#It's draining now but dear lorde

[grimandghoulish]

.

[coolishcorvidcryptid]

Maybe this time i will learn to tag things

[illyrianbitch]

Of Our Own Devices — Part Five

For @erisweekofficial Day 5: War

Pairing: Reader x Eris

Summary: Since the moment he first tasted hatred, Eris Vanserra has harbored one relentless goal: to rid the world of his father. Now, the time has come to wage the war he's been preparing for his entire life—the war against his own blood.

Warnings: well... death, violence, cruelty, injury, mentions of animal abuse, animal death, mentions of child/spouse abuse. basically, we go into eris's mind as he kills beron.

Word Count: 5.1k

authors note: i'm not a huge fan of long fight scenes, so here is my spin on one. i thought it was important to show that wars are not only won on battlefields. this might be one of my most favorite writings.

Part Four | Part Six

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Eris knew that war wasn’t just physical; it was mental, political, emotional. He was a curious child, indeed. A collector. He'd collected secrets, absorbed the hatred and indifference around him like an animal adapting to its environment.

It taught him every skill he held dear. 

Eris was skilled in combat, of course. He'd trained himself to be. He fantasized about killing his father with his own hands, dreamt of watching the life leave him, longed for the feeling of his father's power draining into his own veins. But he knew this war would, inevitably, be won another way.

He understood that true victory was achieved through subtler means. That with the right words, with the right plan, you could convince a foe to destroy himself before you ever laid a hand on him. 

Eris scanned the room, his gaze sweeping across his men. They were scattered, blending seamlessly among the guests, but each one met his eyes the moment they felt his attention. Subtle nods. A flicker of recognition in their eyes. They were ready—every one of them, waiting for his signal, prepared to do whatever was necessary. 

Without needing to turn his head, Eris could feel the weight of Rhysand’s gaze on him, the High Lord's presence nearly tangible, a suffocating pressure that seemed to reverberate in his mind. As much as Eris hated to acknowledge it, to feed into his inflated ego, Rhysand's power pulsed like an unseen echo.  His father feared it for good reason, hid his fear through disdain, through disgust.

 Eris had seen Tarquin in another far corner. He’d managed to sway the young High Lord, convincing him that his rule was inevitable, promising that he could prove himself where his Father had faltered. He'd seen something in Eris's eyes. And somehow, it had worked.

Spring was absent, as expected. Tamlin had yet to appear in any event, had yet to return to his proper existence. Eris knew he should feel some semblance of empathy, that he should feel for a fellow male wronged by the cards dealt, a male who made errors under the presumption of the greater good. But he didn't.

 Winter was also absent—Vivianne had blocked any chance of their participation, had convinced Kallias to flee in haste and not spare a moment for the princeling. Eris had anticipated this, of course, had known that Mor’s influence would weaken his alliances in certain courts.

He had worked with Helion, though it had taken time and effort to even secure a meeting. Eris attributed Helion’s openness to Rhysand’s ability to balance his hatred for Eris with his vision of a stronger, united Prythian. Even he was shrewd enough to recognize that. 

Now, Helion stood poised and ready, a few feet from Rhysand, his eyes scanning the crowd as if he were searching for something specific, seeking for something he had yet to find. Dawn was unable to attend, but Thesan seemed more open to Eris's words, seemed willing to hear him out despite his presentation the last time he was in his court, his words during the High Lord meeting. 

It was enough.  

Because Eris wasn't relying solely on them.

His alliances were tools for strength and backup, sources of power he lacked himself—like the ability to cloud the minds of those who might intervene.  But other than that, Eris believed in his own abilities, believed in his rage even more.

The moment he had been preparing for his entire life had finally arrived. Every piece was moving exactly where he needed them to be.

Except for you.

Eris’s jaw tightened as his gaze fell on you once more. You hadn’t moved since the dance, your eyes still locked on him. He should have known better. 

His heart pounded harder in his chest. 

He almost growled in frustration, willing you to leave. Begging you, silently, to turn away, to walk out of the room before things spiraled further. But you didn’t move. You stood there, defiant as ever, and he knew in his bones that you wouldn’t leave him—not tonight, not ever, maybe. It was a comfort and a curse all at once, and he hated himself for expecting you to be anything but exactly what you always were: stubborn, unshakable, and entirely unwilling to leave him at surface level.

Eris thought he would've convinced you to leave, that you would've left the ball and never looked back.

He wanted you to give up on him. 

Well, perhaps wanted wasn't the right word. He needed you to give up on him. But the conversation of tonight had steered a different way, he'd felt a tug in chest, a longing to say something to you that you would hold onto. He wanted to make things right if this night didn't go as he had planned. Just in case. 

His hands clenched into fists, anger simmering under his skin. It wasn’t directed at you—no, it was at himself. For dragging you into this, for wanting you there even now when he should have been protecting you, not keeping you in the line of fire. His thoughts raced, but before he could find a way to fix this—to get you out of here—Beron's voice cut through the room.

“Thank you all for joining us this evening.” Beron’s voice carried a chilling glee as he addressed the assembly, his dull, dead gaze sweeping across the gathered guests. “Your presence here is both an honor and a testament to our shared interests.” 

Eris resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

His father stepped down from his throne, his movements slower than usual, though not without their characteristic arrogance. With a subtle struggle masked by his usual flair, Beron flicked his wrist, summoning long banquet tables in a grand, sweeping motion.

Eris knew what to expect—the feast was an integral part of the Autumn Equinox ball, a hallmark of Beron’s gatherings and a grotesque display of excess. It wasn’t just about wealth; it was Beron’s way of reminding everyone of his power. The elaborate food and endless wine were symbols of his dominance, meant to impress, to intimidate. Everything served had its own twisted meaning, every bite meant to feed not only the stomachs of his guests but Beron’s insatiable ego.

“Let this night be remembered,” Beron said, a thin smile creeping over his lips, “For it is not just a feast, but a celebration—a dedication.”

His eyes finally settled on Eris. “To my eldest son, my heir," He drawled, his voice mocking. “So powerful, isn’t he? Could stand here—just like me.”

The room fell into a hushed confusion. From the corner of his eye, Eris noticed Rhysand and Feyre exchange a subtle glance. Then he took notice of the slightest of movements from his men and Beron’s guards alike, their hands inching towards the hilts of their swords. 

“Why don’t you step forward? Take a seat." Beron’s grin sharpened as he gestured toward the throne looming behind him. "Tell me, is it warm enough for you?”

Eris didn't move. There was something in his father's eyes that unnerved him more than usual, something that prickled at his skin. Eris wanted to turn and look at you, wanted to find some feeling of comfort. He resisted the urge, resisted as he had for centuries. 

Even Eris’s brothers seemed to sense the sinister glint in Beron’s eyes, stepping aside from their usual positions, retreating from his throne and his shadow. Their movements were hesitant, almost apologetic, but they did not challenge Beron or attempt to shield Eris. Instead, they distanced themselves, as they often did.

Eris felt a sharp pang of betrayal. It was expected, of course, but it hurt him still. He had loved them, raised them, spent countless hours teaching them how to hold a sword, how to pet a hound— shared with them the fragments of compassion he had left. 

If Beron chose to make a move against him now, if he decided to execute him as he had done to others, as he had done to Lucien’s first love, Eris knew his brothers would not intervene. They would not rise to his defense. They would, instead, hold him down, their faces betraying no sign of conflict or hesitation. The years of affection and teaching he had given them would simply vanish, be replaced by a cold compliance that made them unrecognizable.

Eris didn’t loathe them for their cruelty. He understood their desire for acceptance, their need to survive in the oppressive shadow of their father. They weren’t as strong as he was—that was a fact Eris had long since accepted. But he did harbor a certain resentment, a bitterness reserved for those who shared his blood, for their spinelessness. It was a raw, bitter hatred born of disappointment, for they had succumbed to the very weakness he had fought to overcome.

Yet, deep down, Eris knew that hatred was unfair.  They weren't as strong as he was. They had found safety, a semblance of life, in aligning themselves with Beron, in becoming mere extensions of his will. They were each equally awful, equally numb, void of the personality and warmth that once marked their youth.

His heart ached when he reflected on it too long, when he looked at the males before him and saw only shadows of their younger selves—reminders of who they might have been before Beron had shaped them into tools of his power.

Beron’s lips twisted. “Seems like you’re stuck. Not enough energy? Don’t have the appetite?” His voice took on a mocking softness. With a sudden cruel smile, he motioned for the feast to be revealed. “Perhaps you need something to satiate you.”

Eris felt his stomach twist, but it didn't show on his face, didn't show in his stature. He’d perfected it over the years, that calm, amused mask. Yet beneath it, something churned—something he couldn’t name.

And then the reveal came.

With a nod of Beron's head, attendants moved swiftly to unveil the centerpiece of the feast.

The array of food was lavish, an impressive display of excess. But as the cover was lifted, a collective gasp rippled through the room, followed by a collective step back. Eris’s hearing fuzzed, his breath catching in his throat as a wave of despair crashed over him.

There, displayed as if it were the grandest prize of the night, was one of his hounds. One of the first he had ever raised, ever loved. The animal stared back at him, its body bound, gagged with an apple.

Slain and displayed as a macabre trophy. 

The sight sent a shudder through the room, a sense of disgust even reaching the eyes of Beron's soldiers, of the males standing around the room. 

And clearly, like a piercing alarm in the dead of night, Eris could hear your voice—a sound of horror, of sadness—interwoven with his own, as if your emotions were etched into his own heartbeat. But now only anger consumed him. He saw red.

Beron wallowed in the shock, bathed in it like a pig in mud. 

“My dear son, so arrogant, so ready to take my place. I hear the chatter.” He gestured disdainfully toward the hound. “What a shame that your beloved playthings aren’t immune to the cost of defiance.”

Eris took a deep breath. 

“You’ve spent your entire life preparing for this," Beron walked over to two of his guards. They presented him with two ornate swords. “How satisfying it must be to finally face your grand plan.”

He turned and threw a sword at Eris’s feet, the blade skidding across the floor with a clatter.

“Pick it up,” Beron commanded. “If you’re so eager to prove yourself, then do it properly. Give your court a show.”

Eris’s gaze followed the sword. While Eris knew he didn't need to fight to win, he wasn't going to miss out on a bit of fun, wasn't going to resist his chance to decorate himself in his father's blood before his plan came to fruition. He felt eerily calm, felt strangely numb, as he bent down to retrieve the weapon, feeling its weight settle into his hand.

The first time Beron had struck Eris with true malice, he had been no older than sixteen. Instead of the usual heavy hand, Beron had chosen a different method of discipline that day. 

He had targeted something deeper—something soft.

Eris was still young at the time, but old enough to have developed a bond with his hounds, creatures he had raised and trained with care. Only one of his brothers had been born at this time, too young to understand his affection for the animals, but Eris—Eris had always felt responsible, protective. He'd been the one to fight for them in the first place, had managed to summon the courage to convince his father they were useful, needed for the Court. 

It was a simple mistake during hunting, on a trip Beron had granted them all to take. Eris had let the hounds range too far ahead, and when one of them startled a stag too soon, Beron saw red. Instead of turning his fury on Eris immediately, he called for the hound.

Eris’s stomach had dropped when he saw his father’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenching in that way that signaled violence was coming. But it wasn’t for Eris—yet.

Without hesitation, Beron grabbed the dog by the scruff and brought his hand down with a sickening crack across the hound’s side. The sound of bone snapping and the sharp yelp that followed was enough to freeze Eris in place, horror clawing at his chest.

“Your mistake,” Beron had snarled, glancing at Eris as the hound crumpled to the ground, whimpering. “It’s only fair it pays the price.”

Eris had wanted to run to the animal, to shield it, to beg his father to stop, but Beron’s gaze had pinned him in place. The message was clear: any sign of weakness would only make things worse.

“That’s the thing about care,” Beron continued, voice calm, detached. “It makes you vulnerable. Weak. Never let them see.”

Eris's weakness wasn’t something entirely physical—it was the things he loved, the things he couldn’t afford to lose. He was sixteen and wanted to be great. He was sixteen and loved his family. But he knew, then and there, that Beron would never hesitate to use those things against him.

So Eris learned to mask it all, to bury the things he cared for deep beneath a layer of cold indifference. He learned to find the weaknesses in others and use them before they could be turned against him.

Find the thing that makes them vulnerable, Eris collected, and exploit it until they're weak. 

Beron’s vices had been his easiest prey— his pride, his paranoia. 

Beron was already acting out of fear, already on edge. He was quick to draw his sword, quick to make rash decisions. Who could blame him, Eris thought, after he’d come across those letters? He could still feel the seething anger, remember the way Beron’s face had twisted as he read those messages from his high-ranking officials, his allies.

They spoke of Beron’s incompetence, of their desire to betray him. It was so convenient how Eris’s brothers had intercepted those letters, so strangely timed that they ended up exactly where Beron would find them on that fateful night.

Beron had been so angry, so furious, that he hadn’t realized the writing in the letters carried Eris’s careful hand. The curve of the a’s, the dotting of the i’s. Eris hadn’t even fully attempted to hide it. It was a fun little game.

The first strike came fast, Beron’s sword flashing in the dim light as it clashed with Eris’s blade. The impact rattled up Eris’s arm, but he held steady, his face betraying nothing. His father advanced again, faster, more aggressive, but Eris met him blow for blow.

“You think you can stand against me?” Beron spat, swinging again. His strikes were wild, reckless, fueled by a rage that had long since burned out of control. “You think you can take what’s mine?”

Eris sidestepped the blow. “I think you’ve already lost it,” he said, parrying another strike. The blade sliced through a thin layer of skin on his father's arm, the fine fabric soaking up a pool of crimson. Beron’s lips curled in a snarl. The blows were becoming harder, less controlled. 

“Ungrateful whelp,” he hissed, “After everything I’ve given you, everything I’ve done.”

“Done to me,” Eris corrected, as his blade deflected another attack. The steel met his father's skin once more. 

He could feel the fury rising, could see the cracks forming in Beron’s controlled facade. Every swing was growing sloppier. Eris bit back a grin. 

Beron’s face twisted with rage, his teeth bared. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Playing your little games, whispering in the shadows.”

Eris didn’t flinch. His eyes locked on his father’s, unblinking, steady. “I learned from the best.”

As expected, Beron was desperate to prove his strength, his dominance. His face reddened, the veins in his neck bulging as he swung wildly. 

He kept his soldiers at bay, clearly wanting the court to witness him vanquish his son with his own hands, to send a powerful message. But as the fight wore on and Beron’s frustration mounted, Eris could see the flicker of temptation in his father’s eyes, the near impulse to call upon his troops.

Beron would be sorely surprised if he made the call. 

Eris briefly registered the movement of a few of his men, clad in his rich green colors, subtly inching closer to Beron’s soldiers. They didn’t advance to engage, no, but shared a knowing look with a few of the crimson-clad guards.

Before his brothers were born, Eris played often with his mother. She taught him countless games—strategy and thought alike. It was during those moments that Eris learned the most dangerous moves were the ones no one saw coming. He realized that the easiest games were often played with those unaware of the parts they were playing. At school, he could win every game if he hid just enough of the truth, allowing his tutors to think they knew the rules, when they didn’t know half of it.

Infiltration had been a long game. 

It had taken Eris years, centuries, to meticulously cultivate and train the right individuals. It was thanks to him, whether his father acknowledged it or not, that Beron's men were stronger than ever. His newest soldiers, only a couple hundred of years old, had risen swiftly in rank, filling positions of power precisely when Beron needed them most. They emerged just as Beron’s senior troops had fallen ill of a strange form of Autumn Fever. The healers had said it came with the weakened state of soldiers, that their bodies were too tired to fight off such potent infections. Their weakened state created an opportune void. 

The new recruits had seamlessly integrated, even believing themselves to be loyal supporters of Beron. Eris had been careful with them, had played the part of a helpful heir. They were eager for power, viewing their positions as a win-win—high-ranking regardless of whatever outcome. Eris had demonstrated his own worth, had shown his influence by granting them such positions. Without even trying, he'd earned their loyalty, ensured they had no reason to doubt him. 

They remained loyal to their benefactor. 

After all, everyone wanted to feel like they'd be on the winning side. 

The clashing of steel and the cries of combat filled the room. Eris felt the sting of a fresh wound on his side, a searing pain that only seemed to heighten his sense of power. He fought through the pain.

In the chaos, a fleeting thought crossed his mind—he hoped, with a fervent intensity, that you weren’t watching. That you had found a place to hide, tucked away safely from the brutality of the scene. The notion that you might be witnessing this carnage, seeing him in his raw, bloody glory, gnawed at him. 

He pushed the thoughts away. He couldn’t afford distractions now.

There was a time and a place for them. Because sometimes, distractions— disruptions— were useful. They could turn tides. 

The mercenaries were easy to hire. 

They didn't ask questions, didn't question the gold they were handed. Eris truly believed, deep in his core, that they found it fun, found enjoyment in creating chaos in the court's infrastructure. He was sure it was cathartic for them, therapeutic for these court outsiders to ruin the place they despised, to be paid to do so of all things. 

The acts, though not catastrophic, were enough to inconvenience Beron, to create issues in his supply lines. All of the small riots, the court disturbances—each one had begun to eat away at his composure, had begun to sow seeds of doubt. The constant irritation of these minor upheavals fueled his rage. It angered him to think that his lower-court members, the very people who had sworn loyalty to him, would dare to believe they could challenge his authority. In his mind, it was an affront to his pride. Beron was driven to prove himself repeatedly, to show that he was still the supreme ruler, to assert his dominance even more cruelly than before.

Eris moved with a grace that belied the savage intensity of the fight. If this fight, this moment with his father, were a symphony,  Eris was its masterful conductor. Precise, deadly. With a swift maneuver, he brought his blade to Beron’s neck, the tip dangerously close to ending the High Lord’s reign.

Beron’s eyes widened, a flicker of fear momentarily breaking through his usual composure.

As Eris had suspected, Beron's need to reassert control following the disturbances had led him to become increasingly harsh and unforgiving, to become the cruelest version of himself.  It wasn’t just the overt displays of cruelty; at times, even Beron’s own loyal men were visibly taken aback by the severity of his punishments. The once-feared High Lord now seemed to revel in his own brutality, meting out harsh reprisals for the smallest perceived slights. 

Citizens of the Autumn Court had begun to pray fervently for change.

Eris took note of their desperation. He began to frequent churches and visit temples more often, subtly goading the very prayers that begged for relief from Beron's tyranny. He felt a pang of guilt for the suffering inflicted on those innocent fae who bore the brunt of Beron’s cruelty. The weight of their pain was not lost on him. 

But their suffering was a necessary sacrifice for a greater cause. The freedom of all, the chance to redeem the Autumn Court from the grip of a tyrant, to restore his own tarnished name. 

Eris’s sword was struck from his hand with an almost too-easy motion, as if he had allowed it to happen, had planned for it. But Beron didn't notice, didn't think too much of the act as his grin widened. 

He examined the blade of his sword. Then, with a dismissive flick, he tossed the sword near where Eris’s lay, the clatter echoing through the chamber.

"My son," Beron sneered. "Let me show you how a real ruler fights."

He took a step forward. The crowd took a step back. And then, Beron threw a heavy punch at his son, the impact so forceful that Eris swore he heard a crack. As Eris staggered, Beron’s demeanor shifted, his mockery giving way to raw aggression. He moved in and began to deliver a relentless series of blows. 

There had been a point where Eris feared he might have undermined himself, might have jeopardized his plans. A moment where Beron confronted him, unevenly calm, about his meetings with Night Court trash. When he'd unleashed a fierce punishment in response to his alliance with Briallyn falling.

Beron had seen Eris for what he truly was: a significant threat. 

Beron was not stupid. 

But he was easily distracted, easily provoked. The more Beron’s attention was consumed by rage and suspicion, the less he could focus on the real threats closing in around him. Eris had shown submission, a form of fear, and his father's attention shifted to other alleged wrongdoings, other supposed acts of treachery.

Beron’s fists hammered into Eris with unrelenting force, each punch landing with a sickening thud. Eris’s world narrowed to the sharp pain with each strike. His father was monstrous now, uneased at how quickly his son seemed to fall. 

When Eris finally fell to his knees, he was barely conscious of the cold floor beneath him. His father's grip on his neck was ironclad, dragging him upright. He felt the trickle of his own blood mingling with the sweat on his face, the warm, metallic taste filling his mouth.

Through every blow, Eris's cheeked ached with the desire to smile. 

As a child, Eris had seen eager men tear each other apart in brutal brawls, rage consuming them entirely. He had watched with cold fascination as he stirred up hidden snakes beneath fallen leaves, prodding them into a vicious battle. He'd seen them strike and coil, each one consumed by its own fury.

He realized, even as a child, that the evil eat their own.

 All he needed to do was provoke them and step back.

Beron's supporters were as simple as he could be. Animals led by their desires, by their emotions. It had been endlessly entertaining to create disunity between them. Each faction, desperate to curry favor and secure their own power, began to betray one another. The resulting chaos caused Beron to question everyone’s loyalty, leaving him isolated and paranoid. The more they scrambled with conflicting stories and accusations, the more Beron became convinced that everyone was deceiving him. They all suffered. They all fought.

Beron’s eyes blazed with fury as he picked up his forgotten sword and pointed the blade at Eris. 

"Fight back!"

But his son did not. 

Eris had exploited Beron’s vices with a precision that only years of calculated cruelty could achieve. He was observant, had to become his father to know how to defeat him. And one thing about Beron: he indulged. He was gluttonous to his core, carelessly so. 

Beron’s high-ranking members had wanted to gift him something of luxury—something they’d only heard whispers about, whispers that they couldn’t trace but were plentiful. Interesting how that worked, Eris mused, how easily rumors could spread. But everyone wanted to get into the High Lord’s favor, so they pursued it, presented it to Beron. He accepted it with greedy, sin-sticky hands.

Beron hadn’t wanted the faebane antidote, never had enough contact with the poison to recognize it—didn’t know what it tasted like, how to test for it. It helped that, over the years, the crafters of Prythian had become inventive, altering and manipulating it, infusing it into drinks that were delectable, even addictive. The gradual degradation of Beron’s grasp on reality only made his anger more volatile. Eris wondered how his father hadn’t noticed his deteriorating health, why he never questioned why his strength seemed to ebb or why his flame flickered erratically when summoned.

But Eris also understood. Beron’s pride prevented him from admitting any weakness, from seeking help. He was desperate to maintain an image of invulnerability. What good was a High Lord who couldn't handle his liquor? 

What good was a High Lord who grew sick? 

None at all.

Eris took another kick and the slash with a stoic defiance.

“This is your chance, boy. Take it. Take it before I rid you of your pathetic life.”

Eris’s response was a grim chuckle, his laughter punctuated by a spray of blood. His chest ached with every breath, yet he couldn’t stop the dark humor from spilling out. 

"I already have."

When Eris was nineteen, a male his age was stung by a bee. It was a seemingly inconsequential event—just a small, buzzing creature that landed on the boy’s skin. Yet, within hours, he was dead. The sting had triggered an allergic reaction so severe that the male's immortal body couldn’t cope.

In the aftermath, as Eris watched the reactions of those around him, he learned a profound lesson. The deadliest threats often come in the most unassuming forms, in the things that are overlooked—vital to life, but neglected nonetheless. 

Beron lunged forward, blade aimed straight for Eris, for the heart he often forgot he had.  But just as the weapon descended, Eris’s gaze shifted to something behind his father. Despite the searing pain, despite the specks forming in his eyesight, a smile managed to curve Eris's lips. 

A wave of pride, of relief, washed over him as he watched his mother—sweet, neglected, and unassuming—strike true, slicing through Beron's back with a smooth, lethal precision.

The force of the strike caused Beron to stagger, his blade’s path shifting, falling and cutting deep into a lower area of Eris’s abdomen. With his slackened grip, the blade fell from his father's hold. Eris grimaced as its weight dragged it out of his flesh, as it went clattering to the floor beside him.

His vision was clouded with pain, but he remained transfixed as his mother moved with a fierce grace. Her hand, now wreathed in bright, licking flames, grasped Beron’s throat. With the other, she twisted the blade deeper into his father’s body, the fire searing his neck.

Eris’s ears rang, drowning out all but the relentless drum of his heartbeat. Despite the chaos, he could make out his mother’s voice, the words crisp in the oppressive silence.

“This is for my children.” 

There was a sputtering sound from Beron, sick and wet, as the blade was twisted deeper. Eris felt a burning sensation, pain so overwhelming it took his breath, his vision blurring as the agony consumed him. It was beautiful and excruciating all at once.

He had never felt so alive, so broken at the same time. 

Beron’s body crumpled beside him with a lifeless thud. Eris blinked through the haze.

Around him, chaos erupted—people running, screaming, power crackling in the air. He strained to focus, his gaze drifting past Beron’s corpse, and through the chaos, he saw something glorious. 

An angel, perhaps. Something of breathtaking beauty. The glow around it, a song that called to him. Rushing toward him, screaming his name.

It was you.

 At least, he believed it was you.  Eris wasn’t sure anymore.

No, he managed to tell himself, it was you. He knew you. 

He knew you the way one knows the pull of the moon on the tide, the way his soul knew the other half of itself.

It was your voice, mingling with the din of madness, your voice that called to him. Eris wanted to close his eyes at the sound, to bask in the feelings it stirred. You fell to your knees beside him. 

He felt his mother’s hands on him, steady and warm.

Then, everything went black.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: hi guys how did i do??? i just think the idea of a sneaky lil eris letting the people around him fall like dominos is sooo entertaining. i strongly do believe his rise to power will be rooted in SUCH small, calculated moves hes made around people.

a big thank you to my love @sarawritestories for reading this for me<3 mwuah

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[genshingorlsrevengeance]

How would someone like Miko, Ei, and other high ranking officers react to an S/O with a long list of titles like Settra the Imperishable, King of Kings,-

(Genshin Impact) Yae, Ei, Sara, Kokomi, Furina, Jean, and Xianyun's S/O with an absurdly long list of titles

I've been building and painting a lot of Bretonnians lately, so dear readers, you will now become aggressively French.

By the Archons above, nothing was worse to Yae than having to be so serious during a ceremony,

Of all the things she could be doing, literally anything would be better than having to listen to some stuffy noble read their title.

So it was by chance S/O had to be present. She recognized their title was of Fontaine descent.

'The Red Hand of Brionne', 'The Red Duke', Something something Red.

...Wait, their titles were still being read off?!

(Yae) "My goodness, just how many titles with the color red can one have?"

Yae internally sighed as the list kept going. And going. And going.

All the while S/O stood perfectly still and respectful, not even batting an eye at the list of titles that probably would stretch from the top of the shrine all the way to the bottom.

Yae's head looks up to the sky momentarily, wondering how of all the people in the world she could have as a lover, it was the one who had to bore her to tears.

No doubt there were interesting stories of how the titles came to be, but this is not the way she wanted to find out.

And here Yae thought Ei had a lot of names to go by...

(Yae) "...Why is it still going?!"

Ei doesn't react too much at the titles being read off for S/O's form of address at first.

She had to deal with similar situations of people reading off her own titles, so it was only proper etiquette.

"Water-Knight," "The Holder of Secrets", "Keeper of the Way"

(Ei) "...Hm."

It was only now she noticed that the list actually exceeded her own titles.

Which surprised her more than anything.

As far as she knew, S/O was just a mortal. How many feats did they achieve in Fontaine during their short life?

She made a note to ask later, but now the list was starting to become a bit absurd.

...Maybe she should implement a law where only the most notable of titles are read off, because they would actually be here for eternity if this continued.

Sara gets jealous fast.

Not because S/O has more titles than her, she couldn't care less about that.

What really irked her, was they had the gall to own more titles than Her Excellency, the Almighty Narukami Ogosho!

Sara masks her annoyance well as she keeps reading off the list.

Line after line, name after name.

...Okay, who the hell even gave her this list, this was way too many!

(Sara) Leader of battles...? What kind of title even is that?!

She made that comment in her head as she droned on with the names.

With every single title read off, Kokomi's energy drained.

She loved her S/O dearly, but by the Archons, how the heck did they get that many titles while living in Fontaine?!

(Gorou) "Lionheart, The Lionhearted, High Paladin of the Breton Court-!"

As far as she was aware, there wasn't even any Knight Houses like this in Fontaine!

...Then again, this was Fontaine she was talking about. They did have their theatres.

Kokomi doesn't mention anything about their stupidly long list of names until after the formal ceremony.

She drops her head onto their shoulders, sighing loudly.

(Kokomi) "S/O...why did we need to have all your names read out...?"

The AUDACITY S/O had!

To have more titles than HER, FURINA?!

This transgression would never be forgotten!

...But they were some pretty cool names, she did have to admit.

'The Golden Paladin',' 'Lord of the Lance', 'Roi Breton'

(Furina) "Hmph, and where exactly did you acquire such names, S/O? More importantly, how does it nearly rival my own?! Hmph! Perhaps I should read all of mine so that we are on equal footing!"

Honestly, some of those were starting to sound like stage names, which wasn't fair at all!

If they could do that, then so could she!

Needless to say, the ceremony the two were attending dragged on for way too long.

By Barbatos, those were some extra titles.

'The Green Knight', 'Knight of the Glade', 'Heart of the Lion'

Though, she only had a few titles under her own belt, the sheer number S/O had was honestly staggering.

But it was also admirable.

It made her want to keep up, and wondered if she could ever live up to Vanessa, and apparently S/O.

Because at this point she was wandering in her mind, the list was still going, and probably outnumbered Vanessa herself.

(Jean) Well...I suppose we did say we were to refer to all forms of address...Maybe we should revise that.

Xianyun was no stranger to titles.

She did indeed go by many, but S/O seemed to go by even more.

Which both impressed, and honestly annoyed Xianyun.

How did a mortal go by more names than Rex Lapis?!

'The Sacremor', 'The Soul-Killer', 'Duke of Couronne'-

(Xianyun) "One has to wonder why you must have all your names read aloud? We could be doing something much better right now..."

Granted, she did recognize a few of these titles, but that was no reason for dinner to get cold now!

Xinayun pouts, adjusting her glasses as she tries to get comfortable as the reading continued.

One found this situation inane...

[ashblooddragons]

As The World Caves In

Request made by @valuemyheart1

Word Count: 1742

Summary: it's been three weeks since you lost your son to Blood and Cheese. and yet your breast will not dry, they become painful, and Aemond is all to happy to help relive that pain. (also Aemond was not with Syliv he was busy talking to some unnamed lord)

Warnings: memories of B&C, grief, P in V sex, breast worship, lactation kink, still new to smut so please be kind!

I can feel the weight of my breasts, feel how they are filled with milk for babe, it's painful and I should relive it, but there is no babe to feed to take this pain away. I've been fighting the memories, fighting the image of my little boy, my little Aenar.

Oh my sweet little Aenar, he was only five moons old when those monsters came in and took him from me. All for that little Strong boy. 

They were supposed to kill my loving Husband, my dear brother, Aemond. They might have if he wasn't speaking to some Lord that was in need of ‘dire advice from the prince’ I scoff at the thought. He was in dire need of my husband? Him? As I had to stand with a dagger to my throat as that blast cheese cut my son's head off? He needed my husband more? 

No, and there is a reason that the Lord is now being sharply questioned in the black cells. 

I can still see Aemond's face when he saw what they did to our little boy. He must have heard my screams after they sliced Aenar's little head off. He looked like he was going to be sick.

I hear something behind me, like stones scraping against stone. When I turn around to see what is wrong I see two men with knifes grinning at me, one rushes forward when he sees I'm about to scream. 

“You can scream lass, but if you do I'll kill ya. Do ya understand?” He asks, gliding the dull edge off his knife down the side of my face. 

All I can do is nod and pray that all they want is my jewelry. 

My nod seems to satisfy them as the bulky one lifts his hand from my mouth moving to reach for Aenar.

I gasp and step back holding Aenar closer to my chest cooing to him when he starts to cry. 

“What do you want? My jewels, you can have them just don't just my baby boy.” I plead helplessly. I gasp when the scrawny one rips the gold and ruby necklace from my throat.

“We were sent by the Queen, the true Queen. She wants payment for her son, and we were sent to make sure the deal was done.” The scrawny one says twirling his blade in his hands as he grins at me menacingly. 

For some reason this one scares me more than the goliath. 

“What does she want? What has my sister, the ‘true Queen’ , asked of you?” I ask feeling the pit in my belly grow, I have a sick feeling my jewelry is not what they are after. 

“A son for a son.” The goliath says pointing to Aenar who is still crying. 

I can feel his little tears soak into my silk robe, feel his little heart pumping in. I feel my throat constrict in dear, feel the bile rise in my throat. Black dots flood my vision as panic takes over.

“Give a price, want double the amount done. Just don't hurt my little boy. He's only five moons, please.” I beg but from the menacing smirk on the scrawny one, and the look of mock sympathy on the goliath I know they will kill my boy.

I tried to run but the Goliath grabbed me around the waist and held my head in place. “Told to take you to watch lass.” 

I watch as the scrawny one lays little Aenar on his changing table, raise his blade and strike down. It was a clean cut at least, as it only took that one swing for my little boy's head to fall off the table and  roll across the floor only to stop at my feet. 

I don't hear them leave, I don't hear the guards run in, I don't hear Aemond calling my name. I only heard screams and the blood rushing to my ears. When I turn I see nothing but Aemond, the way he can't decide where to look, our little boy or me. I watch as the blood drains from his face and his skin turns green. 

I don't know what to say besides one word. One word is all I need to say for Aemond to know who to kill for this crime against us.

“Rhaenyra.”

I'm cut out of my thoughts by the feeling of a hand on my shoulder. I whip around ready to attack only to find not a goliath nor a scrawny man, but my wonderful husband, my dear brother, I find Aemond.

“Sorry, I asked if you were alright?” He says with that tone that tells me he knows I wasn't here.

I about laugh at the question, how am I supposed to be alright? How am I supposed to ever be alright after what I went through? But instead of bringing up that night I decide to go a different route.

“My breasts hurt, the Maesters say I just have to wait for them to dry up, but they won’t. It hurts Aemond, it hurts.” I say flinching when I touch my tender and swollen breasts. It has only been three weeks since we lost our boy, and I haven't let a drop leave me. 

I watch his pupil dilate and hear him take in bated breaths. I know that look well, he's always adored my breasts but once I came with child and they grew, and once Aenar was born he seemed enthralled with the sight of our son suckling at my breast, one of the reasons I continued even though it is frowned upon for a Princess to feed her own child. 

“I could help,” he says breathlessly, making me confused how he could help me. “I could– I could relive that pain for you.”

“H–how?”

I feel his bated breath against my lips, feel the hardness of him against my hip. Try as I might I can't fight the desire that courses through veins, nor the wetness between my thighs. 

I watch as he moves so he is now hovering over me before he kisses my lips like a man starved. It has been so long since I felt desire, felt this need. I think as I move my hips so my core can meet his length. Though we're both still clothed, the friction is enough to make me breathless.

I gasp when he sits back on his haunches and lifts me so I'm on his lap. “Time to take that Nightgown off, Darling.” He says already raising it and I'm all too happy to help.

“Fuck.” I hear him whisper as he takes in the swell of my breasts, the rich pink of my nipples and the veins that have risen from prolonged fullness.

“Gods I've missed these.” He says kissing along the tender skin making me whimper in almost pain.

“They've missed you, my love.” I say smiling when I hear the guttural growl that leaves him.

Before I know it I'm laid on my back my Husband resting his hips against mine and my peaked nipple in his mouth. I feel each draw he takes, it's a strange relief, for the desire it brings to my core is undeniable, but so is the relief of that painful fullness and stretch. 

“Aemond.” I sigh out rocking my hips against his, I need more, I need him. 

“Fuck, if you keep doing that I won't be able to hold back.” He growls out gripping my hip and kicking up the milk that has dripped down my right breast. 

“Then don't.” I say gripping his hair and forcing him to look at me.

He may hate his eye, but I find there's something ethereal about his scar and sapphire. And even if it is the last words I say, the last thing I think before my last breath I will have him know I adore every part of him, even the scars and darkness. 

I feel him untying his trousers as he continues to suck and lick at my right breast. I feel each draw of milk leave me, hear the groan of pleasure he lets loose at each taste.

I feel the leaking head of his cock against my core, feel him hesitate from gliding into me.

“Please.” Is all I need to say before he drives into me with a punishing force. 

I can hardly catch my breath as he starts bullying my cunt with sharp hard thrusts as he moves over to my left breast. All I can think of is him, no more pain, no more grief, only Aemond and the pleasure he gives me. 

With each thrust and each drag from me teat I see stars, he has always known my body better than I ever could. He could always pick up the slightest frown or smile, and now he is seeing how he drives me mad with desire, how he takes my breath away. 

“You were made for me, from your nature to this sweet little cunt that grips my cock like a vice. There is no man, or god that will ever take you from me. Do you hear me?” He says emphasizing each word with a sharp thrust to the spot he knows makes me see stars.

“I was made for you, my love, only you, always you!” I scream out feeling my peak upon the precipice. 

With one more hard thrust, I’m screaming his name as I grip his long silky hair like a lifeline. My eyes go black from the force of my peak, and I can only barely hear him let ut a groan of pleasure before he spills in me, for all I can hear clearly is the beat of my heart. 

We lay like this for a while, his hands gripping my hips, my legs around his waist, and my fingers in his hair, and him buried deep within my core his cock acting as a stopper so his seed does not leak out of me.

We don’t say anything, for we do not need to, we know this was only a moment of release, of bliss, and that within time we will hold each other close, me sobbing into his chest and him letting silent tears fall into my hair. But we will have each other and that is all we will ever truly need.

@sugutoad @ilikefelines @mmogurl @classicsimpforaaronwarner @sachaa-ff

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

One - The Price of Victory | Series Masterlist

Summary: As a deposed Aemond licks his wounds from a long fought war, Lady Rosaleen embarks from Raventree Hall to meet her husband-to-be | Word Count: 7.1k~ | Warnings: mention of war, canon-divergent, post-Dance Aemond, trauma, arranged marriage

The throne sat empty.

The great Iron Throne of Aegon the Conqueror loomed above, its twisted, jagged shadows flickering in the candlelight. Aemond stood before it, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his single violet eye fixed on the seat his brother had died fighting to secure.

He had once seen death, stared it right in the face that bore Daemon Targaryen's likeness, all for the worthiness of ruling from that very seat.

And yet he still did not possess the authority to sit it. Despite the fight through the flames, the blood, the agony. The sacrifices.

The war had been won, the Blacks were defeated, scattered or dead. And yet the realm was far from whole. He had thought the Green victory would bring order, that their triumph would be enough to heal the scars left by his brother’s rule and Rhaenyra’s rebellion. But Aegon’s sudden death had shattered the fragile stability they had only just begun to claim. Without heirs to secure what his brother had left behind.

He had returned to King’s Landing bloodied and battered, prepared to embrace whatever welcome awaited him. But his mother, his dear, grief-stricken mother, had not greeted him with open arms and cries of joy. She had wept and railed against him, her voice breaking as her fists struck his chest, powerless but furious. The Dance, with all its death and fire, had torn her heart to pieces, and though she had welcomed him home, the weight of her grief had been clear.

“Do you see what we are left with?” she had asked him, her voice rough and hoarse from the nights of mourning. Aemond remembered the rawness of her face, the pale grief etched into every line. “A land left in ruin. A son who cannot sit the throne. And my girl…my only girl…”

He felt the blood that remained in his weakened body drain from his face. He had heard vague murmurings of Helaena's sorrow after the death of Jaehaerys, but no one had prepared him for the truth that now burned in his mother’s haunted eyes.

At least Rhaenyra had taken mercy on little Jaehaera. She remained, not unlike Rhaenyra’s own sons, locked away, but now protectively in Alicent’s wing of the Keep under the close eyes of her grandmother. Aemond himself felt a responsibility toward his niece, she was a small, fragile thing, with Helaena’s soft eyes and gentle manner, bearing the scars of tragedy but untouched by the fire and vengeance that had consumed her kin. 

She was but a child. But her presence was a silent, solemn reminder of the sister he felt he had failed. 

The damage from the Dance was more severe than any one man could hope to repair. Rhaenyra had left the realm in disarray, her supporters either dead or reduced to whispers of rebellion. Houses that had once stood tall were now in ruin, their lands burned and loyalty frayed. Aegon’s death had formed a dark power vacuum, and already, ambitious Lords, eyes glimmering with the sweet promise of power, were already pressing their influence and claims.

Of course, there was still the question of Rhaenyra’s two trueborn surviving sons. Aegon the Younger and little Viserys. Glorified prisoners, yes, but their very existence cast a long shadow over Aemond’s claim. Both boys, with the ability to inspire rebellion in those who still held a candle to Rhaenyra’s long lost claim. The Council ceaselessly debated what to do with the boys in the tower, under guard, whether they might be kept as hostages, or if the crown would be safer without them drawing breath another day longer than necessary.

He found himself thinking of Alys, who said she had been with child and indeed appeared as such the last time he had seen her.

Alys had known him too well, perhaps better than he’d ever allowed anyone else. She’d known what fuelled him, what burned within him even when he’d barely grasped it himself. He had abandoned her for what he thought could have been his last moments above Gods Eye Lake. She had looked at him that final time with something unspoken in her gaze, with weight of words she hadn’t voiced. She had sworn she was carrying his child, and he’d believed her, if only because Alys Rivers had always known how to see truths that others could not.

When word had first spread of his fall, when the ravens bore news of his assumed death, she had slipped away, disappearing from Harrenhal without a trace. Even if she had birthed his child, the council would not care for another bastard to claim any place in his line, nor would his mother or his brother have allowed it. Aemond knew this, he had known it even when he had found comfort in Alys’ arms, seeking something to fill the gnawing emptiness.

He could only assume she was either gone, or dead. And the child? If there ever was one. Were they dead too? 

He clenched his jaw, willing the thought from his mind. Alys belonged to the past, like the ghosts of every flame he’d left smoldering in his path.

Aemond found himself alone, pondering to himself, without even the energy to write his warring thoughts on paper. What was there to write about anymore? The war was over. This was a time to rebuild. To heal. And yet he felt the cold, claw of guilt at his throat, no closer to the throne than he had been before.

The Small Council chambers felt barren, and Aemond’s position was heavily felt, having not been granted his seat at the head of the table this time around. He rolled his shoulder, the scars where Daemon had plunged Dark Sister through flesh and muscle stretching uncomfortably. The Maesters had said he’d be left with less mobility, but that it should not affect his duties. 

He was not sure whether to be pleased about that.

Ser Tyland Lannister, Lord Larys Strong, Ser Jasper Wylde and Maester Gerardys sat in silence, their expressions carefully measured. At the far end of the table sat his mother, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze steady. It was a wonder to Aemond the men that sat around this table were not dead following Rhaenyra’s short but tumultuous reign. He wondered if the shadows of war had made them distrustful of one another. In this there was no doubt. If Aemond himself were to have an opinion on anyone, it was Maester Gerardys, now more a prisoner than an ally, unable to flee King's Landing after the Pretender and Aegon’s death.

It seemed this opinion was shared, for several pairs of eyes carefully scanned the room. And he was not left without a lingering glance himself, the Kinslayer.

“We need the Riverlands pacified,” Ser Tyland Lannister’s voice broke through the silence, his eyes scanning the room. “The lords there are restless. House Tully may have bent the knee, but it was under duress. Loyalty is fragile.”

“The Tullys are irrelevant,” Aemond growled, his eye narrowing as he leaned forward. “They supported Rhaenyra. They will suffer for it, as will every house that stood against us.”

“And yet we need them,” Tyland insisted, “the Riverlands cannot be held by fear alone. We must bring them back into the fold, to rebuild what has fallen.”

Aemond caught the judgmental glimpse in Alicent’s expression. The corners of her lips were turned downwards. It was no wonder, she had lost her two eldest children, and by extension perhaps blamed Aemond partly for it. In fact, there was no doubt in his mind that she did, though she dare not voice it.

They were already fractured enough as it was.

“I have reduced the Riverlands to ash, burned their keeps and their armies, and yet you stand here telling me I need to beg for their loyalty?”

A soft voice cut through the tension. “That is not what they mean, Aemond.”

Alicent’s voice was gentle, but firm, and the council fell silent as she spoke.

“They do not question your strength,” she continued, her green eyes meeting his. “They question the realm’s ability to follow. A marriage, an alliance with the right house, will show the lords that the crown offers stability, not just fire and blood.”

Aemond stared at his mother for a moment, frustration simmering beneath the surface. Alicent, ever the pragmatist, was right. Without a wife, without an alliance, the crown would slip further from his grasp.

“You would see me tied to a family that fought against us,” Aemond said slowly, his voice quieter now but no less bitter. “You would have me wed a traitor’s kin. Some whore who seeks to slit my throat in my sleep.”

“I would see you rule, Aemond. Truly rule, not as a weapon to be feared, but as a king to be respected. And to do that, we need allies.”

“And who, exactly, do you propose I marry?” Aemond asked, his voice cold.

Tyland cleared his throat. “The Riverlands are still unstable. House Tully has suffered greatly, but they remain the strongest house in the region. Grover Tully’s granddaughter is of age, though her appearance leaves much to be desired. A marriage such as that would secure their loyalty.”

“The Tullys.” Aemond spat.

Tyland shifted uncomfortably in his seat, knowing the prince’s temper. “It is not ideal, I admit,” he said carefully, “but their support is crucial if we are to stabilise the Riverlands.”

Aemond’s lip curled in disgust. “No. I will not be tied to the Tullys. I’d sooner burn what’s left of their lands than share my bed with one of them.”

A tense silence filled the room as the council exchanged glances. Alicent watched her son closely, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She knew Aemond’s pride, his thirst for vengeance. But there was more at stake now than settling old grudges.

After a moment, Lord Larys Strong spoke up, his voice as soft and measured as always. “House Blackwood, though they suffered under war, there remains both a sister and cousin of the late Lord Willem Blackwood. Women of good health and said to be pleasing to the eye. The Blackwoods supported the Pretender at first, yes, but their rivalry with the Brackens runs deep. It would not take much to sway them to our side, especially with the promise of a marriage alliance.”

Tyland hummed, “The Blackwoods... their lands are a stone’s throw from Harrenhal, are they not?”

“Indeed,” Larys replied, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “They hold Raventree Hall, a strong seat. Though damaged, they are still a proud family, and their loyalty would go a long way in solidifying our control over the Riverlands.”

Aemond considered this, his anger still simmering beneath the surface, but the suggestion intrigued him more than the idea of wedding a Tully. The Blackwoods were an old family, their lineage stretching back to the First Men. And unlike the Tullys, they had the potential to be turned, to be controlled. He could see a use in them.

“Alysanne, the sister,” Aemond murmured, his lips twisting slightly. “She has a temper. Is that not so?” He glanced at Lord Larys, who inclined his head ever so slightly, confirming it with an almost imperceptible smile.

“A reputation, yes,” Larys replied smoothly. “But they say she is fierce in her loyalties as well.”

“Fierce,” Aemond repeated, with a faint note of disdain. “We need stability, not fire in my bedchambers. If I am to wed, I require someone who knows restraint.”

Tyland tilted his head thoughtfully. “The cousin,” he interjected. “Lady Rosaleen. Younger, unwed, and without Alysanne’s...spirited reputation. It’s said she has a measured disposition, more practical.”

“And this cousin,” Aemond said slowly, his gaze returning to the council, “she is... acceptable?”

Tyland nodded quickly, seizing the opportunity to move the conversation forward. “From all accounts, yes. A match with her would be seen as favorable to the Blackwoods, and the lords of the Riverlands might look more kindly on us if they see a prominent house backing your rule.”

Alicent, who had remained silent thus far, finally spoke, her voice calm and deliberate. “The Blackwoods may not have the strength of the Tullys, but they are more easily brought into the fold. And they have ties to the Vale as well. It would be a stronger alliance than it first appears.”

Aemond listened, his jaw tight as Alicent spoke. How calm she was, how assured, as if this were all some grand plan of her own design. It was as though they believed they were managing him, holding the crown above him like a carrot, promising him power only if he agreed to be led like a child.

He was a Targaryen prince. He had brought the realm to its knees, put cities to flame, fought on dragonback while others schemed in dark rooms. And now, these men, the same who had depended on him to break Rhaenyra’s forces, were telling him he needed a marriage to prove his worth?

“Very well,” he said, his voice firm. “If Rosaleen Blackwood is suitable, then send word. I’ll not spend weeks deliberating over this.”

Tyland and the other councilors nodded, clearly eager to push forward without provoking his anger further. But Alicent held his gaze, her eyes full of a quiet resolve that only deepened his resentment.

“Power must be won and held,” she said softly. “A wise ruler knows when to fight, and when to accept what the realm demands.”

Aemond’s lip curled slightly. “I need no lessons on ruling from those who never took up the sword themselves,” he replied, his voice low, his words laced with a veiled challenge.

Alicent’s face remained still, her expression unreadable, but he saw the flicker of disappointment in her eyes. Good, he thought bitterly. Let her see what she had turned him into.

Lord Tyland shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat, sensing the tension in the air. "If there are no further questions, my prince, we shall proceed with sending word to House Blackwood," he said cautiously, glancing at Alicent as he stood, signalling to the other lords.

One by one, the men nodded their obedience and filed out, though each cast a furtive glance at Aemond as they went, as if wary of stirring his already simmering ire. When the doors finally closed, Alicent alone remained, her gaze fixed on her son, unreadable but purposeful.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding. Arms folded tightly across his chest, he returned her stare, waiting for her to speak first. And when she did not, his voice came firm. “If you have something to say then do.”

"Aemond," Alicent began softly, her voice calm but with a mother’s authority. "You will listen to me on this matter. I did not orchestrate this alliance to spite you, nor do I take pleasure in it. It is meant to steady your rule, to make the people look upon you as something other than..." she hesitated, then continued, "other than the prince who left them in flames."

Aemond’s jaw clenched at her words, and he felt a surge of resentment well up within him. “It is the council, and you, who seem to think my claim is not enough, that I must be leashed to a wife for the sake of ‘stability.’ Do you think that will fix what’s broken?” His voice dropped to a low hiss. “Or do you fear what I might do if left unattended?”

“You know very well I do.”

A tense silence followed, her words sinking in, and she took a steadying breath, her voice laced with something colder than he had ever heard from her before. “Do you think this is what I wanted for you? You were once my smallest son, sensitive and watchful. You had no dragon, and you bore your lack of one as if it were a wound carved into your very soul. When you lost your eye, I defended you against your father and Rhaenyra both. I demanded justice for you. I would have gone to war for you then.” She paused, her gaze piercing, unrelenting. “But I did not know that you, too, would someday thrive at war, against all the blood that is ours.”

Aemond’s eyes flickered as her words cut through him, and Alicent pressed on, each sentence ringing with controlled pain. “And Lucerys, Aemond. A boy. A boy not much older than you were then. And you watched your brother maim himself in pursuit of a throne he barely understood.”

“It was not me who put him there–”

“The throne. All these horrors in its name, and you still cling to it. You are not that boy who sought justice anymore. I cannot treat you as if you are, because you, too, are changed. Changed beyond anything I could ever have imagined.”

She took a long breath, her expression softening only slightly. “I know you have lived your own horrors, seen and endured things I’ll never understand. But that does not release you from what you have done. This realm is broken, Aemond, and I do not have the luxury of turning a blind eye any longer. If you wish to rule, you will do so not as my boy but as a man who understands the destruction he has wrought and the lives he is responsible for now.

“And you will do so with a wife, of our choosing, at your side.”

"You speak as though I have any choice in the matter," he said, his voice low and controlled, though the bitterness was unmistakable. His single eye burned into hers, searching for any trace of the mother he had once known, the one who had stood by him when no one else would.

How was it that this woman could make him feel comfort and resentment in the same breath?

Alicent held his gaze unwavering, her own resolve as firm as stone. "You always had a choice, Aemond.”

Aemond stood in silence, the weight of her final words pressing down on him like an anchor. There would be no turning back. No reclaiming the innocence of his youth, no undoing the choices that had irrevocably altered the course of his life. But Aemond would not forget her role in this, nor the way she and the council wielded his title like a weapon to keep him in line.

He was a Targaryen, and he would have his due, with or without their approval.

Since that night Aegon had humiliated him, Aemond hadn’t set foot on the Street of Silk. The thought of returning filled him with distaste. He could still feel the shame that had burned through him that night, searing hotter than any physical pleasure he might have found there.

Any lingering need had fizzled away, replaced by something colder, harder. The women in those dimly lit chambers had meant nothing to him then, and they would mean even less now. He had no desire to seek warmth in the arms of strangers when he had seen, firsthand, how shallow and fleeting those comforts could be. 

When it would come to his new bride, would he even feel it then?

The Blackwoods, the Riverlands, a marriage alliance, these were the scraps thrown to a prince who had taken up arms and shed blood for the realm.

As dawn crept over the Red Keep, Aemond resolved himself to the path laid before him. He would marry Lady Rosaleen Blackwood, claim the title that was his by right, and bring the Riverlands into submission. But they would not break him. 

He was fire and blood, a Targaryen prince, and he would see his will done, even if the realm itself had to bend to him.

The first morning light broke over the twisted, ancient branches of the great weirwood in Raventree Hall’s courtyard. She stood by the open window of her chamber, allowing the cool air to fill her lungs as she watched the courtyard stir to life. Despite her resolve, there was a fluttering anticipation in her chest.

The summons had come suddenly, a raven delivered in the dead of night, sealed with the unmistakable mark of the crown. She, Rosaleen Blackwood, was to wed Prince Aemond Targaryen. A prince known for his ferocity, his scars, and his dragon.

This would change everything.

There was no one in her family who truly expected her to embrace the idea of a Targaryen husband. She was willful, outspoken, a trait her dear late mother said would lead to her ruin one day. But for Rosaleen, she had seen too many Blackwood women fade into quiet, thankless marriages to lesser lords. 

Surely, Rosaleen thought, there was more to life than that.

A knock came at her door. “Cousin?” called a familiar voice, light and lilting. “Are you prepared to greet your new future with a crown on your head and steel in your heart?”

Rosaleen smirked and turned from the window. Her cousin, Alysanne Blackwood, stood in the doorway with a mischievous look in her eyes. Alysanne was slender, quick with her wit, and one of the few people she could say she truly trusted. Her cousin’s easy humor balanced Rosaleen’s own seriousness and had kept her sane through many difficult times.

“Steel, perhaps,” Rosaleen replied with a half-smile. “I’ll not be donning a crown just yet, Aly. And I’ll thank you not to go spreading that nonsense, either.”

Alysanne grinned, unfazed. “Come now, surely you see the humor in this. A Targaryen prince, no less! Though from what I hear, he’s as likely to bite your head off as he is to kiss your hand.”

Rosaleen rolled her eyes. “I imagine he’s as dangerous as they say. I just wonder if the prince is worth the legend they’ve made of him.”

“I don’t know that you’ll be in the habit of judging such things as worth or value,” Alysanne teased. “But you’re right to be wary. These Targaryens, fire and blood, they say. Not exactly the family motto one would choose for a quiet, married life.”

“A quiet life was never in my plans, cousin, and you know it. This marriage will be many things, but quiet is not one of them.” 

The confidence in her voice gave way to a faint gleam of excitement.

“Of course,” Rosaleen said, her thoughts settling on her decision, “I’m taking you with me, along with several of the girls. They’re packing now.”

Alysanne raised her brows in mock surprise. “Is that so?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Rosaleen replied, her tone pragmatic. “My ladies will be my eyes, my ears, and my voice in King’s Landing. I’ll not go into that place with only strangers and stiff-backed lords watching me.”

“The prince may not be pleased to find his bride arriving with such strength in numbers.”

Rosaleen shrugged, unconcerned. “If he’s displeased, then it will be the first of many he’ll have to learn to bear.”

Alysanne nodded approvingly, clearly delighted at the thought of the Targaryen prince squirming. “I’ll pack my wittiest retorts.”

Alysanne’s laughter echoed down the corridor as she left, the sound fading as Rosaleen returned to her walls, donned with decorations, lost in thought. She knew there would be whispers, even accusations of ambition. She was no fool, she understood the risks involved. Marrying into a family of dragonlords was no simple task, especially when her family was deeply rooted in the traditions of the Riverlands.

Yet, she could not deny the thrill that had taken root in her heart. A Blackwood married to a Targaryen. It was a match that would change the fortunes of her house, potentially even the future of the kingdom itself. And if Aemond expected her to cower in the shadow of his dragon, he would find himself sorely disappointed.

The night was cool and quiet, as if in mourning. The moon cast pale light across the yard, making the gnarled branches of the dead weirwood glisten like skeletal fingers reaching up to the seven heavens. Perched along the branches, dozens of black ravens watched her with beady eyes, heads cocking as she neared, almost as if they recognised her.

This old tree had been known to her family for generations, its twisted, pale trunk and dark, blood-red leaves a constant reminder of their allegiance to the Old Gods. Who they were. Though the tree was long dead, the ravens still came, roosting among its branches as if drawn to its silent power. They had been her confidants since childhood, and tonight, she felt a pang of sorrow leaving them behind.

"Rosaleen."

The familiar voice came from behind her, soft and steady. Her father’s tone held a subtle mix of warmth and worry, the same note she had heard in his voice ever since the raven had brought the news of her betrothal. Rosaleen turned to face him, meeting his serious gaze, flickering slightly to the cane held firmly in his grip. In the dim moonlight, his face was shadowed, lines of worry etched deep into his weathered features. He looked at her as if he wanted to memorise every detail of his only daughter’s face before she departed for the dangers awaiting her in King’s Landing.

“This will be my last night with the weirwood for a while,” she replied, managing a small smile. “I thought it only fitting to say my farewells.”

Her father hummed, smiling, but bittersweet, “I wish I could go beyond seeing you off, my sweet.”

It was no surprise that her father was not well enough to accompany her to the capital. For as long as she has known her father his body had been fragile, and the pain in his leg had only travelled north to the rest of his ageing body. It was not worth holding against him, Rosaleen thought, she was his only child, and it was heart wrenching enough for him, she thought, to watch her fly the nest.

“It is alright,” she replied, “Aly has a sharp tongue and wit, she will make sure I am there safely.”

Her father hummed, half-amused, stepping closer, his eyes scanning the ancient branches above them. “I don’t need to tell you that this life is…dangerous, Rosaleen,” he began, his tone both gentle and firm. “The Targaryens aren’t like us. They’re like fire, burning bright but unpredictable. What may seem like warmth today could become a blazing inferno tomorrow.”

Rosaleen’s lips pressed into a thin line. She had no illusions about what awaited her in King’s Landing. Marrying into House Targaryen was no mere arrangement of names and alliances, it was a bond with an ancient family that wielded fire and blood as its inheritance.

But she was not afraid.

He was but a man.

Her father studied her, his gaze heavy with something unreadable. “You are strong-willed, daughter. I know this. But should there come a time of need…” he stepped closer, urgent, “send a raven to me with a black feather. Whatever the message, I shall know what it means. And I will come with an army to fetch you, come what may.”

Her heart ached, but she didn’t let the emotion show. She knew he needed to see her strength now more than ever.

“Thank you, Father,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “You know I shall not be calling on this lightly.”

“I know, Rosaleen.” He gave her a sad, quiet smile. “But I also know that you are still my daughter, no matter whose court you find yourself in.”

A raven above cawed, the sharp call echoing through the silent yard. She felt the shadows of her ancestors around her, felt the weight of their legacy in her blood and bones. And she felt, in that moment, a swell of both pride and bittersweet finality. Her father had given her everything he could.

Tomorrow, she would leave Raventree Hall, but she would carry all of it with her.

Her father gave her one last long look, then placed a hand on her shoulder. “Make them remember that fire may scorch the land, but the rivers remember their own.”

With a final nod, he left her to the night, leaving only the ravens and the weirwood to bear witness to her silent vows.

There was little privacy to be found within her retinue. With her father too ill even to make the two-week journey to King’s Landing, the responsibility of her male escort had fallen to Maester Carwyn, a young and less-experienced maester, but one who could be trusted to serve her family’s interests. 

The older, more skilled healer had remained at Raventree Hall to tend to her father, whose health could not afford his absence. But Rosaleen knew that Carwyn’s loyalty was unquestionable, and, in time, should she have children, she would feel secure knowing that it was Carwyn overseeing their care. And hers.

The journey south was slow, the landscape unfolding before them in bleak tones of ash and ruin. The scars of war marred the Riverlands, fields once green and fertile now charred to barren emptiness, village after village reduced to smoldering ruins. 

Rosaleen watched the silent devastation with a hard-set jaw, her gaze lingering on the skeletal remains of homes and the blackened husks of trees that stretched to the horizon. This was Aemond Targaryen’s doing, he and his dragon, Vhagar, had unleashed their wrath here. And now she was being offered to him as a balm to soothe the damage he had wrought.

As they neared Harrenhal, its twisted, melted towers looming on the horizon, Rosaleen found herself lost in thought. The ominous fortress held a particular weight in her mind, not just for its reputation, but because this had been the place where Aemond had nearly met his end in the bloody war. 

She had heard the stories of his injuries, the months he spent in agony. How strange, she thought, to be heading to meet him now, healed, yet still scarred by the same war that had left the Riverlands in ruin.

"Look at this wasteland," Alysanne muttered under her breath, loud enough for Rosaleen and their cousin, Arianne, to hear. "The Targaryens scorch the very earth they rule over and then wonder why we don’t all bow down with gratitude.”

Rosaleen gave her a warning look, though inwardly she shared the sentiment. "Careful, Aly. The journey is long yet, and King's Landing is still ahead of us.”

Alysanne’s eyes gleamed with a mischievous light. "I’ll say what I like. I’m a Blackwood, not some Targaryen leech. And I’m sure your husband-to-be would do well to remember that.” Her tone was more playful than bitter, but Rosaleen could tell that her cousin’s words carried an edge.

She would have to be careful of that.

In contrast, Arianne, her cousin on her mother's Piper side, had a softer presence. Where Alysanne’s remarks came wrapped in thorns, Arianne’s were gentle, as if she considered the feelings of each listener before she spoke. She wore her femininity openly, her manners delicate, and her voice always lilting with warmth.

“Surely it’s better to look forward now. The war is over. What good is it to dwell on all this destruction?” Arianne said softly, casting a glance around at the desolation.

“Better to look forward?” Alysanne scoffed. “Yes, to look forward to watching my dear cousin bound to a man who thinks the Riverlands are his to burn on a whim.” She shook her head, tossing a rebellious lock of dark hair from her face. “Forgive me if I don’t swoon over the thought of Rosaleen sharing a bed with Aemond Targaryen.”

“And why not? I hear he’s quite… striking. People say he wears a sapphire where his eye once was and hides it behind a leather patch, so he doesn’t frighten the women at court,”  Arianne countered gently.

Alysanne let out a derisive laugh, folding her arms across her chest. “Striking, perhaps, if one finds it charming to bed a man with blood on his hands. The very same hands that set these villages to the torch.”

Rosaleen had to press her lips together to keep herself from smiling. If she were to save her practicality, she would have to reign Aly in no doubt. “It’s the match I was given, and the match I must make. Railing against it won’t change that.”

Alysanne snorted. "Of course. But I will not hold my tongue in front of any man.”

Rosaleen smiled faintly. “If it’s your goal to ruffle feathers in the Red Keep, I have no doubt you’ll manage.”

She beamed with pride at the notion, whereas Arianne turned once again to her book, peering amongst the faded pages. She knew better than to quell the fiery personality of her kin.

It was only when they were south of Gods Eye Lake that anyone was able to see the sprawling landscape before them, and King's Landing sat proud in the distance. Mighty and grand.

He is there. Rosaleen though, the beating of her heart elevated slightly with anticipation.

Since halfway through their journey, Aly had stayed in the same carriage as Maester Carwyn, suffering with motion sickness from the ceaseless rocking. So Rosaleen glanced at Arianne, who watched with equal interest as the gates of King's Landing came into view.

“Are you nervous?” 

Rosaleen wet her lips, dry from days of travelling. She thought of little more than the idea of a nice warm bath. “I think you are more nervous than I, sweet cousin.”

Arianne gave a tight lipped smile, and looked away, clutching her book, “I suppose I am. I have never ventured this far, and I am worried for you.”

“Do not worry for me,” Rosaleen replied, reaching over to place a comforting hand atop Arianne’s. “I knew what I was to face when we left Raventree. This marriage,” she hesitated, choosing her words carefully, “this marriage is my duty to our house. I do not fear the Targaryens, nor King’s Landing.”

Arianne sighed, her gaze drifting to the sprawling city. “It’s just that I don’t understand… how you can be so calm. There are so many stories about this place, about the people here, and the court. And Aemond—”

“Yes,” Rosaleen cut in softly. “But stories have a way of growing beyond the truth. I will judge him for myself when we meet.”

“I suppose you’re right. But if you ever need someone, anyone… well, you’ll have me here.” She managed a small, encouraging smile.

Rosaleen returned the smile, her fingers still gently clasping Arianne’s hand. “And I’m grateful for it. We may find we need each other more than either of us expects in this strange place.”

As the carriage rolled through the city gates, the noise of the capital filled their ears, the bellowing of merchants, the shouts of city guards, and the rustle of countless people moving through the winding streets. Rosaleen watched as they passed narrow alleyways, the crowded market stalls, the curious eyes of passersby who glanced at the small procession from Raventree Hall.

Above the din, a fanfare of trumpets sounded, and Rosaleen realised with a start that the Keep itself loomed closer, its high stone walls towering above them as they passed through the final gate. It felt like stepping into another world, a world that pulsed with its own heartbeat of secrets, dangers, and alliances yet to be forged.

The carriage came to a halt, and Rosaleen straightened her spine, taking one last look at Arianne’s worried face before the door opened. They shared a brief, comforting smile before Rosaleen descended, feeling the heavy air of the capital settle over her.

This was to be her new home.

The great gate of the Red Keep loomed before her, the sunlight shimmering over the cobbled courtyard where her retinue assembled, heads low in a mix of awe and wariness. Her own eyes swept over the towering walls before settling on the figures awaiting her arrival.

At the forefront stood Lady Alicent Hightower, her expression poised and watchful, her hands clasped in front of her. Beside her, Lord Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws, regarded her with an unreadable gaze, his features giving nothing away. He dipped his head in a formal greeting as Rosaleen approached flanked behind by her ladies and Maester Carwyn.

"Lady Rosaleen," Wylde greeted, his voice cool and authoritative. "Welcome to King's Landing. On behalf of the council, we thank you for your journey."

Rosaleen curtsied deeply, her gaze briefly catching his. “Lord Wylde,” she said, her tone measured yet firm.

Alicent stepped forward, features softened. “Lady Rosaleen,” she said, her voice gentle but layered with authority. “It is good to finally meet you. I trust the journey treated you well?”

She offered her a deeper curtsy, her ladies doing the same with a small bow of their heads. “The road was long, Your Grace. But I am grateful to be here at last.”

A small, approving smile touched Alicent's lips, though her eyes remained sharp. “I’ve arranged for you to refresh yourself, and your chambers have been prepared to your family’s specifications.”

Rosaleen noted the formal tone, the careful selection of words, this was a woman as deliberate as any lord, accustomed to weighing every detail. “I shall endeavor to make myself worthy of the honor.”

Alicent nodded, her face betraying neither warmth nor indifference, only the weight of years spent managing such exchanges. 

“I was sorry to hear of Lord Blackwood’s condition,” Alicent continued, “I have sent word to wish him well.”

A flash of surprise passed Rosaleen’s gaze. Whether it was a cold formality or a genuine gesture to extend courtesy to her family, it shocked her either way.

“Thank you, Your Grace, that's very kind.”

Her retinue had already begun to carry her personal belongings inside, diligently guided by servants of the Red Keep alike.

"Aemond is occupied this morning with matters of council," she continued smoothly, "but he looks forward to meeting you in the gardens once his duties are concluded."

There was no doubt that Alicent’s words were meant as both an apology and an expectation, a signal that her son’s duties came first, even before his own betrothed. But it did nothing to sway Rosaleen. A prince of the realm, this is exactly what she expected.

Lord Wylde spoke up, his voice carrying a hint of warning masked beneath polite formality. “You’ll find King’s Landing can be as unpredictable as the river currents of your homeland, my lady. But with such resilience as yours, we have no doubt you’ll thrive.”

Rosaleen met his gaze, giving nothing away. "The Riverlands are not so easily shaken. My lord. And nor am I," she said, a faint smile touching her lips.

If she were to look behind her, Arianne would be none the wiser, and Alysanne would be pressing her lips together to keep herself from giggling.

Alicent’s mouth too twitched, perhaps in approval, perhaps in caution. “Come,” she said, her hand gesturing toward the towering gates. “We’ll escort you inside. You must be eager to rest.”

Rosaleen followed Lady Alicent and Lord Wylde through the towering gates, their footsteps echoing in the vast stone corridors of the Red Keep. She felt the immense weight of the Keep settle around her, a sprawling, ancient place that loomed with shadows and secrets, its stone walls seeming to pulse with a life of their own.

They passed through grand halls lined with tapestries woven with the sigils of the great houses, the Targaryen dragons fierce and proud among them. Rosaleen’s eyes took in the details, the fine, intricate designs of each banner, the threads as precise as the histories they represented. She marvelled at the craftsmanship, at the reminders of both bloodshed and legacy. The Red Keep was beautiful, but intimidatingly so.

This is your new home, she reminded herself, feeling a tightness settle in her chest at the thought. She was no stranger to vast halls, for Raventree Hall had its own deep roots and ancient mysteries, but here the walls seemed to lean in, to judge her even as they welcomed her. 

There was a coldness to the Keep that Raventree’s worn stones lacked, a reminder that here, she was an outsider.

As they ascended a wide staircase, Lady Alicent glanced back at her, observing her carefully, perhaps to gauge her reaction. 

“You will find the Keep to be as boundless as the city itself,” Alicent said, her tone precise and measured, “though I daresay it can feel smaller than it truly is.”

She nodded though the Dowager Queen did not see. But she understood how a place as vast as this could be confining in its own way.

Eventually, Alicent led her up another staircase and down a quieter hall. “These will be your chambers,” Alicent said, pausing before an oak door, “most recently held by my daughter, Helaena.”

Rosaleen inclined her head, feeling the weight of that knowledge settle over her like a shroud. Helaena, the gentle princess, and then a queen, who had known her own tragedies, her life a mystery and a sadness to most of the realm. Rosaleen looked at the door, wondering if the walls within held her ghost still.

Alicent’s face softened, if only briefly, and she gestured for Rosaleen to enter. Her retinue were placing various items personal to her in indistinguishable piles, her ladies long since taken to their own suitable chambers. The furnishings were elegant yet subdued, and though the bedchamber was fit for a queen, it bore an undeniable emptiness, as though awaiting something, or someone, to bring it back to life.

Rosaleen turned back to Alicent and inclined her head respectfully. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She paused, taking in the faint sadness that seemed to shadow the Queen Dowager’s eyes. “I am deeply sorry for her passing. Her loss is felt beyond these walls.”

Alicent’s expression softened, though her gaze remained guarded, like she was accustomed to protecting her grief. For a brief moment, a glimmer of pain surfaced, a rawness in her eyes that she quickly concealed.

“Thank you,” Alicent replied, her voice quiet and even. She waited a beat before she nodded, gesturing to the walls around them. “Make it your own,” she said, her voice firm but not unkind. “In time, you may come to find comfort within these walls, as my daughter did.”

A reply was ready on her lips. But Lord Wylde, who had stood at the door, cleared his throat. 

“If I may, Lady Rosaleen, Prince Aemond will be expecting you in the gardens shortly.”

Thank you for reading! Let me know if you would like to be tagged!

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[endlessthxxghts]

What You Need

no outbreak!neighbor!joel miller x afab!reader || W/C: ≈6.3k

Summary: You come home from a horribly stressful day at University to everything in your family home a complete mess only for you to take care of. Joel helps you and gives you exactly what you need.

Warnings: SUUUPER self indulgent (sorry guys - it makes for a good plot tho, so i’m not all that sorry <3). no use of “y/n”, age gap (22/42), LATINO JOEL MILLER (idc what anyone says, he needs a warning), established relationship, no physical descriptions of reader, pet names (darlin’, sweet girl, pretty girl, princess, etc.), reader “takes care of everyone but who takes care of her” plot, more porn than plot lol, [SMUT 18+ MDNI] daddy kink, sir kink, heavy on the D/s dynamic (reader falls into subspace), cockwarming, unprotected piv (don’t be like these 2 idiots), breeding kink, cum eating, creampie, finger fucking, finger sucking (briefly), choking, hair pulling, brief thoughts about anal, overstimulation/multiple orgasms, hickeys/marking kink, squirting!, toy use, fluffy ending… i think that’s it?? (dear lord pls forgive me, for i have sinned)  if i missed anything, lmk pls!

Quick lil author’s note (see bottom for extended a/n): In all honesty, I wanna dedicate this (nasty) little one shot to @javierpena-inatacvest because if it wasn’t for our interactions as of late plus reading your “It’s Never Too Late” fic, I never would’ve said fuck it and just start writing with the intention of potentially showing it to the world. Thank you for inspiring me. You’re amazing & I literally love u so so much. You deserve phenomenal head all the love in the world for everything you do <3.

MAIN MASTERLIST || ONESHOT COLLECTION

It was a long day at university today, as per usual, but something about today completely drained you. 

You went to bed past midnight last night because you were busy finishing up a paper, only to get up at 7am the next morning to spend the next 13 hours juggling between classes, assignments, and studying in your “free” time. By the time you were ready to head back home, you were on your very last thread, begging to snap. You also completely spaced on nourishing your body today, the only thing running through it being water and coffee — lots of coffee. 

That’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that the minute you entered your family home, the entire house was an absolute mess, your pets weren’t given their food yet, and no dinner was made. And just like every other day since you grew into an acceptable height to reach the kitchen stove, you took care of it. All of it. 

You were so grateful to your family for allowing you to stay at home during your undergraduate years. It makes your in-state tuition even cheaper, and you get the comfort of your own bed. You knew not many people could rely on their parents and family like this, so you don’t want to sound selfish when you think about how you really wish you had your own place right about now. 

It’s been an hour and a half since you've been home, and you’re barely finishing up getting the food for your dogs when your phone dings in your back pocket. 

Didn’t text me when you got home, baby. Everything okay?

It was from Joel. The neighbor directly across from you, and a quickly growing family friend of yours. Your heart both saddens at the fact that you forgot your unspoken ritual, but it swells at the way he can read you. 

It all began at a small family party last year. You were 21 at the time, and for some reason you could not take your eyes off of your neighbor — who was 20 years your senior. It was always just shared glances or you bringing baked goods from your stress-baking endeavors, but at that party, there was a good period of time where your entire family went outside to the bonfire in the backyard to drink until their hearts gave out, leaving you with the dishes and a trashed house to clean. Joel noticed this, how much they relied on you. Whether it was coming over for a beer with your brothers or your father, or to fix an appliance for your older sister, they always walked all over you — when you did absolutely everything for them. So, he took matters into his own hands and went inside to help you clean up. 

You insisted he didn’t need to, but you knew he wouldn’t let up. So, there, you two worked, harmoniously, straightening up your home in half the time it would normally take you by yourself. The second you completed the last task, you reached for the remote and plopped yourself on the couch, half expecting Joel to go back outside with your family. Except, he plopped himself on the couch right next to you with the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen, “What are we watchin’, darlin’?” 

“You know you could’ve stayed outside with everyone else, Miller,” you say as you turn your body to him with an eyebrow quirked up. He matches your expression, “Well, where’s the fun in that?” 

You break into a breathy little giggle, satisfied with his comeback, and you turn on the TV. With your family completely occupied outside, it was easy for either of you to make a move. And although Joel had been planning to for the last few months before this party, you took matters into your own hands and lifted his arm closest to you, tucked yourself into his side and pulled his arm back around your body. He looked down at you, smirking at your boldness while your eyes remained fixed on the movie before you. 

The next few hours of the night were filled with secret caresses and stolen kisses, and you have never felt more loved and appreciated in your life. From then on, you’ve been absolutely smitten with him, and he with you. 

Instead of replying, you dial him instead. Not even a third ring goes by before he answers, “Baby.” 

“Oh my god, hi, baby, I’m so sorry. I completely spaced. The minute I got home, the house was a mess, the dogs weren’t fed yet, dinner wasn’t even cooked, and I-”

“Mi amor,” he says with a deep breath, implicitly telling you to take one, “it’s okay, baby. I don’t wanna hear sorry from you. I’m sorry everythin’ is a mess, baby. Can I help? Need me to come over?”

Your rapid heart rate immediately starts to slow at how calming, ready and willing he is to give you anything you need. Your family would go absolutely insane if Joel just showed up right now with the sole intention of helping you take care of the home and yourself, but you don’t mention that. “No, baby, I promise I’m okay. I just need to relax. I need-” you pause for a moment to take another breath because you feel your body going panicky again. “I need…honestly, I just need you.” 

After the shitty day you’ve had today, having to take control of every single thing, honestly all you really want, and need, right now is for your control to be taken away. You don’t want to think, you don’t want to decide, and you don’t even want to figure out your dinner even though you haven’t eaten all day. 

He pauses for a moment, hearing the slight whine at your last statement. And just like that, Joel is at your rescue. “You need me, huh, babygirl?” 

“Mhm, please.” 

“Cross the street, darlin’, right now,” and he hangs up the phone. 

You bolt out of your seat, and sprint straight to the front door, quickly locking it. You think to say something on the Ring camera, letting your family know you’ll be back, but you know they won’t even think twice at your absence. You already cleaned the house and took care of the animals they begged for but don’t care for — why else would they look for you? 

Just in case they do check the cameras, however, you immediately veer to the left side of your driveway into the blind spots of your front door. 

Within seconds, you’re at his door about to knock, but he’s already opening the door, whispering a soft hi followed by your name, and pulling you into a tight embrace. He pulls you away for a second, assessing your face, assessing your needs. He sees your brows pulled together, eyes glossed over, and a pout beginning to form. You don’t need soft and comforting. You need stern, dominating control. You need nothing but pure bliss, and he’s going to give that to you. But first: 

“Safe words. Repeat em’.” 

“Red for hard stop, yellow if I’m starting to get uncomfortable, and green to keep going.” 

“That’s my girl,” he says and finally pulls you in for that rough, all-consuming kiss you’ve been craving. It’s a battle of teeth and tongue, and obviously he wins. His hands are roughly sliding down to the underside of your asscheeks, tightly pulling you into his hardening bulge. You reach up to wrap your arms around his neck, but pause for a moment because he never gave you permission to. He senses that, and pulls back for just a moment. “Such a good fuckin’ girl for me. Go ‘head, baby, touch me.” 

You immediately bring your arms back up to grab ahold of him but too riled up in how he’s making you feel, you don’t notice the huge grumble your empty tummy makes. He pulls both your wrists back from his neck and puts an insufferable amount of space between you two. 

He says your name, filled with both concern and slight anger. “When was the last time you ate?” 

Silence. 

He lets go of your wrist and grabs your chin between his pointer and thumb, forcing you to meet his eyes. “I’m not askin’ again, baby.”

“Y-yesterday night,” you stumble out. 

“I’m not givin’ you a heavy meal ‘cause that’ll just upset your stomach, but I am fixin’ you somethin’. Go upstairs, change into the clothes on the bed, come back down and position yourself on the ottoman, like I taught ya last week, hm?”

Too enamored by his roughly smooth voice, all you can muster up is a nod. His eyebrow barely shifts, but that’s all a warning you need. “Yes, sir.” 

Padding up into his room, already feeling your insides start to float, you reach the edge of his bed to see a pair of black cheeky boxers, and a thin, fitted black tee. You quickly strip off everything you arrived here in and slip on the garments he gave you. Wasting no time, you head back down in a bee line to the ottoman. 

Like I taught ya last week, hm?

His words echo in your mind as you begin to recall last week’s endeavors. 

You were straddling his lap for a while now, slowly swallowing each other’s moans and making every part of each other’s body ingrained into your memories. Until suddenly he pulls back, eyes dead set with intention. “You trust me, baby?”

“Always, Joel,” you say back with as stern a voice as possible, confused as to why he’d ask such a thing. “Can I teach you somethin’, then, darlin’?”

You pull him into one more kiss before you breathily tell him yes and pull yourself off his lap to stand before him, fully at his disposal. 

He stands up, and without any verbal indications, he’s grabbing onto you and molding your body onto the ottoman in a position that begins to drift you off into subspace. You don’t know if it’s the fact that you're sitting on your knees with your legs tucked under you, or if it’s the slow drag of his hands caressing your inner thighs, pulling them farther apart from each other. Or maybe it’s the way he softly places your hands, palms up, atop of your thighs. Whatever the hell it is, you absolutely fucking love it. 

He feels you melting into every little touch he makes and he notes every little moment you slip further and further into your space. “Doin’ okay, my sweet girl?” he asks, voice dark and sweet. 

All you can pull out of yourself is a pathetic little whine and a head nod. 

“This is position number one. Remember it. We’ll learn more later, but this’ll do just fine for a while, baby.”

And with that, he kisses you ever so softly but with such a dominating, addictive energy that you feel yourself try to push up into him, and immediately he pulls away. 

“Sweet girl, Imma let it slide this time, but you do not move from this position unless given permission. Ya hear?”

You return to your original position and assure him how good you’ll be, “Won’t happen again, daddy, I promise.”

His jaw clenches at the honorific; that’s your number one tell that signifies you’ve completely submitted and fallen into subspace. He had originally planned on giving you what you asked for two days ago — “Please, Joel, I need you to fuck me, hard.” — but seeing you all docile and ready for him just makes him want to absolutely praise you in the most beautiful ways possible. 

So that’s what he did. For hours. An hour of bending you over the ottoman to eat your pussy like a man who had all the time in the world, an hour of fingering orgasm after orgasm out of you while his mouth switched between licking and marking your tits, and a few hours after that just slowly fucking you into his mattress, caressing and loving on every single part of your body he could reach. 

Let’s just say, your family didn’t see you for the rest of that day or the next, and you did not care one fucking bit. 

You shuffle onto the ottoman, your form now perfected after secretly practicing each night to increase your endurance of staying in such a position for however long Joel needed you to. 

You wait for about five more minutes before he comes back with a platter of all of your favorite fruits — strawberries, mangoes, and pineapple — and sits on the cushioned seat right in front of you. He melts at how good you sit for him, immediately disregarding his original plan and wanting you as close to him as possible. 

“My good, beautiful girl,” he says softly, in a way that you’re not sure if it was even meant for you to hear, but you still melt nonetheless. “Come,” he says as he pats his lap while setting the plate off to the table beside him. 

You shoot up like a lightning bolt, too excited at the thought of being able to feel him again, but before you can climb up, he grabs your hips, stopping you for a second. He slides his fingers into the hem of your underwear and slowly slides them completely off of you, setting them neatly on the ottoman behind you. He slowly reaches for his belt, then slides it off, letting it fall somewhere on the ground. You stand completely still, patiently waiting for whatever he’s going to give you, although your pussy is proving anything but patient. 

He undoes the button and zipper of his jeans and signals for you to come up. “Take me out, cariño.”

You climb up on his thighs, not fully straddling him to give yourself some room to tug his jeans and boxers down enough to pull him free. You pull him free with a small moan escaping your lips, wanting to dart your tongue out and lick his angry tip, but he didn’t give his permission for that. So, you begrudgingly let him go, and wait for what comes next. 

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he states nonchalantly as if his dick isn’t absolutely begging for you to reach out and grab it. “You’re gonna sit on my cock, keep me nice and warm. Without moving. Only until you’ve eaten all the fruit on this plate will I think about what’s gonna happen next. Got it?”

Your voice trembles, “Y-yes, sir.” 

He nods his head, while bringing his hand up to your mouth, signaling for you to let your drool fall. You scoot closer and lift your hips up while he pumps himself a few times to completely cover himself in your spit. With how much your cunt is dripping, you knew his lewd act was for his benefit and his only. 

The second his tip catches at your entrance, you can’t control the high-pitch whine that falls from your mouth, and he can’t stop himself from gripping your hips with a bruising force in an attempt to keep from mercilessly pounding up into you right here. 

“So f-fucking full,” you breath out as you sink lower and lower, to which he nearly growls with a strained, “So fucking tight.”

You finally bottom out, and you both take a moment to breathe and settle any impulsive thoughts of forgetting the purpose of tonight’s scene. You shift a little to adjust to settle your legs more comfortably at his sides, while he leans over to bring your plate of fruit closer. Both your actions together make you hiss in desperation.

“Color, baby?”

“Green, sir, green,” you promise him.

He smiles, genuine and bright, before his face goes dark and smug again. He picks up a piece of pineapple with his fingers. “Open.”

You lean in and take the sweet fruit from his fingers, making sure to lick any residual of the pineapple’s sweet juices. This goes on until you’ve finished every last piece he cut for you. Towards the last few pieces, your pussy was absolutely drenching his cock with your slick, both your thighs and his soaked. He could feel every pulse and every flutter, and no matter how patient he usually was, something in the air tonight was testing every ounce of his strength. 

He sets the plate aside and licks a mix of fruit juices and your spit clean off his fingers. You watch him, completely entranced by the way his tongue wraps around his thick fingers, and you can’t help but feel such an aching need to throw yourself at him. 

So you do. And to your surprise, he allows it. You pull both his arms to wrap around your middle and you push yourself into him for a searing kiss, whimpering for him to slip you his tongue. He indulges, and you immediately begin grinding your hips down onto his cock. He growls and wraps his arms tighter around you, adding more pressure into your grind, forcing you to break the kiss to regain your breath. “Fuck, baby. Such an impatient little one, aren’t ya?” He rasps out. 

Your hips move faster at his words, trying to will yourself to say something, anything, but you can’t. He notices your effort. “It’s okay, I’ve got you, baby, hm?”

And with that — with the notion that he’ll take care of you with anything you need — you completely fall. “Y- yes,” you moan out, “Da- fuck- daddy’s got me.”

Ah, there she is. Daddy’s girl. His back straightens so he’s towering over you more. He grabs your jaw tightly while you continue to pleasure yourself on his dick, forcing you to hold his stare. “Oh, sweet girl, daddy’s always gonna give ya what ya need. Promise, baby. Now be the good little girl I know you are and cum for me.”

You can feel him meet every movement of your hips, coaxing your high out of you faster than you realize. The wet, squelch your pussy makes every time you suck him in is enough to make him release his load, but he won’t. Not until you’ve came more times than ever before, not until you’re left completely fucked dumb. 

He snakes his hand down to the front, reaching for your clit, using his thumb to make mind-numbing, calculated circles. Your back arches at the sensation, head thrown back, and he brings his other free hand to the back of your neck to pull you closer into him. He ravishes your neck all over, sucking and biting all your weak spots, your pulse points, only to run his tongue over it in soothing motions, getting even more worked up at the marks that’ll form tomorrow. Then, he rips your shirt right in half, letting it fall to the ground. So much for makin’ you change, he thinks. He brings his mouth lower and lower, sucking one of your nipples in between his teeth, throwing you over the edge.

Your vision goes white, your entire body goes rigid, and your pussy uncontrollably flutters around his dick as he peppers your neck and chest with more kisses while you come back down. 

Your body is now soft and pliant, fully ready for whatever more Joel is going to give you. Your head is still high up in the clouds, and it will be for a while, but he always knows how to take care of you. You feel him slowly lift you off his dick and you hear him groan as he looks down. 

“God fucking damn, doll, look at you all over me. Such a fuckin’ mess.”

Your face heats up immediately, “I- I’m sorry, daddy, I-”

He grabs your jaw again and pulls you in for a sloppy kiss, all teeth and tongue. He pulls away bringing your bottom lip with him until he lets go, letting it fall back into place, now wet with his spit. “Don’t fuckin’ apologize for that. You made daddy so proud, baby. So much so that you’re gonna do it again for me,” he says as he squeezes your ass cheek. 

You squeak out a gasp and a breathy please. He stands up and makes his way to his bedroom with you still wrapped around him like a koala. 

Immediately he throws you on the bed, and before you’re able to scramble up towards the pillows, he’s already pushing you up by the thighs and kneeling between your spread legs. 

He releases one thigh for a quick second and holds his hand out, “Pillow, baby.” It takes your blissed mind one moment to register, but as soon as it does, you don’t waste a second, grabbing the pillow next to your head and eagerly handing it to him. He takes the pillow and taps your thigh twice, signaling for you to lift up. He secures the pillow under your hips then brings both his large hands back to the underside of your thighs, pushing your legs up so you’re nearly folded in half, giving him complete access to your dripping heat. 

If there’s one thing about Joel Miller, it’s that he loves to make a fucking mess. You thought your first sensation would be one flat lick up your cunt, but instead you feel warmth. Wet and warm and everywhere, and finally you realize, he let his mouth fill with spit only to absolutely drench you with it. Once he’s satisfied with his mess only then does he dive into you like a man starved. Licking and pushing into your slit while the tip of his nose rubs against your clit has you climaxing in an instant, your back arching and your hips lifting as much as they can with the weight of his hands on your thighs keeping you in place. 

He lets one hand slowly slide off your thigh and up your belly until he reaches one of your tits, switching between grabbing your entire breast and pinching your nipple. He continues to lick at you and circle your clit with his tongue until you’re a complete whining mess from the overstimulation. “Daddy, please,” you moan. 

He lifts his head, eyes as black as ever, “I’ve got you, princess, you can take it.” He reluctantly breaks away from your cunt and kisses his way up your body, taking his time with sloppy, open mouthed kisses near your hip bone and your sternum, knowing those areas drive you crazy the most. He makes sure to bite a little extra hard in some areas on his journey up, knowing you love to admire all the marks and bruises he makes on you. 

He sucks another bruise right underneath your jaw, making you push up into him more, while his hands continue to wander and grasp every part of your body that he can. Finally he reaches your mouth and gives you a sweet, long kiss to your mouth, distracting you enough that you don’t see him reach for the vibrator in the nightstand beside the bed. You feel him slide his hand back down your body, but you still don’t realize the vibrator’s presence until you feel the buzz directly on your clit. 

Out of pure reaction, your hand flies to the nape of his neck and tugs sharply, all while obscenities fall pathetically from your mouth, “Oh- f-fuck, daddy, yes! J-just like that, please, please don’t stop…” The quick-paced, blinding pleasure builds so fast it cuts off your dirty mouth and reduces you down to moans and gasps and whines of daddy, daddy, daddy. 

He slips two fingers into your pussy, sliding in with so much ease with how wet you are from a combination of your cream and his spit, all while he uses his other hand to push the vibrator into your bundle of nerves. 

You don’t know whether it has been one minute or one hour of this, but all you know is that you’ve got sweat lining your forehead, beading down your body, and you absolutely can’t take the buzzing pleasure with the constant come-here motion with his fingers anymore, you have to let go. Although this time, it feels different than the rest of the times Joel has made you cum. This time… this time it feels like- you have to pee? 

Immediately you start to panic and try to break away from his hold, unable to allow yourself to fucking pee all over him. “Daddy, wait! Please stop.. it- it feels different, like I.. I think I’m gonna pee..” you gasp, trying to articulate your thoughts while he continues his torture on your cunt. 

His eyes go wide and it immediately registers for him, “Fuck, baby, don’t worry about that, just let go. Come on, daddy’s got you. You trust me?” 

You hesitate for a moment, but still, you know the answer, “Y-yes, daddy.” 

“Good, my princess. Cum for me, fuckin’ soak me. I told you I wanted another fuckin’ mess,” he demands and fucks you even harder with his fingers and increases the pressure of the vibrator. 

You all but scream, definitely sure the neighbors can hear you, but you don’t give a fuck with the fireworks erupting behind your eyes and all throughout your body. Your body is still convulsing and you’re sure you’ve gone unconscious for a moment, but what brings you back to the Earth is the feeling of a warm, flat tongue licking you all over, cleaning you up. Then another sensation hits you: your bottom half is completely fucking drenched. You muster up all the strength you can to open your eyes and look down to see what’s going on. 

You see your big, broad man licking you up so sweetly, but from his mouth down he is also absolutely soaked, down to the collar of his dark green shirt he was wearing. 

Holy fuck. You fucking squirted. That was new. And with Joel’s reaction to it, you’re definitely sure that’s not gonna be the last time he pulls that out of you. 

He doesn’t realize you’re up again until you’re softly calling his attention back up to you and not your pussy. He makes eye contact with you, and his eyes fucking sparkle. Yeah, there’s no way this was a one time kind of thing. He sits back up on his haunches and strips himself of his shirt. He never pulled his jeans back up from when you used him to get off in the living room, so his dick has been patiently waiting for attention since your last two orgasms. 

He strips himself completely at the bottom half, too, leaving you with a perfect view of his toned chest, softer middle, and bulging arms and shoulders. Your cunt, all used and abused, fucking clenches on nothing at the naked sight of him. Of course, he fucking notices. 

“Oh, my poor baby. She’s just fuckin’ beggin’ to be filled, huh?” His southern drawl always intensifies whenever he gets spurred on like this. And, fuck, if it doesn’t make you fold more than you already do. 

You whine at his words and spread your legs even wider for him to see what’s rightfully his. 

“Just beggin’ to get pumped full of my fuckin’ cum, huh, princess? Is that what she wants? That what my babygirl wants?” 

“Please, daddy! Yes, that’s what I- what I need, daddy… need you ins- fuck- need you inside, daddy,” you ramble out, already fucked stupid but still begging for more. He situates himself on top of you, stopping your begging with a harsh kiss that leaves your already swollen lips throbbing. “Shhh, I’m gonna give you what you need, darlin’,” and he kisses you one more time as he begins to notch his tip at your entrance. 

He hooks his arm underneath your knee, hiking your one leg up higher to open you completely. You feel him start to push in deeper, and neither of you can help the initial gasp of how good it feels to be consumed by one another. He leans down again to kiss you, unable to get enough of your lips on his, and you bring your hand back up to the back of his head, keeping him close to you, feeling the exact same way. 

He completely bottoms out into you then, his breathing labored and you, a whimpering mess. No matter how many times you two have fucked, his sheer size always makes you feel like it’s the first time. He stays still to let you get used to the feeling again. You both lay there for a few minutes, kissing and consuming each other’s breaths and moans while he gives you rhythmic little grinds to stimulate your clit. Your pussy is sobbing at this point, enough wetness has accumulated that he’s able to slide right out until just the tip is in you and he pushes right back in, hard. 

He fucks you hard, maintaining this rhythm for a while, completely consumed by the way you wrap around him so perfectly. What started off as one leg hiked up around him turned into a complete mating press, giving you the maximum sensation of his length and girth pumping in and out of you. He always gets so foul-mouthed whenever you two end up in this position, not that you’d ever complain because you love hearing that rough, sexy Southern drawl utter absolute filth that only your ears will ever get to hear. 

“Fuck, darlin’, it’s like she was fuckin’ made for me. Wrapped around my cock, so fucking tight and warm. I could spend fuckin’ forever here wrapped up in your tight fuckin’ cunt,” he groans. 

“All for you, daddy, always,” you respond, purposefully squeezing your pussy tight in time with your words. That drives him absolutely fucking crazy that he pulls his arm upwards in between your legs that are resting on his torso and brings his hand up to wrap around your throat. “Say it again,” he growls, “tell me who the fuck this pussy belongs to, baby.” He squeezes the sides of your neck tighter, creating an even lighter sensation in your head coupled with the submissive daze you’ve been in since you got here. 

“F-fuck, d-daddy- shit,” you can’t focus on anything but the way he feels wrapped around your neck while balls deep inside of you. 

“Darlin’ girl,” he warns, “don’t make me repeat myself.”

You sob out, willing your body to respond to him, willing your body to obey, “Th- this pussy belongs t- to-“ you take a breath, “to you, daddy, only you. Forever.” 

He releases your throat and pulls your legs down from the mating press, wrapping them around his waist instead. He places one hand at the back of your head and the other on the headboard, then kisses you furiously before breaking away, “God damn f-fuckin’ right, princess. All fuckin’ mine to do whatever I fuckin’ want.” And with that, he’s slamming into you, his hand on the headboard in a (wasted) attempt to save the wall from the constant banging. 

“Touch that pretty little clit, princess,” he breathes out, chasing his own release now with the sole intention of marking you with his seed. One hand still on his neck, the other snakes down to rub your clit in fast, messy circles, your body begging to cum for a fourth time tonight. “Daddy,” you whine out again, the honorific clearly being your only vocabulary for tonight. 

“I know, honey, I know,” he coos, “Cum for me, mama, and I’ll fill you up right fuckin’ now,” he sucks on your bottom lip, “You want that, baby? To be pumped full of me?” He knows your answer, yet he still asks anyway knowing how much his words affect you. 

“Please, God, yes, fill me up… I need your cum so fucking badly, I need to feel you, please,” you beg, only spurring him on more. 

With both of your mouths spilling such dirty words, his lips anywhere they can reach with the combination of you playing with your clit and him pounding into you, your body enters the astral plane yet again for the fourth time tonight. Though, this time, you force your body to come back down, so you can feel his warmth spill into you. 

It only takes but a few more thrusts after you climax for him to follow suit, roaring out as hot, thick ropes of cum spill into you, overflowing and dripping out of your sore cunt. He slowly pulls out, labored breathing, sits back up and just watches. Watches as your pussy clenches to keep him locked inside of you, watches as his load drips down your folds over your tight, little asshole. Another day, he thinks to himself with a smirk. 

He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until his fingers are engrossed in the thick combination of your releases. You moan out at the sensitivity of your pussy, but Joel doesn’t care. He slips his middle and ring finger in, feeling just how much he filled you up. And before you know it, he’s pumping in and out of you yet again, his eyes completely focused on your glistening sex, hitting that spongy spot inside of you that has you fluttering for another fucking release. 

“Ahh,” you hiss, not knowing whether you want him to stop or keep going. He uses his other hand to rub on your clit. Fuck. Yeah, okay, you want him to keep going. “Shit, daddy, I’m gonna cum again,” you say as you scramble to get ahold of the bedsheets. 

Joel’s gaze breaks away from your cunt to look at you, he smirks like the devil, “Oh, yeah, honey? Gonna give me another one? Come on, baby, I know you have it in you,” he slips a third finger inside. You whine at the stretch. “One more mess, baby, and then I’ll take care of you, I gotcha,” he says for comfort. 

You’re nearing the point where you guys usually begin to transition into aftercare, and he knows. He always knows. But he also knows that today you need a little extra push, so he gives it to you. 

The thrusts of his fingers don’t come to a stop, but they exponentially slow. “Give me a color, mi amor,” he softly encourages. Even with your erratic breathing, you’re able to force out, “Oh my god, daddy, green, green, green, please go faster, just like before, please-” 

He quickly leans forward and stops your blabbering with a chaste kiss and chuckles when he pulls back, “My god, I love you so much, princess.” Then his fingers pick back up to the speed you were so desperately loving before, his and your cum leaking out all over the inside of your thighs. 

“Fuck, daddy, I love you so fucking much, fuck, thank you, thank you,” you cry out. A few more pumps and a few more circles to your clit and you’re cumming for the fifth (and final) time tonight. Joel groans at the way you finish on his fingers, and it’s his mouth that blabbers out this time.

“Shit, baby, yes, soak my fuckin’ fingers, let me feel you, fuck-” He’s so enthralled at the sight before him, he doesn’t hear you pleading for him to stop pushing in and out until the honorific fades, “Baby, baby, baby,” you frantically breathe. 

He makes eye contact with you again and realizes how caught up he was in you. “Oh, darlin’, shit, I’m sorry, mi amor. What’s your color, baby? Fuck, I’m sorry-” 

It’s you this time who forces your entire wobbly body to push up and meet him in a bruising kiss. “Stop, daddy,” you say with a lilt in your tone, signaling to Joel that you’re back from subspace. You smirk, “My color is green, cowboy, but I really need you to run me a warm bath now because I can’t move a single muscle with how you had me, baby,” and pull him in once more for another kiss. 

His smugness returns and he pushes you back down on his bed, peppering your face and neck with kisses, forcing sweet out-of-breath giggles from you. “That, I can do, baby. May I join you?”

Your face completely softens, your stresses and worries from the last 24 hours completely nonexistent. “I’d be mad if you didn’t, Miller.” 

The next hour and a half — or until the bath water becomes tepid — is spent with him cherishing your body, washing you with your lavender, oat milk body wash you love so much, ultimately just helping you softly come down from your oxytocin high. 

You’ve never felt more loved, appreciated, or taken care of in your life. He always makes sure your come down is smooth and unnoticeable as you fall from a blissed state of mind to one of pure love and adoration. As long as you have him in your life, you truly believe you have all of what you need. 

As he’s drying your body up and slipping you into one of his t-shirts, your stomach growls… loudly. 

“Darlin’...” 

You pull away from his grasp, jokingly rolling your eyes while smirking, “Yeah, yeah, Miller. Come on. Gotta fill me up again, don’tcha, cowboy?” 

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes out followed by your name, “Tryna put me in an early fuckin’ grave or what?”

Author’s note - extended: Hi guys! I birthed this little one shot on a Friday night while sippin’ on a glass of whiskey and stressing about the stressful entire week I just had. This isn’t my first time writing, in general, but this is my first time writing with the intention of truly producing a story out of it.. this is also my first story I’m posting, so I’m very nervous. Even if just one other person reads this and enjoys it, that’s all that matters to me <3 I also wanna give a quick thank you to my bestie, who’s an AVID smut reader, for proofreading this. She said, and I quote, “gotta change my panties” and “she’s growling” after reading this LMAOO. So, thank you for that, bestie. I love you with my whole heart.

As with any fic, reblog and comments are very much appreciated!! All feedback is appreciated, too!!! Please do let me know how you liked this, and if there's anything specific I could work to improve, I'd love to know! I hope I did okay for my first actual attempt at smut.

Much love to everyone! <3

.

EDIT: As of the new year 2024, I no longer do taglists!! Follow @endlessthxxghtsnotifs and turn on the notifications to be updated when new stories come out!!

[beckyninja]

At First Sight

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x FemReader

Warnings: some suggestive content

Thought I'd try my hand at a longer, more story-based fic. You can consider this a prequel of sorts to Comfort. Guilliman meets the woman who will become his wife.

You gazed up at the towering figure before you: Roboute Guilliman, Lord of Ultramar, Lord Regent of the Imperium of Man. His armor gleamed, reflecting the light around you until he seemed to glow from within. You felt the weight of the fabled Aura. The rest of the delegation, your bodyguard and attendants, had long since fallen to their knees.

Doubts flooded your mind. Your family, so ancient and proud, was a mere spark compared to the nobility before you. Your entire homeworld was but dust in the cosmic winds. How dare you think you could treat with such a being?

No.

You knew the fate of your people rested on the success of these negotiations, even if they did not. You could not, would not, crumble.

So, you stood. Your eyes traveled up the magnificent form: breastplate, pauldrons, gorget. You had to lean your head back when they reached his face, your heart battering against your ribcage.

Could he hear it? Your research suggested he could.

Oh Light! Oh Stars and Void and all that lies between, give me strength!

Your eyes reached his face. And your mind went blank, all your carefully prepared speeches and arguments draining like blood from a severed artery.

His face seemed sculpted of the golden marble mined in the mountains of your homeworld. Every line clean and hard. The strong chin and aquiline nose spoke to his fabled resolve. The golden hair above his temples reflected light from the thousands of candles filling the massive audience chamber. He looked every inch the indomitable demi-god.

And yet…

The hollows of his cheeks and eyes gave an appearance of gauntness you hadn’t expected. The skin under those eyes was the color of a fresh bruise. You could see cracks in the marble of his face, deep lines etched across his forehead.

Your eyes met his. 

You hoped your gasp wasn’t audible (a vain hope, if he could hear your heartbeat). You’d read of his eyes, how they were cerulean pools of liquid fire. How the superhuman intelligence within scalded the minds of lesser beings. Bright and calm and calculating. 

The eyes you stared into reflected all of that, but very differently from the ancient records’ descriptions. What might once have been bright pools now seemed deep wells, sunken and surrounded by impenetrable shadow.

You saw the weight of worlds in those eyes. You saw weariness. You saw grimness bordering on despair. You saw loneliness.

The terror and awe that filled you mere moments before faded. Weariness and despair, your heart too had felt their frigid touch. And loneliness…

Ah, loneliness was a dear friend of yours. 

Perhaps it was foolish to hope you could ever empathize with such a being. One whose burdens were infinitely greater than your own. But, as compassion welled within your soul, as the urge to comfort rose irresistible, you wanted to try.

Before you stood more than a being of awesome power. Before you stood a man.

***

Guilliman scrutinized the woman seated at his side. Try as he might, he could not discern the source of your… for once he could not find the correct word. Your strangeness, perhaps. Uniqueness. Unusual strength of will.

After all, few could stand so resolutely in his presence. Fewer still could meet and hold his gaze. And the way you’d looked at him, as if all the shields he’d spent centuries erecting around his mind and heart were nothing but sodden parchment to be brushed aside!

Who are you, truly?

A blush bloomed across your neck. He knew you felt his stare and, with concentrated effort, looked away. Mechanically, he raised a goblet of wine to his lips. It tasted of nothing.

The past day replayed like a vid in his mind. The arrival of the delegation from a previously unknown human colony on The Macragge’s Honor. The appearance of their little ambassador. Your surprising level of erudition and intelligence. The hours of negotiations. All culminating in this diplomatic dinner.

Like a magnet, he found his eyes once again drawn to you. You’d adapted to his, and his sons’, presence with astonishing speed. Now you sat, listening to a high-ranking Imperial official prattle on with a practiced smile on your face. The man’s hand reached out to brush yours.

Guilliman’s hand tightened on his goblet.

“Ambassador.” He spoke without thinking.

The official glanced his way and paled, before mumbling some excuse and turning away from you. You looked over at him, once again meeting his eyes. The blush spread from your neck down your decolletage. 

For an instant, Guilliman’s eyes followed it.

An internal voice that sounded distressingly like his mother’s chided him, and he jerked his eyes back up to your face.

Throne damn it, what is wrong with me tonight?

“Excuse me, I ah,” he fumbled, “I would know more of your homeworld, my Lady.”

You began to speak once again of the resources and long-thought-lost technology your people could provide the Imperium. Your voice settled into the placid cadence of a diplomat. For some reason this irritated him to no end.

“We have already discussed this.” You flinched, and he softened his tone. “I would know more of its people, of your people. How have you managed to stay hidden all these millenia? Why come forth now?”

You paused for a moment. “We are a proud people, my Lord. The ancient records tell of our struggle to survive after contact with the Mother World, what you call Holy Terra, ceased. These stories passed into the mythology of my people: self-reliance and independence are seen as the greatest of virtues.”

He could respect that. He nodded for you to continue.

“For many millennia we built and thrived, half-believing we were the last bastion of humanity amongst the stars. When word of your Emperor’s Great Crusade finally reached us, there was excitement and relief… but also suspicion. Though some argued we should make ourselves known then, the greater majority advised caution. We would watch, and we would wait.”

***

You hesitated, remembering your Grandmother’s words before your departure.

“Since you are bound and determined to go through with this mad escapade, remember this: Reveal nothing. Admit to nothing. Lie, if you must. And, by the Light girl, remember that they are barbarians who will slit your throat at the slightest provocation.”

Now, pinned under the gaze of the Primarch, you realized the folly of such advice. You met his eyes and told the truth.

“Our archives tell of the time you call the Heresy. We watched the infant Imperium tear itself apart and congratulated ourselves on our caution. Then the isolationists amongst us rose in force and demanded the utilization of technology that would hide us from the rest of the galaxy.”

You paused again, considering your next words.

To your surprise, the Primarch snorted. “I admit, I can find little fault in their reasoning. Those were… dark days.”

Encouraged, you continued. You told of your near-complete isolation from the rest of the galaxy. Indeed, for millennia, your people had nearly forgotten there was a “rest of the galaxy”. They built, grew, bickered, and warred, all amongst themselves, secure behind their impenetrable barriers.

Only the arrival of the Tyranids caused them to lift their heads from the proverbial sand.

You leaned forward, lost in your enthusiasm. “For the first time, we must understand the existential danger humanity faces. We must rejoin our brothers and sisters as a united force in order to survive, no matter our differences! We can no longer hide and-”

You realized you were shouting. All eyes in the near vicinity turned to you. You even swore you felt the gazes of the towering superhuman soldiers standing guard. Blood rushed to your face.

“I, I apologize, my Lord. I forgot myself.”

To your utter shock, you saw Lord Guilliman smile.

“No need for apologies, my Dear.” He gave a quick glance around the room, and all eyes turned away. “I so often find myself surrounded by apathy and ignorance, your passion is refreshing.”

You blinked. For a moment, that smile had transformed the Primarch’s face, like a ray of sunlight piercing dark clouds. You felt your stomach quiver.

None of the archives had mentioned how handsome he was.

***

Days passed. Then a week. Then a month. And still negotiations continued. 

Guilliman began getting odd looks from his sons, especially Sicarius. Usually such matters were settled in a matter of days. Receive the supplicants. Listen to their demands. Reject or accept. Absorb or conquer. Move on.

Throne knew he had a thousand other matters to attend to. Yet, he delayed.

Part of him enjoyed the simple logistics of it all: how to transport the resources this new world offered, which officials to put in charge, the opening of new trade routes and lines of communication, etc.

There were also more troubling problems. You had insisted your own scientists were more than capable of overseeing and installing the technology your people offered. This would not please the Mechanicum. And, while you assured him of your religious leaders willingness to synchronize their beliefs with the Imperial Cult, curbing the fanaticism of the Ecclesiarchy could prove difficult. 

Throne, I have not even begun to consider how the Inquisition will react.

He groaned softly and rubbed his temples. It was late in the simulated night cycle. Still, sleep eluded him. Not so surprising, perhaps. But the reason for his insomnia most certainly was.

You.

It had begun with the simple pleasure of conversation. Once again, the speed with which you’d conquered the trans-human dread astounded him. Diplomatic formalities frayed, revealing the bright, thoughtful woman beneath, your opinions untainted by the blind fanaticism of the Imperium. 

An outsider's point of view.

Then there was the way you spoke to him, without abasement or religious mania. You spoke to him as a man.

In your presence, he felt human. The feeling intoxicated him. He began to look forward to your visits and arrange them with increasing frequency.

One incident in particular stood out to him. You’d just entered his office, your smile already brightening a day filled with monotony. The serf carrying a tall stack of new parchment hadn’t seen you. Sheafs of paper filled the air as he collided with your back, sending you both to the floor.

The poor young man had been nearly catatonic with terror. You had only laughed, kneeling and helping him re-stack the papers. His stammered apologies were waved off with a smile and a self-deprecating comment.

That was the first night he lay awake, re-playing your kind words over and over again in his mind. 

Far too late he realized the nature of his obsession. Desire. His imagination ran wild with thoughts of you: your smile, your laugh, the soothing rhythm of your voice.

How your skin would feel under his hands. How you’d taste if he…if he….

“Throne!” He snarled, “Enough of this!”

Sicarius snapped to attention when he burst out of his quarters. “My Lord? What-”

“Be silent and follow.”

Perhaps Chaos had sent you as a curse. Or perhaps some benevolent force in the universe had finally taken pity on him in the form of a gift. Either way, his torment ended tonight.

***

You lay in the quarters provided you, atop your bed, staring at the ceiling. Your mind whirled. In some ways, the negotiations were more successful than you’d ever dreamed. Lord Guilliman had indeed lived up to his reputation as a reasonable leader. He’d considered each of your requests, sometimes praising your insight, sometimes pointing out flaws.

In the end, he’d agreed to almost every one. Your world would be admitted into the Imperium, while still being allowed a modicum of independence. You should be ecstatic. You should be reveling in the thought that you’d succeeded when everyone back home thought you mad.

So much for the bastard granddaughter you pretended didn’t exist, Grandmother. My actions have ensured our people’s survival!

And yet.

You should be on your way home by now. The details could be worked out later. Formal diplomatic relations established. The few attendants you’d been permitted already chafed to be gone. You should feel the same. 

So much about the Imperium repulsed you. From the butchered servitors, to the monomaniacal clerics, to the glares of the Ultramarines who considered your presence a source of irritation.

No, not all of the Ultramarines. You corrected yourself.

Many had been polite. Some had been downright cordial. But the ones who hadn’t….

You sighed at the thought of Commander Sicarius’s unrelenting disdain. Oh, well. Disdain you could handle. Light knew you got enough of it back home. 

Your mind wandered to him.

He was the reason you lingered. The reason sleep eluded you. Like a simpering maiden you quivered in excitement at his summons. You felt more at ease in his presence than you’d ever felt amongst your own family. 

You could laugh. Especially when he made one of his terrible jokes. 

A smile flitted to your face at the memory of the first time he’d revealed his sense of humor. You’d been playing a game he called Regicide. Rather, you played, and he indulged you.

He’d been discussing reforms he planned to put in effect when his hand closed a little too tightly around one of the game pieces. The King’s head had gone flying across the room and smacked into the wall. 

You both had stared at it for a minute before he sighed. “It seems I have taken the name of this game a bit too seriously.”

The way his eyes lit up when you giggled. The memory still warmed your heart. And made your stomach tremble. He was so damned handsome when he smiled. You couldn’t help but stare at his lips and wonder what they would feel like pressed to-

You pulled a pillow over your face and screamed. What right had you to think things like that? 

Just because he smiled at you without pretense. Just because he listened when you spoke. Just because he looked at you like you had value. You’d gone and lost your head and heart to a man as far above you as the stars above the dirt.

Enough was enough. Tomorrow you’d request leave to go. It would hurt. But it was for the best.

A booming knock at your door made you jump.

***

Guilliman stood before the Ambassador’s door. He’d already shooed away the bleary-eyed attendants. Sicarius stood just behind him, emanating confusion.

The door slid open, and there you stood. A robe covered your form, your hair hung loose, and your feet remained bare. He knew you came directly from your bed, though your eyes were unclouded.

“I see sleep eludes you as well.”

“It, uh, it does, my Lord.”

“May I come in?”

You gave no response, but stepped aside to allow him passage. He felt Sicarius crowding in behind and turned to him.

“Stay here. See that we are not disturbed.”

He didn’t bother to dwell on the Commander’s stunned expression before ducking his way into your room. A few candles did little to alleviate the night-cycle gloom. But what he could see assured him his insistence on your comfort had been obeyed. Cushions and dyed fabrics covered most surfaces. Soft and bright.

Like you.

“My Lord? To what do I owe this honor?”

He forced a stiff smile. “I thought we had moved past such formalities?”

You huffed. “As you wish. Roboute Guilliman, what in the name of the Light are you doing here at this time?”

“I love it when you say my name.”

Your eyes widened and you looked about to speak, but he pushed on. “No one says my name anymore. Not my subjects, not my sons. Only you.”

“I…I…”

“This last month has been the happiest I can remember since my re-awakening. I have enjoyed, no, relished every moment of our time together. Your companionship, your kindness, your hope for the future. All these things have fulfilled a need I did not know I had.” He searched your eyes, desperate for you to understand.

“You do not know what it is like, to not be seen as a person. To be always held at arm's length, so close and yet so far from everyone around you.”

“But I do.” You whispered.

He fell silent.

Your voice grew in strength. “I know what it is to be forever on the outside. To be alone.” You gave a sad smile. “Though my loneliness stems more from unwantedness than reverence.”

Guilliman saw a chance and poured every ounce of his desire into his next words. “I want you.”

***

Your head spun. This couldn’t be happening. This demi-god of a man, this commander of millions, couldn’t be pouring his heart out in your quarters, in the middle of the night, looking like he was a moment away from falling to his knees before you. You tried to summon some sort of intelligent response.

“What?”

He moved closer, his presence overwhelming your senses. You flinched back in sheer, animal reflex and your legs bumped into something hard. With a soft cry, you collapsed on your bed.

In a movement too fast for your eyes to register, he leaned over you. His massive hands framed your head. His face lowered to yours, eyes two burning wells of blue light in the dimness. 

“I want you.” His voice lowered into registers no mortal man could reach.

You trembled. A thousand perfectly reasonable objections to your situation screamed through your head. You ignored them all, reaching up to cup the face above you. His eyes closed and his head turned to press a kiss into your palm.

“Roboute….”

His lips pressed against yours. It was tentative, at first. You could feel his inexperience. Truth be told, you had little experience yourself. But you tried to make up for it with enthusiasm. Your hands roamed his body, stroking the hard muscles beneath his tunic. You grasped the cloth and tried in vain to pull him closer. A rumbling laugh sounded from deep in his chest. 

He scooped you up as if you weighed no more than a scrap of parchment, holding you to him as his mouth took yours with ever growing intensity. You were lightheaded when he finally moved his lips from your face down to your neck.

“Roboute…Roboute…”

He groaned your name and pulled back for a moment. You felt the ache of new bruises upon your throat. 

The intensity of his gaze stole your breath. “Your people will be given every privilege within my power. Governors of worlds will bow in your presence. My sons will guard you day and night. You will be Lady of Ultramar, Consort of the Lord Regent, the closest thing to a Queen I can make you. Anything you desire I will-”

You placed a hand over his mouth. 

“Roboute,” you whispered, “ask me.”

He smiled. “Will you marry me, my love?”

Everything would change, and you had no illusions that it would be painless. But you looked into the eyes of this Primarch, this demi-god, this man who loved you, and realized you’d somehow known this would happen. 

At first sight, you’d known.

“Roboute Guilliman, I will.”

@remembrancer-of-heresy @solspina @sleepyfan-blog @moodymisty @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

@bispecsual @lemon-russ @kit-williams @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @adhd-fandom-hyperfocus

@justeverythingnothingelse @scriberye @bleedingichorhearts @c-u-c-koo-4-40k @mooniequeen

@passionofthesith

(Please comment if you'd like to be tagged in any future work.)

[smuttysabina]

Drunk on Love With Dreamcatcher

(Male Reader x Dreamcatcher, 5.2k Words) Tags: Group sex, Multiple sex partners, Everyone gets some, Everyone is also sloppy drunk, Dear lord these girls can drink, Don't worry though, they would fuck you even if they were sober, Also rampant lesbianism, Oh yeah, the girls are getting it on too, Multiple positions, Not enough hydration, Remember kids, drinking is bad!

The lovely ladies of Dreamcatcher chatter and giggle as they sit around you, teasing and gossiping as they guzzle their potent drinks. Flanked by a gregarious Jiu and Siyeon, you tentatively sip at your own wine, as the seven idols mostly ignore you as they grow ever more sleazy and boisterous as the night goes on. The girls cuddle and tickle one another, jostling against you as they spasm and laugh at each other's rough horseplay; even the introverts of the bunch start to join in the fun as well! All the while your own glass slowly empties, whilst Dreamcatcher's are drained repeatedly, burning through bottles of beer, wine, soju, and even harder options. You stare forlornly at your crotch, hoping the girls you love so much will not notice the undying bulge in your pants. Then suddenly Yoohyeon's tits are out, as she yanks her shirt up to reveal her perky breasts and wiggles them enticingly at the other girls who howl and cheer in encouragement. The protrusion in your pants only grows more painfully large, how did a poor Insomnia like you end up in this delicious hell?

You had been overjoyed after winning the contest at the meet and greet, one lucky Dreamcatcher fan would get to celebrate the girl's seventh anniversary as a group with them, and that fortuitous fan had been you. So after a tortuous week that seemed to drag on for eternity, you had been allowed entry into the hallowed Dreamcatcher Company building. Led up the stairs to their living room, the girls had arrayed themselves around a U-shaped couch there and greeted you cheerfully. Bubbly Yoohyeon, troublesome Handong, mischievous Sua, bratty Gahyeon, aloof Dami, sultry Siyeon, and kindly Jiu; all of them beaming and waving for you to join them. The table before the Dreamies is covered with alcohol, glasses, and snacks, there is barely enough room to contain the sprawling cityscape of glass. You greet each girl in turn, bowing and shaking their hand before you squeeze in on the edge between Jiu and SIyeon, who smile reassuringly at you. A staff member takes several photos of you with them, as the girls pose in silly or sexy ways for the countless fans who were unable to join them for this event while you sit there with rigid awkwardness. Then the staff bow themselves out of the room, but leave a camera to live stream the festivities. Which go about as you might expect, Dreamcatcher modestly drinking as they joke and chat with their fans on the live stream, politely including you in the conversation when needed but mostly leaving to your own devices as a prop for their fans to project onto. After about an hour of stressful boredom, the girls wave goodbye to the camera and turn off the stream; it's time for the real celebration to begin.

Away from the judgmental eyes of the public, Dreamcatcher is able to let loose in a manner that seems altogether familiar to them. The girls throw back their drinks as if it were water, with Sua and Gahyeon especially keen on drowning themselves in alcohol. Now their banter is far more ribald and lewd, with so many innuendos and inside jokes you are unable to understand half of what they are talking about. Jiu nicely tries to keep you engaged, but as the bedlam continues she soon ends up mostly neglecting you once more; Siyeon didn't even bother chatting with you much aside from some humorous flirting. But as the night wears on, the girls grow ever more lascivious in their touch and games, with the lightweights of the group becoming flushed and indecent in their mannerisms. Handong, sprawled against Sua, dares Yoohyeon to flash her tits; and that was how you found yourself goggling at Yoohyeon's boobs as she shakes them about to the jeers and laughter of her friends. Your boner straining the fabric of your pants.

Sua lurches upright and latches onto Yoohyeon's breasts, groping them lewdly before sliding her hands down her toned abs to Yooh's perky ass; who moans outrageously at the other idol's attentions. The other girls titter and cheer at the pair's antics, and soon Handong, who was forced backward from Sua's rushing body, takes her own revenge and mauls Sua's vulnerable ass in turn. The triplet then collapse back onto the couch in a flurry of squeals, accidentally bumping into Gahyeon who squawks loudly in protest as her beer sloshes out onto her lap. She slaps at the squirming mass of idol flesh in protest, before standing up in indignation as she notices the size of the stain on her pants. Huffing in annoyance, she strips off her pants and underwear and tosses them aside before plopping back down again and refilling her glass. Your jaw drops at this casual stripping, Gahyeon's smooth pussy had been an arms length away from your face, and the rest of Dreamcatcher had hardly even blinked. Dami though seemed to have noticed, as her hand starts to stroke against the maknae's exposed thigh, causing her to roll her eyes and playfully drive her off with loud kisses. Meanwhile the chaotic three seemed to have devolved into an extremely sloppy make-out session, as clothes were tossed aside with careless abandon. Soon the other girls were pulling their outfits off as well, and before your brain can fully process the fact you are surrounded by seven fully naked idols; leaving you the only one covered.

Eventually the cuddle puddle at the other end of the couch dissolves, and Dreamcatcher return to their drinking and joking, though now with a blatantly sexual tone overlaying their conversations. You continue to nurse your single glass, still unable to believe that your favorite idols were completely nude, bodies on fully display for you to feast your eyes upon. Gradually however, you started to notice that someone else was watching the girls as avidly as you, and was reacting in about the same way. Dami was surreptitiously playing with herself, her face becoming ever more flushed as she grows quiet and withdrawn; focused upon her own pleasure. Not that her masturbation session goes unnoticed, evidently this was a common occurrence at Dreamcatcher parties because Siyeon and Gahyeon start to kiss and suck on her neck. They fondle Dami's breasts and stroke her quivering thighs, naughtily whispering encouragement to her as she approaches her climax. Dami groans huskily as she spasms, her pussy emitting a wet sloshing noise as she fingers her drooling hole. The other Dreamies cheer at the sight, lewdly touching themselves to spur her on to yet another orgasm which leaves Dami shuddering with delight. Gahyeon turns away from the spasming pervert and is soon locked in an intense kiss with Handong, who wastes no time in working the maknae's breasts like udders. Meanwhile Siyeon had returned to her original position next to you, though she was now far closer than before, as was Jiu. The pair's hands covertly find their ways onto your thighs, staring at the other girls as they roam your legs. Jiu suddenly beams and looks at you as her fingers curl around your cock, her gentle eyebrows raised in mock surprise.

Then a hand turns your head and your lips are forced against Siyeon's as she lets out a sultry growl, leaving Jiu to haul your pants down and unveiling your erection. Her gentle fingers are soon wrapped around your manhood as she slowly strokes it, kissing your neck as she awaits her turn. You moan as Siyeon expertly devours you, her tongue roaming your mouth and hungrily pressing against your own; the combined stimulation enough to make your cock leak. Siyeon breaks things off with an intense stare before turning your head back to Jiu who greets you with a much more gentle kiss. Siyeon's hand joins Jiu's, and they stroke you together, taking turns to ravish your mouth until your head is spinning with desire. At one point they both get up to smother your face with their modest breasts, squishing and rubbing them against you, they laugh when you start to lick and kiss their flesh; patting your head affectionately. Eventually Siyeon breaks things off, and descends upon your upraised cock, taking it in her warm mouth. Your hips buck as she skillfully sucks you off, her tongue dancing along your shaft while she easily takes your length down her throat. Jiu leans back to enjoy the show, slowly rubbing at her pussy and allowing you to take stock of the rest of the girls. Gahyeon and Sua are doing shots together, while the lightweights Handong and Yoohyeon and blearily fingering one another as Dami takes her turn sucking on their perky tits. Gahyeon burps loudly as she spots you watching, before fixing you with a desirous stare and squeezing her breasts together pointedly. Sua notices her drinking partner's distraction, and joins in the fun, bending over seductively and spreading her cheeks so you can see her glistening folds.

Your balls are only beginning to pulsate from the overstimulating sight before, but Siyeon pulls off immediately, grandly declaring that your first load should go in their leader's pussy. The rest of Dreamcatcher howl their agreement, as Jiu scoots over and sits on your lap, your member bending up against her soggy slit. She grinds on you a little bit, before sitting up and smoothly mounting you, slowly sliding your manhood inside of the warm confines of her pussy. The Dreamies clap and shout encouragement, though your view is mostly blocked by Jiu's toned back so you are spared the more titillating visual support the girls were offering. Then Jiu lets out a soft gasp, and soon the room is filled with gales of laughter as the girls immediately recognize what had taken place, you were already cumming inside of her! You groan in embarrassment as your overexcited cock erupts into the idol's exquisitely tight hole, your sack pulsating as it desperately seeks to impregnate the goddess atop you. Jiu gently rides out your orgasm, allowing your seed to drain into her completely before unmounting and swiftly giving you a reassuring kiss. She pats your cheek, smiling kindly before moving away and is replaced by a giggling Sua and Yoohyeon. The pair have their arms wrapped around one another's' waists as they sashay up to you, smirking down at your shrinking member. Behind this captivating sight, Siyeon has a beer bottle shoved up her cunt, and is sloppily feeding a pouting Gayheon from it; while Handong is getting her ass eaten by an extremely drunk Dami.

You don't have time to watch the unfolding scene however, as Sua and Yooh lean down to peck your cheeks, before turning around and giving your eyes a health helping of their own. They bend over together, their pussies scandalously in full view, with Yoohyeon's butt noticeably perkier than her companion's, but Sua's cunt was far wetter. The pair sit on your lap, squishing your softening cock between their asses, sensuously grinding their dripping pussies along your thighs as they raise their arms gracefully. Then they start to dance, at first working together, their butts sliding against each other as much as your own body, seductively stroking one another as they move. Sua goes first, her tinier cheeks edging aside Yooh's and giving her enough space to give you a proper lap dance, her hips flying up and down in front of you and tantalizingly brushing her sex against your now hardening dick. She does the splits, forcing her pussy out even more until her slit is wrapping around your bulging erection, bouncing minutely to rub your cock with her sloppy pussy lips. Yoohyeon cheers in delight at the sight, slapping her friend's butt to spur her on as she rubs her back. Sua howls in protest at this sudden reversal, usually she was the one squeezing butts, and snaps her legs together before toppling to the side, leaving you clear for Yoohyeon to take her turn. Unlike Sua's excessive acrobatics, Yooh simply grinds on your dick, using her perky cheeks to stimulate your cock as she rubs up and down your length. Sua soon rejoins the fray however, chugging a glass of champagne before messily kissing Yooh, and pinching her erect nipples. The two moan as their embrace grows more passionate and the Yooh stops bothering to move and focuses solely upon Sua.

They only stop when you grasp Yoohyeon's hips and start to move her yourself, desperate for more sensation. The pair break off and giggle with feigned shock at your boldness, they were pleased to see you taking a more active role! So Yooh bends over the table wiggling her but enticingly before the much smaller Sua nimbly places herself on top of the other idol, their asses now stacked atop each other. Standing up, the pair look back at you as you rub your cock against their slits, relishing in the soft wetness of their lower lips. Sua has had enough teasing however, and loudly urges you to mount them already; but who to fuck first. Closing your eyes, you blindly thrust forward, meeting some resistance before plunging upwards and causing Sua to groan in triumph. Yoohyeon pouts as you plow Sua, slamming yourself into her painfully tight pussy and making it drool down your balls. With unimaginable effort you manage to pull out of Sua, who sighs in disappointment as you try out Yoohyeon's hole this time. Her bubble butt felt far more enjoyable slapping against your crotch than Sua's toned cheeks, even if Yooh's pussy was looser than the other idol's. You pump inside Yooh's pussy for a time, before Sua's blandishments convince you to return to her narrow hole. So you take your time, swapping between the two whenever you feel close to finishing, prolonging the situation for as long as possible before you have to cum. Gahyeon and Handong join you in the meantime, pressing their bodies against your sides as they give you lewd advice on how best to fuck the girls bent before you. Their breasts squish against your sweaty flesh, Gahyeon's prodigious bust in particular distracting you greatly as you pound Sua and Yooh's cunts. The stimulation was all too much now, and you groan unabashedly as your seed spews first into Sua's hole, before you pull out and slam your spurting cock into Yoohyeon's, creampieing both of their sopping pussies.

The pair croon in exaggerated amazement as they feel your warmth fill them, smugly wriggling their butts when you pull out as if mocking you for unloading so much semen inside of them. Then Handong is on her knees, sucking your cock clean as her fingers grope your sore balls; while Gahyeon pulls you down into a deep kiss. Sua and Yoohyeon scurry away, as Handong's head bobs in front of your crotch, and Gahyeon guides your hands to her impressive chest. She leans back to allow you enjoy yourself thoroughly, reaching over to grab a bottle of whiskey, as she teasingly purses her puffy lips. Gahyeon hops up onto the couch, shoving her weighty breasts into your face and uncorking the bottle. Licking her lips, she urges you to drink up as with lasciviously sloth she pours the alcohol down her tits, making you lap it up as the amber beads roll down her skin. The sensual moment is broken when Handong morosely protests from below, tugging on your flaccid cock in annoyance, get it up again already. Piqued, Gahyeon in turn starts yelling down at the other idol, who seems far from sober and more than happy to get into a screaming contest with the loudest idol of the Dreamcatcher. Luckily for the sake of your hearing, reinforcements arrive to soothe the squabbling pair, as Jiu and Sua drag the pair away, leaving you bleary from the sudden intake of alcohol as well as the absence of comforting heat. You blink away your confusion and notice Dami sprawled nearby, watching you with the quiet fixation of those truly drunk. She gestures vaguely towards the center table, now reduced to an unsightly mess, waggling her hand to guide you towards whatever object she seemed so interested in. You maneuver around Siyeon and Yoohyeon, the latter's lips locked tight around the former's cunt, greedily gorging upon her hole like a starving beast as Siyeon groans and holds her close. Eventually you find what Dami seemed to want, a small purple bottle with the Twice symbol curiously stamped upon it.

Dami sluggishly smiles as you had her the bottle, uncorking it with some difficulty before chugging a measure of it. She pauses, before her pupils suddenly dilate and she breathes heavily for a few seconds before calming once more. Her eyes have changed however, now they gleamed with feral sharpness as she lithely sits up and yanks you down onto the cushions with her. Dami lets out a chuckle at your surprise, her off hand snapping out and grasping your softened member, while she dangles the purple bottle proactively. Noting your confusion, she sighs huskily and explains somewhat unsteadily that it was aphrodisiac, and if you wanted some well... Dami was in the mood for some fun. You readily agree to her terms, one gorgeous goddess was better than none, considering the current state of you manhood. Dami grabs a glass and carefully measures out a small portion for you, before guiding it to your lips for you. You drink the oddly sweet liquid, and cock your head at the idol, wasn't this supposed to do something? She rolls her eyes at your impatience, and resumes fondling your genitals with aplomb until you feel a sudden burning spreading from your stomach to your crotch. You groan as your cock grinds upwards until you are staggeringly erect, your brains succumbing to the sweltering sensation wracking your body. Dami's lips part with anticipation as you fill her hand with throbbing meat, she leans back and spreads her legs for you; well?

In a flash you are ravishing Dami, your cock buried fully within her pussy before you could conjure the thought to do so. You rut like an animal, snorting and grunting as you pump between her lithe thighs, forcing her legs back until you are mating pressing her with abandon. Dami for her part responds in kind, the aphrodisiac mixing dangerously with the alcohol. leaving her lethargic yet still possessing some of the sadism she reserves for male fans. Her nail rake your back, she gnaws at your neck, she hoarsely hisses foul imprecations in your ears as you fuck her; all of which drives you further into a mating frenzy. You can dimly register baying laughter and raucous encouragement coming from nearby, but you are unable to focus upon it as your brain melts until it is solely fixated on breeding Dami. So it is to little surprise that you do, howling as your seed pours into her sopping wet cunt, your balls aching as they spend themselves inside of Dami. Who moans as you inseminate her, shuddering as she climaxes from the sheer pleasure of getting bred by a filthy man like you. The fog roiling your mind seems to drain away with your semen, leaving you cognizant, yet still undeniably aroused. When you gather your wits enough to glance down to see how Dami is faring, you find that she is already fast asleep, snoring even as her pussy burps your load out onto the couch.

You turn to find yourself presented with the surprising sight of an upraised ass, it's owners head buried in a trash can and blubbering in torment. Yoohyeon and Siyeon lounge nearby, both of them now thoroughly flushed from both their sex, as well as the alcohol, taking turns languidly slapping the unknown butt. They nod encouragingly as you step closer, blithely urging you to mount the idol, even as you hesitate. Then Handong's head pops out of the trashcan, and she groggily demands you fuck her asshole, slurring as she happily welcomes you inside of her. Siyeon and Yooh chortle at this, obviously used to Handong's eccentricities, and you are further fortified as Jiu joins the pair and endorses the plan; just stick it in her butt already! So you do, pressing your slick cock against the surprisingly unresisting anus, sliding into the stuffy heat of Handong's asshole. Her moans reverberate out of the can as you start to thrust, moving slowly so as to not hurt her more sensitive hole. The trio watching you copulate with their fellow member, pass commentary on your technique as they pour out yet another round of drinks, liberally drinking as they masturbate to the sight of you fucking Handong's butt. Then a familiar softness squishes against your chest, and the reek of whiskey tickles your nose, as Gahyeon presses herself against your back; and whispers slyly to be rougher with her roommate. Unconsciously, your pace increases, causing Handong to grow even louder, her slit now slick enough to wet your balls when they slap against it. She whimpers, less from the pain of having her ass violated and more from the colossal headache she is currently enduring. Finally though, Handong lets out a weak shiver, before going limp as she passes out, her asshole losing any semblance of tightness as her consciousness fades.

The awake members of Dreamcatcher cheer as they drag Handong's head out of the trashcan and lay her on her side, letting her sleep off the alcohol coursing through her veins. Not that your erection had gone unnoticed however, Siyeon and Yoohyeon had staggered back to you and were already fondling it playfully. This time Yoohyeon is the one to take you in her mouth, sucking you enthusiastically as Siyeon toys with your nipples and makes you grope her perky breasts. Gahyeon pouts jealously from next to Jiu and Sua, but her elders are soon soothing her by suckling upon her swaying breasts and fingering her skillfully. Siyeon forces your head back to look at her as she kisses you as lustfully as before, except this time she means to seal the deal. She pushes you back onto the couch, causing Yoohyeon to let out a gasp of inebriated confusion as your cock suddenly flies out of her mouth. Siyeon bites her plump lip as she clambers atop you, rubbing your tip against the soaking folds of her pussy as she prepares to mount you. With a drawn out groan she shoves your now bulbous manhood into her greedy cunt, relishing every inch that slides inside of her. Yoohyeon meanwhile staggers over and starts to grope and kiss Siyeon, playing with her clit as her fellow idol awkwardly attempts to ride you while bearing Yooh's weight. So she settles for a more primal grinding, which was less satisfying than a rough pounding, but still hit her sensitive spots quite nicely. The constant rocking seems to be getting to Yooh however, as her stomach sloshes its contents around precariously until she finally unlatches herself from Siyeon and collapses backwards with a nauseated groan. Which frees up Siyeon for the final stretch as she unleashes her pent up lust upon your cock, twerking and bouncing wildly as she approaches climax. She moans sweetly as her pussy convulses, her folds clenching tight around your manhood and causing it to join her in orgasming, unloading your turgid sperm into the idol. She blows kisses at you as your seed leaks slowly out of her cunt, slowly rocking her hips in the afterglow of sex before gingerly unimpaling herself. Siyeon curls up next to the now resting Yoohyeon, cheerfully uncaring of the mess her sloppy pussy was making on the couch, and promptly joins her cuddle buddy in sleep.

Which leaves the Mom and Dad of Dreamcatcher, as well as their most tumultuous Daughter. Jiu and Sua though appear content to simply lay back and finger one another however, passionately embracing as their perky breasts press together. Gahyeon on the other hand... Gahyeon had been glaring lustfully at you the entire night, and now she could finally slake herself upon you. Gahyeon drains the tankard of beer with a single gulp before sauntering towards you, her face flushed from more than just the massive amount of alcohol she had consumed. Her nipples were fully engorged, her skin slick with sweat and fluids, her pert lips pouting provocatively, her hips swaying seductively as she approaches, her lower lips swollen with desire. Gahyeon doesn't even need to say anything, growling with desire as she forcefully kisses you before getting on her knees before your still undiminished erection. She nuzzles against your hardon, still sticky with Siyeon's cunt juices, as she licks your ventral shaft from root to tip, cleaning it with her tongue. You hump needily against her face, your cock desperate for a hole, causing Gahyeon to smirk knowingly; so she takes you in her mouth. What starts as a sultry blowjob swiftly descends into a furious face-fucking as you treat her throat like it was her pussy, relentlessly fucking it until your balls feel fit to explode. Gahyeon's eyes tear up as she gags and chokes, even an idol as experienced as her unable to breath with the ferocious pace you were setting. Then you suddenly pull out, stroking furiously as she instinctively opens her mouth and unrolls her pink tongue for you to aim at. You groan as thick reams of cum slop out onto Gahyeon's face, your tip pressing against her tongue as the thicker loads leak down into her waiting mouth. She swallows it all of course, before presenting you with her empty maw as proof that she had not wasted a single drop, even as her face remains painted with your seed.

Your head snaps up as Sua cheers your performance, gaily waving a bottle of wine as her fingers churn up her asshole. Jiu now fast asleep next to her. Gahyeon preens at her senior's praise, chugging a bottle of vodka as she leans back and presents you with her chest, with what she had been teasing you with all night long. Her massive breasts wobble precariously as you hesitantly reach over to touch them, shyly at first, but soon you are lustily groping those fatty spheres. Gahyeon gives you a perversely demure look as you maul her tits, her own hands busy at work between her squatting thighs. When you bring your throbbing erection closer however, she smugly takes over for you, squishing her breasts together to form a fleshy cavern for you to fill; spit dribbling down to lubricate her already slick skin. Moaning, you mount Gahyeon's cleavage, your cock swallowed up almost completely by her boobs as you pump between them; your bright red cock head peeking out during your deepest thrusts. She nods frantically, urging you to plow her fat fucking tits as hard as you can, to defile them with your thick cum, to use her body for your own pleasure. With such salacious words in your ears, your balls quickly rise to the occasion, and soon sloppy globs of cum are fountaining up over her rosy breasts, filling her cleavage with sticky fluid as you empty yourself between her boobs. Panting, Gahyeon falls back onto her knees and cleans you off, her cheeks hollowing as she slurps your cock back to its original length.

Gahyeon leaps to her feet, and hops back onto the table, scattering empty bottles as she opens her legs for you in wordless need. You rub your tip through her sopping folds, her slit beyond soaking as it gushes onto your cockhead. She whines in annoyance at your teasing, her legs snapping around your waist and pulling you against her, desperate for your manhood. You both groan as you finally push into her warmth, her pussy gluttonously devouring every inch of your rigid cock. Her legs quiver as she orgasms from this initial thrust, so pent up with arousal that she is unable to contain herself once you are finally within her. So you plow Gahyeon's dripping cunt, violently rocking the table as your sweaty bodies slap together, with the idol exhorting you go fuck her harder and faster. Her arms curl around your neck, your foreheads pressing together as you lock eyes, unable to look away from one another. Gahyeon lets out another deep moan, as once more her pussy spasms around your dick, holding you tight as yet more of her juices leak out onto the table. Trembling, you slowly pull out of her pussy, releasing a gush fluids from the idol's gaping hole, your cock now as messy as it had been before she cleaned it. You haul her off of the table, as Gahyeon gives you a bemused look before you turn her around and bend her over it instead, you want to go deeper. She gasps loudly as you mount her from behind, the staccato clap of her ass hitting your crotch reverberating around the room as you pound away. She claws and grasps at the table as you go into a frenzy, your lust as fired as it had been with Dami, plowing her so hard her voice becomes shrill and piercing. You spank Gahyeon's already ripe-colored cheeks until they burn bright red, clenching tight around her nubile waist to hold her steady as you violate the depths of her hole. Your strokes gradually begin to slow, becoming harder and deeper, causing Gahyeon to harshly shriek for your seed; the idol's brain gone blurry in her need for sexual gratification. Her folds grip your cock like a vice, making every movement painfully enjoyable, forcing you to stay deep inside of her as your sore balls pulsate once more. Gahyeon howls as your semen sputters into her fertile cunt, her own cries easily drowning out your own as she screeches in triumphal pleasure as her pussy is at last doused with cum.

You stagger backwards, followed by Gahyeon who unsteadily wobbles to the couch and collapses next to Siyeon, exhausted from both the sex as well as the alcohol. And you are much inclined to join her, but loud applause comes from the other side of the couch, as Sua cackles with delight from the show you had put on. Though it seems as if the idol herself had been engaged in a performance of her own, judging by the wine bottle currently buried halfway up her ass. You trudge around the table to crumple down next to Sua, who greets you cheerfully enough, though she does seem a touch disappointed as she fondles your now flaccid cock. She congratulates you for cumming inside all of Dreamcatcher, even if you needed a little chemical help to do so. She pulls your head onto her modest breasts, soothingly rubbing it as she woos you to sleep; just rest for now you can get cleaned up in the morning... After all, you will need you strength for tomorrow when Dreamcatcher release the video of you fucking them all senseless.

Oh did they forget to tell you that? Well don't worry, Insomnia is a relatively tame fandom, unless you just porked all of their favorite idols of course...

Sweet dreams!

[moosesarecute]

Part 15: The Shadows Sing

Part 14 The Shadows Comfort

As soon as Azriel landed in the training clearing not far from your cabin, he knew something was wrong.

The air felt tight and he started to feel drained, drained of his magic.

“Faebane,” he stated and Feyre nodded in agreement.

A loud shriek caught their attention and a raven flew through the sky.

“This is not good,” Azriel said, remembering what you had told him.

“Drop your weapons,” a voice said behind them.

Feyre and Azriel turned around to see a group of 15 illyrian warriors. Some of them carried siphons and others didn’t.

“Drop your weapons or I’ll have your dear son killed,” the same illyrian spoke.

Azriel and Feyre shared a nod before they let their weapons fall to the ground with a loud thud.

They stayed calm as their hands were bound on their back with faebane handcuffs.

Azriel knew they had to tread carefully. They had to cooperate so that Nyx wouldn’t get hurt, but they also had to make sure they could fight if needed.

Luckily, your shadows were there to help. They were jumping from tree to tree, shadow to shadow, so that they were hidden, but still could get every detail with them.

“Now, come with us,” the same illyrian said once more. He must be some kind of leader. The male had three siphons. “Or your son will pay the price.”

Azriel both heard and saw Feyre freeze beside him, before he noticed the fear turned into anger.

They started walking deeper into the forest. Towards the biggest clearing, Azriel realized. The one where you usually met with your group.

Azriel spent the walk trying to rememorize the way. But he soon only saw trees. They were walking in circles, to confuse them.

After a while, Azriel once more heard the shriek of The Raven. The Illyrians heard it too, and soon they were leaded in a different direction than before.

“Where are you taking us?” Feyre asked. Her voice was confident and Azriel was sure he was the only one that was the mountain as emotions she was carrying.

Fear, anger, disappointment and irritation was only a few of them.

They ignored her question, but they got their answer anyway.

Behind the enormous trees, they spotted illyrian wings, many illyrian wings. As they got closer, Azriel concluded that there probably were 100 of them plus your hunting group. It was a lot more than what they thought. They had concluded on 60 rogues.

They were leaded to the middle of the group of people and then thrown to the ground. Azriel’s knives were laid on a nearby table.

“Where’s my son?” Feyre asked with a poisonous hiss.

“He’s being taken care of.”

“What do you want from us?”

“We want justice!” A male hissed.

“Justice for all our lost soldiers!” Another one continued.

“Then I would recommend you talk to us instead of kidnapping our son,” Feyre answered calmly as death.

“Where’s the fun in that?” The leader of the Illyrians answered.

“Just give me my son back and then we can sit down together and find a solution to all these problems,” Feyre tried.

“No, that would be too easy. We would anyway like to speak with the High Lord, not his whore.”

“Careful,” Azriel hissed. Both to alarm the illyrian, but also because he in the corner of his eyes could see your shadows move closer.

The illyrian laughed at him.

“We lost many during the war,” he continued. “We helped you and we didn’t get anything back. We had to come to The Middle to find anyone that wanted to help us.”

Coming from the group of Illyrians came your leader and the rest of your hunting group. Azriel felt his blood boiling at the sight of them. He really wanted to hurt them, hurt them because they hurt you.

“We have someone that really wants to meet you,” your leader said.

He stepped to the side and one of the twins, Sole, threw you forward. You tried to step one food in front of the other, but you still hadn’t been able to fix your prosthetic. You fell to the ground and let out a small cry.

You had bruises all over your body and you had a black eye forming. Azriel could see your hands shaking, but he could see it wasn’t from fear. You were shaking from the pain.

“Get up, bastard,” the illyrian leader shouted at you.

Azriel had to hold back a snare, but his eyes never left you.

You slowly stood up, strongly leaning onto your prosthetic. You quickly let your eyes meet his before you looked away.

“I wanted you to meet the female that let us all down, not as bad as her mate of course, but she still betrayed us. The High Lady of the Night Court.”

You carefully put your gaze onto Feyre. Azriel saw that you didn’t act with fear, but with caution.

Slowly you lifted your prosthetic of the ground. You moved it a few centimeters behind you before you let it onto the ground once more. Then you leaned down into a curtsy, your head facing the ground.

Azriel has never smiled a more smug smile. He was so proud to know you.

“What the hell is she doing?” The illyrian leader asked Master Raven.

“I’m curtsying my High Lady, Adrian. She did after all save us all.” You spoke with total calmness and you straightened your back. “She never betrayed me, you did. Almost all of you.”

“Stand back, Y/N,” Master Raven spoke. Even Azriel felt the shivers that went down his spine.

You didn’t move.

“You don’t punish a child for something their parents did, especially if you haven’t even tried to explain your feelings to their parents.”

You slowly turned back to Feyre.

“They don’t have your son,” you said. “They did kidnap him, but they lost him earlier this day. I don’t know where he is, but they can’t hurt him.”

You sent a small look towards Azriel. You definitely knew where he was. The look told Azriel everything he needed to know. Nyx was safe, you protected him.

“Thank you,” Feyre told you with a small nod.

You once more gave a small curtsy.

“She’s lying,” the Illyrian, Adrian, continued to talk moving towards you. “I’m going to kill you, bastard. You’re going to get as deserved.”

He kept on coming with threats, but Azriel no longer spent attention to him. His gaze was only at your hand.

Your right hand was open, then you folded in your thumb, and then another finger, and then a third one.

You were counting down. Adrian was closer than ever.

“You’re destroying everything,” Adrian continued to speak.

You folded down your last finger and your hand was now a folded fist. Adrian lifted his arms.

You moved faster than Azriel had seen you before as you punched Adrian in the jaw and seconds later the entire forest was filled with darkness.

“Think you can do it?” You asked your shadows.

“Yes, mistress,” they replied quietly. They were quite far away.

“You spread around and I’ll count down. I can’t do it aloud, but I’ll use my fingers.”

“Five.”

“I’m going to kill you, bastard.”

“Four.”

“You’re going to get as deserved.”

“Three”

“Two.”

“You’re destroying everything,” Adrian said as he stood before you.

“One.”

You forcefully closed your hand into a fist.

Adrian lifted his own fist, but you were faster and you smashed your hand into his jaw.

“Now!”

Your surroundings were filled with darkness as you sprung into action.

You ran to your best ability towards the High Lady. With the help of the screw that was going to fix your prosthetic, you managed to open her handcuffs within seconds.

“We helped Master,” your shadows informed you.

“Disarm as many as you can, kill only if you have to,” you commanded them. “Listen to the High Lady, Azriel and I, but no one else.”

Most of your shadows left you to fight, but two stayed behind to help you.

One of them twisted themselves inside your prosthetic and you immediately felt your mobility get a little better. The other one helped stabilize you as you walked into battle.

“Take this,” Azriel’s smoothing voice told you and a knife was pushed into your hand. He was gone before you could answer.

Three illyrians. He was fighting three Illyrians at once. And he definitely had the upper hand.

Loud steps behind you drew your thoughts away from Azriel.

You turned around and faced an illyrian twice your size.

Your shadows were immediately at your side as you started to fight.

After you had disarmed six illyrians and killed two, you felt your injuries catching up to you.

The shaking in your hands made it hard for you to hold the knife properly. And your broken ribs made it painful to breathe.

You tried to look around, but caught no sign of Azriel. However, you did see the High Lady. She was fighting Adrian and he played dirty.

After Feyre got the upper hand, he backed away a little just to pull up the rest of their faebane powder and force it onto her.

Feyre fought good, but the faebane made it almost impossible to win.

“Move me directly behind him,” you told your shadows.

They did as you told them and that just in time.

As Adrian lifted his sword, you sent your shadows to hold it in place. Adrian stopped in confusion for just enough time for you to stab your knife into his back.

He fell to the ground with a grunt.

“Thank you, Azri-“ Feyre started, but her eyes turned wide as she saw you and not her friend.

You moved to fight the next illyrian.

The battle ended quickly. Most of the illyrians left as soon as the fighting began, others left after they got disarmed. About a quarter of all the illyrians laid dead on the forest floor.

It quieted down.

“So you’ve hidden your magic this entire time?” Master Raven asked you.

“You’re talking to me about hiding things?” You asked him back. “How many of our debts have you lied about?”

The rest of your hunting group stood behind him. You looked at Hazel and Sherry as you spoke.

“He’s been lying to me. I finished paying back five years ago, but he told me I still had thousands left!”

You heard flapping wings and felt your chest humming with calmness as Azriel landed behind you.

“Why should we trust you? You hid your powers! You’ve probably cheated the entire time you’ve been hunting,” Sole alleged and pointed in your direction.

“Says the male that doesn’t even share his food with his twin sister,” you answered back. Sherry froze a little from your words, but quickly started to nod. She told the others you were telling the truth.

“You’re still a traitor,” Master Raven said.

Seconds later, The Raven flew forcefully towards you. You prepared your shadows to brace for impact. You had multiple times seen The Raven carve the eyes out of someone’s face.

You heard Azriel’s movements behind you, but you knew he would be too late.

The Raven got closer and closer, its claws were flexed towards you. You turned your head to the side, not daring to face the claws that would soon hit your head.

However, they never did.

You slowly opened your eyes and turned your head towards the bird. It was flying in place a small meter away from you.

You looked directly at it and it started to fly upwards. It started to descend as it was directly above you.

With its claws tucked in, it carefully landed on top of your head.

It let out a loud shriek and took flight once more. It flew away and you didn’t see it again.

“You’re free of your debt,” Master Raven said.

“She paid it all back!” Hazel argued.

“She’s not free from it, she paid it!” Sherry continued.

“You’ve paid back your debt,” Master Raven said with a sigh. “Leave, I don’t want to see you here anymore.”

You gave Hazel and Sherry a small nod before you turned around to finally face Azriel and Feyre.

As Feyre opened her mouth to tell you something, both you and Azriel were covered in shadows.

“Nyx, help, fire.”

“Shit!” You said and shadow walked away.

You arrived in front of your cabin, only to see it emerged in fire.

You didn’t hesitate as you ran inside to front door to get to Nyx.

Azriel and Feyre landed on the outside of your cabin just before you were entering it.

“Y/N, stop!” Azriel screamed, but you didn’t hear him. Or, you at least didn’t do as he said.

He ran after you, but your shadows held him back.

“Let me get her!” He screamed.

They didn’t let him go.

He turned to Feyre and saw her in a similar situation.

“Let me go, Azriel!” she yelled looking at him with fire in her eyes. She was just as desperate getting to her son as he was getting to you.

“It’s not me.”

Feyre understood what he meant.

Time stood still as they were forced to wait for you to come back.

Azriel watched as more and more of your cabin fell apart.

Feyre let out a scream as the entire roof collapsed.

Azriel didn’t really believe in any gods, but right now he couldn’t care less.

“Please, please let her be okay.” He whispered.

“MAMA!”

Both Azriel and Feyre turned around in the speed of light as the young boy screamed from behind them.

Feyre immediately ran and picked up her son, but Azriel could only watch you.

You looked awful, covered in cuts and bruises, but Azriel had never before been as attracted to you.

It only took two steps for him to finally have you in his arms again. His left arm was around your waist and the other one held the back of your head.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into his chest.

He didn’t bother holding his feelings away from the bond between you.

“I’ve saved us all, lovely. You have nothing to apologize for,” he told you. But he knew it would take some time before you believed him.

“Azriel, we should go home,” Feyre told him. Nyx was safely held in her arms.

“You go first,” Azriel told her, his eyes not leaving you. “I’ll come soon.”

Feyre hesitated, but did as he told her.

Azriel loosened his hold of you and pulled away a little. Only for him to see your face properly.

“Did you say no to come to Velaris because you didn’t want to? Or because you couldn’t leave?” Azriel carefully asked you.

Azriel expected you to spend some time thinking, like you always did when he asked you questions.

“I couldn’t leave before I paid back my debt,” you answered him immediately.

“Do you want to come with me?”

“Yes.”

For the first time, both of you opened the sides of your mating bond.

Relief was flowing from both sides.

Azriel’s shadows covered you both and soon you stood on the balcony of the River House.

Azriel turned to you. Your eyes were wide as you looked at the city.

“Wow,” you whispered.

“Welcome home,” Azriel quietly whispered back.

He spent some time just observing you, before he could force himself to go inside.

“Do you want to stay here or come with me inside?”

“Stay,” you answered, your eyes still not moving from the view.

Azriel walked inside to face his family.

You had sat down on a nearby bench when you heard steps behind you.

The view in front of you was too mesmerizing for you to turn around and face Azriel.

“It’s beautiful,” you spoke.

“It truly is,” a voice answered, but it wasn’t Azriel.

You quickly stood up only to face the High Lord of the Night Court.

You immediately started to move to a curtsy.

“Stand up, no need for that,” he said.

You hesitated as you did what he told you to do.

“Azriel told me a lot about you. That you steered the naga saving many lives on the battlefield, that you saved him when he got poisoned and most recently how you saved my son and mate’s lives.”

He took a break as he moved towards you.

“Ever since Azriel mentioned your hunting group, I realized how I let you down.”

You started to protest, but he lifted one finger to silence you.

“I knew about your struggles Under The Mountain. I knew you fought daily to survive, but I still didn’t help you when I should have. And you anyway helped me, saved the most important people in my life. I owe you everything.”

You almost gaped at him.

“I’ll let you to discuss things alone,” The High Lord said as he walked away from the balcony and Azriel showed himself.

He quietly walked towards you and slowly grabbed your hand.

“Let’s just enjoy the view a little longer,” he said and followed you to the bench.

As you both sat down, your shadows arrived carrying cups of hot chocolate.

Azriel’s shadows gave you a cup and your shadows gave one to Azriel.

Before they ran off into the shadows.

“I’m not sure if they leave to give us privacy or to be alone themselves,” Azriel commented.

“Definitely to be alone themselves,” you answered. “My shadows at least are too curious to leave me alone without a reason.”

Azriel turned his head towards you. His hazel eyes glowed as they met yours.

“They remind me of myself.”

A year later

“You’re sure you want to do this?” Azriel asked you.

“No,” you answered truthfully. “Not at all.”

You had soon spent a year in Velaris, a year of happiness, relaxation and safety. It was time to go out of your comfort zone.

You had gone out to eat, explored some book shops with Nesta and even gone flying around with Azriel.

But now it was time for you to do something for yourself and yourself only. The most important lesson, according to multiple people in the Inner Circle.

Azriel moved towards you. He laid a hand on your hip and used the other one to gently lift your chin. He slowly lowered his head and his lips met yours.

“Now?” He asked jokingly.

“Much better.”

The kissing thing was new. Only a week ago did you share your first kiss, but it soon became your new favorite thing.

“You can do it, lovely,” Azriel encouraged you. “And if you want to stop, you can go home whenever!”

You gave him a small glare.

“If I go home before they’re finished, I’ll look horrible!”

“You can just call for me and I’ll fly you home, no problem. And there’s no way you’ll look worse than you did when your shadows did it.”

Your shadows immediately started to pull on Azriel’s hair.

He only laughed them off.

“Good luck, lovely. I’ll be in the area.”

He lifted his arms and squeezed your shoulders as he turned you towards the door. With the help of an enthusiastic push, you walked inside the door to get your first ever professionally done haircut.

Finally, life was something you lived and thrived with, not just something you survived.

Thank you so much for reading!

@i-have-a-thing-for-the-dark @saltedcoffeescotch @rcarbo1 @mrsjna @kitsunetori @thecraziestcrayon @blessthepizzaman @mybestfriendmademe @scatteredstardustt @lilah-asteria @aaahhh0127 @topaz125 @miadialila @ivy-34 @goldenmagnolias @bwormie @animalistic0

[h3avymachin3ry]

Hi! How are doing:D? I hope you’re having a good day

Can I request Zuka x reader who was his co-worker back when he was still a soldier and now help him raising Rocket? I really love this guy

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･COME HOME, DEAR!

zuka x gn! former soldier reader

established relationship, fluff, a little bit of comfort, u and zuka r married!!

i'm doing great, anon! still insanely motivated lol, had a lot of fun writing this! <3

Zuka was a remarkable soldier, as many would say.

As for you, you worked alongside him, eventually even dating him.

Well, it takes you a while to get to the dating stage. Slowly breaking down the walls around his heart, you get to see the soft side of Zuka.

When he left the military and adopted Rocket, Zuka thanked you profusely for taking care of his son while he was busy with work.

You were like a parent to Rocket, almost tearing up when he would boast about how nice you were to him.

It was comforting for Zuka, knowing you were always there to support him through hard times.

"Sweetheart?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Are you ever.. scared of what the future will be like?" He murmured, snuggling closer to you as you both lay in bed.

"A little. But I know no matter what happens, we have each other." You calmly speak, stroking his hair in reassurance as he dozed off in your arms.

Eventually, you and Zuka got married.

Rocket was overjoyed at the news, running around the house in excitement as you playfully chased after him.

This time was different, however. Because now you had a shiny gold band around your ring finger.

This was a time Zuka felt truly happy.

And for the first time in a while— he smiled.

Zuka loves coming home to you.

"I'm home." Zuka muttered, stepping into your home. He was exhauted, drained, and he just wanted to lay in your arms.

You were lounging on the couch, watching something on the TV.

Turning your attention towards Zuka, as he comes up behind you and kisses you on the cheek.

"Is Rocket home?"

"Nah. He ran off to another phight a while ago. Don't worry too much about him, I'm sure he can handle himself."

Zuka hums, as he sits down on the couch next to you. Resting his head on your shoulder, he closes his eyes.

"Tired?" You say softly. You wrap an arm around his figure, pulling him closer.

"Mhm... But.. I'm lucky I have you to take care of me, my dear." He mumbles, as he drifts off to sleep. ♡

i didnt know what colour to use so i used purple lord forgive me for my sins please dont crucify me

[atypicalamortentia]

The Forest || Lord Voldemort

Synopsis - You're Harry Potter’s twin sister, and the scar on your forehead proved as a constant reminder of that but now, it was burning more than it ever had and you knew he was out there… watching you.

Warnings - NSFW. Dub-Con.

Notes - Characters are aged 18+!

Word Count - 3.6k.

{Caffeinate Me}

Leaves falling from the trees pepper the forest floor beneath your feet as you walked deeper and deeper into the abyss. You are Harry Potter’s twin sister, and the scar on your forehead proved as a constant reminder of that, but now, it was burning more than it ever had and you knew he was out there… watching you. A crunch of leaves came from behind you, and you twirled around on your heels quickly coming face-to-face with that pale monster from your nightmares. “Hello darling.” Your eyes widened and your breath caught in your throat as he sauntered over to you without a care in the world. The smell of smoke and leather was overpowering as he stood before you. 

“What do you want?” Your voice faltered, your fear clearly evident both in your words and your face. 

“Oh come now,” Voldemort smirked. “That’s no way to talk to your beloved, is it?” 

“My beloved?” You asked, narrowing your eyebrows. The thought alone made you feel sick. Voldemort just chuckled at your question. 

“Yes. Your beloved. You may not realise it yet, but you will.” 

Your brows furrowed even more at his words, and the sheer audacity of them. He had tried to kill you when you were a baby and now he was calling you his ‘beloved’? You couldn’t help but scoff at his words, a little bit of laughter leaving your throat as you rolled your eyes. “What do you want?” You asked again, this time sounding more confident than before. 

“You, of course.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice was laced with confusion and intrigue. 

Voldemort took another long stride towards you until now he was right within your personal space. “I want you. I’ve come to take you, to make you mine.” 

Your eyes widened yet again and you shook your head violently. “I will never be yours.” 

“You must be naive if you truly think that,” Voldemort whispered, his voice low and husky, hitting your ear just right to send shivers up your spine. 

“I’m not naive,” you spat. 

Voldemort’s breath on your face was hot and overwhelming. Surprisingly, his breath smelt minty, almost as if he had been chewing on a mint moments before this encounter. He leaned into your ear, whispering. “Oh my dear, you’re more naive than you realise.” 

The colour drained from your face as his breath fanned across your ear and cheek. He pulled away to stare into your eyes, his icy gaze bore directly into your soul and you couldn’t help but shudder in response. “You’ve been watching me,” you say to him after a few moments of silence. 

“Watching you? Yes, I have been watching you, and for quite some time now.” 

“Why?” 

Voldemort began to circle around you, a tactic he knew would work to make your nerves shoot on edge the second his body left your line of sight. His hand rested on your shoulder and moved to the other almost gracefully as he walked around you. “You intrigue me, young Potter. You’re nothing like your brother.” 

“We are different people,” you snapped, turning your head to finally follow his movements. 

“I know that, my dear.” 

“Stop calling me that.” 

“And why should I?” He retorted. 

“Because I’m not your ‘dear’,” you spat back. 

“Not yet,” he grinned. His grin was toothy and it was enough to send even more shivers down your spine. Eventually, he reached the front of your body after completing a painfully slow circle around you and stopped dead within arms reach. “Tell me, Y/N, are you afraid of me?” You don’t even get a chance to say ‘no’ before he interrupts you. “Don’t lie to me.” Another gulp leaves your throat and all you can do is nod at him. You’d be stupid to say you weren’t afraid of Voldemort. He had been after you and your brother for the past 10 years. He grins widely yet again and reaches a hand out to tuck a piece of stray hair behind your ear, making you shy backwards until you hit a tree. Voldemort stalked towards you, almost as if he were a cat stalking a bird, and placed both of his hands on either side of the tree right next to your head. He had you boxed in now. There was nowhere you could run, and if you tried he would surely make you suffer the consequences for even trying. A pale white hand with extremely long fingernails came up to cup your right cheek, bringing your face closer to his. His aroma was certainly something you hadn’t expected and it was almost intoxicating. You had to shake your head lightly to remind yourself that this man was a monster. And not just any monster, he was the Dark Lord. As if able to read your mind, Voldemort let out a dry chuckle from his throat. “It’s okay to give in to me, darling. Things would be a lot easier if you did.” 

“I will never give in to you,” you snapped, moving your head away from his hand. 

Voldemort sighed slightly, clearly disappointed with your answer. “Oh my love, you will.” His hand fell down from your cheek to your hip, holding you tightly with an iron grip. You winced at the slight pain in your hip from his hold and tried to break free, but to no avail. “Tell me, what’s going through that pretty head of yours right now?” 

A hiccup threatened to erupt from your throat before you finally felt confident enough to answer the Dark Lord. “I’m thinking about how I could kill you right now.” 

Another dry chuckle left Voldemort’s lips. “Kill me? Now, now, is that really necessary?” He still wore that annoying grin on his face and it was obvious that he wasn’t the least bit fazed by your threat. 

“Necessary? Yes.” 

“And what makes you think you could kill me, little one?” He asked, intrigue in his voice. You shrug lightly, unsure of how exactly you would kill him. You could use his own forbidden curse against him, but you were no Dark Witch. At your shrug, Voldemort laughed. A hearty laugh as if you had just told him the most hilarious joke. This frustrated you even more and you struggled against the grip he had on your hips. “You couldn’t kill me if your life depended on it.” 

“I’d give it a good go,” you seethed through your teeth. Your eyes turned into little slits as your face scrunched up in anger. 

“I could kill you right now, darling, and nobody would come to save you,” he threatened, his laughing coming to a halt. “Does anybody even know you’re out here? All alone?” He asked, narrowing his eyes. You shook your head ever-so-slightly. Of course nobody knew you were out in the forest, alone, in the dead of night. Voldemort grinned yet again and let one of his hands loosen their grip on your hip to retrieve his wand from the inside of his robe. Another breath hitched in your throat as he pressed the tip of his wand to your neck, tears threatening to fall from your eyes. Your life was flashing before your eyes; all the mistakes you made, the bad decisions, everything. He laughed viciously as he saw the tears in your lower lash line. “Oh don’t be so dramatic,” he groaned, rolling his eyes. “Do you really think I would kill you?” 

You blinked rapidly, snapping yourself out of your trance. With a wobbly voice, you responded. “Yes.” 

Voldemort huffed; however, the tip of his wand remained pressed against your neck. “I’m not here to kill you. I told you, I'm here to make you mine.” At his words, he trailed his wand down your neck, across your collarbone and down the front of your blouse stopping just above the waistline of your skirt. His movements had been slow and seductive as he grinned down at you. You’d be lying if you said there wasn’t a heat pooling between your legs, that your body was betraying you at the evil man stood in front of you. “I can smell you,” he whispered huskily, inhaling the air around the two of you. “Your arousal. It smells so sweet.” 

“I’m not aroused,” you snapped back, although you knew that he knew you were lying. 

“Oh? You’re not?” He asked casually, another smirk forming on his face. “So if I was to dip a finger down your underwear now, you’d be as dry as a bone?”

“It’s called discharge,” you reply harshly. Voldemort just chuckled at this. He knew you were lying to his face, but he wouldn’t pull you up on it just yet. It was only a matter of time before you fell into his arms and he knew this. “What’s so funny?” You snapped. 

“Nothing,” he smirked, waving a hand in front of your face. “I just find it… cute how naive you are.”

“I am not naive!” Voldemort continued his devilish grin at you, one of his hands still grasping your hips tightly while the other remained on his wand stationed just above the waistband of your skirt. He leaned in close to your right ear before nibbling at your lobe. Your breathing was now heavy as his teeth skimmed your skin, eliciting a soft moan from your lips. Fuck. Why was your body betraying you? You felt a jolt of electricity surge through your body as his teeth continued to work at your earlobe, smirking at the noises you were making. 

“You make such beautiful sounds, my love,” he whispered, pulling away from your ear slightly to look into your eyes. Immediately you looked away to the left, trying to force the slight blush that was rushing to your cheeks away, or trying to make it so the Dark Lord wouldn’t notice the effect he was having on you. Voldemort wasted no time in kissing your jawline, grunts of approval leaving his lips as your body buckled against his. “Keep making them for me.” 

“N-No,” you manage to stammer out. The heat in your cheeks flushing down your body, settling into a dull ache between your thighs. 

“No?” Voldemort asked, raising an eyebrow at you. He pulled away from kissing your jaw for a moment to watch the expression on your face, one filled with confusion. 

“No,” you repeat more confidently. You puffed your chest out, your breasts pushing against his chest. This action sent Voldemort’s mind into a spiral and his grip on your hip tightened. 

He looked down at the tip of his wand resting just above the waistband of your skirt. “Take it off,” he murmured. 

“What?”

“Take. It. Off.” Your eyes widened like a deer in headlights as his words processed in your brain. Your heart was hammering against your chest and for good reason. The Dark Lord was telling you to take your skirt off. You went to shake your head in protest, but his grip tightened further. “You don’t have a choice, sweetheart. Take it off.” Your hands shakily made their way to your skirt's waistband, thumbs hooking underneath before pulling it down hesitantly. His hand moved off your hip to give you the means to pull down the item of clothing. You looked up at Voldemort to see him staring at you with a predatory gaze, his wand now tucked delicately back into his robes. Once your skirt pooled at your feet, Voldemort wasted no time in turning you around so you were now facing the tree. Both of his hands now rested on your hips before he felt up your plump ass, squeezing your cheeks together in the palms of his hands. Mumbling something under his breath, Voldemort ripped your underwear from your body and allowed the tattered fabric to float silently down to the forest floor - your pussy now on full display for him to see. You cringed at the fact, and at the feeling of your arousal dripping down your inner thighs. 

You wanted to scream, to shout for help, but when you opened your mouth no words were able to come. You found yourself wanting this. One of his feet nestled between your own, forcing your legs apart and ripping a gasp from your throat. Then, a pale slender finger made its way between your thighs, collecting some of your wetness before rubbing slowly at your puffy clit. Already, your knees began to shake. The feeling of pleasure already filling your body and the Dark Lord had barely even touched you. A chuckle brought you out of the little bubble you were in. “Ah, you’re singing so sweetly for me.” 

“Shut up,” you grumbled, pathetically attempting to close your legs. 

Voldemort just laughed darkly in response, his foot staying firmly in place in order to keep your legs wide open. His finger strummed at your clit almost expertly, pushing you to throws of ecstasy that you hadn’t experienced in a long time. “Are you going to cum from this?” Voldemort asked, a shit eating grin on his face. You sucked your bottom lip between your teeth in an attempt to stop yourself from biting back a harsh response and instead just nodded. “Your pussy is so needy. I already know it’s pulsing for my cock.” 

At his words, a cry of pleasure left your lips and your knees began to buckle beneath your weight. Your orgasm washed over you like a tidal wave and tears of shame and pleasure fell down your cheeks. The Dark Lord continued his fingers' ruthless assault against your swollen clit until your moans came to a halt and he knew your orgasm had subsided. You were breathing heavily, hands spread out and palms digging into the bark of the forest tree you were facing as if holding on for dear life. You were about to move when you heard the unbuckling of a belt, and the zip of a zipper. Then you felt something heavy and hard pressed up against your ass cheeks. He was big. 

Voldemort let his hand grasp the base of his large cock and positioned it at your soaked entrance. Without hesitation, or warning, he pushed the engorged head inside of your cunt forcing a moan to fall from your throat. He whispered praises into your ear as he slowly forced the rest of the inches inside your warm walls and came to a halt, politely giving you a moment to adjust to the foreign sensation invading your body. You took a shaky breath and nodded, giving the Dark Lord the go-ahead to continue. And he did. Mercilessly. His hips snapped against yours and it was as if the world had finally fallen into place for him. This was where he needed to be, forever. Voldemort’s hands grasped your hips tightly as he pounded against you, hitting that sweet spongy spot inside that had you seeing stars already. Nobody had ever fucked you this good, but you’d be damned if you’d say that out loud. “Fuck, you feel so tight,” he growled against your ear, nails digging into your hips. Surely there would be noticeable marks on your hips by the time he was finished with you. “I know you haven’t been fucked for a long time. You think I wasn’t watching you? This whole time, I’ve been in the shadows watching everything you do. Watching everyone you talk to.” At his words, your walls tightened even further, constricting around his cock. This told him everything that he needed to know: you were enjoying this. “Do you like that? The thought of me watching you?” He asked. You nodded your head pathetically, but Voldemort growled in response. “Use your words, my love.” 

“Yes,” you gasped out, nails dragging down the bark on the tree in front of you. 

“Good girl.”

His praise sent a shockwave through your core and you already felt your second orgasm approaching. You felt ashamed. Ashamed that the man who had tried to kill both you and your brother when you were just babies was making you cum. Ashamed that his cock was drilling in and out of your tight hole. Ashamed that you were loving every moment of it. One of Voldemort’s hands moved from your hips to cup your covered breast, bouncing with the force of his thrusts. He squeezed tightly, another moan slipping past your pursed lips. 

“I-I can’t!” You cried out, throwing your head back to rest on his shoulder. 

Voldemort brought his lips to yours, smashing against yours and immediately slipping his tongue inside of your mouth. His tongue wasted no time in fighting for dominance and his hips never faltered, his rhythm almost out of this world. Your heart continued to beat out of your chest but the second his lips attached to yours, you felt it stop for a second. He groaned into your mouth as your cunt fluttered around his cock, signalling how close you were to your release. He kissed you feverishly, almost desperately before pulling away. A string of saliva connecting your lips. “You can’t? You can’t what, my sweet?” Voldemort asked, a dry laugh on the tip of his tongue. 

“I can’t cum again,” you whimpered, your body already feeling as though it was going limp against his. 

He continued to thrust against you at an ungodly pace, his cock threatening to spill his own release inside of you at any minute. “You can. I can feel it. Play with your clit,” he demanded. Almost immediately one of your hands fell from the tree in front of you to between your legs, playing with the throbbing bundle of nerves. The second your fingers touched the little bud, it was like a dam breaking. Your entire body shivered with the force of your orgasm, a cry-like scream of Voldemort’s name falling from your lips. Your cunt quivered around his cock, which in turn caused the Dark Lord to spill his seed deep inside of your womb without hesitation. “Fuck Y/N,” he growled, almost angrily. His hips continued to mash against yours, albeit slower, as his creamy cum filled you. Your eyes widened as you realised he had cum inside of you without warning you first, and rage filled your senses. When his cum had stopped pouring inside of you, Voldemort pulled out of you and took a step back admiring his spend which was already dripping from your tight hole. “You look so beautiful like this.” Voldemort used a hand to spread your ass cheeks apart to truly admire the mess he had made before zipping himself back up into his trousers. He tapped your ass cheek with the palm of his hand and grinned at you. 

When he made no attempt to move, or do anything but look at you, you bent down to pick up your skirt and tattered underwear from the forest floor. Shame and fear bubbled in your gut. Now he had gotten what he wanted, was he going to finally kill you? You turned to look at him once you were decent again, taking note of the way he stared at you. There was a hint of an emotion in his eyes that you couldn’t quite recognise. “So what? Are you going to kill me now?” You asked bitterly. 

“Kill you?” Voldemort asked, snorting as if it was the most ridiculous question in the world. You nodded your head in response. The Dark Lord shook his head. “No. You’re mine now and nothing can change that. You will meet me here again, tomorrow night. At the same time.” 

Your heart dropped, and yet simultaneously beat quicker with excitement. Was this the beginning of a love between good and evil? “I will?” You asked, voice trembling. 

“Yes, you will. And if you don’t there will be consequences, my love.” You didn’t even want to ask what the consequences would be. You knew with it being a threat from the Dark Lord himself that it couldn’t be anything good. You simply just nodded your head in understanding. “Run along then, my dear. But don’t forget, I’ll be watching you from the shadows. Don’t be telling anybody about tonight. I shall know everything.” 

You nod your head and look towards the castle grounds before looking back at Voldemort, almost as if asking for permission to run off. When he nodded his head, you bolted for the castle, desperate to flop into your warm bed where you knew you would be out of harm's way. You hadn’t even gotten halfway to the castle and you could feel the warmth of the blankets smothering you. When you arrived back at your dorm, everyone was already asleep. It made it much easier for you to sneak back inside undetected and avoid the questions of “where have you been?”. You quickly pull on a pair of underwear, throwing your torn ones underneath your pillow to throw away in the morning and got into your comfiest pair of pyjamas. Your bed was so warm and welcoming after everything that you fell asleep almost immediately. When you woke up the next morning, your body was sore. You had woken up to being the only one left in the dorm room and took the time to inspect the countless fingermarks peppering your hips - they were certainly as clear as day, and you knew you couldn’t let anybody see them. There would certainly be questions as to who would leave such marks on you. But the main question was, would you rendezvous with Voldemort again as he had instructed?

[penspolin]

POLIN JEALOUSY/ADVICE ONE-SHOT

Colin fights his jealousy after watching Penelope and Lord Debling dancing together at a ball, is teased by Benedict, and seeks advice from Violet.

The silver beads threading Penelope's hair seemed to glow like tiny moons. If he'd had parchment and pen, Colin might've noted the perfect juxtaposition of fiery red locks and sparkling silver. He noticed everything--the way her dress swayed so effortlessly against the floor despite her stiff grip on Lord Debling. Was it only Colin's imagination, or did her gloved fingertips hover an inch from his shoulders?

…perhaps he was only imagining it. He reminded himself that Penelope's stiffness was for the sake of propriety. Of course she’d want to touch Debling. He was a gentleman, for one, and even Colin had to admit that he had his own upper-class swagger. A little posh for Colin’s tastes, but from the looks being cast his way across the ballroom floor, Colin knew the lord had made a lasting impression on this season’s eligible debutantes.

Colin hastened for a sip of wine, only to discover that he had drained his glass. He turned away as a certain red-headed beauty twirled across the floor (more gracefully than he had ever allowed himself to notice). He nearly dropped his glass as he struck Benedict in the chest.

“Steady there, brother,” Ben said, putting a hand against Colin’s heaving chest. “What’s the hurry?” He cast a glance over Colin’s shoulder, and the pieces seemed to fall into place. “I’ll say, your friend seems to be enjoying herself. If ‘enjoying yourself’ is best expressed by a scowl, that is.” He tipped his glass. Colin shot him a glare, even though his heart lifted a bit at this last sentiment.

“Oh, don’t be such a grouch,” Ben said, pushing his glass into Colin’s available hand. “While you’re at the table, fetch me another drink, won’t you?”

“I’m not your waiter,” Colin huffed, stifling the urge to turn back to the dance floor once more. It was like an itch, only scratching it burned like a rash.

“You could do with a break. Somehow my ‘sturdy’ little brother has spent the night looking quite pathetic in the corner.”

“I’m not pathetic,” Colin said, and pain tightened his chest. 

Ben rolled his eyes, still looking across the dance floor. “Say, maybe I ought to have a word with this Debling fellow. See if his eye for art is as keen as his eye for a wife.”

“Give him my best,” Colin grumbled, sounding more pathetic by the second.

Benedict gave him a sturdy pat on the shoulder. “And you, give Ms. Featherington your best while I do it. Now, hurry along now and get those drinks before the dance is over.” With a wink, he rejoined the sea of lords and ladies.

Colin gazed across the open floor once more. The waltz was approaching its conclusion. Pen’s hair looked on fire in the torchlight. His mind wandered to the fragments of a dream—Pen in the garden, her eyes twinkling a magnetic blue, her lips a luscious pink. He had leaned in just enough to catch the scent of her hair—like the wisteria garden, only…newer, fresher, somehow, and then—

“Colin, dear. Are you feeling alright?” His mother’s voice stopped him in his tracks. Her brow furrowed, and he hurried to right himself, as he had taught himself to do long before Penelope had pounded her way into the forefront of his mind.

Some things, it seemed, had not changed. He had a guard up, and even his beloved mama could not crumble it.

“Very well, mother,” he managed, swaying slightly on his feet. “Merely...looking for a refill.”

“Not feeling up to a waltz tonight, I take it?” The look she gave him suggested she knew there was a particular reason for it—Colin was not one for skipping dances. 

He had been avoiding his mother, he realized. Was that a flicker of hurt in her eyes? More than his brothers or sisters, Violet Bridgerton had always had an eye out for these things. And if that was the case, should he not be using her knowledge to his advantage?

“Mother,” he began, aware of the blush suffusing his cheeks. “Forgive me, I know we are in company, but I must ask. Do you believe the best foundation for love is friendship?”

She smiled, crinkling the skin around her eyes. Lovely eyes, so open and trusting. He suddenly hated himself for having avoided her, even if it was unintentional. Perhaps it was because of this conversation that he had kept himself from her. 

And something told him that she knew this as well as she whispered, “I think you already know the answer to that.”

[queenvidal]

Chapter 1: Flattering Of The Heart

Chapter Summary: In the Red Keep, dignitaries prepare for a big Tournament and the royal family's impending birth. The princess greets the guests dutifully, unaware of a secret guest, who is waiting for her.

Wordcount: 2056

Chapter Index: Chapter 1 / Chapter 2/ Chapter 3 - COMING SOON!

Masterlist

The Red Keep is buzzing with noise. More and more lords, noblemen and other dignitaries arrive in King's Landing, preparing for the fast approaching festivals. A big tournament will be held and the King called all important houses of the realm to join the royal family in celebration of the impending birth of the son. Maids and servants bustle along the hallways, taking care of everyone's needs.

You ascend the stairs of the castle, the long skirts of your dress held in your hand, preventing you from tripping over them at your fast pace. The urgency to finally remove yourself from the chaos after the long day quickens your steps. Once at your destination, you let the dress fall and catch your breath, before opening the big wooden door.

“Mother,” you announce your presence with a bright smile, the tension off the day already easing.

Queen Aemma looks up from the book resting on her lap. Her tired eyes soften in an instant. “Y/N!” She calls you warmly. “Come, my dear. Come, sit with me.”

You’re already half across the room. With a soft smile, you carefully sink onto the plush lounger opposite her. Your eyes flicker for a brief moment to her rounded belly before swiftly focusing back on her face. With genuine concern, you ask, “How are you feeling, Mother?”

The queen exhales deeply, closing the book before shifting to get a bit more comptable. “I’ll manage, dear.” Her faint smile can’t hide the exhaustion in her voice. “But I cannot lie, I’m looking forward to the end of this most unpleasant pregnancy.” 

Your brows knit with sympathy. It has been her most difficult pregnancy by far. Everyday has been a battle with overwhelming sickness and the relentless fatigue bound her to her bed more times than not, her usual vitality sapped. You’ve tried to help where you could, though your mother’s stubborn independence often made it challenging.

“How are our guests, dear?” she asks, shifting in her chair again for comfort. “Have you greeted them?”

Now it’s your time to sigh. “Yes, mother.” Hosting guests from so many noble houses had been exhausting. The endless pleasantries had been draining. “My cheeks still ache from all the forced smiles.” This elicits a faint chuckle from the Queen. You glance at your hands, hesitantly admitting, “I wish Father had let go of the idea of the tourney.”

Aemma raises an eyebrow at that. With a teasing grin tugging at her lips, she says, “You sound like you’ve been sentenced to some dreadful punishment. This tourney is in celebration of your brother, dear. Surely you don’t begrudge him that?”

Your head snaps up at the accusation. “Mother, no. Of course not.” Leaning forward, you take her hand in yours. “I am worried, mother. My little brother has yet to be born, and with all the stress surrounding the pregnancy and the preparation for the tournament... I can't help but to worry for him but especially for you.” 

“I’m lucky to have such a devoted daughter,” she smiles warmly at you before brushing her knuckles against your cheek. Her hand moves to a loose strand of your hair hanging in front of your face, slowly her eyes wander to your hair. “Your braids are coming loose.”

“It’s been a long day,” you admit, shifting slightly to give her better access. The Queen changes sets, coming to sit next to you. She undoes one of the braids, her fingers carefully running through your hair. A soft sight escapes you. “The sons of Lord Baratheon were relentless.” You let her know, looking at your hands. “They spent the morning showering me with compliments and little gifts. If I’d taken a drink for every time one of them called me beautiful, I’d have passed out before noon.”

Aemma chuckles softly, shaking her head. Her fingers weave your hair with care when she asks. “Ah, to be admired by young men. Surly it’s been flattering, wasn’t it?”

“I suppose.” You shrug nonchalantly. “But their compliments felt hollow, forced. I’d prefer sincerity.”

Aemmas hands pause as she is leaning slightly to the side to see your face. “But Y/N, what makes you say that? You are beautiful.” 

You turn your head around, looking over your shoulder to meet her eyes. With a slight hint of suspicion in your voice, you tell her. “Even so. It felt like they were saying it not because they meant it, but because they had to.”

Aemma’s eyes travel through the chambers, looking at the servants walking through the room. Her attention turns back to you before speaking to you in your ancestors' tongue. “You are a smart girl, Y/N. You knew this tournament was not just for your brother.”

The weight of her words makes your shoulders sag slightly. Unable to hide the disappointment in your eyes, you look back at your hands again. “I assumed as much, but I was still hoping.”

Aemma continues with the braid, her voice soft as she says, “You’re of age, dear. In only a few moons, we will be celebrating your twentieth name day.” Your eyes fall to the ground while you force yourself to stay quiet. “Your father and I invited houses from all the Seven Kingdoms. We want your husband to be someone of your own choosing.”

A bitter snort escapes you. “So I get to pick my own cage?”

Aemma sighs deeply, her hands stilling again. When you turn to meet her gaze again, your heart clenches at the hurt you find in her eyes. “Mother, I’m sorry. I… I just wish you’d give me more time.”

Aemma ties off the braid, her fingers lingering briefly before laying it over your shoulder. “We’ve given you time, Y/N.” Her voice is gentle, almost wistful. “Nine years more than your father and I ever had.”

“I know, Mother,” You reach for her hand, holding it gently in yours. “And I’ll always be grateful for every single one of those years.”

Your mother caresses your hand, not meeting your eyes. Slowly, her knitted brows are easing as a soft grin. “Am I right to assume you haven’t greeted all of our guests yet?”

You blink at her, your brow furrowing in confusion as you quickly run through the names and houses in your head. “No, Mother. I don’t think I’ve missed anyone.”

“Oh, my dear, you most certainly have. You’d be in much higher spirits if you hadn’t.” She huffs a small laugh, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “Would you do me a favor, my sweet?” 

You nod, waiting expectantly. “Of course, Mother.”

“The dragons seem rather restless today,” she says, her grin widening. “Why don’t you visit the dragonpit?”

“The dragonpit?” you repeat, puzzled. “What kind of guest would—”

But your words trail off as realization dawns.

Your mother chuckles, clearly delighted by your reaction. She gives your arm a playful tap. “Go, dear. Don’t keep him waiting.”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The afternoon sun is slowly dipping behind the horizon, painting the sky bright red and orange when you are descending the Red Keeps halls. Your heart races as you hurry through the corridors. It’s been months since your uncle left for the Vale and thought he'd be gone for even longer.

Hiking up your skirts, you make your way towards the dragonpit. The guards recognize you as once and step aside, letting you through without questioning. Your heart takes on speed as you near the pit. Your ears catch Caraxes before your eyes do.

There he is.

The rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen stood near his beast. His Blood Wyrm is roaring loudly, as if announcing the prince's return to the court. Daemon's hand glides along the dragon's scales, calming it. But his attention shifted immediately when he noticed someone approaching him.

“Daemon!” You call out, your voice ringing with joy. Ignoring all etiquette, you break into a run.

When his eyes find you, his expression softens in a way reserved for no one else. With a wide grin on his face, your uncle lets go of his dragon. At once he closes the remaining distance between you. “There’s my princess.” His voice carries across the courtyard. He opens his arms just in time to catch you as you flung yourself into him.

His arms wrap tightly around you, lifting you from the ground as he’s spinning you in a wide circle. Your laughter fills the air as you cling to him. When he finally sets you down again, his hands linger on your waist. His purple eyes drink you in as if he’d spent a lifetime away.

“How is the most beautiful woman in the kingdom feeling today?” The prince asks in a playful voice.

The warmth on your cheeks spreads, your heart’s skipping a beat at the way he looks at you. With mischief in your eyes, you tell him. “Mother is doing better these days.”

Daemon arched an eyebrow, his lips curling into an amused smirk. “And what about the most beautiful princess?”

While smiling from ear to ear, you say. “You should ask that Rhaenyra.”

Daemon’s laughs loudly at your games. The sound only intensifies the fluttering in your stomach. “Well done, Y/N.” His thumbs rub small circles on your waist. “And what about you?” 

Finally you answer his question. Still holding his arms lightly, you smile softly at him. “I’m well, Uncle. Better now that you’re here.”

His expression on his face falters momentarily, the playful edge melting into something deeper. He lifts a hand to brush a strand of your hair back, his touch lingering just a moment too long. “Good,” he murmurs. “I’d hate to think I’d left you in misery for too long.”

“Oh, you overestimate your importance,” you tease, your voice carrying humor and no bite.

Daemon let out a deep chuckle, “Do I?” He asked you with amusement in his voice. “I’ve missed you, Y/N.”

Your breath hitches slightly at the intensity of his gaze. Eventually releasing his arms, you clasp your hands in front of you and step back, giving yourself the space to breathe. “And what about you? How was your journey?”

Daemon shrugged his shoulders, his softened demeanor changing back into his usual confident charm. “Tedious. Dull. But all worth it to see you again.”

You roll your eyes at him, though you can't suppress the need to tease. “You’re hopeless."

“Hopelessly devoted, perhaps,” Daemon shots back, the corner of his mouth moving upward. “How was the court life during my absence?”

“Dreadful,” you admit truthfully. “If not for Lady Rhaenys Velaryons visits every now and then, I might have flung myself off the Keep.” Your eyes drift to Caraxes, the beast's eyes are also on you. His head moves closer, his snout almost nudging your arm. You accept the invitation to pet him. A low growl of approval rumbles through the air. 

“Without you stirring up chaos, it’s all pretense and pleasantries.” You recall, "The same empty conversations, the same dull faces. No scandals, no rumors, no uproar. Just endless monotony.” 

Daemon huffs a laugh. “So you missed me for keeping the court on their toes?” He holds his hand to his cest in feigning offense. “Not for my charm or my wits?” 

“Oh, of course, Uncle,” you tease him with your voice in a soft mocking tone, “The most charming prince there ever was.”

“You wounded me, dear niece,” he exclaims dramatically. “But I’ll take the compliment, even if it’s buried under mockery.” 

You two look at each other for a quiet moment. His eyes carry a softness you barely recognize. A small smile grows on your lips, you’ve truly missed him. Daemon takes a step towards you, offering you his arm and you take it without hesitation. “Come, walk with me to the Keep, princess.”

As the two of you move towards the gates of the dragonpit, the stablehands approach Caraxes with caution. They share a knowing glance, not daring to speak, saying the obvious out loud. The bond between the Rogue Prince and his niece has always been close but for a long time now, the air around them seemed even more intimate.

The rumors the princess wished for will spread faster than she anticipated. 

[roguelov]

Crimson Stained Petals (Chapter 4)

Summary: Set in the 1880s, rumors and mysteries swirled around a quaint town, mostly about a lord tucked far into the woods. Arriving in town, you could not deny your curiosities, but you were not here to stay. Or so you thought. Low on funds, and a job for a live-in servant advertised in the paper, you now found yourself in the home of Lord Morpheus - the source of all rumors. Passions and tensions will grow. Questions will be answered, but may come at a hefty price. And a promise may be broken. But, is Lord Morpheus, and those few residents, truly as scary as they seem?

Words Count: ~3.4k

Reader: Fem

Warnings: minor angst (dealing with nightmares and depression), mostly fluff, pining, blood (reader gets minor cut)

Chapter 3 and more chapters to come!

Over the few days, Morpheus had noticed a dreary cloud forming and seemingly growing over your head. It casted its gloom and rain dampening your radiance. Your smile was not quite as bright, it barely reached your now sullen eyes. Your presence was no longer felt in every room. Your laughter, your occasional humming, your musical-like steps were gone. You were a shadow, a husk. And big by bit, you retreated from him; you actively avoided him, or so he believed.

“Lucienne,” Morpheus asked one evening.

The pair was in the study. Papers littered all over the desk along with uncapped inkwells and used fountain pens. They poured and poured over the dull necessities of maintaining the bookshop - going over profits, bills, shipments, and new orders.

Lucienne peered at her lord over her glasses quizzically. “Yes?”

“Have you spoken with our dear mortal recently?” Morpheus still stood over the desk and continued to scan over documents, trying not to look bothered by his inquiring question or your sudden change.

“No, I haven’t.”

A tension set in his jaw. “I see.”

Lucienne quickly picked up on Morphues’s displeasure. A smile tugged on the corners of her lips. She was not oblivious to her lord’s far more chirper attitude since welcoming you into the manor. “May I ask what brought up this question?”

“Curiosity,” he replied nonchalantly.

Lucienne hummed, unconvinced. “Curiosity? Or concern?”

Her question stirred a reaction out of him. Morpheus whipped his head, now facing Lucienne directly. “And if I am, is there anything wrong in worrying about her?” His question was one of concern for you, yet his tone in which he spoke was biting - what exactly was Lucienne implying?

Lucienne’s smile only grew. She calmly responded, “No, sir.”

Upon seeing Lucienne’s calmness, Morpheus’s shoulders instantly dropped. His anger was misplaced. All the fight was drained from him, and soon the truth spilled out. “She -“ he sighed - “she does not seem happy and … and I do not know if it is because of living here or because of troubled nights.”

Lucienne thought of how there was an easy solution to his conundrum: he should speak with you. However, she held her tongue this time and instead opted to ask a question regarding you. “Troubled nights?”

“The other night, she spoke of having a nightmare.” Morpheus’s eyes shone with a heavy sorrow. “She … she was utterly frightened, Lucienne. Her fear nearly choked me.”

Lucienne frowned. “I was not aware, but a nightmare is a nightmare. There is not much one can do.”

Morpheus sighed, dropping into his chair. He tipped his head back and stared blankly up at the high ceiling. His heart - ancient and heavily barricaded - ached to see you smile. Just once more, just for a moment. In such a brief period, you had invaded his thoughts. He did not realize he craved it, sought it out, until it was taken from him.

Taken.

It seemed many things were taken from him in recent years. He pushed aside those thoughts and painful memories. He ran his hands over his face then through his tousled hair. Such complex feelings swirled inside his chest and constricted his heart.

“You care for her.” Morpheus lifted his head, looking towards Lucienne. She continued, “Which is never a bad thing, sir. She has brought new life here.”

And in you, she thought.

“I care for all of you,” he answered, dismissing her comment.

“You do, and we appreciate it.”

He raised an eyebrow at the weighted pause at the end of her sentence. “But?”

She smiled to herself. “I believe the care you feel for us and her are different.”

Morpheus frowned. Was he truly so easy to read? Did he truly become enamored with his housekeeper so quickly like a tale of forbidden romance? Did he truly want a partner … or did he want something else? He turned his head away, grumbling to himself.

Care? If one could call it such.

Does a farmer not care for his slaughter? Care, hunger, desire, it all can twist together. They can form into complex knots, making it impossible to tell where one may begin or end.

“For you, my lord.”

A beautiful picturesque rose dripping in a passionate red appeared in front of Morpheus’s face. He was working tediously in his study, and surprisingly failed to hear him. He just appeared, a magical and strange habit of his.

Morpheus blinked, gently taking the rose out of his hand. “Oh, uh, thank you.”

He smiled warmly like a sunny day. His wondrous new grander had already made such a change in the once dismal manor. Colors of all sorts were injected into the very foundation. Flowers bloomed wildly and freely, life blossomed with a new fever. “I thought you might like it, sir. Red suits you perfectly.”

”How do you do it, Lucienne?” Morphues whispered softly, changing the conversation. His voice was filled with sorrow as memories resurfaced. Sweet, painful memories, ones he wished he could forget yet also wouldn’t trade anything in the world for they were more precious than any gold or jewelry.

“Meaning what, sir?”

”To be close to her, to not be affected by her?”

Ah.

”Well, someone taught me control.” Lucienne slowly organized papers. “Someone had once found me in an awful state and was able to bring me back to my senses. Now, part of me cannot bare the smell of human blood without my stomach twisting into disgust.”

Morpheus’s eyes softened.

Lucienne gathered up the papers, ready to part of the night. “A solution to your problem: perhaps you can try to talk to her and cheer her up, sir. I’m sure she would appreciate the gesture.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And how would I do that?”

She chuckled, almost in a knowing way, and strolled out of the study. “I believe you will figure it out, sir.”

The soft click of the door echoed in the now quiet, lonely space. Morpheus peered over to the window with its curtains drawn. Even drawn closed, the setting sunlight streamed through the cracks trying to warm the earth in its last moments. Tilting his head, he saw the surrounding woods fade in the dying light. As his gaze darted around taking in the surroundings, it landed on a corner of dark greens and deep reds. Lucienne’s words replayed in his head. He was on his feet, already looking for you before he fully understood it himself. His feet carried him downstairs towards your room, however he stopped in the dining room. Looking ahead, he instead saw you sitting in the sun room. You were on the couch with your back to him and your head bowed. He immediately changed course.

Quietly, he opened the door. The potted trees and fauna stretched its shadows and created unique jagged shapes. A soft orange bathed over the room. The fractured soft light shone through the glass and casted you in an ethereal halo of twinkling gold.

You were a goddess of light.

As he walked towards you, you did not stir. You had heard him by the high pitched squeak of the door and the faint clacking of the heels on the tile floor. He stopped by your side, peering down at you. “I see you are still reading that book from before.”

You laughed, a quick huff through your nose, and closed the book in your lap. You glanced up at him with a forced smile. “Trying and failing, sir.”

His eyes swept over your face. Gaunt was the first word to come to mind. You appeared gauntly and ragged. Bags were carved under your eyes, and your skin had lost its glow. He pushed on, trying not to dwell and stare at your new appearance. “And what has your mind occupied this time?”

The other night. The nightmares. An unpleasant past. You.

“I suppose a lot of things,” you answered with a heavy sigh.

Morpheus frowned slightly. Yet, he quickly wiped it away, replacing it with a small endearing smile. He extended his hand down towards you. “I know a place to help clear your mind, would you care to join me?”

Your eyes flickered up. His dazzling blue eyes - contrasted against the golden dazzling air - only showed kindness and a hint of concern. You should refuse, you should stay or perhaps return to your room for the night, but … but how could you say no? Not when he looked at you in such an alluring way, and not since he piqued your deep rooted curiosity. You carefully set the book aside on the plush cushions, and placed your hand in his. “I would love to.”

Morpheus’s smile grew as he drew you up to your feet. “Wonderful.”

He hooked your arm through his and guided you forward. Together, you walked out through the back entrance of the sun room, heading directly for the rose maze. The sun had dipped below the horizon, however its last bits of rays faintly colored the sky. Oranges and pinks still stained the vast canvas known as the sky. They desperately clung behind as rich purples, dark blues, and an all consuming black began to drip down coating all corners. The moon, perfectly sliced in half, already shone in the dimming sky. Its companions, stars, began to twinkle and fill the empty space for the moon was never alone. The rose maze, under this changing light, was mysterious. The greens almost appeared black, while the reds were embers of a dying fire. Excitement buzzed across your skin. Your heart flipped, nearly dropping into your stomach. It was all so thrilling to finally set food inside, and to be by Morpheus’s side as your guide.

Even if you shouldn’t, even if a logical part scolded you.

Morpheus drew you close as you approach the entrance of the maze. “Now, stay close. At night, it can be tricky to navigate.”

There was a hint of humor in his voice as if he was trying to spook you. You chuckled, shaking your head, “Really? Is that your plan? To take me in and do what you want without anyone seeing?”

He laughed, a deep rich laugh that vibrated in your own chest. “You have me figured out.”

You smiled, a true genuine smile. It returned as if it never truly left. It was nice to be joking and laughing with him. It was surprisingly so easy, like two friends and nothing else.

No titles, no past.

Stepping into the maze was stepping into another world. The maze hedges were easily seven feet tall and two or three feet wide, it fully blocked out the world the further you walked in. The hedges were cut and trimmed to perfection. No branch stuck out, only roses. And the roses? Gorgeous with no flaws. There were full roses with their petals spread out to greet you, there were buds still closed waiting for their time, and there were roses in every stage of blooming covering almost every inch of the hedges. The sweet floral aroma tickled your nose and filled the air.

You hummed, pleased by the scent.

Morpheus peered over at you, taken by your wide curious eyes. Your eyes darted all around, fascinated by it all, memorized by its beauty. Strolling further in, he followed the correct path leading to the center of the maze. His stride did not hesitate, but only slowed when your eyes longingly lingered back on all the passing flowers.

Best of all, and to your surprise, there weren't only red roses.

No, the deeper you walked the red stayed, yet yellows, pinks, and whites were slowly incorporated into the mix. A beautiful blend, and various shades, of warm inviting colors. It was like a storybook, a scenery plucked from a far off prosperous kingdom. Tempted by their beauty, you reached out, running your fingers along the soft petals. It was fine silk, or like a cloud.

“Careful -“

You hissed, stopping in place. A thorn had pricked your thumb.

Morpheus instantly frowned and moved in front of you. He carefully took your hand, examining your thumb. It was nothing to be concerned about. An insignificant prick, no worse than a paper cut. A small dot of blood began to well up. The dot sparkled like a certain ruby pinned to his tie. Before he could stop himself, Morpheus brought your thumb up to his lips. His lips - soft and gentle - pressed into the pad of your thumb kissing it.

Your heart flipped in your chest.

Morpheus’s eyes glanced up, locking with yours. A look flashed across his eyes, a look which could only be described as hunger. He nearly knocked the wind out of your lungs by such a simple look. He pulled away and dropped your hand. Turning his back to you, he mumbled, “Apologies for my behavior.”

He licked his lips, tasting the tiniest bit of your blood. He had to suppress a groan. It was truly addicting, like a newly discovered liquor he could happily get drunk off of each and every night.

“I have an older sister who used to do such a thing if any of us were injured. It’s a habit I unknowingly picked up,” he explained.

No, not explained but excused. It wasn’t necessarily a lie. However, it was a lie he told himself and you, rather than admit the aroma of your blood tempted him to act.

“It’s okay,” you muttered, feeling your heart skip in a way you had never felt before. “I should have known better.”

Morpheus wanted to say something, wanted to do something. He wanted to draw you close, he wanted to wrap his arms around your waist, he wanted to nuzzle his face into your neck, he wanted to hear you say his name over and over, he wanted to -

“Please,” he cleared his throat, “I would refrain from running your fingers over them. The thorns are quite sharp, and we needn’t any more accidents. Come, the center is up ahead.”

He walked - no, marched - ahead, and did not bother looking back to see if you were following.

Your lips thinned in thought. You silently followed him as this bizarre tension hovered in the shared space. The only sounds were the crunching of both of your shoes against the pebbled path. You eyed Morpheus’s back curiously and with some trepidation. He had once again pulled away from you. He showed you such kindness, yet almost scared by something he backed off. Why? What frightened him? What thoughts floated around in that head of his?

Why do you care, a voice called out.

You tensed a little. Why did you? It was so pointless and idiotic, especially when -

“We’re here,” Morpheus said. He rounded a corner and disappeared from sight.

Skirting around the hedge, you let out a small gasp. The pebbled path opened up. The space was carved into a perfect circle, with patches of lush full grass that tempted any tired feet to rest. One could lay and gaze up at the stars, or have a picnic in the high sun. However, most would turn to the concrete benches that surrounded the showstopper: a fountain at the very center. The fountain - smaller than the one in front of the house, yet had four tiers compared to the three - had dozens upon dozens of rose petals floating across the surface. Peering up, the moon looked back down at you in this secret oasis smiling. Its light rippled in the water, scattering its reflection. With the various colors from the roses, and the moonlight’s, it glittered here like a treasure trove.

It was breathtaking.

Morpheus glanced over his shoulder back to you. His heart lurched forward. You looked so beautiful under the moonlight. You slowly approached the foundation, dipping your fingers into the cool water. You picked up a petal, admiring it before setting it back into the water. A smile never left your lips. Any issues, any problems from before, were gone. Each of you solely existed in this moment. Morpheus felt his heart being drawn to you, bound to you. Anything you wanted, anything to keep you smiling, he would do.

What a frightening and thrilling feeling, so familiar yet so foreign to him.

You moved and sat down on the bench, watching as the water spilled over the tiered edges and as petals spun and danced on top of the water. The sounds of the water splashing, and trickling, was hypnotic and soothing. You sighed dreamily and murmured to yourself, “What a beautiful place.”

“It is.” You turned your head, looking up at Morpheus. His eyes were directly on you as he spoke, you always seemed to get his full attention. He smiled softly. He produced a rose from behind his back - a pure white rose that glittered like snow under the moonlight. He sat beside you on the bench, “May I?”

“Yes.”

He leaned forward, tucking the roses behind your ear. As he drew back, his nimble fingers skimmed along your jaw. His eyes softened. You truly were a fresh change in his life, a well needed change. You had taken his heart in the short time you worked here with your humor, your wit, your curiosity, and your kindness. He was smitten for deep in his heart he was a hopeless romantic.

He turned away from you, looking to the fountain. Your heart skipped. His touch burned across your skin. You reached up, touching the soft pure white petals. A smile crossed your lips as you stared at the multifaceted lord.

“I suppose I have to admit I do have an ulterior motive for asking you to join me,” he began.

“Oh?” You titled your head. “And what would that be?”

To see you smile again, he thought.

“I have a question to ask, a request, and I did not want anyone else to listen in.”

You leaned forward, silently waiting.

He bowed his head, and dare you say appeared to be almost shy. It surprised you to see him in such a way. He peered up at you with a cluster of unreadable emotions on his face. “I would like to ask if you would join me to attend my dear friend’s party.”

“What?” You breathed out.

“I want you to accompany me to Hob’s party, if you so wish to join me.”

“I … I am unsure. I am just taken back by your offer.”

“Do you truly find it so surprising?”

“Given my employment to you, I suppose I do,” you joked lightly.

“If you wish, think of it as a bonus for your wonderous upkeep of the manor.” He searched in your eyes hoping to find his answer. “So? Do you accept?”

You smiled softly, “How could I pass up such generosity? Yes.”

Lucienne was right. Morpheus knew exactly what to do.

Shortly after his surprising offer, Morpheus explained he will take care of anything. He will find a dress for you for the night, and pay all expenses - you reluctantly agreed after much arguing.

Soon, arm in arm again, he guided you out of the maze, and towards your room for the night. He paused in front of you, hovering slightly as if something weighed on him, as if he wished to say something else. His lips parted, but he just bowed his head. “Goodnight, I hope you have sweeter dreams tonight.”

“Thank you,” you bowed your head.

Say something, do something.

Instead, you just simply smiled. “Goodnight, sir.”

You twisted around to go into your room when a hand latched around your wrist. You suppressed a shiver at his cool hand. You peered over your shoulder looking down at the hand then slowly your eyes trailed up to see Morpheus’s wondrous blue eyes.

“Please,” he whispered softly, “when it is just us, call me Morpheus. No need for such formalities.”

Your heart fluttered, like a hummingbird. “Of course. Morpheus. Goodnight.”

His eyes twinkled, utterly overjoyed. A smile spread over his lips. He gently let go of your wrist and stood back with perfect posture. He bowed his head again, “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

You turned, finally stepping into your room. You gently shut the door as a giddy feeling washed over you. Morpheus’s footsteps soon faded away. You sighed, dreamily. Taking the rose from behind your ear, you floated over to the nightstand by your bed. You gently laid it down. Your fingers traced over the petals, unable to stop smiling. Maybe later you will get a cup and water for it. Your eyes, however, soon caught a folded piece of paper on the stand. Your smile faltered. Picking it up and unfolding it, your mother and father smiled back up at you. You folded the picture again. You tucked it under the beautiful white rose.

Just a little longer, you thought. I promise.

[thedamselzelda]

Break Into Chains

Featuring: Fyodor Dostoevsky & Beast! Dazai Osamu

Summary: Waiting... watching... done. Perhaps, playing this role was meant to take lesser time? Who could know now? Nevertheless, it's a role you must play out to its finale. Who knows what the end might be now? If only your part had been planned out better...

word count: 9.2k+, fem!reader, HOTD!reader → pm!reader (perhaps?), nsfw (domestic abuse [possessive Fyodor, very unhealthy relationship]), reader referred to with other names (no use of y/n), reader's eyes described as violet, Russian words used (general meanings at the end), slightly proofread

Author Note: Dear lord have mercy. This took wayyyyy too much time and for that I am sooooo sorry. I wanted to have this out last week, but the first scene DRAINED ME. I want to remind, or warn readers, this is a Dazai x reader fic, so Fyodor is not painted in good light.

ᡣ𐭩 There's also an additional part at the end since this part has been so delayed. The time is slightly ambiguous since I can't quite say when Dazai becomes PM Boss

previous part ~ next part | LBH masterlist | BSD Masterverse

Weeks had passed without a word from Fyodor, lulling you into a false sense of security. Yet, you knew better. His rats - Nikolai chief among them - lurked in the shadows, their watchful eyes ever-present. The unsettling thought that some of your own staff might be secretly under his command gnawed at the edges of your mind. But with the immense pressure of your new responsibilities, you couldn't afford to dwell on such paranoia.

Crisp crinkles echoed through your office as you shuffled through the papers littering your desk. Your eyes darted from document to document, meticulously ensuring everything was in order for the weeks to come. Invoices for food and excess liquor orders were neatly stacked, the staff schedule awaited your final approval, and ornate invitations for a masquerade party - Kōyō's insistence for after the Star Festival - had been prepared. The merger with the Port Mafia had transformed The Midnight's Caress into a whirlwind of activity, far beyond your initial expectations.

A weary sigh escaped your lips as you massaged your temples, the beginnings of a headache pulsing along your brow. A lit cigarette dangled precariously between your fingers, and you took a long, desperate drag, hoping the nicotine would quell the growing tension. The smoke curled lazily in the air, a stark contrast to the frenetic energy that now permeated the club.

When you agreed to sell to Osamu - to the Port Mafia - you hadn't anticipated this surge in business. Moreover, you'd agreed to the club becoming a front for trade, strictly in jewels. It was an additional burden, one you tried to distance yourself from, clinging to the illusion of separation from Mafia affairs.

Thankfully, Osamu had been true to his word, respecting your wish for distance from Mafia affairs. Yet, he kept you informed of pertinent matters, treating you with the consideration typically reserved for a high-ranking executive within the Port Mafia. This delicate balance he struck only served to underscore the undeniable shift in your relationship.

What had begun as harmless weekly chess games had gradually evolved into something more intimate. Weekend dinners became a regular occurrence, followed by conversations that stretched into the early hours of the morning, ending only when dawn threatened to break the night's spell. His presence, once a distant memory, now constantly permeated your thoughts, even in sleep. In your dreams, Osamu appeared to you, gentle and caring, showering you with the kind of love he insisted you “deserved.” These nocturnal visions left you feeling both comforted and conflicted, a stark reminder of the complex emotions that still lingered between you.

The lines between past and present, professional and personal, had begun to blur, causing you to find yourself navigating through an increasingly complicated emotional landscape. Osamu's actions spoke of a desire to rebuild what was lost, while your own feelings remained a tumultuous mix of longing, caution, and the ever-present awareness of your true mission.

Your weary eyes drifted to your phone, its white light a stark contrast to the warm yellow glow of your desk lamp. A message from Osamu illuminated the screen:

Osamu:Hey, I'm sorry. I ran into some issues here. I'll be there soon. Did you decide on a place yet?

A small smile tugged at your lips, the domesticity of the message both comforting and unsettling. You extinguished your cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, ash and butts a testament to your increased stress. With a deep breath, you reached for your phone, fingers hovering over the keys as you contemplated your response. The soft glow of the screen illuminated your face in the dimly lit office.

Still settling everything for Kōyō's party in the upcoming weeks. I picked dinner last week, so I'd say it's your turn. Surprise me.

The smile lingered on your lips, a small content sigh escaping through. For a moment, the weight of your responsibilities seemed to lift, replaced by a warm anticipation.

"Who's got you smilin' like that?"

You whipped your head around, heart leaping into your throat at the unexpected voice. Nikolai stood in the shadows, his lanky form materializing as if from thin air.

"Fuckin' shit, Nikolai!" You breathed, slamming your phone screen down upon your desk. Your smile instantly vanished, happiness evaporating. "I have a fucking door!"

You shot your hand up and gestured at the door, only to freeze as it swung open. The atmosphere in the room shifted palpably, the air growing thick with tension as Fyodor entered, Dimitri closing the door behind him with a soft click.

"Fyodor!" You plastered on a smile, rising to your feet. You felt Nikolai watching you, stepping back slightly to allow you to approach the front of your desk.

Fyodor's hand rose slowly, a silent command for silence. His eyes, cold and unreadable, refused to meet yours. "Have you been having a good time, moya zhena? I see you are quite busy."

He gestured to your desk in disarray behind you. You cocked your head, clinging to your facade of innocence. The words fell from your lips quickly, showing your anxiety from the sudden, unexpected intrusion. "Admittedly, business has increased dramatically, which is why I haven’t been regular in our correspondences—"

Nikolai's sharp laughter cut through the air. He held up a champagne bottle, a mocking toast.  "No need to be so anxious, Marena. We simply came to... ‘surprise you’, seeing as you sold The Midnight’s Caress and still have ownership. That’s quite interesting."

You shot an irritated glance at Nikolai, who fell back onto chaise with infuriating casualness. Closing your eyes, you shook your head, trying to regain composure. Your eyes fluttered open to look back at Fyodor. "I only sold it to get closer to him. He thinks you're abusing me. I'm using that to our advantage."

"But why would I harm you, moya dorogaya zhena?" Fyodor's gloomy expression finally rose to meet yours, his eyes boring into you with unsettling intensity. His eyes shimmered slightly, as if trying to coax you into a sense of security. "I love you."

Irritated by his selection of reply, your eyebrow twitched involuntarily. His cold tone a stark contrast against his words. "Of course, moya lyubov'. I know that. Just as I love you."

Fyodor moved towards you, his gaze never wavering. Your body reacted instinctively, inching backward till you brushed against your desk, betraying your mind's attempt at control. "Yet, you cower from me."

Your eyes darted between his, desperately searching for the motive behind this unexpected visit. Panic rose in your throat; Osamu would be arriving soon, and Fyodor couldn't be here when he did. "I just… feel your impatience, moy dorogoy; your unrest. I assure you; I’m working my way back in. The Book will be ours."

Fyodor’s lips curled down; you could see he was no longer interested in your promises, your efforts. "Still, I see no progress from you. You have yet to even pass through the threshold of the Port Mafia’s doors."

"I—"

Before you could explain yourself, Nikolai's voice cut through, uncharacteristically low and ominous. "The rats have watched you, Marena. And unfortunately for you, they've whispered of your betrayal in the dark halls."

Your jaw clenched involuntarily as he continued, "Fyodor doesn’t exactly see your late-night rendezvous with Dazai as productive.” Nikolai's lips curled into a cruel smirk. "Who knows what the two of you have been up to?"

The implication hung heavy in the air, a deliberate attempt to unsettle you and sow further doubt in Fyodor's mind. You fought to keep your expression neutral, acutely aware of the growing tension in the room and the dangerous ground you now tread.

Your chest heaved with each breath, anger and fear coursing through your veins. But you refused to continue to cower before them. "Of course you've been watching me. Whispering lies into my husband's ear." You raised your chin, forcing steel into your gaze. "You have been envious of me since the moment he brought me in."

Your ears began to ring loudly from Nikolai’s boisterous laughter. You gritted your teeth, becoming increasingly irritated by his presence. Nikolai’s laughter faded into a malevolent grin. "Envious? Oh, Marena, don’t be absurd! Who could envy a woman who clings to men who see her as nothing but a tool?"

You remained silent, taken aback by his venomous words. A flicker of hope prompted you to glance at Fyodor, expecting him to intervene, to silence Nikolai's disrespect. But as your eyes met his impassive gaze, the harsh truth crystallized - Fyodor was no longer your ally.

The realization hit you like a physical blow. Months of delayed progress, your prolonged failure to retrieve The Book, had worn Fyodor's patience. Nikolai, ever the opportunist, had seized upon this, whispering doubts and suspicions into your husband's ear. Now, standing before you, Fyodor was a stranger; his former affection now completely erased, replaced by cold calculation.

You felt Nikolai's gaze bore into you, his words continued cold and calculated. "Dazai’s affection doesn’t make you special. To him, you're just another expendable pawn in his grand game. And Fyodor," he gestured towards your husband, "anyone could see he doesn't favor you out of love; he pities you! You're nothing more than a tragic puppet, dancing on strings held by men who will never see you as their equal!"

Your eyes fluttered, a tempest of emotions raging behind them. Frustration and anger simmered in your veins, not just at Nikolai's cutting words about Osamu - words you knew to be far from the truth - but at your own naivety. The realization crashed over you like a tidal wave, leaving you clear minded for the first time in ages.

Fury ignited in your gaze as you locked eyes with Fyodor. "Is that so?" The words escaped as a low, dangerous murmur. You searched his face one last time, hoping against hope to find a glimmer of the man you thought you had married. But there was nothing - only a cold, calculating stranger stared back.

"It makes so much more sense now," you continued, your voice gaining strength with each word. Fyodor's head tilted slightly, a flicker of intrigue crossing his otherwise impassive features. He seemed curious about the conclusions you were drawing from Nikolai's taunts.

"I was a girl wanting freedom and you saw that dream in me, and so you seized the opportunity. You wanted to dangle me in front of Dazai this whole time," you spat, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place with sickening clarity. "That's why you insisted I return home! So you could give him a taste of something he couldn’t have. You lulled me into a false sense of security, fed me morsels of affection to temper my cravings, all to push me towards retrieving The Book! Not for us! But for you!"

Throughout your revelation, Fyodor's expression remained stoic, unmoved by your piecing together of his elaborate scheme. His lack of reaction only confirmed your suspicions, twisting the knife deeper. You were intelligent - Fyodor had always known this. It was inevitable that the facade would eventually crumble, that the truth would come to light.

You took an intentional step forward, and it was now Fyodor who took a slight step back.

"Now, you cower from me." You laughed, a sound tinged with both bitterness and newfound resolve. The sound cut through the tense silence, causing Nikolai to stiffen slightly in the background. Your eyes never left Fyodor's as you closed the distance between you, each step deliberate and measured.

You stopped mere inches from him, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath. The familiar scent of his scent, once comforting, now seemed nauseating and oppressive. Still, you didn't flinch or back away. Instead, you tilted your chin upward, meeting his gaze with unwavering defiance. Your proximity forced Fyodor to look down at you, a subtle shift in the power dynamic. Despite the slight height difference, it was clear you were not intimidated. Your body language radiated confidence, a stark contrast to the meek subordinate he had expected you to remain.

Your lips curved into a smirk, a dangerous glint in your eyes. Fyodor mirrored your expression, his own smile cold and calculating. The air between you crackled with tension, two predators sizing each other up. Your voice dropped to a menacing whisper; each word laced with deadly intent.

"You gravely misjudged me, Fyodor. You saw a vulnerable girl to be manipulated, a pawn in your grand design." Your eyes narrowed, boring into his with unwavering intensity. "But soon, you'll witness the true nature of the Port Mafia's Izanami. And you'll realize just how badly you've miscalculated. With every new life you assume, ty chertov ublyudok, I will find you and kill you, again and again, until the day comes when you can’t tell where you end and the life you stole begins."

Fyodor's lips curled into a cold smile. "Eto tak?" he replied, his voice dripping with mockery as he echoed your words. His eyebrow arched, a gesture of casual dismissal that belied the tension in the room. "Well, Izanami, I think that you'll find that your role here is not quite yet finished."

As Fyodor spoke, his lifeless gaze slid past you, settling on Nikolai. The abrupt shift in his attention left you reeling, a sudden vertigo gripping you. An icy tendril of dread snaked down your spine as Fyodor turned away, his lack of retaliation more unnerving than any threat.

In that disorienting moment, the gravity of your mistake crashed over you. You had fixated on Fyodor, forgetting the other dangerous player in the room. The air grew thick, almost suffocating, as time seemed to stretch and warp. Your instincts screamed a warning, every nerve on high alert.

It happened in the blink of an eye.

A whisper of movement behind you sent alarm bells ringing through your body. Pure instinct took over, your mind barely catching up as you spun around. Your eyes widened in horror as they locked onto Nikolai's form. His face wore a sadistic smile, eyes glinting with cold purpose as his arm arced through the air.

Desperately, you threw up your arm in a futile attempt at protection. However, it did no good as the champagne bottle connected with brutal force, shattering against your skull with a sickening crack. A shower of glass shards rained down, mixing with the sticky liquid that now saturated your hair and trickled down your face. A sharp, burning pain lanced through your forearm where the bottle's jagged edge had sliced into your skin.

The world lurched violently, your vision swimming in and out of focus. Agony exploded through your head, each pulse sending waves of nausea and pain radiating outward. You staggered, your legs threatening to give way as your senses overloaded, struggling to process the sudden assault.

Across your back, you felt the sharp, stinging pain of multiple lacerations. The acrid smell of champagne mixed with the metallic tang of blood, confirming your suspicions about the source of these new wounds - the shattered remains of the bottle that had started this brutal assault.

Nikolai then seemingly darted around you with intentional speed, exploiting his ability to materialize in your blind spots. Your eyes desperately tried to track his movements, but he always seemed one step ahead, vanishing and reappearing like a malevolent specter. The sharp sting of alcohol assaulted your vision, and as you struggled to blink away the burning sensation, a sickening crack echoed through the air.

A crushing force collided with your right arm, the impact reverberating through your body. Your mind reeled as you imagined the bone splintering beneath your skin, fragmenting into a thousand jagged pieces. A guttural cry escaped your lips as your arm went limp, hanging uselessly at your side. Before you could process the agony, another vicious blow struck the same shoulder, intensifying the waves of pain coursing through your body.

Despite the overwhelming pain, survival instinct kicked in. You fought back with desperate, uncoordinated movements. Your uninjured arm flailed wildly, fingers grasping at the air where Nikolai had been just moments before. If you could just make contact, just brush his skin with your fingertips, you knew it would all be over. Your ability would cease this nightmare. However, Nikolai was too quick, too practiced. He danced just out of reach, leaving nothing but empty air in your grasp. Your frustration mounted with each failed attempt, the realization of your powerlessness adding a new layer of anguish to your physical torment. The bitter taste of failure mingled with the blood in your mouth. As your body screamed in agony as the assault continued, hit after hit, a different kind of pain blossomed within your chest. Resentment bubbled up, hot and caustic, directed not just at your attackers but at yourself.

You wrestled with the dawning realization, desperately trying to silence the insidious voice in your mind. It whispered at first, then grew to a deafening roar with each passing moment of agony. "You fool," it seemed to taunt, the words reverberating through your battered psyche. "Look at the mess you've made of things."

Your thoughts drifted to that sun-drenched day at the quaint café in Italy, the scent of espresso and freshly baked cornetti, and the charming smile across from you still vivid in your memory. But no, you sowed the seeds of your downfall were planted even earlier. You recalled the day Osamu approached you, his eyes a frenzy of emotions, seeking reassurance as he grappled with the weight of his sudden succession. Instead of offering support and feeling relief at the resolution, you had chosen indifference, allowing bitterness to take root in your heart. Was it not you who had longed for it more?

It seemed trivial now to dwell on the chain of decisions that had led you to this moment of reckoning. Yet, as your body gave way and you crumpled to your knees on the cold, unforgiving floor, these memories were all you could cling to, a lifeline in the sea of pain and regret threatening to drown you.

"Please..." The word escaped your lips as a barely audible whisper, a final, desperate plea. Despite its softness, it was enough to give Nikolai pause, his imposing figure freezing mid-motion.

Fyodor's voice sliced through the tense silence, calm yet commanding. "I do believe that gets the point across. Thank you, Nikolai."

As the tears cleared your vision and burning, you saw Nikolai step back, lowering his improvised weapon—an ornate, silver candelabra from your office, now stained with crimson. A bitter chuckle escaped your lips, bordering on hysteria. Your hand had gone numb, and a vice-like pressure tightened around your chest. It took every ounce of strength to keep your head lifted as Fyodor approached, replacing Nikolai's looming presence.

He crouched before you, raising his hand to thread his fingers through your matted, sticky locks. "Moy malen'kaya mysh'," he murmured.

A solitary tear escaped as you attempted to turn away in disgust, but Fyodor cupped your cheek with unsettling tenderness, like a lover trying to soothe your pain. His thumb gently wiped away the tear threatening to streak your bruising skin. He shushed you softly as your lip quivered, unable to contain your anguish.

"I will give you one more chance, moya samaya bol'shaya lyubov'. Perhaps this will help get you through the guarded gates of the Port Mafia." Fyodor said, his voice a velvet caress as he stroked your head. Despite his gentle demeanor, the weight of his power over you was palpable. Your breath caught in your throat at his next words. "But if you fail me, I will have that detective you are so fond of gutted."

Your eyes fluttered as fresh tears welled up and spilled over. You shook your head weakly, your pleas barely above a whisper. "No... no, please."

Fyodor's smile was soft, almost benevolent, as he leaned in to press his lips against yours. You squeezed your eyes shut in revulsion, forcing yourself to return the twisted show of affection. As he pulled away, he hovered mere inches from your face, his breath warm against your skin. "I hope you're creative with my death this time," he murmured, his words laced with dark anticipation. "Just one page, moy dorogoy. That's all I need. Bring me one page from The Book within a month’s time, and perhaps, I'll reconsider the detective's fate. Fail me again, and... well, let's hope it doesn't come to that."

You remained motionless as Fyodor rose, your eyes tracking his every movement as his attention shifted back to Nikolai. Each breath became increasingly laborious, pain radiating through your body in waves, discovering new territories of agony with each passing moment. The metallic taste of blood lingered on your tongue.

As Nikolai moved to open the door for their departure, Fyodor's gaze returned to you, his eyes glinting with a mixture of possessiveness and cruel amusement. His voice, smooth as silk yet sharp as a blade, cut through the heavy air between you.

"Despite Nikolai's charged words, Dazai evidently still harbors feelings for you. But, moya dorogoy zhena," he paused, "he will do what he must to achieve his goals. You are nothing more than an obstacle for him, a fleeting distraction."

Fyodor's lips curled into a smile that never reached his eyes as he delivered his final, chilling statement. "To me, you are everything, moy angel smerti. You would do well to remember that."

The words hung in the air, as stale as the empty promise of helping you. As the door closed behind them, leaving you alone with your pain and the weight of Fyodor's threat, you couldn't help but feel the noose of circumstances tightening around you.

You winced, a sharp hiss escaping through clenched teeth as you gingerly cradled your broken arm, drawing it close to your body. The initial surge of adrenaline began to ebb away, leaving in its wake a tide of overwhelming pain and exhaustion. Your eyelids grew heavier with each passing moment, the world around you starting to blur at the edges.

From somewhere far away, as if through a thick fog, you heard the faint buzzing of your phone vibrating on the desk. Osamu calling, no doubt. A part of you yearned to answer, to hear his voice, but your limbs felt leaden, unresponsive. In that moment of weakness, you found yourself hoping—praying even to whatever cruel deity might exist— that Osamu would somehow sense your distress and come to find you.

As your eyes fluttered closed, fresh tears carved warm trails down your cheeks. Fyodor's words echoed in your mind, a haunting refrain. Even in this dire situation, with your relationship to Fyodor taking this twisted new turn, you couldn't bear the thought of Oda becoming a target. You tried to steady your breathing, pursing your lips with each labored exhale as you tilted your head back, fighting against the encroaching darkness.

The phone continued to buzz, the sound becoming from further and further away. With immense effort, you attempted to rise, to crawl towards that lifeline. But your body betrayed you, and you pitched forward, your cheek connecting with the plush fibers of your new rug. Another one to be replaced… Your vision narrowed to a pinpoint, then faded to black. The last vibration of your phone became nothing more than an auditory ghost, dissipating as consciousness slipped away.

Osamu, what did I do…

Osamu's leg bounced incessantly as he sat in the back of the sleek black car, the soft leather seat doing little to calm his fraying nerves. He cursed under his breath, pressing his hand firmly against his thigh in a futile attempt to still the movement. The usually composed Mafia executive was irritated with himself, his calm facade cracking under the weight of his tumultuous thoughts.

Neon lights from the bustling Yokohama nightlife flashed across his face in a dizzying array of colors, muddling the conflict swirling within his mind. Tonight. It had to be tonight. The mantra repeated in his mind, a mix of determination and barely contained anxiety. He was going to ask you to return to the Port Mafia, to come back to his side where you belonged. The very thought sent a tremor through his body, a potent cocktail of exhilaration and terror coursing through his veins.

God, how he hoped you had sensed his intentions during the past weeks—surely you must have. All those carefully orchestrated conversations, the gradual sharing of executive-level information... He'd watched you absorb it all, your eyes lighting up with that familiar spark of intrigue and excitement. If anything, that light seemed even brighter than in the other universes he glimpsed in his dreams and visions.

Osamu's mind reeled, memories from alternate realities blurring together in a kaleidoscope of possibilities. In every version, you were there, a constant by his side across the multiverse. Here, now, in this world - why should it be any different? It shouldn't. It couldn't be any longer. The separation had gone on far too long already.

But what if...? No. He violently shoved the doubt aside, refusing to let it take root. You'd been so receptive, so eager to engage with Mafia matters again, even if there had been initial hesitation. Surely that meant something. It had to.

He needed you back. The Mafia needed you. But if he was honest with himself - a rarity for the guarded man - he longed for your return on a level that transcended mere organizational goals. You made him feel... whole. Grounded. Like the best version of himself, a feeling he'd been desperately missing since your departure.

What if he pushed too hard? What if this was the mistake that finally drove you away for good? The thought made his chest constrict painfully, his breath catching for a moment.

No. He couldn't think like that. In every universe, in every reality, you belonged at his side. This one couldn't be the exception. He wouldn't allow it to be.

His hand moved instinctively, reaching into his breast pocket to retrieve his phone. With slightly trembling fingers, he punched in your number, holding the device to his ear. The monotonous rings gave way to your familiar voicemail greeting: "Thanks for giving me a call! Sorry I can't get to my phone right now!"

Osamu frowned, a new thread of worry weaving its way through his already tangled thoughts. Why weren't you answering? Surely, you were just attending to matters within the club, your phone left behind in your office. Yes, that had to be it.

"You 'ight, boss?"

Osamu's gaze snapped up to the rearview mirror, meeting Albatross' concerned look. He cleared his throat, forcing himself back to the present moment.

"Yes, Albatross," he replied, his voice steadier than he felt as he closed his phone with a swift motion. "Our ETA?"

"Just under two, sir."

He hummed in acknowledgment, his fingers seeking out the familiar texture of his silk scarf, fidgeting with it to channel his nervous energy. As his eye darted about the passing streetscape, he fought against the nagging thoughts threatening to overwhelm him.

For what if you refused, purely out of fear of Fyodor retaliating? Or what if...? No. Here he was once more fighting himself. He couldn't let himself go down that path. You would see reason. You had to. Because the alternative – a world where you weren't by his side – was simply unthinkable. Especially now, with the clock ticking relentlessly on his grand plan. Osamu was acutely aware of the limited time he had left in this world, and he was determined to spend as much of it as possible with you. Every moment was precious, every shared experience a treasure to be cherished before the inevitable end. He needed you back, not just for the Mafia, not just for his plans, but for himself – to make these final chapters of his story truly meaningful.       

Osamu exhaled sharply through pursed lips as Albatross brought the sleek black car to an abrupt stop outside The Midnight's Caress. The club's neon sign bathed the street in a garish blue glow, highlighting the queue of patrons eager to enter your establishment.

"I'll only be a moment," Osamu said, his voice taut as he slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket. His fingers curled around the door handle. "We'll be going to Azamino Ukai-tei once I return."

Albatross let out a derisive snort, his eyes meeting Osamu's in the rearview mirror. "Azamino Ukai-tei? Seriously, boss? Taking her to such a fancy place?" He shook his head, not bothering to hide his disdain. "What's next, gonna get down on one knee? Oh wait—" He paused for effect, his lips curling into a smirk. "Forgot she's already got that rat bastard."

Osamu froze, his knuckles whitening on the door handle as he shot a sharp glare at his subordinate. The caustic comment struck a nerve, but he couldn't entirely fault Albatross for his opinion. The other Flags shared similar sentiments about you.

"That's enough, Albatross," Osamu warned, his voice low and dangerous despite the turmoil roiling within him.

Albatross raised his hands in mock surrender, but the sarcasm in his voice was palpable. "Sure thing, boss. Just remember, some stray cats ain't worth bringing home, no matter how pretty they are."

Osamu gave a heavy sigh, too preoccupied with his own emotional storm to properly address Albatross's insolence. "We'll be down soon," he muttered, yanking the car door open and slamming it shut behind him, the sound echoing in the night air as he tried to push Albatross's words from his mind. Damn that man and his sharp tongue. It was an unwelcome reminder of how The Flags disapproved of you, a fact that had been a constant thorn in his side even before your departure.

He couldn't help but recall that day - the five remaining Flags and you, standing in his office with heads bowed in shame. The memory was etched into his mind, a permanent reminder of the crime committed within Port Mafia walls. What had been done was done. All six of you bore the consequences of your actions from that day forward, and he knew he couldn't fix what had been permanently damaged, no matter how much he wished otherwise.

Shaking his head to escape his thoughts, Osamu strode towards the club's entrance and was recognized immediately. The doorman stepped aside with a respectful nod. Osamu returned it with a curt nod and faint smile of his own, passing the threshold of curious onlookers. His eye took in the full crowd before him, an impressive amount on the Thursday night. He searched among the throngs for any sign of you, desperate to catch a glimpse of those amethyst eyes he knew so well. But among the bustle of staff and club-goers, he found no trace of you. Strange, he thought. He'd expected you to be downstairs, if not waiting for his arrival.

Without your guiding presence, he found it oddly difficult to navigate the crowd. To the drunkards and oblivious patrons, he was no one important - a foreign feeling in a city where nearly everyone feared the Port Mafia's presence. As he moved through, his gaze caught a few staff members whispering and glancing his way. Their eyes held judgment and cruelty, something he hadn't seen in them before tonight. It was as if he was unwelcome in the building he'd visited so many times before.

The longer he watched, the more they seemed to scurry away, like rats exposed to sudden light. Shadows darted across his peripheral vision, always just out of sight when he turned to look. An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach as he approached the first flight of stairs. Something was wrong here; he could feel it in the oppressive silence and the stale air that clung to his skin. But what exactly? And where were you? The questions echoed in his mind, amplifying his growing anxiety.

His feet carried him upward as quickly as his thoughts raced, skipping up the flights with increasing urgency. The banister felt sticky beneath his palm, and he could have sworn he heard whispers emanating from behind the peeling wallpaper. His breath came in short, sharp bursts as he climbed higher, the pit within his stomach churning with each step.

The stairwell seemed to stretch endlessly before him, twisting and turning like a maze, though he knew it wasn’t so. Dim, flickering lights cast grotesque shapes on the walls, transforming innocent shadows into menacing silhouettes. He pressed on shaking the visions from his mind, driven by a mixture of fear and determination, his senses hyperaware of every sneer and whisper within the building. If he hadn’t been able to negate other’s abilities, he would assume these visions to be the works of another ability user. Unfortunately for Osamu, they were common works of his own mind, something he hadn’t quite yet become familiar with as negative thoughts poured in to drown him.

Alarms rang within his ears as he yanked himself onto the third landing, his bandages feeling damp and sticky against his skin from the sudden exertion. His unbandaged eye immediately locked onto the empty door frame of your office, conspicuously devoid of Dimitri's imposing presence. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness visible through the gap, but not enough for him to peer inside.

He swallowed hard as he caught his breath, the taste of adrenaline bitter on his tongue. His hair, slightly damp with sweat, fell slightly into his face, obscuring his vision. With trembling fingers, he ran a hand through the tangled strands, pushing them back. His other hand reached out tentatively to tap the door open.

As the door widened with an ominous creak, his worst fears were justified. There you were, motionless in the dim light filtering through the blinds drawn over the office windows. Your name fell from his lips, quietly at first, a desperate whisper in the silence. Then, as his leaden feet carried him forward, your name escaped louder, echoing off the walls in hopes of rousing you from your unnatural stillness.

His eye roved over your still figure, taking in every detail with growing dread. Your head was slumped forward, a curtain of hair cascading down to hide your face from view. Your back was pressed against the front paneling of your desk. In your lap, you cradled one arm, the angle suggesting injury or worse.

"Bella?" Osamu's hands trembled as he gingerly brushed your hair from your face, his nostrils flaring at the pungent scent of alcohol mingled with something metallic. His unbandaged eye roved across your features, his heart clenching at the sight of fresh crimson droplets and forming bruises marring your skin. As his fingers found purchase upon your cheeks, he released a shaky sigh of relief when you grimaced, your eyes slowly fluttering open.

"Osamu?" Your voice, barely above a whisper, sent a jolt through him. He watched, transfixed, as tears escaped from your eyes, leaving glistening trails down your battered face.

He managed a weak smile, feeling his own eyes well up. Internally, he cursed as the bandage over his left eye became damp. The urge to protect you, to shield you from further harm, overwhelmed him. Before he could stop himself, he pulled you toward his chest, wincing as you let out a sharp groan.

"I'm sorry, I..." Osamu's voice trailed off, the words catching in his throat. Seeing you in such a state was excruciating, and the weight of guilt pressed down on him. He should have been there, should have prevented this. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been here sooner.”

Your hand found his cheek, and he leaned into your touch, savoring the warmth. His forehead touched yours, as he inhaled sharply to calm himself. It grounded him, a reminder that you were still here, still fighting.

"Osamu... I just want to go home. Please take me home..." The desperation in your voice tore at him. He gazed into your bloodshot, teary eyes, his chest tightening at how small and vulnerable you looked. It was a far cry from your usual commanding presence, and it shook him to his core. You gasped as more tears fell, "I can’t take this anymore."

"Of course. Of course, cara mia..." Osamu's mind raced, considering the implications. The guests couldn't see you like this - he knew how fiercely you guarded your image. And the staff... a cold realization settled over him. Despite your careful selection, he was now certain they were plants, watching your every move.

With slightly trembling hands, he fished out his phone. "I'll call Chūya... and Doc. You'll need to see Doc." He hated how rushed and unpolished his words sounded, so unlike his usual eloquence.

Your vigorous refusal caught him off guard; you shook your head and weakly pushed away from him. He watched, heart in his throat, as you tried to stand, only to pitch forward dangerously.

“Stop,” he scolded gently, your name a worried hiss on his lips. "You'll surely only hurt yourself further. Chūya will clear the club, but you need to see Doc."

As he cradled you against his shoulder, dialing the phone, Osamu felt the weight of responsibility settle heavily upon him. Your whispered words about them, The Flags, wanting you dead sent a chill down his spine, but he pushed the thought aside. Right now, getting you help was all that mattered.

When Albatross answered, Osamu steeled his voice, pushing down the worry that threatened to break through. "Albatross, I need you to go get Chūya and Doc. Bring them here immediately." As he spoke, he tightened his protective hold on you, silently vowing that no further harm would come to you on his watch.

"Course, Boss. We'll be back in five."

Osamu closed his phone with a soft click, his attention immediately falling back onto you. His hands, usually so steady and sure, trembled slightly as he pulled the maroon silk scarf from around his neck. “They broke your arm...” he muttered, his voice low and seething with barely contained rage.

With an attempted gentle precision, he wrapped the silk around your forearm, fashioning a makeshift sling. Each wince or groan you let out cut through him like a knife, and he found himself whispering "sorry" with every slight tug and pull. Osamu tried his best to be gentle, but his anger made his movements less fluid than usual. His mind raced with violent thoughts of retribution against Fyodor. If he had the time, if it fit into his plans, he would kill the man without hesitation. It was only your voice, weak but present, that pulled him back from the brink of that consuming rage.

"Why would you command them to help me? It just further cultivates that issue. I can't take back what I did to Piano Man, and they will always hold it against me."

His eye found yours as he reached up to tie a knot of silk behind your head. The warmth of your gaze steadied him somewhat. I would like to think... we've all grown since that day," he said softly, hoping his words held more truth than he feared.

You rolled your eyes and sighed heavily; the sound filled with a weariness that made Osamu's heart ache. He carefully maneuvered behind you, leaning back against the front of your desk. His hands, gentle but insistent, urged you to lean back, to rest against him as they awaited Albatross and the others.

He cradled you close, his arms forming a protective cage around you. The fear of losing you, of you slipping away from this world and leaving him behind, gnawed at the edges of his mind. Your head fell back upon his shoulder, and you looked up at him, your eyes capturing his in a moment of shared vulnerability.“I don't think Chūya's grown at all... especially height wise.”

Osamu felt you give a pitiful huff of a laugh, your lips curling into a weak smile. Despite the gravity of the situation, he couldn't help but feel a small spark of relief at your attempt at humor. It was so quintessentially you, finding levity even in the darkest moments. He allowed himself a small chuckle, the sound rumbling in his chest against your back.

"Perhaps not vertically, no. Though his ego has grown to compensate. It's a wonder he can still fit through doorways."

Osamu felt a warmth bloom in his chest as he heard you manage a weak laugh. The sound, though faint, stirred memories of happier times, of shared laughter and stolen moments before everything had fallen apart. His lips curved into a bittersweet smile, unseen by you but evident in the way his arms gently caged around you. He finally allowed himself to savor the feeling of you in his arms, finally returned to him, and despite everything, still able to laugh at his quips about Chūya.

🎹 𝒮𝑜𝓃, 𝒞𝒶𝓃 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒫𝓁𝒶𝓎 𝑀𝑒 𝒜 𝑀𝑒𝓂𝑜𝓇𝓎

Your head quickly bowed down as the slam of the double doors reverberated behind you, the sound adding to the tense atmosphere of Dazai's office. In your peripheral vision, you saw Lippmann jump slightly, his eyes squeezed shut and slightly puffy from what you assumed was a mix of stress and sorrow.

You closed your eyes, taking in a deep breath that did little to calm your nerves. The scent of polished wood and old leather filled your nostrils, a familiar smell that now seemed tainted by the gravity of the situation. You knew nothing productive would come of this; it wasn't exactly your fault. However, if Dazai didn't take action, it would only solidify the views, the opinions, and the overall stance that The Flags and the Port Mafia held of you.

Dazai swiftly passed all six of you who stood before his desk, his coat billowing slightly with the rapid movement. The sound of his footsteps on the hardwood floor seemed unnaturally loud in the silence. Chūya was the first to break the oppressive quiet, his voice tight with tension, "Da—Boss, you have to know this wasn't our fault."

Your head shot up, eyes darting over to him, a mix of disbelief and anger flaring within you. "Why? Because you'd claim it was all me?" The words came out sharper than you intended, laced with bitterness.

Chūya's bi-colored eyes met yours, a challenge evident in his gaze. "Well, if you wanna admit to it?" His tone was equally caustic, the underlying tension between you palpable.

Your lips parted as you attempted to shoot back at him, but you were cut off by Dazai’s booming voice.

"Shut up! Both of you." Dazai's angry tone cut through the air like a whip, emanating from behind his desk. He was leaning over, hastily flipping through the report, his movements jerky with barely contained fury. The atmosphere in the room grew even heavier, if that was possible. It was clear that Dazai was beyond angry - this kind of infighting was unacceptable, something even Mori wouldn't have tolerated.

"I honestly don't care who started it," Dazai said, looking up from the papers, his single visible eye scanning the group before him. "I just want to understand what happened to cause this. I shouldn't be standing before the six of you with a member of The Flags, a member of the Mafia, dead within my building."

All of you stood in uncomfortable silence. For once, Albatross, usually quick with a quip or comment, was silent, seemingly at a loss for words. Doc kept his gaze fixed on the floor, anxiously pushing and pulling his IV drip beside him, the soft squeaking of its wheels the only sound in the room. Iceman, true to his taciturn nature, remained stoic and silent, having been merely a witness to the events that had unfolded.

"So?" Dazai's eye scanned all of you again, his gaze falling upon you last. You steeled yourself, looking back at him, unflinching. You could feel the pain emanating from him, see it in the way his eye closed momentarily, his head falling into a slight shake of disappointment.

Unsurprisingly to you, it was Lippmann who stepped forward, the movement causing you to roll your eyes. You knew him well enough to anticipate what was coming - some elaborate story crafted to soften the blow, to shift blame or minimize the severity of what had occurred. As he composed himself and opened his mouth to speak, you braced yourself for whatever tale he was about to spin.

"Boss," he began, his voice a perfect blend of concern and disappointment, "I'm afraid what we witnessed today was a grave lapse in judgment and control from our... esteemed colleague."

He gestured towards you with a subtle, dismissive wave. "Piano Man, while admittedly agitated, was merely expressing concerns shared by many within our ranks. His approach may have been… unorthodox, but his intentions were rooted in loyalty to the Port Mafia."

Lippmann's eyes darted to you briefly, and you furrowed your eyebrows causing him to refocus on Dazai. "Unfortunately, instead of de-escalating the situation as one might expect from a sub executive, Izanami here resorted to... extreme measures. Whether this was due to a lack of proper training, an inability to handle pressure, or perhaps," he paused meaningfully, "other motivations, I cannot say."

His voice lowered, taking on a conspiratorial tone. "It pains me to suggest this, Boss, but we must consider the possibility that this incident was not entirely accidental. The speed and finality with which Piano Man was dispatched raises... questions about intent and premeditation."

Lippmann straightened, his expression a mask of regret. "I fear this tragic event may be symptomatic of larger issues within our organization. Issues of favoritism, perhaps, or the granting of positions beyond one's capabilities. It's not my place to question your decisions, Boss, but for the sake of the Port Mafia, we must address these concerns."

Your eyes flashed with anger as you stepped forward, turning to face them all, ignoring Dazai's growing protests. "Is that how you would describe Piano Man's unprovoked attack on me? As 'expressing concerns'?" Your voice trembled with barely contained fury.

"As I've said countless times before, though I was born and raised in the Mafia, I still worked and earned my position. My role began long before Dazai stepped into his position as our boss."

You looked among the group, your gaze lingering on each face - men you once respected, now twisted by their silent misjudgment and apparent willingness to see you harmed.

"I will not apologize for defending myself against Piano Man, especially if this is how the five of you choose to twist events - painting me as some sort of liability or threat to be eliminated." Your voice rose, filled with indignation. "I have never once plotted against Dazai or the Port Mafia, nor will I ever. My loyalty to this organization goes far beyond the petty jealousy and baseless accusations you're throwing around."

Your eyes locked onto Lippmann, your words sharp and precise. "Your insinuations about 'favoritism' and questioning my capabilities are nothing but thinly veiled attempts to undermine my position. I've proven my worth time and time again, and I won't stand here and let you rewrite history to suit your narrative."

The room fell into an unbelievable silence, the air thick with tension. Even the usually persistent squeak of the IV pole's wheels had halted, as if the inanimate object itself was holding its breath. The lights dimmed dramatically, casting long shadows across the faces of those present, as your words hung heavy in the air.

As one, you all turned your attention to the screen that had silently lowered before the windows. The footage flickered to life, replaying the incident in the hallway with stark clarity.

There you were, walking purposefully down the corridor, your stride confident until the moment Piano Man and the other Flags called out to you. You watched yourself turn to meet them; your body language open, ready to converse. Yet, even through the silent playback, it was clear how quickly the conversation soured.

Piano Man circled you in the video, his movements predatory. As you watched, you relived the moment in your head, the echo of his insinuated insults ringing in your ears. His lips moved, forming words you could still hear clearly: accusations of your rapid rise through the ranks being due solely to your relationship with Dazai, claims that his love for you was a weakness.

The footage showed you lunging at Piano Man, your face contorted with rage at his comments. Immediately, all the men around you raised their weapons, causing you to freeze in place. You watched Piano Man's lips move again, hearing his taunting words from just hours before: "Let's see how fearsome you are, “great” Izanami."

Your gaze flickered away from the screen to Dazai. He was lounged back in his office chair, a cigarette dangling precariously from his fingers, its ash growing long and threatening to fall. You gritted your teeth, a mix of emotions swirling within you. How did you get here? Looking toward your lover for some form of help, even as you knew it would be considered unwise for him to play favorites. Yet, you could admit he always did. The easier jobs, the safer ones, always fell to you. He had ensured you were fully moved into the penthouse with him, safe from anyone who would attempt to harm you otherwise... well, in hindsight, you hadn't expected this.

Your attention reluctantly returned to the camera feed. You watched as Piano Man swiftly moved to wrap the piano wires around your throat, the thin metal glinting in the hallway light. A part of you wondered if he would have actually killed you, or if this was all some twisted hazing ritual to force you to stand down from your position. It didn't matter now.

The final moments played out on screen - you, standing before Piano Man, blood pouring from his eyes and ears. It seemed surreal, like watching an out-of-body experience.

"From what I can tell... she was provoked into attacking." Dazai's voice cut through the tense silence, startling everyone.

No one said a thing in response. The men only looked back at you, their gazes a mix of fear, disgust, and something akin to awe. To them, you were an unnatural anomaly that shouldn't have existed.

"I expect this to never happen again. Do I make myself clear?" Dazai's voice cut through the tension, stern and final. Yet Chūya, his face flushed with anger, still felt the need to avenge his fallen friend.

"That's it?" Chūya's voice was loud and rough, grating against your ears like sandpaper. "She gets no punishment?"

You scoffed, your patience wearing thin. "Here I was going to let this go, but what about you five getting punished? You all ganged up on me! Watched him and let it happen!" You took several purposeful strides toward Chūya, getting close enough to see the flecks of gold in his blue eye. "You are just as much of a guilty party as I am!"

"You privileged ass bitch; you better get out of my face!" Chūya's words were laced with venom, his body tensing as if ready to strike.

You puffed out your chest, outstretching your arms in a challenge. "Or what, Chūya? Gonna finish the job?!"

Before either of you could make another move, Dazai was between you, his movements so swift you hadn't even seen him leap from his seat. One hand gripped your wrist tightly, the other pressed firmly against Chūya's chest.

"This is done, now!" Dazai's voice was sharp, brooking no argument. You huffed as his grasp on your wrist tightened, a warning. His gaze scanned yours, which was still locked in a fierce staring match with Chūya. A guttural sound of frustration escaped Dazai's lips as he looked up at the remaining Flags. "Leave!"

They scurried out quickly, but you barely noticed. Chūya was all you could see, red clouding your vision like a bloody mist.

"You get off scot-free while my friend is dead! All 'cause you fuck the boss!" Chūya's words dripped with accusation and bitterness.

In a moment of blind rage, you spat in his face, mentally thankful for Dazai's unyielding grip on your wrist.

"I oughta kill you and get your misery over with!" Chūya snarled, his hand twitching towards his hat.

"Chūya!" Dazai's voice cracked like a whip as he pushed hard against his chest, forcing him back several feet.

"Why don't you then? Huh? You'd be doing me a big favor if I never have to deal with you again!" The words tore from your throat, raw and angry.

Dazai hissed your name, pulling you from Chūya's line of sight. You tore your arm away, huffing as you stormed over to the bookshelf, seeking some semblance of calm.

Your eyes darted over the book titles, desperately trying to settle your frayed nerves. Behind you, you could hear hushed murmuring interspersed with Chūya's occasional outbursts. You narrowed your eyes, attempting to stay focused on the shelves before you. Your fingers traced along the spines, the familiar texture of leather and cloth a small comfort.

Suddenly, your finger grazed a book spine that felt off - lighter, newer. Curiosity piqued, you tugged on the random book, one you wouldn't normally notice, and found it wasn't actually a full book, but a façade hiding something behind it. Leaning in, your nose brushed against the edge, inhaling the scent of old parchment. Your eyes widened as you spotted another book tucked behind the others, almost out of sight. Its stark white cover was a stark contrast to the darker tones surrounding it, with golden details catching the light just barely.

You turned back, seeing Chūya storming out of Dazai's office, his departure punctuated by the slam of the heavy doors. Quickly, you returned the shell book to its original position, your mind racing with questions about the hidden tome.

Dazai turned to you, sighing your name heavily as he began to walk over. "What a mess."

A thousand responses flitted through your mind: Wouldn't have happened if you didn't kill Mori. If you had only let me take the position I always told you I wanted. If… if… Maybe I should have left with Oda when I had the chance. But you kept every racing thought to yourself, only offering a noncommittal hum in response.

He stopped before you, his unbandaged eye looking weary and tired. With a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the earlier violence, he cupped your cheek, leaning down to press his forehead against yours.

"You did nothing wrong," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

"I'll let our maker decide that," you sighed, grasping his hand. "You need to stop coddling me. It's inadvertently led to this."

His breath fanned over your lips as he pressed them against yours. The kiss, once a source of comfort and passion, now felt tainted with bitterness. Yet, you returned it, your love for him still present, even if battered by recent events out of his control. This test of your relationship was something you hadn't anticipated, its ability to strain and potentially break your bond a sobering realization.

He frowned as he pulled away, still holding you close. "Only if you stop asking people to kill you."

You forced a smile, the expression not quite reaching your eyes. "The only way I'm going, amore mio, is if you're going with me."

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Author Chat: I think after this part I might take a little bit off from writing, but trust: the next part, I'm excited for. It's just being a dog mom, nursing student, and person in general has drained me slightly and I want to give my all towards writing because I love it as an outlet.

Also, I want to mention, it hurt to write The Flags in this way, but with reader being ambitious while also having a romantic relationship with Dazai, I saw it as a reason that could anger some of the members, especially if Dazai dotted on the reader (which let's be honest: Beast! Dazai and Main Story Dazai would def do.)

If you liked, feel free to like and reblog! I always appreciate everyone who interacts! ᡣ𐭩 ~DamzelZelda

Song Inspos: Haunted- Chris Grey Dark Bloom- Amber Run Runaway- Aurora Piano Man- Billy Joel (Lyric Only)

Russian Word "Dictionary" (Curtesy of [unreliable] Google translate):

moya zhena: "my wife"

moya dorogaya zhena: "my dear wife"

moya lyubov': "my love"

moy dorogoy: "my dear"

ty chertov ublyudok: "you fucking bastard"

Eto tak: "Is that so?"

Moy malen'kaya mysh': "my little mouse"

moya samaya bol'shaya lyubov': "my greatest love"

moy angel smerti: "my angel of death"