movements, as though he's approaching as one would a startled animal.

You don't meet him halfway. You can't manage to get yourself to twitch past the threshold. Your hand that holds the cup hovers close to your chest. There's a disconnect somewhere. You tell yourself to extend your arm out to let him take the glass, but it doesn't happen. You remain tucked against the door. There's a safety here. An ability to close the man out if need be and hide yourself within the safety of familiar walls, but your hesitation has pulled a hush over the space.

There's a clear uncertainty extended from the both of you now, but he doesn't eye you with awkward puzzlement but almost an intrigue. His head tilts a little, a minute movement that makes you feel studied all the same; an insect pinned to a board. That's how both of you remain for the next passing minute, for probably just a blink but a void seems to wrap out around you, turned hauntingly private from the dull hiss of the breeze shifting over the grass and the chirp of noisy nocturnal insects.

It's another catch of the contained flame flickering within your home, but his eyes seem to reflect the night, the glimmer of distant stars catching in his pupils. You don't know if you've ever been consumed by a stare before; it's definitive that you have now.

Your hand twitches forward, fingers flexing around the glass as though you might actually stretch your arm out past the doorway for him to take, but it hardly makes it more than a few scant inches.

You notice the corner of his mouth nudge upward. "Plannin' on letting me keel over from thirst?"

A part of you can't help but hate how playful he sounds, as though you're well acquainted - cordial, familiar - and not outsiders to each other. The other, more buried half, the side that used to know how to smile easily and share harmless gibes in a second nature, rouses under his light ridicule. Maybe you would have insulted him for being the one crawling up as a beggar on a stranger's doorstep, and the desire to do so slips over you like a ghost. But you can't allow yourself the possession of that temptation.

You force your hand out then, stretching it just enough to offer him the glass.

The paranoid concern that he might grab you instead rises in your gut, but when his hand reaches, it only takes the cup with a polite, "Thank ya kindly," muttered out to you. There's a purposeful gentleness when he removes it from your own grip, keeping eye contact with you the entire time while he raises it to his lips, lifting his chin to drink it down in heavy gulps. He empties it in drawn out sips, pouring down his throat as though it's the only water he's had for miles. It has something like guilt whispering over you.

"What are you doing out here . . . so late?" The enquiry leaves you much more tentatively than you intended, and you reflectively clear your throat as though that might banish the nervousness in your chest.

He seems delighted by the question. His posture straightens just the slightest, shoulders drawing up, boyish and pleased, as though he thought you'd never ask. "Oh, I'm a musician you see." He reaches behind to pull at the neck of his banjo, rotating it around to brandish it against his hip. "We've got ourselves a gig not too far up the road there."

He lifts a finger up from the grip he has around the now empty glass and points out to his left in the direction of the path paved by car tires and wagons, cutting up through the earth and trees. The crickets chirping seems to ring out, raising up higher and higher as though they're loudly declaring him a liar. You hardly pay that any mind.

"We?" Once again, you're scanning the surrounding dark with a worried glance, expecting finally see shadows lurking. Still and quiet, waiting for the perfect moment the lurch forward and take what they want.

"A couple of my friends," he clarifies. He pulls on the rope around his chest, tugging the instrument back around in its proper place behind his back. He shifts on his feet, slipping about half a step closer, making the floor groan in a faint protest. "They're just up ahead, not too far from here. I thought I'd be able to make it just fine, but I have to admit that this heat is gettin' to me."

"Yeah . . . It's plenty warm out here." You agree, half-hearted, struggling in your effort to keep him appeased with a geniality that you know must seem forced.

This is odd. Something about this - him isn't right. It nudges at the back of your head like the weight of a reprimanding hand, pokes and prods at you to cut this interaction short and shoo him away from your doorstep like a stray that's overstayed its welcome. Regardless, you're stuck. All spun up in a glimmer of intrigue that sinks into you with a stubborn influence. All the isolation out here has made you deprived in a way, starved for interaction that doesn't come with the threat of scathing insults or the swat of a hand.

You'd be fooling yourself if you couldn't admit that your fascination has been piqued. There's a magnetism around him that you can't quite explain. He looks like he could be any other man, not exactly plain faced, but his handsomeness shows in a way that isn't particularly arresting. It's pleasant, strong despite his rounded features and eyes that seem dark, impish. It's how he carries himself you conclude, the puckish lift of his lips and the lively way he expresses himself.

There's a sort of energy around him that is almost palpable, thrumming and brushing through the light fabric of your dress to run over your skin; charged air in an oncoming storm. Suddenly, you feel a lot like a moth daring too close to an open pyre. You fear you might have already drifted too close to turn back now. Something instinctual and buried begs that you do, but like a bass captivated by the glimmer of a bobbing lure, you don't know if you're able to.

It's like you can see the traces of his journeys on his body, remnants of the treks he's taken immortalized in the scuffs on the toes of his boots. You had seen that the calfskin face on his banjo has been turned darker in certain areas, made that way from frequent use; the brushes of his hand while he played. It aids you in picturing all the places that he's probably strummed the instrument in, plucking the strings with deft fingers while people dance and laughed, jovial in their celebrations.

"Oh, it sure is," he answers with an excited grin. He tilts back just enough to place the glass on the railing, freeing his hands before he turns to you. It reminds you of a salesman preparing to make a pitch. "You could join us tonight, you know. It's fixin' to be quite the party, and the more the merrier."

The invitation takes you aback, knocks you off quilter so that you're staring at him dumbly from within your doorway. "Excuse me? I can't - that's very kind, but I don't know you." You shake your head while it all leaves you in a sort of jumble, turned messy from your bewilderment.

"C'mon now," he encourages as though he's a longtime friend and not an unknown, a stranger shrouded in mystery. When you lean back a little, tucking one of your shoulders tighter against the threshold, he tracks the movement with a stare that seems too eager, like an animal watching its prey twitch. "Everybody's a stranger to somebody; take a chance and we might just wind up as thick as thieves." The smile on your face is tight, muscles twitching as you wield your mouth to shape an expression that's hardly convincing, too strained. "I'm sorry, I have to decline. It's late. My husband is sleeping-"

"Your husband is occupied, all tucked into bed, sound asleep, just as you've said." His brows perk up a little, embellishing the question and he leans in close as though you're both sharing a secret. "So he wouldn't notice then, if you disappeared for an hour or two. He didn't even hear me knocking on your door - dead to the world, huh?"

The last comment borders on mockery. A sardonic jab that's thinly veiled with an easy smile. It's knowing, as though he's in on something that he shouldn't be and can't help but to be a little smug about it. A distant, but clamorous voice cries from the corners of your mind in a paranoid stream of he knows, he knows you're all alone out here.

He has an arrogance and condescension that leaves you a little speechless. You've only been in his presence for less than fifteen minutes, but the blurred genial character he has and the thinly veiled snark makes your head spin. You can't tell if he's attempting some strange, boorish flirting tactic, or if he's simply ignorant enough to believe that you would truly feel comfortable enough to allow yourself to be swept away by a complete stranger. Even worse than all of that though, is that a side of you, dull but persevering, a remnant of your former self turned alone and quiet, is tempted. It's easy to fantasize about being spirited away, about being pulled into a whirlwind of titillation and celebration, flowing drinks and bubbling laughter.

But those thoughts bring nothing but danger. A sinking in your gut that seems to tug you down to the bottom of a river, dragging you like a rock.

"I can't." That's all you can manage to say.

"Well, that is a shame." He concedes a lot easier than you had expected. He doesn't strike you as the type to roll over and except defeat, but he lets out a dispirited sigh. He nods like he understands, a minute gesture while he shifts his focus to his left, looking back off towards the road - a kicked puppy. That's what he looks like. Eyebrows furrowed over the wide shape of his eyes. He's actually pouting. For a moment, you think that he's relenting. That he's finally picked up all the signs that he's been ignoring (willfully or otherwise) and that he'll turn and leave with a thank you, vanishing in the dark like a phantom that never existed.

It would be easy then, to believe that you had made him up. A figment of your imagination come to haunt you.

When his attention shifts back onto you, that glimmer of the faith you had fizzles out like water doused coals. It's involuntary when the hand behind your back flexes, clenching your thumb around the bandage. It licks a painful heat up the wound and you can feel your face wince. His nostrils flare in that peculiar manner, again. An animal scenting a trail.

"I hate to take advantage of your kindness, but before I go, would you mind if I got another glass?" He lifts the cup up between you both and tilts his head as though he's eager to hear your response, rotating the glass back and forth to hold your attention. "I'm real parched."

No. It's right there again. At the ready. But once again you can't find it in yourself to speak your mind. The stare he holds you in is testing. Evaluating. As though he's weighing you for your worth, challenging you to see how you might respond. It's become instinctual in you to waver, to shrink yourself down beneath a heavy stare.

That's all it takes for you to grab it from his hand. You aren't sure if you appreciate the smile he gives you. He's stopping you before you can turn around and fill the glass - or get rid of him.

"You wouldn't mind if I stepped inside, would you? Only to take some pressure of my feet. And these damn bugs, they're hungry tonight. I must taste good with how they're nippin' at me."

He grins like he's said the funniest thing. As though you're close friends and he's made an inside joke. You can't manage a laugh though. You feel heavy, turned into stone as you stand in the doorway, tense, wound throbbing, and concern gnawing in your gut. It's kneejerk to want to refuse his request. Common sense nags at you to do just that, but fear keeps the words trapped inside.

He's acting calm now, friendly, all things considered, but would his mood take a turn if you refused him? Would he lash out? Barge through the door if you slammed it shut or crash his way through one of the windows?

Another voice entirely chides you for making assumptions. For being so judgmental in the first place. He might be a bit odd, but that doesn't make him a threat. He's a weary traveler looking for a place to rest his feet before he moves on, and you can hear your mother berating you from the grave, scolding you for turning a man in need away from your home. You can hear Pastor Hemley's voice raising high in that unwavering timbre, booming off the old, polished walls that existed long before you; echoes of one of his old sermons as he gripped the edges of the pulpit in an impassioned grip. "Who are we to turn away another man in need? What if it was the Lord himself asking, seeking you out for your aid, testing you of your humanity and goodwill, and you shunned him? Or what about your fellow man? Is it not our sympathy, our empathy - that makes us in His image? It is the meek who shall inherit the earth."

Now you aren't ignorant enough to believe that Jesus himself has wandered up to your doorstep, but it still feels a sin to deny the stranger now. The prospect of it turns sour, bitter on your tongue, iron turning to rust.

"You'd have to be quiet. My husband - "

"I'll be quiet as a mouse," he assures quickly.

"I just don't want any trouble." You draw the door a little tighter, just enough that your shoulders and head can peek through the gap. Your hand tightens over the empty glass making the smooth shape of it dig at your palm. Your right hand squeezes tight too, and involuntary action that makes pain flare. A wince pulls a little at your face, makes your brows twitch. "My husband has early mornings; he needs his rest."

"I ain't no trouble." It's a promise that brings you little comfort despite the sincerity. "If I so's much as look at you wrong then you can go ahead and throw me right out the door. Knock me out on my ass right on your front porch, if it pleases you."

A kind of inner voice whispers from somewhere in the hidden fringes of your mind, distant but no less profound. It's like a brush along the nape of your neck, raising the small hairs there and it threatens to make you shiver. It settles in your bones, takes root deeply but as light as a phantom, distorted and chilled. It almost begs you to step out from the threshold and back into the familiarity of your house, and you nearly do. You can feel yourself coiling, the muscles in your leg bunching and it the heel of your foot slipping back just the slightest. Not even an inch but he notices, you can tell by the way that the corner of his mouth perks up. He's not even bothering to try and hide his amusement.

You have to flex the grip you have clasped around the glass. Gripping it hard enough the rounded shape of the cup bites into your palm and keeps you centered. You really shouldn't let him in. The instincts creeping up your spine urge you don't, and yet you somehow find yourself split. Ensnared in a stubborn limbo that seems to hold you tight.

The way that he's watching you doesn't help. His head is a little tilted, the smile on his face is still there, and the relaxed nature of his posture is intimidating despite that casual air of it. As though he's made a pocket for himself in your space. As though he's entitled to it. That it's belonged to him this entire time and you simply weren't aware. It irritates you. It intrigues you too. Everything about him seems to have been fashioned to lure you in. The easy confidence he emanates, the roguish glimmer in his eyes.

He's laidback and odd all at once. The way that he stuns you is a product of pure roguish charm. He moves as though he's someone important, even while there's a soft smear of dirt on the cuff of his shirt, his boots are worn, and the leather has long lost its sheen, and yet you don't think you've ever felt so captivated in your entire life. It's as though you're held hostage. There's a grip that you can't shake, and it has your attention pinned onto him as though there's some sort of magnetic pull stretched between the both of you. You stare all while your mind chants in a repetitive, startled loop: Make him leave, close the door, lock the bolt.

The crickets sing into the night. There's a caution somewhere in their cries. High pitched. Warbling. Animal.

You best listen, they seem to say.

You draw in a deep breath.

"Alright, you can come in. But only for a moment." You relent so quickly that you hardly register it at all. It's not until you're shifting out of the way, nudging the door open and turning your body to give him a berth that you notice what you've said. Something in the pit of you urges that you slam the door shut before he can act out on your compliance, but like a spirit trapped inside a doll, you sit idle as he steps forward.

Something seems to break now that he's crossed the threshold. A membrane has broken, been torn through and invaded as he moves across the floor, boots thumping softly in a hushed murmur over the worn wood. Each creak sounds like a scream to you. Ragged, strained, ringing out on a thin breath. The air is tense, strained with an awkwardness that you don't know how to navigate.

The cup in your hand seems heavy. As weighted as a big stone. You track him from your place at the door as he comes to stand in the middle of the living room, not caring to hide how he sweeps a curious, evaluating look over the space. Eyeing the furniture, the outdated floral wallpaper - turned stained from age - and the family photographs hung on the wall above the sofa with an eager eye. A vulture scavenging.

He just evaluates them for a moment. Staring as one might a set of paintings in a public museum. It strips you bare. Makes you horrendously vulnerable as he observes the images of your life; the glide of the satin air pouring in from the open doorway seems to perpetuate that vulnerability. Skirting over your flesh in dark, damp brushes.

He scrutinizes photograph of you and Colin, the one of you tucked into each other's bodies, caught staring in each other's eyes while standing out on the stoop of the church. It was a time when you were still able to smile, when Colin built a warmth and love in you that burned inside, that could keep you safe.

You had felt so beautiful that day, wearing your mother's own wedding dress, adorned in optimism and fine beading. Now you just feel stupid.

It makes you sick to look at the picture. To see yourself draped in lace, all dolled up for a wedding that you'd come to regret. It's worse to have someone else staring at it with a kind of strange fascination. As though it's the most interesting thing in the world.

It's worse still when his eyes drag downward to the frame directly underneath, taken a year apart, but the difference was telling. When you had first slipped the picture into its frame, you had wondered if others would be able to notice the strained nature of your smile or if it was an element that only you could see. If they would be able to notice how the light had dimmed from your eyes, turned dull in a muted reflection of the argument that had taken place only a few hours before.

You know now that he, at least, is able to tell.

"Happy couple," he comments, and it seems suspiciously sardonic. The remark could be private, an inside thought that slipped out, but he seems guiltless to have spoken it.

He looks so normal and yet he's entirely out of place in the middle of your home in a way that you can't quite place. It's unnerving. It makes your skin itch. You can only watch as he steps around the coffee table to admire all of your belongings. The knickknacks and useless tchotchkes in the display cabinet, the bits and pieces of you collected over the stages of your life all held on the end table tucked close to the edge of the sofa. Unabashed that he's in a stranger's house. Stalking along the room with steps that are leisurely, but there's a calculated edge that can't be ignored. The saunter of a predator, careful but confident.

When his eyes flicker back onto you, they seem to glimmer. Fire reflecting in their centers, gold pooling where the black should be. Abnormal. An animal's eyes peering through the dark. They burn through you, reaching at the edges of your soul. The suddenness of it snaps you from your daze like the pop of a hand.

A trick, you tell yourself again. An illusion thrown by the light.

"I'll just . . . go and fill this," you manage stiffly, brandishing the glass. You don't wait for a response, carefully shutting the front door with a heavy click before making off for the kitchen as though fire is licking at your heels. It's déjà vu to be standing back at the sink, tap running, watching the water bubble and churn from the flow from the spicket.

For the first time in in years, a part of you longs to have your husband home, and that pitiful need disgusts you. You loathe that you crave the volatile comfort that he would provide. There is a familiarity in it. A predictability. But this man - the stranger - is a complete unknown and it's terrible.

You have to curse yourself for crumbling. For weakly relenting and allowing a potential danger into your house with hardly any fight. It has self-hared, hot and boiling, twisting in your stomach. The disappointment is debilitating, sinking down into your shoulders as piercing as a set of talons. The chaotic panic swirling in your mind does little to help your state, injecting ice into your veins as you ponder the worst. That same worry has your eyes straying from the filling glass, drifting over to a set of drawers. The same one that's full of silverware. You think of the knives tucked into the left side of the top drawer, nestled right by the forks and spoons.

It'd be easy to turn off the sink, sit down the glass and long enough to grab a knife. You could hide it under your skirt, slip the blade along your thigh and keep it held there by the material of your bloomers. The knife would have some weight to it, but you think that it wouldn't be enough to keep it from staying in place.

Water pours over you hand in vigorous rivulets, welling out from over the lip of the glass in a heavy current that patters down onto the sink below. You curse under your breath, startling from the chill of it, and jerk from your fantasy. You reach clumsily for the knob, hissing through your teeth as your injured thumb clamps around the steel with too much force, licking lightning up the wound.

It twists shut with a strained, metallic squeak. Even once its off it drips. A steady tap of water falling near the edge of the drain after a temporary pause. Just that has managed to set your heart fluttering, a simple overflow of water has it thrumming wildly in your chest. Like it's fit to burst out and leave your body behind.

You draw in a shaky inhale, tainted with the bitter sting of the spilt alcohol that's long since seeped into the floorboards, perfuming the air in an acrid cloud. It has you feeling nauseous. Unwell from the thick of it burying in your nose - a reminder of your previous accident. Your thumb throbs at the reminder, smarting and warm. But you don't want to leave the kitchen either. You'd rather choke on the scent of the gin than have to face the man skulking about your living room.

God, you've just realized that you still don't even know his name.

It's such a trivial thing, an absurdity, but a laugh almost bubbles up from your lungs. A loose, hysterical noise that lodges in your chest and stays there in an almost painful sigh.

You don't want to leave, but you have to. You know you do. You can only hold off, resist the inevitable for so long before he becomes curious and comes looking for you, lurking around the corners of your house like a creature scenting prey.

You hold the glass tighter, ignoring the damp feel of the water on your skin, blocking out the unease prickling over your skin as you turn from the sink.

Your spirit leaves your body and soars far away from earth. It happens in a blink. You flinch, drawing up tight with a sharp gasp. You think your heart might have burst too, thumping in a craze as electricity scatters through your limbs. It's a scattered blur, your body recognizes that you aren't alone before you do, notices the silhouette standing directly in front of you before you can properly process it.

You nearly bump into a chest, run right into it. You can't help the yelp you let out, can't even be embarrassed about it because you're so swept up and startled, your body draws up in a primal reflex, tensing like you might have to make a run for it. Muscles and tendons all clenching like they were going to eject your spirit up and out of them, send you flying high over the earth and into the heavens. You're sure your soul would have done just that if not for the pair of hands settling over your arms, gently clasping to keep you in place.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you." His voice is apologetic, but the glimpse of teeth, the mirthful spark in his eyes, reveals just the opposite.

You feel all shaken up, heart racing too fast in your chest, thumping up against your sternum in a frenzied patter. You can't speak, can't berate him like you truly want to or reassure him like your manners chide you to do. It's all a jumbled-up mess, and the sight of him standing so close, the weight of his fingers on your bare arms, callused from plucking strings and tepid despite the stifling heat, anchors you in a way that you don't quite enjoy. It forces you back into the moment, packs you into your skin with a sharp jerk that commands you to meet his eyes.

Your tongue feels useless, your voice stalled and broken. For a pause too long, you can only stare. "It's quite alright," you just hardly manage, it's more of a whisper. It feels as though you're lying through your teeth. You are, in a way. He shouldn't be here. You know that much. It won't stop howling at you, screaming under your flesh in a wild chant that tells you to send him off, to get him gone before the worst can happen. What the 'worst' might be, you aren't sure, but your paranoia and gut assure you that it's just looming over the horizon.

"Appreciate ya," he thanks as he plucks the glass from your weak grip. You're grateful for that. You would have likely dropped it too, sent it shattering along the floor just like the gin if you held it for any longer.

You can only nod. He doesn't step back. Doesn't give you room to breathe. He keeps you pinned between his body and the sink, only a sliver of space given between you both, just little more than a foot. It's as though all of the oxygen has been siphoned out of the room, turned viscous and too thick, pooling in your lungs like stove-hot molasses, burned and scorching.

His eyes seem too dark, a pair of yawning pits held open to see, to taste. It's stripping, tearing you down in some terrible manner. It's as though you've been stripped of all your clothes. As exposed and naïve as the day you were born. You can feel yourself waver, shrinking under his attention as he raises the glass to his lips. But it is worse, so much worse when he rotates his shoulders just enough to comfortably look behind him, and you know instantly that he's taking notice of the broken glass scattered and winking on the floor.

You're flooded with ice. Frigid, seizing. Even while it's fragmented into shards, it's still clear to see what kind of bottle it had been. The cap is still intact to the neck, severed and jagged from what had been the rest of it. It'd take a complete and utter fool not to realize just what it was, what it had contained. He doesn't seem like the law-abiding type, the sort to go running for the cops as soon as he spots something illicit, but the apprehension springs up on you regardless.

You struggle for an excuse, anything that sounds remotely convincing, but you know you can't deny it. Not while all the air in here smells of liquor, doused so strongly with it that you could choke on it.

He must catch your expression - not that you're doing a particularly good job at keeping yourself schooled - because he seems downright amused. All pleased to see you so stressed.

"Oh, I ain't one to judge someone for lettin' a little loose. I've been at the bottom of a bottle more times than I can count," he consoles while grinning too much. "Nothing wrong with enjoyin' life's simple pleasures. Shame you went and dropped it." It's another comment that you're unable to tell if it's a mean dig or not, but it makes you bristle regardless, and unsaid retort sits heavy on the tip of your tongue.

You don't like how he seems to effortlessly see right through you, how he toes a line between impish charm and disconcerting arrogance and unpretentious amiability. It makes you unsteady. Lost while standing inside your own home. You've been backed into a corner, herded there willingly, shoved there by a subdued snapping of teeth and eyes that don't seem quite right.

It's too much, being held under his stare, standing as close to him as you are. You can smell the night on him; subtle and pleasantly honeyed from the pollen of blossoms, earthy with dew and humidity; there's the light tang of salt too, sweat and something you can't quite place, but it's severe like the traces of coins that have been left behind in a tight fist. Like copper or iron. Dust and ancient soil.

It makes your skin crawl.

You need a distraction, something to keep your mind from losing sight of itself and giving under the weight of your own discomfort and panic. You need to distract him too, it feels, wave something in his face like distracting a dog from lashing at your jugular in exchange for a fresh bone.

But in a pattern that is swiftly becoming uncomfortably common, he knocks you off kiter before you get the chance to help yourself.

"I don't think that old rag is doin' you much of a favor."

Your brows pinch, your confusion evident as you try to make sense of what he's said. But just as fast you're able to connect the dots, much quicker with the dull, pained throb in your hand that seems to highlight his words in a burning scarlet.

You can't keep yourself from looking down at your hand, tracing the tight bundle of fabric that coils around your palm and thumb like a worn, fabric serpent with your eyes. It's stained dark. The red dulled into a shade that nearly seems black in the murky, yellowed light. It's already coming loose. The edge that you had used to tuck into the rest of the clothe is beginning to slip, but using the one hand you had to fix it place had made it difficult. A few more minutes and a couple more twitches from your fingers and the poor bandaging you had done would unravel.

"It's fine," you say instead. But when your hand protectively nudges close to your hip, that's involuntary.

"Let me tighten it, at least," he offers. "The least I can do, as payment for the water."

There's a gentleness somewhere in his tone that you don't trust. It doesn't sit right, it lurks and saturates his words, all sickeningly sweet. As tempting as the honeysuckle that used to grow outside your family home, the ones you'd pluck from the vine as a child, taking them as treats while you headed down to play in the creek that flowed in the nearby thicket.

You've been tricked by pretty things before. Sweet sounding and tempting. Look where it's gotten you.

"Really, it's alright."

Surprisingly, he doesn't pry. Still, he doesn't quit staring. His stare seems fastened onto your hand, unwavering and fascinated, bordering on fervency. The glitter of the kitchen light reflects a fire in his eyes, shimmering in the dark pits of them. It's just another thing tonight that has you out of your depths, tugged down and far away from reason. This entire encounter has spread across so many different levels: he seems normal in certain lights. A laid-back traveler, just looking for a place to rest his feet. Relaxed until he's almost blithe. And that's what's so confusing. How heedless he is despite all the charm.

Your skin crawls, nervousness shuddering in your bones. It's as though your wrist is tugged by a string when you nudge your wounded hand around your hip, hiding it behind your back. All out of the outlandish fear that he might reach for you. He seems akin to a dog tracking a strip of bloodied meat, following your hand until it disappears from his vision. And like a dog salivating, you need to distract it lest it lunge.

"Have you ever seen the ocean?" you blurt.

His brows perk at the question, the corner of his mouth curls, but the intensity that had been alight in his eyes seems to shift - redirect. It lets you draw in a breath that you didn't know you needed, just seconds away from becoming lightheaded.

"There isn't an ocean in this country I ain't seen," he claims. He steps away from you then, backing towards the little dining table across the floor. His focus doesn't waver when his boots crush over the shatter glass, shattering the fragments into shimmering dust with his weight, the brittle pops and crunching peppers softly over the air. To you they sound violent, but he doesn't so much as acknowledge them as he slips the shoulder strap for his banjo over his head, lifting the instrument to lean it against the edge of the table. He invites himself to sit, just opposite of the chair you had once occupied, like he belongs there.

"The Pacific, the great Atlantic. From sea to shining sea," he finishes in a familiar singsong rhythm, amused with himself and smiling. "I spent weeks harbored up on a ship once. Sometimes, late at night when I'm alone, I can hear the wood shudderin' around me. Groaning and moaning from the waves."

It's almost conspiratorial, how he talks, though there's an unspoken invitation in his posture, relaxed, welcoming, thighs wide and spine slumped against the backrest of the chair as though he's sat there a thousand times before. It's as though you're the stranger now. Uncertain and delicate in a kitchen that suddenly doesn't belong to you. You're a phantom in a new space, lurking and banished to the outskirts while he observes you with a stare that's too disarming. Too calm, too wild simultaneously.

"What's it like? Being able to travel like that?" You feel compelled to move closer, but your movements are still tentative as you approach the unoccupied chair. You don't remove your attention from him as you sit, watching him as though he might jerk forward at any moment.

"There's hardly anything that compares to it. Free to wander wherever the wind takes you, just followin' after your own spirit." He finally sits his cup down on the table, now empty, and it hits the wood with a hollow thump. "And then I remember, that there truly ain't nothing else better than comin' home. That after being gone for so long, just lost and ramblin' through days and years, chasing after little more than a feelin,' the relief of coming back to the ones that love you the most is - well, it's religious. Better than breathin'."

He speaks with something euphoric and distant. The tenderness and fervor of someone recalling a thing that's become lost but no less cherished. The passion he contains frightens a part of you, that flighty, uncertain part that jumps at shadows. But it's difficult to accuse yourself of being paranoid while he looks at you with the sort of restrained ferocity of a feral creature. If you were truly a person that you could admire, you would have chased him out with a broom or a blade by now. And maybe you should do just that. The caution to do so has been weighing down heavy on you all night, and still, you can't manage to get yourself to act on that instinct. You can't keep yourself from being the least bit captivated when his eyes glitter with a passion and excitement that you haven't witnessed in ages.

And you truly are entranced with how he's watching you. Staring as though you're some sort of cipher that must be understood. An artist staring down a slab of marble, mapping out the figure that resides somewhere beneath the stone. You aren't sure if you entirely enjoy it or not.

"Have you ever felt that way before? Longed for something that's been taken from you? That you used to, but now it's entirely beyond you, jus' out of reach?" he asks.

The questions suspend between you both. It's punctuated by the quiet. If you listen closely enough, you can catch the chitter of the crickets outside, but they're voices are muffled. Miles away.

The inquiry is so outlandish that you can't help your laugh, as stilted and unsure as it is. He's still smiling, but he doesn't seem amused, entertained, certainly, just not as smug as he was before. There's a solemnness to it that could almost frighten you, as though the answer to the question is paramount, of the upmost importance. You're pinned down in your seat. Terrified that you might answer incorrectly, as though this is some sort of test. All the while your mind chants to lie to him. Lie, lie, lie.

"Of course not." You wrangle it out, muttered through a dry mouth, and now you're the one longing for a glass of water, though you can't seem to gather yourself up to fetch one. What proceeds is an excruciating stretch of silence. A pause that spans over the kitchen like a chilled blanket, making you shiver despite the heat of the summer. Once again you get the thought that he knows you aren't telling the truth. He knows, somehow, that you aren't allowing yourself to be honest, that there's a mountain you've erected between the both of you.

You can't deny that it sounds tempting. You've dreamed of traveling, of packing up all of your clothes into a suitcase and vanishing into the night countless times, letting your mind drift up to the heavens to look down on every place you've ever dreamed of. Sinking your spirit down to cities that you'd never be able to see or touch or experience outside of books and paintings. You can only attempt to imagine what he may have discovered in his lifetime. The people who he's spoken with, the stories they've exchanged, the music they've shared. A hundred lifetimes in a single one. Your vision drifts down to his left hand, idle on top of the worn tabletop, gold band encircled around his ring finger. It's lost its polish, gone a little dull from what must be years of being worn. He hasn't mentioned a wife once during this interaction, and you can only wonder if his she might be among the pair of friends that he has waiting for him up the road. It seems typical that a man would neglect to mention that he has a wife at all while asking to enter a woman's home. You can't even manage the desire to scoff.

"Don't you have family?" You pry, clasping your fingers together in your lap, smoothing your thumb over your nails and running it over the old cloth around your palm. You ignore the subtle sting when the fabric shifts the cut, but you don't think you kept the wince from your face.

"Yeah, I've got family. If all goes well, I'll be seeing them tonight. It's long overdue" His voice is jovial, a sincere mirth shaping around his teeth in a visible expression of fondness. An excitement bleeding in alongside something that seems vaguely melancholic. Hopeful. Strangers with no clear description dance about in your mind, but if they're family of his, then they must be just as rugged and peculiar. You imagine dust smudged cheeks and fingertips worn from calluses, leathered from plucking and strumming musical strings. "It's been a long while since we've seen each other. Hardly feels real at all." His expression goes a little soft and earnest, but you aren't able to share in his delight. Your too busy tussling with an envy that you don't recognize. It scatters across your sinew and nerves in a flash, as hot and bright and otherworldly as a lightning strike. You don't appreciate the guilt that comes with it, the confusion or the lick of self-hate. It doesn't belong with you. That jealousy doesn't have a place - it shouldn't. It seems impossible though, not to get all caught up in the brunt of your emotions. It would be easy to believe that this stranger isn't real at all. That you've manifested a vessel for the life you never got to live, the sort of ties and friendships you weren't fortunate enough to make.

Colin lost his loyalty to you a long time ago. Or maybe he never had it at all. There was something about him that had seemed too good to be true, even way back when. Dahlia, his own cousin had seen it. Saw him for what he was. Warned you against him. Perhaps that's why Colin had shunned her out, nudged her back from the parameters of your marriage until she finally gave up and made a new life for herself up in Pittsburg.

A 'playboy' is what she had called him. All brawn and looks but nothing of substance, like a bit of candy. All sugar. But too much sugar does havoc on the body. It's unfortunate that you had to find that out for yourself. You still had time to set out for yourself back then and have all things your ever wanted. That's all too late now.

It makes it horrible to have all of your wants echoed back at you. Reflected in a man you might never see again. It's as though the universe has dangled a trinket in front of your face, taunted a key before you to test if you'd reach for it. You clench your fingers tighter, threading them stiff in a lock as though it might keep you contained in your seat. The floor creak and groan beneath your feet.

"That sounds lovely. Will your wife be there?" you probe. More of a slip of the tongue. You feel as though you've made an admittance that you shouldn't have. Your lips purse, sealing closed.

His eyes glimmer in that odd way again. Catching light in an animal fashion. That ain't normal. That's not normal, is it? It makes you hate yourself as soon as you realize what you've asked him. You're certain that your mother is scolding you from her grave, cursing you for your poor manners. Humiliation stings at your cheeks, hot and damning, but the damage is already done. "No, she ain't gonna be there." Is all he says, and the cold implications behind it is enough to make guilt turn to stone in your stomach. You can guess as to why she would be absent. Death or divorce, as rare as the latter is, but quite frankly, the state of his marriage and family affairs truly aren't any of your business. "I'm apologize, I really shouldn't have ask-" He leans over the table then, his chair creaking with the minute shift of his body weight as he crosses his arms over the counter. His teeth show in that good-natured smile that seems to be permanently displayed on his face, a flash of pale enamel - too sharp. "Are you lonely?"

A chill seems to settle in with his words. Unwelcome and latching, gripping for whatever bit of skin isn't shielded by clothing. It stalls you in your seat, keeps you still and silent for a beat too long. You aren't certain how to properly answer. If you should at all. Quite frankly, it isn't any of his business at all. He's only been tentatively welcomed into your home, and he still conducts himself as though he is invited fully in your space, entitled to your honesty and situation.

The anger in you - your exasperation with him - demands that you ignore him all together. To change the subject, maybe put him on the spot for a change - if that is at all possible. You know deep down though, that getting the upper hand on a man like him is a slim one. Men like him don't allow themselves to be bested. They throw their weight around, makes themselves the biggest thing in the whole room, sucking up all the oxygen until everything and everyone else dims out, starved flames.

"Sometimes," you admit instead, gasping it out around a choked sound. Forbidden, lodged from somewhere in your throat. He doesn't speak, but there is an unsaid question on his face, a gentle nudge for you to expand on it. He's leaving you to continue. To decide if this is something that you truly want to say. Somehow the choice of it all seems to make it so much worse. "Colin - my husband - works a lot. Long hours. He's rarely home. And when he is, he's . . . " He's mean, you want to say. As angry as a beaten dog. Lashing out at everything that moves, that looks at him the wrong way. And that thing is so often you. You can't make him happy, not anymore. There was a time that he used to admire you as though you were the prettiest creature he ever witnessed. That's all ash now. "He's usually sleeping. Or he spends his time somewhere else. Out with friends from work mostly."

You don't know what to think of the stranger's expression. It sympathetic, understanding. There's a calmness in his eyes, though the friendly merriment from before hasn't dimmed, it's simply changed, become honed and tense as he falls silent. He's steady as he observes you from the other side of the table. Unnervingly still, motionless. You can hear yourself breathing and the sheer realization of it makes you want to flee out of your own skin. You don't think you've ever felt so watched. Studied. Inspected.

"I don't really mind when he leaves though. " You blurt it out in the beginnings of a nervous ramble. The need to fill the sudden quiet ripples up your spine. Makes you spit out your words in an anxious stream. "It's more . . . quiet. Peaceful. He works a lot. I'm sure you know how working men can be. All particular and all after a day of being on his feet. Can hardly blame him really." You pluck at your fingernails, curling your fingers together while your lips instinctively press up in an expression that you hope is convincingly relaxed. You aren't sure why you're baring it all to this man. This knock at the door, a figure in the dark, a stranger at your table. Perhaps that's what it is. The comfort in knowing that he'll be gone long before the sun rises. That in a few short moments you'll finally urge him up from his seat and walk him to the front door, guiding him out into the night with a polite smile and a farewell. In due time, he won't be anything but a curious memory. A bizarre recollection that you might recall years down the road, distorted and strange. An odd man in the night, drifting along as bird perched on your windowsill might, spying into your house before fluttering away into the sky.

There's a safety in that thought. You aren't ignorant to the insinuation hidden in your words. The implications they hold. If you were wiser, you'd might keep your mouth shut, but you can't stop yourself now. All pent up, restrained, left alone apart from the monthly trips you take to the grocery store, reduced to short, good-mannered interactions with the clerks. Brief, temporary, alone. "What if I could help you?"

You stare at him. You aren't sure for how long. A few seconds, maybe a minute at most, but the silence is disturbing. It gnaws at the reluctant comfortability that has settled between the both of you, fragile and cold and foreign like a sheet of snow. You aren't sure if you should laugh or scoff or ignore the comment all together. It's absurd that a man who had wandered up to your door, asking for help is now claiming that he would be able to do the same for you. His pants are worn from what's likely years of use, his knuckles are rough and there's uncountable number of miles on his shoes. He probably doesn't have much more than a couple dollars in his both of his pockets, and here he is, offering you salvation.

He's earnest in his delivery. Unsmiling. Sincere. It's frightening because you don't know what to make of it. This doesn't seem to be some kind of play, and if it is then he's mastered himself fully. There isn't a hint of a smile or deceit. He's firm and committed, resolute in his proposition. It would have been more tolerable if this were a joke. There would be a punchline, a reason to laugh. That safety net isn't here.

"How could you help me?" You can't cover the judgement in your tone, an inflection that would have gotten you nothing but pain had it been your husband sitting on the other end of that table and not the stranger; another row of bruises on your skin, mottled plum and scarlet and yellow with hurt.

The corner of his mouth quirks. Like he thinks he's caught you, shown you the light to something so much bigger than yourself.

"How far will you let yourself go?"

There's a challenge expanding out in front of you. A hurdle raising high that you've never jumped. It's intimidating, it's foreign. Once again, he's extending something out for you to take. For you to reach for. But this is much more pivotal somehow. It has you stuck, ensnared once again. Held captive within your own reservations and trepidation. Suddenly, this seems like some sort of pitch. A snake oil salesman waving a vial full of water and nonsense in front of you with the assurance that it's a cure-all. One sip of it and you'll be a brand-new person with a brand-new life.

Maybe it's the remaining remnants of a buzz that just haven't quite left your system, feeble but clinging, or maybe it's just the intrigue of having someone else to talk to. The relief of having another soul in your kitchen that doesn't belong to your husband, that isn't sneering or pacing about the house as tense and testy and as a pissed off as a junkyard dog.

But this stranger is interesting in the same way that you can't help but entertain one of those traveling salesmen, but instead of a suitcase in one hand, he's got a banjo instead.

You've only had one drummer in all the years you've lived in this house wander up to your doorstep in the hopes of making a customer and fool out of you, knocking on your door and prattling on about combs and nifty pairs of scissors that would 'cut through fabrics like a dream'. How he had managed to take a look at your ramshackle home with its rickety porch and chipping paint and figured that he'd be able to make a client out of you is beyond your reasoning or imagination.

You had wondered who he was. What paths in life had led him out in the middle of the sticks during the heat of the day, trying to sell useless wares; pins and lighters and needles. You could picture his life, a young kid that flunked his education or perhaps never had any at all and clung to the best means to make money. And now he's out catching trains and going from door to door in the hopes of squeezing a penny out of poor bastards that hardly have any at all.

That young man had been all nerves, sweating through his button up and stumbling over his pitch - no doubt a practiced one - while he struggled to keep your interest. But this stranger carries himself as though he has all the time in universe, as though you're the one who needs to impress him. You aren't sure how to adjust to it, the weight of his focus on you, heavy and evaluating.

There's no consolation or support offered by the walls of your house. Not anymore. Perhaps not ever. A familiar feeling but never extended from the presence of a stranger. He's unsettling in a way that you've yet to grasp. A nervous ball has been lodged in the pit of your stomach since he greeted you out of the front porch, and it hasn't waned yet. It's been thrumming and prickling over your nerves, pooling deep, all wild and surging like the feral crack and blaze of lightning across heavy summer clouds.

You should tell him to go. To pick his banjo from where he's leaned it alongside the table and tell him to get lost.

But you know you won't. You would have done that a long time ago if that were the case.

There's an allure to him that can't quite be explained. A magnetism that's haunting. It isn't right, it doesn't feel normal. It's sinking under your skin, pulling on your bones and at your blood. You could blame it on the loneliness, but that doesn't seem right.

All you think of when you look at him is something's not right. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be in your house.

You tell yourself that he's trying to play you somehow. That he's some dumb hustler that's picked the wrong house. You're just as broke as him, if not more so, with only pennies and scraps left to your name.

Maybe that's what keeps you from dismissing this man all together. The twisted kick you might get out of pulling the rug out from beneath him - the promise of the satisfaction you might get when he realizes that he's spent his time trying to work money or means out of a woman who has neither to spare.

You could smile about it if you had the strength to. Maybe you're just bored, maybe the isolation of being trapped in these four, dying walls has finally caught up with you. Closed around you as tight as a pair of jaws because you get the wicked temptation to play whatever game he's set, to string him along and see where he thinks he might be able to take you.

Maybe that's why you find yourself speaking out, hushed as though it's some kind of reluctant confession, or a joke that you shouldn't be sharing.

"How far will you take me?"

You don't like the quiet that follows. The look of consideration on his face, the satisfaction that glimmers in his eyes. A wolf that's got its prey held between its teeth. You're choked, suffocating while you wait for those fangs to close in and puncture. Stuck on your seat while he watches you carefully from his side of the table, seeming miles away and too close all at once.

You seem to be toeing the line of something dangerous. There's a quality reflected in his eyes, one that you haven't had directed at you in a long while, and you nearly think that you might be imagining it.

It's heated, hungry, and you don't know if a man has ever looked at you in such a way. Not even Colin has, not even in the beginning.

It could be mistaken for raw lust, but there's an aspect about it that almost seems . . . God it almost seems violent. Glossed over but ardent, like a starved animal staring down a bit of meat.

You aren't sure if you should run or stay. More concerning that all of that is that you don't think you can run. Not now. Not with how your feet have seemed to stick to the floor again, gone all heavy limbed and immobile as though his gaze has turned you into stone.

"All you gotta do is trust me." That's his reply, cool and smooth toned. It's terrifying. All too soon you know that you're over your head.

He keeps you pinned down with that stare of his, held in your chair while he raises himself up from his; limbs shifting smoothly, water gliding over rock. And just like that you're watching a snake coil up in its hiding spot, body winding tight and tongue tasting the air while it braces for the strike.

The boards creak with his steps, the weight of his boot's thump lightly and hiss lowly with each drag of his footsteps as he moves around the edge of the table. The glass crunches under his boot and you nearly flinch. His eyes don't leave yours in his approach, tying you together while he consumes the distance between your bodies at a careful pace.

You've gone all breathless once he finally stops in front of you, his legs nearly brushing your knees as he looks down his nose at you. It's nerve-racking, waiting in silence for him to make a move, to say something, and it makes it terrible how you can hear your own heart racing, how you can feel it pitter-pattering in your throat.

For an awful stretch of time he simply stares. Quiet and still. It seems like another strange test; waiting for you to twitch so that he can lunge for you.

You don't. You're as motionless as a statue as you wait for him to do something, anything.

What you aren't expecting for him to do is to lower himself to the floor. The unexpected nature of it has you gasp, thin and surprised as he crouches down at your feet, slipping low until his knees make contact with wood, making it shift and groan from his weight.

It's gone so quiet that you could hear a mouse rustling through the walls if there was one. Instead, you're doomed to listen to your own breathing, to hear the distant glide of the breeze shifting outside, the steady drip from the sink. But all of that fades out, dies into a useless background chaos when he takes one of your hands in his, the one bound in bloodstained cloth.

Now you truly do jerk, trying to pull yourself free from his grasp, just as an animal might try to rip itself from drooling, violent enamel, but the gentle clasp he has on your wrist turns firm. Long fingers curling tight around your flesh and bone, a vice grip. You're locked in place. "What the hell are you-"

"Easy now, I ain't gonna hurt ya, darlin'."

He smiles at you good-naturedly, as though he's placating you. He watches you as though this is normal - as if anything about this night has been normal.

It's unusual somehow, when his head tilts when he speaks. Something about it isn't right. Isn't human. Lacking fluidity and possesing too much of it. It's uncanny in a way that you can't place; a creature donning human skin with eyes that are too compelling, flat marbles glimmering in fire. Dark, bottomless, drawing you in with all the infinity of the night sky. Just two pools of black that glitter faintly; a pair of lights winking over ink.

Fire, your mind chants. Fire of damnation.

When his eyes flicker over your form, tightly wound in your seat, they leave scalding trails in their wake, burning underneath the shield of your dress. You notice distantly that no warmth projects from his flesh. Even with the sparse space separating you both, a faint sliver, you can detect the chill that seeps through the fabric of his shirt, as though his vitality had been stolen from his body. Instinct itches at your hindbrain for you to do something. To resist (resist what?), to fight, flash teeth, claw and kick if you must. You do nothing of the sort. You think somewhat dementedly that it's almost as though a corpse has wandered into your home and gripped you. But his stare is too lively, too impassioned to belong to a dead man. Your tongue is dry, parched, rendering you voiceless as he smooths his fingers over the flimsy compress dressed around your hand. You can't manage to inspire yourself to speak when he plucks the bandage free and begins to unwind it from around you palm, the rejection dies somewhere in your throat. He does it slowly, tenderly cradling your wrist as though it were a wounded bird while he unwinds the old fabric free with a deft hand. He doesn't look away from you once, holding your attention with the soft coos that have begun to spill from his mouth. A gentle stream of "Easy, we're almost done," and "Atta girl" that drifts over your mind in placid, hazy brushes. The tone of his voice has dipped all low, a smoky timbre that pours over you in a whiskey hue, buttery and tepid, dipping past your flesh to simmer somewhere past your ribcage. And it soothes and placates your muscles just as alcohol would. The tension that had drawn you up tight and rigid ebbs away, relaxes as easily as hard wax held over an open fire. It's intimate. Undeniably so. The last bit of the makeshift bandage slips away, tugged free from your skin and you wince as loose threads in the fabric cling to the blood that's begun to congeal, tugged free only with a delicate pull from the stranger's hand. He hushes you when you hiss through your teeth, gritting through the sting that spreads across your palm in a smarting web.

The wound is angry already. Inflamed around the edges of the gash, a deep, ugly red that throbs with a pulse of its own. You can't stop yourself from swearing, huffing it low within the strained base of your breath. You expect him to chide you for it; there's nothing more unbecoming than a lady lacking manners. Colin would have been keen to reprimand you for the slip of your tongue. Your body shudders from the memories of old bruises and welts, the lashings you'd taken on your rump.

You almost flinch from the echoes of it, bracing to receive an admonishment. It never comes.

You gaze up from the wound slowly, hesitantly glancing over the shape of the man knelt before you with a reluctance that you loathe to notice within yourself, but you can't manage to shake it.

You don't meet the harsh stare of a person offended. There's no vehemence in his eyes for your transgression, no annoyance for a woman speaking improperly. His eyes are glazed. Glassy and distant, the sort of expression you see on drunks that are one too many bottles deep; rapturous, numbed to the world.

He's barely paying you any mind, attention fixated onto your hand with a rapt fascination. Observing the wound, admiring the way that the blood catches that light as though it's the most interesting discovery. But there's a zealousness too. A detail to his stare that goes beyond intrigue and borders on a kind of mania. But that's not exactly right either.

It takes a moment for it to click into place but once you recognize it, ice douses through your bones and sinew, seizing your body tight. Hunger. That's what it is. He's staring at it as though he's starved and longing to lick it up.

Something damp drizzles across the heel of your palm, thick and cold. The press of it on your skin startles you out of your panicked daze. A gasp rips out of your lungs, thin and sharp when it snags inside of your chest.

God - oh, God, he's drooling.

You hardly believe what you're seeing at first but it quickly becomes undeniable. It's there, as clear as day, drool pouring from the corner of his mouth in heavy rivulets. The sort of slobber a sick dog might make, something rabid. Wet and smearing down the shape of his chin where it dangles precariously before dripping down to patter onto the floor below, and drop, drop, dropping on the palm of your hand. It starts to collect in a pool, blending with the blood that stains along the irate edges of the gash.

There's no hiding your grimace. No swallowing down the appalled gasp of terror and disgust. It's a raw, animal panic that snatches you, tugging you back like a marionette on strings. You would have toppled yourself right over in your seat but the hold he has on your wrist turns ungiving, anchoring you in place. A rabbit pinned down by a serrated maw.

The legs of the chair scream as they slip along the floor, stopping in place with a grating hiss when he snags you back down before you could flee. Wings clipped and earthed bound before you could even take off. It rattles you back into place, head snapping on your shoulders when he forces you still in your seat.

He begins to hush you but it's no longer a comfort. It's patronizing, revolting to the ears and you fight against the grip he has on you, but now a manacle on your arm, it doesn't budge.

"Shh, shh, shh, darlin,' I ain't gonna hurt you none."

"Let go of me," you snarl, showing teeth that hardly pose a threat. "You best go and get out of here. Before my husband wakes - "

"Oh, come now, you and I both know he ain't really here."

He says it so casually and it's terrifying. Deep down you knew he figured you were bluffing, some unexplainable instinct in you urging that he was a lot more aware than he had let on, and like a fool you'd still ignored common sense when it had screamed at you. When it had knocked and wailed at you to turn him away.

But to hear him confirm it is a humiliation all on its own. An insult to injury.

He lifts his head then, an animal that's caught onto a scent and his nostrils flex as he draws in a heavy breath and huffs like one, tasting the fragrances on the air. It's a slap to the face and conformation simultaneously, all of those peculiarities that you've been ignoring, that your mind has been seeming to overlook all crash into you as his eyes burn in a demonic reflection.

This isn't a man at all. This is a creature, a monster masquerading in human hide. You've heard stories before, whispered around the Delta, centuries old information exchanged from mouth the mouth and passed to willing ears, depicting creatures that wail and hunt in the night. It's why some paint the ceilings of their porches blue - a barrier between them and troubling spirits, meant to ward off and protect - folktales and ghost stories, you had called them.

Well, unfortunately, a ghost story has wandered up to your door, and always the fool, you've let it right in.

You don't bother battling with reason, there's no place for all of that here. Not now, while this man - this thing looks up at you with eyes that scintillate red, as bright as any fire, as crimson as the blood on your split flesh.

His smile is one of brogue satisfaction, the pleasure a hunter would feel from having caught an animal in one of their traps.

"It's just you and me now," he says. It's a punctuation, final. As though he's bent reality to his will, taken your fate in his hands and shaped it to a mold of his approval. And you let him, dumb and tricked, easily led astray by false fronts and pleasing smiles. It's an affront just as much as it is alarming. How you've been tugged adrift so simply, allowed yourself to be played by a simple disguise.

And now this beast is inside of your house.

"What are you?" You apply strength to your voice, but it's hollow, fragile around its fringes, ice thawed into mist.

"You're savior." A response uttered without hesitation. Said as though it's an undeniable truth.

If it's possible, you think your soul shudders and recoils in your body, shrinking away from his talk - downright blasphemous speech. A conman, a snake oil salesman, that's what he is. Some kind of test sent by God or the Devil himself, you aren't sure. Perhaps he is the Devil, or at the very least some kind of trickster spirit, voice tempting with that strange charm, the kind that sticks to your skin like a sap and drones in your ear in a smooth hum.

You've heard how they often hide themself behind pretty faces, masquerading behind attractive guises to catch the ignorant unawares, and you've slipped into the razor teeth of his trap with hardly any resistance.

"You can't save me," you shake your head, trying to slip your arm from his grip one last time but his hold remains persistent.

"Of course I can. You asked me to show you remember?" His brows perk up, expression open and hopeful - vulnerable despite drooling, jaw damp with it. He's still on his knees before you, an imagine of submission, of seeking consent. You don't like how it makes the wedding band around your finger feel heavy and chilled, an uncomfortable pressure that seems too tight.

"Just let me show you, like I promised," he offers softly. There's a plea on the fringes of his voice, delicate. His thumb strokes down the column of your wrist, smoothing over the impression of the bone that faintly lurks beneath your flesh, pausing along the thump of your pulse. Your skin prickles, heat sparking where his fingers touch, a sensation that's warm and sweet - sickeningly so. Nauseating in the pit of your stomach, and yet your mouth waters all the same.

Something akin to anticipation coils inside of your chest, fluttering, alive. It's foreign, strange, and you find it difficult to try and shun it. It's instinctual to try and ignore its simmer, stuffing it beneath the anger and repulsion that turns in your stomach like an illness, but he doesn't allow you to ignore the ache. He holds your hand, locks his stare onto yours and forces you to confront the uncertainty settling across you, as fit as a tailored coat, smooth and fuzzy. Uncomfortably welcoming, molding across your person, inside and out.

"Let me see where it hurts?" You don't believe you've ever heard a man beg before. Not while at your feet, but he certainly is. You get the terrible impression that you . . . might enjoy it, a perverse kind of satisfaction purring behind your ribs and it makes you shift in your seat as though it will help to shake the feeling off. It doesn't. Of course it doesn't.

It doesn't make him quit staring up at you as though he's seeking absolution in your being. This isn't right. It must be a corruption against nature for some man - some thing to gaze up at you with the starved patience of a saint desiring solace.

It's wicked. This is the temptation that you've been taught to resist, the resilience that you mother had done her damnedest to try and build within your marrow. Good women don't feel things like this, not for strangers in the night, not for demons that might possibly be posing as men. Especially not a married woman.

You wait for a surge of guilt to crash over you, but when it does it's dull. Feeble. A pale sting in the back of your mind that's soothed away by the cool caress of hand along yours. He's hardly done a thing, and yet you can feel your determination wearing thin, the barrier protecting your will getting chiseled away at one breath at a time, turning brittle under the pressure of his stare.

You have to gulp down an unsteady inhale of air, swallowing down your nerves. "I shouldn't."

That's not a no, and it should be. It's an excuse to your own ears, weak willed and flimsy.

"Why not?" His head tilts on his shoulders while he squints up at you, analyzing the frequent rise and fall of your chest. "Holdin' out for your husband who's probably wet between some other woman's thighs?"

You almost slap him, but old instincts stop you before your free hand could lift away from your side and strike his cheek. Lashing out's never gotten you anywhere before, still the itch to give into it never truly fades. You know that he can see the hatred burning in your eyes. Unlike your husband, his face doesn't contort from rage, he doesn't raise his voice to spew venomous insults, his patience remains intact, satisfied and deceptively sweet.

" Don't get angry, get even. I can show you how to live without him." You can't get yourself to protest as he shifts closer still, nudging himself forward until your knees are only able to comply in giving him more space, spreading open to allow him room to wedge his body between your legs. It has the fabric of your skirt pulling taught and lifting up, threatening to give and slip over your knees.

It's purely indecent, revealing more skin that he should be able to witness. You can't keep yourself from reaching down to try and pluck your skirt back at a more respectable length but the way that he has your thighs wedged apart obstructs you from properly doing so, leaving the fabric to remain in place, creased and high around the shape of your knees.

You can smell him like this, the night still clings to him, humidity and earth. You don't like how it sticks to you now, how he speaks of 'getting even,' of insulting Colin even if he won't be directly aware of the transgression. It's petty, perhaps disgusting how you long to give in. How curiosity sings against logic and urges you to relent, to see where this man with fire in his eyes and temptation pouring from his lips might take you.

You've been in denial for a long time, you think, walking around with your eyes closed shut, pretending to see that parts of yourself that are ugly and ache and hate. You've always been the woman you were raised to be, holding your longing close, shutting it tight behind your chest, pretending that it isn't there.

It's gotten you nothing but hurt and man who only touches you when he's raising his hand against you. And now he's probably a few miles away from home, swaying drunkenly on barstool while he drinks himself one bottle closer to an early grave. And this is what's set to be your life, isn't it?

One day blurring between the other, smearing between weeks left isolated behind old wallpaper and smarting bruises. You know deep down that if you let this strange man win, let him get what he wants, then maybe you won't be surviving the night. You've heard that beings like this usually settle in taking your life in some way, regardless if it's by collecting your soul or sinking their teeth in until all that's left is bloodied remains, is inconsequential.

You've always known that you were going to die in this house, at least now it'll be done by your terms. You've always been too afraid to take risks, too much of a coward to allow yourself to act, keeping your fantasies of escaping your life firmly trapped within your head. Abandoned and left for you to ruminate on, spinning around inside of your mind like a stunned bird flapping uselessly across the ground, trying desperately to find lift on damaged feathers.

It's laughable that for the only time in your life, you've been allowed to know what it feels like to have control, though you know in your bones it's only the illusion of it. The stranger crouched between your legs could (will) surely kill you in a blink, snap the wrist he has clutched within his palm with the flick of his hand. It shouldn't thrill you, but it does.

"Fine then," you relent, strengthening your tone with a confidence that you don't entirely feel. "Show me."

His guise fully slips then, the both of you seeming to come to an unspoken unanimous agreement to quit with facades. You feel disgusting, allowing yourself to relent, baring the grimy parts of your soul to this demon in human flesh; in turn he grins, victorious. Shows teeth that aren't human, jagged and serrated, designed to cut flesh and tear.

He drools and his eyes reflect, the gleam of blood-soaked coins. You've known now that he isn't human, but to see your suspicions so clearly confirmed, revealed to you so casually is as terrifying as it is reaffirming.

"I'll make it all better, don't worry." You feel puffs of air brush over you from his words, drawing over your hand, ghosting along the cut on your palm. The wound throbs and stings from the chill of his voice, aching while he speaks into your blood as though he's making a vow, trying to imprint it into your being.

Blood and his spit smears on your hand. It seems profane to see the blur of it so close to the ring on your finger. The sight alone has to be a sin, a perversion, but worse than all of that, you find that you don't truly care. The thought doesn't wrack you with guilt, it doesn't char in your gut, it rolls past you, as slick as any oil. Reason and morality begin to abandon you, leaving you behind to be a helpless observer as he lowers his face to your open palm.

Fear shifts dim in your veins, unimportant, overpowered by the fascination while his lip's part and his tongue slips out to trace over your blood. You can hear the voice of rationality crying distantly, your psyches last resort to try and snap you from the daze of intrigue that clouds over you. But not even the burn of his tongue dragging over the split in your skin is enough to save you now, not even while your hiss through your teeth and twitch from the pain.

The ruined nerves within the raw slice shriek, boiling hot from the press of his mouth. Your muscles bunch in preparation to tear your arm out from the source of the pain. Just as quickly, the urge nullifies, washes away from the look in his eyes. He watches you, seeming to gauge your reaction while he continues to lap at your blood. But that glazed quality is back in his stare, intoxicated, enraptured, lashes fluttering like he's consuming an ambrosia.

You don't expect the groan that rumbles from his chest, though you probably should, a guttural, heavy noise that skips through his throat in a snarl - an inhuman noise that causes the small hairs on the nape of your neck to stand on end, goose flesh prickling on your arms and legs.

"Don't pull away. Lemme see you." A gentle warning if you've ever heard one. Slurred from how he doesn't bother to remove his mouth to speak, smothering his face to your palm. He's hardly lapping at this point, unwilling to sacrifice the sliver of space that would require, instead opting to latch his lips around the laceration to draw in the scraps of blood draining from it, gulping and sucking like he means to drink down your very heartbeat.

He curls himself closer, torso pressing into your knees so close that his head is practically in your lap, severing the minute scale of space between your bodies while he latches on to you with more conviction, holding onto your wrist with all the fervor of a disciple cradling a sacred object.

Your jaw parts open, a revelation of your disbelief, a gasp stuttering inside of you while you watch. It's paralyzing, the constant pain and soothe of his mouth, the wet drag of his tongue curling and stroking. You can see his throat flexing; the thin gold chain draped around his neck catching light while he drinks down what must only be thin remnants of your blood. The flow had been previously staved off by the bandage, already congealing and turning thick to heal.

He's groaning over what could only be compared to crumbs, a dog eating off of the floor, happy to gnaw the old dry bones given. A part of you uselessly attempts to convince yourself that this isn't real, an odd dream, or strange fantasy. That truly, you've swallowed down all of Colin's gin and drunk yourself into a stupor, passed out at the kitchen table and you'll wake soon, safe and sound. Untouched.

You know that isn't the truth though. This strange man is here, kneeling at your feet, teeth too sharp to be normal scraping over the heel of your palm, breathing heavily through his nose, panting as though he'd die without the taste of you on his tongue.

It's hypnotic. You've never seen anything like this in all of your days. Your imagination had never been inspired to create an image such as this and seeing it before you with your physical eyes has you breathless. Sparks scatter down your spine, pouring down to settle inside the shape of your hips, molten, honeyed, a shock of heat and stars that simmer between your legs.

It should be insulting, shameful, the familiar heat coiling deep inside your belly, but the remorse doesn't have time to settle or secure itself, because he parts his mouth from you. A brief lull, a break from the sting and a strange glide of his tongue before he's rotating your hand around with his own. He descends just as quickly as he had separated, slipping your thumb inside his mouth to lave his tongue over the sliver of a cut slicing up the length of it, sucking on you the digit.

His violent teeth trace over it, and he eyes you when the enamel grazes. You swear an unspoken, I could bite if I wanted to hangs in the humid air. It's twisted tight between you, a tense, quivering thing that hums while he cradles your thumb beneath his tongue.

It's an indecent show, far beyond what is respectable between a man and a woman - strangers, no less. Then again, there hasn't been a single thing about this night that's been respectable. Your mother would swat you if she could see you now, pull you up by your nape and strike some decency into you. Prompt you to recite prayers until you lost your voice, until the words stung your throat.

But shame is a faraway concept now. Diluted and vanquished from the fever spreading through your being, the calefaction building inside of you is poisonous, as steady and potent as any disease.

Your thighs switch, muscles involuntarily squeezing to seek out a friction that isn't there, impeded by the wedge of his shoulders between them. Your cheeks tingle, humiliation waxing across your face when your mind, sluggish and hindered from the syrup that clings to your thoughts like molasses, processes what you've done. When you fully notice how your hips have begun to move on their own, subtly shifting on the seat of your chair, longing to raise and find something to ease the ache that's pooled between your legs.

You're as rigid as a doll when you freeze, bunching your muscles up to coerce yourself back still on the seat. You can only hope that he hasn't noticed it, but you know that he has. There isn't a chance in hell that he hadn't seen you starting to hump at the air, as flagrant as any dog.

You almost wish that he'd scold you for it, that he'd call you out for the degenerate that you are. He doesn't. He does look at you though, watching curiously, staring with eyes that see you for what you truly are but don't judge.

Still, you can't keep yourself from apologizing, a hushed whisper of a thing uttered out on humiliated lips. The need to rectifying the wrong ignores that he's much more debased, polluting you slowly, drinking your blood from an open wound. "I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me."

It's only then that he removes his mouth from your thumb, slipping his mouth from it with a damp pop! He shakes his head, not a silent admonishment but a confirmation of sorts - the apology isn't necessary. He licks his lips instead, cleaning up the drool that's sapped around his mouth, as though even the faintest pieces of you, small scraps and thin iotas deserved to be savored.

He laps at the pad of your thumb one last time, like a parting kiss, before he trails his lips over heel of your palm, just outside the damaged flesh. It's as though he can't bear to part, inhaling deeply to draw in the scent that clings to your skin, the fragrance of blood staining the angry slash.

You aren't expecting him to say your name (I didn't give him my name, you note distantly, thoughts distorted under fog. Haven't said it once), you aren't anticipating the reverence it's spoken with either, the tenderness, candied between his teeth. It shocks you immobile, confuses you into silence. He regards you - sees you entirely, you know that now. He watches like he's picked you apart, slipped past your flesh and rummaged around in all your parts, traveled from the fringes of your soul and all the way down to the pit of it, and equally delighted and sympathized in what he's seen.

It has you naked while you sit fully clothed. Vulnerable and exposed within your own home.

"He don't treat you right, does he." It isn't really a question. It's rhetorical, an observation. For perhaps a moment too long it takes a while for it to click, for you to make sense of what and who he's referring to. But once it all does, weak threads tug together, connecting under the inert pace of your mind, you can only stare at him. Voice stolen, snuffed out.

It's as though he well and truly knows, as though he's carded through your memories, felt the strikes of an open palm and closed fists himself, tasted the echoes of violence and agony held within your veins. Perhaps he has. You've heard of the power that flows in blood, it's uses in practices. In spells and prayers, blood vows, pacts made and forged by blades to flesh.

You aren't certain of what he is. Some sort of demon sent to prowl about the earth, a starved spirit that preys on the weak, either of those could be true or false, so it shouldn't surprise you that he was able to peek inside of your soul through the passage of your blood. That he's witnessed the reflections of your life, learned your name all from drinking you down with his tongue, but it does. The possibility of it unsettles you, curdles inside of your marrow, makes your stomach roll with nausea.

It's wrong - this is wrong. This entire night has turned bad, unnatural, mangled and warped. He isn't meant to be here. He shouldn't be in your home; you never should have invited him inside. And yet your jaw remains a steel trap, containing your fears and opinions inside on a shuddering breath, just as it always does. Rendering you voiceless, compliant, the same as when Colin comes home in a mood, set on seeking out an outlet in your flesh.

You stopped fighting years ago, the fervor for survival dying inside of you, a forgotten thing.

You shouldn't enjoy that this unnamed man from the dark, this otherworldly traveler has seen the worst parts of you. The secrets that were supposed to remain hidden, the horrors you've kept close. What happens between a man and his wife isn't meant for the attention or council of others, it's a private affair, and yet he's peeked inside of you. Seen more than Collin ever will, forever set to be ignorant to how much you loathe him, how you wish that God would finally answer your prayers and strike him dead.

There's been countless nights where you've sat across from your husband at this very table, hardly able to sit from the welts burning your ass, raised and white-hot, hellfire on your flesh. All while he perched directly across from you, unaffected by the sting on his right hand while he ate and partook in the dinner you'd spent hours making for him.

You would dream that he'd choke on it. That the mouthfuls would catch in his throat and he'd collapse onto the floor in a suffocating heap, looking up to you with a plead for mercy glazing over in his eyes. Asking for the empathy that he's never shown you.

"Men such as him deserved to be beaten within an inch of their lives."

It snaps you from your reverie, your fantasizing like the crack of dead branch splintering over a knee.

There's a danger that lurks in his tone, sinister and coarse, the inflections enclosing on the sound of a growl. You swear the noise of it reverberates throughout your skeleton, it thrums up the nape of your neck, itching, clawing, phantom fingertips skirting over your scalp. His eyes are still burning, alight with the depths of hell, scorching, consuming. It'd be easy to believe that his body has been hollowed out, a vacant shell captained only by the flames of damnation, seeking to burn and corrupt.

Maybe you were just easy kindling.

"But I'm gonna make it alright," he presses the plush of his mouth to your palm again, a cloying glide of lips. "Let me kiss it better."

You don't get to object or agree. There's not a second to process the salacious nature of his words because he lies to you. He doesn't kiss - he bites.

It's a blur. A contorted smudge, grease besmirching a fine painting; he pounces forward, lithe and too quick to be tracked. And then teeth sink in, parting meat between the fine, daggerlike points, puncturing tissue and sweet flesh with a brutal mouth. Liquid fire douses across the heel of your hand, the one already damaged by the slice of glass, previously soothed by the sweep of his tongue.

You cry out, from shock, from terror and agony. A shrill wail that cuts and chisels at your quivering ribcage when it pours from your throat. You writhe and heave in place, a rabbit caught in snare, struggling to hoist yourself out of your seat. You don't know if it's possible to feel betrayed by a man you don't truly know, but the sting of it blossoms regardless, violent and fatal.

The chair wobbles beneath you, feet dragging across the floor with a shrill scrape that sounds like the call of a wounded animal. Despite all of your flailing, he doesn't budge. He's latched onto you, hand secured around your wrist in a vice, jaw locked onto you as though his teeth have become one with your being, enamel suturing to the bone beneath the damaged sinew.

You try to strike him with the arm that's still free, but he takes that one too, clipping it down before it could be brought down upon the crown of his head. Gripping it within the steady clasp of his fingers, monstrous talons raking over you as they curl around the joint of your wrist to render you immobile.

Tears blur and crystalize along your waterline, unshed but no less distressed. It's difficult to see past the watery film they leave in your vision, silvery wisps and hazy shapes making up what's visible, but you can still understand him through the distress. He's clutched onto you, still kneeling but just as selfish and persistent as any parasite, throat bobbing as he gulps down the blood that flows abundantly from where he's bitten.

His thumbs caress you, elongated now, spidery and sweeping back and forth in motions that are meant to conciliate, but it only rouses more anger, more dread. You feel tricked even though he's been nothing but honest with his nature, drooling and flashing vicious teeth at all night. You were the one who tricked yourself, allowed yourself to believe that he wouldn't turn them against you.

This is what happens when you allow strays inside of your home, expecting kindness instead of a snarling maw.

Maybe a part of your soul recognized the death in his eyes long before the rest of you did. Maybe that's what you truly wanted. The solace of it, the release.

He drinks and drinks and drinks. Filling his mouth and his belly while your head fills with fog and stuffing saturated with wine, inebriated and weighed down. Your skull lolls on its neck, suddenly heavy, too much to bear and your chin dips down towards your chest, giving you no other option but gaze down at him. An unwilling observer of the saliva and blood that slips past the seam of his lips, threading through your twitching fingers, soiling the gold hue of your wedding ring before it all drips and drops onto the floor in a rusted combination of blush and scarlet.

It would be easy to assume that you've passed on already with how lethargic his bite has turned you, his gluttonous eating diminishing the blood in your veins gulp by gulp. It guides you into a sensation so dreamy, so airy and delicate that it feels as though you've slipped outside of your body and begun to levitate, but you know that you haven't.

The view you have of him still kneeling before you, mouth fixed around your hand confirms it. Your limbs belong to a doll, motionless, unable to move, the connection between your brain and body having seemed to be stretched wide apart, too far for thoughts to travel.

Limbs fill with sand, useless, unable to function from the fatigue that drips through your body and pours down your ligaments in a paralyzing pulse and boneless thrum. Something is taking root, sprouting where his fangs puncture you. Its seeps inside of your bloodstream, tingling, bubbling within vessels, sugar glazing across nerves. Working through your system, intrusive, an alien element that was never meant to join inside of your body. But you can feel it, you know that you can. Spreading, altering, searing and soothing simultaneously, rendering you stationary.

He's a rattlesnake. Curled up in the grass, visible only until it's too late with fangs that kill. His venom's inside of you now, reaching depths beyond your understanding, altering tissue, destroying you from the inside out.

He removes his mouth from you with a heavy sigh, one of relief. The kind of noise you let out after a long day of great labor once you're finally able to rest your feet and feed the ache in your belly.

He bestows another kiss to the gash he's left behind. A gnarled wound, deep rows made from the rip of sawtooth fangs, torn over the cut from the glass. This kiss isn't sugared; it doesn't make that longing side of you swoon beneath his lips. You can't forget your rage, not with his mouth now glistening with the red of your blood, flickers of gold shimmering across the damp, reflecting from the light above.

"I know you're mad at me," he answers, as though it's enough. A proper excuse and not an insult - a mockery. "I can see your anger, and I don't blame ya for it. But this - " he lifts your wounded hand, still cradled inside his lithe talons - "This is how how we're gonna get you better. How we save you from the man who was meant to keep you safe. You aren't gonna need Colin anymore. Not now, not ever again."

You don't want to hear it, don't want to listen to the lies he spews, but the sound of his voice spirals and twines inside your ears in a that smoky drawl. Too hypnotic for his perversions. Your body yields all the same. You tell yourself that it's only the venom that no he doubt possesses that has you going lax, turning malleable despite the hatred that still lies in your heart, but you don't know if that's the case anymore.

The truth seems murky now. An uncertain, undefined thing, and you're not certain if it ever existed in the first place or if it was always just a fairytale you told yourself for comfort.

It doesn't help that he's staring up at you as though he's seeking your forgiveness, eyes wide, brows furrowed in a guilty pinch. The image of culpability, of remorse seeking forgiveness. It has you so transfixed that you don't feel him place your injured hand down inside of your lap, and you don't entirely register the glide of his palms cupping the outside of your thighs, honed points of his claws trailing over the supple skin, daring to slip just the scantest inch beneath the hem of your skirt.

A suggestion, a request.

He only deserves your denial. Your refusal. He's repulsive, a monster performing as a man, lurking around the shadows while you were vulnerable. And now here he is, still at your feet, the implication of obscene desires evident on his face. Behaving as though the proof of his deceit isn't torn into the flesh of your hand, blood trickling to stain the fabric of your dress.

He's selfish, having injected the venom on his teeth into your veins. You're too dazed to physically reject him, inebriated fumes seeming to warp inside of your skull, fuzz brushes within your fingertips and toes, as though you've been encased within a perfumed mist. Though you still have enough clarity to cling to your animosity and pride, as tattered and useless as it might be, moth eaten paper clutched in a quivering grasp.

You should cling to your righteous fury, your disdain, and yet it begins to slip. It grows brittle, tainted by the persistent warmth that remains between your thighs. A constant manifestation of your want that hasn't waned, not even when he'd sank his teeth into you.

He must see the war on your face, the conflict. Because understanding shows on his, patient and lacking negativity.

"I told you I'd kiss it better, didn't I?"

"You lied." You don't spare him your indignation, glowering with all the visible loathing you can manage. He doesn't waver beneath it, as resolute as mountain pelted by the ferocity of a summer downpour.

"I did," he agrees easily.

And you hate how something as simple as his admittance is enough to mollify some of the hurt and outrage storming inside of you. You're just as starved as he is, desperate for an escape, an exit that you'll only have in death. If you had something to live for, perhaps you'd find the will to fight. Maybe you'd generate an impossible strength and turn your teeth on him instead. But you don't have the resistance in you anymore. Sometimes you wonder if you ever did.

"Let me show you I'm good for my word." His head bows, low enough for him to press the point of his nose to your knee, separated only by the thin cut of your skirt. He observes you from there, shadows spilling over his face, crimson smoldering from where peers he up at you. "Let me ease the ache."

And you are aching, aren't you? Your body is buzzing, a humming livewire, something ancient and primal creeping up from the base of your spine. A ghost, an apparition, alive and singing with primordial promises and impulses that merge with the venom in your veins. It twists together, a confusing merge until you can't tell which symptom is a product of which, an ouroboros of heat that rides off the back of the haze clouding your head.

You've never felt like this. So consumed. Turned inside out and left wanting. The loose fit of your dress is too tight, clinging to your hips and breasts in all the wrong ways, uncomfortable in a way that it's never been before. Your nipples brush against the material with each inhale of your lungs, annoying and tantalizing all at once.

You're outside yourself, unable to recognize who you are as a need that you've never experienced rises up, seeking and frenzied. It's worse still because you aren't entirely sure if you can blame it on his influence, the infection that must be spreading and ravaging your body. It's terrifying to think that venom might have only induced or invigorated the desire that was already there, heating it until it could finally give and bubble up to the surface.

Something in you breaks, snaps beneath all the conflict and pressure, the ceaseless tug between morality and longing. It could also be that you're tired of resisting, of holding yourself back from the lust coiling inside of you like a serpent. It could be how he continues to look at you, a little pathetic, devout. A worshipper at an altar.

It's instinct and surrender concurrently.

You allow yourself to settle against the back rest of the chair, hearing it creak softly from the weight, getting comfortable. Not once do you tear your attention from the man in front of you, not even as you reach down with your uninjured hand, using it to pluck at the length of your skirt, gathering it up to pool it on your lap.

You don't know where this sudden surge of boldness has come from. Where the confidence that allows you to spread your thighs wide has developed, and why it's chosen now of all times to reveal itself. But it's empowering, stimulating.

His own focus drops down between your legs, watching while you reach down to hook your fingers beneath your undergarments. You're both silent while you slip them down your thighs, gliding them down the hitch of your knees. You don't have to work them down the rest of the way. He does that for you, cutting them free from your legs with the sharpness of his claws.

You feel them fall to the floor, useless, tattered. But you can't pay that any mind, not while you spread yourself open for him. You've bared yourself completely, and the caress of the satin air gliding across your cunt makes you crudely aware of the arousal that's smeared down the inner cushion of your thighs.

You're soaked and aching, splayed open like a whore that's been paid, and he looks everything like a creature that's tore itself from the bowels of hell. Long talons raking across your flesh, elongated, boney fingers trembling with fracturing self-restraint, blood - your blood - blemishing his face in a stain of carnage.

And yet you've never wanted a man as much as you do now. Not your own husband, not even when you were young and he was still tender towards you. Your fantasies then had been rose-tinted, spring blossoms and intimate embraces. Nothing as carnal as this. An animal creeps inside, snarling, vile, rippling beneath the cage of your ribs, contained only by bone and lungs.

He stares between the apex of your legs as though he's been entranced. A hint if drool begins to drain from the corner of his mouth again, teeth flashing as he parts his lips and inhales in a greedy gulp of air.

He's breathing you in, you realize, scenting your cunt in a disgusting display of hedonism.

It doesn't repulse you like it should. You think you're too gone for reason to properly reach you now, floating on a high of intemperance and indulgence. Despite the temptation you know that if you go down this road, give him permission again that he'll mark each and every part of you - if he already hasn't.

You don't know what might become of you, but you can already feel yourself changing. The exhaustion weighing you down grows heavier, dipping you closer towards a dark warmth that mimics the welcome of sleep, but it's too distorted and peculiar to be something so innocent - unusual, cold. Skeleton fingers. You assume, down in the furthest parts of you, the pieces that just know things, animal instincts, that it might be death coming to collect you.

You aren't sure if there will be another side to great you. If you'll still be entirely you or not once you cross over it, or if you'll be just the same as him. A perversion of nature, of the soul. The venom must have done its work, set in too deep, because you no longer care what lies ahead of you. You can only think of now, of the drooling fiend wedged between your thighs.

"Go on then," you prompt, reclining further. Draping yourself along the chair, unabashed, spread open. "You said you were going to set it right."

He grins, wicked and pleased. He remains in place for only a second, just long enough to offer a gratified "Yes, ma'am" before he's leaning over and burying his face directly between your thighs. There's no teasing or playing, no unnecessary intention to draw it out to frustrate you. He gets right to it, dipping his tongue inside the entrance of your cunt, stroking it inside to gulp you down his throat as though it's holy water and he means to cleanse himself from the inside out.

He eats you like he's still starved. A bottomless pit, cursed with gluttony. You couldn't have anticipated the fervency behind his hunger - not for this, at least. It has your spine bowing already, hips tilting up to catch the friction of his mouth and he groans, contented like he's the one being fucked. As though the pleasure is eating him alive and not you.

Your jaw drops with a breathless sigh as your head rolls back to thump against the top edge of the backrest, body conflicted between going completely lax and basking in the steady drag of his tongue or allowing yourself to grind and chase after his mouth; greedy, wanton.

The point of his nose catches on your clit, the rounded shape of it pressing onto it just as he effortlessly finds that spot inside of you - the same one that Colin always struggles to reach, probing at you with inept, impatient fingers. He doesn't struggle at all though, and the dual points of pleasure make you melt, thighs twitching while you roll yourself onto the rhythm of his tongue.

It's messy. The combination of his saliva and your arousal is wet on your flesh, besmearing down the swell of your ass. You can hear it when his tongue splits you open, rebounding softly across the close walls of the kitchen in a lewd melody. The damp smack of his lips moves up to draw around your clit; a coarse, sloppy noise induced by the steady pulse of his tongue. Electricity skirts down your nerves and ignites inside the foundation of your spine, ravaging you with heat - lightning striking the earth in a thunderstorm.

You can count on a single hand the number of times your husband has had you like this, an event arising only in a blue moon when you managed the confidence to request it; treating your pleasure with a detach responsibility. There was never any effort put into the curl of his fingers or the glide of his tongue. He approaches it with about as much enthusiasm as a chore, as though it's an obligation that he was unable to escape.

Always clumsy, incurious. It never failed to make you guilty, weighing down your shoulders with an adamant shame, wracking you with humiliation and remorse, until you simply stopped asking it of him. It's what a good wife would do, after all.

This though is shared ecstasy. There's no air of burden or indifference surrounding the man currently kneeling at your feet. He does so with passion you've never been subjected to, enthusiastic in a carnal way. Burying his face deeper as though he intends to suffocate himself with you.

Though you wonder if a creature such as him bothers with an earthly requirement like breathing.

You should be repulsed with yourself. This entire encounter, as unnatural as it is, goes against everything you've been taught as a self-respecting woman. Your wedding band is still on your finger, chilled and heavy despite the humidity and the balmy temperature of your skin. Another man is gripping onto your hips with claws, mouth on your cunt while he fucks you with his tongue, jagged teeth lightly grazing over tender flesh making your knees shake.

It's obscene in every sense of the word. There's a high chance you're going to hell. You can practically feel the flames already, licking up your back, burning within your gut like a furnace. And yet you don't care.

He's seen your thoughts, relived your memories like they were his own, slipped inside of your limbs and felt the scale and variety of your emotions. It's sickening how he's witnessed you in your most vulnerable stages of life, seen the worst of you from the reflections of your blood. There's nothing left to hide, no barrier to protect yourself under.

It shouldn't excite you, it's horrid, invasive . . . intimate. But there's something thrilling about a person observing the worst facets of you, the insecurities and the sins, the parts you've tried your best to repress and remaining unaffected, unbothered.

(Probably because he's so much worse.)

Perhaps it's the blood loss giving you lightheaded delusions, darkening around your vision in a hazy vignette, or the venom infiltrating your body and soul, but you think that you can feel him too now. Twisting and invading through the map of your brain, singing in your blood to spread with the lethality of a disease, embedding down into the center of your bones where its deep and rich with life and marrow. He's in your soul too, he has to be with how something in you cries out, equally in spiritual terror and hedonistic elation.

A wind that isn't real caresses over you, full of the scent of dew and fruitful earth, damp soil, the distant salt of far-off tumultuous water - waves, cresting and rushing. It's a land you don't recognize, but you know it now. Know it better than you know yourself, even as you see the impressions of it through another's eyes.

Sights and sounds cocoon around you, vivid, vociferous, phantom touches of experiences you haven't personally endured pour across your body, a surge of mirages - of memories not belonging to you, expanding, stretching out years beyond your comprehension. A lucid, dramatic mosaic. You can taste his years on your tongue, like an aged wine, ancient, enduring.

Whispers crowd your skull, fluttering about you, ceaseless, persistent, uttering a tongue unheard of to your ears. A throaty, rhythmic cadence; circling and persistent echoes that layer and overlap upon each other. Ghosts caught in different shades of emotions, some humming gentle tunes, some raising in blood curling shrieks, agony, terror; faint curls of laughter rising and falling in their mirth. You smell smoke, taste ash on your tongue, feel a terror and heartache that guts you down the middle.

Something shifts above the rest, the silver flash of a fish gliding beneath the ripples and dapples of a stream, elusive and quick. Darting away before it can be caught. Scales slipping through an unsteady palm. You try to concentrate on it, try to pull it forward into something tangible but the pleasure distracts you, swelling and subsiding, a constant cycle of and bliss, repeating over and over again, unraveling you at the seams.

He doesn't stop, doesn't give you time to breathe and process the sensations of it all. He's eating you alive, in each and every sense of the meaning. Taking you in, slipping little pieces of you inside of him, tunneling himself within you in turn, nesting, bridging you together until it all starts to become a little clearer.

That one word becomes more distinct, shadows slipping back with the illumination of a midnight sun, silver scales brightening in the dark: stars crystalizing to spell names, uncovering false identities; faces he's claimed, lives he's taken, names he's stolen. Whispering them over and over, but one rises above the others, persistent among the mob, demanding, longing to be know. Chanting in the command to be spoken.

It's right there, dangling on the edge of your consciousness, just out of bounds, suspended there as though to tease. A glimmer of gold peeking through mud and red earth, smudged in centuries, tantalizing. Each letter reverberates through your bones, lighting sparks along your nerves, the memories held with it cauterize, leaving a mark on your spirit that can't be seen with the naked eye.

Longing undulates, the impact of a cold stone breaking water, an emotion so raw you nearly mistake it for your own, but it's far too ancient. A wound that spans years long before your making, still bleeding, gouged and picked clean, torn wide. A carcass hollowed out of all that it's made of, yearning to be filled, to have the appeasement of warmth and touch. But it's grown teeth, become violent, feral. A hatred, a starvation that's rabid, frothing at the mouth to infect. To tear when the prey isn't willing, forcing the resistant into compliance.

Forcing just as violent hands willed it into acceptance. A hypocrisy.

You nearly sob from the brunt of it, crushed under the agony of it, the devastation, the horror. The logic within you - the part of your being that seems to be dying off with the rest of you - attempts to swim and find the surface of reason, but the light never comes.

His tongue glides over you, the point of it swirling around the shape of your clit in a succession of enticing circles before alternating into steady flicks that turn your thoughts and will into vapor. Dissolving, salt in murky water. His palms smooth down your hips, talons tracing down your flesh like he's tempted to leave marks; the sting blazes down your flesh from the fine points of them, and a twisted sort of pleasure scatters beneath their razor-sharp tips.

He counters the subtle pain, dropping his mouth open to pulse the muted chill of his mouth around your clit, dousing you in bliss from head to toe. He gets greedy, apparently not close enough despite being shoved face first against your cunt. He grips your thighs, lifting them to hinge your knees over his shoulders, using the angle to shove you closer with a harsh jerk that almost has you slipping out of the chair entirely.

Your hands fly up on instinct, raising to steady yourself and they find the crown of his head in your blind reach for an anchor, fingers threading through the sweat-damp tresses of his hair in a steel grip. Your injured palm screams from the pain of it, the pressure searing up the wound, but you can't manage to rip your palms from him, and he groans in the response to the tight clasp you have on his scalp. But it's from pleasure, not pain.

You can feel yourself dying, fading around the edges, energy draining from you in a steady flow. You think your heart is straining inside your chest, pumping in vain on the meager flow that still supplies your system; the pathetic scraps that he didn't drink from you.

You should tear him away from you, toss him to the floor and demand that he leaves, but you know that that opportunity has come and gone, snuffed out as a flame on a wick, a hot coal dulled to charcoal. You're already dead, you know that now, and when you wake up again, either minutes or hours from now, you wonder what kind of monster you'll make.

A ruined, damned imitation of your current self. Unfortunately, you've always been tricked by pretty things, by decorated promises and rosewater words. You've cursed yourself once again, once with a ring and vows, and a second time with blood and teeth.

Your fingers flex in his hair, split with the opposite desires to pull him away and bring him closer. You're between the rift of it, drawn in a limbo while your body squirms beneath his mouth, seeking out a bliss and reprieve from the onslaught of his tongue, but he's relentless. He doesn't let up, doesn't allow you a second to breathe or think, to gather a thought and center yourself.

It's ceaseless, almost brutal in its ecstasy, tracing over you with a fervor and practice that you've never been pinned under. He's steadfast and calculated in his determination to bring you over that tantalizing edge. You're almost afraid for it to be over, horrified of losing the bliss that pulses over you, as molten as liquid fire. But more potent than anything is the fear of what comes after this ends, the promise of eternity looming over you with disturbing consequences.

You think you've always longed for death. Yearned for the finality, the release, the embrace of it. And now that it's come to collect, smelt your desire on the air like a scent, infected your bloodstream with its venom, regret wells up inside of you. But it's come too late, you can't escape now - if you ever could. You've made your bed, and now you have to lie in it.

"Remmick."

It leaves your lips, thoughtless, odd, tasting ancient. Strained on a thin whisper, a beg for mercy or a request for more, you can't tell anymore.

He answers you with another groan, not bothering to remove himself from as makes his next plea, purred out between licks on a throaty sigh. His eyes flicker up to look at you from his place between your thighs, two small flames flickering in the dark, drawing you in. "My name sounds pretty comin' from you, darlin'. Say it again for me."

He seems determined to stir it from you, not waiting for you gather the breath to speak it yourself, he seeks to draw it out of you himself. His hands slip up, roaming over your body in a rapacious sweep, not stopping until he finds the shape of your breasts beneath the material of your dress. He doesn't waste a second to grope and feel, massaging his fingers over the fat. Your spine arches to meet his palms, seeking out more, pressing into the weight of his hands for more.

You don't entirely register the shrill sound of fabric tearing, a thin hiss across the thick atmosphere. But then you feel it, the tepid skim of air drifting across your chest, pressing down upon your skin in a soft caress.

You have to force your head to roll on your neck, the weight of it beginning to become too much, exhaustion creeping up on you makes your neck feel as though it's as weak and loose as a string. Your chin tucks against your chest, nudging close to your clavicle while you watch him - Remmick, your brain laggardly recalls - fondle and pluck at your now bare breasts.

He's torn your dress, split the material right down the middle with his claws as though it was made of paper. An admonishment is right there, scathing and ready to be said, but it gets choked behind a moan. You can feel him grinning, the impression of his smile on your skin, the flash of his teeth grazing over your cunt. His hands are everywhere now, your breasts, tracing your ribs, smoothing over your hips and thighs, clinging over you as though he's memorizing your body, desperate to touch each and every part of you.

He's inside of you in a way that no other could be, stained across your soul, minds merged together in an inseparable link. You can feel him too, the inside of him. As though you're sitting within his body. It's distant, fuzzy, but the press of the floor against his knees is on your own, textured and hard; you can feel the smooth plains of your body beneath his palms as though his hands are yours, stroking across yourself all while your fingers remain rooted within his hair.

It's out of body, unnatural, but the doubled sensations is damning. You can feel his pleasure, the taste of yourself on his tongue, earthy and rich, the salt of your skin, subtly sweet in an aftertaste of powdered sugar. It creates an endless loop, an echo that's rapturous. You know that he's hard inside of his drawers, aching and throbbing, pressed up tight against the seam, getting off on your pleasure like it's his own.

It makes it impossible to escape, overwhelming in the most delightful, terrible way possible. Your breaths come out quick, shuddering from your lungs in a steady rhythm of heavy panting, pitching and keening in the air. He's got you right on the edge, a burning wick, heat sparking and thrumming, smoldering into something dangerous and debilitating.

You can't keep yourself from chasing after it, hips rolling, grinding yourself across his face and he seems all too eager to let you use him for it. His lashes are fluttering like he's actively resisting the urge to let them slip close, all so that he can watch you hurtle closer to your pleasure.

It isn't now that you've noticed that you've been chanting his name, repeating it with the fervency of a newly learned prayer. His expression is smug, eyes shifting in the dark, a reflection of contentment and ego.

You've never heard of a man getting off on someone else's pleasure, feeding from it so explicitly. Not like this. It's like he lives for it, hanging on the twitch of your thighs, the rise and fall of your breasts, the wet smear of your arousal glistening on his lips. And he has you right there, balancing on the precipice. All you need is a small nudge, a light push into the chasm below.

All you can feel now is him, all you can hear is the both of you, the thrum of his pleased groans humming across your cunt, the messy, lewd sounds slipping from where you both meet; his tongue splitting you open, languid and hungry. His nose nuzzles over you, brushing along the apex of your thigh when he tilts his head to gently draw one of your lips between his teeth, sucking lazily to savor all of you.

It's the first teasing thing he's done, parting from where you directly need him the most to skim his mouth over you, tracing it along the tender skin of your inner thighs. He nips and sucks where he goes, but he soothes the stinging just as quickly, dragging his tongue over the smarting to ease it with the chilled temperature of his spit.

"Remmick." It's something akin to a reprimanding hiss and a needy whine.

You hate how familiar that sensation is. The feeling of having the rug pulled out from beneath your feet, the promise of bliss being snatched out from your hands before you could bask in the brunt of it. You've been here a million times, worked up to ecstasy, tasted it on your tongue only to have it extinguished, lost on talentless fingers - by a husband that doesn't even know how to use his cock properly. Not for you, at least.

You could sob or curse from the frustration of it. Your fingers flex with the temptation to shove him back right where you want him, but he hushes you again, head shaking just the slightest, holding your vexed stare with his pleased one while he leans down, placing a kiss just above your clit. His hands travel down as a pair, one on either side of you, drifting down to cradle the swell of your ass, holding you in place while he slips his thumbs along your cunt.

You can't help the way you twist on the seat, instinct and worry spiking in you from the proximity of his talons held so close to the most intimate part of you. He silences your concern with a coo before you can even voice them, that patronizing sound that unfortunately works on you. Your muscles go lax, turning malleable as he spreads you open further with his thumbs, splaying you open in a pornographic display.

You feel the old bruises there too. Still fading, reminders of Colin's last punishment, only just beginning to fade. It makes you nervous, disgust and hesitation bubbling in your gut, but Remmick doesn't allow you to ruminate on it. That new, strange connection between you hums, coming alive with a delicate caress, and that sliver of trepidation vanishes as though it had never existed at all.

"I got you," he murmurs gently.

You can feel Remmick's devotion and lust trickle through you as if it were your own, burning and lecherous, gentle and worshipful, smoldering inside of your bones - in his. It's beautiful. It's horrible.

"Don't worry. If I tease you, it's on purpose." At first you assume it's just arrogance, a man's confidence, but your dying mind gradually connects the dots. The realization that he's seen your memories - lived through them - catches up to you, and you see the comment for what it is. A subtle dig at your husband. A crass insult aimed at Colin's struggles with bringing you to orgasm.

"You ain't gotta worry about your pleasure with me baby."

That's all he says - his reassurance - before he starts right back where he left off, mouth fastening over your cunt, tongue licking over you in a persistent pattern that has stars and galaxies diffusing and streaking across your vision. It's as though he's never stopped. You're right back at the point that he had you off in, already burning, body on fire as though you've been doused in syrupy warmth, honey left to heat on a stove.

He seems to double his efforts, going at it like he has a point to prove, and you're already splitting at the seams. You're wanton, coming undone, nerves lighting up to set you on fire. Pressure builds in your gut and your muscles drawn up tight, body winding up in anticipation while bliss and sugar washes over your palate. It's a euphoria that going to be crippling, winding back a loop, constantly recycled between the connection that's still tethering and strengthening between you and Remmick.

You can feel him, and he can feel you, and it's overwhelming. An entire ocean dumped upon your head, a current pulling you under to pour inside of your lungs, suffocating you. Choking you on until you taste it.

Suddenly it's on you. Too quick for you to anticipate. Cresting, churning, building, lightning beneath your skin.

"Remmick -" You try to warn him, a plead for him not to stop, for him not to ruin the high blazing over you, but all you manage is a pathetic moan, forced out on a gasp.

He must understand you, must feel your need, hear your thoughts in his head, because he doesn't change his pace, doesn't alter the lap of his tongue or the brush of his lips. He keeps it steady, persistent in the cadence he's built. He guides you through it, holding onto you with his hands beneath your ass, keeping you secure to his mouth, chasing after the desperate roll of your hips as you cling to and seek out the rapture of it all.

The brunt of it rips through you, tears you open from the inside out. Guts you with pleasure until it's all that remains inside, molten, simmering, consuming you with ecstasy that blurs across your vision and blinds you; darkness and constellations rupturing in a kaleidoscope.

The only thing to guide you through it is the press of his head beneath your hands, the grip of your fingers on his hair, clinging on to the damp tresses as though the hold might save you; the sound of his panting rising up alongside yours is just as wrecked, just as wild. All of it rings across that strange bond connected between you, singing and echoing between your minds or souls, or both, you aren't sure, but it feels infinite. Webbing, uniting, fusing, over and over and over until it seems eternal.

He hasn't stopped, you realize. Hasn't let up, hasn't allowed the pleasure to crest over you and ebb. It as though he's determined to remain this way forever, keeping you beneath his mouth, tormented and loved by it.

You didn't realize that your eyes had closed until you're willing them open. A simple action that takes more effort than it should, but the blood loss and the venom is doing its work, and the warmth soaking in your limbs, settled in by the blaze of your orgasm has all but sapped you of the fumes of energy you had left. Renders you all but limp and useless, unable to do anything else but watch as Remmick continues to subject you to more, gliding his tongue over you, grinding his nose on your clit.

He looks just as blissed out as you must, eyes glazed over and drunk, hair mussed from your hands. Far too intoxicated for a man who's only been eating you out. But then you notice it, the frantic but subtle jerk of his hips, grinding into a friction that isn't there, riding out a pleasure that he shouldn't feel. It dawns on you suddenly, the severity of the connection between the two of you.

He must have felt when you had cum. Felt it as his own, scalding and vicious beneath his skin, and his own body had reached its peak that same moment yours did. And now he's greedy, desperate like a mutt. An animal that's been spoiled, fed a proper meal and now it's ravenous. Insatiable and starved.

He doesn't stop. He keeps his hands on you, secures you underneath his mouth and doesn't cease or pause in feasting. He must realize you're watching, feel you staring down at him through the bond maybe, because his lashes flutter open, vision lazily flickering up to take you in as you stare at him in shock.

"Can't blame a man for gettin' off when you taste so good." He answers, voice slurred and smoky, drugged on you. "You're just too sweet."

Everything fringes on too much, but he keeps going, pushing you to your limits. You're left to endure all of the sensations, sight, sound, the feel of him on you, inside of you. It seems impossible to recall how many times he built you back up that debilitating elation, hellfire and indulgence. Bringing the both of you to orgasm over and over again - twice more, three times, four - you aren't certain.

They all merge into the other, pouring and intersecting, crisscrossing into an infinite torture, consumed constantly, expanding into something that the earthly flesh isn't meant to experience.

You only know when it finally stops. A reprieve. A gasp for air after being held underwater. The kisses he peppers across your thighs bring you back to reality, escorting you down into your body, slipping you within the place of your weary bones and sweat-slick skin. Your chest heaves, lungs making an effort to cling onto oxygen, thighs quivering with the exhaustion of someone who's ran miles.

You can feel it, really feel it now, the influence of death slipping over you, a chill on your skin that prevails in the sticky heat clinging to the air. It isn't far off in its lurking anymore, it's imminent. A hitch in your breath, a delay in your lungs. The terror that awakens within you is a primal thing, frenzied, a determination to live, unfortunately that resolve sits host inside a body that's half dead. One foot already out the door, standing on the other side.

You could sob, cry out from the hopelessness of it, but you can't manage a sound. Not with how weak you've grown, heart overexerted, growing lethargic inside of your chest with only pitiful drops of blood left to pump. You've been bled out, and the one responsible for the bleeding caresses you like you're breakable.

"Don't fight it now," he soothes or warns. Still knelt between your legs. He cups them both, removing them from their places balanced on his shoulders, settling them down until the soles of your feet settle back on the floor. Moving you tenderly, like one would something cherished. His eyes glitter still, red hued, stunning and hideous in the dark. "You're gonna feel so much better when you wake up. It's all gonna be so much better, you'll see. For all of us."

He grins up at you, still kneeling, but there isn't an ounce of control in your grasp. The bond you have already sings, twines across your psyche, joins you to him, but you know that it's yet to take full effect. You aren't dead yet, and once you are there will be no escape for you then. You'll be a part of him fully, as attached as any other limb, a unit in separate bodies; sewn to him by fragments of your spirit, threads from your blood.

Death is inevitable in two ways now: death of the body and of your soul. A wish you've always made, sent out to the universe and now it's answered the call. Delivered a creature to your doorstep and now he waits at your feet, carefully fixing your skirt back down around your knees, as considerate as any lover should be, but his eyes show the truth. A truth that you had been too stupid to see.

When you slip off into the threads of death, as welcoming and soft as a blanket, you drift off with a life that doesn't belong to you playing across your vision. Facsimiles of a land and a time you've never witnessed before. Faces, voices, horrors and cruelties; old memories, unwelcome and unfamiliar, take root as though they're yours, clicking into place right alongside images of your own life like they'd always existed there.

A cuckoo's egg in a blue jay's nest.

And it's with your heartbeat dying in your ears, inspiring a final flicker of consciousness, a weak death rattle of the mind that you think of regret. The regret of opening the door when that knock had sounded from the other side.

You see his eyes burning in front of you through the film tainting your vision, the same color of the blood on his lips - your blood - perched at your feet, as loyal as a guardian angel; a scavenger waiting for a weakened animal to finally collapse beneath its own weight so that it can feast on the remains.

It all begins to vignette, shadows elongating, crowding around you, desperate for flesh.

Those eyes are the final thing you see. Burning, horrid coins, unwavering in their observation of your trip to the other side. Pretty, otherworldly, grotesque.

You never should have answered the door.

#remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick sinners #remmick smut #remmick #remmick fanfic #remmick x y/n

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lumosflairr · 7 days ago

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omg i need more of harry and slytherin reader your writing is literally amazing!!

Velvet and Firelight

summary: Harry sneaks into the Slytherin Common Room to see his favorite snake ♡

warnings: none! just fluff.

I’m so happy you enjoy my work!! Thank you for your request love❤️

The fire in the Slytherin common room crackled low, casting a flickering green glow across the stone walls. Most of the house had gone to bed. You were curled up on one of the leather couches, a book in your lap and your wand tucked beside you just in case. You were waiting.

And then — that familiar shift in air.

You didn’t even look up as a pair of arms suddenly slipped around your shoulders from behind, and the Invisibility Cloak fluttered to the floor like a silken sigh.

“You’re late, Potter,” you murmured, smiling.

“Got held up by Filch,” Harry said, breath tickling your ear. “I had to pretend I was going to the Owlery. Pretty sure he saw my foot.”

You turned your head just slightly, close enough to brush your nose against his. “You’d think the Boy Who Lived would be better at sneaking.”

“You’d think a Slytherin wouldn’t fall for a Gryffindor with terrible stealth,” he shot back.

You laughed softly. Harry tugged you closer into his lap, burying his face in your shoulder like he was finally home. His fingers traced lazy circles over your jumper.

“You know,” he murmured, “this place is nicer than I imagined. I thought you all lived in a cold, snake-infested pit.”

“It is a cold, snake-infested pit,” you said sweetly. “We just decorate.”

Harry chuckled and kissed your temple. “If anyone walks in right now, I’m dead. You know that, right?”

“If anyone walks in, you’re diving under the couch,” you replied, grinning.

He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. “And you’ll cover for me?”

“Of course not. I’ll let you suffer.” You leaned in until your lips brushed his. “Then I’ll visit you in detention with a smug smile.”

“Mmm.” His voice dropped. “Worth it.”

He kissed you slow — warm and soft and filled with everything he didn’t say out loud during the day. Everything he couldn’t. The hidden glances across the Great Hall, the secret brushes of your fingers as you passed in the corridor… this made all of it worth it.

You pulled back after a moment, breathless and glowing. “You’re going to get us both caught.”

“I’m willing to take the risk,” Harry said, fingers laced with yours. “You’re the best part of my day.”

Your heart squeezed. And then you heard footsteps.

Your eyes widened. Harry froze. You jumped up, dragging him behind the green velvet curtains that hung along the windows. Pressed chest-to-chest, barely breathing, you could hear the soft murmurs of two second-years walking through.

“swear I heard something,” one whispered “Probably Peeves,” the other said. “Let’s go. This place gives me the creeps at night.”

As the voices faded, Harry exhaled. “Close one.”

You looked up at him, nose wrinkling. “You’re terrible at this.”

“I’m excellent at this,” he whispered, ducking down to kiss you again, hidden behind shadows and silk. “Especially when you’re the prize.”

——————

The next morning, you were pouring tea at the Slytherin table, still a little flushed from lack of sleep (and maybe the memory of your boyfriend’s mouth on yours behind a velvet curtain).

Across the table, Draco narrowed his eyes at you.

“You were up late,” he said casually, cutting into his toast. “Heard someone moving around the common room after hours.”

You sipped your tea innocently. “Oh? Maybe you were dreaming again. Didn’t you say you saw a ghost in your mirror last week?”

Draco ignored that. “Funny thing is… I swear I heard whispering. A male voice. Definitely not Slytherin.”

You tilted your head, feigning confusion. “What, you think I smuggled in a Gryffindor for a midnight tryst? That’s bold of you, Malfoy.”

His fork paused mid-air. “I didn’t say you did.”

You smiled sweetly. “Didn’t you?”

Draco blinked. Then scoffed. “If I find out Potter was in our common room—”

“You’ll do what?” you asked, still smiling, but there was a quiet steel behind it. “Tell Snape someone broke into the dungeon and still didn’t want to talk to you?”

#harry potter #wizarding world #fluff #lumosflair #hogwarts #harry potter x reader fluff #harry potter x reader #harry james potter x reader #harry x reader #x reader

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hyunesent · 11 months ago

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: ̗̀➛ A HIDDEN VULNERABILITY

"Tsukishima's whisper sent shivers down your spine, and you couldn't help but melt into the bed. "I could give it to you," he murmured, his words dripping with temptation. "I could give you the best fuck of your life, without any strings attached."

a tsukishima x reader oneshot (afab)

cw: jealous tsukishima, mentions of kageyama and reader, some angst (tsuki doubting himself + relationship troubles), oral sex ( m + f receiving), tsuki is mean at first, rough sex, edging, teasing.

Under the pale luminescence of a waxing moon, Tsukishima Kei stood at the edge of the gymnasium, his golden eyes watching you with an intensity that belied his typically aloof demeanour.

The cool night air wrapped around him like a shroud, concealing the turmoil that churned within his chest. He was the picture of calm indifference, his tall frame leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, yet his heart beat a frantic rhythm against his ribcage.

Inside, the gym was alive with the echo of laughter and the rhythmic thud of volleyballs meeting floors. You were there, a radiant presence among his teammates, your smile bright enough to rival the moonlight. As you laughed at something Kageyama said, Tsukishima felt a sharp pang of something unfamiliar-jealousy.

He hated how his stomach twisted when he saw the two of you, hated the way his insecurities gnawed at his resolve.

He bit down on his tongue hard when he saw how close the two of you were, laughing together, closing the proximity between you two. At one point Kageyamas hand had snaked around your waist to gently move you out of the way and Tsukishima had to watch as it loitered there for way too long paired with eye contact that made him murderous.

Tsukishima had always prided himself on his detachment and ability to keep people at arm's length. But you had dismantled his defences with ease. Your kindness, your genuine affection. And now, the fear of losing you to someone more worthy threatened to undo him completely.

The night wore on, and the gym began to empty, the sounds of the game fading into the quiet of the evening. You lingered, still chatting with Kageyama, unaware of the storm brewing in Tsukishima's mind. When you finally noticed him, standing in the shadows, a flicker of concern crossed your face.

"Kei?" you called softly, your voice a gentle soothing to his raw nerves. "Everything okay?"

He hesitated, the words caught in his throat. Vulnerability was a foreign land to him, one he had never willingly ventured into. But tonight, the fear of losing you overpowered his pride. There was a tremor in his gaze, a plea for reassurance.

Tsukishima forced a tight-lipped smile, his facade of aloofness slipping slightly as he replied, "I'm fine. Just tired from practice." The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but he couldn't bring himself to voice the turmoil swirling within him.

You studied him for a moment, your expression soft with understanding. Tsukishima felt a surge of gratitude towards you, mingled with an ache for something more he couldn't quite name. As you bid Kageyama goodbye and walked over to him, the air between you crackled with unspoken words and unresolved emotions.

As the two of you walked home, there was something different in the way he looked at you. Something dark and possessive. It sent a shiver down your spine, but also a thrill that you couldn't quite explain. His golden eyes held a depth you hadn't seen before as if he was trying to convey a message without words. The hostility in his tone lingered, intensifying the breeze rustling the leaves overhead.

Eventually, a heavy silence stretched between you. Tsukishima's usual aloofness was tinged with an undercurrent of something primal, something raw that made your heart race

As you approached his apartment building. The click of the key in the lock echoed through the empty hallway, a stark contrast to the charged atmosphere between you. Tsukishima led the way inside, his footsteps purposeful and unwavering. The silence enveloped you both like a heavy cloak, suffocating any attempts at conversation.

You watched as he shrugged off his jacket, the fabric falling to the floor in a haphazard heap. Without sparing you a glance, he made a beeline for the bathroom, his movements swift and controlled. The sound of running water soon filled the air, a sharp reminder of the distance between you.

Confusion and tension wrapped around you like invisible chains. Tsukishima's sudden change in demeanour had thrown you off balance, leaving you grasping for some semblance of understanding. The way he seemed to be wrestling with his inner demons made your heart ache with a mixture of sympathy and fear.

You stood in the dimly lit living room, uncertain of what to do next. The seconds stretched into minutes as you waited, the sound of the running water creating a dissonant background to the turmoil brewing within you. His apartment felt unfamiliar now, shadows lurking in every corner where there used to be only familiarity. You sinked face. first onto his bed and struggled to look up to rest your face between your hands.

Your mind was running a mile a minute overthinking every interaction you had with him today, desperate to know what was wrong.

Minutes passed in a suspended state of uncertainty, each tick of the clock echoing loudly in your ears. The water from the shower continued its steady rhythm, a barrier separating you from Tsukishima. You debated whether to stay or leave, unsure of where you stood with him at that moment.

As you tried to gather your thoughts, the door to the bathroom creaked open, and Tsukishima emerged His hair was damp and tousled, strands sticking to his forehead while his shirt fit in a way that allowed his collarbone to peer through.

Suddenly, Tsukishima was behind you, his breath fanning the top of your head. You could feel the heat radiating off his body as he reached out his hands to slide them against your waist, you gasped softly at the new touch. Your heart pounded in your chest, the moment stretching taut between you like a drawn bowstring.

“What was that with Kageyama?” Tsukishima murmured, his voice low and gravelly, you felt a sharp stab of remorse upon hearing the pain in his voice. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, sending a jolt of anticipation through you. His lips traced barely-there kisses along your neck and shoulder. Starkly contrasting the form grip he now had on your hips, igniting a trail of tingling warmth in its wake.

You remembered the closeness between you and your boyfriend’s teammate and you hoped that he had interpreted the situation differently. Taking a deep breath, you turned to face him. The expression in his eyes was undeniably dark and hard, and you could understand why.

"Kei, I’m sorry," you said, stammering. "I didn't mean to—I just got—"

"Swept up in the moment?" Tsukishima interrupted with a sneer. "Come on. Did you really believe I'd accept that excuse?"

Without another word, Tsukishima gently wrapped his arms around your body, his gentleness confusing yet comforting given the situation. He turned you around onto your back and looked into your eyes with a now unreadable expression.

His presence loomed over you, a dark cloud suffocating any sense of self-control. You were nothing but a puppet in his hands, helplessly succumbing to his every whim and desire.

“I know you better than anyone y/n” he reminded you with his lips ghosting against yours. He pulled back with a smirk when you chased them and opted to press his thumb to your bottom lip.

You lean forward slightly to take it between your lips sucking it gently as Tsukishimas gaze becomes more intense. His other hand trails down your front, stopping just above where you needed him most and you can see the anticipation written all over his face. He pressed down gently eliciting a sinful whine from you.

Your tongue swirls around his thumb, tasting the faint saltiness of his skin, watching in fascination as he fought to maintain his composure by closing his eyes.

They snap open with a new drive as he removes his hands from you only returning them to press his fingers against your clothed cunt. Already desperate you moan out craving more from him and he settles between your legs to pull you in for a heated kiss.

You kiss him back matching his intensity and exploring each other’s tongues, his lips are soft and demanding against yours, his hands roaming your body with a heat that sets your skin on fire. Your fingers tangle in his hair, relishing the feeling of his short strands against your skin. You felt lightheaded and being able to feel his hardening erection against your pussy with only thin material between the two didn’t help.

His hand sneaks up to wrap his slender fingers around your throat applying just the right amount of pressure to the sides.

Your eyes screw shut as he turns your head to the side, giving him full access to the expanse of your neck. His lips part slightly to trail his tongue tantalizingly slow up the side of your neck finishing with a kiss to your most sensitive spot while grinding his cock onto your pussy, every movement calculated to elicit pleasure and desire from you.

Your legs instinctively spread wider needing more from him so you plea with a moan:

“Fuck Kei, I want you so bad.” Those words came out more breathless than you intended but he lacked the amusement he would usually have.

“No, you don’t.” He rolls his hips into yours again, harder this time. “You want someone else.”

Tsukishima couldn’t even bring himself to say the other man’s name and the conflict was evident in his gaze as he groped at your chest. Even though he was behaving in a certain way, his underlying insecurities were still palpable. After the events that occurred earlier, these feelings seemed to have heightened and become more prominent.

You struggled to form coherent sentences as Tsukishima kept stimulating you. You were hot and bothered and you felt distant from the man on top of you despite your proximity.

Tsukishima's whisper sent shivers down your spine, and you couldn't help but melt into the bed. "I could give it to you," he murmured, his words dripping with temptation. "I could give you the best fuck of your life, without any strings attached. You could leave and go to him right now." You didn’t know whether to moan or cry at his sheer lack of emotion when stating his offer.

But what you did know is that you didn't want anyone else. "No," you whimpered, grasping onto Tsukishima's arm. "Please, I only want you. It's always been you."

Tsukishima's rough hand slips into your pants, his fingers moving expertly as he searches for your slick heat. Faint streaks of wetness cling to his skin as he pulls his hand back and messily spreads your arousal over your lower stomach.

Tsukishima's fingers are cool against your heated skin, his touch sending shivers through your body. As he spreads your slick over your folds as well, fingers brushing over your clit, you feel a jolt of pleasure shoot through you, causing your body to arch and writhe beneath him.

“I bet he doesnt know how messy and rough you like it when we fuck.” His fingers are focused on your clit now and you’re a moaning mess.

“Think he could make you moan like this?” he coos at you “I’m barely touching you”

“Kei! Please—”

“But really, it’s up to you,” Tsukishima said nonchalantly, smirking a bit as he spread your pussy lips open, hearing you moan. “maybe he’s better than me,”

“I’m not going anywhere, Kei,” you begged, nearly crying. “I’m yours, I promise!”

“Promise?” his tone was now soft as he tilted your chin down to search your eyes for sincerity.

“Yes!” You reached out to tangle your fingers in his hair.

Tsukishima let his eyes flutter close for a moment and melted into your touch. When he opened them again he collected you in his arms tenderly and then through you onto the covers the way he wanted you, pinning you down your head on the pillows.

"Good girl," he murmured, pulling down your pants and soaked underwear. He then traced his tongue up your slit, making you gasp with pleasure."

From this point on tsukishima was not gentle and showed you no mercy, devouring your pussy like a starved man focused solely on your pleasure. With every lick and suck, he dialled up the intensity, using his tongue in ways that had you panting and moaning with each thrust.

He went deeper, his rough tongue darting inside you, hitting your G-spot just right, making your back arch off the bed, your hands gripping the sheets in a vice-like hold. His lips were soft, but his tongue was a force to be reckoned with, flicking, teasing, and exploring your most sensitive spots.

You were a mess now, your entire body trembling with pleasure, your breath coming in short gasps as you begged for more.

And so you gave in, desperately clinging to him, writhing beneath him with each thrust and lick. The world was reduced to that one moment, that one sensation. You no longer thought about the other man, the one who had caused this turmoil within you. All that mattered was Tsukishima, his skilful touch, and the way he made you feel.

Your eyes scrunched shut once more as he placed his hand on your chest, his thumb gently grazing your nipple. He knew all of your sensitive spots, your weak points.

“Don't stop! I’m—”

Before you could even finish he pulls away, expressionless, lower face covered in your slick. You whine and lift your hips off the bed but you can’t deny your arousal heightening at the sight of him.

Without saying a word he taps the outside of your leg while kissing your inner thigh signalling for you to get up. He chuckles when he notices you struggling slightly but you manage to crawl towards him nevertheless and push his shirt off. He looks down at you with an admiring smile and responds immediately, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside, along with his boxers.

Her eyes grew wide at the sight of his length: rock hard and already dripping. You marvel at him in awe while he’s attentively watching your expression.

“Looks like someone wants me bad,” Tsukishima purred, leisurely stroking his length as his eyes watched you carefully, challenging you to make a move.

His constant teasing had finally reached its limit, and you were determined to get back at him. You sat up and crawled over to him, where you slapped his hand away from his length, taking control with your own hand.

Tsukishima inhaled sharply, tilting his head back, but he immediately brought it back down, not wanting to take his eyes off of you.

"Faster," he demanded, his voice strained.

You hurried your hand up and down his length, occasionally grazing your thumb over the tip and relishing in the sounds of pleasure that escaped him. When you noticed his fists clenching the sheets, turning white with tension, you knew he was close. So without hesitation, you did what came naturally to you.

He groaned and swore as you took all of him into your mouth. Tsukishima's body shuddered as you slowly moved your head up and down, maintaining eye contact with him. Suddenly, he grabbed a handful of your hair and forcefully pushed your head down, making you take all of him in at once.

You choked and gasped for air, and it seemed like your body was reacting in his favour – the tightness in his stomach began to loosen, and he was on the brink of losing control. He repeated your name like a mantra as if pleading to anyone listening.

Before he could give in to his desires, he suddenly snapped out of it and pulled you off him. You trembled with anticipation as Tsukishima's expression turned into one filled with pure lust. He manoeuvred you around, forcing you onto your hands and knees.

He stood behind you, leaning in close to whisper in your ear. "I'm going to make you feel so good," he breathed, his words sending shivers down your spine. You let out a moan, unable to resist his dirty talk. It was always a turn-on for you.

You feel your breath hitch at his weight shifting on the bed before you feel his cock against your glistening opening.

He uses his top to spread your slick around and gently pushes your legs wider. He begins to push into you struggling at first.

“shit- baby relax.” he hisses and leans forward to kiss your shoulder and hold you tenderly for a moment, relieving some of your tension.

You feel his soft lips part on your shoulder as he pushes his length into you slowly letting you feel every vein against your walls.

Once he was fully inside you, he pulled out almost entirely, a slow, teasing motion that left you yearning for more. Then, he began to thrust, creating a rhythm that left both of you gasping for air.

You’re moaning load so he pushes your head into the pillow, the new position allowing him to thrust deeper causing you to let out a muffled scream.

He groaned and picked up the pace, his hips slapping against your ass. You were lost in the moment, feeling his cock deep inside you, and the passion between you growing with every thrust.

Tsukishima groaned, his hands tightening on your hips as he felt the pleasure building within him. His cock slammed against your G-spot with each brutal stroke, sending waves of ecstasy through you both.

You were panting now, your body trembling with the intensity of the sensation. You felt his hands digging into your flesh, possessive and needy, driving you wild.

“Oh god, Kei! Right there, just like that!” you cried out, cupping at your slick, needy mound.

Tsukishima slapped your hand away, replacing it with his own as he messily stimulated your clit. He pounded into you harder, his cock swelling with each thrust, you could feel the build-up of his climax.

"I'm going to cum, baby," he growled, his voice low and thick. "You want my cum, don't you?"

You nodded vigorously, looking back with eyes wide with desire. He smirked, his gaze locked on yours, and then he began to thrust even faster. Your screams filled the room as he hit your sweet spot over and over again.

With one final thrust, Tsukishima whispered your name, releasing a torrent of intensity within you, bringing your climax crashing down upon you. Your body shook with pure bliss, every nerve ending ignited by his touch.

He collapsed on top of you for a moment, his breath ragged as he tried to catch his breath. You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close, feeling both relieved and exhilarated.

Slowly, he pulled away, leaving a kiss on your forehead, before helping you to lie down on the bed in a more comfortable position. The afterglow was just as intense as the passion, leaving an unspoken comfort between you. You opened your eyes, to see Tsukishima’s golden ones staring right back at you.

You reached out to brush the wet strands of hair from his forehead and he sighed softly pulling you closer to him. The two of you shared tender kisses and he looked up at you with a flash of raw vulnerability.

“You’re mine. No one else’s.” he rasped.

You nodded in agreement causing you both to crack smiles before you kissed his cheek softly and held him as he fell asleep almost instantly.

You observed him as he slept; it was during these vulnerable moments that you were reminded of the gentleness that always resided within him, hidden beneath his tough facade. You lightly traced the line of his jaw, completely enamoured with him.

𝘼𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚: This is a work of fiction not a portrayal of anyone in real life. this was supposed to be much shorter but I got carried away lol. This is not proofread so I'm sorry for any mistakes! Likes and reblogs are welcome and appreciated. Happy reading .ᐟ

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beastyeastfreak · 1 month ago

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Beast cookies x shape shifting reader that mirrors the beasts.

Cw: Eternal Sugar cookies section is a little toxic, non descriptive violence in Burning Spice cookies section.

Type: Romantic

Written pre silent salt and hollyberry awakening

Mystic Flour

🌾 - You were some odd cookie she found on the outskirts of the pagoda, your form innocent( suspiciously so). She lets Cloud Haetae bring you to her, where under her stern gaze you crumble and reveal yourself as a shapeshifter who was very hungry and just trying to hide from the horrors of the woods surrounding the mountains. She allows you to stay under the condition you cause zero issues and help when asked.

🌾 - Whether it be for survival or fun she does not mind. At first she sees your constantly shifting form as a waste of energy as she sees everything. She watches you jump around with Cloud Haetae from afar in shifting forms, you copying theirs and chasing them around, though neither of you realize it.

🌾 - “Your dough is ever shifting,” she starts, approaching you from the shadows nearly scaring you into another body. “Just because you may change does not mean you will not become one with nothing.” She says giving you no time to respond before she leaves.

🌾 - Despite her coldness, she begins to comes around one day. The ever changing faint colors struck across your form fade to white as shes speaking to you, a stark flour white with gold caressing the edges. It almost looked like mold spores on bread. Her lack of care turns to curiosity. You clearly did not intend to do that, nor did you realize you did it.

🌾 - She lets it go but soon comes to the conclusion (after some stalking) that your form only changes for her, and it got more prevalent when she was closer. It was like blushing, she assumed.

🌾 - She began to learn what each color meant, how you were feeling before you even spotted her staring through her eyelashes. She noticed that gradually some of those colors, particularly negative ones, were swallowed up by the pale spots.

🌾 - One evening she invites you to walk with her, she decides to put a bit more warmth in her voice to coax the white spots out of you. It works swimmingly, white and gold dot your cheeks and body. She draws her hand to cup your face which silences you as she still appears so distant. Her thumb traces the dots as they grow in size from her touch. “This suits you,” she speaks calmly as always. You appear confused but she simply turns your head to a golden pool nearby, which you stare into and in a fit of embarrassment try to explain yourself. She puts one hand up to silence you then walks away.

🌾 - She begins to invite you on walks more often, any time she leaves her meditating room she has you by her side. She gets you clothing to compliment her outfit and the occasional white gold dots on your form. She also seems to come to you for help more often, having you transform into something large to move stuff, or something sneaky to keep an eye on possible intruders, sometimes just for her own entertainment(though she wont admit that she’s entertained). But most of all she likes to see how much of herself carries into each form, how close you hold her to your heart and subsequently apathy as a whole.

Burning Spice

🏜️ - You were a myth, a tale of a creature which infested the sands and swallowed citys from within. A tale lost as kingdoms fell, but not to Burning Spice. He remembered hearing of another kingdom arising, successful and plentiful until its food was missing along with half the population. Only few who saw you lived to describe you.

🏜️ - On a particularly slow day, The Great Destroyer decides to find this creature. He did not bring the spice swarm or tell them when he left, he did not even make his presence known. He went missing for a week hunting, and finally he found tracks. In a deep orange canyon, footprints lead into it. They weren’t cohesive, some looked like the track of a large snake, some like the claws of a mighty bird but some appeared to be cookie like, thats how he knew he found this monster.

🏜️ - He travelled into the canyon, which lead into a cave. Various writings and drawings on the wall, they would be warnings to a lesser spice but not him. He entered the den, various barrels of stolen goods littered the corners, the stench of jam filled the air. He drew his parashu and struck it against the ground, challenging this monster to appear.

🏜️ - And that you did, appearing as a scaly creature you attack from behind. A cheap tactic which earned you the upper hand for a moment before it became even, which is when it really started. The battle was enthralling for one with no watchers. Burning spice had to adapt to each new form you chose every few seconds with only a second to spare each time. But then he got a good hit in after you get a few good marks on him, and reflecting your newfound weakness you turn into a cookie, knelt on the floor. He doesn’t crumble you though, he takes the flat edge of his blade to lift your face, inspecting you. He doesn’t see weakness though, he sees a fighter who had nothing to fight for.

🏜️ - So he makes an offer, he takes you in and you fight for him. You sniff out mutiny’s. You spar when he asks, and you are given something better than a smelly cave, you gain a place beside him. You take the offer, frankly you were probably bored.

🏜️ - You were welcomed into the spice swarm, showed the ropes and made yourself known and feared. The more battles you fought, the more you gained the admiration of Burning Spice. But the more you fought beside him the more he saw something within the ever changing form, things that stayed the same. Markings that would appear along your dough, similar to his.

🏜️- One day, you’re sparring with him. He gets you on your knees after some hits and pulls your gaze down to your chest where a crude upside down triangle sat engraved in your flesh. “How befitting, a changing form and I alone am the mark consistent in you.” He grabs your chin to make you look at him, your hand now roughly brought to his souljam, palm pressed against it. “We are one of the same, you and i. Your change brings about destruction which rivals my own, be forever by my side and we will never be questioned.”

Eternal sugar

🌷 - The garden was like sound bouncing off a wall and back at her. Every little change, addition, subtraction she felt. So when something had substantial wormed its way in, silently under the cloak of the night, she was determined to find it.

🌷 - The day after the arrival of this quiet trespasser, she called a gathering. It wasn’t direct, she simply brought out luxurious snacks and cushions to a clearing and invited all her angels to relax. In the murmurs of conversation and the gentle eating and drinking, she saw you. Directionless, looking at the others to figure out what to do and avoiding her gaze. At first, she wanted to corner you in isolation, question who you were as a sickeningly sweet smell attached to you, then watch you run off into the woods knowing your fate. But as she watched you, socially awkward and honestly acting like a confused little animal, she had second thoughts.

🌷 - You were in a small group of angels, stiffly standing and fidgeting subtly with your hands. The conversation did not include you, you were just there to seem like you were supposed to be here, in actuality you were just wearing a mask. You meant these angels no harm, in all honesty these people gave you a weird feeling. You planned to leave once the cake hound packs had migrated away, as tempting as it was to stay in this paradise.

🌷 - “Are you enjoying the food?” A voice appears behind you and a soft hand is placed on your shoulder, sending a shiver up your spine. The angels in the circle you were in turn to the cookie behind you and smile, hum and nod. You force a smile on your face and nod with them despite the lurching fear in your stomach. She gently laughs, you can see the shadow her massive wings bobbing as she does. “Everything is attuned to your desires, you will always get what you deserve~…” She speaks, her hand slowly leaving your shoulder. You catch a glimpse of her leaving, she was looking at you right back. You had to leave tonight.

🌷 - Night could not have arrived sooner, once darkness settles and all the angels were fast asleep, lounging on comfy pillows. You’re sneaky, while you weren’t good at talking with other cookies you were a survivor. You stayed quiet, scentless, occasionally changing small parts of your form to make getting around quick and easy. You then get to the end, the wall. Before you could even walk out of the tree line towards it, you watch Eternal Sugar walk in your path, she must have been on a stroll. She spotted you, but instead of acting suspicious she spoke as if they were upset.

🌷 - “Little Angel, why ever would you be wondering this late?~ Only an unhappy mind works in the dark,” she spoke like poisoned honey. Her hands out as if gesturing them closer. She saw the unnatural way the moon caught in your eyes, like how a wolfs eyes glint in the light. But you still walked closer, worry etched on your face. “Just… clearing my head,” you replied head slightly downturned. Even through the facade she could see your fear, your need to change yourself to survive, you would turn down heaven to re-enter hell and now she understood who you were.

🌷- She brings you closer, pushing hair from your face and wiping away dirt. She has already decided you’re in need of her help, not extermination. She takes you with her on her stroll, talking to you like you were another angel who was just having a rough day but she knew the truth. You, of course, knew that you were stuck, reading between the lines you knew she was now watching you under the guise you were unhappy in a realm of happiness and she would have to keep an eye out.

🌷- The longer you stay, the more docile you become. At any touch in the past, fangs would grow in your mouth and spikes would shoot from your body to ward away whoever unfortunate enough to be close. You used to jump from cliff to cliff, tree to tree, soar among clouds but now you sat comfortably next to Eternal Sugar cookie in the garden.

🌷-You were aware you had forgotten who you were, and she was too. She knew when she saw your wings slowly turn pink at the ends with upside down hearts on the flight feathers you were hers. She knew when she leaned in to kiss you and saw streaks of pink in your hair you were now domesticated. You were happy now, just as long as you never remembered how freedom tasted and only how sweet happiness did.

Shadow Milk

🃏 - You’re not sure how you came to be, but when preforming tricks for coins and scraps of food you always said you were born from a powerful witch mixing a rare dough that has never been used since, making you one of a kind. That very well may be true, but no one was certain, you seemed to act like it was.

🃏 - Shadow Milk loved himself some entertainment, so when he heard two cookies chatting about a rare shapeshifting cookie who preformed tricks for coins he snuck away in the form of a little villager and made his way to the town where he saw you nimbly shifting from mouse to elephant, then as someone tossed a coin you turned into a hound, balancing it on your nose as it spun, earning applause from the small crowd. After that most seemed to depart, he took the chance to come talk to you.

🃏 - He approached the front of the crowd which was beginning to die a bit more. “My, My what magic you have!” He says puting on his best amazed voice as you turn back into a cookie and stuff coins in your pocket putting on a smirk. “Its not magic, its just me. You’ll never find another like i,” Then you promptly mirror his disguise, “who can become another like you!”

🃏 - He was sold to say the least, he knew he needed you as a performer, to cause chaos and spread lies on his behalf. So he speaks, grinning widely “how charming! I know someone who is looking for performers, perhaps i can put in a good word?” You respond with a hesitant look but he pulls out a bag of coins, clinking loudly and you respond eagerly “where and when?” He gives you directions to the spire, though he framed it as a different location as to not scare you away or make you realize who you were talking to.

🃏 - The next day you venture out, only motivated by the jingle of coins in your mind. Strangely, the world seems more and more disjointed the further you travel. Soon you arive at a mighty spire surrounded by a courtyard and the realization hits that you were lured in. You begin to walk away but that same bag of coins is dropped in front of you some distance away, you look up to see The Master of Deceit sitting on a limb grinning ear to ear.

🃏 - You’re fearful, the first thing you do is beg for mercy which he just laughs and hangs off the tree by one of his feet. When you finally quiet he makes his offer, you be his performer and he’ll give you all the bag and you’d get to live in the spire. “You’re already so, so good at lying so its not like you’re going into this with no experience!” He’d say. You hadn’t heard of this occurring before but the offer was too tempting to pass up, you take him up on the offer. You realize soon after the bag is filled with pyrite(fools gold), unfortunately you are unable to back out.

🃏 - You become quite adjusted to the nature of the spire and its inhabitants. The same way you always changed, it did as well. Shadow Milk seemed to always have something to do with you or for you much to Candy Apple’s displeasure. If you weren’t carrying out a plan for him or planning the next one you were beside him, or watching him preform, or preforming with him. He had all sorts of characters for you to play, but his all time favorite was the love interest, of course he always plays the main character. Over time, the characters you played seemed to follow you into your normal forms. You began to match the rest of your group even when you were just resting, mostly Shadow Milk.

🃏- “You know if you want to take inspiration from the most handsome cookie to ever grace earth bread, you’re going to have to give me a little credit!” He says, laying beside you on striped pillows beneath a mini circus tent. Poking at some eye markings in your dough and combing through your hair icing to find blueberry colored streaks.

#shadow milk cookie x reader #Burning spice cookie x reader #Mystic Flour cookie x reader #Eternal Sugar Cookie x reader #crk x reader #crk x you #mystic flour cookie #burning spice cookie #shadow milk cookie #eternal sugar cookie

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illyrianbitch · 1 year ago

Text

An Education in Malice

Pairing: Vanserra!Reader x Azriel

Summary: With the sharp tongue of your notorious family, you are Azriel's most tantalizing challenge yet. It only takes one small meeting before you both realize that the line between hate and desire is dangerously thin.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, rough, angry, hate sex basically. sexual degradation (name calling), p in v penetration, sex in da woods, bickering and insults, inner circle slander

Word Count: 6.6k

a/n: i know technically we wouldnt be a princess... but we r a high lord family so were running with it for the sexual tension. also dedicated to my soulmate and the brilliant babe, @itsswritten who told me to write sumthin smutty like this. thank her 🫡

Series Masterlist | Part Two

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

“Hello, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel’s jaw clenched at the sound.

He’d almost forgotten how grating your voice was to his ears, how it made his body tense with an emotion he could never quite describe. He turned around slowly, taking you in where you stood leaning casually against a tree.

The dress you wore was reminiscent of autumn court elegance, fabric cascading around you in rich hues of crimson, gold, and amber, like the vibrant foliage of the season brought to life, sleeves like flickering flames. There was a sense of wrongness in seeing such an elegant form amidst the wild, your commanding presence even more striking than that of your other family members. If he didn't know who you were, he would have been tempted to describe you as something of unparalleled beauty, a vision amidst a forest of wilderness.

But Azriel knew who you were. He knew what you were.

He had noticed the similarities between you and your brothers quickly, from your mannerisms down to the curve of your lips. You and Eris shared the same snarky smirk– a smirk Az wanted to wipe clean off your faces. You were using it now, holding his gaze with the corners of your lips upturned and amused eyes.

“You look thrilled to see me,” you said.

Az did nothing to hide his disdain as he narrowed his eyes at you. “Where is your brother?”

“Busy,” you responded, absentmindedly running the tips of your fingers along the tree you leaned on. You took a moment to observe the bark before you turned to face Azriel again, a small taunting smile on your lips once more. “I’ll let him know you missed him.”

Azriel held your gaze for a moment, a tick in his jaw as he let out a short exhale. Then, he was turning around to leave, a clear dismissal. A small flicker of anger rose in your body. Quickly, you winnowed in front of him, your sudden appearance setting his shadows into a frenzied dance around him, coalescing into a swirling mass around his neck like a collar of live snakes ready to strike.

“Don’t be rude,” you said, “I’m here on Eris’ behalf. Give me information to report back to him.”

“Nothing to report,” Azriel said, voice flat. He stared at you for a moment, eyes scanning you. And then he was making another notion to leave, brushing past you with a small shove to your shoulder. You nearly laughed at the action, at how easy he was becoming to rile up— at how much your presence bothered him.

“You don’t want to stay and chat?” You said over your shoulder. A flutter of triumph spread in your chest when you heard his footsteps come to a halt. You turned to face him, his back still to you, shadows swirling around his body like black flames. “It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.”

Azriel turned to face you, a small scowl on his beautiful features. “Not long enough.”

You laughed, the sound stroking his body in a way that sent shivers down his spine. You let out a sigh.

“I get bored in Autumn sometimes, you know?”

Briefly, something flickered in Azriel’s hazel eyes, but it faded faster than you could decipher what it meant or where it came from. He titled his head slightly, eyes taking you in fully.

“Not enough cruelty for you?”

“Something like that.”

You both held each other's stares, his icy gaze against your fiery one. He lifted his chin slightly, rolling his shoulders as if to straighten his already stiff posture. You didn’t miss the way his wings extended slightly from their tucked in position, just enough to stand as a warning, as a reminder of who he was— what he was.

“This is a waste of my time.”

Yet, Azriel made no move to leave— not this time.

“Because you have such important matters to return to?” You asked with a raised brow, “You said it yourself, nothing to report. So, are there some damsels in distress to be saved? Something to make you feel important?”

You made sure to pay extra attention to when you mocked his previous words, tone dropping slightly deeper to imitate his. Azriel’s eyes narrowed even more, a dark wave of evident anger washing through his face, nostrils flared, jaw clenched. You bit the inside of your cheek to contain your grin.

You were playing with something dangerous, this you knew. But Azriel was so fun to rile up, so easy to. You understood, now, why your brother seemed to enjoy these meetings so much. You’d assumed Eris was some sort of masochist, somehow finding pleasure in the necessity of being allies with the Night Court, the same people who so commonly disregarded you and your family as evil and cruel— although, they were right to a certain extent. But perhaps Eris had found some sort of entertainment with this affair.

“Stop talking,” was Azriel’s only reply.

“Why?”

He took a step forward. You made sure to stay still, to hold his gaze as he peered down at you.

“Because you’re trying to get a rise out of me,” Azriel responded, his voice cool, “and it will not work.”

“Oh please,” you scoffed. “Play the unphased act all you’d like, we both know its bullshit.”

He said nothing in response, his eyes remaining locked on yours. Azriel’s stare was harder now, colder. A clear warning was written in his features, carved out between his clenched jaw and narrowed eyes: do not fuck with me.

But you welcomed the challenge. If he wasn’t going to admit it, you were more than willing to prove your point.

“You put my brother in a chokehold in a public meeting. You have no self-control. You’re just constantly one spark away from igniting.”

Azriel growled. “Your brother deserved it.”

You raised your brow in a small taunt.

“Because he called your precious Morrigan a slut?”

Whether Azriel wanted to admit it or not, you were very easily tearing at his resolve. He moved quickly, his hand naturally falling to the dagger at his hip. Shadows moved closer to you, but with a swift movement of your fingers, they were met with the spark of a small flame, quickly retracting back into their mass form near Azriel’s shoulders. You winnowed back to your original place, back against the rough tree bark.

“Careful, Shadowsinger,” you sneered, “You’re forgetting your manners.You didn’t even let me finish.”

Azriel wore a clear scowl now, brows furrowed as he held your gaze from afar, hand still on his weapon. There was something deadly about the way you made him feel, the intensity of those feelings far surpassing any hatred he held for your brothers– Eris, specifically. In truth, the more time Az spent near Lucien, the more he saw him as someone good– and the less similarities he seemed to bear with you, his conniving snake of a sister. You opened your mouth to taunt him once more.

“I don’t agree with my brother,” you said, “Hell, I admire Morrigan for her freedom. I do love a pretty dress. So, I would have called her something else… a liar, perhaps?”

Those words were all it took to light Azriel’s fuse.

Within a blink, he was in front of you, the cold steel of a dagger, Truth-Teller you presumed, pressed against your neck. His wings flared out angrily behind him. Shadows surged around you, a suffocating darkness descending like a shroud, swallowing the sunlight and leaving only a void of darkness. You stared into Azriel's eyes— cold, and angry.

"Shut up," he snarled.

For a moment, a sense of fear flickered deep in your stomach, but you swallowed it down, the flame diminishing before it could properly ignite. Even as his shadows threatened to consume you both whole, you refused to back down, meeting Azriel's gaze with a defiant stare of your own. And then, you grinned. A cruel, wicked gesture that made his blood boil.

“Nice to see you perform without an audience, too.”

Azriel's voice was laden with disdain as he responded, words dripping with venom. "You and your brother are exactly the same."

But instead of flinching at the accusation, you maintained your smirk, unfazed by the blade pressed against your neck. "Which brother? I have quite a few," you countered, your tone teasing, almost playful.

Azriel's grip tightened, images of your family conjuring in his mind. Az could barely remember the names of your other brothers, their features blurring into a blurry mess of fiery auburn and copper. Instead, his mind focused on you– the female before him, under his grip and his dagger, standing next to the two males he despised for different reasons.

“You can decide,” Azriel finally said, “they’re all equally terrible.”

“I’d say Lucien is a good male,” you laughed bitterly, “I’m willing to bet your sweet Elain would agree.”

A surge of fury rose within him, a deep primal instinct to lash out and silence your taunts once and for all. But even as he bristled with anger, he realized you were right.

He was constantly teetering on the edge, one step away from losing control. It had gotten worse recently, watching everyone around him find their place, their people; Elain growing closer to Lucien, his brothers spending time with their mates. Azriel was frustrated. He was angry. You’d done exactly what he told you wouldn’t happen– gotten a rise out of him. He hated it, hated you, hated himself even more.

Azriel took a deep breath, your heated gaze still on him, eyes narrowed, a small smirk on your lips that he filled him with a burning anger. It wasn’t as if he could kill you, no, he couldn’t even really hurt you. One mark on the Vanserra’s youngest and only daughter would be a mark for war. This was a battle Az couldn't win, indulging your provocations for the mere sake of your entertainment. He needed to calm down. Regain control.

The shadows around you began to recede and sunlight filtered back into the clearing as Azriel pushed you away with a snarl. You leaned your head back against the tree as you took a deep breath.

He studied you for a moment before saying, "You'd think someone as pretentious as you wouldn't need to rely on irritating someone for an ounce of attention."

There was a subtle shift in your demeanor—a swallowed response, a flicker of vulnerability. His gaze followed the movement down to the column of your throat.

“Pretentious?”

You gave a bitter laugh.

"Yes, pretentious. All of you Vanserras," Azriel retorted with a bitter edge, “Every single one.”

"That's ironic coming from you. You think we're pretentious?"

Azriel's gaze hardened. "Yes. Cruel, evil, and vile. You think you're better than all of us."

Your mouth widened as you scoffed. And then you let out a laugh of disbelief.

"Oh my Gods, does it ever get tiring?" you retorted, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Wallowing in your own self-pity and then using it as a means to hate everyone outside of your incestuous little circle?"

"Do not speak of my family," Azriel snapped.

You smirked. “So you admit your family is incestuous?”

Azriel said nothing, a sudden realization that his anger, once again, had beat him to his rationality, somehow giving you another weapon to use against him. He clenched his jaw, feeling a simmering heat building in his stomach.

"You stand in front of me and pretend to be shocked when I call you for what you are?" he countered with a sneer, “Your family isn't quiet about their disdain for my family, for my kind, or for me."

You lifted your chin. “You don’t even like your own kind, Shadowsinger.”

There was another flare of his nostrils and you knew that you’d gotten him once again. Azriel’s fists clenched at his sides, a sight lost to you as his shadows covered them. You continued as he stayed silent.

“I will admit, my family can be a bit narrow minded. Why would I hate you for the things you can’t control? Where's the fun in that?”

Again, Azriel remained silent. He knew if he made a move, if he said a word, it would likely be something he regretted, something that would come back to bite him in the ass.

"I don’t hate you because you’re from the Night Court, or an Illyrian, or a bastard, or whatever it is you tell yourself at night," you continued, your words like a dagger aimed at his pride. "I hate you because you are hot-headed and arrogant. You’ve held a grudge against Eris for something that wasn’t his fault and have utterly screwed Lucien to no end. Your little family is a disease.”

Azriel’s resolve was cracking. He didn’t have enough self-control for this, for you. He’d barely mustered up the diplomacy needed to meet with Eris.

“Stop talking,” he said through gritted teeth. He felt it again, the flicker of frustration that threatened to engulf him like an unattended flame.

You gave him a withering glare. “Or what, you’ll make me?”

Azriel blinked, his eyes scanning your body instinctively. There was something about the words you spoke, the way you had spoken them, that made his body shiver. A small jolt of electricity passed through his muscles. Unfortunately for him, you caught it as quick as it manifested. Your eyes widened as you let out a dry laugh, forming a small smirk on your lips.

“Oh my gods,” you said, taking a step closer, “I bet you’d like that, wouldn't you? Is that why you’re such an ass today?

Azriel’s wings twitched behind him. You gave him a mocking pout as you stared up at him.

“No one to torture, no sweet female to make love to? Poor, powerful, Spymaster.”

Azriel thought for a moment. He thought about the anger boiling in his body, how on edge he’d been, how every little thing had been setting him off. He thought about you, in front of him, a female he despised from previous meetings– loud-mouthed, vicious, and selfish. A female from a family he hated, a family that took things from his family, from him.

And then he began thinking of how great it would feel to show them how wrong they were about him. To prove to them that they weren’t better than him, that he was just as, if not more, powerful than their damned bloodline.

You had been right again. He was pent up. He hadn’t taken a lover recently, hadn’t fucked anyone since that one almost-night with Elain– where she’d been sweet, sensitive, and gentle. But even before, with the females who’d asked for it rough, told him they could handle it, he hadn’t indulged himself too far. He still respected them. They were still wide-eyed and kind, sweet to a certain extent. He didn’t want to hurt them. They were ladies. Azriel respected ladies.

“I said stop talking,” Azriel growled.

There was a tick in his jaw.

“And I said, make me.”

But you, you weren’t a lady. You weren’t sensitive, sweet, or kind. You were a viper. A snake with beautiful lips and a body he found incredibly inviting— not that he’d ever admit it to anyone. But standing in front of him, that defiant look in your eyes, the pride seeping off you, the smirk on your lips… Azriel felt hungry. He felt ravenous.

So, he thought for one more moment. And then he was taking a step forward, one that you matched with an equal stepback.

“Y/n,” Azriel drawled as he continued to take another step. You matched him again, moving back while you glared at him. “Are you not getting enough attention? Is that it?”

Your back hit the tree and you let out a small exhale as Azriel took a final step forward, inches away from you as he stared down with a dark gaze.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” You bit out.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

You attempted to regulate your breathing as his eyes drank you in, a clear and unashamed desire painted over his face.

“Do I look like a fucking mind-reader?”

Azriel gave a dry chuckle. You were unraveling before him, scrambling for control. “Such a vile mouth for a princess.”

“Fuck you.”

“Is that why you came?” He brought a hand to your chin, roughly tilting your face up to look directly at him. “Do you want to be fucked, Y/n?”

The answer was yes, you did. There was a sickening sense of excitement that ran through your blood, a heat pooling between your thighs. But you wouldn’t admit it. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction, weren’t about to prove him right. So instead you stayed quiet, pulling your face out of his hands and turning your cheek.

“I came for intel,” you said through gritted teeth, “in Eris’ place.”

Azriel gave another chuckle, something dark and humorous. His hand trailed to the side of your neck, pushing the hair off your shoulders to expose the line of your collarbone. You swallowed.

“Interesting,” he said. He leaned in, lips against your ear. “Then what is that desire I smell?”

You let out a sharp exhale as he leaned away. Taking a deep breath, you looked at him, biting the inside of your cheek at your body's betrayal. You needed to balance this.

“Maybe its you that needs a good fuck, Shadowsinger. Like I said, you seem real pent up. Noone quite scratching that itch?”

But Azriel no longer seemed angry at your words, instead, he seemed amused– hungry. He was quiet for a second too long, simply staring at you. A sense of irritation prickled at your skin.

“What?” You snapped.

“I can admit that,” Azriel said coolly, “if you can admit something to me.”

“What, are we trading secrets now? I wasn’t aware this was a children's sleepover.”

Azriel didn’t respond. You registered the movement of a dark shadow as it fled from his body, slowly sneaking around your collarbone. You attempted to hit it away, but it quickly slithered back to Azriel, running up his chest to curl around his ear. He smirked.

“When was the last time someone fucked you, Y/n?”

The air left your lungs as you let out a small gasp. You blinked. Quickly, you regained your composure.

“Excuse me?”

Azriel kept his smirk. “It must be hard getting anyone to touch you when you’re so sheltered by those males you call brothers.”

He reached out a hand to your bare collarbone, but you caught his wrist in your hand, allowing it to hover in your grip. His eyes slowly trailed up to your face, heavy-lidded and darkened with a sense of attention that made your stomach clench.

“What the hell are you getting at?” You sneered.

Azriel simply stared at you, the ghost of a smirk still plastered on his lips. His reactions had you gritting your teeth in anger and rubbing your thighs in anticipation at the same time— you hated it.

“Don’t ask questions you know the answers to.”

“You're pathetic,” you spat, “Save your games for a bitch who cares.”

But you still gripped his hand in yours, still felt the heat radiating off his skin. And you made no motion to move. No motion to let him pull back. Azriel didn’t fail to notice this, either.

“That snarky mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble. But I bet that's why you use it, right?”

Your breathing was heavier now. Azriel’s gaze flickered to where you still gripped his wrist.

“You can fool everyone, Y/n,” he said, “But not me.”

You shouldn’t have enjoyed the way his voice sounded on your skin, shouldn’t have felt a breathlessness filling your body as he spoke to you. But you felt it. And it was a burning, hungry desire that made your chest tighten. This was what you wanted, it was what you needed.

Azriel was right. The bastard had read you like a book. Your family, your brothers, never let anyone near you for fear of embarrassment– fear of you bringing some sense of shame. But Azriel was right. You wanted it. You craved it. You wanted to forget who you were, to give up the control you always had to wield.

Before you could overthink it, you loosened your grip on Azriel’s hand and pulled it towards you, situating it on the side of your throat. You let out a small gasp when he quickly wrapped his fingers around the base of your neck.

And then he was pulling you into him with a deep and angry kiss. All teeth, tongue, and fire, mouths crashing together almost painfully, but neither of you stopped. With every movement of his mouth, of his tongue on yours, a dormant flame deep within you awoke.

A primal desire surged through Azriel’s veins like wildfire, the scent of you– of your want, of your desire– filling his senses in a way that had his cock throbbing. There was no room for rational thought, only the raw, unbridled passion that engulfed him in a fiery embrace. His hand found its way into your hair, fingers brushing along your scalp as he yanked your hair to expose your neck to him. His lips wandered to your exposed collarbone, giving a harsh suck to the skin near the column of your throat.

“Is this what you wanted?”

“Shut up,” you responded, reaching your hands out to fumble with his leather clothes. Azriel pulled back slightly, grabbing your wandering hands in his. You let out a sound of protest as he ran sloppy kissing along your neck.

“Oh how i’d love to fuck that foul mouth of yours,” Azriel murmured against your skin, his mouth reaching your ear. “But we’re short on time.” He took your lobe in between his teeth and you let out a small groan.

“I bet all you’ll need is a few minutes– and that's being generous.”

Azriel’s hand gripped at your waist, traveling up your chest to roughly grab your breast through your dress.

“No wonder you’re so insufferable.” he said, his voice amused as he pulled back, his other hand tugged at your hair once more. “You haven’t been fucked properly.”

You snarled. "Fuck you."

Azriel grinned.

"Oh, princess, I will.”

And then he was pulling the front of your dress down, exposing your bare breasts before him, nipples peaked in the fresh air. You let out a gasp as a small faint ripping sound traveled to your ears. Before you had a chance to react, Azriel was spinning you around, pulling your back against his chest, one hand bracketing your throat as the other traveled down your stomach, grabbing at the fabric at your dress.

"But first, you're going to beg me for it,” he breathed into your ear, his voice so low you felt it more than you heard it. His words traveled straight to your core, leaving you dripping with want. Yet, you refused to let the words leave your lips. You gritted your teeth, bristled at the suggestion— pride and defiance warring within you.

“Like hell I will.”

Azriel made a sound of disapproval, his mouth still running along your ear, “No?” he asked, hand slowly trailing from your throat to your chest, his fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake. “So you don’t want me to touch you?”

His hand fell over your breast, cupping it in his palm as his thumb brushed over your nipple. You watched as black tendrils of shadow danced around his forearm, meeting where his fingers tweaked your nipple. Their cool gentle touch sent a ripple of sensation through you and your head fell back against him as you let out a small whimper.

“Stop being a fucking tease.”

Azriel found that he loved the way you whimpered, loved the tinge of frustration in your voice as he touched you. Here you were, melting into his touch, attempting to avoid admitting in words what your body was showing in actions.

“I asked you to do something.”

He rolled your nipple between his fingers. You let out a deep exhale, pushing yourself back onto him, grinding into the evident bulge that pressed against you, the thin material of your dress doing nothing to disguise his hardened length.

“Just fuck me already,” you turned your head to catch his gaze, darkened and pupils blown with lust. “I know you want to.”

You covered his hand in yours, molding his hand into your touch, urging him to grab your breast again– harder, firmer.

The corners of his lips quirked up. “That doesn’t matter. Beg for it.”

Agonizingly slow, his hands roamed your trembling form, lighting flames of desire that you almost feared would consume you whole. Second by second, you felt yourself losing control. The heat of his touch seared through you, eroding the last crumbs of your resistance until all that remained was a burning need to be filled by him, to succumb to the primal urges coursing through your veins. You wanted him. You needed him.

“Please,” you whispered, the truth spilling from your lips in a voice so meek you barely recognized it as your own.

"Please what?"

With a trembling breath, you finally let go of the last shreds of your resistance, your voice coming out in a deep, frustrated plea. “Please fuck me.”

Azriel's lips curved into a predatory smirk.

“Good girl,” he said, his voice low and sultry as he pulled away from you. In one movement he was pulling your ass closer to him, forcing your body forward to brace yourself on the tree. In seconds you felt the cool air on your body as Azriel pushed your dress above your hips. Naturally, you felt your body bowing at the sensation. He let out a groan at the sight.

Then he was spreading your legs, baring you before him, glistening cunt on full display. His rough hands gripped your bare ass. He massaged it for a moment, but the motion was brief, and soon you felt a hard hand land on the fat of your cheek. You let out a small shriek, but it was followed by a low moan as he delivered another smack. Azriel smirked at the sound of it, at the sight of your ass reddening with his handprint.

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” You managed to grit out as you pushed your ass out further, “I’m growing bored.”

“Bored?” He ran finger through the wetness that pooled at your core. “Your cunt doesn’t seem to think so.”

You moaned at the feeling, pushing yourself back against his hand.

“Too stubborn to admit anything,” Azriel murmured, “But your body gives you away.”

Azriel took a step back, your body cold at the loss of contact as he freed himself from the confine of his leather pants, each movement filled with a primal urgency that would’ve made him unsettled— embarrassed even— if he had been in a more rational state of mind. But Azriel wasn’t being rational. All he could think about was you, and staring at your beautiful glistening cunt, all he wanted was to fuck you into oblivion, to let his frustrations out. To tame you like a wild animal— his most tantalizing challenge yet.

He settled himself behind you and stroked his cock along your folds, allowing it to glide against your core until both of you were slick with your desire. He teased you slowly as he moved up and down your entrance. You pushed against him, urging him inside, inviting him to take you.

Azriel only laughed darkly at the movements, and you whined in response, frustrated and irritated.

“Remember this the next time you insult me,” he said, “Remember how you were begging for me to fuck you.”

Half a breath later, he pushed himself inside you, sheathing himself to the hilt. You exhaled in tandem, your cunt clenching him, pulsing around the stretch of him. He adjusted his angle and picked up the pace, sending pleasure rising in a wave that you couldn’t hold back, your mouth falling open as he began to take you harder.

You let your forehead fall against your hands, braced against the rough texture of the tree. You faintly felt the ridges under your palm, but there was no pain, no irritation that you knew you were bound to experience later. All you could truly feel was Azriel deep inside you, stretching you out and using you in a way you hadn’t experienced for a very long time. The lust Azriel felt, the experience of being with you, of claiming you as his, was no longer a desire, no longer a want. It was a need. An animalistic and primal need that he felt deep in his chest.

Azriel's movements were relentless, each thrust sending ripples of pleasure rippling through your body, clouding your mind in a haze of ecstasy and melting away all coherent thought. There were sounds emitted from your lips, this you knew, but they were incoherent whimpers, quiet murmurs whispered towards the ground as your forehead dug into your hands with every buck of Azriel’s hips.

“You had so much to say earlier, Y/n,” Azriel said, pulling out until he was barely inside you. He thrusted back in, resuming a hard and brutal pace.

“Why so quiet now?”

Thrust.

“Did you just need the attitude fucked out of you?”

Thrust.

"What will your brothers think?” he taunted, his grip on your hips bruising in its intensity, “Your father?”

Thrust.

“If only your family only knew what their precious princess was up to. Taking it from the likes of me, like some common pleasure hall whore."

The mention of your family sent a surge of burning shame coursing through your veins, you felt the heat rise to your cheeks, flushing against your exposed skin. But amidst the suffocating shame, there was something else, something primal and insatiable that stirred within you—a hunger born of defiance, of indulging in a forbidden ecstasy. It filled you with a sense of exhilaration that bordered on madness.

Quickly, that spark of defiance ignited within you, mingling with the fiery hunger coursing through your veins, an urge to bite back at him. You craned your head to look over your shoulder, catching his eyes as you let out a moan, taking your lips in between your teeth.

"Do common whores get you this riled up?" you purred. There was a feigned innocence in your tone that made Azriel twitch inside you. His gaze burned into yours. "Do they make you this hungry?”

A part of you wanted the confirmation, wanted the triumphant feeling of knowing you could ruin him for everyone else— that you felt better than the females he had bedded, that you, the one he loathed so openly, were the only one to truly quench his thirst.

“Do they feel as good as me, Azriel?”

He let out a deep, guttural moan. The sound traveled through your body, lighting your skin on fire as you bucked back into his movements, meeting every roll of his hips.

“Say that again,” Azriel groaned.

When you gave no reply, he twisted your hair around one fist and gave it a tug, pulling your body up to him as before. His thrusts never staggered, not even as his hand traveled to wrap around your throat, matching the reddening print from his earlier grip. The other hand remained steady at your hip, gripping into the fabric of your dress and the exposed skin of your body.

“Say my name,” he growled and your cunt tightened at the sound, at the way he gripped your throat harder. You grasped at his arm with your hands, holding on to his skin as he bucked into you.

“No.”

Azriel growled, pulling out of you almost completely before he pushed back in a heavy, angry stroke. Your body arched in pleasure, a small whimper leaving your mouth instinctively.

“Don’t be a brat.”

“Fuck you.”

“I am,” Azriel said, “And your cunt is swallowing me whole, princess. Like it's made for me, like its been begging to be fucked.”

He released his grip from your throat, letting you fall forward as he placed his hand on the small of your back, arching your body for him as he pounded into you from behind. You fell forward, hands planted on the tree before you, fingers clawing at the bark like an animal in heat. Azriel watched as his cock disappeared into your cunt with every thrust, watched how your ass bounced back on him with every movement, how your tits moved with every roll of his hips. He fought not to finish from the sight alone.

You struggled to find your voice through the haze of pleasure that clouded your mind, that seemed to twist and tie your tongue to where you could only gasp incoherent words of ecstasy

“Oh, fuck. Azriel.”

Azriel drank in your sounds of pleasure like a male thirsted for centuries, the sound of his name on your tongue sending a wave of pleasure through his body.

“Are you going to cum, Y/n?”

You let yourself surrender to his touch as he continued to ravage you with ruthless abandon, his voice caressing you in ways you never knew a sound could do. You wanted him to go faster, harder, rougher; wanted him to fuck you with all his might, with all that anger you saw. As if he could read your mind, Azriel’s thrusts sped up, slamming into you.

“Fuuck, yeah, you are. I can feel this pretty little cunt clenching me.”

He continued his pace, fucking you with long thorough strokes that left you completely pinned between him and the rough bark of the tree. You felt him heavy against your back, breasts pressed against his hand as he moved between gripping them both roughly, holding onto them for leverage as he fucked you from behind.

"Look at you," he taunted, his grip tightening around you possessively. "So desperate, so needy. You're nothing but a pretty little slut, begging for release, aren’t you?"

Azriel continued, moving deeper and faster, pumping into you with snaps of his hips that had you writhing underneath him.

"And yet," you managed between breaths, gasps leaving your lips as he drove into you. "You’re the one pounding into me like a brute who can't get enough.”

With a low groan, Azriel's hand tightened around your breast, his grip possessive as he leaned in to bite at your shoulder with a hungry intensity. He was beginning to think that you’d surely be the death of him, that he had created something, some beast inside him, that refused to be satiated by anything other than you— and that was dangerous. But he didn’t think too much about it, not now, not as he felt your cunt massaging him from the inside, felt your walls clamping onto him in a way that set his body on fire, his cock throbbing.

Azriel railed you over and over, nothing slow or gentle about his movements. And with every thrust, you whined in ecstasy. His grip on your hips tightened, holding you in place as he kept pounding into you. He fell forward, grinding against you, pushing you further into the rough bark of the tree.

You could feel it, a deep pressure building in your stomach as his cock stretched you in the most delicious way. And you could feel him too, hot against your back, his deep breaths and the groans that reverberated through his body. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in your ears, muffling out the sound of your moans as your whole body tensed.

Then you felt it, a cool trail snaking up your legs. Dark tendrils of Azriel's shadows slithered through your thighs, caressing your skin with a tantalizing touch that made you clench at the sensation. You gasped as they coiled around your clit, winding you up with a feeling you’d never experienced before. With a loud moan, your orgasm rolled through you in a violent convulsion, white spots dancing at the edges of your vision.

Azriel hated to think it, hated to admit that the sound of you coming undone on his cock was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever heard, that feeling your cunt clench around him as the sound filled his ear was enough for him to unravel. With a choked moan, Azriel spilled into you, spurts of his seed coating your walls. You let out a final, breathy whine at the sensation of him spilling into you, feeling as it began to drip as Azriel slowly pulled out.

With a heavy breath, his gaze lingered on the glistening trail connecting the tip of cock to your cunt. The lust in his eyes faintly faded, and a moment of clarity washed over him as the reality of what he’d just done hit like a sudden, cold wave. He didn’t regret it, no, not at all. This was exactly the release Azriel had needed. In fact, a part of him nearly grinned at the realization, at the relief he now felt in his body. But the other part of him, the rational side afraid of disappointing his family, of fucking something up, awoke in a panic. What the fuck had he just done? And why was he so proud of it?

You slowly stood up, straightening yourself out as you turned to face him, face flushed and hair a tangled mess. There was a ghost of a smirk playing on your lips as you took them between your teeth and bit down. Your breasts were still exposed, nipples peaked and reddened marks from his rough grip. Azriel's eyes traveled down your form, swallowing hard as he took in the sight before him. He could smell the desire that filled the air around you both, could smell himself on you— the image of him plunging in and out of you still fresh in his mind.

The idea of it alone made his cock stir again. There was something intoxicating about this situation to him. The image of you returning home, covered in his marks, in his scent, in his seed. Eris smelling him on you, realizing that you’d not only fucked someone he despised, but sullied yourself with an illyrian– just as he’d told Mor. And you, you’d remember this. You’d remember him inside you, remember how you let him use you, fuck you like a common-court whore. And you’d have to live with that. Every insult you’d give him, everytime you sneered at him in the future, there would be a part of you that remembered falling apart on his cock as you begged him for more, for him to fuck you harder.

With a gentle flick of your fingers, your dress was perfectly restored, the fabric falling gracefully around your figure as your hair cascaded down your shoulders in silky, untouched, waves. You smoothed out the sleeves of your dress with a practiced gesture before turning your gaze back to Azriel, scanning him from head to toe. Your eyes lingered on his still-exposed cock, covered in the mixed fluids of your cunt and his seed. A smirk played at the corner of your lips as Azriel looked down, realization flickering in his eyes as he hastily pulled up his pants, stuffing himself back into them.

"Well, this was fun," you remarked casually– almost bored. Azriel resisted the urge to frown at the words, at the tone you used. "Catch you later, Shadowsinger."

Before he could respond, you were gone, leaving him standing alone in the forest, staring at the empty space before a tree.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Part Two

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: @rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria

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riddlesrizzler · 3 months ago

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Sigma Nu's Sweetheart

summary: A diamond in a house full of snakes. characters: frat boy! mattheo. frat sweetheart! reader. frat boy! slytherins warnings: mentions of alcohol and making pledges do things (not hazing) word count: 2.3k

They called it the Snake House, though its real name-Sigma Nu-was etched in fading silver above the wrought iron gates that led to the manor. Hidden behind ivy-draped columns and shrouded by ancient oaks, the fraternity estate stood on the edge of campus like a secret too dangerous to be kept in daylight. No one quite remembered when Sigma Nu had been founded-some whispered it was pre-dating the university itself, rooted in ancient rites and blood oaths sworn beneath crescent moons. But in the present, it was feared, admired, and envied in equal measure.

The president of Sigma Nu was Mattheo Riddle, a name spoken with the kind of reverence reserved for legends and tyrants. Sharp of tongue and sharper of mind, Mattheo ruled the fraternity not with brutish dominance, but with a silken charisma that wrapped itself around you like a noose. He was all marble and firelight: smooth, cold, untouchable on the outside, yet flickering with something volatile beneath the surface.

His second-in-command, Theodore Nott, was the shadow behind the throne. Where Mattheo set the tone, Theo enforced it. He was quieter, more calculated, with a gaze like cut glass and a voice you only heard when he needed to remind someone of their place. The brothers called him “The Watcher”-not because he hovered, but because he saw everything.

The rest of the inner circle rotated like planets in their orbit.

Lorenzo Berkshire, with his floppy brown hair and wicked grin, handled social affairs-if such a title could be applied to the lavish masquerades and forbidden midnight galas he orchestrated. Enzo was charm incarnate, hiding razor-sharp instincts behind a glass of wine and a well-tailored coat. People underestimated him. That was their first mistake.

Draco Malfoy, heir to a crumbling aristocracy, served as treasurer. But that role was a formality. Draco was the gatekeeper to the legacy. His family had once poured obscene amounts of money into Sigma Nu, and though the vaults ran thinner now, his word still carried the weight of dynasties. Cold and calculating, Draco rarely spoke unless it was to remind others they weren’t worth speaking to.

Then there was Blaise Zabini, the strategist. He didn’t run the meetings or throw the parties. He played the long game-the one that was always three moves ahead. A cigarette always rested between his fingers, and secrets curled around him like smoke. Blaise’s role wasn’t official. It didn’t have to be. In Sigma Nu, knowledge was currency, and he was the quiet king of the underground economy.

Together, they formed the serpent’s head.

The house itself was a relic from another time. Stained-glass windows filtered the sunlight into eerie patterns on mahogany floors. The walls were lined with portraits of brothers past-men with hollow eyes and stories that had been scrubbed from official records. A grand staircase, rumored to creak only when someone lied in its presence, split the mansion in two. The basement was off-limits, except for the highest-ranking members. What happened down there was never spoken of, but the muffled echoes that sometimes rose through the vents kept the rumors alive.

Rituals were everything in Sigma Nu. Pledging wasn't just about endurance-it was a test of will, of loyalty, of how far you were willing to crawl for power. And once you were in, you were in. There was no leaving. Not really. Former brothers found themselves mysteriously blacklisted, their futures erased with quiet efficiency. No one crossed the Snake House without bleeding for it.

Yet every year, the line to rush snaked down the cobblestone path, filled with students desperate to touch even the hem of that forbidden tapestry. Power, after all, is seductive. And Mattheo Riddle’s Sigma Nu had power in spades.

But inside those ivy-covered walls, something was shifting. There were murmurs of a fracture in the hierarchy. An outsider watching too closely. A secret the founders had buried that might be clawing its way back to the surface.

And at the center of it all: Mattheo, with a hand on the throne and another on the throttle.

But between the echoes of old secrets and the weight of a legacy stitched in silence, she was the unexpected constant-soft in a world that was anything but. While Mattheo navigated the shifting loyalties and unspoken rules of the house, she remained untouched by the storm, yet always in its eye. She didn’t need a title to hold power; she had something rarer. Influence, without force. Presence, without demand. And though the throne was his to claim, she was the one they all moved around-the one they’d protect without question, even as the walls whispered of betrayal and the past threatened to rise. Because to the outside world, she was just the Diamond of Alpha Delta Pi. But to them… she was the heart of Sigma Nu.

The Snake House had never known softness before she arrived. But now, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon wafted through the halls before chapter meetings, and there were always cookies cooling on the kitchen counter beside the whiskey bottles. Her laugh echoed down the staircase, light and melodic, blending strangely well with the heavy bass of party nights and the creak of ancient floorboards.

She wasn't just a sweetheart by title-she was the heartbeat of the fraternity.

Every Friday, three pledges showed up at her off-campus cottage, armed with mops and laundry detergent, ready to clean top to bottom without question. It had become a tradition-Sigma Nu took care of her. Always. It was Theo’s rule. But it was Mattheo’s order.

The pledges were already working by the time the rest of the world stirred. One was sweeping under the island. Another was wiping down cabinets. A third was sorting her laundry into color-coded piles on the dining room table.

“Don’t forget the lavender dryer sheets,” she reminded one of them sweetly, not looking up from her dough.

“Yes, ma’am,” the pledge muttered, blushing.

“You didn’t have to come clean.” She looked over her shoulder at him, a smudge of flour on her cheek.

“I wanted to.” Mattheo walked in, groggy but sharp-eyed, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“You send pledges to clean my own house every week. My landlord thinks I have a personal cleaning service." She giggled.

“You basically do,” he said, flicking his lighter closed. “You bake banana bread and let Theo cry on your couch. You’ve earned it.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m right,” he replied, and stepped forward, gently swiping the flour from her cheek with his thumb. “You spoil us. Let us return the favor.”

She looked at him for a long moment, eyes searching.

“You don’t have to keep proving things to me, Mattheo.”

He met her gaze, unwavering. “I’m not. I’m proving it to everyone else.”

At parties, she didn’t need to lift a finger. A pledge carried her drink. Another held her coat. If she looked even slightly tired, someone found her a seat. When she danced, people made room.

The party pulsed like a living thing-booming bass, laughter slurred into inside jokes, the thick haze of too much beer and too little inhibition. Lights blinked across the walls, casting silvers and greens on the sweaty crowd packed into the house’s main room.

Then she walked in.

The chatter didn’t stop-but it shifted. Heads turned. A few of the brothers straightened up. Pledges scrambled to make space near the drinks table. And at the edge of the chaos, Mattheo Riddle watched her with a smirk wrapped around the mouth of his beer bottle.

Diamond House perfection. The only sweetheart Sigma Nu would ever need.

She made her way toward the kitchen, exchanging soft smiles and cheek kisses, until one of the guys shouted, “Sweetheart’s here!”

Cheers erupted like a spell had been cast.

Mattheo didn’t move. Just leaned back against the doorway, letting his eyes follow her every step. When a freshman tried handing her a half-full drink, Mattheo’s voice cut sharp and smooth across the room.

“She only drinks vodka cran, dumbass.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

The pledge blinked, nodded quickly, and disappeared.

She found Mattheo seconds later, a lazy smile tugging at her lips. “You’re going to scare off all the new members.”

“Good.” He looked down at her. “They were getting too bold.”

“You’re acting like I’m made of glass.”

He tilted his head, that smirk deepening. “Nah. Diamonds are tougher than glass.”

She arched a brow. “So I’m tough?”

“You’re dangerous.” His voice dipped, low and dry. “I’ve seen more than a few guys fall stupid over you in five seconds flat.”

“And you?” she asked sweetly. “Still standing?”

Mattheo took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving hers. “Barely.”

When she walked into a tailgate wrapped in an oversized Sigma Nu hoodie-Draco’s once, Blaise’s the next, Enzo’s after that-everyone knew it was only borrowed until Mattheo noticed she was cold and quietly handed her his.

He always did.

The wind whipped around the tailgate like it had something to prove. She stood on her tiptoes, scanning the crowd, the hem of her Sigma Nu hoodie fluttering. Not hers, technically-Mattheo’s. Still smelled like smoke and spice and something she couldn’t name.

He appeared behind her like a shadow.

“Cold again?”

“You have a sixth sense for it.”

“No.” He leaned close, lips brushing her ear. “I just know you.”

She turned with a grin, poking his chest. “So, what’s the plan, President? Going to assign a pledge to hold my hand all day too?”

“Don’t tempt me.” His eyes flickered over her, playful. “I’d make it a rotating shift.”

She laughed, full and bright.

“I could carry my own books, you know.”

“And ruin our entire pledging system?” he asked, mock serious. “What would the freshmen do without you assigning them smoothie runs and study session alarms?”

“You love it.”

Mattheo didn’t deny it.

Instead, he stepped back and tossed her his scarf. “Put that on.”

“Possessive much?”

“Practical,” he said with a wink. “And if anyone asks-tell them it’s house policy.”

Mattheo Riddle didn’t smile easily. But he watched her like she hung the stars. Protective wasn’t the right word-it was something fiercer, deeper. He knew the sound of her footsteps before she even knocked. He knew how she took her tea, what time her classes ended, what books were stacked in her bag on any given day.

And when he wasn’t sitting at the head of the chapter table, you could find him leaning against the counter while she stirred brownie batter, sleeves pushed up, hoodie half-swallowed by her frame. She was always cooking for them-baking too-and she stayed through every meeting, sitting on the arm of Mattheo’s chair like she belonged there.

Because she did.

Theo might’ve been vice president, but she was Mattheo’s right hand. She helped organize formals, charity auctions, service hours, and pledge retreats. The boys listened when she spoke-not because they were told to, but because they wanted to.

She had that kind of presence. Gentle, golden. The kind of energy that softened even the sharpest of them.

Draco, for all his cold poise, once spent an hour carving roses out of apples because she needed garnishes for a spring brunch. Enzo stopped calling other girls “gorgeous” in her presence out of some misplaced loyalty. Blaise-usually detached and unreadable-offered up his rare, real smiles only when she sat beside him, asking how his day had been like she meant it.

She wasn’t just a name on the sweetheart paddle or a girl in the stands. She was the heartbeat of the house-the reason the boys cleaned up before chapter meetings, the reason pledges learned to bake banana bread from scratch, the reason the Snake House didn’t feel like just a frat, but like something closer to home.

She made it feel like something worth protecting.

The brothers would say it, loud and proud, beers raised and sloshing at tailgates- “She’s ours.”

She showed up early to help decorate before parties. She stayed late to clean. She knew all their birthdays, their favorite meals, their secret fears. When Enzo got sick, she made him soup from scratch and handwrote the recipe card so he could brag about it. When Theo failed a midterm, she sat up with him until 3 a.m., mapping out a study plan like his future depended on it.

Draco, who rarely showed softness, once told her, “If I ever get married, it’s because you raised the bar so high I finally found someone who reminded me of you.”

Blaise swore she brought peace into every room she walked into. Lorenzo called her their “lucky charm.” The pledges called her ma’am-but with awe, not obligation.

She wasn’t perfect. But she was real. She laughed too hard. She danced barefoot in the house like she didn’t care who saw. She left behind hair ties, lip balm, and the scent of vanilla in every room. And when the world got too loud, she leaned into chaos with a smile like she’d tamed fire.

And Mattheo?

Mattheo watched it all from the edge. Quiet. Unshakable. Unclaimed but not untouched.

She wore his hoodies, and he never asked for them back. He let her take the best seat at every party, made the boys swap their plans if she needed help, silenced a room with just a glance if anyone dared say her name wrong.

He never said it-not out loud. Never told her that she made the world easier to stand in. Never admitted that he memorized her favorite flowers or that he checked if her porch light was on after every party.

She might’ve worn Diamond blue, but she was etched into Sigma Nu like a secret kept under lock and key.

And Mattheo Riddle didn’t share secrets.

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ladybirdswritings · 6 months ago

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LITTLE WITCH, FIC — xaden riorson x reader.

DESCRIPTION: you wake— a captive girl with untamed power and no recollection of its origins. before you is a scarred, shadowy figure, whose taunts ignite your abilities—binding your fates in a dangerous encounter. NOTES - fourth wing fic!! leave me all your thoughts and opinions. i love them <33 | next part

one;

“Wake her up.”

Water. Cold as ice, constricting your rigid bones like snakes coiling tighter with every stolen shiver.

A gasp tore from your throat, water spewing from your lungs as your body heaved against the jagged floor. Your eyes fluttered open, disjointed memories playing like a fragmented reel in your mind.

“Her power exceeds that of every living vernin on this planet!”

“Promise me you’ll fix this, darling.”

Promise me. Promise me. Promise me.

You blinked hard, but the image didn’t fade.

You were tied.

The rough ropes bit into your bony wrists, leaving searing, ring-like burns. Every labored movement set your nerves aflame. Your gaze darted upward, breath hitching as the world slowly came into focus.

A girl stood above you, silver-dipped hair framing a weary, glaring face. Beside her, a man with raven-black hair and a severe jaw hovered like a dark sentinel, his pale skin nearly glowing in the dim light.

And then there was him.

A scar slashed across one onyx eye, his expression cold and unreadable. Caramel skin adorned with swirling ink that climbed every visible inch of him. His presence suffocated the room, shadows pooling at his feet as if he commanded them.

You inhaled sharply.

“Do you think she speaks English?” the girl asked, her voice wary.

Your wide eyes locked onto her as you pulled against your restraints, panic rising. The three of them stepped back in weary unison.

“Be calm.” His voice—low, smooth, commanding—cooed like a bird singing a song only you could dance to. It scraped against the fragile walls of your resolve, but you clung to the shreds of your sanity.

Your eyes darted around, desperate to piece together this fractured reality. You tried to speak, tried to form an identity, but your name—your very sense of self—slipped through your fingers like quicksand.

“You have me tied,” you rasped, the words tasting foreign in your mouth.

Another synchronized step back.

“Xaden…” the silver-haired girl’s voice was cautious, her eyes glassy with an emotion you couldn’t yet name. But it was fervent, pulsing. You could sense it.

Lust. Love. Betrayal.

The man— Xaden’s jaw ticked, his gaze piercing as it lingered on you.

“We’ve already discussed this,” he said, his voice devoid of hostility but heavy with finality. “Take her, Garrick. I’ll handle the girl.”

She only bristled at his words, her arms crossing tightly over her chest. “You lost the right to give me orders when you—”

“I’m well aware, Violence.” His voice cracked with strain, the facade of calm splintering for just a moment.

The girl—Violence—swayed slightly, but her resistance faltered. With a deep, resigned exhale, Garrick gently guided her out of the room.

And then it was just you.

As the door slammed shut, Xaden’s features transformed. The fleeting agony that had marred his face dissolved into a cold mask, his expression as unreadable as the void of shadows around him.

His gaze roamed over you, scrutinizing every inch with an intensity that made your skin crawl. When he was satisfied, he dropped to one knee before you, the motion deliberate and predatory.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice low, as if any louder would break you. As if you were a precious thing, needing to be preserved. And though he asked you for it, you had a fleeting sense that he already knew.

He was testing you.

Your trembling hands tugged at the ropes, panic stabbing through your mind. A flash of white burned behind your eyes—a memory.

A woman with electric blonde hair and a gaze colder than ice stared down at you. You were tied, gagged, and helpless.

“Shall I strike her again, General Sorrengail?”

The memory vanished as pain lanced through your wrists, the ropes burning like scorched iron. Your teary gaze met his, desperation clawing at your chest.

“Please untie me,” you begged, voice raw and jagged.

His head tilted slightly, but he didn’t so much as twitch. “I can’t do that.”

Your breath quickened, chest heaving as your head fell back against the pole that anchored you. The room blurred, warmth suddenly flooding your cheeks.

When your eyes snapped open, he was closer. His thumb brushed away the tears streaking your face, his touch surprisingly gentle. Shadows coiled tighter around you, suffocating yet oddly soothing.

“What’s your name?” he repeated, his thumb grazing your trembling lips as if trying to still them.

“I… I don’t remember,” you whispered.

His brows knit together, his silence heavier than words. For a moment, his gaze softened, as if he saw something tethered within you he’d searched to find for a millenia.

You’re coddling her.

A voice, unfamiliar and swelled with a power you found yourself connected to— it sounded throughout the confines of your mind. And then another voice. His voice.

Trust me, Sgaeyl.

And yet his lips did not move, set in a hard line. Perhaps you had a name, and the world had simply forgotten. Who gave any attention to the sick and mad? To those who had phantom voices roaming within the confines of their skull? Suddenly, like a curtain falling, his expression hardened again. He rose to his full, imposing height, towering over you like a specter.

“Get up,” he commanded, voice sharp enough to slice you in two.

“I’m tied,” you protested, voice trembling.

His eyes narrowed. “Get up and face me, and I’ll free you from all your binds.”

Hope fluttered in your chest, fragile and fleeting. You braced yourself, using the pole for support, and pushed. Your legs buckled instantly, sending you crashing back down.

Again.

And again.

By the eighth attempt, your knees were raw, your wrists throbbing, and your patience gone.

“You’re trying to humiliate me,” you hissed, glaring up at him.

“It seems to be working,” he said with a ghost of a smirk that made your blood boil.

Something stirred deep within you, a dormant fire roaring to life. His words, his condescension—they fed it like kindling to a flame.

“Aiming to embarrass ourselves today, are we?” he taunted, his voice dripping with mockery.

The fire ignited.

“Let me go.”

Your voice was guttural, commanding, a force that reverberated through the room like a shockwave.

And time stopped. Only for a moment, but even so. Still, not a life in sight daring to breathe. Sudden, suffocating, swelling.

Then over.

Xaden dropped to one knee, his hands moving to untie your restraints as if compelled by an unseen force. His breath hitched as the ropes fell away, but the closeness of him—the warmth of his hands against your bloodied wrists—froze you in place.

He leaned in, his forehead brushing against yours, his breath mingling with your own in a dangerous dance.

“Look at that… we’ve finally found you, little witch…” he murmured, his voice a dark promise.

And somehow, you knew him then. Even free from all memory, you knew well that whoever he was— he was just beginning to unravel you.

#xaden riorson fic #xaden riorson fanfic #xaden riorson smut #xaden riorson imagine #xaden riorson x reader #xaden x reader #fourth wing xaden #xadenviolet #violet and xaden #xaden riorson #xaden and sgaeyl #violet sorrengail #fourth wing fanfic #fourth wing #fourth wing x reader #onyx storm fanfic #onyx storm #iron flame fanfic #iron flame

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corkinavoid · 1 year ago

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DPxDC Changeling AU pt.2

This idea got me in a chokehold, so I'm here to add more.

I'm sticking with the 'Talia outplayed the fae in order to acquire 2for1 deal of babies' for this one and probably for any later continuations.

Damian knows his brother is not human. He knew it from the very beginning since no one bothered to hide the fact. Yet Danyal grows up just like any other human baby, acting like a child he is supposed to be. He trains by Damian's side, he eats just like everyone else, he likes the stories and lessons their Mother teaches them both.

But Damian knows. His brother is no human. He sees it in the way Danyal tilts his head like a curious bird, in his swift, flowing movements that remind him of snakes, in his eyes that reflect the moonlight in a way cat's eyes do. He knows it by how some of the assassins lose their names to his brother and how Danyal never lies but also never tells the truth.

More than that, he sees it in the way Danyal smiles. Others would call that smile a mischievous one, but Damian sees no mischief in there.

He sees amusement.

And it drives him up the wall.

So he trains. He works harder than ever to prove himself better. He is worth not just simple amusement, he is the Heir, the Son of the Bat, he demands respect, even from his brother. Danyal will never take his place - not that he even could, Grandfather would never allow an unpredictable being to become the next Demon Head.

And he learns, from his Mother and from the old books, and sometimes from Danyal himself. He learns of customs and rules, of names and wordings, of odds and debts, and of tricks and riddles.

Damian has his own pride, and he wants to show it to his brother. To see the amused smile fade from his face, to make Danyal understand he is not just a weak mortal who's been simply allowed to exist beside his brother.

He wants to defeat Danyal.

And one day, he does.

Danyal is on the floor, and there's no smile on his face. Instead, in his eyes he sees the calm tranquility of a lake, frozen to the bottom, as he looks at Damian. And Damian? Damian grins, victorious at last.

Yet it is only after Danyal stands up and leaves a soft, cold and barely noticeable kiss to his forehead before disappearing in the shadows, that Damian realises:

His brother never asked to have his name.

| <-prev | next-> |

#danny phantom #dpxdc #dc x dp #damian wayne #damian al ghul #danyal al ghul #fae #changelings #twins au #fae au #i'm in love with this au #btw danny did steal a lot of names in loa #he tried to steal ra's but the man never gave him the actual name #the tricky bastard #after this danny just leaves #no one can find him #he is a fae #you cant find him if he doesnt want to #cork prompts

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lohotine · 5 months ago

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``What it means to be forever``

Shadow Milk Cookie x GN! Reader

Cw: angst, lowkey a really messed up SMC. Like, it's kinda weird- (don't mind him, he's just grieving. Haha)

Sometimes, people act in ways

not because it's how they'd usually act

but simply because

it's how others expect them to

And as Shadow Milk stands here, holding your face in his hands, he's tempted fall into that way of thinking.

How fragile mortals are.

Like porcelain

Your life is in his hands.

Yet he doesn't want to destroy it. Perhaps you're just too entertaining.

Yes, he'll just go with that.

Out of all of his puppets, you are by far his favorite.

Yet in the end, a puppet is still a puppet.

Is that really enough?

For him, it is.

Or at least, that's what he'll tell himself.

Or, whoever he really is.

Who exactly is Shadow Milk Cookie?

An unforgivable beast?

The fount of knowledge?

Just some jester looking for fun?

He wishes you'd tell him.

He would cling to your words, desperately and fully.

Because they are yours.

But he knows better than to get attached.

And to a mortal, no less.

He isn't stupid; but sometimes, when he loves you, he really wishes he was.

That way, he could love you.

Really love you.

Without hiding, and without thinking;

Just loving you.

And you'd love him too, he knows this.

And for some reason, that makes him angry. He hates how you'd love him unconditionally.

But oh,

how much he loves it!

Please love him!

Please hate him!

Please adore him!

Please destroy him!

Sweetly, brutally, any way is fine by him!

And perhaps he'd return the favor.

Slowly destroying you as well.

Or even himself.

Because falling in love with a mortal really is the greatest form of self-destruction for beings like him.

Their lives are so short, yet the mark they leave is just as, if not deeper.

And it'll bleed for so much longer.

Onto the ground and floor beneath him;

Eventually reaching the pages he writes in, becoming words as he writes with the blood.

And he'll write every word that came out of your mouth.

He'll write the sentences you spoke:

About how you'd be with him; now and until forever.

And he thinks you are the biggest liar.

Even bigger than him.

He wishes, so desperately, that he killed you that night.

Because then he could blame your death on somebody.

He could blame himself.

Now. He can't blame anyone.

Because time took you; and how can you blame time?

And once again, he wishes he killed you that night.

So that maybe he could store your blood in a bottle and have it sit on his desk.

And maybe he'd drink from it, to try and remember what it felt like.

What you felt like.

But all he has now are his memories of you.

And he despises replaying those memories in his mind.

Simply because in them, you are mute.

He's forgotten what your voice sounds like.

Is it not enough that he's already lost you? Must the world punish him so by also forcing him to forget you? Not fully, but just enough that it leaves him longing to meet you once more?

Just one single time more?

Maybe then, he'd finally tell you how much he loved you.

Because he never did back then.

Because he thought, if he never told you how much he loved you; then maybe he'd stop feeling it.

But of course, that's not really how it works.

Love never really fades, it just gets beaten down until it's a small, broken shard that's forced to prick at your heart.

And it also stabs into your lungs so that no matter how much you breathe, you'll always be left gasping for air.

Drowning.

Drowning in the emotions you never showed.

And suddenly, it hits him.

This.

This is what you meant when you said you'd always be with him.

You'd be the ache that eats at his heart.

You'd be the ring made from thorns that he's forced to wear around his finger.

You'd be the snake wrapping around his neck so that he dies. Slowly, yet surely, dying.

You'd be the arrow jabbed into his leg so that no matter if he's standing or sitting, it would still hurt.

But.

You'd also be the lantern that guides him through the night, even if the handle still burns his hands.

You'd be the bird that sings the sweetest songs, even if you never ever stop.

You'd be the mirror to help him see exactly who he is, even if he hates who stares back at him.

And that's what it means to be forever.

#shadow milk x reader #shadow milk cookie x reader #crk shadow milk cookie #shadow milk #shadow milk x reader crk #shadow milk cookie x reader crk #smc x reader crk #smc x reader #crk #cookie run angst #cookie run kingdom #cookie run x reader #shadow milk angst #crk x reader #cookie run #cookie run kingdom x reader #shadow milk cookie crk #shadow milk cookie #shadow milk x reader angst

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ozzgin · 1 year ago

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Hello! I just wanted to say I really like your writing style!!

I was wonder have you done a hybrid yan whose darling has a phobia of the animal they are a hybrid of?

Eg wolf with a darling scared of dogs, Naga with a darling scared of snake, ect.

I can definitely expand a little on that! I'll keep it very generic, so you can go for any kind of hybrid you'd like. :)

Yandere! Hybrid x Phobic! Reader

Featuring a hybrid of your choice and a Reader who's terrified of him, but not for the reasons one might expect.

Content: gender neutral reader, hybrid yandere, stalking, monster romance (mild NSFW)

He's been in love from the moment he saw you. So entranced, in fact, that he didn't even notice he'd stalked you all the way to your home. And much too eager to see you again to not return there the next day, and the day after and so on, until today.

Today, however, was meant to be special. He'd planned to confess his feelings and pray for the best. What's the worst that could happen, he thought. If you were to reject him, he'd just return to his habit of watching from afar.

Though he didn't expect you to scream and run away in a panic. You nearly toppled over the ground in your frantic escape, white as a sheet, mumbling apologies that slowly faded into the distance. He could only stare. He didn't get the chance to introduce himself.

That was...not his best moment. That night he turned and twisted, plagued by a shame he'd never known before. Was he truly so irredeemably monstrous? He'd never interacted much with humans before, so he never quite considered his own appearance. Could he really go back to admiring you secretly? Was there no way to convince you? His heart throbbed melancholically.

In the morning, to his great shock, you were already waiting for him in the same spot, just as pale, knees bent and ready to sprint at any given second. You managed to blurt out your explanation: the phobia. He suddenly remembered one instance where you stumbled upon an animal and had a reaction similar to what he experienced. So, you were indeed afraid of him, but not in the way he initially assumed. His eyes lit up with newfound hope: you were giving him a chance, after all.

The first months were rather clumsy. A lot of fidgeting, a lot of sneaky glances, and to his great dismay, a lot of distance. To think you were finally his, and he couldn't even hold you properly.

One must appreciate the small victories. You were no longer a stranger he'd follow from the shadows. He no longer had to imagine what you'd smell like, or what your laugh sounded like, or how your hands would feel in his. You have to take what's given to you, he'd tell himself once he was alone again, desperately touching himself to those scarce memories.

Despite his almost manic neediness, he always greeted you with a reassuring smile. Always asked before touching you. Always apologized if he got ahead of himself. He'd never allow his love to outweigh your comfort.

You jolt slightly.

"Sorry, was I too rough?" he freezes, observing your small, naked body underneath his.

"No, just muscle memory, sorry."

You purse your lips, embarrassed about your sudden anxious reaction in the middle of an intimate moment. Will you ever get over your fear?

"Hey now, is this the kind of face to have while I'm fucking you?" the hybrid jokes with a grin. "Small steps, remember?"

He'd wait forever if it was for you.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x darling #yandere hybrid #yandere monster #yandere monster x reader #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere imagines #hybrid x reader #monster x reader #monster x human #monster boyfriend #monster romance

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chaotic-orphan · 8 months ago

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Concussed villain gets kidnapped?

Villain showed up on Hero’s doorstep, heaving in breaths as they slammed their fist on the door. Their arm was ridiculously heavy, and it took everything in them to throw it mercilessly against the wooden door. The effects were meagre knocks that Villain prayed Hero would hear.

If Hero was even home.

What if they were working tonight? Fuck, why didn’t Villain think of that? Their head was pounding so they rested their forehead against the cool wood, letting out a shaky, shallow breath, trying not to anger the fire in their ribs. Blood continued to trickle from their hairline down over their eyes and dripping onto their cheeks.

That wasn’t good.

They heard footsteps behind the door and Villain almost broke down there and then, relief flooding them like a tsunami of feeling, washing away everything that was keeping Villain upright. Tears poured down their cheeks at the thought of safety, hero looking after them… their hero. They could tell them about Superhero’s plans.

They could tell them… Villain put a hand against the door and pushed themselves backwards. They would’ve fallen if not for the arm that snaked around their waist. Villain blinked dumbly and glanced down. Arm around—?

Before they cry out or scream in warning a hand clamped over their mouth and Villain was ripped away from the door and into the shadows. Villain thrashed, struggling in their attacker’s grip, all their screams and cries muffled to nothing but silent pleas.

The door opened and Villain’s struggles renewed but Hero wouldn’t be able to see them from here. Hero wouldn’t know they were even there!

“Hello?” Hero asked into the darkness and Villain whimpered against the hands holding them in an iron cage. Villain threw their body forward, back, trying to dislodge their attackers arms but they didn’t budge even a little.

“If you want Hero to continue to draw breath, Villain, you’ll come quietly.”

Villain froze at the voice. That was… Superhero… the reason why Villain was in this state in the first place. Villain’s struggles renewed as Hero stepped out of their house. If they could even sense something was amiss so close to them then they would investigate. Hero would have to investigate, right? And Hero was in danger too!

Villain had to warn them, they had to!

“Hello?” Hero asked, a note of agitation creeping into their voice.

I’m here! Villain wanted to scream. Hero please! I’m right here.

A pinch in their neck and Villain’s fruitless struggles seized, their blood running cold. They flinched as cold liquid was pushed into their neck. No… no, no, no, no. “That’s it, Villain,” Superhero whispered. “Don’t fight it.”

The hazy world blurred even more and Villain fell back against Superhero’s chest, the fight leaving them almost instantly. What did Superhero drug them with?

Their eyelids shut and Villain forced them back open, with a gargantuan effort. The last thing they saw was Hero frown and close the door before their entire world faded to black in the arms of their enemy.

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divaofmads · 3 months ago

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Daughter of Water

Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Female Reader (OC)

Warnings: Sacred virginity nonsense, Smut, +18, loss of virginity, sex with a stranger, fingering, standing sex, sexuality leaning more toward body-worship, dirty talk, fluff, mockery of absurd beliefs, use of the title “sacred whore” (though not to degrade the woman — you’ll understand when you read it), manipulative and mischievous Oberyn, Rough, Language!

Y/N: Your Name S/T: Skin Tone H/C: Hair Color

Word Count: 8.5k

Gif by Pinterest

A/N: I'm not a professional when it comes to fanfiction. I just write as a hobby. I started writing thanks to the amazing people who do this perfectly. So if you're going to focus on my mistakes, please don't read it.

A/N 2 : I apologize for the mistakes I made in English that is not my native language and I am trying to improve my writing skills.

The dunes of Dorne shimmered even on starless nights, yet that evening felt dark and silent to Prince Oberyn Martell. The decision to exile him had begun with news from Highgarden. A covert assassination attempt against House Tyrell had failed, and subtle clues cast a shadow of suspicion upon Oberyn. The true perpetrator was never confirmed, but the delicate balance of power within the Seven Kingdoms was fragile enough to threaten Dorne's independence. Oberyn's courage and rebellious spirit made him an easy target for such intrigues. His brother, Doran Martell, saw no alternative but to send him into exile.

"The best thing you can do for Dorne," Doran said, "is to leave. This will be the salvation not just for you, but for our house."

As always, Oberyn responded with a smile.

"Exile me? Perhaps you're doing me a favor, brother. A fine excuse to explore the world beyond the Seven Kingdoms."

Upon leaving the warm sands of Dorne, Oberyn stepped into the complex and ruthless world of Essos. Exile offered him not just freedom but also the opportunity to discover the extent of his own boundaries. His first destination was Lys; known as the island of love and passion, this city was famed for its golden beaches, wealthy merchants, and renowned beauties. However, Lys's seductive façade quickly became monotonous for Oberyn. Dazzling women, gold-embroidered wine goblets, delicate incenses... These could not fill the void within a Martell's soul.

"Beauty becomes dull quickly," he muttered to himself, sipping wine on the terrace of a Lys inn. "The essence of pleasure lies in the unexplored."

After spending a few months in Lys, Oberyn set his course for Myr. Known for its fine craftsmanship, glassmaking, and ancient poison masters, Myr offered more than just hedonistic pursuits—it provided something to satiate his curiosity: the fine art of death.

While wandering through Myr's narrow, labyrinthine streets, Oberyn's eyes caught a shop he'd heard much about. Known as Tanith's "House of Spices and Elixirs," this establishment was a hub for poison dealers from across Essos. Upon entering, the air was thick with the scent of spices; dried herbs, snake skins, and finely ground mineral powders lined the shelves.

Tanith was an elderly woman; her eyes bore the faded memories of something once vibrant. Upon seeing Oberyn, she immediately recognized not just a customer but a student hungry for knowledge.

"Poison isn't wielded like a crude dagger, prince," Tanith said, retrieving a dark red powder from a shelf. "Poison requires patience and intellect. In the right hands, it's an art; in the wrong, a disgrace."

Under Tanith's guidance, Oberyn began to learn the secrets of poisons. He delved beyond the common toxins sold in Myr's markets, seeking rarer and more lethal concoctions. The impact of poison lay not just in the victim's physical agony but also in the psychological terror it induced.

Tanith taught Oberyn three fundamental principles:

1. The Power of Time: Some poisons acted instantly, while others consumed their victims slowly over weeks. Oberyn learned that a poison derived from the blood of the Lys snake left its victim debilitated for days, with death arriving only during sleep.

2. Deceptive Taste and Aroma: The deadliest poisons often appeared as innocent as a dessert. Oberyn tasted a poison from Old Volantis; when mixed with wine, it left a sweet, spicy flavor, yet a single sip ignited a burning sensation in the victim's veins.

3. Poison and Intrigue: Poison was not merely a physical weapon but a message. It was used not just to kill a king but to instill fear in a kingdom. Oberyn understood the importance of poisoning not just the victim but also those around them.

Under Tanith's supervision, Oberyn began crafting his own poisons. One of his most successful creations earned him the title "Red Sand" among the people of Myr. This sand-colored powder induced a sensation of sand coursing through the victim's veins, leading to death within hours. However, Oberyn used his poisons not solely for killing but also to slowly subdue his enemies and leave them in terror.

During his months with Tanith, Oberyn began to grasp the philosophy of poison. It was quieter than a sword, swifter than an arrow, and as powerful as a word. He researched the great poison masters of history; he listened to tales of a poison made from dragon blood used in the final years of Valyria. Compared to Myr, Westeros's tradition of poison seemed primitive.

One evening, he turned to Tanith and said,

"Poison is like a gift stolen from the gods. A swift death can make a king feel powerless; a slow one can strike terror into an entire people."

Tanith smiled and replied,

"But remember, prince. Poison consumes the one who wields it as well. If you go too deep, in the end, you may find nothing but yourself."

Oberyn, satisfied with the knowledge he had gained and the poisons he had crafted in Myr, still felt an emptiness within a longing for new places to discover and desires yet to be fulfilled. He had mastered the subtleties of poison, but now it was time for a different kind of adventure.

Leaving behind the warm, salt-scented air of Myr, Oberyn Martell burned with the yearning for his next journey. During his time in Myr, he had fed both his mind and his soul, yet the restless passion in a Martell's blood drove him to seek more. It was then, in a harbor tavern, that a tale sparked the beginning of his journey to Pentos.

The tavern, a wooden structure overlooking the port of Myr, was filled with the scents of wine and bursts of raucous laughter at dusk. Oberyn was drawn in by a drunken merchant’s tale. He spoke of the Prince of Pentos, who, as part of an age-old tradition, would be sacrificed to the gods after a season of poor harvests. A new prince would then be chosen in his place. But what caught Oberyn's interest most was the central figure of this ritual: Daughter of Water.

"Daughter of Water ," the merchant slurred, wine dripping from his lips, "is seen as a gift from the gods. She must be so pure, so beautiful, that when the new prince unites with her, fertility and peace return. The city waits for her for years, dedicates her to the gods. They say there's one now… her name is Y/N."

Oberyn listened to the words with a deep smile. He slowly lifted his wine glass and leaned toward the merchant. “Tell me, my friend. What is the story of this Y/N? And what kind of place is Pentos, that even the gods marvel at the beauty of its women?”

Pentos, a golden city overlooking the sea on the western shores of Essos, began to take shape in Oberyn’s imagination. Known for its brothels and harbor, Pentos was a hub where merchants, pirates, and nomadic warriors converged. But the city held far more than outsiders might suspect.

The narrow, stone-paved streets of Pentos were adorned with ancient mosaics, each telling a story from the city’s past. Golden-domed palaces stood as symbols of wealth, yet beneath this splendor lay a sharp game of fear and balance of power. Though it seemed as if Pentos was ruled by its lords, true power rested in the hands of merchants and wealthy families.

The people of Pentos fed their city with the gifts of the sea. Spices, exotic fabrics, fish, and precious stones from the East kept the port alive with motion. But behind this wealth were also the marks of poverty. Most of the houses were narrow, leaning on one another, barely letting sunlight pass through. The streets echoed with both the laughter of wine merchants and the silence of beggars crushed by hunger.

And in the middle of all this chaos, like an offering to the gods, the name of Daughter of Water, Y/N, was whispered among the people. Y/N was on the verge of becoming a legend.

What the merchant said had stirred Oberyn’s blood. The mere fact that Y/N had been chosen as Daughter of Water was enough to convince him to embark on this journey. But it was not just about a woman or a ritual. For Oberyn, Pentos was a new playing field. When the merchant said, “Pentos lives like prey caught in the talons of an eagle. It looks strong, but it always fears,” a sly smile spread across Oberyn’s face.

“Is it easy to get to Pentos?” Oberyn asked.

“Finding ships in the harbors isn't hard. But be careful—Pentos lords don't easily trust outsiders,” said the merchant.

Oberyn paid little mind to the man's warning. He was confident that with his wit and charm, he could get whatever he wanted in Pentos. At the port of Myr, he boarded a trade ship called the Silver Scorpion. The vessel was filled with exotic spices and rare fabrics, but for Oberyn, this journey was not about commerce—it was about discovering a woman and the dark secrets of a city.

As the Silver Scorpion glided over the waves, Oberyn pondered what lay ahead. The beauty of Lysandra, the ritual of the Water Maiden, the mysteries hidden beneath the golden domes of Pentos... This voyage promised to be one of his greatest adventures in Essos.

“Pentos,” he murmured to himself. “The gods truly know where to hide their gifts.”

As the Silver Scorpion approached the harbor, the grandeur and darkness of Pentos slowly entered Oberyn Martell’s view. The city’s golden domes and elegant seaside palaces suggested peace and order, but beneath that splendor was a chaos waiting to be uncovered.

The moment he disembarked, Oberyn scanned his surroundings. His eyes sought the order beneath the harbor’s chaos. Pentos seemed disorganized at first glance, but deep within its heart lay a hierarchy. Here, power was shaped in silence and shadows. Oberyn trusted his instincts—they would lead him to Daughter of Water, for a Martell never strays from his path.

He acted on the information given to him by the merchant he met in Myr. Daughter of Water was no ordinary girl. She was seen as a gift from the gods, venerated by the people. Such a being would not be hidden among the common folk; she would be kept in a special place, protected like a living icon.

Crossing the cobbled roads beyond the harbor, Oberyn made his way to the quieter and more noble part of the city. The northern quarter of Pentos was home to wealthy merchants and lords. Here, grand structures rose toward the sky, courtyards adorned with marble statues. But Oberyn knew Daughter of Water would be kept not just in wealth, but in sanctity.

As he traced her trail through the city’s bustle, a wine merchant whispered to him, “Daughter of Water? She’s in the Garden of the Gods. Beneath the golden arbors... but you can’t just walk in there.”

The Garden of the Gods was one of the oldest and most sacred parts of Pentos. Located on the city’s western slope, this area was a sanctuary dedicated to the old gods, filled with graceful statues and exotic flora. According to rumor, Daughter of Water resided there, under the watchful eyes of temple priests. The temple was open only to the chosen; within its walls, magic, tradition, and faith intertwined.

Before reaching the Garden of the Gods, Oberyn sought out more knowledge of Y/N from merchants and priests. Each described her divinity and beauty in their own way.

Y/N’s S/T skin was said to shine as purely and brightly as moonlight reflected on water. Her luminous complexion was viewed as a sacred sign by the people—as if the gods had touched her and crafted her with a purity unlike any other. Her H/C hair resembled the night sky: long, silky, and moving like waves in a gentle breeze. But what truly set Y/N apart wasn’t merely her physical beauty.

The priests said that the real reason people believed Y/N was sacred was because of the Blood Moon that appeared on the night of her birth. That night, Pentos fell into an eerie silence, and the city’s oldest priest declared that Y/N was “the rebirth of the gods.” Even more impressive was her voice, which seemed to enchant everyone who heard it. Her songs touched the hearts of those who listened, filling them with a kind of peace and awe. The people believed they heard the voices of the gods in her melodies.

Oberyn knew that entry to the garden was only possible for chosen individuals. But a Martell possessed the wit to turn obstacles into opportunity.

As Oberyn Martell moved through the narrow streets of Pentos, he gathered clues step by step to locate the Garden of the Gods. Every time he heard its name, he sensed a tremble of reverence in people’s voices. This place held not only beauty, but also mystery and power.

In the marketplace, he spotted one of the priests. The man was different from the others—his robe was cleaner, his walk more dignified. Most likely, he held a significant place in the temple’s inner hierarchy. Oberyn decided to follow him. He watched as the man began speaking to a merchant in a spice-scented alley. Observing from a distance, he noticed their interaction was based on mutual trust.

This insight offered Oberyn an opportunity. Even among the temple priests, some could succumb to worldly desires; for gold or prestige, no door was truly sealed. He needed only to wait for the right moment.

The next day, he witnessed a priest examining fresh flowers being taken into the Garden of the Gods. Oberyn seized the chance and approached, introducing himself as one of Pentos’s prominent merchants. He centered his conversation on the people's devotion to the gods and his "admiration" for the sanctity of the temples.

“Honored priest,” Oberyn began, with a subtle smile. “I’ve heard stories about the Garden of the Gods in Pentos. They say the gods left traces of themselves there. Tell me, what does such a sacred place look like?”

The priest responded with a cautious expression. “The garden is for the gods and their servants alone. Entry is not permitted for someone off the street.”

Oberyn’s lips curled slightly. “Someone off the street? Perhaps. But I didn’t come to Pentos as just another merchant. I’ve spent most of my life uncovering the mysteries of Essos. In Myr, Lys, Qohor... I’ve seen the signs of the gods. I believe in what you say, and I cannot help but admire what has been granted to you.”

The priest examined Oberyn’s confident tone. Still, he seemed ready to object. At that moment, Oberyn lowered his voice, speaking in a tone that balanced between a subtle threat and a tempting offer. “In this city, many speak of the sacrifices made by the temple priests, and of the sacred relics you guard in the Garden of the Gods. But sadly, some rumors suggest that this sanctity is no longer well protected. Such whispers could tarnish the priests’ reputation. However, a foreigner like me could see things in a very different light. I could help exalt the temple’s name, if we worked together.”

The priest evaluated Oberyn's words, sensing the subtle threat and flattery woven together. Turning him away carried risk; remaining silent, however, might make an enemy of a man as clever as Oberyn. In the end, they reached an agreement. The priest would lead Oberyn to the edge of the garden, but crossing the temple's boundaries would depend entirely on Oberyn’s own skill.

The massive stone gates of the Garden of the Gods were more magnificent than even the grandest structures of Pentos. The carvings above depicted ancient deities, each holding a different element of nature: fire, water, earth, and air. As Oberyn studied these representations, a phrase etched beneath the gate caught his eye: "Peace is found only in places blessed by the gods."

As the priest opened the gate, he turned to Oberyn. "Not everyone who comes here can feel its sanctity. But this place sees the soul. If you lose your way during this journey, it will be by your own choice."

When the gate opened, Oberyn felt the presence of another world. The Garden of the Gods was no ordinary garden. Towering marble columns reached toward the sky, and birds danced around them, transforming the temple grounds into a work of art. Water whispered from every corner, flowing through narrow channels that connected the courtyards.

Oberyn tried not to be swept away by the garden’s enchantment. "The blood of a Martell is sacred too," he reminded himself. Even amid such beauty, he remained focused on his mission. He could sense that Y/N was at the very heart of this garden. His eyes scanned every corner, every step calculated.

Oberyn Martell relied on his intelligence and sharp observational skills to move through the Garden of the Gods undetected. His desire to reach Y/N gave him a renewed sense of determination. As he watched the garden and its routines, he carefully noted the behavior of the priests, the patrol paths of the guards, and every small detail around him.

The first thing he noticed was the sacred order that governed the garden. The priests moved in a constant ritual rhythm, traveling to different sections of the garden at set times. The guards were vigilant, especially near the central pergola that lay at the garden’s core—an area under tight surveillance. Oberyn realized that a direct approach was impossible; he would need to find a flaw within the system’s structure.

Through his observations, Oberyn noticed that at specific times the priests gathered beneath a small pavilion in the garden’s corner. There, fruits and wines were offered as symbols of the garden’s sanctity, and the priests partook of these gifts while expressing their devotion. Yet Oberyn saw beyond the sacredness—he saw a glimpse of human nature: despite their faith, the priests consumed the fruits and wine with eager appetite, surrendering themselves to the moment’s comfort.

Oberyn recalled the months he had spent in Myr, learning the arts of poison. In the small leather pouch he carried, one vial contained an extract of a plant called Silent Shadow. The poison was not deadly; its effects were more subtle. It clouded the mind, dulled awareness, and slowed reflexes. For his goal, it was a perfect tool.

His next step was to mix the extract into the fruits and wine offered to the priests. But it had to be done without drawing attention. Oberyn purchased a few pomegranates and figs from a small fruit stall outside the garden. In a secluded corner behind the stand, he used a thin syringe to inject the poison into the fruits. He also treated a bottle of Pentoshi wine in the same way, preparing everything for his plan.

Oberyn discreetly placed the fruit and wine on a table near the pavilion, blending them in with the other offerings. When the priests gathered at the corner of the garden, they unknowingly included Oberyn’s contributions in their ritual. Soon after, he watched as they began to taste the sacred offerings, all while his plan took root.

The effects became evident quickly. The priests' movements grew looser, their speech slowed. Some chuckled softly; others gently swayed where they sat. Even the guards, having sampled a few bites, started to show signs of the same dazed state.

Oberyn knew this was his moment.

Oberyn, knowing this distraction would continue, decided to act. At this point, the most crucial part of his plan was to silently find the path to the center of the garden, to Y/N’s arbor.

The water channels running through the garden were another detail that hadn't escaped Oberyn’s notice. Passing under delicate stone arches, these channels connected every corner of the garden, extending silently toward the center. When Oberyn realized they were wide enough for a person to pass through, he decided to use them.

Taking advantage of the priests’ and guards’ scattered attention, he slipped into the most secluded part of the garden. There, a small arched tunnel marked the origin of the water. As he entered the tunnel, he stripped off his outer garments and began to move carefully, clinging to the damp stone walls. The humid, dark atmosphere tested both his mental and physical endurance. But Oberyn was used to such challenges; a Martell did not succumb to fear when opportunity presented itself.

As he moved forward with the sound of the water guiding him, he noticed a small stone staircase at the end of the channel. It led directly beneath Y/N’s arbor. Climbing the damp steps in silence, Oberyn advanced like a chess piece moved with careful intent. At the end of the tunnel, he spotted a sentry priest standing alert in the dim light. Now, intelligence and creativity had to serve as sharper weapons than any blade.

Looking around, Oberyn noticed thinly carved stone holes reaching up to the ceiling of the channel. These openings, combined with the sound of the water, created echoes that carried whispers across the garden.

A clever idea came to him to distract the priest. He picked up a small stone from near the entrance of the tunnel and placed it in the flow of the stream, waiting patiently. As the stone drifted with the current and clattered against others, it echoed, making it seem as though the sound had come from a distant part of the tunnel. But Oberyn wasn’t finished; to amplify the illusion, he gently blew air into one of the stone carvings, adding a whisper that blended with the rhythm of the water.

The priest suddenly stiffened. The rhythmic sound of the stream mixed with faint whispers must have seemed like a divine warning or sign. With unease, he turned his head and began to approach the shadowy entrance of the water channels. At that moment, Oberyn's cunning triumphed once again; while the priest waited for a sign from the gods, Oberyn glided up the stairs like a shadow.

The stairs led Oberyn to a chamber beneath the arbor. Here, on the surface of the stone walls, he saw carvings resembling ancient Valyrian symbols. Yet among them, Oberyn recognized the subtle outline of a mechanism. The stones shifted slightly when touched with care. With the patience honed under Dorne's blazing sun, he studied their arrangement. Moving with near-blind sensitivity in the dark, he found the correct alignment. As the final stone clicked into place, a soft mechanical sound whispered through the air and a stone door slowly opened.

A narrow passage led Oberyn just a few steps from Y/N’s arbor. Yet he could already feel her presence; the air itself seemed to hum with divine energy around her. It was as if her very breath filled the chamber.

But for Oberyn, the real challenge was how to approach her. It would take more than wit—it required a captivating strategy. This meeting with Y/N was less a hunt and more the final steps of a dance. He had reached the most sacred part of the garden, but as he neared Y/N, he prepared to don his mask: one of charm, danger, and cleverness.

When Oberyn Martell stepped into the sacred chamber of the arbor, his eyes lingered for a heartbeat. Y/N was far more than what the priests and the people of Pentos had described. The young woman seemed shaped by the very hands of the gods. Her S/T skin, so rare and pristine to someone who had grown under Dorne’s scorching sun, was like a canvas—pure and mesmerizing. The smoothness of her complexion reminded him of a mountain peak kissed by the first snow; cold, yet with an untouchable allure.

Her H/C hair, catching the flickering light of the torches in the room, resembled the night sky itself—each strand a shadow of starlight cloaked in darkness. It flowed down to her waist like a silken veil, framing her face in a way that made her seem like she belonged in a sacred portrait. But what struck him most were her eyes: deep, intense, caught between the golden flame of a dragon and the silvery gray of Valyria. Those eyes pierced through Oberyn’s gaze like an arrow.

Y/N left a divine impression not just with her beauty but with her very presence. Her movements were graceful—not in the way of a trained lady, but as though gifted by the gods themselves. The golden bracelets on her slender wrists, bestowed by the priests, chimed softly with each subtle motion. Yet Oberyn sensed those bracelets were shackles; Y/N was a bird in a cage, condemned to a fate she had never chosen.

A faint smile touched Oberyn’s lips—not one of victory, but of something deeper, a recognition. Y/N was not simply beautiful. She possessed a uniqueness unlike anything he had ever seen or experienced. This young woman could make him forget the flower gardens of Dorne, yet behind her beauty lay fragility and solitude.

"As beautiful as a goddess, and as fragile as a bird," Oberyn thought. "But a Martell fears neither gods nor cages." Y/N’s beauty stirred not only his admiration but also a hunger. He was not a man content with watching—he was a man of pursuit. But with Y/N, that pursuit felt elevated. This woman was more than a symbol offered to the gods—she was powerful enough to deceive the gods themselves.

Oberyn was captivated by not just her appearance, but the aura she emanated. The priests may have marked her as chosen by the divine, but in Oberyn’s eyes, Y/N held a power beyond their reach. The sorrow in her gaze ignited the fire in his Martell blood. His fury at her caged destiny, and his desire to truly know her, made him more resolute than ever.

"To only look upon her," Oberyn thought, "would be like gazing at stars and never daring to make a wish." Every movement she made, every breath she took, became less an image and more a melody in his mind. The fire of Dorne met the elegance of Y/N, and he knew this was merely the beginning.

Oberyn Martell would not accept that Lysandra belonged to the gods. In his eyes gleamed the resolve of a warrior and the passion of a lover. This bird would not remain caged—for Oberyn was a man who broke cages.

The Garden of the Gods in Pentos had lost none of its grandeur, even under the night’s shadow. Marble columns rose like phantoms in the moonlight, while the ancient trees overhead formed a canopy that veiled the sky. The soft trickle of water and the occasional chirp of birds gave the garden a sacred harmony with nature. The holiness of this place weighed upon the hearts of all who entered—but Oberyn Martell’s heart bore only one thought: Y/N.

“Y/N,” he said, stepping from the shadows with his usual confident, cunning smile. His attire—rich in black and red—was embroidered with golden suns of House Martell. He looked both noble and enigmatic, moving with the ease of a predator who cared little for the sacred. Y/N, under the moonlight, shone like a tale brought to life. But to Oberyn, this was no tale. This was the beginning of a mystery waiting to be unraveled.

“The Garden of the Gods... they say it’s a sacred place. But I’ve always been intrigued by how fragile sacred things can be. Just like you, shining here tonight.”

Y/N was sitting on the bench by the window; she quickly turned around and frowned at the stranger standing before her. There was more discomfort than fear in her eyes. "I don't know who you are, but you shouldn't be here. Only priests and the divinely chosen are allowed to walk in this garden."

Oberyn took a few steps toward her, and when the moonlight hit his face, that famous smile of his became more pronounced. "I did not claim my right from the priests, but from the night itself. I’m looking for something, Y/N. And I’ve found it."

Y/N's brows furrowed. "This isn't a place for games. Tell me who you are and leave."

Oberyn didn't seem affected by her authoritative tone. On the contrary, the smile on his face grew wider. "I am Oberyn Martell," he said, each word carrying the power of his name. "Prince of Dorne, son of the Snake, a wanderer who sings songs of love and death across the Seven Kingdoms. But tonight, I am only a man. And perhaps the Garden of the Gods has summoned me."

Y/N stared at Oberyn. "You came all this way just to find me? If achieving that makes you feel divine, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. I'm not a miracle, nor the embodiment of a prophecy. I'm just... someone born in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Oberyn took a step to sit beside her, but Y/N stopped him with a motion of her hand. "Don’t come closer. I don't care who you are. I’m in no state of mind to talk to anyone on behalf of the gods."

"I'm not speaking on behalf of the gods," Oberyn said, his voice warm enough to slowly melt Y/N’s defenses. "I speak for myself. And when I look at you, I don’t see a prophecy or a miracle. I see a woman. A woman who has bewitched me."

Y/N turned her eyes away from Oberyn. "Bewitched? I suppose after growing up in a brothel, being seen as sacred is somehow less unbelievable."

Oberyn was quiet for a moment. "A brothel?" he asked, his voice curious rather than mocking.

Y/N paused for a second, then shrugged and continued speaking. "Yes. I was born in one of the famous brothels of Pentos. My mother worked there. The women did everything they could to protect me, but I grew up in the middle of that life. If you’re wondering how I remained a virgin, the answer is simple: I was scary enough."

Oberyn raised his eyebrows slightly. "You were scary?"

"Yes," Y/N said with a sharp smile. "From an early age, I didn’t let anyone come near me. I outsmarted them, protected myself with fear. Eventually, the priests came and told me I was the chosen of the gods. Funny, isn’t it? Someone who grew up in the back rooms of a brothel suddenly becomes Pentos’s sacred symbol."

As Oberyn listened to her words, the smile on his face faded into a more serious expression. "I can’t say your story surprises me," he said at last. "But I must admit, it makes you even more captivating. Because it's impossible to believe that a woman who defends herself so perfectly could ever be ordinary."

Y/N shot him a sharp look. "Don't flatter me. I've heard enough praise before you ever walked into this place. If you want something from me, just say it!"

Oberyn took a few more steps closer, locking eyes with her. “You wonder what I want from you? I want the truth. I want to know what guides you beyond this prophecy nonsense, what makes you feel like a pawn in the gods' game. But most of all, I want to understand you, Y/N. Because your story is more sacred than anything in this garden.”

Y/N remained silent for a moment. The sincerity in Oberyn’s voice had begun to chip away at her walls. Yet deep down, she still questioned how trustworthy this man truly was. “Your tales and my truths are very different, Oberyn Martell. I gave up believing in fairy tales a long time ago. But if it’s the truth you want, I might keep talking.”

Oberyn lowered his head slightly, wearing that famous smile again. “I’m not just a storyteller, Y/N. I’m a man who knows how to seek the truth, and live it. And tonight, here with you, I’m ready to uncover the truths that touch your soul.”

In his eyes, Y/N could see the dark shadows of her own fate. This man could be the most dangerous and the most captivating person to cross her path. But standing before him, she was determined to keep whatever she felt tonight a secret.

Oberyn stood in silence before her. Her sarcastic gaze, tired smile, and disbelief might have dissuaded another. But for Oberyn Martell, this was nothing short of a challenge. His intelligence and charm were often sharper and deadlier than any blade.

“The chosen one,” Oberyn said, adding a sly warmth to his voice. “You once said how foolish you thought that title was. But I’ve been wondering something. When you reject it, is it truly because of disbelief? Or is it rebellion against something that was forced upon you?”

Y/N turned to him, brows furrowed. “You’re trying to understand me, aren’t you? Others have tried before. Priests speaking in the name of gods, dragging my mother through the dirt while lifting me up… They all told the same lies. But my mother… she was different. She was the only one who taught me how the world really works.”

Oberyn took another careful step forward. “Your mother was a prostitute. But she did everything she could to protect you from her fate, didn’t she? A girl who grew up in a brothel and managed to remain a virgin… That alone is an incredible story. What protected you, Y/N? Your mother’s love? Or your own will?”

Y/N looked down in silence. The sharpness in her voice had faded, replaced by sorrow. “My mother trained me. Not just to protect my body, but my soul too. It had nothing to do with the gods. But that doesn’t make me sacred. It just… means I survived.”

Oberyn didn’t let the moment slip away. “Survival is already a miracle, Y/N. Especially in a place like that, with a past like yours. Staying a virgin doesn’t have to be a sign from the gods. But it is a power. A power only you know, and only you can control.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to persuade me? Because if you are, you’re talking to the wrong person.”

Oberyn leaned in, his face close to hers. “No, I’m talking to the right one. Because you’re someone who rejects titles and prophecies. That makes you stronger. The reason so many people cling to you like you’re divine isn’t just your beauty, it’s your resolve. Y/N, they want to make you sacred because you control your own fate. And now, we can write that fate together.”

When Y/N saw the sincerity in his eyes, she hesitated for a moment. His words were chipping away at her walls. “What do you want, Oberyn? What do you really want from me?”

Oberyn shrugged with a soft smile. “Just one night… just one moment. To be with you, and leave all this prophecy nonsense behind.”

Y/N, while weighing the meaning behind his words, remembered her mother’s advice. Oberyn’s charm and wit offered her a world she had never known. But within that world, she realized she could make her own choices. This man was offering her an option.

She looked at Oberyn in silence for a while. Then, with a slight nod, she spoke. “If that’s what you want, then I will be with you. But that doesn’t make me sacred. It makes me a woman. A woman who can make her own choices.”

Oberyn leaned in with a look that was a mix of triumph and tenderness, taking her hand. “What is sacredness anyway? Where there are choices and freedom, there is true power. And being with you will be a source of strength for me.”

Y/N smiled softly. This man had reached the vulnerable parts of her. But most importantly, he reminded her that she could choose something of her own free will. A gift from the gods? Perhaps. But in that moment, she chose to simply be a woman.

Y/N stood up to come level with Oberyn. The room was cloaked in semi-darkness. Her cheeks flushed at the thought of experiencing such an intimate moment with a man for the first time, but the shadows would conceal her. Yet her skin glowed like porcelain in the candlelight, making it impossible not to notice the change in her color. Oberyn gently cupped her chin between his fingers and lifted it, making her look into his eyes. Her eyelids carried a subtle weight. Her gaze became more alluring, more intimate than ever before. As Oberyn looked into her eyes, he felt both a kingdom to be conquered and a goddess to be worshipped. Then his eyes wandered to her lips, curving softly upward. He slid his thumb down to her lower lip. Its hue resembled a rose fed with fresh blood. Her lower lip was fuller, each word she spoke a silent invitation for a kiss. He could no longer resist. As their faces drew closer, their skin touched, and he kissed her lips—an innocent yet sinful kiss.

Oberyn Martell’s kiss carried layers of meaning, passionate yet always in control. Y/N’s body trembled involuntarily. This was the first true intimacy she had ever experienced. Her lips were soft and shy, while Oberyn’s were like a storm of experience overtaking them.

The kiss began gently. Y/N’s trembling breath made the warmth of Oberyn’s lips even more vivid. When Oberyn slipped his tongue lightly between her lips, Y/N’s entire body reacted as though washed in fire. For the first time, she discovered the depth of her own desire. When Oberyn’s tongue touched hers, she instinctively held onto his shoulder.

The kiss became more and more sensual. Oberyn’s experienced lips tore through Y/N’s shyness, urging her toward boldness. Their tongues began to dance, as though trying to taste each other more deeply; with each motion, the dance became bolder and more intricate. Y/N’s first hesitant touch of her tongue drove Oberyn wild. Her fresh and innocent responses only fueled the fire burning within him. As he deepened the kiss, his hands slowly moved upward. His palms caressed the sides of Y/N’s delicate neck, tilting her head back slightly to make her fully surrender. His thumb pressed gently on the spot where her pulse throbbed; this small gesture allowed him to feel how alive and sensitive her body was. The rhythm of her heartbeat pulsed beneath his fingers like a melodic song.

The moisture of the kiss blended with the warmth that spread from Y/N’s lips to Oberyn’s beard. Oberyn deepened the kiss as if he wanted to savor the taste of her lips a little longer. His free hand slowly moved down to her waist. Y/N’s slender figure, for Oberyn’s strong hands, was as precious as the gold and diamonds that adorned her body. His other hand gently touched the small of her back, fingers gliding beneath the fabric as they explored the curves of her body. His fingertips traced the bends of her spine, offering both reassurance and a subtle invitation to his fire. With every touch, he could feel Y/N’s faint shivers. Her deep breaths were a sign of how willingly she was surrendering to his passionate caress. While Oberyn honored her innocence, he was also relishing the pleasure of breaking it with her.

When Oberyn finally slowed the kiss and pulled away from her face, a soft breath escaped her lips. Y/N’s cheeks were flushed with desire; her lips slightly parted, marked by the trace of his bite. Oberyn studied her face and spoke with a mocking smile. "The taste of innocence is so sweet. But you will never be innocent again, Y/N. Not with me."

Then, Oberyn bent his knees slightly, one hand behind her back, the other under her thighs, and lifted her into his arms. His feet glided over the carpet embroidered with pomegranate motifs symbolizing fertility and sanctity. Though his movement was graceful, it held the decisiveness of a warrior lifting his sword. Y/N’s body felt light in his powerful embrace. When Oberyn's hand held her back, his fingertips discovered the smoothness of her skin—silky, warm, and fresh.

As he carried her toward the bed standing at the center of the room, the walls carved from black marble and inscribed with ancient symbols seemed to close in around them. The heavy velvet curtains darkened with each step, surrounding them like a lingering echo.

The bed was draped in deep blue silk covers, rippling like sea waves, adorned with shimmering white floral motifs. An ornate golden headboard stood tall like a symbol of sacredness. But for Oberyn, it was merely a vessel—not for the gods, but for surrendering to desire.

As he laid Y/N down, his movements were as delicate as a sculptor placing a masterpiece, yet as assertive as a conqueror celebrating victory. When her back met the softness of the bed, every fabric and texture on her skin suddenly felt foreign. Oberyn paused for a moment; leaning over her, his lips nearly touching hers, his breath stirred her skin. "The gods offered you as a sacred body," he whispered, his voice a reverberating tone in the darkness. "But here, in this bed, your sanctity will be undone. The gods misplaced you... They left you in my hands, not theirs."

His hands glided gently down her sides, as though drawing a boundary between her smooth skin and the bed's fabric. Oberyn read both her fears and desires. As his lips returned to hers, his hands moved over the curves of her breasts, the fullness of her hips, her skin burning like fire under his touch.

The dress Y/N wore hugged every curve with its thin and soft fabric, yet it drew a line Oberyn had yet to cross. His hands moved toward the elegant slope of her neck. As he gently slipped the fabric from her shoulders, his fingers made their first direct contact with her skin. There was a beauty that was both inviting and provocative, stoking the flame already burning low in his loins. "Being this flawless... is it merely a coincidence?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

He slowly slid the dress down to her wrists. The fabric stretched slightly over the fullness of her hips before falling freely again. The idea of a man seeing her bare body excited her; her nipples hardened, the fine hairs on her skin stood on end, her breathing grew erratic, and her chest rose and fell with intensity. How long could Oberyn withstand such an enticing sight? He climbed on top of her, supporting himself with one hand on the bed while the other cupped her breasts. Their round shape echoed nature’s symmetry. When he rolled the hardened tips between his fingers, a shiver erupted from her spine and surged toward her loins. Oberyn, alternately soft and firm in his caresses, bent to kiss her lips once more, ensuring her body met each touch with delicate sensitivity.

His fingers, feather-light, traced a path from her breasts to her stomach and down to her waist, brushing her body with teasing strokes that danced along the curves brought to life by the deep contrast of candlelight. Y/N trembled under Oberyn’s every touch, her body tightening in pleasure as she tasted such new and overwhelming sensations.

When Oberyn released her lips and moved down to her breasts, she gasped in surprise as if she had discovered something unknown. Her areolas were enveloped by his mouth, her nipples caught teasingly between his teeth while his tongue continued to provoke the untouched areas. Yet his hands never strayed from her sinuous figure.

In the midst of all this lustful passion, Y/N noticed something—an ache pooling low in her body, unlike anything she’d felt before. The tension gathered in her pelvis, and her most intimate part pulsed with heat. One leg rested on the bed like a column, while the other bent slightly inward, as if trying to contain the trembling arousal spreading through her. She felt embarrassed. Oberyn’s sensual touches had awakened every sensitive cell in her body, preparing her for a climax she couldn’t fully comprehend, while a warm, slick moisture began to seep between her thighs.

Oberyn finally released her breast from his hungry mouth, and without lifting his face from her skin, he trailed his nose, lips, and tongue between the swell of her breasts down to her navel. He licked each spot the candlelight revealed, and the trail of saliva he left behind cooled her delicate skin like a breeze across silk.

Kisses soon accompanied the strokes of his tongue. As he moved closer to her pelvis, the pleasure seemed to intensify; when a soft moan slipped through her teeth and filled the room, Oberyn lifted his head and smiled. "You're finally starting to let yourself go," he said, not with mockery but with the feral intensity of an impatient bull. "How about mimicking the sounds you heard in the brothel, Y/N? You may have kept your virginity, but surely you've been exposed to memories you didn't ask for."

Y/N froze for a moment. It was as if she had forgotten how to breathe. She saw the certainty in Oberyn’s eyes. She had grown up in a brothel and witnessed the orgasmic expressions on women's faces—grimaces that seemed to mix pain and desperation, as if they hurt but still begged for more. Her mother always said the women in that house were on a wicked path, that they sold their feelings for money, and ever since, a woman's moan had felt like something shameful to her. But now, she understood—resisting the overwhelming power of the pleasure she was experiencing would be absurd. As Oberyn continued to taste her body, a louder moan escaped her lips. The tension in her muscles had eased, and she could feel his touch much more deeply now. Her mind had surrendered completely to the spell of lust.

But it seemed even this wasn’t enough for the prince. He straightened up and gazed at Y/N’s sculpture-like, flawless face with desire. "Come on, gift me the sanctity of your moans," he said, "let me help you—lie on your stomach, and part your legs."

She hesitated at first. Her womanhood was like a vault where an artist hid their most precious works—a mysterious sanctuary. And now she was about to open that mystery to a man she barely knew. Her nervousness slowed her movements, but she did as he asked, supporting herself with her arms. She lay face down, pressing her elbows into the mattress while her head and breasts hovered above. She slowly dragged her feet across the sheets and opened her legs. When the cool air from the window brushed against her burning sex, she realized just how ready she was for this man.

Meanwhile, Oberyn began removing his clothes. The sharp sound of skin sliding against fabric, the gentle thud of garments hitting the floor filled Y/N’s ears and echoed in her mind like a melody announcing the carnal pleasure to come.

When Oberyn moved to position himself on the bed, his knees on the bed again, the bed trembled with his movements. And when he finally placed his body on top of Y/N’s, she felt his strength and weight down to her feet. When Y/N’s body, which would make the gods jealous, merged with Oberyn’s, the missing piece of the puzzle was complete, they were in such harmony.

On the ceiling was a fresco dedicated to the gods. The fresco depicted dragons piercing the sky and sea goddesses. The pale light filtered through the fresco, adding a mystical air to the room and illuminating Oberyn’s bronze skin and Y/N’s S/T. The light from the fresco surrounded their bodies in harmony like a sacred halo.

Oberyn’s hand moved along the edges of Y/N’s body, stopping at the edge of the bed and her body, his fingers began to push the edge. “Come on, Daughter of Water, help me,” he said, leaning into her ear, his warm breath mixing with his words. His lips were so close, the goosebumps of his breath brushing against her skin.

Oberyn slid his hand from her waist, wedging himself between her and the bed. He struggled toward her groin, his fingers finally meeting a warm slick, a soft moan escaping her lips.

Y/N felt trapped beneath Oberyn. His weight, his strength, and the way his arm wrapped around her waist and lowered his hand to her fresh pussy made her feel like a captive, a prisoner who had forgotten her freedom. Her movements were completely restricted, and she realized that she had to surrender herself only to his touch. But what she was trapped in was the orgasmic moment Oberyn would give her, and she could remain in a prison of lust forever.

As uncomfortable as Oberyn thought it was when his beard dug into her skin when he placed his head on her neck, even that discomfort gave her a reason to get wet when the prince’s fingers started moving. The sloshing sound of her wet pussy caught her ears. Oberyn was slowly caressing the girl's clitoris in a circular motion, moving his fingers to the left side with a certain tempo, and with the sudden change of direction, he could feel the girl's whole body shaking under him. Then he dipped his index and ring fingers into her outer lips, stretching her swollen flesh on both sides, and reached the entrance of her vagina with his middle finger, and while stimulating this area, he continued to stimulate it with frequent up and down movements, sliding the precum he had collected up to her clitoris and pressing it hard.

Oberyn had passed his other arm under Y/N's ribcage and placed his hand on the girl's neck. As the girl was exposed to the naughty movements surrounding her inner lips, her tensed muscles struggled to lift her off the bed and get some rest from this maddening pleasure, Oberyn wrapped his arms and legs tighter around her body. Y/N was moaning now, as he wanted. A deep moan coming from her chest, a combination of pain and pleasure.

"Does this feel good?" he asked, knowing that the girl was in no mood to speak. And as he had expected, no words came from her lips except a groan. A dark and threatening air swept through the room as Oberyn repeated his question. The fingers around her neck tightened slightly.

Y/N's mouth let out a series of painful, broken cries, then she answered, her voice trembling. "Yes, I've always wondered about that feeling," she admitted.

“Oh, good,” Oberyn said, his fingers softly against her throat. But Y/N had become so sensitive to the sudden stimulation from her entrance to her clitoris that she buried her head in the pillow. She was moaning much louder now. But he was forgetting something. Oberyn wanted Y/N’s moans to echo throughout the room. So he pulled his hand from her pussy, tangled his damp fingers in her hair, and lifted her head violently off the pillow until his ears brushed her lips. He breathed through his teeth. “You will not do this, Y/N! If necessary, the priests and guards will hear your moans and come here, but you will never lower your voice, do you understand me?”

Y/N was afraid. She was disturbed by this rough treatment, by the disregard for her will. But she also wanted, absurdly, to continue this fear and for Oberyn to be harsher with her. And she was too ashamed to tell him.

She did as he said. When Oberyn placed his hand between her vulva and the bed again, his voice grew louder with the intensity of his caresses. Oberyn was pleased with her. He laughed softly. "Well done, Y/N," he said, "as long as you listen to me, it is inevitable that you will lose yourself in the 'sacred' pleasures of sex." As the girl moaned and shook more, a hardness that belonged to Oberyn continued to swell in her ass. He wondered how hard it would get, and was equally surprised. Back in the brothel days, she had watched the son of a young, rich family fucking one of the girls in the house. When he had withdrawn his penis from the woman's vagina while he was secretly looking at them through the open door, he had seen that it was a small and slender organ. It did not look very hard, though. Now, as the hardness she felt behind her increased, she felt sorry for the boy. And she understood why he had come there.

Oberyn rose from Y/N, choosing to look down on her squirming body, and when he placed his strong hands on her waist, turning her like a wooden puppet, he spoke in a tone that showed his admiration. "To touch you is like defying the gods. But it is worth it; I am willing to burn with your fire."

Y/N tried to catch her breath and digest his words. The intensity of Oberyn's gaze startled her, but it also made her feel stronger than she had ever felt before.

The invisible attraction between them grew stronger with each second as the captivating scent of basil and sandalwood filled their lungs.

Oberyn would prepare Y/N for their new position. She was wet enough, eager enough... But she was still just a young. This time he didn't ask her. He placed his hands under her knees and made her stretch her legs. This way, Oberyn could easily slide between her legs, making sure her slit, which was burning with pleasure and completely covered in precum, was spread apart so he could insert his cock between them.

Y/N gasped as her prince's vein-throbbing cock pressed against her inner lips, and she punched the bed with sudden force. "Fuck," she screamed. Oberyn laughed with pleasure. "What would the priests and common people do if they knew that Daughter of Water they worship as a sacred virgin was screaming lust under a foreign man?" he asked breathlessly, his voice stinging and mocking. The girl's virgin pussy was so wet that the liquid leaking from her legs began to spread on the blue fabric of the bed.

Oberyn was forcing his way into her vagina, first grabbing his cock in his hand and flicking it against her clit, then stroking it all the way around her vagina a few times, then inserting a few millimeters of his tip into her vagina, but it never went in. This was driving Y/N crazy. "Fuck you, Martell!" she screamed, a phrase she had heard a whore say in the past. "I want you inside me now." As rude as it had sounded at first, she now realized how useful it was.

Oberyn was provoked by the girl's words. With sudden movements, he grabbed her by the arms, straightened her up, and hugged her as if he wanted to crush her. He pulled the hair covering her ears hard and growled through his teeth. "Do you want me to fuck you like your whore mother, Y/N? Turn the holy virgin into a holy whore?"

Y/N was aroused by these words. It was interesting that Oberyn treated her differently than other people. "Yes," she moaned, "I want you to fuck me like a whore."

The more the girl begged him, the more Oberyn became greedy. "You really need to be fucked hard by a strange man, don't you, Y/N, huh? Tell me!"

Y/N moaned breathlessly, "Oh, yes, I just want to be Prince Martell's bitch!"

Oberyn got off the bed without letting go of the girl's arm and stood on his feet. He turned the girl's back to him and placed his chin on her shoulder. One of his hands was pushing her back as he spoke. "Bend over, my holy whore," he commanded.

Y/N did as he said immediately and pressed her upper body against the bed. Oberyn placed his strong hand on the girl's back to find the position she needed and made her chest press a little more against the bed. Y/N's full ass was now clearly visible to Oberyn's eyes. Smooth as porcelain and as aesthetic as a statue. Just below, between her ass cheeks, her full pussy lips were glistening with precum reflected by the candlelight. So needy, so delicious and worthy of being spanked without tolerance...

Oberyn first placed his fingers on Y/N's right ass cheek. He caressed it gently. Then he repeated the same for her left as he now held her cheeks with both hands and stretched them to the sides. And suddenly he slid his penis into the girl's vagina. Y/N was startled and breathless when she suddenly felt his cock in her vagina. She wanted to get up, but Oberyn's hand was still on her back, keeping her steady.

Oberyn’s cock completely enveloped Y/N’s vagina. It was neither too tight for him. He threw his head back in pleasure as the rough, warm walls of her vagina encased Oberyn’s smooth manhood. “Oh, gods! I hope they’re watching us.”

It had been a long time since Oberyn had been inside such a tight vagina, and he was lost in longing for the pleasure it gave him. Each time he pushed his huge snake inside her, his swollen balls slapped against her clit, stimulating both her g-spot and her clitoral, nearly bringing her to tears.

“You like that, don’t you?” Oberyn asked between growls. “Tell me you want me, Y/N, tell me you want your prince’s big, hard, juicy cock in your horny cunt!”

Y/N was panting. With the intensity of the pleasure she experienced, tears started to flow from her eyes and she started to cry, her moans became louder and echoed in all the frescoes. "Oh, yes, I want my prince's cock inside me."

A wild moan came out of her throat with each impact as he rooted it into her tight hole. And he continued to push rhythmically. "Feeling you from the inside is like a mortal tasting heaven."

Both of them were about to reach the peaks of pleasure. Y/N's tight vagina felt Oberyn's hardness and veined surface down to its smallest cell. Oberyn's penis, on the other hand, was wrapped in Y/N's warm and knotted walls, twitching like a pulse.

At this moment, Oberyn's attention was drawn to a mirror hanging on the wall opposite the bed.

Its frame was delicately shaped and decorated with mythological figures. Women's faces, looking up as if praying to the gods, were intertwined among sacred texts embroidered in gold. Its surface was like natural water, radiating a wavy light.

Oberyn grabbed Y/N's arms before he could pull her toward him. His head found its place in the curve of her shoulder, his lips caressing her cheek as he asked if the mirror was related to her sacredness nonsense. Y/N tried to regain her composure, her breath coming back to her. Then he answered. It was a mirror made solely to reflect Y/N's virginal and "sacred" body.

There was irony in Oberyn's eyes as he emerged from Y/N, examining her as if she were a being as fragile as glass. He gently wrapped his fingers around Y/N's arm and led her to the mirror, speaking in a voice that echoed off the cold stone floor of the room. "Is this it? Is this the holy light they believe in?

The mirror had made Y/N an icon in this world. To the priests, her silhouette on the mirror's shiny surface was a mark as pure as the touch of the gods. But now... this was a night when that holy glow would be tested.

He entwined his fingers in her hair and stroked her encouragingly. "A reflection, a vision shining on the surface of the glass..." then Oberyn touched her perfect curves as if introducing their naked bodies. "But you are the real thing, Y/N. Blood, living, human..." he pulled aside the hair covering her neck and kissed her passionately. Each kiss was wet and sincere.

Y/N turned her gaze away from the mirror. But Oberyn held her chin and turned her face back to the mirror. Now her reflection was not of the godlike light she was used to, but of the heat of excitement in her body.

"We will continue here," Oberyn said softly, almost a whisper. "You will see the girl reflected in the mirror free from her chains. Now...bend."

Y/N felt guilty despite everything. When she saw herself in the mirror, she felt in her heart that she had broken the trust of the people, the priests, and even her mother in her. While the words that had been flying in the air just now disappeared, the image reflected in the mirror hit her with all its concreteness. But she never gave in to the impositions of the people, she did not really want to play the role assigned to her. The reflection she saw had changed; she was no longer an innocent icon, but the silhouette of a woman who did not hide her feelings.

Oberyn ordered her in a harsher tone this time. And he grabbed her waist tightly and helped her bend forward with a rough intervention. Y/N spread her legs. Her clitoris and vagina were still pulsing, and the colorless fluid was leaking from her legs. And when Oberyn slid back inside her, she groaned, realizing that she was still as hard as iron. He fucked Y/N much faster now. He gripped her arms to support himself comfortably and control his movements, and pressed his fingertips tightly into her flesh. Her firm breasts, defeated by gravity, shook and quivered as Oberyn moved rapidly inside her. Her vaginal walls tightened and pierced her joints each time he entered, announcing his presence to her entire body, and when he left, he created a huge void.

Oberyn leaned toward her ear, his voice trembling with a snarl. "You want their imposed sanctity to be destroyed, don't you?" She was out of breath, her moans mixing with each other. "Look in this mirror," he said, his voice so firm that Y/N obeyed. "Your innocence, your beauty, the reflection they loved so much to worship. But tonight, the gods saw you differently." He pulled her arms tightly toward him, still thrusting; he pressed his lips to her ear. His growls were still wild and ambitious. "You are breaking free from being their temple and carving your own path." When Y/N looked into the mirror, the smooth, godlike silhouette that had symbolized her virginity was replaced by the traces of sin. Now, on the surface, a body moved by Oberyn's hands, a body shaking with passion, a lustful cry on her lips. This was the story not only of a body but also of the liberation of her soul. The moment came with a mocking smile that came from Y/N’s own voice. The words she managed to squeeze out between her moans were, “Perhaps the gods are not jealous of me, but of the pleasure I feel in sinning.”

Oberyn laughed softly at her words, then took her chin between his fingers, holding her face in the mirror. As if he were addressing the gods who ruled the room, he spoke into Y/N’s skin, almost a whisper but threatening. “Look and learn. This woman has rejected your lies, and now she lives here, with her own desires, her lust. That is true holiness. That is true power.”

With the spasms and twitches that betrayed the coming of a perfect orgasm, Oberyn pressed his lips to Y/N’s. They were kissing wildly. Wet and hard. Their tongues danced in harmony. He continued, his rasping voice not taking his lips away. “I will miss this night so much… I would take you to my palace.”

Y/N could not even answer for all the pleasure she was feeling. Oberyn continued to bite and kiss her ears, neck, and jawbone. They were now close to their orgasm, their moans echoing through the room.

"Y/N, are you ready?" he moaned. Y/N was in sync with Oberyn's pace. He spoke without taking his lips off hers. "Oh, Y/N, you're perfect for me." Oberyn let go of her arms and grabbed her waist to increase his pace. He sped up, faster and faster. The "snap" sound of their flesh slapping against each other drowned out his words.

Y/N closed her eyes tightly and breathed deeply. Her chest rose and fell. The pleasure made her head spin so much that when she stretched her arms out to the wall to keep her balance, her hands gripped the edge of the mirror tightly. "Oh, my prince!" The sacred mirror trembled along with Y/N's shaking body as Oberyn continued to fuck her at a steady pace. Her balance was completely off and she was leaning to the left, at an acute angle to the wall.

Oberyn finally came inside Y/N. He clenched his glutes so tightly in pleasure that her pits were clearly visible. Y/N came at that moment. As the electrifying electricity of her orgasm coursed through her body, she used her power disproportionately against the mirror, causing the already unbalanced sacred mirror to slide down the wall and fall to the floor as Oberyn wrapped his arms around her. The sacred mirror, now shattered into hundreds of pieces, now reflected Oberyn and Y/N's lust from every angle.

Both were out of breath. Y/N’s head was resting on the prince’s shoulder, her eyes closed and her legs shaking in exhaustion as she tried to control her breathing. If Oberyn hadn’t wrapped his strong arms around her, she would have collapsed to the ground. Her juices mixed with Oberyn’s cum and seeped from the sides of his massive penis, branching out from her legs and running down to her ankles.

Y/N’s eyes caught her reflection in the broken mirror on the floor. The impositions of virginity, sanctity, the gift of the gods had vanished one by one.

Her ears were still ringing when Oberyn released her. “No more sanctity,” Y/N said, her breath coming in short gasps, her voice carrying a dark pleasure and a hint of mockery. “The Water's Daughter of Pentos, destroyed by her own decisions.”

Oberyn took her face in his hands and kissed her passionately on the forehead. “Holiness is a chain only for the weak,” she said, her voice a whisper of defiance. “You are not a daughter of the gods, but of your desires and your freedom. If you have power in this world, it is your will to be your own.”

The reflection in the shards was a sign of chaos for Y/N’s people. The holy virgin was now tainted; a crisis of faith would erupt between the priests and the people who believed that her body would bring fertility. When the land lost its fertility, the priests would surely blame Y/N. But Y/N felt the lightness of freedom, not the weight of her sin, in the mirror.

“Oberyn,” she said, her eyes now on Oberyn’s. “These people sought to enslave me to their gods. But now I will show them that I am only mortal. I am neither holy nor cursed. I am only myself.”

Oberyn smiled, with the pride of a victorious general. "And so I chose you," he said, his fingers touching her cheeks. "These people wanted to use you for the gods, but you lit your own light. Now all will see that you belong only to yourself."

The mirror no longer symbolized holiness, but rebellion and freedom. Y/N's reflection reflected her own choice instead of the definitions that had once been imposed on her. The chaos of the people and priests would echo a revolution that had begun in front of the mirror.

The morning sun of Pentos rose above a continual chaos. The streets of the city were filled with talk of the fall of Daughter of Water and the lies of the priests. Whispers of Y/N’s loss of sanctity had spread to every corner of the city; the woman who had been seen as a symbol of fertility was now a sinner in the eyes of the people. The priests tried to erase the traces of this event that had shaken their faith, making promises to keep the people in check. But the roots of the chaos were too deep. The lands of Pentos would never be the same again.

Oberyn Martell stood on the deck of a ship that waited silently in the harbor, taking one last look at the city he had left behind. A wry smile was on his face, a combination of the destruction he had left behind and the freedom he had gained. Y/N had chosen her own path, and with Oberyn’s touch she had broken the chains imposed on her. Her virginity may have been sacred, but no one could offer that sacredness to the gods anymore.

This city was merely a stopover for Oberyn, the beginning of another adventure.

“Prince Oberyn,” the captain said, coming up behind him. “We are ready.”

Oberyn turned once more to Pentos. His eyes scanned the horizon of the city, his thoughts following the chaos he left behind. “Divinity,” he muttered to himself, “is a lie invented only by the weak. But chaos… that is the true gift.”

He walked across the deck to the prow of the ship. He leaned his hands on the side rails as the salty air rising from the sea filled his lungs. His heart beat with the excitement of a free man. The marks he had left on the city would not be forgotten for long, but Oberyn had no place in his life for the burden of the past. The seas and new horizons, pleasures to be discovered and vengeance to be taken, answered his call.

The skyline of Pentos grew smaller as the ship slowly left the harbor. Oberyn turned and looked to the horizon. The sun was drawing a golden path across the seas, heralding a new adventure. "The story of Pentos is over," he said to himself, "but mine is just beginning."

And so The Red Viper of Dorne set sail for new adventures, leaving a city full of chaos in his wake. The lands and peoples that awaited him were ready to bear the mark of Oberyn Martell.

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