#Night Court backdrop

[acourtofquestions]

Make me cry with just one art piece

credits: llibiarts (on Instagram)

[inknopewetrust]

𝐆𝐨𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠

When the Emperor summons you, you always answer the call. [Emperor Geta x Fem!Reader] [wc: 3.38k]

Warnings: minors DNI, smut, 18+, slight exhibition kink, pinv sex, unprotected sex (this is Ancient Rome, whores), Geta be a little submissive and possessive, corruption, dirty talk. I do not take responsibility for satan causing me to write this.

When you were summoned to the coliseum after dark, there was no questioning what be the cause.

The corridors of the great arena were near silent; distant growls and scratching claws filled its catacombs with a crawling anticipation: when the Emperor called, world at his feet quieted to hear his presence. Feeling the sands of the stage shift and meet the seats of the empty audience, there was nothing but the moonlight and wind to greet you.

You were not alone in Rome’s greatest achievement. The ghosts of the gladiators watched over the wicked as they fed off the suffering of the poor.

But when the guard left you to your devices upon the imperial seat looking over the arena, you forgot the evil that took over the man who called.

“It is quite the sight, no?”

In the silence of the amphitheater Geta’s words were quiet yet threatened to bounce off in echos. You ran your hands over the marble ledge. It’s once smooth nature lifting in bumps every inch of the glide your hand made. A gust of wind fluttered the fabric of your chiton to dance around your legs.

Geta dismissed his most loyal guard at the sight of you.

“It is different in the light,” you answered. The sand below you was not stained of blood and there was no chanting of what the Gods would decide of fate. “Peaceful… if I dare say.”

“If you were not to speak freely I would not have let my men go.”

“So there is no fear to be had here?” You turned your head over your shoulder. Barely capturing him in your vision, Emperor Geta leaned against his brother’s seat. The edge of the stone resting his body as his eyes traced you against the backdrop of his arena.

“There is no one to fear, my lady,” he spoke.

Emperor Geta was a man you had known for a long while. As children he often sought you out as a companion of play while his father helped prime himself and his brother, Caracalla, for their ascent to the throne. You, on the outskirts of royalty within a wealthy family of semi-relevant status to the Caesar, were allowed in their court as a potential wife.

The status of wife never came but it did not stop Geta from perusing you into adulthood.

It was on nights like these when the clouds floated to cover the moon and the poor laid soundly on the gravel on the outset of the building that Geta felt a need to see you, to have you for himself before the reality of morning came tumbling upon him. Weakened by his thoughts of want and bruised from a victory turned sour, his eyes shimmered in the darkness while the necessity grew.

But you knew the intent.

The one guard, never different from the last, summoning you from your villa with a coded message of: vi et animo, with heart and soul. Descend upon the place where he shall be waiting and when the act is done, as always, the same guard would see you home and little would be said between the next occasion. An invitation to sit behind him at a fight always went unanswered; the feasts in a Senator’s name would go uneaten.

You always had something to fear when a man, whom you had grown to be so utterly conflicted in lust and hatred, reigned unfairness from his palace on top a hill. The shining city of Rome was not what it once was but Geta cared for nothing except what he wanted.

And while you never accepted the invitations beyond these, the jewels around your neck, the ones that hung from your ears, and the pulsing of your heart spoke wonders for the truth within you.

Geta watched as your head turned back around and your hands curled over the balcony’s edge. His fingers rapped against the back of the chair; rings clashing against the golden adornments at the bristle of your objection.

“What summons me here?” You prompted. “Are the others not enough for you? Do they not fill your cup on nights as brutal as these?”

You were not to call the women he sought whores. They made their choices, or, they had none, but their actions did not relegate themselves to lesser. How were you any better than them? With your gold and your home and your money? You believed yourself, on the worst of nights, to be a wealthier version of what they had been subject to but unlike many of them, you let this linger beyond the reasonable time.

“I wish to think you know better than to question the call of your Emperor. You showed, after all.”

“I do not question your wants… what keeps you ticking,” you turned to rest your back away from the arena. Geta admired the wrap of your gown tightening against the stone. “You should be celebrating the conquering. Rome has just expanded. There is a celebration at the palace and yet you are here amongst the prisoners and the animals.”

“And you,” he looked pointedly.

Geta’s makeup was gone from the day. He wore a tunic of red and white with the golden laurels weaved in its fabric. The orange of his hair had gone muted in the dark.

“And me,” you agreed. “You have me here, Caesar—“

“Geta.”

You eyed him.

“Why are you playing a game tonight? You denied my invitation—“

“It is not my place,” you cut in. “I am no wife, I am not a… woman of a man’s delight. I did not wish to be an object on an arm.”

“I could have your head for such an implication,” he warned.

“You wouldn’t,” you affirmed. “No one else would be dragged here to kneel before you so willingly.”

“You want to be on your knees?”

You shook your head at him with a tick. No one would dare to speak to him like you. But you knew it bothered him in ways he couldn’t manifest. The blood rushing through his body—you challenged him in a way only he would allow you.

Geta removed his arm from the back of the seat and stepped down to you. Each step closer and closer until he came to rest directly in front of you and caged you like the animals below. Arms expanding on either side of you; his breath invading your space as his nose nicked yours. You shuddered; back piercing into the travertine not in fear but anticipation.

To be the lover of a corrupted Emperor… you had him in the palm of your hand.

“You speak so freely,” he hissed. “And yet you tremble in my presence.”

In an instant, your breathing had gone staggered. His hands drew into you. Feeling up the sides of your body as he pushed himself on you.

“The tremble is not you. It’s me.”

“I am the only one to make you feel this way, yes?”

His hands roamed freely. Geta’s thumbs rumbled up the fabric of the front of your body while his fingertips hardened against you. The plushness of your skin was melting to him. His nose tipped against your chin to turn your head upwards.

“Your Emperor asked you a question.”

“If I said no,” you breathed in as his fingers groped harder. They cupped your breasts from above and back down again. “What would become of me?”

“I’d lock you away,” he wouldn’t. “I’d see to you myself in the cells below the palace. You’d wear nothing,” you scoffed and his lip quirked up. You could feel his lips change against the column of your neck. “And when people would ask of you, they would not be allowed to see you.”

“So you would not want them to see us like this?”

He let out a low, bemused chuckle. “This is for me, us, to enjoy. But if you imagine the whole of Rome watching us, then please, my dear, listen to them.”

Geta rose his lips to your ear as his hands fell to your hips and then one of your legs. He maneuvered to grip the back of one of your thighs and opened up space for him to fall further into you. You could feel his excitement; the prodding of his want against your clothed self. His hot breath and lips danced across your cheek.

“Can you hear them? Gasping at the sight of you. It is the most beauty they have ever seen. So wet and glistening for their ruler.”

“And what of their Emperor?” Your hand came to clutch the extra fabric of his chest. His heart under your hand was picking up in paces. Beating against his ribcage while his eyes blew lustful.

“They should see their Emperor on his throne,” you commanded.

He dropped your leg and with a push from your hand on his chest, Geta stepped backwards until you pushed him to meet his throne. The seat wide for his liking, he sat upon it and grasped at the loose fabric of your dress at your hips.

“Further.” He pushed himself further back into the seat. Using the small step at the base of Geta’s seat, you lifted yourself onto him with your knees on either side.

“While he’s on his throne,” you let him pool the fabric into his hands and draw it upwards. You sat atop him and relished the way you could feel him grown underneath. “They shall see his weakness.”

“I do not have a weakness,” he growled, one hand clasping the back of your neck and forcing your face an inch from his own. You rolled your hips on him. His fingers adjusted the grip on the back of your neck and he hesitated. “I-I do not have a weakness.”

“Then what am I here for?” You asked against his lips and through his hesitancy, he gazed into your eyes before capturing his lips with yours. You sucked in a breath; cupping his head with both of your hands in strength.

Your fingers raked through his hair with a tug as his lips refused to separate themselves form yours. So desperate in want, he clutched himself on to you and your tongues melted together as one the longer he held you. One of his hands pulled on your dress and moved you forward, then tugging backwards to encourage you to grind above him. You needn’t a command to roll your body onto his.

Where your core rested on him, his erection formed against his tunic. You lined up, dragging yourself along the length of him and back. He pulled his lips away with a tug on your bottom lip. Geta bunched up your dress and watched as your cunt glided as best it could along his clothes. Each thrust painting the fabric a shade deeper he could see even in the night.

He was mesmerized. Entranced by your body—no different than the times he had taken you in the light or dusk of a day. You pussy glistened in the moonlight. Dripping with ecstasy as you only felt the outline of his cock above the thin piece that separated you.

Geta, annoyed the the amount of fabric that was your gown and released it roughly.

“Take it off,” he ordered. You huffed, unfurling it from the ties in on the side and letting it fall to the step below. Fully nude on his throne, his hands groped your ass to kiss you again.

“What of you?”

Geta simply pulled up the tunic on his chest and his cock sprung up in response. “You should know conscience now.”

“Us women do not see the same pleasures,” you meant in the form of clothing being simply. Geta quirked his head to the side and leaned it back against his seat.

He sat an awkward angle but was semi-sitting up with you on top of him. You lifted on your knees and palmed at his member with purpose. Remembering the lines and curve like the stones outside of your home, you pumped him as a grunt left his throat.

“I see that you do.”

“Not that anyone would know,” you snided.

Again, he furrowed his brows. “Do you want people to see? All of Rome to see what a woman of your stature does to me?”

“They don’t need to see, Geta,” you sighed and moved up on him. “If you wish to take a wife, that is already implied.”

“You are far too beautiful to be a wife. You are a goddess.”

“Who can only be sought in darkness.”

“That is when you come alive,” his eyes closed at the feel of his tip at the entrance of you. Moving back and forth along your slit while the wetness gathered to make his intrusion easier. The pull of your walls making room for him as you sunk down to take him whole; the claw of your fingernails into his chest at the sensation.

Your knees dug into the harshness of the chair as its girth, and his own, sent you ascending. Your back arched as his fingertips drove goosebumps along your spine. You started grinding on his cock slowly. Clit rubbing against his pubic bone, gently caressing your most sensitive bit as he gripped your hips tightly. You looked down at him prompting his stare to reach through you. It grabbed your soul and reminded you of all the reasons you kept answering his call.

Geta filled you completely. The stretch of him long and wide, your hands fell back to his knees and propelled you as you bounced on him the best your body could. He trusted up to you as the matched inside of you both struck hot and heavy. The burn of your body, the pulse of heat between your legs grew while the slick of your arousal coated his dick every time you sunk back down.

His hands bruised. They tightly gripped you as though you would slip away into the darkness should he let go. He needed to feel you in more ways than one. The digging of your nails into his skin transposed by the burn of his palms on your waist, hips, thighs, and wherever else they could touch.

“Look at you,” he praised breathlessly. “A God to a King.”

A Venus of Rome.

“My Venus,” Geta cut between his teeth. “Mine.”

His own pace superseded your own. Geta’s hips snapped up, racing a high that hit him like Cupid’s own bow straight to the heart. His pace was parading his strength he did not often show beyond words and measures. Your hands failed you on his knees and forced you forward.

Geta grabbed at your jawline, hand crushing your chin.

“You are mine,” he repeated. “No other man shall have you—as a wife nor lover.”

Your silence maddened him. He was relentless in his mission to send you to the edge. You could barely catch your breath and your chest, naked as the day you were born, rose and fell rapidly as the faint sheen of sweat washed over you.

“Do you understand me?” Geta stopped his movements and your shoulder jolted uncontrollably. He was the only one who had ever sent your body’s muscles into overdrive.

“Yes,” you nodded with his hand still grasping your jaw. “Yes, Geta.”

His eyes flicked back and forth between your own. You were truthful even if you hated him some days.

“Good,” he agreed with his own nod. “Turn around.”

“What?”

“Turn around,” Geta ordered again. “Your Emperor commands you.”

He released your jaw dismissively and let his hands fall beside his legs. You lifted yourself from him with a shiver and maneuvered yourself front facing. The arena before you, the empty spectator seats still viewing you freely in coitus. Geta’s hands roamed over your ass and up your back as you turned. He grasped himself at the base of his cock and lined up his head to you again.

“Come down,” he commanded.

You joined together as one again and you were quick to realize you had no bearings. There was nothing to hold on to, nothing to support you except what little resistance your knees could gather against the harsh seat.

As though Geta could read your mind, he drew you back. He leaned you all the way against him to where you were nearly laying as though on a bed yet still angled as though lounging on a chaise. The new angle pushed his cock to the sweetest pull, pushing against your plush walls and letting a gasp escape you in turn. Geta smoothed the sides of your body while your feet turned under you and you let your weight lay on him.

He ran over your breasts slowly. Nipples long pebbled, he squeezed the flesh and brought them up before releasing them again. Geta brought his head to incline into yours as he thrusted into you once more.

“I see their jealousy. All of them—“ the non-existent spectators “—wanting to fuck a woman like you. If they saw an Empress so bare, so exposed, what would they do?”

Geta’s tone had become selfish. His pace returned to an unrelenting finish. He pounded into you. Each snap hitting your most pleasured spot perfectly as his hands cradled you and his words filled your mind with him.

“How would they feel seeing their Emperor defile the most exquisite creature that has ever graced Rome?”

“They would all wish to be you,” you admitted. His words of praise hit you as hard as his cock. Your head tossed back onto his shoulder.

“Open your eyes, darling. Head up.”

You did as commanded—like any good subject would do.

“This will be yours,” he guided one of your hands into his and brought them both to your bud as the other wrapped around your waist. With his finger atop yours, he helped circle your clit as his end was near.

“This land, Rome, can be ours. Just ours.”

That was, if he would ever be given permission to marry and the match was fixed.

“Gladiators in your name, fighting to see your beauty. Feasts and splendor for the sake of our children…”

The familiar heat in your core began to bubble like the markings of a volcano. You turned your head to his and kissed him deeply at the thought, rubbing your clit furiously with the help of his hand and relishing the way his cock completed your body.

“I will marry you,” Geta reaffirmed as his words caught every second his hips threatened to stutter at his release. “I will marry you I swear to the Gods if it is the last thing I do.”

Maybe you believed him, maybe you did not. Yet you would feel nothing but him and only him and everything he gave you in that moment. The utter devotion and the most raw form of his propensity.

If the night were not already fallen, you saw the waves of Heaven wash over you as the eruption of your orgasm shakes you to the core. The blinding hues of what Venus had brought upon you leaving you gasping for breath. Thoughtless and wordless of promises that carry on with the shaking of your thighs and soft whispers of marriage from his lips. Geta’s own release was missed by you. Mere seconds after your own, he stilled as his hips stuttered into you and the legacy of his spent began to leak beyond where he filled you.

Geta released his hand from your own and rubbed your arms soothingly as you laid heavier on him than before. The wear of your brilliance forging his content sighs. He closed his eyes as your head knocked into his own and the two of you sat there, in the empty arena, alone as one.

“I swear to the Gods,” he assured once more. “I will make you my wife.”

And if the Gods were fair, you would know it to be true. But they have never been fair in the life you knew. So, how could they be true now?

A/N: couldn’t help writing for Geta. The men of gladiator have me in a chokehold. Thanks for reading and while it isn’t required, reblogs and comments help writers the most! ♥️ [not proof read yet]

[daycourtofficial]

All’s well that ends well to end up with you

Pairing: Eris x Rhysand’s sister!reader | WC: 1.5k | warnings: none

Summary: fears and doubts cause you and Eris to do your first irrational act together: a secret mating bond ceremony

Author’s note: happy Eris Week to all who celebrate and to @erisweekofficial for all their work!! I gotta start with my roots and my first post has to be gingerfucker!! I have to give the people what they know me for!! This can be read as a stand alone tho 🫶🏻

You breathed deeply, the chimes of the clock tower drowning out any other noise. Eris stood before you, an immaculate jacket of deep red adorning his chest. He wore a black dress shirt beneath, embroidered with the phases of the moon around the collar. His jacket was a rich velvet, gold thread woven throughout.

It was the perfect way to symbolize your unity. You were not sure who made such a garment, unsure if black fabric was even allowed in the Autumn Court.

You couldn’t find it in yourself to care when his soft amber eyes look down at you as he held out his arm for you.

The two of you were in the Day Court under the cover of darkness, a secret mating ceremony. It was truly quite romantic, a tale you hoped to share whenever it’s safe for you to do so.

You had come to visit Helion a month prior for negotiations on behalf of Rhysand. You had asked to come in Rhys’s stead because 1) you also had wanted to peruse the libraries and 2) you were hoping to negotiate a pegasus from Helion.

At least, those were the reasons you gave your brother.

The end of Amarantha’s reign had allowed you to finally see your mate for the first time in five decades, having slipped away to a spot in the woods after Rhys’s return to wait in hopes of just a glimpse of him.

You had waited impatiently, certain that the nerves and anxiety were rolling off you in waves for any nearby wildlife to intercept. It felt incredible to see him again, your face tucked beneath his chin as he held you close to him, his scent burning itself into your memory once more.

His first words to you following your separation were a desperate plea for a ceremony, his pleas soft as he clutched you tightly to his chest.

You knew it was too risky to do it in either of your home courts. Spring was an obvious no, Winter and Dawn were quite risky, leaving Summer and Day as your only real options.

You were quite fond of Helion, and you were sure you could convince him to allow the two of you passage into his court for a few hours.

After he listened to your pleas, he agreed to allow the two of you access to one of his temples for a few hours.

“Not all of us can see so well in the moonlight,” he had told you, letting you know the location of the most beautiful temple in his court. “Only one priestess roams the halls on Tuesday nights. She is quite fond of performing such ceremonies.”

His words were no embellishment. The temple before you was massive and stunningly beautiful. The high arched ceilings with suns painted everywhere almost glowed against the blue backdrop behind them.

You wondered how it looked during the day.

Eris looked down as you hooked your arm into his. You had accepted the bond decades ago, but the two of you wanted to go through with the ceremony. To ensure that no matter what happened to two of you moving forward, whatever happened to your courts, your people, your homes, there was some record with this date and your names on it. Some written record for future generations to find eons later, when the lands look nothing like they do now and the people live lives that resemble nothing like your own.

When the common tongue is gone, replaced with some newer language you couldn’t begin to understand. Your names would live forever within the pages of this temple, tucked away in their recorded archives: the prince of the Autumn Court and the princess of the Night Court, bound together by fate and by their own wishes.

The flickering light from the candles made Eris’s freckles dance across his face.

The lord led you down the long aisle, your arm nestled into his elbow. The two of you moved in tandem, your long skirts kissing the ground as you went, the black fabric turning red as it moved down your body until it looked as if you walked in the flames.

The priestess nodded at the two of you as you approached the altar, your dress’s slight train cascading down the steps behind you. You turned to Eris, his hands outstretched in invitation, pleading for yours to rest atop them. His hands were warm against yours, the familiar heat calming your nerves.

The priestess before you wore all white, a long flowing gown cinched at the waist. It looked nothing like what Helion wore - instead of long, flowing fabrics, the priestess wore a long, tight-fitted dress, long bell shaped sleeves adorning her arms. A white hood covered her dark black hair, and dark hands adorned with gold rings peaked out from her sleeves.

The priestess lit the candles around the altar as you two looked into each other’s eyes, every emotion strumming through the bond between you two, a song you swore you could hear humming through the air and your chest.

She approached the two of you, a golden silk ribbon in her hands. You moved your right hand into his right hand, and he gently scraped his index finger against his palm. She began chanting, wrapping the soft silk around your forearms. She connected the two joined hands, and you squeezed Eris’s palm, offering a soft smile that he returned.

He was captivating in the night, a fire that kept you warm long through a treacherous night.

Her chanting paused as she looked at you, her low voice telling you, “if you wish to exchange any personal vows, now is the time.”

You took a deep breath, turning back to Eris.

Your mate looked back at you, and any nerves you had dissipated as you started speaking, the words coming from your lips as you gazed into his amber eyes.

“I’m not sure if we were ever two separate things, but if we were, if we are, the edges of you and I have been blurring since I met you, our definitions becoming hazier. I am officially laying claim that there is no longer any part of me that hasn’t been invaded by you.

“I have prayed for you in bonfires, in the dying hearths of my childhood. I always viewed fire as a sacred thing, always offering it something so it can continue to burn before me. Perhaps I was just learning how to stoke the flames, or maybe I knew that worshiping the flame would lead me to you.”

His hand squeezed your own, the ribbon not feeling tight enough to truly blend the two of you together.

His eyes shone in the candlelight, his beauty intensified in the flame as if it knew he was kin.

“I have gone by many names. Eris Vanserra, heir to the Autumn throne, prick, eldest, …. All of those names pale in comparison to the first time you called me ‘mate’.

“That awful playwright who you adore so much put into one of his plays, “What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.” And yet, he never knew what it felt like to be called ‘yours’, what it feels like when you gaze at me so softly, to see the words ‘mine, mine, mine’ swimming in your irises.

“I do not know where my promises can lie, what I am truly capable of. I do not wish to commit to false promises. Our foundation has always been on feeble ground, and I do not wish to build a mateship on such poor foundations.

“I promise to do my very best for you, every day, every minute, for the rest of my life. I promise that every decision I will make will include you as a factor. As the factor. My life is complicated, as you are aware, but you are not complicated. You never have been. My chest yearns for you, at all times. You have always offered me the peace of familiarity.“

You surged forward, capturing his lips in a kiss before pulling back quickly.

“Er, I don’t care about my name, or my title. None of it compares to being called your mate.”

The priestess looked at you two, probably waiting to see if you would pounce on him right here. Maybe that was how they held these ceremonies in Day. You were sure Helion wouldn’t mind.

“You are bound together, from here for eternity, in perfect union. May the Mother bless you both with endless love and patience for each other.”

The air had a certain crispness to it at her words, the bond humming in your chest with satisfaction, satisfying a yearning that hadn’t let up for centuries.

Nobody could deny either of you the sanctity of your bond anymore.

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Thanks for reading ❣️

[novaursa]

Good evening love

I was thinking about that last night!

When Daemon and Rhaenyra goes to brothel they sleep together and obviously she’s pregnant and coz it’s just before her wedding (we will says it just before) everyone thing it’s Leanor.

She gave birth to a little girl all Targaryen looks. They’re was always some rumors but since she looks like every targ it’s easier for her. Harwin played dad role for her and she’s really protective of her brother.

more time passed and everyone can clearly see that she looked exactly like daemon physically and mentally.

And it’s finally during the funeral of her aunt, Daemon see her and he understand that she is his. She’s everything he want and have a special bound with her (first child, heir of the throne, powerful dragon)

Fire in Her Veins

- Summary: During Laena’s funeral, Daemon recognizes you as his own blood. 

- Paring: (daughter) targ!reader/(father) Daemon Targaryen (platonic)

- Note: The reader is the firstborn child and only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. The reader is also bonded to Vermithor.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The sea air on Driftmark is filled with salt and sorrow, the crashing waves of the Narrow Sea providing a mournful backdrop to the solemn gathering. You stand with your brothers on the stone cliffs of the island, your hands clasped tightly together in front of you as the funeral procession moves solemnly forward. Lady Laena’s casket is adorned with pearls and driftwood, her body wrapped in the traditional Velaryon colors, and you can feel the weight of your family’s grief pressing heavily upon your shoulders.

The mood is somber, the sky above gray and heavy, as if even the gods mourn the loss of Laena Velaryon. The Velaryon banners flap in the wind, and from where you stand, you see the faces of the royal family—Alicent and her children, all clustered together, keeping their distance from you and your brothers. Their green dresses stand out like bright flames against the dark ocean and black mourning attire. 

You feel a familiar pang of protectiveness as you glance toward your brothers, who are standing just to your right, their small faces grim and pale. You notice how Jacaerys keeps his head down, avoiding the stern gazes from across the gathering. You recognize the unspoken tension between the two halves of the family, an invisible line that divides you all.

Behind you, you hear the murmurs of the court, soft whispers that seem to follow you wherever you go. They speak of many things—the death of Lady Laena, the grief of her husband Daemon, and the unspoken truth that seems to hang in the air around you. The truth of who you are. 

"She looks more like him every day," you overhear a noblewoman whisper, though she thinks she is being quiet enough to go unnoticed.

And you know who they mean. Not Laenor Velaryon, who raised you as his own. Not Harwin Strong, who shielded you when you were small, his fierce protectiveness marking him as a father figure in your life. But Daemon.

Your eyes, so like his—stormy, burning with fire—scan the crowd until they land on him.

Daemon Targaryen stands just beyond the gathering of mourners, his face half-hidden beneath his hood, his silver hair blowing in the wind. There is something wild about him, something untamed, as though he belongs to the sea and the sky more than he belongs to the earth. He looks broken today, mourning his wife, but in his eyes there is a flicker of something as he catches your gaze—recognition, perhaps.

Your heart beats harder, and you lift your chin, a Targaryen through and through. You are not afraid to meet his gaze. In fact, there’s something in you that draws you closer to him, though your feet remain rooted to the ground.

Daemon's eyes narrow, the brief glint of recognition becoming a full realization. His mouth parts slightly as if he is going to speak, but no words come out. You see the flicker of memory in his gaze, a moment that stretches back to the night you were conceived—the night Rhaenyra escaped into the shadows of King's Landing, into his arms, if only for a single stolen moment.

The likeness between the two of you is undeniable, your shared features as plain as day to anyone who cared to look closely. Your high cheekbones, the curve of your lips, the storm in your gaze. And there is something more than just the physical—an energy, a fierceness that burns in you as much as it does in him.

"Y/N," Daemon murmurs your name under his breath as he steps forward, moving as though drawn to you by some unseen force.

You do not step back. You hold your ground, standing taller, your spine straight. You are not the little girl who needed protection anymore. You are Rhaenyra’s daughter, the rider of Vermithor, a dragon like no other. 

Your brothers shift uncomfortably beside you as Daemon approaches, and you gently place a hand on Jacaerys’ shoulder, a silent reassurance that you will protect them. They are yours, just as much as you are theirs, and no one, not even Daemon, can change that.

“Do you remember me?” Daemon’s voice is low, so low that only you can hear it. His eyes never leave yours.

Your lips part, but words fail you for a moment. You do remember him through your memory as he was a ghost—and the stories your mother told you, the truths she revealed as you grew older. You remember the fire that courses through your veins, the unyielding bond with your dragon, the instincts that set you apart. It all comes from him.

"How could I not?" you reply, your voice steady, even though inside you feel like a storm is brewing.

Daemon’s lips twitch, but it’s not a smile—it’s something darker, something more conflicted. He glances toward your mother, Rhaenyra, who stands a little ways off, her eyes firmly fixed on Laena’s casket. There is a tension between them as well, a history that lingers in the air, unspoken but understood.

“You look like her,” Daemon says quietly, but his eyes say otherwise. He knows you look like him. 

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. You have always heard the whispers, the stories, but standing before him now, there is something more intimate in the way he observes you. He is seeing himself in you, recognizing the dragon fire in your blood, the legacy of your shared heritage.

“I look like myself,” you correct, your tone sharper now. “I am my mother’s daughter.”

“And mine,” Daemon replies, his voice a murmur carried by the wind.

You hold his gaze, your heart thudding in your chest, but you do not back down. For years, you had wondered what it would be like to stand face to face with the man whose blood flows in your veins. Now that you are here, you find that you do not need his acknowledgment. You do not need his approval.

You are who you are, no matter who claims you.

"I didn’t need you before," you say, your voice low but firm. "I don’t need you now."

The wind blows harder, carrying your words with it, and Daemon stares at you for a long moment before he nods, almost imperceptibly. There is something in his eyes now—perhaps regret, perhaps something else entirely.

"You are strong," he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. "That much is clear."

You nod, not offering him anything more, and you turn away, your brothers following you as you lead them away from the cliff’s edge and back toward the safety of your family. The tension in your shoulders slowly fades as you walk away from Daemon, though you can still feel his eyes on your back, watching you as you go.

As the sea crashes against the rocks below, you feel a sense of finality, but also a strange kind of peace. You are your mother’s daughter. You are bonded to a dragon as mighty as Vermithor. You do not need anyone to tell you who you are.

And yet, you cannot help but wonder what it might mean to carry the fire of both Rhaenyra and Daemon, to have the blood of two dragons raging inside of you.

[sodaabaa]

wings a court of thorns and roses

rhysand x reader reader is mesmerized by rhysand's wings and he makes a tempting suggestion.

tw: slightly nsfw

playlist here!

I was sitting in my room when I heard the front door slam. I could feel his anger, a whole level above him, through closed doors. I put the sketchbook I was holding on my desk as I got up to see what all the commotion was about. As I made my way down the spiraling stairs, I saw Rhys storm into his room, shadows trailing behind him. I glanced at Cassian and Mor, raising my eyebrows in question. They simply shook their heads, don’t push him. 

I felt another pulse of anger through the bond, he must’ve been infuriated if he let these surges of emotion pass through the bond. I looked at his door, contemplating whether he’d kill me if I tried to talk to him. I had to try, at the very least.

As I walked across the hall, Mor grabbed my arm. “Hybern used faebane. He’s angry, give him some space to cool down.”

I shook my head, “he could be injured, let me just check up on him.” 

She let go of my arm but I could sense her and Cassian say a silent prayer for me to walk out of that room alive. I rolled my eyes at them, mustering up all the courage I had before walking towards his door.

I took a deep breath and cracked the door open to peer inside, hoping he couldn’t sense me behind the door. 

“Come in if you dare. I won’t kill you but I make no promise to spare those morons in the hall.” 

Humor. That’s unexpected. This shouldn’t be that hard, seeing how he was cheery enough to mock Cassian and Mor still. 

I walked in, my feet shuffling against the obsidian floor. He was standing before the window, gazing at the starless night sky, as if the stars too, could feel his anger and decided against shining tonight in solidarity for their High Lord. His wings were out. Wings. This was the first time I’d seen them. They were identical to Cassian and Azriel’s wings and dark, so dark that it seemed to eat up any light that dared to shine around them. What would it be like, to use those onyx wings as a backdrop for a starry night sky? 

“Are you hurt?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. 

He removed his attention from the window to answer my question. “Not badly. I’ll heal.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

Silence. His attention turned back to the mountains in the distance. “He baited me. I should have been more careful. Should’ve known about the faebane.” 

I paused, unsure of how to respond. 

“You can’t know everything. It was a slip up, now you know how to handle confronting him next time.” 

“Next time I see him, it won't be to confront him.” He grumbled. A simple threat, frightening nonetheless.

Again, my eyes wandered to his wings. Imagining the things I could paint. The moon illuminating snow capped mountains, stars glittering like diamonds against the black of his wings. 

If you’d like to paint my wings, darling, all you have to do is ask. 

I was mid gasp when I coughed instead, earning a chuckle from Rhys. I had forgotten about my shields all night since I’d been painting in my room, no use for mental barriers when there was no one around.

He turned, facing me expectantly. 

“You’re not serious.” I said.

He merely raised his eyebrows. 

“You’re injured.” Excuses. I knew that was just an excuse. To paint him, I’d have to get too close to him. I wasn’t ready for that.

No need to be afraid, I won’t bite. 

I cursed him, “pig.” 

A breathy laugh. 

“Cassian and Mor were terrified of you just then. I’m pretty sure they prayed I’d come back in one piece.” I said.

He shifted, his eyes dropping to the floor. “They know better than to cross me while I’m angry.” 

“You don’t seem very angry, quite the opposite actually.”

He hesitated for a second. “You’re a soothing presence.”

I looked away, cheeks heating up.

“Paint my wings.” He said, breaking the silence.

I opened my mouth in protest but hesitated when our eyes met. His violet eyes were full of hope and anticipation. 

“Fine.” I huffed, a sly smile creeped onto his lips. Night Triumphant indeed. 

I made my way to the door to gather my paints but before I could even walk a step, Rhys waved his hand and my paints along with brushes appeared on his bed. 

I shot him a playful look which he returned.

“Alright, lay on your stomach then. If you get hurt any further, it’s your fault.” 

“I’d gladly let you hurt me darling.” He retorted.

I bit back a laugh, “who knew the High Lord of the Night was a masochist. I’d pegged you to be the sadist type.” 

A devilish grin and equally vicious eyes narrowed at me. “I’m whatever you want me to be, angel.” 

I fought the butterflies in my stomach, urged them to go away. 

He sprawled out on the silk sheets, his wings laid out before me. I readied my paints and leaned over him, standing on the edge of the bed to start the base layer. It wasn’t the most comfortable position but it would have to do. Though it seemed like Rhys had other plans.

“It’d be much easier if you took a seat, darling.” Despite not being able to see his face, I could hear the smirk in his voice.

“I’m not sitting on you Rhys.” I said. 

“You wouldn’t want the throne to go cold would you darling?” 

I rolled my eyes, “I’m not gonna make this comfortable for you Rhys.”

His response was that breathy laugh, the one that made my skin burn and my stomach flutter. I made sure my shields were up before climbing onto his hips, my thighs on either side of him. 

“This seems pretty comfortable to me, what happened to the promise of pain?” He taunted.

I smacked the back of his head, “let me paint in peace.”

“You make me suffer, angel.” 

“Good.” I replied.

For the next hour, I lost myself in painting his magnificent wings. Time slipped away as I focused on getting every star, every cloud, every snowy mountain right. Rhys seemed to enjoy the quiet as well, his head resting on his arms as he watched me in the mirror. I tried not to shy away from his gaze. 

“I think I’m done.” 

“Finally, my back is aching.” 

I winced, I completely forgot he was hurt. I scrambled to get off him but before I could, he turned onto his back, positioning his hands on my waist, keeping me straddled on his hips. 

“Rhys! The painting!” My eyes widened, the paint was going to smudge. He was laying on his back now, watching me panic before saying, “Don’t worry, it’s dried. I made sure of it.”

A sigh of relief left my lips.

“Then let me off.”

“I don’t think I will.” 

I stilled. 

He was gazing over my face, taking in what was before him. A hand came up to wipe away a smudge of white paint on my collarbone. I shivered when his cold hand touched my warm skin. He lifted himself up with ease, his face inches away from mine. My cheeks were bright red, my eyes dropping to his chest and my hands fiddling with the threads of my sweater. His featherlight touch traveled from my collarbone, up to my neck and stopped at my chin, gently lifting my face to meet his. I looked up at him through my eyelashes, eyes narrowed. His lips were no longer twisted in that arrogant smirk, eyes no longer held that devilish gaze. His lips were parted in anticipation, violet eyes pining with desire. 

“Are you gonna do something or just stare.” Barely a whisper.

Within seconds his hands were gripping the back of my neck, bringing my lips to his in a hungry, desperate, burning kiss. We were wind and water, violent waves crashing against jagged rock. His hands roamed under my sweater, drinking every curve, every edge. My hands mirrored his, wrapping around his broad shoulders and then traveling down his solid chest. I couldn’t get enough of him, couldn’t get close enough despite being flush against him. He withdrew from the kiss, taking a breath, looking into my eyes, searching for hesitation. I smiled at him, don’t stop. The devilish smirk was back. His lips trailed down my jaw, my neck, my collarbone, there wasn’t an inch of me he didn’t claim. His hands held my waist so hard I knew they’d be bruised in the morning. I didn’t care, I wanted every bruise, every mark he gave me. 

What shall I be for you tonight, angel? Sadist? 

He brought his hand to the back of my head, gripping a fistful of hair and pulling back. I whimpered as he used the opportunity to leave bite marks all over my exposed neck. 

His grip softened, his lips now trailed further down and lightly kissed the hollow of my neck. 

Or shall I worship your body? 

He flipped us over, pinning my hands on either side of head. I was trapped between his strong, tattooed arms. 

I don’t care what you do to me, just never stop touching me. 

He smiled brighter than the north star. His lips brushed over my ear, “your wish is my command,” he breathed.

[highladyandromeda]

Shadows of the Heart

Prologue

Azriel x Reader

Summary: After years apart, Y/n returns to Velaris, bearing the weight of sacrifice and secrets from her past. Reunited with Rhysand and his Inner Circle, she navigates the complexities of rekindled friendships and unresolved tensions. 

Y/n’s powers are inspired by Scarlet Witch from Marvel. She is a sorceress living in Vallahan, with her family hailing from the night court. 

Word count: 1k-ish

Warnings: mentions of blood, wounds, but nothing particularly graphic

Azriel stood off to the side, quietly observing the cozy scene in the House of Wind's living room. There was Feyre, nestled comfortably on Rhys's lap, her giggles echoing softly as she leaned in to catch his whispered words. In the corner, Amren made an art out of lounging, a smirk playing on her lips as she peered over her wine glass. Cassian had wrapped an arm around Nesta, her head bent together with Gwen and Emerie, engrossed in a lively discussion about their latest read. The ambient buzz of conversation, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses filled with Rhys's impressive wine, created a backdrop of contented harmony.

Azriel tried his best to shove aside the twinge of jealousy that crept up on him, watching his brothers and their bliss. He didn't want to feel like just an onlooker, basking in the warmth of their happiness, yet here he was. His mind wandered to Elain, who had opted for an early night. Would her presence have allowed him to drift away from this feeling, to find solace in her gentle smiles and tender gazes? It seemed chasing fae after fae with hearts as bright as the sun was his lot in life. Yearning for a sliver of light in his shadowed existence, a beacon like Elain, or Mor, someone to take him out—that's when he noticed it—his shadows, usually so still, began to stir anxiously around him.

In danger, in danger, they whispered, urgency threading through their murmurs.

In pain. Falling, falling, the ones closest murmured, their voices escalating into a desperate shout.

Springing to his feet, Azriel scanned the room, brushing off the puzzled glances thrown his way. Then, a sharp thud echoed, quickly followed by a cry that cut through the relaxed chatter. In a heartbeat, he was dashing towards the balcony, with Rhys and Cassian hot on his heels, all three propelled by the sudden urgency to uncover the source of the disturbance that had just intruded upon their peaceful evening.

Bursting through the balcony doors, Azriel was met with a scene that defied all expectations. Chaotic runes smeared across the floor in hasty, overlapping strokes forming an intricate magical circle. At its heart lay two figures: a faerie kneeling, her skin so pale it shimmered with almost ethereal light, ebony locks sprawling untidily about her. Her eyes, aglow with an intense crimson, matching the runes surrounding her, pierced through the night. Dark stains marred her robes—wounds, he realized, still seeping blood from her arm and leg. She cradled Mor’s head in her lap, their gazes locking in a moment so profound, that Azriel felt the world around him come to a standstill. He swore he felt his heart stutter, a memory long forgotten trying to urge its way out. Mor, his attention snapped to, was equally pale, her lips tinged a sickly shade of blue.

“What did you do to–” Just as Azriel began, he saw the female look behind him, exclaiming, “Rhys! 

“Y/n?” Rhys ran to her, his hands frantic, unsure of whether to hold her or lean for Mor. 

“Rhys” She began again, her breaths coming out in spurts. She grabbed his hand as he leaned down to hold her, “Poison…she’s been poisoned, needs tonic–”

Barely finishing her sentence, her eyes rolled back and she collapsed, Rhys’s hands halting her from hitting the floor. 

“Call for Madja” Rhy yelled. “Mor’s been poisoned and perhaps Y/n as well.”

Before Azriel could react, Cassian stepped up, carefully lifting Mor, while Rhys carried Y/n, both moving swiftly back into the sanctuary of the house.

They found a bedroom with two twin beds, laying one on each. 

Madja, a whirlwind of expertise, raced around both, focusing her skills on stabilizing Mor's precarious state. Meanwhile, Rhys was tasked with a grim duty, pressing down on Y/n's wounds, which despite the salves and a plethora of cloths, continued bleeding relentlessly.

"It's the runes," Amren interjected, her voice slicing through the turmoil like a blade. All eyes, save for Madja's, who momentarily lessened the fervor of her tonic mixing, turned to her.

"She utilized ancient magic," Amren stated, her declaration hanging in the air, dense with implications, yet devoid of further explanation, prompting Rhys to press for clarity.

"And that means?" 

The urgency lacing Rhys's voice caught Azriel off-guard. Who was this female, who seemed so familiar and why was she so important to Rhys? He felt a spark of anger at the way Rhys held her, despite knowing Rhys's heart belonged to Feyre.

"It means she offered her blood as a sacrifice. Likely to transport herself and Mor here. Inspect Mor for runes," Amren directed without pause.

Before Amren's words could fully settle, Madja cut through the sleeves of Mor’s dress, revealing an arm ensnared by crimson runes, mirroring those that marred the balcony. 

It was then that Azriel's senses sharpened, recognizing the scent that pervaded the air—a metallic tang he had initially overlooked in the chaos. Blood. Those runes, those symbols, all wrought from blood. Recollections of the massive circles they had traversed to enter this scene played back in his mind, causing his stomach to churn. It was reflected in Feyre's gasp as she rushed to aid Y/n, while Rhys was overtaken by a wave of nausea.

The room, already tense with fear and uncertainty, was engulfed in a silent horror as Madja's voice, though trembling, broke through the silence. "She's correct. The blood serves as an anchor for Morrigan's soul. The runes must bind Morrigan to..."

"Y/n's," Rhys provided, his voice steady in the thick silence.

"Yes, to Y/n's very essence," Madja concluded. "This means Y/n will continue to suffer, to bleed, until Morrigan shows signs of recovery. In exchange.”

A heavy silence settled over them, punctuated only by the rhythmic thud of Madja grinding her herbs, as the gravity of their situation unfolded.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author's note: Hi everyone! I’ve been a lurker in the acotar fandom for ages, this is my first time writing, so do let me know what you think. I'm not totally sure how far I want to take this series, but I do have longer chapters planned ahead.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

The other day I was reading about the “mail-order brides” during the Gold Fever/Gold Rush in USA. Men ordered/purchased a wife via mail, and one of the many reasons some of them did that was because of loneliness, and I couldn’t help but think “yep, that would be König”. Just imagine him living alone in his farm or ranch, he only goes to town once a month to buy essential supplies, hides his face, and barely socializes with folks. But deep inside he is just a lonely man who desires a family, and a woman to call his (and one who can help him with his… needs) But he is socially inept, so he takes the easy route and orders himself a wife, that way he doesn’t have to bother with interacting with other people and gets himself a pretty wife

Oh my god 💞

König wanting to wed and bed her the minute she arrives by train... She thought he would court her for a while before they marry, she thought they would do this decently, that they would get to know each other first, she’d rent an apartment from the small town and then decide if she wanted to live with him…

But he says everything’s settled, he already took care of everything, they’re getting married today and spend their wedding night in the saloon before leaving for his settlement tomorrow.

She’s too bewildered to even speak, so it's no wonder she gets herded to the altar right away, a pretty, meek little bride is just what König ordered! Gets wed to this giant hulking gold digger while still wearing her traveling clothes, the priest only looks drunk and bored as she peeps her vows. The man she's now wed to looks down at her with unbridled affection and curiosity, but soon enough, she catches him eyeing her waistline, her bust, the corset she wears feeling tighter still by his indecent stare.

He's far from a gentleman, and dresses like a weather-worn cowboy, and she suspected as much from the way he wrote and how unpolished his handwriting was. But at least he seems kind. If anything, he's smitten that she’s not some old hag who deceived him by claiming to be an unmarried young lady, that she is everything and more he wished for based on the few letters they exchanged.

The wedding is over in a few minutes, and there’s no coffee and cake, no party under some big tree, no relatives or friends to congratulate her on her wedding day. There’s only this huge, intimidating man who looks at her like she just dropped down from heavens, his eyes slowly sparking aflame with both softness and lust.

He takes her to the saloon to eat, and then she finds herself in a greasy little room upstairs, changing into her white nightgown, getting ready to sleep and only sleep, but her nightmare of a day is not over yet. Her hand flies over her mouth, she nearly screams as she turns around and finds this horrible man of lowly European descent thoroughly naked behind her.

She’s in so much trouble, that much was certain from the minute he saw this man, but seeing his… equipment in the dim candle light of the old saloon is too much after everything she's gone through. She's verily about to faint.

It’s just her luck to dream of adventures and a happy, exciting new life and then find herself thrown into the arms of some barbaric, foreign giant... He said he’s looking for a companion in life and hinted at being a little lonely, but men who wish to court a lady don’t do it like this: by dragging them to the altar and then presenting their cocks to them before even two hours have passed!

The rowdy noise of cancan downstairs is a filthy backdrop to seeing a naked man for the first time in her life, and she never knew male parts could be so... big. Or jumpy. Or leaky... This man is clearly serious about this commitment, and thinks there’s no need to get to know each other, she’s his wife now and they need to consummate the marriage right away.

He’s breathing heavily while grabbing that weeping weapon in his fist, telling her she’s more beautiful than he ever even imagined. He pleasures himself slowly while watching her try to cover herself in her thin, faintly translucent gown, and she still can't find any words – the man is behaving like a scoundrel or a highwayman, not at all like the sharp dressed, eloquent gentlemen she's grown used to in the city. The slick sounds of lewd fapping are accompanied by moans of how she’s the answer to all his prayers, and her hair stands on end, she feels like she’s walking on tar here in the distant frontier with nothing but greedy men and drunken brothel keepers around her, now face to face with a giant, throbbing cock out of all things...

She coldly orders him to sleep on the floor while she takes the bed – she’s not letting this nasty, hairy beast near her anytime soon, not when she still has her wits about her. Defeated when she won’t let him “consummate their love” tonight, the man withdraws to sleep on the floor with a sullen groan and a long sigh.

She never sleeps a wink that night in fear of finding him by her side, groping his way through her dress, but to her surprise this man only snores on the floor as if he's used to sleeping there.

Civilization is far away when he leads her to his shack the next day and shows her the first small specks of gold he has found, apologizing for the state of his abode so unkempt and unclean. She has to give it to him that he's indeed kind and doesn’t want to make her suffer unduly, because the table and the bench are wiped in a hurry before she sits down, as if she’s a queen visiting a humble subject. He makes her a bath next to the fire and washes in the water after her, giving her flirty, promising smiles throughout the whole splashy ordeal.

Before long, the giant cock is presented to her again as the man excitedly waits for permission to take her, telling her he has never seen anything like her, that she makes his heart run wild.

The only thing running wild in her sour opinion is his cock, bouncing up and down from the need to be inside her, nearly leaking seed on the floor she suspects she has to wash and scrub tomorrow anyhow as his wife. Evening after evening, she rejects his advances, but after a week or two, her will breaks.

She tells herself it’s only out of pity that she lets him finally crawl over her and lift her gown, that it’s only to stop the man from spiraling into madness that she allows him to test how nicely that thick, leaky cock glides through her folds.

“You’re wet, Sonnenschein,” he pants with happy excitement when she notices her swollen, sloppy state, then plunges his cock deep into his wet little prize with a filthy moan. He tells her she’s tight and hot, and takes her like she’s some kind of an angelic whore, falls panting all over her breasts when he’s sated and done, says that she’s his salvation and that he’ll do anything to make her feel at home here.

She feels exactly like a desperate mail order bride, lured here with the promise of a good life and gold, but when she starts to wait for him to come home instead of dreading the end of the day, that's when her hell truly begins.

It just won't do to start wanting him, to trick her heart to be content with whatever this is. To enjoy his "love" would be even more shameful than anything else so far. The truth of the matter is that she's tormented by a lustful, wild man who takes her on her knees or on her stomach like an animal while moaning about how tight she is, how soft she is, how he can’t concentrate at work because of her.

But when he groans that he loves her just before he cums, she feels a distant sting near her heart, a burst of a small bonfire somewhere in her gut from his words. Far from romantic, but so authentic and pure they’re ripped out of him with a pathetic, cry-like moan.

And just when her heart is about to turn and grow full with softness, he barges in and takes her standing, needy after work, deciding that she looks far too alluring while stirring the stew over the fire. His sunshine of a wife waiting for him with warm food and a soft little cunt, it's exactly like it was always meant to be in his dreams... He’s kind and attentive, but doesn’t know a thing about ladies and that they’re not supposed to be taken by the fire like this, but the dramatic pout on her lips turns into a helpless grimace before this animal has given her three full thrusts.

And it’s only by accident, she tells herself, that it happens. It’s only a coincidence that she finds herself short of breath and shivering, then crying with pleasure from the way his cock sails inside her, hasty and needy as if she’s nothing but a momentary relief for this man.

But she knows she’s far from that. He always stays after the hurried lovemaking – if you could call it that – swallows and tells her things that are supposed to be sweet, perhaps. He whispers loving nonsense in her ear with a stupid, quivering voice, tells her that she’s so tight he’s about to lose his mind. That she brightens up his life and makes this shack a home, a palace, even. That he wants to give her children and grow old together.

She prays the heavens to save her from such a future, but when she accidentally comes with his cock inside her, the man breaks down entirely. Repeats the awful, pathetic “I love you” until he comes, too, and sounds like a man who's getting his sould ripped apart from his bones. It’s sinful lunacy what he’s doing to her in that shack, and dares to sprinkle it with love out of all things, and she doesn’t know if she hates him, or if she loves him too.

Annulling this marriage is nearly impossible, and the sooner he gets her pregnant, the sooner she’s even more trapped, just like the poor rabbits this man lures into the snares placed around the shack. He spends every little speck of gold to buy her silks, satins and gowns, proper woolen scarves and soft little leather shoes, gives her a gentle kiss every morning before he leaves to wash gold. Every evening after meal, he praises her cooking skills and then takes her on the creaking old bed like she's a common whore. The silly, girlish dreams of being whisked away by a mysterious, romantic gentleman are somewhere far away when this giant spills his seed inside her with a thick, arduous groan, then proceeds to cover her in kisses too sweaty and hot.

“I know you don’t love me,” he whispers between the one-sided sucking and nibbling that’s about to make her cry. “But I will make you happy... I swear it, on my life.”

She can only stare at the ceiling, filled with the dancing flames of the fire as he falls asleep with his cock still inside her, the soft snore on her breasts both happy and sad.

[laura1633]

Here are all the lovely fics , I would be so grateful if you could give these fics a read and leave some nice comments for the authors who took the time to write them. 💕

It's been a great gun fight (You drew blood, I set myself on fire) by LeonSolo There will be one religion in Italy, Charles Leclerc. On his knees, he will pray to a God he was supposed to kill.

Red Light at Dawn by LuciThornz Five months ago Max was kidnapped by pirates. Miraculously he was found safe, and now his father has arranged for him to start courting the Governor’s son. But it’s not that simple, Max hasn’t told anyone the whole story of what happened at sea, getting captured was never part of the plan, neither was falling in love. Now Max has a plan to get back on the open ocean and find the pirate he fell in love with before it’s too late. The funny thing about plans is they never do go smoothly.

The Tortured Driver's Department by Shadow_reads Prompt Fill for Lestappen Birthday Challenge:  Charles said he'd love to have his own F1 team in the future, and Max already has Verstappen.com. Max is also experienced and is most suited to being a team principal. Their shared retirement arc is where they own a team together: Charles handles the press conferences and media, while Max focuses on the data and strategy.

Forever Love by stealmysunshine Charles isn’t going to wait around for Max to pop the question. Who says that there is a preordained question popper? There are two people in this relationship and Charles has every right to show Max just how precious he is and make him feel loved.

(k)not in public by bananasomg When Max accidentally invites friends to tag along on his and Charles' holiday to Greece (which Charles has coined their mating oasis trip), Charles isn't phased, and Max is easily convinced. Hallowed Ground by crimsonmidnight When an FIA racing law forces Omega Charles to take part in a mandatory mating hunt after getting the Sauber seat, Alpha Max vows to do everything it takes to claim him as his own.

The Wait Is Worth It by crimsonmidnight Max Verstappen's adventures in purchasing a fucking machine and using it when Charles gets an attitude.

Sutures by jadesaturn After years of grueling battles, academic rivals Max and Charles part ways upon graduating from medical school until they meet again as surgical interns at the same hospital. Their age-old feud continues, as expected. Grey’s Anatomy Enemies to Lovers but make it Formula 1.

A taste of the divine by (anonymous on ao3) female!Charles ends up losing her virginity to Max and he is going through it.

i'd wanna hold you (just for a while) by Kashoot Charles doesn't normally want to regress, choosing to ignore his needs in favor of keeping busy with all his other obligations. "I'm a racing driver, Max, not a baby!" Max knows better.

Preloved by LaurawritingF1 After getting caught up in another scandal, Charles, the crown prince of Monaco, is sent to an 'Omega Establishment' to find himself an omega in the hopes it will settle him down. Charles is not at all interested in picking out a pretty housewife for himself and is intending to return home empty handed until he meets Max, an omega housed up in the 'Preloved' section of the establishment and clutching hold of his pup tightly.

Everything Changes, Yet Nothing Does by Shadow_Reads The sun was setting over Monaco, casting a warm golden glow over the city. The gentle sound of waves lapping against the shore provided a serene backdrop, contrasting with the turbulent emotions swirling within Charles. Tonight was the night he would ask Max to spend the rest of their lives together.

how you get the boy(s) by amelielacy In which world-famous streamer Max falls in love with artsy single dad Charles.

Hunting Love by himmywimmy Charles becomes an unwilling participant in the pack’s annual mating run and to protect himself, he asks his alpha friend, Carlos, to catch him. But as the night of the mating run unfolds, another alpha seemed to be on the hunt for him.

5 moments of chaos and +1 moment of peace by LaurawritingF1 Charles and Max are retired and dealing with the chaos of looking after their children during the summer vacation. Jimmy, Sassy and Leo also make appearances. Them the breaks, they don’t come gently by imamessofawriter “They just announced that Charles is retiring.” Charles suddenly announces his retirement and then appears to disappear completely.

[bookwormjust]

Imagine: Wrapped in Azriel’s Wings

The evening air was cool, and the twilight sky was painted in hues of pink and purple as the Night Court settled into a tranquil hush. The estate was bustling with activity as the celebrations for a recent victory continued, a lively affair filled with laughter and music. But amidst the festivities, you found yourself feeling a bit overwhelmed, the noise and crowds pressing in on you.

Azriel, ever perceptive to your moods, had noticed your discomfort. His keen instincts and deep connection to you made him acutely aware of when you needed solace. As the evening wore on, he gently guided you away from the crowded hall, leading you toward a quieter, more secluded corner of the estate.

The space was adorned with soft, glowing lanterns and the gentle rustle of leaves, creating an almost magical ambiance. Azriel’s protective nature was evident as he swept you into his arms, his wings unfurling behind him like a dark, comforting shield. His gaze was intense, but there was a softness in his eyes that spoke of his deep affection for you.

“I thought you might need a break,” he said quietly, his voice low and soothing. “It’s a lot to take in, and I don’t want you feeling overwhelmed.”

You looked up at him, gratitude and love shining in your violet eyes. “Thank you, Azriel. It’s just… sometimes it’s hard to process everything.”

He nodded, understanding fully. “I know. And I’m here to make sure you’re safe and comfortable.”

Without another word, Azriel enveloped you in his wings. The motion was smooth and deliberate, his wings folding around you with a tender, almost primal protectiveness. It was as if he was creating a cocoon, a private sanctuary where you could escape the world’s demands and simply be with him.

The warmth and softness of his membranes cocooned you, creating a snug, secure space. You could feel the gentle hum of his power, the steady beat of his heart as he held you close. The world outside seemed to fade away, the muffled sounds of the celebration becoming distant echoes.

“Better?” Azriel asked softly, his voice coming from the depths of the comforting darkness created by his wings.

You snuggled closer to him, feeling an overwhelming sense of safety and affection. “Much better,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the fabric of his shirt where it met your cheek. “Thank you for this.”

Azriel’s breath hitched slightly at the touch, his protective instincts flaring even more. “I’d do anything for you,” he said, his voice a deep rumble that resonated with the sincerity of his words. “I don’t want you to ever feel alone or exposed.”

The bond between you pulsed with warmth and connection, a silent affirmation of the love and trust that you shared. Azriel’s wings tightened slightly around you, a gesture of reassurance and devotion. He rested his chin on top of your head, the soft whisper of his breath brushing against your hair.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice filled with heartfelt emotion. “You make me feel so safe.”

Azriel’s grip on you tightened, his wings forming a snug embrace that made you feel utterly cherished. “I love you too,” he said, his voice tender. “You’re my everything. And I’ll always protect you, no matter what.”

The minutes passed in peaceful silence, the warmth of his wings and the rhythmic sound of his breathing creating a serene cocoon around you. You felt the tension and anxiety melt away, replaced by a profound sense of calm and contentment.

As the evening continued outside, you remained wrapped in the safety of Azriel’s wings. His primal instincts as an Illyrian male were evident in the way he held you, his protective nature a testament to the deep bond you shared. In that intimate space, you felt truly at home, surrounded by love and security.

When you finally emerged from the cocoon, the world seemed a little less daunting, the night’s festivities a backdrop to the profound connection you and Azriel shared. You looked up at him, your eyes shining with appreciation and affection.

“Ready to head back?” he asked, his gaze warm and inviting.

You nodded, feeling a renewed sense of strength and tranquility. “Yes. Thank you for this.”

Azriel’s smile was both gentle and fierce, his pride in you evident. “Anytime,” he said, taking your hand and leading you back toward the celebration. “I’m always here for you.”

As you rejoined the festivities, you felt a renewed sense of belonging and confidence, knowing that with Azriel by your side, you were never alone. His wings had been a shield, a sanctuary, and a symbol of his unwavering devotion, and you carried that warmth and protection with you into the night.

[prythianpages]

Umbrella | Lucien

summary: You hated rainy days. That is, until, you forgot your umbrella and a handsome stranger became your savior.

word count: 1,660

warnings: none (just rain and fluff)

a/n: did I sing Rihanna's Umbrella a lot while writing this? Absolutely! This is actually a recycled old fanfic of mine since I'm currently in a small writing slump and I thought Lucien fit this best. Hopefully y'all find this a bit cute as I did when first writing it.

You saw the dark clouds ominously forming over Velaris as you got ready for work. Your stubborn mind refused to acknowledge the threat of rain. The past few days had been filled with similar warnings, but the clouds had delivered nothing more than a gloomy sky. Even when you finally stepped out of your apartment and felt light droplets kiss your cheeks, you refused to go back to your place for your umbrella.

It’s not going to rain, it’s not going to rain. You repeated in your head as if the more you said it, the more truth it would hold. Nonetheless, your pace quickens, determined to get to your job as soon as possible. It was only a few blocks away, no more than a fifteen minute walk.

But, as always, fate had other plans.

The smell of impending rain was thick in the air and you cursed your stubbornness for not going back for your umbrella. It was too late now. The light drizzle turned into a downpour, heavy raindrops pelting down with increasing intensity. There was no time to seek cover, you had to press on. It was either the sky’s wrath or your boss’s and your body shudders at the thought of the latter.

I hate the rain, I hate the rain.

"Mother’s tits," you curse under your breath, squinting against the onslaught of rain as you shield your eyes with a hand. To your dismay, a grand carriage and a parade of horses blocks your path, moving leisurely along the street and obstructing your way to the next block.

You didn’t notice the tall shadow looming over you until you felt something change.

Your hand drops to your side as you straighten up. What happened to the rain? As you glance forward, you realize the rain was still there but…

“I thought you needed a savior.” 

You jump back, startled by the male who is now standing beside you. The cold rain striking your face snaps you out of your daze yet you feel a rush of warmth as your eyes take in your savior. He possesses an entrancing beauty, so striking that for a moment you wonder if you had been hit by the carriage and were now being guided to the afterlife by this angelic figure.

He extends the umbrella out toward you, offering you solace once more. Despite the relentless downpour, he seems unbothered by the rain, and you can't help but watch as a single droplet traces the jagged scar running down one side of his face. His fiery red hair begins to cling to his forehead. He clears his throat, drawing your gaze back to his.

“Sorry,” you apologize, realizing you had been blatantly staring.

He smiles at you, his eyes alight with a hint of amusement. It’s then you notice the captivating contrast between his eyes: one a gleaming gold, mechanical and the other a warm russet, both piercing through the gloom.

Sheepishly peeling your gaze away from his mesmerizing eyes, you look up at the umbrella. It’s a vibrant red, matching the exact shade of his hair. The color stands out vividly against the gray backdrop of the rainy day like a beacon of warmth and protection.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, gently pushing the umbrella back toward him.

“There’s enough room for both of us,” he insists, his voice smooth and reassuring.

The umbrella was indeed wide enough for two people to fit under. Although you’d still get a bit wet with the rain showing no mercy, it was better than nothing.

“Are you sure?” You shift your weight from one foot to the other, feeling a mix of nervousness and gratitude. “I don’t want to be a burden, especially not to a complete stranger.”

“Lucien Vanserra. Emissary to the Night Court by day and a secret admirer of Velaris’s stars by night,” he says with a playful grin. “Hmm, what else? My favorite color is yellow. I like to read in my spare time.”

His introduction catches you off guard and you can’t help but smile. “Your turn,” Lucien prompts, his eye twinkling with curiosity.

“Y/N. No cool role in this court, unless you count baking Velaris’s best pastries… but that might change if I don’t make it to the shop within the next five minutes.”

His eyes widen with recognition and delight. “Those pumpkin cream cheese muffins have me in a chokehold. Believe it or not, I was actually headed that way. So now that we’re not complete strangers…allow me?”

Lucien offers you his arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, you surprisingly take it, hooking your own arm through his. Butterflies dance in your stomach as he pulls you close to allow the umbrella to cover you both. The traffic that had stalled you earlier is now clear.

 Not wasting any more time, the two of you walk together under the safety of his umbrella with hurried footsteps. The rain continues to fall around you and you lean in closer. His warmth seeps into you, offering comfort against the chill of the rain.

“So, you didn’t tell me your favorite color…” Lucien says, just loud enough for you to hear over the rain.

“Red!” You exclaim with a grin.

**

One of your biggest regrets in life stemmed from that day.

Arriving a few minutes late at the bakery, you faced your boss's ire. There was a big batch of cupcakes, urgently needing to be decorated for a catering event later that evening. She greeted you grumpily, tossing a fresh set of clothes your way from the stash kept for inevitable mishaps. 

Yet, her mood shifted entirely upon seeing the male standing beside you.

Needless to say, Lucien saved you in more ways than one that day.

You managed to persuade your boss to let him choose a couple of pastries for free and snuck in an extra pumpkin muffin when she wasn't looking. However, amidst the morning rush of customers, you hadn’t noticed when he slipped away from the bakery.

While you learned more about him during your rushed walk, there was one detail you missed. How to reach out to him. It left you with regret for not inviting him for a coffee (as a gesture of gratitude, of course.)

You sigh as you step out of your apartment. Thankfully, you have the afternoon shift today. It allowed you to sleep in a bit longer, but luck had not spared you from the city's recent capricious weather.

“It was sunny just ten minutes ago!” you huff, glaring up at the sky as if to scold it.

As if in response to your glare, the sky darkens ominously. Before long, rain pours down on you, leaving you stranded without an umbrella. Again. You let out a small groan.

“Crazy, isn’t it?” A familiar voice chimes in.

“By the Cauldron,” you gasp, startled by the presence right beside you. “You really need to stop appearing out of nowhere.”

“Then how else am I supposed to save you?” Lucien teases, moving closer so that his umbrella also shields you from the rain.

You hadn’t found the courage to ask him out that day either, but you had learned that when Lucien wasn't away on emissary business, he lived in the building right next to yours.

**

As you get ready to close up the bakery, you spare a glance toward the window. A frown settles on your face. It seemed that Velaris was in for even more rain, despite the newspaper claiming otherwise. Fortunately, you had shoved your boring gray umbrella into your bag before work. You were prepared this time because surely with your luck, Lucien wouldn’t be there to save you a third time.

You made sure to pack the leftover pasties into your bag before shutting everything off. As you lock the door, the sky darkens and the faint sound of thunder echoes throughout the city. In the blink of an eye, the rain comes down, pouring quickly and relentlessly. Too quick for you to shift the bags in your arms and reach for your umbrella.

“Forgot yours again?”

“Mother above!”

“Unfortunately, no. Just Lucien.” The red haired male chuckles. His intentions were never to scare you but he found it quite amusing and cute. “I saw the gray clouds and figured you’d need me. Come,” he says, gesturing for you to inch closer to him 

“How did you know I was working today?” 

“I didn’t.”

A sheepish smile spreads across his features and a faint blush colors his cheek. You swear there’s a subtle glow about him, his fiery red hair and eyes gleaming despite the overcast sky. He’s like a ray of sunshine.

“Well, aren’t you a lucky male?” You tease, feeling a rush of warmth at his presence.

“I’d be luckier if you joined me for a late afternoon coffee.” Now it’s you who is blushing and you’re grateful for the way he turns his head, tilting it slightly to the left.  “There’s a place only a block away.”

“Only if you let me pay,” you manage to say and when he opens his mouth to protest, you beat him to it. “As a thank you,” you insist, nudging his shoulder playfully with yours. “For your umbrella services.”

Lucien laughs, his smile widening. He offers you his arm like he has the previous two times. This time, you take it without hesitation, feeling a rush of excitement at the closeness between you. As he guides you both through the rain-soaked streets of Velaris, you lean into him even further. He’s always soothingly warm. He doesn’t seem to mind that you’re closer to him than usual.

As the sky continues to pour down, the umbrella in your bag seems to quietly smile, and you can’t help but develop a newfound fondness for the rain.

It has, after all, brought you closer to Lucien.

For the sake of this fic, reader can't winnow and let's just say Lucien didn't winnow you to your job because he wanted to get to know you more (:

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming

[deusfoundry]

kagehina but they're easing each other into retirement. they're both well past their prime, somewhere in their mid to late 40s. they're still part of a professional team of course, but it's getting harder and harder to keep up with the physical demands of the sport. their bodies just aren't the way they were a decade ago, knees buckling with each jump and muscles becoming sore way too early into a five set game. they spend less time on the court, until eventually they become absent from the starting lineup.

it's a reality that's hard to face, being pried away with unstoppable force from the very thing that breathes life into your being by your own body, for two people who yearn to be standing in front of a net for the rest of their lives. who crave the sound of a ball landing with full force on the polished floors of a court and the buzzing sensation on their skin when the game reaches its peak.

but tobio and shoyo have silently agreed that they'll do everything they can to make this, the wearing down of their bodies and careers moving at a slow and steady pace, easier on both of them.

they start off small, spending the afternoons of their days off bouncing a ball back and forth between them. this is routine, familiar. it makes them feel like they're in highschool again, each warm orange ray of the setting sun reflecting off their skin bringing them back to when they were sixteen.

suddenly, the cicadas are singing and karasuno is fresh from a devastating loss against the great king.

suddenly, snow cascades in white ribbons to the ground. tobio is looking at shoyo, at the sun, and utters the words with great conviction.

"you can fly even higher."

suddenly, it's spring in tokyo. adrenaline courses through their veins in monumental waves. and just as quickly as the tides change, the world collapses. shoyo falls to his knees.

suddenly, it's the spring. the one that will never come again.

the moon rising above the sun is a familiar backdrop to their banter and the silence that bleeds in between playful squabble. they call it a night at around the same time, when either of their stomach growls or when their shirts cling to their backs due to the sweat.

they find other ways to alleviate the dread that's slowly creeping in. and on days where it's harder, where their bones are heavier, they visit a local volleyball camp for kids.

there's something about watching a new generation of players taking their first steps that dispels their apprehension entirely. they watch with a certain fondness in their eyes the childish frustration at each missed spike and failed digs. they offer words of encouragement, pieces of advice between bouts of light-hearted disagreements that makes the kids laugh.

and when one of them finally slams the ball down over a lowered net, an unmistakable glint of passion in their eyes as they stare at a reddened palm, tobio and shoyo find the idea of retirement less daunting.

[callsigns-haze]

Forbidden Whispers

Pairing: Azriel x Cassian!sister reader

Summary: In the midst of Solstice festivities, Y/N, a spirited Illyrian soldier and Cassian's younger sister, finds herself entangled in a clandestine affair with Azriel, the shadowy spymaster of the Night Court. As their passion ignites, they navigate the dangers of their forbidden love, all while concealing their affair from prying eyes.

Content Warning: This story contains explicit sexual content, including scenes of intimacy and mature themes.

A/n: Thank you so much for 300 followers!

The air crackled with anticipation as Y/N strode into the bustling hall, her heart pounding in rhythm with the drums that echoed through the Illyrian camp. Solstice had arrived, bringing with it a fervour that electrified the atmosphere, igniting a spark of excitement within her that she couldn't quite contain.

Dressed in her traditional Illyrian leathers, adorned with feathers and beads that shimmered in the flickering firelight, Y/N felt a surge of pride as she joined the throngs of her fellow warriors. It was a time of revelry, of celebration, but beneath the veneer of merriment lay an undercurrent of tension, a reminder of the looming threat that hung over Prythian.

As Y/N scanned the crowd, her gaze inevitably found its way to Azriel, the shadowy spymaster of the Night Court, who stood at the edge of the gathering like a spectre cloaked in darkness. Despite the distance between them, she felt the weight of his gaze upon her, a silent exchange that sent shivers down her spine.

She had always been drawn to Azriel, captivated by the enigmatic allure that surrounded him like a cloak of shadows. There was a darkness within him, a depth of mystery that beckoned to her in ways she couldn't quite understand. And as their eyes met across the crowded hall, she knew that tonight would be different, that the boundaries between them would blur in the flickering light of Solstice.

Summoning all her courage, Y/N made her way through the throng, weaving between dancers and revellers with a grace born of years spent honing her skills on the battlefield. With each step, the anticipation grew, a fire burning in her veins as she drew closer to Azriel's side.

And then, finally, she stood before him, her breath catching in her throat as she met his gaze, dark as midnight and just as mesmerizing. There was a tension between them, a palpable electricity that crackled in the air, igniting a spark of desire that threatened to consume them both.

"Y/N," Azriel murmured, his voice a low whisper that sent shivers racing down her spine. "What brings you to the shadows on this night of celebration?"

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she leaned in closer, her pulse quickening with each passing moment. "Perhaps I simply wanted to dance with the shadows themselves," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

And with that, she extended her hand, an invitation that hung between them like a promise waiting to be fulfilled. And as Azriel took her hand in his, the world around them faded into obscurity, leaving only the two of them standing amidst the swirling chaos of Solstice.

Together, they danced, their movements fluid and graceful, a testament to the unspoken connection that bound them together. And as the night wore on, the barriers between them began to crumble, leaving nothing but raw desire and longing in their wake.

For in the shadows of Solstice, Y/N and Azriel found solace in each other's arms, their forbidden love burning bright against the backdrop of a world on the brink of war. And as the first light of dawn broke across the horizon, they knew that their love would endure, a beacon of hope amidst the darkness that threatened to consume them all.

As the music swirled around them, a hypnotic rhythm that seemed to echo the pounding of their hearts, Azriel's breath brushed against Y/N's ear as he leaned in close, his voice a low, enticing murmur that sent a shiver down her spine.

"Would you like to get out of here?" he whispered, his words laced with a potent mixture of desire and temptation.

Y/N's pulse quickened at the suggestion, her mind awash with conflicting emotions. She knew the risks of entertaining such thoughts, especially considering her status as Cassian's little sister. But in that moment, as Azriel's dark eyes bore into hers with a hunger that mirrored her own, all she could think about was the undeniable pull between them, a magnetic force that drew them together like moths to a flame.

"Yes," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper as she surrendered to the intoxicating allure of the spymaster standing before her.

With a silent understanding that transcended words, Azriel took her hand in his and led her away from the crowded hall, their footsteps falling in sync with the pulsing beat of their hearts. They moved through the camp like phantoms in the night, slipping between shadows and moonlight until they reached the relative seclusion of Y/N's quarters.

Once inside, the air crackled with tension, a palpable electricity that charged the space between them. Azriel's gaze bore into hers with an intensity that left her breathless, his desire laid bare for her to see.

"I know who you are," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper as he closed the distance between them, his hand coming to rest against her cheek with a feather-light touch. "And I know the risks of what we're doing. But I can't deny what I feel for you, Y/N. I've tried, but I can't fight it any longer."

Y/N's heart thundered in her chest at his words, her resolve crumbling beneath the weight of her own desire. She reached out, her fingers tangling in the dark strands of his hair as she pulled him closer, sealing their fate with a desperate kiss that ignited a firestorm of passion between them.

In that moment, as their bodies entwined in a dance as old as time itself, Y/N knew that she was risking everything for a love that defied the boundaries of their world. But as Azriel's lips trailed along her skin, leaving a blazing trail of heat in their wake, she also knew that some risks were worth taking, even if they led to the brink of destruction.

As their lips met in a fervent embrace, the world around them seemed to fade into oblivion, leaving only the heat of their desire and the intoxicating taste of each other's lips. Azriel's hands trailed along Y/N's curves, a feather-light touch that sent shivers racing down her spine, while her own fingers danced across the hard planes of his chest, tracing the contours of muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt.

With each passing moment, the kiss deepened, their breath mingling in a heady rush of passion and need. There was an urgency between them, a hunger that could not be denied as they sought solace in each other's arms, their bodies moving in perfect harmony as if guided by some unseen force.

As their hands roamed freely, clothes became nothing but obstacles to be discarded in their pursuit of each other. With practiced ease, they shed their garments, each movement fluid and seamless as if they had done this a thousand times before. And all the while, their lips remained locked in a desperate embrace, unwilling to break the connection even for a moment.

With each layer of clothing stripped away, the heat between them intensified, a blazing inferno that threatened to consume them whole. And as their naked bodies pressed together in a primal dance of desire, they knew that there was no turning back, no escaping the fierce passion that burned between them.

In that moment, as they surrendered to the overwhelming tide of sensation, Y/N and Azriel became lost in each other, their souls entwined in a timeless embrace that transcended the boundaries of their world. And as they fell into the depths of passion, they knew that this was only the beginning of a love that would defy the very stars themselves.

With Y/N wrapped securely in his arms, Azriel carried her to the bed with a strength born of both desire and reverence. Gently laying her down amidst a sea of silken sheets, he lowered himself to her, his eyes burning with an intensity that mirrored the flames of their passion.

As he trailed kisses along the curve of her neck, Y/N arched into his touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips as his lips brushed against her skin like a whisper of silk. With each feather-light caress, he worshipped her with a reverence that spoke of his adoration, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

But it was when his lips found purchase on her breast that a low moan tore from Y/N's throat, her fingers tangling in the dark locks of his hair as she surrendered to the exquisite pleasure coursing through her veins. With each flick of his tongue and tug of his teeth, he sent waves of sensation crashing over her, igniting a firestorm of need deep within her core.

"Azriel," she gasped, her voice a breathless plea as he teased her sensitive flesh with a delicate touch. "Oh, gods, don't stop."

His praises spurred her on, her cries of pleasure growing louder with each passing moment as he coaxed her body to new heights of ecstasy. And as their passion reached its peak, they became lost in each other, two souls bound together in a timeless dance of desire and devotion.

In that moment, as they surrendered to the overwhelming tide of sensation, Y/N and Azriel knew that they had found something truly special in each other, a love that would endure the trials of time and fate. And as they melted into each other's arms, they whispered promises of forever, knowing that together, they could conquer even the darkest of shadows.

With a hunger burning in her eyes, Y/N locked gazes with Azriel, her voice a desperate plea as she uttered those three simple words that spoke volumes of her need.

"I need you now."

The intensity in her voice matched the fire that blazed within Azriel's dark eyes, his desire mirroring her own as he gazed down at her with an unwavering gaze. Without a word, he understood her plea, her longing for a connection that transcended the physical.

With a tenderness born of both love and reverence, Azriel positioned himself above her, his powerful frame poised to fulfil her every desire. And as he entered her, inch by inch, a low moan tore from Y/N's throat, her nails digging into his shoulders as she surrendered to the exquisite pleasure that washed over her.

Azriel was everything she had ever dreamed of and more, his size and wingspan a testament to his strength and power. But it was his tenderness, his gentleness, that truly stole her breath away as he moved within her, each thrust a symphony of sensation that left her gasping for more.

As Azriel quickened his pace, driving deeper into the depths of her desire, Y/N's moans grew louder, echoing off the walls of their chamber with a fervour that bordered on ecstasy. With each thrust, she felt herself teetering on the edge of oblivion, her body trembling with a pleasure so intense it threatened to consume her whole.

Her cries of ecstasy filled the room, a symphony of passion that mingled with the sound of their ragged breaths and the rhythmic slap of their bodies colliding. And as she tugged at Azriel's hair with a desperate need, her nails digging into his skin in a delicious mix of pain and pleasure, he praised her with words that only fuelled the fire burning within her.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath hot against her skin. "So perfect, so... exquisite."

His praises only served to drive her wilder, her cries growing louder with each passing moment as she surrendered to the overwhelming tide of sensation that threatened to consume her whole. And as Azriel urged her on with words of encouragement and adoration, she knew that she was lost, lost in a sea of pleasure and passion that knew no bounds.

Together, they soared on the wings of their love, their bodies moving in perfect harmony as they chased the fleeting moments of ecstasy that danced just beyond their grasp. And as they tumbled over the edge together, their cries of release mingling in the air like a sweet symphony of desire, they knew that this was only the beginning of a love that would burn bright for all eternity.

As Azriel delved deeper into the depths of her desire, Y/N found herself overcome with a wave of raw emotion that threatened to consume her whole. Tears spilled from her eyes, cascading down her cheeks in a torrent of sensation as pleasure mingled with pain in a bittersweet symphony that left her breathless.

Screaming his name, she begged for more, her voice raw with need as she surrendered to the overwhelming tide of sensation that threatened to pull her under. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through her veins, igniting a firestorm of desire that burned hotter with each passing moment.

"Azriel!" she cried, her voice echoing off the walls of their chamber with a desperation that bordered on madness. "Oh gods, Azriel, don't stop!"

Her cries filled the room, a symphony of ecstasy that mingled with the sound of their ragged breaths and the rhythmic slap of their bodies colliding. And as Azriel urged her on with words of encouragement and adoration, she felt herself teetering on the edge of oblivion, her senses consumed by the overwhelming tide of sensation that threatened to consume her whole.

With one final, desperate cry, she tumbled over the edge, her body convulsing with the force of her release as pleasure washed over her in a tidal wave of ecstasy. And as she clung to Azriel with a fierce desperation, she knew that this was only the beginning of a love that would burn bright for all eternity, a love that transcended the boundaries of their world and soared on the wings of their passion.

As their bodies trembled with the aftershocks of their passionate encounter, Y/N and Azriel collapsed beside each other, their chests rising and falling in sync with the rhythm of their ragged breaths. In the hazy aftermath of their lovemaking, they lay entwined in a tangle of limbs, their fingers tracing lazy patterns across each other's skin as they tried to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to overwhelm them.

For Y/N, the reality of what they had just done hit her like a ton of bricks, sending shockwaves of realization coursing through her veins. She was Cassian's little sister, a warrior in her own right, and yet here she lay, tangled in the arms of the shadowy spymaster of the Night Court. It was a forbidden love, a secret liaison that could spell disaster for them both if it were ever discovered.

And yet, as she stole a glance at Azriel, his dark eyes heavy-lidded with desire, she couldn't deny the fierce longing that burned within her, a longing that whispered of a love that defied the boundaries of their world. With each passing moment, she felt herself falling deeper and deeper into the abyss of her desire, unable to resist the pull of his magnetic presence.

Beside her, Azriel panted heavily, his chest heaving with exertion as he struggled to catch his breath. His dark eyes bore into hers with a hunger that mirrored her own, a silent acknowledgment of the passion that still raged between them.

In that moment, as they lay together in the quiet stillness of the night, they both understood the gravity of what they had just done, the risks they had taken and the consequences they would face if their secret were ever revealed.

As the weight of their forbidden passion hung heavy in the air, and before Azriel could utter a single word, the tranquility of the moment shattered with a thunderous pounding at the door. Y/N's heart lurched in her chest, a cold dread creeping over her as the voice on the other side grew louder and angrier.

"YN!"

She heard, his voice like a thunderclap, reverberating through the room with a ferocity that made her blood run cold.

Azriel's expression hardened, a flicker of concern passing through his dark eyes as he moved to stand, his movements swift and purposeful. With a sense of urgency, he gathered their scattered clothing, tossing them haphazardly to Y/N as he moved to answer the door.

"Cassian!" Y/N exclaimed, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and desperation. "Please, just listen—"

But before she could finish her plea, Cassian's voice thundered through the door once again, cutting her off with a ferocity that left her reeling.

"You have five seconds to explain yourself before I break down this door!" he roared, his words echoing off the walls of their chamber with a force that left no room for argument.

And as the tension between them reached a boiling point, Y/N knew that their lives would never be the same again.

Tagging some:

@callsign-magnolia

@kmc1989

@hardballoonlove

@senawashere

@hookslove1592

@marvel-molly

@lucky7rosie

[k-hippie]

CHAMPIGNAC : A REVAMP DOWNTOWN PLACE

To celebrate the coming shortest night of the year ( which is June 21 in the northern hemisphere and June 23 night in Champignac ), we re-made the Downtown place of Champignac, aka Place Olivier Magnolia ;)

With summer fast approaching, Place Olivier Magnolia has been transformed into a must-visit spot for your Sims. Imagine strolling under the ancient olive trees, breathing in the sweet fragrance of magnolias in bloom. The square has been revamped to offer more space and comfort for your Sims ;)

This 26x26 community lot was already nice, but we wanted to render it more ... useful and attractive :) So we suppressed the unnecessary stairs, we kept 2 chess tables, some benches, the horseshoe court, the fountain we down grounded, and as seen in the pictures, we added community picnic tables, 1 or 2 bbq grills, lights and an open-air cinema/tv which may be watched, any time, night and day :)

With Bastille Day just around the corner, Place Olivier Magnolia is the perfect place to celebrate July 14th in Champignac. Relive the warm atmosphere of traditional village dances, where your Sims can dance the night away under string lights to festive music ( but do not forget to bring your own music or add music stuff into the lot )

As I still work on an unpopulated version of Champignac, there are no many Sims in the pictures ... I should take some new pictures of my true populated worlds in the future :D

In order to get the lot as it is, you should get :

ATS3 Little Campers Backdrop screen only : here

ATS3 String Lights : here

TheJim07 Romanesque Columns : here

Cyclonesue Scaffolding Steel Columns : here

Maybe you already got those items because we use them into almost all our Sims 3 Worlds :) if not, here they are ;)

Place Olivier Magnolia : 26x26 and 2.2 Mb Download here

Have fun !

[jammingjaem]

dream store

15. my music career is saved

PAIRING | lee haechan x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS | rising up in the music industry as a young songwriter and producer, you wouldn’t think that you’d get hired by sm entertainment and write a song for your favorite group. although there was one downfall: you don’t think making music makes you happy anymore. but the endearing and charismatic lee haechan has swept you off of your feet. and here you’re asking yourself— what are you waiting for in life?

as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the han river, haechan and y/n sat side by side on the riverbank, watching the boats glide effortlessly across the water. the city lights reflected in the gentle ripples, creating a serene atmosphere around them. they had been there for two hours, lost in easy conversation and comfortable silence, enjoying each other's company.

for haechan, these moments with y/n were precious. he had been courting her for about three weeks now, ever since the release of "broken melodies," pouring his heart into both the music and his pursuit of her. each interaction, each smile exchanged, fueled his determination to win her over.

tonight felt different, though. with the tranquil setting of the river and the soft hum of the city in the background, haechan found himself hesitating. he had rehearsed the words countless times in his mind, but now that the moment was upon him, he couldn't shake the nervous flutter in his chest.

glancing sideways at y/n, he admired the way the city lights played across her features, casting her in a soft, ethereal glow. she seemed lost in thought, her eyes tracing the path of the boats as they sailed by. haechan took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was about to do.

just as he opened his mouth to speak, y/n turned to him, her gaze meeting his. for a moment, they simply stared at each other, the unspoken tension hanging in the air between them. haechan's heart pounded in his chest, his words caught in his throat. but then, without warning, y/n broke into laughter, the sound light and melodious against the backdrop of the river. haechan blinked in surprise, his nerves momentarily forgotten as he watched her.

"something funny?" he asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

y/n shook her head, still chuckling softly. "no, nothing. it's just... i can't believe you were about to ask me something, and then i looked at you, and you looked like you'd seen a ghost."

haechan felt a flush creep up his cheeks, embarrassment washing over him. he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "yeah, well... i guess i got a little nervous," he admitted, his voice tinged with self-deprecation.

y/n's laughter faded, and she regarded him with a warm smile, her eyes softening with affection. leaning closer, she rested her head against his shoulder, her hand finding his and intertwining their fingers together.

"it's okay, haechan," she said softly. "you don't have to be nervous around me. i already know what you were going to ask." haechan's heart skipped a beat, his eyes widening in surprise. "you do?"

y/n nodded, her smile widening. "yeah. and the answer is yes." for a moment, haechan could only stare at her, disbelief washing over him in waves. but then, as her words sank in, a wide grin spread across his face, his heart soaring with joy.

"really?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. y/n nodded again, her gaze steady as she met his eyes. "really. i'd love to be your girlfriend, haechan."

haechan's heart swelled with happiness, and he couldn't help but pull her into a tight hug, holding her close as he whispered words of gratitude and affection into her ear. and as they sat together by the han river, bathed in the soft glow of the city lights, haechan knew that this moment would be etched into his memory forever as the night he finally found the courage to ask y/n to be his.

as y/n leaned against haechan, she felt truly content. with him there, she rediscovered her love for making music come alive again. haechan didn't just win her heart; he brought back her passion, making her life feel whole and inspiring her every day. she was grateful for his love and the joy he brought into her life.

previous | masterlist

AUTHOR’S NOTE | she’s finished omg?? thank you guys for reading and staying until the end?

TAGLIST (closed.) | @celestialsluvrs @cosmicwintr @suzayaaa @polarisjisung @lovefolder @jinsoul-gf @fullsunahceah @renjunniex @wonkivrse @en-gelic @tywritesstuff @jenodreamer @haechansbbg @miyawwn @n0hyuck @222brainrot @ur-purin @dinonuguaegi @replayenthusiast @i6renj @giaccolo @nanawrlds @multifandomania @jeongintwt @luv4jeno @lelengerine @gomdojun @yeppietennie @jaeimjaemin @thisisnotjacinta @hugs2doie @mystverse @jjaeyuns @rksbae @x-jaehyunluvr-x @bunchofroses07 @darlingz99 @yv72s @lixizpixi @ggukkiedae @cupidsmoons

[satoruxx]

here's a quick sneak peek from my upcoming wip just bc it's satoru's birthday and i don't have anything else prepared <3

gojo satoru x fem!reader

satoru lets his eyes roam over the gilded tables and sparkling chandeliers, all but used to the glamor of dances and other events he's been overseeing the past few years. even though he's supposed to stay out of the fray, attached to the wall where fellow guards remained stationed for an imminent emergency, satoru enjoys events like this.

he doesn't care for the noise, or the gross display of wealth, or the gossiping nobles and high elders. but he likes seeing you.

he likes seeing the pretty dresses you wear and how you seem to glow under the lighting of the candles. he likes seeing the flush settling high in your cheeks as you laugh with your friends. he likes seeing you against the backdrop of splendor because you're a vision just on your own.

he'd been watching over you at these events for a few years now, ever since he was thirteen and your father appointed him as your royal guard. he knew the routine well enough—you'd greet your friends and the other nobles with polite bows, then make rounds with your mother, followed by a customary dance with your father. then you'd be left to your own devices, free to enjoy the event as a young princess with barely a weight on her shoulders. his favorite part was when you'd eye the kitchen staff bringing in food—somedays you'd sneak him a piece of tart, and he'd stand against the wall, hand resting on the hilt of his blade as he bites back a smile bursting with flavor.

that was a few years ago. satoru didn't realize that the older you got, the more things would change. he'd changed too, of course, no longer the young boy barely nine years old who sat in front of you with hunched shoulders. now, he's grown, almost eighteen as his bones elongate and features become more sharp. he'd heard a few of the maids whispering about how handsome he'd turned out to be, and he stood in front of your bedchamber with his chest puffed out and chin held high. handsome enough for a princess?, he wanted to ask—but he figured that would get him into trouble.

but with his coming of age, yours followed. you're still only about sixteen, but satoru thinks you've grown to be quite pretty. in some ways you've changed, and yet in some ways you're exactly the same—still sweet and kind like you were the day he first met you. he figured he'd be the only one who'd notice though.

but being sixteen meant that you were now supposed to be shown to other eyes—other lanky princes and sons of high nobles who followed you around the ballroom asking for a dance. one night, when satoru was standing guard outside your door, he heard you whining to your mother.

"i just don't understand why," you had said, voice miserable in a way that satoru could easily pick out. your mother sighs complacently.

"because it is your responsibility," she replies, voice aged with years of experience. "courting is something that every princess must go through once they are older. it's your turn now."

"but what if i don't like any of the other noble boys?"

satoru doesn't hear the answer, but he spends the rest of the night with a too tight grip on the hilt of his blade.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: FISH

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, non consensual drug use

Read after the cut

---

Two hours after guests and staff alike have made their egress from the house the host himself leaves it, getting into his car with a solitary glance up at your barred lodgings. You cringe from that look, from the purpose that coaxes him out like a stoat into the rain-clothed night.

Hannibal has known perhaps since the first Lover killing the culprit's identity and abode.

He himself is beyond a murderer, a master of games, lording himself above the board of life and only involving himself directly in that play when it serves to amuse him, or else he has no choice but to interfere.

It occurs to you that his current motivation is, in part, both the former and the latter, being that he’d likely sensed a collision with Freddie Lounds or some other disruptive circumstance that would result in his going after Amy again. He’d perhaps even devised such an event; you—predictably affected—had merely struck the spark of it into birth.

Always Hannibal’s intent has been to make some grand demonstration of his influence, a court magician with a vanishing trick: now you see it, now you don’t.

Who else has disappeared through his performance and returned only in death?

You’re convinced by now that he is indeed the Copycat, need only proof in absolutes to entirely believe it. But if he is so then all food consumed within this den has been of human produce, and there is no length of starvation nor manner of purging that will expunge this from your history.

They are part of you now, the whispering dead; you are built of cadavers, and the entrails of stars, and champagne, engorged with the reeking malign of the jackal you’ve become in your imprisonment.

You resign yourself to bed, feeling truly ill, and so do not hear when Hannibal returns in the early hours of the morning. Do not fully wake as he comes into your room, a needle between his fingers, nor when he whispers to you over the click of the metronome.

Nor, too, when through your lips he passes some fatty soup, which in a half doze you attempt to expel.

“You need to eat, my love,” he says. “Let’s try again.”

You dream of Savannah Belmont, her dark eyes turned grey in absence of life, sitting on a kitchen chair beside the muttering waters of a river. The fingers of her right hand play idly between her legs, and the other reaches into the foramen of her open gut, emerging full of water beetles and wriggling fish.

“I’m not hungry,” you say, as she offers them to you.

The dream repeats all night and on into the day until you think you may never escape its smothering hold.

You rise the following afternoon like the personification of the sin of Sloth, unsure what to make of Hannibal’s visitation, or of the hours lost to the shifting hallways of memory.

Grudgingly you go down through the house in search of your jailer, knowing that you must play inquisitor and have the truth of Amy’s fate out of him.

It is in the grand living room with its many decorative animal skulls that you find him, a king of the deceased amidst his plenty.

He sits in an armchair, holding his iPad on one crossed knee as he might the works of Kafka, dignified and invested in the screen. Standing on tiptoe to peep over his shoulder you see a news reporter standing against a backdrop of half bare trees.

The volume is low, only a scattering of words reaching your ears.

“Breaking... the woman thought to have been the most recent victim... found hitchhiking along a forest road just outside...”

"Amy," you say, aloud, and Hannibal part turns his head to you, his face like that of Jesus Christ, all grace and mercy.

"Hello, Little One,” he says. “Please sit with me. There's something I'd like you to see that should comfort you."

You hesitate to approach, your instincts a vortex of craving to run. Yet you must make nice with the monster, or else become his meat.

"Yes, Daddy," you mumble, and perch stiffly on the arm of Hannibal's chair, straightening your back in aversion to even accidental contact with him.

He blinks at your inappropriate use of his furniture, but does not reprimand you aloud. Instead he turns the iPad towards you and taps a forefinger on the screen.

“Police say the victim was kept in an abandoned shack after being struck in the head and abducted the previous night,” says the reporter. “Glass was able to escape through an unlocked door while her assailant was distracted by an unknown individual. After fleeing through a forested area she was able to find the nearest road and flag down a passing driver, who promptly called the police.”

“That was you,” you say, softly. “The ‘unknown individual’.”

Hannibal puts a finger to his lips.

“Keep watching, please.”

“Glass is suffering from concussion and minor memory loss, but is otherwise healthy,” says the reporter, through a grin of chemically whitened teeth. “Police are investigating the area in which she was held hostage for any evidence left by the attacker.”

The screen flashes to video of Amy, her eyes marbled with broken veins, bruising spread across her temple like an abstract watercolour piece. She’s wrapped up in an oversized sweater that only makes her look thinner within it, her every bone like armature against her skin.

Jealousy yanks at you like a vicious hook, and you find yourself appalled by your disease, that seeing a friend unwell inspires in you desire to replicate her sickness.

One of Amy's older brothers, Darrien, stands with an arm around her narrow shoulders, a surprise to you, being that they hadn't liked one another in childhood.

They both stand smiling like hospice patients forced to attend some miserable function against their will.

“I just want to say how grateful I am to be home with my family,” says Amy— she sounds stilted, almost scripted, unlike herself. “I know how lucky I am to be here. I’d like to thank Morgan Vance, who picked me up at 5am and never complained once. If she hadn’t stopped for me I don’t know where I’d be right now.”

“As a family, we’re asking for privacy,” says Darrien, and he rubs Amy’s shoulder, an unimaginable gesture from the boy who’d once shunned his sibling in school hallways. “I get people have a ton of questions, but right now we’d appreciate it if everybody gave us time to process everything.”

The news segment shifts to another topic, the falling of a church roof in Savage, Maryland.

You glance up at Hannibal, tears brimming in the fonts of your eyes. His face is pretty in the afternoon daylight, the age coaxed out of it by the sun.

"You saved her life,” you say.

"Yes."

Like a witch come to some blue blood’s birth he extends his curse to you as a gift, and you know better by now than to decline it.

In a whisper, you say, "Thank you."

"You're very welcome,” says Hannibal, and he puts a light hand upon your trembling knee, his thumb stroking the joint where a knife might cut it out. “I only hope that now you see the genuine intent behind my words, as well as my capabilities."

"How did you do it?” you ask. “How did you even find the Lover?"

Hannibal continues stroking your knee through your skirt, sending a tremble of sensitivity up your thigh.

"I've known his identity for some months now,” he says. “I can't tell you how just yet. But I can divulge that the Lover is following his own investigation, and knows that I've been helping Jack and Will when I can.

“Through this the Lover came to learn of our connection to you. When I called him to suggest Amy as his next interest he informed me that she’d already been considered."

You struggle down from the arm of the chair, taking a few hasty steps back.

"You... you gave her to him,” you stammer. “I knew it."

"And I returned her to you safely,” says Hannibal, patiently. “At my side, you'll receive all that you could ever ask of me, but as my enemy there is much to lose. I don't mean to threaten you, Little One. My interest is only in being truthful with you."

You gather your hands at your mouth, breathing in quick, stinging bursts.

"Why did the Lover want Amy?" you ask.

"He, like Freddie Lounds, had deduced some connection between you and Miss Glass. The Lover believed that abducting her would sow discord in our household, and therefore derail the investigation. I suggested that I agreed with his assessment."

How unemotionally he speaks of his this, as though reading aloud the introduction to some dull novel.

"Then what happened when you went out there the other night?” you ask, sweat staling your neck. “Why did he just let Amy go?"

"I told him that we'd made a mistake,” says Hannibal, “and that Will had grown suspicious. The abduction itself had gone poorly due to Amy putting up more of a fight than was expected of her; from Will's piecing together of the scene and certain evidence noticed there he would have located the shack the Lover was using in some days.

“So I encouraged the killer to allow Amy her freedom and abandon the building entirely. I’m told he burned it some minutes after her escape."

You picture your friend staggering by dark morning through some wood, the stink of smoke all through her hair.

"Won't she give you both up to the police?” you ask. “She must have seen his face, then there was the phone call—"

"Amy will remember very little prior to her liberty,” says Hannibal. “The avenue for her escape itself was staged by the Lover and I to resemble an unexpected interruption. I spent some hours with Amy before this, ensuring that she wouldn't stray from the official version of events. Her concussion is not the cause of her lost memories."

"You hypnotised her,” you say. “With the white lights. The ones from therapy."

You do not mention the day taken from you by similar practice, afraid of that vacuum of memory.

"You’re correct,” says Hannibal. “I did.”

"But her phone records—"

"The Lover removed Amy's cell phone from her person and took care to destroy it. I believe this is procedure with each of his killings."

Appalled, you wonder how you are to smile and be the swaddled baby of the doctor now the first layer of his ghillie suit has been shucked away.

"So you're like, friends with the Lover?” you ask, unable to entirely disguise your disgust.

"We are acquaintances,” says Hannibal, “with a similar goal: that of proving our love to an individual so adamantly set against receiving it."

He polishes the iPad with a thin cloth and puts it away in a silver case, labouring with a quiet delight over the mundane nature of routine.

"When are you going to tell Will who the Lover is?” you ask, bleakly. “You can't just let him kill more and more girls."

“Will is already on the verge of uncovering the killer's identity without my intervention,” says Hannibal. “By enticing the Lover to be reckless he has somewhat revealed himself, and is no longer the enigma he once was. Besides, if I were to unveil the Lover myself I would invite questions I cannot safely answer.”

Naturally he is self-preserving, first and foremost. But above all, to end the killer’s reign too quickly would bore him; from Hannibal’s handling of your own case you understand this.

"Don't you care about those dead girls at all?" you ask, and your captor smiles without warmth.

"Their deaths are part of the Lover’s exhibition. He is a crude artist, certainly, but he is not yet in possession of his muse. It’s satisfying to observe the progression of his work.”

Your balance wavers, threatens to give under the shock of this confession.

"Daddy,” you say, pitiful in your horror. “You’re scaring me."

Hannibal regards you with a kind of disappointment.

"God frequently inspires terror with His might, but those who follow Him with obedience need never fear His hand. I’d hoped that you might learn this through Amy's safe return."

Alarmed, you slip from the couch and kneel before Hannibal, feeling that you must display some false devotion or else be expelled as a heretic by terminal design.

"I'm grateful," you say, clutching at him with fervent hands. "I am, Daddy. I get why you did it. And I'm thankful you did what I asked. Just... please don't do anything like that again. I swear I'll try harder to be good. I'm trying to understand you. Really I am.”

Hannibal gazes down at you for a beat, seeming on the cusp of some internal decision.

"I can see that,” he says, at last. “And you’re young. There’s time yet for you to study under me.”

Will's voice, hoarse with illness, swerves through the room like an abrupt change in the forecast.

"What have I missed?"

You think to leap up and away from Hannibal as though caught in some illicit tryst, but a look from the older man impels you to remain, your cheek resting in his lap.

"She's offering me gratitude for my leniency regarding her outburst at the party," says Hannibal, unruffled by the interruption. "It's fortunate that my guests were unsurprised by Miss Lounds' deliberate attempt to provoke our Little One. They've been wholly charitable and sympathetic."

Will steps into view, his eyebrows almost at his hairline. His face is cadaverous and glazed with the resin of sweat.

The case, his illness: they suck from him his vigour, and though he is accomplice to your deadly keeper you’ve soul enough in you to pity him.

"Honestly, I don't know why you even invited Freddie,” he says. “It was a bad idea."

"In hindsight, I concur,” says Hannibal. “But my intent was to give the impression of having nothing to hide."

Will laughs and shakes his head.

"Freddie’ll see dirt on us both no matter what we do. Now she'll have even more of a reason to look."

"We mustn’t concern ourselves with the idle fodder of gossip columnists. I’ve had a stern word with Miss Lounds discouraging her from provoking our charge at future events. The matter is much resolved.”

Eyeing your sniffling figure, Will says, "Doesn’t look resolved from here.”

"There was another matter. Our Little One also chose to overindulge in champagne.”

Starting, you look up at Will and see him struggle not to laugh again.

Rather than be a hypocrite and side entirely with his friend, he asks, "Did you explicitly tell her she couldn't drink?"

"No," you pipe up from Hannibal's knee. "He didn't."

"I've never claimed to be faultless," says the doctor. "Evidently I haven’t been clear in my stance. But the implication was strong enough that you deliberately hid your drinking from me. You were far from subtle, I assure you."

You turn your face against his leg, hiding it in the fabric so as not to see the developing lust for punitive sex in his eyes.

"I’m sorry."

"Perhaps I'd be more inclined to believe that claim if you made a demonstration of it."

"Well, she knows how to give apologies," says Will, as much to diffuse the dark tension between you as to follow his own sensual curiosities. "I received one once in this exact room that seemed pretty genuine.”

“Hey," you say, rather hurt; you’d rather hoped he’d rise more strongly in your defence.

You’re uncertain whether the two men would be on such cordial terms if Will shared your knowledge of Hannibal. Yet already he suspects at least partly his shadows, and still is willing to flank him in the act of rape.

Still, you know his revulsion for the Lover to be genuine, see it in its wearying of him. There is a line for Will Graham, somewhere, but you do not know how long it will remain before he crosses it.

“Little One,” says Hannibal, gently reminding you of your duty.

As you begin working listlessly at Hannibal’s trouser button that Will says, "Mind if I help?"

For a moment you imagine him on his knees beside you, sharing the heavy phallus with eager tongue and coarse, pale hands, and you loathe the little light that flares between your compressed thighs.

Instead Will comes to stand behind you, smoothing back your hair as you bow your head to Hannibal; the other man bends likewise, arms going out to you as you consume him in a bite without teeth.

Four hands, then, upon you, two in your hair, twins caressing your face and neck with a touch that bears the prospect and willingness to love, should you become, like the dancing myth, a swan by night— you shift beneath that touch as ash, eating of the hated one as though for the taste of him.

You kiss his length, look up into the face that shunts through you a stake of killing fear and see him clearly, then, a legend brought earthwards by the wants he shares with men. See through the tiers of guise and truth that you fear most his humanity, that he can love.

Even in this coaxing to consent in your dismantlement you know it, see through a window of time how gently he would rear you as his own.

You do not want him, or this, and yet you feel yourself seduced by him, if only in a subconscious attempt to lessen the guilt that is sister to you.

His gaze, of lowered lids and pleasured shine, watches you with enjoyment. As your tongue whispers on his cock Hannibal murmurs to you praise and urging, sometimes an utterance of your name; while he is sated, you are safe, and so into your narrow throat you sink him down.

You owe him, you think, in some cosmic fashion, for the gold of two lives spared, yours, and that of Amy Glass. Like all Gods Hannibal demands his offering, and though you are no virgin you give yourself to that altar, raise and drop like the sun upon a mountain.

“That’s it,” says Hannibal. “My talented darling.”

Your mouth is a grail to him, some magic article; you know it from the breathy groans with which he exalts your attempts to satisfy.

“Don’t give her an ego,” says Will, but then he kisses your bent neck, and you feel a pulse between your legs again like the last heartbeat before death’s oblivion.

Hands, hands, mouths.

You take their lips on yours like a rat bite, assuming they’ve already long begun to infect you with their disease.

Then as you suck again, aware of Will’s thin form over you like a bower, enclosing you in the act, with them.

Mouths, mouths, hands, only one pair of which have not given themselves to murder, yet are not wholly clean of sin.

You wear your shame like a bridle as you mouth Hannibal’s cock, feel its restraint and harsh leading as you tongue him to his peak.

Will’s fingers tense slightly at your throat, something of his old meanness in it— threatened, you realise, by your curiosity in Hannibal’s affections for you, which you test now with your submission.

Even if Will ever offers up the steaming muscle of his own heart to you that unpleasantness will remain like gristle on the meat.

You do not wish to be a partner in this business of mystery and sex, and yet there is power in it, power with which you may bend Will to your side before you’re contorted by what you may become.

This you think even as you hold Hannibal between your jaws to swallow his finish, a desperate thought that may deliver you to some dinner plate. But you think of it still, think it even as you get up from your knees and turn to Will, twitching with resentment that he, to whom you’ve grown close, still allows you to be so abused.

Light as a fairy child on tip-toe you cross to him and push your wet mouth to the invitation of his lips, spilling warm seed between them so that he, too, might share in the taste of his man.

Will’s eyes widen, yet he does not withdraw from the affection, merely kisses you back with a silent passion. When you draw apart he swallows, glancing down and away from you, his fingertips on his mouth like a stitch, holding Hannibal in.

*

Later, when the doctor makes brief leave of the living room to prepare dinner, you find yourself looking at Will with the haughtiness of betrayal.

“I’d better address the elephant in the room,” he says, at last. “I should have been in your corner. It’s not easy playing both sides, but I know that night was hard for you. I won’t judge you for making a mistake.”

“I don’t care about that,” you say. “You should have told me the Lover took Amy. Sure, it’s been years since I’ve seen her or anything, but it doesn’t matter. You should have told me as soon as you knew.”

Will looks away into the fire.

“I didn’t want to be the one to hurt you with that news. If she hadn’t survived—”

“So what? I’d rather you hurt me than anybody else.”

You hear Will murmur your name, the beginnings of an explanation.

“I don’t care,” you snap, again. “I don’t want your apologies. I got you back for it, anyway.”

Will turns away quietly, ignoring the barb.

Then he says, “One. There’s another reason I’ve been holding back. Not just about Amy, though she’s part of it. Since the Copycat murder I’ve been thinking a lot about previous killings in the area. How similar they are to what happened to Savannah. Have you ever heard of the Chesapeake Ripper?”

“I don’t know,” you say, with a moody shrug. “Maybe.”

“Over the past few years he’s killed in groups of three, always putting the mutilated victims on display after removing their organs from their still living bodies. Savannah Belmont was also still alive when her stomach was cut out of her. Both killers have surgical knowledge.”

At this you twist towards Will’s armchair, watching nervily as he feeds a new log to the hearth.

“You think they might be the same killer?” you ask. “The Lover and this Ripper guy?”

“I won’t know for sure unless there are at least two other murders,” says Will. “He always follows a pattern.”

“But you can’t just wait for that to happen.”

“I know.”

You yearn to tell him about Hannibal, daren’t breath even a letter of his avowal.

“The organs the Ripper cuts from his victims,” you say. “Do you know what he does with them?”

Will glances up, rapidly alert.

“The way you’re asking me that makes me think you’ve made some kind of guess,” he says. “You want to tell me what it is?”

At first you say nothing, knees brought high under your chin like a child’s.

“Will,” you whisper. “What if he eats them?”