#I have seen visions of a dark future

[ghostisredacted]

i really neeed to draw my ddsb SAYER ai designsss.....

[colouredbyd]

“Tell Me You Will Believe Me”

poly!marauders x fem!reader

summary: Your visions as a Seer used to be harmless—until they turned dark. Now, you find yourself caught between protecting the people you love and the terrifying truth only you can see.

wc: 3.6k

warnings: emotional abuse, graphic violence, dark themes, angst, betrayal, emotional withdrawal, mental health struggles (anxiety, depression), trauma, past trauma, death of a loved one, remus being a sweetheart, visions of future tragedy, so much hurt/comfort, LOTS of angst but then happy ending <3

authors note: i should be studying but this idea has been on my mind for weeks so i decided to just write it, enjoy the major angst with comfort. Im trying to test my skills, idk should i do part 2 or leave the ending like this?

part 2 masterlist

It started slowly. Almost imperceptibly.

At first, you skipped breakfast. Said you’d meet them later in class. You didn’t.

Then you stopped holding Sirius’s hand in the hallways. Your fingers used to seek his like a reflex—lacing together as naturally as breath. Until one day, his hand brushed yours and you flinched, pretending not to notice. He didn’t say anything, just shoved his hands into his pockets and looked away.

You stopped waiting for James after class too. Where once you leaned against the wall with a playful grin, teasing him about being late, now you left as soon as the bell rang. “Thought you’d already gone,” you’d lie, when he showed up confused and breathless, eyes searching the corridor for you.

You started skipping Hogsmeade weekends, claiming migraines, unfinished essays, fatigue. “I’ll just stay in and rest,” you’d say, brushing kisses onto their cheeks like goodbyes. “You go. Have fun my love.”

They noticed, of course. The boys weren’t blind.

But you were clever.

You still smiled when spoken to. Still said “love you” back. Still sat beside them at meals—even if you barely touched your food, barely looked up, barely breathed. You learned how to be present without being there. An echo. A ghost in your own skin.

The boys watched you like you were slipping underwater, helpless to stop it.

One evening, James sat beside you on the Gryffindor common room couch, his voice low and joking, “You’ve got this whole ‘mysterious tragic poet’ thing going on lately baby. Should we be worried?”

You forced a laugh. “I just haven’t been sleeping well.”

He smiled at you, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We miss you.”

“I’m right here, Jamie,” you whispered.

-

The smell of fire, of burning flesh. Someone’s laugh twists into a scream that ends too fast.

-

But you weren’t. Not really.

“Take her and RUN, Sirius!” Remus roars, storming forward and grabbing him by the collar, shoving him back like the fire behind him hasn’t already started swallowing everything whole. “NOW!”

There’s blood in Remus’s mouth when he speaks, on his hands when he clutches Sirius, on his temple where something struck too hard, too fast. His lips are trembling but his eyes are terrifying—brighter than the firelight. They burn with something final.

“Moony—” Sirius chokes, voice hoarse with panic, tears already rising. “I can’t—”

“THERE’S NO TIME!” Remus howls, like it’s killing him to say it. “You don’t look back. You don’t come back. You take her and you fucking run, do you hear me? You keep her safe—Sirius, please—

-

-

“Hey hey hey pretty girl, look at me breathe for me come on.”

Sirius’s voice breaks through your fog. He’s kneeling in front of you now, his dark eyes wide with concern. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Dorca and Peter are there too, hovering close by, their faces twisted in worry. They’re all looking at you, their concern thick in the air.

“Are you alright?” Remus asks, voice soft, but there’s something underlying—something urgent in his tone. He crouches beside you, his eyes searching for an answer you don’t have.

You open your mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. You feel pathetic having a panic attack infront of everyone. The vision’s weight is still on your chest, pressing down on you, suffocating you. It feels like the whole world is closing in.

Sirius looks like he might reach for you, but he hesitates, as if afraid to touch you. The intensity of the moment hangs heavy in the air. “You’re scaring me princess.” he says quietly, eyes softening.

And for the first time in days, you feel something like a tremor in your chest—like the weight of their love, their worry, is finally sinking in.

“please just hold me.” you hiccup through sobs, your voice sounding too small, too fragile. But the words feel hollow in your mouth.

And they do, they hold you until you feel safe enough. 

It was Remus who saw through it first.

He’d catch you staring into the fire too long. Flinching when the wind howled against the castle windows. He noticed your fingers trembling when you thought no one was looking. The way your hands hovered just above the boys’ shoulders when they leaned in—like you wanted to touch them, like you were afraid to.

“Are you alright, dove?” he whispered one night, his hand brushing your arm.

You blinked, startled. You hadn’t even noticed him sit beside you.

“Fine,” you said too quickly, too brightly. “Just tired.”

He didn’t believe you. He never did.

But he let you go.

After that, everything became quieter, not the visions though. They got worse, more clear, and more horrifying. 

You stopped calling Sirius by his stupid nicknames. No more “Padfoot,” no more “Starboy.” Just “Sirius,” plain and clipped.

You forgot James’s birthday. The guilt nearly ate you alive, even as you watched him pretend not to be disappointed.

You stopped reading with Remus at night. Once, you’d fall asleep curled against his chest while he read aloud, voice soft and warm against your temple. Now, you claimed headaches. Stayed in your bed. Doors locked.

They started whispering when they thought you couldn’t hear.

“She doesn’t laugh anymore,” James murmured one night.

“I think she’s scared,” Sirius replied. “Of what, I don’t know.”

“Us?” Remus said quietly.

-

-

“They know. They know, James—run!” and then footsteps and a crash and nothing.

A golden ring in a pool of blood. The sound of Sirius sobbing into Remus’s shirt. “They said she was dead. They said—”

Remus’s breath on your neck. “Run.”

 Smoke curling under a door you don’t recognize.

The sound of chains dragging across stone. Always the chains.

Blood on parchment.

Your name scrawled across it again and again and again.

-

-

You pretended you were asleep, but your pillow was wet.

Until one night, Sirius finally snapped.

You were halfway through dinner in the Great Hall when he slammed his goblet down and growled, “Alright, what the hell’s going on with you?”

You blinked, startled.

“You don’t look at us anymore,” he hissed. “You don’t touch us. You barely speak. If you want to leave, just say so, but stop pretending everything’s fine.”

“I don’t want to leave,” you said, voice breaking.

“You already have.”

And when you looked at him—really looked—you saw it: the shadow of his future, the one you’d dreamed a hundred times. Screaming behind bars. Eyes hollow.

You turned away. “Please. Just let it go.”

And he did. Because even angry, Sirius would always choose you. Always love you, even when it tore him apart.

Then weeks turned into a month.

Then a month turned into two. 

And you kept fading—slowly, quietly, like death by a thousand unspoken words.

Until Remus couldn’t take it anymore.

Until that night in the library when he found you curled into yourself like a broken star, and you shattered in his arms and told him everything.

You were in the library at nearly midnight—eyes hollow, curled in the farthest back corner like you were trying to vanish into the stone.

You didn’t hear Remus at first.

But suddenly, he was there—standing in front of you, pale and shaking, with something desperate in his eyes.

“You’re done hiding.”

His voice trembled. You looked up, startled.

“I tried to give you space,” he said quietly. “I tried to trust you. Its been two months and 4 days (Y/n). I can’t anymore. You’re fading right in front of me. And I don’t care how much you lie and pretend you’re okay—you’re not.”

You stood too fast, the chair scraping behind you. “Please, just let it go rem.”

“No, dammit!” he snapped. “You shut us out. You stopped letting us love you. You look at James like you’re already mourning him. You look at Sirius like he’s glass. And you haven’t looked at me like anything in weeks.”

Your hands were shaking. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“I don’t want protection, I want you!” he shouted.

The silence that followed was deafening.

His eyes were glistening. “Tell me what’s happening. Even if it hurts. Even if it ruins everything. Please.”

You stared at him, throat tightening, vision blurring. 

Remus’s hands trembled as they gently cupped your face, his eyes searching yours for answers. The weight of everything was pressing down on him now, and he could feel the tension in your body, the way you were holding yourself back.

“Please, just tell me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, pleading. “I need to know, I need to understand what’s happening to you.”

You closed your eyes, tears brimming, throat tight with the truth you couldn’t bear to say. You’d been holding it in for so long, the fear, the guilt. It was all too much.

“Tell me you will believe me,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out. “Please. Tell me you will believe me.”

Remus’s breath hitched at your words, his grip on your face tightening slightly as if to pull you closer to him, as if to anchor himself to you. His heart was racing now, but his voice was steady. “I will,” he promised, his voice raw with desperation. “I believe you. I always will.”

You sank to the floor, legs giving out, and he followed, arms catching you before you could crumble completely. And then, for the first time in weeks, you told someone the truth.

“I’ve been having visions.”

He froze, but didn’t speak.

The words hung in the air between you like a spell. You couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t face his eyes yet. The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating, but then Remus exhaled like he had been holding his breath too, his hands moving to hold yours tightly.

“What do you mean? Visions?” His voice was filled with concern, but there was something else there—something dark, like he already knew this wasn’t just a simple problem. This wasn’t something you could brush off with a shrug and a laugh.

You pulled your hands away, holding them against your chest, as if protecting yourself from the storm you knew was about to break.

“It’s like—I see things. Fragments. Pieces. But they’re never in order, Remus.” Your voice broke, and you cursed yourself for sounding so weak, for not being able to keep it together just a little longer. “Sometimes, I’m in them. Sometimes, I’m not. But it’s always horrible. Always the same. It’s—it’s the end, Remus. The end of all of us.”

Remus’s eyes never left you. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t say a word, but his face twisted with confusion and concern, his brow furrowed like he was trying to make sense of the puzzle you were handing him.

“The night we’re all going to die,” you continued, your throat raw. “I’ve seen it, over and over again. I—I see James… He’s screaming. I see Sirius… He’s… he’s not himself. And you’re—” You stopped yourself, unable to finish the sentence, the emotion too raw to put into words. “You’re not there. You’re gone, Remus. And it’s my fault.”

Remus’s face went pale as he absorbed what you were saying, his jaw tightening with the weight of your words. He reached out, his fingers grazing your arm, but you jerked back, your heart racing as you continued, desperate to say it all before it consumed you.

“I’m not always there, but when I am… It’s like I’m not even alive. I watch from some place far away. Sometimes, I see myself dead.” You let out a shaky breath, trying to hold it together. “I see James and Sirius, and I—God, I can’t breathe. I just… I can’t fix it, Remus. I can’t stop it. There’s a traitor, someone in our circle, someone close, and they’re going to betray us. James dies, Sirius gets blamed. They throw him in Azkaban… And I—I get taken, or worse.”

Remus’s hand reached out, but you flinched away, guilt and fear flooding your chest. You couldn’t look at him anymore. You couldn’t look at anyone, not with this knowledge hanging over you.

“I’ve been pushing you all away,” you whispered. “I’m scared, Remus. I’m terrified. I’ve been trying to protect you, to protect all of you. But I can’t stop what’s coming. I can’t stop it. And it’s eating me alive. I’m watching all of us die and I can’t do anything about it.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you didn’t dare let them fall. You were already too weak. Too broken. You couldn’t bear to show him any more of your fragility.

“Please, Remus, you have to promise me—promise me you won’t tell them.” Your voice was barely a whisper now, a plea. “Not yet. Not until we know what to do. I don’t know how to stop it, but I have to try. I have to do something, and I can’t do it alone.”

His hand was trembling as he cupped your face, lifting it so that you had no choice but to meet his eyes. His gaze was filled with so much pain, but also an understanding that shattered you further.

“Don’t ever think you’re alone in this, dove,” he whispered. “I’m with you. Always. We’ll find a way to stop it.”

You collapsed into his arms then, the sobs you’d been holding in finally breaking free. He held you tight, letting you cry it all out, his hand rubbing your back in comforting circles.

When the tears subsided, he whispered into your head, “ I believe you, dove.”

And in that moment, you finally allowed yourself to believe it too—believe that together, you might still have a chance to rewrite the ending.

The days that followed were desperate, and the sense of dread hung thick in the air.

The Marauders—Sirius, James, and Remus—refused to leave your side. Remus spent hours with you, pushing you to strengthen your Occlumency, your focus unwavering as he guided you through each mental block. His presence was a steady reassurance, though the unspoken tension between you both never quite lifted. The weight of what you’d seen in that vision was suffocating, and you had to push yourself to stay strong for them. For him.

Every moment, every glance you exchanged with your boyfriends felt charged with the weight of a looming secret. You knew things were changing, but you couldn’t tell them yet. Not until you knew the truth.

And so, you turned to your studies, hoping that if you immersed yourself in magic, in spells that might give you a fighting chance, the gnawing fear would subside.

It was a normal evening. The fire crackled merrily in the common room, casting a warm, golden glow over the four of you. Sirius sprawled out on the couch, teasing James as he flicked through a Quidditch magazine, his signature grin pulling at the corners of his lips. James was laughing, leaning over to nudge Sirius, while you and Remus sat across from them, trying to hold onto a semblance of normalcy.

For a fleeting moment, everything felt right. Remus caught your eye from across the room, and his lips curved into a small, reassuring smile. You returned it, but deep inside, the unease never fully disappeared.

“So, how’s the study session going baby?” Sirius asked, turning his head lazily toward you.

“It’s… fine siri.” you replied, your voice betraying none of the storm inside you. “Just trying to get through all this Occlumency nonsense.”

Remus laughed softly, his gaze never straying from you. “You’re doing great. You’re stronger than you think.”

James grinned. “You’re both scary smart,” he said with a wink. “I’ve been trying to catch up, but it’s been a slow process.”

Sirius chuckled, his usual mischievous energy making it feel like everything was just as it should be.

But then, in the blink of an eye, the room seemed to shift.

The dizziness hit first, so sudden you barely had time to brace yourself. Your vision blurred, and a rush of cold air washed over you. You pressed a hand to your temple, trying to steady yourself, but it was no use.

It wasn’t just dizziness. It was like the world itself was slipping away, replaced by something darker. A vision.

-

-

The world is suffocating—darkness swallowing everything.

The air is thick with screams—raw, guttural, pleading.

James’s glasses fall, shattered into pools of red.

The earth is drenched, soaked with fear, with blood, with everything you never wanted to know.

“Run!” Sirius’s voice cracks as he yanks you forward

You hear Remus, pleading, begging—

“Please, don’t look back. Just go!”

The air is heavy with the crack of spells, the sickening sound of bones breaking.

Sirius’s grip is all you have left to hold on to. You feel the weight of everything pressing down on you, but his voice is a lifeline.

“We need to go NOW.” You don’t look back, but you hear it. That scream.

James.

It’s not just a scream. It’s the sound of everything breaking. The sound of life ending.

It rips through you, through all of you, tearing something deep inside that you can’t even name.

Remus’s eyes lock with yours for a brief second, and in them, you see everything: fear, love, regret. “Don’t look back,” Remus’s voice is barely a whisper, 

The screams keep coming, one after the other. A storm of death and pain. Then, the worst sound of all.

Remus.

You hear him cry out—no, not cry out—begging. His voice breaking, splintering as if his very soul is being torn apart.

The sound cuts through the air like a knife, a desperate plea for mercy that doesn’t come.

The trees are closing in, but you can’t outrun the screams. You can’t outrun what’s happening.

Sirius stumbles, dragging you with him, but you both know it’s too late.

The ground is shaking now, trembling with the weight of death.

Something moves in the distance. Something that’s always been there, lurking, watching.

It’s him.

You hear the soft whisper of a name in your mind, but you don’t believe it.

The world stops.

The truth crashes through you, breaking you wide open.

The traitor.

The one you trusted.

The one who sold them out.

Everything you thought you knew is shattered.

-

-

Gasping for air, chest heaving, you felt the pressure of hands on your shoulders, holding you steady.

“Hey—hey, stay with me. You’re okay.”

It was Remus. His voice was strained with worry. But it didn’t make sense. None of it did.

The world was still spinning, and the faces around you were all blurry—except for one. The one that you couldn’t pull your eyes away from.

Peter was standing by the door. His eyes were unreadable.

And in that moment, you knew.

“Peter.”

The word was barely a whisper, but it hit the room like thunder.

Remus’s grip tightened, his voice full of panic. “What are you saying? What do you mean?”

But you couldn’t answer. Your mind was reeling from the truth. The betrayal that had been right in front of you all along.

It was Peter.

[yinyuedijun]

When the Cult of Nikador conquers your city and sacks your temple, you are captured by the Crown Prince of Kremnos and taken as his war prize. (Or: The fall of Castrum Kremnos, as seen through the eyes of an oracle held captive by Prince Mydeimos.) ← part one | masterlist

11.6k words of romance, enemies to lovers, and slow burn. Canon-adjacent (multiple timelines theory) with ancient Greek historical and mythological influences. Warnings for themes of war, slavery, and sexual violence (none from Mydei, none inflicted on the reader). MDNI. dividers by @/strangergraphics.

Castrum Kremnos will fall.

Gazing upon the polis from the balcony of your room, you are sure of it: this is the town that you had seen in your vision, the one that had been succumbing to a sea of darkness and flood of monsters. The sky had been pitch-black—both moons gone, every constellation shattered—and the only light had been from the blaze of the fire tearing through the streets. The roars of mad Titankin and dying men had echoed into that strange night, the savage city howling in its death throes.

Castrum Kremnos will fall. The Black Tide will swallow it, and you will have your revenge. Oronyx would never lie to you, so you understand this for a fact. And because she would never lie to you, you also know this:

Prince Mydeimos will save you as his city falls.

You do not know what to make of it. The warrior who led an army into raping and plundering Aurelia will protect its High Priestess. The general of a warmongering tribe will take your hand and flee from battle. The lost prince who longed nine years for his home will abandon it to save you.

And the heir to a millennia of Strife cannot stand the sight of your blood—not even from a shallow cut across your palm.

You wonder if you have somehow misinterpreted Oronyx. But when you glance at Prince Mydeimos and catch him studying you with concern, you cannot help but believe that your understanding of your visions is truthful, at least in part. Even that of the one that bothers you the most—the one with all the children.

“Do you like dromases?” you ask him, and he blinks. You'd just been speaking of the Black Tide—its encroachment from all directions, Kremnos’ millennia of struggle against it, the good fortune that Aurelia had in avoiding it—so you suppose it is fair that he's surprised by the question.

“Dromases?” he inquires.

“Yes. You know—the long-necked purple creatures? They’re rather big. Hard to miss.”

He tries—and fails—to suppress an irritated sigh. “I know what a dromas is. I simply wondered if I'd misheard. Why on earth would you ask?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” he replies, cataloguing you. “You have never asked about my personal interests before.”

Ever since Oronyx blessed you with prophecies several nights ago, your captor has been frustratingly suspicious of all questions you've asked—and with good reason. Nearly every single one has been related to your supposed future with Prince Mydeimos. However, you would rather die than tell him that you will, at some point in the future, blissfully feed a dromas together before a crowd of giggling children. Worse than the scene itself had been the unadulterated joy you’d felt in it: the genuine delight in seeing Mydei—not your captor, not Prince Mydeimos, but Mydei—so free of sorrow and so… safe.

Safe. You will be safe with Mydei in a beautiful city of eternal sun and cerulean baths. You will be safe with the Crown Prince who sacked your temple and burned your lands. You are safe with your captor who keeps you locked in his room, dressed in chains.

It sends you into such misery that you can hardly think of it, let alone admit to it.

“Nevermind,” you dismiss. “It isn't important.”

The Crown Prince gives you a long look, but you turn your gaze back to the city before he can search you too carefully. The silence that passes is so uncomfortable that you pray he will let the matter drop—but then he replies, “I have always found them curious animals, but I have not had much opportunity to interact with them.”

“Oh.”

You catch him watching you, expectant. “And yourself?” he prompts. At your blank look, he adds, “Do you like them?”

Does it matter? you nearly parrot, before you realise he must think you care about his opinions about dromases, and now he cares about yours. The Crown Prince of Kremnos wishes to know your thoughts about the silliest of all of Georios’ creations, and you can't decide whether to laugh or cry at this absurdity.

You choose to deflect, in the end: “They’re quite useful for trade, yet I hardly ever see them here.” You gesture at the streets, which are filled with soldiers and horses, but bereft of the great beasts that populate the rest of Amphoreus. “I was wondering if Kremnoans had something against them.”

“Not against them, precisely. It is just that they are not often used in war—their disposition is too docile. And the terrain surrounding Kremnos is often too hostile for trade caravans to cross.”

You frown. “Too hostile? How do you get food?” You glance at the plate in front of you, filled with honeyed sweets. “The ingredients that you use when you cook—they’re always fresh.”

“Helots till the land outside Castrum Kremnos in our settlements. Everything else comes from surrounding city-states.”

Prince Mydeimos looks away. So do you. The implication is clear: Everything else we steal. Everything else is plunder. Because the city runs on war, and you know this. You know this because you are no different from fresh food or fine wine. You are plunder just like the brown-sugared apples in your cakes and the warm spice of cinnamon in your dishes, and you will be devoured in the same way—sacrificed to Nikador by the future King of Kremnos.

Aquila’s eyes bear down on Prince Mydeimos in judgment, and your chains gleam in the harsh Kremnoan sun. Some time in the future, a strange, eternal dawn lights up Mydei’s gentle expression, your barren wrists. You can still hear your own laughter at the sight of him feeding a dromas. You can still hear yourself giggling as you are lifted onto one for the first time, a toddler squealing in the arms of her mother.

The truth is that you are painfully fond dromases. They were everywhere in Aurelia, and you loved riding them in the days before you were initiated into the Cult of Oronyx, before you became untouchable in her temple. The truth is that some day in the future, you’ll be elated seeing Mydei with one of those beasts, and you'll have the idea of getting him to take the Kremnoan children on rides—just like how you once were.

You take a bite of your pastry, its syrup cloying on your tongue, and you feel like a traitor.

One night, during the Hour of Curtain-Fall, you wake up with a knife to your throat and a hand over your mouth.

You do not recognize the intruder. He is clad in black, a shadow in the moonlight spilling in through the window. “Come easy and I won't have to hurt you,” he says lowly, and that's when you know that he doesn't mean to kill you, but it doesn't stop you from fighting anyway.

The intruder does not expect you to wield a knife.

The motion comes easily to you after all your practice with the golden dagger—obsessive, fervored, a nightly ritual after your dreams of being raped, of being torn apart by golden gauntlets—and blade runs into the flesh of the man before you, cutting without resistance. But your aim is clumsy, untrained; while the intruder curses and recoils, he is neither killed nor deterred. His hands crush your wrists, pinning you to the bed.

“Fucking whore,” he spits as you kick and squirm beneath him, his blood dripping onto your sleeping garb. “You think I won't kill you if you're more trouble than you're worth?”

It's happening again. Aurelia is burning again. Your ivory chiton is being stained red; your body is being grabbed by violating, pilfering hands. You are going to be dragged away and stolen. You are going to be raped, for that's what happens to women who fall into the hands of the enemy—the hands of Castrum Kremnos. And unlike the first time, you are all alone—no worshippers at your back, no altar giving you strength, no Crown Prince to protect you.

Here, all alone in the hands of a beast, you scream the first thing that comes to mind:

“Mydei! Mydei—help!”

You don't actually expect help to come. You aren't even fully aware of what you're saying, if it even makes sense. But after several moments of shrieking and struggling, the door is forced open and the intruder is being pulled off your body and skewered on a blade. You hardly notice it, though, heart seizing with fear and mind flooding with panic. All you do is weep, feeling the hands that dragged you from your altar, recalling the dreams—visions?—of someone forcing their way inside you, and it takes you several moments to realise you are sobbing into someone's chest.

Someone is holding you. Someone’s arms are cradling you, and they're so warm and firm and safe. You have not felt safe in months, not since the soldiers broke through your temple doors, and now you're pressing yourself into this warmth, clinging to it. You think you'll die if you let go.

“It's alright,” someone says. Their voice is a low rumble, but gentle. “It’s alright. I have you. I have you.”

You are too busy sobbing to reply. A hand rubs your back until you have calmed, your senses returning to you. You look up when you do—

And you panic.

The golden eyes that glared down so hatefully at you when you were stolen, the figure of Strife that will kill you someday—they’re inches away from you. So close. Too close. You flinch, tearing yourself out of the hands that sometime, somewhere in the Evernight Veil, are forcing open your legs.

Even in your fear, you can see the pain in Prince Mydeimos’ eyes when you look at him with such terror.

“It's alright,” he tries to calm you. “I won't hurt you. No one will hurt you. I—”

“I know.” You close your eyes, count to ten as you shudder. I'm not in the temple. I'm not in the tent. I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I was raised not to weep. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. “I know you won’t. I’m well now. I'm fine. I'm sorry.”

“There's no need to be sorry.”

Except there is. You are sorry for how weak you are. For how desperately you clung to your captor in your moment of disgrace. For how warm you felt, how safe you felt. If you could apologise to all the corpses on your temple steps, you would. You would place their bones upon your altar and prostrate yourself, and then you would beg Talanton to punish you for your injustice toward them.

How did you feel safe in the arms of a man who killed your worshippers?

“Why did you come?” you ask. Your voice is tight, your anguish barely contained. Why aren't you hurting me? Why are you protecting me? Why are you going to save me as your city falls? But you know the answer, know it before he even says it—

“I told you I do not wish to see you harmed. Not even by a hair.” His voice, calm and deep, is so comforting, like the warm spice of cinnamon. You look down, feeling like a traitor.

“But I thought you stayed at the barracks at night,” you say, desperate to change the subject.

“Normally I do. But King Eurypon called me on business here, and he bid that I stay the night.” His voice grows irritated. “How convenient it is that the guards disappeared and an assassin entered my room on the same evening.”

Even through the fear, your mind works through the implications. “You think he came for you?”

“I know it.”

Your brow pinches. “But he told me to come with him. He—he wanted to abduct me.” You stare at Prince Mydeimos, at the way his mouth tightens, at the immediate outrage burning in his eyes, and then you understand. “…they wanted to take me as a hostage.”

He nods. “I may not have been here, but you would have made for a fine consolation prize.”

It is a ludicrous statement—so naïve that it shakes you out of your fear. An Aurelian general once came to you for counsel on what to do about his most beautiful courtesan, who had been stolen from him by an Aidonian warrior. When you foretold her eventual location, he marched upon the enemy and sealed her fate as a casualty.

“I don't know about that,” you say, thinking of the poor girl, of her mother weeping in your temple. “Whores and slaves generally make for poor hostages. They are too disposable to provide any political leverage.”

“Men have been known to act unwisely for their favoured concubines.”

“I am not your favoured concubine.”

He gives you a wry look. “You are not, yet I act unwisely over you anyway.”

You can hardly argue with this. Prince Mydeimos should have killed you the moment you alluded to his plans of regicide—instead, he has kept you in his room, pampers you with sweets, and has you accompany him on long walks. It’s maddening.

“You should start being crueler to me,” you grouse. “Maybe then I will be left alone by your enemies.” And it would be better for my own sanity.

Prince Mydeimos is unamused. “Even if I had any inclination to hurt you, I doubt it will make things any safer for you at this point.” He stares at the corpse with irritation. “I will need to come back after dealing with this body.”

You blink. “Come back? You won't return to the barracks?”

“No. I would not leave you alone after an attempt to abduct you. I will return and stay here for the night.”

The look that you give him is so affronted that he immediately realises his error.

“Only to safeguard you,” he explains hurriedly. “I would sleep at the door. Leave you alone.”

“I do not think you should stay.”

“I would not hurt you—I swear it.”

“I cannot swear that I would not hurt you.”

“That’s fine. Do whatever you want. You may even kill me as you so often wish—as long as you are kept safe, I don’t mind it.”

You look away, utterly lost. Killing him used to be your fantasy, your only purpose for staying alive. Now, the words make you feel hollow. “You only don't mind it because you won't really die,” you accuse. Deflect.

“Strictly speaking, I would. It’ll just be impermanent. I'm sure it will be no less satisfying for you, though—you will still get to see me suffer in my death throes.”

You do like the idea of him suffering. He would deserve it. Still, you are not a sadist. “If you truly decide to stay,” you reply noncommittally, “we may see for ourselves.”

“I'm certain we will,” he says dryly. He rises from the bed, steps toward the coprse. Says he’ll give you time to change—you only remember then that your nightwear is stained with blood—and that he will return soon enough.

But then he pauses. Hesitates.

“Is something wrong?” you ask.

“When you were calling for help,” he says slowly, “you screamed for someone named ‘Mydei’. Did you misspeak in an attempt to call for me? Or were you calling for someone else?”

You freeze. Scramble for an answer. You cannot tell him that you were calling for him—for you weren't, not really. You were calling out for the version of him that Oronyx showed you, the one in that beautiful city where you were both free and safe. Some part of you knows that Mydei would have saved you, knows it so surely that his name was the first and only thing you could think to scream. But assuming the same of Prince Mydeimos would make you an idiot: for all of his good behaviour, the man still has you in shackles, and he has never shown remorse for raining destruction upon your home.

Also, your ego would not be able to take admitting it was him.

“Someone else,” you reply firmly. At his skeptical look, you add, “Truly. Do you think I would call for the man who abducted me?” You give him an disdainful look, and although you can't seem to muster any fire behind it, he believes it all the same.

The suspicion leaves his eyes, and he nods. “This Mydei,” he asks, “is he someone close to you?”

“Close enough.”

“Who is he? A guard? A friend? A lover?”

Wouldn't I like to know. The possibilities make you feel like throwing up, and the pain in your voice is genuine when you reply, “I don’t wish to say. It doesn't matter.”

“I see.” His expression looks strange—an artefact of the moonlight, you want to think. “Well, whoever he is, he isn't here with you. Next time, you should just call for me.”

For the next three nights, Prince Mydeimos sleeps in your room.

He does as promised: he slumbers on the klinai near the door, never approaching your bed. You know this for a fact, for you stay awake the whole night. You stare at the ceiling, clutching your dagger until Aquila opens his eyes and Prince Mydeimos leaves for the day. It is only then you allow yourself to sleep, because even though you can now admit—with a great deal of misery—that the Crown Prince has no desire to hurt you, Aurelia is still burning behind you, and your heart is still rupturing in Nikador’s claws. But somehow, even with all of these memories and visions, you do not think of actually using your blade against the Crown Prince.

Then the fourth day comes.

Prince Mydeimos takes you out for a walk along a new path. It is busier than your usual ones on the rooftops and parapets, which are bereft of anyone other than the occasional warriors. On this long walk through one of the palace courtyards, there are not only guards and soldiers, but also statesmen and nobles—and slaves.

Some of them are in chains like you; some of them are in white caps. Many are soldiers, some are servants, and you see a few other concubines in garb not unlike your own: dressed beautifully in sheer silks, almost translucent and wholly indecent in how they cling to their bodies. But despite their expensive dresses and fragrance and rouge, all of them wear chains, gold or silver dangling from the manacles on their wrists or the collars on their necks. Some are even tied around their waists like belts, cruel and beautiful decoration. There are, you think, helots too—wearing ivory veils or flowers in place of the usual white cap. They are afforded slightly more dignity that way.

But regardless of their exact station—helot or slave—they are in the thrall of their owners, and they are subject to disproportionate punishment under Kremnoan law. You are startled when you hear a shriek pierce the quiet of the courtyard—anguished and pained and followed by begging.

Your eyes land on the source: a master and a slave. The slave is on the ground, her arms held up to shield herself from his strikes, her fiery hair curtaining over her face. She's trembling, cowering, reeling from the force of the abuse.

It feels familiar: both the terror and the pain. You think of the long march back to Castrum Kremnos, of being struck by that hoplite and stumbling to the ground. Prince Mydeimos had saved you then. He'd acted cruelly but he'd saved you, helped you up and took you onto his chariot, away from the Kremnoan soldiers.

But he's not saving her.

The slavemaster yells all sorts of profanities and accusations at the concubine. Prince Mydeimos’ eyes are intent on the two of them, his every muscle tense—but all he does is watch and listen. You stare at him, mouth agape. “Aren't you going to help?” you hiss.

“Were she a helot, I could,” he replies under his breath. “Helots are all owned by the state, and it would be my legal right to intervene. But slaves are private property, and I…”

I cannot draw undue attention to myself.

Your throat goes dry. Your heart pounds in your ears. Each time the Kremnoan kicks his slave, you nearly flinch; every time she begs for mercy, you want to clasp your hands over your ears. Your throat swells up and you think you might whimper—but I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I cannot cry, I cannot cry, I cannot—

She screams in Aurelian.

You tense. Look at your captor, look at the slave. Prince Mydeimos is staring at you, and he knows what you are going to do, but you bolt before he can stop you.

“Stop,” you cry in Kremnoan, “stop, stop!”

The slavemaster is so surprised when you come between them that he does stop. You don't look at him; you only focus on the concubine. She never worshipped at your temple much, but she came when she was younger, just after you rose to the position of hiereia and before the long conflict with Kremnos began. Kassandra, you think her name was. She must recognise you, for she clings to you immediately, starting to babble in your mother tongue. High Priestess, she cries, High Priestess, my lady, please help me, please help, please—

Her master pulls you off her and throws you to the ground. He kicks you so hard in the stomach that you nearly throw up. You writhe like a worm on the stone path, pathetic and disgraced.

It's exactly what you want.

He kicks you thrice more. Once in the stomach, and twice in the ribs, his foot cracking brutally against you. Kassandra weeps and throws her body over yours, begging him to stop, but then she goes as silent as death. The kicks stop too. When you look up, you see a golden gauntlet restraining the slavemaster’s wrist. The man has gone as white as a sheet.

“Aineidas,” Prince Mydeimos says in greeting. His voice is heavy with obvious displeasure. You note the lack of honorific. Not a strategos. Not an Elder. Not a noble—or not an important one, anyway. A warrior? But he's so old…

“Y-your Highness,” Aineidas greets. “It has been long since we’ve last seen each other.”

“It has. The Aurelian campaign was long.”

Aineidas glances at you. Realization flashes in his eyes, and you have to actively stop yourself from smiling.

“I heard your victory was stunning,” Aineidas says immediately, trying to ingratiate himself. “How disappointed I was that I could not fight alongside the Crown Prince and see you in your glory!”

“As am I,” Prince Mydeimos replies. “Had you been there, you would have recognized my war prize.”

His hand squeezes around Aineidas’ wrists. Both of them look at you; you try your best to appear pitiful. It does not come naturally to you—you were raised to act dignified no matter the situation; during your training, you were actually punished for looking unseemly after beatings—but you have teared up so much from being struck that you think it works.

“Yes,” Aineidas scrambles, “yes, I did not recognise her. You know I would not have otherwise punished the slave of the Crown Prince.”

“It is illegal to punish the slave of any citizen other than yourself.” Prince Mydeimos pauses, studying you. “Though it is particularly great folly that you have chosen to strike my concubine, of all people. Either way, you have broken the law.”

Aineidas swallows. He sweats and stares at his wrist, which looks distinctly breakable. “I—you must understand, Your Highness,” he beseeches, “I was not thinking clearly. I was only furious that someone had interfered with my punishment of my own slave.”

“An understandable error. Still, you have violated three Kremnoan laws: you have touched another man’s slave, you have damaged the property of the state, and you have disrespected the royal family.”

You try not to shudder. Property of the state. That's what you are, legally. If I belong to Prince Mydeimos, then it is Kremnos itself that owns me.

“Th-there must be something that can be done,” Aineidas stutters. “You know I have great wealth, Your Highness, business has been quite good lately”—ah, you think, he's a merchant—“so I am happy to recompense you for any damages.”

Damages? What am I, a fucking statue? you think, nearly scowling. But you manage to keep trembling, demure even when Prince Mydeimos leans down and touches your cheek with a gauntleted hand. Your first instinct is to spit in his face again—too close, too close, how dare you call me property—but you only stare at him, teary-eyed.

“I may have been the one slighted, but my concubine is the one who has suffered,” he says. “I would ask her what she requires to heal. That is the only true way to undo the damage to my property.”

You’re going to kill him. You have reached your limit, and you have decided you are going to kill him. For it is one thing to be called a slave, but it is another to be called property.

It is only Kassandra’s quiet sobbing beside you that makes you neglect your dignity. Your pride comes second to your worshippers. You grovel and weep before Prince Mydeimos, trying to strike a balance between sorrow and fear: I'm sorry for misbehaving, Your Highness, and I couldn't help myself, I know Kassandra from the temple, I loved her dearly, and I wish to see her safe, I wish to be with her.

Most importantly: You may punish me however you want. Kill me if you must. Just spare her, I beg you.

Prince Mydeimos discerns what you want him to ask: “Would it help calm you if you were to keep this slave by your side?”

“Yes,” you sob, “yes, it would. Oh, Your Highness, I'll do anything to please you”—you try not to gag—“so long as she is by my side.”

Prince Mydeimos turns to Aineidas. “Allow me to buy out your slave, and I will not take you to court over your follies today. As for the transgressions of my concubine against you, I shall see to it that she is punished appropriately.”

For good measure, you let out a terrified sob.

Aineidas is satisfied. The relief is palpable in his voice: “Yes, yes—take the blasted thing. Take her for free, even; the fault here is mine, and it is the least I can do to make up for my error. I must warn you that she is unsatisfying as a whore but decent as a maidservant. Try her out if you wish, but I would personally keep the priestess for warming your bed.” He pauses his rambling to glance at you. “...and I have no doubt you will discipline her, of course.”

“I will. I have gotten into the habit of spoiling her, but it seems that I still need to break her in.”

Oh, so now I'm a horse.

Aineidas makes a joke about how it is natural for men to spoil their most affectionate lovers—even the whores. Prince Mydeimos’ jaw tightens, but he does not say anything. The two men finish their exchange. Kassandra is sent back to Aineidas’ room to collect her things, while Prince Mydeimos walks you back to your quarters—

—and he rounds on you immediately once the door is closed.

The prince’s eyes flick up and down your form. They darken as they travel over your ribs and stomach, where dirt stains your silk robes, where the fabric hides a terrible ache.

“Why would you do that?” he snaps—almost snarls.

“Do what?” you ask mildly.

“Put yourself in harm’s way. Potentially get yourself killed.” He narrows his eyes at you. “Why is it such an uphill battle to get you to stay alive? Are you so desperate for Thanatos to take you?”

“I did not try to die,” you say delicately. “I was only trying to help. You had no legal right to intervene when Kassandra was being beaten—so I gave you one.”

“At the expense of your own well-being!”

“Well, it was either my well-being or Kassandra’s.” Your frown is deep, irate. “You said once you have a duty to your people. Well, I have a duty to mine. You may have made me a slave, but you have not made me a coward.”

He looks at the ceiling, as if praying to Nikador for the strength not to strangle you. “I do not need you to be a coward,” he grits out, “only to have some sense of self-preservation. What if Aineidas had been a soldier? What if he had run you through with a sword? Or what if he had been an Elder, or a noble—someone not so easy for me to deal with?”

“Then I would have been stabbed or whipped, like most other Aurelians.” You give him an accusatory look. “I don't even understand why you are so outraged when harm comes to me, when clearly you don't feel anything for other slaves. Is it that you don't want to see me hurt, or simply that you don't like to see your property damaged?”

You realise that you want to provoke him. You want him to yell at you. You want to hear him say that you are nothing but a whore. You want to realise that your supposed visions from Oronyx had merely been delusions, and you want to know that you will never again feel so safe and traitorous in the arms of the man who sacked your city.

You are disappointed when Prince Mydeimos merely sighs. He finds his composure, his rage subdued.

“You have to understand,” he explains wearily, “that I cannot save you all. Not in my current position.”

You go quiet. You can't say anything—because you know it's true.

“And I thought”—he gives you a pained look—“I thought it would be obvious by now that I do not see you as my property. I see you as a human being whom I wish to protect.”

Your heart wrenches at his expression. “Why,” you ask bitterly, “why me and not anyone else? Why not Kassandra? Why not the other Aurelians? Why only me?”

“I told you,” he says grimly, “I cannot help you all. Under Kremnoan law, I can only protect what belongs to me—and only you are mine.”

That night, you think of killing Prince Mydeimos in his sleep.

It is not exactly that you want him to die. You don't even think you want him to suffer. But you should. You should want to kill the man who took away your home. You should want to kill the prince responsible for putting thousands of people in chains. It does not matter how kind he is to you, how many sweets he feeds you, how warm you felt when he held you. A kind master is still a master. A pampered slave is still a slave. He says he sees you as a human being, but he's been keeping you like a pet. Something to be spoiled or broken in.

Have you been broken in? You can't think of any other reason why you'd be hesitating right now, holding your dagger to your captor’s throat. His soldiers didn't hesitate when they broke into your temple. They didn't hesitate when they dragged you out. They didn't hesitate when they put you in chains. The only time they paused was when they were trying to decide who should get to fuck your cunt first—who should get to steal the virginity of a holy maiden, who should get to defile the chosen oracle of a god they hate.

Aurelia is burning behind you. You taste ash and copper as the edge of your blade presses against your captor’s neck, its hilt gleaming under Oronyx’s moons. Prince Mydeimos is sleeping peacefully, the rise and fall of his chest slow and gentle. He doesn't look like a figure of Strife like this, like the general who sacked your city. He looks a little bit like the boy you saw drowning in the sea. He looks a lot like the man you saw in your visions: Mydei. Gentle enough to hand-feed dromases and play with children and tolerate your teasing. Your hand trembles as you think of him, the knife’s edge shivering against his pulse.

“You shouldn't hesitate.”

You startle. Prince Mydeimos is staring at you, fully alert—when did he wake up?—and before you can retreat, his hand clamps around your wrist and forces your blade to stay against his neck. His other one grabs you by the arm to pull you in.

You're nearly on top of him when he steadies your hand. It’s impossible to miss how his eyes burn into yours.

“If you are going to kill someone,” he says, his voice low in your ear, “you should act decisively. Slash the knife through the jugular and carotid as deeply and swiftly as possible. Do you want me to show you how?”

Do you?

You should. You should want to kill him. As long as he is alive, you belong to him; and as long as you belong to him, you are the property of the state that massacred your city. Killing him would be your only reprieve from that, even if only temporarily. Your hand tightens around the handle of your blade, chasing freedom; Prince Mydeimos bares his nape to you, his eyes cool. His hand tightens around yours, guiding you toward a lethal blow, to freedom—

—and a fragrance hits you. Cassia and pomegranates. Clinging to his skin and clothes. Obvious only now, when you are close enough with him to end his life.

It’s probably from when he made you dinner tonight.

Your meal had been an awkward affair. He'd delivered it himself for once, and he had been completely silent when he served it to you. He didn't even ask his usual three questions before leaving—though you noticed him trying. Someone else would have missed it, but not you. You could see it in his face when he wanted to talk to you, and you could also see it in his face when he realised that he didn't know how.

You should want to kill him. It would make you a traitor if you didn't. If you don't slash his throat open now, you should pray to the bones of your worshippers and beg Talanton to strike you down. And then you should slit your own throat for letting a Kremnoan touch you—for letting him put his arms around you, tender and warm.

But at the end of it all, the bones would remain bones. The corpses would stay strewn across the streets. Aurelia will always burn behind you. Neither justice nor death would reverse any of that. All you will have done is kill a man who worries so much for you that he goes out of his way to cook for you, just to make sure you don't starve. A man so gentle that he cannot stand the sight of your blood—not even from a tiny cut across your palm.

Your hold on your dagger—his dagger—grows slack.

“No.”

Prince Mydeimos watches you. “No? You aren't going to kill me? I thought you wanted to slit my throat.”

“I do,” you bite out. “I’d slit your throat and drink your blood if it meant I could go home and see my loved ones…" Your voice gets quiet, then. Brittle. "But it wouldn't.”

You lower your knife. Prince Mydeimos lets you. He takes it from your hand and, for one moment, you wonder if you've pushed him too far and he'll use it to finally kill you. But he doesn't—of course he doesn't—and instead moves it away from you.

“You should be more careful handling a weapon like that,” he says patiently. “I don't want you to hurt yourself.”

Something inside you crumples. Your anger collapses, folds into shame, into loathing—whether not for being able to take his life or for threatening it in the first place, you aren't sure.

“You should just take that thing away from me,” you reply dully as you pull away from him. “Clearly, I can't be trusted with it. Nor is there any need for it.”

Prince Mydeimos sits up with you. “You've used it against one man who would be your abductor, and another man who already is. Clearly it is fulfilling a need for you.” He takes the knife into his hand, his expression turning curiously wry as he studies it. “In fact, it’s helped you more than it helped its previous owner, and certainly more than it has helped me. I would like for you to keep it.”

He holds it out to you again, returning it to your hands. It's still warm for your violent touch, from his gentle one. You stare at it: beautifully carved, bejewelled but not gaudy. The carved lion on its hilt stares at you in the moonlight, and it suddenly occurs to you that the beast is a symbol of the Kremnoan royal family: the mark of Gorgo's trophy.

“Who exactly was its previous owner?”

“My mother.”

You look at him, astonished. His gaze is neutral, and it remains as such even when you exclaim, “This belonged to Queen Gorgo?” Why would you give it to me? you want to ask, but your mind takes you elsewhere.

You do not know what Queen Gorgo looks like—you have never seen a portrait or come across a description in any of the histories—yet the image of her comes to you, unbidden. Golden hair and ocean-blue eyes. A lion’s corpse is stretched out at her feet. She's holding your dagger, along with a cup of ambrosia filled with venom.

A poisoned woman with a golden dagger—the one you dreamt about after Prince Mydeimos captured you.

“Your mother didn't die of illness, did she?” you ask. When Prince Mydeimos blinks, you say, “She was poisoned.” Your mind races, trawling through all the hints that the Crown Prince has let slip over the past two moons, all the signs in your dreams: The vision of a son killing his father. The sight of a young king on a bloody throne. I will not be the kind of king my father is, Prince Mydeimos had said. Haven't you seen what he's done?

“She was poisoned by your father,” you realise. “You want revenge.”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a startled look. “I will never get used to that.”

“Used to what?”

“How you just know things.”

“So I’m right?”

He gives you a curious look. “You weren't sure?”

You shrug. “Unless I'm directly appealing to Oronyx with prayer and sacrifice, she only gives me vague hints of things. A lot of prophesying is guesswork around those hints.”

“Then you must have very good intuition.”

“It is a practised skill, actually. I had to cultivate it to become a hiereia.”

You pause for a long moment, studying him in the ways you were trained to dissect princes and lords. Noticing the way he's staring at Gorgo’s dagger, soft and almost longing. The way his shoulders are sagging, weighed by something invisible. The way he shifts idly, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders—sore from sleeping like shit for the past few nights, you guess. Prince Mydeimos doesn't trust any of the palace guards anymore, so it's become an indefinite arrangement for him to stay the night, slumbering on the klinai. I don't know who else will try to take you, he'd said, so for now we will need to keep doing this.

Not if, not when, but who.

“You don't have anyone you can rely on in this palace, do you? Not since your mother died.”

Prince Mydeimos tenses. “No. Just Krateros. He provides steadfast support and wise counsel—his loyalty is unquestionable.”

“But his influence has limits,” you reason. “Otherwise you would not be sleeping by a door every night just to safekeep a lowly slave.”

“You are not lowly to me,” he says, offended, and you can hardly believe how earnest he is. He really will make for an idiot king at this rate, you think, to care so much for someone of my status.

It should not matter to you if he will be incompetent at rule, but you chide him anyway: “I should be lowly. I should even be worthless. My life has no meaning to you—you should not be exerting yourself over me. But you have no men here you can trust to handle this for you.” Something inside you sinks. “You really have no one here at all.”

He sighs—quietly, but clearly. “Besides Krateros, you are the person least hostile to me in this palace.”

“Then I am shocked you have not yet been killed.”

“I have been—just not permanently.”

You go quiet. Prince Mydeimos is not bitter in his words; they are matter of fact, a sign of a man who has died so many times that it no longer bothers him. But the words inspire something wretched in you. You think of a baby drowning in the sea, wailing and dying over and over again—then returning home, full of hope, only to drown again in that same, poisonous tide.

Your reaction is instinctive: Revulsion. Rage. Horror.

Guilt.

You should not feel guilty. You should not feel pity for a man who took everything away from you. But you still find yourself looking away, your hands curling in on themselves.

“It must tire you,” you say softly, “that after treating me so kindly for so long, I nearly killed you tonight.” You glance at the dagger, which you have held for so long in your sleep for no reason. “I should really return this to you.”

He waves a hand. “Don’t concern yourself over tonight. It is nothing. This is Kremnos; vicious fights between acquaintances are common. Every person I know has had a blade held to their neck at some point and thought nothing of it after the fact.”

Your brows raise. “Truly?”

“Truly. Actually, my mother held this very dagger to my father’s throat.”

Your eyes go wide. “And what did he do after? Punish her? Or… is that why he killed her?”

Prince Mydeimos gives you a strange look. “Of course not,” he says. “He married her.”

You wake up the next morning with ugly bruises on your ribs. You feel them before you see them, the ache so severe that you hiss when you try to rise from bed. Every breath has you feeling like something is piercing your lungs; every movement has you wanting to gasp. As you grit your teeth and struggle, you cannot help but think of Prince Mydeimos’ anger at your behaviour the day before, and something inside you crumples once more. You'd crawl under the bed if it wouldn't hurt so much.

The prince himself is gone, but as if in anticipation of your injury, he has arranged for a healer to see you. Later in the day, Kassandra arrives as well—to assist and care for you as you recover, she says. It is absurd for a handmaiden to be given to a bed-slave, but Kassandra neither complains nor thinks much of it.

“Men get all stupid when they're besotted,” she says, warbling in Aurelian dialect. “Way he looks at you, soon he’ll be giving you jewelry and flowers and all sorts of treasures. You could rob him blind, my lady.”

You try not to snort. With the way Prince Mydeimos looked at you the other day, it appeared the only gift he wanted to give you was the touch of Thanatos. But then you remember that he bestowed to you his mother’s dagger, and you find yourself going quiet, thinking of it in its hiding spot beneath your pillow.

Kassandra does not notice your sudden introspection. She continues dressing you, opting for somewhat conservative attire—the usual translucent silks reveal too much of your bruising—although the dress she has chosen has a slit cut so high that you can hardly walk without revealing your inner thighs. If Prince Mydeimos ever caught sight of it, you think you might die.

You give Kassandra a tortured look.

“It’s to curry your prince’s favour,” she explains. At your continued despair, Kassandra frowns. “I know this can't be easy for you, my lady,” she says, her Aurelian gentle, a soft and rolling legato. She picks up a delicate brush, dabbing it in rouge. “You were raised to be a holy maiden, and it was taboo for anyone back home to touch you. But now that you're…” She hesitates.

“Now that I'm a bed-slave?” you supply, voice neutral. Her mouth thins.

“Now that you're no longer a holy maiden, I think it's best to appeal to your master and keep him pleased. I'd hate to see the Crown Prince treat you like how Lord Aineidas treated me.”

Your eyes go soft. “And I'd hate to see you be returned to a man like Aineidas. Resent him as I may, I am glad that Prince Mydeimos saved you from him.”

Kassandra smiles. “I'm more grateful to you, my lady. It didn't escape me that it was you who helped me—not him.”

Her brush outlines your lip, tickling you. The corner of your mouth twitches, and you close your eyes beneath her touch. Your conversation turns to kinder things: reminiscing about the bustling markets back home, the beautiful music, the hymns sung within your temple. She tells you of her father, and you tell her about your mother, and the two of you sing the melody of your mother tongue.

It occurs to you that this is the happiest you’ve been since the fall of Aurelia—the least alone you've been, and the most at home.

For the next fortnight, Prince Mydeimos does not take you anywhere. It is not out of any neglect toward you—he still sleeps in your quarters every night, playing guard dog by the door—but out of concern for your injuries.

“I do not wish for you to hurt yourself again,” he says, watching you flinch from the opposite end of the room. You've just taken your lyre into your lap; the motion has you wincing. Still, you frown at him.

“I think I can walk without worsening my injuries. My legs are not connected to my ribs, you know.”

You can see it when he stops himself from rolling his eyes. “My concern is not you walking. My concern is that you might launch yourself into harm’s way again—it seems to be your favorite pastime.”

“I am not such an idiot that I'd do that in this state,” you grouse, and the look that Prince Mydeimos gives you is so skeptical that you huff. “Fine,” you say. “Do whatever you wish.”

You turn your attention to your lyre and sheet music and choose the song he most dislikes—an Okheman prosodion to Kephale. He scowls as soon as he hears the beginning notes, but leans back and closes his eyes anyway, listening. Maybe even appreciating. You think he is asleep by the time you finish, but he immediately looks to you and requests another piece: “Anything other than that Okheman noise, please.”

“Would you like an Aidonian hymn?”

“Are you trying to torture me?”

“What, does His Royal Highness not enjoy my skill with a lyre? Would he prefer some other form of entertainment?”

Your tone is sardonic enough to warrant legal punishment (you have disrespected the royal family), but Prince Mydeimos replies earnestly: “I am greatly fond of the lyre and even enjoy your skill with it. Your taste in songs, however…”

You study him shrewdly. “I did not think Kremnoan royals would care so much for musical arts.”

“We are not educated in them,” he admits. “But I have a friend who is quite the lyrist. It is pleasant to hear the instrument—I have not listened to him play in quite some time.”

“Oh? Why not?” You try not to make it so obvious that you are searching for gossip: that you are surprised the Crown Prince has friends, and that you are curious about whether they are alive. “Did he quit and take up the aulos instead?”

“I hope not,” Prince Mydeimos snorts. “He has no talent for it.” Then the mirth leaves his face, and his eyes get distant. “He has been deployed for some years now to fight the Black Tide. Last I heard, he was warring on the Pyrian front.”

You look away. The city-state of Pyria was southwest of Aurelia—many of its citizens ran to your polis when their homes fell to disaster. Some of them even sought refuge in your temple, their bodies riddled with wounds and corruption. Every holy person in your city, from the Disciples of Cerces to the Sky Priests of Aquila, spent weeks trying to purify them. Still, a great number of the Pyrian refugees were taken by Thanatos in the end, either succumbing to mortal wounds or self-destructing in madness.

You do not want to think of what might be happening to Prince Mydeimos’ lyrist friend. Judging from his expression, he does not want to speak of it either.

Clearing your throat, you flip through the sheet music on your desk. “What kind of songs did your friend like to perform?”

“Bawdy trash,” Prince Mydeimos says, deadpan. “Don't bother searching for them—I would not have disgraced your table with it.” He gives you a thoughtful look. “Why don't you play an Aurelian piece? I have never heard music devoted to Oronyx.”

You stop.

You've never performed an Aurelian piece with Prince Mydeimos around—partly because you prefer to annoy him with Okheman and Aidonian music, but mostly because you didn't think any Kremnoan would want to hear it. They destroyed your temple, after all. High Priestess of a weak god, you remember the hyenas barking as the city screamed. That's what they think I am.

But Prince Mydeimos is—different. He sacked your temple, but for whatever reason, he still wants to hear you worship.

“Alright,” you say, an odd ache in your chest. “If you insist.”

Your final song of the evening is a hymn for the Goddess of Time. The following day, you perform a lyric poem about Janusopolis' early days in the Chrysos War, an epic about the attempted murder of Oronyx in your mother tongue. The next evening, you sing an Aurelian prosodion to Georios; after that, a lively hyporchema of Oronyx Festivals, one that makes you wish you were leading the acolytes and worshippers in dance.

Another night, you throw the prince a bone and play an Aurelian paean to Nikador. It was written prior to the Era Bellica—from a time when the Kremnoan people were not so savage, and Nikador’s only war was the one against the Black Tide. When he was the protector of Amphoreus, not its tyrant. Prince Mydeimos’ eyes never leave your form as you sing in ancient Kremnoan—from an era so long ago that it had not yet diverged from Aurelian, and the peoples of your two cities could understand each other perfectly. His gaze traces the strings of your lyre, the movements of your lips, mesmerized. The next evening, he asks to hear it again.

For ten nights, Prince Mydeimos listens to your paean to his God of Strife. On the eleventh day, by which you've stopped wincing every time you lift your lyre, he finally leads you outside again.

He takes you into the city.

It is your first time wandering beyond the confines of the palace, and you are startled by the bustling streets—the chatter and the laughter and the humanness. An air of aggression still hangs over the city, of course: armored soldiers march endlessly through the streets, chains clink noisily as the slaves labour relentlessly, the sword of Nikador hangs ever-present in the sky. Still, it is all made more bearable by all the people in its streets. By the buzz of crowded markets, by the haggling arguments of vendors and customers, by the giggling of children underfoot in the crowds. If you close your eyes and focus, you can summon memories of Aurelia like this—so easy to recall among the humdrum of daily life.

Castrum Kremnos is still a prison. But you cannot deny that there are parts of it here that feel—not warm, really, for there are still too many slaves, too many soldiers. But it is certainly less cold.

You think that Prince Mydeimos, himself, might enjoy the city more than the palace as well. He is nearly always tense there, but he seems relaxed among these streets, among his people. Every Kremnoan pauses to greet him, not only bowing to show their respect, but really talking. Soldiers’ faces glow as they sing his praises about his might in battle, about his last gladiatorial victory. Older women wave and ask if he is eating well, if he'd like some figs or pomegranates or sweets from their stands. (You think instantly of your aunts and grandmothers back home, and you feel such heartache that you have to look away.) Younger women and a handful of men stop to admire him; you do not miss how their gazes linger on you, the whore trailing after him in golden chains.

What strikes you most are the children. Each one of them squeals with delight upon seeing him, and a few run up directly to greet their prince, babbling about how hard they've been training and how they want to fight alongside him someday. They are the only Kremnoans who do not look at you with discomfort; they study you only with innocent curiosity.

“Prince Mydeimos,” a little girl asks, craning her neck to look at you, “is that your friend? I've never seen her before!”

Prince Mydeimos pauses. You can see him struggling to answer, neither wanting to lie nor explain what a whore is, and you try not to sigh before doing it for him: “I am the prince’s companion,” you say kindly in Kremnoan, smiling at the girl. “Not his friend, but someone who spends time with him when he wishes.”

“Oh.” The girl blinks, tilting her head. “Like, if he gets lonely? Or sad?”

“Something like that.”

She nods, then beams at you both. “Well, I'm glad the prince doesn’t have to be alone when he's sad, then.”

She runs off without another word. You look to him, a dry comment on your tongue—I'm sure you're desperate for a night alone after all the time you've spent in my room—but you find him staring at her retreating back, pensive. Something in his eyes makes your chest ache, and somewhere in the Evernight Veil, you hear him say: I don't remember the last time someone touched me like this.

But here, in the present, he says nothing.

“Come,” he beckons you, curt. “We have somewhere to be.”

He ends up bringing you to a smithy. The rhythmic clang of hammers against hot steel sings in your ears. He approaches a looming figure, impossibly tall, who works in chains. Your eyes are wide as you regard him. Mountain Dweller, you recognise, and slave.

Kremnos is infamous for hunting their kind. You should not be surprised at seeing one in bondage here, forced to work for the state that savaged him. Still, it is a wonder seeing such a mighty creature working so benignly for his captors. If you had such stature, you think you would have died fighting in Aurelia. You would have never accepted a life in chains—let alone one so mild and subservient.

“Crown Prince of Kremnos,” the Mountain Dweller greets. His voice is a slow, lumbering boom—strange in syntax, as if his throat and mind is unfit for human speech: “For your weapon… you have come.”

Prince Mydeimos nods. “Yes—for the weapon, as well as the other matter we discussed.”

The Mountain Dweller shifts. You can feel his gaze on your body, studying you through the slits of his helmet. You look up at him, watching him with curious eyes.

“High Priestess of Aurelia, you were,” he surmises. “Concubine of the Crown Prince, you are now.”

“Yes,” you affirm, and you don't bother softening the edge to your voice. “And you are?”

“Chartonus, leader of the Mountain Dwellers,” he introduces himself. “Blacksmith for the royal family.”

Your interest is piqued at one word: Leader. You decide to smile—not cheerfully, but respectfully, in the way you would for an esteemed guest at the temple. “It is an honour to meet you, Master Chartonus. I have heard great tales of the blessings that Georios has endowed upon the craftsmanship of your people.”

You can feel Prince Mydeimos’ eyes on you, but you ignore him. Only Chartonus has your attention, as would be the way with a formal guest.

“Thank you,” the blacksmith replies. “Of your talents, many Mountain Dwellers in Kremnos have heard. For you, I have something… by the request of the Crown Prince.”

You glance back at your companion. “For me?” you ask, and he nods.

“You'll soon understand,” Prince Mydeimos says.

Chartonus leads the two of you to the back of the smithy, opening a door to some private workspace. On the other side of the threshold, you see a man's silhouette, tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair and grey eyes—

You are looking at an Aurelian soldier.

Not a soldier of career, but one of necessity. Ordinarily, he is a blacksmith from your neighbourhood. One of your worshippers. His name was—is, he's alive, he's alive—Hector, and he frequently visited your temple. You first met him when you were both children, shortly before your initiation into the cult. He often prayed with you after you became a hiereia. Sought counsel from you. Crafted your ceremonial weapons. Once he made a necklace too, which you had to publicly decline and privately accept only at his insistence. I can't bring you olives nor figs, he'd said earnestly, but I can bring you this.

Your heart aches when you look at him. For a minute, you feel like you are back in Aurelia, visiting him in his smithy, watching him work during a few hours’ reprieve from your training. After this you will go to the market together and listen to the musicians play on their aulos and lyres, and later you will go see his sister, with whom you will gossip about the men she saw in her brothel. A week from now, the three of you will dance together in a festival in devotion to your goddess.

And then you see the manacle around his ankle, the chain leading off it, and the illusion is ruined.

Hector is not subdued, though. His eyes go wide as soon as he sees you. “My lady?” he calls out, as uncertain as he is hopeful.

Your composure shatters.

“I can give you five, ten minutes,” Prince Mydeimos whispers into your ear. You’re startled at the proximity, but too shocked to recoil. “Keep up appearances, and don't try anything foolish. Remember that I can only do so much.”

He leaves the door open. He and Chartonus converse just beyond it, admiring some spear that the blacksmith supposedly just mended, and which requires care so intensive that Chartonus delivers an entire lecture to explain it. You can barely hear what they’re saying, so focused on the familiar face before you. You were not physically affectionate with any of your friends nor temple goers—your station demanded strict boundaries—but you would throw your arms around Hector right now, were it not for Prince Mydeimos’ warning.

Keep up appearances.

You settle for running up to him, stopping just short of crashing into him. “Hector,” you whisper, voice strangely choked. I cannot cry, you think. I cannot cry, especially not before a worshipper. “You're alive.”

“High Priestess.” Hector’s eyes blink rapidly. You're reminded of the night you told him you'd stay at the temple, despite the Kremnoan invasion; he'd opposed it so strongly, but how were you meant to abandon the worshippers who had insisted on staying behind? “I didn't think I'd ever see you again. Are you—is he—is he hurting you? Are you injured?”

How typical of him to ask about you first, you think, when everyone else is clearly in worse positions. “Don't worry about me, Hector. How about you? The others? Aeneas? Lycaon? Your sister, Hecuba?”

“Aeneas and Lycaon and most of the other soldiers—they’ve all been sent to repair the fortress walls. I'm only here because I'm skilled. Some of the others who are tradesmen, they're here with me in the city. Hecuba, though, she's been taken to a brothel.” He frowns. “She’s decently learned and full of wit. They might have her working as a hetaira, if we’re lucky.”

Your face falls. People easily die performing hard labour, and the life of a bed-slave is a different kind of humiliation.

“I'm sorry, Hector.”

“No, I'm sorry.” He gives you a look of such despair that your heart twists. “You've been captured by that beast… it's worried me all this time, what he's doing to you. I should have gotten you away from the city before the Kremnoans stormed us.”

Guilt lances through your heart. Prince Mydeimos is nowhere near a monster, and you have suffered nowhere near as much as your fellow Aurelians. “You need not worry for me, Hector.”

“I can hardly stop,” he argues. “I think—I think we should find a way to get you out of this place.”

“...what?”

“We need to get you out of here.”

You stare at him, disbelieving. “If you could find a way out of Castrum Kremnos, I'd much rather you escape with your own life, Hector. I am too noticeable of a prisoner to smuggle out.”

“But you're our High Priestess!” he cries. “We—we can't just leave you in the bed of that monster. Please, my lady. He destroyed our city, our temple, our home. We can't bear to see him destroy you too.”

Something nicks your heart. To the Kremnoans, you are a spoil of war; to the Aurelians, you are a figure of worship. And as long as you stay in the hands of Prince Mydeimos, you are equally a symbol of Kremnoan victory as you are Aurelian disgrace. His supposed rape of you is the ultimate humiliation for them.

You cannot blame the soldiers for wanting you to steal you back.

“Hector,” you say gently, in that voice you reserve for those frightened before the gods, before war, before fate, “I understand your feelings, but you know it would be suicide for you to try. I do not wish to see any more Aurelian blood spilled.” None beyond your own—your fate is inevitable, but Hector can be saved.

“But—”

“No buts. Listen to me. Have I ever guided you falsely?”

Hector closes his eyes. His brow is furrowed deep. His voice is thick, hoarse, when he asks, “Is there no way out of this hell for us? Has Oronyx shown you that our fate lies within these fortress walls?”

Your heart drops.

You understand now that you have been foolish. Unbelievably foolish. What have you been doing, asking Oronyx about your path to freedom and not your people's? What have you been doing, hiding under a bed for months while your friends and worshippers were labouring in chains? So blinded by anger that you could not even think of a way to see them? So blinded by pride that instead of thinking of how to help them, you could only think of killing the man who has now brought you to them?

How selfish.

But now you are thinking of that beautiful city of eternal dawn, in which your wrists were not shackled, in which you were sorrow-free. You wonder if there would have been space for other Aurelians in that paradise, if they would have been just as safe.

How else would your heart have felt so light in that moment?

You measure your words carefully, hiding your shame. Hector does not need to know that his High Priestess is an idiot; it would only depress him. “Not so far,” you reply with grace. “I will try peering beyond the Evernight Veil again for our futures. From what I have seen, I will not say that there is no hope for us—but Hector, there will be no hope for you if you do something foolish. Promise me you won't do anything stupid.”

“My lady—”

“Promise me. Before I have to go.”

He gives you a despairing look. “Will you be taken away again so soon? When will I see you next?”

You hesitate. “I do not know… that would be determined by Prince Mydeimos.”

He makes a frustrated noise. “How am I supposed to work here, unable to see you, when I know you are being tortured in his bed—”

“Who is being tortured?” a voice cuts in. Both you and Hector freeze. Your heart twinges again; you can see it in your friend’s face when his does as well.

Your time is up.

“...no one, Your Highness,” you reply to Prince Mydeimos, even though your attention is on Hector.

You study his features intensely: every crease and contour and shadow. For once, it is not to read someone’s expression; it is simply that you do not know when you will see him next, and you do not wish to forget his face in the meantime. Oronyx never lets you forget calamity—razed cities, bloodied corpses, burning groves—but something as mundane as the face of a loved one? She often neglects it.

You and Hector stare at each other for probably a beat too long. When you remember yourself, you ask Prince Mydeimos, “Is my prince finished his business with Master Chartonus?”

“Yes.” Steel clashes against steel, echoing in the smithy and threading between his words. “There is no longer any reason to linger here. We will return to my quarters now.”

“But—”

“That was an order, not a request,” he says.

Keep up appearances, he means. Remember that I can only do so much.

You deflate, turning away from Hector, unable to look him in the eye anymore—unable to see him gaze upon the symbol of his humiliation. You bow to Prince Mydeimos, feeling both spoiled and broken in.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Your grief must show on your face, for Prince Mydeimos is also unable to look at you as the two of you depart.

That night, Prince Mydeimos makes you a dish that bursts with the spices of Aurelia. He serves it to you personally once more, watching from his usual spot against the wall. You can tell that he wishes to say something to you, but you cannot bring yourself to ask what: you are worried that your voice will crack if you speak. With each bite you take, you think of the quiet peace of your temple, of Hector praying at the altar to which you attended. You think of the music of the Oronyx Festivals under the stars, the hyporchema to which you danced and laughed. You think of the bustling markets that Kassandra visited everyday, looking for figs and olives and cassia under the Aurelian sun.

When you glance at Prince Mydeimos, you wonder if he knows how badly your heart aches.

“Why did you bring me to Hector?” you finally ask. “Why did you seek him out?”

His answer is so simple that it hurts: “You said you wanted to see your loved ones.”

I’d slit your throat and drink your blood if it meant I could go home and see my loved ones.

“Right,” you say. “When I tried to kill you. I said I wished to return to Aurelia and see everyone there.”

“Yes.”

You look away, lip trembling. When Prince Mydeimos speaks again, his voice is so gentle that you can hardly believe that it is coming from the Crown Prince of Kremnos, from the leader of a warmongering tribe. From the future king who will kill you.

But you can easily imagine it from the throat of a boy who once drowned in the sea, who was cast out of countless homes.

“I took your home away from you,” he says quietly. “Even if you killed me a thousand times, you will never be able to go back. There is nothing I can do to fulfill your wish to return.”

There is remorse in his voice. Genuine. Unbearable. The heir to a millennia of Strife regrets the grief he inflicted upon you. The man who will someday kill you regrets all the pain he brought upon you—and he wishes to undo it.

“You can never take me home,” you recognise, “so you are trying instead to return my loved ones to me.”

He nods, and you understand that this is his apology.

It will not suffice, of course. A sorry will not change anything. A kind master is still a master. A pampered slave is still a slave. No matter how considerate he is with you, Prince Mydeimos will always be the man who destroyed your city and sacked your temple. He will always be the beast who dragged you from your altar and into his bed. Aurelia is forever burning behind you, and it is all his fault. Oronyx will never let you forget this.

Still—there are things that have not yet turned to ash. Things that you cannot hold onto not with the power of the divine, but with your own two hands.

“You said once,” you murmur, “that there is a chance that I can move freely throughout the city without you.”

“Yes,” he affirms. “If people were convinced that you were my lover and not my prisoner, they would not think twice about seeing you roam the city.”

I cannot cry, you think. I am a hiereia, an oracle, a leader. I cannot cry, I cannot cry, I cannot cry, but your voice breaks when you ask, “So I could go see them whenever I wished? I could visit Hector, and I could find Hecuba, and I could check on all the men labouring at the fortress walls? I could make sure that they were all safe, all well?”

Prince Mydeimos nods, his eyes absent of deception.

You study him, dissect him in the way that you were trained for princes and lords. You see not your captor, whom you could never even pretend to like—but Mydei in a city of eternal dawn, where you are teasing him gently, listening to the giggles of a flock of children. You see not a beast, but someone who is so easy to love that it scares you. Scares you almost as much as his gauntlets that are cleaving open your legs, almost as much as your death at the foot of his throne.

But you have a responsibility to your people—and even if you are a slave, you are not a coward.

“Very well," you decide. "Let's try it.”

End Part II

notes: I tried so hard (to get to the porn) and got so far (in word count) but in the end it didn't even matter... my genuine apologies that there was so much plot and no sex. enemies to lovers is truly not a trope for the weak T_T

some notes:

there's a ton of ancient Greek refs, as usual - names like Hector, Hecuba, Lycaon, Kassandra, etc. are all borrowed from the Iliad. a lot of Kremnoan names will be borrowed from Spartan history!

"Council of Elders" = Senate per Spartan history. I just like the aesthetic of Spartan vocab.

YES I know Mydei had a dromas war steed. Kokopo III shall make an appearance later TRUST!!

[lex-the-flex]

Drinking the Water of Life

Paul Atreides x reader

He didn't want this. He never wanted this to happen. So why now? And why did it have to you?

From the moment Paul Atreides claimed his Fremen name, he prayed this wouldn't have to happen. But it did. While his mind was clear and open, yours remained foggy and closed off. If it was up to him, he would've kept you there, with your limited visions of the future.

But he loved you with all his heart.

And he couldn't see you suffer any longer without him. Paul chose you to rule at his side, after all.

Returning to your place in the shared communal room, Paul offers you a small smile before returning to his meal.

"How are you? I haven't seen you all day." He whispered so only you could hear.

"I'm alright. The water extractors are holding up. You should've seen all the packs I had to carry. Stilgar was impressed that I could carry thirty pounds for three straight miles." You explain.

Finally being able to relax at Paul's side, you notice how his blue within blue eyes look at you. While he's proud of you, something else lingers behind his orbs.

"Paul, what is it?" You ask.

Setting down his bowl, he takes your hands in his with a gentle grasp. Calmly stroking his fingers over your knuckles, he leans closer, his lips inches from your ear.

"I need you to travel South with me. Just the two of us, on a private mission before the others make the journey. I need you by my side, Y/N." He explains.

Calmly nodding your head, you instantly knew what he meant: you had to drink the Water of Life. The others knew it too, spreading rumors that stung like needles into your back. How you weren't worthy of loving Paul, the Muad'dib. Even the other Fremen began to question your loyalty.

As you were an outsider like Paul and his mother, Jessica, you remained faithful to House Atreides as it was one of the final commands given to you by Duke Leto himself. But now you had to truly prove yourself, you had to show everyone why Paul chose you above any other Fremen girl in your sietch.

"Okay, Paul. I will follow your hand until the very end. I will follow Muad'dib, my Usul, with an open heart." You declare as he pulls you in for a loving embrace.

*****

Guiding you further into the Southern temple, Paul never lets go of your hand. The beautiful sanctuary pulls you in with its calming circular architecture and stillness. Leading you to the main chamber, Paul is welcomed by another Fremen fundamentalist showing him the utmost respect.

Discovering a pool of water, you wander over to it before noticing the presence of a small sandworm swimming in the cloudy liquid. Scrunching your brows at the rapidly moving creature, Paul places his hand on your shoulder.

"It's time, Y/N."

Joining Paul and the Fremen member, she holds a jar containing a bright blue liquid that appears even sharper than the blue within blue eyes themselves. Feeling your breath catch in the back of your throat, you begin to panic, even taking a step away from Paul.

Placing a hand over your chest, your bare fingertips try to find solace in the sand covered stillsuit, and your own heartbeat echoes against your eardrums.

"It's alright. It's alright, Y/N. I'm here." Paul advises, leaning his forehead against yours.

Holding the nape of your neck in his hands, his dark curls tickle the edge of your face.

"I... I don't know if I can do this, Paul. I can't fail you." You say as your lip begins to quiver.

"You can. I believe in you. House Atreides believes you. You can do this, Y/N, just as your Usul before you." Paul replies, stroking your cheek.

Calming your breathing, you quietly nod before Paul, coming to your decision.

Laying down in between the stone pools, the Fremen offers you the glass bottle, lowering the top of the spout into your open mouth. Drinking the cold liquid, you swallow the water, and it enters your system. Taking your hand in his, Paul rubs your knuckles whilst your body goes numb.

Convulsing on the stone, every inch of your body writhes in pain, from the temples on your head, to your very reproductive system. A terrifying scream releases from your damp lips as the visions of the future, past, and present dance along the thin skin of your eyelids. Then, as soon as they appear, the prophecies of the future disappear within seconds.

You were cold, numb, in between the land of the living and the dead.

Offering the bottle to Paul, tears begin to fall on his face, and he mixes the salty drops with the freshwater.

Pressing the water to your lips, Paul bends down and kisses you lips, allowing you to return to him once more.

Feeling his lips leave your own, your eyes open, and you are awake. Your mind was open and Paul took you into his lap, studying your new set of eyes with all the love he could give you.

taglist ~

@dreamliners

@visionsofsweettea

@xplore-the-unknwn

@kaleidoscope1967eyes

@shions-new-blog-of-stuff

[atalana]

also im sure some people have noticed already, but since i haven't seen anything on tumblr about it yet, for people who haven't - kris has 20hp in the light world and so far that bar has pretty much always been full

in chapter four though, after kris beats the soul up, that's no longer the case!

their brief smacking it with the hockey stick/guitar in the normal route drops your health to 18. their vicious kicking the shit out of the soul in the snowgrave continuation drops it to 10. (it drops even further by the end of the chapter in a way that might have something to do with how much health you ended the titan battle with, but im gonna do a couple more ch4 playthroughs and see if i can nail down exactly what the deal with that is, and if it means that the titan can reach across worlds and damage kris' soul in a way no other dark world enemy has been able to so far)

either way, the first thing that happens when they try to move after putting the soul back in, is they stumble and fall and it takes a few seconds for them to even try and get back up. (it looks like they're tripping over the object they threw from certain angles in the normal route, but no this happens no matter how clear their path is)

regardless of whether or not it's their original soul, it is now intrinsic to their life force. any amount of damage done to the soul, even when outside their body, will hurt kris in equal amounts, and they've been doing this long enough they have to know that!

in the normal route that speaks to their level of dedication to whatever their end goal is here, that they will hurt themselves quite significantly to keep susie from finding that note on the guitar (though it's in keeping with chara being one of their two undertale parallels)

but in snowgrave pt 2. god. it speaks to how much they hate us. that route in ch4 reveals that the first thing soulless kris did at the end of ch2 wasn't creating the fountain - there was an unseen timeskip. the first thing soulless kris did after snowgrave was to sneak over to noelle's house, remove the thorn ring (that was controlling her and giving her the ability to kill with ice magic), tell her everything was gonna be okay, but that she should never mention any of this to anyone (because if she said it around kris in the future then the soul would hear)

and kris' worst fears came true. she does bring it up, because she doesn't realise kris is also included in "anyone". and to stay on the snowgrave route, like in ch2, you have to do the worst thing possible, which is manually take control of kris back (this is happening while you're the untethered soul, but kris is distracted enough you can rejoin their body without them fighting you off - but you can see their sprite shaking afterwards as they try to resist what you're about to do), confirm for noelle that all of her dream was real, tell her she's going to get stronger, and force the thorn ring back on her (at which point the screen goes black with red lines like shattered glass, and the segment in noelle's house ends there, so we don't know the full consequences of that yet)

i did talk in a previous post about the shadow mantle boss saying that kris enjoyed the snowgrave route, they just didn't want to admit it to themselves and being possessed by the player gave them a convenient excuse. but after playing this route i no longer think that's even a remote possibility.

because kris wasn't trying to hide or prevent anything by beating the soul up this time. this was pure revenge and disgust over what we did to their friend. and even knowing that whatever damage they did was also going to be done to them, they were willing to beat it within an inch of its life. your vision is blurring the entire time, kris loses half their health from this, they only stopped because asgore nearly caught them in the act. and the burning question on my mind is how much further were they willing to go? if no one interrupted, would they have stopped at all?

(and yeah the takeaway here is that going forward, kris is hurt, in more ways than ralsei or susie can heal. and also do not ever underestimate their love for noelle)

[occamstfs]

Halloween Bacchanal

Greek god of madness just wants to see some fun this Hallow's Eve- what better place to start than with little Theo and his satyr costume.

Happy Halloween! Here's my take on everyone's favorite Halloween TF trope: men dressed as satyrs, knights, cowboys and more become what they wear at this hedonistic Halloween party! Hope you enjoy! - Occam

Greek mythology has been an obsession of Theo’s as far back as he could remember. From what his parents say he would force them to read him myths rather than fairy tales before bed each night before going on to spend his waking hours punching way above his literacy level to indulge in every scrap of the Hellenistic pantheon he could stumble across. His dreams were filled with visions of himself aiding Hermes in his tricks and cheering on Heracles in his trials.

It’s no surprise that his time spent in this mythological world influenced his sexuality. What with all the muscular men and tales of transformation he ravenously consumed it doesn’t take a detective to follow the throughline to his present self. In fact he can clearly remember stumbling on a far too steamy illustration of a satyr right when he was about that age that clearly had some deep-rooted repercussions. Which, no surprise, brings him to his current Halloween costume.

He never thought he’d have the confidence to dress up as one but what the hell right? It’s what halloween’s for, just a spot of fun and indulgence. Once he finally decided on biting the bullet and dressing up as his root and began construction on his little costume it’s like he was possessed. Hands worked deftly sewing goat legs and sculpting horns and hooves and before he knew it he was finished before he even realized he had begun.

When the party finally arrived he found himself walking on his toes with a shocking ease, though despite the apparent expertise, his knees began to shake more with each step towards his friend’s apartment. Theo takes a deep breath before knocking on the door, sweating despite the chilly air of autumn against his bare skin. Before he does so the door creaks open and Theo’s greeted by a man he’s never seen before.

Man is almost too inconsequential to describe him. As soon as Theo’s eyes land on him he feels content to spend every waking moment for the rest of his life simply staring at this figure. Dark skin somehow glimmering in the dim light, his teeth sparkle as his lips pull into a smirk. He then turns his gaze onto, into, Theo. It’s as if he were looking through the costumed man, languishing in his past and imagining his future, taking in everything Theo has been, is, and will be. And before a moment passes he shifts to look Theo directly in the eyes, raising a hand to cup his head as if it were a glass, he rumbles out, “I love your costume dear.”

His touch is electric to Theo’s skin, or no not electric, magnetic. The fingers clutching the young man’s jawline leave him wanting more, needing more. Despite feeling frozen in the gaze of this too-ideal figure he craves more than anything to be closer. Lost in his desires, Theo flinches as his ability to ambulate returns and the figure in front of him laughs as he plays with his words, “Dear- Or should I say faun Ah Hah!” Barely a joke, but as the figure begins guffawing Theo cannot help but reciprocate. Compulsive, heaving roars of laughter fill him with ecstasy and delight as memories of raucous nights and impossible debauchery soar into his mind. More real than reality he sees himself with a cup of wine in hand standing in audience of the man now before him.

Just as soon as it began, his laughter jarringly stops and he pulls Theo close and whispers in his ear, “Call me D.” Theo gasps as he is brought closer to D’s form and the intensity of his delight only continues to heighten. Every inch of his exposed torso is suddenly burning with intense pleasure and he shivers as his neck is grazed by D’s sticky breath. In a moment briefer than Theo is able to even grasp, a thought flickers across D’s expression before he looks down at him and his eyes glow a vibrant violet. D stretches his back, doing something between a shrug and a warm-up. Theo trembles at the feeling of his powerful traps and delts moving, allowing him to feel the power they hold as the men stand in each other's grasp.

D once more grabs Theo’s chin, this time angling it up as he cranes down to meet the party-goer’s lips. It’s not quite right to say the kiss was explosive but Theo has no better way of understanding it. It’s as if he were being suffused with power, as if the man’s lips were casting a spell, as if he were drinking in a force of pure energy. Physically, his taste buds are overwhelmed with the taste of wine, richer than any he’s had the chance to experience heavy and sweet and greater than anything. 

Theo, sure that he’s dreaming, clutches the man tighter as their lips and tongues continue to dance. If D’s laughter instilled him with memories, their kiss infused something far more real in his mind. Mouth awash with wine, touch burning with pleasure from being lucky enough to touch the man’s powerful form, Theo opens his eyes and rather than seeing the world he knows he was in, he sees D tied up on a ship. Before he can make sense of his surroundings the man breaks from his bonds and the men who must be his jailers flee, hopping overboard before D waves his arms and they are no longer men. He knew the true name of D as soon as wine graced his tongue but it is further confirmed by a vision of him carrying his mother from the mouth of a cave before he sees her apotheosis. He sees grapevines sprouting from arid earth and finally sees the man, the god, bestowing Midas’ golden touch.

These are all brief passages however, pauses in between the meat of Theo’s visions. Accompanied by D, by Dionysus’ laughter, Theo sees hordes of satyrs and nymphs dancing in fields and in forests. He sees wine dripping through thick beards and staining hairy chests. Theo watches revelry devolve into madness as festivities rapidly degenerate from dances to orgies in grass fields. Shifting to an aristocratic masquerade he sees a crowd of straight-laced prim and proper nobles spin in clearly practiced circles until Dionysus, sitting at the main table, rolls his eyes and removes his mask. Calling their attention to himself as soon as they glance in his direction they are changed, filled with bestial need as they return to their partners with an animalistic fervor. 

Theo knows these visions should fill him with fear, they are far too real to be dreams. Despite that, despite himself, the scenes only excite him more. He doesn’t know why the god has chosen to show him these events, why he has chosen him, but then he realizes he doesn’t care. He just needs to experience the same. His chest quivers with struggled breaths as he feels consciousness waning as he lies in the god’s arms. With a blink he sees D’s face once more, clearly experiencing more pleasure than Theo could ever offer. His vision begins to fade and his body goes limp in the god’s arms. Theo sees some look of care in D’s eyes that is promptly wiped away with a wink. Smirking, he whispers to Theo, “Hope you lot have fun with my gift-”  The sound of the god’s laugh echoes through his empty mind, lulling him to sleep while whatever gift Dionsysus intends for the party festers within him.

When Theo awakens the party is in full swing. He remembers meeting D clearer than anything but everything between that moment and now is obscured. He feels a wet patch in his crotch and quickly crosses his legs to hide the mess made in his excitement. Seeing that he’s finally awoken, his friend Kevin, clad in a cowboy costume, walks over and greets him. “Yoo dude what’s up! Glad you could make it, you know it’s a costume party though ya? Hahah!” Theo narrows his eyes, preparing to call out his friend for being so drunk as to not see the horns on his head before he feels for them and realizes that they are no longer on his head. Indeed, glancing at his crossed legs he finds he’s fully not wearing the costume he so intently made. 

Clutching at his chest, his face burns with embarrassment as he so clearly remembers working up the confidence to come here without a shirt on and yet, here he is just wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Seeing his friend rapidly nearing tears Kevin puts his drink down and apologizes, “Hey hey buddy- Sorry I didn’t mean to press you. Do you want to go get some fresh air?” Theo sighs looking at Kevin’s outstretched hand, pouting for a second longer before reaching out to grab it. Never could he truly know what he is about to unleash when he takes it.

How could he, he was still under the impression that his little episode with Dionysus was just that, an episode. Some weird little dream that led to him cumming on a friend's couch like a loser. That is, until Kevin grasps his hand and grows glassy-eyed. Natural color briefly overtaken by a lilac haze, Theo is immediately concerned, “K- Kevin? Did you get some, um weird contacts?”

His friend shakes his head, not out of his stupor but further into it. He clears his throat and his voice is unmistakably deeper, rougher, “Now why’d I go and do somethin’ like that partner?” Theo feels the hand in his own thicken and grow calloused as tanner skin leaks up his forearm. Hair pokes out of Kevin’s wrist, rapidly thickening and growing dark as it matches pace with his increasingly sun-kissed arm. He breaks the handhold and Theo falls back in shock. Kevin stretches and whistles as biceps bulge under his costume which similarly changes texture from cheap linen to dense torn cotton that one would need in his line of work. His line of work?

“Whoooee! Maybe we’ll skip the fresh air eh Theodore? Love to see what else yew can do with those hands.” Theo stutters as the man starts rubbing his back, “I- You-” Kevin’s jaw widens and grows thick stubble as his brow hangs lower over his eyes, a piece of wheat lolls out of his mouth as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Theo pushes away and the cowboy raises a hand in surrender while adjusting his large belt buckle with the other, “‘Ey now no problem amigo, we’ll put a pin in it. Check back in after spreading the love-” He scratches his newly stubbled jaw and tug once more at his crotch as an unmistakably growing package begins to need far more room than his chapped levis could allow. Staring at a man holding a few swords with shoddily sprayed green hair, Theo almost swears he can see Kevin’s dick throb as he begins tugging at his belt.

The young man doesn’t have time to question whatever unthinkable thing he just did to Kevin as he is struck with a headache greater than anything he’s experienced before, as if something were pushing its way out of his head. Throbbing with pressure he clutches at his head and feels two bumps forming and his eyes widen in fear as he remembers the parting words of the olympian, hope you lot have fun with my gift- Across the room Theo hears the voice of the swordsman grow gruffer as Kevin puts an arm on his shoulder. He hasn’t a chance to investigate as itchiness begins to rise across his body. 

Theo quickly lurches to his feet and finds it difficult to keep his heels on the ground, as if he has always walked on the tips of his toes. He grunts and keeps his head down, trying to not draw attention to himself as he stumbles to the bathroom. He bumps into another party goer wearing a homemade spiderman costume who grabs him before he can fall. 

Fearful that he’s introduced another point of impossible contagion into the party, he looks up and confirms his fears as the padded muscle disappears to be replaced by the hardened abs and arms of a superhero. The man takes off the mask to reveal he’s Theo’s friend Mark, though eyes exposed Theo can’t help but see the lavender corruption in his taking over as his hair throws itself into a middle-part. Grunting as he inches taller, his other web-shooter begins to poke into his friend. Theo runs before he hears whatever smarmy one-liner falls from the lips of a man whose name is Mark no longer.

Miraculously the bathroom is unoccupied when he stumbles in, painstakingly ensuring that his heels stay on the floor with every step. As soon as Theo crosses the threshold he is overwhelmed with a burning itch. Before he even has a chance to check his reflection he’s filled with a supernatural urge to remove his shirt. Ceding to the impulse he no longer sees the unimpressive chest he woke up with this morning, pecs have begun to pad his chest while his few chest hairs have begun to spread like weeds in its center. He clutches at the new pounds of meat piling onto his form and bites back a moan as it fills him with visceral pleasure as his fingers trail through the field of chest hair that is growing thicker. 

Only then does he turn his eyes to the mirror and discover that the changes are not limited to his newly-muscled chest. While hair continues to trail down his thicker torso to his similarly strengthening stomach, the hair on his head begins to lengthen and curl as two horns begin to rise above them. His shaky hands go to tug them off as if they were an accessory which only causes his neck to jerk. Leaning in close he parts his hair and clearly sees the keratin growing forth from his skull. Beyond his new spikes he has somehow missed the darkening of his face as just like Kevin, stubble has begun to make its home on his cheeks. Rapidly growing sideburns shoot down his jawline as a real goatee lengthens on his chin.

In shock he falls back against the wall of the bathroom, accidentally losing his footing and catching himself standing on the balls of his feet like he has so pointedly tried to avoid. No longer is it possible to force his heels down as his toes are overtaken by the transformation, hardening and becoming impossibly imobile as they are covered with black keratin. New hooves burst out of his shoes while his pants begin to stretch at an odd angle from legs changing beneath them. 

Falling to the floor Theo cries out as he tears at the pants he swore he didn't throw on as his legs irrevocably leave humanity behind. Voice pitching deeper and shifting rougher as his thicker hands struggle against his clothes, he feels the new treasure trail on his stomach thicken as it rises from a bush of pubes so dense that they could be labeled nothing other than fur.

While his hands are unable to make progress tearing at his pants, his growing thighs make light work of the garment as they begin to flourish with fur, rapidly covering with curls thick enough to totally burst the tight pants to tatters. His hands trail upward from his hairy legs, feeling the forest of fur give way to the thick human hair that covers the rest of his torso. He blushes imagining finally becoming a creature he always dreamed he could be.Thick hair trails down his forearms and the smell of the wild rises from pits to be evermore unwashed. His hair continues to lengthen and tangle as he truly becomes a spirit of the wild, a spirit of unchained lusts and unending gaiety.

Rubbing his sweaty body against the floor, hearing his new hooves clatter against the tile, Theo feels his mind begin to be overrun with the instincts and ideas of a creature whose primary goal is the spreading of mirth and the heightening of hedonistic desires. Fear of what he wrought upon Kevin and whatever other transformations launched on the other side of the door falls completely to the wayside as the idea suddenly does nothing but increase his own excitement, his own lustful desires. Groping at the decidedly still human cock hanging in between his thick thighs, Theo finds himself certainly more gifted in this department as well, heavy balls send lustful hunger coursing through him while his new powerful rod stands high and drips with pre. Theo smirks as sweat more powerful than any aphrodisiac trickles from his pores and he stands to a new height.

Were he to exit he would stand a few heads taller than anyone else fortunate enough to be in a room with him, his cock would be fencing with their torsos, and something within him tells him that it’s not beyond him to grow even more formidable. Though latching onto that idea, he realizes the true nature of the gifts bestowed unto him. He instead shifts into a form more enticing to whatever partygoers remain that need further enticing. The new satyr hides his beastier parts and watches as his reflection seamlessly shifts into that of a wild man whom no one would be able to turn down.

His hairy torso still glistens with sweat while he trades his hairy legs for sweatpants that could scarcely hide the powerful package hanging from his crotch. Smirking at his new form, Theo steps out to see what has become of his new domain. Exiting back into the steamy gathering he finds that festivities have not slowed down in his absence. The crowd around the cowboy has multiplied and devolved into quite the intimate pile of bodies, muscled arms and deep moans shoot through the air as every outsider that the horde bumps into finds the idea of joining rather appealing. He sees a man dressed as a caveman beating his chest as weight piles on and instincts take over.

Likewise the costumed superhero that was once Mark has found a crowd of his own. Mask pulled up over his mouth to find dozens of other costumed men wanting for him. Even before he changed he was charming, and now with a body made for the big screen it’s no wonder the crowds are clamoring for him. Though he hasn't the time to spend nearly as much time as his fans desire, after the shortest of moments spent with the amazing man himself they likewise begin filling out. Costumed congregants soon enough find themselves more than willing to spread their gifts with any number of lolling mouths around them.

Theo’s hungry eyes and wanting cock feel the compulsive awareness that there remain attendees deliberately avoiding the pleasures that await them. Point in case, he turns to the balcony to find one of his friends, Peter, dressed up as a knight and hiding from true jubilation. Theo’s lips twitch as he imagines corrupting his bookish friend into someone that can finally let loose.

Prior to the party the two discussed their costumes at length. Both spent a good chunk of energy and care in preparation, Peter’s dressed as his longtime DND character. Just like with Theo, the costume had long been a fantasy for the young man. That is to say, isn't it only fair that he get to experience the real thing just like the satyr? Theo doesn’t hesitate to answer the question as he makes his way towards his friend. Peter jumps as the sliding door creaks open and his friend steps out onto the balcony.

“Jesus- oh? Theo? Is that you?” The satyr smirks as he sees Peter’s anxious eyes appraise him. He contorts his body in just the right ways to get the paladin off his guard, stretching to show the power that rests within him rather than simply flexing. Inviting Pete to wonder what this new form is capable of rather than simply performing a brash display of brutish strength.

Peter blushes though remains guarded, “I um, I thought you were dressing up as a satyr?” Theo tilts his head before laughing at having forgotten his glamor, with the flick of his hand horns return to his head and Peter once more jumps back, though now facing the satyr this sends him far too close to comfort to the lip of the balcony.

Seeing Peter bump against the railing, any playful plans of slowly bringing him into his own euphoric transformation vacate as he instead moves with inhuman speed and pulls the paladin close to him. The clink of Pete’s chainmail and plate echoes on the balcony as the sound of the party behind the two men fades from their ears. Everything in the world around them is instantly muted and dulled besides each other.

Peter’s eyes grow clouded as he has no choice but to inhale breath after breath of the wild man’s sweat as he’s held close. Theo watches his eyes start to flicker violet like the dozens of other men in attendance. He grimaces and clenches at the neck of his armor as he grows unreasonably warm. “Th- Theo. What’s happening to me-” spit trails from his mouth as the metal of armor begins to grow heavier as it turns into the real hammered iron chestplate that a paladin of his station would be expected to wear. He stammers out for help and begins clawing at the suit now too heavy for him to wear, and Theo is more than happy to help.

The satyr feels his hunger for the man in front of him grow with every inch of further revealed skin. Sweaty chest now exposed, Pete’s heaving breaths begin stretching his ribcage larger. When Theo’s hairy hands begin to creep into his kilt Pete pushes the man away despite his own wanting cock begins to stir. This isn’t right, something horrible is happening. 

Theo steps back, resigned to just watch for now, and Peter goes to scratch at his arm as a nervous tic. Only then does he notice the great changes that have begun to overtake his physical form. With each movement, small as they may be, his biceps have begun to pulse larger, veins trail down new meaty arms that rival the size of his head. Powerful biceps and defined traps demonstrate his prowess in combat without his even needing to pick up the sword.

His chest tightens as he sees his hands twitch and bulge larger, calluses forming from training for hours, for years, for longer than he could recall spending on anything. His new rough hands race to his scratch at his torso, to remove a costume he’s no longer wearing, but they only find more evidence of growth. Under his chin pecs have clearly burst into existence, below them meticulously carved cobblestone abs that would make any lord proud. 

His lavender eyes twitch as the idea strikes him like a club, he’s losing his mind as well. Theo continues patiently watching and waiting for his chance, not to strike but to personally usher Pete into the bacchanal, and as the knight tears off his codpiece to make room for the surging cock beneath it’s clear that moment is rapidly approaching. Tearing off greaves and gauntlets he roars as his neck thickens from that of a modern squire to a proper knight of old. Voice deepening and growing resonant enough to shout orders and taunt those he is to meet at the other end of a blade.

Speaking of blades, returning to the present as his jaw sharpens he sees quite the specimen standing in front of him. Peter’s cock easily pokes through his skirt and stands like a beacon as he ravenously desires the spirit of sex standing opposite. The knight is more than eager to meet the satyr on a decidedly different kind of battlefield than he’s used to. As soon as Theo sees the throbbing cock he pounces and the two enjoy their new forms together on the balcony, in view of the party and the city. Deep, wild moans of pleasure echo through the streets as Theo traces battle scars on the knight's form and Peter tugs at patches of hair that cover the satyr. 

Inside, the festivities have devolved into precisely the orgy that the god of revelry and madness had hoped. Cowboys and Spidermen using their webs and lassos to quite creative ends, demons finding the new nerve endings in tails and horns, werewolves truly unleashing the beast and finding more than common ground with vampires who are likewise finally sucking something other than blood. Briefly checking in, he’s pleased that the satyr found his way to the armor wrapped gift intended for him,  fingers crossed Aphrodite doesn’t mind his brief step into her domain. But more than that he can’t wait to see where the satyr goes from here, after all, his gifts don’t stop on November first- once a sex spirit always a sex spirit. Theo’s going to find people lining up all the time to experience the reverie he now inherently offers. As the night goes on and the pair rejoin the party it becomes clear that he is not to mind. 

[ilianasbruce]

“The man on the altar.”

word count: 3,400

summary: Bruce understands what religion meant

warnings: full +18 content with some religious themes. minors do not interact, please.

notes: hello, hello!!! i’m back with a piece that had been rounding around my head for a long time. it’s actually a small one that i dreamed about when i thought of ‘what would Bruce think of sex if he was young and in love with his wife?’. i highly believe that young lover Bruce’d be obsessed with his wife; he’d be following her until the end of the world, she’d mean too much to him. and he’d mirror her actions, her love, and learn about the physical intimacy. this piece will be exploring the thought as i did in my previous works but i plan to sweeten and enrich my vision in my future pieces.

i must say that Bruce that i am writing and analyzing based on my views; i heavily try to write and create him based on his experiences, thoughts, and views of the world through my own reading and listening to comics. i had seen enough content about Bruce’s terrible representation, both as a father and lover and it is so heartbreaking to see them constantly. Anyone who portrays him in that way, specifically comic writers and fiction writers, either way, do not want to know about him or they just do not know him — just writing him out of his character. i’m not here to judge, i’m a writer here, too but i wish people could write based on what they really saw in him, not the constant circling of his constant representation. i am very open to your ideas, notions, and views, beautiful strangers!! please, if you have any of them, come to my ask-aways and let’s discuss them!! thank you so much for your reading and the support of my fiction. i love you!!! happy reading!! ♡

Bruce was nearly a virgin before you. There was no shame in that. He had been bruised, stained with a tragedy throughout his life; unable to escape from the haunting echoes. He had no time or chance for anything beyond.

Bruce had been crumbled with his own wrath. His rage had him in the situations that resulted in the person who was today. His initial catalysts weren't coming from No man’s land. It had a name. Tragedy was a mere word for someone or people who only knew the paper meaning of the word. No one knew the exact meaning, sense, or form of tragedy, except the ones who had lived through it. The ones who had seen, felt, maddened by its unmistakable seconds of it.

Bruce knew that very well.

Tragedy bent Bruce in a way that could not be remedied. It gave him some traits, woke the early thoughts in his small mind without his comprehension of their meaning. The blood-covered concrete under his ricocheting gaze, in the middle of his beloved parents’ freshly warm corpses and his mother’s beautiful eyes — all created a bunch of sentiments, views of the world. And they shaped him in the ways.

Anger and justice — those were the ones rooted in Bruce since the tragedy, the first beliefs craved in his mind, those he couldn't breathe the air without. They were in a sense opposite of each other. How could an outraged person know what justice was from their chaotic vision? To know and understand justice?

Justice could be done with an open mind. Fairness and proper judgment must be the main characteristics of the man who sought justice. Not the anger. Not the wrath. Not the rage.

Bruce was painted with anger, that was why he never understood the need. He was blinded by the darkness of his tragedy. He chose wrath as a lamp and reached the destination he desperately searched for.

And there he was. Tall and ready when he hit his destination.

But an unfamiliar ache started in him when you came into his life; when you became his. Bruce felt it, the ache, as he felt anger for the first time, the meaning of it truly after the tragedy. And he felt the exact, familiar sense when he discovered something new, just as wrath itself before.

The ache formed itself into a need as he felt deeper. Need had started to consume him day by day when you were flourishing in this stormy life. Oh, how it burned him, left him confused but aware at the same time. He wanted you to be his desperately, the sense too intense as he laid his eyes on you every single time. He knew what it represented, what it threatened and he did not feel any shame about it. So, when you became his wife, he got what he scorched for — you.

You two had your first time on your honeymoon, away from Gotham for a few days. You were both young and in love, inexperienced and eager for each other. Bruce was your first in many things and physical intimacy was one of them. Sex was something that you did not engage in before him, partially making you equal to him. It was him with whom you learned about the intimacy between the lovers.

Two lovers — one belonged to the Sun and the other to the darkness. But Bruce refused to belong to anything, except you.

His loveliest, prettiest lover girl.

You tasted so sweet, melted in his mouth every time he kissed you. Or you dripped on his tongue delightfully when his handsome face was between your soft thighs feasting on you, which became the explicit definition of ‘heavenly’ in his terminology. You spun in Bruce’s mind ferociously — unconscious of your vision in him. You got him on his knees, got him obsessed with you.

He could not stand any chance against your love. He could not dare to leave your warmth. He altered his angles to the opposite directions, to the ones that he did not heed what they meant. He was blinded by you — his precious Sun in the dusk-covered life of his. And only Alfred did see his obsessive devotion to you.

Alfred, who brought Bruce up like his own blood son and raised him after the tragedy until Bruce left him for twelve years to come back with the unimaginable idea. Alfred, who sometimes riled Bruce up with his persistent worries about his safety and his recklessness about his own body, was stunned for the first time by how Bruce was towards you. How Bruce’s sharp and keen eyes were glinting when he heard your voice. He saw Bruce’s almost unhealthy love for you with his bare eyes.

He saw Bruce in different forms. He saw the silent delight in Bruce’s spirit when you were at Manor, doing something trivial. He saw his eased shoulders or the quiet excitement in his posture when he was with you. He saw how he appreciated and lavished you. He saw how he followed you as the Northstar. He saw, he heard and he was never expecting his son to be smitten like this.

So, when Bruce gave you his last name, his consumerism started, too.

Oh, after your first-ever sex, you nearly started to doing it once a week for the whole month. Him being tired? No worries, he had you under him with languid, deeper thrusts. Him being still energetic after being beaten up by thugs and your gorgeous eyes filled with sleep? He got you, ‘baby’. He circled around and came back to you. Again and again, with obsession and devotion.

You gave Bruce something he lacked and ached — peace. Peace meant everything to him in every sense, including the bed. Once the cold sheets he slept for the recovery or he flinched from them with nightmares, now were the real bed. The bed he had once heard the meaning of, but never knew until you slept in. His expensive, crispy sheets now were marked by your scent. Or the nightstand had your book. Anything in that damned room that he did not cross until his body couldn't handle the insomnia now belonged to you, too.

Oh, that room had seen Bruce’s lovemaking to you as the whole witness. It had absorbed your sweet sounds when he thrust into you. Your soft ‘Bruce’s, or his hushed curse words echoed through the room.

You taught Bruce many things during your marriage, even though you were just as young as him. In fact, you were a few years younger than him. If you did marry when Bruce was twenty-six or almost twenty-seven, you were just twenty-two or twenty-three.

Young and free, new romantics.

Your love taught physical intimacy to him. You were sweetly affectionate and loving — his lovely girl who also looked so good on him. The first time he let you ride him was when it was a rainy afternoon and he was at Manor. He did have nothing to do so at the moment, it was either early for the Batman or the city was quiet that Bruce wasn't in the cave. Must of been something that got you two worked up and you ended up making out with him on his lap.

It was you and him on the armchair, in the reading room of Wayne Manor. He kissed you like he was feasting on you. It started slow, dragging his fingers under your white tight-covered legs while his lips honored you. Then, he gave you the kisses one by one instead of taking your breath away with one. You couldn't get enough of him; you never did. So, you pulled him over and over again when he broke the kiss for another peck on your sweet lips.

You were pulling him by his dark hair, now messy between your fingers while trying to mend the craving between your legs. He must have sensed that to offer you ride his thigh first. When he put you in the right position, he murmured ‘Ride it, baby.’ to your lips before capturing you in the next kiss. But when you whispered a confused ‘But,’ to the broken kiss, he knew what he had to do.

That afternoon he carried you to your bedroom and stripped you until your delicate set, you sitting on his hips. You looked so adorable in your matching set, looking into his eyes with a flushed face and reddish lips from his kisses. His fingers wandered through your soft skin, over the silky material of your panties, so warm under his fingertips while you reached for another kiss.

Bruce had to teach you how to be on top since you were a virgin to the experience. Oh, how he gladly enjoyed being your tutor, but in fact, he hadn't done this sufficiently, either.

That one afternoon could be one of the best of times in Bruce’s life. All your softest sounds from your lips, your flustered cheek against his shoulder, and your scorching, viscous walls around his cock could be the death of him in the sweetest way. Your hands were on his bare biceps, nails digging into his pale skin from the sensation of the new angle you two were trying. He was ushering you with sweet words of ‘That’s my girl.’, ‘It’s all yours, baby, ride it.’ and you were glowing with his thickness.

His hands were around your thighs, helping for you the first time — not that he minded to have his hands on you. His eyes were half-lidded with the pleasure your pussy gave him, head rested against the headboard of his bed.

He could be doing that for the whole day if he could and he would not be drunk on you enough. But you were still sensitive to your inexperience and his stamina since Bruce had you on your back against the sheets every week. And he did not want his pretty girl unable to enjoy sex as much as he did.

Speaking of the devil, Bruce unquestionably had insane stamina for his age. Both on the streets and in bed; he could fuck you for hours without sweat on his forehead. All you had to do was lay prettily for him, your legs and arms around him— a habit of yours, to feel him closer as much as you could — as he thrust you.

Or he could eat you out, no, devour you to the point you’d be whimpering about how ‘it was too much’. It was never too much for him, not when he had you all to himself forevermore. Your legs around his head, probably on his broad shoulders, as he rolled his tongue between your folds. Sometimes he’d just eat you fully, with no fingers involved — just to see how much you could go. Or sometimes, his fingers would be diving into you in and out while his tongue worked in your pussy. You were a mess every time, fingers gripping the hem of your pillow or in his messy, inky hair with no chance against him.

He one time ate you out just because you were irritated with him due to his reckless driving and jumping from the Batmobile through the Gotham Bridge. You and Alfred were having almost a heart attack on the comms, just looking at each other in a dead silence. And Bruce? He shut you up that whole night with his lips and fingers in your cunt. You were too dizzy and sensitive to stay mad at him, and he was nuzzling you like a puppy with exhaustion, making you two fall asleep as soon as your heads hit the pillow.

He knew you so well, your character and your body as if he was your husband for ten years, instead of ten months. He was overly good at analyzing; he could be into the detective arc for a year but when you were in his bed every night, he had learned you as the back of his hand.

Bruce loved to come back to you and nuzzle you — he had been mirroring your affection and giving you what you gave him every day. He’d come back, straight to the shower after his patrols. And he’d glimpse at your sleeping form under the quilts. Or barely awake one with a relieved, small smile on your lips that he came back in one piece. You’d find him holding you tightly or cuddling you. Cuddling most of the time led to his favorite position when you were thinking about sex.

Missionary.

Any version of that position was you two’s favorite.

Bruce thrived for you when you were looking up at him with your prettiest eyes, your hair slightly messy on your pillow creating a vision for him, and your hands on his shoulders to keep him close to you? Whispering or moaning into his mouth when he kissed you as well as dived in between your warm thighs? Letting him show you how much he loved the bed you were in? You made his head spin with your intoxicating love.

Bruce had you in that position every single time. You loved it, too, there was no lie in that. You loved him so much that you were aching and wanting him to be close to you. And it was the only position you had him as you wished.

You wanted to be with your Bruce skin-to-skin, face-to-face as much as you could as if he’d disappear suddenly. You made it clear whenever he was buried inside of you so sweetly, so thickly and your legs around his waist, calling his name with love. Either your arms around his neck or your nails scratching his back muscles as he fucked you. You both were touch-starved for each other and you were fixing that in sex.

Bruce knew your clinginess all too well and he’d reassure you during sex every time. When he could see how tight you held him, he’d murmur ‘I am here, baby.” or “Not going anywhere, my love.”. You were just so sweet, wanting him as much as he wanted you.

Bruce made love to you. That was undeniable. He did not thrive in sex for some stupid time-wasting activity or weird position trying. Sex wasn't something that crossed his mind heavily during his twelve years of wandering. But if it came to his head, the idea of it was too intimate for him. Bruce was a lover. And he’d adore his beloved in the most intimate way.

And when he was in Gotham after twelve years, twenty-five years old, and being perceived by the Gothamites as the ‘handsome bachelor’ or in the next year trying to work out on his playboy act, known as ‘sex appeal’, ‘player’ or ‘definition of sex’, he despised it. He loathed it because that was not who he was but he had to be for the sake of his dual identity. He had been touched by people, gazed at by people and it disgusted him. They treated him as a mystery and dream, tried to touch their repulsive hands on his body; even a hand on his arm became an invasion of him. But people did not care and he started to learn to set it aside.

However, when he became your lover, your husband, he was at peace and the only person he wanted to be touching him was you. And Bruce loved to be intimate with you. Thus, sex became his favorite act.

What was the meaning of sex when he couldn't see your beautiful face when he was inside you with his deep, languid pace for both of you to see you were the one he belonged to? What was the meaning of it if your soft skin wasn't under his rough fingers, his lips to worship you? To mark you with his lips like a devoted prayer as his offering at your altar? Kissing every inch, every curve of your body, knowing it, and owning it as a map as his great treasure. Marking you with his burgundy-colored stains to show who loved you.

What was the meaning of it if he did not find his peace? He had found it truthfully, in many aspects. One of them was that there were the nights he was irritated and when he moved in and out of your core, you bestowed him an idea unconsciously. He was silent on the tongue, only his breathing — he was always silent when he was frustrated — just focused absentmindedly. You noticed him since he came home, slid under the covers without uttering a word. Your hushed voice pulled him out of his vexation, your ‘Baby, w-what’s wrong?’ altered his senses. He realized that he had someone who could listen to him. Why not to try? Now, he was talking to you about his anger — only his anger —as he made love to you.

“I,” he muttered through his breath one night after his patrol. It was four in the morning and he was furious. “I almost lost it, baby.” he thrust his hips at a slightly rough pace, having you with whimpers and clutched hands on his shoulders.

“Fuck, he almost killed that small girl before I did something. Gonna lose my mind.”

He’d fuck his anger out himself, try to escape from the constant adrenaline of his rage. And you were so loving towards him to watch him with fluttering lashes and flustered cheeks under him. Offering your small words or worries to him with your sigh of pleasure.

He’d speak about what itched his brain. Sometimes either how he was terrible that night or he didn't know if he could keep up and you were there under him, kissing his lips as he confessed. Uttering words of ‘It’s okay.’, ‘M-My hero.” or ‘I love you so much.’ on his lips. What was the meaning of sex if this was not the thing he had during it?

And there were the times he was beaten up.

Truly.

His muscles were aching in the shower at three thirty-five one night after he made it home, to you. He had bruises on his skin, his jaw, and arms, all reddish and burgundy. You caught his gloomy eyes in the dim light of your bed lamp with the sleep in your posture. You’d wait for him sometimes, he’d not let you stay awake for him, but you did. How could you not?

He’d look haunted on those nights as if he was back in that alley again as if he was reliving the exact moments. You’d never know what made those memories revive in his mind again, but you knew when he slipped under the covers, to your arms. He’d do what he knew was right because he knew what you should do. And you did.

He’d slip in you with no protection — just bare and him. As if he was testing you if you’d let him, his real self to love, to have you. It was a trick of his mind. He’d play with his pace; sometimes rough, sometimes gentle. He would be lost mentally but there in your arms, in skin and bones. You’d pull him for many breathless kisses as much as you could, to ease and reassure him that he was there in your arms, not alone, not scared anymore. Your husband and safe in your arms.

He’d press his forehead against yours until he came with a repressed groan in his throat, his seed dripping between your folds, his breath hot against your lips. You’d stay there for a long time, just like that. Pressed up to each other, breathing and intertwined in love. He loved the feeling of you; the scent of yours as a reminder for him that you were there with him, wrapped around him as he was nuzzling you. He’d feel better, so much better than before he made it home.

So, if sex did not involve you, he was not interested. As if sex was created just because of you, for him to consume and love you. You made his bed a shrine. For both confessing and worshiping you. Bruce was never a religious man, he was the man of science. But for you, he became the one.

He now understood the essentials of someone’s religion. How those people were strict and at the same time, safe with their religious beliefs. How they felt the connection, the yearning to be close to their deity. How they thought highly, how they envisioned them as remarkable. He saw that, felt that, and had that in his own house, in his own bed.

thank you so much for reading! ♡

[rdmasevi]

Crimson Bonds

Title: “Crimson Bonds”: a Twilight fanfiction

Pairings: Volturi Kings ( Aro, Marcus, Caius ) x Reader Male ( Bella’s Brother )

Genre: Supernatural Romance | Drama |

Angst | Dark Fantasy | Slow Burn (Implied) | Power Dynamics|

Warnings: Power Imbalance, Possessive Behavior, Violence & Threats, Dark Themes, Sibling Conflict.

Summary: When Bella races to Volterra to save Edward from exposing himself to the world, the Volturi discover a secret the Cullens never intended to reveal—Bella’s brother.

The air in the Volturi’s marble throne room felt colder than usual as Aro’s pale fingers slid into Alice’s hand, eyes widening with rapture. The echoes of Bella’s frantic heartbeat still rang in the vast chamber, where she and Edward stood before the vampire kings, pleading for their lives.

But then Aro paused.

He stilled as though time had halted, the world fading from his consciousness while a new vision unfurled before his mind's eye—one Alice herself hadn't seen, hidden in the tangled future, obscured even from her sight.

A boy.

No—a man. Human. Living quietly in Forks. Bella’s brother. But unlike Bella, his existence wasn’t mundane.

Aro's eyes flickered with sudden hunger, curiosity, purpose. A smile curled across his lips, bone-white and unblinking.

"You’ve been keeping secrets, my dear," he whispered, hand slipping from Alice’s. His eyes landed not on her, nor Edward, but Bella. "I wonder, Isabella... does your brother know just how important he truly is?"

Bella stiffened. "What—"

But Caius rose then, like a predator scenting blood.

"A mate," he said, voice low and sharp. "We feel him. Even from here. His blood... his soul. He belongs to us."

Marcus didn’t speak. His black eyes turned far away, and though silent, his presence loomed—he felt the bond too. The rare, ancient tie of a true mate. And it wasn’t with any human woman. It was with him.

You.

——

You felt it before they arrived.

A whisper in your blood. A pulse in your bones that didn’t belong to you.

The wind howled outside your window in Forks, but the stillness inside your chest was louder. You didn't know what it meant—only that Bella hadn’t come home. That she’d gone to Italy. That something was wrong.

And then, the kings came.

Three figures in cloaks like shadows pulled from nightmares, gliding through your door as if it weren’t even there. Aro, with a smile like frostbite. Caius, burning with disdain. Marcus, who merely looked at you and whispered, “Finally.”

You didn't fight.

You couldn't.

Because when Aro reached out and took your hand, you felt it—them.

Something ancient awakened. A thread of fate pulling tight. The overwhelming sensation of being seen—not as Bella’s brother, not as a human—but as something theirs. Something powerful. Something claimed.

"You belong to us," Aro said gently. “And we do not take well to being kept from what is ours.”

——

The Cullen house exploded in fury when they found out.

Carlisle, usually calm, struck the stone table hard enough to crack it.

"You went to him? Without telling us? Without giving him a choice?"

“He chose,” Aro said simply. “He felt the bond. It cannot be denied. Not by you. Not by Bella. Not even by him.”

“But you would have killed us,” Rosalie snarled, her eyes burning.

“Yes,” Caius replied coldly, “and still might. You kept him hidden. You tried to sever the bond. That is treason.”

“You hid our mate from us,” Aro added, voice sharp now. “From me.”

The Volturi had never shared a mate before. But in you, they did. A paradox the vampire world had never seen—a single human soul tied to all three kings. You were theirs. Not one. Not two. But all three.

And yet, the Cullens fought.

Edward, desperate. “He’s not like you. He’s good. You’ll destroy him.”

But you were already in Volterra. You stood at the kings’ side, a strange calm in your chest. It wasn’t submission. It wasn’t fear. It was inevitability.

You could feel it.

The way the darkness curled around you but didn’t consume you. How Aro’s touch didn’t chill, but steadied. How Marcus, silent as ever, never left your side. How Caius—feral, cruel—watched you like a starving man seeing sunlight for the first time.

They weren’t here to break you. They didn’t want to.

They wanted you to rule.

“I’m not a prisoner,” you said, voice low but certain, silencing the room. “I’m here because I chose to be.”

Bella looked at you like she didn’t recognize you.

You gave her a soft smile.

“I’ll be okay, Bella. This is... right.”

Aro stepped forward and placed a hand on your shoulder, smiling proudly. “And now, the Volturi are whole.”

The Cullen clan was forced to leave. Not defeated—banished. The kings allowed their lives only because you had asked them to.

And in the depths of Volterra, in the heart of ancient power, you began to change.

Not broken. Not lost.

But rising.

The kings’ true mate.

And their future.

My main masterlist

[katsukistofu]

USER KATSUKISTOFU, WRITE A HANTA SERO PIECE, AND MY LIFE IS YOURSSSS‼️🙏🫡

all eye wanted was you

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ s. hanta x fem reader. fluff. ★ sero reminds you of a few important things that your all-seeing quirk overlooks.

“So you’re not dating him?” The girl in front of you asks again to clarify. She’s either from General Studies or the Business course you think, you honestly don’t really remember and don’t care.

You heave a sigh. “You asked that already, I said no the first time.”

At this point you’d assume the conversation would be over, but of course she opens her mouth again.

“Then you wouldn’t mind if I asked him out, right?”

Your head’s starting to throb and you force your tone to be calm. “Sorry, but do you understand the definition of not dating—“

“Uh, yeah she would.”

A familiar voice speaks, and your eyes widen as you make contact with its source, your best friend. “Sero? What are you doing here?”

“Making sure people don’t have the wrong idea of us.” He offers you a sly grin, tugging you closer by the sleeve of your uniform.

“How is this making sure people don’t have the wrong idea of us?” You hiss, placing your hands on his unfairly firm chest to stop yourself from colliding with it. With a quick glance around, it seems like the girl is gone.

“Hmm.” Sero’s smirk only deepens on his pretty lips. He did this on purpose to have you alone to himself, didn’t he? “Didn’t see you complaining when we pretended to be together to get a discount for tatts.”

“Their prices for hypothetically single people were crazy!” Your cheeks burn as his fingers trail over a spot on the fabric of your school uniform.

The skin underneath burns as he continues to trace the almost exact pattern of your tattoo, like he has it memorized from when you both showed each other right after getting them done at the parlor.

Sero playfully fidgets with the hair tie on your wrist that he let you steal from him earlier as he continues. “Or when I told the waiter at that fancy restaurant you were my girlfriend and that he couldn’t give you his number, but we’d love to take the couple’s deal instead.”

“That’s different!” You protest weakly, sounding unbelievable even to your own ears.

“What, are you going to play with my hair, like how you always do when you get stressed?” He murmurs, gently tilting your chin up to force you to meet his eyes.

You curse as you realize he’s right, somehow your finger has already found its own way to twirl one of his dark locks.

Sero’s dusky eyes darken with a hint of hurt.

“How long are you going to keep pretending?” His voice is painfully soft.

“I don’t know, I’m just…“ You take shuddering breath. “I’m scared, I guess.”

“Scared of what?” Sero’s brows furrow. “Is it because of that rando? Because you could easily take her, I’ve seen you with some strong ass villains—“

You laugh and smack his bicep. “No, dummy! I’m scared because…” Your voice hesitates, and he hugs your waist tighter.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

Your breath catches as he uses that tone. “Okay now you’re just being unfair.”

“Hey, I’ll beg if I have to.” He grins before faking a drop down to his knees.

You squeal as his strong arms take you with him, only to come back up and steady you, and he chuckles as you smack him.

“Okay, I’ll tell you! I’m scared because I don’t want to end up pretending like we don’t know each other when we break up. You mean a lot to me, and I think,” You mumble as your finger continues to play with a button on his dress shirt. “I think that would really mess me up.”

“You mean a lot to me too.” Sero’s eyes soften. “And if we break up.”

“Nothing lasts forever, Sero.”

“Let’s prove them wrong then.” He brushes his knuckles across your cheek with such tenderness that it hurts. “Baby, why are you so worried about a future that won’t happen?”

“Because I’ve seen it happen to people.” There’s a worried frown on your face as all your past visions from your Quirk flash through your mind. “One moment everything’s going fine, then it all falls apart. Fate runs its course. I don’t want that to happen to us.”

“Forget fate, I want you.” He cups your cheeks, and you huff as you’re sandwiched between his hands. “It’s hot when you get all Doomsday on me, but I think you’re overthinking it.”

You let out a giggle, realizing he’s right. Nothing is ever set in stone, and you knew that your powers would cause you to be predisposed to anxiously anticipate things, even ones far from your current time.

He’s always reminded you to breathe, like now.

“I want you to focus on the present in that pretty little head of yours, okay?” Sero’s warm, caramel voice tickles your ear. “Can you do that for me?”

“Okay.” You whisper from where your head’s tucked under his chin, clutching his uniform in your hands. “I really want you too.”

He breathes a relieved laugh into your hair. “That’s good. So I can say it now right?”

You bury a smile into his shoulder and his lips tug upward as well when he feels it. “Go ahead.”

Sero takes a deep breath.

“Can I be your boyfriend?”

The butterflies in your stomach flutter while you stand on your tip toes, and to your delight his pupils are blown out and his cheeks are already flushed before you even lean in to give them a kiss.

“Yes. In every future, yes.”

[deltabyss]

I haven't made attacks yet since I was focused on making refs of two sky ocs that have been sitting in my head for over a year and needed to get them out of my head finally and place them on artfight djghsdjhdf

Anyways, these two girls are older sky ocs than my main skysona, Delta, teehehe ^^ I was procrastinating on drawing them for too long aueueueee <x'D except that I drew Sofi earlier, but with more accurate in-game colors bc I followed game's designs, but grahhh, I wanted to come back to og color palette idea for her I had over year ago gdfhdfhdfh

Yaaay old Sofi art go brr x3c anyways, lore under cut, teehehe!

Iris is Golden Wasteland survivor who has survived krill attack and has trust issues to people due to her past (she has been tricked by someone taking her into Graveyard area, leaving her alone on krill's sight) and was stuck in the Wasteland, Vault and the Eden since everytime she was reborn from Orbit she always found herself in the Wasteland again. This vicious cycle was due to her lack of trust towards everyone else except fresh moths, not letting anyone else help her because she was afraid of being fooled again.

Until she met Sofi who was found lost in the Wasteland, in the first krill's hall area, before she reached to Graveyard. Iris noticed that Sofi needed a guide since she hasn't been in this realm until then. Iris decided to help Sofi to reach the Vault's entrance despite being heavily incredulous towards her. During the unsafe travels across the wasteland desert Sofi learned that Iris is very untrustful towards other sky kids as Iris refuses to let Sofi get to know her more, sharing only some facts; that Iris has been stuck in three dark realms, with Wind Paths being closed for her.

Sofi understood the issue really fast and at the entrance of the Vault Sofi told Iris that she's been stuck here in these realms because she refused to trust everyone, including ones who's being nice to her and refuses their attempts to help her. This made Iris realize that and as Sofi went further into Vault, saying goodbye to her, hoping to see her again, Iris turned back to look at the Battlefield, tracing her only eye towards sky. Iris was wondering how the world looked like before she got stuck in the deserted places and had struggles to remind; it has been so long time since she saw outside world last time. She then decided to join Sofi, when she just opened the entrance to the Starlight Desert. Both Iris and Sofi have never seen this place before as it was first time for Sofi to come to Vault's realm and Iris never spotted an entrance here due to limited vision. This place amazed them so much that it became their favourite place to come visit in future.

Sofi had at least open Wind Paths, so she could bring Iris to beautiful side of the world, letting Iris experience the green and snowy beautiful areas again.

And since then they started to bond to each other, developing friendship over time, which lastly formed into relationship.

So thanks to Sofi, Iris regained her trust in other sky kids, became more social, as well being less afraid of showing her scars. In exchange, thanks to Iris, Sofi started to feel more comfortable with her tail and long ears, however Sofi still prefers to wear her hat bc she loves to wear it nonetheless :)

Anyways, that's all for now and thanks for reading 👉👈

[lilolilyr]

~ Lilo's 2024 Star Wars recs ~ (another Ao3 year in review)

This is specifically the star wars edition of my reader year in review, the rest & more info can be found here!

Descriptions/summaries by me, click the links for the ones from the authors.

The Good Sith by sonnyrain - Obi-Wan Kenobi and all of the Vod'e time travel and end up on a Sith planet. Obi-Wan, now 'Aranar', turns to the dark side, swearing to protect his men no matter the cost. Over a million words, lots of plot and character developments, fix-everything, still ongoing as of mid last year but you can read the first part(s) on their own.

I love this fic a ridiculous amount, I read several parts at least twice, and I'm thinking about it constantly. Like, when I think up my plotless little fluff piece fix everything bedtime stories I think up to fall asleep (and sometimes when something's good have to forego sleep to write down immediately because I know I won't remember fuckall come morning), I think of the versions of the characters from that 'verse just as often as I think of canon star wars characters or ones from any other fics. It fits into my headcanon 'verse really well because I always work with multiverse settings, and I love the kid characters especially little Sithling Aurek and his twin Soul.

Knives and Spices by argentee, mikaiyawa and others: A whole group of humans from earth is kidnapped into the Star Wars world, and separate fics follow separate characters. One becomes Mandalorian, one a pop star, yet another befriends some pirates and travels to lands we've never seen in canon. 280k, ratings and warnings vary, series still ongoing, parts can be read separately

I love and adore all kinds of self insert stories but this one is just extra levels of amazing - it's basically humans are space orcs meets Star Wars, and humans are all a bit force sensitive - the ending of the series summary describes it perfectly: "how much trouble can a few humans cause? All of it. All the trouble." and I love it all to bits!

Like a Tree by the River by @bairnsidhe - at Galidraan, Komari has a vision of the canon future and decides that she'd rather leave the Jedi behind than be a part of that massacre. Somehow, this ends with her and Dooku being adopted by mandalorians, and her in turn kind of adopting teenaged Obi-Wan at Melida/Daan? 20k T

Idk, this isn't even such a long one and I mean all of BairnSidhe's works I've read are great but somehow specifically this one with Dooku being the 'a bit old' ad and Komari therefore the bu'ad of a random coruscanti Mandalorian just stuck with me and I sometimes randomly think of Dooku being all confused and have to smile xD the plot&writing is also really good!

How a Romance Novel Saved the Galaxy by @arianaderalte: The mandos get their hands on a novel that describes a romance between mandalorians and jedi, and just how perfect jedi really are as partners for mandalorians... This changes things when both groups interact irl. 200k, rated T, Violence

This series has Everything. Jedi, Mandalorians, action, relationships, all kinds of queerness, and excerpts from a romance novel about the ancient Sith wars. Honestly, this fic just couldn't be better! I binge-read through it in one go even though I should have done a million other things at the time and I didn't regret it one bit xD

All the Amavikka stories: the slaves on Tatooine have a separate secret culture with language, myths and names, and Anakin, coming from this culture, reacts to Palpatine being his newest slave master

I think this idea of Tatooine slave culture and of Anakin's characterization is so interesting and I love reading it, from long Double Agent Vader by @fialleril, which I think is the original fic creating the Ekkreth lore, over the ongoing series Biting His Own Tale by @adragonsfriend, to the short story I can't find anymore about depur erecting a tower, a song-fic to Babylon by Dirt Poor Robin and the reason for my obsession with that band - please, if anyone has a link, send it my way! - and all other fics, I love this trope so much!

I think Ekkreth Skywalker was one of the first trope rabbit holes I stumbled into when I got really into Star Wars longfics in the middle of 2024, and I'm always excited to see references to it in fics mainly about other characters as well, like Breaking Chains by @jehanneargentee, and I went back to (re)reading fics about the trope on purpose several times as well :)

The last fic leads neatly into the next trope I really loved this year, Time Travel stories, more specifically Obi-Wan Kenobi time travelling and meeting mandalorians :D

I don't really have more specific stories for this one, I read so so so many of them that they just blur together in my mind. I marked a couple with the Ao3 rec function so I assume I liked those especially much, but going through them now I still don't really remember much, but I do recognize a couple fic author names as authors I read many good fics from, Ariel_Sojourner AppoApples @batshieroglyphics @roosjem LeeTheHobbit @triscribe cjwritesfanficnow @laurabwrites y'all's are awesome! Everyone, go check out all their fics!

I do also read and enjoy stories where people other than Obi-Wan travel through time, one that really stuck with me is In Good Time by morwen_of_gondor, about the Mandalorian trainers Kal Skirata and Walon Vau time travelling back to their time on Kamino.

All the fluffy h/c, fix-it, everyone lives, no order 66 Clone Wars fics! Pro-jedi, pro-clones, anti-sith (which sometimes includes Anakin, sometimes not), usually focusing on the 212th.

I never watched the series and it's been ages since I watched Attack of the Clones, but somehow, probably on the time travel -> Obi-Wan fics -> General Kenobi pipeline, I ended up reading a loooot of clone wars (fix it) fic, specifically lots and lots of Codywan!

You know that lovely feeling of getting into a new fandom without having any preconceived notions or otps or anything, so you can read All The Fic without any ships or bashing squicking you out? Yeah, that was me in Star Wars several months ago, cursed be the Codywan that got to me xD I can barely read time travel fics anymore without mourning the existence of the Vod'e because changing the past usually means they won't be created (unless they're the ones time travelling of course. Love those fics) and where I used to read just about anyone x Obi-Wan (and also anyone x anybody else lmao), I'm not pretty exclusively into Codywan... That being said, there's a reason for that, and that's the amount of amazing fics for that ship that I came across!

Again, I don't have specific fics that I remember because I just read so many one after the other... I guess I'll have to re-read them all. Which is great actually because me not remembering them much means I can reread them basically for the first time! I did mark some as rec but looking through them now I think they're not mainly recced for the codywan... My shippy bookmark tag might give a better overview.

Another ship I got into was clone troopers Waxer x Boil, I like the thought of the Vod'e being a society of to outsiders identical looking but to each other separate people who only see their immediate batchmates as siblings (which would also psychologically make a lot more sense), and these two are just super cute.

One of the first Waxer/Boil fics I read is also Codywan and it's one of these clones&Obi-Wan time travel fics I like so much :D The 212th Attack Battalion's Guide to Saving the Galaxy by Accident by @antigrav-vector and @quarra, it also has some Dooku/Sifo-Dyas which is another ship I really like.

Another one I still want to continue reading is RCAU: Open Skies mainly by @cacodaemonia, what I've seen of it so far is great and the story is So Long (almost 900k, a honestly daunting wordcount and probably what made me procrastinate continuing it, but also Awesome because So Much Fic), it's cute and shippy and no order 66 but also has plot and interesting characters and ocs and I just love it <3

Also similar but less ship centric, I absolutely love all the fics where Fox gets to kill Palpatine. Just, best trope ever. The Corrie Guard deserves a little Sith Murder. As a treat.

Jaster Mereel and his haat'ade (True Mandalorians), there are a bunch of really good ones where they rescue Obi-Wan and the Young from Melidaan, but also in general all the Jaster fics are great!

While I'm very anti guns irl I just love the fictional Mandalorian culture xD with their cool armor and their codex and the language (per my last count I know 90 words of Mando'a just from fic reading osmosis, send me an ask if you want a list lmao), the vibrant culture created by it being a creed, not one species... and Jaster is just my favorite Mando'ad ever, maybe because he doesn't have much canon attached so fanon just went wild? xD there are also a bunch of jedi shippy fics with him and Dooku sometimes in ot3 with Sifo-Dyas, or him and Jon Antilles like the wonderful 100k wip trade your heart for bones to know by @blackkatmagic, and I think there was one with time travelling adult Obi-Wan as well - edit: yes several, by @roosjem @cjwritesfanficnow @batshieroglyphics <3

Skywalker Family Values by Ariel_Sojourner: Sith-son Luke and senator daughter Leia end up in the same summer camp, it ends in a destruction of the speciist camp, a rebellious theatre performance and the reintroduction of their parents... Aka the parent trap/ Doppelte Lottchen AU that is still somehow perfectly in tune with the Star Wars world! 55k, T for violence.

Can't forget the fic that actually got me into Star Wars! At least I'm pretty sure this is the one? I think there was a tumblr post talking about crackfic ideas for a parent trap AU, and I went looking and found this one, which is actually 100% serious and such a good read. I actually made my mom read it as well xD Das Doppelte Lottchen (German original parent trap book from 1949) was one of our favs for her to read to me when I was a kid, and my mom is always looking for new reading material and as I'm mainly reading fanfic, I'm always happy to find fic she'll also like.

And, because I turn everything into a tag meme, maybe some of you also want to show your appreciation for the writers who got us through the last year - everyone who sees this, feel free to make your own post (if it's just Star wars fic I guess you can reblog-add to this one, but otherwise seriously make your own post)! and remember to leave your authors some comments especially if they can't be @-ed on tumblr :) tagging all the authors already tagged above and everyone else who sees this!

here's my 2024 rec list for other fandoms

more of my fic recs • my writing • my Star Wars • Star Wars fic recs

[paperclip-skz]

Just You and Me

fem*Reader x Bang Chan

*WARNING

contains: Teasing, trapped ( Chan and reader are kinda kidnapped), kidnapped!, slight force spaced, squirting, fingering, humping, over-clothes stimulation, nicknames, overstimulation, unprotected sex (don't), I'm sure I missed something, let me know in the comments.

prompt: Fuck or die you have 48 hrs to complete the challenge- “Okay, fine, lets do of this then” “Whoa, I might be a fan, but I don’t know you” - “Can we start over…. And maybe we can save each other lives?”

WC: 4.1k

part 2 part 3

***

You felt the suffocating weight of a bag over your head, darkness, and cold wrapping around you like a shroud. Goosebumps erupted on your skin as the icy air seeped into your bones. Then, with a sudden yank, the bag was ripped away, blinding light assaulting your eyes. 

As your vision cleared, dread washed over you. Just a few feet away, there was another figure chained to the floor — The one, the only, Bang Chan, fear etched across his beautiful face. Panic surged through you. Why is he here? And more importantly, where the hell are we?

“What the hell is going on?” Chan roared, his voice echoing with desperation as he struggled against the unforgiving metal cuffs. The sound bounced off the sterile, white walls, amplifying the terror in the air.

Then, a chilling click resonated from above. Your heart raced as your gaze darted to the speakers embedded in the ceiling. A sinister voice slithered through the darkness, dripping with malice. “It’s simple. Play my game, and you both might just live to see another day—along with a bucket full of money.”

“What’s the game?” You dared to ask, your voice trembling, uncertainty creeping in like a slow poison.

“Sleep with each other. Pleasure each other. If you both survive the night, you’ll walk out of here with more than just your lives. You’ll walk out with $5 million.” The voice loomed from the speakers above, blunt and final.  

5 million dollars was on the line, and the thought of it sent a rush of temptation through your veins. 5 million dollars could help you pay off debts, fulfill dreams, and secure a future that felt increasingly uncertain, but there was no way you’d stoop that low; your pride wouldn’t let you. 

“Piss off, go get your porno somewhere else,” you screamed.

“Fine, wanna play, fuck him or die. Your choice,” and the click you heard told you he wasn’t playing anymore. 

Suddenly, the chains unclasp, and you scramble to your feet. You rub your wrists; the lingering sting from the metal reminds you of how vulnerable you are. A sense of panic bubbles within you, clawing at your insides.

“I’m Chris,” he says. His voice is so soft, it’s like velvet, caressing your ears, yet it sends a shiver down your spine at the same time. The thick accent wraps around you, igniting something deep within—was it fear or something more? You feel an overwhelming urge to flee, but where could you go?

“I know,” is all you can muster, your throat tightening as you speak. Your heart races, and in that moment, you realize the implications of your words. What did it mean to know him? You avert your gaze, refusing to let him see the conflict swirling inside you.

“Seen me on the news, I take it?” He rubs his own raw wrists, and your eyes dart to the marks, an echo of your own pain. But you can’t afford to feel sorry for him, not when your own fears loom so large. 

“No, I'm—” Hesitation grips you. “I’m a Stay,” you finally blurt out, your voice steadier than you feel. His eyes widen, surprise etched on his face, and for a fleeting moment, every instinct screams at you to run. “Well, don’t act too surprised,” the tone of your voice shifting subtly.

“No- I just- well I mean- what are the odds?” he stumbles. If it wasn’t for the situation your both in, or the rawness of your skin, or even the coldness of the room, you might have found his flustered state cute. Your lying to yourself. You still found it cute. 

A silent moment passed by. “I think it’s just best if we get this over with.” 

You take two steps back, holding your hand up, acting as a defense. “Whoa, whoa, I might be a fan, but I don’t know you.” 

“Sorry sorry” Chan takes a few steps back. You hold your arms, panic still coursing through your veins. 

“Can we start over? And maybe save our lives in the process?” 

——-

Moments passed. You couldn’t tell if it was an hour or two. The voice didn’t come back, and the lights never dwindled. You couldn’t tell if it was light or dark outside. 

The boredom caught up with you two. It led you to play games to pass the unforgiving time. 20 questions. 

“What’s your favorite color?” Chan asked, a pout on his lips. 

“Maroon” you answered bluntly, from across the room. You knees meeting your chest. “Favorite place to eat?” you shot back. 

“A small tteokbokki mom-and-pop shop in the subway, Sinchon” he shoots back. 

You both go back and forth for a little while until you ask. “What do you want with the money? Don’t you get paid enough?” It wasn’t meant to be an insult or a passive-aggressive comment. But a genuine question.

“Contrary to popular belief, celebrities don’t get paid as much as you might think.” He shifts his gaze to his hands, and his shoulders slump. “You're a Stay, so I assume you know our story—my story,” he corrects himself. “We fight so hard, tooth and nail, every single day, and yet they still want more. It’s a miracle we get all our work done sober, let alone on time.” He chuckles softly to himself. Despite the somberness of his words, a small smile tugs at his lips, and a sparkle shines in his eyes. Even though the life he chose is challenging, he wouldn’t change it for the world.

“Why don’t you want to sleep with me?” his next question. 

A deep pit hits your stomach. It's not that you don't want to sleep with him. You’d be rich if you 

got a nickel for every time you thought about Chan in a…certain way. But, it was more than just wanting to jump his bones. Yes, he was attractive, yes,  anyone in their right mind would want to see this beautiful man naked, but he was still a person that you didn’t know - he was still a man who was very capable of taking advantage of you. 

You couldn't meet his intense gaze, heat flooding your cheeks under the weight of his stare. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” you admit your voice barely above a whisper, a hint of vulnerability lacing your words. 

A playful smirk dances on his lips, and you can feel the tension crackling in the air, but he remains rooted in his spot, a teasing distance between you. 

“I just don’t know you. For all I know, you could be a total asshole behind the camera,” you challenge.

“Do you still think that?” he asks, a teasing lightness in his voice. He’s right—while you’ve traded innocent questions, each answer from him has been honest. He could’ve revealed his darker side, but all he showed was the kind, funny guy you admired. 

“No” you didn’t recognize your own voice. It came out raspy. Hushed. The situation you were both in dwindled a bit. The fear almost drained from your veins and was replaced by something else. 

“Your turn” he says, a new darkness in his eyes. “Can I ask you something a little more personal?” you venture, locking your gaze with his. He shrugs, a playful glint in his eyes, encouraging you to continue. “Have you ever… slept with anyone?”

He lets out a hearty laugh, his confidence radiating through the small room. “Of course, I’ve slept with someone. I’m not a virgin.”

“What?! I just had to know,” you reply, your laughter mixing with his, a warm smile spreading across your face. “I’m surprised they don’t keep you idols under tighter wraps.” You tease, feeling the tension in the air shift, your muscles relaxing.

The laughter flows freely between you, bubbling the small room. Then, he leans in, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Can I ask you a personal question?” he murmurs, his tone low and inviting.

“Sure,” you reply, your heart racing a little as you shrug nonchalantly, intrigued by where this might lead.

“When was the last time you had sex” he finally said the word. Neither one of you dared to say it until now. 

Your entire body ignited with warmth. “It’s been a while,” you confess, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. His brows lift playfully, and you roll your eyes, trying to play it cool. “Okay, okay. It’s been at least…” you hesitate, choosing your words with care, “at least a year and a half.” You hide your face in your hands, your heart racing.

You hear a low chuckle escape him. “Wow.”

“Don’t be mean,” you retort, slowly removing your hands to reveal your flushed face. He lifts his hands in mock surrender.

“I’m not! Honestly, I’m no better—it’s been a whole two years since I kissed a girl, let alone slept with one. I’m just surprised, that’s all. You’re really beautiful; I expected you to have a boyfriend or something.” His eyes widen with curiosity. “Do you… have a boyfriend?”

You laugh, the sound light and airy, as the unexpected question tumbles from his lips. “No, I don’t have a boyfriend… or anyone, really.” your smile lingers a moment. 

“Can- can I move closer?” His voice sounds soft and gentle. You nod your head slightly, tightening your grip on your knees. Chris gets up and walks over to your side of the room. He sits down next to you, leaving a good two feet of space between your bodies. You will your heart to slow as his cologne fills your senses. He smells like a breath of fresh air; your whole body craves another whiff, wanting to be enveloped in his scent. 

You feel your core clench around nothing, the thought of Chris against you, skin against skin, your two breathing mingling with each other. “Thinking of something?” he asks, a cocky smirk tugging his lips. 

You feel warmth radiating from your neck to your chest, and surely all across your face. "N-no, nothing," you say….convincingly enough. 

A teasing laugh bubbles out of him. “Your turn” he turns his head to you, and you keep your head straight trying to ignore his piercing stare. But you feel him watching your every breath, tracing every rise and fall of your chest as you breathe heavily, the way your lip teases its way back and forth from between your teeth, igniting a warmth that spreads like wildfire through your body.

 “Um,” you stammer, your eyes darting around, momentarily lost in the moment. “Why isn’t this freaking you out?” The rasp in your voice reveals the anxiety bubbling beneath the surface. “Aren’t you scared they’re recording us?” 

A sly smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I could choose to be scared,” he says, his voice low and sultry as he leans in closer. His hand finds your jaw, gently guiding your face to meet his gaze. “Or I could forget the details and lose myself in the pretty woman in front of me.” With that, the space between you evaporates, charged and electric, the tension practically begging to be released.

Your lips part, and your eyes dart between his eyes and his lips, the space inching closer and closer. His hand on your jaw slowly glides down to your neck, not demanding, not dominating, not tightly, but enough to send bolts of pleasure coursing through you, enough to have you begging him to touch you more. 

His gentle fingers, warm and delicate, glide around your neck, softly brushing against your skin. You know he feels your heart racing, pulsing rapidly just beneath his fingertips. Your mouth dries, and the dampness between your legs makes you rub them together. “Y/N. Can I kiss you?” he asks, his breath ghosting your lips. 

You don’t answer him, not verbally at least, instead, you lean in that extra inch and connect your lips with his. His touch, yet gentle, is nothing compared to the way he kisses. It's charged, confident. He kisses like its the last kiss he’ll ever have. Savoring every gasp, every moan, every movment of your lips against his. 

His other hand snakes around your waist, silently asking for you to climb on top of him. And you oblige wordlessly, swinging one leg around him so your legs are wrapped around his waist, your arms taking purchase wrapped around his neck. “Fuck you taste so sweet,” he says between breaths of air, but he refuses to leave your lips longer than a second. One of your fists grips his shirt, grounding yourself before you let yourself fall completely victim to his touch, the other tangles into his hair, gently pulling at his roots. He grunts in approval urging you on. 

“W-wait” you push him back. The sight before you leaves you momentarily breathless. His hair is tousled, tangled strands falling alluringly over his forehead, it makes your insides clench and a shiver run down your spine. His lips, visibly red and slightly swollen, His eyes, wide and shimmering with adrenaline. 

His hands, restless and eager, seem to ache for your skin to bridge the distance that feels electric between you. Yet he holds back, a silent plea in his gaze, waiting for a signal—a tentative nod, a whispered word—to close the gap and unleash the storm brewing between you.

You force yourself to look away, your eyes darting around the room where you're both trapped. Still clean, white, and locked. No mirrors. No cameras. No windows. They must have something; they must be watching—panic surges through you. “Hey, hey," Chris cups your jaw again, bringing you back to him. The room fades away; the only sight you focus on is his coffee-stained eyes. "It's just you and me." He connects his forehead with yours, and your breaths intertwine, “just you. And me." You breathe him in deeply, his warmth calming your anxiety like a wave gently crashing on the shore.

You angle your head slightly to capture his lips once more. But this kiss isn’t like the one you both shared only moments ago. This one is gentle, slow, and deliberate. He matches that same intensity, his arms hugging your body close to him. You feel his heartbeat against your chest; it’s rapid. 

You wiggle your hips against him, getting into a more comfortable position against his lap, but a deep guttural moan rips out of his chest. And thats when you feel it. The large, prominent bulge pressing against you. You gasp against his lips, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance. His eyes plead with a blend of embarrassment and desire. 

You bite your lip, and a sultry smirk spreads wide across your face. You rock against his middle, the tent in his pants only growing and hardening. He shuts his eyes tightly, and his face twists as he tries hard to focus and avoid losing control. A wicked idea forms in your mind; you push your body down against him, the leggings you're wearing thin and tight enough that he can feel your wetness between your legs. You rub yourself against him, pushing and rocking slightly, teasingly. 

A deep, heavy sigh escapes him as he instinctively tilts his head, baring his neck to you. You seize the moment, leaning in closer as your lips gently meet his skin. With each kiss, you leave delicate, lingering marks.

His hands seize your waist, begging you. You're not sure if they're begging you to slow down or speed up, but nonetheless, you don’t stop.  “Fuck” he moans. 

You lean back, not stopping your hips, as he meets your stare once again. His eyes, their usual coffee-stained manner, were now replaced by something darker, something exciting. His hand comes back to grip the side of your neck, bringing your lips against his once again before he fully takes control. With swift, easy movement, he lifts you up slightly only to set you down against the tile floor. His middle connects with yours, your legs still wrapped tightly around his waist. His kisses turn rugged as he leaves your lips to trail his lips lower down your body. 

“All this needs to go” he gestures to your still-clothed body. 

You smir,k and a small laugh bubbles out of you. You lean up slightly and tug your shirt over your head. You slide out of his reach, only for a moment, to also pull your leggings down your body. Leaving you in just a sports bra and soaked panties. “Your turn, hot shot.” 

He pokes his tongue to the side of his cheek while he maneuvers his shirt over his head and stands to rip his pants off his legs. You stare at his muscled, toned body, each ridge and muscle defined, looking at you like it's a meal. You swallow lightly as your eyes trail southward to the tent in his boxers, taunting you. He sees your stare and pulls down his boxers. 

You gulp at the sher size of him. Is he even gonna fit, you think? He practically sees the worry written on your face when he laughs and moves to lean down on top of you again. “Scared you can’t take me, babygirl?” his hands dance along your skin, and your legs spread wider. 

His fingers leave goosebumps along your skin. He trails them lower…lower…until they tease around the apex of your legs. “You can take me, princess. I know you can,” he whispers against your ear. He hooks his pointer finger around the middle of your panties, pulling them down with a force that makes you shiver against him. His fingers immediately go back to playing with your folds teasingly, refusing to give you exactly what you need, not yet. 

The whine that leaves you is completely foreign to you; you’ve never been much of a beggar in bed, but something about Chan makes you want to get on your knees for him. “Tell me, baby. Want do you want?” his voice breathes against the shell of your ear, as his fingers play with your thrumming bud, only to go back to circling your entrance. 

“Please, please, I need it. I need you,” you beg. 

“Ah, ah, ah. I need details. You have me, princess. What do you want me to do?” the bastard teases. 

A mix of a moan and a groan leaves you. “Chris, please.” you hesitate for a moment. “Please make me cum” 

He kisses the shell of your ear, and you feel two fingers plunge into your walls, curling upward. You gasp into the air, and he swallows that gasp with a kiss. He keeps a steady, relentless pace with his fingers, not too fast, but not slow either. He pushes his fingers deep inside you, moving his body in tandem with them, keeping them curled. He swallows every moan that ripples out of you, and your hand grips him so tight you think you might draw blood. 

He removes his hands, spreading the gathered wetness around your folds. A whine rips out of you from the loss, but he kisses you gently, leaning his forehead against yours. “Please, please,” you beg. You don’t even know what you begging for, whether it be to cum, or for him to finally take you as he pleases. 

“I know baby,” a kiss to your forehead, “it's coming, I promise.” he enters his fingers back in you, quickening his pace this time. Your back arched,s and your head tilts back. Your whole body starts to move with his thrusts, and you feel that all too familiar feeling form in the pit of your stomach. The tightness in you is familiar but slightly stranger. You actually think you might pee, “w-wait I think I’m gonna-” 

“Shhh,” he kisses your forehead again. This is wrong, it doesn't feel like a normal orgasm, it- it feels-

But pleasure sends you reeling, a silent scream shakes your bod,y and your arms cling to him. His fingers don’t stop, letting your whole body ride out your orgasm until you whine from overstimulation. Your body glistens with sweat. Every breath leaves you breathless. 

Chan's cocky laugh makes you open your eyes. He leans up, balancing on the heels of his feet while you prop yourself up on your elbows.  “Holy shit,” you gasp. Wetness… your wetness shines on his body. Evidence of your pleasure dripped on every sculpted muscle on his chest. “I’ve never…squirted…before” 

“I could tell,” he says, his voice dark and a smile wide. 

You gulp, the sight making that first wave of pleasure seem like a warm-up. Embarrassment covers your cheek, “hey,” he leans back down, “It was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” You sigh when the tip of him slips against your sensitive bud. His face twists, and a small grunt leaves. 

Pants and quick breaths fill the empty air of the room. Chan looks down where the two of you dare to connect, his hips rock against your heated core, only skimming your folds but never entering, your wetness coating him. 

“Chris,” you breathed, his name a plea on your tongue. Your core clenched once again, nothing to grip onto. 

Your hand slid to the side of his hip as he angled himself at your entrance. Your other hand went up to his jaw, guiding him to see you. His breathing went uneven as he carefully slid deeper into you. At the first nudge of him, your body went taunt and surged to claim his mouth with your own. Your tongue ran over his bottom lip, and he dominated your mouth with urgency. You swallowed the low groan of pleasure as his hips rolled in gentle, slow thrusts. 

The feeling of your tight walls engulfing him left him gasping for air. But once Chan paused at the hilt, once he let you feel the fullness of him, you actually thought you might explode. You thought you could combust from the sheer desire that swept through you. 

Beyond words, beyond little gasps of breath and small whimper of pleasure, your hips moved against him, urging him deeper, harder. “Needy little thing, aren’t you?” he chuckled. 

You answered with a small whine. You clenched around him. His body became rigid like lightning coursing through it. “Do that again and see what happens princess,” he threatened. The darkness in his voice sent a sudden heat shooting through you…. You clenched harder than ever before. Chan groans loudly, almost like he’s in pain, but the smile on his lips says otherwise. 

You weren’t entirely prepared when Chan’s thrusts became crushing. Each thrust made your eyes roll to the back of your head and your whole body move inched further on the tile floor. His pace was timed, but his thrusts were deep, making each one count. The noises that left your throat were pure animalist, pure lust. 

Sweat shines on his forehead, and his pace quickly becomes rushed, those same deep thrusts turning matched with a relentless pace. The tip of his dick kissing your cervix, it made you see stars. “Are you gonna cum babygirl? Are you gonna cum for me” Each statement paired with a deep thrust makes you cling to him for dear life? Words are lost in the back of your throat. “Fuck” Chan grunts, “cum for me princess.”

As if it were a command, your whole body freezes, and you moan out his name loudly, your mind a puddle of pleasure. 

His hips rock into you two more times before he freezes; you can feel him twitch and throb inside your walls. He collapses beside you, pulling out in the process. Beats of silence follow, and after another breath, you both look at each other. And you laugh. The bubble of laughter fills the air along with your heavy breaths. 

A hollow click slices through the silence, echoing off the walls and setting your nerves on edge. Unlike the familiar sound of the speakers crackling to life, this noise is far more substantial, a heavy, industrial thud that reverberates in your chest. Suddenly, the door at the front of the room disengages with a groan, its old metal latch giving way as it inches open, revealing shadows beyond. 

A chill sweeps through the space as anticipation thickens the air. You turn to your companions, your hearts racing in unison. Chan catches your eye, his smile glowing with warmth that cuts through the tension like sunlight piercing through clouds. “Together?”

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

@multi-fandommaniac

AN: I'm not sure how happy I am with how this turned out in the end....let me know. Also, let me know in the comments who you want to see more of or if you all want to see more fluff? more smut? longer stories? Shorter ones, etc? Love yall!

part 2?

[little-fae-hero]

Linked Universe, The Chosen Hero

My headcanons/aus

Art by Atro

Colored version.

Long talk/Ideas under the cut. Warning for dark themes, sickly appearance and death visions (Note: I may stuff over time but nothing will be delete from the list).

Twilight. Wind. Legend. Hyrule. Four. Time. War. Wild.

Sky (Skyward Sword). Other Nicknames: Hylia’s chosen, Sleepyhead, Cloud, Birdbrain, First knight, Skyloftan.

Titles: Hylia’s Chosen Hero, The Hero Reborn, Hero of Skyloft.

God who has claim over his soul: Hylia

Part of First’s soul: Caring/kindness (biggest piece)

Note: While he is technically called the ‘first hero’ he wasn’t actually the first hero. The first one while saving humanity was wounded, and died. However the first hero was scrapped from history, so by all accounts Sky is the ‘first hero’. He’s also the ‘first hero’ by a time travel and the grandfather paradox.

History:

Link was just a boy on Skyloft, he was in the knights academy along with his best friend Zelda and his rival known as Groose. They are bonded with Loftwings which are considered half of their soul. Link gets a weird dream, is woken up and then has to go looking for his Loftwing, Red. Link eventually finds his Loftwing and wins the race, officially graduating and Zelda gives him her sailcloth.

A tornado pulls Zelda out of the sky, Link tries to help her but it is seemingly useless. When Link wakes up, he’s called by a mystery figure who lures him down to a secret place, where the Goddess sword is located. He meets the spirit in the Goddess Sword, her name is Fi and she was given the task of helping the chosen hero defeat the Demon known as Demise, she offers that if Link takes this adventure he will find Zelda as well.

Eventually during this adventure Link learns the truth, that Zelda is Hylia reborn, that this was a long plan coming and just exactly who he is. Despite everything he still goes after to save her, having to forge the Master Sword to make sure it can actually be strong enough to kill the demon. After facing and killing the demon, Demise uttered a curse, to always be reborn and that the ones with the goddess blood and the hero spirit can never know peace. Link says goodbye to Fi but has to grapple with what he’s learned, he still loves Zelda and his new quest is to settle on the surface and have a family with Zelda for as long as his body will allow.

Death: Happened soon after his second child with Zelda. Suddenly his soul was becoming too much for his body and burned him from the inside out. He died out on a walk, Zelda did her best but couldn’t get his heart to start again.

Interesting stuff/Headcanons:

Link learns about his past and gains memories back after his first temple. He kept trying to push and go forward so Fi had to push him into the water to save him.

Basically his soul was burning up his body.

He does have a slight breakdown after this and is left with a burn scar over his heart.

After the final battle, Sky is lit with lighting scars crawling up his body. Most are seen on his neck, but some hint up to his face.

Sky talked a lot with Fi and really grew to care for her, she was the only person who would talk about the past with him. He still talks to the sword even if he won’t get an answer.

He learns a lot of songs and a lot of stories that he shouldn’t know. He knows history that has been lost to ages and will forever stay lost.

Sky falling asleep isn’t natural, it was a safety measure done by Hylia, to try and keep his soul from burning out like the last hero.

So if he sits down for too long without something to do, he will fall asleep.

He also suffers from visions and dreams about the future. Some are vague but others are not. He knew he was fated to die before Zelda’s hair even turned gray.

The prophetic dreams come from the father of his soul, and his connection to time. Sky has the dreams cause he has the biggest soul piece.

Sky tries to stay on the positive side because 1) it’s in his nature and 2) if he didn’t he probably would have broken down by now.

Sky has come to terms that Zelda isn’t Hylia, she may have some memories but Hylia couldn’t be bound in a mortal form (at least not like in the games), she is just what Hylia thinks are her best parts (you can think like Zelda is a daughter or offshoot of Hylia).

Zelda and Sky both deal with an identity crisis and bond over it. Zelda does try to find ways to stop Sky’s visions from coming true.

He keeps a feather from his Loftwing in his hair, so he can always be connected to Red.

He took up woodworking and whittling to keep himself awake when he sits down.

Unlike the others, he seems to be the only one experiencing the curse, it could be because he has a bigger piece of the original soul.

He can play the harp, specially he still carries around and uses the goddess harp.

He can cook, he just often doesn’t because he would doze off while something was cooking.

Just because Sky is sleeping doesn’t mean he’s resting, so he has bags under his eyes despite the amount of sleeping he does.

The bags combined with his pale skin that never seems to get darker, gives him a gaunt appearance at times.

His visions have also allowed him to see what the others deal with on their adventure (as well as their deaths). He mainly tries to come across as someone you can talk to.

Sky adores birds, he doesn’t understand why all the others seem to hate them.

Sometimes he feels a bitter envy for the other heroes, not knowing their fate, not knowing the burning feeling digs into his chest.

Sky is very protective of Fi and the Master Sword, he doesn’t understand how someone like Time sees it as a curse.

Sky can actually feel/see the other hero’s spirits or the broken part. Sometimes his mind screams at him to do something, but he doesn’t know what. (it’s like a faint greenish glow)

—-

[loves1ckmoth]

SCALES AND FINS

Ambessa x mermaid!reader

Warnings♡: dark!ambesssa (just a little, as a treat), fem!reader, pet names, she basically sees you as a pet, she pushes to have complete control of you

Word count♡: 1188

“Lady Ambessa.” Your heard the muffled voice of a servant through the hardly filtered water in the claustrophobic tank you’re being kept in. You can’t hear the lady's response but you watch as the light slowly fades into the tank, the sheet that kept you hidden from the rest of her expansive castle now lifting to reveal you to her.

Her smirk looks almost evil as she looks you over. In a flash of terror, you rise to the top of the tank, bashing against the cover as if it’ll help you escape. You can hear her deep chuckle, and she seems almost more enamored in your defiance.

When your hands are practically bleeding from bashing them on metal, you stop, floating back down to the solid bottom of the glass container. She eyes you, preferring to stand so she won’t seem at your level. Almost like an annoying child at an aquarium, she taps on the glass, trying to get your attention.

You don’t reward her with it and she seems a little irritated. She turns to a servant, her voice low enough to only make the glass and water hum but not loud enough for you to completely decipher it. The sheet covers the container again, shrouding you in darkness.

Due to generations of mermaids being born and raised in dark water, they had evolved to have better vision in dimly lit spaces. It’s especially useful now when the floor is see-through even though the covered glass allows no light. You watch as the floor beneath you changes from the cold tile of the room where you met General Ambessa Medarda, to the carpets in her hallways to a rug in a strange room.

Just by the floor, you can tell it’s lavish. Pristine and almost brand new floors, something you saw rarely even in the magazines you pocketed from humans. You can see pieces of furniture from angles but you still can’t decipher what kind of room they’ve placed you in now. But at least the nausea from being pushed around has subsided.

You’re left in the still, gloomy silence of the glass cage for a long time, with nothing to keep you from fearing for the future. You can’t tell if it’s on purpose, the amount of time she leaves you alone and unattended for, but it doesn’t allow you to do much. You attempt to bang on the walls this time and even try ramming into the sides to get the sheet covering it off.

You’re stopped after what feels like an era of waiting by someone’s strong hands stabilizing the glass tank once it starts to tip too much. “I believe you’ve had your fun, little one.” Her voice is deep, seemingly cutting through the glass and water that separates you both.

The sheet lifts once more, blinding you due to the light from a giant window. You shield your face with your hands, bubbles escaping your mouth as you whimper. She sits there, amused, watching as you try to adjust. She thought it was cute, the way you cowered. You were fearful and you hadn’t even seen the worst of her.

Once your eyes focus and take in the room you’re in finally. You can feel the fins on your neck flutter a little as you spin around in the tank to get a look at everything. The room is huge, and it belongs to Ambessa.

“I’ve commissioned a pool for you, my dear.” Her words cut through your amazement, bringing your attention right back to her, right where she wants it. “It won’t take long to make, I’ve ensured it.” She says, her hands drifting to the cover of the tank.

You’re frightened, drifting back to the bottom. But isn’t that what you wanted? To be free of that tank? No, it wasn’t that. It was her. You wanted to be away from her castle and human land. Of course, their trinkets and inventions were a guilty pleasure but you would never like them.

“Come on, don’t make that face, dearest. I’m helping you. We need to see if you’re one of the transforming types. It’s all so we can provide the best care for you.” A lie. While she does want to see if you can transform, she also wants to see the face you make when you can’t breathe. Having your gills full of air instead of water will make that easier than placing a hand down on your windpipe. It was a perverted and cruel fantasy, but one she wanted to indulge in nonetheless.

The top lifts and rough hands drag you out despite your frantic flailing. A towel immediately covers your neck, drying away the droplets and she watches in amazement as your fins and gills fade away with the water. As she continues to dry you, scales, fins, and even marks that represent your family line completely fade, leaving you bare with two legs.

You fall into her with a huff, gasping for air. She holds you tight, frowning as the color returns to your face and you no longer look sickeningly blue. “All better. See, I told you. Well, you won’t need that tank anymore.” She sets you on the bed like some object to be tossed aside, throwing a robe in your direction as an instruction to cover yourself.

While you’re not a fan of her, you listen, draping it over your shoulders until you find the sleeves. By the time you look back up, the tank has disappeared, and you’re left alone without anything to shield you from her. A guard is at the door, speaking to her quietly, as if updating her. She keeps glancing over your way and eventually dismisses him to come back to you.

“Well, then. You’re still not adjusted to your legs. I assume you didn’t know you were a shifter? Most of your kind don’t. Not until we oh so graciously take them in.” She comes up to your side and begins to play with your hair, twirling it around her finger. “We’ll get you someone to teach you and perhaps a cane to assist you. Until that pool is built, you will stay at my side no matter what.”

Your nose wrinkles up at the prospect and she chuckles. “What? Don’t like that idea? Don’t worry. I won’t do much. Your only job is to be good. You can handle that, can’t you?” When you hesitate to agree, she grabs your face with force, tilting your head to make you look her in the eyes.

“You can handle that. Can’t you?” Her tone is firm and when you still hesitate, she nods your head for you. “There you go. Alright then, it’s settled little one. You’ll stay in this room while we get you a cane and some proper clothes. I will bring you food and tend to your needs.”

You sigh softly, letting her hands roam where they please now. Ambessa’s hold is tight, you’ll learn just how tight soon enough. For now, your best bet is to follow her directions and “be good.”

Hi everyone, sorry for the late post!! Hope you like this one ♡♡ my cat kept attacking my computer, so apologies if there's any mess ups ♡ Reblogs and likes are most appreciated ♡

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Cho Sang Woo X F!Reader: A blast from the past

a/n: this was originally supposed to be a Gi hun x Sang-woo X reader but it became something else.

Warnings: smut, kissing, Sang woo being an ass, fluff, jealousy, fingering, penetration (p in v), mentions of attempted suicide, domish Sang woo, fighting, no use of y/n, not proofread, female reader

Word count: 3656 (holy moly)

Fate is a funny thing. Here you were, trapped inside a game of death with none other than your childhood best friends. You hadn’t seen them in ages but the moment you laid eyes on the two men you recognized them instantly. You raced over to them, a smile on your face as you watched the men's eyes widen in recognition.

“Oh my god! Sang-woo, look who it is!”

Gi hun wasted no time, immediately pulling you into a warm embrace. He smelled different then you remembered. The sugary scent that he had when he was a child was completely gone, replaced with a metallic scent that reminded you of coins. Gi hun pulled out of the embrace, his arms holding onto your shoulders as he turned to glance at Sang-woo with an easy smile. The other man gazed at you with an impassive expression. He had always had a sober look, even as a child. You smiled at him but he didn't return the gesture, opting instead to push his glasses up.

“What are you doing here?”

The emotionless tone in which he asked the question made a twinge of anger shoot through you. He sounded like he was judging you. 

“I could ask you the same thing, Mister SNU Business School graduate.”

Gi hun looked between the two of you, noticing the obvious tension. In a desperate attempt to stop this conversation before it became an argument, something that often happened when you and Sang-woo had any sort of interaction, Gi hun placed his hands on either one of your shoulders. You looked at him, your belly warming at the sight of his goofy smile. 

“Looks like we’re going to be playing some games. Should be fun right?”

You glanced at the doll at the edge of the room.

“I was always quite good at red light, green light.”

Sang-woo shrugged Gi hun's hand from his shoulder before silently moving away from the two of you. You scoffed at the action.

“What’s up his ass?”

“I think he’s embarrassed that you saw him like this.”

“But I'm in here too. And so are you.”

“Yeah well, I never had a promising future laid out for me.”

Your brows furrowed at his words but Gi hun just shrugged, as if he knew the affirmation was true.

“Plus, he always wanted to impress you. Even as kids.”

Before you could question Gi huns words a voice rang out through the room, telling you the games were about to begin. 

Your hands shook as you walked back into the dormitory. Blood stained your face and clothes. You looked like a zombie, stumbling around in silence until you reached your bed. You knew the boys had made it too, you’d gotten a quick glance at them as you walked back to the dormitory but you were far too out of it to do anything about it. Luckily you didn’t have to search for them. They found you instead.

You raised your head as a sudden darkness filled your field of vision. Sang-woo stood before you, his face covered in sweat. Somehow he’d managed to keep his glasses on during the game. He didn’t say anything, his eyes moving over the blood on your body. A shrill call of your name rang out from behind you, causing you to look over his shoulder. Gi hun raced towards you, pushing past Sang-woo so he could get to you. He kneeled before you, his hands moving to hold onto your face. 

“Are you okay?”

His eyes seemed to notice the blood for the first time, eyebrows raising with horror.

“Are you hurt? Did you-”

“It’s not hers.”

Sang-woos voice made the two of you look up at him.

“What?”

“The blood Gi hun. It’s not hers.”

Your lip started shaking. Before you could stop them the tears began flowing from your eyes. A small sob made its way from your lips, causing Gi hun’s head to snap back to you. He watched you with wide eyes for a moment before his hands moved to tug you into him. He pulled you to the floor, holding you in a fierce hug. 

“It’s okay. We’re okay.”

Sang-woo watched the exchange with a heavy heart. He watched the way your hands clawed at Gi huns jacket, desperately trying to cling onto something. He wanted to move but he didn't feel like he should. You were probably angry at him, he’d been a dick to you after all. He thought of moving away, leaving you and Gi hun to your tender embrace. But before he could turn around your voice ripped through the silence. You called out his name in a rough whisper, voice a barely contained sob. You hand moved from Gi hun’s jacket, extending it to him in invitation. Gi hun unclinged himself from your body, allowing him to look at Sang-woo. Sang-woo looked from your tear stained face to Gi hun's wide eyed expression and before he could stop himself he was sinking to the floor before you, allowing you to pull him into a tight hug. 

You were sitting on your bed, one of the boys on either side of you. Gi hun held one of your hands in his lap. Sangwoo’s gaze drifted to your hands ever so often, a small twinge of jealousy making its way into his mind. He didn’t know why he’d suddenly started caring about your caresses with Gi hun. Even as children you’d always been closer to the other boy, a consequence of Sangwoos cold nature. But now he wished you’d cling onto him the way you clung to Gi hun. The thought was ripped out of his head when the alarm sounded. 

During the whole voting process your hand remained glued to Gi huns. You watched player after player vote until finally it was Sangwoos' turn. You gave him a small smile as he walked over to the buttons. Your face dropped as you watched him press “O”. You could feel Gi hun's disappointment beside you but he pushed it down to whisper in your ear.

“It’s okay. We still have a chance.”

You nodded, eyes never moving away from the back of Sang-woos head. 

Your body crashed onto the harsh ground with a thud. You groaned as you tried to lift your body up. You couldn't see a thing and your body was bound at an awkward angle. You felt a pair of hands move against your face. You twisted away, a small shriek leaving your lips.

“Stop wiggling around.I’m trying to help.”

You recognized his voice instantly. A small part of you wanted to keep wiggling just to make his life harder, but the cold air on your body was becoming very uncomfortable so you stayed still. The moment both of you were free Sang-woo made his way over to his bag, pulling out his clothes. You stared at him in disbelief. He seemed to notice your eyes on him because he turned around.

“You should get dressed. You’ll get sick.”

You let out a scoff.

“Like you give a shit.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You voted to stay!”

You’d made your way over to him, hands moving to tug the bag out of his hand before throwing it at the floor. Sang-woo gave you a tired look.

“I’m really not in the mood-”

“Oh! I’m sorry! You’re not in the mood to listen to what a shit person you are?”

Sang-woo bit into his lips in anger, his head moving to look at the road.

“Don't look away from me!”

You hit his chest with all your might, something you would do when he’d pissed you off.

“What the hell were you thinking huh? People were killed! We were all going to die and you wanted to keep playing? For what? Some extra cash?”

“Extra cash?” 

He was angry now. You could tell from the look on his face, the way his lips became a small line as he spoke.

“That money would get rid of my debt!”

“It’s blood money Sang-woo!”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t think about it. I saw your face when they started to fill the piggy bank. You wanted it.”

You shake your head at him.

“You don't know anything about me. You never bothered to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means!”

Your face was so close to his that he could feel your breath on his skin. You were looking up at him with a scowl, your brows furrowed so intensely that the line on your forehead became very predominant. You’d only ever looked at him with such anger once before. He didn’t want to remember that day. His eyes shifted over to your body, gaze catching on the bare skin.He couldn’t help it, he’d always found you rather beautiful. He wanted to keep arguing but he was cold and tired. He knew you would keep this up all night if you had to. You were stubborn like that. So he did the only thing he knew would shut you up. He kissed you.

He tasted like cigarettes, his hands were cold as they grabbed onto your waist, pulling flush against his body. Your brain stopped working for a moment, the feeling of his lips was intoxicating but then you seemed to remember that you were mad at him. You shoved him off of you. Your face was flushed, chest rising and falling as you stared at him.

“You’re such a dick Sang-woo.”

With that you’d turned on your heels making your way to the bag that held your clothes. Sang-woo watched you rip it open, removing your clothes from inside before beginning to get dressed. He waited for a moment before beginning to get dressed too. 

Your shoulders shook as you walked down the road. You’d been giving Sang-woo the silent treatment ever since you’d both decided you would walk to the nearest convenience store so you could charge your phones. You kept up with Sang-woos pace but it was obvious you were having a hard time with the cold, not that you would ever admit it to him. Sang-woo stopped abruptly. You turned around to look at him.

“What are you doing? We're almost there.”

You watched him take off his suit jacket. He put his hand out to you, offering you the garment. You glanced at the jacket and then up at him. What was his deal? First he treats you like shit, then he kisses you and now he’s giving you his jacket.

“Take it. I know you’re cold.”

You're about to say you’re fine but a strong gust of wind blows causing you to shiver.

“Oh for fucks sake.”

Sang-woo makes his way to you, placing his jacket over your shoulders. You stare up at him as he drapes the jacket over your body. His glasses are slightly falling down his nose so you raise a finger to his face and push them up. He looks at you for a moment, surprised by the action. 

“Thanks.”

“You’re still an asshole.”

With that you start walking again, leaving Sang-woo behind with a shocked expression. 

It had been a day since you’d left the games. No matter how hard you tried you couldn’t seem to stop thinking about that place. Or about Sang-woo. You hated to admit it but even since you’d seen him you’d been plagued by memories of your childhood. You had a crush on Sang-Woo when you were younger. It was hard not to be attracted to him. But as you two grew older he seemed to become more and more distant. One night you had a big fight. It was right before you’d gone off to college and neither one of you had spoken since then. That is until the games brought you back together. 

You stood in front of his door, a bag of takeout in your hand as the other moved to ring the doorbell. When there was no sign of an answer you rang again. You waited for him to come to the door but it seemed he wasn't home. With a disappointed sigh you began moving away. Your head snapped back to the door when you heard the lock click. 

Sang woo stared at you, his eyes moving to the bag in your hand before moving to glance at your face.

“What are you doing here?”

“I thought maybe you’d like some company…”

You looked at him, noticing the water that dripped from his pants.

“Did you fall into the bathtub?”

Sang-woo moved out of the way, not bothering to answer your question. You entered his apartment, being careful as to not slip on the watery floor. Sang woo trailed behind you in silence. He watched you remove the food from your bag, placing it on the table before turning to look at him. 

“You should probably change. You’re all wet.”

He looked down at his feet, watching the water drip from his pants. You watched him, worry filling your chest. You made your way to him. Sang-woo lifted his gaze from the floor as you approached him. The pitiful look you gave him made him feel pathetic. 

“Do you want me to help?”

He nodded slowly. 

“Okay.”

You moved your hand to his chest, slowly beginning to unbutton his shirt. Once you've managed to get all the buttons you reached beneath the cloth, pushing his shirt and jacket off in one go. The wet fabric landed with a dull thud on the ground. Your hand moved to his waistband, eyes gazing up at him through your lashes. The tension filled the air, making it hard to breathe. You moved slowly, afraid that any harsh move would make Sang-woo react negatively. You began to work on his belt but his hand stopped you. You looked up at him, searching for discomfort in his face. 

“Everything okay?”

He nodded, his hand moving to rest on your waist. You gasped as his cold hand made its way beneath the fabric, fingers skimming over the bare skin. He tugged your shirt up a bit, stopping only to look at you for confirmation that this was okay. You nodded at him, not trusting your voice. You lifted your arms, allowing him to tug your shirt off. He looked at you for a while, just talking in the sight of your flushed expression. One of his hands moved to trace your collarbone and you let out a breathy sigh. 

“Sang-woo.”

“Hum?”

“Please don’t tease.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

He was. But not on purpose. He was trying to remember every inch of your face. He needed to go back in time, even if just for one night. He wanted to feel like a teenager again. Young and unburdened. His hand moved to hold onto your face, fingers tracing your lips before he leaned down to kiss you. The kiss was gentler than the one he’d given you the night before. Your hands wrapped around his neck, tugging him closer. Your pants began to drench up the water from his as the two of you kissed. You pulled away to breathe and Sang-woo took it as a chance to kiss your neck. You gasped as his tongue moved over your skin. Your hands fumbled against his belt, tugging it off in desperation before moving to pull his pants down. His own hands found their way to your bottoms, pulling them off as well.

The two of you broke apart for a moment, panting as you took in the sight of each other. Your eyes traced over Sang woo's body, you’d seen it hours prior but the circumstances had been very different. You couldn’t help but rub your thighs together as your eyes caught onto his hard on. Sang-Woo's throat was suddenly dry. He’d been planning to kill himself moments ago, if you hadn't knocked he’d probably gone through with it. He pushed the thoughts down, trying to focus on the task at hand. There was a beautiful semi naked woman before him. He wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. 

With one long stride Sang woo made his way to you, kissing you with a newly found hunger. He pushed you against the wall, his lips swallowing your gasps. His hard on rubbed against your clothed cunt and you couldn’t help but moan. His hand moved down your body, fingers rubbing over your underwear for a moment before pushing it to the side. You gasped as his digits entered you, nails digging into the muscles of his back. The sound your pussy made as he fingered you was down right shameful but you couldn’t get yourself to care. Not when your body buzzed with your upcoming orgasm. Your mouth went slack as Sang woo shifted his hand, allowing him to enter his fingers even deeper. 

“I missed you.”

“You’re the one that didn’t keep contact.”

Sangwoo grumbled at your words, fingers curling into you.

“I- ah- had to find out how you-shit- were through your mother.”

He was moving at a rapid speed, his motions making the air leave your chest. 

“Gi hun was all over you.”

“What?”

The words caught you off guard. Here you were,in his apartment, with his fingers inside you. And he was talking about Gi hun.

“In the games. He was all over you.” 

“He was excited to see me. Unlike some people.”

Sang-woo stilled his movements at your words, making you whine.

“Why’d you stop?”

“You’re mine.”

“What are-”

“Say it.”

You looked up at Sang-woo with wide eyes. The pathetic puppy dog you’d found when you walked in was completely gone. Sang-woo was back and he knew exactly what he could do to you. Your walls clenched around his fingers as he waited for you to say what he wanted. 

“I’m yours.”

Sang-woo's neck twitched at your breathy voice. He crashed his lips onto yours, fingers moving inside you once again. Your moans became more and more high pitched. You were so close, your eyes began to roll back into your head, mouth becoming slack. Just as you were about to tell Sang-woo you were going to cum he removed himself from you completely. You wanted to yell at him. He'd brought you to the brink only to rip it away at the last second.

You moved forward, fully prepared to hit him but you stilled when your gaze fell to his boxers. He was incredibly hard. There was a small stain on the fabric you assumed was pre cum. You watched him place his fingers on the edge of his boxers, thighs rubbing together in anticipation.  In one smooth movement he tugged his boxers down, his dick slapping proudly against his stomach as he removed it from its confinement. Sang-woo hissed at the feeling of the cold air on his dick. You stared at him without a twinge of shame. 

“Take your bra off.”

You didn’t even question it, immediately moving to unclasp the garment. Sang-woo made his way back to you, his hand moving to caress your breasts. You whined as he kissed your neck.

“Sang-woo please…”

“What is it, hum?”

“I need you inside me. Please fuck me.”

You could feel him smirk against your skin. This cocky bastard. You grabbed at his dick causing him to let out a moan. His head snapped up to look at you.

“I’m starting to lose my patience, Sang-woo.”

The look he gave you was comical. He was always in control but he’d forgotten just who he was dealing with.

“Either you fuck me right now or i’m leaving you to deal with this alone.”

“Oh yeah? And what about you huh? Gonna deal with this yourself.”

He grabbed at your cunt and you keened. 

“Don’t worry about me. I’m sure Gi hun would love to help.”

A growl left Sang woo's lips. In a blink of an eye he’d dragged your underwear down, his hands pushing you against the wall as he inserted himself in you. He didn’t give you a moment to breathe, his dick beginning to bully into you. All you could do was whine as his dick rammed into your pussy. You grabbed onto him, legs moving to wrap around his waist.

“Think Gi hun could fuck you like this? Think he could even compare to me? Answer me!”

“No! Sang-woo only you can fuck me like this. Please!”

“Good girl. You gonna cum? Gonna cream all over my cock?”

You were a babbling mess, your head nodding eagerly as your orgasm approached. You half expected Sang-woo to pull away again. It’s not that he didn't think of punishing you, the idea did cross his mind but the feeling of you wrapped around him was far too irresistible. And then if it couldn’t get any better you came. A shrill screech of his name made its way out of your lips as your juices counted his dick. Your body sagged into his, head resting on the crock of his neck. His hands moved to grab at your ass, allowing his thrusts to quicken. You whined into his neck, a slight feeling of overstimulation beginning to come over you. Sang-woo gave one last harsh thrust before his body stopped moving. You felt his side spill into you, coating your walls with ease. 

You removed your legs from his waist slowly. Sang-woo continued to pant, trying to recover from his orgasm. You pushed some hair off his face. He looked at you, his eyes full of an unexpected tenderness.

“Don’t leave me again.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Sang Woo. I’m right here.”

As if to prove your point you placed a loving kiss to his lips, forehead resting against his as silence filled the room.

[leighsartworks216]

What's In A Name

dragon!Sylus x blind!oracle!Reader

Series Masterlist - Chapter One - Prev Chapter - Next Chapter

Today has been rough, but I still wanted to get out this chapter since it's already written up

Warnings: injuries, pain, banter

Word Count: 1,005

Main Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

You hiss as you carefully pour the medicine over your palm. The bottle clatters against the floor, unintentionally. The pain is all you can think about, willing the sting to fade so you can keep working. As soon as it becomes bearable, you pick up the roll of cloth from your lap and work through feel alone to line it over your hand and start wrapping it. It’s not the best job ever, but it’ll do. Hopefully.

You repeat the actions on the other side. Soon enough, your hands are as well treated as you can manage. You feel the ends of the cloth, checking that they’re secure and won’t come unraveling.

Something almost giddy wafts up in your chest. You giggle dumbly as you open and close your hands, testing the limits of the wraps. “Hey, not bad!” you say to yourself. “Hah! I knew I could do it!”

Your cheering voice echoes back to you, slowly petering off into nothing. The silence sours the glee. You sigh and wrap your arms around yourself.

You have no idea what time it is, no idea where you actually are, and no idea where the stranger went off to. All you do know is that the longer you sit here on the thin sheet meant to be your bed, the more aware of your exhaustion you become.

You try to set everything where you can find it again. The room is small, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.

You feel out how long the sheet is. It’s not even half as wide as you are tall, but you’ll have to make do. You wrap it tightly around your shoulders and lay down slowly on the rock floor with your arm acting as a pillow. You wrap your cold feet tightly in whatever excess blanket you have left.

With a quiet prayer to Astra, you let yourself be consumed by a restless sleep. Visions of darkness, blood, and flowers, and a story that spans hundreds of years.

-

“Has your god seen fit to answer my prayer, yet?”

“He has, actually.” You walk alongside the edge of what you can only fathom to be a pile of gold. The metal coins dig into your feet, but that you can handle just fine. It’s when a gem is suddenly underfoot that you’re cursing and trying to brush it aside. You can feel his smug look every single time it happens.

You hear metal clinking against metal a short ways behind you. “And?”

You shoot a sly grin in that direction. “Why should I tell you? What would I get in return?”

He huffs an amused laugh. “What do you want in return?”

“Fresh food and water, and new clothes. It’s freezing in here, you know? And I haven’t eaten anything since…” You trail off, thinking. “What time is it, anyway?”

“You’re demanding a lot for a simple prophecy, pet.”

“Oh?” You turn away, walking along the mounds of treasure again. “Then I guess you’re not interested in what your future holds? Pity. I found it quite interesting.”

He sighs. Good. Serves the bastard right for kidnapping you. You hope he regrets it every single day. Though… whether he’d kill you over it is definitely a risk.

“I’ll get you some food. There’s a spring in the tunnels that you can get your water from. As for clothes…” You turn to listen better as you hear furniture creaking. Heavy footfalls approach, rounding you. “I have some tucked away. Whether they’ll fit you or not is questionable.”

“Are they good quality?”

“They’re better than your tattered rags. Does that suffice?”

You hum, considering. “Your destiny is going to be intertwined with someone else’s.”

He scoffs. “That’s it?”

“Until I’ve had a proper meal, yeah! Besides, I’m still trying to decipher some of what the prophecy is saying.” You cross your arms over your chest with a frown. “It’s like it spans millennia, but that shouldn’t be possible.”

He’s blessedly silent for a minute, giving you time to consider this predicament, before something hard nudges at your back. “Come on, pet. I’ll show you where the clothes are.”

You follow the clinking of metal under his shoes out of the chamber. “Stop calling me that! My name is Y/N, I’m not a pet, least of all yours, and I’m not some helpless ‘little thing’ for you to toy with!”

He tests your name on his tongue. It’s startling to hear it said in your captor’s voice. Perhaps you should have held your tongue and let him continue insulting you. A name can be a dangerous thing, after all.

“What’s your name?”

“I don’t have one.”

“What?!” you balk. “You must have one! What am I supposed to call you?”

You run into something solid and warm. The heat of his breath brushes your skin again as he whispers teasingly into your ear. “You can always call me master.”

You try to shove his face away with no luck. He laughs at your efforts, but gives you space once more. “Not in a million years. What about…” You wrack your brain for any semblance of something he liked from what little you could piece together. “Silver? Or Gold, or something?”

He chuckles. “I’m a bit more precious than that.”

“Okay, fine, then how about, um, Jewel? Jewels are better than silver and gold, aren’t they?” You hear him sigh, long and drawn out. The clinking of coins follows his footsteps. You trail after. “Look, give me something to work with here!”

“Jewel is fine. I don’t need a mortal’s name anyway.”

“That’s the second time you’ve specifically called out mortals,” you point out. The airflow in the cave changes as you step from the grand treasure chamber (this guy has some weird hobbies) to the closed-in tunnels. You’re grateful when you hear him bypass the stairs. “What are you if not a mortal, too?”

“Like I said before, maybe I’ll tell you one day.”

You sigh. “Jewel, you are one strange guy.”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @burningtrashgentleman @nothankyew @terriblesoup @jeleryyy @leiakitty