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marsprincess889 · 1 day ago

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Wintertime mystery messages

Intuitive and Oracle + channeled deities

Collab with @redwinewhiteroses 💕

❄❄❄

After exchanges with people here and their surprisingly extremely positive feedbacks, I decided to just do a pick a pile(group in this case). My messages are straight from intuition with no cards and each has a channeled deity at the end(!!), so look out for that💕 Alexa pulled cards and got messages from them. I suggest you read both intuitive and oracle(one pile got tarot, you'll see why) messages but it's totally your choice. Trust yourself first and foremost.

This is my first reading so please, interact and let me know what you think, which group you chose and if it resonated🤍

Look at each picture and see which one calls to you. Don't overthink your decision, but if the reading does not resonate then feel free to choose another 🤍

Group 1 💕❄⚔

Be still, be safe, have faith.

Look at the white

Have a warm cup of something nourishing

Ruthless and tough inside, pure and clean outside

I'm getting some specific messages

Someone, a female/feminine here has mother/mother figure issues and I sympathise and even empathize actually. I know what that feels like 🤍 she should breathe deeply and feel her tears when they come(😥) and she should hold space for herself. This feels like a mother wound healing/nurturing/rebirth message, but not in a banal/usual way.

You are strong and resilient, I should definitely say this. And you have untapped, hidden, seemingly infinite strength in you. Someone from this collective should watch a snow white movie they loved as a kid and probably forgot. Generally I'm getting that you should take no b*llsh*t and quietly and ruthlessly move through this season. There might be a tense, triggering or uncomfortable situation that comes up that will require of you to stand your ground, whatever that means to you🤍

I'm getting the nakshatras of Bharani, Uttara Bhadrapada, Ashlesha and Jyeshta as relevant here.

I'm getting the beginning of the original snow white tale? When the mother pricked her finger and saw the red blood on pure white snow, but I'm seeing a young woman or a girl crying in front of a window, looking outside at the snowy view. These messages feel very symbolic and mysterious. One thing I know almost for sure is that people in this pile are already aware and intuitive and have been for quite some time if not always. You can analyze, sense, and transmute/alchemise the energies in you and around you. This sounds very "fancy" and "spiritual" but I'm seeing that it's just your patience, depth, receptivity, integrity and natural ability to read between the lines that's contributing. I know you are already trying so hard to keep yourself together and flow through life as best as you can but you should continue to do so with even more conviction.

This is a time to find worth inside of yourself again. Trust yourself, hold yourself, don't hold back and have your weapons(metaphorical) ready, just in case. You will survive this unscathed and victorious in the grand scheme of things.

Someone should watch medieval movies they loved in the past and forgot. For some they're sort of the "fun"/adventure movies that feel like weekends in the 2000s😫💕 maybe they're for children.

Someone should go back in time in their phone gallery or notes, see what they saved/wrote at certain times and remember.

Rememberance and remembering is a big thing here, as well as self-empowerment, encouragement and coming back home.

If you're a girl with dark hair/straight most likely, if you sometimes wear as a tight/slick ponytail or a bun, if you're skin is light brown or pale(most likely someone also has eyes that naturally look like they have eyeliner), please hold on, this might not be the best time for you but please keep going⚔💧❄

I'm seeing her image so clearly that's why I'm being descriptive. I'm seeing her crying in front of a frosted window😥 she feels unheard, misunderstood and she sees no way out. This is channeled for this whole group but also she really needs to hear this: you are the answer. You keep seeking answers but you are the answered prayer, that which others seek and have sought. You are a cold river that warms slowly in the spring and then reaches the fiery mountain, for that is her sanctuary. You are more than they make of you, you are NOT what others make of you and you are going to go back to that truth again, but this time it's different. You don't have to try, you have survived so much, grown a lot and they can see it. Don't let projections lower you. This group feels soooo strong and resilient, those people, places, narratives, energies have nothing on you.

This is a winter themed reading but I'm getting that you are naturally already in the winter season of your life. This is an era of power and silence, of transmutation and transformation. Cold, snow, frost and ice might have symbolic significance for you❄

There is a very ancient gloom, sadness or melancholy in you that almost feels like home. Do not demonize sadness and do not let others do it. Take care of it.

Be careful while sleeping(don't wanna freak you guys out but this is the message I got.) Someone here should be careful of how they place their head while sleeping?😫🙃 they could feel pain in the neck in the morning if they don't

Healthier diet

Mindfulness and effortlessness, flow

Born anew

It's like I never left

Back in the business/ back to my bullsh*t

Grace

Someone here should write more

Someone has felt second-hand grief/sadness and should not feel guilty if they feel lightness themselves

Somebody has a trip coming up that is lowkey life-changing and will most likely develop their character. It will feel so unique and iconic. You might look back on this time and realize how amazing it was. For some reason hearth/the fireplace is coming up as significant/symbolic for this.

One more message: simplify and cleanse, but DO NOT FORCE YOURSELF!!!! and do not let others force you. Be still, be silent for a while and watch, you have so much more power than they or even you think.

This is the group of silent feminine being and her strength.

Additional messages in regards to Alexa's ( @redwinewhiteroses ) reading: one of her messages was that there is something you are not seeing clearly and are taking personally. I disagree. I think you are very "personal" people but you are also quite emotionally intelligent and as far as not seeing things clearly, I could have said that about any other group but not about you. I think what Alexa wrote might be true for some people here but not the majority. In truth, I don't get that energy from you at all but I don't want to just disregard her message. I also asked her to be gentle with her tone😅 cause I think you really need it and that it's important to you. So, if you read her message, then I hope you get a good overview by also reading this. Out of all the groups, with this one, I can confidently say that you know best.💕🙂

Signs: Pale skin and dark hair, 888, 99, cottage in snow, mystery/mystified, enchanted(the taylor swift song, the movie, anything), big ballgowns, color white, iceland, hot chocolate, green tea, seaside cliffs, towns near seaside cliffs, snow white and the seven dwarves, (big) blue eyes, "That's so true" by gracie abrams being relatable, fantasy books/movies, "don't boss me around"(idkk😭, just go with it guys), rising above pettiness but taking no bull***t, nakshatras of Bharani, Ashlesha, Anuradha, Jyeshta and Uttara Bhadrapada, wintertime, king Arthur/arthurian legends, sword, woman with a sword, loneliness.

Channelled deity: Holda/Frau Holle_ winter goddess of central Europe, both an old woman and a beautiful, motherly figure. She relates to quiet nurturing and growth in silence. You might want to read about her.

Oracle messages

Thanks for reading 🤍

Group 2 🌌🌬🏔

Logical and methodical ppl. Comp science? IT? Secretly open-minded and creative. A huge chip on your shoulder might be external "awkwardness". You have a much bigger heart and way more in you than it shows.

Feeling pathetic sometimes? Not sure of what to do in certain situations or how you appear. Self-concious.

Inner beauty and fire.

More passionate than others suspect.

You have a real potential to be more and show more of yourself. Not that you have to, but I think you want to.

This winter is a mindful but effortless time for you.

A lot of INTP, INFJ and ISTPs here.

You are not inferior to others, no matter how often/how much you feel that way. Something will change this coming month. Maybe you'll start to see things more clearly regarding a social situation or an opportunity. Others might take the high road in an uncomfortable situation. You can see your worth now, or you soon will.

I get the energy of being very capable and even impressive with skills or in general, just as a person, but feeling awkward about yourself.

One message i'm getting strongly is that you should avoid changing yourself or your tendencies that feel true to you or that you think are correct for you. A lot of you here are introverted people who have a low social battery and need quality time alone. Not because you're sad necessarily, but because you need refuge from foreign influences. You should not feel that that is a handicap or something to be changed.

But despite this i'm getting the message that you migh (i got cut off...)

Ok so this group refused to reveal itself to me🙃 I got the hunch that I should wait for Alexa's reading on this one. I didn't do it with others. Now, after having read what she channeled, I can say with confidence that she got the exact same energy that I have been feeling, but she wrote it in detail. We both thought that this group might physically be closer to her or resonates to her more, spiritually. I highly suggest you read her messages.

Alright, now, after reading her messages, I think this group is very intentionally closed off. There might be a lot of assumptions about what people think of you that you make up and then believe. Trust issues are prominent here, but I'm getting that it's mainly based on analysis and theory. You might be people who trust formulas, systems and theoretical assumptions with no need of actual, physical proof. Your mind is what you trust, but that might be a problem.

The fact that this collective energetically shut me off right as I was about to channel a clear message(prediction) says A LOT.

I'm getting the image of a young man, probably in his mid twenties, driving around in a snowy place. He's silent and lost in thought, but with a stong numbness. Why are anxiety and numbness the same in this collective? You overthink a lot. Analysis is all well and good when it's limited and mixed with the physical world, the real, actual life.

I think the masculines in this group are genuinely great people who act grumpy or emotionless. I sense a hint of insecurity, maybe some effort that is being put into trying to appear properly masculine. Maybe you guys want to fit in desparately with other masculines but secretly disagree with their ideals.

For feminines(which I'm getting may be the minority in this group), they have an energy of overextending themselves? They're also very logical, conventionally smart, have common sense and are way less awkward or artificial then the masculines here but they instinctively put on a mask (or two or more) around others. (I accidently exited the app right as I was about to finish that last sentence, what is it with this group. Do you hate me saying these things that much?😭)

Omg this group is aggressive with me, for self-defense. Do you guys hate when people see you, like, really see you? Because it seems clear to me. I'm not here as your enemy😭

So much resistance, wow.

I'm aware that I might be wrong about some things I've just said but I know this group is guarded, defensive, closed off and maybe stubborn. The interesting thing is that I think most of you don't even show it and just portray it as nonchalance. You might like to act unbothered when you are, in fact, definitely bothered.

Let's get one thing clear: i am aware of what lack of security and trust in others feel like and do to people. I might not know the exact same feeling that you're feeling, or understand exactly what you're going through, but maybe I can still talk to you and relate to you, one human to another. Nothing extraordinary, if you can call the beauty of human connection ordinary...

Makes sense? Feels right? Ok, let's continue

I said already that there's an inner fire in you that keeps getting hidden. Not by you, not intentionally by others, but life just makes it easy for it to keep being alone and unheard. Try to make it clearer to others with some small, inoffensive steps. I think you know what this means, even if I do not🙃😭.

There's also natural fluidity to you that makes you get sucked into different circumstances, which may not be the reflection of your truth. Like, when friend groups turn you into a person you don't want to be.

"Bright eyes, clean heart"

That's sweet🙂 I think this is for you.

A message that is coming through is that you should take the reigns of your emotional world and let go of outdated thought patterns. This may require for you to be patient, understanding towards yourself and others and willing to take a lot of details into account, because you might not even be aware of those patterns or behaviors.

I think this winter a lot of you will find peace. Or whatever inner state you are looking for. If you have been feeling misunderstood then you'll either understand yourself or finally feel understood by others. Some of you will understand others and that might make you realize something. Either way, it'll be enough. There's a sense of "aha", of finally getting it, that might not look monumental or major but still somehow feels like it. It's actually what "magic" feels like to most people, at least to me, like when life feels sort of dreamy when you look at it. Paradoxically, this dreamy and sort of mystical state of life will make you accept things you were not willing to face before. Nice job☺

Things will sort themselves out. It's probably a culmination or a beautiful beginning. For some this a calm and "in-between" state that allows for rest, rejuvenation, change and maybe even a chance for a restart, maybe a big transformation, maybe it's a simple gesture.

Fire in earth

Breaths in silence

Pilots flying alone

Eagle's bird's eye view

Phantom person

Signs: straight black hair, grunge or emo, glasses, black car, mountain resort, beard, pale skin, green and blue, technology, IT, law, father issues(uh oh...), green/blue/grey eyes, curly blonde hair, just got into a relationship, loner, having many friends but preferring to just text them and be alone, self-help books(?), serious arguments, Ben 10, Christianity☦✝️, central Europe, Switzerland, Cornwall/Hertfordshire/Shropshire in England(so specific🙃), London or Birmingham, INTP, ISTP, ENFJ, INTJ, INFJ.

Nakshatras of Ardra(strongly), Ashwini, Rohini, Anuradha, Purva Ashadha, Swati, Revati, Uttara Ashadha, Shravana.

Deities: I'm getting the archetype of "allfather" Gods in general, mainly Odin, which group 3 got too, so you might want to look into it.

Cronos?, Santa Claus?😭(I guess he could be a deity if you research origins). I'm just getting bearded guys in general.

And then Hestia. Wow.

Oracle messages

Thanks for reading 🤍

Group 3 🐺🤝🦅

Me and my friends?(what's that)

Birds of a feather flock together(got this one immediately)

For each pile I've named the readings in my notes app as group x(x being the number), this one I named "group wolf" for some reason. Now I see that it probably means "pack wolf", as in "not a lone wolf".

This group is for the ones who have or want a tribe, a strong, supportive unit.

Tribal people, tactile sensations that feel soothing, that root you to yourself and remind you of your people.

I got a sort of outcast energy for group 1, for group 4 i got less lonesome people but they still don't require the level of connectivity that you do.

Your tribe determines your vibe? This is a spin on the "your vibe attracts your tribe" phrase.

"Follow your path" alrighttt

Destiny?

Alright, major Magha nakshatra energy. You don't have to have it for this group to apply to you.

History and lessons learned. Leading by example.

Emptiness nurtured by love(from family and friends, community). This might be important to you this winter, especially through the rest of January.

Someone here might try something new with friends and there might be a minor inconvenience or a problem cause of it but it's nothing major. You should pay attention to it though. Other than that it seems very fun.

I get the vibe of "stepping into someone else's shoes", "someone else" being an authority figure or even an ancestor. It's like you're willingly accepting various responsibilities, small or bigger, for your own and others' good. You're quite selfless when it comes to people you consider family, but you need that loyalty and effort given back to you.

This group is for the people who are simple and maybe "basic" in some peoples' eyes, but that way of living feels true to you. Like, your music taste might not be the most eclectic or interesting, or your hobbies might be pretty normal, but that is alright and even fine for you. If not, then you just find the meaning that most people find through hobbies with your friends and family. There's nothing wrong with that, it's actually beautiful, but I'm hearing that you should avoid being close-minded. If you catch yourself judging/making assumptions about someone because of differences, you should take a mental note of that and find out why that is.

I'm getting men/guy, masculine people or tomboys for this group. There is also a different collective of people in this group who are feminine but stick with people like that, who they feel safe around.

I'm getting the vibe of political arguments and tension👁 differing views on such subjects in general.

The tribe can be called a clique, or gang, or squad, or anything like that, and some people in this group are strict about rules that anyone who is a part of that tribe should follow.

Ok I think I get the message here.

If your views are not understood or seen, there is someone, somewhere else who will see them and understand them. You don't have to get provoked at every instance of a disagreement.

And another, more important part of this message is that you should stop letting those things get your attention and sacred energy. There is a more important path for you to follow.

Follow your path, don't be distracted by illusion.

A message I'm getting for masculine people in this pile specifically is that they may have overlooked something in regards to someone else's opinion, most likely a feminine. It might be a friend, a sister, an aqcuiaintance, a partner, anyone. This person has a point that I'm hearing you should try and see. I'm hearing you will.

There is a sense of feeling like the world is not a good place, that truly valuable things are rare. The second part of that is true if we're viewing it as "valuable" for an individuals's spirit and soul, but the whole of life is also precious.

I think this group should find their place within their tribe, within their family. This group has the potential to be a powerful protector for themselves and their loved ones. I'm hearing this info fills you with pride☺😄

But it's a potential. You have to access it. This is what the "destiny" that I wrote might be. Follow your path, follow your destiny. Find your place, your true calling, your purpose and mythology in your sweet life. It is sweet, once you find your people, your true blood.

I'm hearing "get the main point accross, with rest the less they hear the better" OKK👁 that was directed at me😄

The main point is, stop letting other forces that you feel are inferior or detrimental to you take your lifeforce. Stand on business, you must know how to. Find that place within yourself to finally do what needs to be done. It doesn't even have to be anything drastic or even external, just be real about your life and the environment around you. It won't do you good to turn a blind eye when you know there is something of importance somewhere.

You seem like people who dislike extra details.

This wintertime is a time where there is an opportunity to finally get to the other side, to take the reins or to break free. Step into your power and ascend to your rightful place.

"Get back to yourself!!!" It's an insistent tone that says this, like they're 🤏 this close to slapping you in the face. Idk who this is. Might be you internally, someone around you or just my intuition. "Find yourself"

The nakshatras I'm getting for this are Rohini, Magha(!!!), Uttara Phalguni(!!), Jyeshta, Uttara Ashadha, Shatabhisha, Uttara Bhadrapada, Revati(!). Might be relevant in your chart or for people around you, or as transits in these nakshatras around this time.

Signs: woods(wooden furniture) decorated by fur, wolf pack, "The Northman"(movie), norse/nordic/scandinavian aesthetic, red car, "i'm just a girl", "just do it", Nike, birds, "the princess diaries"(weirdly), the neighborhood, Flawless by the neighborhood, blasting songs in the car, beard, (light) blonde hair, "bro", "man..."(IDK), seeing synchronicities but not wanting to acknowledge them(it's fine, i don't think you have to, you don't have to sacrifice your truth), possible denial about certain things, stubborn mind, hunting guns, dogs, MBTI types ISTP, ENTJ, ENFJ.

Deitiy: Odin(?). Look into him. Look into male deities that interest you.

Oracle messages

Thanks for reading 🤍

Group 4 💃🏼🎵🎶

This group was all over the place. Just fyi, I picked all the pics intuitively and I could not decide between three on this one.

And even when deciding to channel, I still feel unsure as to if it's the right thing. So a few things are coming up here.

A fear of making a fatal error, of messing up really terribly, of having little time to fix something or to get it right.

Maybe it's paranoia, maybe you feel like your hands are tied, but more I'm getting this lack of trust in the flow of life and in yourself.

One thing I want to say is that you should step back right now, calmly. If there's going to be anything that goes wrong, it most likely will not be fixed/averted by that type of state of being. It might be hard to do so, I know, but maybe start with trying to calm yourself down physically.

"There are Angels around you" is what I got. Maybe you strongly believe in angels, maybe they mean something special to you. If you don't then that particular message might not be for you.

Another thing I'm getting is a sense of shame or guilt. "Slay it" I heard (idkk). As in, kill it(the feeling of shame and/or guilt). Or maybe this phrase is significant to you, maybe it's an inside joke for someone.

Someone here is a dancer or loves dancing. I'm seeing ballet as one option of that, a feminine person/female with a traditional "ballerina" type body practicing in her house or an empty studio, she's alone there. If you feel like dancing helps you release emotions or unwanted energies, then this message is for you: the movements of your vessel(body) are the first things that show your truth when you have not seen it. They are actions of their own and are the purity of what is happenning to you.

Even if dancing is not your thing, this message of listening to your body and trusting its movements is still for you.

I am getting a feminine who has a close/best friend that is a masculine or a masculine with a feminine friend. Idk why this is coming up. Maybe you two had a disagreement or you feel like lately they're not on the same page as you.

You could be not saying a lot of what's on your mind or in your heart. A lot of you might feel that people close to you and around you just will not get it. First of all, I'm hearing that that is sort of true(WHAT). Don't panic please and don't stop reading.

Sometimes, as annoying as it is to hear, we go through periods of alienation. It's not the end of the world and to be honest, it'll make you see things about yourself, the others and the world/life in general that are very valuable, important and true, and that you would have not seen had it been otherwise...

It's not going to last long at all, I've heard. This situation will resovle on its own.

Just make sure to not lose track of your needs and wants.

You should go to your spotify or wherever you listen to music and see some older saved songs, your history, see the parts of your psyche that have evaded you. A revelation might be waiting there for you, or just an energetic hug from the music itself.

This group is sort of chaotic, tense. You might feel like you'll break down at any moment but there is also a sense of not being able to properly feel or express your own emotions. You are aware of this, you don't know just how to find that place within to release them and heal.

The message says to embrace the battle. Embrace the difficulties, actually, don't avoid them. Be honest with yourself more.

It's not that you're ignorant per se, you just might be overlooking things because of the limitations of your current perspective. Honestly, it might not be your fault.

Get back to your environment, whatever it is. Dance if you want to dance.

You might be feeling dissapointed and angry at the world around you but you're barely showing it. You might instinctually go and try to align yourself to places that make you feel like you're an imposter or never enough. Ehh... let me tell you, that's a time to find direction from within yourself.

Yeah so now looking at this whole reading, this is about being around the wrong people in wrong environments and getting trapped in detrimental circumstances. That's why listening to your body before coming up with mental plans is essential. Slowly, calmly, with eventual assuredness you can get into your flow. You know how to deal with anxiety on some level at least, it's been all kinds of a hindrance for you. You might be feeling extremely undervalued due to not being able to show your potential.

Give yourself grace and some due credit and tough love too if you think it's right. Don't let others point fingers and tell you "the truth" though. Protect yourself and do it with confidence.

Time out and exiting.

"Why shouldn't I?"

If someone makes fun of you or bullies you for wanting to do something do not let them get away with it, but cherish your energy and don't waste it on people like that.

Who's policing you? Why shouldn't you behave according to your truth? It's not your job to get their approval.

"I'm a free person."

🤍

Nakshatras of Ashwini, Pushya, Hasta, Chitra(!!), Vishakha, Mula(!!), Purva Ashadha, Shravana, Dhanishta, Shatabhisha or the Bhadrapadas(both) might be prominent in your chart or relevant here.

Signs: dancing, sweatshirts/sweatpants, a bag of chips, ballerinas, faded pink, dark golden blonde hair, messy mind, 444, inside jokes, craving alone time when with others but craving understanding when alone, "promising young girl/woman"(not the movie, but just the expression, might be about you), ages between 19-23, 777, peer pressure(😥), 85, old classic rock, nakshartras of Ashwini, Pushya, Hasta, Chitra, Swati, Vishakha, Mula, P. and U. Ashadhas, Shravana, Dhanishta, Shtabhisha, P. and U. Bhadrapadas, Revati.

Deities: Persephone/Kore/Proserpina(be careful with them, don't forget to respect deities), Kali, Áine, Eostre.

Tarot messages(Alexa kept being confused with oracle cards so she just pulled tarot for you. Trigger warning😥: sexual trauma)

Sending you love💕 wishing you real healing and rest

Thanks for reading 🤍

Wishing all of you a happy and wonderful wintertime

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sw33tie-faye · 3 days ago

Text

The Perfect Pair

pairing: dr ratio x gn!reader

Synopsis:

If he told you that you knew how to go and break his heart in two, you’d end up like always. Dr Ratio is known for his cruel attitude towards his students and fellow colleagues alike, but he seems to act more likeable whenever he’s around you. You seem skeptical since you’ve heard from your other colleagues about his harsh personality.

a/n: inspired by the perfect pair by beabadoobee

word count: 577

(not proofread im too lazy)

Never in his years of teaching did Dr. Ratio ever think that he, of all people, could gain a crush on someone. That someone was you.

For the very first time, Dr. Ratio was in love. Everything about you just seemed pleasant to him. Your hair, your clothing style, and even the way you walked. Dr. Ratio had even found himself taking off his alabaster head whenever you were around. But he had never spoken to you. Not even once.

He knew of his candid and self-centered personality, and how he acted towards people was less than pleasant, but he just assumed that it wouldn’t matter to you because of his attractive appearance. He couldn’t be more wrong.

And now, here he was, inside of an empty classroom contemplating what he should say to you the next time that you two crossed paths. Maybe he should go and ask a “friend” for help.

Ratio just hoped that Aventurine wouldn’t do anything stupid.

You were just peacefully walking through the hallways when Aventurine suddenly came up to you, right in front of the classroom Dr. Ratio happened to be sitting in. Luckily for him, you were too distracted by Aventurine to notice that someone was inside the classroom you and Aventurine were standing outside of.

“[Name]! My dearest friend!” he said as he slung his arm around your shoulder. You side-eyed him as you removed his arm from your shoulder. “And what brings you here, Aventurine?” you questioned. “I’m just here to see my best friend,” he replied. “Sureee.” you said, not believing a word he was saying.

“Anyways, have you heard about this one Professor, Dr. Ratio?” he asked you. “Yeah I have actually,” you responded. “Not sure if I’d ever want to meet him in person, though.”

Dr. Ratio felt his heart drop. What did you mean you didn’t want to meet him?

“Huh? Why not?” Aventurine asked you. “Well from what I’ve heard, he isn’t exactly the nicest person out there..” you responded. “You’re not wrong there,” Aventurine mumbled to himself. “He’s really good-looking, I’ll give him that, but I’ve heard he’s quite harsh towards people.” you say.

You think he’s good looking? This might just be the best day of his life.

“Those could just be rumours though!” Aventurine said. “What if he’s actually nice and he was misunderstood? People will say anything these days.” Aventurine continued, knowing damn well that was not the case. “You won’t know for sure unless you go talk to him yourself.”

“Ehh, you’re probably right.” You said. Maybe I’ll go up to him if I see him tomorrow. “Sounds great.” Aventurine said as you began to walk away.

You were going to talk to him? Maybe Aventurine wasn’t entirely useless then.

After you had gone, Aventurine entered the classroom where Dr. Ratio had been listening in on your entire conversation.

“You owe me big time, Doc,”

“Shut up, gambler.”

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fear-is-truth · 2 days ago

Note

What is a random headcanons you have of Kai? Like the type of headcanons that would make him seem really human and not like he's constantly a murderer or psychopathic.

KAI ANDERSON // headcanons

a/n: here goes.. but i fear he’s just as fucked up bc i was trying to be realistic ya know

judges people by their handshakes. a weak grip disgusts him, and he’ll never respect someone with gross clammy hands.

watches old footage of leaders like hitler, stalin, or jfk to study their body language, hand movements. kai practices in front of a mirror until it feels natural. every gesture he makes while speaking is rehearsed. the way he waves his hands, points, or clenches his fists is meant to manipulate emotions.

practices subtle gestures (touching someone’s shoulder, making intense eye contact) to make people subconsciously trust him.

enjoys watching true crime documentaries and infodumps about jonestown or heaven’s gate.

remembers oddly specific details about people but weaponises them later in arguments.

thrives on debates, especially when he can dominate someone intellectually. he’ll derail conversations just to win, even if it’s about the dumbest shit like the best way to eat a subway sandwich.

has entire passages of nietzsche and shakespeare memorized, knows random latin phrases and sprinkles them into conversations to seem cultured.

hates losing at anything—he’ll rage quit a game of monopoly if it’s not going his way.

when fixated on something—a person, an idea, or a goal—he becomes consumed by it. spends hours researching or strategising, often at the expense of his health.

has casually invested in bitcoin and other cryptocurrencies. checks his coinbase and binance accounts obsessively. has strong opinions about dogecoin being a joke.

occasionally reads self-help books.

his library consists mostly of power-centric books. his favourites include the prince by machiavelli, the 48 laws of power by robert greene, the art of war by sun tzu, and nietzsche’s thus spoke zarathustra. also delves into russian literature like dostoevsky’s notes from underground and tolstoy’s war and peace.

collects super offensive internet memes in a private folder. posts pepe memes on 4chan ironically but secretly thinks they’re funny.

leaves people on read for hours, just because.

desensitised himself to gore.

loves gta, rdr2 and civilization VI. played cod religiously in his incel days.

follows elon musk on x (formerly known as twitter) and admires him as a disruptor of society. or maybe it’s a tech bro thing idk. retweets his memes but also calls him a sellout for pandering to the masses.

loathes andrew tate for his shallow and illogical takes but agrees with 10% of his misogynistic rhetoric.

posts inflammatory tweets that toe the line between radicalism and satire, carefully wording them to avoid getting banned.

an avid user of letterboxd. some of his reviews are super scathing—but for some reason, they always blow up. he’d open the app to find that his hate review on la la land got 7.2k likes. screenshot compilations circulate on reddit and instagram.

his letterboxd favourites are: american psycho, fight club, the social network and the matrix (all 5 star ratings)—but claims he likes them for their philosophical depth.

his favourite show is mr. robot, saying elliot alderson is “the closest thing to a genius on tv.” he also likes the twilight zone and breaking bad.

obsessed with eminem—he’s been a fan ever since d-12. the marshall mathers lp are his go-to rage anthems. thinks lose yourself is the pinnacle of motivational music.

thinks kanye west is a misunderstood genius and frequently defends him online.

uses dark mode on every device.

apple loyalist. owns a macbook, iphone, and airpods because he appreciates their sleek and minimalistic design. calls android users “peasants.”

never charges his phone until it has like 2% left.

brilliant with tech—can hack into nearly anything. knows how to code in several languages, always staying on top of the latest tech trends and occasionally contributes to dark web forums.

builds custom pcs for fun. dabbles in coding and hacking. knows how to create computer viruses.

used to spend wayyy too much time on forums like 4chan, r/RedPill, r/foreveralone and r/incels, though he’s mostly active on subreddits like r/iamverybadass, and r/unpopularopinion. also lurks r/atheism just to mock people with religion.

frequently visits r/AmITheAsshole to judge people, always siding with the “bad guy.” bro has the potential to be a criminal defense lawyer that the DA despises.

lowkey obsessed with angelina jolie, specifically from her tomb raider days. probably has a pinup poster stashed somewhere in his room.

uses arctic fox’s poseidon blue hair dye.

firmly believes in the efficiency of 3-in-1 body wash, shampoo, and conditioner.

wears dior sauvage because it’s “masculine but sophisticated.” probably bought it after seeing johnny depp in an ad.

when he’s in a mood, kai loves sneaking up on people to startle them. he’s perfected the art of standing silently in doorways until someone notices.

prefers dogs because they’re trainable, loyal, and trusting on their owner. in other words they are easy to manipulate and control.

constantly rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. it’s both a habit and a way to intimidate people.

his lust for power stems from feeling powerless in his youth, particularly after witnessing his father’s abuse to his mother and the lack of control he had over the situation.

struggles to process complex emotions like guilt, shame, or empathy. often suppresses them or redirects them into rage.

swings between grandiosity (believing he’s destined for greatness) and crippling self-doubt (thinking he’s fundamentally unlovable)

finds it almost impossible to open up emotionally unless it’s to manipulate someone.

criticism, even minor, eats away at him. he’ll stew over it for days, replaying it in his head while devising ways to “prove them wrong.”

gets uneasy if someone expresses affection without clear reason—suspects ulterior motives.

goes online to stalk whoever winter’s dating at the time. sends cryptic, vaguely threatening texts from a burner number or straight up dox them. half of it is for shits and giggles, the other half is rooted in jealousy.

he’s attracted to girls who are intelligent and opinionated. independent but emotionally vulnerable, so he can swoop in and “save” them (he has a saviour complex). loyalty is non-negotiable, and she has to make him feel like her top priority.

anyone resembling winter is immediately his type, but he’d never admit it.

freakishly good at darts and chess.

knows how to pick locks and also, how to build a perfect pipe bomb.

his clown mask is inspired by satan in dante’s divine comedy (based on this convo with @porcelainlipgloss)

alternates between ice-cold showers and scalding hot ones depending on his mood.

drums his fingers or shakes his leg while sitting. can spin a pen around his fingers like a pro. learned it during boring college lectures and now does it absentmindedly.

can’t stand slow walkers, or when someone scrapes a fork on their teeth. his reactions to these are disproportionate and borderline hostile.

prone to road rage.

has read elliot rodger’s manifesto once, mostly out of curiosity and boredom, but ended up getting weirdly immersed in it. he disagreed with the bravado and entitlement, though—he finds it pathetic and would mock it, but still, he couldn’t put it down. deep down, he understands the mindset too well, which makes him uncomfortable.

selectively polite. says “please” and “thank you” when it benefits him but will completely ignore social etiquette in other situations, like cutting lines or taking the last slice of pizza.

his workout playlist consists of nine inch nails, rammstein. aggressive rap like eminem (“till i collapse” is a staple) and dmx. sometimes mixes in orchestral movie scores (the dark knight rises soundtrack pumps him up)

brushes his teeth aggressively, so his toothbrushes always wear out quickly.

loves gas station beef jerky and bags of plain popcorn with way too much salt.

doesn’t drink often, claiming alcohol dulls the mind. but when he does, it’s always something hardcore like everclear or absinthe. has a surprisingly high alcohol tolerance.

can literally live off black coffee or monster zero ultra (white can). claims he doesn’t need caffeine, but drinks it constantly because he “likes the bitterness.”

his handwriting is pretty neat, but only when he’s focused—otherwise, it’s chicken scratch.

loves the smell of gasoline and sharpies.

can’t sit his ass down during phone conversations—kai paces back and forth like a caged animal.

rarely gets more than four hours of sleep.

and when he does sleep, he sleeps on his stomach with one arm dangling off the bed.

sleep talks under extreme stress.

secretly likes it when someone takes care of him. whether it’s bandaging a cut or insisting he eats when he’s been working too hard, he fucking melts. he’ll complain about being babied, but it’s a front.

#american horror story #the more normal ones ofc #ahs #kai anderson #ahs cult #evan peters #kai anderson x reader #kai anderson x y/n #ahs season 7 #some of them are based on me #evan peters x reader

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craftea-fork · 2 days ago

Text

Let's see, queer represents what ? Queer, the strange and eccentric, unorthodox in society's ways, distinctly different. Whether that means gender, sexuality, or [anything anti-nuclear family lifestyle of a monogamous single couple taking care of personal biological children while] living alone, I think that the entire identity of rejecting that norm is queerness. So

lgbtqia+ is being used so Ace is represented already, but let's expand the questioning. When we ask to include something new, just ask the following: Are the lifestyle traits misunderstood and/or mocked? Are the needs unmet and often underrepresented? Is their existence is not just ignored or forgotten but dismissed, repressed to the point of oppression? Are they ostracized when outed, and forced to find small peer groups.

Are aspec identities queer?

Yea, I'm pretty sure that checks out As someone who is poly (a romantic minority) I am a strong advocate for these conversations as we transition to the GSRM which is a better term than LGBT which is exclusive and outdated. GSRM means Gender Sexual or Romantic minority. So this will be upsetting to people that want a purely sex laden gay environment in what they knew as LGB spaces before T even was recognized. It's time they recognize the whole landscape of the term and usage has changed. We have gay bars, pride parades, plenty of spaces for the sex positive and horny. We also have gay little bookstores with cafes and lounges for those who seek quiet. It's important that these spaces have vibes and themes for those that seek it. We don't have to exclude anyone, just make more spaces!

If you want to ask yourself if a trait belongs in the LGBTQ+ ask if it is related enough to the identity that it overlaps with what you're making the space for in the first place. I mean, what is it that the emergence of queer sprung from? The more inclusive we make it, the bigger of a percentage of the population can feel like they have voices rooting for them.

In this trying time, I wouldn't say no to a sudden 30% of the population throwing a queer revolution for civil rights (gay/poly marriage and adoption), total gender autonomy, and the like. More sex education for kids and gender education for parents. I honestly wish parents had to pass tests before becoming parents and I wouldn't say no to grading them along the way frfr, if you're poisoning the kids' minds with barbaric nonsense, we'll know because you refuse to do something like a simple critical reading comprehension test (if required you'll probably fill in random bubbles) woah that's a tangent TLDR more queer people = more strength to the movement = the more the merrier and I don't get why people are gatekeeping P.S. "women only" spaces or events are starting to irk me. and i'm afab without trying to transition, I just am a man inside and like dressing like a girl. It weirds me out so much I wouldn't want to go to those events.

interact with this post if you believe aspec identities are queer

trying to prove a point (not forced!!)

#queer community #queer #acespec #demisexual #nonbinary #gender #gender ideology #lgbtq community #lgbtqia #gsrm #agender #polyamory #polygamy #graysexual #demigirl

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alexihollis · 2 days ago

Text

The Orphans

Technically, crews outside of the alliance weren't allowed to call meetings. If Sully were any bit smarter, he would realize what a slight it actually was that Cyrus was entertaining this at all. How little concern Cyrus truly had about Sully and the Orphans, beyond the fact that they kept challenging crews to rumbles and being an overall nuisance to anyone north of 116th street.

"Why do we have to be here?" Fox whined, voice quiet as she tucked her chin on Swan's shoulder. "It's fucking freezing."

Swan rolled her eyes, even as she felt amusement tug at the corners of her mouth. She jostled her shoulder a bit, to Fox's tired grumbles. "Cyrus said."

"Everything's 'Cyrus said' nowadays," Fox continued to grumble as she straightened once more, throwing a glare at where Sully was talking with Cyrus and Cleon. The other crews' leaders milled about, talked amongst each other. Rembrandt had dragged Ajax over to the Hurricanes at the beginning, something about a mural, when it became clear that Cyrus did not expect everyone to pay attention to Sully's crap. Cochise decided to call a medics' meeting over in another corner of the park. Cowgirl was...

Getting busy in a dark corner with a Bizzie. Great.

"Hey," Swan felt Fox check her shoulder. "Cleon."

Swan looked to Cleon, who subtly tilted her head back, telling her to come over. "Go hang out with Cochise."

Fox bristled. "I'm fine-"

"Fox."

Ever the teenager, Fox rolled her eyes, but headed over to where Cochise was. Swan took to Cleon's side at the same time Masai took Cyrus, exchanging subtle nods as Swan watched Cyrus' eyes narrow, her jaw set. Cleon looked nearly murderous.

Interesting.

"So, let me see if I understand this," Cyrus said, her voice pleasant, but steel. "Not only did you call an alliance meeting as an outsider, but you called as the leader of a crew with no terf, no colors, and no name?"

Sully bristled. "No. We're the real Orphans. I called the meeting to talk about a new crew taking over my terf. Aren't you supposed to handle that shit?"

...what?

"Watch your tone," Masai warned, voice dark. Swan made it clear that people were to treat Cleon with respect, but Masai took it to another level.

Cyrus raised her hand just slightly. Swan had seen her do it before, her way of telling Masai to take a step back for a moment, let her handle it.

"Maybe I misunderstood," Cyrus sounded almost sweet. Sully was a dead man. "Cleon. What did you hear Sully tell us just now?"

"Sounded like his leadership was challenged, they fought, and Sully chose to split off with some of the dumber members of his crew when the rest chose to follow their new leader and now wants to whine about the whole thing unfair," Cleon said.

Oh. So Sully was terminally stupid.

"Yes, that is what I heard as well." Cyrus nodded, her voice becoming sickly sweet almost as her gaze sharpened on Sully. "Along with some really lovely commentary on women. How much of this has to do with the fact that this new leader is a woman?"

"Mercy's a shit-stirrer." And now one of Sully's underlings was talking. Because they were all so, so stupid. "She got all the girls riled up over nothing-"

"According to my scouts, it isn't nothing," Cyrus finally let her anger into her tone. "Unless one of those girls - and I say girl, because she is sixteen years old - landing in the hospital with a broken femur is nothing."

...so they were suicidal as well. Because that was the only reason Swan could think of that they would dare try to bring that mess in front of Cyrus.

At her words, Sully and his lackeys seemed to finally realize that this was not the meeting they thought it was. Their eyes became shifty, faces paled.

"Cleon," Cyrus looked to Cleon and they did that strange little silent communication that they had been doing since that first alliance meeting when Cleon managed to shut down the Rogues' attempts at an assassination.

Cleon nodded. Looked to Swan. "Take the others and go check in on this new Orphans leader."

"Yes, ma'am," Swan dipped her head in respect as Cyrus and Cleon turned back to Sully. As she passed Masai, Swan paused for just a second.

"We've got Cleon," Masai said, voice soft enough that only Swan could hear, his eyes never leaving Cyrus.

Swan nodded. It was difficult, handing over the reins, but Cleon was the best of them, anyways. Masai having her back was just added comfort. The Riffs had also been ridiculously protective of Cyrus ever since they almost lost her in that meeting back all those months ago. As long as Cleon stayed near Cyrus, Swan didn't mind taking the rest of their crew with her.

Well.

Mostly.

"He did not bite you."

"I felt teeth!"

"That is a hickey."

Cowgirl and Cochise were making Swan mind just a bit more with this argument that began the second they left the damn park.

"This is your fault," Ajax said darkly, half-glaring at Swan over Rembrandt's head, as the couple walked with Ajax's arm slung around Rembrandt's shoulders.

Swan did not respond. Not in small part because...yeah. Yeah, this one was on her, from when she got her first streetlight glimpse at Cowgirl's neck after they left the park and asked, "Did that boy bite you?"

Not even in a "I'm concerned, are you okay?" way either, more in a "Is that a thing that Straight People do?" way. But either way, the question made Cowgirl panic and demand to stop so Cochise could check her over. She was not pleased with Cochise's cursory glance and assertion that, no, the boy did not bite her.

"Cowgirl, you didn't even notice until Swan said something!" Cochise exclaimed.

"I was distracted!"

"So how are you so sure you felt teeth-?"

"Swan, make them stop," Fox begged from where she walked just behind Swan.

"He bit me!" Cowgirl yelled. "He bit me and none of you care!"

"You didn't even notice!" Rembrandt turned her head to look back at Cowgirl.

"I was busy!"

"Oh, God, I do not need to hear about you getting busy," Fox, again.

Ajax bit out at a laugh at that, "Don't act so innocent! I saw you with that boy at Jenkins last week."

"Ajax!" Fox hissed.

Too late. Swan's head had already snapped to Ajax. "What boy?"

Pure delight shined on Ajax's face. "She didn't tell you?"

"I swear to God-!"

"I thought we agreed," Swan started.

Ajax waved her hand, the one resting on Rembrandt's shoulder. "Nah, this one's good. College kid, actually. Helps his mom out with his younger siblings, works at a bodega to pay for school and help out with his family's bills, whole nine-yards."

"Why do you know all that?!" Fox's voice came out a little shriek-y.

"What, you think just cause you turned eighteen and graduated high school that I'm gonna let you just go off with any guy? No chance," Ajax scoffed.

"I'm an adult!"

"Hardly," Swan and Ajax said at this same time.

"Do you all know how filthy the human mouth is?" Swan was going to kill Cowgirl. "Cochise has told me horror stories!"

"About men in close combat in Vietnam. Not you getting frisky in the biggest damn city in the world," Cochise said. "Tell you what, you pop a fever in the next day or two, I'll take you to the ER myself."

Then, Fox was suddenly in Swan's ear. "Rooftops. Ten, at least." A moment passed, "All women. Aren't the Orphans strictly men?"

"There's been a bit of a shake-up," Swan muttered. "That's why we're here."

A bit farther down, someone left an alley. Two someones, actually.

"Hey, Warriors," the one in front called as they got closer. "You're a bit far from your terf."

She was a bit shorter than Swan. Her hands were wrapped, the bandage over her knuckles bloodied. The taller girl behind her didn't say anything, but her eyes were shifty, nervous, and she crossed her arms less like someone trying to intimidate and more like someone who didn't know what to do with her arms at all.

"Just coming by to say hello to the new Orphans Warlord," Swan said, tucking her hands in her pockets and leaning her weight back on her heels.

The woman cocked an eyebrow. "Found out about that fast."

"Sully called a meeting," Swan shrugged.

"The Orphans weren't invited into the alliance," the tall one said, the words rushed and the shorter woman's eyes closed in barely concealed annoyance. "This ain't Riff business. Or Warrior."

"Crews, in or out, are allowed to do whatever they want internally to settle leadership disputes," Swan said. She had been repeating that sentiment a lot the past couple months. "This is just a hello."

"You could understand why you bringing enforcers around here might make some of us a bit jumpy," the short one intercepted, subtly taking a step back to place her heel on the toe of the tall one's shoe. A silent shut-the-fuck-up that Swan barely caught.

Clever. The new Orphans War Lord was clever.

"I'm Swan. Cleon's Number Two," Swan said. "Sounds like you know Ajax, Cochise, and Cowgirl. Fox here is our lead scout and Rembrandt's our tagger. We don't bring them when we want a fight."

Which earned her a swift, likely less-subtle kick to the back of her shin from Fox. They were working on Fox's fighting, but there was a ways to go on that front before Cleon would feel comfortable sending her out for a planned fight.

"...I'm Mercy," the short one said. Nodded her head to the side. "That's...Harley."

The taller one's eyes went wide. Looked at Mercy for a second. She straightened, her shoulders farther back. "Yeah."

Uh-huh.

"You have anywhere we can chat?" Swan asked.

They did. An old, abandoned orphanage. It actually was a pretty interesting hang out, all things considered. If freezing.

Mercy led them to what seemed to be an old dining room, though clearly one not used often.

"What do you want to know?" Mercy asked.

"Your side of the story," Swan said. "What you plan to do now."

"How many of you there are," Ajax tried to slide in.

"Not even a chance," Mercy responded.

Ajax shrugged. "Worth a shot."

"I had a disagreement with the way Sully was running things. I challenged him. I won fair and square. End of story," Mercy said. "Our plan is to keep to ourselves, keep to our terf."

"You aren't too worried about Sully, then?" Swan asked.

Mercy shrugged. "Beat him fair and square. If you're here, that must mean he ran to Cyrus and word was she wasn't too happy with him anyways."

Swan stared at Mercy.

Mercy stared right back.

"You really aren't going to say what the disagreement was about?"

"You really expect me to believe you don't know?" Mercy shot back.

Cowgirl barely hid her snort of laughter.

"We don't want any problems with the alliance," Mercy promised. "Are we cool?"

"Not my call to make," Swan said. "But I can say you probably don't need to worry just yet. Cyrus wasn't too happy with Sully and neither was Cleon."

Mercy nodded, as if digesting the information. "Is that all you needed?"

Swan looked back at Cochise, who simply shrugged. "About it. Anything else you want to tell us?"

And for a second, Swan thought Mercy might say something. Add something. But she shook her head and that was that.

"So she's hot," Cowgirl said as soon as they passed Tremont.

Silence.

"You got something you want to tell us, Cowgirl?" Rembrandt finally asked.

"Wha- No! But- c'mon, she's hot. Are we really going to pretend like she isn't?" Cowgirl asked.

"Is it something we needed to comment on?" Cochise asked back.

"Wow." Cowgirl shook her head. "Wow, I am in the gayest gang in all of New York and the actual lesbians are going to pretend like they don't know what I'm talking about? Really?"

"I don't think we beat the Hurricanes, actually," Fox said.

Ajax scoffed, "Yes, we do."

"Cowgirl isn't gay," Fox said.

Silence, once more.

"You got something you want to tell us, Fox?" Rembrandt, once more, this time laughing as she said it.

"Oh, shut the fuck up, you knew what I meant!" Fox exclaimed, flustered now.

"Swan, back me up here," Cowgirl said. "Mercy's hot."

"She's really clever," Swan said instead. Because that was where her mind had been the whole time since leaving.

Mercy clearly did not intend to become the leader. That shit happened all the time across the city, gang disputes that create leaders by accident. Becoming the leader was the easy part. Surviving the first few weeks? That was the challenge and one Mercy recognized.

The bad leaders, the dumb ones - they didn't. They didn't realize that the hard part had yet to come and that they needed to be ready, needed to rally their forces and stand strong for when others came at them. Maybe the Warriors came as friends, but Mercy recognized that soon, not-so-friendlies would come along to poke at the new leader and test the new boundaries.

Mercy said the reason behind the change didn't matter, she was the leader now.

Mercy said, sure, come into our hang out, but you aren't seeing where we actually hang.

Mercy said I'll answer your questions, but I'm not pretending that you don't already know more than I want you to.

Clever answer after clever answer. Cleon would be impressed.

"That is...not what I was talking about at all," Cowgirl said.

"Cleon's gonna love this," Cochise snorted.

--------

Hey! Hey - look at that! It stayed fluffy! It stayed fluffy, guys!

#warriors concept album #warriors musical #fanfic #my writing #the warriors fanfic #swan the warriors #mercy the warriors #swercy #swercy fanfic

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kirammanswifey · 3 days ago

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《Bound by Darkness》

Silco

writer's note: i had so many emotions while writing this, it felt too personal. idon't support this kind of relationship in any way and i don't think is right at all, but i must accept that is a dynamic that it has too much to explore, and with silco's personality... it's just makes sense, whatever i hope u guys like it ittt. this little (pretty long) scenarios comes from my arcane imagines, i'll let the link down there for anyone is interested, also i'll be posting a story for each one of those scenarios for this week, tomorrow it's ekko's turn ;)

link:

warnings: smut, toe fetish, humiliation, voyeur and exhibitionist tendencies, toxic relationship, manipulation, silco's kinda a sugar daddy.

You walk slowly between the shadows and artificial lights of the gallery, feeling out of place amid the pretentious laughter and admiring murmurs of the guests. Your heels echo on the marble floor, a rhythm that seems more sincere than any conversation around you. You didn’t come here for the love of art; you came because someone invited you, promising "opportunities." But all you've found are overly sweet champagne glasses and abstract paintings that seem like an elaborate joke.

You stop in front of one particularly absurd piece: a huge red stain on a white canvas, accompanied by a plaque that describes it as "the existential suffering of modernity." You sigh, letting out a murmur you didn’t intend to share:

"Existential suffering? Looks more like someone spilled their expensive wine."

"A sharp observation," replies a deep, calculated voice from behind you. It’s so unexpected that you turn immediately, finding yourself face to face with a tall man dressed impeccably in a dark suit. His perfectly styled hair, piercing green eyes, and a scar crossing his face like a badge of a battle won. He doesn’t smile, but there’s something in his expression that seems... satisfied.

"And who are you? The unofficial art critic of the night?" you ask, crossing your arms as you look him over.

"Something like that," he responds, his voice low, almost intimate. "Though I must admit, I rarely find such accurate comments among these... crowds."

"Oh, really? Well, I wasn’t expecting to meet someone not dazzled by the 'existential suffering' of a stain."

He steps a little closer, barely invading your personal space. His presence is almost suffocating, as if he fills the room with an authority that doesn’t need to be proclaimed. "True art doesn’t need explanation," he says, looking at the painting with disdain. "Only the insecure try to justify it with words."

You laugh, a light chuckle that’s not entirely genuine. "Well, I guess we found something in common. Though I’m not sure that’s a good sign."

"That depends," he replies, his eyes fixed on you as though he’s already made an important decision. "What brought you here? You don’t seem like the type who frequents places like this."

"And you do, I suppose," you retort with a mocking smile. "Let me guess: you're a misunderstood art lover here to find inspiration."

For the first time, a smile, or something resembling it, crosses his face. "Close, but not quite. I’m here for business."

"How convenient. I’m here because someone promised me 'an enriching experience.' So far, all I’ve found are empty glasses and boring conversations."

His eyes gleam with something you can’t quite identify: curiosity, interest, maybe even amusement. "Maybe you’re looking in the wrong places."

"And you? Have you found what you were looking for?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he observes you in silence, as though weighing every word he could say. Finally, he replies, "Maybe."

The rest of the night passes in conversations that aren’t superficial but aren’t completely sincere either. You talk about ambition, about how power can be as addictive as it is dangerous. He listens with an intensity that makes you feel exposed, as if every word you say is a thread he’s willing to pull to unravel who you really are.

Eventually, you find yourself with a glass of wine in hand, in a quieter corner of the gallery. He’s beside you, his proximity intimidating, but not unpleasant. "What do you really do? Because you don’t seem like just another businessman," you finally ask.

"And you? What do you really do? Because you don’t seem like just a college student."

His answer leaves you speechless for a moment, but you don’t let him notice. "Touché. Though I must admit, my motives are much... simpler than yours. I need to pay for my university before everything goes to hell."

"Money?" he asks, with a curiosity that seems genuine. "Is that what you're after?"

"No, of course not," you reply with sarcasm. "I’m here for the art, like everyone else."

He lets out a low laugh, barely a sound, but enough to send a chill down your spine. "Maybe we can help each other," he says, his voice almost a whisper.

"Oh yeah? And what do you propose?" you ask, pretending to be uninterested, though the intensity of his gaze makes it hard to keep your composure.

"Simple. I cover your expenses... and you share your time with me."

The proposal is so direct that it leaves you breathless for a moment. You look into his eyes, searching for any sign of a joke, but all you find is seriousness. It’s a deal, a non-verbal contract loaded with implications that you both understand perfectly.

You thought about it for a few minutes. You hadn’t gone there on purpose, you had just gone as a novice artist looking for new opportunities. You wanted to make money through your work, not by being someone’s sex slave. But he wasn’t just anyone, he was different from anyone you had ever met before. He was an older, attractive, cultured man, just your type. In a moment, the proposition didn’t sound so intimidating anymore. Money was money and right now you desperately needed it, besides, you weren’t going to lose anything, on the contrary.

Finally, you smile, leaning in slightly towards him. "I hope you’re clear that my time isn’t cheap."

"Neither is mine," he replies, his tone firm, almost threatening.

The deal is sealed with a raised glass. You both know it’s not just company you’re exchanging; it’s something deeper, darker, and you’re both willing to play.

The night is humid and heavy as you walk toward the restaurant Silco had mentioned. You’d never heard of it before, which is enough to know it belongs to a category inaccessible to most people. The tinted windows and discreet facade offer no clues about what you’ll find inside, but somehow, it seems to fit perfectly with the image of the man who invited you.

As you enter, the air conditioning caresses your skin, and the scent of aged wine and expensive spices envelopes your senses. The place is nearly empty, just a few tables occupied by figures who seem as far removed from your world as Silco himself. He’s already there, seated in a corner with one leg crossed over the other, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His black suit and relaxed posture radiate absolute control, as if this were his domain and you were merely a guest in his world.

“You’re punctual,” he says without standing, his eyes scanning you with an intensity that makes you feel as though he’s dissecting you piece by piece.

“Were you expecting otherwise?” you reply, letting a playful smile tug at your lips as you take a seat across from him.

“No, but it’s always refreshing to confirm someone understands the value of time.”

The waiter appears almost immediately, discreet and efficient, as if he were an extension of Silco’s calculated atmosphere. Silco doesn’t look at the menu; he simply orders a bottle of wine that likely costs more than your monthly rent, then watches you, waiting.

“Are you always this… precise about everything?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as you leaf through the menu, pretending to understand the names of the dishes.

“And are you always looking for answers to questions you already know?” he counters, his words as sharp as a blade.

You hold the menu in your hands, scanning the names of the dishes in French, Italian, and Japanese. You turn it over as if that might help decipher it. In the end, you settle for what seems like a safe choice: “I’ll have the beef carpaccio as a starter and… the lobster risotto as the main course? Assuming it doesn’t blow my budget, of course.”

Silco lets out a low, almost inaudible laugh. “Tonight, you have no budget. Order whatever you want.”

“I’m not used to someone giving me carte blanche,” you murmur, handing the menu to the waiter.

“Then consider tonight an exercise in expanding your horizons.”

The wine arrives shortly after, and as the waiter pours it, you notice how Silco examines every detail: the label on the bottle, the way the liquid flows into the glass, even the waiter’s movements as he steps back. You take a sip and find it surprisingly good, even to your unrefined palate.

“This is… interesting,” you comment, swirling the glass between your fingers.

“Interesting. A safe word,” he replies, leaning forward, his voice reduced to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell me, is there anything you don’t approach with a layer of caution?”

“I’m not being cautious,” you say, though you both know it’s a lie.

“Of course you are,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving yours. “But I don’t blame you. It’s a quality many people underestimate.”

The first course arrives: beef carpaccio, thin slices of raw meat dressed with truffle oil, lemon, and a sprinkle of Parmesan. The aroma is as intoxicating as the wine.

“I have to admit, this is new to me,” you say as you pick up your fork and take a bite. The flavor is delicate but full of nuance.

“Fear of the unknown is a weakness,” Silco remarks, slicing a fine strip from his own dish, a foie gras that looks like something out of an art gallery. “Learning to master it is what separates the strong from the rest.”

“And what do you do when the unknown masters you?” you ask, holding his gaze with a hint of defiance.

“That never happens.”

The conversation drifts into broader topics as you share the main course. Your lobster risotto is creamy and perfectly seasoned, while Silco enjoys a wagyu steak paired with a black truffle purée. You talk about ambitions, the cost of success, the sacrifices power demands.

“Have you always known what you wanted?” you ask, leaning forward.

“Since I had the capacity to think for myself,” he replies dryly. “And you? Do you know?”

“More or less. I know what I don’t want, which is a good start, isn’t it?”

“It’s a start, yes,” he concedes, taking a sip of wine. “But the real question is: what are you willing to do to make sure you get it?”

“So many philosophical questions. You’re going to make me feel like I’m in a job interview,” you say, playing with the edge of your glass.

“Maybe you are,” he says, a shadow of a smile curving his lips.

Dessert arrives: a dark chocolate soufflé you share with him. The light texture and bitterness of the cocoa contrast with the sweetness of the dessert wine Silco ordered without even consulting you.

“I didn’t expect you to be the sharing type,” you comment, taking a spoonful.

“I’m not,” he replies, his tone dry. “But I can make exceptions… from time to time.”

When the waiter withdraws for the last time, Silco leans back in his seat, his eyes fixed on you with a burning intensity. “Tell me something,” he says, his voice low and deliberate. “How far are you willing to go for what you want?”

The question catches you off guard, but you don’t let it show. Instead, you hold his gaze, letting a slow, calculated smile spread across your lips. “As far as necessary.”

He nods, as if he expected that answer. “Good. Because the path you’ve chosen isn’t for the weak.”

“And you?” you ask, leaning closer. “How far are you willing to go?”

“I’m already there,” he replies without hesitation, his words carrying a weight you don’t need to fully understand to feel.

The tension between you has become almost unbearable, an invisible thread pulling you toward each other. You don’t know who makes the first move, but suddenly you’re closer to him, the edge of the table disappearing between you.

“This is a game, isn’t it?” you whisper, your lips barely a breath away from his.

“Everything is,” he replies before his lips meet yours.

The kiss is neither soft nor sweet; it’s a clash of wills, a battle for control that neither of you is willing to relinquish. His hand rests on your neck, firm but not aggressive, and the world around you fades, replaced by the intensity of this moment.

Hours later, you stand before a window in his penthouse, the city’s skyline stretching out like a sea of lights. He’s behind you, his presence as tangible as the cold glass beneath your fingers.

“This changes nothing,” you say, breaking the silence.

“Who said it should change anything?” he replies, his tone so calm it almost infuriates you.

You turn to face him, but his expression is unreadable, his face a mask of absolute control. “Just make sure you remember that,” you say, your words as much a challenge as a warning.

“I always do,” he responds, leaning closer with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

And though both of you know you’re playing a dangerous game, neither of you is willing to back down.

He circled around you, devouring you with his gaze. Silco's eyes roamed appreciatively over your curves, the red dress hugging your figure like a second skin. He stepped closer, the heat of his body radiating against your back as he pressed himself against you. His hand reached out, fingers tracing the delicate straps of your dress, toying with them.

"You look... exquisite," he murmured, voice low and smooth like velvet. He leaned in, nose brushing your ear, inhaling deeply. "Love the scent of you. It's intoxicating, just like you."

You almost moaned, but behaved yourself, you didn't wanted him to see you like an easy target. You were going play more, in the dirty meaning, of course.

His other hand rested on your hip, thumb rubbing slow circles through the thin fabric. You could already feel his hard cock against your ass, and it was so fucking magnetic. They way your body responding to his touch. It was almost magical.

Silco's lips curved into a smirk against your neck. "Tell me, my dear... are you wearing anything underneath this dress?" he purred, voice dripping with suggestion.

You smiled, mischievous. He had finally noticed. Although if we put it in a logical context, what was difficult was not to notice. You had chosen that dress especially for this night, it was your hunting dress. It accentuated your figure to perfection, leaving nothing to the imagination. So to tempt your prey you decided to put a hook, and that hook was something as simple as not wearing underwear.

"Why don't you guess?" You whispered, turning around to make eye contact with him. You would show him that you weren't easily intimidated. That he wasn't in the lead in this game of seduction.

His eyes darkened with lust and a hint of danger as they met yours. "Oh, I intend to," he replied, voice a low rumble.

In one swift, fluid motion, Silco spun you around and pinned you against the wall. His hands gripped your wrists, pinning them above your head as he pressed his body flush against yours. The hard lines of his suit-clad body molded to the soft curves of your dress. Was such a sight for sore eyes.

He leaned in, nose brushing the sensitive skin of you neck, inhaling deeply like a hungry man, a hungry man for you. "No lace," he murmured, voice a low rasp. "No silk. Nothing but bare, smooth skin..." His lips brushed the shell of your ear. "And this dress, just begging to be ripped off your delectable body."

One hand released its hold on your wrist to trail slowly down your side, fingers skimming over the red fabric. Silco's touch lingered on the hem of the dress. "Shall I find out if my guess is right, darling?" he breathed, teeth grazing your earlobe.

“I don’t know.” You arched your back like a tired cat, shamelessly rubbing your ass against his boner. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?” There was a challenge in your tone of voice. It was clear and forceful, like your desire for him.

Silco's eyes flashed with hunger at your defiant words. A low growl rumbled in his chest as he slid a hand up your thigh, pushing the hem of your dress gradually higher.

His fingers brushed against the bare skin of your upper thigh, confirming his suspicions. "No panties," he murmured, voice a low rasp. He slid his hand higher, until his fingers grazed the apex of your thighs. "Just as I thought."

And you smiled at him like a total slut. Like you were proud of it. Like you were proud that you walked around and ate in a restaurant without underwear. Living out your fetish fantasy to the limit, and using him in the process. It was perfect in your twisted mind.

And then he claimed your mouth in a searing kiss, plundering your lips with his tongue. He bit at your ower lip, tugging it between his teeth, tempted to rip it apart.

Breaking the kiss, he leaned back to look at you, eyes dark and intense. "Such a naughty girl," he purred. "Teasing me like this. Walking around half-naked." His hand slid further up your thigh, fingers brushing against your bare, slick folds.

"I just wanted to surprise you. Didn't you like it?" You faked a pout, pretending to be hurt in a tender, almost childish way.

Silco chuckled darkly, amused by your bratty behavior. His thumb rubbed slow circles on your lower lip. "Oh, I like your surprise very much," he murmured. "A bit too much, perhaps."

He gripped your chin tighter, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. His eyes raked over your face, lingering on your pouty lips. "The problem is, my dear, surprises like this one have consequences."

To punctuate his point, Silco slid a finger inside your slick folds, feeling your warmth envelop him. A gasp escaped from deep within your throat. It was so unexpected that you had to hold on to his shoulders.

He pumped it slowly, teasingly, watching your reaction. "And the consequences of your surprises are always so... pleasurable."

His hand on your thigh slid up to grip your ass, squeezing the supple flesh. "I should punish you for being such a tease," he growled softly. "For walking around with this pretty little pussy bare and dripping, just begging to be filled."

Damn, why was he so good with words? And with his hands too, he had just one finger in your pussy and it was driving you crazy. The years of experience were evident.

Silco added another finger, pumping them faster, harder. You moaned loudly into his mouth and he couldn't help it. He crashed his lips against yours in a bruising kiss, swallowing your weak gasp. He licked into your mouth, tongue delving deep to taste you. His fingers never stopped their relentless pace, bringing you closer to the edge.

You pulled away, agitated, to take a breath and regain the lead. You took his face in your hand and squeezed hard, with dominance. "Lucky for me, I do enjoy some punishments," You stuck out your tongue to slowly run it along his pronounced Adam's apple until you reached his lips and outlined them delicately with a lot of saliva in between.

Silco approved your actions with a growl. Although, he removed your hand from his face and took yours in return, switching positions. His thin fingers digging into the soft of your flesh.

"Mmm, you're playing with fire, little girl," he murmured, voice a low rasp. His eyes flashed dangerously, but there was a glimmer of admiration in their depths. "You're either very brave or very foolish, taunting me like this."

You didn't give a verbal response, but you did give a physical one. It was enough to just stare at him, blankly. You didn't look away, you didn't lower your eyes for even a second. You weren't going to give in.

He licked his lips. "And I do so love a challenge."

In a flash, Silco had spun you around and walked over to the expensive plush couch, but hadn’t sat down yet. He grabbed you by the hips, creating friction between the two of you. His hands slid down your back, gripping the straps of your dress.

"I'll give you the punishment you're craving," he purred darkly. "I'll fuck you so hard, so thoroughly, that you'll forget everything you know. All you'll remember is the feeling of my cock splitting you open, claiming you."

He leaned in, breath hot against your ear. "And I won't stop until your pretty little cunt is dripping with my cum, until my essence is leaking out of you with every step you take. Until everyone knows who you belong to."

With that, Silco ripped the straps of your dress down, exposing your breasts to the cool air. He latched onto one nipple, sucking and biting the sensitive bud as his hands groped and squeezed the newly exposed flesh.

“Yeah? Wouldn’t you rather see your cum on my feet?” You managed to say between labored breaths, your leg coming up and sliding over his. “Do you think I’m blind or stupid? I’ve noticed your particular interest in my feet ever since I met you. You even noticed today that I had a pedicure done and told me that the pastel blue color I had on from the day of the gallery looked better on me. You have a thing for feet. You’re a fucking pervert. Do you want to fuck my feet? Is that what you want, old man?” You were teasing him, oh, and you were having so much fun.

Silco’s eyes darkened with lust and a hint of anger at your provocation. He took your leg and lifted it up to touch your foot, luckily for both of you, you were pretty flexible so it wasn’t a problem. “Careful, little girl,” he growled. “Keep pushing me and I might just take you up on your offer.”

He leaned in closer, nose brushing against your ankle. "I've imagined bending you over and fucking your pretty little feet. Painting your toenails white with my cum. Marking you as mine in the most degrading ways possible."

His hand slid up your calf, squeezing the firm muscle. "But I want more than that. I want to ruin you completely. Shatter you into a million pieces and put you back together as my perfect little fuck toy."

Silco's voice was a low, dangerous rasp. He nipped at your Achilles tendon. "I want to fuck your every hole until you're a drooling, cock-drunk mess. Until the only thing you understand is the feeling of my dick pounding into you."

He licked a stripe up your sole, tongue swirling around your toes. "So keep taunting me, darling. Push me. Give me a reason to absolutely destroy you." His eyes flashed with sadistic promise. "I'll make all your dirty little fantasies come true. And so many more."

"Stop barking, and do it." You said, like an insolent brat. You finished taking off your dress, now all glorious and naked you sat on the couch, facing him. You raised your legs and showed him your feet in a very suggestive way. "Look at them. They're ready for you."

A wicked grin spreading across his face as he took in the sight of your naked body splayed out on his couch. You were offering to him in a golden plate, with feet and everything. His gaze lingered on your exposed pussy, already glistening with arousal.

He began to slowly removed his suit jacket. His shirt followed, buttons scattering across the floor. Your eyes roamed over his scarred, thin yet muscular chest, the sight of his physique sending a thrill through you. He was definitely a dangerous man with a even more dangerous past. And the scariest part was that you weren't even scared. Not even a little bit.

Silco knelt down in front of you, gripping your ankles. He brought your feet to his mouth, kissing along your arches reverently. "Such beautiful feet," he murmured. "So delicate. So perfect."

He licked between your toes, tongue delving between them, tickling you.

You were trying to stop yourself from laughing. It was so pathetic the way he was degrading himself for you. A powerful, billionaire man was drooling all over your feet like crazy. And all for feet. You had never understood that fetish. Feet weren’t attractive to you at all, they were just feet, and sometimes they smelled bad, and that definitely wasn’t a turn on. But in the end, who were you to judge?

Silco's tongue flicked out, licking a long stripe up your sole. He groaned at the taste of your skin, the texture of your soft feet against his tongue. He suckled on your toes, lips sealing around each one as he savored the flavor.

His hands slid up your calves, gripping your thighs possessively. "Wrap those pretty feet around my cock." he commanded roughly.

He freed his thick, hard length from the confines of his pants. The bulbous head was already leaking with arousal, a bead of precum dripping from the tip. Silco rubbed it teasingly along the arch of your foot, coating your skin with his essence.

"Warm it up for me, darling," he ordered darkly. "Get my cock nice and slick with your spit."

You didn't wait for him to tell you a second time, you got close enough and spat a considerable amount of saliva on his cock. "Come on, fuck them now. I know you crave them." You hummed, rubbing your fingers toes across his face.

With a feral growl, Silco gripped your ankles tightly and positioned the spit-slick head of his cock against the arch of your foot. He rubbed it along the soft skin, coating your foot thoroughly with your own saliva.

"Fuck, you're such a dirty little cock slut," he panted, voice heavy with arousal. "Desperate to have your feet defiled, to be used as a cheap fuck toy."

Cheap. That word hurt your pride. It was as if he was reminding you of your place and position. And indeed, he was.

With a sharp thrust of his hips, Silco forced the head of his cock past your toes, pushing into the tight, slick channel of your foot. He groaned at the exquisite sensation of your silky skin gripping his sensitive flesh.

Pumping his hips, Silco fucked your foot with slow, deliberate strokes. The wet, obscene sounds of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room as he used your eagerly offered appendage to pleasure himself.

"That's it, darling. Take my cock like the foot slut you are," he grunted, picking up the pace of his thrusts. "I'm going to fuck your pretty little feet until they're red and raw. Until you can't walk straight."

"You're really having fun there, old man!" You laughed openly at him, you couldn't help it. You needed to humiliate this powerful man. This man who had called you cheap.

Silco flashed a wicked grin at your teasing laughter, not slowing his frantic pace as he fucked your foot with desperate abandon. "Oh, you have no idea how much I'm enjoying this, you little minx," he growled. "I've wanted to ruin these perfect feet for so long. To claim them. To mark them as mine."

He brought your other foot to his mouth, sucking two of your toes deep inside. He licked and swirled his tongue around them, tasting her them again, before releasing them with a wet pop. "You taste divine, darling. Like sin and temptation wrapped in soft, delicate skin."

"How poetic," Your tongue was covered in sarcasm.

Silco's thrusts became more erratic, his heavy balls slapping against the heel of your foot with each desperate pump of his hips. "Keep laughing, darling. Keep taunting me. It only makes me want to use these feet even more."

He gripped your ankle tightly, pulling your foot further down his thick, pulsing shaft. The head of his cock pushed against the ball of your foot, leaking copious amounts of precum. With a final, brutal thrust, Silco buried himself balls-deep into the tight, slick channel of your foot. His cock throbbed and jerked as he found his release, thick ropes of hot cum erupting from the tip to coat your skin.

"Fuck." he roared, eyes squeezing shut in ecstasy.

You looked at your cum-covered feet with an indifferent grimace.

Silco's eyes flashed dangerously as he sensed your boredom. In seconds, he grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back roughly. He dragged you across the polished marble floor of his penthouse, towards the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering city.

You stumbled and bent over willingly as Silco positioned you onto the crystal of the window. Your naked body now on lewd display for any prying eyes that might look up from the streets below. The transparent windows offered no modesty, no privacy.

Panting harshly, Silco gripped himself and slapped his sensitive, spit-slick cock against your dripping slit. He was hard again. With one brutal thrust, he hilted himself inside you, burying his thick shaft to the balls in your tight, clutching heat. He groaned gutturally at the exquisite sensation.

Your eyes rolled back. Finally, some action.

"That's it, my little whore," he snarled, fingers twisting cruelly in your hair. "Take my cock like the desperate slut you are. I'm going to fuck you right here, where anyone can see what a dirty little cock sleeve you are for me."

Those words echoed through your mind and blew your brain cells off.

“Fuck, you’re lucky I took my pills. You didn’t even put on a fucking condom!” You moaned, taking his cock so well, your boobs grinding against the glass, creating a wonderful friction. Unintentionally, you looked up at the night view. It was wonderful. A paradise of lights and stars. From one second to the next your mind wandered to the possibility that someone was watching them right now, the walls of your pussy contracting at the thought.

Silco smirked cruelly at your breathless words, not slowing his punishing pace as he slammed into you again and again. The windows rattled with each powerful thrust, the night air chilling your sweat-slicked skin. "Lucky indeed," he growled.

He leaned over you, breath hot against your ear as he fucked you harder, deeper. "Imagine it, darling. Someone spotting us through the windows, seeing what a brazen slut you are for my cock. They'd watch as I ruin your tight little cunt, pumping you full of my seed. Watch as it leaks out of you, marking you as my property."

The picture Silco painted for you was too exciting, you had always had that fantasy. Of being watched or watching in sex. Which combined with your exhibitionist tendencies right now was making you lose your mind. Not to mention how well Silco's cock stretched you, it was as if it had been tailor made for you.

Silco's hand released your hair to grip your hip bruisingly, pulling you back onto his pistoning cock. "Maybe it's a group of my men, watching their boss claim his whore. Or perhaps a curious passerby, getting an eyeful of your slutty body bouncing on my dick. It doesn't matter. I want you to imagine them seeing you like this. A filthy little fuck toy, existing only for my pleasure."

He licked a stripe up you neck, tasting the salt of your sweat. "Now be a good girl and scream for me, darling. Let all of the city hear who you belong to. Who makes you feel this good."

And so you screamed. You couldn't takenit anymore. You came between sobbings and incoherent words, spams all over your body. It was magnificent.

Silco felt the way your pussy clenched around his cock as your orgasm crashed over. Your scream of ecstasy echoed through his penthouse, no doubt alerting his men and any curious onlookers outside to the carnal act taking place within.

The feeling of your velvet walls gripping him like a vice only spurred him closer to his own release. He leaned over you, hips grinding against your ass as he buried himself to the hilt inside your quivering cunt. With a guttural groan, Silco found his own peak, his cock pulsing and throbbing as thick ropes of cum painted your inner walls.

He rolled his hips, grinding against you, ensuring every last drop of his essence was seated deep within your fertile womb. Panting harshly, Silco collapsed against your back, pinning you beneath him. He nipped at your shoulder, voice a low rasp. "Such a good girl, milking my cock dry. I think you've earned a reward, my dear."

He reached down, fingers sliding through the mixture of their juices leaking from your fucked-out hole. Bringing his coated fingers to your lips, Silco rubbed them against your mouth. "Clean them off," he commanded. "Taste what a perfect little cumslut you are for me."

And you obeyed. And not because you had to, it was because you wanted to. You two were cut from the same rotten wood.

Silco's eyes darkened with sadistic satisfaction as you eagerly licked his fingers clean, savoring the tangy essence of their combined releases. He could feel your tongue swirling around each digit, lapping up every last drop.

"That's my good girl," he praised darkly, voice a low rumble. He kissed the back of your neck and sat down on the couch, taking out a small black box of imported Italian cigars from a table. He lit one and smoked it while looking at you intensely. Both of you naked and satisfied.

When the room finally falls silent again, filled only with the distant murmur of the city, you step away from the window, letting the night breeze brush your skin. Turning around, you notice something you hadn’t seen before: a collection of musical instruments carefully arranged in a corner of the room. A sleek black grand piano, an impeccably designed harp, and a violin that looks well-used yet lovingly cared for.

“Are you a musician?” you ask, picking up the violin with a mix of curiosity and admiration.

“I was,” he replies, his tone carrying a disinterest that doesn’t match the meticulousness of his collection. “A long time ago.”

Without another word, you position the violin on your shoulder, adjusting the bow with an almost automatic precision. Closing your eyes, you let the melody take shape in your mind before playing the first notes of Tartini’s The Devil’s Trill.

The music fills the room, each note cutting through the silence with an almost painful intensity. It’s both a challenge and a declaration, a metaphor that needs no explanation. You play with a ferocity that seems to pull something from your very soul, and though your eyes remain closed, you can feel Silco’s gaze on you, as heavy as a divine judgment.

When you finish, the bow still trembling slightly in your hands, you open your eyes to find him staring at you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a spark of something you’ve never seen before: awe.

“I didn’t know you could play,” he says after a long pause, his words soft but carrying the weight only he can convey.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” you reply, carefully returning the violin to its place.

“That makes it all the more interesting,” he murmurs, leaning back into the couch as his eyes follow you with an intensity that seems to strip away every layer you try to keep intact.

Finally, he stands and approaches slowly. His shadow looms larger than it should in the dim room.

“Why that piece?” he asks, his tone calm but edged with something sharper.

“Don’t you know?” you reply, leaving the violin behind. “It’s a piece about ambition. About pacts and obsession.”

“Ah, yes. Giuseppe Tartini said he dreamed of the devil himself playing it. A composition born of the desire to possess the unattainable.” Silco tilts his head, his eyes gleaming with a perverse interest. “Ironic, isn’t it? Sometimes, the most ambitious dreams are the ones that destroy you.”

“I don’t think Tartini saw it that way,” you counter, crossing your arms. “He tried to recreate what he heard in that dream, but he never succeeded. He spent the rest of his life chasing a perfection that only existed in his mind.”

Silco smiles, that subtle, menacing curve of his lips that always leaves you on edge. “Exactly. Isn’t that the true nature of ambition? To chase what you can never have. It’s a curse... and a blessing.”

“And you? Have you chased something you can never have?” you ask, locking eyes with him, daring him to reveal even a sliver of vulnerability.

“I’m not interested in chasing impossibilities,” he replies, though something in his tone tells you he’s not being entirely truthful. “I prefer to negotiate. To make deals.”

“Like Tartini’s pact with the devil?” You let out a brief laugh, devoid of humor. “What happens when the price is too high?”

Silco steps closer, the distance between you reduced to a mere shadow. “There’s always a price, darling. The question is whether you’re willing to pay it.”

“And if I’m not?” you whisper, your words defiant but laced with a tension you can’t deny.

“Then someone else will pay it for you.” His voice is low, barely audible, but the implied threat wraps around the room like a shroud.

The silence that follows is heavy, laden with unspoken meaning. It feels as though the music you just played still echoes somewhere in the dark corners of the room, a reminder that this, this entire relationship, is a dangerous game.

“Do you know why I chose that piece?” you finally say, breaking the silence as you approach the violin again, your fingers trailing over its strings before pulling away. “Because it’s a metaphor.”

“For what, exactly?” he asks, though his tone suggests he already knows.

“For you,” you reply with an enigmatic smile, though your eyes are serious. “For us.”

“A pact with the devil?” His tone is mocking, but there’s something else beneath it, something you can’t quite place.

“A pact we both know we’ll lose,” you clarify. “But we keep playing the melody, over and over.”

Silco chuckles, that low, guttural sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “An interesting comparison. Though, I must say, I’m more curious to see how long the game lasts before one of us breaks the rules.”

“And when that happens,” you murmur, locking eyes with him, “who will pay the price?”

Silco doesn’t answer. Instead, he cups your chin, tilting your face toward him. “Perhaps both of us. Or perhaps neither.”

What happens next isn’t something you’d planned, but neither do you stop it. His mouth finds yours with an intensity that takes your breath away, a mix of possession and defiance that leaves you reeling.

Later, as you stand by the window with the city as a silent witness and the breeze caressing your skin, you realize this is everything he’d promised and more. It’s raw, it’s powerful, it’s inevitable.

And later still, as he sits on the couch with a glass of whiskey in hand, you pick up the violin again. Your fingers glide over the strings with a familiarity that feels ancient, as though this moment was always destined to happen.

As the first notes of The Devil’s Trill fill the air once more, Silco closes his eyes, but you can see the faintest hint of a smile. You don’t need words to understand what he’s thinking: that you are as dangerous as the melody you’re playing. And he wouldn’t want it any other way.

The sound of the violin still seems to linger in the air of the room when you wake the next morning. The first rays of light filter through the vast windows of the penthouse, reflecting off the polished, minimalist surfaces around you. The city below pulses with frenetic energy, but here, at the summit of this luxurious haven, all is still. Silco is not in the bed, but that doesn’t surprise you.

You rise, wrapped in the soft fabric of a shirt that isn’t yours, and find a note on the bedside table. His handwriting is precise, almost artistic, and the words are brief, as always.

“Breakfast on the terrace. We have matters to discuss.”

Your heart beats a little faster, though you’re not sure if it’s from anticipation or the growing sense that you’re playing a game whose ending you can’t predict.

When you reach the terrace, you find him seated in one of the sleek chairs, a cup of black coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He is impeccably dressed, as if there isn’t a single moment in the day when he doesn’t have complete control over his appearance. The view of the city from here is dizzying, a constant reminder of the power he wields over the world he inhabits.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks without lifting his eyes from the newspaper.

“As well as someone who struck a deal with the devil last night,” you reply with a wry smile, taking a seat across from him.

Silco sets the newspaper aside, his eyes meeting yours with that intensity that always seems to disarm you.

“I hope you don’t regret it. Though, if you did, it would only make things more interesting.”

“I’m not one for regrets,” you say, lifting your chin. “What about you?”

“Only when the results fail to meet my expectations,” he answers, and you know it’s a warning disguised as a compliment.

Breakfast is a display of luxury: freshly baked croissants, exotic fruits you can barely identify, and a selection of cheeses and cured meats that seem straight out of a culinary catalog. He drinks coffee; you opt for a fresh juice that tastes as expensive as it looks.

“What’s the matter you wanted to discuss?” you ask, breaking the silence after a while.

Silco leans back in his chair, turning the coffee cup in his fingers.

“I’ve been considering the next phase of our… collaboration.”

“Collaboration? How professional that sounds,” you reply, arching an eyebrow.

“Everything in my life is professional,” he says with a half-smile. “Even the personal.”

“And what does this next phase entail?” you ask, trying not to show too much interest, though curiosity eats at you.

“There’s a gala next week, hosted by some strategic partners,” he explains. “I want you to come with me.”

“As your date?” you ask, knowing perfectly well what his answer will be but enjoying the game.

“More than that,” he responds, leaning toward you. “I want you to be my calling card.”

“And what’s in it for me?” you ask, resting your chin on your hand and looking at him with playful defiance.

“More than what you already have,” he says with a dangerous smile. “Your student loans, for example, could vanish with a single stroke of my pen.”

“That does sound tempting,” you admit, leaning closer to him. “But you know I never give anything without expecting something in return.”

“Of course,” he says, his tone cold as steel. “I wouldn’t be interested otherwise.”

The exchange feels like a chess match—every word carefully calculated, every gesture loaded with meaning. But beneath it all, you can sense something more: a tension, an attraction neither of you seems willing to ignore.

After breakfast, he invites you to explore more of his penthouse. Instead of heading straight to the bedroom, he leads you to a room you’d overlooked before. The door is thick and unassuming, but what lies beyond feels like a private museum.

“This is my personal collection,” he says, opening the door with a theatrical gesture.

You’re met with glass cases holding all manner of exotic objects: ceremonial daggers, tribal masks, ancient jewelry, and archaeological artifacts that look centuries old.

“Every one of these objects has a story,” he says, walking slowly among the cases. “And every story has a price.”

You stop in front of a mask carved from dark wood, adorned with gold and precious stones.

“Where’s this one from?” you ask.

“West Africa,” he answers. “It belonged to a shaman who, according to legend, could speak to the dead. He was executed by his own people when the voices began demanding sacrifices that were too great.”

“Macabre,” you say, but you can’t tear your gaze away from the mask.

“Power always is,” he says with a smile.

He shows you a ceremonial dagger, one of his most prized pieces.

“This dagger was used in a ritual that ended with the fall of an empire,” he says, turning it so you can see how the metal catches the light.

“How do you get these things?” you ask, admiring the detail of the hilt.

“Money,” he answers simply. “And the willingness to cross lines others wouldn’t dare.”

The next stop is his library, an impressive space filled with shelves that reach the ceiling, packed with books whose spines are worn and titles written in languages you don’t recognize.

“Some of these books are centuries old,” he says, running his fingers over the spines as if they were old friends. “Philosophy, history, the occult… everything you need to understand the world and manipulate it.”

“Manipulate it?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Knowledge is power,” he says, looking at you with that intensity that always seems to disarm you. “And power is the only currency that truly matters.”

Finally, he takes you to the bedroom. But instead of diving straight into intimacy, the evening takes an unexpected turn when he leads you to the massive bathtub occupying the most privileged corner of the penthouse.

The water is filled with bubbles, the temperature perfect. Both of you are naked, enjoying the feel of the hot water against your skin as the city lights twinkle through the floor-to-ceiling windows. On a floating tray rests a bowl of perfect grapes and a bottle of the most expensive champagne you’ve ever tasted.

“Do you always live like this?” you ask, taking a grape and bringing it to your lips.

“Not always,” he replies, holding his champagne glass with an air of nonchalance. “But I make an effort to enjoy the pleasures the world has to offer.”

“Makes sense,” you say, leaning back to gaze at the night sky through the glass. “Though I wonder if you actually enjoy anything, or if all this is just a distraction.”

He smiles, a smile full of secrets.

“You’re perceptive. Perhaps too much.”

The conversation moves between banter, innuendos, and dangerous truths as the glasses empty and the grapes disappear. The atmosphere is charged but also unusually calm, as if you’re both in a momentary truce in your endless game of power.

For a brief moment, the world seems to stand still, and though you both know this is just another stage in a larger game, neither of you is willing to break the spell.

Night falls over the city like a dark veil, illuminated only by the flickering lights of the skyscrapers and the distant, pale moon. Silco’s penthouse is a refuge of luxury, distinction, and coldness, but tonight, something else flickers in his eyes. The invitation to the opera is his way of showcasing what he possesses, of showing the world what belongs to him. And you, though you don’t entirely understand it yet, know that being part of this spectacle is more than just a simple evening out.

You stand before the full-length mirror in the room, dressing carefully, aware of what awaits you. The dress is black, hugging your figure, with lace details that caress your skin with a touch of restrained sensuality. The fabric flows to the floor, offering only the slightest glimpse of your heels. The delicate neckline strikes the perfect balance between provocative and elegant, while the long, sheer sleeves add a hint of mystery, as if something lies hidden beneath. Your hair cascades in loose waves over your shoulders, dark and gleaming under the dim light.

Your makeup highlights your features: eyes deeply lined, lips a crimson shade that contrasts with your pale skin. You look like a masterpiece, a muse that Silco has no fear of displaying as his own. And though part of that unsettles you, you also feel powerful, irresistible. The image you project is not just that of an attractive woman but of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing, someone who plays with shadows as much as with light.

When you step into the living room, Silco is waiting for you, standing by a window that offers an impressive view of the city. His gaze lands on you immediately, like a predator spotting its prey. He says nothing, just watches you, as if conducting a meticulous examination, a silent evaluation. For a moment, the air seems to still. It’s a mix of admiration and something darker, indefinable, but undeniably present.

"Stunning," he murmurs, barely audible, before offering his arm for you to take.

The limo that picks you up is luxurious, its interior upholstered in black leather with gold accents that shimmer under the soft lighting. Silco remains silent, but there’s something different about his demeanor. His body is tense, as if anticipating something—or someone—to breach his domain. The ride to the opera feels long, though words are unnecessary. The tension between you rises, like the air is charged with electricity.

When you arrive, the building is an architectural jewel, imposing, made of marble and glass. The lobby is grand, with towering columns reaching for the ceiling, adorned with frescoes and floating chandeliers. The opera, the season’s most anticipated event, is in full swing, and you’re the center of attention—but not in the way you expected. As you make your way to the private box, the eyes of the men can’t help but follow you. Discreetly, but you notice—the glimmer of interest in their gazes, the latent desire to approach you, to speak to you.

Silco notices too.

"Interesting, isn’t it?" he says in a low voice, barely audible amid the orchestra’s first notes. "How some men feel so comfortable admiring what doesn’t belong to them."

He turns you to face him, his face impassive but his expression betraying restrained jealousy. The way his eyes trace over you, how his hand rests lightly on your back like an invisible brand, reminds you of the true meaning of this invitation. It’s a reminder: you’re here with him. But also a warning of what might happen should anyone cross the boundaries he has silently set.

"Isn’t it beautiful?" you ask, your voice tinged with genuine fascination as you gaze at the stage. The soprano, bathed in golden light, sings an aria with such intensity that the air seems to vibrate. But your words aren’t just for him; they’re for yourself, for the magnificence of this place that makes you feel both small and immense at once.

"It’s a spectacle," Silco replies coldly, "but nothing compared to the beauty you’ve brought to this room."

You turn to him, offering a slight smile, playing with the idea of provoking a reaction. But Silco isn’t someone easily manipulated. And as the performance continues, you realize what bothers him most isn’t the opera or the perfection of the event. It’s the fact that others dare to look at you, even indirectly, in ways only he believes he has the right to.

Suddenly, as if the opera’s atmosphere weren’t stifling enough, you decide to break the ice and venture into less superficial territory, something more intellectual.

"It’s curious how opera can be so... disturbing," you begin, casting a critical look toward the soprano who seems to sing not just with her voice but with every fiber of her being, projecting an emotion so intense it hurts. "The passion conveyed in every note—it’s not just technique. It’s raw. Visceral."

Silco studies you for a moment, intrigued by your ability to see beyond the surface. "Visceral?" he repeats, a faint smile playing on his lips. "What we’re witnessing is the distortion of human emotion taken to its limit. Artists like her don’t sing for us. They do it for themselves. To confront their own suffering and turn it into something consumable."

"Perhaps," you reply, analyzing the glint in his eyes, "but I can’t help thinking all that suffering has a darker purpose. Sometimes, the rawest emotions are the most genuine. But do we really seek to understand them, or just consume them?"

Your serene yet thoughtful tone immediately captures his attention. Silco leans back slightly in his seat, his eyes fixed on you as the orchestra carries on, though his mind seems ensnared by your words.

"It’s a reflection of human fragility," he finally says, as if speaking more to himself than to you. "Pain, despair. People pay to witness that vulnerability because we’ve distanced ourselves so much from the genuine that we find solace only in reminders of our worst selves."

Your gaze softens, acknowledging the depth of his words without letting them disarm you. You know what Silco is insinuating: his fascination with human darkness, with imperfection.

"And don’t you think all of that is present in us? In what we do, in what we seek..." you say with a faint, ironic smile. "Or do you believe we can escape our own need for destruction?"

Silco stiffens slightly, the atmosphere between you growing even more charged, almost oppressive. "There is no escape," he responds, his tone grave and piercing. "Only acceptance."

"And I accept what I am," you say, holding his gaze, a challenge in your eyes.

A tense pause stretches between you as the soprano’s voice continues to hang in the air. Silco watches you intensely, a mix of respect and dangerous possession in his gaze. "Perhaps you’re right," he murmurs, his voice low, almost a whisper, as he fixes you with a look that burns more than it illuminates. "Perhaps you accept more than you’re willing to admit."

The opera comes to an end, and while the crowd bursts into fervent applause, for the two of you, everything else fades away. In this space between shadows, the words you’ve shared become a tension even more palpable, a line that cannot be crossed without consequences. The opera’s beauty, with its raw passion, becomes a reflection of what binds you together—and, at the same time, what sets you apart.

Outside, under the starlit sky, the air is fresh and clean. Silco escorts you back to the car, and during the ride home, the silence is heavy, filled with unspoken thoughts.

When you reach the penthouse, the tension that’s been building all night finally erupts. The door closes behind you, and immediately, without words, he turns you toward him, taking your face in his hands, his grip firm. But the look in his eyes is something entirely different. It’s possessive, urgent, as if he’s claiming something he always knew was his, though you’ve never fully given it to him.

"I don’t like when they look at you," he whispers, his lips close to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "I don’t like when you seek their attention."

It’s a dangerous game, and in that moment, you know you’re trapped. There’s no escape, no alternative. The passion between you morphs into something darker, more controlled, and at the same time, more intense. As if everything he does, everything he gives, is part of a way to mark you, to ensure there’s no doubt in your mind about what you truly are to him.

Before you can react, his lips claim yours in a deep, possessive kiss, and the world outside that room fades away. All that matters now is what’s in front of you. Silco. And the power he holds over you.

The sea stretches out before you like an endless canvas, as vast and deep as the emotions Silco stirs within you. The ocean breeze caresses your skin, carrying away the heavy thoughts you’ve been burdened with over the past week. In this space, everything seems clearer. Yet, despite the stunning scenery, an undercurrent of tension lingers in the air, impossible to ignore.

Your birthday has arrived, and Silco has planned something special, something you never expected. This time, there’s no shadowy gala or opulent halls. Instead, you find yourself in a secluded paradise—a hidden corner of the sea where the elite rarely tread. You’re aboard a private yacht gliding over turquoise waters, far from the city you’ve always known, but close to what is inevitable: Silco.

You’ve dressed more simply than usual, in a flowing white dress that drapes softly over your figure, and a straw hat that partially shields your face, giving you an air of mystery, almost ethereal. The sun beats down mercilessly over the ocean, but the warmth of the daylight is tempered by the cool breeze sweeping over the water. Yet, despite the relaxing atmosphere, the silence between you and Silco carries a weight that’s impossible to ignore.

The yacht is a spectacle of luxury: polished wooden decks, a lounge with glass windows offering panoramic views of the ocean, and a bar that looks like something out of a high-society film. It’s elegant, comfortable, and perfectly isolated—a microcosm where the outside world ceases to exist. And yet, you know you’re not here just to enjoy paradise. Silco watches you, seated in a chair by the railing, his gaze steady, analytical, calculating. Somehow, you know this trip isn’t solely a gift for you.

“This place is perfect, isn’t it?” he says in a calm voice, almost a whisper, as he takes a sip from the wine glass in his hand. “A place where you can think without distractions.”

You look at him, unsure if he’s actually asking you or simply sharing his thoughts. The sunlight casts a special glow over his face, highlighting his sharp features and the piercing gaze that tracks your every movement. The yacht glides further into the water, each passing mile pulling you further away from everything you know.

“It’s beautiful,” you finally reply, but the air remains thick with unspoken tension. “Why here? Why today?”

Silco observes you with a small smile, something he rarely shows. It’s not a smile of contentment but of control, of possession. As if this place, this moment, everything, was orchestrated for you but also for him. And that unsettles you in a strange way.

“It’s your birthday,” he replies, his tone soft but firm. “And while I don’t care for pompous celebrations, I wanted you to have something special. A place where neither of us has to worry about anything but being here.”

You search his eyes for some clue, something to tell you that this is genuine. But you find nothing. Silco has no intention of making things easy for you, and you know it well. Despite the idyllic setting, there’s a palpable distance between the two of you, like an invisible field neither dares to cross.

Shortly after, lunch arrives. A feast prepared for two: fresh lobster, tuna sushi, and an endless selection of wines. The scent of the sea mingles with the aroma of the food, and the sun casts everything in a perfect golden light. But as Silco serves you, his eyes betray something more—something you’ve come to know well: a subtle control over your every action, as though each gesture is part of a scene he meticulously arranged for you.

“Do you like it?” he asks, watching your face as you take a bite. His tone is almost condescending, as though he’s assessing your reaction.

“It’s delicious,” you reply, but the taste is overshadowed by the pressure you feel being here with him. The sun shines too brightly, but his eyes are even more intense, always watchful, always calculating.

“All of this is for you, but it’s also for me,” he says, almost muttering to himself. “It’s easy to give gifts; the hard part is knowing how to thank someone for what they give you. But you’ll see—everything comes with a price.”

Your stomach churns at his words. Despite the dazzling view, the weight of what he’s just said hits harder than the heat of the sun. Silco has gifted you a perfect day, but the price of that perfection is something you can’t help but wonder about. What does he truly want from you? What else is he expecting?

After the meal, Silco approaches you, his gaze never less than piercing, scrutinizing every inch of you. There’s something in the way he looks at you that makes everything once serene feel more complicated, denser. He hands you a small package, his smile teetering on the edge of irony.

“A gift, though you may not be sure you want it,” he says with a low chuckle. “I’ve observed you, and I know what you like. You know I enjoy giving you what belongs to you.”

You open the package carefully, finding inside a diamond necklace—an intricate design that almost seems alive, as though each stone was placed with specific intent. You hold it in your hands, admiring its perfection but also feeling a growing pressure in your chest. The price of this gift isn’t just monetary—it’s emotional.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, feeling the weight of every word you say and the discomfort rising within you. The necklace is the final touch to a stage where you already feel trapped.

“Yes, it is,” Silco responds, his tone almost intimate, as though he knows what it truly means to you. “But don’t forget—everything I do has a purpose. Nothing comes without a price.”

Those words land like a blow. You know this isn’t just a necklace he’s given you but a reminder of his power over you, of what he expects from you. He isn’t merely offering you something beautiful—he’s offering an unspoken contract where you are the one who must pay.

The afternoon drifts by as the yacht continues to float aimlessly in the turquoise waters. The sun begins to set on the horizon, painting everything in shades of orange and gold. Silco never stops watching you, as though measuring you, waiting for something within you to react, for something to break. But you remain there in silence, wondering just how far you’ve fallen into his web, just how deeply you’ve allowed his influence to seep under your skin.

As night falls and the sky darkens, Silco moves closer to you, his presence firm and assured. His arm wraps around your waist with a possessiveness you cannot ignore.

“This is a birthday you’ll never forget,” he murmurs near your ear, the implicit promise in his words more terrifying than any celebration. “No matter how many gifts I give you, don’t forget—you’ll always be mine.”

The sound of the water lapping against the yacht, the whisper of the wind—all of it fades as his words echo in your mind. You cannot escape his control, not while you continue accepting his gifts. And deep down, you know you’re already too far gone.

Four months. Four long months since you entered Silco's world. Everything you knew before seems to have vanished. You live with him, in his house, in his space, isolated from your friends, from your family. Everything has changed, and although a part of you knows things weren’t healthy from the beginning, you’ve grown accustomed to this new reality. You’ve become his shadow, his silent company, an ornament accompanying him in his business and his life, without truly being part of anything.

University is the only thing you have left outside his sphere. You only leave to attend classes, as just another obligation. The campus feels like a distant world, and interactions with your classmates are limited to class meetings, while the other students dive into their own lives. You’re just there, doing what’s expected of you, like an automaton. After classes, you quickly return to the penthouse, as if it were a refuge, though deep down you know it’s more of a prison than a home.

Your friends no longer call, your family barely hears from you. And you… you’ve forgotten how to be yourself. Conversations that once felt light now seem distant, as if they were memories from another life. You’re trapped in a cycle with Silco that you don’t know how to break. Everything you do, everything you are now, revolves around him. The arguments, the fights, the manipulations—it all feels like a whirlwind, a maze with no exit.

Tonight feels different. Something in the air is heavy, a tension you can’t ignore. Silco arrives late, his face hardened by business, by stress. You watch him from the couch, the dim light of the lamp illuminating his figure. You know something is about to erupt. The question is, will you be able to endure it?

He approaches, watching you for a moment, his gaze piercing as always. "Where have you been?" he asks, his tone low, almost uncomfortable, but there’s something more there. It’s not a simple question—it’s an accusation disguised as curiosity.

You rise slowly, feeling the weight of his gaze. "I’ve been here, waiting, as always. Doing what you asked of me," you reply, your voice already laced with the frustration you’ve been repressing.

He studies you, his expression unreadable. "Waiting… for what exactly?" The question is provocative, but also charged with a power you can’t ignore. You feel as if you’re standing on a battlefield, unsure if the war is already lost or if there’s still something left to defend.

"I don’t know what you expect from me," you say through clenched teeth, your hands balled into fists at your sides. "Everything I do, everything I am, revolves around you. I don’t know if you like that or if it disgusts you, but I’m tired of you treating me like I’m just an extension of yourself."

The response comes faster than you expect, his voice turning colder. "I’m not treating you as an extension of myself," he says, every word sharp as a blade. "I’m showing you reality. I’m the only thing keeping you here, the only thing giving you purpose."

The words hit you like a whip. They hurt more than you’d like to admit because, deep down, you know there’s some truth to them. "And what am I to you, then?" you ask, your voice breaking slightly despite yourself. "Just another tool? A piece of flesh to satisfy your needs?"

Silco smiles bitterly, a gesture he rarely shows. "Isn’t that what you are, dear? In this world, we’re all tools. The difference is that some of us hold more power than others. And you, without me, are nothing. I’ve given you everything you have; everything you are now is thanks to me."

The air grows heavier, and your hands begin to tremble, but you try to keep calm. The venom in his words wounds you, but not enough to make you crumble. "I don’t need you to remind me. But what you don’t understand, Silco, is that this isn’t what I want. This isn’t who I want to be."

He takes a step closer, his figure darkening the room. "Then what do you want? To run away from all of this? To live a life of lies, like the others? With your friends, with your illusions? That won’t give you what you really need. You know that. Everything I offer you is the truth, without embellishments."

"The truth?" you repeat, struggling to contain the rage boiling inside you. "The truth is you’re suffocating me. You’re manipulating me, dragging me further and further into your world. What you’re giving me isn’t truth—it’s your version of what the truth should be, your control. And I’m tired of being part of it."

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, you wonder if it’s really possible to escape all of this. Silco pauses, his gaze no longer as intense, but his words still cut deep. "You know you can’t escape this, don’t you?" he says softly, as if he knows something you haven’t yet accepted. "You can’t live without me. You have nowhere to go."

The anger begins to bubble over, and it’s as if all the repressed energy explodes at once. "Of course I can! I can leave! I can… I can go and never come back." Your voice trembles, but the decision is clear.

Silco’s laugh echoes through the room, bitter and cold. "And what would you do out there? Where would you go? The world around you has no place for someone like you. Without me, you’re nothing. And you know it."

A heavy silence fills the air as you both stare at each other, weighing every word, every gesture. "I am nothing without you," you say finally, your voice barely a whisper. "But that doesn’t mean I can’t find myself. That doesn’t mean I have to keep being part of your game."

Silco remains silent, watching you as if he’s evaluating something in your words. His expression is hard to read, but for the first time, there’s something in his eyes you can’t identify—something that looks like doubt.

"If you leave, there’s no coming back," he says in a low voice, an implicit threat in his words. "There will be no place for you in my world, and you know it."

And in that moment, something inside you clicks. The decision is made. It no longer matters what he says. "I know," you respond firmly, your heart pounding. "I know. But I’m leaving."

You turn and begin walking towards the door. Silco does nothing, doesn’t move, doesn’t stop you. But his gaze follows you, weighing on you, one last attempt at control.

As you step through the door, the sound of your heels echoing in the hallway is your only companion. The cool night air greets you, and for the first time in a long time, you feel free. At least for a moment, you can breathe.

Thirty long days have passed since you left his side. A month. Thirty days of loneliness, abandonment, and anguish. Broken promises crash against your chest like an echo, and the constant pressure of an uncertain future devours you from within. You try to survive, but each day becomes harder.

Your university life, once your salvation, is now just a chain tying you to a routine that slowly consumes you. You can’t pay your rent. The overdue payments loom like a black shadow, threatening to swallow you whole. The people who once stood by your side now turn their backs on you. Friends, so conventional, so distant, can’t understand what you’ve lost. Your family doesn’t even try. They’ve rejected you, abandoned you. And amidst all this, your studies remain a distant beacon, an unattainable dream you can barely cling to.

You tried finding a job, but you lost everything as quickly as it came. The university demands more of you, and all you have to offer is the anguish of knowing your world is collapsing while they move forward, oblivious to the darkness consuming you. The days stretch endlessly, and the nights become unbearable. Sadness courses through your veins like a dark current, but nothing, nothing hurts more than his absence. The void Silco left is an open wound that cannot heal. The luxurious life you shared with him, the brilliance of his world—you miss it. The darkness within him, that sense of belonging found only in the depths of wickedness, you miss that too. That is the price you pay for leaving.

One day, without thinking, without knowing what drives you, you decide to return. You don’t care if he rejects or humiliates you. The only thing you know is that you can’t go on without him. The city looks dull and cold from the heights, but Silco’s building draws you with a dark, almost magnetic force. Your steps are slow, heavy, each one closer to the truth you’ve been denying. When you reach the door of the penthouse, doubt strikes you, but you don’t stop. You know. You can’t escape him.

Silco is there, waiting for you, as if he knew you would return. As if he knew the absence was only temporary, that nothing could keep you apart for long. His presence fills the air, heavy and dense, as always. And yet, there is something more in his gaze—something dark and satisfied. Silco is not the kind of man who is surprised by others’ decisions because, in his world, he is always in control.

“You had nowhere else to go, did you?” he says in that deep voice that takes your breath away, his tone so full of certainty you can’t respond. “You’ve realized it, as you always do. No one understands you. No one knows what you need, what belongs to you. Only I do.”

His words pierce through you like a knife. You know he’s right—there is nowhere else you can find what he gave you. The void left by his absence is something you cannot fill. No one else understands you. No one else has seen the darkness you both plunge into and embraced it. Silco is everything you are, everything you know.

You move closer to him, wordless, eyes downcast, a silent plea. Silco smiles, his gaze softening for just a moment before growing more intense. He steps toward you, as if advancing over familiar terrain—a battlefield he already knows. He watches you intently, as if he can read every thought in your mind.

“I knew you’d come back,” he murmurs, touching your face with a dangerous softness, a touch devoid of affection but full of possession. “You know, don’t you? You can’t live without me. You never will. You’re too broken to be free, always have been. You can’t stand being away—you know it.”

You nod slowly, unable to speak, unwilling to say anything more. The only truth is that you need to return to him. You cannot escape.

“You’re mine,” he continues as his fingers slide down your neck with palpable possession. “And you know it. No one else does, not even you. But I’ll remind you always, until you die. Because everything you are, everything you have, is mine.”

Before you can process his words, he steps back, and with a disturbingly calm demeanor, he pulls a small case from his pocket. He opens it slowly, revealing a black diamond ring. The jewel gleams with a macabre luster, as if it has a life of its own. He looks at it, then offers it to you. “I gave you everything. Now, I want what’s mine completely.”

The ring, with its dark color and incalculable value, hypnotizes you. You don’t need to think—you can’t think. In that moment, you surrender. You know what it is and what it means, but the idea of being entirely his draws you in with unstoppable force. You accept without hesitation. It feels as natural as breathing.

“Yes,” you whisper, the word flowing from your lips like a sentence, and you feel the world begin to revolve around him again.

He smiles—a cold, satisfied expression—and takes your hand, sliding the ring onto your finger with unsettling precision. “I knew you would. I knew you couldn’t escape. No place is safe enough for you. You’re mine, and you’ll never leave me.”

He moves closer to you, his face mere inches from yours. “Because only we understand what we truly are. No one else has seen the darkness like we have. No one else appreciates it. We deserve this. All we have left is this bond, this darkness. Why fear it when we can embrace it together?”

Your lips brush against his, and the dark passion overtakes you like a flame consuming everything in its path. The kiss is deep, almost destructive. There is no sweetness in it, only savage voracity. In his arms, you finally feel like you belong to something, to someone. You are his. And for the first time, everything feels right.

In that moment, the world shrinks to just the two of you. Nothing else matters—neither the university, nor family, nor friends. Only him and you, immersed in a darkness only you two understand. The ring, the seal of possession, is the final bond tying you together—a reminder of the inevitable.

Silco looks at you, his eyes dark yet filled with a satisfaction you’ve never seen before. “Welcome home,” he says in his deep voice. And for some reason, in this moment, all you can do is nod, surrendering entirely to the shadow that surrounds you, to the darkness that calls you.

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dogsliampaynedoesntinstagram · 2 years ago

Note

Hey, could you share the article about choose love and I'd also love to hear what points stood out to you in relation to what you were talking about?

I was thinking of this article (although there are shorter discussions of the issue).

Choose Love was set up with a lot of celebrity support in 2015 in response to the refugee crisis in Europe, initially Calais was a huge focus. Choose Love doesn't do anything itself at either the fundraising end or the distribution end - it operates under 'Prism' the gift fund'' to collect money and gives that money to partner organisations. And the decision to operate in that way shapes everything it does

In 2021, Choose Love announced that it would no longer fund any of its partners in Calais. The long article makes very clear that this was because the choice to use Prism gave a lever for the government to put pressure them around the sort of support being given in Calais. Choose Love withdrew funds because some of the organisations were giving out 'safety at sea' leaflets - which provided basic safety for people who were trying to cross the channel. Because these partner organisations were giving out life-saving information they lost £1 million pounds. Choose Love had built its own brand on the idea of helping refugees in Calais - and then made it clear how conditional that love was.

***********

Before I get any angry anons who think this is all about 1D - all the big organisations (including Oxfam and the Red Cross) do terrible things exactly like this (and worse). An organisation that has become big in this world - has to successfully navigate the way our society structures money and resources.

The problem is finding an alternative. Because it may seem obvious that the alternative is to find a small local organisation and give it money. However, while most organisations can distribute twice what they normally do - most organisations cannot scale up quickly to receive 10x or 100x what they would normally receive. Virality can do huge amounts of harm to small organisations. If you already have links to, or just know about somewhere, you're likely to know how to donate resources useful in a time of crisis. But if you don't, and you're suddenly paying attention at the same time everyone else, then the chances of you finding an organisation that hasn't already gone viral are incredibly slim. If you have no contacts or context the choices basically are funding a large organisation and knowing that you are supporting some terrible things, and funding a small organisation and knowing that there's a reasonable chance they may not be able to spend your money - and trying to figure out how to do so may disrupt the work they are doing.

Ultimately - I think it's worth pushing back on the idea that you can put your money in the slot and get the better world that you want. Providing money and resources can be really, really important, but no guarantee - and unless you're prepared to waste your money, your ability to do anything useful will be severely hampered

#Anon about the phases #I think you misunderstood what I was saying #which is this #and applies to all phases #And I know there's no reason for you to know much about NZ #but coming to a NZers inbox #to explain the different phases of the aftermath of the earthquake #is going to get wry amusement at best

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just-some-random-blogger · 9 hours ago

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I cannot tell you how absolutely excited I was to see your reblog 😩😩😩😭😭😭🫶🫶🫶💓💓💓 I woke up to it and got heart palpitations

First off, omg Desi wedding? You're Desi? What a slay that must have been so much fun!!! I hear they are very elaborate and BIG so I can only imagine why it took so much for your time 🫶🫶🫶 super happy you still spare some for me 🥺👉👈

Okay, can I just start off by saying 🥺🥺🥺😩😩 I've missed your reblogs. I love it when people requote my stuff back. I LOVE to see what they think of my work. When I write, there are lines where I'm like yeah the girlies are gonna eat this shit up, but then again there are also lines where I'm like pls pls pls let people understand what I'm trying to put down.

You seem to always catch SOOOO MUCH of what I'm tryna put down and it makes me so so so happy fr fr that I can count on 🫵 you 🫵 to get me even if no one else does.

Of course perhaps more people understand me but you're the only one who ever says so and I appreciate it so much 🫶🫶

Daemon being twice as unnormal because he is lovesick be like 🫨 I think I had an ask about Rhaenyra and YN regarding this fic so them having a relationship might be something I might look into

Girl bye, daemons disregard for rhaenyra is making me feel good about the man whore that is daemon 😋😋

THIS HAS ME GAGGED AHHAHA

Something about how daemons intentions have perhaps always been misunderstood growing up and he's always been labeled as cruel/heartless so he stopped explaining himself. He had to bury that soft exterior and only knows how to give commands and now he's subconsciously commanding his wife to stop praying for her death. But she won't get to know it because it would seem like a weakness.

AND THIS ☝️☝️☝️☝️☝️😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😩😩😩😩

IM PASSING MY DRAFTS TO YOU, YOU CAN CONTINUE WRITING THE STORY. IM NOT EVEN JOKING THIS CHANGED MY BRAINS CHEMISTRY. IM NOT JOKING IM NOT IT REALLY GOT ME GAGGED

Him fighting different versions of himself as well is SOOO GOOD. Stunning observation. Beautifully said. I would have just called him emotionally constipated. To be fair, YN is too, though at least she tries not to be. It's hard to get out of it when everyone is fucking sick in the head

No, stop. I will never get over how she instinctively reached for her father. And how Otto reacts to it like it's muscle memory (it is). Because Otto is her father, she has been raised being loved, protected and shielded by him. And Otto has spent her whole life doing exactly that.

10/10 no notes. Otto and his twisted form of love cos he's greedy and ambitious as you have CORRECTLY OBSERVED FROM HOW HE IS USING ALICENT.

Also you wanting daemon to hear rumors of yn's death is cRAZYYYYYY I LOVE IT YOU KNOW WHAT IMMA DO IT. DAMN GIRL I KNEW I WANTED TO WAIT FOR YOUR REBLOG BEFORE UPDATING 😩😩😩 that would have been so gooooodd if I managed to add it ughhh. Dw dw I am an artiste I can make do. Also with him overhearing her fear UGHHHH YOUR MINDDDDDDDDD

I CANT WAIT TO SEE WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAY ABOUT THE NECT CHAPTERS MY LOVE IM SO EXCITED YOU HAVE NO IDEA

Tormented Spirit | 9

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 4k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, DD:DNE, panic/anxiety attacks, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: GUYS ITS STILL TOO FUCKING LONG I HAD TO CUT IT AGAIN. T_T canon stuff/medieval health care might not be accurate so ROLLLL with it ok. please consider leaving comments/reblogs because they really help me with the fic. | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat @prettybiching @myllovellybones

Daemon takes you to the dining room, and upon entering, you are met with Rhaenyra and Alicent, who were in the middle of eating lunch. For a split second, you are happy to see them both, but then you remember the horrible news regarding the princess's mother.

Daemon is taken off-guard by how you pull away from him. He knits his brows, following after you as you head towards his niece, deeply annoyed by how easily you disregard him. But upon hearing the words you speak, he freezes.

"My deepest condolences, my princess," you curtsy at Rhaenyra before placing a hand on her shoulder.

She is dejected and her eyes are sullen as she turns to you.

"She was in active labor last I saw her..." you shake your head, finding the words to say, "it is terrible to be without a mother," you turn to your sister, placing a hand on her shoulder as well, "the pain never quite leaves you. My sister and I know it well."

Rhaenyra turns back to her food, "how good to know."

You frown and crouch down beside her, "darling."

Rhaenyra slowly turns back to you, tears now falling from her eyes.

"Pain is difficult... but I've come to realize," you swipe her cheek, "it makes peace all the more precious." You chuckle under your breath when your own eyes begin to water, "I would know."

Alicent frowns, quickly feeling her own eyes well up at the display.

The same happens to Daemon. He watches three girls weep and his face hardens as he comes to Rhaenyra's side, "bisa tolī kessa rēbagon, ñuha riña." This too shall pass, my girl.

Rhaenyra turns to her uncle as he grabs her hand, heavy tears stream down her face, "ziry ōdragon." It hurts.

Daemon is supposed to say something, but then he notices Alicent begin to fuss over you. You softly brush her off as you come to stand. Alicent is quick to stand with you, and she is glad to have done so, because you nearly topple back.

Rhaenyra's hand is quickly dropped when Daemon comes to your side, calling out your name. You sheepishly turn to him, apologizing over and back as he escorts you to a seat.

Rhaenyra stares at you as her uncle sits you in the chair across her She watches how Daemon treats you, thinking she's never seen him treat anyone like this before, much less a lady. It makes her sorrow all the more sour.

He brushes your back but only calms after your food is served and he's seen you eat a few bites. He takes a goblet of wine but his eyes remain fixed on you, "better?"

You turn to him, sheepish, still, "I am. Thank you, darling."

Alicent's eyes widen at the sound of the pet name. Rhaenyra rolls her eyes with a huff. It is precisely that sound that makes you realize what you've said. You were used to referring to Alicent and Rhaenyra that, it came so naturally this moment, "I- I mean-"

"Where is your father?" Daemon turns to Rhaenyra, seemingly not noticing your slip up. He did notice, but why wouldn't you call him darling?

Rhaenyra clenches her jaw as she shakes her head, "mourning his lost heir."

Both you and your husband's face fall. You turn from the princess to the prince, reaching for his hand. Daemon clutches your hand as his brows constrict, "your brother is dead?"

"Just last night," Rhaenyra absentmindedly stirs her food, "his and my mother's funereal will be held in a few hours."

Your heart hurts for her, "my deepest sympathies for your losses, princess."

There is a thick silence for a moment. You all find it quite hard to eat, but you do so regardless. You force feed yourself through the unpleasant churn in your belly. After a while, you look across the room, finding that it looked everyone was experiencing the same thing. You break the silence, turning to your sister, "perhaps Alicent can accompany you to the temple to pray. It did always help me."

Alicent turns to Rhaenyra, but she does not react.

Your sister looks back at you and you give her a nod of encouragment. Alicent thinks for a moment, "a walk there would be good for you as well."

You smile at the red haired girl.

"My prayers are terrible," Rhaenyra mumbles.

You huff and frown at the thought, "it is impossible. No prayer is terrible, especially not one spoken in earnest."

Rhaenyra remembers how her septa would use you as an example for praying. She sniffles, "would you join us, aunt?"

You perk and immediately nod, "I would love t-"

"No," Daemon quips, placing his silverware down, "I do not want to be subjected to tolling bells and incense."

You all turn to him as Daemon turns to you. You slowly shake your head, "if... that is the case, you do not have to come."

Daemon's eyes widen ever so slightly in offense.

"Perhaps you can wa-"

"Kesan daor mītepagon ao ñuha ābrazȳrys," I will not lend you my wife, says Daemon to Rhaenyra.

You turn from your husband to his niece. Rhaenyra looks back at you, "he says he will not lend you to me."

Your lips part, giving him a look, "Daemon."

"She has your sister," he turns to you, "if they need another companion, lend her your ward."

A long silence passes.

Rhaenyra stares at her half-empty plate and decides that's as much as she'll ever get to eat in this moment. She pushes her chair back and stands, "I'm quite finished," she looks between the table. Alicent takes a final spoonful before standing as well.

"Raqagon aōha ābrazȳrys, kepa," enjoy your wife, uncle, Rhaenyra says as she walks off. Alicent follows after her, and both girls look at you as you stand to greet them goodbye. Daemon simply looks at his niece.

Rhaenyra, though she always harbored a special affection towards her uncle, could not find it in her to project her ire out on you, for you were nothing but kind to her, and after all, you were her closest friend's older sister. She nods at you as she leaves, "princess."

"Princess," you nod back and do the same for Alicent, "sister. Take care of each other."

Once they are gone, you sit back down and glare at Daemon.

It takes a moment for him to realize it. When he catches your look, his brows contort. You immediately quip, "would it very hard for you to stomach the ambience of the temple for an hour?"

Daemon turns back to his plate. He thinks of the night he came to you at the temple, "just because I came for you does not mean I wish to do the same for Rhaenyra."

You knit your brows deeply, not having a clue on what he's saying, "what?"

The image of sorrowful wailing still haunts him, and your prayer for death is not something he wishes to hear ever again. You cannot pray such prayers if you are not in that fucking place, "I forbid you from going to the temple."

"You forbid me?" you ask, flabbergasted.

"It is my prerogative where I go, and-" he turns back to you, "where my wife does."

You stare at him for a moment. You feel frustration bubble in your belly, "Daemon."

Anger bubbles in his belly.

You reach for his hand and gaze upon him in confusion, "the child's mother is dead."

He looks at your hand before his away, "I knew her mother longer than she has."

You chuckle in disbelief, pulling your head back. He looks at you, jaw set and eyes glassy. You shake your head slowly, "that's not fair."

"Isn't it?" Daemon laughs, hurt by your sentiment.

"Her mother is dead," you shake your head rapidly, "she who taught her everything she kno-"

Daemon stands abruptly, jaw and fists clenched tightly, making you flinch. He stares at you for a long moment and you feel your breath begin to grow heavy. You slowly reach for his hand, half expecting him to rip his arm away. When he does not, you come to a stand, "Dae-"

"You impress me with your commitment to understand everyone else but I."

His words stab you like a spear through the chest. Your eyes begin to water, "is that what you think I'm do-"

"Then what?!" he snaps, tears threatening to fall down his cheeks.

You begin to sob and you take his cheeks, "I'm trying to make you understand what I am thinking, why I want to go with Rhaenyra, because I know what it fee-"

"Do I not mourn?" Daemon swats your hand away from him. He quickly turns away when his tears begin to fall. He does not get to notice how you twitch at his action, nor how instantly your heart begins to race.

He walks off to the door, stopping for a moment, waiting for you to come after him. You do not.

More accurately, you cannot. You clutch your chest and try to calm yourself before you slip into a full blown attack. You force yourself to take five deep breaths, and thankfully, you do not feel light headed.

Daemon, too wrapped up in his self-suffering, does not even think to look at you and storms out of the dining room.

By the time the doors slam shut, you are able to bring yourself to go after your husband. You move as quickly as you can, convincing yourself sprinting was worth it if you managed to catch up to Daemon. The thing was, you were still a terrible runner, and it if wasn't hard enough to catch your breath, you were screaming out the prince's name as you did, making it doubly hard.

Daemon, on the other hand, did not have to try to walk as fast as he did. He is walking so fast, if anyone were to crash into him, they would shoot off and hurt themselves.

It doesn't take long for you to lose your breath, and though you didn't want to, your body to forces you to stop. You were so close. You managed to catch a whiff of Daemon's silver hair, but now everything was turning silver... then black. You reach to the side to lean against the wall, but you miscalculate your reach and shift your weight, only to slip and crash roughly onto the ground.

You're so out of breath, no sound comes out of you when you crash. The pain is immense, yet you are rendered mute. Your ribs throb at the impact of colliding against the stone floor. You do not know it, but your nose it bleeding too.

It's a wonder that you did not pass out. Or perhaps it was the gods' will for you to feel fibre of your body strangle itself from how your lungs struggled, as punishment for being unkind to your husband.

You do know know it, but two Gold Cloaks find you on the floor. They are quick to bring you to the maester's ward. You hear them explain to the measter how they found you, and you muster up your remaining energy to say, "Daemon... please."

The two Gold Cloaks understand and leave with the intent of sending your husband to you. They will not manage to find him till much later for he went off on dragonback.

You lie on one of the cots in the maester's ward, staring at the ceiling you've come to know all too well. You know your maester can do little to help you in this moment, but you are grateful for his care nonetheless.

"You mustn't strain yourself in your condition, your grace," the old man says, "you are carrying a child within you."

You tense at his words. Your sit up and straighten your back, rapidly shaking your head, "b-but, maester, how can that be? It cannot be."

He offers you a solemn look, "your father, Lord Hand, has made us monitor you-"

"He does not finish inside me," you quip and frantically motion, "he- he... he spills on my skin. How then can I be with child?"

The maester is taken aback by your confession. He does not give himself away though and calmly explains, "it is still possible for... the seed take root from premature ejaculation."

You are floored by this information. You shake your head in disagreement, "but— he will not believe me."

"He does not have to. It does not ch-"

"He will do everything to villainize me. He will accuse me of infidelity."

He frowns, "I can explain it to-"

"No!" you grab his arms, "you must not tell him! You must not tell a soul."

He pulls his head back, "your grace..." he brings your hands slowly off him, "you can only hide such a thing for so long."

You shake your head and bring yourself to stand, "it is a worry for another time."

"Wait- you cannot leave-"

"I cannot miss the queen's funeral."

The maester does his best to prevent you from leaving. He calmly tries to lead you back to bed and explain that no one would fault you for being unable to attend. You are persistent however and managed to get out of the room. Two other maesters come and try to reel you back in, and it is the same time your wards come running in.

News of you fainting had spread like wildfire, and both their faces were marked with avid worry. "Princess!" they call in unison.

"Make them release me!" you wail in exhaustion as you fight off the maesters.

"She cannot go," your maester says, "she is far too weak."

"Unhand her this instant!" Erryk barks, ready to forcefully shove the old men away from you.

The maesters pull away in shock and confusion as Erryk imposes upon them. Arryk is the one to keep you upright, and he is horrified by the state you are in. You lean into his armour, lulled by his hard steel as you sigh in exhaustion.

"You would subdue her in such a state?" Arryk snaps.

"She is hysterical," the maester says, "she is not strong enough to-"

"Aye, but she's strong enough to fight off 3 grown men?" Arryk grits his teeth as he keeps you upright, "have you not given her medication?"

He sighs, "there is no medication fo-"

"Then what business has she here?" Erryk raises his brows, "you'd keep her to rot?"

The man scoffs, "I am offended, ser, that you think you know better than I when it comes to the health of the princes."

"I do know better," Erryk snaps, "you will not treat her like a prisoner if she asks to leave again."

"Ha!" the maester snaps, "fine! I'm sure the days you've spent gutting men has made you learned in the ways to heal them, ser."

With that, the maesters leave and you feel a weight lifted off your shoulders. You sigh as Erryk turns to you, seeing the hardness of his face soften in real time. You frown, "you should not have done that."

"My duty?" he narrows his eyes, "they had you surrounded like a criminal."

Arryk nods, "I fear they might have bruised you."

You sigh, fighting back tears. You steel yourself away and shake your head, "I should prepare for the funeral."

You do just that and Erryk and Arryk escort you to the funeral. You immediately spot Daemon, but he was stood beside his brother and niece, so you did not think it proper to interlope. You find Alicent standing just a few paces from Rhaenyra and debate to join her, but then you see the Lord Hand farther behind her, and you feel the need to cry.

"Papa," you mumble to yourself as you go to him.

Your father is quick to recognize your distress once you come to him, and quickly takes you under his arm. It is so instinctive, the Cargyll twins are shocked by it. They were supposed to keep close watch on you, but they decided to give you and your father privacy.

Otto had long decided physical affections were no use to you, and yet in this moment, he pulls you into him, securing one arm your shoulders. You press your cheek into his chest as you steal a glance at the king. Viserys stands before two lifeless bodies, and the sight mirrored that of the day your mother died.

You wrap your arms around your father.

He sighs, eyes throwing daggers at the Rogue fucking prince, "did he take the news badly?"

You shake your head, "I have not told him."

Otto sighs again, agitated and disappointed. His face is crestfallen as calls out your name, "what happened then?"

"I am terrified."

Your father tenses and clenches his jaw. He strokes your hair, doing his best to ignore the awful sounds you were making. "The gods with strengthen you, daughter." he turns to Alicent, "I will take care of it, my girl."

After the funeral, once Otto made sure you are taken care off, he goes to his other daughter and asks about the princess. Alicent is quick to explain to him that Rhaenyra is so much like you when your mother died, "I have not seen Rhaenyra in such a state."

Otto offers Alicent a soft smile, placing a hand on her cheek, "you are ever empathetic, daughter, to both the princess and your sister."

"Sister did not look well at the funeral either. I should check up on her."

"That won't be necessary," her father raises a hand, "I've seen to her already. She needs only to rest now."

Alicent slowly nods.

"You ought to offer some empathy to the king however."

The girl tenses at the thought.

"Unlike your princesses, the king does not have people to go to at this time. Even now, he's secluded himself in his chambers. It would be good of you to go to him from time to time, if only to express how you keep him in your prayers."

Alicent tries to make sense of it. She clenches her jaw, "wouldn't it be more appropriate for you to do this, father?"

He chuckles lowly, "how much sadder would he be if a widower offer another widower his bitter prayers?"

She stills at the thought and understands. Or so she thinks.

Otto smiles and places a hand on her shoulder, "it might be best if you keep private your visits to him. You need not explain your concern to Rhaenyra to further distress her."

She nods in understanding. In truth, she does not understand the true intentions of her father, and will not until it is far too late.

As this was happening, you were trying to get ahold of Daemon. You could not for he was quick to leave the funeral right after it concluded. He had seen you crying to your father and wanted to wash his eyes with alcohol, unwanting to behold such a gruesome sight. It stung far too much that you sought comfort in that cunt face. Why didn't you cry to him instead?

Daemon washes alcohol down his throat instead with members of his City Watch at his favorite brothel. Mysaria is there to keep him company and though her touch and words are gentle, he cannot find solace in them like he once did.

The two guards who had found you on the floor earlier today hear about the gathering and go to the prince to tell him what had happened to you.

"Your grace."

Daemon sulks as he stares at a cup of wine. Mysaria, who was stood behind his chair, looks at the men then to the silver haired man, "my prince. These men want to speak to you."

"Wha-what for?" he snaps through a hiccup.

"Your wife, my prince," one says.

Mysaria stiffens, lips parting. She was not a stranger to Daemon's foul moods and prided herself in easily defusing them. It changed when he married the Hightower girl. Though it was evident most of his frustrations stemmed from you, you were too much of a touchy subject, which is why she says, "I do not think he wants to talk about her."

"A whore should not meddle with concerns she cannot understand."

Mysaria scoffs, thinking about how Daemon fucked her once and called out his bride's name. When she brought it up after, he screamed, telling her he doesn't pay her to ask questions. She steps back and crosses her arms, "be my guest then."

One of the two guards lean forward in an attempt to gain the attention of the distracted man, "prince Daemon. We wished to report something regarding your wife."

Daemon ticks. He had been gazing into space, but now he has the wits to pours himself a drink, "is she dead now too?"

The two are taken aback. Mysaria steps back a few paces.

"N-no, your grace. But she-"

"Then do not FUCKING mention her to me!" Daemon snaps, jolting from his seat. His scream was loud enough to cause the noise to cease. He grabs his cup and downs his drink in one go. He then pushes past the two guards and begins to monologue.

"The gods give as the gods take," he says, voice horse and eyes misty. "Try as they may, I am not so easily replaced."

The room is solemn as they look upon the prince. He is clearly distraught and wholly drunk.

He stares at his cup, "wine does not taste sweeter with tears. Tonight, we drink to the Heir For A Day..." he burps, "perhaps he would have liked wine."

Back in the keep, as Alicent leaves her father's quarters, you go to them, which is why you cross paths. She is concerned by how you lean into ser Cargyll's arm as you walk, and immediately comes to your side, "sister?"

"Alicent," you smile, immediately perking up.

"Lady Hightower," the knight greets her.

"It's ser Erryk," you playfully whisper with a smile.

Alicent turns to you and offershim as soft smile, "ser Erryk."

"You spoke to father, surely," you take her hand, making her look back at you, "is his mood grim?"

She shakes her head, "no. He is... relatively placid, I think."

"Good," you break away from Erryk. He assures you are firmly planted on your feet before releasing you, "I can talk to him then."

"Shouldn't you rather be resting?" she asks in concern.

"It is urgent. I-" you shake your head, "I cannot delay any further."

Alicent realizes then that your hair was fully undone and slightly messy now. You were also in your thick velvet robe, and it only causes her further concern. "I know I am not Gwayne, but if there is anything you wish to speak of," she squeezes your hands, "I am hear to lend an ear."

Your lips wobble, but you steel yourself away. You crush your sister into your arms and pepper her cheeks with kisses, "my sweet girl. I am five years your senior. I must lend you my ear." You pull away and cup her cheeks. You frown when you see her glassy eyes, "do not worry for me."

She chuckles rather sadly, "we help but worry always for those we love."

Erryk heart pinches at the solemn exchange of the two sisters. He is glad to know that at least one more person in your family loved you with gentleness. He makes mental note to encourage you to write to your brother.

When Alicent leaves, you take a breath before knocking on the Hand's door.

"Enter."

You walk in and find your father busy at his desk.

"Father."

Otto looks up at you, immediately coming to stand, "what's wrong?"

You close the door behind him, catching Erryk's encouraging gaze. He nods before you shut the door. You turn to you father, finding he was already walking towards you.

He takes your hand, inspecting you. He speaks your name carefully, and it softens your frigid demeanor, "what has happened?"

You smile sadly, "I cannot sleep."

He sighs, partially relieved it is nothing so severe. He walks towards the door, "I will have one of the maids send you warm milk and honey."

"There is something I must tell you," you say, making him stop.

He turns back you, antsy over your serious tone, "if it is regarding Daemon. Do not worry. I have designs to keep him on a leash."

You release his hand and turn to your feet.

His expression hardens. He knows whatever you have to say is grave because you can no longer look at him. He steps forward and takes your cheeks, "daughter."

You look up at him, face stained with tears.

"Go to bed," he wipes your cheeks, "you'll muster the nerve to tell your husband the news soon en-"

"He does not finish inside me, father."

"..."

"I've-" you choke on your breath, "I've spoken about it to the maesters and he's explained it is possible for the seed to take root from premature ejaculation but-"

"Have you strayed?" Otto tightens his hold a fraction.

You are aghast by his statement and rapidly shake your head, "father, I wou-"

"Then there is nothing to fear," he cuts you off, brows tensing, "your child will be born with silver hair and violet eyes, and-"

"Only I inherited your hair color," you mumble, beginning to tremble, "if my child looks too much like me—" you rapidly shake your head, "he will-"

"Enough," he snaps, shaking you slightly.

You chest begins to tighten.

Otto notices and brushes your hair out of your face. He recites the common prayer you used to pray with your mother, "Seven, hear me. Father, strengthen me. Mother, protect me. Warrior, d—"

"Defend me," you sigh, joining in, "Smith, mend me."

"Mend my daughter," Otto mumbles softly.

"Maiden, beautify me," you say together, "Crone, enlighten me. Stranger, guide me."

Otto nods and strokes your hair, "now breathe."

It takes a few deep breaths, but you are calm now. He leads you to the door and opens it. "Oh, good," he says, once spotting your ward, "you're not entirely useless."

Erryk walks over to you, ignoring your father completely as he takes you by the arm.

"Take her to bed and have some warm milk and honey served to her."

"Yes, my lord," he says, though not sparing the lord a glance.

You, however, do, looking back with a soft smile, "good night, father."

He is about to reply, but then comes a servant boy, holding a plate of crackers and cheese, who freezes at the sight of the crowded entry. He thinks he's made a mistake, so he turns to leave, but Otto raises a hand and beckons the boy over, "come."

The boy walks past you, mumble a soft, "milady."

You smile and nod, "good evening."

Erryk eyes him suspiciously as he enters the room but refocuses on walking you back.

Otto closes the door and the boy places the crackers on the table. The man circles 'round to his desk and sits down, "what news do you bring me today?"

"Prince Daemon at the brothel, milord," the boy says, rolling back and forth on his heels.

The Lord Hand's face twists in contempt. He pulls his desk open and procures a cold coin.

The boy gleefully takes it and begins to explain the events that take place.

#prettybiching cutie #tormented sprit #prettybiching my soulmate

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